Chapter 5: The Man that Loved Me: A Fathers Memoir: The Farm in England

After the reunion beside the village stream, my grandfather did not rest. He came not only to embrace his wife and son, but to gather them—his whole family—and lead them into a new beginning.

They didn’t go straight to America. First, there was England. And how that came to be is a story wrapped in integrity.

A year before my grandfather was released from the prison camp, he was offered a deal: sign a paper, pledge loyalty to the English, and he could walk free.

He refused.

It was a simple act on the surface—but the cost was heavy. One more year behind barbed wire, another year of separation from the people he loved most. He chose that price.

But word of his refusal didn’t vanish. One of the English generals who witnessed his choice was moved. There was something unmistakable about a man who would delay his own freedom for the sake of truth. The general didn’t forget. When the war ended, he hired my grandfather to work on a farm in England—and made room for his family to join him.

And so, my father’s next chapter began: as a boy from war-torn Italy, now walking the green fields of England.

It wasn’t easy.

He was a foreign child in a place where not long ago, Italians were considered the enemy. He didn’t speak the language. But what he did speak—without words—was pride, and humility, and a quiet strength.

He would tell us stories of his time there. Of how, as he slowly learned English, he began to understand what was being said around him. And what had once been just noise began to sting. Remarks. Blame. Unjust accusations when anything went wrong in the classroom. And perhaps worst of all: the coldness.

He told one story often—a small but unforgettable memory. He needed to use the bathroom, but didn’t yet know the right English words. He tried to explain himself to the teacher, who wouldn’t budge. The key was withheld. The request denied. Not because he did something wrong—but because he couldn’t speak with the dignity they expected.

And yet… he carried even that memory with grace.

He never hardened. He never let himself become the product of resentment. He could have. He had every reason to. But he didn’t.

Instead, he taught us to hold on to the good. And if we asked about it—if we ever questioned the cruelty of that time—he would smile in that quiet way and say,

“I wouldn’t change anything that happened to me. Not one thing.”

That was the one thing we didn’t agree on.

Because I’ve known pain. I’ve known fear. And I have often said—I would never choose to live it again.

But he did.

He would.

And maybe that’s why he seemed to carry such light. Because he never wasted time trying to rework his past. He chose, again and again, to transform it instead.