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

  Pier Giorgio looked toward the edge of the garden where his mother sat between rows of rhododendrons, painting the landscape brushed before her. He whispered a prayer that her heart and that of his father’s would be opened to the Faith.

  The next week the Frassati family returned to Turin, leaving their beloved summer villa in Pollone, and on a hot morning in September Pier Giorgio found himself walking through the front gates of his new school. He was tall for his age, with broad shoulders that demanded attention. The other boys stared at his new face as he found his way toward the main office to check in.

  Behind a brown and neatly organized desk sat an older woman with pinned up gray hair and wearing a flower-covered dress. Her rigid face, void of any semblance of a smile, rose from the paperwork she was surveying and suspiciously eyed the young boy standing before her.

  “Yes? What do you need, young man?”

  “My name is Pier Giorgio Frassati. I’m here for my first day.”

  “Ah, yes, that’s right, the son of Alfredo Frassati. I read La Stampa. I find it boring at times but I’ll still read it when I have a moment to myself, which is almost never.”

  Pier Giorgio wasn’t sure she was finished. He remained stoic.

  “So you want your class schedule, then?”

  He nodded, prompting her to rise from her desk and dig through a nearby file cabinet. Just then a man dressed all in black, save for his white collar, emerged from the office behind the receptionist. He was in mid-sentence as he entered past the doorway, looking down at a file of papers.

  “Signora Paolo, where is the orientation meeting scheduled for the new parents? It is tonight, no?”

  “Yes, Father, tonight. I’ve reminded you three times now. It’s in the Student Commons building. We have one of our new students with us right now. This is Pier Giorgio Frassati.”

  The priest looked up from his paperwork and smiled.

  “Wonderful! Hello, Pier Giorgio, my name is Father Pietro Lombardi.” He came forward and shook the young boy’s hand.

  “It’s nice to see you,” Pier Giorgio offered.

  “And you. Do you know if your parents will be attending the coffee tonight for new parents?”

  “I believe my mother will, but not my father.”

  “Ah, yes, he remains busy with his deadlines, and did I hear he has been made a Senator now as well?” Pier Giorgio nodded. His father had won the prestigious position in the 1913 elections, held just months earlier. “My, you must be proud to have such a distinguished father.”

  “Yes, my Papa is an amazing man.”

  The receptionist found what she was looking for and handed Pier Giorgio a sheet of paper.

  “Your class schedule,” she instructed.

  Pier Giorgio glanced down at it and then back at the adults. A haze clouded his expression as he waited for someone to tell him where his first class was.

  “I’ll walk you there,” Father Lombardi offered.

  The two of them left the main office and turned down a crowded hallway full of young boys. Fr. Lombardi gave Pier Giorgio a brief tour of the school, but soon the first bell had rung.

  “You study hard, Pier Giorgio, and I will see you at Mass.”

  “At Mass?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “But it’s not Sunday.”

  “We offer daily Mass here.”

  “And I may receive the Eucharist?” he asked.

  “Of course, if you wish. However, your parents must approve because of your age.”

  “I’ll ask my mother as soon as I see her!”

  The priest laughed. “Okay, young man, go take your seat.”

  Pier Giorgio walked into the room so casually and with such confidence that no other student noticed his unfamiliar face. In the back, beside a row of windows, he found a seat with his name taped to it. He sat down and waited for class to begin.

  “Why are you smiling?” he suddenly heard from the boy next to him.

  Pier Giorgio turned to meet him. “Smiling?”

  “Yes, you’re smiling.”

  “Am I?”

  “Yes, as if you are on drugs.”

  Pier Giorgio laughed. “No, I’m just thrilled by the news that we will be attending Mass daily here, and not just on Sundays.”

  “Of course we do. It’s boring.”

  “Oh no, it’s a joy! We may receive our Lord during the Holy Mass.” The boy shrugged. “You must sit next to me at Mass today; I’ll show you how amazing the experience is. I’m new here—my name is Pier Giorgio.”

  The boy received Pier Giorgio’s hand. “I’m Anthony. Okay, yes, I’ll sit with you at Mass.”

  “Wonderful!”

  A moment later the teacher began his lecture and the boys quieted down. In the midst of taking notes, Pier Giorgio glanced out the window beside him. A horde of trees gathered in front of his view with their branches pushed flush against the window pane. But through a gap in the limbs and leaves he noticed a gold cross rising against the blue sky, resting atop the school’s church on the other side of campus. Pier Giorgio smiled and thought to himself how lucky he was to have failed Latin.

  6

  Mountain Prayers

  At dawn, only a few weeks after starting at the Jesuit school, Pier Giorgio set out with his mother toward the neighboring mountains of Turin. The first rays of sun were busy gracing the glistening whitecaps, pushing back the receding shadows of another night passed and gone.

  With him he carried his knapsack full of supplies, including those his mother would require to paint the beloved valley which cupped the skyline of their city. Today Pier Giorgio would not climb as high as his usual excursions into the mountains, for his mother only required a view from the elevated plateaus that served as a front porch to the Alps. Still, he brought along food and water for the day-long trip, his ice pick, extra blankets, his spiked boots, and all that his mother would require to capture the city which sat blushed against the scarlet glory of the morning horizon.

