Sicily on My Mind: Echoes of Fascism and World War Ii

By Joseph Cione

The book reflects my first twenty-one years of life
in Sicily, particularly from 1931 until the day of my departure in 1947.

It relates briefly to my childhood, the happy years
and the painful ones, spent in a kind of world that no longer exists, where people
lived and shared their meager existence in joyful simplicity and in a spirit of
kinship that enriched their lives.

It shows some first hand details about the Fascist
indoctrination of the Italian Youth, from puberty to adulthood, as well as its
relentless propaganda efforts filled with distortions, brain washing subtleties
and plain wishful thinking.

It offers also a fresh glimpse of the war, with all
its fears, deprivation, devastation and death.

Finally, the book weaves throughout its contents a
steady pattern of suffering, courage, inner strength and spiritual faith that
characterized my mothers life: The main figure in the book.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jun 13, 2003
• ISBN: 9781410733191

Joseph Cione

He was born in Sicily in 1925. He grew up during Fascism’s golden era, and lived in Palermo, Sicily during World War II. Together with his mother and one hundred other emigrants, he arrived at the New York harbor on March 27, 1947. He became an American citizen in 1953. In 1961, he earned a B.A from Brooklyn College in Romance Languages. In 1963, he received an M.A. degree from Hunter College in New York City in French Language and Literature. In 1962 he began his teaching career in the New York City Education System. He taught French, Spanish and Italian languages. He retired from classroom teaching in June of 1983. Presently, he lives in Apex, North Carolina with Sara, his wife of fifty-three years.  

Book preview

SICILY

ON

MY MIND

(ECHOES OF FASCISM AND WORLD WAR II)

by

JOSEPH CIONE

© 2003 Joseph Cione. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the author.

ISBN: 1-4107-3319-X (e-book)

ISBN13: 9-7814-1073-319-1 (e-book)

ISBN: 1-4107-3320-3 (Paperback)

1stBooks - rev. 04/10/03

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

* MEMORIES *

BIRTHPLACE

THE SOCCER GAME

THE FAMILY

THE STORM

REMEMBRANCES OF CHRISTMAS

LEISURE TIME

CONU, THE STORYTELLER

MY AMERICAN FATHER

THE DEPARTURE

NEW SURROUNDINGS

IL DUCE MYSTIQUE

LIFE GOES ON

GROWING UP WITH FASCISM

THE SPEECH

BAPTISM OF FIRE

LEARNING TO ENDURE

ANNA GETS MARRIED

SEEKING REFUGE

RESPITE FROM THE WAR

TADDEO COMES HOME

YANKEES IN SICILY

TRAGEDY STRIKES HOME

GOING HOME

TRAGEDY STRIKES AGAIN

RESPITE FROM PAIN

THE WAR ENDS

A DIFFICULT TRANSITION

GOING TO AMERICA

To the memory

of my mother

who taught me the meaning

of unconditional love.

In everlasting gratitude.

J.C.

2003

INTRODUCTION

Life is a long and winding journey with unexpected twists and turns, some troublesome, others joyful, and most of them challenging and fascinating. I am still trudging on mine, even though the pace has slowed down a bit and I am beginning to perceive the last exit on the road. Nevertheless, each passing day, I will keep on celebrating, whether in joy or in sorrow, this fascinating quest called life.

Like all things, life has a beginning in time and place. Mine came a long time ago, in a far away place, an island called Sicily, located on the southern side of the Mediterranean Sea, where every spring the citrus bloom in a blaze of fragrance and color, a warm, beckoning sea flaunts its turquoise charm, and a sparkling sun rules brazenly across a pure, blue sky for the better part of the year.

I invite you to come with me, as I begin this journey back in time. You’ll wade with me through the churning waters of yesteryears, when life was unpredictable yet fascinating, even though, at times, the circumstances might have been unpleasant or even harsh.

I will take you to another world, lost and forgotten, where people cherished every moment and lived it according to clearly defined moral standards, rigidly adhered to, and passionately upheld with steadfast conviction.

I will show you some revealing glimpses of the Fascist golden era, its delusional propaganda and its final plunge into self-destruction and oblivion.

I will crack a window for you to peek through, so that you may stare, however briefly, into the horrors of war.

You will see how people struggled in deprivation and fear, constantly seeking refuge from anxiety and pain, wondering if or when the end of their misery would come.

You will feel with me the fury of life’s storms, and will rejoice at every ray of sunshine bursting through the dark clouds. And in the end, you will climb with me, step by step, from the depths of despair to the exhilarating pinnacle of hope.

Let me warn you: It will be an emotional roller coaster every climb and plunge of the way. But in the end, when the last car comes to a stop, you might even thank me for taking you along for the ride.

