Tony Giordano and his father Sammy have had a strained relationship ever since Tony’s childhood, and it has grown worse over the years. The only time Tony ever recalls his father seeming happy was when he was strumming his beloved cittern, an instrument whose origins are unknown to the family.Sammy was born in Naples, Italy, where he once dreamed of owning a barbershop. But when he is convinced to give up his long-held dream and move to America to marry a woman he does not love, resentment and bitterness begin overtake his life-emotions that are soon transferred to his family in the form of abuse that lasts a lifetime. When Sammy becomes ill, he is placed in a nursing home where he soon transforms from a bullying ogre to a pathetic old man. As Tony and his sister witness years of pent-up frustration and stubbornness rise to the surface and contribute to Sammy’s failing health, they have no idea that their father has been hiding a secret from them.Protecting the Cittern explores eighty years of family history leading to a discovery from the past that will change how everyone in the Giordano family views the future.

PROTECTING the Cittern

By JOHN CAMMALLERI

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2010 John Cammalleri
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4502-4220-2

Chapter One

December 2003

GLANCING UP AT the sky, I wiped the dirt from my hands and then stepped back to stand with the rest of my family as we waited for the funeral service to end. The forecast had called for snow, and it felt like it would start any minute. The clouds looked heavy, and I folded my arms to ward off the chill.

Throwing a handful of soil on top of the casket seemed like a meaningless gesture, just like anything else based on superstition. The act meant nothing to me, nor did the rest of the proceedings-I was simply going through the motions. As I glanced at my watch every few minutes, my mind wandered from one random thought to the next: the work that was waiting on my desk; how the Giants would do on Sunday; if I'd be able to fix my slice when golf season started up. Everything was more important than what was happening in front of me.

I remained completely detached as the service ended and we all walked away from the gravesite. Despite everything that had happened between us over the years, I thought I should feel a deeper sense of loss; but I didn't, and I couldn't force myself to feel any differently. I wondered how many other sons were completely apathetic after putting their fathers in the ground.

If anyone noticed how unmoved I was, they may have believed I was being strong for the family-behaving like a man. It didn't matter to me what they thought. I glanced back at the grave where my father now lay. It was in a relatively new section of Holy Cross Cemetery, with only a few other graves nearby. Perfect for my father, I thought. Fewer people to annoy him.

I climbed into the limousine with my wife, our daughter, and my newly widowed mother. Kathy and I had been through a lot since we met nearly thirty years earlier, and I was always amazed that she married me after getting to know my father. Perhaps she didn't see much of him in me. At fifty, Kathy was still as radiant as the day we'd met. Her soft brown hair and blue eyes stirred me as much as ever. We'd faced many challenges and difficulties over the years, but our marriage had gotten stronger as we worked through them.

Twenty-three years old and a graduate student at Princeton's Woodrow Wilson School, Lisa was one semester away from earning her master's degree in public affairs. She was as smart as she was beautiful, with, thankfully, most of Kathy's features rather than mine.

My mother, Clara, short, thin, and slightly stooped over, showed every one of her eighty-one years in her silver hair and wizened face.

The driver started the engine, preparing to take us back to DeAngelo's Funeral Home. From there we transferred to our four-year-old Ford Taurus and drove to Ernesto's Restaurant, where lunch would be served. My mother didn't want people coming to the house, bringing endless casseroles that would eventually be thrown out, so she and I agreed to host something simple. I wasn't expecting too many people to join us; attendance at the church service was low, and fewer people were at the cemetery. The people who showed up came to support my mother rather than to mourn for my father, although in actuality she was holding up very well.

* * *

A week earlier I was alone with my father in his room at Tranquil Meadows, the long-term care facility where he spent his last few months, when he finally passed on. Kathy and I had just left him after a brief visit; when we got home, she realized she had forgotten her purse in his room. I returned alone to get it and ended up watching him die. I then brought my mother to the nursing home to see him and make the necessary arrangements.

My mother looked at my father for a few minutes, lying lifeless in his bed. She cried very briefly and then just stared at him, sighing. I suppose there was a touch of genuine sadness-they'd been married for over fifty years-but I'm sure she mostly felt relief that a load had finally been lifted from her shoulders. She had endured many years of verbal, mental, and physical abuse at his hands, and watching his steady decline since he was first hospitalized thoroughly wore her out.

Standing at the foot of his bed, she spoke to his corpse, as if he could really hear her. "I hope you find happiness now, Sammy. Nothing ever made you happy. Now you'll be with Anna in heaven." My sister died much too young many years before after a battle with leukemia, and my mother was grieving more for her after twenty-five years than for my father after less than an hour.

Under different circumstances, I would have challenged her belief in heaven and other fantasies, but I held back my comments. I don't believe in an afterlife, although if there were one, I always felt he would be going in the other direction; and if people were able to reunite in death, Anna would have chosen to avoid him altogether. She had as many issues with him as I did. Regardless of what really happens after death, I knew we were all going to be happier without him.

