Lindsay Marie Morris

February 1942 marked a dark chapter in American history, perhaps the cruelest month on the home front during the World War II years. On February 19, President Franklin D. Roosevelt signed Executive Order 9066, ordering thousands of West Coast unnaturalized Italian and German immigrants to leave their homes, jobs, and communities, just two months after labeling them "enemy aliens."

In California alone, more than 10,000 Italian immigrants were forced to evacuate designated protected zones such as coastal areas and regions near military bases, often with only days' notice. Streets, neighborhoods, and entire towns were suddenly off-limits to these "potentially dangerous" people. In the Contra Costa County town of Pittsburg, where Beneath the Sicilian Stars begins, about 22 percent of the local population was uprooted because the town contained critical sites, including Camp Stoneman and the Columbia Steel Plant.

But the numbers and labels only tell part of the story. These evacuated individuals were longtime residents who had spent decades working to support their families, their communities, and the United States economy. Many had sons and grandchildren serving in the U.S. Armed Forces. After all, up to 1.5 million Italian Americans served during World War II. Some evacuated "enemy aliens," like Rosina Criscuolo of Monterey, whose son and nephew were killed during the attack on Pearl Harbor, were Gold Star parents.

Most were senior citizens, according to a report in The Hartford Sentinel, with an average age of 70. Ninety-seven-year-old Pittsburg resident Placido Abono was among those ordered to evacuate, despite being bedridden. A resident of 53 years, he was reportedly removed on a stretcher.


 

When I shared this article during a presentation at the Pittsburg Historical Museum, at least two of Mr. Abono's great-grandchildren were in the audience. It was a stark reminder that this is not abstract history. If you are Italian American, they could have been your grandparents or great-grandparents, too.

A few days after Mr. Abono was featured, the Oakland Tribune ran a front-page article on "Grandma Firpo," an Alameda resident since 1872. Adelaide Firpo had two sons who served in the U.S. Army during World War I and a grandson stationed at Pearl Harbor on the day of Japan's attack. In the featured image, she holds his portrait, not yet knowing whether he survived. Yet her hometown was suddenly off-limits to her, despite the fact that she had purchased $1,000 in defense bonds to "lick Hitler and that fellow Mussolini," and had applied for U.S. citizenship just five months before receiving her evacuation order.

But, of course, West Coast Italian residents weren't the only ones affected. The same period saw Japanese Americans across the Western United States—including babies, children, and American citizens—forcibly removed in far greater numbers and sent to War Relocation Camps.

Japanese Family at Fort Missoula - Historical Museum at Fort Missoula

While schools are finally teaching the hidden history of Japanese American internment, most young people remain unaware of what happened to Italian immigrants during this time.

I hope you'll join me in sharing these forgotten stories and in pushing for greater awareness of how policy decisions uprooted generations, affecting not only those directly impacted but also their descendants who are still seeking answers, understanding, and ways to avoid history's echoes.

Christina Olivolo Sauvageau wasn't always so passionate about her Italian American identity. But that was decades before she discovered an important piece of Italian American history hidden in her hometown. 

Pacifica, California's Sharp Park is a favorite place for golfers, with its 18-hole historic seaside golf course, and for families, with its grills and picnic tables. San Francisco Archers hosts events at the park's scenic public range, the oldest of its kind in the nation. But what interests and haunts Christina is what came before.   

Not far from where today's archers aim and flinch, visitors may stumble upon remnants of a small set of concrete stairs. But there's no sign explaining why—yet.

Christina discovered the story in Una Storia Segreta: The Secret History of Italian American Evacuation and Internment During World War II, edited by late Bay Area historian and activist Lawrence DiStasi, who also inspired me to write Beneath the Sicilian Stars (Storm Publishing, July 2025).

In the aftermath of Pearl Harbor, President Franklin D. Roosevelt issued a series of Presidential Proclamations and Executive Orders, targeting unnaturalized Japanese, Italian, and German residents, whom he branded as "enemy aliens" in early December 1941. Fishing bans, boat requisitions, home searches for "contraband," such as cameras, radios, and flashlights, strict travel restrictions, and curfews soon followed. But to enforce these policies, the government hastily established detention centers across the country.

