The Marranzano

Canicatti, Sicily | July 6th, 1943

The third beer tasted far better than the first two. He contemplated ordering a fourth, but he knew that if he got drunk, his fingers would tremble too heavily to be able to successfully replace the reed on Giovi’s marranzano.

He lifted the ice cold glass to his lips, and downed the remaining Birra Messina. He topped it off with a hefty burp, then gently placed the glass back down onto the bar top. He reached into the chest pocket of his suit jacket, and fished around for enough coins to pay his tab. The bartender must have noticed this because he quickly waved his hands back and forth, and shook his head in objection.

“On the house, Corrado.”

Knowing that he definitely didn’t have enough money to cover the tab, he didn’t argue with the charity.

“Thank you,” Corrado said with a slight slur.

“I am sorry about your brother. We all are.”

Corrado looked at the bartender, then craned his neck to survey the other patrons, who were all holding their glasses high in the air, then together, spoke in unison.

“Esprimiamo con grande dolore il nostro cordoglio.”

Tears began to pool in Corrado’s eyes at the heartfelt gesture from this group of beer drinking strangers. He pushed himself up from his bar stool, placed his right hand over his heart, slightly bowed his head, then thanked them for their deeply expressed condolences.

As he was about to step away from the bar, the bartender poured two shots of whiskey. One for him, and one for Miceli. Corrado understood the gesture, and plucked one of the small glasses up from the bar top, and raised it into the air.

Once again, the bartender, as well as the patrons, raised their glasses, and spoke in unison at Corrado.

“Cent’Anni! Cent’Anni!”

Corrado wiped away a streaming tear from his cheek, brought the glass to his lips, and tossed the whiskey back. It burned like hell, but he showed no reaction. His grief was tremendous, and his body, mind, and soul were numb to any additional pain. He placed the empty shot glass back down onto the bar, next to the filled one for Miceli, smiled, then took his leave of the pub.

The crisp evening air filled his nostrils with the mouth watering aromas of cinnamon, lemon, and ricotta. The street he was standing on was lined with numerous bakeries and cafes, which had all just finished baking fresh batches of pastries, arancinis, and pani ca meusa, Corrado’s favorite street food, for the hungry night crowds who were beginning to fill the streets.

A fingernail moon hung low in the sapphire sky, and the stars were preparing themselves for their nightly display of shimmering enchantment. Corrado was staring up into the blue, allowing the buzz from the alcohol to creep up his legs, slither up his spine, crawl up his neck, then finally settle behind his eyes. His plan of remaining somewhat sober had failed, but in the moment he didn’t care. He had replaced hundreds of marranzano reeds during his apprenticeship with Mr. Bova, and had become quite the expert. It was a task he could perform with his eyes closed. A little alcoholic buzz would not be a problem.

Two blocks from his current position, on the north side of town, sleeping on a very quiet street, was Bovas’s Instrument Repair Shop. He checked the time on his wrist watch, and realized that he was fifteen minutes late to his secret meeting with Giovi, so he started to run down the narrow streets, and alleyways. His stomach growled for food, especially for the cannolis, but he needed to start becoming a man of his word. It was one thing to break a promise to his sister, but if he started breaking promises to people outside of the family, his reputation would rapidly decline.

Breaking into a full sprint, he weaved his way through the bustling crowds, bumping into a few annoyed pedestrians on the way — hollering out his sincere apologies as he continued racing towards his rendezvous.

Rounding the final corner, he saw Giovi leaning up against the dimly lit wall of the back side of the repair shop. He was wearing a dark brown cotton suit, with a matching brown cap, and had his left leg propped up against the wall, blowing large circles of silver cigarette smoke into the air from his puckered lips.

Corrado craved a cigarette, so he composed himself, then walked up to Giovi and asked if he could take a toke.

“Mind sharing a drag?”

“You’re late, kid.”

“Sorry, Giovi. I lost track of time. I stopped to get a beer, and —”

“— Not necessary. Your brother died. You’re grieving. I understand that. I lost my sister when I was your age. Life is cruel, yet here we stand.”

Giovi noticed the boy’s eyes begin to swell, so he stretched out his hand, and offered him the cigarette he was smoking.

Corrado grinned, and swiped the cigarette from the man’s fingers. He jammed it between his lips, and inhaled as hard, and as deeply as he could, making sure every inch of his lungs filled with the cool, menthol smoke.

“Thank you, Giovi. I needed this.”

