The Skin

by Curzio Malaparte

  At the screeching of the brakes of the two jeeps the officer did not move, he did not look round. But after a moment he pointed his finger at one of the boys and said: "It's your turn. What's your name?"

  "It's my turn today," said the boy, getting up, "but some day or other it'll be yours."

  "What's your name?"

  "That's my business," replied the boy.

  "Why do you answer the silly fool?" said a companion of his who was sitting next to him.

  "I answer the idiot to teach him his manners," replied the boy, wiping his dripping brow with the back of his hand. He was pale and his lips were trembling. But he was laughing impudently as he looked at the partisan officer with unwavering eyes. The officer lowered his head and began to doodle with a pencil.

  Suddenly the boys began talking and laughing among themselves. They spoke with the broad accent of San Frediano, Santa Croce and Palazzolo.

  "What are those dummies staring at? 'Aven't they ever seen a Christian killed?"

  "What fun they're 'avin', the dummies!"

  "I'd like to see what they'd do if they was in our plice, the bloody fools!"

  "I bet they'd throw themselves on their knees!"

  "You'd 'ear them squeal like pigs, poor blighters!"

  The boys were deathly pale, but they were laughing as they gazed at the partisan officer's hands.

  "Doesn't 'e look lovely with that red 'andkerchief round 'is neck!"

  '"Oo is 'e?"

  '"Oo d'yer think 'e is? 'E's Garibaldi!"

  "What gets me down," said the boy standing on the step, "is the idea of being killed by those buggers!"

  "Don't take all day over it, you brat!" shouted someone in the crowd.

  "If you're in a 'urry come and tike me plice," retorted the boy, thrusting his hands into his pockets.

  The partisan officer looked up. "Buck up," he said. "Don't waste my time. It's your turn."

  "If your time's so precious," said the boy in a mocking voice, "I'll get a move on." And stepping over his companions he took up his position in front of the partisans, who were armed with their automatic rifles and stood beside the heap of corpses, right in the middle of the widening pool of blood on the marble paving of the close.

  "Mind you don't get your shoes dirty!" shouted one of his companions, and they all began laughing.

  Jack and I jumped out of the jeep.

  "Stop !"yelled Jack.

  But as he spoke the boy shouted "Long live Mussolini!" and fell, riddled with bullets.

  "Good Gosh!" exclaimed Jack, pale as death.

  The partisan officer looked up and eyed Jack from head to foot.

  "Canadian officer?" he said.

  "No, American colonel," replied Jack, and indicating the boys who were seated on the steps leading up to the church he added: "That's a splendid occupation—killing boys."

  The partisan officer turned slowly and threw a sidelong glance at the two jeeps, which were full of Canadian soldiers with tommy guns in their hands. Then he rested his eyes on me, observed my uniform, and laying his pencil on the table said to me with a conciliatory smile: "Why don't you answer your American friend?"

  I looked him in the face and recognized him. He was one of Potente's aides. Potente, the young commander of the partisan Division which had supported the Canadian troops when they besieged and attacked Florence, had died a few days before in Oltrarno, in the presence of Jack and myself.

  "The Allied Command has forbidden summary executions," I said. "Leave those boys alone if you want to avoid trouble."

  "You're on our side—and you talk in this way?" said the partisan officer.

  "I'm on your side, but I must see that the orders of the Allied Command are respected."

  "I've seen you somewhere before," said the partisan officer. "Were you there when Potente died?"

  "Yes," I replied. "I was just by him. What of it?"

  "Do you want the corpses? I didn't know you'd become a grave-digger."

  "I want the living ones—those boys there."

  "Take the ones that are already dead," said the partisan officer. "I'll let you have them cheap. Have you a cigarette?"

  "I want the living ones," I said, handing him a packet of cigarettes. "Those boys will be tried before a military tribunal."

  "Before a tribunal?" said the partisan officer, lighting a cigarette. "What a luxury!"

  "You have no right to try them."

  "I'm not trying them," said the partisan officer. "I'm killing them."

  "Why are you killing them? By what right?"

  "By what right?"

  "Why do you want to kill those boys?" said Jack.

