Four Months (Winter) in Italy

We arrived in Italy at the end of November 1989, coming from spotless Austria, where we had been taken late one night, along with a group of other emigrants from various parts of the Soviet Union.

Opponitz, Austria, November 1989

We had been put up at the Tazreiter boarding house in the tiny Alpine village of Opponitz, about 160 kilometers from Vienna. The peaks of the surrounding mountains were already lightly dusted with snow. Autumn was still ablaze with color, and the villagers, whose unfamiliar politeness and smiles initially took us by surprise, greeted us warmly whenever they encountered us in the street.

There was absolutely nothing to do there. There was no entertainment of any kind, and our days passed in conversation and walks through the surrounding countryside.

The “Tazreiter” boarding house in Opponitz, Austria, November 1989

And so, after a month in that spotless little paradise, Italy struck us immediately as somehow bleak, neglected, and dirty.

We arrived by train, having “escaped” a snowstorm in Vienna. Winter had been chasing us ever since we left Moscow at the end of October. A few stations before Rome, our entire group of emigrant families was transferred to buses. We were told it was for security reasons—there had supposedly been a threat of a terrorist attack. The buses took us into Rome, where we were installed in an old, cheap hotel in the city center, not far from the Colosseum and the other sights of the Eternal City.

I have no idea how the rooms in that hotel were assigned, but we ended up with a dark, filthy, freezing room in a semi-basement, with tiny windows set high up near the ceiling.

There were no beds and no furniture of any kind. Mattresses lay directly on the concrete floor. In one corner, behind a low partition, were a shower and a washbasin; the toilet was out in the corridor.

The heating worked for only a couple of hours in the evening. During the day, and especially at night, the cold was almost unbearable. Unfortunately, we had no choice but to make do with whatever we had been given.

To make matters worse, my wife caught a bad cold. Apparently, the culprit was the train from Vienna to Rome: the carriage we were traveling in wasn't heated at all. We put on every piece of clothing we had and spent the entire night shivering in the cold, barely sleeping.

We were told that our stay in this wonderful hotel would be brief and that we were expected to find our own accommodation within a week.

Rome itself was out of the question because of the cost. Finding something in the surrounding area was not easy either, and our inability to speak Italian made matters considerably worse.

I was a shortwave radio amateur. I had been involved in the hobby since my youth and had made radio contacts with amateurs all over the world, including Italy. Radio amateurs (hams), wherever they are, are usually glad to help a fellow ham in need.

So I dug out a bundle of QSL cards—those special cards exchanged to confirm radio contacts—with Italian callsigns. I had brought them along precisely in anticipation of our being in Italy.

Going through them, I found a couple of cards with Rome addresses. I looked up the telephone numbers in the directory and began making calls from a pay phone, hoping that one of the local radio amateurs might be able to help us.

My plan didn't work out.

I couldn't locate one of them. Another took a long time to understand what I wanted, and my English—and, for that matter, his—was far too weak for us to communicate properly.

Finally, I called Boris, IK1APP, whom I knew from numerous radio contacts. He spoke excellent Russian and understood perfectly what I was asking. Unfortunately, he lived far to the north, in Turin, and there was nothing he could do for us either.

Well, I thought, there was no one else to turn to. I would have to manage on my own.

The very next morning I went to Termini Station, where commuter trains departed for the small coastal towns in which, I had been told, most of the emigrants waiting for American visas were staying.

I was given the names of several such towns, but I was warned that they were all overcrowded and that finding a place to live would be extremely difficult.

I boarded the first train I happened to find that was heading toward the town of Nettuno. At that point it didn't really matter where I went. We had no friends or acquaintances anywhere in Italy.

Sitting opposite me in the compartment was a pleasant-looking woman. One thing led to another, in my very limited English, and I discovered that she was an Italian from Canada who had come to visit relatives in a town several stations short of Nettuno.

Well, I thought, God must have sent you to me. I don't speak a word of Italian!

I began asking her how things worked and told her about our situation and our desperate need to find somewhere to live.

She said her relatives might be able to help us.

So I got off the train with her, a few stations before the end of the line at Nettuno.

We went to her relatives' house. It turned out immediately that they had rented out a room in their house only the day before—to some other emigrants—and had nothing else available.

The neighbors had no vacant accommodation either. Everything was taken.

I was terribly disappointed. Things had seemed so promising at first.

Seeing my expression, the kind Canadian woman suggested, “Let's go to Nettuno together. I'll help you look for a place there.”

That was wonderful. Without knowing the language, I had no idea how I could search for accommodation on my own, while she spoke her native Italian fluently.

We arrived in Nettuno and spent a couple of hours walking through half the town.

Nothing.

By then it was already the middle of the day. She apologized and said she had to leave—she had no more time—and that she was very sorry she hadn't been able to help.

I walked her to the station, thanked her, and set off once again, this time on my own.

There was nothing anywhere. Everything was occupied.

Feeling discouraged, I went back to the station, boarded a train, and rode one stop back, thinking that perhaps I might have better luck there.

There were few houses, and I found nothing.

I got back on the train, deciding to return to Nettuno and search some more.

