To the Heights: A Novel Based on the Life of Pier Giorgio Frassati

by Brian Kennelly

  “You never answered?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You never said how long you usually stay on the other side of town. I’ve been told you sometimes get in trouble with your parents because you return so late in the evenings.”

  “Have you somewhere else to be tonight, Carlo?”

  He shrugged. “I considered meeting some friends from the Polytechnic, perhaps at the new restaurant in the Square in Crocetta.”

  Pier Giorgio glanced over to him as they continued to walk. “The amount of time I stay depends on what needs to be done. It’s too hard to say.”

  After several more blocks spent walking in silence, Carlo took note of the change in tone on this side of the city. They had walked at least twenty blocks and moved into the shadow cast by the vibrancy from the bustling metropolis behind them. The homes and shops looked decayed, almost as if a battle had blown through the streets. He grew apprehensive for their safety as men across the street eyed them with cigarettes glued to their lips, and depression weighed upon him at the sight of a young prostitute hovering on a street corner.

  “Why do you do it?” he suddenly asked.

  “Why do I do what?”

  “Why do you seek out the wretched and poor in these sordid corners of Turin?”

  Pier Giorgio stared back blankly. “You’re also here with me, are you not?”

  “Yes, but only because my parents all but forced me to become a member of the Society. It’s a family honor, or so they say.”

  They stopped yet again at an intersection. Pier Giorgio removed his worn, gray cap and ran his hand through his pitch black hair. He placed the cap back on and turned to Carlo.

  “Jesus comes to me every morning in Holy Communion; I repay him in my very small way by visiting the poor.”

  “It’s as simple as that?”

  “Yes.”

  The intersection cleared and they moved across the street.

  “Then how do you do it, if that’s why you do it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “How do you overcome your revulsion in these hovels with their foul smells? How can you be as cheery as you are when you’re welcomed to these neighborhoods by a nauseating smell? I cannot even speak of what I saw on my last visit to this place, with the backed-up sewage that ran throughout the house. Or is it that you are so full of sanctity that you do not notice such conditions?”

  Pier Giorgio stopped and grabbed Carlo’s arm, bringing him to an abrupt halt.

  “Carlo, I’m made of flesh just the same as you. If I didn’t smell the odor I would not come, for there would be no reason to come. But don’t ever forget that even though the house is sordid, you are approaching Christ. He told us, ‘The good you do to the poor you do to Me,’ did he not?”

  Pier Giorgio didn’t give Carlo a chance to answer.

  “There is a special light behind the poor and unfortunate, one we do not have, one that has nothing to do with riches and health. I urge you to see that light tonight, not with your eyes, but with your heart.”

  Carlo nodded and the two set off again. Pier Giorgio curved about the corner and opened the side door of a brick building which led to an upstairs apartment resting over a bakery. Before ascending the stairs, he stopped and faced Carlo.

  “We’re visiting a very sick and elderly gentleman tonight. His skin is covered in lesions and rashes and the smell you spoke of will no doubt be present. Are you sure you’re alright to come with me? I don’t want to force you to do something you are not able to do.”

  Carlo hesitated. “No, I’ll come with you. I’m ready.”

  Pier Giorgio smiled. “I know you want to see your friends, Carlo, and there is no shame in that. But you must be mindful of a carefree life. The life of the good is the most difficult, but it is the quickest to get to heaven, and do not forget heaven should be the aspiration of us all.”

  Carlo considered his words.

  “But even so,” Pier Giorgio went on, “perhaps we will go meet your friends and smoke a cigar before the night is out; that is, if you will allow me to accompany you. I would love to make new friends. Would that be alright?”

  “Yes, … of course.”

  “Wonderful!”

  Pier Giorgio walked up the stairs. Carlo expected him to knock on the door, but he turned the knob slowly, cracked it open and called inside.

  “Signor Cavetti, it’s me, Pier Giorgio.”

  The smell of decayed skin blew to Carlo in the air like salt off a wave, but he moved into the apartment behind Pier Giorgio. They made their way to the back bedroom, tripping in the darkness over pots and trash scattered on the floor.

