MODESTO'S NEAR-FORGOTTEN TREASURE

      The genealogist at the Mormon Church studied my grandparent’s hand-written marriage document looking closely at the faded stamp on the bottom. His eyes lit with excitement once he recognized the only legible word “Modesto” and indentified it as the church in Spinea (a commune of Venice) where they were married in 1894. Satisfied with his findings, he sat back in his seat and folded his arms across his chest, stroking his chin contemplatively.  “I believe some of your family history may exist in the church records and a trip to Spinea would be necessary.” I was giddy with excitement.  He paused. “But quite frankly, you might not get the cooperation you need, and the priest doesn’t speak English.”  I wilted in my seat.  He offered to phone the church and set up an appointment for me.  I tried to hide my disappointment and thanked him for his help, but told him that a trip on my own would be futile as I didn’t speak Italian.  He agreed and said he could be of no further assistance.  At that point I felt like a person starved and looking through a slit in a door at a table spread with food... and no way to get in to satisy my hunger. 

      On the way back to my apartment I began to contemplate my options: One was to request the microfilm of historical Venetian records from the archives of the Mormon Church in America. That could take weeks, and I was running out of time.  The second option was to find an interpreter who would be willing to travel with me to Venice and Spinea. The chance of that happening was slim…and certainly not within my budget.  The third was to give up the search, which was definitely not an option!  At least I was at the right door.  Now I needed to find the key. What to do?  My inner voice told me to be patient and that the answer would present itself.  I listened to my voice and waited as the days passed and my departure from Trieste neared.

~

       One afternoon I decided to take my feet in a different direction and brave the maze of side streets that wound their way down the hillside from my apartment in search of a short cut to the Piazza Unita d’Italia.  In just eight minutes the unfamiliar area of the city I was now entering took on a whole different feel then the city I had come to know those past weeks.  The streets, barely wide enough for one car, sounded of tires moving over cobblestones, multi-story buildings crowding either side.  I knew a square neared as the hum of the city moved up the corridor and the air drifted with the smell of fresh fish escaping from the counter of a local fish market.  

The street eventually opened into the square where old gas lanterns mounted on poles and rows of store fronts featuring canvas awnings and wrought iron balconies gave it the appearance of a mid-nineteenth century market.  I felt quite satisfied with my discovery, and happy to have stumbled upon a part of the city that spoke to a simpler side of life than that of its opulent, next door neighbor.

A poster of an old photograph mounted in a store window quickly brought a similar scene to life, and it was in that photograph that I was warmed by my vision of beautiful, Giovanna, her thick black hair piled on top of her head with a loose strand teasing her forehead, the sleeves of her high-collared blouse rolled up and a basket draped over her arm, her son, William, dallying at her side as she moved beside the carts of a Venetian street market.  

     

     Wherever I walked I felt the allure of its cozy neighborhood restaurants,

outdoor cafes,

variety food markets

with their tempting window displays,

all to the background of the street musicians' Italian melodies from days gone by.                            

I found myself irresistibly drawn into its narrow streets and dimly lit alleys where boarded doors, barred windows, and crumbling walls held the secrets of its former residents, those residents like my grandparents who once sat across a dinner table sharing a dream; the same dream that would one day find them on a long voyage across a vast ocean to a land that promised hope…America.  I gathered my thoughts while the all-too-familiar aroma of simmering spaghetti sauce (“gravy,” as my Venetian-born uncle used to call it) took me back to a neighborhood, where, as a child I would often accompany my doctor father on one of his house calls to that building-crowded Italian section of town that always smelled of simmering spaghetti sauce.  It was there that I would sit on the lap of an old woman dressed in black, listening to her ramblings in Italian as the revered “dottore” disappeared with his black bag behind a closed door to perform his magic.             

      A discovery such as this could not help but add new meaning to my already fascinating Trieste experience.  I felt like I belonged there.  The place seemed to fit like an old shoe.  And now, comfortably situated in its sourround, the silent words that persisted when I first arrived in Trieste were once again calling to me, “Corri! Corri!” I hesitated for a moment—searching my memory, back, back, until I remembered my late father’s voice crying out to me as it did long ago. “Corri, corri!” (Run, run) he would shout as I rushed to the safety of his arms.  Caught up in the memory I was choked with emotion, my eyes welling up with tears.  I wondered now...were the cries his way of urging me to move toward my search with greater urgency?

~~

      The clock was ticking with only a week and a half left before my departure.  I simply had to find a way to communicate with the priest in Spinea.  I decided to call upon an Italian friend and ask if she would be willing to telephone him on my behalf.  She agreed, taking it far beyond my request. She was tireless in her vigil searching the internet, gathering more information for me, sending emails, presenting my urgent cause to this person and that until she finally found  an old man in Venice who made two trips weekly to the Modesto Church where he devoted his time to searching the church’s records. He was a ray of hope, threatened, though, by a dark cloud.  He explained that prior to the year 1900 the church records were in a state of disarray and that it was unlikely that he would find anything in that mass of long-forgotten documents.  Nonetheless, he answered her plea and offered--out of the goodness of his heart and at no charge—to see what he could do to help the “American lady in search of her family.”  Once again I had no choice but to play the waiting game.
       Then it came, that unexpected email from my friend who wrote:  “I spoke today with the old man who exclaimed,  ‘I began searching for the document but did not hold out much hope. Oh, but there it was, a large paper, folded and laying in a box!  It bore the name Abele, Guglielmo, the same name I was searching for!  It was a document dated April 14, 1894.  It told of the girl, Giovanna, and the man, Guglielmo.  I also found the names of the churches in Venice where Giovanna and Guglielmo were baptized.’  The real angels were serving the mortals,” my friend went on to say.  She signed the e-mail, SHERLOCK HOLMES.

       Yea!  I was thrilled with the news.  Venice was a must.  How could I possibly manage it on my own, though?  There was the language problem.  No interpreter.  Time was running out with only a week left until my departure.