Tarantella:
A Love Story
Inspired by a true story
By Siomonn Pulla
High Vibration Publications
www.highvibepubs.com
Tarantella: A Love Story
Siomonn Pulla
Copyright 2010 Siomonn Pulla
Published by High Vibration Publications at Smashwords
Discover other titles by Siomonn Pulla at http://www.highvibepubs.com
ISBN-978-0-9868782-2-0
Dedication
This novel is dedicated to the memory of Nonno Arturo and Nona Carmella. And to Zio Severino.
Chapter One
The Procession of La Madonna
I never intended to fall in love with Marco’s fiancé. That first time I saw her I knew I could never leave that tiny village alone.
It was August 17, 1944 and the procession of the Virgin Mary was on its way up to the top of the village. To the medieval Cathedral of Santa Maria., that still stood solid after centuries of earthquakes. The villagers were returning La Madonna to her resting place in the Cathedral for another year.
I still wonder if, in her seven sorrows, La Madonna ever really suffered a broken heart.
I guess it depends on whether you believe a broken heart is caused by the ill effects of the evil eye, and the naught enchantments of witches; or whether it’s just the price you pay for loving somebody so much it hurts.
I’m still unsure.
Carmella was part of the procession of La Madonna that hot August afternoon. She was leading the four men, who were obviously straining under the weight of the statue up the narrow cobblestone path to the Cathedral.
The look in her dark eyes, and the way her long brown hair outlined her face as she walked across the piazza was magical, as if she'd just walked out of a fairy tale.
"My Carmella, isn't she beautiful?" Marco noticed how I was watching his Fiancée’s lithe body move up the cobblestone street. "Didn't I tell you Pietro that she was the most beautiful woman in all of Limosano?"
“You’re a lucky man Marco.” I was secretly envious. “It must be nice to have all this waiting back home for you.”
"I'm sure you have many beautiful women back in your country,” Marco teased. “Once you go home they’ll be clamoring to be your bride."
"I don't think I ever want to go home now that I've seen how beautiful Italian women are."
"They are beautiful my friend, but also very dangerous." Marco slapped my back. "Now let’s go find my brothers. They'll be surprised to see me home alive. I'm sure everybody thought I was killed by those Nazi bastards."
I followed Marco down the cobblestones and up the street towards the procession. Many people along the street recognized him immediately, shaking his hand and slapping him on the back, welcoming him home to the village.
Some even passed us cold beers and shots of grappa. By the time we’d walked a couple of blocks, I was already half drunk.
"There they are!" Marco pointed to two young men, standing in the piazza. "My brothers, Primo and Severino."
Primo was a tall elegantly dressed young man. A white shirt tucked perfectly into his pressed pants, and his cap placed perfectly on his head.
Severino, on the other hand looked like he had just come from the fields. His well-worn overalls were stained with oil and his work boots covered in mud.
Before we could make our way through the crowd, the two brothers were standing beside us, giving Marco big hugs and shaking my hand vigorously.
"We thought you were dead Marco,” Primo exclaimed. “When the Canadians came through here a few months ago they told us they had found your captain in a shallow grave with a bullet in his head.”
"I wasn't the only lucky one." Marco put his arm around me. "Pietro here managed to get away from the Germans."
"Are you Italian?"
"No, Canadian," I replied. "Private Peter McMillian, Princess Patricia Light Infantry."
"Have you been home yet,” Severino asked. ”Mama's going to be so happy to see you. Pops has been depressed ever since we heard the news."
"Mama has been praying to the Virgin Mary every night and going to mass three times a day.” Primo adjusted the strap on his mandolin. “I think father D'Angello is ready to send a commendation into the Vatican for saint-hood."
"Shouldn't you be marching north with your division Private?" Severino offered us some cigarettes. “Or at least hanging out with them in Campobasso?”
"Marco wouldn’t let me go.” I took a cigarette and Severino produced some matches. “He wanted to bring me home and introduce me to some beautiful Italian women."
"Well you came to the right place," added Primo. "Too bad Carmella doesn't have a sister."
"Pietro is going to stay with us for awhile.” Marco puffed his cigarette contentedly. “Maybe you can set him up with one of the Gincola sisters. Is Marguerite still single?"
"She is, but ever since Arturo Rossi came back from the war, he's been eyeing her up. We all think he's going to ask her to marry him any day now."
"When he finds the guts to. That guy has no coglione." Severino took a long haul off of his cigarette and butted it out. "I think she'd be better off with a decent guy, like Primo here. Someone who could sing her love songs and bring her flowers."
"Does Carmella know you're back?" Primo changed the subject. "I bet she's really excited to see you after all this time."
"You two are the first ones we've talked to since we rolled in from Campobasso." Marco looked tired all of a sudden. "It's been a long journey, but it’s very nice to be home. I'm looking forward to a big bowl of mama's ravioli."
The procession was now making its way back down from the Cathedral, La Madonna safely deposited in the sacred chamber of the inner chapel.
Carmella spotted Primo and Severino talking to us in the piazza and made her way over, a big smile on her face.
"Dio mio!" She threw herself onto Marco and wrapped her hands around him. "I think I've just seen a ghost!"
"It’s really me." Marco kissed Carmella on both cheeks. "You look more beautiful than I ever imagined."
"And you’re as handsome as I remember! Who is your friend here?" Carmella offered her hand to me. "He looks like a stunned rabbit."
"Pietro is Canadese, he's a good man.” Marco introduced me to Carmella. “He's going to live with me for awhile until I find him a good Italian wife."
"Piacere." I took Carmella's hand and kissed it softly. "I’ve heard so much about you. It’s nice to finally meet you in person."
"Has Marco been bragging about me again?"
Carmella was even more beautiful up close. Her deep olive skin smelled faintly like sun soaked rose and fennel.
“We were all so happy to see the Canadian troops come into the village a few months ago."
"Especially after those rough German soldiers took all our food and executed poor Tonino Amoroso right here in the Piazza." Primo adjusted his hat. "They found him hiding in a barn and decided to make an example out of him. The commandant spat in his face just before shooting him in the head."
