Excerpt from BLOOD, SWEAT, AND STITCHES
Chapter 2
Time progressed, the year was 1925, and Maria, now twenty years old, started having thoughts of having a family of her own. Her mother, Angela had had a stroke at forty-five years of age; she became paralyzed following the episode, and was confined to a wheelchair for the remainder of her days. Just prior to this incident, Angela spoke to Maria about the LoGiudice family, who, like them, had emigrated from Gravina in Puglia to Brooklyn. Angela assured her daughter that they were honorable people, and had a good-looking, kind, and enterprising son named Raffaele.
“No need for the slightest doubt, Maria. They are a respectable family. The LoGiudices continue to own vineyards and orchards in Gravina and in the surrounding area,” she added.
Two years later, in 1927, Raffaele, just three years older, proposed to Maria. Their engagement would last about a year. Raffaele presented his fiancee with a simple, but elegant oval-shaped diamond set in white gold. The future husband and wife each went shopping for the finest clothes they could afford –Raffaele had a stylish, double-breasted custom-made jacket and matching trousers made, and bought a brand-new straw hat complete with band, while Maria made a trip to a shop on Delancey Street to purchase a slimming sleeveless flapper dress; it had dangling fringe at the base, and was covered in the tiniest of iridescent glass beads. This was their engagement finery, which they sported in the Brooklyn photography studio where a sepia-tone portrait was taken of them. Eventually, Maria had their engagement picture framed, and would treasure it for years to come.
The following year, both were married – first in a civil ceremony at Town Hall on Adams Street in downtown Brooklyn, and shortly after, at Saint Lucy’s Roman Catholic Church.
Their union produced two children. Mirella was born in 1928; two years later, the couple had a son, whom they named Pietro. In the States, everyone called him Peter.
Maria and Raffaele worked hard and took care of their young family. Raffaele and his brother-in-law, John (formerly Giovanni) became partners and operated an ice and coal business in the borough of Brooklyn. They had a horse-drawn cart with which they delivered both ice and coal to private homes. They would buy their coal wholesale at a local coal yard and they’d go down to one of the piers for their supply of ice, also sold to them wholesale. On weekends, in an effort to make some extra money, Raffaele would often take the horse and cart and move furniture and other household belongings of those families that needed to move. He was fit and eager to do a good job wherever the work took him.
One evening, after Maria had finished clearing the table, and while the children slept upstairs in their beds, Raffaele mentioned to his wife that he had had a recent conversation with Domenico, a compatriot from Altamura, a small town so close to Gravina that some considered it an appendage. Domenico was keenly aware of Raffaele’s thirst for work, of his desire to acquire more customers, and so, Domenico made a suggestion to Raffaele.
“Perche non ti butti davanti a un trolley, e cosi Maria avra i soldi dall’assicurazione?” (“Why don’t you throw yourself in front of a moving trolley car so that Maria can collect life insurance?”) Domenico was referring to an insurance policy the couple had bought shortly after their marriage. Maria could not believe her husband’s words.
“Ci mettono l’occhio sopra,” she replied. (“They’re putting the evil eye on us.”)
“And you must remember, Raffaele, to put a pinch of salt in each of your pockets and sprinkle some salt, too, at the base of our front door. People are often jealous of each other, and this will ward off the evil eye.”
“Oh, Maria, sei proprio matta. Io non ci credo a queste cose.” (“Have you simply gone mad, Maria? I don’t believe in these things.”)
Raffaele wasn’t interested in superstition like his wife and many others back in Europe. After all, he was in America now. He felt the need to adopt American customs and attitudes about life, work and family, particularly if he was to succeed in such a highly competitive society. He and his brother-in-law, John, worked long hours, but never once complained. Raffaele even helped John produce a substantial, yearly supply of red wine, which they stored in enormous dark oak barrels, barrels they had bought secondhand from an immigrant Irish family that made their own whiskey. The two kept a supply of the wine for their families, and either sold bottles or gave some to friends in the neighborhood.
Despite the fact that he had a wife and two young children to support, Raffaele managed to send some funds to his parents in Italy. He opened a savings account at a Dimes Savings Bank in Brooklyn, and went there whenever he could to deposit some of his earnings. He fully understood the importance of maintaining a nest egg for both planned and unexpected expenditures. He would send off a letter to his mother and father and enclose a postal money order during the year, and especially at Christmas and Easter.