* * *

We pulled into the parking lot at Ernesto's, a typical family-style Italian restaurant with two rooms in the back for private affairs. The cold wind of the gray, mid-December day gusted up, and light snow fell as I helped my mother out of the front seat; Kathy and Lisa emerged from the back. I took my wife's hand and Lisa took her grandmother by the arm as we approached the entrance. We made our way to one of the rooms in the back, passing the collection of faux-marble statues that lined the hallway. A few people were already waiting inside, and the rest would arrive shortly. Aunt Luisa saw us entering and immediately walked over to greet us, leaving a friend of the family in mid-sentence, her mouth agape.

Aunt Luisa was the widow of my father's oldest brother, Paulie. At eighty-six, she was as energetic, bombastic, and overdramatic as ever. She put her arms around my mother and squeezed. "Oh, Clara, you're going to be okay," she said, kissing the air on both sides of her cheeks. "It took me a while after I lost Paulie, but you learn to adjust."

Paulie and my father were cut from the same mold. They were very pleasant when they had to be, mostly to people outside their immediate families, either because it made them look good or it suited them for business purposes. But to their wives, children, or people they didn't have any use for, they were demanding, abusive, and impossible to please. The middle brother, Frank, was the same. From what I could piece together from some vague family stories, they had either inherited or learned this behavior from their father, my grandfather Enzo.

Aunt Luisa was left pretty well off when she sold Uncle Paulie's Italian provisions business soon after he died, and her life was never better. For my father's funeral, she dressed as if she were going to opening night at the Metropolitan Opera. She wore a stylish black beaded dress, beautifully contrasted by a large string of pearls around her neck. A three-carat diamond ring graced the finger where her wedding band had been, and a tennis bracelet on her right wrist begged to be noticed. Her rouge and lipstick were red and thick, and her hair was done up and sprayed until it was as stiff as a medieval helmet. But then, Aunt Luisa had always been conscious of her appearance, even before Uncle Paulie died.

My aunt stood in stark contrast to my mother, who dressed as simply as possible. Mom never fussed with her appearance, mostly because of her Depression-era sense of frugality, which had been reinforced by my father's penny-pinching ways. However, in this case, she looked appropriate. She wore a plain black dress and a black headscarf to cover her short hair. She wore no makeup and no jewelry except for her wedding ring and a wristwatch. The watch had belonged to Anna, and my mother had worn it since shortly after Anna's death.

"Thank you, Lu," my mother said. "I know. Tony's been a big support, and he'll help me with everything I need."

"You take care of your mother, Tony," Aunt Luisa said, looking straight at me, almost as though she were presenting a challenge.

"Don't worry, Aunt Lu. She'll be fine."

Kathy gave me a gentle nudge, indicating that it was time to enter the room where lunch would be served. It looked like everyone was there. I took my mother by the elbow. "Time to sit down, Ma."

We walked in and sat at a table that included Aunt Luisa; her son, Vincent; and her daughter-in-law, Donna. Unsurprisingly, Aunt Luisa's daughter, Candace, and son-in-law, Angelo, hadn't bothered flying in from Tampa. Frank and his wife, Julia, were deceased, and their two children remained at home in California and Arizona with their spouses. I guess my cousins felt they'd rather stay in the warm weather than come to New Jersey in December.

It was awkward seeing Vince and Donna, and I was sure the feeling was mutual. After years of estrangement, we exchanged nothing but stilted conversation. It was obvious they were there out of necessity, not love. I was actually glad my out-of-state cousins had chosen not to attend. My father and his brothers hadn't been close, and, as a consequence, neither were their children. I never heard any explanation as to why my father and uncles had fallen out, but I'd also never been curious enough to ask.

I watched as the rest of the attendees took their seats, talking and laughing. I couldn't help thinking that they'd all just come for the free meal. I gave a quick nod to acknowledge some past and current neighbors and saw a few of my mother's old friends. Noticeably absent from both the funeral and the luncheon were the barbers who had worked in my father's shop or whom he knew from the union, or any of his so-called friends from his Friday-night poker games. The barbers knew him too well, and his poker cohorts were just happy to take his money.

The wait staff was soon serving a standard Italian meal of salad, ziti, and chicken parmigiana, with a lemon cake for dessert. Bottles of cola and Chianti were placed at each table on the clich red-and-white-checked tablecloths. Throughout the meal, almost everyone walked up to my mother and me to express their condolences and offer to do whatever she needed-the usual empty words one says at a time like this. One by one they came to our table, shook my hand, and kissed my mother. "Sorry for your loss" was the quote of the day. I've said those same words myself many times and could tell when they were sincere or mechanical; I've been on both sides of that fence.

