Read The Girls of Piazza D'Amore for Free Online Page B

I closed my eyes and imagined the stream – a rivulet of clear running water hidden in the underbrush − where my mother and I used to stop on our way to the mountain looking for wood. We drank by cupping water into our hands.
On the water’s edge, in spring, I’d find tiny sweet-smelling violets, and, on hot summer days, we would cool our feet in the brook. In Lourdes, the priest said, the watering hole turned into a spring with healing powers, attracting millions of pilgrims.
    I had no problem memorizing my lines but I did have to be repeatedly told to raise my voice. Some of the church ladies would sit in the last row of the theatre and call out for me to speak clearly and loudly.
    We had been rehearsing together for three weeks when, one day, Aurora didn’t show up. Don Raffaele explained that the ladies had decided it would be more effective to have a real statue of Our Lady on stage, and to have one of the women stand behind it and recite the lines. I felt sorry for Aurora, who was very upset when I saw her at the seamstress’s shop. She still had to pay for the fabric for the white dress, which was only half finished.
    â€œThis village is full of jealous vipers,” she said, tears welling in her eyes.
    A few days later, Aurora was rushed to the hospital in Catanzaro, where she stayed for a week. Rumours flew about why she had to stay for so long.
    â€œI hope it’s not because of the play or the dress,” Giovanna said. “I didn’t charge for my time cutting it and basting it, but I had to charge her for the fabric.”
    â€œAurora has had other things on her mind besides the play,” one of the church ladies replied. “Good thing we thought of the statue. Imagine having someone like her play the part of the Virgin Mary.”
    The ladies then decided that, during the first apparitions, the statue would remain covered by a veil. When it came time for the final scene, the people in the play knelt in front of the covered statue.
    I spoke in a clear voice: “What is your name?”
    â€œI am the Immaculate Conception,” the statue replied gravely. The veil dropped and a light shone on the statue of Our Lady of Lourdes. Everyone gasped.
    For the ending, Don Raffaele told everyone that Bernadette had entered a monastery, where she lived in humility and prayer till her death. “The saint of Lourdes was the saint of penance and the saint of prayer. She is a shining model for all girls. She was a modest and simple peasant who, through faith, achieved the highest level that is granted to anyone. She became a saint.”
    Backstage, one of the church ladies planted a wet kiss on my cheek. “ Bravissima, Caterinuccia. I had goose bumps when the veil came down.” From then on, until I left for Canada, whenever I walked by, people would say, “Here comes Saint Bernadette.” Had I stayed in Mulirena, that would have been my nickname for the rest of my life.
    Whether it was the result of my father’s petition, or because there was a surplus of teachers, or simply because it was meant to be, when school started in October, my fourth-grade class was surprised by the appearance of a new male teacher, Signor Gavano from Piemonte. He was a gentle man who came all the way from near the French border to teach in our out-of-the-way village, the name of which was not even on the map of Calabria. A surplus of teachers had been a problem in Italy for ages, so this was not unusual. He left his wife and family behind and boarded at the home of Don Cesare, one of the few homes in the village with running water and a regular bathroom.
    On the first day of school, he asked us to bring him the last year’s composition notebooks and, when he saw they were mostly blank, he told us that from then on, we’d have to write a composition assignment every week. He also arranged for my class to correspond with another fourth-grade class from his home town,