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CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
When I staggered out of Prof. Padula’s clinic, a thick fog seemed to enshroud me. The crowds on the street were like phantoms. Life had lost all sense of reality.
My father, only forty-seven and overflowing with energy, was to part away from us forever. For months we must see him agonize and we must fool him, as if death were a jest. All his plans, endeavors, urge to see his family established and his elder boy a successful lawyer, all his dreams and his very existence must inexorably vanish. Will I finish my studies? I don’t know and I don’t care. I am not concerned for myself, but what about my unfortunate mother, my three young brothers and two sisters, the last one only a baby four years old? I can see my mother imploring me to go on and I recall my father’s old plea to “take his place if anything happened to him.” His talk is not foolish any longer. He had a supernatural premonition.
Yes…I must go on and I shall not fail. That is my solemn pledge which, at the age of nineteen, sinks deeply in my heart.
I go back to the hotel determined to be a good liar. My father believes my report that with patience and care he would be well again. My mother, the once beautiful girl without a care in the world, is bent over a little rusty stove, preparing our midday meal, as my father is on a strict diet and cannot go to restaurants. She keeps stirring a pot, drops a dish and, after picking up the pieces, faces us with an affected smile. She knows I am lying but plays her part well, even trying to be jolly. In a few words I tell my mother the dolorous secret when we go out to buy the prescribed sedatives, which are only to dull the torments of the fatal disease. We resolve, with the help of God, to bravely man our little foundering ship.
On the following day, we started on our long and tense return trip home, in a blistering July heat.
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Dr. Paterno, our family doctor, to whom we gave the written reports received in Naples, was a very able man, sympathetic and one of our dearest friends to the last. He brought several volumes of pathology describing curable tumors, which my father kept reading and re-reading, convinced that the day of a favorable crisis was not far off, and thus resigned to suffer. Meanwhile, I began to take over the management of business and my father was happy to see me get a good grasp of it. In a little wooden trunk all papers were neatly kept in small packets, each with identifying title and it was easy for me to lay my hands on any information desired. I traveled around the different farms, where our live-stock was cared for in partnership and I established a closed cooperation with the farmers.
I made several efforts to obtain the release of our “tax books,” but each time I was politely turned down and was finally told that the case had to go to Court. I realized then the unscrupulous frame-up. Without telling my father, I was prepared for a long siege and received his consent to go to several fairs, where I sold some of the cattle and procured enough cash to navigate.
But, the worst was yet to come, sooner than expected. Notice was received that the “tax case” was on the calendar and my father was summoned to appear in Potenza on a certain day, in late September. By that time, my poor father was so emaciated and helpless that he couldn’t even sit in bed. Still, his spirit was undaunted. He asked us to make arrangements to take him to Potenza on a stretcher, if necessary. He would rather die in the courtroom than allow a bunch of crooks to take advantage of his illness. The emotional strain caused a grave setback. Through the good offices of my old friend, Vecchione, who was close to all the judges. I attempted to get a postponement, but no quarters were given. The stage was set.
We learned presently that my father was to be tried for violating the “tax collection laws” and our possessions were to be confiscated. One of our town councilmen was to buy at auction our farm adjoining his own and all the other spoils had been already allotted. This sounds like a procedure of middle ages, but it was for us a black outlook indeed.
We told our father that the trial had been put off until his recovery and he was appeased. Nonetheless, the case was called. It was before three judges, without a jury. All the doctors’ certificates were of no avail, they…
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…were rejected. An absentee-defendant could not even be represented by attorney. The law, however, was clear that only a runaway fro justice, not a dying man, could be sentenced by default. But this was not to be administration of justice, only a travesty of all written and human laws. In less than twenty minutes my father was found “guilty by default.”
Ironically the courtroom was the same one where a few years before I was playfully rehearsing fiction defenses and now I could do nothing in defense of my own father! For some reason, I felt pity for those contemptible creatures, in solemn arrayment, who were selling their souls to serve the devil. I thought of the cynical pharisees who sent Jesus to the cross, as an ordinary criminal, and I experienced a soothing sense of relief. I declined our lawyer’s advice to take an appeal, calmly deciding to stand or fall on that sentence. In a few tragic moments I had grown many years older.
