Emilia waited. She hated when her father scolded the children. His voice was loud and angry. She wasn’t used to hearing him that way except the he lined them up. Emilia waited with her hands behind her back and her eyes toward the floor. She didn’t even want to see Papà when he was angry. It scared her. That’s it, she was scared. She began to cry, quietly of course. Emilia waited for Papà to progress down the row of thirteen children marshalled in front of the large window with the thick velvet curtains. He looked each child in the eye and asked rhetorical questions (no one dared answer) and spewed directives in a stern voice. He never lost his temper but the children knew he was serious when he arranged them in order of their ages.
Emilia was almost five. She was the last of Andrea Vasallo’s seventeen children. The oldest two, Anna, eighteen years old, and Roberto, seventeen, were already out of the house. Roberto went to Genova for work and Anna married a man who inherited his father’s butcher shop.
Papà had already scolded Giuseppina, sixteen. When something went wrong in the Vasallo family, the cause could usually be traced to Giuseppina. She was the instigator. She enjoyed playing practical jokes but her prey didn’t necessarily enjoy them as much as she did. When mother heard one of the younger children cry, the first thing out of her mouth was, “Giuseppina!” The scolding was seldom incorrect.
To Giuseppina’s right stood the twins Libero and Paolo, fifteen. Unlike the other dark-haired children, they were of a lighter complexion. To their right, Marco, fourteen, neat as a pin; buttons buttoned, hair always brushed, even nails clean! To Marco’s right stood Mario, thirteen. His buttons were rarely done up correctly. His knees were almost always scabbed and dirty and his hair dishevelled. But on Sunday, no one could tell Marco and Mario apart. They looked more similar than the twins, Paolo and Libero. People constantly confused Marco with Mario.
The next two, Angelo and Luciano both died within months of their birth. Amadeo, ten, had the same disease at birth but by then, the doctors were able to save him. However, he had been very sick as a child and, as a result, hadn’t learn to walk until he was five years old. He walked with a limp and seemed distant and different from the other children.
Lorenzo, nine, was to the right of Amadeo then Atillio, eight, then Caterina, seven, Benedetto, six, and the second pair of twins, Bianco and Nero, five. Each child descending in height and age until Emilia, four, the most sensitive of all, shook in utter terror by the time Papà finished scolding Bianco and Nero.
Andrea recognised the silent, trembling little body as tears rolled down Emilia’s face. The finale to the ritual arrived. Bianco and Nero smiled sweetly at their dad. The lecture was over. He picked up Emilia, held her in his arms and dismissed the other children.
“My dear sweet Emilia, that was just too much for you.”
Andrea comforted little Emilia, lifted her up into his arms and held her to his chest. He looked out the large front window onto the grounds of Villa Scassi as he hummed a little tune into her ear. Emilia’s sobs stopped, her breathing returned to a normal rhythm. No more panic. Soon she was asleep on his shoulder. This house had seemed so big when they had moved in so many years ago. Now it was full to capacity with his children. He and Esther had brought into the world seventeen children. Two had grown and left. Two had died.
They had had things their way, Andrea and Esther. She forfeited her inheritance, the money accumulated by Signor Rolando from his enterprises and this gorgeous estate, Villa Scassi. At first, Andrea had felt sad and guilty because Esther had stepped out of the life of privilege that she had known, into the humble life of a servant. But, now, Andrea was convinced that Padre Eterno, had guided them. Somehow, He had planned for them in advance with what they could not foresee and it was precisely because Esther and Andrea lived the lives of servants that they survived the devastating turn of events that followed.
If Giovanni Rolando had had any qualms about letting Esther marry his chauffeur, Andrea Vasallo, they were somehow quelled for him prior to his untimely death.
Andrea lay on the divan with little Emilia asleep on his shoulder. He closed his eyes in restful sleep. The sleep of a contented man.
Giuseppe woke up in a boxcar at the train yard in central Genova. His stomach grumbled and he felt the pangs from days of hunger.
He poked his head out of the boxcar and looked from side to side. No one. He had been sleeping in the boxcars for three months but only due to his utmost vigilance. He had memorised the train schedule and he knew the railway workers’ routines. With even a slight mistake in timing, he would be discovered and they would chase him away. Then, truly he would have nowhere to go.
He jumped off the boxcar and walked along the tracks, inconspicuous now. People often walked along the ferrovia. He dipped his hands in a small puddle and wiped them on his coveralls. He laughed.
He wore a simple cotton shirt, coveralls, wool socks, thinning out at the heels, and a pair of leather shoes; worn out leather shoes that pinched the tips of his toes. They were well-made, but he was quickly growing out of them. Even well-made shoes wear out eventually. Giuseppe Bernascone was living in ‘eventually.’
He walked to Piazza Verdi in the town centre at the foot of the Montesano hill where a construction crew prepared for their workday erecting Brignole railway station. The original building on the site was first built in 1868 but, in 1902, the engineer Giovanni Ottino proposed a new building for the Genova International Exposition and it was soon to be completed. Giuseppe presented himself to the workers.
"Bernascone!"
“Eh! Vieni Bernascone!”
“Vieni qui!”
For running errands and carrying buckets of nails, the workers gave him coins. He put them in his pocket. Magic coins, he called them. He determined never to spend more than half of what he received in a day which kept him hungrier than he’d like but left him hope for tomorrow. And tomorrow always came. In time, those coins turned to paper money and the errand boy became an employee of the Construction Company before his fourteenth birthday. He rented a small room at the edge of Zena Vegia, owned three shirts and two pairs of pants, three pairs of socks and a pair of rugged shoes that fit him.
