Excerpt

Chapter 1

Feeling her stir, I rolled over towards Luiza and softly asked, “You awake?”
“I am now,” she replied sleepily. Then, wiggling herself closer, she cuddled up against me.
“Why don’t you go back to sleep? It’s too early to get up,” she said quietly.
“I can’t sleep,” I replied now putting my arm around her and tucking her in tighter, “I’ve been awake for a while. You know how I am just before leaving on a trip. I’ve started my twenty-four hour countdown.”
“You need to try to rest. You’ve got a long day ahead of you,” Luiza tried to say while yawning.
“You know my routine. In twenty-four hours, I’ll be here. In twenty-four hours, I’ll be there.”
Luiza turned her head towards me so I could see her roll her eyes and say, “Martin Daniels, I just don’t understand you sometimes. Is that why you were so distracted at dinner last night?”
“You could tell?”
“Could I tell?” she replied sarcastically. “You hardly ate.”
“I’m sorry. You know me. All I could think about was being at the airport, waiting at the gate, debating on whether I should join the crowd hovering around the gate, or just sit and relax and be one of the last to board.”
“I hope you’ll just sit and relax. Flying is so stressful for you,” she suggested.
“Why do people congregate around the gate anyway? Are they really afraid they’re going to miss the flight? Or, is it they can’t wait to sit in those cramped seats.”
Luiza again turned her face towards me briefly.
“What? Those things bother me,” I said. We softly laughed.
From our bedroom, the back window faces southeast, and it was just about this time the sun began lighting the room. The sky’s colors were bright yellow and orange highlighting the black silhouetted horizon. Above that, bright reds and purples filled what I could see of the sky. As I looked towards the window enjoying the colors, Luiza asked, “So what about bedtime? I wanted to cuddle, but you were just lying there lost in your thoughts.”
“Well, I was thinking we’re in mid-flight, just about the time the turbulence begins.”
She then rolled over facing me and wrapped her arm around my waist. Hugging me tightly, she kissed me and said, “I know a way to help you relax. After all, you’ll be gone a week.”
I kissed her on the forehead and said coyly, “I’m not distracted now. We landed a couple hours ago.”
She chuckled and kissed me again.
Every trip back to Italy was a mix of excitement and anxiety. Lying in bed, I couldn’t wait to see my relatives and old friends. Mostly, I couldn’t wait for the flight to be over. As an eighteen year old, I had studied art and apprenticed at a stained glass studio in Milan. I lived in Italy for three and a half years before returning to Boston to later open my own studio, Martin Daniels’ Stained Glass Studio. Over the years, I’d jump at any opportunity to create new stained glass windows for small village churches nestled in the Italian Apennines above Reggio Emilia. Their names are so familiar to me: Busana, Aquabona, Cavanella, and Ramiseto. This area’s significance is more personal since it is where my mother’s family originated. Luiza, my wife, is sure the windows were excuses to travel back to Italy. As other trips before, I expected this one to be more or less the same–a quick trip to install the windows, a few days to visit friends and relatives, and home again.
These opportunities to create stained glass in Italy started by accident. In the early ‘90’s, a second cousin, Domenico, conned me into making a few windows for his parent’s church, in Nismozza. His parent’s church was in a tiny village high in the Apennines. If you were to find it on a map, it’s half way from Reggio Emilia to La Spezia. Once I did the first church, word got out and spread to neighboring parishes. Every few years I found myself doing a few more windows and personally delivering them in small wooden crates. I’d build the crates from plywood and bring them as part of my luggage. I never dreamed fifteen years later I’d have done several small forgotten churches.
The five small windows I had with me on this trip were going into two different locations. One was the figure of “Our Lady of Mount Carmel”. It was going into a small village church down the road from where my mother was born, Camporella. The other four were for a convent located just outside of Torino. The four small windows for the convent were eight religious symbols. I salvaged them from old stained glass panels that were being discarded after a restoration project of a church just south of Boston. The symbols had to be a hundred years old. I centered them into the stained glass windows and made the whole window look old like the salvaged centered medallions.

