5 July–14 November 1944

5 July, Turin. The weariness of resuming the rhythm of meetings and underground life again after so many days of different activities. For the entire morning I ran around bringing messages that had been entrusted to me in the Chisone Valley. Everywhere I was rewarded by the flash of joy with which—after the first moment of distrust had passed—the news was received. Then in the early hours of the afternoon, in Piazza Rayneri, I met with Giorgio, Nada, and Sandro. The day before yesterday Pinella and Alda had been arrested.¹ Luckily they let them go almost immediately, but the house on Via Amedeo Peyron will not be useful as an address for quite a while, and work will become more and more difficult. We spoke about the Susa Valley and about the Chisone Valley, and we will talk about them again tomorrow in a more appropriately military light.

    Later I went to Medea’s house for a meeting of the Gruppi di difesa. Among other things, we talked about organizing a mail service between the partisans and their families, an idea prompted by the trial run that I had happily carried out. With a numbering system and codes on the part of the “postmen,” the matter does not present much danger.

6 July. A meeting today with Giorgio, Bellone, Galimberti, and Valle, who had read my report. I was pleased to see that they were beginning to become interested in the Susa Valley. Someone will come as soon as possible. At home, after a flurry of women and various personalities, I saw Franco il Dinamitardo, who also wants to come to the Chisone Valley.

13 July. During an alarm, in the underground passage, in the corner where my uncle was developing photographs, we showed a roll of film that had reached Nada by way of Switzerland containing a reproduction of French underground newspapers—Franc-Tireur, Combat, etc. Nada was exultant because it would be useful for Il Partigiano Alpino.² It made me emotional to see this tangible sign that they were fighting a battle elsewhere too, with the same spirit as ours.

16 July, Pragelato. Yesterday morning, Ettore and I climbed over the Colle again. We passed the checkpoint at Pourrières without any more hitches, and we climbed back up along the valley, with numerous stops, bringing letters and messages to several places. A little before Pragelato, in a meadow near some abandoned military barracks, we found Paolo with Franco il Dinamitardo, Mario the radio operator, Doctor Menzio, who was connected with the Winchester Team, Alberto Salmoni, and some others. ³ They were doing drills. They were all in excellent spirits, as always happens during good times in the partisan zones, and we engaged in good-humored chatter.

    At the Hotel Passet, Marcellin was happy to see us again, and he duly appreciated the money that I had been able to bring to him. Major Tonino, formerly of the Germanasca, who gave me the impression that he was serious and capable, is here with him now.⁴ We conversed for a long time, examining the local situation diligently. He too sees the necessity for a single command that includes the Pellice, Germanasca, Chisone, and Susa Valleys. He thinks it will be possible to convince Marcellin of the idea, and considers that a visit from Galimberti will be useful for such a purpose. I will try to arrange it.

    At dinner, I met Tullio Giordana, a colonel in the Royal Italian Army and director of the Gazzetta del Popolo during the forty-five days.⁵ He cornered me and detained me there for a long time, inquiring about the authors of various articles in the Quaderni di Giustizia e Libertà that had impressed him very much. He is convinced that, when the war is over, he will acquire the directorship of the newspaper again. (Who knows? It might happen exactly like that.) He is already worried about securing staff members who are on the ball. He made a strange impression on me. He is a capable man, not devoid of sensitivity, and of proven antifascist faith and indisputable honesty and courage, but his mentality is completely one of “yesterday.” For him winning this war means to return to the Badoglian intermezzo or, even better, to the pre-fascism of 1922. For us it is something else.

    This morning I was awakened by the bells that were ringing in the holiday. When I went to the window, I saw Franco il Dinamitardo, who was going to mass dressed smartly, with a hat and gloves in his hand. It is his theory that a person must dress in a way that does not draw attention, and therefore he crosses the mountains in walking shoes. Certainly this morning, on the steps of the church, he has the very appearance of a leisurely bourgeois summer vacationer in holiday dress, but since this year there are no bourgeois summer vacationers, I wonder if he, in his city outfit, is not more conspicuous than the others in knitted garments and climbing boots.

    Taking advantage of the radiant day and of the surrounding tranquility, I went with Paolo along the bank of a brook, and there I began to jot down the Manifesto del Movimento Femminile G.L. that Mario Andreis commissioned.⁶ I will try to do my best even if I am not good at things like this.

    At noon, at table, Marcellin had a worried look, and he was listening distractedly to Franco’s long dissertations on the best methods for guerrilla warfare. Later, he explained to me that he was not paying attention to Franco, not because he was tired of his discourses (“But he certainly talks a lot,” he said to me), but because he was thinking about news he had received from Fenestrelle, where there was a little skirmish with the Fascists. In fact, a little while later news arrived that someone had been wounded. Paolo Menzio left quickly on his bicycle with surgical instruments, hoping to find faster transportation along the road.

    This evening, another long conversation with Tonino. He was enthusiastic about my idea concerning the mail, and he took it upon himself to organize the collection of it in the Valley. Every week either Bianca or I will see to picking it up, and we will take care of distributing it in the city. In the meantime, I collected the usual series of assorted messages. Tomorrow I will make the crossing again alone, because Ettore and Paolo are staying here. Notwithstanding my protests, Marcellin gave an order to a young man to take me as far as Pourrières by motorcycle. At least this way I will avoid the ten kilometers on the main road.

19 July, Turin. Here I am in Turin, at my house, contradicting every rule of conspiratorial prudence. It seems like a miracle after the many problematic adventures of the past few days.

    The morning of Monday the 17th (which therefore was really only the day before yesterday, but it seems like an eternity had passed since then), I had gone to the Command, to the Hotel Passet, and waited for the motorcyclist who was supposed to take me to Pourrières. It was 6:00 a.m. and the sun was already high in the sky, but everything was silent, and no one else was around. Seated on a curbstone and waiting, I thought about the Manifesto. After a while the owner of the hotel, who was going down to the garden to pick spinach, appeared, She did not know who the young man was who was supposed to come to get me, and neither did I.

    At 7:00 a.m., by which time I was about to set out on foot, I heard the telephone ringing inside, followed by animated conversation and a great commotion. When I went into the hotel to inquire, I met a young man with a look that was half sleepy and half upset, who gave me the news. They were warning from Sestrières that the Fascists had attacked the base at the Triplex, and they were now “overflowing” up through the valley. He said it just like that. Although the situation was not very cheerful, I could not help but smile. He spoke as if he were writing a scholastic composition. For the moment it was the news that “overflowed.” In a few minutes, one person after the other, everyone from the Command came outside. I must say that no one else, except for the young man, who was evidently surprised in his sleep, gave the slightest sign of panic. On the contrary, Marcellin appeared somewhat skeptical regarding the gravity of the situation. He tried at once to get in touch with Sestrières, but they did not answer the telephone. Nevertheless, he gave appropriate and necessary orders for the counteroffensive, the defense, and the eventual retreat at once. “What should I do?” I asked, putting myself immediately under his orders. Marcellin smiled: “Notify your friends at the Frezet and then come back here. It is good that you did not leave. If you are able to pass by there later, you will be able to bring the news to the Susa Valley and to Turin. We might need help.”

    I ran to the Frezet, where everyone was still sleeping peacefully. I delivered the news, yet without accentuating it with a catastrophic tone. They got dressed in a flash, and a few minutes later we moved together toward the Hotel Passet. Franco had an idea. If the Fascists were going down into the Chisone Valley toward the Triplex, they were evidently coming from the Susa Valley. A series of acts of sabotage to the railroads and to the road in the Susa Valley would draw the attention and the forces of the enemy over there, thus relaxing the pressure on the Chisone Valley.

    Meanwhile at the Hotel Passet the mobilization was proceeding in a rapid, orderly, and precise manner. Serafino had left for the Triplex. Tonino gathered the troops for a possible retreat into the Troncea Valley. Good Giordana was waiting undaunted, with a club in his hand and a blanket rolled up on his shoulders, more touching and anachronistic than ever. Standing on the doorstep, from time to time biting into a sandwich that the provident owner of the hotel had squeezed into his hand, Marcellin made all the arrangements, with the unruffled confidence of a person who expects the worst and knows his business. He needs to empty the storehouses of provisions and clothing, collect the documents in order to destroy them at the last minute, put the weapons and munitions in a safe place, and evacuate the prisoners to a peaceful location. He had been able to get in touch by telephone with the Upper Valley. They were fighting at the Triplex, but for now no one else had “overflowed” along the road yet. Franco’s idea seemed excellent to him. If we are able to pass by there, he said, it would be the best help we could give him. He would send a squad of well-armed men with us, with two machine guns, so that they could carry out some ambush along the road.

    We left immediately. Near La Rua we met the line of prisoners who had just been moved along the Troncea Valley. At Pourrières we began the climb along the meadows flowered with golden arnica, always on the alert in case we ever saw anything suspicious, but everything seemed calm. Having begun the descent around 2:00 p.m., we made a stop at Casette, where the Meanese squad was. They decided to send some men with us, so that they could form two squads, one for the sabotage of the poles, the other for attacks on German vehicles on the road. A certain Willy, who once belonged to the partisan bands in Bussoleno, who had damaged a hand in a fight, and who had some experience with sabotage, would command them.⁷ While the men were getting ready, I saw the sister of a partisan, who was up there for the seasonal pasturage, arrive. She lived in Les Granges and knew the Croces well. She welcomed me and wanted to offer me milk that was just drawn. She conjured up past times and figures and showed me a little puppy that was born in those days and baptized “Partigian.”

    Quite soon we got on the road again and we reached the vicinity of Meana toward sunset. Then we split up. One group went with Franco and Paolo to lie in wait along the road to Gravere and look for a place suitable for the ambush that would be carried out during the night. The others encamped in the vicinity of Fontanino. When it was dark, Alberto would accompany them straight home, where they were able to rest in the hayloft. Then at a given signal they would go to replace the others in the ambush, who consequently had their turn to rest. Ettore and I went straight home to prepare something to eat for everyone. A young partisan came with us who was not feeling very well, who in theory was supposed to help us look for provisions.

    But a surprise was waiting for us at home. The day before, one of my brothers-in-laws had come, Mario told me. From the description I understood that it was Mario Gliozzi, who had left a calling card.⁸ The card was cryptic: Aunt Ada was sick, it said, but it was not necessary to go and see her because her sickness was contagious. Something must have happened in Turin, and we should not go home. This was clear.

    I kept from worrying by starting the potatoes and the polenta cooking, and by talking with the young partisan, whose name was Sergio. He was eighteen years old, but was absolutely a baby. He talked with me for a long time about his mother and sisters, who were inhabitants of the Germanasca, with a nostalgia that contrasted strangely with the vainglorious tone in which he recounted, by stages, some warlike episode. He must have caught cold and had a stomach ache. I gave him something hot, and made him lie down in Paolo’s bed. When I returned, with one more blanket, he was already asleep, but when I leaned over him to cover him, he sat up unexpectedly and put his arms around my neck. “Good night, Sergio,” I said to him, kissing him on his forehead. For a moment I remained near him, caressing his hair with sad tenderness, and thinking about so many things: about his mother, who perhaps at that moment, in her distant isolated cottage, was watching the sun set, wondering where her child was; about Paolo, who was exposed to every sort of danger on the street that was becoming dark; and about the cruelty of this war that even puts children at risk—those who know why they are fighting, like Paolo, and those who do not know, like little Sergio.

    Evening fell and the squad from Fontanino arrived. They ate, and then settled down to sleep, some (those who came in) in the house, and the others in the hayloft. But I did not sleep. I felt completely responsible for the house, for Mario, and for the boys. I jumped at every sound of a car in the valley, and I went to the window to watch when Tabui barked.

    Around 3:00 a.m., Paolo arrived to awaken the men to change places with the other squad. I gave those who were leaving a kind of hot coffee, and I watched them disappear into the night. I did not awaken Sergio, who was sleeping peacefully, with his face relaxed. It mattered little that it was his turn. The day after he would be more rested. He did not wake up until around 6:00 a.m., when I was getting ready to leave. “I am fine,” he said with a satisfied air. “Really, I am fine.” I explained to him what he should do later and I left him with Ettore. (As soon as the sun rose the others had hidden scrupulously in the nearby woods.) But before I left, he wanted at any cost to give me two minuscule skeins of wool that his mother had given him for mending his socks. “I will not have much use for them. You can use them,” he said somewhat uneasily. I did not have the heart to refuse him, and I left with a lump of emotion in my throat.

    When I got on the train, I realized something terrible. I had changed in a hurry, almost in the dark, limiting myself to washing my hands and the tip of my nose. I realized now that my ankles, visible with my sandals, had a black circle of dirt at the point where the shoes that I had worn during the entire previous day ended. It mattered little to me that I gave the impression of someone filthy, but I would not have wanted these revealing signs to make anyone suspicious. When we were in the tunnel, I tried, with my hand wet with saliva, to remove the worst of it. At home, in Turin, I would take a bath, but then I realized that I could not go home. What had happened, and where should I go to find out? To Mario Gliozzi’s house? To Giorgio, at the courthouse?

    I arrived in Turin undecided, and I was relieved to see Mario Marchesini, who was waiting for me at the station and who gave me the news immediately.⁹ It was a question of an alarm that was not very serious. They had gone to ask the concierge for me, who had intelligently notified Mario immediately. There had been police officers in the garden for two days, on the lookout. Fortunately, no one else who would put us at risk had come. They had not gone up to search, and no others were arrested. I calmed down, but it was evident that the most rudimentary prudence prohibited me from going home. I looked at my dirty feet woefully. “Come to wash at my house,” said Mario. I accepted with gratitude.

    Refreshed and clean again, I went to the courthouse and informed Giorgio of the latest news. Then I finished several things. How stressful it would be not to have a point of reference, a house, even though it is always filled with people and in perpetual danger! For the first time, I reflected on what must have been the hardship and suffering of so many of our friends who did not have a permanent house, and who wandered everlastingly from one place to the other. I thought about Lisetta and Vittorio most of all. When I finished my errands, I went to sit down on a bench in the garden in Piazza Solferino and wait for Giorgio. I must have had the appearance of a derelict because he said to me when he arrived: “Poor thing, you look like a little orphan girl.” Wise and thorough as usual, he had prudently gone to learn about the situation at my house. No one else was there and it appeared that it was no longer being watched. “Oh!” I said, imploringly “Give me permission to go home, just for a moment. I will not sleep there: this evening I will return to Meana. Just for about an hour. I will be careful.” Giorgio is truly very intelligent. He did not theorize and he did not talk to me about responsibility, as I somewhat expected. He simply said: “Go there, but be careful: the important thing is that the usual comings and goings not start again for several days, and that no one else go. Remember to go to Valle’s house today at 4:00 p.m. You will find Duccio there.”

    Instead of crossing the garden, I went toward the house from the side on Via Assarotti. According to our agreement, the good lawyer Cattaneo had exposed the canary cage, but in the garden, which was flooded with scorching sunlight, there was no one else. Even if I admitted they were still watching, certainly at that hour the policemen had gone inside to rest. When she saw me, Espedita raised her arms to the sky, protesting, but I reassured her. I would only stay for a minute and no one else would come. I was sure that, as long as I stayed there, she would not stop keeping guard for a minute. When I entered my house, I felt an indescribable relief, as if the old furniture that had been around me since birth, the books collected and saved with sacrifice and love, and the same windows that had been repaired as best we could, gave me a sense of security and comfort. Suddenly I realized that I was desperately tired, and I remembered that I had been on my feet practically since dawn of the previous day. I threw myself on the bed and slept.

    I woke up just in time to run to the meeting at Valle’s house. Duccio was there and also Paolo Greco, the Liberal Party representative on the Cln.¹⁰ Duccio, who had decided to work in the Susa and Chisone Valleys, was also ready to come to Marcellin’s immediately. Unfortunately, I could not bring him there, with the roundup in progress. But we could go to Susa and talk with Ferrero if we were able to find him. The proposal was accepted. Duccio had a car, with “iron clad” documents, and we left almost immediately.

    In a little more than an hour we arrived in Susa and found Ferrero, with whom we chatted for a long time. We talked about the relationship with Marcellin, and agreed that we would go to his house all together, as soon as they heard from him.

    When the most important discussions were over, I left Duccio and Greco with Ferrero, and ran to Meana somewhat nervously. What had they done? What did they plan to do?

    At home Ettore, who was alone, was cooking mushrooms that he had found in the woods. Paolo had gone with entire groups to blow up the railroad poles in the vicinity of Campo del Carro. Would he return? Yes, right after the attempt, which should take place as soon as it was dark, he would come to get his knapsack. Then they would all leave again for the Chisone Valley.

    I ate the mushrooms in a stew while I told Ettore about the events of the day. Suddenly I heard a roar, a din that made the house shake. The poles must have been blown up. A quarter of an hour later Paolo arrived, very satisfied. It was the first important act of sabotage that he had directed alone, and he was happy that everything had been carried out to perfection. His companions had stopped to take a break in the woods near Soffiso. He planned to meet them right away. Instead, while I put out something that I had prepared for him in a hurry, he put his head on the table and fell asleep. He too had not slept since dawn the day before. I let him sleep, like I had done the night before with little Sergio. When he woke up, the others had already left. He would go to join them before dawn, with Ettore. If everything went well, they would stop in the Chisone Valley to finish the work that had been begun. Otherwise, they would return to Casette, to Daniele’s house.

    I searched my house thoroughly to see if there were any weapons or objects left that would put us at risk. It was after midnight when I finally went to bed. I woke up at dawn. I thought I heard a whistle. When I went to the window cautiously, I saw on the road, emerging from the low fog of the morning, a figure that seemed to have the shape of a Russian. What if they had already arrived? What if we had waited too long? But an instant later, when I could see better, I saw that the supposed Russian was a Meanese who had come to water his field, and who was whistling to call his dog.

    Ettore and Paolo left. I did a little cleaning. There was some need for it after two days of traffic and going back and forth. I put everything in order, trying to give the impression that it was a harmless apartment belonging to bourgeois evacuees. Then, around 8:00 a.m., I went down to Susa and, having made the final agreements with Ferrero, I left in a car with Duccio and Greco.

    When we approached Avigliana, Duccio proposed, “Why don’t we make a quick visit to Giaveno and look for Teppati to hear how our local squads are doing?¹¹ This way we will have a total picture of the entire valley.” The proposal was approved and, when we reached the grade crossing, we made a detour toward the lakes. A German came out from the checkpoint. (I confess that I feel a deep sense of satisfaction every time I pass by here and read the words Achtung! Banden Gebiet! Banden Gefahr! [Attention! Bandit territory. Danger, bandits].) Evidently he was reassured by the nice car and the composed and trustworthy appearance of the occupants (I am speaking of Duccio and Greco, not about myself, naturally, because I tried to make myself as small as possible). He did not even want to see our papers, limiting himself to asking with deference, “Organisation Todt?”¹² “No,” answered Duccio, laughing sardonically in his beard. “Not Todt. Committee.” At which the German stood at attention and let us pass with a soldierly, deferential salute. As soon as we had departed, we laughed heartily. “It is always best to tell the truth,” joked Duccio, and he added quickly “We are lost the day we no longer know how to laugh.”

    Neither Teppati nor his wife, the invaluable Mimí, with whom I would have gladly spoken about her work among the women, was at Giaveno.¹³ “They should have come,” a neighbor explained to us after an initial moment of evasive reserve. “But today the train from Turin did not arrive. There is no electricity.” (With a glimmer of remorse I thought about the poles that had been blown up last night.) We could have gone higher up in search of Nicoletta and Usseglio.¹⁴ But there was a roundup in progress, and it did not seem prudent to insist. Therefore around 11:00 a.m. we went into Turin again, and I got out of the car near Porta Susa.

    The day continued very intensely with meetings, trips, and discussions. By now my house is perfectly quiet, but it is better that it not be frequented for several days yet. I will be the person who will have to race around more than ever. Meanwhile tonight I will sleep in my house, which will be a real rest.

22 July, Meana. Paolo returned from the Chisone Valley with good news. The attack had been driven back and the Fascists had been chased away from the Triplex. The zone is still free and life has become normal again. Ettore stayed to finish putting up the station. Marcellin is waiting for Duccio, whom I plan on accompanying the day after tomorrow.

    They killed Sibille, Laghi’s intendant.¹⁵ He was returning from Urbiano when the Germans stopped him. His papers were in order but, when they were searching him, they found a revolver on him and they killed him immediately.

26 July. The other evening, I met Duccio and Ferrua (in place of Greco) at Collegno, and we arrived together in Meana happily, where we spent the night.¹⁶

    Yesterday morning, at 5:00 a.m., we left for the Colle. The first stop was Casette, where Duccio, in his capacity as head of all the Piedmontese GL formations, reviewed our partisans who, under the direction of the new commander, Martino, had made great progress in terms of organization.¹⁷ But the squad of Czechs who climbed into the mountains from the crossing keepers’ cabins of the railroad station where the Germans had put them on guard made the most extraordinary impression. Ferrero had truly done his job well. The Czechs came up without thinking twice, bringing all of their equipment, uniforms, weapons, blankets, curtains, and small pots. They put up their curtains here, and they keep everything in perfect order: very shiny small pots, uniforms well cleaned, weapons perfectly polished. They form a group by themselves with a real leader, and they are organized and disciplined. (“They wash their feet every day,” one of our partisans from the Susa Valley whispered to me with a tone that was either of complaint or of admiration, I did not know.) We also saw the machine gun emplacements, which were very well concealed.

    Around 11:00 a.m., another brief stop at the Colle. A visit to the Fort and a cordial welcome from Dema. Then we set out for the descent, and at 1:00 p.m. we were at the Hotel Passet. They were all there: Marcellin, Giordana, Tonino, and Serafino, in a euphoric state of mind due to their recent victory. Ettore, very satisfied with his work, was also there. The transmitter functions and can be heard throughout the valley under the name of “Radio General Perotti.” It appears that it can also be heard outside the valley, even in the vicinity of Genoa.

    Right after dinner, we retired to Marcellin’s office and began to discuss the points of the agreement. The discussion lasted until seven in the evening. It took all of Duccio’s diplomacy and spirit and patience to succeed in putting together the essential points, but in the end we succeeded. It is truly an excellent thing, and an important step toward the unified Command, which I believe we must achieve before the end.

    After supper, more talk to draw up the agreement. Then Duccio left again with Martino for the Susa Valley, since he had to be in Turin again today. We listened to the radio broadcast, with the news, some records that were found in a neighboring villa, and a piece of poetry by Major Serafino on the battle of the Triplex, in which Mario Costa, the son of the dialectal poet, had died.¹⁸ Then Alberto brought me to the Frezet on the crossbar of his bicycle. I was lucky because I was so tired that I could no longer stand up.

    Today we completed the crossing, and tomorrow Ettore and I would go down to Turin.

28 July, Turin. For two days there were almost continuous alarms with the consequent stopping of the trams and the need to do very long stretches on foot. I think I covered around ten kilometers.

    I saw a number of women of the Gruppi di difesa at Medea’s house and of the Gruppi GL at Paola Bologna’s. I was at Anita Rho’s house, where I found Frida and we talked and discussed.¹⁹ At the house of Costanza Costantino, my former colleague and now a collaborator, I met Natalia Momo, a charming teacher who will work with us.²⁰ Angelo Mussa introduced me to a girl who was employed by Microtecnica, who seemed very energetic and decisive. Barberis introduced me to a girl full of good will who was my student at Savigliano. Certainly I would have been much less tired if I could have made all these girls come to my house, instead of running to four places in the city. By now everything is quiet and I think that, within a few days, the house will begin to function again as an address.

