SOULS OF THE DEAD
Chapter 5
On that frosty October morning high in the Gargano Mountains a young, gangly boy from San Giovanni Rotondo found Padre Pio settled on a wooden chair in the choir loft. The priest reluctantly halted his praying of the rosary and glanced momentarily at the lifelike corpus nailed to the meter-high crucifix before which he had received the stigmata only weeks ago. Sighing, Pio turned toward the ruddy-faced boy who handed him a letter.
Smiling, Pio said, “Grazie, thank you, son,” and reached into the pocket of his habit for a piece of the hard, sweet candy he always kept there to share with his students and anyone who wanted a piece. As soon as the boy left, Pio immediately glanced at the name of the sender. Pellegrina! A cold dread wormed its way through him as he read her message which related how, almost as soon as she had left Pio two weeks ago, her baby Alfredo had contracted influenza and died. She said the only thing that had kept her from losing her mind was the strong presence of Julius in her life and in her home.
Pellegrina next related to Pio how Franceschino, the only child of their brother Michele Forgione, had been so damaged by the flu that, according to the doctor from nearby Benevento, the little boy would probably never fully recover. As an update on what she had told Pio during her recent visit with him, Pellegrina wrote that the doctor also said that the flu had caused brain damage to Felicita’s two-year-old Ettoruccio and that the same virus had left her six-year-old Giuseppina permanently weakened. According to the doctor, one out of three people in southern Italy alone had been stricken with Spanish influenza, resulting in thousands of deaths.
Now numb from the devastating news, Pio squeezed shut his eyes, wondering if he could bear to continue reading his sister’s letter. Strengthen me, Jesus, he silently pleaded, glancing up at the ancient crucifix and gaining courage from his silent adoration of the sacred Face contorted in agony. Returning his attention to the letter in his wounded hands, a measure of relief entered Pio’s heart as he read that the influenza had bypassed his twenty-three-year-old sister Graziella—known as Sister Pia of the semi-cloistered community of the Sisters of Our Lady of Sorrows in Rome. Tears of gratitude welled up in Pio’s eyes as he read that Papa and Michele Forgione, working in America, had written Mamma and told her they had both suffered only mild cases of the flu, even though the deadly Spanish strain was sweeping through America too.
Pellegrina ended her letter with, “I’m sorry I didn’t come tell you all of this in person, Francesco, but Julius and I have been nursing each other back to health after our own bouts with the flu. I do promise to visit you soon though. With much love, Pellegrina.”
Overcome by grief, Pio dropped the letter onto the wooden floor of the choir loft and sank to his knees on the hard, rough surface. His sobs prevented him from praying aloud, but silently he begged the Lord to let him die because he couldn’t bear anymore heartache. I’ve never stopped praying for every member of my family, Jesus, and yet You’ve let so many of them die or be left permanently damaged by the influenza. Why, Lord? Is it because I’m such a terrible sinner? Unworthy of having my prayers heard? Fearing that his thoughts represented reality, Pio silently stared upward at the lifelike, pastel-yellow corpus of the crucified Christ. How long the mourning friar remained in that position he didn’t know, but finally exhausted emotionally as well as physically, he forced himself into a standing position and hobbled down the steps on throbbing feet. Coughing, Pio stumbled his way toward the corridor that led into the friary. Passing under the archway separating church and friary, he barely noticed Padre Paolino counseling some peasants in the opposite corner of the small, dimly lit church.
Moments later, after entering his cell, which barely allowed for his narrow bed, small desk, and washbasin, Pio collapsed onto his thin mattress where he remained for the next six days, suffering not only from grief and the stigmata, but also from the influenza which had finally overcome him in his weakened condition. But much to Pio’s dismay, he recovered, due in large part to the devoted care of Fra Nicola and Padre Paolino. November 13, Pio wrote to his spiritual director Padre Benedetto and complained, “I asked Jesus to let me die of the influenza, but He decided I must remain here to suffer the agony of losing so many family members.” Pio told his spiritual director how he now felt totally alone, his heart, soul, and body almost paralyzed by pain and by the knowledge of his own sinfulness. Benedetto’s many letters in reply helped to heal Pio’s grieving heart, but failed to convince Pio that God was not somehow perennially displeased with him.
