Requiem for the Bone Man Read online

  “I can’t lose her, Papa. You know she almost died when little Pasquale ...”

  “Si, figlio mio, I know.”

  The old man remembered when the child who would have had his name had died quickly after birth. It was a double grief piled on both him and his son: losing the baby so soon after their beloved Antonella had died suddenly.

  Pasquale was alone now with his memories of her.

  No more, caro Dio, no more!

  Both men started reflexively as they heard screams in the back room, followed by a deathly stillness that exposed the rasps of their own fearful breathing.

  “Dio mio!” Pietro sobbed.

  Pasquale held his son, his own heart crying out.

  “Antonella, help me!”

  Then they heard a second, higher-pitched cry shattering the brief silence, the gasping, angry cry of an infant suddenly ejected from the security of the womb. They stood transfixed as the old wooden door opened and the bent midwife waddled out holding a red-faced crying baby in her hands.

  “You have a son, Pietro!”

  Father and grandfather rushed into the birth room, followed by the midwife carrying the baby and returning it to the exhausted woman who forever thereafter would be called Mama.

  “Maria!” the younger man called out, and the tired young woman turned her face to him.

  “We will call him Antonio,” she half-whispered.

  Pasquale Gallini smiled at the wisdom of his daughter-in-law.

  “Come on, Tonio, we’re going to the festival.”

  “No, Sal, my father needs me.”

  He was the son and grandson of stonemasons. After school he worked side by side with his father and grandfather, cutting, chipping, measuring—whatever was required for the repairs to the great cathedral. From the time he could walk, he had carried the water to wet the stones to keep the dust down, until they had begun to teach him the craft itself.

  When they rested, he would sit at his grandfather’s knee and ask the old man about the great days when Garibaldi and Mazzini united the country, and how the old man had fought to free the land from foreign influence.

  His grandfather would show him the two gold medals for bravery that hung above the straw-filled bed along with the black paper silhouettes of Mazzini and Garibaldi ... and Antonella.

  Antonio first saw Anna at Mass on Easter Sunday. Like the other girls, she wore a white dress and had blossoms in her hair. But there was a difference to her.

  He was twelve and he was curious.

  He was noticing things he had never noticed before. Her face did not seem like those of the other girls. It lit up the church more than the candles that stood row on row in front of the statues of the Virgin Mary and the Infant Jesus. Her voice was sweeter than the spring birds now trilling the Resurrection of Christ.

  After Mass, she walked outside and sat in the back of a little donkey cart waiting for her family.

  He was twelve and he was bold.

  “My name is Antonio Gallini. What’s yours?”

  “Anna. Anna Abrescia.”

  He liked the name.

  She thought he looked strong for just a boy.

  As their childhood romance flowered in the little Tuscan village, another flower was beginning to bloom that soon would stain the earth red.

  Pasquale could feel it in the air. The young men were restive, just as they had been almost fifty years before. The blood lust was rising, even in his son Pietro.

  Antonio was now fourteen—almost a man.

  Pasquale began to plan.

  The town priest knew how to speak and write English, so he called in a favor—the church repairs he had performed but never charged for—and arranged for the priest to teach the boy. He would not permit his grandson to be sucked into the maw of war.

  “Tonio, you don’t spend time with us anymore. All you do is moon over the carpenter’s daughter.”

  His friends knew him too well.

  She would be coming into town today. He would wait for her. It was going to be a busy day. The farmers from the outlying areas would be bringing the cattle to the town for sale. There would be festivities.

  He saw her down the street; she was driving the little donkey cart. Then he heard the rumble of hooves, thousands of them: the cattle drive. He saw the cart stop. The girl stood up and looked back in the direction of the noise—she was terrified. He ran, ran, as fast as he could toward her, grabbed the reins from her paralyzed hands and pulled the donkey and cart off the street into a nearby alley just as the cattle thundered through.

  He lifted the still-frightened girl out of the cart and then held her for just a moment. He felt strange, like nothing he had ever felt before. Then, as she hugged and kissed him, the strangeness got stronger. She returned to the cart, her face red like the tomatoes in his grandfather’s garden.

  He felt the burning in his own face and began moving toward her when he heard the clapping of hands and turned to see a watching crowd. Suddenly he was surrounded by his friends who were laughing and dancing, holding fingers to their heads to imitate the horns of a bull.

  “Moo! Moo! Moo! Antonio has the horn!”

  A few motioned crudely grabbing their crotches.

  He realized it was true, and he ran off embarrassed to the shelter of his home.

  “Antonio, the other boys are joining the army. Have you done so yet?”

  “No, Papa, not yet. I thought you and Grandpapa needed me here.”

  His father scowled and walked away.

  Pasquale emerged from the shadows of the stonecutting room.

  “Tonio, I see you with the carpenter’s daughter. You love her.”

  He was embarrassed that it had become so obvious to everyone, but he nodded.

  “Listen carefully to me, my son. Yes, I call you my son, because you are more like me than your father ever was. You are a thinker. I will not let you become cannon fodder. Here, boy.”

