Maria was first to arrive, on her bicycle. She had left a note for Fonso, who wasn’t back from work yet, that she’d had to run off to see her mother, who had taken a turn for the worse. Savino was there almost as soon as she was, followed, much later, by Armando who had gotten a ride on Iofa’s cart, and by Fredo. The pastor had preceded them all, because Clerice had called him first: she didn’t want to appear before God without having received the sacraments.
Savino had sent his farmhand to call Checco, but he didn’t show up, because of the bad blood between him and Dante.
Maria found her mother in the bedroom, practically sitting up in bed with two pillows behind her back, breathing laboriously but perfectly lucid. “She hasn’t been the same since the night they burned down the stables,” whispered Dante’s wife into Maria’s ear. “She’s never gotten over the fear she felt that night.”
Although it was still light out, the room was deep in shadow and the priest was administering extreme unction.
“Mamma, how are you feeling?” asked Maria, holding her hand.
“Not well, as God would have it, daughter.”
“The boys are all downstairs. Floti’s not here, though. We wrote him that you weren’t well, but I don’t know if he can leave his work and come up . . . ”
“I know. It’s better he doesn’t show his face here yet. It’s still too soon. But you tell him that I’ve always remembered him in my prayers and that I’ll pray for him from up there as well, if I end up with the Lord’s own.”
“What are you saying, mamma? You’re going to get better!”
“I don’t think so. It’s time for me to give up the ghost. It’s a very bad sign, my daughter, when they come to anoint your feet, a very bad sign,” she repeated with tears in her eyes. Maria clasped her hand more tightly. “You’re never ready to abandon life, don’t think otherwise. There are so many things that hold us here: our feelings, our habits, the sacrifices we’ve made to earn a decent life for ourselves . . . so many things.”
She didn’t make it to the next morning. She died weeping because she had to go without seeing the son who was the dearest to her heart.
Checco didn’t go to the funeral for the same reason he didn’t run to his mother’s deathbed, and that was something that, in such a small town, did not go unnoticed. People said all kinds of things, but no one ever found out the truth. The sons who did participate could not carry the coffin on their shoulders as they would have liked to, because Armando was so much smaller than the others that the coffin would not have travelled evenly. In truth, they waited until after their mother was buried to send a telegram to Floti, so that he wouldn’t get it into his head to leave the safety of his shelter and show up at the funeral.
Clerice’s departure was experienced as the last important event of the Bruni household since they had separated. After Clerice was gone, each one of the brothers took care of himself and raised his own children and the occasions on which the family gathered together became rarer and rarer. In the end, they met only when they happened to run into each other, except for the time when Checco set off with the intention of visiting Floti, just to see how he was doing and if he needed anything. He found that the children had grown up well and that they were very happy with their adoptive mother, who treated them just like her own in every way.
“Would you consider coming back?” Checco asked his brother the evening before he’d planned to leave, while Mariuccia was washing the dishes. “Sooner or later things will change and . . . ”
“I don’t think so,” said Floti. “My life is here now.”
”Don’t you miss your friends? The family?”
“Yes, but . . . I’m managing to get used to that too. Do give everyone my regards, please.”
“Yes, sure,” replied Checco. “As ordered.”
The next morning at dawn, Floti accompanied his brother to the bus stop. The air was slightly, almost imperceptibly, misty and the autumn foliage was starting to change color. The chestnut leaves, in particular, were a rich, intense orange and the husks were already opening to reveal the fruit inside, shiny as leather. The mountains that towered beyond the forests were already capped with snow.
“Bye, then,” said Checco.
“Maybe we’ll see each other again, some time or other,” replied Floti. They looked into each other’s eyes for a few instants, seeking something more to say, but in the meantime the bus pulled up and Checco got on. Floti stood watching until it drove out of sight.
When Savino found out about Checco’s trip, it really got his back up, because he would have liked to go visit Floti as well. He promised himself he’d do so at the first possible chance, but none came up for a great number of years.
His relationship with Nello continued despite their deep differences of opinion, because friendship somehow always wins out in the end. Savino couldn’t forget that, if it hadn’t been for his friend, the fascists would probably have burned the house down as well. And that Nello had always warned him when Floti was in danger.
