There Pietro threw himself flat upon nature’s soft bed to stare up at an eagle wheeling high in the sky. It was then that he spoke to her, sometimes calmly, sometimes passionately, of his hopes, his dreams and his moments of black despair.
“You think I was born in Italy!” he exclaimed. “I was not, but in Chicago. Not beautiful Chicago, but ugly Chicago, the near West Side.
“There are seven of us. Three boys. Four girls. I am the oldest.
“I studied hard. I graduated from High School. And then what? Nothing. I tramped the streets looking for work, any work. There was no work.
“One month, two, three, four, five months!” His voice took on a bitter note. “Six months I tramped the streets! No work.
“I said, ‘I will get tough. I will join the 42 Gang.’ I—”
“No! No! Never! You would not!” Jeanne’s tone was deep with emotion.
“It was not so much that I would not.” Pietro sat up. “It was that I could not. My people were honest. I could not steal.
“And then—” His voice mellowed. “Then I met a fat little Jew. He said, ‘Come with me, my boy. I will give you a chance.’
“I did not wish to go. I said to myself, ‘He is a Jew. A Jew!’