24 November, Turin. Yesterday and today, Paolo and Gianni have been on the move continuously, first to transport the proofs and then the copies of La Riscossa Italiana. In the end, in order to do it more quickly, Paolo went to E.I.A.R. to borrow a delivery van.1 With it full of newspapers, he went across the city cheerfully.
Someone came to ask for help for a “rebel” from the zone of Almese, who was gravely ill with peritonitis. I ran to Penati’s house. He was able to find a car to use either to go see or send for a trustworthy doctor. Despite his impeccable elegance and his magnificent cats, which are undeniably bourgeois, Penati is turning out to be really quite capable.
Today I was at Caffé Rosa, where Barberis introduced me to a Socialist whose name he did not tell me, but who evidently was important, at least to him, and who wanted to come to Susa on Sunday for a meeting of the antifascist parties. But they are really strange, these Socialists. I do not know why, but it seems to me that they have come out of an old reader, and that, on the whole, they have remained in the era of Cuore.2 Honest, courageous, trustworthy, even intelligent sometimes, but archaic. I sense quite a different tone among the Communists, who all have their roots in the reality of today, and whose actions are very effective, quite a different tone among the members of the Action Party, courageously projected toward the future, and even among the Christian Democrats, at least for the few with whom I am acquainted, whose tradition, if nothing else, is not so limited. These good Socialists give me the impression of a fine piece from the nineteenth century that was put away carefully in naphthalene through the First World War, fascism, and this Second World War. Will they come out now and breathe new air and shake [the dust] off their backs, or will they remain preserved forever?
26 November. Today a strange sort of railroad worker came to my house, a certain De Stefani. A Southerner by origin, as we could hear unmistakably in his accent, he has an excellent knowledge of the entire Susa-Bardonecchia line, and has supporters throughout the entire valley. For every town I mentioned, he responded invariably, “I have a cow there.” I do not know how many cows he had. He even had a contact in San Damiano d’Asti, but there, instead of a cow, it appears that he had a wife. Nevertheless, he will be very useful. Having been evacuated to Bardonecchia, he goes back and forth almost every day. Clearly he knows what and who will be necessary to block the Frejus tunnel once more. I will certainly stay in touch with him, but I did not completely understand him yet. He must have something “up his sleeve,” as the English say. He will return tomorrow with a friend that he wants me to meet.
27 November. In fact he did come, with a strange little chap whose head was as shiny as a billiard ball, whom he held in the highest regard. Then I understood everything. They were Masons, and they had been making overtures to see if the Action Party would welcome them as a group. I confess that it really made me laugh. Was it possible that Masons still existed? Now these men were really archaic. What is more, they take themselves so seriously, saying “my venerable,” “my brother.” Idiotic. The world sure progresses slowly.
Nevertheless, I showed neither surprise nor amusement, taking their proposal into serious consideration. I would speak with the “leaders.” (I said it exactly like that, even though I felt like laughing, but I could not treat them as inferiors.) I thought that it would be difficult to come to an agreement for the group, but probably single individuals would be welcome. (Everything goes into the soup, right?) In fact, when I spoke with the “leaders” about them, Mario had approved of my response. “It is better that they not be seen, however,” he had hastened to add. “Keep in touch with them, and you deal with them.”
“Very well. Thanks.”
Later Libois came, a Christian Democrat that I have known for twenty years and who now represents his party in the underground Cln.3 He came on behalf of the Cln to propose that I work with a women’s organization whose goal was to engage women in the underground struggle. I confess that, after the suffragist enthusiasm of my faraway adolescence, I had no longer concerned myself with women’s issues. Did a woman question really exist? Women should be given the vote, and they will be given it—it is only logical. As for the rest, I think that today’s problems—peace, liberty, and justice—touch men and women in the same way. Perhaps not recognizing the problem was my own deficiency. Nevertheless, it seemed that I was the least suited to undertake such a task. Undoubtedly, I would have refused if, for some obscure political reason, Mario had not said that I had to accept. So I obeyed agreeably.
28 November. Today is Sunday. It has been a quiet day, as if we lived during normal times.
Only one visit this morning—Sandro Delmastro, a dear young man whom Paolo met during the few days when he was in the Pellice Valley this autumn, and who is now involved in organizing the citizen squads.4 He did not come for political reasons, but simply to introduce me to his fiancée, Ester, a beautiful brown-haired girl with a sweet, serene, and intelligent appearance.5 It pleased me to see them together. Sometimes we also need relationships that are purely human.
The afternoon went by peacefully. Paolo showed me his stereoscopes from Paris and I read Paul Fort to him.6 How far away all this seems! The stereoscopes, made by his uncle, are from the beginning of the twentieth century, but perhaps is it not also the civilization that we loved that has remained in our hearts like an incurable nostalgia? Did not all this die, die forever, in June of 1940, die because it had to die?7
30 November. Unexpected events. At eleven o’clock they informed me that Valle, the legendary head of the “rebels” in the Lower Susa Valley, was ambushed on the road between Sant’Antonino and Condove, and they do not know if he has been captured or killed, together with Felice Cima, “Barba,” and someone else.8 But at 11:30 a.m., there he was, accompanied by Trinch. Valle himself! The car they were in had been stopped—evidently after they were informed on—and the others had been killed. He had been able to save himself by jumping into the Dora river, swimming, and reaching the other bank unharmed, notwithstanding the furious gunfire aimed at him. (His overcoat marked their target at many intervals). Then, having cleaned up and dried himself off at a friend’s house, he had taken the train and arrived in Turin without a problem.
His absolute lack of rhetoric struck me. He told me about the terrible adventure with the composed, detached tone with which a banker might describe a disaster on the Stock Exchange. Only when he talked about his fallen friends did he show emotion for a moment. He is a handsome young man with an agile and alert physique, and many of those gifts of which an adventurer or hero is made. He seems to be one of those people for whom today’s situation can bring out his best qualities.
1 December. The strikes continued, one after the other. Today they arrested Debenedetti. It appears that, while they were taking him to fascist headquarters in a tram, he was able to get rid of a notebook containing some notes that might arouse suspicion. For now there is no other news, and we are worried about him.
At noon, while Galimberti, Ormea, and Momigliano were at my house, the alarm sounded.9 Naturally no one moved, but at a certain point the house had quaked terribly, and I, who was in the entrance hall, was thrown against the bookcase. The bomb had fallen nearby, on Via Confienza. I thought about how ironic it would be if, in the midst of so many different dangers, we had been killed stupidly, like rats under the debris.
2 December. Debenedetti escaped. They had beaten him, taken all of his money (it appears that unfortunately he had a lot, and not only his own), and then shut him up in a room with another poor wretch who was shattered by the thrashing. At a certain point, driven by the desire to look for help for the poor fellow, who was moaning, he went near the door—and found it open. It was around six o’clock in the morning. He went down the stairs, ran into a woman who was washing the floor and said “good morning” to her, continued to go down, pressed his hat well down over his head to hide his swollen eye, and passed in front of the sentinel with a fine Roman salute, to which the sentry responded by standing at attention. How did it happen? Who did they think he was? No one knows. He forced himself to walk slowly until he turned the corner. Then he wanted to run and catch a tram, but he no longer had a cent in his pocket. Little by little, tediously, cautiously, he reached the house of a friend.
At least this is how they told it to me. He stayed out of sight for several days, as a precaution, but it is a relief to know that he is out.
3 December. A tedious and difficult day, filled with misfortunes: missed appointments, delays, etc. To top it all off, it rained. But something brightened my day immensely. This morning Lisetta told me, in her usual monotone: “Did you know, Vittorio is my fiancé?” “Oh, really?” I said, without making anything of it, thinking that it was one of many identification card tricks, etc. I thought about it momentarily, and then did not think about it anymore. But in the afternoon, during a quiet moment, Vittorio said to me: “Did you know that Lisetta and I are engaged?” Then I understood, and I felt my eyes fill with tears and my heart swell with joy. What a magnificent thing is a love that is born like this, among the dangers, despite the anguish that oppresses us and the tragedies that surround us. I think that, no matter what happens, everything will go well for them now. They cannot fail to live their most magnificent hour in its fullness. I think that this affirmation of faith, of life, is a good omen for all of us. I have always loved Lisetta, from the day when I first met her at Elena’s house, with her air of a somewhat wicked little angel, and underneath, her totally healthy and energetic enthusiasm.10 I do not know Vittorio as well. Except for a fleeting encounter in a conference room many years before, I can say that I have known him since 3 September (the day of the landing in Calabria), when he came to my house, having just returned from his long imprisonment. I remember how I had been so struck by his sense of fatigue and disorientation that I forced him to retire to the balcony or to the entrance hall every once in a while, since he could not bear the conversations and discussions, which were new for him. Then with what simplicity and courage had he resumed the struggle again, notwithstanding his particularly dangerous situation, overcoming the need—which would have been most natural—for a period of peace and respite. I believe that I will grow to love him as well. I think that these two, besides loving each other as man and woman, will be good for each other because of their complementary qualities.
Yes, every now and then, there is something truly wonderful.
6 December. A long conversation today between Vittorio and Braccini. From the moment when he accepted the command of GL bands in Piedmont, this university professor, new to politics and to the underground (I believe that I saw him for the first time on 9 or 10 September), has turned out to be a leader who is effective, scrupulous, courageous, and discreet at the same time. Moreover, his remarkable human empathy and his zest for life win everyone over. If circumstances were different, perhaps he would have continued to study his animals, teach, give exams, and take care of his family, without even suspecting that he had the stuff of a conspirator, and perhaps of a hero. It is strange that there are men whose qualities shape history, and others for whom history creates qualities and virtues.
