“What a nice boy you are! Well, let’s pick these up so you can get home to her.”
The two of them began to gather the flowers sprawled on the sidewalk. Pier Giorgio glanced up at her black dress and the dark veil blanketing her hair.
“Where were you going with all these flowers, Sister?”
“Oh, I’m no Sister. I am a simple woman going to place a bouquet in the chapel at La Crocetta. I have just come from the nursery. Well, alright then,” she said, seeing that they had both collected all their flowers, “run home to your grandmother.”
She moved around Pier Giorgio but after several steps he called after her. “Sister?”
She turned. “I told you, boy, I’m not a nun.”
“Sister, won’t you give one of these to Jesus for me? My grandmother loves him; I don’t think she’ll mind.”
He separated one of his daffodils and held it out to her. She smiled and came back to him, taking it from his hand.
“I’ll be sure to deliver it to him.”
“Thank you, Sister!”
She chuckled and rubbed his head. “You don’t listen so well, but I think one day you’ll see that Jesus will make you a saint.”
Pier Giorgio shrugged before turning and running down the street, not stopping until he had laid his flowers in the lap of his beloved grandmother.
3
A Child’s Compassion
Although the Frassati family called Turin home, their hearts resided in Pollone, a quaint town fifty miles to the north where Pier Giorgio’s family owned a vacation villa. The grand, two-story home had been in his mother’s family for years and was often where Grandmother and Grandfather Ametis could be found hiding from the world.
The speed of life slowed within the confines of Pollone, earning it the appropriate nickname, “Peaceful Pollone” from the family. It was here where Pier Giorgio created some of his fondest childhood memories, no doubt because it meant much time spent with his grandparents. Their presence, combined with the serenity of the secluded town, calmed the normal hustle associated with everyday life in Turin.
“Are you ready to go?” Grandfather Ametis called up the stairs to Pier Giorgio.
“I’m coming!” came the young boy’s reply. He ran across the upstairs hall, his rapid footsteps echoing throughout the house, and descended the stairs. His grandfather smiled and rubbed his head. “Do you have the food?” Pier Giorgio asked.
“Of course! It’s by the door. Let’s go, or we’ll be late.”
Together they set out on foot to the nearby daycare center, an “asilo,” as it was known.
“Do you know these children we’re delivering the food to?” Pier Giorgio asked as they meandered down the narrow and winding roads to the town of Pollone.
“I don’t know them personally, but I know many of the Sisters who watch after them.”
“Why don’t they have food to eat?”
“Well, their families don’t have the means that our family is blessed to have. Their parents send them to the asilo so they’ll be given proper care and attention.”
“I’m glad we have this leftover food from the dinner party, then.”
Grandfather Ametis smiled.
They walked further, through the town and across the river to where the daycare center rested before the rolling hills. Inside, Pier Giorgio waited patiently as his grandfather spoke with one of the nuns at the front desk. Eventually, she led the two of them back toward the cafeteria where they would deliver their food donations. Once there, Pier Giorgio stood holding his grandfather’s hand as he spoke to yet another nun, but the adult conversation bored his juvenile attention span.
He turned to the crowded cafeteria in the adjacent room. Amidst the sea of toddlers hopping about from table to table, he peered into the far corner of the room where the ceiling lights gave way to darkness. There, he noticed a boy sitting alone. Pier Giorgio watched the boy for over a minute, examining his somber face.
In that passing minute, something ached inside Pier Giorgio’s heart, something he couldn’t explain. The aching he felt, in a peculiar sort of way, also felt soothing. It was a feeling of both pain, but also tenderness, upon seeing this lonesome boy. His solitude engulfed Pier Giorgio, it overwhelmed him. But it wasn’t pity, it was love, not the way he loved his family, but love all the same.
The other children, sitting together and enjoying one another’s company, did not draw Pier Giorgio’s attention the way the lonely boy did, for their happiness blended them into the scenery of the moment, as if they were simply trees in the midst of a forest. But the boy, the one sitting beyond the reach of the ceiling lights, was a like a wandering fawn lost in that forest.
