In my piece last week, I mentioned my father’s stories told around Aunt Martha’s table. Dad’s stories eventually morphed from oral retellings to blog to book to podcast (all due to my brother’s influence, tutelage, and hard work). During the pandemic, my brother spent hundreds of hours with my parents, recording Dad retelling these stories then adding to them with conversation and lots of laughter. The podcast they created together is amazing. My small contribution to the retelling of Dad’s stories is a new take on my grandmother’s immigration to America; I wrote this in response to the prompt, “the invisible woman,” for my writing group.
My grandmother, Pasqualina Bellapianta Zaza, had a profound effect on her family both during her life and afterward. She died suddenly and too young and settled into legend, a revered character in the set-piece of my father’s childhood and young adulthood. She was an accomplished cook, baker, seamstress; a loving mother and friend; an ever-patient companion to my difficult grandfather. Grandpa Zaza usually takes center-stage in Dad’s stories, as he did in life. So, although Grandma features prominently in the stories, her thoughts and feelings about her life have become invisible.
I like to try to imagine Dad’s stories from Grandma’s point of view. You can find the original story, “Beginning a New Life: Pasqualina Bellapianta Zaza,” as told by Dad, in the podcast.
Molfetta Italy, 1928
Pasqualina sat on the floor, the telegram crumpled in her hand, her head rested in the old lady’s lap. Mama Zaza stroked the weeping girl’s hair, her own tight grey bun on the lace antimacassar on the back of the brocade chair.
“When does he want you to come?”
Pasqualina’s musical voice replied, “August. The Vulcania. It sails from Genoa.”
Genoa! My god, I’ve never been as far as Bari! I’m not even sure where Genoa is – somewhere on the other side of Italy, I think. They don’t even speak the same language. How will I find my way to the right ship, much less make the voyage to America!
The old lady gripped Pasqualina’s chin and lifted her face to look into the soft dark brown eyes, red-rimmed and with tears clinging to the long black lashes. The idea of losing her, and Marta, to her son’s grasping ambition in America made her blood boil. She sighed and resigned herself to the offer she was about to make.
“Pasqualina, daughter of my heart, Gaetano is my son, and I love him. But he is mean and thinks only of himself. Stay here. I will take care of you and Marta.”
Pasqualina thought of her handsome brothers and sweet sisters. Of her own mama and papa. She would probably never see them again. She loved this rugged beautiful country and knew her place here. What would she do in America? Who would she talk to? Why had she tied herself to this woman’s bantam rooster of a son – crowing and strutting around in his stringy flesh?
What will happen to me in America? Gaetano is such a hard man. But, maybe I will have the chance to sing? Will there be a church that will have me? Maybe there will be more money to buy seeds, make wine, grow vegetables. Everyone says that America has everything. Maybe there will be better cotton to make clothes. Gaetano isn’t that bad. He made Marta, didn’t he? Maybe there will be more babies to love. If I stay here, there is no chance of another child.
Pasqualina gathered her courage and wrote to Gaetano, expressing her fears and offering to stay with his mother so they could care for each other and raise Marta. Gaetano’s response was immediate. And cruel. Gaetano would permit her to stay in Molfetta, but he would no longer send money to support her and Marta.
Pasqualina washed the fresh tears from her face. She woke Marta from her nap, fed her some cooled pasta with a drizzle of olive oil. She tied the child’s shoes and snugged the soft knitted hood over her silky black hair. “Come, my darling, we must go see Nonno.”
***
Arriving at her childhood home, Pasqualina kissed her mama on both cheeks, put Marta in a tiny chair made for the beloved child, and tied an apron around her own soft middle. The two women settled into an easy rhythm in the warm kitchen.
“I have had news from Gaetano.”
Mama Bellapianta stifled a sob.
“He wants me to come to America. Very soon.”
“Does your papa know?”
“Not yet. I mean to talk to him tonight.”
There was a long pause before Mama replied. “Stir the sauce so it doesn’t burn.”
***
Pasqualina silently passed the two telegrams to Papa. He took the crumpled, tear-streaked papers, read them, and sighed.
“Well, I will take you and Marta to the train for Genoa.”
Pasqualina tasted the words she was about to speak rather than the beautiful sauce her mother had made for her. “Papa, Mama Zaza has offered to care for me and Marta. She doesn’t want us to go to America. She is worried that Gaetano will not be, well, that he won’t be an attentive husband to me or a loving father to Marta. He is my husband and I know I should go to him. But I am very afraid to leave you and Mama, to leave everything I know. What do you think?”
Papa sat for a long while. He sipped his wine, rubbed his chin.
What if Papa thinks I should stay? What will happen if I do not go and find my future in America? I am so afraid, but I am a little bit excited too! America is supposed to be very beautiful. What might I find there? Here there is only the same life I have always known, and I will end up taking care of all these old people.
Finally, Papa spoke. “Pasqualina, you are my daughter, and I love you with my whole heart. But I knew from the moment you were born that one day I would lose you to another man. Gaetano is your husband. He is Marta’s father. I think you must go to him.”
My insides feel funny – I am excited and afraid at the same time. No matter. I must start thinking of myself as an American now.
Whose perspective is missing from your family’s stories? I’d love to hear from you about how you think about, develop, and incorporate those perspectives in your own writing.