As I was finishing my cake, Kathy leaned over and whispered in my ear, "I think you should say a few words; people will be leaving soon. No one said anything at the service." I gave her a pained expression, but she just smiled and nodded in encouragement. "Try to say something nice."

She was right, as usual, but I hadn't given much thought to saying anything. The standard advice to speak from the heart definitely wouldn't apply, but I had to say something, if only for appearance's sake. Sadly, my father had kept so much to himself over the years that what I knew of him was only what he wanted to reveal to us, and that wasn't always pleasant. It suddenly occurred to me that I wished I'd known him better. I slowly rose, clearing my throat.

"Could I have everyone's attention, please?" I said, lightly tapping on my water glass. The chatter in the room slowly died down. It gave me a little more time to think.

Speaking haltingly, I gave it my best shot. "First, on behalf of my mother and the whole Giordano family, I want to thank everyone for the kindness and support you have given her the last few days, and throughout my father's illness, and for paying your respects here today. Even though he had been in declining health for several months, the end still came unexpectedly. Many of you have known my father for years, and I'm sure you have some special memories of him. As his son, I know he was a hard worker, built a successful business, and always managed to make sure we had what we needed.

"One of my most vivid memories of him is how much he loved music. His hands were always waving in the air, conducting the orchestra, whenever a symphony or opera played on his stereo. And he was always plucking and strumming his cittern. He hated when I called it a guitar. I never saw him treat anything else with such respect. No one else was allowed to touch it. He always seemed at peace with his music.

"It's going to be very different not having him around, but I'm sure that, in time, we will adjust. Mom and the rest of us will do our best to get through the next few days and weeks. Thanks again."

As I sat down, Kathy gave me an "atta boy" pat on the back. I leaned toward her. "At least I thought of something nice to say."

Looking from table to table, I sensed that everyone felt I was just going through the motions. They were right, and for the first time I regretted the intensity of my feelings toward him. I thought it was too late to ever really know my father.

Chapter Two

Christmas 1957

CHRISTMAS IN THE Giordano household was like every other holiday or family occasion-extremely stressful. Anna and Tony could sense the tension even as young as they were in 1957. Anna was the eldest at seven, and Tony was five, and they formed a close bond early on. Beyond the usual sibling arguments they were involved in as children, there was always something stronger that drew them together and strengthened their alliance-fear of their father.

Clara was in the kitchen with her mother, Assunta, whom Anna and Tony called Nana'Sunta. At fifty-four, Assunta was slightly stocky, with long, salt-and-pepper hair rolled up in a bun. The women worked in silence, occasionally humming an old Italian tune. There was no need to communicate. They'd worked together in the kitchen so many times before; they knew what needed to be done. They maneuvered around the kitchen, gathering utensils and ingredients, do-si-doing around each other like a championship dance team at a hoedown. Assunta was kneading the dough for the ravioli that would become the first course for dinner. Clara had the tomato sauce simmering on the stove and was making the filling for the stuffed artichokes. The roast was already prepared, waiting to go in the oven when the time was right.

Clara's father, Bruno, walked into the kitchen and inhaled deeply over the pot of sauce. He was short at five-foot-six, with wispy gray hair and a joking personality.

"Smells-a real good. When-a do we eat?"

"You've got a long wait, Pa. Don't worry, we'll call you. Go play with the kids."

Bruno left to find his grandchildren.

"Dov' Savino?" Assunta asked, using Sammy's given name. She switched frequently from Italian to broken English, many times within the same sentence.

"In the den, watching TV."

"I'm-a no surprise. He all the time avoid la famiglia. You father, he no like-a this."

"Ma, you know how hard Sammy works. When he gets some time off, he likes to relax." Clara always made excuses, even though Sammy's reclusiveness bothered her, too. It caused a lot of friction within the family and limited her ability to form any strong friendships. On more than one occasion, a conversation she had with the mother of one of Tony or Anna's friends would lead to a dinner invitation. Inevitably there would be either an abrupt cancellation of plans or a very uncomfortable evening. Eventually, Clara stopped trying.

Sammy had a successful barbershop in the Newark suburb of Belleville, where they lived in a duplex owned by Bruno and Assunta, paying a modest rent. Each side of the house was a mirror image of the other, with two bedrooms, a kitchen, a living room, and a dining room. A small foyer at the common entrance in the front of the house separated the two sides. The doors from the foyer into each living room were often left open, making the two sides feel like a single big house. Each side had a private entrance in the back that accessed the kitchen from a small, enclosed porch. With only one spare bedroom on each side, Tony slept in his parents' half of the house, and Anna used her grandparents' spare room. A basement spanned the entire length of the house. Sammy's den was added in a corner of the basement shortly after they moved in, at his own expense, when he decided he needed a place to get away.

(Continues...)

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