from Fabrizio’s Passion

 

by Antonio D’Alfonso

 

1

My Mother’s Diary

2 April 1944.

Everything tastes and smells of burnt flesh.

3 April.

I sleep on a soft but damp mattress. My woolen pajamas scarcely keep the humidity from penetrating to the bone. Guglionesi seems so small in this April cold.

5 April.

Father is listening to Radio-Campobasso. They say that the Americans have made it up to Termoli, just fifteen kilometers from here. Kapitän Hauser has nonetheless forced the Americans to stay away from the coastline. He will not move. Ever since he’s had the Paolini house as his headquarters, der Kapitän has shown no sign of wanting to leave Guglionesi. Some have even heard him say: “I will go away only when the last stone is turned to dust.”

I am scared. Last night, Guido spoke of the horrors to come. I lis­tened, incredulous. Is this the Easter we were waiting for?

10 April.

Morning. It is raining, colder than yesterday. I would like not to have to get up. I feel as if I am nailed to the bed by my own body heat. Who wants to go out?

11 April.

Seven a.m. As soon as Mother rose she came to wake me up. We went to the market in the downpour and sold wine, vinegar, lettuce, olives, and olive oil. We made one hundred lire.

12 April.

Thank God for the market money. Even Kapitän Hauser was forced to congratulate us for the fine quality of our olive oil. How I hate the way he scoffs at us! I do not trust him one bit. I am convinced that one day he will shoot us all down.

13 April.

Ten o’clock. We went to the fields but there wasn’t much we could do in the freezing rain. Sinking to our ankles in the wet earth, we looked like children playing in mud. Mother kept on whispering: “Questa pioggia mi ammazzerà. Questa pioggia mi ammazzerà.” This freezing rain is going to kill me. This freezing rain is going to kill me.

14 April.

I had a short talk with Guido today. He gets upset every time he sees German soldiers tramping through his father’s fields. “They re­spect absolutely nothing.” Last night two German soldiers offered him money for telling them where they could find prostitutes. In fact, they believed that his father hid women in our home. They insisted and began to yell. Signor Notte came right down and told them to go to hell.

Visibly drunk, the soldiers refused to leave and kept on pushing their way into the house, hoping that Guido’s father would eventu­ally give in. But Signor Notte is like his son and quickly loses his temper. He gave the poor soldiers the beating of their lives. Their uniforms were torn to shreds, their faces covered in blood. They fi­nally disappeared into the night. Guido said: “It is the first time I saw my father fight and I must say that I am quite impressed with his technique.”

15 April.

Our pig ate three baby chicks. We could not believe our eyes. Who in the world could have imagined such a thing? But according to Mother, it has happened before. Mother grabbed a branch and hit the pig on the snout. She screamed: “That’ll teach you not to hurt someone smaller than you.”

16 April.

Finally, a beautiful spring day. Guido came to see me while Mother and Father had their siesta in the hut. We sat in the shade of the fig tree and rambled on about everything and nothing. Guido is such an intelligent man. Handsome, and not at all selfish. But there is only one thing on his mind: He wants to leave Guglionesi and move to a country that is free of bombs and grenades. He said that Kapitän Hauser reprimanded his father for the beating he had given to the German soldiers. Kapitän Hauser asked for three litres of olive oil and more than a dozen bottles of their homemade wine. Then der Kapitän distributed them free of charge to the people of Guglionesi. Signor Notte was furious. But what could he do? He just sat down on the step to his house and watched the people who dared to take what Hauser had stolen from him. Thank God, those who did come were the poorest of the town.

17 April.

The Germans fear a surprise attack by the Americans. They say it might occur in the next few days. It will be the take-over of Termoli, their weak point. I am terribly frightened, and expect the worst.

18 April.

The end of the world. The Americans have disembarked in Termoli as expected, during the night, leaving the Germans totally paralyzed to retaliate. How could this have occurred so suddenly? Some speak of spies; others of betrayal. How did the Americans out-manoeuvre the Germans, in spite of their strategic position at the summit of our mountain? Father says that some German soldiers might have surren­dered fearing death. Perhaps some soldiers were even offered large sums of money to stay asleep during the secret landing? Who was the traitor? Some peasant from the neighboring towns? Someone from Guglionesi?