“Boom!” Severino pointed his finger to his forehead. “Just like that.”
"No need to worry. Now that you have two of the best soldiers back in the village,” Marco bragged confidently. “We'll protect you from the ghosts of all those dead German soldiers."
Marco took Carmella's hand.
"It is so nice to see you again. I dreamed of you every night."
"You're still such a charmer I see." Carmella pulled her hand away from Marco. "You should go home and see your mama. Ever since we heard the horrible news she's been tied to her rosary. She'll think her prayers have been answered."
"I know my prayer's have been answered." Marco tried to take Carmella's hand again, but she wouldn't let him. "C'mon, don't be shy. I won't bite."
"Come by the house tomorrow for coffee. I want to hear all about your journey." Carmella blew Marco a kiss as she walked away from the piazza and down the cobblestones. "And bring Pietro. Ciao ciao!"
Marco sat down on one of the chairs that had been lined up in the piazza for the festival. It was a hot day and the sun was still high in the sky. There was a slight breeze, but not enough to offer much relief.
"Maybe we should get some gelato." I was feeling hungry all of a sudden, a faint trace of Carmella's scent lingered in the air. "This sun is starting to get to me."
"Gelato?" Severino let out a big hearty laugh. "My friend, this isn't Rome. You'll be lucky to get coffee in the morning. The food rations are pretty strict around here still. But my ma always has some good prosciutto and fresh bread and olives back home."
"Lets go home," said Primo. "We want to hear all about your journey."
"Yea, I've still got a couple bottles of last year's montepulciano and a fresh pack of cigarettes," added Severino. "We want all the details."
Chapter Two
The Caproni Campini N.1
Marco Delgobo was working in the hanger on the new prototype Caproni Campini N.1 when the Nazi's captured him.
Early that month, after King Victor Emmanuel and Prime Minster Badoglio signed the Armistizio di Cassibile with the Allied Forces, the German forces began forcing the surrender of Italian troops on the mainland. Marco had been warned by his Captain to keep a loaded gun by his side, just in case he needed it.
"You never know Marco," Captain Marzzoni told him the morning the Germans killed him. "I have a bad feeling about this whole Armistizio. What are we supposed to do? Fight the Germans! Ma! Give me a break. We hardly have enough ammo to supply three men."
When the German soldiers arrived later that morning, they killed all of Marco's unit execution style.
First the skinny German sergeant made the men dig a shallow trench. When they were finished digging, they were lined up and shot by a firing squad. Their bullet ridden bodies falling neatly into the shallow graves they had just dug.
"Finish it off." The Sergeant threw a shovel at Marco. "Snell!"
Marco had been spared the firing squad because he was the only one who knew how to fix the new prototype Caproni Campini N.2 fighter jet. The new design perfected the afterburner technology and air-cooled engine that had been designed a decade earlier. It was still temperamental though and needed the skilled and patient touch of a mechanic who knew his way around the design.
The Nazi Sergeant was under strict orders to deliver the airplane and the mechanic to Milan for safe transport into Austria.
After he finished burying his friends, the German soldiers put Marco into shackles and threw him into the back of the covered transport vehicle.
It didn't take them long to trailer the plane and get their convoy back out onto the road. It was a small, fast moving convoy and Marco was impressed by their well-oiled efficiency. Compared to the Italian military, these guys weren't fooling around.
It's no wonder they've become such a menace. They're so disciplined and well equipped, Marco thought to himself. We don't have a chance in hell of beating these guys. If I'm lucky I'll be able to convince the commandant that this airplane is so temperamental that they're going to need me to keep it running.
After a couple of hours bouncing around in the back of the truck, Marco found the nerve to ask one the German soldiers where they were heading.
"Milan," replied the soldier. "We are under special orders from the Wafen-SS to deliver this plane to Austria. The Allied forces are reported to be moving north from Rome and up the Adriatic and the Schutzstaffel want this plane kept secret. You must be some kind of wunderkid to still be alive. We were under strict orders to shoot-to-kill."
"I guess I've been blessed by the Virgin Mary," said Marco. "My Ma has probably been praying to her again."
"Hopefully she'll protect us until we get to Milan," added another soldier. "This road is strewn with land mines."
The convoy continued to bounce down the rough road. Every five hours it would stop and the soldiers would pile out of the back of the transport to relieve themselves at the side of the road.
After the second stop, Marco noticed that it was getting lighter outside and every time they slowed down he could make out a bit of bird song.
If I ever get to make the trip to Campobasso again, it's going to feel pretty quick.
Marco had never been this far north before. The secret base where his unit was stationed north of Agnone in Castellana had been the farthest he'd ever been from Limosano.
At least I get to see some of Italy before I die. Even if it is from the back of a German transport.
After almost 20 hours of driving, the truck finally reached its destination. The soldiers were relieved to have arrived at the base safely after the long trip north. The drive had been uneventful, but there was always the chance that a convoy could be bombed, or hit land mines along the way. Ever since the armistice, former Italian soldiers had decided to conduct a guerilla war against the German forces. Mostly it was ineffectual, but the odd well-placed land mine or bullet occasionally found its mark.
The German forces were using the industrial infrastructure of Milan to help with their war effort. There were munitions factories, as well as a large airport base. Milan also provided an important and secure inland access point for the trains going north over the Alps into Germany or west into France.
Marco was quickly processed as a prisoner of war. The German soldiers were even efficient with their paper work.
"Make sure this one doesn't get lost in the ranks," ordered the commanding officer. "The Schutzstaffel will want to talk to him."
Marco was placed in a crowded cell along with other Italian soldiers. He was given a small ration of bread and water and a dirty wool blanket to keep him warm. There was a toilet in the corner of the cell that looked like it had never been cleaned.
"I hope you don't have to piss amico," said one of the soldiers in the cell. "You're bound to get some kind of disease by just getting too close to that thing."
"Don't worry, you get used to the smell after awhile," added another soldier. "It’s almost like perfume."
