Fabrizio left his home and his family three months after Rossano did. In the mountains there had been a bitter battle between a German regiment, supported by the fascists of the Black Brigades, and the partisan formation known as Stella Rossa, Red Star. The Germans had been put to rout and they’d left over five hundred men dead on the field. A battle in which partisan commander Musolesi, known as the Wolf, had exploited his familiarity with the terrain like a consummate strategist. The news had spread lightning fast throughout the entire area, raising incredible enthusiasm. After the founding of the Partisan Republic of Montefiorino, up there in the mountains, this was the movement’s first great military success. The men were primed to fight and to give their contribution to the deliverance of the nation.
Fabrizio had been nursing the idea of joining the partisans for some time, but this cinched it for him. He’d never spoken to the Blacksmith about enlisting, for fear he’d try to dissuade him. He set off one morning before dawn, at four o’clock, one of the first young men in town to leave. His mother, in tears, had prepared his rucksack with everything he’d need, arguing with him the whole time to get him to change his mind. His father, who realized it was impossible to try to stop him, gave him a new pair of boots.
“I wanted to take you up with the truck, at least as far as Sasso, but I don’t have any fuel and there’s none to be found anywhere. Iofa’s coming with his cart, there he is. But he can only take you to Sasso himself, then he has to turn around and come back.”
Before he let him go, Savino embraced his son, weeping in silence.
Fabrizio tried to control his own emotions. “Papà, don’t worry. I’ll be back. I can take care of myself.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about. It’s all the rest. You have no idea what combat is like. You don’t know what raw violence means, killing so as not to be killed in the middle of the fray, or striking out in cold blood, having your hands, your arms, your face covered with blood, blood of other men like you. But I understand you and, if I could, so help me God, I’d leave with you, but my place is here. I have to protect your mother, defend our house.”
“I know, papà. You were a courageous fighter and you would be today. It would be wonderful to have you at my side. But it wouldn’t be right. I’ll try to stay in touch. I’ll find a way to get news through to you.” He climbed onto the cart and Iofa called out to the horse.
Savino stood watching until Fabrizio turned for his last goodbye, waving his hand before he disappeared.
When they arrived at Sasso, Fabrizio thanked Iofa for the ride and started walking. He kept up a steady pace all day, stopping just to eat a bite or gulp down some water from his father’s canteen, a relic from the first world war. The roads were in disrepair, patched up with crushed stone, and his boots, the shoddy product of a badly damaged economy, started wearing out after the first few kilometers.
Towards evening, when he’d already started his ascent through the Apennines, he met another boy who, like him, was headed for the mountains. He had a hunting rifle slung over his shoulder.
“My name’s Fabrizio,” he said. “You going up too?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you know the way?”
“A guy who knows the way explained it to me.”
“Can I come with you?”
“If you want.”
They walked together for nearly an hour without speaking, then Fabrizio broke the silence:
“What’s your name?”
“Sergio.”
“Have you ever fought before?”
“No.”
“Do you think we’ll make it?”
“When you pick up a rifle, the first thing you learn is how not to get killed.”
“It’s getting pretty dark, what should we do?”
“There’s supposed to be a hut for drying chestnuts a little further up. We can sleep there.”
When they got to the shelter they’d chosen for the night, they realized that others had had the same idea: three young guys like themselves, Albino, Claudio and Filippo, the first two from Savignano, the third from Sasso, all between twenty and twenty-three. All with the intention of volunteering to fight with the partisan forces. They rested for a few hours, stretched out on the dry leaves scattered on the floor, covering up with the blankets each one of them had brought along.
In the middle of the night, they were awakened by pelting drops of rain, the rustling of the chestnut boughs and a dry crash of thunder. The rain beating down on the slate roof gave them the sensation of being safe and dry and comforted them. That should have been, for most of them, a vigil before taking up arms, but youth and fatigue got the better of them and before long they were all sleeping like babies in their cradles. Until the first light of dawn.
They started walking again up a steep and very stony trail and Fabrizio’s boots, already in bad shape from the day before, started falling apart. Towards evening they reached the first roadblock that controlled access to the territory of the Wolf and his brigade.
The situation immediately appeared turbulent. Stretched out under the low roof of a sheep pen was a wounded man screaming, and they could hear shouting from the forest and the crackle of dry leaves being trampled. A man was standing by the trough, wearing a holster, a pistol and a cartridge belt; it could only be him: the Wolf. Had they got there too soon? Were they too close?
“Who the fuck are they?” shouted Wolf, pointing at the five boys. Fabrizio took a step forward:
“We’re volunteers. We want to fight at your side.”
