The Creeds that Move Men's Hearts

by Melody Veltri

  Dear Diary, December 4, 1925

  I hope that there really is a heaven. I try to believe that there is, but it’s hard when you can’t see it. I can easily believe there is a hell. Don’t we live in it? Don’t innocent, good people suffer? Don’t others go hungry or struggle—like Fitz did—to find the joy and meaning in life? If I ever get to heaven, I’m asking God what the purpose of our life on earth was. I’m asking him why He didn’t squash the likes of Vassari, of the Mano Nero, of everyone who tries to manipulate other people. I’m asking Him why He let Maria Luisa and Fitz’s wife and daughters die. Couldn’t He heal them? Didn’t He heal the sick in the Bible? Was it really necessary for old Fitz to go through this pain? I hope the priest will say a mass for poor Fitz. I know they’ll be burying him in the section of the cemetery that’s for the poorest of the poor, and there will be no wife and no kids to mourn for him.

  5

  It’s 4:00 on Christmas Eve, and everyone will be here in an hour. “Natale con I tuoi; Pasqua conchi vuoi”—Christmas with your family; Easter with whomever you want.

  In our case, family includes Zia Izzy, Zia Giulia and her family, and Giuseppe, of course. It also means Sara and the Marchettis—Angelo, Nana, and Rose. They’re all like family to us, and they don’t have other relatives here, so Mama invites them to Christmas dinner every year.

  “Carolina, make sure the table is set. Make sure every place has a fork and a napkin.” Before I can double check everything, there is a knock at the door.

  Marcello and Lindo race to answer it and are fighting to turn the knob.

  “Stop that!” says Mama, and slaps their wrists away so that she can open it herself.

  “Buon Natale!” The Bongiovanni family is here, and I hear Zio Sergio’s voice. Sergio has two-and-a-half-year-old Margherita in his arms and is holding the hand of Francesca, who is four.

  “Buon Natale, sorella,” Zia Giulia chimes in over him. In her arms is nine-months-old Anna Maria. We haven’t seen her since she was first born last March, two weeks before my birthday. Mama stayed with Giulia for a week to help her.

  “Buon Natale e Felice Anno Nuovo!” responds Mama. She’s already grabbing for the baby and bringing her into the house. Mama loves babies. She gives Anna Maria a face full of kisses and unbundles her from her blankets while she calls the other two to her to smother in hugs. Their little faces are pressed so tightly into her chest that their chins are forced to point toward the ceiling. I can tell that they are a little scared, so I’m going to hang back. I love babies and little kids, too, but I don’t like to rush at them that way. I always hated when I was hugged like that by relatives I hadn’t seen in a year. My strategy is to sit on the floor at eye level with them and let them come to me when they are comfortable.

  Margherita will warm up first. She’s a little fireball with long, wild black hair that curls down her back. To the delight of Mama and Giulia, she’s a chubby little girl with marshmallow arms and little fat legs that Giulia accents with lacy socks. Margherita never walks into a room—she bounces. And in no time, she is bouncing after Marcello and Lindo. Her deep, hearty laugh makes them laugh, so they try to outdo each other to entertain her.

  Francesca is older, but she is much quieter. She has big, haunting brown eyes and poker straight hair. Mama is forever sticking cookies in her pockets and trying to feed her. It is very unfortunate for Francesca to be so thin in a family that measures a child’s health in pounds. Her legs, unlike Margherita’s, are so skinny that they make her knees look out of proportion to the rest of her. Despite being a ferociously colicky baby, Francesca is a gentle, cautious little soul who doesn’t bother anyone. Sometimes, especially at dinner, she goes into her own world and looks like she’s daydreaming.

  The last time I saw Anna Marie, she would barely open her eyes. She was a perfect baby—thick dark hair, a perfectly shaped head, and a little rosebud mouth. She has the same big eyes as Francesca, only darker, and plump red cheeks. I couldn’t help but wonder if Mama were reminded of Maria Luisa when she saw these girls.

  Another knock on the door brings Mr. Marchetti, Nana, and Rose. Mr. Marchetti hands Papa a bottle of his homemade wine, and Nana has a plate of cookies for us. Even at 94, she still bakes! Rose is quick to follow the boys and Margherita, much to their dismay, but I can see Papa giving them a foreboding look.