31 July, Meana. Yesterday morning, when I arrived, I did not find Paolo. There was the atmosphere of a roundup in the air. He had gone to Mario’s house to sleep in a hayloft of the Cordolas where, in the event of an alarm, it would be easier to flee through the tangle of the roofs than from our house, which was isolated and capable of being surrounded.

    In the afternoon, a visit from a company of Fascists, who were coming up from the main road singing and who then set up camp in the piazza right in front of Teta’s store, confirmed for me that the rumors and impressions had not been unfounded.

    Today I pushed myself to go on patrol as far as Chiomonte, which was also full of Germans and Fascists and dominated by an atmosphere of fear and anguish.

    It is obvious that they are preparing a big roundup, much more extensive than that which had taken place in the month of June. Evidently the nucleus and objective will be the Chisone Valley, not the Susa Valley, where the partisans do not have visible bases and are difficult to locate. Here, primarily, where we are, there will be reprisals whose purpose is terror and intimidation, but the bulk of the German and Fascist forces undoubtedly will be inclined to pour into the Chisone Valley. It is a question of hindering them and holding them here as long as possible.

    This evening we had a long meeting with Ferrero, who has a lot to do these days. The project will be grandiose: make all of the Czechs who are now on guard at the railroad go into the mountains; at the same time, blow up various bridges, in a way that will make the passage of trains on the railroad and trucks on the main road impossible, and perform other acts of sabotage on the road to Moncenisio as well. (Laghi’s squads should consider this.) Certainly, if the plan succeeds, the roundup in the Chisone Valley will be markedly delayed and obstructed. At least they could not arrive from the Susa Valley. But it is not easy to synchronize all these different actions.

1 August, Turin. Today, at Frida’s house, with some others, we planned a newspaper for the Mfgl. If Silva Pons gets involved, she will make it something splendid. After a long discussion, we decided on the title La Nuova Realtà. The new reality is exactly what all men and women want to create for tomorrow. But will we succeed?

3 August. Going back and forth to Meana is beginning to become a complicated matter. Yesterday evening, after we left at 5:00 p.m. in a cattle car that was incredibly crowded, we had an alarm at Avigliana, the fifth of the day, which meant getting off the train and scattering into the nearby fields. At Sant’Antonino, it meant getting off and transferring on foot for quite a stretch. There was a very long stop at Borgone, and finally we arrived at Meana at 10:00 p.m. Five hours to travel fifty kilometers.

    At home, Paolo was not there. He arrived a little while later and told me the latest news. Yesterday evening the partisans had gone down to help the Czechs escape from the crossing keeper’s cabin between Mattie and Meana. After a feigned exchange of shots, the Czechs were supposed to leave, bringing weapons and baggage with them. Instead —be it chance or espionage —at the right moment a German armored train that had been traveling on the line for several days arrived. The endeavor had come to nothing because they could not attack an armored train with ordinary guns. Now they will try to attack it another way, with explosives.

    The atmosphere of an imminent roundup is becoming more and more intense in the town, and the partisans are taking precautions. Today Paolo and Willy went to the Municipio—where naturally they are all in agreement—to arrange things so that the ration cards will not be taken away from the partisans and their families. While they were there, they looked out the little balcony, having heard the sound of a car, and they saw a truck loaded with Germans wearing camouflage helmets and uniforms. Escape among the vineyards, alarm at strategic points, but the Germans had simply taken the wrong turn. They wanted to go to Salbertrand. Had they known it in time, they could have attacked them as soon as they were outside the town and taken them, their weapons, their car, and everything. Instead they left immediately, before it was possible to assemble the people necessary for the action.

4 August. After a day filled with misunderstandings and anxiety and a somewhat unpleasant trip with a transfer in the rain, when I arrived here I found Paolo, who had just returned from Susa, where he had seen Sergio and where he had had his hair cut. (Paolo always does something of this kind during peak times: he takes a bath, has his hair cut, washes his feet. I do not know whether it is stupidity or cleanliness or superstition.) The news that he brought was not encouraging. By this time the roundup was practically under way, and for the moment our plan had to be suspended. The Germans and Fascists had beaten us to the punch. Now it is a question of reducing the damages to the minimum, so that we can begin again as soon as possible. Our group of partisans has received the orders to disband so that they can find the gap in the enemy forces. If they all stick to the orders that were given, I do not believe that we will have many losses here. But what will happen in the Chisone Valley?

5 August. Willy awakened me at 6:00 a.m. with bad news. At the first light of dawn, a small group of partisans, while imprudently running along the main road of Colletto, came to the attention of a truck of Germans that was going up toward the Colle, and became the object of a violent exchange of shots. A certain Durbiano, a native of Santa Petronilla, was quite seriously wounded.²¹ His companions were able to carry him to safety as far as a grangia that was relatively safe, but he had lost a lot of blood and had to be cared for.

    I rushed to Susa immediately, to the hospital, where Doctor Raimondi, who had heard about the case, gave me the instructions and items necessary for the wounded boy.²² After this emergency first aid we will see what can be done. If they can transport him with certain safety measures as far as the main road, they can send an ambulance to get him tomorrow, and once he is in the hospital, he will be safe.

    At home I found Elena, who was waiting for me. I gave her the items and repeated the explanations, and she left immediately.

    Around 1:00 p.m. Mario Cordola arrived, upset. While he was going down to Colletto, the Germans had fired at him. He saved himself by a miracle, throwing himself on the ground and dragging himself for a long stretch through the wooded area.

    For the entire day the town remained as if suspended in an anguished wait. The young men were all away, or on the lookout. The women, old people, and children were taking care of the animals, keeping house, or tending the garden. A little more than a month has passed since the roundup of the end of June, but the atmosphere is completely different. Before, there was a sense of disoriented surprise in most people, as if they were faced with one of the most distressing and tragic aspects of the war. Now instead there is the consciousness of a battle that we must fight at any cost and that, even if it is lost today, will be victorious tomorrow. This month of partisan war, which has been lived actively even if partially and clandestinely, has served as the political education of these mountain folk and has been of more use than years of speeches, schooling, and theories. After the episode at the end of June, the fearful evacuees from the city went away. The people from around here did not have any doubt as to which road to follow. Even the least intelligent, even those who had been Fascists, perhaps in good faith, even those who at first had been signaled out to me as spies, have taken their place and performed their duty with courageous simplicity. In the waiting of today there is neither excitement nor anxiety, but a kind of forlorn sobriety. Before, all the men of every age were afraid of being sent to Germany. Today the young people know that, if they are captured, as partisans, they will be shot immediately. The masses and crowds have become an army.

6 August. Again this morning it was Willy who awakened me with news about the wounded boy. He was not worse. On the contrary, he had regained a bit of strength and, aided by his companions, he felt like going to the main road to be put into the ambulance. The Germans were no longer at Colletto, so they could carry out the transfer with some security. Therefore I rushed to Susa, where I arranged everything with Doctor Raimondi, who proved to be quite practical and courageous. But, while we were preparing things as best we could, a big disaster occurred in the meantime.

    For several days I had heard from our partisans about a certain priest, I do not know if he came from Susa or Meana or where, who hung out with them and who was often with them. In fact the matter had not worried me. I do not have a particular aversion to priests, who are conducting themselves very well today. It is enough to think about Don Foglia, and also about the parish priest of Meana, who have rendered excellent services. But today this young, ignorant priest acted foolishly. I am convinced that he acted in good faith, but good faith, in my opinion, does not justify idiocy. After he had taken care of the wounded boy for the entire night, this morning, while I went down to Susa, he convinced him that it would be better to hand himself over to the Germans. He thought he would put things straight by telling a German captain who was a friend of his that this one was not a partisan, but an innocent shepherd boy who had been wounded accidentally. The boy and his companions, with the credulous optimism of the inexperienced, let themselves be convinced, and the naïve priest immediately ran to call the Germans. While I was climbing back up, a truck was coming to get the wounded boy, whom his companions, following the suggestions of the priest, had accompanied and piously placed in a little abandoned chapel. If we had known it in time, we would have been able to attack the truck and carry the boy away, but when Willy and I found out about it, they had already been in Susa for a quite some time. It was enough to make me furious. In all probability by this time the wounded boy would have been in the hospital, virtually safe. Instead he is in the hands of the Germans. I do not have any illusions. I do not believe that they will be dupes (fooled) regarding the lie that was concocted by the priest, nor moved by the innocent shepherd boy (of draft age) and by his devotion to the Madonna, in whose chapel they had found him. Now the boy runs the risk of being shot.

    In the afternoon, while we gave Willy and Anna Jarre further details about the matter, a little boy arrived, running, to warn us that the Germans were coming. Ettore, Mario, Paolo, and Willy went away, and I remained with Anna and Esterina. But nothing happened. After about an hour, the men returned. From the Truc they had seen a truck of Germans or Fascists arrive at Campo del Carro, and leave from there a little more than a half hour later.²³ They had noticed strange movements, and a gathering and dispersing of people in the vicinity of the Municipio. What had happened?

    Unfortunately we did not have to wait long to find out. The Fascists had brought with them on the truck the young Tremaiore, a partisan from the Chisone Valley who had come to find his family, who lived in the vicinity of Lower Meana. I do not know how they captured him. The fact remains that that they hung him on the balcony of the Municipio.²⁴ Then they went away immediately, leaving a squad to be on guard and, with the most serious threats, prohibiting the townspeople from touching the cadaver in the meantime.

    The news struck me like a heavy blow. Even without seeing him, I felt the same fury and anguish I had felt in the Germanasca before the inanimate body of young Davide. Fury, anguish, and pity. For him, for his family, and for his very assassins, who were driven by today’s brutal obscuration of morality to commit a crime for which they would not be forgiven. As I had then, I felt the need to do something—useless, childish, but nevertheless with meaning in my heart, some homage to the aura of civility and gentility that seems erased from the world today, but to which we must return all the same if we wish to continue to live on a human plane.

    Once night fell and Paolo and Mario, out of prudence, had gone to sleep somewhere, I left for Campo del Carro. All the doors of the small town were closed and the lights put out. An unspoken feeling of grief lies everywhere. In the vicinity of the turn for the Chiesa (church), suddenly I heard a shuffling of feet of men and animals. I hid behind a hedge. It was the Alpini from Monte Rosa, with mules and pack trains, returning from Colletto, where probably they had gone to lend the Germans a hand with the roundup.²⁵ One of them stopped near the hedge behind which I was hiding and lit a cigarette. In the quick light of the match, I saw his young face, tired and lifeless. Never as in that moment did I feel the cruel and wretched absurdity of being so close and so similar, and at the same time so much of an enemy.

    Scaling the gate, I entered the garden of a villa and picked a big bunch of flowers from the abandoned flower beds. Then I crossed Campo del Carro, it too mute and deserted like the other small towns. The moon had not yet come out, and the darkness aided me. But, while I silently neared the Municipio, I heard voices in the meadow before me. I stopped to listen. The person who was speaking was from the Veneto. Therefore the people who were watching over the dead boy were not from the town, but probably Fascists on guard, because no one approached. Walking bent over in the shadow, I turned behind the building of the Municipio and then, almost creeping, I passed in front. I saw the shape of the one who had been hanged, and with my hands I lightly touched his feet, which were in big mountain boots. (Strange, I thought, that they had not taken them off!) I deposited the bunch of useless flowers on the steps under him, and I lingered, with a rapid caress of his cold, rigid hand. Then I went away without stooping over any more. By now I had done what I had wanted to do, and it no longer mattered if they stopped me. I was armed only with my sad humanity, with the anguish that filled my heart, and with the irrepressible tears that ran from my eyes, flooding my face. What could they do to me? Whatever they did to me, what did it matter?

    But no one saw me, or if they saw me, they did not say anything. Slowly I returned home under the stars, in the midst of a silence that was so absolute that I thought I could hear the beating of my heart.

    What will happen tomorrow?

7 August. The sun set after having shone on the world and in the sky for the entire day, unperturbed and indifferent, and countless stars proliferated. But darts of smoke are still rising from the isolated, destroyed cottages, with sudden eruptions of sparks. Dense clouds of smoke wither the green foliage of the trees, and the stagnant, acrid odor of fire lingers everywhere. An unnatural silence weighs down on everything, which the sudden crackling of flames, the wail from an animal, and the cry of a baby interrupt at times, making our hearts race. The town, wounded and lacerated, does not sleep. Like a sick person after a serious crisis, it dozes for a moment, but its distressed limbs are still ridden with painful trembling.

    I looked around. My house was intact. Paintings and photographs of happy times hung on the walls. There were books and flowers. I still do not know how to explain the miracle.

    Yesterday evening, after I returned from Campo, I fell into a heavy sleep from which, at the first light of dawn, the sound of a car that stopped in front of our house awakened me with a start. I ran to the window and peeped out cautiously, but not so cautiously, however, that the Fascists, with whom the truck was loaded, did not notice me. I drew back immediately, but one of them was already climbing the stairs. Preferring not to let him enter the house, I went to meet him on the balcony. “Where is the little town of Serrette?” he asked briskly. Someone must have reported that there was a group of partisans in the vicinity of Serrette. In fact, Daniele’s group had been there for some time, but by now the group had been on the move for quite a while and there was no longer anyone there. I preferred, however, to assume the most dazed and frightened appearance possible, fearing that, if I appeared practical and quick, they would load me on their truck and force me to be their guide, which had happened to others. “It must be over there, to the right, then turn left. No, no, I am mistaken, straight ahead to the right, but on the other hand no, perhaps it is really to the left. You understand, I am an evacuee and do not get around much....” In the meantime I smiled, with such an idiotic air that he left, shrugging his shoulders, and the truck went away in the wrong direction.

    I returned home. Ettore, feeling me move, had awakened. I urged him to get up quickly and go down to the station immediately. If he were able to take the train, it would be so much the better. At least he would be safe.

    He had been gone for a short time when Mario and Paolo arrived. They too had heard the truck and considered it more prudent to go away. While they were making a little breakfast in a hurry, a truck appeared at the bend, this time loaded with Germans. Mario slipped away quickly among the bean plants, and Paolo joined him with a jump down from the terrace, and in an instant they disappeared behind the willow trees. Just in time, since the Germans, who had gotten out of the car, had blocked the road, placing a machine gun there, and it would have no longer been possible to leave the house without being seen.

    Nevertheless for the moment they did not come into the house. They encircled the Cordolas’ house, and I saw them enter several doorways and look out several balconies. Since I did not have anything to do, I decided, with strange logic, to go get some milk. Even Borgata Cantalupo was full of Germans. At the house where they give me the milk, the two able-bodied men had disappeared. (“Just in time,” Lena whispered to me while she filled the bottle.) A German was trying to subdue, with a piece of chocolate, little Maddalena, who, in the arms of her mother, looked at him, half distrustful and half afraid. While I turned back, I found a group of four, heavily armed, who asked me if this was the way to go to the quarry. What the deuce! Exactly the area where Paolo, Mario, and who knows how many others had headed. “No,” I said, shaking my head, “to go to the quarry you go down.” Meanwhile I smiled, cordial and persuasive, inviting them with my hand to enter a footpath that, skirting the bottom of the cave, disappears in the woods toward Susa. Convinced, they walked by way of the footpath, they too thanking me and smiling.

    When I arrived home with the precious bottle, I found Esterina waiting for me at the door, worried. “They went upstairs,” she told me in a hurry. “They did not find anything here, but they have been upstairs for a while and they have not left.” Meanwhile Graziella caressed Dionigi the cat, who was meowing pitifully. As I learned later on, the Germans, whom he had attacked ferociously, had hurled him down from the balcony.

    Still brandishing the bottle of milk, I climbed the stairs and entered the house, decisive. There was some disorder in the kitchen. I passed into the next room, Paolo’s room, where five or six Germans were flinging the papers on the desk into the air.

“What is it? What happened?” I asked in German with a surprised and slightly irritated tone. All of a sudden, the Germans turned around. Evidently my appearance, somewhere between mountain folk and city dweller, my bottle of milk, my German, and my tone baffled them a bit.

“Who are they?” one of them asked me, putting a photograph of me with Ettore and Paolo under my nose.

“That’s me with my husband,” I answered.

“This one?” insisted another, putting a finger on Paolo’s smiling face.

“One of my nephews.”

“Where is he?”

“I do not know. He is a soldier. I have not seen him for two years.”

“And your husband?”

“He went to Turin to work. He is employed.”

“There is no one else here?”

“No one, as you can see,” I answered.

In my heart I blessed the unusual laziness that had made me not make the bed immediately, according to my good habits. Evidently two people had slept in that unmade bed, and Paolo’s bed, a divan covered with multicolored pillows, gave the impression, which was true, that no one had slept in it.

    Meanwhile another German came out from my bedroom, holding in his hand this little notebook where day after day, systematically, I have noted my memoirs.

“What is this?” he asked.

“My diary,” I responded serenely.

“Why is it written in English?”

“I am a language teacher. I am practicing,” I answered.

“Ah!” said the German.

After he threw the little notebook on the table, he went out on the balcony. But another was still lingering around a battery that Ettore had left to charge. “My husband is an engineer at the Radio,” I said.²⁶ “This is his work.” Somewhat relieved and confused, the Germans went away, saying goodbye courteously. I accompanied them up to the stairs and I saw that, before leaving, one of them traced the letter K on the wall with chalk. What did it mean? Kaputt?

    When I went back to the kitchen, I saw my little purse that I had left unattended on the table even though it contained five thousand lire, which I had withdrawn the other day from the bank. The little purse was open, but the five thousand lire, which were very visible, had not been taken. Nothing else had been taken away, except for the key to the house in Turin, which, however, I found a little while later on the window of the adjacent room. Evidently they had thought that it served to open who-knows-what secret repository. Instead, they had found everything thrown wide open.

    On the table of Paolo’s room, next to the little notebook of my recollections and the photograph that they had shown me, there was another little notebook where Paolo had diligently noted, during Badoglio’s forty-five days, the title and date of the semi-clandestine journals that had come out then, and which he had subsequently forgotten at the bottom of a drawer. There were also the photographs of the two deserters from the Caucasus, in uniform, with their names written on the back in Cyrillic characters. What would I have said if they had asked me for explanations? On the other hand, had they seen it? Had they understood? Or had they not wanted to understand?

    But an even greater surprise was waiting for me in the bedroom. In the armoire, I had a certain number of articles of military clothing that were useful when someone arrived who had to change clothes, and that I thought I could justify as some old clothing of my husband’s or even my father’s. Now the Germans had taken them out and thrown them in the middle of the floor, without asking me anything. But, on reflection, fear shot through my heart when, while picking up a pair of pants to put them back in their place, I saw a Sten cartridge fall from one of the two pockets.²⁷

    I was congratulating myself about the good fortune that had not made it jump out one moment sooner when a young boy arrived, panting, to warn us that they had decided to burn all of the houses in the town. At the small town of Traverse they had already begun. Marcella’s house was in flames. She did not even have time to take out the mattresses.

    Immediately Esterina began to take out the linens and dismantle the knitting machine that was her craft and her livelihood. I too thought that I should try to save something: winter clothing, shoes, and blankets for now. Wisely, in the morning before leaving, Ettore hurriedly hid in his knapsack an embroidered dinner service, an antique family heirloom that we had brought to Meana to save it from the bombardments. I made big parcels that I threw down from the terrace and then dragged into the nearby woods. I had in my hands the voluminous manuscripts of my translation of Bacon’s Essays and of the Senior-Tocqueville correspondence.²⁸ With what anxiety had I tried, around two years before, to bring them to safety so that they would not be lost. They represented the result of months of work, research, and effort. But today I abandoned them without remorse. “They are not good for anything,” I thought. “If we come out of all this, I will do other things. What does it matter to me?” Better to save a pair of wool socks, even though they are mended, a can of meat, or a can of condensed milk! How our scale of values has changed in these months! Yesterday the fruit of my intellectual work seemed important and precious. Today the things that count are those that serve the basic needs of life, to ward off the cold and save us from hunger.

    While we piled our bundles in the shadow of the poplars, a sudden flicker arose from the nearby Villa Favaro, the last house in the village before ours. Perhaps it would be our turn next.

    Graziella’s terrorized pain stirred an anguish full of rebellion in me. She ran back and forth sobbing loudly and carrying little childish objects: the cover of a pan, a basket of thread, a bunch of fake flowers, and an oleograph of the Madonna, which she placed on the mattresses as if she had to protect them. She screamed, crying: “Mamma, I do not want them to burn our house. Mamma, let’s say the rosary, Mamma, let’s pray to the Madonna not to let them burn our house!” Her little universe was crumbling among the crackling of the flames, the clouds of smoke that were rising from the neighboring houses, and the desperate bellowing of the animals that the Germans had taken away from the stables. Alternatively she invoked the Madonna and her Mamma, the only powers she had learned to know and from whom instinct and education had accustomed her to solicit comfort and aid.

    I have never been able to stand the exhibition of pain in children, which seems to me to be the most atrocious injustice, the most unpardonable offense. I stopped attending to things and held the little girl next to me. I tried to console her, interest her in what Tabui and Dionigi were doing, and make her laugh. Quite soon I had the consolation of seeing the little face, which had seemed mature and hardened a few minutes before, break into an amused smile, while the darting, curious interest in everything typical of children emerged again in her eyes filled with tears.

    The houses around us were burning, but up to now ours was still intact, and for every minute that passed the possibility of escaping it seemed greater to me. Graziella, who was calmed down by now, played at swaddling the cat to make it sleep, when a car driven by a German stopped in front of our house. A light of terror reappeared in the little girl’s eyes, and she began to cry again. But the German, a sergeant, having gotten out of the car, which was loaded with furniture and linens that had been removed from several villas that afterward had broken out in flames, simply asked to take a drink and wash in our fountain. I took advantage of the situation to ask him if he would burn our house, too. “No,” he said looking at the sign made with chalk. “K means that everything is all right. Those to be burned are marked with an F: Feuer (fire).” In order to become fully convinced of it, I gave the good news to Esterina and Graziella, who had approached us in the meantime, shaken by new sobs again. “What is the matter with the little girl?” asked the German. “Why is she crying?” “She is afraid, what do you think she is?” I asked somewhat aggressively. “Does it seem to you that these are spectacles suited to children?” I added, pointing out the columns of smoke and fire that were rising around us. The German became serious. The face of a man, tired and desperately sad, suddenly appeared under his rigid mask. “Damn the war!” he said in a low voice. “I too have children. I have been at war for four years. But I hate these things. It is those who command who give the orders. They are evil, evil.” He repeated schlecht, schlecht (bad, bad) several times with an intense expression of rebellion and disgust. Then he passed his hand over Graziella’s blond hair. She did not pull away, but smiled at him, reassured, while he sat on the steps of the stairs in a posture of profound sadness. It was past noon and I thought of offering him something to eat, a little soup, some fruit. He did not want to accept. “I have to go,” he said getting up. “Stay a little longer,” I implored. “As long as you are here, I think nothing will happen.” In fact several cars had passed, and several groups of Germans who, seeing the sergeant seated on the steps, had gone ahead without stopping. At my plea, he went back to sitting down without answering, but he did not talk any more. The cold, impassive, lifeless mask had descended on his human face again.

    At a certain point a soldier came to call him. “Now there is no more danger. We are going away,” he said. He got back into the car, and he left again without a glance, without a goodbye.

    After a while I went to take a walk around the villages close by. The Germans had really gone, leaving the town to summarily heal its wounds.

