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The Prophet and the Priest
The Prophet and the Priest
The Prophet and the Priest
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The Prophet and the Priest

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It's 1915. The Prophet and the Priest live in the isolated Italian village of San Marco. They clash on matters of faith. The two dedicated men of honor, integrity and morality combine forces to prevail over Mussolini's Black Shirts, the Nazis and Catholic Church. The Priest’s congregation and the Sabbath Keepers assist Jews released from concentration camps after WWII. Jewish medical staff from British, French, Italian, Indian and American Armies, assist at a mass circumcision and ritual conversion of the Sabbath Keepers to Judaism. David Ben Gurion, Golda Meir and Chief Rabbi Herzog assist in their immigration to Israel.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherDov Silverman
Release dateJul 3, 2013
ISBN9781301160365
The Prophet and the Priest
Author

Dov Silverman

Born in Brooklyn, New York, Dov Silverman has served as a U.S. Marine in the Korean War, worked as a Long Island railroad conductor, been an auctioneer, and even established the Autar Microfilm Service. While working so hard on the railroad, he earned his high school diploma and went on to graduate from Stony Brook University, Long Island, New York, cum laude, at the age of 39. He and his family settled in Safed, Israel in 1972. He credits a spiritual meeting with God and a Tzaddik (righteous man), Jules Rubinstein, in the Brentwood (New York) Jewish Center, with setting him on the path of study, religious involvement and settlement in Israel. His novel, FALL OF THE SHOGUN, appeared on the London Times Best-Seller List and has been published in multiple languages. He also won a 1988 Suntory Mystery Fiction Award, Japan, for REVENGE OF THE GOOD SHEPHERDS.

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    The Prophet and the Priest - Dov Silverman

    CHAPTER 1

    PASSION AND VENDETTA

    Church bells throughout the Italian peninsula rang in the new year of 1915. The resonant sounds of joyous chimes were accompanied by the roar and rumble of mountains splitting, valleys twisting and landslides sweeping the villages and towns of southern Italy into oblivion. The earthquake, and its after-shocks, killed 30,000 people in the Abruzzio district alone.

    Two hundred miles south, young, strapping Dantae Mazzola and Antonia Fassula felt the quake’s trembling as part of their first passion on the cowshed floor. The seventeen-year-olds thought the earth’s shudder a part of their ecstasy. The loud New Year’s celebrations covered Antonia’s squeals and Dantae’s lusty shout. They clung to each other, pressing together in multiple spasms.

    Antonia was pleased to have enticed the most sought after boy in their village.

    Dantae was elated by his first sexual experience, even with the ugliest girl In San Marco He prided himself on never having said, I love you, to Antonia. He might have professed love to Anita Accardi, of whom he often dreamt.

    Afterward, in public, Dantae and Antonia avoided even glancing at each other. Although there were moments when, certain not to be observed, he tried to lure Antonia again. But she wanted marriage. He only wanted sex. Both maintained their positions until months later.

    On May 23rd, 1915, the Italian Senate ordered a general mobilization for the Great War. Italy, France, Britain and the United States declared war on Turkey, Bulgaria, Germany and Austria.

    It took five days for the news to reach San Marco. Twenty-eight-year old Father Tomas, the only literate one in the village, decided not to disturb his parishioners’ sleep. Like millions of others south of Rome, the people of San Marco struggled daily to stay alive. No one was drafted, no one had volunteered in the last two wars, and the priest would not encourage any volunteers for this one.

    Father Tomas said morning mass, and continued to withhold the news. He would summon them when they returned from the fields. Tired people asked fewer questions, to which he had no answers.

    The Priest wore the cooler summer robe of a Franciscan, although he wasn’t of that order, but his plump body exuded sweat at the slightest exertion. He contemplated climbing the bell tower to catch a breeze while watching the young women washing clothes at the well in Town Square. But thoughts of the effort outweighed the anticipated pleasure. He sighed, went to his room, ate cheese, drank half a bottle of wine, and slept.

