The Barber from Palermo

By Marianna Ramondetta

Sicily, 1866. Ten-year-old Giacomo witnesses the brutality of a revolutionary uprising and his family escapes to the vineyards.

At sixteen, Giacomo is given a one-way ticket to America. On his journey he faces threats and illness, and discovers a mysterious key, which he hides in a cherished plastic statue of the Blessed Virgin. Arriving in New York, Giacomo - now James - becomes entangled in gang wars, secrets of a stolen chalice filled with jewels, and a murder he didn't commit.

New York, 1901. James now knows where the jewels are hidden, and who is after them. As the past reaches the present, his life comes full circle.

An historical adventure full of mystery and suspense, Marianna Ramondetta's THE BARBER FROM PALERMO tells the story of a Sicilian immigrant who must walk a fine line between his conscience and survival.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Next Chapter
• Release date: Oct 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9798890086310

Book preview

PROLOGUE

New York City 1955

He was on the last decade of the rosary, when he heard someone outside his apartment. And then, a moment later, the knob on his front door being turned.

He lay perfectly still, not moving a muscle, thankful for the discipline he practiced at the monastery. If someone had broken in, a common thief, it was better if he pretended to be dead.

Yes, someone had broken in. Someone was in the room.

He could hear the slow, labored breathing.

And even though he fought against it, he couldn’t resist opening one eye.

Someone was standing right in front of him.

Maybe this was just a dream, except when you dream, do you also smell the odor of garlic, of anise and incense?

As the figure strode several steps forward, he saw the outline of a pistol, pointed straight at him. He clutched the rosary beads and started to say the Act of Contrition.

He wasn’t afraid to die. He had lived the life he had chosen. He had done what he needed to do.

From out of the shadows, he saw the glimmer of a trigger. And just like that he knew.

He knew where the jewels were.

He knew who the murderer was.

And why the killer had come.

PART I

CHAPTER 1

Palermo 1866

Giacomo Vincenzo Bongiorno tossed in his small cot. He had gone to bed hours ago, but his mother had been silly to think that he could sleep. She was silly also to think that he was unaware of what was happening in the center of Palermo, too close to his front door.

His father, a local barber, with his best friend Lorenzo, had organized a campaign to break free of Italy. They wanted their own town councils, their own police force, their own judicial system and, when they paid taxes, they wanted those taxes to go towards the betterment of Sicily, not to the beautification of Rome or displaying art in Florence.

They wanted their freedom.

But Italy was not having any of this and they were sending soldiers to take possession of the island and drive the insurgents out.

Soldiers with guns and bombs. And what could a few townsmen do - how could they fight?

It was hopeless and if it were he, Giacomo, he would just give up. But that wasn’t his father. His father would stand on his principal, he wasn’t a coward.

Well, Giacomo wouldn’t be a coward either.

He was ten years old. He was old enough to fight.

Was he old enough to die?

He slipped out of bed and reached for his sandals. He knew that his mother would be in the parlor, saying the rosary while she rocked his little sister, Antonina.

She had reminded her husband, again and again, that the Italian soldiers were men, just like him, fathers and sons, who were being sent into battle, probably some against their will. They were not monsters. She believed that no good could come of violence and begged Giacomo’s father to stay out of the protest. But her pleas fell on deaf ears.

If Giacomo wanted to go outside, he couldn’t just walk out the front door, not without his mother seeing him. He’d have to jump out the window.

Slowly Giacomo tiptoed forward, hoping that his mother wouldn’t hear him, especially when the window creaked. He was on the second floor. The small apartment was above the barber shop, but it wasn’t the first time Giacomo had sneaked out. But never for such an important reason as this.

He was just about to crank open the window when he heard shouting. Had the fighting moved even closer - now right outside his door?

Giacomo stepped back and watched in horror as the sight unfolded in front of him.

A group of men, some of them he recognized were running, holding bricks, Mr. Carnceo, who owned the town bakery, Mr. Moretti, the schoolteacher, who had taught Giacomo to read, Mr. Bruno, who sold wine out of his small home, Mr. Russo, the shoemaker, Mr. Esposito, the jeweler, and Father Bianchi the pastor of St. Agatha’s.

There were other men also, men Giacomo didn’t recognize. Perhaps they were from the neighboring villages, San Vito LoCapo, Cefalu, Trapani, Marsala. They had come to join the fight, holding concrete and large hunting knives. A few of the men had guns.

Then Giacomo spotted his father and his heart pounded. His father was not a large man, barely five foot four inches, with a small, lean body, a heart-shaped face, a shock of pitch-black hair (which he dyed religiously) and a pencil-thin mustache. He looked lost among the stronger, taller, heavier men, even if he was grasping a single shot pistol.

Where was Lorenzo Grasso? Wasn’t he the one who had organized the revolt? Why wasn’t he standing by Giacomo’s father?

