Now, when I think about it again, I realize how great my anxiety was at the time, even if, as can be seen from my diary, I tried in every way to curb and contain it.
I was not able to sleep at night any more. Perhaps this explains why, on the morning of Saturday, 25 March, while the alarm clock rang repeatedly, I woke up one hour after the train had left. Not even Ettore woke up, which was even more unusual.
The only thing we could do was to take the next train. I was very upset. I was thinking about Paolo, who perhaps had come to meet us and had become frustrated when he did not see us arrive, and felt profoundly unhappy. Not even for a moment did it enter my mind that something serious had happened. On the contrary, to overcome my bad mood, during the trip I forced myself to correct some notes for the pamphlet about Piero that I was writing at the time.
But in Pinerolo there was no connection for the little train for Perosa. We had to wait for two hours. An air of anxious sadness surrounded us. The news, while still uncertain, was very pessimistic nonetheless. The Germans had attacked the Germanasca and Chisone Valleys in force. They had gone up with a truck, radio, and weapons of every kind, even a canon. “But they will not be able to reach the Gianna,” I said to Ettore to console myself. “They will have stopped them on the road. They will have blown up the bridges, and blocked the roads.” I remembered Roberto’s words: “Here a machine gun, there a look out....”
To overcome my anxiety, which I felt becoming stronger and stronger, and to do something useful at the same time, I went to look for a colleague, a teacher in a school in Pinerolo, whom I knew was in contact with our people, and I interested her in the Gruppi di difesa.
The conductor of the little train, which we finally boarded, gave us disastrous news. By now the Germans dominated the entire valley. They had arrived in Praly. “And the partisans?” I asked with a lump in my throat. “Dead, vanished,” he answered. “But didn’t they defend themselves?” “Yes, they fought,” he answered, “but they were taken by surprise, betrayed, who knows?” He shrugged his shoulders while he punched the tickets. There was in him, as in all the others that I saw around, a dumbfounded, disoriented sadness. The parenthesis of liberty had been too inebriating and too short. Therefore the reawakening and disillusionment were all the more bitter. As for me, fortunately by now my anguish had reached the point where it was transformed into obtuse, if still sad, indifference.
In Perosa, the German display of forces was truly impressive: bunches of soldiers around, with camouflage jackets like those that our men wore, but how different! In the piazza there were fully functioning kitchens, a cart with a radio with antennae mounted on it, even an armored vehicle and a long cannon pointed toward the Germanasca. L’Unità and L’Italia Libera—which I had brought and posted two weeks ago—hung in shreds on the walls from which they had been torn.1 The people of the place moved about through their daily chores with the somber, implacable bitterness that I had seen on the faces of the Turinese on 10 September.
“What should we do?” asked Ettore, uncertain.
“Let’s keep going!” I begged.
I thought that if I were able to find the woman from the Veneto who had a son at the Gianna again, perhaps I would have some news, but I knew too little about her. While I asked in the neighboring houses, I was not able to track her down.
Yet we set out nonetheless. In Perrero perhaps they would know something more. Perhaps we would be able to continue.
In the valley, full of sunlight, there was an aura of death. No more of the serene, almost festive, rhythm that I had noticed there the other times. Here and there you could see black ruins on the sides of the mountain, some of which were still smoking. Grange were burned because of complicity with the partisans, as a reprisal. The military trucks that continuously ran up and down, loaded with heavily armed Germans, were the only sign of activity. All of a sudden we realized that it would have been better if we had ridden ourselves of the damaging documents that we were carrying with us. We did not have many newspapers because Giorgio wisely advised us not to bring much, given the rumors that were circulating. Ettore had a set of Piero’s books in his knapsack (for the library at the Gianna), which basically did not seem to me to be very dangerous. In contrast, I carried in my blouse several letters that it would have been more prudent to destroy. Therefore, we retreated behind some rocks and burned them, while we thought of a possible alibi in case we were asked where we were going. Ettore could say that he was going there to fix a radio. Given their mentality, perhaps the Germans would not have noted the absurdity of going there at such a time. But whose radio? The pharmacist’s, perhaps, or the town doctor’s? Would that be sufficient information? There was a pharmacy in Perrero (I had noticed it in passing), and almost certainly a town doctor as well. The doctor probably had a radio and, if they questioned him, he certainly would have gone along with it. In the worst-case scenario, we could always say that we had bad directions. So we agreed on this version.
As soon as we returned to the local road, we ran into a small group of boys who were going down toward Perosa.
“What happened farther up?” I asked plainly.
The tallest looked us squarely in the face with distrust and did not answer. I also remember that at that moment I felt a sense of pain at the thought of the impressions that the cruel and unnatural circumstances would leave on these children. The others were more talkative.
“They have arrived as far as the bottom of the valley,” said a small lad, evidently proud of being so well informed.
