Forgotten Italians: Julian-Dalmatian Writers and Artists in Canada 9781487519285

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FORGOTTEN ITALIANS Julian-Dalmatian Writers and Artists in Canada

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Forgotten Italians Julian-Dalmatian Writers and Artists in Canada

EDITED BY KONRAD EISENBICHLER

UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO PRESS Toronto Buffalo London

© University of Toronto Press 2019 Toronto Buffalo London utorontopress.com Printed in Canada ISBN 978-1-4875-0402-1 Printed on acid-free, 100% post-consumer recycled paper with vegetable-based inks.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication Forgotten Italians : Julian-Dalmatian writers and artists in Canada / edited by Konrad Eisenbichler. (Toronto Italian studies) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-1-4875-0402-1 (hardcover) 1. Dalmatians – Canada – Intellectual life. 2. Italians – Canada – Intellectual life. 3. Italian Canadians – Intellectual life. 4. Authors, Italian – Canada. 5. Italian Canadian artists. I. Eisenbichler, Konrad, editor II. Series: Toronto Italian studies NX513.2.F67 2019

700.89’57071

C2018-904972-3

This book has been published with the help of a grant from the Federation for the Humanities and Social Sciences, through the Awards to Scholarly Publications Program, using funds provided by the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada. It has also been published with the help of a grant from Victoria College in the University of Toronto. University of Toronto Press acknowledges the financial assistance to its publishing program of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council, an agency of the Government of Ontario.

Funded by the Financé par le Government gouvernement du Canada of Canada

Contents

List of Illustrations  vii Acknowledgments  ix The Julian-Dalmatian Tessera in Canada: An Introduction  3 konrad eisenbichler   1 Esuli and Rimasti: Two Sides of a Coin  32 rosanna turcinovich giuricin   2 “Parola di donna”: A Feminist Reading of JulianDalmatian Periodicals in Canada  45 benedetta lamanna   3 Two Images of Internment: Mario Duliani and Vincenzo Poggi  80 elisabetta carraro   4 Fiume and Canada: The Two Worlds of Gianni Angelo Grohovaz 108 gianna mazzieri sanković   5 La terza forza: Gianni Angelo Grohovaz and the Rise of Italian-Canadian Culture, 1971 to 1975  130 paul baxa

vi Contents

  6 “Rimestando tra le acque del passato”: Gianni Angelo Grohovaz’s Address to the Italian Club of Erindale College, 1984  151 robert buranello   7 Land, Sea, and the Search for Oneself in the Poetry of Diego Bastianutti  186 corinna gerbaz giuliano   8 The Poetry of Exile: An Interview with Diego Bastianutti  206 henry veggian   9 Quarnerine Identity: The Hybrid Self in Caterina Edwards’s Island of the Nightingales 232 ida vodarich marinzoli 10 Protagonist, Chronicler, Historian: Three Voices of Representation in Rosanna Turcinovich Giuricin’s Maddalena ha gli occhi viola 246 gabriella colussi arthur 11 Vittorio Fiorucci: A Portrait of the Artist  263 guita lamsechi 12 Dalmatian Stone: A Conversation with Silvia Pecota on Her Life and Art  276 paolo frascà Contributors 293 Index 297

Illustrations

Maps 1

2 3

Italy in 1920–43 with the peninsula of Istria, the city of Fiume, the islands in the Gulf of Kvarner (Cherso, Lussino, Unie, Sansego), the city of Zara, and the islands of Cazza, Lagosta, and Pelagosa   4 Istria and Dalmatia in 1796 as part of the Republic of Venice   6 Istria after 1991 divided between Italy, Slovenia, and Croatia   7

Figures 0.1 0.2 3.1 3.2 3.3 3.4 3.5

The exodus from Pola on the SS Toscana in February 1947   8 Group photo on the dock in Pola, February 1947  9 Vincenzo Poggi, untitled drawing  89 Vincenzo Poggi, Prisoners Chopping Wood 91 Vincenzo Poggi, untitled drawing  92 Vincenzo Poggi, Norman Ade Clark 101 Photograph of internees with Fascist berets  102

Colour Plates (following page 262)  1  2  3  4

El Boletin 106, 1 June 2001 El Boletin 109, 1 March 2002 El Boletin 123, September 2005 El Boletin 131, September 2007

viii Illustrations

  5   6   7   8   9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16

AveMaria Vodopia, quilt sewn for the Raduno ’91 Vittorio Fiorucci, À tout prendre, 1963 Vittorio Fiorucci, Ne coupez pas les arbres, 1967 Vittorio Fiorucci, Victor Vittorio Fiorucci, Visitez le Nouveau Québec, 1967 Vittorio Fiorucci, Exposition internationale d'art pornographique, 1967 Silvia Pecota, Boxer Wladimir Klitschko, 2002 Silvia Pecota, Boxer Putting on Wraps, 2002 Silvia Pecota, book cover, Remembering Our Fallen, 2015 Silvia Pecota, The Fallen, 2015 Silvia Pecota in Afghanistan, 2003 Silvia Pecota, book cover, Hockey Across Canada, 2003

Acknowledgments

This collection of articles owes its existence to many wonderful people, foremost among them the members of the Club Giuliano-Dalmato of Toronto who generously gave of their time and of themselves to tell me and my students their personal stories of exile and emigration, suffering and survival, and, of course, their profound appreciation to Canada for the safety and opportunities it offered them. In so doing, they put a human face on a tragic moment in history and taught us an important lesson in courage, fortitude, and determination. This collection is also much indebted to Professor Salvatore Bancheri, Emilio Goggio Chair of the Department of Italian Studies at the University of Toronto, who immediately understood and shared my vision for a graduate course on the Julian-Dalmatian diaspora in Canada – the first university course anywhere in the world to study a diasporic Julian-Dalmatian community, its history, and its contributions to its host country. While, in this case, we focused on the literary and artistic contributions a number of Julian-Dalmatians made to Canada’s arts and letters, much could also have been said about the community’s contributions in other fields such as the economy, sports, education, and more. This collection of articles is, in part, fruit of that course. The collection would not, however, have been possible without the colleagues and friends in Canada, the United States, Italy, and Croatia who agreed to be part of this book project by contributing their own research and work to it. Their excellent articles have enriched it beyond my wildest dreams. Nor would it have been possible without Alceo Lini (1921–2003), a refugee from Fiume, Italy. In 1990 Alceo invited me to attend a meeting of the Club Giuliano-Dalmato of Toronto and, in so doing, led me not

x Acknowledgments

only to discover the existence of this diasporic community in Toronto, but also to become involved with it and then with the larger community of Julian-Dalmatians in Canada and on five different continents. That first meeting marked the start of a journey that, over the decades, led me to meet many wonderful Julian-Dalmatians in Canada, the United States, Italy, South Africa, Australia and to undertake a variety of rewarding work of which this book is only the most recent example. At the deepest roots of all this work, however, stand my late father, Erich Eisenbichler (1920–2014), and my mother, Giovanna “Ivetta” Martinolich, whose profound love for Lussinpiccolo (today, Mali Lošinj), the town of our birth, and the wonderful stories they daily told me about its people and our family ensured that I would grow up to be a vero lussignan, even as I became a proud Canadian. To all, my most sincere thanks. Konrad Eisenbichler, FRSC, OMRI

The Julian-Dalmatian Tessera in Canada: An Introduction k onr ad eis e n b ich l e r

Within the great variety of Italians who emigrated to Canada and became part of the mosaic that is Canadian multiculturalism one group stands out, yet remains mostly forgotten: the Julian-Dalmatians. For a variety of reasons having to do with history, geography, politics, culture, and ethnicity, they are an invisible entity, an often overlooked tessera in both the Italian and the Canadian mosaics. In Italy, the Julian-Dalmatian population has been dispersed throughout the peninsula and its islands to the point that the second generation has now fully integrated into the local regional context; in Canada, as in other countries where JulianDalmatians emigrated as post–World War II refugees sponsored by the International Refugee Organization (IRO), their identity as Italians was generally (and officially) cancelled by immigration officials who listed them not as immigrants from Italy but as refugees from Yugoslavia. There is a profound irony in the action of immigration officers who, with a single word in the registers, obviated the very reason that had led these people to abandon their homes and move first to Italy and then abroad. The fact is that what most distinguishes Julian-Dalmatians from their fellow Italians is that their decision to abandon their hometowns was prompted not by economic hardships that led them to seek a better life elsewhere but by a cultural/political decision to remain Italian. What might at first seem to be a riddle is explained by history. The Background Story Julian-Dalmatians are Italians from the northeastern region of Venezia Giulia, the peninsula of Istria, the city of Fiume (today, Rijeka), and the coastline of Dalmatia (map 1). These are regions that have been part of Italian history for just over two millennia.

4  Konrad Eisenbichler

Map 1.  Italy in 1920–43 with the peninsula of Istria, the city of Fiume, the islands in the Gulf of Kvarner (Cherso, Lussino, Unie, Sansego), the city of Zara, and the islands of Cazza, Lagosta, and Pelagosa (Wikimedia Commons; public domain)

The Julian-Dalmatian Tessera in Canada  5

Istria, for example, came under Roman control in 177 BCE and was joined to Rome’s Venetian territory to form part of the Tenth Roman Region of Venetia et Histria. As such, it constituted the easternmost border of what the Romans, and then medieval Italians such as Dante, considered to be “Italy” (see Dante, Inferno 9.112–13). Between the sixth and eighth century, Slavic populations from eastern Europe began to enter into the area as part of the general southwestern migration of Slavic tribes, but they did not displace the majority Latin population. By the ninth century, the Republic of Venice began to assert its influence on the eastern shores of the Adriatic, so much so that by the early fourteenth century it acquired complete control of most of Istria and the coastline of Dalmatia, except for the more inland and easternmost parts of the region, which remained under the control first of the Kingdom of Croatia and then, from the late eleventh century, of the Holy Roman Empire or the Ottoman Empire (map 2). After the fall of Venice (1797) Istria was briefly part of the Habsburg Empire (1797–1805) and then Napoleonic France (1805–14), before spending just over a century as part of the Habsburg Empire once again (1815–1919). With the defeat and collapse of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, Istria and parts of Dalmatia (the islands in the Gulf of Kvarner, the city of Zara, and the islands of Cazza, Lagosta, and Pelagosa) were assigned to Italy (1919–45). A quarter century later, Italy ceded nearly all of Istria to Yugoslavia (1945–91), keeping only a thin stretch of coastline from the town of Muggia to the city of Monfalcone, which included Trieste and its port. With the disintegration of Yugoslavia (1991), Istria was further subdivided, this time between the newly constituted republics of Slovenia and Croatia. Today the peninsula is unevenly split among three different countries – Italy, Slovenia, and Croatia (map 3). A somewhat similar narrative can be told for Dalmatia, most of which is now part of Croatia, while two small sections in the south are part of Bosnia-Herzegovina (ca. 20 km of coastline on either side of the town of Neum) and Montenegro (ca. 300 km of coastline along and south of the Bay of Kotor). The most dramatic of these political changes came in the twentieth century when, in the aftermath of World War II, Italy was obliged to cede its five easternmost provinces to Yugoslavia as part of its war reparations to that country. With the Paris Peace Treaty signed on 10 February 1947, Italy transferred to Yugoslavia the entire territory of the provinces of Zara, Fiume, and Pola, plus most of the territory of the provinces of Trieste and Gorizia. Italians living in these areas suddenly found themselves living no longer in Italy but in another country and under another political system, that is, in Communist

6  Konrad Eisenbichler

Map 2.  Istria and Dalmatia in 1796 as part of the Republic of Venice (Wikimedia Commons; public domain)

Yugoslavia under the brutal dictatorship of Marshal Josip Broz “Tito” (1892–1980). Their fate as victims of the diplomatic manoeuvres that marked the end of World War II, the redrawing of the European political map, and the start of the Cold War had already been sealed a few years earlier when, as the war was coming to an end, Tito’s Yugoslav forces occupied these territories and initiated a campaign of terror against the local Italian population aimed at de-Italianizing the region so as to better incorporate it into Slavic Yugoslavia. Many Italians

The Julian-Dalmatian Tessera in Canada  7

Map 3.  Istria after 1991 divided between Italy, Slovenia, and Croatia (Wikimedia Commons; public domain)

were rounded up by Yugoslav partisan units or by the Yugoslav secret police (the OZNA; Odjeljenje za zaštitu naroda [Department for the Protection of People]), brought in front of kangaroo courts euphemistically called Tribunals of the People, found guilty of being “enemies of the people,” and summarily executed in what is now known as the tragedy of the foibe. The word foiba (pl. foibe) is the Italian geographical term used to describe the natural crevices in the Carso region of Istria, many quite deep, into which most of these victims were thrown, some while still alive and tied with barbed wire to the executed Italian next to them.1 This campaign of terror and de-Italianization continued even after the end of the war, this time under the aegis of the Yugoslav government itself; as Arrigo Petacco points out, “In an interview released to the magazine Panorama in 1991, [Milovan Dijlas] recounts that in 1946 he personally went to Istria with Edward Kardelj, then Yugoslav foreign minister, to organize the anti-Italian propaganda so as to emphasize that that territory belonged to Yugoslavia. He explained to the magazine that ‘Our purpose was to use all kinds of pressures to induce all Italians to leave. And so we did.’”2

8  Konrad Eisenbichler

Figure 0.1.  The exodus from Pola on the SS Toscana in February 1947 (Wikimedia Commons; public domain)

In the climate of fear that enveloped the area, many Italians fled to safety in peninsular Italy. When the Paris Peace Treaty of 1947 officially transferred these territories to Yugoslavia, the Italian population still left in Istria, Fiume, and Dalmatia was given the choice either to become Yugoslav citizens or to remain Italian citizens. Those who opted to remain Italian immediately found themselves obliged to leave their hometowns (now part of Yugoslavia) and “repatriate” to Italy.3 This meant that they had to abandon everything – their homes, family, and friends – and move to the other side of the new border where they were obliged to seek new accommodations, work, and friends, in short to rebuild for themselves that social and economic support network everyone needs and depends upon. The esodo (exodus) from Istria lasted well into the 1950s, though it is sometimes visually encapsulated by heart-wrenching images of the organized mass departure of Italians from Pola in February 1947 on board the sailing ship Toscana (fig. 1 and 2).4

The Julian-Dalmatian Tessera in Canada  9

Figure 0. 2.  Group photo on the dock in Pola before embarking on the SS Toscana, February 1947 (Wikimedia Commons; public domain)

Post-war Italy and its people were not, however, able, or at times willing, to provide for the estimated 250,000 to 350,000 Italians who abandoned Istria, Fiume, and Dalmatia and moved to the peninsula.5 Part of Italy’s inability to cope with the refugee problem was grounded in political dogma – the powerful communist and socialist parties of the newly created Republic of Italy could not admit that people from all social classes were fleeing en masse from the paradiso dei lavoratori (workers’ paradise) that was Communist Yugoslavia.6 Left-wing Italian public opinion thus sought to demonize the profughi (refugees) as unrepentant Fascists fleeing from the “righteous” and “justified” vengeance of the Slavic and Communist population of the area. Official government opinion, for its part, sought to cast a veil of silence on the

10  Konrad Eisenbichler

problem. Thus combined, official and public opinion ensured that for nearly half a century Italians from Istria, Fiume, and Dalmatia were literally forgotten – school texts did not mention the esodo or the foibe, there was no public commemoration of the suffering this population endured, no city street or piazza was named in their honour. The only people to remember their sacrifice were the refugees themselves who, gathered into a number of local and national associations of various stripes and colours, sought to keep alive at least the memory of their hometowns, dialect, culture, and sacrifice. Only in the mid-1990s, in the wake of a significant shift in perspective among the ruling parties of Italy, were various proposals advanced to legislate a day of remembrance for the victims of the foibe and the Italian exodus from Istria, Fiume, and Dalmatia. Finally, in March 2004, a law was passed that designated 10 February as a yearly Giorno del Ricordo (Day of Remembrance). The date was specifically chosen to recall the signing of the Paris Peace Treaty that transferred these lands to Yugoslavia. Suddenly these “forgotten” Italians had a day in which they would be remembered, and so they were. Starting in February 2005, nearly all Italian levels of government began to officially observe the Giorno del Ricordo with appropriate ceremonies and speeches; many municipalities also began naming local streets or piazzas in honour of the martiri delle foibe (martyrs of the foibe) or individual martyrs such as Norma Cossetto.7 In Canada, the expatriate community of Julian-Dalmatians began to observe the Giorno del Ricordo in its various associations, such as the Club Giuliano-Dalmato of Toronto, the oldest such association of Julian-Dalmatians in the country (founded on 22 September 1967). Long before granting such official recognition, however, the Italian government had sought to solve the refugee problem by diluting it, as it were. Although some leading figures among the exiles and their supporters had proposed the creation of a “new Pola” somewhere in Italy, so as to keep the Julian-Dalmatian community together as a cohesive entity with its own culture, dialect, and customs, the government preferred instead to disperse it by placing the refugees in need of housing in 109 different refugee camps scattered across the country, from Sicily in the south to Lombardy in the north, from Trieste in the east to Sardinia in the west.8 Conditions in these camps were miserable, to say the least. Some Julian-Dalmatians remained in refugee camps for years. Given the dismal conditions and the general negative attitude towards them, many refugees soon realized that post-war Italy was not going to help them, so they chose to undergo a second “exile,” this

The Julian-Dalmatian Tessera in Canada  11

time by emigrating from Italy to more welcoming countries – Australia, the United States, and Canada in particular. With the help of the IRO, which regularly visited these camps, many Julian-Dalmatians found themselves en route to a better future in a distant land. Arriving in their new countries as refugees sponsored by the IRO, many exiles who had left their hometowns in order to remain Italian found themselves listed in the official immigration rolls of their host country as refugees from Yugoslavia, not from Italy. Because of this ironic twist, it is now impossible to determine just how many Julian-Dalmatians arrived in Canada in the years after World War II. Once again, the specificity of the JulianDalmatian population was, somehow, forgotten or dismissed, and the arriving individuals mixed in with other groups and ethnicities. Clifford Jansen reports that 71,200 Italians from Friuli-Venezia Giulia and the Trentino arrived in Canada between 1946–8 and another 102,500 between 1949–50;9 among them were the Julian-Dalmatians, but any estimate of their numbers is mere guesswork. What is not guesswork, however, is the narrative of emigration and immigration that we hear from Julian-Dalmatians in Canada. In their personal stories the refugee camps and the IRO always figure prominently, as do the contracts stipulated by the Canadian government that obliged newcomers to work for one or two years in logging camps in the bush of northern Ontario or northern Quebec, or in the work camps of the Canadian National Railroad along the shores of Georgian Bay or Lake Superior, or in farms and factories in distant, lonely places. Then there are the long work hours, the cold of Canadian winters, the struggles to learn the new language, the solitude of the wilderness, and, finally, the joy of being able to move to a big city (usually Toronto or Montreal) where the new immigrants found work better suited to their constitution and culture, started a family, bought a house, and established themselves.10 What is noteworthy in these immigration narratives is that the speakers do not mention the foibe or the fear that drove them to abandon their homes. It is as if they do not wish to recall the trauma they suffered. In fact, on more than one occasion when I interviewed expatriates about their diaspora, they shied away from a discussion of the Istrian or Dalmatian component of their story. Some even refused to be interviewed, saying that this was now all past and they did not wish to talk about it. This narrative silence points to a refusal to linger on the pain of the past and a desire to remember, instead, only the pleasant aspects of one’s earlier life – the land, the people, the way of life. Such

12  Konrad Eisenbichler

an attitude inevitably leads to a sense of nostalgia for an earlier, happier time and for a beautiful land now beyond reach. We see this in Gianni Angelo Grohovaz’s poetry, for example; though he remembers some of the turmoil and pains that prompted him to flee from Fiume, most of his poetry seeks to remember the positive and pleasant moments of his earlier life in that city. Even the immigration experience, filled with the inevitable difficulties inherent in adapting to a new climate, culture, and language, is mediated through the rose-tinted glasses of a selective memory that, in the end, finds comfort in the realization that life in Canada is good, perhaps even better than “back home.” In fact, though suffering from nostalgia, the Julian-Dalmatian immigrant in Canada has no intention to return “back home,” except perhaps for a short holiday. Something similar may be said of Julian-Dalmatian writers – nostalgia for a lost homeland may be nothing more than a literary device or, at best, an inspiration for their creative work, not a real-life objective. Though many Julian-Dalmatians in Canada will gladly talk about their arrival and early years in Canada, the only one so far who turned that experience into a work of literature is Gianni Angelo Grohovaz. A refugee from Fiume who arrived in Canada on 8 December 1950, Grohovaz describes his early years in the country in the semi-autobiographical novel Strada bianca (White road), published posthumously in 1988. In it, the protagonist Ivan Del Conte, an immigrant from Fiume, finds himself working on the railroad line in northern Ontario, alienated from his fellow workers and the rest of humanity whom he categorizes as canaglia (rabble, scoundrels). Eventually he moves to Toronto, “where the crazy mingle with the wise and you don’t notice them,”11 meets and falls in love with Maria, a young Italian-Canadian woman, and starts a new life together with her. The novel ends with the couple on their honeymoon in New York City, where they watch the motor ship Saturnia, which transported thousands of Italians refugees and emigrants from Trieste, Genoa, and Naples to Halifax and New York, sail forth on her return voyage to Italy to pick up yet another cargo of people for the New World.12 As Robert Buranello pointed out nearly twenty years ago, The importance of Strada bianca’s contribution lies not only in the fact that it is the first novel to address the particular situation of the Julian Dalmatian immigrants to Canada, thus giving fuller dimension to Italian Canadian literature, but also because, far from providing a nostalgic gaze at the past and an attempt to ennoble the immigrant, it offers a first-hand look at

The Julian-Dalmatian Tessera in Canada  13 the difficult yet necessary process of interpreting one’s own cultural background and history and applying that knowledge positively in the new reality. The motif of the voyage, implicit in the title, becomes more than a mere voyage of discovery of the newly adopted country. It becomes the voyage of the discovery of the self within the new context, and a textual voyage of interpretation on the part of the readers.13

That journey towards self-knowledge and peace of mind is the road map to every Julian-Dalmatian’s experience in Canada: firmly Italian in culture, language, and identity, Julian-Dalmatians are also firmly aware of the fact that their identity is complex, so much so that they are often wrongly categorized. They have been labelled as “Slavs” not only by the Canadian immigration officers at Pier 21 in Halifax who listed them as refugees from Yugoslavia but also by Italians in Italy who, in the post-war period, saw them as escaping Yugoslavs seeking a handout in Italy. To this very day, some Julian-Dalmatians still face and struggle with this misidentification on the part not only of their neighbours or friends who cannot conceive how someone with a last name such as Grohovaz, Antonaz, Grdovic, Stuparich, or Svab might be an Italian, but also of Italian bureaucrats (especially in Italian consulates and embassies abroad) who seem unable or unwilling to recognize their Italian nationality and, consequently, citizenship.14 Part of the problem may lie with Julian-Dalmatians themselves, who may be Italians but are also bearers of a richly multicultural heritage that is generally not present in other regions of Italy. Venezia Giulia, Istria, and Fiume sit at the junction of the three major ethnic/cultural groups of Europe – Latin, Germanic, and Slavic. Julian-Dalmatians are thus multicultural by default not only in their culture or in their ability to speak several languages but also in their genes, richly endowed with Italian, Slavic, German, and in some cases also Hungarian, Romanian, and Jewish chromosomes – all thanks to centuries of intermarriage with other groups cohabiting the region. This firmly multicultural heritage is one of the reasons why Julian-Dalmatians adapted so well to Canada and Canadian culture. As Gianni Angelo Grohovaz pointed out in one of his poems, it is easy for someone from Fiume to live in Canada “because here, too, there’s people of every sort: all races, a hundred religions, seventy-five languages (and opinions).”15 In the twentieth century, however, the multiculturalism that for centuries had been the hallmark of Istria, Fiume, and Dalmatia came under attack first by the Fascist government of Italy and then by the

14  Konrad Eisenbichler

Communist government of Yugoslavia. When, in the wake of World War I, Italy acquired the region from the collapsed Austro-Hungarian Empire (itself a richly multicultural entity), the government in Rome moved to impose Italian uniformity and conformity over the entire population of the region. It did this in several ways, among which by abolishing education in German, Slovenian, or Croatian,16 by Italianizing the topography of the region, by obliging Slovenians and Croatians living in the area to Italianize their family names, and, of course, by physical violence – the burning of the Slovene Narodni dom (National House) in Trieste on 13 July 1920 by a group of Black Shirts led by Francesco Giunta is perhaps the most iconic, though certainly not the only example of Fascist nationalist violence against the local Slavic population. Not surprisingly, the violence that was later wrought against the Italian population of the region during and immediately after World War II by Slavic partisan units has often been explained, and even excused, as retaliation for the cultural and physical violence the Slavic population faced during the Fascist era. Nationalism can be a brutal force, as the twentieth century has shown on many occasions and in various places. When moderated, however, by respect for diversity it can be a valuable element in the construction of the self and the community. In the case of Julian-Dalmatians, the affirmation of an Italian identity is a primary characteristic that, ironically, serves to differentiate them from their compatriots from other parts of Italy. Sicilians, Tuscans, or Lombards, for example, do not need to claim and affirm their Italianness as insistently and as often as Julian-Dalmatians do because they assume it and are granted it as a birthright, as it were. Not so with the Julian-Dalmatians – their being Italian is a conscious cultural decision in need of constant reaffirmation, often in the face of centrifugal forces that seek to project them into other nationalities or ethnicities. Theirs is also an individual choice that is profoundly connected with the larger context of Italian history in so far as the personal experience of an Italian from Istria, Fiume, or Dalmatia is influenced by events that are national, rather than local, in nature – Italy’s involvement in World War I and II, the Fascist regime of the interbellum years, the Christian Democrat governments and their Communist oppositions of the post-war years, the deliberations of the Allies at Yalta and in Paris, and the Cold War. It is, in other words, a nationalism that goes far beyond a personal sentiment for one’s own place and culture to engage, willy-nilly, with events and movements at a national and international level. Not surprisingly, the nationalism that

The Julian-Dalmatian Tessera in Canada  15

characterizes the Julian-Dalmatian community has often been hijacked, pro or con, by both right-wing and left-wing political forces seeking to advance their own agendas – irredentist, neo-Fascist, Communist international, and so forth. This has not been the case with the patriotism expressed by other regional groups in Italy – a Calabrese’s or a Milanese’s love for Italy does not elicit such strong reactions from the right or the left of the political spectrum. It is not surprising, therefore, to find that Julian-Dalmatians are sometimes painted in large brushstrokes as revanchist, irredentists, neo-Fascists, and the like not only in Italy but also in Canada.17 Julian-Dalmatians in Canada In the late 1940s and throughout the 1950s Canada opened its doors to welcome the Julian-Dalmatian refugees. Though destitute and nearly destroyed, they were a resilient people who brought with them a set of qualifications and expertise of the highest order – they were, for the most part, well educated, middle-class immigrants with experience in administration, education, government employment, business, and commerce. Theirs was an “exodus of excellence,” as some have called it.18 And Canada benefited from it, not only economically but also culturally. This volume of essays looks at the some of the cultural contributions that the Julian-Dalmatian community made to Canada as writers and artists, and, in some cases, at their immigration experience. In particular, it focuses on six members of this community who are either firstor second-generation Canadians – Diego Bastianutti, Mario Duliani, Caterina Edwards, Vittorio Fiorucci, Gianni Angelo Grohovaz, and Silvia Pecota. In their writings and artwork, these talented individuals have contributed to the rich mosaic that is Canadian culture. Some have even won prestigious prizes for their work, both in Canada and abroad. Some have also given voice, in one way or another, to the suffering inflicted by exile, separation, distance, misunderstanding. Their search for the self, their memories of the past, their hopes for the future, their contributions to dialogue are often coloured by and tied to a very specific set of circumstances associated with loss, alienation, and exile. At the same time, however, they reflect the common lot of human existence as we seek to understand ourselves in the context of the world around us. Theirs is not a niche cultural product but part of a larger human quest.

16  Konrad Eisenbichler

The sense of complete, permanent, and even brutal separation from the hometown is at the core of the relationship Julian-Dalmatians have with their place of origin. While diasporic Italians from other regions of Italy can always return to their hometowns and hear their familiar dialect spoken in streets and piazzas that bear familiar names, in stores and markets that sell familiar products, at celebrations that commemorate a familiar culture, this is not the case with Julian-Dalmatians. Their return to the hometown entails the return to a foreign country, to a city with a foreign name, to streets and squares that honour foreign heroes, to celebrations that commemorate a foreign culture. The city of Fiume, for example, is now called Rijeka, Albona is now Labin, Pinguente is now Buzet, Gallignana is now Gračišće, Lussinpiccolo is now Mali Lošinj, and so forth. In some cases, that difference is a painful reminder of the violence inflicted upon the Julian-Dalmatian population by the foreign culture that persecuted them and forced them into exile – the main square of Capodistria, now Koper in Slovenia, is no longer named Piazza del Duomo but Trg Josip Tito, in honour of the Communist dictator who was responsible for the ethnic violence perpetrated against the Italians of the region and the subsequent flight into exile of fourteen thousand of Capodistria’s fifteen thousand inhabitants.19 Although this violence is clearly not the reason why the piazza was named in Tito’s honour, the name remains nonetheless a painful reminder of the atrocities committed against the local Italian population. Some Italians did remain in Istria and, in smaller numbers, in Dalmatia, either because they welcomed and looked forward to living under Communism in this soonto-be “paradise of workers,” or because they were physically unable to leave on account of age or family obligations, or simply because the Yugoslav authorities did not grant them permission to leave. These Italians became known as the rimasti (those who remained behind) and quickly became the minority population of the area where, just a few years before, they had been the overwhelming majority. These rimasti are now the custodians of the twice-millenarian Latin/Italian history and culture of the region. Because of the rimasti’s crucial role as guardians of Julian-Dalmatian culture and language, this volume opens with Rosanna Turcinovich Giuricin’s considerations on the complex and sometimes difficult dynamics that have existed between esuli (exiles) and rimasti, those who left and those who remained. Over the past sixty years, both groups have faced enormous difficulties in coming to terms with their respective situations and with each other. Many of the rimasti felt betrayed and abandoned

The Julian-Dalmatian Tessera in Canada  17

by the friends and relatives who left to go into exile, depopulating the hometown and thereby opening the doors to the enormous influx of new, Slavic inhabitants from further inland in Yugoslavia. Many of the esuli, on the other hand, felt cut off from the family and friends they had left behind, separated not only by distance but also, in the early years, by the Iron Curtain. This feeling was rendered even more intense by the difficulties, at times the impossibility, of returning for a visit, at least until the 1970s when Tito’s Communist regime eased its travel restrictions and finally started to open Yugoslavia to the tourist trade, soon to be a very lucrative business along the coasts of Istria and Dalmatia both for the state and for the locals who rented rooms to tourists and opened shops and restaurants to serve them. With the easing of restrictions on tourism, many of the esuli, especially those who had settled in Italy, were able to return on holidays to visit and reconnect with family and friends among the rimasti. For Julian-Dalmatians in Canada, the United States, Australia, South Africa, or South America, contact with family and friends separated by the diaspora was, however, much more difficult to maintain. Often it was lost. In her article on the contribution of women to Julian-Dalmatian periodicals in Canada, Benedetta Lamanna remarks on these lost connections and points to the crucial role diasporic women played not only in seeking to reconnect with long-lost friends or relatives but also in helping to maintain a sense of unity and local traditions among the exiles. She notes that in the articles authored by women in Toronto’s El Boletin, Chatham’s El Campanil, or Hamilton’s Da Gorizia fino a Zara, one notices that women were actively engaged in issues of self-definition and self-advocacy, that they were uniquely preoccupied with community and community building, in short, that they were very much “guardians of culture” for the expatriate Julian-Dalmatian community. Wish and try as they might, however, the esuli who left the region cannot be the custodians of Julian-Dalmatian culture. Their departure from the region and subsequent immersion into the societies that welcomed them in the diaspora mean that their second, third, and future generations will lose their Julian-Dalmatian culture and will eventually integrate completely into the host group. In other words, JulianDalmatian culture abroad will disappear. In the process, however, the Julian-Dalmatian community has and will continue to contribute to the culture of its host country. The earliest example we have of a Julian-Dalmatian who contributed to Canada’s literary culture is Mario Duliani. Born in Pisino d’Istria in

18  Konrad Eisenbichler

1885, when it was still part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, Duliani is a controversial figure, to say the least, because of suspicions he might have been a Fascist operative in pre-war Canada (though the verdict is still out on this). His credentials on arrival were good – he came to Montreal from Paris in 1936 at the personal invitation of Eugène Berthiaume, the son of the owner and president of Montreal’s influential daily La Presse. Berthiaume, who was then working and living in Paris as a correspondent for his father’s newspaper, wanted Duliani to direct a brand-new Italian-language newspaper he planned to launch in Montreal.20 Soon Duliani was busy in Montreal as a journalist not, however, for Berthiaume’s new Italian-language newspaper but for his father’s French-language L’Illustration nouvelle. Duliani was well qualified for such work, having previously been a journalist in Milan for Il Secolo and a foreign correspondent in Paris for the Roman newspaper Il Messaggero. When Mussolini declared war on the United Kingdom on 10 June 1940, Canada immediately considered itself at war with Italy and, that very same day, imposed the War Measures Act that allowed it to arrest several hundred Italians deemed to be potentially dangerous to the country. Duliani was one of them. For the next three and a half years, he was confined in internment camps, first in Petawawa, Ontario and then in Ripples, outside of Fredericton, New Brunswick. In both camps, he seems to have been a model prisoner who did not get into trouble or cause problems, but he was also quietly keeping a diary that, once he was set free, would form the basis for his autobiographical novel La ville sans femmes (1945), soon translated into Italian by the author himself as Città senza donne (1946; City without Women) and published, like its French original, in Montreal. Not only is this the first ItalianCanadian novel ever published, but it is also a detailed first-hand account of daily life in a Canadian internment camp. Duliani’s novel is thus a very important cultural and historical document for Canada in general and for Italian-Canadians in particular. It is also important for other Canadians of foreign origin who were interned during the war – Germans and Japanese in particular. In her article on Duliani, Elisabetta Carraro places the Istrian journalist side by side with a fellow internee, the Italian artist Vincenzo Poggi, born in Milan in 1900 and also a sometime resident of Paris. Poggi arrived in Canada in 1919 from Milan in order to work in a stained-glass factory in Montreal. Arrested, like Duliani, in June 1940, Poggi also was interned in Petawawa, where he too seems to have been a model prisoner, but one who kept a different sort of diary – while

The Julian-Dalmatian Tessera in Canada  19

Duliani wrote, Poggi drew and painted. His striking portraits of fellow internees and camp guards, and his vignettes of daily life at the camp provide a visual glimpse into the “city without women” that Duliani described in words. Carraro uses Poggi’s works and correspondence to shed greater light on an episode narrated by Duliani, thereby providing a more nuanced understanding of the difficult dynamics that prevailed in the internment camps, including the peer violence that turned some internees into bullies and others into twice-over victims of the system. Carraro’s groundbreaking examination of Duliani and Poggi in parallel opens the way for further such parallel analyses that, in supporting and elucidating each other, shed greater light on the plight of (mostly) innocent people rounded up and confined in internment camps only because they had been immigrants from countries that were currently at war with Canada. After the war, one of these immigrants who proved to be a deeply proud Italian-Canadian at the forefront of Canada’s new policy of multiculturalism was Gianni Angelo Grohovaz. Born in Fiume in 1926, Grohovaz arrived in Canada in December 1950 after moving around various refugee camps in Italy for several years. Once in Canada, he was immediately sent to work on the Canadian National Railway (CNR) rail lines in northern Ontario. Eventually moving to Toronto, Grohovaz became closely involved with the local Italian community, supporting it in its difficulties with various bureaucracies and authorities (both Italian and Canadian), but also challenging it to aim higher, stand firmer, and make itself heard. Making himself heard was exactly what Grohovaz did, both in print and in voice. As a journalist for various periodicals, including Il Giornale di Toronto which he directed (1971–5), and on CHIN Radio where he had a weekly program, Grohovaz kept his finger on the pulse of Italian-Canadian and Canadian life, culture, and politics. Never short of words or expletives, he called it as he saw it, which did not always ingratiate people to him. Yet, many admired him, especially among the Julian-Dalmatian community that found in him a voice for its own feelings of displacement and loss. In her contribution to this collection, Gianna Mazzieri Sanković examines Grohovaz’s two collections – one of poetry, the other of radio editorials – to point out that, although in the poetry Grohovaz allows himself the luxury of wandering with his memories to his beloved hometown, in the radio editorials he remains firmly grounded in the present and lucidly analytical not only of life in Canada for Italian immigrants but also of their relationship with the mother country. In a way, however,

20  Konrad Eisenbichler

one must also acknowledge that the poetry too is a way for the author to ground himself – the title of the collection points to its purpose, that is, “to remember the things that I remember.” And this, in turn, points to one of the fundamental roles of literature (especially lyric poetry) in preserving something that is very precious to us – our memories. Though memory might be nostalgic, rose coloured, even hazy and incorrect, it remains nonetheless the prime agent in our relationship with the past. We believe what we remember, and we grant eternity to what we remember when we write it down as literature. As Mazzieri Sanković points out, “Writing becomes an obligation, a weapon to seize in order to leave behind a sign of one’s own presence and culture while firmly maintaining one’s identity and the dignity of one’s own language” (ch. 4, 118). Grohovaz’s effort to maintain his identity and language is evident not only in his poetry but also in his radio editorials. Here the driving force is not the effort to memorialize the past but the struggle to improve the present and secure the future – in other words, to give Italian immigrants in those early years in Canada, long before multiculturalism became an official policy of the Canadian government (1971), pride in their own ethnic origins and cultural history. Such pride was to be expressed not only within the confines of the family or the ethnic group but openly and in front of all Canadians. Grohovaz urged Italians in Canada not to allow themselves to be categorized as secondclass citizens but to stand firm in the assertion of their own self-respect and in the knowledge of their own rich contributions to the country. Paul Baxa’s article in this collection speaks exactly to this point. It highlights Grohovaz’s firm belief that Italians in Canada constituted a “third force” that was moving the country beyond its previous, stalemated English/French dichotomy, the “two solitudes” rendered famous by Hugh MacLennan’s novel by that title from 1945. Italians in Canada were helping to move the country towards the dynamic, open-ended model of inclusive diversity that we now know as Canadian multiculturalism. Grohovaz’s groundbreaking vision, evident already in the 1950s and 1960s, saw that Italians could remain Italian while becoming Canadian, that they were not obliged to melt into the English or French context, anglicize or gallicize their habits, speech, or names. By remaining Italians, they could enrich the country and themselves not only culturally but also spiritually and economically. His was a vision of a new Canada, a Canada that would, in fact, be officially recognized and sanctioned in 1971 when it became the first country in the world to adopt multiculturalism as an official government policy.

The Julian-Dalmatian Tessera in Canada  21

As the current web page of the Department of Immigration, Refugees, and Citizenship Canada affirms, “Canadian multiculturalism is fundamental to our belief that all citizens are equal. Multiculturalism ensures that all citizens can keep their identities, can take pride in their ancestry and have a sense of belonging. Acceptance gives Canadians a feeling of security and self-confidence, making them more open to, and accepting of, diverse cultures. The Canadian experience has shown that multiculturalism encourages racial and ethnic harmony and cross-cultural understanding.”21 That equality and that identity were not, however, always assured, especially for immigrants who arrived in the 1950s and 1960s. In speaking about the past to the students of Erindale College at the University of Toronto in February 1984, Grohovaz surveyed what it was like in Toronto for Italian immigrants thirty years before; “perhaps, before, it was easier” is the ironic, certainly controversial subtitle of his talk. Grohovaz’s intention seems to be not so much to bore the students with a survey of what their parents had to cope with but to encourage these Canadian-born children of Italian immigrants to appreciate their parents’ achievements and to use them as a platform from which to launch their own future contributions to Canada. Robert Buranello contextualizes and then parses this talk, pointing out how Grohovaz’s survey is a rallying cry to the new generation of Italian-Canadians who, comfortable in both worlds, are set to be the builders of the new ethnic paradigm that is multicultural Canada. Buranello then provides us with a transcription of that previously unpublished talk, thereby increasing the corpus of Grohovaz’s works available to readers and scholars alike. Another such immigrant to Canada was Diego Bastianutti. Born in Fiume in 1939, he left the city in 1947 to become a refugee in Italy, whence he then emigrated first to the United States (1952) and then to Canada (1967). A latecomer to writing poetry, when he finally began to use the medium to reflect on (his) life, Bastianutti produced four striking verse collections that explore not only the traditional (for poetry) topic of love but also, and more importantly for us, the existential anguish of the exile torn from the land that gave him life. The titles of Bastianutti’s four collections of poetry all refer to this pain – Il punto caduto (The dropped stitch; 1993), La barca in secco (The boat in dry dock; 1995), For a Fistful of Soil (2006), and The Bloody Thorn (2014). In her analysis of the first three of these collections, Corinna Gerbaz Giuliano points to the exiled poet’s keen sense of identity, but also to his realization that this identity is undermined by the turmoil of displacement, exile, and

22  Konrad Eisenbichler

integration. Like the half-giant Antaeus who died when Hercules lifted him from the ground that gave him strength, the deracinated individual stares extinction in the face. Since a return to the native soil that gave him life is not a possibility, survival must now depend on a heightened sense of self-knowledge, a new open-mindedness, and an undaunted willingness to overcome both limitations and obstacles. In the interview Bastianutti granted to Henry Veggian for this collection, the poet and retired professor opens himself up, this time not in verses to an unknown and unseen reader but in dialogue with a fellow scholar and teacher. In the conversation that ensues, Bastianutti expresses his views on poetry, literature, and the human condition. As Veggian prods, Bastianutti reveals. The discussion sheds light not only on the poet as exile but also on the poet as a community activist who, having suffered his own deracination, is now actively engaged on behalf of other uprooted individuals – addicts, homeless, runaways – living today on the streets of Vancouver. The pain of exile evident in the poetry of Gianni Angelo Grohovaz and Diego Bastianutti is not present in all Julian-Dalmatians in Canada. In the case of Miriam Frankel, a Jewish woman who grew up in Trieste and now lives in Toronto, it is not exile but the Holocaust that marked her life and remains forever etched in her memory. Her story is told in Rosanna Turcinovich Giuricin’s interview novel Maddalena ha gli occhi viola (Maddalena has violet eyes; 2015). Gabriella Colussi Arthur, who analyses this work for our collection, admits, “I was unable to set the book down” (ch. 10, 260). Part of the reason for the book’s success is to be found in the title character’s tragic narrative and part in the interviewer’s own reflections on that narrative, but part is also to be attributed, as Colussi Arthur explains, to the author’s skills as an interviewer, researcher, and writer – “Breadth, Depth, and Form” come together as “an interconnected approach intended for the collection and interpretation of immigrant narratives of those living in the diaspora” (ch. 10, 247). While suffering seems to be part of the general condition of the immigrant exile, some do manage to overcome it and to adapt to their new home and society without any visible sign of existential angst, incurable nostalgia, or the scars of racial violence. One of these is the prizewinning graphic artist Vittorio Fiorucci, an exile from Zara where he was born in 1932. After a short stay in Venice, where his family had fled to escape the carpet bombing of their city,22 in November 1951 the nineteen-year-old Fiorucci left Italy and emigrated to Montreal, where

The Julian-Dalmatian Tessera in Canada  23

he would spent the rest of his life and reap his professional rewards. The creator of “Victor,” the charming little green devil that is the mascot of the Just pour rire/Just for Laughs comedy show (plate 8), Fiorucci was a successful graphic designer and the recipient of many distinguished awards and honours in his adopted Quebec. His art was featured in many exhibitions in Canada and abroad – France, Germany, Italy, Belgium, Greece, Turkey, Mexico. In spite of local and international acclaim, Fiorucci described himself quite simply as “a Montreal artist of Italian origin” who used his art to effect social change.23 He also admitted that he very much identified with his namesake creation, the mascot Victor. Humour, it seems, was Fiorucci’s way of dealing with the world and of trying to change it for the better. In this volume, Guita Lamsechi surveys Fiorucci’s creative life to present us with a Julian-Dalmatian who was able to transplant himself successfully to a new soil and harvest an enormous amount of energy from his new land and its culture. When we come to second-generation Julian-Dalmatians, the equation is naturally different. Free from the pains of exile and the pangs of nostalgia, the second generation views its parents’ homeland as a distant place to be visited, as one would visit distant relatives – there is clearly an affective connection, but the place holds no old memories of one’s own former self. Instead, it creates new memories conditioned by the inescapable element of tourism that defines the visit, the dominant presence of “otherness” in both the tourist and the locals, the exoticism that such “otherness” exudes, and the limited temporality of the experience. Second-generation Julian-Dalmatians are thus hybrids, as all second-generation Canadians are. Caterina Edwards is one such hybrid; Julian-Dalmatian on her mother’s side, English on her father’s, she is now a prize-winning Canadian novelist based in Edmonton. The autobiographical element in her novels and short stories is always present, and so is the JulianDalmatian experience. Ida Vodarich Marinzoli examines this autobiographical element in her contribution to this collection by looking at the depiction of women in Edward’s collection of short stories, Island of the Nightingales (2000). She notes the confusion that seems to characterize these women’s relation with themselves and the world around them and describes it as a “Quarnerine identity,” that is, the identity of people from the Gulf of Kvarner (or Quarnaro) who live on the border between two different worlds, Slavic and Italian. The women in Edward’s narratives are like that, but so are the children of JulianDalmatians born abroad. Theirs is a hybrid nature based on diversity, and

24  Konrad Eisenbichler

they must live with it. As Marinzoli concludes, “For them […] confusion is the new clarity” (ch. 9, 243). But not all of them are confused. Silvia Pecota, the Canadian-born daughter of an exile from Zara, knows exactly who she is and what she wants. “If you have a talent, don’t bury it. Go out there, and make something!” she tells her interviewer Paolo Frascà (ch. 12, 276). As an artist, Pecota draws much of her energy and inspiration from the white stone of Dalmatia. As a person, she draws it from her Italian roots. Like a Renaissance master, she pours her talents into many media – stone, marble, bronze, cement, but also oil paints, frescoes, photography, digital, and the written word. Irrepressible in her views as well as in her energy, she speaks “like a sailor” and tells you exactly what she thinks. In this, she may well be Gianni Angelo Grohovaz’s spiritual heir. Pecota was born in Canada, but there is Dalmatian stone and strength in every cell of her body. And courage. She has, in fact, visited Canadian soldiers in Afghanistan on five different occasions and gone many times with them on missions into the field to record their actions and bravery – men and women both. Her depictions of soldiers have earned her praise and important commissions, such as the bronze relief to the fallen, one copy of which is now on display at the Royal Canadian Air Force Museum in Trenton, Ontario, while the other is on the Canadian Cenotaph in Kandahar, Afghanistan. A maverick in so many ways, Silvia Pecota embodies the determination that led so many Julian-Dalmatians to abandon everything for the sake of an ideal and the talent that allowed them to prosper in and contribute generously to their new country, Canada. This collection of articles is admittedly limited. It focuses on just two categories of people – writers and artists – and even then some, such as Claudio Antonelli (born in Pisino d’Istria) and Genni Gunn (born Genni Donati in Trieste) are not included. Although few, these writers and artists are representative of the wider community of Julian-Dalmatians who have contributed to this country not only in literature and the arts but also in business, industry, education, medicine … Theirs is a community that, because of its painful history and complex identity, is very much an anomaly in the context of the Italian diaspora to Canada. That history and that anomaly work against their survival as an identifiable and long-lasting community, but they have also allowed Julian-Dalmatians to make myriad contributions to their new country far beyond their small numbers. The literature and art they have produced reflect these differences and underline the diversity that made Istria, Fiume, and Dalmatia, and now Canada, thriving multicultural communities.

The Julian-Dalmatian Tessera in Canada  25

Although for many years Julian-Dalmatians may have been a forgotten, or possibly ignored, community both in Italy and abroad, their place in Italian history and their contributions to Canadian culture are vibrant tesserae in the mosaic of both countries. NOTES   1 The best and most extensive English-language description of the history of these times and the massacres of the foibe is Petacco, Tragedy Revealed. The fundamental Italian work, and one of the first to carry out an extensive and detailed analysis of the ethnic cleansing of Italians from Istria and Dalmatia, is Rocchi, L’esodo, first published in 1970 and then significantly updated and expanded in several subsequent editions.   2 Petacco, Tragedy Revealed, 103. Petacco describes Dijlas (also spelled Gilas) as “a Serbian intellectual, who during the partisan war was the right hand of Tito, and who afterwards became a bitter adversary of the marshal” (103).   3 This forced “repatriation” of people opting to remain Italian was a dramatic contrast to what happened in 1920 when these territories were transferred from Austrian to Italian or Yugoslavian jurisdiction; see Ballinger, “Borders of the Nation,” 723.   4 One might note that the “ethnic cleansing” continued in the mass killings and campaigns of terror carried out during the Yugoslav Wars of 1991– 2001 that erupted in the wake of that country’s political disintegration, though this time the cleansing was mostly directed against fellow Slavs – Croatians, Serbians, Albanians, and Bosnians in particular.   5 As Pamela Ballinger points out, the total number of Italians who left the region has been disputed in line with the various political or national backgrounds of the various writers and researchers; Ballinger, “Remapping the Istrian Exodus,” 77n6. See, for example, the chart by Ezio Giuricin that compares various tallies by Italian and Croatian researchers; Giuricin, “I censimenti jugoslavi,” 54. One of the first reliable estimates for the total number of refugees was tallied and reported by Amedeo Colella who, in 1958, set the total figure at about 250,000 (consisting of 150,627 tracked-down recorded refugees; 23,324 recorded but no longer trackable refugees; 23,136 refugees who emigrated abroad; 4,553 refugees by then deceased; and 48,560 refugees missed by the survey); Colella, L’esodo, 15. One should keep in mind that Colella’s data is updated to 1955 only. It therefore does not include the refugees from the ex-Zone B of the Free Territory of Trieste (that is, the districts of Buie and Capodistria, in particular) who were still abandoning their homes and escaping to Italy

26  Konrad Eisenbichler well after 1955, or the fact that the exodus from Istria continued in small but significant numbers at least until the early 1960s; these two factors would raise the total to about 300,000 people. Some years after Colella, Flaminio Rocchi tallied the figure at 346,440 (consisting of 301,440 refugees recorded by the Opera Profughi in 1958 in the various municipalities in Italy; an estimated 50,000 not included in the tally because they were deceased, ill, or had assimilated on their own into the Italian population; 80,000 who had emigrated abroad; and 15,000 who had left the region and moved to Italy after 1958); Rocchi, L’esodo, 201. The widespread editorial success of Rocchi’s book has meant that his figure of 350,000 has remained a constant in the minds of exiles and Italians in general.   6 Bremmer, J Curve, 176; Eisenbichler, “I Giuliano-Dalmati in Canada,” 105; Petacco, Tragedy Revealed, 104.   7 In 2005, for example, the municipality of Cornaredo, in Lombardy, renamed the street that had previously carried the name Marshal Tito as Via Martiri delle Foibe – clearly a case of poetic justice. That same year the town of Castellabate (near Salerno) renamed one of its streets in honour of Norma Cossetto; it was followed in this by major centres such as Trieste (2011), Narni (2011), and Rome (2015). Some of the other towns and cities that now have a street or square named Martiri delle Foibe are Assisi, Bari, Brescia, Brindisi, Cagliari, Casale Monferrato, Florence, Forlì, Grosseto, Jesolo, Milan, Modena, Palermo, Pisa, Prato, Recanati, Riva del Garda, Rome, Salò, Sanremo, Teramo, Trento, Trieste, Ventimiglia, Vicenza, Voghera, and more.   8 Rocchi, L’esodo, 212–23; Petacco, Tragedy Revealed, 134–5.   9 Jansen, Italians in a Multicultural Canada, 30. 10 For more considerations and a case study, see Eisenbichler, “Italian Refugees in Canada,” 80–1. See also Gianni Angelo Grohovaz’s semiautobiographical novel Strada bianca. 11 “I pazzi si mescolano ai savi e non danno nell’occhio.” Grohovaz, Strada bianca, 48. 12 Built in 1927 in Monfalcone by the Cantieri Riuniti dell’Adriatico for the Cosulich Line, the Saturnia and its sister ship Vulcania (1928) were at the forefront of naval engineering in the 1920s and 1930s. They are now famous and fondly remembered for their service, in the post-war years, as passenger ships bringing post-war emigrants to the New World. The Saturnia had a capacity of 1101 passengers and 564 crew. It was decommissioned and scrapped in 1965 in La Spezia. See “Saturnia.” For an incomplete list of its dockings in Halifax, see

The Julian-Dalmatian Tessera in Canada  27 “Ship Arrival Database.” See also the documentary Saturnia written, directed, and produced by Ferdinando Dell’Omo and Lilia Topouzova, 2012, Still Ocean Films, DVD. The Cosulich family of shipowners and shipbuilders is originally from Lussinpiccolo (today, Mali Lošinj, Croatia); under the firm name Fratelli Cosulich it runs a diversified group headquartered in Genoa (Italy) and with branches in fifteen different countries, including Singapore, China, Turkey, Portugal, Brazil, Ireland, the United Kingdom, and the United States. See the website for Fratelli Cosulich. 13 Buranello, “Chi mai gavessi deto,” 150–1. 14 I take these surnames from past and current members of the Club Giuliano-Dalmato of Toronto, all of whom identify as Italians and are refugees from Istria, Fiume, or Dalmatia. 15 Xe fazile a viver in ’sto paese (per chi che xe de Fiume, se capisse), perché anca quà xe zente de ogni sorte: tute le raze, cento religion, setantazinque lingue (e opinion).   (Grohovaz, “Chi mai gavessi deto? Fiume e Canadà” in Per ricordar, 32) 16 Under the Austro-Hungarian regime, the Italian, German, and Slavic populations had their own schools that taught the young in their own language. 17 Baxa, “La Festa,” esp. 208–9; Eisenbichler, “‘Before the World Collapsed,’” esp. 124. Some, admittedly, were Fascists. There is, for example, a longstanding debate on whether Mario Duliani was a Fascist operative in pre-war Canada; see Elisabetta Carraro’s article in ch. 3 of this volume for a recent take on the question. On Italian Fascism in pre-war Canada, see Principe, Darkest Side; Salvatore, “Il fascismo.” 18 See, among many such articles and references, Turcinovich Giuricin, “Sei giuliano-dalmati.” 19 Rocchi, L’esodo, 202, where he also gives the following figures for other cities: 54,000 out of 60,000 inhabitants left from Fiume; 32,000 out of 34,000 from Pola; 20,000 out of 21,000 from Zara; 8,000 out of 10,000 from Rovigno. 20 Perin, “Actor or Victim?” 322. 21 Quoted in Small, “Multiculturalism,” 196–7. 22 On the carpet bombing that completely destroyed Zara, see Petacco, Tragedy Revealed, 55–6, 80–1; Talpo and Brcic, … Vennero dal cielo. 23 Choko, Through the Eyes, 225.

28  Konrad Eisenbichler

Cited Works Ballinger, Pamela. “Borders of the Nation, Borders of Citizenship: Italian Repatriation and the Redefinition of National Identity after World War II.” Comparative Studies in Society and History 49, no. 3 (2007): 713–41. –  “Remapping the Istrian Exodus: New Interpretive Frameworks.” In At Home but Foreigners: Population Transfers in 20th Century Istria, edited by Katja Hrobat Virgolet, Catherine Gousseff, and Gustavo Conti, 71–93. Koper: Annales University Press, 2015. Baxa, Paul. “La festa della fratellanza italiana: Gianni Grohovaz and the Celebrations of Italian Memorial Day in Toronto, 1960–1975.” Quaderni d’italianistica 30, no. 1 (2010): 197–225. Bremmer, Ian. The J Curve: A New Way to Understand Why Nations Rise and Fall. New York: Simon & Schuster, 2006. Buranello, Robert. “Chi mai gavessi deto: The Immigrant Experience in Gianni Angelo Grohovaz’s Strada bianca.” In An Italian Region in Canada: The Case of Friuli-Venezia Giulia, edited by Konrad Eisenbichler, 137–52. Toronto: Multicultural History Society of Ontario, 1998. Choko, Marc H. Through the Eyes of Vittorio. Montreal: Juniper Publishing, 2015. Colella, Amedeo. L’esodo dalle terre adriatiche: Rivelazioni statistiche. Rome: Stab. tip. Julia, 1958. Eisenbichler, Konrad. “‘Before the World Collapsed Because of the War’: The City of Fiume in the Poetry of Gianni Angelo Grohovaz.” Quaderni d’italianistica 28, no. 1 (2007): 115–34. –  “I Giuliano-Dalmati in Canada.” In I Giuliano-Dalmati in Canada: Considerazioni ed immagini, edited by Robert Buranello, 101–13. Ottawa: Legas, 1995. Previously published in Italian Canadiana 9 (1993): 31–45. –  “Italian Refugees in Canada: The Julian-Dalmatians.” In A Monument for Italian-Canadian Immigrants: Regional Migration from Italy to Canada, edited by Gabriele Scardellato and Manuela Scarci, 79–83. Toronto: Department of Italian Studies with the Italian-Canadian Immigrant Commemorative Association, 1999. “Eugène Berthiaume.” Archives Canada. Accessed 12 May 2018. https:// archivescanada.accesstomemory.ca/eugene-berthiaume-2. Fratelli Cosulich. Accessed 12 May 2018. http://www.cosulich.it. Giuricin, Ezio. “I censimenti jugoslavi.” In La comunità nazionale italiana nei censimenti jugoslavi, 1945–1991, edited by Alessandra Argenti Tremul, Ezio Giuricin, Luciano Giuricin, Egidio Ivetic, Orietta Moscarda, Alessio Radossi, Giovanni Radossi, Nicolò Sponza, and Fulvio Šuran, 29–81. Etnia 8. Rovinj: Centro di Ricerche Storiche, 2001.

The Julian-Dalmatian Tessera in Canada  29 Grohovaz, Gianni Angelo. Per ricordar le cose che ricordo: Poesie in dialeto fiuman. Toronto: Casa Editrice Dufferin Press, 1974. –  Strada bianca: Dall’estrema sponda dell’Adriatico alle diecimila cattedrali dell’Ontario. Toronto: La Casa Editrice Sono Me, 1989. Jansen, Clifford J. Italians in a Multicultural Canada. Lewiston: Edwin Mellen Press, 1988. Perin, Roberto. “Actor or Victim? Mario Duliani and His Internment Narrative.” In Enemies Within: Italians and Other Internees in Canada and Abroad, edited by Franca Iacovetta, Roberto Perin, and Angelo Principe, 312–34. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2000. Petacco, Arrigo. A Tragedy Revealed: The Story of the Italian Population from Istria, Dalmatia, and Venezia Giulia, 1943–1956. Translated by Konrad Eisenbichler. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2005. Principe, Angelo. The Darkest Side of the Fascists Years: The Italian-Canadian Press; 1920–1942. Toronto: Guernica, 1999. Rocchi, Flaminio. L’esodo dei 350 mila giuliani fiumani e dalmati. 4th ed. Rome: Ediz. Difesa Adriatica, 1998. Salvatore, Filippo. “Il fascismo e gli italiani in Canada.” Storia contemporanea 27, no. 5 (1996): 833–62. “Saturnia.” Italian Liners. Accessed 12 May 2018. http://www.italianliners.com/ saturnia-en. “Ship Arrival Database.” Canadian Museum of Immigration at Pier 21. Accessed 12 May 2018. https://www.pier21.ca/research/immigration-records/ship -arrival-search. Small, Joan. “Multiculturalism, Equality, and Canadian Constitutionalism: Cohesion and Difference.” In Multiculturalism and the Canadian Constitution, edited by Stephen Tierney, 196–211. Vancouver: UBC Press, 2007. Talpo, Oddone and Sergio Brcic. … Vennero dal cielo: Zara distrutta 1943–1944/ They Came from the Sky: Zara in Ruins 1943–1944/Dođoše s neba: Razrušeni Zadar 1943–1944. 2nd ed. Campobasso: Associazione Dalmati Italiani nel Mondo/ Palladino Editore, 2006. Trilingual edition, Italian, English, Croatian. Turcinovich Giuricin, Rosanna. “Sei giuliano-dalmati raccontano la realizzazione di un grande sogno.” La Voce del Popolo, 14 July 2014, 24. Suggested Further Readings On the foibe, the esodo, and the ethnic cleansing of Istria, Fiume, and Dalmatia, there is very little available in English, but see: Ballinger, Pamela. “Borders of the Nation, Borders of Citizenship: Italian Repatriation and the Redefinition of National Identity after World War II.” Comparative Studies in Society and History 49, no. 3 (2007): 713–41.

30  Konrad Eisenbichler –  “Remapping the Istrian Exodus: New Interpretive Frameworks.” In At Home but Foreigners: Population Transfers in 20th Century Istria, edited by Katja Hrobat Virgolet, Catherine Gousseff, and Gustavo Conti, 71–93. Koper: Annales University Press, 2015. Franzinetti, Guido. “The Rediscovery of the Istrian foibe.” Jahrbücher für Geschichte und Kultur Südosteuropas/History and Culture of South Eastern Europe 8 (2006): 85–98. Petacco, Arrigo. A Tragedy Revealed. The Story of the Italian Population from Istria, Dalmatia, and Venezia Giulia, 1943–1956. Translated by Konrad Eisenbichler. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2005. In Italian, on the other hand, there is a rich and growing literature on the foibe and the esodo, including a growing number of personal memoirs and literary works. On the historical side, see, among others: Colummi, Cristiana, Liliana Ferrari, Gianna Nassisi, and Giorgio Trani. Storia di un esodo: Istria 1945–1956. Trieste: Istituto Regionale per la Storia del Movimento di Liberazione nel Friuli-Venezia Giulia, 1980. Giuricin, Ezio and Luciano Giuricin. La comunità nazionale italiana. Vol. 1, Storia e istituzioni degli italiani dell’Istria, Fiume e Dalmazia (1944–2006). Vol. 2, Documenti (1944–2006). Etnia 10. Rovinj: Centro di Ricerche Storiche di Rovigno, 2008. Oliva, Gianni. Esuli: Dalle foibe ai campi profughi; La tragedia degli italiani di Istria, Fiume e Dalmazia. Milan: Arnoldo Mondadori, 2011. Rocchi, Flaminio. L’esodo dei 350 mila giuliani fiumani e dalmati. 4th ed. Rome: Edizioni Difesa Adriatica, 1998. Turcinovich Giuricin, Rosanna. … e dopo semo andadi via. Gorizia: Editore ANVGD Gorizia, 2014.

As for personal memoirs and literary works dealing with the esodo, see, among many: Mori, Anna Maria and Nelida Milani. Bora. Bologna: Frassinelli, 1999. –  Nata in Istria. Milan: Rizzoli, 2006. Petronio, Marina. “Letteratura giuliano-dalmata d’oltreoceano.” In Parole lontane: L’Istria nella sua storia e nel nostalgico ricordo di autori esuli, edited by Graziella Semacchi, Cristina Benussi, and Maria Petronio, 132–5. Trieste: Isbiskos Editrice, 2003. Sabucco, Janni. Si chiamava Fiume. Perugia: Edizioni Centro Italia, 1952. Tomizza, Fulvio. Heavenly Supper: The Story of Maria Janis. Translated by Anne Jacobson Schutte. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1991. –  Materada. Translated by Russell Scott Valentino. Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 2000.

The Julian-Dalmatian Tessera in Canada  31 On Julian-Dalmatian expatriates in Canada and their experience, see: Antonelli, Claudio. Fedeli all’Istria, Fiume, Dalmazia: Noi, profughi-emigrati. Montreal: Lòsna & Tron, 1997. –  Scritti canadesi: Partenze e ritorni di un italiano all’estero. Montreal: Lòsna & Tron, 2004. –  Sradicamento, appartenenza, identità: Pisino, Napoli, Montreal e altrove. Montreal: Lòsna & Tron, 2002. Buranello, Robert, ed. I Giuliano-Dalmati in Canada: Considerazioni ed immagini. Ottawa: Legas, 1995. Duliani, Mario. Città senza donne. Edited and introduction by Filippo Salvatore. Isernia: Cosmo Iannone Editore, 2003. –  The City without Women: A Chronicle of Internment Life in Canada During the Second World War. Translated and introduction by Antonino Mazza. Oakville: Mosaic Press, 1994. –  La ville sans femmes. Montreal: Société des éditions Pascal, 1945. Dunn, Genni. Tracks: Journeys in Time and Place. Winnipeg: Signature Editions, 2013. Edwards, Caterina. Finding Rosa: A Mother with Alzheimer’s – A Daughter’s Search for the Past. Vancouver: Greystone Books, 2010. Eisenbichler, Konrad, ed. An Italian Region in Canada: The Case of Friuli-Venezia Giulia. Toronto: Multicultural History Society of Ontario, 1998. Facchinetti, Viviana. C’era una sVolta: Storie e memorie di emigrati giuliano-dalmati in Canada. Trieste: Dalmati Italiani nel Mondo – Delegazione di Trieste, 2004. Grohovaz, Gianni Angelo. Strada bianca: Dall’estrema sponda dell’Adriatico alle diecimila cattedrali dell’Ontario. Toronto: La Casa Editrice Sono Me, 1988. Note, as well, the various articles and notes published since May 1972 in El Boletin, the quarterly newsletter of the Club Giuliano-Dalmato of Toronto.

1 Esuli and Rimasti: Two Sides of a Coin rosanna t urcin ovich giuri c i n Translated by Konrad Eisenbichler

The history of the Italian population from the eastern shores of the Adriatic Sea from the end of World War II to the beginning of the twenty-first century is embodied in Fulvio Tomizza (1935–99), the internationally acclaimed Istrian writer from the village of Giurizzani (now Juricani, Croatia) in the parish of Materada. In 1954, when the London Memorandum permanently ceded “Zone B” of the Free Territory of Trieste to Yugoslavia, the twenty-year-old Tomizza, who had been educated in Belgrade and Ljubljana, moved as an esule (exile) to Trieste, Italy, where he would reside for the rest of his life. His physical relocation to Italy did not, however, entail an emotional separation from his hometown; Tomizza’s visceral attachment to Materada in particular and to Istria in general is evident in his Trilogia istriana (Istrian trilogy; 1966), which consists of the novels Materada (1960), La ragazza di Petrovia (The girl from Petrovia; 1963), and Il bosco di acacia (The acacia woods; 1966), but also in all of his other writings.1 In his entire career as a writer, Tomizza carried the weight and the awareness of belonging to more than one nation and to a territory that is multilingual and multicultural. That weight was not an easy burden, either for him or for many other Italians from Istria, Fiume, and Dalmatia who, in the wake of World War II and the transfer of their regions to Yugoslavia, suddenly found themselves subjects of a foreign government and a minority culture in a significantly larger and overpowering Slavic world. The suffering wrought by the border and by the shifting sands of cultural differences is evident in all of Tomizza’s novels, each a milestone in a cultural world scattered by the departure of most of its population. The reasons that led to the departure or esodo (exodus)2 of the overwhelming majority of the Italian population of Istria, Fiume, and

Esuli and Rimasti 33

Dalmatia are many, but they could be reduced to two main ones: the uncertainties inherent in the new political set-up in the region and the demand of having to belong to only one country, either Italy or Yugoslavia. In most of the twentieth century, nationality had to be clear-cut, with no shade or nuances to it. In a territory that for centuries had been a place of natural osmosis and fusion among various ethnic groups and populations, adhesion to a clear-cut nationality was, in many ways, an “unnatural” demand. The concept of dual citizenship, or of a “blended” nationality, was inconceivable. The cultural diversities that today are seen as riches and constitute a hope for the future of a united Europe of communities were, in the twentieth century, the source of great suffering and victimization. The Julian-Dalmatians are one such victim. Despite various attempts over the last sixty and more years to recognize diversity and bring people together, the relationship between the Julian-Dalmatians who left (esuli) and those who remained (rimasti) has never been reconstituted, except in rare instances and thanks to the courage of people of goodwill with an enlightened sense of the future. A first step towards such a reconciliation and an extended reflection on this problem was made with the meeting of the three presidents of Italy, Slovenia, and Croatia in Trieste in July 2010 and their attendance at an open-air concert at which Maestro Riccardo Muti conducted a large orchestra and chorus consisting of musicians from all three bordering countries. The event gave rise, though not without some suspicions, to the “Trieste climate” that has led to a new understanding of these territories and the way they (should) interact. The other factors in the new climate to be felt in the area are, of course, the eastern expansion of the European Union and the entrance of Slovenia and Croatia into the European Union (EU).3 Literature Points the Way Fulvio Tomizza is important in our discussion of esuli and rimasti also because of his close connections with the exiles who had emigrated overseas, especially to Canada. In the 1960s, he was the first writer to meet and speak with the members of the newly founded Club GiulianoDalmato of Toronto, which was holding its meetings downtown at the Royal York Hotel.4 He was soon followed in this by his friend Ulderico Bernardi, a professor at the University “Ca’ Foscari” of Venice, who also made it a point to travel to Canada to meet with Italian emigrants from the Veneto, as well as from Istria, Fiume, and Dalmatia. Bernardi, who

34  Rosanna Turcinovich Giuricin

has authored a number of books on Italian migration to Canada, served for a long time as a bridge between what was happening in Istria, Fiume, Dalmatia, and in Canada, at the same time opening the way for reflections and considerations on the future of the various communities. Tomizza and Bernardi are but two of the many individuals who, in the second half of the twentieth century, sought to stay in touch with fellow corregionali (people from the same region) in Canada and displayed a profound interest in their new lives, their experiences in Canada, and how they adapted culturally, whether in English or French Canada. Today, with the institution in Italy of 10 February as a national Day of Remembrance of the Exodus and the Foibe, history has become the favoured way to bring to light the lived experiences of a people who, for a long time, had been obliged to keep their uncomfortable memories to themselves.5 If they were to express them, their only available venue was literature, not history. Their “narratives” were the first to cross physical and mental borders to become a path to knowledge and discussion. Even today literature serves this purpose, opening the way to a reacquisition of one’s own dimensions and even offering a few surprises. Not surprisingly, history and literature came together in the graduate course The Giuliano-Dalmata Diaspora in Canada: Its History and Literature, offered by the Department of Italian Studies at the University of Toronto in the fall of 2015 and 2017. They did so out of respect for the cultural history of the exodus that cannot, otherwise, fully explain the dramatic, post–World War II emptying of Italian cities on the eastern shores of the Adriatic Sea and the difficult attempts at recomposition that are still underway. Much was said in the course about Trieste and the eastern border, both in history and in literature – not to mention in the media – so as to point out the wide perspectives one must adopt first in gathering information (including personal testimonies) and then in elaborating on that information. Initiatives and opportunities such as this course allow the younger generation (and not only them) to gain a more profound awareness of the personal and historical factors that bear on someone’s life. Students become witnesses to a condition, that is, to the precariousness of a population that chose to become exiles and is now facing its extinction as a culture. The community of exiles thus finds it imperative to entrust its personal recollections and stories to memory; every remembered episode represents a small but important component in a story that has never overcome the drama of its own plot.

Esuli and Rimasti 35

The basic concepts students and auditors in the class were called upon to reflect were the ideas of border and exile. These concepts were tied to well-defined geographical and historical facts. As the call for papers of a conference on exiles, recently convened in Perugia, Italy, pointed out, “There are places where different cultures face one another along concrete territorial barriers, and there are moments when one witnesses the crossing, by a single person or by a people, of that same limit towards foreign lands. This determines the existence of an overhere and an over-there, of a before and an after, of an I/we and of an other/others. Often these confrontations turn out to be very productive sources of literary creativity.”6 Neither Left nor Stayed … a Return, Perhaps Events during and in the immediate wake of World War II brought about a clear “break” in the native population of Istria, Fiume, and Dalmatia, dividing it into those who remained on the territory (rimasti) and those who left to become exiles in Italy (esuli). The estimated 350,000 who left in the 1940s and 1950s did so in order to continue to live as Italians in Italy. Those who remained behind also tried to “remain Italian,” though now in Yugoslavia. To do so, they immediately set up structures and organizations that would represent them, as Italians. This was crucially important to the rimasti because, with 90 percent of the original population gone and with the influx of new Slavic inhabitants from the rest of Yugoslavia to fill the void, those Italians who remained in Istria, Fiume, and Dalmatia suddenly became a small minority population. Thus the Unione degli Italiani dell’Istria e di Fiume, with its Circoli Italiani di Cultura, was founded. Given the times and the politics, both the Unione and its circoli adhered carefully to the dictates of the Communist regime that governed Yugoslavia under the iron fist of Marshal Josip Broz “Tito.” The exiles in Italy, instead, faced other hurdles as they were placed in refugee camps or other housing structures scattered throughout Italy. Already in 1943 a committee had been set up in Naples to help the esuli find housing and employment. A few years later, this Neapolitan effort to assist them inspired the founding in Milan of the Associazione Nazionale Venezia Giulia e Dalmazia, which is still active throughout Italy (albeit with different aims and purposes). Two realities thus came into existence, two worlds divided not only by the war but also by post-war ideologies that, for decades, would impede

36  Rosanna Turcinovich Giuricin

and undermine any real dialogue between the two component parts of this single population now split and scattered.7 And the two parts were not in tune with one another: one side considered the other to be venduti (sell-outs), while the other reciprocated with traditori (traitors) … and vice versa, depending on who was speaking and what the perspectives were. Cultural considerations were the first to offer a way to recompose this broken fabric. In Italy, some authors from within the exile community were becoming well known: Pier Antonio Quarantotti Gambini (1910–65), originally from Pisino d’Istra, Franco Vegliani (1915–82), originally from Trieste but raised in Istria and Fiume, Enrico Morovich (1906–94), originally from Sušak (a suburb of Fiume), and others. Across the border in Yugoslavia, the competition Istria Nobilissima recognized and published successful authors such as Giacomo Scotti (1928–), Mario Schiavato (1931–), Claudio Ugussi (1931–), Antonio Pauletich (1930–), Nelida Milani (1939–), and more. In spite of the fame achieved and recognitions received, there would not be any osmosis, let alone fusion, across the political divide. One would have to wait until 1990 when the journal La Battana (founded in 1964) published a special double issue (nos. 97–8) entitled Letteratura dell’esodo (The literature of the exodus) and then 1991, when it published a quadruple issue (nos. 99–102) entitled Letteratura dell’esodo: Pagine scelte (The literature of the exodus: Selected pages) that was an anthology of texts guest edited by professors Elvio Guagnini and Bruno Maier, both from the University of Trieste. Fourteen years later, a conference on Scrittura sopra i confini: Letteratura dell’esodo (Writing across borders: The literature of the exodus), held in Trieste in June 2005 under the joint sponsorship of the Centro di Documentazione Multimediale (Trieste) and La Battana, carried the analysis forward, publishing its proceedings in the April–June 2006 issue of the journal (no. 160). More conferences would follow, the most recent organized by the Trieste-based Istituto Regionale per la Cultura Istriana Fiumana e Dalmata (IRCI). The delay in developing a closer connection between authors from the same region – but also among other professionals and business people from the region – is directly linked to the lack of communication among the various component parts of Julian-Dalmatian associations. For decades, these associations adhered to conflicting and opposite understandings of the history of the region, of the foibe, and of the post-war exodus and were thus unable to work together. The divisions that plagued them were a function of a conscious politics of separation

Esuli and Rimasti 37

carried out by various groups within the community for the benefit not of the community but of different political parties and governments with which they were aligned. Julian-Dalmatian Associations The founding of Julian-Dalmatian associations began with the first arrival in Italy of individuals and families from cities on the eastern shores of the Adriatic, and in particular from Dalmatia. After 1945 and especially after 1947, there was a noticeable explosion of different associations established to help the esuli, especially where exile communities were most numerous – first in Naples and Milan, then in other cities and regions. Some of the 350,000 exiles who left Istria, Fiume, and Dalmatia eventually also left Italy and emigrated overseas to the Americas, Australia, and South Africa, but most remained in the peninsula, scattered across more than a hundred refugee camps from the Alps to Sicily. Most of these “camps” were abandoned barracks or other such buildings quickly converted into temporary welcoming and housing centres for the esuli. In many cases, they housed the refugees for as long as a decade before “normal” accommodations could be found for them. The spontaneity that characterized the establishment of JulianDalmatian associations by high-profile individuals deeply involved in the political, social, or cultural spheres of the Italian system allowed each organization to have an alibi for moving in complete autonomy from the others and in line with needs and circumstances that were often the expression of single individuals or of a well-defined group. And so, over time, various associations were established that were an expression of the different moving “spirits” of the exodus – the Associazione Nazionale Venezia Giulia e Dalmazia (1946) with its various committees across all of Italy, the Unione degli Istriani (1954), the Libero Comune di Pola in Esilio (1959), the Libero Comune di Zara in Esilio (1963), the Libero Comune di Fiume in Esilio (1966), the Associazione delle Comunità Istriane (1967), and so forth. Finally, on 9 December 1969 delegates from all of these associations gathered together in Trieste and drew up a constitution setting up a Federazione delle Associazioni, complete with regulations and descriptions of official positions. Not all associations adhered at that time, and in time some associations entered or left the federation, thus giving rise to a see-saw organization moving in line with the litigiousness of its component parts.

38  Rosanna Turcinovich Giuricin

Two Sides of a Coin To aggravate matters, it was not easy to foster a dialogue between esuli and rimasti as long as the leaders of the divisions that had arisen within the population were in charge of association politics. In the mind of the esuli, the memory of their lost homeland and the injustices and atrocities they had suffered at the hands of Communist partisans loyal to Marshal Tito was still too fresh. To make matters worse, some of those Communist partisans who carried out these atrocities were, in fact, fellow Italians who had bought into Yugoslav nationalist arguments and supported (and in some cases even carried out) reprisals against the Italian population of the region for the greater good (in their view) of world Communism. The rimasti, instead, suffered from a sort of pride constructed to show that the choice they had made had been the right one, even though their choice was always condemned by the esuli who considered the rimasti to be unfaithful traitors of the Italian motherland. In short, the times were not yet ripe, and the clash between the two component parts of the Italian population from Istria fit perfectly into the political situation of the time. The entire world was divided into two opposing blocks by the so-called Iron Curtain: the first aligned itself with the United States and the values it espoused, such as liberalism and imperialism; the second aligned itself with the Soviet Union and its Stalinist form of Communism. Marshal Tito’s “third way” complicated matters when he refused to submit politically to the Soviet Union and was rewarded with excommunication by his former great ally and the ensemble of Communist parties, including the Italian one, gathered in the Cominform (1948). The other major preoccupation of both components of the Italian community from/in Istria was to improve its living situation. Many of the esuli had lived for years in refugee camps while the rimasti were, instead, facing a forceful attempt to assimilate them into the Slavic majority.8 It was the Italian Right that looked after the esuli, recognizing in their choice to remain Italian that strong pride in country that was its hallmark. As a corollary to this, the Italian Right considered the rimasti to be traitors who had sold out to the Communist ideology of Tito’s Yugoslavia. These were certainly not sound premises for initiating a dialogue. In fact, these contrasting views at the service of party ideologies fundamentally conditioned the resumption of relations at an institutional level, and often even within families. It was a political division that entered into the private sphere.

