Streets of Gold Read Free Page B

three rooms, the largest of which was the kitchen. A huge fireplace and hearth, the house’s only source of heat and of course the cooking center, dominated the kitchen. The other two rooms were bedrooms, one of them shared by the parents and baby brother of young Francesco — it is difficult to think of him, no less write of him, as anything but Grandpa. But Francesco he was in his youth, and indeed Francesco he remained until he had been in America for more than forty years, by which time everyone, including Grandma, called him Frank. When I was a boy, people were still calling him Francesco, though every now and then someone would call him Frank. I’m hardly the one to talk about anglicizing names, being a rat-fink turncoat deserter (Dwight Jamison, ma’am, I hope I am a
big
success!), but I have never been able to understand why we call Italy “Italy” and not “Italia,” or why we call Germany “Germany” rather than “Deutschland.” Who supplies the translation? Is there a central bureau in Germany that grants permission for the French people to call the fatherland “L’Allemagne”? I hate to raise problems; forgive me.
    In any event, my grandfather eventually became Frank, and this curious metamorphosis is best revealed in the various documents my mother turned over to me when he died. A copy of his birth certificate had been requested for naturalization purposes in the early part of 1945, when the Germans were still clinging tenaciously to the northernmost portions of Italy. A duplicate certificate arrived from the south, mimeographed on a torn scrap of paper, the reverse side of which was a printed sheet of ration coupons for October of 1944 —
pane, pasta, olio, zucchero,
and
generi vari,
the staples of the Italian diet, and most certainly much better fare than my grandfather had enjoyed back in 1900.
Comune di Fiormonte,
it read,
Provincia di Potenza.
And on the reverse, the requested information, listing the birth date of Francesco Luigi Di Lorenzo as the seventh day of July, in the year 1880. In New York City, in the year 1901, a marriage certificate was issued to one Teresa Giamboglio (try
that
on your harmonica, Mr. Trzebiatowski) and the aforementioned gentleman of Potenza, except that this time his name was shortened to Francesco Di Lorenzo. His naturalization papers, dated the 27th day of April, 1945, state in ornate script lettering:
Be it remembered that Franco Di Lorenzo then residing at 2335 First Avenue in the City of New York, State of New York, who previous to his naturalization was a subject of Italy, having applied to be admitted a citizen of the United States,
and so on.
Franco
Di Lorenzo. And his death certificate (I can never think of that goddamn day last June without tears coming to my eyes) records that he died at Bronx-Lebanon Hospital in the intensive care unit after being there for less than nineteen hours. The time of his death was 11:50 A.M. on the morning of June 17, 1973. His age was recorded as 92 years, 11 months, and 10 days. His occupation was given as tailor. His name was recorded as Frank Di Lorenzo. Good old Grandpa. Yankee Doodle Dandy at last.
    But Francesco he was in 1900, and it was he who shared the second bedroom with his sisters, Emilia and Maria, respectively fourteen and ten. Emilia snored, but he never told her this, lest it spoil the hours of pleasure her own reflection in the glass brought her. Her light snore filled the small room now. He put on his eyeglasses. It was shortly before dawn, and the paneless window high on the wall over Emilia’s bed, covered with a stretch of goathide rubbed to translucent thinness, admitted enough early light so that he could see the beds of both his sisters, and the carved wooden chest on the wall opposite, and the wooden chair beside his own bed, and beyond that the open door of the archway leading into the kitchen, brighter than the bedroom now because its larger windows faced east, toward Bari and the Adriatic. He