To the Heights: A Novel Based on the Life of Pier Giorgio Frassati Read online

  Copyright © 2014 Brian Kennelly

  All rights reserved. With the exception of short excerpts used in articles and critical review, no part of this work may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in any form whatsoever, printed or electronic, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Cataloging-in-Publication data on file with the Library of Congress.

  Cover artwork copyright © Chris Pelicano.

  ISBN: 978-1-61890-634-2

  Published in the United States by

  Saint Benedict Press, LLC

  PO Box 410487

  Charlotte, NC 28241

  www.SaintBenedictPress.com

  Printed and bound in the United States of America.

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. A Rose in Return

  2. A Simple Gift

  3. A Child’s Compassion

  4. The Stranger at the Door

  5. The Providence of Failure

  6. Mountain Prayers

  7. Fists after Mass

  8. Sympathy for Soldiers

  9. Remembering the Forgotten

  10. Bells for Peace

  11. A Chosen Path

  12. Do Not Weep for Your Children

  13. Tears in the Darkness

  14. Trouble Past Midnight

  15. Our Lady of Oropa

  16. Goodbye to Italia

  17. An Influential Meeting

  18. Finding Clarity

  19. Combating the Black Shirts

  20. Comforting the Sick

  21. Atoning for Sins

  22. The Shady Characters

  23. The Haze of Love

  24. A Silent Sacrifice

  25. Intruders

  26. Goodbyes at the Train Station

  27. The Banishment of Gloom

  28. To the Heights

  29. Flowers by the River

  30. Three Falls

  31. Staying Behind

  32. Waiting out the Storm

  33. A Final Prayer

  34. Cortège through the Streets

  Epilogue

  Prayer for the Canonization of Pier Giorgio Frassati

  Prologue

  When Saint Benedict Press approached me about this project, my immediate reaction was one of hesitation. How do you tell the story of a real-life, historical figure, especially one as holy as Pier Giorgio Frassati? How do you do him justice and display his virtues accurately? How do you take what biographical information we have and weave it together, while doing your best to fill in the gaps of what we don’t know? How do you speak for a man on the path to Sainthood, a man revered by Popes?

  These troubling questions kept me awake for nearly a week. Luckily, I had a newborn baby to keep me company on those sleepless nights.

  But above these issues was a dilemma trumping them all—the opposing option was far worse. To decline the offer meant forfeiting an amazing opportunity. Could I let such a chance pass me by, to not only learn more about Pier Giorgio Frassati myself, but also bring him to thousands of others? As with many matters throughout our lives, clarity came through prayer, and here I am writing this just over a year later.

  The burden of sitting down to write a biography is certainly a difficult one, but to write a historical fiction novel bleeds over into something else. There are different challenges, different rules, and even more people scrutinizing your work. A writer opens himself up to criticism with each word he writes, a truth only exaggerated when writing about a historical figure.

  So why embark on such a project? Why not just write a biography?

  There is certainly a place for biographies in the libraries and bookshelves of our world, especially of the Saints. They are informative, inspirational, and integral to spreading the Faith. But most are not told through the medium of a story, and there is nothing more powerful than this; one need only look to the greatest Teacher we’ve ever known, who chose to teach in parables.

  There is no denying biographies have the ability to teach us many things about the colossal figures of our past, lessons we may even be able to apply to our own lives. But does it have the ability to make us cry the way a story can? Does it journey into the caverns of our soul, where the deepest truths hide, and bring those truths back to the surface?

  I have always felt that reading a biography, or any non-fiction book, is like looking through a pair of binoculars, while reading fiction is like looking through a kaleidoscope. In both cases you’re presenting something new to your senses, but the binoculars merely draw you closer to a reality that is a distant part of this world, while the kaleidoscope draws you closer to the possible realities of the world beyond, where lights and colors dazzle in such a way we are not accustomed to here on earth. The beauty of historical fiction is that it combines the two, so that perhaps you’re looking through the lens of a telescope at the glittering lights of the cosmos, helping you to make sense of your humble place in the universe. But beyond any poetic analogy that can be made, the truth is that when you fall into a story, your own story begins to have more meaning.

  It’s my hope that in relaying the life of a young man like Pier Giorgio Frassati through the prism of a story, we can come to know him better than we would in the pages of a biography, or even a book of his own letters. We can place ourselves in his shoes, relate to him, and view life through his eyes. His experiences become our experiences, and he holds our hand as we learn from them.

  But the reader must not forget that this is a fictional novel. Artistic liberties had to be taken to fill in the day-to-day details of Pier Giorgio’s life. Much of what we know about him comes from the many letters he wrote to family and friends. But a novel about a young man sitting down to pen dozens of letters simply would not work. Therefore, it was necessary, at times, to make reasonable conjectures, both to connect the dots of his life and to ensure the story flows in an engaging and compelling fashion. I’ve taken the facts, letters, and verifiable episodes from his life and blended them together into what I hope is a story that will give the reader a chance to know Pier Giorgio in a whole new light.

