Blood, Soil and Art

By Marilyn Ekdahl Ravicz

The years immediately preceding World War II in Italy were full of social changes, the phenomenal growth of Fascism and the confusing death of old ideas, values and classes. New dangers and challenges burgeoned until it seemed as if the frantic energy of a masquerade ball prevailed with everyone wearing fancy uniforms and dreaming of conquest. In neighboring Germany, the ranting and rampaging birth of Nazi ideas was followed by Hitlers lightning-strike invasions of European neighbors. These strikes were aimed to gain land and power, change old ideas, entrench and strengthen pure Aryan racially-grounded Nazi values, as well as destroy anything or anyone not compatible with the goals of the glorious Third Reich.
Aware that artworks embody ideals and educate people through their symbolic power, the Nazis engaged in a multi-faceted program dedicated to destroy all artworks inconsistent with their views, and to substitute only art and architecture that idealized Aryan purity and Nazidom. To that end, they developed organizations and programs, built museums, filled them with carefully vetted art, outlawed all avant garde and non-Aryan artists, and proceeded to loot desirable artworks from occupied countries. They then stored or displayed their loot in their palaces or museums as fodder for propaganda and self-aggrandizement. Hitler, Goring and many other high-ranking Nazi leaders were deeply involved with these efforts, as well as the rewriting of history to conform to their putative glory through adopted symbols.
Meanwhile, when the war continued to drag its bloody traces over occupied countries, Italians discovered just how terrifying it was to be a Nazi ally. Fascism faded as battles and air strikes continued, and victories faltered for the Axis. Italians suffered from a lack of life-supporting supplies or shelter, many youths and old men were conscripted into German work camps, hungry and homeless refugees swarmed into the cities and partisans gathered in the hills ready to become guerilla warriors against the Nazis.
Slowly at first and hedged about with lies, information about Nazi art thefts in other countries seeped into the consciousness of concerned Italians. As they became increasingly worried about reports of forced sales and actual looting of Italys artistic heritage, a small band of dedicated Italians, self-named the Salvatores, made a pact to engage in a series of dangerous acts and subterfuges in order to hide Italian artworks in ricoveri and save them from German theft.
Because Florence was a center of much Renaissance art and architecture, and because it did not have a Vatican in which to store artworks safely, the Salvatores struggled on independently with their clandestine rescue efforts to inventory and hide artworks. The little band comprised an odd group: wealthy Duke di Bergolini, his adoptive son Ortolani, a castrato opera singer, Ortolanis Benedictine brother, two young women of talent, two Tuscan museum officials who were art historians, a few helpful Italians and even two German officials who became virtual double-agents. Against difficult odds and in the face death threats or potential seizure and torture, they struggled and continued to inventory and shelter artworks, to track their trails when stolen, and to prevail until peace returned.
By August of 1944, after Mussolini was dethroned and German-backed neo-Fascism was only a Nazi puppet government, it was apparent to everyone but the most rabid Nazis that Germany had lost the war. Even then, SS Officers and contingents from Gorings brigades loaded art from discovered ricoveri into trucks and drove them to northern Italy, which was under complete German control and occupation. The storage locations for the looted art were kept secret from the Italians until the war ended.
As the Allies approached the great city of Florence, the withdrawing Nazis mined and destroyed some of the most precious medieval and renaissance buildings and bridges

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 13, 2006
• ISBN: 9781462832262

Marilyn Ekdahl Ravicz

Marilyn Ekdahl Ravicz, a retired Cultural Anthropologist, enjoys writing fiction, non-fiction and culinary history. After many world travels, she appreciates retirement in the beautiful, rocky desert surrounding Palm Springs. She invites you to travel with her on her published trips through the times and spaces of a fictional shared world and history.

Book preview

PART I

ITALY—JUNE 1928

Time is like a river made up of the events which happen, and its current is strong; no sooner does anything appear than it is swept away, and another comes in its place, and will be swept away

Marcus Aurelius, Meditations.

CHAPTER I

While he trudged along the dirt path, Ortolani hummed, swatted flies from buzzing sallies around his head and hopped to avoid muddy puddles. It was a vibrant summer day in Genzano, his village in the Alban hills near Frascati, north on the road to Monte Cassino. He looked at the blue sky and grinned with boyish joy.

His teacher had said Genzano was settled even before the Romans built it up later. Why not? The climate was perfect, the surrounding hills beautiful, the fields fertile and streams plentiful. It had the grace of good earthly places.

Ortolani was a vigorous, handsome lad of ten with dark brown eyes, softly waving black hair and sturdy body. As he hummed, he beat time with a slender stick stripped of leaves by slapping it rhythmically against tufts of matted grass flanking the rocky path.

A passerby would see Ortolani as a typical Italian boy. What made him atypical was his singing voice. As he sang a chorus from the solo assigned him by the priest, the clarity of his voice was startling. Pure, high and melodious, Ortolani’s voice thrilled like imagined angels would sing. He sauntered and sang, making his way toward the cathedral where he performed with a choir almost every Sunday.

Wrapped in song, he approached a gully where pebbles became stones and small burbles of water washed over the path into a small pond. Tall reeds rimming the stream swayed with gusty breezes, and heavily seeded heads of wild grasses bobbed and trembled. Chock-a-block yellow daisies nodded drunkenly on thin stems marking a visual counterpoint to Ortolani’s song.

Ortolani stopped, trailed his stick in the puddle and watched a rabble of orange butterflies interweave in dance and flutter away in a whirl. A black crow swooped low, and he knew the pursuer would become the pursued. Village children understood that nature went for the jugular. He shivered and stooped to drag his hands through the cool water, touched mossy stones and stilled as nature’s sounds calmed him.

