Short story: The Doorstep Church on Christmas Eve

Photo by gosiak90 on Pixabay

It was three in the afternoon on Christmas Eve. The dogs had been taken for their walk, the fire was crackling with logs stacked nearby, and the cozy chair was waiting for me. The delightful aromas of cooking drifted in from the kitchen. But then my wife revealed her ultimate request: without a pack of puff pastry and a jar of redcurrant jelly, our Christmas would be spoiled. These, apparently, were essential for the vegetarian dish planned for our Christmas lunch. As I got into the car, I found some comfort in knowing I could listen to the Festival of Lessons and Carols from Kings while I drove into town. The cold was biting; the sky had been a dull gray all day, and looking up, I thought we might just get some snow this Christmas.

The idea of heading into town on Christmas Eve made me cringe, imagining all those last-minute shoppers rushing around, with traffic jams filling the town center as everyone attempted to park as close to the stores as possible. But there was no point in complaining. Instead, I joined the carol service and sang along heartily. First, we sang “Once in Royal David’s City,” followed by “Good Old Ding Dong Merrily on High.” The lyrics came flooding back to me, and I tried to focus on the first reading from Genesis 3, which speaks about sinful Adam and his offspring in Eden and the crushing of the serpent's head. I couldn't help but think about how to explain that to a ten-year-old!

Luckily, when I got to town, I stopped worrying about sinful Adam. I cruised slowly along the main street and noticed for the first time how beautiful the Christmas lights were this year. The shop windows looked festive and inviting, and the big Norway spruce in the square was especially well-decorated with hundreds of twinkling white LED lights. I must have accidentally slowed down even more to take in the scene when a driver behind me suddenly honked his horn and flashed his lights. I pulled over and gave him an apologetic shrug, but as he went by, he responded with the familiar, unsavory gesture of raising his middle finger.

"Ah, wishing you love and peace as well," I said quietly, suddenly aware that I sounded a lot like Ringo Starr when he asked fans to stop bothering him for autographs.

Growing up in Cardiganshire, I couldn't bring myself to pay for parking. Over the years, I had learned all the tricks to find free places to leave my car, but those spots were becoming increasingly rare. Fortunately, I discovered a small area near the old Catholic Church and tennis courts that worked well for me. After parking, I often walked past the now-closed church. The regular congregation, large and passionate, had put up a strong fight to keep it from closing. Despite their efforts, the diocese's bishop had made it clear that the church would shut down, and a newer one—already in disrepair a few miles away—would be refurbished for the community's use. He declared definitively that "Rome has made its decision," sealing the fate of the old church, 'Our Lady of the Angels.' The church, along with its presbytery and surrounding grounds, would be sold off for development, its fate forever determined by distant authority.

I had visited this church only a few times, with the most recent visit being right before it shut its doors. I attended a memorial service for a friend. I was really struck by the understated beauty of the interior, which was a stark contrast to the opulence and elaborate designs I had seen during my visit to the Vatican one weekend in Rome.

During one of my regular strolls back to my car, shortly after 'The Lady of The Angels' had shut down, I began to notice flowers and candles placed on the closed church's doorstep. The flowers were regularly fresh, and occasionally, the candles were lit. I also saw rosaries and prayer cards being attached to the security fence around the church. I appreciated these gestures; I thought they were heartfelt and powerful, and I believed they were part of an ongoing protest against the church's closure. However, this Christmas Eve, I uncovered the reason behind the continuous influx of these religious items.

As I made my way back to the car, holding my frozen puff pastry and redcurrant jelly, the snow began to fall. I paused for a moment to watch the snowflakes swirl around the streetlights, seeming to hesitate as they decided where to settle. I couldn’t help but think about how many kids would be squealing with joy while watching this wintry scene from their homes. Kids, Christmas, and snow—it felt like the perfect combination. Then I heard singing in the distance. Was it carolers? It was soft at first but grew a bit louder as I got closer to the church. It sounded like a delicate female voice. I leaned over the security fence and noticed, lit by candlelight, what looked like a large bundle of dark fabric on the church steps. The singing faded, and the bundle began to move slowly before it wobbly stood up. In an instant, the bundle revealed itself to be an elderly woman dressed entirely in black. She crossed herself and turned around. Seeing me seemed to startle her, and she exclaimed, “Madonna Mia,” while raising her hands to her chest in surprise. I quickly stepped through the fence to check on her, worried she might lose her balance. I gently grasped her arm and apologized profusely for scaring her.

