ROBERTO PIO CASSANELLI, dall'Italia a Tripoli a Londra

Roberto Pio Cassanelli, Master Body Builder and Dance Teacher

FROM ITALY TO TRIPOLI TO LONDON
THEN ON TO CAMP 43 ON ST. HELEN’S ISLAND
                                                                                                      Pietro Corsi

It was in the Spring of 1959 that I first heard of the internment of Italo-Canadians at the onset of WW2. I had recently arrived in Montreal, via Halifax, to work at the weekly newspaper Il Cittadino Canadese, then on St. Lawrence Blvd., across from Dante Street, in what was, and still is by all means, the heart of the Italian community.                                                                                                    

Founded in 1941 by Antonino Spada, the Italian language newspaper had recently been sold to Nick Ciamarra and, together with the travel agency and the print shop, to Emilio Putalivo, printer extraordinaire. Already well into his sixties, Antonino Spada was not one to sit idle and do nothing. His visits to the newspapers were a daily routine. So much so that, while dreading his presence, we would worry when he didn’t show up before noon.

Well known for his anti-fascist sentiments and for his hatred of Mussolini’s dicatorship, Antonino Spada was himself a little dictator, albeit one with a most gentle soul. For this reason, therefore, when other prominent Italo-Canadians were forced to the internment camps he was left alone and allowed to found the newspaper in time to cover the war in progress. He loved to chat and exchange views on the most important daily events, particularly those involving the Italian community. Above all, he delighted in saying this and that about what was being written in the pages of the Cittadino. To be blunt, he liked to provide unrequested (but welcome) constructive criticism. He loved to do so in riddles, like a good teacher or a good trainer would. And a teacher and a trainer he was. At least, that’s how I like to remember him. He was also a good community historian, as his book The Italians in Canada (Montreal, 1969) illustrates.

He loved to chat, as I said, but refused to freely talk about the internment of Italo-Canadians during WW2. A horrible human injustice, he would say, if and when solicited. His attitude reflected the spirit of the community at the time: lay low, do not say more than you need to say about those sad days.

That was way back then. Until November 1990, when Prime Minister Brian Mulrony saw it fit to publicly declare the internment an injustice. Antonino Spada’s sentiments, and those of hundreds of thousands of Italo-Canadians were finally vindicated.

I left Montreal and did not hear again about the Canadian internment camps for enemy aliens until I came to California and ran into Roberto (Pio) Cassanelli. Upon learning that my first stepping stone into this continent had been Montreal, he craftly commented: I was there too - Camp 43 St. Helen’s Island, Enemy Alien prisoner No. 242. Remembering Antonino Spada’s few words about the internment camps, I asked Roberto Cassanelli to tell me more about his experience in Camp 43. And he gladly did so, with the gentle words and manners that have distinguished him throughout his life.

Born in Gussola (Cremona) in 1913, he was the last of ten siblings. His elder brother,
Nino, had started working in hotels as Piccolo di Camera at the tender age of 12 and when Roberto became of age, had already made a career in the hospitality industry (he later became owner and operator of a fine hotel in Bordighera, a few steps away from the beach). He insisted that his younger brother follow in his footsteps and at age 16 sent him to work at the Hotel Savoia in Rome. After a few months, he dispatched Roberto to Tripoli, to work at the Grand Hotel there. Having gained more experience, he was then sent to Belgium at the Hotel de la Plage first, then at the Grand Hotel Britannique of Ostende. Back in Italy, he happily wandered from Cortina d’Ampezzo’s Miramonti Majestic Hotel to the Majestic Hotel Diana of Milan; from the Excelsior in Florence to the Miramare Continental Palace in Sanremo; from Viareggio’s Grand Hotel to Salsomaggiore.

At the beginning of 1939 his destiny was to take him to London, where the hospitality industry thrived and life was good: just what he had been looking for all along. His Alien Certificate of Registration No. 736439, issued on June 12, 1939, dates his arrival in Dover on March 14 of that year and residing at 14 Eatham Street W.C.2, London. 

London was to be quite good for him: away from the vigilant but loving supervision of his elder brother Nino. While working as a waiter at the Ivy Restaurant on West Street, he started training his body to become as strong as his mind. A London trade publication shows how he had been able to build his physique, with dumb-bells, to a fit “10 stones 7 lbs at 5'6" tall, expanded chest measurements 43".    

His happiness was not to last long. A diary written years later shows how he ended up at Camp 43 in St. Helen’s Island, an abandoned piece of real estate in Montreal that was later to become,  together with the newly created Ile Notre-Dame, the site for the most successful Expo ‘67. 

At this point, I will let Roberto Pio Cassanelli tell the story of his confinement to Camp 43.