Esuli and Rimasti 39

A dialogue between esuli and rimasti finally became a concrete possibility in 1989, more than forty years after the end of World War II, and just as Yugoslavia’ Communist regime was about to formally come to an end (January 1990) and the country disintegrate into a number separate and independent republics (1991). In Italy, the various associations of esuli started to look more favourably on the rimasti. The first to do so was the Free Commune of Fiume in Exile which, overcoming some internal resistance, decided to pay more attention to the rimasti left in Fiume/Rijeka and insisted, above all, on embarking on the road of a “cultural” return to their city of origin. They did so by focusing on and promoting the work of respected cultural organizations, such as the Società di Studi Fiumani, founded in Fiume in 1923 and then refounded in Rome in 1964 on the initiative of the Free Commune itself and several Fiuman intellectuals who had become exiles in Italy. They were soon followed by the Free Commune of Pola in Exile and other associations. By pursuing a politic of “cultural” return and working with the rimasti, these associations of esuli distanced themselves from any vain irredentist ideal or suggestion. As the twenty-first century got underway, the new free and democratic elections held within the Italian national group in Slovenia and Croatia, the birth of the new Unione Italiana in Istria, and the renewal of the associations of exiles in Italy led to even closer collaboration between esuli and rimasti, especially by way of the yearly raduni (gatherings) organized by the associations and the participation of exiles in cultural events and initiatives organized by the local Italian population in Istria, Fiume, and Dalmatia. Such collaboration remains, however, ad hoc and does not yet enjoy the benefits to be gained from an energetic common plan or a shared common goal. Overseas The Associazione Giuliani nel Mondo (AGM) was founded in 1970 in Trieste on an initiative spearheaded by civil servants and high-profile individuals in the cultural and social spheres of the “provinces” of Trieste and Gorizia.9 Its specific purpose is to serve as a link among all Julian-Dalmatian communities, circles, clubs, associations, and federations in the world, keeping them connected with the region and each other. As such, it is one of the six regional associations officially recognized and approved by the Autonomous Region of Friuli-Venezia Giulia to look after the interests and needs of its emigrants.10 The AGM operates on public funds and through an executive, a board of directors,

40  Rosanna Turcinovich Giuricin

and a general assembly, all of which meet regularly. In line with its constitution, its goals are strictly cultural and social, as follows: • to gather and represent Julians, Istrians, Fiumani, and Dalmatians resident in various parts of the world and in other regions of Italy, and to strengthen their connections with their place of origin • to constantly keep in touch with Julian-Dalmatian communities and individuals who, because of temporary or permanent emigration, live and work in various countries • to promote and organize all types of activities that might help to maintain the specific identity, as well as the moral rights, social assistance, and cultural heritage of emigrants from Venezia Giulia, Istria, Fiume, the islands in the Gulf of Kvarner, and Dalmatia, including those of their families and their descendants • to collect and disseminate information necessary to make better known the accomplishments of Julian-Dalmatians in other countries and in other regions of Italy in their various fields of endeavour, and to better engage Julian-Dalmatians scattered throughout the world with events and developments in their places of origin • to serve as spokespersons and present the requests and needs of Julian-Dalmatians who live far from their native land to local, regional, and national administrative bodies charged with carrying out programs in favour of emigrants and to contribute to the solution of their difficulties • to assist Julian-Dalmatians with their return and reintegration into the region of Friuli-Venezia Giulia.11 Although there has been a lot of progress, a good and profitable level of collaboration between esuli and rimasti is still very much a work in progress, though mutual respect and consideration are constantly growing and many of the negative commonplaces that, for decades, blocked any real dialogue between the two sides of this single community are starting to disappear. Dialogue, in fact, is one of the paths that will lead to an awareness of the present situation and will inspire new initiatives for the future. Conclusion Dialogue, however, is not easy, especially for someone who, like Hernando Cortez, feels the need to burn the ships that brought him to the New World. The decision to abandon one’s home and become an exile

Esuli and Rimasti 41

is difficult enough without aggravating it by continually looking back at the home and the world one has lost. Ida Lini Scarpa, a woman from Fiume who arrived in Canada in 1951 as a refugee widow with two young children in tow, said to me one day, “I never thought of returning, but of being happy here, in this new land, in Canada, far away from that northeastern border of Italy that so tormented us with the war, the foibe, and the exile.”12 Like Cortez, she had burned the ship that brought her to her New World, as did many other esuli. But many others did not. Like Fulvio Tomizza, they knew that the border was a curse, but they still kept crossing it, either physically or mentally, in the hope that their presence on both sides and their constant dialogue with relatives and friends left behind might lead people to imagine new alignments and new opportunities. NOTES   1 Recent studies on Tomizza include Actis-Grosso, Fulvio Tomizza; Deganutti, Rileggendo Fulvio Tomizza; Visintin and Flego, Personaggi femminili; Vador and Vador, Oltre la finestra. The bibliography in English is basically nonexistent, except for the recent doctoral dissertation by Ida Marinzoli, “Fulvio Tomizza’s Unresolved Conflicts.” The only works of Tomizza available in English are Heavenly Supper and Materada.   2 The word esodo is the standard term used in Italian to refer to the mass departure of Italians from Istria, Fiume, and Dalmatia in the wake of World War II. Although in English the term generally has more restrictive biblical connotations, we will nonetheless use it in this article in order to reflect Italian usage and underline the truly “biblical” proportions of the departure of the Italian population of Istria, Fiume, and Dalmatia.   3 Slovenia joined the EU in 2004 and adopted the euro in 2007; Croatia joined in 2013 but has not yet been able to adopt the euro.   4 Tomizza’s visit to the Julian-Dalmatian community in Toronto is recalled by Guido Braini in a television interview conducted during the Raduno Mondiale (World Gathering) of Giuliano-Dalmati in Niagara Falls, Canada, in September 2000 and broadcast as part of the program Itinerari (Itineraries) on TV Capodistria. That episode of Itinerari, edited and filmed by Rosanna Turcinovich Giuricin and Stefano de Franceschi, won first prize in the thirty-fourth annual edition of Concorso d’Arte e Letteratura Istria Nobilissima awarded jointly by the Unione Italiana and the Università Popolare di Trieste.   5 Turcinovich Giuricin, … e dopo semo andadi via, 23. The Day of Remembrance came into effect with Law 30, Mar. 2004, no. 92, passed with a unanimous

42  Rosanna Turcinovich Giuricin vote of the Parliament of Italy. The full name of the day is Day of Remembrance in Memory of the Victims of the Foibe, of the JulianDalmatian Exodus, and of the Events on the Eastern Border. The foibe are deep natural crevices in the Karst (Carso) plateau of Istria, where many Italians, guilty for the most part only of being Italian, were thrown (some dead, others alive and left to die) by Yugoslav Communist partisans during and immediately after the end of World War II. On the foibe and the ethnic cleansing of Italians from Istria and Dalmatia see, among others, Petacco, Tragedy Revealed.   6 “Esistono luoghi in cui culture diverse si fronteggiano lungo barriere territoriali concrete, ed esistono momenti in cui si assiste all’attraversamento, da parte del singolo o di un popolo, di quello stesso limite verso terre straniere. Ciò determina l’esistenza di un al di qua e di un al di là, di un prima e di un dopo, di un io/noi e di un altro/altri. Spesso queste contrapposizioni si rivelano fonti particolarmente produttive di creazione letteraria.” “‘La parola mi tradiva.’”   7 Turcinovich Giuricin, …e dopo semo andadi via.   8 Giuricin and Giuricin, La comunità nazionale italiana, 1:135–78.   9 The Italian administrative terms “region” and “province” may be confusing for Canadians because they mean the reverse of what someone in Canada might expect; Italian “provinces” are the administrative equivalent of Canadian “regions” or “counties” while, vice versa, Italian “regions” are the equivalent of Canadian “provinces.” In American terms, Italian regions function like “states” (though with much less independence from the central government) and Italian provinces function like “counties” or “townships.” Today, the Italian region of Venezia Giulia has only two provinces – Gorizia and Trieste; under Italian administration from 1920 to 1945, it had five provinces – Gorizia, Trieste, Fiume, Pola, and Zara (the last three and large parts of the first two were ceded to Yugoslavia in 1945 and 1947). 10 The other five are the Associazione Lavoratori Emigrati del Friuli Venezia Giulia (ALEF), Ente Friulano Assistenza Sociale e Culturale Emigranti (EFASCE), Ente Friuli nel Mondo, Ente Regionale A.C.L.I. per i Problemi dei Lavoratori Emigrati (ERAPLE), and Unione Emigrati Sloveni del Friuli Venezia Giulia. As their names indicate, the first four focus specifically on Friulian emigrants, the last one on Slovenian-Italians from Friuli. 11 “Chi sono i Giuliani nel Mondo”; the aims of the AGM are also listed on the web page of the Regione Autonoma Friuli Venezia Giulia, accessed 23 July 2016, http://www.emigrazione.regione.fvg.it/pages/associazioni _home.asp?sectionId=69&subSectionId=88&pageId=5564&association Id=276.

Esuli and Rimasti 43 12 On Ida Lini Scarpa (1911–2012), see the two published interviews in Turcinovich Giuricin, “Lontano da dove?” and Facchinetti, C’era una sVolta, 220–3. See also the anonymous article on the celebration of her one hundredth birthday in El Boletin 147 (Sept. 2011): 1–2; and Cattani Diacceto, “Ida Scarpa” (a grandson’s memory of her on the occasion of her passing).

Cited Works Actis-Grosso, Maurice. Fulvio Tomizza e l’anabase de “La trilogia istriana.” Gallica-Italica 3. Ravenna: Longo, 2014. Cattani Diacceto, Paulo. “Ida Scarpa: 7 Sept. 1911–8 May 2012.” El Boletin 150 (June 2012): 17. “Chi sono i Giuliani nel Mondo?” Associazione Giuliani nel Mondo. Accessed 23 July 2016. http://www.giulianinelmondo.it/. Deganutti, Marianna, ed. Rileggendo Fulvio Tomizza. Rome: Aracne, 2014. El Boletin: Periodico informativo del Club Giuliano-Dalmato di Toronto (Toronto) 132 (Dec. 2007), 147 (Sept. 2011), 150 (June 2012). Facchinetti, Viviana. C’era una sVolta: Storie e memorie di emigrati giulianodalmati in Canada. Trieste: Dalmati Italiani nel Mondo – Delegazione di Trieste, 2004. Giuricin, Ezio and Luciano Giuricin. La comunità nazionale italiana. Vol. 1, Storia e istituzioni degli italiani dell’Istria, Fiume e Dalmazia (1944–2006). Vol. 2, Documenti (1944–2006). Etnia 10. Rovinj: Centro di Ricerche Storiche di Rovigno, 2008. “‘La parola mi tradiva’: II Convegno Internazionale del Gruppo ESULI; Perugia, 6–7 novembre 2015.” Persistenze o Rimozioni. Accessed 23 July 2016. https://persistenzeorimozioni.wordpress.com/esuli/. Marinzoli, Ida. “Fulvio Tomizza’s Unresolved Conflicts: Identity, Guilt and Betrayal.” PhD diss., Rutgers University, 2016. Petacco, Arrigo. A Tragedy Revealed: The Story of the Italian Population from Istria, Dalmatia, and Venezia Giulia, 1943–1956. Translated by Konrad Eisenbichler. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2005. Tomizza, Fulvio. Heavenly Supper: The Story of Maria Janis. Translated by Anne Jacobson Schutte. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1991. –  Materada. Translated by Russell Scott Valentino. Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 2000. Turcinovich Giuricin, Rosanna. … e dopo semo andadi via. L'associazionismo degli esuli istriani fiumani e dalmati: Cenni storici dal 1947 ad oggi. Gorizia: Editore ANVGD Gorizia, 2014. –  “Lontano da dove?” El Boletin 132 (Dec. 2007): 5–6.

44  Rosanna Turcinovich Giuricin –  and Stefano De Franceschi. Itinerari. Documentary episode, “Il Canada, al Raduno dei giuliano dalmati alle Cascate di Niagara, 2000.” Aired 27 Oct.– 17 Nov. 2000, on TV Koper Capodistria. Vador, Nicoletta and Luigino Vador. Oltre la finestra: Il “mondo compiuto” di Fulvio Tomizza. Empoli: Ibiskos, 2010. Visintin, Irene and Isabella Flego. Personaggi femminili nella narrativa di Fulvio Tomizza. Umag: Comunità degli Italiani “Fulvio Tomizza” di Umago/Rijeka: EDIT, 2013.

2 “Parola di donna”: A Feminist Reading of Julian-Dalmatian Periodicals in Canada ben edetta l aman na

A close reading of Julian-Dalmatian community newsletters published in Canada – El Boletin of the Club Giuliano-Dalmato of Toronto,1 El Campanil of the Lega Istriana of Chatham, and Da Gorizia fino a Zara of the Associazione Famiglie Giuliano-Dalmate of Hamilton – reveals a healthy female presence in their pages. The Julian-Dalmatian community is comprised of esuli (exiles) from the northeastern region of Italy who fled their home after the area was annexed to Yugoslavia following World War II.2 The community to which this article refers is made up of Giuliani (Julians), Istrians, Fiumani, and Dalmatians who arrived in Canada following the Second World War.3 In Julian-Dalmatian community newsletters, women’s writing is featured prominently in columns, messages from the president, and reader mail. Women write about a variety of topics, including those of specific concern to the Julian-Dalmatian community, such as the various raduni (gatherings) of Julian-Dalmatians in Italy, conventions and conferences on topics of interest to the community, and specific matters touching on the regions of Istria, Dalmatia, and the city of Fiume. Women are featured as columnists, contributors, poets, authors of traditional recipes, and as writers and reviewers of literary works written by members of the community. Women are also celebrated for their achievements in various areas. In addition, a specifically woman-centred column entitled “Parola di donna” (Woman’s word) ran in El Boletin of the Club Giuliano-Dalmato of Toronto from 1996 through to 2001. It is important to note that women’s periodical writing is the product of a “victim diaspora,” that is, the forced movement of the JulianDalmatian population from their native soil to other, at times foreign, destinations. This was an involuntary emigration based on political,

46  Benedetta Lamanna

not economic, motivations.4 Therefore, all women’s writing in JulianDalmatian community newsletters in Canada must be evaluated within this political-historical framework. An examination of women’s writing in Julian-Dalmatian periodicals in Canada reveals a unique female preoccupation with community building. This concern is expressed through women writers’ unique definition of themselves and the groups to which they belong, their use of memory and nostalgia to maintain a (sense of) connection with the lost homeland, their recollection of deceased family members, and their activism within the exile community. As a result, Julian-Dalmatian women foster individual and collective belonging and seek to safeguard their culture through their writing. They also actively cultivate a sense of self. Women’s Definitions of Community Women’s writing in the three periodicals under review reveals a sophisticated definition of belonging that encompasses family, friends, and the local and international networks of esuli. Family is a cornerstone of the female definition of community. In her “Parola di donna” column, Dinora Bongiovanni says that “the important thing is to love our families and to try to do the best possible to help our grandchildren grow and respect everyone.”5 Family kinship is distinctly female; women writers tend to connect primarily with other women in their family, whether near or far. Laura Morgan, for example, sends birthday wishes to her sister, Silva: “My fondest wishes for your birthday […] with affection. Your sister Laura.”6 The Julian-Dalmatian community newsletters serve, therefore, as a way to maintain family bonds and as a testament to close connections among women. Female-derived notions of community are also evident in photographs celebrating social functions. Such images predominantly feature women, as in the case of the El Boletin page “Altri ricordi della no­stra festa di primavera” (plate 1; Other memories of our spring party), where all four photographs are primarily of women. In fact, in the only photograph that includes a man (a photo of a couple dancing), both the camera’s lens and the male dance partner’s gaze focus on the woman, thus conferring a position of centrality to the female subject. Photographs depicting social events represent what Gianni Oliva asserts is a careful method of conservation, or rather, “the defence of one’s own cultural identity.”7 The fact that women are featured prominently in

“Parola di donna”  47

photographs commemorating Julian-Dalmatian social functions highlights their consistent participation in association events, thereby reinforcing their role as dedicated nurturers of community. Oliva’s statement can also be extended to the genre of personal photography featured in Julian-Dalmatian periodicals. Marisa Delise Carusone, for instance, asks that a family photo of four generations of women be published because it “has a lot of meaning” for her (plate 2).8 Carusone does not explain what is so significant for her about the photo, but for our purposes it may well be the emphasis on female lineage that reinforces the distinctly matriarchal line through which a Julian-Dalmatian woman traces her ancestry. Similarly, reader Alda Becchi Padovani asks El Boletin to publish a photo of herself in which she can be seen “with my two adorable granddaughters in my arms” (plate 3).9 Photos that include male relatives lack this level of sentimentality. For example, Luisa Grisonich entitles a photo “My grandmother Teresa Babudri, my little cousin Alex Brecevic, and me” (plate 4).10 While the diminutive adjective cuginetto (little cousin) expresses affection, the self-referentiality and sense of community expressed in family photos featuring solely female relatives is missing. What seems to emerge, therefore, is that Julian-Dalmatian women tend to understand family and define descent along gynocentric lines. The sense of pride with which they write about their place in the family lineage reinforces this concept and suggests that women serve as custodians of identity, language, values, and traditions specific to that group. One set of traditions that is embodied and then passed on from generation to generation of women is the preparation of food. Women’s contributions to Julian-Dalmatian periodicals as recipe columnists can thus be seen within this framework of women as custodians and purveyors of cultural identity. Women’s focus on traditional recipes unique to the Julian-Dalmatian community is quite marked in the periodicals we examined. Graziella Lazzari, for example, offers her readers a recipe for “Pinsa per Pasqua” (Easter bread/cake); Dinora Bongiovanni provides them with a recipe for “Sardoni all’agro” (Large sardines in vinaigrette) and Mady Fast with a recipe for “Baccalà in rosso, o Baccalà stufato al pomodoro” (Codfish in a red sauce, or codfish in a tomato stew)11 – all traditional recipes from Istria. By comparison, male-authored gastronomic advice is rare and lacks a culturally specific Julian-Dalmatian focus; in his column “I consigli di Adriano” (Adriano’s advice), the retired professional cook Adriano Mellone features a recipe for “pasta e zucca” (pasta and squash), which is originally from Naples, and for

48  Benedetta Lamanna

“semifreddo ai fichi” (fig semifreddo) a recipe originally from Lazio. His vision and perspective is thus more national than regional, more Italian than Julian-Dalmatian. Women, on the other hand, focus on the foods typical of their region and thus emerge as unparalleled guardians and promoters of their local gastronomical culture and traditions. This focus on maintaining a connection with the gastronomical traditions of a land that is now distant and “lost” is echoed in women’s strong desire to reconnect with distant and “lost” loved ones. Reader mail on this subject uses a particularly striking language, evidence of the deep bonds of female friendship. Marisa Delise Carusone writes of her desire to re-establish contact with a childhood female friend: “I ask a favour of you: I’m looking for my very dear school friend Marisa Mondo, who lives in New York, whom I would very much like to contact again. I’ve been looking for her for two years, so far with no success. Perhaps, through a reader of El Boletin I will be able to locate her.”12 The emotional undercurrent in Carusone’s letter underscores the priority Julian-Dalmatian women confer on female friendship. A similarly heartfelt appeal is made in the third person by Lidia Sustar Sclippa who writes, “Mrs. Lidia Sustar Sclippa seeks information on her childhood friend Iolanda (Iole) Babich, from Fiume, of whom she knows nothing since the distant 1951.”13 Writing is thus an indispensable tool through which to re-establish connections with cherished friends. This emphasis on friendship echoes the first key objective of the Club GiulianoDalmato of Toronto, which is to support “the cultivation of friendship and fellowship among the members and the furthering of social and cultural objectives.”14 Women’s pleas to reconnect with male relatives are also featured in local Julian-Dalmatian periodicals, but they lack the emotional undercurrent evident in requests to reconnect with female friends: “Mrs. Diana D’Andrea seeks her cousin Gianni […] fifty years old, born in Fiume, who emigrated to the United States.”15 The prosaic language of this appeal contrasts sharply with the personal, even emotional language present in requests for information on long-lost female friends and relatives. Such a difference in language and tone suggests that women feel a stronger urge to reconnect with their fellow female friends and relatives, and this, in turn, reinforces our previous observation on the gynocentric nature of diasporic Julian-Dalmatian culture. A survey of reader mail in El Boletin uncovers two instances of male readers seeking to reconnect with loved ones. Giovanni Boni writes that he seeks to discover “traces of the ancestors of my great-grandfather

“Parola di donna”  49

Alessandro Tripcovich, of whom I do not know either where or when he was born.”16 Similarly, Giulio Scala writes of his and his friends’ wish to reconnect with fellow friend Radames Virtich: “Today I ask a favour of you. A group of friends from Fiume have asked me to ask if any of you has news of a friend of ours who emigrated to Canada.”17 Both of these accounts lack the personal poignancy that marks female readers’ mail, demonstrating the unique nature of women writers’ construction of community. Female conceptions of community also encompass relationships at the association level. Indeed, connecting with one’s local JulianDalmatian association is viewed by women as a means by which to gain greater cultural self-awareness. Luisa Grisonich, a Canadian born to exiles from the Capodistria area, writes, “In the past few years I have gained a greater appreciation and awareness of where I come from. Maybe this is why I have now become a member of the Club GiulianoDalmato of Toronto. Call it ignorance and maybe indifference. When I was growing up I knew I was Istrian, but I didn’t know what being Istrian meant […] I’m not Irish or Polish, I’m not slava [Slavic] or mangia-cake [cake eater]. I’m a Canadian of Istrian background, and I owe it to myself to find out what that means.”18 The Julian-Dalmatian association is thus seen by women as an extension of their own family. This is evident in the request by Loretta Maranzan, at that time president of the Club Giuliano-Dalmato of Toronto, that club members host fellow esuli who will be in town for the international Raduno (Gathering) the club organized in 1991: “We changed the location for the Raduno because in Toronto we have more organizational support and also because many [of us] live here and can host our friends and relatives who come from away instead of being obliged to all go in some hotel.”19 In Maranzan’s mind, the club is a surrogate family that opens its home to host visiting Julian-Dalmatians coming from far away, much as a family would host a visiting relative. Women’s definition of community is thus both embracing and inclusive. This is evident in the connections women note and foster. Norda Gatti highlights the Toronto club’s outreach to international associations: “We made contact with individuals and groups from Australia to Argentina, from the United States to Italy. And we have come to be part of a truly global community of associations and clubs that work for the good of our people, for the maintenance of our culture, and for the memory of our history.”20

50  Benedetta Lamanna

Indeed, all members of the Julian-Dalmatian community are invited by President Maranzan to participate in cultural events, evidence of a strong sense of communal belonging: “For sure, in order to be able to do all of this, we need all of you, not only members [of the Club], but all Istrians, Fiumani, and Dalmatians who are in the area. Come to our meetings, to our celebrations, encourage the youth to join the Club, come all because the company is pleasant, old friends get together, we chat a bit and dance.”21 Social gatherings are thus a cherished opportunity to rekindle bonds with the wider diasporic community. In their letters to community periodicals, women are aware of and underline the importance of their diasporic associations in providing comfort and support, particularly during times of distress. Pat Crusvar of Windsor writes, “My daughters and I would like to thank […] the club for your loving thoughts and prayers. My husband Ivan was a loving husband, father, and grandfather. He was very proud of his heritage and enjoyed all the company at the club. Thank you also for coming to say goodbye to Ivan.”22 This sincere expression of gratitude underlines the view Julian-Dalmatian women have of the diasporic community association as an extended family and support system. Reader mail also reveals that women conceive their diasporic community as international in nature. Antonella Cernecca writes from Trieste, Italy, to say, “To continue to be in touch with you, even if only by reading El Boletin, is a great gift for me. I hope to come to know you in person, sooner or later.”23 Cernecca’s desire for a personal meeting with the Julian-Dalmatian community of Toronto underscores a unique dialectic between esuli and rimasti: those who have remained behind, whether in Italy or in Istria and Dalmatia, feel a close bond with those who left and emigrated overseas, and vice versa. Another example of international community ties is provided by Laura Gross Padovani of Bedminster, New York, who encourages her fellow Julian-Dalmatians in Toronto with the words, “Do carry on with your articles and photos, because it is a joy to receive them. Bravi!”24 Luisa Ermani Spitler writes from Oxnard, California to the members of the Club Giuliano-Dalmato of Toronto to thank them for the invitation her association Triestine Girls received to attend the Raduno 2000 in Niagara Falls, Ontario, and to express the group’s gratitude for the warm welcome they received at the event: “You have no idea how much you made us feel at home.”25 Such international bonds, especially nourished by women, help to maintain a sense of community and group identity both among fellow individuals in the diaspora

“Parola di donna”  51

and by diasporic Julian-Dalmatians with those who remained in the home country. The female voice heard in various letters to community periodicals can also be heard in the advertisements featured in these publications. A self-promoting advertisement in the March 2006 El Boletin reads, “Here’s a nice gift for a [girl]friend far away … a subscription to El Boletin.”26 This advertisement is specifically directed to women and encourages them not only to “spread the good news” about activities in Toronto but also to maintain contact with a distant female friend by sending her a present. The ad is anonymous – it could have been written by either a man or a woman. If written by a woman, the advertisement is evidence of a female sensibility to connect with distant female friends; if it is written by a man, it is a clear acknowledgment of women’s farreaching connections. The recognition and assertion of the extensive ties that join Julian-Dalmatian women internationally is evidence of the importance these bonds have for the community both on a personal as well as a cultural level. Female writers from international communities of esuli also validate writing as a means by which to foster links with one’s roots, thereby demonstrating a unique sense of nationality that transcends geographical boundaries. For example, Anna Marincovich of Buenos Aires writes, “To be able to speak our dialect, sing our songs, have common memories, was and is a core aspect of life. Why do I write this? So that you might come to know me from far away. I am one of you. I will be most happy to receive El Campanil. This way I too will know a little about you, how you find yourselves in Canada, and what your life in that country is like. I ask you to extend my affectionate greetings to all our people in Canada.”27 The Argentinian reader’s explicit self-identification with the Julian-Dalmatian community in Canada is evidence of a female definition of belonging that surpasses traditional concepts of citizenship and highlights, instead, its inclusive nature. We might juxtapose Marincovich’s letter with that of her husband, Livio Giuricin, founder and director of the Gruppo di Esuli GiulianoDalmati of Buenos Aires. Giuricin writes to the same group of readers in Canada and says, “We, especially, from across the ocean, should intensify our contacts so as to reaffirm our common origins and, in this way, tell each other what is happening in our adopted homelands.”28 While worthy of note, Giuricin’s conception of community lacks the heartfelt sentiment that imbues his wife’s letter. His use of the conditional tense of the verb dovere (to have to) highlights obligation over desire as a

52  Benedetta Lamanna

motivation for connecting with other diasporic Julian-Dalmatians and implies that, currently, such connections are not in place or are not as strong as they should be. Male conceptions of community are more formal than those espoused by their female counterparts. On another occasion, Giuricin writes to thank members of Toronto’s Julian-Dalmatian community for sending funds to help fellow esuli in Argentina during a national economic crisis: “I am touched in having to write a thank you note to all of you, my dear Julian-Dalmatian brothers scattered in the entire world, for your supportive answer […] We feel you close, like half a century ago, when we were together in our land of origin we [still] remember.”29 As in his letter of 2004, Giuricin employs the verb dovere to describe his act of sending a thank you letter to El Boletin and underscores the official capacity in which he writes. While his letter expresses sincere gratitude, his concept of community is linked to material support. Furthermore, his use of masculine terminology to denote his fellow compatriots (“cari fratelli Giuliano-Dalmati”) emphasizes an exclusively male notion of community based on patriarchal language. Male definitions of community also focus on future concerns, as evidenced by the writings of Guido Braini, at that time president of the Club Giuliano-Dalmato of Toronto: “After forty years of association life, our club is still here, still rich in members, still full of energy – one needs only to look at the photos of our picnic this last August to see how much enthusiasm and how many fine young people there are who, one day, will be ready to continue our work. Let us try to help them, to encourage them, and to teach them not only how important it is to take part in our club, but also how important it is to carry on our culture of peace and tolerance.”30 This notion of community linked to posterity lacks the same immediacy and personal warmth expressed in women’s much more immediate notions of community here and now. Male writing in Julian-Dalmatian periodicals also shows a greater concern with success at the local associative level. Mario Joe Braini, in his inaugural message as the newly elected president of the Club Giuliano-Dalmato of Toronto, writes, “I wish to thank all who contributed with their goodwill, even dedicating long hours, to these organizational tasks that then brought great success to our club and pleasure to our members. I thank you and encourage you not only to continue to participate but also to keep alive our hopes and dreams.”31 In his words

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to the membership, the new president places past administrative work (“impegni organizzativi”) and the association’s past achievements ahead of members’ sense of enjoyment (“piacere”). He first emphasizes practical concerns and then the group’s collective aspirations. In so doing, he is far removed from women’s self-cultivated role as guardians of culture. Memory of the Homeland Perhaps because of this self-cultivated role as guardians of culture, women’s concepts of community building are rooted in their memory of the distant homeland. Memory, and the nostalgia it fosters, are both a symptom and a cure for what Diego Bastianutti identifies as a bacillus emigraticus, an illness he defines as “the virus of the emigrant’s nostalgia.”32 Bastianutti points out that, because emigration is a profoundly traumatic event, the immigrant experiences difficulty with assimilation into the host culture. Writing thus serves as an antidote for this virus because it offers the immigrant recognition of one’s previous silence and, by extension, a sense of justice served.33 Remembering the past is a central theme in columns, readers’ responses, and poetry penned by Julian-Dalmatian women. For them, a voyage to the homeland either via the imagination or via an actual trip is a transformative experience that rekindles their personal and emotional ties with the past. Their remembrance of the homeland is imbued with a bittersweet sense of love and loss, idyll and regret, which creates a pastoral undercurrent that colours their writings about the homeland. This melancholic idealization of the homeland is evident in Clara Maraspin Poglianich’s narrative in which she recalls her adolescence in Lussinpiccolo (today, Mali Lošinj, Croatia): “We crossed the pine grove, chatting, venturing among brambles, along the intertwined bushes in a tangle of plants that released into the air an intense, pleasant perfume, we, with our ankles all scratched, continue to walk in this small lussignan [Lussinpiccolo] forest.”34 Poglianich’s nostalgia is tied to a favourite childhood pastime: collecting pine cones: “Do you remember when the bora wind howled furiously, opening the woody scales of the pine cones and then letting them fall to the ground? All wrapped up, we then ran there into the pine grove, ready to gather them up in our bags, it was like a race against each other, who would gather up more […] They were moments of our days that today I try to bring back into my memory.”35 Youth is linked to one’s beloved country of origin. The combination

54  Benedetta Lamanna

confers a strongly idyllic tone to women’s narrative through which the golden age of youth is intrinsically linked to the golden homeland, both now long lost. By recreating the lost homeland in one’s memory, the bonds of culture, identity, and nationality can be rekindled. As Richard Sennett points out, “The rhetoric of ethnic identity is built upon the sentiment of loss.”36 This connection between ethnic identity and personal loss is sometimes present in women’s poetry. As she voices her love for her lost hometown, Laura Gross Padovani remembers her native city by its Italian name: Quanta nostalgia ho di te, città mia! Mia adorata Fiume, città della mia infanzia e fanciullezza. Quanta tenerezza a sentire il tuo nome che va diretto al cuore.37 (How much nostalgia I have for you, my city! My adored Fiume, city of my childhood and youth. How much tenderness in hearing your name that goes straight to my heart.)

In Adriana Gobbo’s poetry, the act of remembering is also linked to the hometown, which is allegorized as the maternal figure of “Terra Mia” (My land): Mille pensieri, mille ricordi corrono nella mente, mille speranze trasformatesi in niente. È un tumulto interno che non trova pace. Perché son qui? Perché ti ho lasciato Terra Mia?38

“Parola di donna”  55 (A thousand thoughts, a thousand memories run through my mind, a thousand hopes transformed into nothing. It’s an interior turmoil that finds no peace. Why am I here? Why did I leave you, My Land?)

Gobbo’s lament for the homeland is heightened by her use of anaphora and rhetorical questions. Her act of remembering becomes an active process of construction in which temporal and spatial boundaries are overcome. Her lament thus turns into an imaginary, idyllic return that not only places her back in her beloved soil, but ties the entire region of Istria together in a rainbow: Vorrei esser là in questo momento, a Promontore, seduta sulle rocce con in mano un pennello e un colore. Chiudo gli occhi, e come per magia mi appare l’arcobaleno che avvolge l’Istria mia.39 (I would like to be there right now, at Promontore, sitting on the rocks with a paintbrush and a colour in my hand. I close my eyes, and as if by magic the rainbow appears that envelops my Istria.)

In her own, idiosyncratic and undeniably lively poetry in dialect, the expatriate Margaret Antonaz expresses her sorrow for the city of Gorizia, cut in two by an international border, but then points out that the land itself, personified (so to speak) by the goat that is the symbol of Istria, is still there waiting for the return of the exiles: Me dispiasi per Gorizia che i la ga taiada a metà [……………………………….]

56  Benedetta Lamanna La cosa più importante ve voio ricordar xe la capra con do’ corni che la ne sta spetar.40 (I’m sorry for Gorizia whom they have cut in half [……………………………………] The most important thing that I want to remind you of is the goat with two horns that is waiting for us.)

Antonaz’s use of dialect rather than Italian reinforces her identity as an Istrian writer and her desire to reconnect with her lost homeland. Male authors featured in Julian-Dalmatian periodicals also use poetry as a means through which to reconnect with the lost homeland. Vito Maurovich, for example, dreams of his youth and his hometown, but his dreams are not at all idyllic: O mia gioventù ormai così lontana, Sogno di te e della mia terra natale, Che sperar di tornar è una speranza vana, Allor al pensier di te, mi fà tanto male.41 (Oh my youth by now so distant, I dream of you and of my native land, For to hope to return is a vain hope, So then the thought of you, hurts me a lot.)

Unlike Adriana Gobbo, who finds in memory a way to envision an idyllic return, Maurovich experiences memory as a failed mechanism that does not allow for a recovery of the past. In his case, hope is vain and memory is painful. For Giacomo Noventa, as well, memory is connected to distress. Writing in dialect, he identifies himself a passer-by from Pola who is unwilling to stop: Mi vegno da Pola, Son qua pe’ un momento, Signore e Signori, No’ féme parlar!

“Parola di donna”  57 Go’ perso la casa. [………………………] Go’ perso i me morti. No vogio fermarme.42 (I come from Pola, I’m here for a moment, Ladies and Gentlemen, do not make me speak! I’ve lost my house. [………………………..] I’ve lost my dead. I don’t want to stop.)

Noventa’s desire for silence and his desire not to linger support Sennett’s theory that ethnicity is founded upon a “geographical transgression” in which the emigrant leaves others behind, thereby linking the emigratory experience with guilt.43 Unlike women’s poetry, which leads to a tender reconnection with the geographically distant homeland, men’s poetry results in a failed project of rekindling bonds, a state that leaves the speaker in distress. While women poets embrace the homeland, their male counterparts reject it, if only temporarily. The Voyage Back Even when the return to the place of one’s birth is an actual physical journey, as it is in the case of Gianna Pesaro’s poetry, it remains, nonetheless, profoundly conditioned by memory, longing, and homesickness: Ritorno per calmare l’animo mio e, per bearmi di tanta bellezza. Ritorno per non morir di nostalgia.44 (I return to calm my spirit and, to delight myself in so much beauty. I return so as not to die of nostalgia.)

The return visit is thus indispensable for survival and personal peace, but also a way to “recharge one’s batteries” at the sight of familiar views

58  Benedetta Lamanna

and locations. In Pesaro’s poetry, the act of visiting and remembering provides vital emotional nourishment: Ad ogni mesto mio passo un ricordo dolce e doloroso. Tanti fantasmi di persone care inseguo nei miei lontani sbiaditi ricordi. Eppure ritorno.45 (At my every sad step a memory sweet and painful. So many ghosts of beloved people I pursue in my distant, faded memories. And yet I return.)

Enjambment underscores the preciousness of memory, thereby validating the process of writing to remember. For second-generation exiles, a voyage to the cultural homeland is also central to memory making. Toronto-born Luisa Grisonich reflects upon the future of her Julian-Dalmatian community after a visit to her grandmother’s home in Istria: A few years ago on one of my trips I brought along my camcorder and one Sunday afternoon as we sat drinking coffee in her kitchen I began to record. As I sat opposite her with the camera in hand I asked those simple questions that I knew would be gone forever if I did not ask them. And so, now I am blessed to have those answers forever immortalized on tape. My grandmother, her legacy, will forever be woven into my life. […] I no longer want to mourn what happened yesterday, for I cannot go back. I need to look forward to what is to come […] I look forward to the Istria of tomorrow.46

Record keeping is thus a vital instrument in cultivating both personal and collective bonds with the ethnic homeland. Not only the homeland but also the refugee camp, where exiles found a temporary home, becomes a locus of memory and a destination for a return visit. Ida Vodarich Marinzoli documents her visit to the remains of the refugee camp in Altamura, Puglia, where she spent some time

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after leaving her native islands of Cherso/Lussino: “Everything seemed a scene from a descent into the underworld […] This refugee camp is a piece of the history of Italy – a story of the tragedy of many JulianDalmatian exiles. The camp, now empty and cold, rests in its desolation and abandonment. Its refugees scattered across the world still remember a distant time, a time of suspension when the future could be only a dream.”47 Marinzoli positions her journey as a Dantesque voyage into the underworld as she symbolically descends into the dark shadows of yesteryear to find meaning in her people’s common suffering. By comparison, the return voyage undertaken by the male writer is distinctly intellectual, as evident in Guido Braini’s article about spending Christmas in Trieste with friends and family after forty-two years: “I must, however, say that the reason and purpose of my trip, which I had awaited with so much desire, was the visit to the Roman excavations, recently rediscovered. From the moment I put my nose among books and found the word Aegida (a common name in our area), my curiosity has become always stronger.”48 The male writer reflects at length upon the implications of making a return voyage to his homeland, underscoring the rational sentiment that outweighs sentimental concerns in male-authored writing. Diego Bastianutti’s considerations on a possible return visit to his native Fiume are profoundly intellectualized: “As for myself, I would never dream of making such a journey lightly. If I go there, it will be because I am prepared to risk all my illusions, all my certainties, all my truths. Certainly, my choice will not be dictated by negative feelings such as hatred, distrust, resentment. And I will also not confuse my memories with reality. I am not the man I was at the time of my exile, nor can I pretend that other people and Fiume itself have remained as in my memories of the two decades between the wars.”49 The male writer distinguishes clearly between past memories and current reality, demonstrating the logic that shapes his relationship to the hometown. This in turn results in a more detached connection to the homeland vis-à-vis the one found in women’s writing. Claudio Antonelli states that the exile’s nostalgia can never be truly satisfied because of irrevocable changes experienced by both the individual and the homeland: “But what is this nostalgia sickness that not even the beloved town can heal? The current explanation […] is that between the emigrant who returns and the little town one finds there is, by now, the barrier of change. They both have changed, and this is why they never meet again.”50 As he points out, nostalgia is a disease, a twisted desire that can never truly be satiated because of the inevitable

60  Benedetta Lamanna

transformations experienced by both emigrant and his homeland. By comparison, Julian-Dalmatian women envision a more sentient, enduring connection with their land of origin, one that prevails over challenges such as political developments and the passage of time. Memory and nostalgia enable Julian-Dalmatian women to reconnect with their past, to reinforce ties with the community of esuli and rimasti, and ultimately to rekindle bonds with the distant homeland. Remembering the Departed Women’s processes of memory making and community building is also connected to their efforts to remember and honour the lives of the deceased. Indeed, the remembrance of the deaths the community suffered in the final years of World War II and during the exodus from Istria, Fiume, and Dalmatia are central to their notions of community. We can see this in the heartfelt reflection by Isabella Alberghetti, then president of the Associazione Famiglie GiulianoDalmate of Hamilton, on the need to remember the Italian victims of the ethnic cleansing carried out against the local Italian population by Yugoslav Communist partisans: “We exiles accept the Day of Memory, but we do not forget! […] Every day is, for us, a day of memory.”51 Alberghetti’s exhortation refers to 10 February, Italy’s national Day of Remembrance of exiles and of the victims of the foibe (the mountain crevasses into which many Italians were thrown by Yugoslav Communist nationalists in the final years of World War II and in the years immediately following). Her comment that every day is “10 February,” that the victims are remembered on a daily basis and not just once a year, is imbued with a strong activist undercurrent, a topic we will discuss later in this article. Alberghetti’s thoughts on the 10 February commemorations may be contrasted with those of a male association leader, Mario Joe Braini, president of the Club Giuliano-Dalmato of Toronto: “We remember the thousands of innocent men, women and children that perished, died horrible deaths in the foibe, the extremely deep crevasses of the Carso mountain range of their birth land, our birth land. We remember the hundreds of thousands that abandoned their homes, their lands, their families, and in most cases all that they held close and dear, to desperately escape Tito’s communist tyranny and his mindset in those years. Three hundred fifty thousand Italian citizens fled their birth land.”52 Braini’s comments offer a stronger historical perspective than Alberghetti’s. He

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refers to Tito’s Communist regime and provides data on the number of Julian-Dalmatian exiles that left their homeland. Though sensitive and heartfelt, his comments lack Alberghetti’s rhetorical charge present in the use of exclamatory phrases such as, “But we do not forget!” Alberghetti’s words highlight the more emotional undercurrent present in women’s writing. Indeed, for women, the act of remembering the abandoned homeland is an emotional process. We can see this in Alda Becchi Padovani’s comment, “I remember Fiume as one remembers a second mother, with tenderness and love.”53 The hometown is allegorized as a maternal figure, highlighting the uniquely gendered notions of memory and community that Julian-Dalmatian women espouse. The memory of specific deceased relatives is also used by women to foster community bonds. A survey of El Boletin issues from September 2008 through to September 2015 brings to light three family memoirs written by women writers and only one written by a man. One memoir is penned by Marina Balanzin Galli, who remembers her recently deceased mother: “I am so happy that she was able to travel back to her beloved Lussinpiccolo many times and visit her family. Although she lived in Toronto for 54 years and Toronto was her home, in her heart she was always a lussignana and never forgot her roots. … Ciao mom, se vedremo in piazza a Lussin” [we’ll see each other in the piazza in Lussinpiccolo].54 Balanzin Galli’s reference to a meeting with her mother in the afterlife symbolically takes place in the native homeland. The town they were forced to abandon is portrayed by women as a site of spiritual reunion. Daughters also poignantly remember the passing of their fathers and, again, connect it with the parent’s hometown. We see this in Eva Scha­ cherl’s eulogy of her father Ugo: “As a family doctor for 25 years in small towns and then in Saskatoon, Ugo devoted himself to his patients – from midnight house calls to brilliant diagnoses – whatever their background. He never judged anyone, but treated all with dignity. I believe his humanism sprang from his love of science and poetry – and from his birthplace, Fiume.”55 In Schacherl’s mind, her father’s cherished native city is seen as a contributing factor – together with his love of knowledge (“science”) and sentiment (“poetry”) – to her father’s essence as a man (his “humanism”). Memories of the dearly departed written by male writers in JulianDalmatian periodicals lack this unequivocal connection between lost loved one and lost homeland. Jonathan Harris, for example, writes a commemorative column about his grandfather: “My grandfather, or

62  Benedetta Lamanna

Nonno as we would call him, was the most special person in my life. He was one of those people that you would always want to be around. He never had anything or anyone to complain about, all he had was a permanent crooked smile on his face. Although he had gone through many hardships in his life, such as having to leave his home country of Italy to come to Canada due to the war, he was still the happiest man I had ever met. He lived for me.”56 An analysis of this text must necessarily take into consideration not only the fact that the author is a young male but also the two-generation gap that separates him from his deceased nonno; not surprisingly, the events, stories, and memories of the Julian-Dalmatian exile are much more distant for him than they would be for first- or second-generation emigrants. While his grandfather’s departure from Italy is mentioned, it lacks the geographical and political specificity, not to mention emotional undercurrent, we find in the eulogies composed by second-generation daughters that we examined above. A second example of male authors writing in memory of their grandfathers is Andrew Braini’s eulogy of his nonno, Guido Braini: “I want to live my life in his footsteps and be as loving and wise to my family as he has been. I want to live with the same fulfilled happiness I saw in his eyes, to have the same calm thoughtfulness he gave to our problems, and to always be there for the ones I love. I hope to continue to live the lessons he taught, and I will miss him greatly.”57 Here, no connection is made between remembering a loved one and remembering the distant homeland, an omission that, again, may be attributed not only to gender but also to age and generational distance from both the grandfather and his homeland. This distance is greatly reduced in second-generation esule Mario Joe Braini who, in his “Messaggio del Presidente” (President’s message) to readers of El Boletin, remembers three recently departed club members – his father and past president Guido Braini, Nora Babici, and Margaret Antonaz. Having grown up in a household where the experience of exile was recent and immediate, his words reflect much more directly the profound sense of loss experienced by the first-generation exile community: “In loving memory of three of our recently departed members who shared what they could through hope, words, poems, stories, songs, listening, support, family, community, history, intellect, and a profound love of culture, a people and a land from which many had to sadly walk away, run or crawl away from, but which they have never forgotten. They tried, like all of us, to always remember, to never

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forget.”58 Though moving, especially in the use of the rhetorical device of accumulatio (accumulation), Mario Joe Braini’s remembrance of the three deceased club members lacks the singular, personalized focus found in memoirs written by women, possibly because of the genre in which he is writing (a message from the president) and possibly because of his own genre (male). Another example of a memoir authored by a male is found in Giorgio Gaspar’s “Ricordi di un Esule: Una lacrima infinita” (An exile’s memories: An infinite tear) written in the context of the commemorations for the Giorno del Ricordo (Day of Remembrance; 10 February): “Our captured women were raped by men in the grips of alcohol, on the cold earth or in places sacred to the family. For them it was only a cruel game! They were not human beings, they were the incarnation of evil! […] The 10th of February every year is the ‘Day of Memory’ [sic].59 We Julian-Dalmatian exiles, lost and scattered in every part of the world, place a small lit lamp on our window sills to remember with love and serenity those ‘massacred angels’ so as to form an infinite tear.”60 What is noteworthy in this ricordo (memoir) is the fact that Gaspar’s article remains general in its descriptions and does not mention any particular relative or person. He refers to a collective group of female victims, a generalization that limits, and thus depersonalizes, his otherwise deeply moving text. Female Activism A feminist reading of Julian-Dalmatian periodicals in Canada also brings to light the fact that these publications serve as a platform for activist discussions. Many articles written by women reveal a deep interest in political issues, including conferences, cultural initiatives and current events. Konrad Eisenbichler’s call for “a more engaged newsletter, even politically”61 finds its boldest answer in women’s contribution to JulianDalmatian periodicals in Canada. In fact, female writers assume the role of veritable spokespersons for the esule community. Isabella Alberghetti, then president of the Associazione Famiglie Giuliano-Dalmate di Hamilton, is a beacon of female activism, especially in her contributions to her association’s periodical, Da Gorizia fino a Zara. In many of its pages, she does not hesitate to openly criticize the Italian government for its handling of the Julian-Dalmatian crisis. In the December 2001 issue, she praises her fellow association members for having participated, a month earlier, in demonstrations outside the

64  Benedetta Lamanna

Italian Consulate in Toronto: “[They participated] in order to demonstrate their extreme disappointment for the ambiguous way in which the Italian government approaches the problem of the restitution of properties.”62 Her narrative continues with a denunciation of the Treaty of Osimo (1975), by which Italy confirmed the permanent transfer of all of Istria (except for Muggia and Trieste) to Yugoslavia: “Osimo has been one of the great shames of many Italian governments. Let us not allow there to be a second Osimo! […] We are proudly Italian, and as long as there will still be an exile or the descendant of one, we will continue to fight for our just cause.”63 In the spring of 2003, as parliamentarians in Italy were discussing a law that, a year later, would establish a day of national remembrance of the exile of the Julian-Dalmatians and the tragedy of the foibe, Alberghetti voiced her “too little too late” assessment of the initiative: “Unfortunately, from now on, the 10th of February will ‘twice over’ be a day of memory. Dear petty politicians, the initiative would have been honourable and appreciated if carried out at the right time, but we cannot forget the oblivion into which we were sunk for more than half a century.”64 Alberghetti’s unflinching criticism is directed not only at the Italian government but also at the Vatican for its failure to use the Italian version of city names in Istria and Dalmatia, and for Pope John Paul II’s visit to Croatia and Serbia in June 2003: “What can one say about the pope’s visit, father of all of us, to Croatia, to Serbia, and so forth […] What can one say of the Vatican press that prefers to ignore the Italian names of our ancestral cities?”65 A leading and politically aware voice of female activism, Alberghetti is not the only woman to engage in partisan discourse in the Julian-Dalmatian periodicals in Canada. Silva Perini condemns Italy’s lack of assistance for its citizens, an injustice heightened by issues of citizenship and cultural extinction: “The sadness is even greater when one includes the injustices suffered from the country of origin [Italy], among which the long struggle to obtain [Italian] citizenship. […] Our generation, which is the one that had to leave Italy, risks dying before it receives its due justice.”66 Perini reinforces the connection between the injustices suffered and the disappearance of the exile community when, in that same article, she links the local commemorations for the Day of Remembrance with the funeral of one of the association’s members, an eighty-two-year-old woman who experienced many hardships in her lifetime: “She had come to Canada in ’59. She worked in the fields with

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her husband while raising her two-year-old son, who was born in the refugee camp in Opicina. She had succeeded economically, but personal events brought them serious difficulties. In all their long lives, they had never returned to the motherland. I know, however, that she had a lot of nostalgia for her own town. […] They never received any compensation for the properties they had lost, not even in the form of a pension.”67 Male writers also denounce the Italian government’s treatment of Julian-Dalmatians. For example, Bruno Gallich reflects on the anniversary of the Associazione Famiglie Giuliano-Dalmate of Hamilton by highlighting Italy’s denial of the Julian-Dalmatian crisis, a burden that his people are forced to endure: “What weighs most on Italians is the dramatic renunciation, felt and cruelly painful, of Istria, Fiume, and Dalmatia. In spite of everything, we remember that Istrians, Fiumani, and Dalmatians were Italian, are Italian, and will always be Italian.”68 Claudio Antonelli writes about the Italian government’s misrepresentation of his people’s history: “The Julian-Dalmatian refugees are the living denial of the historical falsifications carried out in the name of ideology and favoured by Italian lust for servility. The truth about our exodus has been twisted. We and our parents can bear witness to what happened. We can say what happened. But only now, thanks to the ‘Day of Remembrance’ the forgotten have been given a voice.”69 Like their female counterparts, male writers condemn 10 February as a tardy, lacklustre effort by the Italian government to right past wrongs. Guido Braini, then president of the Club Giuliano-Dalmato of Toronto, reflects on the bittersweet success that 10 February represents for his people: “The recurrence of the Day of Remembrance seems nearly an irony. We have been forgotten for many years, we were nearly an inconvenience, and now Italian authorities are becoming aware of the magnitude of our drama. This pleases us. To cite the old and classical popular saying, ‘Better late than never.’ The tired voice of an exile.”70 Antonio Perini, then president of the Lega Istriana of Chatham, looks at his native Istria and voices an observation whose premise reveals a strongly felt sense of injustice suffered at the hands not of Italy but of Yugoslavia first and Slovenia/Croatia later: “Even in our Istria the wind of freedom is lifting, this herald sign of democracy, justice, peace. The justice we Exiles so much seek.”71 Male writers are preoccupied not only with the passing of the generation that was forced into exile but also with the fact that their “story” will soon become “history” to be read in books as a fait accompli, a closed chapter: “Fifty years of silence, conscious and imposed, have

66  Benedetta Lamanna

passed over our tragedy. Let us say it now, clearly and unambiguously, what the petty politicians think: ‘Let us let another fifteen years go by and this people of the exodus will be completely eliminated by the simple force of nature.’ And so it will be. Our children and grandchildren will read about our exodus in some history book.”72 The continuity between the criticisms levelled against the Italian government by both women and men in the Julian-Dalmatian press in Canada, as well as their preoccupation with the actual and cultural disappearance of the community, can be attributed to their unique self-identification as exiles. In an interview with the Corriere Canadese Guido Braini explained, “I always say that our common denominator is the fact that we were exiles, we left with nothing, and then we asserted ourselves around the world.”73 While their disquiet with Italy’s lack of support and the community’s impending cultural and physical disappearance are equally shared by men and women, it is worth noting that women do take a public stand on these matters and do not lag behind men in voicing it in the community’s periodicals. Though equal in this respect, there are clearly some major differences, some of which are evident in women’s own analysis of their situation. In Dinora Bongiovanni’s column “Parola di donna” in El Boletin (1 March 1998), an anonymous reader who calls herself “La Grilla Parlante” (The speaking she-cricket) urges greater appreciation of women’s contributions to the community: In the meantime, we little women were worrying about the future of the children, about what to eat, where to seek shelter and sleep, how to resolve our situation as best can be. It was often we who called the men to their most immediate duty: gather up tools from the ruins, wood for the fire, blankets, find a roof, organize us in a small social form […] Only now people are starting to talk about the contributions of women to the Italian resistance. All this is not so as to devalue the constant and hard work carried forward by our men. I only want the not-negligible contribution of women to be recognized every day and without much fanfare, that we do not give ourselves over to the messages imposed by the media on Mother’s Day or Saint Valentine’s Day.74

Anonymity confers this female writer an identity that is both individual and collective: her pseudonym enables her to engage in the shared battle of the Julian-Dalmatian woman for greater recognition, one that

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is not limited to perfunctory words on “Mother’s Day” or “Saint Valentine’s Day” or, in the Italian context, Women’s Day (8 March). In his article “Festa della donna: Una grazie alle nostre donne!” (Women’s Day: A thank you to our women), Franco Reia, then president of the Club Giuliano-Dalmato of Toronto, is aware of and acknowledges women’s contribution when he says, “On behalf of all the men in our Club, I want to recognize the immense contribution that women have made to our association and all its activities, not only in this past year but in all the years of our various associations and, above all, in our diaspora. We thank them and wish them not only a nice day but continued success, well-being, and good work.”75 Dinora Bongiovanni herself is at the forefront of a movement seeking broader recognition and celebration of women’s contributions to the Toronto club. For example, in the “Parola di donna” rubric for the September 1998 issue of El Boletin that celebrated the thirtieth anniversary of the founding of the Club Giuliano-Dalmato of Toronto, Bongiovanni recalls women’s active involvement in the government and management of the association. She starts by depicting women as active participants in club events and initiatives. She then highlights the evolution of women’s participation in the club, from helping to organize picnics and dances to playing a key role in the founding of the Canadian Giuliano-Dalmata Federation that gathered together the six different associations in Canada (Montreal, Ottawa, Toronto, Hamilton, Chatham, Vancouver). She points out that women’s involvement in the Toronto association has been both welcomed and encouraged: “From the beginning, already, women have participated in the life of the Club […] And since the beginning this contribution has been warmly welcomed by the majority of our members because the women, aside from their sincere enthusiasm, have also shown their very great ability and a strong competence in carrying out the tasks they assumed. This sincere interest of women for the Club was such that the executive committee opened its doors to them and warmly welcomed them even in managerial positions.”76 In Bongiovanni’s retrospective analysis, the strong support women received for their efforts within the organization enabled them soon to assume administrative positions. She recalls that the first woman elected to the club’s executive was AveMaria Vodopia in 1972. She then highlights Loretta Maranzan’s election in 1990 as the first woman president of the club and her leading role in the success of the Raduno ’91, the first international congress of Julian-Dalmatians to take place outside

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Italy. She mentions that at that time the club’s secretary was Wanda Stefani. Other women were also active in the organizing committee of the congress: Dinora Bongiovanni and Marina Cotic curated a historical exhibition on Julian-Dalmatians that was mounted at the Columbus Centre in Toronto; AveMaria Vodopia devised and sewed the enormous quilt with the emblems of all the major cities and towns in Istria and Dalmatia on it that is still displayed at all of the club’s major events (plate 5); other women actively involved in the organization were Pina Rismondo, Clara Zanini, Leda Rubessa, Grazia Vitek, Narcisa Minino, and others whose names she could no longer recall. Bongiovanni points out how, in the years that followed, other women joined the administration of the club, including Norda Gatti (secretary), Luisa Grisonich (financial secretary), Gabriella D’Ascanio (vice editor of El Boletin), and Loredana Semenzin (councillor). Bongiovanni then celebrates women’s leadership in the wider Julian-Dalmatian community in Canada, citing Isabella Alberghetti’s position as president of the Associazione Famiglie Giuliano-Dalmate di Hamilton e Dintorni and Giuliana Steffè Pivetta’s position as president of the Associazione Famiglie Istriane GiulianoDalmate of Montreal. Bongiovanni’s praise of women’s achievements reveals a distinctly feminist view of community. Hers, in fact, is a call to action for even greater participation by women in the association and the community: “Well done, all of you! Go! We women showed our worth, and we will not stop here. The doors are open for all those who wish to participate.”77 Conclusion In this feminist reading of women’s contributions to Julian-Dalmatian periodicals in Canada, gender roles and their construction have played an important part in determining what such contributions reveal. Although somewhat conventional, especially when dealing with earlier materials, these roles are not necessarily fixed or unacknowledged. Under cover of a pseudonym, “La grilla parlante” reflects on women’s socially constructed roles and points out, “As a woman, I have always thought that men are always more philosophical-political, more of a dreamer, more idealistic, more romantic than women. Perhaps this is because men have more time on their hands than women, while for women work is never done. Men can allow themselves flights of fantasy, of hope and desperation, while women must ensure that the business home, the business family,

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the business factory, school, hospital, etc. (which require constant attention) continue to function to their maximum efficiency, with minimal cost and workforce.”78 “La grilla parlante” voices her frustration with, and criticism of the restrictive, gendered roles conferred to her by the patriarchal society in which she lives: “My life has been nothing other than a constant nest building, creating life, nourishing, protection no matter where, here or there, on our lands of origin or in those of our last welcome. My function has always been dictated not by the fact of being in this or that land but by my being woman-daughter, woman-sister, woman-friend, woman-wife, woman-mother, woman-grandmother. I never made ‘news,’ but I have always been there, ready to give a hand, a push, physical or moral support, ready to do the dirty work so that someone might gather glory for some public deed.”79 Thus, the female association member must assert her independent will or else risk being eternally relegated to the margins of society while “qualcuno” (someone) – whom we can safely assume is a male – receives undeserved praise. In their contributions to community newsletters, Julian-Dalmatian women call out for a new concept of womanhood, a breaking down of gendered stereotypes and ideals; they demand a more equitable, inclusive definition and vision of women: “With 8 March we celebrate Women’s Day. But why? Who decided that we women can celebrate once a year? We must be more proud of what we are … every day … all day long. With the arrival of the new millennium, I hope we will change our ‘vision’ of women. We have some poor examples, and I am tired of the mass media who speak ad infinitum about Lewinsky, Casta, Campbell, Caroline of Monaco. The ideal woman? Look around (especially you men!!) at your mothers, your sisters, your wives, your daughters … and discover true beauty. Happy Women’s Day, every day!”80 A survey of El Boletin from 2010 through to 2015 brings to light only two messages pertaining to Women’s Day. One of these appears in the March 2011 issue and consists of a full-page article; the other appears in the March 2013 issue and extends good wishes to all women in the Club Giuliano-Dalmato of Toronto. Grisonich’s challenge identifies the need for ongoing recognition of women’s contributions to the community. Her letter positions the Julian-Dalmatian woman as the ultimate personification of womanhood and underscores the strong current of female activity and activism present in women’s contributions to Julian-Dalmatian periodicals in Canada.

70  Benedetta Lamanna NOTES   1 Although in Italian the adjective dalmata ends in a, in the local dialects of northeastern Italy, Istria, and Dalmatia it ends in o; thus the Toronto association spells its name with an o ending.  2 Petacco, Tragedy Revealed, 3.   3 Eisenbichler, “Italian Refugees,” 81, 83.   4 See Petacco, Tragedy Revealed; Rocchi, L’esodo.   5 “L’importante è amare le nostre famiglie e cercare di fare il meglio possibile per aiutare i nostri nipotini a crescere e a rispettare tutti.” Bongiovanni, “Parola di donna” (Mar. 1998): 7. Here and henceforth all translations are my own, unless otherwise indicated.   6 “Carissimi auguri per il tuo compleanno […] con affetto. Tua sorella Laura.” Morgan, “Avvenimenti lieti.”   7 “La difesa della propria identità culturale.” Oliva, Esuli, 122.   8 “Nella foto che vi mando vedrete quattro generazioni di donne. La foto non è eccellente, ma è molto significativa.” Carusone, “La pagina della donna.”   9 “Con in braccio le mie due adorabili nipotine.” Becchi Padovani, “La nostra posta.” 10 “My nonna Teresa Babudri, my cuginetto Alex Brecevic, and me.” Grisonich, “Endings and Beginnings.” 11 Fast, “In cucina per voi.” 12 “Ti chiedo un favore: cerco la mia carissima amica di scuola Marisa Mondo, abitante a New York, con la quale avrei grande piacere riprendere contatto. La cerco da anni, ma finora senza successo. Forse tramite un lettore del Boletin riuscirò a rintracciarla.” Carusone, “La nostra posta.” 13 “La signora Lidia Sustar Sclippa cerca informazioni sulla sua amica d’infanzia Iolanda (Iole) Babich, di Fiume, della quale non sa più nulla dal lontano 1951.” Sclippa, “Cercasi.” 14 Eisenbichler, “I Giuliano-Dalmati in Canada,” 102. 15 “La signora Diana D’Andrea cerca il cugino Gianni […] di 50 anni, nato a Fiume, ed emigrato negli Stati Uniti.” D’Andrea, “Cerca il cugino.” 16 “Le tracce degli antenati del mio bisnonno Alessandro Tripcovich, di cui non conosco né dove né quando era nato.” Boni, “La nostra posta.” 17 “Oggi vi chiedo una grande cortesia. Un gruppo di amici di Fiume mi prega di chiedere se qualcuno avesse notizie di un nostro amico emigrato in Canada.” Scala, “La nostra posta.” 18 Grisonich, “Largo ai giovani.” Mangia-cake or mangiachecca (cake eater) is a derogatory term used by Italian immigrants to refer to Canadians or

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Americans of Anglo-Saxon descent. It alludes to the type of soft, cake-like bread generally consumed by North Americans. “Abbiamo cambiato il posto del Raduno perché a Toronto abbiamo più facilitazioni organizzative e poi perché molti viviamo qua e possiamo anche ospitare i nostri amici e parenti che verranno da fuori invece che essere costretti ad andare tutti in qualche albergo.” Maranzan, “Messaggio del Presidente” (1990). “Abbiamo fatto contatti con individui e gruppi dall’Australia all’Argentina, dagli Stati Uniti all’Italia. E siamo venuti a far parte di una comunità veramente mondiale di associazioni e clubs che operano per il bene dei nostri, per il mantenimento della nostra cultura, e per il ricordo della nostra storia.” Gatti, “Sempre in azione i nostri!” “Certo per riuscire a fare tutto questo abbiamo bisogno di tutti voi, non solo soci, ma tutti gli istriani, fiumani e dalmati che si trovano nelle vicinanze. Venite alle riunioni, alle feste, invogliate i giovani ad unirsi al Club, venite tutti che la compagnia è piacevole, ci si rivede tra vecchi amici, si fanno due ‘ciacole’ e qualche ballo.” Maranzan, “Messaggio del Presidente” (1990). Crusvar, “To Lega Istriana.” “Continuare un contatto con voi, anche solo leggendo El Boletin per me è un grande regalo. Mi auguro di riuscire a venire a conoscervi di persona prima o poi.” Cernecca, “La nostra posta.” “Continuate pure coi vostri articoli e foto che è una gioia riceverli. Bravi!” Gross Padovani, “La nostra posta.” “Non avete un’idea come ci avete fatte sentire a casa.” Spitler, “Un ricordo.” “Ecco un bel regalo per un’amica lontana … un abbonamento a El Boletin.” “Ecco un bel regalo” (emphasis added). “Il poter parlare il nostro dialetto, cantare le nostre canzoni, avere ricordi comuni, fu ed è un’essenza di vita. Perché gli scrivo questo? Semplice. Perché da lontano mi possa conoscere. Sono una di voi. Sarò felicissima di ricevere El Campanil. Così anch’io saprò un po’ di voi, come vi trovate nel Canada e come si svolge la vostra vita in quel paese. La prego di porgere un affettuoso saluto a tutta la nostra gente nel Canada.” Marincovich, “Ci hanno scritto.” “Specialmente noi, dell’Otreoceano, dovessimo intensificare i nostri rapporti, per riaffermare le nostre comuni origini e così raccontarci le vicende nelle nostre patrie addotive.” Giuricin, “Ci hanno scritto.” “Mi sento emozionato dovervi inviare una lettera di ringraziamento a tutti voi, cari fratelli Giuliano-Dalmati sparsi in tutto il Mondo, per la vostra risposta solidaria […] Vi sentiamo vicini, come mezzo secolo fa,

72  Benedetta Lamanna quando eravamo assieme nella nostra ricordata terra d’origine.” Giuricin, “Arrivano i fondi” (emphasis added). 30 “Dopo quaranta anni di vita associativa il nostro Club è ancora qui, ancora forte di persone, ancora pieno d’energia – basta guardare le foto del nostro picnic di questo scorso agosto per vedere quanto entusiasmo e quanti bravi giovani ci sono che, un giorno, saranno pronti a continuare il nostro lavoro. Cerchiamo di aiutarli, di incoraggiarli, e di insegnare a loro non solo quanto sia importante partecipare al nostro Club, ma quanto sia importante portare avanti la nostra cultura di pace e tolleranza.” Guido Braini, “Messaggio del Presidente.” 31 “Voglio ringraziare tutti quelli che hanno contribuito con la loro buona volontà, dedicando anche lunghe ore a questi impegni organizzativi che poi hanno portato grande successo al nostro Club e piacere ai nostri soci. Vi ringrazio e vi incoraggio a continuare non solo a partecipare, ma anche a tenere vivi i nostri sogni e le nostre speranze.” Mario Joe Braini, “Messaggio del Nuovo Presidente.” 32 Bastianutti, “Bacillus Emigraticus,” 1. 33 Ibid., 11, 17. 34 “Abbiamo attraversato la pineta, ridendo, chiaccherando, inoltrandoci fra rovi, cespugli dove gli uni intrecciati agli altri in un groviglio di piante emanano nell’aria un intenso e gradevole profumo, noi con le caviglie piene di graffi continuiamo a camminare in questa piccola foresta lussignana.” Poglianich, “Avevo quindici anni.” 35 “Ti ricordi quando il vento di bora impetuoso mugolava aprendo le scaglie legnose delle pigne per poi lasciarle cadere sul terreno? Noi allora imbacuccate correvamo là nella pineta, pronte a raccoglierle con le nostre sporte, era come a fare una gara per superarsi, chi ne prenderà di più […] Erano momenti della giornata che cerco oggi di riportare alla memoria.” Poglianich, “La raccolta delle pigne.” 36 Sennett, “Rhetoric of Ethnic Identity,” 206. 37 Gross Padovani, “La nostra posta.” 38 Gobbo, “Storia di noi Istriani.” 39 Ibid. 40 Antonaz, “A ognidun la sua.” 41 Maurovich, “Sogni d’un Esule.” 42 Noventa, “Mi vegno da Pola.” 43 Sennett, “Rhetoric of Ethnic Identity,” 198. 44 Pesaro, “‘Ciacole’ Nostre.” 45 Ibid. 46 Grisonich, “Endings and Beginnings.”

“Parola di donna”  73 47 “Tutto sembrava una scena da discesa agli inferi […] Questo campo profughi è un pezzo della storia d’Italia – una storia della tragedia di tanti esuli giuliani-dalmati. Il campo, ora vuoto e freddo, riposa nella sua desolazione ed abbandono. I suoi profughi sparsi nel mondo ricordano ancora un tempo remoto, un tempo di sospensione quando il futuro poteva essere solo un sogno.” Marinzoli, “Un ricordo di Altamura,” 12. 48 “Devo dire, però, che la ragione e lo scopo del mio viaggio che con tanto desiderio avevo aspettato era la visita agli scavi romani, ritrovati recentemente. Da quando ho messo il naso tra i libri ed ci ho trovato la parola Aegida (nome comune dalle nostre parti), la curiosità è divenuta sempre più forte.” Guido Braini, “Dopo 42 anni,” 17. 49 “Io, per me, non mi sognerei mai di fare questo viaggio con leggerezza. Se ci vado sarà perché sono disposto a rischiare tutte le mie illusioni, tutte le mie certezze, tutte le mie verità. Certamente la mia scelta non sarà dettata da sentimenti negativi come l’odio, la diffidenza, il risentimento. E nemmeno confonderò i miei ricordi con la realtà. Io non sono quello che ero all’epoca dell’esilio, né posso pretendere che gli altri e Fiume stessa siano rimasti come nei nostri ricordi del ventennio fra le due guerre.” Bastianutti, “La terza pagina.” 50 “Ma cos’è questa malattia della nostalgia che neppure il paese amato riesce a guarire? La spiegazione corrente … è che tra l’emigrante che ritorna ed il paesello ritrovato vi è ormai la barriera del cambiamento. Entrambi sono cambiati ed è per questo che non si incontrano mai.” Antonelli, “Emigrazione ed esilio,” 59. 51 “Noi esuli accettiamo la Giornata della Memoria, ma non dimentichiamo! […] Ogni giorno è, per noi, giorno della memoria.” Alberghetti, “Dal Presidente” (Mar. 2003). 52 Mario Joe Braini, “Day to Remember.” 53 “Ricordo Fiume come si ricorda una seconda mamma, con tenerezza e amore.” Becchi Padovani, “Ieri e oggi.” 54 Balanzin Galli, “Memories of My Mom.” 55 Schacherl, “Ugo Schacherl,” 5. 56 Harris, “Twenty Days,” 16. 57 Andrew Braini, “Nonno Guido.” 58 Mario Joe Braini, “Our President’s Message.” 59 Gaspar miswrites memoria for ricordo; the Day of Memory (as opposed to “Remembrance”) falls on 27 January and commemorates the victims of the Holocaust. 60 “Le nostre donne catturate venivano violentate da uomini in preda all’alcol, sulla fredda terra o nei sacri luoghi della famiglia. Era solo un

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crudele gioco per loro! Non erano esseri umani, erano l’incarnazione del male! […] Il 10 febbraio di ogni anno è il ‘Giorno della Memoria [sic].’ Noi esuli giuliano-dalmati, sperduti in tutte le parti del mondo, mettiamo un piccolo lumino acceso sui davanzali delle finestre per ricordare con amore e serenità questi ‘angeli massacrati’ in modo da formare una lacrima infinita.” Gaspar, “Ricordi di un Esule.” “Un notiziario più impegnato, anche politicamente.” Eisenbichler, “La stampa giuliano-dalmata,” 81. “[Hanno partecipato] per dimostrare il loro estremo disappunto per il modo equivoco con cui il governo italiano affronta il problema della restituzione dei beni.” Alberghetti, “La Marcia.” “Osimo è stata una delle grandi vergogne dei vari governi italiani. Non permettiamo ci sia una seconda Osimo! … Siamo fieramente italiani e finché esisterà un esule o un suo discendente, continueremo a combattere per la nostra giusta causa.” Alberghetti, “La Marcia.” On the Treaty of Osimo, see Petacco, Tragedy Revealed, 98, 140–1. “Purtroppo, d’ora in poi, il 10 febbraio sarà ‘doppiamente’ giorno della memoria. Cari politicanti, l’iniziativa sarebbe stata onorevole e apprezzata se fatta a tempo debito, ma non possiamo dimenticare l’oblìo in cui siamo stati sprofondati per più di mezzo secolo.” Alberghetti, “Dal Presidente” (Mar. 2003). “Che dire della visita del Papa, papà di noi tutti, alla Croazia, alla Serbia, e via via […] Che dire della stampa Vaticana che preferisce ignorare i nomi Italiani delle nostre città avite?” Alberghetti, “Dal Presidente” (June 2003). “La tristezza è ancora maggiore quando si aggiungono le ingiustizie subite dal paese di origine [Italy], tra queste la lunga lotta per ottenere la cittadinanza [italiana] […] La nostra generazione, che è quella che ha dovuto lasciare l’Italia, rischia di morire prima che sia ottenuta la dovuta giustizia.” Silva Perini, “Il giorno del ricordo.” “Era venuta in Canada nel ’59. Ha lavorato nelle campagne con il marito, mentre allevava il figlio di 2 anni ch’era nato nel campo profughi di Opicina. Aveva avuto un successo economico, ma vicende personali avevano procurato loro serie difficoltà. In tutta la loro lunga vita non avevano mai fatto ritorno in patria. Lo so, però, che lei aveva molta nostalgia del proprio paese. […] Non hanno mai ottenuto alcuno risarcimento per i beni perduti, ne[anche] in forma di pensione.” Ibid. “La cosa che più pesa agli italiani è la drammatica rinuncia, sentita e crudelmente dolorosa dell’Istria, Fiume e Dalmazia. Nonostante tutto, ricordiamo che gli istriani, fiumani, e dalmatici erano italiani, sono italiani e saranno sempre italiani.” Gallich, “50 anni.”

“Parola di donna”  75 69 “I profughi giuliano-dalmati sono la smentita vivente delle falsificazioni storiche avvenute in nome dell’ideologia e favorite dalla cupidigia italiana di servilismo. La verità sul nostro esodo è stata stravolta. Noi e i nostri genitori possiamo attestare ciò che accadde. Noi possiamo dire ciò che era. Ma solo adesso, grazie al ‘Giorno del ricordo’ è stata data una voce ai dimenticati.” Antonelli, “La terra perduta.” 70 “La ricorrenza della Giornata del Ricordo, sembra quasi un’ironia. Siamo stati dimenticati per tanti anni, eravamo quasi di disturbo, e ora le autorità italiane si accorgono della magnitudine del nostro dramma. Questo ci fa piacere. Per dirla con il vecchio e classico detto popolare, ‘meglio tardi che mai.’ La voce stanca di un esule.” Guido Braini, “La giornata del ricordo.” 71 “Anche nella nostra Istria si sta levando il vento di libertà, questo segno foriero di democrazia, di giustizia, di pace. La giustizia che noi Esuli tanto cerchiamo.” Antonio Perini, “Giorno del Ricordo.” 72 “Sono passati 50 anni di silenzio voluto ed imposto sulla nostra tragedia. Diciamolo adesso chiaro e netto come la pensano i politicanti: ‘Lasciamo passare ancora 15 anni e questo popolo dell’esodo sarà del tutto eliminato per semplice forza di natura.’ E così sarà. I nostri figli e nipoti leggeranno del nostro esodo su qualche libro di storia.” Guido Braini, “Una meditazione triste-amara.” 73 “Io dico sempre che il nostro comun denominatore è il fatto di essere stati esuli, partiti senza nulla per poi affermarci in giro per il mondo.” Guido Braini, “Il Club Giuliano-Dalmato di Toronto si proietta nel 2012,” Corriere Canadese, 5 Jan. 2012, http://www.anvgd.it/rassegna-stampa/12413-il -club-giuliano-dalmato-di-toronto-si-proietta-nel-2012-corrierecom-05-gen .html. 74 “Noi donnette intanto eravamo preoccupate per la sorte dei bambini, per cosa mangiare, dove ripararci e dormire, come risolvere la situazione al meglio. Eravamo noi spesso a chiamare gli uomini al dovere più immediato: raccogliere utensili fra le macerie, legna per fare un fuoco, coperte, trovare un tetto, organizzarci in una piccola forma sociale […] Solo adesso si comincia a parlare dei contributi delle donne anche nella resistenza italiana. Tutto questo non è per svalutare il costante e duro lavoro portato avanti dai nostri uomini. Voglio solo che senza tante fanfare si riconosca ogni giorno anche il contributo non indifferente della donna, che non ci si da al contenuto obbligato dalla pubblicità solo per la festa della Mamma o per San Valentino.” (La Grilla Parlante, “Parola di donna,” 8) 75 “A nome di tutti gli uomini del nostro Club, voglio riconoscere l’immenso contributo che le donne hanno portato alla nostra associazione e a tutte le sue attività non solo in questo scorso anno, ma in tutti gli anni del nostro

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associazionismo e, soprattutto, della nostra diaspora. Le ringraziamo e auguriamo loro non solo una buona giornata, ma continuo successo, benessere, e buon lavoro.” Reia, “Festa della donna.” “Sin dall’inizio le donne hanno partecipato alla vita del Club […] E fin dall’inizio questo nostro contributo è stato accolto con favore dalla maggioranza dei soci perché le donne, oltre ad un sincero entusiasmo, hanno anche dimostrato una grandissima abilità e una forte competenza nello svolgere degli impegni presi. Questo sincero interesse delle donne verso il Club ha fatto sì che il comitato esecutivo aprisse loro le porte e le accogliesse calorosamente in posizioni anche dirigenziali.” Bongiovanni, “Parola di donna” (Sept. 1998), 7. “Brave tutte quante! E forza! Noi donne ci siamo fatte valere e non ci fermeremo qui. Le porte sono aperte a tutte coloro che desiderano partecipare.” Ibid. “Io, come donna, ho sempre pensato che l’uomo è sempre più filosofopolitico, sognatore, idealista, romantico della donna. Sarà forse perché l’uomo ha più tempo fra le mani, mentre per la donna il lavoro non è mai finito. Lui può permettersi voli di fantasia, di speranza e di disperazione, mentre la donna deve assicurarsi che la azienda casa, l’azienda famiglia, l’azienda fabbrica, scuola, ospedale, ecc. (che richiedono costante attenzione) continuino a funzionare al massimo dell’efficienza, con il minimo costo e manodopera.” La Grilla Parlante, “Parola di donna,” 7. “La mia vita non è stata altro che un continuo costruire di nidi, di creare vita, di nutrire, di proteggere poco importa dove, qua o là, nelle nostre terre di origine o in quelle di ultima accoglienza. La mia funzione è sempre stata dettata non dal fatto di essere in questa o in quella terra, ma dal mio essere donna-figlia, donna-sorella, donna-amica, donna-moglie, donna-madre, donna-nonna. Non ho mai fatto ‘notizia,’ però sono sempre stata là, pronta a dare una mano, una spinta, un appoggio fisico o morale, pronta a fare il dirty work affinché qualcuno potesse glioriarsi di qualche atto pubblico.” La Grilla Parlante, “Parola di donna,” 8. “Con l’8 marzo si festeggia il giorno della donna. Ma perché? Ma chi ha deciso che noi donne possiamo festeggiare una volta all’anno? Dobbiamo essere più fiere di quello che siamo … ogni giorno … tutto il giorno. Con l’arrivo del nuovo millennio spero che cambieremo la nostra ‘visione’ della donna. Abbiamo dei poveri esempi e sono stufa dei mass-media che parlano ‘ad infinitum’ della Lewinsky, la Casta, la Campbell e Carolina di Monaco. La donna ideale? Guardate in giro (specialmente voi uomini!!) alle vostre mamme, vostre sorelle, vostre mogli, vostre figlie … e scoprirete la vera bellezza! Happy Women’s Day, every day!” Grisonich, “La nostra posta,” 12.

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Cited Works Alberghetti, Isabella. “Dal Presidente.” Da Gorizia fino a Zara 12, no. 1 (15 Mar. 2003): 1. –  “Dal Presidente.” Da Gorizia fino a Zara 12, no. 2 (15 June 2003): 1. –  “La Marcia … Su Toronto!” Da Gorizia fino a Zara 10, no. 4 (15 Dec. 2001): 1. “Altri ricordi della nostra festa di primavera.” El Boletin 106 (1 June 2001): 20. Antonaz, Margaret. “A ognidun la sua.” El Boletin 83 (1 Sept. 1995): 16. Antonelli, Claudio. “Emigrazione ed esilio.” In Buranello, I Giuliano-Dalmati, 57–61. –  “La terra perduta.” El Boletin 126 (June 2006): 9. Balanzin Galli, Marina. “Memories of My Mom, Maruci Balanzin.” El Boletin 152 (Dec. 2012): 18. Bastianutti, Diego. “Bacillus Emigraticus: Origins, Symptoms and Cures.” In An Italian Region in Italy: The Case of Friuli-Venezia Giulia, edited by Konrad Eisenbichler, 1–18. Toronto: Multicultural History Society of Ontario, 1998. –  “La terza pagina.” El Boletin 96 (1 Dec. 1998): 3. Becchi Padovani, Alda. “Ieri e Oggi.” El Boletin 74 (1 June 1993): 1. –  “La nostra posta.” El Boletin 123 (Sept. 2005): 15. Bongiovanni, Dinora. “Parola di donna.” El Boletin 93 (1 Mar. 1998): 7–8. –  “Parola di donna.” El Boletin 95 (1 Sept. 1998): 7–8. –  “Sardoni all’agro.” El Boletin 100 (1 Dec. 1999): 8. Boni, Giovanni. “La nostra posta.” El Boletin 112 (1 Dec. 2002): 11. Braini, Andrew. “Nonno Guido.” El Boletin 161 (Mar. 2015): 7. Braini, Guido. “Dopo 42 anni, Natale a Trieste con parenti e amici.” El Boletin 113 (1 Mar. 2003): 17–18. –  “La giornata del ricordo celebrata a Toronto.” El Boletin 145 (Mar. 2011): 3. –  “Messaggio del Presidente.” El Boletin 135 (Sept. 2008): 2. –  “Una meditazione triste-amara sulla Giornata del Ricordo.” El Boletin 125 (Mar. 2006): 2. Braini, Mario Joe. “A Day to Remember.” El Boletin 153 (Mar. 2013): 3. –  “Messaggio del Nuovo Presidente.” El Boletin 150 (June 2012): 1. –  “Our President’s Message.” El Boletin 161 (Mar. 2015): 3. Buranello, Robert, ed. I Giuliano-Dalmati in Canada: Considerazioni ed immagini. New York: Legas, 1995. Carusone, Marisa Delise. “La pagina della donna.” El Boletin 109 (1 Mar. 2002): 7. –  “La nostra posta.” El Boletin 131 (1 Sept. 2007): 14. Cernecca, Antonella. “La nostra posta.” El Boletin 128 (Dec. 2006): 13. Crusvar, Pat. “To Lega Istriana.” El Campanil 15 (Dec. 2005): 14. D’Andrea, Diana. “Cerca il cugino.” El Boletin 61 (May 1990): 4.

