Blood alone bbwim-3

by James R Benn

  "At the house of Signor Patane. His wife is ill. Yesterday I told him I was a dottore. I thought it might make him less anxious. He asked if I would examine her this morning." He combed his wet hair back with his fingers and set off, the country doctor making his rounds.

  "Why didn't you tell me before?" I asked, quickstepping to keep up with him.

  "Because I thought it would make you more anxious."

  "Listen, hiding out here is one thing, but going into a village, isn't that dangerous? What if there are Fascist sympathizers?"

  "See, you are more anxious already. Be thankful I did not tell you last night and ruin a good night's sleep. There will be no Fascists there. Do not worry, my friend."

  "Did he say what was wrong with her?"

  "She is weak, and coughs up blood. He is very worried about her." "Hasn't he taken her to a doctor?"

  "There is no doctor here. This is nothing but a little village where people work as they always have for the very rich, who pay very little."

  "What about in Palermo or Agrigento?" I asked.

  "That is the other side of the world to these people," he said. "They would have to walk there, and she is in no condition to do so. And there is the war. Even if there were no war, there would be bandits on the road. No, there is no way out for them."

  "Sounds like the stories of Ireland under the English my uncle used to tell me. There was nothing there for the Irish but hard work and death. No way out, except to leave for America. Uncle Dan never forgot his grandfather telling him about digging for potatoes and coming up with nothing but shrunken, rotted things not fit to eat. He was the only one of his family to survive the potato famine."

  "Did not your father speak to you about this? Only your uncle?" Sciafani didn't miss a beat when it came to family. His view of the world didn't seem that far off from the one I was brought up on. Family first, which meant your father, then the rest of them, then the rest of the world.

  "My uncle is the older brother. He remembers those stories better, and he's never stopped being angry about it. He's a policeman too, and he's also IRA." Sciafani raised an eyebrow in a silent question.

  "Irish Republican Army. The IRA fight the British to free Northern Ireland."

  "Ah," Sciafani said. "You come from peasant revolutionaries."

  "I don't know about that," I said, not happily.

  "No, do not take offense. Peasant is a class, not an epithet. And to be a revolutionary in such circumstances is natural. Some say this is how the mafiusu came to be. Still today, when a young man is inducted into cosa nostra, he takes a blood oath to protect the weak from the powerful."

  "That doesn't sound like the mobsters I knew in Boston," I said, wondering how he knew so much about this.

  "No, I am certain it is quite different in America. And the reality is different here also. But what is important to remember is how these men see themselves. Look, ahead, there is the village."

  We turned a corner in the rutted dirt road and I saw a clump of low buildings. A small church at the far end anchored the cluster against a slide down into the ravine that curved in front of us. As we crossed a small stone bridge, the smell of human waste slammed into my nostrils. A ditch by the side of the road carried a sluggish flow of brown, foul liquid from the village to the ravine, where it spilled over into a dark pool and fed the small stream at the bottom.

  "It is better when it rains," Sciafani said.

  "I bet," I said, not wanting to open my mouth any farther to tempt the swarming flies.

  The church was nothing more than a gray dome surrounded by grayer walls, the stucco long since peeled away to reveal the lines of rough-cut stone, fitted tightly together. The houses were all the same-low squat buildings, some of plain concrete blocks, others of stone, but all in the same square shape, with crumbling, faded orange roof tiles. They radiated out from the church, as if each home wanted to be as close as possible to their priest and prayers.

  The first house we walked by was abandoned, shards of roof tiles bleaching in the sun where they had landed on the ground. It stood alone, away from the rest, as if it had fallen out of favor, the tragedy, bad luck, or both of the last residents still clinging to it. The doorway showed traces of soot, and the faint smell of smoke drifted in the air. The rest of the homes were hardly in better shape. No flowers or little gardens decorated the landscape. It was uniformly gray-the hard-packed dirt road, the stones, and the dust on my shoes-all the color of granite crushed down to powder.

  Doors were shut, and no curious villager peeked out at the two strangers walking in their street. One of the doors was painted with a black streak, over which per mia madre was written in white.

  "For my mother?" I asked Sciafani, guessing at the words.

