PE3, Severino in New York City

PE3

Links: "PE3 Assignment" , and "Character Sketch: Severino Cuzelli" 



"Pregiamo..." the Priest said from the altar of the shrine of San Genaro.

The wooden pews creaked as worshipers knelt and heads bowed in unison. Severino Cuzelli heard the sound of rustling silk as the woman sitting next to him knelt on the padded prayer stool in front of her. She was young and pretty, strands of dark hair fell loosely from the black scarf she wore over her head. She turned and smiled at him before bowing her head, causing a shudder in Severino's stomach. He returned the smile then bowed his head and closed his eyes. He prayed—for his own success-financial and otherwise.

He didn't attend church regularly; he worked six days a week; hard work in the construction trenches of the New York City subway system. On Sunday he savored an extra hour of sleep. But today was the last day of the feast of San Genaro. The festival was held every year in Italy, where The blessing of the water was an ancient custom. With so many Italian emigrants now living in New York, it didn't take long before the custom took hold here in America.

Every September, colorful lights were strung from lamp post to lamp post with red, green, and white decorations. The streets became a carnival of musicians, dancers, and vendors selling Zeppole's, grilled sausage, and homemade wine. For the past six evenings, Severino strode the bustling sidewalks after finishing work. He bought something to eat and a glass of fragrant red wine, then sipped the wine while he watched the young girls walk by in groups, giggling when they saw him eyeing them so openly. It was at the festival that he met Antonia on the fourth night of the festival.

He had followed her for two blocks as she strolled casually from vendor to vendor, sampling what each one was selling. They stopped at the same vendor and as he stood next to her at the makeshift counter he offered to buy her a glass of wine. She accepted with a nod and a smile. He was encouraged by the way her eyes lingered as she looked at him, and he liked her seductive, knowing smile. She was young, maybe twenty, she had eyes as dark as coal, her ebony hair hung straight to her shoulders like a silk curtain. Sipping their wine, they walked together and talked in Italian. It was the first time since arriving in America four months ago that he was not home sick.

* * *

He had arrived in New York Harbor in May and had spent most of the day at Ellis Island processing through customs. The seven day voyage on the Colombia, had been rough and the accommodations crude, but after spending two years at Mount Pasubio during World War I, Severino found the trip from Trieste, Italy, nearly luxurious.

The years on the summit of that unforgiving mountain had been terrible ones. How many men had come up that mountain and never left? Thousands...many thousands, he thought. It was there that he lost faith in the God his mother had instilled in him when he was a boy. He tried not to dwell on it, but when the memories came they awoke the terror that still lingered inside of him. He was aware, even when he was on that mountain, that it was the sons of the poor--the people who could not pay to keep their children from harm—that served and died. The unfairness of poverty had not lost on him.

Mount Pasubio...the name flitted through his mind, making him shudder as if caught in a cold wind. His military unit had been trapped on top of the barren mountain, unable to bury the casualties the bodies were stacked like cordwood. They had even been used to build a low, protective wall that the living hid behind during attacks. He remembered the avalanches that shook the mountain and took as many lives as bullets did, as tons of snow slid over men in trenches. Men who remained hidden in their frozen graves until the spring thaw.

The visions of the brutality of war, the starvation, the harsh winter conditions, would remain with him for the rest of his life. As the Colombia slipped into its birth in the harbor, Severino vowed that he would never again be so poor that he would be taken advantage of again.

He would defeat poverty, no matter how hard he had to work.



He spent most of his first day in America at Ellis Island, standing in long, slow moving lines as he processed through customs. Finally reaching the bored customs agent, he slid his Passport across the desk.

"Family?" the agent asked without looking up.

"I am here alone."

"Purpose of your trip?" The agent grabbed the ink stamp but when Severino didn't answer, the agent looked up at him. "Purpose of trip?" He said again, louder.

"To live in America, to work and earn money." He looked around and wondered if anyone standing in the lines had come here for another reason."

