The two Gentlemen of Verona

This being my first post let me explain that it is not my piece of writing and appeared in the Readers Digest in 1949. I love good stories especially the ones that inspire and tell us even if we fall from hardships if we are not dead we live to fight another day. This fight and determination is what gives us hope of another world, to quote a woman that i greatly admire Arundhati Roy, Another world is possible. That world is made possible by people like The two Gentlemen of Verona. 

As we drove through the foothills of the Alps two small boys stopped us on the outskirts of Verona. They were selling wild strawberries, bright scarlet berries that looked delicious against the dark green leaves lining the wicker basket. 

“Don’t buy,” warned Luigi, our cautious driver. “You will get much better fruits in Verona. Besides, these boys….” He shrugged his shoulders to convey his disapproval of their shabby appearance.

One boy had on a worn jersey and cut off khaki shorts, the other a shortened army tunic gathered in loss folds about his skinny frame. Yet gazing at the two little figures, with their brown skins, tangled hair and dark earnest eyes, we felt ourselves strangely attracted. My companion spoke to the boys discovered that they were brothers. Nicola, the elder was 13; Jacopo, who barely came up to the door handle of the car, was nearly 12. We bought their biggest basket, then set off towards town.

Verona is a lovely city, rich in history, with quite medieval streets and splendid buildings of an exquisite pale honey color. Romeo and Juliet are reputed to have lived there. Bombed in the recent war, it has lost its bridges, but not its gaiety or charm.

Next morning, coming out of our hotel, we drew up short. There, bent over shoe-cleaning boxes beside the fountain in the public square, doing a brisk business, were our two young friend of the previous afternoon. We watched for a few moments; then, as trade slackened, we went over. They greeted us with friendly faces. “I thought you picked fruits for a living,” I said. “We do many things, sir,” Nicola answered seriously. He glanced at us hopefully. “Often we show visitors through the town…. to Juliet’s tomb ….and other places of interest.”

“All right.” I smiled. “You take us along.” As we made the rounds my interest was again provoked by their remarkable demeanor. They were childish enough, and in many ways quite artless. Jacopo, although his lips were paler than they should have been, was as lively as a squirrel. Nicola’s smile was steady and engaging. Yet in both there was a seriousness which one respected, an air of purpose far beyond their years.

In the week that followed we saw them frequently, for they proved extremely useful to us. If we wanted a pack of American cigarettes, or seats for the opera, or the name of the restaurant that could provide good ravioli, Nicola and Jacopo could be relied upon to satisfy our needs, with their usual cheerful competence.

What struck one most was their unremitting willingness to work. During these summer days, under the hot sun, and in the long evenings when the air blew chill from the mountains, they cleaned shoes, sold fruits, hawked newspapers, conducted tourists round the town, ran errands, exploited every avenue which the troubled economy of the town left open to them.

One night we came upon them in the windy and deserted square, resting on the stone pavement beneath the pale arc lights. Nicola sat upright, his face drawn from fatigue. A bundle of newspapers lay at his feet, while Jacopo, his head pillowed upon his brother’s shoulder, was asleep. It was nearly midnight. “why are you out so late Nicola?” He started sharply as I spoke but now he gave me his quiet, independent glance. “Waiting for the last bus from Pauda. We shall sell all our papers when it comes in.”

“Must you keep at it so hard? You both look rather tired.”

“We are not complaining, sir.” His tone, while perfectly polite discouraged further inquiry. But next morning, when I went over to the fountain to have my shoes cleaned, I said “Nicola, the way you and Jacopo work, you must earn quite a bit. You spend nothing on clothes. You eat little enough when I see you having a meal its usually black bread and figs. Tell me, what do you do with your money?”

He colored deeply under his sunburn, then grew pale. His gaze fell to the ground. “You must be saving up to immigrate to America,” I suggested.  He looked at me sideways then spoke with an effort. “We should greatly like to go to the states but here at present we have other plans.”

“What plans?” He smiled uncomfortably, with that remote air which never failed to baffle me. “Just plans sir,” he answered in a low voice. “Well,” I said, “we’re leaving on Monday. Is there anything I can do for you before we go?”