  Zia Izzy and Sara approach the sidewalk at the same time, and when Pa opens the door, we are all stunned. Sara is standing on her own two feet—no walker, no crutches, no wheelchair. For a split second, I wonder if Zia Izzy cured her leg.

  “You grew your leg back!” cries Lindo.

  “Hush, Lindo,” whispers Mama. “Buon Natale, Sara! She passes me the baby so she can help Sara in the door.

  “Look Lindo,” says Sara, “good as new.” She raps on her prosthesis with her fist, and it makes a hollow sound. The boys are amazed. Mama pushes them aside and embraces her friend in a long hug.

  Mama takes her coat and gives Sara the best chair. Izzy, being somewhat ignored, is taking off her own coat and hanging it up when Francesca and Margherita scream out at the same time.

  “What did you do Marcello?” asks Mama. She is sure he must have pinched or scared them.

  “I didn’t do anything, Mama. I’m not even near them.”

  By this time, they are both sobbing into the arms of Zia Giulia and muffling something in her ears.

  “Francesca, what is it? I can’t hear you when you cry like that,” says Giulia.

  “La Befana! La Befana!” she manages to articulate between gasps, but her chest is heaving, and both girls can hardly catch their breath.

  Giuseppe roars with laughter. I finally realize what they are saying and press my lips against Anna Maria’s head to hide my smile.

  Mama and Giulia share a look and start to laugh as well.

  “That’s not La Befana,” Giulia tells them consolingly. “That’s Zia Izzy. That’s your mama’s sister.”

  Izzy can’t stand babies and has little tolerance for small kids. She shakes her head and lights up a cigarillo.

  La Befana is the witch who comes at Christmas to leave gifts—the Italian Santa Claus. One legend says that she is the mother of one of the innocents massacred by Herod. In her grief, she looks for her child and thinks that she has found him in the Christ child. She takes all of her child’s belongings and leaves them at the base of the manger. From then on, she is given the blessing for all eternity of being “La Befana”—the “giver of gifts.” The other version is that La Befana entertains the three kings who stop at her house on the way to Bethlehem. They invite her to search for the Christ child with them, but she declines, saying that she has to her clean her house. Regretting that decision later, she gathers up some items to give to the infant savior, but she is unable to find the child or the kings. So during the epiphany, every January 6, children find candy in stockings if they have been good, and coal if they have been bad.

  “That’s me, all right,” says Zia Izzy. “La Befana!” She laughs in a cackle that almost scares me and completely terrifies the girls.

  “Come on, La Befana, help me in the kitchen,” says Mama. “It’s time to eat.” Zia Izzy won’t really help—she’ll smoke her cigarillo—but Mama is just trying to get her away from the little ones. Zia Giulia and I are trying to console them, but it takes Giuseppe and his tricks to them to get them calmed down. He pulls Francesca on his lap and pretends to pull a quarter from her ear. Margherita stops crying long enough to stare and wonder when she sees Francesca smiling.

  Mama calls us in to dinner, and with the exception of the cookies that we didn’t make this year, it is our regular Christmas feast. There are six kinds of fish—eel, shrimp, whitefish, calamari, baccala, and smelts—plus a linguini with clam sauce. For some reason, there have to be seven fish dishes. I ask Papa if he knows why.

  “It represents the seven sacraments,” answers Pa.

  “No, Pietro, that’s not right. It’s the seven days it took to c
reate the world,” says Zio Sergio.

  “I thought it was the seven deadly sins,” says Mr. Marchetti.

  “Why would we celebrate those?” says Papa. “May as well be the seven hills of Rome.”

  “I think it was started by someone who sold fish!” jokes Mama, and we all laugh.

  Zia Giulia gets the little ones situated, and then Papa stops us before we dig in to say a prayer in which he gives thanks for all seven of the fish and for all of our friends and family.

  “A La famiglia, l’amore e il cibo.” Mr. Marchetti holds up his wine glass in a toast.

  We all clink our glasses together. “Salute! Salute! Salute!” Our toasting takes five minutes.

