Like a madman, Pietro searched the rooms until he came to the kitchen door. A sick feeling overcame him. Bloodstained footprints mixed with larger smears from the dragged bodies of the two tormented souls. The rancid smell of vomit and bile conflicted with the aroma of that night’s dinner.
Pietro swung open the kitchen door. He stared in disbelief at the two naked bodies that hung from the kitchen ceiling. The macabre scene unfolded before his eyes. Blood ran down the bodies, dripping from the feet of his dearest friends. The pooled blood, the torn flesh, the devastation of the human bodies caused Pietro to be violently sick. Bent over, he retched and cried. Finally, he mustered the strength to stand up.
Tears ran down his face, the baptismal water of death dripped from his chin. Pietro struggled to get a chair to stand on so that he could free the innocent bodies from the nooses tied around their necks. A neighbor who followed Pietro into the house passed out at the sight.
Pietro stood on the chair with a knife in hand and cut down Vittorio’s mother, Anna. He caught her bloodied, swollen body and gently placed it on the floor. A neighbor covered the body with a blanket, and then blessed herself with the sign of the cross. Covered in blood, Pietro cut loose his close friend Paolo, Vittorio’s dad. He sobbed like a child as he held him under his arms and gently put him down next to his wife. Standing up, he heard the scream of a young boy.
Vittorio clawed at Giacomo’s bedroom window. The horror-stricken face of the child, his eyes wide open, his nose running, the muffled scream, “Papa, Papa,” was forever etched in Pietro’s mind.
Giacomo ran over to the window. Witnessing his father freeing Vittorio’s dad, he began to scream uncontrollably. Giacomo pulled Vittorio from the window. The two friends clung to one another, sobbing. Giacomo held his friend, saying, “We will kill you, Mussolini…we will kill you.” From that day, Vittorio and Giacomo would become brothers over the spilled blood of Vittorio’s parents.
The newspaperman had realized his words would one day inflame Mussolini. He took the necessary steps to protect his son and his fortune. His life always at peril, he arranged for Pietro and Christina to adopt Vittorio if anything happened. Throughout the country, the disappearance and death of the media became a common occurrence. Paolo understood at some point he and Anna might die for the words he wrote. A secret bank account was established, Pietro its trustee. Vittorio became Pietro’s adopted son the day after the tragic deaths of Paolo and Anna Esposto.
Surprisingly, no repercussions took place against those who knew the newspaper editor. The Italian people resigned themselves to Mussolini’s rule. He now controlled the media, its content and its delivery—the sole power of the printed word—or so he believed.
In the years from 1922 to 1943, life for the Italians—specifically, for those who opposed the Fascist regime—was hell. The hand of the Squadristi, or Black Shirts, struck down those who opposed the Fascist state with deliberate cruelty.
CHAPTER 12
VITTORIO CONTINUED HIS STORY in fluent English. He studied philosophy at the University of Rome La Sapienza, the most ancient university in Italy, founded in 1303 by Pope Boniface the VIII. He spoke with pride about the school, its influence on his life, and his desire to be a priest.
Vittorio was twenty-six and in his sixth year of seminary when World War II ended. Giacomo, who graduated two years earlier, worked for his father in the Italian underground. He kept a watchful eye over his younger brother.
One day in April 1945, Giacomo knocked on the apartment door.
“Come in.”
“Vittorio, Vittorio, my brother, come, we need to take a trip,” Giacomo said.
“Where to, my brother? I have too much work to do.”
“Papa wants us to be in Milan by tomorrow morning. They arrested Mussolini by Lake Como and he and some others were executed. The bodies are on their way to Milan.”
“Arrested Mussolini? Dead? How much wine did you drink?” Mussolini’s name always stirred an inner anger in Vittorio, a hatred he tried to repress.
“No, no, I am serious. Let’s go.” Giacomo reached over, grabbed Vittorio, and shoved him out the door. “Come, we will drive through the night.”
“Alright, alright, I’ll go. And can you tell me why I would want to be near that bastard?” Anger seethed through Vittorio’s words.
“It is important. Hopefully your nightmares will finally stop.”
“I don’t have nightmares,” Vittorio replied.
