The Last Son’s Secret

by Rafel Nadal Farreras

  On the third day, around noon, the skies began to clear. Vitantonio was at the edge of the camp, leaning against the trunk of a giant oak, with his gaze lost somewhere out on the plain, trying to imagine Foggia, the Gargano and beyond the horizon, the city of Bari. He heard a voice behind him.

  ‘Do you miss it?’

  He turned and saw that the commander of the Maiella brigade was watching him.

  ‘I don’t know if that’s the word. I’ve been away from home for more than three years and I suppose I’m used to it by now,’ he answered. ‘But I have some unfinished business there.’

  The man extended his hand. ‘Ettore Troilo,’ he said.

  ‘Vitantonio Conver— Vitantonio Palmisano,’ he stammered.

  ‘You don’t even know your own name?’

  ‘It’s a long story …’

  By the time he had finished telling it, the sky had grown overcast again. A flash of lightning lit up the nearest peaks, as if they’d caught fire.

  At the back of the mountain range a tiny sliver of blue broke up the cloud cover, making the storm that was about to hit them again seem even darker in contrast. It was an unsettling sight: he had never seen such a black sky in the middle of the day. Night had fallen suddenly. Another flash of lightning lit up their faces. He saw Ettore Troilo flinch slightly; the booming thunder had caught him by surprise.

  ‘If not for that bit of blue sky and the rays of sun coming from it, this would just be a dark evening like so many others. It’s that reminder of the good weather somewhere far off that makes the coming storm seem even worse,’ suggested the commander.

  Vitantonio looked at the storm clouds again and thought that the partisan leader was right: by the time the storm hits it’s no longer something frightening, it surrounds you but you no longer have a clear sense of it. It’s only when you see it approaching from a distance, whole and threatening, that the imminent downpour is something to be feared.

  He thought that perhaps it was also that light, the hope that they were fighting for a more peaceful, fruitful time, that had him more on edge than he had ever been during the three endless years of self-imposed exile in Matera. Since he had begun to believe truly that a better time for Italy would soon come, he missed his mother and Giovanna more, and he was increasingly afraid of what might happen to him.

  They were interrupted by the Englishman’s voice. ‘Try to get some sleep,’ he said to Vitantonio after shaking hands with the partisan commander. ‘Whatever the weather tomorrow, we’re setting off at dawn.’

  When they left camp the next morning it was still dark; the night was bitterly cold but filled with stars. Some partisans native to those mountains acted as their guides, helping them move stealthily along hidden paths. Twelve hours later, as the sun was setting, they had the Sangro river in their sights.

  ‘We’ll wait to cross until it gets dark and the escort comes for us,’ announced the leader of the party.

  That night, when the escort arrived, they brought good news.

  ‘The British are on the other side of the river.’

  PART FIVE

  The Bombing of Bari

  The Bar Mirror

  ON THE SECOND day of December, when he reached Bari, Vitantonio didn’t recognize the city: that winter, military vehicles had taken over the main roads and groups of soldiers moved about aimlessly, particularly on the streets that led to the old town and the new port. He left the station and walked along the Corso Italia, following the train tracks for a while. Then he disappeared into the streets of the district of Madonnella. Anxious as he was to start his search for his mother and Dr Ricciardi in the town’s civilian and military hospitals, first he needed to wander around, just taking in the city.

  He felt the sea breeze on his face and he noticed that he was out on the Lungomare, right in front of the Albergo delle Nazioni, the hotel and restaurant where his uncle used to take him. From there, he saw for the first time the cranes in the port, which was a hive of activity. He had trouble recognizing the streets of his last years as a student in Bari. Before continuing, he decided to go into the Albergo for a drink.

