Odontometer, tweezers, magnifying glasses. Bent over his desk, Silvius Magnago was examining a perforation gauge.
He’d never been a big traveler. The furthest he’d been was the never-ending plain of Nikopol, in Ukraine, and his left leg was still there. He’d often been to Vienna, visited a few European capitals and, going up and down between Rome and Bolzano, had covered more miles than if he’d gone around the globe. But seeing the world for pleasure was something he’d never done. His way of traveling was to collect stamps from every country. After so many years, it was a blessing to have a little time to devote to them.
With the approval of the Package, the attacks, the bombs, and the deaths had stopped. Three years later, a few months ago now, it had come into effect. Now it was a question of passing the laws for implementing the individual processes. Taxes, education, responsibility for road planning and facilitated construction: the whole administrative autonomy of Alto Adige had to find its rules of application. A long, bureaucratic, pedantic job. Magnago had never minded the search for concrete, detailed solutions, so the enterprise, tackled along with commissions led by people he respected, such as the Christian Democrat Berloffa, didn’t alarm him. You needed to be meticulous, concrete, attentive to detail, and precise: the characteristics of a stamp collector, which he was. It was going to be a demanding but not difficult task.
Even the atmosphere in the Heimat was good. Tourism was bringing a sense of wellbeing nobody would have thought remotely possible ten years earlier. At the recent elections, his party had been rewarded with two thirds of the votes by an electorate pleased with the historical mission accomplished. Above all, he no longer received phone calls in the middle of the night, telling him that a soldier had been blown up, that a young man had been killed at a roadblock, that the wick of the explosive charge that was threatening to blow up the entire province was getting shorter and shorter.
With advancing age, his leg, the one that had stayed behind in Nikopol, was having increasingly frequent conversations with the rest of his body in the secret language of suffering, a language he couldn’t share with anyone, not even his Sofia. However, the frightening, exciting years that had led from the Castel Firmiano rally to the agreement with Rome were over. Now, every so often, he could even spend time with his stamps. And yet, whenever Silvius Magnago watched the events of the country of which, by signing the Package, his land had agreed to be a part of, he couldn’t feel calm. What was happening sounded familiar, like a recurring melody, but if at first it had been whispered by only a few in a small, peripheral area like South Tyrol, it was now being played by an entire orchestra: Italy.
Bombs. Massacres. Attacks. Terrorists. Roadblocks. Planned coups. Cover-ups. Rumors about the involvement of secret services in dark deeds. And, above all, the dead. Too many dead. In the streets, in banks, in police stations from which questioned people emerged dead, in crowded squares. It wasn’t a happy tune.
Sometime ago, with Sofia, he’d seen a documentary about tornadoes and typhoons on television. It was then that he thought of South Tyrol like one of those areas in the middle of the ocean, unknown to the majority, crossed by few, but where hurricanes originate. Microscopic areas of low pressure seldom signaled by world radars, marginal on the global canvas, but where winds sometimes start spinning, waters bubbling, clouds gathering, until what starts as a little whirlwind turns into a cyclone ready to sweep the coast of continents, and does so, but only after it has departed forever from the insignificant place on the globe where it had started to take shape.
Here we are. The rumble of thunder, the tempest, the blizzards that had agitated his land in those years of fire between 1957 and 1969, seen from there they just looked like the first signs of something much larger and widespread, something—Magnago shuddered at the mere thought—which had had its dress rehearsal right here, it was here that they had learned how to do it.
Magnago was possibly the only Italian politician to enjoy, so to speak, double status. Terrorists and more extreme factions such as the Schützen viewed him as a political hack who betrayed ideals and kowtowed to the state’s position; the Italian political world, on the other hand, accused him of excessive understanding toward terrorists. So he was, after all, in the best position to see things from both sides. The South Tyrolean events helped him develop the sensitivity of a water diviner with regard to the attacks: he saw only too well that they were playing the game of those who would have to repress them. There had been many episodes, over the past twelve years, that couldn’t be understood except by supposing that somebody, some corrupt element of the government, was trying to score his own goal in order to justify the extent of the reaction. Magnago would never be able to prove it, obviously. And the delicate negotiations he’d been conducting with Italian governments for years had never allowed him to share these suspicions with his interlocutors, far from it! Yet he was certain that he was right. Only once, at the end of a customarily friendly interview with Aldo Moro, had he dropped a hint to see the effect it would have, ready to retract it if it had fallen into the void.
