For over a century, the story of a man who left for America and died—so the story goes—“from a toothache” has been passed down in my family.
No one knew where he had been buried. No one knew what had really happened to him.
This is the story of how Italian and American documents, when read together, gave that man a face and a story.
Here is his story, reconstructed step by step.
Pasquale Cianciulli was born in Montella, in the province of Avellino, on April 9, 1876, the son of Giuseppe Cianciulli, a farmer, and Eustachia Teresa Di Genua, a farmer, both of whom were in their early twenties. He was the third of seven children: Donato Antonio (1871), Ferdinando Ciro (1874), Pasquale (1876), Salvatore (1879), Antonio (1882), Michele (1883), and Antonia (1886).
On March 3, 1899, at the age of twenty-two, he married Giovanna Mariantonia Marano, who was twenty-one and also from Montella. They both lived in the hamlet of Sorbo.
That same year, their firstborn son, Salvatore Giuseppe, was born.
In the spring of 1901, Pasquale left Naples aboard the steamship Lombardia to join his older brother Donato Antonio, who had already emigrated to the United States.
On June 18, 1901, while Pasquale was traveling, his second daughter, Eustacchia Giuseppa, was born. The birth certificate was registered on June 22 by the midwife, since the father had already left.
Five days later, on June 27, 1901, Pasquale arrived at Ellis Island. He was twenty-five years old, married, and listed Montella as his last place of residence.
He'll never come back. And he'll never get to know his daughter.
The signature on the marriage certificate and the one on the passenger manifest also show that Pasquale could read and write—something that was by no means a given for a young farmhand from Upper Irpinia in the early 20th century.
Rochester, March 24, 1902
Pasquale died on March 24, 1902, in Rochester, New York.
He's only twenty-five years old.
The cause of death was septicemia resulting from an injury to the lower jaw. In the years before the discovery of antibiotics, an infection that today would be cured in a few days could have been a death sentence.
It is precisely that jaw injury that, after more than a century of family stories, would have survived in the collective memory as a simple “toothache.”
Image set number: 104132595
A man with three last names
In the 1902 New York State death index, his last name appears as Cianguillo.
On the official death certificate, however, it becomes Ciangiullo.
In the Italian court records, she is, of course, listed as Cianciulli.
Three different spellings for the same person.
The certificate held by the Monroe County Office of Vital Records paints a portrait of a man whom almost no one in Rochester knew anything about.
The occupation is listed as unknown.
His place of residence is unknown.
The parents' names are unknown.
Even his marital status is listed as “single,” not because he wasn’t married, but because whoever provided the information—most likely the hospital—simply didn’t know.
The only certain fact is the cause of death: septicemia resulting from an injury to the lower jaw, as certified by Dr. L. L. Riggin.
The Rosenbach Funeral Home arranged the burial at Holy Sepulchre Cemetery in Rochester.
For those engaged in genealogical research, this is a perfect example of how important it is to cross-reference multiple sources.
If we had read only the American certificate, we would have learned of a man who appeared to be unmarried, with no parents and no known origins.
Only by cross-referencing Italian and American documents, incorrect indexes, and official transcripts can the real person behind the document be identified.
A death the Italian government was unaware of
Yet its history does not end in 1902.
As far as the Italian government is concerned, Pasquale is still alive.
His military record—serial number 2418, class of 1876, Avellino Military District—continues to list him simply as “on indefinite leave.”
When Italy entered the war in 1915 and called its working class to arms, no one knew that Pasquale had been dead for thirteen years.
On December 5, 1916, he was declared a deserter.
On December 31, he was charged before the Military Court of Naples.
On paper, he remained a wanted man for nearly ten years.
It was not until June 5, 1926—twenty-four years after his death—that the Military Court declared the criminal proceedings terminated due to an amnesty.
Only then—even in the eyes of the Italian bureaucracy—does Pasquale cease to be a fugitive.
Where Pasquale Is Buried
It all started with a story my grandmother told me many years ago, as I sat on a stone step one summer evening.
A grandfather who died “from a toothache,” and whom no one had heard from since.
Today I know that that story—simplified by the passage of time but not without truth—held a fragment of memory that was worth rediscovering.
To piece together his story, it took a last name transcribed in three different ways, a man who was listed as single even though he was married, a military unit that continued to search for him many years after his death, and dozens of documents from Italian and American archives.
None of these sources, taken on its own, would have revealed the truth.
It was only by comparing them that Pasquale became a person again—not just a name on a list.
This is the method I use in every genealogical research project: verifying, comparing, and contextualizing every document, without ever taking anything for granted.
Because every family story can hold a fragment of truth, and every document can add a piece to the story.
Every family has a story just waiting to be rediscovered.
Sometimes a name is all it takes.
A country.
An old photograph.
Or a memory passed down through generations.
If you, too, would like to piece together your family history, I’d be happy to help you get started on this journey.
Beautiful investigative work!!! Turning what was otherwise an unknown story in America—on paper—into a real, vivid Italian-American mystery that has been solved and will never be forgotten.