The Wolf raised his eyes to the sky: “They want to fight, Jesus, Mary and Joseph. They want to fight and they don’t even have fucking guns with them, they don’t know a fucking thing, their shoes are falling apart and they want to fight. And I’m supposed to feed all these people, arm them and outfit them.”
They heard more noises and a patrol burst out of the woods, using their gun barrels to shove forward a group of Black Brigade Republican Army soldiers. They were all wearing uniforms and they were all very young, little more than adolescents. Wolf turned to look at them, and then turned back towards the new arrivals.
“You wanna fight, eh? All right, get over here, let’s see if you’ve got the balls.” The young volunteers stepped forward while the youths in their black uniforms were lined up against the wall with their hands tied behind their backs. “Give ’em daggers. All five of them.”
Fabrizio, Filippo, Sergio and the others silently accepted the knives.
“Come forward, now,” ordered Wolf. “Now, move it.”
The five of them found themselves face to face with five boys their own age who were fighting on the side of the enemy. Both sides knew what was coming next.
“These are war criminals,” said Wolf, “and they will be executed, immediately. I don’t want to waste bullets and I don’t want any shots to be heard. Use the knife you have in your hands. Now.”
The five boys were a little more than a meter away from their black-shirted peers.
“Well?” shouted Wolf. “What are you waiting for?”
Fabrizio was the first to step forward with his dagger in hand until he was practically touching one of the prisoners: he could smell terror, or perhaps hate, pouring off the boy, a quiver of madness which crossed the space separating them and set off an irrepressible tremor in Fabrizio. The boy in black looked deep into his eyes with an enigmatic expression: he was trying, maybe, to control himself, not to show fear, not to fall to his knees, not to weep. Fabrizio saw Rossano in him. The same age, the same eyes. With every passing instant he looked more and more like him. The knife was just a few centimeters from the boy’s throat.
“Come on,” he said, “get it over with. I can’t stand this. I don’t want to make a fool of myself. Push it in, damn you.” He was sweating profusely. Fabrizio heard a loud thud and he turned: Filippo had fainted, Sergio was struggling to stop retching. Fabrizio dropped the knife.
“I knew it,” said Wolf. “You’re a bunch of fucking wimps. Sugano! Su-gano!!”
A man of about thirty ran up with a tommy gun slung over his neck and a pistol in its holster.
“You take care of this. Take them to the hole.”
Sugano called over a couple of his men who pushed the prisoners into the forest. Ten minutes later they heard a burst of submachinegun fire and a couple of pistol shots.
“There you go,” said Wolf and then, pointing to Fabrizio and Sergio, said: “You two, go to the hole and see if their shoes are any good, you’re not going to get anywhere with the ones you have on.”
The two boys looked at each other in consternation.
“What the hell!” shouted Wolf. “What is it that you’re not hearing? Move it, I said, or I’ll kick your sorry asses all the way home.”
They set off and, a few minutes later, reached the “hole”: a hollow in the ground where the five black-shirted boys were laying in a pool of blood. Fabrizio saw that one of them, maybe the same one he was supposed to stab, was wearing a pair of ankle boots with treaded rubber soles that looked to be about his size. He forced himself to bend down and started unlacing them. As soon as he had pulled off the first one the boy, who was still alive, reacted: “Kill me, you coward! Kill me!”
Sugano handed him a pistol: “You might as well start now. You’ll have to get used to this and anyway, you’re doing him a favor at this point.”
Fabrizio took the gun and shot it. The boy’s eyes went dead. He pulled off the other boot. These shoes are cursed, he thought, as he walked back towards the camp.
“I know what you’re thinking,” said Sugano, “but there’s no alternative. When the wolves are out, the sheep had better stay safe at home in their pens.”
In the meantime, Bruno Montesi, who had been named political commissar for the Red Star Brigade commanded by the Wolf, was trying to find his way there. Before leaving, he had managed to make an appointment to meet one of the leaders of the Resistenza at an osteria in Casalecchio near Via Porrettana. The man’s code name was Martino and he was the commander of an assault battalion of white partisans stationed near Palagano, on the Modenese side of the mountains. Montesi recognized his drooping Tartar-style mustache and the burn scar on his left hand.
“You’re Martino, aren’t you?” he asked.
The man nodded and replied, “And you’re Montesi.”
“That’s right.”
“Sit down and eat: stewed beans and potatoes. They’re good here and the bread is fresh.”
Montesi helped himself and poured out a glass of white wine.
“So you want to meet up with the Wolf.”
“If I can, that’s my intention.”
“Then you’ll need a battle name.”
“The Blacksmith. That’s what people call me.”
“Suit yourself. Anyway, good luck because you’ll need it.”
“I have a letter of introduction from the National Liberation Committee.”
“You know what the guy will do with your letter of introduction?”