The agent looked at him for a moment longer than stamped the Passport. "Welcome to America, Cuz... Cuzelli." He did not offer a smile. "Go to room fourteen and wait for the ferry.

Severino put his Passport back into his valise and walked around the agent's desk. He walked into a large waiting room. There were no lines here, only people who smiled and laughed, young children raced noisily after each other. He took a seat by himself, closed his eyes and pulled his Fedora down over his brow. As he waited, his thoughts drifted back nine months, to the first Sunday in September, nineteen-twenty.

He and Angela stood at the altar of Santa Maria di Bresimo, the church at the foot of the Magdalene Mountains where Angela had been baptized as a child. Inside the ancient, ornate church, Severino and Angela spoke their vows and were married. After the wedding, Angela's family hosted a party; the entire village came. The wine flowed, and music filled the cool, autumn air, as friends and family celebrated their marriage.

Angela smiled broadly in the bright September sunshine in spite of her father's recent death, and the wine colored her pale cheeks. She wore the wedding dress her mother had made and she strolled from one cluster of guests to another, smiling and laughing. He knew he would be leaving her soon for America, but there would be enough time for him to get to know his wife—the way a man should. The marital bed was prepared; the candles had been lit in the bedroom; the real treasure of marriage, he told himself, would soon be his.

* * *

As he sat in the cavernous waiting room listening to young children crying into their mother's breasts, he was reminded that he would soon be a father. Angela had become pregnant almost immediately, and a child was due in about a month. He thought about how passionate their first couple of months of marriage had been. He found odd jobs to do, not enough to support a family, but enough for them to eat. At night they strode the cobbled streets of the village, hand-in-hand, before returning home and going to bed—but not to sleep. His thin smile curled into a frown, and his thoughts darkened, as he remembered the arguments that began shortly after Angela told him she was pregnant.

His father's business was gone and rebuilding was not possible. Angela's father had to sell much of his land before he died, just so the family could survive. There were no more apple orchards, no more fields of vegetables to sell. With his death, there was no more opportunity for Severino to work, other than the occasional job that lasted for a day to two.

Four months after the wedding he came home with his passage arranged for May, and a terrible argument ensued. He knew Angela would be unhappy that he bought his passage, but the more he thought about a move to America, the more excited he became. When he arrived home, Angela did not take the news well.

"I thought we were to discuss this before you actually made plans," Angela said with a quiet, deliberate voice.

"With so many people immigrating the ships are filling quickly. The earliest I could get is five months away." He sat at the kitchen table, Angela stood at the stove with her back to him, preparing dinner. "It is not possible for a man to make a decent living here any longer," he said. "I do not want to spend my life as a poor man."

"You haven't tried to get work. You only think about America. Well then go! Go to America, but I will stay here."

"Do as you like. If you want to live here, scratch out a living from what land is left to your family, then go ahead. There is no work here any longer. I saw the way the rich push the poor to fight their battles, to clean up their messes. I will never be pushed again! And I won't clean up after anyone."

Angela stood in the kitchen holding a plate filled with his dinner. Her hands began to tremble as she spoke. "Why did you marry me then? I didn't need a husband, especially not one who wants to go off on an adventure and is willing to leave his wife...and his child behind."

"I'm not leaving you behind—you are choosing to stay behind. I'm leaving in May, and I'll send for you as soon as I have saved some money." He stood and walked to Angela. "Will you be willing to come?" She remained silent. "Whatever you decide is fine with me." Severino walked from the room.

Angela stood there, her hands trembling as tears fell from her eyes. She walked to the door and opened it, then threw her husband's dinner into the front yard. Turning back into the kitchen she sat at the table and buried her face in her hands, as her body shook with sobs.

* * *

Severino found work within days of his arrival in New York, dirty, hard work in the construction pits of the New York Subway system. He took pride in giving an day's work for a day's pay. He rented a room on Houston Street in Manhattan where immigrants from all over Europe lived, and he worked twelve hours a day, six days a week, earning fifty-seven-dollars a week, more money than he made in Italy in a month.

