2 - War Path

Date  3-17-43

Location Calabria Italy

My Uncle Tiudu on a path to war.

When a fifteen year old Tiudo presented himself at the home of his grandparents, in Naples, he was dirty, hungry and bloodied. He waited on the doorstep for hours before his grandmother  returned home.

She saw that he was fed, cleaned and bandaged before her husband returned. He noticed for the first time how old and fragile she was. In her presence, he broke down and cried for the first time since his father died. Her home smelled so much like his old home, the same roses on the credenza, the same drapes in the dining room. Everything he had felt in the last year returned to pain him with a vengeance. His father’s death, his sister’s death, the loss of their house.

“This is not how I am.” He told her, ashamed of his tears, of his condition.

“Yes, dear. It’s all right.”

“I came to say goodbye.”

“Oh? ”

" I’m joining the military.” He knew that she would not remember their ages; she always mixed his birthday with Lina’s. But he also knew that she would be the only one he could talk to now. His sisters were burdened already with their own problems.

“You could wait another year. No?” She tried to find out what else this boy could do.

“Nonna, there is no need to wait.” He wanted to be talked out; but he also wanted to be done with waiting, done with being bossed around.

“Well, I suppose. It would so please your nonno if you remained a while with us. Seeing you children does us good. We are so sorry about your father, your sister! My goodness, I can still see her here with us. If only she waited….” And she too began sobbing, shedding tears she had already shed when she let Graziella return home.

At dinner time, Doctor Fabrizi asked him straight out: “So, young man, Don Teodoro Rapolla, how do you plan on making your fortune at your age?” The boy was shocked to hear his full name. Sometimes, his father had used the name to emphasize some precept or other, usually when the youth needed punishment.

“I’m a pretty good artist, actually.” He responded, straightening up, aware he was wearing his grandfather’s shirt and coat. He had nothing. Not even a change of clothing.

“You think anyone will part with their few lire for a portrait? There are strikes, famines and pick-pockets everywhere. Everyone is worried about having enough to eat. The government is taking-over industries. Don’t you get any news in that town of yours? If you don’t return back home, you’ll be shanghaied. I’ve seen it happen right down on the waterfront.” Doctor Fabrizi was not sure what would convince the boy to settle down. He needed a dose of good fortune, he thought.

“Papa was a soldier,” the boy responded, “this was his dream for me too!”

“This is a different Italy, not the King your father served. We can purchase your passage to America, if you don’t want to go back home. Don’t you have an uncle and aunt there?”

“We have not heard from them.”

“You need to plan ahead a little bit. How did you just show up here without a plan? We can house you while you go to school?”

Tiudo made no plans that night. He ate, slept soundly, and the next day he joined the army. They asked him how old he was; he told them he was eighteen.

Three years later, the grandparents received a letter from India. Tiudo had been captured in Africa, three months in his service, by the British, and taken as a war prisoner.

“It is hot here, hotter than anything I ever experienced,” he wrote. “I’m treated well, with plenty of food, and opportunities to paint. I’m learning to speak English and plan on going to America when all this is over. Tell my sisters I’m doing fine.”

Chapter Four: The return of Uncle Ted

Leaving Home

Back in Italy, with my family.

Education stopped at fifth grade or sooner if your folks needed you to help at home or in the fields. Boys followed in their fathers’ footsteps, or encouraged to be apprenticed, working many years for free, before they became competent enough and resourceful enough to open their own shops. My brother had finished the eight grade at the local seminary before he apprenticed to a local tailor.

Girls  expected to be mothers and wives, learned to sew, cook, take care of household chores. Very few of them were encouraged to continue their schooling past the fifth grade.

When Tonino  was fifteen, he knew of a friend who had  moved to Torino, in the North. The friend encouraged him to move there where he could get paid for his work, and learn all about the trade. He left after he turned fifteen.

By August, when cities emptied out for the summer holiday, he returned home with a wallet full of savings, a new suit he made for himself modeled after the latest fashion, and enough swagger and pride to attract a bevy of young girls.

