A Winter's Night

by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

  Nello dropped his head. “I understand what you’re saying, Savino, but your leaders are poisoning you with their theories so they can sic you on what they call the bourgeois class that is ruling the nation. They’re filling you up with hate so you’ll start a revolution; they want to turn all of you into a bunch of rioting fanatics. Even that Graziano Montesi that you were just listening to and liked so much. There are many others like him. But they will not succeed. Mussolini will make this country great and he’ll make sure everyone gets help: he’ll give us land and seeds to sow in that land, he’ll help the women and their children, he’ll build railways and ports, he’ll open new construction yards and make work for everyone, here or in our colonies. But right now we can’t avoid this violence. We can’t allow defeatism and subversion to take hold.”

  “That’s the difference between you and us,” shot back Savino. “Almost every day, we have to suffer the abuse that you inflict on us because you continue to accuse us, in your sick minds, of intentions that we do not have. Even though we would have every reason to rebel against this slavery. No, your way of thinking is warped, Nello, and I’m afraid that we’ll never be able to come to any agreement on this. Certainly not now. All I can hope is that we never find each other with guns in our hands, against each other this time, on opposite sides.”

  “That won’t happen. We’ll never be one against the other, I swear it . . . Do you trust me?”

  “I do.”

  “Good. See you around, Savino.”

  “See you around, Nello.”

  They went their separate ways.

  Floti was successful in his bid for office; he was elected to the city council and became deputy mayor. He began working in favor of those who were the most disadvantaged: the day laborers and the tenant farmers who were living under the harshest conditions. He sought to create job opportunities for the farmhands in public works and to encourage the farmers themselves to form associations so their products could be sold at a better price on the market and generate higher profits. In his enthusiasm for his new role, he committed a number of mistakes. One was certainly that of positioning his men on the road to waylay the wheat-laden carts of the big landowners on their way to the warehouse and steer a number of them towards the houses of destitute, hunger-stricken families. His friend Pelloni would have been proud of him if he’d seen that. In general, however, he tried to apply the same criteria he’d used to improve the well-being of his family members to improving the lot of the townspeople. On one hand this made him very popular, but on the other it branded him as a “Red” and made him the target of the fascist squads.

  Threatening slogans even began to appear scrawled on walls: “Death to Bruni!”

  Clerice was terrified and set about trying to convince him in any way she could to leave his post, and politics as a whole. All she could see was the likelihood of losing another son, after the war had miraculously spared them all. It seemed too much to ask the Madonna to save Floti’s life, as She already had when he had been wounded in the war. Especially considering that the first time around he’d had no choice, but this awful situation here was a problem of his own making.

  “You can always say you’re not well, that the doctor told you not to overtax your strength, which is the pure truth. They’ll surely find someone else who wants to be the deputy mayor, you’re not the only person in the world.”

  “Mother, the people elected me because they trust me and I certainly can’t abandon them now, just as the situation is becoming more and more difficult by the day.”

  “I don’t want anything to happen to you. I’ve already lost Gaetano and I’ve cried all my tears. I don’t want to lose you too; I’d rather die myself.”

  “Mamma, nothing will happen. They won’t kill me. There’s still the police and the carabinieri and the judges. The fascists are good at ganging up on someone ten to one and beating the hell out of him, but killing a man is a whole different thing: you go to prison for that. Prison for life, and there’s no getting out. And they know that.”

  “That may be, but they are hot-tempered and once they get started, the most violent ones can become dangerous: all it takes is once. You fall badly, you hit your head and there you are, dead. And with your wound, you’re made of glass! If they beat you, that fragment that you have in your lung can tear it and make it bleed . . . oh, dear God! Do not challenge fate, Floti, listen to your mother.”

  “Mother, I’ve told you, you mustn’t worry,” he answered. “I’m not alone. My friends keep their eyes open and they’re always passing me information. When they notice a band of fascists getting together at night, they warn anyone who might be their target, so they can hide and stay safe. We don’t wait around to be slaughtered like sheep. And if worse does come to worst, we know how to defend ourselves: we’ve been in the war.”

  “See? It’s true! You’re already thinking of using a weapon! Dear God in heaven, help me!” Clerice invoked the Madonna and all the saints to change the mind of that obstinate son of hers.

  One evening towards the middle of March, a boy ran into the Bruni courtyard asking for Floti. He might have been ten or twelve years old; he was thin, his hair was dripping with sweat and his eyes were as frantic as if he’d seen the devil himself. Floti was coming out of the stable, where Guendalina had just given birth to a calf, and he found himself face to face with the child.

  “I’m Graziano Montesi’s son,” he said, panting. “Last night, the fascists came to our house and they beat my father; they punched and kicked him and caned him. They spit on him and told him that if he doesn’t stop sticking ideas in the heads of the villagers, they are going to kill him.”

  Floti tried to calm him down. “Were you there?” he asked.

  “Yes. They closed me into a room but there was a crack in the door and I could see everything.”

  “Did you recognize anyone?”

  “I think so. My father said they were from Sogliano.”

  “How is your father?”

