Chapter 3 of Pierced by Love: A Fictionalized Biography of St. Pade Pio

ACCUSED
Chapter 3

Dr. De Nittis gave the two priests no further opportunity to argue. “Come with me, and I’ll teach you how to do it,” he said, opening the infirmary door and ushering them inside.

Too bad I have to breathe when I’m in here, Pio thought. This time he avoided another coughing spell by not inhaling too deeply of the biting odors of carbolic acid and vomit. Well, at least if my wounds give off any scent of flowers, no one will notice!

Once De Nittis had demonstrated to the two priests how to fill a syringe, disinfect the injection site with carbolic acid, and then inject the medication into the buttock of one of the boys, he unceremoniously declared, “Padre Paolino, Padre Pio, you are ready.” A weary sigh punctuated his words as he added, “Just don’t forget to use the carbolic acid before you give the injection.” A weak smile lifted his pale, thin lips as he said, “Molte grazie. You two could be saving lives here.” The doctor grabbed his medical bag. “Now I’ve got to trust my horse and buggy to get me safely to every cottage between here and San Giovanni to check on patients and see if there are any new cases of influenza since yesterday.”

As the doctor, black bag in one gnarled hand, breezed out the infirmary door, Pio had to smile at the tall, rawboned retreating figure. His horse is almost as ancient as he is; please keep them both safe, Lord. Taking a deep breath of the caustic vapors permeating the infirmary, Pio coughed and added, And please help Padre and me as we inject these poor boys. St. Paul’s words to the Philippians now emerged from Pio’s memory and reminded him: “I can do everything through Christ who gives me strength.” That means ‘everything,’ he silently restated, even giving injections. For added reassurance, Pio patted the area above his heart where he kept a tiny rosary in the pocket of his habit so that whenever he needed to say the ancient sequence of prayers for someone, he didn’t have to use the larger rosary that hung from the cord encircling his waist. He could keep the smaller, less-conspicuous set of beads hidden within the palm of his hand so that no one knew he was praying. Now pressing his fingers against the hidden rosary, he lifted up a quick and silent Hail Mary.

While Paolino injected students at the far end of the infirmary, Pio began at the end nearest the door. Worse for him than the intense and inescapable odors of the infirmary was the thought of having to puncture the flesh of each student in order to administer the medication. Help me, Guardian Angel, he silently pleaded, taking a deep, pungent breath for courage. After swabbing a spot on the first student’s posterior with the carbolic acid, Pio gritted his teeth and carefully injected the medication into the young patient’s flesh. Each time he inoculated a boy, the patient flinched and moaned, which never failed to bring tears to Pio’s eyes. He empathized so much with his students, he barely noticed the pain of his stigmata and the stinging areas on both of his hands where carbolic acid splattered each time he sprinkled some onto the cloth he used to swab each boy’s injection site.

It wasn’t until almost an hour later when Paolino and Pio had finally finished injecting all the boys that the stinging areas on Pio’s hands, where the carbolic acid had spilled, began to hurt like bee bites. He decided not to treat those burns while in the presence of Paolino so that the superior wouldn’t spy the stigmata. Pio was confident that no one had seen them yet, because although the sleeves of his habit had slid backward every time he had filled the syringe to inject each boy, he knew the young patients were too sick and too focused on their own suffering to have noticed the stigmata. And Paolino had been too intent on injecting the boys on the far side of the infirmary to notice Pio’s occasionally exposed hands.

On their way out the door of the infirmary, Padre Paolino glanced at Pio through wire-rimmed glasses and said, “I got carbolic acid on my fingers, and it burns, so I dabbed ointment on each spot. Did you get burned too?”

“Just a few minor spots on my hands, so I didn’t bother putting anything on them,” Pio replied and immediately switched the focus to a safer topic: the young patients. “Do you think the acid we swabbed on the boys is having the same burning effect on their bottoms?”

“I hope not. They won’t be able to sit down for a few days if it did!” Paolino’s chuckling jiggled his dark, six-inch beard.

Too worried to find humor in the situation, Pio wondered aloud, “Maybe we should’ve diluted the carbolic acid before using it.”

“Dr. De Nittis never said anything about diluting it,” replied Paolino, his wide grin fading as he and Pio ambled down the narrow, dimly lit corridor that connected the friary and church.

So he wouldn’t draw the superior’s attention to the pain in his feet, Pio struggled not to limp as he strode beside him. “No, the doctor didn’t say anything about it, but maybe he was too exhausted and worried to remember to mention it.” What if Paolino and I—in our efforts to help them—actually created more pain for those poor boys? Pio knew he had to return to the infirmary, in spite of its stench. “Go on to your other duties, Padre Paolino, and I’ll give each boy a bit of ointment to rub on his buttock to soothe any burning.”

