by John Hersey
Major Joppolo said: “Be here at seven o’clock each morning.”
“Seven o’clock,” said Zito.
A brief burst of machine gun and rifle fire echoed from distant streets. Zito cringed.
Borth said: “You are perhaps a man but you are also frightened.”
Major Joppolo said: “Has it been bad here?”
Zito started jabbering about the bombardments and the air raids. “We are very hungry,” he said when he had cooled down a little. “For three days we have not had bread. All the important ones ran away and left me here to guard the Palazzo. The stink of dead is very bad, especially in the Piazza San Angelo. Some people are sick because the drivers of the water carts have not had the courage to get water for several days, because of the planes along the roads. We do not believe in victory. And our bell is gone.”
Major Joppolo said: “Your bell?”
Zito said: “Our bell which was seven hundred years old. Mussolini took it. It rang with a good tone each quarter hour. Mussolini took it to make rifle barrels or something. The town was very angry. Everyone begged the Monsignor, who is the uncle of the Mayor, to offer some church bells instead. But the Monsignor is uncle of the Mayor, he is not the sort to desecrate churches, he says. It meant we lost our bell. And only two weeks before you came. Why did you not come sooner?” “Where was this bell?”
“Right here.” Zito pointed over his head. “The whole building tingled when it rang.”
Major Joppolo said to Borth: “I saw the framework for the bell up on the tower, did you?” Then he added to Zito: “That is your reason for wanting us to have come sooner, is it?”
Zito was careful. “Partly,” he said.
Borth said: “Usher, if you were a good Fascist you would be able to tell me why there is a big blank space up there on the wall over which there used to hang a picture. It is easy to see by the square of dust that there was a rather large picture there.”
Zito smiled and said: “The picture does not exist. It has been destroyed.”
Borth said: “You are not hiding it in the basement? You are not afraid that the Americans will be driven out by your German allies and that your leader will return some day and see the square of dust on the wall and ask questions?”
Zito said: “It is destroyed, I swear it. I cannot lie before the Mister Major.”
Major Joppolo said: “Usher, what is that big picture over my desk?”
This was where the little Zito told a beautiful lie. The picture was of a group of men in antique costume. One of them, by expression of face, position in the picture and by the accident of being the only one in the sunlight of all the men, was obviously their leader, and he was pointing out the side of the picture to the left.
Zito thought quickly and said: “That, Mister Major, is Columbus discovering America.”
Zito smiled because it was a beautiful lie. Major Joppolo did not discover for three weeks that the picture was really a scene from the Sicilian Vespers, that bloody revolt which the Sicilians mounted against a previous invader.
Now Major Joppolo said in English more or less to himself: “It’s a nice picture, I wonder how old it is, maybe it’s by somebody famous.”
The Major went to the desk, pulled out the highbacked chair and sat in it, carefully putting his feet on the scrollwork footstool.
Borth said: “How does it feel, Duce?”
The Major said: “There is so much to do, I hardly know where to begin.”
Borth said: “I know what I must do. I’ve got to find the offices of the Fascist Party, to see if I can find more records. May I take the Mister Usher and look for the Fascso?”
“Go ahead, Borth,” the Major said.
When the two had left, Major Joppolo opened his brief case and took out some papers. He put them in a neat pile on the desk in front of him and began to read:
“INSTRUCTIONS TO CIVIL AFFAIRS OFFICERS. First day: Enter the city with the first column. Cooperate with C.I.C. in placing guards and seizing records. Place all food warehouses, enemy food dumps, wholesale food concerns, and other major food stocks under guard. Secure an estimate from local food distributors of the number of days of food supplies which are on hand or available. Make a report through channels on food situation in your area. See that the following establishments are placed under guard or protection: foundries, machine shops, electrical works, chemical plants, flour mills, breweries, cement plants, refrigeration plants, ice plants, warehouses, olive oil refineries, sulphur refineries, tunny oil mills, soap manufacturing plants, and any other important establishments. Locate and make available to port authorities all known local pilots...”
