3.
La Spezia
April 26, 1941

Late that afternoon, Capitano di corvetta Federico Spada was preparing his gear at the submarine base at La Spezia when he was handed a top secret decoded teletype message. His orders up to that point were to board the submarine Massaua just before midnight for a top secret mission against British warships at anchor in the harbor at Gibraltar. The submarine was to sail in less than one hour. The message read:

“TOP SECRET AND URGENT--Cap. Corv. Spada--- You are to proceed by train to Pisa to arrive at 09:00 tomorrow morning. A car will pick you up at the station. These orders supersede all other instructions including missions currently underway. Signed: Cdt. U. FERRI gg.”

Spada was nervous and immediately sought an explanation from the sub commander but it was useless; he was already being replaced by another diver on the mission that couldn’t be delayed. There had also been a follow up phone call on the secure line confirming the previous message. He was therefore to collect his gear and proceed as his orders read in the teletype. He couldn’t understand it. The attack on Gibraltar had been meticulously prepared for weeks and Spada had never felt in better form. He was excited to be on the same team as some of the heroes of the “Gamma” diving group: Birindelli, Tesei and Scergat. Spada in spite of the fact that he’d already earned some very impressive decorations for bravery in action was spoiling to compete with his peers. At Gibraltar in October 1940, Malta and the coast of Egypt in January 1941, and Crete in March 1941, where just a few weeks before, where he single handedly sank a British minesweeper, he was always pushing the limits of the most dangerous attack diving. He possessed the ideal personality for the most risky missions: at the same time very calm and collected, he was at the same time determined and meticulous keeping the cool competitive edge with very few moral qualms as his instinctive wild side constantly propelled him forward. He went into battle as if it were a sports event with the controlled inner tension of the champion athlete.

During the two hour train ride from La Spezia to Pisa Spada was still puzzled by the meaning of the unexpected summons. Could there be some dire emergency situation requiring his skills? He was highly skilled in underwater demolition but also in several kinds of salvage diving operations using all the equipment and devices that went into that specialty. He imagined that this could be another rescue mission similar to the submarine that had gone down in one twenty five meters of water just off the coast of Benghazi in Libya. The men had to be extracted and accompanied to the surface one by one holding their breath in unbearable conditions. Their ascent was a desperate gamble as they emerged screaming from the water for many their lungs exploded under the tremendous pressure. Only a handful survived.

Spada had craved danger and fully understood how war was the only condition that offered such constant pressure that so many found exhausting but that to him was his natural element. To risk and go constantly to limit was a position he not only enjoyed but felt his mind and body required just to feel alive. He often wondered what would happen if the war ended and he’d have to retire after a string of spectacular victories, to a life devoid of the daily adrenaline charge that he had become accustomed to. It would be a grey and drab existence in some small port in Italy or if he was lucky, in command of a ferry boat making daily round trips between his home town of Viareggio and the island of Elba. There was a standard barracks joke at the naval academy: “You’ll soon be at the helm of a ferry boat, you lucky bastard!” Beautiful scenery and the slow crawl of days and months turning into years. Not at all the kind of future he aspired to.

At the Pisa train station two plainclothes detectives were waiting as he approached the exit. One of them flashed his identity card that read “Direzione della Polizia Politica” the ‘political police.’ He politely asked the captain to kindly proceed to a waiting black sedan. Spada smiled and nodded but found it odd: why would the police—the OVRA—be involved in picking him up rather than a regular navy car? The other characters in the car also looked like tough customers. As soon as they left the railroad station and got on the tree lined highway leading out of the city center into the hills, the driver gunned the heavy black Alfa Romeo at top speed along the road lined with huge poplar trees for about ten kilometers. Then after a bend the car suddenly came to a halt on the dusty shoulder. The tougher looking cop sitting in front turned around and said:

“Captain you have to wear this blindfold from here on, until we reach our destination. We still have forty minutes to go.”

