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

by Brian Kennelly

But once halfway down the street, a door from the adjacent building burst open with a loud thud, as if someone had kicked it open. Two burly men emerged with a young woman thrown over their shoulders. Her body was limp and her face lifeless. Inside the building and beyond the open door, the bustling sounds of a crowded taproom flooded the once-quiet alley. They laid the woman on the ground not two yards from the feet of Pier Giorgio and Father Carl. Upon seeing the two unexpected strangers in the alley, they grunted and walked back inside.

  The woman, meanwhile, lay on the wet street on the verge of unconsciousness, lost in the recesses of her self-inflicted darkness. She moaned and tried to move, but lacked the strength. She was young, dressed all in black, and quite grimy in appearance, as if she had not bathed in quite some time.

  Father Carl and Pier Giorgio rushed to the woman and lifted her up, dragging her over to the nearby curb. Pier Giorgio held her up as Father Carl ran to retrieve their jugs of water. He removed the cork of one and tilted her head back.

  “Come on there, girl,” Father Carl urged, pouring water onto her lips, “talk to us. Wake up. Tell us your name. Where do you live?”

  She moaned again before vomiting in the street. The two of them held her firmly and waited for her to finish. They poured some water on her face and helped her take a few more sips. Pier Giorgio noted a tattoo on her neck, seemingly of a dragon. He wondered why someone would get such a thing painted on her body.

  For twenty minutes they sat with her, but nothing could bring the girl back from the stupor of her inebriation, precluding them from determining a place they could take her.

  “What should we do, Father Carl?”

  “We cannot leave her.”

  “No, but we cannot take her to the boarding house. It’s one only for men, no?”

  The priest nodded. “You’re right; it wouldn’t be safe for her. You never know what men could be there. Some may be of the dangerous sort, especially to a woman in this state.”

  “What then?”

  Father Carl thought for a moment more, then said, “Come, we must carry her.”

  They lifted her up, balancing her between them and each taking a jug of water in their other hand. Father Carl gave directions and together they moved her slowly, ten blocks to the east. Pier Giorgio never asked where they were going, trusting in Father Carl.

  But as they crossed block after block, Pier Giorgio wondered if this situation would draw curious eyes. A priest carrying a young, drunk, and defenseless woman through the streets would surely attract the ire of any they passed, would it not? But he didn’t note any such stares and judgments, finding most of the people to be disinterested, or even possibly understanding.

  Finally, they stopped before a small, stone home. It was one story, with a thatched roof, wooden door, and two windows on either side glowing with light. It was an old home, but Pier Giorgio thought it quite cozy.

  Father Carl handed the girl, now completely lost to the blackness, over to Pier Giorgio, who scooped her up in his arms and remained perched on the narrow walk overrun by grass and weeds. Father Carl knocked on the door and a minute later an elderly man dressed in plaid pajamas arrived at the doorway hunched over his cane.

  “Tobias, my dear friend, thank God you’re home.”

  “Father Carl, where else would an old man be at this hour other than at his home? What brings you here? What’s the matter?”

  “My friend and I were on a nightly mission,” he said turning toward Pier Giorgio behind him and holding out his hand, “but we came across this young woman who has had far too much to drink. We don’t know where to take her.”

  The elderly man knew what was being asked of him.

  “Yes, of course, bring her in.”

  He waved them into his home and led them down a narrow hallway adorned with family photos to a small den. A couch rested before a window overlooking the backyard. At Tobias’s prompting, Pier Giorgio softly laid the girl down. Tobias instructed them to bring him a towel, an empty bucket, and a glass of water. Within minutes he was dabbing her forehead with a damp cloth and feeding her sips of water.

  “She’s fine,” Tobias assured them. “Carry on with your mission. I’ll see that she finds her way home tomorrow.”

  “Are you sure you’re alright with her?” Pier Giorgio asked.

  “No one can nurse a hangover better than me,” Tobias claimed. “Isn’t that right, Father Carl?”

