Peppino

by Seth Coleman

“Not to mention what she will say when she finds out you were with me again!”

  Both of the boys smiled at the thought and then turned on their heels and hastened down the steep path toward the beach and the coastal road north.

  They devised plan after plan to save their friend’s life, each knowing that there was little chance of success.

  “We will think of something,” Peppino said in the determined tone that Emilio had often heard before.

  The first time Nicola had spoken at the platform and Brancaleone Square, both of the boys had become inspired. The town square was infamous in the region, which was why, no doubt, Nicola had chosen to speak there. It was the smallest square of all the villages in Calabria, at about one half of an acre. The boys thought it deplorable that in the center was an imaginary line that separated the rich from the poor. The upper class would stand inches from peasants and nod, but no words would be spoken. Before Nicola’s speech, Peppino had crossed the line only a few times, wanting to make friends with some of the other children, especially Emilio. But when the baroness had found out, he had been sent to his room without dinner.

  That day Nicola had talked of equality between the classes, which angered the rich families, making enemies of them. He wanted to do away with the demeaning ways of the aristocracy in favor of helping the poor to enjoy more political rights and a higher quality of life. After that speech even some of the poor had kept their distance from him, knowing that trouble would visit their families if one of them were to utter a word in his favor. But Peppino knew that inside they were suppressing silent cheers.

  That day, Nicola had pointed to him in the crowd and had asked why he thought himself better than the boy who stood only a few feet from him on the other side of the line. Peppino had stared at Nicola blankly, not knowing how to answer, and then looked toward his friend Emilio before lowering his eyes toward the ground in shame. It was that day, three years before, when Peppino had been only eleven years old, that he decided to disregard the custom, crossing the line as often as he liked. At first the baroness was furious, but she finally had given up trying to punish him. The peasant parents appeared not to notice, but he knew he had their support. He had even enjoyed his mother’s humiliation as she was driven past them in her carriage. Some of the townsfolk would stifle their laughter when they thought they couldn’t be seen.

  The matriarch of Brancaleone tolerated their indignities as long as she was regarded with the highest respect in public. She had met with the church officials many times since the incident, and Peppino knew that her wicked hand had somehow been involved in Nicola’s demise. Peppino’s participation now would mean that her wrath would be stirred even more if she found out what he was doing.

  By the time they had reached the edge of the city, it was just past 10:30 a.m. The road led them into the poorest section of Bovalino. Already Peppino could see the townspeople milling about. No doubt they are discussing Nicola’s fate, he thought to himself.

  They walked between the small, deteriorating shacks, catching the occasional whispers from the women and noticing the interested looks and gestures from the scattered groups of men and beggars. Everyone knew who Peppino was, but no one would dare to address him directly.

  “They are all talking about it, but none of them will lift a finger to help,” Peppino said angrily.

  Emilio nodded uncomfortably. The confidence that had stirred within him only minutes before was beginning to disappear.

  They walked by scores of filthy children playing in the streets, all with big smiles, not comprehending or caring what was about to take place. Feces from animals and humans scattered amid the dirt road created a stench that permeated Peppino’s nostrils and those of his friend. To the poor here in Bovalino, he thought, this is the aroma of life. He was glad that the impoverished in his town did not have to live in conditions such as this. Further, he was glad that Emilio was not from Bovalino, for even though he was always in trouble with his family for having friends below his station, he knew that even he would have a hard time accepting a friend who lived in squalor like this. Emilio’s clothes were tattered, yet never in disarray. He was clean and even teased Peppino when he would start to smell, which was always toward the end of the week.

  “Ah, she is giving you the look,” Emilio said, gesturing with the tilt of his head toward a girl about their age. He smiled cockily as he watched her primp her hair and try to flatten the wrinkles from her faded dress. “Let’s have a little fun with her.”

  “Stop, Emilio, we don’t have time to play games.”

  “Come on, Peppino. I am only a year older than you, and I am already a man of experience.”

  “Cut it out, Emilio,” Peppino said, anger apparent in his voice.

  “Hey, boys,” the girl said seductively, “why don’t you stop and talk with me for a moment.”

  Both lowered their heads in embarrassment, trying to ignore her advances as they walked past. Emilio could see her approaching from the corner of his eye and started to pick up his pace. Peppino, noticing the change, hurried along next to him.

  “What’s the matter with you two: afraid of girls?”

  Peppino lifted his head and looked directly at her. “Why must you be looking for a bed to lay in when one of your friends’ lives is at stake?”

  The girl’s face changed quickly as she walked to within a few feet from where they were standing. In a low voice, she said, “You speak of Nicola. How do you know that he is a friend of mine?”

  “He is a friend to us all,” said Peppino. “Do you know anything of what is going on?”

  “Only that the monsignor and magistrate are meeting with him in the rectory right now.” She hesitated, turning her eyes away in shame. “But as we speak, the constable’s men are erecting a platform at the town square. It’s not been officially announced, but rumor has it that he will hang today. The monsignor is afraid to tell the people for fear they will revolt.”

  Peppino watched the tears well in her eyes as she brought her hands up to cover her face. “Excuse us, signora. We must be going to see what we can do to help.”

