by Marco Vichi
Inside the house they found an old woman with her throat slashed. Her eyes were still open, staring at the ceiling, her fingers intertwined with a rosary. Bordelli tried to close her eyes with his hand, but the eyelids immediately reopened halfway, making her look like a witch. He noticed she was holding something in her hands and, opening them, found a small SS insignia, torn off a uniform. It was the last thing she’d done before dying. There was no longer any doubt who the culprits had been.
The men exchanged silent glances, biting their lips. Bordelli couldn’t help but imagine the scene in his head, the terror that had descended upon that house. Since the boy could not have been the elderly couple’s son, they started looking for his mother. First inside the house, then in the surrounding land, but they found no body. They wondered whether the woman had, perhaps, managed to escape.
The bodies were not yet stiff, and the puddles of blood seemed still rather fresh. The Germans could not be very far away. The men decided to try and go after them. They headed north, letting their restlessness guide them. They kept their ears pricked and said not a word, fingers on the triggers of their machine guns.
About an hour later they heard some men’s voices laughing and hit the ground. Bordelli grabbed his binoculars and spotted some Germans bivouacked amid the trees on the hill opposite them. He told the others, and they continued advancing, heads down and hiding in the dense vegetation. Cuco was sweating like a hog and drawing flies. Taking a long detour, they descended into the valley and came back up on the hill in front, managing to get quite close to the Germans. They lay down in the bushes to spy on them. Five SS were sitting on the ground, leaning back against trees, their machine guns lying to one side. Some dead chickens and a headless goose had been thrown on to the grass. A skinny cow was tied to a tree and eating whatever she could find, unaware that her fate was to be transformed into steaks … Molin mimed the gestures of cooking her on a grill, and kissed his fingertips in appreciation. Even at such moments as these, he couldn’t resisting thinking of such things.
The Nazis were bantering and laughing, smoking and drinking from small flasks. They were enjoying a moment of rest after their massacre. Only one of them was not taking part in the merriment, a sort of giant with a grim face who sat in silence, casting menacing glances around him. His SS helmet made him look like a real ogre. Every so often the others would toss a pebble or dry pine cone at him and burst out laughing. The one goading him most was a small, angelic-looking blond lad with eyes a pale blue like fresh stream water, as one could see even from afar.
All they had to do was come out shooting, and they could have killed them all without effort. They were waiting only for the right moment, but then they noticed that a bit farther away there was a young woman lying on the ground with her wrists and ankles bound. Her clothes were torn and her face soiled with dirt. She was trembling slightly, and keeping her eyes closed. They didn’t want to risk her life in a shoot-out, and so they crouched in wait behind the shrubs.
The blond guy took a long swig from his flask and stood up. He started walking towards the woman, unbuckling his belt, and the giant yelled something at him. The blond guy ignored him, encouraged by the other men’s laughter. After pulling down his trousers, he untied the woman’s ankles and mounted her, whispering sweet nothings in German. Gavino became restless, biting his lips till they bled.
Suddenly the giant Nazi leapt to his feet, cursing, and ran towards the blond guy. He pulled him violently off the woman, and with a single thrust sent him rolling on the ground. The woman had opened her eyes and was watching the scene with an absent expression. The blond angel’s comrades rushed to his defence, still laughing. The giant shook his fists in the air, inviting them to take him on, but no one dared meet the challenge. The woman looked at him in disbelief, seeming hopeful. In the meantime the little blond had got back up and was furious. Pulling up his trousers and clenching his jaw, he approached the giant, pointing his pistol at his face. He said something harsh, and when the giant threw himself at him, he shot him in the head. The gorilla fell to the ground, gushing blood, as the blond angel calmly put his pistol back in its holster, turning round in a circle as if to follow the echo of the report. His anger had made him careless, but he didn’t look too worried. Their camp was probably not very far away, and he felt safe. The others were stammering, staring at the corpse of their dead mate in stupefaction. When the woman’s eyes met those of the blond lad, she looked away and curled up until her knees touched her lips. They all burst out laughing again, and the blond guy dropped his trousers again. He refused to give up his quarry. He bent over the woman, trying to spread her legs. She moved away, which only made the young German start slapping her. In the end she spread her legs and froze, resigned, blood dripping from her mouth. The others formed a circle round the blond guy to egg him on, and they even lit cigarettes, turning their backs on the San Marco patrol.
Bordelli traded glances with his comrades, who were trembling as much as he was. By this point they were convinced they had to risk it; they couldn’t stand to wait any longer. He made one slight gesture with his fingers, indicating they should aim high, so as not to hit the woman. At his signal, they jumped out of the bushes and ran straight ahead, firing, strafing the three standing Germans, who fell like sacks of potatoes before they even realised what was happening. The blond kid had jumped to one side with his bum in the air, not daring to reach for his pistol. The woman was in a daze, trying to get away by propelling herself along the grass with her bare feet. When the blond guy tried to stand up, he stumbled over his trousers and fell backwards. They disarmed him without any difficulty, and Molin put one of his giant shoes on the young man’s naked belly. The barrel of Bordelli’s machine gun was mere inches from his face. The blond angel asked permission to pull up his trousers, like a prudish schoolboy. Bordelli nodded, but before the German had even finished buckling his belt, he squeezed the trigger, and in an instant the burst of fire erased the young man’s delicate face.
