The girl with a way with words, who wrote letters for the soldiers and read stories

My grandmother’s name was Grazia, but to everyone, in Sardinian, she was Grassiedda. That’s why my father wanted to call me Graziella: not to distance me from her, but so that I might resemble her.

During the Great War she was still just a little girl, yet in the village they were already calling on her to write letters to the soldiers. One day, despite her having a very high fever, her grandfather hoisted her onto his shoulders to take her to read a letter that had just arrived from the front. She would never forget the gratitude shown by that soldier’s wife: the woman traced a cross on her forehead and, as if by magic, the fever vanished. It was in this most extraordinary way that my grandmother discovered that the power of good can be so strong as to drive out evil.

As soon as she came of age, they styled her hair with cucchi – the traditional Dorgali hairstyle – and dressed her in the skirt and blouse of the traditional costume. She married Giovanni Maria, a man with kind eyes and a reassuring demeanour, and followed him to the roadmen’s cottages in Sardinia, where the paths were battered by the mistral and bandits. She, however, feared nothing; and so, one pregnancy after another, she gave birth to nine children — including my father, Graziano.

The days passed slowly in the isolated roadside cottages, but Grassiedda continued to use his voice to bridge the distances. After supper, in fact, several people would arrive from distant homes to gather round Grassiedda, who read to young and old alike. In a loud, confident tone, he brought to life the myth of the Nibelungs, the exploits of Siegfried, the dragon Fafnir and Queen Brunhilde. Where he had found those books remained a mystery, but the most likely explanation was that they had been a gift from a wayfarer. Amidst the rugged terrain of the island’s interior, the Norse epic did not seem out of place at all; indeed, it seemed to blend perfectly with the power of the night, the coolness of the springs and the trees swaying in the wind.

One day, Grassiedda and Giovanni Maria, together with their nine children, decided to move to Nuoro, just below the little church of Solitudine, at the foot of Mount Ortobene. There, my grandmother became a guiding light for the community, a ‘donna de judissiu’: a wise and respected figure, to whom many turned for advice or to settle a dispute.

Her strong spirit never deserted her. When her youngest son was taken on as a postman in Cagliari, she decided to accompany him. For the first part of the journey, she travelled by coach, whilst he followed behind on a Moto Guzzi Stornello – a fiery red machine with a roaring engine. On arriving in Cagliari, however, they discovered there were no transport links to Quartu, where their other daughter, Juanna, was waiting for them.

Grassiedda did not lose heart: paying no heed to the bulk of her dress, she climbed onto the seat behind her son and, together, they tackled the final stretch of the journey. When she returned to Solitudine, she told everyone, amused, about the thrill of that motorbike ride.

She spent her final days, whilst still young, alongside her brother, a priest who had been sent to Orgosolo as parish priest. On that occasion too, it was she who accompanied him to show him the way: just long enough for him to settle into the rectory, get to know the parishioners and ensure that he was well looked after. She was just over fifty years old when her heart stopped beneath the cross at the parish house.

But her voice has not been silenced: the memory of Grazia Fancello, the grandmother of the girl from Solitudine, lives on today in the pages I have woven for her and is reborn in the name I have given my daughter, Grazia.

   

Graziella Monni, a writer, has just published the novel "La ragazza della Solitudine" (366 pp) with Solferino. This story is a previously unpublished piece for "Il Figlio"