Of Saints and Wooden Nickels: An American Story

By Harry Trumfio

When my father was just sixteen years old, he stole several hundred dollars from a family member and took a train with a friend from Chicago to New York, where they procured fake baptismal certificates and subsequently a fake passports. From there, they sailed to Italy aboard a steamer. My dad was in search of a family secret. Along the way, all of his money and his passport were stolen, and there he was: an American teenager alone, adrift in Mussolini's Italy without papers. After a year of wild adventures abroad, many prayers to the saints, a Grand Jury hearing, and a strong dose of Buona Fortuna, my father somehow found his way back home to Chicago.

Of Saints and Wooden Nickels is an odyssey of epic proportions, a true coming-of-age-tale that will appeal to readers of all ages, a story of one young Italian-American on a quest to learn about his family, himself, and the world outside Chicago. While I have fictionalized parts of the story for continuity, it is based almost entirely on actual events told to me by my father over many breakfast meetings.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Dec 30, 2019
• ISBN: 9781098312992

Book preview

©2020 Harry Trumfio. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses

permitted by copyright law.

ISBN: 978-1-09831-298-5 (print)

ISBN: 978-1-09831-299-2 (ebook)

This book is dedicated to my dad, Harry aka Demetrio, and to my children, Steven and Laura, for whom I have written this book so they might know more about their grandfather’s courage, persistence, and his ability to grow as he encountered life’s challenges.

The secret of life is to dare.

William Arthur Ward

Contents

Preface

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Preface

This book is the result of many conversations I enjoyed with my father during our weekly breakfast meetings after my mother passed away in 2006. On Monday mornings, we had breakfast at his favorite family restaurant near his home in Willowbrook, Illinois. Our talks consisted mostly of his reminiscences of his life including growing up in Chicago, his business experiences, his vivid memories of his year and one-half adventure in Italy—beginning at age sixteen. I promised to tell the story of his quest at his funeral. This book grew out of the eulogy I gave at his burial service on May 4, 2009. I have chosen to write his story as fiction; however, the work is inspired by true events. Some characters, interactions, and dialogue have been created to provide continuity to the story as told to me.

Harry C. Trumfio

Arlington Heights, Illinois

September 1, 2019

Acknowledgements

I wish to acknowledge and thank the members of the Barrington Writers Workshop for their patience, comments and suggestions given over several years as I toiled to tell this story. To my wife, Lorie, who was a source of encouragement and who understood my need to be alone when working on this book. In addition, to Mark Maxwell who willingly took time out of his busy schedule to provide insight, suggestions and comments on my work. To Kaylynn Hills, whose precise editing helped to make this work come to fruition. And finally, to BookBaby for making this book a reality.

Chapter 1

Harry was stunned when his father slapped him across the face and said, "Non per farvi sapere, and then stomped from the room. Harry called, Why isn’t it my business? I’m your son."

Harry was 13. He had just finished helping his mother prepare ravioli for the family dinner. He was in the living room crunched on his knees, working a jigsaw puzzle. Sunbeams flowed through the windows of the first floor flat on Carpenter Street in Chicago. Dominic his father, entered and looked over at Harry. Mama said you do a good job with the ravioli; you be a good cook someday.

Maybe, Pa. I like doin’ that stuff.

Sensing that his father was in a good mood, Harry wondered if this would be a safe time to again ask his father about what had happened in Italy. Dominic eased down into his favorite chair, and let out a weary sigh. He lit a Parodi cigar; the cigar was the only extravagance he allowed himself. He was a clean-shaven man, with a rather long face. Harry thought he looked a little like a young Abe Lincoln. Dominic had sky-blue eyes and possessed strong hands and a solid upper body, sculpted by years of manual labor.

Harry observed his father’s relaxed posture and smiled as Dominic blew smoke rings that hung in the air for a moment, then faded away. A question gnawed at Harry since some weeks ago, he overheard his Aunt Lottie whisper to a couple of friends something about his father and the shameful thing that happened in Italy. He wondered what the heck was so shameful that no one would tell him about it. He approached Aunt Lottie when she was alone and asked, What were you saying about my father and Italy? I’d like to know why it’s a big secret.

