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CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
After several months in my town, I went back to Naples, shortly before the end of the term. I sustained and passed examination on only three subjects out of the five, but received good rating. I spent the summer in Castelmezzano, mostly on business and partly in studying. I returned to Naples in the fall, determined to catch up with my heavy backlog and complete the law course at all costs. I boarded in a house on the Vomero, a hilltop where is the old convent of San Martino, commanding a sweeping view of the town and bay, with the smoky Vesuvius in the background. This section was reached by trolley or funicular, but I ordinarily preferred the exercise of walking, which took thirty minutes by a main street or twenty by narrow filthy alleys.
A boarder, in a room adjoining mine, was a tall German in his early thirties, an electrical engineer, who had come to study certain electric installations and learn Italian. I could hear the thud of his heavy step, up and down the room, and his loud, raucous reading of Italian, from six in the morning until late into the night. He sought my company to practice conversation and a few times we went out together, much to my discomfort, as he was so bulky, rigid and stiffly formal. Fortunately, after a couple of months, he went on his tour. I was amazed at the progress he had made in our language by sheer, mechanical application.
Shortly after, Kaiser Wilhelm II again appeared in my life. He was cruising for a short visit to Naples, where he was due quite early one morning. I had decided to witness the landing.
The day before, my landlady’s mother, eighty-four years old, came shuffling into my room and asked me if I was planning to see the Kaiser’s arrival. On my affirmative, she stared at me and started to cry, begging me not to leave the house. Neapolitans are superstitious people and I thought she was under the spell of a bad dream. The dear old lady had become fond of me, perhaps because I always greeted her warmly and…
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…shared with her some of the things my mother sent me, especially home made sausage which she relished, notwithstanding the fact that it was strongly spiced with red pepper. I questioned my octogenarian friend on the reason for her apprehension, but she was extremely reticent, although usually very chatty. After a long tussle and on my oath that I would never give the secret away, haltingly and wary, as if the walls could hear, she confided that “if I left the house I would be arrested.” Her mind was sound, but I looked at her with some skepticism. She understood my doubt and went on with her cautious story.
Detectives had several times inspected my room and scrutinized all my books and papers. If they found out that I had been informed of their calls, the boarding house license would be immediately taken away. The doorman (or rather janitor-watchman) of the building was a stool pigeon and reported all my movements to the police. Since living there, I had been continually shadowed. “I was on the list of anarchists.”
I couldn’t help laughing, but it was a damned serious threat to my liberty and I followed the old lady’s advice, remaining home until the Kaiser’s departure.
When the deck was clear, I called at the office of the Police Commissioner who looked at me, I thought, with more curiosity than circumspection. He asked me why I wore a black shirt and a black flap-bow tie. That kind of tic I knew was worn by so-called free-thinkers, but the black shirt was not known until years later, as a symbol of an entirely different group.
Anyhow, I explained that my black shirt and tie were a mark of respect for the memory of my deceased father. The Commissioner gasped slightly. He then pulled a thick file and, after turning several sheets, he questioned me on my relations with the administration authorities of my town and the money lender who had become politically affluent. I summarized the long story of persecution and frankly admitted my views and convictions which, I stated, were not the creed of any political organization, but the expression of a general longing for honesty and truth. My little speech seemed to find a responsive cord. The Commissioner dropped his official armor and promised that I would never be bothered again, advising me, however, to be on guard. It then occurred to me why Carabinieri (national police), who only came to my town on feast days, were…
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…promptly there, whenever I returned. At only twenty, I had been reported as a dangerous revolutionist!
My aged lady friend was happy to learn of my favorable interview. Two weeks later, I was the only one at her bedside for a whole night, during which I gave her several hypodermics of caffein and wetted her lips with small pieces of ice. Alone, I saw her expire as the new aurora was reddening the skies. Had she lived just long enough to fulfill a last mission of charity?
Now, this was the purpose of the despicable ambush. Deprived of whatever financial backing my father could have given me, it was assumed that I would be seriously handicapped in starting a private practice of my profession. Therefore, I would probably enter a juridicial or governmental career, admission to which was by open competition. It was conceded that I could win the competition. But, even if first on the list, the appointment would never be made to one tagged as an extreme radical, though no reason would ever be given. That was the barrier attempted to raise against me.
Twenty-four years later, while visiting Naples, my wife and I were honored with a dinner reception, memorable for the attendance of many distinguished guests. Among them was Prof. Padula who, in 1904, had given me the grievous news of my father’s incurable disease. As if remembering, he went to my wife, placed his hand on her shoulder, and softly whispered: God bless you and your husband.
Sponsor of that occasion was our wonderful friend, Hon. Nicola Sansanelli, hero of World War I, a President of the Allied Legions, Congressman, first Secretary and benevolent moderator of the Fascist Party, a brilliant young man in a strenuous era, loved by everyone.
It is my pleasure and privilege to present him to the reader.
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(photo)
To Comm. Anthony Campagna, With brotherly cordiality and sincere admiration, N. Sansanelli, New York – Sept 5 – 1928
Next: Chapter 24