    From a first approximate calculation, it seems that around seventy houses were burned, without being preselected, indiscriminately. That there were no spies in the town, as I had upheld, was demonstrated by the fact that not one house of a partisan had been touched. First they had burned the uninhabited houses that had been abandoned by the evacuees, after having emptied them of their contents, then those of the townspeople, here and there, capriciously, by chance. They had not found anything anywhere to justify the reprisal, which evidently had the simple goal of pillage and terrorism. In some places the Germans were brutal and ruthless, and would not let the terrorized women take anything away. One drove his sadism to the point of throwing into the flames a sack of meager scraps that an old woman had been able to drag out with difficulty. In other places, they had robbed what happened to be at hand, money and gold objects. In others still they were polite and lenient, as in my house. But even those who had not had their houses burned were devastated by the loss of the animals. The Germans had taken away all of them, cows, sheep, and mules, with difficulty, with force, because they did not want to go. They are animals who understand, cônôscente as they say here, attached to the owner who shares his stable and his labor with them in a brotherly way. Some turned back, despite the beatings, bellowing desperately, with an anguish that was almost human. The Cordolas’ Martin, who was more than eighteen years old, succeeded twice in breaking the rope with which they dragged him, and in turning back, running, neighing, but they took him away all the same.²⁹ While Dralin told the story, his eyes filled with tears.

    At Gran Borgata, Olimpia and her family were trying to put out the fire in a wing of their house, in order to save the main part. I too held the hose that drew water from the nearby stream. Suddenly, on the street above, I saw Ettore appear, with his knapsack on his shoulders. I blinked my eyes, thinking I was dreaming. Then I thought that, having heard the news about what had happened in Meana, worried about us, he had turned back, perhaps on foot. “What are you doing here?” I confronted him. “Why have you come back?” “I have not come back,” he answered with his usual composure, “because I never left.”

    In the morning, at the station, they had stopped him together with about a dozen other departing travelers and, forming them into columns with the cows and the mules, they had brought them to Campo del Carro. They had passed in front of the Municipio, and they had seen the one who was hanged still hanging, with the bunch of flowers at his feet that no one had the courage to remove. Then they had shut all of them in the courtyard of a house to examine their papers and their gear. Ettore’s papers are exemplary. “What do you have in your knapsack?” they asked while they opened it. “Dirty laundry,” answered Ettore. “Lovely dirty laundry,” commented the German, unfolding my mother’s beautiful embroidered tablecloths, but then they shoved them back into the knapsack, and did not say anything more.

    Then a sergeant approached Ettore (my husband’s appearance is reassuring to everyone, even the Germans) to entrust him with the charge of accompanying a small herd of animals up to the station. But seeing that a mountain dweller, who was among those who were stopped with him, had winked, Ettore was able to get out of the task with the pretext, which was very true, that he had no experience with animals. The mountain dweller then offered himself enthusiastically. Yes, he had experience with animals, so much so that, yelling, clamoring, and feigning the greatest zeal, he was able to scatter them into the surrounding woods before they reached their destination. I think that these are the only animals remaining in the entire town.

    When he was finally released, he was about to set out toward the house when he saw Willy arriving between two Germans. “Leave him with me, I will watch this one,” said a Fascist, taking him into his custody. The words were not very promising, but for the moment the one who had pronounced them confined himself to having the prisoner sit down on the steps of the tobacco shop. Ettore had left him there, after having furnished him with cigarettes.

    At home, we found Paolo and Mario. From the height of the Truc they had seen the houses burning and the animals being taken away. (Paolo told me afterward about the anguish of Mario, who had raised his arms to the heavens, with a gesture of impotent anger, crying “Have mercy! Have mercy!”) Then they had climbed up to the Montabone, where they had seen the Germans leaving, and returned home.

    They had just finished telling the story when Willy appeared. Even he had been able to get away. Taking advantage of the momentary absentmindedness of his guardian, he had entered the store of the tobacconist, then gone through to the back room, and then out into the courtyard, from there into the fields, and onto a deserted street. No one had run after him.

    Relieved of worry for him as well, we, all together, had that half hour of euphoria that always follows an escape from danger. Later I went down to Cantalupo, which had remained miraculously unharmed, perhaps because of all of the villages it is the one that looks the poorest, and which does not offer an opportunity for any spoils. Filomena accompanied me onto her threshing floor, where she showed me, from above, the houses that were burning below, near the station. She was crying, even if her house, even if her family were all safe. As at other times before, I had the profound sense of a fundamental fraternity.

9 August. After the preposterous blazing sun of the other day, it has been raining nonstop for two days, and the dense rain is raging on the barren ruins.

    The Germans returned two times, not to carry out general actions but with the specific purpose of taking away someone who evidently had been denounced. Therefore spies do exist, but not here in Susa, and they do not know my family or me. The men who were arrested—who probably will be brought to Germany—are not partisans but poor, harmless people, among whom is a widower, the father of five children. Evidently it is a question of a private vendetta.

    The young boy who was wounded, who had been handed over to the Germans by the priest, was hung yesterday from the balcony of his house in Santa Petronilla. The voluntary surrender and his physical condition did not matter. The brutes had not spared him, but while he was dying, he cried: “Long live the partisans!” The foolish priest has disappeared. If he holds his life dear, he will not be seen again in these parts.

    Today I was in Susa, where, however, I was not able to find Ferrero. The Germans have gone away. The roundup is over. There is no precise news from the Chisone Valley yet, but it appears that there was a huge amount of damage there also.

    Now it will be necessary to take an approximate census of those who suffered damages in Meana, and then provide some help, however modest, to those who are in the worst shape.

    When I returned from Susa, I found a girl at my house, a cousin of Walter Fontan, who calls herself Walter too, a sort of showy beauty, with long, windswept hair and polished nails the color of blood. Yet she had both good will and courage. It was she who had helped almost all the Russians and Czechs escape from the railroad station.

    Today the radio said that the Allies have liberated Florence.

11 August. They hanged Jervis. They arrested him in the Germanasca during the first days of March. Since that time there was a constant alternating of highs and lows, anguish and hope. At various times they had announced the imminent shooting. Then it appeared that they would free him, exchange him. Our men did everything they could to save him. But it was useless. They had killed him with some others. Nearby, on the ground, they found a page of his Bible on which at the last minute he had written words of comfort, incitement, and faith. Giorgio has been profoundly struck by it. “In addition to the rest, for me he has also been a friend,” he told me, and his voice, usually so firm and ironic, was trembling. I do not know his wife, but I know that she is a strong and intelligent woman. He had three children.

    Today I received news of Marisa Scala’s arrest. It appears that already for some time now they have kept watch on her and followed her. Since she has come to my house several times, we cannot rule this out as a reason for the visit of the police a few days ago. Now she is in Via Asti.³⁰

    This evening, when I arrived in Meana, Paolo and Cesare came to meet me on the shortcut, having arrived today after an adventurous flight from the Chisone Valley. The roundup had been severe and crushing even if not particularly brutal, more like a real and true war than a “manhunt.” Then there were the reprisals against the civilian population. The partisans, those that could, scattered here and there, in compliance with guerrilla tactics. Marcellin, with a good part of his men and weapons, has retreated into the Troncea Valley, where the Germans are still hot on his heels with nonstop raids. They put the dogs into action, and it is these that they fear the most. Cesare, who is at the Triplex, has come up with others who have stopped at various places in the valley. He preferred not to go down to Oulx, where everyone knows him. He arrived here by way of Frais (where, half dressed as a soldier, he passed near a company of Fascists who did not say anything to him), safe and sound and just a little hungry.

13 August. Finally Maddalena succeeded in having me meet with Laghi.³¹ We had a long meeting yesterday, in a wooded area near Urbiano Superiore. He seems to be a capable man, even if he has a healthy (!), very bourgeois fear of the word “politics.” I do not believe that he understands the fundamental motives of our war, and our ideals horrify him. Nevertheless he fights the war and pays generously with his person (and also with his purse). Basically he has no liability other than being Jewish and, like thousands of others, he could have very well hidden in some cozy little corner, something that his money would have amply facilitated. Instead, he preferred to throw himself into the fray and organize a group of partisans in the Lanzo Valley. He resisted the roundups, passed by here with his men, and got a new group together. He goes on, and does not give up. All this renders him profoundly respectable. But he let off a lot of steam against Ferrero overtly, accusing him of having left him without money and without connections. I do not want to formulate rash judgments, but I am afraid that, for the most part, he is right. I promised him that from now on I would be in contact with him directly, and that as soon as possible I would bring Valle or someone else up in order to determine the position of his group within the general framework of the Piedmontese Regional Military Command.

    At first he seemed a bit suspicious. “I do not want to be involved in politics,” he continued to protest. I explained to him that in fact taking part in the GL formations did not signify joining a political party, either for himself or for his men. In the end he seemed convinced, and lapsed into confidences and sentiment. He recalled old memories and showed me a picture of his two children, who were very good-looking. The little girl’s name was Stellina, and he wanted to name his formation “Stellina.” “I would like to keep the name,” he told me. I reassured him. Why change it? “Stellina,” beyond being dear to him, is a name with good fortune. I left him reassured and convinced.³²

15 August. This morning Radio London gave us the news of the landing in Provence.

    I do not want to attach too much importance to the matter, but certainly the battle, and with it the liberation, is approaching. What if it truly is the end? What if we do not have to face another winter of occupation?

    We must calm down. We must not get our hopes up too much. The events of war do not depend on us. Rather, let’s think about what we must do here. No matter how it goes, the most difficult, the hardest, has yet to come.

17 August. Yesterday, in Turin, seven alarms, and long trips, too many to count. I found Alberto Salmoni, he too having returned adventurously from the Chisone Valley. Even Bianca had her turn at a great adventure. When she went to Fenestrelle to see him, she had found herself in the midst of the roundup. In order to justify her presence and keep them from arresting her, the owner of the hotel had her pass for a temporary waitress who had taken over for the season. For three days, that is until they left, poor Bianca had to serve dinner and pour drinks for the Fascists and the Germans. Now Alberto would like to come with us into the Susa Valley.

    I found Valle, and reported my meeting with Laghi to him. He will go up the day after tomorrow and I will accompany him to Urbiano.

18 August. This morning the weather was lovely. It was like living in a world that was all green, blue, and gold. On the other hand, from a material point of view, the situation was rather bleak because, since the flour had not arrived, there was not a crumb of bread in the entire town. What was more, there was no electricity. Therefore we had to light the fire and cook potatoes and polenta all the time.

    Judge Pratis, a colleague of Giorgio and Sandro whose wife was in Susa, came to notify me that Maddalena was arrested, but it also seems that, given the very clever person she is, she already was able to escape.³³

    In the afternoon I went to Urbiano. I wanted to see Laghi, notify him of Valle’s arrival, and make the final arrangements. But without Maddalena’s valuable help, the matter was quite complicated. Laghi was not at Urbiano. Now he has gone up as far as Braida, a small group of grange where a type of headquarters exists, or so it seems. But even there I had to wait a while, because he was interrogating two loose girls, inhabitants of Urbiano suspected of espionage. The mother, who had also been taken away, waited with me, sharing confidences with me in the meantime. In fact her daughters were not spies. They went with the men (she said it just like this), and what was so bad about it? Girls were made for this purpose. First there were the Germans and the Fascists, and they went with them. Now they were very willing to go with the partisans. They really were not doing anything bad.

    After a while I saw the two girls arrive, accompanied by two partisans and by Laghi in person. The search that had been carried out at their house in the meantime had produced negative results, and they released them. “They are not spies,” commented Laghi, “but girls without principles. Without precise political ideas,” he emphasized maliciously.

    We spoke briefly. Then two boys accompanied me to Urbiano, teaching me a useful shortcut.

19 August. Willy and Martino, whom I had summoned, arrived early. The representatives of various groups of our partisans met together in a woods that was not too far away. We waited for Valle, who arrived at noon, by car, with Sartirana and Grassini.³⁴ I already knew that Sartirana, the ex-mayor of Turin, was working with us, but it still made me laugh a little to see him at my house in Meana, in the clothes of a conspirator. Given the hour, despite my misgivings, I invited him to dinner with Grassini. He did not accept, saying that he would stop at La Giaconera, near Borgone, a place that I did not know, but that, so it seems, the gourmets knew. Evidently he made the right decision, because my meal, which ordinarily I put together as best I could, was not anything special, and I had the impression that not even Valle was very satisfied. He lit up for an instant when I announced dessert, but it was my usual dessert, made with a glass of yellow flour, one of white flour, one of milk and one of jam, without eggs and sugar. He ate a slice. “Do you like it?” I asked him. “Oh yes, it is nutriente (nutritious),” he answered. He refused to have more.

    Then, after dinner, a long conversation with Martino and Willy. It was a question of entrusting the command of the Mattie and Meana groups to Martino, who had proven himself extremely well during the roundup, and who has the necessary experience and authority, while giving Willy the duty of official liaison between the various groups and those of the Command instead.

    The Meanese problem was solved with the agreement between Willy and Martino, but the much more serious and difficult problem of the Susa and Moncenisio partisan bands remained. We needed to find a general commander who could not be Ferrero, since by now Laghi refused to have anything to do with him, and who on the other hand is too problematic. Nor could it be Laghi, who could not move from one part of the Valley to another and who, being on the slopes of the Rocciamelone, would find it difficult to remain in contact with the other groups. It was necessary to find a trustworthy person who was composed, not too willing to compromise, new, and therefore a stranger to the quarrels that naturally existed among the local groups. Finding him would not be easy. For a long time we racked our brains until Valle thought of one of his acquaintances, the land surveyor Chiapusso, a reserve captain employed at Cotonificio Val Susa who had, according to him, all the necessary qualities. It was a question of finding him and convincing him.³⁵

    The two of us went down to Susa on Mario’s bicycle. After some research, we found the surveyor and explained the situation to him. He did not refuse, even if he did not seem enthusiastic. He explained his family situation, and imposed specific limitations on his possible activities. I liked him precisely for this moderation, this restraint, this not wanting to promise too much. We explained to him that his function would be essentially that of coordinator, and mediator. Martino on one side and Laghi on the other would take care of what is more properly known as action. His responsibility would be to represent an authority that everyone recognizes voluntarily, and that does not irritate anyone. After we clarified the situation, he accepted. At the end of the meeting, he had joined our “staff” with the name “Captain Longo.”

    Then Valle and I returned to Meana, partly on foot and partly by bicycle, as satisfied as if we had squared the circle. In reality, we had resolved, at least for the moment, a problem that seemed insoluble.

    At home, Valle saw still more of our partisans, and conversed with them for a long time. His visit, his words, the sense that he was concerned about them, that an organization existed, and that this organization functioned, reassured, satisfied, and encouraged them.

    Then came a long conversation with Paolo and Cesare about the possibility of groups in the Upper Valley. He approved the plan in general, and advised Paolo and Cesare to go into Martino’s group for a while, to learn more and to be able to choose the individuals best adapted to the formation of new groups. This is very appropriate because of the fact that their stay here, in this town, can be dangerous, with the incessant movement and coming and going of armed partisans.

    After supper, we wrote down and then typed the first report on the situation here for the Turin Command.

20 August. Today the “Stellina Division of Giustizia e Libertà” was born. It was not an easy thing to bring into existence. For around five hours, from eleven o’clock in the morning to four o’clock in the afternoon, Valle and I took turns listening to and countering Laghi, who talked almost uninterruptedly—an outburst against Ferrero, apolitical concerns, declarations of honesty and patriotic conviction, and the recalling of memories. Evidently he likes to hear himself talk. On the other hand, it is difficult to make him conclude. With admirable patience and diplomacy, Valle succeeded. But there was a moment when I truly believed that he would lose his patience and spoil everything. For my part, since by this time I was beat, I threw myself down on the meadow and closed my eyes. Fortunately, right at that point, I heard shooting from the area of Chianoc. It was a false alarm, but it served to break the spell. A short time later, laboriously, they were able to conclude and even outline the act of incorporation of the division, saving what was important, ceding on the secondary points, and leaving the beloved name of “Stellina” on the formation.

    The meeting took place at Braida. There is another base, higher up, at the hamlet of Micoletto, and another, even higher up, at Mompantero Vecchio, a short distance from the Colle della Croce di Ferro. I was able to appreciate the organization, which is fundamentally good, quite a bit better than the other day, when I had arrived in passing. Here we detect the hand of the man of experience, the businessman. An orderly room and an intendant’s office, however rudimentary, are there. The rapport with the local organization is excellent, and supplies ensured. They have sufficient bread, flour, meat, and potatoes. The boys are good, nice, and on the whole seem to have affection for Laghi, who treats them with a certain tone that is half gentle and half authoritative, a bit like a parish priest and a bit like a teacher. Certainly it is an unusual formation, different from all the others. Nevertheless, it will be necessary to teach them some politics, a little at a time. Adjusting to the general tone, I said with a mischievous air that I was leaving, as if I was promising sweets to children if they were good, and that the next time I would bring a few newspapers. Laghi did not seem enthusiastic, but he did not dare say no.

    When we returned to Meana, more tired from the chatter than from the road, we found the house full of people: Cesare’s family, Anna and Paola Jarre, and Ferrero, who, probably having learned of the presence of Valle, just this once had come without making us look for him. This was clearly another delicate operation: explaining the new situation to Ferrero, and making him swallow without too much pouting his demotion from independent leader to being under the orders of “Captain Longo.” I confess that I felt faint of heart at the thought of this new battle. I said hurriedly to Valle “I really do not feel like doing this. You attend to it.” So in a cowardly way, even if with a very radiant and hospitable smile, I sent them together into my room. I left Cesare in Paolo’s room in the arms of his family, and I took refuge in the kitchen to prepare tea with Paolo, Ettore, and the Jarre sisters. When I entered the room where I had left Valle and Ferrero with two propitiatory cups in my hands, I thought I would find them in who knows what state of heated discussion. Instead I saw them thrown across the bed, talking placidly, in a friendly fashion. From the expression on Valle’s face I understood that the operation had been accomplished, and the tooth extracted without too much pain. Even if he felt some resentment, Ferrero is too polite to show it openly.

    At a certain point, the Jarre girls and Cesare’s family left. Instead, Ferrero lingered and seemed to want to stay for dinner. I invited him enthusiastically, knowing quite well how a respite around a table—even one that is not covered with much food—serves to placate spirits and solidify friendships. After a while, Willy and Martino arrived and, in homage to the same considerations, I invited them too. So the eight of us sat for dinner. Certainly it was not a great meal, but everyone was happy just the same. There was an uninterrupted and reciprocal exchange of courtesies and an enthusiastic praising of friends and acquaintances, near and far. Not one criticism, not one bit of gossip. Too good to be true; things that happen only when people have been previously quite well acquainted with one another. Anyhow, it was a true celebration of brotherly love, an orgy of generosity and noble sentiments. And we could not even blame the wine, the great pacifier of discords, because I only offered them fresh water.

    Later other partisans, who had not seen Valle yet and wanted to meet him, arrived. Young Walter, who made a certain impression on him, came too.

    Only late at night, when everyone had gone away, were we able to summarize the work of the day and congratulate each other. (Evidently the atmosphere of the celebration of brotherly love had affected us too.) Then, becoming sober and serious again, we dashed off the report, and we perfected the act of incorporation of “Stellina,” which I will bring to Laghi tomorrow.

21 August. Valle left this morning. Walter arrived almost immediately, very excited. At Campo del Carro, there was a little truck from the Olivero and Fontana transportation firm, which had come to bring back to Turin the belongings of an evacuee, who by now prefers the risk of bombardments to that of retaliatory fire. Why not take the truck? A group of partisans had already gathered, armed, and the matter seemed very easy. I left again immediately with Paolo and Cesare, who returned a little while later. The evacuee had begged them to let him take away his belongings. (He was not a rich gentlemen, but a poor worker, and those few pieces of furniture were all he had.) On the other hand, the driver, showing understanding and sympathy for the partisans, had given them his word that he would return the next day with another truck, not one that had a gazogene converter like this one, but one that ran on gasoline, and was therefore much faster.³⁶ They had let him leave with this promise.

    In the afternoon, I went to Urbiano and handed the act of incorporation over to Laghi. Then when I returned to Susa, I heard them say that the Germans were establishing a command in Meana, which undoubtedly would make life much more complicated and difficult. If they do it soon enough, however. It appears that the Allies are advancing on all fronts.

23 August, Turin. The victories followed one another, nonstop. Radio London continues to give us good news uninterruptedly, just as the raucous voice of the loudspeakers of the regime used to harass us with a series of dismal news in the summer of 1940. Bordeaux, Bucharest, Grenoble, Paris. I felt my heart swell with a joy that was almost painful at the thought of the liberation of Paris. How I had suffered at her fall! It seemed that an entire world had collapsed. Perhaps it truly had collapsed. Today, liberated Paris cannot and must no longer be the Paris of yesterday, the one in whose intellectual atmosphere we had grown up, the one I had desired so much and loved so nostalgically. What will the Paris, or better yet what will the world, be that will come out of the torment of today?

    For the entire night, I stupidly ruminated on these thoughts without being able to close my eyes. I felt an anguish that was almost panic. I am afraid of this tomorrow that will be so different, so hostile perhaps to too many things I had believed in. I understand that it must be so. I am ready to give my life so that it will be so. But will I have the strength to live here, in this “new order” of tomorrow? Will I learn how to remake myself completely—blood, instincts, thoughts, and dreams—so that I will be able to breathe freely in the new atmosphere without feeling like a nostalgic, forlorn survivor?

    This morning I prepared clothing for Paolo and Cesare, because they will join Martino’s partisan band tomorrow. Then I went down to the station to go to Turin. But the trains did not leave. With the approach of the war’s front (for two days we could hear the cannons boom from the other side of the Alps), bombardments of the lines of communication are more and more frequent, and the railroad has ceased to function.

    Then I went down to Susa, where I took Silvana’s bicycle and left.³⁷ The alarms followed one another, and the bombardments echoed among the mountains. At Borgone, I had to make a detour because the bridge had been blown up. I saw the holes on the road and in the nearby fields that the bombs had produced. Suddenly the airplanes swooped and the people threw themselves down on the grass to hide. I continued foolishly, unperturbed, without ever getting off the bicycle. As always happens when I do not pay attention to something dangerous, I arrived in Turin unharmed.

26 August, Meana. Pillo, who decided to come into the mountains with us, arrived in Rivoli on the tram, which fortunately is functioning again. Ettore and I followed by bicycle, between an unrelenting alternation of torrents of rain and pale clear spots. From Sant’Antonino on up, we began to encounter trucks loaded with Germans and with French pétainistes, evidently fleeing ahead of the pursuit of the Allies.³⁸ Naturally the situation made me rejoice, but the unusual movement on the main road worried me. I was afraid that surveillance would be increased and that Pillo’s youthfulness would make someone suspicious, but no one said anything. Only between Bruzolo and Bussoleno, at the height of the bridge that had been blown up by the partisans, around which there were squads of Germans and Fascists working, did a German noncommissioned officer yell something incomprehensible at us, accompanied by threatening gestures. Perhaps he wanted us to stop and work with them. We continued unmoved, without either speeding up or slowing down and without responding, as if we had not understood that he was talking to us. No one took the trouble to follow us.

    Having arrived happily in Meana, we found Paolo and Cesare, who had come down to get weapons and other things. I was happy about it, even if the presence of the three boys in the house was basically not very prudent.

    In the afternoon I went to Urbiano with money and letters for Laghi, but I was not able to see him. His group has been attacked by fascist forces (they say there are three hundred men) commanded by Germans. They were fighting in Sevine. To try to reach the place of the battle was useless, and what is more, unwise. Therefore I waited in the vicinity of Urbiano, in anticipation that someone would come down. But I did not see anything. Nevertheless, we could hear shooting from time to time. After a while, having made arrangements with one of Longo’s cousins, I decided to return home.

28 August. While I went down to Urbiano twice yesterday, I was not able to learn anything precise. They were saying the strangest, vaguest, and most contradictory things. Everyone was dead, the Fascists had been made prisoners, no one had returned any longer, and the Germans were preparing to send reinforcements. But, I do not know why, I had the impression that things had not gone so badly. In fact this morning Silvio came to my house with excellent news.