Marco chewed his bread slowly. The water was refreshing. He hadn't realized how thirsty he was until the soldier gave him the small metal cup of water.
"Enjoy the meal soldier. Once we get on the train tomorrow it’s lights out for all of us," said the soldier sitting in front of Marco. Marco noticed that he had the insignia of a Captain on his uniform. "They're shipping us to Dachau to be burned in the ovens with all the Jews they rounded up from Roma and Venezia."
"I hope you've said your prayers private," said the Sergeant Major sitting beside the Captain, "cause we're all heading to Dante's inferno."
Chapter Three
The Zampogna
"Our Village is such a mess. The fields are full of twisted metal and land mines.” Severino poured himself another glass of homemade wine. “There's hardly enough food to go around. The game warden's are out patrolling the woods. And the fish stocks are low in the Biferno. “
“We need to figure out someway to make it through the next couple of years,” Primo observed. “Or we’ll all end up having to move to the city, sweeping streets and washing dishes.”
" I don't think the cities are any better. In fact, they're probably worse," added Severino. "More people equals more squalor, more disease and more competition for already scarce resources."
"From what we've seen, Limosano is a paradise." Marco stretched back in his chair. I hadn't seen him this content since the big meal at Don Alexandro’s villa after our escape from the train station in Milan over a year ago. "Many parts of Rome were still smoldering when we left a few weeks ago. Sure the American soldiers were there with their supplies of food and cigarettes, but the skies were thick with smoke, the people were miserable, and the streets were filthy. At least here we have fresh air, fresh vegetables, and the most beautiful women in all of Italy. What more do we need to sustain us?"
"C'mon Marco, you can't live on beauty and fresh air alone," said Severino . "Ever since the war started, the fresh vegetables have been pretty scarce. Nobody seems to have the energy to farm the fields like we used to, and it’s dangerous. You could trigger a land mine and lose your leg, or worse, your life if you're not careful."
"There's gotta be some easier way to work those fields and make them more productive. People have been living a good life here for centuries. If we had a tractor, it sure would make things a lot easier. Tractors can pull plows, haul loads and livestock, and you can even hook up threshers and combines." Primo let out a big sigh. "But who can afford a tractor, let alone all those accessories? We can barely afford a pack of cigarettes."
"I bet we could find one really cheap. I've got a few contacts in Campobasso. " Severino placed his empty glass on the table and lit a cigarette. "We might have to fix it up though."
"Why don't we just build one?" I suggested. "It can't be that hard, can it?"
"Listen to this crazy Canadese, he thinks he can build anything." Severino gave me a hearty slap on the back. "What did they teach you in that army of yours anyways?"
"Pietro may be on to something." Even though Marco was a few years older then me, he didn't have to be the one who always came up with the plan of action. "He has lots of good ideas, a few of them actually saved our lives."
"If we can't afford a used tractor, how could we ever afford to build one? The parts alone would cost a fortune. It’s a ridiculous idea."
Primo was the most practical of the three brothers. This was a trait that I would come to appreciate more and more during that year in Limosano.
"But what if we got the parts for free?" I knew my plan would work. It was so easy, so perfect. “How could we lose then?”
"For free? Fuori di Testa?" Severino shook his head slowly. "Now I know you're crazy. That's impossible."
"No it’s not," I replied. "Think of all those bombed out military trucks and jeeps. There's a whole scrap yard right here just waiting to be used."
"It could work." Marco stood up from the table. "It’s a brilliant idea. Not only would we be creating a good job opportunity, we'd be doing the village a service by clearing all that twisted metal out of the fields. This war's gotta end sometime. Why not start the clean up now?"
"But we don't know anything about how to build a tractor. Let alone a combine." Primo still wasn't convinced that we could pull it off. "And the fields are full of mines. We'll all end up handicap and in wheelchairs if we try to collect all that scrap."
"Marco is probably Italy's best mechanic. He could build anything from scrap,” I added. "And besides what do we have to lose? Like Marco said, it’s a win-win situation. We keep ourselves busy, and we do the village a good service at the same time. And who knows, maybe we'll get rich renting out the tractor to everyone who has a farm plot here in the village."
"And Pietro, besides being a brilliant business man, is the world's best mine clearing specialist!" Marco made his way towards the stairs leading to the ground floor of the Delgobo's house. "I'll start drawing up the blueprints tomorrow. Now who wants to come on the rounds with me?"
The Delgobo family was responsible for maintaining the main power generator that supplied all the hydro electricity to Limosano and the neighboring villages of St. Angelo and Montagano.
When the Italian government decided to harness the energy of the Biferno River, they built a small generating station in Limosano. The station was perched on the hillside just on the outskirts of Limosano. For the small, still very medieval, village the electricity meant that candles could now be saved for emergencies, or a romantic evening between lovers.
Every night, at around ten o'clock, one of the Delgobo brothers would do the rounds of the village. First they would check to see that all the lights were working. And then they would go to the main generating station to shut the power off. The next day, one of the brothers would turn the power back on in the early evening.
One night in Baldazzi’s hide-out in Trastevere Marco told me that, before he was stationed at the secret airforce base, he really enjoyed doing these rounds. Some nights, as he walked the narrow cobblestone streets, he thought he could hear the lonely drone of the zampogna, or the faint rhythmic pulse of the putipù off in the distance.
His favorite rounds, by far, were the nights when he would meet Carmella secretly outside the village on the road leading to St. Angelo. They would hold hands, and kiss until Marco would try to take things too far and Carmella would sneak into the night and make her way back home.
"I'll come with you tonight Marco." I followed him to the door. "Unless you've got special plans. I wouldn't want to get in the way."
"I wish that were true my friend. Unfortunately, it’s not. But you never know what we may see or hear out on the streets tonight."
I followed Marco out onto the cobblestones, secretly wishing that we would bump into Carmella on our rounds. Little did I realize that, soon enough, Carmella and I would be having our own secret rendezvous when the lights in Limosano were turned off.
