Life and Death in the New World

Christmas Eve, 1892, was a busy day in Chicago. Despite the best efforts of the policemen at the downtown crossings to prevent such accidents, two women were run down while attempting to cross Madison Street at La Salle. The intersection was packed with Christmas shoppers, and the women – a Mrs. Kohn and a Mrs. Wysberg – did not see that a horse and wagon were coming towards them. Unable to get out of the way in time, they were knocked to the pavement. Fortunately, the horse was stopped before they were run over, and the women received only a few scrapes.

About the same time, a woman was knocked down by a team of horses pulling a hired carette in front of Marshall Field’s on State Street. A bystander, afraid the woman was badly hurt, took hold of the team to hold them until the police could arrive. The conductor of the carette, objecting to being detained, struck the man with his ticket register, inflicting a severe scalp injury. A policeman had arrived in time to witness all this, but while he was arresting the conductor, the woman who had been knocked down got up and slipped away.

Auditorium Building, Chicago.
Public Domain.

The temperature had been dropping since the 23rd. On the morning of Christmas Eve, it was near zero. The prediction for Christmas Day, according to a Chicago Daily Tribune headline, was that it “May Be Colder or It May Be Warmer.” Working in the tower of the new Auditorium built by Dankmar Adler and Louis Sullivan on the corner of Michigan Avenue and Congress Street, the Signal Service men responsible for this prediction weren’t sure if the cold wave from the Northwest or the warm wave from the Southwest would arrive first. “The weather is now apparently beyond the control of the men in the Auditorium tower,” the Tribune remarked.

Despite the cold snap, this Christmas season had set sales records across the country. All the passenger trains entering Chicago on Christmas Eve were late by up to three hours due to the large volume of express packages being handled by all the railroad lines. The express business more than the cold weather had been more responsible for delays this season. “People talk about hard times,” stated an express office clerk, “but I don’t see where it comes in with all this rush of business. Christmas trade is nearly all in luxuries, or at least things people don’t have to have, and here you see such an amount of it that it is blocking traffic all over the country. People don’t know when they are well off.” The mail too was overburdened by this unprecedented rush. This Christmas many packages would be delivered late.

In addition to stories of the heavy Christmas trade, the newspapers would report on events occurring throughout the city. The Tribune reported on the services to be held Christmas Day in the churches, complete with programs. That day, the Solemn High Mass at the Church of the Ascension on La Salle Avenue and Elm Street included music by Handel and Schubert, Mozart’s “Twelfth Mass,” and carols including “O, Come All Ye Faithful” and “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing.” Interspersed with this more modern music were reminders of the Church’s medieval past heard in the Gregorian chants and plainsong. There were also reports of altruism. Christmas dinners for Chicago’s homeless children – the so-called “street-arabs” – were being served the afternoon of Christmas Day at the Waifs’ Mission and Training School as well as at the Chicago Orphan Asylum and other charities. In addition to the meal, the programs included music and speeches, sometimes by the children themselves. According to the Tribune, “To the street-arab Christmas is an epoch in a dreary life to be anticipated for half the year and to be recalled with delight for the other half.”

Frédéric Auguste Bartholdi.
Public Domain.

There, too, would be the daily recounting of crimes and tragedies, both local and abroad. On Christmas Day there was a story of the persecution of Jews in Germany. A notorious member of the German Reichstag from the Arnswalde district had been accused of libeling the Jewish gun maker Isidore von Löwe. The anti-Semitism of the defense witnesses had exposed their belief that there was a conspiracy among the Jews to dominate the world and that “Jewishness” was a matter of ancestry, not religion, a conviction the generation of Germans now being born would later make public policy. On this day, too, the Boston Journal reported that nine hundred passengers aboard a foreign steamship had arrived in New York each with a sworn certificate that he or she was an American citizen or the relative of a citizen or a tourist, and all were promptly landed despite the “wholesale perjury.” On Christmas Eve, the sculptor Frédéric Auguste Bartholdi, creator of the Statue of Liberty and most recently the Fontaine Bartholdi in the Place des Terreaux in Lyon, France, was called on at his studio in Paris in the Rue d’Assas by a former model, described as “unusually well formed.” Though she had been paid by Bartholdi the agreed upon amount, she was now demanding additional payment. When Bartholdi refused, the woman attacked him with her umbrella, beating him on the head and shoulders. Bartholdi managed to push her out the door and into the street but not before he had been badly bruised. His explanation was simply that the woman was “out of her mind.”

A report on the rise in brigandage in Sicily and threats by the “Mafia” in New Orleans to W.S. Parkerson, one of the leaders of the attack on the parish prison where eleven Italians were lynched, reminded newspaper readers of the dangers these foreigners in their midst represented. Back in Chicago, the Chief of Police told a delegation of tile-workers who were seeking protection from “scoundrels who call themselves union men” that they should carry guns. “I would strap a gun to my waist,” he said, “and shoot the first man who interfered with me.”

And then there was the story of Henri Louis Daniel. The Christmas Eve papers told of his death the day before of malignant, or “black,” diphtheria, the most deadly subtype of the disease. Said by different sources to be a carpenter, a bricklayer, or a merchant, he lived in the basement of a tenement on the Near West Side on Aberdeen Street with his two sons, twelve-year-old Emil and four-year-old Raphael. They had been living there only since July, having sailed from Le Havre, France, where they had been living, on the SS Dania at the beginning of that month, arriving in New York on July 9th. Daniel had left France suddenly, making up his mind to leave Le Havre after the death of his wife. Things had not gone well in the New World. Daniel had no relatives in Chicago, and, speaking only French, he had found it difficult to find work to provide for himself and his sons. The Tribune reported that they lived “in squalor and misery.”

Hull House, which Jane Addams had opened in 1889 to help the immigrants coming to Chicago from Europe, was nearby on Halstead Street, but it is not known if Monsieur Daniel sought help from any agencies. Daniel’s landlord knew nothing about him except that he had paid the rent on his basement apartment when it was due. Neighbors saw him coming and going from time to time, but mostly he kept to himself. So, no one noticed that he had not left his basement for several days. On Friday morning, December 23rd, an acquaintance name Rena Ferre, who himself spoke only a few words of English, had gone to see Daniel and found that he had fallen ill the previous Tuesday and now lay in bed, feverish and cyanotic, his neck swollen from the adenitis and edema into the “bull neck” typical of black diphtheria. The boys were there, caring for him as they had the last three days. Ferre sent a message to a French physician, a Dr. E.C. Cyrier, on Blue Island Avenue, and he came immediately. At ten o’clock, Dr. Cyrier left the sick man, notifying the Board of Health that Daniel’s case “was an exceptionally bad one, and recommended his removal to a hospital.” It was three o’clock in the afternoon when the ambulance arrived for Daniel. A reporter for the Tribune who was on the scene informed the Deputy Inspector who had arrived with the ambulance that Daniel was now dead and that “the health wagon was of no use to him.”

