“Bah. My potions are the best in the Abruzzi. You can’t find anything better.” La Stregha Vechia opened her door and motioned to Marco to come inside. “I don’t like to talk business like this. The street has too may eyes and big ears.”
Marco followed the witch upstairs to the back room of her house where she met with her clients.
“Now tell me what the problem is young man.” She motioned to Marco to sit down. “It’s rare that one of my customers comes back so soon. Even rarer that they come back to complain to me. Usually it’s to bring me gifts and to thank me.”
“Carmella just broke off our engagement,” Marco explained glumly. “I don’t understand.”
“That is serious.” the Witch picked at her teeth with her long fingernails. “Not the effect we were going for was it?”
“It’s the complete opposite effect,” Marco replied seriously. “Maybe you gave me the wrong spell? Made a mistake or something.”
“You gave her the potion? Followed my instructions?”
“Of course. I wouldn’t spend that kind of money just for the hell of it.”
“On the rare occasion, one of my potions won’t work because of some kind of strong counter magic.”
Stregha la Vechia closed her eyes, and began tapping her knobby fingers on the side of the chair. After a few seconds, her eyes darted open, and a smile appeared beneath the deep wrinkles of her face.
“Varimente! I should’ve known. Carmella’s mother is a very strong witch. She must’ve given her something.”
“An antidote?” Marco was confused and starting to think that maybe he shouldn’t have gotten involved with this crazy old witch in the first place. “How would she have known?”
“Not exactly.” La Stergha Vechia stood up from her chair and went over to her altar. “Let me see what we’re dealing with here.”
Reaching behind the statue of the Virgin Mary on her altar, the witch retrieved a small wooden bowl. Placing the bowl in front of La Madonna, she produced two small bottles and mixed the liquid contents from each into the bowl. After the she was satisfied with the ratio, La Stregha Vechia knelt in front of the altar, quickly performed the sign of the cross and took the bowl into her hands.
“What are you doing,” Marco asked inquisitively.
“Silence!” The witch croaked menacingly. ”I need silence.”
La Stregha Veciha concentrated intensely on the contents of the bowl, peering deeply into the liquid.
After a few minutes, the witch lifted her head up from the bowl and placed the scrying vessel back onto the altar. She dipped two fingers into the bowl and anointed the eyes of the Virgin Mary with the liquid.
“This is more serious than I thought,” La Stregha Vechia remarked finally after sitting back down in her chair. “It’s going to take strong magic to work this one out.”
“What did you see? What’s more serious?” Marco pressed eagerly. “I hope you’ve got some answers for me.”
“This woman of yours, she no longer loves you,” the witch proclaimed matter-of-factly. “She’s decided you’re not the one.”
“Tell me something I don’t already know,” sighed Marco. “That’s what your potion was supposed to fix.”
“She’s given her heart to another man.”
“Impossible,” Marco gulped. “There’s nobody else. I would know.”
“You told me she was in love with you,” the witch grumbled. “It appears you aren’t the best judge of character.”
“She was.” Marco stuttered. “I mean I thought she was, in love with me.”
“The potion I gave you strengthens the love one has for another,” La Stregha Vechia explained calmly. “Apparently, she never really loved you.”
“Nonsense! We were engaged to get married,” Marco retorted angrily. “She’s told me over and over how much she loves me.”
“People change.”
“Who’s this other man?” Marco demanded. “Tell me who this prick is. I’ll kill him.”
“I can’t tell you. The spirits don’t give me that kind of information.”
“What can I do?” Marco pleaded. “There’s got to be something I can do.”
“Nothing.” The witch replied. “There’s nothing you can do.”
“I don’t believe you. There’s got to be something,” Marco was insistent. “You must know some way I can win her heart? To make her love me like she used to.”
The witch sat quietly staring at Marco, considering his question very carefully.
“I can cast the malocchio, the evil eye on this other man,” she said finally, breaking the tension that was building in the room. “Curse him so that your woman will never want to be with him - or won’t be able to be with him.”
