difficult to engage the enemy. Frank felt miserable and relied heavily on Rocco for support—even in battle, where he would take cover crouching behind his guardian’s back. At the camp, Rocco would manage to get him a thermos of hot coffee and fetch an extra blanket to keep him warm.
For six long months the allied forces fought valiantly on the impregnable slopes of Monte Cassino. They assaulted the Gustav defenses four times. In February, American bombers recklessly destroyed the ancient abbey in an action meant to help the ground troops. Unfortunately, it made things worse. As it turned out, the Germans were not garrisoned there, but after the bombing they took up positions in the ruins, finding protection among the rubble. Only at the end of May, with the arrival of the spring, were the Allies able to gather twenty divisions for a major assault. And they broke through the Gustav Line.
During this decisive action, Frank stepped on a landmine and lost his legs. He wanted to avoid the thick of the battle and took a detour through a clearing in the woods, thinking of rejoining his comrades later, when the fire subsided. Unaware, he entered a minefield. He would have bled to death in that secluded spot if it were not for Rocco. At the end of a heroic attack against an artillery post, Rocco realized that Frank was missing. He retraced his steps and found his charge agonizing in a pool of blood. Although he himself was wounded in a shoulder, Rocco managed to carry Frank on his back to the nearest field hospital, where the medics saved his life.
Frank was sent home with the first available transport, while Rocco continued his painful march north, from battle to battle, from victory to final victory.
In January ’46, New York gave the returning troops a heroes’ welcome—a glorious Victory Parade along Fifth Avenue, with marching bands, flags hanging from every building, a ticker tape blizzard, and thousands of women with open arms eager to hug and kiss the warriors.
The war ended, at least in the Western hemisphere, and the peace began—and with the peace, the most extraordinary period of prosperity.
Rocco’s uncle decided to retire and enjoy his senior years on the Florida beaches. He left the diner to Rocco because he had no direct heirs. Under Rocco’s management, the old diner was renamed Pizzeria Santa Lucia, and acquired a new identity and a new clientele. “Italian” was no longer just an ethnic qualifier, it became a commercial label. And, yes, mozzarella cheese became a pizza topping— and not only cheese, but pepperoni, sausage, ham, olives, anchovies, mushrooms, and more and more... In the emerging consumer society, the more the better was a fundamental principle.
Rocco felt pretty good about the business and about his family. Lucia worked at the counter and Joe, who was fifteen, tended tables after school. Only one thing still bothered him. He was determined to get rid of the racket once and for all. When the two henchmen showed up punctually at the end of the month, Rocco refused to pay, and the next day took his courage in both hands and went to see don Vincent Marrano.
A high wall surrounded the Marrano property out in the countryside. A wrought-iron gate gave access to the alley that cut through the woods and led to a villa in Renaissance style. The gate was locked, and Rocco stood there, uncertain of what to do. A man came out of the guardhouse and asked who he was. Then went back inside to make a phone call. Finally, he opened the gate and escorted Rocco to the mansion.
Don Vince was sitting behind a monumental desk in his study. Everything in the room was oversized—the leather chairs, the fireplace, the chandelier, the vast vista on the lake. Rocco was overwhelmed and felt very small. Vince pointed to a chair across from the desk and began to speak.
“I’m glad to see you, although I heard you treated my boys pretty badly last night. I should be angry with you. However, I’m a man of honor. And I’m indebted to you big time. You saved my son’s life. Frank is now a broken man, on a wheelchair, dependent on nurses, and addicted to drugs that are supposed to alleviate his deep depression. He’s a total wreck. But he’s alive, and I’m grateful to you for that. I want to pay off my debt. Ask me anything you want—money, power, influence. Anything. Tell me. Parla.”
Rocco spoke in a firm, unemotional voice.
“Don Vince, I have only one request: please, get out of our lives. Forget about us, as if we never met. Leave us alone. If I never hear from you again, I’ll consider your debt repaid a thousand times.”
Vince was silent for a long time. His eyes closed, his jaws clenched. Then, he took a deep breath and spoke.
“I’ve never done this for anyone. My friends are friends for life... But I’m an honorable man, and I intend to honor my word. You’ll have your wish.”
He got up, walked around the desk, grabbed Rocco by the shoulders, pulled him up, and kissed him on both cheeks.
Rocco never heard from don Vince again. Several years later, he learned from the newspapers that the mobster Vincent Marrano had finally been arrested and convicted for tax evasion. The prosecutor had been trying for years to charge him with more serious crimes, but had not been able to gather enough evidence. Not long after the trial, don Vince died in jail—allegedly, of a heart attack.
The pizzeria gradually became a favorite spot for the well-to-dos from uptown in search of a touch of folklore. In the mid-sixties it acquired the license to sell wine and greatly increased in popularity. Now it had a jukebox that played the Four Seasons nonstop. Frankie Valli himself occasionally showed up with members of the band, and there was a photo on the wall of Joe toasting them. Joe was in his early thirties and a partner in the business. To learn more about wine, he took a tour organized by the Associazione Viticultori d’Italia, an association of Italian wine producers who wanted to promote their products in the U.S.
For the first time in his life, Joe set foot on an airplane. Rocco drove him to the airport in his station wagon, wondering all the way whether St. Christopher would now modernize and protect transatlantic passengers in the air, as well as on water.
Joe landed safely in Rome and joined the other wine sellers and restaurateurs from all over the States. After touring the Frascati hills and the picturesque wine zones of the south, the group headed north, passing through the Chianti countryside and reaching the fertile vineyards of the Piedmont region. The tour organizers had included visits to large industrial establishments as well as to specialized small producers. One of these was the Villa Flora winery, famous for its ruby-red, floral-flavored, medium-bodied Grignolino. After having tasted the specialties of other wineries—the robust, berry-flavored, full-bodied Barolo, and the sweet, aromatic Moscato—Joe fell for Grignolino. The perfect match for pizza, as he put it. On that occasion Joe met Rosa.
The visitors to the winery were routinely treated to a brief tour of the eighteenth-century villa and its gardens. Signora Amelia had first resisted this intrusion. Her family had always kept a clear demarcation line between their private space and the winery down in the valley. But the manager had convincingly argued that the visits would help to increase the business, and in the end she relented. The world was changing and business was gradually encroaching on everything. However, she would not come out and greet the visitors. She stood firm on that point. And so, she put Rosa in charge of supervising the wine-tasting reception and of seeing to it that the group leave promptly soon after.
It was mid-July and the gardens let off fireworks of blossoms—periwinkles, daisies, forget-me-nots, lilies, peonies, fuchsias and nasturtiums artistically arranged in manicured flower beds, perfectly trimmed hydrangea shrubs around the fountain, jasmine edges along the alleys, and thick clusters of wisteria climbing up the southern wall. The rose garden was not in full view, secluded behind a row of cypresses and surrounded by a delicate colonnade, but the intense fragrance of hundreds of blooms of all possible varieties floated in the air and travelled all the way up to the terrace where the visitors were standing. The terrace extended outside the grand hall in the back of the villa. Stone banisters with neo-classical statues of the four seasons surrounded it. On one side, steps lead to the gardens.
The visitors were in awe of that luxuriant spectacle, and eagerly clicked their cameras left and right, leaning on the banisters because they were not allowed down the steps. A young man in the group, the one who spoke Italian (with a terrible accent), was more interested