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CHAPTER THIRTY
When I got up, around seven thirty, Ferrari had already left, with word that at my convenience I was to go to the newspaper office, where I would find some work to do. I had a small cup of coffee and went out.
The environment of old frame houses, in bad repair, depressed me. It seemed like beginning the ascension to another calvary, but I was not dismayed. The newspaper office was at walking distance from the house, at No. 354 South Desplaines Street.
Again, a frame building, drab and neglected. An empty store window, next to the entrance. Inside, an old roll-top desk stuffed with papers, some scattered debris and a couple of dusty shelves. In a back-room was the printing machinery, the type composer, who was also general manager, and his assistant. They seemed to feel sorry for me, but I put up a brave front and told them that we would shake the cobwebs and make things hum. They looked at me hopefully. I was then told that if I would write a personal message to the readers – for which a half column space had been left on the front page – the paper would be ready to go to press.
I was not prepared to give out any statement and preferred to write an article on our future program and policies, after talking things over with Ferrari.
I asked some news be given me, to fill the vacant space or for an American morning paper, from which I could fish some item of interest. The manager timidly informed me that a certain Italian gentleman had passed away the day before, but that he was not prominent enough for the front page. “Why not?…Did he enjoy a good name in the community?”
“Yes he did, he was a well liked man who had honestly built a small busines, but he was hardly known.”
“We shall make him known.”
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I started the eulogy with a quotation from a famous Italian poet: “Virtu’ viva sprezziam, lodiamo estinta,” meaning that we don not appreciate the good qualities of a living person, but we praise them after death. I extolled the virtues and modesty of my man, noting that he had deserved recognition long before his premature death, and that our tribute was like a posthumous medal to an unknown soldier.
The account caused much talk and brought many letters of thanks from relatives and friends of the deceased, together with their subscriptions to the paper.
Thus, I started my newspaper career with a fruitful obituary.
I didn’t like the title of the paper “L’Idea” (The Idea) and Ferrari consented to change it to “L’Indipendente”- The Independent. My first editorial stated in no uncertain terms that our paper would be the voice of the people. That it would defend the interests of our exploited immigrants, that it would always stand for the truth, no matter whom it would hurt, and so on, with evangelistic fervor. I saw a great opportunity to let out my pent-up steam and make of the paper a real instrument for good. We lived up to those sterling principles, until the going got rough and reactionary forces were set in motion.
The paper was printed weekly, on de luxe magazine stock, in eight pages, small format. It contained a general news review, short stories, special articles on a number of topics and advertisements divided in several classifications. It also carried a short column for questions and answers, by which medium I often relayed unsigned messages to my sweetheart in New York.
The aggressive editorials were the main feature. A couple of them, for example, denuded a system of graft which had been established between the Italian Consulate and a certain law office. Our immigrants saw in the Consulate the protection of their government and went there frequently for advice. That was part of free service due them but, instead, they were steered to a friendly lawyer who charged all that the traffic could bear.
Another issue was the unemployment situation which in 1908, following the disastrous bank crises of the previous year, had reached such alarming proportions that the United States Government was contributing to the cost of repatriating the many poverty stricken immigrants.
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We asked for the assistance of those wealthy Italians who had made large fortunes by encouraging immigration and enticing hordes of our laborers to carve the forests for the western railroads. Under a slavery contract, the workers had received five or six dollars a week, working from six to six, or seventy-two hours a week. The few dollars were again taken away in the form of food and supplies, so the bosses, “padroni,” wrung large profits in employment commissions and sale of merchandise. We called on the slave master, most of whom were not bankers, to help promote some work for those starved, stranded human beings who had enriched them with their blood.
As a result of those two campaigns, I was called and severely reprimanded by the Italian Consul and by a wealthy banker, with the unequivocal request that I desist from further nonsense. I told them both that we were dealing with very grave matters of public interest, fulfilling our duty of journalists and that cooperation would be more becoming than arrogant brow-beating.
Our circulation increased but the paid advertisements, which were the main sustenance of the paper, were being cancelled to the point of life and death.
I had worked almost single handed to keep the paper going, racking my brains, without diversion even of Sunday. I had no expenses, but neither did I receive any compensation and things were pretty blue. From the twenty six dollars and fifty center I had on my arrival at Ferrari’s house, I had contributed fifteen or twenty dollars to meet the office rent and other bills, which were overdue, and I had only a few dollars left.
