This is the start of a five part series by Jan Maguire, 2010

Michelangelo Anzelone was born with a song in his heart and music in his fingers. From his earliest days, the nuns from Saint Anthony’s Church recognized his talents and insisted that Michelangelo had been sent by God to fill the silent chapel with the organ music they loved. So Angelo, as he was called, played the organ each day at the stone church in his village of Montefalcione.

As Angelo grew older, he taught himself to play the mandolin,
the trumpet and the tuba. There was no instrument that Angelo
couldn’t play and before long he became known as the village Music
Man. Angelo earned his keep by giving music lessons, by directing the
choir, by playing at weddings and festivals and of course playing the
hymns for the good sisters at St Anthony’s. The nuns appreciated that
Angelo would always play the hymn Ave Marie for every Sunday
service. This hymn put to music by the Italian composer Verdi was
really a prayer to the Holy Mother. Angelo played it with such flourish
that the entire congregation would stand and sing.

Angelo’s village of Montefalcione was high up in the mountains
about 26 miles from the bustling seaport city of Naples. When Angelo
was born in 1870, Naples could have been a thousand miles away, as
few of the Anzelones had ever left their beautiful mountainside village.

For hundreds of years, the Anzelone ancestors had lived
peacefully on the mountain, where the air was fresh with the scent of
hay and wild flowers and the majestic volcano, Mount Vesuvius, could
be seen in the distance. It was a hard but simple life. The most
important thing was family, friends and the church. In 1870, less than
4000 people lived in Montefalcione – almost the same number who live
there today.

By the time Angelo turned 20 in 1890, his sisters teased him
with no mercy about not being able to find a wife.

“You spend too much time with the nuns, Angelo. Maybe you
should join the convent too,” the girls giggled loudly as they bent over
the vegetable garden.

What his sisters didn’t know is that a girl in the village had
caught his eye. Carolina Polcari went to church every day and though
Angelo saw her, she never saw him … she was blind. Because of this,
Carolina was considered a poor prospect for marriage. At 19, she was
already getting “old” and seemingly unable to do the hard work of
running a home by herself … how would a blind girl ever be able to
take care of babies?

Angelo knew that his parents would never approve of this match,
but all he could think about was how Carolina’s face lit up when he
played the organ in church. So, one day he went over to Carolina’s
house on the other side of the village and asked to speak with her
father. Mr. Polcari listened as Angelo stated his intentions and
requested permission to “visit” Carolina. Mr. Polcari agreed. And love
- as it so often does – took root and blossomed. Carolina and Angelo
were married at St Anthony’s church with their families and friends
gathered along with the nuns, of course, kneeling in the back, praying
for the good fortune of the young couple.

II

By 1893, Angelo and Carolina had welcomed their first child to
the family. Young Raphael was born after a long labor but he was
healthy and strong. Once the midwives delivered the child, the doctor
was called. He passed by Angelo in the kitchen who looked white as a
ghost. You see, in those days the father was the absolute last one to
see the baby: first the midwives, then the doctor, then the nuns, and
finally the father. As the doctor quietly entered the bedroom, the
midwives were clearing the bloody linens and swaddling the baby. The
doctor could see immediately that the howling child did not need his
attention.

It was Carolina, exhausted and pale in her bed, that worried
him. He was tempted to say something to Angelo about the
consequences of future pregnancies because he knew that Carolina
might not survive another labor. But he quickly put that medical
advice out of his head, as it was not his place to interfere with the will
of God. It was a strict rule of the church that every baby would be
welcomed as a gift from God, regardless of the mother’s health.

Carolina’s life was in God’s hands not his. Once the doctor
proclaimed that all was well, the sisters from St Anthony’s came to
pray over the child and give thanks to the angels and the saints that
Carolina had survived the labor.

At long last when the room cleared, Angelo was allowed to see
his new son. Young Raphael slept quietly in his mother’s arms and
Carolina nodded in and out of sleep. Angelo knew then that his life
had changed forever.

As Raphael grew into a chatty toddler, Angelo invented a number
of ways to keep the baby safe when he went to work. He braided a
soft leather strap that could be tied around the child’s waist and
attached to Carolina’s wrist so she could keep him close. Angelo built
a sturdy barrier to keep the child away from the fireplace and he
sewed a net to cover the well. He hung a heavy ship’s bell next to the
front door so if there was an emergency Carolina would strike the bell
with all her might and Mrs. Martignetti from next door would come
running.

It was a sweet time in the life of Angelo, Carolina and Raphael
Anzalone. At harvest time, their garden produced vegetables, their
chickens laid all the eggs they could possibly eat, the pigs grew fat and
the milk cow never failed them.

In 1897, Carolina’s prayers were answered when she delivered a
healthy baby girl; she named Carmella. Just as with Raphael, the
delivery was long and arduous but the baby was strong. It took
Carolina longer to recover what was left of her strength and was
thankful that one of the nuns from St Anthony’s came to the house
each morning to help. Again, the garden was planted, the pigs grew
fat and the Anzalone family walked to the church to listen to Angelo
play the hymns on the organ. As the new century began, a final baby
was born to the Anzalones on July 17, 1900 – a small blue-eyed girl
arrived. She was named Anna. Just Anna.

III

Life for many in Montefalcione was challenging but the Anzalones
thrived. The older children took care of baby Anna and handled chores
while Carolina worked in the garden and kept the house as best she
could. Angelo continued giving lessons and playing the organ for Saint
Anthony’s and sometimes a local farmer would hire him on as a day
laborer. In time, all three Anzalone children would attend the small
village school run by the nuns. By 1910, Carmella and Anna were in
school, learning to read and write. They also took religious instruction
so that they knew all the prayers and Latin rituals of the church.
Raphael was 17 that year and he had left school at age 13 to work as
an apprentice to Mr. Bellafatto, the barber. At first, Raphael swept the
shop, washed the towels and cleaned the cutting tools, but in time Mr.
Bellafatto showed him how to use the clippers. Only men went to the
barbershop. Women kept their hair long and tied up in kerchiefs. Men
would come in for a shave or a haircut and of course, to trade the local
gossip. Raphael would learn about things that went well beyond the
mountainous borders of Montefalcione. He heard the stories of the
men’s cousins and brothers who had made the long ocean trip to
America. To Raphael it seemed like a fairy tale. Were the streets in
America really paved with gold?

Raphael gave Angelo all of his paycheck each week. It was the
custom that everyone in the family who could work did work and
contributed to the household expenses. Carmella left school at age
14, as it was time for her to begin thinking about marriage. The
deeper truth was that Carolina’s health was not good. Her eyesight
was completely gone and Carmella was needed at home to work.
Anna who loved the gentle nuns was happy to stay in the school for a
while longer.

Life was a struggle for many of the villagers in Montefalcione,
but life for the farmers was especially hard: taxes levied by the
government in the North were high and the climate in the south was
harsh – six months of rainy cool temperatures followed by six months
of baking-hot sunny weather. This weather was perfect if you were a
grape or a stalk of wheat.

Luckily for Angelo, not being a farmer, he was able to avoid
some of this misery. When there were neither droughts nor floods,
the farmers pulled in good harvests. Sometimes Angelo would travel
down the mountain about ten miles to the larger town of Avellino and
work as a day-laborer on a farm. The work was very strenuous but
the money was good. Angelo could earn as much as $1.70 a day. The
Anzalones lived a peasant life, uninterrupted as the peasants in
Montefalcione had for hundreds of years. But in 1915, disaster struck
the family and no one would ever have predicted what happened next.

IV

By 1915, Angelo Anzalone had some steady work in the wheat
fields outside of Avellino. Raphael was engaged to marry Aurelia
Martignetti whose parents lived next door to the Anzalones. Raphael
was 22 and had a good job at the barbershop and was saving to buy
the business when Mr. Bellafatto retired. Aurelia Martignetti was 17.
Carmella was 19 and a young man, named Giuseppe Paoletta, from
the neighboring province of Puleo had spoken to Angelo asking
permission to visit Carmella after church on Sundays.

Angelo decided that this Giuseppe was a decent man who
worked hard as a ditch-digger. Carolina whose only fear was that
Puleo was such a long distance from Montefalcione. She hoped
Giuseppe would find permanent work in their village. Anna at age 15
was still in school. Her education was advanced enough that
sometimes she helped the nuns teach the younger children. Angelo
knew that once Raphael and Carmella were married and responsible
for their own families, Anna would have to leave the school and come
home to care for her mother and run the household. Education was a
luxury that no peasant could afford.

So in the dawn hours of that fall day in 1915, Angelo hoisted his
pack onto his shoulder and began the hike down the mountain.
Stirring in her bed, Anna woke to the song her father always sang on
his way down the mountain. It would be the last time she heard
Angelo’s voice.

V

The next days were a blur for Anna. At noontime something
unimaginable happened. Raphael rushed home from work with old Mr.
Martighetti at his side. Carmella stood upright from the laundry tub
where she was scrubbing clothes and let out a startled gasp. It was
this noise that alerted Carolina that something was wrong.

Raphael went to his mother and took her hands in his. “Mamma,
there has been an accident!”

Carolina immediately thought of Anna. “What happened? Is she
alright? Where is my girl,” Carolina asked.

“No Mamma, it’s Papa,” Raphael said, his voice cracking.

“Angelo? No, not Angelo!” she cried out as her knees gave out.
She started to fall to the floor, but the strong arms of Mr. Martighetti,
held her.

Carmella went to her mother helping her into a chair. Raphael
told her what he had learned from the panting boy who had been sent
running from the fields up the mountain to the barbershop.

Angelo had arrived at the wheat fields and began the work of
threshing the stalks. The machinery was old and the sun bright and
Angelo’s sleeve had become caught in the gears. Before the motor
could be shut down, Angelo had been pulled into the grinding
machinery and suffered a terrible injury to his hand, arm and
shoulder.

The men were bringing him up the mountain in a cart. At that
moment the village doctor, who had been in and out of Angelo’s house
for the births of the babies, swept into the kitchen barking orders.

“Boil the water, tear clean cloths, and drag the bed closer to the
fire,” the doctor ordered. He immediately set to work organizing the
iodine bottles, the gauze pads and sterilizing needles threaded with
very thin fishing line. He stretched some rubber tubing that he would
use as a tourniquet if need be. Medical care, especially on this
mountain at this time, was primitive. There were no antibiotics to fight
infection, no aesthesia to help with pain. Surgery was a brutal thing.
The doctor knew that Angelo would be in shock, probably unconscious.

The noise from the cart could be heard a hundred meters
distance the house. Men were shouting while whipping the mule to go
faster, old women wailing and crossing themselves as the cart rumbled
by. Six men carried Angelo into the house and laid him on the bed.

The doctor knew immediately that the injury was horrendous.
He sent everyone out of the room except for Carolina and two of the
midwives who had come to offer assistance. He knew that Carolina
being blind would not focus on the grievous wound and would be
calmer if she could hold Angelo’s hand – his remaining hand, that is.

As the doctor peeled away the torn cloth the men had used to
staunch the bleeding, the extent of the injury became clear. Angelo’s
hand and forearm were completely gone; his upper arm to his
shoulder was a shredded bloody mess. With the tourniquet removed
the blood started to pulse from the wound.

The doctor tied the rubber tubing around the stump of the arm
while the women cleaned the dirt and plant debris from the wound. All
the while Carolina sat at Angelo’s head stroking his face and praying
into his ear. The doctor applied iodine as a disinfectant and then used
what seemed to be a mile of gauze to wrap the entire area. He took
clean cloth and bandaged the arm and shoulder. The doctor knew that
Angelo’s chances were poor. He had lost so much blood.

The women tried unsuccessfully to get Angelo to swallow some
water as the doctor whispered to one, “Go to the church and get the
priest. I have done everything that I can do for this poor man.”

Anna raced home from school accompanied by one of the nuns.
But she did not know what awaited her. Her sister, Carmella, was
weeping hysterically. Raphael was standing with Carolina trying to
console her. The priest arrived soon after and sat with the family as
day turned to night. The entire neighborhood clustered around the
house, lighting candles and hoping for better news.

