The Prince (4 page)

The old man caught his breath and finally said in a hoarse voice, “It's a notice that arrived a week ago from the Ministry of the Interior. Racial laws have been enacted. Jews are no longer citizens like us Christians,” the clerk summed up.

The doctor's blood froze, while Saro didn't really understand what they were talking about. Even Michele Fardella had a hard time understanding what that decision meant in actual practice.

“It's all written there,” said De Simone, going toward a stack of documents arranged on a corner of the desk. He rapidly scanned the folders and spines, deftly slipped out a
Gazzetta Ufficiale
, the official journal of record, and handed it to the town clerk with the writing deliberately upside down, to make fun of him. Michele Fardella pretended to read it quickly, and then gave it back to De Simone.

“What is it about? Tell us in so many words,” he ordered in a tone that brooked no argument.

“Well, what I said: the Jews must be entered in a register that we must then send to the ministry. They can no longer practice their professions.” He leafed through several pages of the royal decree. Then he began reading in a singsong tone: “Measures for the Defense of the Italian Race. Vittorio Emanuele III, King of Italy and Emperor of Ethiopia by the grace of God and by the will of the Nation, considering the urgent and absolute necessity to take measures, given article three—”

“Enough. That's enough, De Simone. You may go.”

Dr. Ragusa had a whirlwind raging in his head and didn't notice the understanding look his old friend De Simone gave him as he bowed slightly, turned, and left the room.

Saro had been silent until then. In deference to his father, he had not intervened in the discussion. But now, seeing his father's struggle, he sought Michele Fardella's attention.

“Are the regulations already in force?” he asked with a certain naiveté.

“What do you think? Don't worry about it. Doctor, Doctor, take it easy. Don't get so excited. You know how things work here in Italy. Many laws are made, but how many are enforced? This is just one of many. The government does it on purpose. What do they say? ‘Too many laws, no law.' ”

From the floor below, desperate screams could be heard; then individuals yelling, a woman shouting, and frantic footfalls, as if people were running away.

Michele Fardella leaped to his feet. A character more suited to action, he quickly grabbed a Beretta from the drawer and ran to the door. Saro followed him, while his father remained bent over the desk, envisioning a future of despair.

From the landing, Fardella and Saro looked down and saw that a man had taken De Simone hostage in the middle of the entrance hall below, holding the old clerk with his left arm, while his right hand gripped a pistol pointed one moment at the poor clerk's temple and the next at the crowd huddled against a wall.

“Nobody move! I'll kill him, I swear to God!” the man yelled. Some of the people had their hands up; others cowered on the floor. The man was unaware of Michelle Fardella's presence just above him.

“Calm down, don't do anything stupid, nothing's happened yet!” Everyone's attention turned to Fardella, who, hiding the gun behind his back, had started slowly down the stairs, followed by Saro.

“Stop! Stop, I said! I'll shoot him if you don't stop!” The man shoved the gun against De Simone's throat.

“Okay, I'll stop. See? I'll stop.” But Fardella kept heading down the stairs, though as slowly as possible. “Tell me, what is it I can do for you?”

“You can't do anything. There's nothing anyone can do now!” the desperate man cried.

Near him stood a chubby matron who was clasping a younger woman to her. It was Mena, Rosario Losurdo's daughter, and her governess, Nennella. Saro had seen Mena around town on other occasions and had been struck by her radiant beauty and her vivid green eyes. Now there she was, her life in danger, the madman's gun barrel just a few feet away. Saro was afraid the man might make some reckless move.

Jano Vassallo, stationed near the hallway door, had his hands up, as did his squad members, awaiting the right moment to act. As long as the gunman had his pistol leveled, he was careful not to move.

Michele Fardella spoke again: “What do you want? Who do you have a complaint with?”

At that instant, someone in the crowd inadvertently made a motion.

