by Erri De Luca
I asked him how a revolt starts.
“The first day’s assault was against a German truck that had gone to plunder a shoe factory. In the last days of September the Germans started looting what they could from the stores and even from the churches. It started with an improvised attack on one of their trucks filled with shoes, the first battle.
“The American ships were in sight, the Germans about to leave: why take a risk when liberation was so close? In Rome, months later, nothing happened in the same conditions, the people had waited.
“The retreat wasn’t a sure thing, the Germans had enough forces to resist. They had prepared defenses against a landing in the city, they were prepared to fight. And their anger was hardened. The men in hiding were pushing to come out of the tufo underground, there was the forced evacuation of the coastal strip, three hundred meters from the sea all houses had to be emptied. The city leans into the sea, to empty it for a width of three hundred meters meant one hundred thousand displaced people from one day to the next, camped out, they didn’t know where to go. Yes, we could have waited around all the same, kept our heads down and counted the passing hours. So I don’t know why we leaped up like crickets into the streets all at once. The things you throw yourself into doing in those hours belong in part to you, the rest belongs to that body known as the populace. It’s everyone around, people doing like you and you doing like them. One minute you are in front of everyone, the next they overtake you, one guy falls dead and in his name the others carry on what he started. It resembles music. Each person plays an instrument and what emerges is not the sum of the players but music, a current that moves in waves, flays the sea, a hunger that shows you the bread on the ground, and you leave it for someone else, a mother who hands a stone to her child, the commotion that brings blood and not tears to the eyes. I don’t know how to explain it to you, the revolt. If you find yourself in the middle of one, you’ll join in and it won’t resemble the one I’m telling you about. But it will be equal, because all revolts of the people against armed forces are sisters.”
• • •
I understood the uprising in fits and I imagined it in fits, like the resurrection of a body. At first a nervous contraction, then the muscle of a finger that moves, a tic, a reawakening that starts from the periphery of the body. Only after sitting up did Lazarus remember hearing the voice that ordered him to arise. This is how I pictured the uprising, the discharge of energy in a spent body. But how had it come to extinguish itself, how had it been reduced to a tin soldier?
At school I would never hear a lecture as precise as Don Gaetano’s story. At school we studied up to the First World War, and then both the school year and the twentieth century came to an end. A young man shot an archduke and the world waged war on itself, divided between those who took the archduke’s side and those who took the young man’s. The First World War was one long trench, a place where men stand with their feet in a ditch. But the Second World War, the relapse? I couldn’t picture the youths that had been melted into tin soldiers. They had been transformed into the adults around me, the most troubled, decimated generation in the history of the world.
“I knew a young guy, he was twenty years old at the beginning of the war. He was a good person, studious, poor, hardworking. To get by he gave private lessons to students. He fell in love with a girl, went to her house to teach her Italian and math. But we only found out about his falling in love after. He was in deep mourning, his father had died. He wore a black jacket with holes at the elbows, so worn out it was shiny. He fell in love and was sad that he couldn’t wear a little color. He was passionate about his subject, he knew many verses of Dante by heart. In June 1940 Italy entered the war and he enlisted as a volunteer. He didn’t expect to be called up, didn’t take advantage of being his mother’s sole support, entered the navy as an ensign. And finally he was able to remove his mourning, happy to be able to present himself in the blue uniform of the navy. His speech was filled with patriotism, but his real enthusiasm was for the colorful uniform he wore. He made his appearance in it to give his last private lessons. The girl, who found out later she was loved, wrote compositions that he saved. His mother, the widow, told her when she went to visit her.
“To make a long story short, no sooner had he embarked than he died in the naval clash off Cape Teulada, in the month of November 1940. He had a nice dark complexion, serious, full of goodwill, and the blue uniform draped him in the clothing of a youth he had never known. That’s how it happens that a person is thrown into war, and don’t you dare think it’s a small thing.”
“I wouldn’t dare, Don Gaetano, I would do it for Anna.”
