As Vito and Antonio were preparing to go on leave, the soldiers from the battalions camped in the Piave heard rumours of an imminent offensive and were regaining their optimism.
‘You blokes are really going to miss out,’ joked their fellow soldiers as they enviously bade them farewell. ‘By the time you come back we’ll have won the war. The Austrians will have surrendered or legged it, and you’ll have to come looking for us all the way over in Ljubljana.’
Indeed, everything seemed to indicate that the war was coming to an end, and when on 17 October 1918 Vito Oronzo Palmisano arrived in Bellorotondo with Antonio Convertini, it also appeared that he had cheated death for good and saved himself from the family curse. Three of his brothers and seventeen of his cousins had died in that futile war; Vito Oronzo was the last man left in his family.
Nonetheless, he felt unsettled when he arrived home. It wasn’t anything like he’d been remembering it at the front. Families were in mourning. The abandoned olive groves and vineyards were a pitiful sight. Nor did the older men seem to admire the young men’s sacrifices on the battlefields; they were just waiting for the war finally to end. Vito was also upset to discover that many of the sons of the richest men in town had avoided being called up and that, consequently, their vineyards were thriving. It all gave credence to the rumour that had run through the trenches: the powerful paid to escape the front, the leading example of this being Antonio Salandra; the prime minister who had vehemently supported Italy entering the war had also ignominiously manoeuvred to ensure that none of his three sons went anywhere near the battlefield.
Vito Oronzo didn’t want to dwell on it, or breed bad blood. Putting any such distressing thoughts from his mind, he threw himself, body and soul, into enjoying the week’s leave that he’d been dreaming of for over three years: the magnificent autumn light in Puglia and Donata’s company. He wanted to savour them both.
Each day early in the morning, they walked along the vineyard path up to the olive grove. Donata was proud of her Verdeca grapes, among the few that had been harvested during the war in all the valley: she and the women in her family had worked from sunrise to sunset to compensate for the lack of men and, contrary to the whole town’s expectations, they’d been rewarded with a magnificent crop. Once they’d reached the largest olive grove, Donata and Vito would meet up with the women and old people from the neighbourhood, who gathered in groups to help them. Vito Oronzo and Donata were always at the head of the first group, with Antonio Convertini and Francesca, who had also come to lend a hand. Concetta, the widow of Vito’s brother Stefano (8), led the other group. In just a week of leave, they harvested the remaining nuzarol olives on almost all the rossa trees.
When it grew dark that first evening of leave, they returned to the large farmhouse from the back, through the oliastra olives, which were also ripe. Seeing them out of the corner of his eye, Vito warned Donata, ‘Next week you’ll have to harvest these ñastre; they’re ready.’
That evening, they made up for the time they had lost during the three years the war had kept them apart: they locked themselves in and kissed each other all over.
The week passed in the blink of an eye. On 24 October, Vito Oronzo and Antonio had to take a train to Bari, to go back up north to rejoin their company, which had moved with the entire battalion to the outskirts of Vittorio Veneto, just north of Venice. The Italian offensive had begun.
At the break of dawn, Vito Oronzo and Donata said goodbye in the kitchen; she was helping him into his uniform jacket, but every button he fastened she immediately unfastened.
‘Do you mean to say that they really need you to win this stupid war? You can’t stay a few more days?’
‘Before you know it the war will be over and I’ll be back here to nibble on you.’
Vito Oronzo started to kiss her neck. Then he bit open her lips and sought out her tongue. He untied her ponytail and her long hair fell over her breasts, and he kissed them too, as he undid her blouse. Lifting up her skirt, Donata stretched out on the kitchen table and he frantically covered her entire body with little bites.
Afterwards, they got up from the table, Vito kissed her on the lips one last time, and they both rushed out of the house, still buttoning up their shirts. Panting, they reached the train station just as Antonio and Francesca did, running from town. They too had got carried away in the kitchen of their house on the Piazza Sant’Anna, in the centre of Bellorotondo. The night before, they had dined in the Convertini palazzo and hadn’t been able to slip away from their family until late. When they finally got home they couldn’t sleep.
