THE LETTER-PART ONE

THIS STORY IS BASED ON REAL EVENTS. IN CERTAIN INCIDENTS CHARACTERS AND TIMELINES MAY HAVE BEEN CHANGED FOR DRAMATIC PURPOSES.

COFFEE AND CIGARETTES

Borgia, Calabria 1951

Through the gap in the shutter, Leonardo surveyed the outside world. His forehead pressed up against the cold glass he placed his hands firmly under his armpits for warmth as he watched the autumnal wind whip through the skeletal acacia trees taking their final few leaves with it. A frost had settled on the fields across the way leaching the last of the season’s colours from the landscape. The day was exceptionally cold for December and he could feel the chill of the room creep upon him as he pulled away from the icy window his forehead numb from the cold he placed his warm hands over his face as the feeling returned he shuddered at the thought of another hungry winter that lay ahead for him and his family. 

His wife, Teresa, lay motionless in the bed, her raven black hair tucked neatly under a faded red and white polka dot kerchief.  Their three boys snuggled up beside her; she could still feel the warmth of her husband beside her where he’d left the bed and thought it strange how it seemed like he was in two places at once. She watched his half naked figure dress in the muted dawn light, he removed his flannel shirt from the back of the broken chair and slipped it across his broad shoulders. Her gaze travelled past him across the lopsided kitchen table, along the mostly empty shelves to the stove where the last of the previous nights embers were slowing fading into black. She thought that she should remind him to stoke the fire but decided otherwise knowing it would wake her boys and rouse the house ahead of schedule, So she closed her eyes and allowed herself to drift back off to sleep. 

Unaware he had been being watched he continued to dress, he placed his trousers in a puddle on the floor then stepped into them quietly pulling them up over his waist. Once belted, he crept across the kitchen towards the stove. He could feel the cold damp earth under his well-darned socks rising up from the threadbare rug. He bent down in front of the stove slowly opened the door and placed the last log delicately onto the coals. As the wood ignited the room filled with a soft golden hue, Teresa sank deeper into her slumber as she began to feel the warmth on her face and smiled, ‘For once he had remembered the fire’. He slowly made his way back to the door, slipped on his untied boots, took his coat and hat from the hook and tiptoed out of the one room house. 

On the street the air was colder than anticipated, a sallow sun struggled to make an appearance in a pewter grey sky. An icy drizzle began to fall and the tiny frozen droplets felt like pin pricks on Leonardo’s warm skin. He really disliked rain but loved snow; he felt rain was ordinary it just made everything soggy and drab but snow was something special; It was just like magic changing the droll into glistening white, blanketing everything indiscriminately until it all appeared unscathed. And in this alternate pristine reality he could imagine life before the ruin, the loss, and the pain. 

A sudden blast of frigit air sent a shiver through Leonardo as he hurried to put on his coat and stooped to tie his shoes. The discordant sound of the damaged church bells rang out marking the hour and its clamor sent the pigeons darting from their nests. It had been seven years since the war ended and still the townsfolk hadn’t managed to fix the church bells or much of anything else in the town. Borgia, a hilltop town in rural Calabria had been spared from the allied bombing but not from the ire of the retreating Germans who took it upon themselves to destroy anything they thought was of value. The beautiful ancient town was left a shadow of its former self as were its people, However no one spoke of the war, not even Leonardo instead they wore it like a heavy coat, ever present upon their hunched shoulders, even their infrequent smiles were strained and weighted.

Leonardo pulled his coat more tightly around his body and buttoned it closed as he watched the birds return to their homes. He dug around in his pockets for a cigarette only to realise he’d left his gloves on the kitchen table. “Shit,” he whispered to himself as he considered going back inside, but thought otherwise not wanting to risk waking the boys and lengthening their hungry day. Instead he retrieved a cigarette from the pack, licked his lips, placed it in the corner of his mouth and lit up. He drew the cold air and smoke deep into his lungs, this combination sent his head into a spin, a sensation he liked it made him feel alive. Leonardo pushed his hat firmly down onto his head and drew another deep lung full of smoke and with his hands buried into his pockets set off down the road. During the war he had mastered the quirky art of smoking without ever having to remove the cigarette from his mouth or use his hands. In fact he could write a letter, fry an egg, load and shoot a gun even dig a grave but today it meant he could keep his hands in his pockets.

Leonardo made his way past an assortment of abandoned houses that were in various states of disrepair then onto a stretch of gravel that led him through the packed cemetery. Occasionally he joked with Teresa that there were more dead people in this town than living, Unsurprisingly she never found this funny. 