Sergio came to summon Paolo so that he would go with him to Comba Scura tomorrow, to study another bridge, and recover from the unsuccessful destruction of the Aquila bridge, whose failure he has not yet gotten over—and understandably so! The next day they will stop at Martinetto, near San Giorio, for the ceremony to take the oath of the “partisans.” (It appears that this is the term that has been settled upon to define those who up until then were called “rebels” or “patriots.”) I asked, “Will you return for sure the day after tomorrow?” “The day after tomorrow, or in three or four days,” Sergio answered, laughing as usual. “And if, while we are there, it occurs to us to do something great?” I ended up laughing too. If I cannot laugh at these matters, I will end up by going crazy. In the evening, before going to bed, Paolo read me Basile’s delightful story: the story of Ninnillo and Nennella.11
7 December. I expected anxiety and anguish, and instead by evening Paolo had already come home. When he finished the inspection at Comba Scura, there was a message to take to Turin. Therefore, he had given up the ceremony in Martinetto and had gone down to take the message. I experienced a joy that was absolutely out of proportion. Every time Paolo returns, I feel what those who are condemned to death must feel when they are granted a stay of execution—an almost physical relief, and the desire to make the most of each hour and each minute.
8 December. I did something really careless today. I wanted Dennis, the English officer who had escaped from the hospital, to meet Braccini. I arranged the matter with Ormea, and then I notified Braccini about it by telephone. Naturally I did not tell him what it was about. I only asked him to come to my house at six. But a person does not make such a dangerous appointment that might arouse suspicion by telephone. I repented afterward, but it was already too late. If I canceled the meeting, there was the risk of causing more trouble. Therefore I was worried and nervous all day long. Around the appointed hour Lisetta and Vittorio arrived, probably wanting to relax in the warmth and have a friendly chat. If they are going to be able to make the most of this vagabond honeymoon without repose, by the simple fact of being together, sometimes they need a little pleasant warmth, an illusion of home and hearth. My damaged house, full of people, is perhaps the only place where they can have a little break. This evening, however, I sent them away, even if it made my heart ache. If something unfortunate happened, I did not want them to be there too.
Instead it all went well. First Ormea arrived, with Dennis and Maurizio, the nephew of the remarkable woman who had sheltered him, and then Braccini. After the initial formalities, the discussion began. It was a question of convincing Dennis to take moral command, so to speak, of the English ex-prisoners presently in Piedmont, or in the partisan formations, who were either lodged with the farmers in the country or were guests in private homes, and whose situation is probably very comfortable but still precarious and dangerous for them and for others. It is a question of taking a kind of census of them and then of sending them to Switzerland a few at a time. (It appears that it is not terribly dangerous.) In the meantime, however, it is good to bring them together, keep them united, and give them the impression that they are regimented in an organization that, although it can provide them with security and advantages, also imposes a certain line of conduct. Dennis would be very good at the hub of this organization, both because of his rank (he is a major) and because of his training and character. But it was not easy to convince him. The matter was complicated by the fact that Braccini does not understand English and Dennis does not understand Italian. I had to act as interpreter. But most of all it was complicated by his typically English slowness and pedantry. He wanted to know everything, in the most minute detail, even that which we could not tell him because we did not know ourselves. I translated Braccini’s answers for him, which, in my opinion, were most comprehensive. “Hmm...” said Dennis with his classic British stutter. “I see...but” and he gave a string of objections, for the most part of an official nature. In the end, he was convinced. We drew up an order of business on the spot, which Dennis signed with the nom de guerre of Alexander, notifying the scattered Englishmen that we were thinking of them and we would see that they were taken to Switzerland. We will think about making it reach groups as well as individuals.
Then Dennis left with his bodyguard, on a bicycle, the way he had come. Braccini stayed a moment longer to wipe the perspiration off his brow. So did I.
9 December. Today an amusing telephone call between Braccini and me.
“Do you know, signora, I found another dog of the same breed as the one you had me see yesterday evening.”
“Oh, did you?”
“It would be interesting if we met, all the more because mine has to leave quickly, for a warmer climate. (It was not difficult to understand that it was a question of another Englishman, who was getting ready to cross the lines toward the South.) Don’t you agree?”
“Yes, certainly, we will arrange it for tomorrow (namely, according to the agreement we made yesterday, at eight thirty in the morning at the market where I go shopping before going to school.) By the way, did you see the horses I sent you?”
“Which ones? The ones from last week?”
“No, another two horses.”
And so forth. I wondered what a possible—but not likely—listener would think of such a telephone call. Basically he had not said anything specific. After all, Braccini had called me from the Veterinary Institute. Besides, why could I not work with horses and dogs?
10 December. Today a communist woman came to my house to talk to me about the women’s organization with which I was supposed to work. She is unpretentious and nice and calls herself Rosetta. The name of the organization is the “Gruppi di difesa della donna e per l’assistenza ai combattenti della libertà.”12 I do not like it. In the first place, it is too long, and furthermore, why “defense” of women and “assistance,” etc.? Wouldn’t it be simpler to say “volunteers for liberty” for women as well? Nevertheless, I read the rough draft of a leaflet that the Groups would pass out, and the tone seemed appropriate to me. In fact, it did not address women’s rights, as the word “defense” might suggest. Instead, it tried to explain the significance of our war to ordinary women and how, as women, they could work with us. The tone, which was a bit mundane, did not lack some effectiveness, however. I began to understand what “work among women” might mean today. It is a question of speaking a language that would best appeal to women’s qualities because, while affirming a theoretical equality, it was necessary to recognize the existence of profound differences that create diverse sensitivities, interests, and impulses.
A socialist woman, a woman from the Liberal Party, and a Christian Democratic woman should work with us also, but at the moment there still aren’t any. We will begin. In the meantime, I will try to mobilize the women I know and convince them to make socks and clothing for the partisans. Nothing convinces someone of the goodness of a cause more than working for it. A woman who has been indifferent up until now but who has made a pair of socks for the boys in the mountains—it will not be difficult to convince her to do this—will be committed and bound to her battle and will be predisposed to face much more serious responsibilities tomorrow.
12 December. It is Sunday again, and again it has been a miraculously quiet day. I darned socks and began to reread Energie Nove.13 Vittorio would like me to write a brief pamphlet on Piero like the one that Franco Venturi wrote about Rosselli.14 I hesitated a great deal, because speaking about Piero was extremely difficult for me. Then I decided to accept, seeing that no one could write it with better understanding, since it was simply a matter of presentation and publication. In addition, it pleased and moved me to reread today those pages that were distant in time, but that had never seemed so close and so current.
13 December. Terrible news. Della Valle has been killed. This is why we did not hear anything more about him. He was murdered a week ago, in an atrocious manner, in the neighborhood of Almese, while he tried to carry out an act of sabotage. I only saw him once, but I could not tear his face and its expression from my mind. It appears that he has left a wife and a daughter.
14 December. Today a ban on driving cars in the Susa Valley appeared in the newspaper. The matter is inconvenient, but in some way it makes us proud, serving almost as an official recognition of the activities of the partisan bands. Today Ugo arrived as well. The German-fascist pressure is becoming stronger and stronger in the Valley and they had to abandon the most convenient bases, which would become too exposed and dangerous with the snow. They are thinking about organizing the winter activities along two lines: one squad of skiers that will maintain contacts high up in the mountains, and a squad of saboteurs, residing in Turin, that will carry out their strikes in the Lower Valley. At this time, the entire General Staff is in Turin, intent on the work of reorganization. Too bad. Everything was going so well, even if things arose spontaneously, without being too organized. Now we are passing into a new phase, and every development has its demands.
16 December. This evening Braccini brought me his “dog,” which I introduced to mine. His name is Johnny and he told us about a myriad of romantic adventures: arrests, escapes, shipwrecks, and so on and so forth. He did not convince me, and his English also left me somewhat perplexed, but Dennis did not raise any objections and, as far as pronunciation is concerned, he knew much more than I did. Now Johnny is going to the South, but before he leaves he will provide us with contacts on the Swiss border. In his opinion, the crossing is very easy. Let’s hope so. Undoubtedly the meeting was useful. Nevertheless, I will be relieved when he has left. Of all those whom I have met in these past months, Johnny is perhaps the first who has aroused a sense of suspicion in me. I do not believe he is a spy, but simply an adventurer, whose daredevil nature, useful at certain times, can be dangerous at others. Seeing him next to Johnny, I appreciated our Dennis, with his slowness, pedantry, and scrupulous British honesty.
17 December. Today was my Saint’s Day. It was also my mother’s. At my house we used to have big celebrations. From morning on, good wishes, flowers, and gifts began to arrive. In the evening there was a party. This is how the cycle of Christmas holidays began.15
How far away all this seems! It is almost as if it belongs to a world that has disappeared forever. Sometimes I wonder what my father would think if he could see me today, doing what I am doing, under conditions so different from those he had dreamed about for me. Even if sometimes I feel a desperate nostalgia for all this dead past, perhaps it is better that it fade away in time.
18 December. Today, to rid me of nostalgic childish musings, there was a string of alarms. It appears that the Tribunal, a safe hideout up until now, is in danger. Momigliano warned us of rumors that indicated our house would be marked. As usual, I did not believe the rumors very much. Nevertheless, Ettore finally decided to bury the famous gun, which he found on 10 September, and which up until now had been leaning against the wall of the cellar. He had thought about giving it away. Someone had even proposed bringing it to Meana in a stovepipe, but basically burying it had been simpler. It could also be useful here.
To regain a bit of serenity, I reread Piero’s essay on Alfieri and his “Matteotti.”16
20 December. After so many days of rain, the sun returned today and it seemed like a day of spring. Then Sergio arrived, all upset because the reorganization of the Valley had somewhat disturbed his plans. Only when I got him to talk about his “strikes” did he calm down. “When the high-tension poles explode, it is like a fireworks spectacle,” he said. “You should see the magnificent circles of light—yellow, blue, and green—a marvel!” He laughed loudly, happy like a little boy.
23 December. Ormea and I accompanied Carlo Mussa to see Braccini at the Veterinary Institute.17 He will work on transporting prisoners to Switzerland. He understands English, which is indispensable, he understands Russian, which could be useful to him, and he has physical courage and a flair for organization and command. Ormea, with his air of pretending to be a fool, is able to do things with an incredible audacity about which others would not even dare to think. (For example, had he not schemed to have me leave the hospital arm-in-arm with Dennis, under the eyes of the orderlies and the guards? I would have done it too, given that it was something I valued, and probably it would have gone very well, had I not been forbidden from doing so in order to save myself for other less amusing tasks!) Entrusted to the two of them, with the help of the faithful Maurizio, the work had to go well. Braccini too showed that he was satisfied with the arrangement.
