The two of them disappeared into the rows of crops and flowers and worked for two hours before anyone else in the house had emerged from their beds. The sun rose slowly into the sky and bronzed Pier Giorgio’s olive skin, just as it had done each day throughout the last weeks. He enjoyed the manual labor and looked at it as physical training for his mountain excursions. He was growing into a sturdy young man and it showed even through his clothes.
After their labors were complete, Pier Giorgio plucked a daisy and headed toward the house, waving back to Signora Gola. “I’ll see you tomorrow, or perhaps sooner!”
“Yes, I hope so. Is that flower for a young woman who has attracted your interest?”
“Of course not!” he shouted without turning around. “You know Mama is the only woman for me!”
She chuckled as she watched him walk back around the house. Inside, Pier Giorgio found his mother and sister sitting down to breakfast. His father was still asleep upstairs after arriving in the middle of the night from Turin where he had stayed late working.
“Where have you been?” his mother asked.
“Working in the garden with Signora Gola. Here, mother, I have picked you the most pleasant-smelling daisy from our garden.”
She took the flower and laid it on the table before walking into the kitchen. “You don’t need to get in her way. Stay out of there while she’s working.”
Pier Giorgio glanced down at the daisy, then to Luciana. His sister smiled and reached across the table for the flower, holding it beneath her nose.
“My, this does smell wonderful. What a pleasant smell so early in the morning. May I have it, Georgie?”
He smiled. “Yes, please.”
Adelaide returned from the kitchen with a plate full of eggs and fruit. “Did you hear me? Stay out of the garden and let her do her work.”
“I was only trying to help while Signor Gola is off at war.”
“But I know you; you will distract her with your singing and your talking, whether you mean to or not.”
The three of them sat down to eat but spoke little as Adelaide read the paper. Her children could tell she didn’t want to be distracted by conversation. Minutes later, the sound of Alfredo’s footsteps creaking upstairs signaled his impending arrival to their family breakfast. Luciana ran and hugged him before he could finish descending the stairs.
“We’ve missed you, Papa!” she said, throwing her arms around him.
“And I you,” he replied, laughing. “But let me eat something before you knock me down. I’m weak with hunger.”
Pier Giorgio rose with a smile and hugged his father. It had been two weeks since Alfredo Frassati had seen his children. His long hours at work and their weekend excursions up to Pollone had precluded many family meals.
“I’m glad you could get away from work, Papa.”
“Yes, but only for now,” Alfredo said, taking his seat at the head of the table. Pier Giorgio and Luciana returned to their seats as well. Adelaide had not risen or looked up from her paper to greet her husband.
“I must return to Turin tomorrow, quite early in the morning,” he continued. “With the war nearing an end, we’re very busy trying to report on everything.”
“You must leave early on a Sunday?” Pier Giorgio asked. “Were we not going to have a picnic by the river?”
“Yes, I must leave at dawn, and don’t start with me, son. I don’t dictate when the news arises; I must simply report on it.”
“Well, I don’t want you to leave, but the end of this dreaded war would be a nice consolation for missing my Papa.”
Alfredo smiled. “Now tell me,” he said, poking a strawberry with his fork and shoving it into his mouth as the red juice gathered on his moustache, “what about my children have I missed? What have you to report?”
“I’ve joined the choir society at school,” Luciana began. “I was nervous at first to sing in front of others. I had to sing a solo, Papa; oh, you should have seen me. My palms were sweating and-”
“Adelaide,” he interrupted, “won’t you get me some wine?”
She looked up from her paper for the first time. “This early in the morning? Even for you that’s strange.”
“I’ve asked something and expect to get it,” he replied frankly, never once meeting her eyes with his. “And what about you, Georgie?” he asked, turning to his son. “We’ve heard from Luciana. Now, tell me what you’ve been doing with your time, and what are your plans for the future?”
Pier Giorgio glanced at Luciana but her head was hung.
“Well, I received my high school diploma last month,” he began.
“Yes, that’s right. How proud I am of you. Have you decided on what gift you would like? My offer still stands, would you like a car? Or the money I would spend to get you a car?”
Pier Giorgio thought for a moment. “I believe I’d like the money, Papa. Both offers are very generous of you, but if you’re leaving this decision to me, I’ll take the money.”
“Very well.” He took a large sip of his orange juice. “Mama will give it to you when we get back to Turin. And what else, Georgie? What of your future plans?”
“I have decided to enroll at the Royal Polytechnic. I want to specialize in mining engineering.”
Alfredo nearly choked on his eggs.
“What? What sort of education is that?”
Pier Giorgio collected himself and glanced down to his feet, as if searching for an answer to his father’s question below the table.
“It’s my dream to work beside miners and help improve their working and living conditions. They’ve been exploited for years. You know this, Papa; La Stampa has written about it.”
“Yes, but let someone else do something about it. What good will a mining degree do you in taking over for me at the paper?” Pier Giorgio did not answer. “What of it, then, son?”
“I’m not sure, Papa. But perhaps I can volunteer at La Stampa on my days off. Certainly you have some employees who lack an education in the news and print business.”
“Yes, some, perhaps a custodian or two.”
