A Century of Italian War Narratives: Voices from the Sidelines 9004541101, 9789004541108

Citation preview

A Century of Italian War Narratives Voices from the Sidelines Edited by Luigi Gussago and Pina Palma

A Century of Italian War Narratives

A Century of Italian War Narratives Voices from the Sidelines Edited by

Luigi Gussago and Pina Palma

leiden | boston

Cover illustration: Photo by Immo Wegmann on Unsplash. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Gussago, Luigi, editor. | Palma, Pina, editor. Title: A century of Italian war narratives : voices from the sidelines / edited by Luigi Gussago and Pina Palma. Other titles: Voices from the sidelines Description: Boston, Massachusetts : Brill, [2023] | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2023013607 (print) | LCCN 2023013608 (ebook) | ISBN 9789004541108 (hardback) | ISBN 9789004548145 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: World War, 1939-1945--Personal narratives, Italian. | World War, 1914-1918--Personal narratives, Italian. | Italian literature--History and criticism. | War in literature. Classification: LCC D763.I8 C425 2023 (print) | LCC D763.I8 (ebook) | DDC 940.3089/51--dc23/eng/20230501 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023013607 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023013608

Typeface for the Latin, Greek, and Cyrillic scripts: “Brill”. See and download: brill.com/brill-typeface. isbn 978-90-04-54110-8 (hardback) isbn 978-90-04-54814-5 (e-book) Copyright 2023 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill, Brill Nijhoff, Brill Hotei, Brill Schöningh, Brill Fink, Brill mentis, Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, Böhlau, V&R unipress and Wageningen Academic. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Requests for re-use and/or translations must be addressed to Koninklijke Brill NV via brill.com or copyright.com. This book is printed on acid-free paper and produced in a sustainable manner.

This volume is dedicated to the silent witnesses and victims of all wars

∵

Contents

Acknowledgments ix Notes on Contributors x



Introduction: Voices from the Sidelines 1

1

Tabucchi and the Antihero: Figures for a Historical, Existential and Symbolic Resistance 11 Veronica Frigeni

2

The Foibe War Narrative: The New Antiheroes of the ‘Second Republic’ 28 Louise Zamparutti

3

Margherita Marchione as Antihero for Italian Jews: A Complex Message of Hope 50 Lisa Vitale

4

Unfit for War: Stories of Desertion in Italian Fiction; Dessì and Pellegrini 71 Luigi Gussago

5

“Non credo più alla Patria, all’eroismo, alle Sante Cause …”: The Journal of Donato Guglielmi, pow in Russia during the Second World War 93 Gianluca Cinelli

6

Partisan Diary: Ada’s Wars 112 Pina Palma

7

Notturno and the War: D’Annunzio’s Intimate Reflection on Heroism 133 Michela Barisonzi

8

Everyday Heroes: Italian Identity, Moral Dilemmas, and Nonviolence in a Late Antifascist Resistance Novel by Antonio Barolini 157 Andrea Sartori

viii

Contents

9

An Antihero in Command: Soffici under the Orders of Captain Punzi 177 Enrico Riccardo Orlando

10

Between Epic and Anti-Epic: Observations on Italian Literature of the Great War 198 Tancredi Artico

Index of Names and Subjects 219

Acknowledgments The idea of this volume took shape from a panel presented at the American Association of Italian Studies conference in Columbus, Ohio, in 2019. We extend our sincerest thanks and gratitude to all contributors whose works, more than just shape this study, uncover less-known stories about the not too remote world wars and offer, in the process, elements to reflect, unfortunately, on our current experiences of war. We owe a debt of gratitude to La Trobe University for its generous funding throughout the drafting of the manuscript. Mr. Aidan Carter from University of Melbourne deserves a special thank you for his invaluable help in reviewing the essays. We are grateful to the two anonymous readers whose suggestions transformed our manuscript into a book. Needless to say, the errors that remain are ours. Luigi Gussago and Pina Palma Brescia and Woodbridge, CT, December 2022

Notes on Contributors Tancredi Artico PhD in Italian Studies from the University of Padua, is currently chargé de recherche at the Université Libre de Bruxelles, with a project entitled “Soft. The Survival of Tolerance. Representations of Muslim and the Reformed in Italian Epic from the Council of Trent to the Thirty Years’ War (156–618)”. Among his interests, the representations of conflicts in the modern era – from the Renaissance to the First World War – and the Early Modern Italian epic. Michela Barisonzi holds a PhD in Italian Studies from Monash University (Melbourne, Australia), a BA in Translation and Interpretation and MAs in, respectively, Foreign Literatures and Cultures, International Relations, and Teaching. Her current research centres on gender discourse and violence against women in nineteenth-century Italian literature. Her other areas of research include contemporary cinema, the juridical language of migration, and the political discourse in South America. In 2019 she published Adultery and Hysteria in the Ninenteenth Century Novel: The Case of Gabriele d’Annunzio a work on sexuality, hysteria, and adultery in the novels of Gabriele D’Annunzio She has published several articles and presented papers that examine nineteenth-century Italian literature and contemporary Italian cinema at national and international conferences. Gianluca Cinelli PhD in Italian Studies, studied in Rome and Cork and was an Alexander von Humboldt Foundation postdoctoral researcher at the University of Frankfurt between 2012 and 2014. His main research interest is the relationship between literature, memory, and history, with particular attention to the ethical and rhetorical aspects. Among his major publications: La questione del male in “Storia della colonna infame” di Alessandro Manzoni (Leicester, 2015); “Viandante, giungessi a Sparta.” Il modo memorialistico nella narrativa contemporanea (Roma, 2016), Il paese dimenticato. Nuto Revelli e la crisi dell’Italia contadina (Milan, 2020) e Le guerre di Mario Rigoni Stern. Trauma, racconto, guarigione (Perugia, 2022). He is the author of scientific articles on Primo Levi, Alessandro Manzoni, Nuto Revelli, Mario Rigoni Stern, Joseph Conrad, and European war narratives of the world wars. Since 2012 he has also been an active author of fiction, with the volumes Fantasmi in Val d’Orcia (Cuneo, 2012) and La voce delle cose e altre storie (Cuneo, 2017).

Notes on Contributors 

xi

Veronica Frigeni is an affiliated researcher at the Amsterdam School for Cultural Analysis. Educated in Milan, Toronto, and London, she received her PhD in Italian from the University of Kent (2018). She authored the monograph Tabucchi e l’inquietudine (Sestante, 2020) as well as articles on Jhumpa Lahiri “L’italiano perturbante di Jhumpa Lahiri” (Italian Studies, 2020); Giorgio Agamben “Agamben e il perturbante” (Lessico di etica pubblica, 2019); and Antonio Tabucchi “L’inconscio ottico della storia” (Between, 2014). She has also published book chapters in edited volumes from Pisa University Press and Sapienza University Press on Tabucchi and transcultural feminist writers. Luigi Gussago PhD in Italian and Comparative Studies, is associate research fellow at La Trobe University, Melbourne. His research interests range from semiotics to translation theory and practice, ecocriticism, Italian and comparative literature. He published the volume Picaresque Fiction Today (Rodopi|Brill, 2016), along with articles and chapters on Martin Amis, Primo Levi, Peter Carey, Mikhail Bulgakov, Giacomo Leopardi, William Golding, and George Gissing. He is currently involved in a research project, sponsored by the Italian Australian Foundation and La Trobe, on the influence of Italian farmers and their agricultural practices in rural Victoria. In collaboration with John Gatt-Rutter and Brian Zuccala he translated into Italian The Emancipated, a novel by George Gissing. Enrico Riccardo Orlando PhD in Italian Studies from Università Ca’ Foscari of Venice and Université Paris Sorbonne, is a scholar of European literature and journalism between the 19th and 20th centuries. His research interests include literary criticism, comparative literature, poets of the First World War, Joseph Conrad’s reception in Italy and young authors linked to the Italian review La Voce (1908–1916). He has published several articles and attended conferences in Italy and abroad on these authors. He collaborates with the journal Lettere Italiane. He specialized in Digital Humanities and currently explores secondary school teaching methods based on video making and new technologies. Pina Palma holds a PhD from Yale University. She is Professor of Italian at Southern Connecticut State University. Her research focuses on medieval and Renaissance Italian literature. She authored Savoring Power, Consuming the Times. The Metaphors of Food in Medieval and Renaissance Italian Literature, Notre Dame

xii

Notes on Contributors

UP 2013. She has published on medieval, Renaissance, modern and contemporary Italian authors. She is currently working on a book-length manuscript on Giovanni Pontano. Andrea Sartori PhD in Italian Studies, Brown University, teaches at the College of Foreign Languages of Nankai University. He previously taught Italian and European Culture at Politecnico of Milan (Italy) for the academic year 2022–23. He is the author of the essay in literary criticism The Struggle for Life and the Modern Italian Novel, 1859–1925 (Palgrave Macmillan, 2022), the novel Scompenso (Exòrma, 2010), along with L’Inventalavoro (Morellini, 2012), a guidebook to creative professions. He co-edited, with T. Pepe, Perspectives on Italian Difference: Italian Differences in Perspective (Brown Digital Scholarship, 2018) and, with I. Testa, Terry Pinkard’s La Fenomenologia di Hegel (Mimesis, 2013). Lisa Vitale holds a PhD in Italian Language and Literature from Yale University and is currently an Associate Professor of Italian at Southern Connecticut State University. Her research focuses on the intersection of literature, religion, spirituality, and art across time periods. Though she most frequently presents and publishes on St. Catherine of Siena as spiritual mediator and producer of literature, she has also worked on Marco Polo as locavore traveller; the ties between Michelangelo and Savonarola; and Salvador Dalí’s illustrations of Dante’s Divina Commedia. Louise Zamparutti is Assistant Professor in the Department of English at the University of Wisconsin-La Crosse, specializing in Rhetoric. Her research examines the interaction of public memory, victimhood, and identity construction. Her publications cover diverse subject matter, such as rival Second World War monuments in Europe, risk communication in laws banning transgender athletes, and the platonic positioning of truth against rhetoric in religious tenets. Her work has been published in national and international journals such as Research in Social Change, Rhetoric Review, and Romance Studies. She is also author of the stage play Identità/Identiteta, produced in Milwaukee, WI.

Introduction: Voices from the Sidelines In “Parable of the Hostages,” the American poet and Nobel Prize winner Louise Glück evokes the uncertainties and apprehensions of Odysseus and his troops on the eve of their adventurous journey to Ithaca. The soldiers are sitting on a beach, musing over the life that awaits them in the aftermath of the Trojan war, and unaware of the ten-year sea crossing that separates them from home. Bathed in the glorious golden sun of the conquerors, the soldiers are hesitant to leave the battlefield, to return to their “bony island,” and uneventful life. Some of them even begin to doubt their mission: And a few grow slightly uneasy: what if war is just a male version of dressing up, a game devised to avoid profound spiritual questions? Ah, but it wasn’t only the war. The world had begun calling them, an opera beginning with the war’s loud chords and ending with the floating aria of the sirens.1 Suspicious thoughts creep in: perhaps, war is simply “a plausible excuse for absence,” an alibi devised to elude introspective questions that would result in existential dilemmas. In her powerful poetic rendition Glück suggests that warfare is the symptom of a moral void, and the evidence of man’s unredeemable egotism. To this end, she reduces life’s tragic complexities and contradictions – in short, its indecipherability – to child play, or a music score that goes around in circles, merging war and peace. In this scenario, playfulness and play-acting mark a fundamental similarity between human and animal behaviours and is an undeniable bond with our most intimate nature. Yet, especially with regard to learning principles and skills that make overcoming life’s hardships and intricacies more attainable, play-acting trains humanity in the rules to steer its life by. As human civilization has shown throughout the millennia, what appear to be playful rites of passage often degenerate into violence and oppression.

1 Louise Glück, Meadowlands in Poems 1962–2012 (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2012), 287.

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2023 | DOI:10.1163/9789004548145_002

2

Introduction: Voices from the Sidelines

Along the same lines, war can be considered a game, but only under specific conditions. In Homo Ludens, Huizinga contends that [w]e can only speak of war as a cultural function so long as it is waged within a sphere whose members regard each other as equals or antagonists with equal rights; in other words its cultural function depends on its play quality. This condition changes as soon as war is waged outside the sphere of equals, against groups not recognized as human beings and thus deprived of human rights – barbarians, devils, heathens, heretics and ‘lesser breeds without the law.’2 Huizinga’s work dates back to 1939, the year that inaugurates the atrocities of a war where enemies were considered as dispossessed of human rights. The aberration of the ‘war game’ must have been constantly under his gaze in his native city of Leiden under the Nazi-fascist yoke. Unfortunately, he did not live to see his city and country liberated from the German invader. Still, according to him, war as a game can only be bearable as long as it abides by the rules that uphold the contenders’ ‘honor.’ War is acceptable, he reasons, as an expression of agon – the struggle and suffering of blameless heroes who fight for their ­ideals and values. As the essays in this collection will demonstrate, m ­ odern warfare, in its many translations and implementations, is deprived of the ­agonistic element. Huizinga further argues: [t]he great wars of aggression from antiquity down to our own times all find a far more essential explanation in the idea of glory, which e­ verybody understands, than in any rational and intellectualist theory of economic forces and political dynamisms.3 This understanding mirrors the cultural legacy of both world wars. The aggression that they exemplify trampled all rules of agon; and personal glory – itself a degeneration of heroism – often prevailed upon political and even ­economic goals. In this landscape, rules that traditionally governed war became ­meaningless. It is at this juncture that atypical players – here defined as antiheroes – came onto the scene. Through their restrained, unassuming actions, these antiheroes sought to ‘spoil the game’ of war, by promoting nonviolent forms of rebellion. Their mode of fighting derided, undermined, and 2 Johan Huizinga, Homo Ludens: A Study of the Play Element in Culture (London, Boston and Henley: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1949), 89–90. 3 Huizinga, Homo Ludens, 91.

Introduction: Voices from the Sidelines

3

eroded from within, and, more often than not, from unconventional angles, the abuses of power that authoritarian regimes perpetrated. Because of their less ­flamboyant endeavours, antiheroes enabled the larger anonymous masses to identify with them and their ideals more readily. At the same time, the understated nature of their actions rendered the figure of the antihero less prominent. Not surprisingly, this figure has received little attention from both historical and literary scholarship, even though it unquestionably turned instrumental in countering despotic systems. Glück’s poem zeroes in on another crucial aspect of war. By intimating that it could be a male version of escapism – akin to the female propensity for dressing up – the poetic voice sets a neat dichotomy between genders. Her postulation that men, not women, are initiators of wars fought for self-­serving ends, ­spirals down to every wrongdoing they perpetrate in their r­ elationship with others as well as with the natural world. Possession, domination, ownership, and betrayal, as she suggests, prevail among them. The undercurrent of ­infantilism and playfulness that fuels Glück’s insight is a potent commentary on, and c­ haracterization of, maleness; for it posits manhood at the ­intersection of childishness and amusement. Viewed as the expedient to male self-­affirmation and, more insidiously, as the means to eschew self-analysis that “profound spiritual questions” would usher in, war, in Glück’s understanding, legitimizes heroism as the glorification of a predatory manhood. This l­ egitimation occurs in spite of the poverty, degradation, natural and social disasters that war inevitably spawns. There is yet another side to her approach. Men’s urge to attain self-­validation hinges on forms of egocentrism that become perfect vehicles for questionable, reckless, and amoral outcomes. Still, Glück’s theory, as intuitive as it might be, is predicated on a generalization. Indeed, her blanket pronouncement evokes, by force of their absence, those men and women who ‘do not dress up.’ These are individuals known for carrying out acts of unconventional, ­defiant, anti-rhetorical heroism. They include those compelled by both resilience and willingness to fashion unapologetic, just lives; those driven by a desperate attempt to overcome both the emotional and physical lacerations that wars inflict; those spurred by the distortions that weaken and destroy the fabric of society; and those motivated by the desire to defend the basic human rights that every conflict ravages. At the same time, motivated by the desire to expose those who drape themselves in the cloak of respectability while serving causes aimed at sabotaging with precise savagery every democratic institution, these individuals risk their freedom and, often, their life. By becoming disruptors of the ‘established political order,’ they probe violence’s face and, by laying bare its painstaking efforts to overturn morally principled practices, they defy the

4

Introduction: Voices from the Sidelines

self-serving logic of political circumstances energizing it. On this compensatory, if unpredictable resolve to fight, sabotage and, against all odds, put an end to authoritarian regimes, rests moral hope. For if the belief in the transformative potential of self-sacrifice is rooted in deliberate and purposeful political subversiveness, this ‘agonistic’ form of anti-heroism leads to the urgency of finding solutions to underlying problems. In this respect, anti-heroism becomes the most compelling aspect of self-actualization because it leads to meaningful, energizing, and dignified lives. By restoring political balances, eroded dignities, and dissolved hopes, extraordinary acts of anti-heroism and defiance, carried out by ordinary ­individuals, empower the powerless and give voice to the voiceless. ­Admittedly, anti-heroes’ defiant undertakings pierce through the thick fog-effect of political destabilizations and economic collapses that, during chaotic war times, evolve into increasingly more pervasive instances of sordid disconnectedness among human beings. Accordingly, operating under extraordinary limitations, unconventional heroes de-legitimize the usurpers’ actions and, more importantly, turn into bridge-builders. By confronting non-linear truths, they exemplify how human beings must overcome their own prejudices and limitations to accept, support, and trust one another before they can triumph over wickedness. Glück’s words raise other intriguing issues. Among them, the notion that if masculinity relies on tension, crises, ferocity, and tumult – in other words, wars – for self-legitimization, what role do women play in man-made conflicts? Through genuinely heroic acts forged on rational, careful, and willing compromises men challenge the hostile and vicious cruelty that wars present them with. But are women untouched by and indifferent to the same tumultuous events? Do they remain cloaked in invisibility while the world around them convulses into chaos? The essays in this collection suggest otherwise. Understood as a sense of unstinting self-sacrifice for ideals that transcend individual self-interest, acts of anti-heroism transcend gender. In fact, the untold number of antiheroes counts many antiheroines among its ranks. Despite their differences, women like the ones presented in this volume – Ada Gobetti, as well as the female characters in Tabucchi, Barolini, and Dessì’s respective works – did not hesitate to challenge both the credibility and authority of the totalitarian regimes under which they were forced to live. In their efforts to undermine the legitimacy of despotic political systems, atypical antiheroines, not unlike antiheroes, often took on commanding roles in covert operations that had the empowerment of the silent majority as their goal. Similarly, Margherita Marchione’s work exemplifies a woman’s unbiased analysis of the events shaping the Jewish persecution that took place under Pius XII.

Introduction: Voices from the Sidelines

5

Clearly, gender-blind heroism ‘from the sidelines’ – or constructive anti-­ heroism – accounts for more than an act of self-preservation. For one thing, it pushes its agents beyond their boundaries, erasing the line between action and theory while simultaneously shining a light on the hope that gender-­ neutral traits like ingenuity, reason, and character can merge to save humanity from the abysses it engineers. In the generosity of spirit it exemplifies, and which posits clarity and candor as its starting point, a new form of heroism shows humanity that physical, emotional, psychological, and intellectual violence is predictable in its denouement. This novel form of heroism invariably peels away the compromises that society makes with itself to advance the interests of a chosen group over those of the rest. In fact, heroism from the sidelines turns into an instrument of empathy that aims at narrowing the gulf between opposite groups. Although it does not directly stave off violence – in fact it can initially exacerbate it – defiant anti-heroism is based on resilience and perseverance that often verge into vindications of pacifism and conscience objection. It can even be defined by episodes of desertion and insubordination that challenge sectarian disagreements in the interest of a counternarrative to polarizing self-interests. The essays in this volume probe long-held beliefs and preconceptions about gender roles and ethical conundrums associated with war narratives. With their sense of ‘recollections in tranquillity’ and, more cogently, their t­endency to foreground the immediacy of the lived experience, these ­narratives present the multifaceted reality of the unheard voices that lurk in the background, but whose impact on conscience and system of values – then as today – cannot be neglected. Far from denigrating those who bravely and selflessly succumbed to the intoxicating horrors of both world conflicts, the authors analysed in this volume offer, first of all, different perspectives on what it meant to be involved in a war. Yet they also shine a light on the depth and complexity of the commitments and responsibilities that wars call into question. Finally, they home in on the ways in which different individuals coped with and responded to the call to arms. To be sure, the essays in this collection offer a variety of approaches to the study of war narrative. In the first essay, “Tabucchi and the Antihero. For a Historical, Ontological and Literary Resistance,” Veronica Frigeni investigates the theme of Resistance in the works of Antonio Tabucchi, from Piazza d’Italia to Tristano muore. B ­ asing her analysis on Giorgio Agamben’s theory of resistance as potentiality, Frigeni examines resistance in Tabucchi not only in historical terms, but also as an ontological and poetic instrument. This double-pronged approach, she contends, helps restore the ethical foundations of literature after the impasse of postmodernism. In her analysis, resistance also serves as an existential mode

6

Introduction: Voices from the Sidelines

to expose and undermine the hegemonic and subjugating norms and values put in place to suppress and silence people living under totalitarian systems. By combining reflection, action, and writing, Frigeni argues that Tabucchi’s heroes question the political system and undermine it from within. Indeed, as a symbolic and textual strategy, they release history from the grips of a onesided understanding. The second essay, Louise Zamparutti’s “The Foibe as War Narrative: The New Antiheroes of the Second Republic,” explores the discursive and visual strategies employed in popular representations of an increasingly debated and controversial episode in the Second World War: the mass murder of fascist followers at the hands of the Yugoslavian partisans in North-Eastern Italy, Dalmatia, and Istria from 1943 to 1945. Widening her analysis to modern day Italy, ­Zamparutti argues that recasting ‘Slavs’ as the new antiheroes worked to conceal violence and normalize fascism for an energized right-wing Italian coalition in the 1990s and early 2000s. By examining the notion of collective remembrance and group identity within the context of historical memory, she outlines the antihero stereotype. Through this, she probes the rhetoric of exclusivity – ‘­Italian’ vs. ‘Slav’ denominations – that forever privileges one group over another while eschewing the idea of inclusivity and multicultural identities that mirror more closely our modern reality. Lisa Vitale’s “Margherita Marchione as Antihero for Italian Jews: A Complex Message of Hope” examines the intellectual contribution of Sister Margherita Marchione who, through her research, redefines the role that Pius XII played during the event leading to the atrocities of the Nazi Holocaust. Through the personal narratives of the Sisters of the Religious Teachers Filippini – the ­Catholic order she belonged to – Marchione, as Vitale shows, reconstructs the episodes that saw Jewish refugees sheltered and helped in the Roman convent. Among the refugees, members of the prominent Roman Di Veroli family, as Vitale argues, attested to the sisters’ defiance of the antisemitic laws that Mussolini passed. Vitale’s contribution paints a multi-faceted, and sometimes contradictory, picture of Catholic assistance to the Jews during those turbulent times. In her view, Marchione’s study of Vatican diplomacy during the extermination of the Jews offers a message of hope to today’s Jewish Italian citizens. In “Unfit for War: Stories of Desertion in Italian Fiction; Dessì and ­Pellegrini,” Luigi Gussago explores the phenomenon of desertion between World Wars, and its depiction in two ostensibly different Italian novels: Giuseppe Dessì’s Il disertore, and Michele Pellegrini’s Disertori. Deserters antagonise the logic of war and the rational polarities of good and evil, friend and enemy; they oppose a logic of universal understanding and vindicate human dignity; they upset ideologies of nationalism which are constantly threatened and questioned,

Introduction: Voices from the Sidelines

7

especially in our current times. In his contribution, Gussago introduces two distinct tragic life stories: one is narrated from the viewpoint of a deserter’s mother; and the other is recounted as a father’s deathbed confession. Both works deal with desertion not as a crime, but as an existential choice that evokes the past and triggers future resolutions. By linking these two perspectives, Gussago illustrates the attempt to create a continuity between fragmented identities and generations. With “‘Non credo più alla Patria, all’eroismo, alle Sante Cause…’: The Journal of Donato Guglielmi, pow in Russia during the Second World War,” Gianluca Cinelli introduces a practically unknown war diary. A doctor from Genoa and pow in Russia during the Second World War, Guglielmi wrote his work Attendimi on thousands of cigarette papers between 1943 and 1946. The work recounts his personal ordeal and struggle to survive in the most humiliating circumstances. As Cinelli illustrates, the work also chronicles Guglielmi’s desire to regain the human dignity that he often jeopardized for the sake of survival. The apparent ‘Machiavellianism’ that the diary displays offers a problematic interpretation of the ethical challenge that confronted pows in Soviet concentration camps. Among other aims, in this essay Cinelli delves into the ethics of memory writing. In “Partisan Diary: Ada’s Wars,” Pina Palma discusses the figure of Ada Gobetti whose lucid understanding that the Armistice, instead of ending the war would turn it into a fiercer struggle, with deeper deceptions and stronger enmities, led to her militancy – first as a Resistance collaborator and later as one of its leaders. To cripple and dismantle the Nazi-fascist political system in the aftermath of the 1943 Armistice, Gobetti, as Palma’s essay argues, toiled against the system that not only thrived on abuses and injustices, but especially demeaned women. Through the journal that Gobetti kept during –and published after– the war, Palma shows that, among other things, acts of heroism are not defined by gender. By focusing on both the social and political challenges that her author confronted, Palma demonstrates that Gobetti’s participation in the Resistance was fundamental to advance the Partisan cause and, more specifically, to the liberation of Turin. It also became a turning point in empowering women to gain the visibility that the Fascist ideology had long denied them. With “Everyday Hero: Italian Identity, Moral Dilemmas, Nonviolence in a Late Antifascist Resistance Novel by Antonio Barolini,” Andrea Sartori examines the less known figure of a writer whose work depicts the Resistance from the point of view of a pacifist intellectual. In his novel, Barolini discloses the troubled existence of a man struggling between his love for books and his distaste for a regime shaped by corruption, privileges for the few, greed, and violence. Sartori’s analysis of Le notti della paura, a novel that describes other

8

Introduction: Voices from the Sidelines

novels, emphasizes the work’s meditative aspect on Italian identity; it also reflects on the hackneyed rhetoric of a unified nation that warfare tried to instil in public opinion. In this essay, Sartori also uncovers the ways in which anti-war rhetoric turns into a response to a false patriotic construct. A new form of heroism emerges in Michela Barisonzi’s “D’Annunzio’s War: An Intimate Reflection on Heroism.” In this essay, the representation of the Great War is filtered through Gabriele D’Annunzio’s eyes. Barisonzi compares the Vate’s activist literature and private experiences by probing the image of the heroic superhuman that the Italian poet cultivated and penned throughout his works. Notturno in particular, she argues, builds a new perspective on heroism as the abnegation and personal sacrifice of humble, nameless soldiers. By removing it from the glorification and mythmaking that surfaces in his other works, Notturno according to Barisonzi, celebrates the ordinariness of courage. This is exemplified by soldiers whose heroism has no connection to either nobility or lineage, and yet they fight for the rebirth of their motherland. In “An Antihero in Command: Soffici under Orders from Captain Punzi,” Enrico Riccardo Orlando highlights an unexpected facet of Ardengo Soffici’s writings about the Great War. Generally considered an irredentist and a strong defender of the rhetoric of heroism, in his Atti e detti memorabili del capitano Punzi, Soffici, as Orlando demonstrates, shows a comic, if well delineated, polemical vein against the presumed logic of warfare. This becomes even more apparent in his analysis of the entanglements that social hierarchies brought to the Italian army. By studying what on the surface appears as the ‘lighter’ side of Soffici’s works, Orlando captures an aspect of anti-war writing that is all the more tantalizing because it originates from a widely recognized war advocate. Tancredi Artico’s “Between Epic and Anti-Epic: Observations on Italian Literature of the First World War” explores the connection between modern and classic war literature. Starting with, and in opposition to, Bartolini’s L’epica della Grande Guerra. Il fallimento degli intellettuali, Artico argues that the recurrent Homeric allusions in war diaries of the Great War are not intended to emulate classic models of epic poetry. Instead, he contends, they turn into a deliberate parody of the ancient notion of heroism. This parody, as he sees it, pits the classical idea of the ‘beautiful death’ against the notion of mere survival. This new understanding of heroism emphasizes the importance of the body and its needs and, according to Artico, dominates in literary works of the Second World War. Before presenting the stories and characters that inhabit the following pages, a last reflection can help us better understand the purpose of this volume. It comes from a manifesto against all forms of inhumanity: Theodor W. Adorno’s Minima Moralia. In it, the philosopher highlights – and

Introduction: Voices from the Sidelines

9

simultaneously pays homage to – the disruptive force of the “vanquished” by history. Far from dismissing them as victims of circumstances, according to Adorno, the “vanquished” sabotage historical events by rebelling against the victors and obstructing their forward path to untrammeled power: “What transcends the ruling society is […] that which does not fit into the historical laws of movement.” This undercurrent is an “anachronistic” force that does not extinguish itself in the historical mainstream, but “contains a dash of the historical dynamic.”4 Blurring the contours of events that are cemented in the past and unchangeable, Adorno’s words offer a novel, more eclectic, and wider ranging perspective on the notion of the “vanquished.” In his analysis the victims are agents of change, individuals, that is, who may at first seem disconnected from the way historical events unfolded, but who, in fact, turn out to be integral in their development. Adorno’s reading makes it clear that the “vanquished,” whose demise is often not natural, but rather intentional and violent, are connected to reality because of their desire to change society for the better. There is no doubt that the question of power and authority hoovers over the defeated, conquered, and vanquished. Yet, it is in their initial belief to shake, and at times, re-shape the system that, as Adorno fittingly argues, the vanquished assert themselves in spite of all appearances. Through this, they lend history, among other things, a reinvigorating, if dignified, dash of dynamism capable of uprooting entrenched systems. Returning to Glück’s poem, perhaps the core of her lines lies on the fact that, as a play-act, war is a sign and symbol of human selfishness, and a convenient escape from a spiritual, ethical, and moral self-questioning. The recent war that Russia has waged against Ukraine is a tragic reminder of this. By speaking of “de-nazifying Ukraine,” Russia’s propaganda seeks to annihilate the democratic government of, and assimilate, a supposedly easily broken country. The invader’s arrogance has catalyzed the Ukrainian population; fighting back with home-made weapons first, and later with arms provided by supporting nations, Ukrainians have proven the tenacity of the vulnerable vanquishable and altered, thus far, the war’s expected outcome. A final remark. Reviewing Glück’s poetry, Bhattacharjee highlights the importance placed on the act of listening as an even more immediate perception than seeing. It is important to listen, he argues, not only to one’s inner voice, but also as a way of “reaching out to something beyond oneself.”5 And for 4 Theodor W. Adorno, Minima Moralia: Reflections from the Damaged Life (Scottsdale: Prism Key Press, 2012), 109. 5 Manash Firaq Bhattacharjee, “The Meaning of Despair in Louise Glück’s Poetry,” The Wire, 8 October 2020. https: //thewire.in/culture/louise-gluck-poetry-nobel-prize-literature.

10

Introduction: Voices from the Sidelines

this reason, he wonders what lies behind war’s avoidance of ‘uncomfortable,’ insightful questions: I would think that one of the profoundest spiritual questions that war ignores is precisely what wars are about: death. The idea of war is to distort the meaning of death, by severing it from the idea of life. War is a way by which men avoid questions of life. War is the failure to listen to oneself and others. Listening is not merely something that connects us to a daily account of life, but to a deeper act of responsibility.6 Today, more than ever, the rediscovery of the ability to ‘listen’ to these ‘voices from the sidelines’ continues to be crucial in our society. For listening reveals, among other things, how the undercurrents of history provide a fresh outlook on the problems that afflict and burden human coexistence. Less loud than pompous war propaganda, the voices of those ‘at the margins’ break the cyclical course of historical predictability, as Adorno suggests. And in their determined, ideal-driven steadfastness, those ‘voices from the margins’ exhort us to listen to the past critically, understand the contradictions of the present, and take responsibility in building a more just and equitable society. Bibliography Adorno, Theodor W. Minima Moralia: Reflections from the Damaged Life. Scottsdale: Prism Key Press, 2012. Bhattacharjee, Manash Firaq. “The Meaning of Despair in Louise Glück’s Poetry,” The Wire, 8 October 2020. https://thewire.in/culture/louise-gluck-poetry-nobel-prize -literature. Glück, Louise. Meadowlands. New York: The Ecco Press, 1996. Huizinga, Johan. Homo Ludens: A Study of the Play Element in Culture. London, Boston and Henley: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1949. 6 Bhattacharjee, “The Meaning of Despair,” unpaged.

Chapter 1

Tabucchi and the Antihero: Figures for a Historical, Existential and Symbolic Resistance Veronica Frigeni Abstract Veronica Frigeni investigates the theme of Resistance in the works of Antonio ­Tabucchi, from Piazza d’Italia (1975) to Tristano muore (2004). Basing her analysis on Giorgio Agamben’s theory of resistance as potentiality, the author contemplates ­resistance in Tabucchi not only in historical terms, but also as an ontological and poetical instrument which helps restoring the ethical foundations of literature after the impasse of postmodernism.

This study examines Antonio Tabucchi’s antiheroic war narratives and addresses two main questions: what kind of antiheroes do readers find in Tabucchi’s works? And what is the function of these individuals? Firstly, I will argue that Tabucchi’s antiheroes are figures of historical, existential, and symbolic opposers. Secondly, that, as the storytelling motive is foregrounded in his works, antiheroic characters function as diegetic embodiments and alter egos. To this end, I will explore two novels about the Italian Resistance, Piazza d’Italia. Una fiaba popolare in tre tempi (1975) and Tristano muore: una vita (2004); and two works dealing with Portuguese fascism, the short story “Notte, mare o distanza” from the collection L’angelo nero (1991) and the novel Sostiene Pereira. Una testimonianza (1994). These works shed light on the three overlapping dimensions of resistance that surface in Tabucchi’s writings: resistance as a historical and political experience in opposition to ­fascism; resistance as an existential mode of exposing and dismantling the hegemony that paralyzes and subjugates norms, values, and meanings; and, lastly, resistance as a symbolic and textual strategy. The latter mode has an inquiring nature that frees history from the grips of a singular understanding. Tabucchi’s works offer a wide representation of political opponents, social outsiders, and cultural outcasts. That of the antihero, in particular, constitutes a leitmotiv that emerges throughout the writer’s opus and is central to his narratives. The fact that voiceless individuals and their unspoken narratives are © Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2023 | DOI:10.1163/9789004548145_003

12

Frigeni

given a voice throughout his works, mirrors the writer’s view of literature as an inquiring and, at the same time, disquieting quest for the truth. For Tabucchi, literature responds to human beings’ need for meaning – namely, the need to assign meaning to every experience and existence, albeit a provisional one. In other words, for Tabucchi literature (and his own literary practice) is an experience of making sense. Through it, one can make sense of one’s being in the world, an experience which cannot, and does not want to be exhausted. Tabucchi’s works are, therefore, radically antiheroic for they raise doubts, cause unease and resist closure. Tabucchi’s antiheroic mode entails a negative and suspicious view of the heroes as individuals characterized by conformism, passive acceptance of authority, reassuring modes of existence, and unexplained violence. Stated differently, they embody a perfect adherence to the time they inhabit and seek existential plenitude. This critical stance on traditional models of heroism, as Brombert suggests, is reciprocated by a positive interpretation of antiheroes as individuals who “cast doubt on values that have been taken for granted or were assumed to be unshakable” by virtue of being existentially incomplete and out of joint.1 The antihero is “a perturber and a disturber” whose actions carry “­ethical and political implications.”2 Brombert’s definition perfectly captures and applies to Tabucchi’s antiheroic characters who are overtly recognized as “limping in an existential sense” and “who have unfinished lives, lives made of desires, projected lives, lives not easily defined.”3 Furthermore, Tabucchi assigns the same function to his antiheroic characters as he does to his writing: questioning, upending norms and certainties as well as familiar truths and meanings, and opening up spaces for alternative experiences of signification. Tabucchi’s antihero is the diegetic alter ego of the writer who sees literature as a potential space for ethical ­commitment. As Burns observes, for Tabucchi literature “has the potential to mediate powerfully in this relationship between hegemonic – heroic – ­discourses and the individual subject.”4 This potential allows Tabucchi’s antiheroic literature to overcome both modernist ineptitude – writing about living instead of living – and its postmodern radicalized version – writing about writing. Similarly, his characters differ from modern inept figures who find themselves paralyzed in reflection and unable to act. His protagonists 1 Victor Brombert, In Praise of Antiheroes: Figures and Themes in Modern European Literature, 1830–1980 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1999), 2. 2 Brombert, In praise of Antiheroes, 2. 3 Laura Lepschy, “The role of memory in Antonio Tabucchi’s Piccoli equivoci senza importanza,” Spunti e Ricerche 12 (1997): 69. 4 Jennifer Burns, Fragments of Impegno: Interpretations of Commitment in Contemporary ­Italian Narrative 1980–2000 (Leeds: Northern Universities Press, 2001), 61.

Tabucchi and the Antihero

13

are irreducible also to the mainstream postmodern subjects who cut off any social bonds, recede from the collective dimension, and seek solipsistic retreat. In this regard, his ­antiheroes engage in a symbolic resistance to fascism. As a result, their symbolic resistance, although not necessarily coupled with practical antagonism and rebellion, often combines reflection with action. Moreover, their antiheroic resistance always shows a social dimension and relevance as it interrogates, disturbs, and dismantles hegemonic narratives of ‘making sense.’ For Tabucchi, the antihero is the positive reversal of the negative hero. He states this in the short story “Racconto dell’uomo di carta” (2011). In this work, as the title suggests, the narrator can speak solely when he has seemingly retreated from his bodily identity: “I am a man of paper. To escape the world, I have turned into paper, but have, in turn, captured the world in words” (“Sono un uomo di carta. Per sfuggire al mondo sono diventato di carta ma ho imprigionato il mondo dentro la carta per raccontarlo”).5 Made of both flesh and paper – Tabucchi’s antiheroic mode par excellence – reveals the two facets of a vulnerable human condition. This condition, nonetheless, exposes, opposes, and resists hegemonic violence, either physical or verbal. The Argentine military regime and the tragedy of the desaparecidos overtly constitute the narrative’s background.6 This condition also clarifies the historical relevance of the characters’ loss of bodily identity; a loss that stands for all the persons that were abducted, convicted, tortured, and murdered by the military junta in the 1970s. This historical context strengthens the idea that Tabucchi’s antiheroic literature identifies universal fascism, in all its occurrences, as its polemical target. His decision to employ the image of the “heroes of iron” (“eroi di ferro”), as opposed to “men of flesh and paper” (“uomini di carne e di carta”), is also revealing of, and applies to, his wider view of antiheroic resistance and literature: “But I am a man of flesh. Heroes are made of iron. […] And the man of flesh, flattened under an iron press, becomes a man of paper” (“Ma io sono un uomo di carne. Di ferro sono gli eroi. […] E l’uomo di carne, schiacciato sotto la pressa di ferro, diventa uomo di carta”).7 While iron is a metonymy for the brutal violence perpetrated by the fascists, the image of the “pressed flesh” figuratively alludes to the physical and psychological traumas suffered by their opponents and resisters. Becoming men of paper, namely becoming witnesses, the antiheroic men

5 Antonio Tabucchi, Racconti con figure (Palermo: Sellerio, 2011), 74, translation is mine. Unless otherwise stated, all translations are mine. 6 The term desaparecidos designates people who were considered subversives by the ­Argentinian authorities in the 1970s and therefore seized, tortured, murdered, and never heard from again. 7 Tabucchi, Racconti con figure, p. 7.

14

Frigeni

of flesh develop into allegories and alter egos of the writer himself: like him, they give voice to their own and the others’ resistance to fascism. For Tabucchi fascism is a term that, beyond all its manifold and distinct historical manifestations, designates a sole, underlying logic. This is the logic of the unjust and violent oppression of the subaltern and the repression of any form of otherness, dissent, and diversity. In a way, for Tabucchi fascism equates to heroism, and reflects his critical view of heroism. On the one hand, fascism is a meta-historical category akin to Eco’s “Ur-Fascism” or “Eternal ­Fascism.” In listing the distinguishing features of fascism, Eco observes how in it “­everybody is educated to become a hero.”8 And, he continues, while “[i]n every m ­ ythology the hero is an exceptional being, […] in Ur-Fascist ideology, heroism is the norm.”9 This is precisely the heroic model that Tabucchi’s antiheroes oppose, question, and upend. At the same time, for Tabucchi fascism finds its main – though not exclusive – historical expressions in Mussolini’s and Salazar’s regimes. He directly experienced the latter while living in ­Portugal during the 1960s. There, he had the opportunity to meet persecuted intellectuals. Yet, because he was born in 1943, he did not participate in the Italian antifascist movement; still, Italian and Portuguese fascism constitute the principal historical contexts of his war narratives. Engaging with Tabucchi’s texts, I argue that the two novels Piazza d’Italia and Tristano muore deal with the antiheroic representation of Italian fascism. His first novel Piazza d’Italia was published in 1975. The text can be read through Spivak’s understanding of subalternity in terms of representation; for the scholar the subaltern is “that which always slides under or away from representation.”10 The antihero in Piazza d’Italia identifies with the subaltern, as its protagonists are anonymous in, or neglected by, history. Thus, they are delegitimized by official narratives. Against the backdrop of Italian history from the Risorgimento up to the late 1950s, the novel narrates the story of three generations of a marginalized family. Plinio, the forefather, joins Garibaldi’s expedition and names his children Quarto – like the neighborhood in Genoa from where Garibaldi’s Expedition of the Thousand departed; Volturno – after one of the most decisive battles for the Italian Unification; and Garibaldo and Anita – like the Risorgimento’s leader and his wife. To survive, Plinio dedicates himself to poaching, but is eventually shot dead by a gamekeeper as he tries to steal a coot. His son, Garibaldo deserts the Abyssinian campaign; he 8 9 10

Umberto Eco, “Ur-Fascism,” The New York Review of Books, June 22, 1995, 7. http://www .nybooks.com/articles/ 1995/06/22/ur-fascism/. Eco, “Ur-Fascism,” 7. John Beverley, Subalternity and Representation: Arguments in Cultural Theory (Durham & London: Duke University Press, 1999), 102.

Tabucchi and the Antihero

15

later avenges his father by murdering a warden. After fleeing to the U.S. and ­Argentina, he is killed by a royal officer while storming the municipal granary in an attempt to feed the starving population. The next Garibaldo – Garibaldo’s son and Plinio’s grandson – fights in Russia during the Great War, witnesses the rise of the fascist regime, and joins the Resistance. Yet at the end of the novel, he is shot while delivering a speech to the villagers. In it, he denounces the inequality and violence still afflicting Italian post-war society. Such antiheroes combat a single type and code of heroism – identified above as inherent in “Eternal Fascism.” This heroism lies and remains unaltered underneath supposedly mutable historical manifestations. Be it the King, Mussolini, or the Christian Democratic Party, “i padroni” (“the sovereigns”) are discrete, concrete emanations of a single logic. They neither change in their violent repression of any form of otherness, nor in their promotion of injustice. The fact that historical change is only apparent and superficial is exemplified by the motive of unveiling statues, an event that recurs throughout the novel. This recurring motif illustrates Tabucchi’s adaptation and adjustment to the grand narrative of official events intended to celebrate historical occasions. At first, it is noted that “Plinio liked the new monument much more: […] Garibaldi handing Italy over to the King” (“[a] Plinio il nuovo monumento piaceva molto di più: […] Garibaldi che consegna l’Italia al re”).11 Later, following the rise of fascism, the effigy of the King is replaced with that of Mussolini’s triumphant bust. Significantly, the narrator explains how, on this occasion, “the effigy of the King fell to the ground into a cloud of dust, opposing no resistance” (“la statua del re […] piombò al suolo in una nuvoletta di polvere, senza fare resistenza”).12 The fact that the King’s statue falls with no resistance and pulverizes on the ground, obliquely alludes to the role that King Vittorio Emanuele III played as an obedient puppet in the hands of Mussolini after the rise of fascism. More glaringly, the representation of the sovereigns as petrified statues, that is, unable to change from any imposed position, denounces their inertia not only in preserving the status quo, but especially in affecting any political and social change. That historical changes occur only on the surface is also corroborated by the fact that the last Garibaldo, leaning on the monument celebrating the Italian Republic in the 1950s, shouts “down with the King” (“abbasso il re”) while he is fatally shot.13 This event is not a historical lapse; rather, it is an indirect evidence of the “Eternal Fascism” – and eternal heroism – against which Tabucchi’s antiheroes rebel. 11 12 13

Antonio Tabucchi, Piazza d’Italia, 2nd edition (Milan: Feltrinelli, 1996), 17. Tabucchi, Piazza d’Italia, 79. Tabucchi, Piazza d’Italia, 11.

16

Frigeni

In Piazza d’Italia, the image of the statues and their figurative meaning of historical inertia mirror that of the theater “Splendore”. Initially built to mark the progress experienced by the little village of Borgo, the theater at first fills the inhabitants with enthusiasm. For the thought of watching the most recent movies excites them. But their excitement soon turns into disappointment that is accompanied by a feeling of betrayal, as the first words they hear in the theatre are those of Mussolini’s declaration of war – a clear allusion to Mussolini’s own theatricality, political rhetoric, and esthetics based on mass gatherings, loud speaking, and, more specifically, on the use of films for propaganda purposes. After falling into disuse following the war, the theatre becomes the site of the workers’ rallies. With its original and proper function completely erased, it metaphorically turns into a crumbling setting inhabited by those same voices that have been marginalized by the official, historical narrative. The notion of subalternity as what slides away from and displaces representation, which Tabucchi adopts in his narrative, emerges here quite strikingly. There is yet another crucial element in the novel. While it would not be entirely correct to assert that all of Tabucchi’s antiheroes are anarchists – though, significantly, Pereira will also be thought of as a supporter of individualist anarchism – there is an undeniable proximity between the writer’s idea of anti-heroism and the ideals of “freedom and justice” (“libertà e giustizia”) that anarchism promotes and shares with “the outcasts of the world” (“i reietti della terra”).14 These are ideals that all of the marginalized characters in Piazza d’Italia champion. In effect, even if the last Garibaldo eventually embraces communism when he realizes that oppressed people need to stay together and organize their acts of resistance, a certain existential anarchism characterizes all the novel’s antiheroes and, more broadly, all of Tabucchi’s works. This is not a political program. On the contrary, by “existential anarchism” I contend that his antiheroes are all driven by ideals, desires, and aspirations that escape any fixed identity. As a result, they keep their existences open and structured as an indefinite quest for meaning. To this end, they refuse to be ensnared in established and reassuring modes and models of subjectification. Although Plinio and the two Garibaldos oppose different enemies, such diverse episodes of historical resistance underlie a sole exigency of existential and symbolic struggle. The characters in Piazza d’Italia refuse to conform to fixed roles, claiming and demanding freedom and existential openness and impetus. On this point, Tabucchi explicitly states his preference for “creatures that limp in an existential sense” (“ho sempre forse preferito le persone appunto zoppicanti, 14

Antonio Tabucchi, Marconi, se ben mi ricordo (Rome: Rai-Eri, 1997), 35.

Tabucchi and the Antihero

17

esistenzialmente”).15 This motif perfectly applies, both metaphorically and literally, to the novel, as Plinio and the two Garibaldos are all described as having “bad luck in their feet” (“sfortuna nei piedi”).16 Specifically, Plinio has a foot amputated during the Breach of Porta Pia. After throwing his severed foot into the Vatican gardens, he writes on a postcard to his wife: “I kicked Pius IX” (“Ho preso a calci Pio IX”).17 Unlike his brothers who, similarly to “paper soldiers,” fight in the Abyssinian War, Garibaldo, loyal to his name, shoots himself in the foot. As for the youngest Garibaldo, he ends the Great War “with three toes missing from his right foot” (“con tre dita di meno nel piede destro”).18 Still, the novel describes a symbolic resistance on two levels: that of the narrator and that of the characters, as Volturno and Garibaldo can be considered Tabucchi’s alter egos. Volturno, suffering from “Time Sickness” (“Mal del Tempo”), inverts the chronological order of events and reverses names, just like Tabucchi, who begins the novel with the epilogue and edits its fragments as sequences in a film. Furthermore, Garibaldo becomes a storyteller who recounts all the brutal episodes of violence suffered by his family and villagers. These same events are recounted in the novel. As with Tabucchi, Garibaldo is urged to narrate because “luckily, [t]hese dark moments are now behind us. But they must always be remembered so that we never forget what fascism was!” (“[q]uesti tenebrosi momenti sono per fortuna passati. Ma essi devono essere sempre presenti nella nostra memoria perché non ci dimentichiamo mai cosa è stato il fascismo!”).19 While the previous discussion was based on a positive evaluation of resistance, a crucial shift emerges in Tabucchi’s Tristano muore. In it, the author is aware that resistance as a permanent form of protest and as remembrance runs the risk of becoming a totalizing discourse. This novel demythologizes the experiences and narratives of the Italian Resistance, as the protagonist moves from political rebellion to existential and symbolic resistance. Tristano is a former champion of the Italian antifascist movement. Nonetheless, he is also, at the time of the narration, a dying body, slowly being devoured by gangrene and suffering from psychological hallucinations in his final month of agony before death. This gradual process of physical decomposition is mirrored in the body of the text, in its losing and loosening of syntactical and thematic connections. 15 16 17 18 19

Nathalie Roelens, “Dibattito con Antonio Tabucchi”, in Piccole finzioni con importanza, valori della narrativa italiana contemporanea, ed. Nathalie Roelens and Inge Lanslots (Faenza: Longo, 1993), 151. Tabucchi, Piazza d’Italia, 64. Tabucchi, Piazza d’Italia, 21. Tabucchi, Piazza d’Italia, 68. Tabucchi, Piazza d’Italia, 133.

18

Frigeni

Accordingly, the reader is both disturbed and puzzled, since Tabucchi uses ellipses and blank spaces between irregular paragraphs – as if his writing were capturing and moving alongside the waveforms of Tristano’s voice. Unlike Pereira’s initial intellectual detachment, and similarly to the antiheroes in Piazza d’Italia, Tristano has always been – at least in the story recounted – an active protagonist of Italian history. Deserting the Italian army in Greece and shooting a German squad to death during the Resistance, he rebels and fights against fascism. Initially portrayed as “some unforeseen stagehand” (“inatteso servo di scena”), when he reverses his assigned role of “invading ­soldier sent by a mad, grim reaper” (“soldato invasore inviato da un mietitore pazzo”)20 in terms of historical resistance, Tristano marks the climax of Tabucchi’s antiheroic opponents to fascism. Yet, as anticipated, the key point in the novel is that his heroism is radically problematized and scorned. He often observes how even a hero of the Resistance runs the risk of becoming a malleable and silenced puppet in the hand of “the rulers”; a voiceless trophy, that is, to be showed off during official celebrations. Postwar Italian government made him a “national hero.”21 Throughout his existential and symbolic resistance, Tristano oscillates between a mythical attachment to the memory of his killing of the German squad, which established him as a hero of the ­Italian Resistance, and the disillusioned, disenchanted individual, aware of the political scenario to which this episode has led. This fact explains his existential resistance, namely, the non-coincidence with the historical phase that the protagonist inhabits. Tristano believes that Italian politicians and their passive acceptance of capitalism, Americanization, as well as their denial of the country’s fascist past, have betrayed his ideals – and Resistance itself. For this reason, Tristano feels an urgent need to articulate a proper narration of the past. This is triggered by his understanding that the historical events of Italian Resistance are undergoing a process of oblivion, rewriting, or misappropriation. But this concern with the historical understanding of the Italian antifascist movement underlies a deeper preoccupation with the peril of turning every narrative and symbolic resistance against fascism into a new hegemonic discourse. In particular, the novel exposes the way the events of the Italian Resistance – praised as the only heroic time in the history of Italy – have been mythologized and spectacularized from the beginning. Recalling the episode in which he turns himself into a hero, Tristano makes explicit references 20 21

Antonio Tabucchi, Tristano muore: una vita (Milan: Feltrinelli, 2004), 14–22. All translations are from Tristano Dies: A Life, trans. Elizabeth Harris (Brooklyn, NY: Archipelago Books, 2015). Tabucchi, Tristano muore, 78.

Tabucchi and the Antihero

19

to the cinematographic imaginary, glamourized heroism and grammar used to project this heroic image. Specifically, not only is Tristano identified with the actor Clark Gable, but the story time is also paused, and the narrative time is structured as a (photographic) freeze-frame. In a similar way to Piazza d’Italia, when staring at the Germans before shooting them, Tristano construes them as figures in a war memorial. Similarly, the earlier memory of his murder of a Nazi soldier in Crete turns history into tragedy: by killing the German, Tristano “had decided it was time for the avenging furies in this Greek tragedy to enter the scene” (“aveva deciso che era il momento che entrassero in azione le furie vendicatrici della tragedia greca”).22 In opposition to, and by exposing this common codification and mythologization of antifascism, the novel introduces antiheroic literature as a radical act of symbolic resistance and demystification. On this point, it bears remembering that Tristano decided to offer his final narration to the writer because of the latter’s ability to testify to, and resist, any cultural appropriation of the Italian Resistance. Only through literature, and despite the fact that “writing falsifies everything, you writers are falsifiers” (“la scrittura falsa tutto, voi scrittori siete dei falsari”),23 Tristano (and Tabucchi through him) can see the possibility for an authentic representation and memory of the resisters’ time, choice, and moral stance. In the end, Tristano’s hallucinated memories reveal Tabucchi’s antiheroic writings and, more importantly, the latter’s ability to question himself, to raise questions and doubts, rather than providing definitive answers. Differently from the two novels set in Italy, the protagonists of “Notte, mare o distanza” and Sostiene Pereira are subversive antiheroes against Portuguese fascism. Tellingly, Tabucchi’s antiheroic accounts of Salazar’s regime shed light on the mutual relationship that exists between the two concepts of resistance and narrative. Resistance is a narrative construct that provides a potential alternative to official, tyrannizing accounts of history. On the contrary, narratives constitute, and can be understood as, specific acts of resistance. Poetry in “Notte, mare o distanza” and, more broadly, the prose of Sostiene Pereira, become paradigmatic occasions for subversive resistance for Tabucchi’s antiheroes. Unlike Piazza d’Italia, here the protagonists are not subaltern figures who are socially, politically, and economically marginalized. Rather, they resist fascism on a trans-symbolic level, through the cultural production of alternative images and texts. “Notte, mare o distanza” narrates a night of violence that occurred in S­ alazar’s Portugal. Following an evening spent drinking wine and reading poetry at the 22 23

Tabucchi, Tristano muore, 14. Tabucchi, Tristano muore, 11.