Bay Area violators and those arrested during FBI raids typically landed at an Immigration and Naturalization Service center on San Francisco's Silver Avenue (now Cornerstone Evangelical Baptist Church). Detainees slept in a gymnasium in wall-to-wall bunk beds without much (if any) access to fresh air or natural light. Once Silver Avenue was at capacity, officials looked to Sharp Park Station, a former state relief camp (also known as Camp Sharp Park). They transferred 193 former Silver Avenue detainees to the new facility on its opening day, March 30, 1942.

The detention centers served as a starting point for many internees before they were placed within a network of internment camps stretched across the country. The stays of other Japanese, German, and Italian detainees ranged from days to months for more routine curfew, travel, or contraband violations.

Christina was amazed that she'd never heard about Sharp Park, which was in her proverbial backyard. Raised in a U.S. Army family, she was vaguely aware of her Southern Italian heritage. She ate spaghetti and honored traditions during the holidays with her paternal grandmother. But learning about this largely hidden local Italian American history inspired her to dig deeper.

She phoned DiStasi to inquire about Sharp Park, and after receiving some rough coordinates, she hopped in her car. About 20 minutes later, she arrived at a deserted spot surrounded by hills near the archery range.

"When I stood there and looked at those hills, I realized that I was looking at the same hills that those detainees looked at," Christina shares. "I looked at the old electrical poles, now covered in moss, and I know they're a few of the originals; they match up with photos of the camp I'd found. And I started to tear up. I felt the enormity and the injustice and the helplessness—everything the people must have felt standing there on that same land."

Today, Christina serves as Historian of Italian Internment for Le Donne d'Italia, a Bay Area multigenerational Italian women's group dedicated to promoting and preserving Italian culture. We spoke about Christina's journey as a heritage-inspired historian and activist, surprising finds, and how uncovering and sharing suppressed historical truths can honor those who suffered while educating present generations to recognize patterns of injustice.

  

Photo credit: Bancroft Library, University of California, Berkeley

How did Sharp Park's history inspire your advocacy work?

I had no idea that Italians were sent to internment camps, put in detention, and that we were even looked upon as suspicious. By the time I read Una Storia Segreta, everyone in my dad's generation from my family was gone. So I couldn't ask them about their experience. My grandfather had become a citizen, but I know it had to have affected them.

This was still during the pandemic. I was being careful—wearing a mask indoors—and I kept thinking, This story needs to be told. People need to know this happened right here in our own backyard. I thought about my organization, Le Donne d'Italia, and how important it would be for them to know.

I wondered if it would be possible to do something outdoors, where we wouldn't have to wear masks. I thought about asking Larry DiStasi to give a presentation, but he was no longer able to travel. He suggested doing a Zoom presentation.

I hesitated. That wasn't what I wanted. I wanted people to feel it. I believed they would feel it if they were standing on that land. So I thought, Someone has to tell this story. If no one else can, I'll do it. That decision came around January 2022.

So, I started studying as if it were a master's thesis. I didn't want to get anything wrong—this history is complicated!

I decided September 2022 would be best for a presentation, when Pacifica's weather is usually clearer. I created large foam-core boards with photos on easels. Every Le Donne d'Italia officer stood by a board to hold it steady in the wind. I borrowed a karaoke machine for sound and rigged a microphone to a camera tripod so I could keep my hands free.

I also wanted a reenactment. I had the actual words of one Italian detainee, Marino Sichi, from Unknown Internment by Steven Fox, a professor at Humboldt State University.

Most of what we know about Camp Sharp Park comes from Marino Sichi. He was quite a character. I asked a very dramatic teacher from my kids' high school to read the text as a reenactment, and he was wonderful. I also had someone play the role of Marino's friend from San Francisco who visited him. They read a few lines describing what it felt like to see him behind the wire fence, wondering, Why am I here?

About 25 people attended—mostly Le Donne d'Italia members, plus some spouses and friends. Members of the Pacifica Historical Society came, too. An Italian American woman on the board, who grew up in Pacifica, shared that the FBI had raided her family's artichoke farm. Their Italian neighbor was interned and held at Sharp Park, and they used to visit him.

