I Made It

By Armando Viselli

As the ship moved out of Naples, a part of me was left behind, something very dear, very precious, the most enchanted land, with history, songs, and fascinating people, including my family. Would I ever see them again? Who knew what the future held? A long dream was becoming true; it was becoming my reality, and I was coming to Canada, to the land of opportunity and generous people waiting for me with open arms. Once there, a year later, I had almost everything that I wanted, yet something was missing; my heart was crying. I was missing my family, my friends, my jokes, my language, and even my food. The money and my job was not everything. How was I to face such a big dilemma? How could I fill all those empty spaces? Wouldnt you like to know? Well, maybe the answer was beautiful ladies!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Mar 14, 2013
• ISBN: 9781466980136

Armando Viselli

Born in Rome, Italy, he immigrated to Canada in the sixties where he worked as a time keeper and meter reader in Windsor, Ontario. He has written several books that include The Grotto, The Carroccio, and The Great Dream. He has also written, directed and starred in several comedies. He is currently retired and still writing.

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© Copyright 2013 Armando Viselli.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

ISBN: 978-1-4669-8012-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4669-8014-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4669-8013-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013902248

Trafford rev. 04/27/2013

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This book is dedicated to my Family!

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I n a simple memoir, I recount the experiences of the early years I spent in Canada beginning in 1951 when, at twenty-four years of age, I, Armando Viselli, was at the height of my faculties, both mental and physical. Vibrant with ambition and full of glorious dreams, I immigrated to Canada. Naturally, like everyone else who followed my example, from the first day I set foot on this land, I was confronted by a foreign environment offering strange new ways of life, language, food, customs, and traditions. It was an enormous obstacle to overcome. I had left behind the great metropolis of Rome where I was accustomed to exquisite wonders, only to find myself in a small town set in the vastness and the solitude of the northern Canadian landscape.

As a young man, I believed it would have been impossible to live as a hermit completely isolated from the world I knew. This bleak prospect would have been more than sufficient to discourage anyone with any common sense from the outset. However, I had also left behind hunger, unemployment, and despair, which are more challenging than isolation, and I had fought tooth and nail for the privilege to emigrate and create a future for myself; giving it up was unthinkable.

At the time my story begins, the Canadian National Railway System was undergoing a process of renewal. I had been hired by a contracting company that was a supplier for the CNR. After the first three months in Canada, I was sent to work as a timekeeper with one of the hundreds of extra gangs located along the Trans-Canada Railway Line.

Most of the workers for this huge operation were immigrants who came from Calabria in the south of Italy. The one hundred and twenty men who were part of the gang I was assigned to were all Calabrese. They were good, honest, hard working people, but we found ourselves completely isolated from the rest of the world and were obliged to accept the conditions imposed upon us by our surroundings and our employers.

Being the only person who knew a little bit of English, I was the only instrument of communication between the immigrant workers and their supervisors. Automatically, I became the victim of circumstances, caught between two diverse mentalities: the Latin temperament and the Anglo-Saxon. The former was warm, sentimental yet fiery and impulsive while the latter appeared to me to be cold, calculating, and reserved. I found myself between the anvil and the hammer. I had to rise above simply dealing with my own loneliness, the glacial cold, and the cruelties raw nature imposed on me to deal with the vagaries of human nature. I had to become skilled in diplomacy, to keep everyone happy, and, more importantly, I had to keep them working.

There is more to this story because this is not only my story but the story of every Italian who had immigrated to Canada at a time when spaghetti and pizza were not as commonplace as they are today. It is true that, over the last fifty years, there has been a radical change in the way Canadians view Italians. When I arrived in Canada, Italians were unwanted foreigners and considered by many to be simple unskilled peasants who were lazy, jealous, and potentially vindictive. Behind this perception was the fact that Italy was on the losing side of World War II, and the majority of Canadians distrusted them. The fact that Italian-Canadians, from many different walks of life, had been rounded up and placed in prison camps during the war cannot be easily overlooked.

This memoir is my personal testimony of the truly great contribution of Italians to the development of this noble nation, my adopted country. It is the best detailed description I can give of the sacrifices, the suffering, and the intolerable solitude of life in the Canadian North… a life lived without a woman. More than just a personal testimony, this is the diary of twenty thousand Calabrese who, with iron wills and hope in their hearts, pawned the shirts on their backs to leave their beloved country. They dreamed of a better life for themselves and their families.