Chapter 3

The Royal Palace, Turin Italy March 1943
“What have I done?” the King said nervously, while laying his hand over his forehead. “The deaths, the pain, the ruined lives, all because of my fears,” he muttered in sorrow looking out a window over the palace gardens.
“If only I could atone for my sins,” he lamented.
Looking up from the gardens on that clear night, a casual observer might have spied the King looking out from his chambers. They might have seen his bodily form silhouetted against his warmly lit room, but they would not have seen the anguish in his face, the proof of his tormented soul. Victor Emmanuel III, the King of Italy, had a lot to hide.
King Victor Emanuel III was the third king of Italy. He ascended to the throne in July 1900, because his father King Umberto I was assassinated. King Umberto I was shot four times by an Italian-American anarchist who claimed he was avenging the deaths of Italian protesters killed by the King’s troops a couple years earlier. Victor Emmanuel III was thirty years old when he took the throne and reigned until May 1946. His most notable physical characteristic was his short height, which didn’t even reach five feet. One his most notable aspect of his personality was his fear of assassination, causing him to seldom be seen in public.
“But you are the sovereign King of Italy. It is your duty to protect and defend our great country. You understood how dangerous Mussolini was,” encouraged his aide, Alessandro Grassi.
The King’s aide on the other hand was taller and larger than the King. Being well fed, he had more of a stout round shape and bald head. Grassi stood almost at attention several feet away in the middle of the beautifully gilded and baroque styled room. He was alone with the King in his private residence at the Palace in Turin.
“No. Instead of defending and protecting my people, I cowered,” replied the King. “I acted out of fear of Mussolini more than for the defense of our nation. I sent thousands of soldiers to their deaths. That maniac was drunk with power, and I was drunk with greed.”
Grassi tried to comfort the King, “Please sire, be at peace.”
“The day is coming when I will stand in judgment for my actions. I must be judged before The Almighty King. I believe that day is coming very soon.”
“Your Majesty, why do you talk that way?” his aide asked with concern.
“Because it’s true. I know it in my heart.”
“Do you want me to call for the Archbishop? I’m sure he’ll make himself available, if you believe you need him,” Grassi asked hoping to help.
“Yes, please call Archbishop Maurilio immediately, encourage him to come quickly and offer me absolution for my sins,” the King pleaded.
“At your command, your Majesty,” Grassi retreated from the King’s presence to summon Archbishop Maurilio Fossati.
Slipping down to the servants’ quarters Grassi disguised himself by dressing in common street clothes. He then slipped out the service entrance door and headed for the Archbishop’s residence. The disguise served to hide Grassi’s identity. He feared, if he was recognized as the King’s personal assistant, he would inevitably be singled out by the King’s enemies. The political climate at this time made it necessary for the King’s aide to take precautions. Rounding the corner onto a busy urban street, he began to make his way to the Archbishop’s residence. With his head low and his back arched, he stood at a tram stop a few blocks from Palazzo Reale. Grassi felt reasonably sure no one would recognize him.

It was more than two hours later when the Archbishop finally arrived at the Royal Palace. As they approached the main gates to the Palace, the Archbishop and his entourage were immediately allowed access. The Archbishop didn’t arrive in his usual regalia and princely garb. Instead, he came in a simple black clerical suit with a traditional priest’s collar and a red zucchetto on his head. During this turbulent time in Italy’s history, even the Archbishop, a prince of the Church, might be vulnerable to assassination attempts. Once ushered into the King’s inner chamber, Fossati swiftly walked towards the King with his arms open wide and said, “My son, may your soul be at peace.”
“Your Eminence, you have finally come. Please pray for me, hear my confession, and absolve me of my sins,” pleaded the sovereign of Italy.
“Of course, but why are you so troubled?”
“Because that maniac Hitler will soon take over Italy, to try and prevent the British and Americans from gaining control of southern Europe,” his Majesty insisted. “We cannot keep the British and Americans out of Italy. I am forced to yield to the power and will of the Allies.” The King added, “Once I do that, the Nazis will not leave peacefully, but will take control of the country. You know how ruthless they can be. They will be merciless against our people.”
The King nervously paced around the room unable to calm himself down. It was obvious that he was in a state of paranoia induced panic.
“I now see why you are so troubled,” his Eminence said with concern in his voice.
“I also fear for our sacred treasure…the holy relic must be protected,” insisted the King.
“What are you saying?” the Archbishop asked with concern in his voice.
“I am talking about the only article that remains from Our Lord–His burial cloth. The sacred linen that wrapped His tortured body… I fear it will be stolen by the Nazis.”
The Archbishop, now understanding the intense concern of the King asked, “What are you proposing to do? What can be done?”
“I am thinking of protecting the sacred cloth the same way I protect myself.”
“But how?” asked Fossati, now wondering where the King was going.
“By having a duplicate made,” announced the King.
“What are you saying?” inquired the Archbishop, now even more concerned.
“What I am saying is I have a man who closely resembles me to protect me from assassination. Even Hitler himself has a double for safety’s sake. These extreme measures need to be taken. I am going to have a duplicate made of the original linen cloth Our Lord was laid in,” the King explained.
After the King had paused to reflect on this action, he added, “I must do this before it’s too late. I have already ordered my aide Grassi to begin to find a method to make an exact copy.” He looked up at the Archbishop, his face fraught with anguish. “Please, I need you to pray for my soul.”
With that, Fossati took a purple stole out of his jacket pocket, kissed it, and put it around his neck. He sat in an arm chair off in a corner of the room and motioned with his hand for the King to come and kneel at his left side. Victor Emmanuel III, King of Italy, went over to the side of the armchair, knelt on a pillow beside his confessor and as he made a Sign of the Cross said, “Bless me father for I have sinned…