As I walked through the carriage looking for an empty seat, I suddenly heard Russian.

I stopped, sat down nearby, and listened.

They were talking about their imminent departure for America. They had already received their American visas and would be leaving within a few days.

I immediately approached them, introduced myself, and asked about their accommodation. Could we perhaps take it over after they left?

My conversation partner was a pleasant, middle-aged man. As it turned out, he was an engineer like me, a fellow professional who had worked in the Soviet Union as an electronics specialist at some institute.

He explained that he had already promised his place in Nettuno to someone else and had even accepted a deposit from him.

My luck, as usual!

I told him that I was heading back to Nettuno, where I had already spent most of the day searching, and that I intended to keep looking.

We got off the train together and started walking toward his home.

Seeing how discouraged I was, he invited me in for lunch and suggested that I rest for a while.

I accepted gratefully. I really was exhausted and hungry.

They occupied two rooms in a three-room cottage. It was a fairly large family.

They treated me to borscht and something else, and after sitting together for a while, talking, I thanked them and prepared to leave.

That was when he told me that he and his family had taken a liking to me and that he wanted to help me—especially since I was a fellow engineer.

He proposed a solution.

If I paid him not merely a deposit, but the full amount required to cover the remaining days of the month, he would turn down the other man and return his deposit. Since they were leaving well before the end of the month, the rent had already been paid for the entire month.

He would simply tell the other man that he had met a relative and could not refuse him.

I agreed.

He seemed trustworthy, so I handed over the money and went home delighted.

There was, however, one small problem: the house had two rooms, and we only needed one. We couldn't afford to pay for both.

Fortunately, finding someone to share the second room was no problem. There were plenty of people desperately looking for accommodation, and I immediately found a family of three willing to reimburse me for part of what I had paid.

A couple of days later, we moved in.

Nettuno is a small town about 60 kilometers west of Rome, on the Mediterranean coast.

Persimmons and oranges hung from the trees like golden ornaments on a Christmas tree. During the day, despite the fact that it was December, the gentle Italian sunshine kept the air pleasantly warm. In the mornings, however, frost sparkled on the green grass, and a thin skin of ice covered the little puddles.

The winter sea was not particularly inviting. The beaches were deserted, and only occasionally could you see people strolling along the white sand. More often than not, they turned out to be our fellow countrymen.

In 1944, during World War II, the Americans landed in this area and pushed the Germans back. Today, the event is commemorated by a memorial and cemetery in the neighboring town of Anzio, where American soldiers who died there are buried.

We lived four to a tiny twelve-square-meter room—my wife, our son, my mother-in-law, and me—in a three-room cottage with stone floors and no heating.

Two other families of emigrants, just as unfortunate as ourselves, occupied the other two rooms.

Getting into the bathroom was not easy, given the number of people competing for it. The cold was terrible.

We heated our room with a small electric hot plate we had brought from the Soviet Union. The temperature inside hovered around 13°C, or about 55°F.

Strangely enough, after a short while we got used to it, and nobody seemed to catch a cold.

The large kitchen contained three stoves and a television. In the evenings everyone would gather there to watch whatever happened to be on.

We were waiting for our immigration status and American entry visas, along with many thousands of families of former Soviet citizens who had gathered there.

This was the established emigrant route from the USSR to the West, through Austria and Italy, a route that had become traditional over many years.

But every route eventually comes to an end.

This one was closing, too, and we were among those who had managed to jump onto the last carriage of a departing train.

Nobody knew what the future held for emigration. Those who had delayed their departure for one reason or another, but already had their documents, suddenly rushed out of the Soviet Union, afraid that they would be too late.

As a result, everywhere along the way we encountered long lines—lines that simply hadn't existed before. Everywhere was overcrowded.

Like most of the others, we lived on a modest allowance from the emigrant organization HIAS. It was enough, though, to cover our very basic accommodation and food.

The allowance was paid through a bank in Rome, so once a month we had to make the trip there.

The days passed one after another.

Apart from the occasional summons to Rome to see the person handling your case, an interview at the American consulate, or a medical examination, there wasn't much to do.

The medical examination was mandatory: without it, an American entry visa could not be issued, and people with certain serious illnesses, such as tuberculosis, could be refused.

Once a week there was the raskladka, as we called it—a kind of open-air market.

In Nettuno it was held on Wednesdays; in neighboring Anzio, I believe, on Thursdays.

From early morning, a large open area would fill with mobile stalls and makeshift shops selling all sorts of things, goods spread across tables and stands, some under awnings and some out in the open.

Crowds gathered, and business was brisk.

There were separate food stalls where, after a little bargaining, you could buy vegetables, fruit, cheese, olives, spices, fresh herbs, and all sorts of other things at very reasonable prices.

And, of course, the market was also a place to meet friends, talk, and exchange news.

Almost nobody knew Italian beyond a few words and phrases.

People were studying English, because without the language there was little hope of finding any work, even unofficial work.

Many people survived on odd jobs.

At every intersection, children and adults waited for the traffic lights to turn red, then ran up to the stopped cars and washed the windshields in exchange for tips.