And the list went on and on. When he had read three pages, Major Joppolo looked at his wrist watch. It was eleven thirty. Almost half of this first day was gone. He took the sheets of instructions up from the desk and tore them in half, and tore the halves in quarters, and crumpled up the quarters and threw them into a cane wastebasket under the desk.
Then he sat and stared out the nearest French door into the empty street for a long time. He looked tired and defeated.
He stirred and reached into his brief case again and took out a small black loose leaf notebook. The pages were filled with notes on his Amgot school lectures: notes on civilian supply, on public safety, on public health, on finance, on agriculture, industry, utilities, transportation, and all the businesses of an invading authority. But he passed all these pages by, and turned to the page marked: Notes to Joppolo from Joppolo.
And he read: “Don’t make yourself cheap. Always be accessible to the public. Don’t play favorites. Speak Italian whenever possible. Don’t lose your temper. When plans fall down, improvise...”
That was the one he wanted. When plans fall down, improvise.
Plans for this first day were in the wastebasket. They were absurd. Enough was set forth in those plans to keep a regiment busy for a week.
Now Victor Joppolo felt on his own, and he no longer looker tired. He got up briskly, went out onto the balcony and saw that there were two flagpoles there. He went back in, reached in his brief case and pulled out two flags, one American, the other British.
He tucked the Union Jack under his arm as he walked out again, felt for the toggles on the American flag, mounted them on the halyard on the left-hand flagpole, and raised the flag.
Before the flag reached the top of the pole there were five Italians in the Piazza. Before he had the British flag attached to the halyard on the right-hand pole, there were twenty. By the time he had both flags up, forty people were shouting: “Buon giorno, buon giorno, Americano.”
He waved to them and went back into his office. Now he was happy and quick.
He took up his brief case again, reached in and pulled out a pile of proclamations. He took them over to the table by the door, set the leftover maps and photos aside, and arranged the proclamations in order on the table. While he was on his way back to his desk, there was a knock on the door.
“Come in,” he said in Italian.
The door opened. A man came in whose appearance was vaguely familiar to Major Joppolo. The Major realized later that he had seen, not this man, but several who looked just like him, in bad American movies. He was the type of the second-rate Italian gangster, the small fellow in the gang who always stood behind the boss and who always took the rap. He had the bald head, the weak mouth. He had a scar across his cheek. His eye was furtive and he had the appearance of being willing but in need of instructions.
He said in English: “You pull up a flag. War’s a finish here in Adano, huh?”
The Major said: “Yes, who are you?”
The Italian said: “I’m from a Cleveland, Ohio. I been here a three year. You got a work for me?”
Major Joppolo said: “What’s your name?”
The Italian said: “Ribaudo Giuseppe. In a Cleveland, call a me Joe.”
Major Joppolo said: “What can you do?”
Ribaudo said: “I’m a good American. I’
m a hate these Fascisti. I could do a good a job for you.”
Major Joppolo said: “If you’re such a good American, why did you leave the States?”
Ribaudo said: “I’m a kick out.” “I’m a no passport.”
“How’d you get in, then?”
‘I got a plenty friends in a Cleveland and a Buffalo.’ “What did you do in the States?”
“Oh, I work a here, work a there.”
Major Joppolo was pleased with Ribaudo for not trying to lie about his illegal entry and repatriation. He said: “Okay, I’ll hire you. You will be my interpreter.”
“You don’t a speak Italian?”
“Yes, but there’ll be other Americans here who don’t, and I may need you for other things, too. Do you know these people well, do you know who’s for us Americans and who’s against us?”
“Sure, a boss, I help a you plenty.”
“All right, what did you say your name was?” “Ribaudo Giuseppe, just a Joe for you.”
“No, we’re in Italy, I’ll call you Giuseppe here. Just two things now, Giuseppe. You’ve got to be honest with me; if you’re not, you’ll be in bad trouble. The other is, don’t expect me to do you any favors I wouldn’t do for anyone else, see?”
