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“This can’t be!” Gaetano said, aghast. “This is a job for men, not little boys. It can’t be legal.”
“There’s no law against it. Anyway, their parents signed them over to us. If you don’t believe me, I have a file in my office with asuccursu di murtifor each boy.”
Gaetano translated the Sicilian term, “death benefit,” which suggested the contract was a form of life insurance. Even if the contract was legal, it was nevertheless immoral. “Where do the children come from?”
“Mussomeli. We pay the parents up front, and the boy works off the debt.”
“How long does it take?”
“Ten years, then they go home.”
“Ten years?” Gaetano asked, appalled. “That’s a childhood!”
Tonelli scoffed. “It’s a good deal for them.”
“How?” Gaetano could only imagine the desperation of parents who indentured their own children. He knew dire poverty existed in Sicily, but had never imagined this particular misery.
“The parents get money to feed the rest of the family. Thecarusilearn a trade and sleep in the barracks. We don’t charge much for food and board.”
“They payyou?” Gaetano tried to understand. “Why use children? Why not men?”
“Thecarusigo up and down all day long. They have to be small. Adults are too tall.”
“But you see what it does to them.” Gaetano didn’t elaborate, since the boy was listening. “He looks malnourished. Isn’t that why his belly is so big?”
“No, that’s worms.”
“Worms?”
“Enough!” Tonelli waved him off. “Shut up and weigh the ore.”
Just then, another little boy staggered out of the mineshaft, his small body doubled over with the burden of the basket. Gaetano moved to help him, but Tonelli grabbed his arm.
“Don’t you dare, Palermo. If I see you out of that chair, I’ll fire youandyour brother.” Tonelli shoved a finger into Gaetano’s chest. “Understand?”
“Okay.” Gaetano had to concede, for Dante’s sake.
“Now get to work. I’m keeping an eye on you.” Tonelli tried to grab thecarusu, but missed. “I’ll beat you, you little—”
“No!” Gaetano intervened, stepping between them.
“What?” Tonelli met Gaetano’s eye, and the two men stood face-to-face, close enough for Gaetano to smell the wine on Tonelli’s fetid breath.
“I said, no. I will not allow you. Beat me if you want to, but not that boy.”
Tonelli punched Gaetano so hard that he reeled backward, falling to the ground.
Tonelli turned on his heel and stalked back to his office.
Leaving Gaetano in pain, but satisfied.
The nextcarusutrudged towardthe weigh station, looking only seven years old. His nose was running, his eyes were reddish, and he had the same gray pallor, curved spine, and lopsided little body as the others. His skin glistened with sweat mixed with sulfur dust.
“What’s your name, son?” Gaetano asked, while thecarusuput the load on the scale.
“Daniele,” the boy answered, managing a smile. “Are you the new scale man, Signore? The old one never talked.”
“Yes, and I like talking to you. Are you from Mussomeli?”
