A Woman Named Hope
By Carol Ann Kauffman
Growing up on the outskirts of a small town of Colabina in central Italy long ago, little Maria Theresa Orvienta would walk with her father, Nick, through the olive groves while he told her stories of his youth. She loved the way the warm breeze rustled through the silvery leaves of the olive trees, gently singing songs no one else could hear but her. They sang, “Be happy” and “Life is beautiful.” They sang of the idyllic small town life, and the importance of trees and sunshine and love and family.
“You are doing well in your studies, yes?”
“Yes, Papa.”
“Your teacher says you are the star of the class. Your English is perfect.”
“Thank you, Papa.”
“Mrs. Lynch is a very good teacher. She is from a very fine family in Cleveland, Ohio. You need to keep it up. You and me and Mama, we are going to go to America, very soon I hope.”
“I don’t want to go across the ocean to live. I like it right here.”
“Maria Theresa, there is no country like America! The whole world is open to you if you work hard and keep your nose clean. It is the country of freedom and opportunity.”
“Mama says you are having a pipe dream.”
“Sometimes your mama talks too much. She must keep our plans secret, and so should you. Look at all these beautiful olive trees. Soon we will have many olives. We will have olive oil galore. Much money will be made this year. All of my debts will finally be paid off, financial and otherwise, and we can get out of here.
“I never wanted to grow olives. I wanted to grow grapes. I wanted to have my own winery. Maybe someday, I’ll have my own vineyards in America. We’ll make wine. We’ll call it Lucky Nicky Winery. That’s a lofty dream for a boy who grew up poor. You know, when I was a child, my parents were so poor that they had to steal the fruit from the neighbors’ trees at night just to feed us children.”
“Ahh, that makes me so sad, Papa. Were you always hungry as a boy?”
“No, my little one. Either I felt good or I felt bad. I didn’t know enough to know the reason why. I ate very little as a boy. But I make up for it now,” Papa laughed.
“Yes, you do. Mama says you are getting a tummy.”
“Oh, don’t listen to her. Men are supposed to be big and broad so they can protect their families. Who’s afraid of a skinny guy waving a pitchfork? Huh? Nobody!”
Maria Theresa laughed and nodded. She looked up at her tall handsome curly-haired father and thought he was the most magnificent man in the world.
“Sometimes we as a family had to run and hide in the foothills from evil marauders who wanted to do harm to our women and kill all the men.”
“Are the evil marauders still around, Papa?” Maria Theresa scanned the area for movement.
“Yes, angel, but they have different names and different faces. They don’t roam the hillsides anymore. But they’re still out there, preying on the innocent, and stealing what doesn’t belong to them. I think we will always have bad, power-hungry men in the world. You must learn to recognize evil.”
“Evil is mean and ugly,” she said with her hands on her hips, with all the confidence and conviction of an eight-year old.
“No, honey. It’s not that easy. Sometimes something very bad can look good. Sometimes evil can look very pretty to us. It does all the right things and says all the right things, but for all of the wrong reasons. You must learn to trust what your heart and your soul tell you so you can know the difference.”
Maria Theresa slipped her hand into her father’s big hand bronzed from the sun. “I’m scared, Papa.”
“Don’t be scared. I don’t tell you these things to frighten you, little one. I tell you so you’ll be armed with the truth. You need to know these things. You aren’t a baby anymore.”
“No, I’m not,” she affirmed. “I will soon be nine.”
“Trust your feelings. Don’t let people take advantage of your sweet and gentle nature. Tell the truth. Lies beget lies. One lie leads to another and another. Know that, no matter what, God will not desert you. And when things get dark and scary, never give up the hope that good days will return.”
“Never give up hope. Okay, Papa. I won’t.”
“Sweet girl,” Papa said sadly as he squeezed her small hand, “there is a chance things will get dark and scary…very soon.”
A chill overtook Maria Theresa. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. Her stomach lurched.
“Listen to your mama. Be a good girl. Don’t believe everything people tell you. Trust your gut. Keep up with your studies. It is better to be on the quiet side than to talk too much.”
“Okay, Papa.”
They walked back to the little stone house in silence.
When Maria Theresa woke up the next morning, her mother was sitting at the kitchen table crying.
“Mama? What’s the matter?”
“Your papa…is gone,” cried her mother Irmalinda. “And his family wants us out of this house. Today. We must pack.”
“Where did Papa go? Won’t he come back for us?”
“No, child. Your papa is never coming back to us.”
“Yes, he will. We are his family. I am his daughter and you are his wife.”
“No. You are his child, yes. But I am not his wife.”
Maria Theresa sank to the floor.
“You never noticed he was never with us on special days?”
“Papa was always with me on my birthday.”
“Yes, but never on Christmas, or Easter. He never went to church with us.”
“I noticed. He said he had to work.”
“His wife and five other children live in the big house at the top of the hill,” continued her mother.
“No! You mean the big white house with the columns and the balcony? The house where you clean and do laundry? Papa is married to that snooty woman?”
“Yes. But now that he’s gone, I have no job, no money, and we have no place to live. The snooty woman has fired me and kicked us out. Go pack some clothes.”
“But I have so many pretty clothes that Papa bought me!”
“Oh, you do, do you? They’re all hand-me-downs from his other daughters.”
“Papa has other daughters?”
“Yes. Three. Go pack, and only what you can carry. I have enough to lug. And don’t pack silly things. You need to bring clothes you can work in. Hurry up. Do it now.”
“But where did Papa go? Was he kidnapped by evil marauders?”
“Oh, stupid girl, go pack.”
“No! Not until I know what happened to my papa. Maybe he’s hurt. Maybe he’s sick. Maybe the snooty woman locked him in the wine cellar.”
“Your papa ran away,” shouted her mother. “He knew this would happen to us if he ran away, and yet he ran anyway. He doesn’t care about you. And he doesn’t care about me.”
Irmalinda turned her back on the child and stomped into her bedroom.
“Well, I don’t know about you,” whispered Maria Theresa, “but I know he cares about me.”
Within an hour Irmalinda had packed the bare necessities and stood in the doorway of the little stone house.
“Maria Theresa? Now!” screeched her mother.
Maria Theresa dragged her feet and a soft-sided tapestry valise Papa brought her to carry her dolls. No dolls today. There were no toys of childhood in her suitcase, just work clothes, a few books, pencils, and some paper. After all, she wasn’t a baby anymore.
“Let’s go.”
“Where will we go, Mama?”
“To town.”
“But how will Papa know where to find us when he comes back for us?”
“He’s not coming back. Ever.”
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