“Yes,” Antonio said composing himself, “I believe my friend here is a big supporter of your Cause, aren’t you, Pier Giorgio?”
Others slapped him on the back, coxing him to donate. The two men smiled, blissfully unaware of the joke. They continued to hold out their bags toward a stoic Pier Giorgio.
“I will not donate one lira to the likes of you,” he said firmly. “I suggest you move to the next car.”
Their expressions fell and they slid by Pier Giorgio, moving down the aisle. But before exiting the cart, one of them muttered, “You may not give now, but you will give later.”
Over the succeeding months, Pier Giorgio bounced from one religious demonstration to the next, supporting the Church and doing his best to rally young people to combat the growing power of the Fascists. He organized prayers in the streets and served as bodyguards for priests, who were routinely becoming targets of the Black Shirts.
One winter day, amidst a brisk wind, he marched through the streets with his fellow members of the Cesare Balbo. They prayed aloud and sang hymns, holding the flag of their University’s Catholic Club and marching peacefully toward the Cathedral for a Mass that was to be celebrated in their honor. But in the midst of the procession, Pier Giorgio spotted in the distance two rows of royal guards, the urban foot soldiers of Mussolini, wielding muskets and waiting to disperse the assembled crowd.
His friend, Marco Beltrano, grabbed his arm. “Georgie, do you see?”
“Of course I do. Keep marching and don’t interrupt the Lord’s Prayer.”
“But what are we to do? They have rifles with them.”
“I just told you what to do; keep marching and speak the Lord’s Prayer beside your brethren.”
Marco did as he was told, but the group of young men began to slow in their march. A few peeled off into a nearby alley and others meandered over to the sidewalk with their hands in their pockets, attempting to pass as innocent bystanders. Pier Giorgio remained at the head of the procession, holding tight to the Cesare Balbo flag.
Once upon the guards, dressed in full uniform and blue hats upon their heads, the procession stopped. One of the guards held up his hand. He was the largest of them all, a brute with massive arms bursting beneath the sleeves of his uniform and a full-grown beard layering his face. His voice was so deep it seemed to shake the ground when he spoke.
“This crowd must leave at once.”
“Upon whose orders?” Pier Giorgio asked.
“This is none of your concern. You know who we are. You know the power we possess. This demonstration of Papists is over.”
“You possess no power over our right to walk peacefully through the street,” Pier Giorgio replied. “Now move at once, we must go meet our Lord in the Blessed Sacrament.”
He moved forward along with a few other brave souls who followed his lead. But the guards braced themselves and blocked the way, crossing their muskets over one another to create barriers.
Pier Giorgio stepped back. He closed his eyes and prayed for patience.
“Gentlemen, what is it that you each have against me and my brothers? And do not reply with the doctrine that has been forcefully planted in your mind. Search your hearts, and tell us what it is that distresses you about us praying to our Lord.”
Several of them glanced at one another, but only the lead guard spoke up.
“You Catholics cannot be trusted. You care more for your Church, your God, and your Virgin than you do for Italia. Your allegiances are a threat to the well-being of our country, and you must be put down. This is your last warning.”
“My friend,” Pier Giorgio said, “you have spoken foolishly, if I may be blunt. No man standing here today loves Italia more than I. But there is no reason I cannot have my Faith and my country.”
“Did you call me a fool?” the man barked. He took a step forward and braced his rifle.
“No, listen, if I may explain in a gentler manner …”
The man grabbed at the flag in Pier Giorgio’s hand and pushed him back, but Pier Giorgio held firmly to the wooden pole and they toppled over one another.
A scuffle ensued, with punches, shouts, and screams filling the street. Several guards fired shots into the air in an attempt to regain control, but it only spread more bedlam.
Some of Pier Giorgio’s friends ran, while others stayed and fought. Below it all the lead guard and Pier Giorgio wrestled on the concrete, trying with all their might to rip the flag away from the other. It was as if the flag was a magical weapon that would determine the outcome of the brawl.
In the midst of the chaos, Pier Giorgio scolded his pride and his rage, the two dark twins churning beneath the surface of all men, for letting things come to this. Yet still, he could not let go of the flag.
Hours later, Pier Giorgio and four of his compatriots sat alongside one another on a tiny bench in the prison. They leaned up against the cement wall, sitting in the damp and dark cell. Behind the nearby toilet where a foul stench festered, a rat scurried about in search of scraps of food. Each of their heads ached and their bodies were covered with bruises and scars.
“I cannot believe this has happened,” Marco moaned. “My parents are going to kill me.”
Pier Giorgio put his arm around him. “I’m sorry, Marco, this is my fault. I let things escalate when this could’ve been avoided. But we must not paint ourselves as totally irrational men. What we did today was important.”
“Why was it important? What difference could we have possibly made in standing up to them?”
“I cannot say for sure that we made a difference in the grand struggles we face today as young Catholics, but the difference is evident in our own souls. You see, we are men of faith, and therefore love and peace, but love and peace can only flourish when the Faith is not threatened. If you fight for goodness you may not always achieve your goals, but to simply partake in the fight makes the ultimate difference within us, for it gives us strength and we find our purpose in God. Rest assured, Marco, that to live without a Faith, without a patrimony to defend, without a steady struggle for the truth, is not living, but simply existing.”
