A Journey of Body, Mind, and Spirit: Four Years in Fascist Italy, 1937-1941

By Martin V. Melosi and Federico Paolini

On July 31, 1937, seventeen-year-old Elmo Melosi, an Italian-American from suburban California, boarded the ocean liner Conte di Savoia in New York City for a nine-day voyage to Italy. He was headed to a Catholic seminary in the Piedmont region to prepare for the priesthood. Until he traveled to New York from his home in San Jose, he had never ventured beyond the West Coast, and had no idea what was in store for him living in what soon would be war-torn Europe. A Journey of Body, Mind, and Spirit, narrated by his son – a retired history professor – recounts Elmo’s experiences in Italy from 1937 until his return to the United States in October 1941 – less than two months before the attack on Pearl Harbor. It details his trying existence in a financially strapped seminary, the heavy demands of school and work, his persistent health problems, his first-time connection with his Italian relatives, and his harrowing journey home. All of this is set against the backdrop of a country in the grip of Fascism and inching toward world war. The research for the book is based on Elmo’s diary from 1937 to 1941 while he was in Italy, another diary for the years 1945-1946, a book he wrote – My Education – which is a series of annotations of his diary entries (1937-1941), family genealogy, dozens of photographs, his son’s recollections of his dad, and secondary sources on the history of modern Italy and the relationship between the Catholic Church and the Mussolini government.

• Language: English
• Publisher: tab edizioni
• Release date: Jun 27, 2024
• ISBN: 9788892959323

Book preview

Prologue

Because of the obvious distractions of youth and living life in general, I paid little attention to two small diaries and a weathered 315-page unpublished book, entitled My Education, sitting on an out-of-the-way bookshelf in my folks’ living room. The diaries and the book were written by my dad, Elmo Victor Melosi. One diary depicts his life in Italy’s Piedmont region (specifically Alba and Armeno) where he studied in preparation to become a Roman Catholic priest. The diary begins on July 22, 1937—just before his departure—and ends upon his return to the states a little more than a month before the Pearl Harbor Attack on December 7, 1941. The other, briefer diary has entries only for 1945 when he was back home in San Jose, California, about the time he began courting my mother, Nancy Corina Rossi.

The longer diary and My Education tell a rather exceptional story of a young American—seventeen when he left California— living the arduous seminary life in Benito Mussolini’s Fascist Italy during the Spanish Civil War and the early years of World War II. He spent his first year in Italy as a novitiate in Alba and the final three years in Armeno before fleeing Italy for home as the war in Europe kept closing in on him and his seminary colleagues and teachers. I begin my narrative in this book before Dad’s Italy years with the immigration of his parents from Tuscany to the San Francisco Bay Area, and then continue with his childhood and early education in the Santa Clara Valley and Santa Cruz.

Dad’s book—its full title being My Road to a Higher Education, 1937-1941—covered many of the diary entries with annotations for several of them through October 16, 1941. It was written in the early 1960s some time before the death of John F. Kennedy which took place in November 1963. Dad wrote the volume on a type-writer, well before he had a computer, but never sought to publish it. On the first page of the book is a Guarantee: Any errors in grammar or spelling should be attributed to poor typing, not poor education. E.V.M.

My Education was bound by hand (bookbinding being one of the skills he learned in Italy) and was covered in old road maps of California and the Midwest and edged with red leather or vinyl. Why road maps? That’s anybody’s guess, especially since they had no direct relationship to the contents. Maybe they were the only materials laying around, and he used them because he was very practical about matters like this. I can’t think of any other reasonable justification.

I came into possession of the diaries and the book soon after Dad died in 1990. Several years before then I had read My Education, but never looked at the original diaries themselves being too preoccupied with my own activities and obligations I suppose and assuming, incorrectly, that they might be unnecessarily redundant. Now I realize how fortunate I was in having acquired all these treasures—and the precious memories that went with them. As I discovered, the diaries had entries that were quite terse and matter-of-fact, but sometimes curiously different in content from those transcribed in My Education. That volume, although painfully lacking in the full names of many people, in geographic locations, and even in specific dates concerning key events, was nevertheless indispensable. Without many of the long explanations and asides included in the book, the diaries themselves would not have provided enough grist for my own work. Some of Dad’s most personal thoughts and experiences are revealed in My Education, and despite its limitations I could never have written A Journey of Body, Mind, and Spirit without it.

For the longest time I was uncertain what I would do, if anything, with the diaries and book. I had promised my brother Dennis and sister Angela that I would share the information I gleaned from these texts or at least make copies that I could share with them at some point. It has taken me more than forty-five years to fulfill that promise. Sadly, a few years ago my dear brother died. Hopefully Dennis’ kids, Angela and her family, and my own family will benefit from what I produced.