* MEMORIES *

Like a swallow,

fleeing the cold

in search of warmer shores,

I too, often times, like to set my heart on wings,

and let it wander

across my world

of fading memories:

Precious fragments of time

filled with colors and sounds I once knew;

luscious honey drops

lingering still

within the craggy layers of my mind;

blazing gleams of the noonday sun

soothing the frothy murmurs of the sea;

fragrances of spring

riding the morning breeze.

And as the memories flood the mind,

my heart rests,

cuddled,

within the warm embrace of time.

J.C.

BIRTHPLACE

Sunshine and murmurs of the sea

Along the coastline of northern Sicily, between the Strait of Messina and the ancient Greek fortress of Cefalu`, a distance of less than one hundred miles, small towns and tiny villages crowd one another, offering the visitor unexpected, breathtaking sights, sprinkled with an abundance of topographical tidbits, to satisfy, as Thomas Hobbes put it, the lust of the mind

Some of the villages rest lazily on the side of a hill, while others, carved out of the sides of rocky cliffs, jut out as if to dare the sea.

Simple houses with white stucco fronts and red-tile roofs lie closely bunched, glistening under the sun. Behind them, at springtime, groves of orange trees provide a colorful background, in various shades of green, yellow and pink.

During that time of the year, a sea breeze saturated with the pungent fragrance of orange blossoms sweeps across the coastline to the delight of those who experience it.

Directly across from all of this, the Mediterranean Sea seems to throb, as it sparkles in shades of green and blue.

Miles of natural beaches provide bathing facilities as well as playgrounds for most of the year. They also provide a haven to scores of fishing boats lined up against the moorings.

Between Capo d’Orlando and Capo Calava, two huge cliffs bulging out of the hills and into the sea, lies the village of Gioiosa Marea, in English a Joyous Tide.

I was born there and spent the first seven and a half years of my life among simple people, sharing their simple ways. It was there that I learned, first hand, the wonder of unconditional love and the power of expectant faith.

Although I gathered some of the details later in life, mostly from my mother and my older brother Andrea, I rely largely on my own recollection of the events, the people’s names, their faces, their voices, and even the intensity of their emotions.

In the early thirties only a little more than a thousand people lived in Gioiosa. Most of them eked their meager living out of the capricious moods of the sea. The village had two distinct sections, the upper and the lower. In the upper part lived the professional people and the merchants; in the lower portion, called Marina, lived the fishermen. Less than one hundred yards away from their doorsteps throbbed the heart of the sea, source of their livelihood and fear.

The Main Square was located in the upper section. A bank, a pharmacy, a general store and a roadside cafe were the town’s main business undertakings. A lonely gasoline pump stood outside the cafe. In the middle of the square, there was a statue of the Unknown Soldier, protected by an iron fence. During the summer, in the cool of the evening, the municipal band would entertain the public by playing popular operatic selections at the base of it.

The Cathedral, the Church of St. Nicholas where I was baptized, was only a short distance away. Built around the turn of the century, it had a modest appearance, and its bell tower, all in stone, rose above the roof of the church. When its bells rang out, the sound carried from one end of the village to the other.

The Marina, in appearance at least, was the poorer of the two sections. The houses were old, and most of them in need of repair. The streets, narrow and unpaved, were made to appear narrower by the fishing paraphernalia left laying around carelessly. To make things worse, the streets served also a busy thoroughfare for chickens, cats, dogs and other four-legged strays that managed to thrive in a spirit of peaceful coexistence.

The Marina, by virtue of its location however, boasted the most important amenities in town, the beach and the soccer field. The beach, with its mile long stretch of sand, skirted by a natural rock formation on which the railroad embankment was built, was a perfect entertaining place for the residents of all ages.

The sea, warm and inviting, was as clear as tap water. More often than not, in the middle of a clear sky, a lavish sun challenged the natives’ physical endurance.

The soccer field, modest in size and accommodations, was built near the edge of the sea. There, the local team defended the village colors, cheered on by scores of faithful fans.

My brother Taddeo, 15, was the captain of the team. Despite his young age, he was considered to be the best player in town. He had many admiring fans, especially girls. To his dismay, Mother wasn’t one of them. Many times, Taddeo begged her to watch him play, but she always found an excuse not to go. In Mother’s opinion, soccer was nothing more than legalized mayhem. She refused to put herself in the position of watching her son being kicked around.

Image290.JPG

The house I was born in.

(Photo taken in 1990)

Image297.JPG

View of the Marina

Image306.JPG

St. Nicholas Church

Image314.JPG

View of the beach

THE SOCCER GAME

Taddeo gains another fan

One Sunday afternoon, the local team was scheduled to play the team from Brolo, a nearby village. Coaxed by the neighbors and urged by the rest of us, Mother finally capitulated.

It was warm and sunny, and she decided to follow a noisy throng to the soccer field, a short walk from home. Reluctant at first, she was then encouraged by some of her lady friends whose sons were also members of the team, to carry and hold aloft a sign urging the team to victory. A miraculous turnaround indeed!