28 December. Today Paolo turned eighteen years old. Though impressive, this is not very old for what he must face. Sometimes he seems very young to me, and sometimes he seems like a man.
Parri came in the afternoon. I had not seen him since June of ’42, that is, since prehistoric times. Now he is the commander of all of the GL forces of Northern Italy. Still the same head of white hair, the same composed manner of speaking that is a bit labored, the same very sweet appearance, and still tired. He works too much. He has always worked too much.18
Unfortunately I could only stay with him for a little while. People continued to arrive, so I had to ignore his presence, and I had my hands full listening to everyone and sending everyone away. He spoke at length with Vittorio and Braccini about military matters. On the whole it is better that I was not there to listen. Perhaps I could resist torture. (I do not know because I never tried it.) But who could assure me that I would not talk while in a delirium or under the influence of a drug? When it is not indispensable, I prefer not to know.
29 December. Tonight they blew up the bridge at Arnodera. Sergio did it after all. I bet he’s satisfied. I too am satisfied. Now the traffic will be interrupted for several months. Surveillance will be made more arduous, and working more difficult, but we will work all the same. Yes, it truly was a magnificent thing. It is too bad that we could not have been there too!
31 December, Meana. We arrived here this evening. After the last repeated attacks, the line is under high surveillance. At all the crossing keepers’ cabins, which were formerly deserted, there are now Russian prisoners: Russian traitors and White Russians.19 (Who knows if we will be able to “put them to work”? After all, what does it matter to them?) On the train, people told terrifying stories of their violence, greed, and lechery. But all is quiet in Meana and, although there are many people at the station, they have not yet committed any particular atrocity.
So here we are, waiting for the New Year. The stove is lit and there is a pleasant warmth. A distant date is engraved on the chimney: 31 December 1934. At that time we came to enjoy ourselves, and Paolo was so happy to find so much snow. I can see him sleeping, so small in the improvised little bed in this very room, with his little white wool cap with a tassel. He was a child then, a happy child, who dreamed about toys, the little playhouse, the mountains, and skis. Now I cannot do anything more for him, or practically anything. He must solve his problems by himself, and he knows how to solve them. I can only try not to stifle his initiative, and his vital force. I will try hard never to do it.
1 January 1944. We went toward Arnodera to see the bridge that had been blown up. Sergio was right to be proud of his work, and the Germans around here, according to what I was told, justifiably defined the act of sabotage as a masterpiece. Out of five pillars, three were completely destroyed and two reduced to the bare minimum. We could not get near them because there were a number of Germans around—we call them cruchi here—who must be arranging transport for passengers, but for the moment we stayed to enjoy the sun. What a small world it is! One day a farmer from Cantalupo heard himself addressed by a cruco in genuine Meanese.20 How could it be? He was the son of a man from Meana who had moved to Alto Adige and then learned German. These things happen—things that would not be strange at all if men were not so crazy as to wage war.
2 January. Today we were in Oulx at the home of Cesare, with whom Paolo had agreed to go to the abandoned military base of Monte Pramans one of these days, where it appears that there are explosives. I realized that he had a fairly specific plan regarding actions for the future, but faint-heartedly I preferred not to talk to him about them. When we returned, Ettore and Paolo performed experiments with the ballistite samples Cesare had provided. They seemed interested and satisfied, but the horrible smell has always given me a headache.
6 January, Turin. Three days in Turin. The usual comings and goings, alarms, and bad news. The relative peace of the last few days seems like almost an unfair privilege.
Zama was killed in a skirmish in the Pellice Valley.21 I do not know him, but I have heard a lot about him. He is South American, a native of Ecuador I believe, a member of the Foreign Legion who, having parachuted into Italy during the height of fascism, was discovered and captured, and was about to be killed the very morning of 25 July. Naturally he was able to escape and, after 8 September, he joined our partisan bands in the Pellice Valley, where it appears that he has carried out activities of an extraordinary nature. At the news of his death, the reaction of Mussa, who knew him, struck me profoundly. I can see that, besides courage, he also possesses very human qualities and is capable of making friends.
More bad news. Valle has been arrested, in the Lanzo Valley, it appears, where he was transferred. They do not have definite news. I am worried, but I have the feeling that he will be able to escape. He seems to be one of those who always escape.
Today Vittorio and Lisetta were here all day long. It is Epiphany and I would have liked to make a nice focaccia, but I did not know what to make it with, and I had to be satisfied with making a pumpkin cake that Lisetta loathed. I consoled her with a pot of fruit-malt that she was crazy about.
Toward evening, Braccini came and stayed to talk for a long time. Paolo explained to him his plan for the exploration of the forts in the Upper Susa Valley. After this preparatory work, it would be necessary to create small groups of paesani in every center, especially in those areas farthest from the railroad and closer to the border, and, together with these individuals, to seize the forts, temporarily and in random fashion. This plan should open up plenty of prospects and Braccini demonstrated a lively interest.
9 January, Meana. Paolo left this morning for the planned trip to the Pramans. I stayed at home for the entire day reading La Rivoluzione Liberale, and diligently making notes.22 Then, when evening fell, I put on an old pair of pants, turned my fur coat inside out so it would seem like some kind of an overcoat in the dark, and threw an ugly hat on my head. I would have challenged anyone who did not take me for a man. I went down to Susa with a nice jam-jar of glue to affix the leaflets of the Cln that urged the young men who were born in 1925 not to present themselves for the draft.
There was a beautiful moon, which helped me some and troubled me some. I truly did a fine job, I will say without false modesty. I affixed placards everywhere, from the door of the church to the door of the brothel.23 I put one on the wall of the home of Barberis, who probably will wonder who on earth was there. I lost a little time pasting another on the wall of the hotel where the Germans are staying and which is frequented by the few young men from around here who are collaborators, because there is always someone who is going in or out. In the end, I succeeded. Then I returned easily to Meana without being harmed, other than getting the lining of the fur coat dirty with glue. I confess that I had a very good time. If only all underground work were like this!
10 January, Turin. Today, two pieces of very good news. Valle has not been arrested or, as I predicted, he has been able to escape. Anyway, he is out. And Zama is not dead. After being left for dead in the straw of a manger on a farm and having ingested a good dose of morphine for the purpose of ending it more quickly, he heard the Germans arrive. They did not see him, however, even though they sat down right over the manger. After a while, the Germans left. Seeing that he had not died, but on the contrary was feeling better, when the road was free Zama dragged himself out to look for help. Now, for all practical purposes, he is out of danger. It seems like a tale, and instead it is the truth. It was Giorgio who gave me the news, with a satisfaction that was not very well disguised by the cynicism with which he defends himself. He concluded, “Tell Mussa and you will make him happy. He cared about him so much.” I told him right away. His joy was as ardent as his pain had been before.
This evening Paolo arrived from Oulx, relaxed and satisfied. There are cannons on the Pramans, which he photographed, and a large amount of ballistite. One of these days he will organize an expedition to go and get them.
After dinner, I went to the Canelli Hotel—the headquarters of the Socialists during the forty-five days, which inexplicably stands fast, like my house—where Passoni gave me a nice packet of francs (those of the Italian Fourth Army), which I found a way to have changed into lire.24 I did not think that I would also be a currency exchange agent. Today I am content, and everything seems magnificent.
11 January. I went to the Canelli Hotel early in the morning to bring the lire I had in exchange for the francs. (I had never seen so much money at one time—an entire suitcase full of thousand lire notes!). There I found Cirenei, the lawyer, who was a friend of Marchisio and Zino.25 He spoke mysteriously of important things. It was a question of making the Cln of Northern Italy recognized by the government of Southern Italy. That way it could enact laws, issue decrees, coin money, etc. Yet what real value would this recognition have?
Then, for the entire day, various people came and went continuously. Mario Andreis returned safe and sound from Rome, where he had gone on a mission. It is a great help to have him here again. He grumbles and scolds, but he acts, and gives us a feeling of security.
12 January. A day of alarms.
I had just come back from shopping (and from putting various leaflets in the shopping baskets of the women at the market at the same time) when I received a strange telephone call from Ettore. From his office he told me that “Aunt Ada was sick.” It is a prearranged phrase by which I understood that there was something wrong. Without thinking much about it, I hurried toward E.I.A.R., but I could not get there because the surrounding streets were all blocked. They were having a “roundup.” (It is the first time I had heard this term.) They are denying access to a block of houses and are searching the houses one by one, looking for weapons, draft evaders, and outlaws. If they do it in Via Fabro, we are in a fix.26 I ran to the house, chased everyone away, and tried to hide the material and newspapers as best I could. What if some sticky situation came up for Ettore and they came to search? Instead nothing happened, and after a while Ettore returned home easily. It is truly lucky that E.I.A.R. is a state utility and its engineers are almost “taboo.” They even have permission to go out after curfew, which can be very useful.
Around one o’clock in the afternoon, however, there was another alarm. Vittorio had an appointment on Via Roma with a Communist from the Cln, with whom he then had to go to a certain place. This place was in a neighborhood that would be “rounded up” in the afternoon. Therefore we had to prevent him from going. I too went to the appointment, attracted Vittorio’s attention, explained the situation to him, and had them come...to my house. The situation might seem absurd, but there was not much choice. Besides, it went well.
The two men left after a little while and I was getting ready to make soup when Ormea arrived to tell me something. Then after around half an hour he returned to warn me that, in his opinion, the house was under surveillance, because there was a fellow in the garden who looked suspicious, etc., etc. After a moment, there came Mussa with the same impressions. I did not want to believe them, and I chased both of them out, but perhaps they were right. It would be better for us to leave for a few days. Tomorrow morning I will notify my friends and in the evening we will leave for Meana. If it is not too late. But worrying does not serve any purpose.
20 January. I spent several days in Meana with weather that was unusually mild and almost like spring. I stayed in the sun and Paolo and Graziella [Cordola] gathered the first primroses. I worked on La Rivoluzione Liberale and I thought about the women. Major events—the discovery of a nice piece of fuse in an abandoned sentry box in the lime pit, and a trip to Oulx to make arrangements with Cesare.
