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The Last Italian: A Saga in Three Parts
Category:
Historical Fiction
ISBN-10: 1695213416
Type: Fiction
Pages: 279
Copyright: October 1, 2019
ISBN-13: 9781695213418
Price: $0.99 (eBook)
In 1911, Renzo and Gianni Como land with a Bersagliere regiment in Tripoli as the Kingdom of Italy goes to war with Ottoman Turkey. Angelina Scrivatti embarks on a dangerous journey to America to reunite with the man who abandoned her.
Brothers Gianni and Renzo Como land with an elite Bersagliere regiment in Tripoli, Libya, as the Kingdom of Italy declares war on the Ottoman Empire. What was expected to be a quick, glorious conquest devolves into primal combat as Italian forces are assaulted from all sides. Renzo risks everything to live up to his duty to protect his brother during a treacherous battle fraught with confusion, courage, and unspeakable cruelty.
Despite dire warnings, Angelina Scrivatti undertakes the perilous journey from Castrubello to America to claim a promise of marriage. She eventually arrives at a Michigan mining town to discover the man she loves struggling with guilt and despair. They soon become swept up in a storm of ethnic violence culminating in a night fraught with tragedy -- and one final chance for personal redemption.
FATE'S RESTLESS FEET is the second volume of "The Last Italian, A Saga in Three Parts", a gripping tale that begins in 1882 Italy and spans more than six decades of social and political tumult. Three generations of the Como and Vacci families face rapacious landowners, deadly epidemics, harrowing warfare, perilous immigration, and fascist brutality during the Kingdom of Italy's final sixty-three turbulent years.
Throughout, as the characters balance their commitments to love, loyalty, and honor against the pitiless demands of physical survival, inscrutable Fate forever stands ready to violently intervene.
Excerpt
Shortly after their arrival, Gianni and his tent-mates had made a perfunctory foray into Sciara Sciatt, looking for something to eat besides rations. It hardly lasted thirty minutes. Now Gianni, Marzo, and Emilio intended a longer excursion. They had been steadily manning the trenches since Renzo's visit four days earlier, staring into the oasis, dully watching Arab boys herd bleating flocks through the groves. The excitement of picket duty had ended after the first hour of the first day. The challenge now was less mastering their eagerness to engage the enemy and more simply keeping awake. Sergeant Cena finally took mercy on their platoon and gave them a full six hours of their own.
When they arrived at the village, which took all of three minutes, other 4th Company men were already there.
The street scene bustled with friendly interactions between villagers and strolling soldiers. Once the company had established itself in the area, initial shyness on both sides had worn off quickly. A mutual acceptance had established itself. The people of the oasis were extremely poor; some came to the soldiers begging for scraps of anything. Many of the young conscripted soldiers, especially those from the smaller communes, understood poverty full well. The Italians freely shared rations and small treats with the local children.
“Let's start at this end,” said Emilio. “We can try that place where they serve that whatever-it-was we had last week.”
They had shared an egg dish the proprietor had called shakshouka that included lamb jerky, sautéed garlic, onions, and peppers. Emilio declared it “fantastico!” Marzo commented, “better than hardtack.” Gianni had said nothing but vomited up his guts later that night.
“No grazie,” he said to Emilio's suggestion. “You two go ahead. Enjoy. I will meet you both,” he looked at his pocket watch, a gift from his Zio, “in an hour, by the belt maker's, just over there.”
He set out with an airy wave. Deciding to explore the next street over, he walked down a narrow alleyway between buildings. Gianni emerged onto a small piazza with a communal well. Mudbrick buildings crowded the street, more residential than commercial, although a few open doorways under cloth awnings seemed to invite passersby to enter.
Village women were coming and going at the well, filling tall earthen jars with water. They studiously ignored him as they went about their task. After filling their jugs, they set them on their heads. One hand balanced the water jar, the other was free. Somehow, they made the process effortlessly graceful.
Gianni found himself walking behind one such young woman. Her free hand clutched that of a small girl. The pace was slow, but Gianni did not want to try to squeeze past the girl in the narrow avenue. He shortened his steps, staying about ten paces behind. He was the only soldier on the street. He caught himself hypnotically watching the rhythmic sway of the woman's hips beneath her rustling robe. Stop it, Gianni, he told himself. You have a wife! You will soon be a father! All that talk of women back in camp, it has crazed you! He looked for a side street to get back to his friends. I will join them after all, he thought. That place must serve some sort of normal bread.
The woman ahead suddenly stumbled and fell. The clay jar bounced once on the dirt street, then shattered. The child fell as the woman's grip held firm. The little girl began wailing loudly.
Gianni ran forward in an instant, as a few nearby doors opened. He turned the woman over, exposing her face and head. She was young, dark-haired, eyes closed, bathed in perspiration.
A few residents of nearby dwellings began to emerge, crying, "What is this foreigner doing?" Emboldened by their numbers and the aloneness of the westerner, they began to surround where he knelt. Gianni only heard rapid, incomprehensible jabber. He looked around; the circle was growing. Why was no one stepping forward to assist?
"She took ill and fell," he said, looking into the uncomprehending, veiled faces. "She is not well." He unclipped his canteen from his belt and tilted back the young woman's head. At first, the water dribbled down her chin, then her eyes fluttered open, into his. She shut them quickly but sipped.
Gianni lifted the woman in his arms, her robes gathered akimbo. "Where is her house?" he asked loudly. Blank stares replied as the chattering increased. He freed a hand and pointed at various doors. "Door?" he asked.
One intent woman nodded. “Ah, sakan!” She lifted the sobbing child from the street and beckoned Gianni to follow. The rest of the group, heads bobbing as they prattled, surrounded Gianni and the woman in his arms, forming a burka-covered escort down the street.
Gianni and the first half-dozen of the group all squeezed through an indicated doorway, as the rest stood outside peering within. The woman with the child gestured to a pallet on the floor. The sick woman opened her eyes again as Gianni set her down. Her lips moved briefly. He pressed his canteen into her hands as the others around them fussingly converged.
Gianni heard rapid steps and the women go silent as three men entered the room. The oldest, likely the father, Gianni thought, wore a striped blue and green scarf and gray robes. He and the two younger men neither smiled nor spoke. The black-bearded father stared at his daughter, then sharply back at the Italian intruder under his roof.
Gianni did not try to explain himself. To what purpose? He was not looking for gratitude. He had only done what any decent person would have.
"Please keep the canteen, signorina," he said to the girl, then, “mi scusi.” The men between him and the door briefly hesitated, considering, but stepped aside. Despite their hostile stares, Gianni respectfully touched his helmet and departed, ducking beneath the low doorway as the women outside parted to let him get by.
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