  "Yes. It is a sign of mourning in these villages." He looked at the ground as we walked, avoiding my eyes and the scene around him. He seemed uncomfortable, and I wondered if the poverty and grimness we had encountered was embarrassing to him or if it reminded him of part of life in Sicily he didn't want to think about.

  Another door was hung with black cloth. Another had nothing but a slash of black paint, weathered and cracking in the dry air. Death was everywhere, even far from the battlefield. A low rhythmic sound echoed from the stone walls. A chant. We stopped, and a priest in a black cassock came from around a corner, his hands holding up a prayer book, his skirts brushing the dirt. Behind him four little children held their hands in prayer as they followed in line. Six men held a plain wooden coffin on their shoulders. The wood had a fresh-cut look to it, and I could smell it, the aroma of pine and sawdust lingering as they passed by. Women dressed in black wept as they brought up the rear, shuffling along with veils covering their faces, the only brightness evident in small white handkerchiefs fluttering from pockets and disappearing beneath gauzy black veils. We watched the small procession make its way across the piazza and around the church, probably to a graveyard where someone had hacked a hole out of the stony earth.

  "Pleasant little town," I said.

  "This way," Sciafani said, ignoring me as he turned right at the entrance to the central square. He strode ahead of me, eyes on each house, looking for Signor Patane's. Then he stopped short and fixed me with his eyes, his face flushed.

  "I come from such a town as this. It is a very difficult life, one you should not mock."

  "I wasn't mocking," I said, holding up my hands in protest, or perhaps surrender. "I didn't mean it that way, I'm sorry."

  "Very well. Come, this is the house."

  "Wait a minute," I said, grabbing him by the arm. "I thought you said your father was a doctor in Palermo. I don't see many doctors coming from a village like this."

  He pulled his arm from my grasp and turned away from me. He wiped his face with one hand and breathed deeply, as if readying himself for a difficult task. "I did come from a village much like this one. I was adopted by a husband and wife who could not have a child. He was the doctor from Palermo. As often happens, as soon as they adopted me, she bore a child. But it did not matter to either of them-we were both treated as blood."

  "What happened to your parents?"

  "We should not keep il signor Patane waiting." With that, he knocked on a bare wooden door, the grain bleached to a light gray by the harsh Sicilian sun. It seemed odd to me that a guy who was adopted would be the same one who preached about only trusting family. Trusting them to do what, that was the question.

  I followed the good dottore in as Patane opened the door. The room was cool, a relief from the heat. An old tasseled rug covered the stone floor, and the walls were bare of decoration, except for a picture of the Virgin Mary, her immaculate heart in flames. The furniture was old and worn but clean. A side table gleamed, a thin coat of dust starting to coat the glossy wax shine. Signora Patane took her housework seriously. Her kitchen was spotless too. I waited there while Sciafani and Patane went into the bedroom off the kitchen, where I could hear a harsh cough that wouldn't stop. The coughing continu
ed through softly murmured words, and I knew she was very sick. I got up and looked around the kitchen. Pots on a shelf gleamed. Iron skillets still damp from oil rubbed into them hung from hooks on the wall. Jars of seasonings were lined up full along the counter. Dried peppers and garlic cloves hung in twisted strands from a rafter. Everything was ready, clean, and in order. Irish or Sicilian, it didn't matter. I knew a woman who kept a kitchen like this yet didn't greet her company on her feet with cakes at the ready was in bad shape indeed. From the look of how stocked everything was, I thought maybe she didn't expect to be back on her feet any time soon.

  I wandered to the rear door to check for an exit. Another row of houses backed against this one, a wide alley separating them. Plenty of room to run. A wash bucket on the stoop caught my eye. Water had splashed onto the stone and hadn't dried yet. Patane must've put it out here as we knocked on the door. In the bucket, floating in sudsy water, were white handkerchiefs, spotted with blood. I thought about the white handkerchiefs in the funeral procession, and wondered if he'd be able to clean these. And if he'd paint his door black, or drape it in cloth.

  A wave of sadness passed over me. This village was awash in death, an everyday occurrence. Not from the war, but from a lifetime of killing labor and poverty. This was what my family had left Ireland to escape. This was what Sciafani couldn't escape, even with his position and education. The life of suffering of the peasant. It had descended upon him as he walked into the village, apologizing for the smell. It is better when it rains.