“Good.” Paolino peered at the now-evident burn marks on Pio’s fingers and the inch of his hands not hidden by his sleeves. “As your superior, I order you to put some medicine on your burns too.” Aiming a weary grin and sigh at Pio, Paolino added, “See you in the dining room this evening.” Continuing toward the main part of the friary, the superior chuckled as he added over his shoulder, “And hopefully Fra Nicola won’t serve us more of that tough wild broccoli he only half-cooked last night.”

Echoing his superior’s chuckle, Pio turned and retraced his steps to the infirmary where he did as he had planned for each patient and also used some of the ointment to soothe the gnawing of the burns on his own hands. He carefully avoided touching the stigmata; he knew from experience that the slightest pressure would cause his hands to throb with pain for at least an hour.

Before Pio left, in trudged Rosina Barbati, one of the village women who often confessed to him and who, in honor of her son who had recently died in the war, had volunteered to help care for Pio’s students. The Padre now explained to her what had been done for the boys. “God bless you, Rosina,” he added, “for all you’re doing for them.”

“Grazie, Padre.” After grabbing Pio’s hand and placing the customary kiss on it, instead of letting go, Rosina tightened her grasp on his aching hand and stared it. “Padre, what happened?”

Pio panicked as he saw that his sleeve had pulled up to reveal the stigmata. He jerked out of her grasp, pulled the sleeve back over his hand, and grumbled, “Niente! Nothing!” Immediately regretting his gruffness, he forced a smile. “Just stupidity on my part,” he assured her. “Splashed some undiluted carbolic acid on my hands, but the burns are nothing to worry about.”

“But. . . .”

He interrupted her with, “God bless you, my daughter,” and retreated as fast as his wounded feet could carry him out the door.

Monday September 23, 1918:

After celebrating 5 a.m. Mass the next morning and placing the ciborium and chalice in the sacristy, Padre Pio extinguished the fire in the small stove that had effectively taken the chill out of the room. Next he returned to the altar to carefully extinguish the two-foot-high tapered candles that flanked it. Before Padre Pio climbed the steps of the choir loft to say his thanksgiving, he hobbled on tired, aching feet toward the sacristy to purify the sacred vessels he had used. Almost to the doorway, he began carefully rolling up his long sleeves in preparation for the cleansing, when the all-too-familiar voice of Nina Campanile blurted from yards behind him and interrupted the Hail Mary he had silently begun only seconds earlier. Frowning, he turned toward her wondering, Does she have more bad news about her sister? No; he mustn’t think like that! Hadn’t he celebrated Mass for Vittoria’s quick recovery from the influenza and then said three rosaries every day since then for her and her unborn child? He had to trust the Lord. Nevertheless, seconds later when Nina stood before him, her dark eyes gleaming with unshed tears, he anxiously asked, “Your sister; how is she?”

Along with her tears, Nina’s words spilled out in a stream of gratitude. “It’s a miracle! Your prayers worked a miracle, Padre. Molte grazie. Mamma sends her thanks, too, as does Vittoria who can already get out of bed and help us knead the bread dough, just as you predicted.”

“And the baby?”

Tears made Nina’s flushed cheeks glisten as she smiled and said, “Last night Vittoria felt it move inside her!”

Grinning, Pio gave a quick bow toward Christ’s real presence in the tabernacle on the altar and breathed, “Thank You, Jesus.” He turned back toward Nina. “Go home, my daughter, and help your mamma and sister prepare for the arrival of the baby.” With a chuckle he added, “It won’t be long before you’ll be known as Zia Nina, Aunt Nina.”

But as if she hadn’t even heard him, Nina exclaimed, “Padre!”

Startled by the loud cry, he realized her eyes had focused on his hands. How stupid of me! Quickly he unrolled the sleeves of his habit and drew them back over his wounds. “Forza, go—now!” Immediately regretting his harshness, he added in a gentler tone and with a half-smile, “Forgive me, but I’m tired and need to make my thanksgiving, so it would be best if you leave this grumpy priest alone.”

Seemingly undaunted, Nina continued, “But the dark wounds in the center of your hands are still bleeding and don’t look any better than they did Saturday. Something needs to be done about them.”

“I told you not to worry.” Humiliation burned his cheeks. “These are just burns from carbolic acid I spilled on myself when I was preparing to inoculate my students. I’m sure my burns will clear up in a few days.”

