Storymania - Buon Natale by Leonardo V

Buon Natale
Leonardo V

Not a day can pass without my thoughts going out to a dear friend, a kind man of modest means who had suddenly appeared before us one autumn afternoon long ago, and soon was to evolve into the father figure desperately missing from our lives. He became our mentor, the one who kept us on the straight and narrow. His was the voice of reason in times when our world seemed turned upside down, ready to shake my brother and I along with all the other orphans out of our precarious existence at the children’s shelter, where we lived for many years. From my earliest memories, the children’s shelter is all I remembered as my home.

He wandered into our lives one day and never left. We called him Berto, though his full name was Roberto. We never thought of calling him ‘Rob’ or ‘Bob’. Not with his heavy accent and the way he would roll his R’s, and sometimes mixed up his words. He was Berto, Santa and the Easter bunny all in one. Mostly though, he was the pillar of strength that allowed us to grow in a kind-hearted environment, which many children never get to experience at all.

I’ll never forget the first time I saw Berto, at a Halloween party of all places, which he somehow convinced our caretaker Miss Burnett would be fun for “the keeds”. Mind you, we were country kids, hicks, so the party that he threw for us was like something from another planet.

He showed up dressed as a devil. Not a mean or scary one, but a devil with floppy horns, a stubby, pointed tail, and funny demeanor, and had us doubled up laughing in no time. He made his entrance dancing to crazy music we’d never heard before, blasting away on the victrola. “Che la Luna,” belted out by a husky-throated singer. I can still hear the pulsing clarinets, and visualize everyone dancing around him, clapping, stomping, Miss Burnett too.

Then, we played a game. To this day I’m not quite sure what premise we were supposed to follow, but instead of breaking a piñata-type contraption that had been setup, we all wound up chasing Signore Diavolo around the room, poking him in the butt with miniature wooden pitchforks. He made the funniest faces we’d ever seen. Everyone howled, and that was certainly a first. I’m sure all those kids, like me, remember that Halloween to this day. That was the first time many of us had ever laughed with abandon.

He remained with us after that. He became our groundskeeper, repairman, cobbler and occasional cook. He taught us to speak Italian, French and Spanish, and how to mend shoes, and kick and head a soccer ball. He didn’t force us to do any of this. We wanted to learn, but mostly we wanted to hang around Berto. We grew to think of him as our Dad, though we didn’t call him that.

Of course, we were still children, and fought like most kids do, growing up under one roof. Saying mean things was part of the routine. But with unwavering patience, Berto gradually convinced us of the error of our ways. Being kind to others turned out to be the most important thing he taught us. He’d always say that if everyone were kinder to his fellow man, the world would be a much better place. I’ve never known truer words.

Always soft-spoken and even keeled, I look back and am amazed that he never yelled at us, considering how we swarmed him all the time.

Even the girls liked him. They were mostly afraid of grownups, men in particular, but took to Berto immediately like the rest of us.

The first Thanksgiving was quiet compared to Halloween. But that was because it was the first time any of us ever had eaten lasagna, and we reveled in the taste of the day.

As Miss Burnett couldn’t afford to pay Berto besides room and board, he’d taken a job in the local scrapyard, dismantling warplanes and trucks and made decent money. But, it was physically demanding work, and often he’d come home exhausted. Still, he’d always find the time for a word of encouragement when one or more of us were feeling down about something. He always knew the right thing to say, a kind and thoughtful gesture, a way to make us smile with that marvelously expressive peasant face of his.

And then, a few short weeks later, it was Christmas. A few days before the eve, Berto took us all on a hike into the forest to pick our own tree, just as it began to snow. We were so excited, as none of us had ever done anything like that. There were so many spruce trees to pick from. We all finally agreed upon one that resembled a Currier and Ives print. Berto chopped it down with his ax, then half-carried, half-dragged the beauty back home.

And on the eve, Berto told all of us about “Saint-a Nick.” After his story, we anxiously got into our pajamas for bed. Before we fell asleep, we heard sleigh bells outside. We couldn’t see anything through the window, so we sneaked a peek downstairs, and don’t you know, Santa was there! Unloading presents under our tree.

“Buon Natale..ah..a Merry-a Christmas to all.”

