History | Venice: I am not making this up

remembering Giuseppe Jona

January 27, 2024 24 Comments

January 27 is International Holocaust Remembrance Day. Unfortunately today is also the beginning of Carnival, which makes anybody who cares even a little bit about one or the other — or worse, both — feel a tad awkward.

But I’m proceeding with Remembrance Day because it is an especially appropriate moment to remember doctor and professor Giuseppe Jona, once known as the “doctor of the poor” for his charitable care of indigent Venetians of every, or no, creed.

He didn’t limit his attention only to sickbeds. Among many other things, he was also the president of the Jewish community, and on September 15, 1943 he cared for his endangered people by making the ultimate sacrifice. In a sense he was killed by the Nazi occupiers of Venice, but he got one step ahead of them.

Typical “stumbling stone” that commemorates victims of Nazi extermination. This is placed in front of Giuseppe Jona’s home in the Ghetto. It says: “Here lived Giuseppe Jona born 1866 He sought refuge in death September 17 1943.”

No need for me to be melodramatic. The facts are enough to delineate a person whom it’s unlikely anyone reading this could imagine emulating, but who must never be forgotten.

Giuseppe Jona (pronounced YOH-na) was born in Venice in 1866, the fourth of five children of a middle-class Jewish family, his father a doctor. He graduated from the University of Padova in Medicine, and served as professor of Anatomy at Padova as well as working at Venice’s hospital. Over the course of 40 years he became head of the department of Pathology (1905 – 1912), and Medicine (1912-1936).

Unmarried, he “lived for his brothers and nieces/nephews,” says one article about him, “for his students and colleagues, for social projects and scientific research.” Above all, he was dedicated to developing young doctors at the hospital’s “Practical School of Medicine and Surgery,” founded in 1863 to enable department heads to prepare young doctors by taking them on rounds in the wards. He also introduced a methodic approach to performing autopsies, and served as an auxiliary doctor in military hospitals during World War I.

This completely new pavilion was dedicated to Giuseppe Jona in 2015. It contains state-of-the-art facilities for pulmonology, gynecology, geriatric care, obstetrics, pediatrics, and I may have overlooked something else. There is a helipad on the roof.

His world stretched far beyond medicine, though. He became a member of the Istituto Veneto di Scienze Lettere ed Arti, and was president of the Ateneo Veneto (the supreme intellectual group in Venice, I’m going to say) from 1921 to 1924. He founded a circulating library. He founded a museum of anatomy at the city hospital. I’m leaving out enormous masses of information but the point is that he was known and esteemed by Venetians in many different fields and levels.

Now we get to the heart of the man. Along with his sister, he always sought out the neediest patients in several hospitals, convinced that it was a human obligation to try to mitigate social inequality regardless of religion or belief. He then opened a medical studio where he treated the poorest patients free of charge. He came to be commonly referred to as “the doctor of the poor.”

A plaque in the entryway to the hospital. “From 1832 until the First World War, in the area visible here in front of the San Giorgio courtyard, was the ward separated to accommodate the patients of the Jewish religion.”

He resigned his position at the hospital in 1936, probably intuiting that what became the “racial laws” in 1938 were already on the horizon, edicts that would have required his expulsion from the hospital, followed by expulsion from the scientific and cultural institutions to which he belonged. In 1940, along with every other Jewish physician, his name was removed from the official register of doctors, thus being forbidden to care for any patients whatever. (He continued to visit them at night, wrapped in a vast cloak and hat.)

At that moment, the rabbi and council of the Jewish congregation, perfectly aware that Jona had never attended the synagogue and wasn’t known even to be a believer, elected him as president of the Jewish community. With his sensitivity to ethics and as a sign of respect to his parents, he accepted.

Of course matters became steadily worse. Friends and colleagues urged him to leave Venice and flee to hiding in the countryside; he refused.

This entrance hallway to the main hospital bears an important marker.

The laurel wreath laid by the city, and the single rose beloved by Venice, stand by one of the numerous “stumbling stones” in Venice that mark victims of the Holocaust.

It says: “In 1944 15 Jewish patients were deported from this hospital, assassinated in the Nazi camps.”