  “He’s in bed. His face is swollen up and it’s all black, his lip is split and one of his eyes is completely closed. It hurts him everywhere. He looks scary; if you saw him you wouldn’t know it was him. Grandma’s crying. My uncle tried to defend him but they locked him in the pig sty and they said they’ll kill him if he says a single word. I got him out after they left.”

  “Wait, I’ll come back with you.” He hitched the horse to the carriage, helped the boy up and took off at a fast clip towards Magazzino.

  “What’s your name?” asked Floti as they were on their way.

  “Bruno.”

  “Do you go to school?”

  “Every day.”

  “Good. You have to learn to read and write if you don’t want people to trick you. Read a lot of books; they’ll teach you what life is about. What do you want to be when you grow up?”

  “A blacksmith. Like my father and my grandfather.”

  As soon as they arrived, Floti jumped out, tied the mare to the iron ring hanging on the wall and went up the stairs behind the boy. Graziano, stretched out in bed more dead than alive, looked like Christ on the cross. His mother was at his side, holding his hand and weeping.

  “Look what they’ve done, Floti!” she said as soon as she saw him. “Tell him yourself that as soon as he’s able to stand, he has to leave here. If he stays they’ll kill him, understand? They’ll kill him,” and she starting sobbing again, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.

  “Can you talk, Graziano?” asked Floti.

  Montesi nodded.

  “Your mother’s right. I’ll have my men take you someplace where they’ll help you get back on your feet and where you can stay hidden and protected until this storm is over with. Has the doctor come?”

  “Yes,” he said, pointing at the bandages around his head.

  “Did he give you medicine?”


  His mother broke in: “He said to put cold compresses on the swelling and to take these pills to help with the pain.”

  “Tomorrow I’m going to report this crime to the carabinieri, but you have to go,” Floti repeated. “We’ll take care of you.”

  Montesi shook his head weakly and motioned for Floti to come closer. Floti leaned over the bed.

  “I can’t run. Who will help our people here? I can’t leave them at the mercy of these thugs.”

  “Don’t be an idiot. You look like hell. Tomorrow, after I talk to the doctor, I’ll get you out of here myself. And then I’ll make that report to the carabinieri.”

  Montesi put a hand on his arm. “I’m not leaving, Floti. We can’t give them a free hand. You go home. I’m staying.”

  There was no way to convince him and Floti returned home fuming.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Floti went the day after Montesi’s beating to the municipal carabiniere headquarters and, as deputy mayor, was immediately received by the commander himself, sergeant Curto, a good man although something less than lionhearted.

  “Sir,” Floti began, “the night before last, Graziano Montesi was brutally beaten by a fascist squad from Sogliano, and he is in serious condition. Have you heard about this?”

  Curto replied with another question, a sign of his evident embarrassment: “Are you reporting a crime?”

  “Yes, if you’re not already in the process of taking action. That’s why I asked you if you knew anything.”

  “Of course. The carabiniere chief in Sogliano called me that night to tell me that a squad was heading towards Magazzino. Their target was easily identified.”

  “So why didn’t you do anything about it?”

  Curto sighed. “My dear Bruni, I find myself in the middle of two violently-inclined factions on the verge of war with each other and all I have at my disposal are five officers and one corporal. You expect me to take action against the fascists who beat Montesi, but have you ever asked yourself why I haven’t taken action against you? How often have you and your friends halted carts of wheat belonging to Ferretti, Borrelli, Carani and I can’t say how many other landowners, seized these vehicles and taken possession of the goods being transported?”

  “Since we’re laying our cards on the table, chief, I can tell you that those carts were not seized, but rather relieved of a sack or two of wheat or flour which was given to the families of workers or farmhands who were starving. The drivers were then left free to arrive at their destinations. If you don’t believe me, question the people who were involved.”

  “I have done so, and that’s the only reason why the authors of this prank, and you yourself, haven’t been arrested on charges of theft.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re comparing these two things. Those were delinquents who took a man who had never done anything wrong and beat him nearly to death. We were trying to help people who were suffering.”

  “By committing a crime. The fascist action squads are supported by the government, the government is legitimized by the king. Do you really think that one single carabiniere sergeant, in a small town in Emilia Romagna, could sally forth on his own and take on such powers? There’s simply a tacit agreement: no dead on their end and none on ours.”

  “Sounds like connivance to me.”

  “Watch your words, Bruni. We’re trying to save what we can and to prevent the worst from happening. We’ve sworn allegiance to the king and cannot fail this oath, unless we want to set off a civil war. Listen to me: give Montesi some sound advice. Tell him to leave, at least for a while, and then we’ll see. He’s propagating ideas that are seen as subversive, especially when connected to the thefts that your men have been responsible for, Bruni. Understand what I’m saying? It’s like a snake that’s biting its own tail.”

  “Agreed, sir. We’ll stop requisitioning the wheat, and you’ll do your job with the fascists.”

  Curto lit a Tuscan cigar and let out a big cloud of smoke, as if he wanted to hide his embarrassment behind it. “If you cease the requisitions, that will make my job easier,” he replied, “but I can’t promise anything. Do tell Montesi to get out of here, at least until the waters have calmed.”