“And what if there were someone who didn’t want Italy to become a real democracy?” Magnago had said. Moro, whose voice was normally so soft and clucking it was hard to make out his words as it was, had said nothing. However, he had looked at him with a deep, weary, understanding expression, and then half closed his eyes in an imperceptible but unequivocal expression of assent. From that moment on, Magnago had the certainty that he was right: there was a plan to destabilize democracy, and there were those who knew about it. But Silvius Magnago continued to be unable to share this conviction with anyone, just like the physical pain with which he’d lived since 1943— a lowering of the eyelids being his only proof.
And there is no point in wasting time on something that can be neither discussed nor tackled. There were already so many urgent issues to solve, complex regulations to be elaborated. For Magnago, especially now that relations with the Italian government were being normalized, there was another threat hanging over his Heimat, one that risked, in the long run, eating into its identity. It was the most destabilizing, most invasive, most dangerous phenomenon of all: inter-ethnic mixed marriages.
Yes, of course, he himself was the product of a Mischehe, but his parents had married when the entire undivided Tyrol was still part of Austria. Times when there was no need to defend the Heimat traditions against assimilation.
Now those times were over, and it was essential that a census be taken of the ethnic communities of Alto Adige, that they be quantified and clearly divided from one another: especially schools and cultural and language institutes, because it was only by separating South Tyrolean culture and language from the Italian ones that you could protect them effectively. The clarity of ethnic boundaries: after so many turmoils, it was the only way to maintain social peace.
It was the same as in collecting stamps. The place of Sachsendreier46 or a Schwarzer Einser47 was in the historical stamps album, and not in the one for World Fauna, in the bird subcategory. Order, cataloguing: South Tyrol needed the best skills of a stamp collector. Mixing and confusion between the communities would lead, once more, to conflagration and chaos.
The perforation gauge of the stamp was in good condition, as was its coating. Silvius Magnago replaced it in its album with a contented sigh. It wasn’t yet the right time to issue public declarations on the subject, but this would be the next political battle the father of South Tyrol’s autonomy would be fighting with his entire authority. The moment would soon come to say it out loud: Mischehen between Italians and Germans would spell the end of South Tyrol.
The lieutenant-colonel who read out to Vito the extract from the regulations was a couple of years older than him but seemed younger. His pale innocent eyes made it hard to imagine him with weapons in his hands, in action in a mountain pass or in a raid. As a matter of fact, none of this had ever happened to him: he’d arrived in Alto Adige only recently, when the worst was over.
He’d summoned him into his office and addressed him with the formal courtesy of Turin residents or shy people in positions of authority: and he was both those things. He’d taken the trouble to make a copy and wanted Vito to read it in person. Not because he thought he wasn’t aware of its contents, but because everybody had great esteem for this non-commissioned officer, so he wanted to treat him with respect. Moreover, it was a delicate, intimate matter, so it might help to have the support of a piece of paper.
“Umberto of Savoy, Prince of Piedmont, Senior Lieutenant of the Kingdom. By virtue of the authority bestowed upon us; in view of the legislated royal decree, etc, etc . . . In view of the deliberation of the Council of Ministers; with regard to the proposal of the Minister of War, in agreement with the Minister of the Interior and the Exchequer; we have sanctioned and will promulgate as follows . . . ”
Vito was sitting opposite him. The officer was leaning over the desk, pointing with his finger at the lines of the text he was reading. He smelled of cleanliness. Hanging on the wall behind him was the portrait of President Giovanni Leone, the face of a rodent in a thick black frame.
“Article 1. In the royal Carabinieri force, third-degree marshals and sergeants may be authorized to marry without any limitation of degree provided they have completed nine years of service and reached the age of twenty-eight . . . And you meet all these requirements,” the lieutenant-colonel added.
Vito nodded.
“Article 2, which deals with corporals and selected Carabinieri, doesn’t concern you, and neither does article 6. Articles 3, 4 and 5 define the quota of married Carabinieri allowed in the barracks. Article 7 is good news: married soldiers from the royal force of Carabinieri are entitled to free medical assistance from the doctor in charge at the stations.”
