“The Nazi’s are also killing young Italian men they suspect as being part of the resistance,” Carlino gazed into the fire. “We’ve lost a lot of good soldiers. Men with families. Hitler's men are ruthless. They’re heartless animals.”
“Our intel has just informed us that the American’s have advanced just south of Rome around Monte Cassino. German Panzer Scouts have been sighted north of Rome. The resistance is organizing a counter-offensive,” Don Alexandro got up and put another log into the fireplace. “We believe that by the spring, the Americans will take Rome and German forces will begin marching into the hamlets high in the Tuscan hills.”
“The resistance can mount a counter offensive - if you’re ready. It could help the American line considerably,” I suggested. “The Canadians have got the east side pretty well locked down. Although since I was captured in Ortona I don’t know what’s happening.”
“The latest we heard, your men drove the German’s out of the city.” Carlino informed us. “The German troops lacked reinforcements, and finally retreated. But the casualties were high. You’re lucky to be alive.”
“Exactly,” beamed Don Alexandro. “We’re always on the search for good soldiers like the two of you. I could offer you a significant position in one of our units.”
“It’s a tempting offer. But I’ve seen enough action,” replied Marco. ”There’s a beautiful woman waiting for me back home. She’s all I can think of right now.”
“I’m hoping to reconnect with my outfit back in Campobasso,” I added. ”I suspect they could still use the help of a good engineer.”
“Too bad for us.” Don Alexandro sat back in his chair. “We can probably get you as close as Rome. But it’ll be dangerous.”
“You’re better off staying around here until the spring,” added Carlino. “I’m sure Don Alexandro could keep you busy on the farm.”
“Thanks for the offer,” replied Marco. “But like I said, I’m anxious to get back home.”
“I understand. Love is a powerful magnet.” Don Alexandro puffed on his pipe. “Only death will take the one who is destined for you. Giancarlo will drive you to Rome in a few days, when the weather clears. In the meantime, enjoy your time here.”
And we did. We ate, drank and flirted with Maria. When the time came for us to leave with Carlino for Rome, both Marco and I were reconsidering if we had made the right choice. Maybe staying at Don Alexandro’s for a little while longer wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
Chapter Eleven
La Stregha Vechia
The old man at the cafe gave Marco detailed directions on how to get to La Stregha Vechia’s house. After tracking down his motorcycle, he drove the short distance up the mountain and into the wind to Limosano’s sister village, Sant’Angelo.
Located at the foot of the ruins of an ancient medieval castle, on a clear day from San’Angelo you had a beautiful panoramic view of the Tremiti islands to the east and the peaks of the Maiella Range to the west.
That morning Marco couldn’t see anything but the snow blowing in from the mountains. It was going to be one heck of a storm, perfect for Christmas.
Just past the the statue of the Stelle delle Madonna, Marco turned his motorcycle left and followed the narrow cobblestone street up towards the Chiesa di St. Pier Celestino. At the top of the hill he parked the motrocycle on the side of the street.
The old man said La Stregha Vechia’s house was number thirteen, just up the street from the church.
Marco knocked loudly on the old door. After a few minutes he knocked again.
The door opened an inch and a wizened old face peered out from the crack that appeared.
“What do you want?” The old woman’s voice was deep and gravely. “Shouldn’t you be home building a tractor?”
“Old Man Minicucci told me about you.”
“Looking for a Christmas gift are you?” The door opened wider. La Stregha Vechia was a short woman, with a slight hunch. She wore a black kerchief on her head and a black shawl wrapped around her tiny body. Her hands were gnarly, like the knobs of an ancient olive tree. When she smiled, her white teeth contrasted sharply with the dark silhouette of her widowhood. “Avanti!”
La Stregha Vechia led Marco up a short, steep set of stairs to a small room in the back of her house.
There were candles burning in the corners of the room, casting a warm glow onto the faces of the many Saints that hung on the wall. On the back wall was a small altar, where various herbs hung drying next to a large statue of the Virgin Mary.
Marco couldn’t figure out why the Madonna looked so dark. Maybe it was the dim reflection of the candles burning on the altar next to the stature, casting shadows on her face and hands.
