The Prince (11 page)

“How much do you want to stop them? Now, right away, that is.” The marquis moved to the center of the room.

“Marquis, did I give you the impression I came here to beg for a few gold coins?” Ferdinando Licata, his manner cold, his eyes narrowed into slits, continued. “I'll pretend I didn't hear that, because I understand that you are beside yourself.” And with that, he disappeared from the marquis's sight.

– 1920 –

N
ever had the prince's words been more prophetic. Gaetano Vassallo was ordered to slaughter all the livestock belonging to Pietro Bellarato, marquis of Campo Allegro, and set fire to the farm and its stores.

That night a cloudburst poured down from the heavens, and Vassallo, with a half dozen of his most trusted men, had a hard time setting fire to the storehouses. They had to use five buckets of gasoline. After several attempts, the flames finally engulfed the wooden planks and the straw, prevailing over the pounding rain.

Gaetano Vassallo and his bandits were watching the results of their efforts with satisfaction, when Geremia, Vassallo's older brother, arrived at a gallop to inform his brother that Teresa, his wife, was about to give birth to the twins. The midwife was in Palermo, so they would have to resort to the doctor in Salemi, and there was no time to lose. Gaetano Vassallo jumped on his horse and, leaving his men, sped to Salemi to muster the town physician, Peppino Ragusa.

The house where Teresa lived with her two sons was a few miles from town. The bandit wasn't worried about being seen by the carabinieri, since, for one thing, they rarely went out on patrol at night, preferring the safety of their headquarters. Besides, the rain was coming down in buckets, a downpour that hadn't been seen in months, and this favored his movements.

When he reached the house with the doctor, Teresa was on the verge of collapse, fading fast. She could not manage to birth the two infants. Her two sons, Jano and Giovanni, were hiding under the table, terrified by their mother's screams. Peppino Ragusa immediately understood the gravity of the situation. He would have to perform a Caesarean section, but the sanitary conditions in that hovel made it extremely risky. There wasn't even a horse and cart to transport her to the medical center in Salemi, and in any case, it would be too late. He decided to risk it, hoping for a stroke of luck, though fortune had long since forgotten the address of that shack. He had them boil the surgical instruments and bring him some sheets, and ordered Vassallo to stay nearby. Soon afterward, Geremia arrived back at the cabin; he got Jano and Giovanni out from under the table and led them into the adjacent room. Vassallo was standing near his wife, pleading with her to stay calm, just a little more and it would all be over . . . and at the same time urging the doctor to hurry.

Peppino Ragusa, who at the young age of thirty-four had presided at the births of almost half the town's population, had previously found himself in similar situations—often with disastrous results. He felt that this time things would not go as they should, and, in fact, shortly after he started to make the incision, Teresa surrendered her soul to God with a gasp. Vassallo immediately realized what had happened. His years of experience with death had made him an authority. A roar erupted from his chest. His brother Geremia held Jano and Giovanni tightly and closed his eyes, distraught. The younger boy started crying, while Jano broke out of his uncle's desperate embrace and bravely went to the door to see what was happening. He saw his father clinging to his mother's face. The doctor, with his back turned, hastened his efforts to at least save the two babies. They had just a few seconds of self-sufficiency, and then they too would almost certainly die, by asphyxiation.

Ragusa finished cutting open the poor woman's womb and finally extracted the first infant. He lifted him in the air, holding him upside down by the ankles. With a slap on the back and one on the chest, he helped him breathe, and then cleaned the mucus from his nose and mouth. He wrapped him in a piece of sheet and shouted to Vassallo to take him. The bandit, in a daze, left his wife, whom he had showered with kisses, and took the crying little bundle in his arms. He couldn't make up his mind whether to hate that dumpling of flesh that had killed his wife or worship him like the infant Jesus. The doctor focused his attention on the other infant, a baby girl, who showed no signs of life. He quickly cut the umbilical cord and then repeated the steps he'd just taken with her twin. The infant girl, however, remained lifeless. So he massaged her heart, breathed into her mouth, and the next instant, as if by some miracle, the second baby began to breathe and started wailing.

