The Portrait of Mussolini

The Podesta’ and the Aqueduct

 

It was one of those cloudy days in March when one would like to linger in bed, but Ernesto Petrosi, the podesta’ of Collina Verde had to go to city hall for a meeting with maresciallo Ferrario and Father Gianpietro, l’arciprete.

Ernesto was a stout man in his early fifties, with a round and jovial face, a midsection that advertised his wife’s culinary skills, and a band of greying hair bordering a shining cupola. As an only child, his childhood was showered with love and attention and he grew up as a pleasant, well-mannered, obedient boy. His parents were deeply religious, and he accompanied them for Sunday Mass every week.

Young Father Gianpietro, who had recently joined the parish as assistant priest and coordinator of the catechism program, was impressed by the boy’s gregariousness and desire to learn. Ernesto soon became a junior choir boy and progressed rapidly to become the lead choir boy. Every Sunday morning, he went to the sacristy, put on the long white gown, lighted the long candle, and carried it to the altar walking behind the priest. He sat quietly on the bench by the side of altar and assisted the priest on cue. Everyone in the village believed that he would enroll in the junior high school directed by the Jesuits in Messina and then enter the seminary, but he had other ideas. After lengthy consultations with Father Gianpietro, who also had hoped to recruit one more priest from Collina Verde, Ernesto enrolled in the Scuola Magistrale in Messina. Four years later, he graduated as elementary school teacher and was offered a job teaching first grade in the village school.

When he was in his early twenties, his father called him aside for a serious talk.

“Son,” he told him lovingly, “your mother and I will not live forever. We would like to enjoy some grandchildren before we die and you are the only one who can give them to us. I don’t want my last name to die with me.”

“I have been thinking about that myself, dad,” replied Ernesto. “I was going to ask your advice.”

“Let me tell you just this, my son. Remember that all human relationships are about property and money, especially marriage. Don’t search for a woman who is good-looking and intelligent. Good looks give you nothing, and intelligence is what you bring into the marriage. Your wife must bring you money and property.”

“I understand what you are saying. It makes sense. Do you have someone in mind?”

“You mother and I have been thinking about Rosanna, the daughter of the wine and cheese merchant. She is the right age, quiet, and obedient to her parents. Her hips are large enough to give us a bunch of grand-children. We think she would be perfect for you.”

Rosanna was a woman of substance, economically and physically. She was also a practical woman and not very choosy about a husband. She completed her elementary school education with the help of gallons of her father’s good wine that her teachers enjoyed at the end of each successful year. Short of stature, her demeanor projected a self-awareness of the sense of superiority that often accompanies the uneducated well-to-do.

“I have only seen her a few times at church,” replied Ernesto, “but if you and Ma think she will be a good wife, go ahead and bring the proposal to her father.”

As times went by, Ernesto gained the reputation of a conscientious teacher, loving son, faithful husband, and altogether nice guy. What the people of Collina Verde appreciated most of Ernesto, however, was the pliable nature of his moral framework which allowed him to identify numerous sides to each case and select the one that was most profitable for him. He was so highly respected in the village that in his early forties was elected major, a position he held for more than a decade.

Ernesto liked to read and keep abreast of local and national political developments. He sympathized with Don Sturzo’s activism and focus on the social Gospel. Cautious by nature and upbringing, he mentioned casually the name of Don Sturzo to Father Gianpietro, who replied, “as the Lord warned us, we have to watch out that we do not mix Caesar with God.” The name of the Sicilian activist priest was never mentioned again.

Ernesto also had a keen nose for detecting changing political winds. He was not fooled by the poor showing of the Partito Nazionale Fascista (PNF) when it was able to elect only two deputies in the 1921 elections and saw the dangers posed for a weak government by the widespread violence of its supporters. Even before the March on Rome in the Fall of 1922 he sensed that the Scirocco was being blown away by the Tramontana. He mentioned the name of Mussolini to Father Gianpietro without exposing his thoughts. This time, instead of a comment, he received a question.

“What would you prefer, Ernesto: the anti-clericalism of the fascists or the Godliness of the socialists?

No answer was necessary and no answer was given.

When Mussolini became Prime Minister at the end of October 1922, Ernesto no longer needed to hide his choice and became a full-fledged member of the Fascist Party. The benefits of this far-sighted decision became evident four years later when a royal decree suppressed all elected municipal offices and transferred the power of major and city council into the new appointed position of podesta’. With the stroke of a pen, Ernesto became the first podesta’ of Collina Verde.

When Ernesto was elected major, his main promise was the construction of an aqueduct that would bring piped water from the slopes of the Peloritani mountains to the streets and houses of Collina Verde. A number of wells and springs were found around the village, but each one of them required a round trip of about one mile. Every day women had to make the long trip to the well, fill the terra cotta quartari and carry them back home, balancing them on the top of their heads. To wash their linen, they had to trek down a steep three-mile meandering trail to the river. After they washed the linen in shallow pools, they stretched it on large rocks to let it dry. It was an all-day affair.

The construction of the aqueduct was a difficult job as the land between the mountains and the village was interspersed with rocky terrain and deep ravines. Work had been proceeding at a snail’s pace for several years. Every time a piece of the aqueduct was built and its financing exhausted, it took months to obtain the funds for the next section. As Podesta’, Ernesto now had the power to speed up the process and by the beginning of 1927, the water was already flowing out of the eight public fountains. The work had already begun to connect the main pipe to individual homes.

The final phase of the aqueduct was a God-send to Salvatore, who owned a mule and offered his services for carrying building materials. He was a lanky young man in his mid-thirties. The hot Sicilian sun had imprinted a permanent tan on his skin and carved premature wrinkles on his face. His thin mustache and unkempt black hair gave him a wild appearance. For the past six years he was engaged to Rosetta, daughter of the local blacksmith and eight years younger. Rosetta brought to the marriage as her dowry a decrepit old house in desperate need of major repairs. From the time of his engagement, Salvatore spent all his savings and spare time on fixing the house. The night of the marriage, the newly renovated house welcomed the untouched Rosetta.