Chapter Four
Christmas in Ortona
My first taste of Italy was just after dawn on July 10, 1943 as we stormed the sun baked beaches of southern Sicily.
As soon as our unit heard that we were being deployed, there had been a lot of speculation as to our specific destination. Most of the guys thought we were being shipped out to Norway to battle the Germans on the northern front. A few were convinced that we were being posted to Burma, to assist on the Asian front. I hoped that we were going North, dreading the idea of being stuck in the suffocating heat of the jungle, and dying from some strange disease. Ultimately, no one really knew we were going to Sicily. The top brass kept the flow of information to rank and file soldiers like myself on a need to know basis only. The only thing that seemed certain was that Operation Husky was not just another exercise.
The first part of the trip through the Mediterranean was as perfect as it could have been. The sea was like glass, and not a single enemy plane was spotted. It was too perfect. A lot of the guys were on edge, thinking that this was the calm before the storm.
While a lot of the soldiers were writing long letters to their sweethearts back home, I had no one to write to. I spent most of my time on the boat and cleaning weapons, and counting ammunition. The closer we got to Sicily, the more contemplative every one seemed to get, and the more discussions about mortality and the meaning of life seemed to circulate around the ship. A lot of the guys started hanging out more and more in the ship’s chapel, making peace with God. Maybe they were asking for some kind of advance solvency for the sins we were all going to commit in the upcoming months. It was clear that anything could happen once we headed out onto the battlefield.
The day before we landed, the sea began to get rough. We joined the American and British convoys that appeared off the coast of Malta. I remember standing on deck that night and being awed by the sheer number of ships stretching out as far as I could see in two directions.
The landing in Sicily itself was anti-climatic. After months and months of training, we were prepared for a fierce battle. So we were a little shocked that, instead of fighting, the Italian soldiers surrendered without a shot fired.
In just over a month, we marched two hundred kilometers across the island, fighting fleas and mosquitoes, which seemed more numerous than the German and Italian soldiers combined. Thirst and dehydration were our biggest enemies that first month. It was hot. The further we marched into the mountains, the harder it was to find clean water.
During the second month we saw some heavy action, and lost over five hundred brave soldiers. But we were surprised at how swift, efficient and successful our attacks were. In the end Operation Husky freed the Mediterranean Sea lanes and secured the necessary air base from which we could now support the liberation of mainland Italy. The quick efficiency of the operation, however, didn’t fully prepare us for the long arduous marches and fierce battles that awaited us on the boot.
Just before deploying to the mainland, we spent a few glorious weeks on the beaches of Lentini Lake, drinking freshly made limonada and flirting with the spicy Sicilian women.
The first two months after we left Sicily were tough. We spent long days advancing inland and north, from Foggia into the rugged Apennine Mountains. A lot of time and energy was spent reconstructing demolished bridges and engaging in small skirmishes with the German rear guards.
After the battle at Motta, we secured the city of Campobasso, and the next day drove the German forces out of Vinchiaturo, advancing across the Biferno River and further up into the mountains towards Ortona.
I was part of the advance reconnaissance team of combat engineers sent out to clear the roads of mines, reconstruct bridges and gather intelligence on the German positions. The Germans maintained a strong and well-defended presence in the small medieval mountain villages of central Italy.
Little did I realize at that time, almost one year later I would be retracing my steps back to this remote part of Italy; not to fight German soldiers, but to win the heart of Carmella, the most beautiful woman in all of Italy.
As the first snow of winter began to fall, our efforts to drive the German forces north to secure the eastern front of the Gustave line became increasingly difficult. The deep and steep river valleys of the Abruzzi region proved to be treacherous. As our units advanced, the German forces maintained the high ground. Many of our men were killed as we advanced our line across the Moro River, edging forward to Ortona on the coast.
The medieval town of Ortona, with its castle and stone buildings, was situated on a ledge over looking the Adriatic. I still can’t figure out why the Germans were so keen on defending this city. It had no specific strategic value at all. Its steep, rubble-filled streets limited the use of tanks and artillery, forcing us to utilize street fighting techniques.
That week in Ortona forced us to dig deeper than we ever had to at that point in the war. I was put in charge of camouflage and making sure our unit had an adequate, and safe, supply of satchel charges for “mouseholing.” We learned quickly after losing dozens of men to the deadly rapid-fire German MG-42 machine gun that smashing our way through walls and buildings was the only effective means of cover. By blowing small holes in buildings, we were able to tunnel our way through the city to eliminate the German sniper posts.
Mouseholing, however, was slow and dangerous work; you never knew what to expect as you made your way through the maze of buildings, clearing every room top to bottom. Every corner was a surprise.
The Germans captured me on Christmas Eve 1943. I’m still surprised that they didn’t kill me. We were making our way to the Church of Santa Maria di Constantinopoli. The good boys of the Seaforth Highlanders managed to scrounge up the essentials to put on a full Christmas Eve feast; table cloths and chinaware, beer and wine; roast pork and applesauce; cauliflower, mashed potatoes and gravy; chocolate, oranges, nuts; and even cigarettes.
Considering we’d lost more men in the last five days than over the last few months, the prospects of having a bit of good food and some time to relax did wonders for our moral. Over the course of the few days in Ortona, I developed a very detailed map system of our mouseholes, showing the linking tunnels and referencing the hotspots and danger zones. The map gave us the ability to maneuver quickly through the friendly parts of the city, and know which zones still needed to be cleared of German snipers.
That night I had a bad feeling. My Sergeant was too keen on finding the most direct route to the church so we could get there before all the Christmas goodies were gone. On one of the first days in Ortona, the Lieutenant divided our unit into small sections of five men to make the process of mouseholing more efficient. His theory was that we could cover more ground in small units. It was also a lot easier to maneuver through the tight, cramped spaces with fewer men.
“Hey McMillian, find the quickest route to Santa Maria. We need to get there before those Highlanders eat all the roast pork.” Sergeant Galt was a big man, someone who was just as comfortable driving a tank as he was driving a tractor through the Manitoba wheat fields.