20

Frigeni

home of Tadeus, a poet in his fifties, four young friends (Luisa, Tiago, Michel, and Joana) on their way back home through the streets of L­ isbon are stopped, searched, and questioned by a member of the regime’s secret police who intends to teach them a political lesson. The lesson dealt out by the policeman reaches its climax in the arrogant recollection of the unspeakable atrocities he committed in the Portuguese colony of Angola. The story presents two narrative levels: one is inhabited by a male character imagining/remembering that night of violence in 1969, where the heterodiegetic narration takes place; the other is where the imagined/remembered episodes occur. Through the central elements of time, night, and imagination, the text gives form to the protagonist’s repeated attempts of making sense of, and giving expression to, a traumatic episode of the past. Trauma constitutes both a semantic vacuum and a semiotic hole, as the impossibility to invest violence with meaning translates into the impossibility to construct a proper narration of the traumatic night. By provoking disquietude, the text functions as a sort of message in a bottle, warning the reader about some similarities they might find with the current historical situation. The context of historical and political resistance, despite functioning as the scenario to the story, is not foregrounded because the characters’ opposition has no intended political outcomes. In Piazza d’Italia, the main objective of the resistance movement is to overthrow power and establish social relations, whereas with “Notte, mare o distanza” the focus shifts to resistance as existential malaise and symbolic subversion. Tadeus and his friends are existentially antiheroic as they are defined as victims, prisoners and refugees by the narrator who feels “a strange reluctance, almost a little nausea” (“una riluttanza strana, quasi una piccola nausea”) recalling “the pain that the victims were going to suffer” (“la pena che le vittime avrebbero dovuto attraversare”).24 This is a story dominated by the night, an ominous night, during which the protagonists feel as though they were prisoners. This is also a metaphorical night, the occurrence of a temporal dislocation that is revealing of existential homelessness, since all the characters feel “a discomfort […] as if they were refugees in a city that was their own and were longing for their real home” (“un disagio, […] come sentirsi profughi in una città che era la loro e avere nostalgia della loro vera città”).25 Yet, this leads to another point worthy of notice. The young friends’ condition as victims, prisoners, and refugees is revealing of a certain sense of guilt that distinguishes and shapes their existential resistance. Tabucchi’s antiheroes feel guilty precisely because they become detached from historic reality rather 24 25

Antonio Tabucchi, L’angelo nero (Milan: Feltrinelli, 1991), 32. Tabucchi, L’angelo nero, 33.

Tabucchi and the Antihero

21

than openly fighting it, as was the case in Piazza d’Italia and Tristano muore. Not surprisingly, the antiheroes’ guilt mirrors the writer’s own deep-rooted sense of guilt caused by a feeling of culpability over his apparent inactivity and separation from history, “guilty for literature’s insufficiency” (“colpevol[e] per questa insufficienza della letteratura”).26 Tabucchi and his antiheroic characters fear the fact that literature’s distance from acts of factual resistance might be perceived as a form of inertia and complicity with the status quo. In the short story, political opposition belongs to the past, to a time when the poet Tadeus still believed in the effectiveness of fighting for something before the course of historical events betrayed both his hopes and aspirations. But ­reading poetry at night posits a symbolic challenge to the regime’s actual and cultural curfew: Joana disse: se leggessimo ancora, e si guardò intorno con occhi ansiosi, gli occhi di una giovane che volevano credere nella vita e nella poesia, e le sue mani erano nervose, forse perché intuì che gli altri avevano capito la sua supplica e non ce la facevano ad attribuire alla lettura di alcuni versi lo stesso senso di speranza e illusione.27 Joana said: let’s read some more, and she looked around with anxious eyes, the eyes of a young woman who wanted to believe in life and poetry, and her hands were nervous, perhaps because she sensed that the others understood her plea and could not assign the same meaning of hope and illusion to the lines of poetry. Literature has the potentiality to create alternatives and interrogate disturbing, provisional narratives as well as historical understandings. Here, it radically opposes, questions, and denounces the brutality inherent to fascist heroism and allows for a closure to other opinions. The young friends raise a toast to Tadeus’s new book of poems and to the longed-for collapse of Salazar’s dictatorship. Poetry is celebrated as “a good omen” (“un buon viatico”).28 This suggests the positive role of literature as a guide and support for those who ­figuratively embark on a journey against fascism. Yet the literal meaning of omen as the Eucharist given to a dying person or to one in danger of death,

26 27 28

Pia Schwarz Lausten, L’uomo inquieto. Identità e alterità nell’opera di Antonio Tabucchi (Copenaghen: Museum Tusculanum Press, 2005), 133. Tabucchi, L’angelo nero, 34–35. Tabucchi, L’angelo nero, 35.

22

Frigeni

ushers in the image of poetry as viaticum, anticipating the encounter with a champion of fascist heroism that awaits and looms over the four friends. In his analysis of the main features of “Eternal Fascism,” Eco highlights the mutuality between sexual brutality and physical and verbal violence inherent in its model of heroism. Significantly, in “Notte, mare o distanza” fascist heroism becomes a simulated phallic exercise and a moral teaching based on far too real episodes of rapes and murders. The policeman, for example, “was playing with the gun, rubbing it against his trousers” (“giocava con la pistola strusciandosela sui pantaloni”) as he planned to teach the four friends p ­ olitical lessons.29 The policeman’s accusations combine sexual and political hate – “you communist faggot […] Democrat little poofter” (“finocchio di un comunista […] finocchietto democratico”) – as he evokes and prides himself of the atrocities he committed in Angola.30 “Prima regola della lezione politica: amare il proprio paese. E per amare il proprio paese sapete cosa ci vuole? […] Ci vuole l’odio. Odio per difendere la nostra civiltà e la nostra razza. […] [P]er dominare un’altra razza bisogna in primo luogo dominarla sessualmente, e così ha fatto il sottoscritto […] con questo uccello.” […] mentre diceva queste parole si aprì i pantaloni e mostrò il sesso […].31 “First rule of the political lesson: to love one’s own country. Do you know what it takes to love one’s own country? […] It takes hate. Hate to defend our civilization and our race. […] To dominate another race, you need to dominate it sexually first, and this is what I did […] with this dick.” […] while he was speaking these words, he unbuttoned his trousers and showed his penis [...]. As an act of resistance, literature transcends the diegetic level and informs the rhetorical strategies that Tabucchi uses in the text. The peculiar s­ tructure of this short story lies in the fact that the narration constantly blurs the line between memory and imagination, positing the imaginative element as the possibility of fulfilling signification of, and coming to terms with, the past. What characterizes this work is, in effect, a pervasive sense of circularity. It begins and concludes with the act of its own narration, unfolding a narrative based on the interaction between the results of imagination and what is imagined. In 29 30 31

Tabucchi, L’angelo nero, 34. Tabucchi, L’angelo nero, 38–41. Tabucchi, L’angelo nero, 45–46.

Tabucchi and the Antihero

23

a sense, blending plural temporal layers engenders imaginary memories. Significantly, the linguistic transposition of such a temporal oscillation is rendered through the intermingling of two grammatical moods (indicative and conditional) and three main tenses (imperfect, past historic and present). The present indicative, however, does not refer to the temporal positioning of the character imagining/recalling the scene, as the reader would expect. On the contrary, it is used to signal the appearance of a non-human entity, a ­grouper, thus characterizing the instant of highest proximity to trauma, i.e., the loss of humanity in the face of violence. The grouper truly is an allegory of the brutality of fascism. Moreover, in Tabucchi’s animal imagery, it also personifies unconscious remorse and a sense of guilt. In Tristano muore the grouper is explicitly recognized as “ectoplasm of remorse” (“ectoplasma del rimorso”).32 The two dimensions of existential and narrative resistance central to the short story “Notte, mare o distanza” also characterize Pereira’s anti-heroism in the eponymous novel. In a third-person testimonial, the novel narrates the political awakening of its protagonist Pereira, a widower who, in 1938 Lisbon, edits the cultural pages of an evening paper. Existentially, the protagonist moves from a sense of guilt and passivity to activity. This is mirrored by the novel’s concern with the relationship between history and literature on the one hand and, on the other, with the coming forth of the latter as an act of ethical and political commitment through testimony. Sostiene Pereira is both the recounting and the performance of an act such as witnessing. It is a prolonged speech act for which one reads Pereira’s actions before and inside his words. Indeed, Pereira is, also physically, an archetypal antihero because he is overweight, has a heart condition and suffers from high blood pressure. Nonetheless, from the novel’s beginning he is a resister, albeit unknowingly. Initially, this element of unintentional resistance is linked to the central theme of death. Like Tabucchi’s other antiheros, Pereira does not adhere to the time he inhabits. In fact, ever since his wife’s death, he has been living as if he were dead. His life is mere survival, and pretense paradoxically screens and saves him from the grips of fascist values and principles. In a way, Pereira’s posthumous condition reflects that of marginalized and persecuted intellectuals during Salazar’s regime, even though they actively choose to distance themselves from fascism and its heroic code. A crucial moment in the novel Sostiene Pereira is the encounter with the young Monteiro Rossi and Marta, who are actively engaged as political opponents of the regime. Their goal triggers a change in the protagonist’s attitude. 32

Tabucchi, Tristano muore, 144.

24

Frigeni

Thus, he shifts from merely oblivious distance towards symbolic and political resistance. As Pereira observes, if Monteiro and Marta were right in calling for a direct engagement against Salazar’s fascism, his life, his career as a journalist, and his faith in literature would no longer make sense. Facing this truth fills him with regrets. Tellingly, Pereira describes the movement of becoming aware of his condition as a resister in terms of sense of guilt and repentance, in which the latter, although unjustified by lack of guilt, appears as a nostalgic desire. Padre Antonio is an essential figure in the understanding of Pereira’s anti-heroism because he is already aware of the fact that the protagonist inadvertently occupies the role of resister. As a result, in Padre Antonio’s view, no confession is either possible or required for Pereira. This notion is reinforced by the priest’s comment concerning the French Catholic writer Bernanos, who is loathed by the Vatican because he is “a real witness” (“un vero testimone”).33 Thus, paradoxically, it is religion itself that turns Pereira’s confession into a non-ritual behavior. As a result, the priest’s words help show Pereira how his personal need for repentance, far from being a matter of religious fault, hides a deeper civil dimension. Along with religion, the psychological perspective seems pertinent in ­analyzing Pereira’s act of existential and symbolic resistance. Doctor Cardoso explains Pereira’s existential crisis in terms of the emergence of a new hegemonic ‘I’ within his personality. In this case, too, the protagonist is diagnosed with a mournful estrangement from the present, and, at the end of his talk with the doctor, Pereira is left experiencing “a profound yearning for both a past and future life” (“una grande nostalgia di una vita passata e di una vita futura”).34 Nonetheless, saudade, which Tabucchi defines as a blending of remorse and nostalgic longing for the possible, describes both Pereira’s illness and his unique possibility of finding a cure. To finally make sense of his life, Pereira must change from being a passive and detached observer of the political situation, to overtly opposing it. During an interview, Tabucchi made an explicit comparison between saudade and Pereira’s interplay between inactivity and activity as well as his final orientation towards the latter: “saudade can be nostalgia for the future, a longing for the future, and also nostalgia for things that could have happened but didn’t happen. It is a bit like Pereira’s yearning for repentance” (“la saudade può essere nostalgia del futuro, un desiderio del futuro, e inoltre nostalgia per le cose che avrebbero potuto essere e non 33 34

Antonio Tabucchi, Sostiene Pereira. Una testimonianza (Milan: Feltrinelli, 1994), 47. All translations are from Pereira Declares. A Testimony, trans. Patrick Creagh (New York: New Directions, 1996). Tabucchi, Sostiene Pereira, 159.

Tabucchi and the Antihero

25

sono state. È un po’ come il desiderio di pentimento di Pereira”).35 Saudade moves Pereira to action exactly in the moment when it shifts from being a nostalgia for the past to a future-oriented desire to give (different) forms to both the present and the future. Thus, similarly to Tabucchi’s “limping characters,” Pereira becomes an antihero by turning his unfinished life into a life full of ideals and desires. Finally, the element of narrative resistance is central to the novel. Like the political lesson of the police agent in “Notte, mare o distanza,” education is again referred to as an essential element, albeit in a distorted form, of the totalitarian reality. More plainly, it is revealed as a potential space for ­resistance. With fascism, everyone is educated to be a hero; accordingly, Monteiro’s k­ illers declare that they have come to Pereira’s house in order to give him a lesson on what constitutes “the values of the motherland.”36 Conversely, Pereira manages to avoid censorship by publishing in his journal a translation of ­Daudet’s “La dernière classe.” The tale, set in the 19th Century, tells the story of a teacher who, during his final class, immediately before being exiled from his country occupied by the German army, writes on the blackboard “vive la France” to the applause of all the inhabitants of the village who have gathered to pay him homage as he leaves the school. As Hitler’s Germany is a recognized ally to ­Salazar’s regime, Pereira’s decision to publish the short story on the cultural page of the evening journal Lisboa constitutes an audacious act of open ­antagonism to fascism. As a matter of fact, as Doctor Cardoso observes, although “there is the state censorship and every day the proofs are examined by the censors […] you were capable of writing vive la France […] even though the words were put in someone else’s mouth” (“tutti i giorni, prima di uscire, le bozze del suo giornale passano attraverso l’imprimatur della censura preventiva […] lei ha potuto scrivere viva la Francia […] anche se per interposta persona”). 37 In the end, one may contend that Pereira’s symbolic resistance – his witnessing – is entirely articulated by putting “words in someone else’s mouth.” Even though in the novel the narrator is reduced to a mere ear, (s)he is nonetheless present. As was the case with Tristano muore, in Sostiene Pereira too Tabucchi relies on a “minimal nature of the diegetic voices, which are either reduced to the verba dicendi or sentiendi, or more often omitted.”38 The narrator here is the listener – like padre Antonio and Doctor Cardoso; but also, like the 35 36 37 38

Romana Petri, “Uno scrittore pieno di gente,” Leggere 61 (June 1994): 72. Tabucchi, Sostiene Pereira, 194. Tabucchi, Sostiene Pereira, 155. Marina Spunta, Voicing the World: Writing Orality in Contemporary Italian Fiction (Bern: Peter Lang, 2004), 140.

26

Frigeni

doorkeeper Celeste, who works as a spy for the regime, on the diegetic level – the primal recipient of Pereira’s antiheroic testimony. Only the narrator’s presence makes the latter possible. Arguably, (s)he functions as a sort of ideal or first reader, simultaneously creating and occupying a space of mutual participation and co-creation of alternative, albeit upsetting meaning. Clearly, Tabucchi’s antiheroes undertake acts of existential and symbolic resistance, alongside or independently from actual fighting and revolt. Tabucchi depoliticizes resistance since his characters are mostly denied political agencies. They contest and oppose “Eternal Fascism” and its heroic code, whose principal manifestations Tabucchi discovers in Mussolini’s and Salazar’s regimes. Subaltern, anarchic voices in Piazza d’Italia revolt against “the sovereigns” (“i padroni”) and their appropriation and monumentalizing of history. Tristano muore interrogates the risk of turning resistance itself into a new model of heroism and a hegemonic narrative, while both “Notte, mare o distanza” and Sostiene Pereira emphasize the role of literature as a socially symbolic act of resistance. To conclude, Tabucchi’s antiheroes function as diegetic alter egos of the writer himself, for they allow us to see what might be in what is not. In the same vein, Tabucchi’s works are inherently antiheroic as their ultimate task is “to ask questions, disturb, raise critical awareness” (“porre domande, inquietare, essere co-scienza critica”).39 Bibliography Beverley, John. Subalternity and Representation: Arguments in Cultural Theory. Durham & London: Duke University Press, 1999. Brombert, Victor. In Praise of Antiheroes: Figures and Themes in Modern European ­Literature, 1830–1980. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1999. Burns, Jennifer. Fragments of Impegno: Interpretations of Commitment in Contemporary Italian Narrative 1980–2000. Leeds: Northern Universities Press, 2001. Eco, Umberto. “Ur-Fascism.” The New York Review of Books, 22 June 1995. http://www .nybooks.com/articles/1995/06/22/ur-fascism/. Lepschy, Laura. “The role of memory in Antonio Tabucchi’s Piccoli equivoci senza importanza.” Spunti e Ricerche 12 (1997): 61–70. Petri, Romana. “Uno scrittore pieno di gente.” Leggere 61 (June 1994): 68–75.

39

Antonio Tabucchi, “Controtempo,” in Di tutto resta un poco. Letteratura e cinema, ed. Anna Dolfi (Milan: Feltrinelli, 2013), 36.

Tabucchi and the Antihero

27

Roelens, Nathalie. “Dibattito con Antonio Tabucchi.” In Piccole finzioni con importanza, valori della narrativa italiana contemporanea. Ed. Nathalie Roelens and Inge Lanslots. 144–166. Faenza: Longo, 1993. Schwarz Lausten, Pia. L’uomo inquieto. Identità e alterità nell’opera di Antonio Tabucchi. Copenaghen: Museum Tusculanum Press, 2005. Spunta, Marina. Voicing the World: Writing Orality in Contemporary Italian Fiction. Bern: Peter Lang, 2004. Tabucchi, Antonio. “Controtempo”. In Di tutto resta un poco. Letteratura e cinema. Ed. Anna Dolfi, 20–36. Milan: Feltrinelli, 2013. Tabucchi, Antonio. L’angelo nero. Milan: Feltrinelli, 1991. Tabucchi, Antonio. Marconi, se ben mi ricordo. Rome: Rai-Eri, 1997. Tabucchi, Antonio. Pereira Declares. A Testimony. Trans. Patrick Creagh. New York: New Directions, 1996. Tabucchi, Antonio. Piazza d’Italia. 2nd edition, Milan: Feltrinelli, 1996. Tabucchi, Antonio. “Racconto dell’uomo di carta.” Racconti con figure. Palermo: Sellerio, 2011, 67–78. Tabucchi, Antonio. Sostiene Pereira. Una testimonianza. Milan: Feltrinelli, 1994. Tabucchi, Antonio. Tristano Dies: A Life, Trans. Elizabeth Harris. Brooklyn, NY: ­Archipelago Books, 2015. Tabucchi, Antonio. Tristano muore: una vita. Milan: Feltrinelli, 2004.

Chapter 2

The Foibe War Narrative: The New Antiheroes of the ‘Second Republic’ Louise Zamparutti Abstract This chapter by Louise Zamparutti analyses the discursive and visual s­trategies employed in popular representations of an increasingly debated and often ­controversial episode in the Second World War: the mass murder of alleged Fascist followers by the Yugoslavian partisans in North-Eastern Italy, Dalmatia and Istria in 1943 and 1945. The author argues that recasting “Slavs” as the new antiheroes worked to conceal violence and normalize Fascism for an energized right-wing coalition in the 1990s and early 2000s.

This essay analyses three examples of what I term “foibe narratives.” The word foibe refers to the type of deep pit-caves found in the Karst region of Italy, Slovenia, and Croatia. Foibe have been used for centuries as hiding places for unwanted material, including human remains. At the end of World War II, Yugoslavian communists, led by Tito, conducted mass executions of those deemed enemies of the emerging state and deposited their bodies into these vertical caves. An ever-increasing genre of mass media, including popular literature, fictionalized memoirs, films, social media sites, and memorial structures describes the foibe as the “ethnic cleansing” of Italians by “Slavs”; this is despite evidence that the majority of Tito’s victims were Slovenians, Croatians, Roma, Jews, Macedonians, and other ethnic populations from former Yugoslavian republics.1 In Italy, foibe is commonly used to denote the killings themselves. Prior to this linguistic use, discussions of the foibe – and how to commemorate foibe victims in Italy – was a politically charged subject, marked by vastly divergent speculations about how many people were killed, who was killed, and why. 1 This evidence was shown to me by Dr. Andrej Mihevc at the Karst Research Institute in Postojna, Slovenia, during personal interviews in August 2017 and October 2018. In November 2018, I witnessed excavation missions carried out in Slovenia that produced such evidence. © Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2023 | DOI:10.1163/9789004548145_004

The Foibe War Narrative

29

Because many argued that the Italian victims were Fascist officials and Nazi sympathizers, their memorialization remained questionable. Others contended that the commemoration of foibe had been hidden and buried (with obvious metaphorical reference to the caves themselves and the burial of corpses) by a left-wing historiographical dominance of Resistance narratives. Yet from the early 2000s onward, the controversy surrounding the memorialization of foibe has been overshadowed by a widespread public understanding of them as so-called “ethnic cleansing.” This shift was largely prompted by the proliferation and circulation of foibe memorial artifacts. These memorial artifacts have reversed the roles of the hero and antihero in Italy’s Second World War narrative. In each of the three examples analysed below, I focus on specific rhetorical strategies that, on the one hand, produce emotional identification with the hero and, on the other, elicit fear of the antihero. I also argue that these strategies distance this interpretation of the foibe from its right-wing political roots, presenting the foibe story as one that is p ­ alatable for Italians of all political leanings. With this analysis I suggest that the construction of a depersonalized antihero, bolstered by tropes of nostalgia, and fueled by resentment at the perceived loss of either territory or resources, can be used to produce perceptions of belonging and not-­belonging. ­Ultimately, these understandings manipulate notions of citizenship, l­ egitimacy, and identity. A first instance of such treatment of the foibe theme is Il Cuore nel Pozzo, a two-part miniseries that tells a fictionalized story about the foibe, which was aired in February 2005 on Italy’s national television. The miniseries was timed to coincide with the first public celebration of the country’s newest public ­holiday commemorating the foibe massacres, the “Giorno del Ricordo” (Remembrance Day). Il Cuore nel Pozzo clearly presents the singular interpretation of the foibe as the “ethnic cleansing” of Italians at the hands of “Slavs.”2 Paradoxically, the television film joins together a series of disjointed military operations, political contests, class struggles, and the post-war allocation of Istria to Yugoslaviainto one unified trope of terror.3 2 I use quotation marks around the word “Slav” to indicate that I am quoting the use of the term as it appears in popular narratives about the foibe; the term “Slav” does not reflect my own categorization and naming of any ethnic group. The use of this term as a discursive strategy in foibe commemorations will be analysed here. 3 The allocation of Istria to Yugoslavia (now Croatia) after the Second World War was seen by ­Yugoslavians as a return of territory rightfully belonging to them after Fascist occupation during the Interwar period. For many Istrian Italians, this allocation is perceived as a loss of Italian homeland. In foibe narratives, the mass relocation of Italians from Istria is referred to as the esodo (exodus), and many foibe memorial artifacts and events link the foibe and the

30

Zamparutti

The second example examined here is a speech given in 2007 to honor and promote the “Giorno del Ricordo” holiday by Italy’s then-president Giorgio Napolitano. In this speech, Napolitano referred to the foibe as a “movement of hatred and of bloodthirsty fury,” stemming from the “annexationist Slav plan” that “assumed the sinister contours of an ethnic cleansing.” The foibe, he stated, were “a collective tragedy […] a tragedy, therefore, of an entire population.”4 Although the violence carried out by Tito’s troops was directed towards the Italians occupying Istria, many of whom were Fascist officials, Napolitano described the foibe as an offense towards all Italians –the “entire population”– instigated by “Slavs.” With this remark, he echoed the dominant ethnic cleansing narrative. The third example is the Foiba di Basovizza monument that, in 2007, was officially designated a national monument by Italy’s central government. The Foiba di Basovizza5 stands in Northeast Italy about three kilometers from the Slovenian border, a short distance above the city of Trieste. The monument includes a towering wooden cross and an Italian flag positioned above a concrete slab that covers a pit. Nearby are a series of headstones, each engraved with text eulogizing foibe victims. The site also includes a Documentation ­Center where visitors can read placards and watch a video describing the foibe, the esodo, and the tragic heroine Norma Cossetto, who has been described as the “Anne Frank” of the “Italian holocaust.”6 Il Cuore nel Pozzo, Napolitano’s “Giorno del Ricordo” speech, and the Foiba di Basovizza are examples of a growing body of public narratives and artifacts that position the foibe as a defining event in Italian historical experience. Training public memory to this interpretation of the foibe marginalizes earlier Second World War narratives depicting Fascist loyalists as antiheroes; it also affects the description of the violence instigated by the Fascist regime against esodo into one massive traumatic event. This classification often assigns a cause-and-effect relationship and implies that the esodo was caused by the foibe and that those who did not escape were killed in foibe. Italians who left Istria and whose homes were appropriated by Yugoslavia self-define as esuli (exiles); throughout Italy, there are many esuli organizations. Information on many of them is provided by Federesuli; see also http://www.federesuli.org/. 4 Giorgio Napolitano, “Intervento del Presidente della Repubblica, in occasione della ­celebrazione del ‘giorno del ricordo.”’ All passages are from https://archivio.quirinale.it /aspr/audiovideo/AV-001-001017/presidente/giorgio-napolitano/intervento-del-presidente -della-repubblica-giorgio-napolitano-occasione-della-celebrazione-del-giorno-del-ricordo All translations are mine. 5 Foiba is the singular for foibe. As will be explained, the Foiba di Basovizza stands over an unused mine shaft and, for this reason, it is not a foiba at all. 6 In this and other cases, I use the lower-case ‘holocaust’ when I discuss how this word is appropriated in foibe discourse to describe the killing of Italians by Yugoslavian communists. I differentiate this usage from the capitalized Holocaust, which refers to the internationally recognized atrocities perpetrated by the Nazis.

The Foibe War Narrative

31

Italian Resistance fighters as well as against Slovenes, Croats, and other Slavic populations living in Italian occupied areas of the former Yugoslavia. Unlike these narratives, the foibe narrative defines heroes and antiheroes in non-political and “ethnic” terms: ethnically Italian heroes and ethnically Slavic antiheroes. My use of the term “antihero” is situated in the context of contemporary political discourse; thus it differs slightly from classical depictions of the hero and the antihero in philosophical traditions. For example, unlike the Aristotelean tragic hero who must contend with inherent human flaws, the concepts of hero and antihero I employ here are related to those of the nation and nationalism and are constituted through public rhetoric that serves political purposes. Benedict Anderson argues that nations are “imagined communities.”7 Nations, he asserts, are conceived through written language, which can be extended to include different forms of mass media. The “imagined community” is enacted through shared public discourse and is therefore malleable and negotiable. Following Anderson’s premise, Wodak et al maintain that “the question of how this imaginary community reaches the minds of those who are convinced of it is easy to answer: it is constructed and conveyed in discourse.”8 Building upon these concepts, I propose that a nation’s heroes and antiheroes can be defined and re-defined at different times in accordance with the discourse enforced by the dominant political regime. Hero and antihero role-shifting exists within the framework of memory and counter-memory. Following Foucault, whom she credits as the “the theorist most associated with defining the term countermemory,” Ann Burlein asserts that “countermemories do not exist outside the hegemonic memories they seek to contest, break open, and cut.” Indeed, she argues that “countermemories are produced by reworking mainstream elements [and] as a result, what was once counter can become mainstream and vice versa.”9 As a result, when a counter-memory becomes mainstream, a fact that often coincides with a change in the dominant political power system, the former antihero becomes the hero, and vice-versa. In this reading, heroes and antiheroes are constructed rhetorically in relation to the needs of the mainstream memory advanced by the dominant political establishment.

7 Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism (London: Verso, 2006). 8 Ruth Wodak, R., de Cillia, M. Reisigl, and K. Liebhart, The Discursive Construction of National Identity, trans. A. Hirsch and R. Mitten (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1999), 22. 9 Ann Burlein, “Countermemory on the Right: The Case of Focus on the Family,” Acts of ­Memory: Cultural Recall in the Present, eds. Mieke Bal, Jonathan Crewe, and Leo Spitzer (Hanover, NH: University Press of New England, 1999), 216–217.

32

Zamparutti

The construction of the hero/antihero opposition in relation to political rhetoric is further illustrated in Ruth Wodak’s analysis of right-wing populist discourse. In it, she argues that the concept of the “true demos” is posited opposite the “élite” or “establishment.” According to Wodak “political rhetoric increasingly relies on the construction of a distinct dichotomy which aims to divide the people living in a country into two quasi homogenous blocs: ‘The people’ are juxtaposed with ‘the establishment’ within a specific narrative of threat and betrayal.”10 In this analysis, the first category, the “true” or “real” people, exemplifies the heroes. Antiheroes, the “élite” in Wodak’s depiction above, are identified through the process of scapegoating, which Wodak describes as “singling out a group for negative treatment on the basis of collective responsibility.”11 Labeling scapegoats as “the élite” or “the establishment,” promotes a hero that represents the “true demos,” a hero, that is, who must fend off the danger presented by the scapegoat, which is usually introduced as the threat of takeover of land, property, and freedom. In many cases these techniques of describing a “true” citizen (hero) in opposition to a dangerous “other” (antihero) can also function as a way to reverse oppressor/oppressed and perpetrator/victim roles. The opposition of the hero to the antihero necessitates a conceptual ­framework of binary constructs – good/evil, true/false, us/them, among other formulations – that can produce simplistic, cardboard characters. These stock characters establish a culture’s hegemonic values and taboos, unify public memory, and shape group identity. All of this contributes to the enactment of an imagined community that constitutes the dominant culture’s vision of the nation. Of course, the hero embodies character traits that a dominant ­culture deems positive, such as bravery, self-sacrifice, work ethic, or adherence to a particular religion, as well as family or social structure, and political ideology. Because of this, hero narratives can work to silence controversy over multiple and contradictory values and beliefs that may exist within a society and merge multiple imaginaries of a nation into a unified identity. The antihero represents the opposite belief system, showing traits and actions that the dominant culture deems abhorrent. Presented as a threat to the conventional hero, the antihero is, therefore, also a threat to a culture’s dominant identity; ­however, as in the case of the hero, the creation of an antihero silences controversy. To ensure and maintain a privileged status and position within its society, the hero rejects everything that the antihero stands for. The shaping of 10 11

Ruth Wodak, “The ‘Establishment’, the ‘Elites,’ and ‘The People: Who’s Who?” Journal of Language and Politics 16, no. 4 (2017): 552, doi: 10.1075/jlp.17030.wod. Wodak, “The ‘Establishment,’” 553.

The Foibe War Narrative

33

the hero/antihero in public discourse can thus be useful in producing inclusion and exclusion within a society; it also establishes and maintains a singular nation as an imagined community. The construction of heroes and antiheroes is integral to the formation of collective identity and public memory, as they are co-constituted.12 ­Collective remembrance is enacted through rhetorical forms that reflect d­ ecisions regarding which past events are worthy of commemoration and how they should be memorialized and preserved for future audiences. Halbwachs contends that group identity is formed in part through shared understandings of collective memory.13 For him, both individual and collective identity are built upon perceptions of self and other, because the concept of identity “is always defined via similarity and difference”14 and constructed through “the social positioning of self and other.”15 The antihero in public memory can function as a way to define difference, a way, that is, to explain the other as differing from the self. Accordingly, the antihero, as antagonist to the collective self, can strengthen a sense of collective identity. Generally, in public discourse the antihero is shaped through various rhetorical strategieswhich, by justifying positive and negative attributes, invariably produce stereotypes. The two discursive strategies analysed here are “nomination (how events, objects, and persons are referred to) and predication (what characteristics are attributed to them).”16 Through the analysis of the three examples of foibe discourse – a film, a political speech and a monument – it appears evident that nomination and predication strategies designate the 12 13 14 15 16

See Maurice Halbwachs, The Collective Memory (New York: Harper and Row, 1950) and Paul Ricoeur, Memory, History, Forgetting (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2004). Halbwachs, 51. Ruth Wodak and Salomi Boukala, “(Supra)National Identity and Language: Rethinking National and European Migration Policies and Linguistic Integration of Migrants,” Annual Review of Applied Linguistics 35 (2015): 256, doi: 10.1017/S0267190514000294. Mary Bucholtz and Kira Hall, “Identity and Interaction: A Sociocultural Linguistic Approach,” Discourse Studies 7, no. 4–5 (2005): 586, doi: 10.1177/1461445605054407. Ruth Wodak, The Politics of Fear: What Right-Wing Populist Discourses Mean (London: Sage Publications, 2015), 51. The identification of discursive strategies is part of the Discourse-Historical Approach (DHA), a methodology developed by Ruth Wodak and fully described in Methods of Critical Discourse Analysis, ed. Ruth Wodak and Michael Meyer (London: Sage Publications, 2001) and in Ruth Wodak, The Discourse of Politics in Action: Politics as Usual (Basingstoke: Palgrave, 2011). The DHA “integrates and triangulates knowledge about historical sources and the background of the social and political fields within which discursive events are embedded” (Wodak, The Discourse of Politics in Action, 38). This essay is informed by the DHA and utilizes its method of identifying nomination and predication strategies in specific discursive events; however, the DHA is much more complex than the two strategies I focus on here.

34

Zamparutti

“Slavs” as antiheroes in Italy’s Second World War collective memory. At the same time, the opposition of these “Slav” antiheroes to the Italian heroes defines a singular and exclusive notion of Italian identity. One of the main nomination strategies evident in all foibe discourse is the naming of “Italian” and “Slav” as two discrete, biologically dissimilar ethnic groups. This nomination strategy is problematic on multiple levels. For one, the word “Slav,” which appears in foibe narratives from about 1990 onwards, assigns a singular label to a heterogeneous population that includes Slovenes, Croats, and many other national and linguistic groups of Slavic origin. The word has historically been used as a derogatory term in North-­Eastern Italy17 and as a symbol of a presumed threat of encroachment from an alien race.18 For this reason, the deployment of this nomination strategy in foibe ­discourse refers to pre-existing, culturally established negative attributes. Additionally, the construction of “Slav” and its use as a nomination strategy assumes the perspective of a narrowly defined “Italian” group. The assertion that there is a biological “ethnic” difference between “Italians” and “Slavs” not only illustrates a conflation of language and speaker relationship, but also a prevailing flaw in discursive constructions of concepts such as “ethnicity” and “race.”19 This conflation assumes that “Italian” and “Slav” people can be differentiated between with as much empirical and measurable evidence as can their linguistic groups. It also assumes that people who speak the same language share a biological kinship. This assumption is especially problematic among border populations because it neglects the many hybrid dialects spoken in those regions in addition to the “historical and geographical contingencies and factors of ‘linguistic imperialism’ that heavily influence language choice.”20 Language choice among people living along the Italy-Slovenia frontier has long been influenced by the region’s history of changing governance,

17 18

19 20

Guido Franzinetti, “The Rediscovery of the Istrian Foibe,” JGKS, History and Culture of South-Eastern Europe 8 (2006): 92. This use of the word “Slav” predates foibe discourse. Glenda Sluga traces the origins of the term to political discourse in the early twentieth century. She cites, for example, the work of Giani Stuparich, whose writing shifted from a multiculturalist view to a notion of Italian racial purity (somewhat ironically, considering his Slavic and Jewish heritage). Stuparich described an invasion of Trieste by a “Slav race” and called for Italians to defend themselves against obliteration by the “Slavs”. See Glenda Sluga, The Problem of Trieste and the Italo-Yugoslav Border: Difference, Identity and Sovereignty in Twentieth-Century Europe (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2001), 165. Martin Reisigl and Ruth Wodak, Discourse and Discrimination: Rhetorics of Racism and Antisemitism (New York: Routledge, 2012), 2. Reisigl and Wodak, Discourse and Discrimination, 2.

The Foibe War Narrative

35

shifts in national borders, migration, and the area’s geographical position as a major trade route.21 Finally, the application of terminology that suggests an ethnic conflict between Italians and “Slavs” as the primary motivation behind the foibe massacres neglects the contextual political and military circumstances. It also ignores the thousands of victims of Yugoslavian communist mass killings who were not Italian, but from former Yugoslavian republics or elsewhere. In the examples below, the terms “Italian” and “Slav” are used to simplify the foibe into a narrative that opposes two discursively constructed “ethnic” groups and to position “Slavs” as antiheroes. This terminology intersects with established ­narrative themes that elicit emotional response and obscure the political origins of this interpretation of the foibe. Nevertheless, contextualizing the analysis with a brief explanation of the “second republic” and the political context in which the increasingly popular genre of foibe discourse originated is necessary. Changing perceptions and contrasting interpretations of heroes and antiheroes are not new in the way Italy remembers and commemorates its experience of the Second World War.22 Starting from the founding of the Republic, the narrative of a unified Italian Resistance that fought and defeated Nazi-­Fascist oppression has clashed with the narrative of a patriotic Fascist regime that only marginally, and reluctantly, collaborated with the Nazis. For many decades, these two competing narratives paralleled the political power struggle between the Christian Democrat Party and the Communist Party, each one accusing the other of dominating historiography with politically motivated mythology. The tension between these two forces and their competition for ­exclusive understandings of memory and national identity, however fierce and even ­violent at times, created stability. This stability was shaken in the 1990s, when a combination of internal and international events led to Italy’s transition 21

22

Maura Hametz notes that in the 1900 Austrian census, for example, census takers in ­ rieste “recorded linguistic orientation on the basis of a voluntary statement,” and people T often “responded with pragmatism to government inquiries, perhaps shaping their own declarations in the hopes of deriving personal benefit or enhancing personal security.” Individuals’ statements about their language orientation, which were then recorded and presented by institutional census-takers as legitimate indicators of ethnicity, were often based on a variety of motives that affected their responses to census-takers’ questions. See Maura Hametz, Making Trieste Italian: 1918–1954 (Rochester, NY: The Boydell Press, 2005), 110, n. 31. For thorough analyses of the development, evidence, and repercussions of this divided memory, see John Foot, Italy’s Divided Memory (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009), and Philip Cooke, The Legacy of the Italian Resistance (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011).

36

Zamparutti

from the “first republic” to the “second republic.” These terms are “rightly contested”23 however, because the “second republic” did not coincide with a rewriting of Italy’s constitution. Yet the rebranding of political parties and the new concentration of allegiances, characterized by Berlusconi’s first rise to power and the cohesion of the right, marked a significant change in Italy’s political landscape. The term “second republic,” although an unofficial designation, ushered in a more critical review of the memory of the Resistance and a rehabilitation of Fascist heroes. In light of this, war crimes instigated by the Resistance came into sharper focus; thus, the interpretation of communist Resistance fighters as antiheroes was more widely accepted. One of the catalysts for this transition was the series of scandals known as Tangentopoli.24 From 1992–1996 over 5,000 people, including half of the members of parliament, were accused of bribery. As a result, both the ­Christian Democrat and the Socialist Party dissolved. During this time, Italy’s post-­ Fascist party, the Movimento Sociale Italiano (MSI) ceased operations while the ­Alleanza Nazionale (AN) party was founded. The party’s leader, Gianfranco Fini, sought to distance the AN from its Fascist connotations and present it as a “normal, right-wing party.”25 The AN joined the coalition of the right, spearheaded by the newly elected Berlusconi and his right-wing Forza Italia movement. This was also the time when Slovenia, which had declared independence in 1991, was negotiating for EU membership. Fini, backed by Berlusconi’s ­government, threatened to block Slovenia’s EU membership if Slovenia did not change its constitutional policy against the ownership of land by f­ oreigners, a provision that prevented Italians from receiving restitution or compensation for property they had lost in the post-Second-World-War esodo. To this end Fini argued that those who knock on Europe’s door must make a gesture of repentance; S­ lovenia had to “recognise [sic] that the lands in Istria and Dalmazia [sic] were Italian and they have to kneel before the caves [le foibe] into which were thrown the victims of the ethnic cleansing unleashed by Tito’s followers.”26 Fini did not get his way. After the fall of the first Berlusconi government in December 1994, the interim technocratic government, led by Lamberto Dini, was followed by Romano Prodi’s Center-Left government in 1996. This 23 Cooke, The Legacy, 149. 24 The name comes from tangente, meaning bribe (literally, tangent, as in tangential pay), and from the Greek polis, meaning city. Tangentopoli thus can be translated into “bribe city.” 25 Franzinetti, “The Rediscovery,” 88. 26 “Fini: Sulla Slovenia niente compromessi,” Corriere della Sera, 19 October, 5, 1994, cited in Andrew Geddes and Andrew Taylor, “Those Who Knock on Europe’s Door Must Repent? Bilateral Border Disputes and EU Enlargement,” Political Studies 64, no. 4 (2016): 935. doi: 10.1111/1467-9248.12218.

The Foibe War Narrative

37

government, influenced in part by international pressure, agreed to Slovenia’s accession to EU membership. Although some provisions were put in place towards allowing non-Slovenian EU citizens to purchase property in Slovenia if they met certain conditions, the issue of restitution or compensation for the esuli was left unresolved. This situation not only exacerbated the resentment already expressed by the AN and the esuli at the lack of recognition of their losses; it also energized the call to publicly recognize the foibe and the esodo. If the esuli could not be compensated for their material losses, at least these could be memorialized, and that memorialization, according to the AN, needed to be recognized on a national scale. Despite all the political fervor surrounding recognition of the foibe, the AN’s calls to bring the foibe to national and popular attention worked by refashioning heroes and antiheroes along ethnic, not political, lines. The AN presented the foibe as a human rights issue and, more specifically, as one whose legitimacy transcended ­politics. Presenting communists as antiheroes was a notion built upon pre-1990s political divisions that had lost traction because of the reshuffling of I­ taly’s political landscape and the collapse of communism as a worldwide ideology. Not surprisingly, by arguing for public memorialization of the foibe as “ethnic cleansing,” the AN redirected the focus onto an external enemy: the “Slavs.” The old debate over whether more Italians identified with the largely communist-led Resistance or with the Fascists was reignited by this new narrative which argued that a united Italian public had been threatened by a Slavic campaign of “ethnic cleansing.” The terminology of ethnic cleansing and the use of the word “­genocide” in reference to the foibe was also facilitated by the breakup of ­Yugoslavia. Its fragmentation provided a “ready-made label for the foibe”27 and gave ­ ­Istrian-Italians “new occasions to denounce the Slavs as wild animals.”28 In this reading, the foibe could be presented as a precursor to the violence taking place there in the 1990s, as an example of “ethnic cleansing” that was then “reproduced in ex-Yugoslavia at the moment of the dissolution of the Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia […] a re-explosion of ethnic and religious, or pseudo-religious, hatred.”29 These intersecting strategies –addressing the enemy as the “Slavs,” using the terminology of ethnic cleansing, and referencing

27 28 29

Franzinetti, “The Rediscovery,” 89. Larry Wolff, “Revising Eastern Europe: Memory and the Nation in Recent H ­ istoriography,” The Journal of Modern History 78, no. 1 (2006): 112. DOI: 10.1086/499796 Lucio Toth, “Sulle foibe in Venezia Giulia e in Dalmazia (1943–1950),” Clio: Rivista ­trimestriale di studi storici 42, no. 2 (2006): 319.

38

Zamparutti

1990’s Yugoslavian violence to affirm stereotypes of Slavic brutality– worked well to turn the “Slavs” into the new antiheroes of the second republic. According to Giacomo Lichtner, “in the age of reality TV, old-fashioned historical melodramas contributed to translate a call for bipartisan pity into a demand to recognise commitment, national pride, family values, sacrifice and innocence as shared conservative values of Fascist Italians.”30 Seen as a historical melodrama, Il Cuore nel Pozzo presents these values through nomination and predication strategies that are enacted not through words, but through visual imagery, characters, and plot. The film’s heroic characters are the three female protagonists, each of whom embodies Fascist normative gender standards in their traditional feminine roles. Giulia is a singer in a restaurant; Marta is a music teacher in an elementary school; and Anja, the film’s only sympathetic “Slav,’” exemplifies the stereotype of the ‘servile Slav,’ as the servant and cook for an Italian priest. Anja also takes care of orphaned Italian children housed in the church, displaying maternal qualities even though she is not (yet) a mother. In this made-for-TV movie, the antihero exists in opposition to these heroines and is embodied by Novak, the Yugoslavian commander. He pursues the three women, seeking to stake claims to their bodies, their children, and their property. His band of soldiers carry out his orders unflinchingly, marching around in sharp, well-tailored uniforms, and accompanied by German shepherds. This depiction accurately mimics popular portrayals of Gestapo soldiers. Novak and his men refer to themselves as “Slavs” and to their language as “Slavo.” This nomenclature is problematic not only for the reasons discussed above, but also because it fails to recognize the diversity of the partisan units, led by Tito, that included participants from all over the former Yugoslavia as well as from both Italy and Greece.31 Folded into the movie narrative are Catholic themes of sacrifice and martyrdom; these are contrasted with negative stereotypes about non-religious “Slavs.” Giulia, raped by Novak several years earlier, sacrifices her life by throwing herself into a foiba in order to protect her son, whom Novak claims is his.32 Marta is carted off with fellow villagers by Novak and his gang and thrown into a foiba, along with a black dog. This scene perpetuates the stereotype of

30 31 32

Giacomo Lichtner, Fascism in Italian Cinema since 1945 (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013), 23. Glenda Sluga, “Trieste: Ethnicity and the Cold War, 1945–54,” Journal of Contemporary ­History 29, no. 2 (1994): 286, http://www.jstor.org/stable/260891 According to Suzanne Knittel, The Historical Uncanny: Disability, Ethnicity, and the Politics of Holocaust Memory (New York: Fordham University Press, 2015), the name ‘Giulia’ could be a metaphor for the Venezia Giulia region that was ‘raped’ by Yugoslavia.

The Foibe War Narrative

39

the “superstitious Slav.”33 When Marta’s young son climbs down into the foiba to search for her body, the dying dog’s whimpering is heard; a detail that adds pathos to the scene. “Slavs” are depersonalized and depicted as merciless killers of innocent people and animals; they are the antiheroes that embody the opposite of traditional Italian values such as religion and family. Anja, the sympathetic “Slav,” does not embody heroism through death; instead, she does so by crossing over to the Italian side, literally and symbolically. In the final scene, the film score is silenced and the picture turns to grainy black-and-white, mimicking archival footage. At this point the viewers see Anja, the Italian children she cares for, and a long procession of women and children carrying bundled possessions down the hilly landscape towards the sea. Their objective is to board a ship bound for Italy after Italy’s loss of Istria. By joining the esuli, as she ushers the children to safety, Anja leaves her “Slav” antihero heritage behind and joins Italy, the world of the hero. To be a “good Slav” she must become Italian. This final scene reinforces the construction of, and underscores the difference between, the hero and antihero depicted in the film. Ironically, the film’s lack of historical accuracy is irrelevant to its ­purpose. Italy’s then minister of telecommunications Maurizio Gasparri stated ­ in an interview that a fictional story was more effective than an actual ­documentary because it would “play to the emotional sensibilities of the viewers.”34 The film’s portrayal of Catholic suffering and Holocaust imagery intertwine to elicit emotion; they also mask its political roots as a project commissioned by the ultra-right AN. Il Cuore nel Pozzo is, as Lichtner put it, an “old-fashioned historical melodrama”35 whose heroic characters triumph over tragedy and escape the antihero by adhering to conservative Italian values and beliefs. When Napolitano invited the nation to join to commemorate the victims of the foibe, he publicly restated the construction of heroes and antiheroes as depicted in Il Cuore nel Pozzo and in many other foibe narratives. He described the foibe as “one of the most barbaric episodes of the last century,” divorcing 33

The stereotype is that Slavic people believe that killing a black dog absolves the killer from guilt and prevents the souls of corpses from being admitted to heaven. See Antonio Burigo, “La Questione delle Foibe del Settembre-Ottobre 1943 e del Maggio-Giugno 1945. Analisi ­critica della storiografia in lingua italiana e del termine ‘infoibati’.” Annali di Studi ­Istriani e Mediterranei 15, no. 2 (2005), 314. Cernigoi (Operazione ‘Foibe’) and Burigo, among ­others, find no evidence that black dogs were thrown into any foibe. 34 Susanne Knittel, “Memory Redux: The Foibe on Italian Television,” The Italianist 34, no. 2 (2014): 171 doi: 10.1179/0261434014Z.00000000071> 35 Lichtner, Fascism in Italian Cinema, 23.

40

Zamparutti

the events from their military and political context while referencing stereotypes of “Slavs” as brutal people driven by blind ideology. Additionally, he presented the foibe and esodo as symbolic threats to the modern European values of democracy, justice, and freedom by contrasting the notion of a reborn, modern Europe with barbaric episodes of the past: “[i]n Europe is born the refusal of aggressive and oppressive nationalism, from that expressed in the Fascist war to that expressed in the wave of Yugoslav terror in Venezia Giulia, a Europe that excludes, naturally, also every form of revanchism.”36 By a­ cknowledging the “Fascist war,” Napolitano might have implied a diplomatic admittance of guilt. Yet a closer look at the nomination and predication strategies he employed reveals a perspective of moral superiority and a reference to stereotypes. “­Fascist war” functions as a nomination strategy that reduces more than two decades of oppression and violence perpetrated by the Fascist regime into a singular event, a war, placed within the constructs of modern military and political systems. The term also distances Fascism from Italians. By describing the foibe as the “wave of Yugoslav terror,” Napolitano suggested an unbounded barrage of horror outside the realm of modern society. The term conjures images of summary executions, torrents of blood, and the abandonment of all forms of justice and law. More importantly, he directly linked these actions to the “Slavs.” Moreover, Napolitano implied that the foibe were acts of revenge, summoned by primitive urges that modern Europe has long overcome. In his speech Napolitano also praised Italy for uncovering the “conspiracy of silence” of the foibe. The “conspiracy of silence” is a nomination strategy that implies a conspirator who kept the foibe hidden from the Italian public; yet it remains unclear whether Napolitano was suggesting that this ­conspiracy was the work of the “Slavs” or of the Italian left. Ironically, both implications, in addition to being unsound, placed Napolitano in a difficult diplomatic position.37 Implicating the Italian left might have gained him points with the right by hinting at an apology for his former role as a long-time leader of Italy’s communist party. In fact, “the predictable reaction from the Right was that Napolitano’s speech was ‘courageous.’”38 Yet the phrase “conspiracy of silence,” voiced in conjunction with terms such as “summary and tumultuous justice,” “a nationalistic paroxysm,” and “an annexationist slav [sic] plan” 36 37

38

Giorgio Napolitano, “Intervento del Presidente della Repubblica”. The statement is unsound because Napolitano implied that it was the Italians who ­discovered the foibe; yet it is in Slovenia that numerous excavations of caves containing mass graves have been and still are being conducted. Conversely, no recent organized excavation missions have been performed in Italy. Franzinetti, “The Rediscovery,” 90.

The Foibe War Narrative

41

only exacerbated tensions with Slovenia and Croatia. Croatia’s then-president Stjepan Mesić publicly accused Napolitano of “overt racism, historical revisionism, and political revanchism.”39 Napolitano finished the speech with an additional effort towards ­diplomacy, stating “we are engaged in Europe to recognize Slovenia as an amicable partner and Croatia as a new candidate to enter the European Union.” Although well-­ intentioned, this assertion too reveals a perspective of assumed ­superiority, placing Italians, as established EU members, in the loftier moral position to graciously admit the “Slavs” into the EU despite their barbaric past. ­Throughout the speech, by using nomination strategies that shifted the question of the foibe from a political to an ethnic issue, the Italian president marginalized ­Fascist war crimes and, at the same time, justified his public acceptance of the AN’s interpretation of the foibe. He aimed to de-politicize the foibe by labeling ­antiheroes in ethnic terms. Not surprisingly, the narrative he endorsed only sharpened partisan divides within Italy and offended Italy’s neighbours to the east. The Foiba di Basovizza monument was inaugurated as an official national memorial in 2007. This memory site was once associated with the AN and various ultra-nationalist organizations around Trieste, but its designation as a national memorial normalized its narrative into a seemingly non-political representation of Italy’s Second World War memory. Yet the site was re-launched into the political scene at the annual foibe commemoration on February 10, 2019. At that time European Parliament President Antonio Tajani stated that “thousands of innocent victims [were] killed for being Italians,”40 and declared “[l]ong live Trieste, long live Italian Istria, long live Italian Dalmatia, long live ­Italian exiles.”41 During the course of the same ceremony, Italy’s Interior ­Minister Matteo Salvini equated “the children who died at Auschwitz [with] the children who died at Basovizza.”42 These comments were criticized by the prime ministers of both Slovenia and Croatia, as well as by Slovenian President Borut Pahor, and Slovenia’s European Commissioner, Violeta Bulc. The

39 40 41 42

Susanne Knittel, The Historical Uncanny, 312, n. 5. “Slovenia accuses Tajani, Salvini of World War II Revisionism,” Euractiv, February 12, 2019. https://www.euractiv.com/section/eu-elections-2019/news/slovenia-accuses-tajani -salvini-of-world-war-ii-revisionism/ Jacopo Barigazzi, “Slovenian, Croatian Leaders Accuse Tajani of ‘Historical Revisionism’,” Politico, February 11, 2019, https://www.politico.eu/article/slovenian-croatian-leaders. “Slovenia accuses Tajani.”

42

Zamparutti

comments also prompted lawmakers from both Slovenia and Croatia to call for Tajani’s resignation, which he refused.43 Like Il Cuore nel Pozzo, the Foiba di Basovizza monument presents a fiction that appeals to visitors through emotion; it is a fictionalized foiba with imagined contents. And like Il Cuore nel Pozzo, Napolitano’s speech, Tajani’s comments, along with many other examples of foibe narratives, the memorial evokes nomination strategies that justify positive-hero and negative-antihero characterizations of the two polarized “ethnic” groups: “Italians” and “Slavs.” The memorial was constructed over a mine shaft that has been out of use since the early 1900s;it is not a foiba at all. Although it is p ­ resented as the burial ground of Italian foibe victims, the pit’s contents are unknown. This is openly stated in the brochure available at the Documentation Center. Specifically, the document states that “between 1953 and 1954 the Cavazoni company reclaimed metal scraps from the bottom of the shaft without coming across any human remains.”44 The pit had been used as a landfill for a nearby oil refinery, but in the immediate post-war years, local nationalist groups, priests, and right-wing political actors promoted the idea that it was the site of Italian victims of Yugoslavian violence. Exhumations were contended to be ­impossible and the pit was permanently sealed in 1959, thus finalizing the impossibility of excavations.45 Discussions about its contents leveraged the notion of possibility: “The unclear situation provided any political group the ammunition to speculate and promote the best fitting plot to suit their interests.”46 The plot that gained the most traction with the local public 43 44 45

46

Una Hajdari, “E.U. Parliament Chief Asked to Step Down Over Divisive Remarks,” NY Times, February 19, 2019, https://www.nytimes.com/2019/02/19/world/europe/slove nia-croatia-italy-provocation.html “Foiba di Basovizza: Monumento nazionale,” Documentation Center Brochure (Trieste: Lega Nazionale, n.d.). The impossibility of excavation and the unknown number of foibe that exist are central arguments supporting the narrative of an Italian genocide. Yet exhumations have been carried out in caves throughout Slovenia; from them corpses have been identified to be of multiple origins in the former Yugoslavian Republic (Slovenians, Croatians, Macedonians, Bosnian Muslims, etc.). Information on these excavation missions was provided by Dr. Andrej Mihevc, a lead geologist and speleologist conducting the missions, in an interview at the Karst Research Institute in Postojna, Slovenia, August 8, 2017, and in a series of subsequent interviews in October 2018. I also witnessed excavation missions in various locations in Slovenia in November 2018. These findings contradict the notion of “ethnic cleansing” andof an exclusivelyItalian genocide. Gaetano Dato, “Foiba of Basovizza: The Pit, the Monument, the Memory, and the Unknown Victim. 1945–1965,” West Croatian History Journal. 8 (2013): 42, chrome-exten sion://efaidnbmnnnibpcajpcglclefindmkaj/https://core.ac.uk/download/pdf/33283618 .pdf

The Foibe War Narrative

43

was the idea that the B ­ asovizza pit was a mass burial ground for Italians ­martyred at the hands of “Slavs.” According to Dickenson, Blair, and Ott, memory places exert control over audiences in especially powerful ways. A memory place “announces itself as a marker of collective identity”47 and “because of their place-ness, m ­ emory places mobilize power in ways not always available with other memory techné.”48 The “foiba” of Basovizza cements a specific rendition of Italy’s World War II memory and of Italian identity in a border region characterized by multiple versions of memory and multiple identities. The region is scattered with citizen-organized, thus unofficial, Second World War monuments. In fact, memorials to anti-Fascist partisans stand alongside memorials to Fascist soldiers. In this area, “remembrance was ritualized by local communities rather than by official memorialization and the monument in the main square embodied the cultural memory of the community.”49 Still, the Basovizza “foiba” is the only site in the area that has received official designation as a national monument. In addition to the Italian versus “Slav” denomination, the terms “genocide,” “ethnic cleansing,” and “holocaust,” etched into headstones and printed in publicity materials in the Documentation Center, work as nomination strategies that equate the foibe to the Nazi Holocaust. Words that reference Catholic themes of suffering, sacrifice, and martyrdom are predication strategies that credit Italians with moral superiority along with innocence and sacrificial ­heroism. Some examples of etchings on the headstones include: In ricordo del martirio dei fratelli infoibati Onore e cristiana pietà a coloro che qui sono caduti il loro sacrificio ricordi agli uomini le vie della giustizia e dell’amore, sulle quali fiorisce la vera pace Con fierezza il martirio delle stragi e delle foibe non rinunciando a manifestare attivamente il suo attaccamento alla patria a ricordo e monito del loro supremo olocausto 47

Greg Dickenson, Carole Blair, and Brian L. Ott, Introduction to Places of Public Memory: The Rhetoric of Museums and Memorials, ed. Greg Dickenson et al. (Tuscaloosa: University of Alabama Press, 2010), 25. 48 Dickenson, Places of Public Memory, 29. 49 Borut Klabjan, “’Our Victims Define Our Borders’: Commemorating Yugoslav Partisans in the Italo-Yugoslav Borderland,” East European Politics and Societies and Cultures 31.2 (2016): 296) doi: 10.1177/0888325416678041.