Sounds were very important. Next came beautiful colors and shapes, then the fantastic sensuality of touching different textures. Ortolani felt a surge of gratitude for being what he was: a boy on a June day, walking to practice music with Padre Ignacio.

Shaking himself from daydreams, Ortolani resumed his walk, striking reeds with rapid beats until they quivered. His voice rose in a lilting crescendo to end the chorus he had been assigned to learn. He clapped in honest recognition of his fine performance for the birds and bees.

It was quiet again. Ortolani had loitered during his rambling walk to the cathedral and picked up his pace. He must hurry or Padre Ignacio would be stern, hide his hands in the wide sleeves of his habit and pretend he didn’t want to play the organ for him. Ortolani knew this was not true, and that he would eventually take his hands out of the sleeves, wave them about, sit and play his ride of sonorous, rumbling chords.

Ortolani required special practices because he was the featured soloist in the Boys Choir for Sunday Mass. His voice was so beautiful many villagers came to hear him rather than the short sermon that followed. Padre Ignacio was aware of this and shrugged philosophically. God’s kingdom reaches out in many ways to touch us, he muttered to salve his pride of conscience. He knew that he spent too much time and energy on the Boys Choir because of Ortolani.

If any child could be called famous in Genzano, it was Ortolani. Although he was vaguely aware of this, whatever meaning it might have for shaping his life escaped him. Ortolani simply liked to sing. He even enjoyed his own voice and how it blended with the organ chords weaving intricate background patterns. But he also enjoyed fishing, tending goats, playing soccer with friends, or simply lying in the grass looking at the blue Tuscan sky.

Ortolani glanced appreciatively at the leafy starbursts and spiky chartreuse grasses. Summer came early to the village this June. Birds darted about and twittered nervously, their beaks trailing twigs or bits of straw for nests. In the distance, lavender and gold flowers streaked the fields like impressionist paintings.

Several days ago, the priest and villagers had blessed the fields and seeds to be planted once the rains stopped. They waited for the right time to press seeds into the black earth turned by their gnarled fingers, because phases of the moon were also important. Planting was an ancient and serious business requiring flawless dedication to atavistic rituals. And Mother Earth also expected the spilling of a bit of semen on the fields under a full moon.

Ortolani hummed another few bars from the Missa he was practicing, then patted his chest and breathed deeply. What could be better? Singing with Padre Ignacio, then home to an early supper with fresh bread. There would be time to sit or lie on the new grass and dream. Time before dark night came to claim his father, mother, sister and brother in early sleep. He vowed to be the last to bow in slumber. He didn’t know why, but he felt this day was special.

Through leafy trees flanking an old wall of stone ahead, Ortolani saw the cathedral’s open doors and dark interior. Like other villagers, he knew the history of the cathedral that functioned as the geographical and social hub to outlying villages and farms. Its large patio doubled as marketplace and theater on feast days and harbored deep cultural memories.

Remnants of an ancient Roman via topped with a cobbled mosaic of cleverly fitted polygonal stones passed in front of the cathedral. It petered out after a mile or so, mostly because generations of villagers had pillaged the stones for foundations of their houses. Anyway, there was no need for such a fine road now. Anyone could walk two kilometers to the highway where buses passed at set hours for villagers who needed to haul themselves or their produce to Frascati, or even Rome. Once in the cities, they were gobbled up in the maw of urban crowds until ferried back again. Genzano people belonged to the soil and fields, not to urban noises, the smell of cat pee and garbage piles.

As Ortolani approached the cathedral, he saw history engraved on its facade. Constructed over four hundred years ago, it had been periodically remodeled for better or worse. It still sheltered a fine baroque gilded altar, numerous excellent retablos, and beautiful but faded frescoes graced its somber interior. A few Dukes lay buried under its mosaic and marble floor, along with a Bishop or two.

Several elegant palazzos clustered on the hills nearby, just as villas had surrounded temples during Roman times. Wealthy palazzo owners enjoyed Genzano’s gentle climate and endowed its cathedral from generation to generation until it was richly beautiful.

The cathedral organ was ancient and wheezing, even after being remodeled from bellows to pedals; however, Padre Ignacio could still coax it into a melodious web of notes. Well-trained by the Benedictines who knew classical Church music in Monte Cassino monastery, he was assigned to Genzano partly because he was born in Frascati, and partly so his sophisticated performances would please the nobles who occupied nearby palazzos during holiday retreats.

Ortolani dropped his stick, straightened his posture, crossed himself and smoothed his shirt before entering the dusky cathedral. Oh! Padre Ignacio was already seated at the keyboard facing an orderly rise of organ pipes. Ortolani called out a greeting, "Ciao, Padre Ignacio." Even his speaking voice had a clarity and timbre that resounded around the old walls.

The priest turned and smiled broadly, stretching his tonsured head into a cartoon. He even waved both arms. Ortolani realized he was either on time after all, or the spring day had softened the dour priest. Relieved, he approached front and center of the nave where he stood to sing. He envisioned other boys in the choir around him and sidled to one side to give them room in his imagined scenario.

"Ciao, Ortolani! God’s blessing on you and your voice. Pray for success in our practice, and may He guide you to sing so all may know the glory of God! Now pay attention." No time was wasted on preliminaries.

Always the same blessing and exhortation thought Ortolani, but he rather enjoyed them. Church rituals diminished uncertainty and gave shape and substance to his days and nights. "Si, Padre Ignacio, I’m ready now. I prayed at the door." He cleared his throat loudly and wondered if he would ever need to confess this practical weekly lie.