All this occurred to Pier Giorgio, even if only subconsciously, and so he released his hand from his grandfather’s.
“Don’t go far,” Grandfather Ametis said, returning to his conversation with the nun a moment later.
Pier Giorgio navigated his way across the room, sitting down at the table of the secluded boy and speaking plainly.
“Hi, I’m Pier Giorgio.”
The boy stared back at him without reply. He was a few years younger than Pier Giorgio, perhaps four years of age.
“And your name?”
“Vincent.”
“Why do you sit alone, Vincent?”
“The Sisters said I had to.”
“Why?”
“Because of my sickness.”
The toddler held up his hands; for the first time Pier Giorgio noticed a strain of rashes and warts assailing the little boy’s skin. Layers of scratch marks ripped across the infected areas like canyons in the earth, stretching to his arms and up towards his face, barely visible above the neckline of his worn and ratty shirt.
Suddenly, Pier Giorgio felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Young man, you shouldn’t be sitting here.” He turned; above him stood one of the nuns. “You could catch this poor boy’s malady.”
“I’d like to stay. My grandfather is over there speaking with one of the Sisters. He’ll come to get me soon.”
She hesitated, opened her mouth, but said nothing and turned and walked away. Pier Giorgio swiveled around in the stool again. He noticed Vincent struggling to lift his spoon from the bowl of soup to his mouth, perhaps from his clumsy and youthful coordination, or perhaps from the difficulties his skin lesions caused him; Pier Giorgio wasn’t sure. He took the spoon in his own hand and said, “Here, let me help you, Vincent. We’ll both have some soup together. One for me, one for you.”
He scooped up a bite of soup and held it to Vincent’s mouth. After Vincent had slurped up a bite, Pier Giorgio dipped it again into the steaming soup and took a bite for himself.
“My, this is good!”
Vincent smiled and his face shined like the sun had found him for the first time. Together, the two boys finished the bowl of soup.
4
The Stranger at the Door
The sun hung over Turin amidst a naked, blue sky for most of the day, but the heat had begun to release and settle in the early dusk hours. Pier Giorgio sat alone at his family’s dinner table, his legs kicking earnestly. The smell of his mother’s gnocchi slowly drifted out of the kitchen and teased his sense of hunger.
Suddenly, there came a knock at the door.
“Alfredo,” his mother called out, “will you see who that is?”
Pier Giorgio heard his father grunt from the other room where he sat reading the newspaper. Alfredo Frassati rose from his favorite chair and moved down the hallway toward the front door. Pier Giorgio heard the low rumble of his father’s voice and a tense exchange with the guest. His curiosity sprung him toward the front of their house.
“No, we have nothing to give,” Alfredo insisted. “Off with you!”
Pier Giorgio peeked around his father’s waist and took in the man standing at their front door. He was dressed in rags, wearing a shirt sewn together from dozens of patches. He had dirty hands with grime beneath his finge
rnails, and his hair was tangled and clumped, as if a bird’s nest sat upon his head.
The man pleaded again. “Please, Signor, anything you can spare for a simple beggar...”
“If I must tell you again I’ll call the authorities,” Alfredo warned as he slammed the door in the man’s face. Pier Giorgio reached for the door but his father grabbed his wrist and dragged him down the hallway. Alfredo’s hands were moist and sticky from the grease slicking back his hair. “Stay away from the door, Georgie,” he commanded. “We have no business with that man.”
“But, Papa-”
“I have spoken!”
Adelaide Frassati moved into the hallway, wiping her hands on her apron. “What is all this commotion?”
“Mama,” Pier Giorgio pleaded, “there was a poor, hungry man looking for food and Papa has chased him away.”
“I’m sure he had his reasons,” she said, pulling back strands of her dark hair which had fallen from the pinned-up bun atop her head.
“Oh, Adelaide, if only you could have seen this man, or only smelled him; he reeked of the liquor all those beggars live for.”
