Enzo Cucchi: I maschi

“The wheat is the most important thing. Harvested in summer, in the past, violinists and organ grinders would follow the reapers as they worked in a line, cutting wheat with their sickles while singing to the music. The reapers worked long hours, forming sheaves of wheat, tying them with cords made from wheat stems. The whole scene was suffused with the warm smell of wheat, and the workers sang of love, often daring songs. In the 19th century, a violinist would accompany the reapers, playing music, not only for harvests but also during Easter or New Year, going from cottage to cottage, receiving food in exchange for his music. During the grape harvest, although there were no musicians, workers would sing while pressing the grapes with their feet, filling the air with a sweet yet tart perfume. Stories like these were passed down by grandfathers, like the tale of the robin redbreast, named for the blood of Christ. During the war, I wrote to my family using these old tales to both communicate and confuse the censors. When I returned from the war, it was difficult to find my way home, but finally, I did, and we celebrated all night. The life of a peasant is hard—working in the fields, enduring the heat and cold, and dealing with the unpredictable forces of nature that could ruin months of labor. The fog and the changing winds could sneak into your bones, making work even harder. Everything had its smell: the earth, the plants, the animals. Smells tied everything together, linking us to the land and each other. Families lived closely connected. The elderly would sit by the fire, offering advice. They knew their wisdom was valuable, even if their physical strength had waned. In our house, we bathed once a week in the stalls, warmed by the heat of the cows. The cows, too, were attuned to the changes in weather, often sensing the wind shift before we did. In July, fields were threshed, and by August, even young boys of eight or nine led the cows to plough. I remember oversleeping once, and my father, frustrated, made me plough three furrows alone. It was hard work, for us and for the cows, whose tongues hung out in exhaustion. In war, children took over the men’s work, getting up at dawn to cut hay by moonlight. We worked in bare feet or clogs, saving shoes for Sundays. When we could afford it, a shoemaker would come to our home to make and repair shoes. The seamstress also came to sew new clothes when ours were worn out. In winter, we butchered pigs, saving every part for different uses—salami, sausages, prosciutto, and lard. The process was intense, from draining the blood to preserving the meat in salt and hanging it in the cellar to eat during the summer when food was scarce. Spring brought sowing, waiting for rain, and pruning the vines. In summer, wheat was harvested. Every grain of wheat was believed to show the face of the Madonna and child, and fireflies appeared, ripening the wheat with their lights. It was believed that the fireflies shone their lights on the wheat, helping it grow and ripen.” Morro D’Alba, Summer 2001 Giuseppe Cucchi, Brunella Antomarini Giuseppe Cucchi, the narrator, was born in Morro D’Alba (Ancona) in the region of the Marche, on the Adriatic sea. In the 60s he moved to Brescia in Northern Italy to find a better work but he came back after a few years as he couldn’t breathe well there. He lived in Ancona for many years and now he has come back to live in his native village, Morro D’Alba, with his wife Chiarina.