Dr. Ragusa then noticed Jano, the older brother, hiding behind the leg of the table. He called to him gently so he wouldn't frighten him more than he already was. He motioned to the boy to come hold his newborn baby sister. Jano moved closer, and the doctor placed the poor infant in his small arms.

Now he had to see to the mother. Unfortunately, all he could do was ascertain that she was dead. He sewed up the incision and covered her lovely face with the sheet.

When Gaetano Vassallo saw that definitive act, he raised his infant son to the heavens and with an inhuman howl cursed himself and all of mankind for having allowed such an atrocity.

That ferocious roar would remain in Jano's ears throughout the rest of his miserable life.

Marquis Bellarato, during one of his rides through his lands to hunt for game and obliging shepherds, crossed paths with Ninì Rizzo, one of the republican parliamentarians whom he had first seen at the Colonnas', during the famous meeting at Palazzo Cesarò.

Rizzo was out riding with his campiere, hunting partridges, when he saw the marquis in the distance and rode toward him with a shout of recognition. The campiere remained behind at a distance for the entire length of their talk; whether the encounter was accidental or deliberately sought, no one ever knew.

“Marquis, I heard about what the bandits did to you,” he began, leading his horse alongside. “I think you are right to insist on harsh methods.”

“I'm glad to hear you say that,
onorevole
,” Bellarato replied guardedly. “They destroyed my entire herd and set fire to the storehouse.”

“We can no longer tolerate such barbarism,” Rizzo said emphatically.

“But those of you up there in Rome, what do you say?” the marquis challenged him directly.

“Rome is far away, my dear Bellarato,” Rizzo replied. “However, I want to prove to you that some people up there think about us. I will have a special team sent to investigate the fire and identify those responsible. Will that satisfy you?”

“I hadn't hoped for so much.”

“An example is needed. They must understand that there's no place here for anarchists and subversives,” the politician continued. He was silent for a few seconds and then added: “Nevertheless, Marquis, you might also be less inflexible with friends.”

Bellarato went on the defensive. “What do you mean? Which friends?”

“Well, if I do you a favor today, I expect that you will consider me a friend. I don't know if I've made myself clear.”

“I don't follow you,” the marquis replied.

“Yet it's simple. We must stand united.” At last, he came to the point: “Why don't you withdraw the preemptive offer on the Baucina estate? It's all rocky land; not even a turnip would grow there, no matter how much effort you put into it. Plus, it makes no sense for anyone to start a quarrel over nothing.”

Marquis Bellarato finally understood the reason for the encounter. He dropped all show of diplomacy and asked abruptly, “Did Prince Licata send you?”

Niní Rizzo was stung to the quick. “Why, my dear Bellarato, that's no way for a gentleman to talk. No one sends me anywhere, keep that in mind.” So saying, he touched the brim of his hat with two fingers and rode off at a gallop, followed at a distance by his campiere.

By now only two days remained before the Veterans cooperative would see its option to purchase the former Baucina estate expire. That morning, most of the 395 shareholders gathered in front of Salemi's town hall, near the Cassa Rurale. In Sicily at the time, as elsewhere in Italy, no family was spared from unemployment. Field workers and sharecroppers, supported by the socialist leagues and the Popular Party, went on strike, refusing to work. The most enterprising competed for the little bit of land that could be obtained illegally. When the Falcioni decree of April 1920 ruled that even lands illegally occupied prior to that date could be lawfully assigned to the squatters, the landowners as well as the more enlightened overseers declared that abandoning the law that way was an injustice to all those who had remained law abiding. Above all they insisted that it was extremely dangerous to endorse the concept that armed rebellion could sometimes “pay off.”

Also present that morning in front of Salemi's town hall, along with the 395 members of the Veterans, were representatives from another cooperative, the Farm, which was supported by the Socialist Party—specifically, by the party's delegate: a certain attorney named Nicola Geraci from Petralia Sottana. They too were demanding ownership of lands to be shared among the members.

