Paolo listened, focused on every word as he continued to speak.
“If I traveled, then my life would not be so simple. I don’t have to see how others live, it is how my wife and I live that is important. My ordinary life is my desire.” He sat back in his chair and with a smile of epiphany, sipped his espresso. He knew he had the answers.
“When do you leave our village?” Vincenzo asked Paolo.
“In two days.”
Antonio chimed in, “Tomorrow night Sophia and I are going to have a party in your honor, Paolo. We will celebrate your coming home.”
Paolo liked the sound of it, “Celebrate me coming home.”
Then it occurred to him, he had brought the family name back to the small village. He decided at that moment to buy a home in Ottati someday when he had the money. He rose and offered his hand to the three Italians. He said, “I’m going to Saint Biagio, hopefully I can find information about my family by looking through the church’s records.”
CHAPTER 15
LOCATED IN A small plaza just outside the center of the village, the church was painted white and outlined in red. Two bells adorned the top of the roof to call the villagers to the celebratory Mass of Jesus’s life, death, and resurrection. The appearance of the house of God was different from what Paolo had observed in Amalfi and at home in the States. The red outline of the windows, doors, and roofline puzzled him. Why red? What did red signify?
He walked up the short flight of stone stairs, opened the large wooden doors, and entered. The interior was understated in appearance—high vaulted ceilings designed with frescos of the Last Supper, Stations of the Cross depicted along the inner walls. Paolo genuflected in the aisle and entered the last pew. He knelt to say a prayer. Paolo remembered his mother’s words from when he was a young boy. “Paolo, whenever you enter a church for the first time, say an Our Father, a Hail Mary, and a Gloria, and make a wish.” Paolo said the prayers but made no wish.
He sat back and absorbed the atmosphere. A white wood altar stood covered in a white cloth with the Tabernacle to the side. He wondered if his grandfather had sat here. The old stone Domo echoed with the slightest sound. Paolo heard footsteps as he sat with his eyes closed. Someone touched his shoulder. He opened his eyes. It was a Dominican nun dressed in a white habit. She had a round face, with bright brown eyes—she looked like she was in her thirties.
“Paolo,” she said in a quiet voice.
Does everyone know my name? “Good morning, Sister.”
“I understand you are trying to find information about your family,” she said, in almost perfect English.
“Yes, I am.”
“I am Sister Mary. I might be able to help you, come with me. We will search the church’s records.”
He followed her down the aisle. She genuflected before the Tabernacle and turned her head to look at him. Paolo took her cue and genuflected as well. They entered the sacristy through a side door off the sanctuary. He followed her through a series of openings that eventually led to the basement. As Paolo descended the narrow staircase, he asked, “Sister, how far back do your records go?”
“At least two hundred years. We must be careful, the papers are fragile. Over the past few years, we have been able to enclose them in plastic to help preserve them.”
“Interesting.”
They entered a large cavern-like cellar with rows of shelving filled with dated and numbered boxes. Paolo counted at least ten rows. The room measured forty feet by thirty feet, the shelving seven feet high. He noticed the room was well lit and dry.
“Paolo, do you know what year your grandfather was born?”
“All I know is he emigrated to the United States in 1911. He was sixteen years old at the time, it would’ve been 1895. His birthday was March twentieth.”
Sister Mary easily found the year of his grandfather’s birth. Paolo took the box from the fourth shelf and gently placed it on the table. Within thirty minutes, they found his grandfather’s birth certificate and baptismal certificate. Antonio Roberto DeLaurentis. By the end of the afternoon, he discovered his grandfather had eight brothers and sisters. All the siblings but one emigrated to either Argentina or the United States. His grandfather’s sister Teresa stayed behind. She was married at the time and her husband refused to move.
“Sister, thank you so much for your help. Can I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“The red doors and trim on the church…why red?”
“I thought you would never ask.”
Paolo looked at her, puzzled. There was something in her eyes that spoke to Paolo’s heart—a truth to be revealed.
“Let’s sit down over here.” The nun pointed to a table with two chairs.
