The Creeds that Move Men's Hearts

by Melody Veltri

  “Yes, I think he is,” I sniffle. “His name is Flavio, and I thought that maybe I could love him, but now I am more confused than ever. I just don’t know if I want to get married.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I’ve wanted to talk to you, Sister, about religious life and if you think there is any chance that I could be a Sister of Mercy someday. I haven’t mentioned this to my parents because I don’t know how they will react. I think my brothers would make fun of me. They sure don’t think I am kind enough to be a sister. I have a bad temper, and I don’t always want to get up for mass. I don’t know myself if I have what it takes. But lately, I can’t stop thinking about it.”

  “Carolina, this is a wonderful vocation, but it isn’t for everyone. It is a way of life, it’s not a job. I don’t think anyone is born with the personality and qualities that automatically make them fit for the religious life. It’s something that we grow into. If you want to become a sister to escape an arranged marriage or to gain an education, then the religious life will be a disappointment to you, and you will be miserable. Being a sister is first and foremost a lesson in obedience. My life is not my own. I am obedient to God’s will, and I will go where He sends me. That may mean here in Pittsburgh, teaching grade school, or it may mean moving to South America to be a missionary.

  “A nun in our order must also accept the idea of service. Our lives are dedicated to the service of others. It is a service that is accepted willingly, but that doesn’t make it easy. If you really want to be a sister, you need to examine your motives and make sure that you are not running away from your problems into what will become a much bigger problem for you—living a life that is a lie.”

  “Do I have what it takes, Sister?”

  “Carolina, this isn’t the army. The question is, are you being called to this life by God? And can you accept the call without always looking back to see what you have given up? Can you look forward and accept the challenge of being obedient to God no matter where it takes you? Only you can answer that.”

  I stand up to say goodbye, and I thank Sister for sitting with me. She stays on the bench and returns to her book while I begin the walk home. I have been thinking of joining the order, but I didn’t mean to tell that to anyone. Am I being Blessed Joan? Am I running to the Church to escape marriage? I don’t know, but I am glad to have it off my chest and very glad to have had a chance to cry before I go back home. Now I can walk in there composed and help Mama with dinner.

  Dear Diary, August 28, 1927

  As long as I live, I wonder if I will ever see anything like this execution and funeral again. I hope and pray it is never repeated. The papers say that Luigia Vanzetti will be sailing for home tomorrow and taking with her the ashes of her brother. I remember her father’s words—he hoped they would return together—and I think it a terrible irony that she is returning with him. What a sorrow for that family. What a sorrow for thirteen-year-old Dante Sacco to hold the ashes of his own father. I am going to cling to Sister Norbert’s words that they are in God’s arms and away from the sufferings of this world. Otherwise, I am afraid I will be in despair forever.

  * * *

  Dear Diary, October 7, 1927

  Time has a way of forcing us along, and I have no choice but to move along with it. It seems like no time passes before it is fall again, my favorite season. Pittsburgh has so many trees. We don’t have them here in Sharpsburg, but when I look across the river, the oranges and yellows and reds adorn the hillside. That’s one nice thing about being in a valley—you can always look up. We may not have any beauty in these cramped streets, but it’s out there.

  Giova is sending us letters regularly, and that has helped Mama to endure his absence. It’s not the same here without him, but at least he and Giuseppe have found work in a textile factory. In a letter to me only, Giova described the Union Square meeting. He said that Rosina Sacco held an armful of red roses and that people threw more roses onto the stage. I wish I could have been there.

  I especially miss Giova in mid-October when the World Series rolls around and the Pittsburgh Pirates are once again in it. The boys and I listen to all of the games on the radio, but the Pirates are no match for the New York Yankees and players that I have never heard of—Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig. Marcello has warned me that the Babe is the greatest player in the history of baseball, and I guess he is right because the Babe’s home runs have shut down the Pirates in only four games.

