Tiller of the Earth

By Franco Sendero

Tiller of the Earth is the story of Luciano Martello, an ordinary man with an unyielding determination to provide his family a life of plenitude no matter the cost. A man with a monomaniacal obsession: America!
The impoverished mountain village Luciano Martello inhabits has always regarded America as the only viable, realistic option to escape the emotionally and physically wrenching cycle of poverty passed on from one generation to the next. Luciano Martello is determined to spare his son this fate. But Luciano Martello’s path to emigration is strewn with numerous obstacles. He must somehow obtain the money to finance the voyage, survive the Battle of Tobruk and a British POW camp in the Egyptian desert during World War Two, restore the family’s honor by avenging his sister’s death at the hands of the powerful baron, and overcome his wife’s reluctance to leave behind the village she loves.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Franco Sendero
• Release date: Dec 20, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370489671

Franco Sendero

Franco Sendero was born in Italy and raised in New York and California. He immigrated to the United States in 1955. He graduated from UCLA with a BA in English. He has authored the novels Tiller of the Earth, Way to Be, Tapestry, and The Salvation of Salvino Quipal. He brings his unique experiences as a migrant to each of his novels. Prior to being an author he worked as a longshoreman, assembly line worker in an auto factory, life insurance salesman, department store manager, and government employee.

Book preview

1

The boy happily followed his mother to heaven. He was seven years old and he had no way of knowing that this was the last time he would follow her to heaven. Nor could he have guessed that he would never again see his mother as happy as she was today. They had almost arrived when his mother stopped to catch her breath and admire the view. In the distance the boy saw the red tiled roofs of the village of Fontalto. And rising above all the roofs he saw the white cupola of the Church of the Madonna dei Monti.

Giuseppe! We must hurry or your father will be angry, said his mother.

She took his hand and they continued their ascent. When they reached the summit, his mother whirled joyfully on her heels and stretched her arms to the sky. The warm spring breeze stirred the curls of her black hair.

What a beautiful day!

She picked him up and lifted him high above her.

Look! You can see two seas! Do you remember their names?

Yes, mama. That’s the Tyrrhenian Sea. And over there is the Ionian.

She put him down and lay on her back on the thick grass. Giuseppe joined her. He snuggled as close to her body as he could. The heat emanating from beneath the earth seeped into his back. Bees and butterflies danced in their midst. Above them, white clouds scudded swiftly across a deep azure sky. The air was fragrant with jasmine and the scent of the nearby seas.

Where are the clouds going? asked Giuseppe.

They’re going to Africa, replied his mother.

He did not know where Africa was, but it could not be very far away. His father had been to Africa.

There! exclaimed his mother. You see that cloud over there? She pointed to an immense silver cloud swiftly streaking above them. That is the Virgin Mary, and you can see that she is holding the baby Jesus in her arms. Her long blue veil is trailing behind her.

Giuseppe looked closely and tried to see what his mother saw. He did not want to miss seeing the Virgin Mary and the baby Jesus. He tried hard to see them before they were carried away.

I do not see them, mama, he replied as the cloud drifted away from his sight.

His mother laughed. See, over there. There is Mary’s husband Joseph. He is carrying a shepherd’s staff as he walks after them.

Giuseppe focused his attention on the next formation that drifted above.

All I see is clouds, mama.

He was disappointed that he could not see the saints. He snuggled closer and watched the clouds glide above him, happy to be in heaven with his mother.

At the foot of the mountain, Luciano Martello fed his only pig and thought about his wife Rosetta. She was a strong, healthy, hardworking obedient woman, but she did not give serious thought to the grave business that was life. She was always happy. And she was too attached to their son. He had watched them scamper up the mountain like two giddy school children. A forty four year old woman should not behave in such a childish manner.

He finished feeding the pig and secured the gate. He wiped his brow and studied the path that led up the mountain. He saw the dog amble slowly down the steep path. The lazy dog must be coming back from one of his solitary midnight rambles. Luciano retrieved a crumpled cigarette from his shirt pocket and lit it. He sat on a rock and called the dog.

