A tale of Christmas

Isn’t that always the way? Sooner or later, everything old is new again.

Five years ago, I told you a story at Christmastime about how my mother came to this country from Italy as a little girl. After some 550 columns, it is still the one that I am asked most often to repeat or send to someone, somewhere, especially at this time of year.

When I first wrote it, my mother was 85. She passed away last year, just short of her 89th birthday. But she had a good, long life that almost anyone would envy, and she always loved a good story.

That being the case, and this being Christmas Day, let’s try it again, shall we?

*

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.

Dec. 24, 1919, New York City.

As Christmas Eves go, this one is Dickens, Currier and 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, got here first and had started a pasta business in the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn. Business was good. So 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 Station to Brooklyn by subway, along with a carefully written note with the Williamsburg address, which he could always hand to a cabby 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 hundred-fold to match the average day for a new arrival 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, standing 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 got to New York, dazzled by Grand Central Station, 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 address in Brooklyn -- all gone.

There they stood, without one 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 also 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 said. “What’s your brother’s name?”

“Vito,” Tom said. “Vito Mule’.”

The man threw his head back and laughed.

“Are you serious?” he asked. “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 one 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 Sundays. He may be reached by e-mail at [email protected].

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