One hundred years ago, a terrified 15-year-old girl, accompanied by her mother and three brothers, made a perilous journey on the ship America to start a new life in the United States.

That girl, Frieda Zolli, was my mother, and I remember and honor her on Mother’s Day. Her inspiring story of trials, tribulations and triumphs is a template for many European immigrants who migrated to the New World in the early 20th century, Thousands of them settled in the five-county Times News area of Carbon, Schuylkill, Monroe, Northampton and Lehigh counties.

Through dogged persistence, ingenuity and hard work and without relying on government aid, many of them succeeded in what they hoped would be a land of opportunity, especially for their children.

But the road to success was filled with potholes and obstacles. Some fell by the wayside; others threw in the towel after a few years and returned to their native countries, and still others ran afoul of the law as they tried to take shortcuts.

Stereotypes

Italian immigrants like my mother were confronted with unspeakable stereotypes and harsh treatment. Many native-born Americans shunned them, associated them with the Mafia or tried to make them out to be dim-witted jesters.

The Italian immigrant had been warned not to trust Americans, that Americans called them “dirty” names like “wop,” “guinea” and “dago.” They had heard many stories from relatives about how they were not welcome. Some stores refused to sell groceries to Italians or rent homes to them in the hopes that they would just leave and go elsewhere or return to their homeland. Some Italian immigrants were beaten, tortured and in 1899 five were lynched in Louisiana.

Immigrants of that era were portrayed as superstitious, ignorant, lazy, leaning toward crime and prone to settling wrongs with personal vendettas and acts of violence.

Prejudice and discrimination against Italians died a slow death. Some insist, however, that it still persists in subtle forms even today.

My mother and others were not laughing when parodied by the likes of the Marx Brothers, Jimmy Durante and Don Ameche. She preferred instead the accomplishments of baseball’s Joe DiMaggio, screen star Rudolph Valentino, singing sensations Enrico Caruso and Mario Lanza, physicist Enrico Fermi, former New York Gov. Mario Cuomo and New York City Mayor Fiorello LaGuardia.

But this comparison of the infamous and the famous can be an exercise in futility, because, when looking at the contributions of a people, those with claims to infamy and fame constitute but a tiny fraction of the whole. The unsung, low-visible, non-newsmaking men and women are the real heroes of the immigrant experience. It is they, who in quiet, low-key, yet effective ways, set the examples and taught their children to become productive citizens.

Leaving homeland behind

My grandfather had come to the United States before World War I. The plan was for him to set up housekeeping and establish himself, then arrange for the rest of the family to join him.

When war broke out in 1914, those plans were put on hold for five years. My mother and the rest of the family were to set sail from Genoa, a port on Italy’s northwest coast. Italian sailors and dockworkers went on strike, delaying the ship’s departure by more than a month.

My mom was scared and begged her mother to cancel the trip and go back to their hometown of San Daniele in north-central Italy, about 300 miles away. My grandmother said absolutely not. After enduring the hardships of the German invasion and occupation of their hometown twice during World War I and the abuses the members of her family and community had to undergo, she said my mom and her brothers had to find opportunities in this new land.

My grandmother said she had heard that the streets of America were lined with gold. Having been in the United States for more than five years, my grandfather assured her that they were not.

During their confinement aboard ship, conditions became problematic, and a number of passengers contracted communicable diseases.

When the strike ended and the ship was permitted to leave, another set of fears set in. It was a rocky crossing, and many passengers became ill, affected by the tossing turbulence of the Atlantic waves.

My mother recalled the first time she saw the Statue of Liberty in New York harbor as the ship made its way to the debarkation point at Ellis Island. She always referred to the Statue of Liberty as “questa femina” — this woman — and cried as it loomed before her.

Yes, she was excited to be coming to a new land so she and her family could pursue their dreams, but she was also sad that she was leaving her homeland, her hometown, her relatives and her friends.

