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CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The date of my departure was set for the end of March 1908.
We all rose very early, as I was leaving on the nine A.M. train. By seven A.M., my house was jammed with relatives and townspeople who came to wish godspeed, deploring the loss of “the best young man they had ever had.”
My mother and sister were sobbing, my brother Michele had swollen eyes, while trying to be the little man of the house – he was twelve – but my brother Armino, eight or nine, was the most broken hearted of all. He was a cute and bright little fellow, thirteen years younger than myself. Since the death of our father, he had looked upon me as a second father, more than a brother, and couldn’t get resigned to this second loss. As I was leaving, I remember Armino throwing himself down on the muddy square in front of our house, like a little wounded lamb. I picked him up in my arms and told him to be a sensible boy and that I would soon send for him.
It was a chilly, wet morning. We went down the short cut to the station cautiously, in single file.
From the train, I sighed longingly at the towering mountain of my birth. At my left was the forest where I had hunted for wild boards. Suddenly I was swallowed in the darkness of the first tunnel, out of which I had seen a new life opening before me – on my first trip to Potenza – fourteen years before, and now…a vaster horizon was unfolding, with ocean and big towns, such as I had dreamed of, when from the top of the mountain I waited for the train to come hurtling down the valley.
I sailed on the “Moltke,” a ten or twelve thousand ton German liner. No getting away from the German reach. The voyage was rough and the meals without taste, but I was cheerful and made several friends. Traveling with me were my great-aunt Josephine and her ten year old daughter,…
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returning to New York after a stay in our town and they were good company.
During the last night aboard, we stopped several hours at Sandy Hook and early in the morning arrived in the bay of New York.
It was slightly foggy. The hustle and bustle of boats all around, the deep-throated fog horns, the gigantic greenish statue emerging from the choppy waves and holding high the “Torch of Liberty,” the silhouette of tall building, like a pine forest thrusting to the sky, becoming taller and taller as we got closer – all combined to create a fantastic picture of vigor and power. I was tremendously impressed, but not baffled. The promised land of great doings was here in its reality, pulsating with life, and I liked it.
At the landing, Joe Paterno was in the forefront. His hearty greetings made me feel safe and secure.
Aunt Josephine and her daughter were being awaited by their family and we parted.
On the boat I had arranged to have my trunk shipped directly to Chicago. Joe Paterno had my two valises checked by Custom inspectors, whose speed I admired. He apologized for not having his automobile, as just that morning something had gone wrong with it and we traveled by subway. He couldn’t have given me a greater thrill. That lightning speed underground held me breathless.
We got out at 116th Street and Broadway. It was a stupendous sight. The large, dignified structure of Columbia University Library, overlooking spacious grounds, more college buildings on the north, tall buildings on the south and, at the foot of a steep hill, the majestic Hudson River.
Joe and his brother Charles were completing a twelve story apartment on the south side of 116th Street. Near the sidewalk was a wooden house, used for their office. Charles wasn’t there, but his brother Michael, an energetic young man of twenty, came in and gave me a very warm reception. Joe asked Michael to take me through the building. The wooden floors, laid in small squares and highly varnished were a revelation to me. I had never seen wooden floors. Michael explained they were warmer than tile or marble floors and then went on to show me the structure, with…
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…considerable difficulty, but I appreciated his effort and enjoyed the inspection.
Later, Joe took me to luncheon. On our return, he called one of the laborers, whom I knew from our town, and told him to dress up, get my bags and accompany me to his house. I noticed the direct, short orders, in contrast with the long talks I was used to, even in small matters. We went again by subway and I wondered why the residence was so far from the place of business. We stopped at 181st Street and St. Nicholas Avenue and, after a short walk, we were in front of a distinguished brown stone house with a high stoop, 582 West 183rd Street.
A smiling, lively young lady, with black curly hair and sparkling brown eyes, opened the door. Her petiteness enhanced her charm. She said in good Italian: “I am Marie; welcome to our house; we expected you sooner; did you have a good voyage? Are you tired?”…and so on…She didn’t give me a chance to answer, but I liked her very much for her warmth, directness and the light of her beautiful brown eyes. She took my coat, derby hat, cane and black kid gloves, eyeing up my outfit and scanning me from head to foot, while still talking. Aunt Carolina relieved me from the temporary embarrassment. I was so glad to see her and kissed her as if she were my own mother.
