by Angela Petch
‘Come along! Follow me, follow me,’ the fat friar intoned in a sing-song voice. He was rotund but he was fast, his bare heels slapping against leather sandals as he hurried down the corridor, past walls decorated with fragments of old frescoes, colours faded, half figures and parts of buildings rendering a ghostly finish. ‘You must all be starving after your long journey.’
‘Yes, we are,’ piped up Agostino. I wondered if he had worms or was just plain greedy.
Pushing open another door, the friar called out, ‘More newcomers for you, Fra’ Domenico.’ He half sang, half shouted in an accent I had never heard before. I later learned he was from a village near Turin, close to the French border.
Another friar, as long and thin as the first was short and round, appeared from the far end of the refectory, stooping over a tray piled with food.
The fat friar spoke in couplets, as if chanting verses from a psalm. ‘Sit down, sit down.’
The tall one, Fra Domenico, offered us white bread, slices of sausage, a hunk of cheese, and apples bigger than any I’d seen hanging from branches in Nonno’s orchard. He set down a pitcher of cool, refreshing lemonade and some tumblers. I began to think this place might not be a prison after all. I’d been told by Don Mario this was a college for poor boys, but if the food was going to be half as good as this first meal, it seemed to me more a college for princes.
‘Before you sit down to eat, do you need to visit the bathroom?’ Fat friar asked, his moon face cocked to one side.
We all did, so we followed him down yet another long, cool corridor. A statue of the Madonna stood half-way down in a niche, candles glowing red in the gloom, flickering at her bare, creamy feet. And there were fresh white roses in a vase on the ledge beneath her. I thought of my mother and Nonno and bowed my head as I passed, making the sign of the cross. A smell of polish, candle wax and antiquity lingered everywhere.
We reached another huge door leading to a room with a shining stone floor and a row of six wash basins with taps, like I had seen in the doctor’s surgery in Badia where I collected Nonno’s medicines.
In one of the cubicles was a large white bowl fixed to the floor, a chain hanging above it. I looked for a hole in the floor, for I badly needed a pee but there wasn’t one. Not knowing how to relieve myself, I climbed onto the rim of the big, white bowl to peer over the top of the cubicle where Agostino had disappeared.
‘Hey! What are you staring at, pervert?’ he squeaked up at me, standing with his legs apart, a stream of piss aimed at his own white bowl.
I got down from my viewing point and I copied him. I pulled the chain as he had instructed and yelped in surprise when water gushed down into the bowl. Agostino sniggered in the cubicle next to me.
At home we ‘fertilised’ the fields or used a bucket left at the foot of our beds. This new method of relieving oneself was only the first of many new experiences I’d encounter at the Seminary.
On my first night, despite feeling dog tired I took a long time to fall asleep. My mind was brimming with new images from the journey and the many faces and names to be remembered. I worried I would lose my way round the building with its echoing rooms and lofty ceilings. The food was new to my stomach too. White bread never appeared on our table at home and my tummy felt bloated. All around the college was an army of friars and scholars; the friars all dressed the same: sandals and bare toes peeping from beneath chocolate brown habits, jangling rosary beads fastened from cords round their middles. It was hard to tell them apart and I fretted about confusing their saintly names: Ignatius, Francis, Benedict, Aloysius…
When we were shown to our beds in a large room on the top floor which had metal bars at the windows, I was anxious about them too. Twenty-five, identical, single metal beds arranged in rows of five, each bed made up with cotton sheets, a pillow and a blue blanket. How would I possibly remember mine from the others?
We were told to unpack our cases and arrange our possessions in our bed-side cupboards with two shelves and a single drawer each. When I pulled out my little sister’s gift, I sat for a while smiling at the tiny rag book she’d sewn for me. On each page she’d drawn simple pictures: our house, our dog Fede, the river Marecchia and the old mill, an image of Nonno sitting by the hearth smoking his clay pipe. I removed his watch from the scrap of linen in which Mamma had wrapped it, fingering the glass, holding it close to my ear to hear its reassuring tick. Then I wrapped it up again and placed it at the back of the cabinet, beneath a pair of red socks Mamma had knitted. Maria Rosa’s rag book I placed on top of my cabinet to remind me of home, as well as a way of identifying my bed.