  “Help? You two? What could you possibly do to help?” she asked, wiping the tears away from her eyes.

  Emilio was the first to respond. “We don’t know yet, but we will do something. Now we must hurry. We heard they will execute him at noon.”

  “I want to help,” she said with intensity in her voice. “He has been like a father to me.”

  “But you’re only a girl!” Peppino said, looking toward Emilio for confirmation.

  Emilio shrugged a look of “who cares” as the bell from the church tower signaled its eleven o’clock call.

  “All right, but we must act quickly,” Peppino said nervously. “The square is still ten minutes away. But first we must make an oath. We shall free Nicola or die trying.” Peppino held out his hand in front of him and then slowly closed it into a fist. For a few moments it hung alone in the air, then the girl’s was on top of his and finally Emilio’s. The three looked into each other’s eyes, confirming their determination and commitment without words.

  “Hey, Peppino!” called a voice from somewhere behind them. “What are you doing here?”

  Peppino turned and saw his friend Libero standing in the doorway of a nearby house. “Ciao, Libero,” he called back, and then quickly walked toward his friend.

  Emilio and the girl followed closely behind him.

  “The same thing you are, I’m sure,” said Peppino.

  “Ah, you’ve come to watch them put Nicola to death.”

  “What do you mean to watch!” Peppino said indignantly. “Is that what you’re planning to do?”

  Libero searched the immediate area, making sure no one was within earshot, then lowered his voice. His eyes darted between the three. “First, tell me why you’re here.”

  “We’ve come to try to help him,” Peppino said loudly.

  “How?”

  “Well,” paused Peppino, “we’re
not exactly sure; we’re talking about that right now.

  “You mean you don’t even have a plan?”

  “No. But were thinking of something!”

  Libero smiled. “I admire your spirit,” he said. “If you really want to help, come with me.”

  “Why?” Emilio asked.

  “There are some people meeting right now, forming a strategy to free Nicola.”

  “If that is true,” charged Peppino, “why aren’t you with them?”

  Libero turned around, looking back inside the small house. “I am standing guard; they are inside. We’ve got to keep it a secret from the authorities. If they find out, we’ll all be in trouble, and Nicola will hang anyway.”

  Peppino turned to his friends. “Come on, let’s hear what they have to say.”

  The three youngsters followed Libero down a side alley and then through a decaying wooden door and into a small room with a dirt floor. The smell of unwashed bodies and chicory smoke permeated the stagnant air with an unpleasant aroma.

  “What are you bringing these three kids here for, Libero?” one of the men said. He continued in surprise, “Is that not the little prince from Brancaleone? Do you wish to bring the authorities, the church, and the baroness down upon us?”

  “The little prince will be fine; I know him, and he is one of us,” said Libero. “The girl you all know, and I will also vouch for Emilio.”

  “That little prince will be learning all of our plans and our names,” said one of the others, “and he will surely tell all he knows when the time comes to save his own skin.”

  Peppino could feel the swell of anger rising but knew he must control himself. He recognized this familiar feeling as a prelude to an emotional outburst that he had unsuccessfully tried to suppress many times in the past. But today was different. He restrained himself because he not only understood their concerns but knew that he must win their confidence if he was to be taken seriously and included in their plans to help Nicola.

  He walked to a corner of the room and then turned, facing the men. From this position he stood in front of the small group, and although he was relatively short in stature, it offered him a commanding presence to the rest who were sitting or leaning against the stucco walls. He changed his stance by spreading his legs a bit and placing his hands upon his hips as his facial expression became one of firm resolve. His piercing brown eyes surveyed every person in the room, and his penetrating gaze changed their concern to interest.

  “I am no prince; I am Peppino, and like you I am here to help our friend Nicola. I recognize him as the only warrior for the people in all of Calabria. He is the prince; he is the royal messenger to the common man, of which I am only one.”

  “You are yet a young boy,” one of the men offered with a smile, “and what could you know of the concerns of the common man? In fact it is a stretch to consider you a common anything.” The entire group laughed, but Peppino sensed it was not one of mocking as much as acceptance.

  “You make fun of my age and the age of my friends. Yet how do you plan to help Nicola? Look at yourselves. Any one of you would look suspicious on a good day.” Peppino smiled slightly, and the men returned the smile, acknowledging the truth. “Would it not be unexpected by the authorities and church officials to see the three of us leading your plan? Do you not want success? If you do, I will risk my neck, and you will be safe.”

  The girl moved to the side of her new friend. “And I.”

  “And I,” said Emilio, placing his arm over Peppino’s shoulder. “We are a team.”

  “It is true that they will not be expecting children to be leading the posse,” said Libero.

  “We are not children,” Peppino insisted, this time with clear irritation in his youthful voice.

  “I stand corrected,” Libero said with a warm smile. “They will be less likely to suspect these three fine and upstanding young people. It also appears that none of you even have a plan or even a leader, for that matter. Let’s listen to what they have to say.”

  “OK,” Peppino said, kneeling down on the dirt floor and drawing a diagram into it with his finger. “This is how I think the three of us can help save Nicola.”

