by John Hersey
The Major said: “But without a crack it wouldn’t be a Liberty Bell. That is the way the real Liberty Bell is, Zito
Zito said: “Then Adano will not want your Liberty Bell. Adano would not like to have a crack, I am sure.” Major Joppolo said: “Then that’s out.” And he thought some more.
In this time Father Pensovecchio finished the war litany and looked nervously at the door, but the Mister Major still did not come. He beckoned to the senior acolyte and whispered in his ear. “Send out the little Ludovico and tell him to look for the American Major and bring him here. Do this for Sant’ Angelo and tell him to hurry.”
The Priest then began the supplication: “Propitius esto, parce nobis, Domine. Propitius esto, exaudi nos, Domine.” Father Pensovecchio mentioned the sins, nervously watching the door, and the people chanted the responses, turning their heads between responses.
“Ab ira tua,” said the priest.
“Libera nos, Domine,” said the people.
“A subitanea et improvisa morte,” said the priest, fearing the non-appearance of Major Joppolo much more than sudden and unexpected death.
“Libera nos, Domine,” said the people, twisting and turning.
“A spiritu fornicationis,” said the priest, not even thinking of the Monsignor, as he usually did at this point.
“Libera nos, Domine,” said the people, peeking at the door.
The senior acolyte drew the small acolyte named Ludovico aside and took him out into the vestry and told him to do what the priest had said. Little Ludovico, not having been outside the Church at seventeen minutes past seven on a Sunday morning for most of the years he could remember, rushed out into the sunlight without thinking to ask where the American Major would be found, or, for that matter, who the American Major was, and why there was an American Major in the town, and whether there was any connection between the loud bangs one had heard for several days and the presence of the American Major.
So little Ludovico sat down on the steps of the Church of Sant’ Angelo in the sun and wondered about these things.
In his office Major Joppolo said: “They took the bell away on the fourteenth of June. That is a month less two days. That is not so much time. Considering how things are done in our Army, perhaps not much has been done with the bell. Where was it sent, Zito?”
Zito said: “To the provincial government at the town of Vicinamare.”
Major Joppolo said: “Perhaps it got no farther. Perhaps the bell is still sitting in its crate in Vicinamare.” Zito grew exicted: “Do you think that is possible?” he asked.
The Major said: “It is possible. We must find out”
And he took a piece of foolscap from his brief case and began a letter:
“To: Lt. Col. R. N. Sartorius, C.A.O., Vicinamare, Prov. of Vicinamare.
“FROM: Major V. Joppolo, C.A.O., Adano, Prov. of Vicinamare.
“RE: Bell belonging to town of Adano.
“Undersigned would very much appreciate your initiating investigation of records of provincial government of Vicinamare to see if you can trace...”
The service in the Church of Sant’ Angelo was taking a most unusual course. Having completed the supplication, Father Pensovecchio started reciting the Litany of Saint Joseph. It was the longest litany he could think of offhand, and he repeated the words without any sense of their meaning.
“Joseph, most valiant, Joseph, most obedient, Joseph, most faithful, mirror of patience, lover of poverty, model of workmen, ornament of the domestic life, guardian of virgins, safeguard of families...”
Suddenly Father Pensovecchio broke off. He had had an idea. He beckoned again to the senior acolyte and whispered in his ear: “Have old Guzzo ring the bell.”
“Now, father?”
“Do as I say. Hurry.”
And then the priest resumed in his hollow voice, “...consolation of the poor, hope of the sick, patron of the dying, terror of the demons.”
And the people responded: “Pray for us.”
The priest said: “Protector of the Holy Church.” The people were just in the middle of responding: “Pray for us,” when they heard a stroke of the bell over their heads. Worship had to stop while the bell rang, for its vibrations shook the whole church.
In his office Major Joppolo blotted the letter and folded it.
Borth said: “What time is it?”
The Major looked at his wrist watch. “Seven twentysix,” he said.
