We stumbled into it by accident! One afternoon Mariangela was talking about pots to find, stoves to install, little tables to paint, and dishes, posters, glasses, utensils, old carpets, games to invent, jam for snacks, cleaning supplies, paintbrushes, "who's going to help fix things up?", "will you make the rice?", "did you get the turpentine?". If you know her, this is nothing new.
Rest assured, no one will drink the turpentine and the posters won't end up glued down with jam. But the real question is figuring out what's behind all this.
Some called it "the daycare," others said "the hideout," and a few just referred to "the rooms downstairs." Then the name came: "la casetta"—the little house of Fede e Luce. And the work began!
Our unstoppable crew of young friends started scraping walls, working with plaster and brooms, chipping away at floors, and moving furniture.
One dusty Sunday of plaster and rubble: I dare you to find anyone who came home with more than a ten-inch square of clean skin. Gray heads, faces painted like Sioux warriors, polka-dot pants, and hands worthy of a master mason with thirty years on the job.
All week long Guenda raced around Rome like Agostino the Mad—a motorized Neapolitan—and with her characteristic determined expression, she arrived at Nazareth with two tons of carpet scraps in every color imaginable that, with some tape, some creativity, and everyone's labor, could become a kaleidoscopic carpet for all kinds of uses.
By then I'd caught the painting bug too. But young Matteo had really caught it. When his mother shrieked, "My God, measles!!", he calmly explained, "No, Mama, not measles—I was painting." Yes, red: the little chair, his sweater, his socks, the edge of his underwear, and his face.
Working alongside Guenda, we whitewashed walls, gave cement to the pipes, and painted everything else red and blue. By evening we all had painter's cramp, strained backs, eyes half-blinded—complaints that vanished the moment we saw that the "little house" was no longer just an idea in someone's head. It had a fresh white face now, and smelled new and clean.
Wednesday, Thursday, Friday. "You do the shopping, I'll make the rice salad, Francesca will bring the cakes."
Guenda organizes, makes calls, invites the kids to spend Sunday at the "little house," giving their parents a half day to rest. I leave her in the afternoon with three hundred things to do.
Then that evening—the fateful phone call: "Manu, it's appendicitis. I'm out of commission."
No! Not now. Guenda, laid up in bed with that sad, sad look—not so much from the stomach pain as from the thought of the "little house."
So Sunday, when she hung the welcome sign, I thought about her riding up on that motorino. Instead, at that moment, she was riding out a hospital mattress.
We kept thinking of each other all day—thought bubbles above our heads: "What are they doing down there?" "Don't think about it too much, think about your stomach."
Between gluing down carpet, running supplies back and forth, and the occasional ball game, the first morning flew by in good spirits. Then everyone pitched in (whether from solidarity or hunger, who knows) to set the table.
Twenty of us—big and small—sat down to eat. Rice salad, eggs, cakes, and fruit. And there I sat with a mouthful, thinking of Guenda's semolina and stewed prunes. Fate's little tricks.
Michel came for Mass. Giorgio was on duty as the perfect altar boy. Who says you can't praise God while knocking down a few pins? So between the Epistle and the Gospel, Giorgio prayed while sending colored pins flying. A private match between him and the Good Lord.
Goodbyes and farewells. The "little house" had been inaugurated.
It's Wednesday now. The little house is closed up, waiting for next Sunday. Guenda is in the clinic in a flowered nightgown. Solidarity, visits, friends from Fede e Luce.
Among all the gifts the "little house" has received, these ten centimeters of inflamed appendix are, of all of them, the most welcome.
- Manu, 1977
What Is the Little House?
The little house of Fede e Luce is a small community born in Rome out of the experience of the Alfedena camp (see no. 10 of "Insieme"). Some friends wanted to keep meeting twice a month, reliving the spirit of camp life. After finding two rooms—one for work and play, the other set up as a kitchen—they gather from 9 in the morning to 4 in the afternoon to spend Sunday together.
Who are the "inhabitants"? About fifteen friends from all the Rome groups, who invite seven or eight young people who have few other chances to leave their parents, or rarely find anyone to spend time with, or present a particular challenge for the family. Sometimes a mother or two comes to help out.
The atmosphere is simple and peaceful for everyone. So much so that we rarely finish by the scheduled time, and we always leave wishing we could come back in fifteen days.
A sign that it works.
Italia Valle, 1977