Elizabeth Street Part 19

"Nanny, not all Mafia stuff is garbage. You act like the Mafia's not real or something."

"Don't tell me! I know what's real and what's not!"

"Why are you screaming?"

"Because you don't know what you're talking about. Go do your homework!"

"I did it already. What's the big deal? It's a dumb old Mafia movie!"

"It's not the Mafia, it's the Black Hand!"

"Same thing."

"See! You know nothing!"

"They just said it! The movie's based on a true story, a cop named Petrosino fighting the Mafia."

"They killed him."

"Who?"

"The policeman, Petrosino."

"Did you see the movie?"

"No."

"Then how do you know he gets killed?"

She didn't answer.

"How do you know he gets killed, Nanny?"

That night, I left Nanny with my sister and went to the local pizza parlor parking lot to hang out with my friends. I had decided not to tell anyone, but that lasted about fifteen minutes.

"I'm telling you, Thea, my grandmother was kidnapped."

"That's so cool," Thea marveled.

"I don't think she thought it was cool. She was only four."

"How did they get her back?"

"I'm not sure. I think they paid a ransom or something. She didn't tell me much."

"Was it, like, Al Capone?"

"No, it was the Black Hand. They came before the Mafia."

"You gotta get her to tell you more."

"I don't think that's going to happen."

A few months later, my mother was stunned at my enthusiasm for attending the family reunion picnic. She kept looking at me out of the corner of her eye. It baffled me that my mother knew so little about the kidnapping. "That's so long ago. What do you care?"

Unlike my grandmother, who was stonewalling me, my mother honestly didn't have the information and didn't seem interested. But for me, it had become an obsession. I replayed scenes from the past, looking for clues. There was the obvious-Nanny yelling to get the strangers out of the house when my friends came to visit-but I needed to know more to be able to make sense of it all. For the first time, I truly tried to understand the tangled web of my family. It wasn't easy. Nanny and Nonno were cousins as well as husband and wife, and they weren't the only ones. Our family tree had so many diagonal lines it looked like it was covered in netting. I missed Nonno every day, but now I felt desperate for him.

There wasn't a hamburger or hot dog in sight at the family picnic. Trays of lasagna, eggplant parmigiana, swordfish, clams on the half sh.e.l.l, steamed mussels, calamari salads, veal rollatini, stuffed artichokes, and more covered the redwood picnic tables. The tuna ca.s.serole and noodle salad brought by the few cousins who had married non-Italians were politely put on a separate picnic table and went untouched.

I decided that Uncle Cakey, Nanny's younger brother, would be my best source. Nanny's older brother, Clement, and sister, Frances, were both dead. Aunt Mary lived in Wildwood and wouldn't be coming, and Aunt Etta was a lot younger than Nanny, so I figured she didn't know much.

Uncle Cakey was immediately drafted for a game of bocce, so I had to wait. When the game and bickering about whose ball was closer ended, I brought Uncle Cakey a gla.s.s of wine and steered him far away from my grandmother.

"So, Uncle Cakey, were you born when Nanny was kidnapped?"

"You know about that?"

I tried to sound nonchalant. "Yeah, of course."

He looked at me skeptically but answered. "I was born when they had your grandmother."

One of the old cousins walked by. "Dominick, my great-niece here wants to know about when they took Lena."

Dominick looked older than Uncle Cakey but was taller. He pulled up a folding chair.

"Yeah? Who's your mother?"

"Josie. I'm Angelina's granddaughter Anna."

"You look like her."

Cousin Dominick squeezed my face and gave me a kiss. "How old are you?"

"I'm sixteen...I saw this old movie about a cop named Petrosino."

"Oh, yeah, Petrosino, I knew him. I wanted to be a policeman."

"Did he help when my grandmother was kidnapped?"

"No, he was dead by then. I still remember his funeral. It didn't matter that he was Italian-everyone came. I had a friend who worked for him. Detective Forseti, Fachetti-something like that."

"So what exactly was the Black Hand?"

"Thugs. Black rats. You know they even tried to get money out of Caruso when he came to New York. My friend the detective got them that time."

"So was he the one that got Nanny back?"

"No, your great-grandmother got her back. I helped her, you know. She was smart, your great-grandmother. And strong. I loved Zia Giovanna. My father, Lorenzo, didn't live long like she did, but my mother, Teresa, G.o.d rest her soul, had eleven children and died at ninety-two."

"How did Big Nanny get her back?"

"Does your grandmother know you're asking all these questions?"

I lied. "Sure. But what does it matter?"

"Because you don't talk about it, that's all. Cakey, did you tell her about how people would wait around the block for our ice cream in Hoboken? If you want to hear old stories, that's what you should know."

"See this muscle?" Uncle Cakey jumped into the conversation by flexing his biceps. "The longsh.o.r.emen didn't have muscles like this! We had to lift barrels of ice and rock salt. Even your grandmother had muscles from carrying the cream and condensed milk."