Although one of the public fountains was located near Salvatore’s house, he did not want his wife to be seen fetching water. He wanted everyone to know that he could afford to pay the monthly water bill. He had already applied for the water connection and did all the preparatory work himself. He was just waiting for the crew of the village’s public works department. Fed up with the delays, he planned to go to the municipio to inquire, but saw the director of public works walking by.

“There has been a change of plans,” the director replied to Salvatore’s inquiry. “First, we will do the connection at the other side of the village, starting from Visalli and Manganello Streets. Then we will move to this side and take care of your house.”

Salvatore was livid, but said nothing. Instead, he went home and vented his frustrations in front of his wife.

“These fascists have become unbearable. They lord it over us and we have no recourse. I was one of the first paesani to have the application approved. They have had my money for months, and I have to wait for their whims as if they are doing me a favor.”

“Don’t get so upset, Turiddu,” Rosetta replied, trying to calm him down.

“I know why they are doing this,” he continued. “They want to punish me because I do not lick their boots. They think I am a socialist and want to teach me a lesson.”

“Forget about politics, Turiddu. It’s not a big deal if we wait a bit longer. The public fountain is close by and I don’t mind the short trip to fetch the water. My mother and I had to walk a mile to fetch water from the well at casarobbutu.”

Salvatore calmed down and for a week, his daily routine returned to normal. Rosetta used the public fountain for her water needs. One day in early March, when a steady drizzle coated the cobblestones with fine mist, Rosetta slipped in front of the fountain, fell down scratching her knee, tearing her dress and breaking the clay pot. She tried to conceal her accident by throwing away the pieces of terracotta and changing her dress, but was unable to hide the bruises from her husband when they went to bed. Salvatore was furious and decided to go to the municipio the next morning. Rosetta, who understood her husband’s intentions from the clean clothes he was wearing on a working day, tried to dissuade him.

“Turiddu,” she implored lovingly. “Non fari fissarii. They will arrest you. You know they have already sent Maria ‘Ntunazzu, Rosa Cipuddu, and Franciscu Mamuni to the confino. In Santa Lucia they even arrested the pharmacist.”

Salvatore was determined and not even the Holy Spirit could stop him. He marched to the municipio, climbed the old stone staircase of what used to be the Monastery of Saint Francis of Paola, pushed open the massive oak door, and entered the small waiting room. As he was waiting for one of the municipal officers, Salvatore’s eyes roamed over the walls of the small room. His eyes were first fixed on the small wooden crucifix hanging on one wall and covered with small perforations from which occasionally dropped tiny grains of sawdust. Then he turned his gaze to the other wall and saw a portrait of the Duce. There, protected by glass and a gleaming chrome frame was the round and smiling image of Mussolini. This portrait advertised Ernesto’s ultimate source of power and warned potential troublemakers of who stood behind him.

“You touch me, and you touch the Duce,” he often said.

If he had to get up at 5 in the morning and work a whole day under the scorching sun, he would not have such a smooth skin and he would not be smiling either.

The clerk of vital statistics entered from the inside door. “May I help you, Salvatore?”

“I want to talk to the podesta’,” Salvatore yelled.

“He is very busy today. Please, come back tomorrow.”

“I am not going anywhere before I see him. I have waited long enough, and I want some answers today.”

At that moment, the outside door opened and maresciallo Ferrario entered, accompanied by brigadiere Roberti, both sporting their new carabinieri uniforms.

When he heard Salvatore’s loud complaint, the maresciallo asked in his Bolognese accent, “what is the problem, signor Caruso? Why are you so agitated?”

“I will tell you why I am agitated, as you say. I paid for my water connection months ago, and I am still waiting. My wife has to fetch water from the public fountain every day. Yesterday she slipped and fell and hurt herself. I want my water connection now.”

The director of public works, who was down the hall, heard Salvatore’s loud reply to the maresciallo.

“Caru Turiddu,” he commented calmly as he entered the waiting room. “No amount of shouting will get your water connection sooner. You have to learn to control your temper and show proper respect for the authorities. We do not live in an anarchic society. In Italy we now have law and order.”

“I have always respected the law,” replied Salvatore. “I want the law to be applied justly to everyone and public services provided without favoritism.”

“There is no injustice in our regime,” the director exclaimed emphatically. “But justice goes both ways. I think those who help the authorities maintain a stable and orderly society deserve a more favorable treatment than the rebels.”

“I will show you what I think of your orderly society.” Salvatore understood clearly why his house had not been connected to water main. He jumped, grabbed the frame of Mussolini’s portrait and smashed it on the floor.

Maresciallo Ferrario was astounded. He turned quickly towards Salvatore and exclaimed with authority, “you have committed a criminal act. You are under arrest.”

The podesta’, disturbed by all the fracas, came out of his office to investigate. When he heard the whole story, he tried to diffuse the tension and get Salvatore out of trouble out of respect for his parents whom he had known all his life.

“Calm down, Turiddu. I know that you are upset about the delay in the water connection to your house, but I can promise you the job will be done soon. There is no need for violence. And you never, ever, disrespect the Duce. We will order another frame and glass and you will pay for it. You will also have to offer a couple of days of free labor as a fine for your disorderly conduct.”

He was ready to go back to his office when he heard the thundering voice of maresciallo Frerrario.

“That’s not enough, my dear podesta’. This man has committed a criminal act punishable with temporary exile from the village.”

“Dear maresciallo,” Ernestor responded politely. He made seeking compromise the main virtue of his life. “Salvatore did not really mean to be disrespectful to the Duce. He just lost control because his wife was hurt.”

He then turned to Salvatore, imploring, “tell him, Turiddu, that you are a faithful supporter of the Duce. Tell them you did not know what you were doing because your wife was hurt and ask forgiveness.”

“I don’t care if his wife was dying,” the maresciallo thundered. “We cannot condone this kind of behavior under any circumstances. If we let such disrespect for the Duce go unpunished, the nation will soon by overrun by anarchy.”

The maresciallo then turned to brigadiere Roberti. “Arrest this man. We will take him right away to the caserma in Messina where he will be processed for the confino.

* * *

The Arrangement

 

At 1:30 p.m. Ernesto left his office and sauntered home as he did every working day to join his wife Rosanna for lunch. Today he was particularly pensive. So many questions were swirling in his mind.

