Tarantella: A Love Story

by Siomonn Pulla

  “You’ll at least let me know what’s happening, and give me some tasks to help out, I hope.”

  “Certomente. Your first task is to help your brothers build that tractor. What a crazy idea.”

  “It was Pietro’s idea. That man is brilliant! I thank God every day that our path’s crossed in Milano. I don’t know what I would have done without him. Maybe I would’ve never made it back alive.”

  “He seems like a very good friend.”

  “We need to find him a good woman so that he doesn’t get the crazy idea to go back to Canada, at least not until the tractor is built.”

  “I’m sure we can find him a nice woman. I have some friends in St. Angelo that we could set him up with.”

  “Maria Da’Luca?”

  “No she married Tony Moccia last year. I was thinking about Stella Sciatta or maybe even Lena Di’Carlo.”

  “Lena Di’Carlo? Mama mia! You’ve got to be kidding. She’s too feisty for Pietro. I like Stella. She’d make a good wife. Beautiful, but not too beautiful. A hard worker. Good hips for child-bearing and an excellent cook!”

  “Maybe you should ask her to marry you.” Carmella teased. “Sounds like a match made in heaven.”

  “There’s only one woman in this whole world for me and I’m looking at her beautiful face right now. I can’t imagine spending the rest of my life with anybody else.”

  “That’s reassuring.” Carmella patted Marco on the knee underneath the table. “So, tell me about this tractor? I think you guys are crazy. It’s never going to work.”

  “We’ve got all the scrap metal and are going to start building it as soon as possible. We just need a good engine and some wheels.”

  “You’re lucky. Just last month old man Dominic lost his leg and his left ear when he stepped on a mine out in the fields. He’s lucky to be alive. Although, I think in many ways he’d be better off dead.”

  “We’re aware of the danger. But remember, Peitro and I both have military training. We know what we’re doing.”

  “Well I don’t want to marry a cripple. Be careful.”

  “Always. Now I better get back to the shop. There is so much to do.” Marco leaned across the table and kissed Carmella on the lips. “Ciao mi amore.”

  “Ciao ciao. A presto. When are you going to come by and say hi to mama?”

  “Soon. Maybe I’ll bring Pietro by for lunch tomorrow?”

  “Bene. I’ll let her know.”

  Chapter Six

  The Resistenza

  After shooting Stow at point blank range, I was certain that those paratroopers were going to kill me that Christmas eve in Ortono.

  They were like machines. No feelings. No sense of humanity behind the gun.

  Maybe their idea of humane was just very different than mine. I’m not sure what came over them that night. Maybe it was the spirit of Christmas. Maybe they felt like giving me a gift. It would’ve been much easier to put a bullet through my head. Luckily for me, they didn’t. Little did I realize was that one year later I’d put myself into an even more dangerous situation over the love of a woman. At that time, however, I didn’t think there was anything more lethal than a Wafen-SS paratrooper.

  An elite unit of the Wafen-SS paratroopers had been dropped into Ortona to assist the German Fallschirmjager units, or “Green Devils,” hold the front. It was a fierce combination that almost cost us the Italian front.

  “Tell us what you know of our positions? What are your soldiers planning to do?” The SS-Storm Leader paced back and forth behind me. “Don’t make this difficult. My men enjoy extracting information. They’d like to watch you breakdown like a little baby.”

  “I’m just a private.” I answered calmly. “They don’t tell me anything.”

  “What is this map?” The Storm-Leader was now standing in front of me, wringing his leather gloved-hands together. “Who made this map?”

  “I’m not sure what map you’re talking about.”

  “This map.”

  The Storm leader grabbed my head and shoved the map into my face.

  “Don’t play games with me. My men tell me you were carrying it and it shows all of our positions.”

  “I was under orders to carry that map,” I lied. “I don’t know anything about it.”

  “Well you better start remembering.”

  The Storm-Leader motioned to a man standing in the corner. He wore the distinctive Fallschirmjager uniform of green-stripped camouflage.

  “String him up.”