78  Benedetta Lamanna “Ecco un bel regalo.” El Boletin 125 (Mar. 2006): 5. Eisenbichler, Konrad. “I Giuliano-Dalmati in Canada.” In Buranello, I GiulianoDalmati, 101–14. Previously published in Italian Canadiana 9 (1993): 31–45. –  “Italian Refugees in Canada: The Julian-Dalmatians.” In A Monument for Italian-Canadian Immigrants, edited by Gabriele Scardellato and Manuela Scarci, 79–83. Toronto: Department of Italian Studies, University of Toronto, with the Italian-Canadian Immigrant Commemorative Association, 1999. –  “La stampa giuliano-dalmata in Canada.” In Buranello, I Giuliano-Dalmati, 73–82. Fast, Mady. “In cucina per voi: Baccalà in rosso, o Baccalà stufato al pomodoro.” El Boletin 100 (1 Dec. 1999): 8. Gallich, Bruno. “50 anni della nostra storia.” Da Gorizia fino a Zara 6, no. 2 (15 June 1997): 1. Gaspar, Giorgio. “Ricordi di un Esule: Una lacrima infinita.” Da Gorizia fino a Zara 12, no. 4 (15 Dec. 2003): 2. Gatti, Norda. “Sempre in azione i nostri!” El Boletin 80 (1 Dec. 1994): 1. Giuricin, Livio. “Arrivano i fondi.” El Boletin 110 (1 June 2002): 14. –  “Ci hanno scritto.” El Campanil 11 (Sept. 2004): 3. Gobbo, Adriana. “Storia di noi Istriani.” El Boletin 84 (1 Dec. 1995): 16. Grisonich, Luisa. “Endings and Beginnings.” El Boletin 131 (Sept. 2007): 13. –  “La nostra posta.” El Boletin 98 (1 June 1999): 12. –  “Largo ai giovani: Brodo, carne lessa and … Pilat.” El Boletin 93 (1 Mar. 1998): 5. Gross Padovani, Laura. “La nostra posta.” El Boletin 132 (Dec. 2007): 14. Harris, Jonathan. “Twenty Days.” El Boletin 133 (Mar. 2008): 16–17. La Grilla Parlante [pseud.]. “Parola di donna.” El Boletin 93 (1 Mar. 1998): 7–8. Lazzari, Graziella. “Pinsa per Pasqua.” El Boletin 73 (1 Mar. 1993): 9. Maranzan, Loretta. “Messaggio del Presidente.” El Boletin 61 (May 1990): 1. –  “Messaggio del Presidente.” El Boletin 63 (Nov. 1993): 1. Marincovich, Annamaria. “Ci hanno scritto.” El Campanil 11 (Sept. 2004): 3. Marinzoli, Ida Vodarich. “Un ricordo di Altamura.” El Boletin 149 (Mar. 2012): 11–12. Maurovich, Vito. “Sogni d’un Esule.” Da Gorizia fino a Zara 9, no. 1 (15 Mar. 2000): 3. Mellone, Adriano. “I Consigli di Adriano.” El Boletin 163 (Sept. 2015): 11. Morgan, Laura. “Avvenimenti lieti.” El Campanil 15 (Dec. 2005): 13. Noventa, Giacomo. “Mi vegno da Pola.” Da Gorizia fino a Zara 7:1 (15 Mar. 1998): 3. Oliva, Gianni. Esuli: Dalle foibe ai campi profughi; La tragedia degli italiani di Istria, Fiume e Dalmazia. Milan: Mondadori, 2009. Perini, Antonio. “Giorno del Ricordo.” El Campanil 13 (Apr. 2005): 3. Perini, Silva. “Il giorno del ricordo, febbraio 10, 2006.” El Campanil 16 (Apr. 2006): 8.

“Parola di donna”  79 Pesaro, Gianna. “‘Ciacole’ Nostre: Nostalgia.” Da Gorizia fino a Zara 8, no. 2 (15 June 1999): 7. Petacco, Arrigo. A Tragedy Revealed: The Story of the Italian Population of Istria, Dalmatia, and Venezia Giulia, 1943–1956. Translated by Konrad Eisenbichler. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2005. Poglianich, Clara Maraspin. “Avevo quindici anni: Ricordi di Val di Sole.” El Boletin 82 (1 June 1995): 15. –  “La Raccolta delle Pigne.” Da Gorizia fino a Zara 4, no. 3 (30 Sept. 1995): 5. Reia, Franco. “Festa della donna: Una grazie alle nostre donne!” El Boletin 129 (Mar. 2007): 5. Rocchi, Flaminio. L’esodo dei 350 mila giuliani fiumani e dalmati. Roma: Difesa Adriatica, 1970. 4th ed., 1998. Scala, Giulio. “La nostra posta.” El Boletin 112 (1 Dec. 2002): 11. Schacherl, Eva. “Ugo Schacherl: Fiumano, Doctor, Poet.” El Boletin 163 (Sept. 2015): 5–6. Sclippa, Lidia Sustar. “Cercasi.” El Boletin 76 (1 Dec. 1993): 13. Spitler, Luisa Ermani. “Un ricordo e un saluto dalle ‘Triestine Girls.’” El Boletin 104 (1 Dec. 2000): 16. Sennett, Richard. “The Rhetoric of Ethnic Identity.” In The Ends of Rhetoric: History, Theory, Practice, edited by John Bender and David E. Wellbery, 191–206. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1990. Serdoz, Nereo. “La diaspora dei Giuliano-Dalmati: Rimembranze e riflessioni.” In Buranello, I Giuliano-Dalmati, 39–46.

3 Two Images of Internment: Mario Duliani and Vincenzo Poggi elisabetta carraro Translated by Konrad Eisenbichler

On 10 June 1940, Benito Mussolini declared war on Great Britain and France and, by extension, on Canada as well. That same day, the Canadian government responded by invoking the War Measures Act and arresting a number of “enemy aliens.” Mario Duliani, an Italian journalist living and working in Montreal, was one of about seven hundred people of Italian origin detained that day, all under suspicion of being a threat to Canadian national security.1 Duliani’s internment lasted exactly 1200 days, from 28 June 1940 to 5 October 1943. He spent this period in two different internment camps: first in Petawawa, Ontario, and then in Ripples, just outside of Fredericton, New Brunswick.2 During this time, he kept a notebook/diary on life in the camps that, once freed, he would revise and publish as a book first in French, La ville sans femmes (1945) and then in his own Italian translation, Città senza donne (1946; City without Women). The Italian edition incorporated some small but significant changes that will be discussed later in this article. Mario Duliani was born in Pisino d’Istria in 1885, when the town and all of Istria were still part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. At the age of seventeen, he moved to Milan, Italy (1902), where he joined the editorial staff of the local newspaper Il Secolo, at that time the most distributed newspaper in Italy. While in Milan, Duliani indulged in his passion for the theatre, staging four one-act plays at the Teatro Verdi and the Teatro Olympia. His interest in the arts eventually led him to study the literature of the countries that hosted him – Italy, France, and Canada. In this, Duliani expressed the typical inclination of people from Istria for multiculturalism, not only in life but also in literature. In 1907, at the age of twenty-two, Duliani moved to Paris, where he worked as a foreign correspondent for the Roman newspaper Il

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Messaggero. In Paris, Duliani continued to foster his interest in theatre, bringing to the stage eight different plays in the years 1929–35. In the French capital, Duliani also met Eugène Berthiaume, a Canadian expatriate living and working in Paris as a foreign correspondent for his father’s newspaper, La Presse of Montreal.3 Berthiaume convinced Duliani to move to Canada to head a new Italian-language newspaper he wanted to launch in Montreal. Duliani accepted and in 1936 moved to Montreal, where, however, instead of heading a new Italian-language newspaper, he worked as a journalist for Berthiaume’s French-language newspaper L’Illustration nouvelle.4 Mathieu Noël notes Duliani’s arrival at the newspaper in 1936 and points out that the Italian journalist wrote mostly articles on international politics and served as the “eyes” of the administration in the office.5 In Montreal, Duliani continued to indulge in his interest for the theatre, directing the French-language section of the Montreal Repertory Theatre, an English-language theatre founded some years earlier by Martha Allan (1895–1942), the grande dame of Canadian theatre of the time. La ville sans femmes/Città senza donne Duliani’s choice of a title for his book is important because it highlights two fundamental aspects of its contents: the city and women. On the one hand, the internment camp is called a city on account of the characteristics the internees assigned to it in order to make it appear less hostile and closer to the daily life they lived before being imprisoned. The camp thus changed from a place of enclosure into something closer to the past environment and daily routine of many of its occupants, Duliani included. For this reason, some of the men baptized the main path that crossed the camp with the name of a famous street in Montreal, rue Sainte-Catherine (Duliani, City, 17; La ville, 38; Città, 55). In so doing, the men created their own physical parameters inside which events took place. Duliani experienced these events as if immersed in a microcosm circumscribed by clearly defined limits – the barbed-wire fence, always under guard, the bars at the windows that delimited the borders of the barracks, the barracks themselves that at night were locked shut forcing the internees to remain in their assigned sleeping quarters. Within this circumscribed environment, there is still the pulse of the city. Duliani describes it as an international and composite city, characterized by ethnic and social diversity among its inhabitants. On

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many occasions in the novel, Duliani seems to underline this aspect of the camp as if he were carrying out an anthropological study of the community, especially when he observes the behaviour of his fellow internees: “In these camps, my fellow internees represented more than sixteen nationalities. Among them were men of all ages, ranging from eighteen to seventy-five; included was every economic stratum, from millionarie to beggar; all ethical standards, from priest to gangster. It is easy to imagine the picturesque and multicolored palette such a variety of persons might make and how I was tempted to combine these human elements into this literary fresco” (Duliani, City, 4; cf. La ville, 14; Città, 28). Duliani’s interest in the arts and his tendency to focus on the actions and feelings of his fellow internees should be important clues in reading his narratives. In his small paper world created inside a fenced-in universe, the narrator examines from his own perspective the events that take place around him. The people and their stories become the characters and plots of his novel. Each one is more than a name: Duliani starts from their profession and from their personal dispositions to paint a picture or, as he himself defines it, a snapshot of their present and past life: “The interest of a personal journal may consist precisely in that it shows a sequence of successive truths. Journals of this kind are like a series of instant photographs” (Duliani, City, 155; cf. La ville, 298; Città, 269). Duliani underlines the group’s diversity because this is one of his own characteristics, the result of his own movements from country to country. He is the bearer not of a single, unambiguous identity but of a concentrate of experiences: from those in Austrian Istria, to those in Italy, France, and finally Canada. Having spent much of his youth immersed in Italian culture, he carried its signs in his language. In his adult years, he did the same with French culture. His novel bears witness to this in its constant referencing of works in the Italian and French canons. In this, Duliani is truly a product of Istria, a region that has always been home to a multiplicity of nationalities, languages, and ideas. Duliani encounters this once again in the internment camp where he is forced to live. Aside from the social dynamics he sees operating in the camp, Duliani also reflects on the topics that entail emotional and political considerations. These considerations touch on the changeable nature of people, especially when a long period of isolation forces them to confront their past decisions, choices, the memories that never let go, life in

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its entirety. Duliani explores these changes in individuals as if he were a social anthropologist: I knew a man, before meeting him here again, who was held in the highest regard by all his friends. Extremely cultured, well bred and behaved, of an incredibly refined nature, and so sensitive to the well-being of others that he often allowed others’ need to prevail over his own – simply because he didn’t have the heart to refuse anyone. Since his arrival here, however, and as he is quite robust, he has become a brute and a bully. Addicted now to the crudest and harshest toil, he seems to have completely metamorphosed. No longer hesitating to turn down a request, nor to resort to aggressive or foul means, even when circumstances don’t necessitate it, he erupts into obscenities when asked to perform the slightest courtesy. (Duliani, City, 24; cf. La ville, 50–1; Città, 69)

Duliani is also fascinated by the actions of a group of internees who improvise social experiments by putting false news into circulation in order to see how long it takes for them to spread and undergo changes, and then to gauge their effect on people. Duliani’s analysis of the internees’ mood changes is ever present and expresses itself in various ways according to the various people he observes. What emerges from this, however, is the author’s own feelings or, to put it more correctly, a condition that all internees share: their humanity. Their common qualities become evident in their basic needs, such as the need to eat, in which we are all the same except for the gradation of our need (Duliani, City, 64; La ville, 135; Città, 135–6). Another factor that unites them is their capacity for feelings. One in particular dominates over all others: pain. One of the internees, for example, interrupts a letter he is writing to his beloved in order to take something for a headache, which prompts Duliani to observe that they all suffer pain for the same reason – pain is a general condition (Duliani, City, 67; La ville, 143; Città, 141;). It is the condition that allows an internee to recognize himself in another internee. It is as simple a feeling as it is terrible. In the novel, suffering is related to the lack of contacts with one’s closest family members, especially wives and fiancées, and with the lack of love. These primal feelings unite the internees. Duliani notes that “everyone believes himself the hero of unique adventures – but soon realizes that, deep down, the experience of one’s neighbour is strangely similar to one’s own. In this way men again take their place in nature.

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Animals among animals” (Duliani, City, 105; cf. La ville, 214–15; Città, 195). This observation ends, however, on a sad note: the impression that, once freed, they will no longer be able to love: “This internment has been good for me. On my release I shall not be interested in women as long as I live. And to think that they had such a prominent place in my life, when now I can easily imagine that I’ll never be in love again! To never have to feel desire for them! What freedom in that, what joy that on leaving here I can begin life anew!” (Duliani, City, 105; cf. La ville, 215–16; Città, 196). In order to better understand Duliani’s novel, one must start with his description of his work. He opens his preface to the book by pointing out that this is not a “journal” nor a “memoir” but a “fictionalized documentary”: “The pages that follow are neither a ‘journal’ nor a ‘memoir.’ Rather, they constitute a ‘documentary novel,’ that is, a true human chronicle whose threads of reality the imagination has embroidered into narrative” (Duliani, City, 3; cf. La ville, 13; Città, 27). Like a painter, the author filters through his eyes the world around him and enriches it with his own feelings, thereby painting a more complete image of reality. His description is not limited to facts but is supplemented by the feelings and sensations that he and his fellow internees felt. In this manner, the novel moves beyond being a simple chronicle or a mere realistic description of life at the camp. As a result, while some of the facts included in the novel are a description of the surroundings, of people and their stories, one must also remember that the artist has enhanced these descriptions with his art. The reader’s and the critic’s duty is to use history and documents to distinguish between what is narrative fiction and what is not. Another important element in a fuller understanding of the novel is its dedication to his wife, Henryette Gaultier Duliani, who, he says, inspired this book (Duliani, City, 2; cf. La ville, 9; Città, 5). Ironically enough, however, Duliani never speaks of his wife in the book. However, even though she is not named in the work, we can detect her in it. She hides away in Duliani’s references to the female figure that is at the centre of the internees’ stories and discussions. Though Duliani speaks at length about other internees’ personal stories, his own is only implied, at best. But it is there nonetheless, for Duliani has projected his own story and feelings onto those of his fellow internees. Some comments by Yvette Brind’Amour, an actress Duliani frequented before his internment, help us to understand the novel and discover something further about Duliani and a moment in his life: “He

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[Duliani] was exceedingly charming. He wasn’t necessarily physically attractive, but his penetrating gaze revealed much about his intellectual capacity. He was of medium height, with an Italian accent. But he spoke French marvelously. When he arrived in Montreal he was divorced. He lived with the actress Andrée Basillieres and, in 1940, before he was arrested, he married Henriette Gaultier, a rather corpulent woman, very distinguished, who left him during his internment.”6 This revelation should be read in tandem with what Duliani writes near the end of his book: “Do we have to safeguard against such dangers? Very well, then. Take the suspect foreigners with their families, and intern them in a village and they may be kept under guard. Forbid them any sort of communication with the outside world. But spare them the agony of truncating their personal lives. Allow them the opportunity to continue their personal existence” (Duliani, City, 153; cf. La ville, 293–4; Città, 265). In these lines Duliani is speaking about his own life and the wife who abandoned him. They also refer to another character in the novel who suffered the same pains: the newly-wed, who in several places probably voices Duliani’s own feelings. This suggestion grows stronger in the novel’s sixth chapter, entitled “Fall Sighs,” in which Duliani tells of a letter he found at the base of a tree where the wind had tossed it. The suggestion that this letter may reflect Duliani’s feelings is reinforced by the inclusion of some verses from Paul Verlaine, a French symbolist poet, who was part of Duliani’s cultural education. Literary References in the Novel Duliani was, in fact, a learned and qualified writer who knew both Italian and French literature very well. One is struck by how he adapts his knowledge of literature to what happens in the novel to such a point that past writers become part of his daily present: “What we suffer most here is memory itself. Marcel Proust can be found in each of us. We have all become individuals in search of ‘le temps perdu’” (Duliani, City, 53; cf. La ville, 108–9; Città, 116). Often his references allude to famous writers and poets from the French canon, such as Verlaine, Baudelaire, Proust, and sometimes to authors from the Italian canon, such as the explicit reference to Silvio Pellico. There are times when he seems to be winking at the theatre of Luigi Pirandello, confirmed perhaps by his effort to introduce the Sicilian writer to a Quebec public. Pirandello is present as an inspiration also in Duliani’s development of the theme of a new identity, which

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features prominently in the work of the Sicilian writer, and in the yearning for love, which may have reminded Duliani of Pirandello’s own pining for the Italian actress Marta Abba (1900–88). If, therefore, the French canon forms one of the bases of his literary knowledge – with concepts and ideas drawn from the philosopher Henri Bergson and the writer Marcel Proust – one must also note that Italian culture, too, plays a major role in his writings. Duliani feels he is Italian, and this is the source of his internal dissension. It is thus important to try to understand the motives that led Duliani to keep a diary of events and situations at the camp, perhaps as a ploy to distance himself from the reality around him, to feel alive, to objectify his pain. On the other hand, Duliani does not limit himself to a mere poetic venting. The Many Points of View on Duliani’s Political Leanings Scholars have expressed many differing opinions on Duliani’s politics. Filippo Salvatore, for example, tends to view Duliani’s novel as a testament to the injustice perpetuated against a number of Italians who were innocent and were jailed without cause.7 Roberto Perin, on the other hand, approaches the problem from the perspective of a historian and, basing his research on archival documentation, reaches a diametrically opposed position, thus bringing to light a different side of Duliani. To support his view that Duliani was not an informer for the Fascist secret police (OVRA; Organizzazione per la Vigilanza e la Repressione dell'Antifascismo), Salvatore claims that Duliani did not need the money the Italian consulate was promising him for such work. This claim is supported, in Salvatore’s view, by a statement made by Salvatore Mancuso in an interview he granted in 1987, in which he said that he himself (Mancuso) had similarly and unjustly been accused of having worked for the OVRA. Salvatore further asserts that the fact that Duliani’s name appears on a list of informers for the OVRA, published in a supplement to the Gazzetta Ufficiale of 2 July 1946, is not worthy of consideration because such lists were incomplete and imprecise, often drawn up without reliable tangible evidence to support them. Perin responds with facts drawn from archival evidence that indicate that Duliani had left France because of problems with French justice – he had signed some bad cheques and was risking jailtime. He then adds that Duliani knew very well Adrien Arcand, a Canadian Fascist leader

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interned with him at Petawawa, since they had both worked for Berthiaume’s newspaper L’Illustration nouvelle. Duliani mentions Arcand in the novel, but only as a political figure far from the author. Perin then adds that it cannot be mere coincidence that the newspaper produced in the camp at Petawawa had the same title as the Italian Fascist paper published in Toronto before the outbreak of war – Il Bollettino. Perin does, however, simplify things a little when he says that “La Ville sans femmes contains almost no reference to politics, political issues, or ideologies.”8 Political references are there, at times implicit and at time unspoken. In the chapter “The Tower of Babel,” where he describes the diversity of the internees, Duliani in fact uses political and ideological categories to describe them: “The city is a cauldron of diverse outlooks and contrasting creeds. Here you’ll find fascists and Nazis, democrats, communists, republicans, monarchists, totalitarians and nihilists, not to mention those who by and large couldn’t care less” (Duliani, City, 115; cf. La ville, 232; Città, 211–12). The fact that Duliani chose not to reveal that he knew Arcand, even though he had previously worked closely with him, is worth noting. Duliani refers to him simply as a tennis fan or indirectly when he says that the leader of a French-Canadian political party is among those who like to play chess: “They all belong to the same political party, whose leader is here also with them” (Duliani, City, 85; cf. La ville, 178; Città, 168). It is an intentional omission that tells us something about the author. One must also remember that the reason why all internees were in the camp was political. So we must acknowledge some of the facts reported by Perin because they are verifiable and they help to sketch a more accurate picture of Duliani, though they do not necessarily prove whether he was or was not a spy for the OVRA. What is fundamentally important is the fact that in the Italian version of the book, translated from the French original by Duliani himself, there is an extra chapter that was not part of the original edition – the chapter on “Italians in America.” One cannot help but wonder what the reason for such an insertion might have been. Perhaps it was the fact that, in changing language, Duliani was also changing his readership. In Perin’s view, Duliani added the chapter in order to justify himself to an Italian-reading public,9 while in the French version of the book he had sought, instead, to secure for himself a place in Canadian society and make himself respectable in its eyes. Henry Veggian takes the two views into account and distances himself from both. Pointing out Duliani’s Istrian origins, Veggian maintains

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that his political profile is not to be framed within either of the two Italian factions, that is, either as Fascist collaborator for the OVRA or antiFascist and completely divorced from events. According to Veggian, Duliani is instead a supporter of the ideals of the Italian Risorgimento and of Gabriele D’Annunzio, ideas that were subsequently merged by Italian Fascists into their ideal of a nationalistic dictatorship. Veggian, too, minimizes things when he says, “If Duliani had any ‘authoritarian motherland,’ it was imperial Austria, not Italy.”10 To dispatch in this way Duliani’s Italian self-identification is reductive, because it ignores the Istrian cultural substratum. One cannot claim that Duliani was not Italian. In fact, Duliani’s omission of certain facts is due, precisely, to his being Italian. His culture, and not only his mother tongue, was Italian. Though he was imbued with French culture, he identified with Italians, so much so that he defended them and allowed his nationalism to cover up facts that might have made them look bad. Admittedly, one cannot restrict a person’s culture to that of his birthplace, but at the same time one cannot overlook the influence that those Italian lands under Austrian rule might have had on Duliani’s national and cultural self-identity. In order to better understand this point, one needs simply to look at Duliani’s novel and wonder why he says some things and makes certain choices. Duliani is thus to be seen as someone with clear Italian roots from Pisino d’Istria, who lived several years in Austria, Italy, France, and Canada and is thus innately accustomed to the meeting of different cultures. He is also someone who, willy-nilly, absorbed French culture and identified with it. Vincenzo Poggi’s Artistic Production as Reflected in Duliani’s Novel Another useful way to examine the various levels of Duliani’s poetics is to compare his work with that of another artist working in another medium. While Duliani the journalist was jotting down notes on events around him in the internment camps, another man, the Milanese artist Vincenzo Poggi, was experiencing the same events and representing them visually in his drawings and paintings. The two men have many points in common, starting from the fact that their life paths crossed as they passed through the same places – Milan, Montreal, Petawawa, Ripples. Vincenzo Poggi was born in Milan on 10 April 1900. He studied at the Brera Academy of Fine Arts (1917–23), moved to Paris for three years,

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Figure 3.1.  Vincenzo Poggi, untitled drawing, CWM 20020203–012 (Beaverbrook Collection of War Art, Canadian War Museum, by permission)

and then returned to Milan where he worked in a stained-glass studio, the Studio artistico della Vetrata, for six months. In 1919, he moved to Montreal to work in Giulio Nincheri’s stained-glass shop and soon decided to remain in Canada. In June 1940, he was arrested and interned, just like Duliani. Poggi is present in Duliani’s novel. We meet him when Duliani refers to a brilliant young man, past student of the Brera Academy, who was a fine portrait painter destined for a great future (Duliani, City, 97; La ville, 199–200; Città, 184). In Poggi’s works, we can find some of the snapshots of camp life described by Duliani. Two of Poggi’s drawings illustrate everyday life in the camp: one shows a group of men in the foreground who, probably because they are unable to work, sit outside a barrack (fig. 3.1). One man has a crutch and seems to be peeling a potato, another leans his right hand on a cane. In the background one can see other barracks with other men. The drawing represents a social

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moment near the camp’s kitchen. Duliani describes just such a moment when he says: “This kind of social displacement is even more evident in an annex to the kitchen where we find the potato peelers. They are for the most part older men who are not in a very good health. They work sitting in a circle, their heads bent low, exchanging among themselves a few words that no one else can hear” (Duliani, City, 60; cf. La ville, 126; Città, 128). A second drawing depicts another scene of daily life near the camp kitchen – men chopping and stacking wood (fig. 3.2). In the foreground, the men are working, while in the background there is a guard tower, the camp’s wire fence, and a soldier on his rounds with a rifle strapped to his shoulder. Duliani describes such as scene when he writes that “the team of woodcutters diligently piles thousands of pieces of wood to form a veritable defensive wall all around the perimeter of the kitchen – to the appreciation of a superior officer who has a particular weakness for having all the wood piled in this regular manner. He comes daily to measure and check the piles, and when no piece is longer than the other he leaves as happy and satisfied as could be imagined” (Duliani, City, 64; cf. La ville, 134; Città, 135). A third drawing by Poggi has a much more emotional charge because it illustrates many of the feelings expressed by Duliani in his novel (fig. 3.3). This is a drawing not of simple everyday life but of a moment of anxiety, and perhaps even fear, depicted in a range of grey and black tones. The subject is a storm. The wind blows strongly, bending the branches of the trees in the background. In the immediate foreground, a soldier, with a rifle armed with a bayonet strapped to his shoulder, is walking fighting the wind. The camp fence seems to be a very high, infinite tunnel whose end is not visible in the darkness that embraces the barracks on the left where the prisoners sleep. On the reverse of the drawing, Poggi wrote in French: “Ci rappresenté la fence de barbelé du camp d’internement de Petawawa qui entoure nos huts pendant une tempête” (Here represented the barbed-wire fence that surrounds our huts in the internment camp in Petawawa during a storm). In his novel, Duliani described the feelings of those who experienced the storm on the other side, inside the barracks: The storm approaches. Unable to sleep, we lie in the darkness. Thunder roars and it startles us as it moves ever closer at dizzying speed. The sky finally breaks open. Rain pours down in tides, like an eruption. Each torrent, as if made of steel, thrashes the roof of the barracks, the canopy of

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Figure 3.2.  Vincenzo Poggi, Prisoners Chopping Wood, CWM 20020203–011 (Beaverbrook Collection of War Art, Canadian War Museum, by permission)

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Figure 3.3.  Vincenzo Poggi, untitled drawing, CWM 20020203–010 (Beaverbrook Collection of War Art, Canadian War Museum, by permission) trees, the earth itself … The lightning that just now was illuminating the far horizon in zigzags is soon right over our heads. Under its monstrous, ghostly illumination, the landscape assumes a fantastic aspect. It seems that up there behind the clouds [there] is a lighting technician who is amusing himself by taking the time to better contemplate our City, illuminated as in daylight, and by overpowering the weak searchlights that ring the Camp.

Two Images of Internment  93 […] This goes on the greater part of an hour. One after the other, we get up in turn and head for the barred windows to contemplate the show. We feel both liberated and terrified. A few truly fear the storm and don’t risk leaving their pallets. The lightning has struck within the circumference of our village. We hear something tearing, breaking, at the north end of the Camp. Now it blazes right in front of our eyes. A few paces from our barracks an incandescent wire has fallen from an electric pole, striking the shore of the lake with sizzling explosions. (Duliani, City, 32; cf. La ville, 66–7; Città, 81–82)

Once again art succeeds in capturing the moment in an image, be it visual or literary. With his drawings and paintings, Poggi becomes an invaluable resource for our understanding of Duliani’s novel. Fascists against Nazis: The Germans in Duliani’s Novel Vincenzo Poggi is also the one who can guide us through the complicated and much debated topic of Duliani’s politics. Italy’s political decision to ally itself with Germany in the war could not have been welcomed by Duliani, who was so markedly French in his interests. In Città senza donne, this is made clear and underlined several times, even in the original French version: The Italians of the first half of 1940 – at the moment they were interned – were from a country that gave the impression of strength. They could say that their country was in a position to play a major and decisive role in the grave conflict that had been going on for almost ten months. If the Government in Rome had maintained neutrality, it would have acquired enormous prestige. I don’t know the anwer to what really happened in Rome, and neither do I want to know it. (Duliani, City, 134; cf. La ville, 266; Città, 240)

Since, during the Fascist period, Duliani was living abroad and not in Italy, this is what he heard and saw from afar: Italy seemed to be a country that was forcefully affirming itself and giving signs of growth, a view also advanced by the Fascist propaganda issuing from Italian consuls. In Duliani’s opinion, Italy’s wrong alliance would cost her both the war and her credibility on the international scene: One day they come to tell us: The old Italy has changed. A fresh new wind is blowing for old Italy. The emigrant passports have been abolished.

94  Elisabetta Carraro Labour now has an honorable place. And so we listened with enthusiasm to so many other things like these that made us proud again. You know yourself what the consular officials did to win us over. Interested primarily in their own careers, in showing their government that they were active, they promised the Italians abroad everything under the sun, so long as they organized banquets, created associations, underwrote funds, found more and more men ready to wear the black shirt. (Duliani, City, 139; cf. Città, 248)

Duliani casts some of the blame on the Germans, who are nearly always depicted in negative tones because they have allowed themselves to be corrupted by bad philosophers and have brought their people to relive, once again, the Lutheran question, though framed this time not in terms of religion, but of race: “Not that the Germans – individually – were uncivil towards us. On the contrary. A German is a polite gentleman. But two Germans are already a bit of Germany” (Duliani, City, 123; cf. La ville, 247; Città, 224). Although Duliani sees Germans as a group in negative terms, he does admire their zeal for scholarship and their discipline, which never falters, regardless of the circumstances (Duliani, City, 118; La ville, 247–8; Città, 216–17). The Events of 6 February 1943 Germans as a group play an important part in an incident that took place at the camp in Ripples, New Brunswick, for which we have two witness accounts, one by Poggi and the other by Duliani. It happened on 6 February 1943, about six months after the Italian internees from Petawawa had been transferred there. Duliani writes, Everyone knows that on the 6th of February, 1934, a bloody political uprising took place in Paris, leaving fifty people dead and over three hundred wounded. Our City also had its own 6th of February. Under the pretext of a “moral cleansing,” the Germans, who run a kind of S.S militia in the Camp, organized a “punitive expedition” against some twenty designated internees, who were surrounded and beaten, kicked and punched. There were fifteen wounded; and to avoid any more incidents of this kind the victims were isolated in a special barrack. The incident led to a judicial inquest. A court martial came to the Camp, a trial was held, and prison sentences were handed out to several parties found responsible for the violence. (Duliani, City, 143; cf. La ville, 275–6; Città, 254–5)

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According to Duliani, the Germans, organized as a militia, carried out a punitive expedition; there is no indication whatsoever that Italian Fascist groups within the camp participated in it. A letter/memoir by Vincenzo Poggi, however, offers another perspective. The dates and general description of the incident given by Duliani and Poggi match; it is clear that both men are referring to the same event. However, there is a difference: Poggi does not speak only of the Germans but of a collaboration between German Nazis and Italian Fascists. Before describing the actual incident, Poggi details the buildup to it, starting with events at the camp in Petawawa. He thus creates a contextual frame for the event in quasi-diary form within which he lists, in a marked crescendo, what led up to the event in Ripples: I was interned at Petawawa on the 6th January 1942. That same day P/W Nello Trasciatti and other Fascist leaders within the camp refused to allow me living quarters in hut II. The reasons given was that I was not a good Fascist and only good Fascists were desired in that particular hut. On the advice of P/W Battagali, they decided to take me in, but stated that they would watch me closely. I was to be quiet and they would tolerate me. April 1942. I decided to instruct and teach N. Clark, an Englishman the art of painting – this being my profession – an artist. Tony Di Pietro a fanatical Fascist and a stooge of N. Trasciatti, told Trasciatti that I was teaching the proffession [sic] to a mounted police spy and an English spy. I paid no attention to their gossip and continued with my lessons to Clark.11

Already from these two entries we can see that the document is some sort of a declaration and we gather that Poggi kept track of events already from his arrival in Petawawa. In his narrative, the protagonists are a group of ardent Fascists who, from the moment of his arrival, sought to prevent him from taking his allotted place in their barrack. In his note, Poggi is careful to record the men’s names in full and to indicate that they acted as a cohesive group against those whom they considered not to be a good Fascists. The group seems also to have been motivated by political alliances forged outside the camp and replicated within the camp. This meant that Poggi, an Italian, should not befriend an Englishman such as Norman Clark or even give him art lessons: “May 1942. Di Pietro insulted Clark

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in the hut. Clark counter-acted by giving Di Pietro a black eye. Trasciatti and his Fascist stooges defended Di Pietro, and hated me more, because I continued to give Clark lessons. My relations with Clark at that time was purely off [sic] a professional nature. June 1942, Trasciatti and his Fascist group came out openly and disapproved my teaching of Clark. In order to keep the peace and to protect myself from violence, I was compelled to stop giving lessons to Clark.”12 Confronted by group pressure and violence, Poggi is thus obliged to toe the party line and desist from engaging with his English friend, even though both are internees for allegedly political reasons. The note then continues with events at Ripples/Fredericton: Fredericton O. Kraus, an ardent Nazi supporter and fanatically anti-British, a very close friend of Trasciatti commenced to teach Trasciatti German. He Kraus at the time when a Canadian spokesman was to be appointed, campained [sic] strongly against the Canadian candidate Lattoni, and desired strongly to have the Italian elements represented by Trasciatti. P/W Scheaffner and Kraus endeavoured to get the German support behind Trasciatti. On Hitler’s birthday, Trasciatti was greatly applauded for his fine speech in support of the Axis Powers. Nov. 1942. Near my bed slept an Italian sailor by the name of Testa. He continually kept reporting to Trasciatti, that I was anti-Fascist and completely against Italy entering the war on the side of Germany. In fact, Trasciatti built around himself a whole host of informers whose duty it was to report to him all Italians who did or said anything against the axis powers. P/W Maravale, Cocomillo and Giacomelli were his chief stooges. January 1943. Piccolo another anti-fascist approached me and asked me to teach him painting. I did so. Again Trasciatti reproached me for bothering with this man. I distinctly told him this was a professional matter and that I was not interested in his (Trasciatti’s) political ideas or ideologies. I was then completely isolated and left alone.13

The fate of those who declared themselves to be anti-Fascist or claimed not to be interested in politics was ostracism. They were to be set aside, not to be included in conversations, and to be isolated from

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other internees. This punitive behaviour allows us to understand the environment in which the internees lived, the importance of political ideas, and how groups were formed on the basis of these ideas. In short, the climate in the camp was the same as in Italy during the Fascist regime, a world of spies and informers that led to the repression of those who did not agree with Fascist ideals: January. In hut 1 M. Tennisci, an ardent pro-German idealist, came and told me to go to work in the dining rooms. I protested going because I had received a [sic] unfit medical certificate from the German doctor in charge of the hospital. Tennisci reported to Trasciatti, that, I had refused to report for work and that I had gone to paint in the library. Trasciatti, in my absense [sic] commanded Cocomillo and Giacomelli to throw my bed and blankets out of the window. When I came back to the hut I saw my bed and blankets on the ground outside.14

In Poggi’s notes, the names Cocomillo and Giacomelli always appear together. The two men are described as lackeys who carried out the orders other people gave them. Osvaldo Giacomelli himself is featured in Gabriele Scardellato’s article “Images of Internment,” which analyses the declarations made and the photographs produced by the former internee in an interview he granted to Enrico Cumbo and then compares them with the narrative in Duliani’s novel. Scardellato notes the motto inscribed on a black flag in the hands an internee from one of Giacomelli’s personal photographs and writes: “When I first noticed the banner, I was surprised. The logo dates from the early years of Fascism in Italy, which witnessed the often brutal activities of the original squadristi [Fascist squads].”15 Further confirmation of Giacomelli’s membership in the Fascist group at the camp can be found not only in the presence of Fascist propaganda evident in Giacomelli’s photographs but also in the following declaration by Poggi, in which Giacomelli’s name is included in those of a group of Fascist internees: I ask Cocomillo politely the reason for this unjustable [sic] act and humiliation. He answered in an arrogant manner “Its none of your business.” I did not stay to argue with Cocomillo for I had heard that this man Cocomillo is quite dangerous when aroused and that he also had a criminal record. That night the hut leader P/W Restello forbid any such actions in the

98  Elisabetta Carraro future. On January 29 N. Trasciatti commanded Cocomillo and Giacomelli to throw out of the window the bed and the blankets of P/W Piccolo. This they did. I have heard that P/N Testa, Trasciatti and other had compilled [sic] what is known to be a “black book” of men black-listed by them and which is to be forwarded to the Italian Government after the war. Testa and another man knew that certain men were to be beaten up the night before the happenings of Feb 6th 1943.16

Poggi’s declaration contradicts, in part, what Duliani reported when he said that there were spies in the camp who reported to the authorities the escape plans of their fellow internees. It also contradicts what Osvaldo Giacomelli remembered about what had happened before the internment. Scardellato writes that Giacomelli noted how “in the camps, particularly in Petawawa, […] his fellow prisoners were convinced that their internment was the result of the back-stabbing actions of informants who were rumored to have received twenty-five dollars for each name they submitted to the RCMP.”17 After this long preamble, Poggi arrives at the detailed description of what happened on the day in question: On February 6th 1943 about 9 a.m. I saw on the stair of hut 6 a long row of German sailors. An Italian told me this gang is coming to beat up Bumgarten. I left the hut disgusted and went to the library in hut 5 to paint a portrait. I had been in the library less than ten minutes when I looked up and suddenly saw a large group of men coming in through the door. There were between 20 and 25 men all told. I recognized only three Italians in the group: Trasciatti, Maravale e Cocomillo. Trasciatti and Cocomillo pointed the finger towards me. A German with a blonde beard and very excited came over to me and took my arm shaking me brutally and said “Get out you bastard.” Others called me names and menaced me, however, I do not understand English very well and in the excitement I do not recollect all that was said to me. Trasciatti and Maravale then told me to take my belonging and get out. I now recognize the blond German as P/W H. Laage. When going out through the door of hut 5 I was violently pushed from behind by P/W Wirtz. I was then taken by Trasciatti and Laage to my own hut #6 brutally pushed about and shaken by both Wirtz, Laage.

Two Images of Internment  99 They kept saying “Get going, hurry up, no talk.” I was very frightened. They told me to get my stuff, but gave me no chance to do same. I was then rushed through the hut down the stairs and outside. While I was going through the hut I was kicked in the back two or three times by P/W Zalfa. While I was going to the gate I was pushed and shoved brutally in the back all the way by P/W Wirtz followed by Trasciatti Cocomillo, Zalfa and other Germans internees. At the gate Trasciatti told me to get out of the camp quick. The gang behind then took all my personal belongings including paintings and throw [sic] them on the ground in the snow. Blankets and bed were thrown about the same way.18

From Poggi’s notes, it appears that there was, in fact, cooperation between the Fascists and the Nazis in the camp and that life in the camp was not easy for an anti-Fascist. It seems the internees distinguished between those who supported the Italy-Germany alliance and those who did not. Those internees who, like Poggi, did not express an interest in ideology and politics were identified, singled out, stigmatized, and beaten. Outlaws and Camorra: Companions and Table Mates What can we conclude, then, about Duliani? First of all, we can affirm that his name does not appear in the list of Fascist lackeys and henchmen mentioned by Poggi. Second, we note that in his novel Duliani does not mention these incidents. When he refers to troublemakers, he describes them as “German” and suggests that their punitive expeditions were carried out as part of a moral cleansing program, not for political reasons. Nor does he mention any other nationalities among the troublemakers. When Duliani refers to Italians, he does mention some individuals who are part of a so-called camorra or outlaw group, but does not mention this particular incident of 6 February 1943. Nonetheless, it is possible that some of the outlaws alluded to in Duliani’s narrative are the same persons indicated by name by Poggi: “The ‘outlaws’ recognized one another and reconstituted the hierarchical structure which is peculiar to their profession. Among themselves they communicate by means of winks and slight gestures indiscernible to the average outsider. One day a quarrel erupted between a prisoner and one of these gangsters. Before we knew, a reprisal was being organized against the encroacher. Fortunately the sergeant-major was informed and so

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diffused the impending skirmish” (Duliani, City, 116; cf. La ville, 232–3; Città, 212). Even though the novel is not a completely reliable source on account of its intentional and nonintentional omissions or its literary revisions, we can nonetheless affirm that Duliani sided with the intellectuals in the camp. He considered himself to be part of the group that did not admire the Nazis. His own pro-Gallic tendencies made him not proud of Italy’s decision to enter the war on the side of Germany against England and France. We might, however, wonder about what lay behind Duliani’s decision to describe those Italians who acted like outlaws as a camorra or mafia and not use the name of the political doctrine that clearly united them. Perhaps, in order to avoid problems, Duliani stayed away from such political allusions so as to better protect himself. The fact that, for whatever reason, Duliani chose not to provide much information on what happened on 6 February 1943 is a given. However, if we carefully read his few words on the event, we see that he adduced a moral reason for the motive behind the punitive expedition. Poggi, instead, blames it on politics, but his view is quickly undercut by a comment he makes immediately thereafter – when he refers to his relationship with Norman Clark, Poggi seems keen to point out that, “at that time,” their relationship was strictly professional. His unexpected clarification raises the suggestion, supported by the homoerotic manner in which Poggi depicted Clark in his drawings (fig. 3.4) and by their closeness and collaboration, that Poggi was targeted precisely because of his close friendship with the Englishman. Perhaps Clark and Poggi with him were ostracized and ill-treated not only because of their political or nonpolitical views but also because of a moralistic agenda that sought to eliminate from the internment camp homosexual tendencies stigmatized by the Nazi and Fascist regimes. A close friendship, especially in a confined environment such as that of the internment camp, could easily lead people to think that the bond might evolve into something more. In short, Poggi does not paint an idyllic image of collaboration and civil society as Duliani, instead, often does. When speaking of his jailed companions, Duliani writes: “None of these men – as the facts will show clearly – is guilty of any act of treason against their adoptive country. Their crime consists mainly in having expressed, more or less conspicuously, some sympathy towards a government of a foreign country that later, throught no fault of their own, declared war on Canada. Their

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Figure 3.4.  Vincenzo Poggi, Norman Ade Clark, CWM 20020203–004 (Beaverbrook Collection of War Art, Canadian War Museum, by permission)

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Figure 3.5. Photograph of internees with Fascist berets (Courtesy of Villa Charities Inc.)

sympathies did not stem from ideological or political considerations” (Duliani, City, 25; cf. La ville, 32; Città, 70–1). On this point, a group photo of some internees from the Giaco­ melli family archive is of interest (fig. 3.5). Just like the one discussed by Scardellato, it shows a group of internees wearing berets with the Fascist insignia and a script that conveys a popular motto by Gabriele D’Annunzio, later to be picked up by the Fascists and used by them as the title for one of their popular regime songs, “Me ne frego” (I don’t give a damn). This photograph shows several men mentioned by Poggi and supports his narrative about Fascist groups; in it we see Toni Di Pietro, Luigi Maravalle, Franco Testa, and Francesco Cocomille. The Fascist insignia they wear reflect what was mentioned above and are part of a story that merits being told. On this topic, Sam Migliore writes, “A study of the symbols alone, however does not tell us why the internees displayed the symbols, nor does it tell us what the symbols meant to the individuals in the photographs. Do

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the symbols indicate guilt? Do they indicate that these individuals posed a danger to Canada? Or, do they suggest pride in Italy, resentment for their internment, or a variety of other possibilities? […] The questions I pose cannot be answered from an analysis of the symbols themselves.”19 In this case, however, it is not just a question of symbols. Poggi gives names and describes actual events, complete with dates. The symbols in the photograph confirm a political conviction that is clearly indicated in Poggi’s notes and further confirmed by the narratives, albeit incomplete, in Duliani’s novel. They are not a condemnation nor are they the confirmation of a fault, but they are yet further proof that some internees did lean towards Fascist political ideologies. The men in the photograph were probably table companions, those whom Duliani describes as always inclined to talk politics and recount, over and over again, the moment when they were called in front of the judge: Although the discourse of my table companions was delightful, there were some who constantly rehashed the same tired subject: how their arrest had come about and what answers they had given the interrogating judge. “Imagine that! On June 10, 1940. I had just stepped out of the house when the police came looking for me. My wife phoned everyone she knew and learned that the same was happening to them …” And so on and they went, never omitting a single sad detail from their story. Another, without even having listened to the previous teller, would recount his own uneventful experience: “When the judge interrogated me, I told him …” (Duliani, City, 62; cf. La ville, 130; Città, 131–2).

A comment by Nicholas Di Pietro, nephew of Tony Di Pietro, confirms Duliani’s narrative: They were out in front of the judge in Pembroke, which is kind of the main city close by, where the presiding judge would hear the case. … some of the hotheads, would say things that actually got them into greater trouble … They would explode after a few moments … My uncle would occasionally say that he had burst in front of the judge saying, “Oh, I have been here a long time, but who gives you the authority to judge me?” You know, “I’m a free agent.” … The mallet would go down and “Would you please be quiet?” “No I have to make, No …”; an additional six months you know …”20

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Conclusion Testimonials such as the one above that support or echo Duliani’s narrative can help us to pose new questions and to question what has previously been accepted as true. They can shed light on Duliani’s nationalism, but in the end they cannot provide a firm answer. They cannot be the interpretive key that will unlock our understanding of the dynamics of what happened in the internment camp. Similarly, it is not possible to establish with certainty what Duliani’s innermost thought were. At the end of the novel Duliani writes, I open the notes that I have made in this journal over the past forty months and read at random what I’ve written. I begin to deny everything I have written. Usually, when we reread what we’ve written, at a certain distance, we realize that we no longer think the same thoughts. Still, this doesn’t mean that we did not think them once. The interest of a personal journal may consist precisely in that it shows a sequence of successive truths. Journals of this kind are like a series of instant photographs. Here the image resembles us that it does not. Or, if this photograph no longer resembles us, it once did resemble us. Perhaps because we are an evolving series of different people. (Duliani, City, 155; cf. La ville, 298; Città, 269)

All this must be taken into consideration in appraising what we definitely know and in answering questions still not completely resolved. It is impossible to present a clear-cut image that does not, in itself, contain some contradictions because, as Duliani points out, uncertainty is the hallmark of being human. The final lines of the novel indicate that even this narrative cannot be viewed as true and objective but is, instead, a fleeting snapshot of someone constantly growing and changing. NOTES   1 Introduction by Filippo Salvatore in Duliani, Città senza donne, 11. Henceforth, all references to Duliani’s novel will be incorporated into the text. The English translations of these passages are taken from Antonino Mazza’s 1994 edition, Duliani, City without Women.   2 Camp 33, located in the Petawawa Forestry Reserve, was located about 380 km northeast of Toronto, 360 km northwest of Montreal, and only 25 km from the eastern edge of Algonquin Park. In July 1942, the Italian

Two Images of Internment  105 internees in Petawawa were transferred to Internment Camp B70 in Ripples, New Brunswick. The camp in Ripples is often known as the camp “in Fredericton,” but it is actually 40 km due east of Fredericton on the road to the mining town of Minto.   3 Eugène Berthiaume was a politically exposed figure. Jean-François Nadeau’s recent book Adrien Arcand: Führer canadien reveals that Berthiaume had direct contacts with Arcand, as documented by their correspondence and economic dealings. Berthiaume, in fact, depended economically on Arcand to sustain his publishing ventures. They also shared political views and positions that encouraged antisemitism and favoured Fascist ideology and propaganda.   Some scholars indicate that Berthiaume held an official diplomatic position for Canada in Paris; Filippo Salvatore, for example, calls Berthiaume “the former Canadian ambassador” in Paris (Salvatore, Ancient Memories, 64), but his name does not appear on any list of Canadian ambassadors to France, nor does the short biographical note on him from the National Archives of Canada indicate that he held any such government position; the latter simply says that Berthiaume was a correspondent for the newspaper La Presse owned by his father Trefflé Berthiaume, provides information on his two marriages, and the date and place of his death (31 August 1946 in New Jersey); see his entry in the Canadian Archival Information Network at https://archivescanada. accesstomemory.ca/eugene-berthiaume-2.   4 The newspaper was founded in 1930 as L’Illustration; in 1936 it changed name to L’Illustration nouvelle and then, in 1941, to Montréal-Matin. It closed in 1978. For a history and analysis of the newspaper, see Noël, “Le Montréal-Matin.”   5 “Duliani écrit notamment des articles sur la politique internationale. Dans la correspondance entre Arcand et Berthiaume, les opinions de Duliani sur ses collègues sont souvent mentionnées. Ceci laisse penser qu’il était peutêtre les ‘yeux’ de l’administration dans la salle de rédaction.” Ibid., 83. Noël also points out that in March 1937 the newspaper had 103 employees, of which 14 were journalists (85).   6 Quoted in Salvatore, Ancient Memories, 65.   7 Salvatore, “La quinta colonna inesistente,” 517–19.   8 Perin, “Actor or Victim?” 319.   9 Ibid., 325. 10 Veggian, “‘Their Naked Souls,’” 79. 11 Poggi, “Letter,” 1. 12 Ibid.

106  Elisabetta Carraro 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20

Ibid., 1–2. Ibid., 2. Scardellato, “Images of Internment,” 348. Poggi, “Letter,” 2. Scardellato, “Images of Internment,” 338. Poggi, “Letter,” 3. Migliore, “Painful Memories,” 374–5. “Di Pietro, Antonio (Tony).”

Cited Works “Di Pietro, Antonio (Tony), P763.” Italian Canadians as Enemy Aliens, Columbus Centre Collection. Accessed 27 November 2015. www.italiancanadianww2.ca/ tour/internees. Interview with Nicholas Di Pietro and Olga Biscotti Di Pietro, 3 October 2011 quoted. Duliani, Mario. Città senza donne. Edited and introduction by Filippo Salvatore. Isernia: Cosmo Iannone Editore. 2003. –  The City without Women: A Chronicle of Internment Life in Canada During the Second World War. Translated and introduction by Antonino Mazza. Oakville: Mosaic Press, 1994. –  La ville sans femmes. Montreal: Société des éditions Pascal, 1945. Iacovetta, Franca, Roberto Perin, and Angelo Principe, eds. Enemies Within: Italian and Other Internees in Canada and Abroad. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2000 Migliore, Sam. “Painful Memories of a Forgotten Past.” In Beyond Barbed Wire: Essays on the Interment of Italian Canadians, edited by Licia Canton, Domenic Cusmano, Michael Mirolla, and John Zucchero, 360–78. Toronto: Guernica, 2012. Nadeau, Jean-François. Adrien Arcand: Führer canadien. Montreal: Lux, 2010. Noël, Mathieu. Le Montréal-Matin (1930–1978): Un journal d’information populaire. PhD diss., Université du Québec à Montréal, 2014. Perin, Roberto, “Actor or Victim? Mario Duliani and His Internment Narrative.” In Iacovetta, Perin, and Principe, Enemies Within, 312–34. Poggi, Vincenzo. “Letter.” LDICEA2011.0017.0008., n.d. Italian Canadians as Enemy Aliens. Accessed 4 January 2017. http://www.italiancanadianww2 .ca/it/collection/details/ldicea2011_0017_0008.CWM 20020203–020, provided by George Metcalf Archival Collection, Canadian War Museum. Salvatore, Filippo. Ancient Memories, Modern Identities: Italian Roots in Contemporary Canadian Authors. Toronto: Guernica, 1999. –  “La quinta colonna inesistente: Ovvero l’arresto e prigionia degli ‘italianesi’ in Città senza donne.” In La letteratura dell’emigrazione: Gli scrittori di lingua

Two Images of Internment  107 italiana nel mondo, edited by Jean-Jacques Marchand, 517–24. Turin: Edizioni della Fondazione Giovanni Agnelli, 1991. Scardellato, Gabriele. “Images of Internment.” In Iacovetta, Perin, and Principe, Enemies Within, 335–54. Veggian, Henry, “‘Their Naked Souls’: Modern Italian Internment Narrative and the Debate over Mario Duliani’s The City without Women.” In The Camp: Narratives of Internment and Exclusion, edited by Colman Hogan and Martha Marin-Dòmine, 76–91. Newcastle: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2007.

4 Fiume and Canada: The Two Worlds of Gianni Angelo Grohovaz g i an na maz z ie ri san ković Translated by Konrad Eisenbichler

A historical figure in the Italian community in Canada, Gianni Angelo Grohovaz contributed in many ways to Italian-Canadian culture. As a journalist, he is particularly remembered for his work as editor in chief of Il Giornale di Toronto and as a contributor of articles and reviews to several Canadian newspapers and magazines such as Toronto’s Il Panorama and Toronto Notte, the daily Corriere Canadese, and Montreal’s La Verità. As a literary writer, his legacy consists of a number of books, as well as narrative prose, poetry, and radio editorials. These are the products of decades of work within the Italian community in Canada. They are also the summary of a life and, through that life, the memory of a people marked by the tragedy of exile and emigration. Grohovaz’s work has attracted the attention of scholars both in Canada and abroad. In North America, Paul Baxa has discussed his social commitment and his indefatigable work for the Italian community in Canada as a journalist and community activist.1 Konrad Eisenbichler and Robert Buranello have delved into his immigrant experience in Canada and its echoes in his poetry and prose.2 Others have anthologized his poems in volumes on Italian poetry in the diaspora.3 In Italy, Francesco Cossu has written about Grohovaz’s exile from Fiume shortly after the end of World War II and his immigration experience in Canada; he recalls, in particular, how Grohovaz arrived in Halifax on 8 December 1950 with a suitcase full of books and how he devoted himself to journalism only after having held twenty-seven other jobs, among which lumberjack, railroad worker, carpenter, labourer, and mechanic.4 In Croatia, Grohovaz’s name appears, over the years, on the pages of La Tore,5 the periodical founded by the Italian community in Rijeka

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in 1971 for the purpose of allowing those Italians who had remained in the city to express themselves and their individuality in Italian or in the local Fiuman dialect and to write about the city’s and the community’s history, folklore, culture, and life. In one issue of La Tore, next to four poems signed by Gianni Grohovaz – “Va da la boteghera e comprime …” (Go to the store and buy me), “Mularia” (Kids), “Le scalete del carboner” (The coal dealer’s stairs), and “El secio col buso” (The bucket with a hole) – there is also a biographical note on the poet originally published in La Voce di Fiume.6 That note presents Grohovaz as a former student in Class C in the academic year 1933–4 and adds that their teacher, Signora Raimondi, remembered him as one of the most boisterous students in class and did not realize that one day that student would win a special first prize at the European Literary Competition “San Benedetto” (Concorso Letterario Europeo “Premio San Benedetto”) held by the Academic Association “Friends of Umbria” (Associazione Accademica “Amici dell’Umbria”). The anonymous writer then adds the following new information about Grohovaz: One should add something to Signora Raimondi’s note because, in fact, in his youth “Nini del Monte” was more than boisterous, he was a classic “bubonic pest,” and not only when he was a child. After eighteen months of naja [military service] with the “Julia” [battalion] on Monte Croce, five and a half years of “refugeeship” in the Motherland (he was one of the first [refugees] in Fertilia dei Giuliani [in Sardinia]) and twenty-four years in Canada, the author [Grohovaz] has learned the ropes. Gianni Grohovaz was editor in chief of Il Giornale di Toronto and extremely active in the activities of the sizeable Italian community in Toronto; furthermore, the State Archives [in Canada] put him in charge of gathering the documentation on Italian emigration to Canada.7

This article will focus on two aspects of Grohovaz’s production: his poetic vein as evidenced in the poetry gathered in the collection Per ricordar le cose che ricordo (To remember the things that I remember) and his journalism as evidenced in the radio editorials he delivered in his weekly program on CHIN Radio and then gathered into the collection … e con rispetto parlando è al microfono gianni grohovaz (… with all due respect, gianni grohovaz at the microphone). The prevailing aspects of his poetry are: recollection, the return with one’s thoughts to his beloved Fiume, to the city, its inhabitants, its traditions, stories, and anecdotes. In his prose, instead, Grohovaz gives plenty of room

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to the New World, the situation in Canada, the description of a life of compromises in which comparisons with customs and practices overseas constantly come to the fore. What emerges is not always homogeneous. Sometime Europe is a traitor, while other times it is an example of civility and civilization. Italy is the mother of everything that is good and of all honest habits, but she is also the wicked stepmother who throws her children out of the house. When it comes to Italian politics, Grohovaz has harsh and bitter words; he blames Italy for having kept quiet in the past about events on its eastern border and having thus played a part and become responsible for the exodus of Italians from Istria, Fiume, and Dalmatia. The Wednesday Radio Diary The collection … e con rispetto parlando è al microfono gianni grohovaz consists of seventy-four editorials aired on CHIN Radio, the multicultural radio station in Toronto, between 1980 and 1982. Grohovaz remembers these years in his preface to the volume: Some years ago already, listeners to CHIN Radio followed me when – way back then – from the editorial offices of Il Giornale di Toronto, I aired every week an editorial that normally dealt with the deeds and misdeeds of our community. At that time I was nearly a serious person and I dealt with weighty matters, and not always pleasant things, even stepping on people’s feet. In fact, after a year and a half of broadcasts, something broke because the privilege of the microphone was taken away from me. […] To tell the truth, I’ve always been rather gossipy and perhaps this is the main reason why I’ve never made money.8

In texts of two and a half pages broadcast regularly every Wednesday, Grohovaz undertook the search for his own place in the new Canadian environment. When he came to publish these texts, he found unexpected support from his friends at the Famee Furlane Club of Toronto and from such people as the secretary of state for multiculturalism Jim Fleming, the minister of labour Charles “Carletto” Caccia, Susan Scotti, and Judy Young, all of whom banded together to underwrite his publication expenses. He also found support, especially moral support, from the Fiuman community in Toronto and southern Ontario, which has

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always admired him for his commitment to Italians, Julian-Dalmatians, the Fiumani in particular, and the Alpini (Mountain Soldiers).9 Although more evident in the poems, in both collections there is a strong vein of Fiume’s antaeic tradition already noted by Aljoša Pužar, who regularly finds it in the publications and periodicals of the exiles (esuli) and, to a lesser extent, in those Italians who remained in Fiume/ Rijeka (rimasti).10 Pužar sees Grohovaz as one of its most faithful heirs: “Antaeic poems are regularly published in the periodicals of the exiles (less in those of the [Italian] minority [in Croatia]). The diaspora has published voluminous collections of dialect poetry that, to a great extent, are characterized by the antaeic tradition. Among the most complete collections in this category, one must highlight the collection Per ricordar le cose che ricordo […] for which the author, the Fiuman-Canadian Gianni Angelo Grohovaz (Fiume 1926–Toronto [sic] 1988) received in 1976 the special first prize in the European literary competition San Benedetto” (emphasis added).11 Pužar explains that the “antaeic” tradition is “a specific branch of dialect poetry that is the first to advance themes and stylistic structures, thereby becoming a meeting place for the first attempts at a common and conscious literary work.”12 He then continues saying that the “antaeic convention” is able to assemble all sorts of themes and styles as well as sociocultural orientations that do not necessarily fall within the standard frameworks of literary production. Pužar finds the antaeic “attachment to the native land” already present in writers of the midnineteenth century in the context of folkloric literature often produced by authors who signed their works with strange or ironic – even selfironic – pseudonyms, among them Zuane de la Marsecia (Mario Schittar, 1862–90), Rocambole (Arturo Caffieri, 1867–1941), Cavaliere di Garbo (Gino Antony, 1877–1948), and Russeto (Oscarre Russi, 1887–1910).13 The antaeic convention is able to position Fiuman literature not only across the centuries but also across continents and hemispheres. The ironic perspective from which to look at the world and the capacity for self-irony, at times even bitter – never far from Grohovaz – becomes the main thread of a literature that claims to be the custodian of the document, the witness to an era and to a lived experience. In Grohovaz’s case, it would be restrictive to define it as a simple chronicle or as a weekly report on facts since it places itself, to all effects and purposes, within “an interlude of Italo-Canadian life rich in flavour, exuberance, paradoxes and passions, but it is also and above all the expression of the author’s sensibility of spirit that knows how to interpret, with

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exceptional accuracy, the images of a human and absolutely real kaleidoscope.”14 In the face of a life marked by the tragic experience of the exodus from Fiume, still today difficult to deal with, Grohovaz declares himself open to everyone in the Italian community in Canada, “even to those / who do not think / as I do.”15 In the pages of the radio broadcasts that record the life of the Italian community in Canada with exuberance, passion, and sensibility, Grohovaz presents “an absolutely real human kaleidoscope”16 in a manner that reflects and mirrors the real life of individual Canadian citizens who came from abroad. And in spite of his innate polemical spirit, his prose keeps the memory of the motherland alive by referring to customs kept and lost, the road travelled, all in an effort to, as he says, ricordare – to remember. The editorials, limited by the airtime available, are structured in a similar way: a greeting, a description of the event Grohovaz wishes to comment, references to other events he wishes to use as comparisons, a conclusion, and a closing salutation. If the editorial deals with a specific anniversary or offers a brief description of an Italian or Italian-Canadian personality, Grohovaz always compares the commitment made in the past with the current moment so as to determine the extent to which the new generation has incorporated it into its daily life. More than seeking to recover the past and its traditions, however, Grohovaz seeks to examine the life of Italian-Canadians, their characters and personalities, their events, all of which have had made a contribution or left a mark in the new Canadian environment. In them, Grohovaz sees the collective imaginary that the community has been able to construct for itself. Their commonality is evident not only in the baggage of shared origins and culture that came along with them on the journey but also in the way they faced daily difficulties and prejudices against them at their arrival, and then even as the years went on: Ever since the immediate post-war period, when the great wave of emigration from our country began, we Italians have always been in the news. First, when the Canadian government wanted, yes, our presence – after having counted out teeth, it needed our arms – (but, in fact, Canadians did not want us because, as far as they were concerned, we were still and forever their enemies of yesterday) every excuse was good enough to throw excrement on these people whom, just for a bit of a laugh or so as not to die, I will call the white blacks of Europe.

Fiume and Canada  113 At the risk of sounding like a whiner, I will remind you that we Italians came to Canada looking for some bread and found only obstacles. […] Do you remember when Canadians baptized us en bloc? For them, we were all DPs, that is, Displaced Persons: people without a flag, a human subspecies.17

Confrontation and integration – these were the two poles in Grohovaz’s life. The fashioning of a new identity required by virtue of entry into the adoptive country led Grohovaz to follow a biographical plot line that both he and the entire Italian-Canadian community had to play out. To do so, they had to define their roles and actions in this new play. The question was whether to assimilate into the new society or preserve their roots and transmit their culture. Integration into the new social fabric or continued referencing back to the mother country? Always proud of his origins, Grohovaz nonetheless opted for integration, but on his own terms – his view of integration was not always shared by everyone and was often approached, even by him, in a critical vein. As a result, Grohovaz’s view of Canada is ambivalent – at times Canada is a promised land with space for everyone, at times it is a place far from the habits and customs of the motherland. He would say something such as, “The Canada of all racial stripes, WASP included, is a civilized country that does not need to transgress into violent and deplorable practices in order to achieve its ends. The rationality of those who can claim civil rights is sufficient,”18 and then counter it with an observation such as, If, when we are driving, we let a pedestrian or another car in a tight situation go ahead, and they look at us in disbelief for our small act of kindness, we proudly let them know, “You are most welcome … because we are Italians.” After all, if we offer justifications in other situations, why not justify a courteous act that Canadians are not accustomed to? And what better justification than letting them note the trademark? Yessir, I was courteous towards you because we Italians are still old-fashioned, we are capable of being polite, useful to our neighbour with a small gesture that takes you by surprise because modern society is not accustomed to it, because it has forgotten how to be civil. The driver or the pedestrian who hears that “because I am Italian” knows that, aside from spaghetti, Italians have a certain way of doing things that is superior to theirs, a part of manners forgotten among the pages of the past.19

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He would do the same with Italy. At times, Grohovaz describes Italy as a stepmother that wants to get rid of the children it never recognized as hers. The epitome of such an attitude is evident, according to Grohovaz, in the attitudes of the Italian diplomatic service. He sees them as puppets of higher political agendas that are inconsistent in their goals and use Italians abroad as pawns in their own internal ploys. He upholds and defends, instead, the rights and dignity of the oppressed, always placing himself in direct opposition to all institutions he holds responsible for infringing on those rights. In the editorial “La lingua biforcata della patria matrigna” (The forked tongue of the stepmother country), he notes, In a few words, our good undersecretary20 said, “If you wish to eat every day, you must integrate into the foreign community in which you live.” Then, in the Latin way, he specified, “But you must integrate only in a manner of speaking, because in essence you must remain Italian.” It seems to me that, here, someone wants to grab – in a practical way – the old adage: to have your cake and eat it too. Either one integrates, and the heck with the past, or one does not integrate at all and remains like he was before, even if this costs him the chicken in the pot. […] There was one [diplomat] who shrieked, “Become Canadian – it’s convenient for you.” Then, with his successor, came the counterorder: “Remain Italian – the motherland loves you.” Then they became even bolder: “Come back to the motherland because things are going well here – we will give you a house and your ration of chocolate.” Some people fell for it, like a ripe pear, and a new counterorder was issued: “For the love of God, don’t come back to Italy, everything is falling apart here ...”21

Other times, Italy is the loving mother that emigrants carry in their hearts in order to hear the sweet melodies of their roots, stories, and customs. At this point, even as a journalistic commentator, Grohovaz lets himself fall into poetry and, in an effort to clarify what might be ambiguous and often seen as a contradictory relationship with the motherland, makes the following distinction: There are two Italys: one is a beggar, lice ridden, wimpy, insensitive, makedo … yes, exactly, that official Italy that forced us to go away. The other, instead, is that Italy that is pure, uncontaminated, that every emigrant

Fiume and Canada  115 carries stowed away in the depth of his heart, right next to the image of his mother and of his first love. And it is a completely different thing. The first is the Italy of neon lights, in technicolour and stereo, always ready with its hand outstretched; the second is made of dawns and sunsets, and the whisper of sea breezes and the strong smell of tilled soil, and of barn and fresh bread. They are two different Italys. One at times embarrasses you even when you are abroad, the other gives you the joy of living and leads you to do marvellous things because she is worthy of you and you know you are worthy of her …22

With his constant references to Italy and its culture, Grohovaz highlights the enormous cultural but also human heritage of the lost homeland. He does this in order to draw them closer to the richness he sees in the new land he now inhabits in his desire for cultural growth and progress. Grohovaz seeks to clarify the contradictory aspects of this divided identity by simply placing himself in the middle of this comparison between two worlds. His polemical statements aim to have a positive result by pointing people towards a better path that might lead them to gather the best from the two cultures. In so doing, Grohovaz seeks to create a third, virtual, “ideal” world. In his broadcast of 10 December 1980, Grohovaz offers his listeners a historical summary of his crossing of the Atlantic and his arrival in Canada. It’s been thirty years, he says, since he landed in Halifax at eight in the morning on 8 December 1950. The date and the time become, for Grohovaz, cabalistic signs, the imprints of the sacred. By emphasizing the fateful date, he alludes to the offence inherent in his exile and in the uncertainty of his future. Enclosed in the drama of his own fate and that of the community itself, Grohovaz bears witness to the powerful new landscape, originally quite hostile, that granted the newly arrived immigrant no space in which to come to terms with himself and with the experience of having been uprooted. The immigrant had, instead, to look for his own new place in which to stop in the hope of being accepted, all the while hoping not to lose, as a result, his own identity. The story of Grohovaz’s new life is tied to that of the “450 refugees coming from the most disparate corners of a shattered Europe” who disembarked with him “in Halifax from the Hellenic wreck, the motor ship Olympia” as part of those “rivers of humanity” that arrived in Canada “in search of new illusions.”23 In this page of historical

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memory, Grohovaz explains that the most fortunate among the emigrants who came to Canada or went to Australia or Latin America were “first-choice workers” down on their knees at the mercy of fate, workers whom “the emigration commissions competed for, but before giving them an entry visa, they first felt their biceps, checked their hands for callouses, counted their teeth. Just as one does with horses at the livestock fair.”24 Grohovaz spares no word on the manner in which European emigrants shocked by World War II were welcomed in Canada and does not hesitate to describe as concentration camps the places made available to thousands of refugee women, from the best European families, nobles and professionals, humiliated by the new social order that from the East was spreading to the West. If, on the one hand, he signals the cold welcome offered by the new country to the homeless of Europe, on the other hand, he does not spare his criticism for the “cruel stepmother” that did nothing to heal the wounds of her own children. These are poetic pages from which Grohovaz, torn between two worlds, issues an appeal: “No one can tell me, ‘If you don’t like it, go home,’ because I do not have a home; my homeland is the world, and my only mortgage is the love I bear for my neighbour.”25 As the years pass, Grohovaz comes to admire Canada’s multiculturalism, which draws him close to his beloved Fiume where people of all races lived together. Even Fiume’s dialect contains borrowings from languages other than Italian – from Hungarian, Croatian, German, and French.26 This awareness that he is a citizen of the world full of love towards his neighbour becomes Grohovaz’s great legacy. At this point, his path joins with that of many other Fiuman writers – one only needs to think of Osvaldo Ramous who, at the start of his novel Il cavallo di cartapesta (The papier-mâché horse; 2008), after having lingered on the history of the mitteleuropäische spirit of Fiume, where various nationalities live peacefully together, points to the dramatic reversal of centuriesold values after World War II that wiped out, nearly, the Italian presence in the city.27 In this, Grohovaz’s weekly editorials draw close, in some ways, to the estranging experience the rimasti, of which Ramous was one. In his editorials, Grohovaz outlines the emigrants’ task in constructing a new identity for themselves while maintaining always firm their sense of belonging to another culture. He eulogizes some of the leading figures who worked to advance Italians in Canada, in particular the

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journalists Aurelio Malvisi and Augusto Serafini.28 He recalls special events in the community, such as the celebrations for the centennial of Carlo Collodi’s Pinocchio, a work he greatly admired for the contribution it made to children’s literature worldwide.29 He talks about the various feste organized at Toronto’s Columbus Centre and elsewhere in the city, public meetings, national holidays, cultural events, exhibitions, conferences, prize ceremonies – all valuable testimonies of a thriving Italian-Canadian life, all documents that bear witness to the community’s vitality, its group spirit, and the solidarity that makes it easier to overcome daily difficulties. Though at times referring to events that happened decades before, Grohovaz nonetheless provides precise data on the people and events he mentions, so much so that his radio editorials become a valuable source of information. They are also a revealing analysis of ItalianCanadian life as seen through the disenchanted eyes of someone whose life experience allowed him to decode the world, or rather, the two worlds, without prejudice and scruples. Some of the radio editorials were inconvenient – Grohovaz did not hesitate to call things by their name, without euphemisms or fears. Not surprisingly, he foresaw the forthcoming cancellation of the weekly program but did not forsake the news item or his honest opinion on it. Festivities are always an occasion for a return to the past and to bring time and place together. The celebration of Christmas dons traditional colours and is the moment for sharing in songs, rituals, dances, gifts that connect Italo-Canadians to a distant land and its traditions. In the editorial “Natale è sempre Natale …” (Christmas is always Christmas) Grohovaz says that “on this night, spent with the family, as we used to do in the Motherland, the aromas from the kitchen will caress the nostrils of the men playing a game of briscola [a popular Italian card game]. The children will run about the house and stop all of a sudden in front of the tree or in front of the Manger Scene to eye yet one more time that large gift box grandmother brought. The women will be busy preparing the richest table of the year.”30 There are many editorials in which Grohovaz reflects on young people. He worries about the youth who are attracted to globalized culture and are, as a result, perfectly integrated in the new society. Italian-Canadian youth do not see their family’s country of origin in the same way as their parents who emigrated from it, and so they do not feel it as their own.

118  Gianna Mazzieri Sanković

Scattered Verses to Remember the Fiume That No Longer Exists To leave one’s own land entails a leap into the hands of destiny and determines the sense of emptiness the exile must seek to fill. This is how the poems in the collection Per ricordar le cose che ricordo were born. Writing becomes an obligation, a weapon to seize in order to leave behind a sign of one’s own presence and culture while firmly maintaining one’s identity and the dignity of one’s own language. To faithfully recreate Fiume means to use the daily language of the street, of feelings; that is why Grohovaz consciously uses the Fiuman dialect, part of the group of Italian vernaculars heard in Venezia Giulia, Istria, and Dalmatia and quite similar to the dialect spoken, for example, in Trieste or Pola, though a keen ear can certainly detect the differences.31 Dialects are living organisms much more subject to historical, social, or political changes than languages. These changes allow for a constant enrichment of the vernacular with new words and the disappearance of old words no longer deemed necessary. Compared to other dialects of Italian, Fiuman has undergone a much more profound evolution because it has been subjected to various influences – Hungarian, Croatian, German, and French. Even today it is a dialect in motion. In order to document the evolution of contemporary Fiuman, the Comunità degli Italiani di Fiume has published Ettore Mazzieri: Storia e ciacole de un fiuman patoco (Ettore Mazzieri: Story and conversations of a genuine Fiumano) a collection of Ettore Mazzieri’s texts in dialect that appeared in various Fiuman publications during the second half of the twentieth century.32 The question of the Fiuman dialect, spoken today by fewer and fewer inhabitants, remains, however, a problem that will require careful analysis to prevent it from becoming a language at risk of extinction. What happens to the vernacular in the diaspora, especially when the exile is transplanted to a land where Italian is not an official language? What is the fate of the dialect in these circumstances? Grohovaz is deeply aware of this and so insists on using his mother tongue, the Fiuman dialect, even though his version of the dialect has, by now, been influenced by official Italian – we see it in his use of words such as terminar (in place of the Fiuman finir) or even in the title of his collection of dialect poetry, where he uses the word cose (things) in place of the Fiuman robe.33

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The autobiographic aspect of Grohovaz’s poetry is not designed to lead to greater psychological introspection but instead to document private events and connect them with a larger, common destiny of pain – a single voice in the general frame of history. His practice of alternating between the first-person singular (his personal testimony) and the collective voice reveals his intention to tell the world about his own experience, but at the same time to raise that experience to the universal sphere. Attesting in his own poetry to Claudio Magris’s observation that in Mitteleuropa the science of remembering is ignored,34 Grohovaz gives his language the power to recover memory before time will sweep away houses, people, and the faces of the past that belongs to him and forms his identity. As the years advance and history brings new upheavals that alter the social, demographic, cultural fabric of his native city, that past reality becomes ever more unreachable. The theme of the poet’s distance from Fiume leads to a moving, delicate poetry that is, at the same time, proud. It represents the projection of memories brought to the surface by the reworking of the materials at a distance of years. Its realism and warmth come from the poet’s attachment to his language of communication, the Fiuman dialect that recomposes a colourful, multiethnic reality made up of Italians, Croats, Hungarians, and Germans. Grohovaz’s Fiume is a city without nationalistic or racial tensions, or even social conflicts. In the poem “Amor de bestie, odio de cristiani” (The love of animals, the hatred of people), which speaks of the three pets at his house in Fiume, Grohovaz alludes to the peaceful coexistence of the Italian, Austro-Hungarian, and Croatian population in the city: Giulieto, el canarin de casa nostra, col can e ’l gato andava assai d’acordo: el Grom dormiva soto al fogoler la gata ghe lavava anca le orece mentre l’usel el se fazeva el nido tra le pieghe de la pele in testa al can … Mia mama ghe butava le zeriese: l’usel becava un poco, e poi el lassava che la gata ghe dassi una lecada. El can, ciapava la zeriesa, la mastigava un poco, e spudà l’osso tornava pacifico a dormir …

120  Gianna Mazzieri Sanković E noi cristiani … non capimo un’acca: che le zeriese, spartirsele bisogna! Perché le flicche, i bori e le agiateze non poderemo portarse drio domani quando el becchin se spuderà le mani per meter soto tera i nostri ossi.35 (Giulieto, the canary at our house got along very well with the dog and the cat: Grom slept under the fireplace, the cat licked his ears while the bird made his nest between the folds of the skin on the dog’s head … My mother would throw them a cherry: the bird pecked it a little and then let the cat give it a lick. The dog grabbed the cherry, chewed it a bit, and, having spat out the pit, went peacefully back to sleep … And we people … we don’t understand a thing: we must share cherries! Because money, wealth, and comforts won’t come along with us tomorrow when the gravedigger will roll up his sleeves to put our bones into the ground.)

That peaceful coexistence of various ethnic groups is something that Grohovaz appreciates in Canada and helps him to see Canada as a country similar to his native Fiume; in the poem “Chi mai gavessi deto? Fiume e Canadà” (Who ever would have said it? Fiume and Canada), he explains the similarities and then concludes, perhaps in a self-defeating comment,­ Chi gavessi mai dito? Fiume e Canadà in fondo in fondo ga molte afinità. Come le done, proprio: quando ghe meto sul viso un sugaman xe poca diferenza tra de lore; ma quando el sugaman ghe cavo via poco me resta o gnente, Fiume mia …36

Fiume and Canada  121 (Who ever would have said it? Fiume and Canada deep down inside are very similar. Just like women, exactly: when I put a towel over their head, there is little difference among them; but when I take the towel away I am left with little or nothing, my Fiume …)

In the comment that accompanies this poem, after having pointed out that “the fact is that between Canada and Fiume there is something that flows as smooth as oil,” Grohovaz concludes by wondering “But if tomorrow Fiume were to call me ….”37 The poem, and the volume in general, is a sort of self-therapy that reflects the title of the collection and helps Grohovaz withstand his condition of uprooted exile living as an immigrant in a reduced life space, suffering and different from the rest. Eisenbichler points out, “But Fiume does not call him because the poet’s Fiume no longer exists. Just like the important connection between the individual and the land no longer exists, or between the individual and the dialect, the individual and his society.”38 Grohovaz searches for a city and a past that cannot stand still in a suspended dimension. He is aware that in the many years he has been away his city has changed. He is certain that the world he knew has been irremediably lost, even though it continues to live in the memory of survivors.39 Portrait poems rich in anecdotes overlie the chronicle of life and the facts of history itself. Writing assumes the value of authentic proof; it becomes a demanding mission that seals the memory by trying to reconstruct the past from the perspective of a new world with different values. This leads to a split in the individual and to the reconstruction of fragmentary but clear units retrieved from the deepest recesses of memory that seek to compensate for having been separated from one’s roots. In Grohovaz, the desire to write is an attempt not only to return to the place of origin but also to reclaim something that belongs to him, even in a material sense, through constant projection towards the past. He thus makes room in his verses for the physicality of what has been taken away from him, and this, in turn, gives rise to a quasi-fantastic landscape that suggests a Fiume close to the image of a lost Eden relived in an idealization that is not, however, devoid of ironic touches.

122  Gianna Mazzieri Sanković

The attempt to return with his thoughts and memories to his birthplace points to his desire to sew back the tear that exists between the world of long ago and the present, between two different states. Although critical towards both worlds, Grohovaz constantly seeks to have the two realities mirror each other in order to find a small corner, a space of his own that he can share – to find a place in the new reality without having to renounce his identity, but by uniting the split perspectives and the two worlds that overlap in him. Vittorio Spinazzola describes this process in a different context: “On the one hand, [there is] the invitation to go back in time, so as to give a semblance of life to one’s own childhood experience. But on the other hand, here comes the realization that all things have changed.”40 As is often the case in the literature of the exile, Fiume is idealized and mythologized. This is especially evident in the dive into childhood to look for teachers, relatives, friends, and acquaintances. The description of his teacher, “la Professoressa Centis,” is shrouded in myth: Che donna! Che maestra! Che orizzonti la ne verzeva con el suo gran saver! Ascoltandola (adesso me inacorgio) go imparà amar l’Italia e odiar la guera …41 (What a woman! What a teacher! What horizons she opened for us with her great knowledge! Listening to her – now I realize – I learned to love Italy and hate war …)

Similarly, the frequent indicators of space, such as streets, piazzas, and monuments, reconstruct the street map of the Fiume of his youth. In reconstructing the place, time, people, and events, Grohovaz uses his own dialect and his own speech patterns. This allows them to come alive for the poet and for the reader, though they appear somewhat hazy and even homogenized by the passage of time. And yet, by reaching into the past with his memory, the poet has been able to reverse, or at least stop, that flight into oblivion and to recover what was left of his youth and the city of his youth.