“At the end of the uprising the first American jeep drove up the seafront, preceded by one of our soldiers in a Bersagliere uniform shouting, ‘È fernuta, avimmo vinciuto’—It’s over, we’ve won. The Germans were still in Capodimonte with heavy artillery to cover their retreat.
“Right away a black market began in American goods coming off the ships. From the depots their abundance disappeared by the truckload. For transportation even the sewers were used.”
In the center of Santa Lucia Don Gaetano saw a manhole cover lift up, a head pop out and look around. He went up to offer him a hand getting out, the guy answered, “Sorry, I’m on the wrong street.” He popped back down and closed the manhole cover behind him.
That night lasted longer than the others. Don Gaetano was entrusting me with a history. It was an inheritance.
His stories became my memories. I recognized where I came from, I wasn’t a child of the building but of the city. I wasn’t an orphan but a person in a populace. We took leave of each other at midnight. I stood up from the chair and I had grown, I was taller, beneath my feet was a soil that lifted me up by new inches. He had given me a sense of belonging. I was from Naples, with the compassion, rage, and even the shame of one who is born late.
• • •
In my room I thought about the other day before, the Saturday with Anna. That other day before was better. It contained a growth, the sudden respect of the persons around, the widow’s coffee, the winning hands of scopa. This day before contained more energy. Was I diminishing Anna? No, I was putting her on top of everything. The days before and the days after all depended on her. My yes to everything came from her. I slept smooth and deep. Upon reawakening my first move was for the knife. I thought: it’s not for now. Don Gaetano was upstairs doing the cleaning, I left him a note saying hello. In the alley one man greeted me by tipping his hat with his hand.
At school I listened deeply to the lessons. I realized how important the things I was learning were. It was good that a man presented them to an assembly of seated youths, that they had a knack for listening, for grasping at once. Good the classroom where you stay to learn. Good the oxygen that bonds with the blood and carries blood and words to the depths of the body. Good the names of the moons around Jupiter, good the Greeks’ cry of “The sea, the sea” at the end of the retreat, good that Xenophon wrote it down so it would not be lost. Good, too, Pliny’s account of the eruption of Vesuvius. Their writing absorbed the tragedies, transformed them into narrative material to transmit and therefore outlive them. Light entered the head the way it entered the classroom. Outside it was a bright day, a May day that had landed in the bouquet of December.
• • •
I headed home still thinking about the lesson. There was a civil generosity in free public school that allowed someone like me to learn. I had grown up inside and I hadn’t noticed the effort of a society to put this duty into practice. Education gave importance to us poor people. The rich would get educated anyway. School gave importance to the have-nots, it created equality. It did not abolish poverty, but between its walls it allowed parity. The inequality began outside.
• • •
I dropped by Don Raimondo’s to return the book, Neapolitan poetry by Salvatore Di Giacomo, our favorite.
“It’s never been more beautiful than this, our lang
uage.”
“You’re right, Don Raimondo, I really liked the descent to the ground of a celestial sheet, which gathers up a crowd of poor people and takes them to eat in heaven. I find some of that taste of manna in Don Gaetano’s pasta with potatoes.”
Don Raimondo enjoyed exchanging a few words about the borrowed book. That day for the first time I did not ask for one to take away. He was surprised. “I have an exam. I’ll go back to reading after.” I didn’t know whether I would be able to return it.
I was walking light-footed, on my way home from school, which was located in a wide stretch of the road near the sea. At the head of the alley I was met by the old man whose home I had visited to practice medicine without a license. He grabbed my hand, I shook it, just in case he started up again with the gotta-kiss-it gratitude.
“Nun ce iate, chillo ve sta aspettanno”—Don’t go, that guy is waiting for you. He stopped me, tried to block my way. Although there was no wall behind me, there was no turning back. I had to go to where I belonged. I asked about his wife, he let go of my hand to remove his hat and express thanks: “She’s fine, thanks to your good work.” I took advantage of his answer to free myself and continue on. His words followed behind me: “Nun ce iate, p’ammore ’e Giesucristo, nun ce iate”—Don’t go, for the love of Christ, don’t go.
