Window 6
Il Filo Rosso - on connection, memory and the threads that don't break
In my previous post, I talked about how I discovered addresses of family in Caltanissetta and how, in a slow-burn kind of way, the meaning of our trip to Italy, Sicily and Sardinia changed.
Why didn’t I ask?
I’ve thought a lot about why I never asked the important questions.
My grandfather died when I was 4 years old.
My grandmother didn’t make her roots in Italy seem important. Her new life was everything. She was an immigrant. She looked forward. She built. She left the old country behind for a reason and revisiting that might have meant grief, poverty, and loss.
And here’s a piece of the puzzle I hadn’t put together until more recently. My grandfather died in 1964. They had been in the US permanently for 25 years at that point and my grandmother was 61 years old when he died. Six years younger than I am now. And in the old family movies from before my grandfather died, I saw something that I never knew; my grandparents were wildly in love.
In every photo of them, they were touching. Not just touching, connected, hanging on and onto each other, embracing, and they were happy! Happy in a way I don’t ever remember my grandmother being.
I realized that from 1964 onward, from the time I was 5 years old and my grandmother was 61 years old, she was mourning.
She lost the love of her life, her rock, her partner, the man she built a new life in a new country with. Of course, she still laughed and smiled. But that light in her eye and that joy on her face wasn’t there. I didn’t know that woman from before 1964.
My grandmother spoke the most beautiful broken English ever. It’s like a song in my heart and I can still hear her voice. To be honest, if I had asked all the questions, I’m not sure how she would have answered. I can picture her, sitting at her breakfast table, looking down, fiddling with her hands and then sharing bits and pieces in a nonchalant way. Something uttered in Italian, a few Mamma Mias sprinkled here and there. And on the other hand, I can picture her in a dress and apron, her slide shoes clicking as she walked on the kitchen tile, walking past me and performing that hand-waving motion of something swept away and saying, “Strunza, why you ask? It’s nothing.”
Still, why didn’t I ask? Why don’t so many of us ask when we’re young enough to seek and receive answers? Where was I?
I wasn’t negligent. I wasn’t indifferent. But I was young and busy and building my own life with my own children, and I didn’t have the space or the bandwidth to look backward. Just like my grandmother was at that age, I was moving forward.
What about asking my dad? He didn’t know either! He was American. He spoke English without an accent. He was raised in this country with no memories of Caltanissetta, only vague memories of NYC, more memories from Cleveland and really, he was a Los Angeleno. He met my mother in Los Angeles. He was working and building a career and a family and a life in Anaheim. He was looking forward, not back.
To my knowledge, he visited Italy once, when he was 31 years old. And he visited Italy as a tourist. He brought back souvenirs and post cards and tchotchkes. And he visited relatives he didn’t know.
And that is how I arrived in Caltanissetta missing a critical piece of information. An address. A place. The place where my dad was born. Because the thread stretched across years and oceans to Hollywood where I was born. But I didn’t know where that thread was anchored.
Italian Bureaucracy
You know the 7 Ps right?
There I was, happily and excitedly planning a month-long trip in Italy that included spending 2 nights in Caltanissetta. On Saturday and Sunday night.
Bureaucracy in Italy dates back to the Roman times, and in hundreds of years, its reputation hasn’t improved. The chances of seeing my dad’s birth record on a weekend landed in miracle territory. Not a chance in eleventy billion.
If you read the previous story, Via Barone Lanzirotti 39, then you already know that we cancelled Palermo and stayed in Caltanissetta for 6 nights. I now had Monday through Friday to visit the Civil Office and maybe, possibly, get an appointment for that week. My chances had improved by eleventy million.
To say that in a way, some stars aligned is not wrong.
Our host in Caltanissetta, Stefano, gave me some good advice, “Go, first thing Monday morning. You might get lucky and get an appointment for later this week.” Stefano also explained that the offices are only open for ½ the day; Monday morning, Tuesday afternoon, Wednesday morning, Thursday afternoon. Closed Friday.
The fact that Caltanissetta is like the county seat for the Commune of Caltanissetta meant the Civil Office was a 5 minute walk from our apartment.
And I was semi-prepared to talk to people who didn’t speak English. I had google translate on my phone, ready with questions in Italian. Because no, DuoLingo doesn’t teach you how to ask questions in the Civil Office, they ask you to translate “Sei un pagliaccio e ti stai nascondendo sulla luna.”. (You are a clown and are hiding on the moon.) A sentence I will definitely use frequently.
But no matter how much I prepared or got unexpected help, I was not going to escape Italian Bureaucracy.
The Civil Office opened at 8:30. I went to the gate keepers, the people in the kiosk who ask why you’re here and then direct you.
I used my best Italian to try to explain and shared my phone screen.
The reply came rapidly.
