Tarantella: A Love Story

by Siomonn Pulla

  That’s how Marco and I found Aldo. After the Allies liberated Rome, we joined a large group of civilians and allied soldiers to exhume the bodies and give them a proper burial.

  “I feel responsible for the deaths of all these men.” Marco confided in me the night after we helped Baldazzi give Aldo a proper burial. “I never should have planted the bomb. You were right Pietro. There’s got to be a better way to send a message of hope to the people of Rome.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Counter Magic

  After Primo arrived at the shop to celebrate the success of our engine actually working, I politely excused myself and went to look for Carmella. I found her leaving Nicolitto’s with an armload of groceries for dinner.

  “Pietro,” she exclaimed, obviously happy to see me. “What a pleasant surprise. Are you coming over for dinner?”

  I took the groceries from Carmella and we made our way down the piazza towards her house.

  “He went to see the witch in San’Angelo,” I tried to laugh it off. “He’s desperate. How are we ever going to tell him now? He’ll never forgive either of us.”

  “La Stregha Vechia?” Carmella stopped and looked at me very seriously. “The old woman in San’Angelo?”

  “That’s what he told me,” I replied calmly. “He’s seen her a few times. I was starting to wonder where he’d been going. There were a couple of days when nobody knew where Marco was. And he’d been acting all secretive and strange.”

  We started walking again down the cobblestones.

  “What did he go see La Stregha Vechia for?” asked Carmella. “Did he tell you?”

  “To find out the name of the man you secretly love.”

  “Mama mia! You’re kidding me?” Carmella wasn’t laughing. “Please tell me this is a joke.”

  “It’s not. I’m being completely serious”

  “What did she say?”

  “Nothing,” I replied. “But she put the evil eye on him. Can you believe that? What a load of nonsense.”

  “Dio mio! Oh no. This is not good,” Carmella fretted with obvious concern. “She’s a very powerful witch Pietro.”

  “You don’t believe in all that folk magic stuff do you?” I chuckled. “I mean it’s all nonsense really.”

  “Of course I do! This is very serious. You could be in a lot of trouble.”

  “Uh-oh,” I muttered unconvincingly. “I survive prolonged combat with German Special Forces, trek all across Italy, help to liberate Rome only to die in a small village by the evil eye. What are you going to write on my gravestone?”

  “You’re coming home with me right now to talk to my mother.” Carmella grabbed my hand and pulled me down the cobblestones towards her house. “We need to apply some counter magic.”

  The Moccia’s two-story house was similar to the rest of the houses in the village. Built out of stone, it was cool in the summer and well insulated in the winter. Behind the house was a small stable, where the pigs and chickens were kept and where Carmella’s mother dried all of the herbs and roots she used for cooking and curing. Upstairs there was the kitchen, with the wood-fired oven, which also helped to heat the house in the winter. There was also the living room and two bedrooms. The little porch on the second floor had a small fountain, where Carmella’s mother kept some pet fish.

  “Mama, quick. Marco has cast the evil eye on Pietro.” Carmella wasted no time. “He’s been to San’Angelo to see La Stregha Vechia.”

  Mama Moccia came out of the kitchen with a large deep bowl filled with water. She sat down and set the bowl on the table in front of her, placing one drop of olive oil into it.

  After peering intensely into the bowl, she finally lifted her head up and looked directly at me.

  “Her magic is very strong,” she said. “You’re in grave danger.”

  “What do you see Ma?” Carmella pressed eagerly. “Tell us.”

  “It’s the malocchio,” she replied. “A very potent one too.”

  “C’mon. There’s no such thing.” Little did I realize at that time how much power the evil eye had on the consciousness of Italians. And how real it could actually be. “I’m having a hard time believing all this witchy stuff.”

  “Don’t mess with this stuff young man,” Mama Moccia chided me gently. “Faustina Vechia has a reputation for dark magic. She’s a powerful witch.”

  “Can’t you do something?” wondered Carmella. “Can you give him an amulet or break the spell.”

  “I’ll try. Come. Sit.”

  Carmella’s mother gestured to me to sit down on the ground in front of her. She produced a small leather bag from a belt she wore around her waist and began throwing pinches of salt around me.

  “The Eye walks and then runs,” she started chanting rhythmically under her breath while throwing salt over my shoulder. “It has seen its brother, he is good, he is lovely; It has begun to devour his flesh without a knife. To drink his blood without a cup. It is the eye of a lover that has seen him, the eye of a witch, the eye of the gate-keeper. The eye of a gate-keeper, to the gate-keeper let it return! The eye of the witch, let it return, the eye of the lover, let it return!”

  She took a small red kerchief from her bodice and spat into it, emphasizing the last sentence. Then she genuflected and quietly left the room.

  I looked at Carmella who motioned me to be still and to take the ritual seriously. After a few seconds Mamma Moccia returned with something in her hand.

  “You can get up now,” she told me. “I have done what I can.”

  “I don’t feel any different,” I offered. “Shouldn’t I feel a dark cloud lifting or something?”

  “Don’t take this off.” Carmella’s mother handed me a small cimaruta. Carved on the three branches of the small wooden charm were a fish, a crescent moon, a closed hand and a key. “It will protect you until you get stronger.”

