The Creeds that Move Men's Hearts

by Melody Veltri

  “Buon Natale!” says Giova. He has a smile on his face, but he looks tense to me. I don’t know if this woman has ever been in a room of Italians, and I would bet she has never encountered anyone like Zia Izzy. I can’t imagine why Giova would surprise us all like this. Maybe he thought it would be easier to introduce her while we had company. Then Mama couldn’t grill her.

  “Buon Natale!” cries Mr. Marchetti and jumps up to shake Giova’s hand.

  “Angelo, this is Annette. Annette, this is our good friend and neighbor, and this is his mother and his daughter Rose.”

  Annette seems overwhelmed by the stares and attention, but she kindly takes Mr. Marchetti’s hand and then nods to Nana and Rose.

  “You don’t introduce your own mother!”

  “Mama, I was getting there. Can we set a place for Annette to have dinner?”

  “Sure, of course,” says Mama. “There’s plenty of room and plenty of food. Carolina, come help me set a place.” She grabs my arm and pulls me out of my chair. On my way to the kitchen, I can hear Giova making the rounds and introducing Annette to the others.

  “Did you know about this girl?” whispers Mama to me.

  “No, I didn’t know! I’ve never seen her before in my life.”

  “Has he talked about her to you?”

  “Never. I didn’t think Giova even looked at girls. He works all day, and then he goes out with Giuseppe. They don’t tell me what they do.”

  “What do you think of her?

  “She’s pretty. I don’t know what else to say. I haven’t even talked to her yet.”

  “I don’t think she’s Italian.”

  “I don’t think so, either, Mama.”

  “And she’s a big girl. She’s as tall as Giova!”

  “Well, that’s all right, Mama. He must not mind.”

  “Set a place at the end of the table for her. Do you think she is Polish?”

  “Blonde can be a lot of things, Mama. Maybe she’s German.”

  “German! What’s Giova doing with a big German? He’s too good for an Italian girl?”

  “Come on, Mama, be nice. He brought her to dinner. He isn’t marrying her.”

  Fortunately, Papa has been cranking the Victrola with Christmas carols, so I don’t think that Annette heard us.

  A moment later, Zia Izzy has joined us. “That girl is a Lutheran!”

  Mama grabs her heart. “She won’t be going to mass?”

  “I don’t know,” says Zia, “but she just told us that she goes to the Lutheran church.”

  “A German Lutheran,” says Mama, “What is that boy thinking?”

  I feel sorry for Giova. This is the first time he has ever brought someone home and already Mama disapproves. Before the girl even talks to her!

  I set her place at the table and am about to rejoin the party when Zia Izzy comes up behind me.

  “I’m going upstairs to the bathroom. Pretend you forgot something in your room and meet me there in a few minutes,” she whispers.

  It’s a strange request, but Zia is a strange person. There is only one reason why she would need to talk to me in secret. Only one. I pass through the living room and mention to Rose that I’m going to get my hairbrush so that I can make her braids. Giuseppe seems to have everyone’s attention anyway. He’s in the middle of a joke that will have to be translated for Annette. That is, if he ever finishes it. He is doubled over and can hardly breathe from laughing already. I don’t think anyone enjoys those jokes as much as he does. Everyone else is laughing or smiling just to watch him.

  “Zia, I’m here.”

  “Let’s go to your room,” she says. Zia sits on my bed and pulls out another cigarillo. I grab my little footstool.

  “Have you made a decision about tonight, Carolina? Are you ready to learn the spells?”

  I have dreaded this moment. If I say no to Zia, she will be offended. If I say yes, Mama and Papa will be furious. I think I could keep it secret from them, at least for a while, but the real truth is that I have decided against it because I don’t want to spend my time cursing people and seeking vengeance. I thought that the spells would be more mystical than that. I thought that maybe I could read the future and stop bad things from happening to someone. If I could help Mr. Marchetti or Sara or Rose, this would be more tempting, but it doesn’t seem to work that way. Yes, I wanted Luca to be gone, but I am not convinced that Izzy is responsible for that. Maybe God was saving Sara that day. Even so, even if Izzy does have some kind of control of people’s lives, it isn’t a control that I want to have.

