At this point I found a gap in my notes. The anguish of those days was so great that I did not even have the strength to jot down my usual remarks. But the same anguish engraved every detail in my memory, and on my nerves. That is why it is possible for me today, at a distance of more than four years, when I think about those days again, to relive them hour-by-hour.
I remember perfectly that, during the morning of 17 November—it was a Wednesday—while leaving for Turin, when I said goodbye to Paolo I felt like I was being physically torn apart. I was able to get control of myself and, for the entire day, while thinking about him constantly, I remained calm. I taught school, typed, and met people, as usual.
But the next morning, when I woke up, I saw that it was snowing heavily. The sudden change in the weather worried me tremendously (the day before it was perfectly clear), because it increased the difficulty of the mission. All the same, I did a bunch of things. I asked around to find a typographer who would print La Riscossa Italiana (the newspaper of the Turinese Cln) and was able to find someone who agreed to do the typesetting.1 I tried to tone down the impact of a violent debate between two of our friends. I saw Penati with Braccini, who agreed to assume the central command of our Piedmontese GL formations. And I reached the station just in time to take the train, which was already in motion.2 In the cattle car, in the dark, there were people who were singing. An insane anxiety took possession of me. If only Paolo had returned. I dreamed of finding him in the peaceful house, listening to him tell how it had gone, and finally relieving the anguish of those two days.
At the station it was Gianni who was waiting for us. “And Paolo?” I asked immediately. “He has not returned yet,” he responded. While he climbed up the dark road, beneath the snow, he recounted the story.
Wednesday morning, they had gone together to meet Ugo’s men and had found them at the Mulino del Diavolo—about twenty men armed to the teeth. Some of them looked suspicious, and began immediately to protest and complain about their troubles. Together they had gone up toward Losa, avoiding the town, until they found Lieutenant Ferrero, who had come up from Susa with another group and the vehicles for transporting the weapons.3 There they split up. Gianni joined Ferrero and his men. Paolo went ahead with the others. The sudden snowfall had undoubtedly complicated things and made the trip longer. According to Gianni, this was what brought about the delay.
I wanted to believe him. This was how it must have been. It was a simple delay. He could arrive any minute. Perhaps he had arrived while we were climbing up, and we would find him at home. But the house was dark and empty. Then I lost heart, dismayed, without even the strength to help Ettore, who busied himself with lighting the fire. My boy! I looked at his things all around, and pined as if I would never see him again.
Now, as I think about it, I understand how my despair could seem excessive, compared to the much more serious agonies that followed afterward. But it was the first time I was aware that he was in such serious danger and I was not with him. Not knowing where he was, and where I could imagine he was, distressed me more than anything else. Was he still up in the mountains? Had he gone down into the valley? Had he left the others and tried to turn back alone? Or had he stayed to participate in the strike? It was supposed to happen during that night, according to the plan, but hadn’t the snow prevented it?
I was obsessed with the most terrible and absurd possibilities. Still, after a while, I pulled myself together, braced myself, and tried to eat, read, and even sleep. Every once in a while the dog barked. I ran outside onto the balcony, full of anxiety and hope, but there was nothing but darkness, darkness and the snow that fell relentlessly.
Day finally came, ashen and somber. It was still snowing, with no sign of ending soon.
I left a note on the table: “Dear Paolo, if you arrive before me, look in the cupboard for a piece of roast loca” (goose). (From the time when he was small, Paolo had called l’oca “la loca”, l’ombrellino (the umbrella) “il lombrellino”, il Mar Jonio (the Ionian Sea) “il Mar Marionio”). I will return tonight. Many kisses. Mi.”4 I left with a strange sensation of emptiness, in my mind and in my heart.
In Turin I continued to move, act, and speak, as if in a dream. In the afternoon, while Sandro Galante was at my house, a strange individual I saw through the peephole, who was leaning against the wall on the staircase landing, his eyes fixed on my door, frightened me.5 Who could it be? Why didn’t he go away? The most plausible response was that he was a policeman. Perhaps there were others downstairs also. But why didn’t he come in? What were they waiting for?