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Conclusion Grohovaz’s literary production adheres completely to Elvio Guagnini’s definition of the literature of exodus: “The ‘literature of the exodus’ includes works not only in so-called creative literature (narrative, poetry, etc.) but also in scholarship, journalism, as well as – of course! – memoirs, diaries, letters. […] As for the forms and styles of literary production to which they refer, they range from the pain of memory to fear for the future, from nostalgia for what has been lost or never attained to invective, calm polemic, lyricism, reflection.”42 In this context of “literature of exile,” Buranello places Grohovaz among the Julian-Dalmatians in Canada who share with other immigrants a present constantly filtered through memory.43 The first-person narrator in Grohovaz’s works becomes the voice of the collectivity as he undertakes a dialogue with his listeners and readers. These are not anonymous interlocutors but friends and acquaintances. Nor is he just a simple speaker, but the spokesperson for the community, a persistent voice that is not afraid to be heard and be polemical, someone who does not mince words. And yet, Grohovaz remains torn between two worlds: the real world, at times a chaotic driving force for a present that is difficult to share, and the nostalgic world of his Fiume that he does not wish to forget. What is Grohovaz’s motherland? Divided between two very distinct worlds and unable to forego his beloved Fiume, aware that his city exists only in his memory, Grohovaz stakes out his own spaces in the land that welcomed him and declares himself a citizen of the world, open to the values of every place and every time. This is the precious legacy of the mitteleuropäische Fiume that Grohovaz carried inside himself everywhere he went and offered to Canada. NOTES   1 Baxa, “La Festa” and ch. 5 below, “La terza forza.”   2 Eisenbichler, “‘Before the World Collapsed,’” “Il ricordo del paese natale,” “Un fiumano d’oltreoceano,” and “Il ponte sull’Eneo”; Buranello, “Chi mai gavessi deto” and ch. 6 below, “Rimestando tra le acque del passato.”   3 Bonaffini and Perricone, Poets of the Italian Diaspora, 399–409; Di Giovanni, Italian Canadian Voices (1984), 31–9 and (2006 ), 9–19; Pivato, Anthology of Italian-Canadian Writing, 34.   4 Cossu, “L’esperienza dell’esule emigrato,” 163–4. See also Grohovaz’s own list of the jobs he held in ch. 6, 154, 172–3 below.

124  Gianna Mazzieri Sanković  5 La Tore stopped publication in 1975 and restarted again in 1991, this time under the direction of Ettore Mazzieri. It has become a meeting point between Fiume’s past and present, as well as a bona fide Italian periodical that devotes ample room to leading figures in Italian communities throughout the world.   6 “La poesia di Gianni Grohovaz.” La Voce di Fiume is the bimonthly periodical of the Libero Comune di Fiume in Esilio. Its office is in Padua, but it is printed in Trieste. Its current director is Rosanna Turcinovich Giuricin.   7 “Sarebbe da aggiungere qualcosa alle note della Signora Raimondi perché in realtà, nella sua fanciullezza, il ‘Nini del Monte’ più che irrequieto, era una classica ‘peste bubbonica,’ e non solo quand’era bimbo. Dopo 18 mesi di ‘naja’ con la ‘Julia’ a Monte Croce, 5 anni e mezzo di ‘profuganza’ in Patria (fu uno dei primi a Fertilia dei Giuliani) e 24 anni di Canada, l’autore si fece le ossa. Gianni Grohovaz fu redattore capo de ‘Il Giornale di Toronto’ e attivissimo negli affari della numerosa Comunità italiana di Toronto, inoltre, fu l’incaricato degli Archivi di Stato a raccogliere la documentazione dell’emigrazione italiana in Canada.” “La poesia di Gianni Grohovaz.”   8 “Già qualche anno fa i radio-ascoltatori della CHIN mi seguivano quando – temporibus illis – dalla redazione de ‘Il Giornale di Toronto,’ trasmettevo ogni settimana un editoriale che generalmente trattava i fatti ed i fattacci della nostra collettività.   “In quel tempo ero una persona quasi seria e trattavo argomenti pesanti, e non sempre piacevolezze, pestando anche i piedi a qualcuno. Infatti dopo un anno e mezzo di trasmissioni qualcosa si ruppe perché mi fu tolto il privilegio del microfono.  […]   “A dire la verità, sono stato sempre abbastanza linguacciuto e forse questa è la ragione principale per cui non ho mai fatto soldi.” (Grohovaz, … e con rispetto parlando, ix)   9 Gianni Stelli singles out the Fiuman communities in Toronto and Montreal as two of the most active in the overseas diaspora; Stelli, “La comunità degli esuli fiumani,” 107. In a wider context, the Club Giuliano-Dalmato of Toronto, founded in 1968, remains the first and most active association of Julian-Dalmatians in North America. 10 The term “antaeic” is taken from the Greek myth of Antaeus, the halfgiant son of Poseidon (god of the sea) and Gaia (Mother Earth). As long as Antaeus remained in contact with the ground, that is, with the earth that gave him life, he was invincible. Hercules defeated him by lifting him off the ground and crushing him to death with a bear hug.

Fiume and Canada  125 11 “Le rime anteiche vengono regolarmente pubblicate nei periodici degli esuli (di meno in quelli della minoranza). La diaspora ha pubblicato alcune voluminose raccolte di poesia dialettale, che in buona parte sono contrassegnate dalla tradizione anteica. Fra le creazioni più complete che appartengono a questa categoria va messa in rilievo la silloge Per ricordar le cose che ricordo […] per la quale l’autore, il canadese fiumano Gianni Angelo Grohovaz (Fiume 1926–Toronto [sic] 1988) riceve nel 1976 il primo premio speciale del concorso letterario europeo ‘San Benedetto.’” Pužar, Città di carta, 408. 12 “Un ramo specifico della poesia dialettale che comincia a profilare per primo temi e strutture stilistiche diventando terreno d’incontro per le prime prove di un comune e consapevole lavoro letterario.” Ibid., 404. 13 Ibid., 404–8. 14 “Di una parentesi di vita italo-canadese ricca di sapore, di esuberanza, di paradossi e di passioni, ma è anche e soprattutto l’espressione della sensibilità d’animo dell’autore che sa interpretare con eccezionale accuratezza le immagini di un caleidoscopio umano e assolutamente reale.” Gianni Ovan, “Prefazione,” in Grohovaz, … e con rispetto parlando, vii. 15 “Anche a quelli / che non la pensano come / me.” Grohovaz, … e con rispetto parlando, v. 16 “Un caleidoscopio umano assolutamente reale”; Ovan, “Prefazione” in Grohovaz, … e con rispetto parlando, vii. 17 “Da quando, nell’immediato dopo guerra, ebbe inizio la grande ondata immigratoria in questo paese, noi italiani abbiamo sempre fatto notizia. Prima, quando il governo canadese desiderava sí la nostra presenza perché – dopo la conta dei denti, aveva bisogno delle nostre braccia – (ma in realtà i canadesi non ci volevano perché per loro eravamo ancora e sempre i nemici di ieri), ogni scusa era buona per buttare sterco su questi che, così per ridere oppur per non morir, chiamerò i bianchi neri d’Europa.   “A costo di passare per un piagnone, ricorderò che noi italiani venimmo in Canada in cerca di pane e abbiamo trovato qui solamente barriere.  […]   “Vi ricordate quando i canadesi ci avevano battezzati in blocco? per loro eravamo tutti D.P.’s, o Displaced Persons: gente senza bandiera, sotto-specie umana.” (Grohovaz, … e con rispetto parlando, 186–7) 18 “Il Canada di tutti i colori razziali, WASP incluso, è un paese civile che non ha bisogno di trascendere nell’uso di metodi violenti e deprecabili per raggiungere lo scopo. Basta la ragione di chi può vantare un diritto civile.” Ibid., 28.

126  Gianna Mazzieri Sanković 19 “Se viaggiamo in automobile, e lasciamo il passo ad un pedone o ad un automobilista in difficoltà, che ci guarda incredulo per il nostro piccolo atto di gentilezza, con orgoglio glielo facciamo notare ‘You are most welcome … because we are Italians ...’ Naturalmente, se si danno giustificazioni per le altre situazioni, perché non giustificare un atto di cortesia cui i canadesi non sono avvezzi? E qual migliore giustificazione se non far notare il marchio di fabbrica? Sissignore, ti ho usato una cortesia perché noi italiani siamo ancora vecchio stampo, siamo capaci di essere gentili, utili al nostro prossimo con un piccolo cenno che ti stupisce, perché la società moderna non vi è abituata, perché si è dimenticata di essere civile.   “L’automobilista, o il passante, quando sente quel ‘… because I am Italian ...,’ sa che oltre agli spaghetti, gli italiani hanno anche un certo modo di fare superiore al loro, parte di un galateo dimenticato tra le pagine del passato.” (Ibid., 104) 20 The undersecretary of emigration, the Hon. Mario Fioret. 21 “In poche parole il nostro bravo sottoministro ha detto: se volete mangiare ogni giorno, dovete integrarvi nelle comunità estere dove abitate. Poi, alla latina, ha specificato: ma dovete integrarvi solamente per modo di dire, perché in essenza dovete rimanere italiani.   “Qua mi sembra che qualcuno voglia accaparrarsi – in modo pratico – il vecchio adagio: botte piena e moglie ubriaca. O uno si integra, e manda a pallino il suo passato, oppure non si integra per nulla e allora rimane quello che era prima, anche se ciò gli costa il pollo nella pentola.  […]   “Ci fu uno che strillava: fatevi canadesi che vi conviene. Poi, con il suo successore, venne il contro-ordine: rimani italiano che la patria ti vuol bene. Poi addirittura si fecero più baldanzosi: ritornate in patria che qui le cose vanno bene, vi daremo la casa e la razione di carrubbe. Qualcuno ci cadde, come una pera matura, e venne fuori il nuovo contro ordine ‘per l’amor di Dio, non tornate in Italia che qui tutto crolla ...’” (Ibid., 127–9) 22 “Di Italia ce ne sono due: una è quella mendicante, pidocchiosa, calabrache, insensibile, arrangiaticcia … sí, insomma, l’Italia ufficiale che ci ha fatto andar via. L’altra invece è l’Italia pura, incontaminata, che ogni emigrante si porta relegata nel profondo del suo cuore, accanto all’immagine della mamma e del primo amore. Ed è tutta un’altra cosa.   “La prima è l’Italia al neon, in technicolor e stereo, sempre pronta con la mano tesa; la seconda è fatta di albe e tramonti, e sussurrio di brezze marine ed odore forte di terra smossa, e di stalla e di pane fresco.   “Sono due Italie diverse. Una a volte ti imbarazza anche all’estero, l’altra ti dà la gioia di vivere, e ti spinge a fare cose meravigliose, perché lei è degna di te e tu sai di essere degno di lei …” (Ibid., 202)

Fiume and Canada  127 23 “450 profughi provenienti dai più disparati angoli dell’Europa sconquassata”; “ad Halifax dalla carretta ellenica, la motonave Olympia”; “in cerca di nuove illusioni.” Ibid., 1. 24 “Lavoratori di prima scelta”; “le commissioni d’emigrazione si disputavano, ma che prima di dar loro il visto d’entrata palpava i loro bicipiti, ispezionava i calli alle mani, contava i denti. Come ai cavalli alla fiera del bestiame.” Ibid., 2. 25 “Nessuno può dirmi: se non ti piace, vattene a casa tua: perché io non ho casa, la mia patria è il mondo, e la mia unica ipoteca è l’amore che nutro per il prossimo.” Ibid., 3. 26 Eisenbichler, “‘Before the World Collapsed,’” 132. 27 Gerbaz Giuliano and Mazzieri Sanković, Non parto, non resto, 98. An admirable mediator between two cultures, Osvaldo Ramous (Fiume 1905– Rijeka 1981) represents the historical continuation of Italian literature in Fiume/Rijeka and Istria. A journalist and director of Vedetta d’Italia, he was also director of Rijeka’s Italian-language theatre group, the Dramma Italiano (1946–61). He translated, directed plays, and composed plays, radio plays, poetry, novels, short stories, articles, and essays. 28 Grohovaz, … e con rispetto parlando, 108–10, 111–14, 248. 29 Ibid., 4–6. 30 “Questa notte, in famiglia, come si usava anche in Patria, i profumi della cucina accarezzeranno le narici degli uomini che si fanno la partita a briscola. I bimbi scorrazzeranno per la casa per fermarsi di botto davanti all’albero o davanti al Presepe, per sbirciare per la millesima volta quel pacco grosso che la nonna ha portato. Le donne si daranno da fare per preparare la più ricca tavola dell’anno.” Ibid., 10. 31 Volz, “Fiume,” 100; Samani, Dizionario, 9. 32 The volume was published with a contribution of the Regione Veneto (Italy), through its program to recover, preserve, and promote the cultural heritage of Venetian origin in Istria and Dalmatia. 33 Grohovaz, Per ricordar, 62 and title page. 34 Magris, Danubio, 258. 35 Grohovaz, Per ricordar, 85. 36 Ibid., 33. 37 “Fato sta che tra el Canada e Fiume xe qualche cossa che fila come l’ojo. […] Ma se domani Fiume me ciamassi …” Ibid., 33. 38 “Ma Fiume non chiama perché la Fiume del poeta non esiste più. Come del resto non esiste il legame importante tra l’individuo e la terra, tra l’individuo e il dialetto, tra l’individuo e la sua società.” Eisenbichler, “Un fiumano d’oltreoceano,” 115. 39 Cf. the experiences of Lina Galli, an exile from Parenzo (now Poreč), regarding the exile’s “world that has set” analysed in Serra, “Lina Galli,” 95.

128  Gianna Mazzieri Sanković 40 “Da un lato, l’invito a risalire indietro nel tempo, così da restituire dentro di sé una parvenza di vita al proprio vissuto infantile. Ma dall’altro ecco sopravvenire la constatazione che le cose sono tutte cambiate.” Spinazzola, Itaca addio, 19–20. 41 Grohovaz, Per ricordar, 74. 42 “Nella ‘letteratura dell’esodo’ vengono comprese non solo opere della cosiddetta ‘letteratura creativa’ (narrativa, poesia, ecc.) ma anche saggistica, testi giornalistici, oltreché – s’intende – la memorialistica, la diaristica, epistolografia. […] Quanto ai modi e ai registri delle produzione letteraria alla quale si fa riferimento, essi spaziano tra il dolore della memoria, l’angoscia per il futuro, la nostalgia delle cose perdute o mai raggiunte, l’invettiva, la polemica pacata, il lirismo, la riflessione.” Guagnini, “Sulla ‘letteratura dell’esodo,’” 17–18. 43 Buranello, “Chi mai gavessi deto.”

Cited Works Baxa, Paul. “La Festa della Fratellanza Italiana: Gianni Grohovaz and the Celebrations of Italian Memorial Day in Toronto, 1960–1975.” Quaderni d’italianistica 30, no.1 (2010): 197–225. – “La terza forza: Gianni Angelo Grohovaz and the Rise of Italian-Canadian Culture, 1971 to 1975.” In Forgotten Italians: Julian-Dalmatian Writers and Artists in Canada, edited by Konrad Eisenbichler, 130–50. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2019. Bonaffini, Luigi and Joseph Perricone, eds. Poets of the Italian Diaspora: A Bilingual Anthology. New York: Fordham University Press, 2014. Buranello, Robert. “Chi mai gavessi deto: The Immigrant Experience in Giovanni Angelo Grohovaz’s Strada bianca.” In An Italian Region in Canada: The Case of Friuli-Venezia Giulia, edited by Konrad Eisenbichler, 137–52. Toronto: Multicultural History Society of Ontario, 1998. –  “Rimestando tra le acque del passato”: Gianni Angelo Grohovaz’s Address to the Italian Club of Erindale College, 1984.” In Forgotten Italians: JulianDalmatian Writers and Artists in Canada, edited by Konrad Eisenbichler, 151–85. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2019. Cossu, Francesco. “L’esperienza dell’esule emigrato nel romanzo di Giovanni Angelo Grohovaz Strada Bianca.” Fiume 26 (2006): 163–8. Di Giovanni, Caroline Morgan, ed. Italian-Canadian Voices: An Anthology of Poetry and Prose (1946–1983). Oakville: Mosaic Press, 1984. Revised edition, Italian Canadian Voices: A Literary Anthology 1946–2004. Toronto: Mosaic Press, 2006. Eisenbichler, Konrad. “‘Before the World Collapsed Because of the War’: The City of Fiume in the Poetry of Gianni Angelo Grohovaz.” In “Italians in

Fiume and Canada  129 Canada”, edited by Gabriele Scardellato. Special issue, Quaderni d’italianistica 28, no.1 (2007): 115–34. –  “Il ponte sull’Eneo: Confini politici e confini culturali nella poesia di Gianni Angelo Grohovaz.” La Battana 53, no. 203 (Jan.–Mar. 2017): 45–70. –  “Il ricordo del paese natale nelle opere degli scrittori giuliano-dalmati emigrati in Canada.” Ateneo Veneto: Rivista di Scienze, Lettere ed Arti 195 (2007): 97–113. –  “Un fiumano d’oltreoceano: Gianni Angelo Grohovaz.” La Battana 160 (2006): 103–21. Gerbaz Giuliano, Corinna and Gianna Mazzieri Sanković. Non parto, non resto: I percorsi narrativi di Osvaldo Ramous e Marisa Madieri. Trieste: Deputazione della Storia Patria per la Venezia Giulia, 2013. Grohovaz, Gianni Angelo. … e con rispetto parlando è al microfono gianni grohovaz: Diario radiofonico, quasi settimanale, di un italiano in Canada, 1980– 1981–1982; 74 editoriali radiotrasmessi dalla CHIN, stazione radio internazionale di Toronto, Ontario, Canadà. Toronto: La Casa Editrice Sono Me, 1983. –  Per ricordar le cose che ricordo: Poesie in dialeto fiuman. Toronto: Casa Editrice Dufferin Press, 1974. Guagnini, Elvio. “Sulla ‘letteratura dell’esodo’: Una premessa a proposito di categorie critiche e storiografiche.” La Battana 97–8 (1990): 13–18. “La poesia di Gianni Grohovaz.” La Tore 13 (1 Nov. 2003): 58–9. Accessed 18 March 2017. http://www.mlhistria.altervista.org/citta/fiume/perricordar .htm. Magris, Claudio. Danubio. Milano: Garzanti, 1990. Mazzieri, Ettore. Ettore Mazzieri: Storia e ciacole de un fiuman patoco. Edited by Gloria Tijan. Fiume: EDIT, 2007. Pivato, Joseph, ed. The Anthology of Italian-Canadian Writing. Toronto: Guernica, 1998. Pužar, Aljoša, ed. Città di carta/Papirnati grad: La letteratura italiana di Fiume nell’Ottocento e nel Novecento/Talijanska knjizevnost Rijeke u XIX. i XX. stoljecu. Rijeka: EDIT, 1999. Samani, Salvatore. Dizionario del dialetto fiumano. Venezia: Associazione Studi sul Dialetto di Fiume, 1978. Serra, Edda. “Lina Galli tra percezione e persistenza.” In L’esodo giulianodalmata nella letteratura, edited by Cristina Benussi and Giorgio Baroni, 93–8. Pisa: Fabrizio Serra Editore, 2014. Spinazzola, Vittorio. Itaca addio. Milan: Il Saggiatore, 2001. Stelli, Gianni. “La comunità degli esuli fiumani dal 1945 ad oggi.” Fiume, n.s., 19, no. 37 (1999): 21–35. Reprinted in “Fiume: Itinerari culturali,” edited by Nelida Milani Kruljac, special issue 2, La Battana (1997): 102–12. Volz, Richard. “Fiume: Qualcosa sul dialetto fiumano.” Rivista di studi fiumani 34 (1997): 100–4.

5 La terza forza: Gianni Angelo Grohovaz and the Rise of Italian-Canadian Culture, 1971 to 1975 paul baxa

In 1974, the Canadian federal government invited Gianni Grohovaz, Fiuman exile, poet, and journalist, to help establish the National Ethnic Archives in Ottawa. The selection of Grohovaz to run the archive was a recognition of his achievements as a voice for Toronto’s ItalianCanadian community and as a promoter of the New Canada of official multiculturalism. After his appointment, he told fellow journalist and friend Augusto Serafini: Dovremmo […] indirizzare il nostro discorso […] ai nostri ospiti, per dimostrare loro che non siamo solo costruttori di case, strade e fognature, ma siamo noi parte viva della nazione, con idee ben definite e sopratutto che siamo in grado di dare al Canada molto di più di quanto il Canada è preparato a ricevere da noi.1 (We should […] address our discourse […] to our hosts so as to show them that we are not only builders of houses, streets, and sewers, but that we are a living part of the nation, with very precise ideas and, above all, that we are able to give to Canada much more than what Canada is prepared to receive from us.)

This paper will examine Grohovaz’s ideas on multiculturalism as he expressed them in his journalism of the early 1970s. Since 1970, Grohovaz had used his position as editor of Il Giornale di Toronto to advance his claim that Italian-Canadians were sufficiently numerous to lead what he called the terza forza (Third Force) of immigrants in Canadian society, after the anglophones and francophones. These were crucial years in the development of Canada’s new policy towards immigrants and

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marked an important watershed in the history of the Italian-Canadian community.2 It was in this period that the extensive post-war immigration from Italy to Canada was reduced to a trickle and thoughts turned towards the consolidation of the Italian community and the role it was to play in the New Canada. Through his work as editor and also through his weekly broadcasts on Johnny Lombardi’s CHIN Radio in 1971–2, Grohovaz promoted a vision of the New Canada that made him a leading voice in shaping the fledgling policy of multiculturalism. The central theme of Grohovaz’s work was that the Italian-Canadian community could make a real contribution to Canadian identity without losing its Italian identity. A favourite saying of his was that Italian immigrants could be “good Italians and good Canadians” (buoni italiani e buoni canadesi) without contradiction.3 In order to make his case, Grohovaz presented a consistent vision that rested on three pillars. The first was that Italians had to be united in promoting their interests and resisting discrimination. The second was that Italians needed to be aware of the real contributions they could make in forging a new Canadian identity. However, before Italians could help build this new identity, they needed, as the third pillar, to elevate their own cultural formation and not remain content to rest in regionalism or folklore. In other words, in order to become better Canadians and help build a better Canada, Italians had to become better Italians. Grohovaz helped to do this and was thus a leading architect of the New Canada through his journalism. This aspect of his career has been a neglected area in Grohovaz studies, which has thus far focused on his work as a poet and novelist of exile.4 Grohovaz used his journalism to advocate for many causes on behalf of Toronto’s Italian community. As he told Serafini in the above-mentioned interview, he had been at the forefront of many battles, such as the opening of the Toronto-Rome Alitalia service, the creation of a stand-alone Department of Italian Studies at the University of Toronto, and others. He had first risen to prominence in the late 1950s as editor for the Corriere Canadese, where he became an advocate for safer working conditions on construction sites, and as a promoter for an independent ethnic press.5 For Grohovaz, journalism was a didactic activity, aimed at educating Italians about their rights, duties, and also their heritage. He told Serafini that il popolo deve superare la crisi della mediocrità, e noi giornalisti abbiamo questo arduo compito. Una volta educate le masse […] avremo una società

132  Paul Baxa condizionata alle esigenze di tempo e di luogo […] Allora, e solo allora non potranno (the Anglophones) cercare di ignorarci.6 (the people need to overcome their mediocrity crisis, and we journalists have this hard task. Once the masses have been educated […] we will have a society ready for the needs of the times and the place […] Then, and only then, they (the anglophones) will not be able to try to ignore us.)

What follows is an examination of how Grohovaz saw his role as editor as both advocate and educator for Toronto’s Italians so that they could lead Canada’s Third Force. Leading La terza forza “Unity,” lamented Grohovaz in a CHIN broadcast in late 1972, “what a difficult word in the Italian vocabulary!”7 The inability of Italians to unite on issues that most affected them was always a source of frustration for Grohovaz long before he became editor in chief of Il Giornale di Toronto. In his account of the post–World War II Italian-Canadian press, published in 1982, Grohovaz lamented the diffidence shown by Montreal’s La Verità newspaper and its editor, Mario Duliani, towards the needs of the newly arrived Italian immigrants in Ontario. Not only was Duliani reluctant to expand coverage of his newspaper to Ontario, he also refused to publish Grohovaz’s exposé of the poor conditions and exploitation suffered by the immigrants at the hands of a company started by an Italian-Canadian family.8 His journalism consistently reflected a desire to highlight issues that required united community action, although it also revealed to him the difficulty of the task. In that same broadcast, Grohovaz came back to his preferred topic (argomento da me preferito), that the Italian community was impeded by its “innate nonconformity, by our marked inclination towards isolationism so dangerous to the civic health of a people.”9 This was especially tragic, for Grohovaz, because of the sheer size of the Italian community in Canada and in Toronto in particular: “An Italian in Toronto has great civic responsibilities, or should at least feel he has them, because a force of 370 thousand units can be a decisive force for the country that hosts us.”10 Some three hundred thousand Italian immigrants called Toronto home in the 1970s and 1980s, a group large enough to make Canada’s political leaders take notice.11 In late 1971, the community was made the centre of attention when Prime Minister Trudeau visited Toronto

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specifically to meet with community organizations. After the visit, Grohovaz invited Italians to “examine their conscience” (fare un esame di coscienza) so that they could come to realize the potential weight they could wield in Canada: “Encouraged, perhaps, by a pinch of egoism, here we deal with our own problems, with those of the community that, having just come out of the shell of immaturity, is getting ready to face the responsibilities that belong to them.”12 In order to do this, Italians needed to come together on certain key issues such as community apathy, safer working conditions, and persistent Italophobia.13 In all cases, it was up to Italians to demonstrate their potential and emerge from their passivity. One area that increasingly made this difficult was the persistent stereotype of Italians as criminals.14 Throughout 1971 and 1972, Grohovaz urged Italians to fight this image. This was complicated, however, by the success of Francis Ford Coppola’s film The Godfather, which was released in 1972.15 Added to this was a spike in organized crime in Toronto’s construction industry that led Ontario’s attorney general, Allan Lawrence, to publicly identify Italians from the town of Siderno, Calabria as the culprits. Grohovaz challenged Lawrence and the Toronto Star (which published Lawrence’s claims) to name names rather than tarnish an entire community with the charge of organized crime. In a town-hall meeting held at Oakwood Collegiate in Toronto’s Little Italy, Grohovaz urged Lawrence to appoint a Royal Commission to investigate the matter rather than smear Italians in the press.16 At that public meeting, Grohovaz accused Lawrence and the police of engaging in their own form of omertà (code of honour/silence) by sitting on names they claimed to have.17 Fighting this stereotype did not involve just condemning instances of Anglo-Saxon stereotypes but also required the Italian community to take action to identify and denounce the very real criminal elements in their midst. Rather than deny that organized crime existed, as some Italians had done, especially in the United States, Grohovaz and Il Giornale had always attested to its existence, albeit as something that very few Italians were involved in. In his campaign against Lawrence and the Toronto Star, Grohovaz reminded his readers that he had discussed the very real problem of organized crime among Italians a year previously. He was also not afraid to report the intimidation received by one company, Acme Lathing & Drywall, from organized crime elements.18 Another area that required unity was in the construction industry, where Italian immigrants died at an alarming rate due to unsafe

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working conditions.19 Grohovaz had first become known as an advocate of Italian concerns after the infamous Hogg’s Hollow Disaster in 1960, when five Italians were killed doing a tunnelling job without adequate protection.20 Although the incident raised public awareness of the dangers faced by immigrants on job sites, it did not lead to sufficient improvements, as fatalities continued into the 1970s. For Grohovaz, one of the reasons for this lay in the unwillingness of most Italian workers to do anything about their working conditions, despite the emergence of labour organizations like the Brandon Group, formed in the wake of the tragedies. Although the government and the construction-site operators had to shoulder much of the blame, so too did Italian workers. An unsigned editorial on the front page of Il Giornale in February 1972 appealed directly to Italians: Quando un lavoratore spinto dal bisogno o dal desiderio di guadagnare un dollaro in più affronta il pericolo senza rendersi conto delle possibili consequenze è condannabile quanto quelli che con troppa leggerezza manipolano dei loro simili […] Ora è il caso di farsi un dovuto esame di coscienza. Ora è il caso di dire basta. Ora è il caso di fare qualcosa.21 (When a worker, driven by need or by the desire to earn one more dollar, confronts danger without being aware of the consequences, he is as blameable as those who, with too much irresponsibility, manipulate their fellow human beings […] Now is the time to duly examine our conscience. Now is the time to say enough. Now is the time to do something.)

Grohovaz’s approach to the issue of worker safety was consistent with his view that Italians needed to take responsibility if they hoped anything could be done about this continuing problem. Part of this required overcoming the pride that prevented Italians from considering welfare as an alternative to doing dangerous jobs. This pride led contractors to take advantage of them.22 To make matters worse, many of these contractors were of Italian descent.23 Clearly, this required Italians to come together as a community and demand changes. As a sign of protest, Grohovaz suggested that Italian workers marching in the Labour Day parade at the Canadian National Exhibition should wear black arm bands as a sign of mourning.24 What was needed was more grass-roots activism – rare among Italians, but something that did occasionally occur. Grohovaz was always keen on reporting these instances. One such occasion came in 1971, when

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a group of Italian residents in the Davenport neighbourhood banded together to protest a proposed rezoning law that would see a local construction company increase the size of its yard. The trucks owned by this company had already been responsible for the deaths of two children playing in front of their homes, and the residents feared that a larger yard would mean more construction trucks and more deaths. In this case, community action seemed to have worked. Grohovaz noted how Italians, “the strongest ethnic group in numbers, but the weakest in common action,” had rallied on this issue and taken its concerns to city hall. “It is time for Italians to wake up from their hibernation,” exhorted Grohovaz to his radio listeners, “How much more respect would our Canadian hosts have for us.”25 This episode confirmed for Grohovaz that, if the circumstances arose, Italians could lead that Third Force in the New Canada. Before they could do this, however, they needed to go through a process of self-realization that involved knowing what they had to offer to Canada as Italians. Building the New Canada Grohovaz’s call for Italians to lead the Third Force was not just a matter of ethnic groups asserting their rights but a means of shaping the evolving identity of the New Canada. In his interview with Serafini, Grohovaz expressed concern that the policy of multiculturalism could sink into mediocrity if Italians and other ethnic groups simply saw it as a means of maintaining their own identities without doing anything to change the country. Grohovaz was convinced that Italians could teach Anglo-Saxons something by remaining Italian while aspiring to positions of leadership within the country. Given a chance, Italians could offer lessons on how to exploit the natural beauty of Canada, attain a better quality of life, bolster the family, and not take their democratic freedoms for granted. Ultimately, Grohovaz believed that this Third Force could actually hold the country together in the face of growing regionalism and French-Canadian separatism.26 One lesson that Italians could teach Canadians was to appreciate the vast spaces of the country outside of the “greyness of this metropolis.”27 Space was one thing that Canadians had and Italy lacked. Canadians took this for granted. In his time in Canada, Grohovaz had developed a love for northern Ontario. When he arrived in Canada in December 1950, he went to work on the railroad in Huronia, an experience he recounted in his posthumous work, Strada bianca. After he moved to

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Toronto, he became a regular visitor to Ontario’s Algonquin Park. In 1973, he wrote a letter to the park’s supervisor, expressing his desire to write a series of articles on the park and possibly a book on the famous Group of Seven painters, one of whom, Tom Thomson, had died there in 1917.28 In the same letter, Grohovaz noted, with some bitterness, that most visitors to the park were Americans and not Canadians. He hoped his articles could at least attract Italians to the park. Italians, too, needed to comprehend the beauty of the Canadian landscape. The experience of most Italian immigrants had been different from that of Grohovaz. Typically, Italian immigrants went immediately to Toronto when they arrived from Italy. For many of them, it was difficult to visualize the size and beauty of Canada outside of Toronto. Grohovaz noted, with irony, that on a trip to Mexico he came to appreciate the beauty of Nova Scotia by talking with that province’s tourism minister whom he encountered on a beach: “We discovered that Canada is amazingly beautiful, even far away from College Street.”29 Grohovaz urged Italian-Canadians to send their children to summer camps, join the Boy Scouts, or create their own camps for Italian-Canadians. Rather than leaving children to play in the streets, it was better for Italians to send them out of the city to enjoy Canada’s wilderness.30 Grohovaz believed that Italians could appreciate Canada’s natural beauty because of their insistence on living in houses with yards and their general refusal to live in one of the many concrete high-rises that were sprouting up in Toronto.31 Grohovaz was a staunch critic of the concrete tower blocks that characterized the modern city. This “vertical living,” he called it, “was for the birds.”32 In order to live in houses, Italians were willing to migrate to the new suburbs far from the historic Italian settlements: “The little Italian guy wants to live ‘horizontally.’ He wants to plant his tomatoes in his back yard. He wants to have a ‘cantina’ to store his wine, his home-made salami, his preserves.”33 For Grohovaz, Italians were providing anglophones with a lesson in living well, since the latter were increasingly turning to condominiums, which he called “a mirage of modern living.”34 One reason Italians preferred to migrate to the suburbs to live in houses was that they could live next to their paesani (people from the same town or region) and keep their families close together: “The Italian family stays together, to help each other, to maintain the natural relationship. And part of the family is the ‘cumpare’ the guy that used to live next door in the Old Country.”35 Family was another area where Italians could teach Anglophone Canadians something.

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In 1972, Grohovaz published a letter from a francophone reader of Il Giornale living in Saskatchewan.36 The correspondent claimed that he read Il Giornale because he admired the Italian devotion to family and their resistance to the forces of modernity that, according to him, had impacted the family negatively. Grohovaz published this letter in the midst of his campaign against the Toronto chapter of Planned Parenthood that, he claimed, was targeting Toronto’s Italians because of their tendency to have large families. Anglos, argued Grohovaz, were envious of Italians for their commitment to large families and were using Planned Parenthood as a means of attacking the institution that was already in an advanced state of decay in anglophone Canada. Behind the Planned Parenthood initiative, he saw a fear that one day the anglophone majority would be threatened: “The WASP is still deeply rooted in North America. To succeed, to be someone in Canada, one must be racially white, of Anglo-Saxon descent, and of Protestant religion. There’s no getting away from this.”37 For Grohovaz, the anglophones were clearly afraid of the demographic power of the Italian immigrant family and saw it as a threat to their hegemony in Canada. To prove his point, he went on to list the names of the Planned Parenthood leadership, noting how they were mostly Anglo-Saxon. Grohovaz suggested that, rather than “stick their nose in our bedrooms,” Planned Parenthood should learn from the Italian “family creed” (credo della famiglia) and rejuvenate the declining AngloSaxon family in a country that was still underpopulated.38 Grohovaz’s conviction that Italian immigrants could save Canada demographically was linked to a broader belief that it was the terza forza of immigrants that could preserve Canada overall and lead it to true independence and democracy. Plurality in the media was a major issue for Grohovaz. He noted with alarm the folding of the Toronto Telegram in 1971. Grohovaz was shocked that this was allowed to happen because it left the Toronto Star with a virtual monopoly on Toronto’s news. According to Grohovaz, such a lackadaisical attitude on the part of anglophones reflected their lack of political maturity. Italians, who had lived through several decades of totalitarianism, could show Canadians the importance of maintaining plurality and diversity in the media.39 Canada’s lack of maturity was also demonstrated in its banal citizenship ceremonies where officials with “statue-like faces” conducted a bland ritual guaranteed not to inspire the new Canadians. Grohovaz was in favour of more pomp and circumstance, and even of a national holiday dedicated to new citizens.40 In a 1974 editorial published in English,

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Grohovaz went further and suggested that immigrants could be saviours of a Canada where many anglophones still dreamed of the British Empire and francophones wanted to separate. “Someone will call us nationalists,” the editorial began, “let them […] we are not a Nation. We are a conglomeration of real estates with names and goals far away from the intents [sic] of the Fathers of Confederation.”41 Immigrants like the Italians were the ones capable of seeing Canada beyond the regionalism of the provinces: “How simple. We, the last one [sic] that came to this country, we got the message. And you?”42 In order for Italians to strengthen the democratic institutions of Canada, they needed to participate in public life. This provided no end of frustration for Grohovaz, who constantly exhorted Italians to become engaged in the public square. In the various elections at the federal, provincial, and municipal levels that took place between 1971 and 1975, Grohovaz always urged his fellow immigrants to show that they truly cared about their host country. He noted, for example, that prominent politicians were becoming more interested in them. The high point for this came in December 1971 when Prime Minister Pierre Elliott Trudeau came to speak with the Italian associations in Toronto. On the occasion of the visit, Il Giornale reproduced, in full, an editorial from the Globe and Mail that remarked upon the growing importance and influence of Toronto’s Italians and their impact on changing the character of the city: “Their growing presence began the transformation of a rather dour, puritanical Anglo-Saxon city into a metropolis that is, to a continually surprising degree, cosmopolitan and sophisticated in outlook, full of human diversity, and actually inclined to be cheerful most of the time.”43 The editorial went on to fully credit the Italians for this transformation: “They have settled into and created their own dimension in the evolution of the Canadian city, while retaining their own internal sense of Italian community.”44 Grohovaz’s decision to republish this editorial was no doubt due to the fact that it expressed many of his own views about the potential of Italians to change Canada. It also demonstrated that anglophones were beginning to recognize the real contributions that Italians were making to the country. Immigrants: Bearers of Civilization The Trudeau visit marked a high point in a year that Grohovaz saw as a positive one for Italians.45 Yet, if they were to be taken seriously as builders of the New Canada, and not just Toronto, Italians needed

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to demonstrate cultural maturity. This required that Italians come to understand italianità (Italianness), an approach to Italian culture that transcended campanilismo, an attachment to regional or local identity.46 A pan-Italian identity also entailed downplaying the folklorism that, Grohovaz claimed in his interview with Serafini, was the lowest form of culture and played into the stereotypes that anglophones held about Italians as “harmless primitives.”47 In order for Italians to move beyond this, it was necessary for their children to learn about their cultural heritage. This could not be done as long as those children struggled in school. Grohovaz noted how these children faced unique challenges in Ontario’s public schools and required some extra help and compassion on the part of teachers. What was most needed, though, was the support of immigrant parents who would often pull their children out of school if they were not succeeding.48 Unless the second generation could succeed in school and obtain advanced degrees, then there was little hope that the community could move beyond its current state of cultural impoverishment. In 1972, Grohovaz insisted that the success of Italian children was vital to bringing the achievements of Italian civilization to bear on the New Canada: Se il grosso dell’emigrazione italiana è formato da umili lavoratori, ciò non toglie a nessuno di noi l’eredità del nostro retaggio, secondo a nessuno nella storia degli uomini […] Nessuno potrà mai disconoscere che l’Italia, in tutte le epoche è stata maestra di civiltà.49 (If the majority of Italian emigration consists of humble labourers, this does not deprive any of us the inheritance of our heritage, second to none in the history of mankind […] No one will ever be able fail to recognize that, in all ages, Italy has been a teacher of culture.)

Only by allowing Italian children to succeed in Canadian schools could Italian culture be properly diffused in Canada and the image that Italians were nothing more than labourers be proven wrong. This included Italian-language instruction in public schools, something that Grohovaz saw as a right and not a privilege.50 Much of Grohovaz’s advocacy was deeply personal and reflected his own patriotism. His education, interrupted by the war, was steeped in Risorgimento, humanism that emphasized patriotism and saw Italian culture as something that transcended regionalism and politics.51 Although he worked as a journalist, Grohovaz saw his vocation as that

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of playwright and poet, his work reflecting a love for Italian culture and identity. His plays celebrated Italian Memorial Day on 4 November, and his poetry centred on his native city of Fiume that had been lost to Italy after World War II.52 In the early 1970s, Grohovaz’s work as a poet was acclaimed, and he won several awards both in Canada and in Italy. Grohovaz was also very proud to have been asked to teach a course on Italian culture at Toronto’s Humber College.53 For this reason, Grohovaz gave Italian culture a prominent place in Il Giornale. In doing so, he was continuing the policy of the newspaper’s founder, Aurelio Malvisi.54 He penned a regular column under the pseudonym “Pantalone,” a stock character from the commedia dell’arte tradition. He cultivated close friendships with Italian-Canadian cultural leaders such as the director of Toronto’s Piccolo Teatro, Bruno Mesaglio, the poet and professor Gianni Bertocci, and Lino Springolo, the conductor of the Coro Santa Cecilia, among others.55 He also became friends with Professor Bernard Chandler at the University of Toronto, who led the cause for a stand-alone Department of Italian Studies.56 Chandler had also played a major role in the Dante Society of Toronto, which, Grohovaz was pleased to announce in 1971, had finally decided to communicate in the Italian language.57 Grohovaz also used his column space to promote artists and musicians, including contemporary Italian artists who were not generally known in the mainstream.58 Grohovaz had an opportunity to express his ambitions for Italian culture in Canada when he was asked to introduce the film Banditi ad Orgosolo to the Cine Studio Italia Club in Toronto. On that occasion, Grohovaz took the opportunity to express his appreciation for Consul General Sergio Angeletti and his work in promoting Italian culture, as well as for the work of the Cine Studio: “Cine Studio Italia has set itself, in short, to do what Greece did after it had been invaded by Roman legions: it conquered Rome with culture.”59 Through film, Italians could conquer North American culture. “Today,” continued Grohovaz, “Italy is the only country where one can freely shoot cinema d’autore [director’s films]. In fact, Italian cinema […] has always produced superb works, from cycle to cycle, from period to period, from year to year.”60 Italian achievements in film were proof that the Italic genius continued even in contemporary culture.61 Slipping in some italiese, Grohovaz concluded his address by urging Italians to find their vocation as bearers of culture: Sarà il momento in cui – finalmente – si scoprirà che sotto questa scorza di bricchigliere – scusate di muratore – sotto queste mani callose che guidano

La terza forza 141 il tracco, sotto queste coppole storte, tra queste gente che paga il morgheggio e fa il vino in casa con l’uva della California sognando il Lambrusco, c’è una folla di letterati, di artisti, di uomini genio che hanno saputo formare, con la loro opera, una realtà sociale di prima grandezza.62 (This will be the moment when – finally – we will discover that, under the peel of a bricchigliere – excuse me, of a bricklayer – under these calloused hands that drive the tracco [truck], under these crooked caps, among these people who pay the morgheggio [mortgage] and make wine at home with grapes from California while dreaming of Lambrusco, there is a crowd of men of letters, artists, geniuses who have been able to create, with their own work, a first-class social reality.)

As in so many other areas, Grohovaz’s belief in the possibilities of Italian culture was often shaken by disappointing behaviour on the part of Toronto’s Italians. One prominent example came with the celebration of Columbus Day in Toronto. Grohovaz had been part of the committee that had organized this event to commemorate the achievements of the Genoese explorer.63 Grohovaz noted in his CHIN broadcast that during the 1971 celebration everything had gone wrong. Many of the floats were made cheaply – thus feeding the perception that Italians were nothing more than unskilled labourers and not craftsmen. The event was also hijacked by the presence of provincial politicians belonging to the ruling Conservative Party to the exclusion of others. To make matters worse, some Italians in the crowd loudly proclaimed that Italy had been better off under Fascism. Thus, the intended celebration of an important Italian historical figure degenerated into the type of event that – according to Grohovaz – would never allow Canadians to take Italians seriously:64 “Si raccomanda una maggiore serietà per certi eventi che dovrebbero innalzare lo spirito degli emigranti italiani e non abbatterli offrendo una errata imagine della nostra gente ai nostri ospiti canadesi” (We encourage greater seriousness in certain events that should raise the spirit of Italian emigrants and not depress them by offering our Canadian hosts a wrong image of our people).65 What should have been a celebration of italianità turned into a farce confirming every stereotype held by anglophones – and the fault rested squarely with the Italians. If the Italian community could get beyond this kind of behaviour and embrace the better part of the Italian heritage, Grohovaz believed that they could lead that Third Force and become builders of the New Canada.

142  Paul Baxa

Conclusion: An Architect of Multiculturalism As this article has demonstrated, Grohovaz played a significant role in expressing the desires of the Italian community in Toronto during the fledgling years of Canada’s multicultural policy. He not only advocated for Italians but also used his journalism as a means of forming the Italian community by urging them to understand what their best interests were and how they could lead the Third Force in Canadian society, which their numbers suggested was possible. Through his activism and journalism, Grohovaz became an architect of Canada’s “mosaic” culture. His appointment to head the ethnic archives was a recognition of his contributions and makes his absence from literature on ItalianCanadian identity and history all the more puzzling.66 Perhaps this neglect is a product of the hostility he often faced from the community because of his outspokenness and his willingness to hold Italians accountable for their own shortcomings. In one memorable CHIN broadcast, he responded to criticisms of his commentaries overheard in the bars of Little Italy.67 He also often had to defend himself from readers of Il Giornale who took exception to his strong views and the way he expressed them.68 To be sure, the tone of Il Giornale under Grohovaz’s editorship could be strident and uncompromising, even towards other Italian newspapers and community leaders.69 Yet, with the criticism also came recognition. In 1974, Grohovaz was given a special award for the diffusion of Italian culture in Canada.70 Perhaps Grohovaz’s views on multiculturalism and the place of Italians in the New Canada were best expressed that year when he penned a column on the future of multiculturalism in the wake of Trudeau’s recent electoral victory. Grohovaz urged Trudeau to recognize that it was the “neo-canadesi” who had been the backbone of his majority victory and that now was the time to take the extra step and create a Ministry of Multiculturalism. Up to that point, multiculturalism had been overseen by the Ministry of Labour, a fact that reinforced the stereotype of immigrants as labourers. Grohovaz made it clear that he was speaking not only for Italians but for all immigrants who now composed this “third power.” Immigrants, asserted Grohovaz, “should become the backbone of Canadian democracy.”71 A Ministry of Multiculturalism would recognize that new Canadians were not merely labourers who liked to sing folksongs and drink wine but individuals who wanted to use their cultural heritage to make real contributions to the development of the New Canada. Grohovaz concluded his editorial with

La terza forza 143

a description of what Italian culture in Canada could be. It is worth quoting in full: Gli aristocratici della libertà (nazionalisti, se si vuole) sono proprio oggi questi neo-canadesi, questi cittadini coscenziosi, umili, lavoratori, amanti della nazione che li ospita e dei propri natali, questi canadesi animati dal voler fare e rifare una società giusta […] La cultura di un popolo va dalla balalaika al pensiero filosofico, dal canto popolare al teorema matematico, dal balletto folkloristico alla consulenza tecnologica, dal costume tradizionale alla atavica concezione dall’arte pura assorbita come scoria benedetta da millenni di civiltà. Sì, ha ragione. Per lo più siamo solo braccia che lavorano. Per questo il Canada ci ha dato il ben­ venuto nel dopoguerra. Ma siamo anche menti, e cuore, e ambasciatori del bello e del razionale. Siamo anche uomini, e donne, bambini con il nostro retaggio.72 (Today, the aristocrats of freedom – nationalists, if you wish – are exactly these new Canadians, these conscientious citizens, humble, workers, lovers of the nation that hosts them and of their own birthplace, these Canadians enlivened by a desire to make and remake a just society […] The culture of a people goes from the balalaika to philosophical thought, from popular songs to mathematical theorems, from folk dances to technological advice, from traditional costume to an atavistic concept of pure art absorbed like waste blessed by thousands of years of culture. Yes, you are right. For the most part, we are only arms that work. This is why Canada welcomed us in the post-war period. But we are also minds, and heart, and ambassadors of the beautiful and the rational. We are also men, women, and children with our own heritage.)

Grohovaz died in 1988 before he could see the Ministry of Multiculturalism, which he had so strongly advocated, come into existence in 1991. NOTES   1 Augusto Serafini, “Gianni Grohovaz: Un anello con Ottawa,” Il Tevere, 10 Jan. 1974. Clipping found in vol. 1, file 4, Employment at the Public Archives, Grohovaz fonds (GF), National Archives of Canada (NAC). Unless otherwise indicated, all translations are mine.   2 Nicholas Harney, Eh, Paesan! 31.   3 Grohovaz, CHIN broadcast, n.d., vol. 1, file 6, Editorials to CHIN, GF, NAC.

144  Paul Baxa   4 See Buranello, Chi mai gavessi deto; Eisenbichler, “Un fiumano d’oltreoceano”; Eisenbichler, “‘Before the World Collapsed’”; Eisenbichler, “Il ponte sull’Eneo.”   5 Baxa, “Grohovaz,” 8.   6 Serafini, “Gianni Grohovaz.”   7 “Unità, che parola difficile nel vocabolario italiano!” CHIN broadcast, 14 Sept. 1972, vol. 1, file 7, Editorials to CHIN, GF, NAC.   8 Grohovaz, “Toronto’s Italian Press,” 107–8.   9 “Innato anticonformismo, della nostra spiccata tendenza all’isolazionismo così nocivo alla salute civica di un popolo.” Grohovaz, CHIN broadcast, 14 Sept. 1972, vol. 1, file 7, Editorials to CHIN, GF, NAC. 10 “L’Italiano a Toronto ha delle grandi responsabilità civiche, o almeno dovrebbe sentirsi di averle, perchè una forza di 370 mila unità può essere una forza determinante per il paese che ci ospita.” Grohovaz, CHIN broadcast, 14 Sept. 1972, vol. 1, file 7, Editorials to CHIN, GF, NAC. This broadcast, dedicated to the success of some Italian-Canadian politicians in the 1972 federal election, serves as one of the key documents reflecting Grohovaz’s ideas on Italian immigrants. 11 Robert Harney, “How to Write a History,” 61. 12 “Animati forse da un pizzico di egoismo, qui trattiamo i problemi nostri, della nostra comunità che, uscita appena dal guscio dell’immaturità, si prepara ad affrontare le responsabilità che le competano.” Grohovaz, “Esame di coscienza del 1971: Previsioni per il nuovo anno,” CHIN broadcast, n.d., vol. 1, file 6, Editorials to CHIN, GF, NAC. 13 On the persistence of negative stereotypes of Italians in Canada, see Robert Harney, “Italophobia.” 14 A 1979 Gallup poll conducted in Canada found that over 40 percent of English-Canadians associated Italian immigrants with organized crime. See ibid., 42. 15 Roberto Vergottini, a staff writer for Il Giornale, took on the romanticized image of gangsterism displayed in The Godfather; Roberto Vergottini, “La Verità su Il padrino,” Il Giornale di Toronto, 27 Oct. 1972, 6. 16 Grohovaz, untitled CHIN broadcast, 1 Aug. 1972, vol. 1, file 7, Editorials to CHIN, GF, NAC. 17 Grohovaz, “An Open Letter to Mr. Lawrence,” Il Giornale di Toronto, 11 Aug. 1972, 1. 18 Grohovaz, “La Acme Lathing and Drywall devastata da un esplosione,” Il Giornale di Toronto, 8 Sept. 1972, 3. 19 “Quando diremo basta?” Il Giornale di Toronto, 18 Feb. 1972, 1. 20 Iacovetta, Such Hardworking People, 52–4.

La terza forza 145 21 “Quando diremo basta?” Il Giornale, 18 Feb. 1972, 1. 22 Iacovetta, Such Hardworking People, 155–64 23 See Colantonio, From the Ground Up. 24 Grohovaz, CHIN broadcast, Sept. 1972, vol. 1, file 7, Editorials to CHIN, GF, NAC. 25 “Il gruppo etnico più forte per numero, ma più debole per le azioni comuni”; “Sarebbe ora che gli italiani si svegliassero dal letargo, quanto più rispetto avrebbero di noi i nostri ospiti canadesi.” Grohovaz, CHIN broadcast, n.d., vol. 1, file 6, Editorials to CHIN, GF, NAC. In the same broadcast, Grohovaz noted the important role played by the ItaloCanadian Democratic Association in organizing the petition. 26 Gianni Grohovaz, “Where to, Now, Canada of My Dreams?” Il Giornale di Toronto, 25 Jan. 1974, 1. 27 “Grigione di questa metropoli.” “Un angolo di Venezia nella Baia di Toronto,” Il Giornale di Toronto, 28 Apr. 1972, 11. 28 Grohovaz letter to Mr. D. Barrow, parks operation supervisor, 17 Aug. 1973, vol. 1, file 21, Correspondence sent and received, GF, NAC. 29 “Abbiamo scoperto che il Canada è meravigliosamente bello, anche lontano da College Street.” Gianni Grohovaz, “Ho dovuto andare in Messico per scoprire la Nova Scotia,” Il Giornale di Toronto, 19 May 1972, 7. 30 Grohovaz, CHIN broadcast, n.d., vol. 1, file 7, Editorials to CHIN, GF, NAC. 31 Of all the immigrant communities in Canada, Italians had the highest proportion of home owners. Nicholas Harney, Eh, paesan! 25. In 1971, 77 percent of Italians owned their own home. Robert Harney, “How to Write a History,” 63. 32 Grohovaz, “Vertical Living Is for the Birds,” n.d., vol. 1, file 5, Articles prepared for Il Giornale by Grohovaz, GF, NAC. 33 Ibid. 34 Ironically, the anglophones were going the route of Italians in Italy, most of whom lived in the ubiquitous palazzine (low and mid-rise apartment buildings) that dominated Italy’s urban landscapes after World War II. Grohovaz even published a letter from his own mother, who lived in Rome, urging Canadians to abandon apartment living for houses; Angela Grohovaz, “Lettera a mio figlio: Il progresso canadese visto da una mamma,” Il Giornale di Toronto, 28 May 1971, 2. 35 Grohovaz, “Vertical Living Is for the Birds,” n.d., vol. 1, file 5, Articles prepared for Il Giornale by Grohovaz, GF, NAC. 36 Grohovaz, CHIN broadcast, n.d., vol. 1, file 7, Editorials to CHIN, GF, NAC. 37 “Il WASP ha ancora le sue profonde radici in Nord America. Per riuscire, per essere qualcuno anche in Canada, bisogna essere di razza bianca,

146  Paul Baxa di discendenza anglo-sassone e di religione protestante. Di qui non si scappa.” Grohovaz, “Vogliano ficcare il naso nelle nostre camere da letto,” Il Giornale di Toronto, 10 Mar. 1972, 2. This was part of Grohovaz’s response to a letter from Toronto’s chapter of Planned Parenthood asking for some free advertising space in his newspaper. 38 Ibid. 39 There was also the Globe and Mail, but this newspaper emphasized national news. Grohovaz, CHIN broadcast, n.d., vol. 1, file 7, Editorials to CHIN, GF, NAC. 40 Ibid. 41 Grohovaz, “Where to, Now, Canada of My Dreams?” Il Giornale di Toronto, 25 Jan. 1974, 1. 42 Ibid. 43 “Toronto Enriched,” Il Giornale di Toronto, 24 Dec. 1971, 1. 44 Ibid. 45 In later years, despite some disappointment, Grohovaz would continue to mark 1971 as the annus mirabilis of Toronto’s Italian-Canadians. In a 1981 radio commentary, he listed the founding of the Italian-Canadian Benevolent Society as the beginning of the community’s renaissance. Grohovaz, “10 anni fa nasceva a Toronto … l’era rinascimentale,” in Grohovaz … e con rispetto parlando, 62–5. 46 Some Italian-Canadians saw this as idealistic and impossible to achieve. One such skeptic was the priest Benito Framarin, who expressed this and other views in his outspoken memoir of his time in Canada, I cattivi pensieri di Don Smarto. 47 Serafini, “Gianni Grohovaz.” See also Robert Harney, “Italophobia,” 18. 48 Grohovaz, “Che cosa hanno fatto gli educatori per comprendere i nostri figli? In verità troppo poco,” Il Giornale di Toronto, 11 June 1971, 4. 49 Grohovaz, “Per dare ai nostri figli la possibilità di far meglio,” Il Giornale di Toronto, 10 Mar. 1972, 5. This was a transcript of a CHIN radio broadcast delivered that week by Grohovaz. 50 Grohovaz, “I pupazzi crudeli della T.V. per ragazzi,” Il Giornale di Toronto, 10 Mar. 1972, 4. Grohovaz supported the campaign to introduce Italianlanguage instruction. This campaign was led, among others, by Alberto Di Giovanni. An account of this campaign that led to the foundation of Centro Scuola can be found in Di Giovanni, Italo-Canadians, 101–13. 51 This was an attitude shared by cultural groups such as the Dante Society, which withdrew from FACI (Federazione delle Associazioni ItaloCanadesi) in 1975 because of that organization’s increasingly political stances. Molinaro, “Dante Society,” 51.

La terza forza 147 52 Baxa, “La Festa.” 53 Letter to zio Frank D’Ambrosio, 5 July 1972, vol. 1, file 21, Correspondence sent and received, GF, NAC. 54 In his obituary for Malvisi, who died in 1981, Grohovaz noted the cultured manner of the man: “Malvisi sembrava piuttosto l’ultimo degno figlio della grande Vienna di fine secolo” (Malvisi seemed instead to be the last worthy son of the great fin de siècle Vienna). Grohovaz, “Addio ad Aurelio Malvisi,” in … e con rispetto parlando, 108. 55 A poem by Grohovaz on the occasion of Mesaglio’s death in 1977 appeared in Il Giornale and was later republished in Grohovaz, Parole. Grohovaz would later write a homage to Mesaglio’s Piccolo Teatro; see Grohovaz, “Quest for Heritage.” In his book on the Coro Santa Cecilia, Grohovaz added several personal reminiscences of his close friendship with Springolo, who died in 1970. Grohovaz credited Springolo with teaching him how to listen to music properly. Grohovaz, Coro Santa Cecilia, 39. 56 The role of the Italian-Canadian press in advocating for a Department of Italian Studies is discussed in Kuitunen and Molinaro, History, 54–8. Il Giornale di Toronto figures prominently in the discussion, especially the articles written by Egidio Marchese. 57 Grohovaz, “Esame di coscienza del 1971: Previsioni per il nuovo anno,” vol. 1, file 6, Editorials to CHIN, GF, NAC. 58 An example was Grohovaz’s promotion of Italian artist Gino Masciarelli, who held a show in Toronto in 1974 with little success. Grohovaz, “Quando la ‘bigamia’ in arte riapre vecchi orizzonti,” Il Giornale di Toronto, 9 Aug. 1974, 3. 59 “Il Cine Studio Italia si propone, in piccolo, di fare quello che ha fatto la Grecia dopo essere stata invasa dalle legioni romane; ha conquistato Roma con la cultura.” Grohovaz, “Cinema Italiano,” vol. 1, file 5, Articles prepared for Il Giornale di Toronto by Grohovaz, GF, NAC. 60 “L’Italia oggi è il solo paese nel quale si può fare liberamente del cinema d’autore. In realtà il cinema italiano […] ha sempre dato delle opera superbe, di ciclo in ciclo, di periodo in periodo, di anno in anno.” Ibid. 61 The term “Italic” is here used to refer to “ancient Italy, its peoples, or their Indo-European languages.” Merriam-Webster, s.v. “Italic,” accessed 22 May 2018, https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/italic. 62 Grohovaz, “Cinema Italiano,” vol. 1, file 5, Articles prepared for Il Giornale di Toronto by Grohovaz, GF, NAC. 63 “Il sindaco Dennison proclama Il Columbus Day.” Il Giornale di Toronto, 9 Oct. 1970, 1. Grohovaz had a special interest in Italian achievements that involved North America. He took pride in having led the campaign to

148  Paul Baxa

64

65 66 67 68

69

70

have a special commemorative stamp for Guglielmo Marconi issued by the Canadian government in 1974. The article announcing the decision by the government came with the byline, “Il suggerimento era partito dal nostro giornale.” “15 novembre: Emissione del francobollo di Marconi,” Il Giornale di Toronto, 15 Nov. 1974, 1 and 6. In 1985, Grohovaz put an image of the stamp on the first issue of his news bulletin for Toronto’s Alpini (Mountain Soldiers) association. Alpini in Trasferta 1, no. 1 (June 1985): 4. In these early celebrations of Columbus, there is little hint of the controversies to come over the explorer’s achievements. In later years, the Italian community of Toronto would have to take these contrasting views into account. One highly original response was the staging of an Anishinabe sweetgrass ceremony in the Columbus Centre in 1991. For an account of the event, see Nicholas Harney, “Columbus Centre,” 73–4. Grohovaz, CHIN broadcast, 11 Oct. 1971, vol. 1, file 6, Editorials to CHIN, GF, NAC. See the useful overview on the idea of mosaic culture in Di Giovanni, ItaloCanadians, ch. 1–3. Grohovaz, CHIN broadcast, 7 Dec. 1971, vol. 1, file 7, Editorials to CHIN, GF, NAC. In one memorable example, fellow journalist and educator Ottorino Bressan took exception to a speech Grohovaz delivered at the University of Toronto, in which Grohovaz suggested that the children of Italian immigrants were often more intelligent than their parents. Grohovaz replied that his comments were taken out of context by the Toronto Star. “No, signor Grohovaz, non siamo stupidi,” Il Giornale di Toronto, 6 Dec. 1974, 2. Grohovaz continued this criticism of community leaders in the early 1980s, when he served a second stint as commentator on CHIN Radio. In one broadcast, he excoriated community leaders for selling Brandon Hall, the former home of the Italo-Canadian Recreation Club, to the first bidder while doing nothing to preserve the heritage of the site. Grohovaz did not mince words: “Il vecchio, glorioso, amato Italo Canadian Recreation Club, detto anche Brandon Hall, ha cessato di esistere. Morto, ammazzato dall’insensibilità di quei Quattro commercianti che ultimamente ne avevano preso le redini […] Vergogna!” Grohovaz, “Vergogna 1981: Un inglorioso ammaina bandiera” in … e con rispetto parlando, 143. “[Diana] Torrieri consegna una Coppa d’Argento al nostro redattore capo Gianni Grohovaz,” Il Giornale di Toronto, 1 Mar. 1974, 3. Grohovaz had travelled to Terni, Italy to receive a silver medal for poetry and was surprised to receive this award as well.

La terza forza 149 71 “[L’immigrante] dovrebbe divenire il backbone della democrazia canadese.” Grohovaz, “Marcia indietro per il multiculturalismo?” Il Giornale di Toronto, 16 Aug. 1974, 1. 72 Ibid.

Cited Works Baxa, Paul. “La Festa della Fratellanza Italiana: Gianni Grohovaz and the Celebrations of Italian Memorial Day in Toronto, 1960–1975.” Quaderni d’italianistica 30, no. 1 (2010): 197–225. Baxa, Tino. “Grohovaz, una luce che continua a brillare.” Alpini in Trasferta 16 (Sept.–Oct., 1993): 8. Buranello, Robert. “Chi mai gavessi deto: The Immigrant Experience in Giovanni Angelo Grohovaz’s Strada bianca.” In An Italian Region in Canada: The Case of Friuli-Venezia Giulia, edited by Konrad Eisenbichler, 137–51. Toronto: Multicultural History Society of Ontario, 1998. Colantonio, Frank. From the Ground Up: An Italian Immigrant’s Story. Toronto: Between the Lines, 1997. Di Giovanni, Alberto. Italo-Canadians: Nationality and Citizenship. Toronto: Guernica, 2015. Eisenbichler, Konrad. “‘Before the World Collapsed Because of the War’: The City of Fiume in the Poetry of Gianni Angelo Grohovaz.” Quaderni d’italianistica 28, no. 1 (2007): 115–34. –  “Un fiumano d’oltreoceano: Gianni Angelo Grohovaz.” La Battana 160 (2006): 103–20. –  “Il ponte sull’Eneo: Confini politici e confini culturali nella poesia di Gianni Angelo Grohovaz.” La Battana 53, no. 203 (Jan.–Mar. 2017): 45–70. Framarin, Benito. I cattivi pensieri di Don Smarto: Un prete italiano in Canada. Padua: Edizioni Messaggero, 1986. Grohovaz, Giovanni Angelo. “A Quest for Heritage: Piccolo Teatro Italiano.” Polyphony 5, no. 2 (1983): 47–56. –  Coro Santa Cecilia: Toronto, Canada, 1961–1986. Toronto: Coro Santa Cecilia, 1986. –  … e con rispetto parlando è al microfono Gianni Grohovaz: Diario radiofonico, quasi settimanale, di un italiano in Canada, 1980–1981–1982; 74 editoriali radiotrasmessi dalla CHIN, stazione radio internazionale di Toronto, Ontario, Canadà. Toronto: La Casa Editrice Sono Me, 1983. –  Papers. Vol. 1, file 4: Employment at the Public Archives; file 5: Articles prepared for Il Giornale by Grohovaz; file 6: Editorials to CHIN; file 7: Editorials to CHIN; file 21: Correspondence sent and received. Grohovaz fonds. National Archives of Canada, Ottawa.

150  Paul Baxa –  Parole, parole e granelli di sabbia. Toronto: self-published, 1980. –  Strada bianca: Dall’estrema sponda dell’Adriatico alle diecimila cattedrali dell’Ontario. Toronto: La Casa Editrice Sono Me, 1989. –  “Toronto’s Italian Press after the Second World War.” Polyphony 4, no. 1 (1982): 105–13. Harney, Nicholas DeMaria. “Columbus Centre: A Piazza of Italian Canadian Identity.” In Molinaro and Kuitunen, Luminous Mosaic, 60–78. –  Eh, Paesan! Being Italian in Toronto. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1998. Harney, Robert. “Italophobia: An English-speaking Malady?” Studi Emigrazione: International Journal of Migration Studies 77 (1985): 6–43. –  “How to Write a History of Postwar Toronto Italia,” Polyphony 7, no. 2 (1985): 61–5. Iacovetta, Franca. Such Hardworking People: Italian Immigrants in Postwar Toronto. Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1992. Kuitunen, Maddalena and Julius A. Molinaro, eds. A History of Italian Studies at the University of Toronto (1840–1990). Toronto: Department of Italian Studies, University of Toronto, 1991. Molinaro, Julius A. “The Dante Society.” In Molinaro and Kuitunen, Luminous Mosaic, 41–59. Molinaro, Julius A. and Maddalena Kuitunen, eds. The Luminous Mosaic: Italian Cultural Organizations in Ontario. Welland, ON: Soleil, 1993.

6 “Rimestando tra le acque del passato”: Gianni Angelo Grohovaz’s Address to the Italian Club of Erindale College, 1984 rober t buran e l l o

“Ma io mi piaccio così come sono e non vorrei essere nessun altro.” Gianni A. Grohovaz, … e con rispetto parlando, ix

On 8 February 1984, Gianni Angelo Grohovaz delivered a dissertazione (lecture) to the members of the Italian Club of Erindale College (now the University of Toronto Mississauga), entitled “Rimestando tra le acque del passato” (Rummaging through the waters of the past) and subtitled “Forse trent’anni fa era più facile” (Perhaps thirty years ago it was easier).1 He presented a valuable yet critical panoramic view of Italian-Canadian history to a receptive group of undergraduate students of Italian, which was meant to contextualize their current situation as first-generation heirs to the toils and sacrifices of those who had carved out a successful life in a strange and forbidding seconda patria, or second homeland. In his typically polemical fashion, the title of the lecture indicates that Grohovaz intended to “stir up” the waters of the past by returning to the notable facts and personalities of the history of Italian immigration to Toronto and present them as reflections (or even refracted images) of the generation he was addressing that day. As a refugee from the ceded city of Fiume, who experienced various refugee camps across post-war Italy after having fought with the Julia battalion of the Alpini (Mountain Soldiers) during the war, Grohovaz possessed a strong patriotism that, according to Paul Baxa, although deeply influenced by the permanent loss of his hometown and therefore fraught with conflicted feelings for Italy, always “transcended politics” in his writings and activist work in Canada.2 His experiences with a number of humble, demanding,

152  Robert Buranello

low-paying jobs in northern Ontario, after his arrival at Pier 21 in Halifax on 8 December 1950, allowed Grohovaz to personally recount the hardships, disorientation, and misunderstandings of those early years. In fact, the very first piece from … e con rispetto parlando, the collection of Grohovaz’s Wednesday afternoon CHIN Radio broadcasts published in 1983, describes the moment of arrival in Halifax with these words: From 1950 to today, 30 years have passed! On the 8th of December, Canada should have wished me a pleasant or unpleasant stay here. In fact, 30 years ago, on the 8th of December, at 8 o’clock in the morning, I and 450 other refugees from the most dissonant corners of a destroyed Europe disembarked at Halifax from the Hellenic tub, the steamer Olympia, the same ship that before and after our transatlantic voyage brought to Canada rivers of humanity in search of new illusions. We were DPs [Displaced Persons] back then. Now, instead, … 3

Grohovaz concludes this opening piece in his typical provocative style, complete with the martyrological imagery that Konrad Eisenbichler has identified in his poetry.4 After referring to World War II as the “Calvario più recente” (the most recent Calvary) that caused many Italians to leave their homeland, he writes, There are many beads to a rosary … many frustrations … humiliations … regrets … memories. It is an adventure that has lasted thirty years! Nobody can claim the right to shut me up … no one can say, “If you don’t like it here, go back to where you came from”… because I have no home, my homeland is the world and my one claim is the great love I have for my fellow human being. Thirty years in Canada … I still dream about that great adventure of 8 December 1950 when I arrived in this country with seven cents in my pocket. Allow me at least to dream, one day … who knows …?5

As a poet, novelist, journalist, archivist, and activist, Grohovaz was particularly well positioned to propose insights to aspects of the first, great wave of post–World War II immigrants from Italy to Canada and offer perspectives to the generation of their children who inherited their dreams and aspirations.6

“Rimestando tra le acque del passato”  153

The aim of this article is to present the unpublished lecture that Gianni A. Grohovaz delivered to the students of Italian at Erindale College on 8 February 1984. First, it will provide context for this previously unknown work within the framework of the author’s life and works for the Italian-Canadian community of Toronto, and in the broader context of its contribution to Italian-Canadian studies.7 The fifteen pages of the manuscript contain a wealth of information and insight from an eminent personality who played a leading role in the formative years of Italian-Canadian literary and social movements. This important document helps to develop further the picture of Gianni Grohovaz by underlining his commitment through the effective combination of literary and journalistic talents with the determination to speak to and inspire the younger generations that were to follow the path he helped to blaze. A refugee from Fiume and an immigrant to Canada, Grohovaz devoted his life and works to overcoming ideological, social, and literary borders. His lecture to the Italian Club of Erindale College is thus an important document that offers further proof of his commitment to Italian-Canadian youth and of his awareness of the importance of the expanding borders of the Italian-Canadian community.8 Grohovaz delivered “Rimestando tra le acque del passato” the same day the Sarajevo Winter Olympics – the first Winter Olympics to be held behind the Iron Curtain – opened. His lecture thus coincided with yet another metaphorical bridge spanning political and ideological borders. His interest in speaking to young Italian-Canadians from the extreme western end of the Greater Toronto Area is further proof of the spread of the Italian population beyond the downtown Toronto core and another boost to the University of Toronto Italian Studies program that had been expanded westward in 1967 with the appointment of Olga Zorzi [Pugliese] to teach an Italian-language section at the Erindale campus.9 The Italian Club traces its origins to those early days and remains a popular and influential student organization at what is now called the University of Toronto Mississauga, or UTM.10 Much of Gianni Grohovaz’s social and political engagement can be traced to his origins in Italy and his early years in Canada. He was born in Fiume, Italy in 1926 and lived there until the city was ceded to Yugoslavia in the aftermath of World War II (the city has since been renamed Rijeka). Grohovaz was thus part of the esodo (exodus) of an estimated 350,000 Italians from Venezia Giulia, Istria, and Dalmatia who left their hometowns and became refugees in Italy, whence many eventually migrated to countries across the globe in search of a new homeland.

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Some of these refugees moved legally and openly to Italy, but many fled clandestinely across the new east-west border; in either case, they all were obliged to leave family members, friends, houses, and possessions behind, some losing them forever.11 Once in Italy, Grohovaz held a number of jobs, but perhaps the most influential occupation for him was that of Alpino (soldier in the Italian elite mountain regiment of the Alpini) with the Julia battalion, which later led to his association with the Associazione Nazionale degli Alpini.12 As a refugee in Italy, Grohovaz was transferred to various refugee camps (Naples, Sardinia, etc.) where, like many other Julian-Dalmatian refugees, he had to endure the indignities of being misunderstood and incorrectly deemed a sympathizer of the previous regime (the Fascists). His particular brand of conflicted patriotism soon convinced him to leave Italy and emigrate to Canada where, once again, he found himself holding various jobs.13 In his address to the students of Italian at Erindale College, he summed up his Italian and Canadian professional experiences as follows: Then they ask me what my job is. Well, modesty aside, I always listened to my father who said to me, “Once you have mastered a skill, put it aside” … So, in Italy, this is what I did: bank clerk, soldier, stock boy, typist, journalist, teacher, fisherman, and doorman. In Canada, things get complicated: lumberjack, railway worker, accountant, interpreter, cement worker, carpenter, mechanic, dishwasher, car washer, electrician’s assistant, social worker, administrator, head of personnel, co-editor and editor in chief, night watchman, club president, vice-president of a dairy, private investigator, union organizer, archivist, journalist, poet, writer, unemployed.14

“Rimestando tra le acque del passato” is organized thematically into eight sections that cover a variety of topics relating to Italian-Canadian history from the 1950s to the 1980s. It also reflects Grohovaz’s own geographical movement from Halifax to northern Ontario, and then to the Toronto area. These sections vary from the first impressions of the new, adopted homeland, difficulties of integration, prejudice, generational issues between the immigrants, work, the role of the Church, the changing ethnographical map of Toronto over the years, changing impressions and relationships with Italy, and the materialism of the new generations that, in his opinion, lack a sound historical understanding of their predecessors. In the colourful language and imagery Grohovaz uses, one detects the flavour and verve of his editorials broadcast on CHIN Radio on Wednesday afternoons. At the same time, the observations

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Grohovaz made in his address to the Erindale College students of Italian are clearly intended to resonate a little deeper and to inspire the students to come to a more profound historical understanding. The first section, entitled “Forse trent’anni fa era più facile,” discusses the outsider status of earlier immigrants who were considered Italians tout court and did not have to struggle with the hyphenated Italian-Canadian identity of later immigrants. Regarding the first, Grohovaz refers to the abundant anti-Italian sentiment that was the result, no doubt, of negative stereotyping of Italians and of the fact that until 1947 Italians in Canada were considered to be “enemy aliens.”15 In the end, Grohovaz observes, “We didn’t utter a word of complaint because, blessed by the goddess of ignorance, we accepted the status quo of a Canada that had won the war” (“Rimestando,” 162–3 below). This acceptance of the status quo vis-à-vis mainstream English Canada raises an issue that is perhaps best described by Pasquale Verdicchio when he points to the pressure Italians faced to assimilate into the English mainstream and the continuous repression of their own culture. Verdicchio also makes the very convincing point – especially resonant in the case of Grohovaz – that “involuntary estrangement from one’s place of birth is akin to existence under colonial circumstances and takes the place of colonialism as a conditioning force in contemporary history.”16 Grohovaz seems to echo this sentiment in his poem “Chi mai gavessi deto: Fiume e Canadà” when, describing his knowledge of Canada when he was a schoolboy in Fiume, he says, We knew it was a cold place, but nothing more, in fact, thinking it was a Dominion, we believed that it was enslaved.17

On the matter of an immigrant’s hyphenated identity, Grohovaz draws the following revealing comparison between the two different generations of newcomers to Canada: “Those days, Italians were just Italians, and not Italo-Canadians, so they were not obliged to change allegiance or underwear in order to please and satisfy – with endless compromises – first the mother, then the stepmother, who expected blind, prompt, and absolute obedience and loyalty from them, poor souls” (“Rimestando,” 161–2 below). Grohovaz’s reference to the new, hyphenated, Italian-Canadian identity brings into discussion the notion of the power of the dominant culture to use that diacritical mark in

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order to create a distance between the two parts of the adjectival phrase, thereby creating “an ideologically charged marker.”18 In the section “L’integrazione di ‘Bianco,’ il mio cavallo nel nord Ontario” (The integration of Bianco, my horse in northern Ontario), Grohovaz begins with the first impressions of this cold, inhospitable country upon his arrival at Halifax in the winter of 1950 and his long rail voyage from there to the logging camps of Thunder Bay. The visual disorientation of the immigrant who sees nothing but miles of a cold, white landscape is further complicated by the inability, once on the work sites in northern Ontario, to communicate with virtually anyone other than his own fellow compatriots. Grohovaz describes the complex system of communication set in place to solve, at least in part, the language problem: “First of all, it was difficult to understand what they wanted. We had a translation service. A Czech translated into German the orders given in harsh English to a Yugoslavian who could mumble a few words in Italian. When the order arrived at its destination, it was time to declare World War III” (“Rimestando,” 163 below). Like Antonio d’Alfonso’s confused immigrant in the poem “Babel,” in order to get by and advance in this society one is “forced to learn the language of power” (i.e. English).19 While able to speak Italian with his fellow countrymen at the logging camp, Grohovaz remains, however, unable to speak his own native dialect, fiumano, with anyone except his horse, Bianco. At this point, he tells a darkly tragic tale: when the English bosses realized that Bianco had learned to respond only to commands in Italian, “they shot him because, having been integrated among us Italians, the horse was of no use anymore to any mangiachecca [cake eater].”20 The next section, “Baciamo le mani, venerabile” (I kiss your hand, Venerable), picks up the thread of the generational conflicts between Italian immigrants, in particular the older immigrants as bossi (bosses) and “masters of the rip-off” (164 below; maestri del rip-off) that closed the previous section. Here, Grohovaz moves from the logging and railroad camps of northern Ontario to the settlement and organization of Italian immigrants in Toronto. According to Grohovaz, the early years of the many regional Italian organizations in Toronto, all using various dialects but also united in their use and understanding of Italian, reflected the political chaos of post-war Italy by reflecting a confusing mix of right- and left-wing politics, and even Masonic rituals, to say nothing of the pettiness and envy that typically accompanied early attempts at some sort of unity or cohesion (165 below). When Robert F. Harney

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referred to regionalism as an “iconic” element in migration studies that “seems to be taking increasing hold over Toronto’s immigrants from the Italian peninsula,” he no doubt referred to the same experiences as those Grohovaz had in mind.21 At about the same time, another Italian in Toronto, Franco Conte, pointed out something similar when he said, “Before being Italians, we were Lucani, Sicilian, Calabresi, Campani, Friulians, and so on. This is not a limitation but is instead a condition that enriches our national identity, so varied, so rich, a diversity in the unity that renders us more complete and tolerant and allows us to avoid nationalistic fanaticism.”22 Grohovaz also directed some of his criticisms at the shortcomings of the Catholic Church, pointing out problems with “semi-integration,” that interstitial state of the immigrant between loyalties and values of two generations and countries.23 This sense of cultural and linguistic misinterpretation is present in the following section, “Si muore anche di ombra” (One dies from shadows, too), where such things as The Lord’s Day Act became a distinctive marker between the Italian and English Canadian communities.24 In the next section, “Da 100 anni, a College Street non si parla la lingua inglese” (For a hundred years English has not been spoken on College Street), Grohovaz returns to the problems with language. He tells the story of an inebriated Anglo-Torontonian who found himself in Little Italy on College Street and asked a local: “Brother […] can you tell me where in the hell is the borderline … yeah … out of this goddamned foreign country.” After receiving assurances that he was still in Toronto and on College Street, the Anglo-Torontonian gratefully replied, “God … oh God bless you … you are the first person that can speak my language … among all these aliens, I thought I got lost in the twilight zone.”25 Here, Grohovaz illustrates the other face of forced integration policies: ethnic enclaves in which English is not (or is rarely) spoken.26 After stating that College Street “is part of our culture” (“Rimestando,” 168 below), Grohovaz departs into a virtual who’s who of Italian-Canadian cultural figures, with particular attention to theatre. Grohovaz’s intention seems to be to demonstrate how, from a humble and “bootlegger” past, the Italian community had begun to feel confident enough to stage Italian classics by the eighteenth-century Venetian dramatist Carlo Goldoni and the twentieth-century Nobel laureate Luigi Pirandello, an activity that previously was not particularly facilitated or encouraged by the dominant host culture.27 Although certainly impressive, this stage may still be considered somewhat in-between or “comparative,” according

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to Anthony Julian Tamburri’s scheme, since the attempt “to construct a sui generis ethnic paradigm” still points to a polarity between ethnic cultural heritage and the dominant culture.28 It is worth noting that these interpretations of the community are presented in Grohovaz’s text during his discussions of the development of an Italian-Canadian tradition of theatre, thereby appearing to agree with Roberto Perin’s use of the actor/outcast dichotomy to express a reluctance to accept the notion of cultural synthesis with this generation in his well-known essay in Arrangiarsi a few years later.29 In the following section of his address, entitled “Anche la chiesa perse il treno” (The Church, too, missed the boat), Grohovaz laments the lost opportunity of the Canadian Catholic Church to take full advantage of its new Italian immigrant community in order to increase its numbers and keep its view focused on the goal of helping the poor, unfortunate, and downtrodden. Grohovaz explains that rather than provide solace and guidance, the Catholic Church “at times proved itself to be even hostile towards the newly arrived” (“Rimestando,” 170 below). It is no surprise, then, that a significant number of Italian immigrants were attracted to the Italian Protestant missions in Toronto, whose goal – beyond evangelism – was, in fact, to provide the complete spiritual, social, and civic regeneration of the foreigner. As Enrico Cumbo tells us, in 1904 the Presbyterian and Methodist Churches in Toronto agreed to assign to the Methodists the mission “to convert Italians from the ‘ignorance’ and ‘superstitions’ of Catholicism to the ‘light and salvation’ of Protestantism,” which they then carried out through their Casa Metodista.30 According to Grohovaz, Italians found an effective antidote to the haughty and aggressive attitude of the Catholic Church in sport, particularly soccer. Here, Grohovaz extends the geographical boundaries of the Italian-Canadian community in Toronto to include the Earlscourt soccer pitch at Caledonia and St Clair, Toronto’s second Little Italy.31 In the section “Impara l’arte e mettila da parte” (Learn the craft and set it aside), Grohovaz enunciates the long list of jobs he has held in Italy and in Canada, a catalogue of occupations meant to illustrate the sacrifices Italian immigrants had to make in order to eke out a living in Toronto in those early years. The list is also meant to serve as a contrast with the career prospects enjoyed by the current generation. In juxtaposition to the humble employment and “forced flexibility” of earlier generations, Grohovaz takes the current generation to task for their materialistic lifestyle: “Today, we want a detached home, made in real

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brick, with five bedrooms, a family room, four bathrooms, a three-car garage, and a patio” (“Rimestando,” 172 below). Grohovaz seems to be saying that, although traditional Italian-Canadian architecture tended to combine a symbolic statement of ethnic identity with an attempt to emphasize the prosperity and social importance of the owners, and, as Ann Cameron has pointed out, to express a “desire for control and containment, multiplicity rather than simplicity, and most consistent of all, a desire to impose on the spectator a sense of drama,”32 there is even bolder ostentation in the current generation’s desire for bigger, better, and even more imposing expressions of their recent prosperity. This comment against the growing community of affluent Italian-Canadians implies an extension of the geographical boundaries of that community to Woodbridge, “the new Little Italy paradise.”33 The theme of materialism flows naturally into the last section, “Questa indomita gente nostra ha lavorato sodo” (This indomitable people of ours has worked hard), where images of Brandon Hall and the Columbus Centre34 – and the corresponding social and charity work that founded and sustained them – contrast with the current generation’s personal vacations in Mexico, the Bahamas, and Florida (173 below). Ultimately, Grohovaz makes the valid point that, by 1984, Italian-Canadians had changed from being humble spectators to main actors “on the stage of life as it is lived” (“Rimestando,” 174 below) and that, as a result, their enjoyment of the life they have inherited should be balanced by a desire to give something back to the community that raised them and to do even greater things: Was it easier thirty years ago? Perhaps … and only from certain perspectives … but it was a period of transition, and we were mere spectators. Now, however, you and I, and Peppino and Maria, are actors on the stage of this human interest story … in this magnificent drama entitled “Canada is ours too!” But it took dozens of years of puzzling misunderstandings, dedication, and goodwill to arrive at this point. Without ever realizing it, each of us has played his or her part. Slowly, bit by bit, we have formulated an “in-between-awareness,” borne of that ancient legacy from which it is impossible to free ourselves, and from the stimulus of new horizons that present themselves to us in this land. Of course, with the passing of time our lives have become more complicated. But do not go around saying that our cultural inheritance prevails and, day by day, dictates our actions because, otherwise, we would have to answer the question, “So, what are we doing here, in Canada?”

