My Father and Me: The Adventures of Our Journey Through Life

By Michael A. Bertola

My Father and Me is an autobiographical story that incorporates some of my most cherished memories that I have chosen to share with the reader, which is filled with love, a smidgen of danger, and good old-fashioned family values.

It all starts in Sicily, Italy, in 1896. Families were migrating to America for a better life as harsh economic times were felt by all. My father Frank starts a gambling house, and it becomes quite successful. The mob steps in, and things get dicey. Frank must figure a way out or else.

The family’s many activities and interactions sometimes lead to unexpected consequences. While the stories of my experiences growing up are lively and delightful, the stories from my dad and those from friends and family are heart-warming stories of respect and most of all love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 8, 2021
• ISBN: 9781664167704

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COPYRIGHT © 2021 BY MICHAEL A. BERTOLA.

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.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 04/08/2021

Xlibris

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I want to thank my son Frank for all his assistance,

patience, and advice, and for the times I borrowed

him away from his beautiful family, Reneé Frank’s wife

and his two beautiful daughters Gianna and

Lily.

My wife Kathy has heard these stories a thousand times

and always has encouraged me to write them

down. Thank you for your sage advice.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1 The Beginning

Chapter 2 Arriving in America

Chapter 3 The Gambling House

Chapter 4 The Visit

Chapter 5 Stud Poker

Chapter 6 Our Stores

Chapter 7 The Stores in the Neighborhood

Chapter 8 Mt. Virgin School and Estelle’s Birth

Chapter 9 First Grade

Chapter 10 Public School

Chapter 11 The Iannaci Brothers

Chapter 12 Mom

Chapter 13 The Sicilian Club

Chapter 14 Chinatown

Chapter 15 The Summer

Chapter 16 John Salvatore

Chapter 17 BAB

Chapter 18 Making the Wine

Chapter 19 Working in the Stores

Chapter 20 Fulton’s Fish Market

Chapter 21 Giuseppe Bobaloni

Chapter 22 My Dad’s #1 Rule

Chapter 23 Cardona

Chapter 24 Villanova Restaurant

Chapter 25 Our First Clubhouse

Chapter 26 The St. Ciro Society

Chapter 27 Bowling

Chapter 28 Mrs. Jones

Chapter 29 Father Olsen

Chapter 30 Club 238

Chapter 31 The Party

Chapter 32 1962 Drag Racing

Chapter 33 High School Graduation 1963

Chapter 34 Kathy

Chapter 35 Tony the Butcher

Chapter 36 The Russian Baths

Chapter 37 The Giants Game

Chapter 38 Selling Real Estate

Chapter 39 The Christmas Tree

Chapter 40 1975 Bushels of Shit

Epilogue

Chapter 1

THE BEGINNING

For many generations my family lived on the beautiful island of Sicily. It is the largest and one of the most densely populated islands of the Mediterranean Sea. The capital is Palermo. Sicily was inhabited ten thousand years ago. Its location at the center of the Mediterranean has made the island a crossroads of history and a melting pot for a dozen ethnic groups whose warriors or merchants sought its shores.

In the late nineteenth century, intellectual and social changes were taking place in Italy, questioning traditional values and beliefs. The most prominent events of this time revolve around the rise of the Italian unification movement. Known as the Risorgimento, it was the social and political process that eventually succeeded in the unification of many different states into the modern nation of Italy.

The situation was tense as people badly tolerated foreign dominance, and ideas of national independence grew. Northern Italy, mostly under the direct influence of Austria and the house of Savoy, saw the emergence of the industry. Life was hard for most Italians, who remained poor.

Southern Italy fared worse than the north; neglect and oppression of wealthy European landlords who exploited local peasants to tend their lands created the basis for the latter mafia organizations.

In a small town located southeast of Palermo, its name was Marineo. The people who lived there were hardworking, God-fearing, doing various types of construction work, as well as farming and raising barnyard animals.

