I Contadini (The Peasants)

by Lester S. Taube

  “Till I win you,” answered Paul, instantly feeling like a clod for blurting out such an inane cliché when his big chance had arrived.

  “A woman of the streets would be of more use to you,” she said. He was surprised to see a sad expression cross her face. It struck him that, despite everything she possessed, she was a lonely woman, who perhaps in a way might envy the girls who walked the streets.

  “No,” he said. “I could not love them as I love you.”

  She made the mistake of laughing. Paul reached up and pulled her off the horse. He fastened his lips to hers, drawing her body so close that he felt her full breasts and flat stomach through her clothes. Pressed together from chest to thigh, there could be no doubt that she was aware of the boiling desire inside him.

  By instinct, as she was drawn from her horse, she had slipped an arm through the reins to anchor the animal. When the horse tugged at them to reach for some tufts of grass, it broke the spell his lips had wrought. She placed a hand on his chest and pushed him away. They stood looking at each other, their faces crimson with confusion and blood of lust, their breathing rapid and heavy. She raised her crop and struck Paul across his cheek. Then, without a word, she mounted her mare and rode off.

  As she cantered down the path, Paul leaned back against the car, his eyes gleaming as he touched the welt on his face. He knew quite well that the blow was a release of her anger for feeling the same passion as he himself.

  The following day brought word from the conspirator on the estate that she had suddenly become impossible to live with. She snapped at the least thing, raged at the slightest fault of the servants, and left the house only to ride, bringing back her mare covered with sweat. In time her attitude towards the pompous ass even altered. Whereas she had been respectful in each word and action, her manner cooled, grew distant, and her bedroom door was closed to his periodic visits.

  For a month Paul saw neither hide nor hair of her, although he ran his car far into the woods where she usually rode, and the list of damages to the sturdy, uncomplaining vehicle made the Germans wince. A car was a sign of prestige, to be polished, babied and maintained like a family heirloom. A lesser person than Paul would have been totally discouraged. Instead, he rented a room in the village, secured maps of the road network and forest bordering the estate, then made his patrols as diligently as he would expect from the men he commanded.

  One day the answer came from the mansion: she was riding deep into the forest towards the mountains rather than over the bridle paths she was accustomed to take. Paul promptly made a reconnaissance in his battered car and was rewarded with a torn oil pan. A farmer and two horses towed the car back to civilization. An attempt to pierce the forest by borrowed motorcycle ended up with him nursing a wrenched knee that soon became black and blue.

  Fearing serious injury to their crazy American, a committee of drinking companions from the various Gasthaüser and Weinstuben went into conference. They reached an answer by locating a horse so placid that even a child could manage it, assigned one of the elders, who had served as a cavalryman during World War I under von Hindenberg at the battle of Tannenburg, to give him an hour of instruction, then, with loud cheers, they smacked the animal across its ample rump and sent it lumbering towards the mountain. As a precaution, however, before permitting Paul to leave, the conspirators filled him so full of beer that he feared nothing. So he made his way far into the forest in the vicinity where Kristine was reported to be riding.

  He came to a deserted pasture, distraught to find it enclosed by a long fence which portended a wide detour unless he cut across it. As he had no intention of getting off his horse, since it was hard enough to climb on its back when he started, he searched about until he located a gate. He leaned down to lift off the wire holding it shut. The next moment he found himself lying flat on the ground, looking up at the horse gazing down dolefully at its rider unable to lean forward without falling off.

  Then he heard Kristine’s peal of laughter. He sat up to find her twenty yards away seated as straight as a ramrod on her mare. Climbing to his feet, he walked up to her, and suddenly he began to laugh too. He held up his arms, and she slid off her horse into them. Tying their animals to branches, they walked into the forest and sat on a fallen tree, speaking of a thousand things until the sun was low in the sky. When she mounted her mare, she leaned down and kissed him so lightly that he wasn’t certain her lips had actually touched his mouth. Then she whirled her horse and galloped off homeward while Paul climbed laboriously onto the back of that monster and returned to the village.

