It took a pickaxe to break through the frozen urine and open the door of Sergio’s car.
Sergio climbed down cautiously from the car. What if they’d been brought out just so the Russians could gun them down? Instead, the captors decided to take stock and see how many prisoners had held up so far.
The cars had been emptied by half.
The good news was that it would cost less in dried herring; the bad, that there would be significantly fewer hands to carry out the work once they arrived at the camp.
The mechanics quickly identified the problem and the locomotive was soon fixed, much to the prisoners’ dismay. They were enjoying the breeze of the williwaw on their face, the same wind they’d cursed during the interminable march to Kalach-na-Donu. Now that they were confined to the filthy rail cars all day long, they had a curious longing for snow and wind. Being imprisoned out in the open was less unbearable.
The captives were ordered to get back into their cars. As Sergio waited in line to climb into the prison on wheels, he realized Remolo was not among them. His eyes moved over the crowd but none of the faces bore the distinctive Northern Italian features.
“Fausto, have you seen Remolo?”
“He told me he was going to try to take a shit… I bet he went to the other side of the train so no one would see his ass!”
“And he’s still not back? Christ, he couldn’t have had much to crap out…”
“Don’t worry. He’ll find his way back, or the Russians will find it for him.”
“You’re right.”
The heavy steel doors were pulled shut and the train set off without further delay. Sergio hugged his eye to one of the cracks and watched the landscape roll past, worried for his friend. Suddenly he noticed a shadow moving in the distance: Remolo was running with all the strength in his malnourished body, trying in vain to catch up with the convoy. Sergio buried his face in his hands. He didn’t cry. His dehydrated body could no longer produce tears.
He didn’t lift his head for hours. Though he hadn’t finished grieving, he’d gone numb from the cold.
His friend was dying alone, lost in the depths of Mordovia, all because he’d needed to shit.
* * *
16.Then to the sea of knowledge turn’d—I said:
“Wherefore this signal? Why that answering light?
And who are they by whom these flames are fed?”
“What now advances o’er the gloomy tide,
Is surely,” he exclaim’d, “within thy sight,
Unless indeed the marshy vapors hide.”
[Ichabod Charles Wright, trans.]
17.Filastrocca sense senso (nonsense nursery rhyme): Ambarabà ciccì coccò, three owls on the washstand making love to the doctor’s daughter, the doctor falls ill, ambarabà ciccì coccò.
Musical Chairs
as they made their way towards the forced labour camps, the prisoners dreamed of one day returning to Italy—to their country, their home, their deliverance. They had no way of knowing that the situation in Italy was scarcely brighter than it was inside the train car.
The war was costly, and everyone had to do their part to carry out the armed missions Il Duce commanded. Civilians and soldiers alike were hit with severe food restrictions. Bread rations had been set at 150g a day, with labourers given an extra 100g. Everyone was entitled to 15kg of potatoes every six months, no more. Belts would soon need new holes; waists shrank and trousers grew.
Italy’s agricultural production was in constant decline; instead of tending to their rice fields or vineyards, healthy men were forced from home, sent to be disfigured on the battlefield.
Sergio’s father, Ambrogio Cavaletti, who was well past the age of conscription but not foolish enough to misunderstand what was happening around him, went about his daily business without concern for the rest. It was impossible to shrug off all the tension, the bitterness in the air, the contemptuous glances that threatened to spew their rage at any moment. Ambrogio kept his own hostility buried deep inside, which would end up making him sick.
Every morning he rose at five o’clock to the crow of the rooster and the hum of military vehicles making their rounds. Coughing, he set off to tend to his grapevines and didn’t return until seven in the evening, feverish and defeated.
“You’re going to work yourself to death,” his wife complained.
“What would you have me do, Rosina? I can’t enlist with the Axis powers or join the Partigiani18. I’m not brave enough for either. I work my land and keep my mouth shut.”
“Your grapes won’t save anyone.”