  “He cannot afford electricity,” Pier Giorgio whispered back to him.

  Once in the room, Carlo saw a man standing in the corner peering out the window. The glow of an outside streetlamp shone into the darkness, wrapping his silhouette in a shell of light. The figure turned and spoke in a raspy voice.

  “Oh, Pier Giorgio! There you are; I was looking out the window trying to note your arrival, but you have snuck past my old eyes somehow.”

  “I’m very crafty like that,” Pier Giorgio replied laughing. He walked across the room and embraced the elderly man. Turning and wrapping his arm around the man’s slumping shoulders, Pier Giorgio said, “Signor Cavetti, I want to introduce you to a dear friend who has come to visit you as well. His name is Carlo Florio.”

  “Oh, bless you, Carlo,” the man said. He hobbled over with the help of his cane and hugged him, and though they hid in the darkness of that apartment, tears welled within Carlo’s eyes.

  14

  Trouble Past Midnight

  “Pier Giorgio! Pier Giorgio!”

  From his stance on the curb, Pier Giorgio turned back toward the humming car sitting in idle.

  “The paste! It’s turned over!”

  “What?” he asked. Pier Giorgio ran back toward the car and approached his friend, Guardia. His head was hanging out of the rolled-down window.

  “This fool Tonino knocked over the pot of paste with his big feet!” Guardia exclaimed.

  “It was an accident,” Tonino pleaded, pushing Guardia aside.

  “How will we put up the posters without the paste?” asked Giuseppe from the front passenger seat. His three friends stared at Pier Giorgio like children waiting for an answer from their father. He looked at his watch. It was nearly midnight; the market would be long closed. The political fliers for the Italian People’s Party flapped in his hand as a breeze flew by.

  “We’ll figure something out.”

  He hopped into the driver’s seat and jolted the clutch, speeding off around the corner of the block.

  “Where are we going?” Giuseppe asked.

  “We must find a restaurant or café still open,” Pier Giorgio answered.

  “What will that do?” Tonino asked, poking his head up to the front seat. “We’re in no need of food and drink, Georgie.”

  “I disagree. I think a drink is exactly what we need after the stress you’ve just caused, and you’re treating.”

  The others laughed.

  “I told you, it was an accident.”

  “I know, Tonino, I was only joking. We’ll find an open restaurant and get some flour to make more paste.”

  “Ah!” Giuseppe exclaimed as he followed Pier Giorgio’s line of thinking. “What would we have done if ole’ Georgie had not joined the I.P.P with us? A political genius, he is!”

  “Yes,” Guardia agreed, “and he couldn’t be less of a political man. The irony is perfect!”

  Pier Giorgio slowed the car to a roll and parked before Roberto’s Café.

  “I’ll run in since I’m the one who knocked the pot over,” Tonino offered. “Do we have any money to give the owner?”

  “Of course not,” Guardia laughed. “And you should be the last one we send in. You have no chance of persuading anyone to give us something for free.”

  “And why not?”

  “No,” Pier
Giorgio broke in, “let Tonino go. He will do fine. Just tell Roberto what we need it for; he supports our cause.”

  Tonino jumped out of the car and ran toward the door.

  “And get some water as well,” Giuseppe called after him. “Flour will do us no good without water.”

  He disappeared into the restaurant filled with patrons huddled around small tables topped with red clothes, full plates, and glowing candlelight.

  As they waited, Pier Giorgio chuckled to himself, enjoying the strange and unforeseen situation he found himself in. It had taken several conversations to convince him to join the Italian People’s Party along with his friends, but after much thought, and even more prayer, he determined the cause was just.

  Although the war had ended over a year ago in November of 1918, Italy was plagued by the echo of war’s effects. Social unrest and class warfare brought an uneasy tension to the streets of Turin, and Pier Giorgio wanted to do what he could to help his country. He found his chance in the I.P.P, a Christian-democratic political party founded by Dr. Luigi Sturzo, a Catholic priest and leader whose example inspired Pier Giorgio. Backed by Pope Benedict XV, they posed an attractive opposition to the Italian Socialist Party because of their founding principles based on the doctrine of the encyclical letter, Rerum Novarum.

