CHAPTER ONE
1922 - Hungry Hill, Chicago Heights, Illinois Rosa Gambriotti was carrying a big platter of fresh
cannolis and anamaretti fig cookies from the kitchen when young Ben Napoli
backed into her, nearly knocking the
still-warm bakery treats to the floor. Ben, who had been near to punching Jimmy
Rosalini because Jimmy said all the White Sox baseball players were crooked, and
this pissed off Ben so bad he didn't even notice the near disaster he'd caused.
Lucky thing Dr. Lina Bright was at the
table next to Rosa, reading one of her medical journals. Dr. Bright with her quick reflexes reached
out and steadied her friend, saving the bakery treats.
"Hey," the feisty Rosa said, glaring at Ben, "What's-a
matter with you?"
"See what you almost done," Louie Caproni said. "S'cuse me, comrades." He got up from the table where he'd been
sitting with some of his fellow workers from the steel mill, and pushed Ben toward
the door. "Get out-a here, you stugatz!" Nobody argued with Louie, who was a fiery
little ball of energy, and even though Ben was ten years or so younger, he
practically fell out the front door in his hurry to be gone, with Jimmy piling
out into the street after him..
"What's wrong with them?" Rosa said. She set the plate of home-made sweets on the
table in front of the men, who were still dressed in their Sunday finest from
the Mass at San Rocco that they'd attended earlier in the day.
"Ahh, the war," Louie said, dismissing the subject with a
wave of his hand.
"That's no excuse," Rosa said. "It doesn't automatically
make men into brainless idiots."
""You're right, Rosa...but give the guy a break." Louie, usually the firebrand, in the unusual
role of peacemaker. He wanted his sweet treats without interruption.
"Yeah, Ben served in the Eastern Front," Louie's pal Arturo
said in that froggy voice of his. "In
the mountains near Austria, I heard. It
was real bad. He seen a guy get shot in
the -" Arturo was Louie's best friend
and he usually seconded whatever Louie said, but this time Louie nudged him a
sharp one with his elbow to the stomach and he stopped short..
"I know it was bad," Rosa said, her lips pressed in a
thin line. "That's where my Ralphie
was." Her husband Ralphie, blown to bits
in a trench somewhere in the Alps north of Italy.
"Ahh, sorry, Rosa," Louie said. "Arturo didn't mean to bring that up. Everything is upset these days, lots of
problems at the mill."
She didn't have to ask.
There was only one mill, The Inland Steel mill, and many families on
Hungry Hill depended on it for their survival.
"What now?" she said.
"Here, try a cannoli."
Arturo picked up a pastry roll and gave it a nibble
before he answered. "Really good, Rosa,
really tasty."
"The mill," she prompted.
"Dirty rotten no-good managers never learn. The stupid fools want to make everything run too
fast again."
"But...I hear people say that's dangerous."
"Oh yeah," Arturo said. "But the big bosses at the top
don't care. They don't have to wrestle
hot steel."
"What can you do to stop them?" she said.
"Oh, we'll think of something," Louie said. "I promise you that, young lady."
Rosa was nobody's fool; she was bright and young and
pretty (gorgeous, actually, in the classic
Italiano way) and she had a knack for running her home grown business, the
popular little Italian restaurant she called Rosa's Place or Rosa's Café, she
hadn't decided which was classier. You didn't have to work at the mill to know
how dangerous it was; they had attended the funerals at St. Roccos, heard the
sad tributes, followed the horse drawn carriage to the cemetery.. To Rosa, this sounded like the same trouble
all over again. Even shy of the fatal accidents, there had been plenty of burns
and the loss of an arm or a leg or an eye or an ear here and there. The incidents and the general conditions and
poor pay had led to lots of labor unrest over the years, so it was hard to say
if this was anything new. Rosa went back
to the kitchen to make sure her mom hadn't forgotten to watch the almond
biscotti so they didn't burn in the oven.