160  Robert Buranello If it is difficult to arrive at this “in-between-awareness,” it is even trickier to maintain a balance. Maybe it would be best if we acknowledge it before we have a surprise in the future. We did things. Not much, but we did things. Now, it is up to you to do more. (“Rimestando,” 175 below)

As Canadian Prime Minister Brian Mulroney was to tell Italian Prime Minister Ciriaco De Mita on his 1988 visit to Toronto, “When one looks at the skyscrapers of Toronto, Italians immediately come to mind, because those from the first generation built them and the others [the second generation] own them.”35 Despite the criticism of this generation’s occasionally misplaced values, one senses a certain hope in Grohovaz’s closing remarks since, with one foot equally comfortable in both worlds, Italians in Canada are poised to become the builders of a new ethnic paradigm, one that is self-reflexive and consciously creating a synthesis of Old World and New.36 With his unique, inimitable eloquence, Gianni A. Grohovaz offered the students at Erindale College a concise panorama of his own personal history and that of the larger Italian-Canadian community of Toronto of which he was a part and a player. His address is also a passionate rallying cry to the younger generations to come to a fuller understanding of their fortunate – yet, at times, troubling, conflicted, or, at least, liminal – position in the history of Italians in Canada. “Rime­ stando tra le acque del passato” is thus an important document for the contribution it makes both to the archives of Italian-Canadian history and to a fuller understanding of Gianni A. Grohovaz, a man of many talents who dedicated much of his life to improving the lives of his fellow Italian-Canadians.

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APPENDIX37 Rimestando tra le acque del passato FORSE TRENT’ANNI FA ERA PIÙ FACILE … dissertazione di Gianni Grohovaz per gli studenti dell’Italian Club Università di Toronto, Erindale College Mercoledì, 8 febbraio, 198438 Rimestando tra le acque del passato FORSE TRENT’ANNI FA ERA PIÙ FACILE … e qui, naturalmente si parla della Toronto degli anni ’50 … Certo, oggi, uno pensa con una punta d’individia a quei giorni beati. Sissignore, perché allora – a metà secolo – la vita, anche se meno scomoda, era certamente più facile per quelli che erano venuti qui a cercare chissà che cosa … Trenta e più anni fa, quando un italiano decideva di prendere le vie del mondo, non andava per il sottile: egli certamente non cercava complicate ragioni per lasciare il suo paese natio. La terra che a casa gli dava più pietre che grano, l’impossiblità di scendere a continui compromessi con certi giravolta politici o … anche semplici corna in famiglia, rappresentavano ragioni più che plausibili per andare in Canada, o in Australia, o nel Tombouctou. Oggi invece uno emigra perché le Brigate Rosse cercano di fargli la pelle, o perché la Mafia gli ha dato il foglio di via obbligatorio, o ancora perché in Italia egli non arriverà mai a farsi una posizione, dato che in famiglia, nessuno zio è ancora riuscito a divenire vescovo! Si fa per dire … ma c’è anche quello che emigra perché Concettina è incinta e con la lupara non si scherza … Trent’anni fa – poco più, poco meno – Toronto la Mala39 non era meno mala di adesso, solo che allora l’italiano era solo italiano, e non

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Italo-canadese, e quinidi non era obbligato ogni mezz’ora a cambiare faccia o mutande per far piacere e soddisfare, con eterni compromessi, ora la madre – ora la matrigna, che si aspettavano da lui, povero cristo,40 obbedienza e lealtà, cieca, pronta ed assoluta … Oggi invece sì. Oggi siamo italo-canadesi, e come fossimo prostitute da dozzina, madre e matrigne pretendono a turno il nostro amore ed i nostri favori, dimenticando, ahimè, che noi, i nostri debiti li paghiamo alla consegna. Voi forse non lo sapete, e perché altro sarei qui a raccontarvi queste cose? Se volete una conferma chiedetelo a vostro zio! Chi è venuto qui trent’anni fa, prima di partire avrà dato alla patria i suoi anni migliori … la sua giovinezza … E se ha avuto la sfortuna di servire la Partia in tempo di guerra41 … avrà forse anche lasciato qualche mezzo testicolo sui reticolati … Lì quindi il conto è stato abbondantemente saldato … A questa nuova madre abbiamo pagato in contanti, giorno per giorno, una settimana dopo l’altra, mese dopo mese, un anno alla volta … perché il pezzo di pane ce lo siamo guadagnati con il sudore della fronte; il posto al sole, la democrazia, la libertà, i diritti sociali e tutto il resto: ce li siamo guadagnati facendo il nostro dovere, proprio come tutti gli altri canadesi – veri e propri – né più e né meno. Ora vedete che ho quasi ragione … Trent’anni fa, si stava quasi meglio. Anche perché parlavamo di meno. Del resto c’era poco da dire. Mantenendo celati, o almeno soppressi i nostri sentimenti, non face­ vamo fatica neanche nel cercare di ammansire il flusso dell’adrenalina … La patria che avevamo lasciato, non suscitava in noi grandi emozioni, perché ci sentivamo un po’ figli di nessuno42 (per non trascendere con parolacce). La nuova patria, immedesimata nel capo-squadre o bosso,43 che sul cantiere di lavoro ci trattava come se fossimo pezze da piedi, era tabù: cosa da evitare. La nostra vita da immigrati era facile perché, senza neanche accorgerci, uscivamo dalla capanna dello Zio Tom, e se anche non pronunciavamo quel “Zi Badrone … “44 per paura dell frusta, ci davavamo da fare per non finire sul lastrico, a fare la fila davanti al famigerato ufficio del lavoro – dove imparammo il significato della parola pregiudizio45 – e dove ci avreberro affibbiato un lavoro anche più sporco e pericoloso di quello che avevamo … E … buon dio del cielo … Non fiatavamo mica perché, baciati dalla dea ignoranza, accettavamo lo stato quo di un Canada che aveva

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vinto la Guerra. E poi, francamente, chi voleva ritornare in Italia per sentirsi ripetere ancora ed ancora: “Ma lei non sa chi sono io … perbacco!” L’INTEGRAZIONE DI “BIANCO” IL MIO CAVALLO NEL NORD ONTARIO Le prime esperienze in questo paese – selvaggio rispetto alla Slovacchia – furono esilaranti … sì, insomma, roba da crepar dal ridere … . Montagne di carbone inzuccherate di neve ci diedero il benvenuto nel porto di Halifax.46 Quel grigio mattino di dicembre del 1950, qualcuno dei 500 avanzi della Mitteleuropa47 che scendeva a terra dalla sconquassata nave greca, azzardò a suggerire che era una gran fortuna esser destinati a tagliar boschi nel Nord Ontario. Ci poteva capitare di peggio. Con una pala, a caricare carbone sui tender dei treni … Il primo anno di lavoro – un contratto era stato firmato con il governo canadese – sembrò, in quel tempo, interminabile. Oggi, a repensarci, è stato il miglior anno passato qui in Canada. Volevano integrarci, subito.48 Nella foresta, a 200 miglia a nord di Port Arthur (oggi Thunder Bay), dove chi non è avezzo ai 35–40 sottozero F,49 ed in vita sua non ha mai visto un cavallo da vicino, l’integrazione sembra veramente roba da crepar dal ridere … Prima di tutto era difficile capire che cosa volevano. Avevamo un servizio di interprete. Un cecoslovacco traduceva gli ordini impartiti da un inglese duro, e li traduceva in lingua tedesca ad uno jugoslavo che masticava un poco di italiano. Quando l’ordine arrivava a destinazione era tempo per dichiarare la terza guerra mondiale.50 Fu così che, quando compresi a fondo il significato dell’operazione integrazione, invece di prendere in mano il libro della grammatica inglese, iniziai ad impartire lezioni di lingua italiana al mio cavallo. Dopo un mese, il Bianco capiva solo il dialetto Veneto …51 Mi dissero che poi, partiti noi, gli spararono un colpo perché integrato da noi italiani, il cavallo non serviva più a nessun altro mangiachecche52 … Non vi racconterò la storia della half-breed che lavorava nella cucina del campo 119 dell’Abitibi53 … un bel pezzo di figliola … ma per il solo fatto che le chiesi di stirarmi una camicia, un boscaiolo franco-canadese espresse molto chiaramente il desiderio di mozzarmi il capo! … Né vi dirò del cuoco cinese – padrone assoluto nella cucina e nel refettorio – che, piccolo com’era, dovette

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salire su una panca per prendermi per il colletto per buttarmi fuori e lasciarmi senza cena; perché avevo osato dire ad alta voce che le bistecche erano dure … Né vi dirò della sera di Natale quando, finito di rammendare le calze di Vittorio, il barbiere, andai a riscuotere il mio onorario: un taglio di capelli alla dio-ti-fulmini … Poi, a notte inoltrata, quando nella baracca si udiva solo il soffice crepitio della legna che ardeva nelle capaci stufe di latta ondulata, entrò nella baracca, ubriaco, il grande capo, lo straw-boss, che dopo alcune moine si buttò in ginocchio per supplicare: “ … but please … please tell me … what the hell do you have to tell to each other all the time … you talk in the morning when you wake up … and you talk when you go to eat your breakfast … and you talk all the way from the camp to the job-site which is one hour of walking and talking … and you talk on your way back in the afternoon, … and in the evening … and at night when the lights are out; you are still talking … For God sake, you drive me nuts … what in the hell do you have to tell each other … considering that you are coming from the same country … “ Mi dissero che il poveretto venne ricoverato in una casa di cura perché nessuno riuscì mai a dargli una risposta esauriente … Poi, dopo cinque mesi d’inferno bianco, ci menarono a lavorare per le ferrovie. Che bellezza! Qui le cose erano diverse. Qui i capi-squadra erano italiani … li-possino-ammazzalli!54 Per quello strano processo di brutalizzazione che all’estero deturpa gli animi più innocenti, gli italiani, o i discendenti di italiani che trent’anni fa occupavano in Canada certe posizioni di privilegio e di comando, persero il treno. Con tristezza dobbiamo annoverare tra di loro i più grandi nemici del nuovo arrivato, i profittatori, gli implacabili boss, i maestri del rip-off. Sissignore, perché è proprio qui, in questo frangente, sui posti di lavoro, nei cantieri dove il bastone del commando è nelle mani dei vecchi immigrati, è qui che succede il fattaccio. In questo fatidico appuntamento all’estero, tra il vecchio ed il nuovo immigrato, in questo incontro che dovrebbe suggerire comunioni per riannodare cordoni ombelicali di marca atavica, l’incontro diventa invece uno scontro che provoca frizioni a volte violente, rotture che difficilmente si potranno rammendare nel futuro.

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BACIAMO LE MANI, VENERABILE55 Ma la vecchia guardia – volente o nolente – aveva bisogno del nuovo arrivato. Visto che sui cantieri di lavoro non avevano fatto tela, i vecchi immigrati cercarono di attirare il nuovo arrivato nei loro club o circoli sociali. Ma i nostri se ne infischiarono. Salvo i gruppi regionali,56 che si salvavano per la loro mediocrità, esistevano un paio di ibridi connubi tra il rito massone, la nostalgia fascista e l’ardore per la Pasionaria.57 Figuriamoci se un grande vene­ rabile poteva far scomporre, o strappare un sorrispo [sic; sorriso] di compassione di carità a gente che era venuta in Canada per fuggire da un’Europa malata di confusione politica ed indigestione di libertà mal concepite! Ricordo un banchetto annuale: le malelingue dicevano che si trattava di una delle poche occasioni all’anno per la borghesia italo-canadese, per sfoggiare e farsi la riffa … le signore toglievano dalla naftalina la pelliccia, i loro mariti entravano a fatica nei vestiti scuri dell’anno prima … i rampolli rubacchiavano al bar dei genitori qualche bottiglia di Martini e Rossi … Povera Lisa Corona, la cuoca della comunità, usciva pazza per accontentare tutti. Ed in quella occasione non si usavano tovaglie di carta, ma di stoffa! Sulle tavole, oltre allo spumante di rito, spiccavano certi arrangiamenti floreali, strani assai, che certamente non ispiravano alcuna allegria. Le solite malelingue asserivano che quei fiori provenivano da una delle cappelle di pompe funebri della Metropoli. Serve a dirlo che a chiusura della festa le signore litigavano per portarsi a casa quel mazzo di fiori che il morto, Madonna mia, reclamava nella fresca fossa? E così l’italiano, per non venerare il grande venerabile, andò a Santa Maria degli Angeli a venerare la Madonna e fondò, come in Italia, l’Azione Cattolica.58 La cosa ebbe grande risalto, specialmente tra la gioventù assetata di comunicare, sorridere, fare, lavorare insieme per dare un volto a questo cristianesimo di comodo che di solito trova – di sicuro – un unico luogo comune: il certificato di battesimo. I giovani fondarono una filodrammatica, aiutarono a fondare l’Italian Immigrant Aid Society, visualizzarono e lavorarono insieme per creare una società unita, pronta a stendersi la mano reciprocamente.59 C’è una ma … Perché visitando gli infermi, mandano pacchi di vestiaro anche in Italia, provvedendo a sostenere famiglie bisognose con cestini di cibo

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ed altro, i ragazzi e le ragazze dell’Azione Cattolica facevano opera di bene … e davano nell’occhio. La stazione ferroviaria … la Union Station60 … chiamava, c’era un treno di emigranti in arrivo per il giorno dopo … gli ospedali chiamavano … ed è vero, la vita era più facile allora …. I ragazzi dell’Azione Cattolica si davano da fare, si prodigavano per dare sangue … per donare sangue alle persone bisognose … perché in quel tempo il sangue costava fior di quattrini. Il movimento si allargò in mezza Ontario e, per il clero divenne, in un certo senso, il pericolo laico che minacciava le parrocchie perché la gioventù stava dimostrando l’inettitudine del sistema, e la curia assassinò l’Azione Cattolica! Ecco che con l’andare degli anni, la vita del nuovo immigrato si fa sempre più difficile. Con la semi-integrazione, con l’assenza di colloqui con i figli che hanno vergogna dei propri genitori, con i compromessi nelle doppie alleanze – all’Italia ed al Canada –, con l’amore sempre più passionale per il dio dollaro,61 con lo stimolo impellente di volere e dovere fare l’italiano, a tutti i costi! Dice: “Ma … scusi sa, che cosa vuole dire fare l’Italiano?”62 L’italiano vuol fare per sè e per gli altri, vuole dimostrare le sue capacità reali, vuole costruire, edificare, gettare ponti, mandando al diavolo chiunque gli ostruisce il passaggio. E voi mi dite che ciò non rende la vita più difficile? Trent’anni fa uno faceva l’emigrante e basta! Non voleva neanche essere chiamato immigrato, così come – ed era giusto – non voleva essere chiamato D.P.’s,63 perché l’italiano, anche se aveva mostrata la lingua alla patria, o peggio, le aveva fatto il segnaccio di Zorro, ehi, dico, una bandiera ce l’aveva no? SI MUORE ANCHE DI OMBRA Negli anni ’50, quel brutto istituto di cura sito al 999 di Queen Street,64 a Toronto, annoverava molti pazienti italiani. In Canada era più facile morire che vivere, e non serviva morire come le dozzine dei nostri operai che lasciavano la pelle nei cantieri di lavoro, per la totale assenza di misure precauzionali di sicurezza. Si muore anche – ucciso nello spirito – quando il sole spunta solo pochi giorni all’ anno … o se dal paese giunge notizia che Carmelina ti ha fatto le corna … o se il boss ce l’ha con te e ti assegna lavori sempre più pesanti ed umilianti e pericolosi perché non gli hai regalato la bottiglia di whisky. E si muore, così, un poco alla volta, anche quando hai timore

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di avvicinare una ragazza per portarla al parco, o al cinema, o dietro al muretto del cimitero … o anche a letto per fare l’amore, sissignore: perché hai timore! Perché in Italia sapevi come fare … tutto era più facile e naturale, ma qui tutto è diverso e complicato e la gente non sorride neanche!65 Guarda! Persino i programmi alla televisione ridono per te, e ti suggeriscono i motivi d’essere allegro con le risate elettroniche! Oggi è tutta un’altra cosa! Ma negli anni ’50 vigeva ancora – ed era rigidissima – la legge del Signore … the Lord Act Day [sic]66 che a parte il biascicare una preghiera, ti impediva di fare qualsiasi rumore alla domenica. Se eri italiano, è naturale che lavoravi nelle costruzioni, ed allora lavoravi almeno sei giorni alla settimana. Se eri fortunato, ed alla sera non eri costretto a parlare con il muro, avevi la famiglia, e forse, a suon di tirare la cinghia avevi già comperato – in partnership con chi deteneva il tuo mortgage – una mezza casa. Siccome eri italiano ci tenevi alla tua proprietà e quindi, un chiodo qui ed un chiodo lì, ogni momento era buono per migliorare le apparenze e la funzionalità della tua casa. Se alla domenica mettendo un chiodo sul muro facevi rumore, ed il tuo vicino di casa, mangiachecche, chiamava la polizia perché tu disturbavi la quiete domenicale, stai pur certo che 50 dollari di multa non te li risparmiava nessuna scusa di questo mondo, neanche se le riparazioni che facevi erano di carattere urgente e d’emergenza. E … già che siamo in clima d’emergenza … sempre con rispetto parlando, il Canada, paese civilissimo, dove per andare a fare un bisognino sei costretto ad andare a bere un caffé, perché i gabinetti pubblici non esistono … trent’anni fa, questo Canada puritano ti puniva con 50 dollari di multa se, anche in campagna, facevi la pipì contro al muro di una casa in costruzione … si capisce! perché l’appaltatore, allora, non era obbligato a prendere in affitto la pisseruola portatile, e se tu, per 10 o 12 ore, lavoravi in quella zona deserta in via di sviluppo e ti veniva, che so io, la caccarella, erano affari tuoi dove andare a sfogarti – clandestinamente, si capisce – per non offendere la morale … DA 100 ANNI, A COLLEGE STREET NON SI PARLA LA LINGUA INGLESE Era sera. A College Street, Johnny Lombardi era ancora dietro al suo bravo bancone di pizzicagnolo, vendeva olive, salame ed altre cose … un capo del mio povero impermeabile, quasi bianco, s’infilò inavvertitamente

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nel puzzolente barile delle sue olive. Oggi uno farebbe querela al negoziante incauto, si capisce, per ottenere il risarcimento dei danni materiali e morali …. Era più facile vivere trent’anni fa … ancora oggi il Lombardi va in giro a dire che la colpa era la mia, perché l’impermeabile si era sporcato mentre io gli pizzicavo una oliva nel barile … Era sera, dicevo, ed all’altezza di College e Manning, un individuo evidentemente brillo, mi fermò: “ … brother – mi fece con la voce impastata – can you tell me where in the hell is the border line … yeah … out of this godamned [sic] foreign country …” Nel mio inglese approssimativo lo rassicurai, dicendogli che si trovava in Canada a Toronto, in College Street. L’uomo dapprima mi guardò sbalordito, poi mi abbracciò e mi baciò come quando due paesani si rincontrano sull’estrema punta della Terra del Fuoco67 e disse: “God … o God bless you … you are the first person that can speak my language … among all these aliens, I thought I got lost in the twilight zone …” Of course l’uomo, anche se ubriaco, era sincero! A College Street non si parla più la lingua inglese da oltre cent’anni! Ebrei, polacchi, ucraini, cinesi, greci, italiani, coreani, sud-americani si sono succeduti nei primi ottant’anni. Ora è la volta dei portoghesi. College Street fa parte della nostra cultura. Allora, la cultura italiana era sempliciotta, facile da soddisfare e da seguire. Era fiorita negli scantinati dei bootlegger, tra una partita alla morra ed una di tresette,68 con un giro di padrone – sotto a una bestiale bestia che ti faceva posare la paga di una settimana … Qualcuno dei vostri zii … e badate bene che non ho chiamato in causa i vostri genitori …, dicevo, qualcuno dei vostri zii ricorderà le retate delle polizia nei bootlegger di Dupont, Chandos o Beaver69 … se le mura dell’attuale sede del Congresso degli Italo-Canadesi, a Ossington e Bloor, potessero parlare, narrerebbero le lunghe veglie in guardia, del fior fiore dei nostri maschi-bene, della mia generazione e prima … Temporibus illis,70 quell’edificio era stato il commando della 7 o 17ma stazione di polizia metropolitana di Toronto … L’avvocato Ned Lorenzetti, sempre indaffarato ad arrangiare i depositi causionali richiesti dalla legge per il rilascio degli incauti assertori della nostra … chiamiamola cultura? … dovrebbe lasciare un diario delle vicende umane che hanno fatto capolino nel suo studio legale … Ma la cultura – seppure sempre modesta – dagli scantinati dei bootleggers, dalle prime pizzerie e dalle eterne spaghettate sociali, si fece strada per evolversi in manifestazioni più serie e meno trivia. Dall’operetta europea – resuscitate da Ciro Romanin, alla filodrammatica della

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filologica friulana, al coro di Amilcare Zanini che poi passò ad Agostino Venier per giungere all’apoteosi del Coro Santa Cecilia con lo scomparso Lino Springolo … Dai modesti teatrini di Sant’Agnese e Santa Maria degli Angeli, all’impegno del Piccolo Teatro Italiano con i Mesaglio, e tutta una corrente di gente di teatro – cui va la più grosso fetta di torta, per aver lavorato contro corrente, per oltre 15 anni, per imporre Goldoni e Pirandello, ad un pubblico che con il trapianto aveva dimenticato le espressioni più naturali ed, ahimè, non sapeva più né piangere nè ridere … La compagnia teatrale dell’ateneo torontino … la Compagnia dei Giovani … Maschere Nuove ed altri, son tutti gruppi che in seguito hanno preso in mano la fiaccola, hanno imparato a calcare le scene, ammansendo la loro ruvidezza, grazie al tocco felice di Bruno Mesaglio71 che, amico o nemico fuori dal palcoscanico, è stato uno dei più grandi animatori della nuova cultura italiana di qui … I pochi, eletti direi, che ebbero la fortuna ed un grado di maturità tutta particolare per poter essere ammessi al salotto, quasi settimanale, in casa di Bruno Mesaglio – tra il ’55 ed il 65 – ricordano la completa assenza di conformismo e la mancanza di rigori [sic] che appunto rendevano quelle serate un tutto … fuorché un salotto culturale.72 Ma la cultura era presente anche nell’accanito scopone scientifico, anche nella improvvisa dissertazione su Picasso … anche sull’autocritica del padrone di casa circa il suo ultimo quadro. E quando mai? Tra di noi c’erano ferrovieri, fabbri, carpentieri, venditori di alimentari … ma tutti sinceramente animati dall’amore per la cultura. Oggi le cose sono molto più complicate Si va a teatro e si batte [sic] sempre le mani; si legge una critica sul giornale e si legge sempre che noi italiani siamo i più bravi, i migliori e che, vivaddio! nessuno può arrogarsi il diritto di criticare. Ah! lo sport! Allora si andava a vedere la partita di calcio nel campo di St Clair e Caledonia.73 Di sera, o alla domenica, scendevano a giocare in campo non primedonne, ma manovali ed elettricisti e carpentieri, che fino ad un’ora prima erano sui cantieri di lavoro a zappare o martellare l’animacia loro per guadagnarsi un pezzo di pane. Erano atleti che il più delle volte dovevano rattopparsi le scarpe da soli o a loro spese. Un volenteroso faceva la colletta: con il cappello lungo la gradinata, per raccogliere qualche po’ di soldi per le spese della squadra. I biglietti da un dollaro erano rari. Più spesso si trovavano bottoni, biglietti scaduti del tram … sì insomma transfers o quei dischetti di metallo che gli elettricisti cacciano dalle scatole delle condutture …

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Sul campo, i portieri, oltre a parare le palla, dovevano anche saper nuotare, perché davanti alle due porte c’era una depressione del terreno, e quando pioveva la pozzanghera diveniva una viscida piscina. Quello era sport! Infatti, ancora oggi, tra i vecchi tifosi si sente l’ardore agonistico: “… ma, ti ricordi quando Guadagnini ….” ANCHE LA CHIESA PERSE IL TRENO Prima che l’emigrante italiano divenisse ufficialmente – come voleva il Canada – un imigrato, prima cioè che l’italiano si convertisse in italocanadese e si assumesse nuove responsabilità e nuovi grattacapi anche la Chiesa, quella cattolica, romana ed apostolica, perse il treno. Anche se con qualche anno di ritardo, e nel più basso rango della gerarchia, e cioè i sacerdoti, cercammo di metterli in guardia, ma siccome – come sempre – il più sordo di tutti è quello che non vuol sentire, la cosa rimase lettera morta. Semplificando la faccenda – anche per mancanza di tempo – tolti i valori dogmatici e la storica eredità di Pietro, diremo che (generalmente) la chiesa deve gran parte dei suoi successi al fatto che ha sempre operato in seno alle insufficienze umane, vicina alla povertà, a difesa degli oppressi, in armonia con i derelitti. Come mai questa volta è uscita dal suo tradizionale perimetro? Roma sapeva che alla fine della Seconda Guerra Mondiale le potenze vincitrici avrebbero assorbito enormi quantità di braccia dai paesi vinti e da quelli in via di assestamento nell’ordine nuovo, e ciò anche – dividi et impera – per scoraggiare nuove pazziate mondiali … Quando dico Roma, dico Vaticano. E siccome il Vaticano possiede la più capillare rete d’informazioni e comunicazioni dell’intero globo terrestre (non dico potenza), il clero canadese, come quello australiano e quello degli altri paesi che hanno assorbito un grande numero di emigranti e profughi di religione cattolica, avrebbero dovuto essere preparati per continuare la loro opera sociale e morale che esula dal facilismo del dominus tecum.74 Ma c’è di più. La Chiesa Cattolica – almeno qui nella Metropoli – non solo non era preparata per accettare questa enorme responsabilità sociale, ma a volte si è dimostrata addirittura ostile ai nuovi arrivati, limitando i poteri dei sacerdoti giunti dall’Italia e lavorando in connubio con i novelli negrieri che assoldavano la nuova forza lavoratrice pagandola con retribuzioni irrisorie o, come si dice dalle mie parti, con un bianco, un nero e un botton de ferro …

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Ma più grave di tutto si verificò il fatto dei sacerdoti giunti dall’Italia, che già qualitativamente non rappresentavano il fior fiore del clero italiano … il peggio era che, se volevano rimanere in Canada senza incorrere in spiacevoli scontri con i superiori, dovevano far tacere le loro coscienze e seguire la corrente del clero locale. Ne abbiamo visti di sacerdoti, anche ottimi pastori di anime, che hanno dovuto: o arrendersi all’inevitabile, o spretarsi, oppure ritornare in Patria, vinti da un sistema di comodo che non funzionava come tradizionalmente funziona la Chiesa in Italia. E chi ha sofferto le conseguenze? L’italiano, nuovo arrivato che, circondato da 1001 incompresioni, aveva cercato rifugio nella parrocchia – così come da mille anni si faceva nel suo paese – si vide abbandonato anche dal suo tradizionale paladino. Un trauma continuo. Le ragioni per finire al 999 di Queen Street non sono mai abbastanza. Quando i suoi figli dovevano prepararsi per fare la Prima Comunione o la Cresima qui in Canada, il nostro uomo venne a sapere che la Chiesa non aveva nessun obbligo ad impartire nozioni di Dottrina Christiana ai suoi figli. Ma allora, che ci stava a fare questa chiesa incomprensibile? Il mondo del nostro ometto, mattone per mattone gli crollava d’intorno. Così, come in tutte la battaglie combattute per assicurarsi l’anima o i bottini di questa povera umanità – l’insufficienza dell’incauto stimola l’ingordigia dell’opportunista. Ecco che la chiesa protestante, e tutte le sette possibili ed immaginabili, si fece avanti laddove i cattolici avevano lasciato perdere, offrendo ai nuovi arrivati tutto ciò che loro poteva servire: un lavoro, una giacca calda, un piatto di minestra, notizie utili, speranze per il domani, un mediatore per placare un disaccordo in famiglia. Bisogna dirlo. Qualcuno in buona fede, qualche altro per puro spirito waspista, i pastori protestanti si fecero avanti ed oggi, per ogni parrocchia cattolica di marca italiana, c’è anche una missione pastorale presbiteriana, i testimoni, o i battisti, o gli evangelisti, anch’essi di marca italiana … per fede o per politica poco importa, sono lì per dimostrare sopratutto l’insufficienza assurda della tradizionale chiesa di stato, italiana, che avrebbe potuto, ma non ha fatto nulla.75 IMPARA L’ARTE E METTILA DA PARTE Un tempo era più facile. Specialmente se eri scapolo. Vivevi in uno scantinato con altri dodici o più compaesani e non potevi sgarrare di un millimetro perché poi a casa, in Italia, lo avrebbero

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saputo … Alle undici di sera, tutti a nanna con la scusa che l’indomani bisognava alzarsi presto per andare a lavorare … il fatto era che la padrona di casa voleva risparmiare quei 50 centesimi di luce elettrica. I bordanti erano comuni pensionanti che vivevano in casa della zia, o in casa d’altri, in due, tre, sette, quindici o più in un locale o stanza; mangiavano tutti insieme e, strano a dirsi, c’erano armonia a tavola, ed anche molta roba da mangiare, se la padrona non era tirchia. Per favore dite tirchia e non dite ebrea.76 Noi avevamo una padrona di casa che era ebrea e ci affittava tutto il secondo piano. Eravamo in sette. A volte ci portava da mangiare del suo, sebbene noi cucinassimo per conto nostro. Portava roba buona: pollo, carpe e peperoni ripieni che, per cambiare la nostra dieta di carne e brodo, pasta asciutta e pasta e fagioli, rappresentava già un gran diversivo. Volevamo bene alla famiglia ebrea … poi, due dei nostri vollero fare di più, e portarono a letto la bella e minorenne figlia della padrona di casa, e dovemmo andarcene, ognuno per conto proprio, per vie diverse … Siamo anche molto stupidi noi italiani. Se invece di far del male alla figlia, qualcuno di noi avesse pensato di fare del bene alla madre, a quest’ora saremmo nella sinagoga, con Isaac, il cantore, a contar denari … Oggi le cose sono più complicate. Oggi vogliamo la casa staccata, in mattoni veri, con cinque camere da letto, la family room, quattro bagni, tre autorimesse ed il patio.77 Anche mammeta, frate mio. (Quattro cessi? ma per fare che cosa? Se tutti in famiglia sono in dieta?) Quando giunsi in Canada, 33 anni orsono, avevo in tasca 7 centesimi ed erano tutti miei. Oggi ho quasi 40 mila dollari, tutti di debito! Vivo in affitto in un appartamento, guido un’auto vecchia e malandata, in partnership con la banca, possiedo una baracca a Georgian Bay dove un giorno mi ritirerò per scrivere la mie memorie.78 I ragazzi tre o quattro anni più vecchi di voi, mi dicono che hanno fatto l’università, che hanno il dottorato, che se un muratore oggi prende 23 dollari all’ora, un letterato dovrebbe prendere assai di più. Hanno ragione. Io non ho fatto l’università, non ho il dottorato e non prendo 23 dollari all’ora. Assai di meno, anche se qualcuno mi reputa una certa inclinazione … Poi mi chiedono che mestiere faccio. Bé, modestia a parte, ho sempre dato ascolto a mio padre che continuava a ripetermi: impara l’arte e mettila da parte … E così in Italia ho fatto: il commesso di banca, il soldato, il magazziniere, il dattiligrafo, il giornalista, l’educatore, il pescatore ed il portinaio. In Canada l’affare si complica: boscaiolo,

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ferroviere, contabile, interprete, cementista, carpentiere, meccanico, lava-piatti, lava automobili, aiuto-elettricista, assistente sociale, ammini­ stratore, direttore d’azienda, capo del personale, vice-direttore e direttore di redazione, guardiano notturno, direttore di club, vice-direttore di latteria, investigatore privato, organizzatore sindacale, archivista, giornalista, poeta, scrittore, disoccupato. Ho praticato anche il mio mestiere preferito, l’agricoltore, ma con i concimi chimici, la faccenda non funziona. Credetemi era più facile prima, quando l’aristocrazia del lavoro non giocava in Borsa, e non era azionaria della grandi multinazionali. Ora invece … QUESTA INDOMITA GENTE NOSTRA HA LAVORATO SODO Al Consolato d’Italia continuavano a ricordarti: “ma lei scherza? lei non sa con chi parla! Lei non sa chi sono io …” e noi, affamati di sole e del tepore di casa nostra, andavamo a rinnovare il passaporto per portare in patria moneta pregiata, senza sapere che i bolli consolari che pagavamo facevano più ricco ancora, il già più ricco consolato d’Italia nel mondo, quel Consolato di Toronto che prestava i soldi anche all’ambasciata d’Italia a Washington! Andavamo in Italia, a quelli che non avevano ancora prestato servizio militare li mettevano in uniforme perché la nostra vecchia patria voleva fregargli un anno o più della loro vita, dato che non era più in grado di fregarci i soldi delle tasse …79 Ora le cose son cambiate! Ora l’immigrato va nel Messico, o nelle Bahamas, o ha un condominium in Florida … si capisce, perché qui fa un freddo cane … In Italia? ci manda i figli perché imparino qualcosa … oppure ci va solo se Zio Peppino kiked [sic] the bucket, pardon, solo se Zio Peppino ha tirato le cuoia, ed ha lasciato in eredità qualcosa … oppure per cercare di fregarsi la doppia pensione … Perché ora pensiamo di essere più furbi … ma in realtà la vita si è fatta più difficile e complicata. In quei tempi andavamo all’Italo Canadian Club di Brandon Avenue che ora, per insufficienza glandolare di certi leaders comunitari … sì, insomma, per mancanza di zebedei, è divenuto luogo di preghiere per gente di colore … Niente di male, Banfield80 diceva che avevamo qualcosa in commune. Andavamo al Club per incontrarci con gli amici, per

174  Robert Buranello

bere una bibita, per discutere di calcio dopo la partita, per fare il cascamorto con la bella ragazza del guardaroba, per cenare al banchetto sociale della società friulana, toscana, calabrese, marchigiana … o per raccogliere fondi per i figli orfani delle riviluzioni sociali in Italia … Ed allegramente ci siedevamo su una dura pancaccia di legno, per cenare su una tavolaccia – arrangiata alla belle-e-meglio su un paio di two-byfour, coperta con cartaccia, (avanzo di tipografia), con piatti e posate scombinati, per mangiare una pasta-asciutta con ragù, che sapeva di casa solo perché era rossa. Ma eravamo felici. Oggi siamo sofisticati. Dopo l’esperimento del Ristorante Capri, a Yonge e Gerrard, quando nessuno entrò più a mangiare, solo perché i tavoli erano coperti con la tovaglia bianca, molta acqua è passata sotto ai ponti dell’Humber River! Fondando l’Italo Canadian Youth Club, litigando per la fondazione della Federazione delle Associazioni Italo-Canadesi detta FACI – oggi Congresso – scendendo in campo per combattere le battaglie sindacali per una più equa giustizia sociale, marciando per la sicurezza sul lavoro e per rivalutare le pensioni d’invalidità … certo, anche ballando per una causa di beneficenza! Sul fragile suolo torontino abbiamo gettato le solide fondamenta di cemento armato, per construire qualcosa di diverso, che nessuno prima di noi aveva mai sognato si poteva costruire. Una unità d’intenti. E le occasioni per materializzare questo qualcosa di vero, ma invisibile; per rendere palese questo mitico gigante, non mancarono. Tutti quelli che ci hanno deriso per il nostro tradizionale individualismo hanno dovuto inchinarsi difronte all’evidenza dei fatti. C’è forza … c’è unità … ma guarda un po’, c’è anche altruismo nella solidale compartecipazione delle nostre genti per aiutare le vittime della Valle del Po, del Vajont, di Firenze, del Belice, del Friuli e della Campania.81 E più ancora è visibile qui, in terra canadese, con opere sociali che nessun gruppo etnico è mai riuscito a realizzare: Villa Colombo … Columbus Centre e Caboto Terrace … .82 E dal grande lavoro di base, lungo, estenuante e a volte coperto di insuccessi, la grande soddisfazione di poter contare i risultati positivi … VOI STESSI, PER NUMERO E QUALITÀ, STUDENTI DI ORIGINE ITALIANA, CHE NEGLI ATENEI E NELLE FUCINE DEL SAPERE VI PREPARATE PER PRENDERE IN MANO LE REDINI DELLE NOSTRE GENTI IN CANADA … Era più facile trent’anni fa? Forse … e solo sotto certi aspetti … ma era un periodo transitorio, eravamo semplici spettatori. Oggi invece, tu ed io, e Peppino e Maria siamo attori sul palcoscenico di questa vita vissuta

“Rimestando tra le acque del passato”  175

… in questo magnifico drama che ha per titolo “Canada anche nostro!” Ma ci son volute dozzine di anni di scioglilingua, dedizione e buona volontà per arrivarci. Senza neanche saperlo, ognuno di noi ha fatto la sua parte. Pian piano, mano a mano che ci siamo formati una coscienza di mezzo, nata dall’eredità atavica che è impossibile scrollarci di dosso, e dallo stimolo di nuovi orizzonti, che si prospettano in questi pascoli. Certamente che la nostra vita – maturandosi – è venuta via-via a complicarsi. Ma non si vada in giro a dire che è il nostro retaggio culturale quello che prevale e che – giorno per giorno – regola il flusso della nostra adrenalina perché altrimenti dovremmo rispondere onestamente a questa domanda: ed allora, noi qui in Canada, che ci stiamo a fare? Se è molto difficile da raggiungersi, la coscienza di mezzo è ancora più difficile mantenersi in perfetto equilibrio. E forse sarebbe bene che ne prendessimo atto, prima che il futuro ci riserbi delle sorprese. Noi abbiamo fatto. Poco, ma abbiamo fatto, Ora spetta a voi di fare meglio. Gianni A. Grohovaz NOTES   1 This address to the students at Erindale College is a previously unpublished work that was generously left to Erindale College after the delivery of the lecture and was kindly passed on to me by Professors Salvatore Bancheri and Michael Lettieri. The work is now being published for the first time as an appendix to this article. References to this work are to the pages in this appendix.   As has been noted elsewhere, the author signed his name variously as Gianni Angelo Grohovaz, Giovanni Angelo Grohovaz, and John Grohovaz. For the purposes of this article, I will use the form Gianni Grohovaz because the name he typed at the bottom of the typescript under consideration is “Gianni A. Grohovaz.” For background to his various signatures, see the articles by Konrad Eisenbichler and Paul Baxa listed in the bibliography of cited works at the end of this article.   2 Baxa, “La Festa,” 9.   3 “Dal 1950 ad oggi sono passati 30 anni! L’otto di dicembre, il Canada avrebbe dovuto farmi gli auguri di buona o cattiva permanenza. Infatti, 30 anni fa, l’otto dicembre alle otto del mattino, io ed altri 450 profughi provenienti dai più disparati angoli dell’Europa sconquassata, sbarcammo ad Halifax dalla carretta ellenica, la motonave Olympia, quella nave che prima e dopo la nostra traversata atlantica ha portato in Canada fiumi di umanità in cerca di nuove illusioni.

176  Robert Buranello   “Eravamo D.P.’s allora. Ora invece …” (Grohovaz, … e con rispetto parlando, 1). Here and elsewhere in this article all translations are mine unless otherwise indicated. For an overview on Halifax and the Italians of Nova Scotia, see Buranello, “Halifax.”   4 Eisenbichler, “‘Before the World Collapsed,’” 119–20.   5 “ Sono molti i grani del rosario … le frustrazioni … le umiliazioni … i rimpianti … le nostalgie.   “È un’avventura che dura trent’anni! E nessuno può arrogarsi il diritto di mettermi a tacere … nessuno può dirmi: se non ti piace, vattene a casa tua: perché io non ho casa, la mia patria è il mondo, e la mia unica ipoteca è il grande amore che nutro per il mio prossimo.   “Trent’anni in Canada … ancora sogno la grande avventura di quell’otto dicembre 1950 quando giunsi in questo paese con sette centesimi in tasca.   “Lasciate che almeno sogni, un giorno … chissà …” (Grohovaz, … e con rispetto parlando, 3)   6 It is important to note that Gianni Angelo Grohovaz’s only novel, Strada bianca, also contains many perceptive interpretations of the immigration experience in Canada. It was published posthumously in 1988 by Toronto’s La Casa Editrice Sono Me and contains a very strong autobiographical element. The novel is set primarily in northern Ontario and Toronto, and narrates the story of Ivan del Conte, a refugee from Fiume, whose trials and tribulations in Canada provide an important and particular insight into the Italian-Canadian immigrant discourse by contextualizing the story of Julian-Dalmatian Canadians within the greater narrative. For further critical readings on this novel, see the studies by Baxa, Buranello, Cossu, and Eisenbichler mentioned in the bibliography to this article.   7 I include a diplomatic transcription of the lecture in the appendix to this article.   8 Baxa, “La Festa,” 208.   9 Kuitunen and Molinaro, History of Italian Studies, 51–2. The continued success of Italian Studies at this campus is also due to the efforts of the subsequent faculty of Drs Guido Pugliese, Giuliana Sanguinetti Katz, Michael Lettieri, Salvatore Bancheri, and John Campana. On Italian Studies at the University of Toronto Mississauga (as Erindale College is now called), see Bancheri et al., “Italian Studies at 40,” 41–2. 10 The Italian Club of Erindale College (ICE) sponsors a number of social and academic events in collaboration with the Italian Studies faculty. Further information on the club may be obtained on their UTM webpage, http:// www.utm.utoronto.ca/italian-play/language-studies-utm/italian -student-club.

“Rimestando tra le acque del passato”  177 11 On the esodo of Julian-Dalmatians, see Rocchi, L’esodo. On the Canadian aspects of this phenomenon, see Buranello, “Considerazioni storiche”; Eisenbichler, “I Giuliano-Dalmati in Canada” and “‘Before the World Collapsed’”; and Baxa, “La Festa.” In his autobiographical novel Strada bianca, Grohovaz describes the main character’s origins this way: “‘I’m from over there,’ he said, ‘from the far bank of the Adriatic coast where East meets West and, as history would have it clash. There is a small place called Fiume. That’s where I’m from.’” Grohovaz, Strada bianca, 7. 12 Baxa, “La Festa,” 9–11. It is important to remember that Grohovaz included a small phial containing soil from Fiume in the monument to the Alpini that he helped raise in the park adjacent to the Columbus Centre in Toronto. See Eisenbichler, “‘Before the World Collapsed,’” 119. This symbolic gesture brings together his admiration for the Alpini regiment and his patriotic love for both Fiume and Canada. 13 On Grohovaz’s patriotism and activism in Italian-Canadian circles, see Baxa, “La Festa”; Iacovetta, Such Hardworking People, 170. For further biographical information on Grohovaz, please refer to the studies by Baxa, Buranello, Eisenbichler, and Petronio in the list of works cited below. 14 See 172–3 below. 15 See Iacovetta, Perin, and Principe, Enemies Within. 16 Verdicchio, Devils in Paradise, 7. 17 Savevimo che el jera un posto fredo, gnente de più però, anzi, pensando se tratasse de un Dominio credevimo che el fossi in schiavitù!  (Grohovaz, Per ricordar, 31) 18 Tamburri, To Hyphenate, 11. 19 D’Alfonso, Other Shore, 57. On the relation between the babelization of Canada and the Italian immigrant, see Burelle, Le mal canadien, 81–4. 20 “Gli spararono un colpo perché integrato da noi italiani, il cavallo non serviva più a nessun altro mangiachecche” (163 below). The word mangiachecca (pl. mangiachecche) is a derogatory italiese term for AngloCanadians; its literal meaning is “cake eater” and refers to the type of soft, cake-like bread consumed by English-Canadians, as opposed to the more robust breads preferred by Italians. The term has now entered into the urban dictionary; see Urban Dictionary, s.v. “mangiacake,” accessed 12 May 2018, https://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term =mangicake.

178  Robert Buranello 21 Robert Harney, From the Shores of Hardship, 127. An intriguing look at the influence of Italian regionialism and transnationality on the landscape of the Greater Toronto Area is provided by Nicholas Harney, “Building Italian Regional Identity,” 43–54. 22 “Prima di essere italiani siamo stati ancora lucani, siciliani, calabresi, campani, friulani e così via. Ciò non è un limite ma è anzi una condizione che arrichisce la nostra identità nazionale, così varia, così ricca, una diversità nell’unità che ci rende più completi e tolleranti e ci fa evitare il fanatismo nazionalistico.” Conte, I lucani a Toronto, 20. 23 Bhaba, Location of Culture, 139–70. 24 The Lord’s Day Act was first enacted in 1906 and remained in force until 1985 in Canada. It required that most places of business be closed on Sundays; see Allen, Social Passion. 25 The “twilight zone” is a reference to the popular CBS television show broadcast from 1959 to 1964. The reference here implies the feeling of disorientation in a similar yet different world, very much in line with the typical dystopian vision of many of the show’s episodes. See Grams, Twilight Zone. 26 See Robert Harney, “Italophobia”; D’Alfonso, “Atopia.” 27 See Bancheri and Pugliese, “Italian Theatre.” 28 Tamburri, Semiotic of Ethnicity, 13. 29 Perin, “Immigrant,” 18. 30 Cumbo, “‘Impediments to the Harvest,’” 156; see also Cumbo, “‘Your Old Men.’” 31 This location is not far from St Clair’s Corso Italia neighbourhood (site of the annual Corso Italia Festival in July), traditionally Toronto’s secondlargest Italian enclave after College Street’s Little Italy. 32 Cameron, “Contemporary Italian House.” At approximately the same time as Grohovaz gave his paper at Erindale College, Cameron noted, The employment of classical devices in the “Italian style” house parallels the use of these motifs in the “Post-Modern” idiom, in that both can imply a rejection of the lack of ornament and artifice of the Modern style. It is most important to note, however, that while the building in the Toronto “Italian style” and the Post Modernist may even purchase their classical ornament, such as columns, from the same supplier, they are using them in an entirely different spirit. Where the Post Modernist architect uses these motifs in a playful, ironical or whimsical way, the Italian, whose ancestors built ancient and Baroque Rome, cannot see the joke. The aesthetic and, by implication, moral nobility in the classical style, which so moved our English Georgian ancestors, is a living, albeit unconscious tradition for the Italian in Toronto. (Cameron, “Toronto Baroque,” 6) 33 Giampapa, “Politics of Identity,” 218.

“Rimestando tra le acque del passato”  179 34 On Brandon Hall, see Grohovaz, “See you at Brandon Hall”; on the Columbus Centre, see Nicholas Harney, “Columbus Centre.” 35 John Ferri and Adrian Cloete, “Italian PM sings praises of multicultural Canada,” Toronto Star, 19 June 1988, A.10. Mulroney’s comment also attempted to give a more positive, official, and international spin to the stereotypical association of Italian immigrants as construction workers. 36 See Tamburri’s conception of “synthesis” and “synthetic identity” in his Semiotic of Ethnicity, 12–13. 37 The transcription that follows is taken from an unpublished typescript in a private collection. The typescript consists of fifteen pages, typed at 1.5 spaces on, I believe, the Smith Corona typewriter that Grohovaz used for almost all of his work. The title page is unnumbered; the remaining pages are numbered sequentially from one to fourteen in the top right-hand corner. This transcription retains the paragraph structure and capitalization of text and subtitles, while underlined text in the body of the speech is represented by italics. 38 The date coincides with the opening of the Sarajevo Winter Olympics, the first Winter Olympics held in an Eastern Bloc country. 39 An ironic reversal of the epithet “Toronto the Good,” coined by C.S. Clark in his Of Toronto the Good. See also Grohovaz’s radio editorial “San Rocco vende l’uva e San Francesco ha una dentiera formidabile” in his … e con rispetto parlando, 66–8, where, in addition to “Toronto la mala” (Toronto the bad), he refers to the Catholic and Protestant Churches in Toronto. The latter is a point developed later in this lecture. 40 On Christological imagery in Grohovaz’s poetry, see Eisenbichler, “‘Before the World Collapsed.’” 41 On Grohovaz’s views on war, see Buranello, “Chi mai gavessi deto.” 42 This terminology may refer to the Italian term apolide, a stateless person. On this category of people in Canada, see Harder, “‘In Canada of All Places.’” On the Julian-Dalmatians and their statelessness, see Eisenbichler, “I GiulianoDalmati in Canada”; Buranello and Lettieri, “Italian Regional Organizations.” 43 From the English word “boss,” this is the italiese term for the Italian capo squadra. There are a few italiesismi in Grohovaz’s paper. 44 The reference to “Uncle Tom” is to Harriet Beecher Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin. “Zi Badrone” is the Italian equivalent to “Yes massa,” referring to the novel and implying that the typically bad treatment of the Italian immigrant was tantamount to slavery. 45 For anti-Italian prejudice, the most exhaustive treatment is by LaGumina, WOP!. For the Canadian context, see Bagnell, Canadese. 46 See Buranello, “Halifax.” 47 A reference to the author’s shipmates and their provenance from central Europe. It should be noted that, as a refugee from Fiume, Grohovaz may

180  Robert Buranello

48

49

50

51

52 53 54 55 56 57

58

59 60

have been considered a central European immigrant from Yugoslavia (as were many Julian-Dalmatian refugees), and not necessarily one from southern Europe, as was the common label for Italian immigrants. See Baxa, “La Festa.” For the integration policies of the Canadian Government towards Italians in the post-war period, see Iacovetta, Such Hardworking People. For a more recent and far-ranging study, see Hum and Simpson, “Economic Integration.” An interesting comparative study is offered by Stanger-Ross, Staying Italian. Canada switched from Fahrenheit to the metric system in the mid-1970s. Grohovaz is giving the temperature in Fahrenheit as would have been the case in the 1950s when he immigrated to Canada and worked in northern Ontario. The “babelization” of communication among immigrants to Canada is a well-known phenomenon, perhaps best described by D’Alfonso in his poem “Babel” in Other Shore, 57. As a refugee from Fiume, the author spoke fiumano, a Veneto dialect similar to many in the Triveneto area. On the fiumano dialect, see Samani, Dizionario del dialetto fiumano. This important resource was recently reprinted as Il nuovo Samani. See n20 above. A town in northeastern Ontario, approximately halfway between Sudbury and James Bay. An Roman dialectal expression meaning, “May they be killed!” An obsequious Sicilian expression of respect that may also reflect respect towards a Mafioso. On regional Italian groups in Toronto, see Buranello and Lettieri, “Italian Regional Organizations.” Isidora Dolores Ibárruri Gómez (1895–1989), an uncompromising anti-Fascist activist and Basque Communist who, to many, is synonymous with the leftwing struggle against Fascist dictatorships. See Hermann, Written in Red. The Catholic Action movement was founded in Italy in 1867 with the motto “Prayer Action Sacrifice” and according to the four basic principles of obedience to the pope, education, Christian values, and charity for the poor and weak. See Robert Harney, “Chiaroscuro,” 44–9; Nicholas Harney, Eh, Paesan!; Iacovetta, Such Hardworking People. The main railroad hub in Toronto, built in 1927. On the role of the railways in the Italian immigration phenomenon in Canada, see Nicholas Harney Eh, Paesan!; Ramirez, “Brief Encounters.”

“Rimestando tra le acque del passato”  181 61 An expression used frequently by the author, especially in his novel Strada bianca. See also Grohovaz, “L’assalto alle nostre poltrone” in … e con rispetto parlando, 30–2. 62 This is a reference to the famous Massimo d’Azeglio statement, “Abbiamo fatto l’Italia. Ora si tratta di fare gli Italiani,” concerning the difficulties with creating a national Italian identity after Unification in 1861. Shortly after Grohovaz’s talk, Robert Harney wrote, “To paraphrase d’Azeglio, Toronto Italia may exist ma bisogna ancora fare gli italo-canadesi.” Robert Harney, From the Shores of Hardship, 111. For the modern Italian-Canadian conception of identity, see Giampapa, “Politics of Identity.” See also Baxa, “La Festa” for Grohovaz’s commitment to Italian and Italian-Canadian identity. 63 An acronym for “displaced person,” referring in particular to refugees from war-torn Europe. 64 The Provincial Lunatic Asylum that opened on 26 January 1850. The site is now occupied by the Centre for Addiction and Mental Health. 65 On the social and psychological issues that contribute to the alienation of the immigrant, see Colalillo, “Italian Immigrant Family.” 66 The Lord’s Day Act was first enacted in 1906 and remained in place until 1985 in Canada. It required that most places of business be closed on Sundays. 67 Tierra del fuego, Chile, the extreme southernmost point of the South American mainland. 68 Morra is an ancient game from Roman times, very popular among Italians, that is very similar to “Rock, Paper, Scissors.” Tressette is one of Italy’s bestknown card games, often played between four players in teams of two. 69 On police raids on Italians during Prohibition era, see Nicaso, “Discrimination against Immigrants.” 70 Latin for “in those distant times.” 71 Grohovaz dedicated his collection of poetry, Parole, parole e granelli di sabbia, to him. 72 For the many people and institutions mentioned in this paragraph, see Iacovetta, Such Hardworking People; Nicholas Harney, Eh, Paesan!. For a concise history of Italian-Canadian theatre in Toronto, see Bancheri and Pugliese, “Italian Theatre”; Grohovaz, Coro Santa Cecilia. 73 The Earlscourt Park soccer pitch, still in use today, not far from St Clair’s Corso Italia neighbourhood. See n31 above. 74 Latin for “May the Lord be with you,” from the Catholic Mass. 75 See Pizzolante, “Growth of Italian Protestant Churches.” 76 On racism and prejudice among Italian immigrant communities, see Iacovetta, Such Hardworking People, 104–5.

182  Robert Buranello 77 On the importance of the home and Italian-Canadian architectural practices, see Cameron, “Contemporary Italian House.” 78 A reference to his novel Strada bianca, which he composed at his cottage in Tiny Township. 79 Before 2004, when compulsory military service for all Italian males was abolished, young Italian-Canadians going to Italy for a holiday were at risk of being forced to do their military service. 80 A reference to the Quebec-born and Toronto-raised missionary to Nigeria A.W. Banfield, who held that there were similarities between the Yoruba and Italian languages. See Ayandele, Nigerian Historical Studies. 81 For the author’s commitment to relief for the Friulian earthquake of 6 May 1976, see Grohovaz, To Friuli. 82 See Nicholas Harney, “Columbus Centre.”

Cited Works Allen, Richard. The Social Passion: Religion and Social Reform in Canada, 1914–28. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1973. Ayandele, E.A. Nigerian Historical Studies. London: Frank Cass, 1979. Bagnell, Kenneth. Canadese: A Portrait of the Italian Canadians. Toronto: MacMillan, 1989. Bancheri, Salvatore, John Campana, Michael Lettieri, and Guido Pugliese. “Italian Studies at 40.” In Celebrating Forty Years of History at the University of Toronto Mississauga, edited by John Percy and Sebeen Abbas, 40–2. Mississauga: University of Toronto Mississauga, 2007. Bancheri, Salvatore and Guido Pugliese. “Italian Theatre.” In Molinaro and Kuitunen, Luminous Mosaic, 79–114. Baxa, Paul. “La Festa della Fratellanza Italiana: Gianni Grohovaz and the Celebrations of Italian Memorial Day in Toronto, 1960–1975.” Quaderni d’italianistica 30, no. 1 (2010): 197–225. Bhaba, Homi. The Location of Culture. New York: Routledge, 1994. Buranello, Robert. “Chi mai gavessi deto: The Immigrant Experience in Giovanni Angelo Grohovaz’s Strada bianca.” In An Italian Region in Canada: The Case of Friuli-Venezia Giulia, edited by Konrad Eisenbichler, 137–52. Toronto: Multicultural History Society of Ontario, 1998. –  “Considerazioni storiche e prospettive moderne sui Giuliano-Dalmati in Canada.” Italian Canadiana 9 (1993): 46–62. –  “Halifax, Nova Scotia, and the Italian Connection.” PanoramItalia, Dec. 2016/ Jan. 2017, 16. –  Review of Strada bianca, by Giovanni Angelo Grohovaz. Italian Canadiana 8 (1992): 118–20.

“Rimestando tra le acque del passato”  183 Buranello, Robert and Michael Lettieri. “Italian Regional Organizations.” In Molinaro and Kuitunen, Luminous Mosaic, 149–69. Burelle, André. Le mal canadien: Essai de diagnostic et esquisse d’une thérapie. Montreal: Éditions Fide, 1995. Cameron, Ann. “The Contemporary Italian House in Toronto.” Italian Canadiana 4 (1989): 84–7. –  “Toronto Baroque.” Society for the Study of Architecture in Canada Bulletin 9, no. 1 (1984): 4–6. Clark, C.S. Of Toronto the Good: A Social Study; The Queen City of Canada As It Is. Toronto: Coles, 1970. Colalillo, Giuliana. “The Italian Immigrant Family.” Polyphony 7 (1985): 118–22. Conte, Franco. I lucani a Toronto. Toronto: Litho Graphica, 1984. Cossu, Francesco. “I giuliano-dalmati in Canada tra esodo ed emigrazione.” Fiume: Rivista di studi adriatici 9 (2004): 93–109. Cumbo, Enrico Carlson. “‘Impediments to the Harvest’: The Limitations of Methodist Proselytization of Toronto’s Italian Immigrants, 1905–1925.” In Catholics at the Gathering Place, edited by Mark G. McGowan and Brian P. Clarke, 155–76. Toronto: Dundurn Press, 1993. –  “‘Your Old Men Will Dream Dreams’: The Italian Pentecostal Experience in Canada, 1912–1945.” Journal of American Ethnic History 19, no. 3 (2000): 35–81. D’Alfonso, Antonio. “Atopia.” In Social Pluralism and Literary History: The Literature of Italian Emigration, edited by Francesco Loriggio, 48–60. Toronto: Guernica, 1996. –  The Other Shore. Montreal: Guernica, 1986. Eisenbichler, Konrad. “‘Before the World Collapsed Because of the War’: The City of Fiume in the Poetry of Gianni Angelo Grohovaz.” Quaderni d’italianistica 28, no. 1 (2007): 115–34. –  “I Giuliano-Dalmati in Canada.” Italian Canadiana 9 (1993): 31–45. Reprinted in I Giuliano-Dalmati in Canada: Considerazioni ed immagini, ed. Robert Buranello (Ottawa: Legas, 1995), 101–13. Giampapa, Frances. “The Politics of Identity, Representation, and the Discourses of Self-Identification: Negotiating the Periphery and the Center.” In Negotiation of Identities in Multilingual Contexts, edited by Aneta Pavlenko and Adrian Blackledge, 192–218. Clevedone, UK: Cromwell Press, 2004. Grams, Martin. The Twilight Zone: Unlocking the Door to a Television Classic. Churchville, MD: OTR Publishing, 2008. Grohovaz, Gianni Angelo. Coro Santa Cecilia, Toronto, Canada, 1961–1986: TwentyFive Years of Italian Voices in Canada. Toronto: Coro Santa Cecilia, 1986. –  … e con rispetto parlando è al microfono gianni grohovaz: Diario radiofonico, quasi settimanale, di un italiano in Canada, 1980–1981–1982; 74 editoriali

184  Robert Buranello radiotrasmessi dalla CHIN, stazione radio internazionale di Toronto, Ontario, Canadà. Toronto: La Casa Editrice Sono Me, 1983. –  Parole, parole e granelli di sabbia. Toronto: self-published, 1980. –  Per ricordar le cose che ricordo: Poesie in dialeto fiuman. Toronto: Casa Editrice Dufferin, 1974. –  “Rimestando tra le acque del passato: Forse trent’anni fa era più facile.” 8 Feb. 1984. Unpublished typescript of lecture presented to Italian Club of Erindale College, University of Toronto at Mississauga. Private collection. Now published in the appendix to this chapter. –  “See You at Brandon Hall. Oh! … I Mean the Italo-Canadian Recreation Club.” Polyphony 7, no.2 (1985): 98–104. –  Strada bianca: Dall’estrema sponda dell’Adriatico alle diecimila cattedrali dell’Ontario. Toronto: La Casa Editrice Sono Me, 1988. –  To Friuli, from Canada with Love: L’intervento canadese nella tragedia del Friuli, maggio 1976-aprile 1978. Ottawa: Fondazione Nazionale Congresso Nazionale degli Italo-Canadesi, 1983. Harder, Lois. “‘In Canada of All Places’: National Belonging and the Lost Canadians.” Citizenship Studies 14, no. 2 (2010): 203–20. Harney, Nicholas DeMaria. “Building Italian Regional Identity in Toronto: Using Space to Make Culture Material.” Anthropologica 44, no. 1 (2002): 43–54. –  “Columbus Centre: A Piazza of Italian Canadian Identity.” In Molinaro and Kuitunen, Luminous Mosaic, 60–78. –  Eh, Paesan! Being Italian in Toronto. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1998. Harney, Robert F. “Chiaroscuro: Italians in Toronto 1815–1915.” Polyphony 6 (1984): 44–9. –  From the Shores of Hardship: Italians in Canada. Edited by Nicholas DeMaria Harney. Welland, ON: Soleil, 1993. –  “Italophobia: An English-Speaking Malady?” Polyphony 7 (1985): 67–72. Hermann, Gina. Written in Red: The Communist Memoir in Spain. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2010. Hum, Derek, and Wayne Simpson. “Economic Integration of Immigrants to Canada: A Short Survey.” Canadian Journal of Urban Research 13 (2004): 46–61. Iacovetta, Franca. Such Hardworking People. Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1992. Iacovetta, Franca, Roberto Perin, and Angelo Principe. Enemies Within: Italian and Other Internees in Canada and Abroad. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2000. Kuitunen, Maddalena, and Julius Molinaro. A History of Italian Studies at the University of Toronto, 1840–1990. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1991.

“Rimestando tra le acque del passato”  185 LaGumina, Salvatore. WOP! A Documentary History of Anti-Italian Discrimination. Toronto: Guernica, 1999. Molinaro, Julius A., and Maddalena Kuitunen, eds. The Luminous Mosaic: Italian Cultural Organizations in Ontario. Welland, ON: Soleil, 1993. Nicaso, Antonio. “The Discrimination against Immigrants and the Contradiction of the Canadian Society during Prohibition (1916–1930).” Italian Canadiana 17 (2003): 5–14. Perin, Roberto. “The Immigrant: Actor or Outcast.” In Arrangiarsi: The Italian Immigration Experience in Canada, edited by Roberto Perin and Franc Sturino, 9–35. Montreal: Guernica, 1989. Petacco, Arrigo. A Tragedy Revealed: The Story of Italians from Istria, Dalmatia, and Venezia Giulia, 1943–1956. Translated by Konrad Eisenbichler. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2005. Petronio, Marina. “Letteratura giuliano-dalmata d’oltreoceano.” In Parole lontane: L’Istria nella sua storia e nel nostalgico ricordo di autori esuli, edited by Graziella Semacchi, Cristina Benussi, and Maria Petronio, 132–5. Trieste: Isbiskos Editrice, 2003. Pizzolante, Joseph J. “The Growth of Italian Protestant Churches in Ontario and Quebec.” Italian Canadiana 13 (1996): 56–79. Ramirez, Bruno. “Brief Encounters: Italian Immigrant Workers and the CPR, 1900–1930.” Labour/Le travail 17 (1986) 9–27. Rocchi, Flaminio. L’esodo dei 350 mila giuliani fiumani e dalmati. 4th ed. Rome: Difesa Adriatica, 1998. Samani, Salvatore. Dizionario del dialetto fiumano. Venezia: Associazione Studi sul Dialetto di Fiume, 1978. –  Il nuovo Samani: Dizionario del dialetto fiumano. Rome: Società di Studi Fiumani, 2007. Stanger-Ross, Jordan. Staying Italian: Urban Change and Ethnic Life in Postwar Toronto and Philadelphia. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2009. Tamburri, Anthony Julian. A Semiotic of Ethnicity: In (Re)cognition of the Italian American Writer. Albany: SUNY Press, 1998. –  To Hypenate or Not to Hyphenate?: The Italian/American Writer: An Other America. Montreal: Guernica, 1991. Verdicchio, Pasquale. Devils in Paradise: Writings on Post-Emigrant Cultures. Toronto: Guernica, 1997.

7 Land, Sea, and the Search for Oneself in the Poetry of Diego Bastianutti c or inna ge rb az giul ian o Translated by Konrad Eisenbichler

Diego Bastianutti is a Julian-Dalmatian exile from Fiume, now transplanted to Canada. His biographical sketch reveals a multifaceted personality: born in Fiume, Italy in 1939, he emigrated to the United States, where he grew up and eventually started working as an international banker in New York City; he then moved to Canada, received a PhD, and became a university professor (now emeritus) of Spanish and Italian literature. While a professor, he was also honorary vice-consul of Italy in Kingston, Ontario, founded the Società Dante Alighieri in Kingston, and became an indefatigable promoter of Italian culture, as well as painter, writer, and, above all, poet. When Bastianutti was born, Fiume was an Italian city on the border with Yugoslavia. In the wake of World War II, the city was ceded by Italy to Yugoslavia as part of its war reparations and renamed Rijeka; today, in the wake of the collapse of Yugoslavia (1991), Rijeka is part of the newly independent Republic of Croatia and is the capital of that country’s Littoral-Mountain District (Primorje-Gorski Kotar). The city’s geographical position on one of the major passageways through the Dinaric Alps makes it the natural gateway from the interior of central Europe (inland Croatia and Hungary, in particular) to the Adriatic Sea and, by extension, the Mediterranean world. Its mild microclimate, in turn, has made it an inviting and comfortable place to live for many. For centuries, the city has thus been a meeting point of people and cultures. To be born here meant coming into daily contact with a multilingual and multicultural world that included Italians, Austrians, Croatians, Serbs, Hungarians, and more. The city has also enjoyed periods of remarkable social-economic and cultural development – one needs only to remember the century of Austro-Hungarian government that turned Fiume

Land, Sea, and the Search for Oneself  187

into the second most important port in the empire and brought about a remarkable commercial and industrial boom, followed by considerable advancements in the sociocultural sphere, all of which helped to consolidate the city’s multicultural character and especially the peaceful cohabitation of its various people. But the situation has not always been idyllic. Fiume/Rijeka has been a contested area for centuries, attracting a variety of invaders keen to control the region’s wealth and its access to the sea. This has, inevitably, led to a high level of instability – in just the past century, for example, Fiume/Rijeka has been a separate administrative unit (corpus separatum) in the Austro-Hungarian Empire under the Crown of Hungary (1779–1918); it was then briefly independent, first as the Italian Regency of the Carnaro (1919–20) and then as the Free State of Fiume (1920–4), both under the leadership of the Italian poet and adventurer Gabriele D’Annunzio (1863–1938), only to be twice invaded by Italy (1921 and 1922) and eventually annexed outright by Fascist Italy (1924–43); after Italy’s surrender to Allied Forces on 8 September 1943, Fiume was immediately occupied by Germany and incorporated into the German Reich as its Adriatisches Küstenland, that is, the Adriatic Littoral Zone (1943–5); as the war was coming to an end, in April 1945 Yugoslav partisans were able to wrestle the city from the Germans and annex it to Yugoslavia, which renamed it Rijeka; at that country’s own disintegration in 1991, Rijeka became part of the independent Republic of Croatia, which is where it stands today. In brief, then, during the twentieth century Fiume/Rijeka has been part of six different nations. The various occupying forces have all marked the city for both the better and the worst. For the indigenous Italian population of Fiume/Rijeka, the city’s annexation to Yugoslavia led, in the early years, to their becoming the victims of a campaign of persecution and terror carried out by the special services of the Yugoslavian secret police (the OZNA; Odjeljenje za zaštitu naroda [Department for the Protection of People]). Fearing for their safety, most of the Italian population abandoned the city and moved to Italy in what has become known as the esodo (exile). As the demographic collapse in the city’s population began to be corrected by Slavic immigrants from the internal regions of Yugoslavia, those Italians who remained in the city, the so-called rimasti, suddenly found themselves to be not the dominant majority in the city but a small minority constantly engaged in the difficult struggle to maintain their language and culture in the midst of an overwhelming Croatian environment.1

188  Corinna Gerbaz Giuliano

Diego Bastianutti was born and spent his childhood in this contested space. In 1947, when he was only eight years old, his parents opted for Italy and took him with them on their torturous path into exile. After a brief stay in a refugee camp, the family settled in Ruta di Camogli, a small town in Liguria. In 1952, because Italy had still not recognized the family’s “option” for Italy and granted it citizenship, the Bastianutti family applied to the International Refugee Organization under the Displaced Persons Act for emigration to the United States of America and were accepted. They sailed from Bremerhaven, Germany and, after a fifteen-day journey on a troop-carrier Liberty ship, arrived in New Orleans, whence they took the train to Milwaukee, Wisconsin and their new home. Twice now the thirteen-year-old Diego had been uprooted and taken away from what he thought was his home. The young Bastia­ nutti went to school in Milwaukee, landed a job as an international banker, married an American woman, and started a family. All the while, however, Bastianutti was searching for something more – his “Land.” A feeling of uneasiness lurked at the bottom of his heart and led him to move once more, this time to Canada (1967), where he enrolled in a PhD program at the University of Toronto. Once completed, Bastianutti accepted a professorial position at Queen’s University in Kingston, Ontario (1970). As Bastianutti confided in an interview with Rosanna Turcinovich Giuricin, he was never really able to integrate into American society: Feeling estranged, in order to survive at least socially I was forced to construct a “false” me characterized by a lack of authenticity in my relation with other people and with myself. I was obliged, from the very start, to put on another identity, using the name “Louis” instead of Diego, in order to avoid unpleasant clashes of a racist nature. It was a type of false “graft” into that new culture that allowed me to integrate without ever being assimilated. It was a mask I wore for many years in order to protect the embers of genuine identity buried in the depths of my spirit. It was only with my second marriage that I was able to remove the mask and finally feel that I was being understood.2

Bastianutti’s thoughts are echoed in the description Rosanna Turcino­ vich Giuricin offers of him when she says, Diego Bastianutti left Fiume with his family when he was still a child: Italy was their first destination, in that Liguria that had welcomed many

Land, Sea, and the Search for Oneself  189 people from Fiume and from the islands in the Gulf of Kvarner, and the mirage or American dream, where he personally felt the weight of being “different,” of the young man who, in his own name, carried that insult or curse, whatever you may call it, from the Anglo-Saxon world, that “dego” that he had to change for some time by becoming a Louis or Paul or Richard – it does not matter – but someone other than his own “I.” These are the experiences an angry young man had to feel in order to follow the uneasy but travelable road thanks to his lively intelligence, his ability to explain to someone else what life means.3

For Bastianutti, to explain life means to convey knowledge, but also, and above all, to write verses, to fix on paper emotions and memories that offer future readers his own testimony. Canada offered Bastianutti a second chance for his private and professional life. What stitched his torn identity back together and gave him new life, however, was meeting his second wife, Giusy Oddo. Born in Milan from a Milanese mother and a Sicilian father, Oddo had moved to Canada where she was a professor, just like Bastianutti and her father, who taught at the University of Pavia. The interests they shared gave Bastianutti the benefit of a profound mutual understanding and intense creative energy. He started writing poetry for her, and she kept it, eventually convincing him to publish it. After retirement, the couple moved to Sicily for a few years but then returned to Canada, that well-ordered multicultural land Bastianutti highly respects, so as to be closer to their children. As Konrad Eisenbichler pointed out some time ago, “The call of the family is stronger than the call of the Motherland. For the exile, in fact, the Motherland belongs to the past, it is something that stands behind, not in front, it is a place where one comes from, not where one goes to; and for this reason a return to the Motherland is impossible.”4 Poetry, which Bastianutti discovered already during his adolescence, allowed him to carry out an archaeological dig into the deepest recesses of his memory that would eventually lead to a reconciliation with his dual identity. Sergio Maria Gilardino describes the depth of Bastianutti’s lyrical voice as an “unbridled faith in the harmony of existence and in the providence that should sustain it.”5 According to him, the themes present in Bastianutti’s poetry are many, starting from the “well-pondered topic of exile and the constant clinging to new lands and new environments,”6 followed by the poems dedicated to “Love” with a capital L.

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These, in fact, becomes the leitmotifs for all three of Bastianutti’s collections of Italian verses. In his first collection, Il punto caduto (The dropped stitch), Bastianutti writes in a crisp, dry style interspersed with moments of nostalgic lyricism to give life to a veritable songbook (canzoniere).7 Konrad Eisenbichler explains the significance of the title and points to its perfect synchronicity with the poet’s own spiritual state when he says, “For Bastianutti, the separation from Fiume is an incomprehensible grief, something he is unable to overcome; he sees it like a dropped stitch in the fabric of his existence.”8 The title of the volume comes from the poem by the same title that, according to Gilardino, urges the reader to try to understand the poet’s state of mind.9 In that poem, Bastianutti writes, Se capii non ricordo se pensai nemmeno, solo so che anch’io volli alla vita partecipare. Queste le regole mi dissero, questa la matrice, seguile e sarai felice. Anch’io fatto avrei la mia maglia e mi misi a sferruzzare. Punto su punto fila su fila mai tolsi gli occhi. Venne il giorno che nella maglia mia mi avvolsi. Ma vedi caso, tutta si sfilò, ché, chissà come chissà quando un punto cadde. (Il punto caduto, 63) (If I understood I don’t remember nor if I thought, I only know that I too wanted to take part in life.

Land, Sea, and the Search for Oneself  191 These are the rules they told me, this is the pattern, follow it and you’ll be happy. I too would have knitted my sweater, and I started to knit away. Stitch by stitch, line by line, I never took my eyes off. The day came when in my sweater I wrapped myself. But look! it completely unravelled, because, who knows how who knows when a stitch had dropped.)

The feelings that emerge from these verses are a strong sense of desolation, confusion, stiffening, of a truncated identity in the wearing of a mask that covers the face but does not erase the pain of disorientation and a sense of void. These verses recall Bastianutti’s often-repeated self-description as a nomad,10 a state of being that has brought him to meet new challenges. However, in spite of the fact that he was facing his challenges and constantly “knitting” away at the fabric of his life, that feeling of having been torn away would inevitably rise up from a hidden corner of his heart and make him fall, headlong, back to the beginning and into the search for his own self. In the poem “Lasciatemi” (Leave me), Bastianutti once again voices his feeling of disorientation from having been torn away from his place of birth: Qui, dove si gloria la monotonia di cose nuove già vecchie nate non voglio stare.

192  Corinna Gerbaz Giuliano Lasciatemi là dove ogni gesto e parola profumo e sapore è dolce reminiscenza. (Il punto caduto, 9) (Here, where one praises the monotony of new things already born old I don’t want to stay. Leave me there where every gesture and word perfume and flavour is sweet reminiscence.)

The verses are full of the inner pain from which the poet is not able to liberate himself, but which regularly rises to the surface of his conscience. The land of his birth is seen and understood as a sort of Eden, an unreachable place. As he pointed out to Anna Maria Zampieri Pan in the interview he granted her, “And so for me, Fiume has become ‘the city of dreams,’ ‘the city of memories.’ But our memory also tends to create an ideal city that never existed, a city where we would have liked to live.”11 The poem that perhaps expresses, more than any other, the depth of the grief caused by exile and the awareness of feeling oneself to be different is “Innesto” (Graft): Appena affondate s’erano le tenere radici nella sua terra che lo tolsero per piantarlo in lande remote Forzato l’innesto maschera solo gli umori che di antichi ricordi si nutre e offre bei frutti amari. (Il punto caduto, 33)

Land, Sea, and the Search for Oneself  193 (The tender roots had barely sunk into his land when they took him to plant him in remote moors The forced graft hides only the humours that nourish it with ancient memories and offers beautiful bitter fruits.)

