In those heady days of late July, the Cosa Nostra thus took to operating openly again. Its men had infiltrated many of the offices in the new administration. They were able to do legally what up until then had been considered illegal, and this time it was their benefactors, the Americans, who paid for it.
In Corleone, the command center, a safe containing money earmarked for the XII Army Corps actually disappeared. In Vallelunga one night, some people broke down the doors of the pharmaceutical storehouse, looting everything that could be carried off, especially penicillin, the prodigious new miracle drug. In Montemaggiore Belsito, hundreds of overcoats set aside for the winter vanished. Not to mention the disappearances of gasoline tanks, telephone cables, flour, and wheat.
For dealers in the black market, they were unforgettable days.
* * *
With the capture of Messina by Patton on August 17, the Sicilian campaign could be said to be over. The bare figures reported that in the thirty-eight days of the campaign, 4,875 Italians, 4,369 Germans, 2,899 American soldiers, and 2,721 troops from the British Commonwealth had lost their lives.
To mark the end of the conflict, a large celebration was arranged at the summer home of the marquis of Torrearsa, Enrico Ferro. All the area’s notables were invited: the landed aristocracy, British and American officers from the nearby command center, and friends of friends.
Lieutenant Colonel Charles Poletti, US Army civil affairs officer on the island during the entire period of military rule in Sicily, was also present. In civilian life, Poletti had been an attorney, a profession he abandoned first to serve as a justice of the New York State Supreme Court, and later to pursue a political career.
Nearly all the representatives of Sicily’s oldest families were invited to the event, along with the most powerful Mafia figures. Vincent Scamporino and Max Corvo took advantage of the occasion to proudly present nearly all the members of their Italian Section group, among them Saro Ragusa in his brand-new American uniform. Behind Saro, as usual, was his shadow, FBI Sergeant Charles Dickey, who was eager to be able to finally drag him back to a cell in New York.
Scamporino approached Dickey and asked him to give Saro some breathing room, at least for that night, and let him enjoy the victory to which he could say he’d contributed. The sergeant, unfazed, replied calmly that he would stand aside, but the following morning, he would put Saro on the first military plane bound for the United States.
The party was made livelier by torrents of wine and a great many joyous toasts. A band, composed of American soldiers, played Glenn Miller’s latest hits. Ladies of the Sicilian bourgeoisie danced with American officers in their smart uniforms, while their husbands tried to cozy up to those in charge of trade operations, to put together lucrative business deals.
Then, as in any self-respecting brotherhood, someone furtively handed out notes to twenty-eight people: invitations to a secret meeting to be held the following day at the Colonnas’ palazzo in Palermo.
Saro wanted to enjoy those last remaining hours before he had to return to America. Among the swarm of guests, he thought he spotted Jano Vassallo, wearing an elegant dark pinstriped suit, a white shirt, and a tie.
Saro pushed through the crowd and stood before him. “Jano, what a surprise. What happened to your black shirt?”
Jano returned his contempt. “The same thing that happened to your shabby rags.” He turned and, taking the arm of the young woman who was with him, walked away. The girl looked back for a moment and then ducked her head. Saro was struck by a scathing pain in his chest. Mena. It was Mena, more beautiful than ever, wearing a floral silk dress that showed off her slender legs. Her hand rested on Jano’s arm as he displayed her like a trophy.
In a heartbeat, the fleeting glimpse of Mena awoke in him sensations that he hadn’t felt for a long time. Her sweet name rose to his lips. “Mena,” he whispered, as if to convince himself he wasn’t dreaming.
Then the tender feeling vanished, replaced by rancor. Saro had been living with hatred for some time now; it had become his overriding emotion. He was furious at the injustices of life and destiny.
Sometimes, however, when life seems inevitably headed toward an adverse destiny, providence itself comes rushing to our aid.
The following morning, in fact, Roy Boccia—detained in a cell at the Manhattan precinct by his own choice, to protect himself from any vendetta on the part of friends of the Cosa Nostra—was brought a cup of Italian espresso. Needless to say, it was his last cup of coffee.
When the fact was reported to prosecutor William Bray, he raised holy hell, shouting that he would put the entire police precinct in a cell. He had lost the chief witness for the prosecution. Consequently, all charges against Saro Ragusa were definitively dropped.
Chapter 57
When Vincent Scamporino arrived at his office in Palermo the next day, he found a cable from the New York DA’s Office on his desk, informing him that the prosecution’s witness Roy Boccia had been poisoned in his cell and was dead. Saro Ragusa could be considered free on all counts.
Scamporino was pleased to be the first to give Saro the good news, since the young man was an invaluable member of his group. Then he phoned Sergeant Dickey and told him to come to his office because he had a document from the New York district attorney to show him.
With that news, Saro’s life took a wholly unexpected turn. Completely different scenarios opened up to him. He had seen himself as a man on the run, wanted by every police force in the world. A man without hope. Now, overnight, he was cleared, free to be able to choose. How many people are given such an opportunity? He owed it all to u patri, his father. But there was still a thorn in his side: Mena. Before making any other decision, that thorn had to be removed.