  That night he sat in his favorite Gasthaus like he was a zombie, staring at the walls, the conspirators crowding about him, chuckling and nodding their heads, for success is often seen in the face even though the words are not spoken.

  They met again the next afternoon at the same spot. Tying up their horses, they sat and talked until she rose to depart. But this time they held each other tightly, their lips not satisfied with one kiss, but coming together again and again until the heat grew so intense in their bodies that she had to tear herself away, leap upon her mare, and race off to keep from thrusting her hips against the hardness of his loins.

  The week which followed was an agony to Paul. He performed his duty with his unit each day as if nothing else occupied his mind, but the moment retreat sounded, he was in his car racing to the village, sitting in this Gasthaus or that Weinstube, waiting for the weekend to come, realizing that he could not see her until then, but unable to bear being anywhere else except near her.

  On the next Saturday afternoon they met, and both knew at once that the other had passed a tormented week. She told him to get back on his horse, then led him deeper into the forest to a clearing where stood a small, log hut to store hay. Not a word was spoken as she undressed. He tore at his clothing. He took her on a bed of hay with the violence of two thunderbolts striking in mid-air.

  When they lay back resting, their naked bodies still entwined, Paul felt no relief, and his instinct told him that she likewise was not fulfilled. After a while they got up, dressed, and went their separate ways.

  They met again at the hut the next afternoon, sitting and talking as if they planned to wait another week before making love. Then suddenly, in a frenzy, they undressed and threw themselves at each other, peaking at the same moment, her high shout of ecstasy mingled with his deep moan of release and triumph, stopping only a few minutes to exclaim how beautiful it was and continuing to kiss, until, without having withdrawn from each other, they started anew, their bodies perfectly matched, their thrusts whetting their appetite, the thunderous explosion of flooding together at the same moment overpowering them again. This time, though, they knew exactly what was in the heart of the other - that they were truly, irrevocably mated to the end of their lives.

  Within a week Kristine had rented an apartment in Frankfurt for them to be together when Paul was free. By the end of a month, the inevitable confrontation between her and her husband took place. Although she demanded a separation, he prevailed upon her for appearance’s sake to remain at the estate, to which Paul acquiesced, as his commanding general was especially adverse to any form of scandal. In time, though, she spent most of her nights at the apartment with Paul, and returned to the mansion less often.

  She became pregnant three months later, and their dilemma must at last be faced. They knew the seriousness of the matter, both being devout Catholics, but nevertheless they reached the decision that Kristine should obtain a civil divorce so they could marry. Paul wrote to Ettore, explaining the situation.

  Ettore’s reaction was immediate. Paul never learned how he managed to pull such strings, but orders came overnight transferring him back to the United States. When he walked into the house, fuming, ready to resign his commission in the army and cut himself off from whomever was responsible, he found himself surrounded by every member of the family. The dispute lasted two days, Ettore raging and roaring, Vincent using his most persuasive argu
ments, Michael being practical, Rose weeping at the thought of a divided house, and even Dominic, the wild one, already having his affairs although he was but sixteen years old, registering disapproval.

  Anthony had made the most profound impression. “Paul,” he said softly, in the privacy of the library of the house. “I know you are a very religious person, and that you believe in God. He is here and in Germany and everywhere we will ever go. If we could compare your heartbreak with the agony of Christ for our salvation, you would have an inkling of how great is the love of God. You can defy Him, and your family, and even your conscience, but you cannot alter His commandments. You and the woman you love have committed sin, a grave sin, and soon a child will be born from this transgression. God in His glorious mercy will permit this child to be born free of your sin, but you must sin no more, for it will not be just you who will be punished, but many others whom you love. Her husband is not a young man, and I would be the last to wish for his death to clear the path for you and the woman to marry, but God works in ways beyond our comprehension. Therefore, you must not attempt to circumvent Him. There will be only hell on earth and eternal damnation after death if you try to do so. I beg of you to go to church and pray to God to show you the way, for He will not forsake you.”

