Читать книгу From Sicily to Connecticut - Paul Pirrotta - Страница 5

I never really knew or enjoyed my father until after we came to the States.

He had a very tough life in Sicily, probably not much different from males born in that period of time, 1916. He was able to get some education so that he could read and write, but his youth was spent working in a farm helping his father. His mother died very young and his sister really was like a mother to him and his brothers. He was called into the Italian Army in 1937, just before WWII, and spent the next nine years in the military. He served in Albania and northern Italy until 1944 until (like many other members of the Italian Army) he hid in France, where he lived and worked on a farm for a local family. My father told us a harrowing story of his days in hiding: chased and shot at by German soldiers in a cold winter, he hid in a forest without food or water for several days before he was able to come out and go back to the farm.

Much to the very happy surprise of his family, he returned to Sicily in 1946. He had been out of touch several years and they had not known if he would come back alive. Back in Sicily, he restarted his life by going back to work in a farm with his father as well as working for others. Conditions right after WWII were very tough. Work was scarce and still depended on some of the large feudal landowners.

By comparison, my mother had an uneventful life. She had lived in the same house since she was born, and she also had been able to go to school to learn to read and write. As a child she was sent to a local seamstress where she learned sewing, and as the oldest of three siblings she was of course expected to help with the cooking and all other home chores.

I never asked my parents how they met but I am sure it was an arranged marriage, in the sense that in those days a matchmaker may have been involved in contacting my maternal grandfather on behalf of my father to ask permission to date and to marry. They married in 1948. My father was nine years older than my mother. After an interrupted pregnancy in 1949, I was born in 1950.

I said that I did not really know or enjoy my father until after we came to the States, and here is why. His work schedule over the two decades we lived in Sicily was the following: get up at 4 am, ride his cycle or later motorized bike to a few miles outside town to tend to some cows he was raising for future sale, spend a day farming for a local land owner, stop back to check on his cows, and home again, usually by 8 pm, dinner and to bed. This was his schedule for twenty years, most times seven days a week except for holidays, when he may have worked only half a day. His time in America would be a lot kinder and more fulfilling: He would work “only” five days a week and 8 hours a day.

My father was tough, fearless. He never complained and he liked what he did. I recall one night (I must have been no more than 8 or 9) going with him, on foot, to the edge of town where the public lighting ended and darkness began. I don’t recall why, but he needed to go to a farmhouse, about 100 meters past the edge of town, to check on something. I refused to go into the darkness and recall waiting by the lamp post for my father to return!

Another, more eventful night, my mother asked that we bring dinner to my father who had not come home and was working land owned by his sister. My best friend owned a Vespa and he agreed to drive me to the land, ten minutes outside town. When we got there, the only light came from headlight of the Vespa so we called out his name. Suddenly the front door to the farmhouse opened and out came the barrel of a shotgun! I yelled more loudly and he finally recognized me, put the rifle down and came out so we could deliver his supper.

Of course that left my mother to take care of me and the house, which were easier jobs back then when they could count on the support of other family members and their parents. My mother was a very strict disciplinarian and I would often hide in my grandmother’s arms for easy protection. This was true at least the first couple of years of my life, because once I could outrun her, my escapes became easier. Not that I recall being a particularly “bad apple.” I was just your normal vivacious boy looking for discoveries.

Who could have guessed then that she would spend the last four years of her life living with my wife and me in Connecticut? Was this God’s retribution for my youthful escapes? Certainly I could not run away now and never did: my wife and I took good care of her until the end.

I never met my paternal grandmother, who died when my father was a young man, and don’t really remember my paternal grandfather, who died when I was two years old. But I was very lucky to spend many years with my maternal grandparents and to enjoy, especially with my Mammanina (my grandmother), a very loving and special relationship.

