9
IT WAS NOT UNTIL the following Monday that Father Gaetano introduced the puppet theatre into his catechism lessons. As a boy, he had enjoyed carving wood and had learned how to play the violin, so he considered himself reasonably dexterous. Working the marionettes’ strings without getting them tangled, and in such a way as to make them seem to walk or bow—or at least face one another while he gave them voices—had required days of practice, and still he was a poor excuse for a puppeteer. But his skills as a manipulator were not as important as the stories he wanted to tell, and so he forged on, and vowed to continue to improve.
A light rain fell outside, and the weather had turned cold. The priest knew that to those in some parts of the world, a fifty-degree day might be considered quite warm, but in Sicily—especially with the wind and the clouds and the drizzling rain—fifty degrees brought a litany of complaints. He had met a fellow priest from Norway the previous year, and the man’s description of his home country’s climate had caused Father Gaetano to make a silent vow never to visit the place.
“Are you ready?” a voice asked.
Father Gaetano turned to see Sister Teresa standing in the open doorway of the converted classroom. A spot of brightness and warmth bloomed in his chest and he felt himself grinning, before quickly extinguishing that unfamiliar spark he had begun feeling more and more often in her company. He was a man of the cloth, and she a bride of Christ. Any romantic feelings he might develop were mere foolishness. But he was always pleased to see her.
“Ready? Not at all. But I am committed to a course of action.”
“Ah, well, that’s almost as good,” Sister Teresa said. She seemed to enjoy teasing him, now that they knew each other a bit better.
“Will you stay for the show?” he asked.
“Won’t that make you nervous?”
“More nervous than I already am?”
Sister Teresa frowned. “To perform for children? Why should you be nervous?”
“In such moments, we are reminded that we are still only children ourselves, in our hearts,” Father Gaetano said.
She nodded. “I suppose we are. But you have nothing to worry about. The children love the puppets and are excited to see what you’ve done with them. It’s all they’re whispering about today.”
“Oh, excellent. You do realize that makes me even more nervous?”
“You’ll be fine, Father,” Sister Teresa said.
They heard footfalls from the corridor then, and Sister Teresa turned to let young Sebastiano slide past her through the door. The boy looked around the room as if it were Christmas morning and he sought the bounty Father Christmas had left behind. His eyes lit up when his gaze found the shape of the puppet theatre, draped with an old blanket, and the ornate box that sat uncovered beside it.
“Good morning, Sebastiano,” Sister Teresa said, amused, although the boy had ignored her presence entirely.
“Huh?” the boy said, turning to glance at her. “Oh, good morning, Sister Teresa.” He turned to Father Gaetano. “Can I be Goliath?”
The priest shook his head. “I’m afraid not. But next week, when it’s time for the story of Noah, I’ll let you be some of the animals. You’ll have to practice tiger and lion sounds.”
Sebastiano’s momentary disappointment vanished at the introduction of this idea, and he nodded quickly, brow furrowing in thought, perhaps already working out how to make the roar of a lion sound different from that of a tiger. His excitement was contagious, and Father Gaetano hoped that the other students would feel it as well.
They began arriving moments later, trickling into the room in twos and threes. Many wore curious expressions, some even eager, and the younger children whispered to one another and glanced at the blanket-covered theatre with a kind of happiness that verged on delight. Father Gaetano felt his chest swell with emotion. Every one of these children had survived horrible loss. They ought to have been in a real school, with other children their own age, not lumped together like this. Wrapped inside of their grief was a core of resentment at the things that had been taken from them—innocence, love, happiness now and in the future, an identity based on family instead of tragedy—but today, at least, he thought he might be able to give them all a reason to smile, and to forget. If only for a moment.
Remembering Sister Teresa, he glanced at the doorway, but saw that she had gone. Despite the necessary chasteness of their friendship, he couldn’t help feeling disappointed. He would be more intimidated by the prospect of performing if she had stayed, but he did like the idea of making her laugh. She had a wonderful laugh.
“All right, children,” he said. “Please take your seats.”
“Tell us about the puppets!” one girl said.
“Puppets,” an older boy groaned, rolling his eyes.
But when Father Gaetano removed the blanket covering the theatre, pulling it away with a flourish worthy of a magician’s cape, all of the children watched with rapt attention. He did not explain, presuming many of them had heard of his foray into the dusty basement already. Instead, he simply stepped behind the theatre, nodding to Sebastiano, who ran up to assist him with the curtains.
At the priest’s signal, Sebastiano slid the curtain back, and the show began.