Fidele!

The dog came reluctantly, cowering, and lay on his belly at Luciano’s feet, panting heavily. The dog’s fur was matted with burrs and nettles. Where had he been? Luciano looked up the mountain again. Rosetta should not have left without telling him how long they would be gone or where they would go. What were they doing up there? There was nothing up there but trees and rocks. There was nothing useful up there. No olives, figs, pears, or grapes. Only useless wildflowers.

He should give mother and son and the damn dog a hiding for being gone so long. This was not a time for frivolousness. Important decisions had to be made if they were going to immigrate to America. Giuseppe spent too much time with his mother. If he did not spend more time with his father, Giuseppe would never grow up and be a man. Rosetta filled his head with the foolishness priests taught ignorant women.

Finally he saw Giuseppe run down the mountain like a wild goat, laughing happily. His mother was right behind him. She was also smiling and laughing. Little Giuseppe was in his own world. Oblivious to the harsh realities of life. Ignorant of the grave demeanor that must be adopted in order to survive. Luciano crushed the finished cigarette into the dirt with his shoe. He walked to a tree and broke off a long thin flexible bough. He plucked off the leaves and shook it. The bough whistled sharply. Fidele quickly scurried away and hid behind the farmhouse.

When Rosetta saw Luciano standing near the door with a stick in his hand, she stopped smiling.

Giuseppe! he called out in a commanding voice. Come here!

Giuseppe’s smile vanished. Mother and son were once again under his control.

Come closer, Giuseppe. Obey your father. Luciano Martello slapped the switch against the fabric of his pants as he had seen the British officers do in the prisoner of war camp in Egypt.

Giuseppe stood beside his father. He looked down at the ground. Luciano grasped Giuseppe’s hand tightly. The switch whistled sharply through the air and struck the exposed skin of Giuseppe’s legs. His son flinched and gritted his teeth. Luciano struck several more times. The last time the hardest. Giuseppe tried not to cry. His little shoulders heaved. Then he gave up, hung his head, and cried quietly.

Look your father in the eye when I talk to you.

His son’s eyes met his own. He saw in them the same lack of recognition he witnessed when he recently stood face to face with his son in the doorway of his house after two years of incarceration. Eyes fashioned from the same blood. Yet they remained strangers.

Where were you? I had to feed the pig. This is a chore you should do. How many times have I told you that you must not be so far away you cannot hear me when I call for you? You are almost eight years old now. It is time to start acting like a man.

He stood up and tossed away the stick.

Go with your mother and wash. Rosetta, prepare the meal.

They ate outside at a table under a large fig tree. Fidele lay quietly at Giuseppe’s feet. Luciano sliced the cheese and poured the olive oil into a small bowl that contained fresh basil leaves and dried oregano. Rosetta cut the hard crusted bread into thick slices. The aroma of the freshly baked bread and the fire roasted rabbit permeated the air. Luciano took a tomato and sliced it so that the end formed a concave receptacle. He speared it with the tines of the fork and dipped it into the olive oil. Using the heel of the tomato as a ladle, he scooped a generous portion of the oil and offered it to Giuseppe. His son could not resist and wolfed down all of it.

Rosetta, what were you and Giuseppe doing on the mountain today?

We wanted to see both seas, she replied warily. The wind made it so clear. She sensed that her husband’s dark mood had passed. Her husband’s temper frightened her. He had spent over two years in prison because he lost his temper and foolishly tried to avenge his honor. If not for her father, they might have gone hungry during the two harsh winters of her husband’s imprisonment.

Ah, of course, two seas, snickered Luciano, shaking his head. And you, Giuseppe, what did you see up there?

Giuseppe knew his father well enough to not make the mistake of telling him about the holy family in the clouds and their voyage to Africa.

I do not know. There was really nothing there, papa. Just a lot of trees.

Luciano regarded his wife and son. They were no longer somber and ate happily. He regretted losing his temper. He had suffered from chronic bouts of anger that began with the war in Abyssinia and were exacerbated by the war in North Africa. Now, many years after those terrible wars, the fits came of their own accord, and Luciano had no control over them.

