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Those Two Brave Kids

Third Sunday installment of THE GHOSTS OF ITALY (2016) • GHOSTS & SAINTS, Italian Adventures of Magical Spirit

Along the route I recalled stories from friends years ago, on vacations or honeymoons in Italy, cantering through small towns and villages looking for proof of their provenance. 

Some got as far as locating a name on a doorbell, then went no further.

"Didn't you ring the bell?" I would ask.

"No..." would come the answer.

Sometimes the end of a journey remains forever hidden, the search for a connection infinitely subtle. To be so close and not follow through seemed incredible to me. Although I had to admit, I had been to Italy twice already without making any effort to find the place of my family origins and I wondered now if I would do the same.

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As deep green and brown forest hues gave way to distant white outcrops dotted with stone hamlets and villages, I felt the pull of my grandparents' past.

Those two brave kids. Leaving a deep landlocked village on a hillside precipice warm with Italian life. The handsome Nicola pulling behind him what can only be surmised as his pliant, supplicant new wife, Angela Maria, who perhaps had waited years for the moment of his decision, his assurance that he could pull it off in the new country. Or was it her they waited for? Her corredo, her dowry? At age twenty-five when they married she had had ample time to be sure. So no, they were not waiting for her home and hearth goods to be secured. And what could they bring aboard ship but a satchel or perhaps a small trunk? No, it had to be Nicola. Age thirty, sure of his ability to provide. Maybe he had asked his mother to find him a suitable girl once he was ready for marriage.

Nicola's first journey to America was before age seventeen to join his three elder brothers. Sailing alone from Naples on the three-masted schooner the Prinzess Irene, he landed in New York Harbor on July 4, 1907. He then traveled back and forth, brought or sent back money for the remaining family. With that money they bought land and built their village homestead. They remained in the village for a while. Their rock-solid father—in the one photo, my great-grandfather's countenance was much like my grandfather's, that of a field marshal in full command of his brood. All boys. My great-grandmother was a renowned beauty.

With a full head of lustrous black curls and dark eyes, dressed traditionally beside the hearth in an impeccably embroidered black wool skirt, vest, and white blouse. I am certain she maintained full disclosure for her family.

What they imagined would come could not have been foretold. How we have now all grown up could not have been dreamed. But they did embark, the four boys together leaving their beloved parents and their countryside behind.

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I put my hand to my heart. Was it fear or love? This powerful pull there in my breast. It was almost as if someone knew I was coming, and they were drawing me in.

Morning sun shone through mountain mist as the driver pulled up to the center of town. Pensionati in dark suit jackets and 1940s fedoras stood tethered in twos and threes under a wide stone portico. A fruit-and-vegetable store owner, a fruttivendolo, in his cap and apron, swept the clean sidewalk out front. He glanced at the Pullman arriving in the piazza, then went back to his work. It was 8 a.m.

The driver glanced in his rear-view mirror. Most everyone else had left the bus.

"Signora..."

Louder.

"SIGNORA..., this is your stop."

Startled at the sound of his command, I leapt up and all but ran down the aisle of the bus, then felt my knees give way as I stepped down to the curb. My heart lightly pounded, alternating between its rightful place in my chest and as a lump in my throat. I hesitated there for a moment, wondering about the day before me, when a voice called out in my head,

"Well, you made it. You're in this town called Calitri. The birthplace of your paternal grandparents."  Pause. "Now what?"

My family and the one photo of my grandparents felt very far away. Until this moment—traveling around the tourist mecca of Rome and then the azure beauty of the Amalfi Coast—I hadn't allowed myself thoughts of longing for them. Now I wished for them to be near. The bus driver slammed the door behind me and roared off. And with that I felt really on my own. Scanning the street filled with elderly men, I quickly adopted an air of urbane purpose and, with all those male eyes on me, casually made off down the street.

On my right was the fruit and vegetable store. On my left and up the street a bar-pasticceria not quite open for business. Caffé e dolce was just what I needed to allow me time to collect myself. Here I had the whole day in front of me with absolutely no plan. This would be perfect, if only I were in Florence or Siena or back in Rome. But I was high on some mountain ridge in deep-country Campania. There wasn't a palazzo or museo around for a hundred miles. At that moment, I knew I was struggling with the combined fear of the unknown discoveries before me and the possibility of wandering aimlessly in a town where everyone could see I didn't belong.

I wandered into the center of the street, glancing back at the square I had arrived in. I was torn whether to follow that road up towards what looked like the barren old city or down another toward some shops and general village activity. It didn't matter which direction I headed, really, as I was suddenly at a complete loss where to begin this journey into my past.

Follow along as I serialize the opening adventures of THE GHOSTS OF ITALY (2016) and complete MS three of the trilogy • GHOSTS & SAINTS, Italian Adventures of Magical Spirit

Angela Paolantonio's memoir The Ghosts of Italy and the sequel Still Life With Saints are available on Amazon, Bookshop.org, and IndieBound. See book descriptions and links on her website, and visit her blog and PW BookLife page for reviews and updates.