There would be no good news that night. Angelo spiked a high
fever and never regained consciousness. He was given the last rites of
the church, which would ensure his entry into Heaven. Members of
Angelo’s family, his sisters, and his cousins came, bent to kiss him and
say a prayer for his soul. Just before dawn, when the songbirds first
awakened, Angelo Anzalone died. Anna sat silently by his side in
disbelief. Angelo was 45 years old.

The only hymn played on the organ at Angelo’s funeral was the
Ave Maria. The entire village came to mourn. Angelo was buried in the
church burial ground and for years to come the nuns took special care
of the gravesite in honor of their music man. Raphael went back to
work at the barbershop. Carmella took care of the house and Anna…
Anna immediately left school at age 15

The shock of Angelo’s death caused his family great sadness but
also caused them to rethink their futures. Carmella was dispirited. And
so Giuseppe, with Carolina’s permission, stepped forward and formally
proposed marriage. Carmella smiled for the first time in months and
said, simply, “Yes.”

Within a year, Raphael married Aurelia Martignetti and Carmella
and Giuseppe exchanged their vows. Raphael was now the head of
his own household and also had to provide for Anna and his mother.
It was a burden that he readily accepted as Italian men of this culture
viewed their primary responsibility as providing for their families. No
matter what the job, no matter the number of hours or how low the
pay, men worked to take care of their family.

Most Sundays, Carolina would have her son and two daughters
with their spouses around the table for the mid day meal. Anna,
Carmella and Aurelia would cook. Carolina would sit by the fireplace
and the two men would lounge outside and smoke a cigarette. Anna
loved this time of the week as it was when the family was all together
and they could relax and enjoy a few hours of leisure time.

Anna glanced outside and noticed that Raphael and Giuseppe
were in a heated discussion. They spoke intensely, gesturing with their
hands. Finally, Raphael spit out the words, “Giuseppe it is time, today
we tell Mamma.” Anna looked up sharply, thinking “Tell Mamma? Tell
Mamma what?” Anna held her tongue as the meal progressed.

Then, as the last of the wine was poured, Raphael said, looking
over at Giuseppe, “Mamma, I have come to a decision. It’s time you
know.” Both Carmella and Aurelia stopped chatting and took on silent
but knowing looks. “They know, they know!” Anna thought to herself
angrily. Carolina looked towards her son and waited.

“Mamma, Giuseppe and I are going to America. There is much
work to offer and with our trades we can earn $10 a week. I can’t
make $10 in a month in Montefalcione. Our plan is this: Giuseppe and
I will make the boat passage to Boston in a month. Our cousin
Domenic Polcari will meet us there and let us board at his apartment.
Giuseppe and I will work and send money home. In time we will
return. For now Aurelia will move back to her parents house and
Carmella will move back with you and Anna. There is no other way.

Needless to say, Carolina and Anna were shocked by the news.
They knew that there would be no negotiation since Raphael and
Giuseppe were the men of the family and their word was law. Carolina
accepted the news and prayed fervently for their safe return.

A month later, Carmella and Aurelia traveled with their husbands
by cart down the mountain to the port city of Naples, 26 miles away.
It was a hard trip for the women, made even more annoying since
Raphael and Giuseppe were in high spirits, boasting away as if they
were looking forward to this adventure to America. A cousin of
Giuseppe’s who lived in Naples let them sleep at his apartment that
evening. Raphael and Giuseppe paid $25 each for a third-class one-
way ticket from Naples to Boston in America. The journey would take
two to three weeks depending on the weather.

Early the next morning, the two couples walked to the docks.
Raphael and Giuseppe had two large packs filled with clothes, linen,
tools and food. They carried their tickets, their Italian citizenship
papers, and a letter from cousin Domenic in Boston confirming that he
would house them.

There was great noise and chaos on the docks. Two huge ships
were boarding. One was headed to New York City, the other to Boston.
Aurelia and Carmella clutched at their husbands and were overcome
with fear. So many people, so much noise, so much confusion. “Just
look at that ship! How does it float? We will never see our husbands
again,” they must have thought. Needless to say, there were many
tears on the dock that day, but Raphael and Giuseppe boarded and
stayed on the deck for a long time until their wives were no more than
small specks on the horizon.

Eighteen days later, the steam ship carrying Raphael and
Giuseppe debarked in Boston. The men had had a hard time of it.
Their third-class tickets gave them two small bunkbeds and a thin
blanket down in the deepest bowels of the ship. Babies screeching
and women crying was the noisy backdrop twentyfour hours-a-day as
the ship lurched westward. Seasickness, diarrhea and conjunctivitis
ran rampant among the crowded passengers. Two children died during
the crossing and were buried at sea. The steamship company provided
minimal food and the decks were always overcrowded and filthy.

When Raphael and Giuseppe disembarked, they looked like a
couple of dirty, skinny beggars. To be sure, they were not diseased or
disabled. When the American doctors examined them, they found both
men healthy and they made a big ‘X’ with chalk on the shoulder of
each of their jackets, allowing them to pass through. Then the
immigration inspectors carefully checked their paperwork and asked
them questions, with the help of a translator, about work and lodging.

As the final entrance certificate was being written out, Raphael
noticed a curious thing. On the official paperwork, Raphael was now
“Ralph” Anzalone and Giuseppe’s name had been changed to “Joseph”
Paoletta. As the two friends moved quickly from the inspection offices
in search of their cousin Domenic Polcari, Raphael slapped Giuseppe
on the back saying, “Well, Joseph, we are now Americans, let’s go find
those streets paved with gold.”

© Jan Maguire 2010

As with many of the Italian immigrants, the first stop would be with relatives or friends from the town who had immigrated earlier.  Dominic Polcari was a cousin of Ralph’s mother Carolina. Dominic lived with his family in a second-floor apartment at 11 Thatcher Street in the North End. The Polcaris lived above a grocery store in which the whole family worked. It was Dominic’s dream to own the store someday. His wife made lovely pizza pies with fresh tomato and cheeses and the storeowner let her sell them from the shop every day.

Ralph and Joe were given a small room in the back that was actually a hallway. It would be fine for now as the most important thing was for the young men to find work. The Polcaris charged Ralph and Joe a small rent to cover food with the understanding that once they were employed, they would move to their own place.

Ralph and Joe walked around the neighborhood in amazement.  It was noisy and crowded. The smells in the air were strong: meat cooking, bread baking, garbage rotting, horse dung in all the streets – it was sensory overload. But it was also exciting. Everyone they met on the street spoke Italian and looked physically and dressed like the folks back home in Italy. Women wore their aprons and headscarves. Men buttoned their shirts to the neck and covered their heads with a cap or hat.

Ralph and Joe went to Sunday Mass at St Leonard’s church and met some other men through the Polcari’s who had also left their wives behind in Italy.  On Sunday there would be a card game and some wine drinking and occasionally on Friday evenings the Avellino Men’s Club would have a social night where entire families would share food and listen to music and gossip about things going on in the neighborhood and back home in Italy.  America is a fine country thought Ralph. There is opportunity for me here, thought Joe. From that moment, the men began to experience what they thought would be their temporary American adventure.

Work was easy to get. Italian immigrants were known for their excellent work ethic and their strong bodies. They were not afraid of hard, dirty work. The more work the better. In 1897 the Massachusetts Transit Authority (or the MTA) was building the first urban subway system in America.  A system that grew and grew as people did not have automobiles and horse transport was ending. The projects of the MTA employed thousands of Italian immigrants. Ralph and Joe were hired as laborers. Their job was to join the crews that were digging the first underground transportation tunnel in America – beneath Boston harbor – that connected Boston with East Boston.

Ralph and Joe worked with hundreds of other fellow immigrants digging, hauling rock and debris and pouring cement. They worked from 6 a.m. to 5 p.m. each and every day, except Sunday. They earned $11 a week and felt like rich men. They dutifully sent most of their paychecks back home to their wives.

But something else started to happen to Ralph and Joe. They started to feel comfortable in their new home. Despite some poor treatment from non-Italians who did not think kindly of the immigrants, there was opportunity here. Ralph and Joe saw that schooling for children was free, that there were chances to work and make money. The North End neighborhood needed businesses and the church life was familiar.

The other factor was that Italy was embroiled in World War I.  All of Europe was fighting. Germany against the French and the English. America had entered the war late but it was a bloody and terrible affair. If Ralph and Joe returned to Italy they would be drafted into a war in which they had no interest. What if, the men thought, instead of going home, Aurelia and Carmella joined them in America?  It was a radical idea, but after much soul searching, Ralph wrote the letter, sent the ticket money, and told the women to pack up and come to Boston.

When the letter arrived in Montefalcione, it sent shock waves through the family.  It had been almost 18 months since the men had left and Aurelia and Carmella had expected them to return very soon.  Carmella had settled into a routine of caring for her mother and the house. Anna was good company and helped out also. Aurelia had moved back in with her family and siblings and was comfortable. But both women missed their husbands and wanted the normal village life that they knew so well. Carmella was stoic about the move and knew that her mother would not stand in her way, since a woman must always obey her husband. Secretly, however, Carmella was curious about America.  Aurelia, on the other hand, was inconsolable. The thought of leaving her mother and her home pierced her heart. She ranted and raved, cried and complained. Finally, after a month of drama, Aurelia took a deep breath and packed.  Aurelia’s father Mr. Martighetti took them by cart down the mountainside to Naples, to the very same dock, and put the women on the boat.  As he watched the vessel steam out of the harbor, he prayed for their safety but also for their good fortune in America.

The crossing was frightful but when Aurelia and Carmella landed in Boston that January day in 1918, Ralph and Joe were on the dock to greet them.  The men’s complexions were ruddy from working outside and they were skinny. As was the tradition, the Italian workers skimped and saved so that most of their paycheck would be sent home. Being a good provider for one’s family was a very important value in Italian families. The father was the protector and the provider, period. Sometimes Ralph and Joe would go without food in order to send money home. And just before their wives arrived, Ralph and Joe had made living arrangement to suit their new circumstances.

Ralph rented a small apartment on Thatcher Street near the Polcari cousins, who were thrilled that Aurelia was coming.  The apartment had three rooms: a bedroom, a large kitchen and a small sitting room.  The bathroom was down the hallway. They shared it with the other apartment on the floor. The rent was $8 a month.

Joe – who you might remember – was from the province on Puleo not Avellino. He had made contact with an old friend from his village who lived in a triple-decker house in the West End near the Charles River. The triple-decker was owned by Mr. Saul Rosenberg, who owned and rented a few houses in the neighborhood. And unlike some of the native Bostonians, he would rent to Italians. Joe rented the attic apartment for himself and Carmella.  It had two rooms and a slanted ceiling. The bathroom was an outhouse down three flights in the back yard. But there was enough space between the buildings for an outside clothesline and for a patch of garden. Carmella loved looking at the river from her window.

Joe continued to work as a laborer for construction projects in and around Boston.  For many years, his crews were made up of Italian immigrants who knew how to put in a good day’s work. Ralph, meanwhile, stayed in the North End as the neighborhood was bustling with activity. There were now five barbershops in the North End and Ralph was able to put down his shovel, pick up his scissors, and return to his trade. Every morning, except Sundays, he would wake up early and walk two blocks to Salem Street, cut hair all day, as the red-and- white striped barber’s pole spun slowly on the front of his barbershop.

By 1920, the young couples were settled in their new homes. Ralph still sent money home to Montefalcione on a regular basis to support his mother Carolina and sister Anna. Letters crossed the Atlantic to and from the siblings and although she missed terribly her children and family life, Carolina knew that they had made a good decision.  But, what of Anna? Her life was very different from the lives of her brother’s and sister’s.

Anna was 20 years-old in 1920.  She had taken over from her sister Carmella and now ran the household and cared for Carolina. Of course, Carolina approaching her 50’s was still able to manage a share of the chores. Their lives had taken on the rhythms of the seasons.  They planted the garden, raised the chickens and pigs, chopped and hauled wood for the fire. And they chatted with the neighbors, went to village weddings, funerals and baptisms and, of course, attended church at St Anthony’s every single Sunday. One of Angelo’s former students was now the church organist. And hearing the old hymns – like the Ave Maria being played – made everyone happy.

