Although he was not really a farmer at heart, he had ‘green fingers’ and loved to grow vegetables. He also dabbled a little in livestock and used to supply veal to his friends in the Italian community of Orange Grove. At that time, though highly sought after by Italians, veal was not readily available in this country. I suspect this interaction enabled him to establish and maintain a rewarding camaraderie with his expatriate Italian friends. He was content; he had a family; he had a new home … South Africa.
My father’s memories of Italy before the war were of poverty and struggle, a daily grind to make ends meet. Being the eldest of four brothers and having lost his father when he was a young boy made it really tough on him. Caught up in the responsibilities of his new home, his work and his family, he never went back to Italy until a few years before he died, which was something he regretted. More than 55 years had passed since the Germans found him hiding under a bridge, so the reunion with his family was extremely emotional. Although he had kept in contact with them over the years, seeing them and touching them again was truly memorable for him. The country he saw when he returned was not the Italy he remembered prior to and during the war. It was now a prosperous, leading, First World country whose people were happy and comfortable. Everyone he knew had done well for themselves and he was once more proud to be Italian.
When my father passed away a few years ago, my family cleared up his personal effects and discovered that, unfortunately, only photographs with the odd name scribbled on the back were kept. All records of addresses, letters and contact numbers were lost, probably due to the fact that none of us could speak or understand Italian. From the outset, it was obvious that Meagan and I had very little to go on apart from a wad of photographs and the one and only official document we salvaged, my father’s birth certificate. That faded, fragile piece of paper gave us hope and with a few names and some photos of people we had never met, we started the search. Meagan and the Internet became very good friends. Her research located a number of Cesares in the province of Campania, near the town of Benevento.
Although a common first name, Cesare is not a common surname in Italy, despite its famous lineage typified by Giulio Cesare, the Italian spelling of Julius Caesar. It turned out that a relatively large percentage of Cesares live in the province of Campania, particularly in and around Santa Agata dei Goti (Saint Agatha of the Goths). This beautiful historic town 190 kilometres south of Rome and 110 kilometres east of Naples dates back to 300 AD and, more importantly to us, according to the birth certificate, is where my father was born.
Despite contacting a number of Cesares with the help of an old family friend in Johannesburg, who could ‘parlo Italiano’, none of them knew of my father or any of the family names we mentioned from the photos. However, Francesca Cesare, a young schoolgirl living in Santa Agata dei Goti, despite not being related, took the trouble to try and help us, after we had convinced her that she wasn’t on some candid camera-type telephone show. Catching a bus, she went to their local municipal offices, which were over 10 kilometres away, and with her mother’s help, managed to come up with a couple of names they thought might be distant relatives of ours. It appeared that most of them lived in Laiano, a nearby village close to the small town of Frasso Telesino. With this scant lead we changed our plans and began to follow our noses.
We flew from Johannesburg to London and then connected to Naples. Meagan and I were blessed with perfect weather and we excitedly absorbed the views as we flew over France and Switzerland. Somehow, as we crossed the Alps into Italy, everything felt quite different to me with the knowledge that we were now flying over my father’s country. This was the land of my roots and I desperately wanted to place my feet on its soil and smell the air. I couldn’t wait for the plane to land despite the awesome view of Mt Vesuvius with still enough light to give life to the warm late afternoon colours splashed across the calm and oily-smooth waters of the Mediterranean. It was as if the pilot had read my mind and, banking steeply, we circled the bay once more, landing in Naples just as the sun was setting. After a taxi ride from the airport to the hotel that would make our minibus taxi drivers look like little old ladies driving to church on Sunday morning, we booked in.
The next morning we awoke really early and started packing, but my impatience was all for naught. It was Sunday and all the main roads in downtown Naples were closed for a war veterans’ military parade. All the provincial regiments in Italy had gathered in spectacular regimental regalia, and led by marching bands, were parading through the city that morning. When we asked a taxi driver to get us to the station at 10 am, his initial response was that it was impossible, but he must have seen how disappointed we were, because then he shook his head, took a deep breath and said, ‘OK, we try!’ And try we did, using every short cut he knew and even the wrong side of the road on occasion, but there was just no way out of the maze of barriers, crowds of spectators and cordoned-off streets. Eventually he pulled up at a couple of police cars, walked over to the attendant policemen and started a hand-waving conversation that only the Italians and the deaf have perfected. We later learned that he must have said something like, ‘If you don’t help me get my fare to the station, you will get a horse’s head on your pillow tonight!’ Barriers were moved and with the siren wailing and blue lights flashing, we were escorted all the way to the railway station by the police! Naples has to be the epitome of organised chaos.
Fantastico, Madonna mia!
We bought two tickets to Benevento, boarded and settled down for the ride, my first on a European train. It was surprisingly fast and relaxing compared with other transport options in Naples and took us through the really poor suburbs of the city, right through the middle of what must have been Sophia Loren’s ‘Back Streets of Naples’. In less than 20 minutes, we left the urban sprawl behind and were hurtling through beautiful Italian countryside while I couldn’t stop jiggling with anticipation. I knew that within a couple of hours we’d be right in the heart of Campania province, my father’s home turf.
