Fictional Bio of St. Padre Pio--Chapter One and Intro

Pierced by Love:
A Fictionalized Biography of St. Padre Pio

by
Eileen Dunn Bertanzetti



Introduction:

To tell the complete story of St. Padre Pio’s eighty-one years, and to include his canonization, exhumation, and any timely updates on his hospital, friary, church, prayer groups, and other humanitarian projects would take multiple volumes. For the purposes of the enclosed fictionalized biography, I have focused on key events in St. Pio’s life; and I have included some of the most-influential-on-his-ministry individuals, but certainly not all of them.

Though most of the characters and dates in the novel are authentic, some of the characters, such as Maria Orto in Chapter One, are composites of the real people who populated Pio’s life. If you would like to read one of the most accurate and fascinating nonfiction biographies of Padre Pio, I recommend Bernard Ruffin’s Padre Pio: the True Story (Revised and Expanded), published by Our Sunday Visitor, ©1991. As my sources for my book Pierced by Love, which follows below, I used over 100 books about St. Padre Pio.

In most instances, the timeline of my Padre Pio novel follows reality as closely as possible. Even the characters that are from real life (such as Padre Paolino, Fra Nicola, and American heiress Adelia Mary McAlphin Pyle), their physical features (including beards, glasses, and body structures), and their personalities are as close to reality as possible based on research. Even many of the minor characters such as Nina Campanile are portrayed based on facts found in my research, including the fact that, according to Ruffin, she was the first one to spy the stigmata and start telling everyone about them, much to the chagrin of Padre Pio.

In Chapters Three and Four, the confessional scenes with Pellegrina are fictionalized, but the names, ages, and occupations of Padre Pio’s family members, and the details about occurrences such as their deaths, are true. One exception: In real life Pellegrina may not have been the individual who revealed their sister Felicita’s death to Pio. Also the timing of his finding out about the death and the timing of his family finding out about the stigmata are approximated. But based on my research, especially facts found in Ruffin’s biography, Pellegrina truly did scandalize her family in the ways presented in Chapters Three and Four.

I was especially careful when writing about St. Padre Pio to present him to the reader as the personality he truly was, including his habits and spirituality, his spiritual gifts, and his weaknesses as well as strengths. I did this through fictionalized dialogue and scenes based on true events found in my research.

Though I based a lot of Padre Pio’s words on his Letters, Volumes 1, 2, and 3, and also on his words found in books I researched, most of the novel’s dialogue I fictionalized. True are such details as how many friars were left at the friary during World War I; how the young male students under St. Pio’s direction at that time suffered from the influenza pandemic; and how some died. True, too, are such events as Padres Paolino and Pio inoculating the students on their posteriors and the accidental burning of their flesh with the carbolic acid. In other words, almost all of the main incidents and anecdotes in the novel are true with only the dialogue and other minor details fictionalized. Even the interiors and exteriors of the buildings at the Our Lady of Grace complex are as close to reality as possible based on research.

Concerning the stigmatization, many of the hundreds of biographies written about St. Padre Pio differ as to which individual first found out about his stigmata, so I stuck with what Ruffin said in his biography. Throughout the novel, I have stayed as true to the real dates of events as possible, based on my research.

In Chapter Three, I only surmised that St. Pio’s brother’s wife Giuseppa had visited the friary to verify the fact of the stigmata. Throughout the novel I tried to stick to the facts as much as possible in regard to details such as distances, modes of travel, and styles of dress,
Padre Pio’s confessional in Chapters Three and Four has a wooden door on it, much like confessionals in American churches during the twentieth century, while in real life, Pio’s confessional had a curtain rather than a door. You will see that for drama’s sake, I used a door. In Chapter Four, Pellegrina’s lover Julius is fictitious, but according to Ruffin her scandalous behavior involving a lover was real. The details about St. Pio’s family members having influenza are true. In Chapter Five the garden scene is fictionalized while the visitation of the soul from Purgatory is not. And the descriptions of the garden, friary, and church are as accurate as my research would allow.

