A Note from Mom

Hi, this is Mom. I'm going to attempt to put together a little family history of your father's and my life together, for posterity. I tried to use the recorder, but my narrative isn't very good — too many mix-ups, pauses, and errors. It takes me more time to erase and redo than to write, so this is what you're going to get.

Chapter One: The Old Country

Roots in Liguria

I was born in Lynbrook, New York, on August 13, 1922, and two and a half years later, on January 27, 1925, my sister Marie was born.

Our father — your grandfather, Nonno — was born March 19, 1893, in Ferriere, a very small village of perhaps one hundred to one hundred and fifty people, in the city of Lumarzo, Province of Genova, in the region of Liguria in northern Italy, bordering France, Switzerland, and Austria.

His parents were Aurelio (known as Lillu) Ferrera and Maria Rosasco, from the neighboring village of Lagomartino. He was the oldest of three children. His brother Enrico died young from tuberculosis, as far as they could tell. He also had a sister, Cesira, who married Felice Ferrera — no relation, despite sharing the surname — and they had two children: a boy named Aldo and a girl named Gentile.

My mother, your grandmother Nonna, was also born in Ferriere, on October 18, 1897, to Argentina Lercari and Giovanni Ferrera, both from Ferriere. She was the oldest of ten children. I don't know the exact birth order of her siblings, but they were: Serafino (Sera), Luigi, Vittoria, Giuseppe (Giuse), Argentina, Candida, Maria, Rosa, and Angela (Gina).

Your grandfather's father served as mayor of Lumarzo, though mainly he was a farmer. Your grandmother's parents were also farmers — and the mail carriers of the county, covering a number of small villages entirely on foot, up and down hills and mountains where only footpaths existed.

Coming to America

Before the First World War, your grandfather, Giuseppe Antonio Ferrera — also known as Beppe, Beppin, and later in the States as Joe — sailed to America. He settled in Lynbrook, where one of his uncles, his mother's brother Andrea (known as Dria Grosso, or Big Andrew, on account of his build), owned a grocery store on Atlantic Avenue. The other brother, Giobatta (Baccio), worked in the store alongside him. Your grandfather worked there as a clerk.

We don't know the exact year Nonno immigrated, but we know that he volunteered for the American Army and that his military service was how he earned his American citizenship. (A note from Ancestry.com records his arrival in the U.S. on May 10, 1912.)

Your grandmother, Assunta Ferrera — later known as Susie — came to the States after the First World War. She settled in Montclair, New Jersey, where her aunt Assunta (known as Sientin), her mother's sister, had a grocery store, and that is where your grandmother worked. Your grandfather had friends from Italy who had settled in Montclair, and those same friends happened to know your grandmother. Nonno would go visit them, and that is how he met Nonna. They were married on April 25, 1920, at the Catholic Church of St. Raymond in Lynbrook. Despite sharing the same surname — Ferrera — there was no blood relation between them, though one might find some distant connection if one looked far enough back.

They both worked in the Lynbrook store and lived in a large apartment above it, together with the Rosasco family: Big Drew, his brother Giobatta (Baccio), and Baccio's wife Rose, who had been married at the same ceremony as your grandparents.

Growing Up in Lynbrook

On August 13, 1922 — a Friday midnight — I came into this world. Two and a half years later, on January 27, 1925, sister Marie was born (known to you boys as Zizi). We were both born at home, as was the custom of the time, though Nonna had a regular doctor rather than a midwife.

We grew up alongside our Rosasco cousins: Louie, a year older than myself; Louise, a year younger than me but a year older than my sister; and, much later, another baby girl, Marie. While our parents worked in the store, we children were looked after by Aunt Rose's mother, whom we called Nonnie.

We had a beautiful collie named Prince who used to play with us in the back yard — which was not the usual grassy lawn, but a cement yard with garages for the horse-drawn buggies used for grocery deliveries to the major hotels and restaurants that were patrons of the store. The buggies were later replaced by pickup trucks and, eventually, when automobiles came into style, Nonno learned to drive and a Hudson was purchased.

Boys, you should have seen your grandfather behind that wheel — the world was his! Sundays were "ride days." Not in winter, which was colder and snowier than it is now, but during the summer we would go visiting, picnicking, or to Long Beach to the ocean. Jones Beach had not yet come to fame in those days.

One day, Uncle Big Drew decided to return to Italy. He sold his share of the store to his brother and your grandfather, left behind his wife and four daughters, went to Lagomartino where he was born, built himself a small castle, and had, at last, the son he had always wanted: Andrew, whom you know.

Chapter Two: Back to Italy

Ferriere and Ponegrasca

Around 1930 or 1931, I went to school in Lynbrook for a few years before your grandfather decided to return to Italy as well. At the early age of thirty-seven or thirty-eight, he retired and went to Ferriere. Nonna wasn't too enthusiastic about the idea — she truly loved America — but, as a devoted wife, she followed and made the best of it. We ended up living with your grandfather's parents, Aurelio (Lillu) and Maria (Marinin).

We hadn't come from lavish quarters, but we had had all the comforts then available: a heating system, hot and cold running water, a bathroom with a toilet and tub. What we found in Ferriere was quite a different sort of home. Everything was small — the house and the rooms alike. On the first floor was an entrance room with stairs to the second floor, and the kitchen. Upstairs there was a landing large enough to serve as a small dining room and three small bedrooms. All the floors and staircases were plain, rough wood planks; the walls were whitewashed. There was no bathroom — only an outhouse on a large terrace surrounded by potted plants and flowers. At night, when needed, out came the chamber pots, which could be quite elaborate and decorative, perhaps to compensate for their purpose. And there was no electricity.

For all its primitive appearance, the house was not without cleanliness and order. Everything was spotless, polished to the nth degree, because "Marinin" was a very particular and meticulous little woman — she was short, like me. Now you know where those beautiful virtues of order and cleanliness come from, the ones you children call our pathological manias.

