Hope

The Brucoli Five
and “the Prof”
Five business students and their history teacher. After every class he stayed to talk about all his friends, especially Andrea,
a boy dying of leukemia. The whole story of the Brucoli prison, Sicily (Italy)

by Riccardo Piol

To the guards he would say, “We’ve come to see the five business students,” and they would know right away whom he meant. They know who the history professor’s students are. This year they have to take the final exams for graduation: the written exam on July 6th, the oral on the 14th. These are “his boys,” Giovanni Burgio’s class, already well beyond high-school age.

Dante in prison
“Professor!” “How are you?” “(I) Stand like a solid tower whose brave height remains unmoved by all the winds that blow” (Divine Comedy, Purgatory, Canto V). How many people do you know who quote Dante when you ask them how they are? I know maybe two. But they don’t have to deal with the kind of wind that blows in a place like this: Brucoli Prison, in the province of Syracuse, Sicily. The warden says there are about 600 inmates. Each cell holds two or three people: a small room for the bunk beds attached to another one with the bathroom. You are only allowed out of your cell for lunch, dinner, and one hour of fresh air–unless you are going to Professor Burgio’s class, today, to meet me. It is a special day, so much so that Giuseppe pulls out three candy bars. They are for us “because today is a holiday!” They are expecting us. They are definitely expecting us. They could not believe that their letter to Andrea would create such interest. They are proud of themselves but, most of all, they are amazed, because “it’s not as if we wrote a masterpiece,” Giuseppe says–it wasn’t The Divine Comedy or Leopardi’s “The Infinite.” As Antonio, who Burgio calls “the cultural responsible,” says, “We didn’t know what to say, but with about ten minutes of silence, our hearts came pouring out. ‘The prof’ told us about Andrea, being eaten up by that chemotherapy that destroys everything, and we adopted him as one of our own, as our brother”–because “those who are tormented understand,” because “his suffering was harder than ours,” because “it was good to be able to share with him a little bit of good fortune we had received.”
Good fortune? Where is the good fortune in being in jail? I was sitting next to their good fortune: “the prof.” “It wasn’t a coincidence that we met,” Antonio says. ””It was the Lord.” He tells me about how, after his arrest, he wrote a lot of letters to his former medical colleagues. They had worked together for sixteen years and he had hoped they would stick by him, but few responded to his letters. “Their responses were chilly and after a while I figured out that I should probably stop writing them.” When he was taken to Ucciardone Prison, he read something scratched into the wall of his cell in solitary confinement: “The worst jail is life, because to escape it you must die.” “I’ll never forget that. But today we are freer than most people who live on the outside.” That is because Antonio and his friends never gave up hope, and one day this man showed up to teach a history course. After class, he hung around. He stayed with them and kept staying, after every class. He told them stories about his friends, about a guy named Fr. Giussani, about a letter from Joshua, a man in prison in North Carolina, and, eventually, about Andrea. “‘The prof’”–Antonio says–“is a poet too; he is an oasis in the desert.” Massimo, to make me understand better, told me that “he came even when his leg was in a cast!” You can understand why, then, when there is class, “we don’t go for a stroll–as Pippo calls our hour outside–because we are waiting for ‘the prof.’”

Doctors and sick people
They tell it in such a simple way that it is almost scary. “Doctors…” Salvatore reflects, “How do they become doctors? They spend time with sick people. We live with pain and we understand it.” The letter to Andrea was basically a conversation among people who understand what it means to suffer and at the same time among people who have learned to be thankful for the littlest things, who live every moment with a hope that does not know how to die. Giuseppe talks about the day he ended up back in prison, in Palmi. “I was lying on my cot and I saw a book stuffed in the springs of the bed above me. It was a booklet by Sister Faustina about Divine Mercy. It was as if the Lord were compelling me to read it.” The novena was supposed to be prayed on the first Friday of every month, but he was short on time and had a lot to ask for. “I asked for the release of my brother and the others, who were sentenced with me, since they didn’t have anything to do with it.” He began the novena and, one-by-one, his friends were freed, until one day, “I was in the cell with my brother. A guard came in and asked, ‘Which one of you has the last name “C.”?’ ‘Both of us,’ we answered. ‘Michele C.? You’re free.’ It was a Friday.”