This is a story about my family and the wonderful memories of our families and friends who shared this experience. The families would hire themselves out to the larger landowners and work on their farms for a day’s pay or a percentage of the crops harvested. This town had a wonderful little promenade that had different shops and cafés and a butcher and a produce market selling fresh fruits and vegetables. In the center of town, in the middle of the street was erected a statue of King Victor Emmanuel who reigned from 1900 to 1946. At the edge of the town was a mountain and on top of it was a large monolith boulder, which everyone called The Rock, and embedded in it at the very top was a white cross that can be seen from miles around.

It is often through strife that humans are their most creative. This is most evident in the food of Italy. The land, the food, and the people were all shaped by warfare, struggle, and the desire for independence. This struggle in the late nineteenth century saw the introduction of many of our favorite foods. Greedy landowners fed their workers poorly which brought about the development of pasta. Poverty made tomatoes, once thought poisonous, a staple of southern cooking. Various wild plants considered weeds were herbs and were incorporated into foods in times of want; however, these traditional foods of the poor, with their many levels of flavor, became common among all classes.

My ancestors had lived in this town for many generations. Unfortunately, things progressively got worse, and hard times were being felt by most families. The opportunities were drying up, work was becoming nonexistent, so my grandfather thought long and hard and decided to take a chance and start his family in America.

The adventure of coming to a foreign country not being able to speak the language and make your way was a major challenge for my grandparents.

There was a waiting list of Europeans to come to America, and it wasn’t just the Italians but Polish, Germans, Irish, and many others. You were required to fill out forms with all kinds of questions that would make your head spin. Thereafter it was agonizing, based on a formulaic quota which set limitations for the number of each nationality accepted, spanning a specific period of time. A required stipulation was to have a sponsor, who would stand up for you and provide housing and some kind of other resources. Fortunately, my grandfather had a cousin who lived in New York City, and he wrote to him to inquire if he would consider sponsoring him and his wife, which he graciously accepted.

Coming to America in 1896 generated mixed emotions. It was an exciting time for my grandparents when leaving Sicily. It was also very sad, haunted by the bad memories. Times were very difficult, making ends meet because work was scarce. Sickness touched many families in addition to little prospects of things getting better in the near future. Coming to America also brought the possibility of opportunity and a new life to grow the family.

Upon arriving in America, my grandfather found the economic status of the Italians at this time were on the bottom rung of the ladder. The jobs ranged from working in the sewers to digging ditches for pipelines to working on the subway tunnels. Times were tough, but everyone wanted to put food on the table. All things considered, it wasn’t an easy life and one did what they had to survive. The Irish were in control. Their position of power ranged from the politicians to the police. They held the political power and ran Tammany Hall, which was a New York City political organization founded in 1786 and incorporated on May 12, 1789.) It was the Democratic party’s political machine that played a significant role in controlling New York City, suffice to say it was here where all the deals were made and the Italians weren’t given any breaks whatsoever.

Several years had passed it was April 1905, and the family had taken up residence in an apartment on Elizabeth Street, the area more commonly known as or what would come to be known as Little Italy. My grandfather and grandmother, Michelangelo and Carmella Bertola, had arrived from Sicily nine years earlier and the family now consisted of four children, Minnie, Mary, Tony, and Anna.

My grandfather was a gentleman and a humanitarian who deeply cared for the welfare of others, he would help any family with a meal whenever he had a little extra. There were many men in the neighborhood that were like that also, and they all gave from their heart. At that time, Little Italy was a community of immigrants in similar situations with similar problems.

The three older siblings took work where they could. The girls worked in a sweat shop sewing dresses and coats. As for Tony, he worked digging ditches and other types of manual labor or whatever work would be available. This was a strange world to these kids because they were not accustomed to the bigotry and prejudice from people who were in charge of them. This made the daily conditions nearly unbearable.