Around 1932, our father decided to build his dream house. He selected a small hilltop location just outside of Ferriere called Ponegrasca, and began constructing what was, at the time, considered a real mansion — complete with all the modern comforts that even his cousin's castle didn't have: a heating system, hot and cold running water, two bathrooms, electricity, and buzzers in the upstairs bedrooms connected to a spiral staircase. Two rooms as long as the entire house flanked the entrance — one a laundry room, the other a tool and storage room. Running the full width of the house at the back was the wine cellar.

The second floor had a landing with front and back doors opening to the kitchen (with a restaurant-grade stove), a small dining room, a large formal dining room across the hall, a sitting room, and a powder room. A marble spiral staircase led to the third floor, which had another grand landing, four bedrooms, a bath, and a front balcony. Another marble staircase took you to the attic — so vast that another full apartment could have been built there with no trouble.

After your grandparents passed, we had the house converted into three apartments: one for the caretakers, one for us when we visit Italy, and one rented to the caretaker's brother.

It was no small feat — the house is a fortress, built for posterity. The walls are stone, cement, and iron rods; any repair is a major operation. The grounds were always very well kept, with flowers, shrubs, palms, pines, and a fruit orchard — the pride and joy of your grandfather. He always tried to have the finest fruit and the finest specimens.

With deep regret, we may one day decide to sell. We are getting older; you children have your own lives. The house needs constant supervision and upkeep, which costs money, and it is becoming something of a burden. We don't wish to leave you problems. I imagine Nonna and Nonno would not look kindly upon this possibility — but I'm sure they would understand.

Simple Pleasures

Life in Ponegrasca when we were children and teenagers was very plain and simple. There were no movie houses — you had to go to the city of Genova, an hour's bus ride away. There was no television. We did have a radio and a Victrola, by which we taught ourselves to dance. We went visiting on foot, to friends in nearby villages. We went hiking and picnicking. And we went dancing.

When feast days came around, Nonna was quite strict. She didn't much like the village dances, held in a large indoor hall or, weather permitting, outdoors. The girls stood on one side, the young men on the other, and when the music started, each young man would go select the girl he wanted to dance with — the first to reach her was the lucky one. The girls entered free; the men paid an entrance fee. If a skilled dancer particularly admired a good dancing partner, he could pay an extra fee for a special solo dance with her — the floor was theirs alone, and they would surely show off their finest steps. Most times we were allowed to go because Nonno was on our side.

As I said before, you went everywhere on foot. The only road suitable for vehicles ran from Ferriere south to Chiavari on the Riviera; going north, there was nothing but your own two feet. The people owed that road to your great-grandfather, the mayor, who fought until he secured the grants needed to build it. Much later, the rest of the road was built as well.

When we first arrived in Ferriere, the only vehicle on the road to Chiavari was a sort of trolley-car-buggy drawn by horses. Later came small buses, and a very small number of private cars — which were very expensive at the time. The only person in our surrounding villages who owned a chauffeured car was Uncle Big Drew, who was considered the rich town-boy who had done well. So most of the time, we marched on foot. That's why Zizi and I don't mind walking — we actually enjoy it. We had a great deal of practice, sometimes over long and strenuous routes.

Our pastimes were simple, more than simple. We also did a lot of reading, especially on those long winter nights. It was hardest for Zizi, who was left much more alone — especially when I was away at school.

The Convent Years

I was sent to a Catholic boarding school just a few months after we arrived in Italy. The convent was in Genova, only an hour's drive from home, but at that time it was unheard of for a young girl to travel alone. That is why I boarded, coming home for the major holidays and summer vacation. I studied at the convent until the age of eighteen, missing only one year at thirteen, when I simply could not bear it any longer.

Life with the nuns was not easy — they were very, very strict. It was like living in the barracks, with sergeants everywhere. Everything was done at the clap of hands, the sound of bells, verbal orders, rules, and regulations. That one year I decided to stay home; but I did love studying and wanted to continue, so I made up my mind to return to what I thought of as Purgatory on Earth the following year.

Zizi had joined the "armed forces" too, after finishing the fifth grade — the last class taught in Ferriere. She lasted less than two years. She used to get so dreadfully homesick that she physically made herself ill, and so it was decided to bring her home, where she would study with the help of tutoring (which I provided during summers) and take her exams at the public schools.

People think we exaggerate when we talk about convent life, but we truly had to put up with a great deal. It would take a thick book to tell it all. No matter your age — and the girls ranged from five to eighteen or nineteen — we all followed the same schedule. Rise at 6:00 a.m., to bed at 8:30 p.m. We slept in dormitories of twenty beds plus an extra for the nun-matron (the jailor, as I thought of her). For modesty's sake, we were required to undress and dress while kneeling on the floor, so as to be less visible to one another. To this day I can still undress without showing too much of myself. (Try it sometime — it's not as easy as it sounds!)

We were in church four times a day: 6:30 a.m. Mass, a brief noon visit before lunch, the Rosary at 6:00 p.m., and evening prayers at 8:00 p.m. In addition, short prayers preceded classes, meals, recreation periods, and of course sleep. No wonder we have "some religion" — and calloused knees!

Excluding the half-hour for breakfast, the hour-and-a-half periods between lunch and dinner for recreation, and time in church, the rest of the day was spent in the classroom: lessons in the morning and afternoon, studying in the evenings. On Sundays, the lesson hours simply became more study hours. Whoever had visitors received them for two hours on Sunday afternoon. I didn't even have that small interruption, because my parents came to the city on weekdays to combine shopping with visiting, which was reduced to perhaps half an hour during afternoon recreation.

There was no talking at the table until after the first course was served, and after that, total silence until recreation time. A million other rules governed every hour: one could not single out a best friend, could not walk arm in arm. If your visitors brought you something edible — cookies, candy, anything — it had to go into the "common pot" to be shared with everyone. This was one of the things that irked me most, because some parents never brought anything, and I didn't think it fair that others should share their treats with those children. This was an affluent school for well-to-do families who could give their children something. So one day I decided to keep my share for myself.