“Are you sure?” I asked. “Then we cannot go to Praly?
“Oh, no. They blew up the bridge at Pomeifré and there are Germans on guard.”
Ettore and I exchanged a forlorn look. Then it was useless to keep going.
“And the partisans?” I asked again.
“They hid up in the mountains and caves,” answered the child.
“No, that is not true, we do not know that,” interrupted the tallest with a tone of admonishing prudence. “We cannot see them anymore. That’s all.”
“Didn’t they fight?”
“They fought, and how!” said the little one. “They even shot down an airplane! There is a dead one a little farther up.”
I grasped Ettore’s arm, feeling like I was going to go crazy.
“We are leaving,” said the boys. “Good day.”
“Good day,” answered Ettore. Then he turned to me, comforting and compassionate. “Oh no, come now! What are you thinking?”
“Let’s go!” I was hardly able to utter, imploring.
We continued. There were no longer mountains and meadows around us, but only a gelid and empty abyss. This must be hell, I thought.
At a short distance from Pomaretto, we saw a group of women stopped at the edge of the road, one of whom had a baby who was sleeping in a pram. From their demeanor and the expression on their faces, we realized that he must be in this spot. In fact, in the brief stretch of meadow, between the road and the cliff of the mountain, partially hidden by a bunch of stones, the partisan who had been killed lay motionless on the ground.
No, it was not Paolo, even if we could not make out his face, which was bent backward. But I did not feel any sense of relief. An unbearable pain ran right through me at the sight of that stripped and lacerated young flesh, as if it had been my own flesh, that of my son. I have never felt so strongly as in that moment the deep, instinctive maternal solidarity that makes every woman feel that every son of every other woman is her own son.
It was the first time that I had come visually and physically into contact with the cruel reality of the massacre. During the bombardments, circumstances had spared me the sight of human victims. There was an enormous difference between seeing and hearing a story, despite the greatest wealth of details. Even if we could be moved emotionally—because of the implications and their human significance—when faced with the broken trees and the houses in ruins, nothing, not even the destruction of the most gigantic edifices and the most famous works of art, is even remotely comparable to the stifling of a single, small, insignificant human life.
It seemed that I would never be able to smile again, that I would never be able to listen with gratitude to the laughter of Paolo and his friends. When the order of the universe is turned upside down, we can no longer even believe in the reality of the sun.
I began to cry, to sob hard, without being able to stop, finally spilling the tears that had been falling in drops in my heart during that eternal, timeless morning.
The women looked at me, astonished. There was pain in their eyes as well, but, after two days, the rush of pity had eased a bit.
“Did you know him?” they asked.
I shook my head, not able to speak. Then they began to tell the story, alternating, like in a chorus:
“His name was Davide.”
“He is from Pramollo.”
“He has a father, a mother, and a sister.”
“He stayed behind when the order came to retreat.”
“He wanted to blow up the cliff to block the road.”
“They caught him while he was going down.”
“They fired at him immediately, and then they beat him severely with their guns.”
“The Germans have prohibited us from touching him.”
“We are here so as not to leave him alone.”
“They notified his father and his mother.”
“They will be here soon.”
Poor little Davide. He was one of those brave sentinels on which the defense of the valley had seemed to me to be so well established. The inevitable defeat was not his fault, but that of the invincible forces. He had done his duty. Until the end. And he had been killed.
Little by little, my sobs abated. I tried to cover the lifeless, mortal remains, understanding the value of certain ritual gestures, even if I realized their impotent futility. We said goodbye to the women and started to head back. I do not know what I would have done if I did not have Ettore nearby. Perhaps I would have run screaming against the first Germans that I found. Perhaps I would have let myself fall on the ground waiting for a truck to run me over. I do not know.
While we were walking, I saw through my tears that the first violets were sprouting timidly in the meadows. “Why,” I said almost shouting, “are violets still sprouting on this earth? What are they good for?”
After a few hundred meters, a little girl arrived running through the nearby meadow, and with little cries of joy, began to gather the violets, a little girl four or five years old, with little blond braids, very much like Graziella. “There,” Ettore told me then, “see why the violets are sprouting. So that the Graziellas of the whole world can gather them and be happy.”
As always, in his simplicity he had found the right response. I looked at the little girl and learned that I could still smile.
What should we do now? At this point it no longer made sense to go up and down through the valley. We would not learn anything more. Nor could we abandon the search, return to Turin, and stay there, waiting and overcome by extreme anguish.
“Don’t you think that Giorgio will know something?” said Ettore.
I clung to this idea like an anchor of salvation. Certainly Giorgio knew. In Torre Pellice, there was, so to speak, the Central Command for all the valleys. There they probably were aware of the movements of the partisan troops that had to retreat. It was impossible that they would not have news. We would go down to Pinerolo and go back up to Torre Pellice the same evening. The plan, precise and feasible, restored my composure somewhat.
