Chapter 3

FATHER PENSOVECCHIO could not remember when so many people had come to the Church of Sant’ Angelo. Perhaps he had not been without guile when he had mentioned to ten or twelve people, quite casually, that the American Major would be in Church in the morning, and that he himself had something to say about the Americans. What priest does not like to have many listeners? What priest is not proud of the jingle of many coins in the box, coins for the Mother Church?

Father Pensovecchio, in the wildest hopes of his casual remarks, had not expected a crowd to equal this. The priest knew that he would repent later of his pleasure in drawing so many people away from the twelve other churches of the town, but for the moment he let his pleasure have rein. He stood in the front and nodded to the ones he had not seen in his church for years. There was Margherita the wife of Craxi, from the Church of San Sebastiano. There was old Bellanca the Notary, from the Church of the Orphanage. There was Afronti the loud-voiced cartman and Basile the fat cartman, both from the Church of the Benedettini. There were people standing up in the side aisles. There was even the lazy Fatta, who had not gone to any church since the baptism of his last baby in 1935, leaning against one of the pillars.

It was a pleasure, certainly it was a pleasure, to have so many come to the Church of Sant’ Angelo.

But now Father Pensovecchio had a thought which made him very uneasy. What if the Mister Major should not come? Think of the shame. Think of how the other priests would laugh. Think how this vanity, this large crowd, would complain. Think of how his own faithful would flock on later Sundays to the other churches. Think of preaching to empty pews.

It was already five minutes past seven. The senior acolyte had already whispered in his ear that it was time to begin the mass. And the Mister Major had not come.

The Mister Major, at that moment, was sitting in his office having a breakfast of fruit and discussing with Borth and with the usher Zito, who never went to church, the matter of the bell. Major Joppolo sat with his feet on the huge desk eating fruit, Borth sat on the end of the desk also eating, and the little Zito stood at attention in front of it, not eating but wishing he were.

Borth said: “As usual, Major, you’re letting your heart run your head. Forget the bell and clean up the alleyway. This is too sentimental, this bell business.”

The Major said to Zito in Italian: “Zito, exactly when was the bell taken away?”

Zito said promptly, without having to think it over: “June the fourteenth. It was the day when Mayor Nasta fined me three thousand lira for leaving my Atlas open at the page of North America. I used to read my Atlas in dull hours outside the door there, and that day I left it open at North America. Like everyone else, Mayor Nasta knew the Americans were coming here. It made him nervous. He thought I was mocking him. He fined me six months’ pay.”

The Major said: “June fourteenth, almost exactly a month.”

Zito said: “It took them two days to take the bell down. They used six sets of block and tackle. Then it took another day to crate it. They started taking it down on the eleventh and finally carted it away on the fourteenth.”

The Major said: “The fourteenth,” but he was thinking. He was thinking so hard that he had forgotten all about going to church.

In the Church of Sant’ Angelo, meanwhile, Father Pensovecchio was growing frantic. Most of the heads in his crowd, his lovely crowd, kept turning toward the door instead of facing the silver crucifix which survived the fire of 1553.

He could see that he was about to lose their attention altogether. They would all get up and go out in the streets looking for the Mister Major in a few minutes. There was nothing to do but begin.

It was most irregular, but Father Pensovecchio knew that much was at stake for his Church, so he did not begin with the beginning of the mass, but instead began to recite the war litany, hoping in this way to kill time until the Major appeared.

His voice began to drone: “Regina pads ora pro nobis...”

In his office Major Joppolo was saying his thoughts out loud - in Italian, because he wanted to test them out on Zito: “We could get another. But we could not just get any bell. It would have to be a bell with meaning. Zito, what would you think if we got you a Liberty Bell?”

Zito said: “What is this Liberty Bell?”

Major Joppolo said: “It is the bell the Americans rang when they declared themselves free from the English.” Zito said: “The idea is good. But would America be willing to part with this bell for Adano?”

Major Joppolo said: “We would have to get a replica, Zito. “

Zito said: “Describe this bell.”

Major Joppolo said: “Well, it hangs in a tower in Philadelphia, I think. It is of bronze, I think. It has a large crack near the bottom from its age. You can see it on postage stamps, and many companies use it for their trade mark.”

