Unto the Sons (27 page)

By now, the summer of 1860, Garibaldi’s fame had spread from Italy throughout Europe and Asia. His conquest of Sicily and his invasion of southern Italy had made headlines in every major newspaper in the world, and books about his adventures were already being translated into many languages. The elder French novelist Alexandre Dumas had joined Garibaldi and was moving with five thousand of his followers up into the hilly southern mainland. Most Protestants in the United States, if not its many Irish Catholic immigrants, were favorably impressed with what they read about Garibaldi. In Protestant England there were fund-raising rallies for Garibaldi’s benefit, and his supporters included Florence Nightingale, Charles Dickens, and the second duke of Wellington, son of Britain’s victor at Waterloo. Also in London were clothiers who featured the latest in female fashion—red-colored Garibaldi blouses.

By late August 1860, five days after Garibaldi’s Redshirts had landed on the tip of southern Italy, they had moved more than sixty miles up the western coast, but they still had about two hundred miles to go before reaching Naples. At this time Garibaldi learned that Cavour was sending royal Piedmontese troops down from the north, hoping that they would get to Naples before Garibaldi, thereby denying him total credit for being the kingmaker of a united Italy. Garibaldi, however, moved quickly and unopposed with help from many citizens in southern Italy who were eager to be on the winning side. In Vibo Valentia, which is
about twenty miles southwest of us, there was a local baron who had contributed handsomely to Garibaldi’s war chest and had also provided a three-hundred-man posse of farm workers and shepherds, armed with shotguns, axes, and scythes, to thwart eighty Bourbon soldiers who had been trying to block the road leading into Vibo Valentia.

After Garibaldi’s Redshirts had stormed through Vibo Valentia, and continued northward through the coastal town of Pizzo, Garibaldi accompanied an advance guard into the Maida valley on August 29, 1860. Arriving at the crossroads, he was greeted by five elderly men who, hats in hand, were standing under a tree next to a large statue of Saint Francis, in the arms of which someone had stuck the tricolored flag of the Italian Republic. The most senior of the delegates, a slightly stooped white-haired gentleman, Signor Farao, stepped forward in front of Garibaldi’s horse, and called out: “Hail to you, invincible General. We salute you as the redeemer of Italy.”

As Garibaldi stopped his horse and saluted, Signor Farao asked him to come into our town, where the townspeople were waiting to pay their respects. Knowing that his men needed a rest, since they had not paused since leaving Pizzo, Garibaldi turned over his horse to an aide, and sent out word that everyone should dismount and relax in our olive groves. He then joined Signor Farao and greeted the others in the party. Among these were the town’s two outspoken Socialists, my forebears, the Schettini brothers. Riding in the lead carriage with Signor Farao, Garibaldi moved uphill and smiled at the farmers and their families, who stood along the road calling out his name and tossing flowers in his path. They also tossed long loaves of bread to Garibaldi’s cadre of young Redshirts who trailed the carriages, and who took quick bites from one end of the loaves before sticking the rest through the bayonets of their muskets.

Church bells were ringing as the entourage arrived in the square, where people were gathered together and a band was playing.…

Joseph had heard the story of Garibaldi’s entrance into Maida many times before, but it had been told in a manner lacking the celebratory quality of Don Achille’s version. Joseph had heard it from his grandfather
Domenico, who had described the event frequently and with disgust, and sometimes extreme anger. Domenico had said that when the townspeople were alerted to the fact that Garibaldi’s carriage was approaching, the local band quickly began to play the popular new war song, the “Hymn of Garibaldi”—this same band which, until the invasion, used to begin each evening’s concert with the “Hymn of the Bourbons.” Domenico also said that although the church bells were ringing, there was not a single priest in the square on that day. Domenico himself was in fact more closely identified with the Church than anyone else in Garibaldi’s audience.

Domenico, then twenty-two, had recently left the seminary and returned home to run the farm after the sudden death of his parents and older brother. They had been crushed in a rock slide when they were out riding along the southernmost cliff of the town. Domenico had always reminded Joseph that during those days he wore a crucifix around his neck, and the single-strapped sandals of the seminary, and his hair was cut very short in the manner of the Franciscans with whom he had been studying near Naples. What had angered Domenico most of all during Garibaldi’s visit was the red-shirted cadres’ riding along with the bread impaled on the bayonets.