“Good, then I shall help them with their work.”
“Oh, don’t be absurd,” his mother broke in, handing Alfredo his wine. Alfredo took it and gulped down half the glass.
“How funny it is that my brother, who so loves to climb the mountains with a passion like no other, wants to journey beneath them as a profession.”
Luciana laughed at her own observation.
“I had not considered it that way,” Pier Giorgio admitted. “But yes, I suppose that’s true.”
The admission brought him a smile.
“We’ll talk about this later,” Alfredo said. “I must return to bed.” He left his family to their breakfast. Pier Giorgio and Luciana glanced at each other, but neither spoke.
* * * * *
Hours later, Alfredo was jarred from his nap by the sounds of tree branches pushing up against his window. They swayed in the afternoon wind and scratched the glass pane. He rose and approached the window.
Down below, in the pasture of tall grass, Pier Giorgio rested on his knees, his back to the house. Even without seeing his face, Alfredo knew his son’s eyes were closed and he was deep in prayer.
Just then, Adelaide walked in with a handful of recently washed and ironed clothes. Alfredo turned. “What’re you doing with those? Where’s Natalina?”
“She went home early, very sick. You don’t think I know how to wash and put away clothes? I don’t need a maid to do everything for me.”
He said nothing and turned back toward the window.
“What’re you looking at?”
“Our pious son.”
Curious, she placed the clothes on the bed and walked across the room, joining him at the window. She watched their son for a moment before speaking.
“Where does he get it from?” she asked.
“I haven’t a clue.”
They both watched, as if waiting for Pier Giorg
io to stop praying, as willing him to stop. He didn’t.
“I went to speak with Fr. Roccati last month,” Alfredo suddenly said.
“Concerning what?”
“I told him I was troubled by how much time Pier Giorgio spends with that rosary he gave him.”
“And what did he say?”
Alfredo looked over to his wife. “He asked would I rather Pier Giorgio be spending that much time with a trashy magazine.”
“What an awful thing for a priest to say!”
Alfredo chuckled. “I found it rather witty.”
Their gaze fell back outside just when Luciana walked out the side door and approached Pier Giorgio with a picnic basket. Pier Giorgio placed his rosary in his pocket, rose to his feet, and the two of them set out across the pasture.
“That is a strange son we have,” Adelaide said, watching her children disappear over a hill. “Sometimes I wonder if he isn’t someone else’s child.”
Alfredo pursed his lips, nodded, and said, “Strange, yes, but he gives me the impression I am meeting someone older than myself. I don’t know what I mean by that, but nonetheless, he gives me that impression.”
Adelaide looked over to her husband, opened her mouth briefly to reply, but instead turned back toward the bed to put away the clothes.
* * * * *
Pier Giorgio and Luciana strolled down to the river with a picnic basket they had filled with sandwiches, fruit, and juice, the food that was supposed to be for their family picnic the next day.
“I didn’t see any dessert in this basket,” Luciana said, taking off her shoes and dipping them into the water. “No candy?”
“No,” Pier Giorgio responded, sitting down alongside her. “I know about your punishment for talking back to Mama yesterday.”
“That doesn’t mean you cannot have any candy.”
“No, but I don’t want to have any when you cannot, and besides, why provide such a temptation for you?”
She smiled, squinting as she looked at him with the sunlight over his shoulders.
“You should’ve taken the car from Papa,” she advised, changing the subject.
“Perhaps.”
“That’s what I would have done. People expect to see us with nice things like a car, being the son of Alfredo Frassati. I like to fulfill their expectations,” she added with a smirk. He shrugged as he picked at the blades of grass around him. “Well, why didn’t you take the car, then?”
“I’d rather have the money.”
“Do you forget that I’m your best friend?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I know you, Georgie. I know you’re up to something. You’re not like me, or anyone else for that matter. Money does not interest you. I thought at least a car would.”
“It’s not that money does not interest me, or a car, it’s just,” he paused and smiled, “giving away money is easier than giving away a car.”
“I knew it! And just who will be the beneficiary of Papa’s money?”
“I saw a flyer for the St. Vincent de Paul Society the other day. They serve the poor and I may wish to join. I anticipate the money will help if I do. You will not tell Papa, no?”
“Your secret is safe with me, but how about you donate to the Luciana fund before journeying off to visit the poor of Turin?”
Pier Giorgio chuckled. “You’re doing just fine, sister.”
They opened their basket and ate together as the autumn winds swirled atop the current of the nearby river. The weather had turned colder in the last week, signaling the impending arrival of winter. Pier Giorgio glanced at his sister when she was not looking, wondering what he would do without her. For him, she was the glimmer of sunlight poking through the gloomy clouds which often hung over the family during his parents’ arguments.
After their lunch, they journeyed back up the house. An unfamiliar car was pulling out of their driveway, but it fled from sight before they could make out the driver. Both of them ran inside, shocked to find their parents popping open a bottle of champagne.
“What’s going on?” Luciana asked.
Their parents, not seeing their children for a moment, kissed, and each took a swing straight from the bottle.
“Mama, Papa, what’s going on?” she asked again.