This morning, Paolo and Gianni left for the Chaberton and I returned to Turin. Evidently the suspension of all activity had been useful. The faithful Espedita, everlastingly on the lookout, no longer noticed anything suspicious.
On the other hand, there was bad news concerning Ormea, Johnny, and the others. It appears that they were captured in a town near the Swiss border. Last week, they let around seventy people go through. They probably exaggerated the number. It would not surprise me if it had been Johnny who was guilty of some stupid recklessness. Nevertheless there is no precise news, but I am convinced that Ormea will be able to escape.
21 January, Meana. Today, in school, at the “Principe di Piemonte” I received a circular during class in which they asked all the professors to declare whether they had sons who were born in 1925, and if so, whether they had presented themselves for the draft. I went directly to the headmaster—who is an annoying stuffed shirt, full of his own authority, but whom I do not think is a bad soul—and said to him simply: “I know I am speaking with a gentleman. I have a son who was born in 1925 and he has not presented himself.”
He raised his eyes, evidently impressed and surprised. (In fact, it is clear that he did not know who I was. I was a teacher in his school and that was it.) “Where is he?” he asked. Certainly I could not tell him this, even if I believed him to be basically a good man. “I do not know,” I answered, staring at him until he had to lower his eyes. He was fiddling with the papers, but I saw that his hand was trembling. “Indeed,” he said after a minute. “It will still be necessary to say something to the superintendent. We could say, for example, that your son was in Southern Italy when it was invaded and that you have not heard anything more about him.” “Certainly,” I answered, “say it just like that. Thanks.” I went away. I absolutely did not think I would find him helpful. He was filled with apprehension, yes, but gifted with some inventiveness. As for the rest, apart from the headmaster, I did not dislike the atmosphere of this school. During the last few days the upper classes were reduced considerably. The boys of draft age have disappeared, one after the other. I have the impression that not even one has presented himself.
This evening, when I arrived here in Meana, I found Paolo. From the last turn in the road, I saw a thread of light coming out from the window of the kitchen, and my heart began to beat as if it were going to explode. He had returned, happy and satisfied, burned by the wind and the sun. The trip to the Chaberton had gone very well. They went up to the top, saw what interested them, and met trustworthy people in Fénils whom they could use for references, footholds, or an eventual group, local or from the outside. Naturally, they had had plenty of dramatic episodes. On the trip there, Gianni slipped, hanging by only a ski pole on the frozen snow, and Paolo had his hands full helping him to pull himself up without falling himself. The first night they slept at the “Quajé,” which the good local guides define as a “comfortable grangia,” but which is in realty nothing but a few stones and a few boards, where it is not possible either to take shelter or to light a fire. Although they were well-clad, they suffered terrible cold nonetheless. The next night they decided instead to stay in a military barracks that was in good condition, on the same hill. They tried to light the fire but, since there was no chimney, the smoke almost asphyxiated them, and therefore they ended up sleeping out in the open. Considering that the Colle is 2,600 meters high and that we are in the so-called days of the “merla,” it was quite a feat.27 Unfortunately, Gianni, who was outside the longest, got frostbite on the thumb of one hand, which still hurts. The greatest danger occurred on the return trip, however. While they were crossing the bridge at Arnodera, two soldiers pounced on them, evidently struck by their knapsacks and tired faces, sunburned and with long beards. Fortunately they were equipped with a permission slip from the Military Hospital supplied by the incomparable Ormea. Seeing so many stamps, signatures, and writings in German, the two soldiers, while they were not very convinced, had to let them go.
This too is over. And it went well.
24 January, Turin. This evening, in Meana, while we were waiting for the train, we were struck by the unusual activity of a German noncommissioned officer who was loading steel beams that were intended for the reconstruction of the bridge at Arnodera. He seemed like one obsessed: he ran, pulled, lifted, pushed, and carried with a mechanical persistence and an almost fanatical zeal. His frenzy was all the more remarkable when contrasted with the evidently purposeful slowness and reluctance of the Italian railroad workers. At a certain point, when they had to lift a weight, he was on one side, and there were four men on the other. Still he was the one who did the most. He exhibited neither arrogance nor violence, but only a surprising, almost desperate seriousness. I could not believe it. The Germans that I see working around here are in most cases almost as worn out as our men. Then someone explained. It appears that his superiors promised the noncommissioned officer that they would send him home with one month’s leave if he could put up a makeshift bridge in a short time that would make it possible to avoid the transfer. Poor thing, he got all excited, worked, and devoted himself to doing it. I feel sorry for him, but I truly hope he does not succeed, or else we are back to the beginning, and will have to think about blowing up another bridge. When I arrived home I heard from a very worried Espedita the news that probably tomorrow rastrelleranno (they will carry out a roundup) in our neighborhood.28 And I was the one who had made Paolo come down to Turin this very evening! Early tomorrow morning (usually the roundups begin around ten o’clock) I will send him to someone’s house, in an area that is relatively safe because it has already been searched. There is nothing in the house that will arouse suspicion.
25 January. At seven o’clock, Ettore awakened me, saying: “They are already here. They are quicker than we are.” Pricking up my ears, I heard the sound of whistles and voices with a Southern accent in the street. “But no,” I answered with my usual morning foolishness (and not just morning), “they are Southerners.” “Exactly,” said Ettore. Looking out the window through the shutters, he added: “They have blocked Via Juvara.” Even though I did not want to, I too had to acknowledge it. At the corner of Via Juvara and Via Fabro, there was a group of soldiers with machine guns. They whistled cheerfully and chatted among themselves. At almost the same time, there came Espedita, who was very scared, to tell me that they had begun to search the house. “But the road toward Piazza Arbarello is still open,” she said. “If Paolo hurries, perhaps he will be able to slip away.” The relaxed foolhardiness that surely some benevolent deity favors me at times when I am in a pinch made me reject the suggestion. If they caught him while he was trying to escape, it would be worse. “Then,” I said, shrugging my shoulders absurdly, with all evidence to the contrary, “it is also possible that they will not come here.”
Nevertheless, we had to awaken Paolo, who was still sleeping. “Wake up, it’s the roundup. It would be better if you got dressed.”
“Yes,” said Paolo, miscalculating, no less stolid and foolhardy than I, “but first I want to take a bath.” It was natural that he wanted to, after the trip to the Chaberton, and I did not dare to contradict him.
He had just gone into the bathroom when they rang at the door. I ran to open it. They were two classic policemen, similar in every way to those with whom, long ago, I had acquired a certain unpleasant familiarity. I quickly realized that it would not be difficult to manipulate them. Ettore, who turned up, brought one of them into his little room, terrorizing him with its prohibitive disorder. I brought the other into the study.
“Just books in there?” he asked, nodding at the bookshelves.
“Just books.”
“Have you read all of them?”
“Not really,” I answered, laughing, and the visit continued on this friendly tone. In the little room near the kitchen there were several suitcases, usually used for transporting underground newspapers, which seemed to interest him very much, but naturally there was nothing inside.
“Empty,” he commented, with sarcasm perceptible only to me, as I saw him close them again with a disappointed air. In the dining room, I saw him cast a suspicious glance toward the built-in cupboard, which was locked.
“Do you want me to open it?” I said, jiggling a bunch of keys. “It contains provisions.”
“No, no,” protested the policeman, thinking that I was worried about food rationing. “Who doesn’t have provisions? Certainly we cannot die of hunger.”
When I popped out into the hallway, I saw Ettore who, after having shown the other policeman Paolo’s room, saying “bedroom,” he flung open the door of the bathroom, announcing nonchalantly, “Here is the bathroom.”
“Very good,” said the policeman, as if he was visiting an apartment to rent, and turning around, he came back, without even going in. The bathtub was not near the door. Consequently he had not even seen that there was someone in it.
“Nothing?” he asked his colleague, when he met him in the hallway.
“Nothing,” answered the other. They went away, saying goodbye courteously. Left alone, relieved, and wanting very much to laugh, we wondered if we should thank the stupidity of the policemen, or Ettore’s impassivity, or the foolhardy indifference of Paolo and me. Again I was convinced that I should pay attention to my instincts, which were not likely to be wrong. The fact that someone who tried to escape from the neighbor’s front door (as Paolo could have done) had been stopped, questioned, and taken away, confirmed it for me.
Still, I was somewhat worried about the cellar. When the search of the entire apartment building was over, however, one of the policemen, probably the chief, asked the concierge if there was something or someone that should be brought to his attention.
“Certainly not,” Espedita had said, with an offended air. “Only honest, peaceful people live here.”
“Have you found anything suspicious at all?
“No, but even if there were something, we did not see it,” answered the policeman.
“Do you want to go into the cellar?” Espedita followed up, encouraged by this affirmation.
“No,” answered the policeman, “it is really not necessary, but if the Germans or anyone else come to ask, say that we searched everywhere.” They went away, with their devotees. Great Italian People!
In the afternoon, Mumo brought me a “woman” who was all set to work with “women.” Her name is Ada, like mine, but she calls herself Adriana.29 We chatted for a long time, and not only about women, about which, by the way, we agreed quite quickly. She is a beautiful girl, with her blue eyes often opened wide in an expression of comic amazement, and a manner of speaking that is half mincing and half witty. She agreed to write the pamphlet for the women that I should have written, and I was really relieved.
27 January. Mario Lamberti arrived.30 Of all of Piero’s friends he is perhaps the most profoundly intelligent, the most sensitive, and the one to whom I often felt the closest. It is too bad that his health only permits him sporadic activity, without ever allowing him to express the best of himself. Yet, despite his physical limitations, what persistence he has for wanting to act and to work! I remember his trips to Turin and Meana, in 1928 and 1929, when he still believed that we must and could produce something like La Rivoluzione Liberale clandestinely—his efforts, enthusiasm, and pain. I remember how, when he saw that by then this effort was fruitless, during respites from his illness he began to study economics and prepare himself for “afterward.” There would be months, and sometimes years, when we did not see each other, not even exchanging a postcard. Then we would meet each other, and it was as if we had left each other the previous day. This is the sign of true friendship.