Of course, they both knew he did. Vittorio would wake in the night screaming, drenched in sweat. The memory of the murder of his parents never escaped his tormented mind.
“Well, hopefully my nightmares will stop,” Giacomo said with sorrow in his voice.
A car waited for the men as they walked into the spring twilight. After resting for a couple of hours along the way, they arrived in Milan in the early part of the next day.
They parked on a side street, not able to travel any further due to the congestion of cars and people on the road. In the distance, the muffled yells and screams of a large crowd filled the morning air. It sounded like a sports event. The two brothers walked and then began to trot toward the multitude surrounding the Piazza Loreto. As they got closer, they heard people yelling. “Down with the Fascist pig Mussolini! Morte, morte! Death to the pig.”
Giacomo ran ahead and stopped dead in his tracks. He turned, with tears in his eyes, grabbed his brother, and said, “It is over, the nightmare has ended. Vittorio, the nightmare has ended!” His voice filled with joyful exuberance.
Across from the village square, at a Hess gas station, Mussolini and his mistress hung upside down on meat hooks, to show the world—and most of all, the Italian people—the dictator was dead. Vittorio was stunned at the sight. Memories filled his mind of his mother and father hanging in the kitchen. A deep sense of remorse came over him as he knelt and, before the eyes of God and his brother, the priest-to-be asked God for forgiveness. A wave of peace engulfed him, the hatred was gone, and his mind was blank. He sobbed like a child. Pietro and Giacomo lifted him.
“The nightmare is over, my child, revenge is ours. Soon our country will be liberated,” Pietro said as he consoled his adopted son.
Vittorio finished the story. He told Paolo how he decided to leave the seminary, and how he met his wife. “I believe, Paolo, my wife is a gift from God. So I would understand the love of a man and a woman.” Vittorio stared deeply into Paolo’s eyes. “It is not often I talk about my life. For some reason I told you. Maybe I told you because you have the same name as my father, I don’t know.” Vittorio grabbed hold of Paolo’s shoulders. He continued, “What you must understand, my young friend, the day I felt the love of God was the day when I asked God’s forgiveness. The hatred within my heart darkened my soul. Paolo, love is the key to life. You must love, and you must forgive. Without forgiveness, you can’t love. Life will always continue in death, in sadness, in joy. Without love in your life, you merely exist, a puppet to society’s wills and ways.” He paused, still holding Paolo’s gaze. He said, “I can see the love in your eyes, Paolo…a love so deep that when the day comes, your words will touch many hearts. You will break down barriers.” Vittorio leaned over Paolo and kissed him on the cheek. With a tear in his eye, he said, “I must go and help my wife. May you have a great life, my friend.” He walked away.
Paolo, stunned, said to Giacomo, “Holy shit, is that true?”
Giacomo wiped a tear from his eye. “I am afraid so. But all this love and forgiveness stuff, I don’t know; I still hate the son of a bitch Mussolini.”
Paolo stood, stretched his legs, and said, “Giacomo, I’m going for a walk along the beach.”
“Okay, sonny boy, looks like there will be a beautiful sunset. Look to the mountains, my friend.”
“I’ll be back,” Paolo said, bewildered and disturbed by the story Vittorio had told.
CHAPTER 13
PAOLO CROSSED THE STREET to the beach. He felt sorrow in his heart for
Vittorio. Listening to the horrific events of Vittorio’s tragic childhood, Paolo sensed the pain in every word. How can man be so cruel? What is it in the mind of man so dark, so hideous, to destroy life?
Paolo approached the seawall. He took a deep breath. The smell of the salt water settled his mind—the cerulean blue of the Mediterranean, the mountains of Sorrento to his right. Paolo took off his sneakers. He looked for a place to sit to view the sunset. The beach was nearly empty. A young couple held hands as they walked the shore. He found a spot on the seawall, sat, and watched. The lovers walked in and out of the water, splashing each other. They embraced with a passionate kiss. The man whispered in the girl’s ear, she giggled. The evening would unite them as man and woman. How he envied them.