“But …”
“But what, Georgie?” his mother asked.
“Well, maybe it was Jesus who passed by and we’ve sent him away.”
His parents’ eyes met before narrowing back on him.
“Georgie,” his father said placing his hand on his shoulder, “you have much to learn about the world. Don’t try to understand adult matters like this; go and sit there at the table and wait for dinner. I have much work to do this evening.”
The young boy moped back to his place at the table as his parents returned to their work. Pier Giorgio heard the clinging of pots echoing from the kitchen and the rustle of his father’s newspaper from the den. But the sounds of the house faded into silence as his thoughts returned to the man outside.
The hot weather of summer had probably drained his energy. Pier Giorgio wondered if he could leave the house after everyone had gone to bed and bring this stranger some water and food, if only he could find him. He wondered what else he could do, if perhaps he could sneak the man into their house so he would have a safe roof over his head. Pier Giorgio wondered if his father could get him a job at La Stampa, the noted liberal newspaper owned by Signor Frassati. The paper was growing rapidly and perhaps Papa could use some help so that he did not have to work so much himself. Father Cojazzi and the nuns down at the Cathedral were always looking to help people; it was possible that Pier Giorgio could at least send the stranger there. If he went there …
“Pier Giorgio!”
His father’s voice broke his daze. His family surrounded him, each at the table with hot plates of gnocchi and rising steam before them. His little sister covered her mouth and giggled.
“Hush, Luciana,” their mother said. “Georgie, what were you thinking about? Did you not see us here? We’ve been here for nearly a minute.”
“No, I’m sorry.”
Everyone at the table picked up their forks and began to cut into their food.
“Are we not going to bless our meal?” the young boy asked.
His father rolled his eyes. The table remained silent, until Pier Giorgio broke into prayer of thanksgiving. When he’d finished, the eating commenced.
“I know what he was thinking about,” Alfredo mused, “he was thinking about that bag of dirt that came to our door.”
“No need to call him that,” his wife corrected.
“But that’s what he was.”
“Even so.”
“So what of it, Dodo, were you thinking of him?”
“Yes, Papa.”
“Yes, of course you were. You were wishing you could have helped him like you did some months ago when you gave those beggars with the little child your shoes. Ah … yes, you think I didn’t know about that? I see the look in your eye; you are a guilty boy, guilty of giving away expensive dress shoes to complete strangers. Forget all this at once, Pier Giorgio. I told you not to concern yourself with that man. I assure you, it was not your Jesus asking for food.”
“But shouldn’t we act as if it was?”
No one responded. They all continued to eat as Pier Giorgio pushed his food around the plate. This routine, this battle of wills between Pier Giorgio and his parents, was a common one around the Frassati dinner table. Pier Giorgio’s parents possessed a tepid faith, if even a faith at all, and wondered how their son could be so different from them. They couldn’t fathom the source of his ardent faith. Pier Giorgio, meanwhile, had never known how to be any other way than how he was.
“I tell you what,” Adelaide said, “if you’re not going to eat this dinner I slaved over, then I’ll send one of the servants out into the neighborhood tomorrow to see if this man can be found. Save your own food to give to him. And anyway, you must suddenly hate my gnocchi which you usually devour.”
“You’d do this, Mama?”
“No, Georgie, I was only saying that. How difficult you are!”
Alfredo and Luciana laughed.
“But if I eat my dinner and you send someone to find him, we could give him some other food?”
“Fine,” she returned with a heavy breath, “just eat your dinner.”
The next day Pier Giorgio sat at his desk trying to concentrate on his studies, but his wandering mind precluded much work from getting done. He fiddled with his pencil, flicking it around is desk, then stopped for a moment to watch a bird building a nest in the tree outside his window.
Just then, his parents burst into the room. He quickly returned to the open book on his desk, as if he’d been working the whole time.
“Well,” his mother said, “I hope you’re happy.”
He turned around in his seat. “What?”
“Your friend from yesterday is nothing but a drunk,” Alfredo said sternly, “and now we have proof.”