  Still, his decision to leap into the world of politics did not come with ease.

  “I don’t enjoy politics,” he told his friends the night he joined, “it can be a seedy business full of two-faced men. But it is the unfortunate means in which we can help the needy, and therefore it must be embraced.”

  But when he joined, he never imagined he would be trolling the streets of Turin in search of ingredients to make paste, all as the clock ticked past midnight.

  A few minutes later, Tonino exited the restaurant empty handed and slumped back to the car.

  “Roberto kicked me out,” he mumbled as he climbed into the backseat. Tonino imitated the café owner in a deep, scratchy voice. “‘How dare you come into my place of business asking for flour of all things, and at this hour? What’s wrong with you, boy?’ What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with him? What a creep that man is.”

  Pier Giorgio chuckled. “No, Roberto is a fine man. He’s only trying to run a business.” He climbed out of the car and entered the café. Ten minutes later he emerged with a pitcher of water and a paper bag full of flour. The others burst into laughter and poked at Tonino. Pier Giorgio hopped in the car victoriously and chucked the bag of flour in the backseat. Tonino waved the white flag of his pride and joined in the laughter.

  “How did you do it?” Guardia asked.

  “I prayed to the Patron Saint of flour for intercession; Roberto stood no chance!”

  They pulled down a dimly-lit side street and furiously mixed together a paste-like concoction. When they were finished, they journeyed over to the Piazza Solferino in the heart of Turin, splitting up and ornamenting the square with their posters. Nearly every inch of every monument, pole, sign, fountain, and building was adorned with the I.P.P’s message and the names of their candidates.

  In the midst of slapping one of his last posters up, Pier Giorgio heard a commotion just on the other side of the center fountain. A small crowd had huddled around Tonino, questioning him rather forcefully about what he was doing.

  “Oh, poor Tonino,” Pier Giorgio said under his breath, “this has not been a good night for you.”

  Pier Giorgio and the others ran across the square and broke through the crowd. They stood alongside their friend with locked shoulders.

  “What’s the meaning of all this?” Guardia asked.

  “Well, friends,” Tonino answered, “these Socialist pigs are taking issue with the fine artwork we’re putting up here in our beloved Piazza Solferino. They’re not very fond of the candidates we’re supporting.”

  “Because you Papists don’t think with your heads, you think with your-”

  “Our what?” Giuseppe interrupted the young man across from him. “We think with our what? Our souls? Our hearts? Oh, you may be correct, my friend, but at least we can claim to have such things.”

  “Just leave the adult matters up to the adults and go back to your statues of the Virgin and your bells and candles,” the young man went on. “We will take care of the matter of running our country.”

  “Say what you will about us and our party,” Pier Giorgio said stepping forward, “but speak ill of the Blessed Virgin and this night will not end well for you.”

  “Have you not noticed we have double the numbers you have?”

  “Passion and faith outweigh numbers,” Pier Giorgio said confidently.

  Their opposition laughed. One of them went and ripped down a sign Tonino had posted up, tearing it into many pieces only an inch before his face. Pier Giorgio grabbed Tonino’s arm and pulled him back.

  “It’s not worth it, Tonino. Turn your cheek.”

  Pier Giorgio scanned the square, hoping to see a policeman on patrol. But there were only a few couples snuggling under streetlights and smoking cigarettes.

  “Yes, listen to your friend,” one of them said. “You men of faith cannot fight back anyway, can you?”

  One of them went and tore down yet another sign. When he began to rip it up, Pier Giorgio turned back to Tonino.

  “Alright, now it’s worth it.”

  All four charged at the men standing across from them, screaming like delirious madmen! If it hadn’t been such a serious and dramatic moment, Pier Giorgio might have laughed at the looks on their faces. It seemed these members of the Socialist Party were not expecting four Catholic boys to come to blows with them.

