Heart: A Schoolboy's Journal
This children's book was actually Italy's 'national textbook'?
Did you know? After 'Heart' was published in 1886, it became a sensation in Italy. Within just a few decades, it was reprinted hundreds of times and translated into dozens of languages. It was even adapted into school textbooks and radio dramas, becoming the 'civic reader' for countless Italian children. The author, Edmondo De Amicis, was originally a soldier and journalist. He wrote this book to use a child's diary to weld the newly unified Italy into a nation with shared emotions. So it turns out a children's book can help build a country!
Monday, October 3rd.
The morning breeze carried a hint of coolness. With my book bag on my back, I followed my mother along the stone-paved streets of Turin. It was the first day of school, and my heart was beating faster than my footsteps.
The school gate was crowded with people. Younger children clung to their mothers' skirts, crying, while the mothers bent down to wipe their tears. The older students pretended to be indifferent, pulling their caps down low. I took a deep breath and walked through the iron-barred gate. The corridor smelled of chalk and wooden floorboards, and faded maps hung on the walls.
The new teacher stood at the classroom door. He wasn't tall, his hair was already graying, and a deep wrinkle lined his face, but his eyes were very gentle. He shook each of our hands one by one, his voice hoarse yet clear: "From today on, we are a family."
I found my seat and looked around. Next to me sat Carlon, the tallest boy in the class, with shoulders as broad as a wall, but he was bending down to help a thin classmate pick up a dropped pencil. In another corner, a hunchbacked boy was curled up—that was Nelly, his back like a small hill, his eyes uneasy. There was also a boy with messy hair and lively eyes, secretly counting something in his pocket—that was Garrone, who collected stamps, or so I heard; he wanted to collect everything.
After school, I opened my dark brown diary and wrote on the first page: "Today I met the new teacher and many classmates from different places. I don't know what will happen this year, but I want to write it all down."
Monday, October 10th.
Today the teacher brought a worn, thin booklet. He said that every month he would read us a story—not for us to memorize, but for us to take to heart.
He opened the booklet, and the classroom immediately fell silent.
"This month's story is called 'The Little Copyist,'" the teacher said.
In the story there is a boy named Syria. His family is very poor. His father works at the railway during the day and at night copies documents for others to earn a little money. Syria saw his father growing more and more tired, so at night he would secretly get up and copy the documents for him. He didn't dare let his father know, because his father would surely scold him for not sleeping properly.
Night after night, the boy sacrificed his sleep, filling sheets of paper with his handwriting, stroke by stroke. His eyes grew redder and redder, his schoolwork worse and worse, yet his father misunderstood him as lazy and even said harsh words to him. Syria bit his lip and explained nothing.
Until one deep night, his father discovered the small figure at the desk and understood everything. He hugged his son, tears falling on the boy's hair.
When the teacher read this, his voice paused. I secretly looked around and saw several classmates with their heads bowed. Carlon wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, pretending to wipe away sweat.
After class, I wrote in my diary: "So love doesn't always have to be spoken. Syria said nothing, yet did the most wonderful thing."
Saturday, October 15th.
Today when I came home from school, my father was sitting at his desk. He handed me a letter and said, "Enrico, this is for you. Read it, then copy it into your diary."
I opened the letter. My father's handwriting was neat and strong.
"My dear Enrico,
Yesterday when you were walking home from school, you saw a workman carrying heavy stones. Because his clothes were covered in dust, you pulled your classmate away and walked around him. My child, I must tell you, that was wrong.
That workman is like your father—he supports his family with his own two hands. The dust on his body is the mark of labor, not a sign of shame. You should respect him, just as you respect anyone who gives to this country.
When you see soldiers marching in the street, remember that they have left their homes to guard our land; when you see a poor person holding out a hand, remember that they may just be unlucky, not lazy.
A country's greatness lies not in how many splendid palaces it has, but in whether its people know how to respect one another.
Your loving father"
I read it twice, my face burning. Yesterday I had indeed pulled Garrone away from that workman; at the time I only thought his clothes were dirty. Now I feel deeply ashamed.
I copied the letter word for word into my diary, then wrote beside it: "From today on, I will learn to see the dignity in every person."
Thursday, October 20th.
