“My dear son,
Even though you are a man now, and you are far away from me and no longer need your dear mama, you will always be my child. This you cannot forget and cannot deny. You can’t ever truly leave your family or your country behind. We all like to think we’ve outgrown our own, but to do so is a grave mistake, and what we do as adults always carries some measure of our childhood selves. And what a child you were! Such a dreamer, and gentle as a lamb. You liked my stories about far-off places. Oh, my son. I always knew you would have to leave one day. Is the world so different where you are? Have you found what you were looking for out there? Part of me hopes you have, because I wish you nothing but happiness, and yet I also hope you haven’t, because your childhood dreams were too naive to bring you true happiness in life. I hope that sometimes you have failed and been disappointed, that you’ve suffered and managed to get back on your feet. It’s the strength you find in yourself when you fail that makes you a man. But I have faith, because you weren’t just a dreamer, you were also a hard worker like your father. But I’m not like either of you; I don’t have your stubbornness. I have trouble living in my old body these days. And my mind is troubled, as you can tell; my mood is morose, and I keep talking about the good old days. But what else do I have left except those memories? My life is behind me, though yours is in front of you. I enjoy hearing about all your adventures. I don’t get enough letters, but that’s not a reproach. I never get tired of reading them. You don’t talk about Maria anymore. You should send me a photo of her. I’m sure you chose a wonderful girl. I sometimes dream that the two of you will come to Livorno to visit me. And who knows? Maybe you’ll bring a beautiful baby with big, dark eyes. How I long for that day. When the wind rattles the door, I sometimes think it’s you kicking it open like you used to do. When I look down at my coffee in the morning, I sometimes hope that when I look up I'll see you and your father sitting across from me. What are you doing in Paris? They tell me it rains often in France. It’s as sunny as ever here in Livorno. There’s only the sun to see me getting old. You wouldn’t believe how old I am now. Since your father died, age hasn’t spared me. It’s not easy to pass the time on your own. I'm lucky that Marcello and Valentina are still around. But friends only count for so much when you’re sleeping alone, eating alone, and have no-one to hold in your arms. I miss your embrace, my son. I wouldn’t have thought that you were the one I would miss the most. It’s true that you and your father were both somewhat wild and independent, but you had your charm, your warmth, you loved me in your own ways. I’m sure Paris would make my head spin, with all those bright lights, the shows, the beautiful people. I wish I could see it all with you. I’d have liked to travel and see the world, like you’re doing. But as you know, I’ve spent my whole life in Livorno, and it’s all I know. I don’t regret it; it was my destiny, and I’ve loved every day of my life here. I wasn’t unhappy. And now, when I read your letters a part of me is there exploring Paris with you.
I want to tell you a story, like I did when you were a child. It’s the story of your harmonica. I could have told you it sooner, but your father never wanted to hear me talking about the Great War. It was too painful for him. You see, when he came back from the war, he was a changed man. He wasn’t always the gruff old man that you knew. I first met him thirty years ago, at the Livorno ball. He was like you, a smart young lad with wide, dreaming eyes. I loved him from the moment I saw him; he was so different to everyone I’d met before. We were seventeen, just children really. At that age, we were innocent. Your father wasn’t involved in politics, even though there was a lot of it going around in Livorno. Europe was tearing itself apart. It was all anybody talked about in the cafés, at the harbour, in the market, everywhere in the village. Every day we’d read in the papers about the war that was raging in the countries around us. We feared for our homeland and wondered what would become of us. Italy was still young — it had been founded only 50 years before. We’d upheld the Triple Alliance, but we stayed neutral, and we were far from the fighting. But we knew that it would arrive at our door one day or another. We couldn’t sit there not doing anything, but we didn’t want to be cannon fodder either. The men argued and fought with one another in the street. They wanted to be involved and had big ideas. They wanted to show their mettle. But your father didn’t want that; he just wanted to fish and live a simple life. In the papers, they said that everything started when the heir to the Austria-Hungarian throne was assassinated. In the village, they said it was about money, power, territory and politics, and that little people like us were being used as pawns. We didn’t know much, but we knew that. Finally, Italy decided in May 1915 that it would side with France and Great Britain. We wanted to regain Dalmatia and Trieste. So that was it, and King Victor Emmanuel III started recruiting men from all over the country. One morning, men from Livorno were called to the front. It was official. We were knocked sideways. Our men would have to give themselves to the war effort in the name of honour and their homeland. They would sacrifice themselves for the values of