    On Saturday afternoon a squad of partisans, on guard near Urbiano, had seen the Fascists (around two hundred men under the command of German officers) set out in force up the mountain. They had anticipated them, warning Laghi and the other groups that were higher up. These groups were placed strategically and were able to surround the enemy, who, without becoming aware of their movements, had established themselves in the Grange Sevine. The partisans were fewer in number than the Fascists, and much more poorly armed. Laghi had sent a staffetta to ask the Garibaldini groups from Chianoc for help, but he attacked without waiting for them. The problem consisted of forcing the Fascists to surrender without entering into open battle with them wherein, besides the inferiority of our men, there would have been grave danger to the families of the mountain folk (almost all women and children), whom the Fascists had shut in the grange with themselves, and whom they certainly would not have hesitated to use as a defense and a shield. With some shots opportunely fired and some shrewd movements, Laghi was able to make the enemy believe that the attacking forces were much more superior than they were in reality. There were angry negotiations, orders, and counterorders, and dramatic moments, but in the end they obtained the surrender. They only gave a few Germans permission to leave. The Fascists were all taken prisoner. When the Garibaldini arrived, everything was over. They only helped to sort out the prisoners and the weapons. The booty must have been sizeable, and it would be a very good thing if Laghi had given us some automatic weapons, which we lack entirely, and which are indispensable for any isolated attack or act of sabotage.

    I wrote to Laghi about this, and I delivered the letter to the very trustworthy Silvio, along with the communications from Turin.³⁹ Naturally for now the partisans had not returned to their usual bases, but were scattered here and there. It appears that Laghi is in the vicinity of Mompantero Vecchio.

    Then I gave a hand to the boys who have been creating a little newspaper for two days (typed, of course) under the title Tempi Nuovi (New Times). It gives news of the war and of the partisan situation, and tries to explain, in terms that are simple and accessible, the reasons for the war, and also what must be done tomorrow so that today’s sacrifice will not be in vain. In the evening, they posted them in the various villages, and up until now no one has dared to tear them down. This evening I went with Paolo to post them in isolated and forgotten Arnodera as well. Then I went to look for Marcella, whose house and belongings had been burned and who has two small children, and I brought her a little aid from the Gruppi di difesa, which she welcomed with grateful enthusiasm, pointing out to me other houses similar to hers, which I promised to provide for. The lack of any detestable greed on the part of these people was remarkable. They accepted the help with gratitude, but without any obsequiousness, and above all without egotism. They think of others as well. “We were created to help one another,” they say.

29 August, Turin. The boys have left, and I prepared for the usual thorough cleaning, right in the midst of which Pratis surprised me, disheveled and dirty, with the latest news. This confirmed the earlier news, which they are already calling “The Battle of the Sevine” in the valley, even if in reality it was not a great battle.

    Walter came also to call Ettore, who returned a short while later with an amazing piece of news. The driver from Olivero and Fontana had arrived with the truck that runs on gasoline to hand it over to the partisans. He had kept his promise.

    Then, having left by bicycle and having found a train in Condove, we reached Turin without any mishaps.

31 August. Many women, many men. In order not to travel so much on foot, I have resurrected my old bicycle and even use it for Turin, though I do not have permission for it. If they sequester it from me, I will not lose anything important. I found Valle again and, besides giving him the latest news, introduced him to Alberto, who would come into the mountains with us.

1 September, Meana. My use of my bicycle in the city was of short duration. Following an attempt yesterday that someone on a bicycle carried out against a German soldier, bicycle traffic has been prohibited.

    Today, Ettore and I had to leave for Meana with Alberto, and since in the best of hypotheses the train would only go as far as Sant’Antonino, we had to take the bicycles. But how to bring them to the station? The only solution was to transport them in a handcart. For this Espedita’s father gave us a helping hand.

    In Sant’Antonino, when we got off the train, we mounted the bicycles and arrived in Meana, which was already dark. We thought we would find the house empty, and instead there were the boys, in excellent spirits. In agreement with Martino, they had decided to move into the Valley to form the famous local groups there. Cesare knows the individuals from the Susa Valley who had gone with Marcellin, and who now in all probability were prudently hidden at home. Alberto’s arrival was welcomed with joy. He too knows Marcellin’s men; he was a captain in their formations. His presence will be very useful, not to mention the fact that, since he is a little older than the others (he was born in 1918), he can have the necessary authority over everyone. They continued to make plans for the entire evening.

2 September. Today I accomplished a modest undertaking, which is nonetheless one after my own heart.

    This morning Silvio came with a letter from Laghi, who, while he gave me a receipt for the money and letters I had sent to him, communicated to me that he had left a Tommy gun in Braida for our group. Truly we had hoped for more, but a Tommy gun is still valuable. Therefore I decided to go and get it in the afternoon. Bringing it from one place to another in the Valley, through Susa, represented a problem, but I knew that one way or another we would resolve it.

    At Braida, which we reached through the pouring rain, there was a group of partisans, created from the most audacious and trustworthy of the entire formation, among whom was the exceptional, honest, and level-headed Carletto from Exilles, and a handsome agreeable fellow with a bandaged head that the others call “Testa ’d gis.”⁴⁰ They were a bit annoyed by the order to hand over the Tommy gun to me (the almost amorous jealousy that these boys have for their weapons is strange), but when the two of them recognized me as the mother of Paolo—with whom they had participated last autumn in the failed attempt to blow up the bridge at Exilles—and learned that the Tommy gun was for him, the distrust streaked with rancor changed into enthusiastic consensus. If they had dared, perhaps they would have given me something else. Nevertheless, they promised me my own personal revolver.

    Meanwhile Ettore dismantled the weapon as best he could, but the barrel was still terribly long and difficult to hide. Luckily, given the rain, I had the famous “Loden” cape on my shoulders, which had been the joy and pride of my adolescence. I could hide the Tommy gun under there, but the cape was short and the bottom stuck out of it. I also had an old cloth purse, which I usually use for shopping. I shoved the bottom in it, thus covering up the part that stuck out from the cape, and as the partisans crossed their fingers, we left.

    At the entrance to Susa, I sent Ettore ahead so that he could give me a sign if he saw anything worrisome. I followed him at some distance. We passed in front of the barracks, the cafe full of Germans, and the checkpoints, until we reached the shortcut for Meana with a sigh of relief. I had just gone beyond the turn that then hid me from the eyes of the last Germans on guard when, perhaps because I was anxious to go faster, I slipped in the mud and slid clumsily. The perforated barrel of the Tommy gun came out at least an inch, tearing my precious cape at the shoulder. I looked around. The vineyards were deserted. I could not help but think about what would have happened if I had slipped two minutes before. The boys certainly would not have had their Tommy gun, and it would have been a real shame, given the joy with which they had welcomed it and had begun to clean it and watch over it!

    When I got home, I washed off the mud and fixed the Loden garment as best I could. After dinner, they made precise plans. Tomorrow morning, Cesare and Pillo will go to Casette and bring newspapers and other things and make the final arrangements. But Paolo and Alberto will go to conduct an inspection along the railroad to look for the most suitable place to derail the military train while it is in transit during the night. After they make the strike, they will head in the direction of the Upper Valley at dawn. Next Saturday one of them will return here to give and receive news, if possible. If not, they will notify us and we will go to meet them.

    Overall the news is good. The Allies have broken through the Gothic line.

4 September. Yesterday I went back and forth to Susa several times to do various errands, and when I returned home, I found that the boys had already eaten dinner and Paolo was washing his feet. “Caught in the act!” commented Alberto jokingly.

    It had gotten dark by now and soon we left with the new Tommy gun and what was necessary for derailing the train. We did not know exactly at what hour it would pass, but by now it was certain that no more civilian trains would pass by before dawn. We had to make the preparations quickly in order not to miss the strike.

    Having reached the point that Paolo and Alberto had chosen the other morning, near Crossing Keeper’s Cabin Number 40, Cesare and Pillo stood guard with weapons at the two opposite sides. In the meantime, I kept watch on the path that came out of the woods. The moonlight was splendid, even too splendid for us. The stretch of railroad was isolated between two tunnels and above an escarpment, but at any moment, on one side of the tunnel or the other, a patrol of Germans on an inspection tour could appear. I gave a start more than once when I noticed a shadow, which turned out to be that of a tree moved by the wind, or heard the rustling of a wild animal. After a few minutes, which seemed eternal to me, the work was finished, and I saw Alberto and Paolo approaching, whom Pillo and Cesare joined immediately. Together we withdrew to the shadow of the nearby woods, where we could overlook the street without being seen, in expectation.

    We stretched out on the ground. I curled up with Paolo in his long cloak. I felt so secure and happy next to him, and there was a silence in the night that was so sweet that I forgot the anxiety of what was about to happen and I dozed off easily. When I awoke the moon had set and the sky was full of stars. Suddenly I saw one fall, furrowing the sky with a streak of light. I thought of a wish to make: that the strike go well, and that the boys be able to form partisan bands....Today we can only wish and hope for these little things, specific and immediate. We do not have the courage—perhaps due to a kind of superstition—to hope for big and important things: the end of the war, the safety of people dear to us... .

    Paolo pulled himself up to sit down (it was his movement that awakened me), and I felt a heightened tension in him. I pricked up my ears too, and seemed to hear something like a roar approaching. “The train?” I asked in a whisper. “No, they are cars,” answered Paolo. Meanwhile even the others had moved. The roar of the motors was strong and distinct by now. Prudently we came out at the escarpment. On the street right under us a line of trucks loaded with Germans that had come from Oulx was advancing. Their excited, guttural voices reached us through the nocturnal silence. “They are going away, the Allies are advancing! I said softly with a mixed sense of apprehension and joy. “Um!” said Paolo, dubious.

    I looked at my watch. It was two o’clock, and useless for so many of us to remain on guard. Alberto and Paolo would stay. Cesare and Pillo would come home with me and at dawn they would move, with their knapsacks, into the vicinity of Fontanino where, after the train passed, the other two would join them. Together they would leave for the Upper Valley, without returning to the house any more.

    I set out through the woods and vineyards with Pillo and Cesare. Suddenly Cesare disappeared, but he rejoined us quickly with his hands filled with bunches of grapes. “They are already ripe!” he said in a tone of boyish satisfaction.

    At home, I had just gone to sleep when I awakened all of a sudden. I thought I heard the same strange enemy voices that I had heard a little while ago from the height of the railroad. Had it been a dream? No, because Ettore had heard them too. Without turning on the light, I left the door ajar and peeped prudently. On the meadow in front of the house, dark forms were stirring and sharp orders could be heard, as well as the clamor of weapons and materiel. Evidently it was a question of a company of Germans who must have come to Meana to pitch camp for the night, as they had warned me in Susa in the afternoon. Who could imagine that, with so many places, they would come right under the windows of my house?

    The situation was not pleasant. Certainly the Germans had not come for us, but at any moment they could come into the house on any pretext, however innocent. What would happen if they found the two boys with their knapsacks ready, and filled with hand grenades, fuses, and explosives? The most rudimentary prudence forced us to send them away immediately. I awakened them very gently, trying not to frighten them, but they were far from being frightened! They were so profoundly immersed in the blessed sleep of those of their age that it took me a good five minutes to force them to open their eyes and explain to them that they had to leave. Pillo fell back to sleep three times. Cesare began to moan and complain that he had a stomach ache. “You ate too many unripe grapes!” I told him, “but now is not the time to feel sick.” Thank God they woke up, got dressed, and took their knapsacks, still with the dreamy, automatic movements of children who were forced to get up earlier than usual, which gave me a feeling of tender pain. Then silently they went out on the terrace, and from there they jumped into the meadow opposite the one where the Germans were. Ettore lowered the four knapsacks and then he too went down with them. “They are too loaded down and too sleepy,” he said. “I would rather bring them to safety.” He returned quite soon, after having accompanied them to Fontanino, and having left them to continue to sleep in a dismantled grangia.

    After a few hours, the Germans cleared away the camp and left. What they had come to do, I do not know.

    This morning, while I was going down to Susa, I heard the alarm wail and the airplanes buzz. Immediately the German antiaircraft battery, placed near the shortcut, began to shoot furiously. But soon I also heard stronger explosions, very close by. The airplanes were bombing. As soon as the antiaircraft battery quieted for a moment, I got back on the road and, when I reached Susa, the alarm was practically over. It was the first time that they had actually bombed and, after they heard the alarm, the people, accustomed to seeing the airplanes pass without worrying about them, had panicked a little. But the dominant sentiment was bitterness toward the Germans. If there had not been antiaircraft fire, they would not have bombed, they said, and they were not wrong. In reality there was not much damage. The bombs had fallen mostly in the fields. Susa is not an interesting target, being cut off from the principal railroad line of Modane, and its industries (Assa and Cotonificio) serve little purpose for the war.⁴¹

    Then I went down to Braida to the home of Laghi, whom I had not seen since the “Battle of the Sevine,” and with him I put together laboriously, with frequent interruptions, a report to bring to Turin. When I was about to leave with the precious booty (around a dozen typed pages), Carletto ran after me to hand over the revolver he had promised me the other day, a Beretta for which, with touching thoughtfulness, they had made a coarse case out of leather.

6 September, Turin. Today, between one trip and another, a strange telephone call from Valle. I ran to the appointment. A friend had warned him that a denunciation regarding my activities in Meana and Susa had arrived at the police headquarters in Vercelli. The person is well informed because in the denunciation it also mentions my relationship with Jarre and Barberis, albeit with misspelled names. I truly do not understand who it could be. Furthermore, why at Vercelli? Had the same denunciation arrived at the police headquarters in Turin? I do not believe so, because probably I would have known. Nevertheless, it is something old, and the alarm does not seem to me to be such that it will constrain me from leaving the house. At worst I will try to have people come as little as possible.

9 September, Meana. This morning I got off the train at Sant’Antonino, where we had to solve a difficult problem. There were four of us: Bianca, Paola Jarre, Ettore, and I, and we had only three bicycles. After a careful examination of the situation, Ettore attached his very heavy knapsack onto Paola’s shoulders and carried Bianca on the bar of his own bicycle.

    The trip was agreeable. Twenty-five kilometers on the bar are not very comfortable, and Bianca tried to soften the improvised seat by adding a pair of pants that she was bringing to Alberto. Thus from time to time Ettore reached out his hand to see if she was still there and said laughing, “I wanted to see if you still had the pants.” The sun was hot, which made him sweat profusely. Paola was also sweating, with the heavy knapsack. I, who was carrying only myself and a modest little knapsack, was sweating too. Bianca was not sweaty but sore, but this did not prevent her from keeping herself happy the entire time with little stories and songs.

    At home no one was there. Right after dinner, I went down to Susa and back up to Urbiano, but was not able to find Laghi. At Braida they told me that he was at Micoletto. At Micoletto they were expecting him at any moment; he had gone to a meeting with the Garibaldini bands of Chianoc. I waited for him for another two hours, entertaining myself with the boys in the meantime. (There was also a German prisoner, Walter, who seemed very happy to stay with the partisans.) Then I decided to leave and return the next day.

    At Susa I went to look for Ferrero, whom I had not seen since the evening of the celebration of brotherly love. By means of the mysterious gestures of his relatives, I think I learned that he had left to carry out the sabotage at the bridge at Villafranca d’Asti, which he had been thinking about for some time.

    When I went back up to Meana, with joy and relief I found Paolo and Alberto, satisfied with the work they had accomplished. After they left here, after they had notified Gran Prà, they arrived at the Grange del Seuil, where Cesare was determined to find a certain Carnino, a partisan with him in the Chisone Valley, who had to be the way to find all the others again. Therefore they headed for his grangia, where they found his father and mother. They swore that they did not know the young man they were talking about at all; on the contrary, they had never even heard his name. While they were talking like this, they saw several young men approaching, with guns aimed. But quite quickly one of them threw his gun away and hurried to embrace Cesare: it was Carnino himself, the young man that the father and mother said they did not know. The misunderstanding was cleared up quickly. “My” Tommy gun, with which Paolo had decked himself, had made them be mistaken for Fascists who had come to drive out the partisans. Hence the negative responses of the parents, while the young men, who had quickly gone into the garden, got ready to attack the “enemy.” When they recognized Cesare and all fear disappeared, everything was immediately “joy and festivity.” They offered them something to eat and a place to sleep, and gave them the information they requested. As predicted, the local partisans, when they returned from the Chisone Valley, had hidden their own weapons with jealous care, and were waiting for a good time to reorganize. Therefore they welcomed the idea of constructing a group under the command of Cesare and his friends enthusiastically.

    Having gotten off to a good start like this, in the last few days they had truly worked quickly and well. They had found a headquarters in the Gran Bosco between Salbertrand and Oulx, not too comfortable judging from the descriptions, but quite safe. They had personally gone to look for the scattered partisans one by one, and they had reunited and organized them. The group is virtually formed. The weapons are sufficient. Providing foodstuffs, being a matter of local items, does not seem to be difficult. Extensive opportunities for action are opening before them.

10 September. I went to Laghi’s with Paolo, who wanted to report to him about the work he had accomplished, and announce the construction of a new group that in all respects must be placed within the “staff” of the division. The visit lasted practically all day. Between one conversation and another, people continued to come: businessmen and directors of the factories of Susa, whom Laghi was able to make help him with the reassuring air of a persona per bene (good person). Barberis also came, with whom we discussed the creation of socialist Matteotti partisan groups in the area.⁴²

13 September, Turin. Terrible news. Lisetta was taken in Milan by the Koch Band, and she is in the gloomy country cottage at Via Paolo Uccello where so many dreadful things happen.⁴³ Only two days ago I had received a card in which, with her usual carefree simplicity, she spoke about her life in Milan, the number of cigarettes Vittorio smoked, and the baby she was expecting in three months. Knowing that she is in those hands is frightful.

15 September. News from Lisetta. It appears that up until now they have not done anything serious to her, and that she is behaving stupendously. Despite the threats and the slaps, she did not reveal her own address until she rightly believed that Vittorio had understood, and had gone to a safe place. Nevertheless we do not know what they might do to her from one minute to the next. Certainly it is not a place suitable for a woman in that condition.

    In those days knowing she was in danger made me furious, which resulted in increased activity. I cannot say how many people I saw, and how many steps I took.

16 September, Meana. On the train up to Sant’Antonino, with Ettore; then by bicycle up to Urbiano, and from there on foot up to Micoletto. But Laghi was at Mompantero Vecchio. We were already about to get ready to face a long climb when Giôanin, Maddalena’s brother, arrived, who, according to the orders he received, sent for Laghi and gave us something to eat in the meantime. This Giôanin, whose age is not easily definable—between thirty and forty years old—has a peculiar face, like the people from the Susa Valley, with rough, pronounced facial features like those of the primitive figures of the crèche scene. The constant, unbroken gestures of his very dark eyes and his large, witty mouth accentuate his marionettelike features. Highly devoted to Laghi, he engaged us in a long conversation about the virtues of the commander. Then, winking cunningly, he told us about several tricks he had played on the Germans with his expression of simpleminded kindness.⁴⁴

    Then Laghi arrived, accompanied by Captain Angelini and a lieutenant.⁴⁵ I delivered money, letters, and newspapers in abundance to them, and a good number of badges (“So many red ones!” said Laghi, turning up his nose), and we chatted for a long time.

    Then, having gone down to Susa, I saw Pratis and Barberis, and we climbed up to Meana in the nightfall. Naturally the house was dark and empty. Everything was in order as I had left it: no unmade beds, dirty kitchen utensils, ashes on the table, or clothing in all the corners. I felt an acute nostalgia for the boys, for their noise and their disorder, and for their blessed dirt. But I consoled myself thinking that I would be with them again tomorrow.

19 September, Turin. The day before yesterday, Sunday, having left Susa around ten in the morning, in the rain, we arrived in Oulx after one o’clock, and it was still raining. It took us around double the calculated time, but the incline of more than five hundred meters is quite difficult for me and, especially on certain stretches near Exilles, I was terribly fatigued. Without the frequent help of Ettore, who gave me benevolent “stimuli” in the form of energetic pushes on my back, and who carried my bicycle on stretches where we were forced to go on foot, I do not know if I would have made it.

    Cesare’s father came to accompany us as far as Montfol, where the boys were. It was no longer raining, but the sky was still dark and the atmosphere oppressive and menacing. We had almost arrived when I saw a big bear with a long beard, the hair of a sheep, and a long gun coming to meet us. It was Paolo, whom I almost did not recognize, he was so tanned and seemed so big and bearded. Soon Pillo and Cesare also arrived and, at the end of the climb, in a meadow, there was Alberto, engaged in a discussion with about twenty partisans. The boys quickly brought me up to date on the situation. While they were forming their group, Patria, a young man from Exilles who had been with Marcellin, was doing the same thing.⁴⁶ Now his men had come from Sauze to cart off sugar and other foodstuffs and above all wine from the stores. Naturally our boys, who up until now had not carted off anything—not wanting, until it was absolutely indispensable, to burden the civilian population of the area even minimally—had protested and made them restore the sugar and the rest, but they had encountered great resistance regarding the wine. (For these mountain folk, wine is a fundamental necessity.) It is true that it is a question of wine taken from the hotels, and therefore its loss does not affect individual families. But then, our partisans objected, if this wine is confiscated, we who are from the area should take it, not you who come from the outside. And so the animated discussion over this point dragged on. When he saw us, Alberto called Ettore for help, relying on his dignified appearance, on his eyeglasses, and above all on the mysterious authority with which he clothed him, introducing him as an emissary from the “Turin Committee.”

    We left the two of them in the clutches of the litigants and, guided by Cesare’s father, we retired to the shelter of a grangia inhabited by people he knew, and who gave us warm milk and the comfort of a nice fire. The son of the owner of the house, Sergino, a young boy with a face that was intelligent and true, showed us his paintings and drawings. From his observations and conversation, I had the impression that the partisan battle was for him—and, let’s hope, also for the other children from these mountains—a positive experience. Then I took out the newspapers I had brought, and the badges, which were distributed and welcomed immediately, with childlike festivity.

    Then Alberto and Ettore arrived, happy to have resolved the question of the wine to everyone’s satisfaction. I noted that Alberto did not have any shoes, and asked him why. He answered that they hurt him (in fact, they were not his, they were Valle’s shoes, which, God forgive me, I had given him without even asking permission from the owner, seeing that he needed them) and he had entrusted them to a local shoemaker so that he would enlarge them. Meanwhile he traveled through the woods and fields that were drenched with rain with a pair of big socks, which he defined as calze di viaggio (travel socks).

    It had gotten late and begun to rain again. Cesare’s father returned to Oulx and we moved toward Sauze, where, at the Savoia Hotel, we could stop and converse easily. Whoever saw us on that mountain path, in the rain, in the impending evening, would have considered us a strange cortège: Ettore and I with our city clothes, Alberto with his “travel socks,” Cesare with an old Alpine hat and a long Model ’91 gun, Pillo with his torn trousers, limping because of a recent fall, and Paolo with his sheeplike hair and the Tommy gun.

    At Sauze, in the cozy, comfortable room of the Savoia, we examined the situation, which looked good and promising, notwithstanding the creation of the so-called competing group, with whom it is simply a question of maintaining a good rapport and organizing common actions. We penned the act of incorporation of the group—consisting of about thirteen points—which I would type in Oulx the next day, and bring to Laghi and the Turin Command.