An old man appeared in the window of a house along the road, with worried and anxious eyes.
“Well?” he asked. Perhaps he had seen us go up in the morning and was hoping to hear some news from us. Perhaps he too had a son among the partisans. Nevertheless, “our men” were up there.
We shrugged our shoulders, extending our arms with a forlorn gesture. The old man withdrew, sighing profoundly. I heard him say something in patois to an old woman whose white head went by for a moment.
It was almost four o’clock when we reached the entrance to Perosa. The little train did not leave before six. In order not to attract too much notice, we decided to delay a bit on the little piazza in front of a Waldensian temple not too far away. There was a bench, in the shadow of some apple trees covered with snow-white flowers. On the façade of the temple was written, “I am the resurrection and the life.” A sense of peace seemed to emanate from those words, the same peace, serene and inescapable, greater than any anguish and any pain, that seemed to radiate from the austere line of mountains behind which the sun was setting. Certainly, I thought, for those who believed literally in those words, everything was simpler and consolation easier. Perhaps young Davide believed in them, if he had not been estranged from the faith that his parents had handed down to him along with his biblical name. Certainly his mother believed in them. What sustained those who had fought and died in that valley, in Italy, in the world, if not faith in something greater than their individual, temporary life—something that some call God and others homeland, and others liberty and social justice and democracy—but that was still fundamentally something for which we could sacrifice our own mortal life because there was in it a certain eternal resurrection? “I am the resurrection and the life.”
In my handbag I felt the sheaf of notes on which I had worked in the morning, on the train. Piero’s life. Were not those ideas for which he had given his life, with such ruthless awareness and with a sacrifice that was only apparently arid, reborn today, after so many years of subterranean ferment, in the ardor of our battle? Had not young Davide, perhaps without knowing it, died for them?
I opened my notes and began to work.
At Pinerolo, it was not easy to take the train for Torre Pellice. It was Saturday, and all of the evacuees had gone home. With effort, we were able to claw our way up onto the footboard of a cattle car, clinging to the bar, but after a moment they made us get off, saying that they had to attach other cars. We waited patiently. In a while we could see a postal wagon advance on the rails. We rushed on it in hordes and had difficulty getting on. No, we could not stay there either. Again they made us get off. The situation repeated itself many times. In the end, we were able to squeeze into an enormous throng in a car. I held my breath as much as I could. At least there I did not have any trouble standing up. Finally the train left. The travelers began to chat. The usual themes resounded incessantly in their conversation—Germans, partisans, roundup, sabotage. But I did not want to listen. I did not want to think. I busied myself looking for the little shoe that a baby had lost in the crowd, and that the mother was not able to find in the dark.
When we got off at the station of Torre Pellice, we were in pitch darkness. I had been in Torre many times when I was a little girl, with my father, and I remembered his tidy and somewhat melancholy appearance, typical of small, provincial Switzerland.2 But now, in the darkness, I was not able to find my way. There was almost no one on the roads. All the travelers had run home as soon as possible. We ran into one soldier. The blackout, scrupulously observed, only let rare threads of light filter out. Finally a woman appeared whom we asked where Signora Rollier was, at whose house I knew that Giorgio’s family lived. The woman gave us a complicated explanation, pointing to one area. We headed in that direction, but quite soon we were in front of a row of little houses that were all the same. Then the road ended and we could not make out anything else. By the light of a flashlight, I read on the door of one of the little houses: “Professor Pons.” Perhaps it was a relative of Silvia, certainly a Waldensian. We rang the bell discreetly. Professor Pons was not a relative of Silvia, but was very courteous. He slipped on his overcoat and came to accompany us up to the right street. After a few minutes, we knocked on the Rolliers’ door and, to my great relief, it was Rita herself who came to open it for me.3 I told her briefly what had happened and the reason for our visit. Practical and intelligent, she did not digress into questions, but quickly had Giorgio summoned, and in the meantime gave us something to eat. Only then did we realize that we had not eaten anything during the entire day. The physical well-being produced by the food, warmth, and light, and the relief of finding ourselves among friendly faces, gave me a momentary feeling of euphoria. When Giorgio arrived, I welcomed him, joking, “I beg you, do not say that it is a nice surprise. We really can do without that.” Giorgio tried to reassure me. He did not know anything precise, but he thought that the next day he would have some news. As to what happened to them, the boys had retreated into the mountains, on the slopes of the Pellice and Chisone Valleys. Perhaps they had tried the crossing, or perhaps they had found refuge in the talc mines. We should not worry excessively, however. He had not heard mention either of massacres or of mass shootings. They are things that we learn about right away and, furthermore, that we have the tendency to exaggerate rather than to play down. Given my state of mind at that moment, his arguments seemed persuasive to me, and I wanted to feel comforted. We spoke about other things, I played with the children, and I turned the pages of an album of Babar. (How Paolo had laughed one time, having heard on the radio a broadcast of France Libre, in which they narrated the adventures of Babar, éléphant français libre.)4 Then Giorgio and his wife brought us to sleep at their house, which was not too far away. But when they left us, that feigned serenity, which had sustained me up until then, fell, and I wondered how I would make it until morning. Fortunately there were books in the room. I took one and read it doggedly, without stopping, as if I had swallowed a drug. It was Golden Apples by Rawlings, but notwithstanding my remarkable memory, I did not remember a word of it.5 It was not reading, but a mechanical process of stupor and misery. Toward dawn, I fell asleep.