  The green devil took a meat hook hanging from the ceiling and clasped it onto the leather straps that bound my hands behind my back. Grabbing the other end of the chain he began to hoist me up, slowly, with the help of an intricate pulley system. At first I enjoyed the bit of a stretch. After ten minutes, the searing pain in my body felt like my shoulders were ripping apart.

  “Tell us what you know about the map.” My torturer stood in front of me with a large club wrapped in barbed wire. “What do you know about our positions.”

  “I don’t know anything. I’m just a private.” In basic training they taught us to hold out as long as we could in the event of being captured and questioned by the enemy. “My name is Private Peter McMillian. Princess Patricia’s Light Infantry.”

  My torturer hoisted me up higher. The pain was now so intense I felt like I was going to pass out.

  “The map,” he pressed. “What do you know.”

  These were the last words I remember before passing out and waking up to a Nazi doctor poking me with medical equipment.

  “He’s fine.” The doctor assured the soldier standing in front of me. “A little shocked but otherwise healthy and strong.”

  After the brief medical exam, I was given a number and locked into a stinking cell crowded with Italian soldiers. Luckily I picked up some basic Italian on my tour through Sicily and up the Adriatic coast to Ortona.

  “Mamma Mia! A Canadese?” The older Italian soldier looked tired and beat down, like a dog scolded by its master. “I’m surprised the Germans didn’t eat you for breakfast ragazzo.”

  “Non te la prendere private. The Captain here is not feeling so good. He’s hungry and misses his wife,” said the soldier sitting next to the Captain. “We’re all heading into the fires of hell anyways, so what does it matter. Che Macello!”

  “Don’t listen to either of these two, they’ve given up hope.” A third soldier extended his hand to me. “I’m Marco.”

  “Piacere. Peter McMillian, Princess Patricia Light Infantry.”

  I never could’ve realized that shaking Marco’s hand was going to transform my life forever. It’s funny how life works like that - you really never know what’s around the corner. It could be a boat waiting to ferry you across to the isle of the dead, or love waiting to pounce on you like a hungry tiger.

  “I’ve been praying to La Madonna for a miracle and she’s sent you!” Marco was very animated. “I’ve heard stories about how you Canadese are always outsmarting those Germans. So what’s your plan? How are you going to get us out of here?”

  “Uffa! Marco can’t you just accept the reality,” snapped the Captain. “We’re being shipped out to the Offlag and Stalag camps. Thanks to that bloody Badoglio and his stupid armistizio we’ll probably end up in the ovens of Dachau with the Jews and the Zingari.”

  “What’s this Stalag,” I asked. “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “It’s a central processing station for prisoners of war like you and Marco. Commissioned-officers like the Captain and I get the four star treatment at the Offlag,” the soldier explained. “The German’s like to maintain their hierarchies, even if we all end up in the same crematorium. It’s all about appearances.”

  Before the Italian soldier could finish, a stiff, impeccably dressed German soldier appeared outside of the cell with a large dog on a short leash.

  “I want two lines. One for officers and one for the rest of you.” The soldier’s per
fect Italian was punctuated by his thick German accent. “Anyone who steps out of line will be shot.”

  “Stay close amico,” Marco whispered in my ear. “You’re my lucky charm.”

  The door to the cell opened and our two lines were marched out of the building in different directions. Marco and I ended up in a courtyard where other soldiers like us were being organized in a similar fashion.

  Eventually all the lines were merged together and, under close scrutiny by the German soldiers and their dogs, we began our march through the centre of old Milan to the train station.

  The magnificent Milano Centrale was originally built in 1864. In the 1940s Mussolini decided it was the perfect site to represent his vision of fascist Italy as an economic powerhouse with the best transportation system in all of Europe. He invested an enormous sum of money into modernizing and expanding the station to accommodate

  That foggy winter morning, as we made our way though the narrow cobble-stoned avenues of central Milan, we never would’ve believed that just over one year later, thousands of people would be crowding those same streets to get the chance to throw stones at Mussolini’s corpse, as it hung securely from a meat hook for all to see.

  “Too bad we can’t go and see Leonardo’s famous Cenacolo. I don’t think I’ll ever get a chance to get back to Milano.” Marco was still behind me. “I’ve always wanted to see it.”