A migration like this, from March to August, five, six months in one place, five, six months back at home looking for another job, created tension. When will he return? Is this time a permanent position?  When he left the first time, I had just started elementary school. He continued this migration for years.  After I finished elementary school, he sent money for me to go to secondary school out of town.

Most folks worked as their parents did; few left town with a flimsy suitcase  to look for any opportunity to improve their lot; and even fewer, those with American connections and assistance hoped to emigrate soon and leave their lot behind.

Our family was a combination of the last two. My mother’s sister and brother had emigrated to America in 1947, before I even started school. They sent us package after package of clothing and canned food, with the promise that they would soon send for the rest of us.

By the time To`ni left for Torino, our hope for going to America had dried up.

The year was 1955, and rock and roll was replacing jazz on the radio. I was a teen, dancing and singing  as Elvis and The Platters were played  on the radio. Television and telephones were appearing in more and more homes. Italy was showing signs of modernization as America subsidized post-war reconstruction. I had continued my studies with a private tutor, a friend of the family. As soon as I turned sixteen, I would be joining my brother in Torino.

Piazza Orazio Flacco outfitted with outdoor speakers staged events where politicians sold promises of a brighter future with each oration. There was another election coming up, and everywhere brochures and signs popped up to inform every corner of the land. Pa`pa insisted the radio be turned to news every night.  He was no longer repairing cane seats, or making barrels during winter months. Listening to the radio, the only light in the house emitted by the station dial,  had become his main addiction. 

While people were resigned to their lot in life and “Porca Miseria” was the national curse, the War had changed things; ancestral lands had been divided and distributed to become smaller farms for those young enough and brave enough to start something new.

There was a smell of new possibilities all over the land.

I took lessons at Professor Fioretti’s and took exams at the end of the year in Melfi. This way, I had covered three additional grades, and soon, when it was time to go to the Liceo, I could go live with To`ni in Torino.

 I spent hours among stacks of glossy magazines and newspapers, at the Fioretti's between lessons and babysitting, reading about the famous and the infamous, the crimes and the accomplishments of ordinary and extraordinary people. I knew one day I would be living in that bigger world.

I wondered about the exciting lives portrayed in the magazines, about people living in Paris, London or New York. Some were movie stars, with radiant skin and sparkling personalities. Others were world leaders, calling the world’s attention to the plight of the poor and the forgotten. Many stories were about entertainment personalities in Hollywood.

My Uncle Ted, Zio Tiu`do, was living in a Hollywood mansion. The few pictures and letters we had received from him showed  a life similar to the stories in magazines.

On a warm summer evening, when I was thirteen,  Zio returned to Venosa after eight years of absence.

When the taxi stopped in front of our house, and a man stood there looking like Clark Gable surrounded by five suitcases, children and adults had been running after that taxi for miles. Now, they all stood there to see who this person was.  Mother rushed out of the house to see what the commotion was all about.  She was preparing home-made pasta, and stood at the front door trying to clean her sticky hands on the apron not fully understanding who or what was happening.

She looked at the crowd and at her handsome brother in the middle of them all. She took it all in, and then tears began washing her face before she jumped through the crowd and hugged her brother.  He had the biggest smile I ever saw.

The crowd stood at the door for a long time. Pa‘pa came in from a long day at the farm, and he too stood  and watched incredulously for a time.  He finally dropped his tools and baskets down, and walked toward Mother.  I kept a strong grip on my little brother, though I would have preferred to rush out and meet my uncle.

It was Monday. For dinner, we'd be eating pasta and fagioli, with lots of olive oil seasoned with garlic and fiery chili peppers. Each day had its own seasonal menu. Meat was a luxury, appearing once or twice a week. Putting the pasta together wasn't difficult, and I could do it. But, the baby needed watching constantly.