Benevento is a relatively small city about the size of Pietermaritzburg, and although off the beaten tourist track, it is steeped in history, as evidenced by some of the ancient architecture, which pre-dates Rome. Not knowing the prospects for finding accommodation, we booked into the first decent hotel we found, called Hotel Grande Italiano, where we were the only guests.
That afternoon was spent sightseeing, walking around the relatively quiet city, which was reminiscent of when as young children, after Sunday lunch, we played on the streets of Johannesburg where my father used to have a restaurant. I was experiencing the Italian lifestyle on the piazza for the first time and marvelling at the architecture as we went. We stumbled onto an old amphitheatre, older than anything we later saw in Rome, tucked away in the middle of the suburbs, and though it was closed, we were allowed to look around.
Sitting down to dinner back at the Hotel, Meagan and I discussed strategy. I was all ready to head into the hills the next morning with my backpack full of photos, and do some door-to-door hunting for long-lost relations, but Meagan suggested that we first try the Carabinieri (Italy’s military police). Years ago in conversation with my father, he had proudly mentioned that one of my cousins was a member of the Carabinieri, and she thought this would be a better starting point.
The next morning we took a taxi to the headquarters of Benevento’s Carabinieri. Wheeling our baggage behind us, we walked up to the reception area, and armed with an Italian/English dictionary, asked about our cousin whom we thought worked for their organisation. The chap at the front desk was very patient with us, checked on his computer and made a couple of phone calls. Nothing, nobody knew a thing. Disappointed, we turned to leave, but as we did so, a tall man in civilian clothes and with an imposing air about him, approached us and inquired as to what the problem was. The man at the front desk rattled off something in Italian. The tall man then turned to us, introduced himself and said in broken English, ‘Leave your luggage here and follo
w me.’ Two floors up the stairs and we were in his office where we learned he was Capitano Massimiliano Bollis, the commanding officer of the region. Within five minutes a translator and their best undercover detective were in the office with us.
Through the interpreter we managed to explain who we were looking for and why. With that, the undercover guy quietly left the office. Fifteen minutes later he returned with an original file dug up out of the archives, containing details of my father’s military records, and a document listing my father’s family history back to 1887.
Copies were then made and given to me and we started with the search for my cousin who was supposed to be in the Carabinieri. We found him. We had made a simple mistake, trying to trace him using the Christian name Michele, instead of Vincenzo. We were given telephone numbers and told to take the train to Caserta, from where it was only a short bus ride to Laiano. We thanked them profusely, caught a taxi to the station and bought two tickets to Caserta.
It would be over an hour before the train departed, so Meagan and I walked down the road to a small trattoria for some coffee. We were sipping away when, in typical Italian fashion, a car stopped practically in the middle of the road and our friendly plainclothes undercover man got out and walked up to us. Going down on his haunches to be on our eye level, he explained in broken but perfectly comprehensible English that my cousin had phoned and would pick us up at their headquarters in 45 minutes. Then he added that while we had some time in hand waiting for my cousin, he would love to show us a little more of Benevento. We were really happy with his offer and thoroughly enjoyed his guided tour of the city of which he was so proud. Just before returning to the Carabinieri HQ, he turned to us again and said, ‘I hope you don’t mind, but we have called the press to cover your story!’
Meagan and I looked at each other and replied, ‘Not at all.’
When in Rome…
At the HQ we found a journalist, a cameraman and a number of high-ranking Carabinieri officers. Not only was the beautiful young reporter dressed like she had just stepped off a catwalk, but she spoke perfect English as well. We were just getting acquainted, when in walked my cousin Giulio and his wife Lucia. You would have sworn we’d known each other for years from the emotional greeting we shared. The cameras clicked, the chatter was recorded and the next day we were on the local TV. Apparently the story featured in three newspapers, although we only saw the one. Meagan and I were beginning to understand how important ‘La Famiglia’ is in Italian culture; it’s unlikely, as Meagan cynically joked, that it was just a slow press day.
Giulio is the spitting image of my brother Dino, only a little heavier, and it soon became apparent why. He simply loves his food. In the coming days we were to find out about another Italian passion … food! By that I mean, not just any food but, simply, the best food in the world.
It turned out that I have a big family in Italy, and most of them live within a radius of 30 kilometres, so Meagan and I spent much of our time being hosted by each in turn. During a rare quiet moment, I indicated to Giulio, whose English wasn’t too bad as he had spent nearly a year in Jersey, USA, that my mission would be totally fulfilled if I could find the house my father was born in, or even where it once stood.
‘No problem,’ he said. ‘I know where it is, we will go there tomorrow.’
The following day we drove up into the mountains towards Santa Agata dei Goti and Laiano, and as we climbed up the twisting mountain road, the temperature dropped noticeably. About half way up, we stopped at a roadside fountain for a drink of the sweetest water you have ever tasted. The source of this icy cold mountain spring was way up in the Apennines and is one of many like it, hundreds of years old and still used every day.
