The cop’s smile morphed into a look of puzzlement. “How will you recognize him?”
“My 27-year-old great-grandson, Antonio, will wear a white carnation in his lapel. He saw my picture in the paper, so he already knows what I look like -”
“- one radiant man,” the cop finished his sentence. He wished the old man well, and tipped his hat.
Guiseppe resumed his task. “I wanted to record thoughts and memories, in case I chicken out later. First, the basics: my parents, Giovanni and Piera Mancuso, and my older brother, Santo, emigrated from Palermo, Sicily, in 1890, and settled into a tiny apartment in an overcrowded tenement building on Elizabeth Street in Little Italy in New York City. I was born on Christmas Day, 1895.”
He stood to return his cappuccino cup to the vendor and decided to take a stroll while recounting his abysmal childhood.
“My parents ran a successful bakery and pastry shop, but that was their downfall. Let me explain. When I was young, bombings in our neighborhood – the work of the Black Hand Society – occurred regularly. These criminals – fellow countrymen, no less – mailed frightening extortion letters, demanding protection money. If letters were ignored, they’d follow up with bombing, kidnapping – even murder.”
Guiseppe passed by the waiting room – or what the terminal population calls the living room – and saw homeless folks snoring away on wooden benches, surrounded by bundles of their worldly possessions and fast-food litter. Others were slumped in telephone booths, resting their heads on bags that doubled as pillows. No one ever called for them – nor did they have anyone to call. Mayor Koch, the terminal police, the Coalition for the Homeless, caring volunteers, the media – are working to devise a solution. It’s hard to believe, in 1985, this difficulty exists.
Guiseppe continued his tale. “These scoundrels preyed upon Sicilian immigrants, familiar with omerta – the code of silence – and took advantage of their inherent distrust of authorities. Many chose to pay the extortionists without notifying the police. Witnesses, who could barely speak English, refused to cooperate, resulting in criminals being set free.”
Heading towards the men’s room, Guiseppe ran into the janitor.
“Congratulations on your imminent well-deserved retirement, Juan. You will be missed by your terminal familia.”
“If it wasn’t for you, Guiseppe, I wouldn’t be here to enjoy this joyous occasion. You saved my life.”
“God placed me in the right place at the right time – and luckily, I had read all about Dr. Heimlich’s Maneuver.”
Guiseppe headed towards the marbled nooks and crannies of the terminal to escape the multitude of tourists, including the ones pointing at him. They must have seen the article.
“My father’s long work days in the bakery began before dawn. At night, he’d teach my brother and I the art of scherma di stiletto siciliano – the Sicilian school of stiletto fighting. Our father – a passionate, loyal family man, understood how life could be brutal and violent. He trained us to defend ourselves.”
As he walked past the Oyster Bar restaurant, a waiter spotted him and pointed toward the take-out area. Guiseppe met him there. The waiter said, “Here’s some hot oyster stew and a warm garlic breadstick. I gotta get back – the lunch crowd’s starting early. Mangia, my famous friend!”
Guiseppe thanked him. He sat at a bench, placing the bag aside. “My father received a frightening letter from the Black Hand, demanding a large sum of money. They described brutal consequences of ignoring their demands or even worse – telling the police.
“My father met with a fellow countryman, Joseph Petrosino, a brave detective sergeant of the New York City Police, who dedicated his career to imprison or deport the Black Handers. They devised a plan, but before they were able to implement it, our tenement was bombed. My father was killed, as well as my precious baby sister. My mother was maimed, lost her sight, and soon died from a broken heart.”
Guiseppe wiped his eyes and cleared his throat.
“My father’s early warnings about explosives and dynamite still haunt me to this day. He said it was marketed as ‘Hercules Powder’ and ‘Neptune Powder’ – as if it was a primal force stolen from the gods.
“Talk about primal force – after losing my family, my soul was filled with grief, anger, and despair.”
He pressed pause.
Guiseppe’s appetite suddenly waned; his mouth felt parched. He ambled to the ornate water fountain, a marble basin attached to the cream-colored Botticino marble wall. The cool water soothed his dry throat. He looked above to admire the sculpted oak leaves and acorns, just above this luxurious fountain, which he drank from daily.
A hollow-eyed beggar sat on the ground, shaking a ceramic cup filled with coins. Guiseppe handed him the bag. “Enjoy this warm food – you need your strength.”
“A million thanks,” the beggar said. “God Bless you.”
Refreshed and determined, Guiseppe continued his saga. He paced back and forth. “Petrosino became Detective Lieutenant and headed the Italian Squad. Vowing to identify and capture the criminals responsible for murdering our family, he took us under his wing. Santo and I, fluent in several dialects, insisted we help. He allowed us to work undercover, provided we continued our studies, kept healthy, and went to church.”
In 1909, this courageous man traveled to Sicily to obtain the records of 700 criminals. According to U.S. law, if those brigands were in the U.S. for less than three years, they could be deported. Tragically, Petrosino was assassinated in Sicily.”
He retrieved his wallet. His hands trembled as he removed frayed two photos: one of his beloved family at his sister’s joyous christening; and one of Lieutenant Petrosino – the derby-hatted, stout powerhouse of a man, packed into a five-foot, three-inch frame – flanked by the Mancuso brothers. Gazing at loved ones, his eyes welled.
Guiseppe exhaled, realizing the pain of losing loved ones remains just below the surface – as raw and piercing as the day it happened – if you allowed yourself to go there.
He spotted a man in ragged clothes, poking through a trash can with a broken umbrella. Dozens strode past him, as if he was invisible.
He rested to compose himself.
“Following Petrosino’s death, violence skyrocketed. My brother and I channeled our grief – into a tenacious vendetta. We worked under cover of night, using disguises, like Petrosino did. We gathered intel from saloons, pool halls, gambling dens, and brothels. We selected our targets carefully.
“Suffice it to say, our stiletto training came into use. Our family or Petrosino would never have approved – but we strongly believed the guilty should pay – but suffer first. A swift death would have been humane. We said ‘Ciao’ to mercy.
“The police attributed these deaths to criminal-on-criminal; that a Black Hander must have skimmed protection money, or had been suspected of informing. The removal of these killers from society was a ‘public service,’ anyway. And yes – if you’re wondering, we did avenge the death of our father, mother, and sister.
“Let me describe the brightest part of my life. At a Sunday Mass, I exchanged glances with a young lady – così bella – and our souls rushed together before we ever spoke. Her father disapproved, so Josephine and I met secretly; first at my apartment, then in the glorious new Grand Central Terminal – where two lovers, unaware of the crowds, shared intimate moments. With the gateway to New York City as our backdrop, we’d gaze at the glorious vaulted ceiling mural and share our dreams. We’d whisper sweet nothings in the Whispering Gallery.
“Sadly, our union was brief. Santo, my beloved brother – my only surviving family member – was killed in a fight. His murderer – a young thug – fled to Sicily, but I trailed him. I took care of business and returned quickly to New York. Regrettably, my darling Josephine was gone – I searched and searched, to no avail.