In the parlor, luxuriously furnished, I met Marie’s younger sister: Rose, – a chubby, winsome girl – and Theresa, rather slender and dainty in her manners. But when my little friend Christina (called Tina) came in, lively as a sparrow, I couldn’t help giving her a great big hug.
After an exchange of a few short sentences, Tina decided that my English had improved considerable. Questions were fired at me in rapid succession and I did my best to answer them. I knew I was really welcome and it made me very happy.
This was Thursday or Friday of holy week, when in our towns special Easter pies and cakes are prepared, one of each kind for every member of the family. It was a cherished custom, religiously observed. When Aunt Carolina and the four girls rushed me downstairs, where the dining room and kitchen were, as in all American basement houses, my eyes were bulging at the sight of a long table filled with Easter pies and cakes, the same as I would see in my own house on such a a holiday. And there was one of each for me too. I was spellbound. The sacredness of…
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…our little traditions had been kept by Aunt Carolina and shared in full by all her children. It was a symbol of solid foundations, untouched by the sophistication of the big city and I rejoined more than words could express.
In the evening, Marie’s brother, Anthony, comes from school. He is about eighteen and sturdy. He has curly chestnut hair and blue eyes like his brother Saverio. I remark the resemblance and, following a Latin style, I kiss him on both cheeks. Poor Anthony blushes and doesn’t know what to say, but one of the girls explains and he regains his balance.
A while later, Joe returns home and we all sit down to dinner, with not a dull moment. This family is certainly teeming with life and they are all spontaneous and cordial. Marie plays the hostess, coaxing me to eat and protecting me from the endless questions of the youngsters. She has beautiful eyes and cheerful manners, but she is also serious and considerate. Her English diction is clear and she handles the Italian language quite well.
After dinner, Marie plays the piano and I pick a mandolin and we all join in lusty singing, from a repertoire of American and Italian songs. I give a few of my specialties to a very appreciate audience.
The following morning, Joe goes to business and I spend a little time helping Anthony with his Latin. He is surprised at my translation ability. It was one of Caesar’s military narratives which I almost knew by heart.
That afternoon I met the Paterno elder sister, Celestina, a wholesome young matron in her middle thirties, with the contagious Paterno smile, – her husband Victor Cerabone, an affable, debonair gentleman – and their two daughters, Carolina, a very pretty girl of nine or ten and Rose, cutest curly headed, bashful child, six years old. In the evening Charles came to visit with his wife Minnie, a very good looking and dignified lady. Thus my acquaintance with all the members of this great family was complete.
Easter Sunday was joyful, but my mind wandered back to my distant, lonely home. Whether I said anything or not, I don’t know, but Marie seemed to have read my thoughts and, placing her lovely hand on mine, said: “Some day, perhaps soon, your family will come to America. Cheer up.” The confidence expressed in those simple words revealed a very sweet, sympathetic soul and I was profoundly moved.
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During the week after Easter, I visited several relatives and friends, accepting some of their dinner invitations. While visiting Aunt Josephine, my co-voyager on the Moltke, Marie happened to come in. Our mutual, unrestrained delight made Aunt Josephine smile significantly. My fondness for Marie had developed into something much deeper, and she seemed to reciprocate.
A telegram came from Ferrari, pleading that I go to Chicago as soon as possible and I decided to leave on the following Monday, which was only two days off.
I went to see Celestina who lived a block or two from her mother and, after some detours and preambles, I inquired whether Marie was interested in anyone. Celestina caught the hint and said that her sister had none in mind just then, that an engagement with a young New York lawyer had been broken off several month before and that, if I like Marie, she felt pretty sure that Marie like me, but that she would check up and let me know. She remarked, however, that no serious thought could be entertained on the part of her sister or her family until I knew my own future and I fully agreed with her, thanking her for making my task easier.
That afternoon, after the interview, when I came home, Marie again opened the door. The gleam in her eyes and the warm grasp of her hand made my heart overflow with joy and…the Victorian code permitted no more.
The evening before my leaving for Chicago, a large group of friends and relatives gave me a testimonial dinner, which expressed the touching affection of my people and filled me with gratitude and humility. I brought home the floral piece that had adorned the banquet table, and Marie was quite proud to accept it.
Next: Chapter 29