  "I'm killing them for shouting 'Long live Mussolini!'"

  "They shout 'Long live Mussolini!' because you're killing them," I said.

  "What do those two idiots want?" cried a voice in the crowd.

  "We want to know why he's killing them," I said, turning to the crowd.

  "He's killing them for sniping from the roofs," shouted another voice.

  "From the roofs?" said the girl, laughing. "Do they think we're cats?"

  "Don't let 'er make you soft!" shouted a youth, stepping out of the crowd. "I tell you they were sniping from the roofs!"

  "Did you see them?"

  "I didn't—no," said the youth.

  "Then why do you say they were sniping from the roofs?"

  "Someone was sniping from the roofs," said the youth. "And there are others. Can't you 'ear?"

  Occasionally from the bottom of Via della Scala there came the crack of rifle fire, punctuated by bursts from automatic rifles.

  "It might even have been you firing from the roofs," I said.

  "See 'ow 'e talks," said the fellow in a menacing tone, taking a step forward.

  Jack came up close to me. "Take it easy," he whispered in my ear, and he turned and made a sign to the Canadian soldiers, who jumped out of the jeeps and took up positions to our rear, grasping their tommy guns.

  "Now they're starting," said the girl.

  "And you—why are you interfering in our business?" said one of the boys, looking at me with a malevolent expression. "D'you think we're afraid?"

  "He's more afraid of us," said the girl. "Don't you see how white he is? Give him a stimulant, poor little thing!"

  They all began laughing, and Jack said to the partisan officer: "I'll take those boys into custody. They will be tried in accordance with the law."

  "What law?" said the partisan officer.

  "Before a military tribunal," said Jack. "You ought to have killed them at once—on the spot. Now it's too late. Now the law must decide. You have no right to try them."

  "Are they friends of yours?" asked the partisan officer, giving Jack a mocking smile.

  "They are Italians," I said.

  "Italians—them?" said the partisan officer.

  "Does he think we're Turks?" said the girl. "Hark at him—as if it was something special being an Italian!"

  "If they are Italians," said the partisan officer, "what's it got to do with the Allies? We settle our affairs among ourselves."

  "Informally," I said.

  "Yes, informally. And you—why do you take the part of the Allies? If you're one of us you should stand by me."

  "They are Italians," I said.

  "Italians should be tried before the tribunal of the people!" cried a voice in the crowd.

  "That's all," said Jack, and at a sign from him the Canadian soldiers surrounded the boys and pushed them down the church-steps, directing them towards the jeeps.

  White-faced, the partisan officer stared at Jack, clenching his fists. Suddenly he stretched out his hand and seized Jack by the arm.

  "Hands off!" shouted Jack.

  "No," said the other, and he did not move.

  Meanwhile a monk had come out of the church. He was a great big fellow—tall, stoutly built, with a round, ruddy face. He had a broom in his hand, and he had begun to sweep the forecourt of the church, which was l
ittered with dirty pieces of paper, straw and cartridge-cases. When he saw the heap of corpses and the blood trickling down the marble steps he stopped, planted his feet wide apart and exclaimed: "What's this?" He turned to the partisans who were lined up in front of the corpses with their automatic rifles slung over their shoulders. "What does this mean," he shouted, "coming and killing people at the door of my church? Go away from here, you wasters! Go and do these things outside your own houses, not here!"

  "Take it easy, Brother!" said the partisan officer, letting go of Jack's arm. "This is no time for larking!"

  "Ah! This is no time for larking, isn't it?" shouted the monk. "I'll show you whether it's time for larking or not!" And lifting his broom he started beating the partisan officer about the head. At first coolly, with calculated fury, but little by little warming to his task, he lavished blows upon him, shouting: "What does this mean— coming and defiling the steps of my church? Go and work, you wasters, instead of coming and killing people outside my house!" And imitating the method which housewives use to drive away hens, he brought his broom down now on the head of the partisan Officer, now on his men, jumping from one to the other and crying: "Shoo! Shoo! Go away from here, you hooligans! Shoo! Shoo!" Finally, when he was left master of the field, he turned about and, still hurling abusive epithets and curses at the "wasters" and "good-for-nothings," began furiously sweeping the blood-stained steps.