Somebody must inform Rosetta. Wouldn’t it be his duty as podesta’ to bring her the bad news? What could he say to comfort the young bride? He was so immersed in these thoughts he didn’t even notice the morning droppings of the donkeys on their way to the farms and the emaciated dogs scouting the streets in search of food scraps, and his nose did not detect the stench emanating from alleys used by kids and the occasional grown-up as public latrines. During lunch he brushed those thoughts away for fear of being questioned by Rosanna if he appeared to be too pensive. Ernesto could not sleep a wink during his afternoon nap.

Rosanna watched her husband tossing and turning in bed and approached him. “What’s bothering you, Ernesto? You are so restless.”

“It’s nothing, dear. I have a strange feeling in my stomach. I will feel better if I go for a walk.” And with these words he got up, dressed, and walked back to the municipio, but did not go inside. Instead, he walked back and forth in the courtyard of the old monastery immersed in deep thought. He knew that Salvatore would be sent to the confino and was trying to figure out how to break the news to Rosetta.

Another thought snuck into his mind. Rosetta would remain alone for the span of her husband’s absence and she would need some form of financial support. She could not work the farm alone and could not get much help from her parents and in-laws who could barely take care of themselves. What about her emotional well-being? She was young and just experienced the full extent of male companionship. How could she handle being alone for an indefinite period of time? Would she be receptive to offers of emotional and financial support from a man of authority?

These were grave questions. Still pondering, Ernesto turned around and walked towards Rosetta’s house.

In the meantime, Rosetta had no idea about what happened. She considered going to the municipio when Salvatore did not show up for lunch, but in the end, decided to stay home, convincing herself her husband had gone directly to the farm. Rosetta opened the door when she heard the knock and invited the podesta’ in.

“Signor podesta’, this morning my husband went to the municipio to talk to you. Did you see him?”

“Yes, I saw him. I came here to tell you about his visit. He made a big fuss in front of the maresciallo, yelling and screaming, and in the end, he smashed the portrait of the Duce.”

“San Giuseppi, Gesuzzu, e Maria,” Rosetta cried out as she realized the gravity of the situation. “What will happen to him?”

“I tried to convince the maresciallo to be lenient, but he would not listen to me. You know how stiff these polentoni of the North are.”

“Where is Turiddu now?”

“The maresciallo and the brigadiere drove him to Messina for interrogation by the captain. I will go see the maresciallo tomorrow and then I will come back and tell you.” This was a good excuse to see her again. Noticing that the young woman could hardly control her tears, he tried to console her before leaving,

‘Don’t worry, Rosetta. The maresciallo is a good friend. I am sure Turiddu will be back in a few days.”

Next morning Ernesto stopped by the caserma to speak to maresciallo Ferrario. The maresciallo was not in, but brigadiere Roberti told him that Salvatore was found guilty by the provincial commission and was already sent to the confino.

“He left on the early morning train. He must be in Calabria by now.”

Ernesto hoped for some clemency, although deep inside, he knew Salvatore’s fate was sealed in the municipio’s waiting room. Now he needed to work on his plan with Rosetta and he went directly to her house.

“I am afraid I have bad news for you, Rosetta,” he said as he sat down and sipped the coffee she offered him. “I just spoke with the brigadiere. It’s hard to get mercy when the crime is a direct offense to the Duce. He has been sent to the confino and is already on his way by train.”

“When is he coming back?”

“We do not know. There is no specified time for a sentence to the confino. A lot depends on the behavior of the accused. I hope Salvatore calms down and understands it is good for everybody to support our government and its efforts to maintain law and order.”

“What is going to happen to me?” cried Rosetta in desperation.

Ernesto moved his chair closer to hers, put his hand gently on her shoulder, and tried to reassure her with a soothing voice. “Nothing is going to happen to you. I will make sure of that.”

Ernesto removed his hand and turned his chair so he could face her.

“Rosetta, God seems to send heavy burdens to people with His eyes closed. Some people do nothing good all their lives and remain healthy and happy to a very old age. Others are decent and God-fearing folks and they are rewarded with suffering. I don’t understand that.”

“Nobody understands that, podesta’.” Rosetta looked straight in the eyes. “Only God knows what he is doing. There is no point asking questions that cannot be answered.”

“It still seems unfair to me. Take our situation. You have been deprived of your husband, hopefully not for long, through no fault of your own. I have been deprived of the pleasure of fatherhood although I have no physical problem.”

“Complaining about our lot in life does not help, podesta’. The pain does not go away.”

“What you are saying is true, but sometimes good can come out of suffering if we try to help each other.”

“Podesta’, I don’t see how we can help each other. You couldn’t stop the maresciallo in arresting my husband. How can a poor woman like me help you?”

“I am not sure either, but we should think about it. I really want to help you, and I have the means, as you know. Try to think how you could help me.”

Ernesto realized he said enough. He paused briefly to see whether Rosetta objected to his suggestion.

“I must leave now. May I come back tomorrow?”

Rosetta did not know how to respond other than to say, “yes, you can come back, but in the afternoon.”

Ernesto had a hard time falling asleep, but avoided moving in bed for fear of waking Rosanna. His thoughts kept circling in his mind, always going back to an arrangement with Rosetta. Though young, Rosetta did not have any of the feminine graces that would raise a man’s blood pressure, especially an experienced man like Ernesto. Short and plump, she reminded him of a young Rosanna. Her eyes were alive and expressive, but her masculine hands, broad face, tanned facial skin, and think black hair betrayed her peasant origin and upbringing.

As my father often said, looks don’t matter. All she has to do is give me a son. I don’t even have to look at her face or body.

Rosetta hardly slept either. She understood perfectly what the podesta’ meant with his idea of mutual help and tried to find an advantageous way to satisfy his desire.

“He is such a disgusting old man, with that pot belly and weasel eyes.” She spoke aloud to herself while tossing and turning in bed. “But he is powerful, and he has money. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I cannot have so many scruples. As the old saying goes: God helps those who help themselves. Besides, I am not a virgin any longer and Salvatore has no way of finding out.”

