Are there any twins in your lives? What’s their relationship like? Well in my case, my Mom has an identical twin and they stick together like glue.

Benvenuti and Welcome. I’m Silvana Saccomani and this is The Italian Diary: Reflections of a Canadian-Italian Daughter. Here I share stories of living between two worlds: Canada, where I was born and Italy where my parents came from, and where I also now live with my husband.

In this episode I share the story of The Twins, Ines and Rina, born in a small town in northern Italy in 1935.

You know what they say about twins – gemelli_ and their special connection: When one has a headache, or mal di testa, the other is rubbing their temples? When one has a craving for sweets, the other is suddenly in the kitchen mixing flour (farina) and zucchero or sugar with butter and eggs?

My Mom, Ines, shares this extraordinary seemingly telepathic quality with her identical twin, Rina. In addition to their supernatural power, they are each other’s best friend – migliori amiche- staunchest defender, and most honest critic.

Their unbreakable bond traces back to the northern part of Italy in the mid 1930s when the country was in dire poverty (or grande miseria)

They are daughters of a corn farmer- un contadino- and on their farm, there was only one donkey, (un asino) three cows (tre mucche) a few geese (alcune oche) and lots of chickens. (tanti polli)

In the morning, they would wake up at sunrise to go in the barn to milk their beloved Friesians, Stella and Bianca. The last few pulls were always set aside and watered-down to serve up with leftover polenta for breakfast. The twins literally shared all their meals because breakfast, lunch and dinner were served to both on the same bowl and plate.

One thing the twins did not experience together was attending school or scuola.

There were two practical reasons why they had to take turns attending class. First, the town’s tiny classroom had space for only one of them at a time. The second was the issue of the chair. Each student had to bring their own straw chair from home. Their family had only one extra chair to spare; that meant the twins learned half the lessons for each grade.

As teenagers, Ines and Rina understood there were advantages and fun to being twins. Double dating was a real treat especially when they pretended to be the girlfriend of the other boyfriend (ragazzo) leaving the poor chaps confused and not sure if they went out with the ‘right’ twin.

Ines came into this world first, but Rina was the feisty one. When a local rich family did not pay Mom for the housework she did, it was Rina who confronted them. Later when Mom married Dad and moved to Canada, Rina stole stamps - francobolli- to mail letters she had written to her twin. They were apart less than a year before Rina joined Ines in Michel Natal, B.C.

Growing up it was like we had two moms. The biological one—who gave birth to four girls and a boy—took care of our physical needs; the other—with two boys and no girls— helped support our emotional ones. We were one big happy family. That is until I had a quarrel with Mom and would run away from home, vowing never to return. Our Aunt, or Zia as we call her, lived a few kilometres away and that’s where I took refuge. Zia Rina would listen compassionately and empathetically to my woes, then skillfully explained my Mom’s perspective. That conversation was followed by a phone call – telefonata- to my mom, where Zia repeated the process. Within a matter of hours, a truce had been negotiated and I made my way back home.

Today when one is thinking about the other; the other is already dialling the phone number.

END

Silvana Saccomani, aprile 2021

Come figlia di genitori emigrati dall’Italia, dovevo avere circa 4 anni quando sentii questa parola per la prima volta. Una parola che sarebbe stata ripetuta successivamente centinaia di volte nel corso degli anni. “MISERIA”: una parola semplice con un suono armonico, tuttavia imbottita di enorme emozione perche’ significa “la poverta’ assoluta” in inglese. I miei genitori crebbero nella miseria durante gli anni 40 in Italia.

Mia mamma conservo’ questa parola nella loro cassetta degli attrezzi di casa su un pezzetto di carta. E quando stavo per esprimere un mio legittimo lamento – come per esempio, il dover indossare abiti di seconda mano, condividere la bicicletta con le mie sorelle, o camminare mezzo kilometro per andare a scuola – lei, mia madre, tiro’ fuori “la Miseria” dalla cassetta e mi fece sedere per raccontarmi che cos’e’la poverta’ estrema: il suo sapore, il suo tocco e quel che fa fare alle persone.

La Miseria ha poco sapore. Ha poca varieta’. Riguardo al menu’della cena, se una sera veniva servita la polenta prima, seguita dalle patate poi, il giorno dopo l’ordine cambiava e il pasto cominciava con le patate per primo e la polenta per secondo. Una volta al mese c’era la carne, ovvero pollo o coniglio – ma non emozionarti – perche’ un pollo che pesa 2 kilogrammi doveva essere diviso in almeno sei porzioni per sei anime piene di fame. Non ci furono mai doppie porzioni e dunque mai nessuna necessita’ di mettersi a dieta.

