Concetta, on her way back home, on the notes and words of that pastoral that were gradually fading away, thought of her brother and wondered if he would have come back at least for Christmas!
Two days after the start of the Novena, a letter from Ture arrived at Zi Strinos shop. He had sent it by post, fearing that it would fall into dangerous hands and not trusting it to be delivered through some shepherd crossing the mountain from one side to the other.
Ture reassured everyone about his condition and how Lord Solima treated him like a son, but he also wrote that he would certainly not be returning for the holidays, unfortunately.
Many other young men hid in Solimas house, he was able to draw cheap labour from them, and the boys could put the war aside for a while. It suited everyone. The fascist militia had discovered and denounced this practice, and the feud was controlled on sight. Those who stayed there only had to work and could not leave until the municipal messenger arrived. The generosity of the Lord had perhaps been too much, the war was taking an ugly turn, and every man of military age, skilled or not, was now suitable to the cause.
Although Ture had reassured his family of his condition, he spent Christmas 1941 sadly with his other comrades. Not even when Gerlando, a young man from Favara, got him a ciaramella4, did he feel any more relieved.
The instrument was a family tradition. The long evenings before Christmas were filled by the sound of the Pileris ciaramella accompanying the songs and tales of popular folklore. Ture pulled himself together, picked up the instrument, began to fill the bag with air, sliding his fingers over the note holes to stretch his shrunken phalanges from the work and cold of those winter days.
When the whole belly of the ciaramella swelled, Ture Pileri began to play, and suddenly it was Christmas. Around the fire, those few refugees felt truly festive for a few moments, thanks to those notes. On the embers, they placed a few poor strips of lard given to them by the Lord, two olives, some dry bread, while at the table there was still oil, new wine, hazelnuts, and many, many thoughts.
Some of the young men of Solima wept secretly, while others could hardly stifle their tears.
Would this be their last Christmas?
Who knows
One thing was sure: the next Christmas would be spent either at the front or underground.