Leaving Italy
I am so excited! Dad is leaving for America this morning. My older sister, Cristina, and I race ahead to the fountain intersection where the bus will take him and two other men to Naples to board their ship. At the fountain we look back at them walking abreast, each carrying a small suitcase. I cannot stand still and keep hopping from foot to foot waiting for them.
The bus comes, they board, we wave enthusiastically, as the bus departs. Cristina is sniffling, upset that Dad has left and she doesn’t want to run home with me. I shrug and keep skipping. At home Mum is subdued attending to my younger sisters, Giovannina and 3 month old Carmelina who is crying. I go out to play with my friends. At sundown on the roadside I scan the villagers coming back from the fields, looking for Dad.
Mum calls us home and I ask “Where is Dad?”
“He’s gone to America.”
“But it is night time and he comes home at night.”
“He will not be coming back. He has gone very far away in a ship.” Mum explains. What’s a ship? I don’t understand and crestfallen I go to bed.
In the morning I go out and look for the furtherest place I can see – a town on top of a hill – it must be ‘America’. Dad must be there. I head to the crest of the drop-off, and wave energetically shouting good morning to him. In the evening, I again go to wish Dad goodnight. Cristina laughs at me, “He’s not there.”
I must have kept up the greetings most likely until I started school and learned what ‘America’ meant – anywhere overseas including Australia where he had actually gone. Even now when I am back in Molinara and the hilltop town, San Giorgio, comes into view I still secretly wish Dad a good day.
Papà parte per l’America
Sono così eccitata! Papà parte per l’America stamattina.
Mia sorella maggiore, Cristina, e io corriamo avanti fino all’incrocio della fontana dove l’autobus porterà lui e altri due uomini a Napoli per salire a bordo della loro nave. Giunti alla fontana, li guardiamo camminare fianco a fianco, ciascuno con la sua piccola valigia. Non riesco a stare ferma e continuo a saltellare da un piede all’altro aspettandoli.
L’autobus arriva, salgono, salutiamo con entusiasmo, l’autobus parte. Cristina sta piangendo, sconvolta che papà sia partito e non vuole correre a casa con me. “Boh” e continuo a saltare. A casa la mamma è sommessa e si sta prendendo cura delle sorelline, Giovannina e Carmelina di 3 mesi, che piange. Esco a giocare con i miei amici. Al tramonto, sul ciglio della strada, scruto i paesani che tornano dai campi, in cerca di papà.
La mamma ci chiama di entrare a casa e io chiedo “Dov’è papà?”
“È andato in America.”
“Ma è notte e lui torna a casa di notte.”
“Non tornerà. È andato molto molto lontano su una nave.” La mamma spiega. Cos’è una nave? Non capisco, Cristina mi abbraccia, e abbattuta vado a letto.
La mattina esco e cerco il posto più lontano che si può vedere – un paese in cima a una collina – deve essere l’America. Papà deve essere lì. Mi dirigo verso la cresta della scogliera e lo saluto energicamente gridandogli buongiorno. La sera vado di nuovo a dargli la buonanotte. Cristina ride di me: “Non c’è lì. Quello è San Giorgio”. Non le credo, è l’America.
No so per quanto tempo ho continuato con il rituale di salutarlo. Molto probabilmente fino a quando ho iniziato la scuola e ho imparato cosa significava ‘America’ – ovunque all’estero, compresa l’Australia, dove lui era effettivamente andato. Anche adesso, quando torno a Molinara e vedo il paese in collina, San Giorgio, ancora auguro segretamente una buona giornata a papà.
The Great Australian Bight
Finally, we set sail for the Great Australian Bight! Relieved to be leaving Fremantle and its smelly butchers’ shops and we eagerly awaited for some excitement prompted by the numerous captain’s warnings of rough seas and parents to be mindful of their children and stay inside.
We children loved it – the surge and swell of the waves rocked the ship in every direction. We had been travelling long enough to overcome our seasickness and it was fun being lurched about like a drunken sailor and seeing dinner plates sliding across tables, content spilling over the tables’ safety rims onto our laps in a moment’s distraction as we gripped the tables to stop ourselves being flung to the other side of the room or lose our seat from under us.
The best spot to be, we figured, was the swings. It was a blast being thrown about in midair. My turn came and with Carmelina, my 4-year-old sister, sitting next to me, we sailed through the air. A sudden big dip made me instinctively hang on for dear life and for that instant let go of my sister. Poor sis, not holding on tight enough and with my support gone, flew out of her seat, parabolized through the air, and landed face down on the floor cutting the underside of her chin. Blood ran down her dress and we rushed her to Mum, who dashed her to the ship doctor with us sprinting behind. The doctor calmly stitched the cut, then turned, scolded us, and forbade us to go outdoors. Being village children and not accustomed to being grounded nor having direct adult supervision, the next day we were back on the swings and playing on the deck.
A few days later our trip ended in Melbourne where Papa’ was waiting for us. My sister eagerly showed him her newly acquired scar. To this day she still displays it with a feeling of deep satisfaction, retelling the story behind it and invariably reminding me of who caused that scar on her chin!