by John Hersey
“The American authorities have decided that because of military necessities it will no longer be possible for mule carts to come into the streets of town.”
Major Joppolo could see his audience suck in its collective breath. He said: “I am not happy to have to announce this decision. It is because of military necessities. I am sorry. That is all.”
The officials of Adano, a comic-looking collection, turned sadly to go. They did not protest. They had learned during the years of Fascism how to swallow their protests. But Major Joppolo could tell that they were not with him, that for the first time in nine days they were against him.
Before the first of them reached the door, Major Joppolo said: “I wish to tell you that I will do all that is in my power to have this unjust order revoked.”
And when the comic-looking officials of Adano went out of the door of the Major’s office, they were still sad but they were for him.
The Major worried all day about the order and wondered what he could do about it. He slept very badly during the night, because of his worry.
Early in the morning, Zito, the little usher, came up to his desk and said: “Mister Major, there are three men to see you about the carts.”
Because it worried him, the Major snapped back angrily at Zito: “What do they want about the carts?” “That is something they wish to tell you, Mister Major,” Zito said. “It is something they did not tell me.” “Well, show them in.”
The three Italians were evidently poor but respected men. There was a kind of democracy in their coming to see the Major: they were the chosen delegates of all the cartmen, to argue this thing out.
They all had old, clean coats on, and they all clutched cloth caps in their hands. Zito brought three chairs forward, and they sat in a half circle opposite the Major.
The Major pointed with a fountain pen at one of the men and said in Italian: “You. What is your name?” The man was about sixty. His hair was pure white but the skin of his forehead, though furrowed, was the skin of a tough young man. He jumped to his feet, twisting his cap in his strong hands, and he shouted: “Afronti Pietro, Mister Major.” Then he gave the Major a Fascist salute.
“Speak softly here,” the Major said. “I am not deaf.” He leaned and spoke to the other two men. “Are you deaf?”
“No, Mister Major,” they both said.
“Then speak softly,” he said to the strong-voiced man, “What do you desire?”
“I desire,” the old man said, trying to keep his voice quiet, “to raise the question of the carts coming into the town of Adano. I desire to tell you, Mister Major, that these carts are most dear to us. I wish to tell you about my cart. It has two wooden wheels, Mister Major -”
“I have seen these carts. It is not necessary to describe the carts.”
Old Afronti gave the Major another salute. “But have you heard the music which is made by the wheels, Mister Major? The two wooden wheels of my cart sing to me. They do not sing Fascist songs, Mister Major, they do not sing Giovinezza or anything to do with marching. You may think this is squeaking, this music, but I can hear what the wheels are trying to sing.”
The Major said: “We are concerned here with the question of whether these carts should or should not come across the bridge into Adano. When you waste time with this talk, you are wasting the time of your friends who are waiting outside that door.”
Afronti gave another Fascist salute. “One day last summer,” he said in a louder voice, “I drove my cart all the way to Gioia di Monti, and all the way the wheels sang a song which was also a prophecy. At the time none of my friends would believe this song, would you, my friends?” And he turned to the other two.
The two nodded their heads, but the expression of their faces was blank because they were thinking of the speeches they were about to make.
Afronti’s voice grew louder and louder, as if he were outdoors. “Do you wish to hear this song, Mister Major?” Major Joppolo said: “No, please come to the point.” Afronti stepped back. He unbuttoned his coat. He held his cap out at arm’s length and he sang. It was not exactly a tune he sang, but his voice went up and down, very loud. This is what he sang:
“The Americans are coming here, Signor Afronti,
The Americans are very just men,
Especially with regard to carts.”
Major Joppolo said: “Do not joke with me, old man. We have no time for humor this morning. I want to help you if you have something reasonable to ask of me. Come to the point.”
Afronti shouted: “The music has stopped. There is no more music.”
The Major said: “Please do not shout here. You seem to think that Americans are deaf men. We are not deaf. Do not shout.”
jAfronti said very softly: “The music has stopped, there is no more music, Mister Major. Thank you, Mister Maor.” And he sat down abruptly.
The Major lifted his pen and pointed it at the next man. “And you,” he said, “your name.”
This was a man who seemed a little backward. He was timid in the way he stood up and he did not twist his cap with any enthusiasm, as the others did. His voice was slow and he had to think a long time before he could say his own name. Finally it came out: “Erba Carlo, Mister Major.”
“And you desire?”
Erba stopped and thought. His eyes wandered. He looked at the Saint of the Telephone. He looked at the Red Cross badge on the breast of Princess Marie Jose. He thought and thought, but he could not think what it was he desired. He had forgotten his speech entirely.
After an embarrassing pause, the other two left off thinking about their own speeches and came to the assistance of Erba.
“Tell him,” one of them said, “about the water carts.” A look of vast relief came over the face of Erba. “It is about the water carts, Mister Major.”
“Yes?”
Erba looked at the huge painting over the Major’s head. He studied many details of the painting. But he could not remember exactly what it was about the water carts that he wished to say.