The impossibility of not feeling different in a foreign land is a reality that Bastianutti experiences himself and gives rise to that constant pain he needs to confront. Bastianutti’s second collection, La barca in secco (The boat in dry dock), covers many more years than the previous one that, as Gilardino points out, “seemed to exhaust itself in the experiences of just a two-year period.”12 Gilardino also notes that this collection further validates Bastianutti’s vocation for poetry as, in his intimate search within himself, he advances various and different perspectives. In this collection, Bastianutti intertwines four different themes: Love, the existential search, considerations on the present, and philosophical inquiry.13 Bastianutti opens the volume with his own author’s note (“Nota dell’autore,” 5–7), in which he explains what motivated him to write these poems and repeats his need to bear witness, with his poetry, to the “desire to fix in memory a cry enclosed in stone that asks to be liberated, recognized.”14 The history of the Julian-Dalmatian exodus appears as a complex phenomenon that sinks its roots in the first post-war period, comes through the Fascist period and the process of cultural genocide carried out by Fascism in those areas,15 World War II, international postwar politics, the persecutions, threats, foibe (mountain crevasses into which victims were thrown), and murders of those times, to which one must add the feelings of fear fed by episodes of violence against the local Italian population who refused to share in Yugoslavia’s wartime Communism.16 All these factors give birth to a literature of witnessing that searches the fields of memory in order to bring back to life,

194  Corinna Gerbaz Giuliano

through the written word, values and ideas that might otherwise fall into oblivion. The exodus of the Italian population in the Gulf of Kvarner stretched from 1943 to 1956. The result of this imposing phenomenon was the near-total elimination of an Italian presence in the area. In the word of Marino Micich, “The exceptional migratory phenomenon from Istria and the Adriatic lands, not rendered official by a specific expulsion decree (as was the case for Germans in Czechoslovakia, Romania, Yugoslavia, Poland, and other places in eastern Europe, or, more recently, of Italians in Libya), was defined, using a biblical term, a true and actual exodus because it involved an entire population, every social group, and not a fragmented collection of individuals.”17 The term “exodus” is still subject to falsifications and misunderstandings even though there is evidence of a new open-mindedness among historians from various countries. But not enough, since the matter of the exodus from the lands on the Adriatic is still not very present in Italian history manuals.18 The only way to combat misunderstandings and various types of manipulation is through memory. To set up a memory path that seeks to remember the past of an individual and, by extension, of the people to which that individual belongs becomes the antidote necessary to fight against falsifications and bias. As Paul Jedlowski notes, “The terrain of memory is dynamic, conflictual, a place where memories do not lie static in succession, […] but are tied to emotions, memberships, judgments, values, interests.”19 Before becoming a collective patrimony, the memory path requires specific temporal and spatial conditions. The principle of “collective memory,” as defined by Maurice Halbwachs as the basis and expressions of the identity of a group that interprets the past, comes into effect: Every collective memory requires the support of a group delimited in space and time. The totality of past events can be put together in a single record only by separating them from the memory of the groups who preserved them and by severing the bonds that held them close to the psychological life of the social milieus where they occurred, while retaining only the group’s chronological and spatial outline of them. This procedure no longer entails restoring them to lifelike reality but requires relocating them within the frameworks with which history organizes events. These frameworks are external to these groups and define them by mutual contrast.20

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For Halbwachs, it is the group’s obligation to create collective memory, and it is through a common history founded on a common memory that the identity of the group is formed. Diego Bastianutti is aware of this and in his mind knows that he needs to aim for common memories: he rolls up his sleeves and acts by writing, so that “from every verse I write, I hope to find what I feel is missing in me, something I never had and should have had since childhood. A void that tortures me. A void left by a life nearly not lived by me, but only acted out.”21 In the poem “Riprendere la strada” (Picking up the road again), Ba­ stianutti relives the past: Non più ombre che si appressano né più fantasmi Solo sfuggevoli atti e parole nel pieno senso presente E solo riprendo la strada libero di essere con te. (La barca in secco, 30) (No longer as shadows that draw near nor more ghosts but as just fleeting acts and words in the full sense of the present And I just pick up the road free to be with you.)

In the poem “Vorrei cantarlo” (“I’d Like to Sing”), the poet measures himself against that dimension of pain that is a constant in his writings: Si alza il giorno che la mia lunga notte ancora non è spenta, e ne vedo i sulfurici bagliori arrossare la glauca luce mattutina

The new day begins as my long night has not yet ended and already I see flashes rouge the pale morning

196  Corinna Gerbaz Giuliano Oh, se quel biancore mi desse l’amnesia del male che rode ogni domani …

If only that pallor would grant me the amnesia for the grief that gnaws all my tomorrows

Intanto il pallido viola respira e ascolta contro i vetri il canto mio muto.

And while the livid purple breathes against the window panes I listen to my muted song.22

But the amnesia of the pain does not materialize, and the poet continues along the path of his existence, looking to find some firm footing. He finds it in the woman he loves, so much so that he recognizes himself in her: Mi riconosco negli occhi tuoi lustri di tanto silenzio e dolore e nel calar le palpebre ti celi ancor meno. (La barca in secco, 48) (I recognize myself in your eyes radiant with so much silence and pain and in the lowering of your eyelids you hide yourself even less.)

There is no lack of moments of confusion and inability to stitch the shreds of one’s identity that bring the poet to that metaphysical relief (“Sollievo metafisico”) that “empties in the vomit / all my piled up / nausea” (La barca in secco, 42; scarica nel vomito / tutta la mia nausea / accumulata). The last poem in the collection La barca in secco touches once again on that solid link that ties literature to the problem of eradication and exile. It is an “inscrutable but very solid tie […] Inscrutable because the suffering caused by the stigma of absence lies very hidden in the poet’s spirit, and often the trauma of the loss of one’s own Motherland, one’s city, one’s self proves to be elusive for those who have not suffered it.”23 Its verses can be seen as a “closing harangue that is poetically very effective, with its full-open song and its rich, dense images that recall implied metaphors.”24 Bastianutti’s full-open song continues in his third collection, the bilingual Per un Pugno di Terra/For a Fistful of Soil. It is best to start our

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analysis with Bastianutti’s own words from the launch of the book at the Italian Cultural Institute in Vancouver on 11 October 2008: “The book I am presenting tonight, Per un Pugno di Terra/For a Fistful of Soil, represents what could be defined as ‘closure,’ the laying of a stone on a phase of my life. The volume is divided into four parts, each representing a critical and formative phase of my life. The title of the collection becomes evident in the last section, there where I finally accept this (Canada) as my land.”25 It is, once again, the Land, sought and found, which is now identified with the Canadian land and as his own, that becomes the turning point of his existential quest. The book is divided into four thematic sections: “Terramara” (Bitterland), “Non più solo” (No longer alone), “Il Complesso di Anteo” (The Antaeus Complex), and “Senza più confini” (No longer with borders), which are tied to the feelings of Love that Bastianutti never renounces – “Love … love for life and land, love for being a human being without distinctions.”26 Anna Foschi Ciampolini points out that in the collection there are the universal themes of the journey, real and metaphorical, of loss and of the difficult reacquisition of an identity, the futility of seeking answers to questions that perhaps are beyond human understanding but are also the stimulus of existence: Now he is filled / with the bitter suspicion / that in the puzzle / the Author has planted / an error / that renders impossible / any solution. (From: The Crossword Puzzle). We find bloody images, drawn in bold strokes, and we find moments that reveal a profound, delicate sentiment: I threw myself in you / to know you / and the ripple ring / has yet to rebound / from your shoes (To Know You).27

In the poem “Il dono” (“The Gift”), Bastianutti writes: Il serpente si avvinghia attorno al mio melo e mi offre la parola

The serpent coils around my apple tree and offers me the word.28

For the Italian-Canadian poet, the gift resides in the word, in the ability to bear witness, in his contribution to not forgetting. Through the word, which is an unquestionable gift of inestimable value, Bastianutti narrates his personal story and, inevitably, makes himself the spokesman of a larger narrative, the collective story. In “Il Rinvio” (“The

198  Corinna Gerbaz Giuliano

Stay”) Bastianutti still feels that void inside of him that tears him apart and seeks di riscattare una vita rinviando l’ultimo respiro.

to reclaim life from death by staying my last breadth. (Per un Pugno, 36 and 37)

Bastianutti does not want, nor is he able, to disentangle himself from that “unghia del dolore” (40 and 41; grief’s nail) that grips him, but the need to confront, head-on, that ripping torment that does not leave him in peace materializes in the poem “Il sorriso” (“The Smile”); in a symbolic gesture Bastianutti cuts the branch that no longer bears flowers: Poi deciso mi taglio il ramo su cui s’era avvinto ché fiore ormai non dava.

Then unflinching I hack the branch to which it’s coiled for it will never flower.

(Per un Pugno, 52 and 53)

The entire second part of the collection is focused on the theme of Love. Many are the poems dedicated to the woman he loves that become veritable hymns to love (see “Yatagàn”/”Yataghan” in Per un Pugno, 90–1). Among the other poems in the collection, the most incisive and touching is “Meticcio” (“Mestizo”), in which the poet strikes a pact with himself and finally agrees to stop the vortex that had led him to the exhausting quest for his Land. Accepting the idea that he belongs to the land that is Canada is, for Bastianutti, an achievement: L’autunno graffia come un gatto alla porta Like a cat autumn scratches at the door e lame di acciaio sfregiano i vetri and steel knives slash against the windows mentre su carta paziente while on paper patiently cerco di mettere ordine I try to recompose the milestones alle pietre miliari che diano una misura that might give a measure del bambino che fui e dell’uomo che sono of the child I was and the man I am

Land, Sea, and the Search for Oneself  199 Ho imparato ad amare quel ragazzino I’ve learned to love that boy e non rinnego più con vergogna no longer do I disown in shame le sue piccole speranze, paure, scelte. his small hopes, fears and choices. Voglio prenderlo per mano ora I want to hold his hand now e guidarlo lungo il percorso and walk along the road che ci separa which divides us In un mondo e tempo lontani altri lo tenne per mano in tasca gli mise un pugno di terra da portare là in esilio …

In a distant world and time someone else held his hand and gave him a handful of soil to take there in exile …

… in esilio, qua … dove la luce è schiacciata in vertigine orrizontale fra cielo e terra qua dove la vita si inserisce tra minima eredità di orecchie e ancor meno memoria di bocca

here, in exile, where light is crushed in level vertigo between earth and sky here where life happens between trivial heredity of ears and even less memory of mouth

Fra tolleranza malcelata e radici a fior di pelle ottenne amore e successo a caro prezzo, ma alla fine non riuscì a negare il richiamo della sua terra: abbandonò famiglia e carriera per rifuggire una lenta agonia e riscoprire la vita interrotta.

So amid ill-concealed sufferance and skin-deep roots came love and success at high price, but in the end he could not deny the call of his father’s land. He abandoned family and career to escape a slow agony and rediscover his interrupted life.

Ora, rientrato in questa terra di mia libera scelta con la compagna per mano sereno lascio scivolare dall’altra quel misero pugno di terra

Now, having returned to this land of my own free will, hand in hand with my love happily I let run through my fingers the handful of that other soil

Con la pace in tasca la luna e il sole mi sorridono per ogni dove e ormai faccio parte del futuro per quel che sono: un meticcio.

With a pocketful of peace the moon and the sun will smile upon me in any land now and I’m part of the future because of what I am: a mestizo.29

200  Corinna Gerbaz Giuliano

After so many journeys and in the awareness of feeling himself to be a mestizo, of being the bearer of a dual identity, Bastianutti accepts himself and feels that he has found his Land in the country that welcomed him and let him come to know Love. In a sea of turmoil and pain, Bastianutti has found his own self, his land, and love. In this chaos of uncertainties, the poet has found his rock – it is the certainty represented by the sea. For the poet, “the sea is the only constant that has remained untouched by ideologies, by cultural supremacies, by the vain ambitions of spirits affected with postmodern bulimia.”30 The sea translates into a feeling of freedom. In his love for the sea, his letting himself be rocked by the waves, his losing himself in the horizon, Bastianutti tastes ultimate freedom. For him, love for the sea can be compared to love for a woman. For Marisa Madieri, too, the forerunner of literature of the esodo written by women, the love for water symbolizes freedom, the rock from which to launch the process of examining a difficult past so as to approach the future with serenity. Madieri and Bastianutti travel on similar roads: they consciously entrust themselves to their destinies as exiles, a destiny they simply cannot escape, and blindly believe that their only lifeline is to be found in the inexhaustible force of Love. Recalling Jean-Paul Sartre’s analysis of literature in his What Is Literature?, it seems essential to ask what it really means to write about exile. Why have esuli and rimasti felt the need to write and recount their experiences, finding in memory, in particular, a definite shared space? By considering writing as the best way to safeguard memory, one builds the foundations that will allow this literature to become a site for identity reconstruction. In the final analysis, for whom does an author write? The goal is to pass on the anthropological patrimony of this literature, its language, culture, history, and traditions. The great lesson Bastianutti teaches us is based exactly on these premises. His contribution to the literature of witnessing is a voice that joins the choir of writers and intellectuals who have believed in the formative function of memory. In drawing to a close this survey of Diego Bastianutti’s poetry on the search for his Land, his identity, his love for the sea, we must mention his actual, physical return to his native city. It took place during the Primo Incontro Mondiale dei Fiumani (First World Meeting of Fiumani) held in Rijeka/Fiume in June 2013. His direct contact with the changed reality of his native city allowed him to take that extra step into his search for himself. On that occasion, Bastianutti was able to find the

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answers to the myriad of questions that lay hidden for such a long time in the depth of his spirit: There, I had had to wait to find myself once again in Fiume for this marvellous meeting of Fiumani in the world in order to feel myself wrapped for the first time in an overwhelming feeling of belonging and to understand profoundly what it meant for me to be a Fiumano. To be surrounded by so many Fiumani, esuli and rimasti, old and young, all mirror images of an I that was lost for many years, let me sink into my subconscious and decipher the complex code, and then to return to the surface with the “joy” of understanding, of acceptance of my fiumanità [Fiumanness]. I was in a family! There is Fiume, and now I am, too.31

With the acceptance of his fiumanità, with the admission of belonging to a Canadian world, with his release from trauma and turmoil, Diego Bastianutti looks out over the immensity of the sea that sustains every one of his thoughts, closes the circle, and finds serenity in his dual identity. NOTES   1 For the esodo, see Petacco, Tragedy Revealed. For the dynamics between esuli and rimasti, see Turcinovich Giuricin’s article, ch. 1 above. See also Giuricin and Giuricin, La comunità nazionale italiana.   2 “Estraniato, per poter sopravvivere almeno socialmente, dovetti costruirmi un ‘falso’ me, caratterizzato dalla mancanza di autenticità nei rapporti con gli altri e con me stesso. Fui costretto da subito a indossare un’altra identità, usando il nome ‘Louis’ anziché Diego, per evitare scontri spiacevoli di carattere razzista. Era una forma di falso ‘innesto’ in quella nuova cultura, che mi permise di integrarmi senza mai esserne assimilato. Fu una maschera che portai per moltissimi anni per proteggere le braci di genuina identità sotterrate nel profondo del mio animo. Fu solo col mio secondo matrimonio che riuscii a togliere la maschera, sentendomi finalmente compreso.” (Bastianutti, “La mia fiumanità,” 3) Bastianutti married Giusy Oddo in 1989. Unless otherwise indicated, all translations are by Konrad Eisenbichler.   3 “Diego Bastianutti è partito da Fiume con la sua famiglia che era solo un bambino: l’Italia come prima meta in quella Liguria che aveva accolto tante genti di Fiume e dalle isole quarnerine e poi il miraggio o sogno americano dove ha sentito sulla sua pelle tutto il peso del ‘diverso,’ del

202  Corinna Gerbaz Giuliano ragazzo che conteneva già nella contrazione del suo nome una specie di ingiuria o bestemmia che dir si voglia nel rigido mondo anglosassone, quel ‘dego’ che ha dovuto cambiare per un po’ di tempo diventando un Louis o Paul o Richard non ha importanza, ma fuori dal proprio ‘io.’ Sono queste prove di un ragazzo arrabbiato che l’hanno spinto a proseguire una strada non facile ma percorribile per la sua vivace intelligenza, la sua capacità di spiegare all’altro che cosa significhi la vita.” (Turcinovich Giuricin, “Diego Bastianutti”)   4 “Il richiamo della famiglia era più forte del richiamo della Patria. Per l’esule, infatti, la Patria appartiene al passato, è qualcosa che sta dietro, e non davanti, è un qualcosa da cui si viene, non a cui si va; e per questo il ritorno in Patria è impossibile.” Eisenbichler, “Un fiumano d’oltreoceano,” 117.   5 “Disarcionata fiducia nell’armonia dell’esistenza e nella provvidenza che dovrebbe reggerla.” Gilardino “La poesia,” 8.   6 “Ben soppesati dell’esilio e del continuo abbarbicarsi a terre e ad ambienti nuovi.” Ibid., 8.   7 Ibid., 95.   8 “Per Bastianutti il distacco da Fiume è uno strazio incomprensibile, qualcosa che non riesce a superare; lo vede come un punto caduto nella maglia della sua esistenza.” Eisenbichler, “Un fiumano d’oltreoceano,” 115.   9 “Entro quali coordinate si trovava a operare il poeta.” Gilardino “La poesia,” 95. 10 Anna Maria Zampieri Pan, “Intervista a Diego Bastianutti,” Il Messaggero di Sant’Antonio di Padova, May 2010, www.bibliosofia.net/Bastianutti_-_ Intervista.pdf, 1, (translation) 4. 11 “Per me Fiume è quindi diventata ‘la città dei sogni,’ ‘la città della memoria.’ Ma la memoria tende a creare una città ideale che non è mai esistita, una città dove ci sarebbe piaciuto vivere.” Ibid., [1], translation [4]. 12 “Abbraccia molti più anni della prima raccolta, che sembrava esaurirsi nelle esperienze di un solo biennio.” Gilardino, “A mo’ di postfazione,” 102. 13 Ibid. 14 “La mia poesia altro non è che desiderio di fissare nel ricordo, un grido rinchiuso nella pietra che chiede di essere liberato, riconosciuto.” Bastianutti, La barca in secco, 5 15 On the program of “cultural genocide” carried out by the Fascist regime in Istria and the Kvarner, see Ara and Magris, Trieste. 16 On the violence against the local Italian population, see Petacco, Tragedy Revealed. 17 “L’eccezionale fenomeno migratorio dall’Istria e dalle terre adriatiche, non ufficializzato da un preciso decreto di espulsione (come avvenne per

Land, Sea, and the Search for Oneself  203 i tedeschi in Cecoslovacchia, Romania, Jugoslavia, Polonia e altre terre dell’Europa orientale, oppure in epoca più recente per gli italiani in Libia), fu definito, usando un vocabolo di ascendenza biblica, un vero e proprio esodo, perché coinvolse un intero popolo, ogni gruppo sociale e non un semplice insieme frammentato di individui.” Micich, “L’esodo,” 81. 18 See Stelli, “Le ragioni.” 19 “Il terreno della memoria è dinamico, conflittuale, un luogo in cui i ricordi non giacciono statici in successione, […] ma sono legati ad affetti, appartenenze, giudizi, valori, interessi.” Jedlowsky and Rampazi, Il senso del passato, 9. 20 Halbwachs, Collective Memory, 84. 21 “Da ogni verso che scrivo, spero di trovare ciò che sento mancare in me, qualcosa di mai avuto e che avrei dovuto avere dall’infanzia. Un vuoto che mi tortura. Un vuoto lasciato da una vita quasi non vissuta da me, ma solo recitata.” Bastianutti, La barca in secco, 7. 22 Bastianutti, La barca in secco, 45. The poem appears also in Per un Pugno di Terra//For a Fistful of Soil, 76 –7, with Bastianutti’s own English translation, which we transcribe here. 23 “Imperscrutabile ma saldissimo legame […] Imperscrutabile perché gelosamente nascosta è nell’animo del poeta la sofferenza causata dallo stigma dell’assenza, e spesso inafferrabile risulta essere, per chi non lo ha subito, il trauma della perdita della propria patria, della città, dell’io.” La Redazione, “La letteratura dell’esodo,” 9. 24 “Un’arringa conclusionale poeticamente assai reddittizia, con il suo canto spiegato e le sue immagini ricche, dense, che rimandano a metafore sottese.” Gilardino, “A mo’ di postfazione,” 106. 25 “Il libro che presento stasera, Per un pugno di terra/For a Fistful of Soil rappresenta ciò che si potrebbe definire ‘closure’ (conclusione), mettere una pietra sopra una fase della mia vita. Il volume si articola in quattro parti, e ciascuna rappresenta una fase critica e formativa della mia vita. Il titolo della raccolta viene messo in chiaro nell’ultima parte, là dove accetto finalmente questa (Canada) come la mia terra.” Bastianutti, “Presentiamo,” 3. 26 “L’Amore …, amore per la vita e la terra, amore per l’essere umano senza distinzioni.” Ibid. 27 “I temi universali del viaggio, reale e metaforico, della perdita e della sofferta riconquista di una identità, la futilità del cercare risposte ad interrogativi che forse trascendono la capacità umana ma che sono anche lo stimolo dell’esistenza: Penosa lo invade / ora la sensazione / che nel cruciverba / l’Autore abbia inserito / un errore / che ne rende impossibile /

204  Corinna Gerbaz Giuliano la soluzione. (Da: Il cruciverba). Troviamo immagini sanguigne, disegnate a tratti robusti, e troviamo momenti che rivelano un profondo, delicato sentimento: Mi sono lanciato in te / per conoscerti / e il cerchio dell’onda / non è ancora tornato / dalle tue sponde. (Conoscerti).” Foschi Ciampolini, “Scrittori italo-canadesi.” 28 Bastianutti, Per un Pugno, 22 and 23. Here and in the poems from this collection that follow, English translations are taken from Bastianutti’s own English translations in the volume. 29 Ibid., 224–7. The extra verse in the final stanza of the English version is in the text. 30 “Il mare è l’unica costante rimasta intoccata da ideologie, da supremazie culturali, da vane ambizioni di animi affetti dalla bulimia postmoderna.” Bastianutti, “Presentiamo,” 4. 31 “Ecco, avevo dovuto aspettare di ritrovarmi a Fiume per questo meraviglioso incontro di Fiumani del mondo, per sentirmi avvolto per la prima volta da un sentimento travolgente di appartenenza, e capire profondamente cosa significava per me essere Fiumano. L’essere attorniato da tanti Fiumani, esuli e rimasti, vecchi e giovani, tutti un’immagine speculare di un io perso per tanti anni, mi fece calare nel mio subcosciente a decifrare il complesso codice, per poi risalire a galla con la ‘gioia’ della comprensione, della accettazione della mia fiumanità. Ero in famiglia! Fiume c’è, e ora ci sono anch’io.” Bastianutti, “La mia fiumanità,” 5.

Cited Works Ara, Angelo, and ClaudioMagris. Trieste: Un’identità di frontiera. Turin: Einaudi, 1987. Bastianutti, Diego. Il punto caduto. Laval, PQ: Monfort & Villeroy, 1993. –  La barca in secco. Creative Writings Series 5. Ottawa: Legas, 1995. –  Per un Pugno di Terra//For a Fistful of Soil. Magenta: Zeisciu, 2006. –  “La mia fiumanità: Un’esperienza personale.” BiblioSofia. Accessed 18 March 2017. http://www.bibliosofia.net/LA_MIA_FIUMANITA_DB.pdf. –  “Presentiamo: Diego Bastianutti; Profilo/Profile; Nomade; Il mare; Ma guarda un po’ dove siamo finiti!” BiblioSofia. Accessed 18 March 2017. http://www.bibliosofia.net/Bastianutti_-_Presentazione.pdf. Eisenbichler, Konrad. “Un fiumano d’oltreoceano: Gianni Angelo Grohovaz.” La Battana 160 (2006): 103–21. Foschi Ciampolini, Anna. “Scrittori italo-canadesi: Diego Bastianutti; Poesie come specchio dell’esistenza: Per un Pugno di Terra.” BiblioSofia. Accessed 18 March 2017. http://www.bibliosofia.net/files/pugno_di_terra_recensione. htm.

Land, Sea, and the Search for Oneself  205 Gilardino, Sergio Maria. “A mo’ di postfazione: L’opera poetica di Diego Bastinutti, ‘l’òm ch’a sȅrcava l’òr ant la nita.’” In Bastianutti, La barca in secco, 83–108. –  “La poesia di Diego Bastianutti,” In Bastianutti, Per un Pugno, 8–12. Giuricin, Ezio, and Luciano Giuricin. La comunità nazionale italiana. Vol. 1, Storia e istituzioni degli italiani dell’Istria, Fiume e Dalmazia (1944–2006). Vol. 2, Documenti (1944–2006). Etnia 10. Rovinj: Centro di Ricerche Storiche di Rovigno, 2008. Halbwachs, Maurice. The Collective Memory. Translated by Francis J. Ditter, Jr and Vida Jazdi Ditter. New York: Harper & Row, 1980. Jedlowsky, Paul, and Margherita Rampazi, eds. Il senso del passato: Per una sociologia della memoria. Milan: Franco Angeli, 1991. La Redazione. “La letteratura dell’esodo fra sradicamento e persistenza.” In “Letteratura dell’esodo,” special issue, La Battana 97–8 (1990): 9–11. Micich, Marino. “L’esodo dell’Istria, Fiume e Zara (1943–1958) e l’accoglienza in Italia.” In Istria, Fiume, Dalmazia laboratorio d’Europa: Parole chiave per la cittadinanza, edited by Dino Renato Nardelli and Giovanni Stelli, 75–100. Foligno: ISUC, Editoriale Umbra, 2009. Petacco, Arrigo. A Tragedy Revealed: The Story of the Italian Population from Istria, Dalmatia, and Venezia Giulia, 1943–1956. Translated by Konrad Eisenbichler. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2005. Stelli, Giovanni. “Le ragioni di una rimozione storica.” La Battana 112 (1994): 39–62. Turcinovich Giuricin, Rosanna. “Diego Bastianutti premiato alla decima edizione di ‘Trieste scritture di frontiera’: Peregrinare in cerca di quella casa che sarebbe dovuta essere Fiume.” La Voce del Popolo 2272, 29 May 2008, http://www.editfiume.com/archivio/lavoce/2008/080529/cultura.htm.

8 The Poetry of Exile: An Interview with Diego Bastianutti h enr y v eggian

Diego Bastianutti’s writings are shaped by a long and difficult dialogue with an experience he shared with hundreds of thousands of Italian citizens and ethnic Italians. These are the Italians who left, as exiles, the cities of Fiume and Zara, the former Italian province of Istria, the islands in the Gulf of Kvarner, and parts of the coast of Dalmatia. That community, which is distinctly Venetian in its history, language, and culture, has now been scattered across the globe. Many tens of thousands emigrated to Australia, South America, South Africa, and North America respectively, while others remained in Europe. Some even chose (if they had a choice) to remain as esuli (exiles) in Italy. Whether distant or close to the lands, homes, and families they had lost, they all carried with them a terrible sense of loss and a memory equally as strong. The distinct history of the city of Fiume, and to some degree Bastianutti’s career, must be understood in relation to the broader history of the region and the exodus of most of its Italian population in the wake of World War II. I would caution, however, that Bastianutti’s career should not be wholly explained by it, even though that separation, at times nostalgic, at other times critical, is a frequent topic in the interview we are now publishing. What is that history? And how should one contend with it? As for the first question, most historians agree that the crisis that largely emptied the northeastern Adriatic coast of its Italian population was precipitated by Winston Churchill. It was Churchill who insisted (with Soviet consent and American dissent) that the Italian province of Istria be ceded to Marshal Josip Broz “Tito” and the Communist partisans who assisted the Allies during the war.1 As a result, the Dalmatian region to the south of Istria and, with it, the city of Fiume were absorbed

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into the former Yugoslavia. Looking further back, others note that tensions between Slavs and Italians had been stoked since the Napoleonic era by the Habsburg Empire and were merely renewed with World War II.2 Others look still further into the past, to the Venetian and Roman Empires that had ruled the Adriatic coasts for centuries, to explain the region’s Italic culture.3 The long view thus regards the persistent yet vestigial shaping force of empires, while the more recent modern view looks to the end of the two world wars as the culmination and ruin, respectively, of the republican ambitions of the Risorgimento. As such, the modern view regards Italian republican ambitions as having been long thwarted by the Austro-Hungarians and later perverted into rabid nationalism by Mussolini during the post–World War I era, when the southwestern territories of the Habsburgs became the northeastern provinces of Italy’s modern state. It was then that the former Italian subjects of the Habsburgs became Italian citizens, if only for the quarter century or so that followed World War I. In the end, the majority of these Italians were forced to escape the brutal enterprise of Tito’s antiItalian reprisals, during which tens of thousands were executed and thrown into the mountain crevasses (foibe) of Istria, and hundreds of thousands fled the region. The Italian phrase generally used to categorize the diverse Italian peoples of the northern Adriatic is giuliano-dalmati, or Julian-Dalmatians, a term that refers to the regions of Venezia Giulia (of which Istria, a distinct province, was also a part), the city of Fiume, the islands of the Gulf of Kvarner (Cherso and Lussino in particular), and the city of Zara on the Dalmatian coast (with some of its surrounding territory). The esodo (exodus), as it is known, of this Italian population remains a seldom-discussed episode of post–World War II European history. It is seldom discussed because few post-war Italian intellectuals addressed or even acknowledged that large Italic population, settled along the eastern Adriatic coast for millennia, that was forced to choose exile over repression, harassment, and death. At the same time, the political Left in Italy disdained the exiles as traitors, while the Right regarded them as necessary victims of a vicious cause. For decades the very mention of the exodus incurred the wrath of the Italian Communist Party, even as Italian refugees filled camps by the tens of thousands every year. Only recently, beginning in the late 1990s, did something of a reckoning with this episode take place in Italy. Beyond the borders of Italy, it is an even less well-known story, while among North Americans, and even the large populations whose Italian ancestors emigrated to North

208  Henry Veggian

America by the millions, it remains largely unknown. One recent and notable reference to their existence by Italian-American scholars was the inclusion of Gianni Grohovaz (1926–), an Italian poet from Fiume, in Luigi Bonafino and Joseph Perricone’s anthology Poets of the Italian Diaspora: A Bilingual Anthology (399–409). I note this not only for the rarity of the occasion but also to begin moving closer to a discussion of Diego Bastianutti’s poetry. The inclusion of Grohovaz’s poetry in Bonafino and Perricone’s anthology raises a number of questions as to how to properly situate Bastianutti’s poetry. A critical reading of that context permits me to draw distinctions that will help to introduce the interview. The anthology’s title invokes Donna Gabaccia’s borrowing of the key word “diaspora” from the field of critical race studies, a term she reformulated vis-à-vis Italian emigration.4 In Gabaccia’s rendering, the term offers a global paradigm for the study of Italian migration, a phenomenon the book renders as largely voluntary; by extension, Bonafino and Perricone frame Italian literatures and writers outside of Italy along a “diasporic” trajectory. As such, the term serves a dual purpose: on the one hand, it helps to explain emigration from Italy along current theoretical trajectories (not to mention biblical ones), while on the other hand it detaches the study of a people, or its literature, from the nation-state, its canons, and history. By exporting the term, Bonafino and Perricone acknowledge furthermore that many Italian immigrants and their descendants have written a literature distinct from that found in modern Italy; consider, for instance, the more famous examples of American writers of Italian descent such as Don DeLillo, Mario Puzo, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Helen Barolini, and Pietro di Donato. These examples remind us that a great variety of Italian experiences can be rendered within the single category of “diasporic” Italian-American literature or Italian-Canadian literature. Many of the Italian-American writers I mentioned reflect upon Italy, immigration from it, and its immigrants, yet in adopting the language and literary modalities of the new country, each writer transforms it in some irreversible manner. In this view, the very act of writing is an act of separation. And if there is separation, there must have been a departure and an implied arrival. The problem of exile, which is generally concurrent with the legal and emotional trauma of becoming a refugee, considerably complicates the paradigmatic notion of a “voluntary” diaspora. The JulianDalmatian literature written by post-war Italian exiles is often oriented to the trauma of a forced separation from the motherland, but it does

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not necessarily embrace a new destination. This is not to say that the exiles are unassimilated or ungrateful – indeed the opposite is true – but that literary works written by exiles appear suspended between worlds, never fully embracing the literature of the new country (even when, as citizens, they do). Take for example the poetry of Gianni Angelo Grohovaz in the anthology noted above. The poet writes in a precisely rendered Istro-Venetian dialect that fulminates against both Italy and Yugoslavia. It may have been written anywhere on earth (in Grohovaz’s case, in Canada), but it could only have been written by a person forcibly displaced from his hometown and post–World War II Italy. Just as one cannot imagine Puzo’s fiction without New York City, one cannot imagine Grohovaz’s poetry without Fiume. As such, the writers of the Julian-Dalmatian exodus remain distinctly Italian, in that they belong to and write within the parameters of a national language and literature, even if theirs is a nation that no longer exists in the form they experienced it before the war. Can one apply a globalizing qualifier such as “diasporic” to a people who refuses to equate its physical location with the locus of its art? At this point, one might proceed to distinguish between Bastianutti’s poetry and that of Grohovaz – the first writes in Italian, the second in dialect; one takes a philosophical view, the other is profoundly angry, etc. – but that is another enterprise. A larger issue is at stake, and it is the matter of how to distinguish the art from its milieu in ways that do not reduce the one to the other. When categories such as “Italian diaspora” are applied to literature, the phrase equates art with a rather literal social phenomenon. As is often the case – at least for the most interesting writers – the opposite is true in that their art is not representative of a “real” condition; it instead complicates that condition, refusing to be wholly absorbed into a homogenous scheme of things. An individual and a population are distinct entities, the former unique, the latter amorphous. And since it is essential to humanistic inquiry that the two never be entirely confused, I found it necessary to compose and conduct the interview below in a manner that would retain the relationship between the individual person and a community of people, and in such a way that communicated the dramatic, yet often unspoken, dialogues between them. In shaping my questions, I followed the argument of the late Edward W. Said, who recognized that exile and nationalism are not continuous modes of being. “Exiles,” he writes, “are cut off from their roots, their land, their past” (“Reflections on Exile,” 177). Citing “the Jews, Palestinians and Armenians” as examples, Said

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elaborates how the political predicament of longing for a lost state can sour into nationalism, but also how it can become a seemingly permanent homelessness. Here, in recognition of that homelessness, exile is again bifurcated in those rare instances where it is transmuted into rigorous thought and art. Said invokes the names of Vladimir Nabokov, James Joyce, Simone Weil, Theodore Adorno, and Rashid Hussein to show that the individual condition of exile is not always continuous with that of the exiled community and that the exiled writer is a particularly rare being. Therein, where the exception would seem to rule the dialogue, lay a trap that I sought to avoid by conducting an interview rather than composing an essay about Bastianutti’s writings: if the artist is twice removed – once from the nation and again from the exiled community – then can it be said that an artist “represents” a community in exile? Said implies the problem when he warns that the “literature of exile” does not encompass all of the “territories” of exile (“Reflections on Exile,” 175). Yet, here I diverged somewhat from Said in my reasoning, in so far as my questions presume that poetry is most capable not only of mapping those territories but also of expanding them. In presuming this, I worked from the assumption that poetry is a particularly difficult mode in which the communal and individual, historical and personal simultaneously inhabit language, thereby placing the reader in contact with the materiality of the exile’s perception and memory of the physical world. In sum, I sought to ask questions that avoided equating poet and poetry with mere identification. And so, in the questions that follow, I do not claim that Bastianutti entirely “represents” a community in exile. I presume, instead, that it is for this very reason – because his poetry appears as an intimate distancing – that it most effectively articulates the conditions of an exile, and perhaps exile as a more general condition of the late-modern world, while retaining unique, individual properties. Yet, there is also the matter of Bastianutti’s publications with which to contend, and these suggest scholarship and reading that extend far beyond the more local concerns of an Adriatic people. Bastianutti’s early publications consist primarily of scholarly writings. These were published for the most part during the roughly quarter century when he worked as a professor of Spanish at Queen’s University in Kingston, Canada (1970–97). Notable scholarly works of this period include research on Spanish and Italian literatures, the most well known being his award-winning translation of the poetry of Giuseppe Ungaretti and

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an annotated scholarly edition of La niñez del Padre Roxas (The childhood of Father Roxas), a play by the seventeenth-century Spanish playwright Lope de Vega. Understood along this academic trajectory, Bastianutti shares an important cultural bond with other Julian-Dalmatians who worked as scholars, teachers, and cultural ambassadors not only in their respective scholarly fields but also with and on behalf of the Italian communities from Venezia Giulia and Dalmatia. Bastianutti’s diplomatic work as honorary vice-consul of Italy in Kingston (1977–94) is also significant, as it provided legal recourse and assistance to JulianDalmatians living in Canada. Yet, as we shall see, his familiarity with literatures in other traditions also opens unexpected avenues by which to approach and discuss his poems. While Bastianutti’s poetry is concerned with exile in this broader sense, it is a specifically Italian version of it, embedded in the literary culture of the nation, but also of its distinct regions. From the Travels of Marco Polo to the modern poetry of Umberto Saba, the Italians who inhabited the eastern Adriatic hold a special place in the history of modern Italian letters. Living on the edges of the Italic world, the region’s modern writers often looked upon Italy (as either an ideal or an actual nation-state) from the other side of an occupying power’s borders. The tumultuous shifts experienced by writers such as Umberto Saba and Italo Svevo (Aron Ettore Schmitz) writing in Trieste come to mind; they wrote primarily during the Habsburg rule only to find themselves Italian citizens after the annexation of Venezia Giulia to Italy following World War I. Less than one generation later, Pier Antonio Qua­ rantotti Gambini, who was born in Pisino d’Istria in 1910 (when it was still Austria), would find himself writing novels about Venezia Giulia from the Italian side of the redrawn post–World War II borders that, at Winston Churchill’s behest, placed the Italian Adriatic south of Trieste in Yugoslavia. Understood in this way, Quarantotti Gambini’s life begins as an Austro-Hungarian subject, continues as an Italian citizen of Istria during the first post-war era, and ends, after World War II, as an Italian refugee in Italy.5 My point is this: the region’s modern writers kept their literary culture alive through occupation, revolution, displacement, and exile many times over. Indeed, the region’s literary traditions are inseparable from these political shifts. More importantly, they have turned literature and language into a refuge from war, occupation, exile, and ethnic cleansing. At times, that literature has been a state more real than any actual state. It should come as little surprise that when the Julian-Dalmatian Italians fled into exile, they took the

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region’s literary traditions with them. The newsletters and magazines of the Julian-Dalmatian community in exile regularly published poetry (often in dialect). As noted earlier, Diego Bastianutti is not the community’s only poet. Bastianutti is, however, the only one of its poets to shape a poetry in explicit relationship to the aesthetic revolutions and ruptures of Italian literary modernity beyond the immediate cause of the exodus. Bastianutti’s decision to write poetry in the national language that was standardized, after Dante and at the behest of figures such as Manzoni, harnesses his poetry to modern Italian history.6 With that choice, his poems embody exile, with all the complication and commotion such embodiment entails, as both an individual poetic project and as a complex dialogue with the historical narratives of a displaced people and, beyond them, the living world of the present. Bastianutti has published four volumes of poetry to date, as well as many poems in small publications (and some in English). He continues to write poetry, to translate and write about it, and also to read it in public. In 2016, he collaborated with photographer Jon Guido Bertelli on a multimedia exhibit at the Italian Cultural Centre in Vancouver, in which his poetry was paired with Bertelli’s photographs; the exhibition was then remounted in April 2017 in Trieste, Italy, as part of the annual Literature and Poetry Festival and the awarding of the Thirteenth Annual “Castello di Duino” Poetry and Theatre Prize. In sum, his long and varied career continues and, at each step, avoids easy classification or “representative” status. A word about method: as my title indicates, I sought to pose questions that would engage the relationship between poetry and history. Using Dante’s figure of the poet in exile as a guide, I placed Bastianutti’s poetry and life along a continuum of poetic traditions. I did not wish to imply comparisons between poets but to engage exile as a figure and a state, or perhaps the poetic embodiment of a state, so as to remind readers of a vital relationship between poetry and the world. It is a relationship too easily and too often forgotten, and at too great a risk. This interview was conducted by email correspondence during the summer of 2016. I had not spoken with Diego Bastianutti in more than a decade, yet there was a long history of shared experience between us. I had met him when I was a young man still in college, when I often travelled to Canada to participate in the festivals, conferences, and life of our people. As a result, we were introduced on the occasion of the book release for Robert Buranello’s edited collection I Giuliano-Dalmati

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in Canada: Considerazioni ed immagini (1995), to which Bastianutti contributed two essays. He and I maintained a correspondence for some years and then lost touch; in this way, our correspondence might also invoke generational dynamics at work in the community. While preparing and conducting the interview, I sought whenever possible to make these dynamics into the substance of questions. If certain questions adopt a personal intonation, they do so self-consciously – this was part of a method that informed both the research and the composition of the material, as well as the interview process itself. While I might have attempted to hide behind the professional disguises of the interview genre, a mode with roots in the social-scientific aspirations of journalism, it became increasingly apparent that the formal pretense was best dispensed so as to permit a necessary candor. That candor was reciprocated in Diego Bastianutti’s correspondence. I thank him deeply for his generosity, particularly when responding to questions that invoked painful memories. Interview with the Poet 1. VEGGIAN: One of the peculiar features of the Julian-Dalmatian immigration to the Americas is that it is not widely recognized within the broader narrative of Italian migration to the hemisphere. This is due in part to the fact that the Italian immigrant community is diverse, and its long, complicated history overwhelms our story. In your author ’s note to La barca in secco [The boat in dry dock] you wrote that it is a history that exists only in the memory of a community and its individuals (p. 5). This is true, but it also places us in the position of being narrators: we often find ourselves explaining to Italians born into families from different Italian regions, with different migration histories, the terrible story of what happened to Istrian and Dalmatian Italians after World War II. Some are surprised by the facts of the exile and unaware that so many Italians were forced to emigrate to the Americas during that era. I wonder if you encountered this sense of being on the outside looking in. For example, you have described a “dual isolation” (p. 6) in so far as it is the experience of being an immigrant, but also an exile. I assume this implies the feeling of being left out of the narrative of two places – the Italian Adriatic, but also Italian Canada. Does it? BASTIANUTTI: It does indeed. During the fifteen years I spent in the US I felt very alienated as an Italian, let alone a Julian-Dalmatian

214  Henry Veggian exile. The general knowledge of geography and world history was quite limited in that society. Because of my good command of the English language with an American accent, I was often well accepted until I gave my name. In Canada I found a much better atmosphere, and certainly less of the oppressive patriotism prevalent in American society. A majority of immigrants belonged to the post-war influx. I must confess that from the moment I married in 1962, I became quite detached from anything related to my homeland or even to Italy. I was busy trying to survive with my family. I seemed to live in a suspended middle world, between the Anglo-Saxon society and the Spanish world of my courses, colleagues, and friends. Until, that is, I assumed my teaching duties at Queen’s University. There, when I was asked to develop the Italian program, I became fully immersed in the Italian world. A year later I launched the Queen’s University program in Venice, a first at any Canadian university. I also became a point of reference for the Italian community in Kingston. This reached its culmination with my appointment as honorary vice-consul of Italy for eastern Ontario in 1977.    The alienation I had felt in the US did not present itself in Canada. My positions as professor and vice-consul gave me a sufficient sense of being fully recognized as an Italian. Our Italianness, after all, was and is what is common to us all, regardless of our region of origin. And yet, I was more frustrated when having to explain my true identity and origins to Italians here in Canada or in Italy than to non-Italians, who were not even expected to know much about the history and culture of our country. Things changed radically for me in the 1990s when I became involved with the Julian-Dalmatian congresses and with the Boletin of the Club Giuliano-Dalmato of Toronto. This gave me a renewed sense of identity. I grew tired of claiming to be from Venice, simply because it is a city most people have heard of, though few are able to locate it. As a result, I often launched into a lesson in history and geography to whoever would listen, and often to Italians in general, but also to functionaries of the Italian State. Their knowledge of our events is woefully deficient. I have found that the single or dual sense isolation generally depends on how solid one’s sense of identity is. In short, we are as isolated as we allow ourselves to be. 2. VEGGIAN: While I hesitate to invoke the cliché of the artist as outsider, I

have to wonder if this sense of dual isolation played some role in your becoming a poet. Did it?

The Poetry of Exile  215 BASTIANUTTI: I had no one to share my feelings with and no one who could

have understood my anxieties, neither my wife nor my children. I was too far from my parents, and, besides, I would not have wanted to burden them with my problems. I hid my loneliness quite well under a proper social mask. My true inner core, my true identity went into what I would define as a deep sleep that even I was not aware of until someone special was able to open me up.    Some of my first expressions of alienation, typical of an outsider such as me, I entrusted to my art. I used art to indirectly convey deep feelings of being alone and not understood. I must say that this was done quite unconsciously, and it is only in the last few couple of years that, as I look at some of the various pieces I painted over the years, whether in oil, pastels, pen and ink, or clay, I realize that most of them convey the idea of escape from a threat, a feeling of being in the wrong place, or being held back against my will. It would be only much later that poetry would come into play, in the most absurd but beautiful way. 3. VEGGIAN: When did you first begin to read or write poetry? BASTIANUTTI: For me, poetry has always been enmeshed with music and

the plastic images. Music, the plastic arts, and poetry have always been interchangeable. Poetry was merely a piece of musical imagery. My poems never start with a definite idea, more a feeling than an idea, more an image than a concept, more an insistent rhythm, a melody. The starting point is much like a grain of sand in a seashell, often it has nothing to do with the final product. From that initial grain the phrases and verses flow naturally, each following the other, in a crescendo, and I do not know where they will lead. Then, suddenly, it’s all there, every image, every thought, every metaphor linked in a logical sequence leading to a final multiple interpretation.    The musical and rhythmic elements are a constant presence in my everyday life, they accompany my every breath even now as I write this. It is difficult for me not to transform any object I see into an image of something quite different, yet the same in its essence. Little escapes my attention, and everything feeds my imagination. A colleague of mine once told me that I am like an octopus, my tentacles reaching into every field of human knowledge and bringing it back into me. My curiosity never ends.    The first time I wrote what could charitably be viewed as poetry was way back in Ruta (Camogli). I had just turned ten, and I had been unjustly punished for something or other. In protest, I locked myself

216  Henry Veggian in the bathroom, and, to vent my frustration with the world, I took a length of black rubber hose and wrote my mind on the white washed wall. My next experience was at Mass. Apparently, some passages in my missal (Massime eterne by St Alfonso de’ Liguori) triggered images in my mind, which I jotted down on the inside of the back cover. Many years later I came across the missal, and I reworked those few lines into the poem “Gli occhi tuoi” [Your eyes] of my first volume Il punto caduto [The dropped stitch].    I never make it a point to read poetry. I read everything my eyes fall upon, even the publicity on the buses or along the street. As I read them, I impose a cadence, a musical rhythm, turning the most banal phrase into something almost lyrical. I love plays on words, ambiguities that add to the potential levels of meaning. Poetry became for me like a stream of water, now trickling, now rushing and plunging, now diverting and dwelling in a peaceful pool of clear spring water. I often played in the woods below our house in Ruta, along a small stream, observing these elements I have just described with awe and joy. The woods became for me a microcosm of the larger world beyond me.    I applied myself to serious reading and literary analysis of poetry during my MA and PhD studies of Spanish literature. Italian poetry had been a part of my earlier Junior High in Italy, and I always kept up with it even after our arrival in North America, thanks to my mother’s love for Leopardi, Carducci, Foscolo, D’Annunzio, and Manzoni among others. But it was when I began my teaching career that I fully immersed myself into the poetry and theatre of the Spanish Siglo de Oro. I began teaching Italian poetry as well. But whatever writing vein I had had as a youth seemed to have dried up. The world outside the classroom did nothing to inspire and nurture that vein. Until, that is, I remarried. 4. VEGGIAN: In your first book of poems, Il punto caduto (1993), I can some-

times hear the cadence of Italian Romantic poets such as Leopardi. The use of rhyme, metre, and natural imagery in poems such as “Gli occhi tuoi” and “Come un granchio” [Like a crab] seem, in this view, like a modernized Romanticism. I ask this for two reasons: first, to inquire as to the influence of Italian Romanticism. Did it play a role in your development as a poet? BASTIANUTTI: I see your point. I suppose that, on an unconscious level, I must have been influenced by poets such as Leopardi, whom I love. Nevertheless, as you justly observe, some poems appear like a modernized Romanticism. I believe that for my generation no other aesthetic

The Poetry of Exile  217 movement has been more rooted in our soul than Romanticism. The Romantic movement influenced not only our nationalism through the Risorgimento, but underscored later the Irredentist movement of our lands. Though quite unaware of philosophies and aesthetic movements in my early years, for me poetry was clearly equated to Romanticism. Besides, I was also trying to find my own voice amid the echoes of my various readings, from Leopardi to García Lorca and Vicente Aleixandre, from D’Annunzio, Pablo Neruda, and Alfonsina Storni to Stanley Kunitz and Rafaél Alberti. I must however point out that my first poetry clearly fell under the influence of Ungaretti whose poems I was translating at that time. 5. VEGGIAN: My second question concerns the influence of Romanticism on

the Risorgimento. Romanticism provided the aesthetic and also the political impetus for unifying Italic culture that would be vital to the country’s later cohesion. One thinks of Manzoni’s long advocacy of that national project in his criticism and scholarship, not to mention his I promessi sposi [The Betrothed]. In sum, the influence of Romanticism in your early poetry offers an interesting paradox: it indicates a commitment to the idea of an Italian national culture, but from the point of view of a people who were abandoned by that same culture during the post–World War II era in many ways. Your poem “Lasciatemi” [Leave me], for instance, uses tropes of flight, departure, distancing, and separation. In the first stanza of that poem, you write, “Here / in the gloried monotony of new things / already born old / I do not want to stay” [translation mine]. Reading these lines, one cannot help but read them in light of the conundrum imposed upon the exile in the New World who cannot return to the Old. What informed your choice to primarily write poetry in Italian, rather than another language, such as Spanish or English? BASTIANUTTI: A very interesting and subtle question. You are quite right that Romanticism has coloured and imbued the existence of the esuli, that it has informed our embracing Italy as our motherland, as well as our suffered choice of exile. In the end I believe we exiles/emigrants were more patriotic than the Italians who remained in the country we had left. Romanticism lent itself to the lyrical, impassioned expression of love for a land and a time forever lost to us. I had to move beyond both of them to find a voice for my much more modern experiences and reality. This evolution is clearly evident as I progress from my first two collections to the last two, culminating with The Bloody Thorn. But let me return to your question.

218  Henry Veggian    The first two volumes of poetry were written in a euphoric condition: I had finally found my soulmate, a colleague in my very same field, a reluctant fellow immigrant like me, who welcomed Italian as our everyday language, who shared my ideals, my aspirations, my sensitivity, the same values both social and political. For the first time in my life, I felt free to open myself up to someone who could understand the real me and the conflicts I carried within me.    As I mentioned earlier, I was overflowing with long suppressed emotions, and with the need to explore and express them. So I got into the habit of leaving for my wife on the breakfast table every morning a few lines: thoughts of love, words of frustration, reflections on life, usually expressed in images and metaphors. Months later, my wife showed me an envelope filled with those scribbles and told me that, in her considered opinion, I was writing poetry and that I should continue in the full awareness of their poetic value. I resisted for a long time the idea of publishing them, but eventually I gave in. The first two collections are an attempt to exorcise those demons I had been living with. It was a real cathartic process that could only be expressed in the same language in which I had experienced those conflictual emotions, that is, in Italian. It was also an attempt to give voice to all those who, like me, could not express their feelings and thoughts. I decided then to write my third collection, Per un Pugno di Terra/For a Fistful of Soil in both Italian and English in order to convey to non-Italian readers in the second and third generation of exiles the tragedy of our story/History.    In my most recent collection, The Bloody Thorn (2015), I write exclusively in English for two important reasons: the key is to be found in the title of the previous collection and most especially in the poem “Mestizo,” in which I clearly make a break with the past: “Now, having returned to this land / of my own free will, / hand in hand with my love / happily I let run through my fingers / the handful of that other soil.” From that moment on, my attention was directed to the world around me, to the realities good and bad of this society. The experiences I write about were made here and in this language. I could write only in the same language I have experienced them. Though I have translated some of the poems in Italian and in Spanish, I have never felt that they captured the raw genuine sensation of the English original. I refer in particular to the collection of poems that, together with the powerfully absorbing photographs by Jon Guido Bertelli, talk about the tragic reality of the homeless and drug addicts in the Vancouver Downtown Eastside.

The Poetry of Exile  219 Poems and pictures will be part of the major exhibit in two different Vancouver venues in 2016 and 2017. 6. VEGGIAN: Now, I have to ask about the poem “Pino solitario” [Solitary

pine]. Again, it would seem a poem about nature. Yet, it also describes scenes that any visitor to Istria or Dalmatia would immediately find familiar – pine stands, rock formations, and habits such as the collecting of mushrooms. Is poetry a substitute for memory or the creation of something entirely new from it? BASTIANUTTI: It is uncanny how your questions open up chasms in my consciousness, forcing me to probe and plumb the reasons behind my verses. You are quite correct, the most vivid images of nature in my mind’s eye are those of our Carso and of the Ligurian coast, where I spent five years. I see that particular image as a metaphor of our roots clinging to the tortured memory of the land we were forced to flee. The flowers and mushrooms growing in its shadow indicate how alive and bleeding the wound still is.    I will confess that your question made me realize that my poetry is both a substitute for memory and the creation of something entirely new from it. It compensates a memory full of lacunae by creating images, symbols, and metaphors that, with their rich potential ambiguities, tend to generate meanings suited to each reader’s experience. And not only for my readers.    I myself have found that as I wrote these verses, new memories surfaced like stones in a freshly plowed field, and these in turn gave rise to other images and other poems. A case of symbiotic relationship between poetry and memory, however flawed. Often I seem to have written some poems as if dictated on a subconscious level, unable or unwilling to notice the meaning beneath it. Only much later, in rereading a number of poems, did I realize their import both singly and as a series. But isn’t that what poetry is all about? 7. VEGGIAN: Your second book of poems, La barca in secco (1995), followed

relatively quickly upon the first. It seems in many ways a work that draws even more explicitly from the imagery of the eastern shores of the Adriatic cited above. In addition, you composed a preface to it that invoked your experience in exile and as an exile. For example, the first poem, “Difficile equazione” [Difficult equation] invokes your family’s trip from Bremerhaven to New Orleans on the USS General S.D. Sturgis. What in this period motivated you to write poetry that called upon that experience?

220  Henry Veggian BASTIANUTTI: It was during the last years at Queen’s University and in Can-

ada. Two very trying years that brought to the surface many of the indignities and injustices I had suffered since my emigration to North America. I was tired of my role as a victim. It was time for us to leave, to return to Italy, and find repose for my spirit. As a dear friend said to me, it was time for me to get off the cross and use the wood for something better. It was time for me to pull my boat in dry dock and clean its keel, make it ready to sail toward new horizons. To do so meant to review my life, starting precisely with my experience on board the Sturgis.    In a sense, my entire forty-five-year experience as an exile and immigrant in North America is summarized by two poems of the collection: “Fermare il tempo nel sangue” [To stop time] in which I state my unshakeable faith in love and life, in which my new self refuses to accept his “prigione / rifiuta di ribattezzarla / ordine, sicurezza / dignitosa tranquillità […] / in una vita che ormai / sa di bacio a rovescio / in un mondo tornato ad essere piatto / senza misteri più né sogni / a fecondarlo.”7 In the second poem, “Promemoria,” I assert the need to leave North America and the motives urging me to return to my roots, if not in the land of my birth, at least in Italy. I consider this poem my testament: “Voglio vedere / se quell’antica alchimia / fra la linfa e la terra mia / nutrir si può non solo / di parola ricordata / di gesto nel sangue ripetuto, / eco di essenza che in rimandi / da un passato ormai remoto / man mano si sbiadise / Cerco qualcosa che dia senso / a tutta una vita / cerco l’ unità / che fu spezzata.”8    I realized that for me to return to a Fiume of second-hand memories would be to condemn myself to a form of spiritual incest. It was quite clear that for almost half a century I had tried in vain to find “l’equazione / tra dignità e bisogno.”9 It was now time to stop reinventing myself. I could no longer wear the past like an old coat, moth-eaten, even if comforting. Nevertheless, I had gone back to the past, to build a bridge from a more solid understanding of it, and then to move into the future with my own past. Now the time was right and I had at my side someone who felt the same, and was willing at sixty years of age, to embark on a voyage of adventure, truth, and love for Italy. 8. VEGGIAN: Maritime figures, tropes of fluidity, tides, and rivers appear

throughout La barca in secco. Yet, there is a new element in the book, and that is the use of poetry to comment back upon its own language. This is a distinctly late-modern, even postmodern, concern, in that you write an intensely ironic poetry. In these poems, words become both the vehicle

The Poetry of Exile  221 of expression and a premise for reflection upon expression itself. This would seem to indicate an aesthetic shift. What changed, in the transition between the first and second book? BASTIANUTTI: Something did indeed change and that was me, or rather my perception of the world around me. The key to this aesthetic shift is to be found in the poems “Parola” [Word] and “Il liuto” [The lute] of that collection. In essence, I see the word – parola – as both a great gift and a formidable responsibility. That’s why I have the serpent offer it to us.    While Theodor W. Adorno sentences that no poetry can ever be written after Auschwitz, A. Alvarez suggests one way out of Adorno’s huis clos [no exit], with which I can identify: “The difficulty is to find language for this world without values. […] Perhaps the most convincing way is that by which dreams express anguish: by displacement, disguise, and indirection.” Looking around me, I could see the constant use of language to cheat and lie and hurt and humiliate. Words of love, of pity, of justice are often overwhelmed by those of violence and cruelty. I was searching for a language of silence, a language like a music “spiata nella fessura / tra due sguardi, / liuto di un legno / la cui voce mai fu recisa / a colpi di mannaia, / legno di bosco che mai udì / fruscio di vipere d’argento/ né corso d’acque avvelenate.”10 Throughout the collection, I point out the shocking abuse of language in our world, as in the poem “Mi ritrovo,” where I see myself among the living “nella maestà di un civile serraglio / dove il silenzio si affolla di mosche / e le loro canforate digestioni / … che sbriciolano la realtà in bocca.”11 Certainly the trigger to this shift was the hypocritical application of political correctness, as if the use of certain expressions in public could change people’s behaviour. Or the euphemisms applied in our societies in an attempt to make them conform with the all-controlling world of business and greed. I had reached the point of total loathing, as I declare in the poem “Sollievo metafisico”: “Infinita / si scarica nel vomito / tutta la mia nausea/ accumulata.” I had always been moved by Gunther Anders’s observation that “a humanity that treats the world as something to discard, will treat itself as well as a humanity to discard.” 9. VEGGIAN: Another element that is far more pronounced in La barca in

secco is a sense of loss. It is expressed not only in the mnemonic figures of poems such as “A me stesso” [To myself], but also in the fluid tropes of venom. There is a tragic sense in these poems, one that universalizes personal experience, yet never quite allows it to escape the specific premise of its realization in the experience of exile. In a postscript that concludes

222  Henry Veggian the book, Sergio Maria Gilardino draws particular attention to the philosophical qualities that appear in its poems. I am reminded of Whitman’s later poetry, particularly that written during and after the American Civil War, when a philosophical darkness makes itself present. It would seem that a comparable sensibility emerges here, not quite a pessimism but a sense that, to invoke and modify Adorno’s famous phrase, if there is to be poetry after Auschwitz, poetry must contend not only with personal loss but with the loss of entire peoples, communities, and traditions. To which poets or sources did you look to as models for the work? BASTIANUTTI: I must confess I read other poets far too seldom. Some of the modern poets, be they Italian or English, leave me quite perplexed and unable to understand the purpose of their writing. Referring to these kind of poets, in his “A mo’ di postfazione” Gilardino pointedly observes that mine is not an “existential lament” (91; lagna esistenziale) expressed in cryptic formulas; in that same work he points out that “nessuno più urla verità dai tetti delle case” [91; no one shouts the truth from the rooftops anymore]. According to him, I am one of those who have endured the fast of forty days in the desert of my poetic gestation. My poetry, in other words, is born of personal but also universal suffering. Oscar Wilde puts it quite plainly: “The only people I would care to be with now are artists and people who have suffered: those who know what beauty is, and those who know what sorrow is: nobody else interests me.”12    In 2010 I was invited to participate in the VII Encuentro Internacional de Escritores in San José, Costa Rica. The poetry I listened to during that wonderful week was an eye-opener. All the Hispanic poets expressed powerful and dramatic emotions about a harsh social and political reality. Their poetry dealt not with personal loss or tragedy, but with the injustice against a whole people. This was in sharp contrast with the many poets in the so-called first world, who waste verses meowing existential complaints, to use Gilardino’s apt words. The Costa Rican experience confirmed my own personal approach to poetry and the reason I write.    If my poetry is formally simple, it is because I intentionally make it so. It’s a simplicity that is accomplished by refining the sentences until I obtain what I want, that is, the clarity of the word, not the simplification of the content. Another thing that I have abided by is the search of beauty in my verse, its musicality, rhythm, and harmony. And by this I don’t mean metric and consonant rhyme, which can of course aid or facilitate the attainment of that harmony; if one does without such crutches and writes free verse, one is not renouncing the harmonic imperative, but

The Poetry of Exile  223 looking for it in a higher level of expression. I avoid mere play on words or images built on absurdities with the pretext of “surrealism.” I prefer to elaborate my poetry without any influences, conscious or unconscious, other than those you may already have identified. The themes in my poetry are essentially my insights into the human condition, on the nature of love, women. I write to give voice to those without voice, to redeem myself and recover my own voice, silent for far too long.    I can’t claim to write poetry, I create poems. Or, at least, I try to. With a bit of luck, a bit of poetry is trapped in some of them, that indefinable material found in the gap between dreams and nightmares that we know as life. Man and his time, and man in time are the centre of my preoccupations. The concept of time is very important for me, and objects represent time as well, a psychological time of gains and losses. I try to find the needle in the haystack of language, that is to say, the words that cause the baggage and the traveller to be the same. I try to explore the degree of incompleteness I can put on paper, and how much the reader can be engaged to understand and complete what is implicit in my poems. I guess I am searching for that point in my poetry where the reader can truly understand and appreciate the whole without needing the absolutely defined completion. Mine is a constant search for the word that defines me. This is what I try to do. More I cannot say. The rest is literature. 10. VEGGIAN: There was in the 1990s a concerted effort to involve the

younger members of the community in exile in its traditions, languages, and organizations. At many of the events, there was often a palpable sense of impending loss as many spoke of the passing of an older generation, but also of the imminent loss of a younger generation that was not as fully invested in its traditions. As such, a sense of historical tragedy pervades your poems, but also the moment in which they were composed. Nearly a quarter century has passed, and many of us still speak. It would seem, at least to me, that our collective sense of catastrophe was somewhat exaggerated, a case of imposing a fatal sense of history upon the future. Nonetheless, the fact that we have sustained a fragile community should not allow us to forget the tremendous loss and trauma of the exile; conversely, that loss should not obstruct our future. What is your view of the relationship I have described here, not only between a tragic past and an uncertain future, but between our generations – that of the exiled family and its first and second generations of children?

224  Henry Veggian BASTIANUTTI: I recall vividly the 1990s as a decade that saw my coming

out into the light of my true identity as a fiumano and as a giuliano-dalmata, within the encompassing identity of my Italianness. For that I will be forever grateful to my good triestino friend Professor Gabriele Erasmi and to my wife, Professor Giusy Oddo. Both were immensely influential in prying me out of my well-constructed cocoon, my comfortable dual role as professor of Spanish at Queen’s and Italian vice-consul. Erasmi, who invited me to give a paper at the first of the many congresses of the Giuliano-Dalmati; which forced me to research the history of our martyred lands, and place my and everyone else’s story within the larger context of History. My wife, who fully understood the tragedy of our people and supported me in this voyage of self-discovery. She often and proudly reminded me how she had skipped a day of school at her Liceo Parini in Milan in order to join a mass rally in favour of Trieste Italiana. She nurtured as well my first timid attempts at poetic expression of my long suppressed demons. She, as I often tell her, uncorked the bottle and let the real me out into the light.    At those Julian-Dalmatian congresses, I realized that we were all getting old, that many of those who had been adults at the time of our exile were not going to be with us much longer, and yet they were the only depositories of our history. The urgency of recording our history was palpable. I urged everyone not to allow the sea to quietly close over our heads, to reject the silence of memory, for the benefit of the future generations. When, for a year, I substituted Professor Konrad Eisenbichler as editor of El Boletin (Sept. 1996–June 1997), I initiated a few new columns: “Parola di donna” [Woman’s word] that I entrusted to Dinora Bongiovanni in order to give voice to the women who silently had contributed to raising families and supported their husbands in an often hostile environment in the New World. The other feature was “Largo ai giovani” [Make room for the young], which I entrusted to the capable hands of a second-generation Julian-Dalmatian by the name of Henry Veggian.    In the end, I realized that if our history was to survive those of the first generation, we needed help. I felt that we shared much of our DNA, so to speak, with all those Julian-Dalmatians who, for a variety of reasons, had chosen to remain in our lands. We had to work together. I proposed precisely that in my editorial for the Boletin, “Ponti sospesi” [Hanging bridges]. Only by creating lines of communication between the Italians who remained behind to dauntlessly nurture our language and culture in extreme conditions, and those who suffered in exile, would our history be complete. Much work had already been done by our associations both

The Poetry of Exile  225 here and in Italy. The wonderfully patient work of reweaving the torn fabric between our diaspora and those who remained in Fiume was the work of many on both sides of the divide. Enormous gratitude is owed to our own indefatigable Konrad Eisenbichler. The Incontro 2013 in Fiume was the successful culmination of all these efforts. 11. VEGGIAN: I first met you in Canada, at the launch of Robert Buranello’s

collection I Giuliano-Dalmati in Canada: Considerazioni ed immagini (1995), at the Columbus Centre in Toronto. You have an essay in that volume that repeats the title of the first poem from La barca in secco – “La difficile equazione” [The difficult equation]. Rereading the essay, I am struck by how often you draw upon verse to make your points. You begin with a reading of lines by the Greek poet Konstantin Kavafis, and then quote both Giuseppe Ungaretti and William Shakespeare to discuss exile. Poetry appears, in this sense, as something beyond mere rhetorical ornament, but the vital signature of any expressive discourse. Given the import of the theme of language in La barca in secco, and the book’s orientation to the memory and tragedy of exile, I have to ask: why did you not write it in dialect? BASTIANUTTI: Fair questions, and I will attempt an honest answer. First of all, I’ve always found poetry to be the ideal instrument to convey my thoughts and emotions in a condensed form that can be expanded by readers according to their capacity. As I have already mentioned, for me the image has always been more important than the word. For me images feed the imagination, not the other way around. When I was young, I tended to draw rather than write. My poetical form is image in its purest sense, even when it becomes a cry against an unjust world to sensitize society to all that is unjust, evil, cruel, inhuman. I may not change the world with my poetry, but I will bear witness, I will formulate a j’accuse against all those who have victimized the social misfits, the outcasts, the ostracized, be they blacks, women, exiles, homeless, or addicts. My j’accuse is also meant to give hope, especially in this time of penury, which is precisely the raison d’être of poetry, as Hölderlin asserts. In short, it is my Trojan horse into the minds and hearts of our numbed society.    This is especially true in my fourth volume, The Bloody Thorn, written entirely in English, which includes reproductions of some of my artwork as a complement to my poetry. I wrote it in English, as I mentioned already, simply because the themes were experienced by me in this society and in this language. I did not have similar experiences in Italy, and

226  Henry Veggian the impact of that so visually local reality spoke to me in its own language, its own English jargon. I did not feel the immediacy of the themes in Italian the way I felt it in English. The Italian words I had at my disposal did not correspond to the harsh reality I was dealing with, the tone and flavour were not available to me; I had not lived through the corresponding periods and conditions in Italy, and so whatever language I would summon would be completely artificial.    The same reasoning must be applied to my not using my dialect. While I did use the dialect quite often in prose pieces I wrote for the Boletin, I felt unsure of my knowledge of the dialect and its spelling. After all, since leaving my parents’ home, I had used it sparingly, if at all. With Venetian and Spanish interferences, I feared making too many mistakes. So my first three collections of poetry were written in Italian, and then the third, while originally written in Italian, I decided to translate into English to make my work also accessible to those not well acquainted with the Italian language. 12. VEGGIAN: You have also written and published some poetry in English.

Here I would return to the question of language. In his preface to The Bush Garden, Northrop Frye distinguishes between what he calls “Canadian unity and identity.” On the one hand, he notes that Canadian identity is “local and regional,” whereas “unity is national in reference” (ii). For the immigrant and exile, there are of course two national sentiments – one’s relation to one’s former home country and another to the adoptive nation. Using this frame of reference, I would ask how living, working, and writing in Canada affected your poetry. Did it play a role, or roles, in your choice of a language for a poem? BASTIANUTTI: In actual fact, I deal with two homelands, Fiume and Italy, and with four languages, fiumano, Italian, English, and often Spanish. I will say right away that I have never written poetry in fiumano, but I have drawn constantly from its sense of humour, its power of irony, and the joy inherent in the language and its people. Furthermore, I think displacement is a catalyst for a sense of humour, which in itself is quite often a defence mechanism.    But your question refers to English and why and when I used it, and how living in Canada has affected my poetry. Let me explain that my first fifteen years in North America were spent in the US, and poetry in any language certainly was not part of my life. In 1967, I came to the University of Toronto to complete a PhD, and then moved on to Queen’s University where I remained until 1997. During all those years, 1952 to

The Poetry of Exile  227 1997, never once did I garden, never once did I feel the desire to sink my hands in this soil, never once did I even plant a flower. I felt repulsed by a soil I had not chosen. When I first started to write poetry, it was private, in Italian, and for my wife’s eyes only. In the span of two years, I published my first two volumes of poetry in Italian. Then I took early retirement, and we went to live in Cefalù, Sicily, for over six years. It was there that I began my life as a modern Cincinnatus, sinking my fingers in a soil that was mine, watching fruits that I had planted with my hands grow. At the same time, I began to write poetry in earnest and exclusively in Italian. I was reflecting the beauty and the history of the land that was mine, a land and a people I understood, and a land that welcomed me as its son.    When, at the end of 2003, we returned to Canada, we did so of our own free will, ready to accept Canada as our alternate homeland. Here, too, I began to work the land that I now could call mine. And here, too, is where and when I began to write poetry in English, a poetry that reflected my perception of our society in the wider context of historical time and space. One of my recurrent themes is the nature of love between men and women, the eternal feminine, the misogynist element in our society. In the last few years another theme has been added to my poetry, that of the homeless and the drug addicts, the marginalized in our society. 13. VEGGIAN: How do the poems in Per un Pugno di Terra relate to your earlier

poetry? Has your approach changed over time? BASTIANUTTI: Per un Pugno di Terra is my third collection. It is a clean depar-

ture from the themes explored in the first two volumes. The poem “Mestizo” fuses the past and the present for a future of peace and serenity. As I say in the foreword, “I have also begun to understand that I don’t want to be slave to an obsessive memory of my past, to a narcissistic memory that would end up oppressing me … The book of my past has in effect already been written and closed. I now live in the present, seeing the future coming up fast in the rear-view mirror. … Though every life aspires to its own eternity, it must not be confused with immobility, endlessly repeating its most significant moment. The world continues to change, and that instant repeated unchanged runs the risk of becoming a parody of itself.”13 Certainly, the third collection is very different from the previous two in both style and content. If my poetry still deals with the theme of exile, it is, as Gilardino says in his preface, “emblematic, instead, of a general and universal exile shared by

228  Henry Veggian all human beings” (unnumb. 11; emblematica, se mai, di un esilio pandemico e universale, che accomuna tutta l’umanità).    The main themes in Per un Pugno are love, women, and philosophical considerations on life and death. The themes are now filtered through history and mythology, and through the import of the profound cultural wealth of Sicily – the Magna Grecia – and its people. The sensation of being totally absorbed in that world, of feeling it thoroughly mine, made me loosen the reins to my imagination, feel the power of poetic expression flow unimpeded from my fingers, able to develop my personal style, able to give my poems the length and breadth they called for. I felt I had reached for the first time a degree of maturity and refinement of expression required for the themes I wanted to explore. Many of the themes I develop in this volume will be more fully dealt with in the last collection, The Bloody Thorn. The theme of alienation, for instance, is explored in “Penelope,” “The Shepherd,” and “Black Sun”; [it is also] in “Grief’s Nail” and “The Seraglio,” but it will be opened to new and more probing facets in The Bloody Thorn. 14. VEGGIAN: You have recently collaborated with Guido Jon Bertelli on a

multimedia project. What was your role, as poet and activist, in that work? BASTIANUTTI: Guido and I, as poet and writer, have captured our direct

personal experiences of the Vancouver Downtown East Side (DTES), the poorest postal code in Canada, in photographs, poetry, and media interviews, independently of each other. Once our paths crossed, we discovered that our perspectives aligned. Born of this synchronicity came the perhaps obvious vision of a joint exhibit of our work. The aim of the exhibit is to feature, with respect and compassion, the pride and dignity of a disenfranchised segment of our city.    Our art reveals that the world of the city core is one of contrast and contradiction contained within the span of a few streets. Contiguous to the design houses of Gucci, Chanel, and Versace – spaces of high affluence, economic abundance, and cutting edge aesthetic fashion – stand the dwelling places of the city’s most impoverished. Through our work we underscore that there is very little, humanly speaking, that sets these two worlds apart. The absorbing images and the poems send a powerful message to the viewer by focusing a sharp light on the largely misunderstood and seemingly irresolvable challenges of those living on the streets of our city, and thousands of other cities, large and small. Some of the underlying causes of drug addiction begin to be explored and

The Poetry of Exile  229 highlighted in the audio element of the exhibit – spotlights how these addictions are not only devastating individual lives but destroying our social fabric.    The loss of a sense of worth and dignity, the loss of belonging to one’s community often leaves people feeling that the world has rejected them by denying them any form of love and trust. Deep down, they are more afraid of living than of dying. In our well-connected society, the young and the weak are often more alone than ever, and easy prey.    Through our exhibit, our fervent hope is first of all to break down the “fourth wall” that separates us from them and, second, to foster the desire and the courage to find and, more importantly, to implement real solutions in our community. Our first exhibit will be hosted by the Vancouver Italian Cultural Centre from 10 September to 5 October 2016. Then, it will move to the Roundhouse Centre in downtown Vancouver in the months of March and April 2017. Our hope is to raise sufficient funds to bring the exhibit to Toronto and other cities of Canada.    Clearly my own life experiences have made me more sensitive to the plight of the homeless, the alienated, the disenfranchised, the aboriginal people whose very language, culture, and identity were denied them, reducing them to invisible non-people. To know the real stories behind the faces is to understand the depth of their tragedy. NOTES 1 See, for example, Bogdan Novak’s discussion of Churchill’s role in the Allied negotiations regarding the eastern Italian post-war frontier in Trieste, 130–2.   2 See, for one, Monzali, Italians of Dalmatia.   3 See, for one, Tomaz, Il confine. The term “Italic” is here used to refer to “ancient Italy, its peoples, or their Indo-European languages.” MerriamWebster, s.v. “Italic,” accessed 22 May 2018, https://www.merriam -webster.com/dictionary/italic.   4 See Gabaccia, Italy’s Many Diasporas.   5 Arrigo Petacco cites a particularly relevant entry from the 1954 diary of Quarantotti Gambini regarding Tito’s violent displacement of Istrian Italians. See Petacco, Tragedy Revealed, 7–8.   6 For a concise summary of Manzoni’s role in the standardization of Italian, see Bermann, introduction to Manzoni, On the Historical Novel, 31–3.   7 “Prison / refuses to rename it / conformity, security / and dignified tranquillity […] / in a life that feels / like an invaginated kiss / in a world

230  Henry Veggian once more flat / without mysteries or dreams / to fructify it.” Bastianutti, “Fermare il tempo,” in Per un Pugno, 122–3.   8 “I want to see / if that ancient alchemy / between my lymph and my land / can cease to suckle solely / on words recalled / on mien repeated in the blood / echo of an essence that / in a replicated past now quite remote / day by day grows more faint.” Bastianutti, “Promemoria,” in Per un Pugno, 136–7.   9 “The equation / between dignity and need.” Bastianutti, “Difficile equazione,” in La barca in secco, 11; my translation. 10 “Spied in the crack / between two glances, / wood lute / whose voice was never cut / with axe blows, / woodland wood that never heard / the rustle of silvery vipers / nor the rush of poisoned waters.” Bastianutti, “Il liuto,” La barca in secco, 15; my translation. 11 “In the majesty of a civil serraglio / where the silence is crowded with flies / and their camphorated digestions / […] that crumble reality in the mouth.” Bastianutti, “Mi ritrovo,” in La barca in secco, 37; my translation. 12 Wilde, De profundis, 29. 13 Bastianutti, Il punto caduto, unnumb. 15.

Cited Works Bastianutti, Diego. Il punto caduto. Quebec: Montfort & Villeroy, 1993. –  “Il dramma della Dalmazia tra imperialismo e nazionalismo.” In Buranello, I Giuliano-Dalmati, 24–35. –  La barca in secco. Toronto: Legas, 1995. –  “La Difficile Equazione.” In Buranello, I Giuliano-Dalmati, 47–56. –  Per un Pugno di Terra/For a Fistful of Soil. Magenta: Zeisciu, 2006. –  “Ponti sospesi.” El Boletin 89 (1 Mar. 1997): 1. –  The Bloody Thorn. Vancouver: CreateSpace, 2014. Bermann, Sandra, ed. and trans. Introduction to On the Historical Novel, by Alessandro Manzoni, 1–59. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1984. Bonafini, Luigi, and Joseph Perricone, eds. Poets of the Italian Diaspora: A Bilingual Anthology. New York: Fordham University Press, 2014. Buranello, Robert, ed. I Giuliano-Dalmati in Canada: Considerazioni ed immagini. Toronto: Legas, 1995. de Vega, Lope. La niñez del Padre Roxas. Edited by Diego Bastianutti. New York: Peter Lang Publishing, 1988. Frye, Northrop. The Bush Garden: Essays on the Canadian Imagination. Toronto: House of Anansi Press, 1971. Gabaccia, Donna. Italy’s Many Diasporas. Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2000.

The Poetry of Exile  231 Gilardino, Sergio Maria. “A mo’ di postfazione: L’opera poetica di Diego Bastianutti.” In Bastianutti, La barca in secco, 83–108. Monzali, Luciano. The Italians of Dalmatia. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2009. Novak, Bogdan. Trieste, 1941–1954: The Ethnic, Political and Ideological Struggle. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1970. Petacco, Arrigo. A Tragedy Revealed: The Story of Italians from Istria, Dalmatia and Venezia Giulia, 1943–1956. Translated by Konrad Eisenbichler. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2005. Said, Edward W. “Reflections on Exile.” In Reflections on Exile and Other Essays, 173–86. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2002. Tomaz, Luigi. Il confine d’Italia in Istria e Dalmazia: Duemila anni di storia. Rome: Edizioni Think ADV/ANVGD, 2008. Ungaretti, Giuseppe. A Major Selection of the Poetry of Giuseppe Ungaretti. Translated and edited by Diego Bastianutti. Toronto: Exile Editions, 1997. Wilde, Oscar. De profundis. New York: G.P. Putnam’s Sons, 1905.

9 Quarnerine Identity: The Hybrid Self in Caterina Edwards’s Island of the Nightingales ida v odar ich marin z ol i

Caterina Edwards’s collection of short stories Island of the Nightingales (2000) represents a creative journey into her Italian roots and her identity as immigrant woman.1 Like her novels, and especially her more recent Finding Rosa (2008), her short stories involve exploration and evolution as the author delves into her own self as a woman and an immigrant. As she tells us in one of her own essays on the autobiographical impulse in writing, “We make sense of ourselves in the process of creating our story. And paradoxically this self-filled project connects us to others.”2 With these words, Edwards echoes the thoughts of Fulvio Tomizza, an Italian writer from Istria, who says that “writing is like living two times.”3 In both Edwards and Tomizza, this “living two times” is closely linked to their being part of an ethnic minority group – the Julian-Dalmatians (though, in Edwards’s case, the link is not as immediate as in Tomizza’s).4 As Joseph Pivato has already pointed out, “The work of many ethnic minority writers has a transparent link to the lived experience and the shared understanding with the minority reader.”5 In fact, Caterina Edwards’s writings are in many respects semi-autobiographical and speak to the experience of the Italian immigrant to Canada trying to come to terms with inherited Old World culture and acquired New World attitudes. Not surprisingly, the question of “identity” becomes a major aspect of Edwards’s writings. Joseph Pivato has already pointed out that “Edwards’ fascination with this question has its roots in her own life experiences as an immigrant girl, as the daughter of an Italian mother and English father, as a person born in England but raised in Alberta.”6 He then continues by underlining just how groundbreaking Edwards’s narrative investigations into the immigrant self were: “When the young

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Caterina Edwards began writing about Italian immigrant experience in the 1970s there were no models for her in Canadian literature. She was the first Italian-Canadian woman writer in western Canada and, in 1982, The Lion’s Mouth was the first Canadian novel to combine ethnicity with feminist questions.”7 Edwards is the first Italian-Canadian writer to explore issues touching young immigrant women, especially women of Italian descent who, upon their arrival in Canada, are free to act more independently but are still partly restrained by the Old World culture they absorbed during their upbringing. In the semi-autobiographical novel Finding Rosa, for example, Edwards underlines some of the Old World behavioural rules that were expected of ragazze per bene (respectable young women), including “no lipstick, no dating, no fashionable clothes, no sports (‘They’re bad for you’), no ballet lessons, no hanging out, straight home after school, no nasty friends […] never go out without a vest, never let a man touch you – until you’re married.”8 As we shall see, the recently arrived Maria in the short story “Prima Vera” suffers through social, linguistic, and personal confusions that turn the delivery of her first child into a sequence of incomprehensible experiences; the welleducated Patrizia in “Everlasting Life” is caught in the middle between her mother’s Old World expectation of filial obligations and her own New World independence from parent and/or child; and in “Island of the Nightingales,” the young Teresa, on a holiday of “self-discovery” among her Old World relatives, discovers a hybrid identity in herself and her family’s place of origin. The women’s issues that Edwards explores are issues of the “New Era.” She does not describe the feminist revolution that historically took place in the United States, Canada, France, and indeed throughout the Western world and included advances relative to women’s suffrage, equal pay, increased access to education, and an awareness of domestic violence. She alludes instead to the so-called Quiet Revolution that began with the contraceptive pill introduced in 1954 and led to the sexual revolution of the 1960s and 1970s. She thus becomes a witness of the “feminine liberation” that broke down the barriers of centuries-old taboos such as premarital sex and the traditional arranged marriages that had been the hallmark of patriarchal society. In Edwards’s stories, the patriarchal idea of appropriate behaviour for a woman is present when she describes the perception Italians had of women. In the old Italian mentality, a woman was either a virgin or a whore. In the short story “Island of the Nightingales,” such a notion is evident when the

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author describes how Teresa’s family forbids the girl from going out at night on the grounds that a “good girl” does not go out by herself at night and that to do so would imply that she “is asking for it.”9 Being a “good girl” is thus important for a young woman, but, ironically enough, it is also an important factor in male desire and identity. In the short story “Prima Vera,” which opens the collection (Edwards, Island, 7–20), the five young men who live as boarders with newlywed Maria and her husband Cesare in Canada speak to her about their “need for a wife” (15). For them, marrying a “good girl” would protect them “from the brute state” of being a single male who “could be easily reduced to: beast of burden, lust-filled animal” (15). To be attracted to a woman who is not “a good girl” is, for a man, a dangerous situation, but it is also so for the woman. As the men talk about their desire for a wife, Mario hums the famous Neapolitan song “Femmena” (Woman) in which a young man laments his passionate love for a woman of ill repute who has enchanted him and brought about his “ruin”; the song begins not with a lament for being in love with a “bad woman” but with a threat to the life of the woman herself: Si avisse fatto a n’ato chello ch’ he fatto a mme, st’ommo t’avesse acciso, e vuò sapé pecché? Pecchè ’ncopp’a sta terra femmene comme a te nun ce hanna sta pè n’ommo onesto comme a me!10 (If you had done to another what you did to me that man would have killed you and you want to know why? Because in this entire world women like you should not be with a proper man like me!)