44

Zamparutti

In memory of the martyrdom of our infoibati brothers Honor and Christian mercy to those fallen here, may their sacrifice remind men of the road of justice and love, on which flourishes true peace With pride the martyr of the slaughters of the foibe does not cease to show his devotion to his homeland, in memory and in admonishment of their supreme holocaust A video that plays constantly in the Documentation Center features nostalgic testimonials regarding Italian Istria. It paints a picture of the “Slavs” not only as merciless killers of Italian civilians, but also as invaders of the Italian homeland. As Wodak states, “protecting the fatherland (or heartland, homeland) implies belief in a common narrative of the past, where ‘we’ were either heroes or victims of evil.”50 The construction of the “Italian” as the “we” and as both hero and victim is based upon an exclusive notion of what it means to be Italian. This notion of italianità or “true” Italian identity can be seen in the many esodo narratives that reminisce about the beautiful Istrian I­talian houses, whose white, porcelain-like exteriors mirror the beauty of Istrian women’s clear, white skin.51 These nostalgic portrayals of Istria and Italians as embodiments of a specific type of beauty are placed in opposition to stereotypes of Slavic aggression, expansionism, and bellicosity. “Slavs” as antiheroes are presented not only as thieves of Italian territory and property, but also as thieves of Italian beauty and values. The perceived threat to the notion of “pure” Italian identity is reinforced in the figure of the tragic heroine Norma Cossetto. Although the validity of her story is contested by some, it is described in various Documentation Center materials and in many foibe narratives and social media pages.52 She appears in Arrigo Petacco’s Esodo: la tragedia degli italiani d’Istria, Dalmazia e Venezia 50 51

52

Ruth Wodak, “The ‘Establishment’,” 555. See for example Nata in Istria (Milan: Rizzoli, 2005), in which author Anna Maria Mori writes: “Beautiful like porcelain; there was an exceptional transparency in her youthful beauty […] as for many of us, her house is no longer her house (who knows how it ended up) […] it was a large, elegant house […] And for some mysterious reason, the houses almost always resembled the people who lived there. And this house, simultaneously sturdy and beautiful, with a particular nobility that was not at all pretentious, really resembled her” (215–17). See Cernigoi Operazione ‘foibe,’ Kersevan “L’aggressione alla Jugoslavia ed il sistema dei campi di concentramento fascisti”; and Volk “Foibe ed esodo, un binomio da sciogliere”

The Foibe War Narrative

45

Giulia (2000), Giuseppina Mellace’s Una Grande Tragedia Dimenticata (2014), and Frediano Sessi’s Foibe Rosse: Vita di Norma Cossetto uccisa in Istria nel ’43 (2007), the latter of which has been transposed into a stage play. She is also the subject of the graphic novel Foiba rossa: Norma Cossetto, storia di un’italiana written by Emanuele Merlino and Beniamino Delvecchio (2018). Depictions of her life as a university student, paired with those of her father as a high-­ranking political officer, conjure up the idea of an aristocratic background; yet they omit any mention of the Fascist political system in which her father worked. Her capture, torture, and death at the hands of “Slavs” is described as a sacrifice: she died “per l’italianità dell’Istria.”53 As an embodiment of traditional Italian values, she is a character with whom audiences empathize. Indeed, she brings into sharp focus the terrifying antihero, the foreign invader who threatens to destroy the purity of Italian identity and the sanctity of the Italian homeland. Foibe narratives, with their simplified vision of a binary conflict that constructs a “true” or “pure” Italian as the hero in contrast to a de-personalized and threatening Slavic antihero, are eerily similar to many current examples of ­public discourse that define citizenship and belonging in terms of ethnic purity and blood kinship. Like foibe narratives, many current discourses produce ­antiheroes by employing nomination and predication strategies that organise people into discrete, neatly-boundaried categories; designate land as rightfully belonging to one singularly named population group; and stir up nostalgia to produce resentment for perceived loss. These tactics were evident in ­Tajani’s comments at Basovizza, and again in statements he made less than one month later praising Mussolini. Tajani was reported as stating that “if we must be honest, he built roads, bridges, buildings [...] he reclaimed many parts of our Italy.”54 His words show that he, yet again, referenced Istria and Dalmatia as “reclaimed” Italian territory that had been lost. Political leaders responded with outrage, but the ensuing Twitter storm included significant support for Tajani in favor of presenting Mussolini as an Italian hero. While Tajani exemplifies an institutional public voice pushing for a shift in Italy’s Second World War hero/antihero narrative, social media sites are a more fluid and volatile platform for manipulating understandings of heroes and antiheroes in public memory.

53 54

(proceedings from conference “Foibe, revisionismo di stato e amnesie della repubblica,” 9 February 2008). Arrigo Petacco, Esodo: la tragedia degli italiani d’Istria, Dalmazia e Venezia Giulia (Milan: Mondadori, 2000), 62. Jacopo Barigazzi, “Tajani Under Fire for Mussolini Comments,” Politico, March 13, 2019, https://www.politico.eu/article/slovenian-croatian-leaders.

46

Zamparutti

As Madeleine Albright put it: “the whole notion of pure blood is laughable, but that does not stop tribal instincts and their accompanying national mythologies from exercising a powerful sway over behaviour.”55 We are faced with an increasing number of public venues and social media platforms circulating discourse that produces heroes and antiheroes in order to enact notions of “pure blood”; and these discourses can powerfully influence behaviour. The task at hand is to discover ways to counter this rhetoric of exclusivity with ­conversations that can better equip us to understand our world of changing and moving populations, as well as to understand our own individual and ­multifaceted identities. Bibliography Albright, Madeleine. Fascism: A Warning. New York: Harper Collins, 2018. Anderson, Benedict. Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism. London: Verso, 2006. Barigazzi, Jacopo. “Slovenian, Croatian Leaders Accuse Tajani of ‘Historical Revisionism’.” Politico, February 11, 2019. https://www.politico.eu/article/slovenian-croatian -leaders. Barigazzi, Jacopo. “Tajani Under Fire for Mussolini Comments.” Politico, March 13, 2019. https://www.politico.eu/article/antonio-tajani-european-parliament-italy-under -fire-for-benito-mussolini-comments/. Bucholtz, Mary and Kira Hall. “Identity and Interaction: A Sociocultural Linguistic Approach.” Discourse Studies 7, no. 4–5 (2005): 585–614. doi: 10.1177 /1461445605054407. Burigo, Antonio. “La questione delle foibe del settembre-ottobre 1943 e del maggio -giugno 1945. Analisi critica della storiografia in lingua italiana e del termine ‘­infoibati’.” Annali di studi istriani e mediterranei 15, no. 2 (2005): 309–26. UDC 930.2 3:343.337.4(450.36:497.4)”1943/1945” Burlein, Ann. “Countermemory on the Right: The Case of Focus on the Family.” In Acts of Memory: Cultural Recall in the Present. Ed. Mieke Bal, Jonathan Crewe, and Leo Spitzer, 208–17. Hanover, NH: University Press of New England, 1999. Cernigoi, Claudia. Operazione ‘foibe’. Tra storia e mito. Udine: Kappa Vu, 2012. Cooke, Philip. The Legacy of the Italian Resistance. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011.

55

Madeleine Albright, Fascism: A Warning (New York: Harper Collins, 2018), 178.

The Foibe War Narrative

47

Dato, Gaetano. “Foiba of Basovizza: The Pit, the Monument, the Memory, and the Unknown Victim. 1945–1965.” West Croatian History Journal 8 (2013): 35–62. https:// hrcak.srce.hr/143902. Dickenson, Greg, Carole Blair and Brian Ott. Introduction to Places of Public Memory: The Rhetoric of Museums and Memorials. Ed. Greg Dickenson, Carole Blair, and Brian Ott, 1–56. Tuscaloosa: University of Alabama Press, 2010. ‘Foiba di Basovizza: Monumento nazionale’, Documentation Center Brochure. Trieste: Lega Nazionale, n.d. Foot, John. Italy’s Divided Memory. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009. Franzinetti, Guido. “The rediscovery of the Istrian Foibe.” JGKS, History and Culture of South Eastern Europe 8, (2006): 85–98. Geddes, Andrew and Andrew Taylor. “Those Who Knock on Europe’s Door Must Repent? Bilateral Border Disputes and EU Enlargement.” Political Studies 64, no. 4 (2016): 930–947. doi: 10.1111/1467-9248.12218. Gobbi, Romolo. Una revisione della Resistenza. Milan: RCS Libri, 1999. Hajdari, Una. “E.U. Parliament Chief Asked to Step Down Over Divisive Remarks.” NY Times, February 19, 2019. https://www.nytimes.com/2019/02/19/world/europe/slo venia-croatia-italy-provocation.html. Halbwachs, Maurice. The Collective Memory. Trans. Mary Douglas. New York: Harper and Row, 1950. Hametz, Maura. Making Trieste Italian: 1918–1954. Rochester, NY: The Boydell Press, 2005. Kersevan, Alessandra. “L’aggressione alla Jugoslavia ed il sistema dei campi di concentramento fascisti.” In proceedings from conference “Foibe, revisionismo di stato e amnesie della repubblica,” 9 February 2008, 31–40. Udine: Kappa Vu, 2008. Klabjan, Borut. “’Our Victims Define Our Borders’: Commemorating Yugoslav Partisans in the Italo-Yugoslav Borderland.” East European Politics and Societies and Cultures 31, no. 2 (2016): 290–310. doi: 10.1177/0888325416678041. Knittel, Susanne. The Historical Uncanny: Disability, Ethnicity, and the Politics of ­Holocaust Memory. New York: Fordham University Press, 2015. Knittel, Susanne. “Memory Redux: The Foibe on Italian Television.” The Italianist 34, no. 2 (2014): 170–185. doi: 10.1179/0261434014Z.00000000071. Lichtner, Giacomo. Fascism in Italian Cinema since 1945. London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013. Mellace, Giuseppina. Una grande tragedia dimenticata: La vera storia delle foibe. Rome: Newton Compton, 2014. Merlino, Emanuele, and Beniamino Delvecchio. Foiba rossa. Norma Cossetto, storia di un’italiana. Milan: Ferrogallico, 2018. Mori, Anna Maria. Nata in Istria. Milan: Rizzoli, 2005.

48

Zamparutti

Napolitano, Giorgio. “Intervento del Presidente della Repubblica, Giorgio Napolitano, in occasione della celebrazione del ‘Giorno del ricordo’.” https://archivio .quirinale.it/aspr/audiovideo/AV-001-001017/presidente/giorgio-napolitano/inter vento-del-presidente-della-repubblica-giorgio-napolitano-occasione-della-cele brazione-del-giorno-del-ricordo Negrin, Alberto. Il cuore nel pozzo. Italy: Rai Fiction, Rizzoli Audiovisivi, 2005. Oliva, Gianni. Foibe: Le stragi negate degli Italiani della Venezia Giulia e dell’Istria. Milan: Mondadori, 2002. Pansa, Giampaolo. I cari estinti. Faccia a faccia con quarant’anni di politica italiana. Milan: Rizzoli, 2010. Pansa, Giampaolo. Il sangue dei vinti. Milan: Sperling & Kupfer, 2003. Pavone, Claudio. Una guerra civile. Saggio storico sulla moralità nella Resistenza. Turin: Bollati Boringhieri, 1991. Petacco, Arrigo. Esodo: La tragedia degli italiani d’Istria, Dalmazia e Venezia Giulia. Milan: Mondadori, 2000. Reisigl, Martin and Ruth Wodak. Discourse and Discrimination: Rhetorics of Racism and Antisemitism. New York: Routledge, 2012. Ricoeur, Paul. Memory, History, Forgetting. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2004. Sessi, Frediano. Foibe Rosse. Vita di Norma Cossetto uccisa in Istria nel ‘43. Venice: ­Marsilio, 2007. “Slovenia accuses Tajani, Salvini of World War II Revisionism.” Euractiv, February 12, 2019. https://www.euractiv.com/section/eu-elections-2019/news/slovenia-accus�es-tajani-salvini-of-world-war-ii-revisionism/ Sluga, Glenda. The Problem of Trieste and the Italo-Yugoslav Border: Difference, Identity and Sovereignty in Twentieth-Century Europe. Albany: State University of New York Press, 2001. Sluga, Glenda. “Trieste: Ethnicity and the Cold War, 1945–54.” Journal of Contemporary History 29, no. 2 (1994): 285–303. http://www.jstor.org/stable/260891 Toth, Lucio. “Sulle foibe in Venezia Giulia e in Dalmazia (1943–1950).” Clio: Rivista ­trimestriale di studi storici, 42, no. 2 (2006): 319–347. Volk, Sandi., “Foibe ed esodo, un binomio da sciogliere.” In proceedings from conference “Foibe, revisionismo di stato e amnesie della repubblica,” 9 February 2008, 57–66. Udine: Kappa Vu, 2008. Wodak, Ruth, Rudolf de Cillia, Martin Reisigl, Karin Liebhart. The Discursive Construction of National Identity. Trans. Angelika Hirsch, Richard Mitten, and J.W. Unger. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1999. Wodak, Ruth, Rudolf de Cillia, Martin Reisigl, Karin Liebhart. “The Discourse-­Historical Approach.” In Methods of Critical Discourse Analysis. Ed. Ruth Wodak and Michael Meyer, 63–94. London: Sage Publications, 2001.

The Foibe War Narrative

49

Wodak, Ruth, Rudolf de Cillia, Martin Reisigl, Karin Liebhart. The Discourse of Politics in Action: Politics as Usual. Basingstoke: Palgrave, 2011. Wodak, Ruth, Rudolf de Cillia, Martin Reisigl, Karin Liebhart. The Politics of Fear: What Right-Wing Populist Discourses Mean. London: Sage Publications, 2015. Wodak, Ruth, Rudolf de Cillia, Martin Reisigl, Karin Liebhart. “The ‘Establishment’, the ‘Élites’, and the ‘People’: Who’s who?” Journal of Language and Politics 16, no. 4 (2017): 551–565. doi: 10.1075/jlp.17030.wod. Wodak, Ruth, Rudolf de Cillia, Martin Reisigl, Karin Liebhart and Salomi Boukala. “(Supra)National Identity and Language: Rethinking National and European ­Migration Policies and Linguistic Integration of Migrants.” Annual Review of Applied Linguistics 35 (2015): 253–273. doi:10.1017/ S026719051400029 4. Wolff, Larry. “Revising Eastern Europe: Memory and the Nation in Recent Historiography.” The Journal of Modern History 78, no. 1 (2006): 93–118. doi: 10.1086/499796

Chapter 3

Margherita Marchione as Antihero for Italian Jews: A Complex Message of Hope Lisa Vitale Abstract Lisa Vitale discusses the intellectual contribution of historian and apologist Margherita Marchione in redefining the role of Pius XII during the atrocities of the Nazi Holocaust by means of personal narratives of the Sisters of St Lucy Filippini (of which ­Marchione was a member) and the Jewish refugees they sheltered, including the prominent Roman Di Veroli family. The chapter paints a multi-faceted, and sometimes contradictory, picture of Catholic charity during those turbulent and confusing times. Despite Marchione’s defense of Vatican (in-)action during the mass extermination of the Jews, she brings a message of hope to today’s Jewish Italian citizens.

As the polarized debates about the Vatican’s plan of action during the ­Holocaust continues without a conclusive resolution, one scholar’s contribution departs from the standard rhetoric that, in light of the depth and breadth of her past scholarship, contrasts subtly with her message. Margherita Marchione, professor emerita of Italian Language and Literature at Farleigh Dickinson University, is one of the leading apologists for the conduct of Pius XII during the atrocities of the Nazi Holocaust. Her publications1 on the subject clearly champion Pius XII’s disposition and leadership, and she relies heavily on memoirs, newspaper articles, letters, and other non-scholarly primary sources to support her view.

1 Including Yours Is a Precious Witness: Memoirs of Jews and Catholic in Wartime Italy (1997); Pope Pius XII: Architect for Peace (2000); Consensus & Controversy: Defending Pope Pius XII (New York: Paulist Press, 2002); Man of Peace. Pope Pius XII (2002); Crusade of Charity. Pius XII and pow (1939–1945) (2006); Did Pope Pius XII Help the Jews? (2007); The Truth Will Set You Free. Commemorating the 50th Anniversary of the Death of Pope Pius XII (2008); Pope Pius XII. History and Hagiography (2010). The majority of these titles were published with ­Paulist Press, a publisher of Catholic materials. By contrast, Marchione’s scholarship on other topics was printed by academic, peer-reviewed publishers, including Rowman & Littlefield, ­Cengage, and Farleigh Dickinson UP. © Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2023 | DOI:10.1163/9789004548145_005

Margherita Marchione as Antihero for Italian Jews

51

Margherita Marchione’s intellectual interest and investment in Pope Pius XII’s case stemmed from her connections with other sisters of the Religious Teachers Filippini. Born in New Jersey to Italian immigrants in 1922, ­Marchione joined the Religious Teachers Filippini in 1941, an order of Roman Catholic nuns dedicated to teaching. The convents of the Filippini Sisters in Rome between 1943–1945 provided shelter and new identities to their Jewish neighbors during Nazi-occupied Rome. During this time, Marchione admits that, though it was “a momentous period in history,” she “was ignorant of these horrors and, like so many Americans, was indifferent to the pain and suffering of so many people.”2 As she states in her autobiography The Fighting Nun, Marchione’s first provincial superior when she was a novice, Mother Teresa Saccucci, left for Rome and was Superior General there through the Second World War.3 Later, in 1994, ­Marchione got to know some of her order’s sisters in Rome who recounted their memories from the war, out of which flowed the collection of stories in Yours is a Precious Witness.4 In 1997, Marchione relates that she “came across a rare book” titled La Chiesa e la Guerra, and comments that “this out-of-print book, published in 1944, described the help given by the Religious Teachers Filippini”5 and the Superior General—Mother Teresa Saccucci. The volume states that the Religious Teachers Filippini helped the pope in the Information Bureau of the Vatican Secretariat of State. Included in the book is an interview with the Superior General who worked in the Information Bureau. Five or six sisters had been entrusted with the work of responding to the letters from prisoners of war and the needy. The Superior General said, “I did all I could to satisfy the Pope’s wishes. The work had to be kept secret.”6 After speaking with survivors and coming across this book, Marchione became even more interested in the Vatican and the Second World War. As methodical and detailed as Marchione is in building her case and ­documenting sources, her work on the subject has not been viewed favorably by some scholars. It is nigh impossible to find a scholar who comes from a neutral perspective, and who has dedicated oneself to investigating this highly sensitive and charged topic objectively. Sister Margherita Marchione is no exception. To illustrate the deeply polemical nature of the topic, it suffices to refer to two footnotes in Susan Zuccotti’s article “Pope Pius XII and the Rescue of Jews 2 Margherita Marchione, The Fighting Nun: My Story (New York: Cornwall Books, 2000), 155. 3 Marchione, The Fighting Nun, 40. 4 Marchione, The Fighting Nun, 41. 5 Marchione, The Fighting Nun, 41. 6 Marchione, The Fighting Nun, 41–42.

52

Vitale

in Italy: Evidence of a Papal Directive?”7 wherein the author divides historians by their stance on the topic. In an atmosphere where there is no middle ground, to address the issue of the Church in the Second World War is to necessarily place oneself in opposition to the other viewpoint: in Marchione’s case, to be in opposition to those researchers who have denounced Pius XII and the Church as not having done enough to curb the Shoah. Some of these same researchers place the bulk of the blame of the ‘Final Solution’ on Christianity for its association with theological, historical antisemitism and extend it to the rise of the peculiar strain of Nazi antisemitism.8 In this sense, Margherita Marchione serves as an anti-hero to the members of the Jewish community, past and present, who do not share her perspective 7 Susan Zuccotti, “Pope Pius XII and the Rescue of Jews in Italy: Evidence of a Papal Directive?” Holocaust and Genocide Studies 18.2 (2004) 255–273, footnote 2: “A partial list of papal supporters published in English would include Pierre Blet, S. J., Pius XII and the Second World War: According to the Archives of the Vatican, trans. Lawrence J. Johnson (New York: P ­ aulist Press, 1999); essays by Robert A. Graham, S. J., and Joseph L. Lichten in Pius XII and the ­Holocaust: A Reader (Milwaukee: Catholic League for Religious and Civil Rights, 1988 ); Lapide, Three Popes and the Jews (New York: Hawthorn Books, 1967); Sister Margherita Marchione, Yours Is a Precious Witness: Memoirs of Jews and Catholics in Wartime Italy (New York: Paulist Press, 1997) and Pope Pius XII: Architect for Peace (New York: Paulist Press, 2000); Ralph McInerny, The Defamation of Pius XII (South Bend: St. Augustine’s Press, 2001); and Ronald J. Rychlak, Hitler, the War, and the Pope (Columbus, MS: Genesis, 2000), footnote 7. Recent books critical of Pius XII’s response to the Holocaust include James Carroll, Constantine’s Sword: The Church and the Jews: A History (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 2000); John Cornwell, Hitler’s Pope: The Secret History of Pius XII (New York: Viking, 1999); Daniel Goldhagen, A Moral Reckoning: The Role of the Catholic Church in the Holocaust and Its Unfulfilled Duty of Repair (New York: Knopf, 2002); David Kertzer, The Popes against the Jews: The Vatican’s Role in the Rise of Modern Anti-Semitism (New York: Knopf, 2001); Michael Phayer, The Catholic Church and the Holocaust, 1930–1965 (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2000); Garry Wills, Papal Sin: Structures of Deceit (New York: Doubleday, 2000); and Susan Zuccotti, Under His Very Windows: The Vatican and the Holocaust in Italy (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2000).” 8 “Even if it were possible to see pre-Nazi antisemitism as a ‘background’ of sorts to what subsequently happened in Germany, this background does not offer an explanation of what happened there. After all, the policy of extermination came into effect after the outbreak of the Second World War, not beforehand or afterward. It took place within the boundaries of the Third Reich and not anywhere else. If ‘modern’ antisemitism was in fact a source of what took place during the Nazi era, we must demonstrate that there was something different about it than what characterized antisemitism throughout the previous generations, since it is only in this case that the affair ended so terribly; whereas, what is unique to ‘modern’ antisemitism cannot really be transmitted – it is manifested only in the context of that period.” (­Shulamit Volkov, in Walter Zwi Bacharach, ed., “Antisemitism, Holocaust, and the Holy See: An Appraisal of New Books About the Vatican and the Holocaust,” Trans. Martin Friedlander. Yad Vashem Studies XXXI, Jerusalem 2003, 385)

Margherita Marchione as Antihero for Italian Jews

53

on the Vatican’s conduct during that turbulent period: she is a defender of a Church and papacy that critics view as deeply flawed, and as such, she is in turn viewed with skepticism. Yet, her works bear witness to the sacrifices that many members of the Church—whether under explicit papal directive or not—made for their Jewish brethren. Her documentation of the personal experiences of Jewish Italians and those who came to their aid in the early 1940s fulfills both the directive to “never forget,” and historian Shimon Dubnov’s exhortation, “Yidden, shreibt un fershreibt.”9 Marchione, in her copious writings on Pius XII, exemplifies the entreaty in Deuteronomy frequently cited in Jewish writing about the Shoah: Take care and be earnestly on your guard not to forget the things which your own eyes have seen, nor let them slip from your memory as long as you live but teach them to your children and to your children’s children. (Deuteronomy 4:9) The exhortation to remember is further developed by Primo Levi’s description of a visceral need to make ‘others’ participants in the memory, so much so that it becomes one of the basic human needs: The need to tell our story to ‘the rest’, to make ‘the rest’ participate in it, had taken on for us, before our liberation and after, the character of an immediate and violent impulse, to the point of competing with our other elementary needs. Il bisogno di raccontare agli “altri”, di fare gli “altri” partecipi, aveva assunto fra noi, prima della liberazione e dopo, il carattere di un impulso immediato e violento, tanto da rivaleggiare con gli altri bisogni ­elementari.10 “Do not forget,” admonishes the writer of Deuteronomy. Primo Levi, in relating the horrors of the Holocaust, took to heart this last line from the Shemà. Tell others what you’ve seen and experienced so the memory can persist down through the ages. More than seventy-five years after the Shoah, the newer

9 10

“Jews, write it all down.” Primo Levi, Se questo è un uomo, “Prefazione” (Turin: Einaudi, 2005) 9. Primo Levi. If This Is a Man/The Truce, trans. Stuart Woolf (London: Abacus, 2013) 15.

54

Vitale

generations are beginning to forget, even though historians are still grappling with explaining and understanding11 what led to its atrocities. Sadly, with the passage of time, society has not retained the memory of the Second World War and its atrocities. In an April 2018 survey conducted on Americans’ knowledge of the Holocaust, the findings are grim. Two-thirds of millennials and forty percent of Americans do not know what Auschwitz was. Twenty-two percent of millennials report they have never heard of, or are unsure if they have heard of, the Holocaust.12 Another poll conducted in Europe in November 2018 revealed that thirty-four percent of Europeans knew just a little, or haven’t heard at all, of the Holocaust.13 Coupled with the general population’s ignorance of history, the recent rise in the popularity of nationalism in France, Italy, the UK, and the USA, has helped foster further divisions. In an intellectual atmosphere where just about everything has become simplified, overgeneralized, and rigidly segregated into two opposing camps, there is no longer any room for gray, no room for nuanced reasoning. In sum, there is no room for a human element of imperfection or error. People are judged as eternally bad or good based on one action or word pronounced (‘cancel’ culture), and then shunned or praised accordingly. It is in this current, historically ignorant, society where stereotypes, generalizations, and even conspiracy theories thrive (“the Newtown massacre didn’t really happen”). Furthermore, individuals with personal experiences and life stories, are dismissed or applauded based on generalized identifiers and ­attributes thrust upon them by society’s narratives (“all white men are bad”; “all priests are pedophiles”; “all undocumented immigrants are violent gang members”). Likewise, many continue to use Hitler and the mass extermination of Jews as a backdrop to further support a separate agenda, which often has ­nothing to do with the Shoah itself. Once again, the Jews and the Church are used as a springboard for advancing dichotomized ideas to support an ingrained intolerance that only serves to prevent healing and reconciliation—in addition 11

12 13

Primo Levi addresses the issue of understanding the origins of the Shoah. Using the word comprendere, he comes to the conclusion that it is not possible – or desirable – to ­understand. Comprendere is etymologically related to contentare (to be content with) or abbracciare (to hug). Therefore, it is important to not understand, or be content with, what had happened. See Levi, Se questo è un uomo, 88 note 22. The poll was conducted by the Conference on Jewish Material Claims Against ­Germany; see Julie Zauzmer, “Holocaust Study: Two-thirds of millennials don’t know what A ­ uschwitz is,” The Washington Post, 12 Apr 2018. Survey by CNN/ComRes; see Eline Schaart, “Third of Europeans know little or nothing about Holocaust: poll,” 27 November 2018. https://www.politico.eu/article/holocaust-poll -third-of-europeans-know-little-or-nothing/

Margherita Marchione as Antihero for Italian Jews

55

to desecrating the dignity of the victims. Historical accuracy, and therefore truth, also suffers when it is mixed with opinion and an agenda. For example, Daniel Goldhagen, whose controversial essay “What Would Jesus Have Done” in The New Republic (January 21, 2001), had been previously criticized for his curious methodology, accused of misrepresentations and misinterpretations of sources, and of a distorted, “tunnel-vision” view of history. Indeed, a critic even goes so far to say that “Goldhagen’s book is worthless as scholarship” in reference to his Hitler’s Willing Executioners.14 It becomes immediately apparent that Goldhagen has a distorted view of antisemitism in the way he – without supporting evidence – conveniently ties each and every transgression committed against Jews throughout history – beginning with “the newly Christianized Roman Alexandria” that “annihilated the city’s ­Jewish community” – with the installation of Christianity. Curiously, there is no ­mention of Jewish persecution that pre-dates Christianity, such as when the Israelites were kept as slaves in Egypt. His grudge against the Church is clearly on display when he asserts at the end of the first section of his article, “the main responsibility for producing this all-time leading Western hatred [antisemitism] lies with Christianity. More specifically, with the Catholic Church.”15 Despite the author’s overt prejudice and single-minded agenda, Goldhagen raises some important questions which will be referenced throughout. Another controversial figure in the realm of Holocaust studies is the orthodox Jewish scholar and rabbi from Germany, Pinchas Lapide, born in 1922. He had an interest in promoting dialogue and unity between Christians and Jews as can be seen in his book The Resurrection of Jesus (translated and published in London in 1984), in which he claims the resurrection of Jesus is an historical event, but that he is not the Messiah. Lapide was consul general of Israel in Milan and met with many Jews who survived the Holocaust; on this he bases the often-contested data found in his 1967 study Three Popes and the Jews, wherein he claims Pius XII was responsible for saving as many as 850,000 Jews – a figure which has been neither proven nor disproved. His critics, including Robert Wistrich, one of the members of the joint commission formed to study the Vatican documents and professor of Modern Jewish and European History at the University of Jerusalem, has stated that Lapide is not a serious scholar. Susan Zuccotti, author of Under His Very Windows and lecturer in history at Barnard College and Trinity College, accuses Lapide of bizarre methodology and sloppy scholarship. 14 15

Norman Finkelstein, and Ruth Birn, A Nation on Trial, The Goldhagen Thesis and Historical Truth (New York: Henry Holt and Company, 1998), 7. Goldhagen, “What Would Jesus Have Done,” 21.

56

Vitale

Rabbi David Dalin, a scholar and historian who formerly taught at the ­Jewish Theological Seminary of America, astutely observes in his article “Pius XII and the Jews,” that the Catholic critics of Pius XII today are not ­criticizing the pope’s conduct during the war; rather, “[t]heir real topic proves to be an intra-Catholic argument about the direction of the Church today, with the Holocaust being simply the biggest club available for liberal Catholics to use against traditionalists.”16 He reiterates his opinion in asserting that “[t]here is a disturbing element in nearly all the current work on Pius [...] All are about using the sufferings of Jews fifty years ago to force changes upon the Catholic Church today.”17 Important also are the internal politics of beatification of Pius XII. Observers cast Pius XII, who did much to consolidate the power of the papacy, as a candidate of the Vatican conservatives who want to ­balance the beatification of John XXIII, who is revered by more liberal C ­ atholics. ­Margherita Marchione includes the above quotation within a lengthier one in Consensus and Controversy: Defending Pope Pius XII. She uses this to conclude that the pope was “a righteous gentile,” and that he “saved more Jewish lives than any other agency or individual, including Raoul Wallenberg and Oskar Schindler.”18 The hostility toward Pius XII was not borne out until the early 1960s. A group of priest historians were assigned to comb through Vatican documents relating to Pius XII’s actions in the war in reaction to a play Der Stellvertreter (The Deputy), written by a former member of the Hitler Youth, Rolf Hochhuth, and performed in 1963. The play was “fictional and highly polemical, claiming that Pius XII’s ­concern for Vatican finances left him indifferent to the destruction of European Jewry.”19 Out of this group of priests arose the eleven volumes of original documents Actes et Documents du Saint Siège relatif à la seconde guerre mondiale. According to Zuccotti, only a portion of the documents refers to Jews; most are letters between high officials. Since this was undertaken as an apologetic exercise, many scholars are dissatisfied with the selection of documents, which are seen as unbalanced in their views.20 However, as Marchione asserts in Pope Pius XII: Architect for Peace, the only surviving editor of the documents “rejects the accusation that Pius XII harbored sympathy for the German regime.”21 She exhorts scholars to use this compilation as a resource for scholarly studies on 16 Dalin, “Pius XII and the Jews,” The Weekly Standard, February 26, 2001, 32. 17 Dalin, “Pius XII and the Jews,” 39. 18 Marchione, Consensus, 61. 19 Dalin, “Pius XII and the Jews,” 31. 20 Zuccotti, “Pope Pius XII and the Rescue of Jews in Italy,” 6. 21 Pierre Blet, one of the four Jesuit editors. Marchione, Pope Pius XII Architect for Peace, 74.

Margherita Marchione as Antihero for Italian Jews

57

links between the pope and world Jewish leaders, as it contains diplomatic archives. In fact, Marchione includes over a hundred pages of documents from the Actes et Documents du Saint Siège relatif à la seconde guerre mondiale in the book’s appendix.22 Instead of engaging in the intricate web of politics that seems to reign over the issue of Pius XII, let us lay bare the historical facts surrounding the controversial pope and his stance toward the Holocaust, after which the situation in Italy will be analyzed through the prism of Marchione’s insights. In 1922 fascism became the ruling party in Italy with Mussolini as its head. It was also the first year of Pius XI’s papacy, and the last year for which the Vatican archives were open. Pius XI is not as controversial a figure as his follower. The pope in question, Pius XII, was born Eugenio Pacelli in 1876 near Rome and served as papal nuncio to Germany from 1918 until 1930, when he became Vatican Secretary of State. He was elected pope in March 1939. As Secretary of State, he signed a concordat with Germany, where Hitler had risen to power in January 1933. Six months later, the concordat between Nazi Germany and the Holy See was signed; it excluded the Church from the political realm while guaranteeing Catholics and their clerics the freedom of practicing their religion publicly. The Germans first violated the concordat five days later when the Nazi sterilization law was passed. Following this first violation, specific communities within the Church began to be targeted, beginning with the Catholic Youth League, extending to clergy and sisters in religious orders, with the goal of disbanding and persecuting its members. Partially in response to this violation, the encyclical Mit brennender Sorge (With Burning Anxiety) was promulgated by Pius XI on March 14, 1937. In it the pope explicitly states his abhorrence of Germany’s plans to re-create salvation history by excluding the Hebrew tradition.23 Another condemnation, this time for prejudice based on race, was forthcoming in the same document.24 The issuance of the encyclical underlined the true nature of the rapport between Nazi Germany and the Vatican. Franz von Papen, negotiator for the Reich, in 22 Marchione, Architect for Peace, 227–330. 23 “Whoever wishes to see banished from church and school the Biblical history and the wise doctrines of the Old Testament, blasphemes the name of God, blasphemes the Almighty’s plan of salvation, and makes limited and narrow human thought the judge of God’s designs over the history of the world,” Pius XI, Mit brennender Sorge, par. 16. 24 “You will need to watch carefully, Venerable Brethren, that religious fundamental ­concepts be not emptied of their content and distorted to profane use. ‘Revelation’ in its Christian sense, means the word of God addressed to man. The use of this word for the ‘suggestions’ of race and blood, for the irradiations of a people’s history, is mere equivocation” (Pius I, Mit brennender Sorge, par. 23).

58

Vitale

his memoirs stated that Pius felt that as late as 1945 the concordat had spared the Catholic Church in Germany from greater persecutions.25 While the relationship between the pope and Hitler was complicated, and seemed on the surface amicable before the war, in no way can they be said to have been admirers of one another. During concordat negotiations, Hitler had arrested 92 Catholic priests, raided Catholic youth clubs, and closed nine Catholic publications. Ivone Kirkpatrick, British Ambassador to the Vatican, recorded his memories of meetings with the pope, where Pius XII made clear his revulsion toward Hitler’s regime.26 Indeed, even Goldhagen admits the ­tension in the relations between the pope and Hitler.27 Despite the animosity, the Vatican’s position in the war was officially neutral for self-proclaimed reasons of diplomacy. Pius XII’s policy is seen as consistent with a longstanding tradition of Vatican diplomacy.28 The goal and hope of the Church at that time was to act as a peacemaker between the warring nations. This does not imply that the pope was indifferent to the suffering of war victims. Perhaps the best indicator of the response of the pope to the mass extermination of European Jewry is the Italian case, in particular that of Rome. The city came under German occupation on September 11, 1943. The number of 25 Lapide, Three Popes and the Jews, 102. 26 “[He] was extremely frank and made no effort to conceal his disgust at the proceedings of Hitler’s Government. The Vatican usually professes to see both sides of any political question, but on this occasion, there was no word of palliation or excuse […] Cardinal Pacelli equally deplored the action of the German Government at home, their persecution of Jews [...] These reflections on the iniquity of Germany led the Cardinal to explain apologetically how it was that he had signed a Concordat with such people. A pistol, he said, had been pointed at his head and he had no alternative.” Letter dated August 19, 1933; in Lapide, Three Popes and the Jews, 103. In meeting again with the British Ambassador, Pacelli expressed his disgust with Hitler and Nazism. “I had to choose between an agreement on their lines, and the virtual elimination of the Catholic Church in the Reich.” (Lapide, Three Popes and the Jews, 103). 27 “Pacelli was no admirer of Hitler, against whom he, as Pius XII, conspired in 1940 with some German generals and the British in a plot that went nowhere,” Goldhagen, “What Would Jesus Have Done,” 23. 28 “Vatican documents do not indicate a guarded pro-Nazism or a supreme priority of ­opposition to the Soviet Union. Nor do they reveal a particular indifference to the fate of Jews, let alone hostility toward them. Rather, the Vatican’s communications, along with other evidence, suggest a resolute commitment to its traditional policy of reserve and conciliation. The goal was to limit the global conflict where possible and above all to protect the influence and standing of the Church as an independent voice.” See Michael R. ­Marrus, “Understanding the Vatican During the Nazi Period,” The Holocaust and the ­Christian World: Reflections on the Past, Challenges for the Future. Ed. Carol Rittner, ­Stephen D. Smith, Irena Steinfeldt (New York: Continuum, 2000), 128.

Margherita Marchione as Antihero for Italian Jews

59

Jews in Rome at the time of the occupation was around 12,000. SS Major Herbert Kappler, head of German police and security services in Rome during the occupation, received the directive to go ahead and deport as many as 8,000 Jews of Rome as early as the second week of the occupation.29 In order to lull the Roman Jews into a false sense of security, Kappler claimed the need for gold was the German Army’s only concern. On September 26, 1943, Kappler summoned the leaders of the Jewish community in Rome to the SS headquarters; within 36 hours, they were told, they had to hand over 50 kilos of gold; if not, there would be an immediate deportation of all Jewish Roman men.30 ­Kappler extended the deadline twice: first to forty hours, then to forty-four. Rome’s Chief Rabbi Israele Zolli appealed to Pius XII, who in turn offered to supply the missing balance, to be paid back at a later date – the Jews had amassed 35. “Catholic communities” supplied the extra 15, so the pope’s help was no longer needed.31 The request was fulfilled by 4:00 pm on September 28. On September 29 in the early morning, SS police raided the administrative offices of the Jewish Community of Rome, taking 2 million lire, archival documents, and the names and addresses of members of the Community. They returned a week later to take manuscripts, rare books, prints and medieval documents.32 Yet the Roman Jews continued to live with a false sense of security. Kappler’s deceptive actions, claiming the German Army needed the gold, set the Jewish community at ease; they felt that all the occupiers desired was their money, and that their lives were safe. Secondly, the offered assistance of the Vatican also made them feel somewhat protected by the Church. Thus, many Jews remained in their homes, ignorant of their fate. On the Sabbath, October 16, at 5am, the rounding up of the Roman Jews began. A total of 1,259 were transported to a holding place, the Military College. Of these, 1,007 were transported to Auschwitz where, within a week, all were gassed, save 149 men and 47 women. Only seventeen survived and returned 29 Cornwell, The Secret History of Pius XII, 300–301. 30 Kappler said to Ugo Foà, head of the Jewish Community of Rome: “It is not your lives nor those of your children we will take, if you fulfill our demand. It is your gold we want to provide new arms for our nation. Within thirty-six hours you must bring me fifty ­kilograms of gold. If you do so, nothing bad will happen to you. If you do not, two hundred of you will be taken and deported to Germany.” In Zuccotti, Under his Very Window, 153. “Relazione del Presidente della Comunità Israelitica di Roma Foà Ugo circa le misure razzali adottate in Roma dopo l’8 settembre a diretta opera delle Autorità tedesche di occupazione,” written in November 1943; printed in a pamphlet Ottobre 1943: Cronaca di una infamia, Comunità Israelitica di Roma, 1961. 31 Pierre Blet, Pius XII and the Second World War, 214–215; Zuccotti, Under his Very Window, 153. 32 Zuccotti, Under his Very Window, 155.

60

Vitale

after the war.33 An account of the Rome roundup remains in the journals of Nazi SS lieutenant colonel Adolf Eichmann, published in February 2000. Eichmann, who was executed in 1962 in Israel for crimes against the Jewish people and against humanity, explains how the events unfolded. Nazi Germany’s Minister of Foreign Affairs Joachim von Ribbentrop received a telegraphic ­missive from Germany’s Consul-General in Rome Eitel Friedrich Moelhausen on October 6, 1943, outlining Kappler’s special order from Berlin to deport and exterminate 8,000 Roman Jews. The head of German forces in Italy at the time, General S­ tahel, objected to the order, and explained to Moelhausen it would be better to put the Jews to work building fortifications. Yet Ribbentrop had already made his decision to have the 8,000 Jews sent to the Mauthausen ­concentration camp and sent his response on October 9, 1943. It was at this point that Adolf Eichmann remembers hearing the term ‘Final Solution’ for the first time. Margherita Marchione cites Eichmann’s recollection in her autobiography in addition to her Consensus and Controversy. Eichmann testifies that, At that time [just before the roundup], my office received the copy of a letter, that I immediately gave to my direct superiors, sent by the Catholic Church in Rome, in the person of Bishop Hudal, to the commander of the German forces in Rome, general Stahel. The Church was vigorously protesting the arrest of Jews of Italian citizenship, requesting that such actions be interrupted immediately throughout Rome and its surroundings. To the contrary, the Pope would denounce it publicly. The Curia was especially angry because these incidents were taking place practically under Vatican windows. But, precisely at that time, without paying any attention to the Church’s position, the Italian fascist government passed a law ordering the deportation of all Italian Jews to concentration camps. […] The objections given and the excessive delay in the steps necessary to complete the implementation of the operation, resulted in a great part of Italian Jews being able to hide and escape capture.34 Certainly, Eichmann saw the Holy See as impeding his plans. The deportation of a thousand Jews from the shadow of the Vatican begs the question: how much did Pius XII know, both in general and in this specific case, about the ‘Final Solution’?

33 Zuccotti, Under his Very Window, 156. 34 Marchione, Consensus and Controversy, 70–71.

Margherita Marchione as Antihero for Italian Jews

61

To answer this question, one is forced to rely on anecdotal and circumstantial evidence. There remain, however, some letters informing the pope of the atrocities being committed abroad. Abbot Pirro Scavizzi, who traveled through Poland frequently, wrote to Pius XII on May 12, 1942: The struggle against the Jews is implacable and constantly intensifying, with deportations and mass executions. The massacre of the Jews in Ukraine is by now nearly complete. In Poland and Germany they want to complete it also, with a system of mass murders.35 Still, despite rumors and knowledge about deportations, many were ignorant of the technique of systematic selection and gassing that began for the first time in 1941.36 All the same, there can be no doubt that soon after it began, sources leaked the information to the Vatican. According to Lapide, Pius XII found out in 1942 that Hitler gassed Jews at Auschwitz.37 Yet, even if the pope knew, not all priests did. The organization of cardinals and church hierarchy was not efficient. The only non-Italian cardinal during the war, the French Cardinal Eugene Tisserant, wrote in a letter from 1965: “It was very difficult to know exactly what was going on. I often regretted that the office [of the Vatican] Secretary of State never thought to keep the cardinals informed by bulletin.”38 Not all cardinals, bishops and priests were as well informed as the pope. Marchione defends Tisserant, and claims he was taken out of context by referring to published interviews, in which “Cardinal Tisserant clearly stated he was not criticizing Pius XII, whom he admired, but criticizing members of the Curia for not carrying out the Pope’s policies.”39 In such a vast hierarchical system, it seems information was not disseminated effectively, whether due to unwieldy bureaucracy or deliberate attempts to manipulate the message. In the case of Rome, the pope was informed early in the morning of the deportation, on October 16, 1943. He apparently greeted the news with “[b]ut the Germans had promised not to touch the Jews!”40 That very morning Cardinal Luigi Maglione, Vatican Secretary of State, met with the German Ambassador to the Holy See Ernst von Weizsacker, and pleaded with him to intervene. In his notes, Cardinal Maglione alluded to the pope’s disposition when asked 35 Zuccotti, Under his Very Window, 102. 36 Per Zuccotti, Under his Very Window, 102 et passim. 37 Lapide, Three Popes and the Jews, 124. 38 Zuccotti, Under his Very Window, 111. 39 Marchione, Consensus and Controversy, 220. 40 According to Princess Enza Pignatelli Aragona Cortes in Dalin, “Pius XII and the Jews,” 33.

62

Vitale

by the ambassador how Pius XII would react if there were no intervention. Maglione replied: “The Holy See would not want to be obliged (“essere messa nella necessità”) to express its disapproval.”41 This reticence of Papal denouncement is frequently cited by contemporary eyewitnesses and modern scholars as indicative of the fear under which the Vatican was operating during the war. Marchione refers to several key individuals’ impressions of what would have happened had Pius XII intervened or outright denounced the specific atrocities being committed. She cites the American deputy chief of the Nuremberg war criminal trials Robert Kempner as summarizing that “[A]ll the arguments and writings eventually used by the Catholic Church only provoked suicide; the execution of Jews was followed by that of Catholic priests.”42 Ernst von Weizsacker, testified at the Nuremberg trials that “requests [to Hitler] for moderation of the course taken, the results of these, almost in all cases, caused the measures to be made more aggravated, and more serious even, in effect.”43 Von Weizsacker’s aide Albrecht von Kessel agreed with his superior’s assessment: “If he [Pius XII] did not lodge a protest, then it was not done because he thought, justifiably, that if he protested, Hitler would go crazy, and that would not help the Jews at all […] Apart from that, the SS would probably have been instructed to penetrate into the Vatican and lay hands on the Pope.”44 Eugene Fisher, scholar of Jewish-Catholic relations, expresses his opinion that von Weizsacker’s intervention on behalf of the pope to stop the roundup of the Jews of Rome had an effect. He argues as proof that the Nazi roundup stopped after that first event and was never resumed. Most of those detained that first night were lost. But the majority of the Roman Jews were saved, hidden largely in the city’s convents and monasteries, and fed by a Vatican van that went around distributing food. Obviously, this was with the direct knowledge and approval of Pius XII. It could not have ­happened otherwise.45 Fisher may have been alluding to testimonies from several individuals about Pius XII’s direct intervention and aid.46 Zuccotti, on the other hand, does not 41 Notes of Cardinal Maglione, October 16, 1943; In Zuccotti, Under his Very Window, 159. 42 Marchione, Architect for Peace, 68. 43 Marchione, Architect for Peace, 68 44 Marchione, Architect for Peace, 68. 45 Fisher, Fisher, Eugene J. “Who Was Pius XII?” 130. 46 As Marchione explains in Consensus and Controversy, the Pope created a new office, the Vatican Information Office, whose duty was to take care of prisoners of war in the world. By 1939, a subsection of the Information Office was organized specifically for Jews within the German department (110–111).

Margherita Marchione as Antihero for Italian Jews

63

agree with the idea that speaking out would have caused greater harm in this episode: “A warning [from the pope] would not have put his institution at risk, for it could have remained secret.”47 Rosetta Loy, Italian author who recounts her memories living in fascist Italy in La parola ebreo (1997), not so subtly advances the idea that Pius XII was deliberately silent, even to the point of accusing the pope of being the beneficiary of nepotism (77); of depicting Pius XII’s interest in German culture as tacit support of Nazi ideology (79–80); of declaring that Pius XII deliberately omitted passages about antisemitism and Nazism in his 1939 encyclical Summi Pontificatus, all the while implying nefarious motives behind the omission (85–87); and even agreeing with the interpretation of German Ambassador von Bergen that a speech broadcast on June 29 reflected the pope’s support of Germany (111). These are but a few examples of the times Loy writes of Pius XII. But there is little supporting documentation or footnotes to bolster Loy’s assertions, which tend to weaken her argument. Moreover, Loy’s memoirs span from 1936 to 1945, when she was between the ages of five and fourteen and they were written sixty years later in the late 1990s. Interspersed with memories, the author includes some of her research on the war. A selected bibliography follows three pages of notes where an array of chosen quotations is identified. As compelling and enjoyable as Loy’s prose is, it is lacking in depth of scholarship in regard to historical accuracy. “The Vatican is silent,”48 Loy writes. One of the most repeated accusations against Pius XII and the Church that Margherita Marchione seeks to rebut deals with the issue of the pope’s alleged silence. Despite the common refrain declaring Pope Pius XII’s silence, and the consequent interpretation of silence as the pope’s approval of Nazi ideology and actions, Marchione is not the only scholar to insist that Pius XII was not silent. For example, the Rabbi of Rome during the war, Israele Zolli, said: “The Holy Father sent by hand a letter to the bishops instructing them to lift the enclosure from convents and monasteries, so that they could become refuges for the Jews.”49 Indeed, there is contention about Rabbi Zolli’s neutrality as a witness: he hid while his community was undergoing these persecutions in Rome, and later converted to Catholicism in 1945, some believe as an act of gratitude and others believe for political 47 Zuccotti, Under his Very Window, 158. 48 Rosetta Loy, First Words. A Childhood in Fascist Italy, trans. Gregory Conti (New York: ­Metropolitan Books, 2000), 126. 49 Lapide, Three Popes and the Jews, 133.

64

Vitale

r­ easons – in fact, the Jewish community of Rome was unhappy with his conduct during the war. Dalin also believes aid was extended to the Jews in Rome by the pope: In the months Rome was under German occupation, Pius XII instructed Italy’s clergy to save lives by all means [...]. Beginning in October 1943, Pius asked churches and convents throughout Italy to shelter Jews [...]. In Rome, 155 convents and monasteries sheltered some five thousand Jews. At least three thousand found refuge at the pope’s summer residence at Castel Gandolfo.50 After the Allies liberated Rome in July 1944, the Vatican was inundated with praise for its role in helping the Jews.51 Many anecdotes survive, thanking the Church and the pope for their efforts on behalf of the Jewish people during the war. Yet are they credible? Or were those thankful to the Church, as Zuccotti maintains, mistaken due to benevolent ignorance?52 Again, the main criticism of Pope Pius XII is his apparent silence in the face of the Nazi atrocities. The German Jew philosopher, and controversial figure Edith Stein, was concerned about papal silence regarding the oppression of the Jews even before the war. Of Jewish extraction, Edith Stein, after a period of atheism, converted to Catholicism in 1922 at the age of thirty. She wrote a letter to Pius XI in April 1933, immediately following the forced resignation from her post as lector at the German Institute for Scientific Pedagogy, and six months before entering a Carmelite convent. At this time in Germany, on April 7, 1933, the National Socialist regime enacted the “Law for the Restoration of the Professional Civil Service,” which restricted Jewish employment rights in favor of those of Aryan extraction. Because of the new legislation, Stein lost her 50 Dalin, “Pius XII and the Jews,” 37. 51 The Bulletin of the “Jewish Brigade Group” which fought in the 8th Army said in a frontpage editorial: “To the everlasting glory of the people of Rome and the Roman Catholic Church we can state that the fate of the Jews was alleviated by their truly Christian offers of assistance and shelter. Even now, many still remain in the religious homes and houses which opened their doors to protect them from deportation to certain death... For obvious reasons, the full story of the Church assistance afforded to our people cannot yet be told” (Lapide, Three Popes and the Jews, 131). A Jewish brigade officer was recorded saying: “When we entered Rome, the Jewish survivors told us with a voice filled with deep gratitude and respect: If we have been rescued; if Jews are still alive in Rome come with us and thank the pope in the Vatican. For in the Vatican proper, in churches, monasteries and private homes, Jews were kept hidden at his personal orders; in Davar, the Hebrew daily of Israel’s Federation of Labour” (cited in Lapide, Three Popes and the Jews, 131). 52 Zuccotti, Under his Very Window, 300–301.