The other of his friends said: “Describe your cart, Erba. “
Erba said: “It is big. Outside it is dirty but inside it is clean. It holds water. My friends drink the water.”
After this sustained effort, Erba’s face was covered with perspiration. At first he looked proud and triumphant, but then he could see another hurdle coming. This time he looked frankly and directly at his friends for prompting.
Major Joppolo was frantic with impatience, but he said: “Yes, my friend, tell me some more about the water cart.” This was a quality in the Major that came out time and again: he was always gentle with those who evoked impatience, and he was always impatient with those who begged for gentleness.
“The thirst,” said one of Erba’s friends, “the great thirst.”
Erba turned to the Major with an expression of delight which belied the seriousness of what he was to say. He was delighted because it was all coming back to him now. He said: “You will not let my cart across the bridge. There is no water in Adano without my cart and the other water carts. There is a thirst in Adano. Since yesterday morning at eleven o’clock there is a great thirst. Carmelina who is the wife of the lazy Fatta says that her daughter will die of the thirst. It is all because of the bridge... and the carts... and the -”
Erba, like the town, had run dry. He turned to his friends. One of them said: “Erba, the proclamation, the matter of being clean.”
Erba said: “Oh yes, the proclamation. In one proclamation, Mister Major, I forget the number of the proclamation, there are so many, does the number matter, Mister Major?”
“No, Erba. I am sorry, there are too many proclamations.” And the Major turned to Erba’s friends, who were a little more intelligent and would understand. “That is the fault of the authorities. I did not wish to post so many proclamations. That is not my fault. I am sorry. The number does not matter, Erba.”
Erba said: “The number does not matter. The proclamation says it is
necessary to be clean. It says the people must be clean with water, and even the streets must be clean. Our streets, which have been the same since the time of - who was it the time of, Afronti?”
Afronti roared: “Since the time of Pietro of Aragona and of Roberto King of Naples.”
Erba said: “The streets have been the same. Now the proclamation speaks of being clean with water. There is much sameness which has accumulated on the streets since the time of those men of whom Afronti speaks. This being clean takes much water. My cart is on the other side of the bridge, Mister Major
Major Joppolo said: “The cleanliness is very important, Erba. Let us make Adano the cleanest town in the whole province of Vicinamare.”
Erba caught the challenge. His eye brightened. “We will do this thing, even if the sameness has piled up since the time of Jesus, Mister Major.” Then his eye went dull again. “But my cart is on the other side of the bridge. You have said it may not pass.”
The Major said: “Let the next one speak. You. Your name.” And he pointed at the third man with his pen. Erba said: “Thank you, Mister Major.”
The third man jumped up. He was quite fat but comparatively handsome. His hair was plastered down with something off the axle of his cart, and his black coat was the newest looking of the four. “Basile Giovanni, Mister Major,” he said.
“You wish?”
Basile spoke gravely and slowly. “Mister Major,” he said, “the worst of all the things about the carts is the food. You can see, Mister Major” - and he ran his hands down over the size of his belly - “that I am a man who can speak of food with understanding. This matter of the carts does not hurt me. I am like a man with money in the bank, I have something to draw on in hard times. But there are others in Adano who are not so lucky. Galioto Bartolomeo is so thin that you can count the several teeth of his mouth even when his lips are closed. The nine children of Raffaela who is the wife of Manetto have big bellies, but their bellies are big only with the gas of hunger. Shall I name others who are very thin?”
The Major said: “No, go on.”
Basile said: “I am the one to tell you about the food and the carts. You have not seen my cart, have you, Mister Major?”
“I may have. I have seen many of them
Basile said: “I think you would remember my cart. You know how all the carts have pictures painted on the panels of the sides? Scenes of the Saints, scenes of the history of Adano, scenes of the fine accidents we have had in the province of Vicinamare -”
The Major said: “I tell you it is not necessary to describe these carts. I have seen many of them. I am getting sick of the carts
Basile said: “But Mister Major, you have not seen my cart. On my cart there are four scenes. They are all from the Holy Word, and they are all concerned with eating. There is the miracle of the loaves and fishes. There is the last supper. There is the widow’s jar which never emptied no matter how much food she took out. There is the wedding at Cana where the water turned to wine. Now, all the people in all these pictures are fat people. I do not believe that this is sacrilege, even though Jesus himself is fat on my cart. It is simply that I told Lojacono Arturo, who painted the cart, to make all the people fat, like me and my Elisabetta, because mine was a cart for food, to make other people fat and Jovial, though they might have a certain amount of hard breathing.”
The Major said: “This is a waste of time.” But Basile could see, and the other two could see, that the Major was nearly persuaded by this time-wasting talk.
Basile pressed on: “How can I drive my cart now, even in the country? How can I put my fat horse, whose name is General Eisenhower in honor of our deliverer, between the shafts, and put my fat self on the seat, and drive around with my pictures of fat and holy people - when the people of Adano are starving, Mister Major? This fills me with shame, even though I cannot bring the cart into town.”