To underline the point that the woman, not the man, is to blame, the refrain keeps repeating: “Femmena / tu sì na mala femmena” (Woman, you are a bad woman).

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This male-centred attitude towards women is evident once again when Mario begins to talk about a pretty young woman (“that little dark-eyed sweetie”) he had seen in church the previous two Sundays. When one of the young men in the room comments that she had come to Canada “to marry one of the Neapolitans,” Mario points out that “she’d never met the groom. And when she got here and saw him, she refused to go through with it” (16). The young woman’s refusal to marry the man to whom she had been engaged by proxy so tarnished her reputation that, as Mario points out, she now could no longer return to Naples: “Think. She’s from the South. If she went back, there’d be a scandal” (16). By underlining the fact that the young woman was “from the South,” Mario alludes to the prejudice that defined the status of women in southern Italy. This prejudice is not, however, apparently felt by the four young boarders in the story – Nico, Beppi, Mario, Lucio – all of whom are ex-schoolmates (15) and speak among themselves in dialect (14). They seem to come from the North, and so they view the situation differently – as an opportunity for Nico, desperate to find a wife, to marry the disgraced woman and satisfy his need (16). The conversation among the four men in the presence of Maria, who remains silent most of the time, points to the objectification of immigrant women by their own male peers, whether from the North or the South of Italy, who see women as means to an end and not as partners in a life journey. Maria’s experience as the young bride newly arrived in Canada elicits sympathy. She had married Cesare, an Italian working in Canada, who had briefly returned to Italy for the express purpose of finding a wife. On his first visit to Maria’s parents to bring them news of their oldest son who was also working in Canada, Cesare had told Maria’s father that he had come to Italy “to find a wife” and that he had only three weeks to do so (10). After watching Maria for two evenings “from across the room,” Cesare “chose” her and, in a hastily arranged ceremony at city hall, wed her. As he told his friends back in Canada, “I had to have a wife. I couldn’t return without one. I would have taken anyone. Even a whore if she was willing” (11). On her arrival in Canada, Maria found herself stuck in the prairies with a husband she hardly knew and pregnant with their first child. The loneliness, the strangeness, the cold environment, the presence in the house of four other men (boarders) for whom she was expected to carry out housewifely chores, depresses her to the point that she wants to return back home: “If she could be home in this time of waiting. If she could be with her sisters,

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her father. If she could see his faded blue eyes, feel his large knobbed hands on her hair, enter again his smell, lime and pipe tobacco. Home again. Then, she would not be afraid, then” (7). With time, Maria found that the company of the young men who spoke to her in Italian and sang Italian songs helped her deal with the initial culture shock of her new homeland. However, when the time came for her to deliver her baby, her experience in the Canadian hospital left her very confused, first because of her inability to communicate clearly in English with the hospital staff, and then because of the discriminatory manner in which the nurses treated her, both of which made the childbirth experience awkward and painful: Now the nurses took away her clothes; they sent away Cesare; a small blond one unlatched her fingers from his arm. They prodded and palpitated. They gestured and jabbered. The small one flashed a long rubber hose in front of Maria’s eyes. She was commanding her to do something but what? Her pursed little mouth barked at the side. Immediately, hands were upon Maria, shoving her to the side, spreading her buttock cheeks. She had been crying silently but could no longer hold back. “Mamma,” she called, “Mamma.” Being helped to the toilet, being washed, being shaved, two aides holding her, one on each leg. “Mamma.” “Shush,” said the blond nurse, her freckled face scrunched in disgust. “Italians!” Maria understood that. She wished she had the strength to sit up and punch her in her flat stomach. She did try and lift a leg. But now the nurse was talking to someone in the corner. The doctor floated into view. He was pulling on rubber gloves – inspecting. Not her face. He never looked at her face or into her eyes. He thrust his hand inside her. Big, he said over her stomach to the nurse and then something spaghetti. (19)

The description of Maria’s feeling as she lay in the delivery room, “a bright light aimed at her eyes” and sedated for the delivery, illustrates her sense of personal and physical displacement, her search for identity: “Where was this place? What was happening? She was floating in the ice whiteness. There was no up or down, no signposts and no sounds. Only the relentless white. And she was falling, slowly spiralling down, ever down. She thrashed against the fall, stretching her hands to catch onto anything that might be there. Where was she? More, who was she? But her mind was as white as the featureless world. She was lost” (20).

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As Maria becomes a mother in Canada and finds in her baby “her first connection to the hard, foreign land” (20), another woman in Edwards’s collection watches over her mother fading away in Sicily. In the short story “Everlasting Life” (21–43), Edwards grapples with the timeless question of filial responsibility. The cultural contrast between a Canadian daughter and her Italian mother comes to the fore when Canadian-born Patrizia visits her senile Italian-born mother, Augusta, in Sicily. Some years earlier, the mother had decided to leave Canada and return to her native island where, eventually, she had become a resident in a private nursing home. Visiting her from Canada and spending many days at her bedside, Patrizia becomes aware that “the mother she had known survived only in remnants” (21). Aware of her mother’s needs, Patrizia remains with her in Sicily much longer than she had planned and patiently assists her, even with many nursing duties that the staff in the home are not able to carry out well enough. The mother, however, does not recognize her daughter’s personal commitment to her; she sees it, instead, as a duty or obligation that a child owes to the parent: “Even when she had had less need, she felt that children owed their mother everything. […] ‘You do not ask a son or a daughter,’ Augusta said. ‘You tell them. A child owes his parents unquestionable obedience’” (22). Patrizia, on the other hand, sees filial responsibility in quite a different way. A first-generation Canadian who grew up with a different set of beliefs and convictions, she disagrees with her mother’s Old World cultural assumption and asserts, “My children owe me nothing” (22). The generational and cultural conflict between the parent’s expectation of care and the child’s refusal to see this as a filial obligation permeates the story. Eventually, however, a sense of guilt begins to eat away at Patrizia’s conscience. When Patrizia’s paternal aunt Santa pays a visit to her sister-in-law and her niece, Patrizia is not able to keep the focus of their conversation on her suspended career and her desire to return to Canada. Aunt Santa’s comments keep bringing it back to Augusta’s needs and Patrizia’s obligations. The implied difference of opinions is especially evident when Aunt Santa tells her, “Look at your poor mother. […] She’s close to the end isn’t she? […] The last two months, she has been insisting that you were coming to take her home. […] Each time I came to visit. Patrizia’s coming, she would say” (39–40). As she continues with her stories of old-age abandonment and abuse, Aunt Santa foreshadows the inevitable: Patrizia will capitulate, and, whether out of a sense of guilt or simply because of compassion, which is a form

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of love, she will begin to think about how to take her mother back to Canada with her. “Everlasting Life” is, in many ways, a prelude to Edwards’s Finding Rosa (2008), her major book on the topic of a daughter tending to an ailing mother. As the subtitle makes abundantly clear, this is a story about A Mother with Alzheimer’s, a Daughter in Search of the Past. Firmly biographical in its narrative, Finding Rosa critically examines Caterina Edwards’s own experiences, thoughts, and actions as she tends to her ailing mother and her family’s links with Istria. As her mother’s Alzheimer’s cancels her memory of an Italian past, Caterina seeks to recover the lost history of her family and her people torn between an Italian past and a Croatian present. The other three stories in the collection also explore the problematics of living a dual existence, in this case Italian and Canadian. They highlight how those women who immigrated to Canada from Italy or were born in Canada of Italian parents feel a pull towards both countries. Not only do Italian immigrant women carry with them the Old World mentality of their place of origin, but they also suffer from physical dislocation, personal and family fragmentation, and linguistic incomprehension, all of which complicate and confuse their sense of identity. Such is the case in the title short story in the collection, “Island of the Nightingales” (44–69). The story illustrates not only how the environment directly influences someone’s psychosocial behaviour and shapes one’s identity, but also how descriptions of places connect the reader to the geography and history of an area. This story highlights and reflects the different values absorbed and unconsciously adopted by someone living under an imposed different nationality and different sociocultural conditions. The story is set in Lošinj (in Italian, Lussino), an island in the Gulf of Kvarner (in Italian, Quarnaro) in the northeastern corner of the Adriatic Sea.11 Together with the island of Cres (in Italian, Cherso) and their surrounding islets, Lošinj/Lussino is part of the small archipelago of the Absirtides, an ancient name of Greek origin that alludes to Absyrtus, Medea’s brother, whose broken body was scattered on these waters and gave rise to the archipelago. The geographical position of the Kvarner, at the crossroad of Latin, Slavic, and Germanic people and cultures, meant that throughout the centuries its population consisted of a mix of these and other ethnicities (Magyar and Jewish in particular). Unlike other areas that have welcomed people from diverse cultural backgrounds, the Kvarner has given rise not to a “melting-pot” culture but

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rather to a mixed, “hybrid” identity that, for the purposes of this essay, I will call identità quarnerina or “Quarnerine identity.” In “Island of the Nightingales,” we can see the presence of this identity and its influence not only in the architecture, food, language, customs, and traditions mentioned in the short story, but also in how the female protagonists share in this hybridity of culture, morals, and standards. The story is simple. Teresa, a young woman of Italian extraction, born and raised in Canada, is sent to her mother’s hometown of Lussino, now annexed to Communist Yugoslavia and renamed Lošinj, to spend the summer living with her relatives and to “clear her head”: “‘See things clearly,’ said my mother. They were both hoping I would make up my mind. Papa wanted me to decide on a job, a career, a direction to my life. Mamma wanted me to choose between the two men I had been seeing” (45). While in Lussino, however, Teresa’s life becomes even more complicated as she encounters different sociocultural realities and falls in love with her cousin Marino, a university student, born and raised on the island under the Yugoslav Communist regime. The enchantment for both lovers is destined to end when the cultural divide that separates them and the social pressures that weigh down upon them prove to be insurmountable. The island itself becomes an idyllic world set apart from the reality of Teresa’s Canadian cruxes. In a very poetic way, Edwards paints the captivating and majestic natural scenes that allow the reader to experience the scenic beauty and vitality of Lussino – the bright colourful sea, the rich green flora, the smell of the pine trees, the perfume of the lavender, the songs of the nightingales, all come together while walking along the shore or by beautiful nineteenth-century villas erected when the island was a favourite holiday resort for the well-to-do of the Habsburg Empire. The story is set is the early 1970s, when Marshal Tito’s new socioeconomic system was finally opening the country to foreign tourism. As the tourists arrive, Teresa’s aunts are not comfortable with the sudden influx of strangers and urge their niece to be careful: “The island is overrun with foreigners, strangers. […] Germans, Serbs, French […] Any one of them could be a rapist or a murderer. […] We don’t know them, […] And at night, when everyone is sleeping, or should be sleeping at night in the dark … well, who knows?” (52). The problem with the tourists is not limited to Germans, Serbs, and French, but also includes the local Italian expatriates who, after having left in the 1940s and 1950s, are now returning to visit the family and friends that

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had stayed behind. The aunts reflect on the andati (those who went away), who had literally fled into exile twenty or thirty years previously in order to escape from the Communist takeover and the island’s annexation to Yugoslavia; their return on vacation to the island brings unwelcomed tensions with the rimasti (those who stayed behind). Conversations between andati and rimasti often lead to arguments.12 Uncle Miró, who considered all tourists “crazy,” had nothing positive to say about the visiting andati; as Great-Aunt Giuditta tells Aunt Marta and Teresa, “You should hear him on the ‘returned,’ you know those from the village who emigrated to America then came back in retirement. He says none of them returned right in the head. He says their malady has two sources: they’ve been bitten by the money bug, and they’ve gone strange from overwork” (49). The visiting andati are equally opinionated and lament the apparent failures of both the Communist regime and the local population. Aunt Marta, visiting from Venice, responds to Great-Aunt Giuditta by pointing to the “laziness” of the locals and the economic failures of Marxism: “I think it’s just the laziness of the people here. They don’t know how to work properly. Of course, with Marxism what can you expect? And three quarters of the time they’ve sold the few things they have to sell a couple of minutes after opening. If Tito really …” (49). The inherent distrust towards the tourists, whether they be unknown strangers or familiar andati, is echoed in the way “old-stock” lussignani (people from Lussino) view the Slavic newcomers who, over the course of the previous decades, had settled on the island. Many of the rimasti, such as Teresa’s aunts, feel themselves to be Italian and resent the Croatian settlers who had arrived in the wake of the island’s post–World War II annexation to Yugoslavia. They are thus particularly opposed to Teresa spending time with local Croatian girls her age who were born and raised on the island under the Communist Yugoslav system. When Teresa is welcomed by Clara and Sandra, two such local girls she had met at the beach, the aunts immediately object. Young Teresa stands her ground against Aunt Giuditta’s strong objections, her profound bias against the “other” in town, her very conservative morality, and continues to spend her time with her new-found Croatian friends. At the same time, however, Teresa admires her aunt and the respect she has been able to garner from the people in town, be they Italian natives or Yugoslavian immigrants. Thinking back upon her aunt, Teresa notes that “she did command respect, and everyone, even the newcomers, bobbed their heads or doffed their caps to her.

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And this despite her refusing to learn Serbo-Croatian. She spoke in Istro-Veneto (an Italian dialect) or Italian through all the years when both were forbidden. She flaunted her Italianness when Italian ethnics were branded as traitors, when they were imprisoned, exiled or taken to the pits and shot. She must have played and used the rules of her society with such subtlety” (53–4). This headstrong character of the local women, so vividly embodied by Aunt Giuditta, is also evident in a family narrative told by Giuditta about her own great-aunt, a woman who, during the Austro-Hungarian period, had became fabulously rich and the “grand dame of the island not through her family (respectable enough) nor through her marriage (again a ‘good’ match) but through her judicious choice of lovers” (53). Yet, despite this family tradition of headstrong women who will not bend to linguistic or social restrictions, these same female relatives hypocritically insist on restricting Teresa’s own movements and social interactions: she is not to frequent the local Croatian girls, she is not to go out at night unless accompanied by a male, and so forth. Such a double standard may well be a reflection of Quarnerine identity that imposes strict social-moral restrictions on women while, at the same time, admires them for being strong and independent in their quest for personal satisfaction and social success. The hybrid identity of people on the island is also evident in the way the two Croatian girls Teresa met on the beach refer to her not by her Italian family name, Lanza, but by her family’s local nickname “Pomoronzola” (50, 54). On the island, she is Teresa Pomoronzola, an amalgam of her baptismal name and her family’s popular nickname. Such hybridity is a sign that she is a “local,” a lussignana, even though she now lives in Canada and is in town only for the summer. Not only are names hybridized but so is the language. On the island, communication is carried out in both local languages, that is, in Istro-Veneto and in Croatian. When the two Croatian girls speak with Teresa they do so in Istro-Veneto, “the old language of the island that [Teresa] had heard since birth” (51). Like most members of the local population, the two Croatian girls are fully bilingual and easily switch language as the need arises. Sometimes they even mix the two languages to create a hybrid third lingo that, once again, reflects their Quarnerine identity – when describing Mikki, a young man playing a guitar one evening by an open-air fire pit on the Rovenska beach, Teresa’s friend Sandra describes him as “crazy” and then adds, “Crazy can be good. I like him very much. Matto dobra, we say here, dobra means

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good in Croatian” (55). Teresa quickly learns the trick and follows suit with her own creative linguistic hybrid – she adds the Italian superlative ending -issimo to the Croatian word dobro and, much to the delight of her new local friends, comes up with dobrissima: “You like?” said one of the smiling visitors in English. “Dobra,” I said, “dobrissima.” The best – our arms linked, our faces shining in the firelight, singing song after song in ragged harmony. (55)

But such delight is not to be found when Teresa falls in love with her cousin Marino. Teresa’s aunt and Marino’s mother are both determined to put an end to their relationship. The aunt’s rationale is that Teresa is only a tourist; “This is only a vacation for you. You will leave” (62), she tells her niece, but not so Marino. Aunt Giuditta makes it clear to Teresa that Marino must concentrate on his studies, finish university in Slovenia, and return to Lussino to help rebuild the town’s decimated educated class: “This is important. To the whole village. He’s the first boy to go to university in years … You don’t know what it was like here after everyone left. A deserted village. Then people came from the mainland, Serbs, Dalmatians. Slowly, so slowly, Velilosinj [sic]13 came to life again. So it matters. We’ve had a few lawyers, one or two doctors, certainly, but a scientist! And Marino is Marino. First of all, he is my heir, the little that I have left. And he is the last of the Lanzas, the last of the Stuperichs. The last still here. Everyone has an interest in his success” (62). Marino’s mother shares these views, so much so that she visits Aunt Giuditta to express her concerns about her son’s interest in the young Canadian tourist and about his delay in returning to university in Slovenia to study for his exams (62). Exciting as it might be, the attraction between the two cousins soon reveals itself to be only a summer romance for the both of them. Teresa and Marino live their idyll in the enchanting seduction of the island and the nightingale’s song they hear every night. On his return from finally sitting his exams at the university, Marino gives Teresa a present, “a carved wooden bird from Rijeka. ‘A nightingale to remember me and the island’” (67). It is a parting gift, and they both understand it. The story ends with Teresa’s return to Canada. Once home, she investigates the origin of the name Lussino and, among different etymological explanations, finds that it could derive from lusinga, meaning “not only to enchant but also to delude” (69). The name of the island

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suddenly seems very appropriate to her summer in Lussino because “when I remember Lussino, I feel both enchanted and deceived” (69). In its enchantments, the island had become the mala femmena who seduces and deceives. The island, too, has thus a hybrid Quarnerine identity; she is both “good girl” and mala femmena. As Joseph Pivato has already pointed out, “Personal identity in all aspects is one of the most important themes in Edwards’ writing. […] I see this preoccupation with identity as a normal outgrowth of the dislocation, of the translation of first names, of the difficulty with new languages, of the translation of daily reality, of the need to keep links with the old culture and country.”14 This is certainly true in the short stories in Island of the Nightingales. Just like Teresa in the title story, in their quest to “see things clearly” (45) the female characters in the collection seek to flee “the confusion, the murkiness” of life (44), but such clarity cannot be attained: in giving birth to her first child, Maria is both liberated and confined (“She was saved and she was bound”; 20); in trying to figure out what to do about her ailing mother, Patrizia claims uncertainty but knows very well what she will do (“‘I don’t know.’ But, as she felt herself tightening, she did”; 43); back in Edmonton, Teresa remembers her summer in Lussino and feels “both enchanted and deceived” (69). The clarity these women sought in their own lives is not possible. Theirs is a confusion that arises from the hybrid nature of who they are, a Quarnerine identity that is based on diversity and must coexist with it. For them, and for the Julian-Dalmatians, confusion is the new clarity. NOTES   1 Caterina Edwards was born in Earls Barton, a village in the Borough of Wellingborough, UK, in 1948, of an English father and an Italian mother. She and her parents immigrated to Canada when Caterina was not yet eight years old. The young girl grew up in Calgary but often spent summers in Venice, Italy, where her mother was born of refugee Italians from the island of Lussino (today Lošinj, in Croatia). Biographical information on Caterina Edwards is drawn from her website; see “Bio,” Caterina Edwards website.   2 Edwards, “Sublimation,” 323.   3 “Scrivere è un vivere due volte.” Dugulin, “Intervista.” In various subsequent publications on Tomizza, his statement is cited incorrectly as, “Scrivere significa vivere due volte.” The correct version is the one I have

244  Ida Vodarich Marinzoli given above. I thank Laura Levi Tomizza for first pointing out the correct version to me. Here and henceforth, all translations are mine, unless otherwise indicated.   4 The Julian-Dalmatians are Italians from the regions of Venezia Giulia (Italy), Istria (now divided between Italy, Slovenia, and Croatia), and Dalmatia (Croatia). Their language is Istro-Veneto (a dialect of Italian), with many local variants from town to town. Having been part of the Republic of Venice for many centuries and, earlier still, of the Roman Empire, their cultural background is primarily Italian. On the JulianDalmatians in Canada, see Buranello, I Giuliano-Dalmati; Eisenbichler, “I Giuliano-Dalmati”; and Petronio, Oltreoceano, 7–47.  5 Pivato, Caterina Edwards, 8   6 Ibid., 7.   7 Ibid., 8.  8 Edwards, Finding Rosa, 142–3.  9 Edwards, Island of the Nightingales, 51–3. Future references to this collection will be incorporated directly into the text. 10 Guarini, TuttoTotò, 132. The song was composed by the Neapolitan actor/comedian Totò and premiered at the 1951 Piedigrotta festival “La Canzonetta.” It enjoyed immediate success and has become a standard of Neapolitan (and Italian) music. 11 In order to retain the linguistic choice made by the author and to reflect more directly the Italian component of the Italian-Canadian protagonist, this essay will use the Italian name of the island, Lussino. Today the island is called Lošinj and is part of Croatia. 12 On the dynamics between the expatriates and the Italians that remained behind see Turcinovich Giuricin’s article, ch. 1 in this collection, “Esuli and rimasti.” 13 Veli Lošinj (in Italian, Lussingrande) is the second-largest urban centre on the island of Lussino/Lošinj; the largest is Mali Lošinj (in Italian, Lussinpiccolo). Inhabitants of either town refer to their own town as Lussino and to the other town by its full name. The town of “Lussino” in Edwards’s short story is Veli Lošinj (Lussingrande). 14 Pivato, Caterina Edwards, 11.

Cited Works “Bio.” Caterina Edwards website. Accessed 18 March 2017. http://www. caterinaedwards.com/Bio. Buranello, Roberto, ed. I Giuliano-Dalmati in Canada: Considerazioni ed immagini. Ottawa: Legas, 1995.

Quarnerine Identity  245 Dugulin, Adriano. “Intervista con … Fulvio Tomizza: ‘Scrivere è un vivere due volte.’” L’ora del racconto: Antologia e storia della letteratura giulio-friulana per la gioventù 5, no. 6 (1971): 15–17. Edwards, Caterina. Finding Rosa: A Mother with Alzheimer’s, a Daughter in Search of the Past. Vancouver: Greystone Books, 2008. –  Island of the Nightingales. Toronto: Guernica, 2000. –  “Sublimation and Satisfaction: The Pains and Pleasures of the Autobiographical Impulse in Italian-Canadian Writing.” In The Canadian Vision, edited by Alessandro Anastasi, Giovanni Bonanno, and Rosalba Rizzo, 321–7. Messina: Edizioni Officina Grafica, 1996. Eisenbichler, Konrad. “I Giuliano-Dalmati in Canada.” Italian Canadiana 9 (1993): 31–45. Reprinted in I Giuliano-Dalmati in Canada: Considerazioni ed immagini, ed. Robert Buranello (Ottawa: Legas, 1995), 101–13. Guarini, Ruggero, ed. TuttoTotò. Rome: Gremese, 1999. Petronio, Marina. Oltreoceano: Itinerari, luoghi e incontri con i giuliani e dalmati sparsi nel mondo. Trieste: Edizioni Astra, 2000. Pivato, Joseph. Caterina Edwards: Essays on Her Works. Toronto: Guernica, 2000. Turcinovich Giuricin, Rosanna. “Esuli and Rimasti: Two Sides of a Coin.” In Forgotten Italians: Julian-Dalmatian Writers and Artists in Canada, edited by Konrad Eisenbichler, 32–44. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2019.

10 Protagonist, Chronicler, Historian: Three Voices of Representation in Rosanna Turcinovich Giuricin’s Maddalena ha gli occhi viola g abr i ella col us s i art h ur

Maddalena ha gli occhi viola (Maddalena has violet eyes) is an interview novel about Miriam, an immigrant woman in Toronto who recalls the joys of growing up in Trieste, the sufferings she endured as a Jew during the Holocaust, and the new life she was able to forge for herself in Canada. She tells her story to Rosanna, a journalist from Trieste on a visit to Canada. Ironically, neither of the two women is from Trieste – Miriam is a Jew from Czechoslovakia, and Rosanna is an Italian from Croatia – yet they find common ground in Trieste and in the diaspora they both have undergone. The interview novel is thus not only a Holocaust story, but also the story of diasporic people forced to abandon the lands they saw as home. As soon as I began reading the work, I was attracted by the author’s approach to the narrative. There are three very different voices collaborating to recount Miriam’s life: the informant, Miriam Frankel; the chronicler, Rosanna Turcinovich Giuricin; and the historian, Silva Bon. The informant, Miriam, is the “Maddalena” of the narrative. Growing up in Fascist Italy, she was obliged to use the Italian version of her name, so to her teachers and to the state she was Maddalena. Now a grandmother and great-grandmother in Toronto, Miriam volunteers as a speaker, going into the schools of the province to tell the students about the Holocaust and her own story of suffering and survival. The chronicler, Rosanna, is an Italian journalist and writer who has documented the life, history, and culture of the Julian-Dalmatian community both in the region and in the diaspora. On one of her visits to Toronto, she met Miriam and began a dialogue that blossomed into this interview novel. The historian, Silvia Bon, is a highly respected scholar who, for more than forty years, has researched and written on the history of

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anti-Semitic persecution in modern Italy. Her contribution forms the closing postscript to the interview novel, standing as the voice of historical authentication against the temptation to overlook or misrepresent the events that occurred in Trieste between 1938 and 1946. My own analysis of the interview novel is based on the perspectives of narrative inquiry, life history, and oral history informed by the approaches of, among others, Paul Thompson (1978), Luisa Passerini (1987), Alessandro Portelli (1991), and Glenn Elder and Janet Giele (2009). My particular interest, however, is to investigate voice through “Breadth, Depth, and Form,” an interconnected approach intended for the collection and interpretation of immigrant narratives of those living in the diaspora.1 According to this methodology, it is the responsibility of researchers to meet their informants on three fronts: first, Breadth: capturing the informants’ experiences and contextualizing them in order to frame the historical events through which they lived; second, Depth, encouraging informants to recount events as recalled by them without interference; third, Form, recording and communicating with the informant in their natural and first language(s) without artificial translation and without superimposing a standard or hegemonic language such as English or French. As will be revealed in what follows, all three criteria are met in Maddalena, but with a twist. Since Miriam Frankel is multilingual, Rosanna Turcinovich Giuricin was able to interview her in standard Italian, thereby fulfilling the Form obligation.2 As a girl, Miriam learned three languages and spoke them interchangeably and with ease at home and in her daily life: German, Yiddish, and Italian. She also learned to understand Triestinian, the regional language in the city, noting, “I, too, used to grapple successfully with the language; I had a good ear as a girl and I learned easily.”3 When Turcinovich Giuricin is not commenting or interpreting, she represents Frankel’s voice, her actual words, in quotation marks; the narratives are in standard Italian. Breadth and Depth constitute the very framework of the story and are constantly interwoven; at some points in the narrative, the two voices of Miriam and Rosanna are even superimposed. The volume consists of nine themed chapters that constitute the narrative of the story, plus a brief postscript in the form of a mini-essay on the Jewish community in Trieste. The narrative itself is divided into nine unnumbered episodes as follows: (1) “A mo’ di prologo” (By way of prologue); (2) “Quel giorno ho incontrato Miriam” (That day, I met Miriam); (3) “Bambina a Trieste” (As a young girl in Trieste); (4) “Il lungo viaggio di una lettera” (A letter’s long voyage); (5) “Il

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mare alle spalle” (Leaving the sea behind); (6) “La lunga marcia” (The long march); (7) “Si parla istriano a Wietzendorf” (They speak Istrian in Wietzendorf); (8) “L’arrivo in città, libera ma sola” (Returning to the city, free but alone); (9) “Le cose sono la nostra casa” (Our possessions are our home). My analysis deals with chapters 1, 2, 3, 8, and 9, and I conclude with comments on Silva Bon’s historical postscript. “A mo’ di prologo” (By way of prologue) Intended as a prologue, the opening chapter introduces Turcinovich Giuricin’s voice and her role as Rosanna, the interviewer, researcher, and chronicler of the story who brings to the work her expertise as a journalist working in a border city. It would not have been possible to understand the historical context (Breadth) of the narrative without Turcinovich Giuricin. She points out how, aside from being a Holocaust survivor, Miriam is also, and very much, an exile – the very ground under her feet was taken away from her; the town and land of her birth were altered, redesigned, or simply erased politically, socially, and linguistically; the closest persons in her life were wiped out by the Nazis; so were all of the traces of her previous existence, the documents and objects that, in a way, defined her and her family. Turcinovich Giuricin’s role was to listen to Frankel’s narrative and then seek evidence of people and places, civil registries and vital statistics, births and deaths in order to fill some of the lacunae in Miriam Frankel’s narrative and in the descriptions of the persons she mentioned. To do so, Turcinovich Giuricin spent months sifting through newspapers from the 1930s, folders and dossiers from the State Archive in Trieste; she corresponded with former Italian military personnel who had been imprisoned in Germany as Italian military internees and read about their moving experiences (7). As for Breadth, Turcinovich Giuricin joins Frankel in contextualizing other voices, such as those of Carlo and Mario, the two Italian military internees whom Miriam met in the munitions factory in Fallersleben after being transferred out of Birkenau (97). Miriam’s voice is introduced in the second chapter, where Rosanna explains the circumstances by which she came to meet her in Toronto. As author and chronicler, Rosanna is interested not just in capturing the delicate and dramatic sociocultural and political events of the period but also in bringing out the voice of this particular memory witness – Miriam – whose recollections are so vivid and clear as to serve as evidence for many other similar lives. In this way, both the present-day

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Miriam and the Maddalena of the past cannot be forgotten. Rosanna’s voice weaves in and out of Miriam’s voice in order to allow this exiled Holocaust survivor in Toronto to bear witness to a variety of moments in her life, some tragic, some serene. Not unexpectedly from the voice of a Holocaust survivor, the narratives are at times poignant and forceful. The third voice in the volume is that of the scholar Silva Bon, a highly regarded historian of the Jewish community in Trieste. In her postscript essay “Ebraismo a Trieste: Memoria, storia, cultura” (The Jewish community in Trieste: Memory, history, culture), Bon offers insights into the memory, history, and culture of Jewish life in Trieste from its origins in the eighteenth century under the tolerant regime of the Habsburgs to its current modern pluralistic identity. Her voice, providing additional historical contextualization, strengthens Breadth and expands the framework within which the places, names, and events can be situated. This support serves to reconstitute the life and times of a people that, Rosanna remarks, official history seems to have overlooked: “The twentieth century […] produced large gaps, it left entire communities holding their breath while they attempted to identify their place in geographical places or social conditions that had completed changed” (32; Il Novecento […] ha prodotto grandi vuoti, ha lasciato intere comunità in apnea alla ricerca di centrare la loro posizione in territori o condizioni mutate). “Quel giorno ho incontrato Miriam” (That day, I met Miriam) Speaking in the voice of her chronicler Rosanna, the second chapter opens with an explanation of Toronto’s fascination and how someone such as Miriam would have settled there. Rosanna explains that in the 1950s exiles from Istria, Fiume, and Dalmazia, lands that Italy had ceded to Yugoslavia in 1947 as compensation for a war that Italy had lost, emigrated abroad in large numbers. After spending long periods of time in Italian refugee camps, exiles from cities such as Capodistria, Isola, Pirano, Rovigno, Pola, Fiume, the islands of the Kvarner, and the coastline of Dalmatia sought other homelands on the opposite side of the Atlantic, in countries such as Canada, to call their own (10). In doing the research for her book, Turcinovich Giuricin looked at the records of Pier 21, the Canadian Museum of Immigration in Halifax, and discovered many Julian-Dalmatian immigrants and, of course, many other people, including Jews. Among these records there is that of a young Miriam Grünglas, born in eastern Europe but raised in Trieste, the port

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city that, after 1947, witnessed the passage of thousands of exiles from Istria, Fiume, and Dalmatia on their diaspora to new homelands overseas. Rosanna comments that World War II inflicted great hardship, pain, and suffering on a lot of people, experiences “that even today, in our times, the human mind finds very difficult to accept” (11; spesso mente umana non riesce quasi ad accettare, nemmeno oggi). When she arrives to interview Miriam, Rosanna discovers a woman who lives in one of Toronto’s elegant neighbourhoods. Miriam invites Rosanna into her home, into her new life in Toronto, and shares stories of her past with a generous flow of words and vivid sensations. Although an octogenarian, Miriam has no difficulty recalling her memories. She speaks vigorously and precisely, she provides details, opinions, and analysis in a purposeful manner. As Miriam speaks of her childhood in Trieste, her green eyes acquire a violet hue – hence the title of the book, Maddalena ha gli occhi viola (Maddalena has violet eyes) – but this colour quickly darkens when she recalls the Nazi gulags. Rosanna wonders whether this sudden darkening might conceal something more. No, it does not, she says to herself, “this is the precious, invaluable strength” of Miriam’s recollections (11; questa è la cosa preziosa). Miriam explains that she is accustomed to recounting her stories in an open and purposeful manner by starting from the beginning and moving forward without leaving anything out. She points out that this technique has served her well, even when speaking about her life publicly in front of groups of young students in school. Rosanna observes that Miriam’s life is marked by many phases. Miriam speaks of her happy childhood in Trieste, her early teenaged years in her grandparents’ home in Tiachiv, Czechoslovakia, when the family was forced to return there, and her internment in the Nazi gulag of concentration and extermination camps where she was not a person but a mere number. Once liberated, she becomes a young woman in search of a new life and a new world, then a wife and a mother in Canada. In her old age, still blessed with a sharp memory and with energy, Miriam makes a pact with her past experiences: she will make sure that the world knows and understands that unbridled power produces monsters. Miriam invites Rosanna to believe her when she says that the history of Europe in the twentieth century was so incredibly cruel that it forced people to start again from nothing many times over. They were able to do so because of their strong will not to succumb and also because fate intervened to save them from death. Rosanna notes that “Miriam

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passed through the hell of the concentration camps and survived. As did many others …” (12; Miriam è passata dall’inferno dei campi di concentramento ed è sopravvissuta. Come tanti altri …). Rosanna completes her statement by remarking that “Miriam battles in order that one of the atrocities of the twentieth century not be forgotten, or worse still, distorted” (12; Miriam combatte perché un’atrocità del Novecento non venga dimenticata, o peggio ancora, mistificata). Miriam concludes by noting that in her youth she was, in truth, a cheerful young girl; she then became lost to herself and to the world because of Auschwitz, where she felt that she had died many times; then, once liberated and aboard a ship bound for Canada, she remade herself anew, certain of a brighter future. With Miriam’s arrival in Canada, Rosanna’s voice picks up the narrative again. She points out how the terrible events of the Old Continent had given birth to a survivor. When Miriam arrived in the 1950s, an immigrant family received her. Rosanna comments on the practice of offering room and board to new arrivals and so extending to them some much-needed community warmth and support. But there was also a practical reason – often these hosting families had themselves arrived just a few months earlier and were accepting boarders in order to make ends meet. The bonds that brought people together, as if by destiny, in their lands of arrival still exist today in the tight-knit social groups of the diaspora. Though welcomed, Miriam found it difficult to adapt to this social arrangement and preferred to rely, instead, on her own instincts in order to forge her own way in the New World. Rather than depend on just a single family, Miriam needed the strength and support of a larger group. She found it among the Jewish community of Toronto, who accepted her into the fold as one of their own and thus helped her to return to her origins, to her roots. The Jewish community became her home and consolation, a haven where she could rebuild her serenity and reaffirm her belief in the future. The Jewish community, however, also tested Miriam. When the past would not abandon her, there were people who tried to convince her that she should set her memories aside, that perhaps things did not unfold quite as she remembered them. Miriam reacted strongly to this lack of understanding and to such absurd allegations. Not only could she not accept such suggestions, but she would never do so; in fact, she soon realized that for her it was necessary to act on these memories and take action so that the past should never disappear (14). Turcinovich Giuricin underlines the passion in these comments by letting

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Rosanna’s voice fall silent and allowing only Miriam to speak – a narrative technique that will recur again at crucial moments in the story. Miriam explains that she would hear on the radio people claiming that the Holocaust had never taken place and that the Jews had simply made it up. When she went to bed at night, images and a terrible buzzing would fill her head; she could not reconcile herself to such distortions. Then, for a while, the allegations would die down only to return with greater force and conviction in the days and weeks that followed. At this point in the chapter, Turcinovich Giuricin builds the narrative to a crescendo, switching back to her own voice in order to describe Miriam’s decision to speak out against the silence and against Holocaust deniers attempting to rewrite the past. Miriam’s testimony arrives with the force of an avalanche in schools and other public forums (14–15). It strikes a chord with Konrad Eisenbichler, who hears her speak at St Michael’s College at the University of Toronto and then interviews her for El Boletin, the quarterly newsletter of the Club Giuliano-Dalmato of Toronto.4 The Julian-Dalmatian community, in fact, understood and empathized with Miriam’s outrage at Holocaust deniers because their own tragedies, the esodo (exodus) and the foibe (mountain crevasses into which victims were thrown), have also been denied or covered in silence. It was only after much effort on the part of the community and a dramatic change in Italian political culture that the tragic history of the Julian-Dalmatian population was finally officially recognized, when, on 30 March 2004, the Italian Parliament voted to designate 10 February as the annual national Day of Remembrance (Giorno del Ricordo) in memory of the exodus of Italians from Istria, Fiume, and Dalmatia and the victims of the foibe. In so doing, the Italian Parliament drew a clear connection between the tragedy of the Julian-Dalmatian population and that of the Jewish population, whose national remembrance day (Giorno della Memoria) just two weeks earlier, on 27 January, had already been instituted by the Italian Parliament four years earlier, on 20 July 2000.5 These two official events served to bridge the gap between the facts of the exodus and of the Holocaust (Shoah, in Hebrew and in Italian) and the perceived fiction of public opinion, in particular, among the youth. Turcino­ vich Giuricin not only celebrates Frankel’s life as woman, mother, and grandmother but also her strength and courage in using her own story to speak out against those who would deny history or remain silent about the past. Miriam is one of many who found a way to prevail over pain and suffering.

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The connections between the two tragedies give Rosanna the opportunity to talk about her own situation and about Istria. She explains that, for the rimasti, that is, for those Italians who, after 1947, decided to remain in Istria, Fiume, and Dalmazia, everything changed (15). Although they physically remained on their beloved land, all the components of their previous way of life – the political, linguistic, and sociocultural surroundings – were permanently subverted and nearly eradicated. Not so for the esuli, that is, for those Italians who left their homeland as exiles and moved within the new borders of Italy or emigrated abroad. Rosanna points out that the esuli carried with them a rich baggage of customs, traditions, and cultural memories that they shared with other exiles in their land of arrival. What they always regret, however, is the loss of their physical surroundings – the land, the soil, the stones, and the sea of their homeland. They remember the close-knit community centred around their town’s church bell tower, il campanile. What exiles found in the diaspora were other emigrants like themselves who shared their love for their native home, the need to speak their home language, a common history of turmoil and of being uprooted, a shared community of faith, and the need to maintain all these. These sentiments served, in part, as the engine for their growth and success in the diaspora. “Bambina a Trieste” (As a young girl in Trieste) In this chapter, Miriam and Giuricin collaborate further to unlock the past – one must depend on the other – Breadth and Depth inextricably linked. The chapter begins in the 1960s in Trieste, when Miriam and her husband take their first trip back to the eastern Adriatic to search for evidence of Miriam’s early life. Rosanna sees Miriam’s search for her past as a challenge from Miriam herself, the “sfida che Miriam ci lancia” (32; challenge Miriam sets for us) to discover more about her family. Back in Italy, Rosanna starts to inquire. She goes into the archives in Trieste and Grado, and discovers that records were lost or destroyed. Officials tried to be helpful, but in the absence of records, their only suggestion was to try to locate living survivors who might be able to recall the people and places of those years. In cases where records do exist, Rosanna discovers that foreign Jews such as Miriam’s family were not allowed to own properties (34). Though they ran two hotels, Miriam’s parents had only rented – they did not own the properties. As renters, they disappeared from the municipal records.

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Rosanna’s research into Miriam’s family and the realization that so much was lost lead her to reflect on the losses suffered by the esuli when they left their household furnishings in a storehouse in the old port in Trieste (34). Their belongings were deposited in “magazzino 18,” warehouse 18, recorded and numbered for future retrieval, but over time things somehow disappeared; fire then came to destroy part of these belongings and, as Rosanna notes, to cover up the mischief behind earlier losses; then much of what was left was smuggled out or stolen. What physical evidence remains of the actual lived lives of the esuli is now incomplete and any potential inventory difficult to compile (34–5).6 Rosanna then elaborates, pointing out that the refugees who left their furnishings in warehouse 18 were dispersed among 127 refugee camps to await appropriate relocation. Some waited months, others up to ten years. When those camps were finally closed, very few people returned to Trieste’s Porto Vecchio to reclaim their belongings: mattresses had become mouldy, furniture inhabited by mice and corroded. Those who decided to remain in Italy abandoned those belongings, preferring not to suffer from heartbreak at their sight; those who emigrated abroad had no means of taking them along on the transatlantic voyage. Once across the ocean, the exiles started anew from scratch. Their belongings, like those of Jewish families, were ravaged by thefts. Rosanna’s observation is explicit: “This is not simply theft, it is a sort of murder” (36; Non è solo un furto ma una specie di omicidio). Miriam, however, has no immediate recollections of any of these material loses. She was too young at that time. Her memories are of her toys, her dolls, and how the family spent their days in Trieste and at their seaside home in Grado. She recalls her family traditions, the company of family friends from Fiume, and traditional kosher meals. In this chapter, Miriam describes and brings back to life images of family members, her father and mother in particular. The family was Ashkenazi. Her father was a cantor in the synagogue, first in Gorizia and then in Trieste. She recalls the specific places and dates of birth of her father Elia (1902), his marriage to her mother Esther in Tiachiv (1925), and lists the order of when and where she and her siblings were born – she was the firstborn (1927), and her mother returned to Tiachiv, in Czechoslovakia, for her birth, but not for the birth of her brother Eugenio (1929) or her sister Rachele (1930), who were born in Gorizia. Rita, the youngest, was also born in Tiachiv (1934), and Miriam was there for the event, having accompanied her mother back to the village. The information is scant; in the next chapter we discover, in fact, that Miriam came to

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repossess only a few precious documents of her family’s past and only thanks to a maternal cousin in Cleveland who had saved them (109). Rosanna notes a change in Miriam’s demeanour during this narrative. As the images of her youth and her family rush out, one after another, Miriam is challenged; she is breathing more heavily. Miriam says that, while she may easily recite biographical facts, it is difficult for her to recall her family in the flesh. Sometimes she has the impression that they never existed; then, when she least expects it, they appear in a gesture, a sound, a look. Seemingly insignificant things bring them back to her – a sign that her hope in the ability to search for them, to re-evoke them, to keep them close, has never let her down (41). Then there are other Depth memory triggers such as music – the World War I songs that Miriam and her school friend Angela used to sing. As if to give Miriam a chance to rest, Rosanna, her chronicler, picks up the narrative voice. She explains how, in 1933, eleven years since Mussolini had come to power, while Trieste was expanding with euphoric modernism, enormous social and political contradictions were emerging in the city. One was the election of a Jew, Enrico Paolo Salem, as Trieste’s mayor (October 1933–August 1938). Salem was a self-proclaimed Catholic, but his wife and daughter were and remained Jewish. As mayor and as one of the wealthiest men in Trieste, Salem planned a number of grand schemes, including the founding of the University of Trieste (1924) and the addition of the Faculty of Economics (1938). He had joined Mussolini’s party in 1921, but his long years of service came to naught when Mussolini visited Trieste in September 1938. Just before the visit, Salem was forced to resign as mayor (August 1938). Then, during the visit, Mussolini addressed the crowds from the balcony of city hall and announced the imminent enactment of the racial laws (drafted in July and signed into law in November 1938). Since most readers are unaware of those historical events, Turcino­ vich Giuricin provides the full text of Mussolini’s speech to the Triestinians (46–8). For Miriam, the historic event was simply a grand gathering in Piazza Unità to see Mussolini; she clearly misunderstood its intent. After all, she was just a young girl of eleven. But adults, too, misunderstood the seriousness of the event, including adult Jews living in the city – yet further evidence of the contradictions of the time. On the one hand, many Triestinian Jews had made enormous contributions to the community and thought that, because of this, they were not at risk; on the other hand, a report deposited in city hall declared that people of Semitic origin held far too many public offices (50). While

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many Gentiles seemed to go along with Fascist ideology and some Jews seemed to think that they, in particular, were safe, some high-profile people in Trieste were not as gullible or naive. One of these was Bishop Antonio Santin, elevated just a few months earlier to the diocese of Trieste and Capodistria (16 March 1938).7 Santin was the only churchman who met with Mussolini to tell him that the racial laws were unjust. Aside from him, however, few in Trieste understood the real human consequences of Mussolini’s edict. At that time, the local newspapers focused on praising Il Duce and viewed the racial laws only in light of their economic consequences; there was little or no regard for the impending human tragedy (49). “L’arrivo in città, libera ma sola” (Returning to the city, free but alone) As the reader approaches the final episodes of Miriam’s journey, Breadth and Depth fuse in Miriam’s voice. References to documentary evidence of Miriam’s past life – aspects of Breadth – complete aspects of Depth described in previous chapters.8 Miriam explains the circumstances that enabled her to start her life anew. In the chapter on the return to freedom, Miriam begins in 1945 with her arrival in Prague, where she was placed in an orphanage and where she would live for the next three years. These were years of excruciating physical pain in her leg and hip caused by injuries she had suffered while working as a slave in the munition factories of Nazi Germany. They were also years of linguistic isolation – the locals spoke only Czech to her, which she did not know, and refused to communicate in German, which both she and they knew. One day, however, Oldrech, a young man she had met some years earlier through one of her cousins, came to visit her. He spoke both German and Czech, and was able to help her. He persuaded Miriam to seek medical help for her injuries and helped her to connect with a caring surgeon. After several operations, Miriam’s leg and hip were repaired. With the help of a caring nurse, Miriam learned conversational Czech. During the period of convalescence in a hospital in Prague, Miriam met a Jewish couple who had saved themselves by hiding from the authorities; since the end of the war, they had been searching for survivors and offering them assistance and support. It was they who, in 1947, informed Miriam that Canada was accepting up to a thousand Jewish orphans. At first Miriam, still suffering from her operations, dismissed the idea

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of emigrating to Canada, uncertain about moving again. But then, as Miriam explains, “fate decided for” her (109; la sorte decise per me) – a maternal cousin in Cleveland had learned that Miriam had survived and sent her a letter. In it Miriam found a photo of her with her family and original copies of two letters that Miriam’s mother had written to her brother in America in 1939 – letters that had arrived far too late to save Miriam’s family from deportation and the horror of Auschwitz. Miriam’s mother had written to her brother in Cleveland in the hope that he might help the family escape from the approaching nightmare in Europe by helping them emigrate to the United States. Miriam had not known about those letters or of her parents’ hopes to move to America. Reading the two letters, Miriam reimagined herself as the young Maddalena and realized that she could now rekindle her parents’ hope for a new future in the New World. She decided to fulfil her parents’ dream herself and applied to emigrate to Canada. This was a pivotal moment – as she observes, “I saved myself, even from myself, by departing for Canada in 1948” (111; Mi salvai, anche da me stessa, con la partenza verso il Canada nel marzo del 1948). On her voyage to Canada she was part of a group of twenty-five other young Jewish orphans who made the journey together. “Le cose sono la nostra casa” (Our possessions are our home) In the book’s last chapter, Miriam documents her challenge in tracking down what was left of her family’s belongings. Her father’s Swiss bank account becomes emblematic of that quest. At this point, Miriam’s narrative constitutes an extraordinary example of Depth: Agli ebrei fu sotratto tutto, vita, dignità, radici, beni. Noi avevamo rico­ minciato diverse volte, ora ero alla ricerca di qualcosa che era stato mio, un percorso in cui il denaro signficava ben poco, ma era il giuramento fatto a mio padre che mi riconduceva ancora una volta alla mia vita in famiglia, era una meta da raggiungere, un qualcosa da realizzare, per me, per loro, per sentirci ancora insieme, legati da una promessa. (115) (Everything had been taken from the Jews – their lives, dignity, roots, and possessions. Our family had begun afresh several times; now I was searching for something that had been mine, a journey in which money meant very little; but the vow I had made to my father, which brought me back to my life in the family, was a goal I needed to reach, a purpose I needed

258  Gabriella Colussi Arthur to fulfil not just for me but for them, in order for us to be reunited, tied by a promise.)

Miriam obstinately persists in this search. Once she is successful, she concludes simply, “I did it. For me, for them, along that tortuous road that destiny reserved for me without affording me any shortcuts” (119; L’ho fatto. Per me, per loro, per quella tortuosa strada che il destino mi ha riservato senza concedermi sconti). At this point, Breadth and Depth coalesce, completing the framework of Miriam’s narrative. “Ebraismo a Trieste: Memoria, storia, cultura” (The Jewish community in Trieste: Memory, history, culture) As noted above, I was intrigued by the postscript by Silva Bon at the end of the narrative and the addition of a third voice. This sort of contribution is unusual in biographical works based on first-person account narratives. There are normally only two voices – those of the researcher and of the informant – that collaborate in developing Breadth and Depth in the narrative. The voice of a historian is not normally considered integral to the events narrated by the informant. However, in Maddalena ha gli occhi viola, it is clear that the mission of both researcher and informant is to ensure that action be taken on historical silence and misrepresentation. Therefore, as part of an overarching framework to give voice to survivors of the Holocaust and, indirectly, to the community of esuli from the eastern Adriatic, Turcinovich Giuricin chooses to conclude Miriam’s story by inviting the contribution of a professional historian of the Jewish community in Trieste. In her postscript to the story, Bon describes the conditions, treatment, and contributions of the Jewish community in Trieste, not only when Miriam lived there as a child but also over the course of several centuries from to the time of the Austro-Hungarian Empire to events in the early twentieth century. This historical overview serves to position Maddalena ha gli occhi viola in a much wider context of reconstruction and realization. I offer some examples of Bon’s rich historical description. In 1771, the Austrian archduchess and Holy Roman empress Maria Theresa von Habsburg (r. 1740–80) enacted the Toleranzpatent, a statute of tolerance that granted freedom of religion and movement. This edict was followed by further measures, including the decree by her

Protagonist, Chronicler, Historian  259

son, Emperor Joseph II, whereby Jews were no longer required to wear distinguishing tassels on their clothing and, in 1785, that Jews were no longer required to live in the ghetto that had been set up about a hundred years earlier. As a result of these new liberties, during the nineteenth century Jews in Trieste became fully integrated into the Italian community, both economically and politically. The city supported and developed what became two competing sets of interests: economic and cultural. What Bon refers to as “Trieste’s disharmony” came to be seen as its symbol of modernity. During these years, which lasted through to the first three decades of the twentieth century, the Jewish community grew in importance, opportunity, and education, as followers of a movement known as mitteleuropäische Bildung (Central European education). The community educated its family members to high standards and, as a result, they excelled in many areas, including literature and music. Bon describes the roles not only of internationally known writers such as Italo Svevo (Ettore Schmitz, 1861–1928) and Umberto Saba (1883–1957) but also of lawyer-turned-newspaper editor Angelo Vivante (1869–1915), and the dozens of other professionals, intellectuals, and artists who were an integral element in the heart and soul of Trieste. These persons, as well as those who, after World War II, have participated in the effort to rebuild the “memory” of a Jewish presence in the city, have contributed to the historical documentation of the Jewish community in Trieste. Conclusion Maddalena ha gli occhi viola is thus an interview novel that not only tells a riveting immigrant narrative of someone living in the diaspora but also offers a compelling example of suffering and survival, of strength and determination, of dialogue and reflection. The Holocaust narrative captivates the reader and, in so doing, provides an opportunity for reflection on this and other narratives, one of which is the tragic story of the Julian-Dalmatian population of Istria, Fiume, and Dalmatia. Though not a Julian-Dalmatian by birth, Miriam is one by adoption, as it were. She serves to focus our attention on the Jewish component of that multicultural world that was, and still is, Trieste and its region. Now a Canadian of Jewish-Czech-Italian origin, Miriam exemplifies the multiculturalism that is the signature characteristic of both her old and her new homeland.

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Rosanna Turcinovich Giuricin’s biographical novel exemplifies, instead, immigration narratives, especially in light of the methodology I have theorized (2014) and now applied to this book. The three variables of Breadth (necessary to capture and contextualize the informant’s experiences), of Depth (required to encourage the informant to recall past experiences), and of Form (to communicate with the informant in his/her own language) are clearly met in this work. But so is also the historical research necessary to authenticate and, in some cases, fill the inevitable historical lacunae present in the informant’s narrative. And it is here, in Turcinovich Giuricin’s archival research in the region and Bon’s knowledge of the larger historical context behind the story, that this immigration narrative presents us with an unexpected twist. The research and scholarship evident in this fourth component turn the immigration narrative, or the narrative biography, as the case may be, into a historical document/analysis that raises the particular case of Miriam Frankel to a general, or universal, level. This is no longer just Miriam’s story or Rosanna’s reflections but a much larger consideration on the human condition. It is not surprising, then, that from the moment I began reading Maddalena ha gli occhi viola, I was unable to set the book down. Turcinovich Giuricin’s narrative is a powerful representation of this extraordinary survivor that is Miriam and of the tragic events that engulfed her and many others during the war. Not two, but three very different voices present and contextualize a life-story narrative that bears witness to the extraordinary resilience of the human spirit and to the community of survivors and chroniclers to which both Miriam and Rosanna belong. NOTES   1 See Colussi Arthur, “Methodological Reflections.”   2 For the sake of simplicity, I will use “Miriam” and “Rosanna” when referring to the two characters in the interview novel, that is, the subject-narrator Miriam Frankel, alias Maddalena Grünglas in her youth in Italy, and the journalist-interviewer, Rosanna Turcinovich Giuricin. When, instead, referring to the two women not as characters in the narrative but as historical figures, I will use their surnames Frankel and Turcinovich Giuricin.   3 “Anch’io mi cimentavo con successo, avevo un buon orecchio già da ragazzina, apprendevo con facilità”; Turcinovich Giuricin, Maddalena, 43.

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  4   5

  6

  7

  8

Future references to this work will be incorporated into the text. Unless otherwise indicated, all translations are mine. Eisenbichler, “Miriam Frankel e il Ricordo della Shoah.” The decree by the Italian Parliament preceded, by more than five years, a similar decree by the United Nations issued on 1 November 2005 to make 27 January the annual worldwide day of commemoration of the Holocaust. Warehouse 18 in the old port of Trieste has now been turned into a museum featuring the furnishings and other objects left behind by emigrating esuli; as of February 2015 it is open to the public. The warehouse is the subject of a moving one-man show, Magazzino 18, by the Italian composer/singer Simone Cristicchi. The show, which has met with great success in Italy, had its North American premiere at the Famee Furlane in Woodbridge, Ontario, on 12 September 2014, sponsored by the Club Giuliano-Dalmato of Toronto; see Turcinovich Giuricin, “La prima nord-americana di Magazzino 18.” Antonio Santin was born in Rovigno d’Istria in 1895. Before becoming bishop of Trieste and Capodistria, he had previously served as bishop of Fiume (1933–8). On 13 July 1963, Pope Paul VI elevated him to the rank of archbishop. Normally, the role of researchers in the narrative inquiry approach is not to verify facts historically. In this case, however, evidence of the historical past is the mission of both the author and the informant. In ch. 8 and 9, Miriam refers to documentary evidence that she discovered on her return journeys to Trieste and Czechoslovakia or that others, including Turcinovich Giuricin, provided to her.

Cited Works Colussi Arthur, Gabriella. “Methodological Reflections on Italian-Canadian Storytelling.” PhD diss., York University, 2014. Eisenbichler, Konrad. “Miriam Frankel e il Ricordo della Shoah.” El Boletin 148 (Dec. 2011): 3. Elder, Glen H., and Janet Z. Giele, eds. The Craft of Life Course Research. New York: Guilford Press, 2009. Passerini, Luisa. Fascism in Popular Memory: The Cultural Experience of the Turin Working Class. Translated by Robert Lumley and Jude Bloomfield. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987. Portelli, Alessandro. Death of Luigi Trastulli and Other Stories: The Form and Meaning in Oral History. Albany: SUNY Press, 2010.

262  Gabriella Colussi Arthur Thompson, Paul. Voice of the Past: Oral History. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000. Turcinovich Giuricin, Rosanna. “La prima nord-americana di Magazzino 18 di Simone Cristicchi.” El Boletin 159 (Sept. 2014): 1–2. –  Maddalena ha gli occhi viola. Trieste: ComunicArte Edizioni, 2015.

Plate 1. El Boletin 106, 1 June 2001, 20 (Photo: Konrad Eisenbichler)

Plate 2. El Boletin 109, 1 March 2002, 7 (Photo: Konrad Eisenbichler)

Plate 3. El Boletin 123, September 2005, 15 (Photo: Konrad Eisenbichler)

Plate 4. El Boletin 131, September 2007, 13 (Photo: Konrad Eisenbichler)

Plate 5. AveMaria Vodopia, quilt sewn for the Raduno ’91 (Photo: Konrad Eisenbichler)

Plate 6. Vittorio Fiorucci, À tout prendre, 1963, silkscreen, 101.80 × 69.30 cm (Collection of Judith Adams; Courtesy of Judith Adams and the Vittorio Fiorucci Estate)

Plate 7. Vittorio Fiorucci, Ne coupez pas les arbres, 1967 silkscreen, 90.5 × 66.5 cm (Collection of Judith Adams; Courtesy of Judith Adams and the Vittorio Fiorucci Estate)

Plate 8. Vittorio Fiorucci, Victor (By kind permission of Just pour rire/Just for Laughs)

Plate 9. Vittorio Fiorucci, Visitez le Nouveau Québec, 1967, silkscreen, 32.7 × 23.1 cm (Collection of Judith Adams; Courtesy of Judith Adams and the Vittorio Fiorucci Estate)

Plate 10. Vittorio Fiorucci, Exposition internationale d’art pornographique, 1967, silkscreen, 89 × 63.5 cm (Collection of Judith Adams; Courtesy of Judith Adams and the Vittorio Fiorucci Estate) Inset: Spectators consider the poster Exposition internationale d’art pornographique at the exhibition Montreal through the Eyes of Vittorio in 2016 (Photograph: Geneviève Babin).

Plate 11. Silvia Pecota, Boxer Wladimir Klitschko, 2002 (Courtesy of the artist)

Plate 12. Silvia Pecota, Boxer Putting on Wraps, 2002 (Courtesy of the artist)

Plate 13. Silvia Pecota, book cover, Remembering Our Fallen, 2015 (Courtesy of the artist)

Plate 14. Silvia Pecota, The Fallen, 2015 (Courtesy of the artist)

Plate 15. Silvia Pecota in Afghanistan, 2003 (Courtesy of the artist)

Plate 16. Silvia Pecota, book cover, Hockey Across Canada, 2003 (Courtesy of the artist)

11 Vittorio Fiorucci: A Portrait of the Artist g ui ta lam s e ch i

The Italian-Canadian artist Vittorio Fiorucci, known as Vittorio, holds a privileged place in Canadian arts and culture.1 His work is celebrated in international exhibitions, museums, and galleries, and honoured with many awards in the fields of poster art, graphic design, art direction, illustration, and comic strips. Vittorio’s extensive artistic output, spanning fifty years of design history, was recognized in an exhibition at Montreal’s historical Musée McCord from 25 September 2015 to 10 April 2016, a reflection of the artist’s importance to his chosen home in Canada – Quebec.2 Vittorio was born in the Italian city of Zara, on the coast of Dalmatia, on 2 November 1932 when the city was still part of Italy.3 During World War II, Zara was the site of intense Allied bombing that killed about 20 percent of the city’s inhabitants, an experience that marked the artist for the rest of his life.4 Vittorio’s Italian parents fled the city in 1943 and went with their son to Venice, the birthplace of his paternal grandfather. On 2 November 1951, the day of his nineteenth birthday, Vittorio left Venice and emigrated to Canada. While Vittorio’s Italian origins are normally acknowledged by the press, his Dalmatian roots are, instead, consistently forgotten, except for the obligatory mention that he was born in Zara (though sometimes the city’s name is rendered in its current Croatian form, Zadar, thereby implicitly obliterating his Italian birth and incorrectly implying a Croatian origin). When they are not completely wrong, references to his cultural heritage often claim that he is an Italian of Venetian origin,5 which is in part correct, given that his father was born in Venice and that Zara, where Vittorio was born and raised until the age of eleven, had been for centuries part of Venetian territory, both politically (1409–1797)

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and culturally (even after the fall of Venice and the city’s incorporation into the Austro-Hungarian Empire, 1797–1915). References to Vittorio’s alleged Venetian roots are also clearly male normative, because they effectively ignore his mother’s Roman origins and so exclude a priori a “Roman” cultural heritage passed down maternally to him. Other sources say that he is “an Italian born in Croatia,”6 a claim that is completely false given that Zara became part of Croatia only in 1991, fifty-nine years after Fiorucci was born there and forty-eight years after he left the city. Still other sources claim he was born in “Yugoslavia,” an equally incorrect claim since Zara became part of Yugoslavia four years after Vittorio left the city and moved to Venice, Italy.7 In short, Fiorucci’s Italian-Dalmatian origins have been forgotten or ignored in favour of his Italian-Venetian ancestry on his father’s side or in favour of fictitious Croatian/Yugoslavian roots on the basis of current political borders (as patently false as claiming that Archimedes of Syracuse, a Greek, was an Italian because he was born in Sicily). Such forgetfulness may perhaps be laid, at least in part, at Vittorio’s own feet – it seems that he, too, ignored his birth and childhood in Dalmatia in order to present himself simply as an Italian, something that many Julian-Dalmatians immigrants often do in order to avoid lengthy and difficult explanations. Yet, Vittorio’s apparent disregard for his Dalmatian origins is somewhat perplexing – one year before his death he was quoted by Isabelle Paré as someone who treasures the child in himself: Vittorio prides himself on his having kept if not the passion, at least the spirit of youth. “The biggest error people make is to want at all costs to become big and serious and to get rid of their childhood. That is bullshit!” he said stroking his cat Crazy with one hand. “At the moment of death, what we most miss is our childhood. The child in us is a miracle to be kept,” the charming man maintains.8

One cannot help but be struck by the contradiction inherent in these statements on the importance of the child in us and the apparent lack of referents in Vittorio’s life and works to his own childhood in Zara. Perhaps, having just recovered from two strokes (as Paré points out) and possibly quite aware of his approaching mortality (he would, in fact, die just half a year later), in September 2007 Vittorio was clearly reconsidering his lifelong dismissal of his childhood in Dalmatia. “At the moment of death, what we most miss is our childhood,” he says. He

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seems, in fact, to be having some regrets for having got “rid” (se débarrasser) of his childhood in his efforts “to become big and serious” (devenir grand et sérieux). But that is clearly what he did in his entire life – in a number of biographical blurbs, Fiorucci famously described himself as “a Montreal artist of Italian origins.”9 There is no Zara, no Dalmatia in that self-definition. Although it would be interesting to try to chart this silence on Vittorio’s part, for the moment it will be more fruitful, instead, to follow Vittorio’s lead and continue to ignore his Dalmatian roots in order to focus, instead, on his career in Montreal and the contributions he made to Canadian graphic arts and culture. Although during World War II Italians were seen with suspicion by Canada, after 1947, when the government removed Italians from the wartime enemy-alien list, the country became especially welcoming to newcomers from Italy such as Vittorio. Like many immigrants at the time, he held various jobs and, in his spare time, began to make posters. As he explained to Paré, “‘I began to make posters because when I arrived in Montreal I could not speak either French or English. For me, it was a fascinating way to communicate. My humour could not express itself except in images,’ Vittorio recounts.”10 He first started to produce posters for fictitious events such as the opening of nonexistent documentary films, but then a Quebecois friend urged him to submit his posters to a graphic-arts exhibition and that changed the course of his life, opening up for him a very successful career as a graphic artist.11 In his early years in Montreal, Vittorio also started an amateur dramatic troupe that mounted plays for other new immigrants, and, naturally, he designed the posters for these theatrical events.12 Vittorio soon found himself in the urban centre of Montreal, where he became an important contributor to its visual culture. His posters appeared on mural surfaces wherever a construction site offered space for his art,13 as well as in advertising and publications. He regularly contributed images and serial comic strips for newspapers. Vittorio said, “I love Montreal; I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else, even though I really miss the sea.”14 His posters and other artistic projects participated in the artistic life of the lively city burgeoning with theatre, jazz, and major festivals on the world stage, including Expo ’67 and the 1976 Olympics. This was a period of significant changes and economic growth in Quebec. The vitality of the province was enhanced by the construction of Mirabel airport, the expansion of French-language music and films, new museum developments, as well as the upheavals of the

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sexual revolution, civil-rights movements, stronger labour unions, and the rise of social democracy in politics. Vittorio was among the large number of young people who comprised almost half the total population of post-war Quebec.15 Mixing with the bohemian subcultures and avant-garde in Montreal, Vittorio became part of the city’s artistic circles. His friends and acquaintances included artists, writers, singers, and filmmakers such as Norman Mailer, Leonard Cohen, and Claude Jutra. Yet, Vittorio maintained his commitment to the graphic arts. In a brief appearance on Jean Palardy’s 1954 film Artist in Montreal, Vittorio announces before the camera that he was working on a cartoon for television.16 The success of Jutra’s 1963 film À tout prendre and the poster Vittorio designed for it (plate 6) propelled his career, winning the prestigious Graphica Award, third prize at the Karlovy Vary International Film Festival in the Czech Republic, and acclaim from the Art Director’s Club of Montreal. The dramatic impact of this poster is effected by a high-contrast black and white photograph of actress Johanna Harelle, superimposed with red type.17 Strong contrasts and dynamic graphics are characteristic of Vittorio’s designs. In the 1960s, he experimented with powerful photographic images and playful silhouette-like forms. Vittorio’s preference for bold graphic elements, using cut-out or torn paper and solid colours with black, demonstrates his connection with the abstract geometric art painted in Quebec at the time by Claude Tousignant, Guido Molinari, Marcel Barbeau, and Jacques Hurtubise, among others. Like these artists, Vittorio employed intense colours and simplified geometric forms to make a forceful impact. His art is distilled to the essential relevant details. Most often composed of a few lines, uncomplicated shapes, and a limited colour palette, his striking compositions present minimal subjects with a dramatic central focus. In this manner, Vittorio produced distinctive artwork for corporate annual reports, as well as posters for films, theatre arts, concert performances, and other cultural events.18 His poster designs continued to win awards in Montreal, nationally, and internationally. He won the Graphica Award again in 1967, 1968, and 1972. In 1977, Vittorio won the Toronto Art Director’s Club Award. That same year, Vittorio’s posters won sixteen awards at the international exhibition and competition organized by the association of the Communications Collaboration, and in 1978 his work received the top honours for excellence award. Unofficially, the public acclaim for his work is attested by the number of his posters that were stolen at these

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shows. In 1981, Vittorio’s designs won further recognition on the international stage when he was awarded four prizes at the Lahti Poster Biennial in Finland. Vittorio is listed among the top of his profession in the Who’s Who of Graphic Design,19 and his designs were selected for publication on the glossy pages of graphic-design magazines among works by the world’s most prominent designers. For example, Vittorio’s work is represented in Design magazine in 1969, and in the Graphis Annual that showcases the best of the year in 1974, 1978, and 1979. A remarkable distinction of Vittorio’s designs is that they continued to appear in magazines that present the most current and distinguished graphic design in every subsequent decade of his life, including Idea in International Advertising Art in 1984 and 1991, Applied Arts magazine in 1993, and on the cover of Graphika in 2001. In fact, Vittorio is one of the few designers and illustrators whose career gained attention in professional design circles, as well as among a broad public audience. Beginning in 1967, he produced illustrations for the Montrealer, and in the 1970s his work could be seen in the Montreal Star and Last Post. His illustrations, comic strips, and photographs appeared regularly in Perspectives magazine. Perspectives is an illustrated supplement with a readership of eight hundred thousand that was published in the Saturday editions of the largest French-language papers, as well as in smaller regional papers including La Presse, Le Soleil, La Tribune, Le Nouveliste, and La Voix de l’Est. By 1971, Vittorio’s editorial illustrations, cartoons, and comic strips were already an ubiquitous element in Quebec’s visual landscape. Independent comic strips drew legitimacy from the prestige of the illustrated press, editorial caricature, and animation – art forms in which Vittorio’s oeuvre was a demonstrated success. The influence of these genres was reciprocal. Artists such as Vittorio and the caricaturist Bado (Guy Badeaux), one of Vittorio’s many friends and collaborators,20 whose editorial illustrations enjoyed wide approbation and dissemination in the commercial presses, absorbed the experience of underground comic strips, amateur fanzines, and comic magazines. Under the pseudonym Vico, Vittorio produced a comic strip for Bado’s comic magazine Baloune and for the magazine À Suivre in France. This second comic strip featured a little round man who would reappear in many other projects. The character Fontaine, one of Vittorio’s nicknames, is a composite of the artist’s personal traits and those he observed in the society around him. Vittorio said, “Whenever I want to poke fun at an attitude or make a comment, I go to him.”21 A poster

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created in 1967, for example, presents this figure as a gentle protestor against deforestation, who lies on the ground beneath a large tree that grows out of his belly (plate 7). Fontaine was created while Vittorio was still a young man in Italy. Over time, this character grew a long beard and aged along with the artist.22 The most famous variation on Vittorio’s expressive homunculus is the little horned devil that became a mascot for the internationally famous comedy series Juste pour rire/Just for Laughs (plate 8). The little green devil, who bears the name Victor, an anglicized version of the artist’s own name, is featured as a cartoon animation in the Radio-Canada broadcast of this comedy series. Vittorio was a groundbreaking illustrator during the golden age of comics that gave birth to the irreverent art of Robert Crumb, Ralph Steadman, and the contributors of Mad magazine; the Franco-Belgian publication Pilote; and Hara Kiri in France. In 1965, Chiendent was created by Quebecois artists Claude Haeffely, Michel Fortier, MarcAntoine Nadeau, and André Montpetit, whose work Vittorio particularly admired.23 Chiendent was published in weekly papers beginning in September 1968; although its production was short-lived, it attracted significant attention.24 Such artists extended the boundaries of the genre and started a tidal wave with a fresh aesthetic. With the advent of Expo ’67, the international exposition of arts, sciences, and the quotidian, Montreal became the cultural focus of the world. The artistic director was Robert Lapalme, a caricaturist with an impressive body of contributions in the Canadian press and television, and recipient of the Order of Canada. Lapalme had founded the Salon international de la caricature et de la bande dessinée in Montreal, which preserved a permanent collection and promoted temporary exhibitions of a broad spectrum of artistic products internationally. At the Pavilion of Humour in 1967 and in subsequent exhibitions at Man and His World,25 Lapalme and his collaborators showcased the work of hundreds of artists, including editorial illustrations, caricatures, and, from 1971 onwards, many comic strips.26 Vittorio’s work was often included in these exhibitions, winning him awards in 1974, 1976, and 1977. In 1980, Vittorio received another award, this time in the comic-strip category. Comic strips are a hyperbolic medium of communication that uses highly expressive figures and accompanying text could be assigned to specific characters in speech bubbles to communicate simple narratives, as well as political ideas. The artists and writers of Mad magazine, which adopted the format of 1950s comic strips in the United States, and France’s Hara Kiri: Journal bête et méchant assaulted the adult comics

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market with a style of humour that was provocative and often crude. The ideogrammatic form of comic strips used in children’s literature had become a pictorial vehicle for adult themes and a preferred vehicle for the concerns of the counterculture. Comics expressed a rebellious new aesthetic. Together with caricatures, pseudopublications, photo essays, and albums that compile the work of multiple artists, they were the select medium of communication used by the student-protest movements in 1960s United States and 1968 France.27 This period has also been called the “le printemps de la bande dessinée kébékois” (the springtime of Quebec comic strips).28 Vittorio was among the innovators whose body of work was consumed in French Canada during the period of change that affected Quebec between 1968 and 1975 known as the Quiet Revolution.29 Vittorio’s career flourished during this era of rapid and even violent political change. In the province of Quebec, these changes included Francization, the creation and expansion of the ministry of cultural affairs, public corporations, pensions and education, and social reforms that lowered the voting age from twenty-one to eighteen and increased the legal status of women while reducing the role of the Church in public life.30 Vittorio’s comic strips and posters reflect the spirit of these changes. In a poster produced in 1967, solid shapes indicate a black cassock and the clerical collar worn by the Christian clergy (plate 9). Affixed to this priestly garment, the words “Visitez le nouveau Québec” (Visit the new Quebec) are printed on a round green pin in a contrasting lavender colour and a typeface that was favoured by 1960s psychedelia culture. The humorous juxtaposition of clerical garments with a pin of the kind that was a forum for statements of political protest is a cheeky reference to changing attitudes about the role of religion in contemporary society. Another poster produced in the same year, Exposition internationale d’art pornographique (International exposition of pornographic art), is composed of simple shapes that, in this case, indicate the outline of a woman’s body from just below the waist to her thighs (plate 10). The background is a hot pink. Additional details within the larger graphic represent a keyhole (a sexual pun), and a bullseye beneath a moustache suggests the gaze of a male voyeur. But one need not focus on these elements to fully grasp the poster’s meaning. These strong graphic images and provocative juxtapositions are bold statements that contributed to the debates about sexual and religious life at the time.

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Following in the footsteps of an artist such as Andy Warhol, who transitioned from commercial projects and posters into art galleries and museums, Vittorio’s fame grew as his illustrations and posters became available for sale in museums, galleries, and boutiques in major North American cities, including Montreal, Toronto, Chicago, and New York.31 As a result, three posters by Vittorio are in the collections of the Museum of Modern Art in New York: Exposition internationale d’art pornographique, Visitez le Nouveau Québec, and Keep the Atomic Bomb White.32 In a biographical statement to promote his artwork for a calendar series, Vittorio described himself as a “Montreal artist of Italian origins and international renown who uses his art to explore the world and present situations that create social change.”33 This statement may exaggerate the political role of his work considered as a whole, but it reflects the provocative nature of the man and his art. When the Marci Lipman Gallery in Toronto presented Vittorio’s work in 1976, a high-profile ad in the Globe and Mail newspaper announced an exhibition by Montreal’s controversial poster artist, stamped with the word “Censored!” And yet, his art was not deemed to be too controversial to represent Canada. An exhibition entitled L’art de Vittorio, funded by the federal government, travelled from 1981 to 1984 to Paris, Berlin, Ankara, Liège, Brussels, Stuttgart, Athens, and Rome. Art museums in Canada and across the globe presented Vittorio’s work, including the Vancouver Art Gallery in 1978, and galleries across Mexico from 1991 to 1993, as well as the National Autonomous University of Mexico and the Secunda Bienal Internacional del Cartel Mexico. In Montreal, Vittorio’s work was represented in the Musée d’art contemporain in 1983, and at the Place des Arts in 1991. During the last decade of the artist’s life, major exhibitions were devoted to him; among these are Vittorio Venise Valcourt at the Yvonne L. Bombardier Cultural Centre in Valcourt (2002), Ô Vittorio at Mirabel (2006), and a retrospective exhibition at the Bain Mathieu in Montreal that celebrated his fiftieth year as a poster designer during the Forum international de l’affiche (2007). An earlier retrospective in 2003 entitled Viva Vittorio at the Musée national des beaux-arts du Québec recognized his exceptional artistic career and traced its milestones with posters, comic strips, and photographs going back to the beginning of the 1950s when he first arrived in Canada.34 The artist was especially touched in October 1999 when his drawings were selected for a comic-strip writers’ exhibition in Venice.35

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Vittorio was an art director and an illustrator, as well as a comic-strip and poster artist who gained both professional and public accolades. He said, “There are those who say that a poster is not art. Personally, I’ve always felt it is the art form closest to people.”36 In 1979, Harold Haydon, professor of art history in Chicago, artist, and art critic for the Chicago Sun, proclaimed Vittorio a “quintessential leader” whose designs might represent the spirit of the day; Haydon writes, “From every period and style in art one or two artists emerge eventually as quintessential leaders, whose works are the purest and most typical examples of the period or style. It is just possible that the artist having this exhibition […] is one such leader. His name is Vittorio Fiorucci and his métier is contemporary poster.”37 Vittorio’s art, however, transcended his time.38 In an article in Montreal’s Le Devoir, Isabelle Paré pointed out that Vittorio’s posters and art seem to be dateless not only because he does not follow passing trends but also because he consciously avoids dating them: “Of the posters produced in the course of his career, few are marked by time. Never in style, never out of style, his grasp has remained intact. ‘I never put a date on my posters, and it is very difficult today to give their age. I am very proud of this,’ he says.”39 From the 1960s throughout his career, Vittorio’s work continued to win awards in multiple categories, and his little green devil outlives the artist on televised broadcasts of Juste pour rire. In 2000, Vittorio was given a Lifetime Achievement Award by the Canadian Association of Photographers and Illustrators in Communication (CAPIC), and in May 2000 the Institute of Design Montreal selected Vittorio as one of the top ten creative artists of the past fifty years. When the film magazine 24 Images asked him to write a tribute on the death of Federico Fellini, the Italian screenwriter and director whose films Vittorio admired, he submitted a revealing paean. Vittorio distilled the great director’s work to a single recurring motif, a ghostly little girl in a white dress.40 The ability to seek out and find a single iconic image is a hallmark of Vittorio’s own work. Like the striking image of the little girl whose ironic laughter signals the reflexive moments in Fellini’s films, Vittorio’s art is punctuated by the little man who reappears variously as Fontaine or Victor, the little green devil in Juste pour rire. This jovial character, who stands in for the artist to present the world as he saw it, came with him from Venice to Montreal, where Vittorio Fiorucci created his triumphant artistic legacy and displayed it far and wide.