La Miseria e’ ruvida al tatto. Mia nonna prendeva quei sacchi di patate e li convertiva per fare la sottoveste per la mamma e le sue sorelle; ma il tessuto le pizzicava di continuo creando delle irritazioni sulla loro pelle. Nel frattempo il nonno fece per loro delle scarpe di legno, tipo zoccoli, con la parte di sopra fatta di cartone fissato con chiodi. Non furono esattamente della misura giusta per i suoi piedi e dunque mia madre dovette mettere delle calze doppie nella loro punta per darli spessore. Un paio per ciascuno e solo per uscire in pubblico.

La Miseria ti rende debole e stanco. Lei non vedeva l’ora di andare alla messa quotidiana perche’ dietro il velo scuro che copriva la faccia, poteva addormentarsi in pace. Il mese di maggio era il preferito di mia madre. Maggio e’ dedicato alla Madonna, il che offriva l’occasione di andare in chiesa due volte al giorno: dunque due pisolini invece di uno. Svenire di fame, fu l’altra cosa che capito’ durante la messa e a quanto pare, mia mamma e sua gemella svennero a turno.

La Miseria non risparmia nessuno. Persino il mulo della fattoria, Gina, era debole per la fame; e dopo una giornata faticosa in campagna in pieno calore, la povera bestia non ce la faceva a salire l’ultima salita. Mia mamma e i suoi fratelli dovevano darle una piccola spinta, sperando che i vicini non li avrebbero visti nel dover aiutare la povera Gina.

La Miseria fa si’che i genitori si arrabbiino facilmente. Se, per esempio, sprecavi un fiammifero, cioe’ ne usavi uno di troppo, per accendere una candela per illuminarti la strada per andare a letto nel buio, quando invece quello stesso fiammifero doveva essere conservato per l’indomani per accendere la stufa a legna, venivi castigato e andavi a letto senza la borsa dell’acqua calda che serviva per riscaldarsi sotte le coperte di lana che erano impregnante di umido.

La Miseria costringe le persone a prendere grandi decisioni. Nel caso dei miei genitori, la Miseria gli fece lasciar la loro patria in cerca di una vita migliore in Canada.

Alla fine, la Miseria ha dei poteri speciali sui ragazzi: li fa pensare due volte prima di lamentarsi e, poi, li aiuta a comprendere quanto sono fortunati.

FINE

Silvana Saccomani, April 2021

As the child of Italian immigrants growing up in Canada I must have been about four years old when I first heard the word. One I would subsequently hear repeated hundreds of times over the years. M-I-S-E-R-I-A…a word so simple and harmonic sounding yet packed with tremendous emotion because it means “dire poverty” in English. My parents grew up in, miseria in Italy during the 1940s.

My Mom stored that word in her parenting toolkit. And whenever I was about to launch a “legitimate complaint”—like having to wear hand-me-downs, sharing a bicycle with my sisters, or walking the ten blocks to school—she would pluck miseria out of her toolkit and sit me down for a lesson on what dire poverty means: what it tasted and felt like and what it made people do.

Miseria, apparently, tastes bland. It has little variety. Regarding the dinner menu, if one evening polenta was served first followed by potatoes; then the next evening, potatoes would be the first course and polenta the second. Once a month, there was a meat dish, that is chicken or rabbit. But don’t get too excited: a 2 lb chicken would be divided into at least six small portions for six very hungry souls. There were never second helpings and so never a need to go on a diet.

Miseria, apparently, is rough to the touch. My grandmother—or Nonna as we call her in Italian—would take potato sacks and repurpose them into slips for my Mom and her sisters. But the fabric was so itchy the girls developed red rashes on their skin. My Nonno—or grandfather— meanwhile made the family’s shoes: a wooden clog sole with cardboard nailed on top for the uppers. They never came in exact sizes, so my Mom stuffed socks into the toes to make them fit. Un pair for person and only to go out in public.

Miseria, apparently, makes you weak and tired. My mom could hardly wait to go to daily mass because behind the dark veil that covered her face, she could doze off in peace. The month of May was my Mom’s favourite month. May is dedicated to the Blessed Virgin, offering an occasion to go to church twice a day, so two catnaps instead of the usual one. Fainting was another thing that happened during mass, and apparently, my mom and her twin took turns fainting.

Miseria, apparently, spares no one. Even the farm’s working mule, Gina, was weak from hunger. After a hard day in the fields in the heat, the poor animal could not make it up the last hill. My Mom and her siblings had to give her a little push, hoping none of the neighbours saw the need to help poor Gina.

Miseria, apparently, makes parents quick to anger. If, for example, you “wasted” a matchstick—meaning you used one too many, by lighting a candle to help make your way in the dark to bed, when that same matchstick was supposed to be saved for the next day to light the wood stove—you were disciplined: going to bed with no hot-water bottle to create warmth under the heavy damp woolen blankets.

Miseria, apparently, forces people to make big decisions. In my parent’s case, Miseria made them leave their homeland in search of a better life in Canada.

And finally, Miseria, apparently, has special powers over children: making them think twice before complaining and helping them understand how lucky they are.

END