  Throughout the course of my research, I began to see just how important Pier Giorgio was, and how vital it was that his narrative spread to the masses. He devoted much of his life to works of charity, spending a great deal of time in the ghettos of Turin with the poor and sick, and was an avid believer in the importance of the sacraments and devotion to Our Lady.

  But beyond his spiritual life, he was a good-looking, charismatic, and popular young man who loved to disappear in the rugged Alps of Northern Italy, climbing toward the heights and above the clouds. He had dozens of friends, girls loved him, and he possessed an eternal zest and optimistic attitude in everything he did. To use a modern term, he was simply “cool.” There is a quote attributed to Pope St. John Paul II where he claims that the Church needs saints who wear jeans and sneakers instead of veils and cassocks, and saints who eat pizza and go to the movies. If our late Holy Father truly said this, he needn’t look further than to this young Italian.

  Pier Giorgio was also bold enough to get his hands dirty when he spoke out passionately against the evils of Fascism, even coming to blows with Mussolini’s thugs on numerous occasions. But perhaps most fascinating of all, he carried a unique cross in the form of high-society parents who actually frowned upon his intense love of the Catholic Church, doing their best to steer him away from his religious practices and charitable work.

  In short, Pier Giorgio is perhaps one of the most unique and fascinating souls to ever journey down the path to Sainthood, a man
John Paul II called, “a man of the Beatitudes.” But the power of his story is frozen solid in an immense glacier sitting atop the globe; my goal is to melt that glacier, letting his life seep into the oceans and fall upon each shore in the form of virtuous waves that tumble and crash with an Italian accent.

  I was only 29 when I began writing this, so it was rather fitting and providential to study a man so inspirational to young people in particular. When I neared the completion of this book, I felt as if Pier Giorgio had become my brother. It is my hope and prayer that you feel the same way after reading it. Through all my research and writing efforts, consisting of long hours in the quiet pitch of night, I have tried to relay his tale with the utmost respect and honor. For any failures, may God forgive me.

  My thanks goes out to the people of Saint Benedict Press and TAN Books, especially Rick Rotondi and Conor Gallagher, for presenting me with this opportunity. I also want to thank Allison Schumacher, Paul Thigpen, and Morgan Witt for all their help and edits. On a personal note, I want to thank my parents, as well as my brother and his family, and my wife’s family, for their continued love and support. Last but not least, I must thank my wife, Tina (you’re my favorite person), and our children, Connor and Magdalene.

  Blessed Pier Giorgio Frassati, pray for us.

  1

  A Rose in Return

  JULY 6, 1925

  Antonio cupped his two hands together, locking them with his knuckles.

  “Place your foot here, Paolo, and I’ll lift you up.”

  “How will you get out with no one to lift you up?” the younger boy asked.

  “I’m tall enough to reach the ledge and pull myself up. I’ll be right behind you.”

  “Are you sure we should do this? We could get in trouble.”

  “We convinced Mother Vanzetti we were sick with our coughing. You heard her; she told us to stay in bed and not get out for the rest of the day, so that we don’t get the others sick. She won’t come down to check on us, I promise. And anyway, it’s worth the risk. Think of all the times he came to visit us. Now, we’ll repay him with a visit.”

  “But he has died. How will he know?”

  “Trust me, Paolo, he’ll know we’re there.”

  Paolo glanced up at the window. It led out of the basement of the Provincial Institute for Children and came out at the curb of Corso Giovanni Lanza. He heard the swooshing of cars driving by.

  “Is it locked?”

  “No, just flip the latch and it will pop open. You already asked this. Stop with all your reasons to not do this.”

  Paolo took a deep breath and placed his bare foot inside Antonio’s hands. His older friend lifted and balanced him before the window, long enough for him to flip the latch. He pushed it open and squeezed his body through the narrow, rectangular window, climbing out onto the bustling street. A moment later, Paolo saw Antonio’s hands clasp the edge of the windowsill. He grunted as he struggled to pull himself up, scratching his feet against the inside wall to gain leverage. When Antonio had joined Paolo on the street, they smiled and snuck off around the corner of the block.

  The closer they got to the Church of La Crocetta, the thicker the crowd grew. They appeared unassumingly from each alley that formed the gridded blocks of the city, gathering like a flock of birds from the wooded forests for their winter migration. The church acted as a magnet, drawing in the crowds from all over Turin.

  Normally, two barefooted orphans, dressed in rags and a week removed from a bath, might draw the ire of those passing by. But this crowd was different—it was filled with the poor, the lonely, the sick, the degenerate. They were the broken of the city, the castaways of the gutter, all gathering to take witness to the procession without concern of two orphans joining them.

  The boys stopped at the edge of the crowd a hundred yards from the church.

  “Come on,” Antonio said, grabbing Paolo’s hand, “we can get closer.”

  “Wait… .”

  Paolo ripped his hand away and ran across the street.

  “Paolo! Where are you going? Paolo!”

  Antonio watched his young friend slither through the sea of people to a flower vendor across the street. Paolo slipped up to the right side of the wooden cart, waiting for the merchant’s attention to be drawn in the other direction. When the man’s eyes slid away, distracted by a young, brunette woman, Paolo plucked a red rose from a bouquet and sprinted back across the street.