  The crowd dispersed in silence.

  "I'll catch up with you some day or other!" said the partisan officer, gazing into my eyes with a malignant expression; and he slowly made off, every so often turning round to look at me.

  I said to Jack: "I should like to meet him one day too, poor fellow." But Jack came up to me and with a sad smile laid his hand on my arm. As he did so I noticed that I was trembling all over and that my eyes were full of tears.

  "Thank you, Father," said Jack to the monk.

  The monk leaned on the handle of his broom. "Do you think it's fair, gentlemen," he said, "that in a city like Florence Christians should be killed on the steps of the churches? People have always been killed, and I can see nothing wrong in that. But right here, in front of my church, in front of Santa Maria Novella! Why don't they go and kill them on the steps of Santa Croce? There's a prior there who would let them do it. But not here. Am I right?"

  "Not here—or there," said Jack.

  "Not here," said the monk. "I won't have them here. Did you see how I deal with them? You certainly get nowhere if you use kid-glove methods. A broom is what's needed. I don't know how many times I've beaten Germans over the heads like that with a broom, so why shouldn't I do the same to Italians? And mark my words, if the Americans took it into their heads to come and splash blood all over the steps of my church I'd chase them away with a broom as well. Are you an American?"

  "Yes, I'm an American," replied Jack.

  "In that case, forget what I've said. But you understand me. I too have reason on my side. Take a lesson from me, and beat them with a broom."

  "We are soldiers," said Jack. "We can't go about armed with brooms."

  "That's a pity. War isn't fought with rifles," said the monk, "it's fought with brooms. This war, I mean. Those wasters are decent lads really. They've suffered, and in a way I understand their feelings. But winning the war has spoiled them. As soon as a Christian wins a war he forgets that he's a Christian. He becomes a Turk. As soon as a Christian wins a war it's goodbye to Christ. Are you a Christian?"

  "Yes," said Jack, "I'm still a Christian."

  "It's better to be that," said the monk. "It's better to be a Christian than a Turk."

  "It's better to be a Christian than an American," said Jack with a smile.

  "I see what you mean. It's better to be a Christian than an American. And then . . . Good-bye, gentlemen," said the monk, and muttering to himself he went off towards the door of the church with his blood-stained broom in his hand.

  I was tired of the sight of people being killed. For four years I had done nothing but watch people being killed. To watch people die is one thing, to watch them being killed is another. You feel as if you were on the side of the killers, as if you were yourself one of the killers. I was tired of it, I could stand it no longer. By this time the sight of a corpse turned me sick—not merely with horror and disgust, but with fury and hatred. I was beginning to hate corpses. My pity was exhausted; it was giving way to hatred. The idea of hating a corpse! To appreciate the abyss of despair into which a man may sink one must appreciate what it means to hate a corpse.

  During those four years of war I had never fired on a man, whether living or dead. I had remained a Christian. To remain a Christian during those years was to betray the cause. To be a Christian was to be a traitor, since this sordid war was not a war against men, but a war against Christ. For four years I had watched bands of armed men seeking out Christ as the hunter seeks out game. For four years, in Poland, Serbia, the Ukraine, Rumania, Italy and all over Europe, I had watched bands of pale-faced men eagerly searching houses, thickets, woods, mountains and valleys in an effort to drive out Christ and kill Him as one kills a rabid dog. But I had remained a Christian.

  And now, for two months and a half—ever since, following Rome's liberation at the beginning of June, we had rushed along Via Cassia and Via Aurelia in pursuit of the Germans (Jack and I had the task of maintaining liaison between Général Juin's Frenchmen and General Clark's Americans amid the mountains and woods of Viterbo, Tuscany, the Maremme of Grosseto, Siena and Volterra) —I too had been growing conscious of a mounting desire to kill.

  Almost every night I dreamed that I was shooting, that I was killing. I used to wake up dripping with perspiration, clutching the butt of my automatic rifle. Never had I experienced such dreams. Never before had I dreamed that I was killing a man. I would shoot, and see the man fall gently, slowly. But I never heard the report. The man would fall slowly, gently, into a yielding abyss of silence.

