Italian Immigrants List Bearn Ship October 18,1888

 

BEARN SHIP

Italian Immigrants Who Arrived in Santos

on October 18, 1888

https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/4508324499121068731/6786181479754370833

Italian Immigrants Who Arrived in Santos Bearn Ship

BEARN SHIP

Italian Immigrants Who Arrived in Santos

on October 18, 1888

https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/4508324499121068731/6786181479754370833

 

Como Descobri Minhas Raízes Italianas em Pederobba

“Eu passei muitos anos tentando descobrir de onde, na Itália, havia vindo a minha família. Nunca imaginei que a resposta começaria a aparecer por causa de um cachorro.”

Durante muitos anos, eu sabia apenas que minhas raízes familiares estavam na Itália. Sabia o sobrenome, conhecia algumas histórias transmitidas pela família, mas não sabia exatamente de onde haviam vindo meus antepassados. Para mim, “Itália” ainda era uma referência ampla demais. Eu queria encontrar o lugar, a comunidade, a terra onde aquela história havia começado.
Naquela época, pesquisar uma origem familiar era muito diferente do que é hoje. Não havia a facilidade dos bancos de dados genealógicos disponíveis na internet, dos grupos de pesquisadores ou dos documentos digitalizados que podemos consultar atualmente. Era preciso escrever cartas, procurar pessoas, consultar mapas, reunir pequenas informações e, muitas vezes, simplesmente esperar que uma pista aparecesse.
E a pista apareceu de uma maneira que eu jamais poderia imaginar.
Eu estava procurando um cachorro que pudesse ser meu companheiro e também exercer a função de cão de guarda. Pesquisei criadores e fui conhecer um canil. Durante a conversa com o proprietário, surgiu uma coincidência que imediatamente chamou minha atenção: ele tinha o mesmo sobrenome da minha família.
Começamos a conversar sobre nossas origens. Aos poucos, percebemos que não se tratava apenas de uma coincidência de sobrenome. Aquele homem era meu primo, filho de um irmão mais velho de meu pai, alguém que eu não via desde a infância e cuja existência praticamente havia desaparecido do meu cotidiano.
Eu havia ido até aquele lugar procurando um cachorro. Encontrei um parente que eu nem sabia que voltaria a encontrar.
E foi justamente esse encontro que abriu a primeira porta para a história da minha família.
Meu primo havia encontrado, entre antigos pertences familiares, um pequeno bilhete escrito a lápis. Não havia uma explicação detalhada, uma árvore genealógica ou uma certidão. Havia apenas uma palavra:
Pederobba.
Eu nunca tinha ouvido falar daquele lugar.
Naquele momento, aquela palavra não significava nada para mim. Eu não sabia se era uma cidade, uma aldeia, uma região ou simplesmente o nome de algum lugar relacionado aos nossos antepassados.
Mas eu precisava descobrir.
Eu também era radioamador e mantinha contato com pessoas de vários lugares. Por intermédio de um contato italiano, consegui um mapa da província de Treviso. Foi assim que, pela primeira vez, encontrei Pederobba no mapa.
Ali estava a resposta que eu procurava havia tanto tempo: Pederobba, na província de Treviso, no Vêneto.
A partir daquele momento, minha pesquisa ganhou uma direção concreta.
Escrevi para o jornal Tribuna di Treviso. Meu italiano ainda era muito limitado e precisei recorrer a um dicionário português-italiano para conseguir redigir a carta. Expliquei que procurava pessoas que pudessem conhecer minha família e pedi ajuda para localizar parentes ou moradores que tivessem informações sobre aquele sobrenome.
A carta foi publicada.
Depois começaram a chegar as respostas.
Recebi seis cartas da Itália, escritas por pessoas que tinham o mesmo sobrenome da minha família. Algumas eram parentes distantes; outras conheciam pessoas que poderiam ajudar a reconstruir aquela história. Um casal se interessou especialmente pela minha busca e começou a procurar outras pessoas e informações em Pederobba. Com a ajuda deles e de um historiador local, novas peças foram aparecendo.
O que durante tantos anos havia sido apenas uma pergunta — “De onde vieram meus antepassados?” — começou finalmente a ganhar nomes, lugares e relações familiares.
No ano seguinte, viajei para a Itália em uma excursão. Eu ainda não dominava a língua italiana. O grupo ficou hospedado a certa distância de Pederobba, mas meus parentes foram me buscar. Levaram-me para a casa deles e, depois, finalmente para Pederobba.
Estar ali foi diferente de simplesmente encontrar um nome em um mapa.
Eu estava diante do lugar de onde haviam partido meus antepassados.
Depois daquela primeira viagem, voltei outras vezes à Itália. Continuei pesquisando documentos, nomes, relações familiares e lugares. A cada nova descoberta, aquela palavra escrita a lápis no velho bilhete ganhava um significado maior.
E, olhando para trás, percebo que toda essa história começou de uma forma quase absurda de tão simples.
Eu estava procurando um cachorro.
O cachorro se chamava Danke.
Durante cinco anos, Danke foi muito mais do que o animal que um dia fui buscar naquele canil. Tornou-se meu querido amigo, meu fiel companheiro e uma presença profundamente ligada à minha vida e à minha família. Foi por causa dele que entrei naquele lugar, conheci meu primo e recebi a primeira pista que me levaria até Pederobba.
Por isso, Danke não foi apenas uma coincidência no começo dessa história. Ele faz parte dela.
Infelizmente, sua vida foi muito curta. Danke desenvolveu um osteossarcoma agressivo, um câncer que atingiu um osso de um de seus membros anteriores e que apresentou precocemente metástases pulmonares. Tinha apenas cinco anos.
A doença avançou e ele passou a sofrer muito. Chegou então o momento mais difícil: decidir que seu sofrimento não poderia continuar.
A responsabilidade por Danke sempre havia sido minha. Naquele momento, também seria minha a responsabilidade de ajudá-lo a partir.
Fui eu mesmo quem realizou sua eutanásia. Não quis entregar essa responsabilidade a outra pessoa. Danke confiava em mim, e eu entendia que, diante daquela situação, o mínimo que eu poderia fazer por ele era permanecer ao seu lado e assumir até o fim a responsabilidade que havia assumido quando ele entrou na minha vida.
Foi uma das decisões mais dolorosas que já precisei tomar. As lembranças daquele momento ainda hoje doem muito.
Mas, quando penso em Danke, não quero lembrar apenas da doença e da despedida. Quero lembrar dos cinco anos em que ele foi meu fiel companheiro e, sobretudo, da maneira inesperada como sua presença acabou mudando a história que eu procurava.
Por causa de Danke, encontrei meu primo. Por causa daquela conversa, conheci um velho bilhete. E naquele pequeno pedaço de papel estava escrito o nome de um lugar que eu ainda não conhecia: Pederobba.
Foi assim que uma busca que parecia não ter relação alguma com a minha genealogia acabou me conduzindo até a terra dos meus antepassados.
Danke nunca conheceu Pederobba. Nunca esteve na Itália. Mas foi ele quem, sem saber, abriu a primeira porta.
E é por isso que, quando penso nas minhas raízes italianas, penso também nele — com saudade, com gratidão e com a certeza de que algumas das descobertas mais importantes da nossa vida começam de maneiras que jamais poderíamos imaginar.