“They don’t look anything like the acid burns.” When she suddenly reached out with both hands and pressed down on the material that covered the stigmata, Pio moaned. Tears of pain rolled down his cheeks, and for a moment he thought he might faint.

Nina gasped. “Mi dispiace, I’m so sorry,” she said, her eyes mirroring his pain. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, Padre.” Apparently noticing his now-pale face she begged, “Please come sit on a pew until. . . .”

“No, don’t worry, it’s okay,” Pio managed between gritted teeth as the throbbing in his hands began to subside enough to allow the dizziness to wane.

“But I can ask Mamma if she has something to ease the pain for you, Padre. I. . . .”

Pio glared at her. “Nina!” he said as if speaking to an uncooperative child. “Like I told you Saturday, the wounds are minor, nothing to worry about.” In a softer tone, he continued, “Go home, daughter, where your mamma and sister need you.” Pio gave Nina a fatherly pat on her shawl-covered shoulder. “I’ll be fine.” He nodded toward the church door. “Go.”

“Si, Padre, yes.” But Nina sounded unconvinced. Before turning to leave, she peered again at his hands, hidden beneath the long sleeves of his habit. Her hard gaze seemed to penetrate the heavy brown fabric. When she glanced up at him again he saw the unmistakable glint of suspicion—and something else. But what?

The answer hit Pio like a boulder tumbling out of a peasant’s mule cart. She knows! Dear Lord, somehow she knows. Pio knew he had to convince her to not tell anyone, but how should he say it? It could be she doesn’t know, and if that’s the case, saying something would just make her more suspicious and then she really would know the truth. Sighing, he decided to leave it in the Lord’s hands.

Pio watched Nina’s tall, slender form march down the aisle in the central nave. As she passed the side altars dedicated to Immaculate Mary and St. Francis of Assisi, Pio silently pleaded with them to keep Nina silent about the stigmata—if she really did suspect the truth.

As the young kerchiefed Nina passed beneath the low vault, above which perched the choir loft, and before she had a chance to open the heavy wooden door to the outside, Padre Paolino’s hefty frame pushed it open. He almost bumped into her as he strode into the church. Less than a minute later, though Pio could see the priest’s and Nina’s lips moving in conversation, he couldn’t hear what they were saying. But within seconds he knew something was wrong because Nina’s excited gestures in Pio’s direction revealed the essence of the conversation: She had seen the wounds and suspected their supernatural origin.

A few minutes later when Paolino opened the church door for Nina and ushered her outside with a sweep of his arm, Pio breathed a sigh of relief. I must be wrong. Neither of them suspects the truth; otherwise why would both of them be leaving? But before the door swung shut, Paolino waltzed back into the church and lumbered down the aisle toward Pio who still stood in front of the first pew.

Out of breath, Paolino halted before Pio and noisily sucked in huge gulps of air. After straightening his glasses, Paolino finally focused on him, and Pio cringed at the anger leaping from his superior’s dark eyes. “Is it true?” Paolino demanded. “Because if it is, why didn’t you tell me first? I’m your superior, for heavens sake! Tell me now or. . . .”

“Padre Paolino, come quickly!” yelled a voice from the front of the church. Both priests turned toward the voice, and Pio recognized Fra Nicola’s spindly frame and shaggy ten-inch beard silhouetted by the early morning light drifting through the open front door.

In response to Nicola’s frantic arm motions and voice, Paolino excused himself from Pio with a glower and a curt, “I’ll see you later!” Was it a promise or a threat—or both?

Moments later, finally alone in the silence of Our Lady of Grace friary church, Padre Pio shuffled up the steep steps to the choir loft where he savored the solitude and allowed it, and his after-Mass thanksgiving, to massage his taut nerves and ease his worries.

About 11 a.m., plodding on swollen feet, Pio finally headed down the narrow, dimly lit corridor that connected the church to the friary. When he reached the door to his cell, he stopped to glance up at the inscription someone from centuries past had carved into the top of the wide wooden doorframe: “The cross is always ready and awaits you wherever.” Opening his lock-less door, Pio smiled wryly as he mulled over the truth of that single sentence. Today my cross appeared in the form of Nina and Paolino. Pio hobbled into the small room and closed the door behind him. Out of habit, he turned to gaze lovingly at the crucifix which hung on the yellowed wall above the head of his narrow bed. “But I did ask You, Jesus, to accept me as a victim, unworthy though I am. A victim, Lord, who would share in your sufferings all the days of my life. A victim for the end of the pandemic and the war, and for the salvation of all.”