  Father Carl cracked a knowing smile. “I brought Tobias this woman because he is trustworthy, but I’m familiar with the weaknesses of his youth, and something tells me he may be an expert in how to help her come out of the stupor of her current state.”

  Tobias laughed so hard his chest collapsed and sent him into a coughing fit. He possessed the distinct sound of raspy phlegm clogging his lungs which so many smokers held claim to. Though a sincere man, Pier Giorgio saw years of bad habits hanging off him.

  Father Carl thanked Tobias and a moment later he and Pier Giorgio had left the home. Again they set out for the boarding house with their jugs of water, an hour removed from their intended itinerary. They found the long, rectangular-shaped building they sought, an old war bunker converted into a house for the homeless, and delivered the water. Father Carl walked about the giant open room filled with rows of bunk beds, attempting to break into the souls of the dejected men and offer them solace. Pier Giorgio watched intently but spoke little.

  On the way home, they stopped at a café and sat on the patio huddled around a small iron table draped with a tablecloth, enjoying a cup of coffee amidst the pleasant summer air which had cooled with the arrival of night.

  “What of it, Georgie?” Father Carl suddenly said.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You’ve not spoken ten words since we left Tobias’s house.”

  “Have I not?”

  “No. What’s the matter?”

  Pier Giorgio nodded.

  “Well?”

  After a pause, Pier Giorgio said, “I suppose I’ve stumbled onto an insight in noting the unusual circumstance we found ourselves in tonight.”

  “With the girl from the alley?”

  “Yes. You see, I wondered if others would look in judgment and condemnation at the sight of you, a man of the cloth, carrying a girl plagued by vulnerability and presumably half your age, through the streets at such a late hour.”

  “Why would anyone look down upon us helping her?”

  “They obviously should not, but I assure you in my native land of Italia the whispers of wrongdoing would persist for weeks. Many would have cried ‘scandal’ at the sight of a priest escorting a young girl home in such a condition. It’s simply the way of things.”

  Father Carl pursed his lips and nodded in thought.

  Pier Giorgio continued, “But here, it didn’t seem to be an issue. This caused me to realize all the many ways I’ve witnessed you intertwine yourself with the community here, to the point that you’re nearly a member of dozens, if not hundreds, of different families. You are entrenched in the community, like the keystone among the other stones. This is not the way of things in Italia. Priests are expected to be present on Sundays, at weddings and funerals, and perhaps occasionally for the confessional, but he is to be a phantom in the daily life of Italians. That is not to say they do not try to intercede into the comings and goings of their community, but it’s with much effort and little success that they are able to accomplish all that I have seen you accomplish these last few months.”

  Pier Giorgio paused but sought more words; Father Carl could see it written on his troubled expression.

  “Speak what’s on your mind, Georgie. You sit with a friend.”

  Pier Giorgio flashed an appreciative but short smile and said, “I believe you know I’ve considered the priesthood. I’ve prayed for many years for an answer to what God wants me to do. Often prayers are answered in many forms, and I wonder if tonight that unfortunate girl was placed before us for a reason. I know that my family will not
live in Germany forever, and I fear that if I return to Italy I will not be able to accomplish all I desire behind the white collar of the priesthood. In the lay state I will have better opportunities for daily contacts with the people, and so I can better help my brethren. It’s not that I lack respect for Italian priests—far from it—I simply wish to be more involved with the poor and sick of my community and don’t want to be held back by the constraints and demands of the clergy. Are such feelings an offense to God?”

  Father Carl took a sip of his coffee before answering.

  “I’ve known you a short while, Georgie, but I feel certain your offenses to God are few. The priesthood is not for everyone. God places a call in some men’s hearts and not in others, but this does make the others worse men. And you, with your flame for charity and kindness, are probably better than most priests.”

  “This could never be true, Father.”

