Crown of confessions, p.31
Crown of Confessions, page 31
December 25th, 1947
Merry Christmas, but I don’t feel merry. I don’t have anyone to celebrate with. Pop didn’t visit me, but Mr. Zavlaris brought me some treats—pastries made with spinach, and some made of nuts and honey. I’ve gotten used to Greek food. It’s pretty good, but what I wouldn’t give for some ravioli. This baby is always hungry! I want to go to sleep early tonight and forget this day ever happened. I want to get out of here. I’ve been here so long.
Last night, I dreamt that Gaetano and I decorated a Christmas tree at the winery. He strung the garland, and I hung the ornaments. We listened to Christmas music. We were happy and laughing. Oh God, I wish it was real.
Goodnight, heavenly Father. Happy Birthday.
January 2nd, 1948
New Year’s came and went. It was uneventful. Men have been shooting their guns outside. I don’t know if it’s for the New Year celebration, or wise guys ready to kill each other. The sound of guns scares me now. I’ve heard too many of them with the war, then what happened at the winery. By now, I’m sure Gaetano is frantic about where I am. It’s been so long. Gaetano needs the truth. With so much time and no explanation, I asked Pop if he would deliver a letter. He refused and said it was still too dangerous. Apparently Di Natale has gone rogue and no man is safe. I hope they shoot the son of a bitch so I can go.
Would Gaetano love my baby as if it were his, even if it’s Frank’s? It’s my child. My responsibility. Gaetano will have to understand if he wants me. But this is bigger than even me. I must do what’s best for my baby.
On a happier note, Pop said Carmela’s pregnant and doing well in LA.
January 15th, 1948
Something happened today that frightened me. I heard some guys yelling at Mr. Zavlaris. I couldn’t make out what they said because I hid under a pile of clothes. Once they left, he came into my room. His face was busted up. He said a few men were asking questions about me. He lied and said he hadn’t seen me. I felt so bad seeing him like that. I hated another person getting hurt on my account. I wonder if Pop will want to move me now? I’ve been having strange thoughts and dreams. How can I bring my child up in this crazy world?
January 21st, 1948
Just got word from Pop that the cops picked up Paulie for a slew of crimes. He was picked up in Carson City and is looking at up to ten years in prison. Pop’s sad that Paulie’s going in, but at least we know he’ll be out of the game for a while. I hope he doesn’t flip like Frank. If he starts squealing, the cops might reopen the investigation.
I wonder how long it will be before my child gets stuck in this world. I feel sorry for Pop. He has one kid going to prison, another dead, and the rest of us . . . well . . . we’re all in hiding, not to mention Di Natale’s threats to kill us all if he can’t find Frank. It’s only a matter of time before someone gives us up. Money talks. This is no way to live. I’m truly scared now. I don’t want them to hurt me or my baby. If word got out that I was with Gaetano, Frank’s father would take my baby as leverage, in exchange for Frank. And when I can’t produce Frank’s body, he’d kill us both, claiming I was a whore and the baby was a bastard. He’d do it to make an example out of us. I can’t take that chance. After what happened to Adelina, I must protect this child. My child deserves better. Much better.
February 12th, 1948
The pains have come. Mr. Zavlaris told me Pop is coming to get me. I need to move locations. He says it’s no longer safe. He’s worried about me delivering in the shop. I can’t say I blame him. I don’t think I can be quiet during labor, and a new baby’s cries would surely cause a stir. I don’t want to put Mr. Zavlaris in any more danger. I never loved it here, but it’s become part of my routine. I don’t know where I’m going next. I have tough decisions ahead, but deep down I know what I have to do. There’s no denying it.
And I’m taking the journal with me. Not sure when I’ll write in it again. The baby is coming soon. I feel it.
February 13th, 1948
The contractions are strong, and everything hurts. Pop drove me to Antonelli’s in the middle of the night. I lay in the back of the truck with a burlap sack over me so no one would see me. My water broke on the way over.
They put me up in their back room. Pop and Signora Antonelli come in and out to check on me while ole man Antonelli keeps watch. Signora gave me a leather belt to bite down on and sometimes I scream into my pillow. I bit down so hard that I chipped a tooth. I’m frightened. I wish my mother was here. I feel alone. This hurts so much I can barely write. Please God, let this child live so I can do what I need to do and give me the strength for what’s to come . . .
February 14th, 1948
Baby boy delivered at 8 p.m. Born on Valentines’ Day. He was big, despite coming more than a month early. Nearly 8 pounds. Big eyes and a small tuft of curls on the top of his head. He was born with a small defect. One of his feet curled up slightly. Maybe it was from the less-than-ideal conditions I lived in for the last few months. I can’t be sure. Pop called it piede valgo—club foot.
Pop wrapped him up tight in a blanket to soothe his cries. When I heard my son’s first screams, Rose’s voice echoed in my head. She said it’s hard to have children in this life, and that it’s always a personal choice. I thought about everything that led up to this moment. I’d been hidden from the world. I would probably be in hiding for the rest of my life. With Tony dead and Paulie in prison, I knew what I had to do for my son—I remembered ruota degli esposti—the church in Italy with the bell and the little door.