    Right then Radio London gave us excellent news: the liberation of Viareggio and the landing in Holland. Unrestrainedly optimistic, I continued to repeat, “You will see that within two weeks, a month at the most, it will be all over, and you can return home.” The boys, even if they were not perfectly convinced, played along with the game. We talked about planning a marvelous Christmas meal, one that would satisfy everyone’s tastes. After this parenthesis of hope, I felt sad that the boys, who had all more or less caught cold or suffered from rheumatism, had to take the street up to Montfol again in the rain, and travel for a long time in the dampness of the Gran Bosco, in order to find their “den” again in the dark, which only Paolo would be able to track, thanks to his mysterious sense of direction. Therefore I convinced the owner of the hotel to let them sleep there too. Certainly it gave them great satisfaction to find, after so many days of the den, real beds with clean linens and embroidered pillowcases with very sweet sayings like Dormi bene (sleep well), Sogni d’oro (dreams of gold), Angelo mio (my angel), or Amore (love), which naturally, the next morning, bore the imprints of their heads, not entirely clean.

    Then yesterday morning, after having had breakfast all together while Radio London broadcast songs (among which were “Amore, amore, amor” and another that had for a refrain “That’s love, love, love”), Ettore and I went down to Oulx. The sky was still dark, but for the moment it was not raining. At Oulx, I went to Attorney Odiard’s place to type the report: a gorgeous old building, with an austere library full of books with eighteenth-century bindings that, notwithstanding my curiosity and nostalgia, I did not even have time to browse.⁴⁷

    When, having finished writing, I returned to Cesare’s house, where Ettore was waiting for me, it was almost noon. We left, but just outside of Oulx one of the tires of my bicycle began to go flat. Even though Ettore reinflated it, it continued to deflate every five minutes, rendering it impossible to go on, so that, after several useless attempts, Ettore carried me on the bar of his bicycle, which he drove with one hand while he towed my bicycle with the other—a very comfortable system of travel and above all very safe on a slope, with brakes that were less than mediocre. At Exilles, notwithstanding our inquiries, we were not able to find either a bicycle repairer or something to eat, nor in Chiomonte, which was chock full of Germans. But there a fellow gave Ettore a small piece of rubber and a little adhesive, with which he began to try to repair the flat tire under a shelter where a German was shaving. I stood next to him to shelter myself (it had begun to rain again in torrents), and in the meantime I looked at the German, who, when he finished shaving, put his razor away, washed the mess tin, and arranged his things with a silent bourgeois orderliness, heedless of the fun some little boys were making of him. Timid at first, then encouraged by his lack of reaction, they grew bolder, becoming obstinate and annoying. “Raus!” the German yelled suddenly with a ferocious voice, and then turned to us laughing. He also had the appearance of an honest man, but I could not return his smile. The children had run away, breaking up, and I felt acute, excessive pain—for their present fear and even more for their subconscious arrogance of a little while before. I thought about Sergino again, and about the other young boys from up there, so openly and simply fraternal with the partisans. I weighed the difference. No, evidently the Occupation was not an educational experience.

    As soon as Ettore had finished repairing the tire, we left, but after a few hundred meters—perhaps it was the fault of the adhesive, of the instruments used, or of who knows what other weird contraption—the tire began to deflate, just like before, and we had no other solution but to resume the not-very-satisfying system we had used previously.

    It was almost four o’clock when we arrived at Susa, dripping wet, starving, and exhausted. In the always secure haven of Teta’s home we found the usual solace. She sent for Pratis and Longo, to whom we handed over the report to bring to Laghi, and to whom I entrusted my bicycle so that they could have it repaired for me.

    Around five o’clock we left again. It was no longer raining, the bicycle was running like a charm, and we truly thought that our adventures were over, at least for the day.

    But no. At Sant’Antonino, we waited for the train for a long time. The cafe at the station was full of Germans, they too waiting for the train. Evidently they had drunk a little too much of the abominable Marsala—the only drink that was available—and under their usual impassive and mechanically ferocious mask, their intimate, raw humanity made its way. They wanted to fraternize with everyone. They offered their bread and their things. They showed photographs of their wives and children. Since there was someone in the room who played a few notes of a tune on the accordion, they wanted him to play, and they began to dance awkwardly among themselves. At a certain point they even began to sing the “Internazionale.” But their gaiety remained without joy, their cordiality without response, as if an invisible barrier of fear and inescapable bitterness kept them isolated.

    It was past eight when someone came to notify us that the train would not leave that evening. By now it was too late to reach Turin by bicycle before the curfew, and yet I really did not feel like spending the night in the station in the company of the Germans. Therefore we decided to continue as far as Condove, where we would ask Sergio’s parents, who had already welcomed me the year before, for hospitality.

    At Condove, we stopped to eat something in an inn where we were obviously the only occasional patrons, and where the owner was in a great hurry to send us away. I do not understand why. We were not even outside the door when we heard the static screeches of a radio with which they were searching for stations. It was the hour for Radio London and they did not want to lose the connection; nor, on the other hand, did they trust listening to it in the presence of two strangers who could be Fascists, agents provocateurs, or spies.

    Sergio’s parents hosted us with simple cordiality. In the morning the odyssey was finally over. It was no longer raining. On the contrary, the sun was just about to come out, and the train brought us punctually to Turin, where I began to see people immediately, among whom was a certain Max, captain of the U.N.P.A., who agreed to represent the Action Party in the Cln of Susa. He seems like a discreet individual, and the U.N.P.A. barracks will be an excellent and safe address.⁴⁸

    Good news. Frida, who was arrested in the Pellice Valley and brought to Via Asti, has been freed. To offset this, bad news. They have arrested Marta, the Communist from the Gruppi di difesa.⁴⁹

20 September, Turin. It rained all day, and I did not have a moment of peace.

    Among other things I went to the Lancia factory, where an employee who was a native of Urbiano wanted to introduce me to a very important man from whom we hope to obtain some financial assistance. To the extent that the Allies are advancing, the industrialists are becoming afraid and are putting their hands in their purses, and it is not bad to take advantage of it.

    At home I found Signora Pajetta, whom I had not seen in many years, since the time when she used to bring her little Gaspare to play with Paolo, who was the same age.⁵⁰ I remember how Paolo used to laugh at the lively mimicking with which she made certain puppets move to amuse him, and how I admired her for the courage and inexorable vitality that made her so serene, notwithstanding her difficulties, pain, and anxiety for her two sons in prison and exile. She still has the same indomitable vitality today, intact, but a veil of inconsolable sadness has fallen upon the laughter of her keen eyes. Little Gaspare, having grown up under his mother’s example, has become a partisan, a hero, and rests forever among the mountains of the Valsesia. His mother, even if she is extraordinarily strong, even if she is supported by a steadfast faith and by her love for her remaining sons, cannot be like she was before. The human simplicity of her sadness, which made us cry when we embraced, has rendered her greater and dearer to me.

    She came to speak to me about the Gruppi di difesa. Her instincts told her that there is something that is not right, that there was a misunderstanding and a kind of antagonism between the representatives of the Communist Party and those of the other parties. She paid me the honor of believing me so little sectarian that I would want to resolve this misunderstanding, and she begged me to go to Milan to meet with the Central Committee of Northern Italy of the Gruppi di difesa, convinced that a solution could emanate from clarification and personal understanding. I too am convinced of it. I will speak with my family, and will go to Milan as soon as possible.

23 September, Meana. Now it is already dark when we leave in the morning. This morning I took advantage of it to attach flyers under the porticos and along the main streets, while I went to the station on foot. I got off the train at Sant’Ambrogio, and we continued the trip with Bianca and Anna and Paola Jarre, this time furnished with a bicycle for each.

    Great movement in the vicinity of San Giorio—checkpoints, a truck, even a panzer.⁵¹ Evidently there was a roundup in progress. We passed by with the maximum aplomb possible, and meanwhile I thought that it would have been a particular disaster if they had followed me, especially because they would have taken the money I was bringing to Laghi. But as usual, no one said anything to me, and one more time I blessed my insignificant appearance—neither blond nor brown haired, neither tall nor short, neither fat nor thin, neither pretty nor ugly—which let me pass unobserved, and which no one remembers. Later I learned that not everyone had been so fortunate. For example, they had opened the knapsack of one person from Meana and searched the pockets carefully, even concentrating doggedly on an innocent box of ersatz coffee. Who knows what they were looking for?

    At the turn for Castel Pietra, a signalman warned us not to go to Susa because they were confiscating all the bicycles. I gave up the quick visit that I intended to make there, and went directly up to Meana.

    Alberto, who was about to carry out an explosion in the Chisone Valley, arrived a little after noon. Marcellin has probably gone to France and the valley was practically empty, without partisans and without Germans. Toward evening Paolo arrived, satisfied with the work he had accomplished lately. Leaving Pillo the task of organizing the group in Sauze, he continued to build a network of contacts in the Upper Valley, at Beaulard, at Château, and at Savoulx. He had found trustworthy and decisive individuals, and the construction of a new group is imminent.

    Then we listened to a speech by Croce that Radio London was broadcasting from Naples. It was emotional to hear his voice again, with the intonations and accent that could not be mistaken. It was like a voice that came from another planet, from another world. Yet we are separated from each other by not more than a few hundred kilometers. Suddenly I felt acute nostalgia for this past, so recent and yet so far away, when we could find consolation for all the bad things surrounding us in the communion of a tight number of souls who formed a kind of safe and secure “spiritual religious group.” What will this spiritual religious group be tomorrow? With what other forces will it be necessary to make agreements or fight?

25 September. Yesterday Paolo and I had one of those small, unbelievable adventures that make me think at times of a cloud of protection truly forming above us that makes us invisible.

    Having gone down to Susa to go together to Laghi’s, at the turn for Urbiano, unexpectedly we were before a Fascist on guard. It was too late to turn back, and therefore we had no other choice but to continue on, talking animatedly. The Fascist watched us, but seemed not to see us, and we were in the middle of a roundup. It must have begun right then. (That is why the people we met while we were walking down had not warned us.) They must have been the same forces we met the day before in the vicinity of San Giorio. It was a roundup on a grand scale—loaded carts and trucks continued to arrive, groups of Fascists were already bedding down in the surrounding fields, and others, with their machine guns, were setting out toward the town.

    Our position was critical. We could not think of being able to reach Laghi, who certainly would not be found in his usual locations. In order to leave, we would have to pass by the guard post again, and nothing would prevent them from stopping us this time. On the other hand, we could not continue to stay there, in the way, Paolo with his face of “1925,” and me with my purse (the usual shopping purse) filled with so many precious and interesting little things. Just in the nick of time I saw a girl from Urbiano, the sister of a partisan, with a basket strapped to her shoulders and the most innocent and “local” appearance that you could imagine. In a loud voice she invited us to gather grapes in her vineyard nearby. Joking and promising a bunch of grapes to the Fascists as well when she returned, she brought us to safety through the vineyard. She gave us the news. As soon as they sighted the Fascists, the staffette had run to warn the partisans, who certainly had gone to safety by now. There were no storehouses for weapons in Urbiano, and they had made it in time to conceal them in Braida and Micoletto. Through paths that she knew, she accompanied us as far as the entrance to Susa, and then she returned among the rows of vines, singing.

    There was no roundup in Susa, but it was full of Germans. When we entered the piazza, it seemed to me that at the other end, right near Teta’s store, there was a checkpoint. Then I thought the safest place where we could take refuge was the main cafe, where the Germans came and went in a steady stream. Therefore we went in to get an ice cream. What person with a dirty conscience would have gone into such a place? When I appeared again after a while, the gathering at the other side of the piazza had broken up. Then we went to Teta’s store, where we found Ettore somewhat worried. We climbed back up to Meana with him, and warned the partisans from here in case the roundup might extend to this side as well, which I did not think was possible, however.

    The cannon on the other side of the Alps had begun to thunder again, and this seemed to be a good omen. Therefore we had optimistic discussions for the entire evening. But in the night the wind picked up, which awakened me, and the optimism of the evening before seemed foolish. For hours I continued to turn over in my mind the anguishes of the past, and to dread the anguishes of the future.

    This morning it was sunny, and there was a wind from Provence. Braida and Micoletto were burning. They are poor grange and certainly do not contain treasures. The partisans left them in time, but this senseless violence makes my heart sick.

    I went down to Susa and saw a lot of people and various women with whom Gruppi di difesa could be created. Then, having returned to Meana when it became dark, we dug up the fuses and the gadgets to make the trains derail and blow out the tires of the trucks. Paolo wanted to bring them back with him in order to begin the activities of the new partisan bands on this modest plane.

26 September, Turin. Paolo and Alberto left again this morning at dawn. It was a splendid night, full of stars. A cannon was thundering far away. On the other hillside they were putting out the fires at Micoletto and Braida.

    Around 9:00 a.m., we left for Turin by bicycle. In the vicinity of San Giorio, there was a village that was completely burned, evidently as a consequence of the roundup of the other day. The walls of the houses were standing (the stone from our quarries also resists fire), but the windows seemed like lifeless eyes. Tenacious and patient like ants, the inhabitants were already beginning to rebuild, here a door, there the beam of a roof. Everyone was working, even the children. We felt that, even if it were apparently destroyed, the town was not dead, and did not want to die.

30 September. Having left yesterday morning around 7:00 a.m. from Turin with a huge transport truck, Nada and I arrived in Milan around one in the afternoon. As soon as we arrived, we devoted ourselves to finding our friends again. Toward 2:30 p.m. in the Piazza del Duomo, near the little side portico where we had gone for a brief appointment, I saw a young man come toward me whom I did not recognize at first. It was Giancarlo Pajetta, whom I had last seen when he was a boy, and whom I was meeting again as a grown man.⁵² There were also two women whom I did not know and one, whose name was Bruna, said she was responsible for the Gruppi di difesa of Northern Italy. We went to the home of Adriana—who worked with the Gruppi di difesa for the Action Party—and we got to the point immediately, but I realized quite soon that for me the match had been lost from the start.⁵³

    I had fought up to now to maintain the independence of the Mfgl from the Gruppi di difesa, too obviously communist in origin, attitude, and organization. I thought and upheld that, just as the Garibaldini, the GL, and the Autonomous formations, etc., existed in the military arena, all collaborating and coordinated under the rubric of the Corpo di Volontari della Libertà (Volunteer Corps for Liberty or Cvl) and dependent on the Cln—so the Gruppi di difesa (communist), the Mfgl, the liberal women, socialist women, and perhaps tomorrow the Christian democratic women, should have their independent existence, while collaborating and coordinating with an organization that could be a kind of women’s Cln. Instead the Communists maintained that the Gruppi di difesa was exactly the sort of above-party or apolitical body that the various women’s groups should join. If that is the case, then which is the communist women’s organization? We refuse to have an independent formation, they said. We give the Gruppi di difesa all our strength and activity. This is equivalent to saying that their formation is precisely the Gruppi di difesa, to which they want to attract the other women’s movements. But, whatever thing they are creating and however they try to define the thing, I cannot forget that it was the Communists who created the Gruppi di difesa, and that the women upon whom the propaganda work not only nominally but effectively relies are communist women. The link between the Gruppi di difesa and the Communist Party is undeniable, systematic, and unbroken. Their very presence at our meeting with Pajetta (who I believe is from the directorship), while, for example, none of the women from my organization had thought to attend, showed how the Communists might consider the Gruppi di difesa something of their own, and of vital importance.

    Now, as far as I’m concerned, I have nothing against the Communists. On the contrary, in addition to an admiration for Gramsci and the movement in the factories that I shared with Piero, my most profound and I will say almost instinctive sympathy goes to them. Many times yesterday, during the meeting, I managed to think with some sense of humor that if I were not a Communist today, it was perhaps simply because of a response that Giancarlo himself, then little more than a boy and just out of prison, but come to think of it, quite dogmatic and sectarian, gave me one day when, tired and irritated by the blissful inconclusiveness of a friend who for me at the time was the crystallization of the Giustizia e Libertà movement, and fascinated by the deliberate seriousness with which Giancarlo was explaining certain organizational methods to me, suddenly I burst out and asked him frankly, “Would you take me to work with you?” “We are not a refuge for souls in pain,” he had answered me, somewhat harshly. “If you are not convinced of our ideas and principles, we do not want you.” I learned my lesson, and kept quiet. I could not say that I was convinced of their principles, but to tell the truth I did not even really know what they were. On the other hand, of what other political principles was I convinced? What was politics for me then if not fidelity, sentimental nostalgia, and moral aspiration, humanitarian and vague? Basically what else is it for me today, even if from time to time maturity and experience give me a glimpse of truth and perspective? Even if perhaps only now I am beginning to truly understand?

    Nevertheless, many years ago the young Giancarlo was right when he defined me as “a soul in pain.” Not him; he was not a soul in pain. He knew what he thought, believed in, and wanted, even then. I thought of this yesterday when, while I listened to his measured words, I watched his energetic and marked facial features. He knew what he wanted and he got it. Even this time—aided by the disinterested superiority of my colleagues with respect to “women’s affairs”—he had beaten me in advance. While I was in Turin and in Piedmont, trying to give the development of the Mfgl an autonomous and open-ended existence, the representatives of the Clnai had suffocated it under a blanket, recognizing—in a document signed by Leo Valiani—the Gruppi di difesa as “the organization of the feminine masses of the Cln.”⁵⁴ No sooner had Giancarlo put this document under my eyes than I understood that I could do no other than accept the situation, trying to obtain the maximum number of guarantees possible. What else could I do? Reject the decision of the Cln? Contest its legitimacy? These are things that a person cannot do in underground life, and that I would probably not do even during normal times. Protest, be obstinate, and create a schism? I would never do such a thing, necessarily unproductive, creator of confusion, and condemned from the first moment to failure. So nothing else remained for me than to endorse it while still continuing to uphold the ideological and organizational independence of the Mfgl outside of the Gruppi di difesa. If our movement is to have breath and vigor, it will be able to get the upper hand even at the heart of the Gruppi di difesa. I agreed to join the secretariat of the Gruppi di difesa for Northern Italy. My presence in the governing body will give our women some satisfaction and security, and I could easily go to Milan every fifteen or twenty days.

    It was already late when—after the discussion ended with perfect cordiality—I left the Gruppi di difesa for the Action Party and met with Nada, Momi Banfi, and Rollier again. If Nada and I wanted to return to Turin on the truck that was leaving tomorrow at dawn from a depot that was very far away, beyond the Porta Sempione, we had to get ourselves to the vicinity quickly, before the curfew, and look for a place to sleep there. The prospect did not appeal to us very much, especially because we had had very little time to talk with our friends. Therefore we decided to spend the night in Milan, and face the discomfort and delay of the train the next morning. Nada would sleep at Spinelli’s house and I at a cousin of Rollier, where I would also find Vittorio. We spent a moment at the hospital to give our regards to Momi’s wife, whose leg had been badly broken during a bombardment (what is more, she is pregnant). Then we went through dark streets and mysterious stairs to a place where we could eat and talk easily, and where we also found Altiero Spinelli.⁵⁵ I did not know Spinelli, although I had heard about him for years. Having gotten out of confino during Badoglio’s forty-five days, when he and Ernesto Rossi had laid down the basis for the Movimento Federalista (Federalist Movement), he immediately found himself in a new battle, without even a moment of rest. But Panta (namely Pantagruel—which is what his friends called him, a bit because of his size, which was more than considerable, and a bit because of the insatiable appetite that many years of prison had left him) quickly grew accustomed to the ways and habits of underground work, where he moves, notwithstanding his mass, with remarkable nimbleness. On the other hand, I already knew Leo Valiani, who had come to my house last January, after having crossed the lines, to get in touch with his friends. I confess that, at first, I treated him with notable distrust. It took a while before he convinced me that he was truly the “Federico” whose forthcoming arrival in Northern Italy Nada had announced to me. Now I tried to inform him about the meeting with Pajetta and about the agreement with the Gruppi di difesa, but he did not pay much attention to me. Instead he engaged me in conversation about the possibility of having groups of little houses built for the people in Turin and Milan right after the end of the war, on the model of those created in the previous postwar period by the socialist administration of Vienna.

    Then Rollier accompanied me to his cousin’s house, where Vittorio arrived a little while later. The pale light of the candle (there was no electricity) did not allow me to see his face well, but from the tone of his voice I had the impression that his anxiety for Lisetta had profoundly shaken him. Luckily Lisetta is no longer in the hands of the Koch Band, but has in turn been arrested by the regular police. She is at San Vittore, from where we hope to make her escape within a few days. Vittorio showed me a little strip of paper that she had sent to him, which said in so many words: “...Do not worry about me because I am doing very well. Do not be making exchanges. Rather, help some man get out. I have my belly, and I will get off lightly at any rate.” With emotion and profound relief, I heard in the words of the little note the usual tone of heroic simplicity that I had always so appreciated in her. If they have kept her, it means that nothing serious has happened. Then I unloaded my anxieties about the women’s movement onto Vittorio’s understanding heart. I do not know if the matter interested him, but he listened to me and advised me patiently, giving me, with his ideas, pretexts with which to back my experience and instincts.

    Early this morning I met Nada on the train and we dozed as far as Borgo Vercelli, where they made us get off and travel the six kilometers to Vercelli on foot. But it was not an unpleasant walk. There was beautiful sunshine, and Nada entertained me with little amusing stories about his ancestors. I think I will never forget that Genovese ancestor of his who, for love of classical antiquity, insisted on sleeping, wrapped in a cloak, in the temples at Pesto, until he died of malaria.⁵⁶

    We reached Turin after two o’clock. Espedita welcomed me at the front door of the house with an air of festive mystery:

“Just guess who has arrived!”

“Who?” I asked.

“Paolo. He came down by bicycle.”

I climbed the stairs running, and only when he told me that nothing terrible had happened did I let myself feel the joy of having him nearby. He came to Turin to speak with Valle about certain difficulties that had arisen because of the re-emergence of Autonomous bands in the Upper Valley, after the return of Marcellin from France, which Cesare would like to join with his men, leaving ours.

4 October. When we arrived in Susa the other morning, Monday, we found a strange atmosphere, somewhere between relief and contempt, between hope and disappointment, whose meaning I understood only when Teta told me the latest rumors: “The partisans are about to make an agreement with the Germans. Laghi has been seen in a car with them. The hostilities have been suspended.” Upset, I rushed out to Barberis’, to Max’s, and to Longo’s, in search of precise information, and what I received was enough to reassure me, if not exactly to calm me down completely. Laghi had effectively had a meeting with the German command regarding the exchange of certain prisoners, and he had been taken in a car by them they do not know quite where, but he had not spoken about an agreement at all, which they concluded was absolutely unfounded. I let out my breath, but to calm down completely, I had to speak with Laghi directly. Therefore I begged Longo to order a sighting service to identify where he was, and to give me a way to meet him, and I went to Teta’s to wait.

    It was almost two o’clock when he ran to notify me that Laghi, still accompanied by the Germans, had entered the hospital (the neutral terrain chosen for the meeting). I ran there also and explained what I wanted to a young, intelligent sister, whom I had already met when she had tried to save poor Durbiano. “Come in here,” the nun told me, and she had me go into a laboratory, where a few minutes later she also brought in Laghi, whose excited and heroic appearance contrasted comically with the somewhat sterile atmosphere.

“We have not come to terms with the enemy,” he said nobly, in response to my hurried questions.

“No, I have not made any agreement. I will explain why I had to accept the truce, but this evening it is over.”

“When and where can I see you?” I asked. I had to give him orders and money, and I had to understand his intentions correctly.

“The Germans will bring me by car up to a certain point on the road. The Command is at Mompantero Vecchio. Be there between five and six.”

“Fine,” I answered.

