6

My Aunt Marietta made me a birthday cake with twenty candles on it. The cake was for a surprise birthday party that my aunt and uncle held for me on January 18, 1925. Since I had been in America a little more than a month, the party was also a welcoming to my new home and to my new country.

I lived at my uncle’s house in Brooklyn. Uncle Peter Bonventre was a humble immigrant barber. He and Aunt Marietta treated me like a son, although they had two sons and a daughter of their own. Their children, by the way, grew up to fulfill the immigrant dream: The daughter became a schoolteacher, one of the sons became a doctor, and the other son became a professor of theology.

During my first months in America I still thought of myself as a college student. I dawdled and daydreamed, went to the movies and generally frittered away my energies.

Indolent and aimless though I was, I nonetheless felt confident in my potential. I believed in myself. I thought, as many young men that age think, that I could be good at just about anything. The problem was what to devote myself to. I could inspire myself all I wanted to with shining dreams of greatness, but I had no skill, barely spoke English and wasn’t making a living.

My Uncle Peter didn’t pressure me in the least, even though I wasn’t paying him for food and lodging. Although he wouldn’t have wanted any payment anyway, he did want me to think about my future. One day I asked his advice about work.

—I don’t know of any jobs for nautical students, Uncle Peter said, but I can teach you how to be a barber.

I listened respectfully, but I suppose my face couldn’t hide my disappointment. Uncle Peter’s intentions were good. He wanted to keep me off the streets and out of mischief. However, cutting hair didn’t seem to augur a great future. Without slighting him, I refused his offer. I thanked him for his kindness and hospitality. The best thing I could do now, I told him, was to move out of his house. I wanted to be on my own.

I moved to a boardinghouse in Brooklyn’s Williamsburg-Greenpoint section, where I had lived as a boy. How good it felt to walk down the streets and hear the familiar dialect of my hometown. It wasn’t difficult to make friends, considering all we had in common. Besides hailing from the same village, we all shared the momentous experience of having disrupted our lives to move to the United States. Besides, the Castellammarese in Brooklyn were familiar with the Bonanno name and eagerly sought my company. People invited me to their houses or to their social clubs.

The Castellammarese tended to stick together. We had our own distinct neighborhoods, not only in Brooklyn and Manhattan, but also in Detroit, Buffalo and Endicott, New York. Not only did we all know each other, but we were often related to one another. Among ourselves we spoke Sicilian. English was handy but usually unnecessary to our lives. We asked nothing from anybody. We took care of our own. In all our ethnic neighborhoods, we established a branch of the Castellammarese Society of Merit, our version of the Kiwanis or Rotary clubs to help the needy, celebrate feast days and remember our heritage.

In order to get ahead, we had to cooperate with each other. The first-generation immigrants, in particular, had no other choice. They had little if any funds. They could not “buy” themselves into American society. They also suffered from discrimination, because the mainstream culture was Anglo. These conditions induced immigrants to band together so they might utilize whatever resources they had, which was mainly manpower.

Our life-styles centered on our Family. A Family (with a capital F to distinguish it from one’s immediate household), in the Sicilian usage of the term, is a group of people, allied friends as well as blood relatives, held together by trust in one another. Regardless of their varied individual activities, Family members support each other any way they can in order to prosper and to avoid harm.

We instinctively congregated around a Father, the patron around whom we revolved like spokes around a wheel hub.

History had already taught us that the greatest avenue of upward mobility was not so much talent—talent was universal—as it was friendship, what Americans call connections.

When I arrived in America, the two most important Castellammarese figures were Stefano Magaddino of Buffalo and Gaspar Milazzo of Detroit. They had arrived in America earlier in the century and had initially settled in Brooklyn, where the original and the largest Castellammarese colony existed.

As my cousin Stefano and Gaspar Milazzo made their way up, they came in conflict with rival groups within our world. Very often these rivals were friends and relatives of enemies in Sicily. The Magaddino family was not alone in having members in America; the Buccellato family did also. They were archenemies in Castellammare, and archenemies they remained in Brooklyn.