Luciano’s thoughts drifted to his years of captivity in the Egyptian desert where prisoners sometimes fought over a single potato, and where he swore an oath never to bring children into this world. As he watched his son eat joyfully alongside his mother, he reflected on his own childhood and youth in this harsh land where life was tenuous and unpredictable.

2

Luciano Martello was born in Fontalto, a small village of about four thousand inhabitants situated on a high plateau surrounded by numerous mountain peaks. Forests of beeches, oaks, white firs, chestnuts, and pines covered the slopes and shaded large varieties of mushrooms, including the prized porcini. In the spring the pastures and meadows above the village were covered in wildflowers. The bleating of sheep occasionally mingled with the natural chorus of singing birds and humming insects. Endless hectares of olive groves covered the rolling hills below the mountains. The abundance of water in all its manifestations—waterfalls, streams, rills, runnels, hidden springs, and the ancient Agrione River—blessed Fontalto and inspired the inhabitants to refer to their village as nu giardinu, a garden.

Fontalto was founded at the time of the Norman conquest of Southern Italy. Indeed, il barone, Don Umberto Tagliaferro, and his son, Don Rufino, traced their origins to the arrival of the D’Hautevilles from Normandy. Their direct ancestor was reputed to have fought alongside the great Robert Guiscard. To ward off the Saracens, the Tagliaferros constructed a massive castle. To account for their sins and ensure their place in heaven, the Tagliaferros also built the Church of the Madonna dei Monti whose shining cupola could be seen for many miles and whose decisive bells called the faithful to worship. The church was built in Fontalto Superiore, the upper section of the village where the more prosperous villagers lived. The lower section where the less prosperous contadini[1] lived was called Fontalto Inferiore. The lower section was defined by a warren of narrow winding streets and alleys, houses with roofs of baked red clay tiles, and small shops with entrances of beaded curtains.

Regrettably, despite its many natural blessings, Fontalto was not a paradise for many of the villagers. More than a few of its residents struggled daily to find enough to eat. Only the Tagliaferros, a handful of merchants, and the residents who were fortunate to have a family member send money from abroad lived well. A few of the contadini owned a small plot of land, but most were compelled to work as sharecroppers on the vast holdings of olive groves and farmland owned by the Tagliaferro family.

Luciano Martello was the second born son of Raffaele Martello and Ippolita Cagliardi. He, his older sister Olivia, and his younger brother Paolo lived together in a small house in Fontalto Superiore that Luciano’s father purchased with money he earned from his many years of working as a butcher in the Chicago stockyards. His father was able to provide well for his children with the money he made in America until tragedy struck. Luciano’s mother died in childbirth at the age of twenty nine while delivering a stillborn girl. Luciano was only twelve when his mother died. His sister Viola was fourteen. And little Paolo was eight. When his wife died, Raffaele was working in America and unable to return in time for the funeral. Already an old man at fifty, and burdened with three motherless children to look after, he abandoned emigration as an economic strategy and returned to Fontalto. He enlisted the aid of his sister-in-law, Zia Vittoria, to help him raise the children. Unable to work any longer at his usual profession, Raffaele Martello was forced to take up the pickaxe and earn a living plowing the fields of the Tagliaferros.

The accumulation of stress from toiling in the fields, the growing poverty from the lack of income, the onerous burden of crushing debts, and the heartache of losing his beloved wife caused his heath to deteriorate rapidly, and after a long and debilitating illness, Raffaele died leaving his three children with only the imprudent debts, the small house, and Zia Vittoria.

Zia Vittoria became the autocratic matriarch of the family. Vittoria Martello was a spinster and did not like children. She was born with a defective left foot that never fully grew and resulted in a permanent limp, a bitter gruff nature, a lack of interest from men, and a deep, abiding faith in Catholicism. She attended every mass, went to the Church of the Madonna dei Monti daily to pray, and constantly sought the counsel of the parish priest, Father Trifone, for even the most minor concerns.