"Bravo, my little friend. First we’ll practice the last chorus from the Missa Pange Lingua."

Padre Ignacio was a bit nervous about having selected Desprez’s long polyphonic Gregorian chant for the Corpus Christi Mass; but its counterpoint choral and solo chanting was so fine. Besides, Ortolani could easily handle the solos, and the Boys Choir could manage his simplified arrangement. It was a perfect vehicle for Orolani’s wonderful voice. God forgive my pride! Forgive my desire to favor this boy, and accept his talent as a gift of God, a shadow of His glory. And bless our performance above all.

While Ortolani waited, scratching his ankle with the edge of his shoe, he fidgeted and glanced toward the open door where the summery world beckoned like a bright dream. But he was dutiful and liked to sing, so he waited while Padre Ignacio rearranged the folds of his habit so he could pedal more freely. The old organ still required energetic footwork to mitigate its wheezing.

The rustling of sheet music concluded, the priest looked directly at Ortolani. He knew he must clasp his hands chastely in front of him, spread his legs slightly, stand straight and hold his head high. That was the appropriate posture for singing with an open chest. Besides, parishioners liked that otherworldly look.

With a wave of arms to flick back his heavy sleeves, Padre Ignacio struck the first chords of the Missa. A richly sonorous sound rolled out of the old organ and spread to the dark corners of the cathedral. Ortolani felt his stomach muscles constrict at the glorious rumble, and his concentration narrowed to focus on the music. No more birdsong or leafy boughs in mind, only the rich pummel of chords as Padre Ignacio played with passion. His fingers danced over the keys, his torso rocked forward and backward, and his feet pressed then glided over the pedals.

The priest nodded and extended a finger at the precise moment they reached the measure for Ortolani’s solo. The child’s voice rang out in a high, flutelike glide of sounds that blended beautifully with the muted organ background. The melodious growl of organ tones wove the background, while Ortolani’s lyrical soprano shaped sixteenth century notes into a ringing performance of the famous Missa.

Padre Ignacio and Ortolani practiced for an hour in their shared tunnel of concentration. Their harmonies filled the cathedral’s dusty crevices with a lyrical wash of sounds that covered the gilded altars and cracked paintings with humming beauty. Occasionally the priest stopped to guide Ortolani through difficult passages. Come, lad, once more for that part. A little more force on the high notes and breathe before you start the last phrases.

Together they repeated solo parts until their bodies bowed and swayed into harmonies of increasing perfection. After an hour of practice, they rested and walked together through the open door. They sat on sun-warmed stone steps and raised their faces to squint at the golden slivers of light dancing through leafy branches.

You must be thirsty, Ortolani, drink some of this. The priest offered cool tea from a flask hanging on the belt of his hiked-up habit. They drank deeply, emptied the gourd bottle with its cork stopper in a few drafts and sighed with contentment.

Thanks, Padre Ignacio. I was thirsty, but now I’m ready to sing again. They rose, brushed the seats of their clothes and entered the dusky cathedral for a last rehearsal of the day.

Although they never discussed it, the man and boy knew their music was good. Not just good, more than good. They were satisfied and, as the last notes died into echoes, they rested in silence a few moments before assuming their mundane roles as village child and humble priest.

Well, my lad, time to rest and return home. We’ve done a fine job here today, don’t you think?

Yes, it sounds much better. With the choir it will be perfect for Corpus Christi. They stood side by side, the music still ringing in memory.

Sometimes Padre Ignacio felt Ortolani was an old soul, an ancient in a child’s body. Since this ontological view had no theological justification, he never mentioned it openly. But it rested like a gauzy net over plans and hopes for the boy he admired so much.

Ortolani realized that Padre Ignacio, who was a fine musician, favored him. Favored his unusual talent to be exact. But once he understood this, he stopped thinking it extraordinary and merely cherished his opportunity to learn and sing.

What time shall I be here Sunday, Padre? asked Ortolani, swiping beads of perspiration from his forehead. He walked forward to say goodbye and accept the sheets of music the priest normally gave him to guide practices at home.

By ten o’clock, my son. This will give us time to get our robes on and practice music reading. It’s important for you. He wagged a finger at Ortolani in mock seriousness.

Ortolani nodded chastely. Reading music was easy for him. Padre Ignacio taught him this skill at the same time his village teacher worried about his lack of interest in learning printed words. He learned both codes, but his preference for the tadpole notes on their laddered clefs was stronger, more private. They seemed like a personal code he could transform into interesting sounds. One ended in music, the other in cerebral silence and sometimes non-experience.

As the priest handed the exercises into Ortolani’s hands, he smiled and patted his tousled hair with affection. Ah, my son, we shall show them! The audience will learn how the angels in heaven sound as they praise the Lord in adoration.

Ortolani smiled. He was accustomed to the priest’s ecclesiastical flights of expression and saw no reason to suggest he doubted them. In truth, for unknown reasons, Ortolani’s small chest housed a doubting heart. Praise was a tonic, but his inner awareness took it only as mild stimulant. He kept any agnostic whisperings to himself. He smiled to imagine how they would shock and displease his friend, Padre Ignacio. He protected those he loved.

Ortolani turned at the door and waved a second farewell to the priest in the dusky shadows of the nave. Thanks for your help, Padre, and see you Sunday. He saw the raised arm and imagined the smile as he stepped into the outdoor brilliance.

Bathed by slanting rays of late afternoon sunlight, Ortolani closed his eyes and paused until they adjusted to the light. He placed the sheets of music inside his loose shirt and smoothed them across his chest. Arms freed, he chose another pliable stick and began tapping the beat he felt compelled to make while marching and humming his way home.

