October 30, 1919.

After nearly two weeks of wretched weather, profound sickness, that left his mother delirious with fever, they had arrived. Ellis Island. Khali grabbed their meager bags and ordered his three year old brother, Gino, to grab his shirt tail and not let go.

His father had promised to be there, but in the sea of people, herded into mass ques, Khali was old enough to know, they had to get through this first and then they would find each other. His mother was weak and his brother was adventurous, as little ones often are; and so, at 10 years old he carried their meager bags, filled with hope, promise and little clothing, and helped his family through the lines.

His father, Alfonso, had come to America 15 years prior. Making 2 trips, each producing another son, before leaving their mother once again. But the money was good in America. Alfonso, or Al, as he was now known, soon found work in the steel mills of Western Pennsylvania, in a town called Homestead. He worked hard but he played harder. The steel worker’s strike a month before his family’s arrival, had left Al without work. It’s funny what hunger and desperation can do to a man with a whole family on the way. So when Salvatore offered him a “job” in New York, Al was in no position to turn him down. Today though, he scoured the faces coming out through the documentation center, and thoughts of all past deeds were pushed from his mind, because the Blessed Mother had granted him this, as he had prayed so many nights and nothing was impossible now. His family had arrived in America.

“What is your name son”? The immigration official barked. The exhausted boy looked up and handed him his papers, replying as loud as his parched voice could muster, “Achille”.

“Ah huh. Alright then”, and the official scribbled the name Khali in a ledger, as it almost appeared like what was on scribbled his boarding manifest. “Next! Move along son…who’s with you…..who’s next”? Khali didn’t understand a good many things, but he knew he did not like being treated as a goat, nor the man's tone and being called son by a stranger. And so his first steps on promising soil had begun and Khali was not yet impressed. "It will get better", he looked down at Gino with empathetic eyes. "We'll find papa, and mama can rest and get better. Papa will take care of us now". There was hope. 

October 15, 1923

Kahli had never seen a party like this. The streets were packed from 96th street past their home on 110th. 30 minutes earlier, they had been huddled around the radio listening to Graham McNamee broadcast the 6th and final game and now the celebration spilled out into the streets, as Khali darted between adults and children alike. His father and Uncle Sal left for the Cotton Club, so that Khali to his own devices for a while.

Pressing a stolen cigarette between his lips, Khali walked alone. He’d been giving another errand to pick up more cigars. “How many cigars can one man smoke”, he muttered to himself. Khali continued to muse about the World Series victory and his father’s roaring laughter. It seemed that money was made on that game and from the hurried way the two men had left his home, and it must’ve been big money. Everyone was celebrating and Khali was on another stupid errand. But with the allowance Uncle Sal gave him weekly, Khali was close to saving up enough for the 9” stiletto that was forever on his mind since he first saw in the cutlery- grinders store in Manhattan. He smiled as he rounded the corner and approached the seemingly closed cigar shop. A faint light could be seen through the window and Khali nearly tripped over himself as he headed into the narrow alley toward the back. With the three, two knuckle rap on the oak door, Khali waited. “Hey kid, whatcha got for me today”? Barely a silhouette of a man appeared in the dim light through the slivered, opened door. Khali handed the man the envelope and just like that, the door closed without a sound. Khali stood in the now darkness, unsure if he should stay or go, this is the part he hated. The waiting. He counted in his head, trying to remember the English words he’d been taught in school.

Finally the door re-opened, almost startling Khali. He was handed a thin envelope, not the usual wax sealed box he often took back with him. This looked more like a letter and Khali gazed back at the silhouette with still outstretched hand. “That’s it kid, now beat it. And make sure Sal gets that, ok? It’s real important to him and I don’t think either of us want to disappoint him”. Khali nodded and replied, “Ahh, Grazie, Lo faro… eh, thank you”, he stammered and backed away, tucking the envelope in his jacket pocket. Coming out of the alley, he headed home, wanting to kick himself for sounding like an eager child when he was nearly a man. “One day, I will not be so stupido, eh”?! He was sulking under his breath and thinking of the day he would be old enough to go to the club with his father and Uncle. Soon, he would be a man by family standards or so it was in the old country. By then he would carry the coveted knife he had dreamed of owning and then he would have confidence and garner appreciation for his efforts. He wished he had lifted two cigarettes while his father slept. He liked the way he imaged he looked as he inhaled and flicked the ash. As he neared his home he noticed the crowd had greatly thinned out. Adults were behind locked doors, drinking and carrying on, out of sight.

Soon, he thought. But tonight, he was still just the errand boy.