I was about seventy-four or seventy-five years old when I started working on my own book about my father’s experiences in Italy. In September 2018 I retired from the Department of History at the University of Houston. It was good timing in the sense that, quite by chance, I avoided the widespread campus struggles caused by Covid-19 that my colleagues and former students had to endure, and I also escaped the chronic obligatory meetings and the draining university politics that institutions of higher learning inevitably experience. I miss, of course, interactions with my friends there—the usual sharing of our complaints and our occasional triumphs.

Upon retirement from UH I retreated to my home office without a clear plan in mind on what might follow, except for fulfilling obligations as an expert witness in the litigation work I had begun years before, continuing some book and article projects, reviewing other people’s manuscripts, and inevitably penning letters of recommendation for colleagues and former students. The latter two activities were among the important obligations of a veteran academic, retired or not.

But what else was in store? Like many retirees I had a potential list of projects and interests I hoped to undertake—or at least consider—now that I had more control of my time.

Since our two young granddaughters, Gianna and Angelina, and their parents lived less than a mile from us, my wife Carolyn and I knew that much of our time would continue to be spent with them. We also had new travel plans; trips meant for recreation and relaxation rather than me showing up at the usual professional conferences, often dragging Carolyn along as if most of these events would be fun for her. Early in retirement, however, I began to meet my promise of planning real vacations. We soon took a lovely Viking cruise through Eastern Europe with friends and found time for a few other shorter adventures until the pandemic grounded us. When travel opportunities opened up again, we resumed some travel, including a trip to visit our older daughter, Gina, who lives in Berlin.

I then contemplated what other personal (and reasonably safe) challenges I might pursue. I have always had a passion for fishing, which was one activity not deterred by Covid, but much of my equipment remains little used.

I thought about learning the harmonica or some other instrument, because I regretted not doing so at a younger age, except for one rather miserable year sawing on a violin in grammar school. Dad urged (maybe pressured?) me to take up the violin as he had done, and I only did so because I was reluctant to disappoint him. But I hated it, and quickly opted for sports after a major growing spurt in sixth grade.

I’ve told the story many times that after what seemed like an eternity trying to play the violin in fifth grade, I quietly quit. Rather than tell my folks, I kept on carrying the instrument to school each day well into sixth grade. Dad and Mom asked why I didn’t seem to be practicing regularly? I lied that I was doing so early in the morning in our basement before they got up from bed. My intentions were not malicious, since I knew the violin meant so much to my father. I couldn’t bear breaking his heart— but I also couldn’t bear playing that damned thing any longer! Happily, my daughter, Adria, became an accomplished violist; her older sister Gina played the piano; and both granddaughters have taken up the cello with great success. That is a vindication of sorts.

In 2018 the harmonica seemed doable, more so than playing the piano that had occasionally crossed my mind, or again taking up the violin (which would never happen). The harmonica was one of the first things on my list to go. I am considering, however, trying my hand at my grandfather’s mandolin. Hope springs eternal.

I did plunge pretty deeply into family genealogy in 2018, having regretted not being more inquisitive about the family history when I was much younger. The chance to have in-depth conversations with my folks and grandparents, especially, had long passed. I couldn’t beat myself up for the lost opportunities knowing that few kids or teenagers have family heritage foremost on their minds. So it was now or never to recoup what memories I could from Ancestry.com and other sites, faint recollections, pictures, and a few random letters.

Both sides of my family—overwhelmingly peasants—had deep roots in the Tuscan region of Italy with several brave souls who emigrated for one reason or another to the United States, Argentina, and possibly elsewhere in the early twentieth century. Through my researches I obtained the newest information about my mother Nancy’s parents, who were otherwise shadow people throughout much of my life. Her father, Angelo Rossi, was born in the village of Marginone in the Province of Lucca and migrated to the states in 1913 at the age of 23.

He ultimately became a rather prosperous rancher in Santa Cruz, California. But since he never spoke English, remarried a couple of times, and became somewhat house-bound because of illness in his later years, our relationship never fully blossomed. My family made obligatory Sunday visits to Santa Cruz now and then, but all I remember is how my brother and I hated wearing our church clothes (probably to a greater degree than our young sister) and had to sit around my Nonno Rossi’s living room while the adults conversed in a language that made little sense to me at the time. Also, Angelo’s third wife Alma seemed a little irritated (or at least impatient) that we took up so much time at their house on a valuable weekend afternoon.

Nancy’s mother, Edith Scramaglia (who died when my mother was two) was born near San Francisco in Colma, California. This was a great surprise to me, since I had been told that she came from Genoa. Edith had a slew of brothers and sisters in Colma— several also dying young—that my mom never spoke about, even though they lived only about fifty miles away from us in San Jose, where we lived. Such is the curious nature, and the consternation, of delving into genealogy many years after all the relatives had passed. I now wonder if my mom ignored her family or knew little about her siblings at all. As strange as that sounds, the latter could have been true since my mom was never the secretive type and otherwise would have told us.

