And unhappy I continued to be. As the days passed, and hope became weaker, my anguish became stronger.
When I think about it again today, in light of what happened afterward, I must acknowledge that, if even they can seem excessive, my fears were not unfounded. Still I wonder how I came to endure that frightening anxiety. It was not the first time that I was worried about Paolo, but the other times it was a question of a maximum of three or four days and I always knew, more or less precisely, where he was and where I could look for him. Instead, now I was groping in the dark, in a void where sometimes I thought I would go crazy. I continued to see people, and do a bunch of things, a little because I was caught up and went forward by force of habit, and a little because I had the threads of so many things in my hands and I could not let them drop. But in rare moments of rest, I had real crises of desperation, and I howled like a wounded beast.
The notes from those days, fragmentary and incomplete, reveal the confusion of my state of mind. I continued to take part in the usual meetings, introduce people to each other, type, and jot down reports and circulars, but I did so mechanically, as if my internal spring were broken.
On 16 or 17 November I was in Milan again, with Mario and two directors from the Burgo who wanted to get in touch with the Committee of National Liberation of Northern Italy.1 I saw many women, although a series of misunderstandings and missed appointments caused the projected meeting to fail. I had long conversations with Panta while walking in the darkness along a street, waiting for a fellow who then did not come.
On the 19th, I went to Susa with Ettore and Valle in young Edmondo’s topolino and from there we went up to Braida, where Laghi was.2 I remember that for the entire morning I was almost happy, and it delighted me to see the leaps and buffoonery of two little lambs that had just been born. It was a magnificent day. The mountains toward France stood out, luminous against the clear sky, and it seemed impossible that I would not hear news of Paolo in Susa or Meana. Perhaps I would find him there himself. Instead, I found a group of townspeople in Meana who wanted to found a local Committee of National Liberation, but since there were not representatives of the five parties in the town, they wanted to form it with representatives from each village.3 I talked with them for a long time, and tried to jot down a rudimentary act of incorporation, and clarify some fundamental ideas. Then I also saw a girl who took charge of forming some Gruppi di difesa locally.
The next evening, we left again for Turin on the train, but the trip was rather eventful. In the car, I was seated next to a German who, when he arrived, with a big sigh of relief, had taken off his belt with its respective revolver and two hand grenades, and had hung it right over my head. Although I was dazed and tired, the possibilities did not escape me. Of course the German might fall asleep. (In fact, he had already fallen asleep immediately.) A little before we arrived in Turin, I had only to stand up and remove the revolver from its case and leave in the dark before he could notice it, and the day would not have been lost. Lulled by the slow rhythm of the train and by the cherished hope for the imminent undertaking, I ended up falling asleep. A violent impact, which threw me against the opposite wall of the car, woke me up. Confusion, screams, uproar. The word “derailment” progressed rapidly along the corridor. But in fact no one did anything. Only at a certain point did the old woman who was seated in front of me begin to cry that she had hurt her nose and that she was losing blood a brassà (abundantly). Immediately there were those willing to shine some lights on her, and I could see that she had an insignificant scratch. But the old woman did not give us a moment of peace. “I hit against something hard,” she said. “What was it?” Then, raising her eyes, she saw the belt and grenades that were dangling in front of her. “I hit against the grenade!” She began to cry, “I would be dead if the grenade had exploded!” For all that I tried to calm her down and distract her, she dwelled so much on that miserable grenade that at a certain point the German, annoyed, unhooked his belt and went away, spoiling my plan.
I cursed the whimpering old woman in my heart, but even without her, the undertaking would have failed just the same because a little later they made us get off the train and travel some kilometers on foot along the railroad as far as Sant’Antonino. Then, when we got back on, we arrived at Rosta, and there we made another stop in the dark. We did not know if and when we would depart again. Finally we left, and arrived in Turin after midnight.
The next morning, as soon as it was a decent hour, I called Bianca, who the day before had gone up to “Sapes” and had seen Pillo and the others. But there was no news of Paolo and Alberto. In general Bianca is optimistic and levelheaded, but that morning, beneath the conventional phrases with which she gave me the news, I sensed an anguish that was no less than mine. I tried to calm her down. “The little cousins will get much better, you will see,” I said. “You know that with this kind of illness there are sometimes unforeseen complications.” “Oh, certainly they will get better,” answered Bianca, but from her tone I understood that she saw right through my optimism, just like I saw through hers. I remember that when I hung up the receiver, I remained motionless for a moment, staring in front of me, wondering how I would be able to move from there, talk, and go on living. I wanted to close my eyes, to give up without fighting any more, losing myself in that darkness and silence in which I felt myself sink more and more profoundly.