She shifted her weight again, trying to get comfortable. “It would be a short affair, anyway. Just enough to get pregnant. Maybe I am already pregnant by Salvatore. I think if I turn off the lights and close my eyes, I should be able to accommodate the podesta’.”

With this thought, Rosetta felt relaxed enough to fall asleep.

The following afternoon, Ernesto took a brief nap and went directly to Rosetta’s house, explaining to his wife that he had some urgent work to finish at his office. Sitting at the kitchen table, which was covered with a checkered red and brown tablecloth to complement the two cups of freshly brewed coffee, he dispensed with small talk.

“Did you have a chance to think about what we discussed yesterday?”

“I did some thinking,” Rosetta replied cautiously. “I am willing to help you, but I do not really know what I can do.”

Embarrassed but encouraged, Ernesto moved his argument a step further.

“Well, Rosetta, as I mentioned yesterday, God in his infinite wisdom decided to punish me. I married because I wanted to have children, but it seems that Rosanna and I are destined to become two lonely, old people.”

“You could have adopted an orphan.”

“I thought about it. I wanted to adopt a boy to carry on the family name, but my wife said no. I will not have strangers in my house, she told me, and my property will not go to strangers.”

“I see,” said Rosetta, who was weighing her bargaining power.

“You see my problem, Rosetta. I want to have a child, but this child must have my blood. I cannot raise this child in my house, and my wife must never know. Do you think what God is doing to me is fair?”

“Let’s leave God alone, podesta’, and let’s get to the point.” She replied with a directness that surprised Ernesto. “What you are saying is that you want a child from me, and you want me to raise him as my husband’s offspring.”

Intimidated by the young woman’s frankness, Ernesto’s cheeks flushed with heat.

“Yes. That’s my need if you want to help me.”

Having gained control of the situation, Rosetta expressed outrage at Ernesto’s proposal.

“Podesta’, mi pigghiati pi buttana.”

“Scusimi, Rosetta, I would never associate you with a w***e. I have great respect for you and did not mean to be disrespectful. If you want, I can leave.”

“Don’t get upset, Podesta’. If such a proposal came from another man, I would have thrown him out of the house. But I know you are a decent man and I understand your situation. I was not offended.”

Ernesto, relieved, explained that they needed to complete the entire arrangement soon to avoid questions about the child’s paternity. Rosetta was also eager to get this ordeal over as soon as possible.

“Caro Podesta’,” she said calmly as if talking to her equal, “you must understand this is strictly a short-term business arrangement. To give you my help, I need four things. First, you and your wife must be the godparents of my child so he grows with respect from all paesani. Second, I want my child to be well educated and you must pay for it. Third, while my husband is away, I need a monthly allowance. Finally, I want compensation for the wrong that was done to Turiddu. I want the piece of land by the river banks owned by the church.”

Ernest was taken aback by the business acumen of the young woman, which bordered on arrogance, but he knew he had no bargaining power.

“You drive a hard bargain, Rosetta,” Ernesto replied with a contrived smile. “I agree but cannot make a commitment about the church property. If the Curia refuses to sell, I will find you another piece of land. You understand I cannot sign any document. You have to take my word.”

“Your word is good enough for me,” said Rosetta, shaking Ernesto’s hand to seal the deal.

Ernesto followed Rosetta’s instructions and the following afternoon, went to her house after taking a short nap. He was thankful his wife was still asleep.

The meeting was very short. Rosetta got into her bed and under the covers still dressed and raised her skirt. Ernesto pulled down his pants and underpants and joined her. Ten minutes later he was out the door.

For the second session, Ernesto paid his visit at night to avoid establishing a pattern that would raise suspicions among her neighbors. He told Rosanna he had to see Petru cannizza and left home after dinner under cover of dark. As he turned the last corner to Rosetta’s house, he barely escaped a shower when Maria cucuzza emptied from her balcony onto the street the day’s contents of her chamber pot before going to bed. He alternated between afternoon and evening for the final two visits.

At the end of the sessions, Rosetta prepared coffee and cookies to celebrate the completion of the first phase of their arrangement. As he stood in front of the exit door, he shook Rosetta’s hand and thanked her again for her help.

She wanted to remind him again of his obligations. “Come to see me again in two months.”

Ernesto resumed his long naps but showed an unusual nervousness throughout the whole day. To his wife’s inquiries about the causes of his tension he simply replied, “this job becomes more demanding every day. I am looking forward to the day when I can retire and relax in the garden.”

When the two months were over, Ernesto went to see Rosetta. She saw him coming from her window and was standing by the door when he arrived.

Without delay, she simply said, “Tuttu a postu.”

Ernesto beamed. “Wonderful! Let’s thank the Lord.”

Years of attempts with his wife, countless visits to the specialists, tests and more tests, trials with different drugs, oodles of money wasted, frustrations, regrets. All had been washed away by those simple three words from Rosetta.

There is divine justice after all.

“You can figure out the date of birth. In five months, you can start making your monthly contributions as I need to make preparations for the baby,” said Rosetta. “You may want to start thinking about talking to your wife about being godparents. She may need some persuading, you know.”

As she closed the door, she added, “Ossequi, podesta’and have a good day.”

During the following five months, Ernesto resumed his old daily routine. He went to the office at 9 a.m., returned home for lunch at 1:30 p.m., and went to bed for his usual nap and the occasional intimacy with his reluctant wife. In the late afternoon he walked to the bar for a cup of espresso and a chat with his friends. At 8 p.m. he ate his dinner and did some reading. When he went to bed, Rosanna was already sound asleep.

As the end of the five months was approaching, he began thinking about the propitious time to raise the issue of being godparents with his wife.

 One Sunday evening, when they returned from a concert by the local band, Rosanna said to him, “Ernesto, this was one of the best concerts in a long time.”

“I agree with you, Rosanna. Our band has been improving lately. Young people need our support as do those who raise children with limited means.”

“We have to take care of our own. The government takes care of the poor,” replied Rosanna.

“I think that as private citizens we should also be involved. Take the case of Rosetta, the wife of Salvatore, the man who was sent to the confino. She asked me whether we would honor her family by becoming godparents to the child she is carrying.”