Something happened in the classroom today.
During recess, a few mischievous classmates surrounded Nelly, imitating the way he walked. Some even deliberately stooped like him, laughing unkindly. Nelly's face turned bright red; he lowered his head and didn't dare say a word.
Just then, Carlon stood up. He walked over to the group, said nothing, and simply squared his broad shoulders, blocking Nelly. He was taller than everyone, and his eyes were as calm as deep water.
"That's enough," Carlon said, just two words.
The boys looked at each other, touched their noses, and scattered.
The bell rang, and the teacher walked in. He seemed to already know what had happened. He didn't scold anyone loudly; he just put down his book and looked at us.
"Today, I want to ask you a question," the teacher said slowly. "What is true courage?"
The classroom was dead silent.
"Bullying someone weaker than yourself is not courage—it is cowardice," the teacher said. "True courage is like Carlon: standing up to protect others when no one asks you to. Courage is not about having big fists, but a big heart."
I looked at Carlon. He hung his head, his ears a little red. Nelly stole a glance at him, a light in his eyes I had never seen before.
After school, I wrote in my diary: "Today I understood: the tallest person isn't necessarily the bravest, but the bravest person is always willing to stand taller for others."
November 4, Friday.
The first story of November, the teacher said, is called "The Little Sentinel of Lombardy."
His voice was lower than usual, and the classroom was so quiet you could hear the wind outside.
The story takes place during a time of war. A boy, about our age, marched with the army through the countryside of Lombardy. The officers needed someone to climb a tall tree and scout the enemy's movements, and the boy volunteered.
He scrambled up the trunk, branches rustling around him. He squinted into the distance, then shouted back: "The enemy is coming from the left! Cavalry, and foot soldiers too!"
Just then, a bullet cut through the air. The boy swayed but did not come down. He gripped the branch and kept calling out the enemy's position, his voice growing fainter each time.
"They're... moving... to the right..."
The officer below shouted for him to come down, but he shook his head. He knew that every moment he stayed gave the army a better chance.
At last, with all the strength he had left, he cried out: "Long live Italy!" And then he slid down from the tree.
The teacher stopped reading there. No one in the classroom spoke; even our breathing went quiet. I saw Nelly clenching her fists, and Carlon's lips pressed into a thin line.
After a long while, the teacher said softly: "Remember this boy. He had no armor and no weapon, but he had a heart braver than anyone's."
On the way home that day, I kept thinking: if it were me, would I dare climb that tree?
November 10, Thursday.
This morning, when the teacher walked into the classroom, he was holding a small iron box. There was a scratch on the lid, and it looked very old.
"Children," the teacher said, "one of our classmates has fallen on hard times. His family can't even scrape together the money for textbooks. I won't say who it is, but I believe you know what to do."
The classroom was quiet for a moment. Then Carlon was the first to stand up. He walked to the teacher's desk and dropped a coin into the iron box. Then came the second, the third... The box passed from hand to hand, making a clear, ringing sound.
When it was Garoffi's turn, he hesitated. I knew he was usually very thrifty—he wouldn't even trade stamps with anyone. But in the end, he emptied his pockets completely, not leaving a single coin.
"My father is a carpenter," Garoffi whispered to me. "He always says craftsmen rely on helping one another."
After school, I saw Garoffi's father come to pick him up. The carpenter wore a work suit covered in wood shavings, his hands thick with calluses, but his smile was warm and open. He patted Garoffi on the head, and Garoffi looked up, smiling so hard his eyes crinkled shut.
I wrote in my diary: "Today I learned that a person's family background doesn't decide their worth. Garoffi's father is a carpenter, but what he taught his son is more precious than gold."
November 15, Tuesday.
When I came home from school today, Mother had left a letter on the table for me. My name was written on the envelope, in neat, gentle handwriting.
"My dear Enrico,
Today I saw you leave with your schoolbag on your back, and suddenly something came to mind that I want to tell you.
Did you know that in this world there are still many children who never get the chance to walk into a school? Some work in the fields, some carry things in factories, some sell matches on the street. They are as clever as you, as curious as you, yet they have no books, no teachers, no desk to sit down and write at.
You can carry your schoolbag to school every day not because you are better than they are, but because you are luckier than they are.