Instead at a certain point I shook myself, went out, saw the usual people, and did the usual things. In the evening, I began to work on several reports for the Susa Valley (military, political, women’s), and I spent almost the entire night on them. When I threw myself on the bed, I was so exhausted that I did not have time to think about anything. Suddenly I fell asleep.
I lived the following days in a kind of painful nightmare. I participated in two new committees: the Coordination Committee of the Action Party, in which those responsible for the various branches of work took part; and the Assistance Committee, also of the Action Party, where I tried to divide the tasks among our women who do assistance work in the outlying committees of the Gruppi di difesa. I went to the usual meetings.
Friday morning, when I passed in front of a bookstore, driven by an almost superstitious hope, I went in and bought a pocket edition of the Ariosto. Paolo liked poets and nice editions, and now he always carried with him a little Barberà Diamante volume of Leopardi’s Canti, which I had given to his father more than twenty years before.4 I wanted to welcome him with a little gift upon his return. I leafed through the book at the bottom of my bag with a feeling of profound tenderness that wanted to be hope, but that was essentially desperate nostalgia. The next morning, Saturday the 25th, Ettore and I left. Again, nothing and no one was in Meana. In the afternoon I went up to Braida and spoke with Laghi. It was already nighttime when I came back down, and a kind of fine snow was whirling about in the dark air.
The next morning, having left at 9:00 a.m., we reached Beaulard around noon. The weather had cleared up and there was something of a smell of spring in the air. I stopped many times while climbing along the mule track that leads to Château, remembering how I had passed by there around one month ago with Paolo, and how I had admired the fields and red berries and little white sheep. Raising my eyes, I saw before me the snow of the Passo dell’Orso, glimmering in the sun. With this weather that was so beautiful, of course they must be back. Perhaps I would find them in the cabin, they would tell me about everything, and I would laugh about my fears. Perhaps instead I would not find them there. (At this point I felt that my heart had stopped beating.) Then everything would be over, the anxiety and the pain and the torment, because I would stop hoping and give up fighting. But something inside me suddenly said no, that I would not stop hoping, even if they were not there and had not arrived either yesterday or today or tomorrow. I would continue to wait, to live, and to work.
Having reached Château, we stopped for a moment in front of the church to catch our breath. It was a little past one o’clock and the village appeared deserted. Evidently everyone had gone to take a little Sunday siesta in the warmth of their houses. Suddenly we saw a local young partisan approach us, who had certainly taken advantage of the holiday to pay a short visit to his family, and who had seen us from the window of his house.
“How are you?” I asked.
“Very well,” responded the boy.
“Are you going up?”
“Yes,” I answered, and immediately added, with a tone that I tried to make sound casual: “Have they arrived?”
“Yes.”
“No!” I exclaimed, clutching Ettore’s arm in order not to fall. “When?”
“Yesterday morning.”
“Are they well?”
“Very well.”
Then I sat down on the steps of the church and closed my eyes for an instant. It seemed that the universe around me was rotating, as if it had gone crazy. In the meantime I continued to tell myself, “No, it is not possible, I am too happy.” When I opened them again, for a moment I had the impression that I did not recognize the place where I was. Yet they were the same mountains, the same sky, the same woods, and the same houses, but it was as if they had a new quality, and the air I was breathing seemed sparkling and exhilarating, like a goblet of spumante. I no longer felt any sense of fatigue or heaviness. It seemed that, if I opened my arms, I could go up in the air and fly.
“Let’s go, let’s go quickly,” I said, grabbing Ettore with one arm and the boy with the other, and I began to run up by the path. What I said and what I did during the trip, I do not know. Absolute happiness, like absolute pain, has no beginning and no end. There was the taglio raso. There was the cabin, and there was Paolo, on the threshold, alive, healthy, and smiling. “Ciau, Mi.” Immediately my exaltation subsided and everything seemed to become normal again. But such a normality is unusual in this world, a normality that appears to us today like a symbol of Paradise, and that perhaps will reign on earth only when the “men of good will” finally are able to reign over their destiny.