He handed Spada a black blindfold, which the frogman dutifully pulled over his eyes. The window shades were drawn as the car swung around, quickly picking up speed in the opposite direction. The winding ride at full throttle lasted about twenty minutes followed by a series of bumpy turns on dirt roads then back on to a well paved highway for another long stretch. The air suddenly turned sharper, more humid with the sounds of crickets and the smells of the sea mixed to the pungent scent of pine trees as the Alfa negotiated an endless number of curves up a steep mountain road until it finally came to a sudden halt.

Spada was led out of the car and he immediately felt the intensely damp cold. He guessed correctly that they were either in a tunnel or some sort of cave because of the drops of ice cold water falling regularly from above. The policemen led Spada into an elevator carved in the rocks. As they descended to the core of the mountain the temperature dropped even more. Then they walked along another corridor into a room and sat him down on a chair as the blindfold was finally removed. When he saw the one way darkened mirror facing him Spada immediately understood that he was in a sophisticated interrogation facility but he couldn’t figure out why he was there.

A voice boomed over a loud speaker.

“Capitano di Corvetta Federico Spada, stand at attention!”

He stood up and rigidly clicked his heels according to regulations. Seven years of sun, wind and sea water and his thick black beard gave him a decidedly Levantine look. He was about five ten, weighed a lean 150 pounds and was clearly in top physical condition, sleek and muscular with strong rough hands and a glint of controlled excitement in his black eyes that made him look much younger than his 34 years. The voice went on:

“Captain, you are being considered for a top secret and very sensitive mission. We require your complete cooperation. You shall answer the questions and an officer will take your statement.”

“Yes sir” answered Spada who winced at the word “statement” and its ominous overtones of trial proceedings. A sailor in uniform wheeled a large black typewriter into the room.

Spada began telling his life story starting in 1927 but to his annoyance the navy man was typing at a snail’s pace with two fingers. Then suddenly after some twenty minutes of very inefficient typing the typist left the room with the few pages he had managed to produce.

Commander Ferri was examining Spada’s reactions and behavior. After several hours the subject was beginning to show unmistakable signs of strain and impatience as he recited the same answers over and over to several new and equally incompetent typists. Now was the time to see how he would hold up under hostile interrogation. Admiral Calamai joined Ferri behind the mirror.

Two hooded men in sky blue navy fatigues and espadrilles came into the room. The more muscular of the two, presumably the leader, told Spada to undress down to his underwear. Spada became impatient and hostile,

“I’d like to understand what’s going on here! I have already been cleared for highly sensitive operations. And you have pulled me from an important mission to suddenly come here and undress! There’s a war going on in the real world just in case you musclemen forgot.”

The only reply came from the bigger guy who simply kicked the chair out from under him. Spada jumped back on his feet, but the bigger chap grabbed him and shoved him violently across the room:

“You obey my orders, understood? Take off your clothes. And shut up!”

Spada was visibly angry but managed to control himself and slipped out of his uniform down to his underwear. The other thug carefully examined each article of clothing, emptying the pockets and lining up the contents neatly, one next to the other, on the table. Spada was unnerved but made an effort to speak as calmly as he could:

“All right. Now, would you mind telling me what it is you really want? It could make this whole thing less tedious don’t you think?” he said turning toward the mirror.

The bigger thug grabbed Spada, locked on a pair of handcuffs and pushed him back into the chair. After a few seconds he slapped the stunned captain twice vigorously across the face:

“You don’t ask OVRA questions… you just answer, shit head…”

“Ah, so that’s it!”–Spada cried out indignantly –“Now I’m under the watchful eyes of the OVRA! What kind of a joke is this? I volunteered to fight the reds for Ethiopia and Spain! How much more proof do you want?”

“Shut up…”

The voice boomed once more:

“Tell us why you met with a man named Carlo Tresca in New York. He happens to be an individual who is a well known enemy of the Fascist Regime?”

Spada suddenly became belligerent.

“I only met Tresca once! Furthermore I told Vice Consul Marazza the whole story in 1934, all you need to do is just read my file!”