Paolo was at peace.
“The red symbolizes the blood that was spilled here many years ago, the blood of a husband and wife murdered but yet their son was left unharmed. The story I am going to tell you will answer your questions but will lead to many more questions in your life.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You will.”
CHAPTER 16
IT WAS WINTER of 1849. The Roman Republic had been established. Victor Emanuel had succeeded the throne and signed the armistice at Vignale. The French troops at Civitavecchia restored the Pope.
Franco and Lucia DeLaurentis gently placed their three-month-old son Vincenzo in his crib. They each blessed his forehead with the sign of the cross and kissed him. The child, covered in a blanket made of sheep’s wool, slept peacefully in the homemade cradle. The parents lay next to the child on a mattress filled with straw. The husband and wife made love and fell asleep to the rhythmic breathing of the child.
Franco rustled in his sleep. Awakened by the mountain wind, he rose to close the wooden shutters. He opened the window; a cold breeze filled the room. He reached for the burnt-orange shutter and pinned it to the windowsill. In the dark of night, something caught Franco’s eye, a movement on the street. He thought nothing of it, and went back to sleep.
His family’s house sat on the outskirts of town off the Via Sant’ Antonio, in the small mountain village of Ottati, an ancient town located southeast of Amalfi in the province of Salerno, Italy. It rested on the side of Mt. Alburni, nestled within the Cilento and Vallo di Diano National Park. To the north were green forest-filled mountains; the summer’s vibrant rolling green pastures lay to the west. The top of the mountain was now covered in snow. The mountain protected the medieval village from the harshness of the winter cold but not from the callousness of man.
The unassuming community consisted of three hundred and fourteen families, mainly farmers and shepherds. The town was impoverished but self-sufficient. Folklore said the ancient city dated back to the beginning of the second millennium, the first house built by the Greeks who fled Civita as early as the year 1000. Historians placed the city’s origins at some point in the middle ages. The quietness of the village and its charm drew religious orders. In 1484 and 1602, the Dominicans and the Capuchins established monasteries. For the religious, it was a sincere and contemplative life.
The assassins approached from the north. They walked in silence past the Church of Saint Biagio. The darkness of the night hid the men as they traveled along the Via Deodati to their target. The squalid darkness encircled the killers as they walked, the evil black tendril of the evening swallowed the assassins’ souls. The town was all but silent except for the few noises of the animals that lay nearby.
They were clothed in black, anonymous to one another, joined only by the fellowship of their career. Faces covered, they communicated using hand signals. For four days, they lay hidden in the Cilento Forest as they waited for the moonless night. The leader would walk into town during the day mapping the roads to their destination. Together they hid from the world but not from the eyes of God, for no one can escape the eyes of God.
The men gathered their belongings. A night owl hooted as they left the darkened forest. Their footprints tra
cked through the snow. The job was to kill the parents and take the child. They would meet up with their employer and hand over the baby. The boy would disappear into a world where he would be brought up in such a way that the prophecy of old would not come to fruition—the prophecy that one would come after him, a prelude to the savior that will appear before man in the skies above. This warning to humanity was the saving effort of the man they would call the Star from the West. Those who listened would be saved; those who did not believe would die.
They walked around the house as they looked for the easiest way to gain entrance. There was no need to lock one’s door, for crime didn’t exist in the small mountain village. One of the men swore under his mask as he stepped in goat manure. The smell stayed with him until he had what you might call a change of heart, a spiritual epiphany.
Two members of the group climbed the wooden stairs to the second-floor apartment. A tiny squeak emitted as they reached the last step. Their minds numb, their consciences dead, the killers approached the apartment door. The leader of the group and one other assassin would perform the execution of the couple. The other two would stand guard, discreetly hidden.
The two entered the three-room apartment; an eerie silence filled the home. The leader of the group was unsettled, the hair on the back of his neck stood up. For the first time he felt fear, but fear of what? Franco and Lucia slept still in their bed; both lay on their backs as they waited for death, a new birth, a new life in heaven. Their arms were folded across their stomachs, a peaceful grace on their faces. An orange glow from a flute-covered candle filled the bedroom, highlighting the family of three.
