ITALIAN PILGRIMAGE

Otago Daily Times, Issue 26034, 24 December 1945, Page 2

ITALIAN PILGRIMAGE

-By D. G. B

SOLDIER CALLS ON SANTA CLAUS

“ Dec. 25.—1 n bed to keep warm. Then dinner—soup, turkey, ham, plum duff. A lot of the trimmings missing, but maaleesh, a fair effort. Stroll in p.m.; cold and rough on waterfront. A movie at night.” That is the entry in my laconic diary for Christmas, 1944. It does not sound very enviable, but I was luckier'than many at that time. I was at Bari, in the south of Italy, living in comfort at the New Zealand Club. It was hardly a typical “soldier’s Christmas,” but there were one or two points about it that may be of some general interest. Two nights before, for example, I had been one of an audience of 4000 at a gala performance of Verdi’s opera “Aida.” It was a colourful spectacle presented by a good touring company, from Rome. As I had previously noticed, this opera was always one of the most lavishly costumed in the Italian repertoire, and was in welcome contrast to the threadbare makeshifts that served for most provincial presentations. (Never will I forget the appearance of the “ Scottish ” chorus in “ Lucia di Lammermoor”!). The reason for this was that under Mussolini’s regime this opera was often favoured with a State subsidy. Culture? No, propaganda. The theme, it will be recalled, deals with the triumph of Imperial Egypt over a black native race, which might have been Abyssinia! I was thrilled by the spectacle and by the magnificent b'ass singing, but there was a deeper thrill to be experienced merely by looking over that large audience—row and row, and tier on tie of uniforms, khaki and blue; an audience 90 per cent, masculine and composed entirely „of servicemen and women of the United Nations. That was really the beginning of Christmas for me that year.

On Christmas Eve there was a dance. It was not quite like being at home; but there were New Zealand girls there, a Christmas tree scrounged from the wayside and smuggled into town (trees in Italy are valuable property), streamers and coloured lights, warmth and laughter. The contrast between these things and the bare necessities of bivouac life and the realities of the previous weeks helped to make any deficiencies less obvious. There were, too, the strange and strong wines and liqueurs which the commercially-minded Italians had concocted to quench the undiscriminating thirsts of the barbarians. Yes, it was a good night, a night to be remembered, and a night for memories. That was why, when I went upstairs to bed, I stood out on the balcony for a while, alone and not alone. It was a cold, fresh night, but clear. The sky was more brilliant with stars than the skies of New Zealand ever are, though less bright than the Egyptian night can be. Five stories below me, a horse carriage slowly clip-clopped over the paving stones, and from among the trees along the avenue rose the discordant but fervent singing of Christmas carols by a group of Tommies. The sea gleamed in the distance, and I could hear the waves against the breakwater on the promenade The singing died away and the night was very still. There was no sound except for the restless waves. And away on the other side of those leagues and leagues of sea it would already be late on Christmas morning, a summer day—and, yes, “ They,” too, would be beside the sea, and the waters that separated us joined us. Christmas Day—a lazy day, and the bitterly cold, gusty wind outside made the temptation to linger in the comfort of white sheets and pillows an irresistible one. It was not quite a “ white Christmas,” though there was snow in the air—not like the previous Christmas on the Sangro, when the snow was deep on the hills and the whiteness was churned by the transport wheels and the treads of tank and bulldozer, and torn with the black rents of fresh shell holes. It was there that the song, “ I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas,” lost its popularity. We waited with growing anticipation for dinner—the big event of the day. And it was worth waiting for. It represented hours of extra willing work by the cooks and also by the Italian staff; but this was possible only after skilful, foraging raids and barter in many quarters. It was as near the traditional Christmas dinner as was possible, and we were grateful for it. There was even a passable cigar to top off with. It was much later in the afternoon when I went for a walk, and what could be more appropriate than a visit to Santa Claus? And that is just what I did. The old festival myth has its foundation in fact, and in Bari in the 900-year-old Basilica of Sap Nicola lie the remains of the man who became the best-loved

saint in the calendar. He rests in a columned crypt in a magnificent tomb of wrought silver, the panels of which depict the main incidents of his life. Like St. George, however, his real story is not particularly impressive, and it is more by chance that this saint has become associated with Christmas.

The old adage, “ Beware of the Greeks when they come bearing gifts,” must allow of an exception in the case of Santa Claus, for he was a Greek, a native of Patara, a town in the Asiatic Levant. He became archbishop of Myra, in Lycia, and in 326 he is said to have attended the Council of Nicea. He was an able scholar of doctrine, but he was more noted for his saintliness and for the miracles of healing which he performed. After his death, a strong cult survived him, and he became the patron saint of Russia, protector of children, scholars, merchants (!), and sailors, and his aid was customarily invoked against robbers by travellers. In that era, Bari was the most important Italian port trading with the Levant, and her sailors carried the cult of St. Nicholas home with them. It was in 1089 that the holy relics were transferred to Bari, and a basilica erected to receive them.

The healing gift of the saint persisted, and after its death it was manifested through an oil which exuded fom the bones. Legend tells how the knights who opened the tomb at Myra found the skeleton swimming in this oil. The phenomenon is-said to continue and, certainly, what is known as “the manna of St. Nicholas ” is a widely used specific in the south of Italy for physical and spiritual distresses. That very lively traveller, Dr Walter Starkie, in “ The Waveless Plain,” gives a testimony to its soothing effect when his feet were wearied by the unsympathetic white roads of Apulia. Starkie also repeats the pleasing little legend which comes closest to explaining how the archbishop of Myra became Santa Claus. It is told that Nicholas was the son of- very wealthy parents, but when he inherited this fortune he decided to give it all away. This he did secretly. In the town where he lived, there also dwelt a man with three daughters, and their poverty had reduced them to dire straits. Hearing of this, Nicholas went by night to the house and tossed a bag of gold through the window. It was discovered in the morning, and a very happy father was able to arrange a dowry for his eldest The same thing happened again, but on the third occasion the father watched to discover his benefactor and pursued him through the streets until he recognised the archbishop. He would have fallen at his feet and kissed him, but Nicholas raised him up and went on his way.

Originally, the feast of St. Nicholas was celebrated on December 6, so it is easy to see how it became associated with the later festival. For the inhabitants of Bari, however, San Nicola comes into his own in a three-day festival in May, commemorating the exploits of the 47 knights of Bari who rescued his body from the profane guardianship of the Seljuk Turks and brought it home in triumph on May 9, 1089. So it was at Christmas I found the shrine of Santa Claus almost deserted. In the impressive, lofty basilica no' one lingered, but down in the crypt there was .the soft light of oil lamps falling on the carved marble columns and on the gilt and scarlet cloths of the altar. Before the tomb itself, appropriately enough, were two young children. They were praying, their dark heads bent low, but each with one eye peeping out to watch the foreign soldier who had come to disturb them. My Christmas was neither typical of a Christmas on active service nor was it marked by any peculiar interest except for this—a New Zealander stood for a few moments at the shrine of Santa Claus on Christmas Day.