  “Oh, stop with your humility, boy. A light shines within you; I can see it as clear as the sunrise each morning. God has a plan for you, and if this plan steers you not toward the life I chose, then so be it. We may struggle to put into words the feeling of God calling us this way or that, but we can’t deny those feelings are there, even if we can’t make sense of them. Do not delay in the charitable missions you wish to pursue because you wrestle with guilt and agonize over this decision. Choose your path and commit to what’s written in your heart.”

  Father Carl rose from the table, but Pier Giorgio remained seated.

  “Now, I must return home and sleep, as I am quickly becoming an old man. But I leave you with my thanks for your assistance tonight, as well as this most humble bill, which I know you will gladly take care of for a poor man of the cloth.”

  Pier Giorgio smiled but could not find the words to match his wit, and so he sat in silence as Father Carl took his leave.

  In October of that year Pier Giorgio traveled to Freiburg im Breisgdu, a city tucked in the southwest corner of Germany straddling the Dreisam River. It was at Father Carl’s prompting that he took the train ride across Germany to live with the Rahner family for a period of a month. Pier Giorgio sought the tutelage of Father Carl’s friend, Professor Rahner, the father of seven children and an acclaimed teacher of the German language, among other subjects that interested the young Italian.

  For a month he immersed himself in the teachings of Professor Rahner, hoping that by gaining a better understanding of the Germans and their language and culture, he could further help them in their struggle to move past the war and its aftereffects. He wanted especially to be able to relate to the young people, and so he found it necessary to learn from a teacher who had taught so many German students.

  While there, however, he could not resist taking to the nearby Black Forest for hikes. The wooded hills, teeming abundantly with pines, firs, and birch trees, grew forth from the rumbling terrain of southwest Germany and boarded the view from Pier Giorgio’s bedroom window. He disappeared for hours into the woods, lost in thought and prayer. Often, he would journey to the summit of Kandel, one of the highest peaks within the forest. Though it was not the rugged Alps of his homeland he cherished so much to climb, he took great pleasure in the seclusion and mystery of the Black Forest, pondering the advice Father Carl had given him about the priesthood and his calling to it; or rather, his lack thereof.

  The issue began to crystallize within his soul and he came to terms with the fact that perhaps God had other plans for him outside the clergy. He did believe he could accomplish more as a layman and had always known this to be truth, but Father Carl had helped him accept this without the weight of guilt to accompany it.

  In addition to this acceptance, Pier Giorgio enjoyed his time spent with the Rahner family, whose house was always bustling with the chaotic charm and undeniable love of a large family. Visions of his own children romping about the house and hiking through the surrounding countryside of a pleasant villa came to him in the form of sanguine daydreams. These desires, along with a good Catholic woman to share in the journey of parenthood, challenged further his aspirations of a priestly calling.

  And so, during these peaceful days spent within the unfamiliar but comfortable confines of Germany’s borders, Pier Giorgio’s thoughts of the priesthood began to evaporate from the inner springs of his soul. Yet still, a Christian happiness welled within him and he took pleasure in pondering a future free from the weight of such a monumental decision.

  “What now, does my future hold?” he whispered to himself, gazing out over the Black Forest from the summit of Kandel.

  Grounded clouds trespassed upon the earth in the form of a morning fog, pervading the brush below and shrouding the trees. The fog complimented the view with a sense of mystery; a poetic symbol, he thought, to the unknown future awaiting him.

  19

  Combating the Black Shirts

  The final days of October, 1922 changed the fate of all Italians when the Fascists, led by Benito Mussolini, seized control of the government during their March on Rome. The reaction to this dramatic upheaval within their country varied among the people, from enthusiastic support, to indifference, to enraged defiance. There was one young man who considered himself a part of the latter, and his rising voice in the back of the train cart was becoming hard for the other passengers to ignore. Their heads turned and glanced at him.

  “These Fascists will destroy what we all cherish about our country,” Pier Giorgio lamented to his friends. He didn’t realize the vigor with which he was speaking. “I will remember this day for the rest of my life. Mussolini and his cronies have marched upon Rome and seized control; do you not realize this, friends? Have you not heard the news?”