Chapter 6

“Italy at last. I’ve arrived,” I thought with relief after making it through Customs. However, there were still a few things needed to complete before I could leave the airport. I passed café-bars, car rental areas, money changing stores, and other tourist related shops as I weaved in and out of the airport crowds. Spotting a cell phone store, I decided to get my phone activated. Leaving my cart just outside the entrance, I got in line. When it was my turn, I stepped up to the counter and handed the clerk my cheap little red cellphone.
“I purchased this on a previous trip. Will you still be able to activate it for me?” I asked hopefully. She turned it around in her hand inspecting it.
“That should be no problem. I just haven’t seen this model in a few years,” she explained and smiled politely.
“Is there an electric outlet where I may charge my phone when you’re finished?” I asked.
“Sure.” She pointed to an outlet on the lower part of the wall near the floor. “You may plug it in and leave it on the floor there.” I thanked her and waited for her to finish activating my phone.
I’d say, the woman behind the counter appeared to be in her mid thirties. Her hair was dark, and pulled back into a bun. She wore a smart uniform with the company logo over the left breast of her mustard colored blazer. Underneath the blazer she wore a light blue blouse. Because of the counter, I couldn’t see if she wore a skirt or pants. Although she wasn’t gorgeous, she definitely was attractive. While looking at her, or perhaps I was staring a bit, I began to think why I find Italian women so attractive. I decided it’s because they take care of themselves. What I mean is their hair is combed neatly, they wear a bit of make-up, and their clothes fit well and are stylish. Perhaps it portrays self-respect or a feminine confidence. I think Italian women believe their blessed to be women…but I digress.
“May I see your passport?”
I took out my passport and handed it over the counter. “Do you mind if I ask why you need it?”
“Here in Italy you need identification for everything,” she explained smiling again.
After a couple more minutes, she reassembled my cell phone with a new sim-card and phone number.
Handing it back, she explained, “It may take up to forty-five minutes for it to be fully activated.”
“Va bene, grazie,” I replied putting away my passport and credit card. After I plugged in the cell phone to charge, I announced to her, “I think I’ll go find a café and enjoy a cappuccino while I wait.”
“Yes, the cappuccino in Italy is very good.”
Just beyond the cell phone store, I noticed a café-bar a short distance away. I left my cart just outside café, and walked up to the cashier.
“Un cappuccino, e un brioche con crema per favore,”
“2.50.”
I handed him the money; he gave me my change, a receipt, and my brioche.
“Grazie.”
“Prego.”
I walked over to the bar and gave the barista my order, “Cappuco,” I said using the Milanese dialect. She immediately put a larger saucer and spoon in front of me to remind her I’m having a cappuccino. She then tore my receipt as is the custom.
Because of the crowd at the bar, the barista went nonstop, constantly pulling out the handled coffee holder, hitting it against a draw below that collects the used grounds. Then two whacks at the coffee grounds dispenser to refill it and back up to the espresso machine. A flick of a switch, two more cups were being made. I’m fascinated how quickly so many little cups of espresso and cappuccino can be made. Not like in the States, where they make a pot of coffee sometimes in a three gallon urn. If you’re lucky they add the cream and sugar.
When served, with cappuccino and brioche in hand, I moved away from the bar and stood at a cocktail table to keep an eye on my cart. There, I added my sugar and took my first sip. I closed my eyes and breathed in deeply the delicious coffee aroma, fully enjoying the sweet and roasted flavor. Placing my cappuccino down, I looked around the café and soaked it all in once again. “I’m finally back in Italy,” I thought to myself. The sights, the Italian being spoken around me and the flavors of my pastry and cappuccino, caused me to reflect back to my very first day here.
I had arrived in Italy for the first time, more than thirty years ago at Malpensa Airport. It also happened to be my first time flying, which I have never enjoyed. The cramped and close quarters, being surrounded by people I didn’t know, the turbulence—I still hate turbulence. Flying more than nine hours the first time in a plane was quite the white-knuckle experience for me. The plane touched down early in the morning after flying across the Atlantic all night. About the only thing I remember from that first time in Malpensa Airport was walking through the Custom’s doors. They opened out into a common area where friends, family and the occasional limo driver with a sign were waiting. As I came through the doors I saw Tamira Grappelli in a bright red coat. I recognized her right away. A year earlier she had sent us a family picture in which she wore the same red coat. Her neighbor Giancarlo accompanied her to the airport, since she didn’t own a car.
I vaguely remember the drive back to Tamira’s home in Giancarlo’s strange Italian car. I sat in the front seat and Tamira took the back seat. Giancarlo’s car was quite small and as I remember it was white. The thing I remember most was how he had to shift gears. Although it was a standard shift with the clutch on the floor, he would change gears by moving a handle just right of his steering wheel. It wasn’t on the column, but instead stuck out of the dashboard. He would push it in or pull it out and twist the handle left or right to change gears. I guessed this allowed the front seats to be a bit closer since there wasn’t a shifter on the floor.
