by C. D'Angelo
As we stroll down the old street hand and hand, I keep my hope alive, not only for finding out about Grandpa’s life, but about our relationship continuing to grow. Maybe, just maybe, I do want to be proposed to by Brian still. Maybe.
There she is. I stare at the Cattedrale di San Giorgio in silence and stop dead in my tracks. I am hoping this sacred spot in front of my eyes will hold my secret treasure. Her black wrought iron gate that surrounds the property is propped open, allowing for people to have a straight path to her large dark wooden front doors. Just inside the perimeter of the gate, there are two waving flags, one Italy flag and one English St. George’s cross flag, which is the flag of Genoa. I read about the St. George cross, red with a background of white, being a prominent symbol of pride throughout Genoa, since St. George is the patron saint of the city. Both flags grace the sightline of the beige church and add an extra Italian flair that sends pride throughout my body.
A cemetery is on the left side of the main building. The aged olive trees encase the area, disguising the tombstones and memorials so much that people may forget they are there and instead may assume the land is a meditation garden of sorts. You know, not the land of a million memories of their residents, lingering below the surface of the thick soil above them. Too dramatic? That never applies to me. Well, I love looking at old cemeteries and will make sure we take a walk over there later.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I never go to a cemetery to visit deceased loved ones, but would go to view the typically decorative decaying tombstones. I know that’s weird. Add it to the never-ending list. I just don’t think that the tradition of visiting the deceased makes any sense because the people aren’t there. It is merely their bodies that were laid to rest in that space, but their souls escaped long before their “final resting place.” So, if you want to “talk” to a loved one, you don’t have to do it at their grave. Do it anywhere you want. That’s my belief anyway.
Creaaak.
The heavy doors make a sound as if announcing our arrival to everyone inside. Scanning the room side to side, nobody looks up. Phew. That is way too much attention drawn to me, even though nobody looks fazed.
But this church. This church! It’s magnificent. I don’t know where to look first. The cathedral is so grand that I feel four feet tall. The altar looks like it’s a mile away from the entrance. The red cushioned pews are endless. There are two adjacent rooms, one on each side, veering off from the altar that also contain rows of red seated wooden pews. I can’t believe all of the details and how they come together to create one artistic masterpiece.
Colorful stained-glass windows, Gothic in aesthetic, surround the entire sanctuary. Like, all the way around. They are spectacular. I’ve never seen a church come even close to the aged beauty of this one. As I look closer at the stained-glass windows, I see their unique dome shape, which has thick beige frames all around them. They tell visual stories of Christ’s life above each huge rectangular clear window.
Frescos also grace the walls and ceiling. I look up and swing my head slowly around the whole area. The faded colors don’t impact their luxurious nature one bit. These are true Italian frescos before my eyes, like I’ve seen in history books.
Brian and I both remain silent, in an understood respect of the space.
Once my brain processes the combination of beauty with history in front of me, I can finally mutter, “Wow.” That’s all I can get out. I have been in old churches before, having lived my entire life in the northeast of the US, but this one is definitely the oldest, and most stunning.
Brian nods in agreement.
A wall plaque in the entry way catches my eye. I whisper, “It was built in the fourteenth century. How amazing that a structure could withstand nature, wars, and who knows what else, all that time, and look as though it was effortless.”
“Yeah, she does look a little timeworn, but not too bad for being such an old lady.”
“Yup, not worn in the way I would have thought. The time has only enhanced her natural beauty, just as age brings delightful wisdom to humans.” I suddenly feel silly for my emotional statement and look down.
Brian puts his arm around my shoulder and squeezes. “That’s true, Rachel.”
“You know I love rustic buildings. This is the perfect place for me.” I release my momentary embarrassment and laugh, quietly.
We walk down the aisle together—whoa—and slip into a pew near the ornate baptismal font. Well-used Bibles and hymnals are stacked on the pews, leaving room for people to sit in between the piles. There aren’t any racks to hold the books on the back of the pews, like in most churches I’ve seen in my life. Hmm, there aren’t any kneelers either. I guess that is something for modern-day churches rather than this fourteenth century one. There are lightly padded square kneelers that hang individually from underneath the pews, though. They look uncomfortable, but comfort wasn’t a priority back then I bet. I swear they must be the original kneelers, based on their centuries-old appearance. The amount of wear and discoloration make me want to dig into my DNA and try to sew new ones for them. But, as I glance across the aisle toward the pews in front of me, I see the bigger picture. The array of colorful pads all hanging happily as if dancing in the gentle air wait for their next loving worshiper. Their longevity feels beautiful and safe.
“Look at the kneelers,” I whisper. “They each have a family crest, or some set of religious symbols on them as decoration.”
“Maybe families donated them so their name was attached to the church,” Brian responds.
I dip my head in confirmation. “Maybe. I have no idea. What if my family did attend this church and I have a family crest on a kneeler somewhere in here?” My heart beats faster.
“If that’s the case, we can look or ask about it.”
“Yes, for sure if we get confirmation and there’s time.”