By January 1919, Benedetto’s encouraging letters, the end of the First World War, and the end of the worst part of the flu epidemic brought Padre Pio a brighter outlook and the full return of his Franciscan joy and sense of humor. The post-war return of Our Lady of Grace’s four soldier-friars also helped Pio to smile and laugh again, as did the recovery of his beloved students from influenza. And slowly, an ever-increasing number of new friars came to live at Our Lady of Grace, easing the burdens of Padre Paolino, Fra Nicola, Pio, and their other four confreres. When the youngest of the new friars first witnessed Padre Pio wincing in pain as he plodded down the friary hallway on swollen feet, the stubble-bearded friar exclaimed, “Padre, how awful that you have to experience such terrible pain!” With his recently renewed sense of humor, Pio glanced at the pimple-faced friar whose beard consisted of no more than a sparse patch of stubble on his chin, and calmly replied, trying not to grin, “Ah, if only I could walk on my hands.”
As word about The Holy Friar’s stigmata continued to spread in ever-widening waves, his reputation for holiness drew increasing numbers of pilgrims to San Giovanni Rotondo and up the steep, rocky, pot-holed mule track, with its frequent hairpin turns, to the ancient friary and church that had, only a year ago, remained isolated from the rest of the world. Even though Pio, whose holy reputation had already earned him the title of “Il Monaco,” insisted he was nothing more than “un’ macerone senza sale, a piece of spaghetti without any salt on it,” by spring, not only had the number of pilgrims seeking Pio’s intercession increased, so, too, had the number of holy souls from Purgatory who came to beg for his prayers for their release into Heaven. Pio would always promise his heartfelt prayers and assure them with, “Basta pregare—prayer is enough.”
Early one late-March evening in the friary garden with Padre Paolino, surrounded by almond trees laden with pink blossoms and dwarfed by the ancient budding cypresses and evergreen pines, Padre Pio allowed his senses to taste spring’s newborn beauty, the sweet smell of the blossoms, the canary-like song of the goldfinch. In spite of his aching feet, he smiled in gratitude for the return of milder weather after months of heavy snows and fierce winds that had blown up the mountain from the Adriatic Sea and the Gulf of Manfredonia. This evening, with his wide brown shawl stretched across his shoulders, Pio strolled beside his superior down the narrow avenues created by the rows of trees. But Pio’s smile gradually turned downward as he recalled his family members, students, parishioners, and others who had fallen victim to the merciless influenza epidemic. And he couldn’t restrain a deep sigh as he remembered the devastation left in the wake of the First World War. Following on the heels of those dark thoughts, memories of last night’s visitor from purgatory stole into Pio’s mind. Even the friary cat who waltzed up to him and leisurely brushed against his robed leg barely failed to grab his attention.
“Padre Pio!”
His superior’s voice wrenched Pio back to the present. “Eh?” Pio muttered, blinking at Paolino. “Mi dispiace, I’m sorry, Padre Paolino. I was thinking about something else.”
Peering at Pio through wire-rimmed glasses, the stout superior smiled gently at him. “And what might that be?” Paolino said, motioning for Pio to sit with him on the stone bench beside the path.
Settling beside his superior, Pio sighed in gratitude as the pain began to subside in his swollen feet. He bent over and picked up a handful of pebbles. Slowly tossing them one by one back onto the path, he began, “How can I help all the people who come to me as well as the even-greater number of souls of the dead who visit me from Purgatory? So much suffering, Padre Paolino. Too much. My heart aches for them, and I fear that my. . . . that my. . . .”
“What do you fear?” Paolino gently asked, his dark eyes glistening with the last rays of the sun as it hovered just above the top of the garden’s stone wall.
A tear trickled from Pio’s eye and he remained silent, knowing that if he answered, more tears would follow. How can I explain to Paolino that if I’m not certain about the state of my own soul, how can I even hope to be used by Jesus to save the souls of others?
“Tell me, my son,” said Paolino, his dark six-inch beard flowing forward as he leaned toward Pio. “What do you fear?”