It was the next weekend when Rosa and her good pal Lina
Bright were talking girl talk in the front room of Rosa's old family home. They were sitting at a table in the formal
living room space that had been widened by her il bobbo - her dad - and now
served as the main dining room in her restaurant. Lina did her doctoring next door and rented a
room over the café where she kept her few personal things and where she slept. This was in Rosa's wooden lunch pail house, on
one of the main streets in Hungry Hill - the blueprint straight out of the
Sears and Roebucks catalogue and originally hand-built by her dad back in his
day. The house was a lonely survivor
from an earlier generation; now in the roaring 1920s, it remained, stuck
between a row of newer two story brick buildings that had business store fronts
below and living quarters up on the second floor.
"Mama," Rosa yelled, impatient and yet with her boisterous
good humor, "The doc's waiting for her eggs out here! She's got people dying over at her office
next door and you're trying to figure out if it's one pinch of salt or two.."
Lina smiled and shook her head, "No, I don't...I could use
a few more clients. Hopefully not dying, maybe just maybe a few sprains and a
cough or two."
Rosa's mother's cheerful voice carried from the kitchen
in back. "Dying can wait, Rosie-girl! People are dying all over the world,
honey! You don't rush eggs a la Gambriotti."
Rosa playfully mussed up her friend's short strawberry
blond hair, "See, I told you, Lina - there's no way to get a fast egg from my
mom! Every plate is a masterpiece."
"Okay, Rosa. But
you know nobody's dying over there.
Nobody's even sick, a little bit. And that's because we've got no
customers."
"Praise Dio,
that is a very good thing for us here at my cafe, live people still have to
eat!"
They watched out the big front window as two muscular
young men in white t-shirts and Levis wrestled a wheelbarrow heavy with bags of
cement on past Rosa's.
"Hey, that's one of the guys almost knocked you over last
week."
"No, that was Ben Napoli.
You sayin' all us wops look the same?"
"No, I am not saying that, you idiot."
"Which one you want?" Rosa grinned at her friend, raising
one eyebrow.
"They're both too young for me."
"That one - the big one - that's Jimmy Rosalini. He's your age, maybe 28 now, but you can't
have him."
"Why not?"
"He's already got four bambino, and a fifth on the way!"
"Wow! I see your point.
Well, okay, Rosa - you get to take the other one, he's more your age."
"Yeah, he's twenty.
Joey Zumbatti. He went to school
with Pauli and me."
"Paulo, your best friend."
"Yeah, him.
Fratello Paulo, these days, now that he gives himself to Jesu
Christi. Just plain Pauli to me. But this Joey Zumbatti here, nobody lays
their hands on Joey. You look even cross-eyed at him, his wife would kill you!"
"Not really?"
"She's big and fat enough, and she handles the heavy
rolling pin good, too! No girl in her
right mind wanna cross Mindy Zumbatti!" Rosa
raised her voice again, "Mama, are you back there squeezing a hen or
something?"
"Hey, Rosie Rosa, you mind your own business! People back here are cooking!"
Rosa shrugged and grinned, "She's good, but she is not
very fast. So, how we gonna find you a
good fella from Italy so you can settle down?"
"No, I don't think that is going to happen, girlfriend. Italian mamas are too protective of their
sons."
"Is that your medical opinion, Doctor Bright?"
"No, Rosa. I think
it's that I'm not ready to get serious."
"You better start!
What, you're already the old lady."
"I am not! Twenty-eight
is not old!"
"On Hungry Hill it is like ancient times. Here we say a
girl over twenty is old as Moses. You
know my family married me away, I was a teenage kid. I barely had my period."
"Noo...? That's not
true, right?"
"I said practically,
Doc."
"Maybe let's talk
about something else than how old I'm getting," Lina said. "Tell me, how come they call this Hungry
Hill? I don't see a hill anywhere
around."
Everybody in the South Chicago suburbs knew Hungry Hill was
the local Italian community in this part of Chicago Heights, the place where
the folks from Napoli or Genoa or Rome who were new off the boat settled to
find comfort in the bustling American Midwest of the 1920s. Hungry Hill was a
colony of already established immigrants who were mostly Italians and Sicilians. But there were a hundred different ideas how
it got its name. But one thing was sure;
it attracted the majority of folks fresh off the boat from Italy. The newcomers felt more comfortable starting
their new lives on the Hill, getting
things going with people from the Old Country
to help them make their way in the land of promise and opportunity.