Today he has come to Turin to stay. He wants to earn his living and, at the same time, he wants to work with us. His decision, if it makes me happy on the one hand—both because we will have him nearby and also because he exhibits an adventurous and juvenile vitality that cannot but please me—it worries me on the other. Given the condition of his health, he is often used to living in a convalescent home, with all the comforts. Will he be able to adapt to a life of work and exertion?
I immediately had him talk with Mario Andreis and Peccei, who proposed to him that he work on developing the economic theory of the Action Party in detail. Hearing me extol Lamberti’s economic training, his studies at the best German, English, and American universities, and the esteem that Einaudi has for him, Peccei winked as if he had been offered a good bargain.31
Lamberti said he would think about the suggestion. He is full of enthusiasm at the thought of being useful, and of working with us, but he does not want to be paid for this work. He would rather look for work at Fiat, where he has acquaintances. I understand him perfectly and I do not blame him, even if I would prefer that he work for us exclusively.
30 January, Meana. Today, with Ettore, Paolo, and Gianni, I went beyond Arnodera, beyond Refornetto, and up to the top of Olmo. It was a marvelous day and I picked a lovely bunch of primroses.
The purpose of the walk was an inspection of the fort situated above the small town of Olmo. At a certain point, having left the two boys on the lookout as they explored a certain cave dug out of the side of the mountain, Ettore and I went down to the little town, and then set out on foot toward the fort. We found barbed wire, but it was so low that we could climb over it very easily, and a sign that prohibited passage, but it was so high and so badly damaged by foul weather that we could very easily not have read it. So we went forward on up to the storehouse. Through its windows—closed by grilles, but certainly not impenetrable—we were able to make a rapid inventory of the drawers of bullets and hand grenades contained in it. After having seen what we were interested in, we continued on and climbed up to the top, in order to then descend on the other side. In my opinion, we should always take a complete tour of interesting places. While we were looking for where to pass through the barbed wire, which was not so low here, some man with a dog came toward us. Ettore squeezed my arm, and he maintains that he said, “It’s a soldier.” Fortunately, I did not hear him. I responded tenderly to his squeeze, while thinking that this man with the gun and dog would never go hunting in the area around the fort. In the meantime, I made affectionate teasing gestures in the direction of the animal who, contrary to what usually occurred, did not respond to me. Meanwhile the man had reached us. “Your papers,” he said. At least Ettore maintained that this was so, but I did not even hear this, evidently having been made deaf by the usual protector deity. Displaying the most radiant of my smiles, I asked the soldier, whom I continued to regard as a kindly hunter friend, “Can we climb down on this side? Which way do we go?” Evidently my foolish cheerfulness, my bunch of primroses, and our air of lovers who were a bit elderly disarmed the guard at the fort, who pointed out the best way, and even helped us cross over the barbed wire.
Only when we were outside of the little town did I become aware of reality. Mentally I gave thanks that Paolo and Gianni had not been with us.
4 February. This evening, when I arrived, I found Paolo, who had come back from a two-day trip in the Bousson Valley with Gianni. They slept in an abandoned carabinieri barracks, right on the border.32 They found a large amount of weapons, which we would have to arrange to have carted off, and many interesting documents—armaments treaties, reproductions of passports from every country, and lists of suspicious people not to let expatriate. They also made useful contacts in the neighboring towns.
7 February. Yesterday morning, taking advantage of the fact that it was Sunday, when no one was working, we paid a visit to the bottom of a nearby lime pit. There are tunnels that could serve as excellent antiaircraft shelters and storehouses. There is also the possibility of carting off some explosives when we want to do so. Unfortunately it is dynamite—not very effective and dangerous, especially with the cold. In the afternoon, we went down to Susa, where I finally met the famous Lieutenant Ferrero, who it appears commands several groups and to whom we could perhaps entrust the command of our formations in this zone. Since we were scarcely able to talk with him, he promised that he would come to my house in Meana today. So today we waited for him all day long, until we decided to leave for Turin without seeing him.
9 February, Turin. Called by telephone, I went to the superintendent’s office, somewhat anticipating and somewhat fearing what awaited me. To my great satisfaction, the superintendent received me immediately, with a courtesy that was almost effusive. “I am happy to meet you, dear signora. What can I do for you?
“If you are waiting for me to talk, you are in for a surprise,” I said to myself, and I responded sweetly: “I really do not know. It is you who had me summoned.”
“Of course, of course...” and he browsed through his papers in the meantime. “It is about your son, it appears. You do not know where he is?”
“No,” I responded tersely.
“Oh, poor signora, poor signora, how well I understand. He is in Southern Italy, according to what they tell me, is that not true?”
At this point I felt that, as much as it disgusted me, I could not but play along with his game. Taking advantage of our relationship with Gliozzi, a native of Calabria, I fabricated a more or less believable white lie.33
“Sure, sure,” confirmed the superintendent. “Would you by any chance have a letter from your son from this town before the invasion?34 Or perhaps a simple postcard....”
“I can look,” I said, without compromising myself.
“Here, here, look. It is quite all right. So many ugly things! Sons separated from their mothers! This poor country of ours, invaded on all sides, torn by discord....”
I looked at him. Was he taking me for a ride or was he serious?
He was serious, and his eyes were glistening with emotion. He said more things of the same nature, and he accompanied me respectfully as far as the door.
When I went outside, I could not help but think, for the second time in a little more than a week—Great Italian people!
Yet sometimes I wondered up to what point all this is human understanding and adaptability, and up to what point foolishness and a “could not care less attitude” instead.
Mumo and Adriana slept at my house and we worked until three o’clock in the morning, correcting and completing the pamphlet for the women, which seems to me to have gone quite well.
20 February, Meana. This morning we left for Oulx, the three of us with Gianni and one of his young friends, Pillo, who will work with us.35
Great excitement on the train. The newspaper carried the news of the death penalty for young men born in 1925 who opposed the draft, and who did not present themselves before the end of the month. The news is certainly grave. Even if my usual optimism tells me that it is above all a question of an intimidating measure that will be difficult to implement, we cannot fail to take account of it. Intimidation can reach a certain point and then become actual enforcement. If, as I hoped, the young men continued not to present themselves, the reaction could become bloody. Certainly I do not know up to what point Gianni and Paolo will be able to move about freely, even in Meana, and if Paolo will be able to go back and forth between Meana and Turin.
At Oulx we met Cesare, who gave us the appropriate directions. We went along peacefully in front of the soldiers’ barracks and the German command, looking like Sunday day-trippers, and we crossed the bridge of the Beaume. Then, at the foot of the ascent, we separated. Paolo and Gianni went up toward the Pramans, Cesare returned home, and the two of us went with Pillo along the road to Bardonecchia. I wanted to feel Pillo out a bit. I questioned him for a long time and I immediately felt a motherly tenderness for him. Even if he was still a bit immature, he appeared to me to be surprisingly well-focused. I felt a burning generosity in him, and a capacity for sacrifice without reserve. I think he could work with Mumo in distributing the press. Even though he is also of the ’25 generation, he was declared temporarily unfit at his military examination, and therefore for now has some protection that is, unfortunately, relative and temporary.
Then we too moved toward the Pramans and we climbed a bit to meet the two boys. We stopped at a group of deserted grange. The sun was hot and the dry grasses of the meadow emitted a perfume that, mixed with that of the pine trees, gave the illusion of the sea coast. After a while, there came Paolo and Gianni, tired, loaded down, and satisfied. With his natural enthusiasm, Pillo wanted to carry one of the two sacks full of ballistite. Ettore took the other. So we returned happily to Meana.
At home, near the fire, a long conversation with Paolo, who was very excited. The threat of the death penalty, even if it terrified him, opened new avenues for him. He is convinced that many young men, faced with danger, will go to enlarge the partisan ranks. Some of them could be used to form small flying squads brought in from the outside that could work to continuously sabotage and harass the German and Republican forces in the Susa Valley.36 It is not possible to create a zone that is entirely partisan in the Susa Valley, like they did in the Cuneese Valley, Pellice Valley, and elsewhere. So far the Susa Valley, with its railroads, streets that are suitable for vehicles, and valleys leading to France, has been too important for the Germans to abandon it. At this time it appears that there are more than 3,000 Germans in the Susa Valley, in addition to the Republicans. Here there can only be guerilla forces, in the true sense of the term—nothing bureaucratic or cumbersome, but small, nimble groups who can move easily and are experts in sabotage, and who are brave and absolutely trustworthy. Such individuals are not found locally. The higher up you go, the more slowly the tide of the war of liberation arrives, almost obeying a law of physics. The inhabitants will give their complicity, support, and help, but we should not expect initiative from them. For this one needs people from the outside. Paolo thinks that, between him and Gianni, they can organize the thing. He has in mind several young men from Turin who could join them. He is also thinking of Franco Dusi and, naturally, of Cesare. Later, when work in the city becomes dangerous for him, Pillo could come also.37 I have never seen Paolo so optimistic and talkative. Evidently, he has a specific plan that has been well developed during these months of contacts and exploration. Now that the snow has disappeared, the good weather will make his work easier, the supplying of provisions will be less difficult, and the fact that he gets along so well with Gianni will guarantee essential organizational unity.
While we were chatting, Ettore prepared an explosive mechanism with an old tin can, with which he will try an experiment tomorrow by blowing up a high-tension pole.
21 February. We were waiting for Gianni and Pillo to go with them to carry out the experiment in sabotage. Instead, for the time being, only Pillo came. Gianni’s father had arrived from Turin, evidently frightened by the news of the death penalty. It appears that he wants to make him go to Switzerland. Naturally Gianni does not want to go, but will he be able to resist?
Paolo decided that the two of us would go to blow up the pole. Therefore, we left for the Colle Montabone, which sits above the railroad. I remained on top to stand guard, and he went down toward the railroad with his shopping bag, which contained the ballistite, iron wire, and fuse, in short, everything “necessary,” skipping like he was going for mushrooms. There was a huge sun and a great silence all around. At a certain point on the railroad, two Germans appeared with a big pot, probably ordered to bring the mess rations to those who were on guard at the crossing keeper’s cabin beyond the tunnel. But Paolo had already vanished. Surely he had seen them before I did. After a while, when the Germans had disappeared, I saw him maneuver near a big pole, and then disappear again. After a few minutes, we could hear an explosion, similar to an explosion of a mine, which the surrounding mountains echoed, magnifying it. Then after an interval that seemed eternal to me, there was Paolo, still with the shopping bag on his arm and a look that was half disappointed and half annoyed. The ballistite had exploded, as I had well heard, but the pole remained hardly damaged, rather than collapsing. “It appears that we need more. Or we need to bury it. I will ask Sergio,” he concluded.