* * *
Once again, as they had done so many years earlier, twenty-eight of the island’s most prominent individuals came to meet in the same red drawing room of Palazzo Cesarò, having been convened by Finocchiaro-Aprile. It was the first official meeting for Sicilian separatism. The assembly consisted of the agrarian aristocracy, which feared the revolutionary winds of the North. There were also some genuine autonomists, whose aim was to oppose the centralized policy of Rome. Finally, there was a group of Mafia bosses, well represented by Don Calò, and some American and British proponents of the liberation forces, among them Charles Poletti, the US Army civil affairs officer.
During the meeting, the main articles of Sicilian separatism were drawn up. The final document proclaimed more or less:
The Committee for Sicilian Independence fervently and enthusiastically salutes the armies of England and the United States of America and their indomitable leaders, and expresses to them, from this first solemn moment, the people’s profound and heartfelt gratitude for having helped rid them of the uncivilized, barbarous, and deplorable fascist domination. Our highest aspiration is that Sicily be promoted to a sovereign and independent state under a republican form of government. After putting Italian unity to the test for many decades, during which time the island has been distressed to see that it has never been considered in the same way and on the same level as other regions [. . .]
Our agenda now is: Sicily to the Sicilians [. . .]
The Committee is therefore counting on England and the United States of America to support the plan for the creation of a sovereign and independent state of Sicily founded on democratic principles [. . .]
Naturally, this new state included the Mafia organization as well.
* * *
Salemi had not been spared by the bombings, either. The main target of the liberators’ squadrons was the small wooded area at the foot of the hill on which the town stood. The bombers were aiming to strike the Goering artillery divisions hidden among the trees. But many cabins located on the outer edge of town had also been destroyed by mistake.
Now that military operations were over, the young men from the Italian Section had been allowed to go see their relatives.
Though Saro ha
d no family to return to, he wanted to see his old friends and his home. As he approached the houses, he was overwhelmed by old memories: some happy and some bitter. It seemed like a century had passed since he had been forced to leave Salemi. He ran into Carlo Vacca, Armando Caradonna, and some others he had known from his barbershop days. They greeted one another, though half-heartedly. The war had dampened the urge to smile.
He headed toward his house. The fighting had passed over, barely touching it. But the door was ripped off its hinges, the windows shattered. He stood motionless, staring at those beloved walls for what seemed like an eternity. A woman came by with a bucket of water on her head. He didn’t know her; he’d never seen her before.
After she walked on, he entered the house where he had grown up, surrounded by the love of his parents, Peppino and Annachiara Ragusa: those two extraordinary people who had never attached any importance to the fact that he was adopted. The floor was littered with roof tiles, broken glass, bits of plaster. In the center of the room, overturned on the floor, he recognized the dining table. He spotted a notebook on the ground, picked it up, dusted off the black cover, and opened it. He recognized the wobbly handwriting of his father’s former pupil Turi Toscano. “All men are born with equal dignity. Only decent work sets us free.” Reading those words, he could no longer control himself and burst into sobs.
Sometime later, he returned to the jeep and headed for the Piazza del Castello and what had been Mimmo Ferro’s tavern. He hoped to meet his old friends there. Two men were sitting silently in the doorway smoking a cigarette, passing it back and forth between them. Saro didn’t know them, probably they were other evacuees. He went inside but there was no longer the usual cheerful commotion. People sat at the tables with empty glasses. Some played cards. Besides Armando Caradonna, he spotted a few more old acquaintances: Domenico the barber, Curzio Turrisi, and Ninì Trovato, the town crier, who strode toward him with open arms as soon as he recognized him.
“Saro! Saruzzo beddu!” He embraced him with sincere emotion. Then he looked him up and down and admired his uniform. “Have you become an American?” he asked ingenuously.
“I landed with the Allies.”
A crowd of people clustered around Saro. Now everyone wanted to greet him; even those who didn’t know him.
“You came with the ‘saviors’?” Curzio Turrisi asked incredulously.
“Oh, sure, with the ‘saviors,’ as you call them, Curzio.”
“Come here, have a drink with us. You’re our guest.” Ninì nudged him over to the bar.
“Sorry, but this round is on me.” The new tavern keeper set the glasses on the counter and began filling them.
Ninì noticed the young man’s sad look. “Mimmo was taken away by troops and the SS, together with your family. That day was a tragedy . . .”
Saro bowed his head.
“Dr. Ragusa didn’t deserve what they did to him,” Curzio put in.
“But we mustn’t think about the worst. We must be optimistic,” Domenico the barber said.
The tavern keeper stepped aside, and Saro, looking up, saw a magnificent landscape behind him, painted on the tavern’s bare stone wall. It was a view of Salemi and the countryside surrounding the town. The colors, style, and the particular scene made him recall a very similar painting he had seen in New York at La Tonnara.
“That painting wasn’t there before. Curzio, did your brother do it? Is Salvatore Turrisi back?” Saro asked.
“We haven’t heard from Salvatore in years. What makes you ask if he’s back?” Curzio asked.
“Because there’s a painting just like it in New York, in a trattoria—in fact, I’d say it’s exactly the same. The owner is Elisabetta, Prince Licata’s niece. She told me your brother, Salvatore Turrisi, painted it.”