In June 1908, my grandfather felt, the Irish who were now very strong and treated the Italians with disdain, almost like animals. My grandmother had delivered her fifth child (my father) Francesco Bertola. My grandfather’s love for his family and his inability to see better times ahead forced him to make other arrangements. He purchased ocean passage for the family to go back to Sicily. He would not allow his family to be subject to this type of living. The family had a small portion of an area below deck called steerage that they shared with a number of other families and made the best of the situation. My father who was not quite seventeen months old was not adjusting well to travel by sea, the body odors of so many people and the food they brought with them began to make him very ill. It was touch and go for a while. About a week had passed, and the crew advised my grandparents if he didn’t make it, he would have to be tossed overboard when he passed away. The entire family kept a vigil and began to pray incessantly to Saint Mary for my father’s recovery. A woman sitting near my grandmother noticed that my father’s face was turning blue. She immediately picked him up, told my grandmother to follow her, and took him up to the deck to get some fresh air. He immediately started to get his color back and began to breathe just fine as he gave them quite a scare. My grandparents were so grateful to this woman that they wanted to give her some of their possessions, but she would have none of that. She was happy she was able to help.

Back to Sicily

There was an island In the Mediterranean Sea located off the toe of mainland Italy. The primary industry contributing to the economy was agriculture because of the long growing season and the fertile volcanic soil.

A few days later the family arrived in Sicily and were happy to be on solid ground. Their prayers were answered as my father had made a full recovery. They went back to the piece of property they still owned and settled into the little house temporarily occupied by my grandfather’s cousin. Not long after that, they arranged to work on the larger farms in the area. The children, still young, were called bracciante if translated meant day laborers. They worked on farms picking products for wealthy land owners and received a percentage of the crops as pay. My grandfather was an artistic type of fellow and would weave beautiful baskets that he would sell in the marketplace. He loved to sing and would become to be known as the entertainer of the town.

My uncle Charlie was born next on December 1, 1909, and at an early age was out in the field working to help the family survive. On March 27, 1914, my aunt Rose was born, a beautiful girl with fiery enthusiasm that kept the family always hopping and smiling at her antics. Three years later on November 12, 1917, my uncle Joe was born. Joe was a sensitive and quiet boy who took his place in the fields with the others. The family consisted now of my grandparents with eight children, four girls and four boys.

Time moved on, and America became a distant memory. My grandfather was very religious. He went to confession on Saturday and mass every Sunday. Every meal the family sat down to was preceded by saying grace. He gave from what little they had to the church each week. A change in my grandfather’s devotion occurred one Saturday, something that changed the course of their lives. He told the priest of his sins in the confessional, and the priest said, For penance go home on your hands and knees. When my grandfather arrived home, he told the family, I work very hard all day long, and I try to be a good person, and the priest has had no compassion. No more church for this family. We will pray to God ourselves and we don’t need the church. The family worked well together and the siblings helped each other grow, learn, and understand what was required of them to maintain a happy family life.

Years passed and my aunt Minnie and aunt Mary decided to go back to America; they both were engaged to be married. They did not return to New York City. They instead went to live in northern New Jersey in a small town called Garfield in Bergen County. They were hard workers and began to receive the fruits of their labor. After a few months of getting settled in, they were both married. My aunts were good dressmakers, and their husbands just like all the other men were hardworking men. Aunt Minnie’s husband Jack was a very strong robust man, and he started a construction company. My aunt Mary’s husband Tom worked in a factory as a tool and diemaker.

The year was 1922, Uncle Tony and Aunt Anna made plans to return to America. My Aunt Anna only being sixteen years of age was protected by my uncle Tony, who was tough as nails. Back in Sicily, Carmelo Briganti was sad and pining for Anna. He lived in the small town of Marineo and had fallen in love with her. After about a year, he sat down and spoke with his mom and explained his heavy heart. She told him to go and find your love and be happy, so that was just what he did. He booked passage and traveled to Garfield, New Jersey. In a very short time, they were married.

Aunt Anna’s husband, my uncle Carmelo, was a large, robust, brawny man that always had a smile and a sense of humor which everyone liked about him; it kept him working in construction for many years as you’d have to have a sense of humor to endure the hard work of building roads and laying down concrete. Many years later they had saved enough money to open a grocery store in the neighborhood on McArthur Avenue, and they lived in the apartment directly above the store.