“Excuse me, Colonel, but why ‘royal’?”
“It’s an attribute that has never been changed, it’s still valid for us when we swear loyalty . . . ” he indicated the portrait of the bespectacled rat behind him, “ . . . to the Italian Republic. It’s Article 8 the one that . . . ” He paused.
When they have to give bad news, shy people need to be doubly courageous: to face their interlocutor, and themselves.
“ . . . concerns you.”
Vito had gotten distracted. He was remembering what his mother had told him when he’d been home on leave, two weeks earlier. She hadn’t beaten about the bush. “It’s either them, or us.”
Them: Gerda and Eva. Us: her, all the relatives, and every single resident of the city and, actually, of the whole of Calabria.
“Article 8. The misconduct involving public scandal among members of the families of the married staff of the Royal Force of Carabinieri will lead to the dismissal of the soldier with termination of current duties upon proposal of his Legion commanders and the decision of the general command of the force.”
The lieutenant-colonel read everything in one breath, like a schoolboy, never raising his blue eyes.
“Written in Rome on 29 March 1946. Umberto of Savoy. De Gasperi, Brosio, Romita, Corbino. Chancellor: Togliatti.”
There was nothing else to read. But the officer still continued to stare at the sheet of paper.
It’s either them, or us. That’s what Mariangela Anania, née Mollica, had told her son. And all the Calabrians, even though they’d been divided by feuds, rivalries, arguments and obscure interests for centuries, had now united to condemn the marriage between Vito and an unmarried mother. A complete unanimity that hadn’t been seen since the times of Magna Graecia or the Phoenicians. And in the face of the formidable compactness of the verdict pronounced by his living fellow countrymen, but also—his mother had made it clear—the dead ones, as well as future generations, for Vito the regulations of the Force were very small in comparison. What obstacle could it possibly find to oppose his love for Gerda, that wasn’t already there, unmovable, insurmountable, like a boulder fallen on a mule track?
The lieutenant-colonel raised his gentle eyes. “The sister of a terrorist, an unmarried mother . . . Sergeant Anania, where did you find a woman like that?”
“Gerda has never done anything wrong.”
The lieutenant-colonel sighed: powerless rather than annoyed. He was also sorry. “You can put it whichever way you like, Sergeant, but these are the regulations. Public scandal; misconduct. It’s all in your situation. No superior will ever grant you permission to marry her. Obviously, you can do it as a free citizen but then you would be dismissed. The decree is very clear on this point.”
Vito had spent his entire adult life respecting the regulations of the Force. With pride, self-denial, team spirit—things that no civilian could ever understand. Therefore, there was nothing he could say. When he left the lieutenant-colonel’s office, he met Genovese. The Neapolitan had already opened his mouth to make a crack, but when he saw his expression, his lips tightened. There it was, the effect of the face of a man in love, the one you get when you’re already running toward trouble: and Anania had clearly run straight into a wall. Genovese slowly moved his head down, then up, then down again, as though obtaining the confirmation he’d long been awaiting. He patted him on the shoulder twice with unexpected, rough tenderness, then turned on his heels and left.
Vito remained alone in the corridor.
To be married. Him and her. That’s all they wanted. But how, when everything was against them? Above all they mustn’t lose heart. They loved each other. That’s all that mattered.
So they would dismiss him. Never mind. The Force wasn’t the whole world. They’d still be able to manage: Gerda was a cook and he also had a profession, he was a qualified accountant. He would find a job and after a while she’d be able to stop sweating in the kitchen, and he’d make sure she never wanted for anything. Eva would go to school nearby and they could finally all live together. He would adopt her and give her his name: Eva Anania had a good ring to it.
They’d be happy, the three of them. They’d have other children too, and Eva would be pleased, all little girls like to cuddle younger siblings. They would love her so much that she’d never be jealous.
As for his mother, his mother just needed time, she’d change her mind sooner or later. As soon as the first grandchild was born she’d forgive everything, he already knew that.
Vito spoke intensely, softly under the sheets.
