The Prince

by Vito Bruschini

Jano raised his club, like the barrier of a railroad grade crossing. “Now scram.” The boy, still naked, bolted from the room.

  “It’s not what you think,” the monk started to say as soon as the child had fled.

  But Jano glared at him. “What shall we call it, Padre? ‘New catechism’? You’re not worthy to wear that robe.”

  “I can explain . . . I don’t harm them.”

  But Jano interrupted him: “At least spare us your bullshit, Padre.”

  “I’d like to let him have it but good, so he’ll remember this night,” Nunzio broke in, eager to rough up the monk. But Jano stopped him.

  “I’m good to them. Sometimes I give them food; to the family as well,” the monk was still explaining.

  “Should we hear what his father and brothers think about it, Padre?”

  The friar bowed his head. He realized there was no way out. “What do you want? You should know, though, that I don’t have much money. Just a few coins the faithful give to the Church.”

  That was just the offer Jano was waiting for. A nice trade. “I don’t want your money, Padre, just some information.”

  The next morning, bright and early, Jano stood before Mayor Costa’s desk to deliver his daily report. “I managed to find out where they’re hiding.”

  “Well done, Jano; you’re top-notch,” the mayor flattered him. “Where are they?”

  “At the Sanctuary of Calatafimi. But I have another surprise for you, Mayor. There are also two Jewish families hiding at the sanctuary, waiting to embark for America.”

  The mayor leaned forward in his chair. “Two Jewish families?” he repeated.

  “Right, from Enna and Caltanissetta. I can hand them to you on a silver platter, Captain.”

  “Who knows how much they’ve paid to escape to America. Enna and Caltanissetta, you said—” The mayor was thinking about the value of land in those regions.

  “You can confiscate everything they own.” Jano read his thoughts.

  “Right. Even if they’ve sold everything, I’ll void the transaction.” Costa saw the confines of his lands continuing to expand.

  “But I must ask a favor of you,” Jano said, pretending to be deferential, though he knew the mayor wouldn’t be able to refuse him.

  “I knew it. Whenever you offer a gift, there are always strings attached.”

  “I learned that Vito Pizzuto, one of Vicaretto’s gabellotti, is also hiding in the monastery, waiting to leave for America. We should look the other way where he’s concerned. We should insure his departure.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because no matter what, he’s a man who’s done good for a lot of people,” Jano lied.

  “It wouldn’t be because you want to take everything he owns while he’s in America, would it?” The mayor smiled, well aware of Jano’s insatiable greed.

  “Well! I can never hide anything from you, can I?”

  “All right, agreed. You get the mafioso, and I get the Jews.”

  * * *

  Toward noon, Brother Antonino entered the chamber where all the fugitives were gathered. He walked to the center of the room and said, “I have good news. The ship owner has finally decided on the day of departure: it’s scheduled for next Wednesday, May 3. So you will leave here the day before, the night of May 2, understood?”

  The fugitives embraced one another, happy to at last be leaving that forced confinement. They hugged and kissed and congratulated one another. For a few minutes, there was an air of joy and celebration that had been bottled up for so long. The wait had made them all more anxious in the last couple of days. They crowded around the monk, asking him a thousand questions: how they would leave, who would take them to the port, if they should make sure to bring water and bread for the voyage. But brother Antonino was nervous and evaded their questions, saying everything would be done in due time. Then he motioned Vito Pizzuto to follow him.

  After making their way through a few corridors, they reached the wing of the monastery where the monks’ cells were located. Brother Antonino came to a door, opened it, and led Vito Pizzuto inside. In the center of the simply furnished room, which held a bed, a small table, and some chairs, stood Jano.

  The monk went out and closed the door behind him, waiting in the hallway.

  Vito Pizzuto was meeting Jano for the first time, and the Black Shirt made him wary.

  Jano approached him and gave the Roman salute. “We don’t know each other. I’m Jano Vassallo. Don’t worry, I’m here to help you,” he said, sitting down. “Please, have a seat.” He motioned Pizzuto to a chair. The man did so without a word.