Nonna had brought me some Perugian chocolates, which I stuffed into my underwear — we wore pantaloons with elastic at the knees. All those sweets tucked in there, and I walked nonchalantly to class. It was springtime. Needless to say, the chocolates grew softer and softer until they became a real mish-mash. To say I was uncomfortable was an understatement. The problem was how to escape the mess without anyone knowing. You weren't allowed to ask for extra clothing unless it was a genuine emergency. I was forced to feign a very bad bout of diarrhea.

As for bathing, we were required to keep our camisoles on at all times — always for modesty — so that the nun could come and scrub our backs. Naturally, we always managed to remove them and put them back on at exactly the right moment for the nun's arrival.

During recreation, everyone from age five to nineteen had to play the same games, whether jump rope, ball, or hide-and-seek — until a more modern nun, Mother Semino, arrived and changed things. She introduced ping-pong and competitive games for the older girls and became our confessor for every complaint and outburst.

Naturally, the petty world of the nunnery became frantic when they realized we all preferred her to the other nuns. So they sent her to the remotest wing of the convent with no contact with us. The students called a strike — and who do you think was the organizer and spokesperson? None other than "Rosetta" — Rosie, as I was called, because there was an older Rose in our group. We marched to the Mother Superior's chamber. She was stunned into silence when I spoke my piece. You must know that I was a good student: never in trouble, always dutiful, minding my own business. My actions were so unbelievable to her that she reconsidered and allowed Mother Semino to return to the old pastures. Had she not, we would have boycotted the classrooms — which would have required parent intervention and blown the whole thing into irrational proportions over a very simple, very stupid decision. After all, we only wanted a reasonable solution to a simple problem, as we saw it. That is a little glimpse of what life was like for a young girl in the convent.

* * * * * * *

In the end, I earned my teacher's diploma after passing all the state examinations — which private school students had to take before outside examiners who bombarded us mercilessly, simply because we were "privateers." There were three of us, and all three of us passed with flying colors.

In the field of education, there were few schools better than the College of the Nuns of St. Dorothy. For all its negatives, it is only fair to say that the nuns did instill in us a sense of responsibility, order, and endurance. They taught us to face adversity without falling apart, and reality without too many illusions. At times they certainly went too far, and perhaps we do carry some peculiarities as a result — but all in all, I would say things balanced out fairly well.

Chapter Three: War Years

Italy Under Occupation

During my last years at school, the Second World War had come into the picture. There were night raids on the city, and we took refuge in the catacomb rooms beneath the convent cellar. At that point the raids were not yet too frequent or too severe — but it was only the beginning.

Once I was back home, life went on as usual. Ferriere had not changed much in those years — still the same small village, though it held some importance as the central location of the county, housing the Town Hall and the Post Office. There was a general store with most everyday supplies, a barber shop, and two osterie — small pubs where the men gathered for a glass of wine and a game of cards. Nonno was a very good card player and something of an addict at it.

In the same building as the Town Hall was a school covering the first five grades. Years later, the fourth and fifth grades were moved to the top floor of a private home about a mile and a half from Ferriere, called Casa Bianca — the White House, because it was painted entirely white. It certainly didn't resemble our Washington White House, but it was decent enough, and that is where I would teach for two years as a substitute.

The school system in Italy worked differently from in America. To win a tenured position, you had to pass a competitive examination given only once every five years. During the interval, the ranks of new teachers would swell to enormous numbers, making the competition extraordinarily difficult. I was fortunate to wait only two years for the examination. There were five thousand participants and only one hundred openings — five hundred candidates made it through, and I was among them. But I did not receive a permanent post, as the positions were scattered across the entire Ligurian region, and you could be sent anywhere there was a vacancy.

In the meantime, I was given substitute work. My first call came for Monleone, a village about a twenty-minute bicycle ride from Ferriere. For my graduation I had received a brand-new bicycle, which would serve me very well in my substitute sagas. That first job lasted one week. I poured more sweat into it than I care to remember: no experience, fifth-grade know-it-alls, fresh, impertinent, mannerless, and thick! Still, I got through it and gained some points in the handling of smart alecks.

Then came a six-month assignment in Dezerega, a god-forsaken place in the hills above Monleone. I would bike from Ferriere to Monleone and then hike another half hour uphill to Dezerega on foot. During the weeks I lived there; teachers had the right to a room in a private home, though they had to pay for their own meals. On Saturday nights I would return to Ponegrasca, leaving again early Monday mornings. The place was the pits. The children would come to school unwashed, some without shoes, and some with lice — which paid a visit to my hair as well. All I could do was hope things would get better and a little rosier.

Food and Survival

As the war intensified, people from the city began escaping to the country. A law was passed requiring anyone with extra rooms to rent to these displaced people. We took in a family — a widow with three grown daughters. Your father's family had a home in Lumarzo, another neighboring village, and that is where they went to live during the war. Air raids usually took place at night. People would go to their jobs in the city by day and return to the country at night. The tunnels served as refuge for occasional daytime raids. We were never raided out in the country.

* * * * * * *

One of the pastimes for young people during this period was bicycle outings, organized by the Fascist Youth Club. It was on one of these outings that your father and I first met. From then on he joined our group.

Food was desperately hard to come by. Even if you had money, there was very little to buy. The barter system was the only way to manage. Good thing, too, because all we could depend upon was my meager salary. The income from the Lynbrook store had stopped when communications were cut off by the war, so we certainly weren't swimming in gold. Your grandfather became a bootlegger of grappa — a very strong type of brandy. He built his own still in the chicken coop, using mainly grapes, though it could be made with almost anything: potato peelings, other fruits, whatever was on hand. We traded his product for what we needed.

Bread was made with all sorts of fillers and very little flour — mostly sawdust and some white substance we took to calling "marble dust." Everything was rationed: a few ounces of olive oil — not the best quality, certainly — per person, once a month. The meat was sold twice a week, if I recall correctly. Lines formed in the early hours of the morning, first come, first served. You couldn't choose your cut; you got what they handed you and were grateful for it. The last in line got whatever junk was left over — or nothing at all. Coffee was dreadful, mostly made of chicory and grape seeds. The foulest taste ever.

The men rolled their own cigarettes in any kind of paper, filled with dried leaves of any variety. One inhaling that smoke could certainly approach the threshold of death.

