All Mum's LettersTo this day I remember my mum's letters. It all started in December1941. Every night she sat at the big table in the kitchen and wrote tomy brother Johnny, who had been drafted that summer. We had not heardfrom him since the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor.I didn't understand why my mum kept writing Johnny when he never wrote back."Wait and see-we'll get a letter from him one day," she claimed.Mum said that there was a direct link from the brain to the writtenword that was just as strong as the light God has granted us. Shetrusted that this light would find Johnny.I don't know if she said that to calm herself, dad or all of usdown. But I do know that it helped us stick together, and one day aletter really did arrive. Johnny was alive on an island in the Pacific.I had always been amused by the fact that mum signed her letters,"Cecilia Capuzzi", and I teased her about that. "Why don't you justwrite 'Mum'?" I said.I hadn't been aware that she always thought of herself as CeciliaCapuzzi. Not as Mum. I began seeing her in a new light, this smalldelicate woman, who even in high-heeled shoes was barely one and a halfmeters tall.She never wore make-up or jewelry except for a wedding ring ofgold. Her hair was fine, sleek and black and always put up in a knot inthe neck. She wouldn't hear of getting a haircut or a perm. Her smallsilver-rimmed pince-nez only left her nose when she went to bed.Whenever mum had finished a letter, she gave it to dad for him topost it. Then she put the water on to boil, and we sat down at thetable and talked about the good old days when our Italian-Americanfamily had been a family of ten: mum, dad and eight children. Five boysand three girls. It is hard to understand that they had all moved awayfrom home to work, enroll in the army, or get married. All except me.Around next spring mum had got two more sons to write to. Everyevening she wrote threedifferent letters which she gave to me and dadafterwards so we could add our greetings.Little by little the rumour about mum's letters spread. One day asmall woman knocked atour door. Her voice trembled as she asked: "Is ittrue you write letters?""I write to my sons.""And you can read too?" whispered the woman."Sure."The woman opened her bag and pulled out a pile of airmail letters. "Read… please read them aloud to me."The letters were from the woman's son who was a soldier in Europe,a red-haired boy who mum remembered having seen sitting with hisbrothers on the stairs in front of our house. Mum read the letters oneby one and translated them from English to Italian. The woman's eyeswelled up with tears. "Now I have to write to him," she said. But howwas she going to do it?"Make some coffee, Octavia," mum yelled to me in the living roomwhile she took the woman with her into the kitchen and seated her atthe table. She took the fountain pen, ink and air mail notepaper andbegan to write. When she had finished, she read the letter aloud to thewoman."How did you know that was exactly what I wanted to say?""I often sit and look at my boys' letters, just like you, without a clue about what to write."A few days later the woman returned with a friend, then another oneand yet another one--they all had sons who fought in the war, and theyall needed letters. Mum had become the correspondent in our part oftown. Sometimes she would write letters all day long.Mum always insisted that people signed their own