“Allora. Esci dalla porta da cui sei entrato, gira a destra, prosegui per due porte. Quello è l’ufficio che cerchi.”
“So, exit the door you came in turn right, go to the next door. That is the office you want.”
So, I followed their instructions and there was already a line at the door. This office doesn’t open until 9:00 am. Natch. So, I was 3rd in line and waited.
At 9:00 am the door opened and we got in another line outside the office of a woman armed with a desk, computer, and lots of paperwork.
When it was my turn, we used google translate to communicate, but I didn’t need google translate to tell me what I really needed to know. She kept saying, “No.” and wagging her finger at me. As a last ditch effort I told her that I don’t need the birth record, I just want the address. She held up her finger to “wait”, muttered something, keyed something into the computer and again, “No.” with the finger waving. She was sharp. Definitive. And looked to the next person in line. I left.
I went back to the gate keepers and explained what happened. And I should say I feel like I’m not really telling the truth because so much of what happened at these windows was via google translate. But I’m going to trust that you know this by now and when I say I explained something, I typed, they typed, and the universal words and hand signals were exchanged. Si. No. Allora. Un momento, per favore. Please wait over there.
But surprisingly, the gate keepers were really helpful. They looked up information, made a quick phone call, then typed into my phone, “You need to talk to the woman at Window 6” and then there was a lot of Italian and hand waving indicating I go back out the door, giro sinestre <insert hand and arm motions indicating to turn left, turn the corner> due porte.
So, back out, turn left this time, turn the corner, go down 2 doors. This office was quiet, and I was immediately asked … something. So, I showed the woman my phone and she said, in Italian, “Si. Si. … and then I lost the rest of it. She gestured to her left. My right. I looked to the right and there was a door. I headed to the door. She said, “Signora! Signora! no.” She kept talking but it was the hand gestures I understood. Go back out the door, turn left, go in another door.
Which door? I don’t know but I’ll try the next one.
And the next door, door #3 was a different world. Lots of windows. Lots of people. A take-a-number machine. But there, right in front of me, was No. 6. Not Finsetra 6. Not Window 6. Just No. 6. This has to be it.
So, do I take a number? Or do I just get in line?
I just got in line.
I figured if I’m wrong, they’ll tell me. With words and with hands and arms, and facial expressions and tone. Regardless, I was pretty sure I would understand “wrong”.
No. 6
Everything I thought I knew about Italian Bureaucracy melted away at Window 6. Not right away. Window 6 was a roller coaster of emotions.
Using Google translate and my minimal Italian, I told the woman what I wanted, to see my dad’s birth record because I just want to know what street he was born on.
What followed was a series of questions that I mostly understood and could answer in Italian. I gave her my passport. I wrote down my father’s name and birth date. She looked at these two and said, “No, your surnames don’t match.“ I thought that was the end of the line, but strangely I didn’t give up. I answered, “yes because in the US our documents only carry our married names if we took our husband’s name.” She looked dubious. She looked uncertain. She looked like she wasn’t going to help me.
So in moment of desperation, I shoved a family tree and my list of address at her, because you know, those are official documents and would of course, unlock the records for me.
She takes my documents. Still dubious. Still uncertain. But she starts typing and looking and looking at me and comparing and I just know she found something. But she won’t yet share it with me. Because my last name is Woyski on my passport and my dad is Loria.
Thinking. Thinking. Thinking. Then on google translate, I said:
That was the key that unlocked the records.
She told me to wait one moment, and she turned around to consult with a colleague. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, and I wouldn’t have understood it anyway. But body language and facial expressions, that I understand. At first the colleague had that “no way” look on her face, but the woman from Window 6 kept talking and showed her my very important papers and the something she had found. Then the colleague shrugged her shoulders, made a face that said, “Does it matter?” and finally gestured, “Go ahead.”
The colleague is now at the computer and the woman from Window 6 was standing beside her and placed a document from the massive file drawers on the counter.
I saw it.
It was my dad’s birth record.
It didn’t have an address, but I didn’t care. I actually started to cry, I pulled my hands to my heart, and then put one hand over my mouth. I am certain that my gestures, my facial expressions and my tears melted their hearts.
They looked at each other and smiled.
They let me take a photo of the birth record. Then they told me to wait. There was an inconsistency.
My dad’s birth record showed my dad’s name and birth date, my grandparents’ names, and an amendment. A marriage for my dad. To Giulia from Cortone in 1960. Everything matches but my family tree doesn’t show Giulia in 1960. It shows Helen in 1955. So, the women at Window 6 said no, this can’t be it. And I’m saying yes, this is it, but Giulia is wrong (or is she?). And they didn’t want to share it yet, because Giulia has a right to privacy.
And then they asked me to delete the photo. I did.* I was heartbroken on one hand, but there was no address on it anyway, so I was heartbroken in a different way on the other hand. So close, but no.
