Calogero soon became known throughout the Vallone, as well as in the neighboring provinces, as a “connected man”—that is, a man you could depend on. The people he recommended were absolutely trustworthy. This activity enabled him to develop a vast network of people that included not only men with more or less clean criminal records but also noblemen, large landowners, politicians, and monsignors.
As time went by, this extensive system of collaborators and supporters formed the nucleus of a true, tight-knit family, or cosca. Calogero won the respect and esteem of the major landowners, managing to acquire for himself lands and estates that the legitimate owners could no longer maintain. Obviously, he was involved with the law on numerous occasions, but he always came out clean; only once was he disgraced by going to prison. No one ever managed to find him guilty of the thirty-nine murders, six attempted homicides, thirty-six holdups, thirty-seven burglaries, and sixty-three extortions that he had committed or ordered. This was the “man of honor” Lucky Luciano and Saro Ragusa were to meet with in Sicily.
* * *
Late one night in spring, Luciano was taken from his comfortable cell at Great Meadow and transported to a secret airport used by naval intelligence, near the Hudson River. Waiting for him there were Saro and Charles Haffenden. On the airstrip, a brand-new Douglas C-54 Skymaster that would take them to England was warming up its engines.
Haffenden informed Luciano that they would not be landing in the Gulf of Castellammare on the northern coast of Sicily because the submarine that was to transport them couldn’t get there by that date. Instead, from the Mediterranean island of Malta they would board a fishing vessel that would drop them off on the southern coast near Gela, landing near a small promontory west of town. From there two villagers with a car would take them to the meeting with Don Calò. The boss had already been informed and had agreed to meet Luciano near Palermo.
Immediately afterward, they would make their way to the coast of Capo Grosso on the north shore, midway between Palermo and Termini Imerese. There a fishing boat would be waiting to ferry them to the submarine that would take them back to Malta, from which they would then head back to America.
“Can we count on you returning to the States, Mr. Luciano?” Haffenden asked as he accompanied him and Saro to the hatch of the four-engine aircraft.
Luciano squinted his eyes, as if to focus better on the commander: it was his typical expression that brooked no argument. “No one is virtuous enough to be spared from temptation, Commander, but we’re Sicilians. Sicilians have nothing but their word, and we’re capable of dying for it.” He shook his hand and boarded the plane followed by Saro, who couldn’t stop admiring his every gesture.
An infantry unit, headed to a battalion stationed in England, had already boarded the C-54. Saro and Lucky sat down side by side on the wooden bench that ran the length of the compartment.
“This is my first time on a plane, Mr. Luciano,” Saro told him.
“Call me Charlie,” the other replied affably, adjusting his position on the uncomfortable seat. “Better get used to it. They’ll make you act as go-between, so you’ll be traveling a lot.”
The plane taxied on the runway and began readying for takeoff.
“Charlie, have you met Don Calò?” Saro asked him.
“I was only seven when my mother and I left Sicily to join my father in America. But I still remember my mother telling us about this kid who at just twenty-five had already become a respected man. She would tell us those things to make us see that ‘America’ could also be found in Sicily and that there was no need to leave our land. She argued about it with my father, who felt humiliated by her words. He was a machinist; he worked in a brassware factory in Brooklyn. But hard work doesn’t make money,” Luciano said in a knowing way.
“But how did Don Calò get to be the padrino di tutti i padrini—the godfather of all godfathers—in Sicily?” Saro persisted.
“Through friendships,” Luciano replied enigmatically. Then he went on: “You have to bestow favors and always make yourself available to people so they will then feel a moral obligation of gratitude and loyalty toward you. If you analyze those who are successful in life—government officials, industrialists, landowners, entrepreneurs—all of them excel at this. All men are corruptible: either they’re greedy for money, or they want to appear powerful.
“But let’s grab some shut-eye now. They got me up at three this morning.” He turned up the collar of his jacket, crossed his arms, stretched out his legs, and closed his eyes.
* * *
In the early afternoon, they touched down on a secondary runway north of Bovington Camp in southern England. The infantry unit piled off the plane, and only Luciano and Ragusa remained. The copilot walked back with some sandwiches and said that, once they’d refueled, they would immediately take off for Malta. They would arrive at their destination within three hours.
And so they did. Thanks to favorable winds, the plane landed at the airport in Malta about ten minutes early.
That same night, at the port of La Valletta, they embarked on the Santa Maria, a trawler with a Sicilian crew. Saro embraced the three fishermen who spoke in his dialect. It had been several years since he’d heard that mixture of countless influences that formed his regional dialect. Suddenly he thought of his family. He smiled when he imagined his father Peppino’s face if he were to see him with Lucky Luciano. And then, like a flash, he saw an image of Mena. Sweet Mena. His mind struggled to recall her. It seemed like centuries had passed since the promise of that night. How naive they’d been!
Once they boarded the vessel, it promptly moved out to sea toward Gela. It was the middle of the night when they came in sight of land. The moon lit up the coast enough for them to make out the small promontory near which they would be dropped off. They saw the flare of a lamp, and then a second and third in quick succession. It was the all-clear signal.