His life consisted solely of work. He woke up to go to work. When he ate, he ate to keep up his strength to work. When he went home, it was to rest so that he could resume work the next day. The padrone was thrilled with him for many reasons not the least of which was that Giuseppe did twice the work in half the time for half the pay of any employee. He also had an uncanny knack of avoiding conflict. He stayed on task, didn’t waste time; was the first to show up for work in the morning and the last to leave at night. The bosses were impressed with the hardworking young boy. The truth was, the hardworking boy had nothing and no one else in his young life.
“Vittoria Trucco was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen.” So began the story that his father, Emanuele Bernascone, had recounted to Giuseppe many times. "She was sixteen. I was already working as an engineer in a factory in Genova. I had everything I wanted in life. Avevo tutto except someone to share it with.
"One day, I was walking home from work and I passed, as I did every day, Tre Stelle Ristorante. There was your mother waiting on customers. She had a smile that outshone the sun. I stopped to watch her and wondered why I had never noticed her before. I watched her glide in and out of that restaurant serving the customers on the patio. Then, she noticed me. She must have thought I was pazzo watching her silently like that. She glanced back at me, deliberately this time and smiled.
“Time stopped. My heart swelled. Once I was again able to move my leaden feet, I walked to the patio and sat down. She came to my table and the rest is history.”
Emanuele Bernascone was so proud when he told and retold that story to his son. It was his way of keeping alive the memory of the boy’s mother, rather, keeping it alive for himself for the boy had no memory of his mother. She died when Giuseppe was born and because of that Emanuele treasured his son more than anything else in the world. To the great angst of his sister, Sara, who was four years old at the time of her mother’s death and in the room during the delivery when Giuseppe was born. To her, Giuseppe usurped the place her mother had held in the world. It was not a trade she would have made. She suffered the loss of both her mother and her father: a hole that grew deeper and darker with every year. And from that hole swelled an insidious resentment toward her favoured little brother they all called Nino. It grew secretly and silently before Sara was aware of it, therefore, she did not fully understand it.
‘Those days are gone,’ thought Giuseppe as he blinked to dissuade the tears. He stood now on the same corner where his father had seen his mother for the first time. There was no restaurant in sight. Now in its place was a shoe store. Memory and history wiped away, like the tear that had just escaped onto his cheek. He moved on.
He remembered his father. It wasn’t that long ago. Until Giuseppe was eight years old, they called him Nino then, his dad had raised him and his sister. His father had always been kind. That’s what he remembered now: his school chums getting into mischief. Once, Nino roamed the streets with them after school. They broke the window of one of the shops along Via Cantore. The next day, his buddies returned to school with stories of beatings. Not Nino.
His dad had talked to him softly and kindly said, ’Non fare più una cosa del genere.’ His sister, Sara, had a bad temper. She was easily annoyed by her brother and often erupted angrily at her father. Emanuele spoke kindly, even in response to her tantrums. Nino saw kindness with a look of sadness in his father’s eyes. He didn’t understand his sister. They had shared the same home, the same father, but she rarely spoke to him except to tell him what to do. She told Nino that she was going to run away from home and join a convent to become a nun. But that was before their father’s death. Nino didn’t know if she had actually pursued that path.
Emanuele had an accident at work, his colleagues had told Nino and Sara that day, the day everything went black: like being on the inside of a sack while someone pulled the drawstring tight. His body was found in the railway yard. How could he have had an accident at work? What kind of an accident? These questions still plagued Giuseppe in the evening hours when he was alone.
After Emanuele’s funeral, the factory administrators took care of everything. They and two lawyers talked endlessly at the kitchen table. The decision was made that he should live with his aunt and uncle, his father’s brother, and Sara should go to the convent as planned.
Who had made the decision Giuseppe could not be sure.
At this point, Sara changed her mind and vehemently declared with much stomping of feet that she would not be separated from her brother. They would go together to live with their aunt and uncle. Papers were signed. Papers were filed away in brief cases. Sara and Giuseppe were given papers to keep and papers to give to their aunt and uncle, Emanuele’s brother. They had no children and no servants but they lived in a big home. Giuseppe understood there was a bank account with enough money to take care of the children for ten years. They left their beautiful home with only a suitcase each. Giuseppe could barely carry his. He looked back at the house. Then he cried, buckling under the grief. Sara was quiet. She said nothing while he cried; did nothing. Once they approached the palazzo where zia Carolina and zio Vincenzo lived, Sara said,
“Zio Vincenzo è il fratello di papà. Maybe this will be a good life for us.”
“Non mi piace," said Nino. I don’t like this place at all. I feel like someone is watching me. It’s spooky.”
“Smettila. Only God is watching,” Sara retorted vacantly.
Within the year, Zio Vincenzo died. Zia Carolina was angry all the time. She and Sara argued and screamed at each other a lot. Nino stayed out of their way. Zia Carolina stayed out late and sometimes did not come home for days. The children were left to fend for themselves. One day, Zia Carolina came home smelling of liquor. She called the children together and announced that she was leaving. The money that their father had given to Vincenzo was gone and Carolina was moving to a country far away and they were not to look for her. They were now on their own. Sara argued with her that there was enough money for ten years. It hadn’t even been two years yet. Carolina argued and screamed and finally slapped the girl in the face. Sara turned red with anger and, refusing to cry, walked out of the house and Nino never saw her again.
Nino put some clothes in a small bag and closed the door behind him. He walked down the stairs, out into the street without hesitation, without making decisions. He simply walked. If God was watching, He would set a path before him. Nino breathed in and out and walked with one foot and then the other. He didn’t cry.
He arrived at the railway yard by nightfall, fell asleep in one of the boxcars and saw opportunity the next day to be around the construction workers, the longshoreman and the railway workers. He eventually learned there was work to be done at the construction sites.