I collected the things I had in the house that would arouse suspicion—a few newspapers, a notebook of notes, and some false identity cards. But I hated to destroy them. What if the alarm were unfounded?
Courageously, Sandro decided to leave, taking them away. I noted with relief that the little fellow did not follow him, but remained at his post. After a few minutes the concierge, who had spoken with Sandro, came to reassure me. The little fellow was some fool who was waiting for a neighbor, who lived across from me. In fact, a little while later, when this person arrived, he went into the house with him.
Then I continued to see people. At the end of the day, someone came to warn me that a friend who was associated with Trinch was in danger. I just had time to dash to this person’s office to warn him, so I had to run for the train again. In the car, which was unusually crowded, I fell into a kind of unconsciousness where, at intervals, a violent stab of pain surfaced.
When we arrived at Meana, we had a hard time reaching the house, so high was the snow on the road. Again the house was empty. There was my note on the table and “la loca” in the cupboard. I was so desperately tired that I did not react. It seemed that this empty and absurd state of anxiety would continue forever. The comforting hypotheses fell apart, one by one. The bridge had not been blown up. There would have been news of it on the wires. It was not possible that, given his experience and knowledge of the mountains, Paolo would not have been able to turn back, even if the snow were high. Evidently he had remained with the others. But what were they doing? Had they been discovered? Had they been captured? What had happened while they were trying to flee?
Later Gianni came, and even he was not able to explain the delay.
We decided that the next day, if Paolo did not arrive during the night, we would go to Exilles to search for news. The decision gave me some peace and I was able to sleep. It had stopped snowing, and this seemed to be a good omen.
But the next day—it was Saturday—it snowed again. I was so exhausted that Ettore did not dare leave me and, instead of going to Turin to work, he decided to come with us. At Salbertrand, while we were getting off the train, Gianni whispered in my ear: “That’s Don Foglia!” I saw a tall, thin young man with a curiously Etruscan profile under his beret, armed with a pair of skis. Discreetly we followed him outside the station and for a stretch of the path. When we were almost outside the town, we approached him and Gianni, who had already met him, asked him about Paolo. “I do not know,” Don Foglia responded, shaking his head. “He must have remained with those good-for-nothings who preferred to stay in Frais instead of going down to carry out the strike.”
I clutched at Ettore and felt like I was going to go out of my mind. Either I did not know my son, or Paolo could not have stayed in Frais. If he had not gone down to Exilles, he would have returned home. A jumble of crazy possibilities flashed through my mind: he had frozen to death, an avalanche had swept him away, he had tried to force the “good-for-nothings” to go down, and they had killed him.
“But...” Don Foglia continued, after he looked at me carefully, evidently struck by the resemblance, “Is Paolo that boy who was with you the other day at the Comba Scura bridge?”
“Yes,” said Gianni. “Yes...yes,” I said too.
“Then he is here with us. He has been an excellent guide, and has arrived with a group of men.”
My God! Then he was alive and not very far away. I closed my eyes. There was no more snow around, but flowering meadows under an all blue sky.
“Will we be able,” I asked timidly, “will we be able to see him for a moment?”
“Better not,” said Don Foglia reluctantly. “Every movement arouses curiosity and awakens suspicion. We have already waited for too long, and the strike can only be carried out tonight.”
He explained. The unexpected snow had prevented them from transporting the explosive in the truck easily, according to plan. The project, no longer viable, had to be modified. That evening, the men would arrive on the last train, each one carrying a suitcase with about twenty kilograms of explosives. The others, Paolo among them, would come down from the grangia where they were now, a short distance from the railway station. Together they would prepare the explosive, and light the fuse. Then, with the greatest speed, they would disperse. If everything went well, the explosion would occur around midnight, and at dawn Paolo should be home. I was so happy that I did not even feel sadness at the thought of not being able to see him, even though he was so close by. We said goodbye to Don Foglia and returned to the station. But the train would not depart before five in the afternoon, and it was not advisable to stay at an inn in the town, where inevitably our presence would be observed. Therefore we decided to go on foot as far as Oulx, to Cesare’s house, and then take the train from there.
