Lindo can never stay awake, and he is asleep within the half hour. Before he drops off, Marcello makes Giova promise that he will take the boys swimming in the river tomorrow. If Mama knew that they ever swam—especially in the sewage-filled river with its strong currents—she would lock them in the house for the rest of the summer.
I roll over on my side and close my eyes. I suppose that Giova and Giuseppe think that I am also asleep for the night, but it takes me hours to fall asleep. I guess that I think too much. Anyway, I can hear them speaking in whispered voices in Italian.
“Ci e una riunione domani. (There is a meeting tomorrow.) Dicono che Tresca e rilasciato dalla prigione.” (They say that Carlo Tresca is being released from jail.)
“Che cosa faremo raccontare a Zio Pietro?” (What will we tell Zio Pietro?)
“L dira che andiamo sparare dadi con gli uomini.” (I’ll tell him that we are going shoot dice with the guys.)
I don’t know what kind of meeting Giova would be taking him to. I can’t imagine why it would be something that he has to hide from Papa. They murmur a bit more, but I can’t make it out. So Giova has a secret. That’s something for me to ponder. Lying here in the moonlight, I can hear crickets chirp excitedly as if their day has just begun. On occasion, I hear voices from within the other houses—everyone’s windows are open in this heat. Pa’s Victrola crackles through the air and—I know he is doing this for me—I can hear the Pearlfisher duet as I drop off to sleep.
* * *
At the end of August, we have more tomatoes than we can possibly eat, so Zia Izzy and Sara have brought their pressure cookers to our house for a day of canning tomato sauce. The work always goes faster with extra pressure cookers. Mama will give Zia some of today’s jars of sauce, and then she and I will take our pressure cooker to Sara’s and help her with her canning on another day.
“Carolina, I need you to cut twelve onions,” says Mama in her business voice. “Sara, you can start on the green peppers, about seventeen, and Izzy, you and I will do the tomatoes.”
“Okay, il Duce,” says Zia. Sara says nothing. She just nods her head and immediately gets to work. We have over seventy pounds of tomatoes.
“Sara, how is that job going?” asks Zia Izzy.
“It’s steady work,” says Sara. “A little lonely, but it pays the bills.”
“You don’t work with anyone else?” asks Mama.
“Most of the time, I’m alone,” says Sara. “I lift a steel plate beside the wheel of the train and oil it. You don’t need two people to do that. It’s simple work.”
Zia Izzy shakes her head and clucks. “No work for a woman,” she spits.
“Work is work,” says Sara. “I don’t mind being outside. I don’t have to talk to anyone. It’s just me and my thoughts.”
“You two take some basil with you today,” says Mama. “I’m going to cut it down and dry it soon.”
“I don’t need any, Lena,” says Sara. “I have more than I can use in my backyard. This has been a good year for it.”
“I’ll take it,” says Zia. She lives by the river in a shabby little house that is no more than a fishing shack. Zia doesn’t work exactly. She makes a small living by telling people’s fortunes, casting and removing spells, and calling down curses. Her son and daughter help to support her, but neither can bear to take her in, and I don’t think she could bear it, either. Zio Fredo has been dead for a couple of years—some say Zia turned him into a toad, but that’s nonsense. I remember him very well in his coffin. In fact, we have a photo of him in it. Anyway, Mama makes sure that Zia has enough food to get by.
“So, Senorina Costandini, what do you think of that boy who was looking at you at the festa?” asks Zia.
“What boy?” Mama looks up, startled.
“The boy at the calliope, Lena. I swear you wouldn’t see an elephant if it walked right by your kitchen.”
“There had better be no boy looking at my daughter,” says Mama. “None of that so young.”
They all laugh, but I don’t. I wish Zia didn’t have eyes in the back of her head all the time. I’ve cut so many onions that my vision is blurring, and I am almost blind. “Mama, I need a wet cloth. My eyes are stinging, and I can hardly see.”
“She’s changing the subject!” says Zia, and again the joke is aimed at me.
While I wash out my eyes, the interrogation turns again to Sara. This time Mama starts it.
“Where is Luca these days? Does he have a job?”