One morning, Saturday June 15^th,1940, at 7 am, two policemen picked me up at my house and took me to the police station. I will always remember their words: “Don’t worry fella, we don’t take too much time with you, its only for questioning, which will take about a couple of hours”. That couple of hours was to be 5 long years. Not trusting them, I took with me a suitcase with all that I may have needed for a long time. On June 23^rd I was transferred to Burry Int. Camp and Wednesday July 3, at 10 am, I was dispatched to Liverpool for an unknown destination.

Locked behind bars in the bowels of a ship, together with 400 other unfortunate human beings, thirsty and famished having been fed raw potatoes on a daily basis, after 10 days we were told that we had reached our destination in Quebec, Canada. It was the 13^th of July, 3 pm. We could consider ourselves lucky since another ship, the Arandora Star, carrying German and Italian prisoners, was torpedoed and sank.                         

(The British liner Arandora Star, 15,501 GW tons, was torpedoed by a German submarine and sank off the West Coast of Ireland, while carrying 1,500 German and Italian aliens to be interned in Canada. Onboard the vessel there were also British soldiers acting as guards to the aliens, a crew of about 300. No estimate of the total casualties was ever released).

We left port by train to unknown destination, escorted by fully armed soldiers. That same day, Saturday July 13^th, 1940, 11 pm, we arrived at St. Helen’s Island Int. Camp 43, or Camp “S”, Montreal P.Q. We were badly treated. They looked at us as if we were animals, seated on the bare ground all night long with nothing to eat or drink. We couldn’t even talk to each other. Those who dared, including some priests who were with us, were brutally beaten.

We were made to undress, inspected one by one, and ordered to take a cold shower. They gave us prisoners’ garments, each with a number (mine was 242). Then they sent us to a big dormitory, gloomy and filthy: 400 people in such a small place, in which the most common decencies were minimal, with a courtyard no bigger than 100 meters. And to think that Canada is such a big country! It was shameful, to be treated without a glint of humanity, behind barbed-wire fence. In winter time, with all the ice and snow on the ground, we were forced to live indoor for weeks on end. It was not easy to get along: the more a man knows other human beings, the more he loves animals instead. We were kept in those conditions from that day in 1940 through 1943.

The camp was right across the city of Montreal, divided only by the St. Lawrence River. At night we could see the lights of the big city. Life must have been so nice there! On Sundays, while locked up in this cage like beasts, we could see people peacefully promenading on the bridge (Note: the Jacques Cartier Bridge),. How bitter life was; and how odious the human being!

It was under these conditions that, three months later, I was informed of my mother’s death and, six months later, my father’s.

Summer 1943. Given the turn of events of the war in Europe, many prisoners were allowed to return to England, mostly Italians who were born there. We were transferred to Camp 70, Fredericton, where we arrived on November 4, at 6 pm. The camp was located in the middle of a forest, cool and humid. We lived in barracks together with Germans. There was a bit more space to move around in this camp. And, I have to say, though always a prisoner, I was in a privileged position since I was made in charge of the overall administration of the Italian internees.

July 1944. Casa Savoia made a turn-around during the night of the 24^th. The Duce was arrested on the 25^th, then freed by the Germans. He tried to escape to Switzerland, but was arrested again and killed by Italian partisans. The Italian armistice was signed September 3, 1944, to become effective Sept. 7^th. We remained in Fredericton during 1943, 44 and 45, then German armistice, May 8^th 1945, 3 pm: surrender without conditions. The commander of our camp gathered all prisoners to announce this big event. He told us that both Mussolini and Hitler had been defeated, and that Fascism was dead.

May 17 we were told that all civilians would be returned to the U.K. Friday May 18^th, 1 am, we left Camp by bus and we arrived at St. Johns at 6 am. We left St. Johns at 7 am, arrived Halifax at 7 pm. At 8 pm we boarded the vessel “Ashton Castle” for the Trans-Atlantic crossing. The overall conditions were much better this time around. We arrived in Liverpool on Friday, June 1^st, and disembarked at 5:45 am.

After touching English ground again after 5 long years, the moral and physical suffering of the last 5 years seemed a dream. I have often thought, since then, how can a human being survive through such ordeals. Dreams and nightmares. This horrible furrow forever embedded in my mind.

So, we disembarked at 5:45 and were conveyed to the Isle of Man, where we arrived the same day at 8 pm, Ramsey Camp “N”, House No. 10. On the 27^th of July I was informed of my imminent release. I left camp on the 30^th, and on Tuesday, August 1^st 1945, 6 am, I left Ramsey. At 10 pm, August 1^st,I was back in London and was able to resume work.

Years later, Roberto (Pio) Cassanelli moved to New York, where he worked at the Stork Club, at the Savoy Hotel and at the Ritz Tower. Then on to California, where he became a dance teacher under an Arthur Murray franchise. He passed away on Sept. 12, 2008.