Prologue
In the summer of 1903, Domenic Finno heard stories about America. Everyone wanted to stake a claim in the Land of Milk and Honey. Some said you could get rich, others warned you’d have to get past the Irish first. Good with a needle and thread, he really wanted to be a tailor but New York needed laborers to build sewer systems.
Domenic didn’t know the difference between mortar and concrete, but he had a strategy. Once he established himself in New York, he’d start his own tailoring business. He told his father about his plan, but at forty-six years old, his father, who had never left his village, begged his son to stay in his home country. Domenic ignored his father’s pleas and took his chances in the New World.
With a third class, steerage ticket in his hand, he stepped onto the ship that would take him across the Atlantic to a new way of life. He pushed past his fellow passengers from Naples and made his way toward the bow of the Manuel Calvo. On the horizon, low-lying clouds snuffed out the sun and threatened rain.
Once out to sea, storms attacked the ship, one after another. The ship rocked and creaked as waves crashed against its sides, pouring cold seawater onto the deck. Domenic stood at the bow, salty mist spraying his face. He tightened his coat across his chest and closed his eyes. Down below deck, the stench of vomit and urine dominated the air, making breathing unbearable. Wet and shivering, he remained on deck, refusing to stay in the crowded steerage except to catch a few hours of sleep. The constant chatter of voices blended with the sounds of the steam engines, but as they drew closer to New York Harbor, the passengers grew quiet. Each person turned inward to reflect on his or her own dreams and anticipations for a new life.
As the sun sank into the horizon, the passengers retreated below deck. “Look!” a young boy yelled, pointing to the sky. Everyone’s eyes followed his finger. In the distance, through the fog, they could see the Statue of Liberty. Colorful rockets exploded across the sky and the people pushed and shoved their way back up to the deck. With each burst of fireworks, the Lady, holding her torch illuminated like a beacon of hope. It was July 4th, America’s celebration of independence. People cheered, “God bless America!”
Before entering their new home, they would have to pass a medical examination on Ellis Island. Domenic’s uncle referred to it as “Isola Delle Lacrime,” the Island of Tears, because, at that checkpoint, doctors sent many people back to their country of origin. The passengers lined up to disembark and marched single-file through the brick building on Ellis Island, hoping some underlying illness wouldn’t betray them. Waiting, each feared they might have the eye disease, trachoma, which meant certain rejection because of its contagion.
Domenic inched his way up the line, nervously turning his hat in his hand, a special hat he had made for the journey to America. When his turn came, Domenic answered their questions regarding origin and his reasons for coming to America, but he couldn’t hide his runny nose, and they detained him for a few days. His cousin Alfredo had offered to take him in until he could get on his feet, but Dominic worried his cousin would forget about him and hoped he wouldn’t give up checking the daily arrivals.
Dominic tried to block out the thunderous noise and chatter around him. Nearby, two men bantered in their Sicilian dialect. One was thin and clean-shaven, and the other was fat with a thick mustache. He found the two intriguing. Noticing his stare, they stopped talking and looked him over.
“Buon giorno. My name is Salvatore. This is my brother, Vincenzo. We’re from a small fishing village in Palermo.”
“I am Domenic, from Naples.”
“We’re going to get something to eat. Would you like to join us?”
The three men followed the crowd into a huge dining room. “Cos'è quell'odore terribile?” Salvatore asked, holding his nose.
“It’s coming from those iron kettles,” Domenic said.
“Well, food is food, and I’m hungry,” Vincenzo said, and grabbed a plate at the back of the line.
Each holding a tin plate, a fork, and a spoon, they headed toward an empty table.
Domenic took a bite and spat it back into his dish. “They call this food?” he said, pushing it aside.
Vincenzo howled with laughter and helped himself to Domenic’s uneaten portion.
The next day, Domenic stood at the gate watching the pair board the ferryboat. Promising to find each other when they settled, they waved as the distance between them grew.
Soon, Domenic’s cold was gone and he too, had permission to leave. It took only a few minutes for the ferry to get to the other side and t
The portal to America opened and he felt a gust of freedom. Distant faces came into focus and voices grew louder as passengers spotted their relatives and called out to get their attention. Domenic ran up and down the deck, trying to find an opening at the rail among the other passengers. He searched for his cousin as the crew secured the ferry, but when his eyes scanned the waiting crowd, he panicked. How will I ever find Alfredo in the mass of humanity? He walked down the plank, carrying his luggage. People around him hugged and greeted each other.