I let him leave, and then, when I heard that his car had left, I left too. I went to Teta’s, and notified Paolo and Ettore also, telling them to go to Meana, where I would join them in the evening. Then I found Longo, whom I begged to accompany me to Mompantero Vecchio. I could not go there by the usual road, through Urbiano and Braida, which were totally occupied by the Germans and the Fascists. I had to take a detour through San Giuseppe, passing through places that I did not know very well. Very familiar with the area, Longo consented willingly and we left immediately. It was around five o’clock when we arrived at Mompantero Vecchio, a small group of grange at the bottom of a esplanade of pastures that appeared, like a terrace, on the barren, steep flank of the Rocciamelone. Laghi had not yet arrived. Night was falling and an icy wind was blowing. We retreated to a grangia, around a lit fire, with some partisans who told us about the adventures of the group after the last roundup. The bulk of them had already moved toward the Colle della Croce di Ferro, from where, if necessary, it would be possible to go down into the Lanzo Valley. But the situation is not a happy one. It is already cold outside and, at that altitude, it can snow at any moment, which would make any movement extremely dangerous, not to say impossible, while the supply of foodstuffs will become absolutely problematical. Up until now, notwithstanding the roundup, they have gotten off easily by moving at night and hiding in the woods, but what will they do when the last leaves have fallen and their footsteps will leave a mark on the snow?

    At 7:00 p.m., Laghi had not yet arrived and Longo decided to climb down. I was unhappy to have him leave me, and even unhappier to lose my guide, but I encouraged him to go. His wife was expecting a child who could be born at any moment, and I would not have wanted to keep him far from his family for anything in the world.

    It was around 8:00 p.m. when Laghi arrived, exhausted and worried. “The truce will be over within a few minutes,” he announced. We must prepare everything immediately, and leave for the Croce di Ferro. I gave him the money and the necessary communications. Rapidly I informed him about the new situation that had developed in the Upper Valley, and made agreements for future contacts through a system of signals and reports.

    While we were still talking, we could hear a violent exchange of shots below, between Urbiano and Braida. The truce had expired and the Germans were attacking. We left the grangia. In the valley at the bottom, the tracer bullets left a stream of fleeting lights.

    The partisans hurried to make the final preparations to depart and to put the provisions in a safe place. I said goodbye to Laghi, wishing him good luck and, cutting short the protests with which he wanted to send two armed men to accompany me at any cost, I crossed the open space of meadow running, and flung myself into the wooded area. But when I had gone far enough away to be certain that they would no longer try to follow me, exposing themselves to danger uselessly, I confess that I had a moment of very basic fear. It was pitch dark, and I did not know the road. I only remember that, when I climbed up with Longo in the afternoon, we had crossed a stream and walked for a long time in a pine woods. But where were the woods? Where was the stream? I got up my courage and let myself go, like a blind woman. I do not know how to repeat what I did precisely. For a while I continued among the thornbushes, laboriously, with difficulty, and then, at a certain point, I felt the earth give way under my feet, and I rolled for about twenty meters along a kind of little ravine. I absolutely did not know where I was. I only knew that I had to keep to the right, and my only point of orientation was the crackle of Tommy gun shots in the direction of Braida. Suddenly I rolled along what seemed to me to be the bed of a stream until, having been able to stop myself by gripping a protruding rock, I had the sensation of being suspended in a vacuum. No, that would be too much. If I were going to break my neck on the stones, I might as well have stayed with Laghi. I looked at the sky, tinged with a soft glimmer. The moon was about to rise; then at least I could see where I was.

    Therefore I waited patiently. I was not cold (evidently I had gotten warm by rolling), but I was terribly hungry. Quite soon it was light enough for me to realize that I was on a layer of rock, which had an overhang of about ten meters in front of it. On the whole, I had done well to stop. I went down carefully from the opposite side, and I recognized the stream that I had crossed in the afternoon, while climbing. I crossed it now from the opposite side, and found the road easily. It seemed like a miracle to me to walk on well-trodden ground. The shots continued to come from the other side, but here everything was quiet.

    I crossed two groups of houses, absolutely deserted and apparently immersed in sleep. One had to be the one that, with its compact lawns symmetrically enclosed between parallel rows of poplars, had always appeared to me—when I contemplated it from my window on the other slope—to be an artificial small village, built like a toy. Then I abandoned the road, by now too exposed, and I went down for a stretch among the chestnut trees until I found myself on level ground.

    I had arrived, but basically I had not solved very much of anything. Now another problem presented itself: either I cross all of Susa in the dead of night, right in the middle of the curfew, with all the risks that this carried with it, or curl up in a ditch along the road and wait there for the light of morning. I sat on the edge of the road and pondered what to do for a long time. I saw the scattered villages of Meana on the other slope before me, and near the quarry, behind the poplar trees, my white house illuminated by the increasing brightness of the moon. Ettore and Paolo were there, the restful sweetness of their closeness and affection was there, and, I should be less poetic, a bed or a section of bed and a cup of hot tea and a slice of bread were there. I think that essentially it was the hunger that made me try the “foolish endeavor.” I proceeded cautiously, trying to keep myself in the shadow as much as possible. (Now how I cursed that moon, which I had so invoked and awaited earlier!) But, having arrived at the height of the bridge that came out into the main piazza, I stopped, hesitating. Could I cross in the midst of the inhabited area? It was almost impossible that there would not be surveillance at the entrance and exit. If I were able to reach and cross the so-called “bridge of the Alpini,” I would come out directly on the road for Meana, cutting across outside the inhabited area. But I had made my calculations without considering the railroad. When, upon leaving the row of bushes in the shadow of which I had tried to hide, I saw the tracks shine in front of me, I understood that I had made a mistake. The railroad was certainly the place that was under the greatest surveillance. Crossing it was the most careless thing I could do, not to mention that this way I was approaching Urbiano, the nerve center of the roundup.

    Therefore I turned back, cautiously. The bridge and the piazza opened before me, invitingly. The full moon illuminated the façades of the old houses and the sparkling water of the Dora, making them look like an ordinary eighteenth-century scene. I could not see or hear anyone. I took off my boots, which would have too noisily disturbed the prevailing silence, and, holding them in my hand and bending over as much as possible to take advantage of any bit of shadow, I rushed forward, very quickly. I felt like a cat. I went beyond the barracks of the Alpini, now occupied by the Germans. I crossed the bridge, I went beyond the Albergo del Sole where the Command was, and beyond Teta’s store, and I reached the shortcut for Meana. There I stopped, finally letting out my breath. By now the worst had passed. If they stopped me here, I would have a thousand plausible justifications: I had come to see a sick relative, I was late, I had a sick person in Meana, etc., etc.

    I proceeded further, cautiously, almost on all fours, for the stretch of the shortcut visible from the antiaircraft stations in the neighboring field. Then I straightened up and, with a big sigh, I put my shoes back on and attacked the climb speedily. By now all that remained for me to go past was one last dangerous point: the German guard at the railroad crossing keeper’s cabin in Cantalupo, in the vicinity of which I could not help passing. But I knew from experience that, as soon as night fell, a healthy fear of the partisans induced the enemy soldiers to barricade themselves inside to sleep. In fact, at the bottom of the climb I saw that they had placed the usual trestles covered with barbed wire around the crossing keeper’s cabin, and I went ahead without further precautions. But, when I was a few meters from the crossing keeper’s cabin, I suddenly saw the shadow of a soldier come out in front of me, unexpected. I stopped and remained motionless, and he too remained motionless. “Now he is going to shoot me,” I thought. “How stupid to get myself picked up just a few steps from the house!” But the German still did not move. For some seconds, which seemed eternal to me, we remained like this, one facing the other. Then slowly, almost insensibly, I turned back, until I reached the protective shadow of a chestnut tree. The other person continued not to move, as if he were petrified. Rapidly, stooping over, I untied my shoes and, creeping, I climbed back up the brief stretch of meadow hidden by the chestnut trees. When I reached the turn of the road above, I stopped for a moment to take out at least a portion of the thorns from the prickly chestnut burs that had planted themselves in my palms. In the meantime, I looked down to see what the German had done. He remained immobile for another moment. Then I heard him emit a long sigh of relief, and I saw him go back in precipitously beyond the barbed wire, to disappear inside the crossing keeper’s cabin. I almost started laughing. Evidently he had come outside for a moment to satisfy some natural need, or perhaps, more romantically, to contemplate the moon, and suddenly there he was in front of a mysterious shadow, which he had not guessed was a woman, and which he had certainly taken for a partisan come to attack him. I had been afraid of him, but undoubtedly he had been more afraid of me. Cheered and gladdened by the amusing episode and by its happy ending, I ran the brief stretch that still separated me from my house. Never had I felt such a profound sense of satisfaction in climbing up the stairs.

    Inside I found not only Ettore and Paolo but also Alberto, Pillo, and Franco il Dinamitardo. The first two had come to Meana to learn about the decisions of the Turin Command in the Upper Valley, and the third to go together with Patria to organize a regular system of staffette among the various groups in the Valley with him and with us. But I was too tired and famished to pay attention to them. Only when I had slipped into the “piece of bed” reserved for me, where Paolo and Alberto already were, and I had ingested a considerable quantity of tea and bread, which Ettore had prepared for me, did I have the strength to listen, to narrate when my turn came, and to organize the next day’s work. Then I went to sleep immediately, while the others were still talking, exhausted.

    The next morning, Alberto and Pillo left at dawn across the mountain to join Patria’s group. I, on the other hand, left later with Paolo and Franco, and we crossed the main road to familiarize ourselves with the positions of the German and Fascist troops. We passed Olmo, Gravere, and Chiomonte, full of Germans as usual. We stopped to chat with peasants we met, in the meantime observing the symbols and numbers that we saw on the German cars. But we had such a harmless and easygoing appearance of nice evacuees out for a walk that no one paid us the least attention. At the height of Exilles, we climbed through the woods up to Gran Prà, which, as its name indicates, is a wide expanse of pastures with some grange. Patria and his men were waiting for us, and we ate dinner. (We had not eaten such a succulent risotto, made with the fat from the sheep, in a long time!) Then we discussed the situation, and the solution was quick and easy. Patria’s group and those of the partisans from Sauze who wanted to be with Cesare will make up a brigade systematically embodied in the other Autonomous forces that Marcellin is reconstructing in the Chisone Valley. The others, and essentially the groups from Beaulard and Savoulx, will form a GL formation, connected with Laghi. Naturally there will have to be constant contact among the various formations, and they will have to be open to carrying out actions together when possible. It will be necessary to organize a regular service of staffette, and Franco offered to take care of this directly. There was not a shadow of rancor or distrust on either side, and it seemed to me that in this way we have laid down the basis of a good collaboration, letting each one have the satisfaction of choosing the “color” and designation that he prefers.

    The discussion ended and the agreement concluded, Paolo, Alberto, and Pillo left toward Beaulard, and Franco and I returned toward Meana through Gran Combo, Frais, and Losa. The night descended rapidly and a great sadness—the usual desolate sadness I felt every time I was away from Paolo—took over. The autumn beauty of the woods and meadows that we crossed hardly touched me, and I became tired listening to the chatter of good Franco, who told me about his life and its vicissitudes, both material and psychological, through which he had gone from being an officer in the Royal Italian Army to an Allied agent in the service of the War of Liberation.⁵⁷

    Today we went down to Susa, and we chatted for a long time with Barberis, Pratis, Max, and Longo. Then we made a run in record time as far as Bussoleno (eight kilometers in fifty minutes), from where the train, after many long stops, put us in Turin around midnight.

    In order to leave the station given the curfew, a person needs a special permit. Ettore, in his capacity as an employee of E.I.A.R., had one, and I slipped next to him, saying, “I am his wife.” But while we were crossing Corso Vittorio, we heard someone yell “A-da!” We looked around. Who could be calling me at that hour and in that place in that way? We went ahead, but again we heard the same cry, and suddenly we saw a soldier with a pointed Tommy gun in front of us. It was he who had yelled not “A-da!” as we had thought, but “Alto-là! (Stop!)” Ettore showed his permit, and we arrived home without other upsets.

5 October. It is raining and cold outside. I saw a number of people. We reviewed the situation in the Valley with Valle, Paolo Menzio, Max, Ferrero, and Trinch. It appears that hope for a rapid Allied advance and an imminent solution have almost completely faded. We will have to face another winter, and the prospect is not a happy one. The partisans cannot remain in the mountains, where the snow makes every movement impossible, and getting provisions becomes more and more difficult. They are thinking of moving into the lowland areas, where food is abundant, and where it is possible to move and operate. This will be done, it appears, for the groups of the Pellice Valley and for many from the Cuneese, who will go down into the plain at the entrance to the Langhe, but the problem is different for the Susa Valley. Since it is a question of an important communication route, we cannot leave it completely defenseless. Nor has the Lower Valley enough foodstuffs for everybody. We think that Laghi’s formations can hold out, at least for the moment, depending on reserves from Susa. As for the group in the Upper Valley, they can subsist only if they organize regular trips into Free France to carry news and bring back weapons, etc., as Paolo has proposed. For such a task they will need individuals who are particularly robust and knowledgeable regarding the mountains, exactly like our boys from Savoulx and Beaulard. We will see, however.

    The Allies have landed in Greece.

6 October. Today a Christian democratic woman, Annarosa, appeared, whom I accompanied to Medea’s house for the meeting of the Gruppi di difesa.⁵⁸ While expressing their reservations about the Gruppi di difesa and about their participation after the end of the war, the Christian democratic women have agreed to work with us. This seems important to me—for today, since there are many of them and they have the organizational experience that we lack and, no matter what happens, they can depend on their parishes for support, and for tomorrow, because if we work together during this difficult period, we will learn to understand and appreciate each other. From the concrete collaboration of today will be born, we hope, a bond destined to endure.

8 October. I came to Milan with Bruna and another friend of the Gruppi di difesa to make contacts with our friends here. We discussed the content and form of Noi Donne for a long time. I offered to write the leading article for the next issue. “After all,” they said, and they were not mistaken, “It is not our fault that we Communists are essentially doing the newspaper, and that inevitably at times we assume the attitudes of the party. Contribute to it frequently, do it yourselves, and the impression and tone will be different.” Therefore I spent the night composing an article that, under the title “Unità,” summarizes my thoughts on the subject and on which I hope we will all agree.

    In the afternoon, I left for the Vigna with Ettore. We wanted to interest Anita in working among the women. With her intelligence and poise, she will be a valuable addition. At her house I met Paola Levi, mother of the young partisan Geo, a very good friend of Emanuele Artom, who was arrested with him in the Germanasca, but not targeted as a Jew, and only sent to a work camp in Germany.⁵⁹ She agreed to work with us in the field of assistance. I think she is a woman of great courage and significant practical experience.

    Thanks to the meeting with her, the balance sheet for today is clearly positive.

12 October. Franco Dusi was killed, in the Canavese.

    I am thinking about his mother. But above all I am thinking about him, about him as I saw him as a child when I went to get Paolo at elementary school and smiled at his keen little face and air of considered importance. I remember when he came to take his examination for admission at the “Balbo” and he astounded everyone with his knowledge of the Alpine system, and how I saw him grow, year after year, next to Paolo. I saw them before me, on the same bench, at school, and they gossiped and argued constantly. I saw them together at home when they were preparing for their diploma, and we translated Sophocles and read Dante and Spinoza. We prepared the terms for the Dizionario Bompiani.⁶⁰ We went together to the mountains. I always felt an intimate maternal satisfaction when I saw him, so handsome and strong and intelligent, and I created the most wonderful dreams for him, as well as for Paolo. When the hour of danger came, I tried to keep him out of it, almost obsessed by a foreboding fear. But Franco joined the same battle. He was not one who could stay out of it. Today he has fallen.

    After such blows it seems impossible to be able to keep going ahead.

13 October. Lisetta, having happily escaped from San Vittore, should have arrived in Turin today and settled down at Gigliola’s house, but just today Gigliola’s house was “burned,” and she saved herself by a miracle, escaping from the window. We must stop Lisetta when she arrives to keep her from setting out toward the alleged address, and conduct her elsewhere. They told me that when she arrived, dressed like a Red Cross worker, and they warned her about the complex situation, she said simply, with her usual composure that was half cynical and half amused: “Very good. Indeed, I was a bit tired. This gives me back some of my spirit.”

    The Allies have occupied Athens and Rimini.

14 October, Meana. Having left Turin at 6:00 a.m., I arrived in Meana by train directly, without stops or transfers. It has been months since something similar has happened. While recognizing that it is comfortable, I hope with all my heart that this comfort—more useful to the Germans than to us—will not last very long.

    Angelo Mussa, Carlo’s brother (whose nom de guerre is Lino) got off with me in Meana. In his capacity as a member of the Piedmontese Regional Military Command, he had to come to Laghi’s to make plans for the winter. We got off together in Susa, and spoke with Max. Then we left for Mompantero Vecchio, where, after the parentheses of the Croce di Ferro, Laghi had returned with the Command. The roundup is finished, and the Germans and Fascists have gone. Therefore it was no longer necessary to make a long detour as far as San Giuseppe, as it was around two weeks ago, and we left instead by the shortest route.

    Urbiano, Braida, and Micoletto displayed obvious signs of the passage of the enemy—a number of burned houses, and writings everywhere singing the praises of the Duce, the Führer, and the milizia.⁶¹ But the inhabitants, tenacious and industrious, have already begun caring for the wounded, raising walls, protecting roofs, and constructing doors and windows again. The inclement weather will see to it that the writings fade.

    We found Laghi in full organizational fervor. Justifiably preoccupied with the problem of provisions —fundamental during this season —he is taking a kind of census of the food resources in the area, with the intention of calling for a kind of contribution from the big landlords, factories, mills, etc., which will be requested graciously and provided willingly, given his excellent rapport with the population. Moreover, he thinks that many of the partisans, natives of this area, will be able to take advantage of their family resources, when it comes to help for them in another form, perhaps for the reconstruction of the houses. He too agrees that the group cannot move to the lowland areas. The street to Moncenisio, the railroad, and the power stations are places that are too important to be abandoned, even momentarily. Therefore, it is better that the group remain on its feet, even if it is reduced to minimal numbers, but immediately be able to count on the greatest number of people possible at every prospective request.

16 October, Turin. Yesterday morning, having taken the train in Meana on which Ettore had arrived from Turin, I reached Oulx around 11:00 without any problem—an almost scandalous convenience! Cesare’s father accompanied us as far as Villaretto, where quite soon we saw Paolo arrive running through the fields. He had a lot of things to tell.

    Happily, the group from Beaulard had been formed. The agreement was celebrated with a general drinking bout in which even he and Alberto, in order not to lose face before the mountain boys, had to do their part. When he left, Paulo limited himself to having the impression that the pine trees were running after them very rapidly, jumping high in the sky. Alberto’s reactions were more amusing. Having fallen into a deep sleep, he awoke suddenly and, rising to his feet, announced solemnly: “A venta munse la vaca (We have to milk the cow).” Going to the nearby stable, he really milked it. While he had never milked a cow in his life and therefore totally lacked experience, the poor animal, certainly aware of the abnormal conditions, easily let him do it.

    After this festive beginning, everything proceeded marvelously. One of the new recruits, a certain Gino Mallen, a forester and aspiring ski instructor, had the idea for the construction of a cabin made of tree trunks in the middle of the woods.⁶² Directing the work of the others and working himself with exceptional vigor and ability, he accomplished it in a few days. Now they are organized quite well. Paolo and Pillo made a rapid visit to Sauze, where they were supplied with blankets. Foodstuffs always represent the major difficulty; never abundant in these areas that are not very productive, they are terribly scarce today, but they hope to be able to acquire a sheep from time to time, and have the Municipio of Oulx give them some quantity of foodstuff rations through the Cln.

    While Paolo told his story, we continued to climb through the woods in the direction of the cabin. It was all so wonderful, and I was so happy to have him nearby, so animated and satisfied, and to hear him tell the story, that I did not know how to give him the news of Dusi’s death. Only when he said to me that they had not yet decided what name to give the new company did I propose that it be named after his friend who had died.

    At a certain point, near the glade produced by a taglio raso (clear felling) of pine trees, we met a group of young men. They were partisans from Beaulard, Château, and Savoulx, who had come to inaugurate the cabin. The famous Gino Mallen, who appeared to me to be a young boy who was quite lively, without too many scruples but rich in vitality and initiative, was among them. There was the mild Don Riccardo, parish priest of Château, with his sister, who was studying to be a teacher; Renato, ex-corporal of the carabinieri; Pierre Cote, a very young boy, unusually serious and open; Eligio Pacchiodo, a well-built youngster who was solid and levelheaded like the Carletto of Exilles, and about twenty others.⁶³ In the cabin, we found Pillo, Alberto, and Bianca, who had arrived yesterday evening. The cabin, constructed of squared pine tree trunks, is truly a little masterpiece. It has foundations, a well-joined floor that is perfectly smooth, the necessary interstices, a well-constructed roof, a very solid door, and a minuscule little window. It seemed to me to be the kind of cabin that 90 percent of the boys and girls of the time dreamed of being able to build, where they could dream of being an explorer. What is more, it is concealed so ably between the trees and against the mountain that a person can pass next to it without noticing it. For now the interior is still in disorder—a rickety stove, some mattresses, and some stools— but quite soon, they say, it will have everything that they need. They are also planning the construction of a minuscule shed nearby that will serve as a depository for the desired provisions and eventually meat from the sheep.

    We complimented the builders on their work, and chatted a long time about plans for action in the future. Paolo thinks that he can accomplish the crossing into France as soon as possible. It appears that the most rapid passage is that of the Passo dell’Orso (otherwise known as the Passo della Grande Hoche), but the Germans hold that. Gino, who is very knowledgeable about the area, says that they can go through all the same, and offered himself as a guide. For some time, at least since the liberation of France, Paolo has had it in mind to try the undertaking, and I think that he will end up succeeding. Notwithstanding my natural apprehension, I agree with him that it could open new vistas for all the winter activities of the partisans in the Upper Valley.

    When it was dark, the partisans who had family in Beaulard and Château returned home. Only Renato and some others from Savoulx remained with us. We cooked a polenta and ate the few provisions that we brought, among which was a cake similar to the one that Valle had called nutriente and that the boys affectionately called la sostanziosa (something substantial or filling). At the conclusion of the banquet, which nearly ended in the dark, since the carbide of the acetylene lamp had run out, Pillo concluded the festivities by involuntarily overturning the stove with a kick. Then, considering the present insufficiency of bedding and mattresses in the cabin, we decided that Alberto, Bianca, Ettore, Paolo, and I would go to sleep at Villaretto, and we went down through the woods. It was pitch dark, and the ground was wet and slippery. At a certain point Bianca rolled for a good stretch, losing a heel and skinning a magnificent, light-skinned leather bag with a false bottom, furnished by the Party for underground work.

    At Villaretto they gave us straw and blankets and we all slept together (the five of us plus the owner’s three children) in a small room that was quite soon heated by our warmth. The smallest of our guests (a little boy eleven or twelve years old) must have drunk I do not know what drink because he got up several times during the night and, jumping over those who were sleeping, went to urinate noisily in a receptacle located for such a purpose in the corner of the room. I awoke with a start every time, but instead of cursing him, I was almost grateful to him, for the pleasure that it gave me to hear the calm breathing of Paolo, who was lying next to me.

    This morning, having awakened at the filtering of the first light through the steamy panes of the little windows, I saw that Bianca had straightened up to sit and contemplate the face of Alberto, who was still sleeping, while she softly caressed his black hair. We looked at each other and we understood without speaking. The cheerful excitement of the evening party had died down. Now, in the crude light of day, we saw the horrible reality: the winter that was approaching, inexorable, and the hardships, cold, and hunger. The persistent danger still remains—although the cabin is safe and well concealed, the Germans are still too close, and it only takes an accident or a spy for them to be discovered and captured—and if they decide to leave and try the crossing, other much more serious and complex dangers await them. We remained silent for a long time, thinking, until the little boy moved to go to urinate one last time, and even the others woke up.