“Sarg, I think the best route is to back track through these points, and circle around to the church from the east.” I laid the map down on the cobblestone, and traced out the route. “It’s the safest and most efficient.”
“That’ll take too long.” Galt studied the map. “Why don’t we take the direct route through the middle of town.” He pointed to an empty spot on the map. “That way we’ll make sure we get at least a couple of glasses of wine with our diner.”
“But Sarg, that’s a hot zone,” I protested. “We’d be much better off circling back through our mouseholes and approaching the church from the east. It’s a lot safer.”
“Nonsense.” The Sergeant checked his rifle and slung it back on his shoulder. “We’re going to earn this meal Private. Now let’s move.”
I rolled the map back into its case and tucked it into my kit. As we made our way slowly towards the church, blasting holes through the buildings, I took mental notes so I could update the map later that evening.
The closer we got to the centre of town, the more intense the fighting became.
“Steady as she goes boys.” The Sergeant was always good at maintaining a strong positive attitude. “We’re almost there. I can smell the roast pork and oranges.”
“You sure that’s not roast German yer smellin’ sarg?” Private Patrick O’Callahan was the first one to die that night. He was the unit’s comedian and always seemed to find the humour in the deep, dark nightmare of Ortona. “I bet there’s a lot of them roasting out there tonight. Especially after last night’s bombing.”
“Watch the line O’Callahan.” But it was too late.
A round from an MG-42 pierced through O’Callahan’s neck and his blood spurted everywhere. There was no way to save him.
“Move! Move!” The Sergeant was quick to respond. “I don’t want to lose any more of you boys tonight.”
We left O’Callahan’s body and followed the Sergeant to a pile of rubble down the street, but we weren’t fast enough. Private Albert Barber stepped on a land mine and pieces of his body scattered in all direction.
Private Peter Donolly was the third man from my unit to die that Christmas Eve. He caught a bullet from a German sniper right between the eyes.
“McMillian, get us out of here,” yelled the Sergeant. “We need an escape route now!”
I dug into my bag and produced a couple of satchel charges. A few seconds later, there was a hole as big as a door in the building behind us.
Private Stow and I followed Sergeant Galt through the mouse hole right into the barrels of three FG-42s. Galt was instantly shot by one of the German paratroopers. Stow and I dropped our weapons and raised our hands.
“Come on, it’s Christmas, you’re not going to shoot us are you?”
Stow was the smoothest talker I’d ever met. A lot of the men in our platoon joked that he had horseshoes up is ass because he survived so many close calls in combat since we arrived in Italy.
“Here, I got a present for you. You like chocolate?”
As Stow reached inside of his coat, a bullet went clean through his skull and into the plaster in the wall behind him.
“No funny business.” The Paratrooper who killed Stow pointed his FG-42 at me as his two comrades searched Galt and Stow. One of the paratroopers laughed as he pulled a half-eaten chocolate bar out of Stow’s hand.
“Now it’s your turn.” The Paratrooper shouldered his machine gun and unholstered his Browning pistol, pointing it to my head.
“Wait, what’s that.” One of the paratroopers took the map case out of my bag and unrolled the map.
“This one may be of value to us. Looks like he’s been mapping the tunnel system these rats have been making.”
“Let’s kill him and bring the map back to the Commandant. I don’t feel like baby siting tonight. It’s Christmas eve.”
“This map is useless to us without an explanation.” The Paratrooper who was obviously the leader holstered his pistol. “Once we’ve gotten him to explain this map, then we kill him.”
Chapter Five
Il Trattore
We started collecting scrap metal and parts from the fields in the fall before the snow arrived. It was hard work, cutting and hauling all that scrap metal, and making sure we didn’t inadvertently step on a German land mine and blow ourselves up. By the time we finished pressing that year’s crop of grapes into wine, the snow began to fall. Luckily we had collected enough scrap to begin constructing the tractor.
Many days as Primo, Severino and I worked in the shop, teasing the twisted metal back into shape, Marco was nowhere to be found. He was increasingly preoccupied with Carmella, so we just figured that they were hanging out, getting to known each other again. Of course, I was secretly jealous. I wanted to be hanging out with Carmella, and getting to know her, not cutting scrap metal for the tractor.
“Come on," Marco took Carmella’s hand from across the small little table in the cafe where they were drinking coffee. “I've waited so long. I don't think I can't wait any longer. All I can think about is the smell of your soft skin, the press of your lips on mine. It's driving me crazy.”
“I’m not ready Marco.” Carmella drew her hand away. “You’ve been away for a long time. I don’t really know you anymore.”
“C’ho il dente avvelenato. ” Marco took Carmella’s hand again. “I’m the same man, the same Marco who loves you so much it hurts.”
“But you’re not.” Carmella squeezed Marco’s hand. “It just doesn’t feel the same Marco. You’ve changed. You’ve seen so much, been all across Italy. I need time. I want to go slow, to hear about your adventures. To build that fire we used to have together.”
“Oh ma! Is it something I did? I thought we both agreed that we’d get married as soon as I got back from the war.”
“We did.”
“Than what’s the problem?”
“There’s no problem.” Carmella sighed. A deep heavy sigh. The kind of sigh every man knows means trouble.. “It’s just that I don’t want us to rush into anything.”
“I’d rush into a burning house after you! I’d rush into a field full of land mines after you! All I could think of the last year when I was away was making love to you on our wedding night. Let’s get Father D’Angello to marry us this weekend!”
“Ah Marco. You’re so sweet. But my wedding is going to be planned. We’re going to have a huge feast, with music and flowers, and dancing. And my dress is going to be the most beautiful dress this small village has ever seen.”
“Can we at least agree on a date?” Marco ran his hands through his hair, frustrated. “Give me that or kill me now.”
“Va Bene. Don’t be so dramatic. First you’ve got to fatten up a bit. You’re so skinny! How can a man this skinny ever think he’ll be able to look after me?”
