I sat in my rocking chair by the window for my morning prayers. Outside, simple homes with terracotta tile roofs perched on a slope dotted with trees. Serrastretta. My family had helped found this village in the mountains of Calabria, in the instep of the boot of Italy. It was my father’s hometown. The house I lived in had been in the Aiello-Scalise family for 440 years. Yet, since moving here a few months ago, in the winter of 2006, I had felt so isolated. I hadn’t met anyone who had Jewish roots, let alone connected with them over our shared spiritual heritage. I finished my prayers, reminding myself that I was here for my father. And for the promise I’d made him 30 years ago.
I was born and raised in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. My parents were Jewish immigrants from Italy. They were marginally involved with a synagogue. Most religious observances, such as lighting the candles for Shabbat on Friday night, were done at home. This was because our family was descendants of people who’d been forced during the Inquisition to convert