We entered the cabin. Alberto was in bed, and Paolo too went back to bed, because, after around twenty-four hours of rest, they still had not recovered from the fatigue and tension of the return trip. Pillo and the others welcomed us festively. How different the atmosphere was from that of my last visit, two weeks before, when everything was dominated by uncertainty, anxiety, and fear.
Paolo took out a little package from his knapsack. “I brought you a gift, Mi.” It was a little package of Nescafé. “You just have to dissolve it in a little hot water, and it is ready immediately,” explained Alberto. There was hot water on the stove, and they prepared a cup for me right away. Never did a drink seem more comforting, more appreciated, and more extraordinary.
Only then did I ask: “Can you tell me why you were so late? What have you arranged?” Immediately the two boys told the story.
Giulio, Alberto, and Paolo had left according to plan on the night of 31 October. It was snowing lightly, but the moon illuminated the trail (the trail of the Germans). From a mountain climber’s perspective, the crossing had not presented much difficulty. At around the middle of the route, at Rocher de la Garde, which, as its name indicates, is at the entry to the last and roughest climb, Paolo had approached the shelter, hoping to be able to go in for a brief stop, but he left in a great hurry when he saw, through the panes of the little windows where he had peered innocently, that the Germans had established themselves there too. With cautious steps he reached the others, and they continued to climb in silence. They passed along the peak of the Passo as light as flies (“real velvet paws” commented Paolo, laughing), at around ten meters from the cabin, where the Germans “on guard” were sleeping peacefully.
No one came outside. Then, beyond the Passo, they threw themselves into “no man’s land,” and after about three hours of rather exhausting walking in the high snow, which was not marked by tracks, they arrived at a narrow passage in the valley around four o’clock, beyond which presumably the first French checkpoint should have been located. While they continued to advance, Paolo suddenly bent down, driven by that subconscious instinct that made him notice hidden traps. “There is a wire here. Is there a mine by any chance?” They had lit a flashlight in order to see, but immediately “ta-ta-ta-ta!” and, accompanying the shots, a series of rapid lights ripped through the darkness. (Las flamelas, Paolo said in Meanese, telling the story). Evidently the Frenchmen on guard, seeing the light, had begun to fire. The three boys quickly threw themselves on the ground. Then Alberto began to yell with whatever breath he had in his throat: “Nous sommes du Comité de Libération Italien (We are from the Italian Committee of Liberation)!” He continued to yell until a voice came out from the darkness: “Avancez (Advance)!” Then they went forward, with their hands raised, but instead of the Gallic faces that they were expecting, they found themselves before the black faces of two Moroccans who were waiting for them with guns leveled.5 “Vous fifi italien (Are you Italian Ffi)?” one of them asked.6 “No, no,” Alberto was about to respond, convinced that fifi was an insult. “Nous sommes des partisans (we are partisans).” Luckily Paolo had a faint idea. Didn’t fifi mean Forces Françaises de l’Intérieur (Ffi, corrupted to fifi by the Moroccan voices)? “Oui, nous fifi italiens (Yes, we are Italian fifi),” he hurried to answer, and took out a document from the Committee of National Liberation. The Moroccans examined it, probably without understanding much of it. They seemed convinced, however. Their black faces brightened into a cordial smile, and guiding them carefully to make them avoid the mines, among great exclamations of “bravo fifi,” “bravo italien,” they brought them inside the blocus (checkpoint) (called the Clé des Acles) and soothed them with hot coffee, biscotti (cookies), and sardines. Then they telephoned up to the Command to receive instructions. But the nocturnal arrival of the three boys had gotten them worried, and for a while they continued to ask if anyone else had come with them. “Is there not someone dead or wounded?” they asked. No, luckily there were no dead or wounded. “If there is someone wounded, please say so,” they insisted with an encouraging tone. Then suddenly someone on the lookout thought he saw a shadow (perhaps a hare?), and with mysterious gestures and words, ordered: “Taisez-vous! Armes aux mains (Be quiet! Take up your weapons)!” The others stiffened, preparing themselves for the attack that naturally did not come.
