A Man of Honor

On the innumerable times I have gone over this phantasmagoric scene, I have never ceased to marvel at the dark magic of it, at the hocus-pocus of circumstances which took me out of the real world and into the invisible world of the missing person.

I was being taken for a long night’s journey.

We swished into the night, gaining elevation, the temperature getting colder. We were driving through rolling hills, somewhere in upstate New York. Through the wet windows the countryside appeared spectral, as if in a ghostly dream. We swooshed ahead. My abductors remained taciturn. The only accompaniment to my thoughts was the steady hiss of the tires on the slick roads.

I tried to relax. The most difficult thing to do when you’re stuck in a knot of adversity is to stay loose. If you try to resist, the knot gets tighter. I told myself that, captive though I was, I still retained one liberty—I still had the freedom to think.

And I thought. So much of life is beyond individual control. Events fall on us haphazardly, taking us this way and that without asking our permission. When we find ourselves in such dire circumstances, we realize that the only power we ever truly had in life was not power over events nor power over other men, but power over ourselves. True power is the talent for self-control.

At daybreak, the dreary mist that shrouded us during the night continued to swirl about us. The morning was dismal and gray. Thick clouds smudged the feeble sun.

Sometime in midmorning we arrived at a farmhouse in the woods. My captors showed me inside and told me to make myself comfortable. They said I had to wait.

Strict security precautions were unnecessary, because even if I had wanted to escape, there was no place to run to in the remote region where I found myself.

In the afternoon, I heard a car pull up to the farmhouse. This was it. My nemesis had arrived. I was summoned to the main room of the house.

Stefano Magaddino tromped in—an old, spry and portly man with ruddy cheeks and an amiable smile.

* * *

—Hello, cousin Stefano said sardonically.

I unclenched my jaw and tried to keep calm so as to loosen the knot in back of my neck.

—What brings you here? Stefano added in that same snide tone of voice which belied his actual words.

—I’m here, that’s all.

Control, control, I told myself, keep your control.

—I find you here, like this, so unexpectedly, Stefano said, cracking his knuckles, which he often did out of habit. Have you nothing to say?

Stefano sounded as if he had stumbled upon me in the woods, but I knew that behind his sarcasm Stefano was testing me, observing my reactions, reading my face.

—I’m being treated very nicely, I replied.

Stefano sighed. Then, as if he had run out of pleasantries, he paced the room and briefly looked out the window.

—Excellent country, isn’t it? Stefano observed.

—A little cold for me.

—Oh, it gets much colder in Montreal.

—Yes, I answered dryly. But all in all, I prefer Arizona.

—Nice place to retire, Stefano drawled.

—One cannot always be where one likes.

—Regrettable.

—Sad.

—But sometimes unavoidable, heh?

—If you say so.

—What do you mean, if I say so? Stefano grumbled in the first manifestation of any real emotion. Do you think I wanted it this way?

—I certainly didn’t.

Stefano squinted into my eyes, pitched his voice low and said,

—You could have made yourself more available.

—You could have come to the phone when I called you, I retorted.

—Peppino, sometimes I think your mind is too big for your own good.

—Sometimes I think your mind is too little for your own good, I told Stefano.

—What? Stefano huffed. Is that how you talk to your older cousin?

—We could not be talking at all.

—But we have to talk, cousin. We must talk.

—I’m here. I might as well listen, then.

* * *

And talk we did, for weeks and weeks. Stefano came and went to the farmhouse as it suited him. I was his captive audience.

Our conversations seemed to cover everything under the sun. We’d hit upon a subject randomly. Then we’d go off on a tangent. Or we would wander away in separate directions. Or we’d circle each other with barbed comments or probing observations. We watched each other keenly—the eyes, the mouth, the hands—for signs of what the other was truly feeling.

What we actually said was not in the nature of a true dialogue, but more like a melodramatic opera. We engaged in arias of discontent, duets of woe, choruses of dissatisfaction. We didn’t so much resolve anything as simply get things off our chest.

After arriving at the farmhouse unexpectedly, Stefano would stomp into the room, his head bent slightly down and cocked to the left. His face would have a determined yet slightly roguish expression. Usually he wore a suit, tie and hat. He was seventy-three years old at the time, graying at the temples. Although stout, he had vigorous movements. His hands, especially, were very ebullient.