The next day was like a period of suspension, a wait filled with anxiety, where only the affectionate attentiveness of our friends kept us from going crazy.
Ettore fixed clocks and other gadgets and took pictures of Aldo, Giorgio’s son, who was then about eight months old. I remember when Giorgio had announced his birth during the Badoglio period: “My son was born during fascism, but he only lived fifty days in slavery.” It seemed a good omen then, as if the baby truly brought with him a promise of liberty.
In the morning I had a long, exhaustive conversation with Giorgio about a number of things. In Turin we always saw each other on the run and there was not time. I do not mean time to talk in depth, but not even time to mention everything that was happening. I remember that at a certain point he showed me the photograph of a baby.
“Do you know him?”
“Of course,” I answered quickly, surprised. It was a picture of Piero, the son of Elena Croce and Raimondo Craveri. A few days before, Giorgio explained, a certain man, who had parachuted from the South, had gone to his house with a radio station to organize attacks for our formations. This certain man said he was sent by Raimondo, who had organized an entire set of attacks. As a sign of recognition, he had the photograph of the baby. Giorgio believed him right away, a little because the parachutist, whose name was Marcello [De Leva], inspired confidence, and a little because he had seen in the photograph of the baby a marked resemblance to his grandfather, the philosopher. Nevertheless, my confirmation made him even more certain. If the thing really works, it will be a very big help to us. It made me happy to learn that Raimondo was working actively, but, looking at Piero’s little face, I could not help thinking with anguish in my heart of Elena’s pain, because she was separated from her children, who had remained with their grandmother in Parella.
Later, Giorgio accompanied us on a stretch of road toward Colombier, the small town where Lisetta’s mother and father had taken refuge. It was a pleasant little road, on the side of the hill, through meadows and trees in bloom. Like the other day, the radiant, serene sweetness of nature seemed as if it were mocking us indifferently. All of a sudden Giorgio said, “I am fed up,” with an exasperation that was unusual for him. “I am weary of this blue sky, sun, and flowers. What I dream about now is an ugly cafe, filled with stink and noise, with smoke and electric light.” I understood him very well. Sometimes I too felt this nostalgia for city life, even in its less attractive aspects, because it was normal life.
Lisetta and her family gave us a friendly, hearty welcome. I was happy to see her father again, whom I had only met during the Badoglio period, when he had just gotten out of long years in prison. Now, hidden in a little house in the woods, he was working on the compilation of one of his scientific works.
Later we went to the home of Rita, who had gathered together a certain group of women of the town, friends of hers. I spoke with them about work among the women, but found them unenthusiastic and slightly distrustful. I could not blame them, thinking of the reaction I had the first time they talked to me about such matters. Intelligent and learned women, who had exceptional education and experience, have difficulty understanding the instinctive solidarity of ordinary women, as women and as mothers. Yet I thought that I could foster the idea of liberation among the women, based precisely upon this solidarity and upon this consciousness of their strength and their power, which was just barely awakened, like the great movements that had turned the world upside down and were capable of changing the face of the earth. I tried to explain my ideas to them, which were still quite vague to me, attempting to compensate for the lack of clarity with the enthusiasm of someone who believes in a new path, even if she is still searching for it with difficulty.
There was news, but it was not certain or precise. There were friends, inhabitants of the Germanasca, who came to relate what they had seen in the final hours before the arrival of the Germans, or what they had heard said by others. From the Command, however, directly from the partisans, there was nothing. It appears that a group had retreated on Monte San Giuliano, between the Germanasca and Pellice Valleys. From someone else we learned almost with certainty that they had traveled toward Massello. Instinctively, I immediately focused on this last idea. Massello was on the slope opposite the Chisone Valley. A person could pass from the Chisone Valley to the Susa Valley. If Paolo were safe, he had certainly gone to that side.
We decided that the next morning—by now there were no more trains—we would go to Massello.
Once again, the next morning—it was Monday—we went down to Pinerolo on a train that was unusually crowded. Again we went up to Perosa on the little train. The Germans were not moving around as much, which made us think that the roundup had just ended. Again we set out toward Perrero. On the faces of those we encountered there was the same air of stupor, half incredulous and half sad. The cadaver of the young partisan was no longer there (undoubtedly his relatives had come to take it), and we did not see anyone around. We stopped for a moment. Ettore constructed a rough cross with two branches and we planted it on the place where he had fallen. I decorated it with a pine branch and some flowers—traditional gestures toward which an almost ancestral impulse thrusts us, even if we sense their tragic uselessness.