Oh, Aunt Lottie said, as she paled, and then put her arm around Harry. I was just saying what a nice family your father has made here. He’s much better off here than in Italy. Everyone here is better here than in Italy. That’s all.

There was doubt in Harry’s eyes, but he walked away after saying, Oh. However, he was positive he heard something about his grandmother.

Harry clicked a corner piece of the jigsaw puzzle into place and gazed up at his father. He decided this might be a good time, with his father relaxed, to ask about what he heard when his aunt was speaking to her friends.

Pa, he said, Aunt Lottie said something bad happened in Italy.

Dominic sat straight up and pointed his finger. You didn’t hear right. He launched into his usual story about his father marrying Maria Moribito. He explained that his parents worked as sharecroppers. Avoiding the question again, he talked about growing up and working as a shepherd and doing odd jobs around the town until he was drafted into the army.

Harry interrupted, Pa, I know all that. You told me that before. I wanna know about what Aunt Lottie said. Is Grandma Maria really my grandmother? Standing up, Harry walked over to his father, and said, Don’t you think it’s important for your son to know the truth about your life and your family in Italy? After all they’re my family too.

Dominic got up from his chair, slapped Harry across the face, and said, "Non per farvi sapere," as he left the room. 

No one, family or friends, would tell Harry about why his father always got upset when asked about Italy.

In 1921, long before he angered his father with his question, the boy was known by his baptismal name, Demetrio. He was six years old and getting ready for his first day at Carpenter School on Chicago’s near north side. He was the oldest boy in the family. Demetrio had an older sister, Anne; two younger sisters named Antoinette and Mary; and a baby brother, Frankie.

After breakfast, Demetrio washed up for his first day at school. Mama laid out a Little Lord Fauntleroy outfit that she had gotten at Hull House.

Oh no, Ma, the kids will make fun of me.

The outfit had short pants instead of knickers, long white socks, a lace collar and big buttons that didn’t fasten anything. Most of all, Demetrio hated the straw hat with its black band surrounding the crown, and the attached ribbon that hung down his back. He knew, however, there was no point in refusing to wear the outfit.

Okay, Ma, he grudgingly said, but just today. Okay?

Demetrio dressed, combed his thick, black hair and walked into the kitchen for his mother’s inspection. You look so handsome, she said. Here, take flowers for your teacher. Mama handed Demetrio four zinnias and two hydrangeas fresh from her garden. She’ll like them.

Mama stood back and studied Demetrio. Wait, you forgot your hat.

Oh, Ma.

Never mind, get it.

Demetrio retrieved the hat and handed it to his mother. She plopped it on his head and tucked the elastic band under his chin. There, she said, you be good boy at school.

Okay, Ma. I will.

Throwing open the back door, he tramped down the stairs and up the gangway. Carpenter School was just across the street from the family’s first floor apartment. Goosebumps rose and a chill shook Demetrio as he approached the school steps. He had been to the playground many times, but never in the school building. He froze at the bottom step as he stared up at the giant red doors. His foot seemed to weigh a hundred pounds. He managed to lift it up on the bottom stair and then drag the other one next to it. He performed his robotic advance until reaching the school doors.

Gazing at the massive doors, he reached out and grabbed one of the brass handles and tugged with all his strength. The door rattled, but stood strong, forbidding his entrance. Demetrio laid the flowers on the threshold and with both hands, jerked the handle as hard as he could. The door creaked but held its ground. Straining, he yanked the handle repeatedly until his arms were so heavy, he could hardly lift them. He kicked the door, scuffing the red paint and sunk down onto the threshold. Tears of frustration spilled onto his cheeks. I can’t get in! What’ll Mama say?

Demetrio, what’s the matter? A duet of voices invaded his anguish. He looked up, sniffed and wiped his cheeks with his sleeve. Nina and Gina, twin neighbor girls, peered down at him. The girls were friends of his older sister, Anne. Demetrio liked the girls; they were always nice to him. They were pretty, with light olive complexions and long, raven-colored hair. They wore identical white dresses with lavender bands around their waists, and lavender bows perched on the back of their heads.

Hey, Demetrio, your first day of school, huh? Gina said. Where’s Anne?

She went early to help her new teacher, he replied.