Information on my dad’s side is more substantial—some of which I will relate later. Unlike with my mom’s parents, I had a very close and affectionate relationship with my dad’s folks, Victor Melosi and Jennie Gonfiotti Melosi, seeing them several times a week at our house or theirs. They both had Tuscan roots but met years later in or around San Francisco. Nonnie had an extended family in the Bay Area, so the bond with her branch was pretty strong for much of my young life. The genealogy search for my dad’s side did not turn up much that I didn’t already know. However, while on a trip to Italy Adria made inquiries about Victor that proved quite useful. Adria, like Gina, both speak Italian.

I was lucky in my pre-college days to be around my parents and grandparents almost constantly, and I never lost close ties with them. That may seem an odd observation, but as I have learned this closeness is an experience that not everyone can claim. Fortunately, we have the same relationship with our granddaughters.

Getting back to our story, the decision to retire rekindled my curiosity about Dad’s diaries and My Education. What to do with these volumes? The simplest thing would have been to make the diaries available to the family in some kind of photocopied or electronic form. The availability of a computer and scanner made that easy enough. But at first the writer in me saw the possibility of a novel—something that Carolyn encouraged me to do. This seemed like a good possibility since I wanted to try my hand at fiction after so many years of writing historical monographs. But in writing such a work I would have to embellish the narrative too much and come up with a dramatic ending that would attract readers in such a way that might diminish the stories embedded in the heart of the diaries and blemish my own memories of Dad. Even though I told family and friends time and again that one day I would do something creative with my dad’s time in Italy, I was stumped. I’m not sure I truly believed that these personal recollections would ever leave that dusty shelf.

The turning point in my decision to take up the cache of material and do something with the story grew out of the convergence of several circumstances: My retirement provided the time. My determination to keep writing, but not write history books exclusively, gave me the direction. The genealogical searches offered more fodder. And our post-Covid decision to resume annual family trips to Italy with our daughters, our granddaughters, and our son-in-law Steven sealed the deal.

Maybe all of these things were a collective push in the direction I needed and had wanted to go. Most importantly my desire to write as complete and coherent a story of Dad’s journey was scratching a longtime itch. What follows, therefore, is really a conversation between my dad and me. It is crafted by a son, late in his own life, trying to better understand and acknowledge a father who he loved, but never knew enough about, especially in a setting far removed in time and place from our daily lives in California after World War II. As I probed deeper into Dad’s story, the more intrigued I became and the closer I felt to him, to my mom, and to the family in general. I also got a deeper glimpse of Italy—the country of my heritage—steadily and tragically creeping toward war in the late 1930s and early 1940s.

The diary on the Italy years tells a very personal story, but also one about a rather unique experience of persistence and survival under sometimes grim conditions in Fascist Italy. It is a story that challenged Dad’s body, mind, and spirit. Unlike many caught in the tragedy of war, Dad was able to escape the worst of it, to return to the United States to begin a new phase of his life, and to start a family. He would live comfortably, if somewhat modestly, in several suburban neighborhoods close to his parents, many relatives, and friends who he had left behind as a teenager when he went off on his special adventure. That experience, however, was an inflection point for him in ways few others have experienced, and in many respects hidden from his family once he returned home. I’ve come to believe that the clash of lifestyles and circumstances that he experienced was edifying, but also jarring.

He was forced to grow up during his time in Italy, and some of his experiences made him stronger and even more insightful. But what wounds he may have suffered from those experiences—some mental, some emotional, some physical—are not easy to divine or understand because they were not always visible or obvious to my mother or to my brother, sister, and me as we grew up. And why he aspired to be a priest and then left that training was never explained but only partially suggested by his writings, his family background, and the context of those years. Curiously, despite the environment in which he was living in northern Italy under Benito Mussolini’s rule, his take on the times as expressed in his diary and in My Education is sometimes hazy and muddled. Many recollections are wrapped up in his own sense of growth and maturity, maybe even in his personal achievements and letdowns.

Dad valued education and exhibited real pride when I completed my PhD in History in 1975 at the University of Texas. He long insisted that he imparted a love of learning in me that helped make this achievement possible. Upon reflection, I must agree. Yet, Dad regretted never being able to go to college himself. It was a personal discontent—even a failing in his eyes—and a barrier to some promotions in his working life after he returned home from Italy. What I gleaned most emphatically in My Education was an attempt to portray those years in seminary as the attainment of higher education, albeit not a college degree, much more than a spiritual journey. A somewhat different picture emerges from the diary itself where he recounts his daily routine of serving Mass and reflects periodically on his faith. One must keep in mind when the diary and the book were written, especially in the case of My Education, which he wrote about twenty years after returning home. To a certain extent these contradictions between the diary and the book add some ambiguity to his story that I have yet to work out.

