Mac could not leave for Palermo until the following week, given everything that was going on at the Vatican. He prepared the letter for the Pontiff, and he prepared his report of what he had heard, including the rolls of film shot of the evidence brought by Dr. Muller, for his handlers back home. He was as consumed with his work for the Pope, as was Carla with her preparations for their October wedding. She had decided that she would continue to work until two weeks before the wedding, mostly to make sure she got to see Mac as much as possible, at least at dinner. The war in Russia raged on as more and more reports came in about Jews being shipped to work camps in Poland. Mac would never have believed what he was hearing if he had not seen the evidence himself.
The middle of August, Mac told Carla that he would be away for a few days, for meetings in Sicily. He was scheduled to take the train from Rome to Villa San Giovanni near Reggio Calabria, in southern Italy, ferry across the Strait of Messina to Sicily, staying right on the train, and then continuing to the Palermo Centrale Railway Station. In all, the trip would take through the night, and the better part of the following day. Carla begged to come with him, but he refused, telling her that with everything going on, it would be much too dangerous for her to tag along. He convinced her that he would be safer, particularly if he did not have to worry about her.
The train ride to Villa San Giovanni was uncomfortable, at best, as the train was filled with summer passengers seeking to visit Sicily while they still had the chance. The Island of the Cyclops was already overrun with soldiers, both Italian and German. The train was filled with Squadristi, in the aisles, even checking the compartments for suspicious-looking characters. Mac shared a compartment with a young couple from Firenze, on their honeymoon to Syracuse. Somewhere near Naples, a gentleman who was returning to Messina to see his parents joined them. The train was hot and crowded. There were no amenities to speak of, and the bathroom facilities were overused.
The fourteen hours it took to get to Villa San Giovanni, Mac tried to sleep, mostly to avoid conversation with the gent from Messina, and to miss the goings on between a newly married couple. By the time the train got to the ferry, it was light out, as the train car was being loaded onto the large screw ferry, the Reggio. Mac got out of the car, spending the five-mile trip across the Strait of Messina enjoying the view of the lush green islands on the other side. Once on Sicily, the train was loaded back onto the track to Palermo, a feat that took approximately an hour. From there it was another three hours, through the Caronie Mountains, and past the beautiful beaches of Cefalu, to the Palermo Centale Railway Station, a large, three-story, marble structure, with topiaries and statues out front, and a clock on its third-floor face.
Mac took note of the topography of the area, which he felt needed to be noted in his next report. The city of Palermo lay in a basin formed by the Papireto, Kemonia and Oreto rivers, surrounded by a mountain range, which formed an arc around the city, making it relatively difficult to reach the interior of Sicily from the north, which is something that certainly needed to be passed on to the military planners. Being on the Tyrrhenian Sea, the city itself was well protected on all sides, despite having been conquered so many times over the ages. The port of Palermo, still one of the finest in the world, would not be easily taken by sea, which Mac would be sure to document in photographs accompanying his report.
A man out front of the Railway Station was calling out for Signore Martini, standing by a big Plymouth convertible touring car, a rifle stapped over his shoulder, his blue cap aslant on his head. He took the cigarette out of his mouth to introduce himself as Roncallo, sent by Don Corelli to pick up Signore Martini, to take him to the Don's villa directly. Mac got into the car, lit up a cigarette himself, as the man drove off, west along the Gulf of Mondello, towards the Monte Pelligrino, and to the home of Don Corelli, Mac taking pictures out of the window. The road along the beach was picturesque, and daunting at the same time. The coast was soft sand in some places, rocky in others, as the mountains surrounding Palermo seemed almost to be cascading into the Gulf of Mondello. While the roads were poor, which Mac would be sure to note, the railroad continued along the northern coast of Sicily, stopping only when it reached the west coast. The only access to southern Sicily by rail was a link east of Palmero, heading due south to Agrigento and Licata, or along the east coast from Messina, through Catania and Siracusa, before it followed the southern shore. Mac made a mental note that the Axis would be severely limited in its ability to defend the southern coast if the railways were first disrupted.
The home of Don Corelli was hidden behind an eight-foot brown cement wall, with a brown brick cap. The wall stretched across the front of the property, save the space for a heavy wrought iron gate, and along both sides right into the Gulf of Mondello. The gate was guarded by two men, not particularly astute, also standing with rifles slung over their shoulders, neither one looking particularly imposing. The car in which Mac was being driven was waved through the gate, as if the sentries knew who Mac was in the front seat with Roncallo. Mac was driven to the turnabout in the front of the house, with a rather ornate fountain of a naked lady pouring water into a surrounding basin, in the middle of the driveway. The vehicle came to rest in front of a heavy wooden door, again, with two more men standing guard, rifles slung over their shoulders.
