Behind the eyes we meet

by Mélissa Verreault

  The crowd spit on the bodies to express their disgust and humiliate the families of the disgraced along with the entire Fascist movement.

  In the Berlin Führerbunker two days later, Hitler killed himself before anyone could rob him of what was left of his dignity.

  Sergio was filled with an indescribable sadness upon hearing this story. The officer had recounted the events to them, smiling and gesticulating wildly, as though spinning an extraordinary yarn whose protagonists would live happily ever after.

  Nobody had learned anything, then. The conflict had not produced one lesson. It became clear to Sergio that the Second World War would not be the last. The wheel of barbarism would continue to crush the goodness of those naïve enough to believe good can triumph over evil. Good only wins when it is synonymous with money and power.

  The moral of the story is this: even the most honest of men has no morals in the end.

  * * *

  38.National Liberation Committee of Upper Italy

  The Revenants

  the red cross van didn’t arrive to pick up the soldiers until late Sunday afternoon. The minutes had crept by. The survivors could have played Briscola39 to pass the time, but it took too much effort to remember the rules. Besides, they were too preoccupied with thoughts of reuniting with family, friends, and sweethearts to employ any sort of strategy. It was a game everyone would have lost, more of a distraction than anything.

  Ignacio, Giuliano, Alberto, Primo, Lidio, Lanfranco, Danilo, Tibaldo, and Sergio spent the time sipping Campari and munching on noccioline americane40. They had been given a whole sack as a treat, but not one of them was especially hungry. They shelled the noccioline, carefully removing the fibrous husks one by one and dividing them into categories—big, small, broken, discoloured—then lined them up to form the contours of an olive branch. A symbol of peace.

  Peace. Did such a thing even exist?

  The van drove through the narrow lanes of the Emilia-Romagna countryside, which was bathed in a deafening silence. The stillness, the gentle shadows and hints of Parmesan suffusing the fresh autumn air that rolled in on a light fog: its beauty was too much for one man to bear. Ears, eyes, and nostrils were overcome by it all. Senses came alive again, incredulous at serving a purpose other than detecting imminent death.

  Everyone was let off at Modena; from there, the soldiers had to find their own way home. They were given a few coins each for a bus ticket, but it was past eight o’clock and all public transportation had stopped for the night. Continuing on foot was out of the question.

  Some of the men decided to look for a bar where they might find coffee and a panino. Sergio, Primo, and Lanfranco had no desire to be out in public fielding questions from curious strangers or joining in drunken arguments. Instead they loitered beneath the porticoes. All the shops were closed; their shutters had been pulled down and the storefronts were dark. The men wandered aimlessly around like old retirees with nothing but time on their hands. Lanfranco ultimately cleared his throat, breaking the silence.

  “I actually don’t live too far from here,” he said. “My mother’s only a kilometre away, but I’m too scared to go.”

  “What if we went with you?” Sergio and Primo chorused.

  “You wouldn’t mind?”

  “Of course not,” Primo offered.

  “What other option do we have?” Sergio added. “Let’s go! But first, I’d like to stop at the telephone exchange.”

  The three men walked with new-found energy over to the telephone exchange, where one of Sergio’s childhood friends worked. When Mauro saw his old playmate, he threw his arms around him and refused to let go.

  “You’re back!”

  “Looks like it.”

  “What great news. What luck!”

  “You said it. Can you call over to Carpi and ask someone to let my parents know I’ll be home on the first bus tomorrow?”

  “I can do even better. Call yourself! Here, take the receiver. What’s the address?”

  “37, Nicolò Biondo. That’s if the house survived all the bombing.”

  “Don’t worry, Carpi didn’t see the worst of it. Number 37 isn’t far from the exchange. The clerk can go get your mother so you can talk to her for a few minutes.”

  Mauro put Sergio on the line with Carpi and offered Primo and Lanfranco a drink. The men were elated by the prospect of a reunion.