In her own free time, Anna read and wrote letters to her siblings and she would visit with the nuns at the convent. All her girlfriends were married by now and busy with their new lives. The war had ended and, sadly, many of the young men from Montefalcione who had been drafted – they never returned.

Many had died, others who had survived scattered to Naples or to northern cities. The handful of soldiers who did return to the mountain village were no longer the same young men who had once marched off gaily arm-in-arm off to the Great War. They returned with crippling head injuries or missing limbs. If their bodies were whole, their minds certainly were not:  the horrors of war, the death and suffering they had witnessed left them brutally tormented. Some of these men drank heavily to dull the pain. Some became enraged at the sound of hand clap. The prospect of a decent marriage for Anna was slipping away. There were so few young men in the village and Anna was already 20.  Though Anna and her mother did not speak of it, Anna realized what was happening.

It was the letter from Carmella that arrived in November of 1920 that changed Anna’s life forever.  The letter from her sister spoke solemnly of losing a pregnancy to miscarriage. Carmella and Joe were devastated. In page after page of her tear-stained writing, Carmella mourned.  Anna could tell that a deep sadness had taken hold of her sister.  In reading the letter aloud to her mother, Carolina felt the grief at losing what would have been her first grandchild. How she wanted to be able to comfort her daughter who now lived so far away in America. It was at that moment that Carolina decided she had to act.

During the next two days, Carolina had several talks with her close neighbor, Mrs. Martignetti next door. The Martignetti’s eldest daughter, Lucia, had been born with mental challenges and was now 30-years-old.  She would most likely never marry and had lived with her parents her entire life. The two mothers arranged for Lucia to move into Carolina’s house as a boarder. She would take care of all the household tasks and also care for Carolina. For this work, she would receive a small weekly salary.

Carolina had known Lucia from birth and although she was slow-witted, she was pleasant and knew how to keep house. The Martignettis were delighted since this gave their daughter an opportunity to widen her world, even if it was just a few meters down the road. With these arrangements in place, Carolina was ready to put into motion an event that seemed unimaginable. She was about to send her last and only remaining child, Anna, to America.

“No, No. No!” screamed Anna, pounding her fist on the table with each “No”.  “I will not leave you, my life, my home – I will not!”
“Besides, who will cook? Who will clean? Who will plant? Who will get the water from the well? Who will wash the clothes?  Who? Who? Who?”

Carolina wisely let Anna vent her anger. Where did all this fury come from, she thought?  Once Anna’s indignant rage depleted, Carolina spoke: “Your sister needs you. She is not well and I cannot help her. But you can and you must!  You’re healthy enough to make the voyage and you are strong enough to help her heal. You will go in my place,” she concluded.

Carolina went on to explain the arrangement with Lucia and told Anna that her next task was to write to Carmella and tell her. She allowed Anna one small concession: “Yes,” she said to Anna, “and we will plan for this to be just a temporary arrangement. Once your sister is well, you will return home to Montefalcione.”

This placated Anna who, over the next days and weeks, came to accept her duty. But Carolina knew deep in her heart that Anna’s returning to Italy was not a sure thing.  She knew that the simple life in Montefalcione would do well somehow for poor Lucia Martignetti, but she also recognized that her daughter, Anna, would be able to handle a much bolder life.

In February 1921, Mr. Martighetti readied his cart for still another trip down the mountainside to Naples. Carolina had decided to accompany her daughter to the docks. This leave-taking was the most sorrowful for her. All her children would now be thousands of miles away.  For any mother, no matter how reasonable the decision, the pain would always be there.

Carolina helped Anna load the cart with her two large sacks that included clothing, bedding, food for the voyage and some local medicines for Carmella. Anna was dressed in her everyday dress, her best shoes and a long coat. Her hair was tied up in a kerchief and she wore a small gold crucifix around her neck.

When they reached Naples that morning, the docks were already streaming with people. Husbands and wives hugged.  Children raced about unaware of the great emotional turmoil that swirled around them. The elders were mostly silent in their sadness, or perhaps even slightly jealous that the youth, optimism and bravery it took to make such a journey no longer resided within them.

Carolina and Anna walked arm-in-arm to the gangplank leading up to the huge ship, “The Conopic.” Mother and daughter hugged for what seemed like a long time. Carolina finally gently pushed Anna away. She reached into her satchel and pulled out a ball of yarn. As was the tradition, Anna took the end of the yarn and walked up the gangplank to her place on the deck. Carolina held the yarn tightly in her hand and lifted her face towards the sound of her daughter’s voice.  There were many strings of yarn now stretched from the ship.

As the horns blasted and the vessel slowly moved out into the harbor, the strings of yarn unraveled. Fathers and sons, husbands and wives and, most certainly, Carolina and Anna held onto that last thread of connection for as long as they could. Anna saw her mother holding the ball of yarn and Mr. Martignetti waving his handkerchief as the ship moved away from the pier. The string in her hand suddenly snapped and fluttered away. These would be the last and final memories Anna would have of her mother.  She would never return to Italy. She would never see her mother again.

Mercifully, the sea was calm so Anna’s voyage was bearable. By early 1921, the stream of Italian immigrants from southern Italy and Sicily had ebbed somewat. Many days during the voyage, Anna had been able to go up to the deck. There she chatted with the many young wives who were traveling to America to unite with their families.  Some spoke about what their husbands had told them about life in Boston. Others were wide-eyed about traveling even further across America. These young women – some younger than Anna – with toddlers in tow planned to get on a train in Boston and ride west for days and days to Chicago, to St Louis, or even the 3000 miles to San Francisco, California. Others showed Anna their train tickets to places named Philadelphia, Baltimore and New Orleans.

Anna could not imagine how big America must be. Since most of the immigrants from Avellino and Montefalcione had relatives and village friends in Boston, Boston was where she would be. “Oh, the streets are paved in gold in America,” laughed the wives. We’ll see about that, thought Anna.

On February 21, 1921, the steamship finally made its way into Boston Harbor -18 days since their departure from Naples. The day dawned cold and clear. There was not a cloud in the sky as Anna scurried up to the deck when suddenly the shout “Land!” was heard.  She looked towards the city coming closer towards her: factory smokestacks; some tall buildings; and then the bustling seaport itself with warehouses, fishing boats and cargo ships galore. Her eyes were locked on the dock where throngs of men, women, children, horses, mules, carriages, and pushcarts crowded together. How would Raphael ever find her, she wondered?

Anna, of course, was a clever woman. For even before she left Montefalcione she had persuaded the nuns at St. Anthony’s to give her some English lessons. They had a Bible printed in English so they were able to translate some of the words and phrases.  So, Anna entered the immigration processing area armed with a few words of English.  She waited in line a very long time and when it was finally time for her to receive her papers, the Immigration Inspector barely looked up at her. “Name?” he asked gruffly. “Anna Anzelone,” Anna replied, not waiting for the translator to speak. She watched as the Inspector wrote her name on the document “A N N E”.

“No, No! My name is Anna, A N N A, no E,” she said.

The Inspector looked annoyed and, turning to the translator, said, “Tell this stupid guinea that either I spell her name the American way or she can just get on the next ship back”.

Of course Anna did not understand much of what the man said, but the two words “stupid guinea” stuck in her mind. The translator told Anna gently that “Anne” was the American form of “Anna” and that it would be best to not make a fuss.

The translator then made a gesture that any Italian knew meant: “This guy is crazy… take care.”  So Anna understood that this was not the time to make a fight.  She closed her mouth, took the papers from the Immigration Inspector, and walked out into the winter sunshine of Boston, Massachusetts. America!

The first thing that Anna heard was Carmella shouting her name.  Anna swirled around to see Raphael and Carmella running towards her down the dock with Giuseppe close behind helping the very pregnant Aurelia keep up. Her brother and sister swept Anna up in their embrace and for the first time in almost three weeks Anna exhaled. She was safe.

She looked at her sister, Carmella, thin and pale but obviously overjoyed at seeing her. Raphael looked wonderful. He was wearing a starched shirt and had a handsome hat on his head. The three women linked arms and marched down the dock as Ralph and Joe gathered up Anna’s bags and followed behind, smiling broadly.

The first stop would be at Thatcher Street where Ralph and Aurelia lived. There was so much to talk about. Anna had gifts for them all. Carolina and Mrs. Martignetti had packed up cheeses, hard biscuits, and sun-dried tomatoes for Aurelia and Carmella. The men groaned with delight as they ate some of the food that would always remind them of home. Carolina also sent a penknife for Raphael that had belonged to his father. The meal went on for hours.

Throughout the evening, friends came over to see Anna and wish her well. Anna was amazed at how many paesani lived in this neighborhood. It was like part of the village had sailed over with her.  She recognized friends of friends, cousins and neighbors from the village. Everyone wanted to hear the latest news from home.

“Isn’t it peculiar?” thought Ann. “Some of these Avellini had lived in America for 20 years. Yet, they still yearned for information about Montefalcione and Avellino. They always spoke about the places they had left behind as home.” Anna forced herself to not think about her village so as to ward off the homesickness she saw in some of their faces.

Anna stayed with her brother and Aurelia for two days and then took a short walk over to Boston’s West End neighborhood to Carmella and Joe’s apartment. This was to be her new home in Boston. She laughed at Joe and Ralph’s new American names and told them they sounded foolish. She also told her sister about what had happened at the Inspector’s table when the man misspelled her name on purpose. Joe told her she was lucky not to have been thrown in jail.

There were plenty of people in Boston who thought lowly of the immigrants and went out of their way to make trouble. When Anna told Joe about the “stupid guinea” comment, his face went red at the insult. “You are far from stupid Anna and from Guinea in Africa we did not come. It’s these white Bostonians who don’t know their geography!”

After awhile, Anna and Carmella fell into a routine of housekeeping, which delighted them both. They shopped for food in the North End, did laundry, cooked, ironed, sewed and cleaned. Carmella took Anna around to meet some of the older ladies who knew their mother Carolina way back when. As spring came, tomato, zucchini and bean seeds were planted. Joe hung a high arbor up in the backyard and gently tried to get his grape vines to produce fruit. And then, oh yes, something else happened – much to Anna’s delight.

In March, Aurelia and Ralph delivered their first child, a little girl they named Anna in honor of her Tia.  The child was born at home as was the custom. This child would be the first of five children for Ralph and Aurelia. How significant it was that these children born on American soil were now by birthright American citizens. Their parents were still not naturalized citizens, but the children would be fully privileged Americans. In April of 1921, Carmella announced her pregnancy and Joe, laughing out loud, attributed the good news to all the special cheese that Carolina had sent from Montefalcione.

It was always a happy occasion for the Italians when a young family started to grow and this was no exception. Carmella was teased by Anna about her prodigious consumption of cheese and announced that the new baby would probably be a goat. As Carmella grew rounder and rounder, Anna wrote letters home to Carolina describing the news in great detail. The Martignetti’s and Carolina shared the letters written on gossamer thin blue paper enclosed in envelopes with beautiful red, white and blue postage stamps. Carolina, in dictating her letters back to Anna, never once mentioned her return to Italy. Though she longed to see her children and to meet her granddaughter, this was a sacrifice she knew she had to endure. There was no opportunity for a peasant family to aspire to a better life in Italy.

Two days after Christmas in 1921, a beautiful baby girl was born to Carmella and Joe. The delivery went smoothly and Carmella was up and about in one day. Joe made some loud noises about needing some sons to help him and carry on the Paoletta name. But it was all so much hot air, since Joe adored his daughter who he named Esther after his mother back in Puleo.

