The Creeds that Move Men's Hearts Read online

  The CREEDS that MOVE

  Men’s Hearts

  MELODY VELTRI

  eLectio Publishing

  www.eLectioPublishing.com

  The Creeds that Move Men’s Hearts

  By Melody Veltri

  Copyright 2015 by Melody Veltri

  Cover Design by eLectio Publishing

  ISBN-13: 978-1-63213-099-0

  Published by eLectio Publishing, LLC

  Little Elm, Texas

  http://www.eLectioPublishing.com

  The eLectio Publishing editing team is comprised of: Christine LePorte, Lori Draft, Sheldon James, and Jim Eccles.

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  Publisher’s Note

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Author’s Disclaimer

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  “There is an eternal justice and an eternal order. There is a wise, merciful and omnipotent God . . . My friends, have no fear of the night or death. It is the forerunner of dawn, a glowing resplendent dawn, whose iridescent rays will write across the pink sky in unmistakable language—man does live again.”

  The final words of Michael A. Musmanno

  in his debate with Clarence Darrow, 1932.

  Dedicated to my grandmother,

  Sara Bottegal Mazzei,

  who I look forward to meeting in that “resplendent dawn”

  that awaits us all.

  Acknowledgements

  When I was growing up—in the middle-class, Pittsburgh suburbia of the 1960s and 70s—I would listen spellbound to my dad’s stories of his childhood. His parents came from Calabria and Belluno Italy to Sharpsburg, Pennsylvania in the 1920s. It was a life of poverty, of hunger, of ethnic diversity, of religiously dominant Catholicism, and of complete upheaval from their roots. People tried their hardest to survive in a new city with a new language and with a new kind of struggle.

  When I married Steve Veltri, I gained the stories from his family—also Italians who came to America from Calabria. The stories would be sensational if they weren’t true, and I wish I could do them justice. What I have written is a fictionalized version—true stories with fictional characters who are poor substitutes for those who really existed. My undying gratitude goes to Joseph Mazzei, Gabriel Veltri, and Ann Veltri Wallace for the stories of their lives and their families.

  I would also like to thank Lorenzo Andreaggi for taking the time to edit my Italian, and my friend Michelle Reiter for her enthusiasm and encouragement.

  1

  Dear Diary, March 24, 1925

  It’s my fifteenth birthday today, and you are my special present from Mama and Papa. We live on North Canal Street in Sharpsburg, Pennsylvania. I have three brothers. Giovanni is eighteen, and we call him Giova. Marcello is twelve, and Lindo is ten. Mama had a baby after Giovanni, but she died from pneumonia when she was fifteen months old. I would have liked a sister. It would have made life easier for me, that’s for sure. Mama still cries about her. She named her Maria Luisa and we visit her grave often.

  Mrs. Pantuzzo is our neighbor to the west, and she has two children who are very young. A few doors away is Mr. Marchetti. He owns the barber shop and is a good friend of Papa’s. His wife died seven years ago during the influenza outbreak, and he lives with his daughter Rose who is ten, but she is slow in the head, and Mama says that she is really like a five-year-old.

  I have to go now, Diary. Mama is calling me.

  * * *

  “Carolina! Carolina! Andiamo! We will be late. Sara is sick, and I want to take her this soup. You carry the bread. Take this bottle of Pa’s wine also. She can heat it with lemon and honey for her cold.”

  I put on my coat and scarf. I grab the bag and follow Mama out of the house. Sara lives only a few homes away.

  When we arrive, the house is dark. Sara doesn’t answer the knock, but her door is slightly opened. “Sara!” hollers Mama. “Sara! It’s me, Magdalena.”

  Still there is no answer, and Mama looks hard at Carolina. “Come on,” she says. “I want to check inside.” My stomach is in knots because I fear the worst.

  Mama walks through the living room and into the kitchen. She sees no one, but there is a broken dish on the floor, and a pot of tea is boiling dry on the stove. A moan from the bedroom diverts her attention, and she sets the soup on the table and hurries to the hallway.

  There is no one in the first bedroom. There appears to be no one in the second bedroom either, and Mama turns to leave when she catches sight of Sara in the dresser mirror. She is huddled on the floor beside the bed.

  “Madonna Mia! What has happened?”

  Mama looks at Sara’s face. Her eye is swollen almost shut, and her lip is split. There is a trickle of blood on her chin. Mama does not have to be told who did it. She pulls Sara up by the shoulders and puts her into the bed. Sara is rocking back and forth and seems to be dazed. She isn’t saying a word to Mama, and she has turned her face to the wall.

  “Carolina, go home. Tell Pa that I will be staying here for a while. I need you to finish the dinner and take care of the boys. Do you understand?”

  I nod my head. Mama takes the bag of bread and wine and tells me to hurry straight home. She then turns and heads back to the bedroom to wash and bandage her friend. “How many more times, God?” she mumbles.

  * * *

  Mama doesn’t come home that night. I didn’t think she would. It isn’t the first time she has stayed at the Vassaris’ all night. After he beats his wife, it is a safe bet that Luca Vassari will go on a drunken binge and stay away from home for a while.

