An alpine forest signaled the approach of the shrine. He recognized the pines and silver furs surrounding the area of which he had climbed to several times before. With an hour to spare before the celebratory Mass, he came into view of the arched dome nestled in the mountains around it. Tall pillars rose beneath the dome bracing the roof of the church. The granite structure blended naturally into the autumn forest and mountains behind it, appearing as if God had formed it with His very hands.
Pier Giorgio stood resting beneath the branches of a spruce pine which caught the fluttering snow before it landed atop his head. He let his eyes drink in the sight before him and thanked St. Eusebius, who had discovered the Black Madonna statue in Jerusalem. It was said to have been carved by St. Luke the Evangelist, and returned it to the small hermitage in these mountains. Throughout the years dozens of miracles had been attributed to the small statue which now sat in a chapel in the church before Pier Giorgio.
He sprinted forward with a burst of adrenaline and made his way through the small town of Oropa. Others were arriving for the ceremony and the streets were packed full of pilgrims. He wanted to search for his family but there was no time; he was set to serve at the Mass. Pier Giorgio made his way up to the church and found the back room where the other altar boys were preparing.
Throughout the next two hours Pier Giorgio felt as if he was floating. The outside world disappeared and a joy shone from his face that seemed ethereal to those around him. He marched among the procession, led by an Italian Cardinal, toward the six-foot tall Black Madonna. He watched with wondrous eyes when the Cardinal placed the crown on top of the statue; the third crown, as it was, which now rested atop the ones placed there in previous centuries by other Popes and Cardinals.
After the ceremony, he searched in vain for his family amidst the chaos of pilgrims, but no matter where his eyes looked, he could not find them.
* * * * *
The café bustled with activity—chatter, laughter, the clinging of utensils against porcelain plates and the banging of pots and pans back in the kitchen. Luciana sat at a table with her parents and their friends.
“Mama?” she pleaded.
Adelaide was engaged in another conversation, ignoring her daughter.
“Mama …?”
“You must come the next time we have everyone over, Maria,” she said to the woman sitting next to her. “I’ll show you some of my pieces.”
Before the woman could answer, Luciana said again, “Mama?”
“What, child?” Adelaide finally said turning to her.
“May I leave now? My friends are meeting up toward the chapel.”
“Fine, yes, but come back soon. We leave in an hour to return home.” Adelaide turned back to the woman. “My apologies. I’m afraid these young children today have no manners,” she added with a defensive chuckle.
Luciana rolled her eyes before rising and leaving the café.
“You have wonderful children,” Maria answered. “That Pier Giorgio, what a handsome fellow he is. You must need full-time security at the house to keep the girls away.”
“They do dote on him,” she said proudly.
“Too bad he’ll never be able to marry one of those girls,” Dino, Maria’s husband, interjected into the women’s conversation. He turned away from Alfredo, whom he had been talking to.
“And why not?” Adelaide asked.
“Because everyone knows your boy is going to become a priest!”
Dino laughed.
“My boy will not be a man of the cloth,” Alfredo quickly replied, “he’ll be following in my footsteps at the paper.”
“Yes,” Adelaide agreed, “he’ll carry on the family business.”
Dino took a large swig of wine, put it down and shook his head as he swallowed. “No, no, the only family business he’ll carry on is the business of the Holy Family,” he said laughing again at himself.
“Dino, you’ve had too much wine,” Maria said moving his glass away from him.
“Nonsense,” he fought back, taking it from her. He looked back to Alfredo. “Everyone sees him around Turin, always with a rosary in hand, going in and out of the Cathedral each hour. My boy said he’d been talking about this ceremony for weeks. ‘His Madonna’ was to receive her crown, he claimed.”
“I have no problem with my boy respecting the Faith,” Alfredo claimed, “but I assure you he’ll be joining us at La Stampa in just a few short years. If you need someone to absolve you from your horrible sins, Dino, you’ll have to find another man to do it. I’ll not have my son become a priest for many reasons, the most of which is not to subject him to hearing your confessions.”