The assassins’ act was quick. They stood over the couple and plowed their daggers deep into the sleeping couple’s chests. As the blades entered, the couple’s eyes flashed open, staring their executioners in the face. Their eyes filled with sorrow—not for their premature deaths, but instead sadness for the men who sent them to the heavenly hands of God. Their death instant, the two felt no pain.
Time stopped, hand movements traveled in slow motion. The leader’s assistant began to cry, a deep dread overcame him. Not able to withdraw the dagger from Lucia, he fell to the floor. The leader, paralyzed, stood by the bedside. A white globe of light surrounded Vincenzo and his cradle. The innocent child’s eyes were open and a tear ran down his little cheek. His tiny hand reached for something invisible.
A driving wind rattled the house. The shutter doors swung open, the windows imploded. A jagged shard of glass sailed through the room, inserting itself in the neck of the leader, severing his carotid artery, his death slow and painful. The second assassin, still on his knees, heard the words, Follow me, and seek my forgiveness. He gathered himself and ran out of the building; his two compatriots who had been standing guard ran after him.
The trio traveled in silence, afraid to speak. They arrived at the rendezvous point three hours before the rising sun. Two horses were tied to a tree. Two men sat nearby, huddled over a small fire, their faces hidden. “Senor,” the killer cried out. “Senor,” again no answer.
They approached the two still bodies. The killer leaned forward and removed the hood from one of the men. The glow from the fire highlighted his face. The killer jumped back in horror, turned and vomited on the fire. The other two men stood paralyzed, staring at the charred faces of the two men. The two soiled their pants. A vision of hell flashed through their minds, their lives changed forever. One would become a priest, asking for God’s mercy on his soul until the day he died. The other two sought forgiveness by rationalizing their involvement. Both committed suicide several years later.
The following day, neighbors found the family of three. Husband and wife lay at peace in their straw bed; the child lay peacefully in his crib. The murderer’s body was found a quarter of a mile away, lying in a heap of manure, his face contorted, grimacing in agony and fright. His judgment came and went, no mercy shown.
The murder of Franco and Lucia threw the village into a frenzy. The questions: Why Franco, an ordinary shepherd and loving husband? And why did little Vincenzo live? The answers were never found. The population of Ottati relied on God to ease their pain. Franco’s brother Antonio and his wife Caterina adopted Vincenzo. Vincenzo never knew about his parents. He lived a peaceful life, marrying Arabella Deodati. He fathered eight children and died peacefully in his sleep in 1910. He was Paolo’s great-grandfather.
CHAPTER 17
THE NUN RELEASED Paolo’s hands, sat back, and said, “Paolo, I have a strange question to ask. Did a globe of light ever surround you?”
Paolo was speechless. In a quiet voice, he said, “How did you know? Yes, when I was in third grade. I, I…” He stuttered, “I had a high fever; my parents placed me in the bathtub to cool me down. They said out of nowhere this bright light surrounded me, and my fever disappeared.”
Sister Mary looked into his eyes. “You are a child of God, a messenger of hope.”
“A messenger of hope? I don’t understand.”
“You will be God’s messenger to mankind. Your words, the love that is within you, and your ability to forgive will cause many to fall to their knees and seek God’s forgiveness. Don’t be afraid to use the gift. You will witness many events in your mind, and your senses will lead you to places that very few have been. At times, you will not be able to explain the love in your heart. Many will question you and not understand you, but you will know it is true. Live by faith with no explanation. This is who you are—a child of God, a gift to man.”
“I am?”
“You are. Your soul will never forget who you are. Your senses will tell you what is right, what is wrong. You won’t know the reasons why, you will just know. God will take care of the rest. Your heart will guide you. And remember what will be revealed to you will be revealed in God’s time, not yours. For now, live your life, use your gift wisely, and know you are human—fallible, not perfect. Every time you fail, God will pick you up and carry you to another door to make right the wrong. You must also be mindful of the Evil One, for he too will try to persuade you in subtle ways, for he knows the truth, as well. Most of all, be at peace in knowing God loves you as he loves all mankind.”
