Imigrantes Italianos na Ilha das Flores Alguns Nomes e Origens

 

Imigrantes Italianos na Hospedaria da Ilha das Flores: Nomes, Sobrenomes e Origens Familiares

"Por trás de cada sobrenome existe uma história; por trás de cada documento, uma possibilidade de reencontrar nossas origens."

A história da imigração italiana no Brasil pode ser reconstruída de muitas maneiras. Há quem comece por uma certidão de nascimento, um sobrenome transmitido por gerações ou uma fotografia antiga. Outros encontram as primeiras pistas em depoimentos familiares, listas de passageiros e documentos preservados por instituições dedicadas à memória da imigração.
Um desses espaços de pesquisa é o Centro de Memória da Imigração da Ilha das Flores, no estado do Rio de Janeiro. Sua página dedicada à chegada dos imigrantes apresenta histórias de famílias italianas que se estabeleceram em diferentes municípios fluminenses e contribuíram para a formação econômica, social e cultural do Brasil.
Neste artigo, reunimos os nomes de imigrantes italianos identificáveis no material consultado, com atenção especial aos sobrenomes e aos locais de origem mencionados pela fonte. O objetivo é oferecer um ponto de partida para descendentes que desejam reconstruir a história de seus antepassados.

A Hospedaria da Ilha das Flores e a chegada dos italianos

Durante o século XIX e as primeiras décadas do século XX, o Brasil recebeu grandes contingentes de imigrantes europeus. Entre eles, os italianos tiveram participação expressiva, estabelecendo-se em áreas rurais, colônias agrícolas, cidades industriais e centros comerciais.
A Hospedaria de Imigrantes da Ilha das Flores, situada na região de São Gonçalo, no estado do Rio de Janeiro, foi um dos lugares pelos quais passaram imigrantes que chegavam ao país. Após o desembarque e os procedimentos de registro e inspeção, muitos eram encaminhados para seus locais de trabalho ou de residência. Para conhecer outros registros de imigrantes italianos que passaram pela Hospedaria da Ilha das Flores, consulte também a lista de imigrantes italianos do navio America
Nem todos permaneceram no estado do Rio de Janeiro. Algumas famílias seguiram para outras regiões, enquanto outras encontraram ali oportunidades de trabalho, constituíram famílias e criaram raízes que permanecem vivas na memória de seus descendentes.
As histórias reunidas pelo Centro de Memória mostram que a imigração não foi uma experiência única ou uniforme. Houve chegadas no século XIX, novas migrações no século XX, trabalhadores industriais, comerciantes, agricultores e pessoas que vieram reunir-se a familiares já estabelecidos no Brasil. A pesquisa de sobrenomes e origens familiares pode ser ampliada com a relação de imigrantes italianos e tiroleses que viajaram no navio Ester

Imigrantes italianos identificados na fonte

A relação a seguir considera as pessoas apresentadas como imigrantes ou integrantes de famílias que vieram da Itália. Os nomes de descendentes nascidos no Brasil foram excluídos sempre que essa condição pôde ser identificada. A naturalidade aparece somente quando há informação explícita no material consultado.

1. Família Nesi

Ércole Nesi chegou ao Rio de Janeiro em 1951. Trabalhou no Mercado Municipal da Praça XV com seu pai, Vittorio Nesi, que retornou à Itália por volta de 1953 ou 1954. Ércole trabalhou em diferentes atividades, entre elas o comércio de frutas e a alfaiataria, e posteriormente se estabeleceu em Niterói.
A fonte não informa o município italiano de nascimento de Ércole ou Vittorio. Ainda assim, o sobrenome Nesi constitui uma pista para pesquisas em documentos migratórios e registros civis italianos.

2. Família Mantuano

Ottavio Mantuano chegou ao Brasil em 1847, deixando inicialmente na Itália sua mulher e seus filhos. Estabeleceu-se no Rio de Janeiro, onde trabalhou como jornaleiro e reuniu recursos para trazer a família.
O material identifica Concetta Mannarino Mantuano e os filhos Francesca Mantuano, Lucia, Teresina, Pina e Aldoentre os integrantes da família que vieram posteriormente ao Brasil. O texto informa que a família se reuniu novamente com a chegada de Concetta e dos filhos em 1954, data que merece conferência documental diante da cronologia apresentada.
O município de origem na Itália não é informado. Para os descendentes dessa família, registros de casamento, óbito, entrada no Brasil e documentos dos primeiros estabelecimentos comerciais podem ajudar a esclarecer a procedência.

3. Família Narretti

Antonio Narretti chegou ao Rio de Janeiro em 1958 e foi recebido na Hospedaria de Imigrantes da Ilha das Flores. Depois de deixar a hospedaria, morou em uma pensão no centro de Niterói, onde conheceu Marli Vilela, com quem se casou em 1962.
Antonio trabalhou como torneiro mecânico e, mais tarde, tornou-se desenhista projetista industrial. O material registra seu retorno à Itália em algumas ocasiões para visitar a família, mas não identifica sua cidade natal.

4. Família Petraglia

A fonte informa que a família Petraglia emigrou da cidade de Sacco, na província de Salerno, no sul da Itália. Entre os imigrantes identificados estão Antônio Petraglia e sua esposa, Sofia Pirrone.
Antônio veio primeiro e se estabeleceu em Niterói, onde trabalhou como engraxate. Sofia e os filhos vieram posteriormente, em 1955. O texto informa que os três filhos mais velhos nasceram na Itália, embora não forneça seus nomes nesse trecho.
A mesma história menciona Angelina, que veio para o Brasil depois de se casar por procuração com Vito Petraglia. O município italiano de nascimento de Angelina não é indicado.
Para quem pesquisa os sobrenomes Petraglia e Pirrone, Sacco constitui uma pista geográfica concreta. A pesquisa pode prosseguir nos registros civis e paroquiais desse município e nos documentos brasileiros relativos à chegada e ao estabelecimento da família.

5. Família Nanci

Na década de 1890, os irmãos Giuseppe Maria Nanci e Ângelo Nanci emigraram da Itália em busca de novas oportunidades no Brasil. Durante a viagem em direção a São Paulo, Giuseppe conheceu Clélia Casemiro. O casal estabeleceu-se em Barra Bonita, onde trabalhou em uma fazenda.
Posteriormente, a família ampliou suas atividades e se estabeleceu em São Gonçalo, onde os Nanci desenvolveram negócios ligados à indústria cerâmica e a outros empreendimentos.
A página não informa a cidade ou a província italiana de nascimento dos irmãos. Para os descendentes, os nomes completos, a década aproximada da chegada e a referência a Barra Bonita podem ajudar a localizar documentos brasileiros e eventuais registros de entrada.

6. Família Marraschi

Em 31 de janeiro de 1898, Antônio Marraschi e Ermelinda Marraschi chegaram ao Rio de Janeiro acompanhados do filho Gabriel Marraschi e de Boaventura Marraschi, irmão de Antônio.
Após passarem alguns dias na Hospedaria da Ilha das Flores, seguiram para uma fazenda em Guaxindiba, no município de São Gonçalo. Antônio chegou a exercer a função de administrador. A família posteriormente participou de atividades industriais e comerciais, incluindo a produção de cerâmica.
Os quatro nomes são identificados no relato como integrantes do grupo familiar que chegou da Itália. A fonte não informa o município natal dos Marraschi. Os registros de chegada e os documentos de trabalho podem ajudar a estabelecer sua procedência.
Atenção genealógica: o texto também menciona Antonio Marraschi, que retornou à Itália como integrante do Exército brasileiro durante a Segunda Guerra Mundial e depois voltou ao Brasil. Não se deve confundir automaticamente essa pessoa com Antônio Marraschi, identificado como imigrante em 1898, sem verificar a relação familiar e a cronologia.

7. Família de Luca

Elvídio de Luca estabeleceu-se em São Gonçalo. Segundo a fonte, no ano seguinte à sua chegada, em 1858, mandou chamar sua esposa, Celestina, e o filho Angioletto, que tinha aproximadamente um ano de idade.
A família se estabeleceu no município e construiu sua vida por meio de diferentes atividades profissionais e comerciais. O material não informa a cidade italiana de nascimento de Elvídio, Celestina ou Angioletto.
O sobrenome de Luca pode aparecer em documentos com variações de grafia e segmentação. Por isso, a pesquisa deve considerar as formas registradas em certidões brasileiras, listas de passageiros e documentos italianos, sem presumir que todas as ocorrências correspondam à mesma família.