  I’ve taken up Sister Norbert’s offer to teach me Latin. Mama thinks that it’s ridiculous, but in the back of my mind, I am still considering this idea of joining the Sisters of Mercy. I can’t tell her that, of course, but I think it would be very useful to understand the Latin prayers and hymns. It’s not easy, but since I am the only student, Sister is taking it slowly, and I think I am doing well. Sometimes I tell Papa what the priest is saying, and he seems to be very impressed. Marcello and Lindo actually know more than I do because they’ve been altar boys for so long.

  * * *

  In November, Mama invites Zia Izzy, Sara, Angelo, and Rose to Thanksgiving dinner. She also invites Flavio because Mama considers him as good as family now, though I have only seen him a few times since summer. Usually, he works six days a week. It has been about six months since he first starting coming to our house, and I think he is also getting used to our family.

  Thanksgiving at our house always includes turkey and lasagne and lots of Italian favorites. It’s not the traditional American menu, but most of us prefer the lasagne anyway.

  “Lena, she-sa the best in town,” says Mr. Marchetti. Mama often sends dinner to him and to Rose now that Nana is gone, or she invites them to eat with us. At first, she did it as a favor to them, but now I believe that they are doing her the favor. She still cannot stand to look at Giova’s empty chair.

  Since Nana died, Rose goes to the barbershop with her father every day. She’s old enough to help him by sweeping the floor and washing the combs. When business is slow, she often stands in the doorway and says hello to everyone walking by—friend or stranger. After being home with Nana day after day, she actually likes being around all of the people in town. Occasionally, a customer will give her a few cents for an ice cream or a soda pop.

  Sara is often with us, too, and she and Mama spend the evening sewing. I’m grateful for that because I can slip away and read. Otherwise, Mama wants me to sew with her and keep her company. I’m about sick to death of the cutwork that we do on sheets and pillowcases—all for a future home that I am not certain I want. Now that Giova and Giuseppe no longer use the upstairs attic, Mama is encouraging Sara to take a room with us. Marcello and Lindo can move upstairs, and Sara can have their room. I think that Sara is uneasy about being a burden to us, but Mama keeps assuring her that family is never a burden and that she is as much family as Zia is. Papa doesn’t care who moves in because that’s the way he is. If it isn’t Sara, it will be another nephew or cousin or uncle.

  “She’s the best cook, all right,” says Papa. “I don’t know if I understand this holiday, but I always look forward to a feast!”

  We all laugh, and Papa fills the wine glasses while Mama dishes out the food and sends me back and forth to the kitchen for more salt, more butter, more bread, more olives, more gravy for the turkey, and more “gravy” (our word for sauce) for the lasagne.

  When dinner is over, Sara offers to help Mama with the dishes so that Flavio and I can sit on the porch. It’s not a warm night, not this late in the fall, but it’s the only place we can talk privately. This is a big step—to be left alone without Mama or Papa somewhere behind us. Once in a while, Lindo peeks through the curtains, and I assume Mama is forcing him to check on us for her.

  “Your mama is a great cook,” says Flavio.

  “She always makes too much food.”

  “Mine, too. She would like to meet you. I’ve told her about your family, and I think that it’s time they met. What do you think?” He smiles at me, and brushes my cheek
with his thumb.

  “Flavio, could I have just a little more time?”

  “Time?”

  “Time to decide about this. Could I have until Christmas to make a decision about getting married?”

  For once, I think his heart is pounding more than mine. He seems so startled that I’m ashamed for saying such a thing. Maybe he has had second thoughts about getting married. He has not even asked for my hand in marriage, not officially.

  “I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “I didn’t mean to assume anything. I just mean that I would like to have time to consider where this is going before I make the step of meeting your mother.”

  “We know where this is going, don’t we? That’s why I had Mrs. Santucci speak on my behalf. I would like to be officially engaged with a wedding date set. Have you had second thoughts?” Flavio’s brow is furrowed, and he looks confused.

  This is a moment of truth for me, and I cannot deny it. “Flavio, I’m not sure what I want to do anymore, and it has nothing to do with you. I think that you’re a wonderful person, and I know Mama and Pa think so, too. I just don’t know what I think about getting married to anyone.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve been talking to Sister Norbert about becoming a nun. I don’t know if that is what I want, but I know that I can’t get it out of my head these days.”