Five years later, Giuseppe Bernascone still lived in the tiny room in Vegia Zena. The difference was that he had a change of clothes for every day. As well, he had bags of gold and some money stashed about his room. He did not use the bank. They were as good as thieves, he believed. He still worked every waking hour and had gained the men’s respect at all levels of the construction company. Giuseppe had increasingly been given more responsibility until he became foreman of an entire crew which included men who had worked with him five years ago when he was still a boy. Giuseppe was so honest, forthright and stubborn in his protection of his workers that he dispelled what possible envy there might have arisen about his numerous promotions. The men were glad to work with him and for him because Giuseppe, without fail, put their needs above his own. It was almost too good to be true. His father’s kindness and protection was the only model he had to live by and Giuseppe had absolutely nothing else in his life to distract or entice him.
Until venerdì, 7 febbraio, 1913. The sun had already set on the working day. Giuseppe walked alone down the very narrow streets of Vegia Zena. He passed a youth walking quickly and nervously carrying a ladies’ purse. Giuseppe politely said, “Buonasera,” and tilted his cap. The youth grunted something unintelligible. As Giuseppe came out of the narrow opening into the square, he saw a young lady crumpled against the wall, crying. He immediately understood and pointed in the direction he had come. The girl nodded.
Reluctantly, Giuseppe began to run. The street was so narrow, if you stood in the middle with outstretched arms you could touch each wall. And there was only one way out: the end of the passage that opened up into the harbour. Giuseppe calculated that he could overtake the youth before he reached the opening.
The boy began running, too. Giuseppe ran faster. His muscular build was not conducive to running fast but his determination gave him the advantage over the lanky boy who reached the opening and turned sharply to the right. Giuseppe followed. He tackled the youth and they both toppled and rolled. At full speed, their fall was a jumble of entangled arms and legs hitting the stone cobbles. Grimaces and grunts accompanied the fall. Giuseppe said nothing. He grabbed the bag, stood up and left the youth on the ground. He quickly hobbled back the length of the street without glancing back at the boy still splayed and moaning.
Giuseppe returned to the square where he first saw the young lady. She was no longer there. He looked around hoping that if he kept looking, she would appear. Nothing.
"Ma scherzi?" He did not want to be caught holding the stolen purse. So he placed the bag where he had first seen the girl and walked quickly away.
He heard a female voice,
“Signore?”
Giuseppe turned his head. There she was. She poked her head out of one of the heavy iron doors of the large stone building. He pointed to the purse. She looked at it, left the door ajar to move to the wall and retrieve the bag then returned to stand behind the door. Nino stood motionless, watching the folds of her skirt rock like waves of the sea and her thin white arms darting out and back to her body.
“Grazie,” she hesitated, her face only peering out from behind the iron door.
Giuseppe motioned with his hand and bowed slightly as she disappeared. The door closed slowly, latching heavily. Click clack.
He waited, allowing the experience to soak through his skin. He sighed and turned to continue walking home. Aia, his knees hurt. They took the force of the fall. His left elbow hurt, the one he used to wrap around the youth’s torso, the one they both landed on. His head hurt a little, too, from the tension of the blow.
He thought about the girl. What a strange way to deal with the situation. Maybe she was shy. Maybe there was something wrong with her mind. She was pretty but strange. Giuseppe turned his thoughts toward home: his little room, his meagre bed. How good it would finally feel to burrow under his sheets, head on his pillow. Ow, his head!
“Mi scusi, signore?”
Again that mousy voice. Giuseppe hadn’t heard her approach. He turned abruptly to see her standing in the middle of the road hesitantly. In her hand she held some folded bills, money, payment, gratitude.
"La prego." She held it there without flinching.
Giuseppe showed her the palm of his hands,
"No, grazie. Non deve. Non c’è bisogno."
She didn’t move. He looked around. They were the only ones on the street, seven or eight feet apart, she holding out an insistent hand. Her eyes oozed sadness that he would not accept her offering.
Giuseppe understood but stood firm.
“I accept your gratitude but I will not take your money.”
He neither moved closer nor turned away. She said nothing, neither removed her hand. They were at an impasse.
Giuseppe smiled. She sighed, giggled, smiled nervously still with her outstretched arm.
Giuseppe sighed and released his shoulders, relaxing his body, dropping his arms to his side.
She slowly brought her arm close to her body.
“There’s a dance tomorrow night,” she invited.
“I’ll come.”
“Great,” she blurted out and turned to run away.
“Dove?” he shouted after her.
"La Chiesa di San Giuseppe," she called back over her shoulder and disappeared.
Giuseppe Bernascone was not the last one to leave work on Saturday. At quitting time, he was ready to end his day. This did not go unnoticed neither did any of the men keep the observation to himself. There was much ribbing and laughing; comments about being in love and other comments not so much about love. Nino took it in stride. He didn’t rush home, but he didn’t stop anywhere along the way either. He wasn’t in love, he thought, he just anticipated an evening in the company of people other than the men he worked with. It was then he realised that he didn’t have a life outside work. All he did was work. He didn’t even take holidays. Today would be a change of pace. Who knows? He may even like it.
Giuseppe left his room with un po’ di soldi in his pocket and a fresh fazzoletto. He had saved most of the money he had earned in the past five years. A little for rent, a little for food, a little for modest changes of clothes. He didn’t need furniture and he didn’t need most of the modern conveniences. Someday, he would use the money to buy a big house and fill it with nice things. But enough of dreams.
Giuseppe walked toward Via Cantore. It was still early in the evening. People were filling restaurants and the patio seats outside them. It was cool and there was a fresh breeze from the sea. Giuseppe wondered what the evening would hold. He wondered if he would even recognise this girl who had invited him. He didn’t know her name; he had seen her briefly in the dark street. He hoped that she would spot him first and remember his features. He thought it wouldn’t be difficult: large build, bushy eyebrows, square head, thick arms and chest.