The frantic gunman must have spotted it, for he turned around and fired a shot toward the ceiling as a warning. Immediately all hell broke loose, with people screaming and trying to rush out the door, knocking some to the ground. Mena and her governess also tried to escape, but the crowd shoved them, and they were separated. The girl fell, a step away from the mob. Jano and his men raced to their command center to grab their guns. Michele Fardella ducked behind the staircase's marble balustrade, keeping his pistol aimed at the man. All he could do was yell, “Easy now! Don't shoot! Don't shoot!!”

Saro immediately sprang to the spot where Mena had fallen and, shielding her, rolled over with her on the floor to avoid the path of the crowd.

The armed man, dragging De Simone, positioned himself in a corner of the hall. He was completely beside himself, no longer rational. He kept on shouting: “I'll kill you all! All of you! Bastards! Goddamn bastards!”

Mena raised her frightened gaze to the young man who was protecting her with his body. Their eyes met, their noses nearly touching. “Don't be afraid,” Saro whispered to her. Mena closed her eyes and clung to him, terrified.

Michele Fardella tried to draw the man's attention: “Take it easy . . . Talk to me. Tell me who you are . . .”

In the depths of despair, the man uttered a cry that shattered the hearts of everyone present. “God forgive me! Forgive these people!” He shoved De Simone aside as forcefully as he could. The elderly clerk, who was expecting the final blow, fell facedown on the floor. Then the poor wretch turned the barrel of the pistol up under his chin and pulled the trigger.

The roar made those in the hall recoil. The bullet came out of the center of his head, shattering his cranium and causing the brain to explode into a thousand pieces that ended up splattered against the wall. The man slid silently to the ground and sat there like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Some people screamed, while others stood stock-still, paralyzed.

Michele Fardella, joined by Jano and the other militiamen, went over to the gunman.

Saro helped Mena to her feet. “These are terrible times,” he murmured to her, genuinely frightened as well.

The girl, though still upset, was bold enough to look into his eyes. Then she lowered her gaze as soon as Nennella appeared to resume care of her charge.

“May God bless you, Saro,” said Nennella, who evidently knew him. Then she led Mena out of the building, heading for their carriage.

Saro followed the young girl until she disappeared through the door. Next, he turned to the knot of people that had formed around the man who had taken his life.

Prospero, one of Jano's men, crouched beside the corpse and lifted the man's head, or what was left of it.

“Do you know him?” Jano asked.

Saro shook his head no. “He must be someone from around here, though,” he replied.

An elderly farmer made his way through the townspeople. “It's Davide Zevi,” he said loudly, in a disapproving tone.

“A Jew?” Jano asked him.

The farmer's only reply was a nod.

“Good. He saved us a bullet,” Jano remarked cynically, pushing through the crowd.

Some made the sign of the cross, others went to notify the carabinieri, while someone else went off to summon the undertaker. Saro suddenly realized that in the commotion he had stepped on a document. He picked it up and saw it was Mena's identification card. The young woman must have come to town hall to obtain it upon turning eighteen. As he looked at the photo, seeing again those magnificent eyes framed by jet-black hair, he confirmed that she was the most beautiful girl he had ever encountered.

He slipped the card in his pocket and looked up. At the top of the staircase stood his father. Ragusa had witnessed the suicide in silence, literally shaken. It wasn't like him to stand back at such a scene. Any other time, he would have rushed to the man to avert a foolish act, to make the man talk, to reason with him somehow. For Ragusa was strong and confident in his skills, both dialectical and humane. But now something seemed to have broken in him. The stability and assurance that had made him one of the most influential figures among his fellow townsmen had suddenly abandoned him.

Saro rushed up to his father and, taking him by the arm, led him slowly out of that hell.

– 1938 –

A
nnachiara Ragusa lingered by the fireplace in the kitchen after supper, to finish basting a dress she was making for the elementary school teacher's wife. The flickering light of the oil lamp fell on nimble fingers that moved as swiftly as those of a magician.

Reaching the hemline of the dress, she stopped and stretched, her torso stiff from sitting so long in a contracted position. Her eyes were tired, her shoulders ached. Suddenly she felt a familiar weariness that she recently found herself having to endure almost every day. She put the needle and thread back in the shoe box and went into the bedroom, where her husband was still tugging at the blankets, tossing and turning in bed.