  The clerk at Carpi went to find Sergio’s mother, who ran over to the exchange so she could hear her son’s voice. They hadn’t spoken in three years.

  Sergio nearly fainted when he heard his mother on the line; his knees buckled and his heart skipped a few beats. Blood pounded in his ears and everything sounded muffled. It felt as if his head were swelling, that it would explode at any moment. Mauro sat him down and took the receiver back, explaining to Rosina that Sergio was fine, just overcome with emotion. Yes, she would see him. Yes, tomorrow. Yes, Signora Cavaletti. Yes, I swear, he’s right here in front of me. Yes, the beastly war is finally over. Yes, your son is a hero.

  After collecting himself and thanking Mauro warmly, Sergio reminded his friends they had somewhere to be. It was time to make another mother smile.

  Lanfranco’s family’s stone house stood on the border between Modena and the surrounding countryside. It came into view, a solid and welcoming sight.

  Sergio knocked on the door, with Primo at his side. Lanfranco hung back, hiding behind a giant rosemary shrub whose aroma made his mouth water for some pollo al rosmarino41.

  The door opened.

  Sergio and Primo pulled off their hats.

  “Good evening, Signora Bugatti,” Sergio murmured shyly.

  “Who are you?” she asked, a trace of worry in her voice.

  “We are friends of your son.”

  “Franco?”

  “Yes,” they replied.

  “He’s dead.”

  “No he’s not,” Sergio protested, followed by a volley of coughs.

  “I’m afraid he is,” the old woman insisted.

  “But you’re mistaken, ma’am,” Primo objected.

  “I’m telling you, it’s true.”

  “Impossible,” Sergio declared.

  “Do you need proof? I’ve been receiving a pension for his death for well on two years now.”

  Lanfranco nearly choked behind the rosemary. Had he died without knowing it? What was this nonsense?

  Signora Bugatti told the men how two officers had come by the house one evening in 1944. Oddly enough, in her memory they looked strangely like Sergio and Primo. They had told her Franco had died on the front, crushed by a tank. Since then she received a hundred lire each month for having sacrificed her son. Primo looked apologetic: he had bad news for her. Again? Yes, again. Was it about her other son, Renzo? No, still Lanfranco. She would have to give the money back, everything she’d collected over two years. But how could you…? She needed that money to live. Without Franco to work the land, how was she expected to survive?

  “The payments will stop, but you’ll get Franco back in exchange,” Sergio said, smiling.

  “That isn’t funny. I can’t get Franco back, he’s dead. Dead, you understand?”

  “Not quite, Mama,” Lanfranco announced, coming out from behind the rosemary.

  “Porco dio!”42 she exclaimed, though she wasn’t usually given to profanity.

  “Since when have you sworn like that?”

  “Ever since my son came back from the dead!” she declared.

  Everyone began to laugh: deep, hearty laughter, not forced or canned. A genuine laugh. A laugh full of life. Lanfranco’s mother invited the men in for a bite to eat. Gnocco fritto for everyone! And while Lucrezia prepared the feast, Franco explained how he had been resurrected. His mother, a true believer, knew that only Christ was capable of such a feat. Had she birthed a second Jes
us? She wondered aloud, launching the four of them into more peals of laughter.

  It was nine thirty and night was coming on. The house’s dim half-light wouldn’t do: switches were flicked on. No one wanted to sleep for fear of waking to find it had all been a dream. They would celebrate until dawn and chase away the possibility.

  Lanfranco told them how a tank had indeed rolled over him. They’d thought he was dead, but he had actually been incredibly lucky: he had managed to bury himself in the snow as the vehicle passed over him, only slightly injuring a foot. It took hours to crawl out and by the time he had finally escaped from the snowy prison, his regiment had disappeared. A few days later he’d come across a group of Italians and joined them. Unfortunately, the following day they’d been captured by the Russians.