He looked up at the stars. It seemed to him that it was getting more difficult to see the stars at night. Sampierdarena, which used to be the place for country estates for Genova’s wealthy nobility and prosperous middle classes, was being swallowed by the city of Genova and slowly becoming a subsection of the great historic city.
Giuseppe remembered not too long ago, less than ten years now, when he was a young boy on his own. He used to look up at the stars and memorise the shapes of the constellations, not ever knowing their names. One day, he’d get himself a book and maybe then, BAM!
"Mi scusi. Mi perdoni."
The man he collided with carried a wooden box.
“Cretino! Guarda dove vai!" the man moved on unhurt but continued shouting.”Ma cosa ti credi, che siamo tutti qui per te? Cretino."
"O, Dio mio! Mi scusi. La prego di scusarmi," he begged as the man continued overlapping Giuseppe’s requests for pardon with simultaneous curses.
Giuseppe was confused by the collision. And, he was shaken partly because the corner of the wooden box nicked the flesh just above his eyebrow. He realised it only when he felt a slow warm trickle enter the corner of his left eye. He stood dazed as people passed him one after another. He reached into his pocket for his fazzoletto.
"È a posto? Ha bisogno di aiuto?"
“Cosa?”
"Posso aiutarla?" Standing perfectly still beside him, Emilia Vassallo clutched her purse and held un cestino pieno di pane, della pasta fresca, della verdura e del salame.
Giuseppe thought the botta to the head caused him to hallucinate. Never had he encountered women on a social level and, in the past 24 hours, two had magically appeared before him nella strada.
She hesitantly placed her full basket on the ground and reached into her purse for her fazzoletto to wipe his forehead. As she did, she said,
"Ho visto cosa è successo. Dai, c’è un po’ di sangue lì."
She pulled out a neatly pressed and folded handkerchief. Giuseppe released the grip he had on the handkerchief within his pocket and pulled out an empty hand.
"Grazie. Lei è molto gentile."
As she pressed it onto his head she said,
"Magari vuole venire da me? Posso meterci sopra un po’ di ghiaccio."
Giuseppe agreed.
"Abita vicino?" he asked her.
"Certo. Abito alla Villa Scassi."
Giuseppe smiled. She was beautiful with burning brown eyes, a flowing floral dress and shiny new shoes. She looked like a movie star. He offered to carry her grocery basket and together they walked to Villa Scassi.
"Mi chiamo Emilia."
“Sono Giuseppe. Cioè, mi chiamo Nino.”
They entered the grounds which was now public park land given to Il Comune di San Pier d’Arena. Giuseppe was a bit surprised. They continued walking to a large house at the edge of the property.
“Quando ha detto Villa Scassi, I didn’t think you meant the hospital. I assumed you meant in the vicinity of the park not right in the park.”
Emilia smiled.
“When my grandfather, Giovanni Rolando, bequeathed the estate as public property, he excluded that big house there.” She pointed. “That’s where I was born and grew up. I’ve lived there all my life.”
Giuseppe was amazed. “It’s a big house to grow up in.”
“I had fourteen older brothers and sisters.”
"Quattordici!"
“Sì. My mother had seventeen children, but two died.”
“Diciasette bambini?" Giuseppe was incredulous. "Io, euh, ho una sorella. È diventata suora. I’ve been alone most of my life.”
"Well, I’m practically alone, too. Everyone has left the house to get married or to work in the city. When we do get together, there are a lot of us! Ho venti nipoti and soon there will be ventuno."
They entered the old Colonel’s quarters Andrea once shared with his nephews Enzo and Bruno and later with Esther, his wife and their seventeen children. Giuseppe looked around in awe.
"This house is magnificent. It is huge. How many rooms does it have?
“It has twenty rooms but we don’t use them all anymore. My dad lived here when he was young and worked for my grandfather. But things were different then. Oh, I’ll tell you sometime.” Andrea was in the dining room reading a giornale. “Better yet I’ll let Papà tell you sometime.”
Andrea heard his daughter’s voice. He folded the paper and pulled his gold watch from his right breast pocket. He looked at the watch. He looked at the young man she had brought home with her. He replaced the watch, smiled, rose and extended his hand.
"Devi stare per cena."
Giuseppe Bernascone never did make it to the chiesa on Via Cantore that night or any other night that year. But he and Emilia were married there. As he waited at the altar watching Emilia glide up the aisle in a beautiful white wedding gown, he said a little prayer of thanks for the nameless girl who dared invite him to a dance that he didn’t attend. And for the young scallywag who tried to rob the nameless girl that night. He marvelled at his luck. What were the chances, the events that set up that fateful accidental meeting that led him right here to the church altar getting married before God and Emilia’s entire family? None of his relatives were present. He had no known relatives except his sister and she was as good as dead to him. He hadn’t heard news of her since he left his uncle and aunt’s home when he was eight years old.
Giuseppe Bernascone kissed Emilia Vassallo and in a magic moment, they became husband and wife. They lived together with Andrea and Esther for three months until Giuseppe bought a beautiful home in Sampierdarena.
Emilia had never been happier. She took care of her Nino like a lost puppy. Giuseppe continued working at the construction company hoping to save enough money to someday have his own company and hire his own workers. Emilia became a ‘parrucchiera.’ She worked out of her home. Clients came to her beautiful home to get their hair done in her specialty, permanent waves. Her reputation spread. Her work was impeccable. Customers enjoyed her company. She was always well-dressed and well-coiffed. She, of course, had the best shoes money could buy, and she was beautiful.
By the time Nino returned from work each day, Emilia’s day had long since finished. He bathed and dressed before a late dinner. Emilia smiled sweetly and convinced Nino to take her out for a stroll before dinner. Giuseppe worked outside all day. He longed only to be home, be seated, eat a warm meal and then go directly to bed. He gave in to Emilia’s warm kisses and soft caresses.