  When Mama isn’t home, I am the woman of the house. I get up at 6:00 a.m. to make the coffee for Pa and Giova. There is still some bread, and I cook up some bacon for them.

  Pa comes down the stairs and pats me on the head. He glances at his pocket watch just as Mama comes through the front door. She looks so tired, and her hair is mussed, but she grabs an apron and ties it around her waist. Then she cracks six eggs into the bacon grease and while they cook, she starts to cut soppresata and provolone for Pa’s lunch.

  “Mama, I’ll do that.”

  “No, Carolina. I’m fine.”

  “Go to bed, Mama.”

  She looks at me and smiles. “Mia buona figlia.”

  Pa gives Mama a hug and walks her upstairs. I can hear her sniffling into Pa’s shirt.

  I sit down at the table with my brother and pour us both some coffee. “Giova, I would like to kill Vassari.”

  “I think we all would like to kill him,” admits Giova. “One of these days, somebody probably will.”

&nbs
p; “Then I am going to pray for that to happen soon.”

  “Carolina, I don’t think God is part of the mafiosa. Hand me my lunch. I’ll be late for the mill.”

  I also hand Pa his lunch as he comes back into the kitchen, and both men leave for work.

  Now I have to get the boys ready for school because Mama will sleep a few hours.

  “Marcello! Lindo! Up, Up! Time for school.” The room is dark, so I thrust open the heavy curtains to allow the rising sun to stream in.

  Marcello doesn’t move. Lindo groans and covers his head with the blankets. The boys hate school, but Pa makes them go anyway. I loved school, but he and Mama took me out after five grades. Mama needed the help, and I had learned to read and write. They thought that was more than enough education for a girl.

  “Marcello, come on. Wake up, Lindo. Wake up.”

  “Carolina, five minutes,” says Marcello. He rolls over and pulls most of the blanket with him.

  “I hate you,” says Lindo. I don’t know if his remark is directed to me, to Marcello, or to the world in general.

  In forty minutes, they are dressed and fed and on their way. Since this is Monday, I need to start the bread. Mama will be awake to bake it, but it will need to rise for a few hours, and then I will need to punch it down and let it rise again.

  When I am done with the initial mixing of the bread, I cover it with a heavy dish towel and place it away from the draft. I guess I had better scrub the floor while the bread is rising.

  This kind of work lends itself to a lot of thinking, especially when the house is so quiet. At first, I’m thinking of the task itself, but then it becomes repetitious. I mostly think about Maria Luisa. If she had lived, she would be right here with me, helping me with the bread and with the floor. I would have someone to talk to, to sing with, to play with. I love my brothers, but I wish just one of them were a girl.

  My weeks are the same, and I think about that, too. On Monday is the baking. On Tuesday, we go to the market in the morning and make pasta in the afternoon. Then we hang it to dry. On Wednesday, we wash the clothes and put them through the wringer to squeeze out the excess water. It takes all afternoon to starch and press the shirts and linens with the iron and the mangle. On Thursday, Mama likes to clean the living room, dining room, and bathroom. Mama always tells me that this is the first bathroom she has ever had. When she and Papa first built the house, they shared an outhouse with the neighbors. On Fridays, we change the linens on all of the beds, and we beat the throw rugs. On Saturdays, there is usually a special project, like cleaning the windows. Afternoons are for confession—at least for me and for Mama. Pa takes the streetcar downtown for his weekly trip to the bathhouse. On each of these days, of course, we need to prepare dinner for Papa and the boys. Mama has pasta or potatoes at every meal. At least twice a week, there is pork or veal or chicken to go with it.

  What I’m wondering is, how many weeks of my life will be just like this one? Will every Monday be a baking day? Every Tuesday a market day? Will I live with Mama and Papa every day like this until one day I meet someone, get married, and then bake bread for him on Monday?

  Dear Diary, March 25, 1925

  It is late, and I am very tired. I did a lot of the work today so that Mama could sleep after being at the Vassaris’. I don’t understand why Sara doesn’t run away from her husband. I know what I would do to him. I’d hit him on the head with Mama’s iron skillet. I’d hit him so hard that he would never see another sunrise.

  I will be glad to have Mama here to help me tomorrow. This was a long and lonely day for me. What I wouldn’t give to share my thoughts with a friend—to walk arm in arm to the store with someone my own age, to laugh at something funny and share a smile. I don’t know why these feelings come over me like this. I know I am a lucky girl with good parents and good brothers. I don’t know why I get myself caught up in pity over nothing. I still feel like crying, Diary.

  * * *

  On Tuesday morning, as usual, Mama and I go to the market. Bernelli’s Groceria is the first stop. Mr. Labriola has fresh meat, including chicken, lamb, and pork, but Mama rarely buys from him. In fact, she often kills her own chicken and makes her own sausage. Those are particularly dreadful days.

  “Carolina! Ciao!” Mrs. Pantuzzo smiles broadly, and her whole face is alight. “You look older and taller every day.” I smile at her and want to respond to her just as nicely, but Mama grabs my arm.

  “Andiamo.” And she pushes me out the door.

