Za Mari: My Immigrant Mother

By Victor DiNardo

This writing is to honor the many early post war immigrants who ventured from their birth place and familiar homeland, in search, for hopes of a better future.

The hardships and sacrifices they endured can only be experienced in words. The historic reality would be unbearable in today’s standards.
They arrived in a vast foreign environment with only what they could carry in their hands.

They had no guaranteed promises or security to comfort them. Most troubling of all, they were illiterate and had no means of verbal communication. They were adventurous, equipped with only strong will and strong backs.
Their first and only priority was the minimal of food and sheltered protection from the elements for their family.

Early periods were filled with days of uncertainty, hunger and sleeplessness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9781669820635

Victor DiNardo

to be followed

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Copyright © 2022 by Victor DiNardo.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 04/13/2022

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CONTENTS

Introduction

Prelude To Za Mari

Part 1

Aunt Rubina And Uncle Patsy

Part 2

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INTRODUCTION

This writing is to honor the many early postwar immigrants who ventured from their birthplace and familiar homeland in search for hopes of a better future.

The hardships and sacrifices they endured can only be experienced in words. The historic reality would be unbearable in today’s standards.

They arrived in a vast foreign environment with only what they could carry in their hands.

They had no guaranteed promises or security to comfort them. Most troubling of all, they were illiterate and had no means of verbal communication. They were adventurous, equipped with only strong will and strong backs.

Their first and only priority was the minimum of food and sheltered protection from the elements for their family.

Early periods were filled with days of uncertainty, hunger, and sleeplessness.

This story of sacrifices is about one family of many. It is not professionally authored. Grammar and wording might not be proper. However, the truth and content is painfully revealing.

It is a must-read for anyone with early immigrant roots. Read, try to reflect and identify with those early immigrants ancestors. For certain, it will humbly put in perspective the many surrounding blessings we have been given and taken for granted.

Immigration was a harsh, fearful word after World War 2, unlike today.

Today immigration to America is a privilege and an instant betterment of life.

Today immigrants leave their homeland with plentiful funds to reestablish themselves. If they lack funds, Canada offers social assistance and free medical.

Their children are freely educated, and housing is provided.

The weak, the strong, and the mild all arrive in their new country, ready to take advantage of the Western culture. They are thrilled to leave behind the insecurities of their lives in corrupt violent regimes.

The immigrants of the early 1950s arrived after abandonment of their homeland homes with no promises of survival in a land of plentiful but no funds or language to acquire them.

Often they were preceded by the family elder to begin establishment, being there was no funding to migrate the entire family. The elder, upon arrival, would wander from one back-breaking laborious employment to another ’til he was able to find a permanent source of income and acquire a permanent place of residence. He eventually and frugally accumulate enough equity to transport the family members left behind.

There are many homes in European towns still to this day that were simply abandoned and remained in crumbled condition with no ownership to be known.

These adventurous pioneers arrived with their entire possessions in one suitcase in hand. There was no social assistance of any sorts other than few generous relatives or neighbors. Accommodations were meager. Living quarters lacked toilets, hot running water, or appliances for heat and cooking. A pot belly stove had to be constantly fed wood for winter, heating as well as a wood burning stove for meals. If fortunate, an icebox was available to partially help food to last few days before use. These structures often had curtains to separate sleeping arrangements. Doors and windows had gaps where snow, wind, and rain would howl through. Summers were squelching, and winters were frigid.

Animals were raised, home butchered, and processed of food. Gardens were grown for produce to suffice the year. There was no refusal of wages. The immigrants took on the worst and lowest-paying of jobs. Anything to put nickels on the table. The fortunate ones landed high-paying factory jobs. Others became migrant workers in local tomato fields putting in ten hour days, seven days a week for three months. Winter work consisted of house cleaning and a variety of minimal wages. Three and four jobs a day or week was considered common.

These newcomers reflected work ethics never witnessed before by the locals.

Immigrants were desperate to succeed. With the new breed of work ethics and cheap labor, local industries flourished, and farming became very profitable.