“Another week of mama’s pasta and I’ll be fatter than a pig. How about the spring, just after Easter? That should give us plenty of time to make all the arrangements.”
“Ok. But I want to be in charge..”
“Agreed.”
“I’ll start after Christmas.”
“After Christmas?” Marco’s voice carried through the small cafe, turning heads. “There’s so much to do. You won’t be able to get it all done in time for spring if you don’t start today! You could start planning the menu and sourcing out the material for your dress. You could even talk to Father D’Angello. I’m sure he’s going to have many questions for us about our vows and the sacred union of marriage and all that religious stuff.”
“Piano, piano Marco. There’s plenty of time. I don’t want to rush into this. I need time to think about things. To talk to my mother. To make sure we do this right. Remember I’m in charge. That means you’re going to have to trust me and let me do it my way.”
“You’ll at least let me know what’s happening, and give me some tasks to help out, I hope.”
“Certomente. Your first task is to help your brothers build that tractor. What a crazy idea.”
“It was Pietro’s idea. That man is brilliant! I thank God every day that our path’s crossed in Milano. I don’t know what I would have done without him. Maybe I would’ve never made it back alive.”
“He seems like a very good friend.”
“We need to find him a good woman so that he doesn’t get the crazy idea to go back to Canada, at least not until the tractor is built.”
“I’m sure we can find him a nice woman. I have some friends in St. Angelo that we could set him up with.”
“Maria Da’Luca?”
“No she married Tony Moccia last year. I was thinking about Stella Sciatta or maybe even Lena Di’Carlo.”
“Lena Di’Carlo? Mama mia! You’ve got to be kidding. She’s too feisty for Pietro. I like Stella. She’d make a good wife. Beautiful, but not too beautiful. A hard worker. Good hips for chid-bearing and an excellent cook!”
“Maybe you should ask her to marry you.” Carmella teased. “Sounds like a match made in heaven.”
“There’s only one woman in this whole world for me and I’m looking at her beautiful face right now. I can’t imagine spending the rest of my life with anybody else.”
“That’s reassuring.” Carmella patted Marco on the knee underneath the table. “So, tell me about this tractor? I think you guys are crazy. It’s never going to work.”
“We’ve got all the scrap metal and are going to start building it as soon as possible. We just need a good engine and some wheels.”
“You’re lucky. Just last month old man Dominic lost his leg and his left ear when he stepped on a mine out in the fields. He’s lucky to be alive. Although, I think in many ways he’d be better off dead.”
“We’re aware of the danger. But remember, Peitro and I both have military training. We know what we’re doing.”
“Well I don’t want to marry a cripple. Be careful.”
“Always. Now I better get back to the shop. There is so much to do.” Marco leaned across the table and kissed Carmella on the lips. “Ciao mi amore.”
“Ciao ciao. A presto. When are you going to come by and say hi to mama?”
“Soon. Maybe I’ll bring Pietro by for lunch tomorrow?”
“Bene. I’ll let her know.”
Chapter Six
The Resistenza
After shooting Stow at point blank range, I was certain that those paratroopers were going to kill me that Christmas eve in Ortono.
They were like machines.No feelings. No sense humanity behind the gun.
Maybe their idea of humane was just very different than mine. I’m not sure what came over them that night. Maybe it was the spirit of Christmas. Maybe they felt like giving me a gift. It would’ve been much easier to put a bullet through my head. Luckily for me, they didn’t. Little did I realize was that one year later I’d put myself into an even more dangerous situation over the love of a woman. At that time, however, I didn’t think there was anything more lethal than a Wafen-SS paratrooper.
An elite unit of the Wafen-SS paratroopers had been dropped into Ortona to assist the German Fallschirmjager units, or “Green Devils,” hold the front. It was a fierce combination that almost cost us the Italian front.
“Tell us what you know of our positions? What are your soldiers planning to do?” The SS-Storm Leader paced back and forth behind me. “Don’t make this difficult. My men enjoy extracting information. They’d like to watch you breakdown like a little baby.”
“I’m just a private.”I answered calmly. “They don’t tell me anything.”
“What is this map?” The Storm-Leader was now standing in front of me, wringing his leather gloved-hands together. “Who made this map?”
“I’m not sure what map you’re talking about.”
“This map.”
The Storm leader grabbed my head and shoved the map into my face.
“Don’t play games with me. My men tell me you were carrying it and it shows all of our positions.”
“I was under orders to carry that map,” I lied. “I don’t know anything about it.”
“Well you better start remembering.”
The Storm-Leader motioned to a man standing in the corner. He wore the distinctive Fallschirmjager uniform of green-stripped camouflage.
“String him up.”
The green devil took a meat hook hanging from the ceiling and clasped it onto the leather straps that bound my hands behind my back. Grabbing the other end of the chain he began to hoist me up, slowly, with the help of an intricate pulley system. At first I enjoyed the bit of a stretch. After ten minutes, the searing pain in my body felt like my shoulders were ripping apart.
“Tell us what you know about the map.” My torturer stood in front of me with a large club wrapped in barbed wire. “What do you know about our positions.”
“I don’t know anything. I’m just a private.” In basic training they taught us to hold out as long as we could in the event of being captured and questioned by the enemy. “My name is Private Peter McMillian. Princess Patricia’s Light Infantry.”
My torturer hoisted me up higher. The pain was now so intense I felt like I was going to pass out.
“The map,” he pressed. “What do you know.”
These were the last words I remember before passing out and waking up to a Nazi doctor poking me with medical equipment.
“He’s fine.” The doctor assured the soldier standing in front of me. “A little shocked but otherwise healthy and strong.”
After the brief medical exam, I was given a number and locked into a stinking cell crowded with Italian soldiers. Luckily I picked up some basic Italian on my tour through Sicily and up the Adriatic coast to Ortona.
“Mamma Mia! A Canadese?” The older Italian soldier looked tired and beat down, like a dog scolded by its master. “I’m surprised the Germans didn’t eat you for breakfast ragazzo.”