"Allora, andiamo," he acquiesced.
Emilia put on a hat to match her outfit, grabbed onto his arm and strolled down Via Cantore. Nino noticed heads turning to look at Emilia as they walked by. A burning feeling grew in the pit of his stomach. Each day the burning got worse and worse.
They walked to the end of the block and back.
One day, half way to their usual turn around, Giuseppe took Emilia by the shoulders, looked her in the eye and reversed her direction.
"I can’t stand how other men look at you. Andiamo a casa."
At first, this flattered Emilia. However, she got annoyed when they couldn’t walk to the adjoining building before Nino turned her around. Not long after that, the evening walks ceased.
Italy had been involved in the First World War since they joined the Entente in May, 1915. In the fall of that year, Giuseppe was sent to France, conscripted into the army; not as an infantry soldier rather, as a cook.
Emilia attended mass morning. She joined her prayers to other soldiers’ wives. Some wives gave thanks to God for sparing their husbands’ lives, some lit a candle for the soldier and some cried to God in anguish when news of death arrived.
Nino returned on leave for a week or two at a time but not often. This sacrifice for their country continued for the first three years of their marriage. After what would be his last visit home, Nino received a buoyant letter from his beautiful wife:
Caro Nino,
Ho delle belle notizie! Il dottore ha detto che la mia nausea non era causata dal’ mangiare ma perchè, noi due, aspettiamo un bel figliolo. Dimmi se non sei contento, amore. Io ti aspetto. Non vedo l’ora.
Tanti baci,
Emilia
Which letter was returned promptly by a brief postcard that this child would want for nothing and they would be the best parents the world had ever known in the history of parenthood.
Caro Nino,
Non vedo l’ora! It will be any day now that our baby will arrive. I am back at home with my parents. Giuseppina will help deliver the baby when the time comes. Oh, my dear husband, I have never been happier. I will write as soon as I can tell you if it’s a boy or a girl. What do you hope for? It doesn’t really matter to me. I just pray to God to give me strength for the labour and that the baby will arrive in perfect health.
I pray every day for your safety and return.
Tanti baci
Emilia
Which letter was returned promptly by a brief but hopeful message for a safe delivery and a healthy baby. Giuseppe added an admonition not to worry, but to put all in God’s hands.
He promised to return soon and see the baby.
Caro Nino,
Sorry I couldn’t write right away, Giuseppina told me I had to rest. But the baby arrived. My sister is wonderful. She did everything. I barely had to work at all. The result is a beautiful boy weighing almost four kilos. His name is Adriano. He looks just like you. How I wish you were here to see his beautiful eyes and touch his tiny fingers. I pray that you will be home soon.
Tanti baci,
Emilia
Which letter was returned promptly as he wrote with tears in his eyes of the joy he felt over his baby boy. Although he was absent and so far away, he was with them all in his heart and longed for the day he would return to his home, to his wife and to his boy.
Stella Mia,
Ecco il mio pensiero, te e il nostro caro Adriano che mi pare sempre di avervi davanti. Mi sembra di vedervi e di avervi sempre vicino a me. Speriamo che la guerra finisca presto. Fatti sempre coraggio. Per adesso, non mi resta altro che salutarvi e bacciarvi te e il nostro sangue Adriano. Tanti saluti a tutti in casa. Tuo per sempre,
Nino che tanto ti ama
Caro Nino,
Your Adriano is six months old today. I feel some sprouts of teeth growing out of his lower gums. He now sleeps in the bed beside me so he can stay warm and so I don’t have to get up to so often in the night. It makes it easier. I hope the next letter I receive tells me you are coming home. Until then,
Tanti baci,
Emilia
Which letter was returned promptly with news that there is talk that the war will end soon. He sent requests to give Adriano lots of hugs and kisses from his papà. Un abbraccio forte, Nino.
The next letter was written from Giuseppina, Emilia’s sister:
Al Soldato Giuseppe Bernascone,
127a Compagnia Ausiliaria Italiana
Secteur Postale N234
13° Nucleo 2° Raggruppamento
Francia
Caro Giuseppe,
I’m afraid I have some bad news to share with you. I am writing for Emilia because she is too distraught to hold a pen. Emilia woke up one morning last week to find that Adriano was not breathing. She was so frightened, she sent for me right away. I tried to help the baby breathe but I was not successful. We sent for the doctor and he confirmed that the baby had died in his sleep. He said this was very common for babies six months old.
Emilia believes that she is to blame because she let Adriano sleep in her bed. The doctor assured her that he has seen so many cases where the babies who sleep all alone in a crib suffer the same fate, but Emilia is inconsolable.
I hope this letter finds you healthy and that you will be home soon.
Consider it a blessing, dear Giuseppe, that you never knew your son.
Your faithful sister,
Giuseppina
Many weeks passed before Emilia heard from Giuseppe again.
Cara Emilia, Amore Mio,
Listen to the doctor. He knows. When I return, we will have more babies. We will fill the house with many babies. We will buy a bigger house. Take heart.
Lo sai che ti voglio bene. La mia stella.
Tanti baci su tutta la tua persona.
Nino
But the letter, and his encouragement, came too late. Emilia read the letter with the morning mail while finishing her third glass of wine. She had stopped eating. She had stopped attending to customers. She had stopped dressing in the mornings. She finished reading the letter and threw it onto the table. Emilia held her empty glass to her chest and rocked it, sobbing,
“Adriano. Adriano.”
Giuseppina entered Emilia’s dark, cold house on the morning that Nino was expected to return home. The war was over. He hadn’t been on the front lines fighting but his efforts helped those who had. Today, he was arriving home to fight another kind of battle.
“Che buio!” was her first comment. "Dai, Emilia, dove sei?"