  “He’d bring us flowers when he visited; I’d like to give him a rose in return.”

  Antonio nodded and smiled, then grabbed Paolo’s hand and together they snaked their way through the crowd. They fell to all fours and crawled across the concrete and in between the legs of unknowing adults. After a few minutes, they arrived at the edge of a group of policemen holding back the throngs of people. Beyond them sat the church, with its dark brick bell tower rising up against the summer sky.

  “What now?” Paolo asked.

  “Now, we wait. The procession should be arriving soon. I heard a man say they had to come down Via Marco Polo because the crowd following the casket numbered too many for the other roads.”

  Paolo nodded and glanced at the people surrounding them. They were all giants, hovering two feet above him. Normally he might be intimidated by such an assembly of adults, but an unexplainable peace hung over the busy streets and quelled his fears. There was a common sadness that united them all and brought a calming presence to each person. A woman to his right cried into the shoulder of her husband. A man to his left also had eyes glistening wet with tears.

  It was a strange feeling, the boy thought, to be among so many people but somehow feel connected to them all, a connection brought to them through one young man, a man who had visited he, Antonio, and all the other orphans dozens of times over the last several years. A smile came to Paolo as he recalled his dark-haired friend and all the times he had played games with the children.

  “So many people,” he remarked to Antonio, “and they’re all so sad. Did they know him like we did?”

  Antonio looked in all directions, surveying the faces from below. He nodded. “I’m sure they did, or they wouldn’t be here.”

  “How did he know them all so well?”

  “I don’t know, Paolo. He always made me feel like I was the only person in the world he wanted to speak with.”

  “I felt the same.”

  “I suppose he did this for all these people, too.”

  “But I want to know. I want to know how he did this, so I can be like him.”

  “I’d like to know, too. But I think one day we will, Paolo. One day we’ll all know his story.”

  A murmur rose from within the crowd like a wave rippling in the sea. Heads turned and peered down the street. A procession of men in dark suits with a brown casket hovering atop their shoulders came into view on the horizon’s edge.

  “Get your rose ready,” Antonio said, putting his arm around Paolo. “Here comes Pier Giorgio.”

  2

  A Simple Gift

  18 YEARS EARLIER

  Pier Giorgio sat at his desk drawing a picture, his short legs dangling above the floor. His head remained steady, perched and still as if turned to stone, but his eyes darted up and down as he surveyed in the distance the bell tower of the Church of La Crocetta.

  It rose up in clear view from his bedroom window, the white clock and the bells above it, all framed by the tower made of a dark and rich-colored brick. He tried in vain to duplicate what his eyes saw across the block to the paper resting on his desk, but nothing met with his approval. He crumpled up his latest effort and hurled it toward the garbage pail in the corner of the room, which sat overflowing with dozens of such balls of paper.

  “I’ll never be able to draw it,” he yelled at himself.

  In the hollows of his despair, for no reason he could fathom, he thought of his grandmother, Linda Ametis. Perhaps, he wondered, she found her way into the recesses of his juvenile thoughts because she was suc
h an avid visitor to The Church of La Crocetta on her visits with the family. She had traveled up from her town of Alassio on the Mediterranean. Pier Giorgio had been to visit her last summer and each day they would go searching for wild-flowers growing in the fields behind her villa. He recalled how much she had enjoyed this.

  “I need a break,” he admitted.

  He ran downstairs and found his grandmother in the family’s living room. She sat reading a book in the light of a window overlooking the Piazza d’Armi.

  “Grandmother Ametis, come outside with me to pick flowers.”

  “Oh, dear boy,” she said, placing her book in her lap and caressing his cherub face. Her wrinkled hands felt rough against his smooth cheeks. “You’re so sweet, but I’m tired today. Perhaps you may go in search of flowers without me and bring them back so I can see.”

  Pier Giorgio thought for a moment before smiling and kissing her cheek. “I’ll bring you a bouquet!”

  He sprinted out of the house, leaving the sound of his grandmother’s laughter behind and entering the streets of his hometown. Turin sat nestled at the base of the Alps in Northern Italy, some 400 miles from Rome. It was a majestic city with a romantic skyline and a picturesque expanse of snow-capped mountains surrounding it. Cathedrals, castles, villas, and other architectural gems dating back several centuries filled each block, as common as lamps in a house and just as overlooked if one did not stop to appreciate the splendor.

  Knowing his parents would not let their six-year old son venture far, Pier Giorgio scanned the nearby area of Crocetta. He plucked and gathered flowers from a bed surrounding a fountain, filling his hands like a bride on her wedding day.

  On his way back home he turned a corner too quickly, running directly into a woman who, coincidentally enough, also held a bouquet of flowers. He fell to the ground as she stumbled back. Both of them dropped everything they held.

  “Oh my, where are you going in such a hurry, little one?”

  She crouched down to help him up.

  “I’m sorry, Signora,” he replied, dusting himself off. “I was running home to give my grandmother these flowers.”