Ever since those early years of the century, each year between late August and the first week of September, Little Italy came alive. The streets were filled with an endless succession of colorful stalls, with booths selling mussels, sausages, and cotton candy for the kids. Windows were decorated with Italian flags as well as the Stars and Stripes, and archways of leafy branches or strands of tiny lights festooned the dark streets. The congregation had an altar built for the occasion, on which the saint’s statue was placed. Two additional platforms were used for the bands providing the music. In the afternoon and evening, local residents could listen to passages from operas and watch plays in dialect, and stories performed by Sicilian puppets. Later the bands would play popular songs so that people could dance.
But the moment most awaited by everyone was Monday, the final day of the feast, when the solemn procession began at dusk. Before the long journey began, people would attach bills of different denominations to the statue, each according to his means. This devotional practice enabled the congregation to maintain the statue and to offer support to destitute families. After this moment of reverence, the silver canopy was hoisted onto the shoulders of a team of statue bearers, who had earned the privilege by paying big bucks. The life-sized effigy of Saint Ciro, covered with bills, escorted by the band, and followed by thousands of faithful devotees, then wound through the streets of Little Italy for a good two hours, amid general excitement. Everyone made the sign of the cross when the saint passed by. Many women, mostly the elderly, walked barefoot behind the shrine. Impromptu choruses lifted their voices in more or less spontaneous prayer, in dialect.
At the end of the procession, around midnight, was the start of the long-awaited fireworks, when everyone’s thoughts drifted back home to the relatives and friends they’d left behind, in some cases forever.
This was the setting in which Vito Pizzuto decided to carry out his revenge against Ferdinando Licata. He met with Tom Bontade and laid out his plan, but the boss had doubts about the negative impact that it could have on the entire community.
Basically Pizzuto wanted to fill Saint Ciro’s statue with sticks of dynamite, and use a rifle shot to set them off the moment Prince Licata approached the figure of the saint.
“The time to trigger the detonator will be when the prince affixes his offering to the saint’s statue,” Vito Pizzuto explained. “The silver shards should be lethal. Naturally, others may be injured. But our explosives expert will make sure the blast’s discharge occurs in the area right in front of the statue, where the prince would attach his money.” Pizzuto conveyed the plan with the coolness of an accountant.
“But an attack on the statue of Saint Ciro will make all the inhabitants of Little Italy despise us,” Bontade declared.
“It’s a risk we have to take. Anyway, it’s safer to be feared than loved,” Pizzuto concluded.
Tom Bontade pondered the proposal for a few minutes. He didn’t like the idea of destroying the statue of Saint Ciro. It had cost the Sicilian community a great deal of sacrifice, and to blow it up like that seemed like a betrayal. Licata could also be killed with a shotgun blast, though it wouldn’t have the same impact on the population that by now had adopted him as “Father.”
“I’ll give you an answer tomorrow morning, Pizzuto.” With that, he sent him away, wanting to be alone.
Chapter 42
That year, 1939, the festivities of Saint Ciro were coming to a close on Monday, September 11. Thousands of people thronged the sidewalks of Little Italy.
Mingling with the crowd, dressed in his Sunday best, was Ferdinando Licata. He stood out, partly because he towered over everyone by a good several inches, and partly because in his Prince of Wales suit, he looked particularly elegant. The prince was holding little Ginevra by the hand, though from time to time she asked to be picked up so she could see over the wall of legs at her eye level. Behind them, Betty and her husband, Nico, were walking hand in hand, like a couple of sweethearts. They too were dressed in the finest clothes they owned, and smiled happily at the acquaintances they met. They had closed La Tonnara for the procession and allowed themselves a day off. Betty had never been so happy in her life. After the disappearance of the Stokers and their demands, people had begun frequenting the restaurant again; it was finally financially stable, and Nico was even thinking about hiring a cook to assist him.