We set out in the snow that continued to fall, mercilessly. The local road, even though we had traveled it so many times, was unrecognizable. We advanced slowly, trying to while away the dreariness of the road with chatter. The joy of having found Paolo had rendered me so euphoric that I did not keep quiet for a minute. We reached the Ventoux bridge a little after 11:00 a.m.6 It was early and, instead of immediately cutting across the town, we decided to go around up to the bridge of the Beaume, and we went through the tunnel under the mountain. It was a great relief to walk for a moment on the dry ground without feeling it snow on us. My poor fur coat was literally soaked, and Ettore and Gianni were not any better off than I. The tunnel was deserted. (Who went out in such weather?) We took advantage of it to examine it in depth. There were four blast holes, which were open—good to know for when it was opportune to block the road in addition to the railroad. We sat in the last one and lit a cigarette. Whether it was the physical comfort of finding ourselves in the shelter for a moment or the effect of my optimistic chatter, the fact remains that at that moment all three of us felt absolutely happy. We told each other so, half shy and half amazed. To look at things objectively, there truly was no reason for happiness, but that is precisely what permits us to experience this gush of sudden joy that does not have roots in anything external, but simply in ourselves. It is all the more vivid when life is most intense. I felt moments of the most perfect serenity—satisfaction, completeness, harmony —precisely during moments of the greatest danger. It is like when waters flow with a normal rhythm, they polish the stones that make up the bottom, dulling them. Only when a storm uncovers them do these stones, still quivering, pick up and reflect glittering flashes of the most vivid light.
But these are ramblings of today. That day, seated in the blast hole, we did not make so many remarks. We were happy, and that was that. We looked at the future and the world with optimistic serenity.
Yet we still had to move. We reluctantly left the shelter that had seemed so welcoming to us. Almost at the exit of the tunnel, we found another opening that brought us down to a spacious cave. There must have been a guard post there, because the frames of the “bunk beds,” a broken chair, and even a box spring were still there. We could see the traces of a machine gun emplacement that dominated the bridge and the road—good to know this also.7 Unfortunately there were not any weapons nor anything useful, only a bunch of rubber hoses and gas masks, with which Ettore filled his knapsack, considering that he could use them for one of his complicated and mysterious gadgets.
Finally, we went out again in the snow. The wind was picking up too, frigid and a portent of more snow. We crossed the bridge with difficulty and arrived at Oulx. The wind was not as strong among the houses, and people were going back and forth on the road (perhaps there had been a market), at least enough to keep our presence from attracting notice. We took advantage of this to pass in front of the fascist headquarters—a real fortress with barbed wire, sacks of sand, and pointed machine-guns. Then we went to Cesare’s house.
It was the first time that we had gone into this house, which then became, in the following months, an invaluable fulcrum. Its extraordinarily comfortable atmosphere struck me right away. People and things have the air of being perfectly “in place.” Everything had a certain noble style, which came from a long tradition—not heroic, but uninterrupted—of exercising the most time-honored virtues. The positive value of this tradition shone out against the backdrop of general confusion. That house, with its lovely old furniture, tin plates, and paintings, and that entire family, linked by a profound tenderness, appeared—at that time of improvised houses and scattered families—to be an incredible oasis.
The welcome we received—even though we were almost strangers—warmed our hearts. We were Cesare’s friends and that was enough. I told a white lie—which was more or less plausible—about the shoes that I had gone to buy at Salbertrand. They believed it, or at least they had the good manners to pretend to believe. “And Paolo?” asked Cesare. “He stayed home because he has a little cold,” I answered.
When we left, it was snowing so heavily that I could not see out of the train window. When we reached the condemned bridge, Gianni signaled to me with his head, and I recited a prayer silently.