  They hiked up at a steady but casual pace so his mother could keep up. The air turned crisp and thin and moved quickly through their lungs. When Adelaide had found a spot she fancied, Pier Giorgio unloaded his knapsack, standing up her easel before a large boulder she could sit on and spreading her brushes and paints out on a blanket.

  “This is perfect, dear Georgie,” his mother said. “I’ll be fine here for at least an hour or two. You may go exploring; I know that’s what you want to do. But don’t go far.”

  Pier Giorgio leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. “Paint me a masterpiece, Mama.”

  He set off further into the mountain trees and disappeared from the world of men. It was here that Pier Giorgio found solace from the daily stresses of his life—his studies, his parents’ indifference to God, the shame he felt for any sins he had committed, no matter how trivial they were. He viewed the mountains as a link between heaven and earth, and often pretended he could climb all the way to St. Peter’s gate if only he could impede the darkness of the night. A step was not taken without a prayer to accompany it, a prayer for those he loved and ones for his own sanctity, as well as a request for good weather so his mother could complete her painting.

  He found a small cave some three hundred yards above where he had left his mother and rested at the opening where he sat praying to the Virgin Mother. A familiar comfort came over him as his soul fell into her arms. His prayers often returned to her, as if by instinct, like the waves perpetually returning to the shore. Even as a young adolescent he strove each day to nurture his relationship with the mother of Christ, so that through her, he might find perfect devotion to Christ himself. As Christ was born into the world through her, he hoped the Savior might be born into his soul in the same manner. He found consolation in his prayers to Mary, especially when he meditated on the relationship he had with his own mother and the love he felt for her.

  Later, he explored the mountainside, collecting rocks, minerals, and pebbles that caught his eye
, a habit his mother was not fond of. The windowsill in his bedroom was covered in such things and she often raided his room to clean them up.

  In time, he found his way back down the mountain where his mother sat painting on the boulder. He called out to her from a distance.

  “Even from here I see the beauty in your brushstrokes, Mama!”

  She turned and smiled. When he reached her he dug into his bag and prepared their picnic lunch.

  “And what did you find up there, Georgie?” she asked, biting into an apple.

  “I find something new every time I journey into these high lands. Today I found a cave.”

  “I hope you didn’t go in it! Who knows what beasts could’ve been waiting inside?”

  He laughed as he sat down on the ground below her. “No, I didn’t go inside. I sat at the entrance and enjoyed the view.”

  Adelaide took a sip of water and wiped her mouth with a napkin. “I know that’s not all you did. Those pockets of yours seem fuller than when you left.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he answered playfully.

  “Georgie, I had that talk with Father Lombardi.”

  His jovial expression fell toward the ground. He hoped his prayers earlier in the day had been answered.

  “He is a good man, Mama.”

  “I never said he wasn’t. I just needed to talk with him about your desire to receive the Eucharist each day.”

  “Yes, I need your permission as a minor.”

  “I’m fully aware. You’ve asked me a dozen times in the last week alone.”

  “And?” he asked wishfully.

  She looked out toward the city of Turin before answering. “I cannot figure you out, Pier Giorgio. Father Lombardi tells me they have to drag the other boys into the pews, but they must drag you out of them.”

  He hung his head and fidgeted with his fingers.

  “He said you want to join every club they have—the Eucharistic Crusade, the Apostolate of Prayer, The Marian Sodality—and all the others. I can’t even recall them all. All this focus on the Catholic faith is not normal for our family.”

  “Grandmother Ametis has always been very pious, Mama.”

  “Yes, but oh, how she doesn’t live in this world. I wonder if she could even tell you who our Prime Minster is.” Pier Giorgio didn’t respond. “Are you not concerned that if you are to receive the Eucharist each and every day it will become a practice which lacks meaning?”

  “This miracle could never lack meaning.”

  Adelaide stared at her son; he stared back.

  “I don’t wish to keep you from your Jesus,” she finally said. “I’m merely concerned about you becoming too focused on religious matters. Your father and I don’t want a narrow-minded Catholic as a son. We are not raising a priest, Giorgio. You will have to focus on your studies and follow the world of politics more if you’re to take over La Stampa for your father one day.”

  “What if that’s not what I want to do?”

  “Hush, boy! It will be an honor to hold the prestige your father does.”

  “What about Luciana? She would be more suited to follow in Papa’s footsteps.”

  “Nonsense. She’s a woman. Don’t be absurd.”

  The two of them ate in silence as the high winds of the hills blew across their faces. Adelaide sighed.

  “Despite all I’ve said, I did give Father Lombardi my permission to allow you to receive Communion each day.”

  “Oh, Mama, you did?”

  “But you must not neglect your studies by spending all your time in those pews.”

  “Of course not. Mama, thank you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart!” He rose and threw his arms around her neck, then turned toward the city of Turin and shouted, “Now hear this, citizens of Italia! I have the best mother in all these great lands!”

  Adelaide laughed and blushed. “Sit down, you silly boy.”