My uncle Tony married my aunt Katie, and this was a longtime relationship. They knew each other since they were kids, and they lived in the same apartment building on Elizabeth Street in Little Italy, New York, long before my grandfather took his family back to Italy. Aunt Katie was almost as tough as Uncle Tony so they were a perfect fit. She had muscles in her arms that she could make dance, and she was as tough as most men. Uncle Tony was a little different than the others. He had a wheeling-dealing spirit to his nature and was always trying to look for ways to make a buck any way he could. He had an uncanny but quite useful way of smelling out deals. He would put sellers and buyers together to make it happen—and of course collect a fair commission in the end. He would hear about families about to lose their properties because of nonpayment of back taxes, and they would tell Uncle Tony, Why don’t you pay the taxes and take the property over rather than allow the government to take it over? This was what he did so many times and he began to build a portfolio of commercial as well as residential properties, and they all produced positive rental income. I would say my uncle Tony was not a man that would perform manual labor or work hard, but he was a shrewd man and used his brain and not brawn to make money.

In 1926 my father was seventeen years old, and he felt a desire to make his way in the world. One evening he talked with his father and said, Poppa, I would like to go back to America and make my way. My grandfather said, Son of mine, you go and work hard, but most importantly, always show respect and the doors will open for you. One week later my father booked passage on a ship and went back to America.

He arrived at Ellis Island and was detained there for a few days. It seemed the doctors thought his jowl was swollen and felt he had the mumps or some other type of contagious disease, and they thought it better to be cautious. He was becoming a fine specimen of a young man fully developed and a handsome fellow with piercing sky-blue eyes. They were allowed during the day to go out doors to a containment area that was secured by a chain-link fence. There wasn’t much to do most days, but people found a way to pass time by either simply walking around or just sitting as they waited (painstakingly) to be released. My father told me about this man who wore a fedora hat, and the older people thought he was mafioso. This man would take some of their food, and they would say nothing because they were too afraid of him. He seemed to take pleasure in bullying the older people until he crossed paths with my father; one day he tried to bully my dad. When he made his request for some of my father’s food, my father said nothing but swung his arm around the back of the man’s head and knocked his hat to the ground. The people gasped but were pleased with seeing his actions and smiled. The fellow bent down picked up his hat placed it back on his head and looked at my dad with a menacing glare. To his astonishment, my dad did it again, and the hat was back on the ground. The man picked his hat up for the second time, returned it to his head, and stepped back away from my father who never said one word to this man. After that for the next few days, when this man who is obviously incorrigible began to bully someone, my dad would go up to him and knock his hat off his head without saying one word to him. The older people wanted to give my father some of their food, but he would tell them to eat it and get stronger. They all felt he was their protector. My dad was humbled.

Chapter 2

ARRIVING IN AMERICA

Upon arriving in Garfield, New Jersey, my dad lived with my aunt Anna and uncle Carmelo. Their family had now grown for they had a son named Charlie and two daughters Rosie and Millie. After a few years, my father was asked to be Charlie’s godfather for his receiving the sacrament of holy confirmation, to which my dad was very proud as this was a position of honor. My aunt Anna was a beautiful lady, and her two daughters were very pretty girls. They loved my father living with them, and they thought he was so handsome. My dad would go around the town with dresses and coats selling them at a lower price than the stores. My dad’s ability to work with numbers was special, and he had a knack for it. He could add, subtract, and multiply numbers as quickly as a computer long before they were pervasive.

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My uncle Carmelo was working on the road system, and the state was in the process of building Route 46 and were looking for workers. My dad went to work with my uncle Carmelo and also my uncle Tony. Now at that time, the foreman was an Italian and started to notice how my uncle Carmelo and my father worked. They would do twice the work that most of the other people did because of the experience of working hard their whole lives. My uncle Tony, however, would work about half as much as the others did because he was always standing around talking, and trying to broker deals or selling his fellow coworkers one thing or another.

On payday, the foreman pulled my father and uncle Carmelo to the side and told them to not tell anyone how much money they were paid because he appreciated their work and gave them more. When he paid my uncle Tony, he gave him less, but Tony never found out he was paid less. It was a good thing too because of his short fuse