  “Zia, you are a powerful woman. You are feared by many in town, and you are able to do things that no one else can do. I think it takes a special person to be able to take that on. I have thought about this a long time, and I am very honored that you have asked me to continue the family business, but I don’t have your strength. I just don’t have what it takes to be a strega like you. I wish I did, but I don’t.”

  Zia sighs. “It’s true. There aren’t many who could do what I do. I still think that you are a smart girl, Carolina. I think someday you may change your mind. But if you aren’t ready, I respect that. It is a gift, I can’t deny it. Some days, I find it hard to carry this power myself.”

  I feel a great relief. If she were offended, we would all suffer the consequences, but Zia seems satisfied with my answer. Not happy about it, but at least satisfied.

  “Let’s go downstairs, Zia, before they miss us.” I grab the hairbrush off the dresser.

  Mama calls us all in to dinner, and the feast of the fishes begins. Papa says a prayer, and then, while the food is passed around, raises his glass of wine in a toast.

  “We never know what the next year will bring—good times, hard times. I am glad that we have our good friends and our family to go through this life with us. That is all that really matters—that we have each other!”

  “Salute!” says Mr. Marchetti, and he taps his wine glass against Pa’s. The whole table joins in.

  “Cin Cin, Giova,” I say. But Giova seems distracted. I can’t help but wonder what is going through his mind. He almost seems to be worried about something, but maybe I’m imagining that.

  After dinner, all of the women are clearing the table, and despite Mama’s protests, Annette wants to help. She hasn’t said much this evening. I think it must be hard for her to meet so many people at one time. I can’t imagine what it is like for her to meet Zia Izzy, but Annette hasn’t had to talk much to her.

  In the process of so many people going in and out of the doorway between the kitchen and living room—Giulia, Mama, Sara, Izzy, Annette, and myself—Mama and Annette bump into each other, and Annette drops all of the dishes in her arms. It’s not a crash that happens all at once. As she tries to recover her balance, more plates fall, and then more. While the last plate is spinning on the floor, we all look at each other. Annette starts to cry and then drops to the floor to pick up the pieces.

  “These old dishes!” cries Mama. “Don’t you worry about these. I was going to throw them away anyway. Didn’t I just say that, Carolina?”

  “You did.” I grab a broom and dust pan while Zia Giulia ushers the little girls, who have come to see what the commotion is, away from the mess. Zia Izzy cackles long and hard. “At least we don’t have to wash them!” she says, and Annette’s face turns crimson.

  Giova comes into the kitchen and sees her on her knees and in tears. “My sister will get this, Annette. Let’s sit down in the living room.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” she apologizes.

  After she leaves, Mama takes a wet rag and wipes up the splinters that I may have missed. “Poor German girl,” she says. “That’s nothing to worry about.” I realize now that she has softened her attitude toward Annette. Maybe breaking those dishes was the best thing could have happened. Especially for a Lutheran.

  Almost everyone is gone by 10:00. Giova is walking Annette home, and the Bongiovannis and Marchettis have left, too. Only Sara remains
. She’ll go to midnight mass with us, as usual. Giuseppe jumps from his chair as if he’s received a jolt. “L’albero (the tree)!” he says. He runs for the door, and Marcello and Lindo chase after him. In a moment he returns, carrying another pine that he and Giova probably cut down under the cover of night somewhere. I certainly didn’t think they would do it again this year, but Marcello and Lindo are so excited that this may become a new tradition.

  Mama makes popcorn, and we spend the rest of the evening trying to thread garlands for the tree until it’s time for mass. Giova is back by then, and we all walk to church in the moonlight. The snow is falling quickly and heavily in large, wet flakes. There is no wind, and the whiteness of it all is magical with the snow sticking to the houses. The dreary row houses aren’t gray and depressing in a snow like this. There is a beautiful, soft silence. I hope that I can remember this night. It isn’t often that the texture and weight of the snow is perfect like this.