  “Yes, Georgie,” his friend Antonio said, “how could we not know what has happened in Rome today, considering you spoke about it all throughout dinner? And now you continue to bore us with the topic on what would otherwise be a pleasant train ride to Santhia.”

  Others in the train cart laughed. Pier Giorgio was frustrated by their disinterest in the topic.

  “You must calm down,” another friend spoke up, “the Fascists will not be here for long. They’re merely a broom we can make use of to sweep the Communists away.”

  “I must disagree,” Pier Giorgio quickly replied. “I don’t think each of you understands the gravity of what has happened with these ‘Black Shirts’ coming to power. Our country has had many issues since the end of the war—strikes and demonstrations, social injustice, even violence in the streets—but we must not cave in and give power to the first tyrant who comes along. Why will Mussolini be any better than the Communists who’ve caused so many problems for Italia in the last years?”

  “You cannot deny that order seems to have been restored,” a girl named Gia turned from her seat and said. “Do you not give Mussolini credit for this?”

  “The Fascists have used violent tactics to put down the Bolsheviks; therefore, he has restored order through the very means he was attempting to rid our streets of. And let us not forget that the Black Shirts’ aggression has been extended to many Catholic groups as well. I say again, none of you understand the sense of fear we should all have. Christianity, a religion of love, cannot come to terms with Fascism, a doctrine that exalts force and violence.”

  For some time, in the presence of his friends, Pier Giorgio continued to illustrate his discontent over the developments that had come out of Rome. It seemed his future, of which he had looked towards with hope and wonder just days prior in the forests of Germany, would now be complicated by the ominous cloud of Fascism.

  Living mostly in Germany over the last year, he had not seen firsthand the increased presence of Mussolini’s party throughout the streets of his homeland. He had heard rumors and stories, many passed along from his father, who received daily reports from his advisors on the changing political atmosphere in Italy. But Pier Giorgio never imagined it would come to this; that Benito Mussolini would soon become one of the most powerful men in all of Europe.

/>   The Fascists had taken advantage of the chaos in Italy, where Communist and Catholic labor unions, farmers and industrialists, and upper and lower class citizens all opposed one another. They seized control with the stealth of a thief in the night, convincing all parties involved that they were a compromised answer. But Pier Giorgio felt adamantly otherwise, arguing that the Fascists were just as much a threat to the Church as the Communists.

  Alfredo Frassati, while not caring much for the wellbeing of the Church, agreed with his son’s fears concerning Mussolini and his followers.

  “The rising of this man and his followers will do our country no good,” he said over dinner one night. “I don’t think I shall be Ambassador much longer if he comes to power.”

  His words were prophetic, as just weeks later the family was moving back to Turin after Alfredo turned in his resignation. The turnover in the Italian government led him back to his position at La Stampa, and so sadly for Pier Giorgio, he was forced to leave Germany, a country he had grown to love.

  “Mark my words,” Pier Giorgio went on, steadying his body in the aisle as the train jostled along the tracks, “a day will come, I’m not sure how soon, but it will come, when you think back to my warning. You will not like what the Fascists bring to the front stoop of your home.”

  Just then, two men entered the last car and walked straight down the aisle to the group of young people. Pier Giorgio stood with his back to them, but turned about when his friends motioned with their heads of the new presence behind him. The men were dressed similarly, in black suits, and even looked the same, with square jaws and slicked-back hair.

  “Friends,” one of them said, “we are journeying about the train asking for donations to support the Fascist party and our new leader, Benito Mussolini. Though we have had great success in recent weeks, we still need your support. Won’t you donate to the cause?”

  He held out a bag toward Pier Giorgio in which to drop money in. The train remained silent, but a clutching pressure built within the tiny cart like a geyser on the verge of blowing, felt plainly by them all. Finally, after what felt like an hour but was no more than a few seconds, a burst of laughter erupted from Pier Giorgio’s friends like a sudden clap of thunder.