Along with twittering birds and buzzing bees hovering over brilliant blooms, frogs croaked among the reeds footed in muddy slime. Ortolani knew the puddles would soon disappear in the summer heat, and the rasp of cicadas would replace the frogs’ somber chunking. He wove an acappella soprano to their deep croaking. He was delighted when the frogs only paused momentarily when he started to sing and then joined him in a duet.

Entranced by their choral singing, Ortolani failed to hear the rhythmic cadence of a rapidly approaching coach. Tall reeds hid him from a swiftly oncoming phaeton as it rounded a sharp curve in the narrow road, and he failed to step aside. As the coach thundered toward Ortolani, he turned and threw up his hands in an automatic gesture of protection, but his body was struck and thrown forward by one of the paired stallions. It landed with a soft thud. Ortolani rolled with the impetus of his fall, but not fast enough to escape the phaeton wheel that bumped heavily over him. Another moment too late.

The driver pulled frantically on the reins once he saw the child and the horses reared; but the phaeton scarcely lurched as it passed over Ortolani’s small body.

The wheels of the elegant coach were rubber-rimmed and silent, but the weight they sustained was great. The horses rolled their eyes, whinnied in surprise and swayed back and forth, pawing the earth. They managed not to tread on the body their eyes registered as an object in the road, but the damage was done.

Shouts stilled the birds and frogs. The coachman cried out, threw down the reins and jumped from his bench. The single passenger pushed open the half-door and leaped down without waiting for steps to be unfolded. My God! Oh, my God in heaven! they chorused in shock.

Ortolani lay inert. The driver and passenger crouched over the child who was mercifully unconscious. His head appeared uninjured, but at least one wheel had rolled over his abdomen and pelvis and left a trail of clay tracks across his shirt and trousers. The nervous horses persisted with soft snuffles and pawing, but the frogs and birds remained silent.

The groom moaned, swore softly under his breath and commenced a litany of explanations. "My God, I couldn’t see the child! He’s shorter than the reeds. And with the curve, God in heaven! I didn’t see him until too late! Is he dead, Duca Bergolini?" His dark face was distorted as he hunched over the child, rocking and moaning.

Silence! Stop your stupid remarks this minute! The deep voice was resonant. We need to think and do something fast.

The passenger was a tall, darkly handsome man, dressed elegantly in well-tailored clothing. He wore dove-gray gloves, and a pince nez on a black cord swung forward as he knelt on pearl-gray trousers to examine the unconscious child. The horses pawing the road and blowing their breath added a feral chorus to the tragic tableau. The deep voice continued. He’s not dead. His heart beats, but his… his stomach and pelvis are… . They may be damaged. We must take him to a doctor immediately. Is there one in the village?

The driver responded, half moaning with anxiety, Yes! Yes, there’s doctor Feraglio. But he isn’t a surgeon. If there’s a wound we… .

No. There’s no open wound. There’s no blood—at least not much, but… . Still kneeling over the child, the tall man carefully opened Ortolani’s clothing to inspect the damage. A crush injury he thought logically, the worst kind. God knows what is happening inside his body. Maybe internal bleeding. He stood and shook his head.

Quick, bring the long cushion and foot blanket from the phaeton. We’ll place the child on the cushion and keep him as still as possible until we reach the village.

The distraught groom ran to do the Duke’s bidding. He returned quickly, and they laid Ortolani’s body on the cushion and wrapped a blanket tightly around him. They carried Ortolani on his cushion to the coach, and the Duke climbed into the cab and sat down. They settled the child across his knees so he could support him with both arms.

Drive to the doctor’s house as fast as possible. He’s still unconscious, but his breathing is ragged, and his eyelids are fluttering.

"Si, it should only take minutes."

The driver turned the phaeton around and cracked his whip above the prancing horses twice. They were bred for speed, not dumb obedience, but the coachman held them taut and they trotted smartly along the road they had so proudly covered only minutes before.

As they entered the Roman road and turned toward the village, the phaeton passed the cathedral. Strains of organ music drifted out from the cathedral’s dusky interior. Padre Ignacio played an unwitting accompaniment to the tragic accident endangering the life of his favorite child.

The Duke studied the pale face of the boy on his knees: the dark fringe of lashes, the delicate features and high cheekbones, the stick-thin arms ending in too-big hands and the feet shod in rough country shoes. The loose fit of the simple shirt and trousers and length of the child’s hair suggested poverty, or at least a peasant background. Even in deathly repose, the face was arresting and fine. The Duke wondered who he was, but knew it would not prove difficult to identify him in a village.

The carriage swung off the Roman cobbles into a tree-lined road at the end of which stood a rambling stone house with a faded red tile roof. The driver called to the Duke, That’s Doctor Feraglio’s house.

The carriage stopped in front of a wooden door with wrought iron bands and ornate handles. Fetch the doctor quickly. If he’s not here, have him sent for immediately. Someone must help the child now! The Duke’s voice was loud and commanding.

The frightened driver quickly jumped down and trotted toward the door. He knocked and shouted at the same time, Anyone home? Help! Come quickly! We need the doctor now! Emergency! He continued until the door opened so quickly his doubled fist struck the air. He shouted again at an elderly woman who stood there, one hand resting against her apron, the other clutching the door. She seemed stunned and glanced around with darting dark eyes. Is the doctor here? the driver repeated more softly.

The woman was slow. She smoothed her gray hair and pushed stray wisps into a tight bun before nodding. "Si, si—he’s here." She awaited the next order as if hypnotized.