As Stefano and his friend Gaspar were walking out of a store in Brooklyn one day, someone shot at them but missed. During the ambush, two innocent people were killed. To Sicilians of my Tradition, revenge is a personal responsibility. Not long after this careless incident, several Buccellato men were shot to death. Thereafter, the Buccellato clan would no longer play an important role in the affairs of my world in America.

Police suspicion fell on Stefano and Gaspar, who removed themselves from Brooklyn. Stefano went to Buffalo and Gaspar to Detroit. They wound up staying in these cities and setting up their own Families, but both continued to maintain close ties with the large Castellammarese community in Brooklyn. The Brooklyn Family was left in the hands of Cola Schiro, a bland, compliant man who depended on my cousin Stefano for his position.

The fact that I was Stefano Magaddino’s cousin greatly facilitated my passage into this immigrant society. Still, it was up to me to take advantage of my opportunities. Two of my earliest friends were Gaspar DiGregorio and Giovanni Romano. Gaspar’s mother and my cousin Stefano’s mother were sisters. (In America, Gaspar was later to marry Stefano’s sister.) I didn’t know Gaspar in Castellammare, but I did remember Giovanni, who was a playmate of mine and the son of a sheep rancher.

Giovanni, Gaspar and Gaspar’s brothers had a bootlegging operation going. That wasn’t so unusual because at the time there must have been two or three stills per block in Williamsburg. It might well have been the home-distillery capital of the world. Gaspar and Giovanni, eager to have a bright and well-connected man at their side, asked me to join them, and I didn’t hesitate to say yes.

*   *   *

The second decade of the twentieth century in America was a fabulous era. Calvin Coolidge, the nabob of prosperity, was President. Babe Ruth, the Sultan of Swat, whacked sixty home runs. Charles Lindbergh flew the Spirit of St. Louis across the Atlantic nonstop. Gene Tunney, a college kid, took the heavyweight crown from Jack Dempsey. Rudolph Valentino, a tango dancer who could barely speak English, became the most famous man in America; and then, at the height of his silent-movie career, died of stomach ulcers.

The 1920s had it all. It had flappers and outlandish automobiles. It had Art Deco and jazz music. It had prosperity. And it had Prohibition. Congress had ushered in the 1920s by passing the Volstead Act, which made the manufacture, distribution and sale of alcohol illegal.

Prohibition was championed by the rural ladies of America, who considered booze the cause of dissipation among their menfolk. These ladies of the Women’s Christian Temperance Union had no confidence in their men’s ability to resist temptation.

But that was only the surface motivation behind Prohibition. In the larger picture, Prohibition was the reaction of rural America against big-city America—where the booze came from, where the immigrants swarmed, where factories hummed, where fashions and books and magazines and movies came from, where all sorts of alien and new influences began their journey and spread across pristine America.

America, in other words, was growing up. It was leaving its arcadian past, becoming more urban and more urbane. Prohibition was a resistance to this change. Immigrants understood Prohibition to be a mere rite of passage. Prohibition seemed to them very peculiar, something Americans would get over in time.

In the meantime, however, Prohibition provided a splendid and accelerated opportunity for immigrants to make money. It was the newcomers to this land—the Jews, the Irish, the Poles, the Germans, the Sicilians—who took the lead in bootlegging.

To these teeming masses of immigrants, Prohibition was the golden goose.

The basement distillery that gave Giovanni, Gaspar and me our livelihood was a relatively small operation. In our neighborhood, many of these stills grew out of the homespun stills that we Sicilians frequently built to make wine for personal consumption.

Our still was in the basement of an apartment building. Across the street, one of Gaspar’s brothers, Matteo, had a garage which was used to load the whiskey into delivery trucks. A tunnel led from the still to the garage. Nino, Gaspar’s older brother, had the contacts with the politicians and the police that ensured no government interference in our operation. All the Irish cops took payments. A uniformed policeman would walk down the street and, on seeing a truck being loaded with contraband whiskey, would suddenly whistle and do an about-face.