  Paul had done so, then had left the house to report to his next duty station. Soon afterwards, Kristine came to the United States to join him. After much soul searching, they reluctantly decided to allow her husband to be named as the father, which he was more than willing to do to save himself the full name of cuckold, and to wait a little longer before taking any action.

  Within two months, Paul was fighting for his life in Korea........

  He leaned forward and shut off Tannhauser, then rose from his chair to mix another scotch and soda, waving back the co-pilot who started in to serve him. As he resumed his seat, he realized that the story had really ended there, in its sense of going forward. He and Kristine met whenever possible, their love growing deeper with the years, and they both knew that once the pompous ass died they would marry, no matter how old they were.

  So Paul understood that his coming home at this time was mainly to search for himself, to seek what else was inside him besides the love for Kristine and the lesser one for his daughter. For he knew that his conscience would allow him to shun Maria’s funeral, as there were three thousand men who were alive and dependent upon him, and that death is final with no need of the living. Perhaps Maria in death would provide the key to unlock himself.

  They were all waiting at the airport when the plane landed in Chicago. Paul kissed Ettore, then the others, and shook hands with Vito. When they had been driven to the house, Ettore took out the red table wine, poured eight glasses, and raised his towards Paul. “It’s good to have you home, Paul.” And they drank.

  Then Ettore put down his glass and said, “Now we will go to the funeral parlor to see your sister.”

  CHAPTER 3

  The funeral was a successful one, if numbers in attendance, marvelously discreet supervision, and evident sorrow were the criteria. Over one hundred people came, including Michael’s wife, Carol, and their two children, Michael, Junior and Eleanor, who flew up from Houston. Rose and Vito’s boys, Bob and Bert, took plane from Boston. There were classmates of Maria from her high school and college, fellow teachers from the school where she taught the fourth grade at the time of her death, friends of Rose, Vincent and Michael, associates of Ettore and Vito, city officials who remembered the large donations they received from Ettore when they approached him with causes he deemed worthy, half a dozen high state officials, a representative from Congress, newsmen, and a score or so of sensation seekers.

  The priest from their neighborhood church conducted the mass. The DiStephanos sat stunned, heartbroken, throughout the service, and moved numbly while the casket was transported from the church to the cemetery. There they stood stiffly as Maria was lowered into her grave.

  At the rear of the crowded church, and later at the edge of the visitors milling around the grave, stood a tall, blond woman next to a young girl with tawny hair. Kristine and Ingrid had crossed a quarter of the world to bid goodbye to a girl they had never seen. Paul did not know they had come, and Kristine decided to say nothing until after the funeral.

  When the DiStephanos said farewell to Maria, they turned to Mama’s grave, and here Ettore broke as completely as a man could, falling to his knees and weeping with great choking sobs. One by one the others knelt down beside him, joining in with his profound sorrow until the tears washed away the pain of seeing Maria actually placed in the earth.

  Upon their return to the house, they went through the formality of eating and drinking as custom demanded, people crowding in to speak of many things to take the mourners’ thoughts from the sad business of burying a sister and daughter. For many it was an occasion to look over the DiStephano children who had made such a name for themselves, especially to weigh up Dominic, by far the most famous for his exploits, if notoriety could be construed as a form of fame.

  By supper time, all the visitors had gone leaving the family to themselves. They ate in the kitchen, and when all were fed, Ettore rapped on the table.

  “We will speak of Maria now,” he said.

  Rose glanced at Michael for support, but he shrugged, so she spoke up anyhow. “Papa, I think the children should go into the other room.”

  “No,” said Ettore. “They are old enough.”