Both of them had sons. Nello’s son was called Rossano and Savino’s was called Fabrizio. The both attended the nursery school run by the nuns and they played happily together. Nello would often allow Rossano to go by bicycle to visit his friend at the farm where Savino worked. Rossano loved the place because there was a big soaking pond which had fallen into disuse because it wasn’t profitable to plant hemp anymore. The pond had been filled with fish of every sort: catfish, tenches, carps and even goldfish, which were the ones he liked best. When they managed to catch one with a net, Fabrizio got one of the glass jars they used for canning tomatoes, filled it with clean water and put the fish in so that his friend could take it home with him.
As they grew up, the boys absorbed the attitudes and political convictions of their fathers, even if it was obligatory for both of them to sign up for the Opera Nazionale Balilla, the fascist youth organization, and wear the uniform when they did their drill exercises on Saturday afternoons.
“Do you know what balilla means?’ Rossano asked Fabrizio one day.
“It means a fascist child,” replied his friend.
“No. ‘Balilla’ was the nickname of a boy from Genova who was as old as us. One day a group of Austrian soldiers who had occupied the city managed to get one of their cannons stuck and they wanted to force some men to help them yank it out of the mud. Balilla threw a rock at them and all the other kids followed suit and that’s how they chased the Austrians out of Genova. That’s why we’re called balilla.”
Fabrizio didn’t answer because his father had taught him never to repeat in public what was said at home, and that is, that the fascists had transformed all of Italy into a barracks and that sooner or later they would drag the country into war.
After they’d finished elementary school, the boys took off in different directions. Fabrizio went to work in the fields with his father. He learned to use a rake and a hoe and then, when he was a bit older and stronger, a spade and a scythe. Lastly, he learned pruning and grafting, the most difficult of a farmer’s arts. And in the evening, his father sent him to take lessons from an elderly bookkeeper who taught him to keep the accounts for the farm. Savino hoped that one day his father-in-law, who didn’t have any sons of his own, might entrust him with managing his properties.
Rossano, instead, was sent to a fascist party school, first in Ravenna and then in Perugia. If he studied hard and got good marks, he might go all the way to Rome.
The two boys thus had fewer and fewer occasions to see each other. Rossano did make it home during the school holidays, and they would meet up at the sports center, where they kicked around a soccer ball or even played bocce. Both tried to avoid talking about politics so as not to ruin their friendship, but it wasn’t easy. The subject always came up somehow and it would be very embarrassing for both of them, especially since Rossano, after two or three years at school, took to wearing the fascist uniform, with its black shirt and silk-fringed fez.
“What do you mean by that uniform?” Fabrizio asked him one day. “Can’t you wear something normal, at least when we’re together?”
“This is normal for me, don’t you understand? It means that I’m a volunteer for the national security militia.”
“What need is there for a militia? Don’t we already have the police; aren’t the carabinieri good enough at taking care of national security?”
“We act under the direct orders of the Duce and we are prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice for him and for our country.”
“I see you’ve been indoctrinated well.”
“You’re the one who’s been indoctrinated by the reds, the defeatists and the traitors of our country!”
Fabrizio looked down without reacting: he’d learned there was no changing him and thus no point in arguing. His friend had been raised to believe in an out-and-out cult of a supreme leader to whom he owed blind obedience.
“Do we have to fight?” asked Fabrizio.
Rossano held his tongue in the face of a question that took all the fire out of the debate.
“Well?” insisted Fabrizio.
“No . . . we don’t have to, but you provoked me.”
“I was only trying to make you see that since you’ve been going to that school, you’re not the same. You look for an enemy even where none exists, and it seems like you’re always looking for a fistfight. Anyway, you’ve joined up with a group who goes around beating people up, the same ones who burned my father’s stable down because our family didn’t see things their way. You know what I’m talking about. Think about it, Rossano, turn back while you’re still in time. An idea that splits apart two guys who have been friends since birth is certainly a bad one.”