    In the afternoon, he called on the sick and housebound, eating or drinking just enough to satisfy each householder’s pride. The people had so little. He brought food for those without. He cleaned and stacked firewood for those who couldn’t. Returning to his room at the Church, he finished the bottle of wine and napped again.

    The breeze from the Adriatic Sea 20 miles west cooled the slopes of the Apian Mountains. Father Tomas climbed the ladder to the bell tower. It was the sexton’s duty to ring the bell, but there was other work for Benito Angola. Although disappointed the women were gone from the well, the Priest enjoyed contemplating San Marco from above. He could not remember when it was he had fallen in love with the people. It was true he didn’t always like them, but he couldn’t help loving them. They were honest, God-fearing and uncomplaining. They shared their meager earnings with each other, the Church and the Time Piece Tavern. No living person in San Marco other than himself had ever traveled more than the twelve miles to the market in San Severo. None had ever seen the Adriatic Sea.

    Father Tomas had grown up in the northern capital city of Milan in a Church orphanage. At the age of sixteen, he left for the Seminary to labor in the garden of God.

    Like many young Priests posted south of Rome, he tried to maintain his academic edge in the backwater society of southern Italy. He read the weekly newspaper from Foggia and, like his predecessors buried nearby, kept records of births, deaths, marriages and confirmations. To maintain his intellectual sanity, he was writing a history of San Marco.

    Twice a year he traveled twenty miles east to the convocation in Foggia. There, with other Priests, to be harangued by the Bishop of Napoli. Collections were invariably down, emigration to America up and Protestant ministers buying converts. Newer Priests complained, as Tomas once did, that parishioners were starving to death. This year they quoted government statistics: fifty-percent mortality between birth and age 5. The young Priests found it difficult to compete with the food and money offered by Protestants and Communists and the threat of starvation.

    The Bishop leaned forward in the pulpit, wrung his hands and looked up at the tortured figure of Chris on the crosst. Money, Protestants and infant deaths, he proclaimed. The children’s deaths are an act of God. The new government now distributes Quinine against Malaria, which causes most premature deaths. The Protestants, who are damned to eternal Hell, are legally entitled to religious freedom because of Italy’s economic alliances with the apostate bastards, England and America. As for the money! As for the money, the Bishop repeated. It is returned to the people through the Church. God knows, if we didn’t take the money from these peasants, they’d drink themselves into earlier graves.

    The Monsignor of Foggia stepped to the Bishop’s side. With more money, they’d fornicate themselves to death. The funds you gather save lives. The collections for Mother Church keep your parishioners from losing their souls in the brothels.

    Your holiness, a young Priest said, in my town a whore would starve to death. The people are dying of malnutrition. They’ve stopped combing their hair for it comes out in clumps.

    They shall receive their reward in Heaven. The Bishop turned toward the altar and commanded, Let us pray!

    Father Tomas wiped the tears from his cheeks. Several years ago he made similar protests to a different Bishop and received the same answers. No money ever came from the Church to the people. Collections in San Marco hardly paid for him and the sexton. He was penalized for speaking out. The young priests would learn to withhold collection money for the people. At least his parishioners could comb their hair without it falling out. Bowlegs from rickets were only common amongst the aged. In eight years, he purchased three milk cows for the community of 1,100. Based on an article in the China Light Missionary by Dr. Sun-Yat-Sen, he convinced the people to eat cheaper brown rice as a source of vitamin A. He stopped reporting conversions by Protestants or Communists. But this a reduction in donations. He made up for loss with special masses.

    Father Tomas looked out over his town. The death rate remained less than other towns. Although forty-five was considered old, the younger people were healthier than in most southern Italian villages. He was making a difference. His fiery little sexton would say he was doing it under the covers. He spotted sexton came limping up the old cobblestoned Roman road as fast as he could. Young Benito’s clubfoot never slowed him. He did everything quickly. Enthusiastic and energetic, his hands waved when he spoke and words tumbled out one over the other. People quickly tired listening to him. But when he sang he became taller, even handsome, and his crippled foot was forgotten. A golden baritone issued from his sensitive lips. His face glowed and those expressive hands rose up and down in perfect time with the melody.

