Vignette
The Cry in the Temple
The climb to the top was steep, the only access, a narrow winding path. Ruts and dislodged stones from torrential winter storms, and an occasional fallen tree branch made the ascent difficult.
The Mediterranean sun beat down without mercy on two small figures moving slowly up the mountain, their slender young bodies bent over to steady themselves against the strong wind. They made this climb many times before, but never in August, when the dreaded sirocco blew across the island, its fiery fingers reaching as far as Arles across the sea.
The sisters' fine leather sandals, not fit for climbing, gave little protection against the rough terrain. Whenever Gina cried out in pain, Ariana stopped to wipe away the tears and comfort her. Nonna Maria, reluctant though she was about her grandchildren's frequent visits to Monte Erice, would give permission only if an older cousin went with them. This Sunday morning, amid the chaos, the tears, the cries of anguish, Gina and Ariana hurried away without consent.
Ariana extended a dusty hand to her younger sister, helping her up the last few steps to the plateau. The hot wind, slightly cooled by the sea below, was now bearable. In a few minutes they would reach the Temple that loomed in all its majesty before them. This is where Gina and Ariana, and cousin Lola spent many hours away from the prying eyes of adults. When it was too warm to play, cousin Lola recited stories about Venus, who rose from the sea in her golden cockleshell chariot and her son Eryx, the giant.
Reaching the Temple, the two sisters sat in their favorite spot near the altar that Venus built, their usual high spirits subdued by exhaustion and anxiety.
Gina broke the quiet.
"Ariana ... I'm thirsty."
Ariana rose and led the way to a shallow brook that would become a deep river as it flowed down into the valley. In cupped hands they drank the clear cool water, then splashed some on their flushed moist faces. They sat down on the mossy bank, kicked off their dusty sandals, and stepped carefully into the water. The sight of frightened minnows scattering in all directions made them laugh, forgetting for the moment the fearful scene earlier.
The morning had started out happy and full of anticipation. They were going to Palermo, to a Festa, in celebration of Santa Rosalia. Nonno Pepe had prepared the painted cart with bells and ribbons, and harnessed Titina the mule, for the short journey to Palermo. There, they would meet other family members. The previous day, the sisters' uncle Vito, had gone hunting with his best friend. They planned to cut the hunt short on this Holy Sunday, and join in the celebration.
Gina and Ariana had finished a breakfast of bread and coffee. They were busy helping Nonna Maria pack lunch, when they heard Zia Flora's shrill cry. It was difficult at first to understand her. But as she came closer to the house, her cries became clear and terribly familiar.
"Compare Vito is dead! They have killed him!"
Gina was still too young to comprehend, but Ariana had heard those ominous words before. Only a few months ago, Donna Caterina's son, Andrea, was found dead, a cork forced into his mouth. He lay on his back on the cobblestone piazza, blood oozing from the many lupari gunshots; eyes wide open, still filled with terror of his own death.
"I want to go home. I'm hungry," complained Gina.
Ariana answered with adult patience.
"In a little while we'll go back."
"Are we going to the Festa?"
"It's too late."
"Ariana, I'm afraid. Are you afraid?"
Ariana's answer was slow and careful.
"Yes ... a little."
"I don't like Zia Flora. She made Nonna Maria cry. Why did she make Nonna cry?"
"I think it's because ... maybe ... Zio Vito is never coming back."
"Never, ever? Why?"
Gina's dark eyes opened wide in disbelief. Ariana had to tell her now.
"Gina ... listen ... some bad men killed Zio Vito ... like they did Andrea."
Gina choked back tears.
"That's not true! He'll come back. Zio Vito always comes back. He promised to bring me green almonds."
"Gina ... Gina ... Zio Vito is dead. We will never see him again. He's up in heaven with Andrea."
"No ... no! Don't say that! He's home..you'll see.. and he will come to the Festa. Please Ariana ... let's hurry home."
Gina was hysterical now. Lenora's frantic calling was barely audible over Gina's loud cries, as she appeared at the edge of the plateau. Gina scrambled to her feet, and ran into her aunt's waiting arms. Ariana put on her sandals and picked up her sister's pair.
"Zia Lenora, is ... is ... Zio Vito still in the piazza?"
"No Ariana. He's home now."
"Do we have to go home? Do we have to see him?"
"No, Cara ... you and Gina can stay with me for a while."
Ariana trembled. For the first time that day she cried. Lenora embraced and kissed her. With Gina holding tight to her aunt's apron, they started the long slow descent.
I was born in NYC's Little Italy, grew up and went to school in "la bella Sicilia," as my grandfather used to say. Most of my short stories and poems are about Sicily, her people, culture, history, myths, etc.
The Cry In The Temple is based on a true incident. Gina is my sister and I am Ariana. During the years I lived in Sicily, "vendettas" between certain families in Western Sicily were frequent. It's a long and involved story. I recently finished writing a screenplay, "Sicilian Honor, Sicilian Pride", that is about vendettas. My uncle was murdered by his best friend in NYC's "Little Italy" (circa 1926). It made newspaper headlines (including the NY Times, where I did much of my research) for many months, and had far reaching consequences. It was made more tragic because the detective in charge of the case ("Little Italy's Italian Police Squad") determined that my uncle was a Mafioso murdered by his Mafiosi paesane. I haven't finished my research on the Mafia, but I do believe that the word Mafia was first heard and written about in 1926.
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