The mattress was harder than mine at home. As I tossed and turned, I missed the rustling sound of the corn husks and sheaths stuffed inside our mattresses. Instead, all around me I heard snuffles and snores from twenty-four other boys. And muffled sobs.
In the early morning the clanging of bells woke us. Bells ruled in the seminary. We washed in cold water, which was nothing new to me, but I heard others complaining. Then we knelt in church for one hour for morning prayers. This was followed by breakfast, also announced by a bell. A bowl of milky coffee and more white bread with jam was set before each place at table. I tried not to be greedy but I was hungry and devoured every last drop and crumb. The coffee was good and strong, made from coffee beans and not roasted barley as at home.
The long French bean of a friar, Fra Domenico, prodded a bony finger into my back, making me jump, ‘You and Fausto… you will be squatteri for this first week.’
Yet again, my heart fell to my boots. Would I ever escape from my enemy?
‘You’re both from the same village, I hear. Well, he’s older and can explain your duties.’
Squatteri were always selected from amongst the poorest pupils. We were scullery boys, dishwashers and servers at table for the midday meal for one week at a time. It meant no midday recreation when it was our turn.
Fausto sat on a stool near the sink where I was washing up. It was located in a scullery area away from the main part of the kitchen, so we were hidden from view. He leant back against the wall, his stocky legs wound round the stool legs whilst he chewed on a hunk of bread and meat he’d taken from a serving dish earlier. As squatteri, we were only permitted to eat once all our jobs had been completed.
‘Get a move on, clodhopper,’ he said, pointing to a pile of greasy plates. ‘You’ll have to work twice as fast if we’re to be back in class on time, because there’s no way I’m helping you. I’m too busy.’
He pulled another slice of roast beef and a chunk of taleggio cheese from his pocket and sniggered, ‘I hope there’ll be something left for you to eat.’
I wanted to kick the stool away from under him and see him sprawl on the kitchen slabs, but I lacked courage. Instead, I embarked, single-handed, on the mammoth task of scrubbing clean eighty or so white soup plates, my stomach rumbling with hunger. The soup had looked delicious when we’d ladled it out for the students: meaty, with plenty of fresh vegetables and pieces of home made pasta. The second course had been slices of roast beef, salad and a spoonful of cannellini beans baked with tomatoes. I couldn’t wait to enjoy my portion and hoped Fausto hadn’t wolfed down the lot. I stacked clean soup plates on the stone draining board and turned to place another dozen in the soapy water, when I heard a crash as my clean plates were pushed to the floor.
Fausto grinned like a mad dog, ‘Oh dear, what have you done?’ he exclaimed, as Fra Domenico rushed over to investigate.
My punishment was two more weeks of being a squattero. I tried to keep out of Fausto’s way as much as possible and this was fine during lessons as he was in the year above me, but the friars knew we were from the same village and assumed, incorrectly, we enjoyed each other’s company. So, we served together at Mass on Sunday mornings and were selected for the same football team. Fausto never missed a chance to torment me. He tied my shoe laces together so I tripped over on the altar steps before taking the jug of wine from the priest; he remov
ed the clappers from the bells which I was supposed to ring at the most important part of the Mass – the Holy Eucharist. He hid my boots so I had to play football barefoot and took every opportunity to stamp on me during the match.
Fat friar Michele, who had welcomed us on our first terrifying day, was a kindly soul. One day towards the end of our first term, I noticed he was limping and not his usual jolly self.
Once again I was on scullery duty. Fausto had landed me in it again, hiding half a dozen apples in my bedside cupboard and making out he had seen me steal them from the kitchen.
‘In here again?’ remarked Fra Michele. ‘You should move your bed to the kitchen, young man.’ He laughed and lowered himself onto a bench at the table I was scrubbing clean. ‘Have you had anything to eat yet?’
I shook my head and he went to the larder to cut me slices of home-cured prosciutto, slapping them between two generous hunks of fresh bread.
