The Unknown Soldier

To be honest, I hardly knew the man. He was a divorcee living in Bridgeport, and I a film student in San Francisco. There are two pictures of him hanging in my parent’s hallway, one wearing an army uniform and another jamming with some rock band as a teenager. I heard very little about him until the eve of my graduation, when my parents announced his death. His belongings were poured over without much fuss. I, being the only child, was awarded the box of leftover items –a weathered black notebook, guitar picks, a key, and a some Italian currency. The notebook’s pages were filled with carefully scripted writing. After determining that the sixty thousand Lire was all but worthless, I filed the box in the back of my closet where it stayed for the next couple of months.

Feeling the need to escape, I grabbed my grandfather’s black notebook and headed to the local coffee house. After thumbing through some of the tattered pages, it became evident that this was likely one of many journals my grandfather kept. The first page of this one picked up during his last days in Vietnam.

April 9, 1972 -95th Evacuation Hospital Da Nang

1630. Sergeant Larson dropped off my discharge papers. Said I was lucky that my wounds were superficial. Strange to hear myself referred to as ‘short-timer.’ Feeling a mix of guilt and relief knowing that I’ll soon be eating real food, taking hot showers, and sleeping on an actual mattress.

2245. I’m beginning to realize that I don’t want can’t go home. Not now anyway. I need to isolate for a while. Some place far away from these jungles or familiar faces.

April 12, 1972 -Da Nang Air Base

0950. Bags packed and eager to get the hell out of Dodge. I was somehow able to trade my flight home for a seat on a cargo flight returning to Gaeta, Italy. I’m told it’s near Rome.

His first days were filled with various mishaps with Italian transportation. He eventually made his way to Rome with the help of a few words and key phrases. The promise of warm showers and soft mattresses remain unfulfilled at the youth hostels he booked.

I spent the day with my grandfather exploring various cities, farm towns, and seaside villages. We indulged in roasted meats, fish stews, pastas, robust coffees, pungent cheeses, and hair-raising grappas. We marveled at street musicians, mimes, jugglers, and operatic crooners. It was the gathering crowds that inspired him to purchase a secondhand guitar. Perhaps rocking the piazzas with some good ol’ Yankee tunes might reverse his dwindling cash flow.

As his adventures continued, page after page, I realized how little I really knew of my grandfather. It took courage to continually point his feet wherever his heart told him to go.

My grandfather found his spot to jam near the steps of Santa Croce. He unleashed a potpourri of Dylan, Mamas and Papas, Traffic, Simon and Garfunkel, and even an occasional Zeppelin piece.

May 7, 1972 -Santa Croce

Morning. I knew it was going to be a special day. Spring is here. The warm Piazza echoed with laughter, singing, and excited chatter. I was in the middle of Scarborough Fair when I looked up to see a schoolteacher and her brood of students listening attentively. The children were adorable, but the teacher’s brown eyes and smile sent chills down my spine. It was all I could do to recover the song without completely blowing it. When I finished, they politely applauded and started away. I quickly called out, “Any requests?” One of the children pointed to another and said, “è il compleanno di Patrizia. Puoi cantare buon compleanno?” The teacher shyly translated, “It’s Patrizia’s Birthday, can you sing happy birthday?” Trying to impress the teacher, I responded, “Lo so. Sara il mio piacere” meaning, “I know, it will be my pleasure.” The teacher’s eyes widened, “Tu parli Italiano?”. “Only a little,” I said.

I decided to rock them with the Beatle’s ‘Birthday’ song. The kids loved it and clapped along. Had to be one of the most beautiful moments in my life when little Patrizia motioned me down and so she could kiss my cheek. One of the boys asked, “In the song you said it’s your birthday too.” In my best liverpoolian accent I repled, “No, I think it was Paul’s.”

The teacher again offered her smile and thanked me but said they must return to class. I extended my hand and asked her name. “Gabriella,” she said.

I bashfully replied, “I’m Terry. Thank you for making my day.”

I asked if she could return tomorrow. She said she didn’t teach on Saturdays. I told her, that’s okay, she could teach me. She chuckled, “We’ll see.”

Evening. I haven’t been able to think about anything but Gabriella today. I’ll no longer snicker when someone uses the expression, ‘Love at first sight.’

___________________________________________________

Gabriella indeed showed up the following day with a couple of girlfriend chaperones. They spooned into their gelatos from a safe distance, watching and giggling. I was mesmerized to witness how this blossoming romance between my grandfather and this shy school teacher grew into an impassioned love story.

I looked up to see that it was evening already. I knew I had to write Gabriella. I needed to know that she was real and still alive. The next morning, I dropped a letter at the post office describing some details about myself, how I came into my grandfather’s notebook, and how I hoped I could meet her someday.

Three weeks later my mailbox was graced with a blue airmail. The message was short but exceeded my expectations:

Dearest Andrew,

I can’t begin to tell you how happy I am to hear from you! We have so much to share. Please tell me more about your life. What kind of films do you do? Did your grandfather ever talk of Italy? I can’t wait to hear from you again.