So when you feel that your lessons are too hard, your teacher too strict, or the morning too cold, think of those children standing outside the school gate, able only to gaze in with longing.
Treasure your good fortune, and remember: one day, you must use that fortune to help others.
With love, Mother"
After I finished the letter, I sat by the window for a long time. Outside, a little boy was crouching by the roadside, drawing something in the dirt with a twig. I don't know whether he wished he could go to school too.
I tucked the letter into my diary and, for the first time, thought seriously: being able to sit in a classroom is really something extraordinary.
December 20, Tuesday.
Half the school term has gone by. Over these months, our class has had arguments and made up again.
Last week, Garoffi and a classmate got into a quarrel over trading stamps, and neither would speak to the other. But yesterday, that classmate forgot his lunch, and Garoffi, without a word, broke his own bread in two and handed half over. They looked at each other and couldn't help laughing.
Today the teacher stood in front of the blackboard, looked at us, and said something.
"Do you know?" the teacher said. "School is like a tiny country."
He pointed out the window. "In this country, there are all kinds of people. Some families are rich, some are poor; some run fast, some walk slowly; some are good at arithmetic, some are good at drawing. But you sit in the same classroom, read the same book, and breathe the same air."
"For a country to become better, it can't depend on just one person. It needs every single person to do their part. Your part is to study hard, to treat one another kindly, and to make this classroom a better place."
I looked around. Carlon was bending over, helping Nelly tidy her books; Garoffi was drawing something in his notebook; the teacher stood by the window, sunlight falling on his graying hair.
When school let out, I opened my diary and wrote: "On the first day of school, the teacher said we were one family. Now I finally understand—a family, a class, a country, all become better only when every person is willing to give something."
One October morning, the teacher walked into the classroom with a slightly curled piece of paper in his hand. He placed it on the desk and smoothed it gently. The classroom immediately fell silent.
"Today, I'm going to read you a monthly story," the teacher said. "It's called 'The Little Drummer of Sardinia.'"
His voice was deep and clear, like a bell in a church. In the story, a fourteen-year-old drummer boy marched with the army along a mountain road when they were suddenly surrounded by enemy troops. The commander needed someone to dash through the line of fire and deliver a message for reinforcements to the rear. The boy took the order, clutched his little drum, and bent low as he charged into the smoke.
"Bullets whizzed past his ears," the teacher read, "and his leg was hit, but he didn't stop. With one hand holding the drum and the other pushing against the ground, he crawled forward step by step. He had only one thought: the message must get through."
No one moved in the classroom. I saw Carlon clench his fists, Nelly's eyes wide, and even Garofalo, who usually talked the most, was perfectly still.
"Finally, the reinforcements arrived, and the whole army was saved," the teacher put down the paper. "But the boy lost a leg. When he woke up, his first question was: 'Was the message delivered?'"
The teacher looked up at us. "Children, what do you think sacrifice is? What is responsibility?"
Carlon raised his hand first, his voice steady: "Sacrifice is doing what needs to be done even when it hurts."
Nelly said softly, "Responsibility... is not abandoning something you've promised."
The teacher nodded, his gaze resting on each of our faces. "That boy didn't do it for applause or rewards. He only knew that the lives of the whole army were in his hands. That is the weight of responsibility."
I looked down at my own hands. I had never thought that a boy no older than me could carry something so heavy.
The next morning, the classroom door was gently pushed open. A woman in a dark dress stood at the doorway, clutching a white handkerchief with a tiny blue embroidered pattern on its edge. She was Nelly's mother.
The teacher went to greet her, but she shook her head first, as if holding back tears.
"Teacher," her voice trembled a little, "I came today to say thank you. Nelly told me that since the start of the term, Carlon has been protecting him. When someone made fun of Nelly, Carlon would stand up for him; when Nelly had trouble on the stairs, Carlon would help him. I... I don't know how to repay that boy."
She turned to Carlon and pressed the handkerchief to the corner of her eye. "Good boy, thank you."
Carlon stood up. He was taller than anyone in the class, but at that moment, he hung his head as if he had done something wrong, his face red to the ears. He said quietly, "It's nothing... it's really nothing."
"No," Nelly's mother said, "it may be nothing to you, but to Nelly, it is everything."