* * *
Saro and Luciano got in the military dinghy and, paddling briskly, ran ashore some minutes later. After four years, Saro once again touched the soil of his native Sicily. But he had no time to be moved by it because two men were waiting for them on the beach, signaling for them to hurry up. One of the men gave them dry pants and shirts, while the other hid the skiff in a cleft in the rock. The first man said his name was Michele and the second, the younger one, was Nicolino. It was the only words they spoke.
As soon as Saro and Luciano changed clothes, they followed Michele and Nicolino to a black Fiat Millecento parked on the road nearby.
“We have a long way to go. More than a hundred miles, almost all on dirt roads, so we won’t run into the Black Shirts. Still, we’ll have to pass through Agrigento and then Caltanissetta.” Michele sounded nervous. He knew that if they were stopped, they would end up in jail until the end of the war.
“Do you know who I am?” Luciano asked.
“No, voscenza, they didn’t tell us, sir. They just asked us to be sure and treat you with kid gloves.”
Luciano smiled and leaned back against the seat, giving Saro a meaningful look.
* * *
Now sixty-five years old, Don Calò had returned to Villalba after his term in prison, to lead the life he’d always lived. A sober, unassuming life, in a modest house, where he was looked after by a spinster sister, Marietta, in whose name he had registered a substantial share of the Belaci estate. The elderly woman took care of her unmarried brother, serving him with the frugal, industrious diligence of a priest’s housekeeper. Calogero Vizzini’s thriftiness was not due to avarice, but to an age-old respect for the value of things.
The meeting between Lucky Luciano and Don Calò, the greatest padrini of all time, was an event that all mafiosi would look back on with great emotion. It was like Christians witnessing the union of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, the latter represented by Saro Ragusa on this occasion.
When they finally arrived at Don Calò’s house, Saro and Lucky Luciano were surprised and somewhat di
sappointed to see the kind of place he lived in and how he was dressed. Especially Luciano, who, as an American, viewed power as a force to move people and money through managerial flair and determination. Don Calò appeared before his unknown guests wearing striped pajamas, the top open in front to reveal a freshly laundered undershirt, and a pair of leather slippers on his feet. The elastic waistband of the pajama bottoms came to just above his stomach, completely covering his big belly. Don Calò invited them into the dining room, where they sat around the table on old wooden chairs with straw seats. The dutiful Marietta prepared coffee made from real Brazilian coffee beans, a rarity in Italy at that time.
“The landing of the Allied troops in Sicily is imminent,” Luciano began. “The fascists’ days are numbered, and the Americans are asking for our help to gain the support of the island’s population.”
Lucky Luciano told him his story, to clarify his role in the whole affair, recounting the visits the US Navy’s intelligence chief had made to his jail cell. The fate of the war in Europe was in their hands. This could mean a number of things, Luciano explained. In return for the favor, at the end of the conflict, they would have a chance to place their men in prominent positions in future administrations. And they could work directly with the armed forces command to maintain order in the cities and towns. At long last, the Mafia and the Cosa Nostra would be officially recognized.
Don Calò listened in silence. His gestures were extremely slow and wary. From time to time he nodded, to show that he was following what Luciano was saying. And as Luciano gradually ran through the future scenarios that would come about in exchange for the “favor” granted to the invading troops, Don Calò got a sense of the important deals he could look forward to for many years to come.
He also realized that his power, dimmed by the five years he’d recently spent in prison, would return, making him more formidable than ever. All of his trafficking would have the tacit approval of the occupation troops. Don Calogero Vizzini would enter Sicily’s history as his people’s greatest benefactor.
Don Calò was not much for fine words and grand phrases, so when Luciano finished explaining the facts, his only response was to get up from his chair, walk over to his guest, take his hand, and make him stand up. Saro automatically rose too and saw the big Sicilian clutch the slim Lucky Luciano in a forceful embrace. Luciano, more astonished than ever, put his arms as far around the don as he could, returning the hug. Then Don Calò, still scowling, but aware of the importance of the moment, planted a kiss on his mouth—a kiss that Luciano couldn’t dodge.
As they were leaving, the American boss took a yellow silk scarf out of his bag and handed it to Don Calò, explaining that in a few months, someone, probably a soldier, would show up with an identical scarf. That man would be his representative. Don Calò was to do what he asked, to ensure a successful landing.
Don Calò took the scarf and unfolded it. An L had been embroidered in the center, in black thread. Still looking grave, he said, “It stands for Luciano, I suppose.”
“No. It stands for Lucky—that is, “fortunato”—the other replied with a smile.
Don Calò balled up the scarf in his fist and put it in his pajama pocket. “I will treasure it dearly” were his last words, and with that, they said good-bye.
Chapter 52
In the weeks that followed, the Sicilian populace was exposed to a subtle, insistent wave of propaganda. From the major cities to the most remote villages, everyone knew that the Americans were about to land to liberate them from fascist oppression. Everyone was ready to welcome the foreigners with open arms. The war would soon be over. Fascism was almost defeated, and the people were exhausted.