Cari saluti,

G

p.s. Could you please send a photocopy of your grandfather’s notebook?

I gladly responded with photocopies and website information that linked to my past scripts and student films.

Another three weeks passed and my mailbox received yet a larger airmail. As I opened it an Alitalia ticket dropped out. It was for a roundtrip flight from SFO to Florence by way of Rome. The departure was in thirty-two days. Gabriella hoped that she wasn’t being too impertinent but felt it was important for us to meet and was aware that money can be tight with recent graduates. Once I confirmed, she would take care of all the arrangements and accommodations.

I arrived early to the café at the southern base of the Ponte Vecchio. I was sipping my cappuccino when a voice emerged from a sun-backed silhouette, “Andrew?” It was when she sat down that I realized that this woman could not possibly be of my grandfather’s generation.

“Gabriella?”

She looked puzzled, “No, Giovanella, Gabriella was my mother.”

“Did you know my grandfather?”

“No.” She thumbed towards the bridge. “Can we go for a walk? We have mysteries to unravel and things to discuss.”

My legs felt uneasy as I stood from the table.

“Andrew, my mother loved your grandfather very much.” She turned and pointed to thousands of locks hanging from a low gate at the bridge’s mid span.

“Were these stolen bicycles?”

“Those are not for bicycles, Andrew. Those are for Lovers. They etched their initials on these locks. Because by locking them over this gate and tossing the keys into the Arno, their love was made eternal.

Giovanella sorted through some locks. “Ah, here! This is the one that your grandfather and my mother placed fifty years ago. ”It read, Terry and Gabbi with an infinity symbol.

“That’s incredible.” I remembered the key from my grandfather’s box. I presented it to Gabriella.

She stripped it from my hand before I could try the lock. “You’ll break the magic!” She threw it into the river below. “My mother never lost hope that Terry might return someday.”

“Is she, your mother, still alive?”

“No, she died in July, just shortly after learning of your grandfather’s passing.”

My head was spinning. “But they both got married and moved on with their lives.”

“Yes. Your grandfather did. But my mother, no.”

“No wait, that means you’re my . . .?”

“Aunt. Well, half aunt.”

“You and I, we’re related?”

She affirmed with a smile and motioned for us to continue our stroll.

I was puzzled, “My grandfather’s marriage was far from the romance he shared with your mom. My grandmother left him shortly after the birth of my dad and his two siblings. Do you know why he and

Gabriella didn’t stay together?”

“My mother discovered that she was pregnant with me the day they were to say goodbye. She knew he had a life in the United States, and she could never leave Florence. They were to toss the key the night your grandfather was flying home. She did not show up that evening.”

“What about after? Did they never communicate?”

“My mother never answered his letters or calls.”

I felt pit in my stomach. “How tragic.”

She shifted topics, “You know, Andrew, we have more in common than our blood (Andrew). You see, I too was a film student.”

“In Florence?”

“No, London. After graduation I started as a production assistant at Cinecitta in Rome.”

“And now?”

“Let us just say (I’ve had) I have had some lucky breaks over the years. Are you familiar with ‘Il Viaggio di Maria’?”

“Of course. Beautiful film. It won at the Cannes last year.”

“That is one of my more recent projects.”

“No wait…you’re Giovanella Turelli?”

She mused, “Yes, but call me Auntie Gina”

I felt lightheaded and grabbed a seat on a bench .

Giovanella also sat. “Would you be interested in collaborating on a project?”

I took a moment to catch my breath, “Are you kidding me?”

“No, not kidding.”

“Are you cra--Of course!”

“Ah, I am so glad to hear that. I have been discussing the love story between your grandfather and my mother with one of our affiliates at Columbia Pictures. They feel, as do I, that the time is right for a cross-cultural, period, romance piece. You know, troubled American soldier meets Italian schoolteacher. Who better to flesh out the story than their cross-cultural offspring, si? no?”

Giovanella glanced at her watch. “I have to run. I know this is a lot all at once, I’ve been authorized to bring you onboard if you’re interested.” Giovanella pulled an envelope from her bag. “This is a contract and an advance check for forty thousand Euros. This should help you get settled when you return. The terms of the contract include a monthly stipend and travel expenses. We will need you to trace the route described in your grandfather’s book. You will find that Italy is very different from the United States. Places do not disappear so quickly. Most of what your grandfather described is probably still there.”

“I’ve only been out of school a few months, are you sure about this?”

“We’ve read your scripts and seen your film projects. We love how you approach a story. With your sensibilities and my seasoned polish, we’ll make a great team, I am sure of it.”

She stood up and hugged me. “I have to go. Please think it over. Senti, I will call you tomorrow evening, alla seven, si? We can discuss more details over dinner. Oh, I almost forgot.” She pulled out a stylishly wrapped gift. “This is little token of our new beginning. Ci vediamo Andrew, tomorrow evening.” She quickly disappeared into the crowd. I carefully unwrapped the present to find a fountain pen and a brand-new black notebook waiting to be filled.