4

The first step in becoming a sea captain was to attend the nautical preparatory school in Trapani for a year to bone up on technical subjects. The most notable part of the year, however, was the extracurricular lesson I learned in how to conduct an amorous liaison.

Her name was Virginia, a jaunty and pretty girl from a school nearby. We got out at the same time, and I often saw her walking home. She had large, dark, coquettish eyes and at first we would smile at each other from opposite sides of the street. Before long, we were actually walking alongside one another, holding hands and chatting frivolously. We might have had lusty dreams about each other, but we never got further than kissing on the cheek.

One day Virginia’s father, who was one of the leading bankers in Trapani, caught her writing a torrid love letter to me. Like all Sicilian fathers, he was strict, and there was no telling what retribution he would demand if he thought his daughter’s virtue had been compromised. In Sicily, at least at that time, the mere suspicion of dishonor was enough to taint a virgin’s reputation and bring shame on the father.

Even the innocent gesture of holding hands with Virginia was a mark against me. We had held hands in public. People had seen us. Only engaged couples held hands in public. If that wasn’t enough, Virginia’s letter, written in schoolgirl romantic fervor, made our friendship seem like the love affair between Anthony and Cleopatra.

Only one man was qualified to settle such an unseemly affair. Virginia’s father consulted his brother don Ciccio—a “man of honor” and a champion of violated virgins. I learned about this from don Totò, another “man of respect” in Trapani, who knew me and my family. Don Totò informed me of the gravity of my indiscretion. I admitted my foolishness and repented having been so free with Virginia. But I hastened to add I had not tampered with the girl. Her purity was intact.

—Peppino, you’ve heaped a mess on yourself, don Totò intoned ruefully. You’ve provoked a father’s ire. You should have known better. Listen to me, when you court a girl you have to seduce her father as well.

—But I wasn’t courting her, I protested, at least not in the way her father thinks.

—You’re going to have to be a man about it. You have to come with me to see don Ciccio. It’s up to him.

I prepared for my conference with don Ciccio as if he were Solomon. I went over how to greet him and ask for his blessing. I memorized a humble speech replete with apologies. I scrubbed myself and wore my best clothes. I promised myself that if I got out of this predicament unscathed, I would never look at another almond-eyed woman as long as I lived.

Don Totò escorted me to don Ciccio’s house.

—Is this the young man? don Ciccio said, averting his eyes and addressing only his friend don Totò.

—Yes, don Totò said, the same young man the father wants dead.

A lump about the size of a watermelon rose in my throat.

—He is full of contrition, don Totò added. I might also note, although it doesn’t mitigate his offense, that he comes from an honorable family. He is the only son of Salvatore Bonanno of Castellammare.

Don Ciccio kept ignoring me.

—My friend, he told don Totò, if you pledge for him and if he comes from such a distinguished family, this young man can’t be all bad. There might be some hope for him if he learns to control his appetites.

I felt like hugging don Ciccio for his profound understanding of human nature.

—As always, don Totò answered, don Ciccio speaks wisely and magnanimously.

—Sit down, my friend, don Ciccio said, allowing himself a faint smile. Here are sweets and coffee.

Don Totò sat next to the host. I remained standing, like a sentinel. I was there only to listen and benefit from their remarks.

—It will take all my powers to appease the father, don Ciccio remarked after the two made themselves comfortable. You should have seen how angry he was. For a moment I thought I would have to give my niece away in matrimony to this young man. It was a choice between vengeance or matrimony. I’m glad I didn’t have to choose.

I thought I detected don Totò winking.

Don Totò later assured Virginia’s father that his daughter had not been violated and that no harm should come to me.

*   *   *

After a year in Trapani, I was accepted at the Joeni Trabia Nautical Institute in Palermo. I was a college man. I felt wonderfully alive, keen, cocky and curious. I was on my own, with a flat of my own and my own late-night companions. In the morning, when I opened my shutters, I gazed out over Palermo.

Palermo is an old, beautiful and varied city. Its seaport lies at the foot of Mt. Pellegrino, which Goethe called the most beautiful promontory in the world. Inland, the countryside opens into what is known as the golden valley, because of the numerous citrus groves. The climate is semitropical, and as you walk around the city you see bougainvillea, clematis, palms and water-lily gardens. The city’s architecture is a study in contrast—Norman palaces, baroque villas, high-rises. It is also a city of convents and monasteries. Situated almost in the center of the Mediterranean Sea, Palermo, like Sicily itself, has been abused by and has benefited from the traffic of mankind.