When flustered or overwrought, Stefano would intertwine his fingers and wave his cradled hands over his head; at the same time he would stoop his shoulders and mumble that the whole world was going crazy.

—Everything’s going click, click, click, Stefano would say when nervous.

Once he became too agitated, Stefano would open the door, call someone else into the room and call for a drink. Then he’d go away to return at an undesignated time.

During those intervals while I waited for Stefano to show up, my most frequent company at the farmhouse was Nino Magaddino. My old friend Nino was in an awkward spot. He liked me, but he couldn’t completely open himself to me because he had his brother Stefano to protect. He gave me enough hints, however, for me to realize that my kidnapping was something he had participated in most reluctantly and did so only because he considered it a last chance for a reconciliation between Stefano and me—if not a rapprochement, then at least an understanding that would avoid disaster. I did not hold anything against Nino.

Since he was not at liberty to discuss my abduction, Nino and I whiled away much of our time with reminiscences of Sicily. Naturally, we mentioned Uncle Stefano Magaddino of Castellammare, whom we both admired. Nino had fought alongside Uncle Stefano in the war against the Buccellatos. Whereas we revered Uncle Stefano, Nino’s brother, Stefano, often clashed with his uncle, the patriarch of the Magaddino family.

When I had Nino to talk to during the day, he would sometimes make me forget my troubles. But when he wasn’t around, scattered thoughts assailed me. I thought about my wife, Fay, who was surely worried sick over my disappearance. I thought of my son Salvatore, who, alone, would have to contend against the sinister forces in the Volcano. I thought of my immediate family and my greater Family. Who would step in to prevent my Family from disintegrating now that I wasn’t there to lead them?

Also, I thought about the government. The FBI would be looking for me, but, unlike most kidnapping victims, I did not desire their help. In fact, I felt safer where I was than in the clutches of the FBI.

At nights, a disjointed collage of images imprinted itself on my imagination. I dreamed about marionettes. A company of knights, in shiny panoply, hopped jerkily across the theater of my mind. There was the valiant Rinaldo, along with his companions in arms, vassals all to King Charlemagne in his war against the infidels.

The adventures of these paladins make up the stories of the Sicilian puppet opera, which I used to love to watch as a youth. These stirring tales included a cast of sorcerers, giants, dragons, witches and ogres.

In the end, Rinaldo dies. He must die. That is his story. This splendid knight falls because of the treachery of a fellow knight, the baleful Gano de Magonza. To Magonza goes the infamy, and yet Magonza never dies in these tales. Magonza always skirts destruction. Rinaldo is noble, but he dies. Magonza is ignoble, but he gets away.

I would wake up with the name Magonza on my lips and my cousin Stefano Magaddino on my mind.

* * *

—You’ve always been independent, Stefano said during one of our sessions.

—After all, I answered quickly, I am an orphan.

—When you came to America, didn’t I offer to take you into my Family?

—And I thank you. I’ve been thanking you always for everything you and your relatives have done for me.

—Fine thanks, fine thanks, Stefano complained. Why don’t you admit it? You thought you were too good for my Family.

—I wanted to be on my own, that’s all.

—Oh, yes, Stefano whined, you went to New York and became a big shot. My cousin Peppino, the big shot.

—If other people think I’m a big shot, it’s in their mind, not mine.

—In the old days, Stefano said wistfully, people from all over used to call me. They wanted to know how I was, and they asked to speak to me for advice. Then you in New York with all your big friends … I never got calls anymore.

—I always gave you respect, I said.

—Oh, why don’t you admit it? You like it. You like people to consider you a big shot. You want it.

—I’ve never let power go to my head, I said indignantly. If I had let power go to my head, it would have destroyed me a long time ago. But, as you see, I’m still here … thanks to you.

—You’re welcome, you’re welcome, cousin.

—Where do all your suspicions of me come from? I said.

—I’m older than you, and I have long practice in the world.

—Yes, I continued, but where do you get your ideas about me?

—What? is this one of your riddles? Stefano said. You think I’m a dumb peasant because I’m not educated like you.

—Look at you, I went on. The minute I say something, right away you think I’m making fun of you. I just want to make you understand.

—I understand all right. I understand.