As Padre Pio poured out his heart to his superior, he no longer tried to restrain his tears. “I fear that my sinfulness, weaknesses, and faults will prevent Jesus from using me to help all the suffering people who struggle up the mountain to ask me for prayers.” Covering his eyes with pierced hands that now trembled from the force of his emotions, Pio said, “And I’ve told you before that more souls from Purgatory visit me than do the living; those souls of the dead beg me to say Mass, to pray to God for them so that He will quickly take them to Heaven.”
Peering again at his superior and seeing the compassion behind those wire-rimmed glasses, Pio almost didn’t notice the burning in the center of each hand where his salty tears had soaked through his gloves and invaded the stigmata. “Perche? Why me? Why do the Holy Souls in Purgatory come to me for prayer?” Staring at his superior he said, “I am niente, nothing!”
Surprised by Pio’s vehemence but not his attitude toward himself, Paolino pushed his glasses back into place on his long, thin nose and said, “It’s good to be humble, to be aware of your lowliness compared to Almighty God, but don’t forget that He loves you with an unfathomable love, my son, and that He gave you so many spiritual gifts—bilocation, prophecy, healing, perfume, reading of souls, visions, the stigmata—how can you doubt that He wants to use you in His great design to heal and save souls?”
“You know as well as I do that spiritual gifts don’t make a person holy,” said Pio, sighing. His shoulders sagged as if carrying an impossible load. Remembering the words of Job, he added, “‘I’m just a ‘maggot,’ a ‘worm’.”
Paolino smiled gently at him. “But remember the Psalm that says we are all ‘fearfully and wonderfully made.’ And if you can’t believe in your own goodness, my son, believe in the Holy Spirit’s desire to sanctify you and to use you to save souls, to heal hearts and bodies, as He already has done so many times and will surely continue to do. Your holiness is from God; trust Him for it.”
When Pio’s frown grew into a scowl and no reply came from his pursed lips, Paolino sighed and placed a large hand gently on one of his drooping shoulder. “You’re so gifted at reading the souls of all your penitents, and yet you still don’t see the sanctity of your own.”
“Sanctity?” Pio grumbled. Tears stopped coursing down his cheeks as he hurled the last pebble onto the path and stared into his superior’s bespectacled eyes. “I’ve told you how the devils torment me every night; how God seems most of the time to hide from me; and still you want me to believe I’ve reached some kind of sanctified state?” He shook his head in disbelief. “I’ve asked Jesus to accept me as a victim to alleviate the suffering of all souls, including those in Purgatory, but what if the stigmata and my lung problems and my other sufferings are not enough? What if all my prayers, my Rosaries, my Masses are not enough because of my sinfulness?” Almost choking on a new batch of tears, he added, “This is the cause of my continual agony.”
“Since there seems to be nothing I can say that will change your mind, I’ll continue to pray for you, my son,” said Paolino. “And I want you to come to me whenever you need to talk. Okay?”
“Ma si; but yes.” Pio finally smiled at his superior, grateful for his guidance as well as his friendship. As the early evening sunlight gently spilled onto the garden wall, Pio shivered beneath his shawl in the shade of the flock of pink blossoms of an almond tree. Even though the hills beyond the garden wall reflected a rainbow of colors created by the setting sun, Pio could, at this moment, appreciate none of its beauty.
“Let’s go inside,” Paolino said, drawing his own dark shawl closer around his stout neck and thick shoulders.
2 a.m. the next morning found Padre Pio in the choir loft, unable to sleep. As he had hoped, he had the ancient chapel to himself. The early March moonlight spilled through the one window and onto the floor beside the hard wooden chair where Pio sat next to the railing. “Hail Mary full of grace, the Lord is with thee,” Pio began, fingering his Rosary beads and smiling as he gazed down into the main part of the church and at the picture of Our Lady of Grace positioned above the tabernacle of the main altar. The dim light from the lamp burning before the Tabernacle barely illuminated Mary’s brown, almond-shaped eyes and delicate neckline. “Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus.” Adoration expanded his heart as Pio gazed at the Mother of God and the Divine Son she held. “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.” The movement of Pio’s fingers as they sought for and held, in turn, each bead, aggravated the stigmata in his hands, causing him to wince. But despite the pain and the blood dampening his fingerless gloves, he continued. “Glory be to. . . .”