Gerda listened without saying a word. She clung to him and her hands sought him. She was hungry for him, for his mouth, she wanted to feel him move inside her, they would share a bed for the rest of their lives, but now she couldn’t wait.
Vito was ready immediately, as he always was for her. He turned her and held her tight as she arched her back. Going inside her was so easy, my God, so essential.
Afterwards, Vito fell asleep.
Gerda held him like a child, his head tucked into her chest. She looked at the chair next to the bed where he had put his sergeant’s uniform. He’d folded his trousers with precision, the red stripe right across the middle of the chair, the shoulders of the shirt hanging on the knobs. Her Vito was so tidy, so responsible, so reliable. A man of honor. She stroked his black hair. It was thinner than when she had first met him. So many times she had touched his forehead, the back of his neck, his eyebrows, that if she were suddenly to become blind she would recognize his hairline from a thousand others by touch. Gerda gave a deep sigh, and Vito’s head rose with her breast.
She knew what had to be done.
When Vito woke up, Gerda was standing by the window, smoking. He looked at her and felt fear. Her voice was different, her face was different, her eyes were different. While he was sleeping, Gerda had already entered an after state that was very different from the one before.
She said, “I’ve made up my mind.”
She didn’t say: if you give up your Carabiniere uniform, you’ll lose yourself and everything you believe in. And she didn’t say: your mother has only you, this isn’t your land, you’d always be unhappy here and die from homesickness. Nor did she say: tell me that what I’m about to say isn’t true, convince me, insist that we should be together.
Instead, she said: I’m the one who doesn’t want to marry you, I’ve thought about it for a long time, I can’t live with you, we’re different, it would never work, and I know that if we had other children you wouldn’t love Eva anymore.
She raised her shoulders, and the movement almost made her collapse. She lit another cigarette even though she hadn’t finished the first one.
Vito sat on the bed, silent.
Gerda puffed the smoke with vigor, blowing it far away, as though trying to hit the mountains beyond the window.
Vito still said nothing.
Gerda finished the cigarette.
Vito could never have imagined that it would be so difficult to look into her eyes.
And Gerda knew she had done the only thing that could have been done and should have been done when he didn’t say: no, my love, light of my life, I love you, we’ll overcome this and any other difficulty we come across in our long life together, don’t leave me and I’ll never leave you. Instead, he said, “But I want to be the one to tell Eva.”
He said goodbye to everybody one by one. Sepp, Maria, Eloise, Ulli. He also went to the maso where Ruthi had gotten married, and took a little toy for her newborn baby. He said he’d asked for a transfer. He’d been away from home for too many years. His mother was elderly, he was all she had left, and it was time to go home. Nobody asked any questions. Nobody said, and what about Gerda? Maria hugged him and gave him Schüttelbrot and Kaminwurz to take to his mother, as well as the various grappas she had distilled: pine needle, raspberry, gentian. She didn’t give him Graukäse: it wouldn’t have reached Calabria in good condition. Sepp had carved a wooden box for him; he could keep all his souvenirs from Alto Adige in it, but the real souvenir was the fragrance that wafted out when you opened it, the fragrance of forests, of Stube, of haylofts. Ulli was crying and wouldn’t let go of him. Eva wasn’t there.
She was on the peak of Nanga Parbat. She was sitting on the wooden beams under the roof crossing, her legs swinging from the barrier. She was looking at the courtyard between the barn and the house, at the hens scratching on a heap of manure, at the dozing cat. She remained like this, motionless, during all the goodbyes. She was seen only when they got out to take photos with Vito—everybody wanted one with Vito, but there wasn’t enough light in the Stube.
Gerda ordered her to come down.
His head leaning back and wrinkles on his forehead, Vito watched her without a word.
Eva climbed down from the barriers of the wooden balconies of the hayloft. On any other day, Vito would have gotten angry with her because it was dangerous to climb up and down three levels like that, she could hurt herself. Instead, he remained silent as he watched her come down the front of the old hayloft, her bare legs peering out of her dress, her scraped knees, her ankle socks. She landed with a little jump in front of the cowshed window and Vito went to her, held her tight in his arms, and said something to her. Eva wasn’t listening, she was too busy thinking: he seemed different from the others, but actually he’s the worst.