The city of Milan was congested with vehicles of all kinds including trams, and big electric buses. Some of the buses were double long with a joint in the middle to get around corners, something I had never seen before. The city had a unique smell to me. It was more than the exhaust; I think perhaps it was mixed with aromas from bakeries and restaurants. Another thing I noticed, which I had never seen before was all the buildings had these roll up shutters. Some half way up some all the way down, they were everywhere, over all the windows. What also stood out was that quite a few of the apartment buildings had shiny colored glazed ceramic tile on the exterior as its siding. They were about the size of red bricks, and also staggered but vertically and not horizontally as bricks are.
We drove immediately to Tamira’s home in Segrate, which is just beyond the city limits. Because Malpensa Airport is about thirty miles north of the city and Segrate is southwest of Milan, it took us well more than an hour to finally get to their townhouse. It was close to noon by the time we arrived. The house they lived in was at the end of a cul-de-sac, at the far right end. It had a wrought iron metal fence covered with trimmed bushed.
They immediately brought my luggage upstairs to what became my bedroom. We greeted some neighbors who wanted a peek at the American, and shortly after we arrived they began to prepare lunch. I remember it was brodino, a light chicken broth with small pasta. They understood my stomach didn’t need anything heavy after flying all night. As soon as lunch ended, they brought me up to my bedroom and encouraged me to take a nap. I eventually woke up just after three and made my way downstairs to finally meet Tamira’s two children, Loretta and Massimo who had just come home from school. Loretta was older about eleven and Massimo was about nine. Loretta was excited to meet me and even tried to use her English with the encouragement of her mother. Massimo on the other hand was not excited at all. I’m not sure if it was because he was shy or felt another man was threatening his home. My difficulty with the language didn’t help. Massimo and I never really got to know each other during those months I was with them. Loretta on the other hand was eager to have me to help her with her English. Along with Tamira, she was always eager to help me with my Italian.
Shortly after four, we all squeezed into a small car and left for Selvapiana, a tiny village where Tamira’s family originated from. Their village is just beyond Parma in the Apennine foothills. With Tamira’s brother, Gianni, driving, I sat in the front and Tamira and her two kids squeezed into the back.
The trip to Selvapiana took a few hours to get to. From Segrate we were soon on the highway that heads towards Rome until we exited at Parma. From there we worked our way around the city to the outskirts, which was all flat farm country. Later I found out they grew grass for hay to feed the cows that produce the milk to make Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese, affectionately known as “Grana”.
Once we arrived in Ciano d’Enza a town ten miles beyond Parma, we turned left and immediately began to climb a narrow road that took us up to Selvapiana. While switching back and forth on the hairpin turns, Gianni tried to avoid falling off the steep embankments, which at times had no guardrails. It was well after dark by the time we finally reached the village. We were greeted at the door by Tamira’s sister Piera and her husband, Orlando. They had been watching for headlights out the kitchen window. Because there weren’t any street lights in Selvapiana, at night, the only light seen came from the few houses in the village.
I can still remember the fresh smell of the surrounding hay fields blowing past as we entered the house. The old fieldstone building had walls about two feet thick and was hundreds of years old. The doorways were arched and the stairs that led up to the second floor were stone treads, well rounded after centuries of use. The exterior of the house showed the field stones, but all the interior walls were plastered smooth.
They had no inside bathroom toilet, which I found out after dinner. Understanding I needed to go use the bathroom, Tamira’s brother, Orlando, gave me a flash light and gestured to follow him outside. We went around the house to the rear to where the barn was. There, a small room had been added on the side of the barn. Upon entering it, he pulled a cord attached to a light bulb dangling from the ceiling. The light revealed a flush toilet and a roll of the coarsest toilet paper I’ve ever felt.
After my thoroughly rustic experience, we watched TV on a small black and white television. I didn’t understand anything except that it was the evening news. Shortly after, they noticed me nodding off in the chair. Tamira got up, took my arm, and lead me upstairs to my bedroom, where I found out about the prete e suora (priest and nun) when she removed the pan of hot coals and surrounding cane rack that had been warming my bed. The cane rack protected the blankets from catching fire. Although I was never told which was the priest and which was the nun, they certainly warmed up my bed. Tamira handed me my pajamas and motioned for me to put them on and climb into bed. She left me alone in a dark room with the only visible light peeking through the door left ajar. After changing into my pajamas and climbing into the coziest bed I’ve ever been in, I fell asleep; unaware I was falling in love with Italy, her people, and especially the Grappelli family.