    The people of San Marco said that Benito Angola could sing the angels off the stained glass windows, and the Blessed Virgin cried a river at his Ave Maria. Benito did everything with passion, from cleaning the Church floor to composing his own liturgy in his head. As he didn’t know how to write, the hymns continually changed according to his ardor.

    Hello, Don Tomas, Benito hailed from below the Church tower. It’s my job to ring the bell.

    Light the lanterns around Town Square and clean the Church steps.

    You have an announcement? What about?

    You’ll hear with the rest. Father Tomas looked at his old pocket watch and pulled the bell cord. It was early, but the men, women and children would appreciate the release from their backbreaking work. He struck the bell three times more. Everyone would gather in Town Square around what used to be a Roman fountain. It was now the well with a stone sarcophagus used for washing clothes and watering animals.

    Below, a dust cloud raised by Benito’s sweeping caught Father Tomas’ eye. Benito! he called. Get your torch and light the lamps! I see young Mazzola. The others must be close behind.

    Dantae is always first home, Benito shouted. Is the proclamation from Church or government?

    What difference to you?

    Benito hopped around in little angry circles, waving both hands. Do I need the flag or the crucifix?

    Both, Father Tomas replied. And be certain Alphonso wears his cap and buttons his jacket!

    Our constable sleeps with that hat and his belly stops the buttoned jacket. Benito put both hands on his hips, thrust his stomach forward and puffed his cheeks. The policeman should have the flag. I’ll give him the flag. It will cover the gravy stains on his shirt. He hurried to the storage shed.

    The Priest looked to his left at the sun setting behind the spiny Apian Mountains. On his right, golden rays caramelized the surface of the Adriatic Sea. Father Tomas rang the bell again, climbed down from the tower and went to his room. He opened the window, stuck his head out and poured half a pitcher of water over his prematurely balding head. He donned his patent leather boots and black suit with his round, broad-brimmed, black hat.

    Benito burst in without knocking. They are waiting, he shouted. Lights are lit. Alphonso is in uniform holding the flag, and I have the scepter. He waved the olive wood staff with the cross set on top.

    Follow me. Father Tomas walked to the front steps of the Church. He made the sign of the cross, people bowed and he blessed them.

    The small group of Communists and newly converted Protestants standing in the rear did not bow. The Priest knew in his heart those people were good Catholics. He excused them for being poor, hungry and tired.

    Talk, Benito whispered, or they’ll fall asleep standing up.

    Good people of San Marco, Father Tomas said. I’ll forgo the lengthy introduction.

    If it’s from Mother Church, we’re going home, Niccola the Communist shouted.

    Father Tomas pointed to the flag. This is from the central government in Rome.

    They too can go to hell, Niccola shouted.

    The women, as always, remained silent.

    It’s war! Father Tomas said.

    Who are the Romans fighting this time? Little Nino the Baker asked. They call us southerners Neanderthals. What the Romans do means nothing to us.

    Nobody from this village ever went to war, Benito said.

    Is it the Austrians or the Turks? someone shouted.

    Both, the Priest said. The Bulgarians and Germans too. This time we’re allied with England, France and America.

    I love America! Little Nino said. My cousin lives in New Orleans.

    And sends five dollars four times a year, Benito shouted. You love American money.

    That’s right. Little Nino flicked the fingers of his right hand under the point of his unshaven chin at Benito. And you like to drink from that money!

    Benito hopped up and down, raising the scepter as if to strike the baker, but Father Tomas grabbed the little man by the back of the collar and gently drew him back. My son, the Priest said, anger is a form of mental suicide.

    Then we’re all dead, someone shouted, and the people laughed.

    The government wants volunteers, Father Tomas proclaimed, and the laughter grew. A government recruiter will come to San Marco in three days.