Zizi and I used to bicycle for hours to olive country to barter a little oil for our wares. Good thing we were young and could take such things in stride.

I must go back to the sweets situation, because it perhaps explains why Zizi and I have always been sweet freaks. During the war, we almost never saw candy or cake. If Nonna could save a little flour from the essential dishes — pasta and bread, all handmade — she would liquefy the precious sugar, drop it by teaspoons onto a marble slab, and let it cool and harden into a kind of hard candy. And oh, was it good.

Partisan Raids and Close Calls

As you know, the Italians were then allied with the Germans under Fascism. Anyone who opposed them had to keep quiet, or join the guerrillas — the partisans. In our area, the partisans were not politically motivated fighters. Under that protected name, dangerous characters would gather in groups in the hills, taking whatever they wanted from whomever they pleased, killing for personal vendettas, or holding people for ransom. They had nothing to do with the real partisans who were fighting the war from the underground.

More than once we had these so-called partisans at the house, demanding food and supplies of all kinds, while the Germans would ring the front bell for their routine inspections. Thank God for the back door, through which the partisans would run and hide. Had the Germans ever discovered them, it would have been the end of everyone. They sometimes, ironically, gave us IOUs. We had stacks of them. They never came back to pay.

Nonno had walled off half of the wine cellar and camouflaged the entrance. Inside he had placed mattresses, food, water, and, naturally, wine. Whenever the Germans raided the villages searching for men to deport to prison camps, any man in the house at the time would hide in that partitioned cellar.

One night, our cousin Pino, who lived on the next little hill at Pianelli, came to visit after spending the day in hiding. All of a sudden we heard a shot that sounded as though it was coming from his house. He wanted to go see what was happening, but we stopped him — as a young man, he would have been in great danger. After a long discussion, Zizi and I were allowed to go have a look.

It wasn't a very wise move. But when you're young, you reason differently from the adults, and we simply disregarded all warnings and leaped into the unknown. We climbed the little hill, and as we neared the house, a masked figure jumped out in front of us with a rifle aimed at our heads. He ordered us against the wall and told us to keep quiet, or he would blow our heads off. We could hear angry voices inside.

After a while we were ordered inside, then upstairs to the bedroom, where our aunt lay in bed surrounded by her four young children. Our uncle stood at the foot of the bed, being harassed by three other masked men with rifles, their gun butts jabbing at him as they demanded money. He kept saying he had none, but they seemed to know better. Our Uncle Giovanni (Giuanin) was a beef merchant who owned a butcher shop — which was how we sometimes managed to get a decent piece of meat. That very morning he had gone to the bank to withdraw money for the purchase of cattle, and the partisans, all more or less local characters, knew his movements and were certain the money was in the house.

They grew vicious, threatening his wife and children, who were all crying and terrified. Eventually, Uncle Giovanni had to tell them where the money was. They took it — but it wasn't enough. They turned to our aunt and demanded her jewelry. She had nothing but her wedding ring and a gold chain with a religious medal. They took both, asking for more, and she answered like the Roman mother of the Gracchi brothers: "These are the only jewels I have left."

Our parents and cousin Pino had begun to worry about us two girls, and after a while Pino decided that, danger or no, he had to come and see what was happening. He was stopped, roughed up, and brought into the bedroom where we were all gathered. Unable to find anything else of value, the partisans ransacked the entire house, taking bowls of supplies — oil, potatoes, cheese that my aunt had made herself, and whatever else they could carry. At last they decided to go. They ordered us outside, sent their guard to cover their retreat, and then — when they were safely away — the guard ordered us not to move, speak, or shout for fifteen minutes, or he would return and kill us. Then he ran.

Three or four nights after that nightmarish evening, one of the real partisans rang our bell and asked Zizi and me to follow him and try to identify men they had taken hostage. The legitimate partisans had heard what happened and needed to clear their name — to show people they had nothing to do with it. They took us to a darkened room in a house on another hill, where four individuals sat while flashlights were shone on their faces. They kept us in darkness to prevent the four from recognizing us. They asked if we could identify any of them — but how could we? They had worn masks, and all you could see were eyes through slits. I thought I recognized two dark, piercing eyes, but couldn't be positively certain they belonged to one of our night visitors. In any case, the genuine partisans didn't really need us — they had found the stolen goods, the money, and the jewelry hidden in the partisans' camp. What had been taken was returned. It was enough to prove guilt. I don't know what became of those young men, only that for a while they were not around, and when they reappeared, they were considerably less cocky.

Your Father and I

In the meantime, your father and I became engaged — though there was no talk of wedding bells because of the war.

Your father and other young men from nearby villages had been recruited by the Germans to dig trenches in the hills as defensive fortifications against partisan warfare. Every so often, German soldiers would invade a village, throw small bombs around, and fire shots into the air — trying to provoke the partisans into attacking so they would have an excuse to kill. One morning, very early, there was a banging at our door. Nonno had never opened the door himself — men were always in danger of being taken prisoner — but on this particular morning, for whatever reason, he did. And there stood three German soldiers with rifles. Very young soldiers, as it turned out, and likely just as frightened as we were.

Not knowing much Italian, they asked how many signore were in the house. Signore means women. What they really meant was signori — men. Nonno took the first meaning and began shouting: "Ladies, show yourselves — this morning they want women!" When they asked how many signore were in the house, Nonno answered "Seven": Nonna, Zizi and me, and the mother and three daughters we had taken in as boarders. When the soldiers saw seven women in their nightclothes, they blushed and asked, "Seven women and only one man?" Finding no other men to take, they asked Nonno — not quite ordering him, but asking — to get dressed and come with them.

Just think how we felt, knowing darn well that nothing good was in store for him. They took him down to the village. I got dressed and told Nonna I was going to see what was happening. She insisted I stay, but I didn't listen. When I reached the little bridge just before the village, the shooting started. Bullets whizzed past me. I thought, "I'm going to die." I crouched as low as I could and ran as fast as I could — I wish I could run that fast now. They weren't aiming at me; they were trying to draw out the partisans. When I got to the village, all the men they had taken were lined up against the walls of the houses — and there, next to Nonno, was your father. The Germans had raided Lumarzo too, but Dad had gotten away and come to Ferriere thinking he would be safe. He had been caught here instead, and now shared whatever fate was in store for the men lined up against those walls.