“That’s out of the question,” an indignant Rosanna replied. “I hope you didn’t say yes. She is a poor woman, crude, and totally out of our class. She shouldn’t even think about making such a request. I know what she is trying to do. She doesn’t know when or if her husband will come back and she wants you to play the role of father.”

“That’s exactly what I thought initially, dear. Then I remembered Father Gianpietro’s homily about Christian love, charity, and all that stuff, you know, the homily he gave two Sundays ago when everyone was yawning.”

“What does Rosetta’s request have to do with Christian love, Ernesto. As Christians, we must love the Lord, go to Mass on Sunday, confess our sins and go to Communion at Christmas and Easter, and take care of our own. I never heard Father Gianpietro say people like us must become related to people like her.”

“You are right as always, my dear. Still, I have some nagging questions on my mind: if those of us who are more fortunate and have positions of responsibility in the village refuse to help the poor, who will help them?”

Rosanna realized her husband had already made up his mind and decided not to argue.

“I am too tired, dear. I cannot follow these complicated arguments. Let’s go to bed.”

Rosanna went to bed but could not fall asleep. She knew her husband well. She did not suspect his arrangement with Rosetta but was convinced he had something up his sleeves.

I might as well get something out of it. She turned her back to her husband and went to sleep.

The following evening, as husband and wife were sitting at the dinner table, Rosanna re-opened the discussion,

“Ernesto,” she said with an uncommonly soft voice, “this morning I replayed in my mind Father Gianpietro’s sermon on Christian charity. He made some good points. Upon reflection, Rosetta’s request is not so outrageous. Poor people always look for guidance and support from those like us who, through hard work and moral fortitude, reach a higher status in life. I think accepting her request would be the Christian thing to do.”

“My very thought, dear,” replied Ernesto, relieved.

“I also remembered,” she continued, “that Father Gianpietro said charity begins at home. I think he is right on that point, too.”

“He certainly is. Even the proverb says blood is thicker than water.”

“I was thinking of my nephew Roberto,” Rosanna said. “He is working as an apprentice with maestro Gennaro, the builder.”

“What’s the matter with that bum? Has he quit his job again?”

“The poor boy is working very hard, Ernesto, but cannot get ahead with his lousy pay. We have to help him or he will never be able to raise a family.”

“Va beni, I will talk to him and will give him some money.”

“I was thinking about something more permanent, dear. We have a piece of land up the hill, the plot that my grandfather gave me. We are getting old, and hiring people is becoming so expensive. Giving it to Roberto would solve two problems.”

“You know he does not like farm work. In fact, he does not like any kind of work. The land would be full of brambles in no time.”

“I will make sure he takes care of the land, or he will not get a penny in our will.”

Ernesto realized he had no chance of winning the argument and did not want to jeopardize his promise to Rosetta. Besides, it was Rosanna’s land.

At the end of November, a couple weeks before her due date, Rosetta sent for donna Nunziata a pirottina, the midwife. Ernesto was ecstatic to hear that Rosetta had given birth to a baby boy and immediately went to visit her. As cumpari of the family and godfather of the child, he now had open access to Rosetta’s house.

When he looked at the boy, Ernesto was relieved but concerned. The boy was the spitting image of his maternal grandfather. He asked Rosetta to see the boy fully naked.

Ah! There it is. He has the black mark inside his right thigh.

The next evening, Rosanna joined Ernesto in paying a visit of obligation, bringing one kilo of sugar, a dozen eggs, and a box of cookies. They admired the newborn, and then Rosanna inquired, “what name will you give this boy?”

“I will name him Paul, in honor of Salvatore’s father.”

“I see you have kept the tradition, even though your husband is away. You are a woman of honor.”

The three exchanged some pleasantries, set the date for the baptism, and then Ernesto and Rosanna returned home comforted by the thought that they had performed a true act of Christian charity.

God would surely reward our humility, Rosanna thought.

The baptism was a simple ceremony. The religious function was performed by Father Gianpietro on a Saturday evening in the main church and the godparents gave the child the traditional gold chain with the crucifix pendant. Ernesto also gave Rosetta an envelope with a birthday card for Paolo and the monthly allowance he had inserted after Rosanna signed the card. The two godparents were invited for dinner after the baptism, but Rosanna declined the invitation. Sharing a meal in the house of a peasant would be too much charity even for a God-fearing woman like her.

After the baptism, Ernesto began working on another of his promises to Rosetta: the land owned by the church. One afternoon on his way to his office, he stopped by the main church.

“Father Gianpietro,” he said, “I need your help with a delicate matter. You know Rosetta’s misfortune when her husband could not control his temper at the municipio. We do not know when Salvatore will be back. And now she has a child, the poor thing. I have tried to help her. As a godfather now I have even more responsibilities.”

“I don’t envy you, Ernesto. Until the day Salvatore comes back, you will have to be the father figure for this boy.”

“Precisely, Father. That’s why I need your help. I know that Salvatore made a big mistake, but I think his punishment was excessive. Although I had nothing to do with it, I still feel guilty. I would like to make amends by purchasing a piece of land for Paolo. Rosetta would have full use while he is a minor, and then he can do what he wants with it. I was thinking about the plot by the river owned by the church.”

Father Gianpietro did not foresee such a request but was used to surprises during confessions.

“Dear Ernesto, I would gladly sell you the land, but I do not have the power. I would have to get permission from the Curia. If they sell you the land, they would grab all the proceeds. The churches in our village are falling apart, but the Curia does nothing because the bishop thinks repairing decaying churches is the responsibility of the government. I would lose the land and gain nothing. At least now I receive some fruit and vegetables of the season from the tenants. Do you see my predicament?”

“Yes, I see. I did not anticipate this problem,” Ernesto replied, disappointed. “You and I, Padre, are resourceful people and good friends. I am sure we can find a solution.”

“There is a possibility,” retorted Father Gianpietro, “but it requires some creative maneuvers. If the government provided the funds to fix the church of Saint Francis, I would do my best to get the Curia’s permission to sell you the land.”

“That’s a plan worth exploring. Let me see what I can do,” said Ernesto as he shook the Padre’s hand.