  While their element of surprise helped, the fact that they were outnumbered quickly turned the tussle for the worst. The eight men regrouped and began to double team Pier Giorgio and his friends. Fists were thrown and bodies were slammed to the concrete. Giuseppe was tossed into the fountain and Pier Giorgio’s shirt was ripped off. Lights flickered on in the surrounding buildings, dogs barked, and the couples under the streetlights came to watch.

  The whole ordeal felt like the passing of a month, but in reality only lasted about two minutes. Pier Giorgio broke free and rounded up his friends, screaming for them to retreat before they were killed. They sprinted back to the car and jumped in, laughing hysterically despite the mad men chasing after them. The sound of screeching tires muffled the obscenities Guardia tossed out the window at their pursuers. Pier Giorgio drove like a bullet shot from a gun until he felt they were safe.

  He pulled the car over and together the friends took inventory of their injuries as they laughed and relived the story, which, by no surprise, was already guilty of embellishment. By the time this story reached the others in the I.P.P, they would deserve a medal for fighting off twenty men from the Socialist Party.

  Considering what had transpired, the friends agreed they would celebrate over a late meal and split a bottle of wine. By the time Pier Giorgio made his way home the sunlight was approaching the edge of the Turin horizon. He tiptoed inside and got ready for bed, but fell to his knees as he always did before climbing under the covers. With the familiar string of beads sliding between his fingers, he thanked the Virgin Mother for protecting him and his friends on such a wild evening.

  Not two months later he prayed to her once again by his bedside, thanking her for the election of 100 members of the I.P.P to the Italian Parliament.

  15

  Our Lady of Oropa

  Pier Giorgio awoke at dawn. The first glimmers of sunlight filtered through the window and crept across his face, turning the darkness beneath his eyelids to crimson. A smile found his face as he listened to the chirping of the birds outside.

  “What a glorious day this will be,” he whispered to himself.

  He leapt from bed and quickly changed, dressing himself for the long hike into the mountains of northern Italy. He packed his rucksack full of food and supplies and scribbled a note to his family:

  Dear Pap
a, Mama and Luciana,

  What a special day for our family! I cannot wait to experience the crowning of Our Lady at the shrine in Oropa. I’m simply too excited to wait and plan to hike there. I know you will be traveling by car, but I will look for you this afternoon! I love you!

  Pier Giorgio

  He crept out of the house without a sound and headed north from Pollone. The journey before him consisted of a rugged climb roughly eight kilometers long and rising some 2,000 feet higher above sea level. The year had progressed deep into autumn and the air was brisk, with thick clouds rolling atop the mountains signaling the arrival of snow.

  Up and up he climbed, letting the sounds of the civilized world be swept away in the swirling winds of the Alps. He fell into a zone of prayer, taking each careful step with an uncanny instinct for climbing. His fingers blindly navigated their way over the flower seeds he had strung around fishing wire—a rosary gift he would often make and give to the poor he helped. His whispered prayers ascended into the atmosphere like incense, fertilizing the soil of heaven and giving life to the roses blooming at the Virgin Mother’s feet.

  He paused for lunch on the bank of a steep hill but ate little, only a few sips of water from his thermos and a can of soup. It would be the only meal he ate that day, adhering to a fast he’d set for himself in honor of the coming ceremony at Our Lady of Oropa.

  After finishing he set off again, climbing through a hazy mist that stealthily moved across the mountains and clouded his vision. His prayers increased as his eyes began to fail him and he became worried he would not make it in time at such a slow pace. Peering through the mist, he humored himself by imagining these were the welcoming clouds of heaven and he was on the threshold of paradise.

  “I should be so lucky,” he said to himself with a chuckle. “But my mountains are the next best thing.”

  When the mist thinned, a light snow began to fall. He buttoned up his coat, pulled a wool toboggan down over his messy hair, and marched onward. Each snowflake swirled down, all unique from the others, and caked the ground, leaving a thin layer of soft ice that crunched beneath his footsteps. At times he had to use his ice pick to gain traction and continue the climb higher into the mountains.