至今我依然记得母亲的信。

 

It all started in December 1941.

 

事情要从 1941 年 12月说起。

 

Every night she sat at the big table in the kitchen and wrote to my brother Johnny, who had been drafted that summer.

 

母亲每晚都坐在厨房的大饭桌旁边，给我弟弟约翰写信。那年夏天约翰应征入伍。

 

We had not heard from him since the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor.

 

自从日本袭击珍珠港以后，他就一直杳无音信。

 

I didnt understand why my mum kept writing Johnny when he never wrote back.

 

约翰从未回信，我不明白母亲为何还要坚持写下去。

 

Wait and see-well get a letter from him one day, she claimed.

 

可母亲还是坚持说： 等着瞧吧，总有一天他会给我们回信的。

 

Mum said that there was a direct link from the brain to the written word that was just as strong as the light God has granted us.

 

她深信思想和文字是直接相连，这种联系就像上帝赋予人类的光芒一样强大，

 

She trusted that this light would find Johnny.

 

而这道光芒终会照耀到约翰的身上。

 

I dont know if she said that to calm herself, dad or all of us down.

 

虽然我不肯定她是否只是在安慰自己，或是父亲，或者是我们几个孩子，

 

But I do know that it helped us stick together, and one day a letter really did arrive.

 

但我们一家人却因此更加亲密。而最终我们终于等到了约翰的回信，

 

Johnny was alive on an island in the Pacific.

 

原来他驻扎在太平洋的一个岛屿上，安然无恙。

 

I had always been amused by the fact that mum signed her letters, Cecilia Capuzzi, and I teased her about that.

 

母亲总以塞西莉娅·卡普奇署名，每每令我忍俊不禁，还要嘲笑她几句。

 

Why dont you just write Mum? I said.

 

我问： 为什么不直接写母亲呢?

 

I hadnt been aware that she always thought of herself as Cecilia Capuzzi.

 

以前我一直没有留意到她把自己当成塞西莉娅·卡普奇，而不是母亲。

 

Not as Mum. I began seeing her in a new light, this small delicate woman, who even in high-heeled shoes was barely one and a half meters tall.

 

我不禁以新的眼光打量自己的母亲，她是多么优雅，又是那么矮小，就算穿上高跟鞋，她的身高依然不足一米五。

 

She never wore make-up or jewelry except for a wedding ring of gold.

 

母亲向来素面朝天，除了手上戴的婚戒，她基本是不戴其他的首饰。

 

Her hair was fine,sleek and black and always put up in a knot in the neck.

 

她的头发顺滑乌亮，盘在颈后，

 

She wouldnt hear of getting a haircut or a perm.

 

她从不剪短或烫曲。

 

Her small silver-rimmed pince-nez only left her nose when she went to bed.

 

只有在睡觉的时候，她才摘下那副小小的银丝眼镜。

 

Whenever mum had finished a letter, she gave it to dad for him to post it.

 

每次母亲写完信，就会把信交给父亲去邮寄。

 

Then she put the water on to boil, and we sat down at the table and talked about the good old days when our Italian-American family had been a family of ten: mum, dad and eight children.

 

然后她把水烧开，和我们围坐在桌旁，聊聊过去的好日子。从前我们这个意裔的美国家庭可是人丁旺盛：父母亲和我们八个兄弟姐妹。

 

Five boys and three girls. It is hard to understand that they had all moved away from home to work,enroll in the army, or get married. All except me.

 

五男三女，济济一堂。现在他们都因工作、入伍或婚姻纷纷离开了家，只有我留下来，想想真觉匪夷所思。

 

Around next spring mum had got two more sons to write to.

 

第二年春天，母亲也要开始给另外两个儿子写信了。

 

Every evening she wrote three different letters which she gave to me and dad afterwards so we could add our greetings.

 

每天晚上，她先写好三封内容不同的信交给我和父亲，然后我们再加上自己的问候。

 

Little by little the rumour about mums letters spread.

 

母亲写信的事渐渐传开。

 

One day a small woman knocked at our door. Her voice trembled as she asked: Is it true you write letters?

 

一天，一个矮小的女人来敲我们家的门，用颤抖的声音问： 你真的会写信吗?

 

I write to my sons.

 

我写给我的儿子。

 

And you can read too? whispered the woman.

 

那么你也能读信咯?女人小声问。

 

Sure.

 

当然。

 

The woman opened her bag and pulled out a pile of airmail letters. Read… please read them aloud to me.

 

女人打开背包，掏出一叠航空信。 请，请您大声读给我听好吗?

 

The letters were from the womans son who was a soldier in Europe, a red-haired boy who mum remembered having seen sitting with his brothers on the stairs in front of our house.

 

信是女人在欧洲参战的儿子写来的，母亲依稀还记得他的模样，他有一头红色的头发，常和他的兄弟一起坐在我们家门前的楼梯上。

 

Mum read the letters one by one and translated them from English to Italian. The womans eyes welled up with tears.

 

母亲把信一封接一封地从英文翻成意大利文读出来。听完，那女人双眼噙着泪水说：

 

Now I have to write to him, she said. But how was she going to do it?

 

我一定要给他写回信。 可是她该怎么办呢?

 

Make some coffee, Octavia, mum yelled to me in the living room while she took the woman with her into the kitchen and seated her at the table.

 

奥塔维娅，去冲杯咖啡来。 母亲在客厅大声叫我，然后把那女人领到厨房桌旁坐下，