So to say that 1921 was a productive year for Anna and her family is only half of the story.  Because Anna was an excellent seamstress and could read and write Italian along with picking up more and more English, she applied for and got a new job as a dressmaker in a small textile factory in the North End. These factories were not unlike those that lined the Merrimac River in Lowell 40 or 50 years earlier. Most of the workforce was comprised of young single women. The floor bosses were men and the sewing machines rarely stopped. What was different was that conditions had improved somewhat. The women had a few breaks during the day. There was a little extra pay for Saturday work and a nurse was on site in the event of injuries.  The floor bosses were almost exclusively Italian immigrants, so there was some degree of fellowship amongst the workers. The big bosses and the owners were often Jewish, who had immigrated from Poland or Russia, part of an earlier wave of newcomers in the 1890s.

Anna walked to work every morning and enjoyed her new friendships with the other women immigrants. She also made about $5.00 a week – which seemed to her a huge sum of money. Some she gave to Carmella to help with household expenses, some she sent back home to Carolina, and the rest she put in a small tin box under the mattress of her bed. Anna’s days were full. She worked hard at the factory, helped her sister at home with chores and childcare, and went to St Leonard’s church with her sister-in-law Aurelia and baby Anna. She went to picnics and weddings, christenings and funerals. It was reminiscent of her life back home in the village of Montefalcione, except that everything was soon about to change once again!

Anna, who was an independent spirit, knew that she was lucky to have her close family ties to both protect and guide her. What she had forgotten, however, was what schemers Aurelia and Carmella could be. The two young mothers loved to gossip and to try to outfox their husbands and friends. And so, by the end of 1921, the women had turned their attention to their little sister, Anna.

“This is ridiculous,” stated Aurelia. “Anna is 21 years old with no husband and no home and no children of her own!”

“It is a sin,” Carmella agreed. “She is a pretty enough girl, and certainly strong and smart and able to handle a home”  “She’s very loving to Esther and when I am ready for bed, she will take the baby happily.”

“She certainly is too high-minded herself to look beyond her nose at the men who are out the street corners dying for a woman,” said Aurelia.

“It’s true,” agreed Carmella. “She seems to have no interest in men.”

“Well,” said Aurelia in her most dangerous voice. “We’ll see about that.” With that, the women set off on a mission to find Anna a husband.

Anna was naturally quite aware of here sisters’ antics. She angrily denounced all the men that “just happened” to come by Ralph and Joe’s home.

“That one is a beggar from Sicily. I know that one, too. He never goes to church. And the last one, he’s a lazy bum and does nothing but complain about his boss,” was Anna’s ready reply. She glared at her sister and sister-in-law, demanding that they leave her in peace.

“Basta!” she said. “Enough of your foolishness! I’m fine with things just the way they are and, besides, I’ll be going back home to Montefalcione soon. This is your life in America, not mine!”

Anna’s firm announcement shocked both Carmella and Aurelia.  The very thought that Anna would actually be leaving was a total surprise to them. And it also led them to redouble their efforts to find Anna a husband who would make her stay.

But their match-making efforts continued to flounder. Aurelia and Carmella were discouraged. There were plenty of single, able- bodied Italian men looking for young women to marry, but none seemed to measure up. Anna was in a constant state of silent aggravation at this invasion of her privacy. But because Aurelia and Carmella were her family, “family” is always forgiven.

Joe and Ralph were quite sick of all this scheming and yelling. So much so that they often just left the drama behind and went outside to smoke their cigars. Until one day …

Joe’s grapevines had grown thick and heavy until a late snowfall toppled his arbor. On a Sunday morning in early March, he decided to repair the jumble of wood and vines in preparation for the spring season. He asked a paesan friend of his from the same village in Puleo to come over and help him with the labor. Michael Pelosi, 28, who had immigrated to Boston a few years back, joined Joe in the backyard. They spent an hour sawing and hammering, laboring and laughing as they spit the tobacco from the little cigars clenched in their teeth.

Carmella heard the racket outside and opened the kitchen window, calling down to Joe to have his friend, Michael, come up for a plate of food when the work was done.

When Carmella was out of earshot, Joe leaned over to Michael, “Let me warn you! I live in a henhouse upstairs. Between my wife, my sister-in-law and the baby, there’s not a moment of peace for a man.”

Michael smiled. He had come from a large farming family in Puleo and knew that henhouses could be hard on roosters. Nevertheless, he accepted the invitation – grateful for the company. He had lived alone in a single-room apartment for six years now. Although his younger brother, Achilles, was due to come over soon, Michael’s loneliness was deep. He missed the family life he once knew. He worked as a cobbler in a downtown Boston shoe store. He made a decent wage and he, too, like so many other Italian immigrants, sent money home to his mother and sisters in Puleo. The opportunity to have a family meal with a paesan was a real treat.

So, when the two men had finished erecting the restored grape arbor, they dusted off their jackets and climbed the three flights of stairs to the Paoletta apartment. Just as they entered, Carmella shushed them, as baby Esther was still asleep. Joe made introductions and instructed Michael to take a seat.  Joe poured some of his homemade wine into two glasses.

As he raised up his glass to make a toast: “Here’s to America, and to her streets paved with gold!”

Not skipping a beat, Michael raised his own glass and said, “Yes! Here’s to America who needed the Italians to pave her streets!”

Carmella and Joe laughed aloud. Anna moved from the stove to the table, looking down more fully at Michael. He smiled and lifted his glass to Anna. She turned her face away, but not without noticing carefully that this tall man with large, rough hands had a twinkle in his blue eyes.

So at the advanced age of 22, Anna Anzalone married 28-year- old Michael Pelosi from Puleo on September 10 1922. They exchanged marriage vows before Father Virgilio Luisi at St Leonard’s. Aurelia was Anna’s matron-of-honor since Carmella who would normally have had the prized honor was eight-months pregnant with her and Joe’s second child.

After a celebratory dinner, the young newlyweds escaped to the small third-floor apartment that they had rented earlier on Cottage Street in East Boston. Though separated by a mile – as the crow flies – from Boston proper across the harbor, East Boston was now firmly connected to the North End – thanks to the tunnel that the Italian immigrants had finished digging a few years before.

Anna and Michael’s one-bedroom apartment had a porch in the back where tomatoes and geraniums were planted in wooden crates. They shared a bathroom that was down the hall.  Anna stopped work at the textile factory and began to keep house for her new husband.  She would often take the ferry across Boston harbor to see her relatives, visit with old friends, shop and chat. Because she was more educated than most of the Italian immigrants in her circle, she was often called upon to help people read and write their letters to and from Italy. As time went on, Anna slowly released the idea of returning home to Montefalcione; she let it go, as Michael was determined to live his life as an American.  She missed her mother, Carolina, but she was also coming to terms with the reality that her life, her home, her future – too – was in America.

To be Continued

The three Anzalone siblings shared a productive 1920s.  During that decade, many many babies were born: Ralph and Aurelia had baby they named Anna, followed in quick procession by Angelo, Philomena, Federico and Anthony. Carmella and Joe had Esther, first, and then followed up with four little boys – Rocco, Carmine, Angelo and Anthony.

Late in 1923, Anna and Michael’s first son Augustino named was born. He was named after Michael’s father. Ten years later, their third child and second son, Anthony, was born, named after the patron saint of Montefalchione. Both boys had light brown hair, blue eyes and did well in school. In between the two boys, a special baby was born in April of 1925 – a blonde, green-eyed little girl, who was christened Francesca after Michael’s mother. She was called Frances by her family.

By 1934, Carolina, now at the age of 63 back in her village of Montefalcione, had 13 grandchildren living in America – children that she had never met and sadly never would.  Several months later in early 1935, a telegram arrived at Ralph and Aurelia’s apartment in the North End from one of the Martighetti’s who lived next door to Carolina. In less than 25 words, the telegram recounted the sad news of Carolina’s death and her eventual burial in St Anthony’s graveyard next to her husband, Angelo. It was a shock to all the Anzalone siblings and especially for Anna who felt the guilt of leaving her mother alone very deeply. It was at that moment that Anna resolved to cherish and raise her own family in a way that would honor her mother and her long life. Anna did just that.

Frances Pelosi, Anna and Michael’s only daughter, did exceptionally well in school. She attended Girls Latin High School and graduated with honors in 1943. Her childhood typified that of many first generation Italian children living in Boston at that time. She spoke only Italian at home and did not learn English until she started first grade. Michael’s English was much better than Anna’s since he worked in a shop and needed to converse with customers.  Since Anna lived her entire life in Italian neighborhoods, the demand to speak English was not great. All of her friends were Italian, the shops they frequented were owned by Italians, all of the priests and churches where they worshipped were Italian. Marriages, christenings, funerals were all spoken in Italian. There was even an Italian newspaper published in Boston called Le Gazzetta del Massachusetts, which reported on all things important to the huge Italian immigrant population in Boston.

Things were challenging for Frances and her peers in school. None of the mostly young Irish teachers understood Italian and it was forbidden to speak it in school. Immigrant children had to learn English and learn it fast. Unlike some immigrant populations, education – even free public education – was not valued by some. Italian families valued family and work, so many boys left school early to become apprentices to plumbers, carpenters, stonemasons and shopkeepers. When a boy went to work, his paycheck went directly to his parents to help support the family. Girls sometimes left school to help with younger children and to assist in the running of the household. Sometimes they married in their teens or went to work in the textile factories or worked in the family business.

Despite the terrible Depression that hit America hard at the end of the 1920’s, Michael Pelosi had kept his job. He was a very good shoemaker and people always needed shoes.  He worked six days a week 10 hours a day. And he felt very lucky to have this job and to be able to put food on the table.

His and Anna’s family was small by the standard of the day. Some families had 8 or 10 or 12 children, as the Catholic Church did not allow birth control. So, imagine the suffering when a father lost his job and no money was coming in. Italians suffered many hardships during the Depression, but because of deep community ties, their attitudes about working hard, about families helping each other, and the church organizing charities – most Italians endured. Luckily for Anna and Michael, they were able to survive the Depression and keep all of their children in school.

Frances grew up to be a very smart and pretty girl.  There were lots of boys who admired her, but of course her father was strict about everything.  She would come home directly from school every day to help her mother.  Occasionally, she could sit outside with her girl friends Rose and Eleanor.  She went to church and visited her Aunt Carmella or Uncle Ralph and her many cousins. Her brothers, on the otherhand, were allowed a lot more freedom. Both of them had secondhand bicycles and newspaper routes to earn money. They ran around the neighborhood with gangs of friends, playing stickball in the street or chasing each other until dark. When her brothers would rumble noisily up the three flights of stairs, hungry and sweaty, Frances would be by the stove or setting the dinner table. Their father Michael would arrive from work around six or seven and wash up in the kitchen sink.  The family ate dinner together every night, every week, all year long.

Augustino graduated from high school in 1941 and received a scholarship to Northeastern University. Michael and Anna were determined that their son who was a good math student would continue his education. The idea that Augustino actually might be able to attend college was overwhelming to his parents. Northeastern University had a unique program that allowed their students to attend classes part of the year and then work in paid internships for the other part of the year. The internships gave the students on-the-job training, plus a chance to earn money for school expenses. When Augustino, called Augie by his family, started college the feeling of pride could not last long because the world did not cooperate.

World War II was in its early stages and it promised to be a long and harrowing affair.  The Nazi regime was brutal and after the sneak attack by Japan on Pearl Harbor, the United States joined the fight against Germany, Italy and Japan. Imagine how the Italians must have felt to see their native country at war with their newly-adopted homeland. These immigrants had left farm, family, friends behind. What would happen to Italy and her stubborn dictator Mussolini?  Some proper Bostonians continued to distrust the Italians because they believed that the Italians would be secretly loyal to the dictator Mussolini and his ally Hitler. However, nothing could be further from the truth. The Italian immigrants were fiercely patriotic about America and worried only about their families back home. Many, many Italians as new citizens served in the Army and Navy during World War II.

Augie, who was in the middle of his first year of engineering studies at Northeastern, decided to sign up with the U.S. Navy at the age of 19.  His parents were terrified, but every single young man in the neighborhood had joined the service and was prepared to fight for freedom. It was a proud moment in Italian-American history. Augie left Boston for California for his basic training before being assigned to naval duties.

