The Prince (57 page)

“The landing of the Allied troops in Sicily is imminent,” Luciano began. “The fascists' days are numbered, and the Americans are asking for our help to gain the support of the island's population.”

Lucky Luciano told him his story, to clarify his role in the whole affair, recounting the visits the US Navy's intelligence chief had made to his jail cell. The fate of the war in Europe was in their hands. This could mean a number of things, Luciano explained. In return for the favor, at the end of the conflict, they would have a chance to place their men in prominent positions in future administrations. And they could work directly with the armed forces command to maintain order in the cities and towns. At long last, the Mafia and the Cosa Nostra would be officially recognized.

Don Calò listened in silence. His gestures were extremely slow and wary. From time to time he nodded, to show that he was following what Luciano was saying. And as Luciano gradually ran through the future scenarios that would come about in exchange for the “favor” granted to the invading troops, Don Calò got a sense of the important deals he could look forward to for many years to come.

He also realized that his power, dimmed by the five years he'd recently spent in prison, would return, making him more formidable than ever. All of his trafficking would have the tacit approval of the occupation troops. Don Calogero Vizzini would enter Sicily's history as his people's greatest benefactor.

Don Calò was not much for fine words and grand phrases, so when Luciano finished explaining the facts, his only response was to get up from his chair, walk over to his guest, take his hand, and make him stand up. Saro automatically rose too and saw the big Sicilian clutch the slim Lucky Luciano in a forceful embrace. Luciano, more astonished than ever, put his arms as far around the don as he could, returning the hug. Then Don Calò, still scowling, but aware of the importance of the moment, planted a kiss on his mouth—a kiss that Luciano couldn't dodge.

As they were leaving, the American boss took a yellow silk scarf out of his bag and handed it to Don Calò, explaining that in a few months, someone, probably a soldier, would show up with an identical scarf. That man would be his representative. Don Calò was to do what he asked, to ensure a successful landing.

Don Calò took the scarf and unfolded it. An
L
had been embroidered in the center, in black thread. Still looking grave, he said, “It stands for Luciano, I suppose.”

“No. It stands for
Lucky—
that is, “
fortunato
”—the other replied with a smile.

Don Calò balled up the scarf in his fist and put it in his pajama pocket. “I will treasure it dearly” were his last words, and with that, they said good-bye.

I
n the weeks that followed, the Sicilian populace was exposed to a subtle, insistent wave of propaganda. From the major cities to the most remote villages, everyone knew that the Americans were about to land to liberate them from fascist oppression. Everyone was ready to welcome the foreigners with open arms. The war would soon be over. Fascism was almost defeated, and the people were exhausted.

Mothers told their soldier sons not to fire so much as a single shot at the liberators, but to surrender and thereby save their lives. Mussolini himself had decided that it should be mainly Sicilian soldiers who would defend the island's soil. Among the ranks of the five divisions, two brigades, and one regiment stationed on the island, three-quarters of the troops were born in that region. And, as Don Calò himself had said, lending a hand to the infiltrators planted by US intelligence was an easy way to earn merit points for the postwar phase. With the landing imminent, desertions were numerous, in part because the soldiers were worried about the families they'd left behind in their villages.

Sicily had been hammered by bombings since the beginning of the war. Messina, more than any other city, was a target because of its strategic location. Ninety percent of food supplies and war equipment passed through the strait between the island and the mainland. But other cities weren't spared, either: Palermo, Augusta, Trapani, Siracusa, Ragusa, and especially Catania, which suffered the most devastating bombardment, with over three thousand bombing victims in a single day. The strategy of those attacks was aimed at crushing Italian morale.

Shipments of goods ceased almost entirely. Bread and pasta disappeared from the markets. Meat had become a distant memory for most people, soap could not be found, and nor could oil and sugar. There was no choice but to buy those foods on the black market, which increased prices astronomically.

In those gripping days, many of the four million Sicilians alleviated their hunger by eating carobs, which had previously been fed to donkeys, horses, and pigs. In such a climate, people's anger against the government was ready to explode. In May 1943 the front page of a Catania newspaper bore a photo of the Duce under the banner headline “The Fiend Responsible for the War.” Copies sold out within hours.