At the station in Meana, there was so much snow that we almost were not able to get off the train. At home, we downed a mouthful in a hurry. Then Ettore and Gianni left in the direction of Frais to see if the “good-for-nothings” were still there, but they returned after two hours. It was impossible to advance with so much snow. If they had continued, perhaps they would have reached Frais at noon on the next day. It was better to wait for Paolo to return with precise news. If only they had all left and there was no longer anyone at Frais.
The last train passed, whistling. According to plan, it should have brought the men with the suitcases of explosives. One hour later they should have gone down to Oulx, taken another hour or two to prepare, and the explosion should have taken place. Would we be able to hear the strike? Ettore thought so, unless the snow had suffocated it completely.
We poked the fire and put on a pan of potatoes and another of chestnuts, the standard foods of the period. Paolo would probably arrive with someone else. As soon as they arrived, I would make the polenta.
With my ears pricked and my soul torn apart, I sat near the fire and corrected proofs. The hours passed, but we did not hear anything. Two o’clock, three o’clock, four o’clock. I had finished correcting the proofs and read a thriller. The potatoes were cooked, and the chestnuts too. The snow had changed into a relentless gray rain. In the absolute silence we could hear the slow drip from the gutters. Ettore fell asleep with his head on the table.
Again the questions and the possible scenarios followed each other in my mind. Had they made the strike? Was it successful? Had they been discovered first? Had they been captured afterward?
At seven o’clock, exhausted and losing hope, I threw myself on the bed, while a weak light made its way among the clouds.
At nine o’clock, I woke up at the dog’s barking. I rushed onto the balcony. Someone was climbing through the meadow, a man I did not recognize. But the dog, Tabui, recognized him, because he had begun to bark and was going to meet him, wagging his tail. All of a sudden the stranger raised his hand in a gesture of greeting and said, “Ciau, mi” (Hi, Mi). It was Paolo, so worn out by fatigue that I had not recognized his face.
I did not have the strength to go and meet him: I waited for him at the door, motionless, and after a minute I felt him in my arms, and my joy was so great that I finally shed the tears that I had been able to hold back all that time.
Only when he had removed his soaking wet clothing, put on dry clothes, and sat next to the stove that Ettore had lit again hurriedly, did he begin to tell the story.
At the beginning, everything had gone extremely well. On Wednesday evening they had arrived at Losa where they had spent the night, but the following morning the unexpected snow had complicated things. Advancing had become much more difficult and, when they arrived at Frais, some of the men (Don Foglia’s “good-for-nothings” that later became Gianni’s chaps “who did not have a very reassuring appearance”) had refused to continue, deciding to return to Bussoleno the next day. The discussion with the men, and the increased difficulty of the journey, did mean that they had reached the place for the rendezvous late. Don Foglia was no longer there, but they met him going down to a grangia farther below, along with Carli, Volante, Ratti, Guido Garosci, and some others.8 They had remained there waiting for the truck that, naturally, had not arrived. The following morning Don Foglia had gone down to Villar Dora to receive instructions and had returned for the meeting on Saturday morning, when we had met him, with the plan that he had explained to us. For all of Friday and Saturday the others had remained at a grangia higher up. There was so much snow that they had to shovel snow off the road in order to climb up there.
On Saturday evening, as soon as night fell, they moved to the railroad station. The train had arrived with the men and the explosive, but when they counted, they found one missing—and what was more, he was the least trustworthy person. Where could he have stopped? They had to hurry, before they were caught in the act.
Under the pouring rain the work began feverishly, directed by Sergio. Paolo, placed on guard at the head of the bridge, had his own work to do, first with two railroad men, who quickly declared themselves to be loyal, and, what was more, even offered to help (one was Carletto Bertrand, who later would become our valuable travel companion), and then with a strange, terrorized little fellow whom he had difficulty restraining so he would not run, shouting, to warn the entire town.9 “I have eight children!” he shrieked, wriggling. “Be quiet, and no one will harm either you or them,” responded Paolo scornfully, putting his gun under his nose. He was quiet for a minute, but as soon as the barrel of the gun was lowered, he began to shriek again and try to flee. This went on until the signal came that the work was finished, and the little fellow, set free, fled with startling speed, his long cloak fluttering comically, giving him the appearance of a large, clumsy bird.
