Intermediate Crisis

Title: A Letter From Nonna

Author: Bikerider

Chapter: 3 or 4

Intermediate Crisis

Vignette 4



It was cold.

A grey blanket of clouds hovered over the shadowed mountains, as if sealing everything in for the winter. Craggy peaks rose up and stabbed the sky, forming a jagged horizon. The debris of war; broken wagon wheels, discarded ammunition boxes, charred and broken tree stumps, littered the barren mountainside.

A wet snow fell and coated the ground in white, softening the edges of the trench where men huddled and tried to stay alive. The bottom of the trench became a muddy chaos that sucked at men's boots as they trampled snow and dirt into mud.

The stench of death and defeat hung in the frigid air.

Severino huddled against the snow-caked side of the trench, his arms crossed over his chest, slapping his hands against his cold arms. He looked at the rifle lying next to him in the snow and frowned. It's probably so frozen it wouldn't fire anyway, he thought.

"I'm freezing," Marco said for the thousandth time since waking up from only two-hours of sleep. He had come up to the mountain with Severino seven months ago, and even though he did nothing but complain, he and Severino had become good friends.

"You're cold?" Severino replied. "Does it look like I'm basking on a sunny beach?" His voice filled with annoyance. "I'm cold, you're cold," he said. "Look around you, Marco. Everyone is cold."

Marco shrugged and lowered himself into a crouch. "I'm just saying, that's all."

Severino pulled his collar up around his neck. "Why don't you pray? You said you can find comfort in prayer, so pray for the sun to shine. Pray for warm weather." His mouth curved into a thin smile as he turned to his friend. "But be sure you pray for enough warmth for both of us."

"You shouldn't talk like that, Severino," Marco said and pointed a gloved finger at him. "You are in a place where God wouldn't have to use a thunderbolt." He peeked over the trench wall, then lowered himself back down into the trench. "No, here His job would be easy." He pulled a tattered glove off his hand and blew on his fingers. "You should try it yourself. But if you don't believe in prayer, then the prayer wouldn't be answered."

"I'm not sure what I would pray for, my friend. I might even pray for my own death." Severino looked both ways along the muddy trench. "I would rather get it over with if it's going to happen anyway. I'd hate to think all this suffering was for nothing." He shrugged his shoulders up around his ears and shook himself, as if he could cast off the cold if he shook hard enough.

"One thing is for sure," Marco smiled. "You will certainly have one thing in your favor if you got killed."

"How could a shell landing on my head be a good thing?"

"Well, just think, Severino." Marco slipped his hand back into his glove and frowned as his fingertips poked through the worn material. "If you die, at least you'll be going to a place that will keep you warm for eternity." His breath formed a cloud in the air in front of him as he laughed.

"Very funny, Marco. Very funny."

"But maybe you will survive," Marco said. "Maybe you will still be alive when the politician's become bored with war and decide to turn their attention elsewhere."

The skin around Severino's lips felt like it would crack as he smiled. "I think it would be better if you prayed for warmth, my friend. Even prayer would be more useful than depending on politicians." He pulled his wool cap down as far over his head as it would go. "Who knows which of us will survive? The future is yet to be made."

Marco turned and rubbed his gloved hands together. As the two men laughed, they were suddenly enveloped in darkness.

* * *

The blast shoved Severino hard against the trench wall. He fell to the ground and lay on his back in the mud, his eyes searching the black, roiling air. For a brief second Severino saw mortar and artillery shells streaking out of the cloud, followed quickly by the ground trembling under him. Time after time the bombs hit their mark and shattered whatever was nearby. He pushed his body tight against the trench wall. The blasts came so quickly Severino lost count. He held his arms around his head as the ground shook and tossed clumps of dirt and snow over his prone body.

Severino kept his head low as his eyes skimmed the trench floor trying to see what was happening. Men, their bodies twisted grotesquely, littered the narrow passageway. A man ran past, screaming. In his hand he held his severed arm; blood arced from the ragged stump that protruded from his shoulder and mixed with the muddy ground.

What happened to Marco? Severino wondered. His eyes scanned along the trench searching for his friend so they could find a safer place to hide from the bombs.

If an assault came it would take the two of them, facing in opposite directions in the trench, to protect them, Severino knew. But it was out of friendship that Severino felt the quivering in his stomach, the tightness in his chest as he searched for his friend. Marco was his closest friend, and they long ago had made a pact to protect each other. Severino wondered if he had failed to uphold his end of the bargain.

Bombs continued to thunder into the ground, their shuddering explosions followed by the screams of men suddenly in severe pain. Muck and materiel rained from the sky. The thick cloud rose just enough for Severino to see Marco lying in the mud only three-meters away. He was not moving.

Sliding along the bottom of the trench, his fingers clawing the oozing mud, Severino crawled along the trench floor to his friend. When he reached him, Severino grabbed his shoulders and turned him over.