  Sciafani and Patane came into the kitchen, shutting the door behind them. Patane looked to the dottore, hope battling with fear in his eyes. Sciafani shook his head gravely as he put his hands on the old man's shoulders and spoke to him, softly, gently, masking the harsh words with an apologetic tone.

  Tubercolosi was all I could make out. It was enough. Patane nodded, receiving the news he knew was coming with as much dignity as he could. His eyes welled with tears, but he did not give in to the emotions playing across his face. Sciafani dug into his pocket and pulled out the other fifty-lira AMGOT note. Patane refused, but Sciafani pressed it into his hand, nodding his head in the direction of the bedroom. It wasn't much. Four bits, but that would buy some good food for Patane's wife. He took it.

  I waited while they spoke more in Italian. Patane pulled a bowl from under a counter and gave us each an orange. He smiled at me as he said something I didn't understand. I shook his hand and felt it tremble in mine. I could tell he was proud to be able to give his company something, and probably right now, with the war about to appear on his doorstep, a couple of oranges were one helluva gift. I felt the handkerchief as I stuffed the orange into my pocket, and for the first time realized that it could mean something for the people of Sicily as well as for the GIs who might have to fight their way through this town. If the Mafia boss could keep enough Italians out of it, villages like this might not be caught up in heavy fighting.

  I thought about Signora Patane. She had a right to die in her own bed without artillery shells and machine guns all around her. She should have a nice funeral, with the chanting priest and small children leading her to the grave. Signor Patane should come home and smell the herbs his wife had collected for him, sit in their kitchen, and remember all the meals they had shared there. None of that could happen if tanks rolled through here, if bombers dropped their loads on Italian soldiers barricaded in houses, their polished furniture thrown up against doors and windows to protect them.

  "Let's go," I said.

  "Yes," Sciafani agreed. "There is nothing I can do here." It looked as if the thought pained him, or maybe it was memories. Having said goodbye to Signor Patane, he squeezed through the narrow doorway as quickly as he could and stood in the street, letting the sun wash over him. There was nothing he could do, about the dying woman or the ghosts of his own past.

  CHAPTER SIXEEN

  We passed the cemetery in the rear of the churchyard as we walked out of town. The funeral was over, the little group of mourners clustered under the shade of a beech tree. The tears and wailing were past; sadness had given way to quiet talk and closeness. Some wandered among the markers. One woman led a little girl, pointing to a grave, telling the story of her family. I couldn't hear her words, but I knew the gestures. Here is your great-grandfather. Here is your poor cousin, only a baby.

  "How long will it be for Signora Patane?" I asked Sciafani.

  "Difficult to say. Too long at the end. I pray she can die in peace."

  I was about to protest that Italy was not at peace, but I understood what he meant. Their young men had been taken away to war, but the people of this village knew little of the outside world. If life was hard, it was also tranquil. Unless and until the armies decided to fight over this piece of land. Could it be important? It was on a back road through the mountains. Ahead of us was an intersection with a wider road. Good place for a pillbox. The church didn't have much of a tower, but it still would make a fair observation post. Put a couple of machine guns at the stone bridge we crossed, snipers in a few houses, and in no time we'd be calling in artillery coordinates.

  As if in echo of my thoughts, the drone of engines drifted from the south. Four, no five, twin-engine planes, maybe a thousand feet up. I shielded my eyes from the sun and tried to make them out. One trailed smoke.

  "German," I said, as soon as I saw the black crosses. "Probably coming back from a run at the beaches." They turned in a wide arc, passing over us, headed northeast.

  "There is some good news," Sciafani said. "I wanted to wait until we had left the house to explain."

  "OK, tell me."

  Sciafani looked a bit more relaxed as we put our backs to the village. He glanced at the now distant aircraft, and I was relieved his mind was focused on more current concerns.

  "Signor Patane was most grateful and asked if we needed transportation. His nephew is leaving for the market at Agrigento with a load of olives. He is waiting for us there, at the main road." Sciafani pointed to a skinny kid next to a cart painted every color in the book and then some.

  "You didn't tell him we were going there, did you?"