Henri Louis Daniel had hoped for prosperity but found none. Still in grief after the loss of his wife, he had crossed the ocean and endured the seasickness and the cramped berths in-between decks. He had lost everything and now his life. He lay in the basement under a tattered blanket, his sons in a corner of the dim room, sitting together in the weak heat of the coal embers, dependent now on the benevolence of Monsieur Ferre, who would take the boys to his home and, for the time, see to their welfare.

On Christmas Eve, soon after sunset, snow began to fall. It fell quickly and heavily for a short time. It drifted into the narrow passageways between the tenements. It blanketed the roofs, the steps, and the wooden sidewalks. It was caught in the window panes as it fell. The accumulation of two inches was light by Chicago standards. But it was enough to muffle footfalls, the tires of the wagons, the distant rattle of cable cars, and the voices of men and women and children on the streets who hurried to spend the evening with friends and family, their coats held close about them. On Indiana Street, Cristina had come to full term, the baby due any time. Though heavy with her child, perhaps, she felt strong enough to go with Carmine and the children to their cousin Giovanni’s. It was only a few houses to the west. Coming down the snow-covered steps, she would have leaned on Carmine, her coat open, her body too full from the pregnancy to close it. Her hair would have been covered by a scarf to keep off the snow. The children went ahead, half-running, sliding, leaving tracks behind them. On the cold, clean air were the smells escaping from the tenements of onions frying, of the dried, salted cod known as baccalà simmering with tomatoes.

Cristina would try to help Giovanni’s wife Rosa with the meal, but mostly she would have just kept her company, speaking of the coming baby, of the coming year. Carmine and Giovanni were already at the table, each holding a glass of red wine. Along with the traditional baccalà would be some winter vegetables, perhaps some peppers, some eggplant preserved during the summer. A cheese and perhaps a special pastry would have been the simple dessert, or perhaps some cake baked with dried fruit. They would enjoy this time together, waiting for the midnight ringing of the bells at the Church of the Assumption, signaling the arrival of Christmas Day, summoning the congregation to gather for Mass.

Bambina’s birth record.

This Christmas Day, Cristina gave birth to her fourth child, a daughter she named Bambina. On a day which had avoided the blizzards which struck the Northeast, a day the Tribune described as “crisp and frosty” and which the Signal Service men in the Auditorium tower would judge not severe but “only cold enough to invigorate outdoor pleasure-seekers,” Bambina was born in the apartment at 99 E. Indiana Street. Her birth was attended by an A. Lazorio of Lake Street, several blocks away. Whether Lazorio was a doctor or a levitrice, a midwife, is not recorded. Probably Rosa was there to help, and Angelamaria Grimaldi also, Antonio Di Julio’s wife. Though it was Christmas Day, Emiddio, perhaps, was downtown selling papers. His brother Vincenzo and sister Maria Assunta would have spent the day with Giovanni or, perhaps, with a neighbor in the house.

Bambina’s christening.

As the new year began, on January 9th, wearing a new gown made by her mother over the months of her pregnancy, Bambina was baptized. According to the Registrum Baptizatorum in Ecclesia of the Church of the Assumption, the godparents, the patrini, were Michele Volpeintesta and Angela di Cristofano. Afterward, the parents and godparents, all the children, the cousins from Indiana Street and the Near West Side would have gathered around her, all here to celebrate this gift of a new life, this citizen of the New World.

Street Types of Chicago

In 1892, the Chicago photographer Sigmund Krausz published a book of portraits of people he had posed and photographed in his studio titled Street Types of Chicago. Accompanied by “literary sketches by well-known authors,” the photographs, as explained in the author’s introduction to the expanded volume published four years later, Street Types of Great American Cities, are character studies which he expected the reader to “meet with the recognition and hearty appreciation of such as have daily and yearly noted these types in the crowded streets . . .” Krausz describes his difficulties in collecting these characters, the “weeks and months” he haunted the thoroughfares and “dingy alleys” and his “many ludicrous and unpleasant experiences,” such as being taken as a medical student on the hunt for “subjects for the dissecting-room” and “barely avoiding arrest through a misunderstanding by a female Italian type . . .” Once in the studio, his subjects, “lacking the educational qualification necessary to grasp [his] ideas” and because of their “awkward and stubborn behavior in front of the camera,” often failed to provide him with a suitable image. Only after many such failures was he able to have sufficient material for his collection.

Some of Krausz’s images asked for the sympathy of his readers. “Buya da Papah, Signor?” depicts the plight of a Chicago newsgirl. The description, in this case, was provided by Krausz himself:

An Italian Newsgirl
Street Types of Chicago (1892)
by Sigmund Krausz.
Public Domain.

Who has not been accosted, especially evenings and in the down-town districts, by one of these forsaken-looking miniature specimens of toiling humanity?

“Buya da papah, signor?” is their plaintive cry, and it seems to tell a sad story of privation, hunger and neglected childhood driven out in the night by unfeeling and barbaric parents, or, worse perhaps, by a cruel padrone, to earn a few paltry cents for their protectors.

As one sees them, of a winter evening, shiver on the streetcorners, exposed to the inclemency of the weather, their stunted little bodies poorly protected by an old, ragged shawl, against the rain and sleet, crying out with their thin, childish voices, or mutely upholding with their stiff little hands an evening paper, one might feel, indeed, that this is a cruel world, into which every minute a new sufferer is born.

What a contrast between the male and female street Arab! How self-confident, how mischievous the one; how dejected, how forlorn -looking the other!

One might feel compassion and concern towards both of them but while the one, in a sense, hardly deserves it, being self-reliant and by nature hardened against the adversities of life, the other calls forth the deepest pity, the utmost resentment against social conditions that allow a tender being, a future mother of citizens, to be pressed into service to help earn a livelihood for depraved and conscienceless progenitors.

Will this problem ever be solved ?

Continuing Krausz’s theme, the writer Wolf von Shierbrand, who later would write such historical examinations as Germany: the Welding of a World Power and Austria-Hungary: the Polyglot Empire, would write of the “Accordion Player”:

Accordion Player
Street Types of Chicago (1892)
by Sigmund Krausz.
Public Domain.

Here we have one of those types of street life which the thoughtless throng passes by unheedingly, and yet one which furnishes food for thought, serious thought. All the way from sunny, vine-clad Italy she came, from a country where the very air, like an Aeolian harp, vibrates with music; whose every foot of soil reeks with history; whose people have a greater past than any other living nation. But alas! it is also a country which for centuries has been down-trodden, overrun by lusty barbarians, and overridden by the steed of the conqueror. A poverty-stricken country, whose rich natural resources lie fallow, Italy, the sleeping beauty, just awakened from her dream of a thousand years, and still rubbing her eyes wondringly [sic] at the enormous strides forward which all her neighbors have made.