The following afternoon, Ernesto stopped again by the church.

“I have good news for you, Father. I was able to find five hundred thousand liras in the village’s cultural endowment fund. Will that be enough?

“It will be a good start. It should be enough to pay for the materials. I will try to gain the cooperation of the faithful for free labor in the confessional.”

Satisfied, Ernest shook the Padre’s hand to seal the deal, bid him goodbye, and walked to the municipio.

A few days later, Father Gianpietro took the early morning bus to Messina and went directly to the Curia to speak with the monsignor in charge of properties. He was a man in his fifties, tall, heavy build, with greying hair and piercing eyes.

“Monsignor, it’s been a long time since we last met,” Father Gianpietro began. “You still keep in good shape.”

“The Lord has been good to me, Father Gianpietro. To what do I owe this unexpected visit?” The monsignor had a tone of poorly veiled annoyance that emanates from those who view power as their divine right.

“As you know, Monsignor, the parish of Collina Verde owns several parcels of land. We used to get good returns through leases and share-cropping arrangements. Nobody wants to work the land anymore. Most of is abandoned, and we cannot sell it because nobody wants to buy land.”

“So, what can I do for you?”

“We finally found a buyer for one of the plots. It is a two-acre plot by the river.”

“By the river, you say. In that location, it should be worth something.”

“It used to be worth a lot, but for years it has been abandoned. It is so full of brambles that one can hardly see the border markings.”

“Still, it’s a good location.”

“Yes, Monsignor, that’s what I told the prospective buyer. Between you and me, the land isn’t worth more than three hundred thousand liras, but I told him we would not sell it for less than four hundred thousand liras.”

“That sounds fair to me. I will give you the authorization to sell. In the contract you should write three hundred thousand liras. The rest goes for office expenses and incidentals. The buyer pays the contract expenses.”

The following day Father Gianpietro went to the municipio.

“Ernesto, I got the go ahead from the Curia to sell you the land. It will cost you five hundred thousand liras.”

“That’s steep, Father.”

“I know, but I had to grease some wheels.”

The secret transaction was completed quickly. Ernesto gave five hundred thousand liras to Father Gianpietro, who gave four hundred thousand liras to the monsignor, who in turn gave three hundred thousand liras to the Curia’s property office. Shortly after, Ernesto gave the good news to Rosetta.

“The purchase of the land has been completed, but nobody must know. I will pay Father Gianpietro to have the land cleared of brambles and then you can go ahead and cultivate it. To anyone who inquires you must say that Father Gianpietro leased you the land because he felt it was his Christian duty to help a poor young woman raise a boy who is practically fatherless.”

More than a year passed since Salvatore’s arrest. At the confino he finally calmed down and was released early on account of his good behavior.

One afternoon in mid-December, while she was sitting in the kitchen breastfeeding Paolo, Rosetta heard a knock at the door.

“Come in. The door is open,” she called out.

She was startled when the door opened and saw a man with an emaciated face, carrying a worn-out bag.

“Rosetta, I am back.”

“Turiddu!” she cried, “Si vivu, thanks be to God!”

She got up to embrace her husband, still holding the baby and said with pride, “this is your son Paolo.”

Salvatore could hardly hold back his tears. He looked at the boy, gave him a big hug, and looked at him again.

“He is the spitting image of your father, Rosetta. Now we will make one who looks like me.”

One day while Rosetta was bathing little Paolo, Salvatore noticed the mark on his thigh.

“That’s a strange mark,” he said. “Neither you nor I have such a blemish.”

“I thought it was a strange thing myself. I asked the fortune teller about it. She said it is a sign of good fortune.”

Salvatore did not believe the fortune teller’s comment but gave no further thought to it.

On the first day of Paolo’s elementary school, Ernesto joined Salvatore in accompanying the boy to the school building, located in the same old monastery that housed the municipio. When Salvatore left, Ernesto approached Paolo’s teacher.

“Professore Piccinini, Paolo is my special godson. He is a bright lad and I am sure he will do well in school. I would appreciate if you kept an eye on him. If there are problems, please contact me directly.”

“Of course, signor podesta’, but I do not foresee any problems. We all know that Rosetta is a God-fearing woman and a good mother. I am sure she has taught Paolo how to behave in school.”

When Paolo enrolled in grade five, the family needed to make important decisions about his future. Salvatore wanted him to help cultivate the land, especially now that they had the church plot, but Rosetta wanted her son to study. Ernesto promised to help but could no longer deliver the monthly allowance now that Salvatore was back home. How would Rosetta explain that source of income?

He went to church to seek Father Gianpietro’s advice.

“Father Gianpietro, as you know, my godson Paolo is in grade five and is doing well. I would like to help him continue his studies at the Jesuit boarding school in Messina, but I cannot do it directly. My wife would kick me out of the bedroom if she found out. I was thinking I could provide the funds for you anonymously and you could say to Rosetta and Salvatore that the church has offered Paolo a scholarship.”

“I cannot do that, Ernesto. I would be committing the church to a scholarship for all capable students in the future. You can imagine the cost.”

“What can we do? There must be a way.”

“There is always a way if we have faith, caro podesta’. We could enroll Paolo in the seminary if his parents agree.”

In the meantime, Rosetta was trying to convince Salvatore that Paolo needed to continue his education and suggested they talk to Father Gianpietro and il podesta’. Salvatore was not keen on the idea, but did not want to have a quarrel with Rosetta and reluctantly agreed. The meeting took place the following week at Salvatore’s house. Ernesto presented a proposal that would allow his financial support without raising suspicions.

“The years pass quickly for everyone and I won’t be podesta’ forever. I plan to open a hardware store after I retire. Paolo could help me during the Summer, and I would pay him.”

“That’s very generous of you, podesta’,” Salvatore replied. He could not accept charity from Ernesto. “But that’s not possible. In the Summer Paolo has to help me in the land.”

Rosetta then turned to the priest.

“Father Gianpietro, isn’t there anything you can do? Could you convince the headmaster to make an exception for Paolo and cut his fees in half?”

