di Emilio Iodice
.
Caro Sandro e cari amici di Ponzaracconta.
Sono profondamente toccato da questa dedica e da questa bellissima storia italo-americana (leggi e guarda qui).
Per dimostrare il mio apprezzamento dedico a te e a tutti coloro che hanno partecipato a questo meraviglioso documento, una storia che accadde nello stesso momento in cui quegli straordinari italiani crearono il primo albero di Natale al Rockfeller Center.
Possa il loro ricordo vivere per sempre nei nostri cuori.
Buon Natale a tutti, un grande abbraccio,
Emilio
Lavoratori al Rockefeller Center vicino a un albero di Natale, il primo esposto lì, il 24 dicembre 1931.
Per gentile concessione di Associated Press e New York Times
L’immigrato e il reporter
Una storia di coraggio, visione e speranza
di Emilio Iodice
Era la Vigilia di Natale, 1931.
Un reporter della città di New York decise di scrivere una storia di interesse umano. Voleva sollevare gli animi dei suoi lettori. Erano devastati dalla Grande Depressione che peggiorava di giorno in giorno.
Non sapeva cosa preparare.
Vagava per il centro.Entrò nel cantiere più grande della città.
Il sito era abbandonato, a eccezione di un uomo.
Un singolo lavoratore faticava nel vento gelido e nella pioggia.
Era un immigrato italiano.
Stava posando dei mattoni. Stava ricostruendo un vecchio muro adiacente a una casa di preghiera.
Nonostante la forza degli elementi, l’uomo andava avanti con il suo compito.
Miscelava il cemento e posava gentilmente una pietra sopra l’altra come un artigiano del Rinascimento. Curandosi della precisione, dell’aspetto e della qualità, osservava attentamente il suo lavoro.
Per quell’immigrato, quello era più di un muro. Era un qualcosa di importante. Aveva un significato. Il tempo rigido, i suoi vestiti umidi e le dita gelate non avevano effetto su di lui, continuava.
Il reporter seguì l’operaio. Osservò i suoi movimenti, ora dopo ora. Era confuso. Perché quest’uomo lavorava così duramente? Cosa lo guidava? Perché aveva così tanta passione?
Dopotutto era solo un muro. Veniva pagato una cifra irrisoria ed era la Vigilia di Natale. Aveva famiglia? Qualcuno si preoccupava per lui? Perché lavorava come Michelangelo mentre scolpiva La Pietà?
Infine, gli fece una domanda. “Non è esausto? Ha posato mattoni tutto il giorno con questo tempo terribile”.
L’immigrante lo guardò. Sorrise. I suoi occhi neri, la carnagione scura e la barba ispida risplendevano sotto i raggi del sole che stava tramontando su Manhattan.
“Signore, lei non capisce nulla”, disse. “Io non sto posando dei mattoni. Io sto costruendo una cattedrale”.
Il reporter era sbalordito. Era perso.
Improvvisamente capì. Fu una rivelazione.
Quest’uomo conosceva il significato del lavoro e della vita: non importa quale sia il nostro stato; non importa quali siano i nostri doveri; non importa quanto umili possano sembrare i nostri compiti; stiamo facendo qualcosa che è sempre parte di una visione più ampia e ognuno di noi ha una missione su questo pianeta.
L’italiano aveva scoperto il segreto della conquista, del successo e della speranza.
L’immigrato era mio nonno.
La versione originale (in inglese)
A Christmas Story: The Immigrant and the Reporter
A Story of Vision and Hope
by Emilio Iodice
It was Christmas Eve, 1931.
A New York City reporter set out to write a tale of human interest.
He wanted to uplift the spirit of his readers and give them courage for a better tomorrow.
They were ravaged by the onslaught of the Great Depression.
It grew worse day by day.
It was a time of fear, famine, and a lack of hope.
He didn’t know what to prepare or what to write.
What could interest the readers of the city’s largest newspaper when they felt helpless and without a vision for the future?
The reporter wandered into midtown Manhattan.
Thousands of cars, buses, trucks, and carriages were snarled in traffic as they tried to inch their way around the largest and most expensive construction site in the world.
He walked into the area filled with sand, stones, and cement, and hundreds of bulldozers that seemed to be sleeping as the snow covered the city of cities.
It would be the largest collection of skyscrapers on earth, laid out across 22 acres of the richest commercial property on the planet.
The buildings were to become the most modern of the age with high-speed elevators, air conditioning, central heating, and instantaneous telecommunications.
The construction area was abandoned except for a tiny figure the reporter saw in the north corner of the site adjacent to Fifth Avenue.
It took him twenty minutes to reach the place where this solitary shape could be found.
A single laborer was toiling in the freezing wind, snow, and rain.
He was an immigrant from Italy. He was laying bricks. He was restoring an old wall attached to a house of prayer.
Despite the elements, the man continued his task.
He mixed his cement and gently placed one stone upon another like an artisan from the Renaissance.
The reporter stared at him.
He had a face worn by toil, worry and suffering. Deep lines sunk into his forehead and cheeks, covered by a greyish, black beard.
The Italian looked carefully at his work.
He was concerned about precision, appearance, and quality.
For this immigrant, it was more than a wall. It was something important. It had meaning. The wintry weather, his wet clothes and freezing fingers had no effect on him. He persevered.
The reporter followed the laborer.
He watched his movements, hour upon hour.
He was confused. Why was this man working so hard? What was driving him? Why was he so passionate? After all, this was only a wall. He was being paid a paltry sum.
It was Christmas Eve. Did he have a family? Did anyone care about him? Why was he laboring like Michelangelo creating the Pietà?
Finally, he asked him a question. “Aren’t you weary? You have been laying bricks all day in this miserable weather.”
The immigrant looked at him. He smiled.
His black eyes, dark complexion and rough beard glowed in the rays of the sun setting over Manhattan.
“Sir, you don’t understand anything,” he said, “I am not laying bricks. I am building a cathedral”.
The reporter was stunned.
He was lost, confused.
Suddenly, he understood. He had his story. It was a revelation.
This man knew the meaning of work and of life. It was that no matter what our state; no matter what our duties; no matter how menial our tasks seem to be; we are doing something that is always part of a larger vision and we each have a mission on this planet.
The Italian discovered the secret to achievement, success, and hope.
(*) – That immigrant was my grandfather, Raffaele Iodice
A blessed Christmas and God protect us all.
~
(*) – Raffaele Iodice came to America from the island of Ponza in 1902 at the age of 16. He worked on construction projects from Canada to New York. He laid bricks to restore St. Patrick’s Cathedral during the creation of Rockefeller Center and helped build the giant underwater columns of the George Washington Bridge and received commendations and medals from the New York Port Authority. He returned to Ponza in 1938 and died eight years later at the age of 60.