After Augie shipped out, the Pelosi house became very quiet. Anna hung an American flag in the window, which was the way families let others know that a sailor or soldier from the family was at war. If a gold star replaced the flag, then the worst imaginable thing had happened to that soldier or sailor. Nobody ever wanted to be a gold star family.

Frances continued to excel in school and she graduated with honors in 1943. Since it was a girls’ school and almost every young man was in the service, the girls voted to have an “All Girl Prom”. The girls dressed up in their prom gowns, bought their own flowers, and danced with each other. Extraordinary things happened during wartime.

After graduation, Frances at age 18 immediately went to work as an office secretary. She typed, filed papers and filled orders. She worked all day long, five days a week. On Fridays, she received her pay envelope and, like her Uncle Ralph before her, she turned over her paycheck to her father. Michael in turn would take her envelope and put all the dollar bills in his pocket and give Frances whatever coins were left over. That was the only money she would have. Michael used the money to help with family expenses, but he also started saving some of the money to help pay for Augie’s college tuition when he returned home after the war. It was understood that further education for Frances was out of the question, but that investing in Augie’s education was most important.  Frances worked very hard during the war and though she resented her father taking her paycheck, she never complained.  It was not appropriate.

In 1943, Augie wrote to his parents telling them the details of his next duty. He and his training group were being shipped to the port of Boston to be part of the crew of a huge destroyer. Augie wrote on and on about how excited he was to finally be ready to fight in the war and “kick some Nazi butt”. He told his parents that he would be home soon for R&R and that they would ship out. Anna and Michael were proud of their son, but they also realized that he could soon be in harm’s way.

It was during this time that Anna made her decision. She had never done the paperwork to be become a United States naturalized citizen. Michael had gone through the process in 1933 because he worked in the outside world and he wanted to be absolutely certain that there would be no reason to send him back to Italy. He had no romantic notions about ever returning to Italy. He wanted to stay in America for the rest of his life. Anna, on the other hand, had never left the Italian neighborhoods, she had no job on the outside, and was a homebody like most Italian women. But now, with her oldest son fighting for America in the War, she felt disloyal to Augie. If he was willing to fight for his country then America was going to be her country too. So, in 1943, after living in the U.S for 22 years, Anna Anzalone Pelosi applied for and was granted American citizenship.

Despite Augie’s youthful wish to be involved in the real action of war, fate played a trick on him – a trick that was the answer to his parents prayers and one that annoyed him to no end. And yes, Augie was assigned to a big destroyer, a ship fully outfitted with the guns and torpedoes to attack and sink enemy warships and submarines, but Augie’s destroyer never left the New England waters of the Atlantic Ocean. For the next three years, Augie’s destroyer sailed from Nantucket, around Martha’s Vineyard, by Cape Cod, and up the coastline of Maine and back. The destroyer’s mission was to keep an eye out for German submarines coming close to the US shoreline. The ship docked in Nantucket, which was not much more than a rocky farm island in 1942, and then made its little trips up the coast and back down, up the coast and back down, and up the coast and back down.

In three years, Augie’s destroyer never saw one enemy ship or fired off one round of ammunition. Augie was disappointed and felt cheated that he would never see real action. The worst enemy of the men onboard the destroyer was boredom.  Imagine getting sick and tired of cruising up and down the seacoast of Massachusetts, New Hampshire and Maine … beautiful scenery, but no action.

Because Augie’s military service was so uneventful, the men on the destroyer did everything they could to stay focused and not succumb to cabin fever. When off-duty, strong friendships developed, the men played cards and checkers, some wrote home to their sweethearts everyday, some exercised and, of course, the radio gave them news of the war and its ugly rampage throughout Europe. Once every six months or so, their destroyer would dock in Boston and some of the sailors could disembark for R&R.

Augie was lucky since, unlike many of his shipmates whose homes were in Alabama, South Dakota and Ohio, his home was five miles from the dock. On those rare occasions when Augie came home, the Pelosi’s celebrated with family parties and wonderful food. Augie was proud to be in uniform. Many of the younger boys – especially his own little brother Anthony – followed him around the neighborhood like he was a God. Of course Augie would accompany his mother to church where the priest would bless him. This blessing always made Anna feel better since the neighborhood had already endured many gold stars as the terrible war dragged on. It would be another year before Anna would learn that her brother Ralph’s son, her own nephew Angelo would be killed in battle. It seemed that no family escaped the pain of war.

Once back on the destroyer and heading back out to the Vineyard, Augie recounted his visit home to his best friend Joe Vennochi. Joe was a New Yorker and also Italian but, unlike Augie Pelosi whose parents came from directly from the old country, Joe’s parents were born in the Bronx. His grandparents had come over from Italy around the time of the American Civil War. Since Joe had grown up not really knowing his grandparents, he seemed much more American than Italian. And like Augie, he was disappointed not to be fighting in the real war. Joe thought this cruising around Martha’s Vineyard, looking for German subs was a waste of time. The fact was that he was a bit of a party boy and was always dragging Augie off to look for pretty girls when they had a day leave off the ship in Maine or Cape Cod.

Joe Vennochi had a loud voice and loved to crack jokes.  Augie was the quieter one and did not want a lot of attention from girls because he was engaged to be married to his sweetheart Delores Intoppa, who was waiting patiently for the war to end.  Joe always had a different girlfriend and sometimes he juggled two or three at the same time. Even though the two young men had different personalities, their friendship would last well after the war ended. In fact, it lasted over 40 years.

To be Continued .

In 1944, on a quiet Saturday morning, a tragedy that Anna was never to recover from, happened.

Michael Pelosi was already up and gone to work at the cobbler shop. Frances had the day off and 11 year old Anthony did what he always did on a day with no school: he wolfed down his breakfast and raced outside to the street to meet up with his gang of friends. Anna often went to church in the mornings at Our Lady of Mount Carmel Church, which was right on their block.

The neighborhood of East Boston was growing. Apartment buildings, stores, warehouses were going up. It was still wartime but the evil Nazi/Fascist/Japanese regime was taking a beating so there was hope in the air. Wartime despite the huge loss of human life was also a time when the economy was flying high. Factories, businesses, homebuilding, all the industries were humming.

It was that morning that Anthony went to explore a deserted building site a few streets away. The old building, a small hotel, was being torn down. The walls of the hotel were half up and half down; the heavy construction equipment was parked and locked, as the workers would be back on Monday.

The boys looked left and right to make sure there were no cops around and once sure of themselves they whooped like banshees running about the demolition site. They climbed up wobbly brick walls, grabbed hanging wires and made Tarzan yodels; they threw rocks at half broken windows.

The boys were having so much fun that they did not notice Anthony climbing stair by stair to what would have been the third floor of the hotel. Once there he gave a loud shout to show off to his friends when the half gutted wooden floorboards gave way and Anthony fell three stories to ground.

The fall itself was enough to injure the boy, but brick and stone fell heavily after him and crushed him as he lay silent on the ground. The boys were horrified and started to scream for help, some of the old ladies who came to their windows at the noise saw the child pinned under the brick and started to shout to any the men folk who were around.

Adults ran to the building site and the police and ambulance were alerted. By the time they got Anthony to the hospital he was dead. He was 11 years old.

The police got to Michael Pelosi first and despite his own anguish, he knew he had to get to his wife. When he arrived at the apartment all he could hear was Anna’s angry hoarse shouts and pots and pans hitting the floor. As it turned out some of the neighborhood women told Anna of the accident and she became so incensed by her fear that she started to fight and throw things at her neighbors.

When Michael fought his way to the front of the room and he grabbed his hysterical wife by the arms, Anna dropped to her knees. She knew that Michael would have never left work if what the women said weren’t true.

Frances was terrified at her mother’s reaction and did not intrude on her parents who were now in their bedroom crying and trying to make sense of what had just happened. Frances asked the two policemen to sit in the kitchen and wait and then excused herself to run over to the church.

The entire neighborhood was in an uproar. Mothers were screaming for their children to get into the house, They grabbed their sons’ ears and pushed them up the stairs. The old ladies who sat out on the stoops cried out and prayed loudly for Anthony’s soul. The priest had been alerted to the tragedy and he met Frances half way and both quickly returned to the Pelosi apartment.

Michael had left the bedroom and was now speaking with the police. As he was in shock, he was having a hard time following the information. Luckily Frances was able to write it down. The priest went into the dark bedroom where Anna lay, her eyes unseeing, her mouth slack and the reality of her lost boy beginning to set in.

It was the worst thing that had ever happened to Anna; worse than losing her father, worse than leaving Italy, worse than her mother dying alone, worse than anything that had happened during the war. Losing Anthony, her baby, would be a pain Anna would carry for the rest of her life. How could God to this to them?

Official military protocol, when there was a death in the immediate family, the sailor or a soldier was given grief leave to return home if it was at all possible. Since Augie was stationed locally it took less than 24 hours for the news to reach his ship.

The Captain called Augie to his office and gave him the horrible details. Augie gulped hard and stood at attention and waited for his orders. The Captain told him that he would be transported to shore and taken by military vehicle to East Boston.

Later in the morning, Joe found Augie choking back tears and packing his bag. Augie told him about the accident and for the first time Joe was quiet. He understood that no joke would help Augie. Joe had a little brother himself and he knew that Augie was in for a very hard trip home. Between 1941 and 1945, many Boston Italian families lost sons and daughters in the war, but how cruelly ironic that Augie returned safe and sound and the Pelosi family buried a son who died just a few blocks from the apartment.

From 1944 until 1945, the Pelosi family did their best to adjust to life without Anthony. The apartment was so quiet without him. Michael rarely ever spoke of the tragedy for fear of causing his wife pain. Frances found herself signing up for extra hours and Saturday shifts at work because being home was just too hard. Augie was on his ship and got shore leave more regularly and came home. After one such visit, the family sat around the table and no one spoke.

Augie could not detect an ounce of happiness in the family so he asked his father if the next time he had shore leave could he bring his buddy Joe Vennochi with him. Augie fibbed a little and told his father that Joe was homesick and was a good church going Italian guy.

Well from that point on, Joe accompanied Augie to Cottage Street on each shore leave. The two sailors would arrive and Anna would immediately perk up as Joe raved about her cooking and ate like a horse. Anna also liked peeking in the bedroom and seeing a sleeping body in Anthony’s bed.

Once again a little laughter would come from the Pelosi apartment. Joe would tell jokes and offer to help Anna in the kitchen. Michael liked having the young men around and would offer them the occasional glass of wine or cigar.

Of course, there was another person who started to look forward to Joe’s visits. Frances, now 20 years old, was a beauty in full bloom. Many men had made feeble attempts to date her but she, like her mother Anna before her, was not especially interested in settling for just anyone.

Joe however, was athletic and handsome. He was as dark as Frances was light. His hair was thick and wavy and he had dark brown eyes. It seemed that Joe had begun to notice Frances too. Usually so quick witted, Joe would stumble over his words if Frances asked him a question. Once he sidled up to the sink where Frances had her back turned so he could smell the scent of her shampoo.

When Augie wrote home, Joe always asked to be remembered to Frances. By Thanksgiving, Augie, Joe and Frances and Augie’s fiancée Delores would go to the movies together or go window-shopping down town. By Christmas, Joe and Franny had received Michael’s OK to go on dates by themselves though Augie gave Joe a stern talking to about respecting his sister. Well there was no worry about that. Joe was totally and completely head over heels in love.

He bought a small diamond ring and proposed to Frances that spring. In September of 1946, the war over and along with many young couples marrying and starting their new lives, Joe Vennochi and Frances Pelosi married at Our Lady of Mount Carmel Church in East Boston. The beautiful old hymn Ave Maria played on the organ as paesani and relatives from the North End entered the church.

Frances wore a beautiful white gown and Joe was in his formal Navy uniform. Aunt Carmella, Uncle Joe, Uncle Ralph and Aunt Aurelia were there with all the cousins plus Joe’s family from New York. Cousin Esther caught the bouquet as the young bride and groom sped away in a borrowed car for a 3-day honeymoon at Niagara Falls in New York.