‘You certainly made the most of it!’ both men said simultaneously as they settled into the train carriage, just in time, and each realized the other was out of breath. And they laughed as they stuck their heads through the compartment window to kiss their wives one last time.
‘We’ll be back before Christmas!’ shouted Vito Oronzo to his wife as the train that would take them to the regional capital started.
Donata and Francesca watched their husbands as they laughed like madmen and leaned wildly out of the window to say goodbye. The women stood on the platform, hand in hand, trying to hold on to the laughter of the men, who grew smaller and smaller down the track. The train took a bend, they saw them wave one last time and then they were out of sight.
On 3 November, the Austrians signed the armistice. The news reached Bellorotondo in the late evening of a sunny Sunday, unusually warm for the time of year. People rushed out on to the streets to celebrate the news, so long hoped for, with hugs and shouts of euphoria. The next day the town council decreed three days of public holiday, and the festivities exceeded all official expectations. Many families wavered between their grief over the fallen and their happiness at the end of the fighting, but soon they opted to forget their pain: the dead were left behind, buried far away in the foggy northern lands; the time had come to celebrate peace. Each evening, the balconies filled with the farmers returning from the valley, anxious to dance to the rhythm of the small orchestra and rejoice at the return of the survivors.
Donata and Francesca, who had also come out to mark the war’s end, didn’t dance: they paced back and forth, trying to find out when the men were due to return from the front.
‘Rome doesn’t have the money to feed the soldiers; they’ll be home in a few weeks!’ they were assured by the local priest, who prided himself on always being well informed.
That Sunday, Donata fell asleep very late, with her head resting on her arms folded on the kitchen table. She dreamt that Vito Oronzo was kissing her neck and unbuttoning her blouse, until she was woken up by a stranger knocking on the door. When she opened it, the town official didn’t dare meet her eye; he put the letter into her hands and fled, mumbling something under his breath.
Donata read:
The mayor of the town of Bellorotondo, in the district of Bari, is hereby asked to communicate to the family members of Private Vito Oronzo Palmisano, son of Giorgio and Brunetta, with ID number 18309, of 164th Company, 94th Infantry Regiment, of the 1892 levy, that he departed the world of the living on 4 November 1918 …
Donata didn’t understand what they were trying to tell her. She searched for the letter’s heading, which she had skipped in her rush to see if they were notifying her of the date of her husband’s return. On the upper part of the official form there were large printed letters: ‘94° Reggimento Fanteria. Consiglio di Amministrazione. AVVISO DI MORTE.’
Her heart stopped beating. She felt her legs folding under her and she fainted on the front steps. At that moment, the same town official was heading quickly towards the Via Cavour with an identical letter for Francesca: the news of Antonio Convertini’s death. Unbelievably, the two friends had fallen at midday on 4 November, just as the batallion was waiting for the ceasefire, signed the night before, to come into effect that very day at 2 p.m.
The official notification of these final two senseless deaths reached Bellorotondo three days late, w
hen they were already dismantling the stage used by the little orchestra that had joyfully accompanied the armistice celebration. Having already decided to turn the page on the tragedy of war, the town’s nine thousand inhabitants forgot to mourn the two poor men’s bad luck. Donata was left to come to terms all on her own with the death of the last Palmisano, the death that marked the fulfilment of the family curse, and she took refuge in the house of Francesca, the only person with whom she could share her grief.
From that day on, Donata and Francesca spent their time together, keeping each other company, but still unable to accept that their husbands were never coming back. If the war was already over, how could they have died?
In December, Giuseppe ‘Skinny’ Vicino returned from the front. He had worked for the Convertini family before the war and in the final months of the conflict he had been transferred to Vito Oronzo and Antonio’s company. The captain had charged Skinny with delivering the dead men’s personal belongings to their widows. He told them about the two men’s final hours and how they had become the last two victims of the war.