"Severino!" Marco said between chattering teeth. "Are you alright?"

"Am I alright?" Severino's eyes scanned his friends trembling body. "Are you hit?" More dirt and debris flew through the air over the men's heads as another explosion shook the ground. Severino reached out and wiped the mud and snow from his friend's face. "Are you okay?" He stared nervously into his friend's eyes, his face pinched with concern as he waited for him to answer. "Marco, please, talk to me, are you alright?"

"You're not going to kiss me, are you?" Marco asked and then broke out into a grin.

"Kiss you...?" Severino stared down at his friend, then frowned when he saw Marco's smile split the mud on his face and reveal his white teeth. "I thought you were..." He slapped his hand against his friend's helmet. "Never mind!" Severino lowered himself back down against the dirt walls. "Why would I kiss someone as ugly as you?"

Mortars were dropping in earnest again. The thuds from the mortar pits were soon followed by explosions as the small bombs crashed into the ground and filled the air with deadly shrapnel. Severino knew the Italian's were walking-in their bombs. As each mortar fell, the firing crew would adjust their aim, coming closer to their targets with each adjustment. Severino had instructed his men to dig the trench in a zigzag, like a series of W's, for exactly this reason. A bomb or mortar dropping into a straight-line trench would kill far more men than one dropping into a trench like the one they were in.

The explosions were getting closer.

"Mother Mary," Severino heard his friend mutter. "They are deadly accurate with those things."

"Deadly is the right word, my friend."

"They're going to kill us all, Severino."

"Eventually, yes."

Marco brought his clasped hands to his face and began to mumble, his pale lips brushing the torn gloves that did little to bring warmth to his fingers and hands.

"What are you doing, Marco?"

"Praying, and I suggest you do the same."

"Praying for what?"

"Survival, that's what!"

Severino felt Marco roll against him as another blast deafened them and shook the ground violently. He listened as Marco continued to pray. Another loud blast, this time an artillery shell, hit the last tree standing on the mountain top. The noise rattled in Severino's ears until he couldn't hear anything.

The broken trunk fell into the trench just inches from their heads and splashed mud over the two huddled men, a new chill shuddered through them. It was then that Severino brought his hands to his lips and he began to pray.

"Sweet Mary, Mother of God," he began. He tried to remember the prayers his mother taught him when he was young. As he lay there, shaking and trembling, he wished he had not daydreamed when he sat in the village church next to his mother. Warmth flowed through him as he thought of his mother.

* * *

Like every other Sunday he could remember, Severino felt the bones in his backside press uncomfortably into the oak pew in Santa Maria dell Assunta. His mother was seated next to him, her disapproving glare was all it took to make him stop squirming. Outside, the warm and sunny air was filled with the fragrance of apple blossoms and freshly turned earth. He wished he could be anyplace other than here, surrounded by the smell of burning wax.

Some of his friends were not required to attend Mass. He wished he could be like them, out there having fun, instead of sitting here. His friends were probably exploring the mountainside or chasing rabbits. They might even be climbing that old oak tree outside Mrs. Carlotto's oldest daughter's bedroom window, hoping to sneak a peek at the teenager as she dressed.

But those boys lived with their father's or with grandparent's too old to make them conform. A wave of guilt fluttered through him as he realized that the mothers of those friends had died. He looked up at his mother sitting next to him, her eyes intent as she listened to this week's sermon.

His gaze floated around the church. He tried to picture some of the men who had gifted the church with the many expensive adornments. Gold embroidered tapestry's hung from the perch where the priest said his sermons. The marble Communion Font at the side chapel must have cost a year's pay for an average worker in Italy. The stained glass windows behind the main alter, their reds, blues, and greens shimmering on the white marble sanctuary floor. Throughout the church he could see evidence of wealth. The wealth of the men who had immigrated to America, had become rich, and had endowed the church with lavish gifts.

America! The word made him sit up in his seat, made his eyes widen, and made his imagination run wild. One day he would go to America. He would work hard, and he would save his money, invest some of it. He had heard of something called the Stock Market where a man could become rich overnight. When he felt particularly daring, he dreamed he would own his own business in a big city. He would become rich, just like so many men had before him.

Sure, he would send money back to the village when he was rich. But not so the church could become richer. No, the church was beautiful and it didn't need anything from him. He would send money to be used to give the children of Cloz something to do on Sunday mornings.

His eyes continued their journey around the ornate church. The faces of pretty, young girls, partially hidden by the gauzy lace shawls pulled over their heads, caught his attention. Magdalena sat two rows ahead of him, her curtain of ebony hair turned white where the daylight reflected from it. And Georgina, a pretty blond with green eyes that all the boys chased, and who frowned when she caught Severino staring at her. Like now.

