The Prince

by Vito Bruschini

  Not even on this score did he and his friend the prince find themselves in agreement. Licata, in fact, shook his head. “Don Antonio, don’t you understand that the Jews are just a scapegoat? It’s been that way for centuries, and it will always be so.”

  “Still, they’re a greedy people,” the priest concluded as, trailed by the prince, he entered the tavern. The monsignor purchased his Tuscan cigars only from Mimmo Ferro. The entrance of the two interrupted the excited voices of the men playing Tocco. Everyone turned toward them. Those who were seated rose as a sign of respect, and those wearing caps took them off. Don Antonio asked Mimmo for his Tuscan cigars and glanced at the little crowd of players.

  “You see, Prince, the entire philosophy of our people is summed up in this game. Never mind Aristotle and your Voltaire.” Mimmo handed the priest five cigars wrapped in wax paper. Don Antonio took one out, lit it, and inhaled a few puffs with pleasure.

  “This is one of my many vices.” He smiled with false modesty.

  “The cigar is a perfect symbol of pleasure,” remarked the prince. “Exquisite, yet it leaves us unsatisfied.” He smiled ironically and headed toward the door, followed by the monsignor. “But what did you mean to tell me about that game?” Licata prodded him.

  The priest waved his hand in a sweeping gesture, as if to embrace the houses, the palazzi, and the people passing by. “You see all this? Here in Sicily, this is by no means reality. It is only a facade. The real world—who controls things and who makes the important decisions—remains underground. Invisible. Like in Tocco. The one who decides things is the boss’s helper, who only seems to be under the boss but is the real one calling the shots.”

  Chapter 3

  – 1920 –

  Back in 1920, the Italian population was experiencing a period of intense crisis, with discontent among all social classes contributing to levels of extreme intolerance. The harvest that year produced the most disastrous yield farmers could remember, forcing the government to buy two-thirds of the country’s required wheat abroad, at a price much higher than what the average Italian could afford to pay. In many cities, clashes between protesters and police became commonplace, with numerous strikes by the working classes, professional groups, and even government employees and teachers.

  The situation was not as dramatic in Sicily as in the rest of Italy, because the farmers’ discontent lacked the crucial backing of the masses of workers in large industries; but even there, the common people managed to make their voices heard violently, supported by socialist and popular fronts.

  For these reasons, the great feudal landowners of western Sicily chose to meet in a secret assembly to chart the course of Sicily’s economy in such a way that they would not lose control of power.

  The meeting took place in the heart of Palermo on October 14, 1920, in the rooms of Palazzo Cesarò, whose proprietors were the Count and Countess Colonna, descendents of a branch of a famous Roman family that had arrived in Sicily in the thirteenth century. Invitations were distributed secretly to thirty-eight large-estate owners, as well as representatives of the clergy, politicians, and members of the press. Thirty-four turned up at the meeting: all of them men. Wives and lovers were excluded from the assembly, with the exception of the Countess Paola Colonna—in fact, the originator of the conspiracy—who acted as hostess.

  Ferdinando Licata, who had recently turned forty, was among the last guests to arrive. He kissed the countess’s hand before addressing her. “Donna Paola, it is an honor for me to meet you. I must admit that what they say about your charm is inadequate to convey what is felt in person.”

  The noblewoman, advanced in years, was flattered by the prince’s words and impressed by his elegant appearance. “Prince Licata, when a woman is young, she is said to be ‘beautiful,’ but when she is on in years, the best thing that can be said of her is that she is ‘charming.’ I would like to be remembered for my brain.”

  Licata smiled. “Men are frightened of a woman who is beautiful and also endowed with intelligence. Your husband has indeed been fortunate.”

  The countess gave him a smile of complicity, and, with that, let him know that he could consider himself free to move on.

  Ferdinando Licata knew most of those present, and the few whom he had not yet had the pleasure of meeting were introduced to him by the host, Don Calogero Colonna himself.