In conclusion, to go through each of the remaining chapters of the novel, as I have done with the first five above, would occupy too much space, so I hope that the above examples give you a clearer picture of the facts and fiction contained in the entire novel. After having written six nonfiction books about St. Padre Pio (see below), I trusted it was time to write this fictionalized biography in order to give you a more colorful and emotionally involving story. I pray, my friend, that as you read the enclosed novel, St. Padre Pio, by God’s grace, will touch your heart, mind, and soul and fill you with His joy and peace!








VICTIM PRIEST
Chapter 1

Friday September 20, 1918
San Giovanni Rotondo, Italy

Maybe the rain kept most of them away. Maybe the war—or the epidemic. Whatever the reason for the small number of parishioners at his 5 a.m. Mass, young Padre Pio gave the final blessing to the handful of local peasants already trudging toward the church exit on their way to their cottages and fields.

After carefully extinguishing the two tapered candles that flanked the altar, Pio barely noticed the aroma of melted beeswax as he turned and strode on sandaled feet toward the stairway of the choir loft where he always said his after-Mass thanksgiving. The war. He sighed, thinking about the so-called ‘Great’ War. Why does the government think it has to draft priests and other religious? We only had seven friars to begin with to serve the local peasants, and now we’re down to only three of us. The four that were drafted—what if they die in this insane war? Almost to the choir stairway, Pio glanced up at the three-foot-high crucifix perched above the rear arch of the church. His voice and bearded chin trembled with emotion as he whispered upward at the lifelike image of Christ on the cross, “Please bring them back to us, Lord—alive.”

Now in the silence of the small, ancient friary church, almost to the first step of the choir stairway, Pio fingered the rosary he held in his hand. My weapon, he thought. A weapon to combat the evils of the war, the epidemic, the. . . .

An eruption of hysterical screaming broke Pio’s thoughts, startling him all the more because he had assumed he was alone. Inches from the choir stairway he wheeled around to see what was happening at the rear of the church from where the voice now shouted, “This is my church!”
Pio saw a woman stomping toward him from the side nave where she must have concealed herself in the shadows. Too stunned by her fury to be afraid, he stared at her as she approached, screeching obscenities.

Stopping no more than ten feet from Pio, the woman glared upward at the fresco of St. Michael the Archangel. Pointing at the image she cried out, “Where were you when he needed you?”
Was this Maria Orto from down the hillside, the young woman whose wedding Mass Padre Pio had celebrated just last Saturday? He barely recognized the barefooted peasant woman, her grimy face contorted with anger beneath disheveled black hair and tattered scarf. Her whole appearance, including ripped dress and bare feet, sent arrows of concern through Pio. What had happened?

Still glaring upward at St. Michael and shaking her finger at the image, the short and stocky Maria cried out, “You should have protected him! He didn’t stand a chance without your help!”
Had a demon possessed Maria or was she suffering from a mental breakdown? In his eight years as a priest, Padre Pio had seen only one instance of true demonic possession, and Padre Deglespositi had handled that one. Nevertheless, Pio now marched unafraid toward the young woman, his long Franciscan habit brushing his ankles. God was infinitely more powerful than the Evil One, and hadn’t Pio just received Jesus in the Eucharist? The Padre knew that just the name of Jesus could overpower demons, as St. Paul had done while he and Silas were on their way to a place of prayer.

“You could have kept him from dying,” Maria now roared up at the winged sword-wielding Michael. “You could have. . . .”

The sudden pressure of Padre Pio’s hands on the unsuspecting woman’s shoulders silenced her. “Maria, look at me,” he commanded, turning her around to face him. The anger seemed to have left her as soon as she saw her pastor’s face, and she crumpled into his arms, her now-grief-filled eyes overflowing with tears. “Padre,” was all she managed to utter between sobs.

Knowing now that he was not dealing here with demon-possession, the young priest gently said, “Come with me, Maria.” He helped her to stand erect and then, supporting her wobbling frame, guided her to the nearest pew where he made her sit while he stood in front of her. “Tell me what’s wrong, Maria.”

“They killed him,” she groaned out as if the words seared her throat.

“What?”