  “Carolina, have you felt this way all along?”

  “Only for a couple of months. This is a big decision for me, and I don’t want to make the wrong choice because it will affect the rest of my life.”

  “And marrying me is the wrong choice?” His eyes are so imploring and so beautiful that I feel like backing down.

  “I just want to make sure that I am choosing the vocation that God wants me to take—and it may be marriage. I just want to be 100 percent sure.”

  Flavio looks thoroughly dejected, and I feel terrible. “Take all the time you need,” he says, standing up. “Please thank your mama for the dinner. I think I’ll be going home now.” In that moment, he is more handsome than ever.

  “Flavio, I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings. You deserve a very good wife, and I just want to be sure that I can be that person.”

  “I understand,” he says, “I’ll wait for your decision.” There is no smile accompanying his words. “I almost forgot. I have something for you.” He hands me a small brown package. With that, he kisses me on the mouth, turns around, and walks down the street. I believe that I did the right thing, but I look at him walking away, and I almost want to run after him. My tears fall on the package as I tear it open. It’s a paperback—Call of the Canyon by Zane Grey. Inside the cover, Flavio has written me a message: “Take an adventure with me, Carolina!”

  Dear Diary, November 26, 1927

  When I went back into the house alone tonight, Mama and Papa were confused. They thought Flavio and I had had a fight. I don’t dare tell them what I really said to him. All I could think to say was that Flavio wasn’t feeling well, and that just upset Mama more because now she thinks her cooking made him sick!

  I hope that in the next month God sends me the lightning bolt sign that I need to make this decision. I will not make Flavio wait any longer than Christmas because he has already wasted too much time on me if I can’t go through with this. If he were a horrible person, the decision not to marry would be easy. But Sister has said that I can’t join an order to escape marriage, either. Obedience and service. If that’s what religious life requires, it certainly seems that I’ve been in training my whole life. But what about Mama? She will be broken-hearted to lose me after losing Giova. There will be no stopping by to help Mama with chores, no baking for the holidays, no canning in the fall, no sewing linens for my own house, no going to mass together—and worst of all, no grandchildren from me. She’s counting on me to be the daughter who is faithful and loyal and still there when her sons are long gone and busy with their wives. I once yelled at Giova for hurting Pa at the expense of his opinions. Giova told me to stand up for something. Now I am thinking of hurting Mama with my own convictions.

  * * *

  This Christmas, Mama is baking and cooking as much as ever, and I don’t understand why. The older boys are gone, Nana is gone, and Zia Giulia isn’t coming this year because the little girls aren’t feeling well.

  “You know, Mama, there are going to be nine people. I don’t know why we are making so much fish. And we baked enough these two weeks to supply the whole street.”

  “I usually do cook for the whole street,” Mama counters. “After all, I can’t send Angelo and Sara home empty-handed. And Izzy always takes food home, too.”

  While I’m setting the table, it occurs to me that we won’t be having a tree this year. Not with Giova and Giuseppe gone. Christmas won’t be the same without them, and I keep catching Mama getting teary-eyed. At least they sent a letter with some nice words. The only gift any of us want is to see them, but Giova made it clear there would be no surprises. He isn’t ready to come back here, and I don’t know if he ever will.

  Zia arrives first, carrying a panettone bread that Mama thanks her for and then puts in a corner of the kitchen. We’re all afraid of Zia’s cooking. There’s no telling what ingredients she may have added.

  “Carolina, where is that skinny boy, Fabio?”

  “Flavio, Zia. He’s not coming this evening. He’s going to spend Christmas with his own family.”

  Zia raises her eyebrows at me in surprise.

  “Izzy, don’t jump to conclusions,” says Mama. “His family has a right to have him there. I’m just glad that they didn’t expect Carolina to spend the holiday with them. Especially since he was at our house for Thanksgiving.”

  Zia is always more perceptive than Mama. “Come to think of it, I haven’t really seen much of him since then,” she says, looking straight at me.

  “He’s had a bad cold, Zia.”

