My grandfather, whom I am named after, came over from Italy around 1909. He only had a third grade education, but at age sixteen in 1909 he was a man. He traveled from Italy on a steamer ship and arrived in Ellis Island. His name was chopped in half. A common practice among immigration workers of the time. They gave him a choice. They cut Montolioni in half. You can be Monto, or lioni. At age sixteen John Monto was a man living in America. Soon to be a man working in the coal mines of West Virginia. By the time I got to know Pop, as he was known among family and friends alike, he had already retired. He was an old man nursing asthma and black lung. But I had heard the stories from people far and wide who knew Pop, and it just so happened that Pop was a fellow that a great many things of interest happened too. You’ll have to be the judge. I have tried to tell fictional stories all of my life but I’ve never thought of the kind of stuff that happened to Pop.
Pop walked the streets of Montesorino Italy like a stranger even though he had grown up there. Three short years away and he felt like he no longer fit in. He longed to back in his home in the United States. But he had a few days until his ship was scheduled to sail, so he was trying to make the best of it.
He headed to the tiny bakery that he loved as a boy. There he would have coffee and bread for breakfast. Just like old times. It was still early and few people were out. The air had an early autumn chill. Pop walked with his hands in his pockets and his collar turn up for warmth. It was hard for him to take seeing his old hometown for the first time after living in America. Only after seeing the many advances that people take for granted in America, while here, many people in the town don’t even have indoor plumbing. He felt like he had gone back in time, and in a sense, he had.
The bakery sat all alone on a tiny corner lot. The same family had run the bakery all of his life. He bought his bread and coffee and went to the town square to sit in the sun. “Hey, Giovanni.” Came a voice. Pop looked around to see who was calling out. Too men standing in a small alley between two homes were looking a Pop.
“Hey Giovonni.” Called one of the men again. Then one of the men waved pop over. He looked at the men but could not recognize either of them. He stood and walked over to them to see what they wanted. “Hey Giovanni.” He said again as pop approached. “Do I know you?” “I don’t think so.” Came the reply. “Then how do you know my name?”
“It’s Italy. Everybody’s name is Giovanni. “You trying to be funny?”
“Am I trying to be funny? “ Pop glared at him. “What is it you want?”
The fellow pulled revolver out of his pocket and pointed it at pop.
“I want your money, Giovanni.” Pop froze. “Go thru his pockets.” The gunman said to his partner. He approached pop and gently started to reach into pop’s pants pocket. What happened next took place in an instant. While the man attempted to lift pop’s wallet, Pop struck out and drove a fist into the man’s throat. The man with the gun fired instantly at pop. The bullet hit pop in the center of his breast bone about six inches below his Adams apple. The gunman could only fire one shot before pop had snatched the gun from his hand and tossed it away in one motion. I asked pop why he didn’t shoot the guy while he had the gun. He just shrugged his shoulders. It was then that he saw the blood spouting from his chest and he knew he had been shot, he thought, mortally. Remember, that all of this is happening in an instant. From the moment that Pop struck the first robber in the throat and the second robber shot him, and pop snatched the gun and tossed it away, no more that a few seconds had passed. Pop was still in the momentum of the moment when he realized he had been shot, and his survival instinct took over. Once he had made the decision to resist, the battle was on, an Pop was programmed to fight to the finish. Most people upon being shot in the chest at close range would simply fall down and die. Seeing one’s own blood pouring from one’s own chest must be a powerful sight. I could see myself falling to the ground and shouting, “I’ve been shot. Somebody help me.” This is where the story gets unbelievable. Pop didn’t fall to the ground. The fight program was more powerful than the panic program. Pop knocked the gunman to the ground, picked up a rock, and beat the man about the head until the town’s people pulled him off.
Town’s people carried him into a nearby home. A doctor was sent for. The doctor looked at the wound. He packed it with gauze. The bullet had passed clean thru and come out his back. “I don’t know said the doctor. I think you’re not going to make it.” “How about the other guy doc? How’s he doing?”
“He’s in pretty bad shape. I don’t know if he’ll live either.” Pop lay in bed after the doctor had left and came to the conclusion that if he were going to die, he was going to make sure the other guy was gone first. He quietly left the bed and stepped outside. In the shed, pop found and ax. He entered the home where the other man had been taken to find the man had already passed.
Pop had to be carried back to bed and took many weeks to recover. But he did recover. I would bring friends home from school when I was a kid. “Tell them the story Pop.” Pop would tell the story. It was too fantastic even for them. How could anyone survive such a wound and still fight? Then Pop would unbutton his shirt. There was a round white scar in Pop’s breast-plate, just six inches below the Adam’s apple. Pop would grab one of the boys by the hand and make him touch the scar. There was no bone left behind the scar. Pop would push the finger into the scar and there would be no resistance. The boy would yank his hand back in disgust. With this story, all of Pop’s stories gained great credibility. My friends and I would listen time and again as Pop told stories more fantastic than the last. Even though I had heard them I listened again and again and watched the faces of my friends as they head the stories for the first time.