The soccer field was modest in size, skimpy on grass and stingy on seating arrangements. The visiting fans had come in droves to support their team. With cymbals, drums and a variety of noisemakers, they made their presence felt across the Marina. The local fans, greatly outnumbered and somewhat intimidated, watched their rivals from the opposite side of the field.

We found seats behind one of the goal posts. Taddeo and the rest of his team were warming up a short distance from where we were. Mother kept watching the action with unsuspected interest.

The players, in the 14-17-age range, were members of many organizations, the church, the trades, and the Fascist youth groups. That afternoon, the Championship of the Western Youth Division was at stake. The winning team would be awarded a coveted trophy offered by the local Fascist Youth Organization.

As soon as the game got under way, Mother’s eyes focused on Taddeo. Each time he was fouled she stood up and with obvious displeasure she shook her fist at the culprit, eliciting compassionate nods from her lady friends.

The game remained scoreless until one minute before the end. Then the miracle happened. Taddeo took hold of a lose ball at midfield, sprinted toward the goal area with only one defender between him and the goalkeeper. He faked the defender out of position, and from twenty feet away he blasted a right-footed shot. The ball whizzed by the outstretched arm of the keeper and shook the back of the net.

The local fans burst into a wild celebration, while the Brolo fans, shocked and dismayed, started to leave. After the final whistle, Taddeo’s teammates jumped on his back and dragged him down to the ground. My mother, uninitiated in the ways of soccer, jumped up once again from her seat. This time, she rushed into the field, her face flushed, shouting: Leave my son alone! You scoundrels! Leave my son alone!

It took some time to calm her down and convince her that what was happening was only a joyful celebration.

Oh, yeah? she replied, ‘What kind of celebration is that? They’re killing my boy!"

She had hardly finished the sentence, when she saw Taddeo emerge from under the pile and being hoisted on the coach’s shoulders. That sight calmed her down and put a sheepish smile on her face. A good-natured ribbing followed her all the way home. That evening, Taddeo was allotted an extra portion of Mother’s special vanilla pudding, his favorite dessert treat.

For many weeks after the game, people were referring to it as the most exciting sport event that had taken place in Gioiosa. Taddeo became an instant hero among his peers, especially the girls.

Mother, as result of her son’s dramatic rise in the esteem of the town people, became more interested and involved in Taddeo’s sports activities and, as a result, her life became more satisfying, and Taddeo was finally able to include Mother among his fans.

THE FAMILY

Life without Father

My mother came to Gioiosa with her parents Tommaso Maniscalco and Maria Nasca, sometime in 1912. She was twenty years old. My grandfather worked in the national railroad system. He had been assigned to work in Gioiosa on a temporary basis. My grandmother, as she did all her life, followed her husband anywhere duty called him.

Mother was born on February 21,1892, in a small town called Vallelunga, in the province of Caltanissetta, located in the central part of Sicily, where her parents and grandparents lived all their lives. Like any other Sicilian young woman, Mother’s main aspiration in life was to get married and raise a family. No other choices were available to young women back then.

Mother had a small frame, only four feet ten inches tall. She had a pretty face, brown eyes, soft and expressive. Her black hair was pushed back and gathered into a bun. She was fastidiously neat in her dress and in all the things she did. Her voice had a warm, friendly tone. She loved to sing, especially when she did her house chores. Her favorites were popular Sicilian folk songs, as well as church hymns. I loved to listen to her singbecause her voice was tuneful and sweet and her face broke into a beautiful smile. Her laughter had a particular appeal: her face became flushed, her mouth stayed wide open and her body shook without a sound coming out of her mouth. Anyone watching her laugh felt compelled to join in.

Mother was blessed with many talents. She could cook, bake, knit a sweater, cut and sew a dress from scratch and embroider a bed cover with intricate shapes of flowers. Amazing!

She was generous to a fault and because of it she endeared herself to all her neighbors. I remember her working until late at night to finish a particular project destined to be given away as a gift to celebrate someone’s birthday, engagement or baptism.

Mother had only elementary school education, but in her dealings with matters of everyday life she was very wise. She had a loving and caring disposition toward all. She was a religious woman in the best sense of the word: she put her beliefs into practice. Prayer was as necessary for her as breathing. Mother was the most loving, the most caring, the most unselfish person I have ever known.

When I was five years old, I was afflicted with a bad case of whooping cough, an illness very common among young children in those days. The doctor’s prescription was for me to breathe the early morning air of the sea. The salt and the coolness of the air were the best remedy for whooping cough, he said.

Every morning, at the break of dawn, Mother would wrap me up in a blanket and carry me to the beach, a short walk from home. She would sit on the sand, place me on her lap and she would urge me to take deep breaths. The therapeutic session lasted an hour or so. She followed the same routine, every day, for six months!

Each time I had a coughing fit, she would pull me closer to her body. I liked