‘A body can’t be expected to work on an empty stomach,’ he said, ruffling my hair. Then he removed his leather sandal from his left foot, rubbing the big toe. ‘My feet are playing me up today.’
I picked up the sandal and examined it. ‘This thong needs a slight repair,’ I said. ‘I think I can help you. Will you excuse me for a couple of minutes, Fra Michele?’
Hurrying upstairs to my dormitory, I found the purse sewn by my mother from a scrap of soft goat skin. It was empty and perfect for the repair job I had in mind for Fra Michele’s sandal.
He couldn’t believe the difference the patch made and walked backwards and forwards across the kitchen several times.
‘Miraculous! Where did you learn how to do such a neat job, Giuseppe?’
‘My Nonno is a farrier and a cobbler. People come to our village from all around for his work and he’s taught me a few tricks.’
‘I shall tell Fra Angelico about your skill and maybe you could earn some lire to pay for extra text books.’ He stood up rocking backwards and forwards on his new feet and turned a pirouette, his smile making his face appear even rounder.
‘One good turn deserves another,’ he said, telling me to wait while he fetched something. ‘This is for you, Giuseppe. On one condition…’ He handed me a copy of Ariosto’s Orlando Furioso bound in red leather, gold lettering on the spine.‘…I was instructed to throw this copy away as there are a few pages missing,’ he continued, ‘but throwing books away goes against my soul.’ He leafed through the mildew-stained volume, stopping at a page with a hole in the middle. It was an illustration of Rinaldo leaning over a cavernous precipice, a deep valley separating him from a castle piercing the clouds.
‘Now, Giuseppe,’ he said, snapping shut the book so dust flew into the air, ‘this volume can be your reward for soothing my poor old feet, IF…’ he held up a podgy finger, ‘… you can recite me the words from the two missing pages of this second canto and write out the lines and insert them - before the end of next week.’ He beamed at me before placing the old book high up on a shelf of copper pans, away from view. ‘It will be a good exercise for you, my boy. You’ve been stuck down in this kitchen too often, for my liking.’
I smiled my thanks, knowing the book was mine already. Little did he know that some of these lines were part of one of my party pieces. I was frequently called upon to recite them for my proud mother at veglie on winters’ nights, as we and other families sat together around our fireside. The descriptions of the knight’s six-day journey up and down steep slopes, through isolated countryside unmarked by paths, where there was little sign of other humans, was similar to the journey our shepherds took each year with their livestock on the transumanza and therefore very popular. I would only have to brush up on a couple of verses to make my recital word perfect.
So far in my life I had never owned a book of my own and I resolved to give him a perfect recitation. This volume was full of wonderful illustrations by an artist called Gustav Doré, Fra Michele informed me, and I was determined to make it mine.
Nonno’s watch had disappeared from my bedside cupboard.
‘Have you seen it, Geremia?’ I asked. He slept in the bed next to mine and we’d become good friends. He wasn’t a quick scholar and I’d discovered a knack of simplifying explanations for him. In fact several students had started to come to me for help with their homework and, in turn, they would warn me whenever Fausto was on the war path. They had invented a warning whistle and would group themselves around me like guards.
‘No,’ my friend replied. ‘Turn out everything from your cupboard onto your bed. Maybe it’s hidden inside a sock, or something.’
It was nowhere to be found. The trouble was, I wasn’t supposed to have a watch or any valuable item at school. Upon arrival at the seminary I should have handed it in to Fra Angelico, the senior friar. But I had chosen not to. Whenever I felt homesick at night, I would put it to my ear and the rhythmic ticking was a link with my family.
How could I report it missing if I wasn’t supposed to have it in the first place?
I stumbled over my recitation of the canticles for Fra Michele. Nevertheless he lifted down the book from behind the pans and placed it in my hands, whereupon I burst into tears.
‘Well, I never did,’ he said, wringing his hands. ‘That’s not the reaction I was expecting, dear child.’
The missing watch was the last straw and I found myself telling kindly old Fra Michele all about Fausto and the way he took delight in tormenting me at any opportunity. I also told him about the watch.