“Ah la Madonna.” La Vechia noticed Marco’s interest in the statue. ‘You have a connection with her I see. Don’t be afraid that she’s black, she’s older than this place, older than that church,” she gestured with her hands towards the Chiesa di St. Pier Celestino, “she is the light in the dark, the grandmother of us all and almost as old as me.” The witch chucked under her breath. “So you want a love potion?”
“Um yea.” Marco pretended not to be surprised. “How much is it going to cost me?”
“That depends.” La Stregha Vechia went over to the altar produced a small vial from the behind the statue of the Virgin Mary. “Are we just talking about lira?”
“Of course.” Marco replied surprised. “What else? Chickens?”
“Uffah! Eco lei.” She passed the vial to Marco. “One hundred lira.”
“How about fifty?”
“Don’t fool with me boy.” The air in the room became very heavy and quiet. “This isn’t the market in Campobasso. I’m not a fishmonger.”
“I meant no disrespect.” Marco dug into the pocket of his coat and handed over a stack of bills. “I’ll take it.”
“Wise choice. There aren’t many women like Carmella Moccia around here.” La Stregha Vechia counted out the bills and placed the stack of cash on the altar. “Just remember this isn’t a game. That potion is very powerful, so use it wisely, and make sure you say a prayer to St. Valentino before you give it to her. You want him on your side when you do this.”
“You were talking to Old Man Minicucci weren’t you?” Marco started to suspect he was being swindled. “How else could you know about Carmella?”
“I know many things. Most of them you’ll never know. A lot of them you wouldn’t want to know.” La Stregha Vechia picked something up off her altar and passed it to Marco. “No charge for this.”
Marco took the cimaruta in his hand and inspected the handiwork. Carved on the three branches of the small wooden charm were a fish, a crescent moon, a closed hand and a key. He slipped the cimaruta around his neck.
“I’ve never seen one so beautifully carved before.”
“It’ll help you finish building that stupid tractor without blowing your pecker off. You’re gonna need it once you give her this potion.” La Stregha Vechia laughed, and her eyes momentarily became lost in the deep lines etched into her face. “Now get back to Limosano before the storm outside gets any worse and swallows you up.”
Marco wished the witch a merry Christmas and made his way back out onto the street where he parked his motorcycle.
In a matter of an hour, almost a foot of snow had accumulated, making the ride back down to Limosano very treacherous.
Marco, however, didn’t seem to notice that his motorcycle was having difficulty finding traction. All he could think about was how to slip the potion discreetly to Carmella.
I still wonder whether it was this sheer determination to make Carmella love him that saved his life that morning driving back from Sant’Angelo, or the protective magic cimaruta that the witch gave him.
Carmella arrived at the Del Gobo’s house for the Christmas Eve feast promptly at seven o’clock that evening. Sevirno and Primo were busy playing music; while I was helping Mar
co’s mama set the table for dinner.
Marco’s father greeted Carmella with his big booming voice as she made her way inside the cozy house full of the smell of Mama Del Gobo’s cooking.
“He’s upstairs warming by the fire. Silly boy drove his motorcycle up to San’Angelo this morning to do something. Almost killed himself on the way home. I don’t think he’ll ever learn to sit still.”
Marco greeted Carmella with a big hug and a kiss as she came upstairs. Her cheeks were rosy red from the weather outside.
“What a storm!” Marco commented. “I almost didn’t make it back from San’Angelo today.”
“You went to San’Angelo today?” Carmella sat down next to Marco by the fire. “What were you thinking!?”
“Obviously I wasn’t.” Marco put another log into the fire. “Honestly, I didn’t even notice the weather on the way home.”
“Always the brave solider aren’t you,” joked Carmella. “You could’ve died out there. What was so important in San’Angelo that you needed to go this morning?”
“Somebody gave me a tip that there was an old army truck sitting around that the nun’s had been using,” lied Marco. “I thought it might be safer to use that than get our legs blown off in the fields looking around for scrap metal.”
“Now you’re thinking!” Carmella gave Marco’s hand a squeeze. “So what happened?”