Borth said in Italian: “Zito, if you are such an expert on bells, what is that one ringing for at seven twenty-six in the morning, and all alone?”
Zito said: “It is strange. That is a church bell. From the tone I would say it was the bell of Sant’ Angelo.” “Sant’ Angelo!” The Major jumped up. “My God,” he said, “I promised the priest I would come, I got thinking about the old bell. Zito, show me the way. Run, Zito, this is terrible.”
Zito darted out of the door, and the Major ran after him.
Three or four idlers, sitting in the morning sun, thought it was undignified of the new American Major to chase little Zito through the streets. If he wanted to punish Zito, why did he not send some of his military police after him? It did not suit his office to chase Zito himself, especially since it was unlikely that he would catch him.
The acolyte Ludovico, sitting on the steps of the Church, looked up in amazement at the little Italian being chased by the American officer. He wondered why the American was chasing the Italian. The pair had run right past Ludovico up the steps of the Church before it occurred to him that perhaps this was the American Major. He got up quickly and ran up the steps after the two of them, but he was too late; they were already inside the door.
The entire congregation stood up. The lazy Fatta even stopped leaning against the pillar. There was a considerable amount of murmuring, and as the Major walked up the aisle, puffing and wiping the sweat from his face, many people whispered: “Kiss your hand, kiss your hand.”
In spite of the fact that he never went to church, Zito was impressed by the huge crowd and decided to stay. He followed the Major forward.
Father Pensovecchio, whose face was also covered with perspiration, as if he too had run a great distance, smiled and turned from ashen white back to his normal pink.
As soon as he saw a pew that was not too crowded, Major Joppolo genuflected and slid into it. Zito imitated him and squeezed into the same pew, which was too crowded then.
The congregation seated itself. Father Pensovecchio cleared his throat. His confidence, which had very nearly left him, was now very much in evidence. He had his crowd and he had his Major.
The priest stepped forward, outside the communion rail. “I have a word to say to all of you on this occasion,” he said.
Then he paused, waiting for quiet. The Church fell into absolute silence, except for the hard breathing of Major Joppolo and Zito.
“My children,” said Father Pensovecchio, “everything that is done in this world is done by God. God gave us wheat, and God gave us the sun. God also sent us these liberators after all our prayers. Our prayers are now answered, and the men we feared are now in the hills, which God in his infinite forgiveness gave them to hide in.”
ajor Joppolo couldn’t help noticing two heads in the pew right in front of him. One was the head of a man, and it was bald. The other was the head of a woman, and it was blonde.
“But as you all know,” Father Pensovecchio said, “no matter who you have as the authorities, you must obey the law. If a child does something wrong, he is punished by his father. If you do something wrong, you’ll be punished by your new governors. When you go out from mass, read the proclamations which your new governors have posted, and spread the word that all must obey them exactly as they are written.”
By tilting his head a very little bit, Major Joppolo was able to find out that the bald head belonged to his interpreter, Giuseppe. He was not able, by tilting, to see the face of the blonde head, but he could see that the hair was arranged f
astidiously, with no loose strands.
“If you remember,” said the priest, “we were told that Americans attacked priests and attacked and killed women, and were all Protestants. But right here now is an American of Italian descent who is attending mass, and is just as reverent as you are toward the Church of Sant’ Angelo. He is a very busy man. He is so busy that he had to run all the way to church, and even then was somewhat late. But we are very glad to have him here.” Father Pensovecchio spoke with feeling. “We are glad that he is one of us. Because of this man, I believe that the Americans are my friends. You must believe the same thing, my children.”
Major Joppolo noticed that the skin of the neck below the blonde hair, though clean, was quite dark, and he wondered whether the hair was naturally blonde. He wondered about this off and on during the mass which followed.
After mass he left quickly, to avoid the embarrassment he knew would result from mingling too much with the crowd. He took time only to tell Giuseppe that he had a little interpreting for him to do that afternoon, and to look into the face of the blonde.