“They killed my Domenico!” She shook a scratched fist upward at the fresco of St. Michael. “He could have stopped them, but he didn’t, even though I’ve been praying to him every day since Domenico left. I’ve been asking St. Michael to protect him, but he didn’t; he let my husband, my sweet Domenico. . . .” A sob choked off the rest of her words.

Suspecting the answer and angered by the senseless death, Pio growled out the question, “Who killed him?” Seeing Maria flinch at his harsh tone, he placed his hand on her shaking shoulder and softened his voice with, “Poverina, poor little thing, who killed him?”

Maria’s own voice was an agonized whisper as she gazed through tears at Pio. “The soldiers. The Allied soldiers, Padre. I found out late yesterday.”

“Poverina,” Pio repeated, his young priestly heart aching for her. Through misty eyes, the priest asked, “Why didn’t you come to the friary right away?” Pio hoped the empathy in his heart transferred itself through his eyes to Maria as he studied her tear-streaked, dusty face and listened to her distressing story.

“Yesterday I had just returned to our little cottage after working all day at my parents’ small plot of land, when a messenger from the Italian army arrived.” Maria sniffled, fighting back tears. “When I opened the door and saw his uniform and ugly frown, I knew something terrible had happened to my Domenico. When the soldier—without showing a bit of pity or compassion—told me about my husband’s violent death, my heart seemed to freeze up like an olive tree in an ice storm. I barely noticed the soldier leave as I stood in the doorway, still numb. How long I stayed like that, I don’t know, but when the shock began to ease, I lost control of my emotions.” Barefooted and with grief clouding her reason, Maria had fled from the little cottage Domenico had built for them and wandered aimlessly all night, not caring when her frequent falls in the dark ripped her dress or skinned and bruised her hands, legs, and feet and transformed her usually tidy appearance into one of disheveled filth.

Staring now into Maria’s dark, tear-glazed eyes, Pio said, “Poverina, listen to me—and obey.”
His suddenly commanding tone seemed to stop the flow of tears. She sniffled, gazed up at him, took a deep breath, and said, “Si, Padre, yes.”

“Go immediately to your parents’ cottage and tell them what happened. Stay there until they decide you’re ready to return to your own place.” Pio knew that Maria needed more than her parents, though, so he added, “Attend 5 a.m. Mass every morning and don’t hesitate to come to Padre Paolino, Fra Nicola, or me for advice and prayer.”

A feeble smile of hope replaced the frown of desolation on Maria’s young face when the Padre said, “I’ll pray a Rosary for you, and you pray one, too, every day. Ask the mother of Our Lord to help you, and she will. Trust Jesus to help you through her. Remember how He listened to her at the wedding at Cana, when Mary asked Him to somehow get more wine for the feast? Jesus, Son of God, obeyed his mother, even though he said, ‘Dear woman, why do you involve me? My time has not yet come.’ Maria, you must trust Him to help you, too, through his mother’s intercession.”

“Si, Padre, but the pain.” Her aching heart revealed itself through her hoarse tone as she choked out, “Why does God allow war, death and suffering; what’s the purpose of the pain in my heart that won’t go away?”

Tenderly touching his finger to her wet cheek, the priest said, “I know it’s hard to understand, but God doesn’t will death, war, suffering, and pain, but He does allow it to happen because He’s given each of us a free will.” How can I convince her, Lord, that You can turn her sorrow into something useful and good? The sweet image of Christ’s mother manifested itself in Pio’s mind and, along with it, the answer to his question. “You’ve surely heard by now, Maria, about the appearances of the Mother of God at Fatima, Portugal, only a little over a year ago.”

Sniffling, Maria answered, “Si, Papa read to us about it from the newspapers he bought in Foggia.”

“So don’t you remember him saying that at Fatima Mary urged us to accept willingly whatever suffering enters our lives? She said to offer our sufferings to God as prayer for the souls of poor sinners who’ll end up in hell if we don’t suffer and pray on their behalf.” The young priest knew he could quote Colossians 1:24 to Maria as proof that God, too, believed there could be a good purpose for suffering, but Pio also knew that in her frame of mind she wouldn’t be able to absorb what he said. “Will you promise me you’ll say the Rosary every day and offer your pain to Jesus as prayer for others?”