Around seven in the morning, evidently following the instructions they had received by telephone, two Moroccans with gun and bayonet hoisted, one in front and one behind, accompanied them up to the Command, in the Alpine village of Plampinet. There lieutenant Roland Grosjean of the Ffi of the Armée Secrète (embodied by now in the regular army as I Compagnie, IV Demi-brigade, I Division, I Armée) welcomed them kindly, and they explained their plan to him.7
They had gone to France to offer a coup de main (helping hand) that presented relatively light risks and could have interesting developments. It was a question of “conquering” the Passo dell’Orso, taking the eighteen Germans on guard prisoner, and carrying off all of their weapons. At the appointed time, they would go up to the Passo at the same time as our partisans from Beaulard and the French forces from Plampinet. Our men would be in charge of attacking the checkpoint and taking the Germans prisoner—except for one or two, possibly officers or noncommissioned officers, who could be useful for eventual exchanges—who then, however, would be handed over to the French because, given the organization of our group, we would not know what to do with prisoners. On the other hand, the intervention of the French would give the “strike” the character of a war operation, so if they do things properly, they will avoid reprisals on the population on our side of the mountain. But it would remain well understood that we would take the weapons. Having thus cleared out the pass—which the Germans would have significant difficulty getting up the courage to occupy again after the setback—it would open the way for installments of French forces to be organized advantageously in several places in the valley, always in agreement with our partisans, with the goal of disarming the Germans and occupying places of strategic importance. Paolo thought of a certain French general who, in 1754, passing right through the Passo dell’Orso, had pushed forward victoriously as far as Cesana.
Lieutenant Roland listened to the proposal with keen attention. Evidently he liked the idea, but the undertaking was too important for him to take responsibility for it alone. He needed to consult the higher Commands. Therefore he loaded the three boys onto a bagnole (cattle cart) and sent them to Nevache (it was there that they saw a jeep for the first time), where a captain, equally understanding and courteous, listened to them with interest and kindness and, fundamentally approving the proposal, sent them up to Briançon.
But at Briançon, at Military Security, they found quite a different ambiance—no longer the fraternal and spontaneous cordiality of the maquis, but the bureaucratic distrust and coldness of the regular army.8 They questioned them in detail, searched them, and examined their documents. Then, after several hours, “Vite, vite, prenez toutes vos affaires, on va partir tout de suite” (Quickly, quickly, take all your belongings, you are leaving right away), they loaded them onto a truck with two armed Moroccans, like prisoners (while at first they had traveled without an escort), and took them to Embrun. There more endless questions, coldness, and suspicion. While they were waiting, they locked them in a wash house where the Moroccans came to freshen up. It was real enjoyment for them to see how these men undid their turbans to use them as hand towels, and with what skill they reassembled the complicated architecture on their heads, and just as entertaining, even if it was not very appetizing, to observe the aplomb with which they took their chewing gum out of their mouths and stuck it on the wall, later to put it back in their mouths when they had finished washing.
At a certain point the usual order came: “Vite, vite, prenez toutes vos affaires!” They brought them to Briançon, to the Devault Barracks, where finally they gave them something to eat, and they put them to sleep in a little room with three folding beds. (It was the first time they had eaten stew and they found it exquisite. They could not imagine that, when it became their only nourishment, they would soon end up becoming sick of it to the point of nausea.) There, who knows why, they remained for three days, without being able to leave, under the strictest surveillance. From the window they saw the courtyard of the barracks and the many practical jokes of the Moroccans from the window. These men had been among the troops at the landing in Southern Italy, and they spoke some words in corrupted Neapolitan. “Aruà, aruà!” they muttered frequently. “What does aruà mean?” they asked the little Moroccan constantly on guard at their door. “It means vieni accà (come here),” he answered laughing. One morning they awoke hearing O sole mio! sung at the top of their voices.