They lost touch with each other. Rossano continued to attend the party school, moving from Perugia to Rome, and on the few occasions he came back to town, there wasn’t much time. If they ran into each other, after a first brief moment of delight, a certain uneasiness stepped in, reflecting their differing conditions and convictions but even more so the sensation of no longer feeling comfortable with one another. They still felt nostalgic about their childhood, when they’d spent long hours playing together or just laying on the grass watching the clouds and the birds flying by, in absorbed, silent contemplation. They would try to change the subject to girls, but even that didn’t work. So in the end they’d just say goodbye.
“See you around.”
“See you around.”
Fabrizio got along well with Bruno Montesi, even though he was quite a bit older. Bruno had opened up a shop in the area of town that people called “Madonna della Provvidenza,” since it was near the sanctuary. So everyone simply called Bruno “the Madonna’s blacksmith.” When some work needed doing on his father-in-law’s farm, Savino would send Fabrizio to summon Bruno because he had a forge and bellows. Sometimes it would be to make the grating for a window, or a fence for the pigsty. Or a door hinge that needed replacing. He was also good at sharpening the scythes and the blades on the hoes and spades before the spring planting season. Fabrizio would sit and watch that spry, slender boy wielding a one-kilo hammer as if it were made of wood. He always had that curious smell of the forge about him.
“You smell like iron,” Fabrizio would tell him.
“That’s natural, it’s my job. Your farmhands smell of soil.”
“And the cowherd smells of manure, I can tell you that,” the boy would laugh.
“Yeah, right. But did you know that your name, Fabrizio, comes from Latin and that it means blacksmith?”
“No, I never knew that. So we have something in common.”
“I’m sure we have more in common than that!”
They’d always banter like that, when there was time, and you could tell that Bruno read a lot, or studied, or spent time with people who did. He knew about politics, the economy. He spoke Italian easily, although the man who leased him the shop could barely read or write.
Bruno was twenty years old when radios all over the country broadcast the voice of the supreme leader announcing the reappearance of Empire on the fated hills of Rome. Fabrizio was fifteen but he had an idea of what was going on.
Savino had a radio, a CGE with a decorated screen and three strips of Bakelite that covered the speaker. A magical iridescent eye let you know when the frequency was being picked up at its clearest. Bruno was also invited to listen, although he was there to work.
“What do you think, papà?” Fabrizio asked when the speech was finished.
Savino’s forearms were down on his knees and his head swung between his shoulders.
“Nothing good. Big words to blow smoke in people’s eyes. Anyone who doesn’t go into raptures is a defeatist.”
“A war that we can’t afford,” commented Bruno. “I can hardly believe it; the Italians, who know what it means to suffer foreign dominion, are going out to oppress other peoples? It would have been much wiser to invest all that money in Italy, to improve the conditions of the poorest classes.”
But in town, and in all the surrounding towns, celebrations and parades were the order of the day. Rossano participated, marching in uniform among the Avanguardisti, the youth wing of the party. Fabrizio met up with his friend that very evening at the soccer field, where a game between two of the nearby towns was scheduled. Rossano, who was much taller and more muscular than most boys his age, bulging in his black uniform, looked like one of the young heroes depicted on the cover of the weekly Domenica del Corriere supplement. Fabrizio couldn’t help but feel a pinch of admiration for his enthusiasm and glamour.
“The English and French have attacked us because we’ve conquered Ethiopia. Hah! They, who have the biggest colonial empires of the world, which certainly weren’t conquered without destruction and slaughter.”
“So why should we make the same mistakes? Wouldn’t it be better to imitate the good aspects of those countries, like democracy, respect for the law, economic and civic progress, organization of trade unions?”
“They’re nothing but hypocrites. Even the Americans have said so. Who told you such a crock of shit, anyway? You’re repeating words that someone else put in your mouth.”
Fabrizio wanted to say: “Bruno.” That was the truth, but he realized it was better not to reveal his source. He said: “I know how to reason on my own. I only wonder if you do.”
Rossano put a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t feel like quarrelling with you, today, buddy,” he replied, obviously in a good mood. “I’m too happy. We’ll no longer be a country of emigrants, a people mocked and humiliated. The whole world will have to respect us! Now we have an empire of five million square kilometers, rich with raw materials, in a strategic position for trading with the Orient. We’ll build streets, airports, universities . . . there will be work for everyone!”
Fabrizio changed the subject: “Did you know that our fathers were always friends?”