Margherita Marchione as Antihero for Italian Jews

65

job. In her prophetic letter to the pope, she appealed for his aid in speaking out against the strain of national socialism taking hold in Germany.53 Some view Mit brennender Sorge as a partial response to that plea; but it must be recorded that she received no reply from the pope, and an encyclical on the Jewish question was certainly never issued. Goldhagen and Zuccotti both criticize Pius XII for failing to publicly excommunicate Hitler and those carrying out his orders. The criticism is partially due to ignorance of doctrine. As explained in the Catechism of the Catholic Church, formal excommunication is “the most severe ecclesiastical penalty,”54 but a member is also excommunicated de facto once they have committed the grave offense, as pointed out by Dalin: “the Catholic-born Nazis had already incurred automatic excommunication, for everything from failure to attend Mass to unconfessed murder to public repudiation of Christianity.”55 Public excommunication in the twentieth century was rare, as the preferred path of the Church during that time was one of reconciliation. Perhaps the reasoning behind the decision not to formally excommunicate Hitler could be seen as a spiritually diplomatic move, and thus in keeping with the outwardly neutral political stance of Pius. Still today it is exceedingly rare to hear about a proclamation of excommunication even in seemingly clear-cut cases. The Church wants to leave the possibility of salvation open to all, even those who gravely transgress its laws. For us today, it is difficult to understand the inner workings of the pre­ Second Vatican Council Church and its policies. In the last twenty years, and in particular within the last five, much attention has been focused on Jewish-­ Catholic relations. In 1999 a panel of six scholars, three Jewish and three Catholic, were appointed to study Vatican archival documents relating to the Holocaust and Pius XII.56 The panel of Catholic-Jewish scholars was created 53

54 55 56

Edith Stein, “Letter to Pope Pius XI (1933),” www.ccjr.us/dialogika-resources/primary-texts -from-the-history-of-the-relationship/stein1939april: “Everything that happened and ­continues to happen on a daily basis originates with a government that calls itself ‘­Christian.’ For weeks not only Jews but also thousands of faithful Catholics in Germany, and, I believe, all over the world, have been waiting and hoping for the Church of Christ to raise its voice to put a stop to this abuse of Christ’s name.” Edith Stein, as Sister Teresa Benedicta of the Cross, was deported to Auschwitz and exterminated in August 1942 – despite having been transferred to the Netherlands to avoid such a fate. She is now officially considered a saint and martyr in the Church, having been canonized in 1998. Catechism of the Catholic Church, 1463. www.vatican.va/archive/ENG0015/__P4E.HTM. Dalin, “Pius XII and the Jews,” 37. The three Catholic members of this study Commission were Eva Fleischner, Professor Emeritus at Montclair State University in New Jersey; Jesuit Fr. Gerald Fogarty, of the Department of Religious Studies of the University of Virginia; and Fr. John Morley, expert

66

Vitale

to answer the question of exactly what Pius XII and the Vatican did or did not do on behalf of Jews during the Holocaust. The archives could not be opened, the Vatican said, because they were not catalogued and bound. The panel was disbanded until the archives, with all 16 million pages of Pius XII’s files, opened on March 2, 2020. But they promptly closed a few days later, on March 5, due to the C­ OVID-19 pandemic.57 Yet within the span of those few days, scholars began to access some of the millions of pages of documents, and even came to conclusions and published their findings – despite barely having scratched the surface of the archives. Some have even prematurely declared Pius XII as deliberately ignoring news of the extermination of Jews.58 David I. Kertzer, an historian at Brown University, published his sensationalized findings in The Atlantic, advertising a seemingly thorough investigation of the archives.59 Notwithstanding the clamor to be the first to report on the archives, some voices caution a more measured, methodical approach.60 Marchione takes the same stance as Pope Francis when he permitted early access to the archives: “The Church is not afraid of history.”61 She writes: “The Catholic Church has never compromised on matters of truth” and quotes John Paul II when he said: “Be not afraid… Only in honest dialogue and acceptance

57 58

59

60 61

on the Holocaust, of Seton Hall University of New Jersey. The three Jewish scholars were Michael Marrus, Professor of History and Law at the University of Toronto; Bernard Suchecky, Research Director at the Free University of Brussels; and Robert Wistrich, ­Professor of History and Hebrew Studies at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. Elisabetta Povoledo, “Unsealed Archives Give Fresh Clues to Pope Pius XII’s Response to the Holocaust,” New York Times, August 28, 2020. www.nytimes.com/2020/08/28/world /europe/pope-pius-xii-jews-vatican-archives.html. Ofer Aderet, “Documents From Vatican Archives Show Pius XII Deliberately Ignored Reports on the Holocaust,” HAARETZ, 5 March 2020: www.haaretz.com/jewish/.premium -documents-from-vatican-archives-show-pius-xii-ignored-reports-on-the-holocaust -1.8810353. “The newly available Vatican documents, reported here for the first time, offer fresh insights into larger questions of how the Vatican thought about and reacted to the mass murder of Europe’s Jews, and into the Vatican’s mindset immediately after the war about the Holocaust, the Jewish people, and the Roman Catholic Church’s role and prerogatives as an institution.” David I. Kertzer, “The Pope, the Jews, and the Secrets in the Archives,” The Atlantic 27 Aug 2020: www.theatlantic.com/ideas/archive/2020/08/the-popes-jews /615736/. Matteo Luigi Napolitano, a historian at the University of Molise, states, “You can’t publish one scoop after another just because you’ve been in the library for a few days […] That’s not the way to work. It’s not a historical method.” In Povoledo, “Unsealed Archives.” As quoted in Povoledo’s NYT article; normally archives open 70 years after the tenure of the Pope—which in Pius’s case, would have been 2028.

Margherita Marchione as Antihero for Italian Jews

67

of truth, can Catholics enter a new era of love and understanding with our elder brothers.”62 She calls for a restoration of truth of the role Pope Pius XII played in the war.63 Regardless how one views Pius XII’s conduct, it cannot be denied that the members of the Church helped their fellow human beings at this point in history. In a possibly inflated figure, those saved due to Christian help throughout Europe amounted to 954,000; of these, the Catholic Church was instrumental in saving about 860,000 – a number that far exceeded those saved by other institutions.64 In contrast, secular society did little to help the unfortunate mass of Jews from being exterminated during the war. In one account, 900 Jewish refugees sailed on the ship St. Louis from Hamburg to Cuba, where they were turned away, and were repeatedly turned away by eleven countries to which they sailed. Many of these were deported back to Germany and killed.65 In 1939 the British government limited and eventually stopped Jewish immigration into Palestine. Neither the U.S. nor Canada loosened their immigration laws.66 The achievements of the Church seem rather extraordinary compared to governmental aid during this time. It is impossible to know what would have happened if Pius XII spoke out clearly and forcefully. Perhaps many more could have been harmed. Perhaps many more could have been saved. Either way, it is fruitless to speculate. What is certain are the memories kept by the Holocaust survivors: memories that hopefully will not be obscured by politics; memories that must be respected and told, so that history does not repeat itself. As Deuteronomy makes clear: “Tell your children’s children.” In response to this exhortation, and as a proponent of the importance of personal narratives, Margherita Marchione preserves the lived experiences of Italian citizens in her Yours Is A Precious Witness: Memoirs of Jews and C ­ atholics in Wartime Italy. In the appendix illustrating “A Partial List of Jewish R ­ efugees: Guests of the Religious Teachers Filippini67 (1943–1945),” no fewer than eighteen

62 Marchione, Consensus and Controversy, 107. 63 Marchione, The Fighting Nun, 160. 64 Lapide, Three Popes and the Jews, 214–215. 65 Lapide, Three Popes and the Jews, 216. 66 Lapide, Three Popes and the Jews, 217 et passim. 67 Of course, the Religious Teachers Filippini were not the only religious aiding refugees. For example, see Alexander Ramati’s The Assisi Underground: The Priests Who Rescued Jews (New York: Stein and Day, 1978). For an instance where the Pope personally intervened, see the dialogue between Victor E. Frankl and Pinchas Lapide in A Quest for God and

68

Vitale

members of the Di Veroli family are listed as guests that were sheltered by ­Marchione’s fellow sisters in their three convents in Rome during the war. The name Di Veroli is first found in Roman city records in 1539. The ancestors to the family were likely traders along the coast of North Africa who settled in Sicily sometime after 1200. When Jews were expelled from Sicily in 1492, the Di Verolis migrated north, perhaps staying for a while in the town of Veroli near Rome. In any case, the family had been well established in Rome since the sixteenth century. The family members in the twentieth century continued to be merchants of textiles, for the most part. They continued to live in the crowded Jewish ghetto neighborhood, despite the relatively recent emancipation of Jews in the late nineteenth century.68 One branch of the family consisted of four brothers, sons of Sara and Michele Di Veroli, who lived with their families in Rome at the time of the Nazi occupation. The eldest, Enrico, placed his wife Grazia and two younger daughters Olga and Flora in the convent of the Filippini Sisters on via Cicerone. Olga, who went by the name of ‘Carmela’ at the convent, stated that “[i]n Rome, people opened not just doors, but their hearts as well; they put on the table the little they had and shared it with everyone.”69 Olga goes even further to bear witness to the religious sisters’ disposition: “The nuns were incredibly good and courteous to us. […] they insisted on bringing us our meals in our room so that we would be seen as little as possible in public. They were afraid of informants.”70 A Vatican secretary, Monsignor Quadraroli, had false identification documents made for the family.71 This story is just one of many captured by Marchione. In addition to her more scholarly, indefatigable work on defending Pius XII, the personal stories she recorded are the ones that resonate the most. Her methodically organized defenses of the Vatican shine when the spotlight is placed on individuals she has interviewed, such as Sister Maria Pucci. Marchione relates: “[W]hen asked why the Sisters protected the Jews, she answered: ‘Why? But these were our neighbors. We respected and loved them. We responded to the Pope’s plea to open our doors!’”72 The stories told by the individuals in Marchione’s work are a testament to the Roman people, and in particular to the Catholic communities that served the the Meaning of Life as reported by Margherita Marchione in Pope Pius XII: History and ­Hagiography, 171. 68 Alexander Stille, “A Family of the Ghetto: The DiVerolis of Rome,” Benevolence and Betrayal: Five Italian-Jewish Families under Fascism (New York: Picador, 2003), 173. 69 Marchione, Yours Is a Precious Witness, 73. 70 Stille, “A Family of the Ghetto,” 216. 71 Marchione, Yours is a Precious Witness, 73. 72 Marchione, The Fighting Nun, 157.

Margherita Marchione as Antihero for Italian Jews

69

Jews during a time of confusion and disbelief. The mosaic of voices ­Marchione was able to assemble reveals individual experiences and responses of the victims and those who helped their fellow human beings in a time of great distress. Despite the imperfections and failings that the Church and other non-Jewish communities may have demonstrated as a whole, the number of acutely personal stories of aid that Marchione captured undergirds humankind’s capacity for support and allows the author to shine as a messenger of hope for humanity. Through this she embodies the antihero who challenges the assumptions about the Church’s silence with regard to the plight of the Jews. Bibliography Blet, Pierre. Pius XII and the Second World War: According to the Archives of the Vatican. Trans. Lawrence J. Johnson. New York: Paulist Press, 1997. Carroll, James. Constantine’s Sword: The Church and the Jews. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 2001. Cornwell, John. Hitler’s Pope: The Secret History of Pius XII. London: Viking, 1999. Dalin, David G. “Pius XII and the Jews,” The Weekly Standard. (Feb 26, 2001), 31–39. Finkelstein, Norman G., and Birn, Ruth. A Nation on Trial, The Goldhagen Thesis and Historical Truth. New York: Henry Holt and Company, Inc., 1998. Fisher, Eugene J. “Who Was Pius XII?” The Holocaust and the Christian World: Reflections on the Past, Challenges for the Future. Ed. Carol Rittner, Stephen D. Smith, Irena Steinfeldt. New York: Continuum, 2000. 130–132. Goldhagen, Daniel Jonah. “What Would Jesus Have Done? Pope Pius XII, the Catholic Church, and the Holocaust,” The New Republic, 4,540 (Jan 21, 2002), 21–45. Hughes, H. Stuart. Prisoners of Hope: The Silver Age of the Italian Jews 1924–1974. ­Cambridge, Mass: Harvard University Press, 1983. The Italian Jewish Experience. Ed. Thomas P. DiNapoli. New York: Forum Italicum, 2000. Lapide, Pinchas E. Three Popes and the Jews. New York: Hawthorn Books, 1967. Levi, Primo. Se questo è un uomo. Turin: Einaudi, 2003. Levi, Primo. If This Is a Man/The Truce. Trans. Stuart Woolf. London: Abacus, 2013. Loy, Rosetta. First Words. A Childhood in Fascist Italy. Trans. Gregory Conti. New York: Metropolitan Books, 2000. Marchione, Margherita. Consensus and Controversy. Defending Pope Pius XII. New York: Paulist Press, 2002. Marchione, Margherita. Did Pope Pius XII Help the Jews? New York: Paulist Press, 2007. Marchione, Margherita. The Fighting Nun: My Story. New York: Cornwall Books, 2000. Marchione, Margherita. Pope Pius XII: Architect for Peace. New York: Paulist Press, 2000. Marchione, Margherita. Pope Pius XII. History and Hagiography. Vatican City: Libreria Editrice Vaticana, 2010.

70

Vitale

Marchione, Margherita. The Truth Will Set You Free. Commemorating the 50th Anniversary of the Death of Pope Pius XII. New York: Paulist Press, 2008. Marchione, Margherita. Yours Is a Precious Witness: Memoirs of Jews and Catholics in Wartime Italy. New York: Paulist Press, 1997. Marrus, Michael R. “Understanding the Vatican During the Nazi Period,” The Holocaust and the Christian World: Reflections on the Past, Challenges for the Future. Ed. Carol Rittner, Stephen D. Smith, Irena Steinfeldt. New York: Continuum, 2000. 126–129. Milano, Attilio. Storia degli ebrei in Italia. Turin: Einaudi, 1963. Pius XI. “Mit brennender sorge (With Burning Anxiety).” The Holy See, 14 Mar. 1937. www .vatican.va/content/pius-xi/en/encyclicals/documents/hf_p-xi_enc_14031937_mit -brennender-sorge.html. Ramati, Alexander. The Assisi Underground: The Priests Who Rescued Jews. New York: Stein and Day, 1978. Romanato, Gianpaolo and Franco Molinari. Cultura cattolica in Italia ieri e oggi. Turin: Marietti, 1980. Rychlak, Ronald J. Hitler, the War, and the Pope. Indiana: Our Sunday Visitor, 2000. Schaart, Eline. “Third of Europeans know little or nothing about Holocaust: poll,” Politico.eu.27, Nov 2018. www.politico.edu/article/holocaust-poll-third-of-europeans -know-little-or-nothing/ Sodi, Risa. Italikim: A Brief History of the Italian Jews. 2001. Stein, Edith. “Letter to Pope Pius XI (1933).” www.ccjr.us/dialogika-resources/primary -texts-from-the-history-of-the-relationship/stein1939april Stille, Alexander. “A Family of the Ghetto: The DiVerolis of Rome.” Benevolence and Betrayal: Five Italian-Jewish Families under Fascism. New York: Picador, 2003, 167–222. Truth and Dialogue in World Religions: Conflicting Truth-Claims. Ed. John Hick. Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1974. Waagenaar, Sam. The Pope’s Jews. Illinois: Open Court Publishers, 1974. Wills, Garry. Papal Sin: Structures of Deceit. New York: Doubleday, 2000. Zauzmer, Julie. “Holocaust Study: Two-thirds of millennials don’t know what Auschwitz is,” The Washington Post, April 12, 2018. www.washingtonpost.com/news/acts -of-faith/wp/2018/04/12/two-thirds-of-millennials-dont-know-what-auschwitz-is -according-to-study-of-fading-holocaust-knowledge/. Zuccotti, Susan. The Italians and the Holocaust: Persecution, Rescue, and Survival. ­University of Nebraska Press, 1996. Zuccotti, Susan. “Pope Pius XII and the Rescue of Jews in Italy: Evidence of a Papal Directive?” Holocaust and Genocide Studies 18.2 (2004) 255–273. Zuccotti, Susan. Under His Very Windows: The Vatican and the Holocaust in Italy. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2000. Zwi Bacharach, Walter. “Antisemitism, Holocaust, and the Holy See: An Appraisal of New Books About the Vatican and the Holocaust,” Trans. Martin Friedlander. Yad Vashem Studies XXXI, Jerusalem 2003, pp. 365–388.

Chapter 4

Unfit for War: Stories of Desertion in Italian Fiction; Dessì and Pellegrini Luigi Gussago Abstract Luigi Gussago presents one of the most controversial aspects in war history, a neglected no man’s land in which personal and political reasons intertwine, namely the ­phenomenon of desertion between the two World Wars, and how it is represented in two very different Italian novels, Il disertore (1961) by Giuseppe Dessì, and a scarcely known book by Michele Pellegrini, Disertori (2007). The chapter aims at presenting two distinct tragic life stories narrated by older and newer generations, in a failed attempt to create a continuity between fragmented identities.

Among the most contentious topics in warfare history, desertion from the ­battlefield occupies an ethical no man’s land where personal, social, and political reasons collide. The same historical dilemma, combined with the urge to reconsider past mistakes, continues to haunt Italian collective memory. As recently as 2015, for example, a parliamentary debate attempted to introduce legislation aimed at restoring the dignity and status of those First World War deserters condemned, often under unclear circumstances, to either incarceration or execution.1 The proposal was subsequently heavily revised by the Senate, allegedly 1 See, for example, Stefano Iannaccone, “Grande guerra, una proposta di legge per la riabilitazione dei soldati fucilati,” Il Fatto Quotidiano, 14.04.2015, https://www.ilfattoquotidiano .it/2015/04/14/grande-guerra-legge-per-riabilitare-i-soldati-fucilati/1588937/. A year earlier, a delegation of eleven priests had requested Pope Francis to mention deserters and conscience objectors in his homily for the victims of wwi, at the sanctuary of Redipuglia. See Luca Kocci, “Redipuglia, ‘il Papa si ricordi dei disertori,” Il Manifesto, 12.09.2014, https://ilmanifesto .it/il-papa-a-redipuglia-si-ricordi-dei-disertori/. Gian Piero Scanu is the MP who proposed to reform the status of deserters in 2015. Two years later, in December 2017, Sergio Lo Giudice presented a bill that is still awaiting approval from the Senate. See “Disposizioni per la riabilitazione storica degli appartenenti alle Forze armate italiane condannati alla fucilazione dai tribunali militari di guerra nel corso della prima Guerra mondiale.” https://www.senato.it/leg/18/BGT/Schede/Ddliter/testi/51082_testi .htm. © Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2023 | DOI:10.1163/9789004548145_006

72

Gussago

under the influence of the Ministry of Defense. As a result of the new proposal, condemned2 deserters and renitent soldiers were granted pardon – as if many of them had not already been victims of injustice. Despite this concession, their civil rights were not reinstated.3 Significantly, no mention was made of soldiers condemned in the Second World War.4 Deserters are unwelcome characters in history books; dismissed as traitors in their own country, they occasionally end up hailed as heroes by the opposing side. In fact, desertion becomes an ideological tool to incite the enemy to surrender or instill pacifism. Pro-intervention journalists like Rino Alessi ­condemn deserters as political enemies, “poisoners of souls,”5 as he calls them, who are determined to impose the socialist-anarchist revolution on a transnational scale. More than just political motivation, desertion also serves as a vehicle for public outrage at the cruelty of military discipline. Indeed, it can be a form of conscience objection, but it can also be motivated by either a basic will to survive, or by self-defense; and these often escalate in violence and retaliation. Celebrated literary texts have depicted, at times more vividly than dry factual military reports,6 the soldier’s dilemma to choose between sacrifice and survival, courage and fear, ideals and reality. This study delves into the literary representations of the deserter in Giuseppe Dessì’s ll disertore (1961)7 and Michele Pellegrini’s little-known work Disertori (2007).8 The first part of the analysis provides an overview of Italian military 2 Deserters who were still awaiting judgement at the end of the war benefited from the amnesty in 1919. 3 See Luca Kocci, “Grande Guerra: nessuna riabilitazione per i disertori,” Adista, n. 41, 26 novembre 2016, https://lucakocci.wordpress.com/2016/11/25/grande-guerra-nessuna-riabili tazione-per-i-disertori/. 4 This reticence may be most likely due to a political move because the Second World War in Italy witnessed a confusion of fronts and loyalties after the 1943 Armistice; one may really ask: who deserted what side? 5 Rino Alessi, Dall’Isonzo al Piave. Lettere clandestine di un corrispondente di guerra (Milan: Mondadori, 1966), 36. The English translations of quotes from this and other sources are my own, unless otherwise specified. I have provided the original Italian version only of the two primary sources. 6 Franzinelli, for example, highlights how the Ministry of War’s records of soldiers condemned for desertion or renitence in the Second World War were mostly destroyed following the Armistice in 1943. See Mimmo Franzinelli, Disertori. Una storia mai raccontata della Seconda guerra mondiale (Milan: Mondadori, 2016), 301. 7 Giuseppe Dessí, Il disertore (Milan: Feltrinelli, 1961). All translations from the novel are mine. The author’s surname is spelled with a “í” rather than the usual “ì.” Quotes from the 1961 ­edition keep the original spelling. 8 Michele Pellegrini, Disertori (Siena: Lorenzo Barbera Editore, 2006). All translations from the novel are mine.

Unfit for War

73

conduct between the two world wars and the later contributions of historians and sociologists to the theme of desertion. The second part identifies a discrepancy between historical reports and fiction, suggesting a sharp contrast between the ‘official’ take on the question of desertion and the ‘insider’s’ point of view foregrounded in the novels. In fact, both works deal with almost antithetic personifications of the antihero in the First and Second World Wars respectively, but they also explore contemporary socio-political and existential issues. A brief survey of earlier fiction that tackled the theme of desertion is a useful point of departure. The reluctant soldier in literature is generally depicted either as a sympathetic satirical caricature or a tragic, unredeemable outlaw who escapes duties out of disillusion towards the institutions, or because of a strong ideological motivation. In Joseph Heller’s Catch-22 (1961), for example, Ex Private First-Class Wintergreen, “a snide little punk” typifies a kind of professional deserter who keeps going awol (Absent Without Leave) from his duty. As a punishment, he is forced to “dig and fill up holes six feet deep, wide and long for a specified length of time.” Paradoxically, he is so diligent in executing his sentence that he exhibits “all the uncomplaining dedication of a true patriot.” With impassive aplomb, he comments: “‘It’s not a bad life,’ […] ‘And I guess somebody has to do it.’”9 Wintergreen’s dedication seems to belong not only to his way of avoiding the violence of war, but it also becomes a raison d’être, a philosophy of life. Another example of desertion is offered in the novel Paths of Glory (1935) by Humphrey Cobb. In it, an ambitious French general imposes the execution of one soldier for each of three incriminated divisions. Through this stratagem, the general aims to cover up his disastrous orders while placing the blame on the executors of his plans. The story unfolds around the ­criteria that three captains must adopt in order to decide the fate of three human beings on the basis of their demerits, pure luck, or moral compromise.10 Indeed, the random selection of the soldiers to be sent to the execution squad is not a purely fictional invention. On 1 November 1916, almost a year before the defeat of Caporetto, General Cadorna had officially introduced the option to draw a suspect every ten. Yet, it appears that officers did not resort to this

9 10

Joseph Heller, Catch-22 (London: Vintage, 2005), 120–21. The book will inspire the 1957 feature film with the same title by Stanley Kubrick. ­Significantly, the film was not banned by the French government, but it was not ­distributed until 1975. See Nan Robertson, “French Delay Showing Films on Touchy Topics”, The New York Times, 15 March 1975, https://www.nytimes.com /1975/03/15/archives /french-delay-showing-films-on-touchy-topics.html.

74

Gussago

measure.11 Another novel, The Deserter (Der Überläufer, 1952)12 by S­ iegfried Lenz, points out the connection between desertion and political dissent. In this work, the choice to leave the army suggests a kind of “active pacifism.” This idea is articulated by the protagonist who joins a group of anti-Nazi partisans during the Second World War. Lenz’s passionate depiction of the natural setting where the partisans operate is an element that will also characterize the two Italian novels considered in this study. There is a strong relationship between desertion from war and desertion from civilization, between the ‘grey zone’ of a civilian’s life and the return to nature that characterize both the defying soldier and the partisan. A surreptitious kind of desertion is also at the center of Pavese’s La casa in collina (1948). In this novel, the natural landscape intensifies ­Corrado’s tendency to isolation and his ineptitude to actively take part in the Resistance movement. Indeed, the protagonist’s detachment turns into a form of renitence from higher ideals that also becomes a haunting leitmotiv in the writer’s existential reflections. Finally, in some stories of desertion personal loyalty prevails over the reasons of state. In Lajos Zihay’s work, The Deserter (A szökéveny, 1930), for instance, the protagonist’s decision to abandon the army is motivated by the fact that he, as a Hungarian, does not belong under the banner of the oppressive Austrian empire. Taken as a whole, these novels offer a cogent sample of the vast range of interpretations that the notion of desertion elicits. Analyzed against them, the two Italian works investigated below problematize the role of the deserter in quite a different manner. Despite the obvious similarities, the military perspective on the matter of desertion is very different from that conveyed in fiction; for the former, a pragmatic, strategic option prevails – the need to win a war. As Heller’s ­Wintergreen appears to suggest, desertion features as a necessary evil to be suppressed. At the same time, it is also revealed as an instrument used to force other soldiers to remain faithful to their divisions even under the harshest conditions. This aspect emerges in many historical episodes concerning renitence and mutiny. The pedagogical function of repression was fostered, for example, by General Andrea Graziani who, during his inspections in the Great War, always travelled with a firing squad.13 Ironically, another Graziani, Rodolfo, the 11 12 13

Enzo Forcella, Alberto Monticone, Plotone di esecuzione. I processi della prima guerra mondiale (Bari: Editori Laterza, 2014), xcii. Siegfried Lenz, Der Überläufer (Hamburg: Hoffmann und Campe Verlag, 2016). The novel was written in 1952, but was initially rejected for political reasons, only to be published for the first time in 2016. Alessi recounts that “General Graziani has had a dozen scoundrels shot. The posters ­showing that the execution has been carried out, make your blood run cold” (176). ­Graziani carried out 34 executions. Other sources talk about 57 victims. The case of

Unfit for War

75

Minister of Defense in Mussolini’s newly formed rsi (Repubblica Sociale Italiana), emanated a notorious call to arms (the Bando Graziani, 18 February 1944) to citizens between 17 and 37 years of age. Although with the call he hoped to reinforce the Nazi-fascist lines, he inadvertently encouraged the passage from “renitence” to “resistance.”14 Even in the case of forced enlistment, the new recruits would subsequently desert once assigned to the German armed forces for training. History is not always a good teacher; in fact, earlier on, in the aftermath of the Caporetto debacle of October 1917, General Luigi Cadorna accused the ii Armata of insubordination and cowardice, trying in this way to cover up his own strategic mistakes. On that occasion, about 350,000 soldiers abandoned the battlefield or were dispersed, and only 50,000 of them returned to their divisions.15 In an infamous letter of 26 May 1916, Cadorna had already granted military tribunals full freedom to act. Accordingly, Italian judges often diced with death, given the subtle terminological difference existing between desertion “in the presence of the enemy” (“in presenza”) and desertion “in front of, or facing, the enemy” (“in faccia”). The latter crime could result in a death sentence, to be carried out by shooting at the chest or, in the most ignominious cases, in the back.16 The equivocation persisted in the Second World War

14

15

16

Graziani’s death in 1931 – he fell off a train – has been filed as accidental, but it is still wrapped in mystery. See Cesare Alberto Lovere, “Al muro. Le fucilazioni del generale Andrea Graziani nel novembre 1917. Cronache di una giustizia esemplare a Padova e Noventa Padovana,” Materiali di storia 19 (April 2001): 14. As Franzinelli aptly summarizes in Disertori, 225. A first-hand account of the consequences of the Bando can be found in Ada Gobetti, Diario partigiano (Turin: Einaudi, 1996), 81. Ada suspects that the death penalty imposed on the soldiers is a way to intimidate draft-dodgers; yet, as events will unfold, executions will take place on many, mostly obscure, circumstances. For some approximate statistics on the battle, see Mario Silvestri, Caporetto: una battaglia e un enigma (Bergamo: BUR, 2006), 229–31 and Mario Morselli, Caporetto: Victory or Defeat? (Abingdon/New York: Routledge, 2001), ix. In a letter dated 9 November 1917, Rino Alessi reports – or claims to report – Cadorna’s own words about the defeat: “Italy did not deserve such a tragedy. I have done all I could to avoid it. […] If men had fought, the n ­ umber of casualties and wounded, in proportion to the ones who straddled or were imprisoned, should have been not 20,000, but 200,000! The truth is that the foundations of the Armed Forces were undermined!” (161). Cadorna’s idea of courage seems to ­measure itself on the potential number of deaths as an indisputable proof of loyalty. Captain Angelo Banzi was executed on account of the incident on the island of Brač, where an rsi division had abandoned their positions after an attack inflicted by the ­Croatian partisans. Banzi had begged the commander of the firing squad to shoot him to the heart, instead of following the customary, humiliating procedure reserved for traitors, but this extreme request was denied. See Franzinelli, Disertori, 153. Others, like Vittorio Grasso Caprioli, a 22-year-old from Brescia, were accorded an ‘honorable’ death (­Franzinelli, Disertori, 269). The same humiliating procedure was followed in wwi, with

76

Gussago

with nefarious consequences after the proclamation of the Salò Republic in 1943. Because of the terminological quibble, the internal dissensions among the military judges, who sometimes refused to adhere to the rsi, along with the very conspicuous number of awol s – over 22,700 in early May 1944 – guaranteed the survival of many reluctant soldiers. But the delay in returning to the ranks within 25 May 1944 would cost the life of fifty to eighty people.17 In the nearly two years prior to the Armistice, capital punishment was imposed on 40 people, although statistical records are largely unreliable.18 A crucial difference between British and US armies as compared with the Italian army in the Second World War was that in Italy court martials – often made up by improvised juries – were still allowed to impart capital punishment on soldiers who left the battlefield. In sharp contrast to this, the United States had one deserter shot in the Second World War.19 The Armistice of September 8, 1943, with its sudden change of fronts, made the circumstances of desertion even more complex to identify. After that date, rebellious soldiers were suddenly turned into patriots and vice versa. For example, Clara Marchetto, a Resistance activist, laments the fact that “fighting in the antifascist War in 1943 made one a hero whereas fighting it in 1939–40 made one like me a criminal”.20 ­Liberated by the Allies in 1944, Marchetto attempted a political career, but was banished from politics because of her previous indictment by a fascist court. The ­Cassibile Armistice was then a significant watershed in the treatment of desertion. I­n fact, Marshall Badoglio strove to postpone the public declaration by five days from the agreement ratified on 3 September with General Eisenhower. The American president, instead, urged the Italian Prime Minister to make a radio announcement. Despite having been dictated verbatim by the Americans, the announcement proved to be a masterpiece of double entendre.21 Badoglio exceptional cruelty for those soldiers who self-harmed in the vicinity of the front line, thus subtracting themselves from what some sentences refer to as “the place of danger and honor.” See Forcella and Monticone, Plotone di esecuzione, 27 and 29. 17 Franzinelli, Disertori, 226–27, 241, and 332. 18 Franzinelli, Disertori, 388., Note 4. 19 The story of Private Eddie Slovik, the only one executed among 49 US soldiers sentenced to death (in a total of nearly 50,000 desertions in the US forces), is delineated in the opening pages of a compelling book by Charles Glass, Deserter: A Hidden History of the Second World War (London: William Collins, 2014), ix–x. In a paradoxical attempt to keep the episode secret, Slovik’s wife was informed that her husband had died in battle. Only in 1948 was the episode brought to light, though the identity of the runaway was not immediately revealed. 20 Franzinelli, Disertori, 132. 21 For a fascinating reconstruction of the Armistice days, see “L’esercito di Scipione: il tempo, la società,” in Giuseppe D’Agata, L’esercito di Scipione (Milan: Bompiani, 1977), vii–xviii.

Unfit for War

77

specified that “Italian forces will therefore cease all acts of hostility against the Anglo-American forces wherever they be met. They will, however, oppose attacks from any other quarter.”22 That Badoglio was procrastinating the declaration in his speech to the nation in order to plan his own escape – and that of the royal family and their acolytes – from Rome to Brindisi is a well-known fact. The escape was a sheer example of desertion, as Franzinelli wryly points out.23 A possibly understandable indecision, one might think, if it were not for the deadly consequences to many convicted deserters awaiting judgment.24 Statistics, though fragmentary and incomplete, attest to the gravity of the desertion phenomenon, even while pointing to some notable differences between the two world wars. During wwi, there were 289,343 soldiers sent to court for a variety of breaches to the military code – about 27,000 of them were declared exempted from punishment in 1917.25 Around 60% of them were indicted; of these, 4,028 were condemned to death. Only 2,967 escaped punishment or were pardoned. Of the 1,061 soldiers who were condemned to death after a trial, around 750 of them were executed. In addition, officially 141 deserters did not face a formal trial; but their number seems to have been much higher – specifically, in the order of a few hundred according to Monticone

22

23 24

25

English version copied from the Foreign Broadcast Intelligence Service, Federal Communication Commission, Daily Report Foreign Radio Broadcasts, Wednesday, September 8, 1943. The original text reads: “ogni atto di ostilità contro le forze anglo-americane deve cessare da parte delle forze italiane in ogni luogo. Esse però reagiranno ad eventuali attacchi da qualsiasi altra provenienza.” Text mentioned in D’Agata, L’esercito di Scipione, vii. Interestingly, the King arranged his son Umberto’s prior dismissal from the army to protect him against being incriminated for renitence and betrayal (Franzinelli, Disertori, 163). For example, it was fatal for five soldiers incriminated of desertion from the pre-existing “Gruppo d’armate Sud,” an army comprising all the southern Italian battalions – dissolved only on 10 September. Whilst lieutenant-colonel Ambrogi was reluctant to carry out the execution, general Luigi Chatrian exacted absolute obedience. To prevent public outrage, the shooting of the five men took place in the early hours of 9 September in the small village of Acquappesa (Cosenza). After the war, an investigation was urged, with the result of disclosing Chatrian’s responsibility in the killing. Chatrian, who in the meantime had opted for a political career, asserted that the execution had happened by midnight of September 8. Official reports by attendants seemed to confirm this – a well concocted alibi to justify the ignorance of Badoglio’s announcement. The general will never face justice, although his political career was cut short in 1948, when he lost the support of De Gasperi. A final note in this appalling story: in 1953 Chatrian was appointed president of the national organization for the assistance of war orphans. Franzinelli remarks how the general “seems to never have shown any interest in the orphans of ‘his own’ five infantrymen (deprived of any assistance, as children of deserters)” (Franzinelli, Disertori, 178). Forcella and Monticone, Plotone, lxxiii.

78

Gussago

and Guerrini.26 Still, no precise figures are available. Joining a multitude of 600,000 Italian pow s, 2,022 soldiers surrendered voluntarily to the enemy. The treatment of these prisoners by the Italian government was intolerably stern as prisoners were considered unworthy of assistance. Red Cross relief and help from the families to the combatants were largely sabotaged – and an estimate of more than 90,000 of them died of consumption.27 The cruelty was justified as a necessary deterrent to desertion. During the Second World War, on the contrary, the ideological fracture within the state between militia, partisans, pro-German groups, and ordinary soldiers, e­ specially after the armistice in 1943, caused a rampage of sentences. They were often motivated by occasional circumstances or irrational responses. In fact, 130 soldiers were sentenced to death before 1943, along with 550 civilians, mostly in the Balkan area.28 Many who did not face the death penalty were sent to hard labor in Germany. On the opposing rsi front, exemplary sentences were inflicted to insubordinate soldiers, as in the case of the 326th Company of the Bergamo Division, with the execution of 28 soldiers for unclear reasons in Zara in August 1943. They would be rehabilitated only in 1951.29 The following September saw the shooting of 6,500 Italian soldiers for desertion on the island of Kefalonia.30 This episode reflects the peak of a violence that escaped all warfare logic or strategy – a sentence by the German court in 2006 confirmed the legitimacy of the reprisal. In light of these atrocities perpetrated under the banner of a depraved idea of discipline, the literary representation of desertion is of great interest, inasmuch as fiction sheds light onto the human predicament that statistics or military history cannot, and must not, take into consideration. Clearly, emotions and ethical dilemmas do not transpire from numbers or the aseptic language of court sentences. Literature, on the contrary, gives voice to inner motives and intensifies moral conflicts. Significantly, both authors who concern us take a critical distance from the subjects of their books. In fact, Dessì was a child during the Great War and experienced it through his father, a military officer. 26

Forcella and Monticone, Plotone, lxxxii. 141 is the estimate of summary executions by the Ministry of Defense in 1919. Irene Guerrini and Marco Pluviano quantify instant executions at about 300. See Irene Guerrini, Marco Pluviano, Le fucilazioni sommarie nella prima guerra mondiale (Udine: Gaspari, 2004), quoted in Mario Isnenghi and Giorgio Rochat, La Grande Guerra 1914–1918 (Milan: Sansoni, 2004), 252. 27 Isnenghi and Rochat, La Grande Guerra 1914–1918, 345–49. The prisoners who died after repatriation due to wounds or disease were about 50,000 (347). 28 Franzinelli, Disertori, 115. 29 Franzinelli, Disertori, 153. 30 Franzinelli, Disertori, 158.

Unfit for War

79

Unlike Dessì, Pellegrini, was born 15 years after the end of the Second World War. Both authors engage primarily with the ‘after’ and how the act of defiance of the soldier protagonists affects both the old and new generations of survivors who must come to terms with the events. Dessì’s Il disertore is the story of a mother, Mariangela Eca, a poor woman from a small village in Sardinia who, after the end of the Great War, finds ­herself deprived of her two sons. Inexplicably, and despite her contempt for war, she gives away all her savings to help build a monument in memory of the soldiers who died. She knows that one of her sons, Saverio, is a deserter, but is unaware of the circumstances that forced him to leave. He has returned to his native land, racked with malaria, to spend his last days in the woods near Cuadu, a fictional village in Sardinia. Mariangela, who briefly experiences her son’s return as a second birth, decides to ask the local priest, Father Pietro Coi, whose authority is, in her eyes, charged with shamanic powers, to listen to her son’s confession. Saverio tells the priest about his desertion, and the crime that instigated it. Don Pietro understands the tragedy of the young soldier who had been given the illusion of an exemption from the battle by his captain, but had instead found himself on the front line. In the priest’s view, nobody could have possibly known about the deserter’s misdeed. In fact, the story is set after the 1919 amnesty; thus, the young soldier could have certainly been acquitted. Yet, the narrator seems to point to a higher call for responsibility, one, that is, toward God. Ultimately, the priest realizes that he is unable to see the boy’s desertion as a purely human crime deserving of a fair punishment; rather, he harbors the certainty that Saverio’s act is first and foremost a burden of responsibility that all human beings must share and atone for. In Father Coi’s view, the religious absolution of the young soldier already replaces any appeal to human judgement. Accordingly, even the sacrament of reconciliation from sin, which binds the confessor to secrecy, vouches for the non-human dimension of Saverio’s moral transgression. In truth, the young boy has no real awareness of the secrecy dogma that binds the priest and fears that the latter may reveal his hideout. The pact of secrecy that the young deserter seems to invoke between himself and Don Pietro, with the participation of Mariangela, pertains merely to a pagan pledge of loyalty. The decision to build a monument in remembrance of the fallen as a gift to the motherland31 is strongly supported by the local upper-class leaders. At the same time, they oppose the groups of socialists fighting for the rights of m ­ iners. For this reason, the two clans in the village, the rural aristocrats of 31 Dessí, Il disertore, 11 and 60.

80

Gussago

the Manca family, and the liberal, separatist industrial dynasty of the Cominas, decide to coalesce under the banner of fascism to preserve their privileges. The monument becomes then a simulacrum of heroic sacrifice in the name of a purely opportunistic patriotism that justifies the necessity of self-immolation. In this tug-of-war of conflicting interests, the figure of Saverio emerges as both a victim of circumstance and of political ideologies. Specifically, on the one hand, the new ruling class, and even a conniving clergy, proclaim war as the extreme service rendered to the country. On the other, the rural tradition of the shepherd Saverio motivates his decision to hide and, in a sense, be buried away from civilization. Father Coi upbraids Mariangela for her decision to subsidize the monument committee because he sees the political content of the project as a declaration of the right to life or death by a hegemonic group over the humble social ranks. But the old woman’s reasons are inherently personal and impenetrable to the priest. The fear that war may re-enact previous social conflicts is justified by historical evidence. In fact, as Enzo Forcella and Alberto Monticone argue in their collection of sentences of desertion in wwi, never before in the history of Italian warfare were the lower social classes – especially the rural one – involved so directly in the conflict. The nearly feudal system still dominating the Italian periphery were forced to face the modernity of a mass war. This was a collective, supernational event that particularly traumatized the working class, unprepared to fight. Indeed, for the first time, the largely illiterate Italian rural masses were mobilized for the war and, as Forcella also points out, desertion and self-harm became the only possible ways to express dissent against a coercive, crushing authority.32 To further complicate things, the military penal code of behavior itself proved ineffective as it was still based on the Albertine Code of 1869. This code hinged on a totally different concept of service that pivoted on a voluntary basis. As a result, desertion in Dessì’s work conveys a powerful subversive political message, as it exacerbates, or provides, a convenient scapegoat to the socialist phobia arising during both world wars. For example, after 1943, the threat of a communist invasion persuaded Marshall Badoglio to start the repression of a new form of insubordination, that of the workers. For this reason, seventeen protesters were killed in Bari and ninety-three in Turin between July and August 1943.33 Desertion from work was the new enemy, but not an unusual one in Italian history, considering that Cadorna had defined the demise of the Italian army in Caporetto as “a military strike,” an act of “social indiscipline” induced

32 Forcella and Monticone, Plotone, xliv. 33 Franzinelli, Disertori, 151.

Unfit for War

81

by a “subversive propaganda.”34 In 1917, Turin had been the epicenter of a workers’ revolutionary attempt. On that occasion, socialist leaders attempted a ­reconciliation with the soldiers by invoking a ceasefire based on the recognition and acceptance of international socialism. The protest was violently repressed by the government, causing forty-one casualties.35 Significantly, the political reverberations of desertion, seen as a protest movement against the status quo, are clearly characterized in Il disertore. In fact, Saverio escapes from the war theater to avoid the consequences of a conceivable act of retaliation against an officer. The desertion stirred the young soldier’s sense of guilt for violating the social, as much as the military code. Yet this same act acquires a political connotation when set against the backdrop of a new form of protest: that of the miners who constantly scuffle with the members of the Fascio in Cuadu. They claim to be the avengers of the socialist protest groups repressed by the police forces in Buggerru, near Iglesias, on 4 September 1904.36 The clash between urban and rural traditions is clearly embodied by the character of Mariangela, the deserter’s mother. She sees war as the disruptor of the natural order; in fact, she can only remember her children at a young age, as if war interrupted their growth. Also, the mother seems to be the only person still living in an ancestral past, defending her “ancient, subtle persuasion of silence” (“antica, sottile persuasione di silenzio”).37 Walking in the woods, she reconnects with the wilderness and her own animal nature, which rejects all moralistic preconceptions about her son’s offense. Don Pietro experiences a similar feeling of symbiosis with nature when he stops to admire the wonders of a landscape that regenerates itself from human devastation. This theme will also emerge in Pellegrini’s work. Don Pietro’s best friend, doctor Urbano Castai, embodies the new logic of progress. He is a member of the anticlerical, unambitious, but hard-working middle class who nurtures republican sympathies. He also devotes his life to restoring the beauty of the Sardinian countryside 34

From an interview with general Cadorna, in Olindo Malagodi, Conversazioni della guerra, 1914–1919, B. Vigezzi, ed. (Milan/Naples: Riccardo Ricciardi Editore, 1960), 210, 214 and 215. Monticone, as many historians after him, excludes that the protests in Turin had in some way propelled the mass desertion of Caporetto and even that Caporetto itself was an unsuccessful attempt to overturn the state. See Alberto Monticone, Gli italiani in uniforme 1915–1918. Intellettuali, borghesi e disertori (Bari: Laterza, 1972), 144. Malaparte, instead, talks about a spontaneous process, with no leadership, erupting from “very humble people made of pariahs and desperadoes”. Curzio Malaparte, Viva Caporetto! La rivolta dei santi maledetti (Florence: Vallecchi, 1995), 139. 35 Monticone, Gli italiani in uniforme, 89. 36 See Paola Atzeni, Tra il dire e il fare: cultura materiale della gente di miniera in Sardegna (Cagliari: Cooperativa Universitaria Editrice Cagliaritana, 2007), 55–56. 37 Dessí, Il disertore, 37.

82

Gussago

ravaged both by war and by the new businessmen, who are indeed Janus-faced aristocratic oligarchs. The narrator’s harsh criticism does not spare the high ranks of the Sardinian church, namely the bishop and the archpriest. In point of fact, the Catholic Church in Sardinia had shown a remarkably interventionist zeal during wwi.38 This attitude was later reflected in an adamant support of Mussolini. In Dessì’s work, the episode of the archpriest becoming a target of the socialist bombers captures the early steps towards the alliance between fascism and the church.39 For Mariangela, contributing her money becomes not only a ransom to buy her son’s reputation back, but also a way to efface the logic of money itself. ­Paradoxically, she becomes the biggest sponsor for the monument. At the same time, the moral dilemma of reporting the deserter to the authorities that animates Don Pietro is transformed into the awareness that Saverio’s crime is caused by “those who want war, those who do not know how to avoid war” (“chi vuole la guerra, chi non sa evitare la guerra”).40 The priest’s silent absolution – “confession is also silence” (“la confessione è anch’essa silenzio”) of the deserter mirrors the primeval silence of the mother.41 Still, although silence seems to portend a sympathetic connection with Father Coi, and his spirituality, it never ushers in a mutual understanding between the two characters. Lamenting the loud rhetoric of the monument, in which her sons’ names are listed formally starting with their surnames, she visits the square alone, at dusk: “There was no longer anyone in the square. There was silence, as she had been dreaming of for a long time. Not useless, silly words. Only silence” (“Nella piazza non c’era più nessuno. Era il silenzio, come lei lo sognava da tanto tempo. Non parole inutili e sciocche. Solo silenzio”).42 This vindication of silence strikes a sharp chord with the pseudo-educational use of commemorations. In fact, Mariangela’s tacit reproach to other mothers targets their ­rendering ‘spectacular’ the loss of their children and mourning them publicly. And this hinges 38

See Monticone, Gli italiani in uniforme, 154, 158 and 164. He explains that, during the war, the procedure to appoint new bishops was hastened if the new candidate demonstrated patriotic leanings (183). 39 The clergy was divided in their support of the war. While Dessì and Monticone point out the bishops’ generalized support of the intervention, Alessi blames both “the priests and the socialists” for the debacle at Caporetto (154). Likewise, Giovanni Comisso reports that during one of their forays in an abandoned village near Gorizia, the soldiers found a picture of Franz Josef in a priest’s house. See: Giovanni Comisso, Giorni di guerra (Milan: Longanesi, 1960), 48. 40 Dessí, Il disertore, 102. 41 Dessí, Il disertore, 37. 42 Dessí, Il disertore, 157.

Unfit for War

83

on her indifference towards the pomp and clatter of heroism that monuments purport to celebrate. For, to Father Coi and herself, they are mere signs of past glories, poised to lose their relevance and, on many occasions, stray from the original purposes and motivations of their promoters. Thus, for instance, an edifying 1936 biography of Pietro Badoglio reports that the first monument to the memory of the First World War fallen soldiers was erected in Grazzano (Asti) under the Marshall’s patronage. Only seven years later, though, Badoglio, the “guardian deity, source of pride, example of rectitude,”43 chose to prioritize the instinct of survival over the interest of a politically dismembered nation. Similar episodes of historical revisionism have occurred very recently, with the proposal to erase the name of general Cadorna from Italian toponymy, starting from Udine in 2011 – not to mention the furious outbursts against simulacra and symbols of patriotism and national pride witnessed all over the world in 2020. Monuments and signposts have, once again, raised furious reactions. Local institutions have often opted to sidestep the issue by renaming places, not to give homage to the victims of Cadorna’s irrational decisions, but to appease public opinion with the idea of the Great War as a patriotic endeavor.44 Michele Pellegrini’s contentious novel Disertori retells one of the most brutal episodes in the Second World War. After the sweeping defeat of Mussolini’s army in Greece in 1940 – with overall casualties totaling more than 27,000 soldiers – on April 6, 1941 the Axis invaded Yugoslavia. Mussolini fostered the ambition of extending his power to Eastern Europe, buoyed in part by the previous invasion of Albania in 1939 – carried out with the help of the Germans. The Balkan war would cause the death of 10,000 Italian soldiers and approximately a million Yugoslavians.45 The area suffered under several ruthless conquerors: the divisions of the Italian army, the fascist Militia, Ustacias (filo-fascist Croatians), the Nazis, and the communist partisans.46 From 1941, most partisans joined Tito’s Popular Liberation Army. This group included fighters who had escaped from the Italian army that, at the time, was under the iron fist of Alessandro Pirzio Biroli

43

Ugo Caimpenta, Il maresciallo Badoglio (Vicerè d’Etiopia) (Milan: Edizioni “Aurora”, 1936), 28: “dio tutelare, fonte d’orgoglio, esempio di rettitudine”. 44 Erika Dellacasa, “Il movimento anti-Cadorna. ‘Nuovi nomi a vie e piazze’”, Corriere della Sera, 18 July 2011, https://www.corriere.it/unita-italia-150/11_luglio_18/dellacasa-cadorna _39f828e2-b152-11e0-8890-9ce 9f56cae65. shtml. See also Piero Purich, “L’Italia e la grande guerra senza la retorica nazionalista,” Internazionale, 3 November 2018, https://www .internazionale.it/opinione/piero-purich/20 18/11/03/prima-guerra-mondiale-italia. 45 Franzinelli, Disertori, 54. 46 Franzinelli, Disertori, 139. The Italians who joined them in June-July 1942 were 300 and 120 in Albania from 1941 to September 8, 1943.

84

Gussago

and Giuseppe Bastianini.47 Governors of Montenegro and Dalmatia respectively, they both imposed brutal reprisals and persecutions of civilians in the area. Not surprisingly, this approach brought about the most horrifying crimes. While Il disertore deals with a mother’s attempt to defend her son’s dignity against ideological manipulations, Disertori is the revelation of a father’s past life to his children, Federico and Dorina. One of Alvise’s fellow fighters unearths their “ancient” story to the siblings. Nicknamed l’Argentino, he is an ex-member of the militia who switched sides, turning to serve the partisans in the last years of the war, and ultimately the Jugoslav army. Alvise, the father, is on his deathbed; but before dying he asks his old-time friend to narrate his adventures in Dalmatia and Eastern Friuli. Recalling those times, l’Argentino recounts how deserters tried to hide in churches, but Croatian priests would often report them to the authorities, causing their death. The narration also includes details about some deserters who accepted to join the partisan groups while others were murdered on the spot, and there was no rational explanation to that course of events.48 Alvise and l’Argentino begin a journey to Italy through the devastated mountains and coastlines of Dalmatia with a group of deserters. Their objective is not to take a side in the conflict.49 The mission fails when some members of the group assault Dorjana, a partisan prisoner; this incident prompts Alvise to take revenge on all of them, except on l’Argentino, who was not involved in the violence. This episode reawakens Alvise to the reality of war. It also convinces him to stop his savage fight and 47

General Alessandro Pirzio Biroli became governor of Montenegro in 1941 and established an alliance with the Chetnik population against the independentists who were largely repressed, at a rate of 50 civilians for every Italian officer killed or wounded, or 10 civilians for each Italian private killed or wounded (see Jozo Tomasevich, War and Revolution in Yugoslavia, 1941–1945: Occupation and Collaboration (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2001), 142. Giuseppe Bastianini, the governor of Dalmatia, defended the Jewish minorities and Serbian orthodox refugees from the persecutions of the Croatian Eustacia (see Frank P. Verna, “Notes on Italian Rule in Dalmatia under Bastianini, 1941–1943,” The International History Review 12, no. 3 (Aug. 1990): 536–37. While trying to pass as a democratic and tolerant governor, Pirzio Biroli established anticommunist corps with license to kill as well as an extraordinary court that ordered the execution of 35 so-called dissenters and communist activists within a month of its foundation. The extraordinary tribunal was later replaced by the special Dalmatian tribunal that approved 500 executions and sent more than 10,000 Dalmatians to either the Molat prison camp or Italy. See Zdravko Dizdar, “Italian Policies Toward Croatians in Occupied Territories During the Second World War,” Review of Croatian History 1, no.1 (2005): 190–91 and 194; Marco Cuzzi, Guido Rumici, Roberto Spazzali, Istria Quarnero Dalmazia. Storia di una regione contesa dal 1796 alla fine del XX secolo (Gorizia: Libreria Editrice Goriziana, 2009), 200–01. 48 Pellegrini, Disertori, 67. 49 Pellegrini, Disertori, 71.

Unfit for War

85

find a shelter away from home. Hence, while he hides in the mountains above Udine, l’Argentino sides with the partisans; paradoxically, the same partisans he had previously massacred as a militia man. L’Argentino compares this chaotic change of factions with the internal divisions existing within the nation: Trieste poté finalmente avere la liberazione che gli italiani del centro volevano, quella che non metteva in discussione i privilegi e le proprietà di nessuno e lasciava i fascisti al loro posto. A parte quelli infoibati, naturalmente.50 Trieste could finally achieve the liberation that central Italians wanted, that kind of liberation which did not challenge anyone’s privileges and properties and left the fascists in their places. Except, of course, for the ones thrown into the foibe. The citizens of Trieste see the irregular partisan groups with the red stars on their caps as criminals. People view these deserters as enemies of Italy because they chose to defend the Slavs’ cause by lining up with Tito’s communist militants. The real ‘liberation’ that the inhabitants of Trieste sought is achieved through and with the Americans. With their “ironed shirts, dollars, and Lucky Strike” (“camicie stirate, i dollari e le Lucky Strike”),51 the Americans projected the image of people who would be more lenient towards the fascists than the leftist partisans. As the story unfolds, Federico and Dorina find it hard to reconcile this new portrait of their father with the pseudo-heroic figure that l’Argentino delineates for them. This is because they always regarded him as someone who “has been in a corner all his life” (“è rimasto tutta la vita in un angolo”),52 and “a kind of conscience objector” (“una specie di obiettore di coscienza”).53 The nightmarish story of a desertion haunts Alvise as much as the subsequent generations. He and his son Federico share the same alienation from the things that surround them in everyday life; still, the father’s disease has recently enabled the son to reconcile himself with reality. This is a reality that he has learned to separate from the truth. He says: “Now everything is true, but I do not feel that distance from reality” (“Adesso è tutto vero, ma non sento quella distanza dalla realtà”),54 as if one excluded the other. His words create 50 Pellegrini, Disertori, 109. 51 Pellegrini, Disertori, 107. 52 Pellegrini, Disertori, 118. 53 Pellegrini, Disertori, 119. 54 Pellegrini, Disertori, 13.

86

Gussago

an almost archeological distance between the time of the events and their current narration. L’Argentino, a far from reliable intermediary, reminisces about the past and never uses quotation marks, as if the past were already embedded in the narrative world in which stories sound like “parables to interpret and comment” (“parabole da interpretare e commentare”).55 With a premonition of Alvise’s death, his son Federico uses a military metaphor: “It is over, he thought. Now I am on the front line” (“È finita, pensò. Adesso sono in prima linea”).56 In the wake of his father’s redefined identity and subsequent death, the young man must take a decision: either cope with life or, in a paradoxical effort, desert it. Through this, the narrator seems to suggest that, in his skeptical day and age, where ideals have waned, desertion may be the only real act of heroism. When Federico retells the story about his father’s past to his wife, he realizes that his narrative has already lost some of its bite. This can be understood as the fate of historical forgetfulness. Similar to Dessì’s work, archaic nature has a discerning, neutralizing moral function in Disertori; indeed, it suspends moral judgement. Nature overwhelms Alvise by means of the most extreme manifestations: the father takes Federico to the top of a mountain to have him gaze down at the darkness of the village below after the devastation of the Friuli earthquake in 1976. In another passage, the natural death of a fellow soldier shocks Alvise, as if violent death had become ordinary and even ethically acceptable, whereas natural, biological death still holds an arcane meaning.57 It is the same mysterious meaning that Alvise would like to reveal to Federico when he takes him to the mountains to observe the desolate village destroyed by the earthquake. More than just an army deserter, Alvise turns into a deserter from the human covenant and reverts to nature, to those “prehistorical Friulian nights” (“preistoriche notti friulane”)58 in a previous life where he had “spent too long in the woods” (“­passato troppo tempo nei boschi”).59 Interestingly, when a Captain hails the two fighters as the “new men” (“uomini nuovi”)60 he clearly borrows his appellative from fascist propaganda, and suggests the recapture of North-East Friuli and Dalmatia from the Germans. In that exact moment, Alvise, according to the narrator, “seemed more interested in the shape of the clouds than in the

55 Pellegrini, Disertori, 38. 56 Pellegrini, Disertori, 118. 57 Pellegrini, Disertori, 76. 58 Pellegrini, Disertori, 28. 59 Pellegrini, Disertori, 41. 60 Pellegrini, Disertori, 92.