They were detained for nearly two hours while the shooting went on. Thank God, the partisans never retaliated. Had they done so, for every German soldier hit, a civilian would have been shot. When the Germans finally gave the order to disband, everyone stood rigid, in shock, almost unable to move — until someone shouted (people say it was me, though I don't remember), "Let's get going before they change their minds!" And that was how that episode ended.

The Captain and the Radio Tubes

Another time — I was by then teaching the fourth and fifth grades at the little white schoolhouse I mentioned — I came home from work to find Fascist soldiers searching the entire house. They were canvassing for every male they could find. Thank God, Nonno had gone into a nearby wooded area just in time to avoid them.

While searching the house, they found our radio — a large console type, not common in that time and place. It was powerful enough to receive foreign stations, which was illegal. I knew immediately what was coming. The Captain looked at me, and I looked at him with the most sorrowful eyes I could summon. He said, "You know, I really should confiscate this radio, but I'll be magnanimous and just take the tubes." I thanked him sincerely — with hatred in my heart — and off they went.

They went down to Ferriere, where trucks were waiting to load up all the men. Your father was among them — he had thought, once again, that Ferriere was a safe place. Once the men were pushed into the trucks and ready to roll, I ran to the Captain and asked where they were being taken. Destination: Gattorna, and from there, wherever their orders led. I decided I had to go to Gattorna too. I turned to the Captain and told him I wanted to ride along. He looked at me as if I were completely mad — another exchange of sorrowful eyes, more insistence, his repeated refusals. But in the end, he let me climb into the back of the truck with all those poor men who didn't know what was to become of them.

Meanwhile, back home, Nonno had been watching from his hiding place in the woods and had seen me get on the truck. He was telling Nonna: "That girl has done it this time — she used her tongue too much and got herself into trouble. God only knows what's going to happen to her now."

We arrived in Gattorna, and the men were herded into the local schoolroom. I wanted to see your father once more — and the radio tubes were still very much on my mind. I got a dozen eggs and made my way to the school. The Captain was standing outside. I asked if I could go in. No way, he said — absolutely impossible. I persisted, saying, "Please, just let my fiancé have these eggs. God knows when he'll eat again. And if you could possibly return my tubes, I would be most grateful — in a way you need not worry about. No one would ever know."

Whether he liked me, or had a genuinely good soul, or was simply tired of arguing with me, I can't say — but after a while he said: "Just get in there, but make it fast." He didn't have to tell me twice. Dad was standing near a table, and right next to him were the tubes. Our minds clicked in unison: without a word, he took the eggs, set them on the table, threw his jacket over the tubes, and handed the bundle to me.

Coming out, I met my friend the Captain again. He looked at me and said, "I'll see what I can do about your tubes." Oh dear, I thought — do I tell him or not? I went for the truth. Very quietly, I said, "I already have them." He looked at me, smiled, and told me to go home.

I was exhausted — not physically, but my nerves were completely drained. I don't remember how I got home; I must have hitched a ride somehow. Once home, I explained the situation to your grandparents, grabbed a chicken or rabbit — it's not entirely clear in my memory, perhaps both — went back to Gattorna, found my friend, and gave him my "thank you." It may sound funny today, but in those days a chicken or rabbit was a very appreciated gift.

The men were all brought to Chiavari and put in prison, waiting to learn what was next. We started wheels turning immediately. Andrew Rosasco's brother-in-law, Pino Gibelli, was a highly influential Fascist — one of the old-time Fascists, not the new wartime variety. He had been governor of Ethiopia when Mussolini conquered that region of Africa. Once back in Italy, he had great pull, and he managed to get your father, Uncle Giuanin, cousin Pino, and many others out of their predicament, saving their lives from whatever fate had been planned for them.

There were so many small incidents and episodes during those years that it would take a lifetime to tell them all. But I think I have given you some idea of what it was like to live through that war: trunks kept in the hallway because the house could be destroyed at any moment, and the constant terror — day and night — that the Germans, the Fascists, or the partisans of either category might descend with God knows what plans. But finally, the war ended.

Chapter Four: After the War

The Road to the Wedding

During the war, your father had finished his studies and was called up to the Merchant Marine Academy. He managed in some way to get out of it, worked in the shipyards, did his time with the German tunnel projects — which, if I remember correctly, the men tried never to actually finish, refilling the holes so that the tunnels could never be put to use — and then, when the war ended, he was hired by the Costa ship line as a machine officer on one of their vessels. It was the first Costa ship to cross the Atlantic after all the years of wartime inactivity, bringing back the first Liberty ship purchased from the United States. During those voyages, most of the crew — sometimes with the voluntary blindness of the captain — brought back all kinds of food items and sold them on the black market. This was the second early showing of your father's business initiative, after the school-book deals.

During one of his trips to New York, Nonno asked him to look in on the store situation in Lynbrook. Even though the war was over, certain legalities prevented any money from reaching us. Once, through some roundabout means, a small amount was sent to Venice and we had to go collect it in person — but it was nothing compared to what should have been coming to us. According to Nonno's uncle, things were going very badly and there was little income to share. All excuses.

Meantime, your father and I set a date for the wedding, to be scheduled between his voyages. Even then, definite plans were nearly impossible to make. His suit was being made — there was no such thing as ready-made clothing in Italy at that time, except for very high-end items in high-end shops — and his last fitting was the day before the wedding, August 14, 1946, which depended entirely on whether the ship would arrive on time.

Zizi — and perhaps you know how your Aunt Maria came by this nickname: when Bobby was a toddler, we wanted him to call her Zia Maria in Italian, but he came out with "Zizi," and it stuck for all you boys, as well as for your cousins Carolyn and Susan — was not entirely enthusiastic about my getting married. We had always been a duo, very close, and she was afraid of losing that. She developed a certain antagonism toward Mimmo (your father's nickname) — not toward the friend he had been, but toward the husband he was about to become. It took some time to make her understand that things between her and me would always remain the same.