  Francesca and Margherita haven’t seen Giuseppe’s napkin turn into a bunny, so he’s happy to demonstrate for them. Sara, Mama, and I take turns feeding and holding Anna Maria so Zia Giulia can enjoy her dinner. Though the little girls have calmed down, I see them steal a glance every so often at La Befana who is seated at the other end of the long table.

  When everyone has had enough food, Mama and I clear the table for Nana’s cookies, and Marcello and Lindo take the little girls and Rose into the living room to give the adults a break.

  “Did you two bring your bagpipes, Angelo?” asks Pa.

  “Cour-sa I bring. She-sa right here, my bagpipes. It-sa Christmas, right?”

  “How about you, Sergio. Got your whistle?”

  Zio Sergio taps his breast pocket and nods his head.

  They adjourn to the living room while the women talk at the table. In a few minutes, we are serenaded by “Astro del Ciel,” the Italian version of “Silent Night.”

  By the third carol, everyone is enjoying the music too much to talk. Francesca and Margherita have fallen asleep on the couch, and Mama covers them with a crocheted afghan. Nana is asleep sitting up in her chair. Rose has come to sit beside me, so I’m braiding her hair. I don’t think anyone has done that since her mama died.

  Just when I think the night is winding down, Giova announces that he and Giuseppe have a surprise for everyone. I can’t imagine why they are putting on coats and going outside. Pa looks at Mama and raises his eyebrows. She shakes her head to say she is equally confused. Five minutes later, they come back with a five foot tall evergreen.

  “A tree!” shouts Lindo.

  “A Christmas tree!” cries Marcello.

  Christmas trees are not an Italian tradition, so this is a first for us.

  “Where did you get this? How did you pay for it?” asks Pa.

  “Let’s just say we found it on one of our walks,” responds Giova.

  “There are no trees around here,” Pa says, “You must have walked for miles.”

  “And we carried it back for miles!” laughed Giova.

  Giova has candy canes for the tree and candles, but Mama grabs the candles from his hands and puts them in the drawer. “No fires!” she says. She sounds angry, but she isn’t. I can tell she is delighted with the tree and with Giova’s generosity.

  Lindo and Marcello are beside themselves, they are so excited. Sara offers to teach them how to make paper snowflakes for it, and they run to get scissors and paper.

  At nine o'clock, the Bongiovannis pack up to leave. Mama gives them lots of food to take home and helps them to carry the girls to the car. Sergio has a friend who lent it to him for the evening, and he needs to get it back. They only live in New Kensington, but on the streetcar that trip can take two hours, and with three babies, it’s an ordeal. Zia Izzy leaves with them so that she can get a lift to her daughter Regina’s house for the remainder of Christmas Eve.

  The Marchetti’s leave at 9:30. It’s too hard for Nana to stay up for midnight mass, so they’ll attend Christmas Day mass. As it is, she slept most of the evening away.

  Mama and I do the dishes while Pa, Giova, and Giuseppe smoke and relax in the living room. Marcello and Lindo are busy making the snowflakes with Sara.

  At 11:00, everyone bundles up for the walk to Madonna. It isn’t far to the church, but at this time of night, it is bone-chilling outside. Mama and Papa walk with Sara while the boys and I run ahead. Sharpsburg is a very small town, a few miles long probably, but there are four Catholic Churches, including our Madonna of Jerusalem. St. John Cantius is the Polish church, St. Joseph’s is the Irish church, and the most magnificent structure is St. Mary’s German church. It puts the rest of our churches to shame. It has beautiful big green domes and stained glass rose windows. The inside looks like a basilica with pink granite columns and pink marble wainscoting on the walls. The marble for the altar and communion rail was imported from Italy. In the middle of so much poverty, this is a tribute to the devotion of its members. I still can’t imagine how they ever scraped together the money for such a glorious church.

  But we’re not going there, of course. We’re going to mass with the other Italians, where there is a shared language, where no one is excluded as a foreigner. During mass, Italians don’t have to struggle to be American, and in their own churches, neither do the Irish, Polish, and German immigrants.

  Dear Diary, December 25, 1925

  Lindo fell asleep during mass last night, and Giuseppe had to give him a piggyback ride home. Sara crocheted slippers for us all, and Zia Izzy gave us chocolate candies that Mama threw away as soon as she left. Zia is capable of mischief, even on Christmas.