On their first evening as man and wife, the young couple exchanged gifts with each other. With money that she had saved, Frances gave her new husband a beautiful religious necklace. The circular medal, which looked like a small gold coin, was imprinted with the image of St Christopher who was the patron saint of travelers. Frances tenderly fastened the chain around Joe’s neck and like the gold band on his left hand… he never removed either one in the 45 years they would be happily married.

The young couple returned to a small 1 bedroom apartment in Boston’s South End neighborhood. This neighborhood was mixed with Irish, Polish and Jewish families. In fact their street, Warren Avenue, was very near to China Town where Asian families had begun to settle.

Frances felt quite adult to be living so far from home and in such a different neighborhood than the North End or East Boston. In 1946, Frances went back to work. Joe started college at Boston University taking advantage of the GI Bill that provided college tuition to war veterans. Joe also took part time jobs coaching and refereeing at the YMCA as he was studying to be a PE teacher and coach.

Joe and Franny loved married life. Having Joe in the family filled a void left by Anthony’s death and throughout the marriage, Joe became like a son to Michael and Anna.

Augie and Delores got married and Augie returned to his engineering studies at Northeastern. Anna and Michael moved to Lubec Street in East Boston to a nicer apartment, as it was now just the two of them. Every Sunday after church however, the family always reunited either at Ralph and Aurelia’s place or Carmella and Joe’s.

The cousins were all older now but the racket was hard to ignore. The women stayed in the kitchen, the older men sat among the tomato plants loosening their ties and chewing on little cigars and the younger folks watched the tiny black and white TV. This was a very happy time.

The War was over, America had won and the economy was booming. A college education and a professional career was now possible for these first generation Italian-American veterans who were proud of being citizens in the greatest country in the world.

Anna was now approaching 50. Her long hair was gray and Michael was bald. She started to make comments about herself being an old lady. What she was really doing was making it known that she was ready for some grandchildren as Carmella’s oldest son Rocco and his wife Mary had already had a baby girl in the spring.

Anna was eager to meet the next generation of the Anzalone/Pelosi family and unlike her mother Carolina, she would have the pride and pleasure of knowing and helping raise her grandchildren… if they would ever come!!!

Well by 1950, Anna Anzalone-Pelosi received the answer to her prayers and not just once but twice! Frances and Joe and Augie and Delores were both pregnant. The babies were due in the summer. Augie and Delores’ in July right around Anna’s 50th birthday and Frances and Joe’s late in August.

Babies being born were the true sign that the family was healthy and happy. Even though most of the immigrants of Anna’s generation left behind their parents, uncles and grandparents in Italy, the fact that their own families were growing and flourishing was a blessing they felt deeply. They had worked hard to realize the American Dream.

By 1950, both Augie and Joe had graduated from college and began professional careers as an engineer and a teacher. Joe taught PE and health at East Boston Jr High School and coached football, basketball and baseball. He would be promoted to the High School where he also would eventually coach track and be a guidance counselor. Frances quit her job as a secretary and prepared for the birth of their baby. It would be a tight squeeze as Joe and Frances still could only afford the one bedroom apartment on Warren Avenue in the south end of Boston. But really… how much space would one baby need?

In July of 1950, Delores gave birth to a beautiful baby boy with his mother’s dark eyes and curly dark hair. Augie named the baby Michael after his own father and of course his grandfather Michelangelo Anzalone the music man from Montefalchione. Everyone was thrilled about the baby; he was beautiful, serene and chubby.

Six weeks later, Frances’ baby was born… one day before her and Joe’s 4th wedding anniversary. This baby was chubby but unlike her handsome first cousin, she was bald, and fussy. Joe was secretly a bit disappointed about not having a son as those old fashioned ideas about sons over daughters still persisted… but when he saw his daughter’s scrunched up little monkey face and heard her scream… he could only laugh out loud and fall in love. Joe named the baby Louisa after his own mother.

Anna was now in her glory. Two babies to spoil and spoil them she did. She babysat, she cooked for them, bathed them and she did anything she was asked. She wanted to help her own children raise these babies. Since Anthony’s death, the emptiness of that loss was suddenly less painful. These babies meant the world to the family and were Anna’s lasting treasures.

To everyone’s delight, more babies arrived and from 1950-1959, a total of 7 children were born to Augie and Delores who had three sons, Michael, Paul and William and then Frances and Joe had four, first Louisa followed by Thomas (who was named after Joe’s father) and then John and finally the last baby and only the second girl was born in March of 1959. This baby was as lovely as her sister had been homely. She was born with light brown hair and blue eyes. She was dainty, petite and oh so girlie. She was like a little doll.

After so many boys, this baby was the apple of everyone’s eye. Frances who had decided if the baby had been a boy, she would name it after her husband Joe and if it were a girl she would name it Anna after her mother. When the baby came, Frances had a brainstorm… she would name the baby after both her husband and her mother with a perfect American sounding name: so little Joanne Vennochi entered the world.

As the new decade of the 1960s began, Michael and Anna moved to another apartment in East Boston and their days were peaceful and happy. Their two children Augie and Frances now moved out of the city with their spouses and children to the suburbs to nice houses with back yards and trees all around.

The men went to work everyday and the women stayed home to raise the children. All 7 of these grandkids went to public schools, played sports, made friends and got good grades. Every Sunday, after church, both families would travel into East Boston and have a huge family meal with Anna and Michael. The women would be in the kitchen, the men outside sipping some wine or smoking a cigarette. The 7 cousins rolled around the floor, made a huge commotion and when finally at the table, joined in on all the noisy chatter and good-natured teasing.

Anna would sit by the stove in a rocking chair and when one of the grandchildren raced by she would grab him or her by the waist and pull them onto her lap. The girls would cuddle and even the boys would bury their noses in Anna’s soft skin and allow themselves to be kissed. Joanne being the baby and a quiet child, usually spent a lot of time in Anna lap. She would sit and Anna would rock her and call Joanne, Chickenella… or little chick. These Sunday afternoons were the best part of the week for everyone.

By the end of the 1960’s and into the 1970’s life changed in dramatic ways for the Pelosi/Vennochi families. All 7 of the grandkids went to college… even the girls.

Joanne was a varsity captain in several sports in High School and had received excellent grades. She was accepted to attend the University of Massachusetts where she studied business and played tennis. She had grown into a beautiful young woman who was beginning to explore the possibilities of an independent life.

As a teen, she went to summer camps, had braces on her teeth, went to proms, learned how to drive a car and even was allowed to date boys by age 16. Compare her life to Anna’s back in Montefalchione! Joanne did things that seemed normal and expected to her but Anna could not even fathom that a teenage girl would be allowed to play a sport, drive a car, have a boyfriend, have sleepovers with friends and sleep late on Saturdays. It was a new and sometimes confusing world for the elders of these immigrant families.

In 1969, only one year after he retired from the cobbler shop, Michael Pelosi was diagnosed with cancer. He died after a few months of treatment and it was a devastating loss for the family. Of course, the family was devout in its belief of heaven, so some were comforted by the thought that Michael was now reunited with young Anthony. The loss of their grandfather and father was hard on everyone but Anna insisted that life would and should go on. At age 69 Anna would live almost 30 more years as a widow.

Joanne, like her siblings and cousins before her, graduated from college. She immediately went to work as an accountant in a big firm in Boston. She was very skilled and decided to go to graduate school where she earned an MBA. This level of education allowed her to receive promotions and earn a large salary.

When Anna heard how much money Joanne earned, she was flabbergasted! She earned more money than her father Joe earned as a schoolteacher. What a crazy world we live in where a girl can earn more than a man.

Eventually Joanne became a manager of her department and oversaw the work of many accountant. She had many girlfriends, loved to travel, and especially enjoyed the new babies that were starting to be born. Her sister Louisa, and brothers Tom and John had all married and started their own families. Anna was now a GREAT Grandmother and both she and Joanne fussed over these new babies.

Joanne was dedicated to her family. She adored her grandmother Anna and was also very close to her mother Frances. In fact of all the members of her family, she has maintained that strict Italian code of family first. However, both Anna and Frances fretted about Joanne. On the outside, everything seemed fine: she had a great job, lots of friends, plenty of dates and 4 nieces and nephews to spoil… BUT she had NO Husband. For traditional and conservative Italians… this was a no no.

At 31, Joanne seemed much too committed to her single life. Anna worried that Joanne would some day be alone… though that worry soon went on the back burner when sadness touched the family once again.

In 1991, Joanne’s father Joe Vennochi did not recover from his third heart attack. He was home on a Monday holiday from school and that morning he fell over in the den. The EMTs and paramedics arrived in the ambulance and did everything they could but at age 66, Joe was gone.

Frances was grief stricken and in shock. Anna grieved as she thought of Joe as her own son. Though everyone was heartbroken, Joe’s death was especially hard on Joanne. She had always been daddy’s girl and was close to both of her parents. Losing her Dad was bad enough but now watching her mother suffer was unbearable.

Joanne thought of her nieces and nephews who were so young and would not have a memory of Joe. She remembered how she loved own grandfather Michael and how these kids would not have the benefit of that kind of relationship. But just like Carolina when Angelo died and Anna when Michael died, Frances picked up the pieces and at age 65 after almost 45 years of marriage, she buried her husband and devoted her life to her children and grandchildren.

A year after Joe died, Joanne celebrated her 32nd birthday. The family gathered at Frances’ house and much like years before, the kids and grandkids came over for cake. Joanne let the little ones blow out her candles and being the doting Auntie she is, she bought presents for all the kids.

It was a familiar scene… except for one thing. There was a “stranger” in the house. Well, Anna thought of him as a stranger because he was not really family or a paesani. He was Joanne’s current boyfriend.

Though the family had met and liked Tom St Pierre… no one thought much of it until Joanne did something no one saw coming. She stood up and held up her left hand. There on her ring finger was a diamond ring. Tom had proposed and Joanne had accepted. Since her father’s death, Joanne and Tom had become close and both became committed to a life together. So at age 32 and 36, Joanne and Tom got married… and there were no two happier people in the church than Anna and her daughter Frances.

Joanne was a beautiful bride. As she walked slowly down the aisle escorted by her brother, Frances felt a rush of love and wished that Joe was sitting beside her.

For Anna, it was only when the organist began to play the Ave Maria, the hymn her own father Angelo loved to play for the nuns at St Anthony’s church in Montefalcione, that a single tear dropped from her eye.

THE END.

Northendbosotn.com NOTE:  This last chapter brings the story to a close. We hope you have enjoyed this personal immigration journey as told to us by Jan Maguire in her “Letter from Anna.”   Many have read and commented on the story.  We have chosen three of these to share with you.

From Yolanda:  I have lived in the North End my entire life and this describes my grandparents’ journey to America from Avellino. It broke my heart that Anna would never see her mother again. I am so forward looking to the next installment!

From Andrew:  Excellent work Jan. Wonderful beginning to a still unfolding story.

From Judith:  I can’t wait to read the rest! Love to Fire and Connor.

Meatballs: 2lb. ground beef 4 eggs 1-1/2 cup plain bread crumbs 3/4 cup grated Pecorino Romano cheese Gravy (sauce): 1/2 cup olive oil 1 garlic clove chopped 1 medium onion, chopped 1 (6 oz.) can tomato paste (Flotta or Pastene) 1 (6 oz.) can water (use empty tomato paste can)

2 garlic cloves, chopped 1/2 tsp. salt 1 tsp. ground balck pepper 1 Tbsp. fresh parsley chopped 2 (28 o90z.) cans Pastene Kitchen Ready tomatoes 3/4 can water (21 oz. use empty Kitchen Ready can) 1/4 tsp. salt 1/4 tsp. ground black pepper 1 tsp. fresh parsley, chopped

In a bowl, mix all ingredients for meatballs with hands for about 5 minutes, until well mixed. Form about 16 meatballs and place on a platter. In a frying pan, add olive oil and when hot, add meatballs and cook on medium heat until browned. Repeat until all meatballs are browned. Place meatballs on a new platter. Do not discard the oil.