“Peppino, can't you sleep?” she asked, unbuttoning her sweater.

The doctor grumbled and turned over for the hundredth time, pulling the heavy army blankets over him.

Annachiara sat down on the edge of the bed. “Peppino, don't torture yourself. You know how things work here. In a month, no one will think about it anymore. Besides, who's going to bother us down here in Sicily?” She shook him, to get him to agree.

Ragusa sat up. “This time won't be like the others. You'll see, they'll hound us, the Duce will try to please the Führer. Did you hear what they said to each other in Rome?”

“You've worked all your life, you were in the trenches during the Great War, the Austrians even wounded you—who do you think could be out to get you? When you act like this, I don't understand you.” Annachiara rose from the bed and, slipping off first her sweater and then her wool dress, was left wearing a black cotton slip.

She was not yet forty, but life's hardships, the three children to raise, the struggle of having to find something to put on the table each day for lunch and dinner, the work as a seamstress that she did at night, stealing hours from sleep, had aged her prematurely.

Ragusa looked at his wife, feeling a sense of guilt. “We must leave the country.”

His tone made her freeze. “You can't be serious. Our life is here,” she replied patiently, putting on her heavy nightgown.

Ragusa turned over again in the bed. “It will be difficult for us Jews to live in a nation where they'll take away all our rights, even the right to work.”

His wife tousled his hair, trying to play down her husband's paranoia. “Peppino, we live in the most remote corner of Italy,” she said with that charming Venetian cadence that had made her Sicilian husband fall so deeply in love. “Don't worry, no one will come looking for you here.”

Ragusa pushed away his wife's hand. “You should have seen that man's despair.”

“Oh, come on, don't think about it anymore. Put out the lamp instead; we'll run out of oil.”

The following Sunday was the feast of Saint Faustina, patroness of the fields. From early dawn, the streets of Salemi would be overrun with stalls and street vendors from all over the province. Later in the day, the celebration would include a Mass, followed by a solemn procession led by the bishop. Toward evening, a band from nearby Calatafimi would entertain the residents with opera passages and regional songs. Then it would be time for
tombola
, a kind of bingo, in the piazza, with prizes offered by several of the province's wholesalers: bottles of wine, olive oil, ricotta, and salami. Finally, with the first shadows of evening would come the most awaited event: the fireworks, a thrilling show that children dreamed of throughout the year and that even adults wouldn't miss.

The arrival of stalls crammed with all sorts of wonderful things provided a chance for the local women to be able to find dresses, shawls, soaps, stockings, and other items that were hard to come by in town. That morning, Mena, accompanied by the ever-present Nennella, strolled through the market, which occupied the entire Piazza del Castello.

Although the day was gray and somewhat windy, it didn't look like it was going to rain. The townsfolk wore their Sunday best, the women abandoning their everyday black and wearing their most elegant, colorful dresses.

Mena wandered from one booth to another with the joy and curiosity of a child let loose in toyland. It was hard for chubby Nennella to keep up with her, and she sometimes let Mena get ahead of her a little, content to merely keep an eye on the girl from afar while she took a rest, leaning against a doorway.

That morning, even the barbershop had closed for the holiday, and Saro was enjoying the day off. Like all the young men in Salemi, he knew that the market drew girls like honey, and he strolled through the stalls glancing here and there, in the hope of meeting Rosario Losurdo's daughter again.

Since the day of Davide Zevi's suicide at town hall, Saro had done nothing but think of her, her thick black hair, her eyes shining like emeralds. So it was no coincidence that the two eventually found themselves side by side, rummaging through the antique objects of a secondhand dealer. Their hands brushed as they went to pick up the same Art Nouveau figurine of a veiled vestal.

Mena politely withdrew hers first. “Oh, sorry—”

“Mena.”

The girl looked at Saro's face, and her eyes lit up with pleasure. “Oh, Saro.”