With determination and tenacity, the time would come when the first generation would deservingly equal and finally surpass local living standards but not before scars of extreme suffering of racism, abusive labor, and individual hardships.

One has to keep in mind only the strongest and tenacious took on the challenges of immigration and abandonment of homeland. The weak had no will or character to take on the challenge.

The postwar immigrants were a rare brave breed probably never to be seen again.

They were the last wave of Christopher Columbuses. They ventured for a dream not knowing expectations or outcomes with only survival instincts, strong will, and determination. Their sufferings were insurmountable. They refused failure.

It would not be long before they not only succeeded but they also established a cultural environment in their community that enhanced even the nonimmigrants.

Their strong work habits helped build strong industries and had positive contributions in professionals, entrepreneurs, and politicians. They exceeded all expectations.

Once established, the reins of their successes were handed over to next generations to carry on. A generation that had been pampered were handed over a cultural empire.

The new breed of immigrants that arrived like carpetbaggers only came to take advantage of the established culture not to help maintain it. They had the talk but were not willing nor capable to do the walk.

And in turn, the capable second generation were too busy expanding their personal successes of professionalism and entrepreneurships made possible by the early pioneers to help maintain the culture. The Verdi Club, which was the center of the Italian immigrant culture, soon disbanded. That original culture of foods and knuckle-worn work ethic would soon be diluted.

Such was the case of this one family headed by Za Mari. Za Mari was the mirror-reflected image of the postwar immigrant families, reason we need to build a visual monument to the Za Mari group in memory for the ages. They deserve to be immortalized.

PRELUDE TO ZA MARI

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Za Mari was an icon immigrant. I am sure she is occupying a special seat in heaven.

Her tenacity, strength, morals, and inspirations are unprecedented nor ever be mirrored again, mentally and physically.

If you were her friend, your back was well protected. If you were her enemy, your defeat was imminent.

I hold a treasure I have vowed never to be shared. A two-hour recording of discussions we had during those moments of reflection sitting on our balcony overlooking the Gran Sasso mountains. Or when I visited her for a quiet cup of espresso. I carried a Sony mini recorder in my shirt pocket unbeknownst. Za Mari and I had developed a trusted relationship, which allowed for candid from-the-soul conversations.

This treasure I hold will never be shared or revealed in whole, but I do have moments of her recollections that are astounding and worth scripting.

I relish to share Za Mari lived many lives and had tremendous highs and even more lows on her journey.

She aspired through, a laboring adult childhood, a world war, the death of her firstborn, an abandoning of her home onto a long route with two children, a reestablishment of life in a foreign land with no language or essentials of survival, and eventually the death of her husband at an early age of fifty-six, followed by the death of her sixteen-year-old grandson.

In so doing, she set a standard of life few, if any, can imitate.

The following are excerpts of Za Mari’s true journey in life . . .

She began as a young girl assisting her mother venturing up steep mountains at early morning to deliver her brothers’ food and needs on foot, while they operated their father’s land holdings, tilling, harvesting, and herding of thousands of sheep.

On one difficult moment, she recalled being sent to harvest potatoes in the home garden for her mother’s daily needs.

Upon arrival, she discovered the village scam artist eagerly digging his needs for the day from the family garden.

Fearing his reaction when noticed, she picked up a rock she found lying between her feet and hurled it toward the thief. Unexpectedly, the rock struck him in the head, forcing his escape.

She finished her errand, returning home, and relayed the incident to her mother. Three days later, the man died of a reported head injury. She was hushed and instructed to remain silent by her mother. Her mother convinced Maria her act was not premeditated. The man died because of his constant thieving finally catching up to him.

Maria threw a rock out of fear. The rest was the Lord’s doing. Maria took no pleasure in the outcome. She has had many sleepless hours recollecting. It is a scaring of the soul not many have endured.

These were ruthless times. Policing was nonexistent, and the law was taken into one’s own hand. Sheep rustlers were hatched at with axes during their crime.

It was survival of the fittest with every man for himself.