Every Monday morning he mailed twelve-dollars to Angela. Wrapping the money in a plain sheet of paper, he put it into the envelope and delivered it to the Post Office on his way to work. That was more than enough money for her to live on, he told himself. He could send more, but he didn't want to make her life too comfortable or she would never come to America.

Severino put what was left of his pay, after expenses, in a locked, metal toolbox and kept it under his bed. He didn't spend money on anything that wasn't a necessity—except for the once a week evening with Antonia. Dinner and a glass of wine was a small price to pay for the comfort she provided. After all, he mused, a man was entitled to have his needs looked after. Antonia asked him about his wife back in Italy only once, as they ate dinner in a small, family run restaurant.

"When will your wife be coming to join you?" she asked as she sipped a glass of wine. It was the first time she had asked him anything personal.

"Why, are you afraid you will miss me when she comes?" He smiled across the candlelit table at her.

"Will we not see each other when she is here?"

"Of course," he smiled. "It is not a sin for a man to have more than one woman." In fact, there was even a word Italian's used for a married man's, woman-on-the-side. Gooma. "Anyway, it doesn't matter." He pushed his plate away. "I don't think she will ever come here to live."

"But she is your wife, Severino." Antonia's eyes widened in surprise.

"We have different desires. She is happy to live in Italy, work the farm, raise the children—remain poor." He picked up his wine glass and took a sip. "But not me. I have seen how people without money go without. I don't want to live like that."

"And your son, what about him?"

"My son?" He sat back in his chair. "Giuseppe is only a few months old. He is better off with his mother right now. But someday he will come here and I will teach him how to work, how to earn money." He sipped his wine. "By then I will have my own business and I'll be rich."

"You are very sure of yourself, Sev." She smiled at him. It was his self-assuredness that had attracted her to him. "And your wife?" she asked. "Will she be here too, and rich?"

"That will be her decision to make when the time comes. Whatever she decides is what I will accept. She can stay in Italy and I will continue to send money." He looked across the table and saw the candle light reflected in Antonia's eyes. "But my son?" His face pinched with seriousness. "...he will be here with me someday."

"You send money now...for their support, no?"

"I send money to my wife every week—twelve dollars. She is taken care of, and so is my son."

"Twelve dollars is not much for her to live on. It doesn't sound to me like your love her."

"Love?!" He laughed. "I love that I am here in America. I love that I have a job and I make a good living. I love that we met...and I love that you don't ask too many questions." His raised brows furrowed his forehead as he looked at her. Antonia's smile faded .

They left the restaurant shortly later, and Antonio asked no more questions about her boyfriend's wife.

* * *

When the church service ended, Severino stood and followed the young woman who had been sitting next to him. As they exited through the ornate archway into the September chill, he reached out to get her attention, but before his calloused hand reached her shoulder an old woman came from behind him and took the young woman's arm and ushered her away, while giving Severino a frown.

He returned to his room and pulled the locked toolbox from under the bed. He opened it and took a blank envelope and addressed it to Angela. With a long sigh he placed twelve-dollars inside a folded sheet of paper and placed it into the envelope. He put it to his lips but paused before licking the flap. He leaned back in his chair and looked out the window. His eyes followed the crowds of people walking along Houston Street four stories below; their children following close behind their parents. He thought about Giuseppe.

"He is my son," he said softly. Suddenly his chest thumped with pride. He had never thought about his son before, not like this. Not with pride and strong feelings of responsibility. He really didn't want children, but people couldn't plan things like that. It either happened or it didn't. But it had happened and now he had a son, someone who could look up to him. Someone who might want to be like him some day.

He reached back into the tool box and took out a twenty-dollar-bill and slipped it between the folded sheet of paper, then returned it to the envelope. This time when he brought the flap to his lips, he wet the glue with his tongue and sealed it. He put the envelope down on the table and filled a glass half-full with wine. As he looked at the envelope on the table, Severino raised his glass and spoke in a wavering voice. "To my son!" He drained the glass and went to bed. Tomorrow would be a long, hard day at work, and he had to be ready.

* * *

Word count: 2741