There were various checkpoints. They asked Ettore for his papers and seemed satisfied. As for me, they just made me open my handbag. What we were doing and where we were going evidently did not interest them, because they did not ask us anything.
Nevertheless, we still went up to the doctor’s in Perrero. It was always better to create an alibi for ourselves, and above all we hoped to have some news. The doctor was not there. His wife, who was very courteous, told us what she knew. She said that a group had traveled toward Massello. There was her brother-in-law, Ciccio, the Paltrinieri brothers, and others whom I did not know.6 She did not know Paolo, so she could not tell me if he was with them. They had not automatically shot and massacred them, but they had captured an organizer who was quite an old man, a certain Lombardini, and some others about whom she did not know anything precise.7 The Germans had burned some grange, as a reprisal, and it appeared that now they were getting ready to blow up the principal hotel that had been the seat of the Partisan Command. She told us to speak to the Protestant minister in Massello for news.
While we were leaving the town, we passed in front of the little hotel where we had slept two weeks before. The Germans were going back and forth, intent on performing various tasks. The owner, with her face closed and hard, was washing in the fountain. She nodded to us, but we did not dare to stop and talk with her. We passed in front of the stable. The door had been clumsily enlarged to let the trucks pass through when it had been transformed into a garage by the partisans. At various points the wall was removed and broken. Collisions of vehicles driven by an inexpert hand (perhaps Paolo’s), or signs of firearms?
At the turn for Massello, with a pang in my heart, I looked at the “sheets” of the river that I had contemplated with Paolo the last time. As we proceeded into the valley, the signs of destruction and of the battle became more evident. A big bridge had been blown up. We could not resist an almost professional curiosity regarding the quality and quantity of explosive used. We found some automobiles, abandoned and smashed to pieces. Evidently, not being able to take them with them, the partisans, retreating, had rendered them unserviceable. We noticed others in the river, ruined.
The road went up into the valley along the mountain stream that, swollen from the first thaw, broke foaming against the rocks at the bottom. The hot southern sun brought a strong odor of resin from the pinewoods around us. The physical relief of walking, and the illusion of getting closer to Paolo, gave me some serenity. All of a sudden I heard the song of a cuckoo in the distance, the first of the year. This too seemed to be a good omen.
After the destroyed bridge, we did not encounter a living soul for the entire trip, except for a mountaineer who suddenly came out of the woods to ask us if it were true that they had taken Lombardini. At our affirmative response, he exhibited such simple and profound sadness that it made me understand how much Lombardini—whom I did not know and who died more than a year later in a concentration camp—had been loved and admired by this population.
In Massello it was not difficult for us to find the pastor’s house. But his daughter, Speranza, did not give us very reassuring news. Yes, the night before a group of partisans coming from Perrero had indeed passed through Massello. Naturally she did not know Paolo, and I did not know how to describe him. “He has the face of baby,” I began, but then I did not know how to go on. “Tall like me, dark-haired,” continued Ettore. Tall? Dark? Suddenly I realized that I would have said “small, blond” instead. The image I had inside me at that moment was that of a small boy dressed in red, his head covered with blond curls, who ran in a green field blooming with daisies.
I interrupted, “Where did they go?”
The girl resumed her story. They arrived the first night, famished. It seemed that they had been saved by a miracle, and that the Germans were still pursuing them. She and her family had given them something to eat. Then they left right away for the mountains. If they could, one of them would return in the night to get more food.
“You do not know where they went? You cannot tell us? Isn’t there someone, experienced, who can accompany us?”
The girl shook her head. Impossible. The Germans had looked for them for the entire day, combing the surrounding mountains. At various times airplanes had come down low, firing with machine guns. She made us see that going to them was the equivalent of giving the enemies directions and a guide.
I could not say she was wrong, even if I felt all my hopes dashed. “Did they tell you if they were trying to go to the Chisone Valley?” I asked.
“No,” answered the girl, “they only said that, if they could, they would come back here tonight.”
We decided that we would spend the night at the only little hotel. If someone arrived, they would come to notify us, and we would be able to speak directly with him. It was the only thing to do.
When we left, while it was not yet five o’clock, the sun was already hidden behind the mountains. An icy wind descended from the gully. The little hollow, which had seemed to be a peaceful oasis full of sunlight when I arrived, now seemed like a scene of empty desolation. I looked at the mountains that enclosed the valley, bare and still covered with snow up high, illuminated with the final, tarrying streak of sunlight. Everything seemed so peaceful up there. But the girl had said, “They fired all day long.” I thought of our boys, tired, famished, threatened, and pursued on every side, like hunted beasts. The optimism that had sustained me for the whole day seemed childish, absurd. For a moment I thought I would go crazy.
