My Grandpa Giuseppe

by

Cathy Jones

My mother’s family emigrated from Sicily just before WWII. One of her brothers fought with the Axis - the older brother - the younger brother fought with the Americans. Both on Italian soil. This wasn’t spoken of in the family; it wasn’t common knowledge. However, I knew, because as a child, I had found a brittle newspaper clipping which referred to the tragedy stashed in the pocket of a family photo album. But what my mother told me on her deathbed was perhaps even more astounding.

Grandpa Giuseppe had a small corner grocery store in Beloit, Wisconsin, which is on the border of Illinois, not far from Chicago. During prohibition, he started bootlegging. Uncle Antonio, Grandma’s brother, would make runs to Canada for sugar. The police force was predominately Italian, friends of friends, friends of relatives, and so they looked the other way.

One evening, a black limo showed up outside the home around dinnertime. Grandpa was ushered into the limo by gunpoint. It was Al Capone’s limo. Grandpa was gone all evening and the family thought that was the last they would ever see of Grandpa. He was encroaching on Capone’s territory. But around midnight, Grandpa was dropped back home. The following Sunday, Capone sat at their dinner table, and the following too. In fact, there were many family dinners with Capone in attendance. Grandpa had gone into business with Capone. Capone got his cut and that was that.

“Mom, I can’t believe you never told us this.”

“Oh Honey, you don’t talk about these kind of things,” mom said.

In Italian families, a lot of things aren’t spoken of.

When prohibition ended, Grandpa went back to Sicily with fur coats for each surviving sister of his twelve siblings, and each surviving sister of Grandma’s fourteen siblings. Grandpa also bought land for his retirement, and put it in the care of his brother-in-law. However, when Grandpa returned some years later to retire, he was to find out that his brother-in-law had stolen it all, sending Grandpa home to America very depressed.

“Papa, get a job,” my mother told him. And he did. In a factory that produced cheese popcorn and cheese curls. I remember only his gnarled arthritic and yellowed hands, as he held me on his lap facing out in his orange-stained white cotton work trousers and T-shirt. What I don’t remember are his very blue, Mediterranean blue eyes.

Mom passed peacefully at home in her own bed with her family around her. This was something she insisted upon. She passed after instructing in which black velvet dress and shoes she wanted to be buried. She was beautiful, even in death, in her nineties.