Naturally, there is a lot to laugh and cry about in this story. However, I hope it will be of interest to you as it comes from my heart. Sometimes, I have not been delicate and have used language that may be rough. I ask for your forgiveness. I dedicate this manuscript to the memory of my father, Sebastiano, whose great dream became a reality six years later when, in 1957, he rejoined my family, bringing with him the entire Viselli family who had remained in Italy during my years in Northern Ontario.

I don’t know if being superstitious really changes anything in our lives, but, since I am superstitious, I do know there are powers greater than us that influence our lives from the day we were born. Besides believing in God, the stars, the moon, and the sun, I have a great respect for the old proverbs that some may think of as superstitious on my part. My mother always used to say, Don’t ever start a new job, get married, or leave on a trip on a Tuesday or a Friday. Unfortunately for me, I was born on a Friday, so I guess I was marked from the beginning, my trip into this world. Maybe this is why things were never quite right for me.

It was Good Friday when I started a job as a bellboy at the hotel Nord Nuova Roma. Exactly one year later, on the same day, they called me down into the office and fired me. I left the office dizzy as if I was on drugs. I couldn’t believe what they told me, yet I was face to face with pure reality, raw and bitter like a smack at the back of my head, una vera mazzata tra capo e collo.

I could not hold my head up as I walked. The dismissal had come at a time in which everything had been going my way, but, now, instead of having the cow by the tits, I had the bull by the balls. I had been so confident. I was on top of the world working at the hotel and, on my free time, served as a guide for the many visitors to the Holy City, and now, suddenly, it felt as though I had the carpet pulled out from under me. It was the end of a perfect world.

I was so depressed that when I went by the desk porter, I was unable to explain what had happened as a great lump in my throat prevented me from talking. I turned away so they wouldn’t see the tears, but what really bothered me was the suddenness of it all. Being told without even a hint of a warning was too much for me to accept. It was humiliating. They were letting me go as if I was a criminal, a thief, or even a murderer. I tried to explain my side of the story and answer his accusations, but the director remained cold and unbending. There were no excuses accepted and certainly no pardon for my actions. His words stay with me even today:

"You know the rules of the hotel. No employee can associate, fraternize, or, in any way, harass the cliental. You knew the rules, but you never respected them. Now, what do you want me to do with you? This is not the first time that you have broken those rules, and, every other time, we overlooked it. For this, you have to thank the desk porter who stupidly defended your actions every time. However, this time, Armando, it was something so big we could not overlook it.

You decided to work your charms on a Mrs. Bisstler. Do you know who this woman is? She is the sister of the director of the Ente Turistico of Vienna. Do you know how important he is to our business? You say you only offered your services as a guide to the city of Rome. Explain that to her brother who now wants you fired immediately. You have dishonored his family. If I don’t fire you, he will no longer do business with us. You leave me no choice in this matter. Good luck with the tourist business."

Despite my attempts to explain, the director would not listen. I left the hotel like a dog with his tail between his legs and found myself walking down Via Fabrizo Amendola talking to myself in a stupor. Where the hell would I ever find a gold mine like the Nord Nuova Roma? After what had just happened, I could no longer work for any hotel as the first question they would have to ask me is why I had left my job. If they asked about previous experience, I would have to tell the truth, and then the inevitable questions would come. I knew that any good hotel in Rome would scrutinize me very closely before giving me a job. They would ask for references and that would be the end of it. The doors were closed forever for me if I intended to work in a hotel.

While walking along with these dark thoughts running through my mind, another old proverb came to mind. My mother had often said that when a door closes, a bigger door opens. Who, at twenty years of age, doesn’t have a bit of the wild man in his blood? I slowly accepted that what is done. It was now time to move on. I shrugged my shoulders, ignored the black dog at my heels, and gave myself a strong dose of courage. Easter is here, and for now, I am going to enjoy it. We will talk about it later. I looked straight into my uncertain future and said to myself, Aho! Ma chi se ne frega.

Working at the hotel, I had spent an entire year without a free weekend, as my day off was on a Monday. Although I had never complained about it, deep inside, I envied the freedom of my friends. While I was running around the hotel at everyone’s beck and call, they were enjoying the countryside, eating and drinking to their hearts’ content. They would take the streetcar to the Castelli Romani at the feet of the Alban Hills every Sunday. Finally, I could join them.

