The Incident at Montebello (47 page)

For nearly four years, Isolina and Lucia had worked for Sol and Ruthie Katz and were always the last to leave on Sabbath eve because Ruthie rushed home early to prepare enough chickens and matzo ball soup to feed a dozen relatives. With any luck in a few more years, they might save enough money to open their own place. At last.

With an impatient swipe, Lucia brushed the hair out of her eyes and said, “Turn on the news, will you, Isolina?”

She spun the dial. She loved the commercials—the serious ones—
“Listerine kills germs up to 98.6 percent,”
and the dramatic ones—
“Barbasol! Barbasol! The brushless shaving cream supreme! Leaves your face so smooth and clean!”
As the static evaporated, a familiar voice crackled through the wires. Il Duce was declaring victory in the war with Ethiopia. “Blood alone moves the wheels of history,” Mussolini shouted to the crowd of 400,000
italiani
who roared their approval.

Lucia tossed down her sewing. “Will it never end?” she cried, pacing the length of the shop crammed end to end with women's clothes hanging on metal rods. “And still Il Duce lives and breathes and so does Donato. Why haven't they suffered for my child's death and Rodi's?” She choked back a cry.

For years Isolina had grappled with the injustice of it. In America General Smedley Butler paid the price for accusing Mussolini of the hit-and-run. After apologizing to Il Duce, he became the focus of a military investigation and was court marshaled. But in Italy, Sofia's murderer not only ran free, he still ruled the country. Even after all the heartache she and Lucia had endured, Isolina still had no answers. Then again, who did on this side of the grave? The sole truth she could seize upon was this—human justice was fickle and blind. She told Lucia, “Perhaps in the end they'll suffer. Or maybe they never will. I have no idea why,
zia
, and maybe I never will.”

“How much longer will we have to wait for justice?”

“I don't know,
zia
. I wish I did.”

“I'd sleep better at night knowing Sofia and Rodi and all the others haven't died in vain. But instead Donato and Mussolini are free and Elio Sardolini, who has a heart of gold, is in jail. I just hope and pray he's still alive.” Lucia bit back tears.

With help from Elio Sardolini's brother Sam, they had written letters to the Italian Consulate, anti-Fascist groups, major American newspapers, and dozens of officials in the hope of gaining his release, but so far no one had stepped forward and offered to pull the necessary diplomatic strings. Most troubling was the fact that since leaving Italy, only two letters had arrived from him. Lucia had read them so often the words on the crinkled onionskin pages had rubbed off in spots, but it didn't matter because she knew them by heart. Lucia had recited the sections where he made light of the conditions in the jail and praised his fellow prisoners, but Isolina knew enough about Frosinone to read between the lines. “Your love and hope sustain him,
zia
. Don't give up. Maybe we'll hear some news soon,” she told Lucia.

“I'm living on maybes,” Lucia said.

Isolina drew her arms around Lucia's shoulders and kissed her.

On the day Mussolini signed the Rome-Berlin Axis Pact, Nonna Angelina died. Marcella was the first to find her that morning. When the maid screamed, Donato rushed upstairs and saw for himself Nonna Angelina's sightless eyes and bloodless lips frozen into a grimace. Sinking into the chair by the bed, he slumped over his mother and stayed there until his sisters arrived. Their wails reminded him of the cries of wolves, mournful and chilling.

He was relieved she didn't suffer. Apparently in the middle of the night her heart had simply seized up without her knowing it. But at the same time she must have been disappointed that death, which she had anticipated for so long even to the extent of buying a coffin and storing it under her bed, had swooped down with no advance warning and whisked her away.

To Donato's great relief, she had written him back into her will. After years of scrambling to make peace with her, he was vindicated, which gave him great satisfaction despite his grief. In the weeks after her death, he parceled out her belongings as he saw fit. To Marie Elena, he gave the fox fur stole and the cameo. Amelia inherited her brood of hens and the rooster, as well as the good cooking pots. Both sisters had their pick among his mother's clothes. Everything else he kept for himself as a reward for years of devotion. Gone were the memories of her exacting ways and sharp tongue. She was elevated to the status of a saint. He decided his mother would want him as the sole male heir to have her house. Why not? It was larger, brighter, and had three fireplaces, solid mahogany furniture, and a big feather bed.

When he told Marcella he wanted to move in, she cautioned him to wait until the end of the mourning period. “That long? I can't wait a year,” he declared, anxious to leave the place that held too many memories of Lucia and the children. He had even found traces of Lucia under the bed, where she stored her summer clothes. He hurled the blouses across the bedroom. A wash of color, they fluttered to the floor. Why should he linger here a minute longer? This was his chance to be happy again and elevate his status, which remained shaky despite his successful business venture with Mosca.

The next week Marcella was busy carting clothes and bedding down the street to Nonna Angelina's house, which despite several airings, still smelled sour like death. But of course his sisters couldn't see it his way. They tracked him down to the shop where he was forced to take up sewing again, despite his resolution never to touch another straight pin or piece of tailoring chalk.

Marie Elena towered over him as he hunched over the sewing machine where Lucia once sat. “What gives you the right to take nearly everything, including her house and the business?” she demanded.

He met her gaze. “I'll tell you why. Because I'm her only son.”

Amelia poked him in the shoulder. “How much money do you need? You have your telephone business and the tailor shop—which takes care of you and the maid and those two boys she calls your sons. Lelo and I have seven mouths to feed.”

He sighed. Why was he always under attack by angry women? “Listen,” he said. “Mamma wanted me to have it.”