“The pleasure is mine. Now, are you ready to repair my marranzano? My wife will be expecting me home shortly, and if I am late again for dinner, then I’m afraid the town will be attending another funeral.”

Corrado giggled at the dark joke. It was the first time he had laughed since Miceli had died. Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the numbness from his anxiety. In that moment, he didn’t care what was causing him to find the humor in Giovi’s words, he only knew that he liked it. It felt good to laugh, to smile, to touch the ever fleeting euphoria of happiness. He wished to stay this way for as long as possible, so he reached into his pocket, retrieved the key to the shop, unlocked the back door, and invited Giovi inside.

“Then we better get to work. I surely don’t want to be an accomplice to a murder.”

Giovi laughed, and patted Corrado on the spine.

“That’s a good lad. Lead the way.”

Corrado stepped inside first, reached his right up into the darkness and tugged on the low hanging metal chain. The four overhead light bulbs crackled to life, illuminating the precisely organized, yet ridiculously overflowing basement.

The four hundred square foot room was nearly stuffed to the ceiling with thousands of various musical instrument parts, thick sketchbooks, hundreds of different sized hand-tools, rulers, pencils, compasses, calipers, clamps, a table saw for cutting wood, numerous workstations with welded magnifying glasses and vices, and stacks of wooden crates for shipping out completed orders.

The room was divided in the center by a four foot wide aisle. The left side housed all of the instrument parts, sketch books, and crates, and the right was reserved for all of the tools, and workstations. The division was crucial to Mr. Bova because it kept everything in place, and prevented things from getting lost.

Corrado had always hated the basement, mainly because it was crawling with spiders, ants, and mice, but it was the best equipped repair shop in all of Sicily. Bova’s vast collection of spare parts and tools was incomparable. There wasn’t an instrument he couldn’t repair, or a part he didn’t already own. He may have been a little crazy, but Corrado had always respected the man for his impressive knowledge of the anatomy of musical instruments. A knowledge he hoped to have passed down to him before the man retired.

“This room is incredible, Corrado. I have been inside of the show room up stairs many times, but to be down here, where all of the magic truly takes place, is breathtaking,” Giovi said as he wandered down the aisle, picking up parts and inspecting the hand-tools.

“Please do not touch anything. Everything you see has a home, and must never fall out of place. Mr. Bova is extremely particular, and he would have my ass if anything became disorganized.”

“Of course. My apologies.”

Giovi placed the violin peg box back down where he found it, stuffed both of hands deep into his pants pockets, then walked over to the workstation Corrado was setting up.

“May I see the marranzano,” Corrado asked.

Giovi removed his left hand from his pocket, and handed the silver harp to Corrado. He took a minute to meticulously inspect it beneath the magnifying glass, assessing the damage, and calculating what he would need to replace the reed.

Corrado stepped away from the station, then rummaged through the tall shelves of tools. He returned a few moments later with a small hammer, pliers, a ruler, a pair of metal calipers, a sheet of sandpaper, a pack of matches, a candle, and a four-inch glass jar which he filled to the brim with water from a hand-washing station in the corner of the room.

He placed the tools down onto the table in an intricate order, then stepped back across the aisle and picked up a large cardboard box from the bottom shelf, which he carefully brought back to the work station. He pulled the metal chair out from beneath the table, sat down, then plunged both of his hands inside of the box. His fingers sifted through hundreds of marranzano reeds until he chose one of his liking. He removed it from the box, placed it onto the table, measured its length with the ruler, and the thickness with the calipers, then re-folded the flaps, sealing it shut.

“Would you mind putting this back on that shelf?” Corrado asked.

Giovi nodded, took the box from the boy’s hands, and carefully returned it to its home. He didn’t want to miss a thing, so he quickly returned to Corrado’s side, and watched on in silence as the boy worked.

Corrado set himself up at the station, and began the intricate process. He started by gently fastening Giovi’s marranzano between the teeth of the table vice. Then, using the pair of pliers, and the small hammer, he carefully wiggled the reed free until he was able to pop it out, making sure not to scar the body of the marranzano. He tossed the damaged reed into a waste basket beneath the table, then began to slowly insert the new one with the same pair of pliers, and hammer. Once the reed was fully installed, Corrado struck a match, and lit the candle. When the flame was finally large enough, he placed the exposed end of the reed over the fire, and gently used the pliers to angle the tip ninety-degrees, while simultaneously dipping the heated tip into the water, quenching it into the proper position.