  “I’ve come to ask for your cooperation. Let’s say we have a deal to make: I’m interested in the Jewish families and the three men who arrived recently.”

  The words alarmed Vito Pizzuto, because it meant that they had all been sold out by the friar.

  “As far as you’re concerned, we’ve decided to allow you to leave the country. Naturally, everything has a price. But I can spare you a long, distasteful stay in our prisons.”

  “What do I have to do?”

  Jano pulled a folded sheet of paper out of his shirt pocket. He unfolded it and placed it on the table, in front of Pizzuto, along with a fountain pen, saying, “You have to sign here.”

  Vito Pizzuto read what was written there. Then he looked up at Jano, his eyes filled with hate. “If I sign, do I have your word that you will let me leave?”

  “You have my word. I myself will escort you as far as Castellammare to see that you get on the fishing boat.”

  “And what’s your word worth?” the mafioso needled him, given that in other times, he would have crushed him under his shoes like a cockroach.

  “Sorry, you can’t certify its reliability. Take it or leave it. I’ll just say this: if you sign, you can go away and forget all about me; if you don’t sign, you’ll find yourself in the league’s cell in Salemi this evening, accused of treason along with the others.”

  Vito Pizzuto cursed the friar who had sold him out to that fanatical fascist.

  “It’s to your advantage to trust me, Pizzuto.”

  The gabellotto had never had to bow to extortion in his life and was demoralized. Then he made up his mind: he had no choice, so he took the pen and signed the document.

  Jano, satisfied with how things were going, checked the signature at the bottom of the sheet and refolded the paper in four before sticking it back in his pocket. “You should thank me, Pizzuto. When you return to Sicily, you’ll find your lands doubled, I promise.

  “But about us”—Jano stood up—“naturally, we’ve never seen each other. You mustn’t tell anyone about our meeting, otherwise the whole deal is off, except for this.” He tapped the sheet tucked away in his pocket. “The deal is also off if for one reason or another I don’t manage to capture all the other prisoners, so mum’s the word. If they ask you where you’ve been, tell them that . . . that you wanted to go to confession.

  “And don’t make such a face. You’ll see,” he said, though his voice held a note of derision, “I’ll be an excellent gabellotto for your lands.”

  Jano went to the door and opened it. The friar, who had been waiting in the corridor, accompanied Pizzuto back to the dormitory where the fugitives were.

  Unable to meet the mafioso’s accusing glare, the monk bowed his head. He would have preferred to rot in hell than be thought of as a traitor—and toward a friend, besides, since Saro considered him one. But there was nothing he could do about it, so he went on with the deceit.

  Finally, May 2 arrived. For the fugitives, the hours never seemed to pass. They had already packed their bags the day before. They were dressed from head to toe and wore many layers of clothing, especially the women and girls, who had put on two or three skirts, one over the other, along with several blouses and sweaters. It was hot, however, and as the hours went by, they gradually took off some of the garments, cramming them into bags or suitcases that were already stuffed with cloth
es and other things.

  Saro did nothing but think of Mena and recall every moment he had spent with her. He felt a great sadness, but he consoled himself thinking that she would wait for him. He’d made her swear to it.

  His father, on the other hand, seemed crushed by everything that was happening: Peppino Ragusa appeared to have aged ten years. He couldn’t stand the thought of abandoning Annachiara and Ester. But Saro had managed to convince him to leave, promising that his mother and sister would join them in America within a month, as soon as they could send them money for the trip.

  The whole time, Losurdo had not stopped pacing back and forth across the big room, stopping occasionally to talk with the men from the two Jewish families.

  At eight o’clock that evening, they heard a truck stop in back of the sanctuary. Peering through the windows, they saw Brother Antonino motion the driver to pull up as close as possible to the door. The truck had its tarpaulins lowered and was driven by an unfamiliar man whom no one had ever seen around there before.

  Shortly afterward, the friar entered the room and gave the long-awaited green light: “All clear! Let’s go, quick.”

