Russo Keeping in Touch With Cheryl

A Memoir
1. Auflage 2018
ISBN: 978-1-5439-4233-0
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: PC/MAC/eReader/Tablet/DL/kein Kopierschutz

E-Book, Englisch, 272 Seiten

'Keeping in Touch with Cheryl: A Memoir' 'The tumultuous and gripping memoirs of the life and times of Vincenzo Russo. The story of how one individual had somehow managed to scale more than six decades of human history. Come and join in my recollections from the time of birth in a small Italian Village and the climb upwards to the year 2016. Many of those years being spent living in constant fear of losing grip of the various and tenuous cultural and social influences encountered along the way'

Autoren/Hrsg.

Russo, Vincenzo

Leseproben

CHAPTER 1 It was a hot August day in 1954. In a rented two-story house in a small village situated between Rome and Naples and lying seven kilometres from the Mediterranean Sea, my mama was in labour and was said to be having difficulties getting the unborn to come out. It was likely that the child was having second thoughts about entering the world because he was going to be dragged screaming into this theme park called life. ‘Look, I don’t want to come out because there are too many people and all the rides look too scary, especially the roller coaster’ (translated from Italian). Humans though, being creative creatures, had other ideas; the tracks had already been laid, so it was just a matter of holding on with sheer grit. According to Mum, there were two other older females assisting with the birth who were apparently very experienced, which is not surprising, given the large families that were the norm at that time. Mum was the eldest of 11 children—10 girls and one boy—and she eventually had seven of her own. Of those, the first died of malaria at 14 months of age, and the second was a still birth. The last sibling, a girl, was born some 15 months after myself. I can only imagine how many more bambinos (children) would have come along if my papa hadn’t died when he did. Necessity being the mother of invention, the two weighty ladies proceeded to gyrate their buttocks on top of my mum’s stomach until the baby’s head was facing in the right direction and then was finally extricated from the womb as thunder and flashes of lightning from a summer’s afternoon storm announced the arrival of the child into the world. The town and commune in southern Lazio, Italy, is situated on the northwest bank of the Liris (also known as the Garigliano), with a suburb on the opposite bank about 18 kilometres from its mouth, at the point where the Via Appia crosses it by a bridge called Pons Tirestius. The region and town have a history of being invaded and conquered by various kings and armies over centuries. According to my late stepfather, following his visits to the region, he described the people as rude and unwelcoming. After centuries of being conquered and treated as pawns on a chessboard, it is not that surprising for them to adopt such a façade. The town suffered heavy bombings during WWII. Mum recalls watching the German soldiers march towards the village while bearing her first child. They then proceeded to shell and destroy most of the houses and buildings. The Germans then rounded up all the able men, apart from my father, who had managed to hide, with the aim of taking them across the Switzerland border and into Germany as prisoners of war. It was while on a train going north that my Nonno (grandfather) managed to escape their clutches. The rest of the remaining villagers, including women and children, were forcibly transported towards a camp in the region of Calabria, located in the south of Italy some 400 kilometres away. It was along the road that Mum witnessed the true horrors of military insanity, for one could view the decaying bodies of soldiers and civilians on each side of the road who were killed and piled up, one on top of the other. ‘Yes, where have all the soldiers gone, gone to graveyards everyone, when will they ever learn’ (Peter Seger, ‘Where Have All the Flowers Gone’; 1955). Yes, nothing has been learned. The lunatics running this world have developed new ways to carry out mass killings, whether it be from the sky, under the sea, or from thousands of kilometres away. The villagers, though, eventually returned, following the liberation of Italy by the Americans and their allied forces in 1945. Following the end of the war, the townspeople went back to their meagre existence while attempting to rebuild their shattered lives. The churches once again were bustling with women, making up a large part of the religious services in anticipation of the long-awaited second coming of Jesus Christ, while the men preferred to engage in heated discussions about politics, either at a bar or the piazza (public square). Daily life, though, was not without its usual quota of mishaps—like the time when I fell into a fire and had my genitals burnt at the age of one and, according to Mum, Papa was the only one who could console me. There was apparently a strong attachment formed between