Lodovico

1926, Cassino, Italy

A 17-year old Lodovico answered the front door to a well-dressed man addressing himself as an uncle. ‘Uncle,’ thought Lodovico, ‘none of my people would be dressed like this. My people, the few I know, are all here, local.’ He called to his mom and dashed out the back door. He didn’t know what was brewing with this stranger, but this bewildering scene sparked his instincts for self-preservation, so he ran from it.

He and his mother lived in a house on three acres of olive trees. They made and sold olive oil. It helped to pay the bills, what little income it brought in.

Thirty minutes, maybe more, his mom and this man came to him in the yard. He was in his favorite tree when they came looking for him. His mother was crying. He figured soon, he would be, too. People dressed like that did not come to their home by accident, nor, generally, with good news.

The man had taken off his coat and was doing all the talking. There was a likable quality to him and he was straightforward. He told an unbelievable story. Unbelievable, yet Lodovico must believe it, because the story being told was his own.

The man, he explained, was truly an uncle, Lodovico’s godfather. He was talking directly to the boy now. His parents live in America, they had saved money and sent him, the boy’s godfather, back to Italy to come get him and bring him back.

“I’m your uncle, your godfather. I’m here to take you back with me to the United States and you’ll live with your family,” he was saying.

“The United States,” the boy questioned. He looked to his mom and asked, “Who is this man? Are we going somewhere?”

His mom was crying. She was inconsolable and couldn’t talk.

“Is he calling you ‘mom’? Did you never tell him? What about all the letters his mother sent to him? Have you also not told him he has brothers and sisters,” said the man glaring at the old lady.

“I didn’t want to be alone,” she finally managed between sobs. All these years, Lodovico had always wondered why his mom was so much older than his friends’ moms. She was really his grandmother!

It was fifteen years earlier when Lodovico was a two-year old infant, his parents boarded a ship from Cassino, Italy to the United States. His parents had a baby boy, Lodovico’s little brother, and bundled up all their worldly possessions. They were moving to the United States to make a better living for themselves and their family. They were so bogged down with things to carry that the grandmother was tasked with bringing Lodovico to the ship so he, too, could travel with them. The grandmother, not wanting to be left alone with nothing and nobody decided she would keep the two-year old Lodovico. She did not deliver him to the dock. The retching horror his parents must have experienced as the ship pulled away! And just like that, he’d lost his family. Lodovico became his grandmother’s son, and she, his mom. The boy knew nothing of any family other than his grandmother. Until today, and in a few days he’d leave Cassino and his grandmother for good.

He was a rambunctious young man. A handful, one might say, being raised by a single parent, but rather shy one-on-one. His uncle explained that he had two younger brothers and three younger sisters! They knew about him, but he knew nothing of them.

Lodovico sat quietly sobbing listening to the story unravel. He wasn’t angry with his grandma, she was all he had ever known. Besides, he knew that her greatest fear was now to be realized. He was going to America. She would be all alone living in the old country.

His grandmother was old and needed help. He told the neighbors across the street that if they looked out for her that they could have the acreage with olive trees and the home when she passed away. 

“What about all the letters his mom wrote to him,” asked the uncle of the grandmother, starting to cool off.

“I have them, I saved them,” she responded without moving.

His grandmother would give him the large bundle of letters before he left. His luggage was packed, what there was of it. These letters, many of them yellowed with age, would help him to pass the days on the ship. The trip to America was long, two weeks before arriving at Ellis Island. He was relegated below deck to third class.

He arrived to a degrading inspection by a bunch of disinterested inspectors standing before him and his fellow emigrants. The new arrivals stood sheepishly in a line donning only their underpants.

“Name,” asked the inspector in English.

Silence.

“Name,” he asked more agitated this time.

Silence from Lodovico as he started looking around as if asking with his eyes, ‘What’s he want?’

“Name, come on,” said the inspector getting angry.

The person standing in line behind him told him to say his name.

“Lodovico.”

“What?”

“Lodovico.”

“David. Next,” said the inspector misunderstanding what was said. He impatiently assigned an incorrect, new name by writing it down on the form, then moved on to the next man in line. And so it was. His name became David Tedesco in one swift, degrading episode.

He emerged from Ellis Island with his godfather leading the way. It was explained how his family missed him so much, how happy they were that he was coming home. A party was awaiting him. A party of strangers, he thought to himself. He felt alone, scared, but he would make the most of this opportunity. A positive attitude he would carry with him forever forward.

The taxi ride itself was amazing. So much was passing before his eyes out the window of the car. He’d heard in the old country that the streets of America were paved with gold. He had believed it, until seeing for himself this was not so.

What he did see, though, was opportunity. Work, jobs and bustling activity were all around him. He knew he’d be fine. Making and selling olive oil with his grandmother had been difficult scraping by on meager proceeds. He knew hard work and hardship. 

The taxi pulled up to the address on Cardoni Street in Detroit, Michigan. Faces in the window looking at him, people filing out the door yelling to him, everyone speaking in a foreign tongue. All his brothers and sisters and he could communicate with none of them. Except his mom and dad, everyone spoke only English.

He took a deep breath, put on a nervous smile and stepped out of the car.

[This is the story of my Grandpa Tedesco (1909-2000). I miss him and grandma very much.]

[Photo circa 1926.]