Finally when, having made the best of things, they had begun to get settled and organize themselves a bit, suddenly they were made to leave (“Vite, vite”), around the evening of the second day, and were brought to Embrun, where they had to sleep on the ground with some blankets, in the guardroom. Naturally every hour someone came to change places and sound the trumpet, which disturbed Alberto and Giulio (but not Paolo, whose sleep is really bombproof). At four in the morning (“Vite, vite”), they were loaded onto a truck with the usual escort of Moroccans, brought up to Grenoble, and there directly to the Hotel Lesdiguières, where the High Command of the entire Alpine area was located, and left to wait while those who accompanied them went to confer with the “important people.” They felt as though they had arrived in a palace from Mille e una notte (A thousand and one nights)—shiny floors, ornate mirrors, dim lights, and Moroccans dressed in white, with turbans, who moved silently with gestures that were almost solemn and who, expressionless, bowed down with folded arms.9 But their enchantment did not last long. At Military Security on Rue Condorcet, where they were taken immediately, they found the same banal atmosphere, half office and half barracks. Again they were questioned for a long time until a certain Moretti, well esteemed by the French authorities with whom he had already worked for a long time, and who had met Alberto and Paolo during their crossing with the group from Patria, came out of nowhere to resolve the situation.10 But he did not know Giulio, and therefore he could not vouch for him. Paolo and Alberto got all worked up in vain, declaring that they knew him very well and that he was one of them. What is more, Giulio, who evidently had his reasons for doing it, withdrew into a kind of obstinate silence, saying that he would not give any more explanations until they put him in contact with someone from the Allied Command. Then one of those absurd events that happen often in the bureaucratic world took place. Giulio, who was regularly regimented in the Allied army, was detained at Military Security as a suspect, while Alberto and Paolo, armed only with their good will and with a little piece of paper from the Corpo di Volontari della Libertà (which in their case was authentic, but which could have very well been false) were from that moment onward, thanks to the recognition of someone whom they met by chance, considered to be colleagues and treated with trust and respect.
Then they left, in the company of three officers, and passing through the route du Lautaret (Lautaret road), they reached Briançon, where a lieutenant who specialized in coups de mains (sudden attacks) accompanied them to Plampinet. The High Command approved the attack on the Germans at the Passo dell’Orso, but instead of waiting to do it with the collaboration of the partisans, they wanted to do it immediately, with only the French forces, making use of the guidance of the two maquisards italiens. It was not exactly what our boys wanted; however, what was important was that the action took place. Therefore they accepted, asking and obtaining, however, that all the weapons taken from the Germans be left to us.
It was Sunday, and the soldiers had organized a type of spectacle at Plampinet, in which a certain Indochinese Tin-Tin had a big part, and during which Alberto and Paolo learned a song that was quite in vogue in France at the time, C’est aujourd’hui dimanche (Today is Sunday), and they participated in an enchère amériquaine (American gambling).11 They stayed in Plampinet for two days while they made the preparations for the “strike.”
They finally left on the evening of the 7th. The French had done things on a big scale. For an undertaking for which seven or eight people were sufficient, they had set a bunch of people in motion. About twenty éclaireurs-skieurs (skier-scouts) went ahead. Then came the group that was supposed to carry out the strike, comprising about thirty people. (Alberto and Paolo went with these men, but they were not armed. They had given Paolo a bazooka rocket to carry.) Finally a group of reinforcements would come, made up of another thirty men. At Châlet des Acles, where a stretch of flat land begins, two companies of Moroccans would be placed, armed with mortars. Then at Plampinet another three reserve companies would move in. A brigadier general would even come up for the occasion. It was the first action of such importance after the September advance that they would carry out on this front, and the “big shots” evidently hoped to derive honor and glory and perhaps a citation in the bulletin from it, hence the importance given to the matter.
But their ambitions were frustrated because the strike did not succeed. When, having gotten through the long stretch of flat land without incident, they had attacked the climb toward the Passo, a terrible blizzard arose and a widespread glissade began.12 The snow conditions had completely changed from when Paolo and Alberto had gone through around one week before, and advancing became very difficult. At a certain point the éclaireurs-skieurs had stopped, no longer able to go ahead. Paolo and Alberto had continued to climb with their group, which, however, was becoming more and more lean. The blizzard on the Passo was very violent, and they could not see one meter ahead. Suddenly they found that only three of them were left, the two of them and an officer. Then even the officer disappeared. Suddenly, yelling in the snow squall to make themselves heard, Alberto and Paolo realized that the two of them were alone and that they were speaking French. By now they were on the Italian side, at perhaps about a hundred meters from the cabin occupied by the Germans, but what could they do alone and without weapons? Certainly they could not try the strike, thus sounding a warning; nor could they push ahead and return to Italy, as perhaps they felt tempted to do at the bottom of their hearts, which would have been neither appropriate nor right. Therefore they decided to turn back, and the expression of joy and relief that emerged on the officer’s face when he saw them reappear in the middle of the storm revealed how little faith he had in them, at least up to that moment. This is why they had not armed them. Now, seeing them disappear, they had thought it was an ambush for sure. “Reculez, reculez (Move back, move back)!” the officer, very excited, had yelled to the men who were moving about in the blizzard. Seeing them reappear, he understood that he was mistaken. “Reculez!” he continued to order, but more serenely, as if it were a matter of routine.