Chapter 4
ON the fifth day of the invasion a babel stood in line in front of the shop of the baker Zapulla. There were many women, mostly dressed in black, and a few men. They talked in loud voices, each clamoring for an audience.
‘`He has a furious energy,” said Maria Carolina the wife of the noisy cartman Afronti. “He told small Zito to report for work at seven each morning. Zito thought that no official would be up that early. Zito went to work at seven and a half, and the Mister Major told him that there would be a new usher unless the old usher could wake up on time in the morning.”
Carmelina the wife of the lazy Fatta, who was at the head of the line, said loudly: “It would be pleasing if Zapulla the baker got up on time in the morning so that the bread would be ready.”
Zapulla the baker, black with the wood coke of his oven, came out to the front of the shop and roared: “Zapulla the baker has been up since four in the morning. If Zapulla the baker hears remarks, he is liable to go back to bed and let the bread burn up
“Do you remember,” said Margherita the fat Craxi’s formidable wife, “do you remember how the Mayor Nasta used to hold office hours from noon until one, each day, the hour when we were all busy with our children? And how we had to apply in writing to see him? And how we had to wait ten days? And how he would treat us when we did see him? Now it is different. You can walk in any time all day.” She paused. “He stands up when you enter,” she said impressively.
“Is that so?” said Laura Sofia, who was not the wife of anyone and at her age was not likely to be ever. “I think I shall go and see him.”
“On what pretext?” jibed Maria Carolina, wife of the noisy cartman Afronti. “To make eyes at him?”
“Oh,” said Laura Sofia, “I have my complaints, just like the rest of you - even if I haven’t litters of children grunting like pigs on my floor.”
Carmelina, wife of the lazy Fatta, said: “My children are hungry. It would be nice if they could get their bread on time
From the depths of his shop Zapulla the baker shouted: “The children of certain people may stay hungry if certain people do not hold their tongues.”
Mercurio Salvatore, crier of the town of Adano, was near the end of the line, but even though he toned his voice down to his conversational whisper, the whole line could hear him when he said: “I wish to tell you something. I asked him if I could listen to my radio.
“He said: `Why not, crier?’
“I asked him what station I would be permitted to listen to. I asked: `Should it be the Radio of Algiers, or should it be the Radio of London which is called B.B.C.?’
“He said: `Reception here is best for Radio Roma. Why don’t you listen to the one you can hear the best?’ “I said: `Can you mean it? Radio Roma is anti-American. It has nothing but slander for the Americans.’
“And he said to me: `Crier, I love the truth, and I want you to love it too. You listen to Radio Roma. You will hear that it is three fourths lies. I want you to judge for yourself and to want the truth. Then perhaps you will want to listen to the other broadcasts which you cannot hear quite so clearly.”‘
Margherita, the formidable wife of Craxi, said: “Have you listened, crier?”
Mercurio Salvatore said: “I have listened. I could detect only one lie yesterday, but it was a big one. Radio Roma said that Italian forces in the city of Vicinamare threw back three vicious Allied attacks. We all knew that Vicinamare was in the hands of the Americans late on the first day of the disembarkation.”
Carmelina the wife of the lazy Fatta said: “It will be late on the fifth day before we get bread from this baker Zapulla.”
Zapulla was impolite to Carmelina because of what she said. He came forward and threw a piece of wood-coke at her head and roared: “Silence, whore!”
The woodcoke missed Carmelina’s head, but hit the stomach of the formidable Margherita. She advanced, shaking her large fists. Zapulla went back to his ovens, as if he had not noticed where his woodcoke went.
At this angry moment, Gargano, Chief of the Carabinieri, came up to the line. This man was called by the people The Man With Two Hands, because of his continuous and dramatic gesturing. He was, he seemed to think, an actor, and he could not say two words without gesturing with both hands. He possessed and exercised all the essentially Italian gestures: the two forefingers laid side by side, the circle of thumb and forefinger, the hands up in stop position, the sign of the cuckold and of the genitals, the salute to the forehead with palm forward, the fingertips of the two hands placed tip to tip, the fingers linked, the hands flat and downward as if patting sand, the hands up heel to heel and pulled toward the chest, the attitude of prayer, the pointing forefinger of accusation, the V as if for victory or smoking cigarets, the forefinger on the chin, the rolling of the hands. All, he used them all.