Giuseppina heard groans from the bedroom. Calling to Emilia, Giuseppina walked to the windows and opened the heavy double drapes.
"Alzati! Vestiti! Dai, andiamo!" She entered Emilia’s bedroom and pulled open the curtains ushering the light from the world outside.
“No. Non aprire…” Emilia attempted a plea to keep the curtains closed. But it was too late. Giuseppina had them opened and the bed sheets torn off her before Emilia could finish her sentence. She groaned and hid her head under the pillow.
Giuseppina sighed, her fist pressed to her hip.
“Va bene.” She sat on the edge of Emilia’s bed. “Stai a letto. Stai bella ubriacata so when your husband, who looks like Adonis, whom you haven’t seen for months, comes home he’ll find you hung over and unable to carry on a coherent conversation. He’ll get right back on that train.”
"Stai zitta."
“Come on, let’s go. I will help you. We’ll get you ready, prim and proper. You will meet him at the train station. You will be prettier than you’ve ever been,” Giuseppina lied.
Giuseppina helped Emilia sit up in bed. Emilia moaned, her eyes still closed. She pulled her legs to a sitting position. Emilia felt fragile as a bird to her sister’s touch. She rubbed strands of her hair between her fingers.
“What are we going to do with this hair?”
Emilia waited at the Brignole train station. She wore a blue dress that hung loosely on her now. Her shoes were not new. Her hair was pinned up and curled. Before stepping off the train, Nino looked for her. His eyes passed over the heads of the people crowding on the loading platform. Nino stepped off the train, bag over his shoulder, and searched the length of the platform for his wife. Not seeing her, he began to walk toward the station doors. Emilia sat on a bench against the wall looking away from him. Nino stopped. He knew right away something had changed. He took a breath and readjusted the bag on his shoulder, smiled and called her name.
Emilia turned her head slightly, recognised him and dropped her head again. Not for long, not even a whole second. But that hesitation was a chasm that instantaneously lengthened between them dividing them as he waited. She smiled, rose from the bench clutching her handbag and called to him. He dropped his bag and embraced her. He kissed her on the cheek and led her away from the bustling platform.
Emilia had lost weight. She was slight and fragile. Her eyes were encircled with dark sadness.
She had lost vitality in her smile and in her words. The light that shone from his bride had been extinguished. He was surprised to see how she had changed. He kept his thoughts to himself as they navigated through the crowd. In the midst of the noise, he said nothing to her. He resisted the urge to hold her, comfort her and assure her that he would walk through this with her, everything will be alright, the very things she needed most.
She wanted to apologise, to beg his forgiveness. But she remained quiet, locked in her silence.
If there were thoughts of concern, feelings of compassion or ideas for reconstructing their relationship, he kept them to himself. As a result, they lived in their silent suffering. They attempted to overcome the loss that shadowed them by gently placing one more day between them and their pain. Each day they compensated for their grief by surrounding themselves with daily life and beautiful things for the house just as a child wants to be surrounded with toys to erase the loneliness.
She hoped he would touch her, hold her and reassure her that he knew it wasn’t her fault the baby had died. She hoped he would say something, anything to release the guilt that weighed on her heart. She had waited for his return. She had thought that his presence would heal her. Something about their being together again would cover the hurt with hope.
She held her breath. Soon he would say something. Soon.
Finally, on Via Cantore, Emilia could stand the silence no longer. In her mind, there were voices, accusing voices, scolding voices and her own unrelenting voice the loudest of all. She spoke,
“How was your train ride? Com’è andata?”
“It was long, but I am home now.”
’Yes, yes you are,’ she thought.
Midmorning, Emilia finished dressing between sips of wine. She quickly examined herself in the mirror that hung in the front entrance. She was mostly skin and bones now. Her dress dangled from her shoulders like a sheet over a pole. Her hair trailed over her ears, limp and untamed.
“Not good advertising for a hairdresser, cara mia,” she spoke to her reflection.
She tied a kerchief around her head and finished the last sips from her glass.
Whether she liked it or not, she had to go to the market to buy fresh food today. There had been no food in the house for days. She hadn’t seen any customers in weeks. Giuseppe worked dalla mattina alla sera and ate somewhere somehow durante la giornata, so she didn’t need to concern herself with supper.
In the mornings, he left the house long before Emilia woke up, so she didn’t even have to make him coffee. She didn’t bother doing her own hair, or getting dressed, or eating. She spent her days with the curtains drawn, hugging her glass of wine which she really only sipped occasionally, throughout the day, filling and refilling it.
Today was different. Nino woke her up early. He was going to bring dinner guests. A man and his wife. This man was an important business contact and she was to set a beautiful table and prepare an excellent meal tonight. They would arrive at eight o’clock. He wanted everything ready and running smoothly.
“I haven’t asked much of you in the time we’ve been married so, please do this well. It is important to me.”
That was true, agreed Emilia as she closed and locked the door behind her. In the last ten or so years, he was away from home most of the day. He didn’t ask how she spent her days. He didn’t ask how she spent the money he brought home and liberally gave to her.
He knew she went to mass Sunday morning because that was the only morning that he stayed home. By the time she returned, he was ready to go back to work for the afternoon. Giuseppe liked that Emilia attended mass. He thought that it was important for Emilia to represent them before God in church.
So today, 18 giunio, 1929, Emilia, dressed and, donning a kerchief, walked to the market by the pier to buy fresh food for dinner and to the boutique for a new dress and a new pair of shoes. How long since she had bought herself new clothes? When she returned home, she would give herself a permanent and be ready to meet this ‘important business partner.’ Or had he said ‘prospect’? She had forgotten and didn’t waste any more time correcting her lapsed memory. It didn’t matter what her husband had called this man. He was important somehow and she determined to contribute to her husband’s success.
