I was born in Sicily in 1925. I don’t really remember too much about the old country… except that we were pretty hard up. And then one day, my father decided it was time to move away. Away from Sicily. Across the ocean to start a new life in America.

My father started working at the part for the guy who arranged our emigration. It was back-breaking work, and what little money he made mostly went towards booze. Eventually parents sent me to school. I had to learn English, and I sure as hell wasn’t gonna do that in a neighbourhood full of italians.

The year was 1943. America was at war end the Army was lookin’ for guys who spoke the language to help with the invasion of Sicily. I was eighteen and anything seems better than jail. Who say you can’t go home again? A few years later, the Nazis put a bullet in me. I was in a hospital for a bit, then I got a month’s leave, so I could go home… at least for a little while.