I asked at breakfast what the commotion had been. No one had heard the noises of the night; it was suggested that I had been dreaming. Months after, Patsy told me what had happened.
“You remember the two soldiers who challenged us when we reached the camp? They had to keep a strict watch at night so that the building materials and tools should not be stolen. The soldier on duty fell asleep at his post. He was wakened suddenly by the steps of his comrade, come to relieve him; before he was fully awake he caught up his gun and shot the poor fellow, who, as it happened, was his best friend. I had it from the cab-driver, never a word of it at camp of course!”
That morning Patsy hunted up the Avvocato Bonanno, and through him made several interesting acquaintances. He lunched with some officers, and recognized among the dishes served certain canned meats sent out from America for the profughi.
“The Sicilian peasants simply won’t eat them; they’d rather starve,” Patsy explained. “The only thing to do with the quantities of tinned food we sent is to feed it to the army; they’re not so particular. Another time when we want to help such people in a plight like this, we should send flour and corn-meal and trust them to turn them into macaroni and polenta, their two staples of life. We’re so fond of change, so keen about new foods, that we give old standbys, like hominy and oatmeal, new fancy names every year, just to sell them. An American believes something new is better than anything old. An Italian only admits a thing good that has been so proven by the centuries. Have you room in your bag for this?” Patsy handed me a pound package of Salada Ceylon tea.
“Where did you get it?”
“Bought it! We sent these poor devils half a cargo of tea! They did not know what on earth it was good for, tried to smoke it, chew it, use it as snuff—no go! Finally they put it on sale; now foreigners in camp and on shipboard can buy it at a fair price! The money is put into coffee; that is the very breath of life to a Sicilian.”
X
THE VILLAGGIO REGINA ELENA
“What did you think had happened?”
Caterina traced a cross with her bare brown toe in the dusty path of the campo santo: “Per Dio, Signora, we thought it was the Day of Judgment. Mamma, babbo and I were dressed, ready to go to work—we live here, my father is guardiano. My two brothers were in bed; they were killed. One still remains sotto le macerie; there is no way to get the body out. After the 28th of April no more may be moved on account of infection; it is finished.”
Caterina, daughter of the porter at the cemetery, a lovely girl of sixteen, was our guide. Smiling, she welcomed us, standing under a sculptured “Genius of Grief.”