“Dear Rosetta, do you know how many deserving boys are there who need financial help? If the school helped all of then it would go bankrupt.”

Salvatore began to smile and Rosetta became disheartened. It was time for Father Gianpietro to present his proposal.

“There is another way. Paolo could enroll in the seminary.”

“With all due respect, Father, I don’t want a priest in my house,” Salvatore said.

“What’s wrong with a priest in the house?” Rosetta asked, seeing a glimmer of hope. “It’s better than being a farmer. He would have a free place to live and would not have to worry about expenses. I know of priests who even support their parents in their old age.”

“Paolo would not have to become a priest,” continued Father Gianpietro. “He is too young to make such a decision. If God in His own time calls him to the priesthood, no human force will be able to stop that. If He does not, Paolo is free to do whatever he wants. Educated young men can help God through His Church in many ways. We live in dangerous times, caro Salvatore, and the Church needs help to fight her enemies. We need young men of faith to fight on the side of God.”

Salvatore was still reluctant, and he did not believe the priest’s sermon about God’s calling. He was concerned about the kind of life he would have with Rosetta if he did not accept Father Gianpietro’s offer. His only valid argument against Paolo continuing his studies was financial, and Father Gianpietro solved it.

Midway through his high school studies, Paolo visited Father Gianpietro.

“Padre, I need your advice. Soon I will be done with high school and must decide what to do next. I feel bad, but I have not heard God’s call to become a priest.”

“Don’t feel bad, Paolo. Very few are called by the Lord. I will talk about your decision with the monsignor. I am sure he will understand. All we ask of you in return for your free education is to lead a Christian life and help the Church in the fight against her enemies. In the future, ask your godfather for his advice.”

Paolo followed the priest’s suggestion and went to visit the podesta’.

“Vossia mi binidica, patrozzu,” Paolo greeted. “I have come to ask for your advice. I informed Father Gianpietro I do not feel God’s calling to become a priest. What should I do when I finish high school?”

“You have my blessing,” Ernesto replied. “My dear Paolo, the Lord calls everyone, but not to do the same job. Our duty is to heed his calling and follow it faithfully. Father Gianpietro and I have discussed this matter and have agreed that you have been chosen by God to be a leader. Our Christian community needs a young lawyer. That’s your calling. We will guarantee the necessary financial support.”

Paolo expected a broader dialogue with his godfather, but he soon realized he did not have much to say on this decision. He also realized he did not have a special career in mind. His godfather’s decision had lifted the burden of choice from his shoulders, and he accepted the offer graciously.

When the United Sates declared war on Germany shortly before Christmas 1941, Ernesto sensed the wind was shifting direction. He prepared himself for retirement by opening up a hardware store. From then on, he spent most of his time at the store, going to the municipio only for important meetings and for signing documents.

* * *

After the War

 

On the 10^th of July 1943, the US Seventh Army led by General George Patton landed at Gela. After taking Palermo twelve days later, it marched eastward reaching Messina on the 17^th of August. Patton’s army drove through the Via Nazionale hugging the coast line between Milazzo and Villafranca. Ernesto asked Father Gianpietro to join him and together they travelled on his calesse the four miles to the Nazionale to watch the armored vehicles pass by. They were followed by a group of young men who wanted to share the excitement. They returned to the village with their pockets full of chocolate bars and packs of cigarettes.

Shortly after, the new prefetto, appointed in consultation with the bishop, traveled to Collina Verde seeking Father Gianpietro’s advice on a suitable candidate for major.

“The best person for the job is Ernesto Pedrosi.”

“But he is fascist,” exclaimed the prefetto.

“No, signor prefetto. Ernesto is a good man who always tries to compromise in order to keep the peace. He a faithful Catholic. He did not seek the position of podesta’. He accepted the appointment because he thought he could maintain peace and calm in the village. I am not sure he will accept the new position, but he is best candidate in village, believe me. If you agree, I will try to convince him.”

Father Gianpietro visited Ernesto at his home.

“Caro Ernesto, we are facing uncertain times. With the dismissal of the Duce, we are like a boat adrift on the Mediterranean. In our small villages we are isolated and feel safe, but sooner or later the power of evil will get to us if we are not vigilant.

“What does this have to do with me?”

“Yesterday I met with the prefetto. He wants to appoint a new major to hold office until the next local elections and he sought my advice. I told him you would be the best person.”

“Father, I appreciate your confidence, but I am happy with my store and away from politics.”

“I know, Ernesto, but we cannot think about ourselves when the body of Christ may be under attack. The visit of the prefetto is a sign of God’s will for you.”

“Caro Padre, I don’t feel very comfortable with the new political environment. Under the old regime, we had clear rules and law and order, and it was easy to serve the people. With this democracy, I don’t know how it will end up. Are you sure this is God’s will?”

“Absolutely,” replied the priest. “I have been praying to receive divine inspiration regarding the political situation. A few nights ago, I heard a voice in my sleep that repeated, the podesta’, the podesta’. At first, I did not understand its meaning, but when I talked to the prefetto, its meaning became crystal clear. You are God’s choice.”

“If you put it that way, I have no choice. We do not want to anger the Almighty, not at our age.”

When, at the 1947 regional elections, the Sicilian farmers helped the leftist parties gain more than one-third of the vote, Father Gianpietro’s fears were confirmed. He could no longer have a good night’s sleep, being haunted by nightmares of Russian soldiers roaming the street of Collina Verde, burning churches, decapitating priests, and raping women.

He decided to have a talk with Ernesto.

“Caro Ernesto, the enemies of the Christ are at the gates of Rome.”

“You are exaggerating, Father,” interrupted Ernesto.

“Didn’t you see the results of the regional elections? The enemies received fifty percent more votes than the Democrazia Cristiana. At this rate, we are doomed in next year’s general elections. We have to intensify our efforts.”

Father Gianpietro appointed Paolo, who had already started his law degree studies, as leader of the local Azione Cattolica with the task of organizing the local youth into a versatile group of volunteers. Paolo began to make a list of all the potential voters in the village and of all those who attended Sunday Mass regularly. Then he intensified his visits of the faithful parishioners to bless their homes. At each stop he concluded his blessing by saying, “Remember to vote, and make sure to vote for Christ.”

