Woodfield Publishing Limited

I was born at Middlesex Hospital in London on 30th August 1923.

My father, Oreste Gianotti, was an Italian immigrant who had travelled extensively and had worked in various parts of Europe, India and Argentina before deciding to make his home in England. My mother, Emily Violet, was a Londoner. They had met in 1920 in Lyons Corner House in the West End of London, where they both worked. My father was then employed as a chef, and my mother as a waitress. After their marriage they lived in a tiny flat in the Soho quarter of London where many Italians resided and where my father had friends.

My parents had married relatively late in life. My father was 46 years of age and my mother 34 when I was born. Prior to my arrival my mother had gone through the trauma of delivering a stillborn child. My own birth, therefore, was a more than joyous occasion for my parents.

I was registered at birth as Francesco Giacomo Gianotti but was always known thereafter as Frank James Gianotti. In August 1924 my parents took me to Italy and I was baptised in Borgo D’ale, the little village in which my father was born, not far from the City of Turin. My Godmother and Godfather were Maria and Pierino Mattio (my father’s sister and her husband). On numerous occasions, when I was old enough to understand, my mother related the events of the day of my baptism to me. It had been a wonderful day on which my mother was overwhelmed by the great kindness and affection shown to her by my father’s brothers and sisters and all the members of the family who had travelled from all parts of Northern Italy for the occasion. My godparents were described by her as a marvellous couple who had showered her with love and kindness. Although they did not speak English and my mother had no knowledge whatsoever of the Italian language a warm bond was swiftly formed between them. I, of course, was too young to have any recollection of what must have been a wonderful family celebration.

I was not to see my Italian family again for over 20 years when, due to the fortunes of war, I was able to locate them in Turin in early 1945 as a soldier in the invading British Army. This wonderful happening I will describe later in my story.

~ ~ ~

In mid-December 1937 the family was devastated by the death of my father.

I returned home from work one evening to be told by my mother that he had collapsed at home, having suffered an internal haemorrhage. He had been rushed to St James’ Hospital in Balham where his condition was very grave. I comforted my mother as much as I was able to do and we prayed for him. The doctors were unable to save his life, however, and on the following day, December 15th 1937, he quietly passed away.

It was my first experience of death in the family and for the next few days I helped my mother to carry out the routine clerical duties that follow a death. The funeral took place a week later, just before Christmas. I remember it as the most painful and miserable Christmas of my life. I felt great regret that I had not been able to enjoy the company of my father for longer periods because of the nature of his work and the irregular hours he worked. I regretted also that I had not taken advantage of the opportunity to learn to converse with him in his native tongue, bearing the name Gianotti but being unable to speak one word of Italian.

I told myself that I must not look back. At fourteen years of age I was now the breadwinner and would take responsibility for looking after my mother and my brothers.

~ ~ ~

The first six months after the declaration of war passed without undue hardship for my mother and me. My two brothers were evacuated from London. David went to Chichester, where he was well received by a most loving family. The head of the household, Mr Billinghurst, was a veteran soldier from World War 1 and the head gardener at Chichester Cathedral. He, and ‘Mrs Bill’, as she was affectionately known, became a second mother and father to David and treated him as one of the family. His two daughters, of similar age to David, accepted him as a brother. Ted was sent to Selsey Bill, where he lived with many other children in a building previously used as a holiday camp. He also was well looked after by caring nursing staff and soon adjusted to his new environment.

I clearly recall how I established that all was well with them.

A short time after their departure my mother asked me if I would visit my brothers. I readily agreed. I had an old bicycle and set off from Clapham early one Friday morning (having obtained a day off from work). I pedalled hard through Surrey and Sussex, stopping just briefly to eat my lunch, and arrived in Chichester in the late afternoon. I was greeted in a very friendly fashion and was accommodated for the night in a spare bed in David’s room. I was delighted to see how happy he was in his new home. Early the following morning I cycled to Selsey, accompanied by David, and established that Ted, also, was happy and in good health.

We returned to Chichester in time for lunch and, in the afternoon, I played with David for his school cricket team in a beautiful setting with Chichester Cathedral looming in the background.

On Sunday morning I set off for the journey home supplied with sandwiches and a bottle of fruit juice. I was very happy that my mission had been satisfactorily accomplished. I was less happy, however, after the first few hours had elapsed. The journey was a nightmare and one that I remember in detail. My bicycle developed faults and then, about halfway home, I had a puncture. Repairs delayed me for long periods and the journey seemed very long. It began to rain quite heavily. I battled on and reached the outskirts of Epsom when I had a puncture in the other wheel. By this time I was very tired after my weekend’s exertions and, indeed, felt almost desperate. I wheeled my bicycle under the cover of a roadside bus shelter and sat down to gather strength.

Then, as has so often happened in my life in time of need, I had a stroke of luck. A touring cyclist, observing my plight, pulled off the road.

"Having a bit of bother old chap?" he remarked.

"Yes," I said, thinking that this was a considerable understatement.

"I had better give you a helping hand," he said.

There was no objection from me! He was obviously a very experienced cyclist and the repair was soon made. His destination was Brixton and he asked if I would like him to ride with me. I readily agreed. We pushed on until we reached Morden. The rain was now almost torrential and I suggested that we should take shelter and rest.

"No, old chap," he said, "keep going or you’ll never make it".

I complied and carried on. I was well aware by now that my knight of the road was deliberately travelling at well below his normal pace and was chatting to me so that I would forget my weary body and the pain in my legs. We finally reached Clapham and he accompanied me to my home. I had been travelling since 9 am. It was now nearly 10 pm and I was barely able to stand!

"Would you like to come in for some supper?" I croaked.

"No, thank you," came the reply "I must get home… I start my army service tomorrow".

He shook my hand and, upon parting, remarked, "Remember, old chap, when you think you are spent there is always a little more in reserve – it’s all a matter of willpower".

He mounted his bicycle and disappeared into the night. Although it was a relatively small event in my lifetime I never forgot that young man’s kindness to a fellow traveller – a boy in need of help. Nor would I forget the wisdom of his message.

copyright 2006 ~ Frank Gianotti ~ all rights reserved