  Rose looked to Vito, but he shook his head, leaving her no alternative except to remain silent.

  “What have you learned, Vince?” asked Ettore.

  Vincent drew out a notebook from his shirt pocket. “Maria was found at one-twenty in the morning by a roving police patrol in a field at the edge of town. She had been placed there carefully. Investigators came upon two good prints of a man’s shoes, size ten D. From the depth of the foot-prints, it appears he was carrying something. If it was Maria, the man would weigh about one-seventy or so. The police found no tire tracks as the street running alongside the field is paved, nor did they find Maria’s purse. There were some hairs on her hands and clothing, very dark brown in color, and some skin under her fingernails.” He closed the notebook and turned to Michael. “You take over, Mike.”

  Michael brushed back his hair with both hands, and Carol knew that bad news was coming. “The medical examiner has put the time of death at about midnight. Examination of the contents of her stomach shows she had eaten Chinese food earlier in the evening. She died of strangulation.” Michael’s voice lowered. “Her clothing was torn, and there was evidence of sexual penetration. Most likely rape.”

  Rose let out a sharp cry and bit her lip to keep from weeping. Eleanor’s face was as white as a sheet. Carol held her hand tightly.

  Ettore’s expression did not change. “When the police questioned me, I gave them the names of four young men Maria had dated occasionally. Did the police investigate them?”

  Vincent answered. “Yes. The results are negative. Each of the young men was able to account for his time.”

  “Can you get a copy of the police files?” asked Ettore.

  Vincent seemed to squirm on his chair. “It can be gotten, Papa, but it just isn’t done. It’s against the law.”

  Ettore slapped the top of the table viciously with the flat of his hand. “The rape and murder of your sister was against the law. I recognize no law.”

  “Papa,” said Paul, leaning forward attentively on his chair. “You’re aiming at something, and it appears to me that you’re beating around the bush.”

  Ettore eyed Paul pensively, then pushed his coffee cup aside. “Yes, I am getting at something, and I will have you answer it yourselves. Vince, let us suppose that the rapist and murderer of your sister is found and tried, what would be the sentence?”

  “Papa,” said Vincent. “I know exactly what you’re coming to, and I don’t approve.”

  “I didn’t ask for your approval. If you find it too difficul
t to answer the question, just get up from this table and get out of this house.”

  “Papa!” exclaimed Rose. “Vince didn’t mean it that way. You shouldn’t speak to him like that.”

  “Rose,” said Ettore warningly. “You stay out of this.” Rose’s eyes lowered. “Well, Vince,” continued Ettore harshly. “What will it be? Are you a judge or are you a DiStephano? You can’t be both in this house.”

  Vincent gazed at the table, then his fingers brushed a few crumbs of bread to one side. He grinned wryly at Ettore. “You play a hard ball game, Papa.”

  “We’re in a tough league now. Well?”

  “All right. He would be charged under rape and felony murder. If convicted, he would receive a sentence of life imprisonment. A good defense attorney would beat that down to murder two, a case of passion. Rape would be out. He could plead the torn clothing was due to their hurry to have intercourse, and that Maria was killed during an argument afterwards. Maximum sentence there would be thirty years. A high class attorney would argue that she liked to be lightly strangled during the act, for greater fulfillment, and that the killer became carried away. If he sold that to a jury, the charge would be reduced to manslaughter - gross negligence. That would be a ten year rap.”

  Ettore said, “When would he get out of prison?”

  “Under murder one, he would be up for parole in fourteen years. Under murder two, five years. Manslaughter - one, two years. Maybe a suspended sentence.”

  There was a dark, deep silence at those words. Ettore turned to the others seated at the table. “Listen to that carefully,” he snapped. “The chances of the rapist and murderer of your sister paying for his crimes are in more doubt than if he were a bank robber or a clerk who embezzled funds.”

  “Papa,” said Paul stiffly. “Are you hinting that we should kill the murderer once he is found?”