The Incident at Montebello (46 page)

Nonna Angelina brought her bad temper back from the farm. She claimed the drafts swirling through the house made her ill, so he helped her upstairs. Soon she was enthroned in bed with a hot water bottle at her feet and a cup of garlic tea cradled in her hands. Marcella claimed the four cloves of garlic steeped in hot water had great curative properties, but they made his eyes burn.

While Nonna Angelina dozed, he read the latest news in the paper—a chorus of American politicians clamoring for Mussolini's removal from office and in rebuttal, the Italians insisting the
americani
were trying to discredit the Great Mussolini, who had no intention of being their lackey and scapegoat. But Donato's mind wandered. He worried about Nonna Angelina's reaction to Lucia leaving with the children. Fear made him queasy and clouded up his thoughts. Uneasy, he glanced over the edge of the newspaper. She was staring fixedly at him. He was hoping to glimpse some kindness in her eyes, but he could find none.

“Lucia never showed up with the children,” she said.

“I let them go. I had no choice, mamma. She said she'd blackmail me and tell my old boss I took his money.”

“And you believed her?”

“She said Prefetto Balbi would find some reason to arrest Charlie, and I knew she was right. You saw what Balbi did to him.”

As she listened, Nonna Angelina plucked her blanket. “I have a fool for a son.”

“What else could I do, mamma? How could I put Charlie in more danger? Prefetto Balbi warned me Charlie was under suspicion. He figured out that Charlie played the record during the wedding, and thanks to Sardolini, he was recruited to deliver messages to the anti-Fascists. What could I do? Balbi has me by the balls.”

“If you had listened to me, Sardolini would have been gone months ago. My son is a fool. I'm happy your father isn't alive to see what kind of man you truly are.”

“How can you think so little of me?”

“I tell the truth as I see it.” While he was still reeling from her attack, she demanded, “What happened with the reporter?”

She was relentless and made him squirm, but still he answered, “I told him a bunch of lies. Hopefully, he believed them.”

She frowned. “But that's not everything. I can tell by the look on your face.”

He could have saved himself by making a quick escape, but he couldn't budge. “I made sure the priest kept quiet, but Don Cosimo pulled a fast one on me. He drove the reporter to the train station. Who knows what he said.”

“Don't you know the
mafiosi
have no scruples? They only look out for themselves.”

“I know.” He nodded, humbled. “Can you forgive me, mamma?”

“How? You didn't keep your promise.”

“I tried, mamma. I'm sorry I let you down. I'll make it up to you.”

Nonna Angelina raised an eyebrow. “If I don't die first.”

He sighed. She had been dying off and on for years. “Please don't change the will, mamma.”

“Why not? Unlike you, I keep my word.”

“I'm your only son. Haven't I always done whatever you wanted?”

“Until now.”

He stared at her in uneasy silence, waiting for her to soften, but instead, she called Marcella, who ran up the stairs from the kitchen. “Do you have any of those biscotti left? And bring me some coffee.”

“Yes,
signora,
” Marcella said. “And does the
signore
want some too?”

He opened his mouth to answer, but Nonna Angelina cut him off. “He's not staying.”

He was stunned. And so, he had no choice but to stagger home to his empty house. Sunk deep in thought, he lingered at the table, smoking and sipping wine, trying to dispel Nonna Angelina's coldness, which numbed him. If she said she'd change the will, she would. But he also knew he'd find a way back into her heart by proving to her what kind of man he truly was—a man of substance, importance, and drive.

All that nonsense with Lucia and Sardolini had distracted him from his original plan to make his mark in town. His business concept, simple but brilliant, was to finance the town's first telephone and install it in Mosca's
caffè
. The curtained alcove at the rear of the store would resemble a confessional—except for the calendar and the phone numbers scribbled on the wall. After the customer placed the call, an agent hired by Donato would collect the fees—with force if necessary—before the customer left the booth. He'd put up the necessary capital and share the profits sixty-forty with Mosca, who would jump at the chance. Why not? While waiting to place their calls, customers could sip espresso or nibble on some lemon
torta
. Everybody knew telephony was the wave of the future. It would put Montebello on the map. It would bring Montebello into the Twentieth Century—a little late, perhaps, but no matter. With a business like that, Nonna Angelina would be proud of him again. And what about Lucia? The hell with her. The hell with Iggy. And the hell with his boss Vittadini. A man needed to feel like a man. With money in his pockets, he could conquer the world.