19 April.

Sunrise. Father and I walked up and down the fields earlier than usual and collected the lettuce heads that we had left scattered about yesterday. Endless files of American soldiers marched into the coastal towns and liberated them, one by one, of Kapitän Hauser’s stronghold. Houses, one after the other, seem to collapse, as if in an earthquake. By the time Father and I returned home, we were ap­palled to discover that only the walls of some houses had withstood the bombings. What will become of the Pasquinos? The Della Portas? The De Sanctis? The Salvatores? Homeless, they must take refuge in their stables until peace returns and they can rebuild new houses from scratch. Miraculously, ours is the only house to have been spared from the shells.

20 April.

A neighbor found Kapitän Hauser’s corpse hanging from a ceiling beam in the house that had been his headquarters. Some say it was murder, others suicide. Lying in the fields everywhere are the corpses of German soldiers. The Americans have been brutal; houses and farms have been razed to the ground. Americans, but there are Scots as well, who in the morning wake the townsfolk with their bagpipes; Indians wrapped in their long black shawls; North Africans and Canadians who, I was told, always ask for alcohol. Some even speak French. Yet there are a few men who seem to feel some kind of remorse for the damage done to our villages with their bombs.

21 April.

Liberation Day. Free at last. However, I wonder if we are better off now than we were under the Fascist regime. After all, a soldier is a soldier. Many women muster up enough courage and complain about the behavior of some Allied soldiers. Women in the region want peace. We are tired of the war. We want the kind of life that we had before the war. Guido no longer comes around anymore; he is too busy working to feed not only his family, but also the Pasquinos and the De Sanctis, who are homeless and without land to toil.

22 April.

Our men busy themselves with the burial of the decaying corpses. Sanitary officials reassure us by claiming that the chances of an epi­demic are thin, that the water supply is intact. Nevertheless, we take precautions in order not to get tetanus or gastro-intestinal infec­tions. For over a dozen kilometers, from the heights of Guglionesi to the beaches of Termoli, fields have become one large cemetery. Fa­ther refuses to pick up the crop. He fears that the vegetables and fruits will be tainted with the taste of human flesh.

24 April.

I woke up way before the Scots started playing their bagpipes, and washed myself. With the water supply rationed, we have been un­able to take a bath for one week. There is a rank cloud hanging over Guglionesi. The stench sticks to my body like wet wool.

25 April.

We are boiling water over the fireplace. I dip a rag into it and rub it over my face. The heat of the water spears right through me but the dirt won’t come off. The Americans try to make us forget the hor­rors of the war by offering us cigarettes, picture books, and post cards of the cities they live in. But it is their loud music on the radio that works the best.

26 April.

Those bagpipes again! You can hear the music coming up the little ruve that leads to Castellare where, in fifteen minutes, I will be meeting Guido. There are rumors that the end of the war is nearing; but many still believe that we are getting closer to the end of the world. The Germans are now surrounded on all sides: In the west by the Allied forces and in the east by the Russians. My brother Antonio is in Russia. I hope it is still he who is writing those letters to us. “La fine della guerra s’avvicina.” The war is almost over.

I am on my knees praying to San Nicola di Bari, asking him to make these rumors come true. I pray for a healthy harvest. May the rain cleanse our fields of the smell of corpses. May my love for Guido be stronger than this war, but that I be spared from getting pregnant in such a horrible moment in history. We need all the energy we can find to rebuild this broken world.

San Nicola di Bari: Titina, my best friend, tells me that Nicola originates from the classical Greek words nikân, to conquer, and laós, people, and that the name stands for he who conquers, he who among the people excels best. Dear God, may I then be a woman that best ex­cels.

 

 

 

2

Father’s Military Service

 

As a child, when my parents would go off to work, I would spend a lot of time rummaging through the wardrobe and drawers in their bed­room. One day I fell upon a remarkable find: An old box for Easter chocolates in which Mother had hidden letters and photographs that Father had sent her while he served in the Italian army. My translation of these letters probably does not do justice to Father’s un­intended literary style. I can only hope that the result of my efforts will shed some light on the kind of person that my father was.

 

 

***

Udine, 2 April 1948.

Amore,

I am perfectly bored here. This city has nothing new to offer me, except perhaps the dialect the people speak. It may have a better soccer team than we do in Campobasso, but that is about it. Women are like women anywhere else; either they are too ugly or too beauti­ful, and the men are not easy to talk to.

