Paradiso: Utterly gripping and emotional historical fiction (The Paradiso Novels Book 1)

by Francesca Scanacapra

‘Please, Mamma,’ I begged.

  My mother considered this for a moment. ‘Perhaps you could take just one.’

  I looked at my dollies carefully. ‘I want Rita to have the other one then,’ I decided. ‘I don’t want her to forget me.’

  My mother smiled at me. ‘That would be a nice thing to do.’

  My farewell to Rita was brief. My mother was in a hurry and she told me not to sit too close for fear I would catch my friend’s cough. Rita was looking flushed. Her eyes were bloodshot.

  ‘Where are you going?’ she croaked.

  ‘To a convent.’

  ‘Will there be soldiers there?’

  ‘Mamma says no.’

  ‘I wish I was going. I was so scared when they came here last night. Were you scared?’

  ‘The soldiers didn’t come to my house,’ I said quietly.

  It was then that Rita was overwhelmed by a fit of coughing. She sat up and spat great globs of green phlegm into a bowl by her bedside. My mother ushered me away quickly, covering my nose and mouth with her hand.

  I left one of my dollies at the foot of Rita’s bed and promised to think of her every day. I kept the dolly with the scarred arm.

  Chapter 2

  As I sat huddled in the truck clutching my doll, the shock of the previous days hit me hard. I had not cried when I had said goodbye to my mother, and nor had she. We had exhausted our tears. I felt tired, frightened and empty.

  The lorry headed north out of Pieve Santa Clara. We had been told to remain seated, but I knew that we would soon pass my house and I felt compelled to look, just in case it was the last time I would ever see it; just in case I became lost amongst the crowds of displaced children and nobody knew where I should be returned to once the war was over; just in case during my absence everything I knew should disappear.

  I pulled myself up, gripping the high side of the lorry, and was able to catch the briefest glimpse of home before a pothole jerked me back down to the floor. With my knees drawn up under my chin, I closed my eyes and prayed that I would be back soon, even though I had barely left.

  I knew nothing of other places. The only countryside I knew was the Lombardy Plain - a flat, agricultural landscape where maize, wheat, linseed and even tobacco grew in abundance.

  To me, the fields were endless. No matter how far from home Ernesto and I roamed, wandering between rows of crops, or following the furrows left by the ploughs, there were always more fields stretching out beyond. Sometimes we trekked as far as the boundaries of the rice fields, where we would climb the banks and throw stones into the shallows to spook the herons. The huge birds could reach up to a metre in height with wing spans almost twice that. Their size frightened me, but Ernesto was bigger and braver than I was. He would lie in wait, then leap to his feet in a burst of noise, causing the birds to panic and take to the sky. Their screeching was so loud that I would have to cover my ears.

  The rice fields were flooded knee-deep during growing season, but we knew to keep out of the water. It was full of leeches and water-snakes.

  In the lorry, a girl in a pink hat was sitting beside me, rummaging through the contents of her bundle with the panicked air of someone who has mislaid something precious. I watched for a while as her fumbling grew more frenzied, until at last she let out a gasp of relief.

  The object of her search turned out to be a photograph, which she kissed. Before I could ask who it was, she turned to me and said, ‘It’s my father. He sent it all the way from Sicily.’

  The picture was of a man in military uniform, but it was taken from a distance. It could have been anybody.

  ‘Where’s your father?’ she asked.

  ‘He’s at home.’

  ‘What’s he doing at home? Why isn’t he saving our country?’

  ‘He has a bad back.’

  The girl in the pink hat frowned, as though trying to decide whether a bad back was simply an excuse for cowardice.

  ‘Will he go and fight when he’s better?’ she asked.

  ‘He won’t get better,’ I replied.

  ‘Was he hurt in the war?’

  I shook my head, feeling that if I began to speak aloud my tears would start, and if they did I was not certain I would be able to stop them.

  My father would never be fit to fight in a war. His battles were of a different kind.