Nota do autor 

Esta é uma nova versão, ampliada e reorganizada, de uma história verdadeira publicada originalmente neste blog em 21 de junho de 2023, sob o título “Danke: O Cão Que Desvendou Minha História Familiar Perdida em Pederobba, Itália”. Tudo o que relato aconteceu comigo e faz parte da minha própria trajetória de descoberta das raízes familiares. Durante mais de três décadas, trabalhando e convivendo com famílias de descendentes de italianos, acompanhei inúmeras pesquisas genealógicas que começaram com uma pequena pista — um sobrenome, uma fotografia, uma carta, uma certidão ou o nome de um lugar. A minha própria história não foi diferente. No meu caso, porém, a primeira porta se abriu de uma maneira que eu jamais poderia imaginar: por meio de Danke, meu querido amigo e fiel companheiro. Esta narrativa é também uma forma de preservar sua memória e registrar a gratidão que sinto por tudo o que ele representou na minha vida. As imagens ilustrativas desta publicação foram produzidas com recursos de inteligência artificial e não constituem registros fotográficos dos acontecimentos narrados.

Dr. Luiz Carlos B. Piazzetta
Autor e pesquisador da Imigração Italiana e histórias familiares

The Italian Immigrant Story Behind a 1916 Letter: War, Family, and America

An Italian Mother, a Son at War, and a Letter Across the Ocean
“Across an ocean, a simple letter carried the weight of an entire family.”

