The Incident at Montebello (48 page)

In the kitchen Isolina clicked on the light and pulled an envelope out of her bathrobe pocket. The onionskin pages crinkled in her hands. Her heart beat faster imagining Cecilia Zanotti writing at her kitchen table surrounded by her herbs and potions. She wrote:

 

“
Dearest Isolina. I often think of you, dear child, and hope this letter finds you in good health. How are Lucia, Nietta, and Charlie? And how is your lovely Francesca? The picture you sent brought tears to my eyes. I can see so much of you and Rodi in her. Still, those big brown eyes remind me a little of Sofia.

As you know, life is always teaching us lessons about love, honesty, and truth. Sometimes, as I look around me, I wonder whether these lessons are hidden from the people who need them the most. However, I am certain, and I'm sure you'll agree, that we all must learn them through acts of God or man—whatever the situation might be. In Donato's case, it has taken a little of both. He's living now with the maid Marcella and their twin boys in your Nonna Angelina's house
.
Marcella keeps him under her thumb, just like Nonna Angelina used to. Still, he clings to the illusion that he's strong and powerful, but everyone in town knows it's a lie. Don Cosimo is squeezing his business dry and Prefetto Balbi keeps his eye on him.

Rest assured, dear one, Marie Elena and I are keeping a close watch on him too. I've taught Marcella how to read tea leaves and I've convinced her that she can receive messages from your Nonna Angelina, who still isn't pleased with him even beyond the grave. It's not an enviable position for him, but I'm certain that he will learn something from the experience. Don't you agree?

I hope this gives you a measure of peace as Mussolini completes his fifteenth year as premier, and his power shows no signs of weakening.”

 

Isolina lowered the papers into her lap. Peace. She had none. Cool breezes roaming through the kitchen climbed up her bare legs. Standing by the window, her arms folded tight, she waited for the wind to rise and the sky to lighten. On the horizon the familiar thin gray line was sketched between the apartment buildings. A moment later it turned pink and then orange, widening the crack between night and day—just enough room for the spirits to slip in. She almost held her breath, waiting for Rodi to whisper in her ear.

Rodi. Even after all these years, she couldn't say his name without tears gathering in her eyes. She sighed and reminded herself to have courage. She would have to be strong, because some day, some terrible day, a great sadness would visit her again just as surely as rain followed days of sun. Some day she'd add another picture and candle to her dresser, and she'd wonder if her heart was going to break. Some day too, Francesca would get married and leave her—she hated to even think of it—and her dear Lucia would join Rodi, Manfredo, Tiberio, Sofia, and dozens of cousins and friends in heaven or hell—who knew where. Even Donato would eventually leave this earth, his heart as hard as the fig tree. It couldn't happen soon enough. And what of good men like Elio Sardolini? It had been months since they had any news. When would he be free so he and Lucia could finally enjoy their happiness?

Restless, she slipped the letter in her pocket and grabbed the coffee grinder. As she turned the crank, the sun started climbing, erasing the shadows, and flooding the North End with light. From the other side of the apartment, Lucia's familiar steps echoed in the hall and she called out, “Isolina, is the coffee ready yet?”

“Wait. It's coming,” she grumbled as she set the metal pot on the stove and clicked on the gas, the blue ring of flame sputtering.

Lucia shuffled into the kitchen, yawning and cinching the belt on her robe. Francesca followed, her face creased with sleep. Isolina didn't even have a chance to murmur, “
Buon giorno
” when someone knocked on the door.

“Who can that be so early?” Lucia said, heading back down the hall and sliding open the bolt.

Voices rose and fell. A man's voice mingled with Lucia's. Isolina strained to hear what they were saying, but Francesca was hungry and tugged on her robe. She could be as stubborn as Rodi. Even her curls were just like his. “You can't wait?” she demanded of her daughter. “Are you that hungry?”

“Yes, mamma,” Francesca insisted. “I'm as hungry as a lion.”