“Oh sure, a boss. You don’t a worry.”
“Now tell me, what does this town need the most?” “I could a go for a movie house, a boss.”
“No, Giuseppe, I mean right now.”
“Food, a boss. Food is a bad now in Adano. Three days a lot a people no eat a nothing.”
“Why is that, because of a shortage of flour?”
“No, everyone been a scared. Baker don’t a work, nobody sell a pasta, water don’t a come in a carts. That’s all, a boss.”
“How many bakers are there in town?”
But before Giuseppe could answer this question, there were two simultaneous knocks on the door, one strong, and one weak.
“I open ‘em up, a boss?” Giuseppe was at least eager. “Please, Giuseppe.”
Giuseppe hurried down the long room and opened the door. Two men almost tumbled in. Both were well dressed, and had neckties on. One of them was quite old. The other was very fat and looked forty. They hurried down the room, and each seemed anxious not to let the other get ahead of him.
The old one said in English, with a careful British accent: “My name is Cacopardo, at your service, Major. I am eighty-two. I own most of the sulphurs in this place. Here Cacopardo is sulphur and sulphur is Cacopardo. I wish to give you advices whenever you need of it.”
The fat one, who seemed annoyed with Cacopardo for speaking first, said in English: “Craxi, my name. I have a telegram.”
Major Joppolo said: “What can I do for you gentlemen?”
Cacopardo said: “Advices.”
Craxi said. “Telegram.”
Cacopardo said: “The Americans coming to Italian countryside need some advices.” The old man looked straight at Giuseppe the interpreter and added: “I wish to advise you to be careful, in Adano are many men who were illegal in America, some men too who were condemned to the electrical chair in Brooklyn of New York.”
Major Joppolo, seeing Giuseppe’s embarrassment, said: “Giuseppe, I want to speak to the priest of the town. Will you get him for me?”
Giuseppe said: “Which priest, a boss?”
Cacopardo said: “In Adano are thirteen churches, Major, and in some, like Sant’ Angelo and San Sebastiano, are two or three priests.”
Major Joppolo said: “Which church is best?” Cacopardo said: “In churches ought not to be good and bad, but Sant’ Angelo is best, because Father Pensovecchio is best of all.”
Major Joppolo said to Giuseppe: “Get him for me, will you?”
“Yes, a boss,” Giuseppe said, and left.
When he had left, Major Joppolo said to Cacopardo: “Is this Giuseppe fellow not to be trusted?”
Cacopardo bowed and said: “I mention only the electrical chair, I am not one to name the names.”
Major Joppolo spoke sharply: “You said you came to advise me. I must know about this Giuseppe. Is he to be trusted or not?”
The old man bowed again and said: “Giuseppe is a harmless one.”
The fat Craxi was growing very annoyed that Cacopardo was getting all the attention. He said: “I have a telegram. Please to deliver.”
Major Joppolo said: “This isn’t a telegraph office.
There’s a war going on. Do you think we have nothing better to do than deliver telegrams?”
Craxi was apologetic. “I am anti-Fascist. I have a telegram. You are the one who can deliver it.” And he pulled out from his pocket a piece of ruled paper, folded four ways and pinned shut with a safety pin. He handed the paper to the Major, who put it down on his desk, to the disappointment of Craxi.
The Major said: “You say you’ve come to advise me. Then tell me, what does this town need the most right now?”
This time the fat Craxi got there first: “To eat,” he said, “much to eat.”
Cacopardo said: “It needs a bell more than anything.”
Craxi said: “Foolishness, a bell. More than anything, to eat is necessary.”
Cacopardo said: “The town needs its bell back. You can always eat.”
Craxi, who had been rather slighted in the conversation anyhow, now became quite angry. “You can always eat, you Cacopardo,” he said. “You have a million lira, you sulphur. You can eat, but not all the people here can eat.” And he turned to the Major: “To eat here is most necessary, more necessary than any bell.”