“Did she say how he was?” Curzio asked anxiously.
“Actually, no. But apparently he was getting by okay—”
“That painting was done by Ciccio Vinciguerra,” the tavern keeper interrupted, referring to the man who had been saved by the prince after being dragged from a truck by Jano’s gang. “He offered to do it for free. I let him eat here the entire time it took him to paint it. He’s a good man. He never speaks.”
“U pisci,” Saro said, referring to him by his nickname: the Fish. “I didn’t know he too could paint so well.”
As the old friends drank the new barkeeper’s wine, remembering Mimmo’s generosity, their thoughts went to all those who would never return. Saro said good-bye then, intending to return to the command center in Palermo.
Leaving the piazza, he noticed that the walls of the Castello had been spared by the bombings. He looked up and saw the sentry box at the top of the embankment. The tower too was intact. That watchtower was linked to one of the most beautiful memories of his life. He decided to climb to the top of the walls.
He entered the door of the house facing the Castello, went down to the cellar, and walked through the long tunnel that connected the building to the Castello’s dungeons. This time he had a flashlight with him. He still had fond memories of Mena following him fearfully. He climbed up to the landing where the long spiral staircase began, leading to the sentry box on the walls. There he recalled with emotion the moment when he’d put his arm around the girl’s waist, with the excuse of protecting her from tumbling down. Her luminous green eyes had made him fall for her instantly. That sensation of falling in love was indescribable and the night of the fireworks unforgettable.
From the top of the walls Saro’s eyes swept over Salemi’s green valleys. He saw the patchwork of cultivated fields, the destroyed and abandoned shacks, life gradually starting to return again. He decided to leave and turned and saw two green eyes boring through his.
Mena had noticed him drive up in the jeep from a window of her new home in Piazza del Castello. Seeing Saro again had awakened a flood of memories. She had to face him. She wanted Saro to know the truth; her side of things.
She watched him go into the tavern. When he came out not long afterward, she knew where he would go. Now, as they looked into each other’s eyes, she would have liked the ground to swallow her up rather than have to face his rancor.
“Mena . . .” Saro murmured in a faint voice. Seeing her appear before him was a shock.
She was wearing a brightly patterned dress with a stylish skirt. A rarity in those days, but evidently Jano didn’t let her want for anything.
“Hello, Saro,” she said breathlessly, her chest heaving from the climb.
“I never thought I’d find you here.”
“I haven’t been back since that time. I need to talk to you,” she said lowering her eyes.
“Mena, what happened? Why didn’t you ever answer my letters? We made a promise to each other.”
“I missed you. All hell broke loose when you left. From the time you went away, the Black Shirts ruled over the town like tyrants.”
“Not one letter—you never answered me.”
“I never got anything from you! Saro, I swear to you! In fact, I thought you had fallen in love with someone else.”
“We promised to wait for each other. Don’t you remember?” Saro said again.
“Yes, but things change. We change.”
Saro thought of Isabel at that moment. “What could I have done?” Mena asked. “Don’t crucify me—not you too!” The turn her life had taken had profoundly altered Mena’s spirit.
“But how could you agree to such a compromise!”
“Saro . . .” She wanted to shout out her love, but she was bound to another man, and her honor kept her from betraying her legitimate spouse.
“How could you have married such a despicable individual!” Saro was incensed, but he would have liked to hold her firmly in his arms and offer his forgiveness.
“You can’t understand. You were far away. You might never have come back, like many of our men. I hadn’t heard from you.”
“But I wrote to you.” Suddenly it occurred to him: “Oh, I ge
t it, Jano must have intercepted my letters. There was no reason to marry a sadistic bully, however.”
“He’s the father of my son.”
“I don’t want to hear that. You and I belong to each other! Nothing else should have mattered!” Saro shouted.
Mena began to cry.
“My life ended the night you left.”
“How could you marry Jano?”
“He said he would take everything my family had: the land, the farm. I did it for my mother and my brothers.”
“It’s hard to feel sorry for someone like you!”
Mena couldn’t take anymore. She wiped her eyes, turned and disappeared into the darkness of the stairs.
* * *
Sergeant Charles Dickey of the FBI had nothing more to do in Sicily. His mission had ended with the death of Roy Boccia, the prosecution’s chief witness against Saro Ragusa.
He was ready to return to New York on the first available plane. Every day, there was at least one flight headed back to the United States. He had already said his good-byes to Donovan and Scamporino, and he couldn’t wait to see his family again. Dickey was only twenty-five, but he had a wife and two children waiting for him.
As he was packing his duffel bag, someone knocked on his door. He went to open it, and there stood Jano Vassallo.
The man asked if he could come in; it was urgent that he speak with him. Dickey invited him into the small room of the Palermo hotel that the OSS had requisitioned, designating it as its headquarters.
The sergeant knew Jano because more than once he had seen him escorting Don Calogero Vizzini from one feudal domain to another. He opened a bottle of whiskey and poured some into two glasses. Jano took a drink and sat down on the only chair in the room, while the sergeant sat on the edge of the bed.
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