How I would love being beside you at this moment: Strolling along together in Castellare, or exchanging a glance or two as you stand by your mother. The social pressures of our small southern town seem preferable to all the liberty in the north which paradoxically con­strains us and forces us to stay inside our barracks playing a game of scopa.

What are you doing with yourself in Guglionesi? Have you begun to gather the first crop of eggplants? How are the fields? Has the hard earth tilled without trouble? Do you still think of me? Lina, Lina, how I’d love to eat you like a peach. I really miss you. How could I ever be unfaithful to you? What can I say? There is no woman that comes close to you.

 

Con tanto amore,

Guido.

 

Milan, 5 April 1948.

2 a.m.

Lina bella,

Here I am in Milan. How I’d love for you to be here with me! Lieu­tenant De Carlo came into our barracks this morning and announced that we would be leaving for Milan. We had to wash quickly and dress ourselves in record time. I regret what I wrote about Udine in my last letter to you. Truly. It is not as awful a place as I made it out to be. In fact, have I really told you anything about it at all? It seems as if I am incapable of writing about things other than those that con­cern me directly. I am constantly thinking about how events affect me, instead of distancing myself to better analyze what occurs. If nothing else, this military service will have taught me something about my­self.

Busy as we are working the fields, we too often forget who we are. Day after day we ignore the fact that time is passing us by and that we might be changing. We imagine ourselves still the children we were when in reality we have become adults, or even old people. Adults? Here I am twenty-two years old, and already I feel different from the man I was at twenty.

I often find myself daydreaming about my brother Andrea. Why didn’t God take me instead? Why should this damned God of ours be so cruel? Oh, I am aware of how you dislike it when I talk this way, but how can we remain passive in front of so much injustice? Andrea should have lived to be one hundred years old!

There are so many things I want to tell you. My father, you know how he is, hates working. He prefers smoking cigarettes and dis­cussing philosophy with friends till the wee hours of the morning. My mother, may God protect her, works for two. Have you run into her lately? How is she? She would never forgive me if I dropped every­thing right now and started a new life altogether. Is Castellare in blossom yet? Would you be willing to change your life as well and come live with me?

 

Baci,

Your Guido.

 

 

 

Mantova, 10 April 1948.

Lina amore,

Here we are in Virgil’s native town. Dante Cavanna recites The Aeneid to me in Latin every night. I don’t understand a word he says but Cavanna is kind enough to translate, page by page, all that he reads to me.

I must admit how much Virgil’s vision of Italy fascinates me. Of­ten I forget that I was born in Italy, cradle of this great occidental civilization that I hate so much.

At suppertime, some of the guys were boasting about all the good things Mussolini did for our country, whereas Cavanna stubbornly took the opposite stance and defended the role played by the Ameri­cans. He claims that America is the only exit left for us to take, us meaning the Italians of southern Italy. Cavanna is from Lecce in Puglia. There are only a handful of men who agree with Cavanna. Personally, I do not know what to think about this whole affair. America? What I know of it is what my father has told me of Ar­gentina. Is this enough for me to side with Cavanna who at times ap­pears too idealistic for my liking?

I am sorry to hear about the trouble my mother is giving you. Ever since Andrea died, she no longer is the person she once was. She fears being alone and now wants to overprotect the only child she has left. Forget all the things she has told you; I am sure that she did not mean them. Cavanna has just stepped into the room. In his hands is the large volume of the Aeneid.

 

Baci.

Your Guido.

Mantova, 11 April 1948.

Lina darling,

I don’t understand you. I received your letter and read it as soon as I could during the night. It was impossible for me to fall asleep after­wards. How could you have told my mother to go to hell? The more stubborn you become, the worse she will be. There is absolutely noth­ing to gain from all of this. Don’t expect me to react. After all, that lady is my mother. Please try to be more understanding. She is getting old, and the tenderness she needs, her husband is not giving her.

 

Guido.

 

Udine, 13 April 1948.

Dearest Lina,

We drank almost twelve bottles of wine tonight, including Lam­brusco, the sweet red wine that the people from Modena make. Such a fine feeling to be able to get dead drunk with the guys and forget the slow evening hours when there is nothing to do. Your letter made me want to do what my father did, leave for Argentina.

They say life is easy in that country and the meat is inexpensive. Here, as you can imagine, you get to see meat once every three days. However, I must say that we are fed fresh vegetables purchased at the farms nearby.