Unfit for War

87

captain’s talk” (“sembrava più interessato alla forma delle nubi che ai discorsi del capitano”).61 The novel’s epilogue captures l’Argentino’s sarcastic, somewhat ambiguous comment on a photograph showing Alvise and himself, the two deserters: In genere, quando c’era un fotografo, i fascisti si mettevano in posa; e del resto anche i partigiani, quelli italiani soprattutto. Noi non ne avevamo bisogno, eravamo proprio così.62 Generally, when there was a photographer, the fascists would strike a pose; for that matter, the partisans did the same, especially the Italian ones. We did not feel the need to, that’s how we really were. Distraught at l’Argentino’s testimony and reluctant to call it a ‘confession,’ ­Federico leaves the hospital alone, to find comfort from his emotional turmoil in the natural elements still surviving in the city – the trees, the stars, the water from the fountains. He understands that only natural phenomena prevent human beings from asking the usual questions: right or wrong? True or false?63 Nature seems to inspire Federico to consider his father’s past from a pre-moral point of view. It is arduous to find similarities between these two novels which tackle the notion of desertion from separate angles. For example, while Dessì mentions the Great War only remotely, Pellegrini plunges us into the darkest episodes of unofficial World War II warfare. The first novel culminates with Saverio’s confession to Don Pietro, a confession that remains unrevealed. The second novel is an indirect testimony that sheds new light on a hitherto unsuspected family member. In both works, the narrators avoid the immediacy of a direct confession from each deserter, preferring a more distanced perspective. To this end, they adopt a third-person account of the events; this enables them to tone down any unwanted suspense effect, but also to point out the real purpose of the story: any attempt to clarify either episode of desertion in ethical terms is impossible. Dessì explains the uselessness of monuments to celebrate war through Mariangela’s unintentionally mocking gesture to include the name of her son Saverio, a mutinous soldier, amongst the privileged heroic victims. Pellegrini, instead, offers the readers a consolatory concept of heroism that befits his 61 Pellegrini, Disertori, 92. 62 Pellegrini, Disertori, 132. 63 Pellegrini, Disertori, 48.

88

Gussago

cynical society: l’Argentino argues that a hero is someone who decides to do the right thing when exposed to a life-changing situation.64 One deserter, Saverio, dies in a mountain shed, his body curled up like a fetus – a rediscovery of the feminine and a rebirth through death. The young shepherd chooses to shy away from the village’s bustle and ideological conflicts, represented in the masculinity of the memorial that glorifies only men’s names and relegates women to be anonymous victims and spectators. The population cannot, in fact, believe that Mariangela is the main sponsor of the shrine, and suspects a man, Don Pietro, of being the mastermind behind that “evil trick” (“tiro diabolico”).65 Because of this, Mariangela is forced to take back her contribution for building the monument, but she slowly manages to re-fund the project in small, if anonymous, donations. The expedient makes her gesture become even more defiant in demystifying the monument as a political statement from the ruling class. Unlike Saverio’s, Alvise’s death takes place in a hospital, away from a home that feels alien in the patient’s reappropriation of his past. In his agony, Alvise entrusts his friend with his testimony. Similarly, Saverio confides his secret to Don Pietro quite reluctantly, probably at Mariangela’s instigation, without any intent of disclosing his past actions to anyone. He fears that the priest might contravene the seal of confession and reveal his crime. At the same time, there seems to be no sign of consolation in Saverio’s religious absolution. Both deserters find moral comfort and even physical refuge in a non-judgmental nature. For this reason, they choose to either desert or flee from progress and society at large. Dessì’s antifascist engagement is crucial in the reading of the novel, whereas Pellegrini’s narrator shows political indifference as an endeavor to escape ideological manipulations from either side. As for Saverio, he is the innocent young man who embodies ancestral traditions and is forced to grow up into the supposed culture of the battlefield. His return to the wild redeems him from the oppression of human laws. Alvise is the ex-criminal, according to military rules, who has the courage to acknowledge cruelty as an inherently human curse, unknown to other life forms. This discovery brings him to embrace a reinvented, de-humanized understanding of nature that dissociates him and those like him from their past mistakes. The price he pays for distancing ­himself from others entails anonymity, but also grief and contemplation. The metaphor of silence is paramount in both stories. To Mariangela, silence is the place of interiorized sorrow and suffering; it is not simply the end of noise and useless talk, but it identifies, in Father Coi’s own thoughts, with “that 64 Pellegrini, Disertori, 127. 65 Pellegrini, Disertori, 61.

Unfit for War

89

silence that made any word superfluous” (“quel silenzio che rendeva superflua ogni parola”).66 To Nereide Rudas, silence in the novel is an all-encompassing term that reclaims the right to existence of a submerged, irrational “language of the night.”67 This is also the language of prehistorical Sardinia, and of Mariangela, the “archetypical figure of insular femininity,”68 as opposed to the logos of mainstream fascist culture. In Pellegrini’s work silence is reality’s rhythm passed on from father to children; sounds exist only to measure silence; it also has the mitigating power of expressing forgiveness and acceptance. In l’Argentino’s story, silence is a pristine state of things. Also, it is the beginning – a sort of anti-biblical incipit – rather than the end. Silence marks the violence inflicted on Dorjana and the moment following Alvise’s revenge against his comrades; this is the turning point in his awakening to a basic, coincidental justice inscribed in the principle of ‘the right thing at the right time.’ Discussing silence as a ritual element in the commemorations of the First World War in England, Katie Trumpener highlights the tendency of the male ruling class to institutionalize collective memories, a practice that is tantamount to b­ urying personal recollections under the granite insignia of the Unknown Soldier. Women writers and intellectuals – Trumpener argues – have often tried to j­uxtapose this “monument-making” effort with a “disjuncture between ­combatant and civilian experience.”69 But they have also opposed silence as nothing but “a ritual that created the sense of a self-present national community collectively silenced by grief.”70 Silence to them is simply an attempt to weaken the evocative strength of the past as an individual, tangible reality. In this, Mariangela’s intimate, ancestral silence in front of the shrine brings down the monument as a metaphor for a false heroism. Likewise, the silence that follows the cruel execution of Dorjana is comparable to that “of an empty church” (“di una chiesa vuota”),71 another instance of desacralization of a rite. 66 Pellegrini, Disertori, 134. 67 Sandro Maxia, “Prefazione”, in Giuseppe Dessí, Il disertore (Nuoro: Illisso Edizioni, 1997), 27. 68 Nereide Rudas, “Il disertore: il romanzo del segreto”, in L’isola dei coralli. Itinerari dell’identità (Rome: La Nuova Italia Scientifica, 1997), 185; quoted in Marco Dorigatti, “La luna sul Tamigi. La figura e l’opera di Dessì nell’orizzonte culturale inglese”, in Anna Dolfi (ed.), Giuseppe Dessì tra traduzioni e edizioni. Una raccolta di saggi (Florence: Firenze U ­ niversity Press, 2013), 72. 69 Katie Trumpener, “Memories Carved in Granite: Great War Memorials and Everyday Life”, PMLA 115, no. 5 (Oct. 2000): 1097. 70 Trumpener, “Memories Carved in Granite,” 1097. 71 Pellegrini, Disertori, 86.

90

Gussago

Interestingly, both novels underscore three main points: firstly, they ­confront historical and social silence surrounding the deserter. Secondly, they fight the oblivion and historical forgetfulness of an uncomfortable page of ­Italian ­history and beyond. Thirdly, they provide a key to the teasing out of those moral conundrums associated with the act of desertion, an action which neither statistics nor history can deftly convey. Surely, an inevitable sense of fear, delineated as a self-defensive feeling, a survival instinct, or a steppingstone for the characters’ inner growth pervades both works. Both Federico and Dorina, for instance, experience fear as the awakening of self-awareness and as a presence of mind that belongs to the memory of their father; but they also learn to transcend it. Fear ‘of’ something becomes fear ‘for’ something or someone. This is the message Alvise seems to bequeath the siblings through l’Argentino’s story. As a result of the confession, Alvise’s children end up accepting fear as a sign of uncertainty in the future, but also as the possibility of change, a possibility that their father tried all his life to erase by neglecting his past as deserter and rebel until his final revelation. In Dessì’s novel fear has a social connotation. It emerges as the fear of social condemnation on the aristocrats’ side; in the higher ranks of the clergy, it manifests itself as the trepidation of losing authority; and in the rising Fascist Party, fear of left-wing political opponents. The only characters who see fear as an intimate, soul-searching experience are Father Coi – who understands desertion as an ethical/religious issue – and Mariangela – who experiences the same kind of responsive fear that animals feel when defending their offspring. We can conclude our reflections with a final comparison: in the novel Articles of War by Nick Arvin, a recent evocative revisitation of the deserter archetype in the Second World War, another existential variation of the ‘fear for’ theme emerges: I hope I stay afraid through this entire war, then go home afraid. I want many long years of fear after that, afraid for a wife, afraid for children – as long as I’m afraid for them, that means they’re still alive too, because you don’t feel afraid for someone who’s already died, you just feel sad and sorry.72

Bibliography

Alessi, Rino. Dall’Isonzo al Piave. Lettere clandestine di un corrispondente di guerra. Milan: Mondadori, 1966.

72

Nick Arvin, Articles of War (New York: Anchor Books, 2006), 43–44.

Unfit for War

91

Arvin, Nick. Articles of War. New York: Anchor Books, 2006. Atzeni, Paola. Tra il dire e il fare: cultura materiale della gente di miniera in Sardegna. Cagliari: Cooperativa Universitaria Editrice Cagliaritana, 2007. Caimpenta, Ugo. Il maresciallo Badoglio (Vicerè d’Etiopia). Milan: Edizioni “Aurora”, 1936. Comisso Giovanni. Giorni di guerra. Milan: Longanesi, 1960. Cuzzi, Marco, Guido Rumici and Roberto Spazzali. Istria Quarnero Dalmazia. ­Storia di una regione contesa dal 1796 alla fine del XX secolo. Gorizia: Libreria Editrice ­Goriziana, 2009. D’Agata, Giuseppe. L’esercito di Scipione. Milan: Bompiani, 1977. Dellacasa, Erika. “Il movimento anti-Cadorna. ‘Nuovi nomi a vie e piazze’.” Corriere della Sera, 18 July 2011. https://www.corriere.it/unita-italia-150/11_luglio_18/della casa-cador na39f828 e2-b152-11e0-8890-9ce 9f56cae65.shtml. Dessí, Giuseppe. Il disertore. Milan: Feltrinelli, 1961. Dizdar, Zdravko. “Italian Policies toward Croatians in Occupied Territories During the Second World War.” Review of Croatian History 1, no. 1 (2005): 179–210. Dorigatti, Marco. “La luna sul Tamigi. La figura e l’opera di Dessì nell’orizzonte c­ ulturale inglese.” In Anna Dolfi. Ed. Giuseppe Dessì tra traduzioni e edizioni. Una raccolta di saggi. Florence: Firenze University Press, 2013. Federal Communication Commission. Daily Report Foreign Radio Broadcasts. ­Wednesday, September 1943 ,8. Forcella, Enzo and Alberto Monticone. Plotone di esecuzione. I processi della prima guerra mondiale. Bari: Editori Laterza, 2014. Franzinelli, Mimmo. Disertori. Una storia mai raccontata della Seconda guerra ­mondiale. Milan: Mondadori, 2016. Glass, Charles. Deserter: A Hidden History of the Second World War. London: William Collins, 2014. Gobetti, Ada. Diario partigiano. Turin: Einaudi, 1996. Guerrini, Irene and Marco Pluviano. Le fucilazioni sommarie nella prima guerra ­mondiale. Udine: Gaspari, 2004. Heller, Joseph. Catch-22. London: Vintage, 2005. Iannaccone, Stefano. “Grande guerra, una proposta di legge per la riabilitazione dei soldati fucilati.” Il Fatto Quotidiano, 14 April 2015. https://www.ilfattoquotidiano.it /2015/04/14/grande-guerra-legge-per-riabilitare-i-soldati-fucilati1588937/. Isnenghi, Mario and Giorgio Rochat. La Grande Guerra 1914–1918. Milan: Sansoni, 2004. Kocci, Luca. “Grande Guerra: nessuna riabilitazione per i disertori.” Adista, n. 41, 26 November 2016. https://lucakocci.wordpress.com/2016/11/25/grande-guerra-nessu na-riabili tazione-per-i-disertori/. Kocci, Luca. “Redipuglia, ‘il Papa si ricordi dei disertori’.” Il Manifesto, 12 September 2014. https://ilmanifesto.it/il-papa-a-redipuglia-si-ricordi-dei-disertori/. Kubrick, Stanley. Paths of Glory. Directed by Stanley Kubrick. Burbank, CA: United ­Artists Studio, 1957.

92

Gussago

Lenz, Siegfried. Der Überläufer. Hamburg: Hoffmann und Campe Verlag, 2016. Loverre, Cesare Alberto. “Al muro. Le fucilazioni del generale Andrea Graziani nel novembre 1917. Cronache di una giustizia esemplare a Padova e Noventa Padovana.” Materiali di storia, no. 19, aprile 2001. Malagodi, Olindo. Conversazioni della guerra, 1914–1919. Ed. B. Vigezzi. Milan/Naples: Riccardo Ricciardi Editore, 1960. Malaparte, Curzio. Viva Caporetto! La rivolta dei santi maledetti. Florence: Vallecchi, 1995. Maxia, Sandro. “Prefazione.” In Giuseppe Dessí, Il disertore. Nuoro: Illisso Edizioni, 1997. Monticone, Alberto. Gli italiani in uniforme 1915–1918. Intellettuali, borghesi e disertori. Bari: Laterza, 1972. Morselli, Mario. Caporetto: Victory or Defeat? Abingdon/New York: Routledge, 2001. Pellegrini, Michele. Disertori. Siena: Lorenzo Barbera Editore, 2006. Purich, Piero. “L’Italia e la grande guerra senza la retorica nazionalista.” Internazionale, 3 November 2018. https://www.internazionale.it/opinione/piero-purich/2018/11/ 03 /prima-guerra-mondiale-italia. Robertson, Nan. “French delay showing films on touchy topics.” The New York Times, 15 March 1975. https://www.nytimes.com/1975/03/15/archives/french-delay-showing -films-on-touchy -topics.html. Rudas, Nereide. “Il disertore: il romanzo del segreto.” In L’isola dei coralli. Itinerari ­dell’identità. Rome: La Nuova Italia Scientifica, 1997. Senato della Repubblica, “Disposizioni per la riabilitazione storica degli appartenenti alle Forze armate italiane condannati alla fucilazione dai tribunali militari di guerra nel corso della prima Guerra mondiale.” 18 March 2018. https://www.senato.it /leg/18/ BGT/Schede/Ddliter/testi/51082_testi.htm. Silvestri, Mario. Caporetto: una battaglia e un enigma. Bergamo: BUR, 2006. Tomasevich, Jozo. War and Revolution in Yugoslavia, 1941–1945: Occupation and ­Collaboration. Stanford, CA: Stanford UP, 2001. Trumpener, Katie. “Memories Carved in Granite: Great War Memorials and Everyday Life.” PMLA 115, no. 5 (October 2000): 1096–1103. Verna, Frank P. “Notes on Italian Rule in Dalmatia under Bastianini, 1941–1943.” The International History Review 12, no. 3 (August 1990): 528–547.

Chapter 5

“Non credo più alla Patria, all’eroismo, alle Sante Cause …”: The Journal of Donato Guglielmi, pow in Russia during the Second World War Gianluca Cinelli Abstract Gianluca Cinelli introduces a practically unknown war testimony by Donato ­Guglielmi, a doctor from Genoa and pow in Russia during the Second World War. Written on thousands of cigarette papers in the years between 1943 and 1946, this diary, significantly ­entitled Attendimi [Wait for Me] recounts Guglielmi’s personal ordeal and struggle to survive in the most humiliating circumstances, and his desire to regain a human dignity that often had to compromise in the face of the basic need to survive. The apparent “­Machiavellianism” of this diary offers a problematic interpretation of the ethical challenge which the pows in Soviet concentration camps were confronted with. One of the main purposes of this chapter is to reflect on the ethics of memory writing.

To fight in a distant land thought to be inhabited by ferocious and backward populations and blighted with a horribly hostile climate is not the same as fighting in one’s own country defending home and family. If the war in question is based on abstract ideological motives and declared by a country whose leaders consider warfare a means of extermination and genocide, involvement in such an endeavor might not engender much enthusiasm in those called to fight it. The war on the Eastern Front declared by Germany on Russia in June 1941 unexpectedly involved the Italian army because of Mussolini’s precipitous decision to take part in the campaign. He made this decision in spite of the perplexities raised by his Army High Command and in spite of Hitler’s explicit request to concentrate the Italian war effort in the Mediterranean Sea.1 This essay will focus on the testimony of one particular witness, medical o­ fficer Donato Guglielmi, who served in the Soviet Union and was taken 1 Gerhard Schreiber, “Italiens Teilnahme am Krieg gegen die Sowjetunion. Motive, Fakten und Folgen,” [Italy’s Involvement in the War against the Soviet Union: Motives, Facts and Consequences], in Stalingrad. Ereignis, Wirkung, Symbol, ed. Jürgen Förster (Munich: Peiper, © Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2023 | DOI:10.1163/9789004548145_007

94

Cinelli

captive by Russians in the winter of 1943. During his captivity, that lasted until 1946, ­Guglielmi authored a diary using thousands of rolling cigarette papers, thus leaving a unique document about that experience, one that he analyzed ­without ideological prejudice and with an unwavering ethical attitude. Before delving into Guglielmi’s text, it bears to remember that the ­German-Italian war in the East had a profound impact on the imagination and ideological predisposition of Italians (both civilians and combatants) toward the risky and ambitious military endeavor. Clearly, Italians were ­neither ­prepared nor willing to undertake a demanding war against a country that was thousands of miles away from the national borders. To win public opinion in support of the military campaign, Italian propagandists resumed the most ancient and original ideological issue of fascism, namely, its anticommunist agenda, and presented the war in the East as a crusade for the liquidation (Ausrottung was the term used by their German colleagues) of the communist intelligentsia. In reality, the Germans’ true intentions never reached the Italian population for it was unaware of Hitler’s will to exterminate both the Eastern Jews and the communist Soviet intelligentsia. Since the beginning of the conflict, the Germans conducted their military campaign as an extermination war. It is believed that almost three million of Russian pow s, mostly captured in 1941, died from diseases, exhaustion, and starvation in German concentration camps. There, they were exploited to their death as forced laborers.2 The infamous Commissar Order (Kommissarbefehl), a document that was secretly circulated among German officers on the eve of the invasion, imposed immediate execution of all communist political commissars captured on the battlefield. Because propaganda connected these commissars, as well as partisans with Jews who were, in turn, accused of plotting to destroy Germany and the whole Western European civilization, their extermination was believed to be freeing the world from a global threat. As they heard of Mussolini’s decision to send an Expeditionary Corps of approximately 60,000 men (the CSIR) to Russia in Summer 1941, neither the Italian population nor the troops were aware of the plans Germany had devised. To make the undertaking not only comprehensible, but especially acceptable to a population that was already suffering from disastrous military 1992), 251 and 256. See also Maria Teresa Giusti, La campagna di Russia. 1941–1943 (Bologna: Il Mulino, 2017). 2 Christian Hartmann, “Verbrecherischer Krieg – verbrecherische Wehrmacht? Überlegungen zur Struktur des deutschen Ostheeres” [Criminal war – criminal Wehrmacht? C ­ onsiderations about the structure of the German army in the East], in Christian Hartmann and others, eds., Der deutsche Krieg im Osten, 1941–1944. Facetten einer Grenzüberschreitung, (Munich: ­Oldenbourg, 2009), 12.

“Non credo più alla Patria, all’eroismo, alle Sante Cause…”

95

drawbacks in Africa and in the Balkans, fascist propaganda was effectively supported by the Catholic Church. This support persuaded Italians that the war against Soviet Russia was necessary and holy,3 because it aimed at restoring Catholicism in atheist Marxist USSR.4 Given such a prelude, it was no surprise that most of the Italian combatants were unhappy with the war against Russia. For among other things, they could not understand how a country as distant as Russia could pose any threat to Italy. Indeed, in the early 1940s for the majority of Italians Russia was an almost unknown country because of its geographical remoteness. For this reason, most Italian soldiers did not want to be involved in a war against the Soviet Union. A great number of personal narratives confirms this fact. Indeed, personal letters, diaries, and memoirs of Italian soldiers in Russia reveal a general sense of disaffection, uneasiness, and displacement. They also testify to the catastrophic unpreparedness of the Italian Royal Army with regard to its ability to fight alongside the German advanced Blitzkrieg.5 After a year of fighting in the industrial area of the Donets River, Mussolini sent a second army of 230,000 men (ARMIR: Armata Italiana in Russia) to replace the exhausted soldiers of the Expeditionary Corps. Its crowning jewel was the Alpine Corps, which consisted of three Mountain Divisions that were supposed to conquer the Caucasus in July 1942. But these troops never reached the Caucasus, which was conquered by the German Alpenjäger. Instead, the Italian Alpini were diverted to the river Don to replace an infantry division (Sforzesca) that had been defeated by the Red Army in August 1942. When the Italian resisting troops were eventually overwhelmed in December 1942, the men of the ARMIR began to retreat in the middle of the Russian winter. Under

3 Mario Isnenghi, “La campagna di Russia nella stampa e nella pubblicistica fascista,” in Gli italiani sul fronte russo, Michele Calandri and Piermario Bologna, eds. (Bari: De Donato, 1982), 400–414. 4 Mimmo Franzinelli, Il riarmo dello spirito. I cappellani militari nella Seconda Guerra Mondiale (Paese: Pagus, 1991). 5 For example, see Mario Rigoni Stern, L’ultima partita a carte (Turin: Einaudi, 2002), 79. As for collections of letters, see: Ivo Dalla Costa, ed. L’Italia imbavagliata. Lettere censurate 1940–1943 (Paese: Pagus, 1990), 11, 22, 30–31, 92 and 98; Nuto Revelli, L’ultimo fronte. Lettere di soldati caduti o dispersi nella seconda guerra mondiale (Turin: Einaudi, 2009 [1971]), 33, 93, 112–113, 124, 218, 234, 251 and 271. Nino Bellomo wrote in Lettere censurate (Milan: L­ onganesi, 1975) that very few Italians saluted the war with enthusiasm, while most of them accepted it with resignation and sometimes with hostility (2). A similar opinion was shared by veteran Giuseppe Lamberti in “L’importanza del giornale ‘L’Alba’ per l’evoluzione democratica dei prigionieri italiani in URSS a seguito del secondo conflitto mondiale,” in Gli italiani sul fronte russo, Michele Calandri and Piermario Bologna, eds. (Bari: De Donato, 1982), 323–329 (324).

96

Cinelli

those circumstances, more than 84,000 Italians went missing in action and only 10,000 of these men returned home after the war.6 The first contingent of Italian pow s left Russia in Fall 1945; the last handful of prisoners were released in 1954, after years of captivity in Soviet concentration camps. There, they were used as forced laborers in demanding conditions that included malnutrition and physical exploitation. For these men, captivity in Russia entailed displacement because they were dispersed all over Russia – from Samarkand to Archangelsk – and used as laborers in the cotton fields as well as in the woods. Unlike the stories of partisans who had fought in Italy against the fascists and German invaders, these men’s experiences of suffering and endurance were neither heroic nor uplifting. In fact, after the war, they “were welcomed with indifference and without any interest or acknowledgement of their sacrifice, and thus felt humiliated in comparison with those who had not taken part in the war […] and with partisans.”7 Moreover, pow s in Italy had long been considered traitors and unworthy soldiers. During wwi, the Italian Army abandoned over 600,000 pow s to their miserable destiny of hunger, cold, and desperation rather than supporting them during the long years of captivity. Even after their return from the concentration camps in Germany and Austria, pow s were interrogated by military committees aimed at establishing whether they had deserted or surrendered.8 In 1945 the situation was unchanged and pow s returning home were considered the living symbol of a catastrophic military defeat because their stories revived the sufferings of war.9 No one wanted to listen to these vanquished men who were also suspected of having embraced the communist 6 No certainty exists concerning the exact number of Italian pow s in Russia. According to UNIRR’s Rapporto sui prigionieri di guerra italiani in Russia (1995) 70,000 Italians were taken captive; but such a figure has since 1943 ranged between 64,500 and 150,000 in accordance with sources and hypotheses which Giusti accounts for in I prigionieri italiani in Russia (Bologna: Il Mulino, 2003), 225–228. The most reliable figure remains the one suggesting that about 84,000 Italians were captured by the end of January 1943. Yet the precise account of how many of those men died during the retreat, during the transfers, and in concentration camps is still incalculable. 7 “I reduci si videro accolti con indifferenza, senza alcun interesse o riconoscimento per i loro sacrifici, e si sentirono umiliati dal confronto con i tanti imboscati […] e con i partigiani.” Giorgio Rochat, “I prigionieri di guerra. Un problema rimosso,” Una storia di tutti. Prigionieri, internati, deportati italiani nella Seconda Guerra Mondiale, ed. Istituto Storico della Resistenza in Piemonte (Milan: Franco Angeli, 1989), 1–10. Translation is mine. 8 Giovanna Procacci, Soldati e prigionieri italiani nella Grande Guerra. 2nd ed. (Turin: Bollati Boringhieri, 2000). 9 Gianni Oliva, L’alibi della Resistenza, ovvero come abbiamo vinto la seconda guerra mondiale (Milan: Mondadori, 2003), 84.

“Non credo più alla Patria, all’eroismo, alle Sante Cause…”

97

cause during their long stay in the land of atheist Marxism.10 Indeed, pow s from ­Russia represented a minor group among the whole community of war prisoners. Still, their health and mental conditions were so poor that many of them were marginalized after the war. Interestingly, a small minority of pow s from Russia, consisting mainly of returned officers and military chaplains, took part in the fiercely anticommunist political campaign for the first election of Republican Italy in 1948 and beyond.11 Essentially, they did so by manipulating the c­ ollective memory of Russian captivity. Following this narrative, most memoirs of the Russian campaign that survived were profoundly influential in restoring their authors’ political reputation, enabling them to gain the highest honors for their anticommunist ‘resistance’ during their captivity.12 In fact, they depicted the Soviets and their collaborators in the concentration camps as cruel perpetrators who exploited the pow s for hard labor and forced them with threats and violence to renounce their former fascist credo. At the same time, they also portrayed pow s who converted to communism as people rewarded with extra food, better clothing, and exempted from hard work.13 The testimonials of Russian captivity published after the war reveal the structure of the Soviet concentration camps as a complex world; in it, the fatigue from exploitation matched the mental strain produced by political re-education. To Italian, as well as German pow s, political re-education corresponded to both a new horizon and a shock. This occurred also because the group of antifascist prisoners normally consisted of an absolute minority of detainees who, nonetheless, enjoyed all sorts of privileges.14 Captivity thus became a sort of civil war whose political, cultural, and historical significance for post-war Italy was quite remarkable because, unlike the Resistance, it was neither perceived nor depicted as a clash between heroes and villains. Rather, it was portrayed as a subterranean struggle among outsiders and outcasts. A small number of the most radical outsiders rejected the past and considered the defeat the proof that the fatherland had not only betrayed, but also abandoned them. This small group of pow s provided a limited number of witnesses and memoirs. Among them, Donato Guglielmi embodies a unique case of an ‘antihero’ who stood out to advocate the human dignity of the vanquished pow s. In the specific context of this war-captivity, the notion of ‘antihero’ 10 Giusti, I prigionieri italiani in Russia, 178. 11 Isnenghi, “La campagna di Russia nella stampa e nella pubblicistica fascista,” 423. 12 Gianluca Cinelli, “La memoria della prigionia sovietica. Restaurazione dell’identità ­nazionale in continuità con il fascismo,” Il presente e la storia 84, (2013): 121–127. 13 Gianluca Cinelli, “La memoria della prigionia sovietica.” 121–127. 14 Valdo Zilli, “Gli italiani prigionieri di guerra in Urss: vicende, esperienze, testimonianze,” in Gli italiani sul fronte russo, 295–321.

98

Cinelli

should ironically mean someone who picked neither the old fascist ideology side (with patriotism, nationalism, and the rhetoric of the crusade), nor that of the ‘new’ Soviet ideology (with opportunism, hypocrisy, and the rhetoric of the ‘re-education’). Instead, this antihero attempted to understand what it meant to remain human under the most horrendous circumstances of suffering, doubts, and struggle. Guglielmi was a medical doctor from Genoa. Considered among the best works devoted to the Italian war captivity in Russia, his diary, with its e­ legant, sober style and objectivity, aimed at acknowledging the Russian enemy’s humanity. It also criticized the worst behaviors of Italian prisoners. While a large part of it was written on hundreds of cigarette papers that Guglielmi concealed inside his greatcoat’s epaulettes and smuggled to Italy, the remaining part of the diary, written on personal notebooks, left the concentration camp unchecked through the help of the Italian political commissar, Elio Sassi, whom the doctor befriended. Guglielmi did not publish his diary until the early 1980s, when a great number of former pow s began to make their ­memories public. But unlike many other witnesses, Guglielmi was aware of one particularly important feature that makes his diary unique. As he explained in the introduction, he had written the diary during the captivity, not after it, and only reorganized and copied it down after his return. For this reason, he added, the book was only a personal account of his singular experience, not a ­general view of the captivity of all Italian soldiers in the USSR.15 This statement is important because it is a reminder that each testimony is not supposed to provide a general overview of a multifaceted experience like that of the ­Russian captivity. Italian scholars who study the Russian campaign have largely neglected Guglielmi’s diary. Similarly, in Hamilton Hope’s recent work about the Italian participation in the Nazi war in the East, Guglielmi’s testimonial remains yet again absent from the chapter on captivity.16 Among the few scattered critical voices that shed light on this work, Michele Calandri does not merely assert that it is the only proper diary from that captivity, but he also states that its author benefited from his role as a doctor to observe his Russian masters closely.17 In fact, Guglielmi joined the antifascist elite during his captivity; as a medical doctor and an officer, he enjoyed privileges unknown to other pow s. 15 16 17

Donato Guglielmi, Attendimi. Russia 1942–1946. Diario di un medico in prigionia (Cuneo: L’arciere, 1993), 7. From here onward English translations are mine, unless otherwise ­specified. Hamilton Hope, Sacrifice on the Steppe. The Italian Alpine Corps in the Stalingrad ­Campaign, 1942–1943 (Philadelphia: Casemate, 2011). Michele Calandri, “Donato Guglielmi,” Il presente e la storia 46, (1994): 345–347.

“Non credo più alla Patria, all’eroismo, alle Sante Cause…”

99

According to Calandri, this fact allowed Guglielmi to overcome stereotypes and better understand his Russian captors. By writing about them from his privileged p ­ erspective, Guglielmi could be considered an “ante-litteram ­democrat,” someone, that is, not influenced by the prejudices and narrow-mindedness that tainted his comrades’ perceptions and which affected their memoirs ­written after the war.18 The diary begins on November 28, 1942, with the description of the long trek to Russia that the author undertakes with resignation and in a state of disconcert.19 To him, the journey is a dull sequence of foreign stations that have unutterable names and landscapes in which he desperately seeks a reminder of his beloved homeland. Everything rouses nostalgia in this man who unwillingly travels far from home to fulfill a duty that he hardly understands. The first concrete impact with Russia in the city of Voroshilovgrad is rather negative; he describes the place as a shabby, dirty, and poor city.20 Here he comes upon his new Italian fellow-officers of the garrison. In particular, he meets a young ­lieutenant of the sanitary corps who despises the Russians because he ­considers them through the eyes of a colonial occupier and says: Sono qui da tre giorni e non ho mai visto gente così servile, senza d­ ignità […]. Siamo dei nemici e loro ti fanno di tutto, ti danno tutto, dormono per terra e ti lasciano perfino il loro letto. Sono proprio dei vermi. ­Sicuramente degli esseri inferiori. I have been here for three days, and I have never seen such servile and undignified people as these […]. Although we are the enemy, they do anything for us and give us everything. They even allow us to sleep in their bed while they lie on the floor. They are worms, inferior beings for sure.21 Guglielmi finds these words disgusting and unworthy of an officer even though he also finds Russia sad, shabby, and depressing. His consideration matches the general impression of absurd and cruel wickedness that the war inflicts on him. On December 10, he writes in his diary that his daughter has just died at home, immediately after she was born. This tragic event changes his attitude towards the war; in fact, his initial detachment turns into open hostility driven by his desire of returning home to his wife. Yet the hospital begins to be flooded 18 Calandri, “Donato Guglielmi,” 346. 19 Guglielmi, Attendimi, 9. 20 Guglielmi, Attendimi, 15. 21 Guglielmi, Attendimi, 17–18.

100

Cinelli

with wounded men coming from the front, where the Russians are breaking the Italian defenses. This turn of events causes Guglielmi to comprehend how seriously lacking in organization, discipline, and equipment the Italian Army is. Eventually, he is captured in Kantemirowka on December 20, 1942. There, for the first time, he encounters the enemy face to face. This experience leaves him utterly baffled because, on the one hand a chivalric Major of the Red Army invites the Italian doctors to keep treating the wounded, while on the other, a group of Russian soldiers shoot dead the chaplain and four prisoners to avenge their comrades killed in action. The words that Guglielmi uses to describe the experience evidence his sheer astonishment: Entrano da noi violenti e rumorosi. La maggior parte si accorge di essere in un ospedale e osserva con reverenza e con pietà gli amputati, i congelati, le spaventose ferite dei nostri poveri uomini. Si commuovono e vogliono ad ogni costo farti sentire che vedono in noi medici e feriti, non nemici. […] Io li osservo con una certa, attonita incredulità: quelli che ho di fronte, con cui tento di discorrere, che mi danno manate bonarie sulle spalle o che mi minacciano, sono i Russi. They come in rowdily and violently. Most of them realize that they are in a hospital and gaze with reverence and pity the amputees, the frost-­ bitten men, and the horrible wounds of our miserable patients. Moved by what they see, they try to make us understand that they consider us doctors and wounded rather than enemies. […] I stare at them in a state of incredulous stupefaction: those in front of me, with whom I try to talk, who pat me on the shoulders in a friendly manner or threaten me, are the Russians.22 On January 26, 1943, as he sees a mass of prisoners marching in the snow, chased by their drunken watchers, Guglielmi understands that the Italian adventure in the East has come to its bitter end. In early Spring 1943, he begins his long journey to Siberia, whose very name rouses sheer horror.23 In fact, the prisoners transported to the East in the Winter of 1943 were literally engulfed into the hell of transit camps like Tambov, Krinovaja, Oranki and Susdal, where the death-rate reached over 50%.24 As soon as he enters his first ­concentration 22 Guglielmi, Attendimi, 33. 23 Guglielmi, Attendimi, 99. 24 The Italian group suffered the highest number of deaths during the whole duration of captivity (56,5%), which cannot be compared to the death rate of German pows (14,9%) despite the harder life conditions of the latter. Giusti, I prigionieri italiani in Russia, 96–97.

“Non credo più alla Patria, all’eroismo, alle Sante Cause…”

101

camp, Guglielmi ironically describes it as a place where surviving means stealing.25 This theory perfectly mirrors his pessimistic view of reality during the first weeks of captivity spent surviving typhus and other diseases while ­saving as many lives as possible. On July 27, 1943, the news finally reaches the ­prisoners that fascism in Italy has been overthrown. After the initial enthusiasm, this information, as his words suggest, causes him to plunge into a bleak, pessimistic state: Vedo buio: dappertutto gli alleati bombardano. Maledetti, maledetti tutti. […] La Patria, la Storia, l’Indipendenza, ecc... E tutte le parole con l’iniziale maiuscola. La più vera, quella che esprime tutto quando si tratta di uomini, è sempre quella di Cambronne. Che l’Internazionale comunista sia proprio, in definitiva l’unico mezzo per dar pace all’uomo? Oppure la sincera applicazione dei principi cristiani? Ma no. No, perché “homo homini lupus”. Anywhere I turn, I see darkness. The Allies are bombing [Italy]. Damn them all! […] Fatherland, History, Independence, etc… and all those words that begin with a capital letter. The truest of them all, when it comes to dealing with human things, remains Cambronne’s. Is the ­Communist International perhaps the only way to bring peace among peoples? Or is it the sincere application of Christian principles? No, it cannot be, because “homo homini lupus.”26 For the pow s, who are cut off from the outer world, as well as from families, who feel the shame of being defeated, and who worry about the future, the present looks bleak and meaningless. In his peculiar situation, Guglielmi wonders whether the eschatological promise of a better future, lying at the basis of both Christian and communist dogmas, might be a viable solution to suffering and an antidote against desperation. A great number of pow s in Russia joined the communist antifascist groups not because urged by a genuine political desire, but because in the conversion they found the way to a more bearable captivity. Guglielmi’s reaction to Italy’s defeat on September 9, 1943, is two-faceted: on the one hand he thinks that the Italians deserved to be defeated. On the other, he feels humiliated.27 His pessimism does not mirror the hurt pride of a defeated officer; rather, it reflects his discovery of the degraded reality in the 25 Guglielmi, Attendimi, 164. 26 Guglielmi, Attendimi, 181. 27 Guglielmi, Attendimi, 190.

102

Cinelli

camp, where the real perpetrators inflicting suffering and humiliation onto the Italian pow s are not (or not only) the Russians, but also the Italians themselves. Specifically, they are also the small group of those revolting, criminal fellow-citizens who live off corruption and thievery to the detriment of weak and ill comrades.28 The experience of moral corruption was common among pow s in Russia during the Second World War. Not only did the men who had experienced weeks of cold, hunger and long marches in the snow suffer the shock of capture and loss of status,29 but the need to comply with new rules, paired with the separation from former comrades – through death or transfers – made them also feel isolated. For this reason, they erected a wall of mistrust around each other.30 The result was the formation of a morally slack society based on primitive relationships and the struggle for survival. To achieve self-preservation, two basic strategies existed: namely, securing sufficient calories by eating more than other prisoners and avoiding the physical strain of forced labor. The best way to attain these sought-after privileges, was to join the antifascist ‘club’ inside the camp. Indeed, prisoners who cooperated with the Russian captors and repudiated their former fascist credo were rewarded. This reality often caused a great deal of insincere political conversions, as well as the dissolution of moral bonds among pow s. The situation eventually encouraged the spread of spies, corruption, and blackmailing.31 Guglielmi too joined the antifascist group and tried to take advantage of his new condition that would allow him to learn Russian, read newspapers, and become familiar with the peculiar social structure of the Soviet concentration camp. One of the most important discoveries that he made by joining the antifascist club was the newspaper L’Alba. This publication was devoted

28 Guglielmi, Attendimi, 217–218. 29 Diether Cartellieri, “Die deutschen Kriegsgefangenen in der Sowjetunion. Die ­Lagergesellschaft. Eine Untersuchung der zwischenmenschlichen Beziehungen in den Kriegsgefangenenlagern” [German pows in the Soviet Union. The Lager Society. An Investigation about the Interpersonal Connections in pow-Lagers], in Zur Geschichte der deutschen Kriegsgefangenen des Zweiten Weltkrieges [History of the German pows during the Second World War], 22 vols., ed. Erich Maschke, (Bielefeld: Giesekind, 1967), vol. 2, 40. 30 Hedwig Fleischhacker, “Die deutschen Kriegsgefangenen in der Sowjetunion. Der ­Faktor Hunger” [German pows in the Soviet Union. The Hunger Factor], in Zur Geschichte der deutschen Kriegsgefangenen des Zweiten Weltkrieges, ed. Erich Maschke (Bielefeld: ­Giesekind, 1965), vol. 3, 23. 31 Cartellieri, “Die deutschen Kriegsgefangenen in der Sowjetunion,” 116–117 and 119. For a more general discussion and exposition of these aspects of the Russian captivity, see Gianluca Cinelli, Prigionieri nei Lager di Stalin e di Hitler. L’esperienza del totalitarismo nella memorialistica italiana e tedesca (Cuneo: Primalpe, 2014).

“Non credo più alla Patria, all’eroismo, alle Sante Cause…”

103

to the Italian prisoners and represented the main vehicle of their political re-­ education.32 Such newspapers (Freies Wort was the publication of the German Antifa) were the only source of news from the world outside and revealed the crisis of the German in the East and the military successes of the Allies. ­Guglielmi first read L’Alba on October 4, 1943. In it, he found Simonov’s Wait for me, a poem of hope and nostalgia from which he eventually borrowed the title of his diary. This event seems to highlight Guglielmi’s humanistic and ­humanitarian inclination that prioritizes the medical and spiritual condition of the pow s over the political and ideological struggles that characterized life in the camps. In the Fall of 1943, he was transferred to camp 29/3 where forced labor was particularly hard and food scarcer. The diary entries from this period suggest that he began to weigh the ethical options that his condition presented: Perché soccombono uomini buoni e innocui, mentre i malvagi sopravvivono? Perché è premiato con la vita l’uomo che non retrocede di fronte a qualsiasi mezzo tortuoso, pur di sopravvivere, a danno dei suoi simili che non lottano con i suoi stessi mezzi? Why do good and harmless men die, while wicked ones survive? Why is life spared for the man who, to ensure his survival, does not hesitate to use any means of torture against his fellow men who do not have the same means to fight?33 Witnessing the harsh conditions of the pow s and the moral degradation that their fight for survival entailed, the doctor began to feel the sting of ­indignation against corrupted men using their privileged position in the camp to their own advantage. Many of these men were members of the antifascist group who formed the elite of prominent pow s and who were often used by the Soviets as spies. Aware of the corruption that made life in the camp unbearable for a great number of prisoners, in his diary Guglielmi blames the state of affairs on the camp-leader and his ambitious and violent adjutant.34 He also faults the prisoners he terms hyenas and who, as he describes, have given birth to a revolting 32

For a historical account of the publication of this newspaper see Luca Vaglica, I prigionieri di guerra italiani in URSS. Tra propaganda e rieducazione politica: “L’Alba”, 1943–1946 (­Civitavecchia: Prospettiva, 2006); and Lamberti, “L’importanza del giornale ‘L’Alba.’” 33 Guglielmi, Attendimi, 211. 34 Guglielmi, Attendimi, 217.

104

Cinelli

“camorra.”35 This group of pow s forced the rest of their fellow prisoners, most of whom affected by dystrophy, to survive off the waste that they could collect from the camp’s landfill. From this point on, Guglielmi’s diary turns quite discontinuous; its tone is bleak not only because of the depression affecting the author, but especially because of the anguish triggered by the news that his hometown, Genoa, is bombed daily by the Allies. He reacts to the news by declaring war on the “gang of corporals” (“cricca dei brigadieri”).36 Torn between the desire of moral integrity and the need to adapt to the corrupt society of the camp, Guglielmi eventually reaches a compromise between power and liberty. By using his authority as a doctor, he can penetrate the grey zone of the Lager society and become a spy himself, even though such conduct disqualifies him as an officer and clashes with his oath as a doctor. Nevertheless, in agreement with the commander of the camp and the Italian political commissar Elio Sassi, Guglielmi does become a spy to unmask the Italian prisoners who inflict all sorts of suffering on their comrades. For this reason, the diary becomes the private space in which the writer retreats daily to reflect on his new role and responsibility. On Christmas Day 1943, he finally writes that only by attaining moral worth through the daily performance of ethical acts can one achieve the right of blaming those who bear the responsibility of the defeat: Noi, le vittime principali, i pochi superstiti dei moltissimi traditi, beffati, abbandonati; noi, che abbiamo conosciuto ritirate, accerchiamenti, per la sporca incompetenza e la delittuosa malafede dei vari generali; noi, che siamo stati insultati come ‘fascisti’, ci spegniamo ad uno ad uno, nello sterco, fantasmi scheletriti che piangono e cadono avvelenati dall’odio, assistiamo impotenti all’ultimo atto della nostra tragedia, riempiendo di diarrea i calzoni, i pagliericci, le coperte, mangiando topi e spazzatura. We, the main victims, the few survivors of the many betrayed, derided, and abandoned; we, who have experienced retreats and encirclements because of the obscene incompetence and murderous dishonesty of many generals; we, who have been insulted as “fascists,” are dying one 35

The word camorra generally refers to organized criminality in Naples and in the region of Campania, like mafia in Sicily, and ’ndrangheta in Calabria. Guglielmi ­perhaps chose camorra because in 1940s northern Italian soldiers often addressed (offensively) their comrades coming from the regions south of Tuscany as “Napoli.” Guglielmi, Attendimi, 218. 36 Guglielmi, Attendimi, 221.

“Non credo più alla Patria, all’eroismo, alle Sante Cause…”

105

by one in excrements. We cry and fall as skeletal ghosts poisoned by hatred, watching powerlessly the last act of our tragedy while filling our pants, strewing our pallets and covers with diarrhea, and eating mice and garbage.37 The mournful tone of this passage calls to mind the prayer of the De profundis and encapsulates Guglielmi’s attempt to capture his – and his fellow-­prisoners’ – experience. He realizes that the pow s are the scapegoats for a wrong war that was poorly envisioned and waged in an even worse manner. A war that cast them into the abyss of enslavement and suffering. The graphical insistence on the physical degradation of the pow s underscores the feeling of anger and bitter desperation; at the same time, Guglielmi seems to wonder, not unlike Primo Levi in Se questo è un uomo, whether a man who has been reduced to his lowest survival instincts can still be considered as such. As his friendship with political commissar Sassi grows stronger, G ­ uglielmi benefits from his position to spy on those prisoners who live at the ­detriment of others. As the feeling of indignation intensifies day by day, the d­ octor grows more aware that he must tend to the pow s affected by ­dystrophy; at the same time, he feels the necessity to vindicate the dead, particularly because the ­Italians are partially responsible for those deaths. He strives to be objective and refuses to see his fellow-Italians only as victims. In his eyes, prisoners who fail their weaker comrades are to blame as well. The doctor’s position is thus critical both towards the Russians, who run the camp with superficiality and disregard for the pow s’ necessities, and the Italians who have established a sort of ‘mafia’ at the heart of the camp’s social system. What may seem like the social escalation of an ambitious man, is rather the depiction of the worst effects of fascism, namely: corruption, arrogance, and disloyalty. However, only by rejecting the past in its entirety would he be able to denounce these disastrous effects. To this end, on January 13, 1944, Guglielmi writes that he no longer believes in the fatherland and in such abstract ideas as heroism, holy causes, and duty, for all of them have fueled the Italian anticommunist propaganda for years.38 As a soldier he knows that he should be patriotic; but war and captivity have lifted the veil of Isis to reveal the naked truth. The rhetoric of patriotism made the war possible. Based on slogans that claimed the necessity of fighting the ‘holy war’ against communism, the Italian fascist regime attacked the Soviet Union. Now he recognizes that the same men who believed in fascist mottos before the defeat have transformed 37 Guglielmi, Attendimi, 237. 38 Guglielmi, Attendimi, 245.

106

Cinelli

themselves into prominent representatives of the antifascist elite in the camp. In fact, several of them pretend to have embraced the communist credo to reap the material benefits that such shift could bring about. By rejecting the rhetoric of patriotism, Guglielmi claims the superiority of moral principles; and this contributes positively to the rehabilitation of the pow s. He does not gain personal advantages by fighting a ‘personal war’; on the contrary, he aims to ease the suffering of ill and weak prisoners and, more specifically, of the dystrophic patients who are unable to work and, for that reason, receive the least and worst food rations. In February 1944, he is allowed to accompany a number of these prisoners out of the camp for their first walk in months: Si sedettero al sole: erano un po’ affaticati, ma i loro discorsi erano sereni. Parlavano di casa, degli anniversari, di semina, di aratura: sembrava si fossero intesi nell’evitare discorsi di razioni e di zuppe. Io ero felice: per la prima volta respiravo la grande aria, non delimitata dai reticolati; per la prima volta vedevo alberi che non erano quelli del campo; per la prima volta, dall’alto dell’argine di un canale secondario, il mio sguardo spaziava libero sui vasti rettangoli di piante di cotone e, più lontano, sulla steppa desertica, senza confini. Verso est, con un’intima, sconosciuta commozione, scoprii all’orizzonte, appena percettibile nell’aria estremamente l­ impida, un’imponente catena di monti nevosi. They sat in the sun: they felt somewhat tired, but their conversations were serene. They talked about home, anniversaries, sowing and harvest times. It seemed that they had agreed to avoid the topics of food and rations. I was happy: for the first time, I was breathing the open air beyond the barbed-wire fences. For the first time, I could see trees that were not those of the camp; for the first time, from the high edge of a secondary canal, my eyes could range freely over the broad cotton fields and, farther on, over the desert and limitless steppe. With a deep and unknown emotion, to the east, on the horizon, I spotted a massive chain of mountains covered in snow, barely visible through the clean air.39 The emotion that stirs Guglielmi is freedom. For the first time he feels like a free man; and the landscape reminds him and his patients of a world distant from the camp, where families and friends still await the return of the seasons 39 Guglielmi, Attendimi, 254.

“Non credo più alla Patria, all’eroismo, alle Sante Cause…”

107

and their loved ones. The unexpected experience enables him to understand that these prisoners who have gone through defeat, capture, epidemics, and hunger cannot be re-educated into an antifascist ideology according to the method used by the Russian political commissar in the camp, Ms. Schitzmann: Questi uomini hanno estremamente sofferto. [...] Sono anticomunisti e sono diventati anti-Russi, anti-tutto-ciò-che-li-circonda: hanno fame, sono stracciati e non hanno sufficiente serenità per appurarne e ­soppesarne le cause. Sono assolutamente digiuni di tutto ciò che è un governo democratico [...]. Io ritengo fondamentale ed essenziale p ­ arlare loro dell’Italia, di ciò che era e di ciò che dovrebbe diventare, senza c­ alcare troppo sul comunismo, che, per questi uomini, non può andare disgiunto da Tambov, dalle marce nella neve, dal tifo petecchiale e dalla fame. These men have suffered greatly. […] They are anticommunist and have also become anti-Russian, anti-everything-that-surrounds-them: they are hungry, ragged, and do not have enough peace of mind to ponder over the reasons why. They know nothing about what constitutes a democratic government […]. I believe that it is fundamental to talk with them about Italy, what it was and what it should become without insisting too much on communism. For them communism cannot be anything else than Tambov, the marches in the snow, typhus, and hunger.40 Guglielmi’s reflection touches the very core of the pow s’ experience in Russia, namely, political re-education. This undertaking, led by political commissars in each camp, was aimed at eradicating fascism from the pow s’ minds and, simultaneously, replacing it with the political communist credo. Yet the prisoners were not only politically uneducated, but to them communism meant defeat, displacement, and suffering. Furthermore, in their view, a communist was either their Russian master or one of the Italian prominent pow s of the antifascist elite, in other words: a corrupted ‘mafioso.’ In the face of human suffering, political credos crumble and fall short, like the rhetoric of patriotism. Guglielmi understood that these pow s are survivors who must be rehabilitated to life before being educated about democracy. Also, as human beings, prisoners must regain self-awareness before they can be taught anything. To them, fascist propaganda sounded abstruse and flawed even before the Russian war began; accordingly, defeat was sufficient to eradicate any interest in any 40 Guglielmi, Attendimi, 261.

108

Cinelli

ideological belief. Yet such indifference – which German pow s in Russia called Skorobuddhismus from skoro that in Russian means “soon” and Buddhism as a doctrine of self-forgetfulness – made them reluctant to adhere to other forms of political persuasion. Thus, as Guglielmi collaborated with Ms. Schitzmann, he tried to sound neither abstract nor ideological; rather, he attempted to keep the pow s’ interest in life alive.41 Guglielmi emerges as an outsider in the concentration camp because, as an officer and friend of the political commissars, he is a privileged pow who does not suffer the difficulties inflicted on all prisoners. At the same time, because of his ethical attitude, he is isolated from the small group of prominent and corrupt prisoners who look at him as an enemy to eliminate. On April 20, 1944, in fact, he writes that he is surrounded by a web of spies who hate him because he is trying to restore justice in his group.42 It appears evident that captivity can be described through a medical metaphor and, specifically a quarantine, not only because the pow s literally lived through lethal epidemics, but also because the years of captivity represented for them a time of political and moral isolation. Yet, it is during this time that they gain a critical awareness of what it means to live under intolerant regimes. By remaining displaced from the outside world, Guglielmi understands that solidarity, hope, and friendship, more than any ideological indoctrination, pave the way to a better post-war society. Paradoxically, he becomes cognizant of this through the worst unethical praxes: spying, informing, and plotting. Interestingly, such Machiavellian duplicity is not aimed at obtaining personal benefits; rather, it reveals itself as the exact opposite of a doctrine that strives to seize power for one’s own sake. It works as a form of pragmatic behavior that permits him to adapt, adopt, and improve, as both a pow and a human being. This condition, nonetheless, takes its toll: Guglielmi’s diary in the Summer 1944 registers his profound repugnance towards life in captivity because of the ugliness and evil he has been exposed to for too long. His entries mirror the empty, nerve-consuming experience of captivity marked by the casualties he witnesses in the hospital. His effort to keep on writing resembles that of the prisoner who must make sense of incomprehensible circumstances and who hopes that he will regain his freedom. For him, winning it back is the only event that will make the whole experience meaningful.43 Undoubtedly, captivity is a form of displacement that can turn a self-­ confident combatant into a despondent outsider. The loss of status, the descent 41 Guglielmi, Attendimi, 262. 42 Guglielmi, Attendimi, 267. 43 Guglielmi, Attendimi, 303.

