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strange. That is a church bell. From the tone I would say it was the bell of Sant’ Angelo.” “Sant’ Angelo!” The Major jumped up. “My God,” he said, “I promised the priest I would come, I got thinking about the old bell. Zito, show me the way. Run, Zito, this is terrible.”
    Zito darted out of the door, and the Major ran after him.
    Three or four idlers, sitting in the morning sun, thought it was undignified of the new American Major to chase little Zito through the streets. If he wanted to punish Zito, why did he not send some of his military police after him? It did not suit his office to chase Zito himself, especially since it was unlikely that he would catch him.
    The acolyte Ludovico, sitting on the steps of the Church, looked up in amazement at the little Italian being chased by the American officer. He wondered why the American was chasing the Italian. The pair had run right past Ludovico up the steps of the Church before it occurred to him that perhaps this was the American Major. He got up quickly and ran up the steps after the two of them, but he was too late; they were already inside the door.
    The entire congregation stood up. The lazy Fatta even stopped leaning against the pillar. There was a considerable amount of murmuring, and as the Major walked up the aisle, puffing and wiping the sweat from his face, many people whispered: “Kiss your hand, kiss your hand.”
    In spite of the fact that he never went to church, Zito was impressed by the huge crowd and decided to stay. He followed the Major forward.
    Father Pensovecchio, whose face was also covered with perspiration, as if he too had run a great distance, smiled and turned from ashen white back to his normal pink.
    As soon as he saw a pew that was not too crowded, Major Joppolo genuflected and slid into it. Zito imitated him and squeezed into the same pew, which was too crowded then.
    The congregation seated itself. Father Pensovecchio cleared his throat. His confidence, which had very nearly left him, was now very much in evidence. He had his crowd and he had his Major.
    The priest stepped forward, outside the communion rail. “I have a word to say to all of you on this occasion,” he said.
    Then he paused, waiting for quiet. The Church fell into absolute silence, except for the hard breathing of Major Joppolo and Zito.
    “My children,” said Father Pensovecchio, “everything that is done in this world is done by God. God gave us wheat, and God gave us the sun. God also sent us these liberators after all our prayers. Our prayers are now answered, and the men we feared are now in the hills, which God in his infinite forgiveness gave them to hide in.”
    ajor Joppolo couldn’t help noticing two heads in the pew right in front of him. One was the head of a man, and it was bald. The other was the head of a woman, and it was blonde.
    “But as you all know,” Father Pensovecchio said, “no matter who you have as the authorities, you must obey the law. If a child does something wrong, he is punished by his father. If you do something wrong, you’ll be punished by your new governors. When you go out from mass, read the proclamations which your new governors have posted, and spread the word that all must obey them exactly as they are written.”
    By tilting his head a very little bit, Major Joppolo was able to find out that the bald head belonged to his interpreter, Giuseppe. He was not able, by tilting, to see the face of the blonde head, but he could see that the hair was arranged fastidiously, with no loose strands.
    “If you remember,” said the priest, “we were told that Americans attacked priests and attacked and killed women, and were all Protestants. But right here now is an American of Italian descent who is attending mass, and is just as reverent as you are toward the Church of Sant’ Angelo. He is a very busy man. He is so busy that he had to run all the way to church, and even then was somewhat late. But we are very glad to