The year of his birth, 1934, saw the "election" of Benito Mussolini in a bizarre referendum on Fascism. That same year, Italy won the World Cup of Soccer in a final match against Czechoslovakia, thanks in large part to the Fascist machine. My dad was born into a time and place deeply steeped in right-wing totalitarianism, to a family that was staunchly Communist. His father was drafted and refused to serve in the Fascist regime. As a result, my grandfather spent his last years in hiding, ultimately dying of pneumonia because he had no way of getting proper treatment. His house, where his wife and six children still lived, was occupied by Italian soldiers, waiting for their countryman to return home. The soldiers mistreated my dad's puppy, killed his favourite calf, beat him when he dared take a bite of a loaf of bread because he was starving. My dad was 5, and it was the beginning of the Second World War.
History informs our values and belief systems, our attitudes and points of view, our joy and suffering. That great big story of millions dying, of the Axis and the Allies, of an entire continent ravaged by relentless bombings - this great big story had among its victims a quiet and wily little boy with deep brown eyes, named Roberto.
I have a hard time completely appreciating what my dad must have lived through. I remember learning dates and names of battles in high school. It was so far removed from real lives that I never stopped to consider that while those things in the history books were happening, my dad and his family were a few hundred kilometres away, eking out an existence. Being beaten down for standing up for their principles.
I only know these stories because my mom told them to me. My father never spoke a word to me about his childhood, about the pain. But I had glimpses.
Once, when I was about 9 years old, he sent me to the Portuguese bakery near our house to pick up a loaf of bread. It was still warm as I carried it home, and it smelled so good that I couldn't help but bite off the heel - and indulge in a few more bites after that. I thought for sure he'd be angry because I'd just dug right in. Instead, I remember hearing his deep, throaty laugh, but also seeing the tears in his eyes. I know now that it must have brought back memories of his own experience of biting into a sweet, hot loaf of bread. But instead of being beaten, I was welcomed with open arms. This was redemption. This was freedom.
My dad left his home country as soon as he could, at the young age of 17, living first in Switzerland, then France, and ultimately settling permanently here in Canada. He always called Italy le pays des misères. War had ravaged not only his country, but his childhood. But he found redemption here, in the peace, far away from those memories.
Today I am thankful for those who fought for that peace. Who fought for the freedom of that little boy who was beaten and scarred, for the millions who were tortured and killed, and the millions more who wore and continue to carry the wounds in their minds, bodies and hearts. For the soldiers, the peacekeepers, those who put themselves between the innocent and the violence, I wear the poppy to remember.