In spite of everything, Isolina smiled. Sliding into a seat at the kitchen table, she pulled the little girl into her lap and handed her a piece of bread. The sun streaked across the kitchen, illuminating her hair with threads of copper, as brilliant as tapestry, and her smile that could warm the sternest heart. Isolina buried her face in that magnificent hair and nuzzled her cheek.

“You know I love you,” Isolina murmured.

“Of course, mamma,” Francesca said.

Isolina laughed and lifted her head. Lucia was walking towards them into the rim of light, a telegram in her hands. Isolina's heart beat faster as she searched Lucia's face, trying to decipher the message there. Tears glimmered in Lucia's dark eyes, which made Isolina shudder and wonder if this was the day, the terrible day she always feared.

Surely, there was enough evil in the world to break every person's heart and just enough goodness to exalt as many souls. Once, just this once, she pleaded with her pantheon of saints and angels, let goodness win. She nudged Francesca off her lap and drew her arms around Lucia, who was trembling. “Tell me,” she insisted.

Lucia spoke softly, but clearly; still, Isolina made her repeat her words. “Is it true?” Isolina cried.

“I can hardly believe it,” Lucia said. “But he wrote it himself, right here.” She tapped the telegram with his words:
SAFE WITH FRIENDS IN PARIS. MY HEART IS YOURS. WON'T REST UNTIL WE ARE UNITED.

As Isolina and Lucia read and re-read Elio Sardolini's message, smiles swept across their faces. Isolina reached down and grabbed Francesca, lifting her high, swooping her over table and chairs as if she were a bird on that windy hilltop in Montebello, circling the crown of Vesuvio, the blue, blue of the sea and clusters of yellow and green houses clinging to the mountainside. Someday after Mussolini's power was finally broken, she'd take Francesca to the place she'd always keep in her heart, the place where Vesuvio shot fire into the sky, the place where she fell in love with Rodi, and the place where Lucia and Cecilia had given her gifts of wisdom, more precious than gold or silver—Never resort to bitterness even in moments of great sadness and despair. Nurture some hope within. Have faith that the pain would eventually ease and the heart would heal again. And most importantly, trust in the impossible—that love would return one day, splendid and enduring.

 

 

This novel is a work of fiction, but it is shaped by several historical events. The news of Premier Benito Mussolini's hit-and-run first broke in the United States in January 1931 from an unlikely source—Major General Smedley Butler of the United States Marine Corps. He supposedly heard the story from Cornelius Vanderbilt, Jr., a passenger in Benito Mussolini's sports car on September 24, 1930 and a witness to the child's death. While Benito Mussolini, the Italian Ambassador to the United States, and pro-Fascist organizations hastily issued denials, the rest of the world reacted sharply. Anti-Fascist activists and newspapers like
Il Nuovo Mondo
confirmed the story. Despite intense pressure by the U.S. government, Major General Butler stood by his statement that Mussolini was a hit-and-run driver and a “mad dog” for war.

For several weeks,
The New York Times
covered the story in depth, culminating in the formal apology by American Secretary of State Stimson for Major General Butler's “discourteous and unwarranted utterances.” Fearing the damage to his reputation, Mussolini still insisted he was not vindicated. Ultimately, Major General Butler was placed under house arrest and court-marshaled by President Hoover. At that point,
The New York Times
reported that Mussolini was satisfied and declared, “I considered closed the incident, which, for my part, I have already forgotten.” Although officially exonerated, the charismatic dictator Benito Mussolini never regained his popularity.

During those early months in 1931, Cornelius Vanderbilt issued contradictory statements about the accident, indicating that Mussolini was or wasn't guilty of the hit-and-run. But several years later in his autobiography
Farewell to Fifth Avenue
, Vanderbilt wrote about his horror at witnessing the accident and the dictator's callous disregard of the fatally wounded child and her family.

In addition to news articles, several books were particularly helpful. Carlo Levy's
Christ Stopped at Eboli
, Ann Cornelisen's
The Women of the Shadows: A Study of the Wives and Mothers of Southern Italy
and Alberto Moravia's
The Conformist
provided essential background material.