father and son. The south of Italy was economically poor, with very little manufacturing or agricultural industries. The town itself didn’t even have a sewage system, and toilets were as scarce as hen’s teeth. All bodily excrements were largely disposed of into a chamber pot. With the size of the families, these got quite a workout. Mum recalls having to regularly get up at either two or three in the morning to empty the near overflowing bowls over the balcony and onto the cobblestones below. The family was fortunate, as Papa was able to etch out a living by travelling to other villages and towns, selling various wares (nuts, etc.) off the tray on the back of a motorized three-wheeled Piaggio Ape (ar-pay). In the spring month of May 1956, Mum’s world once again fell apart. Regional elections were being held, and as such, a great deal of activity was taking place in the village. At one point during that day, Papa was asked to accompany a local resident to collect some vino (wine), an errand that he was reluctant to help with but agreed nevertheless. On the way, his ar-pay was hit by a vehicle coming out of a driveway, and because of the collision, he died after suffering a heart attack at the age of 42. Mum would often mention that, after his death, I would stand on the balcony screaming inconsolably, calling for Papa to come home, but he never did. It was to be one of many losses. Sometime later, a court awarded compensation to the surviving spouse and to each child, but the course of history had already been determined. In the year following Papa’s fatal demise, Mum began to correspond with a brother of Papa who lived in Adelaide, Australia, with the aim of the family migrating there. The Italian presence in Australia predates the First Fleet. James Matra and Antonio Ponto, both of Italian descent, were aboard the ship Endeavour with Captain James Cook on his voyage of discovery in 1770. Convict Giuseppe Tuzo arrived with the First Fleet and eventually settled in Sydney. Hundreds of Italians permanently settled in Victoria following the gold rush of 1850. After, their numbers were limited by the 1925 Australian Immigration Act. Following WWII, however, there was to be a large increase in migrants, mainly from southern Europe, and many of those were agricultural workers from southern Italian regions, including Sicily and Calabria. Because many who arrived were single men, proxy marriages to women back in Italy were common practice (Origins: Immigration Communities of Australia). The allure of a country offering work and prosperity for many was as intoxicating as the wine that they drank. In the 2006 Australian census, 199,124 people were counted as having been born in Italy. The majority settled in Victoria, but a strong presence was also found in South Australia. My uncle was already established and was a cobbler by trade, making shoes from his house in a northern suburban home in Adelaide. The offer of just having the two eldest boys come over to live with the uncle was initially made. For Mum though, it was a case of all or nothing, and she stuck to her ultimatum. Her maternal instincts and sheer will, managed to win out in the end, for in August 1956, the entire family was watching the Bay of Naples slipping further into the horizon as the passenger ship, named Australia, steamed towards ‘the land down under’. Imagine a 31-year-old, widowed mother along with her five children, ranging in ages from 10 to 1, departing their ancestral homeland and emigrating to the other side of the planet. There were no reports of ships that had gone before us that had fallen over the edge of the earth, but little did we know what a cultural shock lay in store: a land where men were called ‘blokes’ and woman ‘sheilas’. A novel titled They’re a Weird Mob, written in the early 1960s by John O’ Grady under the pen pseudonym Nino Cullota, and later made into a movie, provides an entertaining and insightful social commentary on Australian society of that period—specifically, a male, working-class society. The story follows a newly arrived immigrant named Nino Cullota, from Sicily, Italy, and his awkward interactions with the Anglo-Saxon characters of Sydney. So, take a gander at the book or film and don’t forget it is your shout next mate, Cobber (referring to the custom when drinking in a pub). While light hearted, many of the non-fictional migrants, including my family, suffered badly in the ‘land of Oz’. There is a photo lying around somewhere of me as a three-year-old dressed in a blue and white sailor suit on board the ship. Without any hint of modesty, I would say the boy looked a cute and handsome specimen, with chubby cheeks. It was highly probable, not remembering any part of the sea voyage, that this image did have its drawbacks. Due to being on a confined ship, the cheek pinching must have been relentless, with total strangers wanting to make their affections known. The older passengers most likely would have approached the boy and smiled while leaning down with their outreached arm to, the thumb and first finger joined together,...