  Chapter 2

  Peppino sat crouched below the hanging platform, with his knees pulled up under his chin. He could hear the people milling about and gathering in the town square to watch the execution. He convinced himself that he had been selected for this position because he was the bravest, when the truth was that on the spur of the moment he had devised a simple plan and presented it as if it had been well thought out. Unfortunately it was not. He just hoped it would work. The scheme was that Peppino was to wait until Nicola and the executioner mounted the platform. He would then put on a mask so that they would not recognize him. When they were standing next to the hanging rope, the girl would start screaming from the rear of the crowd to draw away everyone’s attention. At that moment Peppino was to open the trapdoor and yank the executioner’s legs, pulling him off balance and into the pit. The others would be ready to interfere with the polizia by inciting a riot. Emilio would then ride into the square with two horses, pick up Nicola, and then they would be gone. Simple plan, he thought, reassuring himself.

  A commotion from outside drew his attention as the townspeople started yelling obscenities at the authorities, indicating the arrival of the carabinieri. A loud applause went up, and he heard Nicola’s name being chanted over and over again.

  Peppino checked the latch on the flooring above his head and then pulled the knot a little tighter so the handkerchief with two holes for his eyes would not fall off his head. Then he waited. The platform was almost six feet off the ground. For the first time he was glad to be taller and brawnier then his brother, who teased him that he was built like a field hand. He was glad the sides had been enclosed, which allowed him to be hidden from view, but was surprised the polizia had gone to the extra expense of building it that way. He guessed that the officers would have their families there to see the show and did not want their children to watch Nicola writhing around in the throes of death. However, the platform being enclosed did present one problem. He couldn’t see out except through a few small cracks between the planks of wood. He would have to rely on a signal the girl would give to him when the executioner was in the right position for him to grab his legs. She was to cry out, “Help him. Please help him!” Not very original, he thought.

  He cocked his head, positioning his ear as close to the small opening as possible. The screams from the crowd reached a crescendo as the solemn procession arrived at the steps. Peppino’s heart beat rapidly, not in fear but with the exhilaration of a youth who had not yet learned the meaning of failure.

  He listened as the steps of the platform started to creak as it was mounted. Specks of dust fell into his eyes, and he had to stifle a cough. He could see Nicola’s legs as he walked up first. Somehow, because of the lightness of his steps and the way he climbed them, Peppino was sure that he had not given up hope. Good, he thought to himself, he is as confident as I am. The next steps were more lumbering. The executioner, he assumed. Peppino started to move into his position but froze when he heard a third person climbing the platform. Who…? he thought, listening more closely. The footfalls were very heavy and slow. Peppino could see the underside of the wood strain from their weight, causing them to bend slightly. “The monsignor,” he whispered to himself, starting to tense. He hadn’t anticipated his direct involvement. It would be hard enough to yank one man’s legs, let alone the monsignor’s. “That massive ogre will be impossible to budge,” he reasoned, trying to quickly devise an alternate plan.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the monsignor started.

  “Hypocrite!” Peppino whispered angrily into the darkness, while making a fist.

  “I come here before you this afternoon with sadness in my heart.” He paused dramatically, bringing his hands to a rest over his heart. “Many of you know this young man, and I am sure some of you have grown to
admire his free spirit. But I am afraid, my friends, that it is this free spirit that brings us here today. A free and unchallenged spirit,” he said, pausing to emphasize his following words, “is an abomination to our Lord Jesus Christ. Bless his holy name.” His angry and emotional voice rumbled through the crowd as he stood on the platform, making the sign of the cross. “As your monsignor and messenger of our living God, I am forced this day to bring judgment upon Nicola Bagnara.”

  Peppino heard the crowd murmur. Then someone yelled, “What has he done?”

  “This is the sadness that grieves my heart the most,” he continued, shaking his head back and forth. “His abomination was directed at me, a servant of our living God,” he said, lowering his head and wringing his hands. “Nicola entered into my chambers last evening with murder in his heart.” A ripple of sound went through the crowd. “I can only thank God for his mercy in sparing my life.”

  “What did he do?” someone else yelled.

  The monsignor hesitated. “I am not sure it would be prudent to discuss the details.” He answered curtly, avoiding the question and then returning to a compassionate tone. “I can only tell you that after the incident I spent several hours in prayer worshiping His Holiness. While I was prostrate on my face before him, our Lord and God spoke to directly to me.”

  Peppino could hear the crowd become silent as a reverent hush came over the people.

  The monsignor, realizing that he had captivated his flock, was now feeling more confident. “The Lord himself spoke to me.” He repeated the words again, his voice feigning tears of piety. “Our Lord spoke to me. Oh, the majesty and humility of our Savior speaking to a wretched soul as mine. Our Savior told me that the sin this man committed against me, he has committed against God himself.” His voice cracked again for effect. “He told me that I was given judgment over this man, and I was to have him hanged at noon today. I wrestled with the Lord for hours, as Jacob did in the Bible, but his mind would not be changed. I humbly ask that all of you offer your prayers today for the soul of our wayward brother. Our Father’s will must be carried out. It is with a profound sadness that I carry out this commission, but as monsignor I have committed my life to submitting to the will of God without question.”