Suddenly, in a spilt second everything changed. Hundreds of men in gray unforms surged forward, carrying rifles and revolvers. So many of them, equipped against a small knot of town people.

A voice thundered, loud and clear. Your leader Lorenzo Grasso has been executed. Put down your weapons and end this futile battle. You can’t possibly win a war against us. I beg you, don’t make us do this. It’s suicide.

It was suicide, even Giacomo knew that. And he also knew that this was the moment when they could have surrendered.

And they missed it.

It was impossible to see which man struck the first blow.

But suddenly the air was full of smoke, bricks were flying, bullets were pinging, and men were screaming.

The roar of gunfire was punctuated with the sounds of hopeless cries, of loud groans. Giacomo saw a man running with part of his face missing, his nose dangling, his teeth protruding from one of his cheeks.

He was running away one moment, the next moment he fell down in a fountain of blood, shot in the back.

Within minutes the battlefield was covered in gore, in amputated limbs. Giacomo didn’t want to keep watching but he couldn’t turn away, not until he knew that his father was safe. But he could hardly see his father, among the corpses of the slaughtered men.

And then he did.

His father had a young soldier by the neck, his arm held tightly, his gun pointed at the soldier’s head. The soldier’s uniform was covered with blood, and, even from the distance, Giacomo could see that the soldier wasn’t a grown man at all. He looked like a young boy, maybe just a few years older than Giacomo himself.

His father pointed the pistol, his finger on the trigger and then–

He froze just for a second.

A second was all that the soldier needed.

He broke free, grabbed his father’s gun and shot his father in the face.

Now it was Giacomo who was paralyzed. He stood still, watching in horror, telling himself that none of this could possibly be happening, that this was just a crazy nightmare, that soon he would wake up and his papa was safe, in the parlor, talking softly to his mama over the baby’s cradle.

But the sound of bricks shattering the glass and the sight of orange flames drew him out of his stupor.

The soldiers were burning down the town.

Quickly he dashed away from the window as a piece of concrete came hurtling towards him.

He crawled under the cot, his heart hammering in his chest, too shaken to shed a tear.

Holding his hands over his ears, he could not drown out the sound of the dying men, the cries of victory, the cracking of the roaring flames.

Then suddenly his door burst open.

CHAPTER 2

Giacomo felt his pajamas bottom wet with urine as he continued to hide under the bed.

Giacomo! His mother sounded frantic. Where are you?! Giacomo!?

At first, he couldn’t answer. He could barely breathe, as though something heavy was lying on his chest. Had the horror of what he saw made him mute?

Oh my God! Oh my God! his mother shrieked. Where are you?

I’m here, Mama, he whispered, as he crawled from under the bed.

She released a sigh, standing there, clutching Antonina to her breast. Thank you, sweet Jesus. We have to leave immediately. The soldiers are burning the town! We’ll go now and, when things calm down, your father can join us.

Giacomo opened his mouth to say - No, Papa won’t ever be joining us. A young soldier, whose life he had thought about sparing, shot him in the face. But when Giacomo saw the terror in his mother’s eyes, he remained silent.

Don’t take anything!

Don’t take anything? Giacomo looked around at the small cell that had been his room for his entire life - the posters of Lenardo da Vinci and Christopher Columbus on his wall, the small desk which held the beginning of his novel, a horror story about a man who turns into a wolf and children in a small town-

All those horror stories he had created paled in comparison to what he had just witnessed.

Hurry up, Giacomo. If the soldiers suspect that we’re hiding your father in this house, they’ll kill us all! She had barely finished her sentence when a brick soared through the broken window, hurling towards Antonina, missing her head by mere inches. She started to shriek but her cries were drowned out by the rattle of gunfire.

Then it was silent.

And that was the most terrifying sound of all.

Hurry up. His mother gave him a gentle push. We’ll go out the back staircase and head into the forest.

Giacomo grabbed a pair of pants as he thought about what his mother had just said. The forest. The forest was scary enough in the daylight but at night in the pitch black of the woods? What if there were soldiers camped out there? Would they kill a woman and her children?

Or would they do something worse?

From the top of his small bureau, he grabbed the small plastic statue of The Blessed Mother, which lit up in the dark. Maybe it would protect him.

He was breathless as he followed his mother down the steep stairs, her clutching Antonina and he, holding on to his trousers. He didn’t speak, not even to ask where they might be going because he was afraid that their voices would carry - that the soldiers were already in their home, tearing it to pieces.

He could barely see - the smoke from the fire enveloped them and the ground was soaked with blood, spilling over from the battlefield. He didn’t dare cough - just reminded himself to put one foot in front of another. Once they were in the woods, he stopped and put on his trousers, wishing that his pajamas weren’t wet. He watched his mother dodging the trees, which looked like rifles pointed at the black sky. A half-moon shined through the break of the trees.