My focus shifts to scanning the room for its visitors. A few people sit sporadically throughout the large space, with their heads bowed in probable prayer. I remember that yesterday was Easter Monday, so this place must have been hopping. I am not sure if today is representative of the usual amount of people that visit on a Tuesday, or less than typical due to probable recent visits.
After sitting a few moments, Brian whispers, “I’m going to walk around.”
I nod and remain seated. The table of lit candles in the corner captures my attention with their moving flames. My legs carry me almost automatically to them, so I can honor Grandpa by lighting one.
I take the candle lighter in hand and bring two votive candles to life. The mini white candles shine in their tiny red transparent holders. Please know I am thinking of you, Grandpa. And Grandma too. But, Grandpa, I hope you are okay with me being here. My head remains bowed, my eyes closed, and my hands in prayer form. God, please help me in my quest for truth. I really need it.
Brian is taking his time, walking around the sanctuary and looking in depth at each stained-glass window scene. I know he is fine for a while and can find me later, when he is done. Spotting a staff member, I make my way over to him.
“Scusi. Parla inglese?”
“Sí, signora.” He smiles.
I’m in luck.
“Grazie. I wrote a letter to your church a few months ago and I never received a response. I am trying to find out if you have records for my family. Can you help me?”
He nods his head and keeps a straight face, but springs into action to help. He asks, “Can you follow me?” He starts walking before I answer.
Um, this feels weird to follow a stranger when I’m alone, but hey, we are in a church and I am going along with that Italian trust thing I realize must be the norm.
The staff worker finds a co-worker in this new room and holds a short conversation that I can’t understand. I hear “no” and “sí” but otherwise, I’m lost.
My heart and thoughts race, adding a hin
t of lightheadedness to this situation. Breathe, Rachel. This could be it. I’m seconds away from an answer.
But this is taking forever. Argh! Just when I feel ready to burst, the co-worker walks over to where I’m standing.
“Buongiorno, signora.” After saying good morning to me, he struggles through his English sentences. “Please here you will wait for me to letters.” I don’t quite understand but shake my head in agreement. I hear the word “letters,” so I’m making progress.
The original helper clarifies what his friend is doing for me. “He said he has a stack of inquiries regarding multiple concerns from people and he wants to see if your letter is in there. He is bringing the pile to you so maybe you could find your own letter. It will be faster.”
“Oh, thanks! Grazie. Okay, I will wait here.” I’m glad he translated. But now I really can’t wait to find out if my letter is in that pile.
“Prego,” he replies. I know that means “you’re welcome,” so I smile.
He walks off and I am left alone in the nearly bare room, made of light brown clay on all four walls, ceiling, and floor. One lonely Easter banner hangs on the wall. There isn’t much to look at, but the minimal decor feels right, as a needed opposition to the elaborate sanctuary of the room next door. The beauty in there can’t be diminished by another room.
I sit down on the one chair available and stare at the small cart on wheels across from me. Brochures fill its racks. Maybe this is an informational space for visitors and the congregation, not just lost American souls.
Once the man returns, he holds a stack of at least fifteen letters out toward me, of all different envelope colors, sizes, and languages. He shuffles them through his hands.
There it is! I see my letter right away. I pull it from the pile and grin. But it hasn’t been opened yet. My heart sinks. It’s okay. I’m going to get to the bottom of this right now.
I hand him my letter, with a deep breath.
He opens it and starts reading.
Time feels paused.
“I am sorry we no write you. Sometimes we take long to respond since we do not have many here to work. I can take you to the record room and we see about family name.”
Eee! “Sí, sí, grazie.”
Now, I still have the Italian trust feeling, but I do think I need to tell Brian I am leaving or see if he wants to come. Disappearing for who knows how long wouldn’t be a particularly kind act. He may want to help or to be a witness to whatever happens, as well. So, I hold up a finger to the staff worker and say, “One minute,” as I speed walk toward Brian.
“Brian,” I call as I get closer to him. He doesn’t look up. When I whisper I think I sound loud. Is that an echo? Nobody is looking at me, though. “Hey, Brian,” ever so slightly louder now. This time, I attract his eye contact, instead of the fresco of angels he was staring at intensely.
“Yeah,” he says.
“I’m going to go down to the record room with a staff member. Do you want to come?”
“Sure. I can look around more later maybe. Let’s go.”
All three of us go down the spiral, narrow stairs. The dark basement is cold and damp, filled with old dusty books on its many bookshelves. We stop at a table in the middle of the room while the man looks at my letter again and places his finger on the name and birthday of my grandpa, which I included for helpful information. He walks over to a large brown leather book that has the dates “1900-1905” embossed on the binding in gold and pulls it off the shelf. It almost hits the floor because of the size.
I slide my foot on the gritty floor, curling my toes.
He dawdles back to the table in front of us, looking like the book may take down his elderly body, and firmly sets it down. A puff of dust flies out from under the book. I turn my head and close my eyes, so I don’t get a whiff. He isn’t affected by my reaction and casually flips page after page until stopping on one for a minute. And…nothing. False alarm. He continues flipping.