    We went down to the kitchen, but while we were drinking a cup of hot milk, we heard the sound of guttural voices and, looking out the window, we saw two Germans pass. “They are not looking for the partisans,” the owner of the house reassured us. “They are going to Château to look for something to eat.” But her calmness, all the more admirable because she also has two sons in danger, was not enough to reassure me. What if, just as it essentially happened a little while later, the Germans entered the house, even just to ask for something to eat, and they found all those people? How would we justify our presence?

    After a while, Ettore and I set out toward Oulx. Paolo accompanied us for a stretch, and then turned back. There was no sun. A heavy, cold fog concealed the mountains and wet the grass and the trees. When I saw him disappear at a turn, I had to make an effort not to cry.

    At Oulx I went to the Municipio, where I received from a friend who was employed there a promise of a certain quantity of rationed foodstuffs for the group at “Sapes.” (That is what the place near where the cabin stands is called.) Then by bicycle without incident up to Susa, where I made the usual connections with the usual people. At Bussoleno we took the train and again we met Bianca, who told us about her latest adventure. It was a short time after we had left when two Germans had passed by again, and this time, instead of going straight ahead they had gone into the house. The owner’s two sons had hidden under the straw, near the cow. Bianca and Alberto had run to the floor above and had thrown themselves down on the straw and embraced each other intimately, thinking that not even the Germans would have had the courage to disturb two people who were innocently making love. Suddenly they heard heavy steps on the stairs. The Germans are here! Instead it was the owner who, having sent away the two Germans, who were only looking for some salami, had come to reassure them, and who did not hide her shocked surprise in seeing them busy making love at a moment of such immediate danger. Paolo, having returned from accompanying us, had seen the Germans enter the house and had taken a stroll in the woods. When he returned, everything was over.

17 October. Another boy has fallen, and another light has been extinguished. Paolo Diena was killed with eight other people in an ambush in the vicinity of Inverso Pinasca. I remember his cordial welcome when we went to the Gianna, the festive joy with which he welcomed the news that his mother would soon go to meet him in the Chisone Valley, and the joyous vitality that his infantile face expressed under his flaming red hair—so strong, so happy, so alive. I absolutely cannot think about his mother.

    Lisetta came in the afternoon with her hair dyed blond, eyeglasses, and a very dignified appearance. She is very well in spite of everything and, half amused and half proud, she told me about her adventures. From San Vittore, following her instructions, she was able to get herself transported to a hospital, but in order to do this she had to pretend to faint in a filthy latrine. For her, this was the most disgusting memory of the event. At the hospital, where she was kept under guard, she still pretended to be very seriously ill and unconscious. Meanwhile, under the linens, she devoured the stuffed sandwiches that the nurses, who were accomplices, provided for her, until Gigliola, dressed as a Red Cross worker, arrived with a group of armed partisans and, having locked up doctors and orderlies—who in reality were very happy to let themselves be locked up—picked her up, wrapping her in a cloak. “Ha! Ha!” a doctor laughed, meeting them on the stairs “You are escaping, eh?” Then, dressed and tidied up again, she left for Turin as soon as possible.

    Now she is passing for a refugee from Cesena, with proper papers that will allow her to go to the hospital when the time comes. I am thinking with tenderness about her child that is about to be born. I too had excitements and misfortunes when I was expecting Paolo, even if they were less violent, and this has not kept him from being strong and healthy. But I hope that in twenty years Lisetta’s son or daughter will not have to face the same events his or her mother has experienced.

18 October. A day that was particularly full.

    This morning I went to the Mauriziano, hoping to see Frida who, having fallen asleep with her head on the table while some milk was boiling, had run the risk of being asphyxiated by the gas. But it was not visiting day and, since I do not know anyone at the hospital, they would not let me in. Later, however, I saw her mother, who gave me entirely reassuring news.

    Then a meeting with Maria Daviso’s young friend, Giorgio Vaccarino, called “the young sparrow” because of the undeniable resemblance of his features and gestures to the feathered little bird. He is working with the Clns of the local businesses.⁶⁴ Then, until two o’clock, I worked with Valle typing the plan for the division of the city into zones for the day of the insurrection.

    In the afternoon, I had an appointment with Doctor Visentini of the Molinette about the organization of health services.

    Then I saw several women, and met one Valle had sent to me, whom everyone called “Aunt Lina.” She was so well dressed and tidy that I was really embarrassed about my inveterate indifference to these things. Just as it pleased me to look at her, so gracious and well groomed, it would please others to see me like that, instead of finding me perennially disheveled, wearing something stained or worn out. But this is an illness from which I believe I will have great difficulty recovering.

    At the end of the afternoon, three women from R.I.V. and two women from S.E.P.R.A.L. came to my house, for whom Silvia conducted a lesson in political ideology, the first in a series.⁶⁵ When they left, excited and satisfied, we planned the second issue of La Nuova Realtà with Silvia, Costanza, and Maria Daviso.

21 October. Having left for Milan the day before yesterday at three in the afternoon, I had to do the stretch between Brandizzo and Civasso on foot, given the alarms during the transfer, and then once again, in the middle of the night, the six kilometers from Vercelli to Borgo Vercelli, arriving in Milan at three in the morning. I was able to wait and read in the cafe at the station until five o’clock. Then I had to take refuge in a waiting room filled with the poor of humanity, tired, weary, and bad-smelling, where, if I wanted to sit down, I had to sit on the ground. I left as soon as it was daylight, and, crossing all of Milan on foot, I went to Adriana’s house.

    Then I saw Vittorio, with whom I walked for a long time, talking about many things and also about the woman question, which troubled me in particular during those days. Then I went to a school to look for a teacher friend, but just as I arrived, the alarm sounded. With anguish I saw the disorganized slowness with which the frightened teachers guided the children into the inadequate shelters. Shuddering, I thought of what would have happened if a bomb had fallen on the school. It was not possible to find the teacher in that confusion; therefore, I left before the alarm ended. I learned quite soon that what I had feared for the school where I went on occasion had actually happened to a school in the suburbs, in Gorla. A bomb had hit the school directly, making carnage out of the defenseless children. While I neared Porta Vittoria, where there is a doctor’s office, I saw a series of ambulances arrive that were loaded with small children that were horribly lacerated. The people watched, dismayed, with an anguish filled with impotent anger. Many men and women were crying. At a certain point I became aware that I too was sobbing loudly.

    In the afternoon, the first full meeting of the Gruppi di difesa was held at Adriana’s house. Two Communists whom I already knew, Bruna and Lina; Adriana and I for the Action Party; a Socialist, Lina Merlin; one Liberal; and one Christian Democrat were there.⁶⁶ Everyone dressed up for the occasion: one woman had on a fox, another fine embroidered gloves, a third an unusual hat with a red feather. Only the Communists and I (Adriana is always naturally elegant) were dressed simply, as usual. We did not know whether to be ashamed of it or to take satisfaction in it. The discussions were a bit like the dress—many compliments, many abstract statements, and many concerns for each other’s feelings. It was certainly not a very conclusive meeting, but there is no question that it resulted in a precise desire on everyone’s part to work together fairly. Undoubtedly, this is a good beginning.

    This morning, having left at seven, I repeated on foot the stretch between Borgo Vercelli and Vercelli. In a downpour and without Nada’s amusing little stories, it was much less pleasant than the other time. At Chivasso, in order not to be compelled to go on foot up to Brandizzo, I took the local tram, which, however, was extremely late. I arrived home after four o’clock, drenched, benumbed with cold, and depressed.

    The Yugoslavian partisans have liberated Belgrade, and the Allies have occupied Cesena and Aquisgrana, but all this seems infinitely far away to me.

24 October, Meana. As I correctly predicted, the regularity of the trains in the Susa Valley—to our innermost satisfaction, notwithstanding the consequent inconvenience—has been of quite a brief duration. In fact yesterday morning, having left Turin at 6:00 a.m., we had to do the stretch between Rosta and Sant’Antonino on foot, arriving in Meana after noon.

    At home we found Paolo, who was just feeling fit again after a kind of poisoning. The work at “Sapes” is proceeding very well. They have happily moved bunks, chairs, and other useful furnishings into the cabin. It is now a shelter, relatively safe and sufficiently equipped. But the fundamental problem always remains that of food.

    To resolve it, Paolo went to a hamlet near Desertes to get a sheep. With plenty of good will, the owner gave it to him (almost at the bulk price, which is five hundred lire), but warned him that it would be difficult for him to move a sheep “alone” from one small town to another. “Why is that?” answered Paolo, a victim of the preconception that said that a sheep was the gentlest of animals. “I will drag him behind me, gently or harshly.” He took off, self-confident, with the ignorance of a city dweller. But quite soon he had to acknowledge that the mountain man was right. The sheep, used to moving with the herd, absolutely refused to walk alone. He tried to entice it with tender, convincing calls, and offered it handfuls of grass, and some grains of salt that he had in his pocket. It did a few meters, and then it stopped. He tried a strong approach and he yelled terrifying threats at it, but it just looked at him stupidly, “like a sheep,” with expressionless eyes. He tried to drag it with the rope it had around his neck, but the animal halted with his four paws on the ground, and there was no way to move it. He had a little more success imitating the bark of a dog, but even this tactic did not last long. Meanwhile night was falling, and he did not have any desire to spend the night in the woods with that stupid sheep. Then he got mad and began to hit it, screaming so much that in the neighboring town those who had seen him on the trip up said to themselves, “The Germans have found a partisan in the woods and are massacring him.” One, who was more courageous, went to see what was happening and, when Paolo explained to him the difficulty in which he found himself, he shrugged his shoulders philosophically, repeating the owner’s words: “Sheep do not walk alone.” Seeing that it was late, he advised him to spend the night in his grangia, which was not too far away. “But how will I drag this nasty beast there?” asked Paolo, and I believe that at this point he had truly begun to hate it. “Oh, there is only one system,” answered the mountain man, “which is that you carry it on your shoulders.” “There,” commented Paolo, telling the story, “is the parable of the Good Shepherd. He is carrying the sheep that was found again in his arms, because otherwise he would never have been able to move it.”

    The morning after, Pillo and Renato arrived and, with a great deal of effort, dragging it a little, convincing it with strange gestures, and carrying it on their shoulders a lot, they were able to get the sheep to the cabin. But after they quartered it, they saw that the unfortunate animal must have been sick with consumption because its lungs were swarming with maggots. They ate it just the same, however. Whether it was the rotten sheep or something else, Paolo had violent symptoms of poisoning, and for several days he was not able to move or do anything. Now, however, he is doing very well, and has decided that this coming week he will go to France with Alberto and Gino.

25 October, Turin. Around 8:00 a.m. Ettore and I went down to Susa, where the truck of Carnino, the driver, was supposed to take us to Turin. But during yesterday evening’s trip the truck had capsized in a field, and we did not know when it would arrive. There were no trains until tomorrow, and I was very annoyed because the meeting of the Gruppi di difesa was at three o’clock at Medea’s house. Perhaps we would have done well to decide to go down by bicycle at once, but it was pouring rain and this, together with the illusion of obtaining passage on some military vehicle, made us hesitate. In fact, a German truck that was transporting wood brought us as far as Bussoleno, but then it stopped, and we remained in the street, under the rain, waiting to go on. Several motor vehicles passed by, but no one wanted to transport us. Finally we were able to clamber onto a German truck loaded with weapons. I sat down on the barrel of a small cannon, placing my knapsack containing various explosive gadgets at its feet with satisfaction. I hardly had time to be glad about the solution when a German officer, coming out of the hotel opposite us, approached, furious, and (“raus! raus!”) forced us to get down. Discouraged, we then got back onto the truck with the timber that was returning to Susa. At least there we could always, in the worst-case scenario, avail ourselves of the bicycles. In the meantime, Carnino’s truck had arrived, which took us without incident as far as Piazza Statuto. But in Turin the trams were not running. Therefore, I had to cross the entire city on foot, arriving just in time at Medea’s house. The contacts with Milan have been very useful and work is proceeding more cordially and quickly. Today committees for the organization of various sectors were established. The number of members is increasing, and the Central Committee is already inadequate for controlling all of their activities.

26 October. This morning Anna, the woman who comes to do my cleaning, approached me with an air that was half mysterious and half afflicted.⁶⁷ In her strange manner of speaking, which was a mixture of Italian and Piedmontese, she began with the usual preamble: “Signora Marchesini, I must tell you something,” she said to me. After my departure, she had found a bundle of leaflets in a kitchen drawer. “I did not want to leave them here, and am rinchersia (I regretted) burning them, and so l’ai pôrtaie (I brought them) to my house. Did I do wrong?” Meanwhile she showed me the bundle, which she took out of her shopping bag.

    “You did very well,” I answered, “but if it happens again, burn them if you wish.” But I confess that I was stunned. I had thought that Anna absolutely had not understood anything of what was happening in my house. I had relied on her foolish stupidity, as if a person could rely on a waterproof mattress in the middle of a flooded field. Forced to meet in the kitchen, which is the only room of the house that is light and heated, we spoke in front of her about the most dangerous things that would put us at risk. To my friends, who asked me how in the world I trusted her so much, I responded laughing that, if a bomb had not destroyed the garret where she lived, Anna probably would not have even noticed that there was a war. Nevertheless, I doubted that she knew precisely which states were fighting each other. Once, with a slightly worried air, she had said to me: “Signora Marchesini, they called me to the fascio (Fascist headquarters) and I went. Did I do wrong?” “Eh?” I had answered with a kind of start. “What did you go to do? What did they want?” “They wanted me to register with the Republic [of Salò], because before I had joined the fascio.” (Who had not joined at first?) “What did you say?” An prinsipi (At first), I did not want to. Then a l’an dime (they said to me), “Don’t you want to give five hundred lire for our poor brothers who are fighting?” “Se a l’è (if it is) for our poor brothers, i je dagh pru (I will certainly give it to them),” I answered, but I work and i l’ai nen (I do not have) time to come to the meetings.” They answered: “It does not matter. Just give us the five hundred lire.” I gave it to them. But now by any chance will gnente (nothing) happen to me at all?” “No, no,” I answered with a great desire to laugh. “Be calm, and if they come to call for you again, before you go, tell me.”⁶⁸ Meanwhile I thought: “Magnificent! I certainly had not expected such a cover—a ‘Republican’ in my house!” That is why her conversation this morning had surprised me. Either I had judged her poorly, or else she had been evolving during these months. Nevertheless, I took good care to make only the slightest remark. Even if she knows, even if she understands, it is better if she has very vague ideas. This is not because I mistrust her, but to put her conscience at ease. If she thinks she is privy to a secret, the sense of responsibility will make her unhappy.

29 October, Meana. The other morning, Friday, having left Turin at 6:00 a.m. under a sky full of stars, I reached Bussoleno at 10:30. Tempted by the hope that the train would continue, I let the local for Susa leave under my nose. I had a heavy bag and if I could avoid making the climb from Susa to Meana on foot, it would be so much better. I was punished for my laziness because the train did not leave and, in addition to the climb from Susa to Meana, I had to do the stretch between Bussoleno and Susa as well. But I was compensated for all my ills when, having arrived at Meana around two in the afternoon, I found Paolo, in good shape and in excellent spirits. He was very satisfied with the document of the Corpo di Volontari della Libertà, which Valle had furnished me, and which would serve as a credential for him when he arrived in France.

    The following morning Paolo Menzio arrived, together with Giulio Pardi, head of the Winchester Team (the only one whom I still had not met), who decided to go to France with Paolo and Alberto in order to contact their Command again.⁶⁹ We left together, arriving in Beaulard around 1:00 p.m. The Pinna Pintor hospital of Turin has now been evacuated to the old Vittoria Hotel, under the direction of a young doctor, whose name is Bricarello, a friend of Menzio.⁷⁰ The news cheered me up a great deal. It is always convenient and often valuable to have a doctor friend within easy reach. Menzio also surmised that he would invite us to dinner. Unfortunately, the doctor was not there, but the good sisters of the hospital, hearing that we were friends, gave us something to eat all the same.

    Then we climbed to Château by a road that seemed delightful to me, among red berries and clean young sheep on the somewhat tired and faded vegetation of the autumnal meadows. When we reached the cabin, in the growing darkness, we did not find anyone. Everything was in order, the furnishings had been completed, and the nearby shed had been built. When I had seen it for the first time, it was a big, empty, and disorderly room. Now instead it had the intimate and welcoming appearance of a refuge, with its berths, benches, table, and well-arranged household utensils. Menzio and Giulio, surprised at such “comfort,” never stopped expressing their marvel and admiration. Quite soon Alberto arrived with a man who was no longer young, who was in charge of putting together a group in Bardonecchia, and some others. While we exchanged the latest news, the good old man prepared us a stew of sheep meat (this time one that was not sick) and potatoes. Then they brought out the camp beds and spread the mattresses on the floor, arranging everything for sleeping. Cavalierly they assigned a berth to me with a big down quilt and even linens.

    This morning when I went to the little window I saw the sky between the branches of the pine trees, dark and menacing, and the boys from here, who had gone out to smell the air, announced that the snow was coming. I was worried about it. It was still early and this year we really did not want a premature snowfall. Paolo immediately declared that, snow or no snow, they would attempt the crossing tonight, or at the latest tomorrow night, in order to take advantage of the full moon. They would even try it without Gino, whose father had been “stopped” and who, worried, no longer seemed inclined to leave with them. This news worried me also, since the guidance of Gino, who was very knowledgeable about the area, was for me the only reassuring aspect of the expedition.

    Toward noon, Menzio went down to the hospital in search of the doctor, whom he wanted to bring up to date about the situation, asking for his support. After a while I too left for Oulx, where I intended to reach an agreement with the driver for the transport of certain foodstuffs Laghi had promised for the group in Beaulard. Paolo came to accompany me for a stretch. By now it was snowing and, turning around to look at him, I saw at a certain point a line of fine white powder on the edge of his eyelash. It reminded me of so many years ago when I saw him, still a boy, arrive after his first long-distance ski race, with his face red from the effort under his blue wool mefisto and his eyelashes edged with snow above his radiant eyes.⁷¹ At the Pierre Menue I embraced him tightly, and he turned back while I, by now alone on the deserted path, took up the descent again.

    At Oulx I was able with some difficulty to find the driver and come to an agreement with him. But when I reached the station, I heard them saying that the train was not running. Why? No one knew. Until when? Until tomorrow. Who knows? Or perhaps even the day after tomorrow. Therefore I went to Cesare’s house, where I had them lend me his sister’s bicycle, but just when I was about to set out, I saw Menzio arrive who, having missed the train, had come to Beaulard on foot. What should I do? Two on a woman’s bicycle was not very pleasant, but we could try. “Do you feel like carrying me on the handlebars?” I asked him. “Certainly, if you feel like being carried,” he answered. “Why not?” We arranged ourselves as best we could, under the incredulous and worried eyes of Cesare’s father, and we left. I cannot say that it was a comfortable and pleasant trip, but it could have been even worse. An icy wind was blowing, which made the big snowflakes whirl around densely, and the visibility was very bad. The brakes of the bicycle were very bad also, and during the descent, I attached myself tenderly to Menzio’s neck, congratulating myself that we had not crashed together against the rocks in the fields down below. Luckily there was not a lot of traffic on the road. At Salbertrand a girl evacuee who was going down to Bussoleno joined us, carrying a big bundle of mistletoe on her handlebars. With an envious and covetous eye, Menzio observed her handsome new bicycle, of first quality and furnished with excellent brakes. Since she was a girl, evidently wanting to make the trip with company, and she was inclined to continue at our side, I ended up by asking her to make an exchange. She was alone, we were two, and her bicycle was much sturdier. Although evidently she was not very enthusiastic, the girl did not know how to refuse, and we made the exchange. It was lucky, since the worst descent was beginning right then, and the dusk that was rapidly descending increased the difficulty.

    We arrived at Susa, which was pitch dark. It was not snowing, but it was pouring rain. The girl complained, whimpering, at having to make the stretch up to Bussoleno alone, and Menzio cavalierly went to accompany her. I climbed up to Meana by the shortcut and began arduously to write reports.

1 November, Turin. It has continued to rain for two days—real All Saints’ Day weather.⁷²

    Yesterday I met quite an extraordinary fellow, a certain Cesco, a man of proven courage and endurance, and a particularly touching sincerity.⁷³ His Venetian manner of speaking, naturally sweet, did not lack a certain almost feminine tenderness every now and then, and the light that glowed in his eyes, ready to become misty with tears as soon as he got emotional, had no other fanaticism than that of devotion. I accepted enthusiastically the idea of having him come to work for the union organization in Susa. There is an industrial complex in Susa, however modest, and I have the impression that, outside of some old socialist leaders, there are not many organizers among the workers. I think that, with his quality of human empathy, Cesco will be able to do excellent work for the Action Party.

    Today two nice girls came to my house who, along with other young people, have created a young people’s organization that they call Gioventù d’Azione (Young people of action), linked to the [Action] Party and at the same time organizationally independent, virtually like the Mfgl. They are creating a newspaper, which seems good to me and a very useful endeavor for diffusion among the young people, especially among the students, who, after so many years of miseducation, form a blind and deaf environment that at times is truly worrisome.

2 November. Luisa Monti came to see me. She moved me when she told me about the actions of a roundup in which she found herself, and during which she saved the situation with her composure and knowledge of German.⁷⁴

    In the afternoon, I went to the Red Cross with Alma Vigna, who introduced me to the president, Countess De La Forêt, naturally without saying my name.⁷⁵ I wanted to interest her in the Gruppi di difesa, and to ensure that our women could take the first aid courses held by the Red Cross, in view of the insurrection. I found her to be understanding and intelligent. We easily came to an agreement. At the end, she said “Do you know Signora Gobetti?” “I am she,” I answered, laughing. Having met her, the precaution of anonymity seemed absolutely unnecessary. We parted on a plane of cordial collaboration.

4 November. Yesterday morning, having left at 7:00 a.m. in a car with Mario Andreis, Valle, and Galimberti, I happily reached Milan at 10:00 a.m. (Three hours instead of the twelve or more that it takes with the train!)

    I saw friends and I went to the meeting of the Gruppi di difesa, which was a little less ceremonious but more conclusive, particularly with regard to practical work. I made significant steps toward the constitution of the Mfgl, running all day to the various extremities of Milan and meeting a number of women. One, Elena Dreher, impressed me most of all because of her intelligence and vivacity.

    This morning, I waited at around 8:00 a.m. for the car that was supposed to bring us back to Turin, but by nine it still was not there. A telephone call advised me to come to the North Station, where I found Mario and Duccio, worried because they had not yet seen Valle with the car. What if some disaster had befallen him? We waited until 11:00 a.m., a while outside, a while in the atrium of the station, and a while in a cafe. It was almost noon when Valle arrived. In the morning, when he was about to come and get us, he had been stopped by some Fascists who had told him to get out because they needed the car. Valle had protested, showing his (perfect!) papers from the Todt organization, and saying that he was working for the Germans. Perhaps he had protested with too much ardor, so they had taken him to Fascist headquarters and searched him thoroughly. Luckily they did not find anything on him, but they had detained him until the car returned, covered with mud. (What had they done with it? A mystery!) They gave it back to him without further explanation.

