Europe Remembers the Dead Under the Pandemic’s Shadow

“They killed this one,” she said. “Why? The mafia.”

Outside the crypt, the cemetery felt like a cheery place on this beautifully calm and blue-sky November day with a chatter of voices gently echoing through the crypts. On a pathway, a man opened a faucet to fill plastic bottles with water for the flowers at his family's tombs.

Still, the feeling that this cemetery may see new loved ones arrive in coffins — struck down by the coronavirus pandemic — is palpable.

“It's scary,” Angela said. “This pandemic is affecting everyone.”

She recalled her grandmother telling her about the terrible Spanish flu of a century ago. 

“But I had never seen anything like this.”

Having placed the last flower on a tomb, Pietro stopped at a faucet to wash his hands.

“There's no disinfectant. So, excuse me, what am I to do? For good or not,” he said and said it was better to wash his hands with cold water than not at all. He stooped and turned the water on.

He said he was diligent about washing his hands. “Every time I enter a store to get something I use disinfectant or wash my hands.”

Back at the cemetery gate, Pietro gave an elbow bump to someone he knew well. And then they went back through the gates and to the lives that awaited them among the living.

As with so many people in Castelbuono, though, this winter promises to be much longer, lonelier and sadder for them as the pandemic spreads and threatens to overwhelm out-of-the-way places like this. 

Since the start of the pandemic, Castelbuono has endured the coronavirus pandemic quietly and without the horror of infections, with its citizens largely obeying the various decrees and rules put forth by the central authorities in Rome.

Now, at the beginning of November, there's a new sense of dread as the surrounding region discovers among its first clusters of infections. The streets, which were lively with banter, vendors in vehicles announcing their wares over loudspeakers and children's play before the pandemic, are quiet and lacking in vitality.

“Life is this now,” an old man said, observing the near-empty main square on a recent afternoon. With a cloth mask over his face, he sat with another pensioner at the entrance to a retirees' club where, in the past, old men played cards in the afternoons and evenings. Those scenes, too, are seen much less often.

“It's sad,” his friend said, his words muffled by a mask. “There's no tourism. There's nothing.”

The annual festivities that enliven the calendar seem like a thing of the past: The town's summer processions were cancelled; there won't be street festivals this autumn where chestnuts are roasted and meats grilled.

With the coronavirus spreading out of control in much of Europe, governments are imposing new lockdowns and restrictions in the hope to have the virus under control by Christmas. But the prospect of a muted Christmas is growing too.

More than anything, in this town, like so many other smaller towns and cities, there's a fear that the virus is creeping closer. In recent weeks, as Italy has seen a sharp increase in infections, confirmed infections have been found in neighboring towns.

About 14 miles away on the Tyrrhenian coast, a steady uptick of people testing positive has been recorded in Cefalu, a picturesque historic town famous for its Norman cathedral. The latest count puts the number of infections at over 30.

Closer still, a small mountain town called Isnello has recorded a handful of infections. It lies only 8 miles away.

Since the beginning of the pandemic, Castelbuono has largely been unscathed by the virus. During the first wave, a few young people who'd returned home from abroad were found infected and were placed in quarantine. In recent weeks, business owners were ordered to be tested and one merchant was found to be positive. A later test though came back negative.

This week, the Italian government ordered bars and restaurants to close their doors by 6 p.m. It was a move that short-circuited the normal patterns of Italian society that revolve around cafes, bars and restaurants.

In Castelbuono, people find it strange to see cafes where people once stood elbow to elbow gulping down espressos and aperitifs empty as darkness falls. A walk down the main streets is quiet: The clink of dishes, the medley of voices at restaurant tables and flurry of activity in kitchens is gone.

“It's dire,” said Marta Russo, a 28-year-old manager of Kilometro Zero, a restaurant and pizzeria on the main street. She sat with her waiters and kitchen staff playing cards in the middle of the afternoon. With no clients, there was little else to do.

She said small businesses are going to struggle to stay open. With the new restrictions, some of her restaurant staff were being laid off, she said. Restaurants and bars are being allowed to sell take-away items, but she said that won't be enough to keep the whole staff employed.

“How long will this blackout last?” she said, humorously using the English word “blackout” to describe the new mini-lockdown. “And they're talking about closing everything. That would be bad.”

Towns like Castelbuono are already struggling to stay relevant in an age of globalized markets. It, like so many towns in Sicily, is scarred by outmigration as young people head off to find work in northern cities. The pandemic, it is feared, will make life in small towns like this one even more precarious.

But there is also a resilience here. There are no signs that the small shops are closing their doors permanently, despite the hardships and lack of visitors. During the summer, when life in Italy largely went back to normal, even though there were far fewer international visitors, businesses enjoyed a rebound. 

In Castelbuono, the void of international tourists was filled by a steady stream of Italian vacation goers.

“During the summer, we worked,” Russo said. “We did well with the Italians.”

But she wasn't sure about the future.

“It's dire,” she repeated.

She questioned the new restrictions and doubted a small pizzeria and restaurant like hers could be a place where the virus could spread easily. 

One thing she isn't questioning, though, is the risk posed by the virus.

“It's dangerous,” she said. “I have a brother who had a kidney transplant. I'd feel guilty for the rest of my life if he got the virus because of me.”

So, for now she, like so many others here, is obeying the rules and waiting for the end to this pandemic.

“At this point, we are dependent on masks,” she said, smiling with a sense of morbid humor. “If you go out without a mask you feel something is wrong.”

Courthouse News reporter Cain Burdeau is based in the European Union. 

Follow @cainburdeau

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