It says: “Placing of the stumbling stone in memory of the deportation of the Jews present in the Civil Hospital of Venice to the Nazi extermination camps. Jewish patients gathered in the detention room and deported on October 11 1944 by the infamous Captain Franz Paul Stangl.” The names follow. Then: “On October 26 1944 were also deported by Captain Stangl Margherita Gruenwald the widow Levi, and Regina Brandes in Toso, the only person who was miraculously able to save herself and return to her Venice in September 1945.” (Detail: The term “in Toso” indicates that her husband’s last name was Toso, but that he was still alive. Otherwise it would have been written ved. Toso, or widow — *vedova* — of Toso. This is the very useful custom still followed on death announcements.)

In the autumn of 1943 the Nazi occupiers, under orders from Captain Franz Stangl (already commandant of the Treblinka extermination camp), ordered Jona to submit the names and addresses of the 1,350 Jews in Venice. Their fate was essentially sealed.

Giuseppe Jona had already written his will, in his tiny, precise handwriting, leaving his 1,684 books to the city hospital, and his money and belongings to an extraordinary assortment of groups and organizations serving the poor and needy. He also made a bequest to the family’s elderly servants, who could never have found other income.

It was the night of September 15, 1943. Certain that he would not be able to withstand the torture that would follow his refusal to provide the list, he destroyed every document that could identify members of the community. And then he gave himself a fatal overdose of morphine. His body was found on the 16th, and the death registered on September 17. The entire city was in an uproar; the startled Germans forbade a funeral cortege and basically waited for it all to blow over.

And the 1,350 Jews on the list? In some manner he had enabled 1,100 of them to escape.

This memorial is on the wall by the Jona pavilion front door. The laurel wreath was placed by the city for Remembrance Day. The inscription (translated by me): “The illustrious anatomist and clinician honored the hospital for 40 years with the profundity of the teaching and the fecundity of his works in times torn by violence and extremism affirmed with the supreme sacrifice of himself the insuppressible rights of human conscience. Devoted students, colleagues and faithful friends desire that from the image of the civil master the hospital doctors draw the inspiration for their efforts in this new dwelling of suffering and of fraternal succor.”

History

seeking Sant’ Elena

March 17, 2022 7 Comments

Jacopo Dei’ Barbari published this phenomenal map in 1500 after three years of hard labor. It remains the gold standard for maps of 16th-century Venice; he has managed to include every single building and canal then in existence. The only drawback is the lack of extensive labels, That, and the reluctance, for whatever reason, to include the entire island of Sant’ Elena.

Reader Christopher has written the following Comment: I am perplexed and maybe you can help me. The Chiesa di Sant’Elena was built in as early as 1060 by some accounts. Saint Helen was brought to the lagoon and interred in her eponymous church in 1211. It’s curious that the church is not shown on the earlier maps. Any idea why this might be? ….

If I understand your question to be why isn’t the church dedicated to Sant’ Elena shown on maps prior to the arrival of her remains, I can only reply that I think there could be several reasons.

One reason is that there aren’t many maps of Venice prior to 1211, and those that do exist are not very detailed. Even 17th-century maps don’t show everything. Also, Venice has plenty of churches named for saints whose remains are not in residence. There’s no reason why a mapmaker with limited space would choose to show a church if it didn’t contain its tutelary saint. Which raises the interesting question, which I had never considered till now, as to who decides what to include in a map and what to leave out.

As to the dates you mention, “…the first chapel dedicated to St. Helen was built in 1028 and entrusted to the Augustinian order, which constructed also a convent. In 1211 the Augustinian monk Aicardo brought to Venice from Constantinople the presumed body of the empress. Following which the Augustinians enclosed the chapel within a larger church.” More confusion arises from the statement that there was a “hospital” dedicated to her, built in 1175 — 36 years before the saint arrived — maintained by the Augustinian order, for the care of the poor.

In the 15th century the convent and the church passed to the Benedictine monks, who rebuilt it in 1439. A century later, in 1515, the church was consecrated by the bishop of Aleppo and became an important religious center, with vast property and notable works of art. So evidently three centuries, all told, had to pass before her church (or let’s just say “she”) became sufficiently important to warrant identified inclusion on a map.

These sources don’t identify where the church was located, but I’m going to suppose it was on the island of Sant’ Elena.

Some maps, from the 1400’s onward, show at least part of an island floating off the eastern shore of Castello, just below Olivolo, where the church of San Pietro di Castello stands. So something was there, even if it isn’t identified. Yet if her eponymous original church was there, it does seem strange that so many cartographers didn’t show it, or if they did, why they didn’t always label it.

