on, Tonio, we’re going to the festival.”
“No, Sal, my father needs me.”
He was the son and grandson of stonemasons. After school he worked side by side with his father and grandfather, cutting, chipping, measuring—whatever was required for the repairs to the great cathedral. From the time he could walk, he had carried the water to wet the stones to keep the dust down, until they had begun to teach him the craft itself.
When they rested, he would sit at his grandfather’s knee and ask the old man about the great days when Garibaldi and Mazzini united the country, and how the old man had fought to free the land from foreign influence.
His grandfather would show him the two gold medals for bravery that hung above the straw-filled bed along with the black paper silhouettes of Mazzini and Garibaldi ... and Antonella.
Antonio first saw Anna at Mass on Easter Sunday. Like the other girls, she wore a white dress and had blossoms in her hair. But there was a difference to her.
He was twelve and he was curious.
He was noticing things he had never noticed before. Her face did not seem like those of the other girls. It lit up the church more than the candles that stood row on row in front of the statues of the Virgin Mary and the Infant Jesus. Her voice was sweeter than the spring birds now trilling the Resurrection of Christ.
After Mass, she walked outside and sat in the back of a little donkey cart waiting for her family.
He was twelve and he was bold.
“My name is Antonio Gallini. What’s yours?”
“Anna. Anna Abrescia.”
He liked the name.
She thought he looked strong for just a boy.
As their childhood romance flowered in the little Tuscan village, another flower was beginning to bloom that soon would stain the earth red.
Pasquale could feel it in the air. The young men were restive, just as they had been almost fifty years before. The blood lust was rising, even in his son Pietro.
Antonio was now fourteen—almost a man.
Pasquale began to plan.
The town priest knew how to speak and write English, so he called in a favor—the church repairs he had performed but never charged for—and arranged for the priest to teach the boy. He would not permit his grandson to be sucked into the maw of war.
“Tonio, you don’t spend time with us anymore. All you do is moon over the carpenter’s daughter.”
His friends knew him too well.
She would be coming into town today. He would wait for her. It was going to be a busy day. The farmers from the outlying areas would be bringing the cattle to the town for sale. There would be festivities.
He saw her down the street; she was driving the little donkey cart. Then he heard the rumble of hooves, thousands of them: the cattle drive. He saw the cart stop. The girl stood up and looked back in the direction of the noise—she was terrified. He ran, ran, as fast as he could toward her, grabbed the reins from her paralyzed hands and pulled the donkey and cart off the street into a nearby alley just as the cattle thundered through.
He lifted the still-frightened girl out of the cart and then held her for just a moment. He felt strange, like nothing he had ever felt before. Then, as she hugged and kissed him, the strangeness got stronger. She returned to the cart, her face red like the tomatoes in his grandfather’s garden.
He felt the burning in his own face and began moving toward her when he heard the clapping of hands and turned to see a watching crowd. Suddenly he was surrounded by his friends who were laughing and dancing, holding fingers to their heads to imitate the horns of a bull.
“Moo! Moo! Moo! Antonio has the horn!”
A few motioned crudely grabbing their crotches.
He realized it was true, and he ran off embarrassed to the shelter of his home.
“Antonio, the other boys are joining the army. Have you done so yet?”
“No, Papa, not yet. I thought you and Grandpapa needed me here.”
His father scowled and walked away.
Pasquale emerged from the shadows of the stonecutting room.
“Tonio, I see you with the carpenter’s daughter. You love her.”
He was embarrassed that it had become so obvious to everyone, but he nodded.
“Listen carefully to me, my son. Yes, I call you my son, because you are more like me than your father ever was. You are a thinker. I will not let you become cannon fodder. Here, boy.”
The old man held out a small leather pouch.
“This is for you and your Anna. Take it. It will be enough for you both. Go to Naples, get passage to America. You must leave before the guns start sounding. War is not glory. Many of my friends lie in the ground because of it. Now go, pack your clothes and say good-bye to your mama. She will understand. Do not be upset by your father.”
Antonio took the pouch and could feel the weight of the coins. He hugged the old man and thanked him, knowing they soon would never see each other again. As he left the room, he saw his father standing there, his face darkened with rage.
“Papa, I …”
His father turned his back, and the words echoed off the stucco walls.
“Non ho figlio!”
“Mama, I’m leaving for America with Anna. When we get enough money together, we’ll send for you and Papa and Grandpapa. It’s going to be all right.”
Maria looked at her son. She pulled his head to her chest and rocked him as she had done when he was a baby. She was stricken with grief, but she knew Pasquale was right; her son had to leave in order to live. She turned and took down the small silver crucifix from the mantle and put it in her son’s hands.
“It is all I can give you.”
“Come, Anna, we’ll miss the boat!”
They moved quickly through the crowds at the Naples dock. The great steamship towered over everything as they clutched the two small bags and moved up the gangplank. The steward looked at the young couple, sneered, then pointed toward the steerage section, the cheapest, darkest level of the ship. Crowded and dank, the smell of fear and hope mixed there with incipient seasickness. But it was worth it. They were going to America.
Fourteen days later, they saw the great copper statue rising above the entrance to New York Harbor. It had been a rough voyage until they finally were allowed to stand on deck.
“No deck chairs for this refuse!” the steward had laughed to his co-workers.
Disembarkation was worse. After the rich passengers streamed leisurely down the gangplanks to the waiting arms of family and