At twenty-nine, Raffaele was handsome, energetic, brave and unafraid of the occasionally severe winter weather that visited the Northeast. He knew what it meant to dress accordingly – he wore suitable work clothes on the job, neatly pressed shirts, ties, suits, polished shoes and a hat when required.
While Maria had reprimanded her husband now and again for not wearing a scarf, warm hat and gloves on blustery, cold and rain-drenched days, it came as a total surprise to everyone when the family doctor announced that Raffaele had contracted pneumonia and should be quarantined as there were young children in the same house.
Raffaele kept to his bed for over a week with Maria ministering daily to his needs, going to work, and fulfilling her duties as a mother. She desperately wanted her husband to regain his health, and so, she made him homemade chicken soup, vegetable beef and barley soup, and saw to it that Raffaele drank plenty of liquids – hot tea with honey and fresh lemon juice, freshly squeezed orange juice and the family “rock and rye” concoction, which consisted of rye whiskey, rock candy, dried pieces of pineapple and maraschino cherries, all of which were allowed to ferment in either a gallon or half gallon glass jug that previously contained red table wine. Maria gave Raffaele an ounce and a half of this whiskey mixture as well as teaspoons of the dark, bitter-tasting cough medicine prescribed by their family doctor.
She would fill a white enamel basin with either boiling water or very hot water taken from the kitchen sink, and then add a few globules of Vick’s Vapor Rub to the hot water. She’d place the basin (with a heavy cotton bathroom towel under it) on top of Raffaele’s bedside table and have him sit directly in front of it with a towel that covered both his head and shoulders, and instruct him to inhale the steam that emanated from the basin.
When Maria felt that her husband’s cough wasn’t improving, she took it upon herself to buy an electric vaporizer at the local drugstore. She would provide her husband with dampened facecloths for his forehead and neck when she saw that he had been perspiring, and she would have him change his undershirt or pajama top each time it looked moist. She’d take a clean white handkerchief, drizzle it with some rubbing alcohol and have Raffaele wear it around his neck, in the style of an American Cub Scout neckerchief.
Every day, after Raffaele’s sponge bath, Maria took some Vick’s Vapor Rub and spread it across Raffaele’s chest and back. She often repeated this procedure at bedtime. The pharmacist and a seamstress she knew around the corner both suggested that Maria try the cupping-glass technique on her husband, and just as soon as she processed this information, she remembered that her relatives had used this method back in her hometown of Gravina.
Maria got hold of four small glass cups, white votive candles for each of the cups, and wooden matches. And one afternoon, after Raffaele had had his customary nap, she proceeded to go ahead with a cupping treatment. Slowly, she lit each of the candles one at a time until their flames flickered simultaneously. Raffaele remained face down on his pillow, tightly holding two of the vertical bars of their brass bedframe. Maria could see that a vacuum had formed under each of the clear glass cups, and she watched intently because of the live flames that danced about. She had once heard a dreadful story in which a mother, while administering this cupping technique to her child, was distracted with the result that the patient’s bedding suddenly caught fire.
Raffaele’s sickness made him impatient. As he lay in bed, he would toss from side to side.
“I need to regain my strength so that I can return to work.”
Maria stroked Raffaele’s forehead. “Tesoro (My treasure”), be patient. Have faith that you are going to get better, that the good Lord will heal you completely.”
While Raffaele took all of these efforts to rid him of his illness in stride, he knew deep down that his body wasn’t responding appropriately to the treatments. This was confirmed when the family doctor came to their home and delivered a diagnosis of nephritis. His kidneys were simply not functioning as they were supposed to, and Maria grew more worried and anxious.
“Perhaps we should go see a specialist in New York,” she queried during a conversation with John, her only sibling. Doctors generally never saw patients on the weekend, and Maria couldn’t afford to take time off work. It had been three weeks since Raffaele got sick, and hers was the only income at the moment. Her brother, John had a car, but she didn’t want to ask him to be absent from work in order to drive them into New York City. He had a wife of his own, and four children to support. Another week went by, and Raffaele had more and more trouble urinating. He appeared pale and jaundiced at intervals, and he refused to go to the hospital. His kidneys eventually shut down, and he succumbed.
