THE FEDE-NICOLETTI CASE

The Fede–Nicoletti case began nearly a quarter of a century ago, a few years after the death of my paternal grandmother, Filippa Fede, in 1996. In those years, I often found myself in long, meandering conversations with her sister, Aunt Irene, a living encyclopedia who seemed to carry the entire memory of our family within her.

It was during my teenage years, while taking my first hesitant steps into genealogy, that the first thread of this mystery revealed itself. The surname “Fede” was not unknown in Italy, thanks in part to the Sicilian journalist Emilio Fede, a familiar face on Mediaset television. I remembered Aunt Irene once mentioning that her father, Paolo, had met Emilio on a train. During their conversation, the two men concluded they were somehow related. The thought of a family link to a public figure fascinated me, and I began to pester Aunt Irene with questions.

Her answers, however, soon took an unexpected turn. One day, she revealed something astonishing: Paolo Fede’s father—the man recorded in official documents as the father of both my grandmother Filippa and Aunt Irene, was not his biological parent. Antonino Fede, whose name appeared in every registry and certificate, had not fathered Paolo.

Aunt Irene went on to explain that she was, in fact, a cousin of Rosario Nicoletti, a man well known in his hometown of Pietraperzia for his work in historical research and archaeology. That was when the truth began to take shape: by blood, Paolo was a Nicoletti, not a Fede.

Irene’s recollections were rich in detail. She remembered, as a child, reaching into the pockets of her biological grandfather, Giuseppe Nicoletti, to find the candies he had hidden for her. They both understood the bond between them, it was no secret, but rather an unspoken truth accepted by those involved.

She also recounted the origins of the tangled family history. According to her, Antonino Fede and Filippa Triolo, the official parents of Paolo, had married on October 4, 1874, a date I later confirmed through their marriage certificate. Antonino, originally from Caltanissetta but raised in Pietraperzia, was the son of unknown parents. He married Filippa but, according to Irene, never consummated the marriage, not at least at a time that could have resulted in Paolo’s conception.

The story grew darker: Antonino accused Filippa of infidelity, claiming there had been no intimacy between them during the period when Paolo must have been conceived. He eventually packed his belongings and left her. Three years after the marriage—on October 19, Paolo was born.

Irene claimed that Paolo’s true father was Giuseppe Nicoletti, who was already married to a woman named Francesca Ideo. My research confirmed her account: records identified Giuseppe as a teacher, and his wife indeed bore the surname Ideo. Irene maintained that the entire Nicoletti family was aware of Paolo’s existence and that, whenever she encountered lawyer Rosario Nicoletti, Giuseppe’s great-nephew, they greeted one another warmly, acknowledging each other as cousins.

Rosario, she said, had once even expressed interest in marrying Giuseppa, known as Peppina, her elder sister and my grandmother. But the idea was discouraged, as their blood connection was considered too close.

This family truth might have been buried forever with Aunt Irene’s passing, had it not taken root in my memory, a fragile yet unbreakable thread binding together hidden identities and the silences of generations.

I was still a boy when I first immersed myself in the history of Pietraperzia. My adolescent afternoons often unfolded in the dim quiet of the town’s public library, where the air smelled of dust and ink. I roamed among crumbling pages and faded bindings, chasing the voices of those who had lived before me. It was there that I discovered the works of lawyer Rosario Nicoletti—texts that spoke with both precision and passion, which I devoured as though they might reveal a missing piece of myself.

In 2018, my research took a decisive turn. I began working with ancestral DNA testing, not as a hobby, but as an instrument of truth. I saw its potential at once: the power to open doors that even the most meticulous archives could never unlock. I could not have imagined then that this very tool would one day bring resolution to the mystery that had haunted my family for over a century.

By then, I had begun corresponding with Giulia Nicoletti, Rosario’s granddaughter. We had first met years earlier, when I was working as a tour guide in Pietraperzia and she was active in the Archeoclub her grandfather directed.

When I returned to Sicily from abroad in 2013, I asked my father to accompany me to Rosario’s home. He received us with warmth, confirming what I had long suspected, our kinship through my grandmother and Aunt Irene. I left his home elated. When he passed away, perhaps the following year, I felt the loss more deeply than I expected. In that grief, a thought took shape: I would test the DNA of one of his relatives, to see if blood could confirm what stories had always whispered.

Giulia introduced me to her aunt Stella, Rosario’s daughter. In 2022, during one of my visits to Pietraperzia, the three of us met in the lawyer’s old home. By chance, or fate, that same week, Giulia and I had delivered a lecture on Sicilian genetics. I had brought with me three Family Tree DNA kits, sent months earlier to me in Indonesia, awaiting their purpose.

I told Stella the full story, our story. Without hesitation, she agreed to take the autosomal test, eager to know whether her DNA would surface among my matches or my father’s. In that familiar kitchen, where generations had once gathered, I collected her saliva sample, sealed it carefully, and prepared it for its long journey across the world.

Then came the waiting, weeks filled with restless thoughts, the hope that I might soon uncover one of my family’s greatest secrets. A truth no church registry or civil record could ever reveal.

When the results arrived, I knew that at last I could give form to the memories Aunt Irene had guarded all her life. I could breathe life into her story, and return to my grandmother the name, the heritage, and the identity that had always belonged to her.