Moving to Italy: Zio Silvio and Matthew

Every morning in our early days on the farm, Matthew watched Zio Silvio as he went into the barn to milk the cows. Matthew couldn’t talk much. At nineteen months he had not yet put words together to make sentences, but with his single words, his energy, and his will-power, he made it absolutely clear that he wanted to go into the barn with Silvio as he had done once before. Cries of “Zio!  Cow! Cow!” bounced off the kitchen walls as he banged at the balcony window, or around the courtyard as he tried to run over to the barn. We told him no, not until Zio Silvio invited him again, because the cows were too dangerous. Later, Matthew watched longingly as Zio Silvio revved up his tractor, backed it out from the portico and drove around our house and down the hill to his fields. Each afternoon we could hear the sound of the tractor again as it puttered back up the steep road. Matthew recognized that sound and would clamor to go downstairs to wait for it.  

In the late afternoon, George's father usually sat in a chair facing the courtyard outside his kitchen, sipping his wine, stroking the cats, and watching the whistling swifts dive-bomb anything that came close to their nests in the eves of the barn. Matthew stood next to his grandfather's chair and stutter-stepped with excitement as the sound of the tractor grew louder and louder. His grandpa kept one hand on him to restrain him from running out, but the noise of the engine was both attractive and scary, so Matthew alternated between pulling forward and hanging back. As the loud chug of the motor echoed off the barn across from them, he responded with an enormous grin.  

Finally the tractor appeared at the corner. It was like a tank, with a huge track along either side. The narrow, noisy engine was painted a bright orange and Zio Silvio sat right behind it in an open cab. Usually it pulled a piece of equipment—a plough, or a flatbed trailer for men and produce.  Zio Silvio would stop, idle the engine, then smile directly at Matthew and crook his finger at him. Matthew, calm and determined once he knew his time had come, clutched his grandfather’s hand and pulled him forward. My father-in-law hobbled slowly to the driveway and hoisted Matthew up into Zio Silvio’s ready hands. Silvio nestled him close on the bucket seat, circled his arm around Matthew onto the steering wheel, and gently let out the clutch. Matthew’s joy radiated in his face as they chugged slowly across the courtyard and into the open portico.  

After Zio lifted him down, he would offer his left little finger so Matthew could hold onto it.  Zio Silvio, slender and dressed in the rough clothes and heavy shoes of his workday, would bend slightly so that he could reach Matthew’s hand, and smiled gently, his eyes crinkling below his thinning light hair. Matthew, solid chunky legs in shorts, overalls or corduroy pants, stretched up to grip his great-uncle’s finger. His satisfied grin lit up his face, and the faces of all who saw the two of them as they walked back across the courtyard together. Matthew never tired of the excitement of that little ride. I had had a wonderful relationship with my grandparents, and as I watched Zio Silvio with Matthew, I was delighted to see the strong bond build between the older and younger generations. Neither could speak the other’s language, but they didn’t need words to communicate.  

The only photo of Matthew clutching Zio Silvio's finger--minus Zio Silvio. (It seemed rude to point a camera at while he was in work clothes.)

Moving to Italy: Zio Silvio. Part 2.

The story of our move to Italy starts with "Arrival" on the June 26, 2017 blog post.

When we first arrived in Italy, my father-in-law told George he would have to partner with Zio Silvio. Marino had warned Silvio the previous year that George intended to work the farm. Since they knew Silvio didn’t have any other way to earn a living, Marino had no intention of turning him out. He was family. However, until Silvio’s rental agreement expired at the end of November, we could not work the fields, nor could we install any animals in the barn. Since we had arrived in May, we had a long wait.
We had fully expected that when we arrived, Zio Silvio would approach his brother and nephew with some kind of partnership deal. That didn’t happen. When the renewal came up, my father-in-law had to tell Silvio that, although he could live in the house, he must vacate the barn and the fields, and unless he could pay for the tractor, he must give it up. The only thing Silvio argued about was the tractor, but finally he agreed to relinquish it.  

James cycling in front of the tractor. (Matthew's ankles peeking out as he pets the dog.)

One of our biggest problems was that everyone in Italy seemed to equate living in America as becoming instantly rich. Zio Silvio never paid my father-in-law his rent because he thought Marino didn’t need it. When we arrived at Gabi, everyone seemed to assume that we had a huge stash of money from which we could draw if we needed to. We did have some savings, but barely enough to support us all for six months. I’m not sure what went on in the conversation with Zio Silvio, but I am sure that his hesitation in approaching George about a partnership was based on the belief that we were not serious, that when we saw how hard farming was, we would return to our rich and comfortable life in America.

My fantasy about Silvio being a kindly, innocent, older man who never thought much beyond the next day’s harvest was, of course, ridiculous. He may have been kind, but he was shrewd, and he had been playing for time. After the discussion with Marino, when he realized his livelihood was about to disappear, Silvio finally approached George with a partnership proposal. They would share the facilities, increase the livestock, and the two of them would rent and cultivate even more fields from surrounding farms. It seemed like a wonderful opportunity for them both, and they came to a financial understanding. 
 But it was never to be. In the end, Zio Silvio’s shrewdness won out.

Moving to Italy: A Little History: Marino and Zio Silvio

Zio Silvio--fifteen years after we left.