“It turned out to be nothing. But the nun’s were surprised to see me!” Marco changed the topic. “Where’s your ma and pa? I thought they were going to come over?”
“They didn’t want to go outside in the snow and decided to have a quiet meal together. We’ll see them later at mass.”
“Mama is going to be upset. You know how she gets with these things.” Mama Del Gobo was giving Peter directions on how to set the table properly. “Do you want something to drink? Sam’s made some warm spiced wine. It’s delicious. I’ve already had two glasses!”
“Sure why not. It’s Christmas!”
In the kitchen, when he was sure nobody was watching, Marco slipped La Vechia’s potion from the inside pocket of his vest, and said a quiet prayer to St. Valentino, just as the stregha had instructed him to.
May this potion be as potent as the love I feel for Carmella. May it be the glue that binds our love together forever and a day. O glorious advocate and protector, look with pity upon my wants, please hear my request and attend to my prayer, relieve this misery that pains my heart, and obtain for me the divine blessing of my soul’s desire.
He poured the potion into a glass with a small amount of spiced wine and returned to the table where everybody was now seated. Carmela sat beside Peter., and Marco handed her the spiked glass of wine. He took his seat next to her on the other side.
“Salute!” Severino toasted.
“Welcome home Marco!” Primo exclaimed.
“Welcome to Limosano Pietro!”Marco added.
“Buon Natlae!” I offered up in my best Italian.
Marco watched Carmella sipped the wine slowly, and by the time the pasta course was cleared from the table, she had finished drinking it.
“So Peter, what do you do in Canada for Christmas?” asked Carmella.
“Usually we cook a turkey,” I answered. “In fact, it seems like for every special meal we cook a turkey. Compared to Italians, we’re culinary cowards. Always doing the same boring thing.”
“I like la turchia.” Severino poured himself another glass of wine. “Sometimes Pa brings them home from the woods.”
“Those aren’t turkeys,” corrected Primo. “We only have la fagiano. They’re smaller and leaner. Turkey’s are only in America.”
“Another reason to move to America then.” Severino refilled the rest of the wine glasses on the table. “If one turkey equals the same meat of six pheasant then it’s surely the land of plenty!”
“Enough talk about moving to America,” ordered Papa Del Gobo in a half-serious tone. “It’s Christmas Eve and I don’t want your mother getting upset.”
As if on cue, Mama Del Gobo returned to the table with the next course. There was pesce al forno, made with fresh trout from the Biferno River.; bacàla with garlic and potatoes; carciofi ripieni; and peeled sweet peppers stuffed with breadcrumbs, anchovies, parsley, basil and peperoncino, sautéed and cooked with chopped tomatoes.
To Mama Delgobo’s delight, everyone ate with hearty appetites. As usual, Severino ate three plates and even Marco had a second helping. Just as everyone thought they couldn’t eat anymore, coffee and desert was served.
“Now we get ready and make our way down to the Church for midnight mass.” Mama Del Gobo was finally sitting down, enjoying the last few sips of her espresso. “Father D’Angello is all fired up about his Christmas mass tonight. He told me he’s got something new planned.”
“We have to get up?” I groaned. “I don’t think I’ve ever eaten so much food in my life.”
“Welcome to Italy.” Severino was the first one up from the table. “We may be poor but we still know how to turn a few measly lira into a five course meal.”
“You sure did well for a Canadese,” teased Carmella. “Maybe we’ll get a little bit of shape out of that skinny body of yours after all.”
“Don’t be fooled by his skinny-silent type. He could out match me in a pasta eating contest any day,” added Marco. “Like this time when we were in a tiny cafe in Trestevere. I’ve never seen anyone eat that much spaghetti diavolillo before.”
“His ass must’ve been burning in the morning,” ribbed Primo.
“Stop teasing him!” Carmella was getting noticeably upset. She looked tenderly at Peter. “He’s here without any family, and it’s Christmas.”
“You started it.” Marco was surprised that Carmella was being so sensitive about Peter. “It’s all in good fun.”