    Commenting philosophically that all’s well that ends well, we finally left for Turin, but the mishaps of the day were not over yet. In the vicinity of Magenta, an air raid surprised us and the Germans of the nearby checkpoint forced us to stop the car. Mario and Valle got out to analyze the situation, while Duccio and I stayed calmly in the car. After a few minutes, we saw them come back running, saying “Get out immediately. The airplanes are coming.” We got out skeptically, unwillingly, but we hardly had time to move to the field nearby when a violent exchange of shots began. A quick look allowed me to size up the situation. The little square meadow in which we had taken refuge had the provincial road to the left, where we had left the car, the railroad to the right, an antiaircraft station to the north, a few hundred meters away, which was the one that was shooting, and, at a distance of half a kilometer to the south, the bridge over the Ticino, which had already been hit several times, and which was the probable objective today. Valle made us squat down at the edge of a ditch along a row of mulberry bushes, and he put his arm on my shoulders, saying now and again “Courage! Courage!” I was not at all afraid, but I felt his heart pound. (By now, the time when the mere din of antiaircraft artillery made my insides turn upside down, as during the first nearly harmless bombardments of 1940, seemed far away and unreal.) I understood that he was not afraid for himself, but for me, for whom he felt a kind of responsibility. (If he were, he would not have done, and would not be doing, everything he was doing.) His fear began to infect me. Suddenly the antiaircraft artillery was silent. I raised my head to look up. Perhaps it was over? “Down!” ordered Valle, who was paler than usual. “Now they will machine gun. Courage!” He forced me to go down farther into the ditch until my feet touched water. In the meantime, he squashed my face against the nettles of the bank with his hand. “Ta-ta-ta-ta” we heard after an instant, and it seemed like they were machine gunning our car on the nearby road. Then the roar of motors that were going away, growing feeble. Again I raised my head to ask “Is it over?” But this time it was not Valle’s hand that drove me back with my face against the nettles, but a strong airflow accompanied by a raining of dirt and pebbles. A bomb had fallen on the bridge not too far away. When, after a few minutes, the airplanes had gone away and the antiaircraft artillery, which had begun to shoot again in the meantime, had become silent, we got up and, shaking, approached the car and found the signs of the machine gun fire. Duccio and I realized that, yes, perhaps we had done well to get out after all.

    But now, since the bridge had collapsed, reaching Turin became a problem. We had to make a long detour as far as a small makeshift bridge. “You, little car, go ahead,” a German who was directing traffic told us. “Big cars. Do not go ahead.” Congratulating ourselves for having a small and not a big “machína,” we resumed the trip again.⁷⁶ The escape from danger made us cheerful and loquacious, and we chatted pleasantly as far as Turin. In the very clear sky, the Alps uncoiled nearby, immaculate and superb. I looked at the opening of the Susa Valley, at the Rocciamelone, and at the Denti d’Ambin, thinking with anguish of what might be happening up there.

9 November. Complicated, very tiring days. I saw all kinds of people. I went from meeting to committee, and from committee to another meeting.

    At my house (God forgive me!) dozens of people began to pass through again every day. Yesterday Visentini accompanied me to the Molinette hospital, and had me speak with a young nun who was intelligent and open. Naturally I kept everything to general topics, in terms of brotherhood and Christian charity, but it seemed that she understood more than I said. I would like to have nuns in the Gruppi di difesa. Besides, are there not sisters in the hospital in Ivrea who, having been trained by one of our women, Cassandra, not only conceal and care for the partisans but also even cooperate to take weapons away from the Germans?⁷⁷

14 November. The other morning we reached Oulx around noon, and around 3:00 p.m. we set out toward Villaretto, and then toward the cabin. Whether it was the high snow that had completely changed the appearance of the scenery or our inadequate sense of direction, the fact remains that we were not able to find it. If on the one hand the matter consoled me (“if we do not find it,” I thought “the Germans will not find it either”) on the other hand I could not help but worry. Night was falling, and the prospect of spending the night in the open was not very comforting. We wandered for a long time, searching, through the woods. Meanwhile, with painful tenderness, I looked up at the intensely blue sky and the snow-white mountains, which the last lights of the sunset illuminated with rose-colored reflections until, when it was already quite dark, we noticed the tracks and, following them, we arrived at the cabin, almost without seeing it, so well was it camouflaged.

    Only Pillo, thin and worn out, was inside. Since it was Sunday, the others could not resist the temptation to pay a visit to their families, and he remained alone and melancholy. Therefore he welcomed us enthusiastically. Even he could not explain the delay of the two boys, except for the bad weather. (They should have been back over a week ago.) The clear sky had only returned two days ago; perhaps they would arrive this very night. We went to bed animated by this optimistic hope, and I fell asleep immediately. But I woke up during the night. The wind that whistled among the pine trees had picked up, and I had the impression that this wind was a portent of snow. Then I lapsed into anguish thinking about the infinite dangers to which the two boys were exposed in the mountains, if they were even on the journey, and if nothing terrible had happened to them yet.

    The next morning, as I had predicted, snow was falling, and the cheerful optimism of the night before seemed unfounded and absurd, and not just to me. To rebel, I decided to do a thorough cleaning, which the cabin seemed to need. I had two big pine tree branches cut, and with this improvised broom I swept everywhere, under the beds and in the corners. I picked up articles of clothing and tried to tidy them up as best I could. I sent Pillo to get two buckets of water, which I put on the stove to boil, and washed the dirty household utensils.

    We had just finished when Gino arrived with some others, a certain Codega among them, organizer of the group from Savoulx.⁷⁸ The fellow is an odd Venetian sort who has already been with Marcellin and, it seems, in France as well. He looks much more enterprising than reassuring. He speaks a bizarre mixture of Italian, Piedmontese, and Venetian, into which he introduces strange expressions. He says, for example, “You should meterghe (put) a little muscolo (and he means “muschio” (moss)) on the roof of the cabana (cabin),” or even, “The Germans a l’an pedlame (pediname) (trailed closely behind me) up to here.” The two had brought the necessary ingredients to make tagliatelle, and we immediately set to work. The others also arrived, and soon the cabin was filled with the festive eagerness that accompanies the preparation of dinner anywhere.

    Gino tried to reassure me, saying that if the Germans on guard had taken Paolo and Alberto, they certainly would have known about it in the town, and that if they did not return within a few days, we could go there to look for them. The idea of being able to do something gave me a sense of relief.

    When Ettore and I left, Gino came to accompany us as far as Château. It continued to snow. The snow, high by now, had covered the tracks, and his guidance was very useful to us. At Château, we passed in front of the house of Don Riccardo, who invited us inside to bere una volta (to have a drink). Remembering that I did not drink red wine (an absurd idiosyncrasy that I absolutely have not able to conquer), he went to look for a little bottle of white wine. “It is what we use for Mass!” he announced.

    The train for Turin arrived almost on schedule from Bardonecchia, and we left as usual from Beaulard, but in Oulx it made a long stop, so long that I dozed with my head on Ettore’s shoulder.

    A violent explosion woke me up suddenly. I opened my eyes and saw that there was no longer anyone in the car. Only a priest’s cowl appeared under the seat in front. Everyone had escaped or hidden.

    “What happened?” I asked Ettore, who had not even moved, and who answered me placidly: “The Ventoux bridge has been blown up.”

    “But no!” I protested. “It would have made much more noise!” “Remember that it is quite far away, and that there is the snow,” insisted Ettore. As usual, he was right.

    Having arrived in Oulx by train many times before, we had observed the numerous boxes of explosives heaped at the two ends of the bridge and under the tunnel. Since September the Germans, having anticipated retreat in the face of the Allied advance through the mountains, had mined the bridge to stop them at the right moment. Just this once the problem for us was not to blow up the bridge, but to prevent them from blowing it up. Now what had happened? Having gone down to the station, we started to make heads or tails of the confusing and contradictory rumors. Certainly the Germans had not blown up the bridge. (On the contrary, it appears that the two on guard had been killed in the explosion.) Nor did the partisans. (This we knew for sure.) Therefore the version according to which the explosion had occurred after contact with the excessive moisture produced by the extraordinary snowfall seemed believable.

    The stationmaster, who was arguing furiously in the middle of a group of railroad workers, expressed, albeit somewhat coarsely, the state of mind of the surrounding inhabitants of the valley: “These Germans have hidden dynamite everywhere, and obviously they are blowing us up. Let’s hope at least that they have also hidden some up their asses!”

    But however the explosion had occurred, one thing was certain. The train could not continue. Today we had to be in Turin. Therefore we went to Cesare’s house and tried to leave by bicycle, but it was impossible to go ahead in the very high snow. The only thing left was to go down on foot. It was almost five o’clock and, walking quickly, downhill, we could easily be in Susa by eight-thirty, before the curfew. But we made our calculations without considering the snow, which made our progress much slower and more exhausting.

    We went ahead quite well up to the bridge, taking advantage of the many tracks that were already laid down. The bridge, an enormous iron structure that was completely destroyed, was a striking spectacle, as if a gigantic force had uprooted the mighty skeleton. The charge must have been very strong. Luckily there were no houses in the surrounding area or else they too would have gone up in the air. The banks of the river and a stretch of road appeared to be ravaged and torn apart.

    At the entrance to the tunnel, I saw a new, abandoned, bicycle on the edge of the road, and instinctively I pulled it up and pushed it ahead. “What are you going to do with it?” asked Ettore. “Nothing now, but it can always be useful,” I answered stupidly. I carried it carefully as far as the exit of the tunnel, where a German came to meet me and, without a word, took it out of my hands. Had he understood that I wanted to take it away with me? Or rather did he think that I had brought it this far to do him a favor? Of course I will never know. We did not comment, however, and we continued on our way.

    Since the road was less trodden, going ahead became more and more exhausting. We greeted with joy the passage of every car that pounded the snow for us, but cars were sparse and the snow was so thick and dense that it covered the tracks again almost immediately. Suddenly in the fog we could see something of a glimmer, perhaps the last quarter of the moon, which was making its way weakly among the clouds.

    At 8:00 p.m., we were still not in Chiomonte. It would be impossible to arrive at Susa before the curfew, but just as impossible to stop. Therefore we continued, entrusting our souls to God. When we were at the entrance to Chiomonte, at the place where I knew there was a German guard, I began to talk and laugh out loud, so that they would understand that I was a woman and would not shoot blindly, perhaps out of fear, when they heard the sound of footsteps. The precaution was useful. “Where are you going?” asked a German, coming to meet us with his gun leveled, which he then lowered immediately when he saw our defenseless and harmless appearance. I explained to him in German that the bridge had been blown up and that we had to reach Susa, where we had a child who was sick. “Ach, gut! (oh, fine)” commented the German, and he let us go on without question.

    We used the same method in Gravere, where they were much more curious, however, and wanted to see our papers. Ettore’s were such that they cleared up any of their suspicions, but I realized that they were asking us so many questions because they wanted to chat and likewise to detain us, even going so far as to praise my German pronunciation! I must say to their credit that when they let us pass they sent a noncommissioned officer with us with a flashlight who let us go through the road block at the exit of the town without any more stops.

    When we reached Susa it was after nine thirty. We did not see anyone, either at the entry or on the streets. Naturally Teta’s store was closed, but as soon as we knocked at the portcullis, we heard her answer immediately and come to open up for us. “My heart told me that you would arrive,” she said. She gave us something to eat and somewhere to sleep.

    This morning, having left Susa at 6:00 a.m. in a frigid train, we arrived in Turin around ten, benumbed with cold. We found a house full of people, but freezing all the same, without electricity and without coal.

    I continued to move about for the entire day, and I did a number of things, but I am terribly unhappy.

---

    1 Alda Bianco Frascarolo was the fiancée and later the wife of Alberto Bianco, a partisan in the I Alpine GL Division.

    2 Franc-Tireur was published by the franc-tireur resistance group of Lyon beginning in December 1941. Combat was the newspaper of the Mouvement de libération française (French liberation movement). Il Partigiano Alpino was the name of the Piedmontese edition of L'Italia Libera.

    3 Paolo Menzio was a doctor and member of the English Winchester mission.

    4 Antonio Guermani (Tonino) was a reserve commander of the IV Partisan Zone of the Piedmont region.

    5 Tullio Giordana was also an inspector of the Autonomous forces in the Chisone Valley.

    6 The Mfgl would include women from Ada’s own Action Party and also a number of Communists, Socialists, and other supporters. According to one report, they wanted to “gather together all those women who” were convinced by the “arduous present circumstances of the necessity to no longer remain outside of the social and political life of the country in the future, but to participate in it actively.” They hoped “for the advent of a new society for Italy through a democratic revolution” where the “requirement for liberty” would be “accompanied by claims to social justice.” See “Relazione sui Gruppi femminili ‘Giustizia e Libertà’,” [1944?], Istituto Piemontese per la Storia della Resistenza e della Società contemporanea ‘Giorgio Agosti’, Cartella Partito d’Azione, PA /ag1/g.

    7 “Willy” was a detachment commander in the IV Alpine Division of GL. No last name was given.

    8 Mario Gliozzi was the husband of Ettore’s sister, Ada (Dadi) Marchesini.

    9 Mario Marchesini, an engineer, was Ettore’s brother.

    10 Paolo Greco was a university professor and representative of the Liberal Party on the Piedmontese Regional Cln.

    11 Guido Teppati was a notary and organizer of the Action Party in the Sangone Valley.

    12 Organisation Todt (OT) was a Nazi construction and engineering group that used men and boys from Nazi-occupied countries as slave labor.

    13 Mimí Teppati was an organizer of the Gruppi di difesa and of the Mfgl in the Sangone Valley.

    14 Giulio Nicoletta had a doctorate in law and was commander of the Sergio De Vitis Division in the Sangone Valley. Guido Usseglio was a university professor and organizer of the partisan bands in the Sangone Valley and later commander of the Campana Division.

    15 Tullio Sibille was a worker and an intendant in the IV Alpine Division of GL. An intendant is a high-ranking official or administrator.

    16 Giovanni Gonella (Ferrua) was an industrialist and a staff officer in the IV Partisan Zone, and later commander of the 41st Unified Division.

    17 Beppe Cimaz (Martino) was a land surveyor and commander of a detachment of the IV Alpine Division of GL in the Cenischia Valley.

    18 Nino Costa (1886–1945) wrote poetry in the Piedmontese dialect.

    19 Anita Rho was a writer and collaborator of the Mfgl.

    20 Costanza Costantino was a professor and organizer of the Mfgl. Natalia Momo was a teacher and organizer of the Mfgl.

    21 Vittorio Durbiano was a partisan in the IV Alpine Division of GL. He was hanged in Santa Petronilla on 7 August 1944.

    22 Carlo Raimondi was a doctor in the hospital in Susa.

    23 Here I believe that Ada means the Truc Peyron, which stands at 3,189 meters and is in the Susa Valley, rather than the little hillock behind her home.

    24 Stefano Tremaiore, a partisan in the Chisone Valley, was hanged in Meana on 6 August 1944.

    25 The 4th Italian “Monte Rosa” Alpine Division was a military division of the Republic of Salò that aided the Germans. It was formed on 1 January 1944. See www.divisionealpinamonterosa.org.

    26 E.I.A.R.

    27 The Sten was a type of submachine gun produced by the British in 1940.

    28 The Essays of Sir Francis Bacon (1561–1626) and the correspondence between Alexis de Tocqueville and Nassau William Senior that took place between 1834 and 1859. Ada translated and published Bacon’s Essays in 1948. Francesco Bacone, Saggi, traduzione e prefazione di Ada Prospero (Turin: F. De Silva, 1948.)

    29 Martin was a mule.

    30 The Nazi-Fascists transformed the prison on Via Asti into a place for interrogation and torture.

    31 Maddalena Dufour was a laundress and a partisan staffetta.

    32 The Stellina Brigade formed part of the IV Alpine GL Division, which had approximately seven hundred men by the latter part of 1944, about 7.5 percent of all the GL formations in the region. See Report on Conditions in Enemy-Occupied Italy, no. 36 (27 January 1945); Italian Theatre Headquarters Psychological Warfare Branch, Unit 12, APO 512, Secret “D” Section, Occupied Italy; declassified; RG 331, 10,000/125; National Archive II, College Park, Maryland. The word “stellina” means “little star,” and is also a term of endearment.

    33 Carlo Enrico Pratis was a magistrate and inspector for the Piedmontese Regional GL Command.

    34 Ugo Sartirana, ex-mayor of Turin, and Luigi Grassini, former director of the Agenzia Stefani, both worked together with the partisans.

    35 Cotonificio Val Susa was a textile factory.

    36 Gasoline was scarce during World War II. A car with a gazogene converter used wood, coal, or some other type of fuel. The car ran by burning wood chips and coal in a water heater.

    37 Silvana Roglio, Teta’s daughter.

    38 Pétainistes were those individuals who were loyal to Marshal Henri-Philippe Pétain, a military and political leader during World War I, who headed the Vichy French government, which collaborated with the Germans during World War II. After the war, Pétain was convicted as a traitor and sentenced to death, a sentence that was commuted to life imprisonment by Charles De Gaulle. Pétain died in 1951.

    39 Silvio Verquera worked together with the partisans from Susa.

    40 In Piedmontese dialect, “testa ’d gis”means literally “head of plaster,” but can be translated as “hard-headed.”

    41 Assa was a steel mill.

    42 By 1944, four principal partisan bands existed in the Piedmont region: the Garibaldini (Communists), the Matteotti (Socialists), the Giustizia e Libertà or GL (Actionists), and the Autonomi (usually Christian Democrats or Liberals). These partisan bands tended to occupy different areas, a likely reason for the relative lack of disagreements among the partisan formations. For example, the Garibaldini were active in the Langhe region south of Turin and the Autonomi were prevalent southwest of Turin in the area around the town of Oulx. Three of these four partisan bands existed in the Susa Valley.

    43 La Banda Koch was a specific division of the Republic of Salò that specialized in torture.

    44 Giôanin (Giovanni Dufour) was a farmer who collaborated with the partisans.

    45 Captain Angelini (Angelo Andreis) was an office worker and chief of staff of the IV Alpine Division of GL.

    46 Patria was a surveyor and commander of the Autonomous brigade in the Dora Valley.

    47 Giulio Odiard was an attorney and representative of the Action Party in the Cln of Oulx.

    48 Franz De Marchi (Max), a businessman and commander of the U.N.P.A. (Unione Nazionale Protezione Antiaerea or National Union for Anti-aircraft Protection) of Susa, worked together with the partisans.

    49 Marta (Teresa Testa) was a tailor and representative of the Communist Party in the Gruppi di difesa.

    50 Elvira Pajetta was a teacher and organizer of the Gruppi di difesa in Romagnano Sesia.

    51 The panzer was a type of German tank.

    52 Giancarlo Pajetta was the organizer of the first partisan bands in Barge, an inspector in the Garibalini command, and a representative of the Communist Party in the Clnai.

    53 “Bruna” was Rina Picolato’s nom de guerre. Picolato was a representative of the Communist Party in the Gruppi di difesa of Northern Italy. Adriana Mendrini was a professor and representative of the Action Party in the Gruppi di difesa of Milan.

    54 Leo Valiani, also known as Federico, was a representative of the Clnai.

    55 Altiero Spinelli (Panta) had been convicted by the Special Tribunal for belonging to the Giustizia e Libertà movement. Spinelli was involved in the creation of the European Federalist Movement in Milan in 1943. The movement later spread to European Resistance fighters. By 1945, a federalist conference in Paris boasted participation by individuals such as George Orwell and Albert Camus.

    56 Pesto or Paestum is a Greco-Roman city in the Campania region, located south of Naples, which was founded by Greeks from Sybaris around 600 B.C. See www.paestum.de/en/paestum.htm.

    57 The Allied advance in Southern Italy.

    58 Annarosa Gallesio was a journalist and representative of the Christian Democrats in the Gruppi di difesa.

    59 Paola Levi Nizza (Ortensia) was an organizer of the Mfgl. Geo Levi was a partisan in the GL formations in the Pellice Valley.

    60 Ada wrote entries for the Bompiani dictionary of literature, which gave her the opportunity to reread a great deal of Italian and American literature. Paolo also wrote some entries for Bompiani on books about the North and South Poles. Between 1947 and 1950, the dictionary was published in nine volumes under the title Dizionario letterario Bompiani delle opere e dei personaggi di tutti i tempi e di tutte le letterature.

    61 The Mvsn.

    62 Gino Mallen was a farmer and partisan in the “Franco Dusi Column” of the IV Alpine Division of GL.

    63 Renato (no last name given) and Eligio Pacchiodo were partisans in the “Franco Dusi Column” of the IV Alpine Division of GL. Don Riccardo was the parish priest of Château Beaulard.

    64 Giorgio Vaccarino had his doctorate in law. He was an inspector of the GL Piedmontese Regional Command.

    65 R.I.V. (Rubineterrie Italiane Valvole) was a company that made valves for faucets and S.E.P.R.A.L. (Sezione Provinciale dell’Alimentazione) was a provincial department for providing food.

    66 Ada’s account of this meeting in Milan points out the errors in information given by historian Jane Slaughter, who wrote of the Gruppi di difesa that “the first group was organized in Milan in November 1943 by Lina Fibbi and Gina Bianchi of the Pci, Pina Palumbo of the Socialists (Psi), Elena Dreher and Ada Gobetti of the Pd’A, and Lucia Corti of the Catholic Left (a group that eventually joined the Pci).” Slaughter acknowledged that accounts differed as to the women who were present at the first meeting of the Gddd, stating that she took her information from Giuliana Beltrami and Mirella Alloisio, Volontarie della libertà (Milan: Mazzota, 1981), 30, 131. Jane Slaughter, Women and the Italian Resistance, 66, 142 n. 53. On 4 November 1944, Ada wrote that she met a number of women in Milan, including Elena Dreher, whom Ada said “impressed me most of all because of her intelligence and vivacity.” She had not met Dreher before this time. Ada mentioned Lucia Corti for the first time on 20 December 1944 in connection with assistance work. She placed Lina Fibbi at the “first full meeting” on 21 October 1944. She never mentioned Gina Bianchi or Pina Palumbo in the Diario. Camilla Ravera also placed Ada among the group of women of the Cln who met in Milan in November 1943 to form the basis of an organization open to all women who wanted to fight for liberation, namely the Gruppi di difesa. She erroneously listed the other women as Rina Picolato (Bruna), Lina Merlin, Lina Fibbi, and Giovanna Barcelona. Ada mentioned meeting Rina Picolato, representative of the Communist Party in the Gruppi di difesa of Northern Italy, for the first time on 30 September 1944. She said Lina Merlin attended the “first full meeting” on 21 October 1944. She did not mention Giovanna Barcelona in the Diario.

    67 Anna Latore.

    68 Anna spoke the piemontese dialect.

    69 Giulio Debenedetti (Giulio Pardi) was a businessman and head of the English Winchester mission.

    70 Lincoln Bricarello was a doctor and director of the Pinna Pintor hospital, which had been transferred to Beaulard.

    71 A mefisto is a woolen ski mask, also called a balaclava or a passamontagna in Italian.

    72 Officially the Solemnity of All Saints in the Roman Catholic Church, this day honors all the saints, known and unknown. On this day, and on the following day, All Souls’ Day, the custom in Italy is to visit the graves of dead relatives. See https://www.catholic.org/saints/allsaints/.

    73 Francesco Colato (Cesco) was a worker and union organizer for the Action Party.

    74 Luisa Sturani Monti was Augusto Monti’s daughter, a professor and collaborator of the Matteotti formations in the Soana Valley.

    75 Alma Vigna was a music teacher and organizer of the Mfgl. Countess Paola De La Forêt was inspectress of the Volunteer Nurses of the Committee of the Italian Red Cross of Turin.

    76 Here Ada is making fun of the German’s pronunciation of the Italian word for car (macchina), where the accent is on the first syllable rather than the second.

    77 Selina Roffino (Cassandra) was an organizer of the Gruppi di difesa in Ivrea.

    78 Armando Codega, a farmer and partisan in the “Franco Dusi Column” of the IV Alpine Division of GL.