    A waste of time, someone murmured.

    Is that what you gathered us for? Niccola the Communist asked. You want us to fight for this stupid monarchy?

    Dantae stood in the center of the crowd looking at the buttocks and breasts of the women closest to him and wondering when his father would allow him to visit the whores on market day in San Severo. .

    Sweat dripped down Father Tomas’ face. He snorted and droplets burst from the tip of his nose. I don’t care what you do! Volunteer or not, it’s up to you! If you could read, I’d save my breath. He made the sign of the cross, blessed the people and turned to re-enter the Church.

    Mary, Mother of God! Benito took hold of the Priest’s arm.

    I’m hungry. Father Tomas tried to pull free of the sexton’s grip.

    Fassula the Carpenter, Benito growled.

    Carmine Fassula pushed two shells into a snub-nosed double-barreled shotgun, cocked both hammers and mounted the Church steps. The squat, broad-shouldered man peered into the crowd. Where’s that son of a bitch Dantae Mazzola? He swept the crowd with angry, dark eyes.

    Dantae backed away and Fassula raised the shotgun. The crowd melted from around Dantae, making him a clear target. Dantae’s father and older brother Michael rushed up the steps. Father Tomas grabbed Carmine Fassula’s left arm, but he aimed the shotgun right-handed. Benito brought the scepter up under the barrel, hitting the weapon as it fired. A street lamp shattered overhead and people screamed. The Priest, Benito and the two Mazzolas seized the weapon and wrestled with the crazed man. Spittle burst from Fassula’s lips as he struggled to break free.

    Big Nino, come help us! Father Tomas demanded.

    The huge blacksmith came up the steps three at a time, wrapped his arms around Carmine Fassula, lifted him, and walked the struggling man inside the Church.

    Fassula fell to the marble floor moaning. My daughter’s a whore! My beautiful Antonia, he blubbered.

    The others exchanged questioning glances. At 17, Antonia Fassula was short, plump, with a big backside and a mustache under a ferret nose.

    That bastard Dantae made her pregnant, Fassula wept.

    Where is your daughter? Father Tomas asked

    In the street like all whores!

    Did you beat her?

    Of course.

    Outside, Father Tomas shouted. He pushed Michael Mazzola and Big Nino. All of you go to Antonia!

    The elder Mazzola pointed down at Fassula. It’s my son he’s cursing.

    And this is my Church! Father Tomas took Mazzola by the arm. I will send Benito for you when it’s time to talk. He ushered all of them out while signaling Benito with a tilt of his head.

    Benito knew what Don Tomas wanted him to do, but first he would go with the blacksmith to find the girl.

    Antonia Fassula lay in a pool of blood in the middle of the Roman Road. The doors of the hovels around her were shut. The wails of her mother kneeling at her side brought no help.

    Benito watched Big Nino carry the unconscious girl into the house. Then Benito rushed home. He poured olive oil on two halves of long, crusty bread, took two raw onions and filled a bottle with wine from the family barrel. He set off for the ancient Roman Fort on the road out of San Marco.

    The only entrance into the Fort’s ten-foot high walls was near a crumbling tower in the northeast corner that had once stood 30 feet above the wall. Lookouts had observed Phoenician shipping in the Adriatic, Greek movements along the coast and pirate bands and armies moving along the rugged mountain roads. If the outpost was outnumbered, they sealed themselves in the Fort and signaled the central garrison at Foggia by fire at night, or smoke and shield reflectors during the day. They defended until the relief column arrived.

    Dantae slept on the circular steps to the ancient, ruined tower.

    Benito threw an onion at his friend. If I was Carmine Fassula, you’d be dead.

    Dantae blinked, grunted and rubbed the skin from the onion. Why does he want to kill me?

    You knocked up his beautiful daughter! Benito peered at Dantae. Did you?

    Oh Jesus, Mary and Joseph! How did that happen?