Maria smeared the dust and dirt on her hands across her cheeks as she attempted to brush away her tears. “Si, Padre, I’ll try; molte grazie, thank you very much.”

After ushering Maria to the front door and repeating his advice to her, Pio closed the door behind her. Turning, he headed once again toward the choir loft stairway at the rear of the church. As he trudged up the wooden stairs—polished to a fine sheen by hundreds of years of friars mounting the same steps to pray in the same choir loft in the same seventeenth-century church—he mourned silently for Maria and Domenico, for the four absent friars who might never return, for all the soldiers forced to fight in this ungodly war. Halfway up the stairs, young Pio unwillingly recalled his own recent service in the Italian army. Known then as Private Francesco Forgione, he had served a total of 182 days of active duty during a period of about two and a half years interrupted by three extended sick leaves. Only six months ago, the military doctors in Naples had honorably discharged him because recurring lung problems had reduced the normally stocky, five-foot-five-inch Francesco to a weak, near-skeletal condition. Honorable discharge? Pio remembered how it hadn’t seemed “honorable” when was forced to leave behind so many sick and wounded comrades. Though he despised how war spilled so much blood and stole so many lives, he regretted how his discharge forced him to stop ministering to the ever-increasing number of traumatized soldiers who had come to him for his priestly blessing and prayers. After his discharge, all Pio could do was to keep them in his prayers, offer up his sufferings for them, and trust the Lord to send others to minister to his comrades.

When Pio had arrived here at the Capuchin friary on March 18, he had hoped its remote location in the heel of southern Italy would shelter him, hide him from the constant threat of death and from the horrific sight and smell of the dead and dying. But too soon the truth surfaced: there was nowhere to hide. Even here at Our Lady of Grace friary perched on a rocky hillside and guarded by southern Italy’s inhospitable Gargano Mountains, death was stalking and had already claimed, not only Domenico, but other victims, and not just from the war. My students, Pio now thought, finally kneeling alone before the crucifix in the choir loft. What will happen to them?

Out of the fifteen boys who boarded and studied at the friary seminary under Pio’s guidance, at least two-thirds now suffered in the infirmary with the Spanish influenza which, according to the latest report from local San Giovanni Rotondo citizens, had reached the level of a worldwide pandemic, already having killed nearly a hundred townspeople as well as thousands in Italy alone. Two of Pio’s students had died at the beginning of the week.

This morning before Padre Pio celebrated Mass, he had checked on the remaining students suffering in the infirmary. Skeletons, he now thought. Just bones with skin stretched across. Many of the boys had complained to him that they couldn’t sleep, and most couldn’t retain any food. Chills, fevers, headaches, weakness, endless coughing; the students had it all. Just the pitiful sight of their suffering had caused his own lungs to spasm and to echo the coughing of the boys.

Now alone in the friary choir loft, trying to make his usual after-Mass thanksgiving, all thirty-one-year-old Pio could think about were his sick students and the ungodly World War that daily threatened to strike the friary and the nearest town, San Giovanni Rotondo, less than two miles away. With bombs having already fallen on Foggia, twenty-five miles away, the citizens of San Giovanni daily begged Padre Pio to ask God to spare their homes and town from the ravages of the war. The twin specters of war and influenza now churned inside Pio’s head, preventing him from making his thanksgiving. Letting his shoulders sag in a sigh beneath his long brown Franciscan habit, Pio glanced overhead at the larger-than-life mural of St. Michael the Archangel. Italy could use some angelic protection right about now, he thought, wondering what it would take to vanquish the epidemic.

Pio glanced up at the meter-high cypress crucifix. Where are you, Lord? So often these days God seemed to be hiding from Pio. Are the influenza and war Your punishments for the sins of mercenary governments only concerned about political, military, and financial gain? No! Hadn’t he just told Maria that God does not will suffering, death, pain, and war? Pio shook his head, trying to rid it of the gruesome images of brutality and death, then re-focused his attention on the lifelike crucified corpus before him, with the intention of performing his customary thanksgiving. But within seconds his thoughts strayed again. Maybe the governments do need purging by the pandemic and war; but my students? Young boys; totally innocent. “Where are You, Lord? We need You.” Pio’s complaint punctuated the other-wise silent church whose thick, ancient walls had heard hundreds of thousands of pleas throughout the centuries.