• • •
No one else greeted me in my climb up the alley. I entered through the main door. Anna, I immediately saw Anna by the window of the loge.
“I’m waiting for you,” the voice from the courtyard wanted to sound tough.
“Not me,” I answered to myself more than to him. “I don’t have to wait.”
I kept my eyes on Anna as the footsteps came closer. I smiled at her shiny sugared-chestnut hair.
“I’m waiting for you,” the voice from the courtyard repeated even louder. There was no one except the three of us, you couldn’t hear a sound, the loge was dark. I placed the books on the ground in front of the door. Anna looked at me, eyes wide, her mouth slightly open. If she was crazy, that was the tense nerve of her beauty.
“Here I am, Anna,” I said, and passed in front of her.
I liked the emptiness surrounding us, no distractions, us and only us.
“Allora piezz’e mmerda, vuo’ veni’, o t’aggia veni’ a prendere pe’ ’e rrecchie”—You piece of shit, are you coming here or do I have come out and grab you by the ears?
I thought he must want the whole building to hear him, not me. Outside school the boys showed off the threats they had learned in the streets, they would say I’m gonna do this to you, I’m gonna do that. I didn’t like the repertoire of tough talk with exclamation points. With my head low I entered the courtyard.
In the middle was that voice, but I still hadn’t lifted my eyes.
First I looked at the shoes, new, shiny, La Capa would have appreciated them, then the pressed trousers, then the rest: he was in his Sunday best, with a double-breasted jacket, tie, even a boutonniere: good-looking guy. Black mustache, brilliantine in his hair, Anna had picked a fancy man. He kept his eyes narrowed. For a moment I looked up toward this May sky at Christmastime, then I stared him straight in the face and didn’t take my eyes off him.
In his hand he had a knife he was using to pick at his fingernails, I took a few steps forward and realized I was taller. The sun didn’t make it to the ground, it ricocheted between the windows and bounced the light back and forth. It occurred to me that the sun was protecting me, as Don Gaetano had said.
I didn’t notice that Anna had come into the courtyard behind me. While I drew my knife out of my jacket, a thought came to me and I held on to it tight.
• • •
“Si’ muorto, piezz’e mmerda”—You’re dead, you piece of shit, he said, and came near. I held the knife low, between my legs, in front of my crotch, the tip pointing to the ground. He gripped on the right, I on the left.
He made a short lunge, then a longer one, I took a step to the side and one to the back. I made no moves to strike, I had to defend myself, the attack was up to him. I noticed Anna because among us was a third breath deeper than ours. With each lunge he made I shifted to the side clockwise. I wanted to circle the courtyard. He lost his patience and came straight at me, shouting, the knives touched, wounding my right arm and grazing his ribs. There went his coat, our first blood ruined his, got the vest dirty, too. It tore my light gray sleeve, a dark blotch, as I saw later. Anna let out a hoarse cry. He looked at his jacket, I took advantage to shift to a spot in the courtyard. A woman’s voice shouted, “Stop them, they’ll kill each other.” There was a noise of windows opening, the blood had broken our solitude observed.
At the sight of the ruined suit he was infuriated by the insult and charged at me sideways, shouting, “Mo’ si’ mmuorto”—You’re a dead man! With arms wide he came at me for the mano a mano, I made the move to pull up to my full height, he raised his head to look me in the face and took unshielded the rebound of light I was looking for. He was blinded by the reflection for the amount of time my arm needed, I made my only lunge with the knife, it sank into his side, close to his liver. He collapsed in an instant, threw away the weapon, placed his hands on his side, crumpled to his knees. Anna sputtered sobs and started to cry. I laid the knife on the ground, it had done its job. Standing between us Anna was crying, her face contorted in grimaces of pain. In the light of the courtyard I realized she was covered with bruises.