With the reed in place, he picked up the sandpaper, and began to smooth out the reed’s sharp edges. The whole operation took Corrado about ten minutes to complete, and once he deemed the edges smooth enough, he brought the harp to his lips, and began to flick the angled end of the reed, showcasing the marranzano’s new sound.

“All set, Giovi. The new reed fits perfectly, and it sounds brand new.”

Giovi was in awe of the boy's skills, and could only smile and laugh. He brought the harp to his own lips, and began to play it. The sound made his eyes swell, and he thanked Corrado for his help.

“Thank you, son. This marranzano was given to me by my father who passed away three years ago. I was planning on giving it to my son when he’s finally old enough to play. His eighth birthday is two days from now, so this will be the perfect present. Thank you. Thank you, Corrado. I truly appreciate this.”

“It was a pleasure, Giovi. Thank you for the tobacco.”

Giovi reached back into his pockets, and removed another bag of loose tobacco, as well as two packs of rolling papers.

“Here, take these. That bag I gave you at the church was not enough. Our bargain was far from fair, Corrado. You do incredible work. Please. Take it all.”

Corrado did not fight back, and accepted the tobacco with open arms.

“Thank you, Giovi. But I was only doing my job. I hope to one day own this shop, and to do that, I must master the art of repairing all musical instruments. Thank you for allowing me to have the opportunity.”

Giovi placed a hand over his heart, and offered Corrado a bow of respect.

“Well, I do not want to keep you from your night, nor my wife from waiting for me to return home to have dinner.”

“Allow me to show you out,” Corrado said.

Corrado led Giovi back down the bending aisle, popped the latch of the rear door, then opened it. Giovi stepped through the threshold, then turned around to face the boy one last time. He donned his brown cap, then offered the boy his hand. Corrado latched his palm to Giovi’s, and shook it vigorously.

“Thank you again, Corrado. I will not forget this.”

“Wish your son a happy birthday for me.”

“I will. Good night, Corrado.”

“Good night, Giovi.”

The man spun around, and disappeared into the bustling crowds of hungry and drunk pedestrians. Corrado slid a large rock between the door, keeping it propped open, then began to roll himself a fresh cigarette with the tobacco and papers he had received from Giovi.

Once the cigarette was small enough to sting the tips of his fingers, he flicked it to the ground, then used his heel to stomp it out. The bewitching aroma of lemon, cinnamon, and ricotta once again found a path up his nostrils, and he decided that he was going to fill his stomach with a variety of pastries before heading home for the night.

First, he needed to clean up the work station, and lock up the shop. He used his right foot to kick away the stone, then stepped back into the shop’s basement, closing the door behind him.

He paced down the aisle towards the work station, blew out the candle, dumped out the water in the hand-washing sink, then proceeded to return each of the tools to their respective homes on the tall shelves. Before leaving, he sat down at the station, and rolled himself five cigarettes from the new pack of tobacco. He stuffed them inside of the chest pocket of his suit coat, then made his way towards the door.

Just as he was about to yank down on the metal chain, killing the lights, a loud crash, and the sound of shattering glass froze him to the bone. He first thought it came from outside, but then another loud bang, followed by the sound of stomping boots and muffled voices, reverberated off the ceiling above him. It was coming from the showroom.

Since Mr. Bova had closed the shop for the day, he could not allow himself to let thieves take advantage of such an opportunity. He hustled back to the shelves, and grabbed a three-foot piece of iron that was sharpened at one end, and made his way towards the staircase that led up into the showroom. He knew that the old stairs moaned every time they were stepped on, so he made his calculated ascent with care, making sure to only step on the areas that protested the least.

Standing on the top stair, he gripped the door’s handle with his right hand, keeping his weapon firmly gripped in the other, then slowly, twisted the knob until the latch released, and gently pushed it open enough for him to see out into the open-floor showroom, and to size-up the intruders.

A familiar face, and an even more familiar uniform kept him hidden behind the basement door. Luckily, the thieves were too busy destroying the showroom to hear the door, which was shrouded in darkness, creak open.

Fear began to cripple Corrado, causing him to grip his iron weapon with so much pressure, that the white of his knuckles nearly glowed in the shadows.

He knew that if he tried to intervene, he would surely be captured, so he remained silent, watched, and waited for an opportune moment.