At last, he stops turning the pages for a second and remains stopped. He motions for me to come closer and look at where his finger is pointing. I guess sliding the book over to me would be difficult and I don’t blame the tiny man. Viewing the content brings tears to my eyes. But, for once, tears of joy. The document in front of me is Salvatore Allegranza’s baptismal record. I know the Italian word “battesimo” from my online searches. Now it’s my new favorite word.
I see Grandpa’s parents’ names, his birth date, baptismal date, and home address. What a gorgeous piece of paper. This aged brown page is more attractive than any aspect of the sanctuary above us.
“This is really it, Rachel?” Brian is the first person to speak during the whole time we are in the record room. “It’s that simple?”
I laugh at the thought that this moment came so easily, but just say, “Yes,” feeling a sense of peace. I don’t think my voice ever sounded so calm. “Here it is.” I can’t stop admiring it.
Seeing my great-grandparents’ names, Gino and Francesca, are treats to my eyes. I see their home in Genoa was Via Figura 3. Their home! Over one hundred years ago, Grandpa lived at 3 Figura Street. And Francesca’s name on this official certificate confirms my previous find in the records online.
I take out my journal of notes and mark down all of the information. I squeeze the pen so tight that the ink may explode on the page. At least this way, my sweaty hands won’t cause it to slip and drop to the dirt floor.
I know that this basement also contains information in one of those books that will help me to know my great-grandma’s next married surname. It must. Since my grandpa had a half-sister, she had to have gotten remarried. Ladies in those days didn’t usually have kids out of wedlock.
I look at the shelves and wish I had X-ray vision. “Sir, can we also look for my great-grandma Francesca’s second married name? Sadly, my great-grandpa never came back to Italy after moving to the US and I think she remarried.”
“Yes.”
No computer system helps us to sort through the stacks of books, but the church has an unbelievably detailed system all their own. The man is able to find anything through his own old-fashioned search, cross referencing in multiple books. It only takes forty-five minutes for the next stop on this train. Hey, it’s quicker than the year I spent looking for documents like these, so fine by me. But how nice would it have been if these records were online? Anyway…
“Qui.” The patient helper points in the book in front of us.
I look down for the new treasure he found. “Francesca Ricci. That was her second married name, Brian.”
“I see that. Remarkable.”
“Yeah, it is.” I stare at the marriage certificate, known by the word “matrimonio,” and write down her name for my records.
“One last question. Well, actually the second to the last.” Oh gosh, I hope he doesn’t make us leave. This is a goldmine. “I wonder what her daughter’s name was. Can you find it?” Her name also needs confirmation, so I have to ask. I’m getting so brave in my thirty-third year of life.
After only a few minutes, he props open another larger than life book on the table. This time I back away on commencement, knowing the dust bunnies will fly out by the looks of the cover.
Again, he points to an entry on a page where he stopped flipping. “Angeline Ricci. Battesimo,” he utters.
“Thank you! Angeline Ricci was Grandpa’s half-sister. Got it.” I write down this last bit of information. She’s my other great-aunt. Wow.
“I can’t believe all that you are gathering here,” Brian says.
“I know.” I turn back to the man and smile. “My very last question is about my grandpa’s full blood sister. I think her name was Antonia. Antonia Allegranza. I want to make sure. Do you mind one more search?” I tilt my head and make begging eyes.
The sweet man that has been downstairs with us all this time say
s, “I do that for you” and flashes a warm smile. It’s the first time he broke his flatness, although I could feel his desire to help the whole time.
He starts looking in his reference books for the last time. Twenty minutes pass with us watching him plugging away for us before he tells me, “I am sorry. Her only record here was damaged in water leak many years long time past.”
My heart drops. I would love to confirm this last piece of information with my family’s names, but I will have to find out another way. And I won’t stop until I do.
“Oh, that’s awful. Well, you have done so much for me. I cannot thank you enough.” I get ready to leave by putting my journal back in my purse. I need to stop taking up his time.
He stops me from turning around by saying, “Scusi. Angeline’s family lives in home on Via Figura and she comes here Sundays. Now, last name is Santoro. I save that for last to tell.” He smiles.
Brian and I exchange confused looks. This is too good to be true.
“You mean, Grandpa’s half-sister not only lives close, but lives in their childhood home and you know of her without even looking up congregation names?”
“Sí, signora,” he says, nodding with bright eyes.
“Thank you!” I exclaim. “Grazie! Thank you for all of your help today. You spent so much time with us and gave me more information than I could have ever dreamed of in my lifetime. You have provided me with the next step in my journey.”
He reaches over and kisses me on both cheeks, one at a time. “Prego.”
Brian and I climb the stairs to leave the dusty basement and move into the sanctuary. The candles I lit are shining bright, so much that it appears as if they are the only two there—with their flames rising proudly above their holders. They can’t be missed. I know my prayers are being answered and I know this is a sign that my Grandpa is okay with me being on this search.