As Mac got out of the car, a little boy ran by, kicking a dirty soccer ball down the drive. He made no notice of Mac, and Mac, in turn, said nothing to him. As the boy kicked the ball back towards the car, Mac stopped the ball with his foot, lifting it up on his foot, before kicking it back towards the boy. A big smile came over the young boy's face, like no one had ever thought to play with him before. He kicked the ball back to Mac, as a man in his thirties, with long dark hair, came out of the villa through the front door.
“Franco, go play behind the house,” yelled the man, at the young boy.
“Yes, papa! Can my friend come play with me?” asked the young boy, pointing at Mac.
“Maybe later, Franco. The man has business with Grandpa. Maybe when he finishes.”
Mac smiled at the young boy, kicking the ball back in his direction. The young boy turned, and he kicked the ball around the side of the house, towards the beach, as he was told. Mac announced himself to the man in the doorway, shaking his hand. The man introduced himself as Domenico Corelli, the Don's son. He led Mac into the Mediterranean style home, with a red tiled roof, and walls of brown, faded, cracked stucco, covered with climbing vines, bursting with colorful flowers. All the windows had wrought iron gates in front of their openings, with shutters on the inside, but no glass. Window boxes in the front of the open windows were filled with hanging flowers matching the ones on the vines, which were shaded from the sun by green and white striped window awnings.
Inside the entryway, a tiled terra cotta floor matching the roof, shined to a reflection. The interior walls were also stucco but bleached a spotless white. The walls were sparsely decorated, mostly with souvenirs found by the sea. The entryway opened into a large octagonal room, with floor to ceiling windows overlooking the ocean. The air was warm, and moist, but the ceiling fans made the space comfortable.
Domenico Corelli brought Mac to the rear flagstone covered patio, where, sitting in a comfortable chair facing the ocean, was an older man with long gray hair. He wore a white shirt, opened three buttons at the top, showing the top of his white sleeveless undershirt, with a tuft of gray hair peeking out over the collar. His trousers were lightweight, gray wool, held up over his prodigious belly by a pair of rust-colored suspenders. On his feet, he had on brown leather sandals, over black socks. In his fingers, he held a rustically rolled cigar, which was burning away, the ash ready to fall on the floor, joining the other ashes that had already done so. The cigar smelled horrific, but the old gentleman did not seem to notice, as he took a sip of the lemon water that had been placed by his other hand.
“Papa, this is Tommaso Martini, a friend of our friends from America.”
“Good morning, Don Corelli,” said Mac. “You have a lovely view here, Signore. The weather is perfect.”
“Perfect?” asked the old man. “It's like hell!”
“I bring regards from your friends in America, Charlie Luciano and Frank Costello.”
“Signore Martini, you would not be here if I had not been asked by them to perform this favor. I am listening, young man,” said the old man impatiently.
“Don Corelli, with respect, I have been sent here on behalf of my President to speak to you, man to man. My president wants to know if he can count on you, if and when the time comes, when America must fight the fascists, perhaps here in Sicily. My president is aware that you have no love for the fascists, as they have disrespected you, and your people, at every turn. I am here, with my hat in my hand, to show you the respect and the honor you deserve, Don Corelli, before anything happens. Mr. Roosevelt does not wish to bring troops and machinery to your land without your permission.”
“You seem like a nice young man, Signore Tommaso. But it is you that is here with your hat in your hand, not your president. I happen to know that he is in a chair, so I will hold no feelings of disrespect by him not being here himself, to ask for this favor. But I do what I do as a favor to Charlie Luciano, and to you, who has come here under his auspices, seeking my respect.”
“Thank you, Don Corelli. I know that my president would be here if he could. Instead, he sends me because I have younger legs.”
“You are alright, Tommaso,” laughed the old man. “These bastards, the fascists, could all die, for all I care, and I would not be in any way inconvenienced. He has already tried to kill us off, that pig, Mussolini. As they say, any enemy of my enemy is my friend. What can we do for your president, young man?”
“I was hoping for your permission to take photographs around the island, under your authority. I was also hoping that I could tell my president that the Sicilians will be welcoming to any troops he might send to drive the fascists, and the Germans, right back to where they came from.”
“I will guarantee you that my people will meet your people with welcoming arms. You can tell your president that right now. I will also send some of my men with you on a tour of the island, so that you can see what you need to see. But first, we eat.”
“Yes, Don Corelli,” laughed Mac. “I could use a good meal. I have been on that goat train for the past day, with nothing edible. I thank you for your hospitality, and for your generosity. Perhaps, I can see the rest of the north shore this afternoon if that meets with your approval. Tomorrow, I will try to see the south shore.”