  The girl in the pink hat continued gazing at the photograph and in that moment I wished more than anything that I too had a photograph of my father, even one taken from a distance. It would be easy to recognise him. He stood twisted, stooped and pigeon-toed. At the age of thirty he had the posture of a very old man - but it had not always been the case.

  My father had been a skilled mason. In the spring of 1940 he was cranking a winch to haul a load of bricks onto a scaffolding tower to perform a repair on the church belfry when one of the wooden trusses splintered and gave way, causing the scaffold to collapse and the cradle of bricks to fall and crush him under its weight. My father suffered a broken leg and pelvis, and permanent damage to his back.

  Most people agreed that he was lucky to have escaped with his life, although luck seemed to touch him very infrequently after that day. Before his accident he could run up a ladder with a stack of a dozen bricks on his shoulder and a full bucket of cement in his hand. The aftermath left him barely able to walk.

  My father had been a hard-working young man with dreams and plans for his family’s future. It was not just his body which the accident crushed. It was presumed that he would never work again. However, a few weeks before my departure my mother had told me that we were expecting an important visit from Don Ambrogio, the parish priest, and that the reason for his house-call was the possibility of a job for my father.

  I attempted to ask questions whilst my mother washed my face and hands in preparation for the visit, but she said, ‘Just sit quietly whilst Don Ambrogio’s here. Let Mamma and Papá do the talking.’

  ‘Will I be able to have some cake?’

  ‘Yes. But only if you sit quietly.’

  My mother had been saving her sugar and wheat-flour rations and had prepared a small quantity of cake mixture, just one egg’s worth, which she had taken down to the village at five o’clock in the morning for the baker to bake in his oven. It was early autumn and the weather had not yet turned, so our stove was not lit. In any case, wood was being saved as it was rationed.

  She had waited in the shop during the entire time her cake was baking for fear that somebody would steal it. Rationing drove honest people to do dishonest things. My father would say that opportunity could make even the most moral man a thief.

  The cake sat on the sideboard, cooling under a handkerchief, its scent wafting so temptingly around the kitchen that it made my stomach rumble. I was forbidden to touch it under any circumstances. Even lifting the handkerchief to peek or sniff at it was not allowed.

  My mother opened the door as soon as she heard the creak of the gate outside. I watched from the window as two priests made their way across the yard, strutting like a pair of crows.

  ‘Welcome. Please come in. Do take a seat,’ said my mother, smoothing out her dress.

  ‘Thank you, Signora Ponti. You are most kind.’

  Don Ambrogio looked over to my father who was sitting by the stove with a hand braced on each knee. It was the only position in which he could control his spasms.

  ‘My apologies if I don’t stand to greet you, Don Ambrogio,’ he said, his hands tightening on his knees. ‘It takes me a while to stand.’

  ‘No apology necessary, Signor Ponti. It is a miracle you are here at all, seated or standing.’

  Don Ambrogio pulled up a chair. He was large man, whose flaccid chins spilled over his collar. He smelled of sweat, wine and mothballs. The second priest was in every way his opposite. He was thin-lipped and hollow-faced with a hooked nose as sharp as an axe.

  ‘May I introduce you to Don Gervaso?’ said Don Ambrogio, gesturing graciously towards the second priest. ‘Don Gervas
o is charged with the parish of San Martino, where he is involved in the most generous and munificent charitable work with cripples and mental incompetents, as well as those wounded by the Great War.’

  Don Gervaso bowed his head humbly.

  ‘We fear that there will be many more wounded who will require the same care as a result of the current war,’ mused Don Ambrogio. ‘We can only pray that peace will return swiftly.’

  Don Gervaso nodded in grim, tacit agreement and took a pencil and a small black book from somewhere in the folds of his cassock.

  I sat silently on my stool, as instructed. Neither priest seemed to notice I was there.

  ‘Could I offer you some refreshment?’ asked my mother, smoothing out her dress again. ‘I have a little chicory if you would like that.’

  Rationing had made coffee a distant memory, so mixtures of barley and chicory and anything else dark brown in colour were used as substitutes, albeit very poor ones. Even the addition of black sugar made from beets did not make it any more palatable. According to my father, it was like drinking a mixture of mud and cow piss.