“Where he goes and what he does is not my affair. But he’s working for now. He always has carpentry work in the summer, and he runs the number game at Dino’s. I don’t think he’ll leave until November.”
Luca leaves for warm weather every winter. He says he goes to find work, but he never sends money home to Sara. I don’t think he cares if she lives or dies while he is gone. Why does a man like that have a wife?
“Good riddance,” mutters Izzy. Mama gives her an angry look for being so blunt, but that won’t stop Zia from speaking her mind. She doesn’t care what Mama or anyone thinks.
It takes us half an hour, but the tomatoes are finally chopped, and Mama adds them to the pot with fresh basil, oregano, and garlic. The four of us have some coffee while the tomatoes cook down, and Mama turns the topic of conversation to Giuseppe.
“He’s a good boy,” says Mama. “He and Giova are like twins—never apart.”
Sara smiles, and Izzy takes out a cigarillo. “Has he found work yet?” asks Izzy. She’s looking at her apron and slapping her pockets for a pack of matches.
“He starts today!” says Mama. “He found a job as a street sweeper. He’ll know everyone in Sharpsburg in no time. Italian, Irish, Polish—he won’t care. Giuseppe talks with his eyes and hands!”
We all laugh, but especially me, because I can see him in my mind, arms flying, eyes wide. Giova is much tamer, much quieter.
The conversation turns to cooking, which doesn’t interest me much, and I find myself thinking again of the meeting that Giova and Giuseppe plan to attend. They don’t work at the same factory, so it can’t be a work meeting. Giova only goes to mass on holidays, so I know it isn’t a church meeting, either. It isn’t like him to do anything behind Pa’s back. He has always respected Pa’s judgment—always.
When the sauce is finally ready, Mama uses a jar funnel that Papa made to pour it into pint jars. Izzy helps her while Sara and I seal the jars and place them in the pressure cookers. Pa is always making tools, and he’s made a tong device that grabs the tops of the hot jars so we don’t burn our hands when we remove them from the cookers.
It takes all afternoon, but by the time we are done, there are forty-eight pints of sauce. In a week or so, Mama and I will can zucchini—and maybe mushrooms if Pa goes mushroom hunting. No one knows where he finds the mushrooms—that’s one of his secrets. It’s critical to know which mushrooms are edible because it can mean the difference between life and death. I trust Pa. There isn’t much he doesn’t know.
By dinnertime, Mama and I have no time or energy to cook. On days like this, Mama prepares dough in the morning so that we can make a quick pizza in the outdoor oven. Usually, she’ll just bake it with sliced tomatoes and basil. Sometimes she just uses oil, basil, and oregano. It’s always Marcello and Lindo’s favorite dinner.
Dear Diary, August 26, 1925
Since Giuseppe arrived, Giova and I don’t talk as much as we did. I love Giuseppe, and I’m not jealous of the friendship he has with Giova. It isn’t that. I just miss my brother. I feel like he is growing away from me, and from Mama and Papa. Maybe it’s just hard for me to see Giova become a man. He’s always been my big brother. With Giuseppe here, I see that Giova is interested in other things besides work and family. I never realized that before. How did I think that I was the only one with dreams?
* * *
“Marcello, Lindo, venire qui.” Mama grabs them one at a time and runs her fingers through their hair. She spins them around to see the bac
k of their heads. “School starts next week, and you two need haircuts.”
“But Mama, the boys are waiting for us at the field. We’re playing stickball today.”
“Stickball will wait. Carolina, you take them to the barber shop for me, and tell Angelo that Papa will pay him after work tonight.”
I’m happy to go, unlike the boys. Mr. Marchetti always has a treat for us, and I like any excuse to walk into town.
“Hey! Gli bambini Costandini! Come in, come in! ” he hollers at us and throws up his hands. I smile and take a seat by the old men playing checkers.
“We’re here for haircuts,” Marcello tells Mr. Marchetti.
“Oh? I think maybe you want a job,” he jokes. “Who-sa gonna sweep this place for me?”
“You can get Giuseppe!” pipes in Lindo. “He sweeps the streets. That’s his job.”
“Good for him. Good that he found a job. Now who-sa first here?” Lindo jumps into the chair and Mr. Marchetti stretches a towel around his shoulders. “Not too short,” says Lindo.