Zito said: “How is the tone?”

The Major said: “That would depend on the replica, Zito. We could get one with good tone, I think.”

Zito said: “I do not like that about the crack. A bell should not crack just because it is old. Our bell was seven hundred years old, but it had no crack. I doubt if America is that old, to say nothing of your bell.”

Major Joppolo said: “Perhaps it cracked because we rang it so hard to announce our liberty.”

Zito said: “I do not think the people of Adano want any liberty that has a crack in it. No, they would not like that business of the crack. Maybe you could get us a Liberty Bell without a crack.”

The Major said: “But without a crack it wouldn’t be a Liberty Bell. That is the way the real Liberty Bell is, Zito

Zito said: “Then Adano will not want your Liberty Bell. Adano would not like to have a crack, I am sure.” Major Joppolo said: “Then that’s out.” And he thought some more.

In this time Father Pensovecchio finished the war litany and looked nervously at the door, but the Mister Major still did not come. He beckoned to the senior acolyte and whispered in his ear. “Send out the little Ludovico and tell him to look for the American Major and bring him here. Do this for Sant’ Angelo and tell him to hurry.”

The Priest then began the supplication: “Propitius esto, parce nobis, Domine. Propitius esto, exaudi nos, Domine.” Father Pensovecchio mentioned the sins, nervously watching the door, and the people chanted the responses, turning their heads between responses.

“Ab ira tua,” said the priest.

“Libera nos, Domine,” said the people.

“A subitanea et improvisa morte,” said the priest, fearing the non-appearance of Major Joppolo much more than sudden and unexpected death.

“Libera nos, Domine,” said the people, twisting and turning.

“A spiritu fornicationis,” said the priest, not even thinking of the Monsignor, as he usually did at this point.

“Libera nos, Domine,” said the people, peeking at the door.

The senior acolyte drew the small acolyte named Ludovico aside and took him out into the vestry and told him to do what the priest had said. Little Ludovico, not having been outside the Church at seventeen minutes past seven on a Sunday morning for most of the years he could remember, rushed out into the sunlight without thinking to ask where the American Major would be found, or, for that matter, who the American Major was, and why there was an American Major in the town, and whether there was any connection between the loud bangs one had heard for several days and the presence of the American Major.

So little Ludovico sat down on the steps of the Church of Sant’ Angelo in the sun and wondered about these things.

In his office Major Joppolo said: “They took the bell away on the fourteenth of June. That is a month less two days. That is not so much time. Considering how things are done in our Army, perhaps not much has been done with the bell. Where was it sent, Zito?”

Zito said: “To the provincial government at the town of Vicinamare.”

Major Joppolo said: “Perhaps it got no farther. Perhaps the bell is still sitting in its crate in Vicinamare.” Zito grew exicted: “Do you think that is possible?” he asked.

The Major said: “It is possible. We must find out”

And he took a piece of foolscap from his brief case and began a letter:

“To: Lt. Col. R. N. Sartorius, C.A.O., Vicinamare, Prov. of Vicinamare.

“FROM: Major V. Joppolo, C.A.O., Adano, Prov. of Vicinamare.

“RE: Bell belonging to town of Adano.

“Undersigned would very much appreciate your initiating investigation of records of provincial government of Vicinamare to see if you can trace...”

The service in the Church of Sant’ Angelo was taking a most unusual course. Having completed the supplication, Father Pensovecchio started reciting the Litany of Saint Joseph. It was the longest litany he could think of offhand, and he repeated the words without any sense of their meaning.

“Joseph, most valiant, Joseph, most obedient, Joseph, most faithful, mirror of patience, lover of poverty, model of workmen, ornament of the domestic life, guardian of virgins, safeguard of families...”

Suddenly Father Pensovecchio broke off. He had had an idea. He beckoned again to the senior acolyte and whispered in his ear: “Have old Guzzo ring the bell.”

“Now, father?”

“Do as I say. Hurry.”

And then the priest resumed in his hollow voice, “...consolation of the poor, hope of the sick, patron of the dying, terror of the demons.”

And the people responded: “Pray for us.”

The priest said: “Protector of the Holy Church.” The people were just in the middle of responding: “Pray for us,” when they heard a stroke of the bell over their heads. Worship had to stop while the bell rang, for its vibrations shook the whole church.

