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

now wandering about in search of someone who would take them in to work a plot of land.
    â€œPray to God that He wards off this war,” said Callisto. “The tailor, who reads the newspaper every day, tells me it’s a slaughter, everywhere, and that we could be next.”
    Floti tried to reassure him: “What does the tailor know,
papà
? And those newspaper writers, they can say whatever they want; they’re just people like us, you know. I think that seeing what’s happening all over Europe, our government will do everything they can to stay out of the war.” Clerice watched and listened without saying a word, but her eyes brimmed with tears and in her heart she invoked the Madonna, who knew what it meant to lose a son, asking her to keep them safe from this scourge.
    Callisto worried and worried and as winter approached he hoped the umbrella mender would show up, as he had for many years now. He wanted to ask him more, to have him speak about what he saw in the future, but the days passed and he never came.
    â€œWhat could have happened to the umbrella man?” he would say. “He’d always be here by the first snowfall.”
    Gaetano shrugged: “What does it matter,
papà
, he was just here to eat off of us. I say, if he never comes back, good riddance. If he had at least given a hand! No, he was always out there in the stable sitting and waiting for a bowl of soup. We haven’t lost a thing.” But Callisto was uneasy, and kept fretting over the failed appearance of his guest. When Floti was involved in the discussion, he’d try to change the subject, because what he and Iofa had seen was best kept secret. One day, tired of all that talk, he said that he’d heard that the umbrella mender had sailed to America in search of a better life, and they shouldn’t expect him back any time soon.
    â€œAh,” said Callisto, “I thought so,” but it didn’t set his mind at rest.
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    In the spring, rumors that Italy would enter the war became more insistent, but they were also contradicted by actual events. The pastor, interpreting the growing anguish of his community, used the homily one Sunday morning to explain just what was going on: the king was willing to go to war to liberate Trento and Trieste which were still under the heel of Austria, but the majority of parliament—and they were the representatives of the people—were contrary to the war. Since the government couldn’t go to war against anyone unless the parliament agreed to it, nothing would happen. It was best nonetheless to raise their voices in prayer to ask the Lord to make the atrocious conflict end and to keep their beloved native land out of it.
    Even Bastianino, the tailor, approved of what the pastor had said, and this reinforced the common opinion that there was no need for fear.
    Until one day the mailman arrived in the Brunis’ courtyard, the leather bag tied to his handlebars bursting with postcards marked with the shield of Savoia. He left one addressed to Gaetano Bruni.
    It was a registered letter. Floti signed on behalf of the true addressee, who was in the stable, but he sent someone to call him. Gaetano was shocked because he’d never received a letter in all his life and it frightened him greatly.
    â€œWhat is it?” he asked.
    â€œRead it,” said Floti, “it’s addressed to you.”
    â€œIt’s written too difficult,” said Gaetano, running a trembling finger down the typewritten lines. “You read it.”
    Floti, who’d already realized what it was, looked into his eyes and said: “It’s the king calling you to arms. You have to leave for the war,
Tanein
. In four days.”
    â€œAre you sure?” asked Gaetano. “Is that really what it says?”
    â€œI’m sure,” replied Floti.
    â€œCan’t I say I’m sick?”
    â€œThey’ll send out a doctor, who’ll write