However, after a few days spent with my friends, the specter of an uncertain future tormented me, and I began to look for work. For two weeks, I roamed the streets of Rome looking for any kind of a job, leaving applications in factories, offices, and restaurants. Finding employment was like trying to find a needle in a haystack.

When I was still an employee of the Nord Nuova Roma, Pope Pius XII had declared the year a Holy Year. During that summer of 1950, the streets of Rome were bustling with female tourists, la famose Pellegrina. The Pellegrina stood out in any crowd with their cameras dangling, blatantly advertising their need of a guide. I was very accommodating and gave everyone, young and old, the royal treatment. I would take them on the bus and the streetcar, or we would walk to all the best parts of Rome, the city I knew so well. I took great pleasure in the young Pellegrina, and the older Pellagrina paid well.

While working at the hotel, one of my special clients had been Kathy Telasronil, a young woman from Montreal who worked for a Greek shipping line. During her stay in Rome, we had been on very friendly terms, and I made certain she saw all that Rome had to offer. Once Kathy left, I forgot her completely, but she had recommended me as a guide to a Canadian couple who contacted me when they arrived in Rome for a holiday.

Mr. and Mrs. Bubesté brought greetings from Kathy and asked for my services. Naturally, I agreed to show them the city’s treasures whenever I wasn’t working at the hotel. The three of us went everywhere. Most of the time, we travelled by tramway or bus, not because the money wasn’t there for a taxi, but because I am of the opinion that, in order to truly appreciate my city, a tourist must be able to imagine himself not as a strange alien visitor but as one returning home, as he gradually immerses himself in the daily lives of the locals, eating and drinking in the Italian way.

Obviously, not everyone could get the same attention from me, but every time I saw a busload of tourists corralled into some popular tourist site, I would feel sorry for them knowing they were not sharing the Rome I knew and loved. On one hand, I realize that travelling in organized groups saves money, and I do understand the feeling of security that comes when one is a member of a large group making one’s way under the comforting wing of a tourist guide. However, I believe the regular tourist is betrayed by this limited experience. He never sees the real face of the place he is visiting. He sees only the most popular sites featured in guidebooks and may never discover that hidden corner offering up some artistic treasure or delight most often denied to the average camera-toting tourist. The real life of the city remains a mystery hidden behind a page in a popular guidebook.

The first stop Mr. and Mrs. Bubesté and I made was at the Canadian Embassy in Rome where Mr. Bubesté had business to attend to and where we met all the representatives of the Canadian delegation. I was introduced as a friend of Miss Telasronil, but the whole affair was intimidating from the very beginning. During the proceedings of the afternoon, I understood very little of their English and remained silent as the words rushed in one ear and jumbled out the other. In those days, if I spoke to a person directly, I was able to hold my own, but when more than one person was speaking, I was completely lost. I left the embassy in a daze of sights and sounds remembering only that one of the two vice consuls present had a strawberry colored birthmark visible on his right cheek. For some reason, that mark stuck in my mind.

During the following three days, my two clients were sensually overwhelmed by all the delights the Eternal City could offer: artistic, cultural, and culinary. The last evening, at supper, sitting at a table al fresco in front of the marvelous Fontana Esedra, while enjoying a cold beer with the music of local musicians refreshing our souls, Mr. Bubesté expressed his great appreciation, first with a five dollar bill and then with a dream. He promised me solemnly that, one day, he would help me to come to Canada. The seed was planted once again.

It was an appealing idea, but I have to confess that, at that moment, I appreciated the five dollars more than the words. It was not the first time one of the tourists had promised me the world in an oyster. But, once the tourist would leave the bright lights of Rome, I would be left in the dark, so, naturally, I expected the same from Mr. Bubesté.

To my surprise, four months later, I received a letter from him wherein he informed me that, soon, I would receive a visit from an Italian professor who was the representative of an Italian Canadian company coming to Italy and, more precisely, to Calabria, his home. His name was Venetri, and his assignment was to work with the Canadian Consulate to arrange to bring to Canada thousands of Calabrese to fill the need for laborers in that country. Imagine my joy as finally someone had kept his promise.