The tough guy yanked Fred’s head back while weighing on his stiffened arms while his wrists remained handcuffed until he screamed with pain. The fellow loosened his grip convinced that the captain had finally been subdued but Spada suddenly jumped up dragging the chair with him as hr managed to kick the thug strategically in the middle of his left thigh with the tip of his shoe, a spot where the muscle is easily torn. The blow sent the man to the floor howling in pain. Then Fred swung around against the second thug who barely connected with a round house right hand punch to the mouth. But almost at the same time Spada was knocking him over with a violent head butt to the face. He was still handcuffed and a trickle of blood was dripping through his beard.

Admiral Calamai was becoming very angry as he looked at the messy action unfolding behind the two way mirror:

“Why all this mayhem, Ferri? Those guys are amateurs. I only want him intimidated not necessarily forced to fight for his life. Stop this circus immediately. He must not be harmed!”

The two thugs staggered to their feet as Ferri announced:

“That’s enough! Captain we don’t want to use force but as you can see we will if it becomes necessary.”

Spada was looking defiant and ready for battle.

“Could this man possibly be a ‘dead-end’ die-hard type?” thought the Admiral. That could become a lethal combination in sensitive espionage operations where a cool, unflappable temperament was required, someone capable of turning any situation to his advantage. Spada sat quietly still in handcuffs.

“Captain Spada, we are trying to establish a plausible explanation for a few gaps in your story especially in 1933 and 1934. If your answer is satisfactory, there will not be a problem. You can imagine what the consequences can be in case we are not comfortable. The best solution is to collaborate fully and honestly. If at the end of this procedure you are approved for the mission, both you and your extended family will be considered responsible for your actions toward the service. Now, specifically in June 1933, you appeared in court in divorce proceedings initiated by Miss. Lorraine Sanders who was your wife at that time. Is that correct?”

There was a silence then Spada looked straight into the mirror and answered,

“Yes, that’s correct.”

The Admiral nodded in approval.

“Did you ever have contacts with anti-Fascist elements in the United States, meaning Italian political émigrés?”

“Yes, I did meet a few of them.”

“You were on friendly terms with some anti-Fascists and spent time with them, correct?”

“I would run into them occasionally in restaurants and cafés; but actually we talked mostly about women rather than politics and shared some wine. That doesn’t make me a traitor does it?”

“Your comments are unnecessary! What were your relations with Carlo Tresca?”

Spada laughed and he looked directly into the mirror.

“As I told you before, Tresca was a character, a funny guy. I’d heard about him and was curious, he had a way with words, and was an object of curiosity to any Italian. I was puzzled about his involvment in the Sacco and Vanzetti case. Politically he was over the hill as far as the younger generation was concerned. But he remained an interesting fellow.”

The Admiral’s impatient voice boomed into the mike:

“That’ll be enough! Get dressed captain.”

One of the thugs unlocked the handcuffs and pushed his clothing at him across the table. Spada got dressed, and then sat down again calm and composed.

The Admiral resumed the questioning personally.

“Why did you remain in America when your father decided to return home in 1931?”

Spada looked down and pursed his lips:

“He was getting older and felt homesick; my mother had finally forgiven him and wanted him back.”

“A twenty year separation is a bit hard to explain.”

“In our small town he had a terrible reputation and a few illegitimate children. One day my mother decided that she’d had enough and threw him out of the house. He owned several large plots of land and had more than enough money to buy a one-way ticket to New York. That was in 1912 or 1913. He just disappeared one day without warning. I missed him terribly and began planning ways to bring him back home again.

When I turned nineteen I decided to go to America and make him return home. Our relatives contributed some money so I could book passage on the Giulio Cesare out of Genoa. I arrived in New York on December 2, 1927. It took a few months to track him down in San Francisco but I finally found him much to his surprise. We had a tearful reunion, quarreled quite a bit but discovered that we were both happy to be reunited. I shared his three room place for almost three years and learned the fishing trade. He had become a fisherman and owned a stake in a boat but he hadn’t done that well in spite of all the hard work.”

