The Vendetta Defense

gentlemen,” she said, which was what she always said.

“Good day to you, Signora Milito,” Tony replied, and both adults waited while Frank lowered his demitasse slowly to his saucer. It was a long descent for a two-year-old, and only after the cup had been nestled in place did Frank look up eagerly.

“Good day, Signora Milito,” he said in perfect imitation of his father, and Signora Milito nodded with approval.

“No biscotti today, for such a good boy?” she asked, and Tony smiled.

“Not today. Today is Frank’s birthday, and Silvana has a special dinner planned, with cake. We mustn’t ruin his appetite.”

“A birthday!” Signora Milito’s purse slipped down her arm as she reached over and pinched Frank’s soft cheek. “Happy birthday, little one!”

“Thank you,” Frank said, pleasing Tony.

Signora Milito was equally delighted. “And what a lucky boy you are, to have a cake on your birthday. Your mother must have saved her sugar rations.”

“She did,” Tony said. The whole family had saved for the cake, for with Italy entering the war, so many things had been impossible to get. The coffee shops produced only the watered-down coffee they now drank and NO COFFEE signs hung on many espresso machines. Gasoline was short, and in the city a special permit was required for use of the cars. Meat could be sold only on Thursdays and Fridays. Farmers like Tony often had no electric light or running water. The telephone worked only when it wanted to. Everybody said soap, fats, rice, bread, and pasta were next to be restricted. Tony couldn’t imagine it. Italy without pasta?

“Have you read the notice, posted on the kiosk near the church?” Signora Milito asked, but Tony shook his head, no. He didn’t add that he couldn’t read, though part of him suspected Signora Milito knew as much and was saving his face by informing him. “It says Il Duce needs our copper, from our houses. Pans, pots, tools, whatever you have. They need it for the war effort.”

“Then we must turn it over,” Tony said, in case anyone was listening. You could never be sure. The Blackshirts held absolute power, and those who spoke against the regime were as good as dead, the massacre of partisans well known. Tony, who hadn’t been conscripted because of his feet, thought Italy was fighting only to serve Mussolini’s vainglorious needs and abhorred the war. Nevertheless he said, “We will do what is necessary according to Il Duce.”

“We must.” Signora Milito nodded without enthusiasm, and Tony knew from their encoded conversations that she loathed the Blackshirts as much as he did. Signora Milito and her family had been prominent in Veramo for generations before the Fascists came. Everything that went on in Veramo, she knew. “Well, I must be on my way. Don’t let the boy drink too much coffee.”

“I won’t. Don’t tell Silvana, should you see her.”

“It’s our secret,” Signora Milito said, and with a wink, hobbled away on her dark shoes.

“Ciao, Signora Milito,” Tony called after her, and didn’t add that it was not only their secret, but a secret many of the townspeople shared, a vast but benevolent conspiracy.

The piazza began to fill with townspeople, strolling to this store or that, or hurrying home to change into their best clothes for the passeggiata. A group of Blackshirts rushed by, black tassels on their corded caps jumping with each step, their leather boots clattering across the cobblestones. Fascist presence was conspicuous in Abruzzo, with war wounded and party officials returning from the Ethiopian and Russian fronts. One of the passing Blackshirts caught Tony’s eye, then quickly looked away.

It gave Tony a start. Who was that man? Tony knew him from somewhere. Then he remembered, with a bolt of fear.

The day Tony was beaten, the day of the Torneo. The man was one of his assailants. He had been on the dais, whispering into Coluzzi’s ear. He was Coluzzi’s lieutenant. Tony found himself rising to his feet at the table, his eyes trained on the Blackshirt, and he felt as if he were back on the narrow vias of Mascoli, writhing like a whipped dog.

“Papa?” Frank asked. “Papa?”