  Not used to drinking, it felt like the alcohol was burning his insides. He coughed, embarrassed, and quickly straightened up, to save face. When he glanced in the large mirror behind the bar he saw a ship reflected in it, headed to the entrance of the new port, to the eastern dock. If he’d had his military binoculars with him he could have seen that it was the John Harvey, an American cargo boat. He remembered the first time he’d seen vessels reflected in the same huge mirror, the day he had argued with Uncle Angelo. That afternoon, so long ago now, he’d discovered that there was nothing as peaceful as watching the arrival of a ship into port after a voyage filled with uncertainty. It seemed like a thousand years had passed since then.

  He paid, decided to take the seafront road to the docks and watch the mooring from up close. Before leaving the bar he glanced in the mirror one last time, wanting to see the boat’s exact position and calculate how long it would take it to reach the quay. He looked up: there in the mirror where the John Harvey had been was now the familiar figure of his cousin Franco, who was getting out of a car right on the other side of the Lungomare. Vitantonio stood up, his heart racing, trying to penetrate the mirror with his gaze. He saw Franco bid goodbye to the driver, who was wearing an Italian army uniform; then he saw his cousin head away from the hotel towards the Via Dante. Vitantonio bit his lip and clenched his fists, surprised at the impunity with which that murderer was strolling through the city. He had shared his childhood and teenage years with him, without ever questioning the ease with which he so readily ignored such unequivocal signs of evil. Now he hated Franco more than anything.

  Earlier, when he had just left the station and was walking through the new part of the city, it had been buzzing with military activity, but it had also felt safe: the Allies had made it their main supply port on the Adriatic and an uprising by the women of the Borgo Antico had kept the Germans from blowing up the docks before evacuating the city. Now, just an hour later, with Franco’s appearance, the city no longer felt safe. Bari was at war and his cousin’s presence portended every possible horror.

  Walking briskly, determined not to lose sight of him, Vitantonio followed his cousin. When Franco turned on to one of the side streets right before the Petruzzelli theatre, he’d almost caught up with him. He could easily recognize his small, sunken shoulders that used to twitch compulsively when they play-fought in the palazzo garden. He followed him along the Corso Cavour and, then, the Via Piccinni. When he saw they were approaching the Piazza Garibaldi, Vitantonio knew exactly where Franco was headed. He slowed his pace and, despite knowing where he was going, was still repulsed to see that, indeed, Franco was walking through the doorway of the building where they had shared an apartment in the last year of school, before his cousin had gone off to Rome and then war in Spain. Uncle Angelo had bought it for his son, right after the incident between Franco and Giocavazzo at the boarding school. Two years later Vitantonio too had moved in; Nonna thought it was absurd to have him boarding at school when they had so much free space in a family apartment.

  Vitantonio waited a little while on the other side of the square, watching the entrance. The years spent hiding in Matera and the last few months of guerrilla activity had taught him that things were always more complicated than they first appeared. An hour later he was proved right: the door opened and Franco came out, but not alone; the tall man with the rotten teeth was with him.

  Meanwhile, the John Harvey had docked at pier 29 on the east jetty; the engineer had only just cut the engines. The pier was crowded with Allied vessels, many of them piled high with ammunition, and the recently arrived ship wouldn’t be given any special treatment, so the crew were expecting to have to wait for days before starting to unload.

  Vitantonio would have liked to challenge his cousin right there and then, but he let Franco and his accomplice vanish in the direction of the port. After ha
lf an hour he finally went up to the apartment, where he decided to wait for them so he could take his revenge. He got in through the window in the hall, which opened right on to the stairwell, just like when they were in school and he’d forgotten his keys.

  Sneaking into his former student apartment gave him an odd feeling. It must have been a long time since anyone had cleaned it, because it smelled musty. He opened up the rooms and was revolted to find that the guy with the rotten teeth had taken over his bed; Franco was using the one he always had. The kitchen was covered in crumbs and there was an unbearable stench coming from the bathroom.

  When he went into the dining room, he saw through the open balcony door that the sun was setting behind the Bari cemetery. Despite his eyes struggling in the low light, he discovered a radio transmitter and a pile of documents, some in German. He grabbed a handful of files and went over to the balcony to try to decipher them. He read: ‘The sun has set on Bari.’ And: ‘Thirty-one ducks in the pond.’ It was signed: ‘The Black Knight.’