  "No, no, no," Sciafani said, shaking his finger. "I told him we would be glad to accept a ride to Favara, which is on the way. It is better than walking."

  "Yeah," I said doubtfully. "But what if we're stopped? I stick out like a sore thumb in this uniform. At least if we walk we can stay off the main roads."

  "That is a problem for you, yes. But not for me, since I am now a civilian. So, we will hide you."With that, he was off at a trot, waving to the kid and jabbering in Italian.

  The two-wheeled cart was painted with flowers and hearts and every damn thing under the sun. It wasn't that big, and was crammed with baskets filled with olives. The donkey that pulled the cart stank. The kid wore a cloth cap with a dark vest over a collarless shirt. A sawed-off shotgun hung by a leather strap from his shoulder.

  "Billy Boyle, this is Salvatore Patane." Sciafani spoke our names slowly so we could each understand. We shook hands. I eyed the shotgun.

  "Ask him why he carries a sawed-off shotgun, like those other guys." I didn't want to say Mafia out loud.

  Sciafani spoke to him, and I could tell it wasn't a question. They both laughed.

  "It is a lupara, a handmade shotgun. The name means 'wolf-shot'- shepherds carry them to protect their sheep. And it is a good weapon to protect oneself from bandits since it can be hidden."

  "Are you a shepherd?" I asked Salvatore, waiting for Sciafani to translate.

  "He says he is your shepherd today, and you should get in back and be quiet," Sciafani said, not trying to hide a smirk.

  I didn't like it, but there wasn't much choice. Even a donkey pulling a load on a dirt road would be faster than walking cross-country. The cart was jammed full with six tall baskets of olives, each slightly wider at the top, leaving a very narrow space at the bottom.

  "In there?" I asked, knowing and not liking the answer.


  "In there. It is a good thing you are no taller. There is barely room."

  "Yeah, so I noticed." I slithered in between the baskets. With my feet drawn up, they were able to close the rear panel on the cart.

  "Hey," I said. "I can see you fine. Anyone who looked could see in here!"

  Salvatore thrust in a worn green blanket.

  "He says to cover up," Sciafani said, laughing as he picked up something from the front of the cart. I did the best I could as I heard the sound of burlap ripping and the two of them chuckling like schoolboys. Then came the avalanche. Streams of almonds flowed in from the spaces between the baskets.

  "Sweet almonds for the Festival of San Calogero! May you be blessed, Billy!"

  "Yeah, bless you too," I said, glad I had covered my head with the blanket. I felt the cart creak as they got on it and jolt forward as the poor donkey pulled its heavy load away. I realized I had never heard the name of this village, and I didn't care to learn it.

  I could see out through a tiny opening between the front of the cart and a basket, where the almonds hadn't completely filled in. I watched slivers of sky and landscape go by and listened to the slow, methodical clip-clop of the donkey's pace. Sciafani and Salvatore chatted. I dozed. The weight of the almonds was like a heavy blanket, and the sweet nutty smell was pleasant, sending me off to sleep with thoughts of almond cakes tantalizing my appetite.

  I awoke to the rumbling sound of powerful engines in the distance. The little cart vibrated as the sound drew closer. I wanted to leap up and look. But I stayed pinned down by bushels of almonds and baskets of olives.

  "We are pulling off the road, there is a German column coming up behind us. Do not move," Sciafani said as softly as he could and still be heard.

  " Molti tedeschi, " Salvatore said, and that I understood. Many Germans.

  I felt the cart shift as Salvatore brought it to a halt off the road. I could tell we were in the shade, and that Salvatore and Sciafani had both gotten off to stretch their legs. Salvatore was talking to the donkey, patting it down, checking the harness. Then came the vehicles. Watching through the small space at the front of the cart, I tried to guess each kind by its engine sound before the vehicle came into view. First, motorcycles. Then trucks of all sizes, with staff cars mixed in. The dust rose up, churned by the never-ending wheels, and blew over us like a desert storm. Sciafani walked by, a handkerchief covering his nose and mouth, cursing into it. I started to sweat, and was tempted to kick my way out of the cart and make a run for it. It was irrational, I knew. The smartest thing was to lie still and wait it out, but I wanted out from under.