The editor of the other Italian weekly in Chicago, a fine middle aged gentleman, Mastrovalerio, came to see me one day and in a fatherly manner told me that I was bucking a stone wall. He said: “I started many years ago pursuing the same ideals as you are, but I had to surrender. If you had resources you could probably win out, but you are struggling as I did. Even after I gave up the noble fights, I could not make but a bare living. I am now getting on in years and cannot change my course. But you are young. Do not waste your energy. With that fire in your blood you will succeed in the legal profession or in other fields. This is a great country. “You will be a millionaire.” He talked as if inspired. It sounded like an oracle. Was he another angel coming to my rescue?
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The dilemma was as difficult and intricate as the others I had faced in my young life.
I knew Ferrari was striving to make ends meet and I would not desert him. He didn’t give me much help on the paper, as he was working overtime at his office to make a few extra dollars. The printing machinery and accessories had been bought on the installment plan; the whole enterprise had been launched on a shoe strong. Ferrari had been disappointed by his friend, who had promised support from the inception; his wife had started to run a home class in sewing and embroidery; his poor mother had assumed more house chores and, to save her trouble (and some expense), I discontinued going home for lunch. Many saloons in our neighborhood had lunch counters where an abundance of food was supplied without charge to anyone who ordered beer, which was five cents for a tall glass, and I became a steady free lunch customer, changing from one saloon to another. Still, I was not despondent. I had been “up against it” before and this was not a greater hardship. Something would break and I shouldn’t take it lying down.
Marie wrote to me every day and corresponding with her was like keeping the illusion of a dream, far from my terrestrial strife.
There was one last hope. Primary elections were approaching and we agreed to give the endorsement of our newspaper to certain progressive candidates, with the understanding that our expenses would be defrayed. We obtained some modest contribution and a few political ads which helped to bridge the gap.
During the campaign, I addressed a couple of meetings in Italian, on behalf of an American candidate who paid me ten dollars for each address. It seemed that the young man’s performance evoked more curiosity than his political ideas. The few dollars went to the newspaper treasury.
A candidate for the State Assembly, of Italian extraction, offered to pay us five hundred dollars if we would publish his picture on the front page and issue the paper on the day before election. We were to receive three hundred dollars when the paper was printed and two hundred after the election. We lived up to our end of the bargain. The ink wasn’t dry when I rushed to see the candidate to show him a copy of the paper and collect our dues. He was pleased but evasive, asking to defer the payment…
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…till the following day. I told him of the pressing need, but he was sulking. When I reminded him of our understanding he became abusive. I realized that he was a faker, who did not intend to honor his agreement and I left in a huff.
When I returned to the office empty handed, the two printers who had counted on receiving some of their back pay, almost fainted. Vengeance would be sweet! We put the paper through the press again, printed a large X in red ink right over the face of the scoundrel and by eight P.M. the paper had been mailed and distributed. The front page candidate was defeated and so were all the other we had supported.
Our climatic hour had been reached. I told my good friend Ferrari that in my opinion our publishing business was doomed, unless we had substantial capital to back it up…and we had no Aladdin Lamp. Yes, with financial backing, success could be attained – I felt it in my bones – and eventually y the paper could be made into a “daily,” but we even struggled for our “daily bread.” I said that, for our mutual benefit, I would have to try to get a job. Ferrari countered with a heroic thought. We would keep the paper alive by publishing it fortnightly or even monthly. He said we were among the very few who could master the Italian language in Chicago and perhaps he was right; but we weren’t playwright, and literary mastery couldn’t pay our bills.
Ferrari went on to say that there was a chance to get some real money. The Railroad Company where he was employed was going to open some new tracks, to help relieve unemployment. Between five and ten thousand laborers would be required. He could not appear in person and would introduce me to the man in charge of the project. If an authority were obtained to procure even one half of the men, a commission of one dollar per man would be reasonable and our problem solved. To test our ability to provide the men, we inserted an advertisement in the last issue of our paper. Within a few hours, we were literally mobbed and had to place a large poster on the door: “Mail name and address. Wait for notice.” Names came by the thousands, we stopped opening the envelopes and the project never materialized.
Next: Chapter 31
