Writers' Section Files
DATE: AUG 20 1940
Death was already in his shrunken face and drawn eyes. The once sturdy body had wasted terribly in the last year. The windows of the little sun-porch overlooked the railroad tracks and the long gray sheds on the river bank. By raising himself in the bed Castoli could see the shed in which he had worked so many years. Beyond the plants the river flashed in the sunlight, and on the other side automobiles passed along the concrete highway. Castoli, wistful and patient, watched the passage of life outside.
It was difficult for him to speak. But he was glad of someone to talk to. The sun was warm through the glass, accenting the pallor of his face and the deep lines that seamed it. The dull eyes turned to his little vineyard. A sudden rasping cough brought the tears. “Some days I don't cough much,” he apologized. “But today it Is not so good.” He shook his head and a lock of hair fell on his forehead. He wore a small moustache. “They used to kid met” he said. “Told me I looked like Hitler. They know what I think of Hitler. Mussolini, too.
“I cut granite for thirty years. I stop then — but it was not soon enough. I learned my trade back home in Switzerland. Just across the border from Italy. We cut some nice stone. It was a different kind — more like marble. I work eight or ten years there. Then I come here with some other stonecutters. Our friends have gone before. They write back what a wonderful