Few people in life show you what courage looks like. Not the dramatic, movie kind of courage but the everyday kind. Aunty (Zia) Maria had that quiet kind of courage. The guts to have a baby on her own at more than over 40 years old, facing down Florence, family and rural Tuscany judgment with her head held high. Honestly, Zia Maria fought the patriarchy life few women I’ve seen in Italy. She worked hard, raised a superb child (one of my closest friends and lifelong allies in Italy – cousin Claudia). And every Saturday afternoon, no matter what life had thrown at her, she dressed up and went dancing at the Stia circolo. That woman adored the old folks Saturday afternoon dances!
So RIP, Zia Maria. Farewell. It's been the greatest pleasure knowing you.
You may recognise Zia Maria from some of my old Blogs. I’ve been writing for decades about Maria Rossi, Nonna Gemma's 98-year-old sister.
Here is an excerpt on Aunty Maria from my book THE PROMISE:
Born in 1927, Maria worked as a maid while living with a nearby family for the whole of her eleventh year. When news came to Consuma that a high-ranking Roman police officer was looking for a young girl to help with domestic duties, Maria’s mother and father put her forward for the job immediately. She said the rich Romans knew they would find a girl from the Tuscan Casentino mountain area because it was well known that they were poor. Though her sisters had routinely been sent down to work in Florence, none of them had been sent so far away from home. She says she was excited and terrified. Her eyes took on a far away look as she remembered exactly what she was wearing the day she said goodbye to her family.
In 1939 Mussolini had been pushing a cheap, rough, blanket-type material onto the market. Many people had made dresses, pants, jackets and pinafores from the red-brown fabric even though it was infamous for turning rock hard when wet. Maria’s was a simple dress with two big pockets at the side. Her hair had been braided into two long blonde plaits that were tied with two red ribbons. On her feet were plain black shoes and woollen tights, spun from the farm’s lamb’s wool and knitted by herself. Maria’s suitcase was a square piece of cloth tied into a bundle and attached to the end of a stick. Inside the bundle was one other change of clothes and a spare pair of underpants. Her mother had also given her some rags and an explanation as to how to use them. Maria was not yet menstruating and Nonna Angiolina knew it would happen soon.
It was mid-morning on a crisp November day when it was time to go and Nonna Angiolina was out working in the fields. Maria called out ‘mamma!’ and put her hand into her pocket to find her white handkerchief so that she could wave goodbye with it. Maria didn’t know that her new employer’s address in Rome fell out with her hankie.
By the time the horse drawn cart arrived in Arezzo she was brimming with excitement. She’d never seen a big town or a train before. But halfway through the train journey her world came crashing down. She realised she had lost her address in Rome.
At first I didn’t understand why Maria had started to cry at this point in her story. Her face had twisted into a deep sadness as she recalled her long ago terror.
‘I had no money to go back to Arezzo and no money for when I arrived in Rome. All I could remember was Commissario Terni, the name of the man I was to work for. I was so frightened.’ As I began to imagine her fear tears sprang to my eyes too.
‘Babbo had told me to only ask a policeman for information if I got into trouble. I was not to trust or talk to anyone.’ Maria said she was sobbing by the time she got off the train in Rome. She walked around looking for a policeman till finally she saw a uniformed man with a funny hat at the end of a long stretch of red carpet. She walked the length of the red carpet crying. She told him she was lost and begged him to help her find a certain Commissario Terni. But he would not even look at her, let alone speak to her. Maria was devastated that she could be so ignored. She didn’t know that he was a Royal Guard, unable to break his silence. Still, Maria did not leave his side, staying by him until a change of guard arrived. The new guard did speak to her, though she could answer few of his questions.
‘I didn’t even know I was from Tuscany. I could barely even write my own name because I’d finished school at eight years old. But I did say I’d come from Arezzo to work for Commissario Terni,’ said Maria wiping the tears from her face.
From that information the Royal Guard took Maria to the police station nearest the railway. From there they rang police headquarters and located Commissario Terni. His driver duly arrived to pick her up. She stayed in Rome, earning six cents a month, till the war broke out more than a year later.
If you’d like to read more, you can buy the e-book of The Promise here.
Or Death in the Mountains here.
You’re not too late to join us for the July 6-10 Art of Telling Your Story retreat here in Florence too!
Details below. Write to me if you’d like the program!
Lisa
