During World War II, many Italian soldiers captured by the British in North Africa were sent to different countries in the British Empire such as South Africa, India, and Australia. The largest camp for Italian POWs was Zonderwater in South Africa, where thousands of Italians were imprisoned for what seemed like an eternity.
Among these prisoners was my uncle Carmelo Piscioneri, a 29-year-old soldier from Locri, Reggio Calabria. My image of him is among my most cherished childhood memories. He loved my siblings and me and often indulged our wishes for toys and ice-cream. Carmelo was married to my father’s sister, Carmela. In 1951, the couple immigrated to Toronto, Ontario, to make a better life for themselves. Sadly, he and my aunt were not able to have children of their own.
Carmelo was the only child of humble farm labourers. He was very devote in his Catholic faith. As a child, I remember him speaking very little, and always softly. I often caught him staring into space with a pained expression on his face. At the time, in my limited understanding, I thought he was exhausted from his work in construction. I came to realize much later that he may have suffered from undiagnosed Post Traumatic Stress Disorder since the time of his return from the war. I suspect that this condition plagued his gentle soul for the rest of his life.
At the time he was drafted, Carmelo was strong and full of life. But his youthful fortitude was swallowed by the calamities of war. He was carried far from the olive groves and sea air of Calabria before being captured and sent to the Zonderwater Camp. The monotony of life in the camp was a significant source of strain, so the making of arts and crafts was encouraged. Crafts provided a way for prisoners to alleviate the tedium of endless days.
Carmelo Piscioneri Soldier. Photo: courtesy of the author.
Life as a prisoner of war was marked by deprivation. Food often lacked vital nutrients. Over time, Carmelo’s body weakened. His body grew thin, and one day his world simply went dark, as he suffered the devastating consequence of blindness brought on by malnutrition. The loss of his sight plunged him into despair; unsure of whether he would ever again see the Calabrian hills of his home or look at the blue horizon of the Ionian Sea.
But over time, with gradual improvement in nourishment, his vision was restored. For Carmelo, this was no ordinary recovery: it was a miracle. As a man of faith, he believed God had blessed him with the return of his sight, and with it, the hope of one day returning to his home.
Carmelo felt a deep need to give thanks. But in captivity, the ways to express his gratitude were few. With cloth and thread sourced from limited camp supplies, and with patient hands, he began to create something enduring.
Santa Lucia is the patron saint of the city of Syracuse in Sicily. She is known as the protector of eyesight, and she is depicted carrying a tray in her hand that holds the eyes of those she protects. In gratitude for the restoration of his sight, Carmelo created a devotional work: an embroidered image of the Saint of the Eyes.
The project was completed during his internment. It was not only an act of devotion, but also a form of quiet defiance – a way of proving that even in prison, his spirit remained unbroken. Slowly, stitch by stitch, he fashioned the saint’s image onto the burlap cloth that had been a potato sac. Each stitch was a prayer, each thread a token of thanks. In that image lay his suffering, his hope, and his gratitude. It was also a symbol of survival and the unbroken bond between his suffering and his faith.
Even in captivity, stripped of freedom, family, and homeland, Carmelo found a way to affirm that life and faith could endure. Its message was an expression of thanks to God; a testimony that reminds us that, in the darkest times, faith and resilience can bring back the light.
When he finally returned home, Carmelo, a hurt and marred soldier, carried the carefully wrapped Santa Lucia hidden beneath his clothes. With it came the story of those atrocious years of hunger and blindness. Within every thread of the image lay his suffering, his hope, his faith, his gratitude, and the light that had come back into his eyes.
“Santa Lucia, Ricordo da prigionero 11. 1. 1942. Souid Africa,” embroidered cloth by Carmelo Piscioneri, stands as a rare example of art created in captivity, linking personal faith to historical circumstance. Photo: courtesy of the author.
The framed work hung prominently in the living room of all the houses Carmelo and Carmela had lived in. It traveled with them from Toronto to New York and back to Toronto. While visiting them one day, I saw that my aunt Carmela was dusting around the frame. I asked my uncle to tell me about his Santa Lucia. He started, but he didn’t get very far.
“When I could see again, my boney fingers struggled with holding the needle in place. Some days, my sight was still too blurry to pass the thread through the needle. I would ask my buddies to help, and while they did, they teased me about making a craft that was traditionally made by women.
“Do you see how the black threads stopped, where they should have completed the outline? That was on the day I stopped – the day of our freedom. I rolled up the canvas and carefully tucked it close to my heart, asking Santa Lucia to accompany me back home.”
He took the framed work down from the wall with trembling hands. Holding it once again close to his heart, his face flooded with a veil of silent tears. Handing it to me, he whispered, “When I’m gone, you take care of Santa Lucia.”
It was my turn to have my face flood with silent tears.
The Santa Lucia work of art has survived its eighty-three years well; a treasured heirloom. It is displayed in a place of honour, both as an artifact and a testimony. Carmelo is remembered with love and admiration by his many nieces and nephews. We were blessed with his presence in our lives. His devotional work of Santa Lucia symbolizes the overcoming of hardship, endurance, and gratitude, reminding future generations of the extraordinary trials faced by one man during World War II.
Rosina Fazzolari is currently working on her debut novel. A daughter of Italian immigrants, through her work she aspires to shine a light on the Italian-Canadian immigrant experience in Toronto.
