The Incident at Montebello (32 page)

Long past midnight, Donato lingered in the
caffè
, drinking whiskey. As he raised his glass, he caught his reflection in the mirror behind the bar, startled that he was as pale as a corpse. He should be celebrating his victory over Rodi, but the little runt had done him no favors. Soon the radical Carlo Tresca would splash his name all over the
americani
newspapers. His boss Vittadini would see it and know where to track him and the money down. The old man counted every penny. That was part of the pleasure of taking it—knowing that every missing dollar would hurt him.

He was content to sip his whiskey, but his friends wouldn't leave him alone. Arturo waved him over to their table in the corner.

“What the hell happened to you last night?” Pasquale said, smoothing his gleaming hair.

“We missed you,” Arturo said. “Lelo, the lucky bastard, screwed us out of our money.”

After he recounted his sorry tale of the robbery, Pasquale and Arturo shook their heads and patted him on the back. “They were probably anti-Fascists in disguise,” Pasquale said. “They travel in packs, you know.”

Arturo leaned towards him and whispered, “They'll think twice before they touch one of us again. We taught Manfredo a lesson—one he'll never forget.”

That's when Donato noticed Arturo's knuckles, cut and bruised.

“The mayor called us heroes. He's giving us the keys to the city,” Pasquale added.

“Tiberio's next,” Arturo whispered. “We're burning down his house tonight.”

Donato's friends were excited about this development. In their eyes, he could see their hunger for justice and revenge. “Give me a cigarette,” he said, grabbing one from Pasquale. His hands shook as he pressed it between his lips and struck a match.

“What's the matter? You're not getting soft, are you?” Arturo said.

“If you were beaten, robbed, and forced to walk for hours, how would you feel?”

“Have another drink,” Pasquale said.

As he smoked a cigarette, he told himself over and over that Pasquale and Arturo's zeal was admirable, but excessive. All night long, they were beating the patriotic drum. “You heard what the mayor said. It's your duty,” Pasquale cried, long after midnight.

“I do my part,” Donato said, hoping they'd leave it at that. He didn't want to advertise that he was doing Prefetto Balbi's dirty work.

“What's the matter? Don't tell me you feel sorry for the bastard,” Arturo said.

“Of course not,” he said.

“Come with us,” Pasquale insisted.

“I'm tired. I'm going to bed.”

Arturo laughed. “And you fought in the war? Where's your courage? Did it all dry up?”

Insulted, Donato cried, “Shut the hell up.”

“Good. Let's go,” Arturo said.

With his reputation and honor at stake, he tugged on his hat and gloves and stumbled after his friends, their footsteps echoing through the hushed streets. On the way to Tiberio's, they met up with Roberto the butcher and a few Blackshirts carrying torches. As they tramped up the street, the militia started singing the Fascist anthem
“Giovinezza”
and Donato and his friends joined in. A swell of pride ballooned in Donato's chest, and once again, he reminded himself that he was doing his patriotic duty.

When they marched up to Tiberio's door, Donato rushed forward and knocked, but the Blackshirts laughed. “This is how you do it,” one soldier cried, banging hard enough to break the door down.

After a few minutes, Tiberio peered out of the second story window, a sweater hastily thrown over his nightshirt. As his eyes swept over Donato and his friends, a faint smile crossed his face. “So it's you, of all people,” he said.

“Come out,” Pasquale cried, but Tiberio slammed the window shut.

The Blackshirts and the others charged into the house and grabbed Tiberio who was buttoning his pants by the stove. “We'll give you one more chance,” Arturo threatened.

“Go to hell,” Tiberio muttered. In reply, the Blackshirts shoved him against the wall.

“You're no friend of Mussolini. Do you deny it?” Pasquale said.

Tiberio stared at each man with such intensity that Donato squirmed as if the fruit seller's eyes were boring through him, all the way down to his socks. Tiberio declared, “I make no secret of my beliefs. And I have the courage to stand behind them.”

“That's your mistake,” Pasquale said.

Tiberio shook his head. “Unlike you, I'll die in peace. My conscience is clear.”

While the Blackshirts pinned Tiberio's arms behind his back, Roberto kicked him in the balls. Tiberio crumpled to the floor, clutching his
coglioni.
Donato and the others took their turns, but he endured the blows to his stomach and face in silence, his teeth clenched.

