It is 1946. Italy emerges from war broken and exhausted. Fresh losses, lingering grievances, so much to rebuild. Yet also tremendous hope, and the hunger to build anew. The referendum has just established that Italy will be a republic. The pope is Pius XII.
But why leap back seventy years? Because that is the year I met Mariangela.
I had been attending the Nazareth Institute for some years and had just enrolled in my third year of middle school. The group from the previous year reassembled on the first day. Then she appeared—the new student. Her hair hung in braids pinned at the nape of her neck, and she spoke with a thick Venetian accent. We Romans found it rather amusing. What a way she had of talking!
The surprise and wariness that first meeting sparked faded within days. The new student had a quick mind and was excellent company—truly likable, and genuinely good. She became a friend to all of us.
In those days, we would gather at each other's homes in the afternoons to do our homework together.
I lived on Viale Angelico; she lived on Piazza Città Leonina, in a fine palazzo a stone's throw from the colonnade of St. Peter's. That house astonished me. It was enormous—as enormous as the Mazzarotto family itself. When I arrived, Mariangela's younger brothers, Piero and Alberto, would race their tricycles through the entryway. I had never known a family with ten children. When I called to find her, whoever answered would say, "Let me see if she's here." Let me see? Did they truly not know whether she was home or not? Unthinkable at my house. Another wonder of those visits was the ice chest—a rarity in those days.
The family had moved to Rome not long before. With so many children, I am sure the household operated with its share of rules, but also freedoms. The ease, the generosity, the strength I always recognized in Mariangela—these, I am certain, took root in that sprawling home.
Mariangela's father died young. The family had to reorganize itself to bear the loss. Everyone took on new responsibilities, large or small. Mariangela did her part. In liceo she was a conscientious student. She loved literature, and that became her path. When Monsignor Fallani, president of the Pontifical Commission for Sacred Art, entered the classroom, we would sit enchanted as he guided us through Dante's terza rima.
A beautiful bond formed between my father and Mariangela—two book lovers, bound by esteem and affection. For my part, I was drawn to Signora Mazzarotto, a force as a family leader yet joyful at her core. What delightful theatrical productions she organized in that house!
The classical lyceum exam came, preceded by months of study and anxiety. We both passed. Time to celebrate. Mariangela invited me to Scomigo, a small village in the Veneto. Rural life unfolded simply there. Mariangela made me feel at home—no pretense, no fussiness. Even here, the large family shaped everything. There were young people of all ages, and I found myself immersed in a world entirely new. In the evenings we gathered around a bonfire to talk and sing. At midday a bell from the farmhouse called us to lunch. When it came time to leave, a cart drawn by oxen carried our luggage and us to the station.
We went to Cortina, and for the first time I saw real mountains. Mariangela was my guide.
The years that followed disrupted our routines. University divided us. Some of us found the person who would become our life's partner.
Yet we never lost touch. At important moments—weddings, births—we were always there for one another. Mariangela's husband, Paolo, came from a large family too, the Bertolinis.
Their daughter Chicca was born. She was not growing as she should, and this caused her parents deep anxiety. We friends, though removed from the daily struggle, were troubled too. We wondered how Paolo and Mariangela managed. Yet at the same time, they were teaching us that it was possible. More than possible—that one could live with serenity. The vacations we spent with them at Donoratico, with Chicca, and the day of her First Communion were moments of genuine joy. I was in daily contact with Paolo; we taught in the same classroom. I have often asked myself whether others would have had such strength, and whether the experience with Chicca sparked the social commitment and force that everyone came to know in Mariangela. But I believe she possessed such strength already, and that events simply channeled it.
My memories do not end here, but I will close now. Many people knew the Mariangela of Fede e Luce far better than I, and can speak of her more fully.
I want only to say: thank you, Mariangela, for all you gave to me and to all of us. It was beautiful to meet you and to walk so much of the road together. I am certain you are watching over us and smiling.
Paola Angeloro Cervellati, 2014