My ancestors played a part in this varied history. A Bonanno once was mayor of Palermo. The Villa Bonanno still stands; just outside Palermo, in Bagheria, is the Villa Palagonia, built in 1715 by order of the Prince Gravina Bonanno.

When I had my family tree traced at the archives in Palermo, I received a document bearing the Bonanno family seal: a crown above an emblem showing a black leopard, its right paw raised. According to the document the Bonannos came to Palermo from Pisa at the end of the thirteenth century because of a dispute with the ruling faction in Pisa.

Monreale, a suburb of Palermo, is known for its exquisite Norman cathedral, the bronze doors of which were made by the artisan Bonanno Pisano (Bonanno of Pisa). Perhaps it was this Bonanno who, upon returning to Pisa after his Monreale commission, first began regaling his family with stories of Sicily.

*   *   *

My studies went smoothly. When I read or listened to lectures I always sought to understand the big picture. Consequently, homework was just a matter of filling in details—easy enough but tedious. I was never interested in studying for its own sake, but if a teacher called on me in class and asked me to improvise on a theme, I would shine.

All my teachers, from elementary school on, complimented me on my memory. To this day my friends wonder how I can remember poems, proverbs, anecdotes and jokes from my childhood. It probably has something to do with the rich oral tradition in Sicily. On an island where the official language changed periodically depending on what foreigners were in power, my people learned to store information in the safest place of all: in their minds.

Our curriculum at the nautical institute included both technical and liberal arts courses. I studied English, and I still have the English reader we used: The Boundless Sea. It was edited specifically for naval cadets, and contains wonderful excerpts and passages about the sea. You could flip through its pages and read about the storm that scattered the Spanish Armada on its way to attack England; or about the lighthouses, one on the European coast and one on the Asian coast, that illuminate the Strait of Bosporus; or about the Battle of Trafalgar and how Lord Nelson, mortally wounded, bravely continued the fight to victory and then, as death was approaching, told his chaplain, “Doctor, I have not been a great sinner.”

I lived in a boardinghouse. Across the street was a small clothes-making shop, which employed seamstresses. In warm weather the girls would sit outdoors, gabbing and singing, with the garments they were sewing on their laps.

My roommate and I would watch them from our apartment window. When it was very hot the girls would raise their skirts above their knees and unbutton their blouses, thus unknowingly revealing themselves to our covetous eyes. It was useless to try to study. When we couldn’t contain ourselves any longer, we’d stick our heads out the window and lewdly flick our tongues at them.

Because of their numbers and our youth, the girls were not frightened by our taunts. And because they felt safe, they felt bold enough to exchange gibes with us:

—Ah, you naughty rogues, they would say. How’s the scenery from up there? See something you like? Go on with you, go on. Take a dip in the sea, you pups.

*   *   *

In my spare time, I indulged my many interests. I cultivated a taste for good opera, the more flamboyant the better, and I became a fancier of fine women—the more discreet the better. I also played the boulevardier at times and paraded around town in the white uniform of a naval cadet.

There was also a serious side to my nature. It was the early 1920s, and I was not unmindful of the ominous overtones of the Fascist regime, which had just come to power under Benito Mussolini. When Mussolini was making his way up, it wasn’t clear what he was all about. He wanted to keep the workers from Communism; that pleased the industrialists. He wanted to capture colonies for Italy; that pleased the chauvinists. He wanted to restore order, clean house and make the trains run on time. He passed himself off as a genuine leader.

—I would rather live one day as a lion, Mussolini liked to say, than one hundred days as a sheep.

That sounded stirring and noble. Little did we know that the speaker was made of straw.

He had come to power after his party followers, the Black Shirts, marched on Rome. It was later discovered that during this famous march, il duce was awaiting developments in a town near the Swiss border, in case the Fascist show of strength in Rome failed.

Mussolini was a cowardly man pretending to be a tough guy. I’ve seen a few tough guys in my day, and I think I have a measure of expertise on the subject. When I say tough guy, I mean it in a complimentary sense: a forceful man who sticks to his principles. A true tough guy, whether you agree with him or not, knows he is superior to most men. The phony tough guy lacks this sense of security; he has to bully people so he can hear them say he is superior. Mussolini was a bully—a phony tough guy.