The tolerant relationship between the police and the bootleggers existed not so much because of bribery as because of a similar attitude toward Prohibition. The Irish cops of the day, as well as the public at large, adopted a laissez-faire attitude. I remember one police lieutenant in our neighborhood who told us bluntly that he would look the other way at bootlegging, but if he found any of us carrying guns he wouldn’t hesitate to arrest us or chase us out of the neighborhood. That’s the way it was, at least originally.

When I first got into bootlegging I thought it was too good to be true. I didn’t consider it wrong. It seemed fairly safe in that the police didn’t bother you. There was plenty of business for everyone. The profits were tremendous. And let’s face it, especially for a young man, it was a lot of fun.

Shortly after I joined my friends, Gaspar’s brother Nino must have noticed that I always wore the same dark-brown suit. It was my only suit, the same one I had worn when I entered the United States. One day, while passing the Kronfield Clothing Store, Nino led me inside to buy a suit for Gaspar. Since I was about the same build as his brother, he told me to try one on.

—Looks good, Nino said as I modeled the suit. Looks very good on you.

—But are you sure this is right for Gaspar?

—Well, now that you mention it, Nino answered, feigning astonishment, it looks a lot better on you than it ever would on Gaspar. Why don’t you keep it? Gaspar can buy his own suits.

Nino had planned that all along, of course. He bought me my first suit and also my first overcoat in America. Soon I was making more than enough money to buy my own things, and later that year I bought a big, dark-gray Hudson. This was a bootleggers’ delight. It was fast and it had special compartments under the floor for stashing one-gallon cans of whiskey.

My friends and I, being young, single and flush, enjoyed ourselves to the fullest. We’d go watch the fights at St. Nick’s Arena, or go to the movies or the theater. We also had our regular dance halls and nightclubs. It seemed that the more money we made, the more we were broke … but never for long.

Gasparino was the most spendthrift. He squandered money on clothes, entertainment, cars, gambling—he loved billiards. He also was absentminded, forgetting where he left his hat, forgetting where he parked his car, forgetting what he did with his money. But he was a good-natured guy who made us laugh, very often unintentionally.

My other associate, Giovanni, was much more moderate and a tireless worker. In making whiskey, Giovanni had the skill of an alchemist. He took his responsibility seriously. One night, a sleepy Giovanni insisted, over our objections, on going down to the basement to prepare a shipment of whiskey for the next day.

The order could easily have waited an extra day, but Giovanni was a punctilious businessman. As tired as he was, he went downstairs to the still. It wasn’t for the money that Giovanni returned to his work. We really didn’t need more money. Giovanni simply was a conscientious worker. He always liked to meet his obligations.

That night an explosion rocked the building. Giovanni had apparently dozed off at the job. Alcohol spilled on the floor and flowed under the burner, igniting the still. A screaming Giovanni ran out into the street. His clothes, flesh and hair were on fire. He slapped himself and rolled on the ground to smother the flames; onlookers tried flogging him with their jackets. But Giovanni didn’t live past that night.

*   *   *

Giovanni’s death put me out of the bootlegging business temporarily. At about the same time another incident drove me into the bakery business.

I had met a young man who knew me from Castellammare, and I had written my name and address for him on a slip of paper. This fellow was shot to death in my neighborhood. Who knows why? On discovering the slip of paper with my name on it, police began to inquire about me. My biggest worry was that they might find out I was an illegal alien. Police also began inquiring about Giovanni’s death, since they weren’t sure it was an accident. I thought it prudent to lie low and let things cool off.

My Uncle Peter Bonventre was worried about my getting mixed up with the wrong crowd. Out of fatherly concern, he suggested I talk with another uncle, Vito Bonventre, who owned a bakery and might be able to employ me.

At this juncture of my life, since I had not been in the bootlegging business long enough to have truly tested myself, I wanted to prove both to myself and to my solicitous uncle that I was a reliable, responsible individual.

I went to see my uncle the baker and asked to work with him. Since he didn’t know me that well, he didn’t know what to expect from me.

—I can relieve you of some of the labor, I told Uncle Vito. That will free you to take care of administration. You’ll see. I won’t let you down.

He was skeptical, of course. He knew I had been a student, unaccustomed to the hurly-burly of business or to physical labor.