And from that home, beautiful but starving, this swarthy stranger woman has come to these hospitable shores. A strolling musician, vagabondism is in her blood. The hard life she has ever led since she was weaned has left its indelible stamp on her. Straggling, unkempt hair, low forehead, prominent cheek bones, and eyes that glimmer like half-extinct charcoal, she would do as a model for the witch of Endor. But though repulsive in looks, and though she uses her accordion as an instrument of torture on an indulgent public, producing nothing but shrill, discordant sounds, the woman crops out in one spot at least. What Goethe calls the “eternally womanly” shows itself in the child – the bright-eyed, roguish little imp, the “bambino carissimo” of this hag. Like an Indian squaw she carries her pappoose [sic], performing her labor all day long with this burden on her back, twanging her accordion, begging and wheedling, the mother love is there, nevertheless. That is the one green spot in her life, the oasis in the desert of her heart. And let us hope that the little devil-may-care fellow on her sturdy back one day may grow up to be an independent, stalwart American boy.

Employee of the Gas Company
Street Types of Chicago (1892)
by Sigmund Krausz.
Public Domain.

Typically, the Italian immigrants preferred street labor to work in the factories, where in any case they weren’t wanted. They worked with pick and shovel, digging drainage ditches, making street repairs. The drainage of the site of the World Columbian Exposition required hundreds of workers. The writer Sam T. Clover, who in 1884 had published Leaves from a Diary: a Tramp Around the World, would describe Krausz’s portrait titled “In the Employ of the Gas Company” as a man, “many of us [know] to our sorrow.” Clover writes with mock concern that “one cannot withhold a feeling of pity for the poor devil who works so faithfully and unremittingly when the gang-boss is in his proximity. Wait until the foreman is at the farther end of the block, however, and your sentiments will experience a change. . . . Not that he stops work at all; bless you, he is too cute for that! Just watch his pick rise and fall, and you will comprehend my meaning. Why, a blind man could detect by its sound just how far away that gang-boss was from the digger.” Still, somehow, despite his “artistic loafing,” the man “sweats profusely” and drinks deeply and often from the water in a wooden bucket, using a tin dipper. But, Clover tells us, “it is at noon, when his growler-can is filled from the nearest saloon, that he appears in all his glory. Watch him take a swig! No bottle with a white label was ever emptied with keener zest that that beer-can. Talk about nectar for the gods? He would none of it! Give him beer – all he can guzzle – and he is supremely happy.”

Street Sweeper
Street Types of Chicago (1892)
by Sigmund Krausz.
Public Domain.

There are echoes of Clover’s description in that of the street sweeper as described by C.B. Whitford, best known for his books on dog training. Whitford would point out that it was election time when the sweeper was the happiest. “Then he is a man of importance,” Whitford wrote, “whose franchise is eagerly sought by the politicians. All of his friends are given work at this time, and their labor is made correspondingly lighter. Then he has time to pause frequently in his work and lift to his lips the persuasive fluid which is furnished in abundance by the political managers who claim his allegiance.”

Scissors Sharpener
Street Types of Chicago (1892)
by Sigmund Krausz.
Public Domain.

The scissors-grinder is treated more kindly, this time by Krausz himself. “The scissors-grinder is a man who is always welcome to the cook,” Krausz writes, “who, if she happens to be a daughter of Erin, will for the moment forget her innate prejudice against the “Eyetalian” and intrust her dull knives to his care. Whether he carries his apparatus on his back or pushes it before him on wheels, his mind reverting to his sunny home or to his native maccaroni [sic] pots, his brown hand does not tire of swinging the bell with which he reminds our housewives of a dull carving-knife or a rusty pair of scissors.”

Banana Peddler
Street Types of Chicago (1892)
by Sigmund Krausz.
Public Domain.

Krausz also describes the fruit peddler: “A degenerated descendant of the ancient people of Rome or Sparta, the swarthy banana pedlar [sic] pushes his cart contentedly through the thoroughfares of the city. No thoughts of the ancient glory of his nation disturbs his mind when he cries out his ‘Ba-na-nos! Ba-na-nos!!’ He is not sentimental. He is bent on making his profit, and the commercial instinct is far more developed in him than that warlike spirit which predominated in his ancestors. The banana cart is the war-chariot behind which he fights his battle of life. The few paltry dimes which form the profits of a day are to him perhaps as much as the spoils of a victorious battle were for one of his progenitors.”

Rag Pickers
Street Types of Chicago (1892)
by Sigmund Krausz.
Public Domain.

Finally, LeRoy Armstrong, known for his book An Indiana Man, published two years before, is inspired to a mock homage by the image of the “Rag Pickers”:

Born in streets that “echoed to the tread of either Brutus,” under the wall-shadows that have fallen on a Caesar's triumphal march, beneath a sun that could not find a foe for Romans – born so, but in a later day when alien blood has sunk a race of warriors – this last residuum in Time's great goblet that once brimmed over with the best of earth, these ancient crones have wandered from the Old world to glean a living from the refuse of the New. The dames of ancient Rome – the garbage barrels of an American city! There is the satire of the centuries. The stylus that painfully engrossed the learning of that day has swept across the page of Time with swiftly growing speed, till lightning presses end the cycle of improvement. And these old crones, dark fishing in the dawn, dig up the crumpled leaves: “Decline and Fall!” Shall any matron, proud of present empire, live in lines to be digged out of dust-bins in that brighter age when our descendants, sunk to slaves, shall crouch and shiver in the noisome ways? Is there a city somewhere hid in Earth and Time through whose dim alleys Columbia's final son shall grope inferior for food? Why not? Did the Tigris promise less? Do our streams promise more? Where stood the fate that crushed the kings of earth? What fate for us lies crouching in the twilight – centuries away?

A look at the occupations of the inhabitants of Indiana Street found in the records of the census of 1900 shows there were laborers and carpenters, iron workers, pressmen for printing companies, a wagon tire maker, peddlers and “mosaickers.” There were laundresses, barbers, a worker in a coffee factory, street vendors, confectioners, cabinetmakers. There was the scissors sharpener, which Krausz portrayed, along with the fruit peddler, and there were also shoemakers, dressmakers, bartenders, plasterers, ceramic makers and stone masons. One would make his living as an interpreter, another as a sausage packer, a young woman as a cheese maker in a creamery. There was also a sculptor on the street, as well as a musician. And, no doubt, there were some, popularly referred to as “rag-pickers,” who scavenged in the trash of others for usable or salable items, which helped them make ends meet. Most of the work available to the immigrants was menial. In garment shops known as “slop-shops,” which were spread throughout the Near North Side, workers, mostly women and girls, toiled long hours for little pay in their rags and, as expressed in a Chicago Times exposé of the time, their “meanest apologies for shoes.”

Mother Frances X. Cabrini
Public Domain.