It was a cold morning in January 1916 when Maria Bellandi sat beside the window of her small house in the mountains of northern Italy.
Outside, the chestnut trees stood bare against the gray sky. A thin layer of snow covered the narrow road that wound down toward the village. Smoke rose from the chimneys, but there was little movement in the streets.
Too many men were gone.
Italy had been at war for about eight months, and the conflict had already reached deeply into village life.
Maria was seventy years old. She had lived long enough to know that life could change without warning, but nothing had prepared her for the silence the war had brought into her home.
She was waiting for a letter from America.
Her niece, Lucia, had crossed the Atlantic years earlier and was now living in an American city with her husband and children.
Every letter from Lucia was precious. It was a thread connecting two worlds that had become impossibly far apart.
When Maria finally saw the familiar handwriting on the envelope, she held it in her hands for a moment before opening it.
Lucia wrote that she and her family were well. She had also enclosed some money for her aunt.
Maria counted it carefully, then shook her head.
It was too much.
Her niece had a household of her own to care for. Maria knew that life in America demanded hard work. Every dollar had been earned by someone, and every dollar represented hours of labor and sacrifice.
Maria wished Lucia had kept the money for herself.
Then she thought about the package she had sent months earlier.
In September, Maria had gathered mushrooms in the woods above the village. She had dried them carefully and wrapped them in paper.
They were not much, but they came from home.
She had sent the package to Lucia that autumn.
Lucia had never mentioned receiving it.
Perhaps it had been lost somewhere along the way.
Maria knew that letters and parcels could take time to cross the Atlantic.
Still, she felt disappointed.
Those mushrooms had been more than food.
They were a small piece of home.
A taste of the mountains.
A reminder of the kitchen where Lucia had once eaten as a child.
Maria looked again at the letter.
There was so much she wanted to tell her niece.
But there were things a woman could not easily put on paper.
Especially a mother.
Maria had two sons.
Her eldest, Pietro, was twenty-eight when he died in combat.
The news had arrived about two months earlier.
A uniformed messenger had appeared at the door late one afternoon.
Maria had understood before he spoke.
There are moments when a mother does not need words. She sees the answer in another person's face.
Since then, Pietro's chair had remained beside the kitchen table.
No one had moved it.
His small cup was still there.
Maria knew he would never use it again.
But putting it away felt like losing him a second time.
Her younger son, Carlo, was still alive.
He was far away, serving at the front.
Carlo's military experience was different from Pietro's story.
Before Italy entered the war in May 1915, Carlo had already spent about six years in military service. Those years had taught him the discipline of military life, the routines of the barracks, and the demands of service.
They had not, however, prepared him for everything that war could bring.
Maria remembered Carlo as tall and lean, with work-worn hands and a habit he had whenever something troubled him: he would run his fingers through his hair and grow quiet for a moment.
He had never been a man of many words.
As a young man, he had learned not to complain.
If he was hungry, he ate.
If he was tired, he rested.
If something went wrong, he tried to figure out what to do before speaking about it.
He had his small routines, too.
Before leaving the house, he always checked his pockets twice. He straightened his jacket, made sure he had not forgotten anything, and then looked toward his mother.
Maria knew that gesture well.
It was his way of saying goodbye without saying much at all.
That was the Carlo she carried in her memory.
When she thought of him, she did not picture a soldier first.
She saw her son sitting at the kitchen table, his elbows near his plate. She remembered him breaking bread with his hands, drinking his wine slowly, and lingering after supper while he listened to the others talk.
That was Carlo to Maria.
The son she had known before the war changed his life.
Of his life at the front, she knew very little.
His letters came irregularly. Sometimes weeks passed without a word.
She did not know exactly where he was, and she understood that there were things he could not safely write.
For Maria, the most important thing was knowing that he was alive.
When Carlo had left for the front, she had tried not to cry in front of him.
She had straightened his collar, checked that he had everything he needed, and watched him disappear down the road.
Only after he was out of sight had she gone back inside and allowed herself to cry.
Now he was still at the front.
Maria did not know when he would come home.
And after what had happened to Pietro, she was afraid even to ask herself whether he would.
The war had changed the entire village.
Fields that had once been worked by fathers and sons were now tended by women, older men, and whoever else remained.
