“When the ship entered the harbor at the end of the journey, they let us all out to the lower deck to have a view of the land that we would call home from now on. I saw the big statue of the Lady with a long gown and a crown on the head, and I thought she looked very elegant and impressive, like those women in the dining room, but more strong and powerful, and I felt she was there to welcome me, like she was saying, ‘Hello, Lucia. Benvenuta. Come on in. Now you belong with us.’ And I realized that Rocco was right.”
As it turned out, Lucia’s expectations did not materialize in the way she and Rocco had envisioned. Nevertheless, in the end they were able to attain a modest measure of the American Dream. It was not easy.
After docking, the immigrants were corralled into the reception facilities on Ellis Island, where they endured a month of interviews, physical exams, background investigations of their criminal and political records, and other humiliating but necessary procedures to ascertain that they were fit to become citizens of this privileged nation. Many did not pass the test, for one reason or another, and were sent back home on the next available ship. They were crushed, their dream was shattered. Lucia’s parents were gripped by fear that this may happen to them as well. So, they made an extra effort to be on their best behavior, do exactly as they were told, give all the right answers, and smile a lot. Perhaps this helped, or perhaps they just got lucky. At the end of the month, the family received a pack of newly-stamped papers and was admitted into the U.S.A.
They settled in a small one-bedroom apartment, on the fifth floor of a tenement not far from the pizzeria’s current location. They got the apartment through St. Christopher Church, which provided assistance to the newly arrived. The parish priest explained that the church was named after the saint who once carried Baby Jesus across the water, and was therefore considered the patron saint of the immigrants.
There were many Italians in the neighborhood, and that made it easier to get started. They gave each other emotional and material support in a city that would have otherwise felt terrifying—a huge, alien world where everybody spoke a language they did not understand. Through a cumpà, a home-town fellowman who had been in New York for a few years, Lucia’s father soon got a job in construction. Her mother worked as a cleaning woman for a hotel chain while a next-door neighbor took care of the younger kids together with her own grandchildren.
Lucia enrolled in first grade because she had not had any schooling back home. And so did Rocco, even though he was two years older. They lived on the same street, and in the morning went to school together. They had to be careful to avoid the back alleys. Those were dangerous places because of the rival gangs that roamed the neighborhood—Italian, Irish and Jewish. But Rocco knew how to keep out of trouble and, if needed, how to kick a bully in the crotch. They soon learned to speak English well enough, and also to read and write in that language because, as Rocco said, this is what it takes to get rich in America. However, notwithstanding their best efforts, they never acquired native fluency. Their choice of words, their turn of phrase, their intonation would forever be a bit off. And their accent remained markedly Southern Italian, because at home this was the only language their parents spoke. This branded them inexorably as “not quite” American, even in the eyes of the best-intentioned people, and triggered the dreaded question—Where are you from?— at each and every first casual encounter. On occasion, they were met with hostility. More often, it was a sympathetic but overly concerned stare that made them feel diminished, as if the person had just learned that they suffered from some disability and needed help.
After graduation from primary school, they went to work; Lucia in a textile factory, and Rocco in a diner that belonged to an uncle of his. Every third Sunday, Rocco had the day off, and the two of them took the train to Coney Island and spent the afternoon at Luna Park. On the way to the station, they held hands and Rocco sang to her in his Neapolitan-accented English:
We’ll take a trip up to the moon
For that is the place for a lark.
So meet me down at Luna, Lena,
Down at Luna Park.
They splurged a few pennies on cotton candy and lemonade and walked among those mesmerizing attractions—the giant Wonder Wheel, the Cyclone roller coaster, the dizzying merry-go-rounds, brightly colored and scintillating with hundreds of lights. They laughed at the grotesque images on the freak show posters—”Marian: Headless Girl From London,” “Winsome Winnie: Fat Pretty And Jolly,” “Zip & Pip: 2 Georgia Peaches,” “Smallest Grown Ups On Earth”... And, although they could not afford the ticket for a ride or a show, they were happy all the same to watch the action and listen to the music.
When Lucia turned twenty, her father consented to their marriage. For the occasion he spent most of his savings of ten years. They had a reception at the church for the extended family, some fifty relatives on each side, with wine and food catered by Rocco’s uncle. Lucia had received a few yards of white silk from the textile factory as a wedding gift, and her mother sewed her a beautiful bridal gown. She looked splendid in that dress. Dancing with Rocco, she felt like the princess in an American fairy tale of her own. Rocco’s uncle acted as the MC and toasted the couple repeatedly, with wishes of a bright future and figli maschi (male children), which according to tradition was regarded as the most desirable and luckiest of outcomes.
They were not disappointed because one year later Joe was born. As for the bright future, it had to wait another fifteen years. It was 1933, and they were already deep into the Great Depression. Four years earlier, the nation, and the world, looked in dismay at the collapse of the stock market, and now pinned their hopes on President Roosevelt for guidance and reassurance.
Unemployment in the U.S. rose to 25 percent. Lucia’s father lost his job with the private developer he had been working for, and joined the lines of the unemployed that grew longer and longer every day. The textile factory where Lucia worked had to shut down and lay off the entire work force. She, Rocco and little Joe moved in with her parents in order to save on the rent and help the family. They slept on cots in the kitchen, while Lucia’s parents and her younger brothers shared the bedroom. To make ends meet, Lucia joined her mother on the hotel cleaning team.
Rocco, on the other hand, managed to keep his job at the diner, and was even promoted from busboy to cook. It was thanks to his talent for pizza making that the diner could survive through those dismal years. Pizza was born in Naples as a food for the poor—who knows when? Perhaps as soon as tomatoes where imported from America in the sixteenth century. At that time, it consisted of flat bread, tomatoes, olive oil, and oregano. No cheese. Cheese was added later, when pizza was already on its way to acquiring status as a folk cuisine specialty. The original version could be produced and sold for a few cents. That is what Rocco understood. His pizza was a bargain that most people could afford. The sign in the window declared: You CAN’T afford NOT to buy it! In fact, Rocco explained, it’s darn cheap, it fills an empty stomach and, on top of everything, it tastes soooo good—even if he had to substitute corn oil for olive oil and use tomato paste in the winter instead of fresh tomatoes.
Unlike other businesses, the diner was doing well, and Rocco’s uncle was able to pay him a decent salary. That is, until they received a visit from the local godfather.
Don Vincent Marrano sat down at a corner table with two of his henchmen, their backs to the wall, their faces partly obscured by fedora hats. He ordered pizza for himself. The other two remained vigilant while he was eating. Afterwards, he asked to talk to Rocco’s uncle:
“Chist’è robba buona. This is good stuff. You’re providing a good service to the people in the neighborhood. I want you to be able to continue. So, I offer you my protection. From now on, you won’t have