“That is fine, Tommaso. You will stay here, tonight, actually, until you leave us. My home is your home. Domenico, have Tommaso's things put in a guest room. You met my son, Domenico. Domenico, call your wife in, let Tommaso meet Lena. Domenico, he has a son, Franco. My wife is gone now. I will join her soon. Domenico will speak for me when the time comes.”
“I have met Franco, sir. In fact, I owe him a soccer catch in the back yard.”
“Go ahead, Tommaso. Lunch will be served soon. Then you will go explore the north coast and eat dinner with us later.”
“I would be delighted, sir.”
Just then, Domenico walked Lena onto the terrace, with a dishcloth in her hand. The woman was beautiful, dishrag or not. Her hair was tousled from the Mediterranean moist breeze; her skin was brown, smooth, and clear. She wore a light cotton dress, covered by a festively colored apron, tied tightly, accentuating her womanly figure. Her dark brown eyes were filled with fire. Mac could see what Carla was going to look like twenty years from now, and he liked what he was seeing.
“Good morning, Signore Martini,” said Lena, in a voice of Sicilian songbirds.
“Good morning to you, Signora Corelli. You have a very beautiful home.”
“Thank you, Signore. Will you be staying with us for lunch?”
“Tommaso will be here until he leaves, Lena,” said Don Corelli. “He is to be treated as part of our family.”
“Yes, Papa. I will set a place at the table for Tommaso.”
“Tommaso, don’t you have a woman, yourself? You are old enough to be married, no?”
“Yes, Don Corelli. I am to be married in October, in Rome, to a nice Italian girl.”
“Good for you, Tommaso. You should have brought her with you.”
“Her brother would break my legs if I tried to bring his sister away with me overnight before we are married,” laughed Mac, along with Lena and Domenico.
“He wouldn’t dare,” laughed the Don, “now that you are a friend of ours.”
Mac laughed, and walked down the back steps of the patio, to play with little Franco, as the Don waved the young boy over. Don Corelli seemed to enjoy his grandson having a playmate for the morning, as he watched Mac patiently run after the soccer ball, as Franco tried to kick it by him.
“You are a good sport, Tommaso,” yelled the Don. “No one here can chase the ball like that, accept maybe his mother,” laughed Don Corelli, raising his chin at his son.
Mac watched Lena set the table out on the patio, putting on a flowery needlepoint tablecloth, silverware, and place settings. She seemed to be so happy preparing culinary delights for the appreciation of her men, bringing out a cold seafood salad, a chilled pasta primavera, and a platter of cold, roasted rosemary chicken. A fruity sangria was served to the grown ups, while Franco made do with lemon water. The Corellis and Mac sat down to break bread, cementing their friendship, the Italian way.
After lunch, the Don sent Roncallo and Carmine with Mac, to view the north coastline of Sicily across Palermo, and beyond, but only after he made Roncallo give Mac clothes more suitable to the Sicilian countryside.
“You do not want to look like a tourist, do you?” asked the Don. “You need to blend in more, or you will start the war yourself, snooping around with a fancy camera.”
Mac laughed, but he did as he was told, changing into heavy tan pants, a lightweight light blue work shirt, and a black vest, with a matching cap. He also borrowed work boots from Roncallo, so as not to give himself away as a tourista spy.
Upon leaving the Palmero city limits, the three men rode out to Trapani and Marsala on the western most part of the island, before heading back along the Belice River toward the interior of the rugged country. They came upon the town of Corleone, where they were delayed by a wedding procession blocking their way down the dusty street. Old stucco covered buildings with terra cotta roofs narrowed the path of the bride and groom and their entourage. A band of horns and drums followed the bride and groom, followed by the town elders. Children ran along side the parade, everyone dressed in their Sunday best, despite the ravaging heat of the midday sun. Men were fanning themselves with their hats, women with their shawls, as the procession passed Mac, and his two bodyguards, waiting patiently. The beautiful bride blew a kiss in their direction, showing her appreciation for their patience.
Mac took pictures of the wedding, as he did of his men along the way, as they hammed it up for the camera. Rolls and rolls of film were taken and secreted in the false bottom of Mac's camera bag. They stopped at a rustic café for a cup of strong Italian coffee, where Mac listened to the men inside talk about the fascist troops overrunning their country. The Town of Corleone had no use for such vagrants, as they called the troops, feeling that they were more than capable of protecting their own. As sunset was arriving, the three men returned to the Corelli compound for another sumptuous meal.
That night the wine flowed, and stories were told of a time before the fascists, when men of respect ruled Italy. Don Corelli, as a young man, was such a man. He ruled with an iron fist, like Mussolini, only he hurt no one that was not disrespectful, or so he claimed.
“It was always business, never personal. Mussolini changed all of that,” claimed Don Corelli. “He tried to destroy the system that had been in place forever. Now it is his turn to be destroyed. When the Americans come, things will go back to the way they were, where men of respect will rule again,” said Don Corelli.
