By Tod Tolan

Group XXIV

It was late February for the students of Group XXIV, and we had just completed our winter field trip to Rome, Italy. Some students chose to visit friends at the Stanford campus in Florence. I opted to travel further north by train, to Pavia, near Milan, to visit some Oregonian friends attending the university there. After arriving in Pavia and renewing old friendships, I learned that a sub-group of Pavian students were planning a train trip to the International Federation of Skiing championships being held in the Dolomite Mountains of northeastern Italy. Although I was not a skier, I chose to tag along since that represented progress towards my eventual destination of Stuttgart, Germany. Our train route started in Pavia and required transfers in Milan, Verona, and Bolzano progressively. As you may recall, European passenger trains commonly have seating compartments for 8 passengers. Each compartment has a window, two benches and a sliding door out to the hallway that runs along one side the full length of the train car. In Verona we piled into the train car headed northwards towards Bolzano (Bolzen) and the mountainous area of northern Italy.

Train routes in Northern Italy.

I followed Jon Wiener and Roger Squier up the right-hand hallway, peeking into each compartment for a suitable seating opportunity. Jon and I chose a promising compartment occupied by an elderly gentleman sitting quietly across from an attractive young woman intently reading.

Jon and I wondered out loud about the possible nationality of the studious yet striking brunette. Even though she seemed to be so enthralled by her book, Jon ventured an Italian greeting, "Buon giorno, come sta?"

"Buon giorno, sto bene", she answered perfunctorily in flawless Italian, and returned to her reading.

"You know, Jon, we are heading north to South Tyrol which was once part of Austria. Perhaps she is Germanic. She doesn’t look Mediterranean to me. Perhaps she is Austrian." I reasoned.

"Guten tag, wie geht es Ihnen?" I asked her in German. [Good day, how are you?]

"Danke gut", she answered in perfect Hochdeutsch (High German) and immediately returned to her study.

We were puzzled by this response, so Jon resurrected his high school French and offered, "Bon Jour, Mademoiselle". Again she answered him in accent-free French, and promptly returned to her book.

At the next train stop, the elderly fellow left the compartment, so I slid over to the window seat, exactly opposite this mysterious international reader. Jon and I continued to speculate out loud in English about her well-groomed appearance and probable nationality. Finally I interjected, "Was lessen Sie?" [What are you reading?]

She calmly handed me her thick text…Charles Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities in ENGLISH!

As my mouth dropped open, I passed the book over to Jon. Both embarrassed into silence, we looked up at her. She grinned and giggled, obviously enjoying the success of her mischievous trick! As it turned out, Patrizia de Rachewiltz spoke more languages fluently than Jon, Roger and I combined. Furthermore, we would never have accurately guessed her multinational heritage.

Patrizia explained how her parents were Italian but of Russian and American ancestry. Furthermore, that she grew up speaking Italian, German, English, had attended French boarding high school, and was now studying Japanese at the University of Venice. Patrizia explained to my amazement that her mother, Mary Pound de Rachewiltz, was the daughter of American expatriate poet, Ezra Pound. She went on to educate us about her grandfather’s voluminous poetic and literary contributions. Furthermore, she discussed Pound’s unjustly traumatic arrest for treason during WW II and his 13-year incarceration without the benefit of a trial in Washington DC.

Patrizia was currently traveling to her home in Tirolo, a tiny Germanic village overlooking the larger valley town of Merano, north of Bolzano [Bolzen, because this part of Italy is bilingual, many of the names have two spellings. We will use them interchangeably. Editor] Her brother, Siegfried, was home on holiday from Brown University, Rhode Island, USA. As we parted ways in Bolzano, she invited me to visit her: "My brother will be pleased to meet an American student". On a tiny scrap of paper she wrote "Castello Fontana, Tirolo, Italia".