Even though the undertaking did not succeed, the return trip had a triumphal character. If the matter had not gone well it had been because of an act of God, the fault of the elements, but they had done what they could, and the two Italians had conducted themselves magnificently. At Plampinet they were welcomed at the officers’ mess, and a kind of banquet was given in their honor. There was a festive cordiality in the air, as if they thought: “This time it went this way, but now we have found trustworthy friends, and we will be able to do great things together.”
Nevertheless, without their knowing it, the outcome had been achieved. The next day the Germans abandoned the Pass, and they did not return there again. Were they surprised when they saw the tracks around the cabin? Were they afraid of a new attack, which they thought would be difficult to resist? Or maybe they had already decided to go away beforehand, because winter made provisions and travel more and more difficult, and the failed attack had persuaded them to hurry their departure? Or had they simply obeyed an order of a general nature, without any reference to the particular circumstances? We will never know. Nevertheless, we had obtained what we wanted: the Passo was free.
The next day Paolo and Alberto returned to Briançon, to the Devault Barracks. Now they were no longer considered prisoners, but soldiers like the others. They went down to sit in the courtyard in the sun, and all the Moroccans came to shake their hands. (The Moroccans’ passion for shaking hands is strange. When two Moroccan drivers meet while driving a car on the road, whether in the mountains or in the middle of the snow, they stop their automobiles and get out to shake each other’s hands and to shake the hands of all of the passengers in the two motor vehicles!) Taking advantage of the off-duty time, they went to take a short walk around Briançon. The next day, with a jeep, they returned to Grenoble, to Military Security, where a Belgian whose name was Maurice made them a proposal. Would they agree to organize a regular wartime information service in Italy for the French Command? If so, they would have to stay in Grenoble for about ten days to take a course of instruction, and then return to Italy to collect the renseignements (information) that they would then bring back or have brought back to France.
Alberto and Paolo took a few hours before responding. They understood very well that the notorious Deuxième Bureau, that is, a secret espionage service, was probably hidden behind this “information bureau.” But now they were at war and, however different their objectives and moral and political persuasion, on a practical plane they were pursuing the same goals. It was a question of clarifying their own position precisely, and not jeopardizing their own freedom of action in any way. Once these points were established, they could very well provide the information, which would naturally all end up at the Allied Command. The support of the French would be very useful in all present and future developments in the partisan struggle.
After having thought about if for a while, they ended up accepting, provided that everything was quite clear. They were Italian partisans, and the only authority they answered to was the Corpo di Volontari della Libertà. They agreed to work with the French army, providing information of a warlike nature, as long as this collaboration was compatible with their orders from the Cvl, and helpful to the battle of the Italian partisans. Naturally they remained free to collaborate with the English and American Commands in all actions where their aid could be useful. In exchange for the information, the French Command would give them weapons for the partisans.
The French did not have any objections to such declarations. Having clarified the situation in this manner, Paolo and Alberto were lodged in the Hotel Rochambeau, réquisitionné (requisitioned) by the Military Command. They began the course, consisting of a series of lessons about the various German ranks, the uniforms of the various divisions, the marks on the tanks, Sold Buch, and things of this nature.13 After several days, they saw Giulio and Franco (who had reached France from another side in the meantime) also arrive in Rochambeau. Giulio had finally been able to clarify his own position and get in touch with his command. Therefore he also put Alberto and Paolo in touch with a Major Hamilton, head of the Allied mission in Grenoble.14 They had promised a significant quantity of weapons and the group from Beaulard would be mobilized for their transport, linking the transport and information services. The days passed quickly, not at all unpleasant as a whole.