  At this point in the story, as it was nearing ten thirty, Renzo walked in. The surprise on his face was indescribable when he saw his little brother’s ghost cheerfully sitting at the kitchen table, waving his hands about. He couldn’t bring himself to approach Franco—touching or hugging him with his cold hands might shatter the magic.

  The basket of gnocco fritto was empty. Signora Bugatti mixed up some more dough, put the oil on to heat, and cut another few slices of cured meat. It was Primo’s turn to speak.

  “Let’s not have any more talk of war, OK? Not tonight, not ever. We’ve got a chance to start over. Let’s take it.”

  At that, everyone raised their glasses and drank to the new life ahead.

  Cirillo, the oldest Bugatti, came in at midnight and it started all over again: same dumbstruck expression, same peals of laughter, same kitchen sequence. Dough, hot oil, cured meat. This time, their mother went to get a dried sausage that had been aging in the basement since Lanfranco left for the front. She came up with some more red wine and chocolate that her brother, who lived in Switzerland, had sent for Christmas the previous year. No one would be starving to death that night.

  No one would die at all.

  It was one of those evenings that seem to go on forever, when misfortune seems a trick of the past.

  * * *

  39.Traditional card game of northern Italy

  40.Peanuts

  41.Rosemary chicken

  42.Jesus Christ!

  Makeshift Destiny

  on monday, November 12, 1945, the day after celebrating the Armistice of 1918, Sergio came home. Around seven o’clock that morning he and Primo made their way to the Modena bus station to board the first vehicle bound for Carpi. The driver, Mattia, was a childhood friend of his brother and recognized him right away.

  “I know you! You’re Cavaletti’s kid brother! What’re you doing in Modena this early on a Monday?”

  “I’m back from the war.”

  “But the war’s been over for six months!”

  “I know. I was in Russia.”

  “Russia! Come off it.”

  “Well I’m back now.”

  “You haven’t seen your family yet?”

  “No. The Red Cross dropped me off last night.”

  “What’re we waiting for, then? Let’s get you home!”

  This was the conversation they might’ve had. But it never happened. Sergio couldn’t bring himself to explain where he’d come from or where he was going. Mattia already knew. His friend had often spoken of the brother who’d left for Russia. He didn’t need to ask to know that Sergio was about to see his family for the first time after four years in exile.

  Mattia pressed down on the accelerator and drove well above the speed limit, spurred by the excitement of playing his part in such a moving reunion. He offered to bring Sergio directly home instead of dropping him off at the station, since there were only two other passengers and Primo aboard the bus. Sergio didn’t want him to go out of his way, but Mattia insisted. Sergio shook his head, told him there was really no need, but Mattia raised his voice, sounding stern now, as though scolding the youngest of a large family. Sergio gave in.

  The bus stopped in front of number 37, Nicolò Biondo. Primo threw his arms around Sergio and made him swear they would see each other again soon. Mattia opened the door. Sergio remained on the top step, gripped by a strange fear—a sense of dread like none he had experienced while at the front or en route to the labour camps. He was nervous. As if he were about to write a history exam or walk onto the stage of a dance hall filled to the rafters. He was afraid he might no longer remember dates or names of people, places, and things. What if he forgot his lines? Those phrases learned by rote, the automatic responses to questions like, “How are you?” or “Lovely day, isn’t it?” He was out of practice and didn’t know if he could bear small talk anymore. Would he still be able to take the stage as if nothing had happened, play the perfectly coiffed lead despite everything he’d been through?

  Mattia pushed him out, asking Sergio to say hello to his mother for him.

  “Signora Cavaletti. Ha sempre fatto le migliori torte di Carpi!”43

  Of course he would, certainly. Passing on the greeting would mean he’d have at least one thing to lead with, something to fill the silence he was dreading so much.

  He didn’t need to knock on the door: his mother had been waiting outside since six o’clock. She hadn’t slept a wink that night, too excited by the previous day’s telephone call announcing the return of her prodigal son. Rosina Cavaletti threw her arms around her son’s neck and showered him with kisses.