I went downstairs to my old lodging place, had luncheon with my friends, the Vecchione family, and returned to Castelmezzano. This was a different return from former years; my mother was not expectantly waiting on the balcony; everything was still and depressing. But, somehow, the burden was light to bear. There was something in the inner depth of my soul telling me that the day of redemption would come, that my family was not doomed.
My sober confidence buoyed the dejected spirit of my poor mother and even the frail body of the innocent victim – unaware of the moral crucifixion which had taken place that very morning – seemed to give sign of new life. My father asked many questions, which I answered with cheerful lies and he smiled for the first time.
There was an angel hovering over our wrecked home – something intangible – like a promise or a hope. I was then not so familiar with religious doctrine, but in my mature years I saw the light from reading the psalmist’s declaration: “The earth is the Lord’s…He hath founded it upon the stormy seas and established it upon the floods.” I interpreted it to mean. God willed the earth to emerge from cosmic chaos, boiling seas and floods. Therefore our faith in His eternal, everpresent, benevolent power must not weaken or fail in the “stormy seas” of our adversities. But faith must be backed by our own maximum effort. Only guidance should be sought, not solution from above. For willful errors, greed and…
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…transgression of written or unwritten laws, no immunity is to be expected. Not a sanctimonious churchgoer, I base my deep belief on experiences that otherwise would be inexplicable.
We had a few days of relative peace. However, the injections of morphine, which I was now administering, became more and more frequent.
The shylock previously referred to, who had not been seen for some time, visited us, took a long look at my father and then calling my mother and me to another room, he coldly demanded payment of the money my father had borrowed. I felt like flapping that satanic face. But I saw my mother’s vacant eyes, as if looking into an abyss, and patiently stated that the indebtedness would be met, as soon as we were able to do it. When he requested a written endorsement from my mother, I asked him to please respect the sacredness of our sorrow and leave at once. He left groaning and side glancing like a whipped cur.
The end came in the small hours of an October morning. At dawn the church bells were announcing the death. I shall not recall all the torturing memories. My mother went into fainting spells, my brothers and sisters cried their hearts out, I was almost petrified.
By noon, we were in church for the funeral mass which was lengthy and distressing. From there we started on the slow procession through the town – a tribute seldom rendered – while the church bells rolled incessantly in long lugubrious waves until interment, a mile from the town. What a grueling ordeal!
The strict mourning lasted a full week, during which we were all confined home. Relatives, friends, rich and poor, from far and near, came in endless stream and sat around for hours, consoling and moaning. Every day close friends would alternate in bringing dinner and supper, which broke the monotony and cheered our dazed youngsters. We were all dressed in black, even our shirts were jet black. The most pathetic note was our four year old sister, a red-checked, brown-eyed, playful child, in her black dress and stockings.
The crucial week had finally passed and the first ray of light had emerged from the clouds surrounding our prostrate family. Several of those who had signed the request to remove my father as tax collector…
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…came to confess that they had joined in the petition, much against their wishes. They were now ready to do anything to repair the iniquity. Shortly after the period of mourning, I sent for some of the petitioners and secured their written statements, signed by witnesses, that they had no grievance against my father and that the group complaint was signed under pressure and misrepresentation, without full knowledge of its contents. Similar statement were received from practically all the signers.
With such overwhelming evidence, I went to Potenza and, again through my friend Vecchione, obtained an interview with one of the senior judges who still remembered the story of my Sunday oratorical pranks in the courthouse. He was cordial and fatherly, but remarked that the matter was closed, “res judicata,” that the time for appeal had expired and the reversal of the former plaintiffs was now of no value. I then respectfully pointed out that the sentence was pronounced by default, which was contrary to law and that the time for appeal had expired after my father’s death. On both points I had digested two authoritative volumes and drawn a written memorandum, which I submitted to the judge. He frowned, asked some questions and, smiling benevolently, suggested that I see one of the judge who had attended the trial. He gave me a note of introduction and, accompanied by my friend Vacchione, I called on the presiding judge of the trial, a gloomy, hard faced man in his fifties. His Honor was curt, impassive and concluded by saying that it was an act of insolence on my part to question a judgment which had been lawfully rendered and against which no appeal had been taken.