I know better now, obviously, but on that day I really thought it was Santa, ah Saint-a Nick, thick Italian accent and all. Except for a few of the older kids, who were good sports and played along, so did the rest of the children.

But the deal was we had to wait till morning to open gifts. The first kid awake made sure to wake the next, and we all raced downstairs in a row. There were presents for everyone.

I got a nice knit sweater, a baseball bat and glove, and a sled, same as my brother. We all received presents that we could only dream about before. I’m sure you know whom the real benefactor was.

And then, the clincher. Miss Burnett had us bundle and go outside. There, Berto had built a crèche, complete with nativity figures and live, kindred animals. We had never before seen a burro. Berto let us pet him, and told us his name was Luigi.

He then took us to the backyard. Wouldn’t you know, there were sleigh marks and hoof prints dotting the snow. Broken carrots that had been used as reindeer snacks by Santa were strewn amongst the tracks.

Berto just kept shaking his head, saying “I told-a you kids…I told you.”

Later on that Christmas Day, he lit eight tiny candles in a small menorah near the tree, and watched the flames and dripping wax with misty eyes. He didn’t say why he did this, but we sensed his sadness and left him alone.

He would do this every Christmas, and we always gave him his space.

Even as a young child, I can remember looking into his eyes when we’d all be laughing and carrying on, and be able to see that beneath the smile was a heavy heart. I didn’t understand why, but was able to recognize it, just the same.

He never complained about anything, past or present, so it was only much later when I found out just how deep still waters run.

And so, our little world became a better place because of this man who hardly spoke our language, but was able to show us all what love and laughter means, and how life should feel when it’s good.

But little did we know the ordeal he’d been through just a few years before, and how his life had been forever changed in the madness of Nazi-occupied Europe.

~

Berto had been living a serene, if uneventful life in a sleepy village upon the lower hills of the Apennines. The village was indeed far removed from the bustle of the big cities; an agrarian community, with the same families and descendants having lived there for hundreds of years. Of course, everyone knew everyone else. Tolerance was the rule.

But then came talk of Fascisti, suddenly a force with Nazi teeth. There was word of a “Final Solution”, and of people, mostly Jews, taken from their homes and crammed like cattle, disappearing on trains to God only knew where.

In Italy, it was the exception rather than the rule, though when the S.S. was present it did happen, especially with a huge German military presence close at hand.

One day, as Berto and some friends fished for trout in a frigid mountain stream high above the village, the Gestapo made an abrupt appearance below, inquiring about ethnic presence. Through Nazi intimidation and guile some villagers opened their mouths, and one family was quickly rounded up.

Later, when Berto returned and found out what had happened, he was horrified that these people, close friends of his whom he’d known all his life were arrested for no good reason. Word was soon conveyed that anyone helping Jews would be arrested too, or worse.

Berto knew of two families in the upper hills who were in mortal danger. Unfortunately, they didn’t live close together, but he made the rounds. Upon warning the families to flee to the highlands, Berto promised them food and shelter. As far as he could tell, the warning them to get out and wait in the highlands.

After making escape arrangements for the families with two other young men he’d known to be utterly trustworthy, Berto approached the local guard and made a point of inquiring about the arrested family. This brought him under the scrutiny of an S.S. officer, with whom he worked a conversation about “arranging” for their release.

After an initial rebuke was followed by spirited banter, the officer spilled his greed, demanding five thousand Swiss francs or the equivalent in gold for the consideration.

Gold is gold. Always has and always will have an exchange rate.

And the Swiss franc. A straddling fence always had its benefits.

“Where would I get gold or Swiss francs here?” Berto threw his hands up in futility.

“That’s your problem. If you want your Jews that badly, you’ll find it.”

Berto knew of only one person who’d have access to that type of wealth. And he almost preferred to deal with the S.S. rather than Don Carlo, a local capo so powerful that even Mussolini couldn’t have him imprisoned like he had done with the lesser Don’s, the ones with less money.

But though Berto did not think of himself as a particularly brave man, he knew if he did nothing, he’d never again be able to face God in prayer.

So he expressed an interest in making immediate contact with the Don. It wasn’t easy for a peasant to see him. He expected the worse. Most of the stories he’d heard about the man portrayed him as a ruthless savage. The graveyard was filled with his enemies.