  Floti managed to convince his men to let up in their campaign against the wheat producers, at least for a period of time, but he did not succeed in persuading his friend to go. As soon as Montesi was better, he was meeting up again with laborers and workers and organizing la Resistenza. The fascists didn’t give up either, but changed their tactics. Instead of canes and crowbars, they came armed with more underhanded, but even more devastating, weapons. They tormented and humiliated him without leaving any signs of violence, until he fell into a state of total prostration. He no longer spoke with anyone and locked himself in his room, in the dark, like in a tomb. One morning they found him hanging from a beam at the foot of his bed.

  He had decided to go that way instead of running away.

  Floti realized that he would be the new target, but no one could have imagined what was to happen next.

  One evening at dinner time, as he was eating dinner with the family, there was a knock on the door. It was the carabinieri.

  “Raffaele Bruni,” said the corporal commanding them, “I hereby declare you under arrest and order you to come with us.”

  “I don’t understand,” replied Floti, alarmed, “what have I done?”

  “You’ll be told when the time comes. Follow us.”

  Clerice wailed in despair: “Why are you taking him away? He’s done nothing!”

  His brothers were in shock as well: the carabinieri never set foot in the home of an honorable family.

  Floti tried to calm his mother: “Don’t cry, mamma. There must be some misunderstanding, you’ll see. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  Instead, the charges were quite serious.

  “Attempted homicide,” said sergeant Curto when he was brought to headquarters.

  “What is this, a joke?” asked Floti. “You know full well that that’s not possible.”

  “You’ll have to convince the judge, Bruni, and I’m afraid that won’t be easy.”

  “Who was it that I’m supposed to have tried to kill?”

  Curto, who was chewing on a nearly burnt-out cigar stub, replied: “Renato Marassi. Does that name mean anything to you?”

  “Of course. He’s a bastard, one of the worst fascist squad . . . ”

  “Careful of what you say! Marassi has accused you of shooting him.”

  “That son of a bitch! How can he say such a thing?”

  “He does have a wound in his thigh, and he says you’re the one who caused it, with a pistol. And that if you were a better shot, you would have killed him.”

  Floti flew into a rage, but there was nothing he could do about the charges. Curto advised him to find himself a good lawyer if he could, surmising that this was a trap the fascists had cooked up to keep Bruni out of circulation.

  The next day he was transferred to the jail in Reggio Emilia and the judge, who had in the meantime read a police report that described him as a subversive, was intent on keeping him there at length.

  Clerice went to visit every two weeks. She had Checco take her in the cart to the station at Castelfranco and she and Maria took the train to Reggio Emilia. They would bring bread, a salame, a few chunks of parmigiano, half a pancetta, a couple of bottles of wine, clothes that she had mended, washed and ironed, and they’d stay as long as possible to hear how things were going, whether there would be a trial and what the lawyer had said.

  Floti was locked up with other “political” prisoners coming from a number of towns in the region, including some who spoke with the same accent as poor Pelloni. Floti shared with them everything his family had brought him.

  The whole ordeal was a nightmare for Clerice. She had no doubts about her son’s innocence, but
she was deeply saddened by a situation that had shaken her life and that of the entire family. Being involved judges, policemen, carabinieri and lawyers was the worst thing that could happen to you, and all this because Floti had refused to listen to her advice. She thought that youngsters always think they know more than old folk, even though the older you are, the more things you’ve experienced. But they never believe you until they’ve smashed their own heads. And when they finally do realize what’s best for them, the damage is already done.

  In addition to their troubles with the law, there were also problems at home: no one was capable of replacing Floti in running the family affairs and things were going very poorly. His misadventure had managed to give the whole family a bad reputation, and their relationship with the community was no longer the same. The other brothers, in Floti’s absence, tended to argue more often and it was up to Clerice to try to keep the family together and defend her missing son: “Remember,” she’d tell them, “he always looked after the interests of the family before his own; when he came back from the market he always had a gift for your wives and he never treated them any differently than his own sisters. The fascists and the landowners have managed to put him in prison, but if you gang up on him as well, well, that’s truly scandalous.”

  The complaining around the dinner table stopped only to pick up again in the fields where their mother could not hear them. The only one who abstained from criticizing Floti was Checco and, from a certain point of view, Armando as well. He wasn’t even around much; skinny as he was, he wasn’t usually much help on the farm, but he also didn’t have what could be called a very strong work ethic. Sometimes he would disappear early in the day and not show up again until nightfall, especially when it was time to beat the hemp at mid-day under the scorching sun. On the other hand, he was the only one of them who still enjoyed good relations with the town’s people. His stories were famously entertaining and his jokes were memorable. He was unmatchable at creating and spreading good cheer, and in such miserable times, his innocent, silly banter was a relief for the people around him, sometimes even a blessing. Folks loved to be in his company because he was so amusing, but he didn’t command their respect because he was so weak: the strong and the arrogant had him under their thumb, and anyone who offered him a drink had him in their pocket.