  ‘You are very kind, Signora Ponti, but Don Gervaso has to return to his duties at San Martino very shortly, therefore much as we would like to, we will not be able to tarry long. Although, is that the aroma of sponge cake I can detect?’

  ‘Yes, Don Ambrogio. Only a very small sponge cake, of course, but you are welcome to have some.’

  Don Ambrogio clasped his doughy pink hands together. His fat lips glistened with saliva.

  ‘How delicious!’ he exclaimed, sniffing the air. ‘Perhaps you would permit me to take a small sliver home with me?’

  ‘Certainly,’ said my mother. ‘And for you, Don Gervaso?’

  The other priest raised his hand in polite refusal.

  ‘Don Gervaso has undertaken not to consume anything which might be considered a luxury whilst we are in the grips of war,’ explained Don Ambrogio. ‘He has even relinquished all but the most basic of provisions from his ration card.’

  Hearing this pleased me very much. If I was a good girl and continued to sit quietly, Don Gervaso’s slice of cake might be for me.

  Both priests turned towards my father, and Don Ambrogio began his questioning.

  ‘Signor Ponti, you say you have trouble standing. How mobile are you?’

  ‘Once I am standing I am quite mobile,’ said my father. This was not exactly true.

  ‘Would you consider yourself robust enough to undertake some light physical work?’ Don Ambrogio continued. ‘Work such as sweeping, or weeding, or perhaps whitewashing a wall?’

  My father considered this a moment and nodded.

  ‘Yes. I am improving daily and I’m sure the more I move, the less stiff I will feel.’

  ‘Could we trouble you to show us the extent of your mobility, Signor Ponti? Perhaps you could stand?’

  My father shifted his weight uneasily in his chair. My mother was at his side in an instant and offered her arm in support. My father heaved himself to an upright, albeit crooked position.

  ‘Are you able to raise your arms above your head, Signor Ponti?’

  My father obliged.

  ‘Excellent! And are you able to bend down to retrieve something from the ground?’

  ‘As long as it’s not heavy,’ said my father, at which point his back gave a spasm, making him jolt.

  ‘Are you all right, Signor Ponti?’

  ‘Quite all right, thank you. I have a little cramp, that’s all.’

  Don Ambrogio took a cup of flowers, which my mother had placed on the table in honour of the visit, and set it on the floor at his feet.

  ‘Do your injuries allow you to stoop to pick up this small object?’ he asked.

  My father stepped stiffly towards him. The two priests watched him intently. Don Gervaso’s pencil was poised above his notepad.

  Slowly and deliberately, and with a thinly-disguised grimace, my father bent his knees and squatted down. He took the little cup delicately between his fingers, raised himself to a standing position and placed it back on the table. I knew he felt pain, but he did not show it.

  The two priests nodded. Don Gervaso wrote something in his book.

  ‘Do you require a stick to walk?’ was Don Ambrogio’s next question.

  ‘Only if I have to walk a long way.’

  ‘A long way being how far, would you say, Signor Ponti?’

  I looked over at my mother, whose lips were pursed so tightly they had almost disappeared. My father had attempted to walk to the village just the week before. He had turned back after 200 metres and staggered home, only to collapse by the gate. My parents did not tell the priests this.

  ‘I walk every day, and each time I try to walk a little further than the previous day,’ my father said lightly. ‘Without a doubt, I am improving. A distance which seems a challenge today will be like a pleasurable stroll in no time at all.’

  ‘Excellent, Signor Ponti! I admire your spirit and determination. Sometimes God tests us in ways we cannot begin to comprehend, but through those trials He allows us to develop qualities which otherwise may have been unknown to us.’

  My father rubbed his hip. I could see that he needed to sit down.

  ‘Indeed,’ he said, sounding unconvinced.