8. Famílias italianas do Noroeste Fluminense

No final do século XIX, imigrantes italianos chegaram à região cafeeira do Noroeste Fluminense. O relato destaca a Fazenda Bela Vista, em Itaperuna, que recebeu aproximadamente quarenta famílias italianas entre 1897 e 1898.
O material informa que as famílias instaladas na Fazenda Boa Vista eram originárias de Proceno e Graffignano, municípios da região do Lácio, na Itália. Trata-se de uma das informações geográficas mais úteis para pesquisas genealógicas presentes na página.
Entre os nomes e sobrenomes mencionados nos depoimentos estão:

• Demetrio Pellegrini

• Ludovico Gorini

• Família Grillo

• Família Pulitini

• Família Geovanini

• Pergente Geovanini

• Família Pirozzi

• Família Ridolfi

• Família Bendia
  O relato associa esses nomes à comunidade italiana que se estabeleceu na região, mas não atribui individualmente cada pessoa a Proceno ou Graffignano. Por isso, a origem municipal deve ser tratada como uma pista para a pesquisa, e não como uma naturalidade individual já comprovada.
  Essas famílias desenvolveram atividades agrícolas, comerciais e vitivinícolas, compraram propriedades e mantiveram relações de proximidade entre si. Com o passar do tempo, participaram da formação social e econômica de Varre-Sai e de outras localidades próximas.

9. Família Righi

A fonte também relata a história da família Righi, que tinha como patriarca Dante Righi. Seu destino inicial no Brasil era uma fazenda cafeeira em São Paulo, mas uma perda de documentos durante a viagem alterou o encaminhamento da família para o Rio de Janeiro. De lá, seguiram para Laranjais, no município de Itaocara, onde trabalharam no Engenho Central, uma usina de açúcar.
O relato menciona ainda Ermínia Barbiere, esposa de Dante, que faleceu em 1914, aos 36 anos. A página não fornece o município italiano de nascimento do casal.
Para a genealogia dos Righi e Barbiere, a história oferece pistas de pesquisa: os nomes dos cônjuges, a ligação com Itaocara e a referência ao Engenho Central. Esses elementos podem ser confrontados com registros civis, religiosos e de imigração.

10. Imigrantes ligados à indústria têxtil de Petrópolis

A presença italiana em Petrópolis remonta ao século XIX. A cidade recebeu trabalhadores atraídos pela indústria, especialmente pela Companhia Petropolitana de Tecidos e, posteriormente, pela Fábrica Cometa.
O material destaca trabalhadores oriundos de Schio, na província de Vicenza, região do Vêneto, ligados ao Lanificio Rossi. Segundo a página, alguns trabalhadores que participaram de uma greve na Itália perderam seus empregos e migraram para o Brasil.
O relato menciona ainda:

• Dom Carlo Gallieri, sacerdote vindo da localidade registrada na página como “Pescatina”, na província de Verona.

• Ernesto Baccherini, operário da Fábrica Cometa.

• Elizabeta Baccherini, esposa de Ernesto, que produzia massas frescas para venda.
  A grafia “Pescatina” aparece no texto consultado e precisa ser verificada antes de ser reproduzida como topônimo correto. A localidade que pode estar sendo mencionada é Pescantina, na província de Verona, mas essa identificação deve ser confirmada.
  A fonte informa também que aproximadamente 160 famílias de camponeses provenientes dessa localidade foram contratadas para trabalhar na Fábrica Cometa. Como não são apresentados os nomes de todas essas pessoas, elas não podem ser incorporadas individualmente a um elenco nominal.

11. Clementina Tavernari e a imigração para Porto Real

Clementina Tavernari é citada em relação ao processo de recrutamento de imigrantes para o núcleo colonial Imperatriz Maria Teresa Cristina, originalmente planejado para Santa Catarina.
Em 1874, ela retornou a Módena, na Itália, para recrutar cinquenta famílias de agricultores. Os imigrantes chegaram ao Rio de Janeiro em 16 de fevereiro de 1875, mas uma epidemia de febre amarela levou ao seu encaminhamento para Porto Real, na região do Médio Paraíba. Parte deles decidiu permanecer no local.
A fonte informa Módena como o lugar para onde Clementina viajou a fim de recrutar famílias, mas não confirma que esse fosse seu município de nascimento. Também não apresenta os nomes dos integrantes das cinquenta famílias. Por essa razão, a naturalidade de Clementina e a identificação individual dos demais imigrantes permanecem em aberto.

Como utilizar esta relação na pesquisa genealógica

Os nomes e sobrenomes reunidos neste artigo constituem pontos de partida para localizar documentos, e não substituem a comprovação da identidade de cada pessoa. Para avançar, recomenda-se comparar as informações da página com registros de entrada no Brasil, listas de passageiros, registros civis e paroquiais, documentos de casamento e óbito e arquivos municipais italianos.
Quando há uma localidade de origem indicada, como Sacco, Proceno, Graffignano ou Schio, a pesquisa pode ser direcionada aos arquivos e registros correspondentes. Quando a fonte fornece apenas um sobrenome ou uma região, será necessário reunir outros dados, como nomes dos pais, idade aproximada, nome do cônjuge e ano de chegada.
Também é importante observar as variações de grafia. Nomes italianos podem ter sido registrados de formas diferentes no Brasil, seja por adaptação à língua portuguesa, por erros de transcrição ou por alterações feitas em documentos posteriores. A semelhança entre sobrenomes, entretanto, não prova parentesco.
A melhor pesquisa genealógica é aquela que distingue a informação documentada da hipótese que ainda precisa ser investigada. Essa cautela protege a história de cada família e permite que novas descobertas sejam incorporadas com segurança.

Fonte documental

As informações deste artigo foram extraídas da página “A Chegada (Il Arrivo)”, do Centro de Memória da Imigração da Ilha das Flores, iniciativa vinculada à Faculdade de Formação de Professores da Universidade do Estado do Rio de Janeiro.
Consulte a fonte original: https://www.hospedariailhadasflores.com.br/cópia-módulo-2-a-viagem
A página reúne histórias familiares, depoimentos, fotografias e referências bibliográficas. A relação apresentada aqui não representa um levantamento completo de todos os imigrantes que passaram pela Hospedaria da Ilha das Flores, mas uma seleção dos nomes identificáveis no material consultado.

Outros links que vc também poderá pesquisar:

A Jornada dos Imigrantes Italianos no Rio Grande do Sul

algumas famílias de imigrantes italianos em São Bernardo do Campo, SP

Nota do Autor

Conhecer a história de nossos antepassados é uma maneira de compreender melhor a própria história familiar. Muitas vezes, uma pesquisa começa com pouco: um sobrenome, uma fotografia antiga, uma certidão ou o nome de uma pequena cidade italiana mencionado por um avô. A partir dessas pistas, documentos e relatos podem ajudar a reconstruir caminhos que pareciam perdidos.
Ao longo de décadas de contato com famílias descendentes de italianos, aprendi que cada descoberta documental tem um significado especial. Não se trata apenas de encontrar um nome em uma lista, mas de devolver contexto e memória às pessoas que atravessaram o oceano e ajudaram a construir novas comunidades.
Se você reconheceu algum sobrenome ou localidade nesta relação, utilize as informações como ponto de partida e procure também outros conteúdos do Portal Emigração Vêneta, em emigrazioneveneta.blogspot.com. A pesquisa compartilhada, conduzida com cuidado e respeito aos documentos, pode ajudar outras famílias a reencontrar suas origens.

Dr. Luiz Carlos B. Piazzetta
Autor e pesquisador da imigração italiana e das histórias familiares.

Bread, Fire, and the Castle: Medieval Life in 1340

Medieval Life in 1340: A Peasant Family in the Alps

"Before the Black Death, before the great wars, there was simply one family’s struggle to survive until spring."