  Dear Diary, December 25, 1926

  Who would think that Giova was hiding a girlfriend from us? And all this time, I thought that he was too busy for girls. He’s always so secretive with his life—just like those meetings he attends. Lutheran-Catholic-Polish-German-Italian—who cares! We lost sight that Annette was just a nervous, young girl until she broke those dishes. Shame on us all. She didn’t go to Mass with us, but that would have been a long night for her. We didn’t get home until 1:30, and I was so tired. This year, the boys’ choir sang “Tu Scende De la Stelle,” and it sounded as though the angels were among us. I closed my eyes so that I could imagine they were.

  * * *

  Winter passed in the usual freezing cold and dreary way. And in the usual way, Mama is now itching to go to the cemetery. We went in November, but that is four months ago now. It’s the beginning of March, and the weather has broken enough to make the long walk up the hill again.

  “I hope that this never happens to you, Carolina,” says Mama, a bit out of breath.

  “Hope what never happens to me, Mama?”

  “I hope you never have to go through losing a child,” she says. “It gets better, I won’t lie. But there is always a hole here.” She pats her heart.

  “Did she look like Anna Maria?”

  “No, not really. She didn’t have as much hair, and her eyes were not as dark or as big. They were light brown, and she was quiet, not as active as Anna Maria. Anna walked early, though. Maria Luisa was very sick that last month, so I have a hard time remembering her when she wasn’t quiet and tired. Sometimes that is the worst part. I’m afraid that I will forget. These years go by, and all I have is her casket photograph. Sometimes when I’m tired, I can’t quite remember her face. I pray to God and to the Blessed Virgin all the time, ‘Please don’t let me forget her face.’”

  I hope that I never lose a child, either. Papa grieves for Maria Luisa, too, I am sure, but with Mama it is like a weight that she wears as a necklace. It’s never really far from her, and I don’t think it will ever go away—even if she is afraid that it will.

  I don’t know if the temperature is as warm as it feels or if Mama and I are just warm from walking, but when we get to the base of the cemetery, it seems like a spring day. I pull my scarf from around my head and neck, and Mama and I find a seat on the ground. She needs to rest. That hill is too steep for her, and I wish that Papa had a car.

  The sun feels warm on my face, and the sky is actually blue underneath the quickly moving clouds. I never realize the full effect that winter has on me until I am outside in the sun. How did we survive being in that house all of those months? How I long for the warm weather now. I could sit here all afternoon.

  Mama, however, could not. We need to climb up the cemetery bank and look for my sister. When we find her, Mama raises the locket, as usual, and we begin our prayers. Before we get to the end of the rosary, I find myself daydreaming and looking out over Sharpsburg.

  “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with you. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb, Jesus.”

  Is that smoke?

  “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, amen.”

  It is smoke!

  “Oh my Jesus, forgive us our sins,” continues Mama, but then she realizes that I’m not praying with her, and she nudges me.

  “Mama, I think there’s a fire down there.”

  “Where?”

  By now, the smoke is billowing in dark gray clouds over on the south end of town. Whatever is on fire is in serious trouble. I can’t help but think of the Great Fire of 1845 that I read about in the Sunday paper two years ago. If this fire blazes out of control, it could wipe out Sharpsburg.

  “Is it the school, Carolina?”

  “No, Mama. The school isn’t that far away.”

  “I don’t like the looks of this. The boys are down there. We need to get home.”

  We finish the rosary as we walk down the hill, and we add prayers about the fire. By the time we are halfway home, there are sirens from the fire trucks blaring in several directions.

  “Madonna Mia,” worries Mama. “The school, our house—I wish Papa was not at work.”

  People are coming out of their houses when we enter the streets of Sharpsburg. The rumor is that the lumberyard is on fire. There are fire trucks from Aspinwall, Etna, and Millvale helping to put it out, it’s that big. Mama doesn’t care about the lumber mill, but she wants to make sure that the school is safe, so we head in that direction.