When the gathering dispersed, Domenic stood alone. In his pocket, he felt the ticket that had brought him to America. He breathed the hot summer air deep into his lungs. A rare breeze blew and paper trash danced in the air. The wind as it swirled it around and then sailed it off into the distance. Seeing two police officers standing at the corner, he walked toward them to ask for help. Deceived by the smile on their faces, he came closer.
“Stupid Wops,” one said, twirling his baton and staring at the ferry.
“Yeah, just what we need around here,” replied his partner, “More Guineas!”
At that moment, he thought he might have made a mistake coming to New York. All the rumors from his village came flooding into his mind. Maybe Italians aren’t welcome in this new land. Suddenly, someone came up from behind, grabbed him by the shoulders, and swung him around. Face to face with his cousin. “Sorry I’m late,” Alfredo said.
Domenic grabbed his suitcase and they walked away from the pier. “What’s with them?” he asked, nodding toward the police.
“You mean those micks in uniform?” Alfredo smirked. “Don’t worry about them. Just make sure you get off the streets by ten p.m. That’s when they go hunting. You don’t want to face their billy clubs in some dark alley.”
Within the city’s neighborhoods, a mix of small merchants and laborers gathered. Some sold fruits and vegetables from carts on the corner, while others opened bakeries or taverns. Most were hard-working people, like the masons and carpenters who helped build the very foundations of New York City.
Italian people banded together to form clubs and charters where they could unite and socialize in their native language and promote their culture.
They called it Little Italy.
Alfredo helped to get his cousin Domenic a job sewing clothes at the textile factory and helped him go through the nationalization process to become an American citizen. With a strong work ethic, Domenic was the first to arrive in the morning and the last to leave and he saved every dime he earned. Soon, Antoinette, a neighborhood girl, caught his eye. They dated for months until one day, he proposed. Almost immediately after they married, the babies came. It took seven years to save enough money to open a haberdashery on Mott Street.
On opening day, he stood back and admired the sign outside his new shop, and then laughed to himself as he recalled his own father’s warning that he’d never make it in America.
One day, he looked up from his workbench and saw a strange man with a mop of red curly hair standing in front of him.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
“Yes, my name is Patrick. I’d like to buy a hat from you, lad,” the man said in a thick Irish brogue.
“Of course.” Domenic opened his supply box and produced a measuring tape. He wrapped it around the man’s head and jotted down the measurements in his notebook.
“Come back tomorrow, Patrick, and your hat will be ready.”
The next day, the Irishman returned. Domenic lifted the hat from its box for him to see and smiled with pride.
“It’s perfect,” Patrick said.
The cash register dinged when the drawer opened, and he put the money inside.
The next day, the man came back. “This hat you made for me is too big. Can you adjust it?”
“You said the hat fit you good when you picked it up,” Domenic said, trying his best to hide his annoyance, but he felt obliged to fit the hat properly. He went to work re-measuring the man’s head.
“It will take some time, but I can make it smaller.”
“Thank you,” Patrick said. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”
Domenic worked late into the night, taking out the stitches and making the hat smaller and the next day, presented it to Patrick, who seemed pleased.
Two days later, Patrick returned.
“What now?” He asked impatiently.
“You did a great job,” Patrick said. “It is smaller, but something isn’t right.”
Domenic re-examined the hat. “It looks fine.”
“Perhaps you can loosen the hatband a little.”
“Domenic’s face turned crimson and he couldn’t contain himself a minute longer. “ Basta!” he yelled. “Get out of my store and don’t come back, anymore!
Patrick scurried down the street.
A few hours later, the front bell jingled and a burly man in a blue, police uniform stepped into the shop.
“Are you Domenic Finno?”
“Yes, that’s me,” he replied. “What can I do for you officer?”
“I heard you assaulted one of your customers,” the police officer said, lifting a hat from the shelf and putting it on his head.
“I did no such thing. I only….”
“I’m going to have to keep my eye on you, the cop said as he sorted through the wares.
“I don’t want any problems,” Domenic said.
The police officer picked up another hat, put it on his head, and studied himself in the mirror.
“This one was made for me, don’t you think?” His blue eyes gleamed.
“Yes, it fits you well.”
“Make sure I have no more trouble from you,” the officer warned, and then left without paying for the hat.
Domenic did nothing to stop him. He didn’t realize that his eleven-year old son, Joseph, had been watching them from the back room where he was sorting thread.
Embarrassed by his father’s weakness, Joseph vowed never to let anyone treat him like that and a distrust of authority took root in his heart.