But when the time came to light the fuse, the technicians had qualms about doing it. It would be impossible to disperse quickly up through the mountains—as they had first thought—because the snow prevented any rapid movement. They would have to race through the tunnel toward Gravere, more than two kilometers long. They could not run the risk that the explosion would occur while the men were still in the tunnel. They had to give them the time to go through it; therefore, they needed a longer fuse. A piece of fuse was attached, but it must have been defective, or perhaps it was not attached properly. The fact remains that it did not function.
They went through the tunnel hastily. Then they slowed up and stopped, waiting. Forty minutes passed, but they did not hear anything. After a period of anxious waiting, reality gained the upper hand. The fuse had not functioned. The strike had failed. One of them gave way to expressions of impotent anger. Another wanted to turn back, to try again, but it was not possible. By now the little fellow had warned the town, and perhaps the missing man had been found. They had to give up and leave. For now, this is how it had gone. The experience would be useful for another time.
It was five o’clock in the morning. Soon it would be day. They had to leave in a hurry. Sad, exhausted (they had been in the rain for twelve hours, without food or rest) they set out to return. They tried the way through the mountain, which the snow had rendered impassable, but without success. There was nothing to do but to follow the local road. They ran into two policemen, looked at them, saw that they were armed, and continued on without saying anything.
At Gravere, one group stopped in a stable. Others made for Bussoleno. From Susa, Paolo had climbed up to Meana through the short cut.
As he finished telling the story, he lowered his head and suddenly fell asleep. With a sense of painful gratitude, I watched his face, which was so young, profoundly marked by that night of fatigue, anxiety, and disappointment. I had him back again. I had him next to me. But for how long? With lucid certainty, I felt that this was only the beginning.
Later, it stopped raining, and around noon, a pale ray of sunshine made its way out. Ettore went down to the station to renew his season ticket and heard people talking about the failed strike. Naturally the attempt had been discovered. Later Anna Jarre came to tell me that they were even talking about it in town, and that someone had mentioned Paolo and Gianni’s names. We decided that it was better to leave for a few days, and to let the reverberations fade away. Then we could return. Meanwhile, there were also things to do in Turin.
1 “Riscossa” means “revival” or “comeback,” but “alla riscossa” means “revenge.”
2 Many cities in the north, including Turin, had their own Cln or Committee of National Liberation. Fausto Penati was a university professor and representative of the Action Party in the municipal Cln.
3 Lieutenant Ferrero, or Vittorio Morone, was a professor and commander of the partisan forces in Susa.
4 Essentially the young Paolo had made the article (il, la, l’) part of the noun. Paolo called his mother “Mi.”
5 Alessandro (Sandro) Galante Garone was a magistrate and representative of the Action Party on the Piedmontese Regional Cln.
6 There is now a hydroelectric plant in the Susa Valley called Pont Ventoux, but I believe Ada is referring to the Ventoux bridge over the Dora river.
7 An emplacement is a prepared position from which a heavy gun or guns are fired.
8 Carlo Carli, second lieutenant on reserve and commander of the partisan formations of the San Giorio-Chianoc zone, was killed in an ambush on 21 January 1944 and decorated with the Silver Medal for Military Valor. S.P.E. lieutenant Giancarlo Ratti was a partisan in the first formations in the Susa Valley and led the Young Town American military mission. Guido Garosci was a student in the Artillery Academy, and a partisan in the first formations in the Susa Valley. Then he joined the information service in Liguria, and participated in the Young Town mission along with his mother, “Aunt” Lina, a staffetta and Action Party collaborator.
9 Carlo Bertrand (Carletto) was a railroad worker and partisan in the IV Alpine Division of GL in the Susa Valley.