The guard rattled his keys, selected one, and fit it into the cell door. From all corners of the large windowless room, men stirred and cursed as the guard raised his lantern and shouted, “Sardolini.”

The
politico
lifted his head and staggered to his feet, relieved to be leaving the dank gloominess of the cell where he had spent a night curled up on a mattress on the floor amidst men reeking of fear and sweat. Still, as he shuffled out of the room, he shivered with apprehension when the guard shoved him down a long corridor and through a series of doors. In the main holding area, he was shackled to new guards. Gio Batta was a homely fellow with a blunt slab of a nose and pocked skin. His partner, nicknamed Fagiolino, had a handlebar mustache and kinder eyes, at least.

As they stepped into the street, the sun warmed Sardolini's shoulders. “Where to now?” he asked Fagiolino.

“Frosinone.”

“Frosinone?” he repeated, incredulous. Only the worst cases were sent there. The very name filled him with dread. “Why there?”

“How the hell do I know? Orders,” Gio snapped.

They waited for hours at the station in Castellammare. The train was supposed to leave at nine, but the conductor and engineer didn't turn up until eleven. When at last they fired up the furnace, soot showered down on Sardolini and blackened his clothes, already wrinkled and dusty from the night in jail and on the run. When the whistle blasted, his guards surged through the crowd, dragging him along past piles of luggage, howling babies and soldiers on leave. Sliding open the compartment door at the rear of the train, they nodded to the passengers to the right and sank in unison onto the cushioned seats on the left. The guards bracketed him like ugly bookends. Sardolini glanced at their neighbors—a widow, her two children, and an older gentleman wearing a smart suit and bowler hat. The boy and girl were poking each other, jostling for the best seat, while the widow, a plain woman with a thin film of hair on her upper lip, struggled to calm them down.

When the train lurched down the track, Gio pulled out a newspaper and Sardolini peered over his shoulder at the headlines. The Mussolini-Butler scandal was still front-page news. The American general had apologized to Il Duce, who graciously accepted. Why not? It made him look magnanimous and got him off the hook. And what if this signaled a return to diplomatic normalcy? Where did that leave Sardolini and the anti-Fascists who had fought to reveal the truth about Sofia's heartless murder? The answer was simple. Nowhere. Why then did Lià, Manfredo, Tiberio, Rodi, and scores of others sacrifice their lives? And why did he risk his neck to help some good people, if in the end, he had achieved so little?

Sunk deep in thought, his misery increased with every passing kilometer, but he was roused out of his gloom by the cheerful old man sitting opposite him who pulled out a sack of roasted pistachios and offered some to the children. Before long he was busy cracking open the shells for them and teasing them, but the children chewed silently, their eyes darting towards Sardolini and veering away. To entertain them, the old man sang a peasant song about Campriano and his donkey, and the children joined in, their voices mingling in harmony, much to Sardolini's delight. The boy reminded him of Charlie, his brown hair flopping over his forehead, and the little girl resembled Nietta with her long braids decorated at the end with ribbons. How he missed them and Lucia, and prayed they were safely out of Montebello and on their way to America. In his absence, his brother Sam would help them get settled in Boston. Even though he was often scatter-brained, Sam had a kind and generous heart. And someday when Sardolini joined them in the North End, he imagined the meals they'd eat together for Sam was a wonderful cook.

“What's your name?” Sardolini asked the little girl, but she buried her face in her mother's sleeve.

Gio yanked on his arm. “Shut up if you know what's good for you.”

“Can't a man be friendly to a child without someone jumping down his throat?” Sardolini grumbled.

“You talk too much,” Gio cried. “Haven't you learned your lesson by now?”