The house at number 99 was one of the larger tenements on the street. According to the 1900 census, it housed six families, twenty people, in the house proper and in the apartment behind made from an outbuilding. The names on this block, as well as on the blocks both east and west and around the corners on the cross streets of both Franklin and Orleans, were frequently the names of San Vincenzo and Castellone and of other towns of the Volturno Valley – places such as Colli a Volturno, Scapoli, Cerro al Volturno, and Pietrabbondante. Names from Pizzone were there, also, though many of the Pizzonesi had settled on the Near West Side on Ewing Street, which lay to the south and west of the Near North Side, this enclave of those from Pizzone barely two miles from their neighbors from San Vincenzo on Indiana Street, nearly duplicating the distance separating their two villages in Italy. Eventually, Ewing Street would be renamed Cabrini Street for Mother Frances Cabrini of the Missionary Sisters of the Sacred Heart, who for her work with and devotion to the Italian immigrants of Chicago was recognized after her death by the Catholic Church as a saint, the first citizen of the United States to be so honored.

Stained Glass, the Church of the Assumption.
http://assumption-chgo.org

Mother Cabrini worked through the Church of the Assumption, the first Catholic Church in Chicago founded for Italian immigrants. She would eventually found the church’s school, and it is said that when she died on December 22, 1917, she was working on Christmas gifts for the children there. The Church of the Assumption was begun on what was then East Illinois Street, just one block south of Indiana. Begun in 1881 and dedicated during the time of celebration of Ferragosto on the day of the Feast of the Assumption, August 16, 1886, the church was staffed by fathers from the Order of Friar Servants of Mary – or the Servites – who had been sent from Italy to minister to the immigrants in their own language. The stained glass, the altar in the apse beneath a mosaic of Leonardo’s “Last Supper,” the ornate ceiling were all created through generous donations by a few prominent Italian families and the work of Italian artisans. The window behind the altar is a representation of the Assumption of the Virgin and is modeled on El Greco’s painting of the same subject, which hangs in the Art Institute of Chicago.

 The Church of the Assumption.
http://assumption-chgo.org

Cristina would have taken her children to this church. She would have confessed to her priest here and lit candles as votives. In the pews, on her knees, she would have prayed to the Virgin for her husband and her children. From Indiana Street she could see the church’s bell tower rising over the rooftops of the tenements across the street. On Sunday mornings the bells would announce Mass, and Cristina would have gathered up the children and walked around the corner at Orleans to Illinois Street. With the sun behind them, the high honey-colored walls at the front of the church are shaded during morning services. The three doors to the sanctuary open onto the sidewalk of Illinois Street. Once inside, Cristina would have thought of the Church of San Nicola in Pizzone, where she had gone all her life until coming here. There was much that was familiar, much that seemed like her home. In the spring of 1892, perhaps Cristina kneeled here, the light blue from the colored glass of the altar window catching the morning sun. As she prayed to the window’s ascending Virgin, perhaps she thought of the child she was now carrying, her fourth, the first who would be born in America.

Emiddio would see the church’s bell tower as a landmark, one he would be able to see as he approached his neighborhood. On days he was not on the streets, he would watch the sun traverse the sky over it. At night it was the moon in all its phases. Some evenings he sat on the tenement steps. He would listen to the clatter of the cable cars on Franklin Street and watch the sky above the tower. Many years later he would write of starry skies and the night air charged with moonlight. Perhaps, his thoughts were here, the images those learned as a boy.

Writing in the preface to Krausz’s book, displaying a humanity alien to Krausz and in opposition to the portrayals which follow, the Luxembourg-born rabbi Emil G. Hirsch ended gently and elegantly with these words: “The men who meet us in this book are not of the order of those who control the destinies of a city by the vastness of the enterprises they direct, but all of them in their modest sphere contribute their mite to the active rush which ebbs and flows along our busy thoroughfares. Many of the figures which in this collection extend to us their welcome greeting are old acquaintances of ours, nay, friends whose occasional absence from their wonted haunts and places incite concern for their well-being. None of them but brings us something, be it the hard-pressed letter-carrier or the sooty coalman; be it the musician or the pedlar [sic]; they belong to us. . . . [W]ithin the shell was the animal, behind the book the man. . . . Behind the piles of iron and steel and granite and mortar are the men. These much more than the edifices which they erect are characteristic of a city. And these humble street types are without doubt to be numbered among the men and women who have made and are making our Great Cities; they are the promise of still greater achievements to be garnered in the near future.”

* * *

[Author’s note: In my previous post, “Newsboy,” I identified the address where my family first lived in Chicago, 99 E. Indiana Street, as being at the corner of Indiana and Rush Streets. This is incorrect. Chicago’s streets were renumbered in 1909, and I misinterpreted the table which lists the new numbers. This address would actually have been a few blocks to the west, on Indiana Street between Franklin and Orleans Streets. I have corrected the previous post. – WCM]

Buon Natale

In celebration of the season, I've gathered together some of the sights and sounds of Christmas in Molise. Especially for those of us in the diaspora, it is my hope that these will either remind us of – or acquaint us with – the traditions of our people. I have had the great fortune in my life to realize that the forces which bind us are strong enough to span the distances across oceans and the even greater and more perilous distances across time. I would like to thank Alfonso Notardonato of Pizzone for the use of his photographs. His devotion to his beautiful land continues to enchant.

The Christmas Story is portrayed each year in the streets of Pizzone. These are scenes captured by Alfonso in 2012. (All photos used by permission.)

Zampognari play in the streets.

Pizzone becomes Bethlehem.

Mary and Joseph arrive.

La Stella Cometa, the Star of Bethlehem.

They have seen La Stella Cometa.

The Manger.

Mauro Gioielli is a musicologist and singer from Isernia. He performs the ancient songs of Molise, often accompanied by traditional instruments played by Il Tratturo, the group named after the centuries-old trails used for the seasonal transhumance – the moving of sheep between the highlands of Abruzzo and the pastures of Foggia to the south. Here he sings a song of the Christmas Star, “Stella Cometa.”

In a live performance in the church of Alfedena in 2010, Signor Gioielli performs with Il Tratturo a Christmas concert: Il Tratturo in Concert, 2010.

I Zampognari, the groups named for the traditional bagpipes of the area, the zampogna, perform in the towns and villages throughout Molise during the Christmas season. Here is a group performing in the snow in the Campobasso town of Montefalcone nel Sannio:

In Pizzone, the streets and squares are decorated for the season.

On Christmas Eve, La Vigilia di Natale begins. In Pizzone, in the small piazza in front of the thirteenth-century Church of San Nicola, wood is stacked and set ablaze. Called il rito del fuoco, the ritual of the fire, the fire burns through the night, the event culminating at midnight with the ringing of the church bells.

Midnight and the ringing of the bells as recorded in Montefalcone nel Sannio:

To everyone, I wish a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. And to my French readers: Joyeux Noël et bonne année. And, of course, in Italian: Buon Natale e felice Anno Nuovo! May all experience the best during this season of peace.