“Don’t tell me, I can imagine. But I have to see him nonetheless. I’ll convince Wolf that he should join the NLC.”
“Listen well, buddy: the Wolf can’t stand political commissars. He says all they do is talk. What’s more, he has narrowly escaped two attempts on his life and he doesn’t trust anyone anymore. One of his own tried to stab him and it’s a miracle he didn’t succeed—it’s only because his men adore him and stand guard over him all night. Then, the very guy who stayed the would-be murderer’s hand, Olindo Sammarchi, a guy who grew up with Wolf, his fast friend from the absolute start, who had won Wolf’s complete trust by personally saving his life, well, this is the very guy that betrays him by going over to the Nazis and organizing more attacks against him. Can you believe it? When he was found out, Wolf had him put to death on the spot. So who can the Wolf trust anymore? If he can’t even trust his best friend how do you think he’s going to treat an absolute stranger?”
“But why did the first man try to stab him?”
“Who, the traitor? Amedeo Arcioni, that was his name. He said he was forced to do it because the Nazis had captured his family. And Wolf forgave him. The fact is that the Wolf has defeated the Germans so many times that they now consider him their number one enemy. He even succeeded in running a train off the rails and seized all the goods it was carrying. The Nazis would give anything to see him dead. You’d be mistrustful yourself if you found yourself in his shoes, wouldn’t you?”
“Is it true that there are ten thousand men in the Red Star Brigade?”
Martino shrugged. “Are you kidding me? How could he support ten thousand people? There must be seven, eight hundred at the most, but that’s a good number, as much as such a miserable territory can handle. The fact is that his teams are so mobile that they manage to show up at the same time in far-flung places and act with such rapidity that it seems like there are many more of them. You’ve heard of what happened at Monte Sole, haven’t you?”
“There was a big battle.”
“You can say that again. The Germans had decided to pull out all the stops because they felt they were losing control of the situation and because a vast portion of mountain territory was already under the control of the Red Star. With the support of the Republican Army, the Germans organized a sweeping mop-up operation, pulling out all the big guns. Cannons, machine guns, the whole works. Their objective was to completely surround Monte Sole, the massif where the Wolf had set up the general headquarters of the Brigade . . . ”
“Which means the Germans must have had informers.”
“Obviously. The district that we control includes five or six towns as well as quite a few isolated farming settlements. It’s easy for them to infiltrate someone. A farmer with a hoe, a shepherd taking his flock to pasture . . . anyone can be a spy. We’ve found some of them and executed them but you know more are out there. So, you know what Wolf does? He keeps all his men up at the base until the very last minute; he waits until the sentries tell him that the Germans are more or less a kilometer away and then he divides his men into a lot of small groups and takes them down to the base of the mountain. He gets them into position, hidden behind vegetation or lying low in the middle of a field of wheat, with more men posted at every trail. The Germans start to make their way up, Wolf keeps his men at the ready with their fingers on the trigger, all twenty-year-old guys. There are even some English soldiers with them, guys who had gotten cut off from their own units.
“When the sentries signal that the last German has entered the forest, Wolf unleashes hell. They’re surrounded, with no way out. We took out five hundred and fifty of them. The others survived by escaping through the woods . . . Since then we’ve had more volunteers than we can handle, up to thirty new ones a day.”
“You were there too?” asked Montesi.
“Why, wasn’t that obvious?”
“It certainly was. Then you can help me get there.”
“Only up to a point. You know, we have our own wrangles now and then, especially when it comes to how the airdropped supplies should be distributed. Insults tend to fly. It’s better I don’t show my face in that neck of the woods for a while. I’ll take you to a spot a couple of kilometers away from his headquarters and I’ll point out the way from there. Then you’re on your own. Are you sure you have to meet with him just now?”
“Well, those are my orders. It’s not like he’s going to eat me.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure. If you do manage to see him, you’ll find that he has quite a boyish look to his face, but don’t let your guard down: he can turn into a beast from one minute to the next: because he had a bad night, because he didn’t sleep enough, because he didn’t get screwed, because . . . ”
“I’ll keep it in mind. Well then, what now? We’re finished here, aren’t we?”
“We smoke a cigarette and then we go. My truck’s outside.” Martino pulled out a packet of Chesterfields and offered him one: “This is good stuff: brightleaf tobacco, from Virginia. There were about fifty cartons in the last drop.”
When they got started it was after midnight. They followed the road that skirted the bottom of the valley for nearly an hour until they got to Pontecchio. They drove through Il Sasso and Fontana, Lama di Reno and Marzabotto. At about four in the morning, Martino stopped the truck at the start of a trail.