I attempted to convey that her beautiful singing had grabbed my interest and made me want to learn more. That's when I realized who she was.

"Mrs. Tassinnari, it's Anthony. I used to be friends with your son, Mario. I'm really sorry for scaring you earlier. Let me give you a hand so you don’t lose your balance." She took my hand, and I helped her carefully step down the stairs and back onto the sidewalk.

"I know you live nearby, so would you mind if I walked with you home? It's pretty slippery with all this snow. Here, let me offer you my arm for support."

Mrs. Tassinnari took hold of my arm and said, "Oh, Anthony, I recognize you now. I’m sorry; I startled when I saw you. Lately, I’ve been lost in my thoughts. I remember seeing you at Mario’s funeral—no parent should have to endure the loss of a child. Just look at me; I often think, why didn’t he take me instead? You must think I’m a crazy old woman for being there and singing, especially on such a cold day. But this church holds too many memories for me to stay away. There have been so many christenings, first communions, weddings, funerals, and Christmas celebrations. All of my family’s voices and memories feel intertwined with the very stones of this place. That’s why I come here every day to offer prayers for them. I talk to them, feeling our voices blend together. Although the church is locked, standing on the doorstep feels just as sacred to me. Here, in my heart, I feel so close to them, and that brings me the urge to sing."

Mrs. Tassinnari had been a part of our town for as long as I could remember, and she still had a gentle Italian accent that added a melodic touch to her speech. I quickly estimated that she was likely in her eighties or even early nineties. I fondly recalled the café she managed with her husband. It was always a treat to watch as she crafted a cup of frothy coffee using that shiny, copper-colored espresso machine that steamed and hissed. The coffee would then be poured into elegant clear glass cups and served on matching saucers.

As we strolled leisurely, linked together, heading to her home, our conversation flowed. I shared a memory with Mrs. Tassinnari about the time Mario and I played rugby for our school. We were the two props at the front of the scrum, and although there was one year when our team was unbeatable, we often came home with black eyes and some bumps and bruises. Those Wednesday afternoons spent playing rugby provided a welcome escape from our textbooks, which I appreciated a lot. Even with these breaks in our studies, Mario excelled academically and eventually went on to university.

"Ah yes," Mrs. Tassinnari said, "Enzo and I felt a great sense of pride in Mario, who was the first in our family to attend university. Do you recall Enzo, my husband Anthony?"

"Absolutely, I certainly do," I responded. "I remember him vividly; he brewed the best coffee in all of Wales and was the one who introduced me to Mortadella and egg sandwiches. My doctor would have definitely wanted to talk to him about that!" We both laughed, including Mrs. Tassinnari.

"Mrs. Tassinnari, could you share the name of that lovely song you were singing on the steps? I managed to catch a few lines, but it didn't seem like a traditional hymn or Christmas carol."

“Hey Anthony, we're almost back home. Do you have a moment to grab a coffee with me? If you do, I’d love to share the story behind the song I was singing,” Mrs. Tassinnari said. “And please, just call me Rosa.”

We stepped into her chilly three-story home, the very same place I remembered from years past, bustling with the sounds of animated Italian conversations and the joyful giggles of kids. I had once thought those lively voices were arguments, but Mario clarified that this was just how his family communicated, a typical volume for families in Italy, as far as he knew. The walls and cabinets were decorated with family photographs, some so old they had turned sepia, showcasing proud relatives dressed in their finest attire. There were also more recent pictures of the younger generation. One photo caught my eye—it featured Mario with his wife and their two kids, and I picked it up to examine it more closely.

"I only had a quick chat with Julia at the funeral. How is she doing, and how are the kids?" I inquired.

"Ah, Paulo and Maria are growing up so quickly! I see them during the holidays and chat with them on the phone every Sunday. I really wish Julia and the kids would move in with me here. What do I need such a big house for? This place used to be a family home, a happy one at that, but Julia has her career and family in London, and the kids have their friends there too. They'll be here to share it with me soon enough, but come on in and sit down in the kitchen; it’s cozier there. I’ll make some coffee in the moka pot, and hopefully, it’ll be just as good as Enzo’s." She smiled. "While we wait, I’ll grab some photos to show you."