Since My Education was written so many years after the Italian diary, it is quite possible that he believed that the seminary life as a religious experience was something of his past, and what remained was how those years educated him in more general and secular ways—in ways that matured the seventeen-year-old of 1937. Or maybe the struggles of his life in Italy undermined or at least weakened whatever commitment he had made to his initial ambition to become a priest. Not knowing why he sought the priesthood in the first place only added to the uncertainty.

Piecing together this story has been very difficult, even for a seasoned historian who made his living for many decades eking out key bits of data in archives and libraries for a forthcoming book or article. The diary from the Italy years has severe limits. Most entries are matter-of-fact statements about the weather, religious services, or daily life. Lots of details, but too many gaps. The annotations in My Education (which made my study possible) provide some valuable observations about his thinking and his predicament but are void of many specifics about friends and family and also give little historical context. Friends only have first names here, and family members and relationships largely remain unnamed.

Dad occasionally visited his grandparents and other relatives in Pistoia during those years but provides few details; several family members go unnamed and he gives little indication of their relationship to him. He mentions fellow students but usually gives us only first names. He doesn’t even specify the name of the school/ seminary he attended either in Italy or in Santa Cruz for that matter. (It took considerable time to identify both.) And, as I stated earlier, we learn nothing about why he went to Italy in the first place, why he sought the priesthood, and what made him give it up.

My Education, as stated, was written decades removed from the events themselves. While entries in some cases are further reflections on his original thinking about his experiences, they do recount important moments in his stay in Italy. Some discussions, of course, may have been embellished or reinterpreted to some degree. At times, when I talked to him about the Italy years, I got a slightly different bent on some of the situations that he discussed in his diary and book. Nonetheless, the totality of the writings paint a fascinating overall picture of that pivotal moment in his life, and when combined with other personal or historical material, offer an intriguing human story. Like many memoirs, of course, perceptions never really capture the whole truth.

There was a particularly not-so-obvious-to-others benefit in reading through My Education for a second time. The first time I focused on the text. The second time on the tone. I could hear his voice, his inflections and modulations, his phrasing of words and sentences, and his humor. In this sense I could pick up on some of his emotions and some of what he found important or amusing simply by the way he said things. After we had our first child, Gina, Dad produced numerous cassettes on which he read bedtime stories. Even though he and my mom lived far away from our home in Texas, he wanted to bridge the gap with his voice. As a young child Gina, and then Adria several years later, listened to the Papa tapes every night when they went to bed. I could hear him reading from another room, picking up on his dramatic and animated way of telling stories.

For years after he died, I couldn’t listen to the tapes. I became too emotional. In time, I came to appreciate having a little bit of him in the house. At that point I passed the tapes along to our granddaughters, Gianna and Angelina. Like the tapes, My Education and the diaries complement the memories of my father, which has given me one more level of insight for this book.

Beyond the words Dad left us, I have some family background information to rely on, some family stories, some passing remarks, and some pictures to help augment the diaries and My Education. I have four volumes of snapshots beginning with Dad’s birth and childhood and continuing through my own teenage years. Some of the photos have been reproduced for this book. I also developed context in California and Italy through historical studies.

While I regret not asking a lot of questions to fill in some of the blanks when Dad was alive, I was luckier than most. I shared many hours of discussion about his religious commitment, his philosophy, the nature of his work in Italy and in the states, etc., although that might sound a little odd for someone who was about ten or twelve at the time of those talks. But I was a desperately inquisitive child—and a bit of a contrarian—always up for a challenge, but also hungry for my dad’s time and attention.

I often asked him ‘why’ and questioned what I heard, especially about Catholic dogma. In these instances, Dad was more patient than usual. More patient than I ever saw him in any other setting. (We shared the curse of impatience and hot temper.) Maybe because I expressed an interest in what he was doing or had done, or that he was capable of spinning a good yarn brought us closer together in those moments. Also, I did not watch much TV in those early days since there was little opportunity to do so and because the technology came late to our house. As I said earlier, when I became a professor many years later, he would boast that my intellectual curiosity came from our shared interest in books and learning. Those conversations were a testament to that.

Even with these one-to-one encounters, a more complete story of Dad’s background, his experiences in Italy, and even his goals in life are caught somewhere in the vapor. Almost all of our relatives his age who might have been able to provide insight also are gone, leaving only fragments, segments, and the few very distant memories of my own. As a result, much of this book relies on my own impressions about my father and trying my best to discern what happened based on a puzzle with missing pieces. Indeed, trying to construct a somewhat artificial