"Who are these black shirts?" Harry asked. "I heard some men on the ship talking about them, but I didn't understand what they were saying."

"They're Mussolini's men; you must do what they say or they beat you up."

"Thanks for warning me, Inez. And thank you for helping me."

"Be careful, Demetrio," she said as she turned and headed back up to the meadow. She gave a little wave and a whiff of a smile before she disappeared over a small rise.

Deciding to heed Inez's warning to stay off the road, Harry made his way through groves of fig and olive trees and hurried across wheat fields. Not hearing any movement in the direction of the road, except for a lone farm wagon, he thought it might be safe. He walked from the tree line and sauntered along the road. At the crest of a small hill, he spotted a weathered, two-story farmhouse, nestled between a fig grove and a vegetable garden. As he got closer, he noted red and green peppers, eggplants, artichokes and tomatoes growing in a garden much like his mother's at home.

The farmhouse was in needed repair. The exterior was haggard with pits and cracks, and an underlayment of brick showed through the missing patches of stucco. Its faded green shutters were wrangled and most hung askew. Cracked and missing terracotta roof tiles exposed mottled, wood trusses. Sheep bleated in the distance. A white goose strutted about the barnyard like a drum major. At the side of the farmhouse flapping sheets and dripping clothes crackled in the breeze. He walked toward the blowing laundry. The goose honked a warning as Harry moved into the pungent barnyard.

He approached the blustering line of laundry and shouted, "Ciao, Ciao."

A woman stepped from behind a puffing sheet, fear blazed in her eyes. She grabbed the arm of a little girl playing near her and the two hurried toward the farmhouse.

Harry called in Italian, "Wait, I'm a friend. I'm looking for the Trumfio family."

The two disappeared inside the farm building. Harry carefully scanned the ramshackle structure. He knew that people who farmed in Europe often lived in a combined house and barn. As he eased his way toward the house/barn, he noted clusters of red and green peppers hanging beneath the second floor windows, just as he had seen from some of the Italian homes in Chicago.

Harry knocked on one of the barn-like doors. No answer. He knocked again. Still no one came. He pulled open the door. Sunlight filtered into the barn highlighting swirling dust mites. Protesting he-haws, and bangs caused by a donkey kicking his stall door greeted him. Mooing rose from cows. The smell of fresh hay and pungent animal dung washed over him, catching in his throat and watering his eyes. He sneezed.

"Gosh, how can people live in a barn?"

Quickly pulling his handkerchief, he caught a second sneeze. Harry wiped his eyes, blew his nose, and placed the cloth over his nose and mouth in an attempt to stem the odor. To his right was a staircase. He put a hand on the banister, a wave of weariness swept over him. He struggled to lift his foot. His heart pounded.

"I think this is where papa grew up. C'mon, you've got to go up."

Grasping the banister, he hoisted himself up the steps; each step emitting its own unique groan. Reaching the landing, he stood tall, brushed himself off, took off his hat and knocked gently on the door. No answer. Knocking again, he called in Italian, "Hello, hello, I'm Demetrio Trumfio, son of Dominico from Chicago."

A voice responded in Italian, "Go away! Go away! Do not come here."

A baby began to cry. Harry pressed his ear to the door and said, "I come to visit from America. I'm Demetrio Trumfio, son of Dominico Trumfio from Vinco. I'm family. He's my father, I think he lived here. Are you the Trumfios?"

A fear-laden voice called out, "Go away! We don't want the police to come."

Harry straightened up and pleaded, "But, my papa is Dominico Trumfio. I'm family."

"No one said you are coming. We don't know you. Put papers from police under the door."

Harry, voice cracking with emotion, said, "Please, please, I couldn't go to the police, my passport and papers were stolen. Please, I've come all the way from Chicago to meet my nonno. Are you my Nonna?"

"No papers. I can't let you in," said the muffled voice.

The baby cried louder. Harry bent down a tried to look through the key hole, but no luck. The key was in the hole.

He shouted, "I told you my passport was stolen, I need my family's help."

"If you are who you say your Nonno doesn't live here."

Please! Please!" Harry screamed and pounded on the door. There was no response.

"Go away," was the last word he heard over the crying baby.

His fantasy in shambles, he sunk down on the landing. He didn't try to stem his tears. "Oh, God," he said. "What am I gonna do now?"

After a time, still shaken, Harry struggled to his feet, put a hand on the banister and shakily walked down the steps. Outside, he dragged himself from the house and never looked back. Wiping tears from his swollen eyes, he continued across the road and into the tree line feeling more alone than he had ever felt in his life.

He looked up through the whimpering trees to a cloudy, gray sky and called out, "St. John! Why aren't you helping me?"