Deprived of every human hope, I sought help, as I did two days earlier, in the awareness of an inevitable, supreme, and ideal eternity. Did not Piero’s essay on Matteotti end by saying: “The generation that we must create is precisely this: of volunteers for death, in order to give back to the working classes the liberty that has been lost”? Were not perhaps these “volunteers for death” the boys who fought their desperate battle on these mountains? Was there not a higher, more equitable justice in the fact that in this generation that Piero had wanted to create, through his work and by his example, there was his own son, animated by the same spirit? Again I said to myself, even if it had been possible, I would have never tried to hold Paolo back, to keep him safe. Everyone carries within himself a destiny, not ordered by the stars, but determined by the innate qualities of the individual. The greatest crime against life is to deny these qualities through weakness or fear. Even during his brief existence, Piero had fulfilled his destiny, performed his duty, and spoken his words. Paolo is just on the threshold of life, like a fruit that is not yet ripe, bursting to overflowing with promise. Only the imperfection of our sight demands appreciable and concrete results as proof. There are actions that seem outwardly and rationally futile, which instead have an inevitable and profound significance.
There was no glint of human consolation in these thoughts. They were like the arid, inhospitable reef to which the shipwrecked person clings while its ruggedness wounds him and does not grant repose. I do not want to, I cannot, be shipwrecked. Even in my anguish, therefore, I was able to reach some sad equilibrium.
It was too early to go to the hotel. In the meantime we had to invent a believable story, because it was neither the season nor the time when regular tourists would arrive in this isolated village. We headed toward Balsiglia. By following this road we would arrive at the Colle del Pis, which led to the Chisone Valley. More than two centuries before, the persecuted Waldensians had fled through this mountain pass, and then returned home (La Glorieuse Rentrée of 1689).8 Evidently places, like people, have their destiny.
We sat for a long time near the bank of the stream, absentmindedly observing two little boys who were fishing. Then, wearisomely, sadly, we turned back. We told a more or less acceptable story to the owner of the little hotel—who did not ask us many questions anyway—which had to do with one of my sisters, who was a friend of Speranza.9 While I forced myself to swallow a little soup, the little boys whom we had seen fishing in the stream near Balsiglia arrived. A strange little old man was with them, who suggested that we share a meal together. The boys would put in the fish, he would contribute two loaves of bread, and the owner would furnish the wine and a salad made of onions. In a moment, the little room was filled with movement and noise. In the meantime, they cooked the fish, ate, drank, and narrated episodes and stories about fishing. Only once did one of the boys begin to speak about the Germans and the partisans, but the others let the conversation drop immediately. Soon more people arrived and everyone began to sing together, strange songs that we did not know, in Italian, but with the strong accent of those who lived in the valley.
Was it incomprehension? Indifference? No. They had hoped, fought, suffered, and risked with the partisans. They would do it again, when it was necessary. Indeed it was the breath of relief that they drew by distancing themselves from the immediate danger, the vital, instinctive breath that permits man to survive the worst tragedies. They enjoyed the elementary and fundamental things of human existence—fire, food, and song—almost as if they had a new, more alluring flavor.
At a certain point, we went to sleep. The room opened directly onto the stream, which filled it with a din. I knew that Ettore, who was already falling asleep, would certainly awaken if Speranza came to call us. Fatigue and suffering plunged me into a deep sleep.
When I awakened, it was bright daylight, and the asthmatic rhythm of a mill accompanied the roar of the stream. They had not come to call us. Therefore no one had come down. Good sign or bad sign?
In either case, we decided to return to Turin. By this time remaining in the valley no longer made sense. We went to say goodbye to Speranza, and we went down again along the road, between the stream and the pine trees. Again we saw the cars that were smashed to pieces, the destroyed bridge, and the “sheets” of water. In Perrero there was no one in front of the hotel, and we went in for a moment to speak with the owner. She remembered Paolo very well: “He was here a moment before the Germans arrived. Then I did not see him any more.” “Did they capture anyone?” “Yes, it appears that they took that tall, blond boy named Giorgio.” I thought of Giorgio Diena (but fortunately it was not true).10 The doctor’s wife, to whom we brought the most recent news, directed us to a teacher who seemed to be in contact with a group of partisans who had taken refuge in a cave not too far away. The teacher, a woman who was already middle-aged, with a lovely, serene face under her white hair, indeed gave us good news about some of the boys, and among them specifically about Giorgio Diena, who miraculously had not been captured. She had an enthusiastic and fierce zeal that made me sorry that I could not stop to chat and discuss things with her.