Also circulating in the crowd were Tom Bontade and his trusted bagman, Carmelo Vanni. Barret and Cooper, the two bodyguards, didn’t take their eyes off them, and rudely shoved aside any men and even women who were unfortunate enough to get in their boss’s way. Bontade and Vanni, both in dark pinstriped suits, glanced around continually, as if looking for someone who hadn’t yet arrived.
Agnes, Saro’s new flame, stood in the doorway of a candy shop waiting for Saro, who soon emerged with a cloud of cotton candy. She took the wooden stick from him with a playful smile, kissed him on the cheek, and sank her mouth into the sweet airy fluff. They both stood on the doorstep in order to see over the heads of the crowd, prepared to watch the procession.
The Mass had ended, and the band began playing a solemn hymn. The twelve bearers, all wearing red cassocks, made their way through the crowd that pressed close to the statue of Saint Ciro.
They hoisted the pallet to their shoulders, whereupon the band stopped performing the sacred hymn and began playing a more rhythmic piece to accompany the procession. The priest stepped down from the platform where he had officiated at the Mass and took his place at the head, followed by a group of altar boys, devout women, and two other deacons. The procession then began.
The shrine with the silver saint followed the cortege, and behind it came the band and then the crowd of emigrants.
It took two hours for the procession to pass through the neighborhood’s streets. The press of people forced the bearers to slow their pace. Litanies alternated with choruses, ancient hymns, and Hail Marys. After two hours, they returned to the starting point, where platforms had been set up. The band took its place on the stage, and the musicians were finally able to sit down. The priest ascended the outdoor altar, and Saint Ciro was positioned on a stand just below it. The donation ceremony would now begin, the final ritual before the start of the fireworks.
Suddenly spontaneous applause rose from the crowd. Several women cried out, “Viva Saint Ciro!” A man with his hands cupped in front of his mouth shouted, “Saint Ciro, allow us to go back one day!” It was like a signal, and many others voiced the same wish. Meanwhile, a line of people formed in front of the statue: men, women with sleeping babies in their arms, children, teenagers, and old people—many of them holding a one-dollar bill, some a five-dollar, a few even a ten- or a twenty-dollar bill. Some managed to pin the bill on the saint’s statue, others dropped it in the basket placed at its feet.
From his position nearby, Tom Bontade turned and in the darkness saw the burnished gleam of a rifle barrel on the fire escape of the building behind him.
On the top floor of the building, Roy Boccia, a former sniper from the Great War, was focusing the crosshairs on the head of Saint Ciro’s statue. Beside him stood Vito Pizzuto, who, with binoculars, was keeping an eye on Ferdinando Licata. The prince, still holding his grandniece’s hand, had lined up to make an offering to the saint along with everyone else. Little Ginevra clutched a one-hundred-dollar bill in her hand, and few people in the square had failed to notice the generous donation.
Saro and Agnes had moved and were now standing beside a tree, the better to watch the offerings to the saint. Saro spotted Isabel standing near the statue. She wore a green dress that displayed her curves and a kerchief over her red hair, as was customary for women when they entered a church. Saro noticed that she looked forlorn. At that moment, Ferdinando Licata passed by. Saro recognized him immediately and pointed him out to Agnes.
“See that man holding the little girl’s hand? That’s Prince Ferdinando Licata.”
“I know who he is. Everyone here calls him F
ather.”
“He’s a friend of mine,” Saro boasted. “He’s from the same town as me, from Salemi. On the ship, he saved me from the brig, telling the officer I was his friend.”
“He saved you from the brig? Can it be you’re always in trouble?”
Saro smiled, and she planted a kiss on his mouth.
The atmosphere of the feast, the excited shouts of the crowd, the sweet sounds of the Sicilian dialect, brought back memories of his Salemi during the feast days of Saint Faustina: tombola in the piazza, the procession, the fireworks. The smiling faces of Stellina, Ester, and his beloved parents, Annachiara and Peppino, paraded before his eyes. And Mena. He missed them all and felt sad because he hadn’t heard from them in quite some time.