Maria couldn’t believe that her husband was gone. How were she and the children to go on with their lives? What would become of them without their beloved Raffaele? Luckily, there was Chiara, Raffaele’s younger sister, with whom Maria had always gotten along. Chiara accompanied her sister-in-law to the offices of a local undertaker where the three discussed arrangements for Raffaele’s burial – what clothes he would be dressed in, whether or not he would wear his wedding ring and any other sentimental pieces of jewelry in the casket, if Maria would like for a rosary to be wrapped around her husband’s folded hands, and so on.
The young Raffaele was not waked in a funeral home. The common practice in those days, and particularly among Italian-Americans, was for the deceased to be laid out in his or her own home so that family and friends could come pay their final respects. Maria had to consider expenses, and doing it this way would save the family some money. Besides, Raffaele was not for fuss and fanfare, and furthermore, wasn’t this what people did back home in the old country when one of their own passed on?
“How much will I have to pay for Raffaele’s headstone and hearse? And how much do they expect me to pay for the funeral mass at the church?” wondered Maria.
Maria’s head spun around with worry. There was a part of her that clearly resented Raffaele for leaving her and the children to fend for themselves. Maria began reminiscing. “Why hadn’t he taken better care of himself? Why was he so carefree? What about the time when to celebrate Independence Day, he and some friends shot off fireworks on the avenue with the result that one of the young men lost a finger? Raffaele had lit the fuse that the young man was holding.”
There, on their bed, lay Raffaele in the very wool tweed double-breasted suit he’d worn for the couple’s engagement photo.
“Oh, how handsome Raffaele looks, Maria. How I love that elegant olive green tie,” added Chiara, tears slowly rolling down her cheeks. Your husband was, without question, my favorite brother.”
Beginning Thursday morning, and again on Friday, fresh flower arrangements arrived at the LoGiudice home. Some were large in format and sat on wooden easels that Maria and Chiara placed in the joint dining room and living room area. They arranged the dining room chairs so that mourners could easily take a seat if they so wished. In the bedroom, they dispersed a few of the smaller flower baskets and a couple of chairs, careful not to impinge upon the flow of traffic.
Thursday afternoon and evening saw the first streams of visitors who’d come to pay their respects to Maria and her family. Some bore sealed Mass cards, which they handed to Maria or Chiara, or left on the dining room table.
Mrs. Flanagan, from across the street, was a young immigrant mother of four, who wore an honest, cheerful smile whenever outside on the sidewalk. She came to the door holding a large platter of corned beef, cabbage, carrots and potatoes. “I’m so sorry about Raffaele’s passing, and I know how much he treasured his family. Here is some food I prepared for Maria and the family.”
Chiara held the door open. “Please come in, Signora. Thank you for your kindness. Maria is inside.”
“Thank you. I’d like to give my condolences to Maria.”
The following day, two heavily laden fruit baskets were delivered to the home. These were sent by a former Jewish boss Maria had worked for and by some of the seamstresses she worked with at the time. They remained, covered in cellophane wrapping, on the oval dining room table.
Maria would leave her husband’s bedside from time to time to go to the bathroom, or to the kitchen for a drink of water, or to check on her young children, who were upstairs with their Uncle John, Aunt Grace and their children. Food just wasn’t of interest to her. When she re-entered the bedroom, she noticed Teresa moving about to peer at the small condolence cards pinned to each of the flower arrangements. (Teresa was the wife of Domenico, who had previously suggested to Raffaele that he throw himself under a trolley in order to collect life insurance money.) She elbowed her sister-in-law, Chiara who was aware of it all. Chiara rose to her feet.
“Signora, please come with me,” she said as she took firm hold of Teresa’s arm and escorted her into the living room/dining room area. You and your husband Domenico are to leave at once, and never again enter this house.”
Bio:
Pelle Coruzzolo grew up in a home where Italian, Neapolitan and Barese were spoken. He
studied French, Italian, Latin, Spanish and German at NYU, Brooklyn and Hunter Colleges, and
obtained undergraduate / postgraduate degrees in Romance Languages and Teaching English to
Speakers of Other Languages.Pellegrino has taught Italian, French and ESL at Hunter College, LaGuardia CC, Delaware,Technical CC, and Westchester CC. He writes short stories. Blood, Sweat and Stitches is his first novel.
OVUNQUE SIAMO 