A sudden loud noise erupting from the altar disrupted Pio’s prayers. I thought I was alone. He winced at the sound of breaking glass. “Che cos’e quello? What’s that?” Squinting now at the altar, Pio shouted, “Who’s there?”
Silence answered him, so Padre Pio continued with his Rosary. “Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be. . . .”
Again sudden noises disrupted Pio’s prayers. Glowering out at the altar, Pio scrutinized the area as best he could in the dim light. He almost dropped his Rosary beads when he saw movement on the altar. Did that candle just change position in front of Our Lady of Grace’s picture? Despite his swollen feet, Pio stood up and leaned against the railing, hoping to get a better view of the altar. Yes, that candle moved again and now it’s . . . falling! What’s going on? He couldn’t see anyone who might be causing the commotion below. Am I losing my mind?
Determined to find out the truth, Padre Pio tucked his Rosary into the inner pocket of his coarse habit, pulled his wool shawl around his neck, and lumbered down the stairs, ignoring the pains shooting from his wounded feet up through his legs. Hobbling down the narrow center aisle toward the main altar, Pio stopped and stared when he spied the frail, spindly figure of a young man in a long, dark Capuchin habit of the style worn by novices.
Even when the dark figure of the novice ambled into the dim light in front of the altar and glanced up at Pio, the Padre did not recognize him, so Pio demanded, “Who are you?”
Bowing his head toward Pio the novice said, “Fra Amanzio.”
“What are you doing here?”
“The cleaning,” said Amanzio, stooping down to pick up the fragments of the broken vase.
A shiver slithered through Pio. A strange novice cleaning in the dark? But in spite of his uneasiness, Pio stepped to within three feet of Amanzio who had picked the bent tapered candle from the floor and was now trying in vain to straighten it. “I’ve never seen you before,” Pio said in his gruffest tone. “Tell me the truth; why are you here?”
Placing the still-bent candle back in its holder on the altar, Fra Amanzio sighed. When he turned and stared into Pio’s eyes, the priest noticed tears beginning to spill down the novice’s bony cheeks and onto his sparsely bearded chin. “Tell me, figlio mio, my son,” Pio said softly, his former uneasiness and frustration replaced by compassion, “why are you here?” The priest thought he knew the answer because lately the souls of the dead visiting him from Purgatory and asking for his prayers had outnumbered the hundreds of living persons who flocked to Pio for his help and intercession. And never a day passed that he didn’t pray for the souls in Purgatory in obedience to the inscription over one of the friary’s cell doors: “Pray for the souls in Purgatory; they did not have the wisdom to make good use of their talent.”
The novice knelt on one knee before Pio, gently grasped the stigmatic’s gloved hand, and tenderly kissed it. “I’ve come from Purgatory,” began the novice, “and I’m doing my penance here.” Sniffling back his tears and standing up, he studied Pio’s bearded face and, obviously sensing the priest’s change of attitude, continued, “When I was a novice at the friary of St. Francis of Assisi near Sant’ Elia a Pianisi I was assigned Sacristan duties, but I failed to do them well; I was often careless and so made lots of mistakes.”
Padre Pio struggled not to grin as he pointed at the bent tapered candle that drooped in its holder on the altar. “You mean like breaking candles and vases?” Pio then pointed to the ceramic fragments the novice had carefully piled up on the floor beside the altar.
“Yes,” the novice whispered in a voice filled with regret as he stared at the evidence. Glancing again at Pio’s still-sober face he said in a voice hoarse with emotion, “With Our Lord’s permission I’ve come here to ask for your prayers, Padre Pio. If you’ll offer up your prayers, sufferings, and especially a Mass for me, I’ll be allowed to go to Heaven to see the face of God and to share in the blessedness of eternal life.” New tears had begun to course down Amanzio’s gaunt cheeks.
No longer tempted to grin or chuckle, Pio felt the young novice’s inner pain. “Of course, figlio mio, of course.”
And Fra Amanzio disappeared.
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