“Is that so?” Marie Elena cried. “She told you?”

“In so many words.”

“The least you could do is take one of my boys into the business,” Amelia added.

He frowned. “Forget it. I barely have enough work to keep myself busy.” It was the truth. Since Lucia left, the tailoring business had dwindled. Now the wives of the
cognoscenti
phoned in their orders to the big department stores in Napoli. Aside from sewing a few suits for the town big shots, he was reduced to installing zippers and repairing hems.

With her characteristic bluntness, Marie Elena cried, “So you won't help your own nephew? I shouldn't be surprised. Look what you did to Rodi.”

Before he could jump to his feet, she marched out the door with Amelia right behind her.

Oca.
Would they ever leave him in peace? He was besieged on all sides. Even though he resolved not to waste his time dwelling on it, there was no escape—even at Mosca's where he went that afternoon for his espresso. After nodding to the town big shots—Prefetto Balbi, Mayor Cipollina, and Professor Zuffi—he slid onto a stool at the counter. Ever since Lucia left with the children, the police chief was keeping an eye on him. Just a glimpse of his walrus mustache and black uniform made Donato's heart pound.

He was sipping his coffee when someone squeezed his shoulder. Startled, he turned as Don Cosimo's face loomed towards him. Those eyes made him shiver as if he were staring at a wolf.

“After you finish your coffee, we'll talk,” Don Cosimo said.

Flinching under the weight of that hand, Donato had no choice but to agree. He nodded and gulped his coffee as Don Cosimo returned to his seat in the corner.

“What does he want?” Mosca whispered to Donato who shrugged.

“Whatever it is, it's going to cost us money,” Donato predicted. Not long after Lucia and the children took off, Don Cosimo demanded a percentage of the telephone business to pay back the stolen money to Donato's old boss in Boston. It was some consolation that the business was a huge success. The wealthier people of Montebello found dozens of reasons to telephone every day. But when Don Cosimo arranged for the townspeople to place bets on the horses by phone and had a driver pick up the winnings in Castellammare, for a small fee of course, the temptation was too great even for the poorest
paesani
. So the
don
took the upper hand and demanded exclusive use of the phone for two hours before the afternoon horse races. Donato was powerless to refuse. As his profits dwindled, he cursed the
mafioso
—in private of course. He was thankful for one thing—that the
don
was discrete, so not even Arturo and Pasquale suspected this financial arrangement.

Wondering what else Don Cosimo had up his sleeve, he lit a cigarette and sidled up to the
mafioso
, acting like he didn't have a care in the world. But as they strolled through the piazza, the sun dropped behind the clouds and he shivered as the
tramontana
blew down from the mountains.

The
don
spoke first. “This business with the racetracks is going better than I expected. I'm expanding the hours to take in more calls. That way, we can cover the races in Baia as well.”

Donato struggled to quell the alarms sounding in his head. “How many hours are we talking about?”

“Four.”

Donato's stomach clenched. “When?”

“One to three. And three to five. That still leaves you with eight hours. As a businessman surely you understand everything comes down to mathematics. Profits are profits, am I right?”

Gathering his courage, Donato murmured, “But with all due respect, Don Cosimo, how can I make a living? The afternoon is our busiest calling time.”

Don Cosimo clapped his hand on Donato's shoulder. “You're a businessman. There are always upswings and downturns. You should know that by now.”

Donato licked his lips, his mouth as dry as sand. “Of course, Don Cosimo.”

“Good
.
I'm happy we understand each other,” Don Cosimo said, releasing Donato's shoulder. After striking a match, the
mafioso
lit his cigar and puffed on it. As he strolled away, he left behind a few blades of smoke.

When Donato told Mosca the news, the
caffè
owner cried, “Now it's four hours and soon it will be five and before you know it, he'll take over the entire operation.”

“There's no stopping him,” Donato whispered. “He's like death. Those cold eyes give me the shivers. But what can we do? He's got us by the short hairs.”

“Thanks to you,” Mosca complained.

Donato hung his head. Once again, he was in the position of grudgingly admitting that Don Cosimo had outsmarted him. No doubt the
don
was as fiercely clever and quick as the devil himself. How appropriate the racetrack in Baia was built around the Lago D'Averno—once thought to be the gateway to Hades.

A thin band of moonlight poked under the shade and brightened the windowsill. After a restless night, Isolina reached for her robe. Her thoughts brought her no peace. The news from Italy had created sober creases around her lips and eyes. By signing the Rome-Berlin Axis Pact, Mussolini had aligned himself with Hitler, creating an unstoppable political force. Mussolini was already amassing a cache of weaponry and had begun to conscript troops.

With a sigh she stood and the bed jingled, waking Francesca. The little girl blinked. “What is it, mamma?” she mumbled, lifting her head from the pillow. Her dark hair stood up at odd angles as if she were caught in a strong wind.

“Go back to sleep, sweetheart,” Isolina murmured, kissing the top of her head. On the way out the door, she glimpsed Rodi's picture on the dresser, no more than a shadow. Before he died, he had given her a gift, but she hadn't realized it for months. Lucia was the first to tell her that she was pregnant and Isolina had cried, “But how can I do this? We have no money. I need to work.” But Lucia had reassured her that they'd manage, and in fact, the child would have several mothers and a big brother, which had turned out to be truer than Isolina had ever imagined. She had named her daughter the prettiest name she could think of—Francesca Sofia Butasi. Next year, she would be the same age as Sofia when she died, which made her shudder just thinking about it.