—I work hard, he stammered. This is hard work. I don’t think this is the kind of work for you.… Excuse me, Peppino, but I want to know something. Have you ever worked?

—This would be my first regular job, I answered.

It took a little doing, but we eventually came up with an arrangement. He made me a partner, agreeing to let me pay him a little at a time for my share of the business. I agreed to drive the delivery truck, freeing him to supervise the bakery as a whole. But I was also free to expand the business if I could. We shook hands on it—that was our contract.

Uncle Vito had taken a chance on me, but he wasn’t being utterly reckless. Although I had never labored, I was bright and industrious. I had a glib tongue, which was useful to me as a salesman. I had a sure and easy manner. He needed a go-getter to expand his business, something he had been unable to do despite his excellence as a baker.

During 1926 I dedicated myself to the bakery business, and business did indeed improve. I used the friendships I had made to good advantage, through a connection here, a contact there, a favor in return for another consideration. I didn’t know anything about bread, but I knew my way around people. People considered me likable and charming. I enlarged the bakery, increased sales and added delivery trucks. My uncle could hardly keep up with me.

Later, when I was ready to go on to something else, I thanked Uncle Vito for giving me a chance and I returned my share of the business to him without any recompense. I had mainly wanted to prove myself.

*   *   *

I did not fool myself that I would remain a breadmaker for long, and I was always on the lookout for other possibilities.

At a café one evening, I ran into a friend who was sitting with another man I didn’t know. My friend was the personal secretary of an opera singer. The stranger, I learned, was a drama coach.

—A professor of acting, explained my friend, who was a bombastic sort.

The “professor” was Italian and spoke only makeshift English. Since the movies were silent then, the professor’s lack of English fluency was not a hindrance to the practice of his art. He made a living turning out character types for silent movies, many of which, in those days, were made on movie lots in Long Island.

—Hey, professor, what do you think? my friend said. Is Peppino a type, or is he a type?

—He has strong features.

—He’s handsome, my friend added. Another Valentino.

—Go on, go on, I said in embarrassment and secret delight.

—But he’s right, you know, the professor said to me. You have a good face, winsome but strong.

—If you two keep flattering me like this, I said, grinning, I’ll feel obliged to pay for your drinks.

—I’m not kidding, though, my friend said. If you could only sing, you could play the lead in La Forza del Destino.

Although I scoffed at the idea then, before long I enrolled in evening classes while still working at the bakery. The professor had a studio near Union Square. The studio was equipped with a victrola and an odd-looking motion-picture camera on a tripod. Six or seven other students attended classes with me.

Silent movies demanded skill in dramatic pantomime. Italians seem particularly adept at this. It is a national trait.

—Make your emotions come out through your face, your body, your movements, the professor would tell us as he gave us dramatic situations to enact. Remember, make your face the map of your heart.

During our first session, the professor asked me to walk across the room. It seemed a strange request, but I walked, as I always walked, without affectation or stiltedness.

—Will you look at that, the professor cried out. You’re a natural, Peppino. Never change that walk. Always walk like that.

He used to say I was vispo, which means lively or vivacious. He would typecast me sometimes as a tough guy and sometimes as a lover. He said he loved my face and my big ears.

Movie acting seemed easy, I thought. You just had to be yourself. But, among my classmates, I was surprised to see how difficult it was for some of them to act naturally. One girl in particular caught my eye. She strained and labored at her scenes and moved like a stiff mannequin rather than the comely girl that she was. I forget her name but not her loveliness. She was slim and had long, dark-brown hair that swayed behind her like the tail of a horse. We often found ourselves paired in romantic scenes. No matter how passionate the scene, she always felt tense in my arms. Moreover, she moved lethargically, unsure of herself.

—She needs some loosening up, the professor would whisper to me, poking me in the ribs.

I took her to the movies, and once I met her parents. We might have kissed and petted, that nameless girl and I, but my passion for her sputtered. I couldn’t keep anything burning for her. She possessed all the physical assets but lacked the fire within.