Cacopardo broke into furious Italian: “Fat one, you think only of your stomach. The spirit is more important than the stomach. The bell was of our spirit. It was of our history. It was hung on the tower by Pietro of Aragona. It was designed by the sculptor Lucio de Anj of Modica.”
Craxi said in Italian: “People who are very hungry have a ringing in their ears. They have no need of bells.” Cacopardo said: “By this bell the people were warned of the invasion of Roberto King of Naples, and he was driven back.”
Craxi said: “People with malaria also have a ringing in their ears. “
Cacopardo said: “The bell warned the people when Admiral Targout brought his French and his Turks to this place in 1553 and burned many homes and churches, and all that was left in the Church of Our Mother was the little silver crucifix which you will see now in the Church of San Angelo.”
The Major said in Italian: “We have no time for this recital. I wish to know what things are pressing and must be taken care of at once.”
Craxi said: “I have spoken. Food is the first thing.” Cacopardo said: “The bell must be taken care of at once. The bell did not warn us of this invasion, or we would have been in the streets with flowers to welcome you.
Craxi said: “I needed no bell. I was on the beach to welcome the Americans. My woman was with me, the formidable Margherita, and my seven children. We were on the beach in spite of the shooting, to greet the Americans. But what did my children shout? They did not shout: `We miss the tinkling of the bell.’ They shouted: `Caramelle! Caramelle!’ They were hungry. They wanted candy. I myself, who had had enough to eat as it happens, shouted for cigarets, not for the pealing of a bell.”
Borth and the usher Zito came back. Borth said: “It’s nifty, Major. All the records are intact. They tell everything. There are lists of anti-Fascists and lists of those who were enthusiastic and the others who were lukewarm. There’s a dossier on each important person. It’s perfect. Who are these guys?”
Cacopardo said: “Cacopardo is my name, at your service, sir. Cacopardo is sulphur and sulphur is Cacopardo.”
Borth said: “I remember that name. In the records it says Cacopardo’s crazy.”
Craxi said: “That is true. He thinks that bells are more important than food.”
Borth turned on Craxi in mock anger. “And who is this?”
Craxi was apologetic again: “I am anti-Fascist. Craxi. I believe in food for the moment
.”
Major Joppolo said: “They are arguing which is more important, food or restoring the bell. Since we obviously can’t do anything about the bell just now, food is our concern.”
Craxi looked very proud of himself, but Cacopardo turned to Zito and said: “We will leave this matter to the son of Rosa who was the wife of Zito. What do you say, small Zito, do you consider the food or the bell more important?”
Surprisingly Zito said: “I think the bell.”
Major Joppolo was interested by this. He leaned forward and said: “Why, Zito?”
Zito said: “Because the tone of the bell was so satisfactory.”
“No,” said Cacopardo, “it is because of the history of the bell. When the bell spoke, our fathers and their fathers far back spoke to us.”
Even Craxi was swept into this argument. “No,” he said, “it was because the bell rang the times of day. It told us when to do things, such as eating. It told us when to have the morning egg and when to have pasta and rabbit and when to drink wine in the evening.”
Zito said: “I thing it was the tone which mattered. It soothed all the people of this town. It chided those who were angry, it cheered the unhappy ones, it even laughed with those who were drunk. It was a tone for everybody.”
Giuseppe came in bringing the priest. Father Pensovecchio was grey-haired and cheerful, and as he approached the group around the Major’s desk he made a motion with his right hand which might have been interpreted either as a blessing or as a Fascist salute.
After the introductions, Major Joppolo said to the priest: “Father, we are speaking of the old bell which was taken away.”
Father Pensovecchio said: “That is the disgrace of this town. I have in my church a bell which is just as loud as the one which was taken away, though not so sweet and much younger and altogether meaningless as a bell. Any other bell would have done as well in my belfry. I wanted to send my bell. But the Monsignor would not permit it. The Monsignor is the uncle of the Mayor. He has reasons for doing the things he does -” Father Pensovecchio crossed himself, indicating that the things which the Monsignor did were somewhat ugly; “ - but in this case I believe he was wrong.”