There are so few farmers left. Many have fled from the Friuli re­gion, leaving behind all their furniture and running away to find peace and well-being elsewhere. They have gone to America, but I hear to Hungary as well. They say that many houses in Budapest were built by Friulans.

What more is there to say? I miss my home town and, strangely enough, I miss my father who is by now well-established in Ar­gentina. I have made some friends in Udine who are asking me to set­tle down here once I finish my military service. I must say that it is tempting . . . I am seriously thinking about it.

Udine is, in spite of all I have said, a pleasant city. I’ve come to enjoy this place. Their own particular brand of Italianness is some­thing I can truly appreciate. What matters, Lina, is that I leave Guglionesi forever. The little piece of land we own is surely not worth much. Besides, I realize that being a country boy is starting to weigh on my shoulders. I need to feel that I am part of a large city. Come with me, let’s get out as soon as possible. To remain in Italy would be disastrous. All we will end up doing is feeding ourselves false images that we have created of ourselves.

I have no wish to nourish myself with the distorted reflections from a deformed mirror. I need to see myself as I am, not as someone who is more handsome than I really am.  It has become hell for me to continue living in this country. Listening to what the soldiers from all corners of Italy say, I have come to question the very essence of the kind of country that Italy has turned out to be.

The time has come for both of us to look elsewhere for our future and to decide to have children together only once we find what we are looking for. To postpone our departure can only diminish our chances of starting over somewhere else. What can I expect you to say? It will not be easy, I must warn you. I do not believe in these sto­ries of gold and well-being. There is no paradise on earth, except the one we create for ourselves in our own families. I am anxious to have a family of my own, to have children with you. Children who will speak like us, who will look like us in their minds and in their bodies.

Dante Cavanna’s ideas are slowly making their way into my heart. Every time I listen to him read those Latin poems, I find my­self sleepless and thinking all night long. I am alone on earth. I am dead drunk tonight. Suddenly my eyelids grow heavy with dreams. Let me kiss you passionately.

 

Guido.

 

Udine, 14 April 1948.

Midnight.

Lina, amore mio,

Concentrating has become a burden for me. I fell as I signed my name on my last letter to you. Wide awake again, I try in vain to fall back asleep. You know how difficult it is for me to get back to sleep once I have been woken. I started to read a book on modern mathemat­ics. My ability for calculations seems to have dwindled.

My head is exploding right now with a thousand crazy thoughts. I have made up my mind at last: I will be leaving Guglionesi for good. As soon as this shit service comes to an end I will settle down in Udine.

My father has written me from Buenos Aires. “The air is fresher here. Yes, one must leave the place in which one was born. I can fi­nally say that I am living what I have always dreamed of doing. It is here, at the other side of the world, that I have found my brothers and sisters. Here, where a stranger is no more a stranger than he was back home.”

Lina, I want to look at life from another angle, live it differently. What is the use of repeating ad vitam aeternam the same worn-out actions, the same used ideas? In Udine I stand a chance of finding a job that will change my life. I have made a new friend: The son of a local cook who is the owner of the Trattoria del nord where we sometimes go to have supper. Well, he has promised to find me work in a steel factory. Nothing sure yet, however he says that there are plenty of openings at a factory owned by a friend. I am supposed to meet the head of the welding section tomorrow. We will see what happens.

You are always on my mind. I remember those evenings we spent to­gether in Castellare admiring the sunset over the vista. I can almost touch your naked body. You are whispering my name with every move that you make. I miss you, Lina. Your sex, your breasts, your sweat, that nectar you offer me every time we make love. The guys here try hard to keep me from thinking of you. It’s all in vain.

Why should I sleep with a woman I hardly know? A woman who will never give herself to me? No, I prefer waiting for my next release and make passionate love to the one woman who can bring me to the height of pleasure, as well as I can bring her to the height of plea­sure. Some soldiers believe that when a man ejaculates he automati­cally attains orgasm. That is crazy. Ejaculation is not necessarily a sign of pleasure. The guys laugh at me when I take myself for an ex­pert. They start screaming: “Vogliamo una donna. We want women.”

They tease me by calling me “Guido the puritan.” Lina, you know how little a puritan I am. Last night, one of the guys fucked a woman in the washroom at the Trattoria del nord. This morning, his penis was spitting pus.