On 22 November, furnished with all the weapons they could carry, they returned to Plampinet and immediately set out on the return trip. Tired because of the heavy load, they reached the plain in broad daylight, in view of the German positions. Therefore they waited, hiding as best they could in a forest, which was a bit darker. Then, instead of continuing toward the Passo dell’Orso, they decided to pass through the Col des Aiguilles, which was closer. In the evening they reached the Colle della Santà, joined by a trail to the Passo della Mulatera, which was occupied by the Germans. The trail was inviting, but of course, armed and weighted down like they were, they could not run the risk of encountering some enemy patrol. Therefore they moved to the opposite side, and pushed ahead in the darkness. After a while, they began to slide. The terrain was becoming steeper and steeper, and in order not to fall, they were forced to dig out steps in the snow until they found themselves before a drop whose bottom they could not see in the darkness. The moon that had lit their way before had disappeared, and a kind of fine snow was falling. Trampling carefully with their feet, they enlarged the step until they made a kind of landing or terrace out of it, on which they stopped to study the situation. Finally they decided that one of them would be let down to explore. They drew lots and it fell to Paolo. They tied together the four strips of canvas from the skis, and even the jump rope that Alberto always carried in his knapsack.15 Then Paolo lowered himself down in the void, while Alberto held the rope, but no matter how much he stretched out, he was not able to either touch or see the bottom. There was nothing he could do from that side, and he climbed back up to the small landing. Now it was necessary to try from the other side. Again they drew lots and this time it fell to Alberto. First they threw down an empty canteen and after a while they heard it stop. Therefore the drop must not be huge. They fixed a ski pole solidly on the ground, to which they tied a rope to increase the range, and Alberto lowered himself down. When he reached the end of the rope, he had the feeling that he was almost at the bottom and let himself go. In fact he touched ground, but the bottom was so steep and slippery that he rolled down for quite a stretch. Then he climbed back up laboriously, until he found the rope again and shook it to attract Paolo’s attention. But in the meantime Paolo had fallen asleep. (More than sleep, I think that it was a kind of delirium owing to fatigue, because he recounted having seen the mountains before him change into a gigantic fireplace, decorated with vases, figurines, and flowers.) He called him for a while, yet without daring to raise his voice too much, until Paolo awakened and came to his senses. He put down the knapsacks, guns, and skis, and then he jumped down, but he did not notice the last section of rope, and detached himself from it before the end. The very long drop made him skid even faster. Alberto tried in vain to stop him, and for a while they rolled together. Then, when they stopped, they patiently climbed back up to look for their things again: the knapsacks were open, Alberto’s Sten had lost its barrel, and the biscotti and other objects were scattered here and there on the snow. They collected what they found as best they could, and then continued to climb down.
Meanwhile a good part of the night had passed, and when they reached the woods at the bottom it was almost 7:00 a.m. and had begun to get light. Around 9:00 a.m. they reached Pleynet, a group of grange not too far from Château, which were not inhabited during the winter. There they let themselves fall on the ground, exhausted, without even the strength to find shelter for themselves, and fell asleep immediately. The sound of steps and voices woke them up after several hours. Paolo, with his eyes half shut, saw two armed figures who were approaching. One wore the hat of the Alpini and the other a German cap. “We are finished!” he thought with a sense of fatality. He looked at the Sten that he had next to him, but before he had time to make any decision, a familiar voice stunned him: “To’, here they are!” It was Pillo with another partisan. In those days they had made several successful strikes, disarming Alpini from Monte Rosa and Germans, and they hoisted their spoils in a sign of victory. Having exchanged reciprocal congratulations, they went together to the cabin, where Alberto and Paolo finally went to sleep. The adventure was over.
Certainly the story the boys told me that day was not so explicit and well organized, but somewhat muddled, and interrupted by frequent recollections, flashbacks, and presentations of supporting evidence: newspapers, maps, books, biscotti, pans of food, etc. The K rations, containing all that was necessary for a meal, struck me most of all: biscotti, ham, eggs, jam, cheese, chocolate, along with what is needed to make soup, coffee, and lemonade, and finally cigarettes, matches, and even toilet paper—all condensed to the maximum in the least amount of space.
I absolutely do not remember what we ate that evening, and at what time we went to bed. I continued to navigate in an unreal euphoria, as if the semidark cabin in the thick of the pine trees was a magic island, miraculously detached from all the sadness of the universe and miraculously illuminated by the sun of happiness.
The next morning the euphoria vanished, and new problems and responsibilities got the upper hand.