  Giuseppe gave Mama a beautiful handkerchief that Zia Teresa embroidered, and she and Papa gave me a necklace of the Miraculous Medal. I’m wearing it now, and I don’t think I’ll ever take it off, not even on bath day. This was a good Christmas.

  * * *

  January is bitterly cold in Pittsburgh, and we have lots of snow. In February, however, there is often a week that defies winter. The temperatures in such a week can reach fifty degrees. When that happens, I know Mama will want to make a trip to the cemetery.

  St. Mary’s cemetery is at the top of Sharp’s Hill, on the far west side of Sharpsburg. It’s a very, very long walk up the hill, and when we get to the top, we are actually at the base of the cemetery, which itself is another steep hill.

  Maria Luisa’s grave is near the top, so Mama and I have to stop for a while and rest. We’re sitting by someone’s grave—a married couple, actually, who were once Josef and Marta Perkowski. I hope they don’t mind the company.

  “It’s still chilly out here, Mama, when the wind blows.”

  “Pull your scarf tighter around you, figlia.”

  She puts her arms around me and rubs my arms. I can tell she’s not herself, though. Mama sighs heavily when she is sad, and she’s sighing a lot without realizing it.

  “I’ve got my breath now. Have you?” she asks.

  “I’m ready.” I stand up and brush off my coat.

  Maria Luisa’s grave marker is a small white stone with a little lamb reclining on the top. There is a cast iron locket on the upper right corner above her name. The top of the locket lifts up to reveal Maria Luisa’s photo. The first thing Mama always does is lift the locket and talk to her.

  “My precious baby. I haven’t forgotten you.” She stares for a while at the photo and strokes it with her fingers. Then she kisses it and closes the cover. Mama places a little concrete garden angel in front of the stone before we kneel together to recite the rosary.

  We’re just about through the glorious mysteries when I think I hear someone crying and look up. In this weather, we don’t usually see anyone up here. Mama and I close with the ‘Hail Holy Queen,’ and I am sure that I hear someone now. Even Mama looks up.

  Far off to our right, I can see two little children—a boy and a girl—playing tag among the headstones. The little girl’s hat flies off and reveals her red hair. I recognize her as Nicoletta’s daughter, Elena.

  That must mean that the crying I am hearing . . . In the distance, I can see Nicoletta lying prostrate on a grave, and she is sobbing. I put my head down quickly because I feel as though I have just intruded on her privacy.

  “Who is
that?” asks Mama, and she’s squinting to see.

  “It’s Mrs. Pantuzzo.”

  Mama’s face is serious, and her forehead is furrowed. “Maybe we should check on her,” says Mama.

  I’m shocked. It’s not like Mama to go out of her way to run into Nicoletta.

  On the way over to her, I holler hello to Elena and Vincenzo as loudly as I can so that Nicoletta has some warning and can compose herself. In my peripheral vision, I can see her drying her eyes and moving to a kneeling position. She’s still looking down and wiping her eyes when we get there.

  “Nicoletta?” I touch her shoulder. I can tell that Mama is surprised to hear me call her by name.

  “Carolina.” She reaches back and pats my hand. “This is my husband’s grave.”

  Nicoletta’s face is swollen and red from crying, and the tears have washed off her makeup. She looks so young and so pitiful today, nothing like the brazen woman who led the parade at la festa. She gets on her feet and looks out at the children while she takes a breath and prepares to say something. But it’s not me she wants to talk to. The words are directed at Mama.

  “I loved my husband. I still do. There is no man as strong or as handsome or as good and brave as Stefano was. I miss him.” She whispers that last line and breaks down again, weeping.

  I have a handkerchief in my coat pocket, and I hand it to her. “Thank you.” She sniffles, and she blows her nose.

  “Mrs. Costandini.” She is looking Mama dead in the eyes now. “My husband had no insurance and almost no money in the bank when he died. I tried to get a job, but I can’t read or write, and the factories don’t hire women. When I couldn’t feed them any longer,” she looks over at her children, “I had to do something. I know what the women in town say about me, but I’m not going to let Elena and Vincenzo starve to death.”

  Mama is never at a loss for words, but she is dumbstruck now. I can tell she is ashamed of herself. She nods her head slightly and glances down.

  “Do you want to walk back with us?” I ask.