Amid the social and political turmoil, the Mafia, now backed by the Allies, had gone back to exerting its control over the region and over basic food products. Palermo was supplied with 450,000 rations of wheat, matching the reputed number of its inhabitants. In reality, during the months of bombing, two-thirds of the citizens chose to evacuate to the countryside, where everyone had a brother, cousin—someone he or she knew. When the rations were distributed to those who had remained in the city, there were at least 300,000 left over, which were regularly sent off to be sold on the black market.

Don Calò also worked directly with the counterespionage forces. He told his affiliates that to support the invasion, they had to collaborate with their American friends by every available means, even if it meant sabotaging the enemy's weapons. Over the course of the spring, German armored tanks belonging to the Goering Panzer Division stationed in the province of Palermo experienced mysterious breakdowns: someone had diluted the oil in their tanks with water. Some of the vehicles suffered melted engines and had to be pulled out of the units. Ships weren't immune from sabotage, either, and many cargo vessels were forced to remain at anchor as a result of tampering.

Salemi, in those frenzied days of late spring, had its heroes. The Italian Aosta Division and the Nazis' Fifteenth Panzergrenadier Division, part of which had been assigned to defend Caltanissetta, had been camped in the countryside outside the town. Roughly a dozen assault guns, four half-tracks, six Panzer Tigers, and five trucks with a convoy of heavy artillery and related logistical supplies were about to set out from the plain of Salemi to reach a new post near Caltanissetta. Though it was confidential information, the convoy's departure soon became public knowledge, thanks to some young women who had been cavorting with soldiers from the German tank corps.

In recent years, a substantial group of antiregime dissidents had formed in Salemi. One of the most active factions was represented by Nicola Cosentino, the deceased Rosario Losurdo's former campiere; Turi Toscano, the salt miner; and Pericle Terrasini, the charcoal burner. Joining them in the last few months was Pepè, the grandson of Ninì Trovato, the mayor's factotum. His grandfather was unable to control the young man and feared for his life. He'd told Pepè more than once that he shouldn't be seen with those people. Ninì Trovato was well aware of the means that Jano Vassallo used to “straighten out” those with a “dirty conscience,” as he called it. But Pepè, though he had not yet turned eighteen, had a mind of his own. He too wanted to fight for a better life, since the fascists, drawn into the war by the Germans in 1940, were only paving the way for a future of slavery.

Word of mouth carrying Don Calò's instructions had reached the ears of a few honorable men in Salemi, and the four friends had quickly rolled up their sleeves and set to work, wanting to be recognized as worthy participants of anti-German resistance. On one occasion, the four had sabotaged a truck used to requisition sacks of grain from Losurdo's farm. Pepè, being small, had crawled under the vehicle and loosened the oil pan screw just enough to make the oil leak out a little at a time but not enough to look like sabotage. A few days later, the truck's engine seized, and the poor mechanic was chewed out by the corporal.

The convoy's departure could be an opportunity to score another act of sabotage. But what could they come up with? Turi Toscano had an idea. The following night, they drove off toward the coast in a cart loaded with picks, shovels, hammers, and nails. They knew that the convoy would be headed south to Castelvetrano and from there east along the coast to Agrigento, before continuing to its destination.

They exited at Santa Ninfa, went past the town, and at the large junction leading to Castelvetrano on the right and Partanna on the left, they switched the signs. But their work wasn't over. Turi had also devised a masterful finishing touch.

They drove on to Partanna, less than four miles from the intersection, and on the outskirts of the village took down the sign indicating its name and replaced it with one they'd prepared ahead of time, marked “Castelvetrano.” Finally, to complete the hoax, they stuck a new signpost in the ground, with an arrow and the word
Agrigento
.

It was still night as they approached Salemi, satisfied to have completed a mission that would undoubtedly earn them the praise of the Allies and Don Calò himself.

Pericle Terrasini was up on the seat, driving the mule, while his three friends sat in the cart, laughing and joking, imitating the Germans' faces when they discovered the prank. It was Pericle who first spotted Jano Vassallo and his Black Shirts stationed on the road leading back to town.