When the expected silence answered him, Pio forced his mind on the crucifix, on Christ’s own passion and death on the cross. Gazing at the realistic blood oozing from the wounds of the corpus before him, Pio appreciated anew the Savior’s sacrifice. The young priest lovingly studied the graphic bulge of the muscles and ribs, the sacred face contorted in agony, the iron spikes piercing the hands and feet of the corpus, and the figure’s arms and legs carved to appear disjointed as they must have been as gravity pulled apart the Savior’s joints. Such pain suffered for us, thought Pio. For me. Unworthy sinner. How could the Creator of the universe sacrifice so much for one young priest—for all sinners like him?

Oh Jesus, an eternity of thanksgivings would not be enough. Let me join You on the cross today—forever. Unite me to Yourself and use me to continue Your suffering here on earth for the salvation of souls. When Mary appeared to three shepherd children at Fatima, she asked all people for sacrifices; sacrifices offered up to God as prayers for humanity. Unworthy though I am, I offer myself now to You, Jesus, as a victim. A victim sharing in Your sufferings for the end of the pandemic, the end of the war, the salvation of all.

Only silence answered Pio’s offer. Undaunted, he spiritually abandoned himself into God’s embrace and continued to contemplate the corpus whose tears threatened to spill from its lifelike eyes and whose dramatic expression seemed to beg Pio to share in its sufferings. Yet a palpable peace began to spread throughout the young priest’s mind, body, and soul, and a smile budded on his lips. And as if in answer to Pio’s plea for God to accept him as a victim, a mysterious Being suddenly appeared hovering where the crucifix had stood just seconds ago. As Padre Pio stared at the blood dripping from the Being’s hands, feet, and side, terror replaced the peace he had experienced only moments ago. As if frozen by a blast of icy mountain air, Pio stared at the celestial person who held a long weapon whose bladed tip spewed fire. Barely able to breathe, Pio steeled himself for what he assumed would follow: his death.

Nearly paralyzed by fear, the young priest stared in horror as arrows of light burst from the mysterious Being and pierced Pio’s hands, feet, and side. Pain ripped through him, forcing him to collapse onto the floor of the choir loft. What’s happening to me? Shuddering, he glanced up at the Being from whom had emanated the arrows of light. Will he attack me again? But the apparition disappeared, leaving Pio alone to groan in anguish. Lifting one of his throbbing hands, he stared in horror at the blood oozing from the fresh wound in the middle of his palm. Was the other hand bleeding? Feet and side too? Just before losing consciousness from the pain, he muttered the last words of his crucified Lord, “Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.”

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♪♪♪♪Here is some publishing news about the author so that you can know her better:

Nonfiction Saints Books by Eileen Dunn Bertanzetti:
Published by Our Sunday Visitor—Padre Pio's Words of Hope and Praying In the Presence of Our Lord with St. Padre Pio and Praying the Psalms with St. Padre Pio (www.osv.com)
Published by Pauline Books & Media—Saint Pio of Pietrelcina: Rich In Love (www.pauline.org)
Published by The Word Among Us Press—Praying with Padre Pio and Praying with Faustina (http://wau.org)
Published by Hard Shell Word Factory—Poor Pio, a picture book for children, and two Christian historical novels, Katie’s Song and Katie’s Tomorrows (www.hardshell.com)

Another Nonfiction Book by Eileen:
Published by Chelsea House Publishers—Molly Pitcher (www.chelseahouse.com)

Fiction Books by Eileen:
Published by Hard Shell Word Factory—two Christian historical novels, Katie’s Song and Katie’s Tomorrows (www.hardshell.com)
Published Online at Facebook and Blogger.com: Pierced by Love: A Fictionalized Biography of St. Padre Pio

Also see Eileen’s Website: www.kcnet.org/~edbertan
Also see Eileen’s Blog: www.eileendunnbertanzetti.blogspot.com