He heard the flutter of wings. Looking up, he spotted a group of vultures, against a leaden sky, dark and ominous. No doubt the birds were eager to feast on the dead and the mutilated bodies.

He, like his mother, kept his head down because several times he almost tripped over the decomposing leaves and the twisted roots.

They had gone what seemed to be almost a mile when Giacomo found his voice. Mama, where are we going? The thought that they had no destination, that they would have to hide indefinitely in the forest filled him with dread.

We’re going to Piana degli Albanesi, his mother said breathlessly.

Piana degli Albanesi! Giacomo repeated. But that’s fifteen miles away.

Now it’s fourteen. If we keep walking, we can make it by tomorrow.

Piana degli Albanesi? And then he knew. We are going to Grandpapa?

She nodded.

But Mama, he threw you out of the house when you married Papa. Papa told me all about it. He said Grandpapa was furious. He had arranged for you to marry a Baron and the thought that you would prefer to be with his barber -

He told me to leave. Giacomo saw his mother stumble and then catch her balance. And to never return.

But - but we are returning.

What choice do we have? Our friends won’t take us in. They’re afraid that the soldiers will be searching for Papa and will kill anyone who might be hiding him.

Should he speak? Should he say, no, they won’t be looking for him. They know he’s already dead. He said nothing.

Grandpapa will take us in. He will have to. Even if he doesn’t want to. Grandmama will insist.

Giacomo was still trailing behind his mother. He saw her trying to hold Antonina as she pushed away from the sprawling limbs of the century old trees. He was trying to ignore the sound of rustling in the bushes. Even though a cold wind was blowing, Giacomo could smell the sweat from her body, mixed with the odor of pine needles, fungus, and the spray of a skunk.

Give me the baby, he ordered.

No.

Mama, please. I’m stronger, I can carry her. When she handed Antonina over, he looked down at his mother’s stomach and saw something he hadn’t noticed before, a round, high belly.

She was pregnant.

His mother nodded and they kept walking on a barely visible black trail. Giacomo tried not to think of all the things that could go wrong, the wolf that was howling in the distance could leap out and devour all three of them. The bewailing sounds that ghosted through the trees could be an animal that was being eaten alive by a bear, or coyote yapping, or a fox japing. They could get lost and spend the rest of their days wandering in the forest, hungry, thirsty, they could walk into the path of the soldiers, who would shoot them all, or take them as prisoners and do unspeakable things to his mother.

I mustn’t think of that, he told himself. I must be strong like Papa. He always said to only think good, happy thoughts and you would have a good, happy life.

So, he walked forward, even though his sandaled feet were blistered and torn from the rough twigs, which crackled every time he stepped on them. He could see beady eyes staring at him from the bramble.

It’s going to be all right. His mother almost slipped on a pile of wet leaves. Even holding his sister, he managed to break his mother’s fall. Your father will come for us, and we’ll start together in another town.

It wasn’t going to be fine. His father could not save them. Suddenly in a flash Giacomo felt an intense hate for the man he had always loved. He wasn’t smart, he wasn’t brave and, if it wasn’t for him, they wouldn’t be in this horrible position. Why hadn’t he taken his wife’s advice? Why couldn’t he have left well enough alone? Was living under the Italian rule so bad? His father made a decent living, cutting hair, pulling teeth, stitching up wounds, performing routine minor surgery - when there was no doctor available. They had a nice cozy place to live, plenty of fruits and vegetables growing in their garden, occasionally fish, when his father bargained with the sailors. They could have gone that way forever and now this-

And when his father had a chance to save his own life, he froze.

Of course, Giacomo couldn’t say any of this. Instead, he trailed behind his mother. He could hear that her breathing had gone shallow - what if she miscarried, bled out right on the rocky path, or what if the baby came early, and he had to deliver it?

Don’t think about it, he told himself. Instead pray.

He started to say the rosary. He couldn’t remember the Apostles Creed, but he knew the Our Father and the Hail Mary and the Glory Be. He had almost finished three decades when he saw his mother coming to a halt and resting her head against the back of the tree, the ridge of the bark biting into her face.

Up ahead the dawn was breaking.

Mama, why don’t we take a rest? he suggested.

She didn’t argue. Instead, she walked ahead a few feet and collapsed on a pile of leaves.

Giacomo handed over his baby sister and looked away as his mother took out her breast. He sank down behind a tree and closed his eyes, drifting off.

He had no idea how long he slept but when he woke up it was a warm day. The tree branches gleamed in the sunlight. His throat was parched, his eyes were dry and there was a cold metallic taste in his mouth. He was starving. He rose slowly, every muscle in his leg ached and his toes were on fire. He turned his back and urinated on the ground. When he came back, he saw that his mother was awake.