Dino laughed, as did Alfredo and the two women. Dino and Maria nestled close to one another amidst their laughter, sneaking in a kiss and enjoying the wine overtaking their senses and the cheerful mood of the café.
Alfredo snuck a glance over to his wife, and she at him. Their smiles faded; they both knew the other was feigning amusement. Adelaide fidgeted in her seat as Alfredo flagged down their server. When she approached, he held up his wine glass, “Another.”
She nodded and headed back toward the kitchen. Alfredo waited impatiently for her to return.
* * * * *
Finally, Pier Giorgio spotted Luciana standing in front of the church.
“Luciana!” he called out running toward her. He nearly tackled her when he threw his arms around her, causing her friends to chuckle and leave.
“Georgie, I was in the middle of a conversation.”
“Did you see? Did you see the ceremony?”
“No.”
“No? What do you mean?
“I mean, ‘no’.”
“Where were you? Where are mama and papa?”
“They’re down at the café in town with their friends,” she said, looking more interested in people watching than the conversation with her brother.
“Did they see the ceremony? Were they at the Mass?”
“No, we ate down there. But I had to leave; it was all very boring, all their adult-talk. It was nice being with my friends, until you scared them away …”
“How could you all skip it?” he asked.
“Georgie, you know they didn’t come up here for the ceremony; they came to socialize, to ‘see and be seen,’ as they say. They dragged me with them to the café. I’d have come with you to the ceremony if I could’ve.”
Pier Giorgio’s gaze fell to the ground, his expression lost. Luciana went back to watching the many people pass by, mostly the boys.
“Well, I suppose we should walk down and meet them,” she finally said. “Are you coming?”
Pier Giorgio remained lost in thought.
“Georgie?”
“Yes?”
“I’m going to find Mama and Papa. Are you going to come? We’re leaving soon.”
“Oh, yes, perhaps I’ll come in a moment. I want to see the Madonna one more time.”
“Do what you must.”
After she had disappeared into the crowd, Pier Giorgio returned his focus to the chapel behind him. Most of the pilgrims had left and were headed back down the mountain. As they walked down, Pier Giorgio cut through them, walking back up.
He moved slowly into the chapel, as he always did when he entered a church. It felt wrong to enter in a rush. In moving slowly, he could prepare himself to meet the Divine.
Once inside, his body was drawn to the statue like metal to a magnet. He fell to his knees and prayed fervently, asking that his parents be filled with the faith that he so treasured. Tears gathered in his eyes as he peered up at the Black Madonna adorned in a golden robe and crowns, holding the child Jesus in her arms. But he fought back the tears and felt the burning in his throat that comes from swallowing such emotions.
Without taking note of the time, hours passed. He rose and found his way down into the town of Oropa, now all but deserted. His parents and sister must have left. Among the darkness of the night he could not hike back to Pol
lone, so he rented a room at the humble inn. There he prayed the Rosary for the third time that day, kneeling on the cold, stone ground. From his prayers he gained comfort over his sadness, the sorrows he felt for his parents’, and even now his sister’s, tepid faith. He prayed for a change within them, within their hearts.
As it was, a change was coming for Pier Giorgio, but it was a change he could’ve never seen coming.
16
Goodbye to Italia
Pier Giorgio walked out of the Teatro Regio di Torino humming to himself, reliving the opera scene by scene. Walking out of such an artistic performance sent shivers of inspiration through his spirit, and as he turned down the block he broke into song, piercing the night air with his off-balanced tones and howling at the full moon above like a wild wolf. A group of girls strolling by giggled at his antics.
“Ah, Signoras,” he faced them and said, “I see you were admiring my singing. And may I now offer to serenade you further with poems from my beloved Dante?”
They laughed again, their giggles as high-pitched as tea kettles.