If Paolo and Alberto’s undertaking was to bear fruit, we needed to organize the double information service and weapons transport as soon as possible. But the matter was too important for us to carry it out without the authorization and agreement of the Central Command. Therefore we decided that Paolo himself would go down to Turin with us that very day, and would give a detailed report of the trip to Galimberti and Valle. On the return trip he would pass by Laghi’s to bring him up to date and to gain his approval and support.
But even the local situation presented problems that were somewhat worrisome. During the last ten days, Pillo and the others, animated by the spirit of initiative, had taken the offensive, so to speak, disarming several Alpini and Germans, eliminating a spy, and taking another prisoner, a girl that they brought to the cabin, but who then was able to escape. The presence of this girl in the village, who by now knew the location of the cabin, represented ongoing danger. Therefore we needed to either eliminate the girl, of whose guilt they did not have absolute proof—a solution that everyone was against unanimously—or change headquarters. We opted for the second solution. Gino decided that the construction of a new cabin would be begun immediately, right above Beaulard, almost on the edge of the stream where, if they climbed along it, they could avoid leaving visible tracks.
Having made the final arrangements, Ettore, Paolo, and I went down toward Beaulard. It was a splendid day and the Passo dell’Orso stood out, luminous against the sky. I looked at it without any more fear, almost with a feeling of gratitude, while I squeezed Paolo’s arm hard. “Do you think that I too will be able to make the crossing?” I asked suddenly. “I think so,” answered Paolo. His response was the beginning of many other things.
At Beaulard we took the train and arrived in Turin before the curfew, without incident. We went into the concierge’s place for a moment to notify her of our return. Good Espedita, who evidently thought Paolo was lost, gave free reign to such manifestations of joy and tenderness when she saw him that I, who had been able to maintain some composure at the time when I saw him face to face, even though I was overcome and enraptured, began to cry too.
Then we went to sleep, and I had the joy of tucking Paolo in his bed, as if he were not a partisan and someone who had crossed mountains, but the boy of long ago. I remember that, more than once during the night, I woke up and said to myself, “He has returned, he is here in the next room.” I got up to go and look at him; it seemed so impossible to me, as if, having just come out of a long dark tunnel, I could not believe the marvelous reality of the sunlight.
1 Cartiere Burgo was a large paper manufacturing plant.
2 The popular Fiat 500 or topolino (the Italian name for Mickey Mouse) was produced in Italy from 1936 until 1955. It was a favorite of Fiat owner Giovanni Agnelli. Franco Sportoletti (Edmondo) was commander of the citizen squads of the Action Party and representative of the Action Party in the Piazza Command of Turin.
3 The five principal antifascist parties that made up a Committee of National Liberation were the Communist, Socialist, Action, Christian Democratic, and Liberal Parties.
4 Ariosto was the Italian poet who wrote the celebrated narrative poem of the Italian High Renaissance called Orlando Furioso (c. 1532). Gaspero Barberà was a publisher in Florence of pocket editions called the Collezione diamante. The Canti is the major collection of poetry of the poet Giacomo Leopardi (1798–1837).
5 At the time, Morocco was still a French colony. According to Fofi, Moroccans participated in the war as part of the French troops. Diario partigiano (1972), 229 n. 5.
6 The word fifi was a nickname for French Resistance fighters who were part of the Forces Françaises de L’intérieur (French domestic forces).
7 Roland Grosjean was a lieutenant in the French army. The Armée secrète (Secret army) became part of the regular army as First Company, 4th Demi-Brigade, First Division, First Army.
8 Maquis (literally “undergrowth”) was the name for the French underground.
9 The Thousand and One Nights, also known as the Arabian Nights, is a series of anonymous stories originally written in Arabic and including the stories of Ali Baba, Sinbad the Sailor, and Aladdin.
10 Moretti was a liaison officer with the Allies.
11 Tin-Tin was a popular French cartoon character.
12 Glissade literally means skid or slide.
13 According to one source, “the Soldbuch was issued to all members of the German military once conscripted. Literally meaning ‘paybook’, the Soldbuch was the main form of identification for all members of the Wehrmacht. In the Soldbuch were the soldier’s name, rank, military registration number, physical description (later a photograph), current unit, training unit, issued equipment, medical information, awards issued and pay group information.” See http://www.angelfire.com/tn3/luftwaffefeld/research.html.
14 The Belgian Léonard Blanchaert (Hamilton) was a major in the English army and head of a mission in Piedmont.
15 They put these strips of seal skin under the skis in order to climb up the hill.