People were coming, Don Gaetano took me by an arm and led me. In front of the loge I gathered the books. My right arm was bleeding heavily. We cut through the people who were parting before us. Half the building was there. Some said, “He did the right thing,” and others cried murderer. The You-Twos were also there, I heard someone say, “Sh-cansiamoci”—we’d better get out of here—it had to be Oreste.
My arm hooked into Don Gaetano’s, no one stood in the way to stop me. In front of the entry I recognized the tan coat of the night before. I allowed myself to be led. My blood was dropping and so was I. Don Gaetano placed his coat over my arm to cover the wound. Going down the alley we crossed the path of two policemen who were on their way up. We entered a pharmacy. The doctor took us into the back, stopped the blood, and sewed up the cut with a good stitch. They didn’t say a word to each other or to me. We left with the purchase of more bandages.
• • •
With Don Gaetano next to me I went down to the seashore. The day was an embrace of nature around the city. In Santa Lucia tourists and hansom drivers had their sleeves rolled up. We walked, I didn’t ask. The sun was absorbent, it dried the blood, the paint on the boats, the poverty of those descending from the cold alleyways to benefit from its warmth. For them it felt better on the sidewalk than at home in bed, they begged for charity with smiles of gratitude for the warmth.
Carriages were taking American soldiers on rides. They were the sons of the ones who had arrived after the city was liberated. Why were they still here? Because they were the heirs of that victory. Do you inherit a victory? It should last for as long as the enemy is on the ground, then stop.
It wasn’t a victory for me, either, I had only saved myself with the knife. Now I was leaving. There are those who stay, instead, like the Americans. Where was Don Gaetano taking me? Definitely not to the police, maybe it was my turn to live in a hiding place. The one under the loge was no good, Anna knew about it.
I had a feverish exhaustion at the sight of the overwhelming beauty.
“This is where I belong, Don Gaetano.”
“Say good-bye to it, tonight you’re taking a boat to America. You have a ticket under another name on a ship bound for Argentina. After I’ll give you the papers.”
“You already knew.” What was life made of if you could predict the smallest details? Just to predict it, without being able to intervene, to prevent. This was the calloused sadness of Don Gaetano. He could only compensate with a secondary salvation, a ticket for America, his same voyage. The ocean was an escape route
for us of the South. It granted absolution, impossible on earth. My thoughts were making a racket in my head, Don Gaetano was listening to them.
“For us the sea evens the score.”
The question came to me, “Are you coming, too?”
“No, I’m staying, I’ll watch your back. I’ll let you know when you can return. You’re going to stay with a friend, he’ll come to get you when you land.”
Return? I don’t think I’ll return to the place of the spilled blood. I won’t climb back up the slope of the alleyways.
“If I had a father, he wouldn’t do this for me.”
“We don’t know, you and I don’t have one, we know nothing about them.”
We sat down on a bench facing the sea.
“You’re weak, you’ve lost blood.”
“I had extra, I had some for her, too. Its purpose was to make her tears come out. They’re precious, Don Gaetano, Anna’s tears, they’re the escape from her madness. It wasn’t our blood she was seeking, but her own tears. She didn’t know how to cry. Tears are worth more than blood. How is it you weren’t at the loge?”
“I was. I couldn’t interfere, we were all there, even the boss from last night. Questions of honor and bravery have to be settled alone, no one can get in the middle. You did good to leave the knife there.”
“You are the one who taught me to respect the knife, that its purpose was protection and nothing more. So you were there watching?”
“Yes, and the first blood wasn’t enough. The young man had decided that no one could intervene until the last blood. I knew you wouldn’t die, but I didn’t know how. When I saw you moving in a circle in the courtyard, I realized what you had in mind. You were looking for the heat in the face, the flash point. I could never have imagined you’d be so expert.”
“It was the sun in the eyes that had just entered the courtyard. I thought I could bring him to that point. I also knew I wasn’t going to die, Don Gaetano. It was one of your thoughts, I listened to it in my head. I’m starting to receive thoughts, too.”