  Almost all of the attendees were noblemen who had inherited feudal estates that they held by the grace of God and the king. Among the political figures invited were the liberal Antonio Grassa, the republican parliamentarians Vito Bonanno and Ninì Rizzo. There was even a delegation of journalists with Raffaele Grassini, the official spokesman of the Agrarian Party, and in addition, there was a representative of the Church, Don Antonio Albamonte, who was also a member of the island’s nobility.

  At that time a simple parish priest of the Cathedral of Salemi, Don Antonio was the youngest of three brothers. Due to family arrangements, he had been forced by his father to embrace an ecclesiastical career. But in character and unscrupulousness, he did not differ significantly from the others present.

  When introduced, Licata and Don Antonio took an instinctive and immediate liking to each other.

  Ferdinando Licata approached the group that seemed most passionate. At its center, a baron waved his arms like a rabble-rouser. “It’s all the fault of that idiot of a prime minister Salandra! To urge those few lazy good-for-nothings to fight during the war, he went and promised them that when they returned home, they would have ‘a piece of land all their own.’ ”

  “Salandra should have his tongue cut out,” echoed the honorable Ninì Rizzo.

  “No one can stop them now. And it’s not only the socialists,” ventured Marquis Pietro Bellarato, a short, stocky man who lacked the aristocratic bearing of a Licata.

  “That plaster saint Don Sturzo and his Popular Party have also gotten into it,” a quarryman concurred. “Now they too want to divide up our estates to distribute them to the people. What kind of a revolution is this? I for one am against it.”

  Paolo Moncada, the elderly prince of Valsavoia, joined in. “Devaluation is at historic lows and shows no sign of stopping. In one year, gold has risen from 5.85 liras per gram to well over 14.05 liras. That’s 240 percent. A staggering figure!”

  “The real plague to eradicate is the socialist scum,” Marquis Bellarato interjected firmly.

  “The problem is that they possess a majority of seats in the Chamber of Deputies: one hundred fifty-six,” said Moncada, stroking his long white beard.

  “But let’s not forget,” the republican Vito Bonanno concluded with satisfaction, “that the socialists didn’t even get one seat from Sicily.”

  “True,” agreed Moncada. “And the fascists were also left empty-handed. In a couple of years, they too will disappear. The ones that worry me, on the other hand, are the hundred seats held by the Popular Party, by that damned priest—forgive me, Don Antonio—that Don Sturzo, who wears a black cassock, though it might as well be red.”

  Raffaele Grassini, the journalist, joined the discussion. “Let’s not overlook the fact, gentlemen, that these were the first genuinely free elections since the unification of Italy. We have to recognize that the socialists are the true representatives of the people.”

  “This is the consequence of the right to vote, which our political signori chose to extend to all male citizens!” exclaimed Bellarato, the most hotheaded of the group. “Still, you have to consider that hardly more than fifty percent of the electorate voted.”

  “That’s because no one has ever had faith in parliament,” the quarryman offered. “Especially since the deputies were ignored by the king when it came time to decide on entering the Great War. Remember? The majority of deputies were in favor of not intervening, but the king decided all the same that we had to fight.”

  “Today, however, it is parliament itself that sets the political price of bread. We can’t support these prices anymore!” Marqu
is Pietro Bellarato shouted, attracting the attention of all present. “We’re selling wheat at a quarter of its real price. Why should we have to take it out of our own pockets? These reds are ruining us!” The assembly nodded, concerned. “They want to sow terror among the peasantry; their goal is to create panic. They provoke us in order to fuel the people’s resentment and incite them to take up arms to revolutionize the system, and gain possession of everything we own!” His final words silenced the entire gathering.

  Taking advantage of the lull, Count Calogero Colonna moved to the center of the room and, clapping his hands, requested his guests’ attention. “Dear friends, thank you for coming and participating,” he began, clearing his throat. From his jacket pocket he withdrew a sheet with a list of names. “I must inform you that four of us are absent. In the interest of protecting our holdings, you should know who they are: Baron Vincenzo Aprile, Count Gabriele Amari, Marquis Enrico Ferro, and Baron Giovanni Moleti. It is important to understand who are our friends and who are our enemies. And now I turn the floor over to our spokesman, the eminent Raffaele Grassini.”

