Alligator Bayou - Donna Jo Napoli [42]
“Dagoes.” Carlo shakes his head. “You’d think he was some ignorant, backward man to say such a word—as ignorant as those rotten boys. But he was the police commissioner.”
“Who are you kidding?” says Francesco. “Some of the richest men in America call us dagoes. Not to mention that piece of garbage, Willy Rogers. I should have taught him a lesson last month. Only I held back out of respect for Dr. Hodge’s wishes.”
I think of Dr. Hodge Saturday night, calling out as he chased the goats, asking if I was one of those damned dagoes. I hug myself to keep the shaking inside from showing.
“Let me finish,” says Giuseppe. “Police came through our neighborhood with guns. We stayed inside, but, even so, they arrested over two hundred and fifty. Young, old, boys smaller than you two. They beat them. Then a committee indicted nineteen.” He looks at the ceiling. “Nineteen for one murder.” Giuseppe falls silent.
No one talks.
The silence goes on so long, my throat grows scratchy and I cough.
Giuseppe talks again: “They decided to have two trials, the first for nine men—the second for the rest.
“The first started the last day of February 1891. The press said Italians were murderers; all of us, Mafia. Suddenly people threw that word at us anywhere we went. In their eyes we were all criminal.
“Still, the jury listened fairly. Six men were found not guilty. For the other three the jury was undecided. There was no translator, and those men spoke so little English, they couldn’t answer questions. It was a mistrial. This was announced March thirteenth. They put all nine men in the prison overnight.” Giuseppe stops and clears his throat.
“The next day the newspaper called for a mass meeting at Canal and Royal streets. Thousands came. More joined as they marched through town. By the time they reached Congo Square, they say there were twenty thousand. Twenty thousand stormed the prison.” Giuseppe’s voice becomes monotonous. He talks as though he’s said these words in his head a thousand times before.
“The warden, he was honest, like the jurors. He wouldn’t turn the prisoners over. So the mob went around back and beat down the gate.
“The warden locked all the prisoners in their cells except the Sicilians. He told the Sicilians to scatter—hide in the women’s section—do anything to save themselves.
“The mob shot nine inside the prison. So many bullets…their bodies were destroyed. Another one, Emmanuele, they found him muttering in his cell. Everyone knew he was crazy. They hanged him from a streetlamp, and when he tried to climb the rope, they shot him. Twenty-eight years old and…demented, and…they still shot him.” Giuseppe pauses and I see his chest shudder. “The last one they found…he was pretending to be dead. They hanged him from a tree. Shot him, too.
“Eleven men. Murdered.
“Society ladies came out to see. Dipped handkerchiefs in the blood. Souvenirs.” Giuseppe stops. He’s crying.
Rosario puts his hand on Cirone’s shoulder. Cirone keeps staring at Giuseppe.
I lay my hands on the table. “Didn’t anybody do anything to the lynchers?”
“Italy threatened war,” says Giuseppe. “Louisiana argued that the men were Americans. But only two had become American citizens. The rest were Italians. Italy was enraged. And that is why I will never give up my Italian citizenship. Never.”
“But there was no war, right?” I say. I was only six back in 1891, but I would have heard if there was a war.
“Italy settled,” says Rosario, bitter.
“A grand jury looked into the lynchings,” says Giuseppe. “Two months later they said the mob was responsible citizens protecting the public from danger.” He puts his hands on his forehead in a gesture of agony. “We should have been the responsible citizens. Not them.”
“What? What do you mean?” It’s so hard to see Giuseppe like this.
“We Sicilians. We should have armed ourselves and defended the prison. Instead, we hid. I hid.” Giuseppe buries his face in his hands. “For days.”
“I did, too,” says Rosario.