After she left, the classroom was silent for a few seconds. Then, someone started clapping, and soon the whole class joined in. The applause wasn't neat, but it was loud—so loud that even the window glass seemed to tremble slightly.
Carlon buried his head even lower, but I saw the corner of his mouth twitch.
After school, I opened my diary and wrote: "Kindness can be seen. Carlon never said he was kind, but everyone saw it."
When I finished, I looked out the window. Autumn sunlight fell on the street, and people were coming and going. I suddenly felt that what happened in this classroom might be more important than I had imagined.
On Saturday afternoon, the teacher took us to the memorial square in town. The square was paved with gray stone slabs, and in the center stood a tall stone monument covered with names, densely packed like a silent forest.
We stood in a circle around the monument. The teacher reached out and touched the letters on the stone, his touch very light, as if he were touching something precious.
"These names," the teacher said, "you probably don't recognize a single one. But it was these people who turned Italy from many small states into one nation."
He told us that long ago, this land was made up of many different kingdoms and city-states, where people spoke different dialects and fought each other. Later, many people stood up—some wrote articles, some fought, some sacrificed their lives—and slowly unified the country.
"A nation is not an abstract word," the teacher said. "It is not a line on a map, nor a page in a textbook. A nation is the accumulated efforts of many people."
Garofalo tilted his head and asked, "Teacher, can we children do something for our country too?"
The teacher smiled. "Yes. Study hard, learn to tell right from wrong, learn to respect others. When you grow up, you will know how to make this country better."
I looked up at the monument. The sunlight slanted down from the top, making the names shine. I suddenly felt that those names were no longer just marks on stone, but real people who had once lived and strived.
On the way back to school, Carlon walked beside me and said nothing. But his steps were slower than usual, as if he were thinking about something. I didn't speak either. Some words don't need to be said; they stay in the heart.
The next day, the teacher took out another monthly story page. This one was older than the last, the paper soft and the edges worn, clearly read many times.
"Today's story is called 'The Shipwreck.'" the teacher said.
The story took place on a stormy night. A great ship struck a rock at sea, and water poured into the hull. People were panicked. There was only one spot left in the lifeboat, and a boy and a smaller child both grabbed the side at the same time.
"The boy looked at the child," the teacher read, "and then he let go. He gave up his place to the child and, along with the ship, slowly sank into the dark sea."
The classroom was terribly quiet. I could hear my own breathing.
"That boy," the teacher closed the page, "no one knows his name. But that night, he made the bravest choice."
Nelly suddenly lowered his head, his shoulders shaking slightly. Carlon reached out and put his hand on his back without saying a word.
The teacher looked at us, his voice very soft: "Why do you think that boy did that?"
No one answered right away. After a moment, Carlon said, "Because he knew that child needed to live more than he did."
"Yes," the teacher said, "sometimes love is not words spoken, but a place given up."
When school let out, the whole class walked out of the classroom in silence. I glanced back at the teacher's desk; the old page lay quietly there, like a sail sunk to the bottom of the sea.
That night, I lay in bed and couldn't fall asleep for a long time. I thought about the boy without a name, about the moment he let go. I suddenly understood that some stories are not meant to make us sad, but to make us remember.
On Sunday, Father took me to visit my teacher's home.
The teacher lived on a quiet lane in the city. When he opened the door, he looked a little surprised, then smiled and invited us in. The house was very small. There was only an old wooden desk, an oil lamp, and a stack of students' notebooks piled on the desk. Beside them lay a pencil that was almost used up.
"Please sit, please sit," the teacher said, bringing over two chairs. But he himself stood by the desk.
Father looked around and said softly, "Teacher, your life is very simple."
The teacher waved his hand. "It is enough. The children's work matters more than anything."
I saw the stack of notebooks on the desk. Each one was open, with traces of careful corrections in red pen. In some places he had written words of encouragement; in others he had drawn small circles. The lamplight fell on the paper and made the writing glow warm.
"Do you grade these every night until so late?" I could not help asking.
The teacher smiled. "Sometimes. But when I see the children's handwriting getting neater day by day, I feel it is all worth it."
Father was silent for a moment, then said, "Teacher, thank you."