“You-sa the boss, Lindo,” says Marchetti. “Whatever you say.” He winks at me, and I laugh. By the time he is done, Lindo’s fat cheeks will look even fatter.
Marcello waits outside where some kids are shooting craps against the wall. They’re a little older than he is, but they let him watch.
Mr. Marchetti always has several newspapers in the shop. I reach for today’s Pittsburgh Press, and there is an article about Carlo Tresca. He has, in fact, been let out of jail, just as Giova predicted. According to this article, Tresca used to run an anarchist newspaper in Pittsburgh and now runs an anti-fascist newspaper in New York.
“Mr. Marchetti, who is this Carlo Tresca? Do you know?”
“Carlo Tresca. I-ma no sure,” says Marchetti. “Lindo, put your head down a little.”
“I’ll tell you about Tresca,” says one of the men playing checkers. “He’s the reason Mussolini doesn’t get his fascist hands on all the Italians over here. Tresca’s a strike organizer. He organized strikes for the coal miners and mill workers around here. I never thought they’d let him out of jail.”
“Me, neither,” says the other man. “I thought it was Sacco and Vanzetti all over again. Do you know Tresca was the one who got them that first lawyer, Fred Moore? He knew Sacco from the textile strike in Lawrence.”
“Tresca’s got a faccia, my friend. They’re always after him—this government and Mussolini’s. They threaten to kill him, imprison him, deport him. He doesn’t scare.”
“Maybe then,” says Marchetti, “there’s a chance for Sacco and Vanzetti after all.”
“I doubt it,” says the first man. “They had nothing to pin on Tresca. No case at all. But they don’t like labor organizers, and they hate anarchists.”
Lindo hops down from the chair, and Mr. Marchetti hands him a lollipop. “Good boy. That’s a nice-a job I do,” he says, admiring his own work. “Now you find-a Marcello.”
Lindo glances at me as he passes the door. As I predicted, his face looks like a chipmunk.
There’s another article on the front page that says 40,000 of the Ku Klux Klan marched in Washington, D.C. I don’t need to ask Mr. Marchetti about the Klan. We have the KKK right here in Sharpsburg. When Giova was younger, about twelve, he came home so scared he was shaking. He was playing on the hill at dusk, and the Klan was burning a huge cross. They were all in their white sheets. Papa told him never to play up there so late again. The Klan hates everyone, and that includes Italians and Catholics, so we are targets on two counts. In spite of the sheets, we all know who the ring leader is. His name is Luther Ratliff. He and his partner, Freelin Gauze, run the lumberyard in town.
Mr. Marchetti hands Marcello a lollipop as well. “And one-a more for the big sister,” he smiles.
“Papa will pay you when he gets home tonight,” I remember to say.
“Oh, no!” he jokes again. “I can no trust Pietro Costandini!” He winks at us again and waves goodbye.
All the way home, I wonder what it is that the Klan hates about us without knowing us. Not only us, of course, but the Irish, the Colored, the Jews. I don’t know what we all could have done to anger them so much.
I bring this question up at dinner, and Giova translates my English while also explaining to Giuseppe about the Klan.
“Sono dei fascisti,” says Giuseppe.
“They sound like fascists to me, too,” agrees Giova.
“What do you know about fascism, Giova?” asks Papa.
“I know a little, Papa. I know that Mussolini is a fascist and that he tries to control the whole country. Soon he’ll control the newspapers or do away with them.”
“There are plenty of people in Sharpsburg who are fascists, so you better watch who you talk to about that,” says Papa. “They’re not all singing ‘La Giovinezza.’”
“Please,” interrupts Mama, “let’s not cross the Mano Nero, the fascists, the Klan—I don’t want any danger here.”
“We know, Mama,” says Giova. He glances at Giuseppe, not sure of how much he just understood.
Mama made pizzelles while we were at the barber shop, and she serves them with some coffee. Marcello and Lindo each grab a cookie and then run off to play while the rest of us continue to talk.
“Looks like the Pirates might be in the World Series this year,” says Giova, trying to change the subject. He gives Giuseppe a brief translation.