I couldn’t bring myself to address Mrs. Tassinnari by her first name. Instead, whenever we talked, I opted for her formal title, as it felt much more respectful to me.

"Mrs. Tassinnari, will you visit the new church once it's completed?" I asked.

"Just the one time, for my funeral," she answered.

There was an uncomfortable silence since I wasn’t sure how to reply. After a moment, I finally decided to ask.

Are your family members coming to visit for Christmas?

“Not this year. They invited me to come to London, and my other daughter Isabel is married and resides in Italy. I visited her there for Christmas last year, and it was lovely. However, this year I really just want to stay here.”

The moka pot began to gurgle right when she walked back in with a small, intricately decorated wooden box. She placed the box on the table and focused on preparing the coffee.

"Why not have a little slice of Panettone with me? A tiny piece won't hurt," Mrs. Tassinnari suggested. "It's even nicer than those mortadella sandwiches from Enzo that you talked about."

The Panettone was incredibly tasty and so airy that I couldn't resist having a second slice. The coffee was perfect as well. As I finished my second cup, Mrs. Tassinnari began to open the wooden box.

"She said, 'You wanted to know about the song I was singing, but first, let me share a quick story about our life in Italy before we got here, so everything will be clearer.'"

I’m not sure if you’re aware, but Enzo and I arrived in Wales shortly after the war ended. We tied the knot at the end of 1946; I was quite young and head over heels in love. Our families were from a small town in northwest Italy called Bardi, where my parents ran a modest farm just outside the town. In many ways, Bardi resembles Wales with its stunning mountains, picturesque landscapes, and friendly people, but unfortunately, the countryside had suffered greatly during the war.

The Nazis had stripped us of everything. The war was an unimaginable nightmare. Destruction and hardship surrounded us, as the Nazis and their ruthless enforcers had left us utterly defeated.

Long before Italy reached an agreement with the Allies in 1943, Enzo and several of his friends became part of the resistance fighters. Take a look at this photograph.

Mrs. Tassinnari gave me a small black and white photograph featuring eight men, all grinning and dressed in regular work attire. Their heads were topped with different types of hats, ranging from the feather-adorned Alpini hats to cloth caps and forage caps. Among them, I spotted a young Enzo Tassinnari, who likely had the biggest smile of the group. However, each man was also holding what appeared to be sten submachine guns.

"I had no idea about any of this," I said. "The hardships you went through, and your husband Enzo must have shown immense courage."

“We experienced unimaginable horrors, Anthony,” she said in response. “The fear was so intense that we weren’t sure if we would survive from one day to the next. Anyone thought to be aiding the Allies was executed or faced even worse fates. Our priest was murdered by the Nazis, and they bombed us with their Stukas. They would steal and assault, and we knew we had to resist; we refused to accept this fascist regime, so we took action where we could. All we had left, Anthony, was our church, our hope, and our thoughts.”

Enzo and his friends battled and took refuge in the mountains, but we here in Bardi were determined to contribute in our own way as well.

I recall a time when my family sheltered two British pilots trying to flee across the Apennines. We shared our meager supplies with them and allowed them to rest for a day or two. Unfortunately, it seemed that someone might have tipped off the authorities, as we soon found two military trucks stopping in front of our house. They searched through the house and barn thoroughly but never discovered the airmen. We had heard the trucks approaching, and just managed to hide the pilots in a secret spot we had created long ago, right beneath the beehives. We had previously used that space to stash away some food and our radio.

The pilots remained there until nightfall. They had suffered a few bee stings, but they were safe, as were we. That evening, they departed to continue their journey to safety. We hoped and prayed they would return home to fly once more and take on the Nazis.

I was speechless. This everyday couple and their family, whom I had known for many years, had gone through so much in their quiet Welsh coastal town—experiencing such horrors, fear, and bravery. All I could do was shake my head in disbelief.

So, Anthony, why am I sharing all of this? You wanted to know the name of the song I was singing, since it was unfamiliar to you. The song is called 'Bella Ciao,' which was the anthem of the partisans. I sing it daily on those steps; it expresses my affection for my husband, my son, and my church. The title 'Bella Ciao' means 'Goodbye Beautiful.'

It took a little convincing for Mrs. Tassinnari, but after enjoying a glass of grappa and chatting for about thirty minutes, I found myself calling my wife to let her know we would be adding another guest for our Christmas lunch.

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