As for Mussolini, Don Corelli opined that the Americans would never take him. He felt that his own people would kill him long before the Americans could. He was only too happy to be a part of bringing the fascist pigs to their just rewards.
“Did anyone bother you, Tommaso?” asked Domenico Corelli, as the Don was tossing a giant salad at the dinner table.
“Not at all, Domenico. I feel very safe with Roncallo and Carmine, and their big rifles.”
“No one would dare,” offered the Don. “They know you are under my protection while you are here in Sicily. They see you are with my men.”
“We did have to wait for a wedding to pass in Corleone, but otherwise, all went smoothly.”
“Madonna, Tommaso, there are troops there, in the west,” exclaimed Domenico. “Tomorrow, when you go to the south, you will most likely run into German and Italian soldiers. They are probably in the mountains, in the middle of Sicily, why, I do not know.”
“There are no troops along the southern coast?” asked Mac.
“There are, but not as many. It is almost like they are inviting someone to take the beaches, and planning to attack afterwards while the invaders have their backs to the sea. Stupido!”
“I’m no military expert,” said Mac, “but that seems a little short sighted if you ask me. Once a beachhead is established, reinforcements and equipment can be brought.”
“Just be careful going through the mountains, Tommaso,” said the Don. “I am responsible for your safety here on Sicily. You might be stopped and checked. These pigs have no respect for anything.”
“I understand, Don. But we are not at war with them, not yet anyway. Lena, this fish is superb. What is it?”
“Branzino. It's the seasoning,” demurred the beautiful woman, as she put a delicate morsel in her own mouth.
“My daughter-in-law, she can cook, no?” praised the Don.
“Best fish I have ever eaten! Thank you, Lena.”
“Oh, Tommaso, you are too kind. Thank you. It is nice to be appreciated,” laughed the woman, looking at her husband.
As the sun set over Palermo, Mac tried to gather his thoughts down on paper, so he would not forget what he had seen and heard. He was surprised at how backward the country seemed, outside the walls of Don Corelli's villa. There were gaggles of women beating their laundry in toughs in the middle of each town square, many of whom were dressed in black from head to toe. There were few automobiles, and seemingly, no refrigeration to speak of. The food markets were in the street, which is where the Sicilians got their food each day. Mac noted that any battle for the hearts and minds of these people would have to include a plan to feed them right away.
The following morning, Mac and his two protectors left early, driving the forty miles to the south on Route 118 to Agrigento, on the southern coast. The shoreline from Arigento to Licata was gentle and sandy, unlike the northern coast of Sicily. Mac took hundreds of pictures along the southern coast through Gela, to Pachino, on the southeastern tip, to Syracuse, along the eastern coast. Each town was different, so Mac took photographs seeking to demonstrate their differences. Mac decided it would take a month to fully explore the southern coast, and its villages, but the photographs would get the boys back in Washington going.
The “Geloan Fields,” as Virgil referred to the lands north of Gela in The Aenied, are gently rolling hills, covered with palms and olive trees. The fifteen miles of beach between Gela and Licata were sandy and flat, and somewhat protected from the potential harshness of the Mediterranean by the Gulf of Gela. However, the beach was now protected from invaders by concrete bunkers holding various compliments of men and both long range and short-range weapons. While it may have been true that the bulk of the Axis troops were far off the coast towards the mountainous middle of the island, Mac did see enough to suggest that a landing there would not be unopposed. He took as many photographs of Roncallo and Carmine as he could get away with, but there were enough soldiers in the shots to send the message home that needed to be sent.
The men continued along the southern coast to Pachino and Cape Passero at the Island's southeastern tip, then along the gentle beaches of the Gulf of Noto, between Pachino and Siracusa, a good way up the east coast. They drove from there to Catania, then they headed inland around Mt. Etna, back to the north coast.
Mac snapped roll after roll of film, putting the used film in the false bottom of his camera case, until it was full. Upon returning to the home of Don Corelli, Mac transferred the film into a zippered compartment in the bottom of his leather suitcase, for the return trip to Rome.
The following morning, after a delightful breakfast prepared and served by Lena, the Don had ordered Roncallo and Carmine to drive Mac to the ferry at Messina. Lena Corelli supplied cookies and kisses for the ride, and the Don held out his hand for Mac to kiss. Franco kicked his ball to Mac as his leather suitcase was being loaded into the trunk of the Plymouth, while his father gave Mac a kiss on both cheeks.
“You come see us again, Tommaso,” yelled the Don. “Bring your girl with you next time. And give my regards to our friends back in America, including your president. God speed to both of you!”
Mac was driven away with a wave from the Corelli family, and the sentries guarding the Corelli Villa.