  By now, the sky is so dark it looks like evening. I have never seen anything like it. Anyone who can has left his home to step outside. If this fire spreads, there will be a panic. Not enough people have cars, and the streetcars cannot fit everyone.

  “Zia Lena!” Giuseppe has his broom and is running toward us.

  “Have you seen it?” asks Mama in Italian.

  “Si,” answers Giuseppe. “L’iarda di legnarne sta bruciando a terra.” (The lumberyard is burning to the ground.)

  Mama crosses herself, and we wait with the crowd for the school to empty out. Marcello and Lindo want to walk closer to the fire, but Mama refuses. “We all need to get home and pack a bag in case this fire starts to spread.”

  For most of the afternoon, we take turns watching for the fire from the front porch. Papa comes home from work and tells us that he heard it took three hours for the fire to get under control, but nothing is damaged but the mill.

  “Thank you, Jesus,” says Mama and crosses herself.

  “How did it happen?” asks Giova.

  “The Mano Nero is taking credit. I think they were giving their own message to the Klan.”

  “Was anyone hurt?” asks Mama.

  “No one. But they could have been. Ratliff had left the building to go to the bank. I don’t know if the Mano Nero waited for him to leave, or if they thought he was still in there. Gauze was out of town on business. Thank God, there were no customers there. At least, that’s what they were saying when I walked home.”

  Mama shakes her head and goes into the kitchen to start dinner.

  “They deserved it,” says Giova. “They chose the wrong people to mess with this time. I bet they will think twice before harassing Italians again.”

  “Giova, why do you say that? Innocent people could have been killed today. How does that make us any better than they are?” Pa has a stern tone to his voice.

  “You can’t just give up and let people threaten you, Papa. That Klan has scared people into leaving town—they gave Lorenzo La Cava twenty-four hours to sell what he could and get out of town. And he did! At least the Mano Nero fought back today.”

  “It won’t help. The Klan will still hate Italians because that is what they do and who they are. They hate everyone. But burning down the business of one of them will only strengthen the resolve of the rest of them.”

  Giuseppe thinks the Mano Nero are harmless. The mafia in Italy is powerful, he says in Italian. This is nothing.

  “Well, th
is isn’t Italy,” says Papa, “and we shouldn’t let it be. Violence always leads to more violence. It solves nothing, and it ignites passion.”

  “Exactly,” says Giova. “Passion is what we need. Passion is what creates change. Without passion, we are like mice, not men.”

  “You talk like a twenty-year-old, Giova.” Papa seems to be trying to stay calm but is getting angry. “Wait until you lose friends to that kind of passion—wait until you see people who mind their own business suffer, and all that is accomplished from the violence is more suffering. You talk in theory, but you don’t know what the reality is.”

  “The reality today is that the lumberyard is gone and that Ratliff and Gauze will be gone unless they are not the cowards that I believe they are. And how are we not better because of it?”

  “We are not better because we just proved to them that Italians are violent and uncivilized and will stop at nothing to create their own justice. We proved to them today that they were right to fear us. And in the process, the Mano Nero could have burned down this whole town.”

  Mama wants this to stop before Papa has chest pains. “Come on, everybody. We eat now. No more of this talk. Not at my table. Mangia, everybody.”

  Dear Diary, March 7, 1927

  Isn’t Giova right? Why shouldn’t we stand up to the Klan? I’m glad that the lumberyard is gone. I’m glad that the Mano Nero took revenge. Is that so wrong? The Klan burns crosses and lynches people and terrorizes people, and the police do nothing to stop them. So now two of them have been given a dose of their own medicine. I don’t understand why Papa thinks that is wrong. I know the Mano Nero is known for terrorizing its own, but today they did a good thing. Didn’t they? What is wrong with fighting back? Is it wrong to want vengeance against evil? Giova would say it is right. Giuseppe would say it is right. Zia Izzy would say it is right. I am so angry at this world sometimes that I have a hard time thinking the way Papa does.