The rest of us headed northeast by bus into the Dolomites. The snow-covered valleys were festooned with the colors and excitement of the IFS ski championships. Handsome skiers wearing the latest in winter fashions strolled through the tiny alpine villages, which each hosted a different skiing event. Ten of us students squeezed into a pension (small hotel) room meant to accommodate only four. After an essentially sleepless night on the floor, I shared a modest breakfast with my Oregon friends. Enthusiastically, they headed out to the ski slopes. Alone, I reached into my pocket to find the paper scrap and read "Castello Fontana, Tirolo, Italia". "Why not?" I asked myself. So down the valley and back to Bolzano, I rode the bus. After a short train ride from Bolzano to Merano, I found myself again staring at the paper scrap; "Castello Fontana…" Because this area of Italy was bilingual, I was able to acquire adequate directions to Tirolo, a steep hike up the hill from the larger town of Merano.

The sky was overcast and the air cold but windless as I slowly trudged up the narrow street with a duffel bag over my shoulder. "Entshuldingen Sie mir bitte. Wo ist Castello Fontana?" I asked a fellow pedestrian. (Excuse me please, Sir. Where is Castello Fontana?) He pointed around the corner, past the final village buildings. I continued on, walking through the quiet, peaceful snow-covered alpine village. Around the corner, past the town proper, there were only two structures far below the main road. Surrounded by snowy vineyards, a small but sturdy Tudor style Bauernhof [farmhouse] stood before a medieval castle. "She must live in the farm house", I presumed. It never occurred to me that Castello Fontana meant Castle of the Fountain in Italian. As I slowly descended the long gravel road a Germanic fellow peeked out from the Bauernhof window.

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"Ist Patrizia de Rachewiltz zu Hause?" I inquired. [Is Patrizia de R. at home?]He pointed towards the large wooden doors of the castle entrance. By then I was pinching myself. "This cannot be", I reasoned. Past the massive double wooden doors, I entered the austere gray stone courtyard. I noticed the ancient walls and turrets overhead. I was slowly drinking in this incredible discovery. Over there in the corner stood the silent fountain filled with snow. It started to sink in: Castello Fontana, Castle of the Fountain, or Brunnenburg auf Deutsch.

"Ist nieman zu Hause?" I ventured. [Is anyone home?]

"Sounds like an American", boomed the male voice, seemingly from nowhere. That was NOT the response I expected, here in the middle of Europe! It was Siegfried, Patrizia’s older brother, who recognized my American accent. An American visitor did not surprise him after already hearing Patrizia’s rendition of the train trick story.

I soon met the rest of the de Rachewiltz family and learned of their impressive international heritage. Siegfried was home from Brown University and serving part time in the Italian Army [mandatory conscription, Editor]. Patrizia’s sister, Graziella, lived here in the castle with her mother, Mary Pound de Rachewiltz, who toiled with literary translations. Walter de Rachewiltz, the family patriarch and Italy’s most famous Egyptologist, was away on business in Rome. The living room was a museum in itself.

The glass coffee table housed numerous ancient artifacts from excavations in Egypt.

The walls displayed medieval weapons and tapestries. We dined in the warmest room in the house, the kitchen. Graziella prepared a modest meal in the large wood-burning oven.

I audio taped the dinner conversation. It was amazing. The family started out speaking English for my benefit but soon switched to German and Italian. I think most sentences included words from at least two languages. I understood maybe 25% of the conversation.

That night as I passed three thousand year old Egyptian artifacts casually scattered about this 12^th century stone castle, I pondered the significance of Charles Dickens, Ezra Pound, and the importance of speaking more than one language.

Upon returning to Landgut Burg, I mentioned to Frau von Radecki that I had visited the family and home of Walter de Rachewiltz. Frau Von’s eyes literally extruded

in amazement at my fortunate association. Frau Von, an ardent anthropologist herself,

was very aware of Dr. de Rachewiltz’ contributions to Egyptian and sub-Sahara African anthropology. I continued my education about the literature and biography of Patrizia’s grandfather, Ezra Pound. Patrizia and I corresponded regularly over the next several months. The story of Rico does not end here, as it was later in the spring of 1970 that Siegfried and I discussed a future for Rico.