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CHAPTER TWO
Let us go back to the point of beginning
This is one of the usually quiet afternoons. Even the telephone is respecting my privacy. I only hear the rumbling of traffic along Madison Avenue, settled down to a monotonous cadence. The anti-noise campaign of Mayor LaGuardia is bearing results and the stream of vehicles flows up and down, without blasts or shrieks.
The sun is pouring through the broad windows.
All around me are tangible reminders of a lifetime of work, aspirations and hard earned realizations.
High up, on the wall facing my desk, is a panoramic view of my place of birth, Castelmezzano.
Castelmezzano, meaning “castle in the middle,” derived its name from the fact that the ducal castle of my town was situated between the castles of two nearby towns. It is in the province of Basilicata, known in the Roman days as Lucania, from the Latin word “lucus,” woods, the region being then famous for its dense forests which abounded in wild boars and wolves, their species still surviving in unapproachable recesses.
In the year 65 B.C. Lucania gave birth to Horace (Quintus Horatius Flaccus) who, after Virgil, was considered the greatest poet of Roman days. He was held in great esteem by Emperor Augustus and in respectful awe by the social elite, whose might and fickleness he frequently whipped with his fine irony (Satirae).
Even at the pinnacle of fame, Horace never forgot the humble adolescence and in his Odes he fondly described the woods, hills and valleys of his birthplace Venusia (Venosa), located southeast of mine.
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Through the centuries of ever-growing population and the necessity of intensive cultivation of the land, the virgin forests gradually disappeared, the pastures were turned into wheat fields and poverty inexorably followed. The lack of vegetation and moisture caused long periods of drought, often followed by torrential rains and landslides, one of which I remember having engulfed a whole town near mine, at the bottom of a mountain.
Traveling through my province, one is impressed by the rows upon rows of stone retaining walls, built and mended with endless labor, in order to hold whatever earth there is left, from which to scrape a lean existence. What a hardy fibre our people possess! How indomitable is their will to survive! And they are kind, uncomplaining, God trusting.
But Carlo Levi, long accepted as one of ours, perceived none of those virtues in my people. By a dog-nose approach he only saw the grim face of our land in a lucrative publicity stunt: “Christ Stopped at Eboli” (at the norther boundary of my province), even parroting a preceding popular book by an Italian writer: “Christ in Concrete.”
Castelmezzano is a picturesque, medieval, rugged little town, perched on a crest of the Apennines, 3,000 feet above sea level and about 90 air miles southeast of Naples. High mountains with stunted vegetation and giant rocky formations of bizarre shapes rise all around the town which consists of one to three story houses, huddled together like a frightened herd.
The railroad station, serving three different towns and carrying the three names of Campomaggiore – Castelmezzano – Pietrapertosa, is in a valley four or five miles distant.
From the station there is a road for mule drawn carts. This road, kept in bad repair since its construction in 1880, winds up in hairpin turns along precipitous cliffs that give the vertigo to newcomers. There is a short-cut, by a steep path, dangerously muddy in wet weather.
Coming from the R.R. station by either route, you reach a level stretch, at the top, and enter a tunnel about 500 feet long, crudely cut through the monolithic side of a mountain.
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(photo)
CASTELMEZZANO
Partial view of its dramatic setting
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(photo)
Tunnel, at far end, and barrier of monoliths, skirted by sinuous road entering town. At right, corner close-up of our house.
As you come out of the tunnel, suddenly the town of Castelmezzano spreads before your eyes like a huge amphitheater. You are in the arena which at one side sinks abruptly into a deep ravine.
On the westerly end of the town, our house stands forward like a vanguard, three stories high, with foundations clawing on a rocky ledge. A long balcony, made of a simple iron railing and a cantilevered stone platform, cranes out daringly from the second floor.
On that balcony my mother and some of the youngsters stood sentinels for hours, with their eyes focused on the runnel, awaiting my first homecoming from an out of town school. The waiving of handkerchiefs, the loud exclamations of welcome, the slow climbing, the final arrival among cheers and tears, the outburst of love and pride, as for a returning hero. I was then ten years old. It went on, year after year, but with the passing of time those emotional demonstration became more restrained.
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(photo)
Our house at left forefront. Church opposite. Square at right. On the hilltop is the “casino” of uncle John Campagna.