“Welcome, children, to Father Gaetano’s Puppet Catechism,” he intoned. “Today, we present the story of David and Goliath!”
* * *
HE STRUGGLED WITH THE STRINGS at first, wishing for the talent that would have allowed him to create a genuine illusion out of his marionettes. Though he had practiced, he still tangled the puppets together several times, and the children laughed each time he paused to extricate wooden limbs from one another. Some snickered, but that was to be expected. The older ones, both boy and girls, had adopted a general air of sophisticated disdain typical of children in their teens forced to spend time with younger kids … or with adults … or, really, with anyone at all.
Father Gaetano glanced up during these quick, delicate disentanglements, and from time to time during the performance itself, just to make sure that he had his audience’s attention. One of the girls, twelve-year-old Giulia, looked askance at him, but he could not decide if she disapproved of his skills or of the very idea of being taught through puppetry.
As he went along, however, he warmed to the story and to the art of telling it, and his fingers found a dexterity they hadn’t had before. Yes, the David puppet appeared to be having some kind of seizure rather than using a slingshot to attack Goliath, but the voices he gave them told the story, as did the sudden collapse and death of Goliath and the cheering of the Israelites—represented by several puppets Sebastiano dangled in front of the proscenium and the cries of victory the boy mustered. A few of the children joined in, cheering the death of the Philistine giant.
Father Gaetano could not suppress a flush of pride, though he knew he would have to find it in his heart to be penitent about it later on. He had engaged them. They had paid attention to the story. From here, could he not branch out to explore other Bible stories from the Old Testament? He believed he could. There were so many lessons he wanted to impart to them.
But as he carried the marionettes toward the box—strings wound carefully around their handles—he glanced out at the children again and saw one face that wore neither a smile nor a disapproving frown. Marcello, who had helped him bring the puppet theatre up from the basement, stared at the priest with unblinking eyes. The boy looked almost as if he were holding his breath. He sat straight up in his seat, pale and silent, hands folded in front of him. His fingers dug into the skin at the backs of his hands; this was not prayer.
“Marcello?” Father Gaetano asked.
The boy flinched as if the priest’s voice had been a thunderclap. Only when Marcello glanced up, fixing his gaze anew, did Father Gaetano realize that the boy had not been focused on him after all, but on the marionettes that dangled from their strings.
Marcello wetted his lips with his tongue. He tried to force a smile, and it failed miserably. Father Gaetano placed the puppets back into their box, taking the others from Sebastiano and packing them away, and then he slid the cover into place. As he did, he noticed Marcello sinking deeper into his chair, his former rigidity gone, and he remembered the boy’s unwillingness to carry that box up from the basement. Marcello had avoided that duty, recruiting Giacomo to help him heft the theatre instead.
The boy was afraid. But this didn’t seem to be the time or place to ask him why; it would only embarrass him in front of the others. Father Gaetano had seen both children and adults who suffered from irrational fears of the most mundane things, from traveling by boat to swimming in the ocean, from neckties to umbrellas. Perhaps, he thought, Marcello had such a terror of puppets. Yes. That must be it.
Now, as he glanced at the boy again, Marcello would not meet his gaze.
“Father?” asked Concetta, raising her hand.
“Yes?”
“If King David is Sicily, then who is Goliath meant to be? America, or the Nazis?”
Father Gaetano blinked in surprise, intrigued by the question.
“Who said that King David—though he was not king at this point—who said that David represented Sicily?”
Concetta smiled shyly and gestured to her left. “Giulia.”
The other girl shifted awkwardly in her chair. “I didn’t say David was Sicily, just that he was like Sicily, going up against monsters stronger than he was, and coming out all right in the end.”
Giacomo barked a dismissive laugh. “All right? You think we’re all right?”
Father Gaetano held up a hand, giving the boy the stern look that always quieted the children.
“The war has moved from our shores, but it goes on,” the priest said. “And, yes, it took a terrible toll on all of you, and on Sicily. But you are here. We are all here. And if there is anything that your parents would want for you—would expect of you—it is that you learn courage, and learn wisdom. The story of David and Goliath has battle, and it has a monstrous enemy, but the story of the boy, David, who grew to be the king of Judah and then of all Israel, is about courage and about wisdom. So listen, boys and girls, and I’ll tell you about the life of the young man who defeated Goliath and became a king.”
And, amazingly, they listened.
Even Marcello. The haunted look had gone from his eyes, but Father Gaetano had not forgotten it. Nor would he.