Well, fetch him immediately, growled the Duke loudly from his perch. There’s been an accident and we need help immediately!

The elegant phaeton and passenger’s commanding voice finally pierced her stolid thinking, and she shuffled down a gloomy hallway. The driver trotted back to the phaeton and helped the Duke lower Ortolani on his cushion. He was still unconscious, although his arms were starting to twitch. His legs remained still and there was no movement in his torso. His lips were slightly parted and his head lolled from side to side in awkward jerks.

An older man in tweed trousers with white shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows appeared in the doorway. He had short graying hair, a clipped moustache and wore metal-rimmed glasses. Quick, dark eyes grasped the situation immediately. Without a word he motioned the Duke, driver and their child-burden into his house and led them to the large whitewashed room used as clinic.

No one spoke as they slid Ortolani carefully from his cushion onto a metal-topped table. As the doctor examined the inert child, his hands moved lightly over the small body What happened here? What fell on or crushed this child? And when?

The Duke stepped forward and slowly but distinctly summarized what had occurred. He did not avoid responsibility and made no excuses by mentioning the tall reeds or sharp curve of the rocky road. All this happened perhaps twenty-five minutes ago. Then he fell silent.

The doctor looked up and studied the Duke. He knew who he was, of course, in the same way all locals recognized the nobility who occasionally inhabited their palazzos along the most beautiful promontories with the best views. His only response was a grunt and mumbled, I see. Yes, I see.

The use of phaetons was unusual in that day and age. Only a few epicene nobles engaged in phaeton-riding as an arcane afternoon distraction. They pranced around the countryside behind high-stepping matched teams as a lark or outré entertainment, just as they occasionally donned peasant-style tucked shirts, tight pants, high boots and neck-scarves. But their garments were silk while the peasants wore cotton.

The Duke was aware of Doctor Feraglio’s thoughts. He did not need to express his courteously silent disrespect for a nobleman’s lifestyle to make it known. Italy was rife with new political movements and social ideologies, most of which were increasingly intolerant of the ancient liaison of peasant with land-owning nobility through feudal mezzadria profit-sharing practices.

Old patterns were about to be changed. He was aware of that. The Duke was well educated and widely enough traveled to believe in some of the new ideas himself, although he would never admit this openly to a stranger. So he knew, but kept a distant silence.

As the doctor’s hands moved over the child with practiced ease, the hint of an inner need to justify himself and smooth the path of his sybaritic lifestyle pressed on the Duke. He saw the doctor’s punishing eyes as they glanced sideways from his patient to the Duke’s shiny patent leather pumps and then up into his handsome face: a visual trip of social dimensions.

The Duke was aware. He’s wondering if I care about the accident or the child, and if I’ll assume real responsibility or just talking nonsense. I don’t blame him, all in all. He spoke firmly. I shall, of course, pay for your treatment of the child and make restitution to his parents in the event… in the event he dies. Whatever is necessary and just. Whatever! Although we meant no harm, I’m responsible.

The Doctor straightened up, peered at the waiting Duke and nodded. The driver cowered near the door as far away from the child with the crush injury as possible, hat in hand and his eyes drooping with tears and shame. The woman leaned against a wall and smoothed her apron repeatedly.

The doctor spoke softly now. I don’t believe the child will die, but he’ll need more sophisticated medical treatment than I can offer here. He should be transported to the hospital in Frascati as soon as possible. You see, he extended his hands in a gesture of futility, his gonads may be injured and there might be more. He requires X-rays, exploratory surgery and around-the-clock care. How shall we gain this, Duke Bergolini?

Allow me to use your telephone. I’ll phone my chauffeur and tell him to bring my car here immediately. It’s a good car, smooth riding and large. We’ll transport the boy to Frascati as quickly as possible. Will you accompany the boy too? He politely added, I beg of you. The lad might awaken and need help.

Of course. The telephone is there. The doctor pointed to a wall. I’ll accompany you, because the boy is stirring and will need medication or the pain will be too intense to keep him immobile.

The Duke made his call quickly. It was clear from his commanding voice that what he requested would be done with dispatch.

Within twenty minutes, a navy-blue Hispano Suiza touring car, driven by a liveried chauffeur, parked near the open door where the placid housekeeper waited mutely. Her mulish expression suggested she had seen much in her life: deaths, wars and village feuds, illness and recovery, pain and births; but essentially nothing changed. At least not so much she needed to concern herself with foolish attempts to pantomime surprise.

Ortolani’s arms thrashed and he tried to move his torso; but he only moaned as a rictus of pain split his face. Doctor Feraglio wrapped his torso and arms firmly to stabilize him and, just before the drive, injected him with a small dose of morphine for the twenty-kilometer ride to Frascati. They hoped desperately for a rapid journey.

Ortolani on his cushion and the doctor sat in back, scarcely moving on the tufted leather seats. The road was narrow but smooth, curving nicely over the hilly countryside. The powerful car covered the distance rapidly.

In Frascati, doctor Feraglio directed the chauffeur to the hospital near the town center. By now it was late afternoon, and rosy-gray streaks marked the sky like distant bruises. The fresh country smell was replaced by city odors in crowded streets: the stink of various fuels, garbage piled in lumpy bags and open barrels exuding garlicky-oily aromas. The Duke wrinkled his nose slightly and frowned.

The doctor gestured with his chin and ordered: Pull around this corner toward the emergency entry in back of the hospital. That’s the fastest way.

