family loyalty; and although they themselves were a generation removed from the clannish hills of western Sicily and had both had the benefit of higher education, they were still influenced by certain values of the old country and they sometimes felt like strangers in their native land. They were fractional Americans, not yet totally acceptable nor receptive to the American majority, and Bill believed that they were also different from the sons of most other Italian immigrants—they were less malleable, more deeply defined, more insular.
He remembered how insular Frank Labruzzo’s neighborhood in Brooklyn had been. Except for the absence of a mountain, it could have passed for a Sicilian village. The dialect and manner of the people were the same, the cooking was the same, the interior of the homes seemed the same. The old women wore black, mourning death on two continents, and the unmarried young women lived under the watchful eyes of their parents, who missed nothing. Bill recalled hearing from his mother and her sisters how strict his grandfather Labruzzo had been during their courting days, not permitting them to wear lipstick or eyebrow pencil or cut their hair in the contemporary fashion or smoke or be outdoors after dark. Charles Labruzzo, who neither spoke nor wrote English despite living in America for thirty-two years, made few concessions to the modern world except for the purchase of an automobile, which he drove without a license.
Charles Labruzzo was born in 1870 in the western Sicilian town of Camporeale, in the hilly interior southeast of Castellammare, into a family of sheepherders and cattle raisers. A strapping broad-shouldered man, he worked as a blacksmith in Camporeale, married a local girl, and sired the first of his twelve children. Then one night, after a violent fight with an uncle who tried to cheat him of his inheritance, he abruptly left Sicily for Tunisia, thinking that he had killed the uncle during an exchange of body blows. Later his wife joined him in Tunisia, continuing to let him believe that he was wanted for murder in Sicily though she was aware of his uncle’s recovery; she had had enough of Sicily and knew that by withholding the information she could avoid going back.
After a few years in Tunisia—during that time was born their daughter Fay, Bill’s mother—the Labruzzos immigrated to the United States. Industrious and shrewd, Charles Labruzzo prospered in America in the butcher business and in real estate investing. On Jefferson Street in Brooklyn, during the 1920s, he owned a comfortable home with a large backyard in which he kept chickens and a milk-bearing goat; a commercial building leased to a clothing manufacturer; and a four-story tenement in which he rented apartments. His butcher shop was on the ground floor of the tenement and under it was a pipeline through which flowed wine from his home two doors away. He was the envy of several Sicilians in the neighborhood, and his quick temper and touchiness contributed to his unpopularity. The sight of his chasing someone down the street, swearing in Sicilian, was not uncommon, and once after a painter standing on a ladder yelled down an insult, Labruzzo grabbed a shotgun, aimed it at the painter and forced him to jump thirty feet to the sidewalk. The panicked man, after landing without injury, ran for cover.
Labruzzo was often intercepted and calmed down during his angry pursuits by a soft-spoken young man who offered to settle his difficulties, wanting nothing in return except peace and quiet in the neighborhood. The man was Joseph Bonanno. Charles Labruzzo knew the Bonanno name from the old country, and he liked the younger man’s style, his self-assurance, and he was delighted later when Bonanno married his daughter—and in 1932 presented him with a grandson, Salvatore Vincent Bonanno, who would be known as Bill.
The child was born during an otherwise miserable year in Labruzzo’s life. He had just lost a leg during
He remembered how insular Frank Labruzzo’s neighborhood in Brooklyn had been. Except for the absence of a mountain, it could have passed for a Sicilian village. The dialect and manner of the people were the same, the cooking was the same, the interior of the homes seemed the same. The old women wore black, mourning death on two continents, and the unmarried young women lived under the watchful eyes of their parents, who missed nothing. Bill recalled hearing from his mother and her sisters how strict his grandfather Labruzzo had been during their courting days, not permitting them to wear lipstick or eyebrow pencil or cut their hair in the contemporary fashion or smoke or be outdoors after dark. Charles Labruzzo, who neither spoke nor wrote English despite living in America for thirty-two years, made few concessions to the modern world except for the purchase of an automobile, which he drove without a license.
Charles Labruzzo was born in 1870 in the western Sicilian town of Camporeale, in the hilly interior southeast of Castellammare, into a family of sheepherders and cattle raisers. A strapping broad-shouldered man, he worked as a blacksmith in Camporeale, married a local girl, and sired the first of his twelve children. Then one night, after a violent fight with an uncle who tried to cheat him of his inheritance, he abruptly left Sicily for Tunisia, thinking that he had killed the uncle during an exchange of body blows. Later his wife joined him in Tunisia, continuing to let him believe that he was wanted for murder in Sicily though she was aware of his uncle’s recovery; she had had enough of Sicily and knew that by withholding the information she could avoid going back.
After a few years in Tunisia—during that time was born their daughter Fay, Bill’s mother—the Labruzzos immigrated to the United States. Industrious and shrewd, Charles Labruzzo prospered in America in the butcher business and in real estate investing. On Jefferson Street in Brooklyn, during the 1920s, he owned a comfortable home with a large backyard in which he kept chickens and a milk-bearing goat; a commercial building leased to a clothing manufacturer; and a four-story tenement in which he rented apartments. His butcher shop was on the ground floor of the tenement and under it was a pipeline through which flowed wine from his home two doors away. He was the envy of several Sicilians in the neighborhood, and his quick temper and touchiness contributed to his unpopularity. The sight of his chasing someone down the street, swearing in Sicilian, was not uncommon, and once after a painter standing on a ladder yelled down an insult, Labruzzo grabbed a shotgun, aimed it at the painter and forced him to jump thirty feet to the sidewalk. The panicked man, after landing without injury, ran for cover.
Labruzzo was often intercepted and calmed down during his angry pursuits by a soft-spoken young man who offered to settle his difficulties, wanting nothing in return except peace and quiet in the neighborhood. The man was Joseph Bonanno. Charles Labruzzo knew the Bonanno name from the old country, and he liked the younger man’s style, his self-assurance, and he was delighted later when Bonanno married his daughter—and in 1932 presented him with a grandson, Salvatore Vincent Bonanno, who would be known as Bill.
The child was born during an otherwise miserable year in Labruzzo’s life. He had just lost a leg during
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