At home we waited for Gianni and Pillo. Gianni was embarrassed, and torn. He did not have the courage to rebel against his father, and he did not know how to refute his reasons, or how to resist the tears of his mother. This evening he too will go down to Turin. In a week he will go into Switzerland through a passage in the Susa Valley.
Paolo did not say a word, but I saw him become pale, and I understood that it was a grave blow for him—a blow similar to the one he had experienced on 10 September when he saw Turin surrender to the Germans without resisting.
Not even I, however, knew how to say something meaningful. In good conscience, I could not urge the son to rebel against his father, a fine person and motivated by the best of intentions. I would have been able to do it if he had tried to convince him to present himself to the Germans, but basically he only sought to save him, and from his point of view perhaps he is right. Even I, in spite of everything, will breathe a sigh of relief when I know that Gianni is safe. You do not find many boys like him. Perhaps it is our duty to preserve them for tomorrow.
24 February. Sorrow. Paolo’s disappointment and the downfall of his plans for the Susa Valley, weigh heavily on me as well. It is not by any means worth thinking that he could carry out alone a program that was already out of proportion for the strength of two. Moreover, it is not easy to find someone who could replace Gianni in intelligence, courage, dependability, and knowledge of the mountains. Above all, no one has participated in the creation of the project, and knows the intricacies, possibilities, and dangers like he does.
Having abandoned the work in the Upper Valley, Paolo had to go away. It is absurd for him to remain in Meana (where he would not remain without doing anything anyway) and even more so that he travel back and forth between Meana and Turin. I spoke with my friends and everyone thinks that he would do well to join one of our formations. Even he agreed, although he was not very enthusiastic. But he understands that it is necessary and perhaps the new experience is also tempting. Some want him to go into the Cuneese Valley, where our partisan bands are better organized, but he prefers the Pellice Valley, perhaps because it is closer to the Susa Valley, where he might be able to make brief visits to keep in touch. It also gives me a greater sense of security. He will leave at the beginning of March.
28 February. Final days in Meana with Paolo, but the thought of the imminent parting kept me from enjoying the sweetness. Moreover, the weather has changed and it has been drizzling for two days. Today it even snowed a little.
This morning we buried the sacks of explosives in the stone pit by the cave. I tried to engrave the exact point on my mind so that, when it is necessary, I can find it again. This evening we unearthed the revolver (the 6.35 mm inherited from his uncle) that Paolo will bring with him into the Germanasca Valley.
During this time Ettore is busy preparing a minuscule gadget that, scattered on the street (possibly in the middle of the cow dung) will make the automobile tires have a blowout. I do not understand how it works but I like it. It is bloodless and very useful at the same time.
1 March, Turin. This morning, as soon as I arrived in Turin, there was Gigliola, radiant, with a magnificent revolver that had belonged to a German orderly.38 Yesterday evening, in the restaurant where she was eating with Franco, a German officer hung his cloak on a clothes peg, with a belt and the revolver attached. Gigliola covered it with hers. Then, just as she was leaving, she took the revolver from the scabbard, slipped it into her purse, closed the case again, and went away peacefully. I advised her not to be seen again in that restaurant, at least for a few days, but this is precisely the kind of work for which Gigliola is best suited, with her abundant natural courage and her girlish pranks. There are other young women of her character, even if they are not exactly like her. Why could they not do this type of work systematically, in crowded trams, for example, when it is dark? I would like to try it myself one of these evenings.
2 March. I accompanied Paolo into the Germanasca Valley.
Before he left, he told me: “Calm down. It’s nothing dramatic.” In fact there really was nothing dramatic.
The trip went very well—as far as Pinerolo by train, then on a smaller train to Perosa. When we arrived down below, we asked discreetly which was the road for the Germanasca. Everyone gave us directions enthusiastically, with an air of cheerful complicity, as if they were saying, “Oh, we know very well where you are going!” While on the one hand this made me laugh, on the other hand it worried me. A woman, who was from the Veneto, set out right by our side and accompanied us, while praising the life that they led in the Gianna: “You are going to the Gianna, right? (How could we tell her no?) My son is there too. They are doing very well. They even have an accordion!”
“Then they are all set,” I thought. Taking advantage of her loquaciousness, I asked her if there was some way to avoid doing the sixteen or seventeen kilometers of road on foot.
“At one time there was a mail coach, but it does not operate any more now,” she answered. “You can utilize the talc-graphite truck that goes up and down, or some private wagon. For example, there’s the cart that belongs to the courier from Perrero. Hey!” She made a sign with her arm toward a little old man who was starting up an old, dilapidated gig on which there was already a lot of luggage and a girl with an enormous suitcase. The old man stopped his horse and waited for us to approach.
“Can you take along a boy and his mother? They are going to the partisans.”
“Get on,” said the old man, with a large wave of his whip.
“Thank you, and goodbye,” I hardly had time to yell to the woman, while the carriage moved, jolting.
While we were leaving the town, I saw two armed young men in one of the last shops, with camouflage jackets.
“Are they Germans?” I asked Paolo, bringing my hand instinctively to my breast, where I had hidden the revolver.
“Not at all,” laughed Paolo. “They are partisans.”
In fact I had noticed something atypical about their dress. It made a real impression on me to see them move around armed, freely. What if this truly was the Promised Land? And I was worried about leaving Paolo here!
In the meantime the horse, trotting very gently, advanced forward into the valley, which was becoming more and more narrow, with sharp and hidden turns. It was sunny, but in the areas that were in the shadows, it was terribly cold. I understood how they could keep such a valley defended, and I consoled myself, thinking that it would be easy to prevent access to enemies. The old man was not talkative and neither was the girl. She said only that she was returning home after having worked as a servant. “You want to see the partisans, huh? You like handsome boys!” said the old man in patois, shaking the whip.
In Perrero, the gig stopped. We continued on foot until we found a talc-graphite truck that brought us as far as the turn for Maniglia. Then we continued, in the company of a girl, a sister of a partisan, who came from Barge and was a staffetta. At noon we were in Pomeifré, a little group of houses in the shadow of the mountain, from which began the short cut for the Gianna. “You will be there in half an hour,” said the girl.
For the entire trip along the valley, I was struck by the atmosphere of normality and peaceful security. No one was hiding, and no one was afraid. So this is freedom.
Relaxed work and tranquility also dominated the Gianna. A big building created for the personnel of the talc-graphite plant was now occupied by the Partisan Command. With its many windows thrown wide open to the sun, and with its tanned young men with arms or torso bare, who moved through the space in front and on the terraces, it seemed like a convalescent home or a big hotel, and war and danger seemed farther and farther away.
The commander, Roberto Malan, welcomed us cordially.39 “I think I will send you to Praly,” he said to Paolo, “to be a political commissar with Emanuele.40 The commissar,” he hastened to add, “is a partisan like the others, who does everything that the others do. In addition, he tries to politically educate the more and more numerous recruits who continue to pour in.”
At that moment Zama arrived, the extraordinary South American I had heard about who has died and been resurrected several times. His “worn out” appearance struck me, while I knew that he had to be very young. He had come to notify Roberto that on that evening an important strike on the R.I.V. would be carried out, and that therefore he needed to go down into the valley immediately to make the final arrangements.41
“Do you want me to take you down?” he offered politely. “Let’s go on my motorcycle, you, Roberto, and I, as far as Pomeifré. There we will take a car.” I said that I would go down on foot. Two people on a motorcycle, given the icy road, seem to me to be a more than enough of a load. On the other hand, if I dash down by the short cut, I will arrive in Pomeifré before them. There I will gladly take advantage of the car.
I said goodbye to Paolo, without much distress. It was all so peaceful, safe, and serene. I ran down in the midst of the snow, repeating to myself: “You see? You worry too much!” As I had predicted, I arrived at Pomeifré before the motorcycle. I sat to wait on the embankment of the bridge. The banks of the stream were still covered with ice but, in the places where the sun shone, there were already trees covered with buds. “Spring is returning!” I hummed to myself. I wanted to feel happy at any cost.
After a while I saw the motorcycle arrive, but Zama was alone. Roberto had had a spill a few meters before. I was glad that I had not shared his fate. When I saw him arrive, shaking the snow off his back, I set out with him below while Zama prepared the car. If we meet each other again, fine, but I do not want to run the risk of missing the small train to Perosa.
On the way, Roberto indicated the points of interest and turns: “Here we have a machine gun, there a guard post, here a look out.” Listening to him convinced me all the more of what I had thought on the trip there, that the configuration of the valley was such that it was enough to reinforce the natural defenses in order to render it nearly impregnable.
Soon Zama reached us with the car that left me off at Perosa one hour before the departure of the small train. I went into a cafe and pastry shop and ordered ersatz coffee.42 The owner, who had seen me pass by with Paolo in the morning, treated me with affectionate cordiality. “Was that handsome young man your son? Oh, you will see that he will be just fine!” She showed me her children, a boy and a girl, four and six years old, and very good-looking.
“Now everything is going well, because the partisans are here,” she said. “Before, when the Germans were here, I lived in continual fear. Let’s hope they do not return!”
“Let’s hope not!” I echoed with all my heart.
At the appointed hour I took the little train, and then the train at Pinerolo. When I arrived home, I found Ettore, who was making other strange, diabolical devices with Giancarlo Scala and Volante. Tomorrow, normal life resumes.43
8 March. The daily routine continues, if you can call routine a life so devoid of orderliness and full of the unexpected—people of every kind, men and women, young and old, Turinese and foreigners, soldiers and politicians, partisans, trade unionists, and organizers.
I introduced Pillo to Mumo. They hit it off at once, and Pillo began to work with his characteristic zeal.