A little while later we drove past groves of olive trees that seemed to be growing out of a sea of poppies, some of the trees being so old and gnarled I’m sure they could have produced the olives my father ate. Slowing down, we eased our way through a herd of goats in the middle of a small village. Meagan insisted on taking a photo of the goat herder, who thought she was a little dippy.
‘This was your father’s village,’ Giulio said, his Alfa Romeo’s low-profile tyres rumbling over the cobblestone roads. A couple of minutes later we pulled up outside a relatively modern looking house.
‘And this is where he was born,’ he added. Goosebumps sent a tingling itch all over me as I tried to collect my thoughts.
Parking the car, we noticed three men in the driveway of the house. One of them was on his knees holding a small dog on its back, while another gently dusted its belly with flea powder. As we approached them, the men stood up and released the dog, which scampered away, shaking a lot of the powder off in a trailing cloud as it went. Giulio did the introductions and we shook hands, flea powder and all. He explained why we were there and asked if we could take photos.
‘Of course,’ they replied. ‘Come in, we will show you a section of the original house that we still use as a wood store and barn.’
I could hardly contain myself. I was standing where my father stood and looking at the same mountains he did. This was serious lump-in-throat stuff and it was so much more than I ever expected. We took a few more photos of the humble, yet solidly built remnants of the stone and timber house that was once his home. Some time later, after some rather poignant comments, we thanked the owner once more and slowly began to make our way back to the car. We hadn’t gone far, when one of the three men called us back.
‘There is someone who would like to speak to you,’ he said, motioning to the main implement store. From behind one of the big Fiat tractors, a little old man approached us. He looked at least 90 years old and was dressed in a jacket and tie topped with a trilby. Leaning lightly on a walking stick, he hobbled straight up to me. I’ll never forget his striking blue eyes, unusual in the south of Italy, which were reflecting the broad smile on his weather-beaten wrinkled face. Placing the cane’s crook on his forearm, he took my hand and held it with both of his, then looked straight at me with his now watery blue eyes and said something that brought tears to mine. He told me that he and my father had played together as small boys and that they were best friends …
We had one more thing to do and that was to visit Francesca and her mother in Santa Agata. I am so glad we did, as Meagan and I were quite overwhelmed by the kindness they showed us. Here were people we never knew, except through a long-distance phone call, and they were openly emotional and genuinely happy for us.
We had the best coffee you have ever tasted served in their best china, but I had to decline the offer of grappa, one of the proudly Italian products I just cannot learn to like! We presented Francesca with a simple but beautiful Pondo bead necklace as a token of our gratitude. With an emotional wrench, it was time to travel on.
There is just so much pasta one can eat and just so much home-made vino one can drink. To add to the challenge, we were handicapped to start with; Meagan loves pasta but her colon doesn’t, and I love vino but my head doesn’t. So, I ate her excess pasta, putting on 1 000 kilograms in a week, and she was permanently blotto! After my 120th espresso one day, I tried to dilute the next one by sneaking a little hot water and milk into it, but Giulio caught me red-handed, looked at me and said, ‘What-a you drink-a now is-a coffee baby!’ By the time we had learned how to say, ‘No thanks, I’ve had enough’ without offending anyone, it was time to leave.
The next stage of our journey took us north, where we would meet up with Mauro and his beautiful wife Deborah, two Italians whom I had met when they were on holiday in South Africa a few years previously. Despite having only spent a couple of days teaching them the basics of trout fishing in the highland streams of Mpumalanga, we kept in touch. It was not easy to lose touch with someone who insists on posting you a couple of kilograms of Parmesan cheese every few months.
‘Why,’ I asked, ‘do you keep sending the cheese?’
‘Ah no want-a you must-a forget-a me,’ Mauro said, and I never did.
; It was really good to see them again, and they appeared as excited to show us their part of Italy, as we were to see it. They set aside their busy lives, drove all the way down from their studio in Munich, picked us up in Florence and took us on the most wonderful road trip you could imagine. We were exposed to the Italy few tourists ever see and for a few days we lived the life Italians live. We visited their friends in Pisa who owned a restaurant, and after an enormous lunch, drove up the west coast to more friends in Comogli and Portofino, where we stayed the night.
The following day we headed north to their family who live in the beautiful town of Trento where Deborah grew up and attended university. The town was littered with cycling paraphernalia, and even though we’d missed the Giro di Italia cyclists by an hour or two, the atmosphere was still charged with the aftermath of this truly Italian sport. Finally, we wound our way up into the Alps, to the ski resort village of Madonna de Campiglio, situated almost on the Austrian border, where yet more friends opened up their picture postcard hotel just for us despite it being out of season and nowhere else being open.
Words to describe the setting fail me, it was so beautiful and more, much more. I even managed to spot some wild trout in a fast-flowing alpine river close by, and a herd of deer, as they sunned themselves on the hillside just outside town. The next day we bade a fond farewell to Mauro and Deborah who motored on through the Alps back to Germany.
Wildlife in Italy, ‘she’s not-a beeg,’ so I was really happy to have seen some deer. I didn’t get to see the European brown bear, which has been re-introduced into the surrounding forest, but it was good to know they were there, and that the locals were really proud of this conservation effort.
Mhudi Page 19