  Don Ambrogio turned to Don Gervaso, bowed his head towards him and muttered a few words before turning back to my father and announcing, ‘Signor Ponti. I, with the assistance of Don Gervaso’s charitable organisation, would be delighted to offer you the custodianship, supervision and maintenance of the cemetery of Pieve Santa Clara. Don Gervaso’s charitable organisation will supply funds to ensure you a salary. It will not be much, you must understand, Signor Ponti, but it will be something. And something is better than nothing at all.’

  ‘I may need to take rests initially,’ said my father, suddenly appearing overwhelmed at the prospect.

  ‘Signor Ponti, nobody will be behind you brandishing a bull whip, I can assure you. Don Gervaso’s organisation wholly understands the limitations of all those who require its help, as do I. ‘ The priest cleared his throat before adding, ‘Of course, you cannot expect payment for days when you find yourself incapacitated, or if you are unable to work due to inclement weather.’

  There was a moment of silence, broken by a sob from my mother. My father and the two priests turned towards her.

  ‘Thank you. Thank you so much,’ she said in a cracked voice. ‘My prayers have been answered.’

  Don Ambrogio made a sign of the cross and smiled. ‘Dear Signora, what else is the Church for, if not to help its flock in their hour of need?’

  My father was to be paid 100 lire for each full day of work. The average income for a labourer in those days was around 300 lire, but my father was not an average labourer. He was a broken-bodied man with little hope of any paid work. As Don Ambrogio had said, 100 lire was indeed better than nothing at all.

  I had sat obediently on my stool by the window throughout the visit and not said a word, just as my mother had instructed. I felt a sense of excitement that at last my father could work again, but momentous though it was, my anticipation at the prospect of cake was greater.

  My mother took her tiny cake from the sideboard and placed it in the centre of the table. It was smaller than the saucer on which it sat.

  ‘I can wrap a slice in paper if you wish to take it home,’ she offered, addressing Don Ambrogio. ‘Are you sure you would not like some too, Don Gervaso?’

  Once again, the other priest raised his hand in polite refusal.

  ‘In that case,’ said Don Ambrogio, licking his bottom lip as he eyed the minuscule cake, ‘perhaps you would allow me to take a second slice? There are children in the village who have not tasted cake for over three years.’

  My mother hesitated for a moment then said, ‘Maybe you should take all of it, Don Ambrogio. A single slice will not feed many little mouths. Once you have shared it among the children, all I ask is that you return my cake tin
.’

  ‘Dear, kind Signora,’ he said, and crossed himself again. ‘I am overwhelmed by your generosity. May God bless you and your wonderful family.’

  I watched in hungry, disappointed silence as the two priests left with my mother’s cake. I cannot be sure how many children, if any, were fed - but the tin was never returned.

  As soon as they had gone, my mother turned to my father and said, ‘Is it going to be too much for you, Luigi?’

  My father shrugged. ‘We can’t afford to turn down 100 lire, can we?’

  A less indigent or more fainthearted man would have declined the priests’ offer. Despite having been able to show that he could stand, raise his arms and lift a teacup, my father was in no condition to work. The physical agony that he endured was unremitting. No matter how carefully he moved, pain would immobilise him and he would whistle the air in through his teeth until his spasms subsided.

  However, with a mixture of the spirit and determination that Don Ambrogio had mentioned, he had accepted the challenge of the work at the cemetery. At the very least, his salary would allow him to pay for his medication, which he was obliged to take in ever-increasing amounts. It was agreed that he would begin his new job the following day.

  However, it was not just the work to be undertaken at the cemetery which was an ordeal. Getting there required walking a distance which my Papá had not managed since before his accident. My mother refused to let him go alone, so we went with him. It took us well over an hour to cover the single kilometre which separated our house from the cemetery. The walk exhausted my father. He slumped against the wall, pale and perspiring.

  The cemetery had been neglected since the outbreak of the war. Tufts of grass and stringy weeds had grown over the paths. Since the government had begun its metal requisitioning campaign, railings and plaques had been removed. The entrance had previously been barred by a set of heavy iron gates and capped with a copper cross, but those too had been requisitioned. The gates had been replaced by a rudimentary barrier made of wood, and a rough cross fashioned from two planks.

  ‘Are you sure you can do this?’ my mother fretted.