All the larger, busier intersections had already been “claimed.” There were sometimes clashes between competing teams of windshield washers, and finding even a small patch of territory was difficult.

Our young neighbor traveled a long way by bus to work, usually without paying the fare. He left at first light and returned after dark.

He was exhausted, but he would proudly show us handfuls of coins and boast that he was making ten to fifteen dollars a day.

At the time, that seemed like an excellent income!

At an improvised “flea market,” which the police periodically broke up, we and other emigrants sold things we had brought from the Soviet Union specifically for that purpose: binoculars, watches, cameras, lenses, bed linen, and so on.

When we left the Soviet Union, taking money with us was practically impossible, and the amount we were allowed to exchange was pitifully small.

In our free time we wandered through the streets, going into shops and marveling at the abundance of goods—an abundance so unfamiliar to Soviet eyes.

We went to the Vatican and explored Rome, stunned by the majestic beauty of St. Peter's Basilica and the sheer grandeur of the Colosseum.

Sometimes we went down to the port, where it was fascinating simply to wander along the piers lined with dozens upon dozens of yachts.

Good heavens, what yachts there were!

Everything from small, fragile-looking boats to magnificent white beauties.

They lay at anchor, gently rocking on the water. From time to time people could be seen working on them, completely oblivious to us.

It was winter—the dead season.

One December day, my son and I happened upon a house with something on its roof that immediately caught my eye: a Yagi antenna, unmistakably belonging to a fellow radio amateur.

We asked at the shop downstairs and were told that a man named Adelio lived in the building and that the antenna was his.

We rang the doorbell. A woman answered.

After a lengthy attempt to communicate, she finally understood what we wanted, and we understood her: Adelio wasn't home.

When we came back another time, we met him.

He turned out to be a young, pleasant-looking fellow who was more than happy to show us his radio station, complete with the callsign IK0JMS.

Communication between us was surprisingly easy, despite the fact that his English was poor and mine was no better at the time.

We also met his parents, Laura and Ennio. They were not much older than my wife and me, but unlike their son, they spoke no English at all.

They invited us to spend Christmas with them, and we had a wonderful Christmas Eve in the company of their family and friends.

There were endless questions about all sorts of things. They had never met anyone from the Soviet Union before and knew virtually nothing about everyday life there.

It was difficult to explain—especially in a foreign language—what life was like on that other planet we called the Soviet Union.

Why would anyone leave it, abandoning everything they had accomplished and accumulated over an entire lifetime?

How could someone pay money to have his citizenship taken away and why was citizenship taken away when people emigrated?

And how could anyone make the decision to leave with only a few hundred dollars in his pocket, heading into an unknown future and burning all the bridges behind him?

Well, hopefully we managed to explain many of their questions.

A couple of days later, Adelio came to visit us at our little shack.

We felt rather embarrassed as we seated him at our rickety table and offered him our modest assortment of food in that tiny, cramped room.

He had brought a box of Christmas presents for everyone.

Later, I visited his home again and listened to the radio. He came by several more times in his car, and we drove around the town and the surrounding area.

Adelio, IK0JMS (left), with his father Ennio, winter 1989–90

One day he came to see us and told me that the Italian Red Cross, where his mother Laura worked, might be able to help a limited number of our emigrant families.

If I was interested, he said, I could gather about twenty families and bring them to a specified address. There would be someone there who spoke English, and we would receive food packages.

Naturally, I was interested.

Like most of the emigrants, we were living very modestly on our small allowance.

By then we had already developed a circle of acquaintances. In emigration, people tend to become close very quickly, brought together by the same worries and hardships.

I told everyone about the opportunity, and we quickly gathered the required number of families—unfortunately, a very limited number.

When we arrived, another young man and I took care of the necessary formalities, and everyone received a box.

There was dry-cured sausage, sugar, pasta, canned meat, and various other things.

That free assistance came at exactly the right time.

Everyone thanked me, and for a while I was the hero of the day.

We said a warm farewell to Adelio and his family after four long months in Italy, finally leaving for the America we had been waiting for so eagerly.

Several years passed.

We exchanged letters from time to time, sending each other Christmas cards year after year.

Adelio got married and sent us several photographs, including pictures of his new house and its impressive antenna installation.

I never heard him on the air again. He wrote that he was extremely busy and simply had no time for the hobby.

Unfortunately, our correspondence gradually faded, and sometime around 1995–96 I lost contact with him altogether.*

His email address stopped working, and the letters ceased to arrive.

Perhaps he had moved somewhere else.

I have never had an opportunity to return to Italy since then,** but those weeks and months remain with me.

They are constantly brought back by a white, red, and green pennant of the Italian Radio Amateurs Association (ARI), a gift from Adelio that hangs in my shack near my desk.

Addendum (2021)

With the help of Oleg (UI4F), contact with Adelio was recently restored! Thank you, Oleg!

* The photographs show Adelio's house in Nettuno, and Adelio with his wife Amelia in the town of Taormina, 2018.

** We visited Italy in 2018 but we had a tour for the northern Italy and didn’t get a chance to travel to Nettuno.

Four Months (Winter) in Italy

Addendum (2021)

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