Footsteps: A Family History

By Paul E. Pepe

This is a story of one branch of the Pepe family in America. Starting with its roots in Italy, the narrative tracks the family from 1800, through the years if the Risorgimento, to the hilltop village in Ferrandina in Southern Italy, then to Little Italy in New York, and finally, to the (then) bucolic suburban area of Gravesend in Brooklyn.

Along the way the family intersects with a number of historical figures and events, including Guglielmo Pepe, the George Washington of Italy, Maria Barbella, the first woman ever to be sentenced to the electric chair, Calhoun Washington, who was born a slave, Heavyweight Champion Bob Fitzsimmons, General George Armstrong Custer, John Philip Sousa, General Pershing and Pancho Villa.

The story is told in three parts. Part one details the history of Michele Pepe and his family, from Ferrandina to America, with stops in Little Italy and the Gravesend section of Brooklyn. Part two tells the true history of the family, from 1800 to the present.

Part Three is a memoir of Old Gravesend in the late thirties and early forties, a remembrance of the time, the place and the people.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 23, 2002
• ISBN: 9781462831982

Paul E. Pepe

Paul e. Pepe is retired after a long career in marketing. He has been a newspaper publisher and editor and college professor. He lives in laurel hollow, New York and Sarasota, Florida with his wife, Miriam. He is currently working on a new novel. His previous published works include: Strangers By Day, The Sleeping Giant,The Old Man, Footsteps and Travels with Mimi and children’s voices, Marie Elena and Five Women I Love. Cover illustration by Eva and Carina Lewandowski

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Copyright © 2002 by Paul E. Pepe.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

All the Pepe relatives of Ferrandina

AUTHOR’S NOTE

FERRANDINA

THE JOURNEY TO AMERICA

LITTLE ITALY

GRAVESEND

HISTORY OF THE PEPE FAMILY

-1-

-2-

-3-

-4-

-5-

-6-

-7-

-8-

-9-

-10-

-11-

 -12-

-13-

-14-

SUMMER SIDEWALKS

SUMMER SIDEWALKS

SUMMERS

THE ROOM

FREEDOM

CONEY ISLAND-EARLY

THE MID-FORTIES

TOY SOLDIERS

THE RADIO SERIALS

STREET MUSICIANS

FRUIT PEDDLERS

WORLD WAR II

THE LAUNCHING

THE VICTORY GARDEN

THE LIBRARY, THE BANK ANDTHE BAKERY

COMIC BOOKS

SUMMER GAMES

VACATIONS

BIRTHDAYS

CHRISTMAS

THE FEAST

WINE

THE CRUSH

THE MUSICIAN’SHELPER

SATURDAY MORNINGS—THE ‘50’s

BASEBALL

CONEY ISLAND—LATE

LEO AND HY

RETURN

YOU CAN GO HOME AGAIN

Dedication

FOR EVA AND CARINA

—my hope for the future—

Our Thank You to the following people:

Michael Pepe

Frank Pepe

Fern Veneziana, of Caravella Italia

Senatore Saverio D’Amelio, Mayor of Ferrandina

Paola Colucci, Our Italian Translator

All the Pepe relatives of Ferrandina

AUTHOR’S NOTE

The long road to this final product started more than fifty years ago. I was seventeen, my grandfather, Michele, was seventy-two, still active, still working, but slowing down.

I sat with him one evening, in the tiny kitchen in the upstairs apartment on Lama Court. I had not had that many real conversations with my grandfather, which is one of the reasons this one stands out. We talked like two friends for the very first time. I was softening him up, having decided just recently that I wanted to know more about my roots. I began asking questions about his father, and those before him, and Grandpa Mike answered the questions off the top of his head, obviously well conversant with his forebears, where they were born, what they did for a living and even some idiosyncracies.

We had a good time, and I preserved my notes, promising myself that I would continue this, add to it, ask him more questions, begin to get a feeling of who and what and why.

Sadly, I never did. Between work and school and a budding social life, I lost track of my goal and let it slip past.

I know now how valuable an asset he would have been in tracking down our family. It has taken all of those fifty years to get back to the project, which extended from Brooklyn, back to Ferrandina, with many stops in between. It required the help and memories of many people, notably my cousins, Michael (Sonny) and Frank (Butch), who came up with stories and bits of information of their own which I have added to this narrative.