Meanwhile, Ferdinando Licata and his grandniece were moving closer to the saint’s shrine. There were still two more people in front of them.
Tom Bontade turned around and glanced at the fire escape again. The timing was right.
Vito Pizzuto’s military field glasses were trained on Bontade. The boss couldn’t see him, but he knew Pizzuto was watching him. A little farther down, Pizzuto spotted the unmistakable figure of Licata.
He murmured to the former sniper, “Do you have him?”
“He’s mine,” was the terse reply.
Vito Pizzuto focused the binoculars on Tom Bontade again, who had turned back to the statue. Next to his boss he also saw the unsuspecting Carmelo Vanni. No one except for him, Bontade, and Roy Boccia knew what was about to happen.
Boccia was the best in the business, both as an explosives expert and as a sniper. Placing the detonator in the saint’s hollow head and the stick of dynamite in the statue had been a breeze. No one would ever have imagined an attack on Saint Ciro’s statue.
Tom Bontade turned back to Pizzuto and nodded his head imperceptibly. It was the agreed-upon signal.
Bontade had withheld his decision of whether or not to make the strike until the last moment. In the end, he decided to go ahead with it.
By now there was only one person ahead of Licata and Ginevra. The prince picked up the child so she could reach the statue more easily. Their one-hundred-dollar bill had to be exposed, according to the rules, so Ginevra had to try to pin it to some surface that was still free.
Finally, it was their turn. Licata held the little girl out toward the silver statue. Betty and Nico were watching the scene from several yards back. The people nearest to them saw the denomination of the bill and started clapping, followed by the hearty applause of everyone in the square. Cries of “Evviva San Ciro!”—“Long live Saint Ciro!” —rose again. Someone else shouted, “Long live the Father!” when suddenly the saint’s head was struck a clean blow, and an instant later, an explosion ripped the statue’s silver plating in two.
A burst of flame struck the people standing in front of the effigy. Ferdinando Licata, with Ginevra in his arms, was hurled a dozen yards back by the explosion’s shock wave. Millions of splinters poured down like a rain of lacerating needles on those pressed around the statue. Screams and moans rose up to heaven, like a tragic Greek chorus. The crowd reeled, panic-stricken. After the first few moments of confusion, everyone started calling the names of their loved ones and running in all directions, trampling children and old people who had been knocked to the ground by the blast. Nico had instinctively thrown his arms around Betty to protect her, but then his mind flashed an image of his daughter leaning out toward the statue.
Many people were on the ground, their faces bloody. Recovered from the shock, Betty looked toward the altar and the saint’s shrine: the place where she had last seen her daughter. But there was nothing there anymore except demolished platforms and some bills still fluttering through the air. The statue was now a shapeless lump of silver. When Betty began to realize what had happened, she screamed her daughter’s name with every ounce of strength she had in her.
She raced to look for her among the weeping, suffering crowd.
Saro, who with Agnes had been a distance from the explosion, didn’t run away like most people did, but ran toward the altar. Agnes huddled beside the tree and burst into tears, like many of those who had escaped injury. Reacting instinctively, Saro headed for the spot where he had last seen Isabel.
“Isabel! Isabel!” His cries joined those of other people wandering around frantically in search of relatives and friends.
He recognized the green dress. She was on the ground, still as a mannequin. He bent over her and lifted her up. Cradling her head gently in his arm, he brushed aside her thick red hair, charred by fire. To his horror, he saw that Isabel had been struck full-on by the flames and shards of silver. Her face was reduced to a pulp, oozing blood everywhere. She had been wounded in the chest as well.
Saro looked around desperately for someone who could lend a hand.
“Help! Help me!” he yelled to draw someone’s attention. A man with his clothes in shreds heard him. He left a woman who was moaning a few feet away and came over.
“I’m a doctor,” he said. Seeing Isabel’s condition and not having his instruments with him, he placed his fingers on the artery of her neck. Then he shook his head and walked away to aid the other wounded.
