The Godmothers

They live quietly in the exclusive suburbs of River Forest and the Hamptons. There may be a ranch house in Palm Springs or a Miami condominium as well. They can afford the best of everything, but they have almost nowhere to go, few pleasant ways to pass the time. Their husbands are often away on business, or in jail, or calling on their mistresses. The wives are isolated not only by bodyguards but also by ignorance of the details of their husbands' business activities. The men's workday deeds are not discussed at dinner.

Today most Mafia wives are native Americans, but their marriages reflect the old-country values of silence and obedience. Family bonds have weakened, but neither the generation gap nor the suburban Diaspora has dissolved them. Fathers may bankroll their sons in a legitimate business or pay their way through medical school. "But if the sons don't have the brains," says an investigator, "they are given work in the Mob. The sons don't become plumbers or factory workers. That wouldn't look right." Many of the daughters go to college, but only a few seek careers; most marry early.

The Mafia's code limits social activities. " 'Made' guys [Mafiosi] don't like their wives to mingle with the wives of other 'made' guys," says a former Mob lieutenant, "because they might reveal something about each other. The only thing wives go to is wakes, weddings and funerals."

Detroit News Reporter Shelley Eichenhorn interviewed for TIME the wives of three middle-to high-level Mafiosi. Her report:

These women live suspended in contradictions: tree-lined Grosse Pointe streets and prison cells; handmade lace and machine guns; family portraits and FBI mug shots. They disbelieve the ugly headlines about their men, and they bristle at the stereotype of themselves as provincial peasant wives who never leave the nursery or their knees.

"They're not vulgar or bold-acting," says one Grosse Pointer. "They are mother and grandmother types--and good ones. Take Mrs. Anthony Giacalone [wife of a top Mafia figure in Detroit's ruling family], she's a quiet, lovely lady. Why, she even contributed $20 to the March of Dimes."

Mafia wives rarely unburden themselves to friends, and sometimes not even to their parish priests. Says a Grosse Pointe priest: "One woman's husband is in prison. She doesn't want to be asked how he is. The subject is never introduced. Her man is away; she misses the father of her children."

When Mass is over, one top-ranking Mafia wife returns home where a plaque proclaims her MADONNA OF THE KITCHEN. A housekeeper is here today only because the wife is ill. She makes a point of saying that she cares for her own house. It is a matter of pride. "We live a quiet life. It is not our intention to be noticed," she says. "I'm happiest sometimes when they leave my name off the list of charity contributors."

Sundays, her family gathers in the living room. There are shelves of family pictures, and a wall plaque reads: GOD BLESS OUR FAMILY. Five children and three grandchildren say grace. The head chair is for their father; he is in prison.

Across the city in a gracious colonial home, another Mafia wife speaks with pride of her husband, a graduate of a prestigious university who served honorably in the Army. A recent family portrait hangs above the fireplace. Her husband is not in the picture; he is serving a five-year term.

"The worst thing I had to face was the day my husband went to prison," says the wife, a pleasant, stylish blonde. "For him, the worst day came when his kids were kicked out of a private Grosse Pointe club.

"I'm so sick of the Italian image of the uneducated housewife. The women I know give their time to charities and hospitals. They don't get in the papers. They don't do it for that. I feel for the Watergate wives. I admire them for standing by their husbands. I uphold that.

"They have taken my husband out of my home for no reason. Others are murderers, and they walk the streets."

Most of the wives are totally untouched by the violence that pervades their husbands' lives. Not Jeanne Randazzo. Her husband Frank and two other men were shot to death last summer in the basement of the Randazzos' modest home on the east side of Detroit. The gunman, a government informer named Ernie Kanakis, was acquitted on the ground of self-defense; he told a jury that the others had tried to kill him with ice picks.

"Life is nothing," says Jeanne. "Life is a vaporous smoke.

On the night Frank was killed, he said, 'Don't cook, we'll go out to dinner.' He took a shower like he always did, and we went to dinner with my son and daughter. After dinner, about 8:45 p.m., Frank said he had to see someone who was buying our '74 Cadillac. He said to wait for him at the Golden Coach Restaurant. When he didn't come back by 10 p.m., my son said, 'If I know Dad, he fell asleep in front of the TV set.'

"So we went home. I couldn't get in my own house because of the police and the neighbors. The bodies were still in the basement. I had to move in with my mother for three days while the police cleaned up."

In the Randazzo parlor, red and white checkered bows brighten dried-flower arrangements left over from Frank Randazzo's funeral. "We were married 37 years," says Mrs. Randazzo, wiping tears from behind black-rimmed glasses. "Before you know it, it's goodbye."

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