A Child’s Life Remembered
The sun burned high in the Genoa sky, its rays casting sharp shadows across the cobblestone streets. I blinked against the light, unsure if I was standing in the present or the past—or if there was even a difference anymore. My feet were rooted in Staglieno Cemetery, but my soul had already crossed a threshold I couldn’t explain.
And then, I was there. The year was 1925.
The air buzzed with life. The scent of freshly baked bread, the distant cries of street vendors, and the hum of daily bustle. I stood on the grounds of Carbonara gardens where children played and their parents sunbathed, keeping an eye on them. Among them was Italino, chasing a wooden hoop down the uneven stones with an intensity that made it seem like the most important thing in the world.
He was just a boy. Perhaps five or six. A boy full of dreams and unshakable joy. But his life had not been easy. His mother had died bringing him into the world, but the town became his family, each person filling a part of the void she left behind. Shopkeepers saved him treats, neighbors watched him fondly, and his father, Donatello, did what he could to give him a stable life.
I could feel the joy around me, but it was hard to ignore the knot tightening in my chest since I knew the tragic truth behind this day. What happened next unfolded in a blur, though every moment felt stretched, carved into my mind with agonizing clarity.
The Moment Everything Changed
Italino’s hoop rolled between the legs of a man he didn’t know. Nobody could have guessed the man’s history of mental instability. At first, it seemed like a harmless accident. But then, in an unexplainable fit of madness, the man grabbed Italino, lifting him into the air. The playful laughter of the moment shifted into a heavy silence.
The crowd froze in shock as the man lunged, his hands gripping Italino with a terrifying swiftness. Before anyone could react, he threw the boy over the edge of a 15-meter-high wall. In that brief moment, time stood still. Then came the screams—Donatello’s, the townspeople’s, mine. My legs felt like lead, my voice was caught in my throat. I was drowning in fear, helpless to stop what I knew was coming.
I ran. I think I ran. I don’t know. The crowd surged forward, hands outstretched, but it was too late. Italino’s small body disappeared over the edge. He was taken to the hospital, but the injuries were too severe. He died that evening.
When I blinked, I was back in the cemetery. Iatlino’s statue stood before me—small, innocent, frozen in time as though his life had never been interupted. Around him, carved hands emerged from the earth, twisted and grotesque, clutching for him with desperation. They were Ludovico’s hands, certainly. But they were also the hands of fate, of cruelty, of everyone who had stood there and done nothing.
Adolfo Lucarini had captured it all in cold marble: the beauty of a child, the horror of his loss, and the unrelenting grip of memory that refuses to fade. Even now, the air in this place was heavy with that day, with sorrow and anger and helplessness.
This wasn’t just a story. It was a scar, carved into the very stones of Genoa, into my heart, into the earth itself. Italino’s laughter was gone, but his shadow lingered. A reminder that even in innocence, we are never truly safe.
This story is not just a memory—it’s a piece of history that still echoes through time.
Italino’s tomb in the Monumental Cemetery of Staglieno stands as a silent reminder of the life lost too soon. The pain of that day still lingers, and through this story, we can honor his memory.
Staglieno Cemetery holds countless other stories – each monument a window into the past. Discover more through ARtour and step into history.
If you feel the weight of this tragic story, we invite you to visit the place where it all unfolded. ARtour will guide you through the cemetery, allowing you to experience the history firsthand, as if walking in Italino’s footsteps.
Walk the path. Feel the story. Learn by Moving.
Watch the Story Unfold