Exilles, Upper Susa Valley, January 1340
In January 1340, snow arrived before dawn and continued falling long after night had settled over the mountains. This was not the delicate kind of snow that rests on rooftops like a veil. It was heavy, relentless snow, driven by the wind against the walls, piling up along the eaves, burying the paths and gradually erasing the footprints left the day before. Exilles seemed to shrink into the mountain itself. The small settlement, squeezed between the slopes of the Upper Susa Valley, lived in the shadow of the great fortress built upon the rock. The castle dominated the passage as if it had been placed there not only to watch over men, horses, and merchandise, but also to remind everyone that, in this narrow Alpine gorge, someone stood above everyone else.
The Montgenèvre road, which climbed toward the lands beyond the mountains and Provence, was one of the reasons this settlement existed. Armed men, merchants, travelers, pack animals, and news from distant places passed along it. In summer, the road brought movement. In winter, it often brought little more than silence.
The castle, however, remained.
In 1339, just one year before the events of this story, a description already recorded the complexity of its structure: walls, towers, service buildings, storehouses, stables, and defensive spaces capable of sheltering inhabitants and their animals in times of danger. It was more than a lord’s residence. It was a fortress guarding a major route. And for the poor people living below it, it was also the permanent presence of a power that did not need to appear every day to make itself felt.
At the lower end of the settlement, where snow had been trampled into frozen mud, stood a small dwelling much like the others. Its walls were built of irregular stones mixed with earth and plant material. Timber supported part of the structure, and stone slabs—lose, the flat stones characteristic of Alpine buildings—protected the roof. It was not a house in the way we imagine one today. It was shelter: a place to sleep, cook, store their few possessions, protect the animals, and wait for winter to end.
Peire, thirty-one years old, lived there. In the records of a time when names did not yet follow the rules of modern civil registries, he might have appeared as Peire, son of Arnaut, or Peire of Exilles. Those who knew him needed no more than his name to recognize him.
Peire was married to Auda, who was twenty-nine. They had a seven-year-old boy, Guilhem, and a four-year-old girl, Alix. Auda’s mother, Ysabel, a fifty-five-year-old widow, also lived with them. Fifty-five did not necessarily mean old age, but in a world of disease, accidents, physical labor, irregular nutrition, and early deaths, a woman of that age had already lived through a considerable portion of her life.
Ysabel’s body was bent not only by age but by years of work. Her hands were rough and cracked, carrying the memory of countless winters. After her husband’s death, she had little choice but to join her daughter’s household. She brought no dowry, land, or money. She brought only two things: experience and hands still able to work. In that world, these were forms of wealth.
There was little room inside the small dwelling. The family slept on dry straw spread over a crude wooden frame. A fire burned in the center of the room or beside one of the walls, depending on the arrangement of the house, while smoke escaped through an imperfect opening. The air was heavy. It smelled of smoke, wool, leather, straw, food, sweat, and animals.
Winter forced the poor to accept conditions that might have seemed unbearable in another season. A small goat stayed inside the shelter for part of the night. A few birds had their place against the wall. When the cold became particularly severe, animals were kept as close to the family as the layout allowed. This was not a universal feature of Alpine houses—arrangements for people and animals varied considerably from region to region—but shared shelter was a known solution in rural and mountainous environments, especially during the harshest months.
For Peire, however, the animals meant more than warmth or companionship. A goat meant milk. A hen meant eggs. A pig, if a family had one, could provide food for weeks. Losing an animal in winter was not simply an emotional loss. It meant that part of the family’s survival had been torn from its hands.
Cold was an enemy, but hunger was worse. Peire understood the difference well. Cold could be fought with fire, straw, wool, hides, and closeness. Hunger obeyed none of these things.
Winter had begun long before January. During the summer, Peire had cut grass and helped gather hay. Auda had worked in the garden and in the small cultivated plots, in addition to caring for the children, the animals, and the household. Ysabel knew the secrets of preserving whatever could be saved: drying, salting, storing, and rationing.
Even so, no poor family could store enough food to forget the fear of spring. Everyone knew that the last sacks of grain had to be managed carefully. A little extra food each day meant one less week of provisions at the end of the season. Grain was counted almost as carefully as coins. When bread grew scarce, soup, roots, mixed grains, milk, dried herbs, and anything else that could fill a stomach became more important.
Medieval peasant life was not simply a matter of farming. It was a constant struggle to bring together land, livestock, firewood, water, food preservation, and labor.
That morning, Peire awoke before the others. Not because he owned a clock. Not because a bell had summoned him. He awoke because his body had learned to recognize the hour through the cold, his own breathing, the silence, and necessity.
The fire had dwindled. Little wood remained. Peire lay still for a few moments, listening to the wind striking the house. Auda slept beside him. A little farther away, Guilhem was curled beneath a wool covering. Alix slept next to her mother. Ysabel breathed slowly.
Peire reached out and felt the cold air. Then he rose.
There was no choice. Work was waiting. Even in winter. Even with snow. Even when the earth seemed dead.
In those mountains, the lord did not disappear when snow covered the fields. The castle still needed firewood, animals to be fed, paths to be maintained, walls to be repaired, goods to be transported, and men available for the services demanded of them.
Exilles belonged to the Dauphiné. The highest authority was Humbert II of Viennois, Dauphin of Viennois, who had succeeded his brother Guigues VIII in 1333. Humbert II did not live in that little house. Nor did he ordinarily reside in Exilles. Lordship was exercised through a chain of authorities, officials, and castellan officers. An order could come from far away and still reach a peasant’s doorstep.
That was one of the great mysteries of the medieval world: men who had never seen their ruler’s face could spend their entire lives obeying the consequences of decisions he had made.
Peire knew this reality well. He did not consider himself a slave. He had his children. He had his small dwelling. He owned a few tools. He cultivated what he was permitted to cultivate and raised his animals. Yet he also knew that his life did not entirely belong to him. There were dues, obligations, days of labor, and communal duties.
The inhabitants of Alpine communities in the Dauphiné had already acquired certain liberties and rights that distinguished their situation from absolute serfdom. Even so, political and economic dependence was real, and a lord’s authority could weigh heavily on fundamental decisions.
Peire remembered particularly well the day he had asked permission to marry Auda. She was not from Exilles. She came from a neighboring village. Today, a marriage between two young people from nearby communities might seem to be a matter for the families and the Church alone. In that world, however, the obligations imposed by lordship could deeply affect the lives of dependent people.
Peire had needed to present his request, explain where the woman came from, identify her parents, and clarify her circumstances. He had waited. He had worried. Only after obtaining the necessary authorization could he bring Auda into his home.
Perhaps no one had thought about love that day. Or perhaps love had existed precisely in what no document recorded: Peire’s determination to marry the woman he wanted, Auda’s waiting, the fears of both families, and the hope of building a life together.
Poor people loved, too. They simply had less room to allow love to challenge their circumstances.
Auda never asked her husband whether he loved the castle. She knew he did not. She also knew that he respected it—not out of admiration, but out of necessity. A man dependent on a lord’s land learned early to distinguish between respect, fear, and prudence.
Peire was no rebel. Neither was he submissive at heart. He was prudent, and prudence was a form of survival.
After feeding the animals, he went outside. In some places, the snow reached almost to his knees. Guilhem wanted to follow him, but Peire told him to stay home.
“Not yet, son. One day you will come with me. But today, stay with your mother.”
Guilhem watched his father disappear into the whiteness. He was seven years old and already knew the word work. He did not yet know the word future. To him, the future meant whatever would happen after his father returned.
Peire walked toward the area where other men were beginning their tasks. Some carried firewood. Others cleared sections of the paths. There were services connected with the lord’s domain and the needs of the fortress. The construction and maintenance of Exilles’s defensive structures had involved the labor of local mountain people, including compulsory work obligations known as corvées, as historical references to the fortress indicate.
That day, Peire was expected to help transport timber.
It was not heroic work. No songs would be written about it. No chronicler would record his name. One man cut. Another carried. A third cleared the way. Hands cracked. Leather boots stiffened. Snow worked its way through clothing. By noon, no one could be certain whether half the day had passed or only a few hours. When the sun appeared, it offered little warmth. When the mountains hid it, the cold seemed to rise from the ground.
As the men worked, the castle remained above them. Large, dark, motionless.
Peire looked toward its walls and thought that the place had enough stone to outlast many generations. Perhaps he would not. Perhaps Auda would not. Guilhem might. Alix might. The stones would survive them all.