The wait was not long. Within five weeks, just before Christmas arrived, I met with Professor Venetri who gave me a brief overview of the plan. They were proposing a large-scale immigration of unskilled workers, mainly farmers and common laborers from Calabria. Since I was a Roman citizen without the calloused hands of a laborer, I didn’t think that I would qualify, but Mr. Bubesté assured me that the professor would personally help me prepare the papers for the passport and ensure that I would be included in the plan.

I am reluctant to say it, but it was from my encounter with Mr. Venetri that I questioned his sincerity. Deep inside, I did not trust him, as he didn’t appear interested in my dream and attempted to discourage me every step of the way. We left each other with the understanding that when he returned to the consular office in Cosenza, in the south of Italy where he lived, he would communicate by mail informing me of what I was supposed to do and how the plan was developing.

January, February, and March passed, and my doubts about my friend the professor were confirmed. I wrote two letters to Mr. Bubesté telling him Venetri had vanished into the thin air of Cosenza. Nevertheless, I was thriving back at the hotel and although, in the bottom of my heart, I still yearned to emigrate, with the passing of time, I resigned myself to my certain future. I was a young man in Rome with all the money and women I could possibly handle. I had employment in a major hotel and all the pleasures a life as a tourist guide could bring. But, I was born on Friday and fate must play its game.

All good things must pass, and, in my case, they left on that fateful day of my dismissal, which brought me to my knees. With a bleak, uncertain future now, I suddenly lost my short-lived bravado. I sent Venetri a telegram, but no answer arrived. At a certain point, I doubted whether he was still in Italy, so I wrote to Mr. Bubesté who told me in a letter that the professor was indeed in Italy and assured me he would write to him in Cosenza. Nothing came from this. Venetri was a ghost.

They say a full belly does not believe in an empty one, and this was the case with Mr. Venetri. I was sure he didn’t give a damn about my problem as all of my prayers went in one deaf Italian ear and out the other. However, little did he know whom he was dealing with because I was not one to give up so easily. I went over all of my options and finally decided, if the mountain would not come to Armando, Armando would go to the mountain.

At five the next morning, the train pulled into the station in Cosenza. The sun, completely unaware of the serious nature of my business, had not yet arisen. The entire city was asleep making it necessary for me to wait before making any inquiries. At exactly seven, I put my feet inside the hotel where I believed the Canadian delegation was staying. With a little bit of fortuna (luck), I would be able to kill two birds with one stone; I would meet this Mr. Morté of the Canadian Consulate and the elusive Professor Venetri as well.

However, I soon found out this would not happen when the night porter of the hotel informed me the professor had left the day before, bound for Naples. I asked to speak to someone from the consulate about my matter of great importance, but the porter disdainfully looked at me from head to toe and, in a voice both arrogant and belligerent, told me it was too early to disturb anyone from the consulate as they never came down for breakfast before nine. Despite all of my protestations, he demanded that I wait outside on the street.

What difference does it make if I am inside or outside? I am telling you as politely as I can that I must meet with my good friend about a very important matter, and I do not want to miss him. I have come all the way from Rome to see him.

I was lying about the good friend, but I didn’t know what else to say. From the information I received from a street sweeper, I had learned that one of the Canadians staying at the hotel had a very noticeable birthmark on his cheek. This was enough for me to tell the porter with some confidence that I knew the Canadian, even though I had only been briefly introduced to him months before.

Whether you know someone in there or not makes no difference to me. Wait outside, or I will throw you into the street.

If he could have read my mind, he may have realized his life was in danger. I was so upset that I left the hotel, crossed the street, and waited, pacing back and forth so many times I must have worn a footpath in the sidewalk. Around eight thirty, I spied a tall, blond-haired handsome man in his early thirties leaving the hotel, surely a member of the Canadian Consulate. I was totally convinced when I saw the deep red birthmark on his right cheek. This was indeed the man I was looking for. He descended the three steps to the street with authority, passing his briefcase from one hand to another and in a military manner, passo de bersagliere, and strutted along the sidewalk toward the train station.

This was the chance I had waited for. I ran across the street, approached him out of breath, and blurted out a greeting in my best English. He wished me a good morning rather nonchalantly and continued to walk ahead of me. Very beautiful day, I persisted. Very nice, he answered.