In Perosa, where we arrived around noon, the rhythm of coming and going and surveillance was even slower than the previous day. If the Germans would go away, the partisans could show up again, a little at a time. We went to eat in a trattoria. There were Germans there too—handsome, cheerful blond boys. Divested of the divisions, of the hated symbols, how were they different from our boys? I thought that if it had been one of them in place of young Davide, I would have felt the same rebellion and the same pain. I remembered the sentiments of an old woman from Meana who had a son in Africa during the war: “I pray for him and I pray for all of them. For all of them. Even for the others.” They were others for her, not enemies, simply other sons of other mothers. It was the universal and eternal consciousness of solidarity that unites all mothers.
In Pinerolo, I bought two thrillers that I read on the train until it got dark. In Turin, no news. Again I was tormented by uncertainty and emptiness.
There is no time worse than when a person is awakened from the restful unconsciousness of sleep with a feeling of anxious, unrelenting sorrow. The next morning—Wednesday—I had been wondering how I would have the strength to begin a new day when Ettore, who had gone to the door, came in excitedly, saying, “He has arrived! He is in Meana!” He handed me a note.
Yes, it was his handwriting, Paolo’s horrible handwriting, for all that my eyes, dim with tears, permitted me to perceive. He had arrived in Meana the day before, with Alberto and another two individuals. The bearer of the note would give me the details. He was waiting for me in the evening with “something to eat.” For a moment I had a strong sensation of giddiness, as if I had gulped down a glass of brandy. Then I threw on some clothing, and rushed to the home of the “bearer of the note,” Luigi. Never did a human being seem more like a heavenly messenger, but despite my elation, I understood that, even if he were an angel in the flesh, he still needed to have breakfast. I hastened to prepare it for him, while I listened to him tell the story. Meanwhile Giorgio arrived, who was happy about the news, but he was worried about Mumo, about whom he still had not heard anything. He looked after Luigi right away, and saw to it that he would be sent to another formation.
For the entire morning there was a continuous commotion. I had been away from Turin for four days and naturally a lot of things were behind schedule. Around one o’clock, Mumo arrived, tired, with a long beard and his old raincoat torn, but he was alive and free. I threw my arms around his neck with the feeling that joy, at times, like sadness, could be too much. “What an extraordinary thing!” he was saying to me in the meantime. “What a stupendous thing!” He had saved himself by the skin of his teeth, thanks to his knowledge of the mountains. He was with a group that had been discovered at San Giuliano. The Germans had followed them. Gustavo Malan and Emanuele, among others, had been with him.11 At a certain point, he let himself slide along a wall of rock that ended in a big drop. He could not find the others any more. He thought that Gustavo had hidden, but he had the feeling that Emanuele had been captured. (Unfortunately it turned out to be true.) With a shudder, I thought about his face and eyes, which were so grievously and typically Jewish.
In the afternoon I saw a lot of people, including Pillo, who, satisfied, told me about his efforts regarding the teachers at Casale and Alessandria (even cited by the Popolo di Alessandria, the most zealous fascist newspaper in Piedmont). At 6:00 p.m. I left with Ettore and Bianca, whom I had notified that morning.
In Meana, while climbing up by the road, I wondered if the reassuring streak of light would appear at the usual bend, and I saw a shadow come to meet me, right in front of the willow tree of Villa Carlotta. “Paolo,” I said. I opened my arms, without the strength to say more.
Only when we were in the house could I see his face. All three of them—he, Alberto, and young Gigi, whom I had not yet met—seemed extraordinarily handsome, like they were glowing.12 The sun of the high mountains had tanned them, and a day of rest had outlined their features. Or perhaps it was my joy, and my feeling that it was a miracle, that made them so handsome in my eyes.
While they ate the provisions that I had procured with so much difficulty, they recounted the story briefly, disconnectedly, as it had happened.
The quiet, normal life that I had so appreciated in the Germanasca had been unexpectedly interrupted two days after my last visit. The Fascists had occupied Perosa, thus blocking the valley, and quite soon they had begun to run short of food. Therefore the partisans had tried to retake Perosa. There had been a battle, but the Fascists had received reinforcements, including some tanks, and it had been necessary to retreat. Then, after a few days, the Germans had come, and there had been negotiations, which naturally our forces had rejected. On Thursday, they had been warned that the Germans were about to arrive in Perrero. Immediately they had taken steps to burn the list of names, records, and documents that might arouse suspicion. They had tried to put aside some provisions, to carry off all the weapons, and destroy the motor vehicles or render them unserviceable—until someone had run to warn them that trucks with Germans were about to enter the town. Then they had all left, some toward the Gianna, some toward Massello, and some toward Maniglia, with cars loaded with weapons and goods. With his usual, incredible optimism, Paolo had attempted to jump on the last car. They were still in view, before the turn, when a German tank had appeared on the road and had fired at them, but without hitting them. Then they had overturned the car, sending it to break into pieces at the bottom, and they had proceeded with difficulty, in close order and carrying the enormous loads, for the entire night. They had wandered through the mountains for three days. They did not know from what part the Germans would arrive, and they had lived in a state of constant alarm. All of a sudden they had seen a long column come up that someone thought were Germans, and that instead had turned out to be partisans who had come up from another area. An airplane had swooped down to fire at them with a machine gun, but they had been able to hide. At a certain point, they were stuck in the middle of two attacks, when the Germans had even searched the Borsetto Valley, where Marcellin was located with his men, chasing the lines in retreat. They were not very cold because the weather was particularly mild and pleasant. Instead they were hungry, and Paolo said laughing that when he looked at the cow dung at points where there was no snow, after everything, he might have even tried to eat it.
