PETER BUFFA -- Comments & Curiosities

I have a Christmas story for you. I hope you like it. It’s a true

story that happened a long time ago, on a snowy Christmas Eve. It’s about

immigrants, and it’s about angels, which I happen to believe in by the

way -- so there.

I was going to tell it to you last year, but I wasn’t sure I should.

It’s kind of personal. In fact, it’s about my mother. Not the wonderful

85-year-old Italian woman named Pauline who lives in Leisure World, but a

4-year-old girl named Paula who was just one of the millions of European

immigrants who came to this country in the late 19th and early 20th

centuries. Shall we?

Dec. 24, 1919, New York City. As Christmas Eves go, this one is

Dickens, Currier & Ives and “It’s a Wonderful Life” all rolled into one.

A steady snowfall is working its magic on the streets of Manhattan. It’s

getting late. Even Grand Central Terminal is near empty.

A man, a woman and two young children are huddled in one corner of the

cavernous Main Concourse. Things are not going well. Not well at all.

Nobody looks happy, especially the man, who happens to be my great uncle,

Tomaso Mule (pronounced “moo-lay” -- both sides of my family have strange

names. I can’t help it).

Tomaso is my grandfather’s brother. The woman is my grandmother,

Caterina. The little girl, Paula, you already know. And the boy is her

big brother, Felice -- my Uncle Phil, who is all of 8 years old.

Their day started long before dawn, full of excitement and promise.

They had finally reached the land of dreams after a harrowing, 10-day

voyage across the Atlantic. They landed in Boston, the second busiest

port of entry for Europeans after Ellis Island, which had been the entry

point for many other relatives of mine. My grandfather, Vito Mule, and

another brother, Frank, were already here and had started a pasta

business in the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn. Business was good, as

was the pasta. When the time and the money were right, they sent word to

Tom to lead the next wave across the Big Pond. They also sent detailed

instructions on how to get from Boston to New York, how to get from Grand

Central to Brooklyn by subway, and a carefully written note with the

Williamsburg address, which he could always hand to a cabbie or a cop if

all else failed.

Making the crossing was a grueling marathon, but being “processed”

through Boston or Ellis Island was a test of strength and sanity for

adults, let alone kids. Think of the worst travel day you’ve ever had.

You’d have to multiply those canceled flights or overheated engines or

crying babies a hundredfold to match the average day on Ellis Island.

Imagine the chaos of thousands of people with mounds of bags, bundles and

babies, all crammed into a large hall that was either unbearably hot or

freezing cold. Men, women and children stand for hours and hours in

endless lines that barely move.

But on that day, Paula and company made it through the Golden Door,

and into the Promised Land.

The long train ride from Boston provided a merciful rest, and finally,

they were in New York, dazzled by Grand Central Terminal -- the

“Crossroads of the World.” As my Uncle Tom reached for his wallet, he

gasped, then froze as solid as Lot’s wife. The only thing in his back

pocket was his hand. His wallet was gone, lost or stolen, along with

everything they needed to find their way. Money, papers, identification,

the Brooklyn address -- all gone. There they stood, without a word of

English or any idea of where they were, how to get home or the means to

do it, all on a snowy Christmas Eve. My mother was beginning to fuss, as

one might expect from a 4-year-old who has had a very, very long day. My

grandmother and my Uncle Phil tried their best to keep her quiet. Tom was

in no mood for drama. He was alternately despondent and frantic --

cursing himself, racking his brain, trying to figure out what they were

going to do, which is why he didn’t notice the man who was suddenly

standing beside them.

When the man spoke, they were stunned. Not only did he speak Italian,

but in their own Sicilian dialect. To them, it was the voice of an angel.

“Excuse me,” the man said, “are you OK?”

Tom didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at that question. He explained

their dilemma as calmly as he could. The man smiled when Tom told him

they needed to get to a place called “Williamsburg.”

“Really? I live in Williamsburg,” the man said. “I’m on my way home.

But there are a lot of people there.” He asked: “What’s your brother’s

name?”

“Vito,” Tom said. “Vito Mule.”

The man threw his head back and laughed. “Are you serious?” he said.

“I know Vito Mule! He and his brother live right over their store. I know

exactly where it is. Let’s go.”

And so, one family plus an angel and a whole lot of bags made their

way to the borough of Brooklyn, all on a snowy Christmas Eve.

When they clambered up to the street from the subway, the snow was

coming down with a vengeance. My mother and her brother were constantly

in trouble for stopping every few yards, fascinated with the first snow

they had ever seen.

“This is it,” the man said, pointing at a darkened storefront. “They

live upstairs.”

Tom glanced at his watch. It was a few minutes to midnight. Awfully

late, but he had no choice. He pounded on the door. Not a sound. He

pounded again, harder. A second-floor window flew open and my Uncle Frank

leaned out, straining to see what the racket was about.

“What’s going on?” he shouted. “Who’s down there?”

Tom stepped back onto the sidewalk. “Who were you expecting?” he

shouted back.

When Frank recognized his brother’s voice, he nearly fell out the

window and would have, had my grandfather not grabbed him by the back of

his nightshirt. Within seconds, everyone came bounding down the stairs,

through the store, and out into the snow in their slippers and whatever

coat or jacket or blanket they managed to grab along the way. My mother

remembers so much shouting, crying and hugging that she kept trying to

hide beneath my grandmother’s coat.

Other windows began to fly open, and before long neighbors from up and

down the block were also in the street, celebrating the newest arrivals,

all on a snowy Christmas Eve. That was a long, long time ago, in a place

far away from here.

But fortunately, some things, like Christmas, never change. Be safe,

be happy, and have the best holiday ever.

I gotta go.

* PETER BUFFA is a former Costa Mesa mayor. His column runs Fridays.

He can be reached via e-mail at PtrB4@aol.com.