Of course, I am exaggerating. This is not what usually happens. At times, soldiers actually do fall in love with an honest, well-educated woman whom he finally marries. The guy with the pus is the excep­tion to the rule, yet, as you are aware, it is the exception that con­firms the rule. What is wrong with sexual abstinence? Some believe that chastity fortifies the flesh and spirit. Are they wrong? Enough morality for now.

 

Baci,

Guido the puritan.

 

 

Udine, 16 April 1948.

Before going to the guard duty.

Amore,

Il tenente De Carlo woke us up sooner than usual. “The General Petrella will be coming to inspect your rooms. So, hurry up.”

That is one way of getting your soldiers to put order in their bar­racks. We spent the entire morning splashing water on one another like kids. After a wicked war of wet towels, Dante Cavanna’s clothes became so drenched that he had to change before il tenente De Carlo dashed in. He did not notice anything. I am sure he is the kind of man who tattles to his superiors when things go wrong. It was ten before we managed to look just a little more presentable. Can you imagine the General doing his rounds and congratulating us on our “concern for cleanliness’?

By three, our trucks and tanks had received the same treatment as we did from those pails full of ammoniated water. This continued un­til six in the evening. Well, tonight it is my turn to guard the post. With all this work, and after the long walk I took, I will collapse like an axed tree. But I wanted to write you before going to bed. The evening is calm, and the wind is like a woman’s caress.

 

Tuo,

Guido.

 

18 April 1948.

Lina, my love,

Your letter arrived only yesterday afternoon. I read it on my way back from the station. Good news indeed to hear that you too believe that departure from Guglionesi would do us some good.

After reading your letter, I went straight to the steel factory with Michele, the son of the owner of the Trattoria. The man at the factory told me that he would be willing to hire me as soon as I get my leave from the military service.

How to thank him? He accepted the bottle of cognac I presented to him after we exchanged a few encouraging words. Michele and I went to have a couple of beers to celebrate this extraordinary moment for me.

Oh, Lina, how I love you. Please come and join me in Udine. Do not disappoint me. Please keep all that I write to yourself. If my mother finds out, she will surely die. When people from Guglionesi ask about me, pretend you know nothing about what I have decided to do once out of the army. Let this be our secret. I trust you and love you as madly as ever.

 

Guido.

 

Udine, 20 April.

My Lina,

They found Michele and Dante in the washroom together. What a surprise. Not even I was aware of what was going on. This surprise hit me like a bombshell. Who would have guessed—Michele and Dante homosexuals?

Michele’s father did not know where to hide. By the time it was six o’clock, half of the city had found out about the incident. Sure glad I am not in their shoes.

The soldiers laughed at Dante throughout supper. Some even pranced into the dining room with a towel wrapped around their naked bodies like a skirt. What a pitiful sight!

De Carlo has asked his superiors to transfer Dante to another base, a few kilometers from the village he was born in. Obliging him to live near his parents, they say, will help him become normal again. What a strange idea: Dante will never change. He is who he is.

It is a blow to realize that your male friend loves men. Incredible as this may sound to you, what strikes me most in all of this is the fact that he could keep their love a secret. The anguish this must have caused Dante. Not once did he mention his love of men to me, ever.

Obviously the barracks are not what they used to be. Since the event occurred, the soldiers keep to themselves, especially when tak­ing a shower. The disclosure of a taboo, the hidden—what should I call it?—can do this to people. The whole affair has left a bitter taste in my mouth.

I have lost a friend, not because he is a homosexual, but because Dante Cavanna will no longer be here to read us Virgil. And what about my friendship with Michele? Michele’s embarrassment pre­vents him from mingling with anyone. I pray for one thing: May he remain the one he is. I do not care if he loves women, or if he loves men. The warmth between men need not be necessarily sexual. It is his camaraderie that I will miss. We shall see what the future has in store for us.

 

Guido.

Carrara, 21 April 1948.

Dearest,

Here we are at the center of the marble civilization (and the capi­tal of anarchism). Mountains all around, and the magnificent Tyrrhe­nian a few kilometers away. What a pleasure to be in a city that so many have written about! This is where I heard Michelangelo used to purchase his marble. But I will admit one secret to you: More than the marble, or the fact that anarchists are to be found here in abundance, the cream puffs sold in bars are what makes this city remarkable. Served with a hot espresso, what more can we ask for? The entire day was spent stuffing our faces with these heavenly delights. I am sure that I have put on over two kilos since we arrived.