“Perhaps not, but they might help distract two or three of the grief-stricken from their misfortunes for a time.”
“So your answer is to drink wine?”
“Good wine, yes. Why go without? At any rate, it’s not looking like the war will ever end. Might as well carry on.”
The Italians were entitled to a ration that made up 50% of the German calorie intake. The Germans could have shared theirs—Mussolini’s followers were their allies, after all—but it was a superficial pact that would soon turn into bitter enmity.
Axis troops had suffered several defeats on African soil. Tripoli fell on January 23, 1943, and Libya drove out its invaders. Il Duce’s fantasies of world domination were slowly being stamped out. In spite of the setbacks, Italian forces had managed to round up enemies, who were being held in the Fossoli deportation camp a few kilometres from Carpi. British, South African, and New Zealand military personnel captured during the operations in North Africa were left to rot. Months later the P.O.W. camp would become a concentration camp for the Jews of the Italian Social Republic.
While Sergio was being held captive in Russia, Jews were interned a few kilometres from his home. German nationals would find themselves imprisoned in putrid cells across Britain, while the French and Americans would be sent to Nazi camps.
A game of musical chairs for prisoners.
It must have amused the army commanders and distracted statesmen desperate for entertainment. If only someone could have gotten up and said, “That’s enough! Give back my men and I’ll return yours. The game is getting rather tiresome, don’t you think?”
* * *
18.Partisans
Temnikov Terminus
the door of the rail car could be opened once the ice had been chipped away, but still the prisoners received no water. The Russians figured they got on well enough without it, so why waste the little they had on such worthless, insignificant men?
Every so often Sergio was able to forget his constant thirst, consumed as he was by the image of Remolo running after the train, pants barely pulled up, fly open, arms in the air, and panic written on his face. He couldn’t be sure that whatever awaited him would prove any better than what had befallen his friend. But for now he could still hope.
The train left Kalach-na-Donu on January 6, 1943, to arrive on the 21st of the same month. Sergio saw the date printed on one of the commanding officer’s documents as he greeted them outside the labour camp. “Greeted” was perhaps going too far; at least the Russians hadn’t executed them as soon as they got off the train.
It was close to midnight when they were unloaded onto the platform of the nameless place. They were offered neither ladder nor wooden crate to help them from the wagon. They had to jump down, one after the other, without waiting for the men to get back to their feet upon landing. Ankles couldn’t withstand the jump and crumpled under the weight of the numb bodies. The last to jump were the luckiest: they had a bed of near-corpses to cushion their fall.
Sergio found a Russian soldier with a kinder face than the others and ventured to ask where they were. Russian, English, or Italian, he had trouble remembering which language they had spoken. The language of war, most likely. A language everyone understands.
; “Where are we?”
“What does it matter?”
“We’ve been moving for such a long time.”
“You’re far from home. I can tell you that much. And if you ever want to get back, I suggest you stop asking questions.”
Sergio didn’t remember crossing any large bodies of water; he concluded that they weren’t beyond the Volga River. But the more he thought about it, the more he realized the officer was right: it didn’t matter. Whether on the outskirts of Moscow or in the far-flung regions of Vladivostok, he wouldn’t be sending his mother gushing postcards from the trip.
He would discover the answer to his question much later: they were in Temnikov, part of the Zubova Polyana district of Saransk, Mordovia. It had taken them fifteen days to cover 900 kilometres.
Only the train went as far as Temnikov; there were no roads. Not even a muddy path or a poorly cleared route. Just hastily built wood barracks containing thousands of men from different backgrounds, bordered by a dense and aggressive forest.
Sergio and the other newcomers spent the first night on their feet, lined up, awaiting orders. The sun rose, and still nobody came to explain why they were there.
Once day took hold, the guards had them erect an immense tent that would serve as a temporary shelter. The bunkhouses were bursting at the seams, and there was no room for the few thousand recent arrivals. They would have to build their own prison in the days that followed. Italians, Germans, and Poles began to grumble.