A guard came to the cell door.
“Frassati, you’re free to go.”
He stood up. “And what of my friends?”
“They might leave eventually, but your family name has done you a favor today; I don’t think they knew who you were when they stopped you in the streets. Your grandmother is here to claim you.”
Pier Giorgio sat back down, nudging himself between his friends. “I leave when they leave. Tell Grandmother Ametis she may return to my parent’s home. She is a humble and selfless woman; she will understand if I do not come to meet her. But do give her a kiss upon her wrinkly cheek for me, won’t you, Signor?”
His friends chuckled under their breath as the guard huffed and walked away. Several hours later, Pier Giorgio walked out of prison alongside his friends.
20
Comforting the Sick
The sunlight blanketed the square of Crocetta, save for the shade of the trees on the perimeter. Pier Giorgio held his rosary in one hand, while in the other he fooled with tiny pebbles he had scooped up off the ground. He sat with his back to the fountain in the center of the square. The water sprinkled up from a statue and returned to the pool below in soft splashes. A mist hung over the fountain and cooled him through his clothes. Such moments seeped in leisure, though few and far between, helped him forget about the political chaos of his country.
Through the trees and a sea of people gathering for picnics and recreation, he spotted his friend, Teresa Vigna. She was nearly twenty years his senior, and yet their rapport was that of equals. He waved and went to greet her with a hug.
“Teresa, it’s good to see you!”
“And you, Georgie! These visits to the clinic possess much more cheer with you alongside me.”
“How nice of you to say. I enjoy visiting your sick patients.”
“The feeling is mutual from them.
Each time you’re unable to come with me, they ask of your whereabouts.”
“Oh, no!” he exclaimed laughing. “Don’t tell me this. Now, I must come with you every Saturday.”
“Perhaps that was my aim. What’s in the bag?” she asked, motioning toward the black bag resting at his feet.
He smiled and winked. “My bag of Catholic goodies.”
Together they set out from the square and navigated their way through the busy streets of Turin. It seemed as if on this, the first day of warmth after a lingering winter, the city’s inhabitants had come out of hibernation. The elderly sat outside their homes, children laughed and played in the street, and young lovers sat cuddling on park benches. Pier Giorgio never took conscious note of the malaise that set in during winter until the arrival of such spring days as this.
Nearly an hour later, the two of them walked into one of Turin’s health clinics for the underprivileged. The smell inside was one of medication and chemicals mixed with human sickness, and the air was thick and muggy with the poor ventilation of the infirmary. They checked in at the front desk as volunteers and went to the back room where dozens of patients rested in beds, each with varying diseases and ailments. They were set up in rows, not five feet apart from one another. Coughs and moans echoed throughout the giant, hollow room.
Teresa and Pier Giorgio set off at once to the first row of beds. For each patient not resting in slumber, they crouched by the bedside. Teresa attended to a litany of their medical needs, while Pier Giorgio offered a smile and kind word. More often than not, a common reply came from every man, woman, and child.
“Pier Giorgio! You’ve returned to see me!”
He somehow assured them all with the utmost sincerity, rather than false flattery, that he’d come specifically to see them. From his bag of “goodies” he pulled rosaries, prayer cards, small crucifixes, and devotional books, distributing them among the sickly with spiritual advice on the importance of each item. To a small child he handed a book about the life of St. Catherine of Siena.
“Little one, this special woman spoke to Jesus during her earthly life. Perhaps you will too if you read about her.”
For some it was the first gift they’d ever received, at least since the last time Pier Giorgio had come to visit.
After hours in the clinic, Teresa and Pier Giorgio said their goodbyes to the patients. Teresa stayed behind for a moment to fill out paperwork. When she emerged back outside, she saw Pier Giorgio sitting across the street, resting at the base of a tree and scribbling inside a leather journal. She waited for the cars to pass and crossed over.
“What are you doing?” she asked upon reaching him.
“Just going over my list of debts.”
“I’m sorry?”
He put the journal back in his bag and stood up. “There are some kind men and women I owe.”
“Owe what? Money?”
He chuckled. “Yes, of course.”
“What do you owe them for?”
“I was had to borrow from them to purchase all that came with us in this bag. Teresa, dear friend, do you think religious articles and books simply sprout forth from the earth like crops?”
“No, I just, I suppose I assumed with your family’s money …” Her words trailed off, lost in the haze of her befuddlement.
“No, no, my parents’ money is not mine to distribute as I please. I have borrowed from others and will work to pay it back, although my Papa would probably rather I steal from him than go about town collecting debt. He finds my begging for money embarrassing to our family name.”
“But does he know what you are collecting the money for?”
Pier Giorgio considered his answer before responding. “I think not. Shall we walk back across town?”
She smiled and together they headed back from the direction in which they had come. Once halfway, Teresa said, “You know, Georgie, you’re a natural with those patients.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I cannot deliver them medical care as you can. You’re a dream come to life for a clinic like that—a volunteer with actual medical expertise. I’m just a buffoon trying to make them laugh and smile.”