    Benito screwed up his face. I tried to convince Poppa Fassula of Immaculate Conception, but he wouldn’t believe it. Benito grew somber. The old man kicked Antonia around the street until she confessed your name.

    Really kicked her?

    He swore a vendetta on you.

    Dantae choked on a bite of onion. Oh shit!

    Benito peered at his friend. How many times did you do it with her?

    Only last New Year’s Eve. Dantae stuffed some oil-soaked bread into his mouth.

    Benito drank wine, held out the bottle to his friend, but pulled it back. Tell me what it’s like. I never did it.

    I ran all the way here, Dantae said. I need a drink.

    So you knew she was pregnant?

    Not until Fassula pulled the trigger. Give me a drink.

    Not until you tell me how it was.

    Dantae acknowledged Benito’s quicker, sharper mind, but the sexton’s impatience always subjected him to Dantae’s will. Dantae looked up at the stars and lowered his voice so Benito would lean closer. It was . . . It was . . . so, so good. Good isn’t the word. He looked into Benito’s eyes, holding them with the dark, Mazzola stare. If I were born a woman, I’d be a whore! He snatched the bottle and took a long swig.

    Benito hopped up and down in circles. I want to know everything!

    Shut up, Dantae ordered. They’ll hear you in town. What can I do about Fassula’s vendetta?

    Marry Antonia Fassula, or run.

    Run where?

    Don Tomas will help. Finish eating and we’ll sneak back to the Church.

    He’s a Priest. He’s got to convince me to marry Antonia.

    Don Tomas is a good man, Benito said. He’s a practical Priest.

    I’m not marrying her!

    CHAPTER 2

    ARMY ENLISTMENT

    Dantae hurried to follow his club-footed friend. Benito led him from the Fort, down the Roman Road, quietly behind the darkened hovels of San Marco to the side of the Church.

    Under an open window of Father Tomas’ room, Benito interlocked the fingers of both hands and turned them palms up. Put your foot in here.

    Dantae slid head first through the window onto the floor.

    Father Tomas helped the boy to his feet. Benito will bring your father. We must talk.

    I won’t marry her! Dantae hissed.

    You’ve committed a cardinal sin.

    What about her? Dantae demanded. We both wanted to do it!

    You were always a stubborn student. In Catechism Class you answered questions with questions.

    Is Antonia really pregnant?

    No.

    Dantae gave a great sigh of relief. Why did she lie?

    She didn’t. Father Tomas touched Dantae’s shoulder. She miscarried from her father’s beating. It was a boy.

    Dantae knew he should feel bad and considered acting the part. He was certain he could gag and vomit up the onion, bread and wine. Don Tomas mistook his silence for sorrow and poured water for Dantae to drink.

    Shadowy figures stood in the doorway. Back-lighted by flickering candles from the chapel, his father and Benito entered the darkened room.

    Are you responsible? Pasquale Mazzola asked.

    Yes, Papa.

    Dantae never saw the rock-hard, callused fist lash out, but he heard the crunch of his own nose. He flew backward, hit the wall and slid to the floor. Father Tomas restrained Pasquale Mazzola and Benito rushed to help Dantae to his feet.

    Listen, Father Tomas growled. This town hasn’t had a vendetta since I’ve been here! There won’t be one now! I won’t allow it! Understood!"

    If Antonia Fassula dies, you can’t stop it, Pasquale said.

    The Priest crossed himself. I must ask in front of your father, Dantae. Will you, Dantae Mazzola, marry Antonia Fassula?

    No! Dantae’s square jaw set and his black eyes burned brighter than the chapel candles.

    I can perform the marriage service now and give her last rites, the Priest said. Then she will not die in sin.

    The three waited for Dantae’s answer, but there was none.

    Dantae, Father Tomas sighed, if you leave and Antonia dies, Fassula’s vendetta will be against your family.

    Dantae collapsed at his father’s feet. Papa, if I marry her and stay in San Marco I’ll die. I planned to run away after pressing the grapes.