Our plans to live permanently at Gabi were a threat to Zio Silvio. My mother-in-law told me that as a young man, Silvio (the youngest of the four Marca brothers) left the farm and earned money at various jobs. He had the opportunity to buy a bar/restaurant and spent all of his money to do that. However, instead of running it himself, he left it with a manager while he went off hunting, fishing, and playing. Eventually the bar failed, and late in life Silvio had to return to farming. He had no house, no tractor, and just a few fields of his own. As the oldest brother, my father-in-law took pity on Silvio and offered him a place to live--a small house at Gabi that he had purchased—a house bought with money Marino had earned working in a factory in California. Silvio also rented his fields from Marino and borrowed from him the money to buy the tractor that he drove—money that had never been repaid. Silvio owned his cows, but they were housed in the barn that belonged Marino—part of the big house where we lived. Silvio had never paid the $600 per year rent for the house, the barn, and the fields, and Marino had not pressed him for it. He had asked for just one dollar per year to establish his ownership. In addition, Zio Silvio’s little old Fiat had belonged to Marino, who had given it to him. Silvio was under considerable obligation to my father-in-law for his continued well-being. George’s return to Gabi to run the farm meant that Silvio would lose the use of Marino’s fields, his barn, and perhaps his tractor. Since Marino would no longer be earning California wages, it would also become necessary for Silvio to start paying rent on his house. Contrary to what Silvio might have thought, Marino was not a wealthy man, and he had worked hard all of his life to get what money he had.

Rina and Marino with Paul in Burbank, CA

As a young man Marino had played the violin, composed music, and had formed an orchestra that was moderately successful. He and his musicians had traveled to dances and concert halls in northern Italy. When Mussolini gained in popularity and power Marino, who was strongly opposed to the Fascists and inclined to let that be known, decided that he had better leave Italy for a while before someone turned him in. He moved to Italian Somalia in Africa and started an import-export business, which was very successful. He owned a fleet of trucks and bought a large house. Then he got married.

Several years before the start of WWII, Marino married my mother-in-law, a tailor, by proxy: in front of the proper officials, in Africa he swore to love and honor her, in Italy she did the same, and they were legally married. A single woman could not safely travel alone to Africa, so Zio Silvio accompanied her. It took two months to get there. When they first docked, she was so dismayed at what she saw that she didn't want to get off the boat, but eventually she did and enjoyed a good life. Instead of a farm house with all the accompanying work, she lived in a large and comfortable house with many servants. When the war started, Marino’s loyalty lay with the Allies, since he had always hated the Fascists. The British fought the Italians in Africa and took over Somalia where Marino owned his business. He cooperated with them and provided them with his trucks to transport men and supplies to the front lines. They in turn promised to pay him.  

When their only child was born in 1942, Marino named the baby George—after the reigning king—in an attempt to curry favor with the British. It didn’t do him any good, because the British army eventually seized his trucks and his property without reimbursement, and he was forced to return to Gabi with very little money. Several years after the war, he emigrated with his wife and George to Endicott, N.Y. where he had relatives, and he started all over again.

 After a few years they joined other relatives in Southern California, and Marino found work in a factory. My mother-in-law became the seamstress for a local men’s store, doing alterations. Their jobs were humble, but they worked hard, converting their little house in Burbank into a triplex, one paycheck at a time. Each Friday, Marino would cash his check, take out the weeks’ expenses, then buy a load of lumber. He sawed and hammered, and eventually he trained George to help him. They hired an electrician and a plumber, but the rest of the work they did themselves. When the triplex was finished and they had the rental income, they lived simply and saved carefully. 

When Marino’s brothers wrote to him that the big house at Gabi (along with its barn and two smaller houses) was for sale, he bought it for his retirement. That house was the one we lived in. One of the smaller houses he rented to Zio Silvio, and the other one was the "Apple House" attached to the main house. In order to buy the property, Marino used money earned in long hours of hard labor. He had worked as hard as the farmers he had left behind. America provided him with the opportunity to earn money, but as many immigrants and native-born Americans have found, success doesn’t happen without hard work. 

Moving to Italy: Zia Amalia

Zia Amalia was Rina’s older sister, who lived in Casale, and who came by bus to visit us about once every two weeks. She was a fascinating example of little old Italian womanhood.  Her husband had been dead some years, so as was the custom, she wore black. She was around sixty-seven, short, lively, and noisy. She was also a lot stronger than me. She didn’t arrive at Gabi on any schedule, and she didn’t write to let us know when she would be there. She just got off the bus in Gaminella and started walking the three plus miles up the steep hill. The first we knew that she was coming was when we saw a small black blob moving along the road in the distance.  If the car was around we sent one of the men to collect her, but many times we didn’t notice her until she rounded the corner of our house and called out a greeting. 

She always came burdened with bulging bags that she had carried up the steep slope. The contents of the bags were varied: a rag doll for Margaret Ann (she had one son and favored our daughter), jars of her homemade antipasto sauce, small cars for the boys, coloring books, and various items for Rina. One thing she always carried was a pocketful of hard menthol candy that she distributed freely to the children. In our house they became known ever after as “Zi’Amalia candy”.  I enjoyed listening to this old lady, even though I couldn’t understand much of what she said. It was her delivery—always light, bright, and enthusiastic.  She laughed a lot and reminded me of my English relatives—take charge, no nonsense, and no self-pity. While she was at Gabi, she walked the grounds collecting apples, pears, nuts, and anything else she could find that seemed of use. She left with bags as heavy as those she brought. We usually gave her a ride down to the bus in the village, but if we didn’t hurry she’d grab her bags and set off down the hill. What a wonderful role model for any young woman!