She bought fresh baccalà, fresh vegetables, potatoes, mushrooms and tomatoes. At the tomato stand, she heard her name. She recognised her sister’s voice. Emilia took a breath before she turned around.
“Emilia, where have you been?”
“Cosa dici?”
“I’ve been knocking on your door every day. It’s locked.”
“I’m home.”
“I know you are home. Why do you think I knock?”
“I’ve been busy.”
"Bugiarda! Both Signora Rossini and Signora Matruzzi say they haven’t been for their appointments in a month."
Emilia shrugged.
“If you keep putting them off, they’ll go elsewhere.”
“Who’s to say they haven’t already?”
“They do. And I believe them. You should see their hair.” She giggled.
“When you see them again, tell them to come. I’m ready to take clients again.”
“Come to my house prima che tuo marito arriva a casa.”
“Non posso. He’ll be home for supper with dinner guests,” Emilia gloated.
“Then I should be coming to your house,” Giuseppina laughed.
What a horrible thought. Emilia envisioned Giuseppina at the table with the well-dressed, glamorous and bejewelled clients. Giuseppina would have made the meal, pressed the tablecloth, usurped the conversation, revelled in the glory of her domestic talents and interpersonal skills. Emilia would sit in the quietness of isolation, ignored, becoming smaller and smaller until she disappeared altogether. Memories of the sisters as children washed over Emilia. Giuseppina was beautiful, talented, gregarious and confident. That would not have been difficult for Emilia to handle if her sister had ignored her like the rest of the world did. But Giuseppina could not ignore Emilia. "Be more this way, Emilia. Why do you have to do it that way? Do it my way. It works better. I know, I’ve done it like this for years. This is right. You are wrong, cara mia."
“Not tonight. Come tomorrow. I’ll tell you how it turns out.”
“Answer the door when I knock,” Giuseppina called after her as Emilia slipped away to finish her preparations by herself.
If it seemed to her that she had worked all day to prepare the table, the dinner, and herself, it was very near true. She ironed the table linen and set the napkins folded and pressed onto the gold-rimmed plates. She rubbed the crystal free of smudges and polished the silverware to a shine. She had permed her hair and now was donning her new dress and shoes. She had poured only one, rather large, glass of wine and managed to steal little sips throughout the day. She determined to make this evening great and to surpass her husband’s expectations.
Emilia placed a casserole dish on the gas burner. She poured in some olio di olive and added uno spicchio d’aglio e due acciughe salate. She stirred. A few capperi salati e olive as well as a cup of pinoli. She stirred well over the low heat. She left the dish and chopped sedano, carota, cipolla, funghi e prezzemolo. She added the chopped items to the warm pinoli tostati. She cut the baccalà into large pieces.
"Vivete nell’acqua ma dovete morire nell’olio," she said to the fish as she placed them into the casserole pot, turning until they were covered with the mixture.
She poured over the baccalà a glass of vino bianco secco. Letting it simmer, she poured herself a little of the wine and drank it slowly. White was fine. She preferred red.
She returned to the pot adding tomato paste, turning and mixing well. By this time, the spines of the baccalà were protruding and she carefully lifted them from the flesh and threw them away. She peeled and cut three potatoes and added them to the dish, stirring and turning to mix everything well. She added a cup of water, sale e pepe. She removed the skin from the baccalà and with the wooden spoon, wiped it on the sides of the casserole dish and mixed it together. She left it to simmer on low heat until the potatoes were cooked. At eight o’clock, the baccalà dish was finished to perfection and left on the stove to warm. The water was boiling on the kitchen stove. Emilia was prepared to throw in the pasta as soon as they arrived.
Nervously, she rearranged the little dishes of antipasto on the table and angled the bread. She walked to the mirror in the front hall and smoothed out her dress, pushed up her hair to bounce her new curls.
She heard voices in the hall. She opened the door a crack and peaked out ready to greet her husband and their guests. Oh, it was only i vicini, Paola and Generoso arriving home. They turned when they heard the clicks and scrapes of an opening door.
"Buonasera Signora Bernascone."
Without responding, Emilia closed the door and locked it.
‘It’s after eight.’ She walked to the dining room. ‘Mio marito non è mai in ritardo.’ Emilia was worried. She leaned to reach the bottom of the credenza and pulled out the bottle of red wine she had resisted all day. Just the touch of the smooth neck in her hand and already she began to relax. She couldn’t wait to get to the kitchen to fill the oversized glass that waited for her in the sink.
She removed the cork with her hand easily because she never resealed the bottle very tightly. She drank a big mouthful and swallowed it. Three steps to the kitchen and five steps to the sink to retrieve the glass. She poured, sipped, moved one of the chairs over and sat down at the kitchen table.
Sigh.
Now that felt better.
She sat soothed for fifteen minutes and then returned the bottle to the bottom cupboard. Emilia became impatient. She looked out the window. She moved to the balcony searching for a group of three walking toward her home talking together, probably laughing, she thought with a hint of resentment.
She had spent her entire day working to make this evening special. Emilia’s nagging thoughts escalated until she became irritated with the rich, arrogant guests who, she supposed, would arrive at her house expecting to be fed a sumptuous meal and now, they nonchalantly and disrespectfully arrive when they please with no regard to the host’s feelings. The whole day, mind you, since she woke up, she’s only been doing things in preparation for tonight and now it’s 8:35 and the fish will be dried out by the time she serves it. The water. The water is still boiling! It will be half evaporated by now.
She was going to swallow the last mouthful of wine tipping it to her lips with her right hand and reaching for the knob of the gas stove with her left hand. She missed the knob and touched the hot pot instead, burning her two fingers.
“Aia!” she shouted, pulling her hand away. “Maledetto!”