Benedetto Bordone made this map in 1539. Granted, Dei’ Barbari had carried off the palm in Venetian map-making. You have to admire anybody who’d try to come onstage after him. My point is that this map was less detailed than its predecessor, which kind of goes against the notion of map evolution, However, he gets points for clearly outlining the island of S. Helena, something Dei’ Barbari hadn’t done.

I think it’s evident that no map except Dei’ Barbari’s (1500) could claim to show everything. A good number of maps show only a smattering of churches, even though we know that there were many more. But he gives a only glimpse of the island, going so far as to cover half of it with a cloud-bedecked cherub. And yet the island, not to mention the mother of the Emperor Constantine, were hardly a secret.

If I ever find out why she was snubbed so often, I’ll let you know.

Dei’ Barbari modestly covered what was probably the island of Sant’ Elena with a cherub-bearing cloud. Why would he do that? I wish I could tell you.

In 1559, this map shows not only one, but two islands below Olivolo. Map-makers clearly have plenty of leeway in deciding what goes in and what stays out.

Dutch cartographer Joan Blaeu prepared this map in 1624. There is the island in the lower right corner, with a church and convent and vegetable patches, unlabeled and unsung just like so many other religious sites in the lagoon. Even San Giorgio Maggiore is without a name.

History, Nature

muddy waters

March 10, 2022 11 Comments

All that mud has to go somewhere. We certainly don’t want it here.

After my post on dredging (which was far too long ago, I apologize), I’m attempting a return with some answers to the question several readers put to me: What happens to the mud that is dredged from the canals?

Bear in mind that Venice has dredged its canals many times over the centuries and deposited the mud somewhere it could be useful. For example, the island of Sacca Sessola was created from 1860-1870 with the mud dredged from the area of Santa Marta during the deepening of the canals of the maritime zone. And it is far from being the only one.

Sacca Sessola (so named because it was shaped in a way that reminded somebody of the common boat-bailing scoop) first served as a fuel depository facility, then converted in 1914 to house a large hospital dedicated to curing respiratory diseases, particularly tuberculosis. In 2015 the J.W. Marriott company turned the decrepit remains of the abandoned hospital into a five-star luxury hotel/resort, and renamed the island in its publicity as Isola delle Rose (Island of the Roses). Venetians continue to call it Sacca Sessola.

Sacca Sessola is easy to identify from afar by its water tower. Like all the hospital islands, it was largely self-sufficient. Apart from the water, it had a stable full of cows, a bakery, laundry, and a lovely church. From the pictures on their website, it appears that the church is now a cocktail bar, or at least a venue for some elegant social event. (Photo: Riccardo Roiter Rigoni)

Small digression: “Sacca” (saca in Venetian) is often used to identify such places, but don’t confuse it with sacco, which means “bag.” A sacca is defined as “an inlet or cove of the sea, lake, river, or more precisely the bottom of an inlet or gulf. In geography, the accumulation of brackish water, very shallow, that is formed in sandy areas that separate the branches of a delta, from the resurgence of seawater from the subsoil.” End of digression.

Ludovico Ughi’s map (1729) showed that Venice had plenty of empty spaces where land was later to be applied. Counterclockwise from top left we see the Sacca di Santa Chiara (just to illustrate what was meant by “sacca”), and the island of Santa Chiara. Then there is the expansion of the Santa Marta area where the red-circled area of water shown here was filled in for a military parade ground in 1838 by the Austrians, shown below. At the far right, water ripples where the island of Sant’ Elena now stands.

Santa Marta 1838. The Austrians need a military parade ground, or Campo di Marte, so let’s wedge one in here.

In 1869 the train station is visible in all its glory; notice that the island of Santa Chiara is still hanging on right next door.

Big doings in 1888. Dredgings are dumped to form the new “Stazione Marittima,” or maritime terminal, clearly visible in the upper left corner and thereby (obliterating? incorporating?) the island of Santa Chiara. In the same year, the Giudecca has been elongated by the addition of Sacca Fisola and Sacca San Biagio. Even though the Austrians departed in 1866, the Campo di Marte on this German map is still labeled “Exerzierzplatz” (exercise place).

In 1913 the area at Santa Marta is now labeled “Ex Campo di Marte” and the lower half of the land is occupied by warehouses. The black lines stretching along the bridge and down to the Stazione Marittima and the waterfront on the Canale di Fusina were railway tracks bringing freight trains directly to the ships. At the easternmost edge of the city we now see “Isola di Sant’ Elena,” developed in the 1920’s on land that had been built there as another military parade ground. At least they found a useful second life after the Austrians left.