The thought frightened him. It meant that the life of a poor man could pass like smoke escaping through a hole in the roof. One moment it was there. The next, it had disappeared.
Back at the house, Auda looked after the children. Alix had begun to cough. It was not a serious cough, but any illness in a poor household brought anxiety. Auda moved the girl closer to the fire and covered her shoulders. Ysabel prepared a hot drink with whatever they had: herbs, water, anything that might soothe the child’s throat.
There was no doctor at the door. No pharmacy. No promise of a cure. There was experience, faith, and an attempt to help.
Religion reached into every part of their existence. God was not distant, like an abstract theological idea. God was present in bread, illness, childbirth, death, the fear of storms, the harvest, a relative’s journey, and the church bell. Medieval Christianity offered explanations for suffering that everyday life could not explain.
Auda prayed because not praying would have been almost impossible. Ysabel prayed because she had already buried her husband. Peire prayed because he needed to believe that the work of his hands would not end in silence. Guilhem prayed because he had learned from his mother. And Alix, too young to understand theology, folded her hands because she saw everyone else doing the same.
At night, the family gathered around the fire. Dinner was simple. There was no abundance. The bread had to last. The soup had to feed five people. The little milk they had needed to be shared.
Peire returned exhausted. He sat down and removed his boots. Auda looked at his hands.
“They’re bleeding.”
“It’s nothing.”
She did not answer. She knew it was something. There was simply nothing she could do about it.
The silence in that household was made of things that could not be repaired.
Guilhem asked his father whether he might one day have an animal of his own. Peire looked at him.
“If God wills it.”
That was how people spoke about the future: “If God wills it.”
There were no career plans. No schools waiting for poor children. No certainty that Guilhem would be better off than his father. Perhaps he would be a peasant. Perhaps a shepherd. Perhaps an artisan’s helper. Perhaps a soldier. Perhaps he would die before reaching twenty.
The future of a peasant child was a snow-covered road: only the first few steps could be seen.
Auda asked Peire whether the snow would continue.
“Perhaps it will stop tomorrow.”
“And after that?”
“After that, we’ll have to work.”
Ysabel smiled without humor.
“That’s what comes after. Work.”
Peire looked at her. The old widow was fifty-five and understood the truth of that sentence better than anyone. In her youth, perhaps she had dreamed. Then she had married, had children, worked, and buried her husband. Now she helped her daughter. The world had taught her that life rarely asked what a person wanted. Almost always, it asked only what a person could endure.
Night came early. Yet we must imagine the medieval sky carefully. It would be inaccurate to say that the sun necessarily set at three in the afternoon: Exilles’s latitude would not produce that astronomical sunset. But in a narrow Alpine valley, the mountains could block direct sunlight long before the actual sunset, and the hours of useful daylight were few in winter.
Without electric lighting, night had a presence that has almost disappeared from modern life. The family depended on the fire, small flames, and very limited sources of light. It was natural for domestic activity to end early.
The custom known in many medieval and later sources as the “first and second sleep” belongs to this world of long nights, although it cannot be claimed that everyone slept in precisely this way. After the meal, they spoke little. Auda checked on the children. Ysabel tended the fire. Peire added another piece of wood. The family could not afford to waste fuel. The wood burning that night had been cut through hard work and needed to last.
The first sleep came early. There was no reason to stay awake simply to contemplate the darkness. Their bodies were tired. The house was cold. They lay close to one another, covered with wool, straw, and coarse cloth. Sleep was a temporary escape from the world.
But hours later, something changed.
Peire opened his eyes. The house was almost completely dark. The fire had become embers. For a few moments, he did not know whether it was midnight or later. He listened to the others breathing. He heard the wind. Slowly, he rose.
Auda woke, too.
“What time is it?” she asked.
Peire smiled.
“Who knows?”
There was no clock. There was only the night.
This interval between the first and second sleep is one of the most fascinating features of preindustrial life. Historical sources record references to a first sleep, followed by a period of wakefulness, and then a second sleep until morning. During that interval, some people prayed, reflected, tended the fire, talked, performed small household tasks, or simply lay quietly. It would be wrong to imagine a universal rule or to claim that every peasant in Exilles followed this pattern. Nevertheless, segmented sleep has sufficient textual evidence to be included cautiously in a historical reconstruction.
Peire added a piece of wood to the fire. Auda sat up. Ysabel had awakened, too.
“I dreamed about my husband,” she said.
No one asked what he had done in the dream.
At that hour, dreams could be remembered and discussed with an intensity that might seem strange today. There was little else to do. They could not wander through the village. The Alpine night was dangerous. Without street lighting, darkness turned every path into a risk.
That interval might therefore be used for simple things: praying, talking, tending the fire, checking on a child, nursing a baby, doing a small task, or remembering someone who had died.
Auda prayed. Peire watched the embers. Ysabel spoke of her husband.
For a few minutes, the three of them forgot the castle. They forgot the lord. They forgot the cold, the debt, the grain, and the work waiting for them the next day. There was only a small family gathered in the darkness.
Then they returned to their second sleep.
And morning came slowly.
First came an almost imperceptible change in the sky. Then light reached the upper slopes of the mountains. Finally, the village began to recover its shapes: the rooftops, the walls, the tower, the road, the smoke, the world.
Guilhem woke first. He went to the door and opened it a little. The cold entered like a blade.
“Father!” he shouted.
Peire was already awake.
“What is it?”
“The snow is higher!”
Peire came closer and looked outside. It was true. Another night had covered Exilles. Another night had added weight to the rooftops. Another night had erased the tracks.
Peire took a deep breath.
“Then we’ll have to work harder.”
Guilhem did not understand the gravity of that sentence. One day, he would.
Life would not change simply because he wished it to. It would change only when something greater than his own will imposed itself upon it. Perhaps a bad harvest. Perhaps an illness. Perhaps a war. Perhaps an opportunity. Perhaps a death. Perhaps a marriage. Perhaps a road.
That morning, however, he was only a seven-year-old boy looking at the snow.
Peire placed a hand on his shoulder.
“You’ll learn everything I know.”
Guilhem looked up.
“So I can be like you?”
His father took a moment to answer.
“No. So you can survive.”
The words remained between them. Perhaps they were the closest thing to an inheritance Peire could offer.
Over the following days, the family carried on. Peire worked. Auda worked. Ysabel worked. The children helped as much as they could. Snow was cleared from the paths. Animals were fed. The little food was counted. Firewood was rationed. Hands continued to crack. The castle remained above them. The church bell continued to mark the hours they could not measure in any other way.
And, as happened with so many poor families, life continued without anyone writing about it.
But that winter, Peire began to understand something. Poverty was not simply the absence of money. It was the absence of choice. It was waking up knowing that someone might demand your labor. It was depending on the harvest, the snow, an animal, illness, and the will of those who held greater power. It was knowing that a marriage might require permission, that land could carry obligations, and that a journey to another village might mean leaving behind everything familiar.
Yet poverty was also something else. It was the ability to turn almost nothing into something.
A handful of grain became soup. A piece of wool became protection. A log became warmth. A goat became milk. An old piece of cloth became a blanket. A prayer became courage. And five people crowded into a small house managed, for one more night, to remain together.
That was how the winter of 1340 passed in Exilles. Not as a great battle. Not as a story about kings. Not as a knightly adventure. It passed over poor houses as great events in history often pass over those who rarely appear in books: leaving deep marks on people whose names are almost never remembered.
Peire did not know that, a few years later, the world he knew would be struck by a catastrophe no one in that small house could imagine. The great plague had not yet reached Italy in 1340. The devastating European pandemic would arrive in the West beginning in 1347–1348.
That January, Peire, Auda, Guilhem, Alix, and Ysabel still lived in a world they believed they understood. They did not know what was coming. This ignorance matters to the story: while they worried about snow, firewood, food, work, and the power of the castle, a tremendous transformation still lay hidden in the future.
This is, ultimately, a story about people who almost never appear in the great books of history. They were not kings, knights, or powerful lords. They were men, women, and children who rose early, worked with their hands, obeyed those above them, raised animals, endured winter, buried their dead, and waited for the next spring. Their names may never have reached us. Yet people like them sustained the small Alpine communities that crossed the Middle Ages, generation after generation.
That is why this story is historical fiction, but not fantasy. Where documents exist, they guide the narrative. Where the evidence cannot tell us exactly what happened, imagination tries to fill the silence without contradicting what is known about the place, the period, and the conditions of life. The goal is not to persuade readers that Peire and his family actually existed, but to allow them, for a few pages, to imagine with respect and humanity what it might have been like to live through a winter in Exilles in 1340.