The mayor, seeing the piazza packed with people, began having serious concerns. The four carabinieri assigned to the town were out in the field that day, occupied with various duties, and the fifth couldn't leave the station.

Not knowing which way to turn, the mayor got the idea of having
u patri
intervene. The prince, among all the aristocrats in the region, was the one closest to the people. Maybe he might be able to control the crowd. Ferdinando Licata didn't wait to be asked twice and shortly thereafter arrived at the town hall astride his black horse. Someone whistled in protest, but the others silenced him.

The mayor explained the situation, and Licata, with his usual composure, reassured him.

A few minutes later, he had representatives from each of the two cooperatives brought into the council chamber. The mayor and his entire council had taken their places on the high-backed chairs. Ferdinando Licata, standing, positioned himself at the center of the dais. When everyone finally fell silent, the prince began to speak.

“Well, my friends. The time has come for justice. Many of you went to war, and it is to many of you that we owe the victory. So let's come to an agreement and bring about this blessed socialism.”

The peasants couldn't believe what they were hearing. Many nodded, satisfied, and an old man wiped his eyes.

After a short pause to let what he had proposed sink in, he continued. “Now, I'll call you one at a time. You,” he said addressing the clerk, “get a new register and start writing.” Then he turned to the assembly again. “So then, let's get started right away, given that there are so many of you.” He pointed at the farmer nearest to him. “You, come forward.” The man, a peasant around the age of forty, scorched by the sun, approached with some hesitation.

“State your name.”

“Alvaro Di Paola, son of Giuseppe Di Paola, deceased,” he replied, stammering.

The clerk glanced at the mayor, awaiting his assent which was not long in coming, and quickly began writing in the big records book.

At that point Nicola Geraci, the Socialist Party delegate, was granted the floor. He was defiant and self-assured. “Excuse me, but what's the purpose of all this? Is it a new census?”

“Be patient, Mr. Geraci,” interjected the mayor, who had figured out what the prince was leading up to. “Let the prince carry on, since all of us here place our confidence in him.”

“So then, Alvaro,” the prince resumed, “tell us what you own, whether the house is yours, the animals, the vineyard, the olive trees—in short, declare all the things in your possession.”

Alvaro Di Paola was puzzled and suspicious, like all peasants when asked what they own. The interrogation smelled like a trap. Nevertheless, he answered diligently.

“Yes, the house is mine. I have three acres of vineyard and twenty olive trees. Then I have two cows, a mare, and a donkey, that's all,” he hastened to say.

“Clerk, did you write it all down?” Licata asked the man, who nodded. “Good. Next, please, step forward.” The peasants, in orderly fashion, went before the prince and declared the things they owned.

This went on for a few minutes before Nicola Geraci interrupted the assembly again. “Now, hold on a minute! I don't care for this business.” He moved toward Licata, as if to confront him on an equal footing. “Why are you taking down all this information? Where I come from, we say, ‘Where's the catch?' ” His laughter was echoed by a few others.

Ferdinando Licata remained impassive. “We have to institute socialism, don't we? First we have to record the possessions of all the members in the register, then we'll add them all up and divide everything equally, according to what's fair. It may turn out that someone who owns two cows will have to give one to someone who doesn't have any, and a person who has ten olive trees will have to relinquish three of them to someone who only owns four, so that each of them will have seven trees. That's socialism.”

Everyone in the room was taken aback. “So that's what this socialism is all about?” more than one man asked his neighbor.

From the center of the hall, an elderly peasant called out, “Well, I don't like it! If that's what socialism is, count me out.”

The others agreed with him. “It's no good; cross my name out of the book.” “Mine too.”

There was a headlong stampede from the socialist revolution.

Nicola Geraci was demoralized. All his efforts to persuade the men to stand together had been fruitless. He addressed Prince Licata harshly, his eyes flashing with hatred: “You think you're clever, don't you, Prince? Well your days are numbered, individuals like you. We no longer have any use for your class of people: in Russia, we hanged them from lampposts.” He spun around and left the council chamber, followed by the compassionate looks of those in the room who saw him as a doomed man.