One of them asked, “Who is this boy?”
“Boy?” he piped. “Signora, I am clearly a man. And my name is Pier Giorgio Frassati. It’s a pleasure to meet you all!”
“I know your name,” another one said.
“I hope it is a name you’ve heard fond things about.”
“Yes,” another one agreed, “my Papa speaks of your Papa regularly. He owns La Stampa, no?”
“That he does! My Papa is a fine man, and clearly your father is an educated man.”
“I know your name because I go to the Royal Polytechnic,” the fourth one offered.
“Yes!” Pier Giorgio exclaimed. “I knew your pretty face was familiar.” She blushed as red as the sunset. “You are in the Gaetana Agnesi,” he went on, “the sisterly organization to our Catholic men’s club at the University. I’m an avid member of the Cesare Balbo.”
“I have heard you are,” she confirmed with a flirtatious smile. “We’re going down to the Square to meet more of our friends, would you care to join us?” She batted her lashes and twirled her long, black hair with her finger. Her friends playfully poked at her back, pushing her toward Pier Giorgio, whose confidence was beginning to dissolve into boyish jitters.
“Oh … well, thank you for the invitation.” His jovial expression faded but was quickly replaced by a forced and polite smile. He glanced at his watch even though he knew he was already late. “Unfortunately, I have another commitment I must be off to. But perhaps I will see you in my dreams, no?”
They laughed again and departed down the street. He watched them walk away until they fell from sight around the corner, admiring the femininity and beauty of their elegant walks. He sighed, took a step after them, paused, then turned in the other direction.
He raced across town to a poverty-stricken quarter on the northwest side of Turin. There, standing beneath a flickering streetlight, he saw his friend, Father Robotti, smoking a cigarette and sipping on a flask.
“Hey,” he called out, “is it not a sin for a priest to sneak in a few sips of brandy on a Saturday night?”
Father Robotti turned and smiled, stuffing his flask back in his overcoat pocket. He quickly dropped the cigarette and squashed the butt with his shoe, then put his hands in his pockets, rocked on his heels, and whistled toward the sky to infer his innocence.
“No, no, I saw you,” Pier Giorgio said upon reaching him.
They laughed and embraced. The priest was tall and dressed in his black robe. He wasn’t old, perhaps ten years Pier Giorgio’s senior, but his hair was already charcoal gray; no doubt, Pier Giorgio mused, from the stress of being a priest.
“Dear Georgie, you won’t tell the old ladies in our parish, will you? I can enjoy a smoke and a quick drink in these mean streets without the glare of judgmental eyes, but if word gets back home to the affluent districts I might be in for some trouble with the Bishop.”
“Why don’t we just say you were drinking some black coffee?”
“Ah, if only that were true. You were right the first time; brandy is my weakness.”
“We all have our weaknesses, Father. I’m sure the Lord sees the work you’re doing in these downtrodden neighborhoods anyhow.”
They surveyed the dark and broken streets, littered with seedy men and somber women mulling around. Their lifeless faces were void of hope or purpose.
“To be honest, Georgie, I needed a little courage from my brandy to enter this neighborhood. Each time I come I’m not so sure I’ll ever see my pillow again. I thank you for answering my call to accompany me. It’s a sad day in our country when a priest must hire a young friend to serve as a bodyguard, especially when he cannot trust the police.”
“It’s nothing, Father. I’m glad to come escort you to visit these homes.”
“But you are a young man on a Saturday night. Had you no plans?”
“No, Father. I was able to see the opera in the early evening, but nothing else. Let us be on our way.”
They walked further into the slums, passing by homes thrown together with pieces of large tin and rotted wood. Amidst these hollows, and all over the city, for that matter, people had begun to revolt against one another in the power vacuum that had come about since the end of the war. A clash of ideals concerning the future of post-war Italy brought chaos and tension to the streets. Italy in 1920 was not the same country Pier Giorgio had come to love in his youth.