"That's a funny thing, I have to agree," Rosa said. "Nobody knows how come, why it got that name,
Hungry Hill. Makes no sense, but it's
not gonna change."
"Everything changes."
"Some things
do. Since my parent's time, Twenty
Second Street changed from family homes to business, that's a change. This house, my grandpa and Pop built together
for my mom and Pop's family. We change
it now, put my café in front, rent you a room upstairs. Mom and Pop live in grandpa's old house. That's change. But when the people come from the Old Country,
they still come to this part of town and they still call it Hungry Hill."
The Gambriottis had converted the space where Rosa and
Lina were sitting into a warm and welcoming dining room featuring a mixed
collection of second-hand tables. On one
wall they had pinned an old green-white-and-red tricolor Kingdom of Italy
flag. And there was a black and white
sketch of the ruins of Pompeii with a dormant Mount Vesuvius looming in the
background.
"Sometimes remembering all that stuff makes me feel sad,"
Rosa said.
"What stuff?" Lina said, hoping to help Rosa skip away
from the subject she knew was coming.
"You know. Ralphie
stuff."
"Hard to avoid it.
He was your man."
"Yeah, he was. And
there were some good times. Ralphie was
a good singer, you know. He'd sing love
songs from Italian opera, and he'd come in here and dance around the room."
"I never met him, but he sounds nice."
"He was okay. But he
was an impulsive guy. Once he got his
crazy notion to join the Italian army, nobody could talk sense to him. I
certainly couldn't. Like he was going to
save the nation of Italy, or something. I guess I can understand it, in a
way. After all, he grew up over there."
"I bet they were delighted to have him back."
"Yeah, they were.
Greeted him with open arms. But,
honest to Dio, Lina - for me, it all
happened so fast...you know, way too fast, I think. First papa drops the surprise on me that they
found my perfect husband for me. It's
one evening around the dinner table on a Friday and we're having special meatballs a la Napoli in the fresh home-made
spaghetti and he says 'Hey, let's not even talk about it, it's all arranged,
you're getting married!' So that was
that."
"Just like that?"
"Yeah. That was
that, exactly just like that, subject
over. A few weeks later, the guy gets
off the boat, we meet, six weeks for the courtship and then papa buys me the
white dress with the lace veil and Ralphie and I show up in front of the altar
at San Roccos and bam! the priest
seals the deal."
"I'll bet you looked beautiful."
"Mama has my wedding photograph somewhere - I'll show you
- but then, see, barely two months later Ralphie gets his big idea and dances
back across the ocean to Italy to fight the Austrian bastardos. And before you
know it six months go by and I get the telegram, We are sorry to inform you, and just like that I'm the young widow that
everybody whispers about at Sunday Mass."
Lina was still trying for a happier subject, "After you got married, did you have a
honeymoon?"
That seemed to work. At least Rosa smiled as she remembered, "Sort
of. Ralphie took me fishing in
Wisconsin."
"Hey, wait a minute - here this guy's just off the boat,
how did he know there were fish in Wisconsin?"
"Papa paid for the trip."
"Oh, it was Papa's idea.
Of course! I bet he went along, too."
"Yeah, he did. Him
and mamma. He said it was the honeymoon
he never gave her, back when they got married."
"I was just kidding."
"That's alright, Lina.
It was okay. We had our own rooms
and they gave us plenty of space. And
the Dells of Wisconsin are very beautiful."
"You catch any fish?"
"Not me! I don't
wanna touch those things! Ralphie and
papa did. There really are lots of fish
in Wisconsin."
Rosa sighed and
looked down at her clenched fists, and then she gave Lina a determined
smile. "He came, we got married, and he
went. I'm not gonna let any of that drag
me down. I wear widow's black to the Mass,
but, no way, I will not sit with those bent over old ladies in their own sad
little section at the back of San Rocco's."
"That's the way to go," Lina said. "You have your whole life to live, yet."