    The father raised his son up. He kissed the boy’s cheeks, embraced him and stroked his thick, black hair. Your mother and I always knew you were too big for our San Marco

    A decision must be made, Father Tomas said.

    It was my fault, Dantae said. If Antonia dies, I’ll return.

    If she lives, what will you do? Benito asked.

    Run, Dantae said.

    Where?

    To sea, maybe to America.

    First go to Foggia and wait there, the Priest said. I will send a message to Father Adelphi at the Church of Saint Barbara.

    I can’t read, Dantae said.

    If you receive a small cross, it means Antonia is dead. If you receive a rosary, pray for her. Father Tomas pressed two liras into Dantae’s hand. If you can’t get to America, enlist in the army before you starve to death.

    Pasquale Mazzola embraced his son and whispered in his ear, Don’t return! Your mother and I want you to live. He slipped coins into Dantae’s pocket and pushed him toward the window.

    Dantae looked to see if anyone was waiting in ambush below, but tears blurred his vision. He dropped to the earth. Benito plopped down next to him, took his arm and led him up the Roman Road. Neither spoke until they reached the crossroads at the shrine of San Marco

    Dantae motioned at the wind-tilted, stone figure of the saint. Even that looks pathetic. Sun and rain had faded the once colorful, painted statue. The feet were covered with hardened yellow tallow and burnt black wicks of prayer candles lit by people long since dead.

    Sit, Benito said.

    I want to say a prayer for Antonia.

    Not to Marco the Thief!

    What? How can the most religious one in town say that? When you sing, Benito, it’s awesome. You have a gift from God.

    I sing to God, not to this statue.

    Why?

    Marco bought his sainthood, Benito said. For 30 years he was the biggest robber in southern Italy. He had more money than all the princes south of Rome. He raped and robbed along the Apian Way."

    How do you know this?

    From Don Tomas. When he gets drunk, he teaches me history. Marco used our old Roman Fort to house his gang. There were so many, he had a well dug where the old Roman fountain used to be. And our village grew up around it.

    How long ago was that?

    Four hundred years. His motto was, ‘Fuck till I’m fifty and pray till I die. Both boys laughed.

    Did he? Dantae asked.

    More or less, Benito said. Marco made a deal with the Pope. He’d use his fortune to build a church. Our Church. The Pope would name it and the town after him. When Marco died, his lawyers in Napoli turned over the remainder of his fortune to Mother Church and the Pope declared him a saint.

    It doesn’t sound right.

    I believe it, Benito said.

    Doesn’t that bother you?

    What else is there for us but Jesus Christ?

    Nothing in San Marco Dantae said. Do you want to come with me?

    I’d like to go to New Orleans, but I can’t. My father is almost 46 years old. He’s teaching me the shoemaker’s trade before he dies.

    Dantae nodded.

    Hey, your nose is all swollen, Benito said. It must be broken. Does it hurt?

    I deserve it.

    Benito wiped tears from his eyes and shuffled from side to side. Your father told me to get your promise not to return no matter what happens.

    He’s a good father.

    He made me swear I would get your promise.

    Dantae looked at the tilted figure of San Marco the thief, rapist and murderer would understand if he lied. Silently he vowed to return, but aloud he said, Tell my father that I swear not to return.

    The look in Benito’s intelligent eyes said he wasn’t convinced. Dantae embraced his friend.

    Benito placed three one lira coins in Dantae’s hand. When you come to a good shrine, say a prayer for my foot to heal.

    I will pray for you, my friend. Farewell.

    A bright moon and fond memories lit he dark road to San Severo. This was the first time Dantae ever traveled it alone. His father often took him to the market town. There, to sell the family wine and buy supplies of corn meal, rice and flour. Stronger and taller than most, Dantae was the first his age to leave the donkey cart and walk the 12 miles.

    After his confirmation, his father allowed him to get drunk in the Black Bull with the men of San Marco His older brother Michael, who didn’t drink, usually piled the drunken Dantae, their father and other men into the

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