Uncle Al Capone (16 page)

I was born while my father was still at Loyola. As long as my father was a student, my grandfather Ralph paid all his bills—even the ones for my birth. He was still, however, an extremely prideful young man and looked forward to the day when he could take care of his family and take his place as patriarch of the Capones, instead of depending on them to take care
of him.

But when he passed the bar exam, the Chicago Bar Association would not let him practice. They never gave a clear reason, but it seems clear that it was something akin to the insurance company’s reason for firing me—an association with the Capones could be damaging. People would suspect my father of corruption, and the Chicago Bar did not want to invite suspicion.

A series of other failures followed. My grandfather set my father up in a legitimate business, but when the Chicago media got wind of it, they made the assumption and published the allegations that the business was just a means for the Capones to launder money. Rather than go against the rising tide of public opinion, the family decided to shutter the business. From that point on, 1945 until his death, my father was a changed man.

He was shattered. I was too young to know it at the time, but Aunt Maffie told me much later that my dad simply could not cope with the humiliation and the stymieing of not only his professional aspirations but also his ability to achieve independence and provide for his family. He began going away for long periods of time—once he took an extended trip to Florida to talk to Al.

My mother’s dream was dashed along with her husband’s. She did not have the skills necessary to help my dad build a life. He had to borrow money from his father and his uncle Al and work at a used-car dealership, and that income fell far short of what my mother hoped for him and for herself. There was still money coming into the family from the Outfit’s gambling and prostitution businesses, but times were still much tougher than Ralphie had been accustomed to growing up. And, of course, Al’s life savings had disappeared.

My grandfather Ralph was also a firm believer in individual agency. He wanted his son to “tough it out.” He himself was a self-made person, and he believed in “like father, like son.” The trouble was that he did not factor in how spoiled his son was as a kid, nor did he realize just how emasculated and small his son felt by his inability to gain a foothold in the world. If he wanted to make more than a modest living, my father’s only chance probably would have been organized crime. Luckily, he shunned that, too. The Outfit did offer him a job, but after having Al and Ralph lecture him for decades about, “Once you are in, you can never get out,” I think he was fearful of accepting it.

Many years of distance and bitterness between my parents finally culminated in their divorce. Just before my mother died, she told me the real reason why her and my father’s marriage ended. Only a few years after I was born, Uncle Bites and Aunt Larry adopted a boy—as it turns out, he was really my half brother. My father had a little fling in Miami after being rejected by the Chicago Bar Association. The tryst produced a son. Again, my grandmother Theresa insisted he stay in the family—much to the chagrin of my grandfather Ralph. Other family members told me he said, “That’s just what we need around here—another kid!”

When my mother discovered what happened, she started having ‘flings’ herself. The strain of these infidelities, coupled with my father’s broken dreams, broke the marriage. My mother filed for divorce shortly after moving me and my brother to her parent’s apartment.

Of course, the news of the divorce made all the papers—Capone scandals were still hot topics. My mother loved the publicity, but her family was livid. Her maiden name, Barsaloux, had been publicized, and immediately her extended family, embarrassed by the black mark of divorce on their otherwise well-respected name, cut ties with her.

I not only lost my father in that divorce, but I also lost my mother. She was a product of the “Flapper” generation, born in 1919, she grew up in an era when women were undergoing a huge transformation. They were bobbing their hair and raising their hemlines—not only on their skirts, but also in the backseats of their cars. Women’s sexuality was no longer an embarrassing secret to be hidden and guarded, and many, like my mother, took the new-found freedom to the extreme. By the end of her life, my mother had been married seven times. She loved the party life, and did all she could to avoid the “boring” life of home and family.

When she left my father, she was still young and beautiful. And she now had the added allure of being the ex-wife of a Capone. She wielded this power and independence to her advantage, and from my little girl’s eyes, it seemed to me that her life became one party after another.

I was four when my parents divorced, and my mother tried to enroll me in kindergarten to get me off her hands. The school administrators, however, told her I was too young and would have to wait a year. So, my mother left me in the care of her father when she wanted to disappear—often for many days. My maternal grandfather never did recover his dignity from the crash. He drank a lot and would take me to taverns with him during the day. Most of the time he would leave me in the backseat of his car while he went into the tavern with his buddies underneath the L tracks on 63rd street. I remember feeling scared. At least I survived, but I now know that neither my grandfather nor my mother wanted me. They wanted me gone.

I got ill that fall, very ill. The doctor thought it was my tonsils, so I was scheduled for surgery at Michael Reese Hospital in November 1944. I remember my mother taking me to the hospital and putting me in a room that had a bed with sides pulled up like a baby crib. In those days, you were in the hospital for a couple of days before surgery. On the operation day, my father came to be with me. When he arrived, my mother got angry, started an argument with him and left. My dad stayed with me as they took me into surgery.

I remember the bright lights, the mask coming down over my nose and mouth, and the sharp, chemical smell of the anesthetic. My next memory was seeing a very bright light, a light that I do not know how to describe—a light that beckoned and comforted, a sound, music, a feeling. A man, whom I believed to be Jesus, took my hand, and we walked through a tunnel. I could see and hear people at the end of the tunnel.

Then I heard my Dad call to me. I looked up at Jesus and said, “I have to go back or my mom will be mad at me.”