She immediately put Luciano and Viola to work to pay off the debts. Luciano was to employ Alice, the family donkey, to transport produce and other goods from Fontalto to Catanzaro for a fee. Zia Vittoria found work for Viola as a kitchen helper in the household of the Tagliaferro family. Viola expressed as much unhappiness with her fate as Luciano did with his. The kitchen helpers had to live in the household, and Viola did not relish being apart from her family. Nor did she want to be a servant to the Tagliaferros. But as usual, Zia Vittoria would not relent. Marriage for Viola was out of the question until she acquired a dowry, or a suitable husband could be found for her in America. Besides, working in the kitchen meant she would have access to food every day. She could even pay herself a little extra by putting aside a salami or two for her family.

The struggle for survival caused brother and sister to become close. At regular intervals Luciano walked at night across the many hectares of Tagliaferro land to meet secretly with Olivia in an old weather-worn shed at the edge of one of the olive groves. Olivia never came to their nocturnal meetings empty handed. She brought bread only two or three days old, balls of provolone, and sometimes, cappocollo and salami. The salami of the Tagliaferros was made from the best pigs and possessed a special aroma that made the mouth water. Sometimes, she was able to hand Luciano the few lira she was paid in wages.

One night, Viola surprised Luciano by pouring out her unhappiness. She referred to her lot in life as una schiavitu, a slavery. She was treated like an animal and was forced to sleep on a straw covered wooden palette in the stable. She wanted only to marry and escape Zia Vittoria’s control. She made particularly harsh comments about Don Rufino. She called him, nu purcu fututu, a fucking pig. Luciano was shocked by his sister’s frankness of language. She had always been a shy and demure girl. She now talked like an older, more experienced woman.

I have done everything I can to help the family, she told him as she prepared to leave.

She embraced and kissed Luciano. He watched her disappear into the darkness of the olive groves.

Get some sleep, he advised her, though he knew she would not get more than a couple of hours of sleep before having to wake and prepare breakfast for the household. His heart turned into a cold stone. And because his sister hated Don Rufino, he did too. Why would Don Rufino mistreat his sister? She was a saint.

Five years later, when the debts had been paid, Zia Vittoria contacted her brother in Oluwake, New York, and arranged for Paolo to emigrate. Luciano was infuriated that she chose Paolo.

He is thirteen, he protested. Besides, it is my right as the oldest male to be chosen to follow in my father’s footsteps.

Your job is to run the business with Alice, she replied. Paolo is not as strong as you. As the oldest male you must remain and help Viola. Paolo is too young.

I was twelve when I started to work, he replied.

He argued bitterly with Zia Vittoria, but she would not change her mind, and only threw him a thin bone.

When Paolo finds employment in America, he will send money back to Fontalto, and then you can follow him.

Paolo Martello took up his father’s battered suitcase, filled it with all the possessions that would fit inside, and prepared to leave Fontalto. Luciano, still bitter that he was not the one chosen to emigrate, took Paolo aside and had a frank face to face discussion with his brother.

Make money and send for me, he told Paolo. He made his brother swear an oath.

Paolo embraced his brother and promised to send for him when he was able. He boarded a ship in Napoli bound for the great city of New York. He would never return to Italy.

Not long after Paolo departed, another tragedy struck the family. Viola was cleaning the room of Don Rufino when she fell from the uppermost window of the palace. Viola's sudden death came as a heavy blow for Luciano Martello. With his brother in America and his sister dead, Luciano had no one he could rely on for assistance in the daily struggle for survival other than his elderly aunt. But it was the manner of her death that particularly disturbed him. It was not clear whether she slipped or had jumped. He knew his sister well. She was not the type of person who would abandon her family by committing suicide. The more he considered the circumstances of her death, her characterization of Don Rufino, the gossip of the villagers and how they averted their eyes and suddenly became silent when he chanced to walk by, the colder his heart became.

A few days after her death, Zia Vittoria called Luciano to her chair by the fireplace.

The carabinieri have concluded their investigation, she announced without emotion, looking directly at Luciano. It was an accident. You must not listen to the talk of the villagers. They have formed their own opinions. Opinions that do not reflect favorably on our family. That put our honor in doubt. But they do not know anything. Our family is weak now. There is nothing we can do. Do you understand me?

