No Dogs or Italians Allowed (Interdit aux chiens et aux Italiens)

My father was a migrant worker.

Every four years, he'd be assigned to a new worksite.

Each time, we had to move.

I hated all those moves.

Arriving once again in an unknown city,

I would lock myself in my room as a protest.

My only friends

were the modeling clay, glue, scissors, and pencil.

What will you do, later on?

Something with my hands. Maybe I'll go to art school.

Art is not for us.

Get a job at the post office, and paint on Sundays.

You have to work with your head, not your hands.

When I was a kid, my father's hands fascinated me.

He'd shape the wax cheese rind,

conjuring up foxes, birds, or butterflies.

Today, I feel the magic of these shapes, in my hands,

telling a story,

a story from far, far away.

My father used to say that in Italy,

there's a village called Ughettera.

Everyone there has the same name as ours.

Ughettera, the land of the Ughetto.

It all started here, in the shadow of Mount Viso.

My grandfather and grandmother lived in a house like this one.

Today, the roofs have caved in on their peasant abodes.

Trees flourish where they made charcoal.

What happened?

I wish I'd known my grandfather, Luigi.

My grandmother Cesira was a familiar figure.

I remember the lady dressed in black that I called Granny.

Seeing her old home,

I realized that before she was Granny,

my grandmother was Cesira,

young and beautiful.

She had been desired and loved.

What a beautiful scarf!

In Ughettera,

they told me Piedmontese women wore these aprons and skirts to work.

You went to Ughettera?

There's nothing left of them.

I brought you everything I found.

Mainly, you wanted land, right?

Ah, land was everything.

The land kept us alive.

We were hungry for land,

We made terrible sacrifices to buy a piece of land.

In Ughettera, there wasn't much.

The steep fields were scattered.

And Luigi? What was he like?

Ah, Luigi...

He was a handsome man.

Solid.

Strong.

With beautiful hands.

In those days, poor men were not ragged,

They did not beg for pennies.

They lived modestly and were satisfied.

Antonio, come on!

Wake up!

Giuseppe!

Luigi was the second of eleven children.

Dad, wake up!

Come on, Mom!

Eleven children?

There were kids everywhere.

This land is good. You could eat it.

The kids' legs were scraped from climbing trees looking for nests.

It was the only way to eat a little meat.

At home, to welcome people we love,

we brew coffee.

Your coffee is powerful!

You have the same hands as Luigi.

Amazing, Luigi!

He's good!

But what did you eat?

In Ughettera,

they ate what they had.

The mother made polenta with milk,

and the father made them eat it with a fork,

so the milk dribbled away.

But that's all in the past.

Why do you want to know?

I wanted to go to Italy with my father,

to hear about Ughettera, your lives, the stories.

Ask your questions.

Didn't the children go to school?

School came after the fields, after the seasonal work.

I have to sweep up!

Calm down, kids!

Luigi didn't go to school either?

Antonio, you imbecile!

Sometimes he did.

He could write a little, for official documents.

But he was eager to learn.

I taught him his first words of French.

Are they building the house?

We're going to make a nice, big, solid house!

You said it!

At home, we all lived in one room.

We slept in the barn all year round.

Yes, here people are born, live and die in the stables.

Didn't the mayor or priest try to help?

Ah, the priest...

To be in the priest's good graces people gave him the pick of the crop.

Not a single priest died of hunger in Ughettera, believe me.

Turn the crank under the table.

Truth be told, the priests always ruled our rural villages.

If he hadn't blessed your house, he claimed you were a godless person.

If you were a woman, he told people you were a witch, "une masca".

And people believed him.

They were afraid of the masca.

The villagers shunned those poor old women.

Their plight was most miserable.

The mascas were blamed for every misfortune: storms, hail,

bad harvests, the diseases, the accidents,

children who died, it was all the masca's fault.

And the priest let people gossip. Of course! He encouraged superstition.

What have you found, Giuseppe?

Look!

A mandolin.

Dance, dance, dance!

Come and see!

Dance, dance!

Come on, dance!

Dance, dance, dance!

- Is that a real cow? - No, it is not real!

It's nice and plump!

A cow that doesn't make milk!

Where did you find it, Luigi?

In the box.

Cow, give milk.

But it's a toy!

The Lord be with you.

And with your spirit.

We can't survive the winter.

We'll starve. All we have to eat is chestnuts.

We must leave before snow blocks the pass.

Get ready to go!

They don't have enough food for everyone, and winter's coming.

- Send them potatoes. - Just one, then.

Here, give it to them.

- How about another? - No.

Look, they already have a swollen belly !

One day, a young man

found a pot full of boiled potatoes.

He ate and ate.

He's hallucinating!

His stomach was swollen.

His buddy warned him, "Careful! You'll die."

And there he stayed, a potato in his mouth, dead.

We all had thin, fragile guts.

There were no jobs at home.

Every winter before the snow, half the population went to France.

Chimney sweep, ragman, lighterman, cobbler...

The Italians would do the hardest jobs.

Listen to what this French newspaper says:

"What characterizes the Italian worker is his flexibility.

"We can make him do whatever we want.

"These workers have no personal dignity.

"They endure everything.

"Told to start work when the bell rings, they obey, heads bowed."

What a beautiful evening!

I'm still a little hungry.

Any of you men want to work?

Yes.

Do you sleep late?

No.

Do you smoke?

No.

Do you have any papers?

Yes.

You have shovels and picks?

Yes.

Be ready early tomorrow morning.

Impossible! What about the children?

Children went to Barcelonnette, in the Basses-Alpes.

For the weekly children's market.

There were always 300 or 400 boys and girls, 10 or 12 years old.

By 10 AM, the market was deserted.

The kids had all been rented.

But that's horrible!

Yes.

But that's how it was.

Luigi didn't like it, but everyone did it.

Take that, you beast!

Antonio! You imbecile!

Goodbye, little one.

Take care of yourself.

Goodbye.

Goodbye, Luigi!

Goodbye. Goodbye, children!

Where else did they go?

Wherever there was work. Switzerland, France.

As if there weren't any mountains between us.

They dug a tunnel under Mount Viso,

"Buco di Viso."

Luigi was there.

Go look in the box at the back.

Did you find it?