“Then he decided to leave?”

“Yes, he suddenly realized how homesick he was and put an end to his business affairs. He had no trouble selling back his share in the boat. We arrived in New York ten days later and he booked passage back to Italy.”

“Why did you decide to stay in America?”

“I met a woman…”

“Lorraine Sanders?”

“Yes, I stayed because of her.”

“How did you meet?”

Spada hesitated, then said

“It’s unimportant.”

The voice grew impatient.

“Captain, you are expected to answer every question truthfully and completely without any omissions.”

“I’d rather not discuss it. It was a personal matter.”

The voice became impatient.

“You are under orders to cooperate fully and truthfully! I must remind you that otherwise you could be transferred to a disciplinary unit with a severe reprimand or worse. Answer the question!”

Spada’s words came out reluctantly.

“Lorraine Sanders was very beautiful. No man could be indifferent to her; she was magnetic. I wanted her to fall in love with me. Unfortunately, she also happened to be my father’s girlfriend, even though there was a twenty-five year difference between them. It didn’t take long for her eyes to wander in my direction. She was that kind of lady. He found out and made a terrible scene and it was then that he decided the time had come for him to call it quits. He kept on repeating that America wasn’t big enough for the two of us –meaning him and me -- and he quickly forgot Lorraine. As soon as he left we were free to marry. That was my biggest mistake…I should have listened to the old man. He was furious not because she had left him but because I was going with someone like her!”

“Lorraine Sanders agreed to marry you? How did you expect to support her?”

“We never discussed money. Lorraine was a good singer she made good money in the clubs.”

“By marrying Lorraine you immediately became an American citizen. It all sounds much too simple, Spada.”

“I was naturalized in 1932 just as things were beginning to sour between us.”

“Explain.”

“Lorraine was getting more and more bookings. I followed her around and quickly became a regular at a few night spots in New York some of the speakeasys just before the end of Prohibition… I made a little money gambling. Suddenly one evening in a hotel lounge Lorraine caught the eye of a small time gangster. We struck a relationship and actually became partners in a fishing boat I was able to buy with his money. The guy was always hanging around the clubs she was appearing in and before I knew it he fell for her, head over heels. The gifts, the cars… began to pile up so much that I couldn’t compete. Lorraine filed for divorce and her boyfriend gave me some cash to get rid of me, he even threw the boat to make it all very smooth. I stayed until the money lasted. Then I sold the boat because I wanted to leave and return to Italy”

“What was the gangster’s name?”

“Bruno Scalise. He had a very bad temper and threatened to kill me at one point when we argued over Lorraine. They were both murdered together, Lorraine and Scalise, on New Year’s Eve, in 1939. He was such a brutal son of a bitch that it didn’t surprise me when I was told. I thought he had it coming sooner or later.”

“So the real reason you returned to Italy was because of a woman?”

“Yes, but only in part. Fascist Italy offers a well organized, disciplined society that was clearly heading for war in Africa. I wanted to be part of it.”

“Did anyone tell you to join the Navy?”

“No, no one. The Americans I met couldn’t care less about Europe or anywhere else, for that matter! They were desperately trying to survive; there was no work, no money during those years. It was just survival through barter everywhere. I could have stayed and maybe even succeeded in New York had I joined some of the underworld gangsters I met, the Scalise types…but I didn’t want to. Most of them didn’t get to live that long anyway! I never heard from Lorraine after the day we parted in Brooklyn Civil Court in April 1933.”

Admiral Calamai put an end to the interview, and said as he turned off the mike,

“All right, Ferri, I think he’s genuine. The fact that he was laterally involved with the Mafia may become useful. If you have no major objections, clean him up, apologize, and keep him happy. Also make sure he’s not a fag so get him a girl. That’ll be the final test. Tomorrow we’ll brief him.”

The Admiral left the room unceremoniously still angry with Ferri for the useless brutality he had inflicted on Spada.