Sergio brought me one of his precious typescripts that I named the “Manual of a Saboteur,” which in essence reflects his expertise and seems extraordinarily useful. I will make some copies of it.
Saturday and Sunday we were in Meana and in Susa. I saw Lieutenant Ferrero who, while raising many objections, ended up accepting the command of the GL formations in the Middle Valley. We were at Barberis’ house, where one of his uncles was staying, one of those old Socialists whose defenseless candor moves me. They are the kind who, if you feel they are opportunists, you do not feel very sorry for them, but when, like this man, they are completely unselfish, you cannot but appreciate them, and their very obsolescence is comforting.
In Meana I began to write the pamphlet on Piero.
The first blossoms are sprouting on the trees.
10 March. Yesterday Lisetta and I carried out an amusing venture.
For several days, following the decree about the death penalty, an increase in those who presented themselves for the draft took place (which fortunately was minimal). We had to encourage the young men and make them understand that, if they presented themselves believing they were saving themselves for the time being, they were really putting themselves in a bogus position that did not decrease their danger now in any way, and would become more serious later on. It is sad to have to emphasize this practical and utilitarian side of the matter, but propaganda is useful, especially for those who do not have solid moral principles. Moreover, what can we expect from these young men who grew up during fascism, without teachers and without guidance, when they were not lucky enough to belong to a family or environment that was politically sound? Therefore we made a little flyer along these lines that seemed quite good to me, and we passed it out by the usual methods. But Lisetta thought that we should distribute it directly at the exits of the secondary schools, especially the technical ones, and at the administration building for the military. After a preliminary visit to the military administration building, we had to abandon that idea. There is too much surveillance and, what is more, someone who gets as far as the military administration building will not easily let himself be convinced to turn back by an anonymous piece of paper. This left the schools, and we decided to do the two principal ones today: the “Pierino Delpiano” where I would go, and the “Principe di Piemonte” where Lisetta would go, since I teach there. Therefore we left around five o’clock (classes end at half past five), Lisetta by bicycle, with a handkerchief on her head to cover her blond hair, which is too recognizable, and I on the tram, with an old hat that I have not worn in years. I arrived in view of the “Delpiano” when the students began to exit. I waited for the oldest to leave, and then I approached coolly and distributed the leaflets to them, saying: “Read it carefully. It is something that will interest you.” When I saw that they were beginning to read, discuss, form a group, and summon each other, I went away quickly and jumped on a tram on Via Rossini. Relieved, I found Lisetta at my house. It had gone well for her too, and she appeared satisfied. This morning at the “Principe di Piemonte” the boys spoke excitedly about the little leaflets brought by the “girl.” At the “Delpiano” it appears that they put one up in the hallway right away.
This evening I helped Sandro Delmastro write a plan of action for the citizen squads. Tomorrow I am going to the Germanasca to find Paolo. At the same time, I will take advantage of the opportunity to bring some newspapers up there.
13 March. Having learned from previous experience, no sooner had I arrived with Ettore in Perosa on Saturday morning than I set out immediately toward the Germanasca, in the hopes of finding transportation. In fact, a talc-graphite truck took us, but left us on the road for Maniglia this time as well. (“These are the talc trucks,” Ettore commented, seeing them all covered with white powder. “Who knows if we will also see the graphite trucks covered with black powder?”) We continued on foot, until we found a checkpoint that was not there two weeks ago. Undoubtedly we would have had to provide explanations if Roberto had not arrived and immediately let us pass. There had been some alarms, he said, and they had to take precautions.
At Pomeifré we met Paolo, with his old, threadbare raincoat and a long beard, but who seemed to me to be the most elegant young man on earth. Having exchanged some small talk with his companions, we set out along the road, and we sat in the sun on the edge of the river. We had so many things to tell each other.
He told me about his experiences. He had not gone to Praly; on the contrary, even Emanuele had returned from there. Up to now they did not have specific responsibilities. They did a little of everything, and especially acted as storehouse keepers, but in the coming week he will go down to Perrero, where he will work at the auto center. Then he narrated an amusing episode. The very night of his arrival, there had been the famous strike against the R.I.V., where the sabotage of irreplaceable machinery—everyone said with pride—had been better than a bombardment. Having finished the task of sabotage, they carried away what might be useful: boxes of provisions, sacks of flour, etc. Among other things, they had dragged back a very heavy box with immense difficulty. At the time when they took it, one of them had broken the cover in one place and felt carefully under the packing. “Bottles!” he had said, satisfied, feeling something hard and round under his hand. But when, having unwrapped it completely, they opened the box, anxious to brag about how they had happily succeeded in the enterprise, they found a marble bust of Senator Agnelli instead.44
The other episode was less pleasant. Some man had arrived with whom Zama had accounts to settle. (It appears that he had been the source of all of Zama’s previous troubles.) Evidently, he had come to spy, and perhaps with worse intentions, too, because they had found a loaded revolver on him, with a round in the barrel. Zama had him shot. While Paolo told the story, I observed his face with some anxiety, fearing that I would find satisfaction or indifference there. Instead, he said, with restrained discretion: “It made a certain impression on me.” I let out my breath. It can be necessary to kill, but troublesome if we find it simple and natural.
We had dinner at the little inn at Pomeifré where we could not spend the night as I had hoped, however, because Bertolone the engineer, director of the R.I.V. plant, who had been taken away the night of the strike and held as hostage until management could agree to certain requests from the partisans, occupied the only available room.45 I saw him leave with a book under his arm, and he did not seem at all unhappy to me, even if they had confiscated his shoes and he had to walk in slippers.
After dinner we sat in a thicket, which naturally was still barren, and where I tried to mend Paolo’s raincoat as best I could. Later we stopped on the embankment of a bridge at the turn for Massello, and I drew Paolo’s attention to the magnificent “sheets” of water on the river, similar to those in the area around Meana and Pollone where, as a little boy, he used to go to swim with Croce’s girls during the warm, peaceful summers.
At five o’clock, the children of Pomeifré got out of school, filling the valley with noises and games. The sense of absolute normality and serenity that exists in these towns struck me, like it had the time before.
Then Paolo returned to the Gianna and we went down to Perrero. There were a lot of cars going back and forth on the road, and we found two trucks that had returned from a strike in the piazza of Perrero. The boys looked excited and satisfied.
Then we went to sleep, in peace. It seemed impossible not to wake up with a start at every rumble of a motor, and at every horn of an automobile, thinking instead, with deep satisfaction: “They are ours.” For months, I should say for years, I had not felt a similar sense of relaxation from tension. I slept peacefully, but was awakened by the wind, which had become very strong. I thought regretfully that perhaps it would impede the “action” that was expected for that night, but I fell back to sleep immediately.
The next morning I left for the Gianna, chatting pleasantly with Ettore. We stopped for a moment to observe an abandoned military stable, which they will probably make into a storehouse for the cars. We were at the Gianna around 10:00 a.m. and, having met Paolo, I left to converse and debate with a group of his friends. The discussion was not very different from many held in my house in these last few years, but the sense of an experience that had been lived sustained it, transforming hopes and aspirations into reality. Then, after dinner in the big refectory, Zama told us about some of his extraordinary adventures, and Ettore found a way to make himself useful fixing a radio. Meanwhile Bianca, a young communist friend of Alberto Salmoni, and Frida Malan, Roberto’s sister, arrived.46 They brought books for the library in the Gianna, but unfortunately they also brought the news that Willy Jervis had been taken while he was going down to the Pellice Valley by motorcycle. It appears that he was carrying explosives, letters, and documents that might draw suspicion.47
On the return trip, I stopped at the hotel in Perrero to wait for Roberto, who was supposed to give me a letter for Turin. The owner was reading the Bible, and this gave me a sense of security and peace. Meanwhile Frida spoke with me at length regarding the woman question, about which she has ideas that are certainly original. Then, with the letter and instructions, we left.
This evening Cesare came. I had to tell him all the details about the trip, the partisans, and Paolo. He listened with visible envy, while I thought with melancholy: “Never fear, you too will ending up going there. It will not end first, unfortunately!”
14 March. Today Mumo arrived with somewhat worrisome news. It appears that the Germanasca is in a state of alarm. It seems impossible. Sunday everything appeared to be so peaceful! Perhaps the situation is related to the arrest of Jervis, whose situation seems rather serious. Come to think of it, the checkpoint and the informer were quite clear signs. With his usual composure, Giorgio reassured me. Nevertheless, Mumo will go up there tomorrow and, if something has happened, he will certainly be a tremendous help to Roberto. We will miss him here, however. Pillo will feel it most of all because he too has become fond of him in these last few days. Leo Diena, who already has some work experience, will take his place.48
20 March. I was in Meana. I worked on the pamphlet about Piero, and I saw Barberis and Lieutenant Ferrero, who accepted the command. Let’s hope he works out. While returning on the train, I thought that I could have been very good at being “political commissar” for the GL formations in the Susa Valley. Without false modesty, I feel that I could do it very well. But I think it is useless for me to speak about it with my friends and to solicit the “responsibility,” because I would find it difficult to convince myself to do it. The important thing is that I “function” as political commissar. Certainly official recognition would serve to consolidate my authority. Yet during such times, weak is the authority that needs sanctions that are more or less official. If I am able to do my job well, I will obtain all the authority that the most bureaucratic chrisms could give me.
When I arrived in Turin, I found a brief letter from Paolo—which was delivered by way of Giorgio—and which consoled and reassured me. Leo Diena, who had come to sleep at our house and who had a pair of new shoes made of “patent leather” that were furnished by the indomitable Giorgio, was there. I was so relieved and happy, and Leo is always so amusing that we laughed all evening long.
23 March. A woman from the Liberal Party, Irma, also showed up, who placed at our disposal her semi-bombed-out apartment where we had our first meeting today. In addition to Irma and Rosetta, whom I already knew, there were also Bianca, and Noela Ricci, the sister of a one of Giorgio’s colleagues at court—beautiful, courageous, intelligent, and blessed with two nice sisters who were ready to work.49 The Gruppi di difesa were taking shape and becoming a reality.