As he entered the Don’s palatial estate, armed men descended upon him. “Go no further!” they shouted. “Hands in the air.” Berto’s heart halted in that instant. His throat swelled shut, his chest emptied of air. Had he made a mistake coming here?

The Don’s guards searched him, their hands rough and probing. Closing his mind to the assault, he stood without flinching. Finally, shoved forward, Berto struggled against his rising fear as he walked and the Don’s villa came into view. He was immediately searched, again, and questioned by three men carrying lumparas, or shotguns.

Two of the men stayed outside with Berto, regarding him with slit-eye stares. He knew for a fact that both these men had killed before. Many times, actually.

Finally, Berto was ushered inside, into a magnificent marbled room topped with a contoured glass block ceiling. He had never before seen such opulence, taken aback by the splendor of vast wealth. The fur rugs, the leather couches longer than Berto’s tiny cottage, the Raphael and Mainardi hanging on the wall. Overhead fans gently waved huge palm fronds, growing amongst lemon trees bearing succulent fruit.

And in the midst of it all sat a very unpleasant-looking, jowly man, with the obligatory paunch and studied arrogance of one who rules by fear.

Twisting his cap in his hands, Berto was as nervously unsure of himself as possible.

“Yes, come in, you wish to speak with me?” “Yes, come in, you wish to speak with me?” the Don waved him in, like a king on his throne urging one of his subjects to stop groveling. Not lost on Berto was the Don’s amused suspicion. As the Don looked him over, Berto was fully aware that he-a skinny, young cobbler-must be either crazy or have guts to come here. Would the Don respect the latter in a man?

“Don Carlo, thank-you for seeing me. I know you are a busy man, and I’ll make this quick.” Berto waited for acknowledgment from the Don, who finally raised his bushy eyebrows, as if to say “And?”

Berto just blurted it out. “I need five thousand Swiss francs, or the equivalent in gold…I need it tonight.”

There was a long moment of silence before Don Carlo let loose with a grunting belly laugh. There was laughter behind Berto, too. The guards chuckled with their boss.

“That’s a lot of money. You’re a cobbler, right? I know you make a living, but how would you pay me back that kind of money?”

“I don’t know, Don Carlo. But you’re the only one I can turn to.”

Don Carlo was worldly enough to realize that Berto wasn’t asking for himself. Of course, there was much more to this desperate request. “What’s the money for, Roberto?”

Berto told him of the family that was arrested, and of the deal he made with the S.S. officer.

The twinkle in his eye gone, the Don slowly shook his head. “And you trust this Nazi bastard? You’re mad if you think you can deal with them.”

“How else can I get them released?”

“Maybe you can’t get them released.”

Berto felt his chance ebbing. The Don could have him thrown out at anytime, and that would be the end of it. “Don Carlo, are you a praying man?”

The Don seemed taken back. No one had ever dared to ask him a question like that before. He shrugged. “Yes, I pray, sometimes.” For a long moment he hesitated, trancelike, before shaking his head. “But God doesn’t listen to me.” There was more than a trace of disappointment in his voice.

“If you do this, maybe He will.”

The Don didn’t know what to say. He usually dealt with violent, greedy men, like he, who only cared about themselves. This display of nobility was without precedence in his life. Should he, Don Carlo, turn a new leaf, even if it was just this once? Maybe the fires of hell awaiting him wouldn’t have to burn so hot.

Slowly, he nodded. “Very well, Roberto. You’ll have the money tonight before you leave. But remember, you’re responsible.” Don Carlo held up a fat index finger to emphasize that this wasn’t a charity handout. The money had better be used for what it was intended. And then, reparations were expected.

“I understand. God bless you, Don Carlo.”

An hour later, Berto left the villa with the money. It was getting dark, and the exchange was to be made an hour after sundown, in a secluded area of the forest. He had to hurry.

As a precaution, his two closest friends, the ones who’d helped earlier with the other families, accompanied him through the dark trails, with lumparas slung over their shoulders. They stayed in the shadows of the trees as Berto edged into the clearing of a wide meadow.

It was dark, and he waited in tense silence.

Time didn’t seem to move, but then Berto saw a tall figure enter the clearing, heading towards him. It was the S.S. officer, alone. “Have you the money?”

“Where are they?” Berto didn’t like the feel of this. Something was very wrong. Icy fingers of treachery clasped the back of his neck.