  One night Jack heard me cry out in a dream. We used to sleep on the ground in a wood near Volterra, sheltered by a Sherman, beneath the warm July rain. Here we had joined the Japanese Division—an American division consisting of Japanese from California and Hawaii whose task it was to attack Leghorn. Jack heard me cry out in my dream, and weep, and gnash my teeth. It was exactly as if I were harbouring, deep down within me, a wolf, which was slowly freeing itself from the fetters of my conscience.

  I had begun to be consumed by this species of homicidal mania, this thirst for blood, when we were between Siena and Florence, at which stage we had awakened to the fact that among the Germans who were firing on us were some Italians. In those days the war of liberation against the Germans was gradually transforming itself, so far as we Italians were concerned, into a fratricidal war against other Italians.

  "Don't worry," Jack would say to me, "the same thing, unfortunately, is happening in every country in Europe."

  Not only in Italy, but all over Europe, a frightful civil war was festering like a tumour beneath the surface of the war which the Allies were fighting against Hitler's Germany. In their efforts to liberate Europe from the German yoke Poles were killing Poles, Greeks were killing Greeks, Frenchmen were killing Frenchmen, Rumanians were killing Rumanians, and Jugoslavs were killing Jugoslavs. In Italy, the Italians who sided with the Germans were firing not on the Allied soldiers but on the Italians who sided with the Allies; and, similarly, the Italians who sided with the Allies were firing not on the German soldiers but on the Italians who sided with the Germans. While the Allies were allowing themselves to be killed in the attempt to liberate Italy from the Germans, we Italians were killing one another.

  The same old Italian disease was flaring up again in each one of us. It was the usual sordid war between Italians, begun on the usual pretext of liberating Italy from the foreigner. But the thing about that age-old disease which appalled and horrified me most of all was the fact that I felt as if I too had succumbed to the contagion. I too felt thirsty for the blo
od of my kinsmen. During those four years I had succeeded in remaining a Christian. And now—great heavens! —I found that my heart was rotten with hatred, that I too was walking about, pale as a murderer, with an automatic rifle in my hand, that I too felt a horrible lust to kill consuming my very soul.

  When we attacked Florence, and entered the streets of Oltrarno from the direction of Porta Romana, Bellosguardo and Poggio Imperiale, I removed the clip from my automatic rifle and offered it to Jack, saying: "Help me, Jack. I don't want to become a murderer." Jack looked at me with a smile. He was pale, and his lips were trembling. He took the clip I was offering him and put it in his pocket. Then I removed the clip from my Mauser and offered him that. Jack stretched out his hand and, still smiling his sad, tender smile, took the clips that were sticking out of the pockets of my tunic.

  "They will kill you like a dog," he said.

  "It's a glorious death, Jack. I've always dreamed that one day it might be given to me to be killed like a dog."

  At the end of Via di Porta Romana, at the point where that street runs at an oblique angle into Via Maggio, the francs-tireurs greeted us with furious volleys of rifle-fire from the roofs and windows. We had to jump out of our jeeps and creep forward in the shadow of the walls, while the bullets rained down upon us, whining as they rebounded from the pavement. Jack and the Canadians who were with us fired back, and Major Bradley, who was in command of the Canadian soldiers, turned round every so often and looked at me in amazement, shouting: "Why don't you fire? Are you a conscientious objector?"

  "No, he isn't a conscientious objector," answered Jack. "He's an Italian—a Florentine. He doesn't want to kill Italians—Florentines." And he looked at me with a sad smile.

  "You'll regret it!" Major Bradley shouted to me. "You'll never have another chance like this as long as you live."

  The Canadian soldiers also turned round and looked at me in amazement. They laughed, shouting to me in their peculiar French, spoken with an old Norman accent: "Veuillez nous excuser, mon Capitaine, mais nous ne sommes pas de Florence!" And they fired at the windows, laughing as they did so. But I perceived in their words and their laughter a warmth of sympathy in which there was a hint of sadness.