He helped her up and took Antonina, who was gurgling happily. The fresh day brought fresh hope to Giacomo - maybe everything would turn out all right, as all right as it could be with his father dead, and his home destroyed.

They pressed on in silence until they arrived in a small town. His mother held his hand as they walked by a bench where old men sat, drinking espresso, and eyed them curiously. The women, standing at the grocers, parted, and then whispered behind their backs. And the priest at the church scowled at them.

His mother continued to move forward; her head held high.

Until they came to a long, steep hill and on the top was the largest house Giacomo had ever seen.

CHAPTER 3

Giacomo was breathless as he followed behind his mother, who was climbing slowly up the steep incline. From as far as his eyes could see, small trees lined the dirt and at the end of the vineyards, he viewed a life size statue, standing guard.

That’s the statue of St. Jude, your grandfather’s favorite saint, his mother said.

And then Giacomo spotted a snowy white mansion, looming proudly, up ahead.

Mama, is this the house where you were born?

She nodded.

It’s beautiful.

"Actually, it’s known in town as The Little Palace."

Giacomo thought of the small four - room apartment they had shared over the barber shop - two cramped bedrooms, a tiny kitchen, a small living space and a latrine outside. Should he admire his mother for leaving this all behind or was she just crazy?

As though she could read his mind, she responded. I love your father, Giacomo, and I can’t imagine life without him.

You’ll soon have to, he thought.

After walking up a cobblestone path and climbing up a set of stone stairs, he watched his mother grow apprehensive as she used the bright gold knocker on the heavy, tall, varnished wood door.

A moment later, he heard footsteps, and the door was flung open. A tall, handsome man, with sharp features and hard, cold eyes stared at them.

Papa?

He looked at Giacomo’s mother up and down, as though she was someone he had never seen before. Then he turned his gaze to Giacomo and frowned.

There’s been an uprising in Palermo, the Italian soldiers have been brutal. They destroyed our home, our shop. His mother was speaking rapidly. We had to flee. We just need a place to stay for a few days, my son and my daughter, just until Domenico comes for us.

Domenico is dead, his grandfather stated. And so are Lorenzo and all those stupid Brigantaggios whom he persuaded to fight with him. Because of them, a lot of innocent people have been slaughtered.

It’s not possible. His mother leaned against a pillar. How could you know that?

You don’t think the news reaches out here? They were all fools, all of them, thinking they could win a war against the Italian soldiers. Well, they wanted to be heroes, now they’re dead heroes, and Palermo’s destroyed. Giacomo’s grandfather spit on the ground, missing Giacomo’s sandal by inches.

What was wrong with wrong with his grandfather? How could he be so mean? Couldn’t he see how tired they were, and his poor mother, looking like she might faint. Please, Grandpapa, he said, my mother isn’t feeling good and we’re tired and we’re hungry. We walked fifteen miles through the forest all night. Please, can we come in?

His grandfather didn’t acknowledge the plea but kept right on ranting. I told you not to marry him, a peasant with the brains of a flea. What kind of children could he give you? He’s contaminated our lineage. He glanced down at his daughter’s rounded belly. And now another brat is on the way.

Where’s Mama? Giacomo’s mother asked, her small voice held a tinge of hope.

She’s dead. Died of a broken heart after you left. Your brother Matteo is dead too. I’m an old man, I’m sick.

Please Papa, his mother begged. We have no place else to go.

A terrible rage came over Giacomo. He wanted to punch this heartless man, but he knew instinctively that such a rash behavior would only make the situation worse.

His grandfather held the door open a little wider.

Giacomo slipped through after his mother and found himself in a large, central hall, with white columns, with an oak-covered staircase, with fresh flowers on shining wooden tables and oil paintings on silk wallpaper, where painted birds danced on colorful flowers.

Carina, his father shouted out.

A flushed, heavy-set woman with a pale complexion and warm brown eyes entered from the door of one of the closed rooms. An expression of surprise flashed across her round face.

Prepare a warm bath for these peasants and find them clothes. There’s some in the attic. And then give them something to eat.

Yes, sir. Should I make up some of the guest rooms? How long will they be staying?

His grandfather stared darkly at the maid, until she lowered her eyes and reddened. I don’t know, he muttered.

After a hot bath and swaddled in clothes which were too large for him (perhaps belonging to his dead uncle, Matteo), Giacomo joined his mother in the kitchen.

He didn’t realize how starved he was until he began to eat, and then he gobbled down the food, fresh pasta with tomato sauce, some sort of fish he couldn’t identify smothered in butter and garlic, roasted potatoes, green beans, and crusty warm bread. When he was finished, he grabbed a pear from the fruit bowl in the middle of the table, and, when neither his mother nor Carina was looking, he hid the fruit in his pocket.

Just in case.