The sight had sickened him. Bread to him had always been a sacred substance, the staff of life, the symbolic flesh of Christ himself. Domenico had been taught as a child to handle a loaf of bread with special care, as had most other God-fearing people in the south—the tradition, Domenico observed sorrowfully, had obviously not extended to Garibaldi’s heathens of the north. The longer he focused on Garibaldi’s horsemen, the more horrendous became their effrontery, their profanity in skewering the yeast of the Eucharist with blades that were doubtless stained by the blood of Bourbon soldiers.

Hearing hoofbeats behind him as he stood waiting in the square for Garibaldi to speak, Domenico turned to see a young red-shirted soldier prancing forth, lifting a cup to his lips, and pulling a piece of bread from his upraised bayonet. Without hesitation, Domenico leaped forward, grabbed the bridle, and screamed: “You blasphemous pagan pig! I hope you choke in hell on that bread!”

Just then the band finished playing the “Hymn of Garibaldi,” and Domenico’s wrathful voice carried throughout the square—where it was heard by hundreds of people, along with the neighing of the soldier’s bolting horse, and the cursing of its rider, nearly toppled from the saddle. Everybody in the square, and in the balconies above, turned toward the
scene, including Garibaldi. Jumping up from his chair on the platform, Garibaldi called out: “What’s the meaning of this? Come to order over there!”

“I was insulted and struck by this man here,” the soldier cried out, still struggling to control his nervous, high-kicking horse.

“You have desecrated our bread with your vicious weapon!” Domenico replied, adding with an accusing finger directed toward the guards: “You, and your companions over there, are
savages!
”

With these words the tension in the square seemed to thicken, and a few farmers and shepherds, armed with shotguns, began to shout harsh-sounding words in a dialect that Garibaldi could not understand. Signor Farao rushed to his side, whispering into Garibaldi’s right ear. Nodding, Garibaldi then turned back to the crowd and lifted both hands in the air in a gesture of peace.

“Brothers and sisters,” he called out, “please remain calm. There has been a slight misunderstanding between two sons of Italy.” Turning toward the soldier who had been attacked, Garibaldi continued: “Dellepiane, remove that bread from your bayonet
at once!
” He then repeated his command to the soldiers who had posted themselves behind the platform, and said: “Signor Farao has kindly offered to take our bread to the church and have it blessed.”

As the red-shirted soldiers lifted the loaves up from their bayonets, the church bells began to ring again, and, at Signor Farao’s suggestion, the musicians picked up their instruments and played once more the “Hymn of Garibaldi.” Garibaldi removed his kepi, bowed toward Signor Farao, and then handed it over as a souvenir. Signor Farao accepted it with a smile, held it above his head to be seen by all, and beckoned with his hands for a round of applause. Some applause followed, and, as the guards surrendered their bread on the platform near Signor Farao’s feet, the audience relaxed and remained as patient as before to hear, when the band had finished, a few memorable words from the mouth of the renowned visitor.

Domenico, however, had already left the square.…

Oh, it was a glorious day—that August afternoon in 1860 when our hero visited our village on his way to unifying the nation. Within a year, the great unifier had brought together the north and the south under the single rule of Victor Emmanuel II. The first capital of the new nation would be Turin, the former capital of Piedmont. In 1865, the capital of Italy would become Florence.
And finally, in 1871, against the will of the Pope, it was moved to Rome. Victor Emmanuel II established his court at the Quirinal Palace, which had been the papal residence, and the Pope established his residence within the Vatican.

Now, in this Jubilee year of 1911—fifty years after Garibaldi inspired our unification—Rome is the site of a huge white monument to King Victor Emmanuel II, which I hope you students will someday visit. It overlooks the Piazza Venezia, and it’s more than seventy yards in height, and it is adorned by marble columns, mosaics, fountains, winged statues, and, towering above the center staircase, an equestrian figure of the king. The king died in 1878, and his grandson now occupies the throne. Our first prime minister, Count Camillo Cavour, died at fifty in 1861, shortly after the first meeting of our national parliament. Giuseppe Mazzini, the Risorgimento’s most radical promoter, died in 1872. And our hero died at seventy-four, in 1882. During the American Civil War, the United States’ President Abraham Lincoln had offered Garibaldi a generalship if he would fight in the Union Army, but Garibaldi at that time had too many reservations about leaving Italy to fight abroad.

