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In search of my grandfather's past … and maybe a book deal

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Cesare Brescia

Watching the Italians

iaLandscape

I can’t speak highly enough of this incredible series. PBS always does a fabulous job with documentaries, but ‘The Italian Americans’ is superb. I’m only two hours in, but I am already wishing for the next installment.

I loved hearing about the “birds of passage,” stories which filled in more deeply my notions of the trips Pasquale, Cesare and possibly Ottavio took from the U.S. to Italy.

It also clearly articulates the harsh conditions Francesco Venezia likely left in Italy and the different set of challenges he faced once he arrived. In all the reading I’d done in preparation to write my book, I’d come across all kinds of things that made my jaw drop.

Full-page ads from the Sons of Italy saying “We’re Americans, we love this country!” during the height of both World Wars. Descriptions in newspaper articles that we would today call blatantly racist. That, taken with the information presented in the series, made me realize that what I am so proud of today would have made me an outcast a century ago.

There is so much that my grandfather likely protected my father from. From Phil’s memories of a broken childhood and the possible violence that may have been a part of it. From the taunts and slurs Phil probably endured, possibly into adulthood. Not everyone manages to do that, to keep the bad stuff back and in the past. It makes me respect him, and my ancestors, even more.

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While I wait

PasqualeInquiryI’ve filled out my request for the Coroner’s Inquest. It’s times like this I’m so happy I work in news. I feel like what I do for a living prepared me for tackling this big mystery.

I think, though, that I need to get back to Pittsburgh and see if there are any other newspaper accounts of the fire. And anything else that might be relevant.

To bide my time, I’ve been following some of the threads from my 2006 search.

I start fishing Ancestry for information on the Brescia brothers. I find a manifest from one of the trips that brought Pasquale back over from Italy. This one was in 1905. It’s an addendum to the regular manifest called “Aliens Held for Special Inquiry.”

It looks like Pasquale was detained at Ellis Island. The reason says “LPC.” What’s LPC stand for? It looks like a lot of people on this roster fell into that category. And thanks to this handy little website, which I found in Google, now I know. It means “likely public charge.”

Oh Pasquale. Buddy. You’re not doing yourself any favors.

I also find a record card for a Cesare Brescia, from the “old man” draft during World War II. I can’t be sure this is him, though, because when I check the associated World War I card, it comes up with a name of a town in Italy I don’t recognize and the fact that he’s married and living in Sewickley. None of it rings a bell. Ancestry’s got this handy “shoebox” feature that lets you save stuff without sticking it to people’s profiles, so I file it there.

I don’t know if I can stand the wait for the coroner records.

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A hometown — Finally!

800px-Italy_provincial_location_map.svgWhen I was about 10, I went to the Statue of Liberty. I was desperate to visit “the place where my ancestors came,” but Ellis Island was years from being renovated. So, a picture of me at the base of the Great Lady in a silly foam crown had to do.

I had no idea if it was true that my ancestors came through Ellis Island or not, but now I know that it was.

Turns out Ellis Island’s search is free. And, well, I just may have burned the two hours waiting for my county commissioners meeting digging around.

I’m pretty sure I found him. August 4, 1904. That’s when Francesco landed in America with his wife and her brother, Cesare. But I can’t figure out why Saverina’s name is recorded as Teresa Pasqualina. She’s 19. He’s 30. Wowza. I guess the guys in our family always did dig younger chicks. My mom’s seven years younger than my dad. I’m 8 years younger than my boyfriend. Grammy was eight years younger than Grandpa Phil.

Francesco? Dates totally check out. Cesare Brescia? Yup. If I go by the age of the Trust Administration document and do some math, this Cesare is the right age, right name. If these are definitely my people, it means that my father’s family is from a place called Catanzaro. I looked it up. It’s basically in the arch of the boot of Italy, a costal town with a rugged inland. It looks amazing. I already want to visit.

It just feels right. The manifest said Francesco was a tailor, which is what I remember Grammy telling me. He was headed to Pittsburgh. But to is own house. Hmm. And it seems to indicate that he was in the US from 1889 to 1904. U.S. Citizen Discharge on the Pier is stamped over both his and her names. So, were they both citizens already? If they’re coming back from Italy, did he marry her here or there? Meet her here or there?

There’s also the name of the ship. The Konigin Luise. A picture I can buy. I stare at it for a long time. I wonder. Was their passage like the people in steerage that I saw in “Titanic”? Was it worse? Better?

I call my parents and my dad gets on the phone.

“Catenzaro,” I said. “That’s where we’re from.”

My dad can’t believe it. He traveled through Italy with a friend after he got out of Vietnam. He said he must have come within miles of the place.

I ask him again about Francesco’s will. He said he never heard his father talk about getting money from his father. Of all the questions that are lingering out there, this is the one that bothers me the most. I’m a journalist. What’s the first rule of journalism? Follow the money.

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My first discovery

Guardianship1 My mind is reeling. When the man in the Register of Wills Office returned, this is what he brought. It’s a guardianship document. And it cracked open my world.

There my great-grandparents names. Francesco Venezia and Severina Brescia. Frank and Sarah were obvious Americanizations. Severina had at least three brothers. Ottavio, Cesare and Pasquale. I had contemplated her life a thousand times, but for some crazy reason, I never thought of her as part of a real family. My family. But here they were. A family of four (more?). Pasquale was dead and he’d left Ottavio, my grandfather (Phil), great-uncle (Joe) and great-uncle (Mary) $1,500 to split.

I did a quick calculation in an online calculator. That’s about $4,000 in today’s money. Not a bad chunk of change for a bunch of kids. Which explains why they were being set up with trusts.

My pal in the records office is as excited as I am. He tells me to fill out another form and he’ll see if it was paid out.

“Actually,” he says. “Check the Vs. Maybe your great-grandfather had a will, too.”

Adrenaline pumping, I flip pages. Bingo.

“He had a will?” I can feel my mouth hanging open. “My immigrant great-grandfather had a will?”

“Seems so,” he says. “Fill out another card. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Few minutes. Ha! It takes an eternity before he brings a few photocopies of Pasquale’s bequest to his family and a small, rectangular envelope. Francesco’s name is written in that perfect cursive I’d always wished I could write.

“I, Francesco Venezia, of the city of Pittsburgh and the State of Pennsylvania …” My eyes skitter over the words. “To my beloved wife .. THREE bank accounts… To my beloved daughter and beloved sons, I leave the remainder in trust…”

My eyes cloud over.  He left them money. He died and he thought ahead enough to save for the day he knew he couldn’t be there. He left his wife money and enough for his children later.

“How much is 13,000 lira,” I ask to no one in particular.

My records sherpa smiles and shakes his head.

And dangitall. My phone rings. Time to go to work.

I stay long enough to get photo copies and I call my parents, breathless, on the walk back over to the courthouse.

When I get back to the newsroom I can’t resist running a quick calculation. In 1915, the year the will was drafted, 13,000 lira was about $2,000. Enough to buy a small home. I carry those pages with me all day long and a single thought has formed in my head.

“He was loved. No matter what happened after, Grandpa, Joe, Mary. They were loved.”

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