The leaving was not one year. After 1921 the numbers fall in the documents — 3,417, then hundreds — but the leaving is a century, not a statistic. Men first, then families. The Bronx learned the names. Rhode Island mill housing learned the smell of beans with sausage. Canada learned that June 13 was not optional.
A letter from Gallo could take weeks. It still said the important things in the order the mountain prefers: who is well, who is not, whether the snow was late, whether you are coming for Sant’Antonio. The American reply learned to put money in the envelope without putting pride in the way. Both sides pretended this was ordinary.
Descendants now search the internet for a town their grandparents pronounced like a secret. Ru Uàllë. They find a lake, a feast day, a population count that looks like a warning. It is not a warning. It is a town that sent its people out and kept a chair. If that is your story, start with a living relative, not a database. Ask what the house was called. Ask who sat where. Write it down before the person who knows is the empty chair.