Nina pushed down on the tongue latch and pulled. One of the doors opened, she held it and said, C’mon. Gina hauled Demetrio to his feet. I love your hat. You look so cute, I could hug you, Gina winked at him.

Demetrio cheeks flushed pink at the compliment.

The girls giggled, as the three of them stood in the doorway. Nina said, First grade’s up the stairs.

Demetrio pulled away from Gina, tore off his straw hat, scurried to the metal guardrail and dropped the hat behind a honeysuckle bush. When he turned back, the girls were gone, and the school door was swinging shut.

Oh, no, he groaned as he ran to the door, but he was too late. The door slammed shut. He flopped down on the threshold next to the flowers. Just then, an older boy bounded up the steps two at a time, opened the door and said, Hey kid, nice flowers, better get in.

Demetrio slipped inside the door. The pungent odor of fresh floor wax tingled his nostrils. He stifled a sneeze and started up the stairs. Giant shadows soared on the walls above him. At the top of the stairs, he watched clusters of children renewing school friendships. Girls hugged and squealed, and boys shouted, punched and pushed one another in ritual greetings. Demetrio closed his eyes and held his flowers in front of him looking a bit like a hallway statue. Swirls of conversations and laughter swept over him. He thought, I don’t want to be here.

He felt a touch on his shoulder; he opened his eyes, and saw round, white buttons on a black skirt. He slowly raised his eyes and stared at a puff-sleeved, white blouse and finally, a glowing, kind face A sweet voice broke his reverie, dimming the gloom.

Are these beautiful flowers for me?

Demetrio looked up. I don’t know, he said.

If you’re looking for the first grade then I think these lovely flowers are for me. I’m Mrs. Hunter. I teach first grade.

Demetrio handed the flowers to the teacher. She sniffed them and said, So sweet. Thank you. Come.

Mrs. Hunter took Demetrio’s hand. The two walked into a classroom. Sunlight streamed in through four large windows that faced Carpenter Street. Heads turned as Mrs. Hunter led Demetrio to a desk. A blackboard, marred by a long, lightening crack, ran the length of the front wall, and a second blackboard covered the wall opposite the windows. Sun-bleached alphabet letters marched across a corkboard above the front blackboard. Tacked to a large bulletin board at the rear of the room, were photographs of General John Black Jack Pershing and President Warren G. Harding.

Demetrio spotted Maria Caputo near the front of the room, whispering to another girl. Maria was a distant cousin who lived on the next block. His anxiety began to dissipate. At least, he knew somebody.

A boy jumped from his desk, waved his arms and shouted, Hey Demetrio, some clothes! Some of the boys laughed. The fella was Salvatore Sorrentino. Relief filled Demetrio as he grinned at Salvatore and mouthed, Mama made me. Salvatore shrugged an open-handed understanding. The boys had hoped they’d be in the same room. Salvatore was called Sam by everyone except his family. Demetrio and Sam met on a hot June afternoon in the alley behind the Trumfio flat. Both boys were in their backyards when they heard the nickering of an ice wagon horse as the driver pulled to a stop. They bolted from their yards, meeting at the rear of the ice wagon.

Please, mister, each called, can I have some chips?

You guys look like a couple of puppies begging for a treat, the iceman said with a grin. Sam curved his hands, imitating puppy paws, and barked; Demetrio whined like a little terrier.

The iceman smiled and took a steel pick, chipped off several slivers of icy pleasure, and handed them to the boys. They greedily sucked the slivers. You guys stay out of trouble, you hear?

Yes sir, we will. Thanks, Sam said, and Demetrio nodded.

Mrs. Hunter walked over to Salvatore and gently pushed him down into his seat. We don’t shout in class, she said. You must learn to use your inside voice. Sam looked up at her and nodded his head.

Mrs. Hunter walked to the back of the room, opened a cabinet and took out a vase. She popped into the hall and half-filled it with water from a drinking fountain, and placed Demetrio’s flowers in the vase.

A bell rang. All eyes riveted on Mrs. Hunter as she walked to the front of the room and placed the flowers on the corner of her desk. She looked to the class of some smiling, but other uncertain, faces.

Good morning, children. My name is Mrs. Hunter. She turned and printed her name on the blackboard. She then walked in front of her desk and said, I am your first-grade teacher. Please say my name three times so you will remember to tell your parents. The children chanted Mrs. Hunter as requested.