  They hurried through the monastery’s corridors, excited over the departure they’d been dreaming about for days. Then they climbed into the truck bed, which was partially filled with fruit crates. Before stepping into the now empty corridor, Saro paused beside his friend the monk and clasped him tight to show his gratitude, despite the fact that the priest had demanded a certain sum from each of them.

  There were twelve people in total. They settled themselves on the floor of the truck bed, and the monk lost a little time arranging the crates along the drop-down rear edge so that if they were searched, the fugitives wouldn’t be visible from outside.

  When Brother Antonino had finished, he blessed them in a low voice: “May the Lord be with you.” He heard murmuring from behind the wall of fruit crates in response. Then he stepped down from the truck, pulled up the rear panel and secured it in place with the two side latches. Walking around to the driver’s window, he waved his permission to take off.

  Brother Antonino watched the truck disappear on the road leading to Castellammare del Golfo. Then he turned and went back into the sanctuary for evening services.

  * * *

  The truck rocked and swayed on the bumpy dirt road full of potholes. In back, the fugitives sat on the truck bed floor in silence and in absolute darkness. A mixture of fear and hope filled everyone’s minds. Each time the truck slowed, they were terrified of having run into a roadblock, but the vehicle never stopped. Only Vito Pizzuto seemed calm, as if the others’ fears did not concern him.

  None of them could possibly know that, shortly after leaving Calatafimi, the driver had taken a side road which, instead of heading toward the sea, led back to Salemi.

  About ten minutes later the truck seemed to grapple with a steep uphill climb. The driver shifted into low gear, and the engine screeched trying to make it over the rise. Saro, deep in thought, noticed the change in course. They were going up, he felt, whereas to get to the coast they should have been traveling downhill. He turned around to try to peek under the tarp. But the cover was stretched down tight, and he couldn’t raise it.

  “Do you want them to discover us?” hissed one of the Jews, seeing what he was doing.

  “We’re climbing!” Saro said.

  His exclamation drew Rosario Losurdo’s attention. “You’re right. To get to the coast, from Calatafimi, it’s downhill all the way. I must have traveled this road a million times in the buggy.”

  Saro finally managed to move the tarp aside, but it was too dark to see where they were. “I can’t make out the road,” he said, dismayed.

  Losurdo changed places with him and peered out.

  The truck was now slowly lumbering up the hill. Then it came almost to a stop. It was nearing a junction, at the crest of the rise. It passed a sacred niche with a picture of the Madonna. Losurdo shouted, “It’s the crossroads of the Assumption! We’re going in the wrong direction!”

  Saro started banging on the cab, yelling, “Driver! You’re going the wrong way!”

  But the driver didn’t answer. Instead, he turned onto a track that led downhill, and the truck picked up speed.

  Inside the truck bed, there was great confusion. Panic had seized everyone, and they were all yelling and screaming to get off. Only Peppino Ragusa continued sitting silently on the wooden truck bed.

  Those who stood up were pitched left and right, depending on the driver’s sudden swerves to adapt to the road’s curves.

  Someone shouted, “We’ve been sold out!” And someone else: “They’re taking us to Salemi!”

  It was like a signal; some began moving aside the fruit crates so they could get to the rear panel. Distraught like the others, Saro tried desperately to unfasten the side of the tarp that was already partway open.

  “Papa, stay close to me,” he cried to his father, who continued to ignore him.

  Meanwhile, one of the Jews had reached the tailgate and managed to unlatch the two clamps. The panel swung down, and as the truck swerved again, several crates shot out.

  Saro finally managed to wedge himself into the opening under the tarp. “Papa, get up, we have to get out of here. Jump after me.”

  Ragusa looked at him with immense sadness. Saro squeezed into the space he’d created between the side panel and the tarp. Before leaping, he shouted to his father again, “Get up! Jump after me!” He let himself drop and rolled onto a soft pasture. He stood up and sprinted for cover behind a bush. He watched the truck continue its descent, but none of the others made their way out from his escape route.