“If that’s my only option I guess I have no choice.”
“It’ll cost you.”
“Whatever it takes to bring Carmella back to me,” Marco replied quickly, digging into his pockets. He offered a large roll of bills to the witch. “I’ll pay for it.”
“I’ll give you a discount.,” the witch beamed proudly. “I never give discounts.”
“Just do it!”
La Stregha Vechia went back to her altar and gathered some dried herbs and other items hanging from various nooks and crannies around her altar.
In a small cauldron, she lit a fire and began feeding the ingredients, one by one, to the small flame. The acrid smoke filled the room, along with the witch’s chanting, as Marco sat and watched, praying to his own God.
Chapter Seventeen
Trestevere
After lowering their rifles, the two men blind-folded us and took us down the lane and back through the maze of alleys. Eventually we stopped and one the men rapped quietly on a door, which opened without a sound.
We were led into a small room and the blind folds were taken off.
Standing in front of us was Vincenzo Baldazzi, a clean-shaven middle-aged man. The deep lines of many responsibilities etched into his weathered face.
Baldazzi was the leader of the anarchist wing of the Gruppi d'Azione Patriottica. He was a very intelligent man, who understood, and valued, the power of the collective will in fighting the fascist wave of intolerance and control in Italy.
He led a small group of anarchists as part of the Roman wing of the Resistenza partigiana, a spontaneous movement originally made up of independent troops, and members of the various political parties outlawed by Mussolini’s fascist regime.
“Aldo, what do you have for me today,” Baldazzi asked the young man holding onto my arm. “Looks like you’ve been out hunting again. Caught yourself two fine specimens I see.”
“We caught these two out in the alley on motorcycles,” Aldo replied smugly. “They said they were looking for you.”
“Why didn’t you just kill them and dispose of their bodies in the Tiber,” Baldazzi admonished the young partisan. “I have no use for two SS Officers. Other than to spit in their faces.”
“They said Don Alexandro sent them?” Lucky for us Aldo wasn’t going to give up so easily. “They claim Don Alexandro assured them you would look after them when the arrived in Rome.”
“Don Alexandro?” Baldazzi’s eyes light up at the mention of the old Tuscan gentleman. “Are you sure that’s what they said?”
“That’s what they said,” The second partisan declared. “I heard it clearly.”
“They’re telling the truth.” The third partisan who’d disappeared with our motorcycles closed the door behind him, throwing our gear onto the floor in front of Baldazzi. “I don’t know why SS officers would be carrying Barrettas and packs filled with Tuscan Chianti and Salciccia.”
“Moro and Rizi, show our guests inside,” Baldazzi ordered calmly. “Aldo get some glasses, Its been a while since I’ve tasted some of that good tuscan Chianti Alexandro likes to stockpile.”
Moro and Rizi led us into Baldazzi’s safe house. It was a cozy place, sparsely furnished with odd tables an
d chairs. The small fireplace in the middle of the house gave off a noticeable amount of heat. In the back of the house, there was a stockpile of riffles, ammunition and explosives. A steep staircase off of the kitchen led upstairs, where the partisans slept during the day.
“Explain yourselves.” Baldazzi sat down at the kitchen table with a glass of Chianti. “How did you meet my old friend Alexandro?”
“We were rescued by partisans in Milano. The nazi’s had captured us and were planning on shipping us north to the concentration camp,” Marco explained. “We found our way out of the city and were driven south to Don Alexandro’s villa high in the Tuscan foothills. When we told him that we weren’t interested in fighting with the resistance, Don Alexandro told us that you could give us a safe place to stay while we were in Rome, on our way back to Campobasso.”
“Otherwise, we were going to chance it and make the journey across the mountains,” I continued. “But we figured we’d be safer to wait out the winter a bit before driving through the mountains.”
“Who the hell are you?” Baldazzi looked directly at me. One thing we learned right away about Baldazzi was that he didn’t like to mince words. “You’re obviously not Italian. American spy?”