Ooof. This story is really long if I tell it exactly the way it all happened. There was much back and forth. The two women got super excited when I told them my dad didn’t marry Giulia. They didn’t believe me. The records say he did so he must have. They were thrilled that they uncovered a BIG family secret. And they seemed even more thrilled that I didn’t care. Because I was certain they uncovered a clerical error. And after much (mis) communication, they pulled my grandparents’ marriage record and that record showed all of the correct names, birth dates and the people identified on my family tree (official document indeed!)
Baldassare Loria and Gilda Savoca
Born 10 Dec 1894 and 9 October 1903
married 23 Feb 1922
Armando Loria – born 5 January 1923
Laura “Lauretta” Palma Loria – born 10 April 1927
Aldo Francesco Loria – born 1 July 1935
Again, the smiles and curiosity and the body language indicate they are willing to bend. To throw Italian Bureaucracy to the wind. But people were getting in line behind me, so the colleague asked me to step aside and then she came out into the lobby with me. She showed me my dad’s birth record and my grandparents’ marriage record. And the marriage to Giulia from Cortone in 1960 is still a sticking point. Still, if I wanted copies of both records, I would have to pay 300 euro. Neither of those documents had the address I was looking for though.
So, I said,
She smiled knowingly. Big. And she cocked her head in that “I’m with you and just as curious” way.
And then she said, “Oh” like that’s common knowledge.
And she wrote it down for me. On my very important papers.
Via Trobia 1
I couldn’t speak. Tears, feeling overwhelmed and then I hugged her. And she hugged me back. And she had tears in her eyes too. The colleague and I hugged 3 times. 3 loong times. She told me she understood. And her face was warm and kind and smiling and happy.
Somewhere on the streets of Caltanissetta, I lost that piece of paper. Carefully folded and slipped into my pocket, but when I went to retrieve it, it was gone. I was really sad. The handwritten note was the gesture of a woman who cared enough to write it down for me. She shrugged off some rules so I could stand on the street where my dad was born. But losing that piece of paper feels fitting. Like the stars aligning. Because I landed in Caltanissetta with a list missing that address. That piece of paper is lost to the streets of Caltanissetta. But I have Via Trobia 1 because she gave it to me.
We walked straight over to Via Trobia 1. It was a 5 minute walk. It was right there all along. So close, I just didn’t know it.
It looked different than the old buildings on Via Barone Lanzirotti. It was a newer building mostly, and one section had only 2 floors while the rest of the building had 5 or 6 floors. It was odd and … well…a little weird. It looked like a building with a top hat.
Again, I was speechless and could barely move. This was it. This was the place. My father started life here. In this spot. He walked this street. He probably played in this street.
My feelings here were different. Maybe because I had only just learned this address and didn’t have months of buildup and curiosity. Maybe because this building wasn’t like the others. It was newer looking and just didn’t carry the weight of Caltanissetta’s history. Still, I felt … something.
After pacing in front of the building, I started photographing. I wanted to capture the street and the building and within minutes we were approached by Salvatore.
He was very kind but curious why we were there and photographing. I told him my dad was born at this address. His face lit up. He asked when and I said, “1935”. He asked when they moved and I said, “1938”. He was quiet for half a beat then said, “So they weren’t here when the building was bombed. It was bombed in the war, 1943. And then it was rebuilt. Only the first floor remained.”
Oh. Oh wow. So this is and isn’t where my dad was born. This is the place, but it isn’t the house. And in retrospect, I think I felt that. That’s why it was so odd…so weird.
But family lore says my grandparents lived on the ground floor and relatives lived above them. And the part of the building that is still only 2 floors is the oldest, it survived the bombing. That is the place where my dad was born. Where my family lived. But after the bombing, after the war, the building moved forward. Into Caltanissetta’s future.
I came to Caltanissetta as a tourist who was hoping to see some addresses. And here I was standing on the streets that my family lived on over 100 years ago, and on the street where my father was born 91 years ago. Some of the buildings are the same. Some of the buildings have moved on. Families have lived on these streets for hundreds of years. The place is the same, even though time keeps moving forward.
And I think about the women at Window 6. I hope that day, 13 April 2026, the day a hopeful and teary-eyed American woman who arrived without an appointment, without the right paperwork, without even a surname that matched, made their day a little more interesting than just another Monday at the Civil Office. I hope I gave them a story to tell. And I hope that in helping me find that address, they felt the weight and the beauty and the love of the work they do every day. The records they keep aren’t just bureaucracy. They’re threads. And sometimes someone comes along who needs to find where theirs is anchored.
Thank you! It was not our plan, and it’s amazing what came from discovering one address. I’m very grateful we had the flexibility to pursue this.
I am so happy for you to have been able to walk this path and make such beautiful connections.