“We’re in the territory of the Red Star Brigade. The Wolf’s den is up there. As soon as it starts to get light, take this trail until you come to a fork in the road. Go right and continue for another kilometer through a chestnut forest. When you see the beech-wood starting, it means you’re almost there.”
“What do I do then?”
“Nothing. They’ll find you. As soon as you hear a voice saying “Halt!”, raise your hands. They shoot first and then ask ‘friend or foe.’ Are you armed?”
“No.”
“Good. They can’t stand a man with a weapon unless it’s one of their own. You’re heading straight into the jaws of the wolf!” he grinned. “I think it’s now that I say good luck.” Martino gave him the rest of the Chesterfield packet.
Montesi watched as Martino reversed and started on his way back down, until the truck disappeared around the first bend. He started walking up the path so he wouldn’t be standing on the road and stopped when he found a biggish boulder he could lean on. He lit a cigarette and waited until dawn. The side of the mountain he would be climbing was still dark, but the sky above had become an aquamarine blue. He could hear the soft hoot of a horned owl that stopped as soon as the wind turned.
It took him about twenty minutes to reach the fork. He continued his ascent up a path which became increasingly steeper, surrounded on both sides by age-old chestnuts with gigantic moss-covered trunks. There wasn’t a living soul anywhere around; all he heard was the rustle of wings now and then. Through the tree branches he could see the white-streaked peak of Corno alle Scale appearing and disappearing as he walked.
“One more step and you’re dead,” said a voice on his left, neither soft nor loud, a statement more than an order and all the more effective for being so. Montesi raised his hands.
“I’m unarmed and I’m here on behalf of the National Liberation Committee. I have to see the Wolf.”
“Wolf doesn’t feel like seeing anyone. Who are you?”
“Bruno Montesi, the Blacksmith. I have a letter of credentials from the NLC.”
“Take that trail on the left and walk forward without turning until I tell you to stop.”
“Can I lower my hands?”
“Yes. But don’t turn or make any funny moves, or . . . ”
“ . . . I’m dead.”
“You got it.”
He walked uphill for another half an hour until he found himself in a clearing surrounded by beech trees. At one end was a dilapidated shack and a shed for drying chestnuts. There was a roadblock with two partisans armed with British Sten submachine guns. The voice behind him said: “He wants to see Wolf. He has a letter from the NLC.”
“That you, Spino? Where the hell did you find this guy?”
“Down at the beech-wood. So what the fuck do we do now? Tell Wolf he has a visitor, no?”
One of the two roadblock soldiers went over to the shack and shortly came out again with another couple of men.
“It’s your lucky day, fucker,” hissed Spino. “Wolf will see you. He’s the guy on the left.”
Spino was standing next to him now. Lean, bundled up in a military jacket, he looked no older than eighteen, and the other soldiers looked very young as well. Their battle names, the jargon, the arrogance of a boy trying to seem older than he is by saying “fuck” every other word: it all made them seem like kids playing at war, but instead they were damned serious.
“The one on his right is his brother Guido,” said Spino, whispering now. “And the guy leaning against the door is Sugano, his right-hand man.”
Wolf stepped right up to him. He looked just like Montesi had expected. A bristly beard, slightly wavy hair, black eyes that were much bigger than normal under a very wide brow, fleshy lips. His hooked nose reminded Montesi of a bird of prey. The combination was unsettling and gave him an expression of quiet ferocity. A medal hung at his neck, maybe Saint Anthony.
“Who are you and what do you want?” he asked.
“I’m the Blacksmith. The NLC has appointed me the political commissar of your brigade.”
“I’ve never seen you and I don’t like your looks. I don’t need any political commissar. The last one really broke my balls.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way. It’s important that the combatants understand the political justification for their fight.”
“I decide what’s important for my brigade. Many of my men live around here. They’re fighting for their families and their homes, that seems like a good enough justification to me.”
“But I have precise orders from the Liberation Committee to install myself here as your political commissar. I’m sure we’ll find a basis for agreement . . . ”
He was still speaking when one of Wolf’s men dashed over and whispered something in his ear: “They’re signaling an SS unit coming up from Pian di Venola.”
Wolf beckoned to Sugano: “Take him to the coal cellar.”
“Wait, what’s happening?” asked Montesi in alarm. “What is this business about a coal cellar? Hey. Look, I have a letter here from the NLC. Read it!”
But Sugano was already behind him and he was pushing him towards the trail with the barrel of his machine gun.
Montesi didn’t know where to turn.
They walked for about ten minutes in silence, and then he blurted out: “Listen, I’m a partisan. I was sent here by the NLC. Why are you treating me like this? What is this coal cellar? What are we going to do there?”
“Die,” replied Sugano. “You, that is. Wolf has ordered me to shoot you.”