“Of course, they still are. But now the socialists have to get it into their heads that the country must unite; we must become one people with a single leader.”
Fabrizio cut their conversation short to avoid another argument. “So long, then.”
“See you around, buddy,” replied Rossano. They would not see each other again for years.
A few months later, when the League of Nations imposed economic sanctions on Italy for the invasion of Ethiopia, Mussolini proclaimed that the country would become an autarky. In this push for economic self-sufficiency, the idea was put forth that all the women in the country should donate the gold rings they’d received from their husbands on their wedding day. This collecting of the wedding bands was done in public, so that no one would dare to refuse. In reality, not all the married women in town even had gold rings to offer up, but those who did deposited them in a copper pot, which in the end was half full. Each of these women was given a steel band in exchange, free of charge.
There was a widow in town who no longer had her wedding ring because after her husband had died, she had pawned it to make ends meet, and she had never managed to redeem it. She showed up one day at the end of June, her ten-year-old son in tow, at the estate where Fonso worked, asking if she could glean the spikes that had been left behind after the harvest.
Fonso exchanged words with the steward, who happened to be passing by, then came back to tell her: “Go and gather up everything you can find, Carolina. I hope it’s a lot.”
With the sun already high in the sky, the woman began to go up and down the rows of stubble, an empty sack in her hand, helped by the little boy. As the hours passed, the sack filled up. She was careful to keep the contents pressed down, so that more spikes would fit, and at the end of the day, she had two big sackfuls, packed well. There was enough there to make bread for six or seven months, and both mother and son were happy. Just as she was about to load the sacks onto a wheelbarrow with Fonso’s help, a truck pulled into the courtyard. At the wheel was a fellow with the pompous name of Astorre who, out of work and without a penny to his name, had begun working for the commander of the local fascist militia. He made himself useful by running errands, delivering packages and carrying messages. He always wore his uniform because he had nothing else to wear anyway, and besides, he felt important and respected in that outfit. People had begun to fear him, not because of his uniform, but because they knew he was willing to spy on the villagers and report back with false and slanderous information. The very fact that they thought of him as dangerous gave him more power. But among themselves, when no one was listening, they called him buférla, the name of a bird who was reputed to live on cow dung.
Having seen Carolina pushing the sacks of wheat ears onto the cart, Astorre walked up with his arms akimbo. “Well, who do I see here. If it isn’t Miss Carolina!” The little boy, frightened, went to hide behind his mother’s skirt. “I’ve been told that you didn’t give your gold ring to your country.”
“I don’t have any gold. I had to pawn the ring that my late husband gave me and I’ve never managed to get it back. I swear it’s true, Mister Buférla.” In her embarrassment and confusion, she had let the name slip out.
Enraged at this insult, his face as red as a pepper, he burst out: “I won’t hear any excuses! If you didn’t give up your gold, you know what we’ll do? I’ll take half of the wheat you’ve gathered and we’ll consider your debt settled.”
Fonso, who’d witnessed the scene, broke in: “You can’t be serious, Astorre. She’s a poor widow who can barely eke out a living for herself. We left those spikes behind just for her. She’s not here asking for charity; she worked all day under the hot sun with her boy helping. There are no spikes left, and for them it means bread for the rest of the year.”
“That doesn’t concern me. On the contrary, I know you’ll give me a hand to load this sack on the truck, Fonso, if you don’t want me telling the appropriate authorities that there was a red flag flying on your thresher the other day.”
Fonso bit his lip but answered back: “Do what you will do, Astorre, but I refuse to be a party to this travesty.”
Buférla knew well that Fonso was too hard a nut for his teeth to crack, and he took care of loading the sack of wheat onto his truck himself. Fonso whispered in the meantime to the widow: “Don’t worry, Carolina, I’ll find a way to make sure you’re not lacking wheat to make your bread.”
But, before he could finish, the little boy threw himself at the villain, punching, kicking and biting. He shouted out: “The sack is ours! Leave it alone, it’s ours!”
Bufèrla, infuriated, gave him a hard kick and sent him rolling into the dust. His mother ran over to help him, but he was already back up on his own, bouncing like a spring. He took a step towards his enemy and said: “When I’m bigger, I’m going to kill you.”