“Have I ever told you about the time I saw the Homestead Grays play an exhibition game?” asks Papa. “I saw players who are better than Ty Cobb and Babe Ruth. There are two Negro leagues now, but the Grays don’t play in either one. They’re independent. I saw them play against the Cuban Giants. What a game that was.”
“Where do they play, Pa?”
“I don’t know where they play. Sandlots, I guess. Those exhibition games are all over. They do a lot of traveling all over the country. Talk about the Klan—those players are always in danger, especially in the South, but up here, too.”
“Maybe someday the Pirates will pick up some of those players,” says Giova.
“Oh, that won’t happen,” says Pa. “I don’t think that’ll happen in my lifetime. Too much hatred out there. They can’t even stay in hotels most of the time. But it’s their loss. One fella, ‘Cool Papa Bell’ they call him, he’s so fast they say he can flick the light switch off and be in bed before the room is dark!”
Giova repeats that for Giuseppe, and Giuseppe claps his hands together and throws his head back, laughing.
“Come un fulmine!” (like lightning) says Giuseppe, and he slides one palm over the over very quickly to demonstrate.
“That’s right,” says Papa, “come un fulmine.”
We all laugh, too, including Mama.
Dear Diary, September 5, 1925
I think Pa is right. There is too much hatred out there. The Klan hates the Blacks. The fascists hate the anarchists, and the anarchists hate the fascists. The justice system seems to hate Italians! Those who strike are hated by the company heads they work for and vice versa. All these different people thrown together in one country—different languages, different politics, different nationalities, and different religions. How will we ever come together as one country? It would take another war—a common enemy—but that will never happen again. One world war was enough to teach us all a lesson.
I really don’t know what a fascist is. And what is an anarchist? Maybe Sister can explain it to me. So much passion on both sides—but what is it all about?
* * *
Giova’s prediction has come true, and the Pirates have indeed made it to the World Series. On October 14, today, the seventh game of the series, it’s raining so hard that the game has to be canceled. At dinner time, Giova bursts into the house.
“Guess what I have in my hand?”
“A frog,” says Marcello.
“A snake,” says Lindo.
“I hope it’s your paycheck,” says Mama.
“Better than
a paycheck,” says Giova, and he flashes three tickets to the last game of the Series.
“Where did you get those?” asks Pa. “Those tickets are sold out.”
“A fellow at work—Paolo Pasquarelli—he had three tickets for the standing room area. He bought them for today, but now the game is off, and he can’t go tomorrow. He promised his wife he would take her to see her sister, and she won’t back down.”
“I’m going!” says Marcello.
“Me, too!” says Lindo.
“Hold on,” says Giova, “I have a ticket for me, a ticket for Giuseppe, and a ticket for Pa.”
“I can’t leave work—who will supervise those jokers? I have a better idea,” says Pa. “Carolina has never been to a ballpark. You take her.”
I can’t believe my own luck. The boys never take me along to the ballgames. “Really, Pa?”
“You and Giuseppe can learn about baseball together,” says Pa.
Mama has a look of concern on her face. “Pietro, I don’t know about this idea.”
“She’ll be with two men, Lena. She’s perfectly safe.”
“Two boys, you mean.”
“Please, Mama. I won’t leave Giova’s side.”
The younger boys aren’t happy about this arrangement at all. Papa reminds them that only one of them could have gone anyway. I don’t think that makes them feel any better. Marcello actually watches the game, but Lindo just wants to go for the hot dogs and peanuts.
The following morning, the sky is overcast, and it is still drizzling.
“Carolina, I don’t like this weather,” says Mama. “You’re going to get sick again.”
“It won’t rain all day, Mama,” argues Giova. “I’m sure it will clear up this afternoon.
That’s of little comfort to Mama, but I’m not giving up this opportunity no matter what she says. On our way out the door, Mama ties a scarf over my head, makes us all take umbrellas, and hands Giova a bag full of soppressata, provolone, and olives. He takes it because if he doesn’t, we’ll never get out of the house. Giuseppe slices himself a little soppressata with his pocket knife while we ride on the streetcar to Forbes Field. Being Giuseppe, he offers slices to the people sitting around us.
The Creeds that Move Men's Hearts Page 9