The end of our romance, such as it was, coincided with my waning interest in acting. Even though I enjoyed it and the teacher praised me, I had a cavalier attitude toward acting. I considered it a divertissement more than anything else.

I began to skip classes, and eventually I dropped out. I didn’t really want to live in the fantasy world of films. Shortly after I stopped pretending I wanted to be an actor, the real world captured all my attention. And the real world was fantastic enough.

My life took a decisive turn at the end of 1925 when Salvatore Maranzano, a hero of mine in Sicily, immigrated to the United States. When I was a boy, Maranzano was a chief warrior under Uncle Stefano Magaddino in Castellammare, and he too had fought against the Buccellatos.

Afterward, Maranzano sought his fortune in Palermo, where he quickly established himself as a man to watch, a shrewd merchant in the food business, a man on the rise, a bold man and a ready fighter, an apostle of the old Tradition. When Uncle Stefano visited me in Palermo while I was a college student, he often took me to Maranzano’s office and we would join him in a midday meal. Maranzano was married to the sister of don Totò of Trapani.

Many daring and romantic stories surrounded Maranzano. One of them told of how Maranzano confronted his enemy, a swordsman by the name of Calantra, in a Palermo park. Maranzano had lured Calantra to the park by taking evening rides in his carriage. One evening Calantra’s carriage pulled up next to Maranzano’s. Calantra was about to unsheathe his sword when a knife sailed from the adjacent carriage. The wounded swashbuckler retreated.

This renowned “man of respect” had now come to America, fleeing the same insufferable political climate that had turned me into an exile.

I attended a dinner that many Castellammarese friends in Brooklyn gave to welcome him. We embraced heartily and kissed.

—When your father was alive, Maranzano told me, I always followed him.

—Yes, don Turridru, I said, enthralled by him.

—And your Uncle Stefano was my teacher.

—Yes, don Turridru.

—Peppino, you understand me.

—Don Turridru, I … I … yes, don Turridru.

I felt honored and privileged just to be near him. I suppose it was like falling in love, only it was between men. When I was around Maranzano, I felt more alive, more alert, more called upon to fulfill my potential.

He was a fine example of a Sicilian male: robust, about five feet nine inches tall, full-bodied but with no excess flaccid flesh on him, deep-chested, with sturdy muscular arms and legs. He was said to be able to snap a man’s neck with his thumbs and to leap amazing distances.

Maranzano was handsome. He could make his face smile sweetly, or he could look severe enough to make you tremble. He liked fine clothes. He dressed like a conservative businessman, preferring gray or blue suits, soft pinstripes on the blues. He didn’t wear any jewelry other than a watch and his wedding band.

His voice … ah, his voice. What an important aspect of a man, his voice. We remember voices, it seems to me, more than we do faces. Sound seems to be more ancient than sight.

He had a sweet voice, not at all gruff or basso profundo. His voice had an entrancing echolike quality. When Maranzano used his voice assertively, to give a command, he was the bellknocker and you were the bell.

Maranzano could make everyone in a crowded room think he was talking to him individually. He tailored his speeches to the mentality of his audience. To a simple audience, he spoke in parables; to a more intelligent audience he proclaimed ideas. He knew how to interlace a speech with humor, and, when called for, he knew how to soar poetically or come down suddenly and fiercely on a single crucial word.

Maranzano spoke mainly in Sicilian, but he knew several other languages, including Latin. His Latin he learned while studying to be a priest; Maranzano, like my father, had once attended a seminary school. Perhaps that was why he was such a strict one for manners and decorum. He was as punctilious as an archbishop.

After his welcoming banquet to America, I began seeing more and more of Maranzano. While he waited for his wife and children to join him in America, he lived in an apartment near Fourteenth Street and Second Avenue in Manhattan. We often went to the movies together. He especially liked westerns.

I found him irresistible, he found me refreshing. I was twenty-one years old, and he was about forty. He must have liked having a disciple around him. I liked being around a man of experience. He could talk to me on a high level, as he could with few others among the Castellammarese because they lacked schooling. With me, Maranzano could expand and elaborate and not stint in his vocabulary.

—Only you understand me.

—Yes, don Turridru.