The teacher shook his head. "This is my work. Educating children is not for scores. It is to help them become good people."
On the way home, Father walked very slowly. Suddenly he said to me, "Enrico, remember what you saw today. The teacher gives his whole life to his students, yet he never thinks of himself as great."
I nodded. For the first time, I understood how much hardship our teacher hides behind him every day as he stands at the front of the classroom—hardship we never see.
On the last Friday of the semester, the teacher announced that we would hold a small reading gathering. Everyone could bring their diary and choose a passage they most wanted to share, and read it aloud to the whole class.
The classroom immediately buzzed with excitement. Garoffi flipped through his notebook, muttering to himself. Caron kept his head down, as if hesitating. Nelli hugged his notebook to his chest and said not a word.
The reading gathering began. One person read about the autumn they had written of; another read about the little dog at home; another read about arguing with a younger brother and then making up. Laughter kept rising from the classroom.
When it was Nelli's turn, he stood up but did not step forward right away. His face turned red, and he clutched his notebook tightly.
Caron said quietly beside him, "It's all right. Take your time."
Nelli took a deep breath and walked to the front of the room. His voice was very small, but very clear: "What I wrote is... my friend. He is very tall and very quiet. When people laugh at me, he stands in front of me. I have never told him thank you, because I did not know how to say it."
He paused, then raised his head and looked at Caron. "Now I want to say: thank you."
The classroom was silent at first. Then the whole class burst into applause. That applause was louder than last time, and longer. Caron kept his head down, his ears bright red, but he was smiling.
Watching this scene, I felt warm inside. Suddenly I realized that this classroom held many, many small, brave stories.
After the reading gathering, the teacher walked to the center of the front of the room. The classroom slowly grew quiet, so quiet that even the wind outside the window could be heard.
"This is our last lesson of the semester," the teacher said. "I want to say a few words to you."
He paused, and his gaze swept over each one of us.
"Education is not for scores." His voice was steady. "Scores will pass. Exams will end. But you will grow up, and what kind of people you become—that is what matters most."
"I hope you will become kind people. When you see someone who needs help, be willing to reach out your hand. I hope you will become honest people. When you do something wrong, dare to admit it. I also hope you will become people who love your country. Not by shouting slogans, but by doing your own duty well, so that this country becomes better because of you."
No one in the classroom spoke. I saw Nelli straighten his back, Caron watching the teacher seriously, and Garoffi put down the pen in his hand.
"Remember," the teacher said, "a class is a small family. A country is a big family. For a family to be good, it depends on every single person."
When he finished, he gave us a slight bow.
At that moment, every child in the class stood up. No one gave a command, but everyone stood up straight and looked at the teacher without wavering. Sunlight streamed in from outside the window, falling on his white hair and on each of our faces.
Suddenly I wanted to cry, yet I also felt very warm. I knew I would remember these words for a very, very long time.
After school, I stayed in the classroom alone. Outside the window, on the streets of Turin, people came and went. The tram rattled past with a clang, and the setting sun dyed the rooftops orange-red.
I opened my diary and turned to the first page. It told of the events of the first day of school, and the handwriting was still a little crooked. I read line by line, and when I reached the sentence where the teacher said "We are one family," I could not help smiling.
Back then, I understood nothing. Now, I seemed to understand a little.
I picked up my pen and wrote on the last page: "This semester, I learned many things. I learned that kindness can be seen. I learned that responsibility is heavy. And I learned that a country is built from the efforts of many people. The teacher said education is not for scores, but to help us become kind, honest people who love our country."
I paused, then wrote: "I don't know if I can do it. But I want to try. Because an education of love has only just begun."
When I finished, I closed my diary. Its dark cover shimmered faintly in the setting sun, and the spine was slightly loose from being opened and written in so often.
I looked out the window. On the street, someone walked by holding a child's hand, someone carried a vegetable basket home, someone stood at the corner waiting for a tram. Each person was living their own days, and each person was doing their own duty.
Suddenly I felt that this world is very big, yet also very near. As long as we are willing, each of us can make the place around us a little better.
I hugged my diary to my chest and walked out of the classroom. The corridor was very quiet, and the setting sun stretched my shadow out long. I knew that tomorrow there would be many more stories, waiting for me to write them down.