Mothers told their soldier sons not to fire so much as a single shot at the liberators, but to surrender and thereby save their lives. Mussolini himself had decided that it should be mainly Sicilian soldiers who would defend the island’s soil. Among the ranks of the five divisions, two brigades, and one regiment stationed on the island, three-quarters of the troops were born in that region. And, as Don Calò himself had said, lending a hand to the infiltrators planted by US intelligence was an easy way to earn merit points for the postwar phase. With the landing imminent, desertions were numerous, in part because the soldiers were worried about the families they’d left behind in their villages.
Sicily had been hammered by bombings since the beginning of the war. Messina, more than any other city, was a target because of its strategic location. Ninety percent of food supplies and war equipment passed through the strait between the island and the mainland. But other cities weren’t spared, either: Palermo, Augusta, Trapani, Siracusa, Ragusa, and especially Catania, which suffered the most devastating bombardment, with over three thousand bombing victims in a single day. The strategy of those attacks was aimed at crushing Italian morale.
Shipments of goods ceased almost entirely. Bread and pasta disappeared from the markets. Meat had become a distant memory for most people, soap could not be found, and nor could oil and sugar. There was no choice but to buy those foods on the black market, which increased prices astronomically.
In those gripping days, many of the four million Sicilians alleviated their hunger by eating carobs, which had previously been fed to donkeys, horses, and pigs. In such a climate, people’s anger against the government was ready to explode. In May 1943 the front page of a Catania newspaper bore a photo of the Duce under the banner headline “The Fiend Responsible for the War.” Copies sold out within hours.
Amid the social and political turmoil, the Mafia, now backed by the Allies, had gone back to exerting its control over the region and over basic food products. Palermo was supplied with 450,000 rations of wheat, matching the reputed number of its inhabitants. In reality, during the months of bombing, two-thirds of the citizens chose to evacuate to the countryside, where everyone had a brother, cousin—someone he or she knew. When the rations were distributed to those who had remained in the city, there were at least 300,000 left over, which were regularly sent off to be sold on the black market.
Don Calò also worked directly with the counterespionage forces. He told his affiliates that to support the invasion, they had to collaborate with their American friends by every available means, even if it meant sabotaging the enemy’s weapons. Over the course of the spring, German armored tanks belonging to the Goering Panzer Division stationed in the province of Palermo experienced mysterious breakdowns: someone had diluted the oil in their tanks with water. Some of the vehicles suffered melted engines and had to be pulled out of the units. Ships weren’t immune from sabotage, either, and many cargo vessels were forced to remain at anchor as a result of tampering.
Salemi, in those frenzied days of late spring, had its heroes. The Italian Aosta Division and the Nazis’ Fifteenth Panzergrenadier Division, part of which had been assigned to defend Caltanissetta, had been camped in the countryside outside the town. Roughly a dozen assault guns, four half-tracks, six Panzer Tigers, and five trucks with a convoy of heavy artillery and related logistical supplies were about to set out from the plain of Salemi to reach a new post near Caltanissetta. Though it was confidential information, the convoy’s departure soon became public knowledge, thanks to some young women who had been cavorting with soldiers from the German tank corps.
In recent years, a substantial group of antiregime dissidents had formed in Salemi. One of the most active factions was represented by Nicola Cosentino, the deceased Rosario Losurdo’s former campiere; Turi Toscano, the salt miner; and Pericle Terrasini, the charcoal burner. Joining them in the last few months was Pepè, the grandson of Ninì Trovato, the mayor’s factotum. His grandfather was unable to control the young man and feared for his life. He’d told Pepè more than once that he shouldn’t be seen with those people. Ninì Trovato was well aware of the means that Jano Vassallo used to “straighten out” those with a “dirty conscience,” as he called it. But Pepè, though he had not yet turned eighteen, had a mind of his own. He too wanted to figh
t for a better life, since the fascists, drawn into the war by the Germans in 1940, were only paving the way for a future of slavery.
Word of mouth carrying Don Calò’s instructions had reached the ears of a few honorable men in Salemi, and the four friends had quickly rolled up their sleeves and set to work, wanting to be recognized as worthy participants of anti-German resistance. On one occasion, the four had sabotaged a truck used to requisition sacks of grain from Losurdo’s farm. Pepè, being small, had crawled under the vehicle and loosened the oil pan screw just enough to make the oil leak out a little at a time but not enough to look like sabotage. A few days later, the truck’s engine seized, and the poor mechanic was chewed out by the corporal.
The convoy’s departure could be an opportunity to score another act of sabotage. But what could they come up with? Turi Toscano had an idea. The following night, they drove off toward the coast in a cart loaded with picks, shovels, hammers, and nails. They knew that the convoy would be headed south to Castelvetrano and from there east along the coast to Agrigento, before continuing to its destination.
They exited at Santa Ninfa, went past the town, and at the large junction leading to Castelvetrano on the right and Partanna on the left, they switched the signs. But their work wasn’t over. Turi had also devised a masterful finishing touch.
They drove on to Partanna, less than four miles from the intersection, and on the outskirts of the village took down the sign indicating its name and replaced it with one they’d prepared ahead of time, marked “Castelvetrano.” Finally, to complete the hoax, they stuck a new signpost in the ground, with an arrow and the word Agrigento.
The Prince Page 44