Apparently not. Sardolini stared out the window at Vesuvio looming over the Gulfo di Napoli, its azure waves glinting in the sun. As the train meandered north, it stopped often to let on more passengers laden with bundles, small livestock, and crying children. Periodically, sleepy policemen climbed aboard and inspected documents. Depending on their mood, they either nodded to him and his guards or, just as likely, they were irritable and officious, subjecting him to prolonged and pointless interrogations.

The train left the coast and headed deeper inland, traversing patches of farmland, clusters of poplar trees, and cottages made from white stone, stark against the winter sky. Amidst the harsh landscape, patches of color caught his eye—yellow and green houses clinging to the mountainside and gaudy carts pulled by oxen with crumpled horns, their rumps swatted by
paesani
women, dressed in black.

When the widow and her children disembarked in Caserta, the old man dragged out the wicker hamper wedged under his seat and offered Fagiolino and Gio some homemade mozzarella and smoked sausage, which they quickly accepted. Sardolini, who had eaten nothing more than the widow's bread since his escape, devoured their skimpy leftovers, but his stomach complained.

After their meal, the old man lit a cigarette and offered the pack to the guards who joined him in a smoke. He gestured to Sardolini with his cigarette and said, “So where are you taking him?”

“Frosinone,” Fagiolino said. “He tried to escape, but he didn't get far.”

“What is he? A communist?”

“An insurrectionist,” Gio said, as if Sardolini were invisible, which made him fume with indignation.

“Filthy bastards. They should all be shot,” the old man muttered, much to Sardolini's dismay.

Fagiolino said, “Don't worry. After a few months in Frosinone, he'll wish he was dead.”

Gio said, “Last week, we were on this train with another fellow who escaped from Frosinone, but he didn't get far. We had almost arrived at the station when he rushed towards an open window that was jammed open. Before I knew what was happening, he stuck his head out as we entered the tunnel. It's so narrow it just took a second.” With his cigarette, he drew an imaginary line across his throat.

Sardolini's heart was pounding. A wave of disgust swept through him.

“Cowards, the lot of them,” the old man said. “They can all kill themselves as far as I'm concerned.”

“He left quite a mess at the station,” Fagiolino said. “The fellow didn't have the decency to do his dirty work in private.”

The old man squinted at Sardolini, who stared back at him, trying to conceal his despair.

In the late afternoon they passed through Bellona. Sardolini squeezed his eyes shut and tried to fight the waves of panic that cascaded through him. As the train shuddered and swayed through the small towns north of Cassino, the guards dozed. He stared at his handcuffs, one on either wrist, and the full weight of his hopelessness pressed down on his shoulders.

When the sun was setting, they emerged from a narrow tunnel and sidled up to the station in Frosinone. The brakes screeched and the train jerked, sending packages tumbling from the overhead racks. When his guards stood up, he was forced to shuffle along with them, but all the while, he was thinking about the nameless, faceless prisoner who had killed himself rather than come back here to prison.

When Gio stepped onto the platform suspended between the cars, he pointed to a boarded up window. “That's where he did it,” Gio said. “You should have seen all the blood.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Sardolini demanded, but Gio just laughed.

As he clambered down the stairs to the station, his legs were trembling. Staggering along with the guards, he glanced up at the sky, searching for stars, but he saw no pinpricks of light or hope.

“Move it,” Gio cried, tugging on his arm.

Sardolini forced his feet to move, but his heart cried out for Lucia. What if his worst fears came true and he died here? How would she ever know? Who would care enough to tell her how much he loved her and how his heart broke all over again because he was separated from her, the woman who mattered most to him in this world? To the
fascisti
, he was just a goddamn anti-Fascist, whose dreams, thoughts, and hopes didn't matter. So were the people whom he loved and who loved him. He was simply a name on a list and a number, signifying nothing.

BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS AND MONTEBELLO, ITALIA

1936-1937

 

That Friday in May, Isolina glanced out the shop window on Hanover Street where the
americani
rushed past, clutching bundles and small children who struggled to keep pace. Breezes stirred the trees and the delicate collars of the ladies' cotton dresses. The fresh air, darting through an open window, fluttered the curtains and died in the stuffy shop.