With their families in their eyes
After exams, Giuseppe was transferred to Catanzaro, closer to home, since he is from Puglia. He could be closer to his wife and three children, one of whom had taken a summer job to pay for his own school books. “He’s in grade school. What a life lesson he has taught me!” When they talk about their families, and they do it often, it is as if they are there, in their eyes. It is easy, then, to figure out why they identify so strongly with Salvo and Carmela, Andrea’s parents. These are parents who comforted their son’s friends and relatives at his funeral, who tell you stories about the months in Pavia, about Andrea’s suffering, and who often use a word that seems impossible: thankfulness–thankfulness to the Lord, to their son, to his friends, to Fr. Giorgio, and to the writers of this letter: “Dear Andrea: Five inmates … are writing to you…,” because if they had not spelled that out, I probably would not have gotten it. That is because of the fact that they do not hide their pain, but they also do not hide the hope that one expects to find almost everywhere, except in jail. Instead, “here there are people with life sentences”–Antonio says–“but they live like they were getting out tomorrow. Here hope really is the last thing to die.” If you are lucky enough to meet someone like “the prof,” you understand that you don’t have to just rely on anti-depressants. The reason is because “there is something”–Giuseppe says–“that ‘the prof’ told me from Fr. Giussani… and we can’t leave him out of this. He’s right when he’s says that if a man accepts his circumstances, he can live happily.”

Waiting to see God
“For us, waiting to return to our families is like waiting to see God.” It might seem like an exaggeration, but Giuseppe does not exaggerate. Why? Because when I asked Pippo if he had a family, he answered, timidly but proudly, “I’m already a grandfather.” Maria Grazia was born eight month ago: “She was premature and almost died. But she’s okay now.” Why? Because when we are saying goodbye, Massimo tells me that his girlfriend’s name is Maura. He’s been in prison since he was 19 and now he is 31. “But listen, she’s more than just a girlfriend, you know. Make sure to write that in your article.” Why? Because in Belpasso, below Mount Etna, Salvatore has his wife, his three children, and his three grandchildren who are waiting for him. Antonio’s wife and daughters, as well as his parents, wait for him in Palermo, in their house on the street that leads down to the port. Boys–as your professor calls you–I do not know how long it will be before you can go home. I did not ask you, but I hope it is not too long. Why? Because outside is the sea, oleanders that look like trees, and a sun that shines. It was all there before I met you, but I do not think I realized how beautiful it was until you told me.

the letter
Brucoli, May 20, 2005
Dear Andrea: Five inmates from Augusta Prison are writing to you. We are fifth-year business students. Our dear friend and brother, Professor Giovanni Burgio, told us a lot about you, your problems, and everything that you are going through. We are “virtually” embracing you and we think of you as our brother. Prisoners are a group of people that society has trouble accepting, but God has a special affection for them since they are so in need of His mercy. It is written in the Gospel: “I did not come for the healthy, but for the sick.” It is human nature, however, to turn our backs on suffering that seems absurd to us. You would not believe the price we have to pay to have control over our own selves. In return, hope rises above these difficult moments and the strength of a great faith puts us in a position to accept, with an inner joy, every ordeal, no matter how sad and, sometimes, inconceivable. As an alternative to dreams and disappointments, we spend the hours and the days in prayer, clinging to the belt of St. Pio of Pietrelcina, the example of a life lived in silent suffering: he, a man of God, has taught us that without the things of Heaven, it is not possible to live on this earth. The sufferings of unspoken pain dig deep holes. That is why, finally, we are able to once again find the heroes buried at the bottom. Through suffering, you develop human solidarity, since you cannot understand the pain of another unless you have felt it yourself. In a dark and confused world, only God can rule the human heart, thirsting for truth. The final victory is beautiful, but the battle is more valuable. In the certainty of your quick recovery, we send you a warm and brotherly hug. You are in our hearts. C’mon Andrea, fight together with us–a big, big kiss.
Your friends and brothers,
Antonio, Massimo, Giuseppe, Giuseppe, Salvatore
P.S. We are angels with only one wing; we can fly only if we hold on tight to each other.