Father Robotti looked over and eyed Pier Giorgio suspiciously, as if investigating him.
“You’re not afraid to enter these streets, are you?”
He shook his head. “If you come to someone in the name of Christ, you can never be afraid.”
The priest chuckled. “Said very well, Georgie.”
“I think the work you’re doing trying to ease the political tension of our city is very important and I’m glad to help. I know there have been dozens of strikes and demonstrations recently, and even blood has been shed. This all has to stop.”
“It may not stop until those who are striking and demonstrating get nationalization of the public utilities, among their many other demands.”
Father Robotti glanced down at the I.P.P badge pinned in the buttonhole of Pier Giorgio’s coat.
“You are proud to wear that badge, no?”
“Indeed. I know it can attract angry stares from our political opponents. My own mother has asked that I not wear it out of the house during this time of social unrest, but the whole point of a badge is to show one’s allegiance. How strong is your allegiance if you only wear it in the darkness of your own home? And anyway, I find it serves as a springboard to discuss the I.P.P’s cause of justice for the poor and leadership focused on our Faith.”
“And did the badge serve you well when you visited the metallurgic factory at Borgo Dora last month and put a stop to that riot?”
Pier Giorgio glanced over but did not answer.
“Yes,” the priest went on, “I heard about that. How were you able to walk into that factory with that badge on and convince them to suppress their violence? I have to imagine there were many opponents of the I.P.P there.”
Pier Giorgio shrugged. “Perhaps.”
“How were you able to keep them from ripping you apart, then? I must know.”
“A fair question,” he replied smiling, “but the Lord was with me. I suppose I’ll have to give him the credit.”
“Well, let us pray you have brought your talent for peace tonight. We’ll be entering many homes, several of which are the leaders of the demonstrations occurring each night in the streets. I hope to urge them toward peace, or our beloved country could be torn apart by civil war.”
“I’ll be by your side all night.”
Their eyes met and Father Robotti nodded, suddenly filled a strong sense of courage. For the next three hours the two of them knocked on the doors of some of the most notorious instigators of violence in their city, men who had p
oked the fires of civil unrest throughout the last year. Father Robotti and Pier Giorgio urged them to work peacefully with their opposition and made plans to deliver food and other alms to their community the following week. These acts of kindness softened the hard edges and bitter scars of these gruff men.
Pier Giorgio often let Father Robotti do the talking, but found a way to set the room at ease when he spent their visits playing with the children in the corner of the small homes. Many of them already knew him from his past visits to their slums.
At the end of the evening he escorted Father Robotti home safely, and having fulfilled his duty, headed home. His steps were made lightly and without care, energized from the successful evening he had shared with the priest.
But upon entering the house, he heard the muffled cries of his sister coming from the den. He hurried down the hall to see his father sitting on the couch, rubbing his sister’s back. His mother was on the other side of the room pouring herself a drink from their wet bar.
“What’s happened?” He quickly entered the room and took off his coat, throwing it over a nearby chair and approaching his crying sister.
“Where have you been?” his mother fired back. “It’s very late.”
“I … I was out with friends.”
“Are you sure you were not out gathering subscriptions for Il Momento again?” his father questioned. “Do you know how embarrassing it is for me to go to work and tell my employees my son is working for our rival paper?”
“Please, Papa, it doesn’t have to be them against you. I’m sorry if I have offended you. I told you this already.”
“Everything in this country is one against the other right now, Georgie. They are the paper of the Popular Party, and we are that of the Liberal Party. You should know this. If you are with them, then you can go to Il Momento if you’re hungry for dinner. Perhaps they will take you in.”
“Are you surprised our son adopted the cause of that paper?” Adelaide asked, looking at no one in particular and gazing out the nearby window. “Every young, Catholic boy at the Polytechnic is working for them.”
To the Heights: A Novel Based on the Life of Pier Giorgio Frassati Page 8