  The old man held out a small leather pouch.

  “This is for you and your Anna. Take it. It will be enough for you both. Go to Naples, get passage to America. You must leave before the guns start sounding. War is not glory. Many of my friends lie in the ground because of it. Now go, pack your clothes and say good-bye to your mama. She will understand. Do not be upset by your father.”

  Antonio took the pouch and could feel the weight of the coins. He hugged the old man and thanked him, knowing they soon would never see each other again. As he left the room, he saw his father standing there, his face darkened with rage.

  “Papa, I …”

  His father turned his back, and the words echoed off the stucco walls.

  “Non ho figlio!”

  “Mama, I’m leaving for America with Anna. When we get enough money together, we’ll send for you and Papa and Grandpapa. It’s going to be all right.”

  Maria looked at her son. She pulled his head to her chest and rocked him as she had done when he was a baby. She was stricken with grief, but she knew Pasquale was right; her son had to leave in order to live. She turned and took down the small silver crucifix from the mantle and put it in her son’s hands.

  “It is all I can give you.”

  “Come, Anna, we’ll miss the boat!”

  They moved quickly through the crowds at the Naples dock. The great steamship towered over everything as they clutched the two small bags and moved up the gangplank. The steward looked at the young couple, sneered, then pointed toward the steerage section, the cheapest, darkest level of the ship. Crowded and dank, the smell of fear and hope mixed there with incipient seasickness. But it was worth it. They were going to America.

  Fourteen days later, they saw the great copper statue rising above the entrance to New York Harbor. It had been a rough voyage until they finally were allowed to stand on deck.

  “No deck chairs for this refuse!” the steward had laughed to his co-workers.

  Disembarkation was worse. After the rich passengers streamed leisurely down the gangplanks to t
he waiting arms of family and friends, the steerage masses were herded off and loaded onto a crowded barge for transport across the harbor to a large carved-stone and red-brick building. At the entrance, the men were separated from the women and children, and all were grouped into long lines.

  Government doctors quickly screened the new arrivals for diseases, passing along those deemed healthy or shaking their heads in rejection when they detected tuberculosis or a severe defect. They sent those not accepted to special holding areas, more like cages, condemned to a return voyage to whatever land they had left.

  Then the final line, the ultimate evaluation for the “Non-English.”

  “Hey, Mike, what do I do with these two dagos?”

  The older man turned and saw the two standing there: short, rough-clothed, worn high-top leather shoes, tired.

  Children! God help them, just kids.

  “Send them over, Tim.”

  He knew that his partner was always a little too eager to stamp the fatal word UNSUITABLE across the papers of the incoming, but there was something in this couple’s eyes, a spirit he rarely saw among the tired line of people.

  He looked at the boy. Strong, determined, fix-jawed. This one could succeed. The girl holding onto the boy—there was hidden strength there, too.

  “What are your names? Do you understand me?”

  He hoped they did. It would make his decision much easier, and then he smiled inside as he heard the strongly accented English.

  “My name Antonio Gallini.”

  The man turned to Anna, but Antonio spoke up before he could question her.

  “My wife, Anna Abrescia Gallini.”

  It was a small lie.

  The inspector looked at them.

  Married? Right—and I’m Charlie Chaplin.

  “Okay, son, here’s a list of what you need to do. Keep it with you. You look strong. I know a place that needs strong men. What do you do?”

  “I am stonemason,” Antonio stammered.

  He handed the boy a piece of paper.

  “Take this card. There’s a metal foundry just outside the city. They can use you.”

  He didn’t tell the kid he would receive a commission for sending him, but it was a damn sight better than what his partner would have done.

  He offered another card—another commission.

  “Here’s a cheap place to stay until you get set up. Now give me your papers.”

  The inspector took them, examined them, and then pulled a fountain pen out of his breast pocket and made a change in the names.

  “I’m doing you a favor, kid. In America, your name is your ticket. It’s now Galen.”

  He took a big rubber stamp and marked the papers: ENTRY ALLOWED.

  A few minutes later, they walked out of the teeming building and onto the ferry taking them to the place where they would begin their new life.

  Dearest Mama,

  Anna and I have settled in a place called Newark. It is not far from the great city of New York. I work at the iron foundry. Anna and I are still living in the boardinghouse that a nice officer told us about. As soon as we put enough money aside, we will move to a boardinghouse near work.

  Tell Papa that I love him and meant him no disrespect, but Grandpapa is right. The old country is not for us anymore. How is Grandpapa?

  Please tell Father Infante that his English lessons have served us well. Anna and I are studying for our citizenship and we both read the questions and recite the answers in English.

  I will write again soon.

  Your loving son,

  Antonio

  There was more, much more he wanted to write, but this was his first letter home and he wasn’t sure if it would even reach the little village. It was August 1914, and the war his grandfather had feared was beginning. Besides, he needed to check on Anna. She hadn’t been feeling well the past few mornings and could not keep down the food she ate. He did not know why. He wished he understood women better.

  The postman left letters on a table in the boardinghouse foyer for the residents to sort out for themselves.