Since during this time the Fascists were conducting a campaign to force state teachers to pledge their loyalty to the Republic of Salò, we deemed it necessary to give the impression that we were fighting against the threat with contradictory propaganda. Evidently it is a matter of pure stupidity and a desire to annoy on the part of the fascist hierarchy. I believe that the oath of the teachers matters quite little to the Germans. If no one responds, the thing will fail by itself, but there is the danger that a certain number of teachers will rush to do it because of this stupid “excessive cowardice” so typical of the Italians of our time. Therefore, we must encourage those who are uncertain, and scare the timid with counterthreats. We made a leaflet and enclosed it in envelopes with the letterhead of various publishing houses, addressing them to the teachers of the schools in Turin, the majority of whom were women. We already had proof that the leaflets were received and had some impact. With a suitcase full of these leaflets, Pillo left for Casale and Alessandria, where, relying on some of his acquaintances, he will see that they are delivered to the teachers in the area.
I received news today that Gianni has arrived in Switzerland safe and sound, and I was very relieved.
Alarming news, albeit confusing and contradictory, arrived from the Germanasca. It appears that the valley has been attacked, but we do not know the outcome. Tomorrow we will go and see.
1 Ettore worked as an engineer at the E.I.A.R. (Ente Italiano Audizioni Radiofoniche) plant in Turin.
2 Ada is most likely referring to Cuore by Edmondo de Amicis, written in 1886 and a young people’s classic used in the schools. The patriotism in the story reflected the values of the newly unified Italy.
3 Eugenio Libois was an attorney and representative of the Christian Democratic Party in the Piedmontese Regional Cln.
4 Sandro Delmastro had his doctorate in chemistry. He was an officer in the first GL formations in the Pellice Valley, and then commander of the citizen squads of the Action Party in Turin. He was captured by the Fascists in Cuneo and killed on 5 April 1944.
5 Ester Valabrega became a partisan staffetta.
6 Paul Fort was a French poet associated with the Symbolist movement. A stereoscope is an optical instrument that allows one to see drawings and photographs in relief.
7 Italy entered World War II on the side of Germany on 10 June 1940.
8 Felice Cima was a student. “Barba” (Marcello Albertazzi) was a worker. Both died in an ambush on 27 November 2013.
9 Franco Momigliano (Mumo), who had his doctorate in law, was a partisan commander and union organizer of the Action Party.
10 Elena Croce, Benedetto Croce’s oldest daughter, who moved to Turin after her marriage.
11 The story of Ninnillo and Nennella is one of Giambattista Basile’s fifty folk tales in The Pentamerone, written between 1634 and 1636.
12 Rosetta (Maria Negarville) was a representative of the Communist Party in the Gddd. A literal translation of the name of the organization would be “Groups for the defense of women and for assistance to the freedom fighters.”
13 When she was sixteen, Ada had accepted Piero Gobetti’s offer to contribute articles to the student periodical Energie Nove, an effort that soon led to their romance and eventual marriage. Energie Nove became the first of three journals edited and published by Piero, followed by La Rivoluzione Liberale and Il Baretti. The first issue of Energie Nove came out on 1 November 1918.
14 The antifascist leader Carlo Rosselli (1899–1937) had contributed to Gobetti’s La Rivoluzione Liberale. He intervened to help fight totalitarianism in Spain during the Spanish Civil War, crying “today in Spain, tomorrow in Italy.” He helped to found the antifascist newspaper Non Mollare in Florence. Carlo Rosselli and his brother Nello were assassinated on 9 June 1937 by the cagoule, an extreme right wing French group promised weapons by the Fascists in return for the murder.
15 In Italy, many individuals celebrate not only their birthday but also their name day, the feast day of the saint for whom they were named. Celebrations on one’s name day are often as important as those on one’s birthday; 17 December was the feast of the Prophet Daniel and Ada’s name day. It was also the feast of Saint Olympias, and therefore also the name day of Ada’s mother, Olimpia Biacchi. Ada’s birthday was 23 July.
16 The Italian writer, dramatist, and poet Vittorio Alfieri inspired Italians to work toward the movement for unification, or Risorgimento, in the nineteenth century. The murder of socialist leader Giacomo Matteotti by fascist gangsters on 10 June 1924 exemplified the brutality of the Fascists against their opponents. Piero Gobetti’s article, entitled “Matteotti,” appeared on page 103 of the 1 July 1924 issue of La Rivoluzione Liberale.
17 Carlo Mussa Ivaldi was a brigade commander in the formations in the Pellice Valley and later commander of the Mobile Medical Operations Group.
18 Ferruccio Parri was a professor and commander of all of the GL formations. A member of the Action Party, Parri became prime minister of Italy at the close of the war, to be replaced within six months by Christian Democrat Alcide De Gasperi.
19 White Russians were counterrevolutionaries who fought against the Bolsheviks.
20 Cruco (or the plural, cruchi) was a derogatory term for “German(s).”
21 Eduardo Zapata (Zama) was commander of the 15th Garibaldi Brigade.
22 In La Rivoluzione Liberale Piero Gobetti advanced his belief that Italian liberalism had failed to create a stable social order. For Gobetti, liberalism was not a form of state; liberalism meant the exercise of human freedom through political struggle. After the occupation of the factories in Turin in 1920, Gobetti insisted that the working class had to have a role in the “liberal renewal of Italian political life.” The first issue of La Rivoluzione Liberale came out on 12 February 1922. An edict of 27 October 1925 demanded that Piero stop its publication, and another in November 1925 ordered him to cease all editorial activity.
23 State-controlled houses of prostitution were legal in Italy until 1958, when the Merlin Law (named after socialist leader Lina Merlin) abolished them.
24 Pier Luigi Passoni was an accountant.
25 Cirenei was a member of the Cln of Liguria. Lino Marchisio was a doctor, and Mario Zino was a professor. Both men were representatives of the Action Party in Genoa.
26 Ada’s house was located at 6 Via Fabro.
27 The expression “giorni della merla” or “days of the blackbird” means the three coldest days of the year. According to legend, a beautiful white dove was so cold that it sat on a chimney to keep warm, and the soot from the chimney turned it into a blackbird.
28 The verb “rastrellare” literally means “to rake” or “to comb”. Here, Espedita used the verb to warn Ada of a roundup.
29 Ada Della Torre (Adriana), a professor, partisan staffetta, and eventual organizer of the Mfgl.
30 Mario Lamberti was an economist and a collaborator of Piero Gobetti’s La Rivoluzione Liberale and on the Rivista Economica. He was an inspector for the GL Command in the Susa Valley.
31 Senator Luigi Einaudi.
32 The carabinieri were Italian gendarmes.
33 Mario Gliozzi was a professor of mathematics and member of the Cln for the schools in Piedmont.
34 The Allied landing.
35 Paolo Spriano or “Pillo” was a student and organizer of the partisan bands in the Susa Valley. He later became a well-known historian of Italian Communism.
36 Flying squads were from other areas and could move from one place to another. Republicans were those loyal to the Republic of Salò.
37 Franco Dusi was a medical student and an officer in the GL formations in the Cuneese Valley. He was shot on 9 October 1944.
38 Gigliola Spinelli was a commander of the citizen squads of the Action Party.
39 Roberto Malan was reserve officer and commander of the V Alpine GL Division.
40 Emanuele Artom, a student and political commissar of the GL formations in the Germanasca Valley and an Italian Jew, was captured and killed by the Nazi-Fascists on 7 April 1944.
41 The R.I.V. plant, founded in 1906 by Roberto Incerti in Villar Perosa, specialized in the manufacture of ball bearings.
42 Ersatz coffee was a coffee substitute during World War II.
43 Giancarlo Scala had his doctorate in law, was a member of the Piedmont Military Committee of the Action Party, and later was commander of the GL citizen squads of Turin.
44 Senator Giovanni Agnelli was the president of R.I.V. Agnelli later founded the Fabbrica Italiana Automobili Torino or Fiat automobile company.
45 Pietro Bertolone, managing director of the R.I.V. plant.
46 A communist Party activist and organizer of the Gddd, Bianca Guidetti Serra became a distinguished attorney, brought the first case for equal pay for equal work to civil court in Turin, and was a member of the Turin City Council. She served for many years as president of the Centro studi Piero Gobetti in Turin as well. In her book Compagne: Testimonianze di partecipazione politica femminile (Turin: Giulio Einaudi, 1977), Guidetti Serra presented testimonies of fifty-one working women (factory workers, dressmakers, embroiderers, shop-girls, and clerks) who became active in the Gddd, most of whom were Communists. She practiced law until 2001. Most recently, she wrote her autobiography, Bianca la rossa (Turin: Einaudi, 2009), with Santina Mobiglia. Frida Malan was a teacher and inspector for the Piedmontese Regional GL Command. She later worked with Ada Gobetti to form the Mfgl, and co-edited with Ada the clandestine newspaper La Nuova Realtà [The New Reality] beginning in February 1945. Malan later served on the Turin City Council and as president of the Regional Commission for Equal Opportunity in Piedmont. Participating in the Resistenza helped Malan choose her life’s goals, one of which was “to study the laws in every field that prohibited women from doing so many things.” See Frida Malan, “La donna nella Resistenza,” in Aspetti dell’attività femminile in Piemonte negli ultimi cento anni: 1861–1961 (Turin: Comitato Associazioni Femminili Torinesi, 1963). In an interview on 16 November 2000, Malan told me that her time in the Resistenza was the most important in her life and that her tombstone would bear the words Partigiana combattente. She died in Turin in February 2002. Alberto Salmoni had his doctorate in chemistry, was a partisan in the formations in the Pellice, Germanasca, and Chisone Valleys, and was commander of the “F. Dusi Column” of the IV Alpine Division of GL.
47 Guglielmo (Willy) Jervis was an engineer and member of the Piedmontese Military Committee of the Action Party. The Germans killed him on 5 August 1944. He was decorated with the gold medal for military valor.
48 Leo Diena was a student and organizer of the Action Party.
49 Irma Zampini was a representative of the Liberal Party in the Gddd. Noela Ricci was the wife of Aldo Visalberghi, a professor and chief of staff for the Piedmontese Regional GL Command. She later helped to organize the Mfgl.