Newsboy

The Sherman House.
Photograph: Chicago History Museum

Emiddio helped support the family during the early years in Chicago working as a newsboy. I imagine him living as the hero in Horatio Alger, Jr.’s novel, going each morning to buy the morning papers – the Tribune, the Times, the Herald, the Inter-ocean – then taking them to his spot outside the Sherman House, keeping an eye out for the prosperous, those likely to buy one of his two-cent papers. He would have friends, other boys from the ages of seven to sixteen, who kept all hours here, staying out on the streets despite the weather and the darkness until all their papers were sold. For some, to go home with unsold papers would mean a beating. The boys were different races, different ethnic backgrounds – there were Chicago boys as well as Irish, black boys and other Italians. They worked side-by-side, played pranks on storekeepers, sometimes went too far and had to dodge a policeman or two, and on a good day, sold all their papers early and walked together to the Saratoga on Dearborn Street for a twenty-five cent bowl of oyster stew. The rich stew, made with butter and cream and thickened with flour, was as delicious as it was rare and warmed them as nothing else could on cold, gray winter days.

Arriving the first week of May, the family settled in on the Near North Side in a tenement on Indiana Street – now Grand Avenue – between Orleans and Franklin. Italians crowded into these tenements along the Chicago River – here and on the Near West Side. Others had come before, paesani from Pizzone and San Vincenzo. Just three months earlier, in February, several Di Cristofanos and Foscos had arrived along with Antonio Rossi. At Christmastime, after a frigid crossing, going ashore at Castle Garden on Christmas Eve, other Foscos had arrived ahead of their kinsmen along with Francesco and Nicola Di Vito and Antonio Di Silvio. In May of 1890, Filippo Di Cristofano arrived in the company of Domenico Di Vito, Nicola Gallo, Giuseppe Grimaldi, Domenico Rossi, Antonio Santucci, the fox Antonio Volpe, and, finally, Antonio Di Iorio, a distant relative of Cristina’s mother Felicita Di Iorio. Even earlier, in April of 1888, Pasquale Di Silvio had beat them all through the “Golden Door.”

Antonio Di Julio with one of his
daughters. Photo taken on
Halsted Street in the 1890s.
Photograph from the collection
of the author.

Carmine’s cousin Giovanni had found a place for his family a few houses down Indiana Street from Carmine and Cristina. A cousin to both Carmine and Giovanni, Antonio Di Julio, was also here, along with his wife, Angelamaria Grimaldi, and their two daughters, Santa and Cristina. Angelamaria was six months into another pregnancy that May. She would come to term during Chicago’s hottest months.

The tenements were mostly quickly and shoddily built wooden-frame “cottages” or two- or three-story multi-apartment buildings, often on unpaved, muddy streets, with small, gloomy courtyards crisscrossed with lines hung with washing. Often apartments opened onto garbage-strewn back alleys. Sometimes the courtyards contained a “rear house,” occupied by more tenants. The narrow passages between the structures were dark, often damp, and sometimes impassable due to the accumulated garbage. In winter, the snow would pile up in the passages.

Turn-of-the-century tenement showing
the wooden garbage boxes attached
to the street.
University of Illinois at Chicago photo.
Public Domain.

The children played where they could – in the alleys, on the boards of the wooden sidewalks, or in the streets. Just blocks away, toxic black smoke rose from the smokestacks of factories on the river. The smoke was so thick that sometimes it shaded the sun and left an acrid and unbreatheable haze in the air. The soot settled everywhere, in winter turning the snow into a gray, gritty slush. The apartments themselves were sometimes a single room with a tiny kitchen. A wooden partition or blanket strung across the room provided privacy for the parents. Privies were in the alleys, as were open wooden boxes for the manure collected from the horses on the streets. There were chickens loose in the courtyards and in the streets. In the heat of the summer months, the combined smells were overpowering and unhealthy. Disease coursed through the tenements as more and more immigrants crowded into these neighborhoods. What city services there were could not keep up with the ever-increasing population in the river wards. There were cases of cholera, of dysentery, diphtheria, whooping cough, and typhoid fever. As recently as the early 1880s there had been a typhoid epidemic which killed more than 2,400 people. Smallpox killed 1,500 during the same period. The children, often out on the streets to escape the crowded apartments, were particularly vulnerable.

Children playing in a garbage-strewn alley on the
Near West Side.
University of Illinois at Chicago photo.
Public Domain.

For many of the immigrants from Molise, the green heart of Italy, whose native landscapes and architecture and customs had been shaped through millennia, this was beyond their imaginings. Coming from a land of high mountains and deep forests rich with deer and camosci – the Abruzzo chamois – and boar and wolves, and even a bear related to the American grizzly, many could not take in this urban, frantic world of Chicago – a city which had grown from 4,170 people in 1837 to 1,250,000 in 1891 and which had sprawled from 10.7 square miles to 181.7 square miles in the same period, a city of commerce whose combined transactions totaled nearly 1.4 billion dollars just the year before in 1890. For some, it was too much. There were those who would become virtually unable to leave their apartment, sitting by the window to watch the clouds in a clear patch of sky. There is an account of a sickly Italian boy who in warmer weather kept a vigil over the blooms of a flower box outside the apartment’s single window, sitting all day in his chair, breathing in the caustic air through the open window.

The Rush Street  Bridge, 1890.
Public Domain.

Mornings, Emiddio would escape toward the city center, easily walking the few blocks to the Rush Street bridge. Heavy traffic signaled the start of the day. Amidst the din of horses’ hooves, of the iron-rimmed wheels of wagons and carriages on the wooden planks of the iron bridge, Emiddio crossed carefully, the horses and wagons passing closely enough for him to feel in the cool morning air the heat of the animals. Once across the bridge, he would leave the river with its barges and its smokestacks and its factories and head towards the Loop. He would learn that the financial district on Dearborn and outside the fine hotels and restaurants were the most profitable locations to sell his papers. He would know what times of the day were best for each location. He would learn the routes of the cable cars. He would sometimes take his younger brother, Vincenzo, to get him out from underfoot, and together they would come to know the city and its people – from the street types and tradesmen to the businessmen and to the fashionable ladies shopping with their servants. He would come to know the neighborhoods of Little Hell, of the Near West Side and Maxwell Street with its pushcarts and its market, known pejoratively as “Jew Town,” due to the Eastern European Jews – generically referred to as “Russians” – who had settled there.

The corner of State Street and Madison Avenue, 1897.

Edison Studio. Public Domain.

On August 2nd, Cousin Antonio’s wife gave birth to her baby. She would have been born in the tenement apartment, the air through the open window hot and foul. The women of the family would have been present, including Cristina. A levatrice, a midwife, would have been found. Antonio and Angelamaria would name the child Assunta Maria.