I feel great though. The air is cool. If I were a doctor, I would rec­ommend that my patients suffering from asthma come and live in this mountainous region. Funny how Carrara reminds me of Guglionesi. A familiar wind blows during the day, and nature boasts colors that re­semble those we find in our home town. The only difference between the towns is that Carrara lies in a valley and ours is perched on one of the highest summits of the Abruzzi-Molise region. Before I die, I want to come back to Carrara. And I hope it will not be to deny anarchists their right to meet.

My eyes are getting heavy. I will masturbate thinking of you. I love you.

 

Guido.

 

Carrara, 22 April 1948

Lina,

Early in the evening our regiment of soldiers broke into the anar­chists’ headquarters where they were holding a meeting and de­stroyed all their files. We tore the documents essential to their net­work: books, letters, posters, printed tracts and manifestos, pho­tographs . . . I am still wondering why we were given orders by our of­ficers to perform such horrifying acts of destruction. It is not the duty of a soldier to disrupt the quiet lives of simple people. More and more, I am coming to detest this army life.  What is the point of being a sol­dier? Some may praise the glories of war but I would like to send to the front lines the heads who declare war, the leaders who have something real to gain from fighting a war. What do I gain in disturb­ing the people I know nothing about, even though they are anar­chists? Of course, I would be the first to fight if we were threatened again by a dictator, but why lead an army into the world of working people? Is it my role in life to pull down what others have built through blood, sweat, and tears for their families?

I enclose a photo of myself in my soldier’s uniform. I hope you like it. It is a simple photograph of a simple young man dressed in a sim­ple soldier’s uniform. I am not smiling in the photo, even though I am happy. Here is the face of a soldier whose duty it is to protect the lives of innocent people.

Il tenente De Carlo is sending me back to Udine because of the dis­putes we have been having. I constantly argue with him and put into question the usefulness of our stay in Carrara if it is solely to pillage its citizens. In fact, I expressed my views on how our presence here is immoral. What could he do but urge me to leave this pretty but dev­astated city.  God knows what havoc our army will wreak on Carrara when I’m gone. . . .

Oh, I kiss every part of your body, amore mio.

 

Your Guido.

 

 

 

 

Udine, 25 April 1948.

Amore,

My birthday is today. It is also the day Mamma Italia was liber­ated from Nazi occupation. I am alone in my room, while everyone is out celebrating. I can hear them singing L’Internazionale.

Ever since Dante Cavanna left the barracks, Michele is not himself anymore. When he manages to speak, all he does is talk about Dante. Strange listening to a man manifest his love for another man! But I must confess something to you, Lina: His words sound no different than mine to you. Love has no gender. He might as well be revealing his love about a woman. Michele mentioned the possibility of spending some time with Dante in Milan. In a couple of weeks I will be coming down to Guglionesi.

Why don’t you come to meet me at the station in Termoli? We could rent a room at a hotel and make love all day long. I love you, Lina. How I would like to be alone with you right now. But I must stop writ­ing; the guys are waiting for me outside. It is time to honor our libera­tion. Our country must be rebuilt from scratch—even those precious monuments which the Allies razed a few years back. There is so much to do. Mamma Italia, your soldiers are not out there toasting your lib­eration alone. They are drinking to forget the families and fields waiting for them back home.

 

A thousand kisses,

Guido.

 

***

 

My father’s narration of his experience in the army ends with this letter. My father is not a historian. The events he wrote about are mostly related to what emotions he felt during those eighteen months of service in the military. I have chosen to translate the letters he wrote during the month of April 1948 in order to organize what seemed to be, at least for him, a particularly confusing moment in his life. We can assume that Father went down to Guglionesi soon after this letter was written. I cannot ascertain whether or not Mother did go to meet him at the station in Termoli, as he had requested of her. No proof of such an encounter exists in the letters I found. However, knowing my parents quite well, I do not find it difficult to imagine them spending that day together in a hotel.

 

 

 

3

The Crossing

 

Monday morning. April 1950. The sun spreads like like a warm shawl over us. It is thirty-two degrees Celsius.

“Da questa parte, Signorina. Come this way, Miss,” the Neapoli­tan says in his broken Italian. He has a curly red beard and his frizzy hair is as blond as a German’s. “Da questa parte,’ he repeats as he points his finger to a gangway precariously leading up to the tramp freighter.