Pop would never understand. I will wait for him to leave, then ask Signora to drive me to the church. The next few hours will be the hardest. I’ll make sure to leave a note so that one day he’ll know why I’m doing what I’m doing. I won’t let him grow up in this life. I have to let it begin with me. This all has to stop.
As dawn approached, I swaddled my son in the afghan I’d made for him, then ran as fast as my legs would allow to the truck parked in front of the Antonelli farms. While ole man Antonelli slept, Signora Antonelli sat in the driver’s seat, dressed all in black. She wore a scarf around her face and neck.
I opened the truck door and got in.
“Get down,” she commanded. “And put dis blankets ova you so no one see.”
I pressed my son to my chest, crouched down to the floorboards, then threw the blankets over us.
Blood dripped down my legs from the birth.
The clutch popped as she put the truck in neutral and we coasted down the hill. After a few seconds, the truck’s engine came alive, and we were on our way. A few minutes later, the truck stopped.
“You mussa hurry. I tink someone follow us,” she whispered cautiously.
I threw the blankets off, opened the door and climbed out. I turned back to Signora Antonelli. “Thank you for doing this and for helping me. I’ll never forget what you did for us tonight.” I looked down at my son while he suckled my breast.
“Dey took my son, but dey willa not take yours.” She looked through the windshield and over her shoulder. “Now go,” she demanded.
With the cold night air on my face, I trudged forward to do the unthinkable. No one could know I was here and what I was about to do.
I gathered any remaining strength I had left and walked up the steps to the church door. I bent down and laid him onto the cold, concrete floor and tucked a note inside with him.
I peered down at his little face and tiny lashes that flickered in the night’s wind, then pressed a kiss to his cheek. “You deserve better than me. Better than this life.” My words came out no stronger than broken whispers. Tears clouded my vision, turning his precious face into swirls of regret and a lifetime of immeasurable sadness.
“Goodbye, little one. I will love you forever and now you’ll be safe.” I banged on the tall doors and hurried back to Signora Antonelli. He screamed for me. I clawed at my chest, hoping to dig out my own heart with my nails. I put my hands over my ears and got in the truck. We drove away. I looked back only once to see the church door open.
February 15th, 1948
We made it back with no one seeing us. Thankfully, Signora Antonelli agreed to drive me. She understood why I made the decision, and I’m glad she was there with me. I don’t know if I could have gone through with it without her.
Of all the people in this world, it wasn’t surprising that it was another Mafia queen who stood in solidarity with me in my darkest hour. We were a silent sisterhood of lost souls who’d sacrificed to a cause that never cared about our well-being. We were the baby makers of future gangsters. Enablers. Arm candy. Partners in crime. And when those jobs were done, we were punching bags and rape victims. We were the forgotten pieces of this secret society, and we all spoke the same language.
We didn’t speak on the way back. There were no more words, just tears felt by two mothers who’d suffered their share of grief in this life. For those brief hours in the night, her allegiance was only to me, my son, and his future.
Leaving him all alone on the steps of the church is a memory I hope to bury forever. Any shred of happiness that I’ve held onto these past few years has been sucked out of me.
All I can hope for now is that the nuns will find him a home filled with love and happiness. I pray he’s placed with good people who will protect him from the harms of this world. I saved him from Di Natale, the mob, my father, and even myself.
Today was the hardest day of my life. I’ve spared him from a life of misery. He’ll never have to choose, as I did, or be exposed to the corruption. He’ll never have to get his hands dirty to provide for his family. He has the opportunity to live a good life. Now his children and their children will have the same.
I’ve done all I can to free my future legacy from this insanity. I can only hope one day my father will forgive me for what I’ve done. Hopefully, one day I can forgive myself for giving a piece of myself away. My child. Piccolino mio.
Tonight, I was brave. I won the battle. The next hours will be long. I need you, Father in heaven, now more than ever.
I named him Anthony, after my brother.
February 15th, 1948—evening
I feel lost. All I have left now is this journal and an empty heart. This is my second entry today. My father will be here any minute to check on me. He’ll find me alone. I don’t know what he’ll do, but I don’t care anymore.
I know I did the right thing, but I want to hold my son in my arms again. I want to smell his skin and feel his eyelashes flicker against my cheek. I want to hold his tiny hand. Oh God, what did I do? I feel as if I have to mourn him, but he isn’t dead—I am—inside. The only thing that will help me heal is time and prayer. Not even seeing Gaetano can take this pain away. I need time, so much time, to collect my thoughts and feelings. I hope that one day I will see him again. I’ll tell him why I had to say goodbye, and ask for his forgiveness. I hope, my son, you have a good life, filled with happiness and laughter. I will think of you always. I love you. One day you’ll understand just how much.
Il Passagio Della Corona
Saving the Best for Last: The Queen’s Wish
Giordano Estate
San Jose, California
July 2003
Barbara
“I gave him up. I let my son go, all because of this disgusting life . . .” Ms. G. screamed and cried. Her words were tainted with unimaginable fury and despair. She climbed out of her bed and threw pillows around the room. She tossed old picture frames to the ground, shattering glass everywhere.