  There was a gun shot behind us, followed by two more. Instinctually, I dropped to the ground and covered my head with my hands. The German soldiers started yelling at us to move.

  “It’s the Resistenza! Che Bella! This is our chance Pietro.” Marco tugged on my elbow. “We’ve got to go now before we’re shot.”

  “I’m not moving. It’s too dangerous.” In reality, I was too tired to fight anymore. I was hungry, sore and sick of the war. “Let’s just stay here and wait until it’s safe.”

  “Mi raccomando!” pleaded Marco. “You’re a blessing from La Madonna and I promised to protect you and get you home if she sent me an opportunity like this!” Marco slipped his hand under my arm. “And I can promise you the most beautiful women in the world live in Limosano! On three. Uno...due...”

  Chapter Seven

  Nicolitto’s

  Christmas preparations in Limosano were well underway.

  Families were gathering all the ingredients they needed to prepare the Menu di Natale, which included the thirteen fish dishes, baked pasta and a variety of special cookies and cakes. This was a longstanding tradition in the Village, with recipes that dated back to medieval times.

  Marco’s mama was busy preparing the baccalà, changing the water every six hours until the salt-cod reached the desired consistency. While the baccalà soaked, she worked tirelessly baking cookies and cakes of all different shapes and sizes.

  That morning, three days before Christmas Eve, she was preparing the traditional Panettone to give out as gifts to friends and family.

  Legend has it that a nobleman known as Ughetto Atellani invented the Christmas cake to win the heart of the beautiful Adalgisa, the daughter of a poor baker named Antonio. The story goes that, disguised as a baker, Ughetto invented a delicate golden bread to impress the young Adalgisa’s father who was reluctant to see his only daughter married. By combining flour and yeast, butter, eggs, dried raisins, candied lemon and orange peel, Ugghetto made such a delicious bread that it impressed the Duke of Milan, Ludovico il Moro Sforza, who agreed to sponsor the marriage. The bread also became one of the favorite snacks of Leonardo da Vinci, who painted a portrait of the happily married couple as a wedding gift. To honour Adalgisa’s father, Ughetto named the bread Pan de Toni.

  “Buon Giorno Pietro. I hope you slept well.” Mama Delgobo always had coffee and biscotti ready for me when I woke up, which seemed to be getting later and later every day. “You and Marco must be tired after all your adventures. I’m so happy to have my boy home alive. You know every night he was gone, I prayed to La Madonna to return him safe to me. When I saw him there in my kitchen, I knew that my prayers had been answered.”

  “Where is everybody?” I changed the topic of conversation. When Marco’s mama got too emotional, it made me feel a little bit uncomfortable. “Every morning get up and nobody is here.”

  “They went out to the fields to look for an engine to put in that crazy scrap metal tractor of yours.”

  “How come nobody woke me up?”

  “You need your sleep to get your strength back. Non preocupada. Why do you want to still risk the chance of blowing your legs off? You should be spending more time looking for a nice girl to marry and settle down with.”

  “Like Marco and Carmella?”

  “Exactamente.” Mama Delgobo placed a small bottle of liquor down on the table. “Uffah! That Severino has been drinking my Amaretto again. I told him I needed it for the pannetone!”

  She dug her hands into her apron, pulled out a few coins and passed them to me along with the empty liquor bottle.

  “Go buy me a few ounces of Amaretto from Nicolitto’s and be quick about it. These cakes need to be baked today.”

  The snow had been falling for a few days that made it difficult to walk up the steep cobblestone streets without slipping.

  Niccolito’s was Limosano’s only alimentari. It was a small shop nestled next to the even smaller Cafe Romma in the piazza in the middle of the village.