He shook his head and tutted. ‘I can see why you are so upset - it was after all a gift from your grandfather. But you do know you are not supposed to have such things at college, don’t you?’ He tutted again and rubbed his balding head. ‘What to do? What to do?’ he repeated, before disappearing into the larder and reappearing with two slices of freshly baked seed cake, one of which he thrust into my hands. ‘Eat this up, it’ll make you feel better,’ and he munched on the second slice. ‘Run along now. Leave it to me and the Good Lord, young Beppe.’
Fausto left the seminary on the following day and never returned. In a quiet moment, Fra Michele handed me back Nonno’s watch, telling me to take it personally to Fra Angelico’s study near the chapel for safekeeping.
I thought my troubles were over.
Chapter 6
Marisa – Easter 1917
Montebotolino
I finished pounding Nonno’s darned cotton sheets at the fountain and spread them out to dry. Grandfather’s mind and body grew feebler by the day and he soiled himself regularly. I tried to be discreet and choose sunny days so wet laundry wasn’t draped around the hearth. But spring had been very wet and there was a basket piled high with a backlog of dirty washing that morning.
Next I proved the dough for our bread. I like this task. My hands are strong, unlike my legs, and I enjoy pummelling and kneading, singing while I work. Nonno joined in occasionally, prompting me when I forgot words. It was strange how he remembered everything from the past but some days forgot to put on his trousers. After shaping loaves and rolls, I put them to rise again inside my wooden madia, closing the lid gently so as not to cause a draught.
My last job was to scatter handfuls of corn for our hens where they scratched among stones and scrubby grass. Then calling to our good neighbour, Elena, to keep an eye on Nonno, I escaped for my one hour of freedom before returning to prepare the midday meal. Chicco my faithful friend ran ahead of me, his shaggy white tail wagging in happiness. A cross between shepherd dog and collie, he’d been destined as a guard dog for grazing sheep but Babbo said I’d spoilt him when he was a puppy, stroking and caressing him too much so he was considered too domesticated, not fierce enough to keep away prowling wolves.
That winter had been harsh, one of the coldest and wettest I could remember. Snow had fallen at the end of February to almost two metres and lingered for weeks in cold corners. Babbo had been forced to tunnel paths from our house to the bread oven and barn where we penned our hens and goats.
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So it was wonderful to feel the sun kissing my face. I removed the shawl from my shoulders to tie it round my waist. I needed these walks up the steep path to the mountain ridge not only to ease my stiff legs, but for the freedom I craved. After fifteen minutes we arrived. Clouds had been blown away by yesterday’s rainstorm, leaving a sky as blue as wild chicory flowers and a view that spread over three regions, from Tuscany to Romagna and Le Marche. I stood proudly on my hilltop, my face raised to the sky, my shoulders back, queen of all the Earth. All around me the meadows were studded with purple orchids, their tips pointing to the sky, and thyme-covered rocks attracted bees foraging for pollen. I stepped onto a large flat rock and slowly turned full circle, balancing my arms like wings. Chicco bounced around me barking and I laughed, breathing in hungry gulps of fresh mountain air as if it were medicine. My very own “Elixir”.
I’d read that word on an advert pinned to the wall of Doctor Negrini’s surgery in Arezzo where father had taken me the previous year. He’d saved hard to pay for his consultation fee by trapping skylarks for the butcher in the square in Badia Tedalda. And he’d collected frogs to sell for a few cents whenever showers brought them hopping from their ditches. He’d worked as a contractor, breaking up rocks with a hammer for the new road snaking its way down to Sansepolcro. He’d chopped and bundled up dried juniper branches to take to the osteria up in Rofelle to burn in the bread oven. All this he’d done over more than eighteen months, only to hear Dottor Negrini pronounce there was nothing to be done for my rickety legs and I would have to continue to hobble about as best I could.
Deep down I’d sensed this would be the verdict. But even if I’d voiced that to Babbo, he would still have persisted in his belief in a cure. That’s where my stubborn streak comes from too. Mamma died eleven years ago and maybe Babbo was concerned about how to cope with elderly parents and a crippled daughter. But I preferred to believe his concern was because he loved me. Even if I never heard him say as much.