As a student in Palermo, I kept a wary eye on the Fascists, especially since men of my Tradition were beginning to see the true Mussolini and were predicting he would bring despotism to Italy.

*   *   *

My college idyll lasted until 1924, my third year at the maritime college. I was more desirous than ever of earning a license that would allow me to enter the merchant marine. But that year a tempest would tatter my sails and toss my ship in unknown waters.

Now undisputedly in control of the national government, Mussolini sought to eradicate all dissent and to install a totalitarian regime.

His picture appeared everywhere. His sayings were inculcated into children at school. There were Fascist slogans to recite and Fascist anthems to sing. There were Fascist social clubs and uniforms. Fascism tried to regulate every aspect of life. Italy would become an orderly state, but at the expense of humanity.

Men of my Tradition reviled Mussolini, once he showed his true colors. “Men of honor” realized that he was no different from the tyrants their ancestors had fought in the past. As far as Mussolini was concerned, he couldn’t abide stubborn resistance to his rule from a group of men he considered archaic. With his mania for absolute control, he couldn’t coexist with men who did not worship him and who constituted a subcultural ruling order themselves.

Mussolini went about cleaning Sicily of its “mafiosi.” He appointed a special prosecutor with special powers to remove “reactionary elements” that were hindering Sicily’s “progressive evolution.” The special prefect for Sicily was Cesar Mori, who claimed that the island’s “mafioso” tradition was keeping its people mired in a feudal society. Mori spoke like a contemporary sociologist; but when it came to hunting down men, he did his job as well as any medieval grand inquisitor.

Men of my Tradition were imprisoned in droves, often on the flimsiest charges. They were tried and sentenced with utter disregard for their civil liberties. Many men were forced to flee to America. Many went underground or became insurgents. Some twenty years afterward, these same partisans would aid and welcome the invading Allied army during World War II.

In the meantime, the Fascists were supreme. At the nautical college, word came down that students would be required to sing the Fascist hymn each morning. We were told the merchant marine was as vital to the country as the navy, and that as students we were expected to do our patriotic duty by joining the Fascist Party. As a sign of support for Mussolini, we were to wear black shirts for our school uniform.

These measures offended me, and I protested them vociferously. Other students rallied around me, and became political activists. The authorities called us radicals. For me, the spontaneous revolt against repression sprang from the same rebellious urges that had motivated men of my Tradition in the past. In addition, my rebellion was laced with romanticism, as I compared myself with storied Sicilian rebels such as Coreolano of the Forest and the Blessed Pauls. Mine was an inconsequential rebellion next to theirs, but it was just as sincere.

To dramatize our cause and to activate the more acquiescent students, we activists urged everyone to refuse to wear a black shirt to school. We made fun of the idea of changing our shirts from white to black.

The day all the students were to stop wearing black shirts arrived. My fellow activists and I went to school early that morning and waited at the gate to gauge the response. Even I, the leader of the protest movement, could not have hoped for more. Just about all the students wore white shirts that day.

Our antics irritated school officials, whose jobs were at stake if they didn’t curry favor with the Fascists. The school director tolerated our protest for a day. But he warned us that if we didn’t wear black shirts from then on we would be suspended or expelled.

It was too much to ask the students to risk their careers for the sake of a black shirt. The overwhelming majority abandoned the boycott. Out of a student body of about three hundred, only seven of us refused to wear the black shirt.

Because of my continued resistance, I was suspended from school for three months. If I didn’t want to be expelled, I had to show up again wearing a black shirt.

*   *   *

I returned to Castellammare. Returning with me to the village was my cousin Peter Magaddino, the son of my guardian and my constant companion after I moved into the Bonventre household. He was my age, and his father urged us to keep together and always help one another. When I went to school in Palermo, Pete did the same, as much to be close to me as anything else. He too enrolled in the nautical institute, and was suspended during the black-shirt protest.

Some of my relatives advised me to reconsider my position; they didn’t want me to throw away a career so easily. But I was nineteen years old, impulsive and idealistic, and with no parents to restrain me. I had sworn not to wear a black shirt and nothing could make me change my mind.

If I couldn’t go back, I had no choice but to go forward. I was not afraid to travel and start anew in another land. When I told Pete my intentions, he cast his lot with me. We prepared to embark for the United States.