Lina admired her friend's spunk. Rosa was her best friend (actually, pretty
much her only friend) and Lina would do anything to support her.. Rosa ran her little café with a fierce
Italian spirit, a dark sense of humor (if this be hell, there's always heaven
to look forward to) and plenty of her own blend of a spicy tomato sauce (not too much sage, that's where the
Sicilians go wrong). She did about half
of the cooking herself; mornings and in the busy times her mom and dad - aging
but not slowing down so much, and now, living in her grandpa's house a few
blocks away - were happy to help out, seating guests, handling the cash,
cooking when Rosa had to go out for groceries or to handle the finances, or
like now when she was having a moment with her pal Lina.
"How come we became friends, anyway?" Rosa asked. "You're this big time doctor and I'm just the
kid next door."
"What are you talking, big time? Look at me; I'm a doctor without any clients of my
own. I'm lucky grouchy old Doc Whitber
lets me take temperatures and sweep the floors."
"What does he know?
You have your own Doctor of Medicine degree. I see it on the wall. And you did the impossible thing for a girl, you
actually were in the Great War, like Ralphie."
"Yeah, I did do that."
"Blinky Old Doc Whitber's lucky he's got you. His eyesight's so bad I bet he can't even see
the big letter E on the chart on the wall.
And with those shaky hands! I
wouldn't let him take my temperature, he'd probably poke my eye out!"
"Well, there's several good reasons we're friends: I work
right next door, I rent a room upstairs here, and you really know how to cook!"
"Love me, love my cannoli."
"Exactly."
CHAPTER TWO
The area was off to one side at the end of the furnace
run at the Inland Steel mill. It was the
end of the day shift, and that was when Anthony Anselmo had his first look at
Louie Caproni: What he saw was a grimy
little steel mill guy. A midget, for Christ's Sake, not even five foot
tall and round as a big bowling ball. Louie
had just finished his shift, and he was grinning from ear to ear, white teeth
and white eyes shining out of a face sooty black from eight hours up on the hot
beds. Louie had a roll of dirty black overalls stuck under one arm, he was
wearing a faded red wool shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the shirt
sweat-stained under the arms, and old khaki pants probably discarded by some
fat army sergeant, the pants cut off at the knees, snug around the ball of his
waist, held up with wide tan suspenders.
And he was wearing a bright red workman's bandanna around his cannon
ball shaped head. There was a stained
cloth lunch bag under his other arm. He
was being patient, but not too patient, clearly wanting to get out of there,
eager to go home, wherever that was, probably the Italian ghetto over on Hungry
Hill.
This was all new to Anselmo. They were standing next to the smoking hot
beds at the end of the line of repeaters that bent and shaped hot metal at the steel
mill in Chicago Heights. It was a place
where they reheated old railroad tracks (of which there was a seemingly endless
supply, shipped in by rail from all over the country), and turned them into
steel fence posts and concrete reinforcing rebar. The blasts of heat were
nearly unbearable, and the noise made it impossible to be understood without
yelling.
Anselmo was not a steel worker by trade, and he did not
need the money - a paycheck that was, when you thought about it, next to
nothing. He'd come into town from half
way around the world and he was trying to fit into the community. He'd taken the job because this opening had
come up in a conversation after Mass at San Rocco, and although he had his
assignment from his grandfather and his reason for being in Chicago Heights, he
was drifting through this time in his life looking for some meaning and he
couldn't think of any believable way to say no and so he'd agreed to take the
job. That was a couple of weeks ago and
now it was the end of a work day at Inland Steel and here was this short little
guy saying he was Anselmo's new partner, 'cause
the boss says so, and they were gonna be together up there with the
sparking white hot steel where people got hurt really bad or even died in ways
too horrible to be imagined.
Anselmo found himself looking at the fellow and thinking
this couldn't be right; he was new to working in factories so he couldn't be
sure of anything, but any fool could see the mill was a dangerous place and this
Louie looked totally out of place. He
looked like somebody who belonged in the traveling circus, the juggling midget
or maybe the world's tiniest strong man, the guy in the poster wearing the
Tarzan suit who could bounce cannon balls off his big stomach.
"How long you work here?" Anselmo shouted. You had to shout, even to the man standing
right next to you, to be heard over the oven roar and the metal clank of the
cutters.
"Oh, God-almighty, going on now, near to twenty years!"
Louie said. "I hear you the man new from the boot." The boot. The Old Country. Italy.