—Then you must understand that it is the nature of a distrustful man to be the first to accuse everyone else of mistrust.

—Bah, Stefano scoffed. You think you can trick me with your words?

Stefano began pacing about the room, his hands flailing in the air.

—Let’s drop the masks, shall we? I said. Do you remember how after Apalachin I told you I wanted to retire? Why didn’t you believe me? You know, I still want to retire.

—Oh? Oh?

His exclamations expressed an attitude somewhere between disbelief and belief. It seemed he wanted to believe what I was saying but his fears made him stop short. At the same time, he didn’t want to let on that he was ambivalent. He wanted to pretend he knew his mind.

—Ah! So, you still want to retire, do you?

—I still want that, but only when the time is ripe and my Family is at peace. All you had to do was trust me.

—There you go turning things all around again, Stefano bellowed. I want to trust you …

—What prevents you then? Jealousy?

—Ingratitude, Stefano shouted, what ingratitude!

—But this is a farce.

Stefano crocheted his fingers and pumped his fretted hands in front of him.

—I want to be taken seriously … yes … seriously, Stefano rattled on, gesticulating wildly. But the whole world is going crazy.… It’s too much … too much … click, click, click.

—You don’t fool me, I said softly, having seen these theatrics before.

—And you don’t fool me, Stefano insisted nervously.

Then he flung open the door and called for a stiff drink.

* * *

For the six weeks or so I was in captivity, I had much time to reflect on Stefano’s character.

He had many good traits, among them a good sense of humor and a practical, down-to-earth solidity. Although he was illiterate, he was not stupid by any means. He was mainly a family man; the sporting life, the night life, the libertine life did not interest Stefano.

My cousin was at his most docile and contented after a big meal among friends. After eating, he liked to smoke a big cigar and lounge in praise. Stefano craved attention. In the old days, when he came to visit me in New York City, he expected to be treated with deference; if I didn’t send one of my high-ranking men to pick him up at the airport, Stefano would get insulted. As his host in New York City, I would go out of my way to humor Stefano, especially at the dinner table. I would invite people who I knew would pay homage to my cousin. At the table, I would subordinate my opinions to Stefano’s in order to let him sparkle. Stefano beamed. It made him feel good to act the important man before my friends in the big city.

In addition to emotional bonds, Stefano and I also had pragmatic reasons for being close. When I became a Father in 1931, my rise to power was facilitated by Stefano, who was already established. My position, in turn, solidified Stefano’s place in Buffalo. My strength in the Volcano helped Stefano maintain a position of influence in my world that Stefano, although he was one of the original old-timers, perhaps would not have been able to retain if he had had no allies such as I.

Stefano had come up in life the hard and rough way, forging a place for himself through sheer doggedness. He possessed a mulish determination, one of the attributes needed for success. Once enthroned in the seat of power, Stefano had no need to feel insecure among subordinates and men of lower status; in fact, these men often praised Stefano for his equanimity. Stefano’s weakness came to the fore only when in confrontation with a forceful personality of equal status, such as I, who outshone him. That’s when Stefano became uncomfortable with himself.

We all possess a measure of envy, but we try to keep it in check. We try to control the meanness and baseness in us. With Stefano, I think it got to the point where he simply lost control. I had touched off something in him that hid underneath his genial exterior—a shameful sense of inferiority.

To me, Stefano’s envy represented an old man’s last wicked passion, a last gasp of perverse self-assertion to try to vanquish not only me but the insecurity within him. This attitude led Stefano, whether subconsciously or consciously, to constantly misinterpret me. Stefano mistook my sense of confidence for arrogance, my self-reliance for ingratitude. He deprecated my education because it made him feel inadequate. My achievements stung him, so he called me ostentatious. The more I implored him to trust me, the more he suspected trickery. At last, he convinced himself that everything I did was to spite him.

Until our talks at the farmhouse, I had always thought I could talk some sense into Stefano. As strained as relations got between us, I had always thought I could mend our friendship by simply presenting my clear, logical and sane analysis. I think I put too much faith in rationality. In my final confrontation with Stefano, all my reasoning might as well have fallen on deaf ears. Stefano didn’t want rationality. My cousin wanted emotional satisfaction.

In the end, we accomplished little during our rural tryst. We played out our scenes unrepentantly and we remained adamantly true to ourselves.