“Avrebbero potuto almeno aver la generosità di fornirci l’alloggiamento.”
“Diese verdammten Kommunisten! Alle müssen gleich viel arbeiten, aber sie finden es toll zu sehen, dass wir immer noch etwas mehr arbeiten.”
“Tak, oni wiedzq, co to gościnność!”19
It took hours to put up the tent, their tired fingers fumbling over the same motions dozens of times before getting them right. Once finished, they were given a metal drum in which to light a fire. The Russians even had the decency to hand over some matches instead of making the men coax flames out of stones and scraps of wood. The 20th century warmongers were doubtless barbaric, but they exercised their savagery with the right tools.
Out of pity or a sudden excess of reserves, one as unlikely as the next, the men were also given a few gallons of water. It wouldn’t be enough to quench the thirst that had been plaguing them for weeks, but many were moved to dry tears at the thought of wetting their lips with liquid that didn’t taste of charcoal.
Sergio poured a few drops into his tin. He could have swallowed his ration in one go, like a parched camel who’d finally reached an oasis, but he preferred to hold his cup over the fire for a minute or two, eagerly anticipating the liquid’s comforting warmth. The flavourless tea reminded him of his mother’s Sunday brodo20, though it couldn’t have been more different: the broth tasted of everything—fatty meats, Parmesan cheese, fresh vegetables, and the delicious passatelli21 she tossed in by the handful.
At dawn the next day the prisoners were brought out from the tent and given something to eat: a lukewarm greenish vegetable soup that smelled of nothing. Each bunkhouse was given one barrel. One barrel to feed a thousand mouths. The men were divided into groups of one hundred and told to quietly wait their turn. But they elbowed their way forward, each vying to be the first to reach the head table of the paltry feast.
The Russians looked on, amused, watching the fervour spread among men who thought only with their stomachs. At the sight of food, a twenty-year-old man who hadn’t eaten in weeks turned into a werewolf, snarling at anything that came between him and a few mouthfuls of flesh. The Bolsheviks didn’t dare interfere with the animals’ savage greed.
Sergio finally managed to get his hands on a bowl of soup. He tried to distance himself from the agitated crowd so he could savour his pittance, guarding his tin as a pirate would his treasure. Tension was mounting among those who hadn’t yet received their share; the men shoved, jostled, and trampled one another, ready to kill for a few gulps of the green liquid. The barrel withstood the commotion but threatened to tip over entirely if the men didn’t stop bumping against it. Then, the inevitable happened: in their frenzy the restless beasts toppled the cask, still three-quarters full. A swampy green puddle spilled onto the muddied earth. The most desperate threw themselves to the ground and began licking the soil, their tongues searching for a few foul drops.
Elsewhere in the camp were prisoners who had arrived well before Sergio’s group, men who were just as hungry as they. The more clever and agile wandered between the barracks at mealtimes, hoping to sneak into a different line and pick up a second ration. A Hungarian scrounging for food approached Sergio and tried to steal his tin. Sergio fought back with all of his remaining strength, resisting his assailant but spilling the entire contents on the ground. He refused to kneel down to suck up the flavourless broth; he was just grateful that he still had his tin, the only possession the prisoners were allowed. They didn’t go anywhere without the small metal dish that served as plate, bowl, and glass. Without the tin, they would have had to drink the soup directly from their hands. Losing it meant taking one step closer to death.
The Russians handed out black bread later that day. The slices had to be concealed as soon as they were received: in a pocket, a shoe, tucked in between a shirttail and trousers. It was that or the portion would be stolen in a flash. Sergio hid his in the sleeve of his pastrano and picked at it all afternoon, like a pigeon pecking away at the baker’s leftover crocetta22. He thought back to childhood days spent feeding the birds out in the piazza in front of the Duomo. For a few moments, he managed to forget everything: the Russian officers, the starved prisoners, the soup spilled over the frozen earth. He played back the past in his mind, wondering if the act itself was a sign of his imminent death, an indication that he was slowly preparing to leave his body behind and watch his life parade past like a Vittorio De Sica film.