We are over five hundred men and women are crowded, packed, sweat sticking to our necks and dripping from our brows. One behind another, we tread at a very slow pace, like prisoners of war led to their cells.

“And to think that we paid over one hundred American dollars for this!’ Titina exclaims, not believing her eyes: “Lina, we had to slave like ants, night and day, to save such a sum of money.”

I take her by the arm and gently oblige her to stop. I look into her eyes and say: “Thank you, Titina, for coming along with me. Alone, I would never have mustered up the courage necessary to make the voyage.”

 

***

It was after having received his letter from Toronto that Titina, at the last minute, made up her mind to join Giovanni. “Si vive bene in Canada. Life is good in Canada.” He concluded with a long declara­tion of his love for her and a promise of marriage. Guido’s letter from Montreal contained more or less the exact words. Had it not been for the hope of a better life at the other end of the world, Titina and I would never have left Italy.

How could we not believe in a paradise on earth when the country in which we had lived for generations displayed no signs of social re­covery? Day after day, we ploughed our fields that had become more and more arid. This land, in reality, would never belong to my par­ents. Cherries, figs, lettuce, zucchini, olives, grapes: How could we continue sharing with the latifondista, the landowner, half of the crops we cultivated?

“Has Guido written again?”

“Yes. I don’t know what to do. Should I go to Montreal?”

Titina and I were standing at the look-out in Castellare park be­fore the breathtaking splendor of the Adriatic. I could not hold back: “I don’t want to leave Italy. I am very content with my life here. I was born in Guglionesi, and it is in Guglionesi that I wish to die. I don’t care if Guido drops me, I won’t live in a foreign country. I can’t speak the language and don’t want to learn it. Let him get angry and threaten to kill me if he wants to; I won’t leave.”

I pressed against Titina to feel the presence which I badly craved. We looked out at Mount Maiella, majestic against the clear blue sky.

Titina said: “Nor do I want to go. I won’t leave. At twenty-three I can’t begin my life all over now. My family and friends are beside me here. What will I do in Toronto?”

 

***

“Signorine! Sbrigatevi. E’ già tardi. Young ladies, please get mov­ing. We are late.” The sailor grabs me by the arm. “Please, move it. This is no fashion show.”

We advance slowly up the swaying gangway; we feel dizzy. I turn around and notice the Tyrrhenian Sea and, in the distance, Naples which is fuming beneath a cloud of smoke.

The steerage is divided into two levels. The upper is long and spa­cious. There are piles of lumber, barrels, and wooden planks which at nighttime serve as bunks. Not a window nor a porthole through which air and light can make their way to us. A large but empty hall: This is where we are pushed in and wait for the departure. The lower level is in such a poor state so as to make the healthiest of peo­ple sick.

The ceiling is lined with cedar sidings that creak at the least toss­ing of the ship. The oil lamps, which are supposed to provide light, keep going from lack of oxygen. At times, the darkness is such that we cannot see a meter away. This is the hole we will be sleeping in for nearly three weeks. There are few of us who can take it for a whole night. The odors of urine, shit, and vomit never dissipate. When the night comes, we dream only of the sun spreading its rays over us. Our survival depends on these dreams. As soon as it is morning, we run out onto the deck and inhale the fresh, salty Atlantic air.

Gianni says that this is the price we have to pay in order to buy ourselves una vita nuova, a new life. A young Sicilian student, he re­cites to us each day long passages from La Divina Commedia that he knows by heart. No, Dante was not thinking of us when he wrote his book. Gianni explains the meaning of the first canto: “Suddenly Dante finds himself on a sandy beach. He is about to climb a mountain but, blinded by the sunlight, he forgets which direction he has to take. It is then that, one by one, a leopard, a lion, and a she-wolf appear be­fore him.” Gianni looks down and thinks, his index finger pointed at our faces. “Beware, don’t get me wrong. These are not simple animals. What they mean is concealed and profound. The leopard symbolizes luxury; the lion, violence; and the she-wolf, greed. Yes, greed. . . .”

Suddenly Gianni stops speaking and, with arms crossed, turns to­wards the far horizon. He blows into the cup of his hands. God alone knows what ideas float behind those blue eyes. Gianni seldom speaks of himself, and when he does, he never fully expresses the thoughts he is unable to translate for the listener. He might even begin to stut­ter or break down into sobs. His voice is deep, soothing, tainted by a muffled violence. He sports a red tie and a white shirt (which will be black by the time we reach Halifax).