Two weeks later, in Italy, it was the time of Ferragosto, the August festival celebrated since the time of Augustus. There would be festivals in San Vincenzo and Pizzone, in all the villages in the mountains of Molise and in all of Italy. The celebrations would culminate on the 15th and include the Feast of the Assumption commemorating the Virgin Mary’s Heavenly birthday, the day of her bodily ascent into Heaven.

Monte Meta with pilgrims on its slopes, 2013.
Photograph by Alfonso Notardonato.

For the young and for the more robust, following the Assumption, a pilgrimage was made across the Meta massif to the Valle di Canneto and to the Santuario Madonna di Canneto. The appearance here of a shining Lady to a young shepherdess established this valley, already sacred in pagan times, as a holy place. By the year 1475, a document now preserved in the archives of the abbey of Montecassino granted indulgences of one-hundred days to the pilgrims who visited the shrine here. From all directions the pilgrims came. Cristina’s maternal grandparents, married in 1815, perhaps first saw each other here, each having travelled miles of rugged Apennine terrain – her grandfather Pietro Di Iorio from Pizzone to the east of the Canneto Valley, her grandmother Serafina Ferri from San Giuseppe to the south.

The hamlet of San Giuseppe, now a part of the commune of Picinisco.
Photograph by the author.

Madonna di Canneto.
Photograph by Alfonso Notardonato.

The pilgrims visited the shrine, paraded in procession. Some would travel the last distance to the shrine on their knees. Some would walk the distances barefoot. Some, having seen the effigy of the Madonna – made of lime wood and dating possibly to the twelfth century – would walk backwards as they left the santuario, not wanting to turn their backs to Her.

Antonio and Angelamaria’s daughter would live through these days of August. But as autumn began, she would become ill. The particular disease which caused the illness has been lost, but on October 12th the little girl died. The location of her grave and the circumstances of the funeral also have been lost. The family would have been there – Antonio and Angelamaria, Giovanni and his wife Rosa, Carmine and Cristina. Emiddio, too, would have seen Assunta Maria laid into earth, where she would be left to lie alone, the family’s first casualty in the New World. Later, her parents, her siblings would leave America. In a few years, they would make a home in France. Manifest Destiny would continue to remake the American continent, but Antonio and Angelamaria would continue to think of the little girl they lost and left behind on the edge of the American frontier.

The Barge Office

The Barge Office in the Battery, New York City.
Public Domain.

Herman Volke, a locksmith from Saxe-Weimar who had just crossed the Atlantic aboard the Hamburg-American steamer Columbia, was among the first half of the 734 steerage passengers to board the transfer boat William Fletcher and to come alongside the Barge Office dock. It was April 19, 1890, and Volke, at shortly before ten o’clock in the morning, would become the first immigrant to be registered at the new, just-opened immigrant depot in the Battery of New York. As he was giving his name and age to the clerk, he was handed a five-dollar gold piece and heartily congratulated by the superintendent. Volke and his wife, both grateful for the welcome, shook the superintendent’s hand enthusiastically and expressed their thanks in German. Then, heading towards Pittsburgh along with the dog and cat who had made the voyage with them, they disappeared into their history.

Construction was still going on inside the Barge Office on this first day of business, but this didn’t seem to cause any problems. Nugent’s bar and lunch counter was bustling. There was only one detention this day. A cable from Liverpool had preceded the arrival of a William Henry Hopkinson of Lincoln, England, with the news that Hopkinson had abandoned his wife and children and taken passage on the Germanic with a young woman named Ellen Kelly. Travelling as Mr. and Mrs. Hill, they were detained. Eventually the couple admitted their actual identities. Hopkinson protested that he had left his family with money and was simply on his way to Kansas City to find work. Kelly, who is described as “young and pretty,” had friends in Hartford and would easily find work there. The superintendent allowed them to land.

Another view of the Barge Office.
Public Domain.

There were other stories of the heart. Christopher Kruisler, for instance, who had immigrated several years before. A Bavarian from Würtemberg, Kruisler was a diminutive man who had become betrothed to Marie Epple, also from Würtemberg, before he had come to America. Kruisler saved the money he had earned as a cigar-box maker and sent for Marie, who arrived at the Barge Office on July 9, 1891, after a crossing on the SS Rhynland. Kruisler had been waiting behind the wooden railing which separated the passengers from those waiting to meet them. When he saw Marie, he excitedly began to dance. Marie was unable to hide her disappointment upon seeing Kruisler. According to The New York Times, “The fair Marie thought that he would grow, perhaps.” They reported,“Evidently the climate of America had done nothing to increase his stature, as she fondly hoped that it would.” After Marie was admitted, and they were finally brought together, Marie told Kruisler that she had changed her mind. There would be no wedding. She said that she “was content to remain plain Marie Epple for the present.” The Times closes,“After a long and stormy interview the crestfallen lover left his faithless sweetheart and went away vowing to kill himself.”

The Statue of Liberty at its unveiling
in 1886. It would still have been this
dull copper color in 1891.
Puiblic Domain.

It was May Day of 1891 when aboard the SS Rhynland Carmine and Cristina with their children sailed into New York Bay. In Italy, there would still be snow on the Mainarde. The fields below San Vincenzo would have been burned and cleared and ready for the new crop. It was now time to plant. There would be bud break on the grape vines, the new leaves bright green in the sun. On its way to a Hudson River pier, the ship would pass the Statue of Liberty on its port side. The passengers would crowd the ship’s rails to view the American colossus, parents lifting their children onto their shoulders so they could see and remember. They would also pass Ellis Island, still under construction, not to open as the new immigrant depot until January 1, 1892. To starboard was Lower Manhattan and the Battery. The immigrants perhaps would have noticed the circular, sandstone walls of Castle Garden, the old fort which a generation ago had become an entertainment venue, hosting such shows as the famous soprano Jenny Lind and the dancer Lola Montez, former lover of both Franz Liszt and King Ludwig I of Bavaria, who danced here her notorious “Spider Dance.” In 1855, Castle Garden became the immigrant depot for the Port of New York. It would serve in this capacity until 1890. Six years later, it would become the New York City Aquarium, which for nearly fifty years would be one of New York’s most popular attractions.

Lower Manhattan and the Battery, 1900. Castle Garden can be
seen at the far right.
Public Domain.

The Rhynland would dock that morning on the Hudson, where the saloon and second-class passengers would disembark. The steerage passengers would be made to wait, held back by Red Star Line officials. They would be given a letter of the alphabet identifying their ship and a number, their number from the ship’s manifest. Carmine would be number 18; Cristina, 19; Emiddio, 20; Vincenzo, 21; and little Maria, 22. The immigrants would not be allowed to disembark here. Not quite understanding what was happening to them, they would be herded onto one of the broad-decked harbor boats supplied by the Bureau of Immigration. Aboard these boats, hundreds at a time with all of their belongings, the immigrants were ferried to the dock of the Barge Office, where they would wait on board, shoulder to shoulder, until there was room for them to disembark. On land for the first time in two weeks, they would be divided into groups according to their letter and number. They would learn to wait. Standing in line, crouching, maybe sitting on a bundle, they waited anxiously for what one immigrant described as “the nearest earthly likeness to the final Day of Judgment, when we have to prove our fitness to enter Heaven.”