He did. He understood very well how the villagers snickered and smiled knowingly, wondering what Viola was doing in Don Rufino’s room when she was supposed to be working as a kitchen helper.

After the ruling, Zia Vittoria took Luciano with her to pay a visit to Don Rufino’s mother. They were admitted into the house through the servant’s quarters. Luciano had never seen so much food and so many modern appliances. After a long wait, Don Rufino’s mother came down to speak with Zia Vittoria. She told Zia Vittoria that Viola was a hard worker and always happy. She had no idea what happened, and none of the servants witnessed the accident, nor had any of her family. She offered her deepest condolences and promised to pay for a funeral mass.

Zia Vittoria decided it was best to give some of the money to the church and put some aside for emergencies. There was not enough money remaining to provide Viola a proper burial, so she was buried in a common grave with no marker. Zia Vittoria closed the whole chapter by remarking that God’s will was done. But the seventeen year old heart of Luciano Martello refused to close the books on Don Rufino Tagliaferro.

Luciano awoke before the sun rose. He had a breakfast of an orange, a few dried figs, and a slice of bread. After eating, he took Alice to the piazza. There he bargained with the merchants and farmers until he got a good price for delivering their goods to Catanzaro. This morning he loaded Alice with pecorino cheese, chestnuts, and eggs and started the trek down the long winding road to Catanzaro. The morning was cold and drizzly. When he had gone far enough down the road so he could no longer be seen by the villagers, he removed his shoes and walked barefoot. They were the only pair of leather shoes he owned. He could not afford to wear them out.

With any luck he and Alice would reach Catanzaro by noon. The donkey was his most valuable possession. And his only true friend. She was good tempered for a donkey. Luciano swore that the donkey understood Italian and knew what was expected of her before she was told. No one knew why his father had named the donkey Alice. His father just laughed about it when asked. He confided to Luciano conspiratorially that it was a name given to American girls.

To keep up his spirits, he sang to the donkey as his father had done before him. When he tired of singing, Luciano talked to Alice. He discussed with her his plans for the future: how he would soon join his brother in New York; and how he would become rich and marry a beautiful American girl. The donkey made no comment on his plans and dutifully continued down the mountain.

Occasionally, Luciano stopped to rest and allow Alice to graze on the grasses and drink from any of numerous streams and springs. He carefully surveyed his surroundings for any signs of the brigands that roamed these mountains, though he had no fear of them. The brigands did not waste their time with the poor. They robbed the rich and mostly operated in the more inaccessible areas of the Sila and the Serre. Just in case, he always carried a hatchet with him as a weapon.

A few of the contadini his age talked about joining the brigands and living as men of honor. Before his death, his father frequently warned Luciano of the dangers of being seduced by the false life of crime. He advised Luciano that the only true solution to the problem of poverty was emigration. America was the lesser of two evils. Luciano listened with rapt attention to his father’s description of the city of Chicago; the great San Juan Mountains that surrounded Durango; the railroad companies that he laid track for; the great herds of cattle moved by cowboys across vast grasslands; the bosses that sometimes took advantage of Italians; men of great height from Africa; and the people from China. He decried the conditions of the workers, most of whom were treated like dogs, or worse, like slaves. He counseled Luciano to go to America alone, live near other paesani in a big city like Chicago, and always return. Those that remained in America usually regretted their decision.

When he reached the outskirts of Catanzaro, he put his shoes back on and guided Alice to the market. He quickly unloaded the cargo and then started the difficult and tiring walk back up the mountain to Fontalto. Sometimes, he strolled to the lido to enjoy a view of the Ionian Sea. In the summer, the galantuomini, the well to do, planted their umbrellas in the sands and bathed in the crystal blue waters of the Ionian. The water tempted him, but he dared not leave Alice alone for fear she would be stolen. It was enough to take solace from the beauty of the sea. He was a man. Almost eighteen. He had no time to frolic in the surf like a child.