“Non credo più alla Patria, all’eroismo, alle Sante Cause…”

109

into a world of hunger and need, coupled with the struggle for survival – all of which wreak havoc on every social bond of friendship and camaraderie – make up the traumatic outcome of wartime captivity. Because of this, captivity can be summed up with the formula: from victor to vanquished. Many of the ­Italian combatants who took part in the war against the Soviet Union from 1941 to 1943 did not ask to fight against an enemy that they had never seen before. Nor did they want to go to battle for an ideal in which they hardly believed. To be sure, many of them found out in Russia that fascism was just empty words; that the Italian Army was poor, unprincipled, and ineffectively led by incompetent commanders. By practicing primitive forms of democracy in the concentration camps, familiarizing themselves with the Russian population, and not adhering to the fascist ideology, a small number of prisoners found their own way out of fascism in the depths of Asia. And yet – for those who made it – they returned home as ‘vanquished.’ As one German Second World War veteran wrote in his memoirs, there are lessons that one can learn only through defeat and not through victory.44 This assertion suggests that becoming an outsider in a war in which one is expected to prevail might not be a failure if the war in question is a ‘criminal’ aggression aimed at exterminating and enslaving entire populations (as was Hitler’s war against the Soviet Union). As a doctor, Guglielmi embodies the principle of human piety and solidarity beyond any kind of ideological or military opposition. His role allowed him to experience captivity in a privileged way, as it were, because he was put in charge of the hospital and was never exposed to the camp’s atrocities. In many Russian war-captivity memoirs written by doctors – especially German ones – the role of the medical officer was often used as a means for escapism.45 In those memoirs, the doctor exemplifies the ‘keeper’ of human worth and dignity, someone, that is, who cares about saving lives and easing others’ suffering. As a result, in those memoirs, the Nazi and fascist invaders are usually depicted as victims of the cruel and barbaric Russians while thorough self-criticism is left aside. Guglielmi casts a pessimistic view on war as a whole, focusing, instead, on how it affects the human being, both physically and morally. He is neither patriotic nor prone to fascist propaganda; as he sets off for Russia, his only 44 45

Siegfrid Knappe and Ted Brusaw, Soldat. Reflections of a German Soldier, 1936–1949 (­Shrewbury: Airlife, 1993), 298. For example, Wehrmacht doctors Peter Bamm, Heinz Konsalik, and Hans Dibold, present the doctor’s war almost as a humanitarian mission (Ehrhard Bahr, “Defensive Kompensation. Peter Bamm: Die unsichtbare Flagge (1952) und Heinz G. Konsalik: Der Arzt von Stalingrad (1956)”; Amsterdamer Beiträge zur neueren Germanistik, (1997), 42; or Giulio Bedeschi, Centomila gavette di ghiaccio (Milan: Mursia, 1963).

110

Cinelli

focus is to be the best doctor he can, even though he is aware that he is taking part in a wrong and absurd event. After the defeat, like his comrades, he experiences both suffering and humiliation (he also contracted typhus and survived). Eventually he turned into a spy and committed unethical acts in order to achieve the highest ethical goal: protecting the weak and defenseless. From Guglielmi’s perspective, the Russian captivity can best be grasped as an experience of displacement. Yet his diary seems also to suggest that the most important mission in war is not merely winning but, more importantly, acting in a way that earns the soldier the right to go back home as a morally sound person, even if vanquished and humiliated by political defeat.

Bibliography

L’Alba. Per un’Italia libera e indipendente, copy of the original 144 issues (Cuneo, Archive of the Istituto Storico della Resistenza e della Società Contemporanea in Cuneo e Provincia “Dante Livio Bianco”). Bedeschi, Giulio. Centomila gavette di ghiaccio. Milan: Mursia, 1963. Bahr, Ehrhard. “Defensive Kompensation. Peter Bamm: Die unsichtbare Flagge (1952) und Heinz G. Konsalik: Der Arzt von Stalingrad (1956).” Amsterdamer Beiträge zur neueren Germanistik 42, (1997): 199–211. Bamm, Peter. Die unsichtbare Flagge. Ein bericht. Munich: Kösel, 1952. Bellomo, Nino. Lettere censurate. Milan: Longanesi, 1975. Calandri, Michele. “Donato Guglielmi.” Il presente e la storia 46, (1994): 345–47. Cartellieri, Diether. “Die deutschen Kriegsgefangenen in der Sowjetunion. Die Lagergesellschaft. Eine Untersuchung der zwischenmenschlichen Beziehungen in den Kriegsgefangenenlagern.” In Zur Geschichte der deutschen Kriegsgefangenen des Zweiten Weltkrieges, Bd. 2. Ed. Erich Maschke. 22 vols. Bielefeld: Giesekind, 1967. Cinelli, Gianluca. “La memoria della prigionia sovietica. Restaurazione dell’identità nazionale in continuità con il fascismo.” Il presente e la storia 84, (2013): 121–50. Cinelli, Gianluca. Prigionieri nei Lager di Stalin e di Hitler. L’esperienza del totalitarismo nella memorialistica italiana e tedesca. Cuneo: Primalpe, 2014. Dalla Costa, Ivo (ed.). L’Italia imbavagliata. Lettere censurate 1940–1943. Paese: Pagus, 1990. Dibold, Hans. Arzt in Stalingrad. Passion einer Gefangenschaft. Salzburg: Otto Müller, 1949. Fleischhacker, Hedwig. “Die deutschen Kriegsgefangenen in der Sowjetunion. Der Faktor Hunger.” In Zur Geschichte der deutschen Kriegsgefangenen des Zweiten ­Weltkrieges, Bd. 3. Ed. Erich Maschke. 22 vols. Bielefeld: Giesekind, 1965. Franzinelli, Mimmo. Il riarmo dello spirito. I cappellani militari nella Seconda Guerra Mondiale. Paese: Pagus, 1991.

“Non credo più alla Patria, all’eroismo, alle Sante Cause…”

111

Giusti, Maria Teresa. La campagna di Russia. 1941–1943. Bologna: Il Mulino, 2017. Giusti, Maria Teresa. I prigionieri italiani in Russia. Bologna: Il Mulino, 2003. Guglielmi, Donato. Attendimi. Russia 1942–1964. Diario di un medico in prigionia. Cuneo: L’arciere, 1993 (1st ed. 1982). Hartmann, Christian. “Verbrecherischer Krieg – verbrecherische Wehrmacht? ­Überlegungen zur Struktur des deutschen Ostheeres.” In Der deutsche Krieg im Osten, 1941–1944. Facetten einer Grenzüberschreitung. Ed. Christian Hartmann and others, 3–71. Munich: Oldenbourg, 2009. Hope, Hamilton. Sacrifice on the steppe. The Italian Alpine Corps in the Stalingrad ­Campaign, 1942–1943. Philadelphia: Casemate, 2011. Isnenghi, Mario. “La campagna di Russia nella stampa e nella pubblicistica fascista.” In Gli italiani sul fronte russo. Ed. Michele Calandri and Piermario Bologna, 377–423. Bari: De Donato, 1982. Knappe, Siegfrid and Ted Brusaw. Soldat. Reflections of a German Soldier, 1936–1949. Shrewbury: Airlife, 1993. Konsalik, Heinz. Der Arzt von Stalingrad. Roman. Munich: Kindler, 1956. Lamberti, Giuseppe. “L’importanza del giornale ‘L’Alba’ per l’evoluzione democratica dei prigionieri italiani in Urss a seguito del secondo conflitto mondiale.” In Gli italiani sul fronte russo. Ed. Michele Calandri and Piermario Bologna, 232–330. Bari: De Donato, 1982. Oliva, Gianni. L’alibi della Resistenza, ovvero come abbiamo vinto la seconda guerra mondiale. Milan: Mondadori, 2003. Procacci, Giovanna. Soldati e prigionieri italiani nella Grande Guerra. 2nd ed. Turin: Bollati Boringhieri, 2000. Revelli, Nuto. L’ultimo fronte. Lettere di soldati caduti o dispersi nella seconda guerra mondiale. Turin: Einaudi, 1971. Rigoni Stern, Mario. L’ultima partita a carte. Turin: Einaudi, 2002. Rochat, Giorgio. “I prigionieri di guerra. Un problema rimosso.” In Una storia di tutti. Prigionieri, internati, deportati italiani nella Seconda Guerra Mondiale. Ed. Istituto Storico della Resistenza in Piemonte, 1–10. Milan: Franco Angeli, 1989. Schreiber, Gerhard. “Italiens Teilnahme am Krieg gegen die Sowjetunion. Motive, ­Fakten und Folgen.” In Stalingrad. Ereignis, Wirkung, Symbol. Ed.Jürgen Förster, 250–292. Munich: Peiper, 1992. Unione Nazionale Italiana Reduci di Russia (UNIRR). Rapporto sui prigionieri di guerra italiani in Russia. Cassano Magnago: Crespi, 1995. Vaglica, Luca. I prigionieri di guerra italiani in URSS. Tra propaganda e rieducazione politica: “L’Alba”, 1943–1946. Civitavecchia: Prospettiva, 2006. Zilli, Valdo. “Gli italiani prigionieri di guerra in Urss: vicende, esperienze, testimonianze.” In Gli italiani sul fronte russo. Ed. Michele Calandri and Piermario Bologna, 295–321. Bari: De Donato, 1982.

Chapter 6

Partisan Diary: Ada’s Wars Pina Palma Abstract This chapter focuses on the figure of Ada Gobetti and her ­humble, yet crucial contribution, as a partisan collaborator and leader who helped dismantle the Nazi-Fascist political system in the aftermath of the 1943 Armistice. The author aims at shedding new light on Gobetti’s work that has long been ignored, highlighting how women regained visibility because of their role in support of the Resistance.

I think I must have begun my story at that moment – around four o’clock in the afternoon of September 10, 1943 – when, while I was distributing leaflets […] I saw a string of German automobiles pass by.1 With this matter-of-fact beginning, Ada Gobetti (1902–1968) thrusts the reader of Partisan Diary in media res. As she recalls the exact moment that changed the course of her life, Gobetti brushes aside the vagueness of the past and the uncertainties it engenders, focusing, instead, on the precise event that –in her life and in world history– set off a chain of actions, reactions, and consequences that would culminate in the liberation of Turin and the end of the German occupation of Italy.2 The image of her, defenseless in the street, striving to raise passers-by’s awareness of the need to become politically engaged, fixes the precise moment of her metamorphosis into an underground Resistance militant. It also highlights, by way of contrast, the power of the Germans overtaking Turin from the safety of their military vehicles. The imbalance of power that this image dramatizes draws attention to the difference between the powerful and powerless, oppressors and oppressed, heroes and villains. It also foregrounds her understanding of the political gambit at the heart of Italy’s cultural, ideological, and moral collapse. This awareness compels her to 1 Ada Gobetti, Partisan Diary, trans. Jomarie Alano (New York: Oxford University Press, 2014), 19. 2 See Roberto Battaglia, Storia della resistenza italiana (Turin: Einaudi, 1964).

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2023 | DOI:10.1163/9789004548145_008

Partisan Diary: Ada’s Wars

113

expose, challenge, and dismantle the totalitarian system that the Nazi-fascists put in place. More than just establishing with chronological precision the beginning of her militancy, the active “I” that opens Gobetti’s journal reveals an author whose construction of a narrative self is inscribed in assertiveness, belief, and resilience, even while a sense of bitter knowledge permeates her words. ­Naturally, the self-assured “I” sets her against the culturally constructed ­gender norms that twenty years of fascist regime moulded. As a result, through this initial assertion, Gobetti legitimizes her female voice in the public, male-­ dominated universe while implicitly questioning, and simultaneously upending, the system that through years of indoctrination made women – and their work – invisible even to themselves.3 Sustained by a realist’s outlook rooted in her early adhesion to the ideological current energizing the antifascist ­movement, on that September day she recognized the gravity of the peril ­closing in on Turin and its people. This clarity of thought coincides with her belief that ­forging more encompassing gender norms is the first, essential step in destabilizing and subverting hegemonic rules intended to silence the weak. In the economy of the journal she kept, chronicling every night her experiences from September ’43 to April ’45, this realization dovetails with her understanding that instead of ending the war, the Armistice between Italy and the Allied Forces declared on September 8 would turn into a fiercer struggle. And this would usher in deeper deceptions and stronger enmities. The ensuing hostilities and battles, she surmises, would further unravel the social fabric of Italian identity. As she explains, her idea to extricate Italy and Italians from the oppressors’ grip takes on a critical urgency the moment Turin surrenders to the Germans. Although personal experience suggests that her plan calls for radical actions, she realizes that strife rules over any goal worth pursuing; these include the quest for principled values, firm beliefs, and an egalitarian political ideology. This awareness, which she draws in subtle but indelible strokes while relying on self-reflection, anticipation, self-interrogation, and, at times, lyrical perceptions, sets the tone of her Partisan Diary. Gobetti’s early adhesion to antifascist ideology is traceable to the summer of 1918 when she was first invited by her then future husband Piero Gobetti

3 Victoria De Grazia, How Fascism Ruled Women: Italy 1922–1945 (Berkeley: University of ­California Press, 1992); Wendy Pojmann, “Daughters of the Resistance, 1943–1946,” Italian Women and International Cold War Politics (New York: Fordham University Press, 2013), 18–31.

114

Palma

(1901–1926) to be part of his journal Energie Nove.4 Predictably, the distinguished intellectual milieu within which he worked became hers as well.5 ­Piero’s belief in the necessity to translate the abstract idealism of intellectuals into militant activism was kindled by his friendship with Gramsci. Because of his ideology, Gramsci was very close to Turin’s working class. In Piero’s view, activism was necessary to galvanize the workers’ political awareness.6 According to him, the political awakening would, in turn, provide both answers and solutions to the social crises that the First World War had unleashed.7 The confluence of his socio-cultural, political, and historical analyses led Piero to envision a modern political and moral transformation as well as Italy’s reformation. He argued that the changes would be based on expanded spaces of cultural ­democracy.8 The new era, he maintained, would be inaugurated by the emergence of a new cultural hegemony that rested on the achievements of the working class.9 From this same group, Piero reasoned, a new hierarchy would take shape; and it, in turn, would lead to a novel form of leadership.10 After Piero’s untimely death in Paris, where he was exiled as a result of fascist persecutions, Ada’s clandestine militarism in the antifascist movement took on a more sustained pace. Her ideological grounding and political awareness drew in no small part from the beliefs that she shared with Piero. Like him, she was also ­influenced 4 5 6

7 8

9

10

Wilda M. Vanek, “Piero Gobetti and the Crisis of the “Prima (sic) dopoguerra,” The Journal of Modern History XXXVII, (March 1965): 1–17. Croce, Gramsci, Prezzolini, Einaudi, Salvemini, Lombardo Radice were among their ­interlocutors. “La forza piú energica del mondo moderno,” he asserts, “il movimento operaio, è la sola su cui si possa operare per la conquista della nuova civiltà” (the workers’ movement is the most energetic force in the modern world; it is also the only one to work with to shape a new c­ ivilization); Piero Gobetti, Opere complete, Scritti politici, P. Spriano, ed. (Turin: Einaudi, 1960), 410. From here onward English translations are mine. Norberto Bobbio, “Umberto Calossio e Piero Gobetti,” Belfagor, vol.25, n. 3 (Maggio, 1980): 329–338; Bruno Bongiovanni, “Gobetti e la Russia,” Studi storici, 37, (Jul.-Sept. 1996): 727–746. His beliefs are captured in the affirmation: “Il fatto gigantesco è che il popolo chiede il potere. Il popolo diventa stato […]. Il movimento operaio è un’affermazione che ha trasceso tutte le premesse. È il primo movimento laico dell’Italia. È la libertà che instaura” (That people ask for power is a huge factor. People become the state. The working movement is an affirmation that transcends all premises. It is the first Italian lay movement. This is liberty establishing itself); Piero Gobetti, Scritti politici, 190. See Angelo d’Orsi, “Il modello vociano. Esperienze culturali nella Torino degli anni Venti,” Studi Storici, 31, (Oct. – Dec., 1990): 867–887; Dino Ferreri, “Politica e cultura in Piero Gobetti,” Studi Storici, 11, (Apr. – Jun., 1970): 392–396; Nino Borsellino, “Una giovinezza a Torino: Levi, Gobetti e Sapegno,” Belfagor, 63 (31 luglio 2008): 460–466. Paolo Spriano, “Gramsci e Gobetti,” Studi storici, 17, (Apr. – Jun., 1976): 69–93.

Partisan Diary: Ada’s Wars

115

by ­Benedetto Croce whose advice, after her husband’s death, she sought frequently. In his Storia come pensiero e come azione the Neapolitan philosopher posits action as a process that toils with, and differentiates, between opposites: good against evil, useful against useless, beautiful against ugly, true against false, and bravery against cowardice.11 In Croce’s view, historical understanding that results from interrogating the past, frees the spirit from the opacity and illusions that interfere with action. Not surprisingly, he includes any religious transcendence among them.12 Still, because “man is […] a compendium of universal history,”13 Croce argues that, once freed from the liabilities and scars of the past, the individual makes sense of the events that determined history. Through the knowledge gained, “man” shapes the “new,” contemporary history. Croce’s focus on translating the liberating understanding of history into action centers on the fact that action, according to him, is aimed toward values that never stray from the “useful and moral, artistic and poetic.”14 As a result, action, in his view, encompasses the values of “beautiful, true, useful, good, or their transparent synonyms.”15 By championing the notion that action opposes evil in all of its forms, he concludes that action is moral.16 Most importantly, Croce affirms that liberty remains action’s constant aim.17 Indeed, for him history is humanity’s unwavering journey toward a “more intense liberty.”18 Throughout her underground militant journey Ada Gobetti concretizes Croce’s perspective on humanity’s resilient and tenacious quest for freedom. Yet at the same time, her accomplishments take his ideas a step further. For through them she erases the cultural divide of gender difference that Croce – and the fascists – upheld by regularly alluding to man as the sole possible agent of social and moral changes. Clearly, through her transgressive activism that intrudes into the male socio-political space, she demonstrates that women, like men, not only shape the course of history, but can reverse the trajectory of a world inclined toward moral darkness. Croce’s influence reverberates in the letters that, in 1922, Ada wrote to Piero. In them, she ponders over the ways that single events can change the course 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18

Benedetto Croce, La storia come pensiero (Bari: Laterza, 1970), 37. Benedetto Croce, La storia come pensiero, 247–252. Benedetto Croce, La storia come pensiero, 11. English translation is mine. Benedetto Croce, La storia come pensiero, 39. Benedetto Croce, La storia come pensiero, 40. Benedetto Croce, La storia come pensiero, 46. He explains that the principle of all human activities is liberty. Benedetto Croce, La storia come pensiero, 40. Benedetto Croce, La storia come pensiero, 51.

116

Palma

of history. She also muses on whether the actions of individuals with no access to the levers of power and who, for this reason, are rarely given a voice, can change history. Her ruminations take on greater significance because they are the reflections of a woman probing how idealism must confront the realities of politics. Voiced with a nervous but forceful energy, these musings not only erase the gender difference underpinning the regime’s culture, but also examine the usefulness of action as the way to achieve desired, possible, and principled ends. Her analysis of action and its moral implications emerges plainly in her assertion: “in our life we must anxiously continue to renew ourselves every day and every hour,” because “the worst enemy is […] to become immobile, […] crystallized in the contemplation of the past.”19 In the wake of Croce’s teachings, Gobetti’s assessment suggests that action leads to a continual renewal and revitalization. According to her, these achievements encompass the inner world as well as the social, political, cultural, and economic spheres. Because it does not rest on memory, which is at once beautiful and deceptive, sweet, and perilous, action ceaselessly challenges the past as the theater not just of great accomplishments, but especially of the most acute sufferings. In its focus on the negative, and in the way it lodges the past against the present, Gobetti’s pronouncement dramatizes the restless impermanence characterizing humanity’s dynamic endeavors that shape the future. Indeed, to remain fixed in the past – and in the errors it accounts for – entails turning one’s back to the notion of building a future unburdened by the same errors. As Croce taught, the past must be evaluated with “an artist’s eye” through the works that define it. From this evaluation – which essentially melds ethics with ­aesthetics – comes a sense of purpose and belonging. This awareness spurs individuals toward meaningful social renewals and transformations. In a s­ imilar vein, action confronts obstacles engendered by forces not directed to cultivate a sense of social obligation. Thus, rather than abiding by rigid ideologies that s­ tifle the innovative ideas underpinning social progress, action creates a productive tension between the perceived immutable and the envisioned possible. From this tension, action unfurls and evolves. The same tension gives rise to hope. For this reason, Gobetti’s words suggest that hope coincides with – and is actualized through – action.

19

“To overcome our internal disagreement, we must turn our energy into action.” in Piero e Ada Gobetti, Nella tua breve esistenza, ed. Ersilia Alessandrone Perona (Turin: Einaudi, 1991), 144.

Partisan Diary: Ada’s Wars

117

By explaining the struggle that action requires in terms first expressed by Gramsci,20 and echoed a year later by her husband Piero,21 Ada’s words ­disprove the pervasive, if banal, cultural gender stereotype that depicted women as incapable of grasping political issues. They also shed light on the tension between personal concerns and social responsibility. This fact bears out in her perseverance to carry on with antifascist work in Piero’s absence while raising the son he never met. By stating that “the best way to remember old battles and victories is not to rest in them, but to find new fights and new conquests,”22 she tackles head on the assumption that a woman’s role is defined by and confined to domesticity and motherhood.23 In fact, with ­piercing understanding, she demonstrates that seemingly dissimilar or even opposing facets – ­motherhood, domesticity, and ideological engagement – coexist and thrive when used in the service to others. More than just upending the normative association between women, domesticity, and motherhood ingrained in the fascist political and social construct, the military language Gobetti uses to articulate her view subverts the image of an acquiescent, resigned, and helpless woman. Indeed, the ‘male’ linguistic arsenal she deploys – battles and victories, fights, and ­conquests – defies the system’s conventions and expectations pertaining to ‘ladylike’ deportment. Instead, it closes in on the search for the new, the exploration of forward-looking strategies and creative ways to advance social goals even while reckoning with political realities. In the end, her use of perceived gender-associated expressions suggests a keen awareness that the only constrains she faces as a woman are her own ambition, efforts, and skills. To these limitations she substitutes a bold call to action that pivots on the rejection of, and rebelliousness against, double standards. By voicing her preoccupation with turning history’s lessons into a gender-blind and pressing engagement for change, Gobetti, with fresh and uncompromising insights, reveals early on her vision of life unfiltered through prescribed cultural and ideological principles. A sense of justice that aims to erase the difference between the privileged few and the disadvantaged many drives her. This same drive spurs her militancy against the horrors carried out by the occupying regime set up in Central and Northern Italy by the Nazis and fascists of the RSI (Repubblica Sociale Italiana). 20 21 22 23

Antonio Gramsci, “Indifferenti,” Scritti giovanili (Turin: Einaudi, 1958), 80. P. Gobetti, Scritti politici, 30–32. Piero e Ada Gobetti, Nella tua breve esistenza, 586. De Grazia, How Fascism Ruled Women: Italy 1922–1945, “Modernizing Motherhood,” 59–69; and Natasha Chang, The Crisis-Woman: Body Politics and the Modern Woman in Fascist Italy (Toronto, Buffalo, London: University of Toronto Press, 2015), especially Ch. 2.

118

Palma

Every night she chronicles with scrupulous details her journey as a leader of the armed resistance in Piedmont. She writes in English to ensure that if the enemy finds her journal, it cannot be deciphered.24 Yet by switching ­language she amplifies the creation of an emotional space; this is to say that the ‘secure’ language allows her to integrate, instead of excluding, all the components of her multidimensional experience: personal, political, and social. In the process, the different language she relies on becomes another way of holding close actions, events, people, and feelings, before they dissolve. Throughout the Diary Gobetti never loses sight of the inner lives and difficult circumstances that she and the groups she leads must confront. Her project of resisting the occupiers with principled calm and resolve that only humiliating experiences earn, proves her to be a Resistance trailblazer whose perception of the terror to come matures from the first arrival of the Nazis in her city.25 At that early stage, in spite of the stream of conflicting news that reaches her and the group when they arrive at her house, she remains clear-eyed about the action that the moment requires. The decision to burn documents bearing the names of volunteers in the Italian Resistance Front shows her resolve in standing up to forces set up to intimidate and suppress dissidents. It also illustrates her unparalleled pragmatism in the face of a struggle that will turn long, hard, often dispiriting, and littered with occasional defeats inflicted by a system wielding overwhelming power. More concretely, as the answer to Renato Morelli’s question: “what is there left to do?”26 Ada’s swift, purposeful action upends the nonsensical view of female feebleness. By countering the riddled hesitancy that his query conveys, it also draws a fine distinction between the practices undertaken by the expert and the efforts of the inexpert. And in bridging the chasm between idealism and action, theory and practice, Gobetti’s decision casts the contours of female resistance in a new light. With Turin occupied, her work becomes increasingly more demanding. But her struggle against the encroaching Nazi-fascist system remains centered on one objective: to return order and coherence to a society shaken by arbitrary and self-serving interests. This moral imperative imbues her political a­ ctivism and transpires throughout her journal. The entries that capture her painful, if lucid, understanding of the events that have unraveled her city’s – and ­Italy’s – social fabric disclose the sense of difficulty, frustration, and suffering facing those confronted with Badoglio’s unexpected change of sides in the war. Her words are infused with a piercing condemnation for the personal ends that 24 25 26

As, in fact, they did. See Partisan Diary. “I understood, […] that for us a grave and difficult period had begun”; Partisan Diary, 26. Ada Gobetti, Partisan Diary, 21.

Partisan Diary: Ada’s Wars

119

Badoglio’s political maneuver achieved. They also reveal a sense of inescapable resignation. In the Diary, she articulates her discouragement and anger in shafts of wit in which there is also forbearing irony; and this makes her anger not just more palpable, but especially more human. She is under no illusion. By turning its backs to Italy’s fortune, Badoglio’s government has exposed the population to greater threats than it faced when fighting on Germany’s side.27 Gobetti’s specific mention of “mountaineers and factory workers” as the people likely to incur the greatest repercussions of Italy’s turnabout, shows yet again her acumen with respect to the political web of interests and ­counter-interests carried by the mighty undertow of self-interest. By zooming in on both workers and peasants, she lays bare, first of all, her connection to, and place within, the Piedmontese urban, farming, and pastoral communities. This consideration enables her to remain in the present and to look outward (the communities), as well as inward (herself), because connections to a community entail a direct engagement with it – be it personal, social, or political. On a metaphorical level, the ‘distance’ between the self and the community (the ‘I’ and the world) is shortened by one’s ability and willingness to orient oneself, desire to seek answers, heighten attention, share values, and adapt to the mutable and everchanging path that leads to it. Another equally important element that her entry implicitly suggests is the mapping out of the geographic space occupied by the two different groups: mountain and city. By placing ­herself as the intermediary – the facilitator, as it were – between the two clusters,28 Gobetti expands her radius of action in new directions while testing yet again the boundary between action and theory. It is evident, however, that she is simultaneously mapping out an internal as much as an external space. Through this, she not only reveals her closeness to her fellow-Piedmontese, but especially shines a light on the political and cultural plight that she shares with them. This understanding propels her to overturn the underlying values that govern the Nazi-fascist system; it also drives her to shift the dynamics of the Resistance in Piedmont.

27

28

“Italy has declared war to Germany. We are now fighting on the side of the Allies. For us it makes no difference. Perhaps this will be important to those awaiting orders from Badoglio, (and who are already safely ensconced) but not for our mountaineers or factory workers. We are the ones fighting the war, our war – we care little about the orders given by a failed authority in which no one believes any longer”; Ada Gobetti, Partisan Diary, 39. This “intermediary” role calls to mind the one that Machiavelli ascribes to himself in the letter to Lorenzo de’ Medici. See The Prince, George Bull trans. (New York: Penguin, 2003), 3–4.

120

Palma

By turning her attention from the dominant cultural elite to the factory workers, Gobetti shows her ideological alignment with Gramsci.29 Moving beyond the fluid views on fascism that Croce, in spite of his fame, maintained throughout his life,30 Gobetti places workers at the center of her political and cultural Resistance project. In this she is inspired by Croce’s intuition that the working class formed a new, progressive type of society because it could, and was to embody, a new social echelon.31 The entries in her Diary also suggest that while the Neapolitan philosopher’s liberal meditations led Gramsci, her husband Piero, and by extension herself, to a more encompassing understandings of Marx,32 they did not take into consideration, and in fact even downplayed, the significance and impact that the Bolshevik Revolution could have on Italy. Thus, her reflections about resisting the fascist regime are imbued with a cogent epiphany; this synthesizes the Italian political and cultural reform that Croce envisioned, Gramsci elaborated on, and Piero championed.33 Indeed, the latter’s matured belief in the power of both factory workers and peasants to initiate a liberal revolution that would revitalize Italian society,34 coincided with Gramsci’s well-established view that the intellectual must function as a guide for the working class. Gramsci was convinced that this individual would play a central role in reshaping Italy because ‘s/he’ would form and typify the fusion of thought and action, or theory and practice.35 These ideas filter through Ada’s words; most importantly, she actualizes them through her militancy. To be sure, by including herself as the intellectual mediator between 29

Gramsci defines culture in terms of: “a coherent, unitary, nationally diffused ‘conception of life and man,’ a ‘lay religion,’ a philosophy” that “has generated an ethic, a way of life, a civil and individual conduct”; Letteratura e vita nazionale (Rome: Editori Riuniti, 1971), 20. 30 See Denis Mack Smith, “Benedetto Croce: History and Politics,” Journal of Contemporary History, 8, (Jan. 1973): 41–61; Norberto Bobbio, “Benedetto Croce,” The Ideological Profile of Twentieth-Century Italy (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press), 69–80. 31 Georges Sorel, Considerazioni sulla violenza, Antonio Sarno trans. and Enzo Santarelli pref., with an introduction by Benedetto Croce from the first edition (Bari: Laterza, 1970), 35–49. 32 Piero Gobetti’s words on Marxism are telling: “L’esperimento marxista in Russia è ­certamente fallito” (The Marxist experiment in Russia has failed); Piero Gobetti, “Rassegna di ­questioni politiche,” Scritti politici, 150–151. 33 Piero Gobetti never completely adhered to Gramsci’s communist ideology; yet it is widely known that his friendship and closeness to Gramsci, as well as his collaboration to the latter’s journal Unità (founded in 1924), were catalysts in changing his youthful, if immature, idealism into a staunch political activism. See Paolo Spriano, “Gramsci e Gobetti”; Studi Storici, 1976. 34 “Cimento delle capacità politiche delle classi lavoratrici” P. Gobetti, Manifesto, Scritti politici, 238. 35 Gramsci, Gli intellettuali e l’organizzazione della cultura (Rome: Editori Riuniti, 1971), 16.

Partisan Diary: Ada’s Wars

121

peasants and factory workers – the disenfranchised segments of the population – Ada concretizes both Gramsci and Piero’s vision in a powerful way. As it happens, her urgency to act in 1943 conflicts with her earlier stance on workers’ willingness to fight for their rights. In 1920 she voiced her reservations in a letter she wrote to Piero. In it, she questioned the vast majority of the workers’ strength and resolve to engage in a long and uneven struggle. She also cast doubts on their endurance to resist the suffering that would ensue. Based on these facts, she reasoned that the workers would ultimately choose to give up their struggle rather than persisting in it.36 Clearly, her analysis reflected her awareness of the human capacity for cruelty toward, and subjugation of, the powerless on the part of the powerful. But what her evaluation could not account for at that time was the Nazi-fascist occupation and the raw violence that it unleashed against ordinary people. The changed circumstances under which she is working and the evolving sensibilities that now guide her, allow her to recognize the moral failure of inaction. Thus, as the embodiment of the workers’ moral and political engagement, Gobetti – the intellectual – can find practical organizational solutions to the chaos surrounding those the regime marginalizes. In this manner, she leads the resistance that will not only prevail over the Nazi-fascist system and its henchmen, but that will also come closer to reducing the historical gap between workers and intellectuals. In the aftermath of Turin’s capitulation, uncertainty and disorder are ­further exacerbated by the restoration of the Fascist Party. An unpredictable and ­turbulent atmosphere overtakes the city where the ordinary guarantees of civilized society are crushed. Wrestling to find solutions to the new political reality, Gobetti and her new family,37 acting on the suggestion of her closest collaborators, relocate in Meana. A village in the Susa Valley, where the family 36

37

“Non oso e non so ancora sperare che qui sia la salvezza che essi (gli operai) abbiano la forza e la costanza di resistere, di vincere di progredire. Non ho paura che il movimento sia represso nel sangue: temo invece che quel manipolo di forti e coscienti sia troppo debole per trascinare la massa, e che la massa non abbia la forza di soffrire e di resistere ancora e preferisca cedere” (“I neither dare to believe nor hope that the way to safety is here and that the workers will have the strength and power to resist, to win, and progress in their objectives. I am not scared that the movement might be repressed in blood. Rather, I fear that the few strong, and aware people are too weak to lead the mass and that it, in turn, no longer has the strength to suffer and resist. Instead, it prefers to die”). Nella tua breve esistenza, 378. In 1937 Ada married Ettore Marchesini, an engineer from Turin. According to Cesare Alvazzi, Ettore unconditionally supported Ada as she became a progressively more ­prominent public figure. See Jomarie Alano, Partisan Diary, “Introduction,” 5. It bears also to remember that Paolo, the son she had with Piero, worked at her side to further the Partisans’ goals.

122

Palma

spends its summer vacations, Meana is deemed a safe place. From there she can continue to direct operations in Turin. A short train-ride from the city, where the fascists keep her house under surveillance, the village shields her from prying eyes. It also offers her the possibility to recruit new militants. With the Allies forcing their ways up from the south, German forces, in collaboration with the fascists, plough through Northern Italy sowing destruction and leaving trails of vengeance behind them.38 Recognizing that because of its roads suitable for vehicles, railroads, and valleys leading to France, the Susa Valley swarms with enemies, Gobetti embraces the idea of organizing all types of sabotages against the enemy from there. As the base for multi-pronged operations affecting both the valleys and Turin, Meana’s geographical position facilitates crippling the enemy. This prospect makes the move to the village more appealing, even though it is drenched in retrospection.39 Her description of Turin as a city where the social breakdown has wrecked community life because “the remaining benchmarks of discipline, patriotism, and honor”40 have disappeared, is steeped in the sense of agonizing contemplation of the ethical practices that society has abandoned. With political and social limits arbitrarily redefined and imposed, Turin’s inhabitants, who have already endured the most challenging circumstances caused by the First World War – bombings, fires, and famine among others – have turned, in her words, alarmed at first and then, more tragically, passive. Framed between the spatial coordinates of Turin and Meana, Gobetti’s ambitious militant calculations reveal the tragic contradictions that pervade the creation of a reformed society capable and willing to chart the course for a new political leadership: the loss of lives, peace, trust, and values. Still, in spite of the fear and anxiety proliferating, a fleeting glimmer of hope survives in her: “from the emptiness where I seemed to have found myself, initiatives and hopes were born. The desire for resistance was taking shape.”41 Almost as if laying out possible scenarios of resistance without ever detailing them, at this point in her journal Gobetti allows the reader to glimpse at the 38 39

40 41

“Urbiano, Braida, and Micoletto displayed obvious signs of the passage of the enemy – a number of burned houses, and writings everywhere singing the praises of the Duce, the Führer, and the milizia”; Ada Gobetti, Partisan Diary, 197. “We listened to a speech by Croce that Radio London was broadcasting from Naples. It was emotional to hear his voice again. […] Suddenly I felt an acute nostalgia for this past, so recent and yet so far away, when we could find consolation for all the bad things ­surrounding us in the communion of a tight number of souls”; Ada Gobetti, Partisan Diary, 183. Ada Gobetti, Partisan Diary, 22. Ada Gobetti, Partisan Diary, 24.

Partisan Diary: Ada’s Wars

123

dynamic sequence of her thought process. And it evolves from a vacuum-like state to a potent form of motivation. This moment creates a sense of inclusion between narrator and reader which, in turn, awakens the latter’s conscience because it evokes the individual’s role in establishing collective well-being. Clearly, the disquieting edge surrounding her self-revelatory remark points to her apprehension with the unfolding political mayhem. This unease makes her all the more human. More significant still is the emotional intensity that marks her words, for it suggests a fundamental faith in sacrifice and suffering as the route to liberation. Hope pervades her will to fight. Defying and overthrowing the regime, participating in acts of resistance that prepare for a better future, ensuring that the truth prevails, and restoring lost freedoms account for her drive. This hope, and the belief in action as its realization, inspire her. Action and hope loom large in her mind at this point, almost appearing as a rebuke to her initial despair. Together, the two allay the sense of vulnerability that her words convey at first. Anchored in these simple reflections, her rejection of the logic that creates and perpetuates injustices turns more intense. Because of this, with extraordinary immediacy, she turns into a disruptor whose desire to resist the oppressors is informed by one consideration: passively allowing the oppressors to inflict human suffering and tragedies on vulnerable individuals is no substitute for actively standing up to them.42 Clearly, the dose of measured confidence that transpires from her words draws on her steely faith in her own abilities: “We are the ones who will wage it, our war – and the chrism of a discredited authority [...] are of little importance to us.”43 Written in the first few days after the Germans’ arrival, her assessment is marked by a stinging edge. By adapting the impenetrable mysteries of the sacred to a prejudiced and corrupt political system, she subverts the logic of the former while emphasizing the perversion of the latter. The language of sacramental anointing that she borrows to explain Italy’s circumstances calls attention to the divergence between the two, with each making its difference from the other more strident. This is based on the fact that in theology the chrism represents an experience of God’s grace. Applied to the political landscape, which she regards as morally compromised and hypocritical, the idea of the chrism is deprived of its original meaning. Indeed, through the dissonance between the theological belief that the chrism exemplifies, and the demands imposed by a discredited regime, Gobetti mocks the God-fearing 42 43

“Now, for most people, the resigned, subdued passivity of the Italian people began to replace the incredulous bewilderment and angry rebellion.” Ada Gobetti, Partisan Diary, 24. Ada Gobetti, Partisan Diary, 33.

124

Palma

fanatic idolatry of the Nazi-fascist leadership. Through it, she suggests that, because of its actions, that system can provide neither courage nor strength or peace. As she sees it, Italy’s predicament requires that the civil resistance be fought by the people: farmers, mountaineers, and factory workers, women, and men, that is, whose interests and wellbeing are neither served nor protected by Badoglio’s new directives.44 Without a cohesive and effective national leadership, society flounders. This realization leads Gobetti to conclude that the downward turn in the balance of liberty and justice requires voluntary and deliberate undertakings on the individuals’ part. To this end, she asserts that “a partisan army must be born spontaneously out of the conscious will of the people.”45 To prevail over the physical and moral violence ordinary people must engage in a civil struggle. This idea stems from her perception of the power difference between the Nazi-fascists and the population. She knows that attempting to wrest power from a mighty adversary demands deep-held moral convictions. Like glue, moral principles hold people together and unify them; lack of these principles dissolves the unity and lulls people into susceptibility and skepticism. These predicaments benefit the enemy because they allow it to capitalize on petty frictions, convenient betrayals, selfish ends, and unfounded beliefs; thus, the adversary can further subdue an already exhausted population. In the wake of Croce’s work on the nature of moral activity, it is no surprise that Gobetti trusts in, and advocates for, a partisan army whose members coalesce around values they seek to uphold and for which they are willing to take up arms. The resulting bond that these values help build allows the partisans to accept their need for each other. Hence, solidarity among them is instilled. Another reason why Gobetti puts stock in a spontaneous, self-selected army is that, unlike the regular one, it makes each partisan responsible for his or her actions. In the chaos of fighting, this responsibility gives everyone a specific aim that is designed for the collective wellbeing. Moreover, ­responsibility presents every individual with a particular set of experiences, circumstances, and dilemmas. To confront them means to discover who one really is. These elements 44

45

Claudio Pavone has argued that the period from 1943–1945 should be interpreted as one in which three wars were fought simultaneously: a patriotic war, a class war, and a civil war. See Pavone, Una guerra civile: Saggio storico sulla moralità della Resistenza (Turin: Bollati Boringheri, 1994); and also, Santo Peli, La Resistenza in Italia: Storia e critica (Turin: Einaudi, 2004). “It is necessary to give young people the sense that they are responsible for every action that they believe should be undertaken, big or small, not to offer new formulas or new frameworks they can slip into more or less comfortably once again”; (Ada Gobetti, ­Partisan Diary, 108).

Partisan Diary: Ada’s Wars

125

are essential in welding together the forces necessary to end the Nazi-fascists’ grip on Italy. As she probes and depicts the human side of the conflict, Gobetti insists on the sense of duty and collaboration that unites the partisans and steers them in their actions. The bond they forge, a force simultaneously communal and contagious, empowers them to challenge – and very often put an end to – the destructive erosion of belief, trust, safety, and culture that the regime is responsible for. She states that “before, there was a sense of disoriented surprise in most people […] now instead there is the consciousness of a battle that we must fight at any cost and that, even if it is lost today, will be victorious tomorrow.”46 As an antidote to the corrosion of values, the fellowship that Gobetti advocates and witnesses among partisans restores humanity to its full complexity. Throughout the journal she never betrays her abiding concern with the moral dimension of the partisan struggle. She knows that fear dulls people to the pain of others and that Nazi-fascism robs every one of the simplest joys. The emotional vacuum that this state of affairs creates can only be settled through, and by, an army grounded in moral tenets, equipped to turn them into practical effects, and able to weave them into a defense system against the degradation of civil society. Her precise and chilling insight into the agonies of life under the occupiers shapes her perspective on individual and collective choices as a way of resistance. This outlook is ingrained in Croce’s persuasion that in its practical actualization morality turns into passion, will, and usefulness. This notion leads the liberal philosopher to argue that morality “shapes with the artist, thinks with the philosopher, works with the farmer and factory worker […] practices politics and war, and uses the arm and the swords.”47 Croce’s description of morality as the agency for meaningful human undertakings maps the road for Gobetti’s ideological journey. Against this backdrop, her call for confrontation is spoken with fearless and scathing honesty, honed by giving attention to the nuances that define human nature when faced with political reality. It suggests that the catastrophe Italy is facing must be tenaciously, albeit tactfully, contained by workers. She is convinced that, guided by the ideals of justice and liberty, ordinary people can be empowered to transform a political crisis into an expansive rebuilding process. In spite of the fissure Badoglio’s scheme has opened in the Italian socio-political landscape, and as uncertain as the present may appear, this idea guides her. She concludes that by relying on inventiveness and improvisation, people will restore Italy’s self-respect. The idea that their activism will change the reality in which the 46 47

Ada Gobetti, Partisan Diary, 149. Ada Gobetti, Partisan Diary, 44.

126

Palma

country has been forced, echoes yet again Croce’s assertion that the principle animating every sphere of human endeavor is liberty.48 The discipline with which Gobetti marshals the growing contingent of partisans that adhere to Resistance ideals underscores her restless tenacity. Even more significant is her recruitment and inclusion of women among the groups of militants. In 1943, when first approached to establish the Gruppo di D ­ ifesa delle Donne (GDD) (Group for the Defense of Women) “with the purpose of activating women in the clandestine fight,”49 her initial reaction is telling: “I had never paid attention to women’s issues.”50 In the precarious world she lives in, riddled with unknowns and disquiet of all sorts, fraught with sadness, and laden with a desolation born of dashed hopes that does not differentiate between genders, her self-analysis spells out the full arc of her gender-blind activism. Still, beneath the surface of her words there lies an intense meditation on matters that she must confront because they impact society. “Do women issues really exist?” she continues, “I think that today’s problems, peace, freedom, ­justice – touch men and women in the same measure.”51 Because she views political and social militancy as a pursuit that aims to better humanity’s existence, she knows that a difference between genders – and issues supposedly pertaining to each one rather than both – cannot exist. More provocatively, by flatly asserting that she never paid attention to “women’s issues,” Gobetti lays objectivity over the subjective view that the regime imposes on women. The ironic remark that concludes her self-revelatory observations “Perhaps, I am too stupid to understand,”52 pits idealism against realism in the face of disaster. Stated differently, while her conviction to uproot the regime’s toxic ideology remains her primary objective – her moral resistance – her self-­ effacing words lay bare an implicit challenge to the notion of gender-based norms that the regime promotes. Because it imposes a lower value on women’s lives and work while perpetuating a culture of senseless injustices toward them, the Nazi-­fascist system encroaches on the individual’s sense of self. To reclaim self-­respect for herself, as well as for all muzzled disenfranchised people, Gobetti launches a searing critique of that culture through a seemingly innocuous statement. To this end, her tactic relies on the idea of inattentiveness to “gender-based” issues. Then it shifts to ineptitude. Yet, as her actions prove, neither one of these two traits belong to her. But they resonate with 48 Croce, La storia come pensiero e come azione, 40. 49 Ada Gobetti, Partisan Diary, 64. 50 Ada Gobetti, Partisan Diary, 64. 51 Ada Gobetti, Partisan Diary, 64. 52 Ada Gobetti, Partisan Diary, 64.

Partisan Diary: Ada’s Wars

127

the pervasive, narrow-minded stereotypes that the regime uses to l­ambaste women. Thus, the plainness of Gobetti’s admission captures a moment of quiet clarity made startling by the fact that it cuts against commonly held fascist assumptions even while using its very language. But her words come as no surprise; on the contrary, they blueprint her framework for women’s roles in the social, ­cultural, and political realms, precisely where the regime spurns them. To be sure, in the Diary Gobetti never draws a distinction between women’s and men’s work. Indeed, her teaching, directives, and actions, as well as the partisans’ collective achievements, never dangle in the realm of abstractions. For the energy that drives them lies in the courage that both men and women possess and her belief in them. Women’s bravery, along with their sagacity, according to her, increase the sense of the possible, and this empowers each individual to undertake and complete dangerous missions. Not numbed by, but seething at the hideousness of Nazi-fascists’ crimes, and the obstacles they continually erect to massacre partisans, she distils her philosophy for cultural and political reforms in doses that are accessible to the women in the valleys where she works: I thought that I could foster the idea of liberation among the women, based precisely upon this instinctive solidarity of ordinary women, as women and as mothers and upon this consciousness of their strength and their power, which was just barely awakened, like the great movements that had turned the world upside down.53 Avoiding empty sloganeering, opting instead for reasoned case-building, she persuades women originally “unenthusiastic” and “distrustful” to join the Resistance. She achieves her goals by depicting the regime’s cruelties through the prism of maternal and nurturing instincts. By awakening the sense of ­powerlessness rather than weakness, these insights confer on women an appreciation for who they are; this provides them with a novel understanding of how they can work to improve lives and communities. Keeping the eradication of corruption and depravity as a shared set of expectations, Gobetti argues that women, not unlike men, can turn into disruptors that push back against the machinations of power. More importantly, as she explains, with diversity as a resource, one achieves the modern understanding of equality among genders.54 Flashes of sharp self-questioning appear throughout the journal. These show a woman at ease with new choices even if they demand a willingness to 53 54

Ada Gobetti, Partisan Diary, 95. Emmanuela Banfo, Ada Gobetti e i suoi 5 talenti (Turin: Claudiana, 2014), 86.

128

Palma

accept unanticipated positions. That she consents to the merging of the women’s movement with the National Liberty Committee, an event carried out by others during her absence, speaks of her ideological levelheadedness: “What else could I do? Reject the decision of the Cln? Contest its legitimacy? These are things that a person cannot do in underground […].”55 The candor of her tone reveals a mind attuned to the principles of utilitarianism; her focal point, at this juncture, is avoiding internal crises that can shatter the hopes for future successes. Her acknowledgment that she must sacrifice her deepest personal commitments to promote the collective good, is based not only on the respect for others, but especially on her precise, chilling insights into the agonies of life under the dictatorship. In view of the horrors that the war creates, survival, and the restoration of the bases for human dignity and happiness, is a reality that, as she suggests, places political ideology before tribal identity. By excavating through women’s buried perspectives that decades of fascist propaganda censored, Gobetti, with laser-sharp acumen, embodies the awareness that to change circumstances requires a gender-blind, common effort. Hers is a choice undergirded by a political ideology that musters the will to do what moral principles dictate. Through this she inverts the norms that expect women to support wars waged by men, without either actively participating in them or taking any decision about them. Similarly, the militant Ada’s commitment to her mission attenuates the stereotype of motherly concern for her son, who is also devoted to the cause of liberation. From this point on, in the world of political fragmentation and flux that the after-armistice uncovers, Gobetti’s life unfolds in a series of beautiful contradictions and gender defying experiences. Fearless, in spite of the risks and personal costs her militancy entails, full of hope, and resolved to bring about a society where the government is the defender of people’s rights and democratic ideals rather than the enforcer of abusive and unlawful rules, in the Diary she documents with granular precision the braving of subzero ­temperatures, hunger, and homelessness she, and the groups of men and women she leads, experience to locate arms, moneys, clothing, false identity documents, food, medicines and housing. These are all activities that support 55

“While I was in Turin [...] trying to give the development of the Mfgl an autonomous and open-ended existence, the representatives of the Clnai had suffocated it under a blanket, recognizing […] the Gruppi di difesa as ‘organization of the feminine masses of the Cln’”; Ada Gobetti, Partisan Diary, 186–187. The acronyms stand for: Mfgl: Movimento ­Femminile di “Giustizia e Libertà” (“Women’s Movement of “Justice and Liberty”); Clnai: Comitato Nazionale di Liberazione del nord Italia (“Committee for the National Liberation of Northern Italy”); Cln: Comitato Nazionale di Liberazione (“National Liberation Committee”).

Partisan Diary: Ada’s Wars

129

and sustain the Resistance efforts. With vibrant authority born of the confidence that comes from repeatedly defying danger, her first-person account of her ­experiences also records the missions she undertakes to sabotage enemy’s operations. These episodes open a new window onto the humanity, as well as the shaming distortions of life, under the system that the Nazis, bolstered by the fascists, put in place. The calm, self-deprecating attitude she maintains during covert missions, which she claims is the result of her “unwitting stupidity,” sharply contrasts the arrogant authority that the enemy displays on every occasion as a sign of its power. Nonetheless, as the leader of local and regional GDD s, Gobetti stitches together the plans, evolves her tactics, and adjusts them continually. Life-threatening situations do not hold her back. She speaks at women meetings; writes the texts of, and with others, transports and distributes clandestine flyers to promote the GDD s and call more women into action. She raises funds by asking wealthy donors sympathetic to the cause; she becomes an expert at forging false documents to help people avoid arrests, tortures, and executions. Her determination turns into a straightforward route to victory. With the Anglo-American allies close to reaching Turin, she leads the GDD s in a series of factory occupations and strikes while the Nazis try to suppress them because they undermine the ‘law and order’ directive necessary to control people. In the Diary Gobetti discusses the spirit of solidarity that steers those striking; yet she never downplays the loss of human lives. Even so, the reality of oppression and death gives way to yet another affirmation of life. The poise and focus she musters to deflect officers’ attention when they stop her for searches, even while carrying compromising documents, arms, or money, is crushed by the news of the captures, tortures, and deaths of fellow partisans. On April 4, 1944, she records: “[T]hey have arrested all the members of the military command in Piedmont, while they were on their way to a meeting […] they had papers, documents, money. Their situation is very serious […] they have been condemned to death.”56 On the following day, with a single, terse sentence “They shot them this morning at dawn,” she records the gratuitous slaughter. Then her subtle parsing of words gives way to an emotional outburst. With dense and agonizing humanity, she marks the passage from grief to hatred. “I am stirred to rage by a will to fight an exasperated battle; and I understand the meaning of ‘avenging our dead’”.57 Rage over the senseless carnage ignites a primitive impulse to retaliate. Fueled by this impetus, she is emboldened to go on the offense; to strike back at the enemy with unusual 56 57

Ada Gobetti, Partisan Diary, 123. Ada Gobetti, Partisan Diary, 124.

130

Palma

ruthlessness rather than remaining on the defense. This strategy appears to her as an effective instrument to pursue justice. In an arena believed to be the exclusive province of men, Gobetti turns from victim into warrior. And in this she is guided by an unvarnished sense of authenticity that demands respect for human dignity. Her decision makes her resolve neither an absurdity nor an abnormality. For despite the losses and sufferings it entails, the principles guiding it are based on the pursuit of collective rather than personal interests. This understanding re-energizes her militancy, and because of it, with stoic vigor she endures the ever-increasing difficulties posed by the Nazi-fascists. Clearly, under the surface of a well-educated lady, heedful of the symbolic space a woman must occupy, lies the shrewd partisan leader and organizer of the feminist movement. Not unlike a man, she operates as a weapon of resistance, confronting and affronting the regime. Fighting mostly unarmed, always aware of the daunting moral decisions she faces, instead of hopelessness and submission in the Italian war of liberation, Gobetti embodies confidence and resistance. On April 24, 1945, after the last open battle between factory workers and Nazis, while the Allies are still trying to reach the city, her group of Partisans liberate Turin. The event concretizes the effectiveness of her strategy. Yet, no celebratory mood energizes her words. On the contrary, she recognizes that: another battle was beginning, longer, more difficult, and more extensive, albeit less bloody […] now it was a question of fighting against […] interests that would try to rekindle themselves treacherously, against habits that would soon reaffirm themselves […]: all things that were much more vague, deceiving, and fleeting.58 The radical political change she and her fellow partisans have brought to pass does not close the door to the atrocities of the past. Instead, they claim power over the present. Specifically, she argues that just like in the past, extreme attachments to particular ideologies would create new factions and animosity; this situation, she asserts, would lead to the dissolution of shared goals among the same individuals who fought for them. Although immediately chosen for the office of assistant-mayor, in her Diary Gobetti shows no confusion between reality and nightmare as some scholars argue with regard to women writing about war. On the contrary, without any spatial-temporal fragmentation she translates onto the page – as she has done all along – what she sees around her: bodies everywhere on the streets, a desolated, broken city, people 58

Ada Gobetti, Partisan Diary, 346.

Partisan Diary: Ada’s Wars

131

who now must begin to gather the pieces and begin to live again. Accordingly, she writes: “Soon the allies would arrive. There would no longer be bombings, fires, round ups, arrests, deaths by executions or hangings, massacres. This was great.”59 There is no excitement in her words, only the bittersweet recognition that brutalities will no longer take place and that life has defied death and destruction. She is already looking at the future and the concrete changes it will bring. Then, with the prescient knowledge of a woman who understands that the post Resistance will present its own brand of conflicts, she states: It was a matter to fight amongst ourselves and inside ourselves, not simply to destroy but to clarify, affirm, create, in order not to fall in the comfortable exaltation of the ideals for so long desired. Not to be satisfied with words and sentences, but to renew ourselves thusly keeping us alive.60 These are the words of a militant who did not just fight a war, but of one who incarnates a creed of socio-political dimensions. A woman who, a decade ­earlier, had explained to her husband: Only in my tender humility is my force. Only in my deepest adoration I find the serenity to fight, to win again, always. But if someone tells me that I do not know how to fight, I rebel because no one knows how hard-working and vibrant to fight is this love of mine.61 Still, through her journal, Gobetti turns into a historian because, as Croce affirms, history is “what the individual and humanity remember of their past.”62



Bibliography

Banfo, Emmanuela. Ada Gobetti e i suoi 5 talenti. Turin: Claudiana, 2014. Battaglia, Roberto. Storia della resistenza italiana. Turin: Einaudi, 1964. Bobbio, Norberto. “Benedetto Croce.” In The Ideological Profile of Twentieth-Century Italy. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1995. Bobbio, Norberto. “Umberto Calossio e Piero Gobetti.” Belfagor, vol.25, n. 3, maggio 1980: 329–338. 59 60 61 62

Ada Gobetti, Partisan Diary, 346. Ada Gobetti, Partisan Diary, 375. Piero e Ada Gobetti, Nella tua breve esistenza, 405. Croce, B. Æsthetic, trans. Douglas Ainslie (New York: The Noonday Press, 1956), 29.