  Veering sharply to the right, the truck entered a cattle enclosure. The cows huddled in the corner began lowing, frightened. The driver braked suddenly, and the passengers went tumbling on top of one another. The chaos was at a fever pitch. At that point, everyone scrambled to find a way out, climbing over baskets and fruit crates. They jumped out of the vehicle and dropped to the ground. But as soon as they touched down, strong hands grabbed them and, cursing and swearing, made them all lie on the ground, facedown in the dirt.

  A hundred yards or so back, Saro, hearing the cries, realized that they had fallen into a trap. He advanced cautiously so that he wouldn’t be spotted. In the moonlight, he could make out the dramatic scene in the distance.

  He again hid behind a bush. From that position he could see the truck. He saw Vito Pizzuto come out last, assisted by one of the assailants. Now he recognized them: they were the combat league henchmen under Jano’s command. And it was Jano himself who helped Pizzuto out of the truck. The traitor led him around to the truck’s cab. Now Pizzuto climbed in—on the passenger side.

  Jano walked back to look at the fugitives, who were still lying facedown on the ground. Saro tried to pick out his father and Rosario Losurdo and recognized them by the clothes they were wearing. Then he saw the comrades randomly bludgeon their captives with their clubs, aiming at any part of the body and ridiculing them.

  The driver restarted the truck’s engine, and the vehicle circled around the corral to get back to the exit.

  Jano was checking the identity of fugitives: he lifted each one’s head, grabbing him by the hair.

  Suddenly Saro heard him shout, “There’s one missing! Saro Ragusa is not here!” Jano ran after the truck, which had already left the enclosure, yelling at the driver to stop. Then he ordered one of the comrades, “Go see if he’s still hiding in there.”

  The Black Shirt—it had to be Ginetto—struggled up into the truck bed and disappeared inside the tarpaulin. He came out almost immediately, shaking his head. The truck then moved on again and drove off into the night, this time toward the coast.

  Jano and his acolytes, enraged, went back to the fugitives and began beating them savagely.

  Saro, powerless to act, couldn’t stand to watch. Tears of rage ran down his face. He saw Losurdo rise from the ground and attack one of the Bl
ack Shirts, trying to defend himself. But he was immediately surrounded by the others, who clobbered him as hard as they could. Rosario Losurdo’s face was bleeding, his eyes swollen; one of the comrades struck him in the stomach using his club as a battering ram. Rosario dropped to his knees and fell facedown, hands pressed to his abdomen.

  Saro cursed Jano, realizing that they had been sold out in exchange for Vito Pizzuto’s freedom. He swore he’d come back, and then Jano would pay for all his crimes.

  He stood a little while longer in the shadows, in silence. He saw his father clubbed as well. Peppino Ragusa tried to get up from the ground, but a blow to his head knocked him unconscious.

  Saro couldn’t stand watching the scene any longer. He hurried away, the painful cries of those hapless people ringing in his ears for quite some time.

  Chapter 27

  – 1939 –

  The dock at the port of Palermo was packed with a shabby crowd decked out in its Sunday best. It was a humanity with a difficult past but with the faint hope of a different future. The people brought with them tablecloths knotted into sacks, which held all their earthly possessions, and baskets filled with cheese and salami; their shoes and boots hung around their necks so they wouldn’t get worn out. Some who were leaving were recognizable by their dazed expression, fearful of the step they were about to take, while others seemed joyful, realizing that they were finally leaving behind the poverty they had known since birth. The relatives, however—those who were staying behind—were silent and sad. They knew that they would never see their sons, husbands, and brothers again, and they stood motionless, watching the frantic preboarding activities without a word.

  Reports about “America” were fantastic. It was rumored that coins sprouted on trees and that land was freely given to anyone who would cultivate it. Land! Owning a piece of land was the dream of half the men who swarmed the dock at the port of Palermo. The other half hoped to make their fortune as laborers, while the women daydreamed about marrying some nice young man who had gone there before them.