Upon reaching a promontory that overlooked the Ionian, he took his shoes off again. He led Alice underneath an oak tree and sat down to eat his lunch. He opened the handkerchief in which Zia Vittoria stored the meal she had prepared for him. This usually consisted of bread and dried figs, olives, and a tomato. If he were lucky, there would be cheese and salami. Today he was able to add a bit of the pecorino that he had delivered earlier in the day. The bread that complemented the pecorino was a few days old. A bit dry but not stale.

It was almost dusk when he neared Fontalto. A light drizzle began to fall again. He saw two women walking towards him. Both women balanced large jars on their heads. As they came closer he recognized them as Maria, the wife of Bernardo Paiono, and her daughter, Rosetta. Bernardo had been away to Boston for over a year. Everyone in the village knew he was sending back loads of money. His family never lacked for anything. He cursed himself for not being more alert and putting on his shoes. He stopped and nodded a greeting at them.

Salva, Dona Maria. It is late to be walking down the road.

We are taking olive oil to one of our cousins. It is not so far away.

Good luck, said Luciano.

As they passed him, Luciano’s eyes lingered on the daughter. She did not return his gaze. Rosetta was beautiful. She possessed a tempting body. She carried the jar with the grace and agility of a young gazelle. Rosetta was two years older than he, and still unmarried. The sight of Rosetta’s lissome body caused his youthful idle thoughts to wander to another girl he often encountered walking along the narrow cobblestone roads of Fontalto Inferiore. Her name was Michela Galino. He liked to watch her as she walked in the piazza. Unlike Rosetta Paiano, Michela never averted her eyes. She stared back at Luciano without shame or bashfulness. She had brown eyes that were absent of guile or calculation. Her skin was so dark the villagers speculated that the family must carry the blood of the Saracens. It was not so long ago that the African corsairs had ravaged the country. Some of the very old people could still remember the days when the words cristiano and human were interchangeable. Like Viola, she too worked in the kitchen of the Tagliaferros. Thinking of Michela under the predacious eyes of Don Rufino angered him.

Luciano had cautiously mentioned Michela in a conversation with his Zia in a manner which would not betray his interest. Zia merely laughed scornfully.

She is from Inferiore where the contadini share the rooms they live in with their pigs. She is of a lower class. And of course her grandfather was a brigand.

He arrived home exhausted and hungry. Zia Vittoria raised herself from the fireplace and prepared the table as soon as he entered. He took off his shoes at the doorway. He removed the money from his pocket and placed it on the table. Zia Vittoria gathered the money quickly without counting it. She walked to the fireplace and removed a stone from the top, exposing a small hollow. She stored the money inside the hollow and replaced the stone. He sat down to a small bowl of pasta with a little olive oil, some of the local bread, green beans, olives, and a sliver of pecorino cheese.

Don Trifone spoke today of the agreement between Mussolini and the blessed Pope. Mussolini is a great man, Luciano.

Luciano also admired Mussolini. He was thrilled when Il Duce spoke. Il Duce used words that stirred him and gave him hope. He was convinced that the average contadino would benefit from many of the economic changes proposed by Mussolini. Had it not been for Mussolini and the establishment of the Avanguardista School he would not have learned to read and write. Nor would he have learned the history of Rome and about the great Renaissance that once flourished across Italy. He was excited by the prospect that Italy would be a great power once again.

"Don Rufino visits the piazza frequently these days. My cummare[2] informs me he drinks wine and talks freely," said Zia Vittoria.

Luciano had also seen him in the piazza accompanied by his guards. The sight of Don Rufino made his heart grow cold. Luciano followed him with his eyes as a wolf might follow a sheep. Luciano could only console himself with childish daydreams of meeting Don Rufino by accident, just the two of them, without his armed guards present, and they would settle accounts. He would silence the mouths of the villagers and salvage the honor of his family.

Last night’s conversation with Zia Vittoria had kindled memories of his beloved Viola. Since his sister’s bones were scattered in an unmarked grave, the only manner of honoring his sister’s memory he found suitable was to visit the shed where they used to meet at midnight. Luciano