He wasn’t much taller than me, but, with every step he took, I had to take two steps just to keep up, so I was actually jogging alongside him and couldn’t concentrate completely on what I had to say. I grabbed Mr. Bubeste’s letter from my pocket and pleaded with him. You must remember me. I am Armando from Rome. We met each other last Easter at the consulate with Mr. Bubesté and his wife. Here is the letter Mr. Bubesté wrote me not long ago. Please read it.

Thankfully, he stopped walking, amusedly looked at the envelope, read the address, and opened it. After reading a few lines, he broke out into loud spasms of laughter such that there were tears in his eyes. He was drying up the tears with his handkerchief when he tried to speak but would break out again in loud bursts of laughter the more he read of the letter. If there was a joke, it was hidden to me. I could feel my anger rising. In a moment of rage between my clenched teeth, I muttered, Che te ridi li mortacci tua!

Those bitter words hung in the air for what seemed a lifetime until he slowly turned to face me directly. From the look on my face, he must have understood that I was not sharing in the joke, but I soon realized, to my horror, he had understood my roman dialect perfectly.

Listen, young man. You and I are both Romans and speak the same dialect. There is no need to overreact like that. My name is Leonardo Petretta. It has taken me a little while to piece together what you are trying to tell me, and when I did, I couldn’t help but laugh. You have mistaken me for a man at the Canadian Consulate, a Mr. Morté by name, although we do have in common a mark of distinction we have both carried from birth.

At first, I was very confused. But, realizing that I had just made an unforgiveable mistake, I started laughing myself. Leonardo explained that he was a representative of the Singer Sewing Machine Company and had been working in Cosenza for the past two weeks to set up an office. He was staying at the hotel and knew Professor Venetri and Mr. Morté, the Canadian consul with whom he had spent many evenings.

He promised he would intercede on my behalf and introduce them to me during supper that evening. If I had related this episode to my friends on a Sunday afternoon at Castelli Romani, they would have called me a liar, but it was all true. I am not an assassin, but had I been assigned to kill the Canadian Consulate, with the unusual birthmark staying at the Regina Cosenza Hotel in downtown Cosenza, this young Leonardo Petretta would be dead right now.

We may call this encounter a coincidence or a trick of fate; call it what you will, but you could spend a month in Cosenza and never find two men with such similar characteristics: blond hair, the polished briefcase of a businessman, and an unusual red birthmark on the right cheek. There are some mysterious events in every man’s life that we must accept without explanation.

Despite all of Mr. Petretta’s assurances, I was nervous about the whole affair. I thanked him and went back to the hotel as fast as possible, still concerned that Venetri or Morté would make an appearance before I got there.

When I arrived at the hotel, I went immediately inside and let out a sigh of relief on discovering a different porter. Surely, these matters could only get better. Again, as politely as I could, I asked him if he would present me to Mr. Morté or any other representative of the Canadian delegation. I now knew the name of the man I had to meet, a debt I owed to my countryman, Leonardo Petretta.

If I thought that the morning porter was difficult, he was like Abel compared to this Cain with an ugly face and a disposition to match. He treated me like a peasant without a country, which was just what I needed to get my blood boiling. I put my chest out and stood up to him ready for anything he might throw at me. He yelled, and I yelled louder, using all the good Italian I picked up on the back streets of Rome.

Obviously, he may have been doing his job properly, but I wasn’t doing anything wrong either. I hadn’t come six hundred miles for a change of climate and a stroll on the beach, and nothing would stand in my way. We grabbed each other by the shirt ready to fight when, suddenly, from above the lobby, came the voice of my salvation. This angel appeared in the form of a man, casually leaning on the railing as he called me by name. Armando! What a real surprise. What are you doing here in Cosenza, old friend?

I didn’t recognize him and, not wishing to make yet another stupid mistake, I said nothing, giving him the opportunity to make the first move. He obviously remembered me, but I didn’t remember him. Fortunately, the desk porter came unwittingly to my aid. For a moment, the porter stood there with his mouth open, aware of the mistake he had made with me, and then, to compensate for his lack of judgment, he greeted the Canadian overhead with fawning politeness. Good morning, Doctor Richards. How are you today?

I had to admit that the face, the name, and the guardian angel leaning over the railing were not familiar, but, whoever it was, he remembered me. Dr. Richards was a handsome man around forty years of age with salt and pepper hair and a very friendly manner about him. In fact, I immediately found myself at ease with him as we made our way up the stairs to his office. After inviting me to sit down, I related to him the nature of my problem with the infamous Professor Venetri as well as I could in my broken English.

