A Winter's Night by Valerio Massimo Manfredi, Christine Feddersen-Manfredi

kneeler!” They convinced her in the end and she gave herself a good scrubbing with the soap they used to wash the sheets. And she was still ready to swear that she’d never been the same since.
    The same stories, like a hundred years before, like a thousand years before them. Stories of a life in which the Brunis found many moments of serenity, if not actual joy and happiness. The girls thought of their futures, hoping that one day they’d meet a young man as intelligent and good-looking as one of their brothers. The brothers thought of the girls in town, or—those with the most daring—girls from the next town over, since venturing out involved the risk, or even the certainty, of a fistfight with the young blood there who didn’t appreciate the competition. But as one day led to the next, Callisto could feel the approaching winds of the storm the umbrella mender had warned him about the morning he left. Who knows what had become of him, Callisto thought. Perhaps he’d been wise enough to go far away, to Cremona or Treviso, or maybe he’d even made his way to Genova, where he could get on one of those steamers that went all the way to America. He was no longer a young man, certainly, but perhaps there was still a way for him to seek his fortune there. Or maybe he’d be back with the first snows.
    Callisto could never have imagined how close he was, curled up on the bottom of a hole inside one of the four hills of Pra’ dei Monti, where maybe he’d be found one day by another seeker of the golden demon.
    Toward the end of the month Callisto went to the mill to make arrangements for grinding the wheat, and saw the first page of
Avanti
! on display on the notice board of the Working Men’s Society. The headline was printed so big you could see it from a distance:
Austria Declares War on Serbia
. He got closer and saw an article entitled
Italy Can’t Sit Back and Watch
. But the lettering was too small and the wording too difficult for him to read it. In front of the notice board stood Bastianino, the tailor, with a pair of glasses at the end of his nose, reading out the words one by one under his breath. Callisto, who had been about to ask, “What does the newspaper say?” stood silently and listened, pretending to be reading the article as well. As Bastianino progressed in his reading, Callisto felt a wave of fear and anguish engulf him.
    At the end, the tailor read the signature of the journalist who had written the article: “Benito Mussolini.”
    â€œBut why does this Mussolini want to go to war?” asked Callisto.
    â€œIt’s not that he wants to go to war, it’s not like he’s the king,” replied the tailor. “He says that Italy should step in to combat Austria, to liberate Trento and Trieste, which are Italian cities.”
    â€œBut
Avanti
is the socialist newspaper; they’re supposed to be on the side of the tenant farmers and workers. Why would they want to send our boys to war? How will we manage? Who will work in the fields? Who will care for the animals? And how many of them will never come back?” As he was speaking he felt a knot squeezing his throat, thinking that he had seven boys of his own, all good to serve the king.
    Bastianino turned towards him and saw the tears in his eyes. “Don’t fret, Callisto,” he reassured him, “we’ll stay out of this. Italy will stay neutral. It says so right here, see?”
    â€œWhat does that mean, neutral?”
    â€œThat we’re not on one side or on the other.”
    â€œThat’s not easy.”
    â€œNo. It won’t be easy,” admitted Bastianino.
    Callisto continued on his way until he reached the mill, set up in a little church that had long been deconsecrated. On the back wall you could still make out a faded crucifix though, and everyone was careful not to pronounce the Lord’s name in vain while inside. Callisto entered and