The Stazione Marittima was enlarged in 1958 by an extension cleverly named Tronchetto. It does sort of look like an elephant’s trunk. Less fancifully, it is also known as “Isola Nuova” (new island).

Murano, a natural grouping of lagoon islands, has been amplified with dredgings over the years; if you look at Google Maps (satellite view) you can easily locate Sacca Serenella, a sort of industrial zone to which no tourist would be lured. Murano has also grown on its northern perimeter by the addition of yet another island, mostly barren at the moment, where the Centro Sportivo San Mattia is located.

Murano. Sacca Serenella is the lower island, and the upper barren land has only partially been reclaimed by a sports facility that includes state-of-the-art bocce courts.

The cemetery island of San Michele has undergone quite an expansion over the past few years, thanks to dredgings from the city and environs. Puts a perfect, if slightly queasy, spin on the old “dust to dust” trope. I wonder if you could specify in your will that you want to be buried in the mud dug up from the canal nearest to your home.

The current island was originally two — San Michele and San Cristoforo. Napoleon decreed the establishment of a municipal cemetery. as opposed to the local graveyards near parish churches. More space is constantly needed, so keep those dredgings coming.

Two steps, so to speak, from San Michele is a reconstructed barena, painstakingly built up to replace one that the motondoso had completely eroded. Considering how many motorboats roar past every day, and even more in the summer, I’m not betting that it will not eventually meet the same fate. To the right is the larger barena created just a few years ago more or less at the same time as the Vento di Venezia marina. It used to be a lovely stretch of water to row across on the way to the Vignole, but Lord knows we need more barene.

When there is a large quantity of mud to be deposited, it is sprayed from enormous barges through high-powered tubes, specifically to form new barene (marshy islands). This process was quite a spectacle for a while during the construction of the “Vento di Venezia” marina at the island of the Certosa.

Looking across the recreated barena from the moorings at the Vento di Venezia.

Not visible here are the barely submerged bags of stones that defend the fragile muddy islets from the lashing of the motorboat waves.

The barrier is easier to see in this view. Lino went exploring among the saltwort (Salicornia europaea). We often see birds here, sometimes nesting — egret, beccaccia di mare (Haematopus olstralegus), cavaliere d’Italia (Himantopus himantopus). The random seagull.

Unhappily, sometimes the mud is poison. I’m not picking on Murano, but canals near the glass furnaces are known to contain arsenic and a few other chemicals not conducive to health. The sediments along the lagoon edge by the Industrial Zone are loaded with heavy metals — pick your favorite, it will be there. Sometimes illegal clammers go there at night, sell the clams, they’re sold to restaurants, etc. You can imagine.

Because the provenance of the mud matters, there is a system by which it is analyzed and classified and, if necessary, treated to render it harmless. This is more than usually important if it’s being sold to farmers to enrich their fields. I haven’t researched the system(s), so please don’t ask me. The point is that they exist.

The mud of Venice. You probably wouldn’t call it poetic, but it’s just as important as the water.

History

Unknown Soldier now 100 years old

November 11, 2021 24 Comments

The official Italian roll call response, here written on the tomb of one of the multi-thousands of dead Italian soldiers whose name will never be known. This image is from the military cemetery at Kobarid, Slovenia, final resting place of 7,014 known and unknown Italian soldiers and the site of no fewer than 12 lost battles against the Austro-Hungarian empire.

In the United States we observe Veterans Day on November 11, the date of Germany’s formal surrender at the end of World War 1. To be precise, the ceasefire took effect at 11:11 on November 11. We called it Armistice Day when I was a sprout, but now the date recognizes veterans of all wars.

The war between Italy and Austria-Hungary, however, came to an end on November 3, when the ceasefire was signed at the Villa Giusti outside Padova, to take effect on November 4. That date has long been observed here as a national day of remembrance, though by the end of it all, the warring parties had signed no fewer than 16 peace treaties.

It’s bad enough to know who were the casualties, but the nameless ones are what haunt me. In 1921, Italy consecrated its national Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, in Rome, and this year marked its hundredth-year anniversary. There are military shrines (sacrario) all over Italy and it is appalling how many of their soldiers are unknown. The monument in Gorizia notes 57,741 Italian casualties, of which 36,000 are unknown. At the shrine at Redipuglia are 100,000 fallen, and 60,000 unknown. At Asiago are 54,286 dead of which 33,000 are unknown. Obliterated.