He listened patiently as I related to him exactly my problem with the infamous Professor Venetri. I learned that all the members of the Canadian Consulate, including Mr. Morté, knew exactly about my situation, having heard from Mr. Bubesté by mail. Evidently, Mr. Bubesté had spoken more than once about me, and they were surprised at Venetri.

At a certain point, he stopped, and as though he was talking to himself, shaking his head in disbelief, he said, I am beginning to believe exactly what people say about Venetri. So the old fox never answered you. In fact, we ourselves did not do anything because we thought he was handling your request. The problem will be dealt with differently from now on. You can be sure that, in one way or another, we will take care of it. Believe me, you did well to come to Cosenza. Otherwise, we would never have known the truth, and Canada would remain a picture on a postcard. Unfortunately, Professor Venetri is not here. Otherwise, we would clear this matter up today.

Laughing to himself, he went on, This is why there is so much gossip around here. Dr. Richards had already spoken about Venetri, suggesting he was dishonest, maybe even accepting money under the table. I could never imagine that a man of Dr Richards’s stature would speak in such a way about someone. Those words stayed with me, but it was not until months later that I understood the real significance of them.

In every way, there is no manner of words to describe the straightforward yet delicate way he treated me, except to say he treated me like a brother. We spoke for an hour together as we devoured donuts and many cups of coffee. At the end of our conversation, he advised me to take the train home to Rome, as there was nothing more to be done here in Cosenza at the consulate.

He told me that as soon as the consul general arrived in Cosenza, he would speak to him personally on my behalf and would see me in a week in Rome. We shook hands and he retired to his room stopping at the top of the stairs to turn around and yell back to me, Ciao Armando! He disappeared the same way he had appeared, like a guardian angel.

I forgave the desk porter despite the temptation to say a few lovely words, but the humiliating way he treated me was still fresh in my mind when, seven days later, in the Canadian Embassy in Rome, I was given even worse treatment by some embassy secretary. There were hundreds of people in line waiting for an interview, a checkup with the doctor, and then, if all went well, to get their papers stamped. When I finally made my way to the front of the line, the secretary avoided my stare and told me I had wasted my time lining up.

In a blind fury, I grabbed him by his shirt, shook him, and screamed, I told you that I have an appointment with Dr. Richards. Would you please announce me, as I know he is waiting for me?

A carabiniere stepped between us and grabbed me by the shoulders to take me away, but I made such a ruckus that other employees of the embassy came to watch. Like it was all part of some fairy tale, my guardian angel appeared for a second time and yelled out, What the hell is happening down there? Armando. Let that man up here.

The carabiniere immediately loosened his hold and I shook myself like a dog just out of the water and looked at him with disdain. At that moment, I felt like I was on top of the mountain and turned to the desk secretary. "A stronzo.Me credi adesso? You shithead, do you believe me now?" I didn’t give him time to answer but just turned away from him and walked up the stairs.

In Dr. Richards’s office, there were three sheepish young men standing in the nude, anxiously awaiting an examination, but it was as if they didn’t exist. I was the guest of honor. All the members of the delegation including Mr. Morté came out to greet me. Their welcome was warm, spontaneous, and sincere as though a member of their family had safely arrived home. Beautiful moments like this stay with one for a lifetime.

Ordinarily, in those days, any candidate for immigration would have be prepared to spend months and months waiting in endless lineups, only to deal with bureaucratic nonsense. The hardships they endured were indescribable. For me, now, the lineups were over. I would no longer have to face the self-important minor officials drunk with their limited power. There were no more obstacles, no more sticks between the spokes, as I could see the doors opening one after the other.

That same visit, I passed the medical, and, three weeks later, I received my passport. It was on May 16 that I left for Naples to report to the Centro Immigrazione di Bagnoli. The center was an old army barracks beside a park with benches set along beautiful rows of trees. It was used as a holding tank for thousands of prospective immigrants from all parts of Italy.

In contrast to the park, the center was as depressing and miserable as a prison must be. There, hundreds of families would have to sleep in the barracks on beds of haylike animals. I cannot forget impatient cries of children who had no idea why they were not back in their own beds while their young mothers had not the time or energy to console them, yet another child would be at their breast, oblivious to the squalor. There was no way one could escape the poverty, humiliation, and desperation