* * *
19.“They could have at least given us a place to sleep.”
“Damned communists! Everyone is supposed to do an equal share, but they’re happy to work us harder than the rest.”
“What hospitality!”
20.Broth
21.Hand-rolled pasta made with egg, breadcrumbs, and Parmesan
22.Hard pastry in the shape of a cross
The Chicken and the Egg
though sergio had very few friends, everyone liked him. He was guarded and polite, always willing to lend a hand, even if he preferred to keep a certain distance. Not so much out of fear of getting hurt as for objectivity’s sake. Even as a child he had shied away from injustice, striving to be fair to everyone. To do so, he believed, he couldn’t become too emotionally involved with other people. This distance helped him make informed decisions and avoid self-serving acts. He had noticed that when people became too attached to one another, their behaviour swung towards favouritism, envy, and excess.
He had watched as his sister Irene fell for the charms of Salvatore, a local boy. She’d let herself waste away while he made it clear he wanted nothing to do with her. Wallowing in her feelings like a pig in mud had made her blind to anyone else’s attentions. This included poor Ferdinando, who asked for her hand in marriage one spring evening only to be met with a disdainful laugh. Then there was their teacher Signora Malavasi and her pet student, little Chiara—a brilliant though somewhat condescending girl. Chiara received compliments and flattery while the other pupils made do with smacks around the head and reprimands.
Sergio couldn’t comprehend how you could wish one person well and misfortune on another. He was a humanist through and through, though he hadn’t read Petrarch, Ronsard, Rabelais, de Tocqueville, or Nietzsche. He hadn’t read much, for that matter; he rarely found solace in books. To him, books were practical objects used to shield oneself from the rest of the world, good for burying your nose in to avoid conversat
ion and inquisitive looks. The eyes asked questions whose answers could never be found in books.
Even though Sergio was not Signora Malavasi’s favourite, he was a good student; some thought he was destined to be a lawyer, doctor, or priest. But he had no interest in any of it, least of all rearranging theories to justify his own worldview. He was a devotee of Truth, one which could only be found in the concreteness of objects, the rhythms of daily life, and the cycles of nature. He never felt more full of purpose than when elbow-deep in soapy water helping his mother with the washing or stomping about in the barrel of grapes helping his father make wine.
When he needed to think, he would go see the pigeons. He would sit on a bench facing the Duomo in the centro storico23 and feed the grey birds crumbs of day-old bread he’d gotten from the Pan d’Oro bakery. He liked to watch them, their heads bobbing up and down as they ate. He was convinced that, behind their innocent eyes, pigeons hid a kind of intelligence imperceptible to humans. Pigeons had an extraordinary power beyond the ability to fly: they never strayed off course. Their acute sense of direction helped deliver them home without fail, regardless of where they started. This skill fascinated Sergio. One day he hoped to find such certainty, to feel without a doubt and in the deepest parts of himself that he had taken the right path, the just path—the way to an inner self.
Sergio’s father, Ambrogio, was convinced that his son had a gift for talking to animals. He certainly seemed able to communicate with rodents and cattle and had a particular affinity for birds. This gift was handy for bringing the animals back to their pens at the end of the day and knowing when one was sick or about to give birth.
When Sergio was eleven, one of the Cavaletti family hens suddenly stopped laying. The veterinarians and poultry farmers, supposed authorities on the matter, were at a loss as to why. One night, Sergio crept into the henhouse and slipped a leash around its neck. Like a well-trained dog, it didn’t flinch. It followed Sergio off down the country road and together they walked all the way to the village, where they finally stopped to rest. Signor Martinelli, who owned the gelateria24, asked him what he was doing with the hen.
Behind the eyes we meet Page 12