A New York Times Magazine article of the time comments, “The Italian is the immigrant of the hour. The boot that is Humbert’s domain [a reference to Italy’s King Umberto I] seems to be leaking, and if you, oh! man, who reads and studies, should stand in the Barge Office day after day for a while you would think that every Italian town and village, yes, and every hillside, was being deserted in the race for the dollars of America.” The writer continues, referring to the Italian immigration as “the migration of the ‘Dago,’ as we have come to call him, and which does not seem an inappropriate term as the raw product is seen at the Battery before he has ‘squeezed through. . . .’”

Babies wail. Shouts of “Move on! Move on!” harass the immigrants, who shuffle their belongings along ahead of them. A woman loses her grip on a bundle tied up in some rags, and it comes undone, spilling its contents of a kitchen pot and other kitchen odds and ends. Gradually, the group is pushed and shoved upstairs to the area known as “the pens,” where the groups are kept together for examination. The medical examination would follow, much like the one they had endured in Antwerp. Here they would be marked with chalk and detained if there was a problem: “H” for heart, “K” for a hernia, “X” for a mental defect. The following description appeared in The New York Magazine:

Briefly, the inspection is a simple one. With health and a little money a man, no matter how great his family, is considered a desirable immigrant. The doors of the promised land fly open at a touch. Vigor and a cash capital of about $20 will carry the foreigner and his household through the lines without trouble. The vigor is evident to the doctors who scan each man, two or three watching the line in review, one for certain sorts of physical defects, another for conditions of health of another order. Thus a man is sometimes ordered abruptly out of the line. Another! Both doctors were rigid. This immigrant had an [infection] of the eyes, (the doctor noticed it by the way he walked). As to finance, the wanderer from abroad must hand up his little hoard to the Inspector for counting. With the best of the Italians who come here this consists of a few pitiful greasy bits of paper money, a coin or two, too few to even jingle.

The writer describes the appearance of a young woman before the inspector:

There is standing before the Inspector Angiolina Felicetta with $12.15 in her little purse. She has come to join her husband, who, it is afterward found, is waiting for her in the crowd outside. He has come ahead to test America. All is seemingly propitious; the girl wife has come over to join him. She is but seventeen, a slip of a Neapolitane. A clumsy-fitting frock of green and yellow stripes sets badly on her girlish figure. The white cotton lace on it is torn and soiled. She wears carpet slippers, and on her head a gay fazzoletta di testa (handkerchief) is coquettishly entwined. Angiolina, according to American canons, is dirty. In Italy you would kodak her at once, and fresh off the steamship she has not lost her Old World charm. For with the green and yellow stripes there is a gorgeous pink ribbon about her neck and in her hand a yellow and green basket – her entire wardrobe.

After the examination, the immigrant might be approached by a representative of the Italian Bureau, a agency of the Italian government. These officials attempted to identify immigrants who might be victims of the padrone system, in which a person might have contracted his labor in return for his passage. The officials of the Italian Bureau would record the entries of as many Italians as they could in the performance of their duties. Finally, actually inside the Barge Office, were ticketing agents for the railroads. The passengers would be ferried across the Hudson to the New Jersey shore to catch their trains. Carmine and Cristina arrived during a price war on trains travelling to Chicago and points west set off by a squabble between the Central Traffic and Trunk Line Association, who booked the travel on the various railroads for the immigrants, and the Chicago and Alton Railroad which resulted in the latter being granted their own agent within the Barge Office. Dazed, disoriented, and exhausted, Carmine and Cristina would not have understood this. Nor would they have understood the crush of people outside the Barge Office. Relatives and friends of immigrants, or just the curious, sometimes numbering into the hundreds, lined the street. Brass-buttoned, loud, and carrying sticks, policemen and detectives were present to “keep order.” A relative rushing forward to greet a newly arrived immigrant would be beaten back with shoves and sticks, regardless of the offender’s sex. In later years of the Barge Office, a homeless man by the name of Cripps, who slept in a box on the pier, took up his cane to do his part to manage the crowd. According to The New York Times,

He yells as savagely as the rest, and, being fiercer of countenance, his orders are more quickly obeyed than those of the authorized guardians of the peace. Nobody dares face the glitter in the eye of “Cripps,” and before his gaze Italians, Huns, Greeks, and men of various nationalities wither away in mortal fear and venture no more in reach of his eye or cane. He, without a smile and confident of his supreme authority over all “furriners,” never flinches in his duty.

Carmine and Cristina collapsed into their seats on the train. The children, too, having survived this “Day of Judgment,” were quiet. Perhaps, Cousin Giovanni and his family were also on this train, along with some of the others from San Vincenzo. All needed to rest. All would try. I imagine Emiddio, leaning his head against the window, watching the passage of wilderness, of isolated farms, of small towns with their unfamiliar architecture. From New York and New Jersey, they would travel west through Pennsylvania, then Ohio and Indiana, through the lands of great peoples now gone: the Pequot, the Iroquois, the Munsee, and the Susquehanna, on through the lands of the Erie and the Miami. Emiddio would not have been aware of this. After the dark came, he would see nothing. All would be black except for the occasional farmhouse with a coal-oil lamp flickering orange and yellow in a window. Nothing else would break the darkness, not for miles, not until the next farmhouse seen in the distance across the flat land.

In Italy during these first days of May, across the mountains some miles north of San Vincenzo, in the village of Cocullo, continuing a tradition going back to the Dark Ages and according to some back to the snake goddess worshipped by the Marsi, the Italic tribe who joined with the Samnites against the Romans, the serpari were gathering their snakes for the festival. Only certain snakes were chosen, all non-venomous: four-lined snakes, aesculapian, grass, and green whip snakes. The feast day for the patron saint of Cocullo occurred at this time on the first Thursday in May. Promptly at noon on this day, the effigy of San Domenico would begin his procession through the village. San Domenico is believed to be a mediator between the harsh realities of the world and the people who must suffer them. As San Domenico is carried through the village, the snakes are laid at his feet, around his shoulders and arms, up his legs. Snakes wrap around snakes. Thus, the villagers pass on to their beloved saint all that endangers them. It is their hope, their belief, that he will somehow strike a deal, a deal that will grant them all a better world.

Italians to America

In the United States on March 3, 1891, the Immigration Act of 1891, passed by Congress and signed by President Benjamin Harrison, became law. While Carmine and Cristina were preparing for their journey to Antwerp, this law, an expansion of the 1882 law already on the books, defined what conditions would make an immigrant not only excludable but also deportable – “idiots,” as it was put, the insane, paupers, polygamists, persons who might become a public charge, and those convicted of a crime. If an immigrant was found to be suffering from a “loathsome or dangerous” contagious disease, he would be quarantined until better or sent back to his port of origin at the expense of the shipping company which brought him. If immigrants were caught entering the country illegally, the shipping company would not only have to pay for their return but also pay a $300 fine for each offense.