It is the custom in Italy to give out wedding favors, usually some kind of small container with five sugar-coated almonds. We had bought a large quantity of them — I don't remember exactly how many kilos, but quite a lot. As you know, because of the war we had seen very few sweets for a very long time, and between that craving and her anxiety over the wedding, Zizi ate nearly all of them. When she realized what she had done, and knowing full well the consequences, she bribed Uncle Giuse to go to the city and buy replacements, promising to pay him back when she had the money. The good soul saved her from everyone's wrath.

The Wedding Day

The ship came in on time, and we were ready for the great day. I was the first post-war bride, and the first bride in the area to be dressed in a long white gown. Nonna and Nonno spared no expense, hiring two cooks from Chiavari who arrived the day before to prepare the specialties. There were no refrigerators, so Uncle Giuanin offered us the one at his butcher shop, and the food had to be carried back and forth between Ponegrasca and Ferriere on foot. There was a car road to Ponegrasca by then, but back then it was a stone-cobbled path. The long narrow terrace running the full length of the back of the house became the reception table, with the cooks passing dishes through the kitchen windows. There were no restaurants then equipped to host a wedding; that is why mine was done at home.

The church ceremony was another matter entirely. I got dressed at home and then had to hike, in high heels, all the way up to Tasso, the small village above Ferriere where the church stands to this day — up the same cobbled path, up the hill. It must have been quite a sight: a long procession of people trudging uphill behind the bride, some close, some far behind, all ages and sizes, sweating and puffing. We arrived at the church at different intervals, and I thought everyone had made it — until I realized my witness was missing. That was Uncle Big Andrew, and given the mass he had to carry and move up that hill, he arrived a bit later than everyone else.

There were no flower girls, maids of honor, matron of honor, or ushers — not the custom then. When everyone was settled in the pews and the ceremony began, everything went smoothly until the memorable moment when the groom is asked whether he wishes to take the woman before him as his bride. We heard the whole congregation gasp and hold its breath. What had happened was that a fly had started circling your father's head, and he was shaking it in the negative direction to shoo the fly away. Everyone thought he was backing out of the wedding. The sigh of relief when they realized what had really happened was something to hear.

Our honeymoon was at the Lake of Stresa in northern Italy, where the Marchese Pallavincino had an enormous villa. Your father's grandmother had nursed some of the Pallavincino babies; your father's sister Teresa, a teacher, had tutored them through various school years; and Aunt Guilia, the other sister, a very good seamstress, had made their clothes. In later years they paid us a visit here in the States. They were the same people, Albert, whom you asked — right in front of them — whether they were the "rich people" we sometimes talked about. You rather embarrassed us. You must have been five or six at the time. We had gone to Italy that summer and visited the private zoo on their property, at their invitation. You were astonished by the size of the place, the wealth, and the butler.

Chapter Five: Coming to America

Zizi Goes Ahead

After the honeymoon, your father went back to his sea voyages, and I went back to teaching. It was during one of his trips to New York that he came home and informed Nonno that someone had better get to the States to look after the businesses there, because not all was as it should be.

Your grandparents, who had become naturalized citizens, had lost their citizenship rights by overstaying in a foreign country and could not return to the States. I, as a teacher employed by the Italian government, had also lost those rights — though I had been entirely unaware of this wartime law, passed in Washington largely to prevent communist influence from overseas, Italy being then heavily communist (in an Italian fashion, mind you). Entry quotas were strictly observed. Zizi was the only member of the family who could enter the States — but it had to be before her eighteenth birthday, only a few months away. In great haste, her passport was issued, her sea passage secured, and she was sent to rescue the Ferrera interests in Lynbrook.

Poor Zizi. She had never traveled farther than thirty-five miles from Ferriere, spoke no English, and found herself in Uncle Baccio's and Aunt Rose's house, where the reception was not exactly warm. I think they suspected the reason for the trip. Things were eventually sorted out when your grandparents were finally permitted to return. In the meantime, Zizi was offered hospitality by a cousin of ours who had come from Italy and married the woman you know as Auntie Anna. Her husband Louie, who had served on the European front, was subject to depression and nightmares, and with the excuse that Auntie Anna could not leave her very responsible job at the bank, Zizi was asked to move in and look after Louie. So Zizi was freed from her unhappy situation with the Rosascos.

She began the paperwork to bring our parents back to the States. They were eventually permitted to enter — I believe around 1948.

My Own Battle to Stay

And so I was left in Ponegrasca alone, teaching all five grades at Tasso, which had become my permanent school. Your father had grown tired of the shipping life and left the Costa line to take a job in the port as a ship supplier, resupplying vessels when they came in.

I presented myself at the American consulate in Genova and requested a passport to visit my family during summer vacation. Refused. A year later, in 1950, I applied again. Refused again. I cried and told them my sister was getting married — which was not true — and that I would be the only family member absent from her wedding, and that she wanted me as her matron of honor. They relented, on the condition that I sign a document promising not to attempt to remain in America, and that I bring a signed and sealed letter from my school supervisor granting me leave for the summer vacation with the understanding I would return for the start of school.

I told my supervisor the whole story. Because it would not have been fair to leave him suddenly without a teacher, I told him plainly that I had no intention of returning and had plans to try to remain in the States. He was very happy to oblige and sent me on my way with his good wishes — and the letter.

I came to America, went to live with your grandparents and Zizi in an apartment across from what is now an office building on Park Avenue, and after a short while we moved to a house they bought on Latimer Court in Rockville Centre.

A very good lawyer, Thomas Gulotta, gave us guidance on how to begin the process of reinstating my citizenship rights — with the strict promise that we would never mention his name or admit to his advice. Armed with two good (and expensive) lawyers, we started a case that would last the better part of five very long years. This meant regular trips to immigration courts in Brooklyn, hearings at Ellis Island, and meetings at the lawyers' offices to prepare me for every question they might ask.

