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CHAPTER SIX
When I reached the age of seven, I was admitted to the third grade of our public school which was on the ground floor of a three story building, grandiosely called “Palazzo Rivelli.” It was a fairly large but dungeon-like room, where the three classes were held at the same time. The floor was of beaten earth, quite suitable to our hob-nailed shoes. Tattered benches and high, dusty windows on one side, enclosed by heavy steel bars. Because of those barred windows, the room was also used as an overnight jail for rowdy young farmers who on feast days would occasionally go on a spree.
For winter heating there was at the far end of the room, near the teacher’s desk, a brazier- a large receptacle holding a heaped pile of coals. It was the duty of the pupils to take turns in bringing every morning a pan of burning charcoal. The regulation pan had a long handle for safe transportation. Imagine the balancing of the pan on icy, crooked, up and down streets, especially when snowing. But it was lots of fun and I looked forward to my turn.
We had a wonderful teacher, sent to our town on his first assignment. Serious, humorous, lovable, he kept us laughing and made our work a daily thrill. He gave me, at that age, an exciting sense of lift and, no doubt, influence my whole life. As a distant event was to reveal, that exuberant, jovial teacher must have felt a profound compassion for our hopeless lot. I was eight and a half when he was transferred somewhere else and I wrote him a farewell note, to tell him of my deep affection and sadness at his leaving.
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(Facsimile of letter hand written in Italian)
Translation of the letter: Castelmezzano, 8-15-1893, My very kind Teacher, It makes me deeply sorry that we are separating, because you have taught me many things that no Teacher could have taught me. You have been “out of breath” educating me. I have studied too haven’t let you waste your “labors.” I am happy for what you have taught me and am sure you are happy that I have studied. I hope we will see each other again, but even if we shouldn’t, I will always remember you and repeat: ah! I would like to know where that Teacher of mine is who taught me so much, who would always make us laugh, but when we didn’t know our lessons he made us cry. Laughs and tears, tears and laughs. I will always remember you, always forever. I kiss your hand and am your obedient pupil. CAMPAGNA ANTONIO
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That was in the summer of 1893. But, children are blessed with the gift of forgetting and readjusting themselves, and the idol of my worship soon vanished into oblivion.
In the Fall of 1929, after being in America for over 21 years, I was visiting Naples with my family. At the hotel – one early morning – a visitor was announced, whose name or identity I didn’t recall. With some embarrassment, I met a tan-faced, silver-haired, gentle old fellow who kept smiling, without saying a word. And then, whether by mental telepathy or the warmth of his luminous eyes, the teacher of my tender years was flashed back to my memory. At my jubilant surprise, a few tears lined the bony cheeks of the kindly man who had traveled all night, from a distant village where he was teaching, to present me with the little letter I had written to him 36 years before. It had been most carefully persevered.
That moment, the venerable teacher said, marked the fulfillment of a long held vision, and he was glowing with happiness. He needed much, but accepted nothing. Finally, after asking me about the squalid classroom where he had taught and, learning there had been no change, his only tremulous request was that I build a new school for the children of my town. Faced with such amazing unselfishness and ashamed of my own neglect, I assured him that his wish would be translated into speedy action. He outlined the general plan, of which I made notes, and an hour later he left, to reach his destination for school time next morning.
A two story building – with modern sanitary provisions, kindergarten, six classrooms, gymnasium, playground and field for experimental horticulture – was designed by an American architect and completed within a year. It stands as an everlasting tribute to that saintly man, Pasquale Pellettieri who, after after humbly pursuing his noble mission, did not live to witness the fulfillment of his cherished dream. That touching, somewhat mystical experience is engraved in my heart.
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(Photo)
1932 – New school and experiment gardens. Since completion, the number of classes and pupils was nearly tripled.
(Photo)
1929 – School children, mayor and others awaiting our arrival in Castelmezzano. At left is the Paterno house.
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The next step after the third elementary grade was the so-called upper elementary, consisting of fourth and fifth grades, for which small towns had no facilities.
Fortunately, Michele Amico, a young man of our town had just been appointed to teach the boys’ three classes. Arrangements were made with him to give me private tuition in the upper grades. He was an excellent teacher, painstaking, interested, imaginative. I had a few classmates, alert, clean-cut boys who later followed their fathers in their respective trades and farming. Among my pleasant memories are the frequent spring outings which gave us an opportunity for picnics and first-hand nature studies.
I seemed to assimilate easily the various subjects, but I was most fond of geometry problems. Was that the first sign of a natural vocation for planning, which was to become my hobby and vital part of my work?
I had covered in one year the two upper elementary grades. At the end of the tuition period, I was to leave for the first time the little world of my birth and go to the capital of our province, Potenza, to take the examination of admission to secondary school. This was divided in two categories, one called “technical” and the other “classical.” The latter consisted of five years of “gymnasium” corresponding to “junior-high” and three years of “lyceum,” closely comparable to a college course in liberal arts. The curriculum was broad and intensive, with a thorough grinding of five years in Greek and eight years in Latin. Only three years were required in French, with emphasis on conversation. This subject was naturally easy for us and almost an intriguing pastime.
Only two weeks remain before the momentous departure. My teacher puts me through a final drill, testing and reviewing, but I seem to have no fear. My mind is absorbed completely by the thought of the city I am soon to visit and the anticipation of my first train ride.
I had never seen a train at close range. Many a time I had climbed to the top of Mount Paschiero, which rises steeply from the upper layers of my town. There I would throw myself to the ground and longingly cast my eyes toward the tortuous course of a far away glistening stream, along which ran a single track railroad. I would lay motionless for hours, waiting or the morning train to come down the valley.
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Transparent blue skies, radiant sun…mountain, hills and valleys in endless rises and rolls….The entrancing stillness seems to possess me…I faintly hear barking dogs and braying donkeys in the town….Every now and then, coming from nowhere, going nowhere, a gliding convoy of black crows, sending down raspy notes as from cracked horns. Are they heckling me for my silly dream? My patient vigil in not distracted.
At last I hear the echo of a siren. I see the long, black plumage of smoke, stabbed by flashes of fire…and the big monster comes clearly in view, puffing and snorting with the arrogance of a conqueror. It slows up, it stops for a moment at a red shack, the three-town station, it puffs again, it stalks and, with another defying blast, it lunges out of sight into the bowels of a mountain. I am left gasping!
My mind wanders up and down the valley, it goes beyond the range of hills and mountains, it sees busy towns and immense cities, placid lakes and stormy oceans. The elementary knowledge of geography spurs my imagination.
Next: Chapter 7