On the occasion of Garibaldi’s death, his obituary appeared in every major newspaper in the world.…

14.

T
he skies had darkened and the wind was colder as Joseph left school shortly before two p.m. to return to Cristiani’s tailor shop. With his collar turned up, he made his way across the wet cobblestones while holding slung over his shoulder the cloth bag that contained his books and the lunch he had brought from home and intended to eat in the back of the shop. It had rained while he was in class, and pigeons waded through the puddles on the ground. Above the wind Joseph could hear the hammering of two workmen who were building a wooden stage in the center of the Piazza Garibaldi for the Nativity scene. A life-sized statue of the Christ Child in the manger would be placed on the stage later, joining two costumed citizens representing the Madonna and Joseph. Down in
front of the stage a half-dozen bagpipers would gather to serenade the crowd with their reedy, high-pitched melodies.

Reaching the edge of the square, Joseph paused to let the shepherd Guardacielo pass with his flock, which had been grazing in the upper hill near the cemetery and was now being led down toward the cliffside barn owned by Domenico. The barn was on the edge of his grandfather’s property, behind the shack occupied by Pepe, Domenico’s distant cousin with the reptilian skin who lived apart from everyone else. Guardacielo nodded under his hood toward Joseph as he strolled behind the sheep, holding a long stick in one hand and a shotgun in the other. The fleece of the sheep was beige-colored and still wet from the earlier rain or the heavy mist drifting down from the mountain and sweeping across the square.

Trotting next to the sheep were three watchdogs with steel-spiked collars. Joseph remembered Mr. Cristiani saying that when it was freezing in the mountains the wolves often foraged for food in the lower hills; and as they pursued the sheep, they became entangled with the defending dogs. Joseph shuddered as he looked at the sharp points of the collars, realizing that he had not seen them before on the dogs this year.

Nearing the tailor shop, Joseph saw his seventeen-year-old cousin Antonio seated at the window, sewing with his head down. He quickened his pace, anxious to talk more to Antonio about what they had discussed earlier—his cousin’s running away to Paris, finding an apartment and job, and then arranging for Joseph to join him there
if
Joseph in the interim could be trusted to keep it all very secret from the rest of the family. Learning about Garibaldi in school had sparked Joseph’s interest in travel and adventure; but the enormity of his cousin’s plan, and Joseph’s responsibility in maintaining its secrecy, had made him quite nervous as he had gone off to school in the morning, minutes after Antonio revealed his scheme. Now Joseph was again apprehensive as he approached Antonio. The beating Antonio had taken from his father after mailing those fashion sketches to King Victor Emmanuel III had alerted Joseph to the possible consequences of doing things without family permission. Still, he did not want to be left behind in Maida if Antonio succeeded in getting to Paris.

Joseph opened the door and waved toward Antonio, and was about to say something about Paris—but his cousin, as if reading his mind, quickly leaned back in his chair and pressed a finger to his lips. Joseph softly closed the door and looked puzzled as Antonio began to frown and seem
tense. Joseph then noticed that Antonio’s father was standing within earshot, behind a counter to the left of the door, measuring material. The blood rushed to Joseph’s face as he realized how close he had come to blurting out something that would have probably tipped off Mr. Cristiani to their secret.

“Ah, there you are, Joseph,” Mr. Cristiani said pleasantly, looking up from the counter. “How are you?”

“Fine,” Joseph said, weakly.

“How was school?”

“Fine,” Joseph replied, swinging his shoulder bag to the floor.

“Joseph,” Mr. Cristiani said with concern, “are you all right?”

“Yes,” Joseph said. “I was a little tired, but I’ll be all right.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t work this afternoon,” Mr. Cristiani said. “Maybe you should go home and get some rest.”

“No, I’ll be fine,” Joseph said, looking at Antonio, who was sewing busily with his head down.