Finally on Monday morning they had crossed the Passo Cristofe, facing the Chisone Valley. It was as if they were before an innocent, silent paradise. There was no roundup there. Even if he did not tell me, I was certain that Paolo had felt his heart beating when, from the other part of the valley, he saw the familiar and friendly lines of the Assietta chain again.
Here they split up. Zama and some others headed toward Sestrières, where two of them had a house. Instead Paolo, Alberto, Luigi, and Gigi had come down as far as Laux, and had hidden the weapons carefully in the area around the lake. While they were crossing the town, a little man popped out of his house and came toward them: “If you are hungry, boys, take it.” From under his coat he brought forth a big loaf of bread. Then he had run away, disappearing into the darkness.
Everything seemed quiet. Therefore they decided to go to Usseaux to Madame Belléard’s house. We used to stop there during our summer outings in the Chisone Valley, and Paolo was certain that even now they would be welcome. To pass from Laux to Usseaux, however, they had to cross the local road, no more than a few hundred meters away. When they were about to come out into the road, they saw a car appear. They remained motionless, with their hearts in their throats. The car seemed to slow down, and then it picked up speed, continued, and disappeared.
Madame Belléard welcomed them cordially, and gave them food and rest. When they finished the meal, they went to sleep in the grange of the Pian dell’Alpe. When it was day, they climbed up to the Colle delle Finestre; in the evening they arrived “home.” The next day Luigi, who was the oldest and therefore the least likely to arouse suspicion, came down to notify us.
It was late when we finished chatting, asking, and responding. We got dressed for bed as best we could. I kept Paolo nearby. He told me so many more things, about the battle of Perosa, during which they had fired without ever seeing anyone (I do not know why, but it made me think, proportions aside, of the Battle of Waterloo, as La Chartreuse de Parme had described it), about when he had crossed the bridge near Pomaretto, beset by the rounds of mortar fire, about the people who came outside to offer them cigarettes and, again, about the little man from Laux who had given them bread (“What good people!” I said many times), and then about when, during the machine gun fire from the air, they had piled in a heap against the trees, one on top of the other, and he had felt Alberto’s heart beat very hard next to his own.13
Then he fell asleep. I listened to his breathing for a long time, and the calm beating of his heart. I did not even know how to be happy any more. I thought about the others about whom we have not yet heard anything, and about their mothers. This miraculous nearness to my son seemed to me a privilege for which sooner or later I would have to atone.
1 L’Unità was the newspaper of the Italian Communist Party.
2 Ada’s father, Giacomo Prospero, had emigrated from Switzerland to Turin.
3 Rita Rollier was the wife of Mario Alberto Rollier, a university professor and organizer of the Action Party and the European Federalist Movement.
4 Jean de Brunhof’s stories about Babar the elephant, first published in 1931, became a French children’s classic. France Libre was the name of the radio broadcast of liberated (free) France.
5 The novel Golden Apples (1935) by Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings.
6 Ciccio Quattrini was a partisan in the V Alpine Division. Marcello and Antonio Paltrinieri were students and partisans in the formations in the Germanasca Valley.
7 Jacopo Lombardini was a teacher and a partisan in the GL formations in the Pellice Valley. He was deported and died in Germany on 24 April 1945.
8 In 1685, the Edict of Nantes was revoked and the Protestant Waldensians were driven out of the valleys of Piedmont. In what became known as the Glorious Return of 1689, a group of Waldensians ferried across Lake Geneva, marched through the Alps, and returned triumphantly to their valleys despite the hostile French Savoyard troops that occupied the territory.
See http://www.fondazionevaldese.org/en/percorsi/guardia04.php.
9 Ada had no sister. She was an only child.
10 Giorgio Diena, an Italian Jew, was a student and organizer of the underground press for the Action Party. He was also a partisan in the Pellice, Chisone, and Germanasca Valleys.
11 Gustavo Malan, a student and a partisan in the V Alpine GL Division, was the director of the underground newspaper Il Pioniere.
12 Gigi Scanferlato was a factory worker and a partisan in the Germanasca and Pinerolo formations.
13 La Chartreuse de Parme is a novel by Stendhal.