A bit of painful chronicle. And I feel the need to tell you what may seem childish to you. But it is not that way for me, who have known the veracity of my dreams for years.
Eight days ago, on November 22, precisely the night preceding Marta’s going down to Lucca to find out about permission for haulage, in my short sleep at dawn, I dreamt of heading for Viareggio (on foot), together with Marta, and meeting Padre Pio,800 or a Franciscan - but I think it was Padre Pio - who looked at me and said, as if speaking to himself, “It is bitter, though, to have gotten enthusiastic about returning and to experience such delay!” I turned around and, a bit irritated and excited, asked, “What’s that? What’s that?” He replied, “Nothing. I was saying that it is bitter to have gotten enthusiastic about returning and to experience such delay.” He said that twice and disappeared.
I woke up with concern and said to Marta, “You’ll see that nothing can be done.” Marta replied, “Why, no! On the contrary, Padre Pio came to say that the delay has been bitter, but it is over.” I responded, “No, no. You’ll see that it’s beginning now. He was too sad on saying those words. Marta went to Lucca... and found out that it was impossible to leave until after the 30th because permission was denied. That’s one!
Two nights passed. There was another short sleep and a dream on November 24. I seemed to be going down to Viareggio, following - or, rather, preceding - the furniture truck. But obstacles of every kind held up the journey. Finally, the truck could not continue. A furious bull came charging at me, and I saved myself with difficulty by taking refuge in a house belonging to Mrs. Sacconi in Viareggio. The woman was amazed that I had been able to arrive along Aurelia Street, for she said “it was always struck by cannon blasts.” The cannon was, indeed, audible. She also said to me, “It is not prudent to remain here. I already am. But it is good for those who are away to remain away.” That’s two!
Another two nights passed. Last night, the 27th, I dreamt of one of Giuseppe’s sisters who has been dead for several years and of whom I had never dreamt, either alive or dead, though I had been with her for two years and loved her. In the dream I seemed to be waiting for Irma or Maria to leave with them, heading back to Viareggio (Giuseppe’s two other sisters are alive, now in Vigevano and Mirandola). But neither Irma nor Maria came. I instead saw the dead Amelide come in. I was amazed and asked, “Are you here? I was expecting Irma or Maria in order to leave.” She replied, “They cannot come. I can go where I please. Take this. I have brought you two pieces of bread because they will be useful to you. You must still wait for two periods.” (She heavily stressed the term “two.”) And she gave me two pieces of bread, each weighing half a kilo. One was nice to look at, intact. The other, as if shredded and dented. That’s three!
And then tonight...! From the 28th to the 29th. Yesterday, in the afternoon, the sopor demolished me, with a lot of suffering, at 5:30 p.m., and I came out of it at 8:30. I then suffered and was agitated until almost midnight. I later fell asleep and woke up just after 1 a.m. I felt like deciding to leave for Viareggio because large-caliber bombs had been launched over Pontedera and the whole area was unsafe. Right against the window of this room, I said to Marta, “No matter how unsafe, we’re going to Viareggio. At least I shall be in my house and have Father Migliorini near.” A man’s voice said to me from the doorway, “You can’t go there.” I turned around and saw Father Giuseppe Giurlani, the former pastor at San Paolino’s, who died several years ago, standing upright on the threshold. He came forward, smiling and very natural, and repeated, “You can’t go there. They don’t allow it because of the cannon blasts, which are frequent, and especially in your area. They almost always land in the rectangle extending from Ospizio Square (with the pond) to Aurelia Street, with the long sides formed by Vespucci Street and Mazzini Street. Especially there. With your heart and in your condition, you can’t go there. I have always loved you because you were one of the best parishioners, and I don’t want any harm to come to you.”
“But they say they are little projectiles which don’t do much damage!”