Author’s Note

This work is historical fiction set in Exilles, in the Upper Susa Valley of Piedmont, in January 1340. The characters—Peire, Auda, Guilhem, Alix, and Ysabel—are fictional, as are the particular events described in their family’s life. I have nevertheless tried to place them within the historical, social, economic, religious, and geographical conditions that genuinely characterized Exilles and the Alpine communities of the fourteenth century.
Exilles was not chosen at random. Located in a narrow section of the Upper Susa Valley, beside the ancient route that crossed the Alps through the Montgenèvre Pass toward France and Provence, the settlement was far more important than its small size might suggest. Its castle was a true passage fortress, designed to control the strategic road, defend the territory, and monitor the movement of people and goods. A description dating from 1339, just one year before the period in which this story takes place, already reveals a complex fortified structure with walls, towers, service buildings, stables, ovens, a cistern, and a chapel. Readers should therefore not imagine the medieval Castle of Exilles simply as the comfortable palace of a nobleman living in luxury. It was, above all, a military and strategic installation.
Another important point concerns the term “serf.” It is used in the story to help modern readers understand the dependent position in which many medieval peasants lived. However, it is important not to equate that status automatically with slavery. A dependent peasant in the fourteenth century was not simply the personal property of a lord. In many parts of Europe, including northern Italy and the Alpine territories, legal circumstances varied considerably. Some people owed dues, compulsory labor, payments in produce, restrictions on movement, or obedience to a lord’s jurisdiction, while certain communities possessed specific rights and privileges. The reality was far more complex than the popular image of a man chained to the land.
In Exilles and the surrounding Dauphiné, Alpine communities already possessed their own traditions and rights. This does not mean that they were free in the modern sense of the word. Lordship remained a powerful presence and could interfere with important aspects of daily life. Labor, access to land and forests, economic obligations, the movement of goods, road maintenance, and other duties could place peasants under considerable pressure. This is the context in which Peire and Auda’s circumstances should be understood.
The identity of the castle’s lord also requires clarification. In 1340, Exilles was part of the Dauphiné, whose highest authority was Humbert II of Viennois, the last independent Dauphin, who ruled from 1333 to 1349. This does not mean that Humbert II personally lived at the Castle of Exilles. The day-to-day administration of the fortress and its territory was carried out by officials and the castellan. Since I have not found sufficiently reliable documentation to identify by name the castellan who was at Exilles specifically in January 1340, I chose not to invent a historical figure and present him as real. In the story, he remains simply the castellan.
The names require a further note. In the fourteenth century, personal identification did not always follow the modern system of a given name and a stable hereditary surname. A man might be identified by his first name, his father’s name, his place of origin, or a nickname. Hereditary surnames already existed in many parts of Europe, but their use and stability varied greatly according to region and social status. The names used in this story are intended to reflect the linguistic environment of the medieval Alps without pretending that a poor family in Exilles necessarily had a fixed surname in the modern sense.
It would also be misleading to describe the inhabitants of Exilles simply as “Lombards.” The region belonged to an Alpine world of considerable cultural and linguistic diversity. Exilles lay within the historical sphere of the Dauphiné and had strong Alpine and Occitan characteristics. Local language and identity cannot be reduced to the modern national categories of “Italian,” “French,” or “Lombard.” Applying those labels automatically to the fourteenth century can create a misleading picture of the past. People understood themselves through their communities, family ties, territories, and relationships with those who held power, within a political world very different from the nation-states that would emerge centuries later. Like others in their region, the inhabitants belonged to an Alpine population whose local speech formed part of the Occitan world.
The descriptions of cold and winter also deserve explanation. Exilles lies in a high, narrow Alpine valley surrounded by mountains. Snow and cold were real elements of everyday life. The absence of electric lighting—and the fact that candles were often an unaffordable luxury for poor families—gave darkness a significance very different from the one it has today. A poor household depended mainly on daylight and, after nightfall, on fire, small flames, and other extremely limited sources of light. Domestic life could therefore end much earlier than we are accustomed to imagining.
This is the context for the so-called “first and second sleep.” Historical documentation indicates that a divided sleep pattern was known in the preindustrial world: people might sleep for several hours, awaken in the middle of the night, remain awake for a while, and then return to sleep until morning. During this interval, they might pray, talk, tend the fire, perform small household tasks, or simply rest quietly. It would be incorrect, however, to claim that every medieval person slept this way every night. The evidence does not support turning the first and second sleep into a universal rule. In this story, it is presented as a possible, historically documented practice incorporated cautiously into the life of a family during the long winter nights.
The presence of animals inside or near rural dwellings should also be understood in light of the material conditions of the period. In Alpine environments, protecting animals during the harshest part of winter was essential. A goat, a cow, a few birds, or other livestock represented food, milk, eggs, labor, and wealth. Keeping animals close to people was therefore not necessarily a matter of comfort or hygiene according to modern standards; it was often a survival strategy.
The family’s food has likewise been deliberately portrayed without abundance. For many poor peasants, surviving the winter meant carefully managing whatever had been produced or stored during the previous seasons. Grain, bread, milk, vegetables, roots, herbs, dried foods, and what livestock could provide formed an important part of the diet. The challenge was not simply to “have food,” but to make it last until spring allowed more plentiful production to resume.
Religion also occupied a very different place from the one it holds for much of contemporary society. For these people, faith was not necessarily an activity reserved for a particular day of the week. It was connected to birth, marriage, illness, death, harvests, journeys, weather, and the uncertainties of existence. Praying for a child’s health or for survival through winter belonged to a way of understanding the world in which the sacred and everyday life were deeply intertwined.
Finally, there is a historical reason for choosing the year 1340. The story is deliberately set a few years before the Black Death reached Europe beginning in 1347 and Italy in 1348. Peire, Auda, their children, and Ysabel therefore live in a world that has not yet experienced that great demographic rupture. They do not know what lies ahead. This ignorance is essential to the narrative: while they worry about snow, firewood, food, labor, and the castle’s authority, an enormous transformation remains hidden in the future.
Readers who wish to explore the historical background can also read my article The Black Death of 1348, published on the A Emigração Vêneta portal. It offers further context for the epidemic that would transform European society only a few years after the winter imagined here.
Ultimately, this is a story about people who rarely appear in the great books of history. They were not kings, knights, or powerful lords. They were men, women, and children who rose early, worked with their hands, obeyed those above them, raised animals, endured winter, buried their dead, and waited for the next spring. Their names may never have reached us. But people like them sustained the small Alpine communities that endured throughout the Middle Ages, generation after generation.
That is why this story is fiction, but not fantasy. Where documents exist, they guide the narrative. Where the evidence cannot tell us exactly what happened, imagination attempts to fill the silence without contradicting what is known about the place, the period, and the conditions of life. The goal is not to persuade readers that Peire and his family existed, but to allow them, for a few pages, to imagine with respect and humanity what it might have been like to live through a winter in Exilles in 1340.

Dr. Luiz Carlos B. Piazzetta
Author and researcher of Italian immigration and family history

Como Pedir Certidão de Antepassado Italiano Diretamente ao Comune

"Descubra como escrever para uma prefeitura italiana, pedir a certidão de seu antepassado e recuperar documentos que podem revelar a história da sua família."

Como identificar o município correto, organizar os dados disponíveis e formular um pedido claro aos serviços de registro civil italianos. Para quem procura reconstruir a história de uma família italiana, chega um momento em que os documentos brasileiros já não são suficientes. A certidão de casamento de um bisavô informa que ele nasceu na Itália, o registro de óbito menciona sua idade e sua origem, ou uma antiga lista de passageiros revela o nome da localidade de onde partiu. Surge, então, a necessidade de atravessar simbolicamente o oceano e procurar o documento original no lugar onde a história começou. É nesse momento que muitos descendentes se perguntam: como escrever para uma prefeitura italiana e solicitar a certidão de nascimento, casamento ou óbito de um antepassado? A boa notícia é que, em muitos casos, o pedido pode ser feito diretamente ao município italiano, sem a necessidade de viajar até a Itália ou contratar um intermediário. Entretanto, o resultado depende de alguns cuidados essenciais: identificar corretamente a localidade, reunir informações suficientes para localizar o registro, dirigir a mensagem ao setor competente e explicar com clareza qual documento se deseja obter. As orientações oficiais dos consulados italianos confirmam que os documentos de estado civil devem ser solicitados, em regra, ao município competente, e não ao consulado. 

Como descobrir o município italiano correto

A palavra italiana comune significa município. Na Itália, os registros de estado civil são mantidos pelos serviços municipais competentes, e cada pedido deve ser encaminhado ao órgão que conserva o ato ou recebeu sua transcrição. O setor responsável costuma aparecer no site oficial com o nome Ufficio Stato Civile, Ufficio Servizi Demografici ou, em alguns casos, junto ao Ufficio Anagrafe. A Embaixada da Itália em Brasília recomenda procurar o site oficial do município e localizar os contatos desse setor antes de enviar a solicitação. 