That morning we had made bread, and at noon, it was returned freshly baked in the communal ovens. Seven loaves for seven days.  That fresh bread smell made people linger longer. If everybody walked in with Zio, all our bread would be passed around with cheese and salami and bottles of wine.  By the end of the visit all seven loaves would be gone.

I finally walked out and soon Luigi jumped in Pa`pa's arm, cooing and happy.  Crowds and confusion usually caused him to holler and cry in despair.  Not this time. Everyone kept passing the child around until he was in Zio's arms. Luigi was happy and excited. I returned inside and tore a piece of fresh bread, smashed a ripe tomato over it and took a bite, my eyes on the action going on outside.  It was then that my uncle saw me and walked in leaving everyone outside.

“Mannaggia!”  I could hear Pa`pa swearing under his breath. He didn't like waiting for  dinner after a long day of work in the hot sun. Baby was beginning to wail.

Zio talked non-stop about this and that. Mother gestured for people to come in the house and placed loaves of bread on the table and a bottle of wine. I was sent down to the cellar for salami and cheese to add to the table.

Wine was passed around and people visited for hours.

“Can you believe this?” Pa‘pa kept saying, to no one in particular, looking incredulously  at his brother-in-law, bouncing the baby, tickling him, giving him a thumb to suck on.

Later, much later, we sat down to eat the pasta meal mother had been preparing.

Chapter Five: Coming to America

Every letter from America from Zia Adelina was read time and time again, examining each word and its position, guessing all its possibilities. Words had magic qualities, flying across time and space, in envelopes as ethereal a  butterfly wings, fueling hope and imagination, helping us endure all kinds of discomforts. We waited for the words that would turn our luck around.

We took an  official picture anticipating the trip to America. On the left is my brother Antonio, To`ni, Mother Addolorata, Dolo`ra, Father Domenico, Mingu, and me, Rosaria, nicknamed Ninetta. I was five or six, always wearing a big bow,  hopefully shy. That big bow became my signature at school.

Uncle Jo, Giuseppe Rapolla, had always intended to send for the entire family. In the end, only Teodoro and Adelina were able to obtain visas.

Eight years after the two of them went to America, a few months after the death of Uncle Jo, Zio arrived on a warm summer afternoon. Cicadas deafened Mother's squeals, as she kept scrubbingt her hands on her apron, hands that were stiff and gooey from making fresh pasta. She hugged her brother and kept rubbing her hands as she watched him for a good half hour greeting onlookers, neighbors who dropped in to see the confusion building around our front door.

She knew in that moment that our lives had just changed. Within days, household routines had to be modified. We no longer baked on Mondays and did laundry on Tuesdays. Our bread began to be purchased at the grocery store;  the laundry was shipped to a neighbor’s;  and the menu  changed to please this important visitor.

Every afternoon, after the siesta, Mother frequented the pasticceria. Zio's wishes were to impress his guests with store-bought delicacies that would be appreciated and remembered. Wearing gray gabardine pants and silk shirts, he received visitors after his afternoon siesta. Mother attended to his needs in one part of the house, while I kept busy with the baby and household chores. I kept looking for excuses to drop in on these visits.

Zio greeted each visitor with something from one of his suitcases, cigarettes for men, chocolates for ladies, and chewing gum for young children.  “Say hello to your wonderful parents. Tell them I shall dry to visit at length one of these days.” His tanned skin, white straight teeth, filtered cigarettes, chewing gum, and an easy way with everyone, exuded wealth and position.

One afternoon, Mother dropped a hint that this manner of entertaining was expensive.

“Don’t worry.” He stated, reminding her that she was going to receive her inheritance as soon as the lawyers had settled Uncle Jo's estate.  Mother was diffident of things being promised and not delivered. Then, he'd compliment her food, adding,“You are lucky to have these good tasting meals. In America the bread tastes like sponge.”

“But, Tiu‘do,” Mother started out begging for his attention, and when he didn't get the hint she exclaimed, “the merchants expect us to settle the accounts. Everyone knows you are in town, talking about how rich you are.”