Just over a month later, on April 9, 1891, The New York Times published an editorial entitled “Rejected Immigrants” which begins, “Our new immigration laws will do us no good if we continue to endure with meekness, as we have in the past, the defiant attempts of the steamship lines to unload their human refuse and leave it here.” The editorial cites the case of the Iniziativa – this ship’s name translating to English as “initiative” or “venture” – from which three Italian immigrants who had been refused entry escaped from the ship. Agents of the Florio Line, which operated the Iniziativa, claimed they could not return these passengers or others who had been refused entry because the ship wasn’t returning to Italy. The writer blames the indifference of the officers of the immigrant steamers for the influx to America of “paralytics, beggars, and criminals,” as well as the local and national authorities of several unnamed foreign governments who “have cheerfully connived at the illegal deportation of their human trash to our quite too hospitable shores.” The writer then laments the leniency of our government which fails to punish the steamship lines, leaving America to ultimately accept these “diseased and stiletto-bearing individuals.”

Just four days before, on April 5, a previous editorial in the Times entitled “Sifting Immigrants” takes the position that the murdering of eleven Italians in New Orleans by vigilantes the previous month was the result of Italy’s dumping of these “stiletto-bearing individuals” on America, that if they had not been here, they would not have been murdered. The crime the murdered Italians were accused of committing was the murder of New Orleans Chief of Police David Hennessy on the night of October 15, 1890, when a group of men assassinated him with shotguns on Basin Street. Hennessy collapsed in the street. Those who ran to help him asked him who had done this. The story was that he managed to whisper a single word, “Dagoes.”

The community of New Orleans was outraged. The police rounded up suspects considered likely, all Italian. The newspapers not only in New Orleans but across the country ran editorials about the threat of the Italian Mafia and Italian immigrants in general. Finally, nine men were charged with the murder and tried in February, 1891. The men were presumed guilty by the public and the press, but the defense was able to show that the men had alibis. On March 13, the jury acquitted six of the men and deadlocked on the others. Though acquitted of the murder, all the men were still held in the parish prison on Marais Street on other charges.

Illustration of the rally at the Henry Clay Statue
from Harper's Weekly, 1891.

In all the New Orleans papers the following morning, a call to action appeared: “All good citizens are invited to attend a mass meeting on Saturday, March 14, at 10 o’clock A.M., at Clay Statue, to take steps to remedy the failure of justice in the Hennessy case. Come prepared for action.” This notice was signed by over sixty-two citizens, some leaders of the movement in favor of immigration reform. Men such as John C. Wickliffe, Walter Denegre, and William S. Parkerson – all signatories of the call to action – addressed the crowd. Parkerson climbed onto the pedestal of the statue of Henry Clay which then stood at the intersection of Canal Street and St. Charles Avenue. He began by speaking to the “people of New Orleans,” stating that “when courts fail, the people must act.” He shouted to be heard, “Will every man here follow me and see the murder of Hennessy avenged? Are there men enough here to set aside the verdict of that infamous jury, every one of whom is a perjurer and a scoundrel?”

Walter Denegre was next. While allowing that “perhaps not all of the twelve jurors accepted a bribe, some of them did.” He ended with “Let everyone here now follow us with the intention of doing his full duty.”

The mob storming the prison where the
prisoners are held.

Finally, J.C. Wyckliffe climbed onto the statue to shout, “If such action as the acquittal of these assassins is to be further tolerated, if nothing is done to forcibly portray the disapproval of the public of this infamous verdict, not one man can expect to carry his life safe in the face of the organized assassination that so powerfully exists in our midst as to openly set law and order at defiance.”

The account on March 15th in the Times of what followed would detail how the “miserable Sicilians trembled in terror” in the women's prison where they had been moved to try to fool the mob. The deaths of each of the eleven men  – the nine who were tried and two others who weren't – is described:

Gerachi, the closest man, was struck in the back of the head, and his body pitched forward and lay immovable on the stone pavement.

Romero fell to his knees, with his face in his hands, and in that position was shot to death.

Montastero and James Caruso fell together under the fire of a half a dozen guns, the leaden pellets entering their bodies and heads, and the blood gushing from the wounds. . . .

Scoffedi, one of the most villainous of the assassins, dropped like a log when a bullet hit him in the eye. . . .

Pollize, the crazy man, was locked up in a cell upstairs. The doors were flung open and one of the avengers, taking aim, shot him through the body. He was not killed outright and in order to satisfy the people on the outside who were crazy to know what was going on within, he was dragged down the stairs and through the doorway by which the crowd had entered. A rope was provided and tied around his neck and the people pulled him up to the crossbars. Not satisfied that he was dead, a score of men took aim and poured a volley of shot into him, and for several hours the body was left dangling in the air.

And so it went on. When it was done, the crowd carried Parkerson on their shoulders with loud cheering back to the Clay statue before departing. Two days later, on March 17th, in another editorial the Times would make this statement: “There was no longer any question of maintaining public respect for the law, for it was the acquittal of guilty men rather than the lynching of them that brought the law into contempt.”

The Italian community in New Orleans protested as they did in other cities both in America and in Italy. The Italian government protested and threatened to boycott the World Columbian Exposition then under construction in Chicago. There was a rumor the Italian navy was going to bombard cities on the American East Coast. The Times assured “decent and law-abiding Italians” that they “have nothing to fear from the operations even of lynch law in the country. They may suffer by being confounded in the public estimation with indecent and lawless Italians, but this injury they can avert. If the Italians throughout the country had taken pains to express their detestation of the murder of Hennessy and to disclaim all sympathy with his murderers, they would have secured themselves much more effectually against being classed with those murderers than they can now do by expressing indignation over the fate which these men justly incurred.”

From Judge magazine, 1906.

These were the weeks and days which preceded the arrival in New York of Carmine and Cristina with their children Emiddio, Vincenzo, and Maria Assunta. In 1906, after Emiddio’s return to America, when he was twenty-two, the magazine Judge would publish during the height of the Italian immigration a cartoon depicting rats with human heads carrying knives in their mouths climbing onto a dock beneath a flag-holding Uncle Sam. Other “rats” are swimming toward the dock or jumping from a ship named Directly from the Slums of Europe Daily. Many years later, as a man in his prime, Emiddio, thinking of France, would write in his poetry of “la belle mise de la douce paix,” or “the beautiful setting of sweet peace,” and “la protectrice de la liberté,” “the protector of liberty.” For the immigrants going through America's “Golden Door” in 1891, acceptance as Americans would elude them.The “beautiful setting of sweet peace” would come, at least for some, but only after a struggle, and not for decades.