Very good, class. Now, the first thing we must do is register each of you, so the school knows who you are and where you live. If your family is fortunate enough to have a telephone, I hope you know your number. Do you know your full name and address? Worried expressions appeared on a several faces. Don’t be upset if you don’t; I’ll try to help you. If you can’t remember, you can bring a note tomorrow.

Demetrio saw Johnny Russo pull a piece of paper from his pocket, while Antoinette Petrocelli slipped out a hand-printed note from a pink purse. Demetrio hadn’t thought to bring a note, but he felt good thinking he knew everything he needed to know.

Mrs. Hunter told the class that they could take out their books and look them over while she called each student to her desk. She beckoned to a girl wearing a blue dress in a front desk and asked her name. The girl walked to the teacher’s desk and confidently said, I’m Theresa Cerrone, she curtsied. I live at 1139 Erie Street. You spell Theresa, T-H-E-R-E-S-A and Cerrone, C-E-R-R-O-N-E. My telephone number is LAK 0491.

Thank you, Theresa, Mrs. Hunter said, that was perfect, writing down the information in a red book. Student after student came to the teacher’s desk and recited and spelled his or her name and address or handed her a slip of paper with the information.

Demetrio watched Sam go up to Mrs. Hunter’s desk. He rattled off his full name, Salvatore Dante Sorrentino, and spelled it. He added, But teacher, I’m Sam now. Very well, Sam. From now on, you’ll be Sam Sorrentino. Sam’s a fine American name, like our Uncle Sam." He smiled, bowed and scurried back to his desk.

Demetrio knew why Salvatore wanted a different name. Friends had started calling him Sally. He told them in no uncertain terms, I’m no girl, call me Sam.

Mrs. Hunter called a few more students to her desk. The boy sitting in front of Demetrio walked up. Sweat began forming under Demetrio’s arms and on his upper lip. He knew he was next. His address wasn’t a problem, he could see the numbers on the three-flat through the classroom window. Mrs. Hunter pointed to him and said, Please come up, and thank you again for the beautiful flowers. Demetrio bowed. And you are? He proudly said, Demetrio Trumfio.

And how do you spell that?

T-R-U-M-F-I-O. I live at 1-2-4-7 Erie, right across the street on the first floor. He pointed out the window.

Okay, now please spell Demetrio for me.

He blushed; words wouldn’t come. He stood silent. No one ever asked me to spell Demetrio before. The teacher looked up from her register book.

I . . ., Demetrio hung his head and stammered, I . . . I . . . don’t know spelling.

Oh, don’t worry. That’s okay, sweetheart. Mrs. Hunter tucked him under his chin, lifting his head. It doesn’t matter; you’re in America. You should have an American name, like Sam. How about the name, Harry? Harry’s my father’s name. It’s a good American name.

Demetrio felt like he was punched in the stomach. He stepped back and stared at Mrs. Hunter thinking, She wants me to be Harry, but I’m Demetrio. How can she say no more Demetrio?

Harry! Mrs. Hunter said.

Demetrio snapped his head and pleaded, My name’s Demetrio! Please don’t change it.

Mrs. Hunter’s face softened. That’s your Italian name, dear. Harry will be your American name.

Demetrio thought, Sam changed his name because he wanted to, but I like my name.

He turned and hurried toward his desk. Concerned looks crept onto several of the children’s faces as he swept past. Maria reached out. Demetrio brushed by her, too upset to notice. He collapsed into his seat and stared at his house, wondering how he was going to explain his new name to Mama and Papa.

Mrs. Hunter completed the registration process, stood, straightened her skirt and walked in front of her desk. All right students, I want you to take out all the books in your desks, if you haven’t already done so. As the children followed the direction, the noise level rose in the classroom. Mrs. Hunter tapped a silver bell three times, and in her best, teacher voice said, Okay class, we don’t need talking to put our things on our desks. Do we? Quiet fell about the room. I know you’re excited, but we can’t get things done if there is noise. Do you understand?

One girl in a yellow dress said, Yes, teacher. The rest of the students silently nodded their heads.

Okay, good. This year we’ll learn to read and understand all the words in the books now on your desks.

Most of the girls smiled, a few of the boys glanced at each other with varying degrees of belief.