  Carmella took the amulet from me and placed it around my neck.

  “Now, You need to tell him.” Mama Moccia looked at Carmella and then at me. “It’s the only way to break the spell for good.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Liberation Day

  In the end, Liberation Day unfolded really fast.

  One morning, as Baldazzi and I we were drinking our coffee over a game of chess, Marco rushed into the apartment with the news.

  At that point everything changed.

  “They did it!” Marco reported excitedly. “They did it! I can’t believe it. Mama Mia!”

  “Calm down,” asserted Baldazzi. “Did what? Who? What the hell are you talking about Marco?”

  “They finally broke through the Gustave Line,” Marco gasped enthusiastically, unable to calm down. “The Americans are on their way to Rome. German units are already starting to flood into the city.”

  This is it,” I exclaimed. “This is what we’ve been waiting for.”

  “All our men are in place and ready to act.” Baldazzi was calm. Nothing seemed to faze him. “Once I say the word they’ll be out there killing German’s alongside the Americans.”

  “Excellent. Today may be the last day we see each other.” Marco grabbed a rifle and loaded it with some ammo. He also grabbed a Beretta pistol off the table and checked the clip.

  “Arm yourselves well comrades.” Baldazzi recommended. “Take lots of ammo. We may not be coming back.”

  It was June 4, 1944. The members of the American 5th Army and the British First Special Service Force, commanded by Brigadier General Robert T. Federick rolled in to the centre of Rome late during the night from the south. The battle scars of their tanks, and the weary contentedness of the soldiers stood in sharp juxtaposition to the jubilation of the Roman people and the ancient ruins of the city’s past.

  The Allied soldiers met a dogged resistance from German forces on the outskirts of the city. After already suffering major casualties at Casino and Anzio, however, the German forces couldn’t hold the city under the protracted strikes by allied forces.


  Baldazzi stationed Marco and I deep within the line of the resistance near the ancient Ponte Cestio. This bridge was built in 27 B.C, to link the island to the right bank of the Tiber River. It also provided a strategic connection between the district of Trastevere, where we had been living with Baldazzi’s resistance, and Tiber Island. Baldazzi had stashed a significant amount of arms and ammo on the Island in anticipation of the Allied liberation.

  When we got the word out that Allied forces had taken the Gustav Line we knew that it was only a matter of time before we were going to have to make our contribution to the effort.

  Marco and I both understood that the fighting was going to be fierce and that we could easily die in action. While I had seen significantly more action, Marco was eager to serve his country.

  “I haven’t killed anyone during this war Pietro, accept those twenty-eight police officers” he told me as we made our way over to the Island early on the morning of the liberation. “How can I go home to Carmella as a hero when I haven’t even shot my rifle in battle.”

  “Heroes come in all sizes and shapes,” I said. “Fighting can get really nasty. I’ve seen guys lying on the ground like pretzels, their guts trailing in a long messy line behind them. I’ve seen good men shot dead in mid-sentence, or dismembered completely by a land mine, screaming in agony as they take one last bullet to the head. Dodging bullets isn’t a skill. It’s luck. Too many good men have died in this war. So count yourself lucky my friend. You’re a hero because you’ll live to tell this tale of escape from the Nazis to your grandchildren.”

  The bridges across the Tiber River were the strategic gateway into the eternal city. Tiber Island was the perfect position. While the allied Armoured Division pounded German positions with artillery fire, we supported the ground troops and special forces in securing the main bridges over into the city’s centre.

  After a fierce battle, Hitler finally ordered a retreat north-west of the city, vowing that “the struggle in Italy will be continued with unshakable determination with the aim of breaking the enemy attacks and to forge final victory for Germany and her allies.”

  Italians, however, were not phased by Hitler’s resolve. They lined up in the ancient streets of Rome welcoming the American soldiers into the centre of the city. Bouquets of flowers littered the cobblestones, as Romans, finally felt safe to emerge from their homes, praising God’s grace that the Nazis had finally be driven from their beloved city. That after twenty-one years of fascism, a sense of freedom could once again be restored. Of course this wasn’t the first time the city had been liberated from a hostile occupation. And I’m sure it won’t be the last.

  Marco convinced me to join the huge crowd in St. Peter’s square to hear the Pope.

  “C’mon Pietro,” he urged me. “We’re heroes! Let’s go join the party. This may be the only time we’ll ever get a chance to hear the Pope. ”

  Thousands of people had gathered in St. Peter’s Square. Italian women hung off the arms of American soldiers. Bottles of wine were being passed around. People danced and sung out in praise of the Allied forces and Italian resistance. Women and men alike hugged and kissed us when they realized were part of Baldazzi’s group.

  Eventually Pope Pius XII emerged on his balcony, his flowing white robes a symbol of the peace and freedom that was spreading throughout the city.

  “In recent days we trembled for the fate of the city,” he addressed the crowd. His arms wide in a welcoming embrace. “Today we rejoiced because, thanks to the joint goodwill of both sides, Rome has been saved from the horrors of war. The Nazi’s are still in Italy, so there still hangs the evil fog of war. Amid the farms and the orchards, the flamethrowers still burn their terrible way to the northern plains. And that which the flamethrowers cannot burn out, must be burnt out by Italians themselves. And however long it may take, however many mistakes we have made, a good people can put right.”