“Do not undervalue the humor and compassion you show them, Georgie.” After passing another block, Teresa said, “If you enjoy this work so much, you should come with me to visit the lepers at Saint-Lazare Hospital.”
He stopped and grabbed her arm. “You’re able to work with these people?”
“Yes, why are you so shocked?”
“I’ve tried in vain to reach them, but the strict rules concerning their isolation has kept me from them. Could you take me there now?”
“Now?”
“Yes, we must go at once. With you, I’ll be able to get in, no?”
“Well, yes, I have permission, but I wasn’t planning on going—”
Pier Giorgio cut her off, grabbing her arm and leading her down the road in a near sprint. He knew the way from all the previous times he’d tried to visit. Several times Teresa tried to persuade him to try another day, but her words repelled from his ears.
In the late afternoon, they moved through the front doors of Saint-Lazare Hospital, a clinic specifically for those plagued with leprosy. The lights in the main office were mostly burnt out, and the ones still on flickered with fading life. A woman waited at the front desk, but Pier Giorgio couldn’t make out her features because they hid behind a mask. Her entire body was covered in a medical gown, with latex gloves gripped tightly to her hands as she handed the two of them a clipboard and form to fill out. She was perturbed by their lack of an appointment, but was familiar with Teresa and so looked past her regulations.
They were told to put on a protective gown similar to the one the woman behind the counter wore, including the gloves and mask. After putting it all on, they set out to another floor by way of a dingy, cement staircase.
It was a large building, with several stories and narrow corridors that stretched nearly an entire city block. But it was completely abandoned and possessed a gripping silence that hung heavily throughout the halls.
In a strange way the silence was deafening, a burden upon the ears, though in an inexplicable way. Pier Giorgio did not see another employee of the hospital, nor a patient, until Teresa led him into a corner room on the third floor.
Once inside they saw a nurse, also in full-body medical gear, attending to a young man as she dabbed his face with cotton swabs dipped in ointment. She stood over his bed in front of a row of windows flooded by sunlight, but peeked over her shoulder when they entered. Upon seeing Teresa, her eyes narrowed at their ends in response to the smile behind her mask. She nodded and went back to her work, unfazed by their sudden presence as the woman at the front desk had been.
On the opposite side of the room sat a couple, presumably married from the nearness of their positions on the floor and the demeanor in which they behaved, playing a card game with a girl no older than ten. Their heads also rose when Teresa and Pier Giorgio entered the room.
“Teresa, what a pleasant surprise,” the woman said, smiling.
Unlike the employees and volunteers of the hospital, they were dressed in pajama-like attire, with matching blue robes, white-striped gowns, and no mask or gloves. Their faces bore the scars of their disease, scars as deep as ravines and as red as fire. Between the deep scars were rows of lumps and boils protruding from the skin, as if on the verge of popping through.
Teresa walked around the couch separating them. Pier Giorgio followed. They both took a seat on the couch.
“Yes,” Teresa said, “I wasn’t planning to come today, but this is my friend, Pier Giorgio; he wanted to come visit.”
“Hello,” Pier Giorgio greeted them with a smile.
“Good afternoon,” the man said. His words were muffled by the skin peeling off his lips. “I’m Alberto Barnetti and this is my wife, Natalia. My daughter, Regina,” he said motioning toward the young girl, “and my son over there is Anthony.”
“What
a wonderful family you’re blessed with,” Pier Giorgio replied. He looked down to the girl. Her innocent youth was tarnished by the white boils and craters growing across her face. Pier Giorgio’s eyes began to water, but he composed himself and said, “What game are you playing, little one?”
“Scopa,” she answered, shyly.
“Ah, a wonderful game. I often played this with my parents, just as you’re doing now, but I’ve not played in many years; maybe soon you will play with me?”
She looked to her mother, who nodded.
“Okay, yes.”
“Excellent!” he exclaimed.
A smile broke through her scars and boils.
“Pier Giorgio,” the father said, “you seem like a good, young man; won’t you go over and talk with my son? We’ve been in this hospital for almost a year and I know he yearns for another youth to give him company.”
“Of course,” Pier Giorgio said rising from the couch. He walked across the room, leaving Teresa to visit with the rest of the family, and waited for the nurse to finish caring for the boy. She wrapped most of his face in bandages, save for his eyes and lips. When she left, Pier Giorgio grabbed a stool and slid it by the bedside.
“Your father tells me your name is Anthony.”
“Yes, who are you?”
His body nor his head rose from the bed and pillow, but his eyes focused in on Pier Giorgio.
“My name is Pier Giorgio Frassati.”
“You’ve never been here before with Teresa.”
“I didn’t know she came here. I’ve tried before to visit, but was unable to. I am blessed to accompany her today.”
Pier Giorgio suddenly felt uncomfortable with the mask gripping his face. He glanced over at the nurse making her way out of the room and pulled it down when she fell from sight around the wall. Anthony smiled.
“This is a nice room,” Pier Giorgio said, “does your whole family live here?”
To the Heights: A Novel Based on the Life of Pier Giorgio Frassati Page 11