Which brings me to the sacrario crowning Monte Grappa. The Grappa massif was the site of some of the war’s most violent battles, and where the Austrian advance into Italy was finally stopped.

On even moderately clear days, the low outline of Grappa, here just behind the Murano lighthouse, is visible from Venice. A mere 52 miles/84 km separate mountain from lagoon.

The cemetery on Monte Grappa contains not only the remains of thousands of Italian soldiers (foreground), but also many unknown Austrian soldiers in the circular area further back.

Monument to the Fallen of Monte Grappa Reigning His Majesty Vittorio Emanuele III Leader Benito Mussolini May 24 1934 September 22 1935 XIII year of E.F. (Epoca Fascista). The plaque on the lower right says: “In this shrine rest the remains of 12,615 fallen Italians of which 10,332 are unknown and 10,295 fallen Austro-Hungarians of which 10,000 are unknown.”

Austrians to the right, Italians to the left.

Meaning no disrespect to the Italian casualties, but I was surprised to find so many of the enemy interred here.

Atop the summit, walking toward the Italian tombs.

Looking toward Venice. Lino says that on a clear day you can see the sea. Of course the Austrian army wanted to see it too, even closer than this.

The smaller loculi contain identified soldiers, the larger ones contain some of the unknown. In this case, it says “Cento Militi Ignoti”” One hundred unknown soldiers. There are many of these.

The full inscription above reads: Gloria a Voi Soldati del Grappa. “Glory to you soldiers of Grappa.”

Most of the streets and campos in the area of Sant’ Elena bear names recalling the First World War.

Two weeks ago — the evening of October 29 — a remarkable event passed through Venice in the form of the “Train of Memory,” a steam train that retraced the route of the train that traveled from Aquileia to Rome bearing the coffin of the nameless soldier chosen to represent all of them to his final resting place at the Altar of the Fatherland. As before, the train left Cervignano Aquileia on October 29, stopped at Udine and Treviso, and arrived at Santa Lucia station in Venice at 9:30 PM. A few hours later it departed for Bologna, Florence, Arezzo, and finally Rome.

We waited at the station, determined to see it despite a delay of 90 minutes. A ceremony had been organized, though it was less majestic than those I discovered had been held in other stations. Music, speeches, uniforms. More music. It was moving in spite of all that; for me, the emotion was compounded by the fact that Lino’s father had been a train driver in the steam era, and that Santa Lucia station was once full of puffing, gasping trains just like this one.

A platoon of cadets from the Morosini naval school were arrayed, along with detachments of veterans of various branches and the band of the Alpini Julia Brigade. The train is coming in on Track 1, as it did in October of 1921.

The original train carried the coffin on an open carriage like this one.

It was said that this locomotive was the same that had pulled the original train. I can’t confirm that, but I can certainly confirm real steam.

The original train was something infinitely grander and more solemn, of course. This brief film clip shows scenes from the train’s passing towns and stations on its way to Rome, and I trust that even without your understanding the narration, the images will express something of the magnitude of the experience. It seems as though everyone who saw the coffin gave it something from the depths of their heart and spirit, as each person glimpsed, in a way, their own lost soldier.

So where is the monument to the Unknown Soldier in Venice? There is only one and it’s at Sant’Elena, modestly placed amid a sort of garden, a genteel afterthought. For years this piece of stone just sat on the ground till finally a group of former soldiers managed to get it up onto a sort of pedestal. Some cities, such as Florence, organized ceremonies with the laying of a huge laurel wreath.

Here, not so much. The only wreath was placed by Daniele Girardini, president of a military history association named cimeetrincee (peaks and trenches). Not even a nod from the city government, much less a ceremony. Maybe ceremonies are empty calories, but no ceremonies are worse.

This plot is right in front of the vaporetto stop at Sant’ Elena. It’s officially named the Garden of Remembrance, but plenty of people go by every day who have yet to realize that there is a stone here, much less a memorial, so not too heavy on the “remembrance.”

“I was always embarrassed by the words sacred, glorious, and sacrifice, ” wrote Ernest Hemingway. “I had seen nothing sacred, and the things that were glorious had no glory and the sacrifices were like the stockyards at Chicago if nothing was done with the meat except to bury it…Abstract words such as glory, honor, courage…were obscene beside the concrete names of villages… the names of rivers, the numbers of regiments and the dates.”

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