Tony looked down and the sight of the child brought him back to the present. He had a son; he had won Silvana. But his thoughts raced ahead. If Coluzzi’s right-hand man had returned, had Coluzzi himself? It was likely. Holy God. Coluzzi was still a threat. Bad things had happened to the Lucias when Coluzzi was home; directly after Tony and Silvana’s engagement, but before Coluzzi had gone to the war in Ethiopia, Tony had found his beloved pony gutted in the pasture one morning, and his first car had been set afire one night. Tony knew that Coluzzi had done these criminal deeds, but he was too terrified to tell the police, who were all good Fascists. The crimes had stopped when Coluzzi had gone. But was he back? Reassigned? In Mascoli? In Veramo? Here?

“Papa?” asked the child, his round brown eyes clouded with worry, and as much as Tony wanted to, he couldn’t dismiss his anxiety. Suddenly it filled him, setting him trembling.

“We must go, son.” Tony reached for his wallet, pulled out the lira, and left it crumpled on the table. “Come, now. We go.”

“But Papa, my coffee. Is not all gone.”

“We’ll have coffee at home.” Tony came around the table and took Frank’s hand as the child slid obediently out of the chair. “Special for your birthday.”

“At home?” the boy asked, bewildered. “Mama says no coffee.” Frank raised his arms to be lifted from the seat, and Tony grabbed him more quickly than usual. The mention of Silvana’s name had reached his heart. At home? Could Coluzzi be back? The fear in Tony’s stomach was undeniable.

“We must go,” was all Tony could say, his voice unaccountably choked, and he carried Frank along to his bicycle, set him on the middle bar where he always sat, jumped on the bike and pedaled off.

“Whee!” Frank squealed, delighted at the unaccustomed speed, but Tony kept a steadying hand on the boy’s chest. Tony’s fear powered his feet. His thoughts were on Silvana. This would be the perfect time for Coluzzi to strike. Everybody in town knew that Tony and the boy had coffee on this day, at this time. In fact, it was the only time all week Silvana was alone. And it was the boy’s birthday. Tony picked up the pace, as fast as safety allowed.

They pedaled through the town, dodging farmers, cars, horses, carts, and other bicycles, into the countryside, with Tony fueled by sheer terror. Tony’s breath came in labored gulps. His legs began to ache. Sweat dampened his forehead.

The child screamed gleefully on the middle bar. “Yiii!”

Tony avoided each large rock as the paved road turned to dirt, swerving dangerously, and one time Frank yelped in fright. Then came another rock, and another yelp. Frank was becoming frightened, sensing his father’s mood, and with a child’s wisdom realizing that something was going very wrong. His hands reached up for his father, and Tony held fast to him. The bicycle barreled ahead, flying past a stray sheep, on a momentum of its own. Silvana was alone, unprotected. Silvana. Coluzzi. Tony’s feet raced around the pedals. Silvana. Coluzzi. Silvana. Coluzzi.

“Papa! Stop! Papa!” On the bar, Frank was crying fully now.

“Hang on!” Tony called to him. He couldn’t stop now; the road led to home.

“Papa! Stop! Please! I said please!”

“Hold on!” Tony yelled, as the bicycle turned down the road to their farm, and as soon as he got home in his sight he found a reserve of strength and pedaled faster. The ache vanished from his thighs and the sweat evaporated from his brow. Even his child’s screams seemed far away. Home. Silvana. Coluzzi.

They zoomed toward the house, and when they reached the front door, Tony slowed the bicycle on the soft grass, scooped Frank in his arms as he let the bike fall, and ran with the boy crying under his arm into the house.

“Silvana!” he cried, charging over the threshold with the sobbing child.

“Papa! Papa!” Frank wailed, squirming from Tony’s arms to collapse in a crying heap on the floor.

“Silvana!” Tony looked wildly around the living room, gaily decorated with flowers and homemade notes for Frank’s birthday. The lace tablecloth had been put out, and a white cake sat in the middle of the table with noisemakers, pieces of nougat, and a large wrapped present. Silvana had readied everything for Frank’s celebration, to surprise him when they came home, according to plan. But she was nowhere in sight. Tony’s heart was seized