He peeked over his shoulder at Angela. Seated next to her mother and father in the pew behind him, her face turned down to the open bible on her lap. Her black lace shawl covered her wavy brown hair. Her eyes were the color of freshly picked chestnuts, and almost as big. She was friendly with everyone, but she was also shy, especially around boys. Except for Vincenzo, that is. She and Vincenzo had been together for as long as anyone could remember. Because of that none of the boys chased after her, even though she was pretty, and even though she had begun to mature before most of the other girls in the village her age.

As his eyes began to scan the church again, his mind returned to America and becoming rich. He felt his heart beat faster. There was a roar, and a burst of wind pressed against him. He turned to the back of the church to see what had happened.

There was nothing there but darkness.

* * *

The blast was so close Severino heard the fizz of shrapnel flying past his head. It pulled him away from the warmth and beauty of the church—and the security of his mother's presence. When he opened his eyes, he lay soaked in mud, holding his friend on his lap. He was quickly enveloped in cold.

Marco was pressed tightly against him, his mouth moving quickly with words of prayer.

Blast after blast deafened the two men, clumps of mud and debris fell on top of them, and both men prayed for survival. Each blast shook the ground and increased the volume of ringing in their ears. And so Severino, like Marco, began to pray. The men huddled together, their lips moving silently, praying for survival.

Severino asked God for survival. He asked to be allowed to live, to survive the war, or at least the shelling that caused him so much fear. He asked to be able to return to his village and to his parents.

Marco's words, although unheard by Severino, were for the same things.

The shelling continued for an hour before Severino heard the all-clear whistle being blown, its shrill sound carrying along the trenches scattered with broken bodies.

"Marco," Severino said as he tried to push Marco off of him. Marco's hands remained clasped together in front of his face. "Marco, didn't you hear the whistle? Get up, come on."

Marco said nothing. Severino stopped pushing against his friend's shoulders and Marco's body settled back against Severino again. His body felt heavy. Severino looked at the man's closed eyes and thought he had fallen asleep. Only Marco could fall asleep during something like this," Severino thought. But feeling his body heavy against him, his hands limp, Severino was suddenly filled with dread. Marco was not sleeping.

"Marco?" Severino said softly as he grabbed the man's shoulders and turned him over onto his back. "Marco, are you okay?" He shook his friend's shoulders. Severino's eyes darted back and forth down the trench looking for someone to help. But then he saw the blood he knew no one could help Marco now.

Marco's grey tunic was black with a growing stain of blood. A shiny pool formed in the hollow of his friend's stomach. Severino's eyes grew wide.

"Marco, you damn fool." Severino was surprised by the sadness he felt. He had seen many dead men since coming here, he was surrounded by broken bodies even now. As he stared at Marco he thought his friend might still open his eyes and say something dumb. He hoped he would, hoped he could. But he saw the serenity in Marco's face. His jaw was slack, his mouth hung partially open. There was no fluttering under Marco's eyelids. He knew then that his friend was dead.

He sat back on his legs and the grim realization slowly came to him like the fog lifting from a harbor. The realization of what happened brought with it an anger Severino had never felt before. If Marco had not been directly in front of him, Severino knew it would be him instead of his friend who would have been killed. It would be him lying dead in the mud.

Severino's gaze rose to the cold, grey sky and he closed his eyes. Was praying a waste of time? Did it not matter that we both prayed? Suddenly his anger turned to rage as the cold realization shuddered through him. His stomach tightened. Surely not! he thought. Then, opening his eyes, Severino looked into his friend's face. He had to fight back tears. His gaze rose to the grey sky and he raised his arm as he shouted, tears streaming down his face.

"What kind of God are you? You have chosen to answer my prayer by denying his?" His fist tightened as he shook it violently at the mute sky. "You have taken his life to save mine? Is that how you choose to answer my prayer? What kind of God are you?"

He slowly lowered his arm and fell back against the cold mud wall. Marco lay across his lap, his body limp and bloody. Men had gathered and watched him, their dark eyes set into dirt-caked faces, wide and wondering.

Severino's gaze moved slowly from one man to the next. They must not see him like this, he thought. These young men looked to him as their rock, he had to be steady, if not for his sake, then for theirs.

Suddenly his teeth clenched and his jaw tightened, his eyes narrowed. A tear dripped from one eye, leaving a dirty streak on his face. He began to shake.

"I didn't ask to be your leader. I didn't ask to come here and see to anyone's safety. I can't keep anyone safe, not one of you." His hand trembled as he pointed to each man. "You, you, and you," his finger made an arc in the wet air. I am no longer responsible for any of you. There is nothing I can do for anyone. You are all on your own. And if you think your wonderful God will help, then look at Marco. See what your God has done—see how he answers the prayers of men."

He stood without taking his eyes from Marco. Then he looked at the sky and frowned. He looked down at Marco again. "Thank you," he said. "It was you and not Him," he pointed to the sky, "that is responsible for saving my life."

He walked away, the suction of the mud pulling on his boots the only sound.

* * * * *

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