Our house is two blocks from the main entrance to the town. On the left is the church, a plain structure set back of a spacious raised platform, under which is the early days the dead were buried. The bones could still be seen through slots in the wall. Facing our home is the square which on Sundays and holidays is the public forum for discussions of weather and crops. All along the square is a continuous stone bench and parapet wall from where you have a breathtaking view of the town.
Entered at street level, the first room of our house is a large kitchen, with open fireplace and flagstone floor. From there you go to four bedrooms on the same level, with brick and tile pavement. There is a basement and sub-basement, overlooking the rocky slope. The floor above our house was owned by others but after many years of waiting, I succeeded in buying it and by extensive alterations made it an integral structure.
Let us finish the sketchy description of Castelmezzano.
The tallest of the rock chain is Mount Gervasio, forming an almost perfect pyramid, at the bottom of which are the shattered remnants of…
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…the old castle. Nimble feet can ascend its vertical slope by means of worn out steps, carved into the rock centuries ago. At the summit is a platform five or six feet in diameter. This was a look-out point, or crow’s nest, where sentinels were in constant alert during periods of threatened invasions. It is said that draw-bridges linked the various peaks.
The town made its start in the eleventh century with a few huts of shepherds seeking protection from marauders and north winds.
In feudal times, a vassalage was established by a Duke DeLerma who built the aforementioned castle. There is a legend that, among many despotic rules, the duke enjoyed the right to sleep with a new bride the first night, legally sanctioned as “jus primae noctae.” One of the dukes who exercised the fiendish privilege was found beheaded on the morning following the nuptial festivities and never again was the horrid practice attempted. It was perhaps one of the first flashes of rebellion in that unknown little corner of Europe and one of the many sporadic signals toward the re-emancipation of the western man, who had fallen under a cruel state of serfdom, after the light of the Roman Empire went out. The great fight is going on and will continue until every man will be really master of his own soul. This bloody war is part of it.
After many searches, I found the coat of arms of Castelmezzano, engraved in an old stone at the very summit of our church steeple – as if to hide it from profane eye (profanum vulgus).
It is represented by a bare-back horse ridden by two knights, one holding a small triangular flag on a staff and the other a long spear. Did that signify unity of action or did it mean that only one horse could be spared for every two knights?
The town crept slowly through the ages, one little house being added to another, at long intervals, closely hugging the concave mountainside. The houses are all of substantial stone walls, with roofs of flagstone at first and later of locally handmade tile. The newer houses, built within the last century, are stuccoed.
In most of the two and three story houses, each floor is occupied by a separate owner who has individual access at street level, or by means of outside stone staircases. There are laws controlling and regulating every contingency of such co-ownership.
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The land of my town, as of all old towns, is subdivided in thousands of small parcels. It is not extraordinary for a modest farmer to own twenty or more pieces of property. This harmful frittering of the land is due to the fact that each child inherits part of the holdings of his parent, if agreement cannot be reached on a more practical basis. They seldom sell or exchange their real estate; to mortgage it is a disgrace equivalent to bankruptcy.
The population, of about 2,000 inhabitants, consists mainly of small land owners, peasants and shepherds. In my time there were two blacksmiths who shoed quadrupeds and forged all kinds of rustic hardware; a couple of shoemakers who took care of the heavy footwear; a tailor or two who supplied the simple requirements of sturdy clothes; two barbers, one of whom was licensed to pull teeth and apply leches to those suffering from too much blood, which was the diagnosis for high blood pressure. The building trades were represented by two carpenters and a few masons. The masons quarried their own stone, kilned their own lime, rendered architectural services and performed practically all the work, except carpentry and painting. Plumbing or heating installations were not required. The carpenters attended to the cutting of the trees, sawing of the lumber and following the entire process down to the finished product, from cradles to coffins.
There were two or three general stores, where everything was sold more or less on the barter system. Wine taverns were not scarce.
All tradesmen and storekeepers did some farming to make ends meet.
The upper social level was composed of a doctor, a druggist, three priests, a male and a female teacher, the mayor, the town clerk and a few relatively well-to-do.
There was hardly any class distinction, except for the very poor who also managed to live, with the help of the community. The standards of living were in general at a minimum. Frugality and hard work were old traits of our people.
NEXT: Chapter 3