A world war is an experience few have experienced nor should they. Maria still pauses when recollecting the war, careful not to reveal all the horrors she saw. The Italians did not ask to partake in war, especially supporting the Nazi regime. Their fascist dictator Mussolini, however, began rubbing shoulders with Hitler and eventually took Italy into combat alongside Germany against the people’s wishes.

It was not uncommon for Italian families not in support of Mussolini to harbor American soldiers fleeing the chase of the Germany armies. Thus was the case of one afternoon in Roccamorice. Rocco, Maria’s husband, was in Africa under orders from their dictator. The Germans came to Roccamorice in chase of an American soldier. Maria had allowed the soldier to hide in the under roof of her home. There was a small ventilating window that allowed the soldier to climb into the space between the ceiling and angled roof of Maria’s home. The German officers, as always, summoned the inhabitants to line up for questioning with weapons pointing at their heads by accompanied soldiers. Maria, her sister-in-law, her mother-in-law, and other local women were forced to do so in front of Maria’s house harboring the American soldier.

First order of business was to have the married women forfeit their wedding rings. Second, they were asked to strip to their undergarments so as to check their clothing for hidden jewelry the Germans would retain. Maria had heard of this procedure, so she had hidden her wedding ring in a body cavity. Some women were not as clever and were stripped of their only life’s treasures. Maria’s eldest child stood beside her in fear. She would look sideways, toward the hiding soldier in the roof enclosure. Maria would frown at her, beckoning her to look elsewhere. Fortunately, the German official did not take notice and soon left leaving the fears of war behind. Wars have no dignity nor honor.

Maria’s family was moral and honorable but did not take crime lightly.

Maria learned the trade of life early, before, during, and after the war. Maria lived a life of total self-reliance. Food was produced, not bought. Clothing was constructed from raw material. Sheep were sheared of wool, which was spun into thread and woven into cloth for clothing and knitting. Grain was harvested by hand and milled into flour for breads and pastas. Sheep had multiple value: wool for thread, milk for cheese, and as well butchered for meat. A man’s wealth was determined by the size of his land and sheep herd.

Maria’s family was plentiful of but required an army of workers to maintain.

Maria’s father Donato would reward one well if employed by him, but behold if one attempted to suffice their needs from his wealth by thieving. Consequences were harsh.

On one of those shared conversations, Maria related an incident where her livelihood was challenged.

Maria had working privileges on the Laramie farm. In a season picking of tomatoes, she could earn as much as her husband’s yearly wage at the plant, tax free.

The Laramie farm was rich in soil and yielded healthy crops for easy pickings.

An acquaintance of hers, knowing the lucrativeness of the Laramie farm, approached Bub Laramie, stating she and her family could be more profitable in a picking season than Maria.

Mr. Laramie had tremendous respect and loyalty for Maria. He reported to Maria the offer he had received.

Maria, like her father, when challenged, gave lesson to the intruder.

She summoned her acquaintance to her home with offers of freshly-cooked pasta for the family daily supper.

Once arrived, Maria justice was handed out. Upon answering the door, Maria struck her acquaintance with a broom handle and proceeded to wrestler her down to the ground with manly blows.

Once subdued, the recipient was justly informed of her crime. It was willingly accepted.

The relationship, however, never faltered. It remained intact once admitting guilt, and the intruder of the Laramie farm was sent home with hot pasta.

It came to be known Za Maria was not to be trifled with in a dishonorable or underhanded way.

Za Mari had received her apprenticeship in combat from her archrival Domenica in Italy when life’s amenities were scarce. Battling grounds in the new world was plentiful in life requirements, giving more options to weapon with. There were no shortages of wage opportunities for those with the work ethics of the immigrants. Maria’s reputation in work habits were beyond required standards. Mr. Laramie had recognized Maria’s worth and was not about to risk losing her. Maria knew this well, giving her more reason to protect her territory with the harshest of means acquired in her early wars as a five-star general of life.

Some of her related stories are not to be told. They are personal family experiences that would offend those not able to comprehend or accept. If one like myself was fortunate enough to graduate from the school of Maria, one would be equipped with the tools to withstand any of life’s misfortunes and relish in life’s extreme opportunities. I am forever indebted to Za Mari for obtaining my PhD in life.