272  Guita Lamsechi NOTES I wish to thank Judith Adams and the Vittorio Fiorucci Estate for providing images of some of Vittorio’s works and granting me permission to publish them in this article. Similarly, I wish to thank the Juste pour rire/Just for Laughs comedy festival again for providing an image of their mascot “Victor” and giving me permission to publish it.   1 Vittorio is cited, by his first name only, in Falardeau’s two scholarly surveys of Quebecois comic art, La Bande dessinée and Histoire. For biographical details about the artist and his work, this article relies on the research published in Choko, Through the Eyes.   2 The exhibition Montreal through the Eyes of Vittorio at the historical museum of the City of Montreal, Musée McCord, curated by Choko, includes many works from the collection of Judith Adams and was accompanied by a series of lectures in September 2015.   3 By the terms of the Paris Peace Treaty of 1947, Zara was ceded by Italy to Yugoslavia, which renamed it Zadar. In the aftermath of the break-up of Yugoslavia (1991), the city has become part of the Republic of Croatia.  4 Choko, Through the Eyes, 15. On the Allied bombings of Zara, see Talpo and Brcic, Vennero dal cielo.   5 “Vittorio Fiorucci, a native Venetian now living in Montreal” (emphasis added). Lerner and Williamson, Art and Architecture, 569. The error originates in a misinterpretation of the phrase “since he came to Canada from Venice 19 years ago” in Ferrabee, “Montreal’s Public Private Eye,” 56. See also the statement “Vittorio le Vénitien manie les langues avec autant d’habileté que la plume” (Vittorio the Venetian handles languages with the same skill as the pen; emphasis added) in Isabelle Paré, “Cure de Jouvence pour Victorio,” Le Devoir, 29 Sept. 2007, http://www.ledevoir. com/culture/158792/cure-de-jouvence-pour-vittorio. Here and elsewhere, all translations are my own.   6 “L’artiste italien né en Croatie.” Clément, “Vittorio Fiorucci.”   7 “Il naît à Zadar en Yougoslavie” (D’Alfonso, “Vittorio Fiorucci,” 56; He was born in Zadar in Yugoslavia).   8 “Vittorio se fait un honneur d’avoir gardé sinon la fougue, l’esprit de la jeunesse. ‘La plus grande erreur des hommes, c’est de vouloir à tout prix devenir grand et sérieux et de se débarrasser de leur enfance. C’est de la bullshit!,’ dit-il en caressant d’une main son chat Crazy.   “‘Au moment de mourir, ce qui nous manque le plus, c’est notre enfance. L’enfant en nous, c’est le miracle qu’il faut garder,’” plaide l’attachant personnage.” (Paré, “Cure de Jouvence”)

Vittorio Fiorucci  273  9 Choko, Through the Eyes, 225. 10 “‘J’ai commencé à faire des affiches parce que je ne parlais ni le français ni l’anglais quand je suis arrivé à Montréal. Pour moi, c’était un moyen de communication fascinant. Mon humour ne pouvait s’exprimer qu’en images,’ raconte Vittorio.” Paré, “Cure de Jouvence.” 11 Ibid. 12 Choko, Through the Eyes, 15–19. 13 Ibid., 226. 14 An unpublished interview with Vittorio Fiorucci by Pierre Savignac, cited in ibid., 16. 15 Choko, Through the Eyes, 16. 16 Ibid., 17. 17 Vittorio Fiorucci, À tout prendre, 1963, silkscreen, 101.80 x 69.30 cm. Cinémathèque québécoise, Montreal, http://www.cinematheque.qc.ca/ exposition/a_1/aff/A7_1988_0001.htm. 18 In Aubrey Brilliant, for whom Vittorio created corporate graphics and theatre posters, Vittorio shared a patron with the abstract painters Molinari, Hurtubise, Barbeau, and Tousignant. Brilliant collected their art and supported the Galerie du Siècle in Montreal where their work was exhibited. Vittorio produced art for Brilliant’s business affiliations, Québecair, SOCA Limitée, and Les Prévoyants du Canada, among others. 19 Heller, Who’s Who, s.v. “Vittorio Fiorucci.” 20 Choko, Through the Eyes, 54. 21 Fiorucci interviewed by Pierre Savignac, cited in ibid., 55. 22 Vittorio is quoted as saying, “I created him in 1948 before leaving Italy.” Choko, Through the Eyes, 55 citing from Corriere Italiano, 8 June 1994, 20. 23 Choko, Through the Eyes, 54. 24 Falardeau, La Bande dessinée, 47 n26; Falardeau, Histoire, 70. 25 The world exposition that ended in October 1967, however, the exhibitions and many of the pavilions continued for many years in Montreal as Man and His World. 26 Lapalme founded the Salon international de la caricature (International Salon of Caricature) in 1964. In 1971, it became the Salon international de la caricature et de la bande dessinée and incorporated comic strips together with a range of related art forms, including Javanese marionettes, mobiles, silhouettes, and dolls. In its first year, the salon featured the works of 362 artists; by 1987, the numbers had swelled to one thousand artists. International exhibitions organized by the salon were sponsored by major museums such as the Museum of Modern Art in New York and travelled all over the world. Falardeau, La Bande dessinée, 51–2.

274  Guita Lamsechi 27 Ibid., 46; Falardeau, Histoire, 68. 28 Falardeau, La Bande dessinée, 47–8; Falardeau, Histoire, 70–1. 29 Falardeau, La Bande dessinée, 46; Falardeau, Histoire, 68. 30 Among these reforms is the abolishment of Bill 16 in 1964, which had restricted the judicial status of a married woman to that of a minor. See also Durocher and Millette, “Quiet Revolution.” 31 Choko, Through the Eyes, 224–5. 32 Vittorio Fiorucci, Keep the Atomic Bomb White, 1964, silkscreen, 88.8 x 63.5 cm, Musée national des beaux-arts du Québec, Quebec, 2006.259. 33 Vittorio wrote this statement to promote his artwork in calendars for the National Bank of Canada from 1993 to 1997. Choko, Through the Eyes, 225. 34 Bourassa, Viva Vittorio. 35 Choko, Through the Eyes, 234. 36 Eroglu, “Vittorio.” 37 Harold Haydon, “Vittorio: The Leader in Modern Poster Art?” Chicago Sun, 5 Jan. 1979, 2.3. 38 It is interesting to note that the duo Yannick Desranleau and Chloe Lum, who collaborate on visual art and experimental design projects under the name Seripop, cite Vittorio Fiorucci as the “dream collaborator” they would most wish to work with if he were still living. “Seripop.” 39 “Sur les 300 affiches produites au cours de sa carrière, peu sont marquées par le temps. Jamais à la mode, jamais démodée, sa griffe est restée intacte. ‘Je ne mets jamais de date sur mes affiches et il est très difficile aujourd’hui de dire leur âge. Je suis assez fier de cela,’ dit-il.” Paré, “Cure de Jouvence.” 40 Fiorucci, “Souvenir de Venise,” 31.

Cited Works Bourassa, Paul. Viva Vittorio: Musée national des beaux-arts du Québec. Quebec: Musée national des beaux-arts du Québec, 2003. Choko, Marc H. Dans l’œil de Vittorio/Through the Eyes of Vittorio. Montreal: Éditions de l’Homme, 2015. Clément, Éric. “Vittorio Fiorucci au Musée McCord: Hommage à l’affichiste de coeur.” La Presse, 28 Sept. 2015, Arts, 7, http://plus.lapresse.ca/screens/ e2f6efb1-0a87-4c98-ade3-50f9f985b692%7C_0.html. D’Alfonso, Antonio. “Vittorio Fiorucci: Portrait d’audace.” Panoram Italia, 8 Oct. 2015, 56–7. Durocher, René, and Dominique Millette. “Quiet Revolution.” In The Canadian Encyclopedia. Historica Canada, 1985–. 30 July 2013. http://www .thecanadianencyclopedia.ca/en/m/article/quiet-revolution/.

Vittorio Fiorucci  275 Eroglu, Miray. “Vittorio Brings Posters to Life.” McGill Tribune, 30 Sept, 2015, http://www.mcgilltribune.com/a-e/vittorio-brings-posters-to-life-2901241/. Falardeau, Mira. Histoire de la bande dessinée au Québec. Montreal: VLB Éditeur, 2008. –  La Bande dessinée au Québec. Montreal: Les Éditions du Boréal, 1994. Ferrabee, Lydia. “Montreal’s Public Private Eye.” Design 257 (May 1970): 56–9. Fiorucci, Vittorio. “Souvenir de Venise.” 24 Images 71 (1993): 31. Heller, Martin. Who’s Who of Graphic Design. Edited by Andrea Grossholz. Zurich: Bentelli-Werd Verlag, 1994. Lerner, Loren R., and Mary F. Williamson. Art and Architecture in Canada: A Bibliography and Guide to the Literature to 1981/Art et architecture au Canada: Bibliographie et guide le la documentation jusqu’en 1981. Vol. 1. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1991. “Seripop.” Design & Applied Arts Index (DAAI). Print 65, no. 1 (Feb. 1993): 96. Talpo, Oddone, and Sergio Brcic. …Vennero dal cielo: Zara distrutta 1943–1944/ They Came from the Sky: Zara in Ruins 1943–1944/Dođoše s neba. Razrušeni Zadar 1943.–1944. 2nd ed. Campobasso: Associazione Dalmati Italiani nel Mondo/Palladino Editore, 2006. Trilingual edition, Italian, English, Croatian.

12 Dalmatian Stone: A Conversation with Silvia Pecota on Her Life and Art paolo fr a s cà

The Italian-Dalmatian-Canadian Identity* “If you have a talent, don’t bury it. Go out there, and make something!” is Silvia Pecota’s stentorian response when she is asked about what her work means to her. An award-winning and internationally praised artist, her resilience and passionate spirit transpire from her words and fill the room as she begins to tell us about her childhood and adolescence in Toronto. The eldest child of two hard-working immigrant parents, Pecota assumed many responsibilities as a young woman, not the least of which was looking after her two younger siblings, something that, she adds, was very commonplace among children of immigrants: “It shaped young children into early adults.” Yet, as early as when she was six years old, she found the time to delve into art and literature, and began drawing figures, mostly of an anatomical nature. Pecota’s mother, Maria Luisa Andrighetti, was born in Fonzaso (in the province of Belluno), a village in the Italian Dolomites about 80 km northwest of Venice. According to her daughter, Maria Luisa exhibits the typical “dramatic, [well-]dispositioned, and hard-working nature” of people from the mountains. Silvia’s father, Benjamin “Benny” Pecota, is instead from Zara, a city on the eastern coast of the Adriatic Sea, when it was part of Italy (today the city is part of Croatia and is called Zadar). An orphan, Mr Pecota attempted to flee the region after the Yugoslav takeover.1 His first attempt, in March 1948, came to naught when he was apprehended by the Yugoslav authorities; his second attempt, a few months later, was successful, and he managed to cross into Italy, where he was held in a refugee camp in Servigliano (in the Marche region) before eventually being able to emigrate to Canada. He landed

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in Halifax on 11 September 1951. He met his future wife five years later in Toronto, where they started a family and continue to reside to the present day. Mr Pecota found a better life in Canada but never forgot about the place he had once called home, but from which he had to flee. The history of the city of Zara/Zadar is rather intricate. A major centre of Liburnian culture in antiquity and subsequently a Roman municipio, it suffered a severe decline after the fall of Rome, was incorporated into the Ostrogoth Kingdom, then into the Byzantine Empire, was destroyed in the thirteenth century, and finally rebuilt and colonized by the Republic of Venice. Following the collapse of the Serenissima (Most Serene Republic, i.e. Venice; 1797), it became part of the Austrian Empire (1797–1918, except for a brief period under French rule in 1806– 13), was annexed to the Kingdom of Italy (1918–45), and then, at the end of World War II, incorporated into the newly founded Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia, from which the Republic of Croatia ultimately declared its independence (1991), taking Zara and Dalmatia with it. The elaborate yet colourful past of Dalmatia will not be discussed extensively in this article; however, it is important to highlight the fact that this diverse and, at times, problematic history plays a pivotal role in the life of the Pecota family, as it does in that of many families of Dalmatian origin now living throughout the world. Silvia Pecota’s art and lifestyle are heavily influenced and shaped by this cultural, linguistic, and historical heritage. Her father arrived in Canada as a political refugee during the mass emigration caused by socio-political turmoil and cultural conflict in Istria and Dalmatia during and after World War II. This post-war mass migration is historically known as l’esodo giuliano-dalmata (the Julian-Dalmatian exodus) and refers to the relocation of those who identified as Italian and/or were opposed (or presumed to be opposed) to the Communist regime of dictator Josip Broz “Tito.” The most violent episode of this difficult time in the once diverse but peaceful regions of Istria and Dalmatia is the foibe massacres, a genocide that saw about eight hundred to one thousand Italians executed by Yugoslav partisan forces and thrown into the mountain crevices (foibe) of Istria or drowned in the Adriatic. Many other Istrians and Dalmatians (approximately 350,000) were able to flee to Italy, carrying with them a few possessions or, at times, nothing but the clothes on their back.2 These people are now part of the worldwide Julian-Dalmatian diasporic community. Toronto, where Silvia Pecota was born and raised, hosts the largest group of JulianDalmatians in Canada, followed by the Chatham/London area, Montreal,

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and Hamilton. Her father’s native city, Zara, where not so long ago the majority of the population was Italian, is now a major Croatian urban centre (the nation’s fifth most populous), with only a few Italian cultural or social organizations operating there, among them the Società Dante Alighieri and the Comunità degli italiani di Zara, both of which aim to promote Italian culture and language in this once-Venetian city. When she travels to her father’s city, Silvia Pecota does not experience the resentment or anger that is often felt by the esuli (exiles), partly because she was born and raised in Canada and partly because, as she points out, during her visits to the region she is primarily invested in absorbing the beauty of the surroundings. She appreciates that history has, unfortunately, run its course and notes that much of the violence that occurred could certainly have been avoided. What does disturb her, however, is the fact that, in the past, some events and some individuals have threatened to destroy the cultural beauty of these regions and have, unfortunately, managed to obliterate the healthy diversity that once characterized Dalmatia: “Why would you want to destroy something that’s beautiful?” she wonders, rhetorically. In spite of these considerations, her travels to both Dalmatia and Italy have been an unending source of inspiration for Pecota’s work – being there is, for her, like receiving an “injection of inspiration.” Such inspiration is evident, for example, in some of her works that are actually “set” in Dalmatia. One of these is a swimsuit edition for a magazine, in which she placed the beautiful women modelling the swimwear against a background of Dalmatian urban and seaside landscapes. Similarly, in her collection on Dalmatian food, she features different dishes from the region and explores the interactions between Slavic and Italian culinary traditions. Being of Venetian (Bellunese) descent on her mother’s side and of Dalmatian (Zaratin) descent on her father’s side, Silvia Pecota feels very Italian. She learned the language as a child and speaks it fluently: “It’s a good thing for any child to learn a second language,” she notes. She has visited Italy often ever since she was very young: “My mother worked for the airlines, so I went to Italy every year of my life […] primarily up nel Veneto, nelle Dolomiti [in the Veneto, in the Dolomites], [the area] from my mother’s side.” She admits to having been brought up very “pro-Italy” and to being able to relate to people from Trieste, thanks to their liberal attitudes, much more easily than to the more “toughhearted” and “dramatic” people from the mountains (her mother’s region). She does recognize, however, that her Italian-Canadian identity can become pleasantly complex when she attempts to rationalize it,

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whether in Canada or in Italy: “The thing is that I go to Italy and I’m Canadian, and, here in Canada, I’m Italian. […] I feel special!” Pecota speaks very fondly of the dialect she grew up hearing and speaking at home (a dialect that, on both sides of the family, is a variety of Venetian). She points out that, often, this dialect was regarded as a prestigious vernacular, especially by other Italian-Canadian immigrants from the South, who, having perhaps internalized some of the oppressive trends still very much present in Italy, saw her as culturally superior and were, in a way, “apologetic” about their self-perceived linguistic inadequacy. Yet, she adamantly rejects the North-South divide in Italian culture, particularly the discrimination that arises from such cultural and political fault lines, and admits that her heritage has never been a reason for her to feel superior in any way. Pecota recognizes the unsound basis of such assumptions of superiority/inferiority, pointing to the fact that her own linguistic (Venetian) heritage is often the object of stereotypes: she humorously cites cinematographer Federico Fellini as someone who, in his films, “always has someone who swears like a Venetian!” Pecota emphasizes the underlying fallacy of bigoted discriminatory behaviours towards southerners by pointing out that, for Italians, “the South begins from just south of wherever you are. […] In Ancona, it’s from just south of Ancona and down. You go to Rome, it’s from just south of Rome and down. Doesn’t matter where you go!” Such an attitude suggests that this type of differentiation may derive from cultural and political insecurities rather from any reliable geopolitical tenets: “I really think the North has suppressed the South.” To that end, she always seeks to communicate a general sense of humility and tolerance when she interacts with people and especially with the subjects of her work – this nonjudgmental approach has allowed her to access specific environments, such as the niche world of boxers she depicted in one of her first projects (plates 11–12), to whom she attributed “a sense of dignity, whereas other journalists would try to see who went to jail.” They, in turn, have shown her respect and a sense of protectiveness. The same humble approach towards her subjects has allowed her to work with Indigenous communities in Canada and with the Canadian Troops: “I’ve never ever related to a superiority complex of any sort […] and that’s why I’ve been accepted, respected, and able to get what I can. I can enter doors that others can’t.” When asked about the dynamics of multiculturalism in the Dalmatian region and how the interaction between cultures may have influenced her work, Pecota responds: “So, here you have the Croatian, the

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Italian, and you’ve got the Austro-Germanic border […]. I see a very similar disposition, even though there are three different languages: very, very hard-working, and very, very tough and strict. Whereas they are more easy-going as you get close to the sea – if I have a choice, I choose the sea. I love the sea, but I also have the influence of the montanari [mountain people].” In terms of being influenced by the Croatian side of her family’s history, Pecota admits to not relating well with that culture, primarily because of the fact that, despite her attempts, she does not speak the language well, but adds that “everything is so beautiful there,” referring especially to music and food. She is fascinated by the diverse nature of the Serbo-Croatian language (which she notices partially draws from Greek, Turkish, and other languages). She also blames her cultural disconnect to the fact that her grandparents in Zara passed away long before she was born; had that not been the case, she may have inherited more of her paternal family’s culture and language, which, in turn, could have become yet another source of inspiration for her work. Though she did not know her grandparents, she did, in a way, come to know them. She talks about visiting her father’s hometown of Castel Venier (today, Vinjerac), about 35 km east of Zara. Once, when she was there, she met an elderly man who had been a chef for the Communist dictator Josip Broz “Tito”; Pecota interviewed him and wrote a short story about him. The old man remembered her grandfather as a “large man” and as someone “who [always] made everyone laugh.” These words resonated deeply with the artist, who, soon after, rescued a small kitten found in a trash bin in the town of Trogir (formerly, Traù), located about 130 km south of Castel Venier, and brought it to Canada; her spiritual inclinations lead her to believe that Trogy, the cat she looked after for over ten years, was a gift from her grandfather. She also recalls visiting the local cemetery with her father. She noticed that many of the names on the family tombstones were Slavic (such as her grandmother’s name, Daniča, colloquially replaced by its Latinate adaptation “Daniela”) and that her family’s surname was often spelled “Pekota,” which she pronounces with the tonal stress falling on the first syllable and with a uvular k (/χ/). She asked her father about the possibility that his ethnic origins may indeed be more Slavic than Latin, but he promptly proclaimed: “You are what you feel!” The implication was that, regardless of the origins of their family name, he felt himself to be Italian. And yet, he was never able to attain Italian citizenship because he was not born in Zara proper but in Castel

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Venier – a suburban community that lay outside of the commune of Zara and therefore belonged to the Kingdom of Yugoslavia, not to the Kingdom of Italy.3 Notwithstanding the lack of bureaucratic validation as an Italian national, Mr Pecota has never doubted his identity or heritage and has been a proud member of the Italian diasporic community in Canada. A strong defender and advocate of Dalmatia’s italianità (Italianness), he does not have a place he can call home and return to, a condition he shares with many other Julian-Dalmatian exiles, because things have changed dramatically since he left. Silvia speaks of him as someone who has suffered the trauma of losing both his native land and his parents at a very young age. Mr Pecota’s self-identification as an Italian on that grounds that people are what they consider themselves to be is especially relevant in the case of the Julian-Dalmatian exiles. For many members of this diasporic community, the sense of cultural and national identity is a personal choice, especially because they come from a region that was historically multicultural, where “one found genuine Italianspeaking Slovenes and equally authentic Slavic-speaking Italians, without counting all those who were bilingual.”4 A single ethnolinguistic label was not conceivable, at least not until a multiplicity of cultures became the reason for conflict, division, and discrimination. Silvia Pecota points out that it may actually be this very sense of loss and uncertainty that, instead of destabilizing or abating the Italian cultural vitality of the esuli, fortifies it significantly and fuels their desire to identify with the cultural group to which they feel most akin, regardless of any imposed nationalistic or ethnic-identity demarcations. While Silvia agrees with her father on the fact that, culturally, one is what one feels inside, she also believes in a sort of innate, perhaps hereditary type of cultural knowledge, one that is received at birth. She notes that Slavs seem to be very much attracted to the colour red, a colour that does not particularly appeal to her, even though the Venetians used it as one of the main colours in their artistic and architectural palette.5 “I can’t say that I’m very much influenced by the Slavic artistic disposition […], but Greek, definitely […] even though I have never been to Greece, but I am very interested by antiquity. If I were Celtic, perhaps I would be influenced by those myths.” Similarly, she advances the example of one her nephews who is of partial African-Jamaican descent and is very attracted to bright colours. She believes that people are guided by a sort of ancestral force that she links to her belief in past

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lives and reincarnation, an aspect of her personality that also informs some of her creative and personal choices. Pecota believes that nature plays a fundamental role in the formation of one’s personality. She argues that there are many individuals who are very successful, notwithstanding a troubled (family) background, and vice versa. An example of how Pecota’s cultural “nature” has influenced her life is her home, of which she is extremely proud. She admits that her home is her favourite place because it constitutes her imaginative haven – not only is it surrounded by nature, which provides peace and inspiration for her constantly active artistic intellect, but it is also designed in a way that is deeply rooted in her cultural identity: “The interior of my home is Italy. […] Everyone who comes here thinks that they are in Italy […]. I have transformed it myself with a cement mixer and stone.” She proudly recognizes that her fascination with clean, white, solid stone and with limestone colours is driven by her love for Dalmatian stone (“That warm stone you see on the streets, there […]. That makes me happy”), a prime building material used in many cities in the Adriatic region (among which Venice, the region’s cultural capital); as is also her love for relief work, which she describes as “almost like chiselling – recreating chiselled stone out of a flat surface,” and for embossed patterns, which she associates with ancient Roman stonework. She observes that Canadians, instead, seem to prefer wood. Pecota points out that she has not lived in the Adriatic and that she was not exposed to such materials and architectural work in Toronto, where she was raised. This is why she is a firm believer in the possibility that cultural inclinations and artistic taste may be innate: “I believe it’s something in the blood; just like [in] my nephew[’s case].” Pecota’s artistic production, which ranges from poetry to sculpting and from children’s books to photography, is diverse in nature and in sources of inspiration. She describes herself as a “hyper multitasker,” as well as the product of a cultural and ethnic “mixture [that] is conducive to a strong character.” The result of this incessant artistic energy, nourished by diverse cultural ingredients, is a lifelong commitment to a type of art that is not only a representation of external events or figures but also an intimate expression of the self, of the “pain felt in childhood and adult life,” and an expressive channel that allows for the abstraction and symbolization of personal experiences and convictions. The strong influence of her personality – shaped by her cultural upbringing and life experiences – on her artwork is not only tangible

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but also supported and corroborated by cognitive theories. As cognitive psychologist Hans Welling reminds us, extensive research reveals that creative impulses are, from a psychological standpoint, part of an imaginative process that is heavily dependent on factors like the artist’s personality, the social context in which the artist operates, as well as prior knowledge – such as cultural knowledge – and domain specificity, with this last point alluding to a sort of innate aspect of creativity, or, at the very least, to the intrinsic ability to capture and interpret creative stimuli, as well as to channel and express creative impulses.6 How important, therefore, are culture and experience to the process of creativity? In the past, scholars of child development as renowned as the Swiss clinical psychologist Jean Piaget have suggested that “new abstract knowledge is built on top of other existing knowledge, so that new knowledge always depends on existing knowledge.”7 They concluded that there is no new knowledge that is not based on previously acquired knowledge and thus validated the assumption that at least some knowledge (or the ability to understand and absorb knowledge) must be native to every human: this primordial, innate knowledge is the basis on which all other acquired knowledge is built. Existing knowledge, such as that of the cultural kind, therefore, inevitably guides the creative process and informs its products, even those that involve abstraction and symbolization, as many modes of artistic output do. Interestingly, the European Commission has recently (2009) funded a study, conducted through the Directorate-General of Education and Culture, that bears the title The Impact of Culture on Creativity. The study aims to investigate and reaffirm the role of art and creativity as modes of expression of human culture and as tools useful for the improvement of economic prosperity and social cohesion, especially in a diverse setting such as that of the European Union.8 Though characterized by somewhat utilitarian undertones, the study does yield many interesting reflections on the relationship between culture and art by identifying what it defines as “culture-based creativity”: This culture-based creativity is linked to the ability of people, notably artists, to think imaginatively or metaphorically, to challenge the conventional, and to call on the symbolic and affective to communicate. Culturebased creativity has the capacity to break conventions, the usual way of thinking, to allow the development of a new vision, an idea or a product. The nature of culture-based creativity is closely linked to the nature of

284  Paolo Frascà artistic contribution as expressed in art or cultural productions. The spontaneous, intuitive, singular and human nature of cultural creation enriches society. It therefore becomes an imperative for industry to meet and to create new kinds of demand that are not based merely on the functionality of a product but are instead rooted in individual and collective aspiration. […] Culture-based creativity is a powerful means of overturning norms and conventions with a view to standing out amid intense economic competition. Creative people and artists are key because they develop ideas, metaphors and messages which help to drive social networking and experiences.9

Since it attempts to incorporate art into formal (economic) policy, this research is important in order to ensure that education and financial resources are available to those who desire to pursue such creative goals.10 In recognizing “cultural productions as communication tools charged with subjectivity and emotion” that “have participated in the expression of social life since the origin of human kind,” the report notes that “culture-based creativity plays a key role in generating social innovation” and therefore reclaims the role of artists in society as that of those who must fulfil important responsibilities and not produce works meant only to entertain, delight, or (worse) distract the masses.11 In line with this, Pecota claims that to be an artist is a duty. She admits to experiencing a strong sense of accountability, particularly when she is working on pieces that deal with social issues, such as her work with Indigenous communities in Canada or with Canadian soldiers in Afghanistan. Because it focuses on aspects of the world that are socially and historically relevant, Pecota’s work requires a significant amount of documentary accuracy. She admits to having to carry out extensive preliminary research (which used to take place mostly in libraries but has now transitioned more towards online archives), especially when she works with the army or the Royal Canadian Mint. This is beneficial to the artistic process, she notes, because often many elements of the research itself will become a source of inspiration and will help to solidify her ideas. Because her work not only has artistic value but also embodies specific historical and political ideals, it frequently undergoes close scrutiny by experts on the subjects she is commissioned to depict (soldiers, battles, etc.); this is done in order to ensure that the visual depictions are in line with historical facts. Accuracy and attention to detail are thus fundamental aspects of Pecota’s work, notwithstanding

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the creative freedom she may be granted: “Believe me. Those soldiers … if I have five buttons [on their uniform] instead of six, I will be executed.” From Poetry to Animation Silvia Pecota’s artistic interests are eclectic, multidirectional, all encompassing, and continuously evolving. She is a factotum artist who will admit to not having a particular preference or commitment to any one creative medium. When asked which type of art she identifies with the most, she quickly responds: “I love everything! It’s like asking people to pick one food that they like to eat!” True to her word, she has gone from writing children’s books and short stories to sculpting war monuments, from designing coins to painting, from creating animations to contributing to the production of films as a portrait photographer, and she continues to explore new and innovative artistic techniques that employ both technology and traditional practices. Pecota’s main sources of inspiration, after the Dalmatian stones that we discussed above, are Renaissance and pre-Raphaelite art. She is not a fan of abstract art; in fact, she describes herself as “anti-abstract” and dislikes certain materials, such as acrylic paint, that are often used in modern art. She draws her inspiration, instead, from the Italian Renaissance, which was founded on the rediscovery of classical Greek and Latin Antiquity, traces of which we find in many of her works and in her artistic vigour and relentlessness, so much so that it could very well be described as rinascimentale (of the Renaissance). Pecota acknowledges that all of her artwork is founded on her strong understanding of light: “It’s all to do with light, feeling, and atmosphere.” During one of her latest trips to Italy, she stumbled upon a type of modern art, the movement of the Macchiaioli (related to French Impressionism), that she admits is very fascinating for her, even though it has a somewhat abstract nature: “I love [the fact] that the eye can mix from a distance, and you come up [close] and see una macchia [a spot/ stain]. I find the trick of the eye absolutely brilliant.” When painting, Pecota works mostly with oil, but she has also been educated in fresco painting in Florence, where she learned to use casein (a glue-like, milkderived, water-soluble type of paint) traditionally used by Florentine artists working on wood. Her use of photography, instead, derives from her need for a more “instant” type of art: “Because I need quick results” when wanting to quickly capture real-life moments, such as when working with sports and the military. She often combines photography

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with other forms of visual art (mainly painting) by layering different items; to do this, she employs both technological devices and classical painting techniques. In these hybrid pieces, such as her work with the military, the photographic layer contributes to the realistic value of the image, while the traditional painting techniques elevate the piece to a more artistic level: the results are illustrations that embody elements of both the genuine stillness of the image captured through the camera and the creative acuity of the artist’s paintbrush. Pecota has also embraced digital techniques and admits that there is beautiful work being done using (only) technology. What she enjoys about the new technology is the ability to correct errors and to be able to save different versions of her work: “The best part with digital is that you can save and start anew later […] ’cause if you fuck it up, you’ve still got the original. When you fuck up the oil painting, or watercolour especially, that’s it. La macchia, macchia [A stain, stains].” As we can note from the repeated use of the expletive, Pecota feels very strongly about this, to the point that she expresses herself “like a sailor,” a characteristic she readily owns up to. Though attracted by digital techniques, Pecota is, nonetheless, critical of the automated nature of some recent artistic products (viz., digital photography editing). She draws a powerful analogy by comically comparing modern photography to instant rice: she points out that art and photography are “not instant rice. Back then, you grew the rice; you harvested the rice. You went in the darkroom, you developed the film. You fucked it up because the water was too cold, or too hot. […] You even made your own chemicals. If I were to teach now, I’d go back to pen and paper. You’ve got to know the rules before you can break the rules” (emphasis added). She continues by critiquing the simplistic and mechanistic nature of modern art, such as ready-made installations that can be purchased and assembled by following simple instructions: “Art doesn’t come with a manual. You look at it, and you feel it. You see it. […] You’ve got to be more tactile than just press a button and have instant watercolour.” Pecota is also contrary to the use of art just to attract attention and stir up a controversy. “I don’t like to be un pugno nell’occhio [a punch in the eye] just for controversy’s sake, [but] there’s symbolism in [my art]. If you pick it up, that’s great! You don’t have to know what every spice is: if you taste the spice, you’ve not succeeded as a cook. It’s the whole blend that comes together” and gives art the wholesome taste that she describes as “meaning.”

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Warrior Spirit Silvia Pecota is a sculptor. As we mentioned, her love for stone and relief work motivated her to learn to work with stone, marble, and cement, which she also uses extensively in the fashioning of her own home. In 2008, she sculpted a relief dedicated to the fallen; there are now two bronze versions of it, one on display at the Royal Canadian Air Force Museum in Trenton, Ontario, the other at the Canadian Cenotaph in Kandahar, Afghanistan. In 2012, she was commissioned by the class of 2012 of the United States Army War College to create artwork representing those who lost their lives in the war. She was the first female and non-American artist to have been selected by a graduating class of the college in its 110-year history. One of her most recent projects is an exhibition (with accompanying catalogue) entitled Remembering Our Fallen that was mounted in November 2015 at the Joseph D. Carrier Art Gallery (Columbus Centre) in Toronto (plates 13–14). Silvia has dedicated much of her artwork to the figure of the soldier, with particular focus on the loss of life that is caused by war to those who are on the front lines. Glorifying the figure of the soldier can be both beneficial, because it recognizes the merit of many men and women around the world who bravely choose to defend their countries against those who wish to harm them, and problematic, as many wars are sparked by less noble desires than wanting to protect one’s nation from peril. In glorifying the figure of the soldier, Pecota often highlights the struggles of conflict and the excruciating sadness brought about by death. She is sure to point out that it is “most unfortunate that conflict exists within families, within countries, within the world. It’s so easy to love when you’re loved. It’s a lot harder to accept somebody […] and turn the other cheek.” She affirms, however, that one cannot stand back and watch evil carry out its plans: “When it comes to war, it’s a no-win situation […]. What do you do? Stand back and do nothing?” Silvia stands in solidarity with Canadian soldiers who hold their weapons, while she proudly holds her camera (plate 15). Those soldiers include both men and women. Pecota is a strong supporter of women in the military and has seen, first hand, “a lot of courageous women out there. […] Do they deserve to fight? Of course. The Kurdish women are fighting – good for them.” In her poem dedicated to Captain Nichola Goddard, the first female Canadian soldier killed in combat (17 May 2006) and the sixteenth Canadian soldier killed in

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Afghanistan, she effectively captures the volatility of life, especially in armed conflict: Far Forward is heard the Observer’s call From armoured turrets she views enemy ground, The Captain’s voice is fatally hit, Then the Radio echoes “my Sunray ’s down.”12

“This poem has made soldiers cry. When my poetry can affect [people], I know that I’m creating my mission.” Pecota herself has faced high-risk situations during her five visits to the troops in Afghanistan, especially when she left secure areas in order to follow soldiers on missions and capture specific events. Nonetheless, her artistic drive has helped her to overcome fear: “There’s a guiding force. I didn’t step on an IED [Improvised Explosive Device]. […] I followed what I felt the mission was without thinking of what could be the outcome. To me, the worst outcome wouldn’t have been death: because that would mean my mission was over. […] My worst fear was losing my hands. My hands, my eyes …” Pecota’s fascination with heroic figures began long before her work with soldiers. She describes this interest as being born of an ancestral identification with the figure of the warrior and her belief in reincarnation: “I know I was a sergeant major in some Kublai Khan war, a Mongolian warrior. I am fascinated with the martial arts. I’ve boxed, I’ve done Taekwondo, I’ve done Judo. I have the disposition of being a fighter, and my association with boxers, hockey players, the reincarnates of gladiatorial combat, to polar bear hunters in the North, to soldiers. The uniform does not intimidate me at all. With the elite class, I don’t feel any affinity, but with the warrior spirit, I do.” Silvia Pecota’s “no-nonsense and let-me-get-the-job-done character” has allowed her to build strong relationships with some of her subjects, such as the boxers to whom she dedicated some of her initial work. Pecota’s love of strong figures, such as those of soldiers and boxers, paired with her passion for a type of art that can bring about understanding and cohesion have led her to visit some Indigenous communities in Canada and to create a collection of images in the form of a children’s book (her first) that was even translated into Inuktitut with the support of the Government of Nunavut. Her initial intention was to raise funds for the underprivileged communities she visited, but

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the result of her time in the Arctic was also to inspire her to do more on behalf of the Arctic, children, and diversity. One such result was Hockey Across Canada (2003; plate 16), a book with layered images (photography and oil paintings) of children from different parts of Canada brought together by our national sport, which can unite children across the country and, at the same time, celebrate their diversity. The Past and the Future When asked to take a look back at her life and her artistic journey, Pecota reacts with a satisfied sigh, but one that also expresses the pain and difficulty of pursuing art as a full-time occupation: “I’ll tell you one thing. It has been a struggle. And if you asked me if I would go through what I went through, I would honestly say no. And I am being honest. Everyone has their journey. I am glad I am where I am now. To go through it again? No fucking way. I’m on a mission, and that’s my intent.” Pecota’s journey has been especially demanding because her art focuses on difficult but important topics. The socio-political dimension of her work adds accountability to her art: “You know what the best life, paradise, would be? To paint flowers. You don’t have to worry about anything. It’s all pretty and decorative.” But that is not what she plans to do. In the future, Pecota hopes to work on a piece that commemorates the fallen Alpini, the Italian “mountain soldiers” to which her maternal grandfather once belonged.13 Her next trip to Italy will include some time in the Dolomites, where she will begin her research on the history of this branch of the Italian military. NOTES The opening paragraphs of this essay are drawn from my short article “ItalianCanadian Artists: Silvia Pecota,” previously published in Corriere Canadese, 4 Aug. 2016, 16. I thank Silvia Pecota, who has been so kind as to share her thoughts on herself and her art with us. All direct quotations from the artist, unless otherwise referenced, are transcriptions from a long interview conducted on 3 June 2016. The publication of this article would not have been possible without the invaluable collaboration and support of Prof. Konrad Eisenbichler, who was of great assistance to me during the initial stages of the project.

290  Paolo Frascà   1 Mr Pecota’s father died in 1936, when Benny was only four years old; his mother died on 28 November 1943 in Zara under the Allied aerial bombings of the city. Biographical information about Mr Pecota’s escape from Yugoslavia and settlement in Canada has been kindly obtained by Prof. Konrad Eisenbichler in discussion with Mr Pecota on 27 June 2016. On the carpet bombings of Zara, see Talpo and Brcic, … Vennero dal cielo.   2 On the foibe and the esodo, see Petacco, Tragedy Revealed; Rocchi, L’esodo.   3 Though born in Canada, Silvia Pecota also holds Italian citizenship by jus sanguinis (right of blood) through her mother.  4 Vernant, Refugee, 241.   5 See Maerz and Paul, Dictionary of Colour, s.vv. “Venetian red,” “Venetian pink,” and “Venetian scarlet.”   6 Welling, “Four Mental Operations,” 163. “Domain specificity” refers to the innateness of certain cognitive capabilities, such as creativity, and is opposed to domain generality, which, instead, argues for the ability to experientially acquire cognitive skills, such as those needed to learn a language (see Noam Chomsky’s poverty of stimulus theory in regard to language acquisition, which is supported by the theory of modularity and domain specificity).   7 Paraphrased in ibid., 170.  8 Impact of Culture, 3.   9 Ibid., 5. 10 In Canada, the Council for Arts Act (1957), which commissioned the creation of an eponymous institutional body, seeks “to foster and promote the study and enjoyment of, and the production of works in, the arts” by offering funding to Canadian artists, but does not seem to provide a clear link between art and culture, nor does it outline the social benefits of creative productions (Canada Council for the Arts Act). 11 Impact of Culture, 6. 12 “Dedicated to Nichola Goddard,” original poem found on Silvia Pecota’s website, accessed 20 March 2017, http://www.silviapecota.com/poetry/ NicholaGoddard.html. 13 Beniamino Andrighetti (1900–90). The Alpini attracted a lot of men from the northeast of Italy to their ranks, including many Julian-Dalmatians. The foremost Julian-Dalmatian alpino in Canada is probably Gianni Angelo Grohovaz (Fiume 1926–Tiny Township 1988), a driving force, among other things, in the erection of a monument to the Alpini at the Columbus Centre, Toronto, in June 1976; on Grohovaz, see the articles by Gianna Mazzieri Sanković, Paul Baxa, and Robert Buranello in this volume (ch. 4, 5, and 6 above), as well as the bibliographies associated with them.

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Cited Works Canadian Council for the Arts Act. R.S.C. 1985, c. C-2. Accessed 10 July 2016. http://laws-lois.justice.gc.ca/eng/acts/c-2/. The Impact of Culture on Creativity. Brussels: KEA European Affairs, 2009. Maerz, Aloys John, and M. Rea Paul. Dictionary of Colour. New York: McGrawHill Book Company, 1930. Accessed 30 June 2016. https://people.csail.mit. edu/jaffer/Color/M.htm. Pecota, Benjamin. In conversation with Konrad Eisenbichler, 27 June 2016, Toronto. Pecota, Silvia. Hockey Across Canada. Toronto: Sun Media, 2003. — Interview by Paolo Frascà and Konrad Eisenbichler, 3 June 2016, Toronto. Petacco, Arrigo. A Tragedy Revealed: The Story of the Italian Population from Istria, Dalmatia, and Venezia Giulia, 1943–1956. Translated by Konrad Eisenbichler. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2005. Rocchi, Flaminio. L’esodo dei 350 mila giuliani fiumani e dalmati. 4th ed. Rome: Ediz. Difesa Adriatica, 1998. Talpo, Oddone, and Sergio Brcic. … Vennero dal cielo: Zara distrutta 1943–1944/ They Came from the Sky: Zara in Ruins 1943–1944/Dođoše s neba: Razrušeni Zadar 1943–1944. 2nd ed. Campobasso: Associazione Dalmati Italiani nel Mondo/Palladino Editore, 2006. Trilingual edition, Italian, English, Croatian. Vernant, Jacques. The Refugee in the Post-War World. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1953. Welling, Hans. “Four Mental Operations in Creative Cognition: The Importance of Abstraction.” Creativity and Research Journal 19, nos. 2–3 (2007): 163–77.

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Contributors

Paul Baxa is associate professor and chair of the History Department at Ave Maria University (Ave Maria, Florida). Dr Baxa received his doctorate at the University of Toronto, specializing in the cultural history of Italian Fascism. His scholarly interests also include the life and work of the Italian-Canadian activist, poet, and journalist Gianni Grohovaz. Robert Buranello has published widely on Italian literature from the fourteenth to sixteenth centuries, and on Italian immigration in Canada, the United States, and South Africa, including the very first articles and book dedicated to the Julian-Dalmatian experience in Canada. He was distinguished visiting professor at Rhodes University in South Africa and a recipient of a Gladys Krieble Delmas Foundation for Independent Research on Venice and the Veneto. Elisabetta Carraro is a PhD candidate (ABD) in the Department of Italian Studies at the University of Toronto. She received both her undergraduate degree in Italian philology (2012) and her master’s degree in modern and contemporary Italian literature (2014) from the University “Ca’ Foscari” in Venice. Her research focuses on twentieth-century Italian and American literature, genre novels, and science fiction. Gabriella Colussi Arthur teaches in the Department of Languages, Literatures and Linguistics at York University (Toronto). Her main areas of expertise and publication for over thirty years have been teaching Italian language and culture from elementary to advanced; Italian L2 pedagogy; translation; and Italian-Canadian studies and immigration

294 Contributors

settlement. In 2014, Colussi Arthur completed a doctorate in education, focusing on an interdisciplinary approach to Italian-Canadian storytelling based on methods from narrative inquiry, life history, life course studies, and oral history. In it, she developed an approach for those who collect first-person narratives of persons who emigrated from their original homeland and settled abroad. Konrad Eisenbichler is professor of Italian at the University of Toronto. He is the author of many articles on the Julian-Dalmatian community in Canada and on Gianni Angelo Grohovaz. He is also editor of the collection An Italian Region in Canada: The Case of Friuli-Venezia Giulia (1998) and of the quarterly El Boletin of the Club Giuliano-Dalmato of Toronto (1990 to present). Eisenbichler is a fellow of the Royal Society of Canada, a commendatore (knight commander) in the Order of Merit of the Republic of Italy, and a cavaliere (knight) in the Order of Saint Mark (Venice). Paolo Frascà is a PhD candidate (ABD) in Italian studies and sexual diversity studies at the University of Toronto, where he is also a course instructor. His publications and conference papers have focused on literature, cinema, dialectology, and second-language acquisition. He is a project assistant for the Endangered Language Alliance of Toronto (Languages of Italy), a certified interpreter, and an occasional contributor to the Corriere Canadese newspaper. His current research explores issues of sexual diversity in contemporary Italian literature and film. His dissertation is tentatively titled “Oblique Genealogies: A Queer Analysis of the Life, Thought, and Works of Mario Mieli (1952–1983).” Corinna Gerbaz Giuliano is associate professor of Italian literature at the University of Rijeka (Croatia), where she is currently also chair of the Department of Italian Studies. She holds a PhD in Italian from the University of Zagreb (2011). She is co-author, with Gianna Mazzieri Sanković, of Non parto, non resto: I percorsi narrativi di Osvaldo Ramous e Marisa Madieri (2013) and co-editor of Storia dell’istruzione media superiore italiana a Fiume dal 1945 ad oggi (2008). She is also editor of the journal La Battana. Her current research focuses on border literature. Benedetta Lamanna is a PhD candidate (ABD) in Italian studies at the University of Toronto. She is currently completing a thesis on the Venetian courtesan and writer Veronica Franco. She is also a junior fellow of

Contributors 295

Victoria College and a recipient of the Ontario Graduate Scholarship. She is interested in questions of feminism in general and in gender existentialism in particular. Guita Lamsechi received her PhD in the history of art from the University of Toronto (2016). She is currently working on a monograph entitled Transgressive Nature about representations of plants and trees in early modern art and architecture. Her other research interests include Persianate drawings and German metalwork, as well as paintings, sculpture, and architecture in northern Europe. In the summer of 2017, she was a visiting scholar at the Freie Universität Berlin. She has also had a successful career as a graphic designer in Canada. Ida Vodarich Marinzoli holds a PhD in Italian literature from Rutgers University, where she has been a lecturer. She is interested in questions of identity in Italian literature, with a particular focus on the works of the Istrian writer Fulvio Tomizza. She is currently working on issues of multiple identity or non-identity in Italian immigrants to North America. Gianna Mazzieri Sanković is associate professor of Italian literature at the University of Rijeka (Croatia). She holds a PhD in Italian from the University of Rome “La Sapienza” (1996). Her many books include La voce di una minoranza: Analisi della pagina culturale de “La Voce del Popolo” negli anni ’50 (1998) and, with Corinna Gerbaz Giuliano, Non parto, non resto: I percorsi narrativi di Osvaldo Ramous e Marisa Madieri (2013). Her current research focuses on border literature. Rosanna Turcinovich Giuricin is editor in chief of the monthly La Voce di Fiume (Padua). She is also a journalist for the daily La Voce del Popolo (Rijeka, Croatia), where she first was responsible for the newspaper’s cultural pages and now (since 2006) is its foreign correspondent in Trieste for Friuli-Venezia Giulia. She has contributed to Trieste oggi, Il Meridiano, Piccolo-Istria Amica, as well as to the television stations Telequattro (Trieste) and TeleCapodistria (Koper, Slovenia) with a number of articles, documentaries, interviews, and news items. She is the author of several books, including La giustizia secondo Maria (2008), Un anno in Istria (2010), … e dopo semo andadi via (2014), Maddalena ha gli occhi viola (2015), and co-author of Mangiamoci l’Istria (1996) and Una raffica all’improvviso (2011).

296 Contributors

Henry Veggian is a senior lecturer in the Department of English at the University of North Carolina–Chapel Hill. He is the author of Understanding Don DeLillo (2014), editor of The Steinbeck Review, series editor of Dialogue Series (Brill), and advisory editor for boundary 2. He is the son of a refugee from Pola.

Index

Abba, Marta, 86 Absirtides (islands), 238 Adams, Judith, 272 Adorno, Theodore W., 210, 221–2 Adriatic: coast/lands, 194, 202, 206–7, 282; Littoral Zone (Adriatisches Küstenland), 187; people, 210; Sea, 5, 32, 34, 37, 177, 186, 194, 211, 213, 219, 238, 253, 258, 276, 277 Alberghetti, Isabella, 60–1, 63–4, 68 Alberti, Rafaél, 217 Albona (Labin, Croatia), 16 Alexandre, Vicente, 217 Algonquin Park (ON), 104, 136 Alighieri, Dante, 5, 59, 212 Allan, Martha, 81 Allied bombings, 263, 272, 290 Allied Forces (Allies), 14, 187, 206, 229 Alpini, 111, 148, 151, 154, 177, 289, 290 Alvarez, A., 221 America, 27, 213; North, 87, 108, 124, 137, 140, 145, 147, 206, 216, 220, 226, 240, 257, 261, 270; South, 17, 116, 206 Americans, 71, 136, 188, 207–8; South, 168; culture/society, 42, 188, 189, 201, 214

andati. See exiles Anders, Gunther, 221 Andrighetti, Beniamino, 290 Andrighetti, Maria Luisa, 276 Angeletti, Sergio, 140 Antaeus, 22, 124, 197; Antaeic literature/tradition, 111, 124 Antonaz, 13 Antonaz, Margaret, 55–6, 62 Antonelli, Claudio, 24, 59, 65 Antony, Gino, 111 Arcand, Adrien, 86–7, 105 Argentina, 49, 52, 71 Associazione delle Comunità Istriane, 37 Associazione Emigrati del Friuli Venezia Giulia (ALEF), 42 Associazione Famiglie GiulianoDalmate (Hamilton), 45, 60, 63, 65, 68 Associazione Famiglie Istriane Giuliano-Dalmate (Montreal), 68 Associazione Giuliani nel Mondo (AGM), 39 Associazione Nazionale degli Alpini, 154

298 Index Associazione Nazionale Venezia Giulia e Dalmazia (ANVGD), 35, 37 Auschwitz, 221–2, 251, 257 Australia, x, 11, 17, 37, 49, 71, 116, 161, 206 Austro-Hungarian Empire, 5, 14, 18, 25, 27, 80, 88, 186–7, 241, 258, 264, 277; population, 119, 186, 207, 211 Azione Cattolica. See Catholic Action Babich, Iolanda, 48, 70 Babici, Nora, 62 Badeaux, Guy “Bado,” 267 Balanzin Galli, Marina, 61 Bancheri, Salvatore, ix, 175–6 Barbeau, Marcel, 266 Barolini, Helen, 208 Basillieres, Andrée, 85 Bastianutti, Diego, 15, 21–2, 53, 59, 186, 188–91, 193, 195–8, 200–2, 206, 208–13, 215–17, 219–22, 224–8 Battagali (internee), 95 Baudelaire, Charles, 85 Baxa, Paul, 20, 108, 151, 175 Becchi Padovani, Alda, 47, 61 Bergson, Henri, 86 Bernardi, Ulderico, 33–4 Bertelli, Jon Guido, 212, 218, 228 Berthiaume, Eugène, 18, 81, 87, 105 Berthiaume, Trefflé, 105 Bertocci, Gianni, 140 Birkenau, 248 Black Shirts, 14, 94 Bon, Silvia, 246 Bonafino, Luigi, 208 Bongiovanni, Dinora, 46–7, 66–8, 224 Boni, Giovanni, 48 Bosnia-Herzegovina, 5 Bosnians, 25 Braini, Andrew, 62

Braini, Guido, 41, 52, 59, 62, 65–6 Braini, Mario Joe, 52, 60, 62–3 Brandon Group (Toronto), 134 Brandon Hall (Toronto), 148, 159 Bressan, Ottorino, 148 Brilliant, Aubrey, 273 Brind’Amour, Yvette, 84 Broz “Tito,” Josip, 6, 16–17, 25–6, 35, 38, 60–1, 206–7, 229, 239–40, 277, 280; square, 16 Buie (Buje, Croatia), 25 Bumgarten (internee), 98 Buranello, Robert, 12, 21, 108, 123, 212, 225 Buzet (Croatia; prev. Pinguente), 16 Caboto Terrace (Toronto), 174 Caccia, Charles, 110 Caffieri, Arturo, 111 Cameron, Ann, 159 Campana, John, 176 campanilismo, 139, 253 camps. See Petawawa (ON); refugee camps; Ripples (NB) Canadian Giuliano-Dalmata Federation (Federazione GiulianoDalmata Canadese), 67 Canadian National Railroad (CNR), 11, 19 Capodistria (Koper, Croatia), 16, 25, 49, 249, 256, 261 Carducci, Giosuè, 216 Carraro, Elisabetta, 18–19 Carso (mountains/region), 7, 60, 219 Carusone, Marisa Delise, 47–8 Castel Venier (Vinjerac, Croatia), 280–1 Catholic Action (Azione Cattolica), 165, 166, 180 Catholic Church, 157–8, 170–1, 179

Index 299 Catholicism, 158, 170 Catholics, 171, 255 Cavaliere di Garbo, 111 Cazza (island), 4–5 Centis (la professoressa), 122 Centro di Documentazione Multimediale (Trieste), 36 Centro Scuola (Toronto), 146 Cernecca, Antonella, 50 Chandler, Bernard, 140 Chatham (ON), 17, 45, 65, 67, 277 Cherso (island; Cres, Croatia), 59, 207, 238 Chicago (IL), 270–1 Chicago Sun (periodical), 271 CHIN (radio station), 19, 109–10, 124, 131–2, 141–2, 148, 152, 154 Chomsky, Noam, 290 Churchill, Winston, 206, 211, 229 Cine Studio Italia Club (Toronto), 140 Circoli Italiani di Cultura (Istria), 35 Clark, Norman Ade (internee), 95–6, 100–1 Club Giuliano-Dalmato of Toronto, ix, 10, 27, 21, 33, 45, 48–50, 52, 60, 65, 67, 69, 124, 214, 252, 261 Cocomillo, Francesco (internee), 96–9 Cohen, Leonard, 266 Cold War, 6, 14 Colella, Amedeo, 25–6 Columbus Centre (Toronto), 68, 117, 225, 290 Columbus Day (Toronto), 141, 177 Colussi Arthur, Gabriella, 22 Cominform (1947), 38 Communism, 15–16, 38, 193; partisans 38, 42, 60, 206; party, 9, 38, 207; regime, 17, 35, 39, 61, 239–40, 277

Comunità degli Italiani di Fiume, 118 Comunità degli Italiani di Zara, 278 concentration camps, 116, 250–1. See also Auschwitz; Birkenau; Fallersleben consulates, Italian, 13; Montreal, 86; Toronto, 64, 173; vice-consulate in Kingston, 211 Coro Santa Cecilia (Toronto), 140, 147, 169 Corona, Lisa, 165 Corriere Canadese (periodical), 66, 108, 131, 289 Cossetto, Norma, 10, 26 Cossu, Francesco, 108 Cosulich: family, 27; Cosulich Line, 26; Fratelli Cosulich, 27 Cotic, Marina, 68 Cres (Croatia). See Cherso Cristicchi, Simone, 261 Croatia, ix, 5, 7, 33, 39, 41, 64–5, 108, 111, 186–7, 244, 246, 264, 272, 276–8; culture and language, 14, 116, 118, 238, 241, 263, 280; Kingdom of, 5; population, 14, 25, 119, 186, 240–2 Crumb, Robert, 268 Crusvar, Pat, 50 Cumbo, Enrico, 97, 158 Da Gorizia fino a Zara (periodical), 17, 45, 63 D’Alfonso, Antonio, 156 Dalmatia, 3, 5–6, 8–10, 13–14, 16–17, 24–5, 27, 29, 32–5, 37, 39–42, 45, 50, 64–5, 68, 70, 110, 118, 127, 153, 206–7, 211, 219, 244, 249–50, 252, 259, 263–5, 277–9 D’Ambrosio, Frank, 147 D’Andrea, Diana, 48, 70

300 Index D’Annunzio, Gabriele, 88, 102, 187, 216–17 Dante, 5, 59, 212 Dante Society. See Società Dante Alighieri D’Ascanio, Gabriella, 68 Day of Remembrance (10 February). See Giorno del Ricordo DeLillo, Don, 208 De Mita, Ciriaco, 160 Desranleau, Yannick, 274 de Vega, Lope, 211 dialect, 10, 16, 50, 51, 55, 56, 70, 111, 118, 121–2, 156, 209, 212, 225, 226, 235, 279; Fiuman, 109, 116, 118–19, 121–2, 156, 180; Istro-Veneto, 209, 241, 244; Veneto, 163, 180 diaspora, ix, 11, 17, 22, 24, 34, 45, 50, 67, 76, 108, 111, 118, 124–5, 208–9, 225, 246–7, 250–1, 253, 259 di Donato, Pietro, 208 Di Giovanni, Alberto, 146 Dijlas (Gilas), Milovan, 7, 25 Di Pietro, Nicholas, 103 Di Pietro, Tony (internee), 95–6, 102 displaced persons (DP), 113, 133, 125, 152, 181, 188; Displaced Persons Act (USA), 188 Dramma Italiano (Fiume/Rijeka), 127 Duliani, Mario, 15, 17–19, 27, 80–90, 93–5, 97–100, 102–5, 132 Edwards, Caterina, 15, 23, 232–4, 237–9, 243 Eisenbichler, Konrad, 63, 108, 121, 152, 189–90, 224–5, 252, 289–90 El Boletin (periodical), 17, 31, 43, 45–8, 50–2, 61–2, 66–71, 224, 252 El Campanil (periodical), 17, 45, 51, 71 Elder, Glenn, 247

Ente Friulano Assistenza Sociale e Culturale Emigrati (EFASCE), 42 Ente Friuli nel Mondo, 42 Ente Regionale A.C.L.I. per i Problemi dei Lavoratori Emigrati (ERAPLE), 42 Erasmi, Gabriele, 224 Erindale College (Toronto), 151, 153, 161, 176 Ermani Spitler, Luisa, 50 esodo. See exodus esuli. See exiles ethnic cleansing, 16, 25, 29, 42, 60, 211 ethnicity, 3, 11, 13–14, 20–1, 57, 81, 120, 135, 157–8, 160, 232–3, 238, 282; multi-, 119 executions, 7, 207, 277, 285. See also foiba exile, 15–16, 17, 21–3, 32, 35, 41, 59, 62, 64–5, 75, 115, 118, 122, 153, 187–9, 192, 196, 199–200, 206–13, 217, 219, 221, 223–5, 227, 240; literature of, 36, 122–3, 128, 200, 210 exiles (people), 10–11, 16–17, 24, 26, 32–41, 44, 46, 49–52, 55, 58–66, 73–5, 108, 111, 118, 121, 125, 127, 130, 186, 189, 200–2, 204, 206–10, 213–14, 217–20, 223, 225–6, 241, 248–50, 253–4, 258, 261, 278, 281; andati, 240 exodus, 8, 10, 29, 30, 32, 41, 75, 153, 177, 187, 200–1, 203, 207, 252, 277, 290 expatriates, 10–11, 17, 31, 55, 81, 239, 244. See also exiles Fallersleben, 248 Famee Furlane (Toronto), 110, 261 Fascism, 13–14, 93, 97, 100, 103, 105, 141, 187, 193, 202, 246

Index 301 Fascists, 9, 18, 27, 86–8, 95–7, 99, 102, 154 Fast, Mady, 47 Federazione delle Associazioni degli Esuli, 37 Federazione delle Associazioni ItaloCanadesi (FACI), 146, 174 Fellini, Federico, 271, 279 Ferlinghetti, Lawrence, 208 Fertilia dei Giuliani (Sardinia), 109, 124 Fioret, Mario, 126 Fiorucci, Vittorio, 15, 22–3, 263–74 Fiume (Rijeka), ix, 3–5, 8–10, 12–14, 16, 19, 21, 24, 27–9, 32–7, 39–42, 45, 48–9, 54, 59–61, 65, 70, 73–4, 108–12, 116, 118–25, 127, 140, 151, 153, 155, 176–7, 179–80, 186–90, 192, 200–2, 204, 206–9, 220, 225–6, 249–50, 252–4, 259, 261, 290 Fleming, Jim, 110 foiba, 7, 10–11, 25–6, 29–30, 34, 36, 41, 42, 60, 64, 193, 207, 252, 277, 290 folklore, 109, 131 Fortier, Michel, 268 Foschi Ciampolini, Anna, 197 Foscolo, Ugo, 216 Framarin, Benito, 146 Frankel, Miriam, 22, 246–61 Frascà, Paolo, 24 Free Commune of Fiume in Exile, 37, 39, 124 Free Commune of Pola in Exile, 37, 39 Free Commune of Zara in Exile, 37 Free Territory of Trieste, 25, 32 Friuli-Venezia Giulia (region), 11, 39–40, 42 Frye, Northrop, 226 Gabaccia, Donna, 208 Gallich, Bruno, 65

Gallignana (Gračišće, Croatia), 16 García Lorca, Federico, 217 Gaspar, Giorgio, 63, 73 Gatti, Norda, 49, 68 Gaultier Duliani, Henryette, 84–5 General S.D. Sturgis (ship), 219–20 Georgian Bay, 11, 172 Gerbaz Giuliano, Corinna, 21 Germany, 23, 93–4, 96, 99–100, 187–8, 248, 256 Giacomelli, Osvaldo (internee), 96–8, 102 Giele, Janet, 247 Gilardino, Sergio Maria, 189–90, 193, 222, 227 Gilas (Dijlas), Milovan, 7, 25 Giorno del Ricordo (10 February), 10, 63, 73–4, 75, 252 Giorno della Memoria (27 January), 252 Giunta, Francesco, 14 Giuricin, Ezio, 25 Giuricin, Livio, 51–2 Giurizzani (Juricani, Croatia), 32 Gobbo, Adriana, 54–6 Goddard, Nichola (captain), 287 Goldoni, Carlo, 157, 169 Gorizia (Italy), 5, 39, 42, 55, 56, 254 Gračišće (Croatia; prev. Gallignana), 16 Grado (Italy), 253–4 Grdovic, 13 Grisonich, Luisa, 47, 49, 58, 68–9 Grohovaz, Gianni Angelo, 12–13, 15, 19–22, 24, 26, 108–25, 130–48, 151–61, 175–81, 208–9, 290 Gross Padovani, Laura, 50, 54 Grünglas, Elia, 254 Grünglas, Esther, 254 Grünglas, Eugenio, 254 Grünglas, Maddalena. See Frankel, Miriam

302 Index Grünglas, Rachele, 254 Grünglas, Rita, 254 Gruppo di Esuli Giuliano-Dalmati (Buenos Aires), 51 Guagnini, Elvio, 36, 123 Gunn, Genni, 24 Habsburg Empire, 5, 207, 211, 239, 249 Haeffely, Claude, 268 Halbwachs, Maurice, 194–5 Halifax (NS), 12–13, 26, 108, 115, 127, 152, 154, 156, 163, 175–6, 249, 277 Hamilton (ON), 17, 45, 60, 63, 65, 67–8, 278 Harelle, Johanna, 266 Harris, Jonathan, 61 Haydon, Harold, 271 Hogg’s Hollow Disaster, 134 Holocaust, 22, 73, 246, 248–9, 252, 258–9, 261 homelessness, 22, 116, 210, 218, 225, 227, 229 Humber College (Toronto), 140 Huronia, 135 Hurtubise, Jacques, 266 Hussein, Rashid, 210 Ibárruri Gómez, Isidora Dolores, 180 identity, 13, 54, 159, 206, 241, 280–1; Italian, 14, 131, 139, 181; language, 14, 96, 116, 118, 156, 247, 256; people, 18, 27, 94–5, 97–9, 119, 187, 194, 238–9 ideology, 63, 75, 87, 99, 102, 153, 156, 200, 204; Communist, 38; Fascist, 103, 105, 256; political, 96; postwar, 35 Il Giornale di Toronto (periodical), 19, 108–10, 124, 130, 132, 147 Il Panorama (periodical), 7, 108

Il Secolo (periodical), 18, 80 International Refugee Organization (IRO), 3, 11 188 Internment Camp 33. See Petawawa (ON) Internment Camp B70. See Ripples (NB) Iron Curtain, 17, 38, 153 irridentismo, 15, 39, 217 Istituto Regionale per la Cultura Istriana Fiumana e Dalmata (IRCI), 36 Istria, 3–10, 13–14, 17, 24–7, 29, 32–42, 45, 47, 50, 55, 58, 60, 64–5, 68, 70, 74, 75, 80, 82, 110, 118, 127, 153, 194, 202, 206–7, 211, 219, 232, 237, 244, 249–50, 253, 259, 277 Istria Nobilissima (competition), 36, 41 Istro-Veneto, 209, 241, 244 Italian-American literature, 208 Italian-Canadian Benevolent Society, 146 Italian Canadian Congress, 168, 174 Italian-Canadians, 18–19, 21, 112, 130, 136, 140, 146, 159–60, 244, 279; architecture, 159, 182; community, 113, 130–1, 153, 158, 160, 176–7; culture, 19, 108, 117, 157; family, 132; history, 151, 154, 160, 176; identity, 142, 155, 181, 278; literature, 18, 153, 197, 208, 233; politicians, 144; press, 132, 147; studies, 153; theatre, 158, 181; women, 12, 233; youth, 117, 153, 182 Italian Club (Erindale College), 151, 153, 161, 176 Italian consulates. See consulates, Italian Italian Cultural Centre (Vancouver), 212, 229

Index 303 Italian Cultural Institute (Vancouver), 197 Italian Immigrant Aid Society, 165 Italian Memorial Day (Toronto), 140 italiese, 140, 177, 179 Italo Canadian Club (Brandon Avenue, Toronto), 173 Italo-Canadian Democratic Association, 145 Italo-Canadian Recreation Club, 148 Italo Canadian Youth Club, 174 Italophobia, 133 Italy, 3–5, 7–19, 21–3, 25–7, 32–7, 39–42, 45, 49–50, 59–60, 62, 64–6, 68, 70, 74, 80, 82, 88, 93, 96–7, 99–100, 103, 108, 110, 114–15, 122, 131, 135–6, 139–41, 145, 147, 151–4, 156–8, 182, 186–8, 206–9, 211–12, 214, 216–17, 220, 225–6, 235, 238, 244, 247, 249, 253–4, 260–1, 263, 265, 268, 272, 276–9, 282, 285, 289; Fascist, 246; Kingdom of, 277, 281 Jansen, Clifford, 11 Jedlowski, Paul, 194 Jews/Jewish community, 22, 238, 246–7, 249, 251–2, 254–9 John Paul II (pope), 64 Joseph II von Habsburg (emperor), 259 Joyce, James, 210 Julia (battalion), 109, 151, 154 Juricani (Croatia; prev. Giurizzani), 32 Jutra, Claude, 266 Kamenjak (Croatia; prev. Promontore), 55 Kardelj, Edward, 7 Karst. See Carso Kavafis, Konstantin, 225

Kingston (ON), 186, 188; Italian community, 214 Koper (Croatia). See Capodistria Kotor, Bay of, 5 Kraus, O. (internee), 96 Kunitz, Stanley, 217 Kvarner, Gulf of, 4–5, 23, 40, 189, 194, 202, 206–7, 238, 239, 249 Laage, H. (internee), 98 La Battana (periodical), 36 Labin (Croatia; prev. Albona), 16 Labour, Ministry of (Canada), 142 Lagosta (island), 4–5 Lake Superior, 11 Lamanna, Benedetta, 17 Lamsechi, Guita, 23 Lapalme, Robert, 268 La Presse (periodical), 18, 81, 105, 267 Last Post (periodical), 267 Latin antiquity, 285; culture, 16, 114, 126, 238, 280; population, 5, 13 La Tore (periodical), 108–9, 124 La Verità (periodical), 108, 132 La Voce di Fiume (periodical), 109, 124 Lawrence, Allan, 133 Lazzari, Graziella, 57 Lega Istriana (Chatham), 45, 65 Leopardi, Giacomo, 216–17 Lettieri, Michael, 175–6 Liguria, 188, 201, 219 L’Illustration nouvelle (periodical), 18, 81, 87, 105 Lini, Alceo, ix Little Italy (Toronto), 133, 142, 157–9, 168, 178 logging camps, 11, 156 Lombardi, Johnny, 131, 167–8 Lorca, Federico García, 217 Lord’s Day Act (1906), 157, 178, 181

304 Index Lorenzetti, Ned, 168 Lošinj (Croatia). See Lussino Lum, Chloe, 274 Lussingrande (Veli Lošinj, Croatia), 244 Lussino (Lošinj, Croatia), 4, 59, 207, 238–40, 242–4 Lussinpiccolo (Mali Lošinj, Croatia), 16, 27, 53, 61, 244 MacLennan, Hugh, 20 Mafia, 100, 161, 180 Magazzino 18: show, 261; storehouse, 254 Magris, Claudio, 119 Maier, Bruno, 36 Mailer, Norman, 266 Mali Lošinj (Croatia). See Lussinpiccolo Malvisi, Aurelio, 117, 140, 147 Mancuso, Salvatore, 86 Manzoni, Alessandro, 212, 216–17, 229 Maranzan, Loretta, 49–50, 67 Maravalle, Luigi (internee), 96, 98 Marchese, Egidio, 147 Marconi, Guglielmo, 148 Marco Polo, 211 Maria Theresa von Habsburg (empress), 258 Marincovich, Anna, 51 Marinzoli, Ida Vodarich, 23–4, 58–9 Martiri delle Foibe (location), 10, 26 Masciarelli, Gino, 147 massacres, 25, 63, 277 Maurovich, Vito, 56 Mazzieri, Ettore, 118, 124 Mazzieri Sanković, Gianna, 19–20 Mellone, Adriano, 47 memory, 10, 12, 20, 22, 34, 38, 43, 46, 49, 53–4, 56–8, 60–4, 85, 108,

112, 116, 119, 121–3, 189, 192–5, 199–200, 206, 210, 213, 219, 224–5, 227, 238, 248–50, 252, 255, 259 Mesaglio, Bruno, 140, 147, 169 Methodist Church (Casa Metodista, Toronto), 158 Micich, Marino, 194 Migliore, Sam, 102 Milan (Italy), 18, 26, 35, 37, 80, 88–9, 189, 224 Milani, Nelida, 36 Minino, Narcisa, 68 Molinari, Guido, 266 Mondo, Marisa, 48 Monfalcone (Italy), 5, 26 Montenegro, 5 Montpetit, André, 268 Montreal (QC), 11, 18, 22–3, 67–8, 80–1, 85, 88–9, 104, 108, 124, 132, 263, 265–6, 268, 270–3, 277 Montrealer (periodical), 267 Montreal Repertory Theatre, 81 Montreal Star (periodical), 267 Morgan, Laura, 46 Morovich, Enrico, 36 Mulroney, Brian, 160, 179 multiculturalism, 3, 13–14, 19, 20–1, 24, 32, 80, 110, 116, 130–1, 135, 142–3, 179, 186–7, 189, 259, 279, 281 Multiculturalism, Ministry of (Canada), 142–3 multilingualism, 32, 186, 247 Mussolini, Benito, 18, 80, 207, 255–6 Muti, Riccardo, 33 Nabokov, Vladimir, 210 Nadeau, Jean-François, 105 Nadeau, Marc-Antoine, 268 Naples (Italy), 12, 35, 37, 47, 154, 235 Narodni Dom (Trieste), 14

Index 305 National Ethnic Archives (Ottawa), 130, 142 nationalism, 14, 88, 104, 207, 209–10, 217 Nazis, 87, 95–6, 99, 100, 248, 250, 256 Neruda, Pablo, 217 Neum (Bosnia-Herzegovina), 95 New York (NY), 12, 48, 50, 70, 186, 209, 270, 273 Nincheri, Giulio, 89 Noël, Mathieu, 81, 105 nostalgia, 12, 22–3, 46, 53–4, 57, 59–60, 65, 73–4, 123, 128, 165 Nova Scotia, 136 Noventa, Giacomo, 56–7 Oddo, Giusy, 189, 201, 224 Oliva, Gianni, 46–7 Olympia (ship), 115, 127, 152, 175 Opera Profughi, 26 Osimo, Treaty of (1975), 64, 74 Ottawa (ON), 67, 130 OVRA (Italian Fascist secret police), 86–8 OZNA (Yugoslavian Communist secret police), 7, 187 Palardy, Jean, 266 Paré, Isabelle, 264, 271 Paris (France), 18, 80–1, 88, 94, 105, 207; Paris Peace Treaty (1947), 5, 8, 10, 14, 272 partisans, 7, 14, 25, 38, 42, 60, 187, 206, 277 Passerini, Luisa, 247 patriotism, 15, 139, 151, 154, 177, 214 Pauletich, Antonio, 36 Pazin (Croatia). See Pisino d’Istria Pecota, Benny, 276, 290 Pecota, Silvia, 15, 24, 276–82, 284–90

Pelagosa (island), 4–5 Pellico, Silvio, 85 Perini, Antonio, 65 Perini, Silvia, 64 Perricone, Joseph, 208 Perspectives (periodical), 267 Pesaro, Gianna, 57–8 Petacco, Arrigo, 7, 25, 229 Petawawa (ON), 18, 80, 87–8, 90, 94–5, 98, 104–5 Piaget, Jean, 283 Piccolo (internee), 96, 98 Piccolo Teatro (Toronto), 140 Pier 21 (Halifax), 13, 152, 249 Pinguente (Buzet, Croatia), 16 Pirandello, Luigi, 85–6, 157, 169 Pisino d’Istria (Pazin, Croatia), 17, 24, 36, 80, 88, 211 Pivato, Joseph, 232, 243 Poggi, Vincenzo, 18–19, 88–103 Poglianich, Clara Maraspin, 53 Pola (Pula, Croatia), 5, 8–10, 27, 37, 42, 56–7, 118, 249 Polo, Marco, 211 Port Arthur (ON), 156, 163 Portelli, Alessandro, 247 Presbyterian Church, 158 press, ethnic, 131; Canadian, 133, 263, 267–8; Italian-Canadian, 132, 147; Julian-Dalmatian, 66; Vatican, 64; Promontore (cape; Kamenjak, Croatia), 55 propaganda: anti-Italian, 7; Fascist, 93, 97, 105 Protestants/Protestantism, 137, 146, 158, 171, 179 Proust, Marcel, 85–6 Pugliese, Guido, 176 Pugliese, Olga Zorzi, 153 Pula (Croatia). See Pola

306 Index Pužar, Aljoša, 111 Puzo, Mario, 208–9

Russi, Oscarre, 111 Ruta di Camogli (Italy), 188, 215–16

Quarantotti Gambini, Pier Antonio, 35, 211, 229 Quarnaro. See Kvarner, Gulf of Queen’s University (Kingston), 188, 210 Quiet Revolution, 233, 269

Saba, Umberto, 211, 259 Said, Edward W., 209–10 Salem, Enrico Paolo, 255 Salvatore, Filippo, 86, 105 Sanguinetti Katz, Giuliana, 176 Sansego (island; Susak, Croatia), 4 Santin, Antonio (bishop), 256, 261 Saturnia (ship), 12, 26; documentary, 27 Scardellato, Gabriele, 97–8, 102 Scarpa, Ida Lini, 41, 43 Schacherl, Eva, 61 Schacherl, Ugo, 61 Scheaffner (internee), 96 Schiavato, Mario, 36 Schittar, Mario, 111 Scotti, Giacomo, 36 Scotti, Susan, 110 Semenzin, Loredana, 68 Sennett, Richard, 54, 57 Serafini, Augusto, 117, 130–1, 135, 139 Shakespeare, William, 225, Shoah. See Holocaust Siderno (Italy), 133 Slavic culture, 13, 23, 32, 238, 278, 281; identity, 6, 49, 280; immigration, 35, 187, 240 Slavic population, 5, 9, 14, 17, 27, 35, 38 Slovenia, 5, 7, 33, 39, 41, 65, 242, 244; language, 14; people, 14 Slovenian-Italians, 42 Società Dante Alighieri, 140, 146, 186 278 Società di Studi Fiumani (Rome), 39 Soviet Union (USSR), 38, 206 Spinazzola, Vittorio, 122 Steadman, Ralph, 268

raduni (gatherings), 39, 45; Niagara Falls (2000), 41, 50; Toronto (1991), 48, 67, 71 Ramous, Osvaldo, 116, 127 Red Brigades, 161 refugee camps, 10–1, 19, 35, 37–8, 58–9, 65, 151, 154, 188, 207, 249, 254, 276–7; Altamura (Puglia), 58–9; Fertilia (Sardinia), 109, 154; Naples, 154; Opicina (Venezia Giulia), 65; Serigliano (Marche), 276 refugees, ix, 3, 9–13, 15, 21, 25–7, 37, 41, 59, 65, 109, 115–16, 151–4, 176, 179–81, 207–8, 211, 243, 254 Regency of the Carnaro, 187 Reia, Franco, 67 Restello (internee), 97 Rijeka (Croatia). See Fiume rimasti, 16–17, 33, 35, 38–40, 50, 60, 73, 111, 116, 187, 200–1, 204, 240, 253 Ripples (NB), 18, 80, 88, 94–6, 105 Rismondo, Pina, 68 Risorgimento, 88, 139, 207, 217 Rocambole, 111 Rocchi, Flaminio, 25–7 Romanin, Ciro, 168 Rovigno (Rovinj, Croatia), 27, 249, 261 Rovinj (Croatia). See Rovigno Rubessa, Leda, 68 Russeto, 111

Index 307 Stefani, Wanda, 68 Steffè Pivetta, Giuliana, 68 Stelli, Gianni, 124 Storni, Alfonsina, 217 Stuparich, 13 Sušak (Croatia), 36 Susak (island, Croatia; prev. Sansego), 4 Sustar Sclippa, Lidia, 48 Svab, 13 Svevo, Italo (Aron Ettore Schmitz), 211 Tamburri, Anthony Julian, 158 Teatro Olympia (Milan), 80 Teatro Verdi (Milan), 80 Tennisci, M. (internee), 97 Testa, Franco (internee), 96, 98, 102 theatre, 80–1, 85, 127, 157–8, 169, 181, 216, 265–6, 273 Thompson, Paul, 247 Thomson, Tom, 136 Thunder Bay (ON), 156, 163 Tiachiv (Czechoslovakia), 250 Tito. See Broz “Tito,” Josip tolerance, 52, 258, 279 Toleranzpatent (1771), 258 Tomizza, Fulvio, 32–4, 41, 232, 243 Tomizza, Laura Levi, 244 Toronto (ON), x, 11–12, 19, 21–2, 41, 49–52, 61, 67, 71, 87, 108–10, 124, 130–3, 136–8, 140–2, 144, 146–8, 151, 153–4, 156–8, 160–2, 166, 168, 176, 178–80, 229, 246, 248–51, 270, 276–7, 282, 287 Toronto Notte (periodical), 108 Toronto Star (periodical), 133, 137, 148 Toronto Telegram (periodical), 137 Toscana (ship), 8–9 Totò, 244 Tousignant, Claude, 266

Trasciatti, Nello (internee), 95–9 Traù (Trogir, Croatia), 280 Tribunals of the People, 7 Trieste (Italy), 5, 10, 12, 14, 22, 24–5, 26, 32–4, 36–7, 39, 42, 50, 59, 64, 118, 124, 211–12, 224, 246–50, 253–6, 258–9, 261, 278; diocese, 256; University of, 36, 255 Triestine Girls (association), 50 Tripcovich, Alessandro, 49, 70 Trogir (Croatia; prev. Traù), 280 Trudeau, Pierre Elliott, 132, 138, 142 Turcinovich Giuricin, Rosanna, 16, 22, 41, 124, 188, 246–9, 251–3, 255, 258, 260–1 Ugussi, Claudio, 36 Ungaretti, Giuseppe, 210, 217, 225 Unie (island; Unje, Croatia), 4 Unione degli Italiani dell’Istria e di Fiume, 35, 37 Unione Emigrati Sloveni del Friuli Venezia Giulia, 42 Unione Italiana in Istria, 39, 41 United Kingdom, 18, 27 United States, ix–x, 11, 17, 21, 27, 38, 48–9, 133, 186, 188, 233, 257, 268–9, 287 Università Popolare di Trieste, 41 University of Toronto, ix, 21, 34, 131, 140, 148, 151, 153, 161, 188, 226, 252 University of Toronto Mississauga, 151, 153, 161, 176 Vancouver (BC), 22, 67, 197, 212, 218–19, 228–9, 270 Vatican, 64, 74, 170 Veggian, Henry, 22, 87–8, 213–17, 219–21, 223–8 Vegliani, Franco, 35

308 Index Veli Lošinj (Croatia; prev. Lussingrande), 244 Veneto: region, 33, 127, 278; dialect, 163, 180 Venezia Giulia (region), 3, 11, 13, 40, 42, 118, 153, 207, 211, 244 Venice (Italy), 22, 33, 214, 240, 243, 263–4, 270–2, 276, 282; Republic of, 5–6, 244, 264, 277 Venier, Agostino, 16 Verdicchio, Pasquale, 155 Verlaine, Paul, 85 Villa Colombo (Toronto), 174 Vinjerac (Croatia; prev. Castel Venier), 280–1 Vitek, Grazia, 68 Vivante, Angelo, 259 Vodopia, AveMaria, 67–8 Vulcania (ship), 26 Warhol, Andy, 270 War Measures Act, 18, 80 Weil, Simone, 210, 259 Welling, Hans, 283 Wilde, Oscar, 222 Wirtz (internee), 98–9 Women’s Day (8 March), 67, 69, 76 Woodbridge (ON), 159, 261 World War I, 14, 207, 211, 255

World War II, 3, 5–6, 11, 14, 32, 34–5, 39, 41–2, 45, 60, 108, 116, 125, 132, 140, 143, 145, 152–3, 162–3, 170, 186, 193, 206–7, 209, 211, 213, 217, 240, 250, 259, 263, 265, 277 Yalta, 14 Yiddish, 247 Young, Judy, 110 Yugoslavia, 3, 5–11, 13–14, 17, 25, 32–3, 35–6, 38–9, 42, 45, 64–5, 153, 156, 180, 186–7, 193–4, 207, 209, 211, 239–40, 249, 264, 272, 277, 281, 290 Yugoslavian Communist secret police (OZNA), 7, 187 Yugoslav Wars (1991–2001), 25 Zadar (Croatia). See Zara Zalfa (internee), 99 Zampieri Pan, Anna Maria, 192 Zanini, Amilcare, 169 Zanini, Clara, 68 Zara (Zadar, Croatia), 4–5, 22, 24, 27, 42, 206, 207, 263–5, 272, 276–8, 280–1, 290 Zone “B,” 25, 32 Zuane de la Marsecia (Mario Schittar), 111