With a sigh, Pio sank onto the edge of the bed, still gazing at the sacred corpus hanging on the crucifix. “And You, in your great mercy, Jesus, gave me the stigmata, a gift I certainly don’t deserve. I still long to suffer for—and with—You, and I accept all the physical pain the stigmata might cause me, but I don’t know how I can bear the humiliation of having people actually see the wounds. I want to suffer secretly, Lord, so that only You know what is happening to me.” A lone tear dribbled down Pio’s cheek as he pleaded, “I won’t stop asking You to remove, in your mercy, not the wounds or the pain—because I want You to inebriate me with pain—but the visible signs of the stigmata which have already caused me such painful embarrassment.”

Though only silence answered Pio’s plea, as always he spiritually abandoned himself into God’s embrace.

How long he remained staring at the crucifix and contemplating Christ’s wounds, he didn’t know, but heavy footsteps and a deep familiar voice broke Pio’s contemplation. Reluctantly he turned toward the doorway through which the ample frame of his superior now strode, making Pio’s small cell suddenly seem claustrophobic.

When Pio started to rise out of respect, Padre Paolino just glared at him through glasses perched on a long, thin nose. “Don’t get up. Stay right there and tell me everything.” He pulled out the one wooden chair from the small table where Pio often wrote letters. Sinking onto the seat and leaning toward him, Paolino repeated, “Tell me everything—now!”

When Pio remained silent, too stunned to speak, Paolino growled, “If you don’t have the decency to tell me your secrets—me, your spiritual director—then at least let me see your hands!” Pio obediently held out his now-trembling hands. Paolino clumsily pushed up his sleeves, exposing the wounds, and Pio gasped at the sudden intense pain caused by the movement of the material. At his cry, the superior glanced up at him.

Fighting back tears, Pio gritted his teeth and scanned his superior’s face, hoping to find at least a glimmer of mercy. What he found was recognition of the agony Pio was experiencing because of Paolino’s rough, impatient actions. And now as the superior’s tone of voice and facial expression melted into those of tender concern, Pio’s heart hungrily absorbed the merciful words uttered in a ragged whisper, “Forgive me, my son.” The tears glistening in the superior’s eyes reflected those threatening to spill from Pio’s. Paolino once again let his gaze fall on the stigmata, now oozing more blood than usual due to the harsh way he had pushed back the sleeves. “Forgive me,” he repeated reverently. As if thinking out loud, he whispered, eyes still fixed on the wounds, “The stigmata; just like our spiritual father St. Francis of Assisi.” Inhaling deeply of the aroma emanating from the wounds, he added, “And the Odor of Sanctity, like so many of the saints in Church history. Dominic, Anthony of Padua, Teresa, to name a few.”

Certain he would break down and sob if he spoke, Pio remained silent, deeply moved by his superior’s sudden change in attitude.

But as quickly as that attitude had reversed, it flipped back again when Paolino sneered at Pio. “You received the stigmata, and yet I had to find out about it from Nina Campanile? She told me today she had suspected the truth three days ago when she saw you. Why didn’t you come to me then?”

How can I make him understand? Pio’s heart ached for the Padre. I need to say something to ease the pain I caused him. Pio decided he’d just have to trust the Lord for the right words. “Mi scusi, please forgive me, Padre Paolino, but ever since Friday morning when I received the wounds I’ve begged Jesus to take away their outward signs. I. . . .” Exhaustion from the emotional as well as physical pains of the morning’s encounters with Paolino and Nina finally caught up with Pio, cutting short his explanation. Staring down at his exposed hands, he barely noticed the warmth of his tears falling on them. Give me strength, Lord. Pray for me, Mary.

Taking a deep breath, Pio raised his head. In spite of his accuser’s scowl which seemed now to blaze with anger, Pio said, “I begged the Lord to take away the signs of the stigmata, but not the pain. If Jesus had taken away the outward signs, there would’ve been no need to tell you anything. That was my hope.” Trying to read his superior’s enigmatic expression, he added, “Forgive me, Padre, please.”

As if embarrassed, Paolino cleared his throat and stood. “Forgive?” He blinked his eyes, and a tear rolled from each. “Of course, my son.” Turning toward the door, he took one step forward, stopped, and turned again toward Pio. “But I must write immediately to the provincial Padre Benedetto about this matter, otherwise I, too, will need to ask forgiveness.” Before turning again to leave, Paolino sternly ordered, “Don’t mention the stigmata to anyone; do you hear?”