  Over the next year, Pier Giorgio began to revolve each day of his life around his reception of the Eucharist. It became as common as brushing his teeth. For him, a day without receiving Christ was a day lost in the shadows of despair. Thus, a happy period of his life commenced, one in which the joys outweighed the sorrows and he grew closer to leaving his boyhood behind.

  But on June 28, 1914, just after his thirteenth birthday, the assassination of Archduke Francis Ferdinand of Austria and his wife Sofia changed everything. Soon, all of Europe was engulfed in the flames of war.

  7

  Fists after Mass

  Pier Giorgio sat on the curb outside of school reading the day’s La Stampa as his breath cut through the frigid, winter air. A light snow caked the ground and crunched beneath him each time he shuffled his feet. He normally did not bother to read much of his father’s paper but had read every word of every issue in the last months as the debate raged on concerning his country’s involvement in the conflict ripping Europe apart.

  “Sorry for making you wait,” he heard from behind him. The shadow cast by his friend, Camillo Banzatti, moved across his body. Pier Giorgio turned and smiled.

  “It’s no problem. Did you speak with your teacher?”

  “Yes, all is well. Shall we walk home?”

  Pier Giorgio rose to his feet and threw his backpack over his shoulder as the two moved down the street. He kept reading the paper as he walked but struggled to hold it with his mittens on.

  “I feel our fathers are facing backlash over the stance their paper has taken against the war,” he said.

  Camillo glanced at the paper but not long enough to read the article Pier Giorgio was reading. He shrugged. “I’m too young to understand the complications of war.”

  “You mustn’t say this, Camillo. Our fathers are right to stand with Prime Minister Giolitti. We must support them.”

  “I’ve heard that Gabriele D’Annunzio is in favor of us joining the war. He and others feel victory will come swiftly if only we would do our part.”

  “I am just as big a fan of D’Annunzio’s literary work as anyone, but I fail to understand why we should listen to a poet in matters of war.”

  “He is very influential,” Camillo offered. “My father thinks he’s having an effect on the people.”

  “Perhaps.”

  They turned down a narrow, side road away from the passing of cars and buses. This less-traveled road was still covered in a blanket of snow. They had not gone ten feet when they heard a shout from behind them.

  “Mercenaries!”

  The two boys turned around. Mario Attilio Levi, their classmate from school, stood there.

  “Yes, you heard me. Mercenaries. That’s what you are, traitors and mercenaries.”

  Mario took a few steps closer to them, his fists clenched. Pier Giorgio knew what this was about. He had felt the stares and heard the whispers at school each time he and Camillo walked by.

  “We don’t want any trouble, Mario,” Pier Giorgio reasoned.

  “Your fathers are traitors, and so are you. They poison people with their paper and try to convince them to not stand up for our country.”

  “Take it back!” Camillo yelled.

  “They’re not traitors,” Pier Giorgio broke in. “They simply don’t support the actions of sending our young men into war. This has nothing to do with not loving Italia.”

  “Traitors!” he yelled again. “That’s just an excuse traitors use.”

  Camillo threw down his backpack and lunged forward, taking his classmate to the snowy asphalt in less than a second. Pier Giorgio jumped back, disbelieving what was taking place before him. He ripped off his mittens and headed toward the two boys rolling in the snow, but withheld for a moment. He watched as Mario snuck in a right hook that connected with Camillo’s nose, drawing immediate blood. But Camillo did not waver for an instant and returned a punch that landed on Mario’s right ear. They tried to put each other in headlocks but unsuccessfully. Again, Pier Giorgio moved toward the fight, but then took a step back.

  A mome
nt later a passing woman took note of what was happening.

  “Hey, what are you boys doing? Stop that! Stop that at once!” She turned to the other side of the road and saw a police officer. “Officer! Officer! Over here!”

  Pier Giorgio swooped in and pulled Camillo away from Mario. They scooped up their bags and ran down the alley, turning back once to see Mario running in the other direction away from the police officer.

  They ran all the way to Camillo’s house and barged through the front door. They were met by Signora Banzatti who became hysterical at the sight of blood dripping from her son’s nose like water from a faucet.

  “What happened?” she asked, running for ice and a towel.

  Camillo relayed the story, but halfway through the tale his father walked in the house and he was forced to start over. Pier Giorgio could tell Signor Banzatti felt guilty that his political views from La Stampa had led to his son’s injuries.

  Not much later, Signor Banzatti drove Pier Giorgio home, not wanting him to face any more trouble in walking the rest of the way. He escorted him to the house and told the story to Pier Giorgio’s parents. Alfredo Frassati kept eyeing his son as he listened to the dramatic tale, twice grabbing Pier Giorgio’s face to inspect it.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow at work, Alfredo,” Signor Banzatti said as he left the house. “We will discuss what to do about this then.”

  The moment he was gone Pier Giorgio’s parents cornered him. Luciana watched from the entry to the kitchen.

  “Why do you not have any bruises and scars like Camillo?” his father asked.

  Pier Giorgio hesitated. “I was not the one who fought, Papa.”