Chi lascia la via vecchia per la nuova, sa quel che lascia, ma non sa quel che trova. (Whoever leaves the old for the new knows what she is leaving but doesn’t know what she might find.)

Hearing my mother speak so passionately about having seen the Statue of Liberty for the first time reminded me of the poignant words of Emma Lazarus’ poem, “The New Colossus,” which is graven into the statue’s pedestal:

“Give me your tired, your poor; your huddled masses yearning to breathe free; the wretched refuse of your teeming shore; send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me; I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

Reaching Ellis Island

The debarkation at Ellis Island was a madhouse. My mother’s father had gone to New York to meet the ship, but authorities would not let him see his family until they had completed a period of quarantine because of the diseases that many of the passengers had contracted. Although my mother and her family were not ill, they had to undergo isolation along with everyone else.

After three days, my mother and her family had their tearful reunion with her father. Then, it was on to Bethlehem and a new life. Her father would not allow my mother to attend school. She was a girl, he said. She would only get married and raise a family, so why would she need an education?

This was ironic, because my mother, with just an eighth-grade education, had a burning passion for learning, a legacy she instilled in me. She was determined to give her three sons the educational opportunities she so desperately wanted for herself but couldn’t have because she was forced to follow her father’s directive.

My oldest brother, Jack, a 1943 graduate of Summit Hill High School, and I, a 1957 graduate of Summit Hill High, both earned master’s degrees — my brother’s was in mining engineering; mine is in political science. My older brother, Charlie, also known as “Bombo,” a 1948 graduate, who still lives in Summit Hill, enrolled at Temple University on a football scholarship but found it was not for him. But he had the opportunity to pursue a college degree if he chose to do so.

Rolling cigar leaves

One month after arriving in the United States, Frieda Zolli became the newest employee of the Bayuk Cigar Co. in Bethlehem. On the first day of work, the boss took her by the hand to the front of the shop and introduced her to the other employees.

“This is Frieda,” the boss told them. “She just came to America on the boat.” My mother was mortified. She said the other female employees eyed her from the top of her head to the tips of her shoes. She said she wished the floor would have opened and swallowed her. She spoke no English; the boss spoke no Italian, so they communicated largely by hand gestures and through employees who knew a little English and a lot of Italian.

Soon, this 15-year-old immigrant girl was rolling cigar leaves six days a week. When she went home at night, she helped with supper and took care of her younger brothers. A short time later, her mother became gravely ill, and she also helped with her care.

Against the odds

About a year later, she and this dashing older man, 28-year-old Phillip Frassinelli, met, and after a courtship that was strictly chaperoned, they were married in 1922. Two years before the wedding, my father rented a grocery store in Summit Hill. He put what little savings he had into buying goods for the store. When he was finished, he was broke.

So with no money, my parents left the security of their loving families and headed for this small coal-mining community to make a life together. Against incredible odds, they not only succeeded, but prospered. They built a superb reputation for quality meats, cleanliness, and, above all, care for the customer.

No matter what time of the day or night, customers would never be turned away. Our home was adjacent to the grocery store, so it was commonplace on Sunday afternoon, the only half-day the store was closed during the week, while we were sitting down to a dinner of my mother’s fantastic chicken and polenta, there would be a knock on the door. Someone needed a quart of milk or a loaf of bread for unexpected company.

My parents would never say “no.” My brothers and I were much less tolerant of these interruptions, and we encouraged our parents not to answer the door or to scold the unthinking intruder. But this attitude always brought a sharp rebuke from my parents, because they felt the customer was always right.

My dad died in 1971 at the age of 79 and my mom in 1997 at the age of 92. When I recall my parents’ achievements, I am filled with awe and admiration. What they did was nothing short of spectacular. They came to a strange land with virtually no money and few belongings; they had no federal assistance, no low-interest loans to start their business, no tax incentives.

They expected no favors and received none. Whatever they earned or accomplished, they did the good, old-fashioned American way: They worked hard for it.