  That said, the count sat back down. The journalist stepped forward to the center of the room and, wasting no time, began speaking, turning to the countess, who was sitting in the middle of the semicircle:

  “First of all, our thanks to our gracious hostess, Countess Paola Colonna, who has been kind enough to welcome us into her beautiful home.” He waited for the applause to die down before continuing. “On the agenda, and the reason why we are meeting this evening, is the need to decide what stance we should take regarding the provocations that all of us have had to put up with in recent weeks. Tenant farmers occupying our lands, who no longer want to pay rent; thieves who steal our livestock and then sell it to estate managers in distant areas. The situation is grave.

  “The central government is far away and at the point of economic collapse itself,” Grassini continued. “The budget’s expenditures exceed revenues three times over. The farmers who fought in the war, where they were able to eat at least one meal a day, have returned to a miserable, poverty-stricken life. Now these same farmers look with envy on those who stayed home to make their fortune. The lands are abandoned, partly for lack of workers, but in greater part because it’s to our advantage to let them lie fallow. Under these conditions, it doesn’t take much for the fuse of rebellion to be ignited, and, I assure you, there are certain ringleaders who are capable of fomenting revolutions even when there is much less rancor in people’s hearts. The question is, What should we do to stop this madness? The debate is open. To avoid confusion, try to speak one at a time and raise your hand first. Thank you all.” He moved to the side of the room and remained standing.

  “There is only one answer.” First to take the floor was Marquis Pietro Bellarato. “An answer that comes from the depths of centuries past, from our ancestors; an answer that has never failed: the force of arms! I, like all of you, have in my service an army of killers that cost me a fortune. Let’s give the people a good example, and everything will go back to the way it was before, you’ll see.”

  He sat down again. A hand went up beside him, and Baron Adragna spoke up: “The peasant farmers are like children to me. And children need to be spanked to make them obey. That’s all they listen to. I agree with the marquis.”

  The assents from the assembly seemed to indicate a general consensus.

  Prince Ferdinando Licata, who had remained silent and for the most part unobserved until then, raised his hand to speak.

  “I don’t think that’s a wise idea,” he began in a resolute voice, quieting the assembly. Marquis Bellarato, in particular, stiffened in his chair. Licata continued in a decisive tone, “Times are changing, and we must change with the times. Enough violence. We’ve had far too many deaths and losses. Our farmers want to form cooperatives? Let’s allow them to do so. They want to occupy the lands and petition the courts to recognize their rights? Let them make their demands. Let’s not oppose them; on the contrary, let’s support their petitions, help them prepare the papers.

  “I will go even further and say let’s make a little effort and participate in these cooperatives ourselves along with our most trusted friends. Let’s help them request funds from the Cassa Rurale, the agricultural bank, for the collective tenancies.”

  He paused, surveying his audience, and then continued in a more insinuating tone: “Who manages the Cassa? Is it not we? And won’t we be the ones who postpone the loans indefinitely?” He smiled slyly, and those present breathed a sigh of relief, though not everyone had fully understood the prince’s subtle humor and had to ask his neighbor to explain.

  “If I understand correctly,” Marquis Bellarato replied sarcastically, “we should assist them in their designs. Is that right?”

  “Exactly,” Licata confirmed. “We can control their movements, indefinitely put off the applications for expropriation, and later shelve them permanently, if it suits us. Let them think they will obtain loans for the leaseholds; we can deny them the funds with the excuse of some bureaucratic oversight or simply because the applications were lost in a fire and new documents will have to be filed. Or when it is to our advantage, we can give in and grant them those blessed pieces of paper.”

  “One gunshot, and everything will return to normal more quickly,” the marquis maintained defiantly.

  “Marquis, would you have our superb lands invaded by police and carabinieri from all over the continent?” the prince countered calmly. “Besides, violence leads to violence, death begets death.”

  “Prince Licata is right! We can’t have our lands invaded by the military police!”

  Everyone’s eyes turned to the source of the statement.

  It was Salemi’s parish priest, Don Antonio Albamonte, one of the most authoritative presences at the meeting despite his mere thirty-five years of age.