Saut? chopped onion and chopped garlic in the oil for approximately 2 minutes. Add tomato paste and cook on medium heat for 3 minutes, stirring all the while. Add can of water (tomato paste can) and cook and stir for 1 minute. Take off heat and set aside.

In an 8-quart pan, add tomatoes and cook on medium heat for 5 minutes. Add 3/4 can water (Kitchen Ready can), tomato paste mixture from fry pan, and browned meatballs. Mix thoroughly, stirring carefully with wooden spoon as not to break meatballs. Add salt, ground pepper, and parsely and cook on medium heat for the first 15 minutes, then cover and cook on low heat for 2-1/2 hours, stirring every 15 minutes to prevent sticking and burning on bottom of pan, until done.

Serve over al dente pasta and sprinkle with some grated Pecorino Romano cheese, along with crusty Italian bread and a good bottle of red wine.

TV Celebrity Chef Emeril LaGasse
features former North End resident Frankie Imbergamo
on his Food Network TV show

It may not rank up there with winning a $1 million scratch ticket, but getting the nod from TV celebrity chef Emeril for the best gravy and meatball recipe felt pretty fine to native North Ender Frankie Imbergamo last summerl. That recipe was one of four chosen from more than 1500 submissions to the Food Network’s Italian recipe contest. It earned him an appearance on the “Emeril Live” TV show where he shared an animated stove-side chat with the renowned TV food host and chef Emeril LaGasse. The TV program segment featuring Imbergamo first aired on Sunday evening, August 7th, at 8 p.m. on the Food Network. It will air again next Wednesday evening, February 15th, at 8:00 pm and at midnight on the same cable TV station.

Growing up on Hanover Street in Boston’s “Little Italy” where he attended both the Eliot and Michelangelo schools, Frankie still identifies closely with the neighborhood. It’s his point of reference. “It’s where it all began for me,” he says. “I have so many special memories of people – family and friends – and of times – both good and bad. A common thread, it seems, through all these memories has been love, comfort, and a feeling of belonging – a feeling of home.”

And although Frankie and his wife, Maureen, now live in Medford where they’ve resided for 10 years, he still finds himself back most weekends in “this wonderful Italian neighborhood” as he calls Boston’s North End, visiting many new and old friends and haunts. A TV producer and camera crew from the Emeril show followed Imbergamo several weeks ago as he walked down Salem Street, visiting stores, chatting with friends, buying ingredients for his award-winning recipe. They filmed him later at home in his kitchen cooking up his soon-to-be famous “Frankie’s Gravy and Meatballs.”

“A hug, a kiss, a word of kindness or encouragement along the way, and more often than not, a love-infused meal made from scratch and from the heart made all the difference in the world,” says Frankie with a deep sense of nostalgia. “Whether I partook of these meals in family-run neighborhood restaurants like the Blue Front, Giro’s, or Felicia’s, or at Grandma’s house, or especially in my very own home, I always experienced the best ingredients in these ‘home-cooked’ dishes.”

Partly as a result of his newly-found mini-celebrity status, family members and friends have been urging Frankie to assemble some of his favorite home-style recipes into a cookbook. “Through the years, I’ve enjoyed creating my own meals, in my own style, and always with the finest ingredients,” he explained.

So, with an encouraging yet firm push from Maureen, along with her accomplished editorial and creative design skills, the husband-and-wife team have produced “The Good Life! Favorite Italian Recipes by Frank J. Imbergamo”. The volume contains 40 recipes, including “Pork Chops with Vinegar Peppers and Potatoes,” “Haddock Pizzaiola” and “Baked Lobster Pie.” It could easily be subtitled: “Frankie’s Food Lover’s Guide to Italian Comfort Food”. It’s recipes are that straight-forward and down-to-earth. It also includes a useful reference list pairing recipes with suggested wines.

It is hard to know where Frankie Imbergamo’s next steps will take him. There’s talk of a cross-marketing initiative with the venerable Pastene Company, America’s oldest importer of Italian packaged goods, which began as a pushcart operation in the North End in 1848. There may also be some future TV appearances in store. And, another Italian family cookbook may be in the offing. Yet wherever these and other paths take him, they will ultimately all lead back to the dinner table, the “Table of life” as Frankie is fond of saying . “I take great pleasure in setting a delicious meal before family ands friends. Their enjoyment is my enjoyment.” And so it is ours!

Frankie Imbergamo’s cookbook is available at Best Sellers Cafe, 24 High Street, Medford and in the North End at the Friendly Framers at 347 Hanover Street.

“So how many tunnels are there beneath the North End,” she asked. “Well, about ten,” I responded. “Really? TEN tunnels!” the tourist in the red raincoat exclaimed. “Naw, just kiddin’,” I said, “Only four.”

Fascination with the North End’s secret tunnels goes back several centuries: from the days when Captain Gruchy smuggled ashore the four divine and beautifully carved wood statues that now adorne the organ of Old North Church. To this day, many property owners still claim to have “secret” tunnels in their basements that were allegedly once used for various illicit ends – by merchants avoiding the prying eyes of the King’s customs agents, to rum runners of the mid-1800s and bootleggers during Prohibition.

But how much of this is true? Or is this just the allure of popular folklore? I set out to track down some answers by consulting, first, the éminence grise of upper Salem Street – the Reverend Stephen Ayres, Vicar of Old North Church. Rev. Ayres welcomes 7000 worshipers a year to his hallowed Episcopal church on Salem Street, also known as Christ Church in the City of Boston. Another 600,000 visitors come there to learn about early American history. This is where I had first heard the tale of privateer Gruchy, his stolen contraband, and his secret tunnel.

“Vicar Ayres,” I began, meeting up with him in front of his church, “can you tell me something about the North End’s secret tunnels?”

“You’ll have to talk to Sonny,” he said.

“Who?” I asked.

“Just talk with Sonny,” he repeated with an ever-so-slight smile pursing his lips. Rev. Ayres can be a touch taciturn at times, I thought.

Now I had a double mystery to solve: who was this “Sonny” and where were the alleged tunnels? After a few more inquiries, I found myself standing on the stoop of a rather distinguished residence further up Salem Street. A slight and immaculately dressed gentleman with silver hair and mischievous eyes answered the door. Not the type I had half-expected to meet with a name like Sonny. I’d anticipated someone with the looks of world welterweight champ Tony DeMarco.

After mentioning the query of the lady in the red raincoat and explaining my mission, Sonny opened his front door wide.  “So, you want to see Captain Gruchy’s tunnel?” he asked.

My heart leapt as he beckoned me in and we descended the wooden stairs to his basement. I felt a sense of traveling though time, as we passed a “Bellotti for Governor” poster tacked to the staircase wall and stacks of old Life magazines neatly bundled at the bottom. I felt as if I was back in my own grandfather’s cellar.

“Well, here you are,” said Sonny. “This is the entrance to Captain Gruchy’s secret tunnel.”

He was standing at the far end of the basement. There, in front of him, was an enormous, curved brick expanse about four feet wide by five feet tall bulging outward into the basement. It looked as if some force on the other side was trying to get out.

“That’s it? That’s all?” I asked with incredulity. “That’s the entrance to Gruchy’s tunnel? Can we go in?”

“Oh no, not today. Not ever,” Sonny laughed. “My grandfather bricked it up many years ago. He was afraid that one of us kids might get hurt.”

A sudden sense of disappointment flowed over me. “But did he, did anyone ever go into this tunnel?” I asked.

“Well, yes. That’s what I’ve been told,” Sonny said. “Before he had it bricked up, they did go in. They even found an old rusted sword inside. Somebody wanted to buy it, so it was sold. Probably for a pittance at the time. A shame. But this tunnel was part of a network of tunnels. One ran over to the crypt at Old North and one went off under the Copps Hill Burying Grounds. The main tunnel continued up Salem Street under Charter and then down to Gruchy’s wharf along the harbor.”

Sonny explained that Gruchy had been a privateer, licensed by the King of England to prey upon French ships during the war with France. He had intercepted a French ship heading to a convent in Quebec, seized the cargo, and upon his return to Boston brought his contraband up through his tunnel and donated those four carved statues to his church, Christ Church, just down the street.

“So whatever became of Gruchy?” I asked.

“It’s hard to know,” said Sonny. “After awhile, they say, he just  up and left town, disappeared into thin air!”

“And Gruchy’s tunnels? Whatever happened to them?”

“Well, as you see, they continued to exist,” Sonny said. “Gruchy’s house was eventually torn down and replaced by the present residence built by the Dodd family, distinguished furriers in Boston. And there, right there where you’re standing, that was the original well providing water to the house,” he said, pointing at my feet.

I looked down to find myself standing in the center of a ring of granite.

“That was the original well that Gruchy had excavated,” Sonny added.

“And this well your grandfather also had filled up?” I asked.

“You guessed it,” Sonny smiled.

“Busy man, your grandfather,” I laughed.

“But that’s not the end of the story,” Sonny said with look of mischief. “You remember the ‘Great Brinks Robbery’ back in January 1950? Happened just down the street next to the Gassy. It was billed as ‘the crime of the century’. An 11-member gang broke into the Brinks depot, bound and gagged the five employees, and walked away with almost $3 million in cash, checks and securities.”

“The next day,” Sonny continued, “the FBI showed up at my door.

They wanted to see the tunnel. ‘What tunnel?’ I asked. ‘We want to see the tunnel in your basement,’ one of the FBI agents insisted. ‘What makes you think I’ve got a tunnel?’ I insisted. ‘We know everything,’ said the FBI agent. ‘Now show us the tunnel!’

“So I took them downstairs,” recounted Sonny, “and showed them the bricked-up tunnel entrance. And as they were leaving, I hollered after them, ‘Hey guys! So tell me, do you know who pulled off the Brink’s heist?’  One of the agents turned and said, ‘No, not yet!’ So I said, ‘Hey, I thought you guys knew everything.’”

As I left his house along Salem Street, I thanked Sonny for helping me solve the mystery of one of the four North End secret tunnels. And the other three? They’re no secret: Callahan, Sumner and the Big Dig.

Guild Nichols is the founder and president of NorthEndBoston.com, the premiere web site portal for comprehensive information on dining, shopping, visiting and living in Boston’s historic North End.

There’s nothing quite so comforting as walking home in the early morning with a warm loaf of bread cradled in one’s elbow. It’s like holding a warm baby straight from the bath in the crook of your arm. You cradle it carefully so as not to crush the newly-baked bread. Once home, you sit down at the kitchen table, sneak the butter from the fridge, and open a jar of jam. With mounting anticipation, you prepare for a delicious breakfast.

And for just a few moments you’re able to banish all thoughts of consuming those carbs, the butter, and sugar-rich jam. You luxuriate in the extraordinary goodness of the soft loaf of bread still warm from the oven – just one of the many small pleasures that Parziale & Sons has been offering the North End for over a century.

Today, only three bakeries remain in Boston’s North End: Parziale’s, Boschetto’s and Anthony Bova & Sons. Each has managed to outlast dozens of their bretheren – venerable names such as Bucchieri, Bombaderi, Calia, Coppola and Drago, as well as Freni, Josie’s, Manne’s, Orlando, Oterie and Vigorito.  These family names still live on today although their businesses have long since passed away.

One key to the extraordinary longevity and success of these three remaining bakeries is simple – it takes a family a bakery to make. None exemplifies this more than A. Bova & Sons Bakery founded on the corner of Salem and Prince Streets in the early 1920s. And, ironically, it was Guiseppe Parziale who introduced Anthony Bova into the North End bakery business from the very beginning.

Parziale had settled in the North End in 1907 and set up shop at 7 Charter Street where he began producing both bread and babies in great number. Over the next decades he and his wife Anna produced 12 sons and daughters. But Guiseppe could not afford to wait for his sons to grow up. Business was booming. He needed to hire more help. So once he moved operations to 79 Prince Street, he brought over to America a young Italian baker by the name of Antonio Bova.