At the same time, Gulotta told us how to bring your father over. Again under the strictest secrecy, he suggested that Dad get back on a Merchant Marine ship and, during a voyage to New York, simply jump ship and go into hiding for about a month. Then he was to give himself up and declare that it had become impossible to live apart from his wife during what appeared to be a very long, drawn-out process. So that is what he did. He left everything on board — his clothes, his documents, his wallet — so no one would suspect his plan. Nobody knew his wife was in the States; he had never told his shipmates.

Now he was something of a deserter in Italian eyes, and an illegal in American ones. He lay low for that prescribed period, more or less in hiding at your grandparents' house. After weeks of fear of being caught and sent back, he finally gave himself up according to the lawyer's instructions and, thank God, was allowed to remain. There were hearings and consultations, but in the meantime he could begin working. This must have been early fall of 1950.

During that period I had taken a business course in typing and shorthand — a very fast course, but I picked up the basics. I applied to Liberty Mutual Insurance Company. My English was still elementary, and there was much about American life and ways that I simply didn't know. They gave me a written questionnaire, and among hundreds of sensible questions were some that seemed quite strange to me, such as "What does G.E. stand for?" I know now it stands for General Electric — but how on earth was I supposed to know that then? I told the truth: I was new to this country and could not be expected to know what all those abbreviations meant. They hired me anyway.

Finding Our Footing

I worked in Lynbrook. Nonno worked in the produce department of the A&P supermarket. Nonna worked in a private home, pressing laundry taken in by the owner. Zizi, for her part, had gone through enormous hardship finding work — no English, no experience outside the home — but she landed a job at Bergdorf-Goodman in New York City, in the custom-made clothes department. She had minimal knowledge of sewing and none at all of modern machinery. What saved her was the language barrier: with the excuse of not understanding, they would demonstrate everything for her, and that is how she became one of their finest custom seamstresses.

And then there was your father. Our cousin Louie, Auntie Anna's husband, worked for a large butcher company and got Dad a job there in Lynbrook. He didn't last long. We later learned that Auntie Anna, hearing the boss was willing to pay Dad a fair salary, had told him to cut it — so that Dad wouldn't think earning a living in America was as easy as people imagined, and that the streets weren't paved with gold. You know your father. He handed in his resignation. He didn't confront her about it, but the relationship between them was never quite the same after that. He went to work as a waiter at an Italian restaurant in East Rockaway. The meals were included, the pay was half decent, and the tips helped. But, as you know, that wasn't enough for your father.

Meantime, I found myself pregnant — and before you snicker, we had been married five years by then, and things do happen. So we decided to move out of your grandparents' house and rented the apartment below the one they had lived in before buying the Latimer Court house — the one on Park Avenue, which no longer exists.

Your father applied to the Circle Line in New York, the line that cruises around Manhattan, and began working as an engineer in the machine rooms. Then one day we got a call from Circle Line: your father had developed terrible abdominal pains and had been taken to the emergency room for immediate surgery — a very serious appendicitis. That is where he got that beautiful zigzag scar on his stomach. Must have been a first-time apprentice surgeon on the job.

After he recovered, he applied to the shipyards in Brooklyn and was hired as a mechanic. At first he commuted by bus, train, and subway. Then he bought a little broken-down two-seater Model T Ford — you boys would have loved it; I wish we had kept it. It had broken windows, great big holes in the floor, and when it rained the water would splash up through them, soaking everything; the brakes barely worked. Dad used to leave at four in the morning, and sometimes when he arrived there was work, sometimes not. Eventually they assigned him to the drafting room, where he served as an interpreter for the Liberty ships coming from Italy. Then the Korean War broke out, all records were re-examined, and Dad — not yet a citizen — was released from his job.

So he was out there again, looking for something he could do on his own.

Chapter Six: The Family Grows

Bobby

On November 22, 1951, you, Bobby, were born. You had been "diagnosed" as likely to be a Thanksgiving baby, and, as an obedient little fellow, that is exactly when you arrived. You were a breech presentation, but you appeared just about five or six hours after I got to Mercy Hospital. I confess I had been expecting a girl, and at my shower I had been given mostly pink items — I suppose to force fate. So when the doctor told me it was a boy, all I could think of were all those pink things, and I mumbled, just before drifting off from the spinal, "My God, everything is pink!" When I woke up I couldn't move my legs — they felt paralyzed — and I still hadn't seen you. I was imagining all sorts of terrible things, not knowing about the effects of the injection or that they didn't show the babies until after the first twenty-four hours of life. When I finally got the courage to ask the two most important questions — was I paralyzed, and was my baby alive — the nurse explained and went to fetch you.

Bobby, I can't quite describe what I thought when I first saw you. You had so much hair all over you — even on your face. All I could think of was a little monkey. I was shocked. I even refused the photograph they took of you, as they did for all the babies. I wish I had accepted it. You certainly don't look like a monkey now.

We had only one bedroom in the apartment — a large room — and that is where the crib was put and where you slept. The word "slept" is perhaps generous. You would fret all night, not fully waking but never quite settling, keeping us from any real rest. The pediatrician solved the mystery: your father's snoring — which he has always possessed at the highest degree, and still does — was the cause of your restlessness. We had to move to the convertible couch in the living room.

During this period, your father's father came to visit us from Genova. He also visited Stockton, California, where he had two sisters, several brothers, and one brother known as Barba Dria, who was still alive as I write this at ninety years old. Your paternal grandfather could not get over the way of life here: no going home for lunch, eating out of paper bags wherever you happened to be, and worst of all, no afternoon siesta. He was not very impressed.

A House of Our Own

Around 1955, we had saved enough money to buy 126 North Park Avenue — not in cash, of course, but mortgaged. That was something we were entirely unaccustomed to: in Italy, you didn't get anything unless you could put down all the cash. Your father converted the house into two apartments entirely by himself. We lived on the first floor and rented out the second. A much-needed income.