Paolo jumped off the seawall and sat in the cool sand. He gazed at the sun setting over the horizon. The sun gave the illusion of molten iron dropping into the cooling bath of the sea. The steam enveloped the twilight sky, a red aura spread across the horizon. Paolo sat in peace, one with nature, awed at its beauty. Tranquility enveloped him. His mind filled with thoughts and desires for his life. At the young age of twenty-one, he reminisced about his father, who had died the previous year. “Pops, you would have loved this place,” he said aloud.
“Paolo, Paolo,” someone called to him. He looked up.
“Sergio, how are you?” He stood to shake Vittorio’s son’s hand.
“So how do you like our beach?” the twenty-two-year-old asked.
“Bella, bella. It’s very peaceful.”
“Yes, it is. How did you like my father’s story?”
“I can’t believe what he experienced and endured. Your father is a remarkable man and then he forgave the bastard. That blew my mind, man.” Paolo shook his head in disbelief.
“My father is a great man. His dreams still torture him. Sometimes at night he will wake sobbing in his bed and in the morning, he won’t even remember the dream.”
“Wow.”
The two sat on the sand and talked about their different lives and their dreams. In the fall, Sergio would attend Columbia Law School in New York. They promised to keep in touch.
CHAPTER 14
THE FOLLOWING MORNING Paolo awoke well rested. He looked forward to the drive to Ottati. Vittorio’s wife prepared a breakfast of eggs, cheeses, and dried sausages. Vittorio poured him a cup of espresso. After Paolo drank the strong Italian coffee, he said, “That will definitely put hair on my chest.”
“Hair on your chest, what’s that mean?” Giacomo asked.
“An American saying,” he replied.
Vittorio and his wife walked Paolo and Giacomo out to the car. They said their good-byes. The husband and wife offered Paolo a place to stay should he ever come back. Vittorio walked up to him as he sat in the car. He placed his hands on the door and said, “Remember what I told you, Paolo. Don’t ever forget love and forgiveness.”
“I won’t.”
“Good, now Giacomo, get going.” The brother tapped the car. Giacomo started the engine and they drove off the same way as they came, honking the horn.
The trip to Ottati was breathtaking. The beauty of the landscape filled Paolo’s senses with excitement. They traveled along the cobblestone and dirt roadways. The tires kicked up dust in the warm early summer air. The top down, the late-vintage red 1950s Italian Maserati sped through the countryside.
The 350-horsepower engine roared as the car traversed the winding roads and hillside communities, at times reaching speeds in excess of 130 mph. Paolo prayed Giacomo would remain quiet while he drove. Several times, his young life flashed before him.
The everyday tasks of the Italian women hanging their clothes out to dry captured his imagination. The children played soccer. A freshly killed goat hung along the road, drying out for the evening’s dinner. Paolo embraced the simple sights. He felt as if this country were his long-lost home.
They reached the hillside village of Ottati in the early afternoon. The heat of the summer day reached its peak. They drove the Via Sant Antonio, turned left on Via San Biagio, and passed the church of Saint Biagio. Paolo wondered what life in the quaint village was like eighty years ago. What transpired in the lives of my descendants that caused them to pack up and leave this serene, tranquil village? What is the hidden truth of my family?
The Maserati came to a stop in the Piazza Umberto. Giacomo had arranged for Paolo to stay with Antonio and Sophia Conforti. The couple owned a small café and spoke excellent English. They lived above the restaurant in a spacious three-bedroom apartment with their daughter Maria, who was studying in Rome.
Antonio and Sophia welcomed him with the customary kiss on both cheeks. The couple appeared to be in their late sixties. Antonio was five feet seven inches tall and rugged in appearance, handsome, with brown hair tinted with streaks of gray, and about thirty pounds overweight. Sophia was attractive—five feet two, thin, with the bluest eyes Paolo had ever seen. Someone once said the eyes are the portal to the soul. Sophia’s eyes radiated peace and contentment. The couple provided Paolo a small room with a bed and dresser for fifty dollars a week. The price included breakfast, lunch, and dinner. His window overlooked the village square. The steeple of the Church of Saint Biagio was to his right.
“Sonny boy, I am going back to Amalfi, when do you want me to pick you up?”
“How about Friday, four days from now?”
“Very good, my friend, I will be here by one o’clock.”
