Towards February, when no one expected it, there was a tremendous snowstorm which left a covering of snow a metre deep. The lorries could no longer get through, and the railway, too, was blocked. There was a snowslide between the two Zenna tunnels and the snow made the road to Luino impassable. The only way to get about was by skis or sledge. As children, we had no idea what it meant to be completely cut off. It was not even possible to reach the Swiss side or the Luino shore from the lake. A north wind stirred up huge waves, causing the police motor boat to slip its moorings one night, crash into the cliff and sink.
For us the whole business was a godsend. The need to ski everywhere, the opportunity for endless snowball fights and the adventure of finding ourselves completely cut off made us feel as though we were marooned on a desert island. The people in the valley were not unduly worried, since the grocer had supplies enough for three or four days. The butcher had access to as many sheep and goats as he could wish, and the smugglers now had a free hand. The customs men on the border posts were not able to move with any agility on the snow-covered peaks, but the shoulder-boys with their home-made skis, even when they were weighed down with baskets packed with cigarettes and other contraband goods, could manage the circus turns needed to make it across the steep mountain slopes.
That very week the rumour began to circulate that the sergeant in charge of the carabinieri station had been relieved of his command and ordered to move to ‘another location’. Someone had snared him in the bird-trap, as the saying was, in other words, someone had written a letter to the head office in Luino accusing the poor officer of being in cahoots with the smugglers, and of turning a blind eye to the continual cross-border movement of subversives and common criminals wanted by the authorities.
A miserable stab in the back. Most people in the town were convinced that the whole squalid business had been orchestrated by the officer in the customs force, others that the report came from the vice station-master who came from Maccagno every day to relieve my father. ‘He’s a fanatical Fascist, that one,’ Pa’ Fo always maintained. ‘Yes, but he’d better look out,’ my father’s assistant would reply. ‘People are liable to slip under a train, especially with all this snow about!’
A few days later, the council workers managed to clear the tracks, and a tractor with a snow plough got through on the provincial road. We were once again free, the more’s the pity.
This meant that they could now arrange the removal of the carabiniere sergeant: the same story of dismantled furniture, the same stove slipping off and breaking apart. The officer’s wife was extremely sad: she embraced my mother and all the women in the town when they went down to say goodbye. Even Nanni, their son, the leader of our adventures and games on the hilltops, was upset and struggled to hold back his tears. I too felt a tightness in the pit of my stomach which almost bent me double.
But I knew that of all the family, the one I would miss most was Nanni’s little sister, Beatrice, who shared my bench at school … with those big black eyes of hers … the one who always stole my rubbers … who messed up my drawings … who put ink on my nose, but who held my hand on the way home to the station and who went happily sliding along beside me until we ended up rolling together on the grassy verge of the road, giving each other big hugs. Often as we rolled head over heels we would bump heavily into things but then would help each other back to our feet. I would put my arm round her waist, to help support her … and she would kiss me lightly.
It may be that we manufactured those accidents deliberately, or maybe they were completely fake! ‘But now that Beatrice is going away, who’s going to roll home with me through the fields?’
CHAPTER 2. The Anarchists Depart
Quite unexpectedly, with the first ferry after the resumption of service, we saw Bruno arrive alone, without Bedelià. What had happened? Kisses, embraces … I hoped at least for a box of chocolates, but nothing was produced. My first thought was: ‘Something has gone wrong here!’ Bruno and my father communicated in low, intense whispers.
The following day, as soon as Bruno had set off for home, my mother took me aside and said to me softly: ‘My darling, Papà wants you to do him a big favour. We have to get a letter to one of those friends you met in Lugano … you remember that church?’
‘Oh yes, the one where they played and sang the black music.’
‘Good for you. You’ll have to join Bruno over there, and I’ll stitch a letter into your jumper. The police will definitely not bother about you.’
‘All right!’
‘You won’t be afraid…’
‘No, not at all.’ I drew my knees together so as not to let her see that they were knocking with fear. The next day they took me down to the pier, where I was entrusted to the care of the ferry captain. During the crossing, I stayed seated with a blanket over me.
‘Why don’t you go upstairs with the other children?’ asked the head sailor. ‘Is something the matter? Not feeling well?’
‘It’s not that. If I’m upstairs I feel like vomiting. I get seasickness.’
‘What a pity. Someone who lives on the lake and who cannot even go out on a boat,’ said the sailor.
Bruno was there waiting for me on the wharf at Brissago. He gave me a hug and together we went to get the coach for Bellinzona. The anarchists were already preparing to move out. The Italian government had made a complaint to the Swiss authorities because they had allowed subversives to set up home there, on the border. They had to pack up, get out of the Ticino and even out of Switzerland. My cousin was enraged and I heard him curse: ‘Great country, this! All neat and tidy, the cleanest cesspool in Europe. They bow and scrape to every arsehole who farts out orders at them!’
From the conversation, I learned that was not the first time the anarchists had been forced to undergo that kind of violence. Around forty years earlier, in the days of the famous anarchist Pietro Gori, a large number of refugees had been forced out of Lugano. The king and government of the day had pressurised the Swiss parliament into denying those subversives the right of asylum.
We were still recalling that first diaspora when we arrived at the Caffè Lungolago. Bruno took me into the toilet, where I took off my jumper and put on another which I had in my bag. In the corridor outside, one of the anarchists grabbed the garment which had the letter sewn into it and stuck it in his rucksack. He took me in his arms, held me tightly and told me: ‘Thank your father, give him a kiss when you next see him. Tell him to be careful, not to give anything away.’
‘Yes, I’ll let him know.’
We went out. There were lorries drawn up to carry off the possessions of these undesirables. Before leaving, they drew themselves up in a line along the quay from where they could make out Italy on the far side of the lake.
‘Now they’re going to give us a song.’ I thought to myself, ‘they’ll beat time with their hands and start swaying about in a dance like last year in the church.’
Instead, to my surprise, they intoned a low, almost tearful, tune to take their leave of the lake and of the friends who had come to say goodbye. There were people from the Ticino, but also others from further afield, from other cantons. The moment the lorries and the coach moved off, they waved their hands in the air and some even applauded. I was about to applaud as well, but Bruno grabbed my arm to stop me. ‘Don’t move a muscle. There are policemen here from Italy in plain clothes. It’s better if they don’t find out who we are.’
Many years later, after the war, I heard time and again that song of the anarchists, which goes: