Personal History

This past Sunday I had lunch with Pjeter and his 72-year-old mother. We went to a restaurant in a sports park (hard to explain, but it was a nice restaurant). In celebration of Greek Orthodox Easter, Pjeter's mom gave everyone at the table an egg dyed a beautiful crimson red. After she had distributed the eggs, she placed a hardback book on the table. Among the pages of the book were lodged about a dozen old photographs. Here is the story told by the book and the pictures:

During WWII, an American military transport plane carrying Army nurses took off from Catania, Sicily on a mission to fetch wounded soldiers from forward positions farther north. A storm and German Messerschmitts blew the plane off course, and it crashed in rural Albania, near Pjeter's ancestral home. All 30 Americans survived the crash landing and eventually made their way on foot to Pjeter's grandfather's village. Pjeter's grandfather was asked, because he spoke some English, to help the survivors. He did, trekking with them for several weeks through the mountains in winter so they could be rescued off the eastern coast of Albania. Soon thereafter, he was kidnapped by the Albanian security forces. For years his family did not know what happened to him, until finally one of the police officers who had been among the group that executed him revealed the location of his body. One of the pictures carried by Pjeter's mom was a black-and-white photograph of human bones in a shallow grave - her father's.

Other photos showed Pjeter's grandmother with the author of the book, one of the rescued Army nurses who had returned to Albanian in the mid-1990s to thank those who had helped them. Pjeter's mom was only a little girl when all this happened, but she obviously cherishes the exploits of the grandfather she hardly knew.

Roots

During March Albanian workers enjoyed another holiday-inspired long weekend (!). By happy circumstance, my sister-in-law and her boys were traveling in Sicily that very same weekend. So close to Albania! I couldn't resist a rendezvous with them. Our plan was to do some hikes along the eastern shore, to eat as much gelato and cannoli as possible, and to tour some of the historic sites. But I had a personal agenda as well. You see, my grandfather was born in Messina province in Sicily, and I'd always been curious about that side of the family. For whatever reason, the Old Country wasn't something we spoke about, even though my father cherished his Italian heritage. A few years ago I did some ancestry research, but I never had been able to establish which town my grandfather came from, why he left, and why he never went back.

View from Roccavaldina

Consultation

So here was the perfect opportunity to do some on-the-ground research. My wonderful sister-in-law and nephews were game for a little genealogical adventure. So it was that on a Saturday in mid-March we drove up into the little hill town of Roccavaldina (pop. 1100).I didn't have much of a plan, but we'd been advised that we should just ask someone, because people in the small towns know all the families and all the history.

Parking in the main square, we saw that there was only one cafe in town. Luckily, it was open and there were about 20 men hanging out in front, talking and playing cards. We marched right up and in broken Italian said I thought my grandfather had been born there and I was looking for any remaining relations.


 As promised, everyone was excited to help and started talking all at once. But when I told them that my grandfather emigrated in 1910, the crowd grew quiet, and one gentleman looked at me and said "You know, that was a long time ago." I felt like such a fool - what a lame scheme! Who would remember such ancient history?

Old building

Roccavaldina Crest

Well it turns out the Roccans did. Ten minutes later I was sitting on a couch in my cousin Salvatore's house, being introduced to my 85-year old second cousin, Nicolina. She was so happy to see me, a perfect stranger claiming to be related, that she gave me a big hug and started crying.

Church

We passed an hour or so sharing photos and information about the family tree. In the end, I didn't learn the story behind my grandfather's decision to emigrate at the age of 19 and never to return (Sicilians keep some things close to the chest), but I was amazed by the sense of community and family I saw there.