Alfredo turned to his children. “Come, celebrate with us; we’re no longer at war!”
“What?” Pier Giorgio exclaimed.
“Papa has just received a telegram,” his mother said. “The war is over!”
Pier Giorgio turned and hugged his sister, lifting her off the ground and swinging her so easily it was as if she was a feather. They ran to hug their parents, and even partook in the celebratory champagne. Then suddenly, Pier Giorgio sprinted out of the room.
“Where are you going, Georgie?” his mother called after him.
“Signora Gola! Someone must tell her!”
Pier Giorgio sprinted out of the house and turned down the narrow road leading to the town of Pollone. He was halfway there when he realized he didn’t know where the wife of their gardener lived. The only way in which he could foresee remedying this situation was to turn toward the church. He burst through the front doors and climbed the bell tower. A few feet below the bells, he grabbed the giant chains and began to pull them as fast as he could. The bells rang so loudly his voice could narrowly be heard.
“Attention! Attention! Citizens of Pollone! The war is over! Signora Gola, your husband is coming home to you! Do you hear me? The war is over!”
For five more minutes he rang the bells and screamed at the top of his lungs, until soon he caught the ire of an elderly and frustrated nun who came to scurry him away. Once outside, he found dozens of townspeople slowly wandering into the square to investigate the unexpected commotion in their normally sleepy town. He scanned the crowd until he found her, sprinting straight for Signora Gola and hugging her.
“Did you hear? The war is over! Your husband is coming home!” When he pulled away, he discovered all she could do was weep for joy. “Wait until he sees the work you’ve done in the garden while he was away; his eyes will grow as wide as the potatoes!”
Laughter broke through her tears, and again the two of them embraced.
11
A Chosen Path
All of Italy celebrated the end of the war in the weeks leading up to Christmas of 1918. Pier Giorgio joined in the festivities, staying out half the night with his friends. He wandered the streets of Turin with a cigar in his hand, singing at the top of his lungs and hugging complete strangers. Bliss ran through his veins at the sight and feel of what peace did to his brethren.
But on a brisk day in late November he decided to follow through on a promise he had made to himself. He arose early and rode his bike to the Cathedral of Turin to attend Mass. Afterwards, he rushed back home and picked as many flowers as he could from the family garden, then journeyed across town to an area he rarely found himself in—a broken, gutter-like row of slums on the opposite side of the city.
He had read about this ghetto in a flyer from the St. Vincent de Paul Society, a religious foundation who served the poor of his city. Their newsletter detailed the ghastly conditions these residents lived among—the crime, the dilapidated housing, the poor sewage system, the dirty water, and the disease that often spread throughout the streets. His curiosity to see these things firsthand had driven him here.
First, however, he journeyed to the local cemetery where the people of this neighborhood were buried. In the paperwork he had read, he noticed a picture of the abandoned graveyard, with its crumbling tombstones overrun by weeds and other brush. Pier Giorgio knew the only thing more ignored than the poor of society were the deceased of the poor.
He got off his bike, resting it against the rickety outer gate of the cemetery, and walked inside to scan the rows of tombstones, reading the names aloud in a soft whisper. He wondered if the fallen could hear him, or if their names had been missing from the lips of the living for so l
ong they no longer recognized it. He began to rip away as much of the weeds as he could and placed the flowers he had picked from the garden at the foot of each grave. When he ran out of flowers, he went back and plucked apart the pedals and ripped off pieces of the stems, placing what he could at every grave so that they each had something there.
He returned to his bike and rode around the block toward the ghetto. A gloomy shadow blanketed the muddy streets, a darkness amidst the day that Pier Giorgio was not used to seeing in his beautiful city. It was as if even the sun had no desire to find its way to the homes of these people.
Ragged men stood on street corners smoking cigarettes, eyeing Pier Giorgio as he walked by. The small homes were packed tightly together and on top of one another, appearing as if they might crumble under the footsteps of a mere child. Businesses and shops looked so rundown he was unsure of which ones were open and which were closed. A group of chickens frantically fought for their lives against an attack from a stray dog, or perhaps the dog was the one fighting for his life; Pier Giorgio wasn’t sure. Spindly children walked the streets without shoes or coats. In an impulsive act, Pier Giorgio took off his overcoat and wrapped it around a boy, no older than five. It was too large for him and dragged along the ground like a cape, but the boy thanked him and moved down the street.
Pier Giorgio sat down on a curb; there he stayed for an hour, lost in thought. His daze was only broken when a gentle voice came to his ears like a soft echo from a distant canyon.
“Signor, please may you spare something for me? My children have not had anything to eat in two days.”
Pier Giorgio blinked and looked up. A woman covered in dirt and wearing a hole-ridden dress stood before him, holding the hands of two children dressed just as meekly.
“Pardon me, Signora, what did you say?”
“Please, may you spare something so that my children may eat today?”
“Oh, of course!” he reached down into his pockets, pulling out the wad of money his parents had given him for his high school graduation. He held out several lire.
“Thank you!” she exclaimed. “Thank you, dear sir. This is so much. We will eat for days.”
To the Heights: A Novel Based on the Life of Pier Giorgio Frassati Page 5