She looked directly at Demetrio. I know it sounds like a big job, Harry, but I know you can do it.

Now, I have a surprise for you. Mrs. Hunter slipped a pitch pipe from her pocket, blew into it, and then hummed a note. Okay class, we’re going to sing now. Titters and smiles arose among the students. In honor of the Cubs, my favorite team, we’ll sing, ‘Take Me Out to the Ballgame.’ Mrs. Hunter told the class her favorite player was the pitcher, Grover Cleveland Alexander. Several boys smiled and nodded their heads.

I’ll start and then you join in. Mrs. Hunter had a wonderful voice and she made singing fun. Demetrio loved Take Me Out to the Ballgame, so he belted out the words. Mama told Demetrio he had a wonderful voice. He sang for relatives at family gatherings. Among the songs he loved to sing were, You’re a Grand Old Flag, and World War I songs such as Over There and The Caissons Go Rolling Along.

A bell rang. Mrs. Hunter told the class it was time for recess. Demetrio and Sam bounced from their desks and met at the classroom door. On the way to the playground, Sam said, You know, changing your name is a good idea. Demetrio sounds too much like a grease-ball name. Harry makes you sound American like me.

Demetrio never thought of himself as anything other than an American. Even if his parents weren’t born in United States, he was. Although his parents sometimes spoke Italian to each other and friends, they made an effort to always speak English to the children. Learning English was important to Italian immigrants, it was part of becoming an American in their minds. However, Italian customs and heritage were also very important in the lives of Italian families, as it seemed for all immigrants.

The first day ended with the noon bell. Sam and the newly named Harry walked down the stairs and out the entrance door together. Harry grabbed Sam’s arm and said, Wait. He ran down the cement steps, slipped behind the honeysuckle bush and retrieved his hat.

Sam grinned. C’mon, putting his arm around Harry’s shoulders. The boys crossed the street. See you later. And ditch those clothes.

Harry stopped and spanked the hat on his head before he scampered along his gangway and up the back stairs into the kitchen. Mama stood at the kitchen table kneading bread dough; her dark hair tinged with flour dust.

"Is that you, Demetrio? Well, figlio mio, how was first day at school?"

Mama, Harry said in a weepy voice."

Mama turned. Demetrio, what’s the matter? Come here.

She wrapped her arms around her son. His hat slipped back and hung from his neck; tears rolled down his checks.

Teacher gave me a new name.

Mama’s deep hazel eyes grew wide. What you mean, a new name?

Demetrio explained that Mrs. Hunter said that Demetrio was not an American name and said Harry was a good name for an American, so she gave him that name. Mama hugged him and told him that she too, received a new name when she came to America. She explained that her Italian name is Dominica, and that a man at Ellis Island gave her the name Margaret. Now, Mama said, everyone calls me Maggie.

You like it? Demetrio asked.

Come sit down, I make you lunch and tell you how I come to America. Mama sliced two pieces of bread, took a tin of Peter Pan peanut butter and a jar of jam from the cupboard.

Put lots of jam on, Mama.

Okay, this special day. Mama opened the ice box and took out a bottle of milk, poured it into a glass and set it next to Demetrio’s plate. She patted him on the head. "You, good boy, mangia."

Mama wiped her hands on her apron and shuffled to her rocking chair. The chair creaked in rhythm as she rocked back and forth on the linoleum floor. She began to tell her son her story.

I come from Italy when I fifteen years, my older brother was already in America. He find me with nuns in Italy. The rest of my family die in earthquake.

What happened, Mama?

Its early morning, day after Christmas. I’m making bread. Mama, Papa, and little sister were sleeping in bedroom. The walls and ceiling begin to shake. Pots, dishes fall off shelves. A big pot hit me on the head, she pointed to a spot just above her eyebrow where there was a white scar. I fall on floor. When I look up, standing in corner, I see a beautiful lady dressed in blue and white. Mama’s voice caught, tears beginning to well. The lady say, ‘Dominica, hide under table.’ I do what lady say, I crawl under kitchen table. Ceiling falling down all around. Big cupboard crash against the table, glass doors break, little pieces stick in my face. Mama closed her eyes, her voice quickened, Wood and dirt flying everywhere. It hard to breathe. I cover my eyes, but I safe under table. Shaking stop, I look to see the lady, but she’s gone. I know she Virgin Maria who saved me.

