Over the Next Hill

by Nadir Martello

I am well aware that what is written in this book is not everybody's cup of tea. This doesn't worry me.

My first concern is to tell my children who their Dad is. This means telling them the facts of life, my life, in the way I see it and live it - life with its ups and downs -- since 1966 especially, seen and understood for what it is under the light of the Gospel.

Is it a failure? It is not up to me, nor anybody else, to judge. God is the ultimate Judge. I am not writing for money, or glory, or to try to justify myself.

I am writing in order to leave a legacy with this message: " I am what I am - for what it's worth - not because of me, but because of Jesus Christ to whom I committed myself, totally and unconditionally, and whom I love above everything else, even my own life.

Memoirs, Biography, NonFiction ISBN 1-59431-389-7

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Preface

I am well aware that what is written in this book is not everybody’s cup of tea. This doesn’t worry me.

My first concern is to tell my children who their Dad is. This means telling them the facts of life, my life, in the way I see it and live it – life with its ups and downs — since 1966 especially, seen and understood for what it is under the light of the Gospel.

Is it a failure? It is not up to me, nor anybody else, to judge. God is the ultimate Judge. I am not writing for money, or glory, or to try to justify myself.

I am writing in order to leave a legacy with this message: “ I am what I am – for what it’s worth – not because of me, but because of Jesus Christ to whom I committed myself, totally and unconditionally, and whom I love above everything else, even my own life.”

Chapter 1

My Sweet Adria

The region I came from in the northeast of Italy is called Veneto. The town where I was born, Adria, had in those days, (1940 - 1950), a population of approximately 28,000 people. Adria is a very ancient city — older than Roma itself, I was told. But I’m not quite sure of that, since there’s no reliable documentation about the foundation date of either the former or the latter. I know for sure, however, that underneath the town of Adria are the remains of 3 earlier towns.

Actually, if you ever go to the Cathedral in Adria, you will see for yourself. At the Baptismal-font Chapel, to the West side of the Cathedral, there on the floor is a sort of trapdoor open all the time through which you can descend. The steps are very old and unkempt. From there at times you could see the water below. I read somewhere that Hadrian, the Roman Emperor, gave the name to the city and the Adriatic Sea, in which case it must have had a previous name.

Nevertheless, in other books it is written that Adria had been founded by the Etruscans in the VI - IV Century BC and had been a very active seaport for centuries.

In our days the Adriatic Sea is about thirty kilometers from Adria. The thirty kilometers of land, which before was sea, is the product of debris carried by the Po River over the centuries. Adria is part of what is called ‘Val Padana’, named after the Po River. This valley is very flat and for kilometers you can see no mountains or hills around Adria.

People here grow mainly beet root, wheat, maize corn, tobacco, grapes and several other fruit trees.

The city of Adria has a main street called ‘Via del Popolo’, which is the shopping centre of the town, but people, specifically the youth, used to stroll in the late afternoon — under the indulgent eye of the adults — gazing at each other. The same thing happened along the ‘Viale della Stazione’ — but only in summer.

Adria is not a big town really; as a matter of fact it takes you little more than half an hour to cross it on foot from ‘Canal Bianco’ bridge to the train station.

The buildings were – when I left it in 1955 — pretty old; the newest would have been between 20 and 60 years old. All the others were well over one hundred years old, and more, much more. The buildings were not very high, like you would see in a big city, but only an average of two stories.

Our home, my mother’s father’s house, was a three-storey house at Via Terranova 26. It was located between the Canal Bianco and ‘Caserma dei Carabinieri’ (the carabinieri barracks.)

The Canal Bianco crosses through the town from west to east. I used to see many fishing and cargo boats on the waters of Canal Bianco in my childhood. I recall when I was little; I used to stop at the bridge, or along the railings near the water, to watch people working. They unloaded their cargo from their boats, while other people, here and there, spent their time fishing leisurely in the canal. In summer, there were always a group or two of boys diving and swimming. I can’t say that the water was always clean — on the contrary, it was rather dirty.

My Family — The Dalla Deas

My mother’s family had been living in via Terranova since the beginning of the century. My great grandfather had something to do with horses in those days; I think he was a shoemaker by trade. My grandfather, Giuseppe Dalla Dea, people used to call ‘Bepe’, as is the way to abbreviate the name in Italy. He started a new business on his own as pastry cook when he was still quite young. His brother, Sante, and his family, ran another patisserie a few doors from my grandfather’s pastry shop.

Nonno Giuseppe and Zio Sante had been in competition all their life, without ever saying hello to one other.

The patisserie sold a variety of goods like toys, dolls, lollies, chocolates, confetti for weddings, licorice, biscuits and, of course, cookies and cakes. The shop was at the front of the ground floor of the house. The workshop was in another building at the rear of the house. A yard divided the shop from the workshop. Working there were three or four employees, including my Uncle Nino.

My uncle had done a lot of the work there ever since he was little more than a child. I say this because my grandfather Bepe stopped working early in his life. He was in his forties when he gave up manual work. At home he did nothing but count money. My grandfather’s great occupation consisted of collecting money from the cash register, taking it into the dining room, putting it on the table and counting it every morning. He used to sort out all the money — the paper notes from the coins: the two kinds went into two different suitcases. The coins were piled in groups of 5, 10, 20, 50, 100 lire, then divided into groups of ten coins each, and wrapped up one by one with paper very tightly. When all this was finished, Grandfather took the paper money and put it in the safe, upstairs in his bedroom. The safe itself was inside the closet.

It has always intrigued me — that safe — and I wondered what it contained. I tried a few times to open it, though without success. The coins wrapped up in rolls in the other suitcase he took to the bank to be changed into notes to be brought home again.

Sometimes, in the late afternoon, Grandfather used to go to the inn, not far from home. He didn’t stay there very long, though sometimes long enough to get drunk. When that happened it was bad, because the drink made him a violent person. More than once my grandmother had to suffer physically from that sort of behavior. Once sober, however, my grandfather was not too bad. He was a taciturn man and rarely smiled at anybody.