In Pursuit Of The Polkaman

Having reviewed my mission to the Piedmont in Searching For Carlo, I had finally arrived in Torino to search for clues about my maternal grandfather. I didn’t have much to go on: his full name, birthdate and the ship manifest noting his arrival in America from his last place of residence -- Chialamberto in the foothills of the Italian Alps.

Otherwise, I had very little information on Carlo. He arrived on Ellis Island in New York on November 24, 1904, which would have meant he was 22 years old at the time, close to his age in the picture below. His departure point was Le Havre, France, a major port city on the Normandy coast where the Siene River meets the English Channel.

Complicating matters, the name Cargni appears to be an anomaly, even in Italy. Suspecting I was onto something when I learned that the name “Cargnino” is popular in the Piedmont region, could it be that his name was truncated somehow when he was admitted to the U.S.? Mistakes were bound to happen in those days, right?

In Torino, I asked the front desk how one might actually get to Chialamberto. “Oh,” replied Antonio, “it’s a difficult task.” Apparently, you have to take a train, and then a bus, about 75 miles into the Alpine hill country.  “How much for a cab?” I asked. “Too much,” came the reply. Maybe the regional government office could provide some answers. Inquiring again at the front desk, Antonio advised me that it was less than a mile from the hotel.

Map in hand, I arrived at the correct edifice, and inquired: “parla Inglese?” “No,” replied the greeter, directing me to a gendarme working the security screening facility, who spoke a bit of English. With my modest knowledge of Italian, we were able to piece together a conversation that went something like this:

“Birth record for your grandfather?” he asked. “You’re in the wrong place. You need to go to the Consulati.” “Where is that?” I asked, and as he started to explain, I pulled out my map. “Show me here.” The city office was just north of downtown Torino, so off I went, hanging on the shady sides of streets because of the 90-degree heat.

By the time I reached the Consulati, I was in a full body sweat. I opened the door to the building that the gendarme had indicated on the map, but instead of a government office -- and much to my surprise, I might add -- it was a church: one of the most elaborate Catholic churches I had ever seen (and I’ve seen a few of the best in Italy, Germany and Spain).

Stumped, I queried the woman in attendance. She simply handed me a brochure explaining the church in English. The church, known as the Basilica Sanctuary of Consulata and dating back to the 10th century (below), is an eclectic collection of architecture: a Romanesque bell tower and a baroque set of domes with a Byzantine flair.

This was the first moment I felt the trail had grown cold. Spotting what seemed to be a rectory, with a sign noting that it would be open from 9 a.m. until 12 noon (it was 11:50 a.m. at that moment), I entered and found a volunteer staffing the office. He knew zero English, so I did my best to explain my mission.

Just when things looked hopeless, an African-Italian fellow entered the office. The volunteer asked him if he could translate. “Parle vous, francais.” “No,” I replied, “Just English and a little Italian.” Together, we were able to piece together a conversation. “The place you’re looking for is right across the street.” “Grazie,” I said with gratitude.

Across the street, a courtyard ringed with offices offered some hope. One in particular seemed to have potential, but after circling the courtyard, the office had closed (many shut down operations during the noon hour). Again, I had reached an impasse. Frustrated, I walked back to the street to determine the best way back to my hotel.

Looking east, then west, across the busy boulevard known as Corso Regina Margherita, I decided to do an about-face and seek shade in the corrugi, or narrow alleyways, en route to my hotel. Glancing back across the street, I saw the sign: Citta di Torino Anagrafe (City of Turin Registry Office). Quite suddenly, I was back in business.

Inside, I could go right for drivers licenses, or left for birth records. Bounding up the stairs on the left, I was greeted by volunteer. “Parla Inglese?” I asked feebly. “No.” Yet this guy wasn’t going to give up easily. After another animated mime session, he informed me I was in the right place and told me to take a number and wait.

Mere moments later, he asked me to follow him down a hallway to an office with two older women and a young fellow. If there’s one thing I learned on this trip, it’s that you shoot for the younger ones. They tend to be more likely to speak at least a bit of English. “Parla Inglese?” “Si,” he said while nodding enthusiastically.