their country, and to protect their families. Only children, the old and the infirm were spared. Like all the others, your father was sent to the northern front. You should have seen what it was like at the station. It was so sad. All those goodbyes were heartbreaking to watch. Mothers were inconsolable, wives felt like widows before their husbands had even left. I didn’t want your father to see how worried I was; I wanted to be reassuring. But I was so scared. I stared at his face as long as I could, so I could keep it in my memory forever. He kissed me quickly, he didn’t like to be overly sentimental, and then he got on the train with the others, his army pack slung over his shoulder. It was car number six. He waved to me from the window. We didn’t cry for each other then; we didn’t want to let it break us. He was so handsome. In just a few days he’d become a man. He was strong. He’d stopped dreaming. His face had changed. I looked at him, so proud and strong, and I admired him. I knew that man would come back to me. He was the love of my life. The stationmaster blew his whistle, and the train moved off in a cloud of black smoke. It moved slowly at first, and then it sped up and he was gone. All the women stood there on the platform, not knowing where to look or what to say to one another. All we could do was wait. We were powerless, rudderless. There was nothing more we could do. It was several weeks before I got a letter from him. I had no idea what was happening. It was unbearable, I didn’t know what to think. Waiting without knowing is worse than knowing. He could be dead already. Should I mourn? I didn’t dare; I wanted to continue to be strong for him, no matter how far away he was. That’s what got me through those weeks; I couldn’t betray his memory by believing he was dead, and I had to be here when he got back. The news from the front wasn’t good. I saw women in mourning every day. They’d received the official letters, and they were waiting for the bodies of their sons or their husbands to be repatriated. The cemetery had to be expanded; the bodies were piling up. Families watched their relatives’ bodies rotting away. We put clothes over them so we wouldn’t see their sunken faces. And not everyone had been found. Like other volunteers, I helped care for some of the injured men who returned. They were in an awful state, some barely clinging to life. For us women, it was the only way we could feel useful. Time dragged on, but one day I got a letter. I was so relieved. Your father told me about the horrors of the trenches. He said it was a bloodbath, and they were constantly running from bullets and shells. In the trenches, they waited around all day long for their orders, dying of hunger and thirst. They fought over jugs of stagnant water or bits of stale bread. They could not wash or even take their boots off. They sat in the muck, sometimes in puddles of their own urine, attacked by flies and vermin everywhere. Nothing grew there; just body parts and stumps of trees. It was a mass grave, and the smell of death was everywhere. Your father had one friend; a poor fellow from Turin no older than twenty. He’d brought his harmonica, and he played it to help soothe their souls. He played at night when nobody could sleep, and he played during the day when they dozed through their fear. It brought a little bit of light into their lives; a little piece of Italy in that music. He wasn’t a hero, just a good mad with a big heart, who was generous without knowing it, whose faith made him strong. The kind of man your father would look up to. Your father never liked all those hotheads who wanted to fight, those big-talking men who were cruel and sometimes criminal. The men he admired were the ones who wanted to survive, and who wouldn’t give up. In his second letter, he told me the young man from Turin was dead. He didn’t say what happened. Just a short sentence, with no detail or emotion. It was too hard for him. And when he came back from the front, he didn’t say any more about it. He just brought back the harmonica. And when you were born, he’d play you songs on the harmonica and set the instrument down by your bed. It would be yours once you were old enough to play. It was a way for your father to share the values that meant the most to him. And you, my son, you took to that instrument like a duck to water. For your father, it was like seeing his friend brought back to life. It moved him to hear your play; I saw him looking at you with his eyes open wide, his mind far away. He was probably having visions of soldiers being cut down and mines exploding at the front. When you learned the blues, you really made that harmonica your own. Your father didn’t stop you; some things just have to happen in their own way. The first time he heard you playing the blues, I could see the disappointment in his eyes, but then he started laughing. You didn’t understand why; you thought he was making fun of you. I remember, you refused to play for him for a week. He told me sometimes that he was proud of you, but he’d never dare say it to your face. I think that you reminded him of the young man from Turin, because only music could soothe you, and blowing into that harmonica was your way of facing the world.
It’s getting late. The sky’s dark and I can see the full moon. It’s beautiful, that silvery light that watches over all of us. I hope you can see it too. I miss you. I wish I could hold you tight in my arms.
All my love,
Your dear mother,
Nina.”
Alan Alfredo Geday