And then, with great craft, Basile said: “There is nothing in all the proclamations, even though it takes you a week to read them, which says that the Americans came to Adano in order to make people die of hunger. And there is nothing in all the proclamations which refers to such things as the dead mule of Errante Gaetano. Why then do we have this thing of the carts?”
The Major said to himself in English: “Damn.”
He reached for the field telephone, cranked the handle and said: “Give me Rowboat Blue Forward.” While he waited for an answer, the Major said to Basile gruffly: “Sit down.
“Hello. This Rowboat Blue Forward? Captain Purvis, please...
“Purvis? Joppolo. Listen...
“No, now this is serious, Purvis. This thing about the carts. I’ve made up my mind. By one sentence General Marvin destroyed the work of nine days in this town. I know it may mean a court martial, but I’ve decided to countermand his order. What?...
“I know I’m taking a hell of a chance, but I’ve got to do it. We can’t let these people starve...
“I have to do it, Purvis. This town is dying. No food can get into the town if the carts don’t come. The town depends on the carts for water: there isn’t any running water here, you know that. The people can’t go out into the fields to work in the morning. Taking carts away from this town is like taking automobiles away from a country town in the States. You just can’t do it all at once. People will die. I’m not here to kill people.”
Captain Purvis evidently put up an argument.
Finally the Major said: “Purvis, I order you, on my authority, to start letting carts back into the town, beginning now. I take absolute and complete responsibility for countermanding General Marvin’s order...
“Listen friend, if we never took chances around here, this place would go right on being a Fascism. All right, the hell with you, it’s on my responsibility.”
The three cartmen sat through the telephone conversation not comprehending. To judge by their faces they seemed to think that Major Joppolo was devising some punishment for them. They had the habit of fear, and they thought that this man of authority would of course be exactly like the men of authority they had known for so long.
Major Joppolo hung up. He turned to the three cartmen and said: “You may bring your carts into the town.” For a long moment they did not understand. Then they stood up and began shouting and waving their caps.
“We thank you, we thank you and we kiss your hand,” they roared.
“Oh, Mister Major, there has never been a thing like this,” the fat one named Basile shouted, “that the poor should come to the Palazzo di Cittá, and that their request should be granted.”
“Especially,” shouted the loud one named Afronti, “especially without a wait of two to three weeks.”
“It was not necessary to write you a letter,” Basile shouted.
“The police did not even examine us,” roared Afronti. The slow one named Erba finally got out a sentence. It was one of the few beautiful sentences he ever managed to say, and one of the longest. He said: “When the people come and take water from my cart to drink for their thirst, I shall say to them: `Thank the Mister Major, my friends.”‘
Major Joppolo said: “Get out of here. You are wasting my time and the time of all the people who are waiting outside that door.” And he gestured impatiently at the men.
The cartmen went out, shouting and congratulating America.
Chapter 7
THE COMMAND post of the M.P.’s was housed in the Fascio, the one-storey building which had been the headquarters of the Fascist Party. It was simply a string of rooms facing on the Via Dogana, just off the Piazza. The walls of the. rooms were covered with pictures of various Fascist heroisms. Each room had a couple of desks, a filing cabinet, three or four uncomfortable chairs, and that was all. The building made a very convenient headquarters for both the M.P. s and especially for Sergeant Borth’s security detail, because the filing cabinets contained complete records on practically ev- eryone in town, both party members and anti-Fascists.
On the morning when Major
Joppolo called about the carts, there were three men in the main office of the M.P.’s. Besides Captain Purvis, there were Technical Sergeant Frank Trapani, who kept Captain Purvis’s records and was more or less his secretary, and Corporal Chuck Schultz, who was the M.P. on guard.
Captain Purvis put down the telephone and said: “That Joppolo, I think he’s nuts.”
Sergeant Trapani said: “What’s he done now, sir?” “Oh, hell,” the Captain said, “he’s always talking about democracy like it was his mother. He ought to relax and have a little fun. Bet he’s never been drunk in his life.” Corporal Schultz said: “He can have this Dago wine.” He put his hands over his belly and made a face. “Jesus, last night.”
The Captain said: “Besides, he’s going to get us all in trouble.”
Sergeant Trapani said: “What’s he done, sir?”
An Italian stuck his head in the door just out of curiosity.
“Get out of here, damn it, Trapani, tell that wop to get out of here and stay out.” Captain Purvis did not speak a word of Italian, and it made him feel frustrated. Trapani told the curious one to move along.
“The carts,” Captain Purvis said. “Joppolo has the nerve to tell General Marvin he knows where he can stick the carts, he wants them to come back into town.”
Sergeant Trapani said: “It wasn’t a very wise order in the first place, I think maybe the Major’s right.” “Right?” Captain Purvis put his palm against his cheek in a gesture of amazement. “Why hell, man, General Marvin’ll shoot him and us too. What do you think this man’s army would be like if everybody just did what he wanted and went around countermanding orders every day? We got little enough discipline in our army anyhow without going around ignoring orders, especially from generals.” Captain Purvis had been commissioned just eight months. He was very military.
“Yes, sir,” Sergeant Trapani said. He knew what to say when his Captain started lecturing on discipline.