  What did that all mean? Who was Franco communicating with over the transmitter? Was his cousin still working for the fascists of the newly established Italian Republic of Salò, who now shared control of northern Italy with the Nazis? Or was Franco working directly for the Germans? Or maybe he was working for both … He supposed that Franco and his sidekick could perfectly well be spying simultaneously for Hitler, Mussolini and any other bastard on the planet.

  He went back to reading the files, pacing about the room. What the hell did those messages mean? Sun? Ducks? What were they about? Questions ran through his mind until all the sirens in the city went off at once and brought him back to reality. Alarmed, he ran to the balcony and looked out just in time to see people, who just moments before had been happily strolling in the square, running to the shelters.

  Unused to the sirens, he decided to stay in the apartment and wait for Franco and the man with the rotten teeth to return home. He sat down on the cold floor, with his back against the open balcony door and facing the Piazza Garibaldi, which was now almost empty. The night was clear. The near deserted square made him uneasy. Time had stopped. Then, suddenly, he heard a deafening explosion only metres from his hiding place. He threw himself to the floor to avoid being hit by flying glass from the windowpanes shattering into a thousand pieces.

  The Luftwaffe Raid

  THE MEDICAL PERSONNEL in Bari lived in fear of the daily siren drills, because they set the patients on edge. That night, when the patients realized that the sirens hadn’t stopped wailing at the usual time, hysteria spread through every ward in the Policlinico.

  ‘If they don’t stop that racket soon, I’ll go mad,’ one doctor complained bitterly as he was leaving Bari’s medical school. He was checking on a boy’s broken hip and he needed all possible calm to deal with the patient while he manipulated the joint.

  The boy had been run over by a British army jeep. The driver hadn’t stopped to pick him up. Two women who’d witnessed the accident had carried him and left him at the door of the Policlinico to force the army doctors to admit him. The majority of the Policlinico, Bari’s most modern hospital, was under military command and entrusted to the New Zealanders.

  ‘Don’t worry, they’ll stop soon,’ said Dr Ricciardi to ease the tension.

  ‘If that bloody siren doesn’t stop in the next five minutes, we’ll have to give all the patients—’ Donata began, but they didn’t hear the end of her complaint. An enormous explosion shook the city to its foundations, followed by multiple aftershocks, which magnified the noise hugely. Soon, a chain of explosions was ricocheting through the city, closer and closer together.

  With the patients screaming in terror, Ricciardi thought they were about to lose control of the ward. Donata shot the doctor a frightened look and saw that he was giving orders in an attempt to overcome his own panic. Just then another, even more horrific explosion came: the windows shattered and shards of glass hit those closest to them. The blast ripped out doors and shutters; bottles of medicine broke; the beds moved as if in an earthquake. Doctors on their rounds were sent flying across the room and fell to the ground, only intensifying the general sense of chaos and danger.

  Only after a few minutes did they grasp that the chaos was caused by a Luftwaffe attack. More than a hundred planes were flying over the city of Bari and bombing it: it was as if the sky had opened up and rained down at once all the thunder and lightning that had fallen in southern Italy in the last thousand years. At seven forty-five when the bombers would finally leave, the city would be dotted with fires from one end to the other, lighting it up as if it were daytime.

  One of the shockwaves had thrown Donata to the floor. When she clambered up to look out of the window, it was to be greeted by the sight of a giant column of fire, somewhere past the old quarter.

  ‘The port is on fire!’ she screamed, her eyes fixed on the flames.

  More bombs fell again right by the hospital, and the doctor threw himself over Donata to shield her from the window. A hail of debris landed on the other side of the ward and hit an Italian officer who was standing in the doorway. Donata gave Ricciardi a grateful look. Then she glanced at the officer and saw that he appeared as scared as they did. He walked into the centre of the ward with two soldiers who wore Red Cross armbands. He took in the room and shouted, ‘We need people to set up a first-aid post in the Borgo Antico straight away. The German bombs are devastating the cathedral and the port; it’s a bloodbath.’