* * *

Understanding the psychology of a man does not excuse his conduct.

Magonza had behaved most foully.

In 1957, when I was abroad, Magonza seized the opportunity to set up the abortive Apalachin meeting as a way to undercut me and at the same time flaunt himself.

Then Magonza made a marriage of convenience with Lucchese and Gambino. With them at his side, Magonza tried to isolate me and humiliate me.

When Magliocco tried to restore order to the Profaci Family, Magonza maligned me by spreading the false story that Magliocco and I were planning to eliminate all our opponents.

When I was detained in Canada, Magonza thought I would be in prison and out of action for a good long time. He therefore treacherously used this as a pretext to slander my name before the so-called Commission. He bruited all sorts of lies and innuendos, claiming I had gone to Montreal to “plant flags all over the world.” He also contended I was evasive and contrary.

And when Gaspar DiGregorio, a sulking, scatterbrained man, estranged himself from my Family, Magonza fed Gaspar’s resentment and encouraged him to claim leadership of the Bonanno Family, so as to have a vassal in the Volcano.

Magonza had disgraced himself.

He had fallen into the roiling Volcano and had become tainted by the same forces that were destroying our Tradition.

* * *

Although Stefano, in the years that followed, would be treated with contempt and derision by his own relatives for his conduct toward me, for the moment he had the upper hand.

I had been kidnapped, but I was not sure at the time whether Stefano had acted alone or in concert with others. It was in Stefano’s interest to keep me unenlightened.

For one thing, kidnapping is not something a man of my Tradition likes to brag about. My Tradition, in its pure form, shuns prostitution, narcotics peddling, extortion and kidnapping. These are considered unmanly activities.

For Stefano to have taken such an extreme measure, I knew that he must have been under great pressure both from inside and outside his Family to square away his dispute with me.

From all sides, Stefano was being urged to do something decisive to settle our accounts once and for all.

But as for the abduction itself, was it Stefano’s doing alone? Was it Stefano with the assent of Lucchese and Gambino? Was it Stefano with the support of the entire Commission? Was it Stefano in agreement with his Family? Was it Stefano with the cooperation of only a few very close relatives within his Family? Was it none of these, or a combination of these?

Stefano wanted to keep me in the dark so as to keep me off balance. The kidnapping was a scare tactic in that Stefano perhaps hoped it would induce me to abandon the Volcano without his having to resort to deadly force. That would have been disastrous for Stefano’s Family, and, in any case, Stefano didn’t want my blood on his conscience. But even if the kidnapping failed to scare me off, Stefano would still have to guard against retaliation; therefore, he kept me guessing as to who was responsible for my kidnapping. For lack of a culprit, my supporters wouldn’t know who to strike against. They would also have to think twice about revenge if Stefano had the backing of strong allies on the Commission.

If nothing else, Stefano had succeeded in maintaining an air of mystery about the kidnapping.

But now that it’s in my past, when I reflect on this incident, I am not so interested in assigning blame, as I was at the time, as I am in capturing the specialness of the situation. I am fascinated still by what happened between Stefano and me.

Until now, when I can describe this incident in my own way, I have kept it to myself. I let the public think what it liked, even in the face of speculations that I had staged my own kidnapping to frustrate and confound the government. It didn’t really matter what others thought. I considered my explanation for what happened too precious to waste on cursory accusations and flippant disclosures. What happened between Stefano and me was very special. I needed a book to tell about it properly.

Now that the danger is gone, the kidnapping lives as an enchanted affair. I remember the sharp, crystalline day I last saw Stefano. Winter was approaching, and it was time to release me. Stefano and I did not talk. A friendship of forty years was ending in cold, agonizing silence. We said goodbye with our eyes.

And yet, even though I never saw Stefano again after this “farewell,” that’s not all there was to it. In a sense, we never parted. The kidnapping incident and our weeks and weeks of discussions had been a most private and intense experience, a catharsis for both of us. We would never forget it for as long as we both lived. Ironically enough, this incident which ruptured relations between us really bound us together forever.

Our silent stares expressed what we could not in words. We knew we would never be friends again, but we were past the stage of reproach and denial. We were beyond that. We were in the occult stage of final affirmation. With our eyes only, we said to each other:

You know what you know. I know what I know. And no one else will really know as we know.