“Andiamo! We’ve got five minutes before mass starts,” interrupted Papa Del Gobo . “We don’t want to give Father D’Angello any more heartburn than he already has.”
Stories will always be told in Limosano about that Christmas eve in 1944. The fresh snow lay heavy in the streets and rooftops of the houses in the village.
When the lights turned off near midnight, the moonlight on the fresh snow seemed to reflect a magic that was in everyone’s hearts. A magic nobody believed could return after the horrors of the last few years. But the war was now over and, even though every day seemed to be a struggle to survive, that one night nobody was worrying, or crying, or feeling hungry or lonely. Even Father D’Angello marveled at how many people came to midnight mass that evening. There was electricity in the old church that even the old resident ghost, Brother Luciano, couldn’t put his finger on.
Chapter Twelve
La Befana
“So was La Befana good to you Pietro?” Carmella sipped her coffee slowly. “I bet she was.”
“I think so.” I was feeling nervous spending time alone with Carmella in the cafe. I didn’t mention it to Marco because she had asked me not to. “She delivered this great invitation for coffee with the most beautiful woman in Limosano.”
“Basta Pietro!” Carmella chided me gently. “You’ve been spending too much time with Marco!”
“Well it’s true. On both accounts!” I was enjoying this time together with Carmella, even though my conscious was screaming at me. “I have been spending too much time with Marco. But you’re still the most beautiful woman this side of Napoli.”
“Everybody’s been talking about Father D’Angello’s mass on Christmas Eve.” She changed the subject. “I can’t believe there were so many people there. His sermon on love was so moving it made me cry.” Carmella wiped her hand to her eye. I couldn’t tell if she was actually crying or just doing it for dramatic effect. “I especially liked how he stressed that Christmas comes around once a year to remind us that God isn’t keeping records and tallying ledgers regarding our status or position in life. That the story of Christmas really is the begin
ning of the most classic love story. It has all the right ingredients: infatuation, pursuit, risk and relationship.”
“He sure did get animated.” I added. “I thought he was going to knock the candles over.”
I’ve never been much a religious person. The deep seriousness Italians maintained for the Catholic Church always surprised me. Even in a village like Limosano, that still practiced many of the old folk traditions and superstitions, the priest was treated with a respect that seemed to be fueled by the fear of an almighty, all seeing God. Little did I realize that it wasn’t really the wrath of God people were worried about, but something more insidious and spiteful. The respect offered to the priest was in fact a smoke screen to an ancient practice that had strong roots in Limosano and the surrounding villages.
“I wondered the same thing,” laughed Carmella. “But I was more worried that he was going to catch his robe on fire!”
“That would have been quite the show. In the army they taught us the stop, drop and roll if we found ourselves on fire.” I explained. “It happened quite a bit in combat. I lost a good friend that way. He stepped on an edge of a land mine, and instead of his body parts being shattered into a million pieces, he burnt to death. His legs were blown off so he couldn’t roll the fire out. I wanted to run in and throw a blanket over him but the whole area was littered with land mines. Watching him burn like that and not being able to help was one of the most painful experiences I’ve ever had.”
“That’s horrible. I can only imagine the gruesome things you’ve seen. When the Nazi’s came through Limosano they were so brutal. They went from house to house taking all the food they could find. When they found young Tony Lorenza hiding in his family’s barn, they dragged him to the piazza, just outside there,” Carmella pointed to the snow covered piazza outside of the cafe where we were sitting, “and shot him point-blank in the head. The gunshot echoed all throughout the village. They left his dead body there for everybody to see. I don’t think his mother will ever recover from the shock and humiliation of having her only son treated like a dog. I know I wouldn’t be able to.”
“That’s why Marco is lucky to have survived.” I really wanted to take Carmella’s hand into mine. To feel her soft skin. To be as close to her as I could get. “After Badoglio signed the Armistizio the Nazis started killing Italian soldiers and young men with ruthless abandon. They saw them as traitors who deserved to be punished. Good thing Marco was working on that special plane, it saved his life. I’m sure he’s changed a bit since he first left here, but he’s been through a lot, give him a chance.”