Father Gianpietro made an exception to the tradition of having no processions during Lent. He arranged for a visit of the statue of our Lady called Madonna Pellegrina and organized a procession of the statue around the square in front of the matrice and a few adjoining streets. The procession took place in the evening to maximize attendance. The women wore their votive dresses and held candles that illuminated the way.

The Padre ordered fourteen stops as if they were doing the Via Crucis. At each stop, he said, “Nostra madre gloriosa, give us the strength to defend your Holy Church.” Upon the statue’s return to the church, Father Gianpietro arranged a special prayer also divided into fourteen parts. In each part, he started with “Vergine Misericordiosa who… and here he would give details of a miracle attributed to the Madonna. He would conclude with “give us the strength to fight your enemies.”

In his Sunday homilies, Father Gianpietro not only stressed the duty of voting for Christ, but also listed the penalties for failing to do so and particularly the eternal damnation that would beset those who voted for the communists.

“The body of Christ is holy and made up of faithful people. The heathens are a cancer which must be destroyed or it will destroy our Church. As the Pope in his divinely inspired wisdom instructs us all, we cannot feed this cancer by opening the doors of our sanctuaries to the enemies of Christ and offer them the blessings of our Sacraments. Communists cannot take Communion, unless they confess, repent, and change their allegiance. They cannot receive God’s blessings at their weddings, and they cannot have a Christian funeral since they do not believe in God.”

He would then conclude, “And you, Christian wives, have to be careful not to have your eternal soul contaminated by encounters with husbands who hate the Lord.”

The week prior to the elections, Father Gianpietro arranged for a comizio by Padre Giannini, one of the most respected preachers at the annual service of the Esercizi Spirituali. Piazza Matrice was full of men of all ages, some wearing their Sunday clothes and others just back from the farms. In strategic places, there were a few carabinieri and some party members known for their physical strength. Ernesto was asked to make the introduction. Standing on the balcony above the bar in front of the Piazza Matrice, flanked by Paolo on one side and the party banner with the scudo crociato on the other, he began by praising the candidate. At the end, with a tone of self-importance, he made a promise.

“Amici, this is a catholic village, made up of people faithful to God. Let’s keep it that way. Let’s reject strangers and infidels. Let’s vote for Christ. To those who can show that they voted for Christ I will give a 10 percent discount on their purchases at my store.”

The preacher gave a long speech, often quoting Pope Pius XII addresses. He concluded his talk by saying, “as the Pope reminds us, we are at a crossroads of history, where the fate of Christianity will be decided. We cannot stand on the fences but must choose a side. We are either for Christ or against Christ. Are you for Christ?”

“Yes, we are for Christ,” yelled the crowd.

When Father Gianpietro found out in the general election of April 18^th,1948 that the Democrazia Cristiana had gained three hundred and five of the five hundred and seventy-four seats, he was so excited that he went to share his joy with his old friend.

“Mio carissimo Ernesto, “have you seen the election results? We won. This is evidence that prayers can make miracles.”

“Don’t be so excited, Father. Let’s wait and see what the new government will do for ordinary folks.”

“Now we have to prepare for the municipal elections,” added the Padre.

“Hold your horses. We don’t even know the date yet.”

“The date doesn’t matter. We have to get ready for the battle in advance.”

“Don’t count on me this time.”

“I know. You have given a lot to God. You have earned a peaceful life filled with God’s blessings. We need new blood, a young and energetic major, someone like Paolo.”

“I like Paolo, you know. He is my favorite godson, but he has not even finished his studies yet. As a student he would never win.”

“Leave that to God and to me.”

At his earliest opportunity, Father Gianpietro took the bus and went to Messina for a chat with the monsignor in charge of cultural affairs.

“Monsignor, I have come to seek your assistance in a matter concerning the whole church. Our major is old and will not be a candidate at the next municipal election. We need a young man willing to serve God and dedicated to the defense of the church.”

“What can I do?”

“Our best candidate is Paolo Caruso, the leader of Azione Cattolica at Collina Verde. He has started his studies for his law degree and we need him to graduate before the next municipal elections.”

“I see,” replied the monsignor, giving no indication of a commitment.

“You have high level contacts at the university. Your word carries weight. It would have even more power if you mentioned this matter to His Excellency.”

“I will see what I can do, Father.”

* * *

With a freshly minted law degree in his hands, Paolo Caruso placed his name on the list for major of Collina Verde in the upcoming municipal election of May 1952 and ordered into readiness his Azione Cattolica. He was no longer the altar boy who resembled his maternal grandfather. He was a young man now, well-educated, well-dressed, and his facial features no longer resembled his grandfather’s.

Father Gianpietro resumed his sermons about supporting Christ, and Ernesto contributed one kilogram of spaghetti for anyone who committed to vote for Paolo. Paolo himself delivered the spaghetti as he went about the village asking people for their vote. To minimize the probability of betrayal, Paolo placed some of his more robust friends at strategic corners who spent most of the night watching who was entering the houses where Paolo had delivered the spaghetti.

Salvatore avoided visiting the municipio for fear of resurrecting old painful memories. He had two other children with Rosetta and wanted to forget the past and focus on the future. But one day, he was forced to go as he needed a birth certificate. As he stood at the small entrance hall, he was overwhelmed by mixed emotions.

As the scene that changed his life was swirling in his mind, his eyes wandered through the room. Looking at the walls, he recognized the old, discolored paint and noticed the old wooden cross was still standing, but with a few extra perforations. Then he glanced at the other wall. Where the portrait of the Duce hung on that ill-fated day, with his round face and overbearing smile, there was now the portrait of the round and smiling face of Paolo Caruso, new major of Collina Verde, secured in the same gleaming metal frame.

Salvatore noticed the changes in Paolo’s face as he was growing up and sometimes even wondered about the mark on his thigh but used to brush doubts away. This time, as he stared at the portrait, the image of podesta’ popped in his mind and aroused emotions long suppressed.

He closed his eyes and whispered to himself. “I have a loving wife, two other good children, a large and productive plot of land, and a comfortable home. I will not put God to the test though my ingratitude.”