132

Palma

Bongiovanni, Bruno. “Gobetti e la Russia.” Studi storici 37, Jul.-Sept. 1996: 727–746. Borsellino, Nino. “Una giovinezza a Torino: Levi, Gobetti e Sapegno.” Belfagor, vol.63, 31 luglio 2008: 460–466. Chang, Natasha. The Crisis-Woman: Body Politics and the Modern Woman in Fascist Italy. Toronto, Buffalo, London: University of Toronto Press, 2015. Croce, Benedetto. Æsthetic. Trans. Douglas Ainslie. New York: The Noonday Press, 1956. Croce, Benedetto. La storia come pensiero. Bari: Laterza, 1970. d’Orsi, Angelo. “Il modello vociano. Esperienze culturali nella Torino degli anni Venti.” Studi Storici, 31. Oct. – Dec. 1990: 867–887. De Grazia, Victoria De Grazia. How Fascism Ruled Women: Italy 1922–1945. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1992. Ferreri, Dino. “Politica e cultura in Piero Gobetti.” Studi Storici, 11. Apr. – Jun. 1970: 392–396. Gobetti, Ada. Partisan Diary. Trans. Jomarie Alano. New York: Oxford University Press, 2014. Gobetti, Piero and Ada. Nella tua breve esistenza. Ed. Ersilia Alessandrone Perona. Turin: Einaudi, 1991. Gobetti, Piero and Ada. Opere complete, Scritti politici. P. Spriano Ed. Turin: Einaudi, 1960. Gramsci, Antonio. Gli intellettuali e l’organizzazione della cultura. Rome: Editori Riuniti, 1971. Gramsci, Antonio. “Indifferenti.” In Scritti giovanili. Turin: Einaudi, 1958. Gramsci, Antonio. Letteratura e vita nazionale. Rome: Editori Riuniti, 1971. Machiavelli, Niccolò. The Prince. Trans. George Bull. New York: Penguin, 2003. Mack Smith, Denis. “Benedetto Croce: History and Politics.” Journal of Contemporary History 8, Jan. 1973: 41–61. Pavone, Claudio. Una guerra civile: Saggio storico sulla moralità della Resistenza. Turin: Bollati Boringheri, 1994. Peli, Santo. La Resistenza in Italia: Storia e critica. Turin: Einaudi, 2004. Pojmann, Wendy. “Daughters of the Resistance, 1943–1946.” In Italian Women and International Cold War Politics. New York: Fordham University Press, 2013. Sorel, Georges. Considerazioni sulla violenza. Trans. Antonio Sarno and Enzo Santar�elli. Preface with an introduction by Benedetto Croce from the first edition. Bari: Laterza, 1970. Spriano, Paolo. “Gramsci e Gobetti.” Studi storici, 17. Apr. – Jun., 1976: 69–93. Vanek, Wilda M. Vanek. “Piero Gobetti and the Crisis of the “Prima (sic) dopoguerra.” The Journal of Modern History XXXVII, (March 1965): 1–17.

Chapter 7

Notturno and the War: D’Annunzio’s Intimate Reflection on Heroism Michela Barisonzi Abstract This chapter by Michela Barisonzi discusses the representation of the Great War through Gabriele D’Annunzio’s eyes, comparing his activist literature and private ­experiences, looking beyond the image of the heroic superhuman that the Italian poet cultivated through many of his works. Notturno, in particular, builds a new p ­ erspective on heroism as the abnegation and personal sacrifice of humble, nameless soldiers, away from glorification and mythmaking.

L’eroismo, il sangue, la morte, la carità, la speranza [...].1 Discussions regarding Gabriele D’Annunzio’s involvement in the Great War are often confined to his conquest of Fiume and his extravagant expeditions, such as the flight over Vienna and the Bakar raid. Accordingly, the image of D’Annunzio as a poeta-vate,2 and his enactment of the superhuman hero in 1 Gabriele D’Annunzio, Notturno (Milan: Arnoldo Mondadori Editore, 2005), 303. English ­translation: Notturno, trans. Stephen Santarelli (New Haven and London, Yale UP, 2011), 174: “Heroism, blood, death, kindness and, hope”. Page references mention the Italian and the English editions respectively. All other translations from D’Annunzio’s works are mine. 2 For the poeta-vate as a “quasi-mystical embodiment of national literary genius” see Matteo Fabio Nels Giglioli, “‘ll Deputato della Bellezza.’ Gabriele D’Annunzio’s Aesthetic Politics in the Fin-de-siècle Crisis,” Journal of Modern Italian Studies 18, no. 4 (2013): 505. Although it is not exclusive to D’Annunzio, this idea, championed at first by poets such as Foscolo, gains importance during the Italian Risorgimento. Later, with the diffusion of a national ideology of Italian rebirth, poets such as Carducci and D’Annunzio took it to its extremes. As Zeppi’s definition of the optimal political leader applied to D’Annunzio’s poeta-vate shows, this individual becomes the bearer of absolute power within his Nation in order to lead it towards the supremacy over the other countries. On this subject, see Stelio Zeppi, “Il pensiero politico di D’Annunzio nell’Ottocento (1879–1900),” Filosofia politica 13, no.1 (1999): 105–141, 120. Yet the artistic and intellectual aspects of this exceptional individual are what distinguish him from a dictator. For this reason, as Caburlotto suggests, D’Annunzio’s enlistment in the army © Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2023 | DOI:10.1163/9789004548145_009

134

Barisonzi

autobiographical terms, has been the focus of these discussions. The provocative subtitle of Hughes-Hallet’s biographical study Poet, Seducer and Preacher of War,3 seems indeed to sum up the wider consensus and common opinion regarding the author. Yet I argue that D’Annunzio’s most famous wartime work, Notturno,4 points to a novel hero. This man is the common soldier, rather than the exalted poet-hero. Notturno is an intimate diary of D’Annunzio’s experience as a soldier during the war and, possibly, “the most emotionally direct and formally original of his prose.”5 In a constant tension between myth and progress, nationalism and individualism, the work foregrounds the emergence of the poet’s emotions while encompassing all the contradictions surrounding his legendary image. To this end, the imagery and accompanying lyricism that describe the fighters and their sacrifice present the humble soldiers imbued with a sense of ­reverence and magnificence. Their mutilated bodies become eternal effigies, monuments to the Patria. A new concept of beauty appears in the horror of the war; it is a feeling of fragility, devotion, and comradery that also characterised the works of other contemporary poets such as Ungaretti. This notion of the hero in Notturno is built on the image of the humble soldier who sacrifices his life for the motherland while fulfilling his duty. Although this idea appears to fall in line with the rhetorical discourse of nationalism featured in many of his pro-war propagandistic works, D’Annunzio’s Notturno introduces duty as a form of spontaneous heroism. More than this, heroism proves to be built upon personal devotion, endless courage, and ultimate sacrifice. These virtues – according to D’Annunzio – should be recognized and celebrated. Given the breadth of D’Annunzio’s corpus regarding war writings, this essay focuses on the analysis and contrast of the idea of heroism as presented in Notturno along with some of his interventionist works. These include selections from Merope and the orations contained in the collection Per la più grande is crucial in the actualisation of the poeta-vate idea. With his direct participation in the conflict, seen as a means to regain the country’s freedom and prestige, D’Annunzio becomes the emblem of culture converted into action, bringing to life the art-action binary. See Filippo Caburlotto, “D’Annunzio, la latinità del Mediterraneo e il mito della riconquista,” California Italian Studies 1, no. 1 (2010): 1–15, 2. 3 Lucy Hughes-Hallett, The Pike. Gabriele D’Annunzio Poet, Seducer and Preacher of War (­London: Fourth Estate, 2013). 4 Notturno was partially written in 1916 during D’Annunzio’s convalescence from war i­njuries and in a condition of partial blindness that would determine the visionary/hallucinatory nature of part of the work. The convalescence also becomes a precondition for the ­progressive redefinition of his idea of heroism. 5 Hughes-Hallet, The Pike, 374.

Notturno and the War: D’Annunzio’s Intimate Reflection

135

Italia. By exploring the representation of the Great War through D’Annunzio’s eyes and comparing his activist works and private experiences, the evolution of his idea of heroism emerges. Beyond the narcissist heroic superhuman image that he cultivated throughout his poetic and personal life, his war experience, as depicted in Notturno, is revealed through the connections between the poet and his comrades, unknown soldiers, and common people. I will also probe the development of a sense of fraternity and humanity from which stems a re-­ evaluation of the hero, now identifiable with the humble soldier. At the beginning of the twentieth century, as Ledeen points out, many ­Italian interventionist intellectuals aspired to reignite the national desire towards expansionism. They also advocated for the creation of a greater Italy through a new government that would function as a catalyst for the pride and passions of its own people.6 These intellectuals saw participation in the First World War as the means to achieve their objective. They believed that the national ­liberation that started with the Risorgimento would be achieved through war. In an emblematic way Marinetti, in his 1909 Manifesto of Futurism, defined war as hygienic, a means, that is, to purify the world. War became for him, as well as for many others, the symbol of regeneration that would not only allow the country to regain its place among the European powers, but also enable Italy to break free from its stagnation. It is predictable, then, to position ­D’Annunzio’s pro-war writings of the period in such a context. As observed by Bonadeo, many of D’Annunzio’s works contributed to the creation of a nationalist spirit and, from Le Vergini delle Rocce to Merope, “much of D’Annunzio’s writing […] fed and prepared the explosion of the interventionism that will mark both his numerous speeches on the eve of the war and Italy’s nationalist climate.”7 Ledeen further explains that war belonged both to D’Annunzio’s own destiny and to that of his country because it represented an occasion to show their exceptional merits. It also could prove to be an experience that would purify the Italian people.8 In these works, D’Annunzio’s call for war centres around the image of an individual who is a unique hero without whom war loses its function. It is only through this hero, and his personal success, that this one-man war will restore the country to its former glory. In this reading, soldiers have neither voice nor place.

6 Michael Arthur Ledeen, D’Annunzio a Fiume (Rome-Bari: Laterza, 1975), 84. 7 Alfredo Bonadeo, D’Annunzio and the Great War (Cranbury, NJ: Associated University Press, 1995), 17. 8 Michael Arthur Ledeen, “Il divo,” in D’Annunzio e la Poesia di massa. Guida storica e critica, Nicola Merola ed. (Bari: Laterza, 1979), 73–99 and 84.

136

Barisonzi

The one-hero war is exemplified in Le Vergini delle Rocce. In this novel, the mission of the protagonist, Cantelmo, is to “prepare the destiny for Him who had to come” (“preparare il destino di Colui che doveva venire”).9 The words refer to the birth of his son who, in the elder Cantelmo’s view, would become Italy’s saviour, as a reincarnation of their mythical ancestor, the great ­Renaissance condottiero Alessandro Cantelmo.10 The protagonist’s search for the perfect spouse in terms of genealogy, beauty, and virtue, is thus driven by the procreation of the heir, the nation’s sole hero. Only through a mythical genealogy,11 one with firm roots in the noblest virtues, could this elitist hero save the country from what D’Annunzio considered its democratic destruction. Indeed, both Giolitti’s and Crispi’s governments, with their democratic orientation, were considered responsible for the political-cultural degradation of the country and, for this reason, accused of having betrayed the ideals of the Risorgimento movements.12 Not surprisingly, D’Annunzio portrays this destruction as a deadly disease. Defined as “a sort of whitish tumor” (“una ­specie di tumore biancastro”),13 its colour openly alludes to the one c­ haracterizing the plaster of the uncontrolled bourgeois building development perpetrated at the expense of monuments and historical sites during that period.14 According to the narrator, this hero would become a Nietzschean-superhuman redeemer; 9 10

Gabriele D’Annunzio, Le Vergini delle Rocce (Milan: Arnoldo Mondadori Editore, 1995), 4. Notably, the main features of this mythical ancestor, namely, his artistic excellence and his noble death in battle, become the foundation of D’Annunzio’s initial personal idea of heroism, where he, as the poet-artist, yearns for a glorious death in combat. 11 On the strategic use of the myth of an Italian golden age identifiable with the ­Renaissance in D’Annunzio’s nationalist discourse see Michela Barisonzi, “Mother Italy: The Female Role in the Rebirth of Italian Nationalism in Gabriele D’Annunzio’s Le Vergini delle Rocce,” Italian Studies in Southern Africa 28, no. 1 (2015): 22–48; Gianni Venturi, “‘Le Vergini delle Rocce’ e un ‘topos’ classicistico: La distruzione del giardino come Eden,” Quaderni del Vittoriale 23, (1980): 197–214; and Mary Ann Witt, The Search for Modern Tragedy. Aesthetic Fascism in Italy and France (London/Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1992). 12 See Carlo Salinari, Miti e coscienza del decadentismo italiano (Milan: Feltrinelli editore, 1975). 13 D’Annunzio, Le Vergini delle Rocce, 43. 14 According to Giorgio Bàrberi Squarotti in Invito alla lettura di D’Annunzio (Milan: Mursia Editore, 1982), a similar contrast between the country’s present and its glorious past is also evident in the Odi navali (1892–93). As the critic argues, this is D’Annunzio’s first example of a political poem and it is characterised by both the “nostalgia for the pure and heroic period of the Renaissance wars and Garibaldi’s expeditions and the desolated contemplation of a squalid, powerless and weak present” (Bàrberi Squarotti, Invito alla lettura di D’Annunzio, 84), therefore echoing the political stance developed in Le Vergini delle Rocce.

Notturno and the War: D’Annunzio’s Intimate Reflection

137

more importantly, the redemption of the country would be the consequence, not the aim, of his quest.15 Similarly, in the poetic collection Merope, specifically the fourth book of Laudi, one finds examples of idealised heroes along with examples of heroism for the sake of heroism, all imbued with a sustained poetic and heroic vision of the future.16 As Bàrberi Squarotti writes, the lyricism of these poems has an exclusively political function: dignifying an aggressive and warmongering nationalism through the reminiscence of the country’s past glories.17 Furthermore, he suggests that D’Annunzio writes and uses these poems merely as a propaganda tool intended to give dignity, splendor, and depth to the very call to arms that he has been promoting.18 In the same vein, Caburlotto asserts that the mythological references to Aeneas, Pindar, and Thetis19 are used to glorify the origins of the Italian race and its heroes;20 but their heroic accomplishments, marked by a verbose rhetoric of war,21 reinforce Bàrberi S­ quarotti’s interpretation. For the same reason, Caburlotto clarifies, even historical facts undergo a process of mythicization. This manoeuver, in his view, distinguishes D’Annunzio’s writings and his use of Italian history from his peers. As he explains, the exceptionality of D’Annunzio’s writings does not lie in the ‘generic’ reference to the past – as it is the case of contemporary authors such 15

16 17 18 19 20

21

For Witt Le Vergini delle Rocce not only shows “the desire to recuperate the classical heritage within the national literary tradition,” but also illustrates “the profound influence of Friederich Nietzsche” (The Search for Modern Tragedy, 3). On Nietzsche’s influence on D’Annunzio see also Bàrberi Squarotti, Invito alla lettura di D’Annunzio; Carlo Salinari, Miti e coscienza del decadentismo italiano (Milan: Feltrinelli editore, 1975); Guido Baldi, Le ambiguità della ‘decadenza’. D’Annunzio romanziere (Naples: Liguori, 2008); and L’inetto e il Superuomo: D’Annunzio tra ‘decadenza’ e ‘vita ascendente’ (Turin: Scriptorium, 1997). Francesco Perfetti, “D’Annunzio, ovvero la politica come poesia,” D’Annunzio e il suo tempo. Un bilancio critico, vol. 1, Franco Perfetti ed. (Genoa: SAGEP, 1992), 384. Bàrberi Squarotti, Invito alla lettura di D’Annunzio, 160. Bàrberi Squarotti, Invito alla lettura di D’Annunzio, 161. I refer here to the “Canzone d’oltremare,” “Canzone del sangue,” and “Canzone dei trofei.” See Caburlotto, “D’Annunzio, la latinità” for a detailed analysis of the verses containing these mythological references. As Caburlotto explains, it is important to note that D’Annunzio does not use the term race in a colonialist sense of genetic superiority, but in terms of historical and cultural ­prestige based on a Latin-barbarian population dichotomy (“D’Annunzio, la latinità,” 6). The recurrent use of the myth serves to exemplify and underline this historic-cultural concept of race, providing the foundation for the idea of a superiority of the Latin race and its renaissance, connecting it to the nationalist ideology of the early nineteenth century. See Anna Baldazzi, Bibliografia della critica dannunziana: nei periodici italiani dal 1880 al 1938 (Rome: Cooperativa Scrittori, 1977), 24. Caburlotto, “D’Annunzio, la latinità,” 2.

138

Barisonzi

as Corradini. Rather, it is found in the use of a specifically chosen historical moment, and projecting it into a completely different context while simultaneously showing the connections and relevance of the two situations at an ontological level.22 D’Annunzio’s “reliance on a mythic interpretation of history,” as Boylan underscores, becomes a tool for conditioning the masses, a “strategy [D’Annunzio] uses to lead his audience to think and feel in unison, collectively, to want to be part of the identity it creates for them.”23 Therefore, D’Annunzio transforms history into a myth to justify the need to enter the war because war is the precondition to the rise of the hero and his glorification.24 Interestingly, while scholars such as Caburlotto and Bàrberi Squarotti still praise the lyricism and poetic virtuosity of the poems in Merope, Bonadeo identifies in the “plethora of historical allusions interlarding the poems” and “warring and heroism as the needs and interests of the hero, rather than of his country,” the origins of the “poetical emptiness” that characterises Merope.25 His accusations of empty rhetoric lacing the notion of heroism in D’Annunzio are not new; similar ones can be found among his contemporaries. As Z ­ ollino suggests, many intellectuals of the period, among whom Gadda, Panzini, and Serra, harshly criticized D’Annunzio’s involvement in the interventionist propaganda. Serra exemplifies this criticism with his attack on D’Annunzio’s return from France and on his idea of a Latin resurgence. These, in Zollino’s view, evidence the rhetorical clichés that mark the poet’s oratory of the p ­ eriod.26 In a similar way Croce, describing D’Annunzio’s works, talks of a pompous and sophisticated style at the expense of content and substance. According to Sirri, Croce further criticizes D’Annunzio by stating that in his civic writings nothing is left of true heroism but only the gesture and the attitude, which he terms “the shell and not the soul.”27 Still, in Le Vergini delle Rocce and Merope not only is the hero a Nietzschean superhuman, conceptually distant from the 22 23

Caburlotto, “D’Annunzio, la latinità,” 7. Amy Boylan, “Maternal Images in Song, Bronze, and Rhetoric: Mercantini’s ‘Inno di ­Garibaldi,’ Baroni’s ‘Monumento ai Mille,’ and D’Annunzio’s ‘Orazione per la sagra dei Mille’,” Italian Studies 66, no. 1 (2011): 40–58, 54. 24 Antonio Zollino, “Nell’ombra delle mie ali d’uomo: echi autobiografici, letterari e ­giornalistici della partecipazione di Gabriele d’Annunzio alla Prima Guerra Mondiale,” in ­Cuadernos de Filologìa Italiana 22, (2015): 215–231. 25 Bonadeo, D’Annunzio and the Great War, 6. 26 See Renato Serra, Esame di coscienza di un letterato (Bologna: Zanichelli, 2011), 7. 27 See Benedetto Croce, “Aggiunte alla ‘Letteratura della Nuova Italia’,” in La Critica. Rivista di Letteratura, Storia e Filosofia diretta da B. Croce 32 (1934):161–201, 201, www.ojs.uniroma1 .it/index.php/lacritica/article/download/ 8568/8550, and Benedetto Croce, La Letteratura della Nuova Italia: Saggi Critici, V.4 (Bari: Gius. Laterza & Figli, 1922), 31; link: https:// archive.org/index.php.

Notturno and the War: D’Annunzio’s Intimate Reflection

139

unspoken/outsider heroes of Notturno but, as Bonadeo emphasizes, he is a self-centred hero. In this hero there is no trace of patriotism because he sees war as a means to unlock the mystery of death and, through it, accomplish his own destiny of immortal glory. D’Annunzio’s writings immediately preceding Italy’s entry into the war on May 24, 1915, show a first shift in the definition of the hero. In the Orazione per la Sagra dei Mille, dated May 4, 1915, the hero is no longer a stand-alone figure. Garibaldi, still depicted as a mythological hero, is an individual who, “through the never-ending myth, raises here above the fleeting and avid history as an untouchable flower” (“ecco, sopra la fugace e vorace storia, culmina come inespugnabile fiore, nella novità perenne del mito”).28 Despite remaining surrounded by nameless soldiers, they are glorified for their sacrifice and become indispensable to Garibaldi’s mission. As a result, they too are acknowledged as heroes: “[T]he resuscitated heroes lift the solemnity of death with titanic effort for their creator to shape it into immortality” (“i resuscitanti eroi sollevano con uno sforzo titanico la gravezza della morte perché il lor creatore in piedi la foggi in immortalità”).29 While the soldiers share in Garibaldi’s glory, their significance depends on the existence of the hero, as the expression “their ­creator” highlights. Moreover, the focus is still on the hero’s unique task, which acquires religious traits because Garibaldi is presented as defeating death and attaining eternal life through glory. This is also emphasised by the text’s structure that reproposes the one of the Sermon of the Mount, as well as by the lexis used to compare Garibaldi to Jesus: “You saw him from closer like the Veronica saw Christ during his passion. His face is engraved in your souls like the face of the Saviour was in the holy shroud” (“lo vedeste da presso come la Veronica vide il Cristo in passione. Il suo volto vero è impresso nella vostra anima come nel sudario il volto del Salvatore”).30 This portrayal of Garibaldi mirrors the nationalistic discourse that characterizes patriotic martyrs as Christ-like figures.31 Through the sacredness attributed to the image of the patriotic hero (and, later, to the soldiers), the nationalist narrative and D’Annunzio’s war

28 Gabriele D’Annunzio, La Sagra dei Mille, 15. 29 D’Annunzio, La Sagra dei Mille, 12. 30 D’Annunzio, La Sagra dei Mille, 16. 31 For the national hero who becomes a “transposition of the figure of Christ to a d­ ifferent semiotic field [...] the death of the hero is [...] a suffering that can redeem the entire national community; it is a sacrifice which acts as an example and a stimulus towards the liberation of the entire national community.” See Alberto Mario Banti, “Deep Images in Nineteenth-Century Nationalist Narrative,” Historein 8, (2008): 57.

140

Barisonzi

writings foreground the sacrifice for the nation as a way to make sense of death while simultaneously defying it, just like Christ did through His sacrifice.32 With war at Italy’s doorstep, D’Annunzio’s works still centre on the uniqueness of the hero. At the same time, the presence of the soldiers is a corollary, a necessity insofar as the hero “cannot live heroically unless there is a war, and there cannot be a war unless the people bear arms and fight.”33 According to Bonadeo, there is an “eagerness to consign the soldiers to [a] death” that represents “an expiatory sacrifice.”34 These soldiers are faceless and nameless, “meat to be slaughtered.”35 The critic also suggests that, although publicly D’Annunzio is “extolling their virtue,” “these expressions had more to do with public relations strategy” because “not only did he ignore the sacrifice of the common soldier and its patriotic value; he even uglified his death.”36 Bonadeo further discusses D’Annunzio’s depiction of soldiers as “men whose unworthiness makes their sacrifice undeserving of reverence and reward.”37 While the harshness of Bonadeo’s criticism may be questioned, D ­ ’Annunzio’s focus is undeniably set on the superhuman hero introduced in Le Vergini delle Rocce. He distinguishes himself from the masses for his mythical nature. In Notturno, on the contrary, myth, although still present, is used to pay tribute and give eternal glory to the common soldier’s heroism. The soldiers in this work do not have a mythical ancestry but are transformed into myth for their heroic deeds. More often than not, however, myth is replaced by the use of religious symbolism through which the unsung soldier becomes Italy’s heroic saviour. Scholars have long voiced diverging opinions on Notturno. D’Annunzio’s contemporaries like Saverio Laredo de Mendoza and Sibilla Aleramo speak of a book that “moves the world” (“commuove il mondo”)38 and of the “insuperable art” (“arte insuperabile”)39 it epitomizes. Similarly, scholars like Asor Rosa40 positively emphasize its hermetic style, which influenced ­twentieth-­century 32

On the idea of the “cult of the fallen soldier” see also Fernando Esposito “In ‘the shadow of the winged machine…’: The Esposizione dell’aeronautica Italiana and the Ascension of Myth in the Slipstream of Modernity,” in Modernism/modernity 19 (2012): 139–152. 33 Bonadeo, D’Annunzio and the Great War, 73. 34 Bonadeo, D’Annunzio and the Great War, 75. 35 Bonadeo, D’Annunzio and the Great War, 75. 36 Bonadeo, D’Annunzio and the Great War, 76. I refer here to the description of the dead body of the soldier killed while eating, presented in Licenza (1916). 37 Bonadeo, D’Annunzio and the Great War, 76. 38 Gianni Oliva, ed., Interviste a D’Annunzio (1895–1938) (Lanciano: Rocco Carabba srl, 2002), 436. 39 Oliva, Interviste, 553. 40 Alberto Asor-Rosa, “Prime manifestazioni di una società di massa,” in D’Annunzio e la ­Poesia di massa. Guida storica e critica, ed. by Nicola Merola (Bari: Laterza, 1979), 101–119, 108.

Notturno and the War: D’Annunzio’s Intimate Reflection

141

poetry. Conversely, critics such as Bàrberi Squarotti condemn its lack of ­invention and its scarcity of themes.41 In light of these contrasting opinions, Bonadeo’s definition of Notturno as D’Annunzio’s “best prose work […] which deals with his hopes, exhilaration, and finally with his delusion as a warrior,”42 best captures the complex nature of this work. Still, according to Bonadeo, Notturno can be viewed as a failed cathartic process. He discusses D’Annunzio’s hope that his war experience recollected in Notturno would allow him to solve the mystery of death while also providing him “with a means of redemption,” especially from “eroticism, which he enjoyed immensely and loathed at the same time.”43 In his view, D’Annunzio used war to escape his decadent life of eroticism. Sex and war are introduced, in Bonadeo’s analysis, as a binary system according to which the sublimation of the heroic act replaces that of sexual pleasure central in D’Annunzio’s works such as Il Piacere, Il Trionfo della Morte and Il Fuoco. Indeed, the critic’s argument only partially reflects the intimate image of D’Annunzio and his relationship with war that Notturno foregrounds. The argument confines them only to an attempted private victory, “the victory of D’Annunzio’s own self”44 over sexuality and death, rather than the victory of the nation. To be sure, Notturno focuses more on the narrator’s private experience than on the general exaltation of fighting for the glory of the country. Nevertheless, the protagonist of Notturno is not the hero, and the text does not celebrate his heroism as the poeta-vate; rather, it honours the valour of the soldiers with whom D’Annunzio fought side by side. The names of Prima Offerta, Seconda Offerta and Terza Offerta that divide Notturno are the starting point of the re-reading of the text in terms of tributes to the country. In the first section D’Annunzio engages in a conversation with Death, accusing her of having deceived him twice: La prima volta ella di poco sopravanzò la gloria nell’uccidere il mio ­compagno che s’era con me giurato pel viaggio senza ritorno. La seconda volta, con un gioco fatale di ore, ella donò a un altro la bella sorte a cui quegli medesimo m’aveva designato riconoscendomene degno per diritto divino.45

41 Bàrberi Squarotti, Invito, 200. 42 Bonadeo, D’Annunzio and the Great War, 8. 43 Bonadeo, D’Annunzio and the Great War, 8. 44 Bonadeo, D’Annunzio and the Great War, 8. 45 D’Annunzio, Notturno, 167; 10.

142

Barisonzi

The first time, she overshot glory by a hair’s breadth, killing my comrade, who had vowed with me to go on a journey of no return. The second time, in a fateful game of hours, she granted another the ­magnificent destiny to which this same man had assigned me, admitting my divine right to the honor. This passage sums up the three main motifs of Notturno: the poet’s desire to become an eternal hero, symbolised by the expression “magnificent destiny”; the necessary sacrifice of human lives to ensure and achieve the greatness of the Patria; and the recognition and glorification of the common soldiers’ self-sacrifice. While the first two themes have been the object of extensive analyses, the third one has received little attention. This theme emerges as the key to the entire text, even though throughout the Offerte the definition shifts. D’Annunzio’s desire to die in combat has been interpreted as his ambition to achieve eternal glory. Accordingly, Notturno celebrates the warrior-poet, contributing to the creation of D’Annunzio’s own legendary image.46 Thus the first pages of Prima Offerta seem to confirm his self-celebration. Here D’Annunzio envisions his death as the way to unlock endless glory; this fact is emphasised by expressions such as “The heroic pilot is bringing the sacrificed poet back to the fatherland. / O boundless glory!” (“il pilota eroico riconduce alla Patria il poeta sacrificato. / O Gloria immensa”), and “I see my face transfigured in the centuries of greatness to come.” (“guardo il mio viso trasfigurato nei secoli prossimi della grandezza”).47 The Christ-like traits that were attributed to Garibaldi in the Orazione per la Sagra dei Mille, are here captured by the notion of transfiguration that affects the poet’s own traits. Further, only through active participation and the ultimate sacrifice could he become the “Poet of War […], of our magnificent race” (“Poeta della Guerra […], della nostra razza magnifica”).48

46

According to Ledeen, not only had D’Annunzio created an exalting image of his life and role in the world but, almost alone among his contemporaries, he succeeded in i­ mposing his own poetic view to the reality in which he lived (“Il divo”, 90). Similarly, Caburlotto speaks of a process of renovation of the myth, of ritualisation and mythification, which D’Annunzio applied to both his life and artistic production, almost subconsciously during the war, and later, consciously and systematically during the last years of his life (“­D’Annunzio, la latinità,” 7). 47 D’Annunzio, Notturno, 168; 11. 48 Oliva, Interviste, 333. See interview with Attilio Frescura on April 9, 1916. Active participation in battle was non-negotiable for D’Annunzio as he made plain in his May 1915 letters to Italian government and military authorities, including General Cadorna.

Notturno and the War: D’Annunzio’s Intimate Reflection

143

In the passage from Prima Offerta there is also a reference to the country, the Motherland. This specific remark introduces a first shift in the idea of heroism as presented in Le Vergini delle Rocce, since the glory of the country is now the aim, rather than the consequence of the poet’s sacrifice. While the poet gives up his life for the Motherland, the hero-soldier, the “heroic pilot” (“pilota eroico”) is charged with the dual role of facilitating the poet’s sacrifice and of bringing back the lifeless body that can be honoured forever. Interestingly, the reference is specific to a pilot, rather than a generic soldier. Given D’Annunzio’s military position and interest in aviation, the presence of the pilot as the first of the humble soldiers acquiring prominence through death, is significant. For aviation represents not only dynamism, but especially an upward movement. In D’Annunzio’s works, the prominence through death coincides both with the trajectory of the Nietzschean Superhuman and the resurrection of Italy. Because of this, the pilot becomes the symbol and facilitator of his country’s regeneration; and his achievements lead it to new heights.49 At this point the hero-pilot still depends on, and is necessary to, the poet and his heroism, like Garibaldi’s companions in the Orazione per la Sagra dei Mille. But a few pages later the mention of a soldier praised for his own independent courage and sacrifice appears: Il mio compagno è nell’isola dei trapassati […]. E il suo cippo è come un quadrante solare, dove il braccio teso d’Icaro è come lo stilo di bronzo che sopra il nome scolpito segna l’unica ora: l’ora del coraggio. My comrade lies on the island of the dead […]. His pillar is like a ­sundial, where Icarus’s arm extends like a bronze stylus indicating, over the carved name, the only hour: the hour of ultimate bravery.50 49

On the symbolism of the aviation used by fascism and its connection with the First World War and D’Annunzio’s writings, see Fernando Esposito “In ‘the shadow’,” 139–152. Here Esposito points, in particular, to the fascist exaltation of the pilots in the First World War as demonstrated by the 1934 exhibition Esposizione dell’areonautica Italiana. In it, the aviators’ heroism and spirit of self-sacrifice are presented ultimately as the agents for Italy’s victory. 50 D’Annunzio, Notturno, 171; 15. Here D’Annunzio refers to his friend Giuseppe Miraglia, whose death profoundly affected the poet. Yet D’Annunzio glorifies in a similar fashion the death and sacrifice of other soldiers, whom he did not know but fought alongside with. As Hughes-Hallet underlines, “in likening these young servicemen to mythical heroes or the great men of Italy’s golden age he [D’Annunzio] is imposing a new meaning on the war” (the Pike, 379).

144

Barisonzi

The reference to Icarus suggests that the soldier was a pilot and serves to ­glorify his sacrifice. This description imbues the fallen man with a mythical allure. The fact that this occurs in relation to the common soldier, elevates him to a new status, one that Esposito defines as an Icarian Übermensch. According to him, the figure of Icarus is reinterpreted in the years immediately after the Great War and his fall is no longer the “consequence of his hubris […] but an essential sacrifice to the ‘altar of the fatherland.’” Like Icarus in the air, and Ulysses on land, the pilot defies the limits set by divine law; to achieve this, the pilot is willing to perish. The rebirth of his country is possible only by going beyond the limits of the national borders that have confined Italy to the status of a “mutilated land.”51 To reach his goal the hero is ready to defy any limit, and his glorification and that of other soldiers suggests that there is no longer the need for a saviour with legendary ancestors to save the motherland. At this juncture, according to D’Annunzio, every man can become a hero through his sacrifice for the country. As a result, the elitist hero of Le Vergini delle Rocce vanishes to be replaced by multitudes of soldiers, whose self-sacrifice and devotion to the country are the defining qualities of the hero. This implies that every soldier emerges from the mass and is elevated to a distinctive position through both a process of martyrization and mythicization. As Esposito points out, D’Annunzio proposed a new image of the Icarian hero characterised also by religious commonplaces, and recognisable by the masses; he “theoretically enabled the illiterate foot soldier to relate to the narrative and make some sense of it.”52 This idea mirrors Banti’s view about the nationalist political discourse at the end of the nineteenth century. According to him, the narrative strategies of martyrisation and mythicization are used as “deep images” and “allegorical systems” that carry easily identifiable values. Through these values, soldiers can make sense of the sacrifices asked of them for an otherwise too often abstract idea of nation. The ennoblement of the dead soldiers becomes apparent in the crude description of their corpses. The brutal realism of the corpses in S­ econda Offerta, as Bonadeo underscores, “represents, not humanity violated, but ­bestiality ­displayed.”53 In fact, the description of the dying Abruzzese sailor, Giovanni Federico, whose body is compared to that of animals in a 51

Esposito, “In ‘the Shadow,’” 144. It is also important to consider the use of the statue of Icarus accompanied by D’Annunzio’s poem Ai compagni d’ala e d’anima at the ­aviation exhibition of 1934. As Esposito underlines, this combination perfectly sums up the ­symbolism attributed to this mythological figure in this period. 52 Esposito, “In the Shadow,” 144. 53 Bonadeo, D’Annunzio and the Great War, 91.

Notturno and the War: D’Annunzio’s Intimate Reflection

145

slaughterhouse, is clear evidence of this. Yet despite the comparison with “the animals the butcher quarters on his block.” (“quegli animali che il beccaio squarta sul banco del macello”),54 the image seems to suggest compassion for the brutality of a slow death inflicted to the sailor. A similar idea of compassion and hidden pride for the soldier’s courage also emerges in the expression: “If we put him face down, he does not cry. If we lay him on his back, he does not cry. And yet his agony splits even the dead plank.” (“se lo mettiamo bocconi, non grida. Se lo mettiamo supino, non grida. Eppure il suo strazio fende anche la tavola ­morta”).55 ­Empathy and a sense of respect, rather than the aseptic and almost disgusted depiction suggested by Bonadeo, transpire from these words. The idea of respect and belonging is evident in the identification of the poet with the young soldier; this is highlighted in the use of the possessives “his” and “my” in the expression “I am of his race. And I suffer his pain” (“sono della sua razza e soffro il suo dolore”),56 “[H]is wretched flesh is my wretched flesh” (“la sua povera carne è la mia povera carne”),57 and “the humble twentyyear-old hero of my same stock” (“l’umile eroe ventenne della mia stirpe”).58 This self-identification could be attributed to the shared Abruzzese origins of the sailor and the poet discussed in Seconda Offerta. Still, the process of ­identification between them hinges on the sense of a community united by the love for the Motherland and the frailty of their condition. The realism of the broken and decomposing bodies – “Right eye injured, livid” (“l’occhio destro offeso, livido”), “signs of swelling” (“comincia il gonfiore”)59 – undergirds the inexorability of death and human fragility. To be sure, the description of the soldiers’ corpses exemplifying the frailty of the individual is not exclusive to D’Annunzio; it is a common trope of war writing of the time, as shown in Ungaretti’s Veglia. Furthermore, although the attention to physical degradation is not uncommon in D’Annunzio’s works (Novelle della Pescara and Il Trionfo della Morte), in Notturno the link between physical deterioration and psychical pathology is completely absent. Similarly, the idea of a disfigured and primitive humanity is also lacking. Yet at the same time, the vivid descriptions are coupled with expressions of reverence; as a result, the bodies are imbued with a sense of majesty.60 A similar effect of reverence and ennoblement is 54 D’Annunzio, Notturno, 303; 172. 55 D’Annunzio, Notturno, 302; 172. 56 D’Annunzio, Notturno, 302; 172. 57 D’Annunzio, Notturno, 303; 172. 58 D’Annunzio, Notturno, 304; 174. 59 D’Annunzio, Notturno, 186; 32. 60 D’Annunzio, Notturno, 186 and 187; 32 and 34. The terms “prince” and “ennobled” in the phrases “The look of an Indian prince in a white turban” (“l’aspetto di un principe indiano

146

Barisonzi

achieved through the detailed description of the rituals of the flags draped on the corpses that, with candles and flowers placed at their feet, are guarded by two armed sailors.61 This ritualisation, which resembles a modern state funeral, underlines the reverence afforded to the soldiers who gave their life for their country. This fluctuation between crude description and ennobling process creates a binary connection between the frailty of men in their physical nature – revealed by the decomposing bodies – and the greatness of their intrepid actions, which they achieve through their death for Italy’s cause. In this process, death is the key that allows the individual to leave the masses behind and become part of an elite group. All men are equal in the face of death, a reality that reminds humanity of its precariousness. Still, dying for the country makes the individual superior, a Nietzschean Übermensch and this, in turn, replaces his fragility with glory. Prima Offerta, therefore, focuses on D’Annunzio’s ideal of the “poet-hero” (“poeta eroe”) and especially on the figure of the “pilot-hero” (“eroe-pilota”), defined as “a chosen one” (“un eletto”).62 These heroes are common soldiers and, for the first time, are called by their names (Giuseppe Miraglia and ­Giorgio Fracassini among others).63 They are not mythical or historical personalities, as it was the case of Garibaldi in the Orazione; but their death for the country makes them worthy of the same recognition and immortal glory. Death transforms them into heroes because only through it can they render their lives immortal. Their immolation, as Banti points out,64 is necessary to re-establish the order and greatness of the country, undermined by centuries of foreign oppression. Seconda Offerta with its deeper sacralisation of the soldiers and emphasis on the sense of collective sacrifice goes even further: Il ferito si china sul compagno, per fargli da scudo, egli invalido e ­disarmato. Vedo, a traverso la maschera, a traverso le lane e le pelli, la trasfigurazione sovrana d’uno stretto viso d’uomo: il dio nel ciborio. col turbante bianco”) and “ He looks like a monk who has found bliss in passing. That masculine face […] has found peace, ennoblement” (“sembra un monaco che s’è beato nel transito. Quel suo viso maschio […] s’è pacificato e annobilito”). 61 D’Annunzio, Notturno, 187; 39. 62 Oliva, Interviste, 328. Interview with Vittorio Vettori November 6, 1915 63 Some of the soldier protagonists of Notturno received war medals and official ­posthumous recognitions for their valuable contributions to the war. 64 Banti, “Deep Images in Nineteenth-Century Nationalist Narrative” in Historein 8, (2008): 54–62.

Notturno and the War: D’Annunzio’s Intimate Reflection

147

Ecco che più a dentro è ferito il ferito, dalla terza raffica. Trapassato è lo scudo del magnanimo. La volontà risfavilla nello sfavillìo della porpora. Barcolla […] Non vuole cedere. Può servire tuttavia da scudo. È ­necessario. […] Era il supersite una vita; ora è tre vite, e tutto l’amore indomabile. The wounded one leans over his companion, to shield him, though ­disabled and unarmed. I can see, through my mask, through the wool and skin, the sovereign transfiguration of a man’s narrow face: the god in the ciborium. And now the wounded man is wounded further within, from the third burst of gunfire. The magnanimous shield has been pierced. The will again glistens in the glistening crimson. He staggers […]. He does not want to give in. He can still act as a shield. He is needed. [...] The survivor used to be one life; now he is three lives, and all their ­indomitable love.65 By sacrificing and offering his body as a shield to save the others, the soldier becomes a new Jesus. The reference to the Eucharist “in the ciborium” makes this clear. A similar idea appears in the expression “sovereign transfiguration.” By playing on the recognisable beliefs of Transubstantiation and Trinity (“one life; now he is three lives”), this passage sacralizes the individual sacrifice. This implies a collective act, whereby one soldier becomes three, receiving in himself the other two who gave their lives protecting him.66 This confluence of three in one supersedes mythicization or conversion of the soldier into a ­martyr. While the aim is still to serve the country,67 the focus remains on the relationship established among the soldiers who are, yet again, identified by name. This bond is highlighted by the reference to “indomitable love,” and the use of modal verbs and impersonal clauses such as “want,” “can,” and “he is needed,” to describe their inhumane efforts along with their willingness to 65 D’Annunzio, Notturno, 213–14; 64. 66 The use of metaphors and parallels with Christ in the description of soldiers is recurrent in D’Annunzio’s war writings. Particularly symbolic is the image of the pinnacles which become ‘crosses ready for the crucifixion of thousands upon thousands of Christ-like martyrs, the troops’ (Hughes-Hallet, the Pike, 421). See also note 46. 67 D’Annunzio, Notturno, 213; 64: “È necessario ch’egli sia protetto, perché riconduca alla Patria l’ala e la soma.” (“He must be protected, so he may lead the wings and their cargo back to the Fatherland”)

148

Barisonzi

protect their companions. Similarly, the expression “The superhuman strength of his example has scattered into the universe” (“la sovrumana forza del suo esempio s’è sparsa nell’universo”)68 recalls the sense of brotherhood and ­fragility, but also a deep humanity, akin to that of Ungaretti’s poems like Fratelli (1916) and Veglia (1915).69 A comparable sense of brotherhood transpires in the memory/vision70 of the encounter between the wounded D’Annunzio and the other soldiers in the hospital immediately following the poet’s accident: Vengono intorno al mio letto quei soldati ciechi […]. C’è chi ha un solo occhio bendato; c’è chi ha una larga benda intorno al capo chiazzata di sangue. C’è chi mi guarda con l’occhio scoperto, e lacrima. C’è chi non potendomi vedere, timidamente mi tocca, e trema. Mi sono Fratelli. Nessuno mai mi fu tanto vicino come questi mi sono […]. Avevo compassione di loro com’essi avevano compassione di me. Ero il loro compagno; erano la mia gente. Ero nudo di ogni privilegio, senza singolarità, senza rilievo, senz’altra gloria che il mio umile sacrifizio. Around my bed the same blind soldiers gather […]. Some have only one eye blindfolded; some have broad, bloodstained bandages around their heads. Some look at me with their uncovered eye and weep. Some, unable to see me, shyly touch me and tremble. They are my brothers. No one has ever been so close to me as these men […]. I felt compassion for them, just as they felt compassion for me. I was their comrade; they were my people. I was stripped of all privilege, without distinction, without importance, with no other glory than my humble sacrifice.71

68 D’Annunzio, Notturno, 216; 66. 69 I am specifically referring to the lines in Veglia where the macabre description of the ­soldier’s body is followed by words of love awakened in the poet Ungaretti by the sacrifice of his fellow soldier. 70 In Notturno the tension between reality and vision is resolved in the representation of the humble soldier. The humanity of the common man exemplified in his physicality is reconciled through the poetical visions, with heroism’s ideals. On the concept of vision in Notturno, see Andrea Mirabile, Piaceri invisibili: Retorica della cecità in D’Annunzio, ­Pasolini, Calvino (Carocci: Rome, 2017). 71 D’Annunzio, Notturno, 236–237; 91–92.

Notturno and the War: D’Annunzio’s Intimate Reflection

149

Terms such as “brothers,” “comrade,” and “people,” along with the use of possessives and indirect objects, such as “their,” “my,” and “to/for me” repeated in the same sentence, highlight the sense of belonging. The war removes any social distinction (“I was stripped of all privilege”) and brings people together, united by a shared fragility. The idea of the superhuman hero is replaced by a sense of humanity and love (“No one has ever been so close to me as these men”). The poet identifies with the other wounded soldiers. At first, there is an involuntary resistance to this association,72 but as he and the soldiers are faced with similar eye injuries, the wounds render them equal. Later, this physical bond is replaced by an emotional one, because the poet and the soldiers feel empathy toward each other. This understanding leads the poet to recognise the soldiers as his peers. For this reason, he feels as one of them and joins them in their desire to serve; yet like them, he recognizes his and their mortality. The expression “humble sacrifice” (“umile sacrificio”) as well as the Italian verb “raumilia,” which contains the root of the word humble, become key terms in the new definition of heroism that, as suggested above, is grounded in Notturno. This new hero is not defined by his success or victory but, instead, by his sacrifice for the country. He is humble because war knows no privilege. In this context, the poet becomes a hero only among other soldiers because glory is the result of service and sacrifice. This recognition of the humble soldier and his heroism is further emphasized by the poet’s admiration for the untameable desire of the dying soldiers. Although mortally wounded, they are still fighting, as in the case of Maggiora, Corsani and Uroni.73 The poet not only considers these men his peers, but he affords them a level of superiority suggested by the expressions “to fall to my knees,” and “kiss your hands.” These are acts of reverence on a par with “he 72 D’Annunzio, Notturno, 236; 91: “l’alterezza è sempre pronta a insorgere, ahimé. Una mano dolce e severa la raumilia” (236) (“[p]ride is always ready to raise its head, alas. A sweet, severe hand humbles it.”). 73 D’Annunzio, Notturno, 302; 170–71: “Perché la batteria non tira più?” […] / Giuseppe Maggiora non pensa se non all’arme sua. [...] / Non volevi mai cessare di dirmi la tua gratitudine, a me che mi sforzavo di non cadere in ginocchio e di non baciarti le mani. / [...] / E c’era anche Uroni [...] ed era in pericolo, e non pensava che alla batteria, e si raccomandava e supplicava per ritornarci; e piangeva di rammarico, e prometteva d’essere migliore, e non sapeva d’essere sublime. (‘‘Why has the battery stopped firing?’’ / […] / Giuseppe Maggiora can think only of his weapon. / […] / You wouldn’t stop thanking me—I, who had to make an effort not to fall to my knees and kiss your hands. / […] / Uroni was also there, […]. And he was in danger. But all he could think of was the battery, and he begged and pleaded to go back there; he wept with regret, promised to do better, and did not know he was sublime.”)

150

Barisonzi

promised to do better, and did not know he was sublime.” The use of words like “migliore,” which can signify better and best as well as “sublime,” is important especially when considering the connection between the definition of sublime, terror, and death given by Edmund Burke.74 On the one hand, the soldier’s pledge to be a better fighter underscores his humility and suggests that he does not consider his sacrifice a glorious act, but simply his duty. Yet his is an unfinished duty, or even a flawed one, because when wounded he abandoned his weapon. On the other hand, by defining the soldier as “sublime,” the poet attributes excellence to him not only in values and nobility, but also in spirit.75 This rests on the fact that the adjective is often used in religious domains. Through this, yet again, D’Annunzio emphasises the idea of the soldier as a Christ-like figure. But the Latin origin of the term, which means “under the limit,” places this adjective in relation to death because, as Burke first, and Kant later pointed out,76 sublime is the untameable power of nature that causes the greatest fear for men, putting them in front of the limit of their mortality. As a result, by defining the soldier “sublime,” the poet is simultaneously recalling the fragility of the human condition and elevating him to a superior being. By recalling the previous image of a modern Icarus willing to challenge human limits, Schopenhauer’s interpretation of sublime emerges. According to him, it is the pleasure perceived when observing the power of something that could destroy the gazer. Thus, the soldier becomes a metaphor for death itself, the glorious death that the poet invoked for himself at the beginning of Prima Offerta. Although mainly dedicated to the recollection of the author’s childhood and his recovery, Terza Offerta expands upon the idea of martyrdom. Here, the parallels between Christ and soldiers become more frequent in conjunction with the Easter period: Tutti quelli che sono morti nella battaglia, tutti hanno dato la vita come prezzo del mondo. Tutti quelli che travagliano e ansano per alimentare la battaglia, tutti dànno la loro pena come prezzo del mondo. Tutti quelli che patiranno combatteranno e morranno nella giustissima guerra, tutti patiranno combatteranno e morranno per il prezzo del mondo. 74

Edmund Burke, A Philosophical Enquiry into the Origin of Our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful. With an introductory discourse concerning taste; and several other additions. A new edition (London: 1798. Eighteenth Century Collections Online. Gale). 75 Treccani, Dizionario online. https://www.treccani.it/enciclopedia/sublime. 76 Immanuel Kant, The Philosophical Review. Vol. 111 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000).

Notturno and the War: D’Annunzio’s Intimate Reflection

151

Su qual calvario è oggi sacrificato il Figliuol d’uomo? Il Figliuol d’uomo è oggi per noi suppliziato sul monte selvaggio che ha nome da San Michele portaspada [...] nel Carso senza ombra e senza acqua. E per noi la bocca arsa dal fiele risoffia lo spirito e la speranza. All those who have died in battle have given their lives as the price of this world. All those who toil and huff to feed the battle give their exertions as the price of this world. All those who shall suffer, fight, and die in the most just of wars shall suffer, fight, and die for the price of this world. On what Calvary is the Son of Man sacrificed today? The Son of Man is martyred for us today on the wild mountain named after Saint-Michael the Swordbearer, […] in the shadowless, waterless Carso. And our bile-burnt mouths again breathe spirit and hope.77 The soldiers’ immolation is yet again compared to that of Jesus.78 They are presented as redeemers who pay the price for saving the world with their lives, as He did. Their depiction of Christ-like figures is emphasised by the anaphoric repetition of the expression “price of this world.” Significantly, the change from past to future tense pays tribute to those who have sacrificed and those who will sacrifice in combat. The reference to the Golgotha as the “vicious mountain,” the Mount of Saint Michael79 and, finally, the image of the wrecks of the planes converted into “crosses,” where the soldiers hang “crucified,” supports this reading. Tellingly, Terza Offerta concludes with the anecdote of the peasant who serves his country in his own way, not fighting, that is, but giving his life to prevent the enemy from crossing the river and reaching the Italian soldiers. This occurs because, according to D’Annunzio, “[h]eroic inspiration breathes” (“l’ispirazione dell’eroismo soffia”)80 among every man, even among those who 77 D’Annunzio, Notturno, 382; 272. 78 D’Annunzio, Notturno, 382; 272–73. “Io ho le mie quattro croci fraterne. / Giuseppe Miraglia è crocifisso alla sua ala. / Luigi Bàilo è crocifisso alla sua ala. / Alfredo Barbieri è crocifisso alla sua ala. / Luigi Bresciani è crocifisso alla sua ala.” (I have my four brotherly crosses. / Giuseppe Miraglia is crucified on his wings. / Luigi Bailo is crucified on his wings. / Alfredo Barbieri is crucified on his wings. / Luigi Bresciani is crucified on his wings.”) 79 This mountain also appears in Ungaretti’s poems of Il porto sepolto (Venice: Letteratura Universale Marsilio, 1990), as it is one of the major Italian battlefields against the Austrian army during World War One, and sadly, the theatre of the first gas attack perpetrated by the Austrian against the Italian soldiers. 80 D’Annunzio, Notturno, 392; 285.

152

Barisonzi

cannot be soldiers. Although the peasant of the anecdote is not a soldier, his death is still considered a dignifying act that, as seen throughout the novel, makes him worthy of eternal remembrance. This closing image underscores the idea that everyone, from the poet to the humble soldier and even a humbler individual – the peasant – can become a hero when sacrificing his life for the Motherland. Heroism knows no social distinction; but it is found in the unconditional sacrifice for the Patria. Specifically, while the unstoppable flow of the river’s water can signify an anonymous death that erases every trace of the individual’s existence, the fact that life has been lost for the well-being of the Motherland suggests the return to the mother, Italy, as a figure of personal rebirth. This parallels the country’s renewal, and it exemplifies the eternal glory that will charge the Motherland for centuries to come. Yet water is also a metaphor for life. The life-giving water becomes a means of purification that transforms the purified peasant into another Christ-like figure. The unknown, generic soldiers of the poems interspersed in the three Offerte are given a face and name in Notturno; their sacrifice plays a crucial part in Italian history. Even when they are not described as individuals, they become “only one face: a face of passion and expectation, of will and insurrection” (“un volto solo: un volto di passione e di aspettazione, di volontà e di riscossa”).81 Unified by their love for the Patria and glorified for their sacrifice, they are no longer presented as animals to be slaughtered for the triumph of one single Nietzschean hero. The everyday soldiers, collectively and individually, are the real protagonists of the war and saviours of the motherland. Their martyrdom is contrasted with the idea of a glorious death, coveted by the poet who seeks to immortalise his name. In this manner, the propagandistic tone of the poems is suffused with human pathos. No longer glorified per se, death permeates Notturno with its reality of darkness, sorrow, and loss. And this gives a new nuance to the nationalist ideology in which the sacrifice of the common soldier is no longer perceived as a mere duty, but as an act of courage to be made immortal. Further, in Bonadeo’s view, both “bloodshed and spiritual renewal”82 mark the ethos of D’Annunzio’s heroic life. This trait re-emerges in D’Annunzio after the “crisis that in Notturno seemed to break the course of a life devoted to ­heroism.”83 In the search for a genesis of D’Annunzio’s sentiment of bravery, a decisive influence can be ascribed to the mother figure. According to Bonadeo, in Notturno D’Annunzio feels pressured to choose between the role of the hero 81 D’Annunzio, Notturno, 221; 73. 82 Bonadeo, D’Annunzio and the Great War, 95. 83 Bonadeo, D’Annunzio and the Great War, 95–96.