Paolo sat back, his mind blank. “I’m speechless, what do I do now?”
“Enjoy your life, you will soon forget we talked.”
“I see.” Paolo stood, leaned against the wall, placed his hands in his blue jeans pockets, and cried.
“Paolo—may I suggest you travel to the outskirts of town and visit the cemetery? I am sure you will find some of your family members there.”
Through his tears, he said, “Thank you, Sister, I’ll do that.” He walked over to the table, lifted the box, and returned his family’s history to the fourth shelf. “Is the cemetery far from here?” Paolo turned around for a response. The nun had disappeared. “Sister, Sister,” he called out. No response. Spooked, he left the cellar the way he had come.
Paolo DeLaurentis walked along the roadside, complete and at peace. The missing part of his family history was finally put to rest, the unknown truth revealed. Puzzled at the sudden disappearance of the Benedictine nun, he continued his walk to the cemetery. A goat grazed in a nearby field. He came upon the stone-walled cemetery, the gravestones littered amid the overgrown grass. Paolo began his search for his dead relatives. On the gravestones were pictures of the dead etched in the stone. “How bizarre,” he whispered to himself. Paolo went from row to row. An hour passed before he found a gravestone with his surname.
Teresa DeLaurentis Ricci and her husband Alphonso died in 1952. Next to their grave lay their son Franco, who succumbed in January 1964. His headstone was covered in tall grass. Paolo began to pull the weeds from the sacred ground of his ancestors. The images of his grandfather’s sister and husband appeared, etched into the gray marble. Paolo stopped and stepped back. On the right side of the gray monolith was a picture of his cousin Franco. Overwhelmed, Paolo stared at the picture. His cousin bore an uncanny resemblanc
e to his brother Anthony. He smiled, filled with pride—he knew who he was.
Paolo headed back to the village, his head held high, his gait brisk, almost a trot. Paolo’s mind focused on the revelation of who he was, and an inner joy grew within his heart as if he had opened a Christmas present and received exactly what he asked for. “Wow,” he said in a whisper. “Wow.”
He entered the apartment above the café, and went to his room to take a nap. Paolo slept through the night like a rock, oblivious to the outside world, not hearing Sophia knock on his door for dinner.
The night before his departure, the Conforti family gave Paolo a party. He felt as if the entire population of Ottati came to Piazza Umberto. Paolo was awed by the number of people that gathered.
The villagers brought food and homemade wine. Tables were arranged in the piazza under strings of colored lights. A mandolin player and accordion musician roamed the plaza, singing and playing their music. At one point, the wandering musicians tried to sing a Beatles song in Italian. Paolo saw Antonio and gave him a hug. “Antonio, thank you so much. I met a nun yesterday, Sister Mary. She was extremely helpful.”
Antonio looked at him in astonishment. “Sister Mary?” Antonio reached in his back pocket, pulled out his worn black leather wallet, and withdrew a picture. “Is this the nun?”
“Yes, that’s her.”
Antonio stepped back. His eyes welled with tears. “Paolo, Paolo, that’s my sister, she died five years ago.”
“How could that be, Antonio? I was with her, I talked to her, she touched my shoulder, she was real.” Paolo’s voice rose in confusion.
“You, Paolo, are he, yes, you are the one she talked about the day she died.”
“What do you mean?”
“My sister Mary was stationed in Rome for twenty years. She was diagnosed with cancer and moved back home to Ottati to live out the remainder of her days. When she was well enough, she would help organize the church records. That lasted two years before the cancer affected her mind. She would have visions of God, Jesus, the Blessed Mother, and the Holy Angels. We all believed she was doozie-pots—crazy. On the day she died, she told me she would come back when the youngest child of the DeLaurentis family came home. Paolo, are you the youngest in your family?”
Messenger From God (The Last Eulogy Series Book 1) Page 6
