Eboli to Brooklyn - One Way

By Francis Lodato and Denise T. Lodato

Families fascinate, frustrate and at times, irritate. So it was with the family of Gennaro and Maria Lodato. They struggled, made mistakes, cried together, laughed together. Underneath it all they stuck together. Their loyalty to each other helped them navigate troubled waters. Because opportunities were limited, they became astute in taking advantage of each one which was given them. They were also very protective of family foibles and flaws. This is a story that explores both success and failure. Survival was the goal, one which they achieved.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 30, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543916577

Book preview

Acknowledgements

Chapter One

The Photograph

The photograph was prominently displayed in our home. It followed us from apartment to apartment from house to house. It was a black and white studio portrait – frayed around the edges – taken in southern Italy, featuring my mother, my four brothers, two sisters, two nannies and two tutors but not my father. No one was smiling.

The photograph contradicted the reality in which my family lived. That picture was the beginning of my angst. In it, my mother and her children are all elegantly dressed. Alfonso the eldest at ten years of age stood next to one of the tutors. Agostino almost nine years old sat cross-legged in front of Mario who looked younger than his seven years. Anna, five and a half, and Giuseppina, just three years old, were decked out in nautical finery, Anna with a jaunty bow. The youngest, Antonio, not yet two years old, sat on the lap of one of the nannies. This was not a picture of a family in poverty. On the contrary, this was a photo of affluence and wealth. Why would a financially comfortable family give all of that up to come to the United States? For me, this was the starting point. This was the burning question to be answered – and the answer has proved hard to come by.

One Christmas in the earlier 1970’s, my wife, Patricia, had the photograph copied and distributed it to all members of the family. Now no matter where we went, no matter which member of the family we visited, the photo was there to speak of a past that could not be reconciled with what was our present. How could a photograph which had been a reality in my life for so long, a photo which drew at least a neutral reaction and at most a passing smile pose so many questions, now cause so much curiosity? Could a photograph lie? It evoked in me feelings of anger, sadness and curiosity. Anger because my family was no longer living the life the picture portrayed, curiosity over many issues, such as the reason it was taken and the reactions of the members of my family to the memories the photo invoked in each of them. I will never know if the emotions ignited in me were similar to those in them. I had at times felt that the photo was intrusive – it portrayed a family life I did not recognize – one that I would never get to know.

I recall one incident when I was visiting my brother Lucky – the baby Antonio in the photograph. We had had some homemade wine and we were more relaxed than we normally were in each other’s presence. I looked across the room to see that photograph directly in my line of vision. I stood, walked across the room, took the picture in my hand and turned it around.

Why did you do that? Was it bothering you? Lucky asked.

That picture always makes me think of what our life could have been. Maybe if I had some answers things would be different. Why was the picture taken? Was it meant to remind us of what we once had? Was it one final farewell to Italy and to things Italian? I wish I would have asked more questions. Now you and I are the only ones still alive and you were too young to remember or to know anything about it. I wasn’t born yet. I know Mother was as proud of the photo as she was of her life in Italy. Why then was everything so secretive?

You have to let some things die, he replied. You can’t hold on forever. Maybe there were things you were better off not knowing. No one wanted to see you hurt. That was their way of protecting you.

Becoming defensive, I said, Protect me? Why did I need to be protected? What was I being protected against? What had happened that I couldn’t know about? Didn’t anyone think that I would eventually find out for myself?

I could see this conversation was making my brother uncomfortable and that it had to be ended. I also knew it was headed nowhere.

After the death of my mother, brothers and sisters, the photo became less prominent. Ironically, it did return to center stage in 2013 when it was featured on the invitation to a reunion celebrating 100 years since my parents, Gennaro and Marietta, separately came to the United States, my mother from Naples, Italy; my father from Le Havre, France. Perhaps, in time, it will also capture the imagination of some younger family members.