Uncle dismissed her worries with a big hug. He took his daily passegiata day after day,stopped at the same stores that Mother had established credit, and assured them that his inheritance was being settled shortly.

Pa`pa was busy with the vineyards and Mother didn't know how to explain the situation her brother was causing, nor did she want to believe the worst of the situation. She fixed him lunch before Father left at dawn and didn't think about him or dinner until he returned home after the sun had set. At times, with all the entertainment in the afternoons  supper was late and not things Father would anticipate. Instead of complaining or getting angry, he retired to a corner  to listen to the radio, and play with the baby who was now beginning to walk and talk.   

“Everything will work out.” Mother would say out loud, hoping Zio’s visit and the burden it was causing would be resolved soon with a big chunk of cash.

A month later into this situation, she decided to address Uncle directly.

“Tiudo', I don’t want people to talk behind our back. I am running out of excuses. Our good name will be ruined if we are not able to meet our expenses.”

“Woman!” Zio pounded the table angrily, “what are you worried about? You would think after all these years you’d be happy to see me. Can’t you see that your luck has changed? What do you need? You need money? Here, take this ten dollar bill. Is that going to please you?”

“For one thing, ten dollars can barely cover the bills at the pasticceria. What is your plan? How long is this entertaining going to go on? It’s impossible to get my family fed and my house cleaned with all the people coming and going. Besides, Mingu needs my help in the vineyards."

“The money will arrive shortly." Zio explained his situation without giving too many details. Right after the death of Great Uncle Jo, Zio packed his suitcases and decided to return to Italy to live in comfort with the proceeds of his inheritance.  He had figured that now he could do just what he had hoped all along. He wanted to paint, at his leisure, without worrying about managing the properties of his uncle.  For the last eight years, he had been sent here and there, taking care of Uncle Jo's businesses, and had no time to enjoy his life, to just paint when he wanted to.

With his income, he was going to live like a king in his home town.

"What about us?" Mother asked.

"You're getting a thousand dollars." He said, "more cash than you have ever seen in a life time."

"Tiu`do, you are forgetting that things have changed here. Yes, this is good money, when it comes. But I need to pay for groceries today."

One afternoon, just before his daily passeggiata, Uncle saw Mother in tears, and when he asked her what was the matter, she lost all composure: “The two of you forgot us. We have debts we can't pay back,  and you, you just so you walk about town acting rich. Mingu is not going to like it when he finds out you have no money either".

She ran out slamming the door, looking taller and lighter than I ever saw her.  Zio turned toward me, smiled, and told me he was having coffee with Signor Fioretti, and I was welcome to join him. I told him that I had chores to do.

The Fioretti family had known me for years. He had been my tutor for the last couple of years, paid only by a couple of wine bottles from our cellar.  I babysat their children, and had joined the family on extended outings. Their house was my window to the bigger world. I was always encouraged to take home books and other reading material.

Pa‘pa grew Muscatel, Malvasia and Aglianico del Vulture grapes, knowing what to blend and how much of each grape variety to use for sweetness and acidity. Tasting and smelling the crushed grapes, he had perfected the timing of fermentation to achieve the perfect blend. His reds were full bodied, his whites, gentle and crisp with touches of apples, cherry and apricots. He timed the harvest to maximize the sugar content, and achieve a liquid with voluptuous hints of fruit and herbs. Our basement contained vats of crushed grapes, barrels for fermentation, and jugs for bottling. This aroma permeated the entire house starting in late October.  We could tell if Malvasia or Aglianica grapes were beginning to arrive at the moment of fermentation. All houses had smelled of the work done there, and the food that people prepared.

A couple of days later, Mother was at the grocery store when she ran into Pina Fioretti, my teacher’s wife, who related a conversation her husband had with Zio.

“Dolo‘ra, you are lucky. Your brother is wealthy. Rochetto, (her husband) talked to him about Ninetta. You know that he wants to take her to America, to finish her studies.”