“Si, Padre. But what about Nina Campanile? She. . . .”

“Don’t worry; I’ll order her not to tell anyone.” With that, Paolino marched out of Pio’s cell.

But by the first week of October, it was obvious to Padre Pio that his superior’s demand for silence from Nina Campanile had failed. The same day she saw my wounds she must’ve started telling people about them, Pio grumbled silently, because now it seems as if everyone in southern Italy knows. Even his family in Pietrelcina knew, because his brother Michele’s wife Giuseppa had, only two days ago, traveled to the friary in a mule cart over the eighty-some rocky mountainous miles, with their nine-year-old son Francesco, to verify the facts. At this rate, Pio now thought, Papa and Michele working in America will soon know.

And on this unusually hot afternoon, the first Saturday in October, the long line outside Padre Pio’s confessional testified to the fact that the news of his stigmata had found no obstacle in passing from peasant to peasant and cottage to cottage; from the village of San Giovanni Rotondo to God-only-knew-how-far beyond that. Now in the stuffy dimness of the cramped confessional, the young priest, exhausted from hearing confessions for the past three hours, slumped against the thin wall that separated him from the penitent waiting on the other side. He knew she was female, because as soon as he slid open the small eye-level door and revealed the screen that hid her face, the heavy scent of her perfume immediately ambushed his senses.

“Bless me, Padre, for I have sinned. It’s. . . .” As the woman began her confession, Pio felt his lungs begin to congest from the oppressive heat and the now-nauseating scent of perfume. With one of his gloved hands, he stifled a cough that threatened to erupt. Even that slight movement caused the brown fingerless glove to pull at the scab that had begun to form over the bleeding wound in his palm. Wincing, he heard the woman continue, “Since my last confession I lied four times to. . . .”

The woman’s heavy scent forced Pio’s lungs to spasm, and his wracking coughs interrupted her. When he could again breathe normally, he cleared his throat, apologized, and encouraged her to continue her confession. “Si, yes, Padre,” she said.

Minutes after absolving and blessing her, Pio listened to her leave and to the next penitent take her place. He opened his door to allow the lingering perfume to dissipate. After taking a deep, cleansing breath of the somewhat-clearer air of the church, he glanced at the line of penitents still waiting. Maybe twenty more. Silencing a groan, Pio shook his head. God must think I need to do an awful lot of penance to have sent me so many penitents eager to confess on such a hot day. Pio peered into the dim light that shadowed the people toward the end of the line, making them look like gray, faceless, genderless mannequins. Give me grace to be patient. Sighing, he added, Speak to each of them through me, Lord.

Closing the confessional door once more, he heard his empty stomach grumble. He thought back to this morning’s breakfast in the friary dining room and how he had eaten only one slice of the homemade bread Fra Nicola had accepted yesterday during his begging rounds. This morning Pio had also managed to avoid taking any of the steaming eggs Nicola had offered Paolino and himself. No wonder I’ve sometimes felt light-headed today, Pio now thought. Even though he knew his constant fasting bordered on obsessive and would eventually draw the disapproval of his superior, Pio wanted to spiritually strengthen his soul to withstand the evil that seemed to continually worm its way into his life. Why do I know the state of each penitent’s soul and yet can’t discern my own? I must be the world’s worst sinner; why else would God hide from me? But he pushed those tormenting thoughts aside as the next penitent knelt to confess.

For the next hour, Padre Pio spent his spiritual strength hearing the confessions of the remaining penitents. At least that last penitent I heard let me know I only have one more to go, he thought, sighing with relief. But at the same time he was ashamed for feeling exhausted, impatient, and almost desperate to escape the near-claustrophobic confines of the confessional. Now, as he leaned once more against the thin wall, Pio closed his eyes and sighed.

“Francesco?” the female penitent hesitantly began.

That voice. Pio opened his eyes, sat up straight, and stared at the small, dark-screened door that hid her face. That voice! Immediately he knew it belonged to his younger sister Pellegrina who had broken their mother’s heart by getting pregnant out of wedlock, not just once, but twice, to two different men. Thank God, Pellegrina kept the babies! Though Pio thought she was outwardly the most beautiful of his three sisters, he knew that inwardly Pellegrina’s soul was shrouded by the sinful ways she refused to forsake. So what’s she doing in the confessional—my confessional—now? Why would she travel to the friary for confession when she lived in Pietrelcina more than eighteen hours away by mule cart over rocky dirt roads? Too many questions now flooded Padre Pio’s mind and heart, triggering another coughing spasm.

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