Ever since I wrote the original manuscript of the Pepe family in 1996, I have wanted to visit the mountaintop village my paternal grandfather and grandmother migrated from. Over the years, it has become an obsession, and as I gathered more and more information, it became a necessity.

Finally, in April 2002, Miriam and I planned an eleven-day trip to Italy with the three middle days devoted to Ferrandina. I had no idea what would happen, whether it would be a waste of time, or a success. So we went not knowing, and came back knowing a lot more that I had ever hoped for.

There are some parts of this narrative, which are speculative, and I beg your indulgence. After all, there is no one alive who was with them in Ferrandina, or on that ship coming to the United States, or in Little Italy. It has been fun, however, to speculate on all of these things, using historical data to supplement or confirm what I had already determined to be true. Our trip to Ferrandina gave me a fresh insight into what life was like for them in the latter part of the nineteenth century, and other research brought to life what may have happened on the ship that brought them here, and in Little Italy after they arrived.

I loved making this trip.

I hope you do, too.

PEP

9/16/02

PART I

IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF MY GRANDFATHER

—an historical memoir—

FERRANDINA

Eight year old Michele clung tightly to his father’s hand, large tears spilled from his wide brown eyes. Giovanni, holding his father’s other hand, scuffed at the dirt of the hillside, as restless as any four year old who was living through something he didn’t quite understand.

Michele understood, but didn’t want to. He could not explain to himself why on this bright, sunny, June morning, his beloved mother and year old brother were no longer with them.

The small crowd on the hillside bent their heads as the priest intoned a blessing, then the two coffins, one large, one impossibly small, were lowered into the soft Italian dirt by their fellow townspeople.

Michele sobbed; his father hugged him close to his side, sharing the pain.

The coffins went down slowly, sliding gently on heavy ropes. Someone handed them flowers, tiny roses, a favorite of the former

Vita Nicola Petrone, Michele’s mother. Francesco took his and walked toward the open grave with his two sons. Michele shrank back.

Francesco leaned over to him.

‘You must be strong, my son, he said. ‘You must be a man.

Michele wiped away his tears, walked slowly with his father toward the grave, peered down.

His father tossed the tiny rose onto the caskets, then helped Giovanni do the same. Michele hesitated for a moment, then threw his in as well.

Then they turned and began the long walk back up the hill, hearing the sound of dirt hitting the wooden caskets, a sound that would haunt Michele for the rest of his life.

The small crowd of friends and relatives followed behind, walking slowly up the hill, sweating in the June sun.

It had been a day to remember. Francesco had risen early, setting up the coffee pot, smiling down at his wife and their new son, who was just a year old. He had three strong sons now, young boys who would grow into fine men. His life was complete. He had visited America, liked what he had seen and promised Vita (My Life! he thought), that one day they would all return to America and make a new life there.

Francesco had wakened his two older sons, ruffled Giovanni’s hair, tickled Michele, until they were both squealing with laughter, then told them to wash up, get dressed and see to the mule.

He washed himself, dressed, then poured coffee for his wife and himself.

He watched Vita out of the corner of his eye. She was so beautiful and he had been lucky enough to marry her. She had given him three fine boys, his barbershop and little store were doing well, and he was saving money again.

The world, this morning, was a wonderful place. He brought Vita a cup of coffee, then took the little one from her, holding him close to his chest, smelling the tenderness and the earthiness, and loving the feel of this little boy.

He loved both of his older boys, but this new one was special. There was something about him, those dark flashing eyes, the intelligence that they held, the smile that seemed to be there always. The child hardly ever cried, went to sleep easily, woke happily and was a pleasure to be with. His brothers loved him as well, always wanting to be with him, to play with him.

Francesco was a happy man, and soon, taking leave of his family, strode down the hill toward his barbershop, ready for another day.

Michele helped his mother tidy up the tiny house, then went off to the olive groves where he would spend most of the day. Giovanni darted out the front door, anxious to be with his friends.

Vita fussed with the baby, bathed him and powdered him, and hugged him a lot. This would be her last, she knew, and she would make the feelings of holding a newborn last a very long time.

The clothes she put on him were well worn, having been handed down through the other two children, but they were as clean as she could make them, and smelled faintly of earth and water and sun.

She sat Guiseppe up and laughed as he cooed at her.

