Vito Corleone, 1916

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Of all the powerful men in this land, was there any who could summon Vito Corleone to his office? Who dared even approach the man? What man living west of the Statue of Liberty, here in New York’s Little Italy, dared to look the boss of bosses in the eye? Yet Liberty Lighting the World did not carry a red rose in her right hand, but rather a torch that burned undiminished. A symbolic flame. It had welcomed Italian (and especially Sicilian) families as they stepped off the boats in the late 19th century. Great Italian families, those were. When they spoke of family, they did not speak of the symbol of liberty, but of loyalty and allegiance. Family was sacred, and nothing was more sacred than a mamma.

Vito Corleone strolled along Mulberry Street. Here, people raised their hats to offer their condolences to their protector, their mediator, their godfather. “Prego!” cried a man approaching from the other side of the street, addressing the godfather of one and all. Prego – “please”, politely speaking. Vito Corleone’s gaze flickered. “My sincerest condolences, Don Corleone, from the Bonnano family.” Vito Corleone blinked slowly in recognition of the gesture. The condolences were accepted. All families knew what it was to lose someone dear, but when it was the woman who had brought you screaming into this world, that was a sacred loss. There were no words to describe the loss of a mother. In homage to her, Mulberry Street had come to a halt today. The storekeepers had shut their doors. The grocers had taken in their stalls. Mulberry, usually one of the busiest streets in New York, was quiet as a mortuary. Italian flags flew at half-mast. Vito Corleone strode along, his hands behind his back. Was he not also a father? Here before him, a ragazzo wished to lift his cap in a sign of respect, and mourning. Just a boy. Vito Corleone recalled when he himself had arrived on a boat and whispered to the Statue of Liberty: “America! America.” He’d been barely older than the lad who stood before him now.

He remembered Sicily, where he had been a pious and disciplined child. Vito Corleone had wanted to become a priest, to please both Christ’s mamma and his own. But fate had other plans in store. He could already feel it; a great and glorious future set against the azure sky that hung over Palermo. The sun was calling him to power. An empire awaited, as it had for Caesar during the days of Rome. Vito Corleone was not made to obey. He was fascinated by power, and conquest. He had left Sicily, starving and miserable, and set sail for the New World. But how well do we really know Caesar? Vito Corleone dreamed big, and glory was worth waiting for. The crossing of the Atlantic has sealed his disillusionment. A terrible, humiliating experience; hundreds of people crammed like cattle in the hold, retching from seasickness and rotten food. But as soon as he saw the Statue of Liberty, he remembered clearly whispering “America, America!” Upon his arrival, the young man quickly joined the Schiro family from Castellammare, the most powerful of the New York families. The mafia was, above all else, organized: it had a strict hierarchy. Tradition and order were the watchwords. Still, a mother was a sacred thing.

Vito Corleone stopped walking as he reached the end of Mulberry Street, where a sedan was waiting for him. The driver quickly stepped out to open his door. The car moved off toward Brooklyn, where his enemies were waiting to offer their condolences.

The sedan stopped outside the cemetery. In the days of Rome, the dead were buried far outside the city, but here in Brooklyn the dead lay among the living. There in the heart of the city, new graves were dug among the old; white marble tombstones sat alongside simple stone slabs and wooden crosses. Moss crept over them all. No matter how grand their gravestones or sepulchres, dust would return unto dust and men would return to the earth whence they came. The wind whistled through the trees, giving them celestial voice. Grey-green willows hung here and there over the tombs. Strong vaults stood in honour of great families swept away by hatred and vengeance. Vito Corleone looked piously upon the headstones, some of whose inscriptions could scarcely be read. The wind had erased their names, their dates and their tributes. In the distance he saw his enemies and his family, waiting side by side.

He removed his hat, and the men laid down their red roses.

Alan Alfredo Geday