When he approached the line, everyone thought that he was coming to restore order. There was a question in some people’s minds whether he still had authority, but they did not feel that this was a good time to flout the question. It would be better to see first whether he made any arrests.
He did not make any arrests. He merely went up to Carmelina, wife of the lazy Fatta, and squeezed between her and the door of Zapulla’s shop, and stood there. The people could see that he was merely taking his place at the head of the line to wait for bread.
Carmelina, who was annoyed by having had woodcoke thrown at her, said truculently: “Mister Gargano, you were Chief of the Carabinieri under the old regime, and that entitled you to stand at the head of the line. I am not sure that you are still Chief of the Carabinieri.”
Gargano said: “I am the Chief,” and he made a kind of Fascist salute with both hands.
Carmelina said: “I doubt it. Where is the proof?” Gargano said: “See my uniform,” and he ran his two forefingers from his shoulders to his knees.
Carmelina said: “That is no proof. The Americans do not care how we dress. I could dress as a rabbit and the Americans would not arrest me.”
Gargano said: “Woman, stop your shouting, or I will arrest you,” and he gripped his own left wrist with his own right hand, signifying arrest.
Carmelina said: “Where is your authority?” Margherita the formidable wife of Craxi said: “I believe that this man is still Chief, since the Mister Major is keeping many Fascist scoundrels in office until they prove themselves bad. But I do not believe that under American law he has the right to go to the head of the line. That is where I think you are right, Carmelina.” Gargano said: “I have always come to the head of the line. I shall continue to do so,” and he ran his forefinger along the length of the line until he came to the head, where he stood, then he pointed the finger at the ground. Maria Carolina, the wife of the noisy cartman Afronti, who had once been arrested by Gargano, shouted: “You have no right, Two-Hands. The Americans would not permit it.” This was the first time Gargano had ever been ca
lled Two-Hands to his face. He did not under stand the reference.
Gargano stepped out of the line. “Who questions my right?” he roared, and he pounded one clenched fist on the other clenched fist.
Carmelina, wife of the lazy Fatta, standing right beside him, startled him by whispering in his ear: “I question it, Two-Hands.”
Up to this time Zapulla the baker, standing in the front of his shop, had been torn between the two authorities, the old and the new. But he was so annoyed with Carmelina for having prodded him that he now said: “Arrest her, Mister Chief, if you have any courage.”
Up to this time Gargano the Chief, somewhat unsure of his ground, had been trying to think of a way of retiring gracefully. But now his manhood, as well as his authority, was challenged. He moved toward Carmelina and said: “Woman, you are under arrest.”
Carmelina shouted: “Keep your two active hands off me, Gargano.”
Zapulla said: “Will you let this woman shriek down your courage?”
Gargano clapped his hands on Carmelina. She screamed. All up and down the line women shouted: “Out with the Fascist Chief of Carabinieri. Out with Two-Hands. Out with men who push themselves to the head of a line ahead of women who have been waiting three hours.”
Gargano dragged Carmelina off screaming and kicking, and the anti-Gargano, anti-Fascist screams in the line grew louder and louder. Even Mercurio Salvatore, although as crier he was more or less an official and should have remained neutral or even taken the side of Gargano, raised his huge voice in a careful shout. “Down with injustice!”
When Gargano pulled Carmelina into Major Joppolo’s office, she was still screaming. But the Major jumped to his feet and said sharply: “Silence, shrew,” and she fell quiet at once.
“What is this all about?” the Major asked.
Gargano said: “This woman questioned my authority,” and he pointed at her with both forefingers. Carmelina said: “There is more to it than that.” Major Joppolo said: “Your authority to do what, Gargano?”