Ambasciata d'Italia Brasilia

O desafio é descobrir qual município procurar. Uma referência genérica, como “nasceu no Vêneto” ou “era da região de Treviso”, não costuma ser suficiente para localizar um registro individual. O ideal é chegar ao nome da comuna, mesmo que a data de nascimento ainda seja aproximada. Para isso, comece pelos documentos brasileiros do próprio antepassado e de seus filhos: certidões de casamento, óbito e nascimento, registros religiosos, inventários e documentos de naturalização podem trazer indicações de naturalidade, filiação ou idade. Examine também listas de passageiros e registros de entrada de imigrantes, lembrando que a informação sobre a procedência pode indicar uma cidade, uma localidade menor ou uma região, e não necessariamente a comuna administrativa responsável pelo registro. Se a certidão brasileira indicar apenas a província, procure reduzir a área de busca antes de escrever. Converse com parentes, examine cartas antigas, fotografias com anotações, documentos de propriedade e registros de associações de imigrantes. Compare as grafias dos nomes, pois os sobrenomes e até os nomes próprios podem ter sido registrados de maneiras diferentes no Brasil e na Itália. Uma diferença ortográfica não deve ser ignorada, mas também não prova, por si só, que se trata da mesma pessoa. É importante verificar se a localidade mencionada nos documentos ainda corresponde a um município independente. Ao longo do tempo, algumas localidades mudaram de nome, foram incorporadas a outros municípios ou passaram por alterações administrativas. Por isso, procure o nome da localidade junto à expressão Comune ufficiale ou Comune di [nome da localidade] e confira se o site encontrado pertence à administração municipal. Diretórios e páginas genealógicas podem ajudar a localizar o endereço, mas a confirmação deve ser feita na página oficial.

Que tipo de certidão deve ser solicitada?

Antes de escrever, determine qual documento você realmente precisa. Em italiano, atto di nascita é o registro de nascimento; atto di matrimonio, o registro de casamento; e atto di morte, o registro de óbito. Para solicitar um documento, existem diferentes formas de emissão, e a terminologia importa. O estratto per riassunto dell'atto di nascita é um extrato que resume os dados essenciais do registro e pode incluir anotações previstas no documento. A copia integrale dell'atto di nascita é a reprodução integral do ato original, conforme as condições de emissão aplicáveis. Também existem certidões e extratos relativos a casamento e óbito. A escolha depende da finalidade da pesquisa e das regras do município. Se o objetivo for conhecer a filiação, esclarecer divergências de nomes ou documentar uma linha genealógica, explique isso no pedido e pergunte ao setor qual formato é adequado. Não presuma que todos os municípios emitem os mesmos documentos nas mesmas condições. Alguns possuem formulários próprios, solicitam uma cópia do documento de identidade do requerente ou pedem que seja indicada a finalidade da solicitação. Outros estabelecem procedimentos específicos para pedidos enviados por e-mail ou correio. O Consulado-Geral da Itália em Nice, por exemplo, orienta que se consulte diretamente o município competente para confirmar as modalidades de solicitação e informa que os atos de estado civil devem ser pedidos à autoridade municipal responsável, não ao consulado. 

Como organizar os dados antes de escrever

Uma solicitação bem preparada facilita o trabalho do funcionário que precisará localizar o registro. Antes de redigir a mensagem, reúna o máximo possível das seguintes informações: nome e sobrenome do antepassado, incluindo eventuais variantes de grafia; data completa ou aproximada do nascimento, casamento ou óbito; município ou localidade de origem; nomes dos pais, quando conhecidos; nome do cônjuge, se pertinente; e qualquer outra informação que ajude a distinguir a pessoa de homônimos. Se você souber apenas o ano aproximado, informe isso honestamente, em vez de inventar uma data precisa. Também convém explicar quem você é e por que está fazendo a solicitação. Diga, por exemplo, que é descendente da pessoa e está realizando uma pesquisa histórica e genealógica familiar. Não é necessário escrever uma longa narrativa sobre toda a árvore genealógica. O objetivo do primeiro contato é permitir que o funcionário compreenda rapidamente quem está sendo procurado, qual documento se deseja e como poderá responder. A mensagem deve ser educada, breve e objetiva. Escrever em italiano é recomendável, pois facilita a compreensão e demonstra cuidado com o destinatário. Não é preciso empregar linguagem excessivamente formal ou jurídica. Uma saudação respeitosa, a identificação do antepassado, os dados disponíveis, o pedido específico e um agradecimento são suficientes para estruturar um bom e-mail.

Modelo de e-mail em italiano para solicitar uma certidão

O modelo abaixo pode ser adaptado para solicitar um registro de nascimento. Substitua os campos entre colchetes pelos dados que você possui e retire as informações que não conhecer.

Spett.le Ufficio dello Stato Civile del Comune di [NOME DEL COMUNE],
mi chiamo [SEU NOME COMPLETO] e risiedo in Brasile. Sto svolgendo una ricerca genealogica sulla mia famiglia e desidererei sapere se presso il vostro Comune è conservato l'atto di nascita del mio antenato:
Nome e cognome: [NOME COMPLETO DELL'ANTENATO]
Data di nascita: [DATA ESATTA O ANNO APPROSSIMATIVO]
Luogo di nascita: [LOCALITÀ, SE NOTA]
Nome del padre: [NOME DEL PADRE, SE NOTO]
Nome della madre: [NOME DELLA MADRE, SE NOTO]
Altre informazioni utili: [EVENTUALI VARIANTI DEL COGNOME O ALTRI DATI]
Qualora l'atto fosse reperibile, vorrei cortesemente sapere se sia possibile ottenere un estratto per riassunto oppure una copia integrale dell'atto di nascita, secondo le modalità previste dal vostro ufficio.
Vi sarei grato se poteste indicarmi l'eventuale modulistica da compilare, i documenti necessari e le eventuali spese previste per il rilascio e la spedizione del documento.
Ringrazio anticipatamente per la cortese attenzione e per l'aiuto che vorrete offrirmi nella ricostruzione della storia della mia famiglia.
Cordiali saluti,
[SEU NOME COMPLETO]
[SEU ENDEREÇO DE E-MAIL]

Esse modelo não garante que o documento será localizado ou emitido, mas oferece ao município as informações essenciais para avaliar o pedido. Se você não souber os nomes dos pais, não interrompa a pesquisa por causa disso: informe os dados disponíveis e pergunte se o setor consegue orientar uma busca com as informações fornecidas. Caso o município não localize o registro, solicite, se possível, que esclareça se o livro ou período pesquisado está sob sua guarda ou se você deve procurar outro arquivo.

Como encontrar o endereço eletrônico correto

Depois de identificar o município, entre no site oficial e procure as seções Contatti, Uffici comunali, Servizi demograficiou Stato civile. Verifique o endereço eletrônico indicado especificamente para o setor responsável. Não confunda o e-mail comum com um endereço PEC (Posta Elettronica Certificata). A Embaixada da Itália em Brasília alerta que endereços destinados exclusivamente à PEC não recebem mensagens enviadas por e-mail comum. 

Ambasciata d'Italia Brasilia

Se não encontrar um contato específico, escreva ao endereço geral informado no site oficial e pergunte qual setor recebe pedidos de certidões históricas. Evite enviar a mesma mensagem indiscriminadamente para vários funcionários ou repetir o pedido em intervalos muito curtos. O município pode receber muitas solicitações, e os prazos variam de acordo com sua estrutura, o volume de trabalho e a dificuldade de localizar o registro. Não pague antecipadamente a intermediários que prometam localizar uma certidão sem explicar o procedimento. Se houver cobrança oficial, solicite as instruções diretamente ao município e confirme a forma de pagamento antes de efetuar qualquer transferência. Também não envie documentos pessoais além daqueles que forem necessários e solicitados por um canal oficial.

E quando o antepassado nasceu antes do registro civil?

Essa é uma questão fundamental para quem pesquisa a imigração italiana do século XIX. Nem todos os períodos históricos possuem o mesmo tipo de documentação, e a disponibilidade dos registros civis varia conforme a região e a história administrativa de cada localidade. Em determinadas épocas, podem existir registros civis anteriores aos sistemas posteriores à unificação italiana; em outras situações, será necessário recorrer aos livros paroquiais. Se o município informar que não encontrou o registro, pergunte se existem livros antigos sob sua guarda ou se a pesquisa deve ser direcionada ao arquivo diocesano, à paróquia ou a outra instituição histórica. Os registros paroquiais de batismo, casamento e sepultamento podem ser fundamentais para reconstruir gerações anteriores ao registro civil disponível. É importante, contudo, confirmar a existência e as condições de consulta desses livros na instituição responsável, pois nem todos estão digitalizados ou acessíveis pela internet. Quando a localidade é conhecida, mas o documento não aparece, não conclua imediatamente que a informação familiar estava errada. O registro pode estar em outro tipo de livro, apresentar uma variante do nome ou pertencer a uma instituição diferente. A investigação deve avançar por etapas, comparando os dados já conhecidos com as possibilidades documentais de cada período.

Uma possibilidade digital que merece ser conhecida

Desde 31 de março de 2026, a Itália disponibiliza, pelo portal da Anagrafe Nazionale della Popolazione Residente(ANPR), um serviço para obter determinados certificados de estado civil e solicitar extratos de atos digitais já incorporados ao sistema nacional. O acesso exige identidade digital italiana habilitada, como SPID, CIE ou CNS, e as modalidades de utilização são limitadas às situações previstas pelo serviço. Para descendentes brasileiros que vivem no exterior e não possuem essas credenciais, o contato direto com o município continua sendo um caminho importante. 