  She felt a stirring within her as she descended the five flights of stairs and saw the envelope Antonio had sent away several months before sitting on the table. At first she couldn’t understand the words stamped on it: LETTER REFUSED.

  Then she realized. Pietro must have seen the return address and handed the letter back to il postino, rejecting it as he had his son.

  She did not carry it back up the stairs. Instead, she asked the housemistress for an envelope and piece of paper. She stuffed the first letter inside. Carefully she addressed it to Father Infante at Saint Paolo’s Church and enclosed a note asking him to give it personally to Maria Gallini.

  Quickly, while her Antonio was still at work, she walked to the post office and paid the twelve cents to the man behind the window. She used the pennies she had saved from the laundry and sewing work she did for the housemistress and other boarders. She added a silent prayer to go with the letter. She wanted to hurry back. Antonio did not like her being out at all, now that he knew she was carrying their child.

  When she turned to leave the building, the pain hit her and she collapsed to the floor.

  “Mr. Galen, your wife is very sick. I’m afraid the baby came too soon.”

  He stammered the question he wanted to scream out: “My wife, Anna, will she…?”

  “No, she’ll be all right; she’s a strong woman.”

  A little while later he walked out of the charity hospital that cared for the poor and the immigrants of the city.

  God is punishing us. We should not have gone to City Hall for a marriage license. We should have gotten a priest’s blessing—and I should have made things right with Papa.

  Why hasn’t Mama written?

  She sat in the rocking chair on loan from the housemistress. It now had been several months since she had lost the baby. She continued to sew for the lady, and for other boarders who had helped out when she returned home from the hospital. She heard the knock on their door, and then the mistress called out.

  “Anna, it’s me, Mrs. Flaherty. I have a letter for you.”

  Her heart jumped.

  “Come in, Signora Flaherty, come in.”

  “Looks important. Got foreign stamps on it, like what my late husband Sean would send me when he went back to Ireland for The Cause. He never returned. Aye, but I’ve told ye that before, haven’t I? Ah me, that man.”

  Tears filled the woman’s eyes, but she shrugged, the universal language of women, and wiped them away.

  “Maybe it’s from your folks back home?”

  She leaned forward to peek at the envelope as she handed it to Anna, who smiled as she took it and saw the name on the upper left corner: Maria Gallini. She opened it quickly and the older lady held her breath as Anna read to herself.

  Dearest Anna,

  It has been hard here. Your father and my Pietro joined the army four years ago. We have not heard from them. There is a strange sickness, some call it the Spanish flu, and some call it the Hun’s Curse. Please tell Antonio that his grandfather Pasquale caught the sickness. He passed away very quickly. I am not well either. Father Infante is helping me with this.

  Go with God, my child.

  Another’s handwriting was below.

  Maria passed away shortly after this was written.

  Pray for us all.

  Giuseppe Infante

  “Bad news, dear?”

  “Si, Signora. Antonio’s mother and grandfather have passed.”

  “Oh no! Not after all what’s happened to ye both. I’ll fix something special for when he comes home tonight.”

  “Thank you, Signora.”

  “Eh, do ye have the sewing ready yet?”

  “Si, Signora.”

  The Armistice arrived and none too soon. America started drafting eighteen-year-olds less than two months before the war ended, and by then Antonio had come of age. Military service would have moved up his citize
nship, but it would have left Anna alone. As it was, though, the foundry was considered an essential industry, and so he managed to avoid the war from which his grandfather had done so much to protect him.

  They had moved nearer to his work after Mrs. Flaherty died from the flu that was now raging throughout their adopted country. So far he and Anna had been lucky. Maybe the fumes from the furnaces kept the devils away.

  “It is our curse, Antonio.”

  His head lay against her chest, his left hand holding hers. Their fourth miscarriage. The loss seared his soul far more than any foundry furnace. Always the bitter taste when you had been so near.

  The Roaring Twenties had brought them the hope of minor prosperity. Anna’s scrimping and seamstress work had added enough pennies to their little bit of savings that they had done what their American-born friends had advised them to do: They opened a savings account at the local bank.

  Then October 1929 arrived and their meager nest egg vanished when the bank failed.

  Now, for the fourth time, she lay on the hard bed in the hospital charity ward run by an order of nuns. The sisters were thorough but compassion was a scarce commodity and she heard them whispering about God’s punishment for living in sin.

  “Antonio, I spoke with the priest. He is willing to do the Wedding Mass for us. Please, do this for me.”

  His heart had toughened from the hard times and endless workdays. Fortunately, the foundry had stayed open during the years of the Great Depression, and he had risen to senior foundryman. His identification, stamped into each of the tools he made, was Number 3. He was one of the lucky ones because he had a job—though the work was killing him, slowly sucking the very air out of his lungs.

  He wanted to pound the walls; he wanted to shout at her, even while she lay there under time-yellowed hospital sheets. His mind screamed as he shook his head. How could his wife still believe in the goodness of God? What kind of God would take children—four angels—from a father and mother?