Saro cried out, anguished. He pressed her tightly to his chest. “Isabel! My love . . . Isabel, don’t die on me!”
Close by, Agnes heard Saro and went on crying, not only because of the tragic incident but because she knew she had lost the man she loved. Dazed and in shock, she wandered off.
Another cry rose from the center of the square. Betty had managed to recognize Ferdinando and the remains of little Ginevra. From a distance, Nico saw his wife throw herself on the ground, hysterically pounding her fists on the pavement. Frantic, he ran to her. He didn’t dare look at the amorphous mass of blood, flesh, and shreds of clothing beside her, which must be what was left of his poor baby girl. He bent over Betty and hugged her, covering her with his body, as if to protect her from that horror.
Tom Bontade drifted through the square, offering comfort to those pleading for help. He tried to be seen by as many people as possible, hoping he would be remembered as the first to go to the aid of the injured.
Up above, on the fire escape of the building facing the statue, Roy Boccia disassembled the rifle and put it back in its case. Beside him, Vito Pizzuto took the time to observe the results of their plan, pleased with how things had gone.
Ferdinando Licata was lying on his back, his face mangled and bloody. His hands gripped tatters of the child’s torn-off garment, while the rest of her little dress was impressed on Ginevra’s charred skin, racked by the blaze and peppered with silver shards.
Betty frantically shook off her husband. She didn’t know how to pick up the child, afraid to hurt her.
But Ginevra could no longer feel any pain.
A few minutes later, the first fire trucks arrived along with ambulances from nearby hospitals. The paramedics and physicians attended to the survivors first and then saw to the dead.
Caring hands removed Isabel’s corpse from Saro’s arms. They placed the young woman on a stretcher and then slid it into the morgue’s black van.
Saro rose like an automaton, feeling drained of all volition. Not far away, he recognized Prince Ferdinando Licata from the bits and pieces of his clothing, and went over to him.
Two paramedics had laid a stretcher on the ground beside the prince. A fireman, with all the sensitivity required by the situation, tried to force Betty to move away from her child to allow the paramedics to see to her. But Betty struggled as hard as she could to stay where she was, becoming hysterical. One of the male nurses had to inject her with a sedative. In the meantime, his colleague gently gathered up the little bloody bundle of flesh and bones and placed it on the stretcher. He called a policeman over to help him, and together they carried the remains of the tiny body to the grim black van.
Only after they’d taken away the little girl did Saro realize that Ferdinando Licata was still alive, his eyes s
howing signs of movement. The prince seemed to want to speak to him. His state was appalling. The nose was gone, his mouth had become a hole, his skin was completely scorched. Saro bent down to him. Their eyes met and for a few seconds seemed to communicate intense emotion.
Pulling himself together, Saro shouted, “He’s alive! Over here, quick! Doctor! He’s alive!”
Two physicians were attending to an elderly lady. One of them left the woman, picked up the first aid kit from the ground, and ran over to him. He bent over Licata and immediately saw that there was no time to spare. “Quick, a stretcher! A stretcher and an ambulance!”
Two nurses came running from an ambulance with a stretcher. They laid him on it and brought him to the ambulance, which set off, siren screeching, for Columbus Hospital, on Thirty-Fourth Street.
Tom Bontade, the engineer of the slaughter, had been comforting a distraught woman in the center of the square when he saw Ferdinando Licata being loaded into an ambulance, not the morgue van, and realized in terror that the prince had not died in the explosion.
Chapter 43
The attack made a huge splash all across America. The Italian community was outraged that such a sacrilege had been committed. There could be no forgiveness for whoever had brought about such carnage. City authorities interpreted the act as a renewal of warfare among New York’s Mafia families, and citizens clamored for an iron fist against the perpetrators.
Ten days after the attack, Ferdinando Licata was declared out of danger and transported to Bellevue Hospital. The explosion had completely destroyed his face, and he was bandaged up like a mummy. The only openings were holes for the eyes and a slit for his mouth, which he couldn’t move.
The Prince Page 37