O serviço digital não deve ser confundido com um arquivo genealógico universal. Ele não significa que todos os registros históricos italianos estejam disponíveis on-line, nem que qualquer pessoa possa consultar livremente os documentos de todos os antepassados. Para uma pesquisa familiar, é necessário verificar se o ato está disponível, qual é a finalidade da solicitação e quais regras se aplicam ao documento pretendido.

A paciência também faz parte da genealogia

Escrever para uma prefeitura italiana pode parecer uma tarefa intimidante para quem nunca precisou se comunicar com uma administração pública estrangeira. Na prática, uma mensagem curta, bem organizada e respeitosa costuma ser um bom começo. O mais trabalhoso, muitas vezes, não é redigir o e-mail, mas reunir as informações que permitam localizar o documento certo. Por isso, antes de enviar o pedido, confira os nomes, as datas, as localidades e as variantes de grafia. Guarde uma cópia da mensagem, registre a data do envio e anote a resposta recebida. Se não houver retorno, faça um acompanhamento educado depois de um intervalo razoável, respeitando as orientações publicadas pelo município. Se a resposta indicar que o registro não foi localizado, procure esclarecer o período pesquisado e as alternativas de consulta antes de abandonar a busca. A pesquisa genealógica ensina que cada documento tem seu próprio tempo e que uma resposta negativa nem sempre encerra uma investigação. Às vezes, uma simples certidão permite identificar os pais de um imigrante; esses nomes conduzem a outro registro, que revela uma geração anterior e aproxima a família de sua pequena comunidade de origem. É assim que a história vai sendo reconstruída, documento por documento. Para quem deseja conhecer suas raízes italianas, escrever ao comune não é apenas uma formalidade administrativa. É uma maneira concreta de transformar uma lembrança familiar em uma pergunta verificável e de procurar, nos registros preservados pela comunidade de origem, as evidências que podem devolver identidade e contexto aos nomes transmitidos entre gerações.Uma última recomendação: nunca confunda uma hipótese com uma prova. A certidão localizada deve ser comparada com os demais documentos da família, verificando nomes, filiação, datas e localidades. É essa comparação cuidadosa que transforma uma coleção de registros em uma pesquisa genealógica consistente e permite preservar a história dos antepassados para as próximas gerações. 

• Embaixada da Itália em Brasília — instruções para solicitar certidões ao comune. Explica como localizar o município e identificar o setor responsável. 

• Consulado-Geral da Itália em Belo Horizonte — modelos de solicitação. Disponibiliza modelos de pedido de certidões ao município italiano. 

Leia também e continue sua pesquisa genealógica:

• Como Descobrir de Qual Cidade da Itália Veio Meu Antepassado — aprenda a identificar a localidade de origem e a reunir pistas para localizar os registros italianos.

• Como Encontrar Registros de Italianos que Imigraram para o Brasil — conheça caminhos para pesquisar listas de passageiros, documentos de imigração e registros brasileiros.

• Certidões Antigas Podem Revelar a Cidade Italiana de Seus Antepassados — descubra como documentos antigos podem ajudar a identificar a comuna de origem da família.

Nota do Autor

Se você chegou até aqui porque está procurando a certidão de um avô, de um bisavô ou de alguém cujo nome atravessou gerações, gostaria de lhe dizer que compreendo a importância dessa busca. Ao longo de muitos anos de convivência com famílias de descendentes de italianos, conheci muitas pessoas que guardavam uma pergunta no coração: de que lugar da Itália veio minha família? Algumas tinham uma fotografia antiga, outras possuíam uma certidão quase ilegível, e havia também aquelas que conheciam apenas um sobrenome e uma história contada pelos mais velhos. Muitas vezes, era justamente esse pequeno vestígio que dava início a uma descoberta capaz de aproximar filhos e netos de um passado que parecia distante demais. Foi pensando nessas pessoas que preparei este roteiro. Sei que escrever para uma prefeitura italiana, especialmente sem dominar o idioma, pode causar insegurança. Por isso, minha intenção é caminhar um pouco ao seu lado, mostrando que você não precisa ser um especialista em genealogia para começar. Reúna os documentos que possui, organize as informações, siga o modelo de mensagem e dê o primeiro passo. Talvez a resposta não venha imediatamente; talvez seja necessário procurar outro arquivo ou esclarecer algum detalhe. Não desanime. Cada pesquisa tem seu próprio caminho, e nem todas as respostas aparecem na primeira tentativa. Dediquei muitos anos à história da imigração italiana porque acredito que conhecer nossas origens não deve ser um privilégio reservado a quem pode pagar por isso. É por essa razão que compartilho gratuitamente as informações reunidas no portal A Emigração Vêneta, na esperança de que elas ajudem outras pessoas a descobrir suas raízes. Se você conseguir encontrar o documento que procura, ou mesmo descobrir o nome da pequena comunidade de onde partiu seu antepassado, ficarei feliz em saber que este trabalho contribuiu para aproximá-lo de sua história. Afinal, por trás de cada certidão existe uma pessoa que viveu, amou, trabalhou e enfrentou suas próprias dificuldades. E talvez seja justamente isso que mais importa: não permitir que o tempo apague completamente a lembrança daqueles que, muito antes de nós, começaram a escrever a história da nossa família.

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

List of Immigrants from Lombardy to Brazil

List of Immigrants from Lombardy to Brazil

https://emigrazioneveneta.blogspot.com/2022/02/imigrantes-italianos-da-lombardia-com.html

The Ground That Wasn’t Ours: An Italian Immigrant’s American Story

 

The Ground That Wasn't Ours

“They promised land and freedom. They found debt, hard work, and the daily struggle to turn unfamiliar ground into home.”

Liguria, October 1889

When Pietro Maldini handed his last coins to the ticket agent in Genoa, he was paying for more than a place on a ship. He was buying his way into a country he knew only through letters, stories, and the bright promises carried back across the Atlantic by men who had gone before him. America, they said, was different. A man who worked hard could earn more in a week than he could save in a month in Italy. There was work everywhere. There was freedom. There was land. There was room for a family to grow. The words traveled faster than the ships. They crossed the ocean folded inside letters, repeated in village kitchens, whispered outside churches, and told by returning emigrants who arrived home wearing American clothes and carrying watches that seemed to prove the stories were true. Pietro was thirty-two years old, the father of two small children who remained in Italy with their mother, and a farmer who had watched another harvest fail. He came from the hills of Liguria, where every piece of earth seemed already claimed and every family knew exactly how far its means could stretch. His brother-in-law, Matteo, had written from Pennsylvania. He had found work there cutting stone and helping with construction. The wages were unlike anything Pietro had known. “Come,” the letter said. “There is work here.” It was a simple sentence, but Pietro read in it an entire future. He did not know that the first years in America would be measured not in acres but in hours, not in freedom but in wages, rent, debts, and the price of bread.
By 1889, the chain migration that would shape Italian-American communities for generations was already well established. One relative came first, then a brother, a cousin, a neighbor, a man from the same village. They followed one another across the Atlantic, often settling in the same streets and working for the same contractors or in the same mines, quarries, factories, and construction crews. Pietro trusted Matteo's letter more than he trusted the advertisements. Still, the promises surrounding America had become so large that even an honest letter could not contain the whole truth. The men who recruited immigrants rarely described the boardinghouses where several families shared cramped rooms, the dangerous work, the winter cold, or the wages that disappeared almost as soon as they were earned. Pietro's wife, Lucia, would remain behind until he could send enough money for her passage. Their children would stay with her. The separation was supposed to last a few months. Everyone said that. Few people knew what “a few months” could mean once an ocean stood between two families.