“Private Peter McMillian, Princes Patricia Light Infantry,” I replied. “I’m not an American spy. I’m a Canadian. Captured by the German paratroopers in Ortona.”
“Varimente?” Baldazzi seemed to lighten up at the mention of Ortona. “I heard about the hell-fires of Ortona. You’re lucky to be alive soldier. And who’s your cumpà?”
“Marco Delgobo, mechanic-first class-captured by the Germans,” Marco introduced himself proudly. “By the grace of La Madonna, and the assistance of the Partisans in Milan, I escaped the fires of the Nazi ovens and arrived in Rome yesterday with this Canadese.”
“We stayed with Don Alexandro for a few days,” I clarified. “Carlino gave us a lift into the outskirts of Rome this morning.”
“I just learned that a Nazi patrol killed Giancarlo this afternoon. He was my nephew.” Baldazzi took a long swig of his wine. “I loved him very much.”
“How did you get those Officer uniforms?” Moro was the biggest of the three partisans associated with Baldazzi. He was tall and lean, and his hands were the size of a large cantaloupe. “You can’t even buy those at the black market in Trastevere.”
“We killed two officers, stole their clothes and rode into Rome on their motorcycles,” I remarked confidently, as if it was all part of the plan. “I guess you could say we were lucky.”
“Pretty convenient.” Aldo was the smallest of the three partisans. At first I mistook him for a young boy. Little did I realize he’d killed more Nazi officers with his bare hands than most Canadian soldiers. “You guys must have horseshoes up your ass or something.”
“La Madonna she smile on us,” Marco stammered. “Funny how these things seem to work out.”
“So what do you want from me and my men?” Baldazzi was already on to his second glass of wine. “What can I offer you?”
“We’re on our way home to my village,” Marco explained, “and we need a place to stay for awhile until it’s safe to cross the mountains to Campobasso.”
“You should stay in Rome. We need good hands. Brave soldiers.” Rizi was the brains of the operation, the intellect who was always planning strategies. “There’s a lot of work to be done.”
“The Americans are mounting a huge offensive against the Gustav Line,” Moro poured himself another glass of the wine Don Alexandro’s daughter had packed for us, and cut a large piece of the tuscan Salciccia. “It’ll only be a matter of time before Rome is a free city again.”
“I can’t wait for the day when we can parade Il Duce naked down the Via del Corso,” Aldo took a small knife out of his boot and tested the sharpness of the blade against his hand. “Although I’ll miss killing Nazi officers.”
“Our intel suggests that the Americans are going to attack Cassino to draw the German reserves in Rome southwards,” Rizi put another log onto the fire. “American Marines are planning on landing a second force at Anzio north of Cassino, and close to Rome. This is going to provoke the Germans into giving up their Gustav Line and falling back north to Rome.”
“Where we’ll be ready to fight them and drive them north where they belong,” Baldazzi announced, pounding his fists on the table to emphasize his point. “Then we will have our beloved city back, free from the Nazi swine that infests it.”
Chapter Eighteen
Kubblewagon
That winter back in Limosano we worked hard to get the tractor built before spring. During the fall, before the snow covered the fields, we managed to collect the scrap metal we needed to build the tractor. Most of the people in the village didn’t think we were going to be able to pull it off. By the middle of February, however, we had the frame built. All we needed was a good engine and four tires.
One morning, while Severino, Primo and I were busy pounding the scrap metal back into shape and welding the parts together, Marco rushed into the shop out of breath, and really excited.
“I’ve found it,” he gasped, trying to catch his breath. “I’ve finally found it.”
“Found what?” asked Primo. “Calm down.”
“Our engine,” Marco replied, sitting down on an old crate. “It’s perfect. We just need to get it out of the chassis.”
“You said the same thing last week,” Severino complained in jest, “and it turned out to be junk.”
“What did you find?”
I sensed a deep excitement in Marco and was eager to find out what he’d been up to. Lately, he’d disappear from the shop for long periods of time and when he returned he’d mostly keep to himself. Every time I asked what was wrong, he’d just smile and say, Anger is an expensive luxury Pietro.