Pier Giorgio didn’t understand.
His mother clarified. “We sent Valentina out into the streets with a loaf of bread to find your hungry man, your friend of Jesus,” she added mockingly. “He was passed out in a gutter with a bottle leaning up against his leg.”
“Do you see now, Pier Giorgio?” his father asked. “Do you see why you should listen to us? What nonsense this was.”
“Yes, Papa, but did she leave him the bread?”
“You’re impossible,” his mother said throwing up her hands. “A mad one, you are. Of course she didn’t. This man did not deserve our help.”
“The bad things he’s done don’t make him any less hungry, Mama. Besides, what if it really was Jesus who sent us that poor man?”
His father walked toward the door. “I haven’t time to deal with this foolishness, Adelaide. Put a stop to it.”
His mother scowled and left the room without another word. Pier Giorgio sat alone before the open book, but did not read a word. An unsettling feeling came over him, one that he vowed to avoid in the future. He hated the thought of this man lying hungry in the street. Pier Giorgio knew it was not normal for a boy his age to care about such matters, but he cared all the same.
5
The Providence of Failure
Pier Giorgio never much minded sharing his favorite tree with Luciana. Unlike most twelve year-old boys he actually welcomed the company of his younger sister. She was only seventeen months his junior, and their proximity in age meant they spent much of their days together. On this summer day, he hoped Luciana could brighten his mood as they sat perched together at the top of a sequoia. It grew from the center of the family’s garden bordering their antique villa in Pollone.
“I’m sad the summer is ending,” Pier Giorgio lamented. “I don’t want to leave Pollone.”
“I don’t either, Dodo, but every summer must end eventually. Why don’t you just return to your songs you were spoiling the countryside with this morning,” she added with a chuckle. “That should cheer you up.”
“My singing is better than the bird’s.”
; “You cannot carry a tune,” she argued back.
“That’s only your opinion. Parsifal has never complained.”
Luciana laughed again. “Yes, horses are loyal like that, even grumpy ones.”
He smiled and gazed out at the countryside toward the Mucrone River which snaked about the hills, cutting up the terrain as it flowed steadily toward the south. In the other direction narrow and winding roads divided the surrounding villas with their high, stone walls framing each property. He would miss what this quiet town did to the revival of his spirit. But he also knew there were other reasons the end of this particular summer brought him apprehension. As usual, his sister could read him like a book.
“You mustn’t be nervous about changing schools, Georgie. I’ve heard the Istituto Sociale is a great place. You’ll love it.”
“I am excited to spend time with the Jesuits,” he admitted. “But I don’t like the thought of being at a different school from you.” Luciana nodded, but it appeared she had not yet considered this yet. Pier Giorgio continued, “I suppose I’m just embarrassed I have to change schools.”
“You tried your best.”
“But mother and father were so upset. They’re sending me to the Jesuits because they say I need more discipline with my studies.”
“I’m sure you weren’t the only one who failed Latin.”
“I believe Giuseppe did,” he confirmed.
“Well, there you go.”
“But this makes me feel no better. What if I don’t make good grades at this school either?”
Luciana reached down through the limbs and branches and patted his back. “I know you will, Dodo. And they’ll teach you more about Jesus. That must excite you.”
“That’s true. Then perhaps I can teach mother and father more about him.”
“You know this will not interest them, not unless Jesus purchases one of mother’s paintings and can teach father how to increase subscriptions to La Stampa.”
She chuckled at her own joke but Pier Giorgio did not. His father was never one for going to church, and Pier Giorgio had even heard him question God’s existence. His mother, while a woman who did attend Mass with them, rarely, if ever, bothered to receive Communion. She was of the belief that receiving the host only at Christmas and Easter was sufficient. He recalled years ago, when he and Luciana had received their First Holy Communion at the Chapel of the Sister Helpers of the Souls in Purgatory, how she had not possessed the same wonder and excitement he might have hoped for over such an event.
To the Heights: A Novel Based on the Life of Pier Giorgio Frassati Page 2