Read for yourself in this CNN article!
In the Dolomite mountains, just two hours north of Venice, sits the church that my great grandfather helped build on the eve of his departure for America. The small village of Falcade sits near the San Pellegrino pass and was a resting spot for wayfarers over the centuries. It has flown the flag of many countries over that time, from that of Venice’s Serreinisima Republic, to Napoleon, to the Hapsburg’s Austro-Hungarian empire, to Italy. This section of the Italian Alps is recognizable for its jagged summits of wind-worn limestone, a UNESCO World Heritage Site.
During my first visit there in 1998, I learned a bit of the history of the place. The village dates back over 1,000 years. During World War I, the Great War, trenches were dug nearby in the mountains for the Italian-Austrian front. Also, the area was the scene of a tragic slaughter as the Germans retreated north at the end of World War II. As the Germans were falling back, they killed 44 in the valley and left another 645 homeless. In this part of Italy, so close to the Austrian border, many street signs are in both German and Italian. Most residents, of 2,000 or so, speak both languages as well as Ladin (with a D), a local language likely to be lost in the near future.
Visiting the shops, restaurants and hotels of the village, I met several long lost cousins. Laughing, we traced back both our connections to mutual ancestors. The parish priest was a hospitable saint, patiently sharing old baptismal records and thus a genealogy road map.
As someone with more affinity for sun and sea over mountains, I was surprised to find such a strong connection in my heart as I first walked the town. Meeting locals, I felt an even deeper kinship like nowhere I had ever visited, emphasized when so many people had the exact same shade of blue eyes that I have.
Yesterday, when I read a CNN article about a tourist sunbathing nude in Venice, my mind raced back to Falcade. One of my distant relatives was a sculptor, Augusto Murer. He created the monument to the women of the WWII resistance, illustrating their complete sacrifices through her bound and drowned body. It now floats on the edge of the Biennale Public Gardens, a short walk from Piazza San Marco. Sadly, few people notice this sculpture. Far more importantly, the sacrifices of the women that it represents are too often forgotten as well.
Today, as I sit writing from the comfort of a well-heated, well-insulated room in the cold of winter, I am grateful that a small bit of research into my family roots gave me an awareness of these heroines from WWII. And in an odd way after several decades, I am grateful to the naked lady (who is not my cousin) for reminding me of my distant cousin’s sculpture in Venice, just down the mountain from my family’s village.
If you are looking for a great novel about WWI, read Mark Helprin’s A Soldier of the Great War.
what a lovely description of your heritage quest. such a beautiful place. and to find your eyes in other villagers! thanks for sharing.
That was one of the coolest parts — to not just hear we could be related, but to see it in the exact same eye color! Thanks for reading!
that’s it. For centuries Italy has been conquered and so under the domination of different countries and you brought up the quintessence of this oppression in a very descriptive and sound writing. Grazie
Grazie for the kind words and for reading!