“Excellent, Giacomo. Do you know anyone at the Vatican?”
“Yes, my cousin is a Cardinal. If you like, I will take you there, maybe we can visit with the Pope.”
“That would be excellent, my mother would be extremely happy. Ciao, Giacomo, be safe.”
“Ciao, sonny boy.”
The next day, Antonio introduced Paolo to the mayor. The mayor, who spoke little English, gave Paolo unrestricted access to the town’s records. The village records had little information about the family, other than a record of their last names. He met the oldest person living in the village, eighty-five-year-old Mrs. Coseglia. The woman had dementia; she believed Paolo was her grandson. He spoke with several other villagers, with no success.
Early in the morning of his second day, after his morning walk, Paolo decided to visit the Church of Saint Biagio to look at the church records. The crisp, cool morning air and the cloudless sky amazed Paolo, who gazed at the top of the Alburni Mountains in wonderment. The white, rugged fascia with green pine trees loomed above him. The image was a reminder of the hard life endured by the inhabitants of the village.
In the short time Paolo was in Italy, the difference between the two cultures perplexed him. Life in the United States was about getting ahead, earning a dollar—in Italy, it was easier, simpler, and about food. His father had told him people in the States were more concerned about the almighty dollar.
“Life should be simple, enjoyable, filled with love and family,” he said.
“That’s all fine and good but love alone doesn’t pay the bills,” his mother said, angst in her voice as she put her hands on his shoulders and kissed the top of his head.
“You wait, Lynn, the people of our country are headed on a path of destruction. Drugs, money, no morals—evil is lurking. I pray I’m not here when it comes.” Tony’s prayer was answered. Evil attacked humanity like the bubonic plague. Evil so subtle no one knew it became a way of existence.
“Paolo, Paolo,” he heard his name being called, awakening him from his reverie. Three men sat outside Antonio and Sophia’s café, drinking their morning espresso. “Veni, veni! Come, come!” one of the men shouted.
Paolo walked across the cobblestone piazza and approached the three men. They stood to greet him. Their rough and weathered hands told Paolo these were hard-working people. Their powerful grips almost brought him to his knees. Paolo gazed into their eyes and noticed something else—a kindness, a tranquility, an inner beauty and peace. Only after you have opened the bottle and experienced t
he taste do you know the wine’s true value.
The three men invited him to sit down and he graciously accepted. Vincenzo and Luiggi understood and spoke English fairly well. The third man, Sabatino, listened while Luiggi translated for him. They appeared to be in their late sixties, thin and of medium height. Vincenzo was bald, while Luiggi and Sabatino had thick, wavy brown hair with hints of gray. Their faces were aged by the sun, a telltale sign they worked outdoors in the elements. Sabatino offered Paolo a cigarette, but he politely refused.
Antonio walked out of the café with a pot of espresso and put the strong Italian coffee on the table. He went over to Paolo, placed his hands on his shoulders, and welcomed him.
“Paolo, you have met my friends. I hope you don’t mind I told them a little about you.” Paolo shook his head no. “Enjoy, my friends. I have to go help Sophia in the kitchen.”
A short time later, Antonio returned. He carried a plate of cheese, salami, bread, and olive oil. He grabbed a chair and joined them. They talked for over an hour, mostly about life in the United States. Vincenzo’s brother lived in California. He had visited him several times. Antonio had no desire to leave his native country.
“Life in America is too complicated,” Antonio said.
Sabatino and Luiggi loved their mother country too much to leave. Paolo guessed their desire to visit was hampered by their own financial inadequacy. They talked with animation, their hands moving with every word spoken. Paolo soon followed. His hands moved in like fashion. In the midst of their conversation, Sabatino (through Luiggi’s translation) said he had never ventured outside of Ottati. Paolo, surprised, asked why. Luiggi translated.
“My friend,” Luiggi began, “why do I need to travel? I have everything I could possibly want right here. I have a wonderful life. I work, I make love to my wife, I eat well, I pray to God. My children are grown, they bring my grandchildren to visit, and then they leave. I have no problems. I am healthy and I live a simple life. That gives me everything I need.”
Messenger From God (The Last Eulogy Series Book 1) Page 5