"Lena!" Cousin Dominick called Nanny. "Tell your granddaughter about our ice cream."

Nanny walked over, effectively ending my investigation. Within minutes Uncle Cakey was recounting in detail how they made the lemon ice.

"You cut the t.i.ts off the lemons...the barrels would go into rock salt..."

"Remember Mamma would say, 'Don't let Uncle Lorenzo buy the lemons! He's an artist. He always picks the lemons that look good, not the ones with the thin skins that you need.'"

Nanny actually chuckled at the memory, but I began to tune out. I was plotting my next move, because although I'd gotten a few answers, I ended up with more questions.

PART SEVEN.

SCILLA, ITALY AUGUSTDECEMBER 1908

TWENTY-THREE.

Returning from the mountains, Angelina jumped down from her grandfather's shoulders and ran through the door of her grandparents' house in Scilla.

"Domenico, she'll soon bleat like a goat!" chided Concetta.

"My American granddaughter needs fresh milk!" he said proudly, leaving the milk and cheese on the table. Domenico was enraptured with Angelina. Her complexion and hair were far darker than anyone in the family, and he treated her like an exotic jewel.

Giovanna and Angelina had arrived in Scilla three weeks before. For the final leg of their journey, Cousin Pasquale had picked them up by boat from Reggio. As they sailed north past the beach of Marina Grande, turning the corner around the castle into the Chia.n.a.lea, Giovanna had to stop herself from diving in and swimming to her parents, who waited on the dock.

Giovanna's initial euphoria over being back in Scilla was replaced by torrents of tears. Her mother's presence allowed her to be a vulnerable child, and she didn't leave her side. Days later, when the sobbing stopped, melancholy set in. Everywhere she looked evoked memories, and always those memories included Nunzio. Her sadness was complicated by the guilt she felt for only thinking of Nunzio. It was days before it occurred to her that Rocco, too, came from Scilla. She forced herself to walk to the address where he said he grew up. The tiny stone house stared back at her, as foreign and impenetrable as her husband.

Nunzio's family, including his mother, Zia Marianna, all lived within a few feet of her own mother's house, and his family was with them each day. Angelina particularly liked playing with the children of Nunzio's sister, Fortunata. The girls treated her like a porcelain doll and giggled when Angelina spoke in an Italian that had been b.a.s.t.a.r.dized by English. Fortunata's twelve-year-old boy, Antonio, took Angelina fishing and taught her to swim. Antonio looked so much like his Uncle Nunzio that at first Giovanna found it unnerving; he didn't have Nunzio's red hair, but he had his handsome face and tall, thin build. He also had his uncle's curiosity. After a while, Giovanna not only took comfort in the boy's presence but fantasized that Antonio would marry Angelina and her grandchildren would have Nunzio's blood.

"How beautiful, Nonna!" squealed Angelina, running her fingers over the embroidered flowers on the white dress.

"Let's try it on," said Concetta, slipping the dress over her granddaughter's head. "There. You're going to be the prettiest girl at the feast!"

"Will there really be fire in the sky, Nonna? That's what Nonno said."

"For once your Nonno isn't telling stories!"

"Thank you, Mamma," whispered Giovanna to her mother. There were times in New York that Giovanna thought she would never see another proper Feast of Saint Rocco, the patron saint of Scilla. But tonight she would walk in the procession with her daughter, and, as usual, her father would be one of the men to shoulder the statue of Saint Rocco through the streets.

"Look at Nonno!" pointed Angelina, giggling. Her grandfather came down the stairs in his blue shirt and red neck scarf.

"You're getting too old to carry the statue, Domenico," chided Concetta.

"Too old! Who carries our granddaughter each day on his shoulders?!" he said, tickling Angelina.

At the church, Domenico went with the men to retrieve the ten-foot statue for the procession. It was to be carried, as it had been for more than a hundred years, from the church, through the streets of Scilla, borne on an ornate litter atop the shoulders of twenty men. The band of the City of Scilla, dressed in uniforms with sashes across their chests, followed the statue and all the men of the Saint Rocco Society. Behind the band walked the population of Scilla.

"Antonio, why does Saint Rocco point to his knee?" Angelina asked her cousin, who walked beside her.

"Shhh, Angelina."

"Where did you get that cap?" she whispered, ignoring him.

"Your mother gave it to me. Now be quiet," reprimanded Antonio.

"Okay, but how much farther?"

"Soon we will be at the chiazza, and you will see the fireworks," a.s.sured Antonio.

Angelina was half asleep on her mother's shoulder when they finally reached the chiazza, but with the first explosion she was wide awake. Giovanna watched the reflection of the fireworks and the wonder in her daughter's eyes. It was the first time during this trip to Scilla that she was creating a memory instead of evoking one.

"The boat's coming in, Angelina. Let's see if they caught the last of the swordfish," said Domenico to his granddaughter.