 Nicola shook his head, but suddenly Jacopo’s nostrils quivered like a puppy’s and he piped up eagerly. “Sir,” he bust out, “every Sunday we make a visit to the country, to Poleta, 30 kilometers from here. Usually we hire bicycles. But tomorrow, since you are so kind, you might send us in your car.”

I had already told Luigi he might have his Sunday off. However, I answered, “I’ll drive you myself.”

There was a pause. Nicola was glaring at his brother in the vexation. “We could not think of troubling you sir.”  “It won’t be any trouble.” He bit his lip, then, in a rather put-off tone, he said, “very well.”

The following afternoon we drove to the tiny picturesque village set high upon the hills side amidst sheltering chestnut grooves, with a few pines on the upper slopes and a deep blue lake beneath. I imagined that our destination would be some humble dwelling. But, directed by Jacopo’s shrill treble, we drew up at a large red-roofed villa surrounded by a high wall. I could scarcely believe my eyes and before I could recover breath my two passengers had leaped nimbly from the car.

“We should not be long, Sir. Perhaps only an hour. Maybe you’d like to go to the café in the village for a drink?” They disappeared.

When a few minutes had elapsed I followed. I found a grilled side entrance and, determinedly, rang the bell.

A pleasant looking woman with a ruddy complexion and steel rimmed spectacles appeared. I blinked as I saw she was dressed as a nurse. 

“I have just brought two small boys here.”

“Ah, yes.” Her face lit up; she opened the door to admit me. “Nicola and Jacopo. I will take you up.

She led me through a cool tiled vestibule into the hospital- for hospital the villa had become. We traversed a waxed and polished corridor. On the thresh hold of a cubical the nurse paused put her finger to her lips, and with a smile made me look through the glass partition.  The two boys were sited at the bed side of a girl of about 20, who propped up on a pillows, wearing a pretty lace jacket, was listening to their chatter, her eyes soft and tender. Despite the faint flush high upon her cheekbones and the queer inertness of her posture, one could discern at a glance her resemblance to her brothers.

“Won’t you go in?” the nurse murmured “Lucia will be pleased to see you.”

I shook my head and turned away. I felt I could not bear to intrude upon this family party. But at the foot of the staircase I drew up and begged her to tell me all she knew about the boys.

She was eager to do so. They were, she explained, quite alone in the world, except for this sister, Lucia. Their father, a widower, a well-known singer at La Sacala, had been killed in the early part of the war. Shortly after a bomb had destroyed their home and thrown the three children on the streets.

They had always known a comfortable and cultured life-Lucia had her self been training as a singer and they had suffered horribly from near starvation and exposure to the cold Veronese winter. For months they had barely kept themselves alive in a sort of shelter they had built with their own hands amidst the rubble. Then the German elite guard established headquarters in Verona and for three dreadful years ruled the city with ruthless severity. The boy grew to hate those hash, unwanted masters and when the resistance movement began secretly to form they were among the first to join. It was not a matter of” playing war.”  Their extreme youth and insignificant size, added to an intimate knowledge of the neighboring hills, made them immensely valuable. The good nurse broke off, her eyes moist, then with even deeper feeling she went on. “I need not tell you how fine they were, these infants. How they went in the darkness, through the mountains passes, with letters in their shoes which might cause them to be shot. And when it was all over, and we had peace at last they came back to their beloved sister. And they found her…suffering from tuberculosis of the spine.”

She paused she took a quick breath. “Did they give up? I do not have to answer that question. They brought her here, persuaded us to take her into the hospital. In the 12 months she has been our patient she has made good progress. There is every hope that one day she will walk and sing again.

Of course, everything is so difficult now, food so scarce and dear, we could not keep going unless we charged a fee. But every week, Lucia’s brothers have made their payment.” She added, “I don’t know what they do, I do not ask. Work is scarce in Verona. But whatever it is, I know they do it well.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “They couldn’t do it better.”

I waited outside until the boys joined me, then drove them back to the city. They sat beside me, not speaking, in a mood of quite contentment. For my part, I did not say a word-I knew they would prefer to feel that they had kept their secret safely. Yet this silent epic of youthful devotion had touched me deeply. War with its attendant horrors, had not broken their spirit. And if an untimely maturity had been forced upon them, at least they had accepted it with dignity and courage. Their selfless action brought a new nobility to human life, gave promise of a greater hope for human society.