There was no more grappa. Bordelli tossed his cigarette butt into the flames and got up to get another bottle. Nobody breathed a word, awaiting the end of the story. After refilling everyone’s glass, Bordelli went and sat on the bench in the fireplace, bringing his grappa along. On that occasion, too, he’d killed to settle accounts. Staring at the burning log, he resumed his story …
As Cuco, on Bordelli’s orders, was freeing the cow, they untied the woman’s wrists and helped her to her feet. She was still trembling, dripping with sweat, and her clothes smelled of fear. Someone passed her a canteen and she drank avidly, letting the water spill on to her chest. They wiped the blood from her face with a wet handkerchief, and she started in pain. At one point the body of the blond soldier was shaken by a spasm, and the woman grabbed Bordelli’s arm.
‘It’s all right …’ he said, having often seen dead bodies start that way. The woman sighed and went over to the giant who had died for her, looking at him with boundless sadness. Kneeling down in front of the body, she ran her hand gently over his forehead. But it was no time to tarry. After stuffing the chickens and the headless goose into their backpacks, they led the woman away with them, making it clear to her that it was best they vacated the area in a hurry. They moved through the woods in silence, keeping their ears pricked for the slightest sound. The woman walked between them, turning round and looking back every few seconds, as if she feared being followed. Bordelli was looking at her out of the corner of his eye, and realised just how beautiful she was. With her torn clothes, her face smeared with dirt, her body bruised, her black hair a mess, she was the very image of suffering … Still, she was beautiful.
After half an hour of walking, they were back near the site of the massacre, and the woman started running up the hill. They had trouble keeping up with her. When they got to the top, they found her in the stable, clutching the child to her breast. She was kissing his brow and whispering his name without tears … Nicola … Nicola … Nicola …
&nbs
p; They left her alone, and after finding a couple of hoes and a spade they started digging three graves. The woman came out of the stable with the boy in her arms and laid him down on the ground. She went up to the old man but didn’t have the courage to touch him.
‘Is he your father?’ Bordelli asked her. The woman nodded and ran into the house. They heard her going from room to room, calling, ‘Maria.’ When she came out, they asked her who Maria was. She said she was her little five-year-old daughter. When the Germans arrived she’d been playing and chasing the chickens around but had disappeared when they were beating Nonno to death … Hopefully she’d hidden somewhere and was safe … The woman was desperate, and Bordelli took her hands …
‘Your daughter is alive, I’m sure of it … We’ll find her presently …’ he said, without actually believing it. He just wanted to the give the poor woman, who’d lost everything, a little hope.
They finished digging the graves and lowered the bodies into them, before the survivor’s bewildered eyes. Molin and Cuco laid the bodies down carefully and respectfully. The warm air was redolent with new life, bumblebees buzzed happily about, birds zigzagged in the blue sky, all of it making the macabre ceremony even sadder.
They waited for the woman to throw some flowers over the bodies of her parents and little boy, then began quickly refilling the graves, first pushing the dirt back in with their hands, then using the spades. Meanwhile Gavino had fashioned three crosses, tying together with string some branches he’d found in a nearby thicket, and planted these in the mounds of dirt. There was no time to write their names.
They resumed their march without saying a word. Molin stared fiercely ahead of himself, muttering curses through clenched teeth. Gavino was stony faced, walking as if he could crash through a wall with his head. Cuco kept stealing glances at the woman’s bare legs, which looked wild and beautiful. Nobody felt like talking.
After a while the woman began weeping in silence, and took hold of Bordelli’s arm again. He embraced her, and felt almost guilty for it. She kept on crying and holding him tight.
‘What’s your name?’ Bordelli asked her.
‘Amelia …’ she said, sobbing.
‘I’m Franco … He’s Gavino … That’s Cuco … and that gorilla is Molin.’
The woman eventually calmed down, and a light of stubborn determination appeared in her eyes. She looked like a little girl who thought she could strike people down with her thoughts alone. She dried her eyes with her hands, without letting go of Bordelli. He put his arm round her back and let her rest her head on his shoulder. He couldn’t help wishing he could kiss her. He would never have dared, of course, but there was no point pretending it was otherwise. She was as dirty as a fencepost in a chicken coop and smelled of sweat, but he nevertheless wished he could hug and kiss her. He wished he could caress her, make her feel safe and as beloved as a princess … He wished he could give her pleasure, make her feel better … Fall asleep with her in his arms, whispering a lullaby in her ear … Whereas they were actually in the wooded hills of Umbria, having just slaughtered a group of Nazis and buried three corpses, an elderly couple and a little boy … It would just be improper … Still, you can’t stop your brain thinking, and Bordelli kept on imagining … In his mind the memory of those fantasies was as powerful as if they had actually happened …
They reached the camp an hour before sunset, and as the others were going to lie down in their cots, Bordelli accompanied Amelia to the mess tent, before the curious eyes of the entire battalion. As soon as they entered, the woman stopped short in shock … It was like witnessing a scene from a tragedy of Aeschylus … Amelia ran up to a little girl half asleep on a blanket in a corner of the tent, and hugged her so hard you could almost hear her bones cracking. The little girl returned the embrace, hugging her mother with dirty little hands. Both kept their eyes closed and did not cry, desperate smiles playing on their lips.