“I’m looking for any record of my grandfather’s birth,” I continued. “I believe he was born in Chialamberto, in the hill country outside of Torino near the Parco Nazionale Gran Paradiso.” “Sorry,” he replied, “but unless he was born in the city limits of Torino, I can’t help you. “You’ll have to check with the town hall in Chialamberto.”

Stymied again, I was ready to throw in the towel. I thanked him for his help, and proceeded to exit the building. Then, I realized something. I didn’t know for sure that my grandfather was born in Chialamberto; that was just his residence of record when he was admitted to the U.S. at Ellis Island. So back I went, one more time.

Back in the same office, I informed the clerk of my doubts that my grandfather was actually born in Chialamberto, and that there was a slim chance he was born in Torino. “Do you a full name and birthdate?” he asked. “Yes,” I replied, “his name is Carlo Guiseppe Cargni, and he was born on October 3, 1882.”

“Follow me,” he said. After a walk down a corridor and a quick elevator ride, we were in a waiting area separated from a long room with records from ceiling to floor. "You don’t have these on a database?" I asked. He shook his head. After an unsuccessful exchange with the lady behind the counter, he said, “wait here.”

Moments later, he was back. “Here is your grandfather’s birth record.” I asked him to translate. “He was born of unknown parentage,” he explained. “An orphan?” I asked. “Yes. He was born at a midwifery in Torino. His birth was witnessed by a bricklayer and a doorman.” “Whoa,” I thought. “Wasn’t planning on this.”

“Let me make you a copy,” he said. “Grazie,” I replied. “And do you have a folder I could use? It’s quite hot out and I would like to protect the document as I walk back to my hotel.” “Si,” he replied. My fear was that I would sweat all over the coveted birth record on my trek back. We shook hands and off I went, back to the Hotel Roma.

Back in my room, I surveyed my situation. Carlo’s birth record, while lacking the name of his parents, did include an address: 17 Corso San Maurizio. Initially, it was looking like the street was in a little town outside of Torino, known as Cirie, not nearly as far away as Chialamberto, but still a cab ride into the hinterlands.

At the front desk, I asked Antonio how far it was to Cirie. Definitely more doable, he noted, asking for the address. When I gave him the locale noted on my grandfather’s birth record, he responded by saying that the address was less than a 15-minute walk from the Hotel Roma. “You’re kidding,” I said. He shook his head “no.”

So, after pointing me in the right direction, it did indeed turn out to be but a short walk to the address on his birth record. The building itself was long gone, of course. Carlo was born in 1882, nearly 60 years before WWII, when Torino was literally flattened by Allied air strikes as the Nazis retreated from Southern Europe.

Nonetheless, the address did exist in a post-war residential tenement along Corso San Maurizio (below). Sat down for a spell, absorbing the ambiance of the location. The park across the street known as Giardini Reali is the second largest in Torino’s city center.

So here is what I learned on my quest: my grandfather, Carl Joseph Cargni was orphaned at birth by unknown parents (“incognito,” says the birth record), likely just the mother. Sent to a convent, he appears to have been placed with a family in Chialamberto or thereabouts in the Alpine foothills near the French border.

At age 22, he emigrated to America where he married and later divorced an Italian woman from Marseille. A miner by trade, he began his American experience by working the mines of Wyoming and Montana, and eventually Cle Elum, Washington. Later, he moved to Seattle, and then Portland, where he married my grandmother.

Since he died when I was a wee lad, my memory of Carlo is based primarily on impressions from my Mom, who adored him: he was a good man, of course, and an honest, hardworking individual. Carlo founded a janitorial service in the City of Roses, later managed by my uncle, John Cargni, that was very successful and well respected.

Settling with his family on Woodstock Boulevard near Reed College in Eastmoreland, a tree-filled neighborhood in southeast Portland, Carlo was skilled on the accordion -- a proficient polkaman, as it were. Along with my great-uncle Paul Bricchetto (below, top row, middle), he would provide the entertainment at family gatherings.