"Yes, I am. My
name is Anthony Anselmo. Tony. Just
plain Anselmo." He held out his hand and Louie crushed it in his own. "Some grip you got there," Anselmo said,
giving him a closer look.
The short little round man squinted back at his new
partner, getting that first impression that meant everything. "You are how old now? Thirty?"
"Thirty two. Born
1890. You?"
"1891," Louie said.
"You in the war?"
Anselmo asking about the War to End All Wars, wanting to know if Louie
had been in it. Anselmo knew some
stories about that; some patriotic Americans of Italian descent - some even two
or three generations in the U.S.! - had signed up and gone over there, Dio help their souls. Anselmo had traveled here from Italy to
resolve issues remaining with the surviving widow of one of those unfortunate
men.
"No, I missed that one," Louie said. "My wife wouldn't let me go. You?"
"Me? Not so
lucky," Anselmo said, his smile fading.
"You got kids?"
"Two son, two daughter - watch out here, now!" Surprisingly light on his feet, Louie
carefully pushed Anselmo back out of the way as a heavy hand cart loaded with
steaming rebar rumbled past, the awkwardly long and heavy metal cart
man-handled front and back by two men in a hurry. "You have-a the
kid?"
"No. Not so lucky
about that, either. No wife, no bambino."
Anthony Anselmo had a far different history from Louie's:
his grandfather, Giacomo Anselmo (Giacomo I) - now over eighty years of age -
still supervised the family vineyards, and the hazelnut and olive orchards in Northern
Italy. Anthony's father, Giacomo II, ran
his own corporation, Futura Industries, in Rome.
Before World War 1 began, Giacomo II had had tried to
persuade his young son to join his corporation in the capital, but that hadn't
gone so well.
"Give me one reason why not," Gio II had growled at Anselmo
from behind his big marble topped desk.
"There's one right there," Anselmo said, pointing a
finger directly at his father.
"What are you talking about?" Gio II snarled and sniffed
and ran a hand through his thick head of hair.
He was dark Italian like Gio I; Anselmo was light haired and blue-eyed,
like his mother. Anselmo instinctively
knew, the way sons always did, his father resented this in him.
"He's talking about you, Dear," Anselmo's mother
said. She was ailing, sitting in a
wheelchair to one side of her husband's desk, pale and weak and not long for
the world. But her voice had a
determined bite to it, and they heard her well enough. "You've never gotten along," she added.
"And why do you think that is, dear?"
Well, Giacomo, you're rude and abrasive. You don't respect his ideas -"
"He's just a kid, all that money for private school, and
not even
a degree yet!"
"And see, you put him down, just like that! That's your way. No.
Better he continue his education in Switzerland."
"I won't pay for that."
"Grandpapa will.
It's all settled. Nothing for you
to worry about."
"You've done this behind my back!"
"Oh, you've done so much behind my back, haven't you,
dear?" As she spoke, Anselmo's mother gave a passing glance at his secretary, one
of the ripe young tomatoes with pouty lips he hired as his personal
assistants. She was sitting nearby, and,
with nothing else to do, was looking out the window. Gio II had no answer for his
wife's conversation.
So Anselmo left his angry father in Rome and went back to
study in Switzerland and then on to college in England where - instead of the
business courses his father demanded - he studied philosophy and literature and
joined the college choral club, the debating club and the fencing team.
But then the war had come and Anselmo abruptly left all
that to join the Italian army. Not that
he was feeling patriotic; back then his blind raging purpose had been to fight
against the hated Austrian bastardos he
believed had killed his beloved older brother, Giacomo III. Unknown assailants
had somehow shot Gio III dead under circumstances that were never made
clear. Was it an enemy raid behind the
lines? Was it just a mistake, a careless
misfiring at a rifle range, a wild bullet out of nowhere? Nobody knew.
Or, if they did, they wouldn't say.
And the mystery only deepened when Anselmo, sent to retrieve his
brother's body, realized he had been shot in the back, and from a distance of
only a few paces. Anselmo had enlisted
in a blind rage, and his tour of duty had been a disaster, but he saw no reason
to talk about any of that with Louie in a clanking steel mill that was half way
around the globe from his home in Turin.