‘Where’s Nicolino?’ asked the girl.
‘He’ll be along soon … He’ll be along …’
‘And Grandma and Grandpa?’
‘They’re fine … they’re fine …’
After nodding to the cook in greeting, Bordelli left Amelia and her daughter, who were still embracing as if to form a single being, and went to talk to Captain Spiazzi, the camp commander. He reported what had happened that day, concluding with the story of Amelia, who’d been reunited with her daughter in the mess tent. Captain Spiazzi told him it was Bardini’s patrol that had found the girl running through the woods with her feet all bloodied and her face all scratched from brambles. They’d had some trouble catching her, as she was terrified and ran in all directions like a hare. When they were able to calm her down, they asked her what had happened, but the child wouldn’t speak. The moment they took her in their arms, she fell asleep, and so they decided to bring her at once to the camp.
‘The woman and the girl should be transferred to the Allied camp as soon as possible … You take care of it, Bordelli …’ the commander ordered. Amelia and her daughter could not stay there. They needed a real medic, some warm showers and decent food.
‘I’ll send three men and a van tomorrow morning,’ said Bordelli, sketching a military salute and leaving. Going back to the mess tent, he found the mother and daughter alone, sitting on the blanket and eating a bowl of hot soup. The girl was as pretty as her mother, and had that same wild look about her. Amelia set down her bowl, got up and came over to Bordelli.
‘You were right,’ she whispered, alluding to the child.
‘I just felt it,’ Bordelli lied, stroking her cheek. She took his hand and raised it to her lips.
‘Thank you …’
‘I’m going to free up a tent for you tonight, and tomorrow morning someone will take you to the Allied camp,’ said Bordelli, resisting the desire to put his arms around her.
Amelia nodded and went back to the girl and kissed her on the head before resuming her eating. Bordelli left with his gut in a knot. An oppressive sadness had come over him. It was chow time, and in spite of everything, he managed to eat. He couldn’t get Amelia out of his head, and thought it was best if he didn’t see her again.
He gave the order for a tent to be made available, and selected three men to make the next day’s journey in the van. Then he retired to his tent. Sitting on his cot, he carved another notch in the butt of his machine gun. He registered only Nazis he’d killed personally, to be sure that the count was exact. It was now up to nineteen. He didn’t know yet that he would end up carving eight more notches and return home from the war alive.
He slept like a log. At dawn Gavino shook his shoulder to wake him up.
‘The woman is about to leave. She wants to see you.’
‘Where is she?’
‘Right here, outside …’
‘Give me just a minute, then bring her in,’ said Bordelli, getting out of bed. He quickly put on a clean jersey, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and ran his fingers through his hair. Amelia entered the tent, holding the little girl by the hand.
‘How are you, Maria?’ said Bordelli, stroking the little girl’s head.
At the edge of the camp, a van already had its engine running, and one could hear the rumble of aeroplanes in the distance. Amelia went up to Bordelli, ran her fingers over his stubbled cheek and kissed him lightly on the lips.
‘Good luck,’ he said, out of breath.
‘Farewell …’ she whispered, and she went out without turning around, pulling the child behind her.
Moments later Bordelli heard the van drive off. He never saw them again. Who knew where they were now, what they were doing … Who knew whether every so often they remembered the San Marco commander who’d correctly guessed fate’s plan without really believing it …
‘We always end up talking about women …’ said Bordelli, mildly moved. The log burned in the half-light, smoking like some underworld deity. Botta managed to recline even in a wicker chair.
‘If I had to choose on
e single word to describe women,’ he said, ‘I would say … Beautiful …’
‘I would say … Noble …’ said Dante, as though inspired.
‘Crazy …’ whispered Diotivede.
‘What about you, Piras?’ Bordelli prodded him again.
‘Dangerous …’ said the Sardinian, lost in thought.
‘Your turn, Inspector,’ Botta pressed him.
‘I think I’d say … Mythic …’ said Bordelli, raising his glass imperceptibly. They made a last, somewhat muted toast. The party was over, and it was time to go beddy-bye. They all went out on to the threshing floor to exchange goodbyes, their hair tossed by the wind. A silent owl watched them from afar, perched on a branch. The car motors started up one by one, and the white dirt road was lit up by their headlights. Dante had put on his helmet and goggles, and started singing as he pulled away.
Bordelli waited for the last tail-light to disappear over the hilltop, and went into the olive grove, which was bathed in the moon’s muted glow, still thinking of beautiful Amelia and little Maria, who must now be almost thirty years old … If he ever crossed paths with them, would he recognise them? Perhaps he had already done so, and each had continued on his or her way …