About a year later, your father, Nonno, and I took a trip across the country to California. Bobby stayed home with Nonna. We saw a great deal of the country, because in those days the highways and thruways we know today did not exist. We visited all the major sites of interest — I think we still have slides in the basement from that trip. We even got a speeding ticket in the middle of the desert, in the middle of nowhere, with nobody around — until a patrol car seemed to appear from nowhere and took us to a so-called courthouse where the barber, who was also the local judge, made us pay the fine. I imagine that was how that little town padded its budget.

Roger

When Bobby was about five years and two months old, on February 7, 1957, Roger was born at South Nassau Community Hospital. He was a pretty good baby who didn't mind the playpen. Bobby had been a late talker, and Roger wasn't especially early either, but when he did start talking, he spoke in full sentences right away — no individual words.

At that time the business was seasonal — just the gardening work — and there was no store yet. So your father used to go to Italy during the winters. That particular winter, when Roger was about two, he decided to take him along, so that your grandparents could see him and get to know him. At their request, Dad left him there when he returned, because we had in November of 1959 bought the property at 239 North Long Beach Road in Rockville Centre and were busy renovating and getting started with the retail end of the business. In the meantime, at the Park Avenue house, we had added a small room at the side and had been selling some garden center items and seedlings in season. We had also built a large garage in the back for supplies and equipment, had a pickup truck, and had acquired a pea-green Oldsmobile. We were coming into the world.

Roger remained in Italy for nine months, during which he learned to speak the Genovese dialect and to hammer nails into things under Nonno's careful direction.

When your father went to pick him up, we all went to the airport to greet him — and to our painful surprise, he hardly knew me, his own mother. He was wearing a military crew cut and looked utterly lost among us. But in the car he sang a Genovese song about a young bachelor going to town hall to pay his celibate tax. (In those years, all unmarried men paid such a tax; Mussolini wanted everyone married, to increase the labor force on the farms and the numbers in the military.) That was Nonno's teaching, the song.

That night we put him to bed with us. Early in the morning I woke to the sound of muffled sniffling. Roger was wide awake and crying, and when I asked why, he answered, "I want to go back home to Nonna and Nonno." That certainly made my morning. Everything was phrased with a sense of distance: "Can I sit on your chairs? Is this your house?" Nothing felt like his. Thank God that phase eventually passed.

Albert

From Roger's birth, six years went by, during which we had begun to consider returning to Italy for good — as Nonno had done before us. But what do you know: with the usual five-to-six-year interval, I got the surprise of a lifetime. At forty, I was pregnant again. I can't say I was delighted. I cried more than I laughed, that's for sure. Starting all over from zero was not a happy thought — but if nothing else, the news made the Italy decision for us. Your father concluded he had to stay in America and work some more for the third son. So thank you, Albert. If it weren't for you, I would probably be living in Italy now, which is not at all where I would want to be.

You were born at South Nassau Community Hospital on October 5, 1963. All three of you boys were very active during your residence in my womb — all three in awkward positions with the cords around your necks. But thank God, you all made it safely and fairly quickly.

Now we had three sons. I'll confess I would have loved to have a little girl, but I wouldn't trade a single one of you for anything in the world. Perhaps we never voiced our love as often as we might have, because we were raised in a very different civilization — one where feelings were not supposed to be exposed or demonstrated. But that doesn't make our love any less strong. Sometimes I think the openness of today is wonderful and wish it had come more easily to us, too.

Both Bobby and Roger knew I had hoped for a girl, and so when your father brought them to the hospital window — children were not allowed inside in those days — they were holding a card they had sent, saying they loved me and were sorry it wasn't a baby girl. That made me feel a little guilty about my feelings before the birth. I certainly wasn't sorry to have Albert. Once you see those little ones, it doesn't matter what they are — you just want to hold them and love them. So I went to the window and blew kisses, the only thing I could do. I don't know whether you two boys remember, but that's on the record now.

Mount Avenue

Another Rosasco, who had been living on Mount Avenue with his mother, caught the Italy bug and decided to go. We bought his house at number 2374 and moved in when Albert was a few weeks old. With the house came their dog, Dina — an old, very gentle black Labrador who, as Albert grew, accepted everything a toddler could throw at her, including sitting calmly and patiently while buckets of sand were dumped on her head by Sir Albert himself.

None of you three were difficult babies, apart from the usual gas and burping. You each had very distinct personalities and different interests. Bobby was all things mechanical, always fixing something. Roger was a bookworm. Albert was drawn to animal books — especially fond of whales and sharks — and he loved to dance. He used to climb up on a wooden box we had in the basement and do the twist, swinging his bottom left and right, sometimes entirely in the nude.

For quite a few years we took summer vacations in Ponegrasca, where I think you all had a wonderful time — up to a certain age — with the country life, the animals, and the insects. Albert, around age three, managed to put the car in reverse while sitting in it alone, with Nonna watching from outside the driver's door. Thank God the car hit a tree and stopped — but in the meantime Nonna had been dragged along on her knees and had to be taken to the hospital with damage to both. I suppose Albert was already developing a taste for reckless driving in preparation for the car-racing years that would follow.

Chapter Seven: Building a Life

In June of 1966, we bought the land in Moriches, and Brookhaven Nursery came into existence.

In February of 1979, we bought the two-family house in Baldwin on Thomas Avenue, and "818 Thomas Avenue Corp." came to life.

Meantime, Bobby and Roger finished school at St. Agnes and went on to Oceanside High. Albert never attended St. Agnes — perhaps that is why religion has never been his most favored subject. He went to School 5 on Oceanside Road and then to Oceanside High.

In March of 1990, we sold the house on Mount Avenue to South Nassau Community Hospital, after years of refusing because they never wanted to meet our price. In the beginning we simply didn't want to give in, when most of the neighbors had already settled. It took nearly fifteen years before we finally agreed — because they did eventually pay what we asked.

* * * * * * *

And this is as far as I go with the Schenone Saga of the earlier years. Now it is your task to pick up the thread and unravel the history from your childhood till present days for the future generations.

Lovingly,

Mom

* * * * * * *

P.S.

I'm sure, with my present memory — or lack of it — I may have passed over or forgotten episodes and happenings that could have enhanced this narrating effort of mine. But if any one of them should come to my mind, I'll just add a few more lines, or you'll do the rest for me.