“Fight, goddamn it,” Pasquale cried, seizing him by the hair and tipping back his head.

“Why?” Tiberio said. “So you can feel like a man?”

The Blackshirts dragged him out the door and across the yard. Donato and his friends helped them hogtie Tiberio and lash him to a tree. They all took turns smashing their fists into him until blood trickled out of his nose and ears and his moans reverberated through Donato's head. After one vicious blow to his gut, vomit shot out of his mouth. Donato flinched, staggered backwards, and gulped fresh air, trying to dispel the waves of nausea that swept through him. He was painfully aware of Tiberio sagging forward, his body bloodied and immobilized. Gagging, Donato retreated while the others kept punching.

Pasquale caught him clutching his knees and gasping for air. “And you fought in the war?”

“It's the whiskey,” Donato cried, but Pasquale laughed. To rescue his pride, Donato grabbed his torch. “Leave it to me. I'll finish the job.” Running across the yard, he burst into Tiberio's house, his eyes sweeping over the orderly kitchen—a dishtowel folded on the counter, the starched curtains hanging over the sink. He hesitated but reminded himself that he was a soldier who had a job to do.

“What's taking you so long?” Pasquale cried, barging through the door. He thrust his torch into the curtains, a pile of newspapers, anything that burned. Soon, flames were shooting out of the couch and cabinets. The Blackshirts raced upstairs and finished the job.

As the fire surged around him, Donato tossed the torch into the blaze and ran outside, joining the others in the yard. While the fire leapt from room to room, he took nervous puffs on his cigarette. He didn't ask them about Tiberio. He didn't want to know whether they had stabbed him to death or simply left him tied to the tree. Instead, he lingered by the fire, its heat beating against his face and chest. Its wild, leaping dance stirred memories of the war when he tramped through the smoking remains of Verdun, Louvemont, Bras-sur-Meuse. Here and there women and children cowered among the ruins until they recognized the Italian uniforms. Rushing forward, they seized the soldiers' hands and kissed them. Others carried gifts—a flower, a loaf of bread, a pot of jam. Every woman was beautiful to him—young, old, toothless—it didn't matter. After weeks of wading through muck and blood and listening to the screams of dying men, these lovely, innocent creatures stirred him deeply and reminded him that life still pumped through his veins.

Pasquale roused him out of his reverie. “Our work is done,” he said as the inferno fizzled into a smoldering mass of charred wood and rubble. With that, Donato and his friends plodded back to town. At the Via Condotti, he patted his friends on the back and dragged himself towards home. Once inside his house, he shot the bolt on the door and slumped over the kitchen table, smoking cigarettes and sipping wine. As he raised the glass to his lips, he was startled that his hands were tremoring like an old man's.

He staggered towards the small bedroom off the kitchen. In the murky light, he could make out Lucia, who was sleeping there. The sight of her—her soft arms raised above her head, her hair spiraling across the pillow—made him struggle for breath. Emotions crowded into his chest and throat and clamored for his attention. These feelings, long boxed up like sentimental relics, sprang open, each one releasing a painful memory—Sofia dying, Lucia's infidelity, his father's death, Charlie's hatred of him—dozens of them. He should have never gone to the bar. He should have stayed home. A sob caught in his throat and he wiped his eyes on his sleeve. What was the matter with him? He was as weak as a woman, at the mercy of his emotions. It had to be the liquor.

Lucia stirred and sat up in bed. “What is it? What's wrong?”

“Go back to sleep.”

“You're drunk.”

“How clever of you to notice.”

“I smell something burning.”

“It's a man's business. Go back to sleep.”

He didn't remember stumbling upstairs to bed, but hours later, he awoke and rubbed his aching head. The children were squabbling in the kitchen and their voices drifted up to him, but he didn't mind. Somehow they reassured him that life had not changed all that much during the night. This was his comfort—that his actions the night before had protected them from a truth so ugly and heinous that he couldn't admit it even to himself.

In the middle of the night, Sardolini jerked awake and sat up in the dark. There it was again. He wasn't dreaming it. Throwing back the quilt, he lit the lamp and swung open the door, revealing Crispino the baker, his face creased with worry and sleep. Puzzled, Sardolini paused and then waved him inside.

