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date » 01-10-2026 09:22

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Via Roma
(In Italy, elementary schools traditionally opened their doors precisely today, the first of October)


Every morning, the series of winding sidewalks and twisting pedestrian crossings leads black smudged aprons toward the elementary school on Via Roma. White collars, both starched and synthetic with butterfly buttons, float above red ribbons and shields pinned to chests—where white numbers on a blue background in Roman numerals identify the grades. Swarms pour out from the school alleys, leather satchels and cardboard cases spinning through the air like festive swords. Chases and trading card (Album Panini of footballers) swaps yield to the school bell, which punctually puts an end to the pandemonium and disperses small troops along the Popolo staircase. Beyond the glass doors, silence reigns supreme. Like carapace, the grandmother-mother-teacher Madam Forlenza kicks off the day with a prayer oozing same boredom and the dust of as old maps on wall. ...continue... The movable-letter primer rests on the dark, rough wooden desk; high above sits the inkwell filled daily by the custodian pouring from a large glass bottle, alongside an illustrated reader, a box of nibs, Giotto paints, and black cloth-bound rough notebooks with red-corded Pigna spines featuring the Pythagorean table and blotters. Thus begins the daily journey of learning, seated at benches akin to torture instruments (many a case of scoliosis owes them a special thanks). Just a few minutes later, the classroom springs back to life during recess with the joyful uproar of mortadella rolls, thick slices of salami, and the fragrant barter of ruccolo ( a particular pizza" baked in a wood-burning oven using the first roaring fire).
At the end of the corridor, the small theater dozes. Lined up separately, boys on one side and girls on the other await the magical slides projection—multimedia filmstrips long before their time. At regular intervals, Red Cross stamp collections evoke African populations ravaged by famine, diseases to be fought, and pious little sacrifices offered up as penance. Field trips end at the Provincial Museum or the mobile Tbc chest X-ray unit on chapel Santa Maria, Principe di Piemonte, with its gloomy wards and brisk brusque.
A mythological figure hovers over the school—like the Cerberus, who announces his presence through the loudspeakers mounted above the crucifixes on the classrooms walls. Even when he does not appear in flesh and bone, Director Telesca is well represented; the whacks from teacher Avallone's a paddle on palm of hand slats (pieces of carpentry each of us carries as a "gift" for his) are quite enough to restore Order.
Any tormenting Saturday when arrivals of the music maestro Vittorio Arcieri is softened by the gentle smile of the Pauline nuns distributing the Children's Magazine (named Il Giornalino), while in the backlit shadows of the corridors, the broad, good-natured face of the custodian with his missing hand (rumored to have been lost in the war) steps forward.
The young teacher keeps track of the hour behind her smoked glasses while reading Pinocchio. Crouched with our heads on our arms, we wait out the remaining minutes, the bell, and the exit in platoons—unless someone sneaks away early, earning a punishment facing the back of the corridor and being the last to leave.
Mother’s hand, Panini sticker albums, the regions of Italy, Rin Tin Tin, string licorice from Peppin’ u carrett’—his cart overflowing with lancette, sweet sticks, and colorful candy tubes—all merge seamlessly with newfound freedom.
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