Though my initial curiosity centered on the meaning of the photograph, other questions began to surface. My search began haphazardly while some of my siblings were still alive. By the time the quest reached a level of urgency, my parents were both deceased as were most of my siblings. However, I still possessed some early gleanings. A pivotal question was why my family came to America in the first place. Unlike many other immigrant families, they were not among the poor. If they were financially comfortable and by all accounts they were, why then did they leave Italy? Was there a turn of events that would explain their departure? I had no idea what this event could have been. At least not until that night in Rome. It was the summer of 1988 during my second trip to Rome; I was accompanied by my son Raymond. We were at dinner at the home of my first cousin – the daughter of Marietta’s brother Giuseppe – Maria Cristina and her husband Aldo Campagna, when I innocently asked, do you know why my family left Italy for America?

My question was met with a silence that suggested shock over my ignorance of the matter. What followed was the story of my father’s gambling, losing property including the family homestead and leaving Italy in disgrace. Apparently, according to this version, my mother was left in Italy alone with the children and attempted to locate Gennaro for two years until she finally left Italy to search for my father in New York. This proved not to be quite factual. Nonetheless, it lit the fire of curiosity in me. From that moment on to this very day, the quest for information continued in earnest. Most leads for detailed, accurate information about my family had led nowhere. This conversation was a bit different. This could possibly open previously locked doors. After this trip, my curiosity was further heightened for more information. Each trip began with the hope that more stories, true or not, might lead to answers to the questions which I had about my family. It was annoying to me that the Italians had so much more information than we in the United States had. The fact that they were so willing to share what they knew or thought they knew and that each version was taken as Bible truth was astounding.

As this story was pieced together I decided to share it with Lucky. I realized that he too was a victim of the family oath of silence. I am certain that any inquiries he posed to older family members went unanswered.

I doubted that he could have remembered how we got to Brooklyn or why we moved there. He remembered nothing about the trip that brought our family from Naples to the U.S. Nevertheless, during one of my impromptu visits, we discussed the family’s journey.

Do you know why we left Italy for the U.S.? I asked.

We were looking for a new life, a better opportunity, he said, giving the most neutral response possible.

I knew the answer to my question. I was curious to find out if he would tell me what he knew. Filling in the blanks I began the story. One night at dinner at Maria Cristina’s in Rome, I asked her if she knew why our mother and father left Italy for the United States. Maria Cristina needed only a little prodding before she went into an extensive monologue. I then repeated the story Maria Cristina had shared.

I think it’s true. Lots of people in Italy know the story. They didn’t know him, but they knew of Gennaro. I persisted. But it was obvious that continuing the conversation was almost unkind. So, to his relief, I backed off and changed the subject.

Two days later, he called me at home. I haven’t slept for two nights. That story can’t be true. Why do you believe it? Does anyone else ever mention it? I wish Al was still here. Why wasn’t it ever mentioned? Poor Mamma, what she had to live with. Did Maria Cristina tell you anything else?

I didn’t want to destroy any illusions he held about our father, still I felt that he had to eventually know and possibly accept the truth. No, she didn’t know too much else. When she questioned her father about our mother, she met the same wall of silence as I did. Just as the mention of her father was taboo in our household, so was mention of our mother in hers. I suppose you can’t run away from your genes.

Don’t be that way. This is serious stuff. He said sternly, then continued, I told Adele and she couldn’t believe it either. Then I called baby Margaret who was cautious about the matter. She sounded like she knew something about it. Did you tell her?

No, I haven’t spoken to her since I got home. Look, nothing is going to change whether you or I believe it or not. Look at it as a possibility and put it to rest. I’m sorry I told you. I didn’t mean to upset you and besides I thought you knew all along and that you held it from me. You went to Cava a few years ago; you had contact with one of the Sianis. Didn’t they say anything?

I swear I never heard that story. If it was hinted at, I missed it. No one ever told me anything. Why were we never told? I certainly asked a lot of questions. No one would tell me anything. Soon, I stopped asking. How did you suspect something was wrong?

It all started with that picture of the family before you left Italy, the one you have in your living room. Look at the picture Daddy isn’t in it. We don’t have one picture of him anywhere in the family. It is as if he never lived.