The timing could not have been better. The influx of Italians to the North End was just beginning. By 1910, Italian immigrants comprised almost 10,000 and over the next 20 years the Italian population would more than triple to 37,000. At its peak in 1935, 44,000 Italians were packed into an area less than one square mile in size. The “Little Italy” neighborhood had become 99.9% Italian and was said to be more densely populated than Calcutta.

Antonio (a.k.a. Anthony) and Guiseppe worked side by side until the Parziale Bakery moved across the way to its current 80 Prince Street address. By this time, Bova had become an accomplished baker in his own right.  Thus began the North End bakery dynasty: A. Bova & Sons Bakery.

Birth of the Bova Dynasty

Anthony continued to operate his bakery at 79 Prince Street and also became a partner at the Calia Bakery (later known as the North End Bakery) located just next door to Parziale’s new shop at 74-76 Prince Street. When Calia’s lease was up, Anthony took over the operations there. Eventually, two of his sons, Ralphael and Georgi, ran this North End Bakery along with their cousin Bill Marra, while his three other sons, Biagi, Joseph and Frankie, ran the A. Bova & Sons Bakery across the street.

After a number of years, brothers Biagi and Frankie opted out of the family business. Biagi and his family moved out to Kalamazoo, Michigan, where he opened up his own bakery. And Frankie, who found that running a bakery was too strenuous a line of work, sold out to open up his own breakfast and lunch diner; he died at the relatively young age of 48.

The family decided they needed to consolidate operations. The Bova Bakery moved across the street to 74-76 Prince Street (leaving behind what later was to become a dental office, but that is still another story). The bakery was greatly enlarged, new ovens were installed, and eventually a whole new space was added with the acquisition of the storefront at the corner of Salem and Prince Streets, where A. Bova & Sons now reigns supreme.

Today, the Bova Bakery operates around the clock, 24/7, 168 hours a week. So, you need a calzone “fix” at 2:30 a.m.? Heading out early to P’Town or up to Vermont for the weekend and want a few loaves of scalia for the trip? Dying for mid-day taste of an Italian sub or a couple of traditional spuckies? Invited to a rooftop pizza party at 8 p.m., but Umberto’s, Parziale and Boschetto’s are closed? No problem; Bova’s pizza squares just came out of the oven bubbling hot! A. Bova & Sons is far more than a traditional Italian bakery; it’s become a veritable emporium for authentic baked delights.

It Takes A Whole Family to …

So, how do you run a bakery 24-hours-a-day, non-stop without encouraging an early and untimely death, an increased divorce rate or the inevitable burnout? Leave it to the third generation of Bova’s to come up with an ingenious, unique family solution!

The answer is in the generation of numbers. Literally. Today’s heirs to the Bova dynasty include: Anthony and his brother Ralphie (sons of Ralphael), Dr. Anthony Bova (the local dentist from 79 Prince Street) and his brother Georgi (sons of Georgi), and Joey Jr. (son of Joseph).  Each of these brothers and cousins operate jointly the bakery full-time for six months and then take one year off in between stints at the ovens.

Thus, for example, Joey Jr. (with his wife Diana) is now running the bakery since last February and will continue through this coming August. At which time, on the last Sunday night in August, Dr. Anthony Bova and his brother Georgi will take over operations and run the bakery until the 1^st of February 2008. Their mother, Annette, serves as the chief supervisor overseeing bakery operations (just as Diana currently does with her husband Joey Jr. during the current six months).  On the 1^st of February, cousins Anthony (the fourth “Anthony” named after the family patriarch) and his brother Ralphie will take over the bakery for the next six months until the last Sunday evening of August 2008

In this way, each brother works at the bakery full-time for six months and then has one year off. The schedule is such that no one repeats the same time slot each year (i.e. Joey and Diana work the current spring/summer of 2007 and then the autumn/winter period in 2008/09).

During their “off-season” each brother is involved in his other business pursuits.  Thus, for example, Dr. Anthony Bova dons his dental garb to return to his practice at 79 Prince Street. Joey Jr. returns to Randolph to pursue his full-time passion as a cook in his thriving Bova’s Corner Sandwich Shop.  And Anthony, in his off-year assumes responsibility for delivering bakery products across the greater-Boston area.

Passionate Pursuits Prevail

Each cousin has the opportunity to pursue his own passions:  while Dr. Bova administers to the needs of his dental patients during the day, at night he gets to indulge his passion for cooking, crafting incredible calzones, sumptuous ricotta pies, party cakes and cheesecakes, and numerous pastry creations, including Bova’s legendary cream puffs and whoopie pies stuffed with real whipped cream. While Joey Jr., an equally gifted chef and passionate cook, has introduced in recent years a broad array of new deli products and Bova’s line of homemade carryout dinners ranging from creamy pasta alfredo, to tortellini, chicken parmigiana and meatballs with shells.

It’s now 7:05 on a recent Tuesday morning and Anthony sits in the back at a small table totaling the list of the day’s deliveries, which include the small round breads used as soup bowls at Boston Chowder in Faneuil Hall and elsewhere.

Cousin Joey Jr. walks by having just finished up with the evening baking, looking a bit bleary-eyed. And for good reason: if you’d been up most of the night baking hundreds of loaves – baguettes, ronds, bostones and scalia, Tuscan wheats, rings and stubbies – you’d be on the tired side, too. Other members of the bake staff are in the far back of the bakery, sweeping up the flour on the bakery floor, arranging the cooling racks now overflowing with breads, cleaning up from another long night’s work.

But baking breads is only one aspect a full day’s task. Once the major breads are baked – to line the bakery racks and fill the tall bags for delivery to North End and suburban restaurants -  there’s still the focaccia, rosemary-garlic, 8-grain bread with walnuts and cinnamon to bake. Not to mention, depending on the holiday season, all the specialty breads and cookies to create: breakfast Easter bread glazed and topped with hard-boiled eggs, doughnut shaped and crunchy tarali bread, panettone fruit cake, anis cookies and pecan-filled snowball cookies – including a full range of deli treats and homemade carryout dinners.

The Bova Bakery stays ahead of the times by responding to changing tastes and culinary needs. With Parziale next door and Boschetto’s Bakery further up “the Hill” on Salem Street, A. Bova & Sons remains one of the truly great, authentic Italian bakeries of all time, giving strength and sustenance to Boston’s North End.

“Here is bread which strengthens man’s heart and therefore called the staff of Life.”

– Psalm 104

March and April are memorable months in Boston’s North End.

Not just for the blossoming magnolia trees by St. Leonard’s along Hanover Street – the perfect harbinger of Spring.  But also for the March 17th celebration of Evacuation Day commemorating the 1776 departure from Boston of General Gage and his British forces during the American Revolutionary War.

Also on the 17th, of course, is St. Patrick’s Day. Boston’s dynamic and numerous Irish descendants get an additional reason to celebrate.  Many of their forebears once considered themselves “Dearos” -  a name Rose Fitzgerald Kennedy’s father, “Honey Fitz”, coined in memory of  his legions of political supporters who lived in Boston’s “Dear Old North End.”

On April 16th we memorialize Patriot’s Day in both lofty and down-to-earth ways. There is the world famous Boston Marathon on the eve of which neighborhood restaurants open their doors to some of the 20,000 pasta-passionate participants packing in the carbs before hitting the pavement the next morning.

That same day we commemorate the 1775 ride of patriot Paul Revere. Hanover Street is cleared of cars, swept clean of winter rubble. A stage is set before the Prado for speeches and benedictions to buoy the spirits of the two horsemen on their reenactment ride out to Lexington and Concord.  And high in the steeple of Old North Church two lanterns are hung signifying that the British were marching by sea and not by land.

It’s sometimes too easy taking that simple, majestic spire for granted. It is so ever-present, both day and night. We admire it’s architecture; its glistening brass weathervane, its bright white magesty against the night sky.  We’re aware of its significance, schooled in the several roles it has played in early American history. And we can also admire its longevity, its endurance, not just as a historic site but as a living, vibrant  place of religious worship and fellowship.

It took a poem to remind the public of its pivotal position in American history. That Henry Wadsworth Longfellow wrote his poem in 1860 raises an interesting question as to how and in what ways was Old North Church remembered – if at all – in the period prior to Longfellow’s poem being published. How was the church perceived over the preceding 137 years since it’s construction in 1723? One answer is clear: with its steeple topping 190 feet, North Church was for many years the tallest building in Boston. Simply put, it stood out.  It served for over a century as a navigational beacon guiding ships safely into port.

Another answer is much more frivolous. And delightful!

It’s significance and memory were instilled and prolonged in the memory of several generations of Bostonians by an extraordinary feat of one John Childs, gentleman from England,  who flew from the steeple of Old North Church 250 years ago this year. And lived to tell the tale!

If truth be told, Childs’ feat was not unique; flying performers had appeared at English fairs and celebrations over the centuries, according to Boston historian J.L.Bell, who maintains a blog of “history, analysis, and unabashed gossip” about Revolutionary Boston at www.boston1775.net.  Childs admitted as much in the pages of the Boston Gazette on September 12th, 1757, announcing:

“This is to give notice to all Gentleman and Ladies, that John Childs has flown off of most of the biggest Steeples in Old-England, and off of the Monument by the Duke of Cumberland’s Desire, and does intend this Day, and two Days following, to fly off of Dr. Cutler’s Church, where he hopes to give full Satisfaction to all Spectators.”

And on the appointed day, in the early afternoon of Tuesday, September 13, 1757, John Childs did in fact fly from the steeple of Dr. Cutler’s Church, “to the satisfaction of a great number of Spectators.”  The very next afternoon, he gave two repeat performances to a much larger group of spectators who had left hearth and homes and closed their shops to bear witness to this extraordinary flying Englishman.

As reported by The New Hampshire Gazette:

“Wednesday in the afternoon he again performed it twice; the last time he set off with two pistols loaded, one of which discharged in his descent, the other missing fire, he cocked and snapped again before he reached the place prepared to receive him.”

That “place” was 700 feet away on the sloping hillside of what is now known as Copps Hill Burying Ground.

How did he do it?  Was it with wings? With a balloon, a kite? Was it an early precursor to bungee jumping? What allowed John Childs  to fly? That is the simple piece of history that up until quite recently appeared to have been lost in the passage of time.

A number of theories have been proposed. One of the most fanciful tales told is by the late Edward Rowe Snow, a popular storyteller, lecturer, preservationist, and treasure hunter from nearby Winthrop. In a lengthy account entitled “Boston’s First Flyer”, Snow described how Childs as a boy grew up in the vicinity of Unity Street and became fascinated by how birds flew. “Especially he would watch the actions of seagulls and,” according to Snow, “he developed many sound theories” of wind action and flight. “[Childs] decided that when comparing a bird and a human, greater areas of sail must be used for man…”

Snow went on to describe how Childs fashioned a set of wings and “took off from the Old North Church bellfry, stretching his arms with their winged attachments outward to the fullest extent … [and] landed a hundred yards away in a field now identified as in the vicinity of Henchman’s Lane.”

A delightful and even plausible tale, indeed! But nevertheless a complete figment of Snow’s fertile imagination.  The real answer was revealed barely a decade ago by historian J. L. Bell.  He described Childs’ daredevil performance in the following terms:

“Childs had a rope attached to [the Church] spire. Pulled taut, the cord slanted 700 feet down to a pile of feather mattresses… Childs appeared in the steeple. On his chest he wore a flat board with a groove running down its center. The Englishman laid himself along the rope, head first, arms and legs spread wide. He started to slide, faster and faster.  Viewers counted sixteen heart-stopping seconds before he landed on his mattresses. Then Childs, most likely, bounced up and passed his hat.”

Thus, in some ways, the real story behind the flight of John Childs – the “rope-flyer” – is the story of how history is oftentimes lost only to be re-gained.  For the hundreds of spectators who witnessed John Childs’ “flight”, they managed to keep the memory of his feat – and the secret of his technique – alive for several generations. Until over time the true tale was lost. If only there had been a poet of Longfellow’s stature to write John Childs into the permanent pages of history.

Guild Nichols is the founder and president of NorthEndBoston.com, the premiere web site portal for comprehensive information on dining, shopping, visiting and living in Boston’s historic North End.