Mother, confused about a situation her brother had not broached with her,  related the conversation to my father.

“Imagine, Mingu. My brother has offered to help. Imagine!”

“Did he say that to you? Who did he talk to about this? He didn’t talk to me? Why did he not talk to me? Why has he not sponsored us all these years? “

“Mingu, it came up in a conversation with Signor Fioretti.”

“Yeah? Another one of his stories.Let’s face it, your brother shows up and he goes on promising.”

“All I know is what Pina overheard. I am sure Teu`do means well.”

I overheard the conversation and somehow I knew everything would work out o.k.

Chapter Six: Leaving Home

On a cold and wet February in 1959, I boarded an almost empty TWA jet in Rome, headed for Los Angeles. A sad song played on the public address system. Ciao, Ciao, Bambina, the song said, don’t cry, wipe your tears. Everything I had dreamed about was waiting for me. I was seventeen.

I had kissed my mother, father and little brother Luigi back in Venosa, and now I was saying goodbye to Toni' who had accompanied me everywhere for the last three years, in an out of the American Consulate in Naples for this document or that. He never complained about how his life was invaded by my needs. He kept my dream alive with every visit, and every rejection from the Consulate.

I told him, I am never returning to this country.

You don’t mean it, he replied with a smile.

In heavy coats and sturdy shoes, we had traveled from Venosa to Roma by train. Snow and sleet made travel treacherous.

Winters were always harsh. I had worried about that, how difficult it would be for me if I couldn’t catch the train. Our neighbors had come over and helped shovel our way out of the house all the way to the main street where a bus took us to the station.

Mother had not wanted to tell any one about the trip, worried about people’s envy. She had given me a special amulet to wear, to guard against the malocchio. I took the necklace and the amulet off and handed it to To`ny before I boarded the plane:

"Thanks for all you have done for me." I said, hugging Toni' and taking the small suitcase in my hand as I walked up the plank. I looked back to see tears in his eyes.

I regretted nothing.I was going to a place without weather, without runny noses, winter chills and treacherous roads. My life was waiting for me in sunny California, and winter and poverty were now just in the past.

Though we stocked our cellar with everything we needed to last us until the next harvest, enough wood for heating and cooking, flour, olive oil, wine, canned goods, cured meats, cheeses, dried fruit and nuts, and a variety of legumes, all this made us richer than our neighbors, and we were grateful. Now, with my change in fortune, we would be the most envied people in the entire town.

I don't remember what I ate on the plane that entire day. I kept thinking that Mother's usual pot of beans, slowly cooking in a terracotta pot in the fireplace,  dressed with dried tomatoes sautéed in olive oil with plenty of garlic and peperoncini, the food that sustained us most days was not going to be missed by me!

I will not miss the smell of pasta  e fasul,  I thought.

I will not miss the cold, either.

In February, and all through winter, our schools, big stone edifices were cold tombs. Children took a box of live coals with them, a heavy lunchbox, which was positioned under the desk, allowing us to pay attention, and write beautiful cursive dictations in our notebooks. Other places must have modernized their old buildings, for sure. But I was going to a sunny place the entire year!

People’s legs in the winter developed long red marks in the front, from standing so close to the fire. in front of the fireplace at home, close enough to warm the parts exposed, while our backs were still freezing. We wore layers of sweaters, and placed our coats on our beds to keep us warm at night,

Schools must be different, I thought.

No more standing in the front of the room to recite lessons. And on Fridays, in our gym, an open area ten times the size of the classroom, we ran around until we could no longer stand up, at which point the teacher guided us through stretch exercises and tumbling maneuvers, all of us stripped down to gym shorts and t-shirts regardless of the weather.

No more soaked and muddy shoes after each day traipsing to and from school.  If we caught a cold, it would soon turn to pneumonia, keeping us in bed for days, drinking hot wine sweetened with honey to combat raspy cough and sinus troubles. Children and old people died after a winter cold spell.

In Los Angeles the temperature was 75 degrees when we plane finally landed.