In his office Major Joppolo blotted the letter and folded it.

Borth said: “What time is it?”

The Major looked at his wrist watch. “Seven twentysix,” he said.

Borth said in Italian: “Zito, if you are such an expert on bells, what is that one ringing for at seven twenty-six in the morning, and all alone?”

Zito said: “It is strange. That is a church bell. From the tone I would say it was the bell of Sant’ Angelo.” “Sant’ Angelo!” The Major jumped up. “My God,” he said, “I promised the priest I would come, I got thinking about the old bell. Zito, show me the way. Run, Zito, this is terrible.”

Zito darted out of the door, and the Major ran after him.

Three or four idlers, sitting in the morning sun, thought it was undignified of the new American Major to chase little Zito through the streets. If he wanted to punish Zito, why did he not send some of his military police after him? It did not suit his office to chase Zito himself, especially since it was unlikely that he would catch him.

The acolyte Ludovico, sitting on the steps of the Church, looked up in amazement at the little Italian being chased by the American officer. He wondered why the American was chasing the Italian. The pair had run right past Ludovico up the steps of the Church before it occurred to him that perhaps this was the American Major. He got up quickly and ran up the steps after the two of them, but he was too late; they were already inside the door.

The entire congregation stood up. The lazy Fatta even stopped leaning against the pillar. There was a considerable amount of murmuring, and as the Major walked up the aisle, puffing and wiping the sweat from his face, many people whispered: “Kiss your hand, kiss your hand.”

In spite of the fact that he never went to church, Zito was impressed by the huge crowd and decided to stay. He followed the Major forward.

Father Pensovecchio, whose face was also covered with perspiration, as if he too had run a great distance, smiled and turned from ashen white back to his normal pink.

As soon as he saw a pew that was not too crowded, Major Joppolo genuflected and slid into it. Zito imitated him and squeezed into the same pew, which was too crowded then.

The congregation seated itself. Father Pensovecchio cleared his throat. His confidence, which had very nearly left him, was now very much in evidence. He had his crowd and he had his Major.

The priest stepped forward, outside the communion rail. “I have a word to say to all of you on this occasion,” he said.

Then he paused, waiting for quiet. The Church fell into absolute silence, except for the hard breathing of Major Joppolo and Zito.

“My children,” said Father Pensovecchio, “everything that is done in this world is done by God. God gave us wheat, and God gave us the sun. God also sent us these liberators after all our prayers. Our prayers are now answered, and the men we feared are now in the hills, which God in his infinite forgiveness gave them to hide in.”

ajor Joppolo couldn’t help noticing two heads in the pew right in front of him. One was the head of a man, and it was bald. The other was the head of a woman, and it was blonde.

“But as you all know,” Father Pensovecchio said, “no matter who you have as the authorities, you must obey the law. If a child does something wrong, he is punished by his father. If you do something wrong, you’ll be punished by your new governors. When you go out from mass, read the proclamations which your new governors have posted, and spread the word that all must obey them exactly as they are written.”

By tilting his head a very little bit, Major Joppolo was able to find out that the bald head belonged to his interpreter, Giuseppe. He was not able, by tilting, to see the face of the blonde head, but he could see that the hair was arranged fastidiously, with no loose strands.

“If you remember,” said the priest, “we were told that Americans attacked priests and attacked and killed women, and were all Protestants. But right here now is an American of Italian descent who is attending mass, and is just as reverent as you are toward the Church of Sant’ Angelo. He is a very busy man. He is so busy that he had to run all the way to church, and even then was somewhat late. But we are very glad to have him here.” Father Pensovecchio spoke with feeling. “We are glad that he is one of us. Because of this man, I believe that the Americans are my friends. You must believe the same thing, my children.”

Major Joppolo noticed that the skin of the neck below the blonde hair, though clean, was quite dark, and he wondered whether the hair was naturally blonde. He wondered about this off and on during the mass which followed.

After mass he left quickly, to avoid the embarrassment he knew would result from mingling too much with the crowd. He took time only to tell Giuseppe that he had a little interpreting for him to do that afternoon, and to look into the face of the blonde.