“Non te la prendere private. The Captain here is not feeling so good. He’s hungry and misses his wife,” said the soldier sitting next to the Captain. “We’re all heading into the fires of hell anyways, so what does it matter. Che Macello!”
“Don’t listen to either of these two, they’ve given up hope.” A third soldier extended his hand to me. “I’m Marco.”
“Piacere. Peter McMillian, Princess Patricia Light Infantry.”
I never could’ve realized that shaking Marco’s hand was going to transform my life forever. It’s funny how life works like that - you really never know what’s around the corner. It could be a boat waiting to ferry you across to the isle of the dead, or love waiting to pounce on you like a hungry tiger.
“I’ve been praying to La Madonna for a miracle and she’s sent you!” Marco was very animated. “I’ve heard stories about how you Canadese are always outsmarting those Germans. So what’s your plan? How are you going to get us out of here?”
“Uffa! Marco can’t you just accept the reality,” snapped the Captain. “We’re being shipped out to the Offlag and Stalag camps. Thanks to that bloody Badoglio and his stupid armistizio we’ll probably end up in the ovens of Dachau with the Jews and the Zingari.”
“What’s this Stalag,” I asked. “I’ve never heard of it.”
“It’s a central processing station for prisoners of war like you and Marco. Commissioned-officers like the Captain and I get the four star treatment at the Offlag,” the soldier explained. “The German’s like to maintain their hierarchies, even if we all end up in the same crematorium. It’s all about appearances.”
Before the Italian soldier could finish, a stiff, impeccably dressed German soldier appeared outside of the cell with a large dog on a short leash.
“I want two lines. One for officers and one for the rest of you.” The soldier’s perfect Italian was punctuated by his thick German accent. “Anyone who steps out of line will be shot.”
“Stay close amico,” Marco whispered in my ear. “You’re my lucky charm.”
The door to the cell opened and our two lines were marched out of the building in different directions. Marco and I ended up in a courtyard where other soldiers like us were being organized in a similar fashion.
Eventually all the lines were merged together and, under close scrutiny by the German soldiers and their dogs, we began our march through the centre of old Milan to the train station.
The magnificent Milano Centrale was originally built in 1864. In the 1940s Mussolini decided it was the perfect site to represent his vision of fascist Italy as an economic powerhouse with the best transportation system in all of Europe. He invested an enormous sum of money into modernizing and expanding the station to accommodate
That foggy winter morning, as we made our way though the narrow cobble-stoned avenues of central Milan, we never would’ve believed that just over one year later, thousands of people would be crowding those same streets to get the chance to throw stones at Mussolini’s corpse, as it hung securely from a meat hook for all to see.
“Too bad we can’t go and see Leonardo’s famous Cenacolo. I don’t think I’ll ever get a chance to get back to Milano.” Marco was still behind me. “I’ve always wanted to see it.”
There was a gun shot behind us, followed by two more. Instinctually, I dropped to the ground and covered my head with my hands. The German soldiers started yelling at us to move.
“It’s the Resistenza! Che Bella! This is our chance Pietro.” Marco tugged on my elbow. “We’ve got to go now before we’re shot.”
“I’m not moving. It’s too dangerous.” In reality, I was too tired to fight anymore. I was hungry, sore and sick of the war. “Let’s just stay here and wait until it’s safe.”
“Mi raccomando!” pleaded Marco. “You’re a blessing from La Madonna and I promised to protect you and get you home if she sent me an opportunity like this!” Marco slipped his hand under my arm. “And I can promise you the most beautiful women in the world live in Limosano! On three. Uno...due...”
Chapter Seven
Nicolitto’s
Christmas preparations in Limosano were well underway.
Families were gathering all the ingredients they needed to prepare the Menu di Natale, which included the thirteen fish dishes, baked pasta and a variety of special cookies and cakes. This was a longstanding tradition in the Village, with recipes that dated back to medieval times.
Marco’s mama was busy preparing the baccalà, changing the water every six hours until the salt-cod reached the desired consistency. While the baccalà soaked, she worked tirelessly baking cookies and cakes of all different shapes and sizes.
That morning, three days before Christmas Eve, she was preparing the traditional Panettone to give out as gifts to friends and family.
Legend has it that a nobleman known as Ughetto Atellani invented the Christmas cake to win the heart of the beautiful Adalgisa, the daughter of a poor baker named Antonio. The story goes that, disguised as a baker, Ughetto invented a delicate golden bread to impress the young Adalgisa’s father who was reluctant to see his only daughter married. By combining flour and yeast, butter, eggs, dried raisins, candied lemon and orange peel, Ugghetto made such a delicious bread that it impressed the Duke of Milan, Ludovico il Moro Sforza, who agreed to sponsor the marriage. The bread also became one of the favourite snacks of Leonardo da Vinci, who painted a portrait of the happily married couple as a wedding gift. To honour Adalgisa’s father, Ughetto named the bread Pan de Toni.
“Buon Giorno Pietro. I hope you slept well.” Mama Delgobo always had coffee and biscotti ready for me when I woke up, which seemed to be getting later and later every day. “You and Marco must be tired after all your adventures. I’m so happy to have my boy home alive. You know every night he was gone, I prayed to La Madonna to return him safe to me. When I saw him there in my kitchen, I knew that my prayers had been answered.”
“Where is everybody?” I changed the topic of conversation. When Marco’s mama got too emotional, it made me feel a little bit uncomfortable. “Every morning get up and nobody is here.”
“They went out to the fields to look for an engine to put in that crazy scrap metal tractor of yours.”
“How come nobody woke me up?”
“You need your sleep to get your strength back. Non preoccupada. Why do you want to still risk the chance of blowing your legs off? You should be spending more time looking for a nice girl to marry and settle down with.”
“Like Marco and Carmella?”
“Exactamente.” Mama Delgobo placed a small bottle of liquor down on the table. “Uffah! That Severino has been drinking my Amaretto again. I told him I needed it for the pannetone!”
She dug her hands into her apron, pulled out a few coins and passed them to me along with the empty liquor bottle.