He continued on the gravel path up towards the ruined chapel and from there he squeezed through a gap in the thicket to Mrs. Meloni’s overgrown muddy olive grove. The wind and rain had picked up as he trudged through the maze of branches his head down as he pushed against the elements, miraculously still smoking his cigarette. The grove ran all the way to the town walls where it met a boggy canal. Here he clambered down the embankment and crossed a small stone bridge careful not to end up in the freezing murky water then on the other side he followed a well-worn trail along the wall to the town gates.  

Once inside the town wall he took the first right briskly walking down a narrow street festooned with frozen laundry that hung limply on frayed ropes stiff from the frigid night air then he took the next left down a tiny alley piled with the debris of crumbling buildings, the rumble under his feet made it difficult to keep his balance but he sped passed a gated courtyard where a pack of ravenous dogs barked fiercely. Smoke drifted horizontally from squat chimneys a sign that the town was waking from its slumber. He hurried onto Corso Matteotti, the main thoroughfare, it’s a cobbled street lined with rows of two-story stone houses, dirty grey or beige this lead him to the once grand Piazza.

In the piazza the drizzle turned to a downpour, a stray cat darted low slung in front of him as he took shelter under the portico of the Café Paonessa. The imposing baroque cathedral stood opposite him, nowadays masked by scaffolding with its bell tower haphazardly braced up like a wounded soldier. By some miracle the Germans had left the square’s café unscathed, Leonardo had often thought it was the owner Pascale’s charm that saved it. Pascale was wonderfully charismatic and like a second father to Leonardo. He was a barrel of a man; soft and round like an inflated balloon. His face was as big as dinner plate with tiny piercing blue eyes and a huge bushy white handlebar moustache.  He voice was low and coarse like a rake running through gravel but his demeanour was always jovial and upbeat. 

He had taken over the café when his brother fled to Argentina to escape the clutches of the mafia and before that he had been the post-master in Borgia, A role he had preserved for his son Aldo, who had sadly perished in the war. To add insult to heartbreak his daughter, Nina, ran off with a one-eyed American army man whom she helped nurse back to health. Pascale would have liked her to marry Leonardo but Nina refused believing that he was too handsome for her and that would only mean trouble. Nowadays, Pascale managed the café, delivered mail and cared for his ailing wife. Whom he believed was suffering from a broken heart.

The café had air of grandness about it and much like Pascale seemed to belong to a bygone era. The marble floors, rosewood counters with brass fittings, red leather bar stools and a huge, dusty crystal chandelier that hung center stage all felt out of place in the war torn town. The bar once had shelves stocked with liquors, wines, cigars and cigarettes, the finest prosciutto; salami and cheese would be strung up on display. In those days of old the women stopped in for bread, meats and gossip whilst the nights were abuzz with the din of men drinking, smoking and playing cards. Sadly now the shelves are bare, the chandelier unlit and the café mostly deserted.  

Under the portico Leonardo lit a cigarette and waited for Pascale to open, he closed his eyes and listened to the symphony of raindrops on the terracotta rooftop and his thoughts turned to his older brother Giuseppe. They would meet here each day they’d chitchat with Pascale over coffee then set out in search of work. They’d take on almost any job from cleaning cesspools to clearing fields of unexploded landmines and mortars, when work was scant they would hunt, When animals were scarce they would forage and when the forest was bare they would go hungry. The last few days Leonardo had been left to his own devices, Giuseppe had ventured to the Catanzaro, a two-day trek across a treacherous bombed out road which serpentines its way across the mountainside. It was not an easy journey but he did it with a sense of desperation and blind faith that he would come back a winner from the land distribution raffle. 

The raffle was a scheme by the government to return the fascist seized land to the poorer people of the south. Teresa had urged Leonardo to apply but Giuseppe got in first and unfortunately only one family member from each town could partake. Teresa was not pleased with Leonardo but he tried to appease saying that a win for Giuseppe was a win for the entire family. However, Teresa was not convinced, she knew that at the end of the day the land would always belong to Giuseppe, perhaps she was right Leonardo thought as a squall whipped through taking his hat with it. He jerked forward and caught it under his foot and placed it securely back on his head as he returned to the café he could see Pascale’s rotund figure emerge from the darkened backroom.

Leonardo Cossari

A curious adventurer living la dolce vita creating insightful narratives with his skills as a Freelance Writer, Content Creator and printmaker taking you on adventures through the wonderful landscape of fine food, wine, art and all things Italian.