‘On the twenty-sixth of October, when Vito Oronzo and Antonio came back from leave, we had just begun our last offensive, under pressure from the Americans and the English: “The last few weeks you’ve held up well against the Austro-Hungarians; maybe now you can do something more,” they said. The Italian generals were offended and ordered the attack. Surprisingly, the enemy seemed to be made of butter and we easily made it through their lines of defence at the gates of Vittorio Veneto. After just a few days we had liberated Trento and the Austrians were barely shooting back. They were too busy running away …’
Donata and Francesca listened with eyes filled with tears. They gripped their husbands’ wallets in their hands, as if they were treasures; in them they had found their own photos and the last letters they had each written to the men. They hung on Skinny’s words, feeding the irrational hope that they might lead to a happy ending; as if the telling of the tale had the power to refute reality and bring their husbands back.
‘… On the fourth of November we decided to continue our advance so that by the time the armistice was signed we would have the most territory possible under Italian control. We were marching, but no one had fired a gun in some time; both sides of the front were watching the clock, because at two in the afternoon the ceasefire would officially come into effect. But at around noon, a stray shot hit Antonio in the leg. Before he fell, a second bullet hit him below the shoulder. We all took cover, but he was left exposed to the shots of a sniper hidden in some house. Vito Oronzo didn’t think twice: the two had been inseparable since they’d returned from leave, and he ran out to drag Antonio to cover. The sniper shot at Vito, too, and it was a miracle he didn’t take him down. It would have been suicide to run out into the open again, so they both had to stay hidden behind some ruins for more than two hours. During that time we tried to clear the houses of snipers, but a group of Austrians prevented us. Antonio was bleeding to death and Vito decided to move him.
‘“I have to get him out of here. He needs a doctor …” he shouted from their hiding place.
‘“It’s too risky, don’t try it,” I warned him.
‘“He won’t make it, we have to try,” was his reply.’
Skinny paused. Before continuing he shifted his gaze and looked down at the table, as if he wanted to apologize.
‘With Antonio in his arms, Vito Oronzo started running, looking for a wall to hide behind. We heard another shot and he collapsed. But before we could react, the sniper hit Antonio again. Later, we saw that they had both been shot in the head. They would have died instantly.’
Donata had turned towards the window. She had closed her eyes some time earlier and was trying to imagine the final moments in the life of her Vito Oronzo: the last Palmisano had died when the war was officially over, but he had died without knowing it. Without suffering. It was cold comfort; she hid her face in her hands and wished she were dead.
PART TWO
The Garden Full of White Flowers
The Widows’ House
AFTER THE WAR, Bellorotondo was a town filled with widows, but the term was reserved for Donata and Francesca. When they decided to move in together to share their grief, the town pointedly began calling Francesca’s house in the Piazza Sant’Anna the Widows’ House. In towns like Bellorotondo, young, beautiful widows were highly valued and these two were the most desirable among them. Donata had a serene beauty, with bright chestnut-brown eyes, and she was very kind and quick to laugh. The widow of the last Palmisano never tried to hide her humble roots: she had the discreet charm of a Matera shepherdess. The Convertini widow, on the other hand, in just three years of marriage, had already merged her physical beauty with the seductive elegance of one of the wealthiest families in Puglia. Francesca was gorgeous: she had very long black hair, dark skin, incredible green eyes and shiny, moist lips like ripe fruit. And she had a beautiful body: firm, round breasts like peaches; strong shoulders; fleshy thighs and a reed-like waist that swung to the rhythm of her long, long legs.
During the first few weeks after their husbands’ deaths, the widows cried constantly. Eventually, they learned to stifle their tears, but they still spent their days wandering about the house like lost souls. Until one day, a few weeks later, Francesca entered the kitchen smiling widely, something Donata hadn’t seen since their husbands had been in town on leave.
‘I’m expecting!’