The car turned into a narrow driveway edging a large red brick building and parked near two ambulances with white crosses painted on rusty-red side panels. The bay doors of the hospital were open, and two white-suited male attendants squatted on a platform smoking cigarettes. They glanced at the elegant car and stood more or less at attention, their faces stiff and wary.

The Duke knew how to command immediate action if not respect, so he jumped out and shouted, Here, lads, we need help. One of you, please fetch a patient trolley, and the other inform any surgeon we need immediate assistance. We have a bad accident case. He gestured broadly and even clapped his hands in an anxious gesture. At least he was no longer wearing his pearl gray gloves and had left his cane and pince nez in the car.

The attendants nodded, scuttled their cigarettes and ran. Only minutes passed before one returned with a rumbling white-blanketed gurney. He jumped down from the platform and helped the doctor and Duke move the inert child up four stairs and from his cushion onto the gurney. Mariano, the chauffeur, stood nearby, but looked the other way.

This way, if you please, the attendant suggested politely and pointed to an entry at the end of the platform. As they entered the bay doors, they saw the second attendant approaching with a nurse and gray-haired man in a white tunic. Rapid steps on the marble floor echoed down a long, white hallway that looked sterile and smelled of carbolic antiseptic.

Doctor Feraglio approached the surgeon and quietly informed him about the case. The surgeon nodded from time to time, then shook his head in an almost derisive motion. He shrugged and looked down at Ortolani. Poor little bugger! Well, we’ll see what we can do for him. The nurse was silent and clasped her hands in front of her mouth prayerfully.

The surgeon nodded to the Duke and doctor Feraglio. I’ve already asked another surgeon to scrub up. Fortunately the surgery theater is free, because we’ll need to operate immediately. We’ve no other way of knowing how much internal damage or bleeding there is. We’ll X-ray, but more importantly we’ll open the pelvic area to ascertain what happened to the child internally, and see if any damage can be repaired.

Doctor Feraglio nodded. Do your best, my friend, because I know this lad. His name is Ortolani Fabrizi. He has a marvelous singing voice and often enthralls the parish as soloist in our cathedral. He’s a fine boy. Now I must return to the village and inform his family. He turned to the Duke. Will your chauffeur drive me to Ortolani’s home?

Yes, of course. I’ll remain here during the surgery and telephone the palazzo to inform my staff and house guests not to expect me. He turned to Mariano. Follow Doctor Feraglio’s requests, then you’ll need to return for me, no matter how late. Wait for my call in the palazzo, Mariano. I feel it’s important I stay and see what happens.

He turned to the doctor. Give the parents hope, Dr. Feraglio. Tell them, repeat to them I’ll do everything in my power to see Ortolani has the best possible care. His voice drifted to a whisper as he ended his plea. Mariano and the doctor turned and left immediately.

My God, the Duke thought sadly, no one even mentioned the child’s identity until now. He recalled hearing Ortolani perform the Christmas Mass during a previous visit to Genzano. He was sick at heart, but felt a growing, even nagging urge to do everything possible for the child. If only he lived!

As the gurney disappeared down the white hall flanked by the surgeon and nurse, the Duke remembered his forgotten his cane and pince nez. He was without diversion of any kind, and had only inner resources to support him. There was no one to entertain him or dissuade a growing sense of guilt. At least he was not bored!

Time passed. The Duke stood, walked up and down the hall listlessly and glanced out of the smudged windows. The gold of sundown was becoming the silver of night. If only he lives! If only he lives! The Duke felt curiously like when he was anxious as a child and sneaked into the family chapel for a quick prayer. A heavenly bargain: If You do this for me, God, I’ll add twenty Hail Marys next time and study harder.

But did he really want life to include a new obligation? That would mean change. Did he want change? He was willing to pay any amount of money to help, but to change his lifestyle? Surely not to include the burdensome obligation of caring for a village child! An injured, perhaps even crippled child.

As the Duke smoothed his furrowed brow, a new sensibility edged its way into his resolve and he muttered: "If he lives, I’m willing to expend some of my precious empty time to a new resolve. I’ll help this child, not only with money, but also with emotional support. I must do whatever it takes to make him as whole as possible. If he lives." Another heavenly bargain? He chuckled in self-derision. What was his life about anyway? Una tempesta in un bicchier d’acqua? A tempest in a teapot?

CHAPTER 2

Two hours passed. The antiseptic smell of the hospital upset the Duke’s stomach. Bereft of action or diversion, he was pushed into thinking. There was no escaping thought when options for distractions were blocked. He stood. He sat. He smoothed his trousers, checked his pockets and jiggled his coins.

Boredom was unfortunate. The Duke had left Rome precisely because friends and politics were becoming boringly thoughtful. Political pressures were forcing some friends from complete indolence into murky thinking and muddled actions. The Duke had hoped for surcease: escape from the oppressive heat of Rome; escape from a mistress who was becoming wearisome; escape from boredom; and especially escape from political frenzy and unwanted social change.

The Duke disliked most change because it required adaptation. Effort should not be wasted on dull activities such as reorganizing life to include more obligations. Besides, he knew nothing about children. The Duke was not a cold man, but he scarcely remembered his own coddled childhood. How could he be expected to know what to do about a wounded peasant boy with a fine voice?

His thoughts moved back and forth between positives and negatives. As he sat or walked, the Duke realized how he hated, yet longed for change. He needed change to escape boredom, but proved unable to adapt to it graciously unless he defined and chose it. Why change anything? His ancestors had made all the right choices and braved battles in order to insure their progeny a comfortable and superior lifestyle. That was the natural way of human society and life.

