The New Americans

Novel Excerpt

PROLOGUE

Petru: Sunday, March 13, 1910

Just having the priest here could cost them all their lives.

Petru Donatello knew it was a shameful thought as he and Juvanni solemnly lowered their little brother’s withered body, wrapped in a threadbare bed sheet, into the shallow pit that would be his grave—a grave that necessity had placed in the tiny parlor of their modest home.

But as shameful as the thought had been, it was also true.

Father Messina looked none too happy about the arrangements, himself. Beads of perspiration glowed like jewels in the candlelight on the old priest’s forehead. His dark eyes continually flicked from his Bible to Ciro’s lifeless shape, defined by its makeshift shroud. Also, and most telling, he’d tied a black kerchief around his lower face, covering his mouth and nose, so that the requiem mass he was reciting in hasty Latin sounded muffled, distant, and of too little consequence.

Standing beside him, their mother wept as Petru and Juvanni bent to ease her littlest son into the arms of the Earth. She did this almost soundlessly, with none of the wailing and keening that Petru remembered from his father’s funeral or any of the other such events that visited their villaggiu of Caltanissetta nearly as often as the new moon.

Mamma’s heart was breaking; Petru knew that. But she didn’t dare vocalize it. None of them did.

Someone might hear.

Meanwhile, holding Mamma’s hand, seven-year-old Angelu looked balefully on, sucking his thumb. With Ciro’s death, he was once again Carmela Donatello’s youngest child. As such, Mamma might now redirect all the doting affection on him that she’d heaped on little Ciro. Petru wondered if Angelu realized that.

“Misereatur vestri omnipotens Deus, et, dimissis peccatis vestris, perducat vos ad vitam aeternam,” Father Messina intoned, his voice a muffled whisper.

Petru spoke no Latin, but in his fourteen years he’d heard the phrase often enough to recognize it. Once, shortly after funeral six years ago and months before Ciro had even been born, he remembered asking the priest what it meant.

Father Messina had seemed positively delighted by the question. “Why, it means, ‘May Almighty God be merciful to thee and, forgiving thee thy sins, bring thee to life everlasting.’”

"Do the dead really live forever in Heaven?" the young Petru had asked.

"By the Grace of God, they do."

"But how do you get God to grace you, Patri?"

"By being his faithful servant on Earth," the priest had replied. "Tell me, Petru. Do you have a Bible?"

"No."

"Would you like one?"

Petru had considered. His younger brother Juvanni would have jumped at the offer. Juvanni never turned down anything free, regardless of whether or not he wanted it. But Petru wasn’t Juvanni. "I don’t know what I’d do with it, Patri."

"Why, you’d read it, miiu picciottu."

"I don’t read Latin."

"I have a copy printed in Sicilianu. It’s old and worn, a bit like me." The priest had chuckled. "But it can be read."

"Then, se. Grazie, Patri."

"You do know how to read, don’t you, Petru?"

"Some," Petru had replied.

The priest nodded sagely. "Then come by the church this week and I’ll give it to you. But only on the condition that you read it, cover to cover."

And Petru had, though doing so had taken years.

The Bible, small and black and brittle, was the only book he owned, and one of the few he’d ever seen. His father would never have approved of it. "God is for Sunday; the rest of the days are for work," was a common saying in their home, though not one that Petru’s mother approved of. So, with her husband gone and command of the household fallen to her, Mamma had been delighted with Father Messina’s gift, insisting that Petru read it aloud to them all by the hearth every night before bed.

Juvanni had been a bit jealous, but only a bit. Having the Bible and with it Mamma’s special attention wasn’t, to him, worth the effort of actually reading the thing.

Petru, however, had done exactly that. Basking in his mother’s pride and approval, he’d read the Holy Word from cover to cover, frequently stumbling over the unfamiliar words and concepts, until finally he’d finished the Book of Revelations, with its dark prophesies about the End Times.

Then, his part of the bargain fulfilled, he’d offered the Bible back to Father Messina, only to be refused. "It was a gift," the priest had admonished him, though not unkindly. "One doesn’t return a gift. Doing so dishonors the giver. Instead, one repays a gift, which you did simply by reading it. Believe me, I know all about your diligence. Your mother talks of little else."

"I wish she wouldn’t boast, Patri."

"Every mother boasts, Petru. The Blessed Virgin boasted of our Lord at the Feast of Cana by way of insisting that He turn the water to wine."

"But pride is a sin," Petru had insisted.

"Pride in oneself, not in one’s child. Mothers do not sin by boasting of their children. God smiles on such things. Keep the holy book. Read it again. It can still teach you. And, who knows? Perhaps by having it you’ll better hear the Call."

"Whose call, Patri?"

"Why God’s, . He may say one day to you, ‘Petru Donatello, I have need of you.’ And, if he does, you will have to decide whether or not to answer Him."

Then, with a wistful smile, the old man had sent Petru home.

But now, tonight, with poor Ciro’s body at the bottom of a hole, Father Messina wore no smile. That much was evident even with the kerchief covering half his face. Instead, the priest was simply doing his best not to breathe their air. Messina feared, as they all did, the consumption that had claimed the youngest Donatello. It was this same fear that the rest of the villaggiu would feel, should they learn how the child had died.

Petru knew the stories, never discussed openly but whispered behind closed doors. They told of families cursed with consumption and of terrified neighbors who, in an effort to prevent the spread of the disease, had banded together to quarantine the infected family, lock them in their home, and then burn that house to the ground.

Horrific, of course. Sinful, certainly.

But fear often made "good" people do terrible things.

