Addio Lugano bella,
Oh dolce terra pia.
Cacciati senza colpa
gli anarchici van via.
Farewell fair Lugano,
Gentle, blessed land.
Expelled without guilt
The anarchists take their leave.
I have sung that song many times myself, but I have never managed to get to the end. At some point, my voice always turns hoarse, and I can only pretend to be singing. Each time, I find myself back there, on the quay, a boy once more, attempting to applaud while my cousin holds me back: ‘Let’s try not to stand out.’
CHAPTER 3. The French Friend
Years later, in the summer of ’44, as the Second World War was drawing to a close, a man came from France to visit us, and he embraced my father with incredible affection … they had been friends since their early youth and had got to know each other in Montpellier where my father had emigrated to find work on a building site. As maguts, that is boy-masons, they had every day climbed together up the scaffolding of big houses under construction.
In those days, in 1913, bitter disputes were underway to secure workers’ emancipation, to win rights, a decent salary and above all safety in the factories and yards. The strikes and accompanying demonstrations were invariably broken up with unthinkable ferocity. The workers were charged not only by the police but also by the army and cavalry. However, at the end of it all, the trade unions had managed to obtain some advantages.
On the very day they went back to work on the building site, the whole scaffolding collapsed and around fifteen workers, including my father, were thrown to the ground. Ten survivors, some dying, were rushed to hospital. My father was one of the more fortunate ones: he had broken his leg in several places and a blow to his back had left him semi-paralysed.
On his release from hospital, he was taken home by Andres, as his fellow magut was called. Andres’s mother looked after him as though he were her own son. My father often said that he owed his life to that woman.
When he was well enough, he moved to Germany, still in the company of Andres. They found employment in a site in Hanover, just as the First World War was about to break out. Andres went back to France, my father to Lombardy. Two years later, Italy entered the conflict and, still not yet nineteen, my father found himself in the front line on the Carso.
From their conversation, I discovered that the letter sewn into my jumper which I had brought to the anarchists at Bellinzona was to be handed over to him in France. Andres was then in charge of the Association for the Aid of Political Refugees, whom France had ‘welcomed’ in such large numbers. Naturally my father had requested Andres and his organisation to give asylum to the fugitives and to help them find work and accommodation.
Both my father and Andres had been active in the Socialist Party (obviously each in his own country) before and after the war. In those days, the workers’ movement had found its raison d’être in solidarity with the persecuted, no matter which party or democratic group they belonged to.
But let us go back to my boyhood in Pino.
CHAPTER 4. The Novice and Fulvio in the Mud
At the beginning of my second year in the Pino primary school, an assistant named Irene arrived to give Reverend Mother a hand. She was not yet a nun, but a lay-sister, in other words a novice, so she still had all her hair, bunched discreetly inside the headdress. She wore a kind of light blouse several sizes too big to cover her delicate, harmonious body, and moved with great agility, swinging her skirts as though there were gusts of air coming from inside.
My brother Fulvio was not yet due to be attending school, but considering the ease with which he had picked things up, the Reverend Mother had accepted him into her class. Since we were living in such a backwater, no one would ever bother.
On 21 March, the first day of spring, it was the custom to go into the fields near the woods on a ‘narcissus outing’, that is, to gather great bouquets of scented narcissi.
That particular day, all of us in the school went up to Arcomezzo, where the thousands of flowers growing there seemed to have painted the plains white. We had been entrusted to the care of Irene, who seemed by far the most frisky of all of us: she ran about, jumping in the air, pulling up her long skirt and waving it here and there as though she were chasing off swarms of wasps. She told us not to restrict ourselves to narcissi but to gather cornflowers, lily of the valley and hyacinths as well. After a couple of hours, we started back down with bunches of flowers bigger than ourselves. The young novice continued to urge us on, throwing tufts of musk and clumps of wild onions at us, then skipping off with all of us in her train like so many bloodhound puppies.
The peasants had constructed low walls to prevent slippages of land, and the sister took great pleasure in leaping over them with one bound. For us it was a bit harder: cut knees, trips, tumbles.
All of a sudden, the cry went up: ‘Fulvio has fallen into a swamp!’ My brother had attempted to leap over a dyke and, not realising that on the other side of that pile of rocks there was a deep ditch filled with slimy mud, had plunged straight in. The young novice rushed over, white in the face. Fulvio was literally sinking in the marsh and was likely to suffocate. Irene did not hesitate one moment but jumped into the quagmire as she was, fully dressed. Even though she was in the mire up to her neck, she managed to lift my brother out and heave him onto the grassy verge.
Now she attempted to get a grip on the edge of the ditch, but each time she tried, the verges came away in her hand. There were branches lying on the ground a few metres away. We pulled the longest branch over to the ditch so that Irene could catch hold of it. All together, clutching the branch like the seven dwarves (even if there were actually twelve of us), we pulled and tugged like madmen until our novice began to re-emerge. She was caked in mud from her feet to her cheeks, and her dress clung to her body like a plastercast.
Even today I blush at my behaviour: there was my brother stretched out on the ground, half asphyxiated, bleeding from head to toe … and I had eyes only for that prodigious blend of garment, mud and girl’s body on which all the various round and smooth forms could be made out more clearly than if she had been naked.
After a few moments, I realised that I was not alone in appreciating that prodigious metamorphosis. One of the girls cried out: ‘Irene, you’re gorgeous! Your breasts and the little what-sits are sticking out.’
The novice did not seem unduly worried. After all, we were only children, so no scandal. Her only concern was with the injury to Fulvio’s neck, which was cut deeply and was bleeding. She picked him up in her arms and ran with him towards a nearby farmhouse where there was a trough in the yard with water from a stream. She jumped right in with the boy in her arms and began washing him from the neck down, swaying with him from side to side, trying with this little game to get him over the shock which had left him speechless.
Shortly afterwards, the farmer’s wife came down from the house above the stables, from where she had seen everything. She had understood the nature of the problem and so came armed with sheets and blankets. She was accompanied by a little girl whom, when she saw the blood pouring from Fulvio’s wound, she sent to the kitchen to fetch linen bandages and some alcohol. Irene then handed Fulvio over to the care of the woman and, water dripping everywhere, clambered out of the trough: with the sheets and blankets pulled around her, she ran over to the stables.