“Have you the money?” the officer flicked on a flashlight, shining it in Berto’s eyes.

Berto couldn’t see, raising his hand to block the beam. “Where are the Tabbia’s?”

“Ah yes, the Jews. They…are in a safe place.”

“We had a deal. We were to exchange...here!”

“There’s been a change of plans.” The SS officer chuckled, stepping forward.

Berto felt his chest constrict, his mouth go dry. The Don was right. I was foolish to believe. “What change?”

A twig snapped behind Berto.

The Nazi jerked his flashlight in the direction of the sound. “You were to come alone,” he shouted.

“It must be a deer.” Berto surprised himself at the words escaping his mouth. He hadn’t had time to think … only feel … feel the fear seizing him like the cruel jaws of a steel trap into which he had just stepped.

“Did you really think you could buy their freedom?” the Nazi hissed, producing a luger from under his long, black coat. “Give me the money.”

Berto stalled. “Where’s the family?”

“They are no longer a concern of the great Italian people,” spoken as the most demeaning, sarcastic of insults. “They’re on a train riding north.”

“What do you mean?”

The officer snickered. “Give me the money. Maybe I’ll let you go then, yes?”

As Berto thought of Don Carlo and how right he’d been, the officer pointed the pistol at Berto’s face and cocked the hammer. “The money, now!”

Suddenly there was an explosion, but from the darkened trees, as a fireball of buckshot blasted the Nazi from the face of the earth.

Berto’s friends had stood by him in his time of need.

The men froze, listening to the night. Only a few birds peeped, awakened by the shot. The officer must have come alone, a true rogue with no intention of splitting the money with anyone.

“This body must not be found. Let them think that their officer jumped ship, or vanished into the wind,” Berto said. His friends nodded in agreement. They carried the corpse to deep woods, where there was a ravine with no visible bottom. Without fanfare, they pitched the Nazi into oblivion.

Berto raced with his friends through an ancient grove of twisted olive trees, to where the S.S. had established bivouac. Grimly they watched the encampment. Scores of soldiers milled about, trucks coming and going. They hoped for a sign of the Tabbia’s. There was none. Berto felt like dying.

But his friends reminded him that there were others who still needed their help. The night was young, so they made the best under the cover of darkness.

Locating the two families hiding out far above the village in the hills, they marched many miles, higher and higher into the mountains, on trails used more by goats than men. Pressing all night, carrying sleeping children, by sunrise they were at a mountaintop monastery, a castle stronghold inhabited by cloistered monks, whose sole existence was prayer and meditation.

Berto went in alone to speak with the Monsignore. It was not easy convincing the man to offer sanctuary to the families. But Berto turned on his charm, as well as the guilt, reminding the priest that as Jesus was a Jew, and priests were disciples of Christ, he was compelled to help those in need.

His logic was impeccable. Yet, it was the ample donation of five thousand Swiss francs made in Don Carlo’s honor that finally swayed the prelate.

As Berto said good-bye to the families, they embraced a final time. There were wet eyes all around. He had a strange feeling he wouldn’t see them again but kept this to himself. Instead, he spoke of when they’d all be together again, soon, when it was safe.

Berto and his friends departed. Hours later, when they arrived at the village, the word was out that the S.S was searching for a missing officer. The Tabbia’s were gone. No one knew where for sure, but the S.S. had taken them away.

Berto was sick, his heart heavy with sadness. He had failed his friends. He felt betrayed by his country, which would allow murderous monsters to just march in and force despicable acts upon innocent people.

It would only be a matter of time before the Gestapo would be sniffing around, wanting to question him and the others. Knowing well that he was an unconvincing liar, Berto decided not to wait.

Berto packed his few belongings. He found and said good-bye to his friends. He decided to make a final stop at the Tabbia’s. The tiny stucco house was dark and empty. Wanting to see the house once more, he risked lighting a candle. As he looked around the tiny rooms with their haunting familiarity, he noticed something shiny on the floor.

Bending down, he picked up the small brass object. It was a tiny menorah, one that he had helped them light many times. He stared at it by the glow of the candlelight, wiping tears from his eyes. After a few moments, he wrapped the menorah in a clean, white fazzoletto, then gently placed it in his pack. Blowing out the candle, he disappeared into the night, crossing the pass through the mountains.