I insisted that the judgment was illegal, the accusations had been retracted and the time for appeal was interrupted by my father’s death. I cautiously laid on the table my memorandum, quoting the authorities from where it was compiled. The instinct of the scoundrel flared up. He threatened to have me arrested if I dared to repeat my remarks involving the honesty of reputable judges. I replied in low voice that one of my revered professors was Enrico Ferri and that I would ask his interpretation of the law, injecting the Hon. Ferri would probably take a personal interest in the matter, as I was one of his close pupils. That was like a bucket of water on a blazing fire. The heat was off and the righteous indignation subsided. The judge became amenable. He asked me to leave the memorandum and volunteered to talk to his two colleagues.
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On leaving, I said that my family had plenty of woes and all I wanted was a rescission of the judgement and the return of our tax records, in order that I may undertake the collection of arrears, sorely needed for our obligation and livelihood.
A few days later, Vecchione wired me that he had good news and I should come to see him at once. I was in Potenza early next morning. Vecchione had been authorized to remove the judgement from the files. On the same day, I obtained the release of all our “tax books and records.” It was a momentous day in my life for which I took no credit, believing that the power of the Infinite was at work and had dissolved all evil power.
In approximately a year’s time, I had collected a great deal of the tax arrears, sold most of our live-stock, met all obligations and accumulated a tidy sum, from which we set aside in Government Bonds a little dowry for my sister Maria. She was then eighteen, an alert, healthy, fine-looking girl. My sister had been doing her full share, relieving my mother of many responsibilities in the raising of our family and in the management of our two farms. Many a time I had to get up at three or four A.M. to go on business to other towns. Maria was up ahead of me and had my breakfast ready. I always think tenderly of her care and affection.
The mayor and the town clerk, flabbergasted by the turn of events, had exerted every effort to interfere with our tax collections and I decided that the time had come to have some fun. Among all their shady doings, my father and I had known for some time of one concrete piece of larceny…some unnecessary oil paintings had been ordered for the town hall and the cost was considerable. Shortly after, several expensive mirrors appeared in the town clerk’s house. By careful investigation, it was ascertained that the bill for the mirrors had been added to the paintings and remittance for the whole made form municipal funds. It was a peculate for which the penalty ran from five to ten years. I delivered a signed charge to the District Attorney and, to make sure that the matter wouldn’t be buried. I wrote a detailed account, published on the same day in a daily newspaper of our Province.
The accused received the first information from the paper, of which many copies were distributed in our town, and the indictment could not be parried. However, the trial came before the same three judges of my…
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…father’s case. Painting, mirrors, bill of sale, receipt of payment and all supporting proof were exhibited, with a large audience attending the trial. The crime couldn’t be more flagrant, but the verdict was “not guilty, for insufficient evidence” and, in pronouncing it, the presiding judge turn to the defendant and, with a point finger, said: “but…don’t you do it again.”
That “don’t you do it again” became a slogan, which even the children repeated in the streets and it was the theme of a local comedy. There was no more sniping. I could devote myself to complete the pending business matters and resume my studies.
After my father’s death, I had my University enrollment transferred from Rome to Naples. The third year of law school started officially in October 1904, but my first appearance at the University of Naples took place in January or February 1905. I remained in Naples four or five weeks, to get familiar with the University set-up and procure the necessary books and data on the subjects of the year.
During my absence, another adversity struck us. My baby sister, who was always the picture of health, contracted a violent illness, probably appendicitis, and died in a few days. I didn’t know it until later and the suddenness of the blow was as hard to bear as our recent tragedy. With a child, so sweet and playful, there was still sunshine in our obscure home and now that too was taken away from us. The loss of our little Carolina [Adele Carolina Campagna 1902-1905] afflicted me for a long time.
If you could cast away the pain,
The sorrows and the tears….
Next: Chapter 23