Demetrio took a last sip of his milk and put his glass down. What did you do?

I crawl out from under table. I see big, black clouds, no roof, walls fallen down. I hear shouting and crying from street. I call Mama, Papa, again and again, but hear nothing. I try to go to bedroom, but I can’t because big piles from walls and ceiling blocking the way. I scream again, ‘Mama! Papa! Mama! Papa!’ But I hear nothing.

Mama made the sign of the cross. Demetrio did the same.

Virgin Maria save me, but not my family. My clothes wet, black rain falling from sky. I climb over smashed kitchen wall and go to street. Houses broken, horses running, some with wagons, no drivers, they crash into things. People dirty and crying. I don’t know what to do. I just sit down and cry.

Mama stopped rocking and gazed out the kitchen window and said, Come, my boy. She opened her arms and Demetrio climbed into her lap, and then she continued her story. "Mrs. Carbo, my mama’s friend, come and take my hand. She crying. She point to her wrecked house, shake her head, say her husband and boys all dead. She say, ‘Come, we leave Reggio and go to my sister’s house in Vito.’ She tell me she saved because she’s in outhouse, when shaking start. I stay with Mrs. Carbo and sister, Mrs. Ragonese for a few days. I say to them, I go to Naples. Places there to take care of children with no mother or father. Mrs. Carbo say, ‘No, no, you stay.’ I say, yes, I must go. Mrs. Ragonese give me blanket, bread and cheese, both ladies kiss me. Wish me buona fortuna.

When I come to Naples, sun is warm, I hear Angelus bells and see a building with a big white cross and big tower for bells. A sign say, "Convento delle Suore Domenicane." I knock on door, but no one come. I knock hard, still no one. I look up to heaven and pray to Virgin Maria. I hear little voice say, ‘Go to the side door.’

I see path of seashells, follow it to high bushes with white gate. I open gate, inside is beautiful garden, with lemon and fig trees, and grotto with statue of Saint Dominic. Passed garden, olive grove and grape vines. I kneel, say prayer to Saint Dominic, then I hear singing. I see alcove on side of building, inside is door with window like cross. I knock but nobody come. I knock hard, three times. Door open; I see many candles, smell holy incense, hear beautiful singing. Girl peeks from behind door, she dressed in white. She smile, take my hand, she say, ‘Welcome, sorella.’ She take me to pretty room. She point to red chair, say, ‘Wait here.’ "I sit on red chair. I look around, beautiful paintings in room of Jesus and saints on walls. St. John in painting with Jesus, in corner is statue of Saint Dominic wearing brown and white robe. I see big painting of Virgin Maria with burning heart. I kneel on floor. I pray to her. In little time, Madre Superiora comes, her name Madre Maria Rosa. I tell Madre Rosa my story."

Mama said she told Mother Superior that her name was Dominica, and that she thought that the Virgin Maria brought her to the convent. Mama stayed with the nuns for almost a year working as a cook and house maid, in exchange for a room and meals.

One day, Mama told Demetrio, Madre Rosa called her into the office and read her a letter that came from America. Madre Rosa said the letter was from her brother, Francesco. The letter said he was trying to find her since he heard of the earthquake. He wanted to bring her to America and that he has a friend, a nice man, willing to be her husband.

After telling Mama about the letter, Madre Rosa said it was time for her to think about her future. Mama knew what she meant either join the convent or go to America. Mama knew she wanted to have a husband and children. She knew Madre Rosa would be disappointed, but she had to do what was in her heart.

Mama told Harry, "I sail from Naples on May 25, 1909 on S.S. San Giorgio. Sisters get me place in third class; they call steerage. It on bottom of the ship. I share room with three other ladies. It was best when we go up on deck and get fresh air. When ship get to New York, everybody go up on deck, we cheer and cry when we see statue of the lady. My heart go so fast, I almost can’t breathe. I happy and scared too. I only remember picture of brother, in Mama’s bedroom, when he young man. When ship stop, steerage people told we can’t get off until next morning. Ship people say because steerage people need be inspected and say we must stay one more night. Next morning, we line up, they put tags on us, and we march off ship.