letters, and thesmall woman with the grey hair asked mum to teach her how to do it. "Iso much want to be able to write my own name so that my son can seeit." Then mum held the woman's hand in hers and moved her hand over thepaper again and again until she was able to do it without her help.After that day, when mum had written a letter for the woman, she signed it herself, and her face brightened up in a smile.One day she came to us, and mum instantly knew what had happened.All hope had disappeared from her eyes. They stood hand in hand for along time without saying a word. Then mum said: "We better go tochurch. There are certain things in life so great that we cannotcomprehend them." When mum came back home, she couldn't get thered-haired boy out of her mind.After the war was over, mum put away the pen and paper. "Finito,"she said. But she was wrong. The women who had come to her for help inwriting to their sons now came to her with letters from their relativesin Italy. They also came to ask her for her help in getting Americancitizenship.On one occasion mum admitted that she had always had a secret dream of writing a novel."Why didn't you?" I asked."All people in this world are here with one particular purpose,"she said. "Apparently, mine is to write letters." She tried to explainwhy it absorbed her so."A letter unites people like nothing else. It can make them cry, it can make them laugh.There is no caress more lovely and warm than a love letter, becauseit makes the world seem very small, and both sender and receiver becomelike kings in their own kingdoms. My dear, a letter is life itself!"Today all mum's letters are lost. But those who got them still talk about her and cherish thememory of her letters in their hearts.【中文譯文】：至今我依然記得母親的信。事情要從1941 年12 月說起。母親每晚都坐在廚房的大飯桌旁邊，給我弟弟約翰寫信。那年夏天約翰應征入伍。自從日本襲擊珍珠港以后，他就一直杳無音信。約翰從未回信，我不明白母親為何還要堅持寫下去。可母親還是堅持說：“等著瞧吧，總有一天他會給我們回信的?！?她深信思想和文字是直接相連，這種聯(lián)系就像上帝賦予人類的光芒一樣強大，而這道光芒終會照耀到約翰的身上。雖然我不肯定她是否只是在安慰自己，或是父親，或者是我們幾個孩子，但我們一家人卻因此更加親密。而最終我們終于等到了約翰的回信，原來他駐扎在太平洋的一個島嶼上，安然無恙。母親總以“塞西莉婭?6?1卡普奇”署名，每每令我忍俊不禁，還要嘲笑她幾句。我問：“為什么不直接寫‘母親’呢？”以前我一直沒有留意到她把自己當成塞西莉婭?6?1卡普奇，而不是母親。我不禁以新的眼光打量自己的母親，她是多么優(yōu)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。母親向來素面朝天，除了手上戴的婚戒，她基本是不戴其他的首飾。她的頭發(fā)順滑烏亮，盤在頸后，從不剪短或燙曲。只有在睡覺的時候，她才摘下那副小小的銀絲眼鏡。每次母親寫完信，就會把信交給父親去郵寄。然后她把水燒開，和我們圍坐在桌旁，聊聊過去的好日子。從前我們這個意裔的美國家庭可是人丁旺盛：父母親和我們八個兄弟姐妹——五男三女，濟濟一堂。現(xiàn)在他們都因工作、入伍或婚姻紛紛離開了家，只有我留下來，想想真覺匪夷所思。第二年春天，母親也要開始給另外兩個兒子寫信了。每天晚上，她先寫好三封內(nèi)容不同的信交給我和父親，然后我們再加上自己的問候。母親寫信的事漸漸傳開。一天，一個矮小的女人來敲我們家的門，用顫抖的聲音問：“你真的會寫信嗎？”“我寫給我的兒子。”“那么你也能讀信咯？”女人小聲問。“當然。”女人打開背包，掏出一疊航空信。“請，請您大聲讀給我聽好嗎？”信是女人在歐洲參戰(zhàn)的兒子寫來的，母親依稀還記得他的模樣，他有一頭紅色的頭發(fā)，常和他的兄弟一起坐在我們家門前的樓梯上。母親把信一封接一封地從英文翻成意大利文讀出來。聽完，那女人雙眼噙著淚水說：“我一定要給他寫回信?！笨墒撬撛趺崔k呢？“奧塔維婭，去沖杯咖啡來。”母親在客廳大聲叫我，然后把那女人領到廚房桌旁坐下，拿出鋼筆、墨水和信紙開始寫信。寫完后為她大聲讀出來。“這正是我想說的話，您是怎么知道的呢？”“我也和你一樣，常常坐在那里看兒子的來信，完全不知道寫什么好?！睅滋旌?，女人回來，帶來一個朋友，后來又來一個，再一個……他們都有兒子在戰(zhàn)場上奮戰(zhàn)，都需要寫信。媽媽變成了我們城鎮(zhèn)的通訊員，有時她一整天都在寫回信。母親常常堅持讓大家簽上自己的名字。一位頭發(fā)灰白的女人要母親教她怎么簽名?！拔艺嫦胗H手寫下自己的名字，好讓兒子可以看到?！庇谑悄赣H手把手地教她在紙上一遍一遍書寫，直到她自己可以簽名。第二天，母親幫那個女人寫好信，由她親自簽名，女人的面容在微笑中變得燦爛了。有一天她來我家，眼里全無希望的光芒，母親立刻明白了。兩人握著手，久久無語。后來母親說：“我們?nèi)ソ烫冒?。生命中有些事情太深奧，我們無法理解?！蹦赣H回家后，一直記著那個紅頭發(fā)的小男孩。戰(zhàn)爭結束后，母親收起紙筆，說：“都結束了?！笨墒撬e了。那個曾讓母親幫忙給兒子寫信的女人又來了，帶著意大利親人的來信。他們還讓母親幫忙幫他們的親屬申請入籍。一次母親承認她心里一直有一個愿望，就是要寫一本小說。“為什么不寫呢？”我問。母親試著解釋她為何如此沉迷寫信，“每個人來到這個世界都有一個目的。顯然，我就是來寫信的。”“信無可替代地把人與人連在一起，讓人笑，讓人哭。一封情書比任何愛撫更令人覺得親愛和溫暖，因為它讓世界變小，寫信人和收信人都成為自己世界里的國王。親愛的，信就是生命本身！”今天，母親所有的信已經(jīng)遺失。但是那些收到信的人仍在談論她，并把有關信的記憶珍藏在心。