  “I see.” Obviously she doesn’t see at all. Zia knows that I’m hiding something, but I’m not going to discuss my feelings for Flavio with her. Fortunately for me, there is a knock at the door, and this time I beat Lindo to it as an excuse to get away from Zia Izzy.

  On the other side of the door, Nicoletta is standing with Elena and Vincenzo. They’re all dressed up, and Nicoletta is holding a covered plate.

  “Buon Natale, Carolina!” she says. I don’t mean to be rude, but I don’t respond because in my mind, I’m frantic. How can I let her in? What will Mama say? Why is she here? As I start to stumble over my words, Mama comes up behind me.

  “Carolina, it’s freezing out there. Let them in!” I pull the door back, and Mama takes the plate from Nicoletta. “You didn’t have to bring anything.”

  “It’s just some polenta,” says Nicoletta. “I hope you can use it.”

  “Sure we can use it. I didn’t make any,” says Mama. “Carolina, help the little ones with their coats.”

  I still can’t grasp the meaning of this exchange. Is Mama allowing Nicoletta to stay? Did Mama actually invite Nicoletta? I’m not the only one in shock. Sara smiles at Nicoletta and nods, but Zia Izzy is dumbstruck. The town prostitute is here for Christmas dinner. In our house. Holding hands with my mother.

  Mama leads them all to the table, and everyone else takes seats as well. There is an uncomfortable silence until Papa breaks it with a prayer. After that, he keeps the wine flowing, and Mr. Marchetti keeps us laughing with stories of childhood in Bel Castro, Calabria.

  When dinner is over, all of the women wash the dishes and clear the table. Mr. Marchetti and Papa play their bagpipes, and Nicoletta surprises Rose, Marcello, Lindo, and her children with candy canes. It has been a surprisingly happy Christmas in spite of Giova’s absence. I hope that he is having a good night, even if it no longer is a holiday for him.

  Nicoletta and her children are the first to leave, and Zia leaves for her daughter’s house shortly after.

  “A puttana and a strega for Christmas dinner, Lena,” she laughs before she goes, �
�What will it be next year? Maybe a nun and a mafioso!” Zia can’t possibly have meant anything by that, but she winks at me on her way out the door.

  This Christmas, Mr. Marchetti and Rose are going to walk with us to midnight mass. Sara is not feeling well by evening’s end, so Mama convinces her to lie down in the boys’ room. We all think she looks frailer these days, and Mama doesn’t want her to walk to church in the cold night air. If I guess right, she will suggest that Sara stay one more night, and then one more, and another after that.

  It is extremely cold—cold enough to snatch your breath at first. Mr. Marchetti starts to sing “Adeste Fidelis” and though we all have terrible voices, we join in. Marcello and Lindo try to have a quick snowball fight, but Mama puts an end to it. “It’s not right to do on Christmas,” she tells them.

  Our “Adeste Fidelis” seems so feeble when the choir begins and sings the same carol. I love all hymns, but Christmas hymns are the most beautiful. The altar is covered in poinsettias—red and white ones. Above the altar, there is an eight foot crucifix that hangs from the ceiling. I’ve always thought it was a distraction to the beauty of the altar, and now I am ashamed of myself.

  While the choir sings “Panis Angelicus,” I am staring at the figure of the crucified Christ, and I see not just His suffering, but the suffering of Thomas More and of Bartolomeo Vanzetti. Vanzetti had left the faith, but he identified with Jesus. I keep thinking of his words, “I want to forgive some people for what they are doing to me.” How is it that we rid ourselves of the most beautiful souls?

  Again, I am trying to understand the meaning of this cross. Is it a reminder that Jesus conquers death and makes all things new? Is it a reminder that he suffers with us—that people like Pilate, Caiaphas, Henry VIII, Judge Thayer, and Governor Fuller can take the lives of good men but cannot destroy them? Is it a reminder that the world has even tried to kill God? I look at the alabaster figure of Mary, and this time she has the face of Margaret More, Luigia Vanzetti, and Rosina Sacco—those whose greatest sorrow was the untimely and unnecessary death of their father, brother, and husband.