"Now Oscar tell us another of your stories set in your youth in Florence under the bombs of the allies and the cannon fire of the Germans. They are interesting testimonies, but how much imaginative do you put into it? Is it possible that you remember everything in such detail?"
Gianni is not only a great friend but a man of profound culture. His passion for architecture makes him one of the most accredited guides to discover Washington and Milan.
His question-provocation makes me smile.
"You see, Gianni: the detailed description of those adolescent experiences of mine is not the fruit of fantasy, much less a technical way of writing to fill the page. As the shrinks say, the shocking and dramatic experiences of war are inserted into the psyche of a young man. in a decisive way. They are indelible photos that resurface every now and then, re-proposing within you the past sensations of pain, dismay, fear, surprising curiosity about what was happening around you ...
"Well, listen to this.
It must have been close to midday because my grandmother Emma was in the kitchen and I could smell the inviting scent of breaded Milanese (who knows how my grandmother had managed to get that slice).
Suddenly we heard a great crash of blows, perhaps even kicks, against the front door of our apartment which was still thick and reinforced with bolts.
The grandmother was clearly scared but still she approached the door which was raised three steps above the floor of the rest of the apartment, but you know: it was a house in a 1500s building made all of barrel vaults, thick walls, ravines.
I was behind the grandmother who in the meantime was opening the latches on the door which finally opened.
"Sardote, Sardote" shouted one of the two SS men who had punched and kicked the door.
"You, Sardote .." And he showed a black-gloved fist on the old woman's face.
"No, we are Bartoli ..." Emma was repeating our surname several times.
The two officers started talking to each other and then turned their heels to turn their attention to the door of the other apartment which was located on the same landing.
And they began to punch and kick that door again, until a frightened lady who was holding a baby of a few months and had her four-year-old daughter attached to her skirt opened crying.
"We are Priests," she said in a faint voice as the two soldiers pushed her aside and entered that apartment.ter a few minutes and the sound of a fight they came out again dragging Professor Sacerdote, a meek high school teacher, his face swollen from the punches they had managed to throw at him when they dug him out of a closet.
They had taken him under the armpits and his bare feet bounced off the steps leaving a trail of blood.
The door of the apartment on the first floor, above that of Professor Sacerdote, opened and Cesare Buti appeared, a noisy fascist hierarch who raged in the building, imposing on men the presence at the fascist gatherings and - everyone said it - spying for the OVRA .
"Dankeshon, comrades for freeing us from this Jewish-Masonic presence. Heil Hitler!" and unleashed his Roman salute as the two SS men left the entrance hall with their prey without having deigned to look at it.
Grandmother Emma was holding Mrs. Priest embraced.
"Lalli, run into that apartment and grab a chair because the lady is about to faint ...!"
_______________________________________________________
He began the hunt for snipers who continued to kill people who were trying to rebuild an almost normal life by mainly looking for something to eat.
One afternoon I went out, after a long time in segregation, with my grandmother Emma, but I honestly don't remember what to do.
Borgo Pinti the street where we lived had a strange light compared to how I remembered it months before. It was the sun that passed through the ruins of the buildings that had been bombed and illuminated a new world made of material and moral misery.
People were seen in the street sporting red handkerchiefs and scarves to show that they were partisans or close to the partisans.
We found him in front of him as he walked ostentatiously, perhaps under the illusion of making a great grip especially on young women, some of whom did not neglect teasing him.
"Oh jerk, but what are you wearing, that you look like D'Artagnan? 1"
The grandmother opened the door of our apartment ajar as someone beat us with a stick.
"Listen - said a figure in a filthy tank top that barely held a jungle of hair - where is Buti?"
"I don't know, we just moved; try asking upstairs ..." Grandma said lying.
"Argentieri !, forget it we found it ... It's here on the first floor ...!"
They broke down the Cesare Buti's door and took him out with his wife and 22-year-old daughter to whom some brigade of the brigade had already begun to cut their hair to zero ... because this was the least that could be done to the accused fascist women of fascist sympathies, or even just disliked...
Cesare Buti was unable to walk because of the blows and blows with the butts of the rifles they had given him; they dragged him down the stairs just as the Nazis had dragged Professor Sacerdote.
"But what are they doing to him now?", The grandmother asked a young man who was closing the group that was now leaving the building and who seemed the least agitated.
"We take him to the garden of D'Azeglio, nearby and then we shoot him together with four other republican fascists we have captured ... Long live Italy!"
Grandma Emma bolted the heavy walnut door shut.
Dear Oscar:
Read your article with great interest. Reminded me of "Beneath the Scarlet Sky," by Mark Sullivan, but I then read that he'd based it on some rather dubious research.
Sorry you left DC, I did a talk up there in January on "How Italians Changed America," and would have loved to have heard your reaction and input.
Hope you remain healthy and enjoy your emails.
Paul Paolicelli
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