Each morning, she would take the baby and walk up the hill to where there was a tiny fruit and vegetable market at the corner of Via Di Bel’Occhio and Via Veneto. She would walk out the front door of her house, holding the little one, and gaze over the small parapet that separated the cobblestone street from the high cliff, and look out over the lush and pristine valley to the mountains on the other side. It always gave her a lift. This had to be, she reasoned, the most beautiful place on earth. Life was hard, but it was bearable because of the beauty surrounding her.

She climbed the hill slowly, mindful of the cobblestones, careful so as not to drop her precious Giuseppe. She stopped more than once to pass the time with her neighbors, who always had a kind word to say about her baby, and who always chucked him under the chin and watched as he giggled. It seemed they loved him as much as she did, and it made her happy.

It happened as she neared the top of the hill, close to the small market. One of the mules, hauling a cart loaded with barrels of olive oil became spooked by an eagle that had wandered in off the cliffs. The mule kicked up his heels, snorted in protest, broke his traces and the barrels shifted, then came bouncing off the tiny cart and down the hill, right into the path of Vita and Guiseppe. She had no time to react, the heavy barrels bore down on them in seconds, smashed into them, then carried them to the concrete parapet. The barrels split open, the oil splashing down along the cobblestones. Women screamed, men cursed, and the still limp bodies of Vita and Guiseppe lay entwined together on the side of the street, covered with oil and lifeless.

Francesco and the boys filed slowly into their cold house. He didn’t have to remind them to remove their Sunday clothes, which they did without protest. Francesco did the same, then sat in the darkened corner of the room and lit his pipe, and thought about his wife and what he would do with his two small sons. Life had been difficult before, it would be even harder now and he didn’t know if he had the strength to be both father and mother to them.

He looked at them as they sat in the far corner of the room, their outlines bright in the shafting rays of the June sun. His heart cried out for them, and he stifled his tears, not wanting his sons to think he was weak. Later, when he was alone, the tears would come, and he would grieve for his wife and baby son. But now, he must be strong for all of them. It was yet another difficult task, but he would see it through. And later, years in the future, he would take them to America and

truly begin new lives for all of them.

Francesco Pepe and Vita Nicola Petrone were married in the cathedral in Ferrandina on the 31st of August in 1876.

Francesco was a barber and set up shop in the man piazza in Ferrandina, directly opposite the church. He was well liked, did a satisfactory job, and made a passable living.

A year after their marriage, Michele was born. Up until this point, Francesco and Vita lived with her parents, the Petrone’s, in what can only be described as very tight quarters. The young couple would have to steal away to the relative privacy of the olive groves in order to be together.

Shortly after Michele was born, Francesco’s business began doing better and he rented a small house on the Via Del Bel’Occhio. It was little more than a large room, with a bed in the corner, a place to prepare meals in another corner and a chamber pot serving as a toilet.

It was cool in the summer, and warm in the winter, heated mostly by a fireplace, which needed a constant supply of wood, which Vita undertook as one of her responsibilities. They were happy together, loved each other, and had enough to eat, clothing to wear, and may friends in the small town.

Four years after Michele was born, they were blessed with another boy, whom they named Giovanni. For four years, Michele was the only child and he developed a strong bond with his mother, accompanying her wherever she went, helping her where he could, clinging to her in times of distress, and believing that the entire world revolved around her.

Then came Giovanni, and Vita’s attention was divided. It would be natural to think that Michele would become jealous of the new baby, but the opposite was true. He loved his little brother, and did all he could, at the tender age of four, to help his mother with the chores around the house.

With a growing family, Francesco became fearful of what there would be in Ferrandina for his sons, realizing that work was hard to come by and people were having a difficult time of it.

At night, before coming home for his well-earned supper, he would sometimes talk to his friends in the piazza. They spoke often about America, the fabled land across the sea where so many Italians had already migrated.

Francesco thought about it, learned as much as he could, and realized it might be the place for his family, it might help them earn a better way of life.

Finally, he made his decision, discussing it with his wife, and realizing that the only way he would learn about America was to go there.

In 1882, when Michele was five and Giovanni was one year old, Francesco made his way to the United States. He had subleased his barbershop to his apprentice and had made certain there would be enough money for his family to live on while he was gone.

Francesco spent one year in the United States, initially living with paisani in Lower Manhattan, then traveling to all five boroughs of New York City to sample the life that they afforded.

He worked when he could, either at barbering if that was available, or as a laborer, or as a clerk in various establishments. He worked hard in the United States, looking and learning, saving money for his trip home. Francesco was a shrewd and canny man,