A reporter also attended, and the event was covered in the Pacifica Tribune. It went very well.

Coincidentally, that same month, a San Francisco supervisor introduced a resolution calling for signage at Sharp Park to acknowledge its history after consultation with the Japanese American Community.

Two months later, the woman from the Pacifica Historical Society contacted me. A reporter from the Japanese American newspaper The Nichi Bei Times had asked her about the Japanese detention camp. She told him there were also Italians and Germans held there. He didn't know that. She urged me to get involved.

Because the land is owned by the San Francisco  Recreation and Parks Department, the project was open to the public, inviting volunteers to help research the signage. I joined the effort. Someone asked if I had names of Italians held there. I had a few from the Congressional Report [A Review of the Restrictions on Persons of Italian Ancestry During World War II].

A genealogist on the committee suggested I visit the National Archives in San Bruno. I went, and there were five boxes—about 1,500 FBI records on Italians during WWII, mostly from California. They included investigations, arrest reports, and release documents.

I started skimming for "Sharp Park" but couldn't find it. Most files didn't list where people were detained—just "currently detained" or "en route to the U.S. Marshal." Occasionally, buried deep in a paragraph, it would mention Sharp Park. It was like finding a needle in a haystack.

But as I started reading more closely, I was stunned. The reports were invasive and deeply personal. The FBI interviewed neighbors, coworkers, and even documented children's schools and activities. Many people were arrested for minor curfew violations or paperwork issues, such as being more than 5 miles from home or temporarily staying with family without updating their certificate.

People's lives were ruined over honest mistakes. I could only read a few files at a time before becoming overwhelmed. Once, I had to stop and put my head in my hands.

That's how bad it was. Reading books gives you an understanding—but reading the actual FBI files is different. I felt like I knew these people. There were women detained, too. Their stories haunt me. That's why I'm so passionate about telling this story now. 

Can you share some more memorable stories?

A couple of stories come to mind. One involves a 42-year-old woman in Sacramento. The FBI and other authorities would randomly stake out neighborhoods, and one night they saw her entering her home at 8:30 p.m.—half an hour past the 8:00 p.m. curfew.

She had been at a neighbor's house borrowing a bottle capper because she was bottling tomato juice. She had two young children at home. For that curfew violation, she was arrested, held in the Sacramento jail for three days, and then sent to Sharp Park. I don't know how long she stayed there, but even at a minimum, that's about a week total. Her children were left at home without their mother.

Another case was 30-year-old Theresa Fagnani of Millbrae, near San Francisco, who was also arrested for a curfew violation. Her arrest was reported in the newspaper, which must have been humiliating. She was held at Sharp Park for 11 weeks for a curfew violation.

Her mother was also picked up for a curfew violation a few weeks later. She was 66 years old, and Theresa was her only daughter. I've often wondered whether the mother may have done it intentionally so she could be with her daughter. It's also possible their work required them to be out after 8:00 p.m.

When you share these stories, what do you hope listeners take away?

Compassion for others. It's interesting because earlier this year, when we heard the news about people being rounded up by ICE and placed in detention camps, I started getting text messages from people who had attended my presentations, saying, "It's just like what happened to the Italians."

They felt compelled to share. That's huge. They're feeling it now because they know that it happened to Italians, too. 

Christina presents to an audience at the SF Italian Athletic Club.

How can readers get involved?

There is still so much investigation to be done through the National Archives and even Newspapers.com. I've found names that never appeared in the Congressional report simply by searching newspapers from that time period. Arrests were often reported publicly.

From what I've uncovered so far, Italians—and Japanese, and likely Germans—were brought to Sharp Park from as far south as just north of Bakersfield and all the way up to the Oregon border. I even found the release document for one Italian American detainee who was brought from Hood River, Oregon, near Portland. When detainees were released, they were usually put on a Greyhound bus and sent back to where they'd been apprehended. His release form stated that he was put on a Greyhound bus at 1:00 p.m. and sent back to Hood River.

Through this work, I've also connected with families of Italians who were held at Sharp Park. I'm now in touch with Marino Sichi's daughters, the family of Aristide Bertolini, who was also held there, and three others. It's been a fascinating journey—truly fascinating.

 


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