Which was why, in the middle of the night, he, his mother, and his two remaining brothers had all gathered around poor Ciro’s deathbed and resolved to bury him here, beneath the hearth in their tiny parlor. Juvanni had agreed to do the digging, while Petru, at Mamma’s insistence, went to fetch Father Messina to conduct the funeral rite. She was trusting, Petru supposed, on his long-standing, good relationship with the priest.

Even so, all the way to the church, moving swiftly but silently through the dark and empty streets, Petru had fretted.

He liked Father Messina, respected him.

But Father Messina was as human as anyone.

As "good."

Fortunately, the old priest had accepted the news of Ciro’s passing with gentle sympathy and had come without hesitation, following Petru back to his family’s two story rowhouse. There, after viewing and blessing Ciro’s body, he’d consoled Carmela and begun the requiem. The mass was a long one, but the priest kept at it until the end.

So while he and Juvanni silently filled in Ciro’s sad little grave in the floor, Petru resolved not to judge Father Messina too harshly for sweating or wearing a kerchief. After all, the priest was here, wasn’t he?

But what would he say to others tomorrow?

Since Ciro had become ill, Mamma had kept the six-year-old inside, telling everyone he had a "fever." These occurred often enough, God knew, and for a time their neighbors—Signore Milo and Signore and Signura San Cono, among others—seemed content with that explanation. But fevers either passed, or they didn’t. And when they didn’t, which also happened often enough, especially with the very young, God usually took them quickly.

It was when illness lingered that the neighbors began asking questions.

Everyone was so afraid of consumption.

And poor Ciro had lingered.

So, in the final month, "good" people had started coming by, bringing food, offering prayers. They never actually entered the Donatellos’ house, but instead commiserated from the threshold, smiling warmly even as they looked for some telltale sign that might identify Ciro’s illness and doom his family. A bloody kerchief would have been enough; victims of consumption coughed up a lot of blood.

Fortunately, Carmela Donatello was nobody’s fool. The front door never opened unless she or one of her healthy sons removed all such signs. In this way, the "good" neighbors always departed uncertain, which was enough to keep the Donatellos safe—until the next visit.

And so it went for the final weeks of the little boy’s life.

Ciro had been brave to the end, staying quiet despite all his suffering. Petru had read the Bible to him, which he liked, especially the Old Testament tales of war and betrayal. "Too many letters in the second half," he once remarked in his reedy, wheezing voice. "No action!"

Petru had laughed.

Then, later, he’d cried.

Now, as he and Juvanni finished their shoveling and patted down the freshly turned earth, Petru looked around the small house that, as of tonight, had become a mausoleum of sorts.

A few feet away, his mother whispered, "It’s not right."

"What’s not right, Mamma?" Angelu asked her, speaking around his thumb.

"He should be in holy ground." Then she lowered her head, her thin shoulders shaking.

Father Messina, his mass complete, forgot for the moment his fear of contagion and wrapped a tender arm around her. "I said the blessing, Carmela. You watched me do it, didn't you?"

She nodded weakly.

"Then this is holy ground, wouldn’t you say?"

Carmela didn’t reply.

Petru gazed blankly down at the mound at his feet. Was it holy ground? Was it really as simple as sprinkling a few drops of water and speaking a few prayers to turn a patch of dirt into—something more?

In the Bible, the only mention of "holy ground" was when Moses first met God in Exodus, and God warned him "Do not come near; take your sandals off your feet, for the place on which you are standing is holy ground." But that was it. Nowhere else was the making of a patch of ground sacred ever discussed.

Perhaps Father Messina was simply being kind to a grieving mother. If so, it was an honorable gesture, though it made Petru worry. If this lump of earth in front of their hearth was only that, a lump of earth, did it mean poor Ciro’s soul wouldn’t be welcomed into Heaven?

Would God permit such a fate to befall an innocent child?

Petru didn’t like to think so.

"Thank you for coming, Patri," he said aloud to the priest.

Juvanni, wiping the dirt from his hands, nodded. "Se. Grazie."

Father Messina blessed each of them and then went on his way, refusing Petru’s offer to escort him back to his small rectory behind the church. Even so, Petru followed him out onto the quiet streets, and there, with the dark houses around them, he watched the priest remove the black kerchief from his face and wipe his brow with it. "This is a sad night."

"Se, Patri."

Then, when Petru didn’t immediately return to the house, Father Messina eyed him with consideration. "Why are you looking at me like that? Ah, capiscu. I know why and I don’t blame you." He scowled at the kerchief before pocketing it. "It was cowardly to wear it, but then I've never been a brave man. Scusa."

Petru nodded without speaking.

Father Messina smiled wryly. "You’ve always been older than your years, Petru. And now you’re canny enough to worry that I might tell someone what I know about your dear brother’s passing."

Petru didn’t reply.

The priest smiled grimly. "Trust me. I’m not so much a coward as that."

"I mean no disrespect," Petru said. "But I have to be sure. Ciro’s gone, but my mother, Juvanni, and Angelu are still here and, as the oldest, it’s my duty to protect them. Swear to me that you'll never speak of tonight to anyone, and I’ll believe you and we’ll stay. But if you can’t or won’t do that, then my family will be gone by morning. Just tell me which it is."

"And if I lie to you?"

Petru regarded the old man. "Why would you?"

"I wouldn’t, but I wanted to be sure you knew that. Are you still reading your Bible?"

Petru nodded.

"Bravu. Then put your faith in it and in God because, I swear to you, you have nothing to fear from me. I’ve already spent enough time in your house that, if his consumption has found me, then it’s likely too late. Damage done. Even the most craven coward would have nothing to gain by betraying you now."

That made sense, Petru supposed.

"Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to walk you home, Patri? It’s late."

"No," the priest replied, placing a wrinkled but deceptively strong hand on Petru’s shoulder. "Your place is here. Your mother needs you much more than I do tonight."