  “Smettila, mamma, mi solletichi.”44

  It was all Sergio could say to express his joy at seeing her again.

  “My sisters? And my brothers? Where is everyone?”

  “They aren’t with you?”

  “No, why would they be? Cough, cough!”

  “They went to Modena to get you! You didn’t see them?”

  “No… Cough!”

  “I thought they’d taken the bus back with you.”

  “No, definitely not. I came alone.”

  But Irene, Rita, Giuliana, Massimiliano, and Giorgio had been there, along with Elena, Agnese, Cristiano, and Paolo, school friends of Sergio’s. Rita had been so excited to learn of her younger brother’s return that she had run to spread the good news and invite his friends to the station the following day. Paolo’s father was heading into Modena then anyway and offered to take them all. The merry group had climbed onto Signor Vignoli’s cart at five o’clock sharp the next morning and wound through the villages of Soliera and Villanova to arrive at the station at 6:17 a.m. At 6:57, Irene had seen her brother walk out of the station café and board the bus. She had waved her arms about wildly to get his attention, but Sergio hadn’t seen her from so far away. The welcome committee was on the other side of the station, where passengers arriving at Modena disembarked. It was quite a sight: Sergio’s brothers, sisters, and friends running like mad, hands in the air, out of breath, shouting at the top of their lungs.

  “Sergio! Siamo qui! Sergio! Aspetta! Sergio! Siamo qua!”45

  Had the sound of bombs exploding, grenades bursting, gunshots popping, shells whistling, planes zooming overhead, cries splitting the air—the sound of death—ruined Sergio’s hearing? Perhaps. The sounds of his friends and family shouting out their love, their joy, their impatience didn’t reach his ears. He left them there, restless and stunned, on the Stazione di Modena platform while deep down and without wanting to admit it, he was disappointed that no one had turned up to meet him.

  Rosina ushered her son inside. Unable to sleep, she had cooked all night—porchetta, fiori di zucca, tagliatelle ai porcini, zuppa inglese.46 Rosina talked on and on in a language her son could barely understand. She spoke too quickly, her words garbled by the excitement of it all, and used a dialetto carpigiano47 that had evolved in Sergio’s absence. To him it was like having a conversation in gibberish.

  “Let me get you something to eat!”

  �
��…”

  “Don’t tell me you aren’t hungry. After all that time on soldiers’ rations, I bet you could eat a whole pig yourself.”

  “But Mama, it’s only nine o’clock. A coffee and a slice of bread is fine. Cough, cough, cough, cough, cough.”

  “What’s this nasty cough?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “I’ve run out of coffee, I’m afraid.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll go get some from the Painis.”

  “Their shop is closed, poor child. Their three sons all died on the front. It was too much. They packed their bags and left to join the rest of the family in the south.”

  “No kidding. Papa must have been upset. Signor Paini was a good friend of his.”

  “Your father never knew. Your father… Your father is dead, Sergio.”

  Dead? Sergio could no longer be sure they were speaking the same language. Had she really said that his father was dead? The next words out of her mouth seemed just as improbable, just as incoherent.

  “So you never received the telegram I sent?”

  “No. When did he die?”

  “In ’43. Pneumonia. It broke his heart that he never got to say goodbye.”

  “I… Cough.”

  “Sergio. I’m so sorry to greet you with such news.”

  But Rosina Cavaletti still hadn’t heard her son’s own news. She didn’t know that Sergio hadn’t received the telegram because by that point he had been separated from his battalion and imprisoned in a lager in Mordovia. She was still living in a dream, believing that her son had been delivered to her safe and sound because the war hadn’t been too hard on him. That he had been lucky.

  If luck were measured by the number of kilometres a man had to walk in his life, then Sergio was among the country’s most fortunate.

  * * *

  43.Mrs. Cavaletti. She makes the best cakes in Carpi!