“Oh no! They are now large-caliber, and where they hit... they cause death and ruin. The last ones fell right near your house. In the triangle in the midst of the Andreotti cottage (Veneto Street, in front of Raffaelli Street), the Sanminiatelli house (at the end of Leonardo da Vinci Street), and the Soccani house (also on Leonardo Street). Do you want to ruin all the furniture, now that you have spent so much to save it?”
“But Father Migliorini has written, saying that I can go safely because there is no danger, and others tell me that these are matters of small importance.”
“They can tell you what they please. The truth is what I’m saying. Poor Maria! Among all those surrounding you there is not one who will tell you the exact truth. One, for one reason, and another, for another. But I have no aim. I love you because you deserve it, and I want to defend you. Pay attention to me. Be patient. What do you want to do about it? You have been here so long.... Continue to remain. And, in addition, they won’t let you go in now. The Governor does not want human victims.” He blessed me and disappeared.
I woke up in tears. And I remained under this impression to the point that, as soon as Marta awakened, I told her about the dream, and then Mr. Lucarini at 11, and his wife at 3 p.m. Enzo Lucarini came from Lucca at 5. He had gone to request permission for the truck. He brought news of cannon fire, with ruins and victims, in the area near my house - Vinci Street and Fratti Street - and said he had done nothing because serious people, above all suspicion of exaggerating, had advised him not to. Among them, Father Fantoni.
I remained sad and discouraged....
...And at 8 p.m. Marta told me about the death of Dr. Lapi.
Dr. Winspaere, his colleague and friend, in whose arms he died, had brought me the news on Friday, the 24th. The doctor had said caution should be used in telling me because of my condition. He did not have the heart to do so. He died in Corsica, in an ambush, on October 26, 1943. Twentytwo days after my mother....
Do you remember, Father, when I told you that the fact that he had caused me pain by neglecting Mother to the point of provoking her death, in the midst of very severe sufferings, out of carelessness in diagnosing and treating the costal fracture sustained by Mother on December 5, 1942, would not go unpunished? In January 1943 he, too, broke a rib, and punishments derived therefrom (because he had left his post without authorization) and all the rest: Corsica and death.... I had always prayed for him, at once good and very human, not one of the worst, either as a man or as a doctor, and more for his child, whom he adored, and for his poor mother, who had already lost two children in the war, 1915-1918, and who found all comfort in her Lamberto. But for months I had seen him in dreams (I had dreams concerning him on five occasions), always so pained, yellow, old, bent, and sad that I had become certain of his death and his purgatory (at least, let us hope it is Purgatory). I shall now pray for his peace.
I am sorry to think I will see him no more. He was like a brother to me. For nine years he treated me with patience and friendship. With earnings, it is also true. But who would have been like him? How often he had placed himself between Mother and me to calm down her states of paranoia, which made me worse! Just six days before departing, as well. And his hostility towards Mother had originated from the fact that he, as a doctor, more than anyone else, understood that in my malady at least sixty percent derived from the moral torture which since childhood I had suffered on account of my mother’s character. Any yet I did not want him to neglect her, for that life was dear to me. A torment that was my love....
I am also sorry that you, Father, with your slowness, let him go off with questioning him about me and having him leave you a certificate. What other physician can do so as precisely as Lupi could have, since he had been coming for nine years at least three times a day and knew the whole course of the illness and its forms and my patience in the face of both the sufferings from the many maladies which torture me and the environment of family and friends surrounding me, a bramble in the midst of thorns? A knot of thorns? Lapi knew all. And, honest as he was, he could have testified exhaustively.
He is now dead. And this proof, too, has been lost, like that of the abundant correspondence you have let me destroy, waiting to say that you wished for it when it had already been burned. Many of my friends are dead. And these are all proofs that are lacking. Proofs for those, however, to whom proofs are of use only to prove their nonfaith.
That’s enough.... Otherwise I’ll faint. I feel very bad.
800 Padre Pio da Pietrelcina, the stigmatized friar at San Giovanni Rotondo (1887-1968), to whom the writer was devoted.