A true story based on segments my grandma told about my great-grandpa learning the truth of his birth. I'm sure the situation was more complicated than I convey, but my grandma doesn't recall extensive details and there are no public records available.
A young man eager to make his way to America glanced back at the sunset, and looked forward to the new life ahead of him with the past in hand. Anthony Conforti, allured by the promise of prosperity in America, left everything behind in Italy. The only remnant: Italian citizenship papers. He missed his parents, but at the age of 17, he was ready for adventure. Anthony heard that Chicago was an up-and-coming city and hoped to get a job at the train yard. More so, he hoped to land an American sweetheart. Ulterior motive, perhaps, to acquire an English tutor as Anthony still struggled with the language.
The sun crept below the horizon and the sky lit up by moonlight. Anthony headed to his bunk to rest for the day ahead. Ellis Island was the first destination tomorrow morning, then he’d fetch a train to Chicago. Too excited to fall asleep, he recalled days gone by living in Italy with his parents. He hoped to make them proud. He’d write a letter once situated in Chicago.
…
The ship’s horn blared into Anthony’s room and he eagerly jumped out of bed. He threw his clothes on, grabbed his suitcase, snagged the papers, and ran to deck. The ship docked and he walked off onto the bustling island. There was an undeniable energy that resonated through all the hopeful citizens. Anthony headed into the “Italia” queue and waited for his turn.
After an exhausting wait, he approached the immigration officer and handed him the paperwork. As the officer scanned it, Anthony glanced around the room observing the people in line: A family from Germany with two children fooling around with binoculars, an older man from Ireland who looked as if he could strangle both kids with one arm, and a young lady from France wearing a crimson overcoat. He thought to go over and speak to her, but he noticed his officer beckoning for another person. They spoke under their breath. Anthony felt a bead of sweat form on his brow—concerned he brought the wrong documents. Also, hoping he wouldn’t miss his chance to talk to the crimson lady.
The first officer asked, “Anthony. That your name?”
“Yes sir, Anthony Conforti.”
“Son, please come back here with me.” The officer led Anthony to a small, stuffy room. He wondered if they saw him checking out that crimson coat a few too many times that was considered decent in the states. His eyes darted around the room determining this wasn’t a cell for perverts.
“You say your name is Anthony Conforti, correct?”
“Ye-yes. Is there problem, sir?” His voice shook a bit.
“Well, we reviewed your paperwork, and yes, we have a problem,” the officer said. “We went through the shared records from Italy, and, I don’t know how to say this, but this name isn’t coming up quite right.”
“Oh! I…my apology, but here is paperwork…Italian citizenship, sir.”
“Yes, we saw that, but the problem is… What we have on file is Anthony Conforti deceased as of 17 years ago.”
Anthony didn’t know what to say. He looked around the room at the officers staring at him. The words escaped him and he started to panic—should he go back? He couldn’t go back—he’d come too far to turn back.
“Son, are you well?”
“No, I am not. You say…I’m deceased! How can this be? I stand before you…alive!”
The officer snapped, “Calm down! We were hoping you could provide some answers, but if not, there’s some explanation for this, and we’re looking into that right now. Be patient. This sort of stuff doesn’t happen all too often, you hear?” And they left the room.
Anthony stared down at his hands and clutched his suit case. He nervously anticipated the news to come, and hoped that he wouldn’t be deported. How was this possible?
Hours flew by as he watched the clock hands do multiple revolutions with no news. What could he do? If they sent him back, the adventure would end before he got a chance to even step on the mainland.
The officers re-entered the room. “Okay, we discovered what the problem is, and I want you to listen carefully, son.” They placed a certificate in his hand. “What we have here is a death certificate for Anthony Conforti, and your name is Frank Coppini.”
Anthony was shocked. “How--how is this possible? I am not Frank Coppini!”
“Yes, that’s the name your parents gave you 17 years ago.” Anthony felt a lump in his throat and continued to listen. “Our records indicate that you were born to an Alberto and Francesca Coppini. Anthony Conforti was your parent’s son—seems the Confortis raised you as their own child. Not sure what happened in between, it all checks out though. We’ve got your correct paperwork and you can be on your way after…”
Anthony stared at the officer, through his eyes, through the wall, into nothing—he was frozen. Why didn’t his parents say anything? 17 years and not one mention of all of it being a lie! He wanted adventure, to start anew, but the price to pay was knowing the life he knew wasn’t his own.
After settling all the paperwork, he received his American citizenship, and got on the train headed to Chicago. He left Anthony Conforti behind at Ellis Island.
…
Frank penned a letter to the Conforti family, and dropped it at the post office the next day when he arrived in Chicago. Surely this wouldn’t be the first letter they expected.
…
Several weeks later, a letter awaited Frank at the post office after he clocked out of his new job at the train yard. It read:
Dear Son,
We hope you are well. We feared you would learn about your past in America, but we are no longer afraid of the truth. 17 years ago, our son Anthony Conforti died, not making it through his first night on Earth with us. We mourned all day into the night, angry and confused as to why God would take our dear child so soon. We prayed for answers. Ridden with grief, we couldn’t sleep. Rain fell from the sky with the same turmoil we felt in our hearts.
We heard something from our front steps. Opening the door, a baby boy placed in a basket no more than a day old. God heard our prayers and sent our son back to us—too young to become an angel, we believed. We raised you as Anthony Conforti.
Years later, the mailman delivered a letter from a Francesca Coppini. She spoke of a love affair she and another man had at the university, and the baby on the doorstep was the result of this sin: Frank Coppini. They read through the obituaries and saw the listing for our son. They put you in a basket and left you on our doorstep, sure that we could give you a better chance at life. We learned the truth behind the baby on the doorstep, but how could we tell you? Life was perfect. You were happy and healthy. Isn’t that what mattered?
When you decided to travel to America, we struggled with the decision to tell you about your past. We decided it would be better to send you off happily, instead of under harrowing circumstances. We hope your new life in Chicago is the adventure you hoped for, and we hope you won’t forget us. We love you, Frank.
Sincerely,
Mamma e Papà
Frank slowly put the letter down. He couldn’t say he felt different knowing the truth. At first he was angry, then sad, but nothing besides his name changed. His mom and dad were good to him and they did everything to support him. He started not only a new life in the states, but started as a completely new person--the person he was meant to be. They didn’t give up on him, and he wouldn’t give up on the life that was his own.