Maria in her elder years paid dearly for her back-breaking labor of tomato picking, among other twelve-hour daily employments. Those remaining hours she was home, she toiled at garden maintenance, animal slaughter, and daily family duties of cooking, canning, and cleaning, all while losing her husband the at age of fifty-six and enduring the racial conflicts that greeted all immigrants of the time.

Eventually, she lost functions in her legs from stenosis and as well the sight in one eye. She labored well into her eighties with two replaced knees ’til she was forced to self-retire from physical duties.

She withheld her one-eye blindness from family. It took an optometrist visit to confirm it, and only then was it related to the family. The family was more concerned than she was.

To culminate the misfortunes of the early immigrants, Maria related incidences that occurred outside the family. They are extreme but ultimate stories of the harsh times experienced by the immigrants from that Italian mountain village. These are Maria’s stories I really hesitate to repeat and have been begged to not print. Times were desperate much like the days of the early caravan wagon trains out West. I hesitate in hopes these stories hit its mark in helping give light to the horrific times endured by the early immigrants that paved our present road of comfort.

Maria related the story where a man had to share his wife with a plant supervisor to be given guaranteed permanent employment. A sad desperate act to say the least.

Another was of a young man who had ventured to America and left his family behind to later be reunited when means were acquired. It was a common policy for postwar times.

Not all were successful. Few were forced to return home for lack of survival means in the new world.

This young man was of such.

During his departure, his wife had been disloyal and was carrying a child of another.

She and her sisters formulated a plan to withhold from the returning husband with wearing of large clothing and strategic ways to deceive the husband.

The husband played the role but was not fooled. He became aware. When the birth period arrived, the wife with her sisters venture in the nearby forest and gave birth. They tragically and willingly buried the newborn baby in the forest grounds.

The husband had silently followed and witnessed the horrific plight. When returning home, he murdered his wife.

Murder crimes were taken seriously. They required justice from federal authorities.

A circuit judge was sent to adhere, and a court hearing was held in the town square for all to be witness to.

During his testimony, the story was related to authorities by the accused husband.

The judge demanded to be taken to where the baby was buried. Upon arrival and exhuming of the baby, the husband was set free.

Not a story most could stomach without nausea, but truth be told, never to be repeated.

Times were harsh. Few could withstand or even comprehend the times of desperate survival. Coming to America was a blessing for most but not all. I was fortunate to be a survivor of immigration. I have come to now realize that that success depended on the extreme suffering of the first-generation wave, which Maria was a prime sample of.

The following generations should give tribute, praise, thanks, and prayers to those early venturous pioneers. They should document the events of their ancestors who gave them the comforts they live in today.

Amen.

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Reunification

of the

Immigrant Family

PART 1

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Za Rubina                        Za Mari

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DiGiovanni Nieces

Have you ever reflected back on your life and wished sections of it could be replayed or removed entirely? Moments of pain and misfortunes that you feel altered or scarred your life forever. Eventually, you will cherish those moments. The fact that you survived and are having reflections give good reason to be content.

Roccamorice is a remote little village nestled midway down the spine of the Alpine mountain chain that runs along Italy’s vertebrae. Only if you were born and raised there would you be able to understand its beauty and uniqueness. At first sight, it appears to be a desolate, barren desert of rock, but each day in the magical grasp of this little village reveals a comfort and tranquility made in heaven itself. Its evident remoteness makes one wonder what god ascended upon this mini paradise. No human could have created a haven of this existence so far from the cradles of urbanization.

Historically, man evolves in coastal environments and regions of easy access. Roccamorice is carved high among the crescents of a mountain as if its forefathers purposely intended to escape mankind. Steep gores filled with running glacier water surrounds its town center. There are two bridges that cross these gores, one to the west and one to the east. These bridges are the only means of entry to the town. Once venturing over the bridges, proceeded by infinite narrow hairpin turns, one begins to escalate, propelled skyward to the town square. From the town center, you can view the sky below in a