“Calm down.” I approached slowly. “Don’t move or you’ll cut your feet.”
Alessandro stood behind me, ready to restrain her.
“Easy, Zia. Easy. It’ll be okay,” Alessandro said as worry clouded his eyes.
She picked up a picture of Tony and peered down at it. “Look at how handsome my brother was, and they killed him. Those bastards killed him,” she roared. Her hands shook as she held the wooden frame, then she peered down at the newspaper clipping. “This was Tony’s truck the day they pulled it from the water.”
My heart froze. I lowered my gaze, then looked back up at her.
“Please, hand me the picture.” I reached out my hand.
Her eyes were empty. Not a single flicker of light remained in them. Every word and every secret were out in the open. Raw from her admissions, she looked at me.
I pulled her close. “It’s okay, sweet girl. I’m right here and will always be here, no matter what. I love you,” I whispered in her ear, took the photo out of her hands, and rocked her back and forth while she cried.
“Alessandro, get the broom from outside so we can sweep this up.”
Alessandro hurried to the kitchen.
Ms. G. looked up at me. “I’m a sinner. I was a horrible mother. I’m gonna go to hell with Frank.”
“No, you’re not.”
“What kind of mother gives up their son? How could I do that?”
“The kind of mother who knew what would happen to her child if he grew up in this life, and one who loved selflessly. You did what you thought was best to protect your son.”
“I wanted to save him, but now it feels like regret. That’s why I’m here alone. This is God’s punishment for me,” she whimpered. “I’m the last to go.”
Alessandro returned with the broom and swept around us as I held her in my arms like a helpless child.
“In truth, my son was a product of rape. A beautiful child of God, but nonetheless not planned, and a result of Frank’s revenge. A small part of me was scared he’d grow up with a mind like his father. I’d seen how Frank tried to emulate his dad, and I worried it was in his blood. But my biggest fear, bigger than Gaetano and even my feelings, was that he would suffer. I didn’t want my son to spin around on the wheel of generational destruction. No matter what I did, he would be exposed to this craziness at some point. It’s who we were, and still are.” She looked at Alessandro standing behind me. “The family I was born into.”
Alessandro put his head down. “Some of us are still trying to get out.”
I reached for his hand and gave him a reassuring smile.
“Do you hate me, Barbara?” Ms. G. asked with tear-stained cheeks.
“I could never hate you. I love you, and you know how much. You saved my life.”
She sniffled, then wiped her nose.
“Please help me find my son before I die. I need to see him and tell him that I love him. It’s my dying wish.” She put her hands over her face.
Alessandro and I exchanged glances and nodded.
“Yes, Ms. G. We’ll find your son.”
After a few minutes of hugs and tears, we walked to the living room, where I sat her down in her tattered brown recliner. Alessandro brought her a glass of water.
“So, you’ll help me?” She stared up at me.
“Every time I think you’re the strongest woman I’ve ever met, you go and tell me something like this. Then I realize I’ve only scratched the surface.” I moved straggling pieces of her hair from her eyes. I looked at Alessandro.
A thick crease had formed between his eyes.
“I didn’t think I was able to get pregnant after Adelina. With all the scar tissue that followed, I had painful cycles. Some months, I never got my period. Nor did I ever think I’d ever be trapped again like I was when I was a kid. The only friend I had was that damn journal. And here I am, still trapped, this time in the confines of my withering brain with only memories of the past.” She stood.
“Where are you going?”
“To get the journal.”
Alessandro and I followed her to her room.
Deep in her closet was another old shoe box. “Here. It’s all in there.” She handed me the box.
I blew off the dust. Inside, red tissue paper wrapped the small leather journal. I opened the book and scanned her entries.
“Those were some of the saddest months of my life. I had almost no communication with the outside world. From then on, I got used to being alone.”
My fingertips glided over the words on the yellowed pages.
“For a long time Pop never told anyone where I was—not even the mayor,” Ms. G. said. “Well, Mr. Zavlaris knew, but he wasn’t going to say anything—not after what Pop told him. It wasn’t until about three months in that the mayor asked him why he didn’t see me around anymore. Since I was never part of any formal investigation, my father said I’d gone to visit my aunt in Italy until the Di Natale business was taken care of.”
“Yeah, what happened with that? How did your dad get Di Natale off your back?”
“Shortly before my son was born, the mayor relayed the message and photos of Frank with the feds to Don Molanano—for a small price. Moving forward, he agreed to turn a blind eye on Molanano operations as long as he got a bigger cut. Don Molanano tried to slow play his request, the two had a few words, but the mayor had another card up his sleeve. He threatened to blow the whistle on all operations, including shutting down my father’s medical practice, stating he shouldn’t be practicing medicine and that his license was falsified. He even went as far as having the Board of Medical Examiners try to revoke my father’s license.”
“Could he do that?”
“Yes. Well, he tried anyway.”
“Did they ever shut down your father’s clinic?”
“No. My father worked until he died in 1953. Everyone has a price—including the medical examiner.”