The Crossing

The ship was crowded with Italians from Liguria, Piedmont, Tuscany, and other parts of the peninsula. Some were heading to New York, some to relatives in Pennsylvania, others to destinations they could barely pronounce. They carried tin cups, blankets, small bundles of clothing, religious medals, family photographs, bread wrapped in cloth, and addresses written on scraps of paper. Those scraps were sometimes the only proof that somewhere beyond the ocean there was a person waiting for them. Pietro kept Matteo's address inside the lining of his jacket. He checked it every evening, as if the words might disappear if he did not look at them. The voyage was long enough to turn anticipation into exhaustion. Below deck, the air became heavy with the smell of bodies, damp clothing, food, sickness, and salt water. There was little privacy and less comfort. Families slept close together. Children cried at night. Men spoke quietly about work in America, repeating wages they had heard from friends, cousins, or agents. Some were convinced they would soon own houses. Others simply hoped to send money home. Pietro said little. He had already learned that the Atlantic was a poor place for promises. He kept his small bottle of drinking water close and washed his hands whenever he could. Lucia had sewn a little cloth bag into the inside of his jacket. In it he carried a photograph of the family and a medal of the Madonna. He touched both whenever homesickness became stronger than hope. After weeks at sea, the ship finally reached New York Harbor. There was no Ellis Island yet; the great immigration station would not open until 1892. Italian immigrants arriving in 1889 were processed through Castle Garden at the southern tip of Manhattan. From the deck, Pietro saw the harbor opening before him, crowded with ships, ferries, smoke, warehouses, and buildings rising beyond the water. Somewhere in that city, he believed, his American life was waiting. He searched the shoreline for something he could recognize. There was nothing. No church tower from Liguria. No familiar mountain. No olive trees. Only Manhattan, noisy and enormous, already speaking a language he could not understand.

New York

Pietro passed through the immigration station with his papers, his address, and very little money. The city overwhelmed him before he had walked half a mile. Streets were crowded. Carts rattled over stone. Vendors shouted. Horses pushed through traffic. Buildings rose higher than anything he had known. Italian voices could be heard in certain neighborhoods, and that sound comforted him more than he expected. Then he understood one of the first truths of immigrant life: a person could be surrounded by millions and still feel completely alone. Matteo found him the next morning. He had brought a heavy coat and a piece of bread wrapped in paper. “We leave tomorrow,” he said. “Pennsylvania.” Pietro had imagined America as one place. He was beginning to understand that America was a collection of places, each with its own work, dangers, accents, and possibilities. They took the train west. As the city disappeared, the landscape changed. The factories, railroad lines, hills, and coal country of Pennsylvania seemed hard and dark compared with the America described in the letters. But there was work. That mattered.

The Work

Pietro did not find the freedom he had imagined. He found a hammer, stone dust, aching hands, and twelve-hour days. Matteo had arranged work with a contractor who needed laborers for construction and stonework. Pietro discovered that his strength had value, but it had a price. The first wages disappeared into rent, food, clothing, and the money he owed for the journey. He lived in a boardinghouse with other Italian immigrants. Three men shared one small room. On Sundays, they washed their shirts, shaved, attended Mass, and wrote letters home. The letters were carefully written because nobody wanted to frighten the people waiting across the Atlantic. Pietro never wrote, “The work is killing me.” He wrote, “The work is steady.” He never wrote, “I am cold.” He wrote, “The winter is severe.” He never wrote, “I miss the children so much that sometimes I cannot sleep.” He wrote, “Tell the children Papa will come for them.” This was how immigrant families protected one another: by telling the truth selectively. Debt followed Pietro everywhere. The ticket had cost money. His passage, clothing, room, food, and tools all required payment. Even the first months of American life seemed to belong partly to someone else. Yet there were small victories. His English improved. He learned the names of streets. He learned how to calculate his wages. He discovered which grocer would give him a fair price and which one would not. He learned that an Italian accent could make a man invisible in one room and immediately recognizable in another. Most importantly, he began to understand that America was not something that could simply be received. It had to be built.

The Letter from Home

Almost a year after Pietro's arrival, a letter came from Liguria. Lucia had written that the children had begun asking when Papa was coming back. Pietro read the letter three times before folding it. That night he walked alone beside the railroad tracks. The smoke from the locomotives drifted above him. Somewhere beyond the mountains, the trains carried coal and steel toward cities that seemed to have no end. He thought about the word home. In Italy, home had been a stone house, a narrow field, familiar hills, a church bell, and people who knew his family name. In America, home was not yet a place. It was a promise he had to construct piece by piece. He began saving every dollar he could. Matteo helped him find additional work repairing stone walls and foundations. Pietro's hands, once accustomed to soil, became skilled with stone. He learned to recognize good limestone by its texture and learned how to set a wall so precisely that it could survive decades of winter. He had come to America expecting to work the land. Instead, he discovered that his first inheritance would be a craft.

Bringing the Family

Lucia and the children finally arrived after Pietro had saved enough for their passage. When he saw them in New York, his daughter ran toward him first. Pietro lifted her from the ground and held her so tightly that she laughed and then began to cry. His son stood more cautiously beside Lucia, studying the father he remembered mostly through letters. Pietro realized then that immigration had already taken something from them. He had missed first words, illnesses, birthdays, and ordinary evenings. The Atlantic had not merely separated countries. It had separated time. They eventually moved to Pennsylvania, where other Italian families lived nearby. The children learned English at school and Italian at home. Lucia planted basil in a small patch behind the house and insisted on making bread the way her mother had taught her. On Sundays, the kitchen filled with the smell of tomato sauce, garlic, bread, and coffee. The children began to belong to two worlds without fully belonging to either. They spoke English outside and Italian inside. They knew American streets but remembered stories about Italian mountains they had never seen. They learned that being Italian in America was not a single identity but a daily negotiation between what had been left behind and what was being created.

Ten Years Later

By 1899, Pietro no longer lived in a boardinghouse. He had bought a modest house with a small piece of land on the outskirts of town. It was not the farm described in the advertisements. It was not the American dream printed on colorful paper. It was a narrow house, a vegetable garden, a shed, and enough ground for Lucia to grow tomatoes, beans, onions, and basil. Pietro continued working with stone. His son began helping him on Saturdays. His daughter kept the household accounts and wrote letters for neighbors who still struggled with English. The family had become useful in the community. People came to Pietro when they needed a wall repaired. They came to Lucia when they needed help understanding a letter from Italy. Someone always knew someone who needed a job. Someone always had a cousin arriving on the next ship. The chain continued. But now Pietro was one of the links. His American life had not arrived in a single moment. It had accumulated slowly: a house payment, a pair of work boots, a schoolbook, a garden, a church pew, a child's first English sentence, a neighbor's greeting, a stone wall that would still be standing long after his hands had stopped working.
One evening, Pietro stood beside the garden while his children argued in English about something he barely understood. Lucia called them inside for supper. The smell of bread came through the open window. Pietro looked at the little patch of earth beneath his feet. It was not Liguria. It was not the land promised in the letters. It was not even the America he had imagined from the ship. But his children had grown there. His wife had planted things there. His hands had built something there. For the first time, Pietro understood that perhaps land did not become yours because someone promised it to you. It became yours because memory took root there. Because a family worked it, fed it, repaired it, mourned on it, celebrated on it, and eventually buried its dead beneath its sky. America had not given Pietro the life he had imagined. It had given him something harder and, in its own way, more permanent: the possibility of making a life from what he could carry in his hands. He had arrived with a photograph, an address, a few coins, and a promise. He stayed long enough to leave behind a house, a craft, a garden, children who spoke with an American accent, and a family story that would outlive him. The ground had never been his when he arrived. It became home slowly.

Author's Note

This story was born from the lives of Italian immigrants who crossed the Atlantic at the end of the nineteenth century carrying very little except hope, addresses, family names, and the belief that hard work might give their children a different future. Pietro Maldini is a fictional character, but the world around him reflects experiences documented in the history of Italian immigration to the United States: transatlantic separation, chain migration, crowded immigrant neighborhoods, demanding manual labor, boardinghouses, language barriers, family reunification, and the gradual creation of Italian-American communities. In 1889, immigrants arriving in New York were processed at Castle Garden, before Ellis Island opened in 1892. Many Italian newcomers did not find the immediate prosperity described in advertisements or letters. They found factories, mines, construction sites, stone quarries, railroads, tenements, boardinghouses, and long working days. Yet they also found one another. They created bakeries, groceries, churches, mutual-aid societies, workshops, gardens, newspapers, and families that carried traditions forward while adapting to American life. Pietro's stonework is also a tribute to the countless Italian craftsmen whose hands helped build American cities and neighborhoods. Their contribution was often measured in walls, foundations, roads, buildings, and houses rather than in monuments bearing their names. I have spent more than thirty years listening to the stories of Italian descendants and families searching for their origins. Again and again, I have seen how immigration is remembered not only through documents and passenger lists, but through recipes, surnames, tools, photographs, accents, family trades, and the small objects that survive when almost everything else is gone. Pietro did not exist under this name. But men like him did. They crossed the ocean believing they were going to America. What they discovered was that America had to be built, one day's work at a time. And sometimes, the hardest thing an immigrant ever builds is not a house or a wall, but the feeling that he finally belongs there.

Dr. Luiz Carlos B. Piazzetta
Author and researcher of Italian immigration and family history