Families had to manage with fewer hands and more worries.
The calls to military service continued.
Some men who had previously been considered unfit could be examined again, depending on their circumstances and the needs of the army.
Maria wondered how many more families would receive the kind of news she had received about Pietro.
She wondered how many mothers were sitting beside windows like hers, listening for footsteps and watching the road.
Then she thought about Lucia in America.
Lucia had left Italy because she believed there could be another life beyond the mountains.
She had crossed an ocean that most people in the village would never see.
Somewhere in America, she was raising children who would grow up in a very different world from the one Maria knew.
Italy might one day become, for them, a place they knew mostly through family stories.
Maria wondered whether they still remembered the old house.
Did they remember the smell of bread baking in the kitchen?
The chestnut trees?
The sound of church bells rolling through the valley on Sunday mornings?
Maria hoped so.
She hoped the distance had not erased everything.
She picked up her pen again.
She did not want to frighten her niece.
So she did what mothers and grandmothers have always done when writing to someone they love.
She softened the truth.
She wrote that they were managing.
That everyone was doing what they could.
That better days would come.
But beneath those simple words was a grief too large for the page.
She missed Pietro.
She feared for Carlo.
She feared for every young man who had left the village wearing a uniform.
And she was tired of hearing news of another death.
Maria stopped writing and looked through the window.
Snow was falling again.
For a moment, she remembered Pietro as he had been before the war.
Young.
Strong.
Laughing.
She remembered him carrying wood into the house, complaining about the cold, teasing his younger brother.
Those memories hurt.
But she kept them close.
Then she thought about Carlo somewhere beyond the mountains.
Was he cold?
Was he hungry?
Did he have enough to eat?
Did he ever sleep through the night?
She could not know.
There was nothing she could do except remain connected to him through the letters that came when they could.
Maria returned to her letter.
There was one thing she wanted Lucia to understand.
She did not want victory.
She did not want glory.
She did not want speeches about military honor.
She wanted peace.
Just peace.
The kind of peace that could bring a son home.
The kind that would allow a mother to hear a knock at the door without immediately fearing the worst.
The kind that would put men back behind plows instead of rifles.
Maria did not know whether she would live long enough to see it.
That thought frightened her.
She was seventy years old, and the war showed no sign of ending.
Still, she refused to give up the belief that peace was possible.
When the letter was finished, Maria read it slowly.
She folded the pages and placed them inside the envelope.
Before sealing it, she thought again about Lucia.
Perhaps when the letter reached America, spring might already have begun to show itself there.
Perhaps Lucia would read it at her kitchen table.
Perhaps she would read about the village and picture the mountains covered in snow.
Perhaps she would remember the mushrooms her aunt had gathered.
And perhaps, for a few minutes, Italy would not seem quite so far away.
Maria sealed the envelope.
Then she wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and stepped outside.
The road to the post office was covered with snow.
She walked slowly. Each step seemed heavier than the one before.
Inside the envelope were no great secrets.
No valuable possessions.
Only a few pages of paper.
But Maria knew those pages carried the weight of an entire family.
A son already gone.
A son still at the front.
A niece who had crossed an ocean.
A village missing its men.
And the simple wish of a woman who wanted the killing to stop.
At the post office, Maria placed the envelope on the counter.
For a moment, she kept her hand on it.
Then she let go.
The clerk placed the letter with the others.
It would begin its long journey toward America.
Maria turned and walked home.
The snow continued to fall.
When she reached her house, she paused at the door and looked back down the road.
For one brief moment, she thought she saw someone coming toward her.
A man.
Walking slowly.
Carrying something over his shoulder.
Her breath caught.
Then the figure disappeared behind the falling snow.
It was only a shadow.
Maria went inside.
Pietro's chair was still beside the table.
She sat down next to it.
Maria did not know when she would hear from Carlo again, or when the war would finally give way to peace.
She did not know whether her son would return.
But that evening, as darkness settled over the village, she allowed herself to believe that the war would end someday. Perhaps Carlo would be among those who came home.
For now, there was nothing to do but wait, write, and carry on.
Because hope is not certainty. Sometimes it is simply the courage to believe that tomorrow may be different from today.
And perhaps that was enough for Maria—for one more night, and one more letter sent across the sea.