Special thanks Alex T. Ross and Brandon Moore, the talented illustrators of my book, and Jason G. Anderson, who worked with me via Skype and email from Tasmania as he formatted my book. Many faithful readers and friends cheered me on throughout the writing of this novel. I am especially grateful to: Diane Black, Nicola de Sousa, Jane Zirkin, Maria Kastanis, Kenny Bornstein, Susan Pitkin, Alyson McCormick, Linda Nussbaum, Marsha Moed, Joel Weinstein, Neil Marks, Martin Moed, Naomi Woronov, Arza and Brian Goldstein, Colleen Tobin, Lisa Mandese, Stacy Levy Yafeh, and Kathy Hymoff for their unwavering support, insights and comments on the manuscript. Fellow writers Kay Sexton and Bunny Goodjohn from Zoetrope.com reviewed early versions of the book and provided thorough and invaluable critiques.
Grazie tanto
to my
professoressa d'italiano
, Toni King Callahan, who proofread my Italian and became a champion of this book. I'd also like to thank Dottore Edmondo Marra of Volturara Irpina, who gave me a wonderful glimpse of small town Italian life in the Apennine mountains south of Naples and introduced me to relatives who never left Italy. But above all, I deeply appreciate the love and support of two wonderful men, Richard and Alex, who encouraged me to write this story.

 

November 13, 2012

Grand Rapids, Michigan

P.A. Moed is an award-winning creative artist who has worked as a university professor, writer, textbook editor, photographer, corporate trainer, educational consultant, and instructional designer. Her short stories, photography, poems, and essays have appeared in national newspapers, magazines, and online websites, such as The
Christian Science Monitor
, Catholic Online Travel, The Washington Post Travel Online, Travelblogs.com, and
Cooking Light Magazine
. A recipient of writing fellowships at The Vermont Studio Center and Ragdale, she won the grand prize in 2006 Travel Writing Contest sponsored by Condé Nast and Gather.com. She currently lives in Michigan with her husband and hosts the blog
http://www.pilotfishblog.com
. Contact her at:
[email protected]
.

americani:
Americans

 

americano:
American

 

Andiamo:
Let's go.

 

Arrivederci
: Goodbye.

 

autostrada
: highway

 

Avanti:
Forward march!

 

Basta:
Enough! Stop!

 

Bella Ciao:
popular anthem for Italian anti-fascists

 

berretta
: cap, hat

 

Buona fortuna:
Good luck.

 

Buon giorno
: Good day.

 

caffè:
café

 

cara
: dear (for a woman)

 

cara mia
: my dear (for a woman)

 

caro mio:
my dear (for a man)

 

Certo
: Certainly.

 

Che bella
: What a beauty!

 

Che disastro
: What a disaster!

 

Che puzza
: What a stink!

 

cimaruta
: Italian folk charm worn to protect the wearer from the evil eye

 

ciocce
: (slang) breasts

 

coglioni
: (slang) testacles

 

cognoscenti
: people who have knowledge in a particular field

 

cornuto
: (slang) cuckold

 

coraggio
: courage

 

crema
: cream

 

delizioso
: delicious

 

don
: term of respect for a Mafia boss

 

dottore:
doctor

 

fascista
: Fascist

 

fascisti
: Fascists

 

Finito
: Finished. Done.

 

genitali
: genitals

 

Giovinezza
: the Fascist anthem

 

Giustizia e Libertà
: famous anti-fascist publication started by the Rosselli brothers
.

 

Grazie
: Thank you.

 

inglesi
: Englishmen

 

italiani
: Italians

 

La Gazzetta dello Sport
: a sports magazine popular in Italy

 

lire
: Italian currency (plural)

 

lira:
one unit of Italian currency

 

mafiosi
: (plural) members of Italian organized crime, i.e., the Mafia

 

mafioso
: (singular) a member of Italian organized crime, i.e., the Mafia

 

manu fico
: powerful sign to ward off evil spirits, made with a closed fist and the thumb poking through the index and middle fingers