“There's Jano!” he called out, instinctively pulling in the reins so that the mule came to a stop.

“Christ!” Nicola Cosentino swore. “What are you doing? Go on, keep going.”

Pericle slackened the reins, and the mule started walking again.

“Let me do the talking,” Nicola whispered, climbing onto the seat next to Pericle. They drove up to the group of combat leaguers. The whole gang was there, Nicola thought: Ginetto, Cosimo, Prospero, Quinto, and even Nunzio.

“Hey there!” Nicola raised his hand in greeting.

“Nice night for a drive,” Jano said sarcastically, taking hold of the mule's bit; the animal stopped patiently.

“We had a party for my sister Assuntina,” Nicola replied.

“And those are your party clothes?” Jano laughed, shaking his head.

“A simple gathering; she got engaged to Toni.”

“Who, Toni the
babbalucco
? That idiot?” He looked around for his men's approval; up till then they'd remained pokerfaced, not saying a word. A few smirked.

“No, Toni the mule driver,” Nicola answered seriously. He took the reins from Pericle and cracked the whip so the mule would start walking again. “He loaned us his cart to get home.”

But Jano stopped the animal that was about to set off again, holding the bit tightly. “Where do you think you're going, Nicola Cosentino?”

“I told you, home.”

“Wanna bet you'll end up in jail tonight?” Jano threatened him.

“Why? What did I do? What are you accusing me of, driving a mule without a license?”

He managed to hold his own against the Black Shirt, but Jano was tired of playing cat and mouse. “I've been keeping an eye on the four of you for some time. And tonight I finally caught you with your hands in the cookie jar. Are you dealing in the black market? Or worse yet, are you playing along with the infiltrators? Don't you know there's the firing squad for insurgents and saboteurs?”

No one answered.

“Well? Nothing to say?” He handed the mule's bridle to Ginetto.

He walked around the cart and leaned his fists on the wagon bed, which had no rear panel. First he stared at Turi Toscano, who met his gaze for a while. Then he turned to the boy sitting on the cart bed, his head lowered.

“Pepè, what are you doing with these people?” Jano asked him.

Instead of looking up, the boy's head sank even lower between his knees.

“Do you want to give your grandfather a stroke?” Jano persisted. But the boy didn't answer.

“Leave him alone. Take it out on us if you have to,” Turi Toscano spoke up.

“I'm not talking to you, Turi,” Jano said and turned back to the boy. “So, Pepè, are you going to tell me what you were doing tonight with your friends?”

After still more silence, Jano walked around the cart, came up behind the boy, and whispered in his ear: “You're young, but maybe somebody explained to you how the ‘box' works. In any case, I'll tell you myself: it's an instrument that loosens the tongues of even the most hardened bastards.”

The boy covered his ears and was about to burst into tears. Then he turned around and shouted at him, “We didn't do anything! Nothing! It was only a prank, just for laughs!”

“That's enough, Jano, stop hounding him,” Nicola Cosentino spoke up. “I'll tell you what we did: we signed an insurance policy for when the Americans come. Your days are numbered, people like you. You lost, Jano, face it. You and your friends have no future anymore. Fascism is finished!”

“Who filled your head with such grand ideas?” Jano shot back, but his tone was no longer sarcastic.

“Everybody in Sicily knows that in a few weeks the Americans will come to liberate us. Those who collaborated with them will be rewarded. Those like you who continue to fight for the Duce and a king who betrayed us will get what they deserve,” Nicola Cosentino said.

“Who's saying these things?” Jano asked seriously.

Nicola replied just as seriously, “You know who Don Calò is, don't you?”

Jano considered for a few seconds.

“Let's make a pact, then,” he proposed. “I'll close my eyes and ears to what you did tonight. And you'll put in a good word for us when your American friends arrive.” He walked away from the cart and with a nod ordered his cronies to step back. His gang of bullies looked at him in surprise, not understanding the reason for his change of heart. Ginetto thought it was a ploy to catch their quarry unawares once they reached their destination; Nicola and the others thought so too. It wasn't Jano's style to let his prey go once he sank his teeth into them.