  I look back at Mrs. Pantuzzo and give her an awkward wave. She is the one adult who actually acknowledges me and treats me like an adult. I am embarrassed and angry.

  “Mama, what is the matter with you? I was talking to Mrs. Pantuzzo. You are so rude. You didn’t even say hello to her. What is the big hurry?”

  “The hurry is that she has no business talking to my daughter, and that is all. Now come on. I need to stop at the fruit stand.” She grabs me by the arm and forces me to walk even faster.

  While we are in the fruit stand, I wander over to the door and look out. I can see Mrs. Pantuzzo across the street, leaving Bernelli’s. Even from here, she is radiant. Her hair is such a dark red and is full of loose curls. She doesn’t pull it back tightly like Mama and the other women. She doesn’t wear the sturdy black shoes that they all wear. They are more like heeled slippers, and her dress is cinched at the waist and flows around her legs. It must be that Mama is jealous of her. Really, I never see any of the women talk to her. I guess they are all jealous. Mama and her friends are fairly stout, and they never wear makeup. That has to be it. They feel threatened by her. Of course, she is probably ten or fifteen years younger than they are.

  As we’re leaving the store, Mr. Fitzgerald is coming. He bows to us both and tips his hat.

  “Buon giorno, Mr. Fitzgerald!” It’s amazing that Mama can be so friendly with him and so cold to Mrs. Pantuzzo. Most everyone calls Mr. Fitgerald “Fitz,” but Mama would never do that. “How are you?” Fitz and Papa are about the same age, but Fitz is completely gray-haired. His blue eyes twinkle when he talks, but they are always watery as though he is one blink away from tears. When he shakes Mama’s hand, I can’t help but notice how smooth and brown her hand looks against his ruddy pink one.

  “Oh, it’s a grand day,” says Mr. Fitgerald, “and a blue sky like this makes it even grander. I’m just takin’ me mornin’ walk.” He’s slurring his words together just a little and speaking more to himself than to us. Even so, that Irish brogue is so much lovelier than the sloppiness of the southern Italian dialect that eats the last syllables of its mother language. An eggplant is not melanzano, it’s melanzan. It’s never Capische? for Do you understand?, it’s Capisch? I see Mama stiffen a bit in spite of her smile, and she grabs my hand. “Bene Dice,” says Mama, and she pats his hand and turns away. “Come along, Carolina. We have a lot to do.”

  As we walk, Mama takes a handkerchief from her pocket. It has a little perfume on it, and she breathes it in. “That poor man,” she explains. “He must start drinking before he even has breakfast.”

  Mama normally would not be sympathetic to such behavior, but Fitz lost his wife and his two daughters seven years ago to the terrible influenza outbreak. The memory haunts us all. I was eight then. Children went to school healthy in the morning and were dead by nightfall. Factory workers fell ill at their machines. Women broke into fever as they nursed their feverish babies. It was impossible for the casket makers to keep up.

  Mama would count the number of times the hearse appeared on our streets. Any hour of the day or night, it came. Mama would cross herself and say prayers every time she saw it, and she pulled all of us out of school. We stayed cloistered for weeks with food stockpiled in the pantry and cold cellar.

  Mama would leave food on the porch of an old couple that used to live near us. On the day that the food remained untouched, we knew that they were dead.

  When it was all over, most families in Sharpsburg had lost someone. There was
such crying and anguish. I don’t know if we were spared because of Mama’s precautions or because God knew she couldn’t bear to lose another child.

  Mama and Pa, like everyone who has other children, had grieved for Maria Luisa fiercely, but then they had to keep living. Fitz had lost everyone he loved. Most of his days now are spent in the bar. Some days he just walks and walks along the tracks. That’s how everyone knows him.

  At dinner that night, I tell everyone that I want to look just like Mrs. Pantuzzo when I grow up. Pa looks sideways at Ma and smiles.

  “I don’t want to hear you say that again,” says Mama.

  “Why not? I think Mrs. Pantuzzo is very pretty,” says Giova.

  “What I think, is that you two need to eat your dinner and talk less,” says Mama. Giova and I exchange a glance. We always talk at the table, and Mama never stops us. This is certainly a sore subject for her.

  “I saw Angelo Marchetti at the market today, Pietro. I have invited him and Rose for dinner tomorrow.”

  Pa nods his head. He knows these decisions are hers—he really has no say. I think he would rather not have the company, but he never crosses Mama.

  “I don’t want Rose to come here,” says Lindo, rolling his eyes. “She always follows me and wants to play with me.”

  “Me too,” whines Marcello. “Why does she have to come?”

  “Did you pay for this food? Did you cook this food? Do you own this house?” Pa asks them.

  They both shake their heads sheepishly because they recognize the tone of voice. Pa doesn’t use it often, but he is angry. “Who we invite to this home is not your business. You will treat Rose as a guest, and you will allow her to play if she wants to.”

  “What kind of monsters are you?” says Mama. “That poor child has no mama, and she has half her wits, and you have no pity for her. You should be ashamed, both of you.”

  Giova is always the peacemaker. He knows how to divert Mama’s attention, and he does it now to take the heat off his brothers.