I knew he and Carmella were not getting along very well. I’d been spending more and more time alone talking with Carmella and last time I saw her, she mentioned that Marco had upset her very much and that she’d broke off their engagement. I was starting to suspect that Marco had found out about Carmella and I.
“There’s a German Kubelwagen on this side of the Biferno before the road to Montagano.” Marco was obviously pleased with himself. “It’s perfect. We can scavenge it for parts.”
“Did you take a look at it this time?
“Like I said, it’s perfect,” said Marco. “Nothing wrong with it at all”
“How about the wheels?” Severino put his welding torch down. “ Can we use them?”
“Not so good. But maybe they’re just flat. I didn’t get a chance to really look at them.”
“What are we waiting for,” I asked eagerly. “Lets go check it out.”
Marco managed to borrow a truck so we could drive the few kilometers down the valley to the river. It wasn’t a long ride to the spot where he’d found the abandoned German vehicle.
We parked the truck on the outskirts of the field and walked the remaining short distance to where the kubblewagon sat abandoned.
“This time it looks like you’ve finally found something.” Severino had his head inside the engine block, checking out all the various parts of the engine. “The Nazi’s sure did have some sporty vehicles.”
“How are we going to get it out,” I asked. “It’s a big job.”
“No problema,” Marco dug into his tool bag and pulled out a large wrench. “Watch and learn.”
It took the four of us all day to get the engine out of that kubblewagon. After hours of sheer exertion we finally managed to get it ready to bring back to the shop with us.
“Perfect. Now we come back tomorrow with the truck, haul the engine out and drive it back to the workshop.” Marco started to put his tools away. “All in a day’s work.”
“What about the tires?” Primo wasn’t ready to stop working. “We need some good tires and this German rubber is excellent. Look at the tread!”
“We can check them out in mor
ning when we come back for the engine.” I was tired and ready for a plate of Mamma Del Gobo’s pasta and a glass of Severino’s wine. “It’s getting late. We should head back.”
“I agree with Pietro. Lets get out of here. I’m starving. Mama’s gonna have a nice plate of pasta ready for us.” Severino took off his cap and wiped the grime off his forehead with a shop rag. “We’ve still got a few bottles of last year’s vintage in the cellar to drink.”
“They look fine. A little flat but that’s easy enough to fix.” Marco walked around the shell of the German kubblewagon, kicking the tires. “We’ll come back tomorrow with the right tools and salvage them. Primo is right. They’ll make perfect tires for the tractor. Maybe we can even salvage the transmission.”
“Va bene. Andiammo.” Primo picked up his tool-bag and started walking back to the village. “Let’s not keep mama waiting any longer. She gets upset if the pasta gets cold.”
We started walking back through the field and up towards the truck. The sun was starting to set behind the Cathedral, casting its protective aura over us.
After only a few meters walking away from the kubblewagon I heard an audible CLICK underneath of me.
“Shit. I don’t like the sound of that. Everyone STOP.” I stopped immediately, my heart pounding so fast I thought it was going to explode out of my chest. “I think we may have a bit of trouble here.”
“What?” Primo dropped his tool-bag. “What’s the matter?”
“You Ok Pietro?” Marco turned around, a look of concern on his face. “What happened?”
“I think he’s stepped on a land mine.” Severino took off his cap and scratched his head nervously. “I hope I’m wrong.”
“Damn. I never even thought of that,” groaned Marco. “I was so excited about the engine.”
“Everybody stay calm.” I gulped. “We’ve got to use our minds here or else we may never get out of here.”
“So much for that nice plate of pasta,” grumbled Primo. “I hope my hungry belly doesn’t trigger the bloody thing.”
“Where is it Pietro?”
“It’s underneath me,” I replied matter-of-factly. “But if it blows, it’s going to take out a couple of us.
“This whole field is probably booby-trapped.” Severino scanned the expanse of field we were walking in. “The German’s always dug in mines as a defense against the Canadesi.”
Tarantella: A Love Story Page 7