He paced up and down the reception hall, but the numbing uniformity of the environment failed to derail troubling thoughts. Only lately had the Duke allowed small doubts to enter and permeate the otherwise seamless fabric of his intellectual, aesthetic and social world. How had this happened?

The Duke’s most compelling approach to life was aesthetic: the gracious and sensually satisfying interrelationship of environment, actions, and daily entertainment. Good life was like good theater or opera. No, not opera. Opera was too dramatic, but similar to exciting and pleasant drama. But whether or not he liked it, now the Duke was being buffeted by unchosen change related to a potential tragedy.

He gripped the sides of the chair tightly. Even when sociopolitical ugliness disturbed his most resolutely frivolous peers and nudged the corners of his perception, he resolutely maintained his lifestyle. He joined no groups and cheered no leader. He smoothed his hair for the hundredth time, felt petulant and thirsty. Wealth and titled privilege should protect one and not allow life to be buffeted about by extraneous obligations which even money could not ward off.

More than three hours passed. This was unconscionable! Occasionally the Duke stood, stretched irritably and sat down again. He was tired and his back ached. He felt unusual constrictions in his stomach suggesting hunger; however, it would be inelegant to voice this out loud. He remained silent and waiting. He was tired but too agitated to take respite in napping. His thoughts churned on.

He considered the irony of his having neither escaped boredom nor self-questioning by this trip to Genzano. Perhaps there was no escape any more. With men like Benito Mussolini and his uncouth minions in control, what hope was there for him? A prolonged escape by changing locations or rotating his residences more often? Even moving out of his country? But where? Never mind! He had nearly killed a child today, and that was enough to jog more than a hapless search for new distractions. He felt vaguely guilty.

By now it was night, and the Duke was heavy with a pervasive ennui. Why hadn’t he asked his chauffeur to return? Mariano could have brought cheese, bread and good wine from the palazzo. Why hadn’t he asked him to return with a book and food after he drove the doctor to inform the child’s parents? He was unaccustomed to being without comforts within reach. Then he felt a flush of shame to be preoccupied with food and entertainment while Ortolani, a talented boy, was lying near death because his phaeton had partially crushed his body.

Nurses and occasional huddled couples passed back and forth along the hall in front of him. He sighed and looked around at the blur of white walls decorated with a solitary heavy, wooden crucifix: that omnipresent symbolic reminder of love and wrath depending on which side of the Lord one rested on or struggled against.

When he glanced down the hallway yet again, he saw the surgeon round the corner and walk toward him with hunched shoulders and bent head. The Duke felt a jolt of fear at the crimson blotches on the white cuffs of his tunic.

When they met halfway, the Duke asked anxiously: Doctor, tell me… . Is he? How he is? What could you do for him? His voice hinted of ragged fears.

The Doctor looked up wearily, ran two fingers around the back of his collar and stretched his arms in a tired arc. Ah, well, he’s alive. I think he’ll live if we can avoid infection over the next week or so. He isn’t conscious yet. He’s still under anesthesia. We did what we could for the poor little bugger, but he’ll never be—never become a normal man. Because of his injury, he’ll be a eunuch, a castrato. It was necessary to remove most of the mangled penis and scrotum. Repair wasn’t possible, but a connection to the bladder for a catheter was well preserved. We can only hope and care for him now.

The doctor shrugged and looked at the walls rather than at the Duke. He waited stolidly for further comments before he could escape for clean up and respite from his bloody business.

The Duke did not know how to respond. He was stunned by the reality of what he had feared and unable to bridge the chasm between the before and after this report. He felt coolness in his chest that conflicted with the grinding heat in his bowels. Yet he must say and do something. Generations of social indoctrination came to his aid.

I’m so very, very sorry. I’ll do everything in my power to assist him now and in the future. I’ll take legal steps to assure he’ll need for nothing. The family will be compensated. I realize that this—that any compensation falls short, but… . His voice drifted off as a passing gurney and nurses’ calls interrupted further conclusions.

The doctor and Duke stood still as statues. The Duke tried to imagine the life of a castrato in contemporary Italy, but was unable to relate it to anything but sexual intercourse. Or the lack of sexual intercourse. What could it mean overall? He had absolutely no idea.

The Doctor roused and addressed the hallway vaguely. Yes, that’s good. With gonad removal he will need periodic medical attention, guidance in the performance of urination, self-care and so forth. Such cases should include dietary attention and things we can discuss in the future.

The surgeon rubbed his hands and spoke more briskly. I suggest Ortolani be taken to Rome where he can consult with specialists regarding periodic check-ups and so forth. I doubt they can do more for him surgically, but one must check any possibility. He was weary and wanted to escape the Duke and his guilt quickly. He turned slightly, shot his sullied cuffs and pointedly consulted his watch.

The Duke recognized the body language and rallied. Please send all bills to my Rome address which I’ll leave at the desk. With your guidance, I’ll make referrals to specialists. I thank you deeply for your care and treatment. I’m so sorry this happened, but there was nothing we—I could do to avoid the accident.

The surgeon shrugged. "Accidents occur and innocents suffer. Please consider yourself guiltless, and your kindness to the lad and his family appreciated, Duca Bergolini." He drew his heels together and bowed slightly in an automatic gesture of ingrained respect before he turned and walked away. His footsteps echoed down the long hall and into a hidden office or restroom. There was coolness in their determined wake.

The Duke wanted to return to his palazzo as soon as possible. He did not want to see the boy, the mutilated child. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But he knew in his heart that was impossible. He felt inextricably tied to the child. Even the thick one-way screen of social status could not shield him on this occasion.