“If you need help with your bread or your ovens, you came to the wrong place,” he said over his shoulder as the baker followed him into the kitchen.

“I wish it was that simple,” Crispino said. “I have some bad news. The
fascisti
struck again tonight.”

Sardolini blinked in surprise. He had heard rumors that Crispino was a sympathizer to the cause, but he had no tangible proof of it until that moment. “It'll go no further than this room,” he promised. “What happened?”

Crispino spoke in a hoarse whisper. “The
fascisti
burned down Tiberio's house. You can be sure they tried to kill him.”

Sardolini's mind telegraphed a warning, but still he asked, “What can I do?”

Crispino frowned. “Are you sure? It's your neck too.”

“I know and I want to keep it. But you wouldn't come here if you had someone else to help you.”

Crispino nodded. “I trust you, Sardolini. You're the best we have. Rodi is a moving target and Faustino is covering the radio. The news from Roma isn't good. They've put out an executive order to shoot all the insurrectionists in the area.”

The news gripped him in the stomach. Still, he reached for his pants, not because he was noble or brave. Hardly that. His stubborn and persistent desire to defeat the
fascisti
fueled him, as well as the challenge of matching wits with them. After stuffing a flask of brandy, a pocketknife, and matches into his coat pockets, he grabbed the lantern and followed Crispino into the frigid night. Clouds veiled the moon and stars. The air smelled of smoke. In the distance, Vesuvio brooded, its orange fires simmering.

As they neared Tiberio's house bordered by a margin of trees, he flinched when Crispino gripped his sleeve and pointed to a band of men tramping across Tiberio's yard. Following Crispino's lead, Sardolini blew out the lantern and crouched behind the trees at the side of the road as the men filed past, their cigarettes and torches glowing. Among them, Sardolini recognized several familiar faces and swore under his breath. When the last footstep faded away, Sardolini and Crispino stumbled towards the smoldering ruins of Tiberio's house. Only the barn was intact. He was peering inside the stalls when he picked up a sound distinct from the wind. It was lower, more insistent. “Did you hear that?” Sardolini hissed. There it was again.

“Stay here,” Crispino instructed, but Sardolini promptly ignored him. As he trudged across the grass, he paused, swinging the light, illuminating the fringe of trees and bushes separating the yard from a field. He heard it again, clearer this time. It was a human sound—persistent and pitiful. He clambered towards it, his heart racing. Crispino was right on his heels. He raised the lantern again, sweeping the light over the dusky form of Tiberio lashed to a tree. He was barely breathing.

Sardolini's hands shook as he cut through the ropes with his pocketknife, freeing Tiberio, who slid to the ground. As he rolled Tiberio over, the foul stench of vomit and shit enveloped him. He swallowed, but a lump of disgust and pity filled his throat. “We've got to get him inside,” he told Crispino who seized the fruit seller's arms while Sardolini took his legs. Together, they staggered towards the barn, Tiberio's body sagging between them. Tiberio groaned again and Sardolini managed to say, “It's all right. We have you now,” but his voice was sucked away by the wind.

Crispino kicked open the barn door and they lowered Tiberio onto the straw. Years of experience in clandestine operations hadn't prepared Sardolini for this. His confidence ebbed. He had no idea what to do.

Behind them, the door creaked and Sardolini whirled around. A woman stood there, a lantern in hand. Sardolini's heart beat faster as she swept the light over Tiberio's face, a deathly white. His eyes, lips, and jaw were distorted, puffy masses. His nose and mouth were caked with blood and vomit.

“Go home,” Crispino told Lucia.

“You need my help,” she insisted. “The doctor won't come and Isolina and the midwife are busy delivering Amelia's baby. We'll have to do the best we can without them.”

Crispino threw up his hands in surrender as Lucia knelt by Tiberio's side, unbuttoned his ruined shirt and pants and pulled them off. In no time, Crispino was bringing her a bucket of water and Sardolini was helping to roll Tiberio on his side while she sponged off his face and rear. Overwhelmed by the stench, he turned away, taking deep breaths. Crispino was no better. He hovered by the door, his face averted. When she was finished, she told Sardolini to get rid of the ruined clothes, which he tossed into the smoldering fire. Together, they wrapped Tiberio in a horse blanket and Lucia tucked her shawl around him. “It will have to do,” she said.