Four men, all donning Nazi uniforms continued to demolish the showroom — smashing priceless violins, snapping the necks of cellos that were older than them, tearing down invaluable paintings, and shattering all of the glass in the expensive display cases, while the seventh one held a pistol to Mr. Bova’s skull.

“Where is it, Bova? I will not ask you again,” said the angry man with the pistol.

“I have no idea what you are talking about. This is a repair shop. I repair musical instruments,” said Bova, spitting out wads of dark blood.

“You are a spy, and you will die for your crimes against the father land.”

“A spy? I am no spy. I am an old man who prefers the company of instruments to people. You are mistaken. Leave my shop now before the police are alerted of your invasion.”

The man with the pistol motioned for one of the six to encourage Bova to be truthful. The tall officer stalked over to the old man, clenched both of his fists, and began to pound them relentlessly into Bova’s face, chest, and stomach. Mr. Bova crumbled to the floor, writhed, and moaned at the tremendous pain that was consuming is elderly frame. The man with the pistol made a motion with the gun, and the officer who offered the beating picked Bova up from the floor, and propped him up against one of the shattered display cases.

His nose was broken, and gushing waves of crimson blood. His eye sockets were swollen to the point that he was nearly blind, and his trembling hands were consoling his broken ribs.

The man with the pistol wiped away a few shards of broken glass from Bova’s shoulders, and began his inquiries.

“Let us try this again. Where is the violin? We know Clement shipped it to you from Casablanca in January. After we captured him, and his enthusiastic wife, who proved to be quite informative after a few months of…vigorous interrogations, we uncovered their pathetic ruse, and learned that the real violin was shipped to a quiet repair shop in Canicatti. Your shop, Mr. Bova. We also know that their son, Corrado, is your only employee. If you will not tell me what I need to know, I am sure he will.”

Barely audible, Bova forced out a single question, after spitting a wad of dark blood, and teeth, at his interrogator’s boots.

“Clement…Aida…Are they dead?”

“They are still alive. Although the state of their lives are far from pleasant. But, if you tell me where the violin is, and how to find Corrado, I will send word for their immediate release.”

Hearing this man speak about his parents, and himself, nearly made Corrado burst out from behind the door with enough rage to take on all seven of the soldiers, but he remained still. He couldn’t risk getting himself caught, or killed, leaving Rosalie without any family. She was all he had left. The man had also just said that if Bova cooperated, he would set his parents free. He needed to be patient.

“It’s…not…here,” Bova said, struggling to get the words out of his sore throat, “It…never…arrived. I…do not know…where it is. Corrado is not here either. I gave him the day off so he could mourn his younger brother. But that kid is smart, and knows this town better than anyone. You will never find him, and I will tell you no more.”

“Then you will die a spies death, and your friends, Clement, and Aida, will suffer an even worse fate.”

The man with the pistol ordered his men to exit the repair shop. Once they were outside, he unsheathed the five-inch, double edged blade that was attached to his waist. He brought the blade to Bova’s throat, just below his left ear, plunged the tip deep into his flesh, then dragged the blade beneath his chin until he reached the other ear. The man then inserted his filthy fingers inside of Bova’s throat, and pulled out his bruised tongue. Dark blood cascaded down his chest, and the pink muscle dangled like a tie above the collar of his navy blue, button-down shirt. The Nazi officer spat onto Bova’s face, then shoved his limp body to the ground. Leaving the fresh blood on the blade, he sheathed it, gave the room one final glance of annoyed disgust, then exited the shop.

Corrado was still standing on the top stair, frozen in absolute fear, and crying profusely. He had never witnessed such violence in his life. How could someone do such a thing to another human being? How could someone hold such little value for human life? Mr. Bova was a mentor, and a friend. Now he was dead, and he was the only witness.

He swallowed his fear, and forced himself to push the door open. He popped his head out into the hall, then waited a moment to make sure none of the officers were still lingering inside. Hearing nothing but the wind hissing through the broken windows, he stepped out into the dark showroom, and slowly inspected the entire showroom.

Confident that all of the soldiers had left, Corrado crept over to Bova’s side. He held the man’s head in his hands, but there was nothing he could do. His eyes had faded to gray, and he had lost too much blood. He was gone.

Corrado broke down, and began to wail in agony, punching the floor with his fists. He had heard stories about the brutality of the Nazis, but he had no idea that their reach had stretched this far south. He then began to curse his parents. It was their fault Mr. Bova had been murdered. If they knew that they were being hunted by the Nazis, why would they send what they were looking for back home to Canicatti? They must have known that such an action would jeopardize the people of the town, especially Mr. Bova — who had just protected their secret with his life.