  Donata and the doctor were the first ones to volunteer.

  As soon as they crossed the train tracks they got their first glimpse of the disaster. And by the time they reached the old quarter, they were truly scared: the streets were no more than piles of rubble and survivors were running desperately from one end to the other. Some of them had taken refuge in the Castello, trusting that the thick walls of the fortress would withstand the attacks. Many others were starting to gather at the improvised posto di pronto soccorso facing the outer dock; some were bringing in the wounded, and the rest were looking for the comfort of company.

  The first injured people that Donata and Dr Ricciardi treated came from the Strada Santa Chiara, but they didn’t fully realize the magnitude of the bombing until the survivors of the collapsed buildings on the Via Venezia started coming in. The first ship that the German bombers had hit had been loaded high with munitions: the explosion had caused a shockwave as strong as a hurricane, which had swept through the Borgo Antico and flattened the ancient buildings of one of Bari’s oldest streets.

  ‘The houses fell like dominoes, one after the other, like they were made of cardboard,’ explained the eyewitnesses when they reached the medical station.

  Among the recent arrivals, Donata recognized a neighbour who was being treated with a seven-year-old boy in her arms. Donata passed her every morning at the door to the cathedral when she left for the hospital. Approaching her to reassure her, Donata picked up the little boy in her arms and saw that he was dead.

  The explosions on the ships caused more direct damage to the Borgo Antico than the Luftwaffe’s bombs. The buildings crumbled, burying entire families amid piles of rubble that grew as tall as some of the houses had been. Many were also in flames. The air was burning hot and choked with the smoke that streamed off the burning boats. The survivors didn’t know which way to go: there were flames in every direction. Suddenly a voice began to shout, ‘To the sea! We have to take shelter there!’

  A large group of panic-stricken people ran towards the port. Parents carried their children, some seriously injured. Faced with certain death beneath collapsing buildings, they were willing to risk passing by the burning ships in the hope of getting to the sea. By the time they reached the breakwater the entire port was aflame. Some of the vessels had sunk and others were adrift and burning. The oil pipeline had been hit by one of the first bombs, and was pouring oil into the sea. Hundreds of sailors were desperately trying to stay afloat by clinging to debris or swimming throug
h the burning water: the frantic screams for help sent shivers down the spines of those watching them from the quayside.

  When they reached the dock, those survivors whose clothes were on fire jumped into the water too. Donata and Ricciardi tried to convince the injured to turn back and be treated at the posto di pronto soccorso. British soldiers also tried to block their way, but the crowd was too large. The bombs and the explosions on the ships terrified them, but there was no way they were going back to those collapsing streets.

  Just as the crowd was gathering by the sea, the flames reached the John Harvey’s cargo hold. Seconds later, the vessel exploded and the flames rose in a frantic whorl three hundred metres high, lighting up the night. Many of those who had taken refuge by the dock were ripped from the ground, sent flying more than twenty metres and slammed into the walls of the surrounding warehouses. Others were crushed by the cars and trucks that had been sucked into the air by the force of the explosion. Those people thrown into the sea considered themselves lucky and thanked God for saving them.

  Windows were blown out eleven kilometres away. The roofs of the houses in Bari were swept away as if they were leaves on a day when there was a strong north wind. Donata and the doctor, who were still far from the water’s edge, were flung along the ground and ended up several metres away, cradled in a buttress of the old city wall.

  When Donata grasped that she was one of the very few survivors, she looked at Ricciardi, stretched out beside her, and wondered what would have become of her over the last few months if it hadn’t been for him. He returned her gaze, and made as if to say something, but Donata reached forward and placed two fingers on his lips to silence him.

  ‘You are the finest man I’ve ever known. I love you more than anyone else, after my husband and children. But we have to accept reality – we’re too old and too much has happened for us to make a start now.’