“OK, this time you can go back.”

Of course, when I woke up in the hospital room in 1944, I did not know what happened. I later found out that I had died. They now have a name for people like me. I am an N.D.E. person: someone who has had a Near Death Experience. Apparently, I did not have tonsillitis but an infection that caused me to bleed to death during the surgery.

The following spring, my mother again took me to register for kindergarten. The school only had one room with a class in the morning and a class in the afternoon. My mother wanted me gone for the whole day, so she asked the nuns if I could go directly into first grade. They tested me and I passed. I skipped kindergarten and started the first grade in September, making me the youngest student in my class. (I would not turn six until the following January) I had to bring my lunch to school. Not one other child brought their lunch to school in those days—they all went home to their mothers at lunchtime. Even the nuns would all go to their convent for lunch. I was alone with only the school custodian, and he gave me the creeps. I remember other children making fun of me as I sat alone in the schoolroom with my sandwich and cried. Finally, when I reached the fifth grade, I could walk home, bringing my younger brother, who was in the first grade, with me. I would fix us soup or a sandwich and then take him back to school. I think I was among the first of the “latchkey kids.”

Lunch was the least of my difficulties at school. I experienced rejection, ridicule, shame, and punishment. All forms of discrimination. I entertained thoughts of suicide many times. You must remember that in 1944, women did not get divorced. Mothers stayed home and were there when the children came home from school.

I went to a Catholic school, thanks to Aunt Maffie, where more than once, a kind nun would say, “You know, your mother is living in sin.” Then I would return home to a cold family life. My mother had no interest in me, and to my grandparents, I was a reminder of my mother’s mistakes. My grandmother was disgusted by the very existence of the Capones; she would not even allow me to talk about them or what I did during visits at the Prairie Avenue house.

Every night, I would pray to God, “Please bring my father back.” What other chance did I have?

Dandelion Soup

2 pounds dandelion greens

½ cup olive oil

3 cloves minced garlic

1 medium onion minced

4 cups chicken stock

½ tsp salt

¼ tsp fresh ground pepper

½ cup freshly grated Romano cheese

Pick the dandelions in the spring of the year before their flowers appear, pulling them up so their roots stay attached. Wash them carefully in several changes of water to remove any sand and dirt embedded in the leaves.

Heat the olive oil in a heavy saucepan. Sauté the garlic and onion in oil until transparent. Add the greens and sauté for 5 minutes. Add the chicken stock, stir in the seasonings and cook over low heat, covered, for 30 minutes. Sprinkle with grated cheese before serving. Serves 4-6.

The Al Capone Family

Cordially invites you to dinner at their home on Sunday at 1:00 p.m… 

and Thanksgiving, Christmas, St. Joseph’s Day, Easter and Mother’s Day.

As guest of honor, you will receive our

treasured family heirloom recipes and pictures.

After dinner if you like, you may join Al and his brothers 

In a high-stakes poker game in the dining room, 

Or drift into the kitchen with the women

for some “girl talk”, and juicy gossip.

We look forward to the honor of your presence.

Sincerely,

Deirdre M. Capone

Chicago, 1944 – 1947

The country wanted booze, and I organized it. Why should I be called a “public enemy”?

- Al Capone

I lived two childhoods, really. Around my mother, life was cold and unloving. But when I went to the Prairie Avenue house to be with my dad and the Capones, I felt warm and enveloped in love. How strange to me, then, that it was the Capone name that Chicago seemed to shun.

We were a typical Italian family. In the Italian tradition, loyalty and allegiance to the immediate family members was paramount, and we adhered to strong customs. Sunday dinner was at 1 p.m. every week, without fail. My grandmother Theresa taught us that the food we ate was like medicine for the body, and if there were any arguments during eating, the food would turn to poison in our bodies. There were never any arguments. I passed this on to my children, and we always had fun at our meals.

As a child, food was symbolic of the love my family had for me. Family meals were an emotional experience for each one of us, especially for me. Being a Catholic, I cannot help but draw the comparison to receiving communion. Mealtime was a communion of the family, and our food was sacred because it was the medium of that communion.

“Deirdre, hang up your coat,” my dad would tell me as we entered the Prairie Avenue house.

I would hang my coat on one of the lower coat hooks on the wall in the entry and run down the long hall into the dining room. The table would already be set, a chair for everyone. My grandmother Theresa used everyday dishes, which didn’t match—but they were clean. She placed all the utensils on the same side of the plate, and I would not find out until later in life that that was not proper. It worked for us. And she would set a telephone book on my chair so I could reach my plate.

I would turn right from the dining room into the kitchen, where Grandma and Aunt Maffie boiled water for the macaroni and took the meatballs from the oven. They would both be sweating and wiping their faces (no air conditioning in those days), but would smile when they
saw me.

“Buongiorno, Deirdre,” Grandma would say.

“Buongiorno, Grandmacita.”

Grandma would usually urge me to take a meatball or some other treat. “Mangia, Deirdre.”

“Grazie, Grandmacita.”

Grandma always wore a dress, a nice dress, covered with an apron. She wore her hair pulled back into a bun. Aunt Maffie also dressed well and wore her hair up on her head, wrapped up over something we called a “rat” and held in place with hairpins. That hairstyle always fascinated me. Every hair was perfect, and you could not see the pins.