  “We are a civilized people,” Don Antonio began. “Violence must be avoided. Our farmers are like a flock of sheep that need a dog and a shepherd to guide them. Perhaps we can allow them to choose their own path, but we must see to it that we are always the ones leading them. While we can recognize the desire for reform on the part of those we protect, we also have a duty to ensure that ultimately nothing changes.”

  “But Don Antonio,” retorted the marquis, “if we do that, we’ll be like capons, who think they’re roosters even though they don’t have the balls!” The marquis’s laughter was echoed by most of the assembly. “Forgive me, Countess,” he apologized to the only woman in the room for his indelicate remark, before continuing. “They’ll eat us alive! It’s completely wrong! The shotgun is the only music these people understand, and the shotgun’s tune is what we must play for them!” He looked around at his neighbors, seeking approval. But the room had fallen silent.

  The moderator took the floor again. “Well, then. If I may interpret the thinking of this assembly,” said the journalist Raffaele Grassini, “we must choose between two streams of thought. That of Marquis Bellarato, who advocates the use of force, versus that of Prince Licata, who by contrast urges us to support the peasants’ ambitious pipe dreams while maintaining control over their initiatives. At the entrance, you were handed invitation cards. Indicate on the back which of the two proposals you wish to support.”

  The result of that vote would turn out to be a milestone for the Mafia in Sicily.

  Chapter 4

  – 1938 –

  The morning following Ninì Trovato’s pronouncement, Ragusa, more distraught than ever, went to the town hall to try to find out what the absurd ordinance meant from a practical standpoint. He couldn’t understand what being recorded as a member of the Jewish race in a civil status registry might lead to. Was it a good thing, or could it have ominous consequences? Someone would have to explain it to him.

  He put on his best suit, knotted his tie, and, accompanied by his son, Saro, hastened toward the town clerk’s office. He felt certain that fate did not have anything good in stor
e. His thoughts went to his children. He had hoped for a better future for them than his own, even if it were far away from that grudging land. Stellina, his youngest daughter, had married a quiet boy from Marsala, a city on the west coast of the island, and was perhaps better off than all of them. But Ester, the eldest, his first wife’s daughter, had just turned twenty-eight, and, despite her teaching diploma, she could not manage to find a job, much less a good husband. And then there was Saro, the little orphan they had adopted when he was still an infant and raised as their own son.

  Saro was shy; too sober for someone his age. A very intelligent boy, a ray of sunshine, with a thatch of light brown hair that he tried in vain to keep out of his eyes. At school he had always been the brightest in the class, but he’d had to settle for working for Domenico the barber, and for this, Ragusa could not forgive himself.

  When they arrived at town hall, Ragusa asked to see the town clerk.

  At that time, the appointed mayor of Salemi was Lorenzo Costa, a Ligurian who had landed in Sicily in 1918 as commander of a troop of Royal Guardsmen. Costa had managed to adapt to the changing times and, after his experience with the Royal Guard, had gone on to the new police corps, eventually founding a section of the Italian League of Combatants in Salemi. His political climb ultimately had led him to the town’s highest office. As mayor, he had appointed his most trusted man as town clerk: Michele Fardella, the only one who knew about all his misdeeds. He had assigned command of the local Fasci, the action squad or combat league, to Jano Vassallo, the son of Gaetano Vassallo. The elder Vassallo had been the leader of one of the most violent outlaw bands in the Salemi region prior to fascism and hadn’t been heard of for many years now.

  The action squad was made up of a group of dissolute young troublemakers, always ready to use their fists, emboldened by the authority conferred on them by Rome and by the personal protection of the mayor. In addition to Jano, the gang of tough guys included five of Salemi’s most desperate young men. The youngest was Ginetto, a real coward, though in a group, he punched harder than anyone else. Then there was Nunzio, the eldest son of Manfredi, one of the many emigrants from the early days. Prospero Abbate, Cosimo, and Quinto were the other three for whom the word bastards could be considered a compliment. Jano, their worthy leader, was a strapping young man with brawny shoulders and legs, whose presence aroused dread among the area’s inhabitants.