  Luckily the occupying German forces had left the infrastructure of Rome largely undamaged. The city’s water supply was still intact and there was even electricity. The major challenge lay in restoring political acumen and normal day-to-day functioning of the city. Many angry Romans were busy routing out remnant fascist supporters and those who’d helped the Nazis in their occupation.

  Just before the Allies liberated the city, they dropped thousands of leaflets into the streets.

  “Citizens of Rome,” the leaflets declared, “this is not the time for demonstrations. Obey these directions and go on with your regular work. Rome is yours! Your job is to save the city, ours is to destroy the enemy. “

  “I can’t believe they dropped these.” Marco was reading one the leaflets. “It’s a pretty smart way to get a simple message out to a large group of people.”

  “I doubt Baldazzi is going to follow the instructions not to demonstrate.” I remarked. “He’s going to try to hunt down all the remaining Nazi spies who killed Aldo, Rizi and Moro.”

  “Off course. He’s an anarchist,” said Marco. “He’ll be busy for a while applying his own kind of justice. We really should get out of here while we still can. There’s going to be a lot reconstruction work to be done, and they’re going to need young strong men like ourselves to help out.”

  “At least now we can be assured safe passage across the mountains.”

  I was feeling eager to get out the city before the celebration party turned to chaos and hangings.

  At first I had thought about joining back up with a Canadian regiment. But I was starting to really enjoy my freedom. And it wasn’t as if I was AWOL. For all intents and purposes, the Canadian military considered me dead in action.

  “I’m going to miss this city,” Marco sighed. “I’ve really grown fond of it over the last few months.”

  “Me too. The history here is mesmerizing.” I loved the layers of time in Rome. Everywhere you looked there was a reminder of how old the city really was. “And we haven’t even had a chance to really explore it.”

  “Forget history amico,” laughed Marco. “It’s the all the beautiful women I’m going to miss! Especially now that we’re Heros.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Confessions

  Marco made his way up to the Cathedral to find Father D’Angello. After telling Peter and his brothers about hiring the witch to cast the evil eye on Carmella’s lover he felt increasingly guilty. Like he murdered somebody in cold blood.

  Listening to himself tell the story, made it sound completely ridiculous. He needed to spend some time in the confession booth to clear this one up.

  What the hell was I thinking? As if I could make everything all right by using black magic? If Carmella ever found out she’d be even more upset at me. I’d never live this down. Once I'm done with Father D’Angello I’m going back to that La Stregha Vechia and I’m going to pay her to break this spell. Mamma Mia! What have I done?

  Marco had no problem finding the priest in the old Cathedral.

  “Forgive me father for I have sinned. It has been one month since my last confession.”

  “God forgives all of his children.”

  “I’ve paid La Stregha Vechia to cast the evil eye on somebody.”

  “For what did this person do to you to deserve such punishment?”

  “He stole the only woman I’ve ever loved from me.”

  “How can you be sure of this?”

  “Like I said to you a few days ago. Carmella broke off our engagement. She won’t talk to me. She won’t tell me anything. “

  “Give her some space my child. No one will take the one who is destined for you. Even if it’s your best friend.”

  “What are you saying Father?”

  “I absolve you of your sins, in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Go in peace my son.” Father D’Angello slid the confessional slot closed.

  This can’t be true. Pietro would never do this to me. We’ve been through so much together. He, of anybody, knows how much I love Car
mella. I’ll kill him!

  Marco left the confessional noticeably upset.

  I’m going to go to Carmella’s right now and find out the truth, once and for all.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Heartache

  After Mama Moccia told us we needed to tell Marco, Carmella and I both agreed that it was the best plan. If we wanted to really honour these feelings for each other we needed to be honest with Marco. In reality, I could never have proposed to Carmella without telling Marco, especially after all we’d been through together. He was, after all, my best friend, and had saved my life on a few occasions.

  I still think bumping into Marco that afternoon outside of Carmella’s house was all part Mama Moccia’s magic. I just never expected that it would work so fast.

  “I can’t believe it’s you,” Marco yelled at me from down the street. “It was you all along. You stole the only woman I’ll ever really love. Why Pietro? After all we’ve been through I thought you were my friend.”

  “Hey stop yelling. What are you talking about?” I acted dumb. I wasn’t ready to have this conversation. “Calm down Marco.”

  “It’s you. It’s you who Carmella loves,” Marco cried as he got closer to me. “It’s you who I tried to kill.”

  “Let’s talk about this somewhere else,” I suggested. “Like adults. We’ll figure this out.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about. We’re finished,” Marco exclaimed. “I never want to see you ever again. I can’t believe you’d steal the only woman I’ve ever loved. There’s nothing. Nothing left for me.”

  At that point, Carmella came out of her house to see what the yelling was all about.

  “Marco, you have to calm down,” pressed Carmella. “You’re making a scene. What is everybody going to think?”

  “I will not calm down.”

  Marco threw the first punch that afternoon.