Author's Note

This story was inspired by an actual family letter written in Italy during the First World War.
The original testimony was deeply personal: a woman wrote to a niece who had emigrated to America, telling her about the family, the young men being called into military service, the death of one son, and the fear she carried for another who was still at the front.
The letter also mentioned something remarkably ordinary: a small package of dried mushrooms sent across the Atlantic that might never have arrived.
That detail stayed with me.
Because sometimes the smallest things tell us the most about history.
For this story, I created a fictional narrative around the emotions and circumstances contained in that historical testimony.
The names, surname, village, family relationships, and specific personal details have been changed or imagined. The characters should therefore be understood as literary creations rather than as a documentary account of the original family.
What remains true is the historical setting in which their story takes place.
In January 1916, Italy had been at war with Austria-Hungary for about eight months. Italian forces had already fought several major offensives along the Isonzo front, and the conflict was proving far more difficult and costly than many had expected.
At home, military mobilization affected communities throughout the country. Men were called into service, while families had to manage farms, workshops, households, and everyday life with fewer hands available.
At the same time, Italian immigrants were building new lives in the United States.
They worked, raised families, lived in American communities, and gradually became part of the country's larger story. Yet many remained emotionally connected to the villages they had left behind.
For those families, the Atlantic Ocean was more than a stretch of water.
It was a distance measured in letters.
A letter from Italy could carry news of births, deaths, harvests, illnesses, weddings, money, food, and memories.
A few handwritten pages could become a fragile bridge between relatives separated by thousands of miles.
That is why the relationship between Maria and Lucia is at the heart of this story.
One woman remained in Italy, surrounded by war and fearful for her son.
The other had crossed the ocean and was building a future in America.
Their lives had taken different paths, but neither had completely left the other behind.
For many Italian American families today, this emotional landscape may feel surprisingly familiar.
Behind the immigration stories found in family trees, passenger lists, census records, photographs, and old documents were ordinary people who worried, sacrificed, remembered, and tried to remain connected across great distances.
They were mothers and sons, aunts and nieces, brothers and sisters separated by an ocean.
This story is for their descendants.
It is for anyone who has ever opened an old family letter and wondered about the person who wrote it.
And it is for those who understand that immigration does not always mean leaving one homeland behind.
Sometimes it means carrying that homeland with you.
Across an ocean.
Across generations.
And sometimes in a letter that survives long after the people who wrote it are gone.

Dr. Luiz Carlos B. Piazzetta