There are rumors about Gianni being a finocchio, a “faggot.” I don’t believe in such gossip. Quite the contrary, it seems to me that he and Titina are growing close in a disturbing way. Has Titina already for­gotten Giovanni?

The other day, a sailor insulted Gianni quite rudely. The sailor soon found himself flattened, the skin around his eyes swollen, as though stung by a swarm of bees. Gianni was all over him, kicking him in the face. The crowd that gathered around the two men was shouting at Gianni not to murder him, but nothing could stop him. Gi­anni was screaming: “Io t’ammazzo. I’m going to kill you.”

It took the intervention of three sailors to get Gianni under control. Then, silence. We haven’t seen much of the sailor who, we learned, took to his bed. Nor Gianni who, according to Titina, stays with his head buried under the blankets. He does not even come out for a breath of ocean air. On the aft deck, there is only Titina and I, hypno­tized by the ship’s frothy wake.

Every morning we breakfast on stale bread dipped in olive oil, on which we spread garlic cloves. The coffee we drink has the color and taste of urine. Talk with Titina has become strained. I do not know what to say to her anymore. All I want is to be alone and cry. Titina is not following the sailor’s advice to go down to her bunk and so finds herself vomiting more often than not. As she admits herself “the trip is turning my stomach upside down.” She goes on and on about how she should have left Giovanni when he emigrated to Toronto.

“Still thinking of Italy?”

Gianni has finally decided to come out of his hiding place. I say that I would prefer being in Guglionesi, in Castellare Park overlook­ing the Adriatic. Gianni does not react. He has found a cigarette butt in the bottom of his jacket pocket and lights it. His slender, yellow-stained fingers tremble when he removes the tobacco bit stuck to his lips.

“Are we arriving in America? I can’t take it anymore.” Titina has grown pale, very pale. I try to take her in my arms, but she pushes me away.

“I can’t take it anymore. I want to go back home. To Italy. I want to turn around from here.”

I make a second attempt to embrace her. Again, she rebuffs me. Gi­anni motions to me and moves quietly towards Titina. He places his arm very lightly on her shoulder, leaves it there without saying a word. He does not budge. I hear Titina weep, and her sobs mingle with the sound of the ocean waves, now queerly noisy, now silent. It is im­possible to tell if the rumble rises from the crying or from the ocean, the monotony of which is becoming unbearable. How I, too, long to see our cultivated hills and feel Guido’s doughty arm wrapped around my shoulder. I want to smell the sweetness of his body. Oh Guido, why did you have to leave?

It is as if I were one too many with Titina and Gianni. Yet I cannot help but want to be near them. Gianni has no doubt read my mind and folds his arm around me. All three of us burst out laughing. It is one of the most beautiful moments of the crossing.

That evening, we go down to bed earlier than usual. I escape under my blankets and imagine that the fetid odor I smell comes from the fields I have worked in all day.

I sleep poorly. In the middle of the night, I am woken up by the shouts and cries. At first I believe that I am dreaming it all, but I soon notice that the passengers have collected on the deck. Everyone is there, even those who are too old and feeble to go out.

As if drunk, I stagger to my feet and find my way to the stairs. Peo­ple turn to stare at me. I don’t know why. Abruptly, images of Titina and Gianni begin to haunt me. I shake off the sleepiness and rush to join the mob on the aft deck. I push my way through the crowd of sailors and passengers. Stretched out, one beside the other—at the exact same spot where we had laughed—are Titina, whose face is smeared with blood, and Gianni, motionless, his clothes in tatters.

“It was horrible,” Titina says hysterically. “The Neapolitan. He beat him up without stopping. He’s gone mad.”

Titina wipes Gianni’s blood from her cheeks and Gianni painfully attempts to open his swollen eyes. He can’t. I look around, and start screaming: “Leave us alone. Go away.”

A couple of men come and pull Gianni to his feet. He is screaming: “I’m going to kill him before I get to Halifax. I’m going to kill him.”

I help Titina up. Gianni is shouting; he refuses to be taken away. The crowd disperses and returns to the bunks. The night is cold, and the sky overflows with stars. Titina, Gianni, and I wait for the promised land to appear on the horizon.