Now that I am the grandfather of two boys, I appreciate even more the unique bond that forms between a grandparent and grandchild. My bond with Mammanina was extra special due to the unique circumstance that our house and theirs were next door to each other and the two homes were connected from the inside by a common door, which was always open. My Nonno got me started on one particularly good habit which I enjoy more than fifty years later: wine. I recall having rare lunches with Nonno. He always had some wine, usually Zibibbo, and he let me try it. I loved wine then, I love wine now, I never learned to drink beer or really any other liquor, even after I came to the States! Of course not living on campus in the U.S. probably explains why I never liked beer, because if there is one thing you learn on campus in a college in the States, it is to drink beer!

So I grew up in an environment where my father and grandfather were not home most of the time and where my mother was, as needed, more of a disciplinarian. However, Mammanina was always forgiving, always protective no matter what, always welcoming and nearby. Living so close made our relationship stronger than it otherwise could have been. She was present at every moment as I grew up.

My grandparents were exact opposites: Mammanina could not walk very far or fast because of her varicose veins, while Nonno was used to the idea of walking 20 km just to get to his job. He walked to a small piece of land just outside town, a round trip that must have been at least a couple of miles, until his early eighties. Two stories will tell you more about Nonno than any other words I could possibly write.

One story was about my Uncle Joe, my mother’s brother. My Nonno would wake him up to take him to work as follows: u principe, i quattru e ancora rormi(the prince: 4 am and he is still sleeping)! Nonno was that way with me as well, except not as tough: when I went to school in the afternoon sessions and slept until 9 or 10 am, I would hear him argue with Mammanina that I should get up at 7 am and do my homework! He was probably right—but it worked out okay anyway.

The other story is even more telling. Mammanina lost a baby at birth and Nonno was working, about 20 km away. When he was informed of what had happened, he walked back home, only to arrive after the baby had been buried. He went straight to the cemetery, forced the attendant to exhume the body, kissed her and reburied her.

In late 1959 my grandparents emigrated to the U.S. (their son had emigrated in 1953) and lived there until 1964, when they returned home to Sicily. I still vividly remember traveling to Naples by train with my parents, the first time I left Sicily and my first stay in a hotel. We went to meet my returning grandparents and help them with their luggage. They had traveled by boat. My grandfather loved America ( his only sister lived here in the Hartford area) but Mammanina did not; she was used to my mother being next door and in the U.S., not working, she was mostly alone during the day and hated it. Her limited mobility and the tough Connecticut winters did not help. This would be an ongoing and major argument between my grandparents: Nonno Rosario came back to the U.S. one more time by himself for a short period of time before returning to Sicily for good. He never forgave Mammanina for not wanting to stay.

As fate would have it, our family was allowed—and chose—to emigrate to America in 1969. This was devastating to Mammanina. She had come back to Sicily to be with her daughter and now her daughter was going to America! Nonno Rosario made sure to remind her that if she had stayed, we would have been all together again.

The years of 1969-1970 were a very special time for me and one that allowed me to bond with my grandparents even more. After spending three weeks in September 1969 in the States with my parents to take up residency, I returned home to Sicily to finish my last year of high school and lived in my house again, next door to Mammanina and Nonno Rosario. My parents sent me money from the States; I was 19 and being “supervised” by my grandparents, which meant no supervision. I had a good time but I also paid attention to school. I graduated and in August of 1970 came to States for good.

All of our extended family reunited in Connecticut except my grandparents. In addition to my uncle, who had been in Connecticut since 1953, an aunt who had left for Venezuela in the mid 1950s also came to the States in 1971. The ultimate irony: all of her family was in the States while my Mammanina was in Sicily. The grandparents did make a couple of trips to visit, but did so only for short stays.

Nonno Rosario died in 1988. My wife, son and I had seen him in 1987 during a visit to Sicily. I made sure to stay closer to Mammanina after that, and we spoke on the phone very often. At that time, I also traveled to Sicily more often and was able to see her then. My wife and I made a special trip to Sicily in December 1993: Mammanina was turning ninety, primarily bedridden but fully aware and coherent. We arranged a small birthday celebration with several relatives and neighbors in attendance. She was happy.

One day, while Mammanina and I were alone, I pointed a camcorder at her and she started reminiscing. I am not sure if she understood she was being taped, but it was—and is—a beautiful experience.

Mammanina died a few months later. I love Mammanina.