Donata leapt up and hugged her. Her smile was as broad as her cousin’s, but when she sat down at the kitchen bench she began biting her lip. Noticing her nervous gesture, which didn’t match the joy of the moment, Francesca knew something was wrong.
‘What is it? Aren’t you happy?’ she asked.
‘Of course I’m happy …’ Donata hesitated for a moment. Finally, she said, ‘It’s just that … I’m pregnant too!’
‘Really? Why were you keeping it to yourself?’ Francesca let out a loud laugh. She took her cousin by the hands and pulled her up. ‘Let’s dance! If we have a boy and a girl, we can marry them.’
‘Don’t joke, I haven’t slept for days. Francesca, I’m really scared.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘What if it’s a boy?’
‘What do you mean? Don’t you like little boys?’
‘I can’t have a boy – he would be cursed like all the Palmisano men. I can’t bring him up thinking about how he’ll be killed when he grows up. I don’t know what that family did to deserve such a fate, but I won’t have a child just to sacrifice him!’
‘That’s in the past, the war is over.’
‘Wars are never over. They always come back! A war that was officially over robbed half of our lives from us.’
Francesca wasn’t usually superstitious, but she knew that Donata was right: for some unknown reason, God had decided to take vengeance on the Palmisanos and had condemned all the men in the family to death. Hugging her cousin, she wondered how it was possible that a new life could already be so burdened with bad omens.
They stood in silence, leaning on one another, for a long time. Then Donata emerged from Francesca’s embrace, looked into her enormous green eyes and said, ‘You have to promise me that, if it is a boy, you’ll pretend he’s yours and bring him up as a Convertini. We’ll name him Vitantonio. Only you and I will know that it’s in honour of my Vito Oronzo, his father, and your Antonio, who will give him his surname and his chance to survive the curse.’
The months passed, and while Francesca showed off her growing belly in the streets of Bellorotondo, Donata hid her pregnancy two days’ journey from the town in the Sassi caves, the ancient neighbourhood of Matera, where all her family came from, and where people might well assume she had gone simply to grieve. When the moment of birth drew near, she discreetly returned to Bellorotondo, to the Widows’ House. Both women had their baby on St Anne’s feast day, on the morning of 26 July 1919. Dr Ricciardi, the only one who shared their sec
ret, attended to them. Luckily, all the townspeople were distracted by the town’s patron saint’s feast, even though it would be very modestly celebrated that summer, as many families were still in mourning.
Donata was the first to give birth, shortly after midnight. When the baby was born, the doctor took him in his arms, putting off the verdict as long as he could. Finally, with great sorrow, he told her, ‘It’s a boy.’
She closed her eyes and stifled a scream. It was as if she had just been split in two by a razor-sharp sword. Then she opened her eyes, full of tears, and asked, ‘Let me hold him, Gabriele.’
Dr Gabriele Ricciardi was the family doctor for both the Palmisanos and the Convertinis, and had attended to all twenty-one of the dead Palmisano men’s births. He was the only doctor in the region who saw both rich patients and the poor peasants who couldn’t afford even a measure of quinine. Placing the boy on her chest, he went out into the hallway. Donata hugged the baby so tightly that he started to cry. Listening from behind the door, the doctor wondered whether Donata would have the strength to go through with the cruel pact he was about to condone. Taking a deep breath, he went back into the room.
‘Are you sure you want to do this?’
‘I might die of grief, but he will survive the curse.’
The doctor said nothing, but he turned his head to wipe away a tear. The little boy continued crying.
‘What a pair of lungs! And to think that all this life is condemned by a cruel curse!’ Donata said bitterly.
‘It’s best if I take him to Francesca so he can get used to her,’ he said gently. ‘She’s still got a few hours to go.’
When he went to take the boy into his arms, Donata wouldn’t let him go.
‘Just one moment more,’ she begged. And she started to kiss the baby and promise to love him for ever. ‘Maybe one day you’ll understand,’ she said to him. ‘No mother has ever loved a child as much as I love you right now …’
The Last Son’s Secret Page 3