“Go buy me a few ounces of Amaretto from Nicolitto’s and be quick about it. These cakes need to be baked today.”
The snow had been falling for a few days that made it difficult to walk up the steep cobblestone streets without slipping.
Niccolito’s was Limosano’s only alimentari. It was a small shop nestled next to the even smaller Cafe Romma in the piazza in the middle of the village.
The store had everything you needed. The big bags of semolina flour for making bread and pasta were stacked to the ceiling next to the equally big bags of cece and fagoli. Capocolli sausage made from the head and tail of a pig and Salsiccie al finocchio, Niccolitto’s speciality, were made fresh daily and hung in the window to cure. The delicate Prosciutto affumicato and the spicy Soppressata hung next to the Scamorza and Caciocavallo cheese from the ceiling, curing in store’s warm atmosphere. The Burrino and Manteca, the soft, delicious, buttery cow’s-milk cheeses were kept fresh along with the Pecorino, which you could order young and soft or aged and hard. Jugs of locally pressed olive oil were stored next to the jars of herbs and spices and if you didn’t get a chance to make your own, Nicololitto made an excellent salsa pomadoro and an even better vino tinto. In the summer, whatever grew in Limosano, you could find at Nicolitto’s.
In the spirit of Christmas, Nicolitto, a wiry, clean shaven, man who smoked like a chimney and always seemed to have a smile on his face, stacked bars of soft Torrone from Campobasso on the front counter. For the first time, he also brought in a new hard pistachio toronne made in Rome, which was twice the price as the locally made sweet. He placed these candies strategically next to the few boxes of commercially made pannetone that he brought in for those rich enough to afford it.
“I’d like a few ounces of Amaretto.” I placed the empty bottle on the counter. “And a pack of cigarettes.”
“You’re that Canadese who came in with the Delgobo boy on the feast of La Madonna, a very auspicious day.” Nicolitto took a deep drag of his cigarette. “Is it true you escaped the Germans and walked all the way from Milano?”
“Half-true.” I smiled. “We didn’t walk here. That would’ve taken a a lot longer.”
“Veramente. That’s one hell of a walk. La Madonna she smiles on you. It’s not surprising, really, Maria Delgobo she’s in the church three times a day, every day, praying for her Marco to come home. Me, I figured he was dead, like the rest of his outfit. They say he was some hotshot mechanic working on a secret jet that could fly to the moon. I don’t believe all that crap. He was probably working on trucks and motorcycles, nothing new to that Delgobo family. But one of these days they’re going to get fried playing with that electricity. Don’t get me wrong I like the light, specially this time of year, but I don’t trust it. It’s free now. But you just wait, soon we’re gonna have to pay for it, and it’s gonna cost more that the most expensive Prosciutto affumicato.”
Nicolitto took a a large bottle of Ameretto of the shelf behind him and filled my bottle with a small amount of the thick amber liqueur.
”Eco lei.” He handed the bottle back to me with a pack of cigarettes. “Maria Delgobo is making her famous pannetone? It’s the best in Limosano. I wish she’d reconsider my offer to go into business. I could make her a very rich woman!”
“Her cooking is going to make me a very fat man!” I handed him a few coins. “But it sure is better than the rations we had in Rome.”
“Varamente! You could benefit from putting on a few pounds. Is it true that you and the Delgobo boys are building a tractor?” Nicolitto handed my change back to me. “From the scrap metal in the fields?”
“We’re going to try.”
“You’re going to try to kill yourselves is what you’re doing.”
“Varamente Nicolitto.” Carmella walked into the store, with her smell of roses and sunshine. “This Canadese is trying to kill my Marco.”
“Ah, Bella, comme va!” Nicolitto stubbed out his cigarette, a large smile on his face. “This Canadese sure is crazy to step in between a man and his lover!”
“Ciao Pietro.” Carmella kissed me on both cheeks. “Helping Mama Delgobo with her baking?” She motioned to the bottle of Ameretto. “Or drinking with Severino again?”
“Neither. I’m just the errand boy.” I could still feel the trace of Carmella’s warm, moist lips on my cheeks, like a sunbeam on the coldest winter day. “We’ve got to stay focussed if we’re going to get that tractor built and keep all our limbs in working order.”
“I hope that one of those cakes is for me.” Carmella took a jar of oil oil from the shelf. “Marco’s mama makes the best Pannetone this side of Napoli.”
“I guess that all depends on how good you’ve been to your man.” Nicolitto winked at Carmella. “When is the wedding going to be?”
“In the spring, at Easter.” Carmella handed Nicolitto a few coins. “If all goes according to plans.”
“Va bene. Well make sure you let me know how I can help. Tell your mama to get her order in soon. This reconstruction effort is limiting the supply of a lot of things so I’m going to have to pull a few strings, but you can always rely on me.“
“I’ll let you know soon Nicolitto.” Carmella took her bottle of olive oil and put the change from Nicolitto in her pocket. “Buon Natale.”
I followed Carmella out of the store and into the piazza. A wind was starting to blow more snow in from the mountains and I could feel the damp cold seeping its way in through my thick wool coat.
“You want to come over for some food?” Carmella stood close to me, clutching her bottle of olive oil close to her chest. “Mama is making a frittata for lunch.”
“I’d love to, but I’ve got to get this amaretto back to Mama Delgobo. She was very adamant that I return home as soon as possible so she can get her baking done.” I inched closer to Carmella, hoping to catch a faint scent of her sweetness. “I could walk you home though.”
Anything to prolong this moment. I thought to myself.
“Such a gentleman.” She linked her arm in mine. “I’m so glad Marco finally has a good friend. He speaks very highly of you.”
“He is a fine man and he loves you very much.”
We walked to the other side of the piazza and started making our way down the narrow, snowy cobblestone street.
“Every night Marco would say a prayer which included a line like, ‘and when I get home, I pray that Carmella still loves me as much as I love her.’” I tried my best to imitate Marco’s animated, dramatic voice. “Some nights I’d hear him speaking your name in his sleep.”
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