In anger, she roughly turned the knob, choking the fire under the pot. She threw the glass into the sink. It shattered. The pieces flew, landing on the floor, the stovetop and the counter. Wine marks splattered in their trajectory.
“Siamo arrivati," Giuseppe called from the front door.”Did you break something? I heard something fall."
Startled, Emilia sucked in a quick gasp of air.
“Vengo,” she called back. She ran her fingers under the cold water and dried them with a cloth. Now, what did her dress look like? Her hair? She didn’t have time to check. The mirror was on the other side of her guests!
Emilia saw two old people. Two old people dressed plainly. No taste, no flair. No jewellery. They hadn’t even dressed up. No hair on him and her hair was a mess! I don’t think she even combed it today! Emilia stood still, open-mouthed, surprised at the sight of her husband with two old people.
For a second or two, nobody moved. They, in turn, were startled, Giuseppe not the least, to find before them the lady of the house in a bright floral dress, dishevelled with her slip showing, one shoe off and one shoe on, her hair tousled with one lock over her forehead, a red blister forming on the side of her left hand and what looked like blood splattered on the arm and shoulder of her dress.
Giuseppe broke the shocked silence.
“Are you alright? Cosa c’è? Cos’è successo?”
Emilia looked down at her hands and her dress.
“Mi scuzate. I had a little accident in the kitchen. It’s nothing. Dinner’s ready. Sit down. I’ll be right back.” She disappeared with no other greeting or welcome.
Giuseppe ushered Signor Leonardo De Marco and his wife Cecilia into their dining room. The table was beautifully set. The antipasto and bread beckoned them. They sat down. Looked at each other for a moment each one hesitating to begin as Emilia was not in attendance.
"Va be’. Buon appetito."
They broke bread from the middle of the table. They scooped up the antipasto: cipolle agridolce, tuna with cilantro in celery boats, tomatoes sliced with herbs, olive oil and crumbled cheese, mixed vegetables, three kinds of olives.
Giuseppe had to call Emilia three times before she appeared again wearing a plain brown dress with simple, low-heeled house shoes. She had a bandage wrap on her hand and she had washed off the wine splatter. There had been some blood from a small cut when the glass went flying but the wound had stopped bleeding by now. She was under control again.
“Buonasera. Scusatemi. Metto la pasta nell’ acqua.”
She entered the kitchen and sighed. What a mess!
Leonardo DeMarco and his wife Cecilia were in their late 50s. They spoke quietly and in short sentences. They had all the social graces expected at a dinner table, but Emilia wondered if they had eaten anything yet today. They ate everything they were served and did not refuse when Emilia offered seconds.
Leo and Cecilia lived at the other edge of town beside the railway tracks in a little two-room house. In that house, they had raised only one child, a boy who was now 25 years old. Twenty-one months ago, the doctor told them that he had un brutto male. Since then, they have done everything they could but the son spent the last two months in the hospital. Leo and Cecilia spent all their savings and have sold almost all of their belongings which were meagre to begin with.
This week, Leo did not show up for work on Tuesday after never having missed a day since he started working for Giuseppe Bernascone. Giuseppe went to their home at lunch to see if Leo was sick. Instead, he learned from a neighbour that they were at the hospital with their son Nicola. He brought a big basket of food and walked to the hospital room. When he arrived, Giuseppe found the two in tears. Cecilia sat on a chair in the corner of the room and Leo stood with one arm around his wife.
It was then that Nino learned that the son had been sick and that he had died that day. Nino made the arrangements with the hospital and the church. He paid for what was needed and assured Leo they could be with family for the rest of the week without losing pay on the condition that he and his wife join him and Emilia for dinner Friday evening.
“How can we ever repay you?” they had asked tearfully.
“I ask a steep price,” Giuseppe had grinned. “Tell no one.”
That had been the plan. Emilia knew nothing about it and Nino planned never to tell her the details. There was no need. Instead, he had explained to her that they were important business contacts and Emilia had assumed that they were the upper crust of society, having something to do with Nino’s building contracts…maybe a theatre downtown or an apartment building palazzo in the areas of Sampierdarena that were spreading rapidly.
“Buonanotte.”
“Grazie.”
“Sì, mille grazie.”
Nino and Emilia together said goodbye to the DeMarco’s at the door. It had been a long time since they had done something together as man and wife. This was nice. Maybe they might enjoy a little time together tonight, Emilia thought. All in all, it had been a pleasant evening. Leonardo and Cecilia were kind and courteous. The conversation had been light and casual. Emilia had not caused a scene, that is, after the initial incident with the wine glass.
The door closed and Nino secured the lock. She watched him in anticipation of a kind word or gentle touch. As he turned away from the door, he looked at her. He saw her watching him longingly. He immediately lowered his eyes. He shook his head slowly and barely whispered,
“Why do you always have to cause so much trouble?”
She could not speak. She could not move. So surprised was she at his conclusion of the evening. Slowly, he moved away from her.
“Buonanotte. Vado a letto.”
It was a good three minutes more that Emilia stood in her front hallway, stunned. Finally, she slowly slid her feet to the dining room credenza, pulled out her bottle. She sat at the table in the dark and drank the rest of the wine. Her tears dropped onto the tablecloth which would not be removed for another three days when Giuseppina, annoyed with Emilia’s absence, would come to intrude on her solitude.
Tonight, Emilia found her way quietly to her bed. She removed her dress and slept in her slip. As she pulled the covers onto her, Nino put his hand on her shoulder. She froze. He caressed her arm. He moved closer to her and whispered,
“The meal was wonderful. Thank you.”
And so, for the first time in a long time, they enjoyed a wordless connection that both wished was part of their everyday relationship but neither knew how to propel it out of the night and out of this bed into the day and into every room of the house and spill it out into the streets of their lives.
Emilia conceived Vittoria who was born on March 17, 1930.