Finding Family in Sicily – Part 2

In case you missed the first installment, you can read it here: Finding Family in Sicily – Part 1

Over 100 years ago, Mary’s grandfather left Piana degli Albanesi for America. He was 19 years old. His oldest brother joined him and, later, his five sisters and their mother. They would all land in Rockport, Illinois but Mary’s father, Antonio, would settle in the Greenbush neighborhood of Madison, Wisconsin. Since Mary’s grandfather wouldn’t talk about what he had left behind, (“There was nothing there for me,” was the most he would say), this was all she knew.

For decades, Mary had dreamed of going to her homeland, the place where her “Nonnie” had left. She couldn’t help hoping that there was still some family in the old country. After Tom and I bought a house in Sicily, her plans began in earnest. Two years later, she and my cousin purchased tickets for their first trip abroad. Mary came in search of her roots. But with only a family name and a few photos, what were the chances she would learn anything?

To make things just a little confusing, the name had changed. Twice. Originally Fabbiano with two “b”s, Mary’s grandfather had dropped one “b” when he came to America. Or was it recorded incorrectly? Chissa! (Who knows?!) But then in WW1, he dropped the “o”. Antonio Fabbianno, a young immigrant from Sicily, had become Antonio Fabian, an American war veteran.

It was May 12, 2025 and we were in the Piana degli Albanesi cemetery.

Salvatore, the grounds keeper, had informed us that he was a Fabbiano. Then he told us to wait as he attended to a funeral. When he returned, he brought along the young funeral director, who, having visited the States himself, spoke some English. The old man who introduced us to Salvatore had left and there was no way we could understand each other without an interpreter.

The six of us walked to the resting place of Salvatore’s mother. We were respectful. Interested. And still we thought, but what about Mary’s family?

Having not interpreted much, the young man left, and Salvatore called his cousin. Rita had worked for the telecom company for 40 years which meant that she, too, could speak English. Again, we were amazed. At least, I was. Americans tend to expect the world to speak English, but it doesn’t. Especially in Italy. Certainly not those in small towns. But once again, we were lucky. Salvatore’s cousin, Rita, spoke English very well.

Rita asked for the details on Mary’s family. We repeated what we knew: Mary’s grandfather, Antonio, left with a brother to the United States. Then came the five sisters. Then his mother. “Yes, yes,” Rita said, “But what about the brother who was left behind?”

What??

And this is when things escalated quickly. We hung up Salvatore’s phone and called on mine using WhatsApp video. Rita and her husband held up a few photos and Mary held up hers. Gasps, exclamations, excitement. Could it really be true?

I forget things all the time. Ask me if I’ve seen a movie, read a book, or if I’ve been somewhere and I’m likely to say no. Until days later, after thinking about it for a while, and I remember. When information doesn’t stay front and center, it gets stored deep in the recesses of our minds. It’s the old card catalog system. First you must thumb through file drawers to find the card and then you must find the memory. That’s exactly what happened here. Mary’s grandfather wouldn’t talk about Sicily. There was nothing there for him, he would say, and that was that. Mary’s father followed suit. Details became buried.

But speaking with Rita, everything came rushing back.

Everything Mary knew and shared had been correct. Except one thing: There was one more brother, Salvatore. Salvatore had stayed in Sicily.

Imagine being Salvatore. His entire family left him and moved across the ocean. Five sisters, two brothers, and his mother. (Their father was already deceased.) Only he remained, the second oldest, the middle son. He was married when everyone else boarded a boat taking them far from Sicily. Of course he would stay. He was responsible for a new family but, naturally, he would have missed all those who had departed.

Imagine being Rita or the younger Salvatore: growing up knowing about family that moved to America. Imagine being a grandchild to the only family member who stayed in their small hometown. Salvatore and his family kept the stories alive, and the hope alive, that one day they would be reconnected.

And now that day had arrived.

This is why Rita was able to access the family photos so quickly. They weren’t buried in a box or hidden. So while she and her cousin Salvatore were surprised, they weren’t as surprised as Mary. In a way, they were prepared. They knew the stories; they had the photos. Mary had none of this. In little more than one hour, Mary had found her family.

This is a miracle.

Salvatore Fabbiano was Mary’s great uncle. And that made Salvatore, the cemetery groundskeeper in Piano degli Albanesi, Mary’s second cousin. Rita, also descended from Salvatore, was Mary’s second cousin as well.

The truth is, we were overwhelmed. At least, we Americans were. It was hard to fathom as it happened so quickly. There were no false hopes, dead ends, or mysteries left to untangle. We drove to the ancestral town of Mary’s grandfather with only a few photos and not much more. We hoped to learn something. To find a grave, make some kind of connection, and leave with a few more pieces to the puzzle.

Instead, we found the puzzle complete.

What to do now? Salvatore was still working. Rita was in Palermo (an hour away) and unable to meet us. How long could we stay on the phone? What more was there to ask? We needed to leave, to sit down, to process. So, we did. We took a photo, exchanged hugs, and left.

We went into town. We visited the cathedral, then sat down for lunch. Conversation was a bit stunted. The evidence was there but… this was going to take some time.

Only eighty minutes after leaving the cemetery, walking through the historic town center, I heard the shout, “Dove stai camminando?” I turned and there was Salvatore in his car, asking us where we were walking, (essentially what were we doing now)? Given the hour, he certainly was on lunch and likely headed home. If I had responded differently, we probably would have ended up at his house. But in the moment, we were still too dazed by what we had just learned.

When Mary returned to the States, she organized a FaceTime video with her father and Rita.

During this conversation, Mary and her father learned that there are still cousins on her grandmother’s side that live in Sicily. But that family and that story will have to wait for another trip and another time.

One miracle, at the moment, is enough.

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What do you think? Was this remarkable or not? Have you ever tried to find family in another country? I’d love to hear from you!

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