That night was his seventeenth birthday.

Berto’s wanderings were seemingly aimless, but not without general direction and purpose.

He was able to mingle with the crowds of the bigger cities, through northwestern Italy, then southern France, where after stints as a dishwasher and laborer for money so he could eat, he’d move west, crossing borders at night in desolate, unmanned areas. Many a night found him under the stars, or in a building doorway.

Several months later he crossed the Pyrenees into Spain, remaining there for the duration of the war.

Years would pass. Finally saving enough money to obtain the papers that would allow him to travel legally, Berto chose to go to America, a place where everyone had a chance, so he heard. He considered returning to his village but remembered Don Carlo’s mountainous debt. If he’d thought he could work it off somehow, he would have returned.

But, five thousand Swiss francs. Men had been killed for a tiny fraction of that hefty sum.

He wasn’t a coward, but didn’t wish to die either.

So, Berto came to America. Still concerned about Don Carlo’s long reach, he avoided New York, slowly continuing his westward trek till he wandered into our little town one day during late October. He had charmed Miss Burnett at the local market, then asked her for a job at the orphanage. She hesitated, but realized that the house needed much repair. So she hired him, conditionally.

But after the wild Halloween party, and the house repairs made with little effort or expense, he stayed for good. His room and board was the best investment she’d ever made.

It wasn’t until many years later that we found out about our Berto’s past.

A private detective had tracked him at the request of the families that had been spared and survived the war in the monastery. They wanted to meet with him, to thank him for all that he’d done.

He almost didn’t go. Then he found out that not only had Don Carlo long ago forgiven his debt, but was known to brag about how his young friend Roberto, who had the biggest heart that he’d ever seen, had stood up to the Nazis, risking his life to do so to save others.

The Don had even become a benevolent man, mellowing with age, and some say with Berto’s fleeting influence, and though still dangerous if provoked had become more charitable, particularly with the peasant children of his valley. The local mortician was heard to complain that business had slowed, but such was the price of peace.

And so, the years have passed. We’ve all grown up now. Though going our separate ways, we’ve all become successful in life, with our own families, too.

Berto and Miss Burnett long ago had become a couple, and their three children are now grown with their own kids.

So with the greatest of anticipation, we traveled to the hills of the Apennines, for a reunion that was long overdue with our dearest friend.

We made it around Christmas time, because we knew that Berto would love to celebrate one more Yuletide in the beautiful land of his birth. We rented a villa, a modern structure that almost rivaled the splendor of Don Carlo’s, near Berto’s village.

And don’t you know, Berto led us all on a hike through the hills of his youth, in search of the perfect Christmas tree, where our children, and his grandchildren, swarmed around him, clamoring for his attention, the same as we had many years before.

On Christmas Eve, I saw him near the tree with its blinking lights, alone, lighting the menorah. After years of witnessing the ritual I felt compelled to find out why he did this. So I approached and asked him.

His eyes were sad. “I-a light this for the Tabbia’s. It’s a memory thing.”

I asked him more about the family. His eyes welled a bit.

“They were the nicest people. They-a helped me, took care of me after my parents had died and I was still young. Took care a-lots of others too, through some hard-a times.

“They were kind enough to celebrate Christmas every year, just-a so I’d have someone to celebrate with. Their holidays, too, there was always a seat for me at their table. I owed them, and wasn’t there for them when they needed me.” Tears ran down his cheeks now. “I let them down.”

I placed a hand on his shoulder.

“There were eight of them, including the two nonnas,” he continued, his voice cracking. “I loved the daughter, Nina, so much. She was-a…so beautiful...kind…gentle...I loved her with all my heart, and never got the chance to tell her how I truly felt…

“So, that’s-a why I light the menorah on Christmas, all eight candles at once. It helps me to remember my dear friends, and my first love.”

We watched the flames burn down in silence.

After a while, we heard children laughing as they entered the room. Wiping his wet eyes on his sleeve, Berto lit up brighter than the tree, beaming his inimitable smile to the approaching kids.

“Buon Natale, my children, Buon Natale!”

They swarmed their Papa Berto, hugging him as only children do when they love someone so much, as the magic known as Christmas weaved its alluring warmth through the enchantment of the Italian night.

* * * * *