  The store had everything you needed. The big bags of semolina flour for making bread and pasta were stacked to the ceiling next to the equally big bags of cece and fagoli. Capocolli sausage made from the head and tail of a pig and Salsiccie al finocchio, Niccolitto’s speciality, were made fresh daily and hung in the window to cure. The delicate Prosciutto affumicato and the spicy Soppressata hung next to the Scamorza and Caciocavallo cheese from the ceiling, curing in store’s warm atmosphere. The Burrino and Manteca, the soft, delicious, buttery cow’s-milk cheeses were kept fresh along with the Pecorino, which you could order young and soft or aged and hard. Jugs of locally pressed olive oil were stored next to the jars of herbs and spices and if you didn’t get a chance to make your own, Nicololitto made an excellent salsa pomadoro and an even better vino tinto. In the summer, whatever grew in Limosano, you could find at Nicolitto’s.

  In the spirit of Christmas, Nicolitto, a wiry, clean shaven, man who smoked like a chimney and always seemed to have a smile on his face, stacked bars of soft Torrone from Campobasso on the front counter. For the first time, he also brought in a new hard pistachio toronne made in Rome, which was twice the price as the locally made sweet. He placed these candies strategically next to the few boxes of commercially made pannetone that he brought in for those rich enough to afford it.

  “I’d like a few ounces of Amaretto.” I placed the empty bottle on the counter. “And a pack of cigarettes.”

  “You’re that Canadese who came in with the Delgobo boy on the feast of La Madonna, a very auspicious day.” Nicolitto took a deep drag of his cigarette. “Is it true you escaped the Germans and walked all the way from Milano?”

  “Half-true.” I smiled. “We didn’t walk here. That would’ve taken a lot longer.”

  “Veramente. That’s one hell of a walk. La Madonna she smiles on you. It’s not surprising, really, Maria Delgobo she’s in the church three times a day, every day, praying for her Marco to come home. Me, I figured he was dead, like the rest of his outfit. They say he was some hotshot mechanic working on a secret jet that could fly to the moon. I don’t believe all that crap. He was probably working on trucks and motorcycles, nothing new to that Delgobo family. But one of these days they’re going to get fried playing with that electricity. Don’t get me wrong I like the light, especially this time of year, but I don’t trust it. It’s free now. But you just wait, soon we’re gonna have to pay for it, and it’s gonna cost more that the most expensive Prosciutto affumicato.”

  Nicolitto took a large bottle of Ameretto of the shelf behind him and filled my bottle with a
small amount of the thick amber liqueur.

  ”Eco lei.” He handed the bottle back to me with a pack of cigarettes. “Maria Delgobo is making her famous pannetone? It’s the best in Limosano. I wish she’d reconsider my offer to go into business. I could make her a very rich woman!”

  “Her cooking is going to make me a very fat man!” I handed him a few coins. “But it sure is better than the rations we had in Rome.”

  “Varamente! You could benefit from putting on a few pounds. Is it true that you and the Delgobo boys are building a tractor?” Nicolitto handed my change back to me. “From the scrap metal in the fields?”

  “We’re going to try.”

  “You’re going to try to kill yourselves is what you’re doing.”

  “Veramente Nicolitto.” Carmella walked into the store, with her smell of roses and sunshine. “This Canadese is trying to kill my Marco.”

  “Ah, Bella, comme va!” Nicolitto stubbed out his cigarette, a large smile on his face. “This Canadese sure is crazy to step in between a man and his lover!”

  “Ciao Pietro.” Carmella kissed me on both cheeks. “Helping Mama Delgobo with her baking?” She motioned to the bottle of Ameretto. “Or drinking with Severino again?”

  “Neither. I’m just the errand boy.” I could still feel the trace of Carmella’s warm, moist lips on my cheeks, like a sunbeam on the coldest winter day. “We’ve got to stay focused if we’re going to get that tractor built and keep all our limbs in working order.”

  “I hope that one of those cakes is for me.” Carmella took a jar of oil from the shelf. “Marco’s mama makes the best Pannetone this side of Napoli.”

  “I guess that all depends on how good you’ve been to your man.” Nicolitto winked at Carmella. “When is the wedding going to be?”

  “In the spring, at Easter.” Carmella handed Nicolitto a few coins. “If all goes according to plans.”

  “Va bene. Well make sure you let me know how I can help. Tell your mama to get her order in soon. This reconstruction effort is limiting the supply of a lot of things so I’m going to have to pull a few strings, but you can always rely on me.“