He walked toward the desk where a sleepy attendant in white waited-out her shift of duty. Without permission, he telephoned to demand immediate transport home. He needed to return to his more natural environment. Why hadn’t he asked Mariano to return earlier? Already chaos intruded because of his caring for this child! An inability to control his life was already intrusive and unpleasant.

Mariano arrived quickly and shepherded the silent Duke into the car. He said nothing as they drove back toward Genzano. The palazzo rose in statuesque, pinkish splendor at the end of a long cobbled drive angling off the main road. Soft lights from bronze lanterns flanked the driveway. The palazzo was famous for it gardens with many fountains, quaint ponds, baroque stairways and paths where one could wander in play or solitude. The Duke was relieved to enter this more comfortable and familiar universe of meanings and status.

Like similar villas on Genzano’s hills, the Duke’s palazzo was originally designed by a celebrated Tuscan architect in the late seventeenth century. Rooms and wings had been added from time to time, as well as waterfalls or facades here and there. Apartments were modernized for the scions who lived in Rome and only visited several times yearly; yet, the core of the original palazzo remained intact with its fine mosaic floors, marble trimmings, frescoed murals, ornate windows, studiolos and inner courtyards.

At night, baroque garden statues twisted and thrust their lighted shapes through shrubbery along the walkways. In daylight, cherubs writhed and satyrs leered at modern women with bare legs who giggled at their saucy insouciance. Soft lights from mullioned windows illuminated the marble portico. Mariano parked the car. Peace at last!

The Duke climbed the marble stairs and entered towering bronze doors. He wordlessly handed his cane and gloves to the waiting butler and continued to his bedroom, mounting a curving marble stairway edged by bronze filigree railings. His steps padded silently over Aubusson carpets. He closed the door to his bedroom suite, dismissed his waiting valet and reclined on the couched green silk cover of his enormous bed. He was fully clothed and unaccustomed to such careless informality.

Now that he was home, he had lost his appetite. The Italian word evirato, non-man, whispered in his mind. To be unmanned in Italy was tantamount to being unpersoned. He closed his eyes and tried to turn off an internal cinema of the tilting phaeton, the crushed child and bloody hospital scenes. He would garage the phaeton, perhaps even destroy it, and never play the nineteenth century nobleman again. How many other habits would he feel compelled to change before those scenes were obliterated?

The Duke would have liked to talk to his wife, Hortensia, but she was busy with her friends in Rome. His own few guests were more interested in tennis and riding than strife and interruptions. He knew they were lounging around somewhere sipping after dinner drinks, but he could not bear to see them and explain his absence. Bit by bit the heavy lassitude of emotional fatigue overtook him and he slept in his fine dove-gray suit, the pince nez on its black silk cord lying in a curve across his chest.

His last thought was to give the paired team of horses away. Maybe the boy’s family or the doctor could use them. His last conscious image was of Ortolani, inert under a white coverlet, his black hair spread over the pillow and his empty hands with fingers curled at his side. He saw it in his mind without having seen it in fact. But he could not imagine the empty groin even if he had actually seen it.

The Duke who hated yet craved change was already changing. The neural pathways linking expected and patterned thoughts were under assault. This unanticipated and catastrophic event, like a bleak harbinger of a different life, was unpleasant. What could he make of it? What could the child make of it? What could the world make of it? And what should or could he do about it now?

CHAPTER 3

Ortolani’s eyes fluttered open slowly and he shut them tightly to think. His thoughts were confused so he opened his eyes again, looked around and tried to understand the nightmarish environment. He felt glued to the bed. He was stiff and terribly sore. He tried to stretch, but a searing pain ripped across his lower abdomen and groin.

He gritted his teeth and waited. His eyes fluttered and tightly closed again. Tall reeds, a stream, running horses and wheels flitted across his memory-screen. He felt breathless with pain. I’m not dead because I hurt. Unless this is hell, but I don’t believe it is. What have I done? What was done to me?

Ortolani’s senses perceived shreds of his environment: women’s voices calling, some soft, some louder; groans and sighs; an odd antiseptic smell; a laugh and bit of distant song; and whiteness. All around whiteness when he peeked.

This time Ortolani opened his eyes purposefully. He was in a large, white room, alone and without his family. His lips felt stiff and dry. He tried to call for his mother or even his father, but his throat was dry as sand and tight. He licked his lips and found them ragged with bits of torn skin.

Nothing changed each time he closed then opened his eyes. He felt unable to move… tied to a bed or whatever. His breathing was raspy like sighing, and he was afraid. He wondered if he was dying. Dying alone in a white room.

Ortolani turned his head. His neck felt stiff as he twisted it and saw blue sky outside a window of the white room. He lay there afraid to move, avoiding the terrible pain that came each time he stretched even a little. His hands were strangers. He lifted and studied them from afar. They were way down along his sides and he was way up on a pillow. Although fearful, he felt an absurd desire to giggle. He was hungry, thirsty and afraid of something but unsure what.

As he struggled for control, a white door opened, and a woman entered. She seemed a vision in a white smock over a striped blue and white skirt. She wore an absurd white cap with wings riding high over her crown of smooth brown hair. She saw Ortolani’s open eyes and pasted a wide smile on her face. Oh, little master, you’re awake! Good. God’s blessing on you!

She approached and Ortolani heard the crisp crunch of her starched smock as she leaned over him, serious brown eyes studying his face. She wore a small brown wooden cross on a chain around her neck. It swung out and back, striking her pigeon-rounded breast as she moved. She gently punched up the pillow and he cringed with a new pain.

"Sorry, little master! I’ll bring juice. You can drink today. You need liquid. The doctor will come soon. We must be ready. Your mother and father too. This afternoon. No