I sit at the osteria with my bucatini and polpetti, deflated but still holding out hope for a postprandial miracle. I dream of returning to the archives and seeing the older assistant with my great-grandfather’s birth certificate in her hands, waving it furiously overhead in welcome. A fitting climax to Wednesday’s suspenseful blog post, right?
Not this time.
After a walkabout to the local churches (stunning), I return to the Archivio di Stato to meet the colleague who allegedly knows more about 19th century document retrieval. We again review the indices for 1883, 1884 and 1885, none of which show a birth record for an Antonio DiGregorio in Avellino.
Which brings us to the “Esiti di Leva” — the records sent to the from every comune to the province, listing all the men who would turn 18 that year, to be drafted three years later. Knowledge of these lists gave me the confidence to take the bus to the provincial capital in the first place.
They inform me the Esiti di Leva for 1884 (submitted in 1902) can not be located. The look on my face needs no translation.
Everyone is beyond kind, recognizing that I traveled from the U.S. with this dream of Italian citizenship, which hinges on my finding any record of birth for this elusive man.
The assistant continues to cite the military records she discovered for a “Felice Antonio Gregorio,” and I politely remind her that neither the name, nor the birthdate, nor the parents’ names match. I also reluctantly acknowledge that my bisnonno left Italy at age 21, escaping any military service.
The more experienced colleague then suggests as a longshot the “Liste d’Estrazione” — notes documenting the 21-year old men who failed to report for military service. These records are not yet indexed, nor in any particular order. She scribbles the relevant data on an requisition pad, including my name: “Stiven.”
She recommends starting with a few regions of the province, including the hometown of that “Gregorio” man, as he could be somehow related. The main archivist brings back two giant stacks of giant paper, wrapped in twine — like something out of Alice in Wonderland. They sit me down in one of the quiet rooms with a terse “good luck.”
At this point, I am doubting the very existence of my great-grandfather. Did he change his name to escape Italy? No one in my family has anything positive to say about this man.
I recall that his name, birthdate, and parents’ names appear in several places. His first child, like his father, was named Pasquale, suggesting he retained some sense of tradition. As for his birthplace, he had written Avellino only once — on his (unsuccessful) naturalization application, and as I was told several times this afternoon, it was most certainly not the town of Avellino.
So I set in to review all the 1884 no-shows, page by page. It is 3:30, and the building stays open past 7pm. I prepare for a long afternoon.
The man next to me with the thick glasses has been observing my adventure from the start. In heavily-accented English he said “Are you crazy?” upon hearing of my desire to live here. He pats me on the back as he leaves for the day (the Italian friendliness to which I have grown accustomed), and wishes me luck.
As he walks past me, I turn another page to find an entry with the long sought-after date of birth: 19-agosto-1884.
My eyes shift left to read the name — Antonio DiGregorio. That winning moment that gamblers like me dream of, relive, and retell. My eyes widen, I breathe heavily, take several photos with my cell phone, and walk back toward the front desk.
“L’ho trovato!” I call out calmly, but assuredly, and they look at me in disbelief.
The more-knowledgeable colleague, who later introduces herself as Mariarosaria, comes to verify the information as if in a Bingo game. Date of birth, name, father’s name, mother’s name. Everything matches. In my haste, I didn’t even notice his hometown! Like a tourist, I just snapped a pic without even realizing what I was seeing.
“Luogosano.”
“Where is that? Can I walk there?” I joke, elated, jovial, caffeinated.
The town of Luogosano is about 15 miles east of Avellino. Mariarosaria calls their local archives on my behalf, but they are closed for the day. She will call again in the morning; if they have the records in their tiny archives, then I can have a birth certificate expedited rather easily.
And If not… well, they will find something in the province, among the copies of all the local records in a depository, to eventually be scanned and organised by the “Mormoni.” That may take until the end of the year. At one point they even offer to give my number to the Mormons.
I tell them I am in no hurry. I remain in shock that Antonio DiGregorio in fact existed, and that somehow in a stack century-old yellowed paper, I managed to verify it.
And in so doing, I came one step closer to becoming Italian.