Anger swelled inside of Corrado’s heart. He gently laid Bova’s head back down onto the floor, then rose to his feet. His fists were dripping with his own blood, as well as Mr. Bova’s. He used the back of his hands to wipe away the tears, smearing blood across his cheeks. He had one thought ricocheting around his skull.

Vengeance.

He knew that Mr. Bova kept a shotgun locked inside of the closet behind the main counter, so he made his way over to the closet door, and opened it. It was cluttered with cardboard boxes of invoices, and cleaning materials. A tall, metal shelf was bolted to the back wall, and resting on the bottom rung, was an iron cage, locked with a padlock. Behind the cage, was the shotgun, and three boxes of buck shot bullets.

The key that he had been given by Mr. Bova had been a master key, which meant that it opened both doors to the shop, as well as the lock to the cage. He stepped inside the closet, knelt down in front of the cage, pulled the key from his pocket, and unlocked it.

Rosalie, being a weapons addict, had taught him how to handle, load, and shoot various pistols, rifles, and shotguns. He removed the sawed-off, double-barrel lupara, cracked the neck, and loaded it with two bullets. He dumped the remaining bullets from the boxes onto the floor, and stuffed all of his pockets with as many that could fit.

He knew he wanted to hunt, but he knew that he needed to be extremely careful. He had shotguns many times, and was extremely accurate, but he had never shot at another human being, let alone kill someone. He decided that he would tail the group of Nazi officers. Study their movements, and find out where they are staying. When the opportune moment arose, he would take action, and acquire his own justice for Mr. Bova.

He stepped out from the closet, then ducked down behind the counter to avoid the incoming torch. The flaming piece of wood bounced off of the wall behind him and rolled to Mr. Bova’s feet. Two more torches came flailing in from the sidewalk, and they quickly began consuming the dry wooden floor beams, as well as the walls. Corrado peaked his head over the counter and saw the Nazi, who had sliced Bova’s throat staring in his direction.

Corrado couldn’t be sure if the man had seen his face, but he was sure that the man was grinning behind the dancing flames. As they intensified, a voice called out, and grabbed the man’s attention.

“Ulrich, we have to move!”

The man finally disappeared into the night, and Corrado was left alone to combat the raging fire. His hunt would have to wait.

He slung the shotgun over his right shoulder, and tried his best to pull Mr. Bova’s body towards the front door. The flames were spreading too rapidly, and they ravenously ate their way across the front of the showroom, blocking any escape through the front. He surveyed the shop, and realized that the only way out was back down the basement stairs, and out the rear door. He also knew that there was no way he could manage dragging Bova’s body down the steep flight of stairs, through the weaving aisle of the basement, and out the back door. So he laid him down once again, and said a quick prayer for his soul.

The flames were erupting all around him, crawling up the walls, sputtering out into the night through the broken windows, and slithering around the floor. He needed to move, or else he would suffer the fate of being burned alive.

He ran towards the basement stairs, and descended them with haste. Just before reaching the bottom stair, the ceiling above him gave out, and splintered wood and angry flames fell on top of him, crushing his body to the floor. The fire burned its way through his pants, melting the flesh on his calves, but his adrenaline was too ferocious, which allowed him to push himself to his feet. He ran down the weaving aisle, limping the entire way, avoiding falling pieces of the burning ceiling.

Using all of his momentum, he crashed his way through the door, and collapsed onto the cobblestone sidewalk just as a spire of red, and orange flames exploded out of the door behind him.

He crawled on his stomach until he was free of the flame’s reach. A group of concerned pedestrians ran to his aide, and helped extinguish the flickering flames on his clothes. They helped him to his feet, and began hustling large buckets of water from the nearby cafes to help douse the flames until the fire department arrived.

As his adrenaline receded, he stood alone on the sidewalk, watching as the raging fire consumed the only thing he had left in life that brought him happiness. He caressed the short barrel of the shotgun he had concealed beneath his suit jacket, and studied the dark blue eyes behind the oval glasses, and distinct facial features of the man who killed his friend, and murdered his future.

He reached into his chest pocket, removed two crushed cigarettes, then placed one behind his right ear, and the other between his chapped lips. He struck a match against the stone wall he was leaning against, then ignited the tobacco, filling his already burning lungs with menthol, all while focusing on a single word. A name.

Ulrich.