I could hear his tears over the phone. This conversation was coming to an unintended and difficult end.

Until the day he died, Lucky denied the truth of that story.

Chapter Two

Leaving Italy

On Thursday July 17, 1913, Marietta Adami Lodato, with her six children in tow, boarded the S.S. Verona from the port of Naples and headed to New York City. Marietta’s five-year old cousin, Valentina and Valentina’s father, along with Gennaro’s two sisters from Cava de’ Tirreni – Louisa and Rosa – were the only people to see them off. The break between Marietta and her parents, Agostino and Giuseppina Adami, was reaching its climax. Things between Marietta and her parents began heading downhill when she announced her intention to become the wife of Gennaro Lodato. Her parents had many reasons to object to the union. Gennaro’s age, his flamboyancy and his reputation were all factors. But, they faded to insignificance when compared to the fact that he was from southern Italy. This was almost an impossible thing for the Adamis to stomach. Doing business with a southern Italian was acceptable; having him as a member of your family was not.

Prejudice between the northern Italians and the southern Italians is a long established historical fact. The people of northern Italy are still dismissive of those from the south of Italy. But at the beginning of the twentieth century the antipathy was much stronger. Northern Italians believed that their southern brethren were gifted with a slight of hand unequaled in the Western World. To southern Italians, the people north of Rome were pampered, over fed and aloof. Northern Italians particularly claimed that they spoke the purest Italian, the language of Dante and that southern Italians spoke a dialect difficult for Northerners to decipher. The Adami family, having inherited this prejudice against southern Italians, looked down on the young, handsome, wealthy, debonair lumber dealer from Cava and reacted with dismay and displeasure when Gennaro Lodato became infatuated with their older daughter. By now, Marietta was a young teenager of spectacular beauty with classic features and impeccable posture. She had been groomed to be an extraordinary prize for some Italian nobleman, not for Gennaro Lodato. After a short courtship, they married and now twelve years later Marietta was headed to America.

Marietta was beginning to learn that behavior carried with it consequences. Once she left Italy, the support – emotional and financial – she received from my father’s family would also disappear. The bed she was making for herself would be uncomfortable for many years.

If Marietta was true to her colors, her departure was certain to have been dramatic, portraying her as a tear-filled courageous victim. Heaven only knows what was in the minds of the six children. Were their young hearts filled with excitement and anticipation? Was there resentment over leaving the safety and comfort of their environs? Was there anger toward either or both of their parents? Were they afraid of what was awaiting them? Few people ever thought to ask of their early experiences; no information exists. It is hard to be certain that they would even have had the answers to the questions.

Travel was limited to going by sea – an arduous and potentially perilous journey. Courageous was the party line for my mother’s departure, the one which was later recited in Brooklyn. The reason my father left Italy was never discussed. My mother’s search for him was lamented throughout the family as a nice story of marital loyalty and whatever else it was. Whether she saw this move as a permanent one is unclear.

Despite the fact that Marietta knew nothing about New York, its language or its customs, she was going to track Gennaro down – or so it was said. It is hard to imagine what she was trying to prove. Was she so desperately in love with him? Was she still trying to prove to her parents that she had not made an error by marrying Gennaro?

Leaving Italy would certainly further strain the relationship between Marietta and her mother. Communications between Italy and the United States were difficult. International mail took forever, and phone service was a dream for the future. The emotional distance between mother and daughter would become greater. I have wondered if my mother, father and siblings were ever mentioned by the members of our family who remained in Italy. They were there and we were here and that was that.

As her father realized that she would indeed leave Italy, Marietta made her final travel plans. Agostino Adami was heartbroken when his daughter and her family left for the States. He had purchased roundtrip tickets for Marietta and the children, expecting or just hoping that they would come back. The returns were never used for transportation. He never saw any of them again. Years later Maria Cristina reported that, according to her father, Agostino became somewhat reclusive. "Many days he would ask if there was mail from America. On those rare days when there was, he held onto the letter. He called out to his daughter right before