Notturno and the War: D’Annunzio’s Intimate Reflection

153

and that of the antihero held out by his mother.84 He suggests that D’Annunzio’s mother represents the antihero because she reminds him of his childhood aversion to blood, making him question his current thirst for blood and for war “on which he staked his future-redemption and spiritual well-being.”85 I disagree with this interpretation and consider her presence in the text a figure through which the poet identifies more closely with the common soldiers.86 Depicted as a comforting presence and a connection with the Motherland, the mother figure calls back the episode of Giovanni Federico’s death where the sailor is introduced as “the sailor from my mother’s land” (“il marinaio della terra di mia madre”).87 In the passage while contemplating the naked body of the soldier,88 D’Annunzio yet again refers to his mother as a constant consoling presence asserting “[a]nd this evening as well, my mother is with me, and helps me” (“anche stasera mia madre è con me, e m’aiuta”), and comparing her to Mary the mother of Jesus.89 The description captures Giovanni Federico mirroring Jesus; D’Annunzio identifies with the fallen sailor because he comes from the same region of Abruzzo, which, by extension, turns into the Motherland Italy as suggested by the expression “[h]e is returning to the cradle. Returning to his race” (“Ritorna alla culla. Ritorna alla razza”).90 The mother’s presence, in contrast to Bonadeo’s largely oedipal interpretation, has a three-fold function: connection of the poet to the soldiers as they become brothers through the mother’s land; conversion of the soldier into a Jesus-like figure; and retrieval of the symbolism of the Patria as a mother for which her sons give their life.91 In conclusion, the crisis expressed in Notturno is not about rejecting war and lionising the heroic life. Rather, it is about the redefinition of the hero, the 84 Bonadeo, D’Annunzio and the Great War, 92 85 Bonadeo, D’Annunzio and the Great War, 93. 86 D’Annunzio, Notturno, 300; 169. “M’aveva preso per mano mia madre? Accorro. Mi pare ch’ella non mi lasci la mano. Sa che sta per udire dal sangue l’accento di Ortona, l’accento del suo paese.” (“Had my mother led me away by the hand? I run to help. She seems not to let go of my hand. She knows she is about to hear the accent of her town, the accent of Ortona, in the blood.”) 87 D’Annunzio, Notturno, 302; 171. 88 D’Annunzio, Notturno, 302; 172: “He is barefoot. Half-naked.” (“Ha i piedi nudi. È mezzo denudato”). This poetic description recalls Michelangelo’s Pietà. 89 D’Annunzio, Notturno, 302; 172. “Il più bel sorriso umano è il sorriso che luccica su i lembi lacerati del dolore inumano. / Quale Maria ebbe mai il viso di costei che si china?” (“The most beautiful human smile is the smile that shines over the mangled shreds of inhuman pain. / What Mary ever had the face of her who bows before our suffering?”) 90 D’Annunzio, Notturno, 302; 172. 91 On the latter aspect see Barisonzi and Alberto Maria Banti, Sublime Madre Nostra: la ­nazione italiana dal Risorgimento al Fascismo (Bari: Laterza, 2011).

154

Barisonzi

personification of heroism and its implications. The re-evaluation of the common soldier, his identification through a name and a face, and the ­tribute to his courage underline the poet’s new understanding of heroism. Similarly, when the soldiers are presented not as individuals but as groups, they become one powerful being, united by their dedication and sacrifice. Through this they are glorified and elevated to god-like creatures, no longer unimportant and mere casualties. This collective, rather than elitist, heroism returns in D ­ ’Annunzio’s post-war works. There, heroism is “the sudden appearance of a creating strength that, invisible but prophetic, throbs in the depth of the masses” (“l’apparizione improvvisa d’una forza generatrice che, invisibile ma veggente, ferve nella profondità della moltitudine”).92 Bibliography Andreoli, Annamaria and Giorgio Zanetti. Eds. Gabriele D’Annunzio. Prose di Ricerca. Milan: Arnoldo Mondadori Editore, 2005. Asor-Rosa, Alberto. “Prime manifestazioni di una società di massa.” In D’Annunzio e la Poesia di massa. Guida storica e critica, ed. by Nicola Merola, 101–20. Bari: Laterza, 1979. Baldazzi, Anna. Bibliografia della critica dannunziana: nei periodici italiani dal 1880 al 1938. Rome: Cooperativa Scrittori, 1977. Baldi, Guido. Le ambiguità della ‘decadenza’. D’Annunzio romanziere. Naples: Liguori, 2008. Baldi, Guido. L’inetto e il Superuomo: D’Annunzio tra ‘decadenza’ e ‘vita ascendente’. Turin: Scriptorium, 1997. Banti, Alberto Mario. “Deep Images in Nineteenth-Century Nationalist Narrative.” ­Historein 8, (2008): 54–62. Banti, Alberto Mario. Sublime Madre Nostra: la nazione italiana dal Risorgimento al ­Fascismo. Bari: Laterza, 2011. Bàrberi Squarotti, Giorgio. Invito alla lettura di D’Annunzio. Milan: Mursia Editore, 1982. Barisonzi, Michela. “Mother Italy: The Female Role in the Rebirth of Italian N ­ ationalism in Gabriele D’Annunzio’s Le Vergini delle Rocce.” Italian Studies in Southern Africa 28, no. 1 (2015): 22–48. Bonadeo, Alfredo. D’Annunzio and the Great War. Cranbury NJ: Associated University Press, 1995. 92

Gabriele D’Annunzio, Il libro ascetico della giovane Italia (Milan: Arnoldo Mondadori ­ ditore, 2005), 700. E

Notturno and the War: D’Annunzio’s Intimate Reflection

155

Boylan, Amy. “Maternal Images in Song, Bronze, and Rhetoric: Mercantini’s ‘Inno di Garibaldi,’ Baroni’s ‘Monumento ai Mille’, and D’Annunzio’s ‘Orazione per la sagra dei Mille’.” Italian Studies 66, no. 1 (2011): 40–58. Burke, Edmund. A Philosophical Enquiry into the Origin of Our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful. With an introductory discourse concerning taste; and several other ­additions. A new edition. London: 1798. Eighteenth Century Collections Online. https://link.gale.com/apps/doc/CW0119402112/ECCO?u=monash&sid=bookmark -ECCO&xid=9b99c2af&pg=1. Caburlotto, Filippo. “D’Annunzio, la latinità del Mediterraneo e il mito della ­riconquista.” California Italian Studies 1, no. 1 (2010): 1–15. Croce, Benedetto. “Aggiunte alla ‘Letteratura della Nuova Italia.’” In La Critica. Rivista di Letteratura, Storia e Filosofia direttada B. Croce, 32 (1934): 161–201. https://ojs . ­uniroma1.it/index.php/lacritica/article/download/8568/8550. Croce, Benedetto. La Letteratura Della Nuova Italia: Saggi Critici. V.4. Bari: Gius. Laterza & Figli, 1922. https://archive.org/index.php. D’Annunzio, Gabriele. “Canto augurale per la Nazione eletta.” In Elettra. Bologna: ­Zanichelli, 2011. D’Annunzio, Gabriele. “Orazione per la sagra dei Mille.” In Per la più grande Italia. Ed. Annamaria Andreoli and Giorgio Zanetti. Milan: Arnoldo Mondadori Editore, 2005. D’Annunzio, Gabriele. Il libro ascetico della giovane Italia. Milan: Arnoldo Mondadori Editore, 2005. D’Annunzio, Gabriele. Le Vergini delle Rocce. Milan: Arnoldo Mondadori Editore, 1995. D’Annunzio, Gabriele. Merope. Bologna: Zanichelli, 2011. D’Annunzio, Gabriele. Notturno. Milan: Arnoldo Mondadori Editore, 2005. D’Annunzio, Gabriele. Notturno. Trans. Stephen Santarelli. New Haven and London, Yale UP, 2011. Esposito, Fernando. “In ‘the shadow of the winged machine...’: The Esposizione dell’aeronautica Italiana and the Ascension of Myth in the Slipstream of ­Modernity.” ­Modernism/modernity 19, no. 1 (2012): 139–152. Giglioli, Matteo Fabio Nels. “‘Il Deputato della Bellezza.’ Gabriele D’Annunzio’s Aesthetic Politics in the Fin-de-siècle Crisis.” Journal of Modern Italian Studies 18, no. 4 (2013): 500–520. Hughes-Hallett, Lucy. The Pike. Gabriele D’Annunzio Poet, Seducer and Preacher of War. London: Fourth Estate, 2013. Kant, Immanuel. The Philosophical Review. Vol. 111, Cambridge University Press, 2000. Ledeen, Michael, Arthur. “Il divo.” In D’Annunzio e la Poesia di massa. Guida storica e critica, ed. by Nicola Merola, 75–99. Bari: Laterza, 1979. Ledeen, Michael, Arthur. D’Annunzio a Fiume. Rome-Bari: Laterza, 1975. Marinetti, Filippo, Tommaso. I Manifesti Del Futurismo. Project Gutenberg, 2009.

156

Barisonzi

Merola, Nicola. Ed. D’Annunzio e la poesia di massa: guida storica e critica. Bari: Laterza, 1979. Mirabile, Andrea. Piaceri invisibili: Retorica della cecità in D’Annunzio, Pasolini, Calvino. Rome: Carocci, 2017. Oliva, Gianni. Ed. Interviste a D’Annunzio (1895–1938). Lanciano: Rocco Carabba srl, 2002. Perfetti, Francesco. “D’Annunzio, ovvero la politica come poesia.” In D’Annunzio e il suo tempo. Un bilancio critico, Vol 1. Ed. Franco Perfetti. Genoa: SAGEP, 1992. Perfetti, Francesco. Ed. D’Annunzio e Il Suo Tempo: Un Bilancio Critico : Atti Del ­Convegno Di Studi, Genova, 19-20-22-23 Settembre 1989, Rapallo, 21 Settembre 1989. Genoa: SAGEP, 1992. Piredda, Patrizia. “Interventionism in 1915 and the Man of Letters: The Ethical Commitments of Serra and the ‘Armed Poet’ D’Annunzio.” Bulletin of Italian Politics 3, no. 2 (2011): 303–317. Pupino, Angelo, ed. D’Annunzio a Napoli. Rome: Liguori Editore, 2005. Salinari, Carlo. Miti e coscienza del decadentismo italiano. Milan: Feltrinelli, 1975. Schopenhauer, Arthur, et al. The World as Will and Idea. 2d ed., Routledge & K. Paul, 1957. Serra, Renato. Esame di coscienza di un letterato. Bologna: Zanichelli, 2011. Sirri, Raffaele. “Il D’Annunzio di Croce.” D’Annunzio a Napoli. Ed. Angelo Pupino, 295–304. Rome: Liguori Editore, 2005. Ungaretti, Giuseppe, and Ossola, Carlo. Il Porto Sepolto. 1.st ed. Venice: Marsilio, 1990. Venturi, Gianni. “‘e Vergini delle Rocce’ e un ‘topos’ classicistico: La distruzione del giardino come Eden.” Quaderni del Vittoriale 23, (1980): 197–214. Witt, Mary Ann. The Search for Modern Tragedy. Aesthetic Fascism in Italy and France. London: Ithaca Cornell University Press, 1992. Zeppi, Stelio. “Il pensiero politico di D’Annunzio nell’Ottocento (1879–1900).” Filosofia politica 13, no. 1 (1999): 105–141. Zollino, Antonio. “Nell’ombra delle mie ali d’uomo: echi autobiografici, letterari e giornalistici della partecipazione di Gabriele d’Annunzio alla Prima Guerra Mondiale.” Cuadernos de Filologìa Italiana 22, (2015): 215–231.

Chapter 8

Everyday Heroes: Italian Identity, Moral Dilemmas, and Nonviolence in a Late Antifascist Resistance Novel by Antonio Barolini Andrea Sartori Abstract Andrea Sartori introduces the undeservedly obscure figure of writer Antonio ­Barolini and his fictional account of the resistance from the point of view of a pacifist ­intellectual in his novel Le notti della paura ([The Nights of Fear], 1967). A book that talks about other books, the novel is a meditation on Italian identity and its hackneyed rhetoric of a unified nation which warfare had tried to instil in public opinion. This chapter shows how anti-war rhetoric is a response to a false patriotic construct.

The years between the Armistice and the end of the Second World War ­feature extensively in the Italian literary landscape. In particular, the ­currents that ­converged into the antifascist Resistance – the somewhat opposite paths ­followed by Elio Vittorini on the one hand, and Beppe Fenoglio on the other – have largely been explored. The partisan as a hero and as an ordinary ­individual forced to rely on limited means to face a tragic moment in history are by now the well-known coordinates of many examples of antifascist literature. Le notti della paura1 (1967), a novel by Antonio Barolini2 (1910–1971), 1 Antonio Barolini, Le notti della paura (Milan: Feltrinelli, 1967). English translations from this work, as well as from all the others, are mine. For more writings on Antonio Barolini’s multifaceted cultural activities, see Teodolinda Barolini (ed.), the writer’s daughter, Antonio Barolini. Cronistoria di un’anima. Atti dei Convegni di New York e di Vicenza (Florence: S­ ocietà Editrice Fiorentina, 2015). This work gathers some unpublished materials from Barolini’s documents, including parts of his war diary, some letters he wrote to Aldo Capitini, and the July 2, 1966, version of the memorial for Antonio Giuriolo. Recently, Teodolinda Barolini and her sister Susanna have edited the pages of their father’s diary that were written between 1943 and 1945 (Antonio Barolini, Diario di clandestinità e altri scritti in tempo di Guerra. 1943– 1945, Vicenza: Neri Pozza, 2019). 2 For a detailed bibliography, from 1935 to 2012, of Barolini’s work (including poems, short ­stories, novels, articles, and essays), see Ilaria Crotti, Monica Giachino, Michela Rusi, eds., Un italiano in America. Poesia e narrativa in Antonio Barolini (Rome: Bulzoni, 2012), 111–14. © Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2023 | DOI:10.1163/9789004548145_010

158

Sartori

finds its place among those parameters while also offering a quite distinct perspective. Apart from the war, the other experience that marked Barolini’s personal and professional path was his emigration to the United States. In fact, he was born in Vicenza and lived, after the war, in the New York area for about ten years, along with his American wife Helen Mollica (a writer in her own right, today known by her husband’s last name). Some of Antonio Barolini’s short stories published with partial changes (L’ultima contessa di famiglia, 1968) had already appeared in English in the New Yorker and in the Reporter, the latter founded and directed by another Italian expatriate, Max Ascoli. Barolini left Ferrara in 1931, seven years before the racial laws decriminalized anti-Semitic persecutions. His short stories appeared in American anthologies before they did in Italy. Barolini also authored four novels: Giornate di Stefano (1943); Una lunga pazzia (1962), translated into English by Helen Barolini as A long madness (1964); Le notti della paura (1967); and La memoria di Stefano (1969), which includes the narrative debut Giornate di Stefano. The last two novels (1967 and 1969) retrace the author’s experience as a persecuted man during the Second World War, along with his underground activities in Venice between 1943 and 1945. After the war, he was a correspondent from the United States for the Turin newspaper La Stampa. Later, in Rome, he became both editor for the journal La fiera letteraria and co-director of the television program L’approdo. Furthermore, between 1954 and 1959 he wrote for Comunità, the journal founded by the humanist and entrepreneur Adriano Olivetti.3 Between 1966 and 1970, Barolini also wrote short essays about religious issues. These writings have been gathered in a posthumous book – one that he nonetheless managed to edit before his death: Il paradiso che verrà. Momenti di un’esperienza religiosa (1972).4 He died in Rome, in 1971, while working on an unpublished novel, tentatively titled Un pezzo di pane. His manuscripts and letters are preserved at the Biblioteca Bertoliana in Vicenza. Among ­Barolini’s papers, together with other important materials, there are his notes on ­Immanuel Kant’s philosophy of religion, those on Simone Weil’s thought, and an epistolary exchange with the theologian Sergio Quinzio (1962–1965). 3 The full indexes of Olivetti’s review, including Barolini’s articles, have been edited by ­Beniamino de’ Liguori Carino in Adriano Olivetti e le Edizioni di Comunità. 1946–1960 (Rome: Quaderno della Fondazione Adriano Olivetti, 2008.) 4 It is not a coincidence that the subtitle of this volume recalls Aldo Capitini’s Elementi di un’esperienza religiosa (Bari: Laterza, 1937). Capitini, the Italian Gandhi, was an important point of reference for Barolini, not only because of his religious and practical notion of openness, but also because of his teachings about nonviolence.

Everyday Heroes

159

Le notti della paura is the semi auto-biographical reenactment of the war events taking place almost twenty-five years earlier and involving the 32-yearold protagonist Gir, a teacher of Latin. “Gir” is the character’s alias, chosen as he goes underground after September 8, 1943. His real name remains unknown throughout the story, almost asserting his new identity as it emerges from a moral re-birth. The name “Gir” is the abbreviation of Costante Girardengo, the bicycle racer who, under fascism, competed with Benito Mussolini in terms of popularity and fame.5 After the armistice, Gir escaped by bicycle, like Girardengo, as it were, and such a detail is per se telling of the antiheroic characterization of the protagonist’s antifascism. With respect to better-known and already carefully studied antifascist ­literature, Le notti della paura discloses at least two original features. In the first place, in spite of its belonging to war narrative, Barolini’s novel is also a work about other works; in particular, about those that the writer inscribed in his personal canon, a canon that he wanted to be exempted from the c­ ontamination of empty rhetoric. While describing the claustrophobic e­ xperience of the antifascist Gir in the Venetian lagoon, the novel takes advantage of an escamotage: the protagonist’s segregation takes place in rooms that are filled with books. This device allows the narrator to reflect on Italian identity through literary references. In the second place, Barolini introduces the complex p ­ sychology of Gir and that of the other characters protecting him during his clandestinità – an echo, at least to a certain extent, of Barolini’s own experience between 1943 and 1945. These characters are the libertine Priscilla, who has Russian origins; the alcoholic Count Gaspare, her father; and, above all, the mystic fighter Tarcisio. Like the catholic Tarcisio, Gir embraces nonviolence and shapes his personality around both classical readings and the atrocious historical context.6 Given the war circumstances in which he finds himself, Gir not only fears 5 On the figure of Girardengo, see John Foot, Pedalare! Pedalare! A History of Italian Cycling (London-New York: Bloomsbury 2011). 6 Alberto Traldi lists Barolini’s Le notti della paura, along with Guglielmo Petroni’s Il mondo è una prigione (1947), among the novels that attempted to reconcile antifascism and nonviolence, see Fascism and Fiction: A Survey of Italian Fiction on Fascism and Its Reception in Britain and the United States (Metuchen, NJ: Scarecrow, 1987), original edition Fascismo e narrativa. Una proposta di critica politico-ideologica, con qualche riscontro americano (­Foggia: Bastogi, 1984). For the connection between Barolini’s novel and nonviolence, see Raffaele Liucci, Spettatori di un naufragio. Gli intellettuali italiani nella seconda guerra mondiale (Turin: Einaudi, 2011), 216–17. In her essay “Testimonianza storica e nonviolenza nei romanzi resistenziali di Antonio Barolini (Le notti della paura e La memoria di Stefano),” Teodolinda Barolini for the first time argues that in both novels, A. Barolini employs the principle of nonviolence in a technical sense, and explores the possibility to actualize Aldo Capitini’s pacifist philosophy; see Teodolinda Barolini, ed., Antonio Barolini. Cronistoria di un’anima, 243–66.

160

Sartori

that the Germans will capture him but, more importantly, he dreads the moral conundrum of not being coherent with himself, with his emerging pacifist principles, and with his innermost beliefs. As a result, Barolini’s alter-ego takes shape among recollections of Virgil and Dante, and through implicit references to Carlo Michelstaedter’s La persuasione e la rettorica (1913). The intellectual and epistolary exchanges that Barolini had with the nonviolent activist and philosopher Aldo Capitini (1899–1968) mediate these references.7 Gir’s peculiarity as a Resistance fighter lies in the fact that, on the one hand, he struggles with his own fear of dying and of not conducting an authentic life. On the other, it hinges on the fact that an increasing fervor for nonviolence energizes him. In the oscillation between fear and commitment to pacifist principles, Virgil and Dante – not to mention Tacitus – become solid references and guiding figures. Yet their function in the novel is not to glorify a distant past about which the country should feel nostalgic nor to blame Italy’s ruinous contemporary situation. Like Barolini, other intellectuals shared a similar view on Italy’s divided identity. For example, in a seminal essay that Giulio Bollati (1924–1996) published in 1972, the mutual connection of glorification and reproach lies at the heart of what the author calls the Italian character.8 Reading Barolini’s novel through Bollati’s insights allows one to both appreciate the originality of ­Barolini’s narration and to question the validity of Bollati’s analysis about the Italian character. His analysis covers the years from Risorgimento to the birth of fascism; still, it remarkably excludes the experience of the Resistance. In the article “L’Italiano” – originally published in the first volume of ­Einaudi’s Storia d’Italia – Bollati identified the distinctive traits of being Italian with a peculiar form of self-privilege. According to him, in the imminence of the political and military process of national unification, finding an answer to the questions about what – and who – was Italian, became urgent. From such 7 Barolini’s most important letters to Capitini have been edited by Adriana Chemello, see Teodolinda Barolini, ed., Antonio Barolini. Cronistoria di un’anima, 23–55. In the same volume, see also Chemello’s essay, “Storia di un’amicizia: il carteggio di Antonio Barolini con Aldo Capitini (1945–1968),” 203–224. As for the influence of Michelstaedter on Capitini, it bears to remember that in the Introduction to the recent edition of Capitini’s Religione aperta (1955), Mario Martini recalls that by means of Michelstaedter’s thought Capitini tried to loosen ­Benedetto Croce’s and Giovanni Gentile’s grip on the intellectuals of his own ­generation. See Aldo Capitini, Religione aperta (Rome-Bari: Laterza, 2011), xi. 8 See also Massimo Riva, Malinconie del moderno. Critica dell’incivilimento e disagio della nazionalità nella letteratura italiana del XIX secolo (Ravenna: Longo, 2001); Suzanne ­Stewart-Steinberg, The Pinocchio Effect. On Making Italians, 1860–1920 (Chicago-London: University of Chicago Press, 2007); Francesco Erspamer, La creazione del passato (Palermo: Sellerio, 2009).

Everyday Heroes

161

urgency originated the conviction of the Italians’ cultural and ethical superiority – an idea that Vincenzo Gioberti’s religious view codified in Del primato morale e civile degl’italiani. Yet even before him, intellectuals like Vincenzo Cuoco (Platone in Italia, 1806) had to face urgent pedagogical responsibilities, because the notion of “Italian” had yet to be created and molded into the new – and at the same time ancient – national character. As Gioberti wrote in a Primato’s passage quoted by Bollati, the Italian people are “a desire and not a fact, a presupposition and not a reality, a name and not a thing.”9 Such a split, or a void, defining Italian identity at its origins, opens a gap of unverifiability. Indeed, according to Bollati an original feature of the national character lies in the fact that “the obviousness of decline”10 never overwhelms Italians. On the contrary, he comments, they “see the confirmation of their highest privilege in the immensity of their downfall, and in the vastness of a loss they grasp, as a sign of election, the legitimation of their self-esteem.”11 In light of this, it does not matter if the lanzichenecchi enrolled in Charles V’s army (Sack of Rome, 1527), or the Austrian troops facilitated by Napoleon’s turnaround (Treaty of Campoformio, 1797) bring about the downfall because, in his view, one of the most characteristic and enduring patterns of the whole I­ talian history resides in the concurrence of supremacy and decadence, in an objective inferiority – linked to specific, contingent, and historical ­conditions – that is hyper-compensated by an unquenchable sense of superiority.12 Such a tear in the Italian character between the glorification of the past (ideality) and the condemnation of the present (reality), requires a counterbalance or compromise. Therefore, in Bollati’s view, the split subject is fertile soil for the political praxis of trasformismo. This is a political tactic consisting in the avoidance of any open confrontation between left-wing and right-wing parties; for instance, in parliamentary debates, to legitimize a utilitarian and instrumental confluence of interests at the center of the political spectrum. In his Storia d’Italia (1928), Benedetto Croce reminds readers that ­Italian political trasformismo was born with Agostino Depretis’s government (1882) and consisted of a political formation that went beyond the historical 9 10 11 12

Giulio Bollati, “L’italiano” in L’italiano. Il carattere nazionale come storia e come invenzione (Turin: Einaudi, 1983), 44. Bollati, “L’italiano,” 40. Bollati, “L’italiano,” 40. Bollati, “L’italiano,” 41.

162

Sartori

distinction between destra and sinistra.13 In Croce’s view, trasformismo does not possess the pejorative resonance that it acquired during Depretis’s times because it was an alternative between the opposite extremes of conservativism and revolution. Yet, if we consider the First World War and Giovanni Giolitti’s moderatism as pathbreaking events, Croce’s position – unlike Bollati’s – does not account for the negative aspects of trasformismo. These include corruption and crisis in parliamentary effectiveness that fascism stoked. Indeed, in the 1947 short introduction to the Storia d’Italia, Croce (in)famously qualifies fascism as just a (sad) parenthesis in the history of the country without providing any further analysis on this issue. Bearing in mind Bollati’s understanding of the Italian character, ­trasformismo can be seen as the political remedy for the dissociation of Italian identity. It is the attempt to keep under control the national character’s schism between ideal and real. Bollati qualifies trasformismo as “violence,” albeit a “disguised” one. To this end, he writes that when such a “disguised violence” fails (as with fascism), “manifest violence” follows. Specifically, “our short national history,” he states in the Premessa to the 1983 edition of his essay, “is a sort of experimental laboratory confirming this procedure.”14 According to him, rightists and leftists squabble over matters of principle (the ideal), thus trivializing the ideological conflict; but then they find an opportunistic agreement about ­economic matters of immediate convenience (the real); as a result, they ­sacrifice coherence and honesty. Returning to Le notti della paura, on September 8, Gir no longer wants to renounce coherence and honesty. His decision to go underground in Venice could be interpreted as a stand against the endemic trasformismo that characterised Italy from unification to fascism and its manifest violence. “Once he had taken the mask off,” Barolini writes about Gir, “he would have never accepted to wear the monstrosity of hypocrisy again.”15 Thus, Gir made his choice and “whatever could happen, he wouldn’t have tolerated Hitler.”16 As a result “he didn’t feel any inward split anymore”17 and his “honest strength” in all that “emotional groove” came to coincide with the abandonment of the theater of hypocrisy.18 Nonetheless, Gir does not see such honesty with himself as an act of heroism: “he didn’t want to be a hero,”19 because his choice for 13 Benedetto Croce, Storia d’Italia dal 1871 al 1915 (Naples: Bibliopolis, 2004), 26–27. 14 Bollati, “L’italiano”, XVI. 15 Barolini, Le notti della paura, 11. 16 Barolini, Le notti della paura, 10. 17 Barolini, Le notti della paura, 27. 18 Barolini, Le notti della paura, 11. 19 Barolini, Le notti della paura, 27.

Everyday Heroes

163

Resistance “was not a matter of heroism, but rather of common sense.”20 “I’m a miserable teacher of Latin,” he reflects, “I don’t want to sell myself, nor to betray my affects: that’s all, this is why I’m on the run.”21 Barolini’s novel is, to a certain extent, a meditation on the possibility to overcome the f­ undamental split affecting the national character and resulting in a political deadlock that led to Mussolini’s dictatorship. At the same time, the novel accounts for the antiheroic doubts, fears, and moral anxieties underlying the rejection of hypocrisy and of any form of violence, either disguised or not, including – and this is the most problematic aspect of the work – the violence of Resistance itself.22 Ironically, where Bollati ends his analysis by implicitly labeling fascism as the final outcome of the dissociative pathology inherent to the national ­character, Barolini begins his narration about the worried and problematically religious interiority of his alter-ego. This is an inner self wondering what kind of man and what moral personality the world needs against and after fascism. When portraying Gir, Barolini stresses the peculiarities of his character over ideology; even Gir’s beliefs about nonviolence are individual and intimate, and sectarian affiliation or commitment have no part in it. Indeed, his concern about the self’s moral integrity eventually collides with the needs of the organized Resistance. This element emerges, for example, in an episode taking place when the protagonist must leave his hideout in Venice. On that occasion, Tarcisio – a fervent catholic whose death in the novel is a reminder of the historical figure of Antonio Giuriolo – shows Gir his newly forged identity card.23

20 Barolini, Le notti della paura, 10. 21 Barolini, Le notti della paura, 228. 22 The fact that the reflective and meditative dimension is predominant in Barolini’s novel is at the basis of Neri Pozza’s negative assessment of Le notti della paura. Pozza (1912–1988) was an editor, sculptor, and writer from Vicenza, one of Barolini’s best friends. For him, Le notti della paura represented “the failure of our time’s most actual story, that the poet [Barolini himself] had to write.” See Neri Pozza, ed., Antonio Barolini (Vicenza: Neri Pozza Editore, 1973), 89. In a private letter (26 April 1967) to Pozza, Barolini defended himself from his friend’s criticism by saying that the purpose of Le notti della paura, was not that of telling a story, but of giving voice to a “metaphysical tension.” See Fernando Bandini, ed. Neri Pozza e Antonio Barolini: Lettere [1955–1970] (Bassano del Grappa: Grafiche Tassotti, 1998), 8. 23 Giuriolo, also known as Captain Toni, was awarded the Medaglia d’Oro for the Resistance. He was assassinated by the Nazis on 12 December 1944, as thirty-two years old, the same age as Gir in Barolini’s novel. Antonio Barolini published a first memorial for Giuriolo with the title “Il Capitano Antonio Giuriolo” (1948) in La rassegna d’Italia, a journal directed by Francesco Flora. Barolini’s second work, titled “Il Capitano Toni” (1964) appeared in Il ponte. A third version of the memorial (2 July 1966), now edited by Chemello, “Il ­Capitano Toni e il suo e nostro piccolo mondo antico,” is included in Teodolinda Barolini, ed.,­

164

Sartori

“Your name is, you see, Girolamo Farnesini,” Tarcisio tells Gir, “you were born on 24 April 1907.”24 Gir’s reply reveals anxiety below the surface: “I’ll never use such a document […]. Thank you, I fear less being killed than declaring to be someone I’m not. For sure. It’s fear, cowardice, it’s not bravery, you know. My only gesture of bravery will be this: always be myself […], it’s the courage of fear.”25 This affirmation makes clear that Gir is looking for his true and authentic self, and does not want to betray it, even at the cost of risking his life. It is not coincidental that Gir’s fate will be the same as Tarcisio’s. Both are killed without resisting the enemy. As the priest and partisan Silvestro reports, the Germans shoot Tarcisio in an ambush: “He was armed, but it looks like he gave up shooting and defending himself.”26 We have here the enactment of the evangelic principle according to which suffering an injustice is better than committing one. But even before that, Gir’s and Tarcisio’s characters are torn between being nonviolent intellectuals – Tarcisio is a young physician – and resisting the enemy. When Tarcisio arrives at Priscilla and Gaspare’s house with a trunk full of weapons, the rifles inside are termed “iron books”27 and “weak-hearted weapons.”28 Indeed, they are in pieces, ready to be assembled; but because they are disassembled, they cannot be lethal, precisely like books. Behind such duality of the rifle as a deadly object and its reconfiguration into something different (a book), it is possible to discern the moral concern of an author unwilling to accept any kind of violence, not even when solid reasons support it. As a humanist, Gir embodies classical culture; yet his tormented and restless inner life allows him to use that culture as a critical tool to decipher the present and act on it. Indeed, already in the winter of 1942, and independently from any ideological injunction, Gir asked his students to translate a passage from Tacitus’ De vita et moribus Iulii Agricolae (98 A.D.). In the passage, the students learn that the tyrant Domitian (51–96 A.D.) not only persecuted both the stoic Arulenus Rusticus and the upstanding Herennius Senecio, but that he

Antonio Barolini. Cronistoria di un’anima, 57–73. See also Giuriolo’s Pensare la libertà. I quaderni di Antonio Giuriolo, Renato Camurri, ed. (Venice: Marsilio, 2016). 24 Barolini, Le notti della paura, 125. 25 Barolini, Le notti della paura, 125–26. 26 Barolini, Le notti della paura, 209. 27 Barolini, Le notti della paura, 155. 28 Barolini, Le notti della paura, 175.

Everyday Heroes

165

also ordered to set their respective books on fire.29 The translation allows Gir’s students to draw the parallel between the classical example and Nazi-­fascism. In this manner, the effects of the teacher’s civil pedagogy – by means of classical culture – result in a concrete and meaningful message. Once more Gir does not compromise his ethical stance by justifying the violent actions of an armed partisan; in this he is unlike some of his own students, who will take up arms after the Armistice. Significantly, the author’s reflections on the humanistic past of the country, like those on Gir’s (and Tarcisio’s) moral concerns about the use of violence, focus on the inner honesty of the protagonist. And both reflections and concerns involve issues that go beyond the deeply rooted ­Italian character’s split to which Bollati draws attention in his essay. Barolini calls this inner honesty “presence.” Through this, he emphasizes the integrity of the self that is always at risk and that must be safeguarded because it is exposed to internal and external dangers, fears, and doubts. “­Presence” is a category deriving from Michelstaedter and one that the narrator of Le notti della paura uses repeatedly.30 Michelstaedter wrote that those who are on the way to persuasion and want their life to be their own life, should take ­possession of the present: “In his [man’s] presence, in his actions, in his words, a life is revealed and ‘enucleated,’ a life that gets closer to human beings and that at the same time transcends their myopia,” as did Jesus.31 In this passage, he argues that, to be coherent in terms of thoughts and actions, the self must always ­follow the rectitude of its own beliefs without complying with the injunctions of external and superimposed principles, like those prescribed by abstract ­patterns of behavior. These Michelstaedter calls “rhetoric” and opposes to persuasion. Accordingly, for Barolini only an identity that is fully present to itself and c­ ompletely reflected into its ‘proper’ name, could eliminate any fear and existential apprehension. The mystic Tarcisio will embody these two qualities. The character takes his nom de guerre from a young Christian martyr of the third century who was killed during the persecution ordered by Aurelianus. And just as his name suggests, Tarcisio is assassinated like a martyr by the Nazis. But the name also ushers in another interpretation: it is possible that, like the Christian martyr, Barolini’s Tarcisio does not fear his persecutors, because he willingly gives up his gun. This element appears more clearly in Barolini’s other novel about the Antifascist Resistance, La memoria 29

Arulenus wrote a biography of Thrasea Paetus (Nero’s opponent) and Herennius wrote about the life of Helvidius Priscus (Vespasian’s enemy). 30 Barolini, Le notti della paura, 42, 170–71, 286, 325. 31 Carlo Michelstaedter, La persuasione e la rettorica, ed. Sergio Campailla (Milan: Adelphi, 2010), 88.

166

Sartori

di Stefano (1969). There, in the “Avvertenza e premessa” the author links name and being in an explicit manner, in light of his catholic faith. “Our baptismal names,” he writes, “are not arbitrarily imposed from the outside; rather, they are assigned by our life and by the needs arising from the experience of the arts we practice.”32 For Barolini the baptismal name reflects someone’s actions. In his understanding, one’s character is fully present both in his behavior and his nominal identity. Such a co-presence in the individual personality, of language and action, self (or personal name) and behavior, is what Gir longs for throughout Le notti della paura. This point is even more striking when considering that Gir’s real name is never revealed, and that his tormented self languishes in a moral dilemma stemming from the entrapment that his meaningless nickname causes. In a few notes that Gir takes between 22 and 26 April 1944, and that are postponed – like a diaristic para-text (“Taccuino”) – to the narration of the captivity in Venice, the protagonist foregrounds the religious overtones of his suffering. Here, the fear not to be present to himself is related to an ontological fall, namely to original sin. “There is no doubt,” Barolini reveals through Gir, “all of this is always about Adam’s fear […]; the fear which is a consequence of being banished from the earthly paradise.”33 In other words, Gir’s own fearfulness is related to his conscience. Therefore, a feeling of guilt reveals his moral sense, which in turn replaces a co-“presence,” that is, the blessed and innocent condition of man and woman living in Paradise.34 Gir’s and Tarcisio’s vicissitudes in part mirror Barolini’s own experience and religious sensitivity. During his clandestinità in Venice – from September 1943 to May 1945 – he wrote Diario di prigionia – Venezia.35 In a passage that clearly illustrates how Tarcisio’s behavior mirrors Barolini’s deep convictions, the ­narrator remarks:

32 Antonio Barolini, La memoria di Stefano (Milan: Feltrinelli, 1969), 9. 33 Barolini, Le notti della paura, 288. 34 Barolini, Le notti della paura, 286. 35 Barolini’s diaries are preserved at the Biblioteca Civica Bertoliana in Vicenza. Those ­concerning his isolation in Venice are Diario VII, Bertoliana no. 30 and Diario VIII, ­Bertoliana no. 31. Parts of the diaries are published in Teodolinda Barolini ed. Antonio ­Barolini. Cronistoria di un’anima, 7–10. While the present essay was being written, Susanna and Teodolinda Barolini edited their father’s Diario di clandestinità and included in the book an introductory section devoted to Antonio’s war experience and two Appendixes (a biographical profile and an in-depth historical analysis by Paolo Bordin). See the Bibliography and the end of note 1 in this study for the complete bibliographical references to Diario di clandesinità.

Everyday Heroes

167

The principle of nonviolence must be the basic principle of ­contemporary moral life, and, like Saint Francis, we should understand it in absolute terms. On this subject Aldo Capit[ini] is right. In that sense, I feel completely unable to hurt, offend, and stir others to do those things. In this case, it is better to die; by dying one asserts much more than by killing.36 The broader impact of these reflections on Saint Francis and nonviolence is expressed in another note where the name of Capitini resurfaces. In it, ­Barolini sheds light on his own political commitment and alludes to a critical self-­ assessment: “I was a militant in the ranks of Antifascism, though not an heroic militant, since 1937 (first meeting with Ragghianti, Capitini in Venice; I was the first from Vicenza to have contacts with them).”37 Even if Barolini takes part with Carlo Ludovico Ragghianti, on 4 June 1942, in the foundation of the Action Party, it is precisely his disconnect from any sectarian sentiment that prevents him from fully identifying with that organized experience. For this reason, he states: “The absence, in my mind, of any sectarian sense is the reason I never joined the Action Party.”38 Being the militant of a political party, in fact, entails complying with the superimposed injunctions of an institution; and this is always the expression, in Michelstaedter’s vocabulary, of an inauthentic rhetoric. Barolini opts instead for the “presence” of his own conscience; it is considering such choice that the figure of Saint Francis – through the mediation of Capitini’s belief in nonviolence – becomes meaningful for the narrator. Indeed, Barolini seems to argue that Saint Francis’s Regula primitiva (Primitive Rule), with its faithfulness to the evangelical origins of the church, brought the religious institution back to its ethical principles, when “rhetoric” – if we adhere to Michelstaedter’s lexicon – had not corrupted the moral conduct yet. Le notti della paura reflects its author’s religious commitment to pacifism and nonviolence. Indeed, the narrator’s alter-ego, Gir, maintains that after the tragedy of the Second World War, ethics – Christian ethics, to be sure – cannot be associated with power anymore. Nor can it be linked with the power of religion and its institutions. Ideas and language directly recall the Gospel of Matthew and the evangelic spirit at the origins of Christianity: In the end, the only possible ethics is, inevitably, the Christian one. But this cannot be the ethics of traditional catholic pedantry and its casuistry. 36

Diario VIII, Bertoliana no. 31, p. 93 of the notebook. See Barolini, Diario di clandestinità, 222. 37 Barolini, Diario di clandestinità, 257–58. 38 Barolini, Diario di clandestinità, 258–59.

168

Sartori

After the sorrows of this war, it cannot be an ethics of power, grounded on what constrains. Rather, it will be grounded on what sets free because my name will be set free. Churches, to preserve their institutional power, have been concerned with binding rather than unbinding.39 This passage uses an image from Matthew (18.18) and, specifically, echoes Jesus’s words.40 Thus, according to Gir, religion should be understood as a means of ‘opening’ and ‘loosing’, and not in terms of the dogmatic self-enclosure that the church exemplifies. Through this, Barolini widens his understanding of the Gospel to the ‘openness’ that harbors Gir’s uncertainties and doubts and, at the same time, contrasts with religious fanaticism.41 Indeed, in his “Taccuino” Gir seems to reverse the negative value characterizing ‘weak faith’ (oligopistia) in the Gospel.42 In fact, in a note dated 4 May 1944, the novel’s protagonist writes: “Any faith is nurtured by doubt. Obviously: doubt is the fertilizer of faith.”43 Here Barolini’s criticism of the ethics of power and his choice for nonviolence seem to coalesce in an anti-dogmatic understanding of Christian religion. In the wake of this, the intimate weakness of faith is the only possible way to contrast, after the catastrophe of the Second World War, the reckless power of any institution, including the Christian one.44 It is no accident that Pope Pius XII blacklisted Capitini’s Religione aperta (1955) as soon as it was published – a work that greatly influenced Barolini because of the idea of religious openness it champions. As a result, Barolini’s Catholicism should be framed within the coordinates of those multiple religious and personal experiences that characterize, ­according to Gabriele De Rosa,45 the church’s multifaceted relationship to 39 Barolini, Le notti della paura, 299. 40 “Truly I tell you, whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven.” 41 Barolini’s first novel, Una lunga pazzia, was a harsh criticism of Christian superstitious behavior and religious fanaticism (Milan: Feltrinelli, 1962). 42 See Matthew 6.30, 8.26, 14.31, 16.8, 17.20. See also Luke 12.28. 43 Barolini, Le notti della paura, 302. 44 In Massimo Cacciari’s view, the dubitative dimension of faith is peculiar to Christianity because its theology’s main feature is that of “research” and “investigation.” The logical consequence of this way of thinking, according to the philosopher, is that Christianity “cannot ‘renounce’ doubt […]. Heresy, as it were, grows from within, it is an essential part of Christianity, because it is inscribed into the formidable tension that constitutes the Christian faith.” See Massimo Cacciari, “Il destino dell’analogia,” Humanitas 54, no. 3 (1999): 350. 45 Gabriele De Rosa, “Introduzione. La Resistenza attraverso la molteplicità del ‘vissuto ­religioso’,” in Gabriele De Rosa, ed., Cattolici, Chiesa, Resistenza (Bologna: il Mulino, 1997), 13–28.

Everyday Heroes

169

the Resistance. Such a relationship goes well-beyond the terms of the agreement (Patti Lateranensi) between the Church and the State, signed on 11 February 1929 by Mussolini for King Victor Emmanuel III, and by Pietro Gasparri – ­Cardinal Secretary of State – for Pius XI. Barolini’s religious experience during the war is representative of a way to view the armed Resistance under an ethical and moral light, wherein both ideology and fideism slip into the background. Indeed, in Diario di clandestinità, he not only meditates on nonviolence, but also transcribes long passages on moral freedom and radical evil from Alfredo Poggi’s Italian translation of Kant’s Die Religion innerhalb der Grenzen der bloßen Vernunft (1793, Religion within the Bounds of Bare Reason).46 Through the Gospel and Kant, Barolini implicitly provides an answer to an entire cultural trend that would assuage his moral dilemmas about the use of violence during the war to an issue of private morality. The compactness of his position seems to be evident in the terms of his understanding of ethics, culture, and religion. After September 8, Gir ignores an inner calling to be honest with himself. He is also tired of the chameleonic hypocrisy affecting his country. He argues that classic authors like ­Tacitus must be cleared from any empty rhetoric that makes them dead objects, i­ ndifferent to the needs of the present time. Consequently, it becomes n ­ ecessary to evade the false alternative between “fetishism of the past” and “terror for the future.”47 This is another manner to formulate Bollati’s split between ­glorification of the past and reproach for the present. Lastly, religion must be inscribed – as Gir writes in a note dated 6 May 1944 – in the “open presence of our ­reality.”48 This is a space where the intimate and non-opportunistic choice for nonviolence is contemplated, albeit among those fears and doubts that make a moral conundrum distinctive. What Gir asks himself, and the reader, implies a statement of fact: in the most tragic of circumstances (like war), the criteria which usually guide human beings no longer hold. This absence of a firm moral compass leaves individuals alone with their ethical dilemmas. Still, the awareness of being persecuted and vulnerable, along with the recognition of the injustices that fascism inflicted, allow Gir to find an unexpected solution to those dilemmas. Indeed, he identifies a problematic aspect of resistance that avoids the mythopoetic emphasis attributed to the hero as the single individual capable of saving other people. Barolini’s hero is someone who, through strength, ambiguously reflects the selfish and asocial loneliness of the individualist who despises the others 46 Barolini, Diario di clandestinità, 239–54. 47 Barolini, Le notti della paura, 213. 48 Barolini, Le notti della paura, 305.

170

Sartori

and their finitude. Hence, he writes “the real man the world needs […], is frail and not strong; but a frail man anchored to justice.”49 On the one hand, those who do not rebel, tacitly consent to injustice; on the other, those who stand in the way in the name of heroism and of the idea of justice, are assertive ­people ­incapable of compassion because they believe themselves to be invulnerable, like gods. In his view, it is necessary to find the means – through the frail, but just individual – to overcome the “hawks and doves” dualism.50 To this end, he asserts: Those who accept an injustice are not only frail but complicit with an infamy. Similarly, those who impose their justice are aggressive, as a false God towering above humanity. Both are expressions of barbaric conditions, devoid of compassion, a forest of moral prehistory, where man alone has no refuge.51 In this passage, hawks and doves typify a condition that is less than civil. Here, doves are complicit with evil because they do not react against it while hawks imagine themselves to be God. Conversely, the character of the nonviolent person melds moral and religious qualities. Thus, compassion – along with the sense of justice – plays a fundamental role because it is a sign of the common participation into finitude and vulnerability. Tarcisio is one of those frail men possessing a remarkable sense of justice. Yet before sacrificing himself without shooting, he not only handled “iron books,” but also thought that Hitler’s wickedness, unlike Nero’s and Diocletian’s cruelty, required assassination and not martyrdom. Indeed, according to Tarcisio, both Nero and Diocletian were “part of a human history, although vile and devilish.”52 “Martyrdom and passive resistance,” Tarcisio initially argues, “made sense in the case of the first Christians. But Hitler? He is like Saint George’s dragon, the Leviathan in the Apocalypse: he must be defeated and pierced with the sword, in the name of Jesus.”53 Gir’s reaction to Tarcisio’s words reveals a ­different orientation, a different mindset. “You are crazy,” Gir told him, “even crazier because you are a doctor: who taught you such bagatelles?”54 The under-cover resistant, who has found a hiding place in Priscilla’s house, seems 49 Barolini, Le notti della paura, 13. 50 Barolini, Le notti della paura, 213. 51 Barolini, Le notti della paura, 13. 52 Barolini, Le notti della paura, 121. 53 Barolini, Le notti della paura, 122. 54 Barolini, Le notti della paura, 122–23.

Everyday Heroes

171

to be closer than Tarcisio to Matthew’s evangelic principle according to which being killed should be preferred to killing.55 Still, Tarcisio’s death, occurring while helping a wounded comrade, makes him an unarmed Christian martyr, not an armed hero. This is coherent with his nom de guerre: “He renounced hatred and took on charity. He fell down, like the ancient martyr.”56 According to Gir, Christian charity has its antecedent in Virgil’s pietas. But Barolini does not focus on Aeneas’ pietas. On the contrary, he – through Gir – focuses on Georgicon’s fourth book and “Aristaeus’s sweet gift of the bees” – the gift that represents an idealized human society.57 “In the Aeneidos,” Gir writes in his notebook (note taken on 20 May 1944), “Virgil is celebratory, yet in the Georgicon he contemplates a disciplined nature, a nature that man’s actions and love are able to redeem. This is pietas.”58 For Barolini, pietas is not, first and foremost, the quality of an individual, that is, of a single hero. Pietas can only be experienced in an idealized society. Because of this he prefers the cooperation among the bees within a disciplined social context, to the exceptionality of Aeneas as a hero. Accordingly, Barolini in his Diario di clandestinità writes: “Dear, great, immense Virgil, I reread the Georgicon. His magnificence is here, not in a contorted simplicity, in such a limpid faith, a resigned faith rather than one that is certain of itself.”59 These words suggest that Barolini’s meditation on nonviolence derives not only from personal, moral concerns as well as from evangelical sources, but also from an ethical reading of Virgil that privileges the Georgicon. Such a meditation on Barolini’s part suggests the rejection of the national character’s worst traits – the very ones that led to fascism. In the Venetian building where Barolini’s alter-ego is segregated, Gir remembers the regime’s slogans. In particular, he recalls the old, n ­ ationalistic motto the fascists overused to glorify their supposed bravery: “Better one day as a lion than a hundred as a sheep.”60 Fascist propaganda appropriated it because it captured the collective imaginary of power and physical strength as qualities preferred to meekness and obedience. Unsurprisingly, the slogan underwent an ideological misinterpretation. “It happened,” Gir specifies “that the world transformed that slogan into the usual rhetoric, providing it 55 Barolini, Le notti della paura, 123, 178. See Matthew 5.38–40. 56 Barolini, Le notti della paura, 216. 57 Barolini, Le notti della paura, 203. 58 Barolini, Le notti della paura, 310. 59 Barolini, Diario di clandestinità, 197. 60 This slogan first appeared on the walls of the rickety houses around the Piave River at the time of the battle of First World War (13–26 November 1917). Originally, the motto was a testimony of the strenuous opposition of the Italian army against the troops of the ­Austro-Hungarian Empire.

172

Sartori

with an institutional overtone, forever squandering its original meaning and divesting it of its sense of the present.”61 Against this tendency to an ideological ­reshaping of the truth, Barolini, through Gir, follows a third path – the path of presence, of Michelstaedter’s “persuasione” as opposed to “rettorica” – between hawks’ presumption and doves’ docility. In this manner, he subverts the terms of the slogan by rephrasing Capitini’s assertion “I don’t accept” that concludes the nonviolent activist’s short essay La mia persuasione religiosa. In it, Capitini states: “I cannot approve of the biggest beast devouring the smallest one.”62 Indeed, through his novel Barolini suggests the possible reconciliation between extremes and he allegorizes it through Priscilla’s family crest: a hawk and a dove.63 Before the war, her family used to breed hawks and doves. Under new administrators those animals now peacefully share the same ­living space. With an ironic overtone, Priscilla’s words allegorically project and describe an idealized human society where hawks and doves live together, despite the ­former’s natural predatory inclination: “Our hawks never eat the doves because we gorge them on fresh meat, and they are fat like cockerels. We never allow the hawks to disappear from the openings of one tower, and we do the same with the doves on the other tower […]. The peace between hawks and doves is the only thing that saves us.”64 From this perspective, nonviolence can overcome war, hatred, and abusive power. During the war, an “ethics of power”65 regulates the world because, as ­Capitini asserts, it is a “world according to power.”66 Yet, in his Diario di ­clandestinità, Barolini maintains that such a condition must change, especially considering Saint Francis’ teaching. Accordingly, Gir, reflects: The lion’s present is abstract, ephemeral, and sterile; it is utterly inadequate to the reality that the ceaseless, passive resistance of the sheep’s wooly ocean exemplifies. In mass, compact, anonymous, and almost without complaining, the latter always overcame the slaughterhouses’ useless 61 Barolini, Le notti della paura, 198. 62 Capitini, Religione aperta, 7. 63 Barolini, Le notti della paura, 57. Barolini’s context is yet again biblical and draws from the Old Testament imagery: “The wolf shall dwell with the lamb” (Isaiah 11.1–10). 64 Barolini, Le notti della paura, 57. 65 Barolini, Le notti della paura, 299. 66 Capitini, Religione aperta, 11.

Everyday Heroes

173

violence; the sheep remained within their flocks, fertile and in great numbers, while obstinately grazing grass made of stones and ­hardships.67 In this passage, Barolini opposes the stubbornness and the “passive resistance” of the sheep’s mass to the ostensible bravery of the lion, typifying both the fascist man and the individualistic hero. The lion’s courage at the center of fascist rhetoric jars with the “passive resistance of the sheep’s wooly ocean.” This calls to mind the antiheroic heroes who, en masse oppose “the useless violence of the slaughterhouses.” Thus, the non-violent resistance of the sheep, depicted as a compact social group, is in stark contrast to the image of the herd that the fascist rhetoric considered as the symbol of weak victims of manipulation. ­Paradoxically, in this reading the sheep’s cohesive social behavior appears ‘stronger’ than the lion’s egocentric individualism.68 The “resistance of the herd,” according to Gir, is the “true institution,” because it is rid of the violence, falsity, and hypocrisy that mar the distorting power’s relationships and exist even within the church.69 Although, in Gir’s view “the church of his fathers was the only political structure that had resisted the storm,”70 it was not exempt from political responsibilities; nor was it immune to fanaticism and superstition.71 He believes that the true church should be identified with a herd that does not need heroes. For him, the ­leading sheep “which don’t live the life of the herd” are foolish,72 whereas the obstinate resistance of the mass makes a reformistic push possible. This thrust supersedes both superstition and blind belief in miracles.73 Such a push ­forward 67 Barolini, Le notti della paura, 199. 68 The ridicule of the lion’s courage is implicit in some of the athletic events promoted by the leader of the Fascist Party, Achille Starace, who was intent on putting into effect ­Mussolini’s ideals about the regime’s virility. Kertzer describes some of those events involving Fascist Party officials, including Starace’s own jump through a circle of fire (Kertzer, The Pope and Mussolini, 288). On the rhetorical construction of fascist virility, see Barbara Spackman, Fascist Virilities. Rhetoric, Ideology, and Social Fantasy in Italy (Minneapolis-London: University of Minnesota Press, 1996). 69 Barolini, Le notti della paura, 199. 70 Barolini, Le notti della paura, 200. 71 The responsibilities of Pope Pius XII under Nazi-Fascism have been extensively studied. More recently, David I. Kertzer has focused on Pius XI’s predecessor and on the complicated balance of mutual interests characterizing the relationship between Achille Ratti and Mussolini from 1922 to 1939; see his The Pope and Mussolini. The Secret History of Pius XI and the Rise of Fascism in Europe (New York: Random House, 2014). 72 Barolini, Le notti della paura, 201. 73 The Second Vatican Council, the expression of the reformist effort the church that John XXIII put in place after the war – and after the death of Pius XII – ended under pope Paul VI in 1965, two years before the publication of Le notti della paura.

174

Sartori

foregrounds the shift from “a painful condition” triggered by superstition to “the comfort of [wool made] matrasses,” and the “sensuous ardor of wives and children.”74 The passage depicts a progressive humanization of nature. For Barolini, such an evolution corresponds to familial love, for it stands at the root of civil cohabitation. Love, as he sees it, is first understood as the dimension of an intimate heroism pertaining to the private sphere and, second, to the public one. For this reason, he reflects “[h]usbands are the poor companions of every day […], men like me, teachers of Latin; they are not heroes, at best they are everyday heroes.”75 This depiction subverts the masculine and patriarchal symbolic order that influenced both fascism and the war experience. Love, in other words, replaces power and physical strength that fascist propaganda championed. From this perspective, man is not identified with the lion; on the contrary, he is the “poor” companion of the woman, nothing more – and nothing less – than a teacher of Latin, at least in Gir’s case.76 This man is not the one upheld by fascist propaganda; rather, he is a frail, anonymous individual characterized by a robust moral and ethical constitution.77 Clearly, for Barolini the reformation of the church qua institution, or the type of human character that Italy will need both against and after ­fascism, is grounded in the idea of the herd that “moves slow.”78 This mirrors Gir’s stance against the theatre of hypocrisy, whose far origins trace back to ­trasformismo as to an enduring feature of Italian political identity. The narrator suggests that the leader of a possible social change, able to break the ties with national ­trasformismo, emerged for the first time during the Antifascist ­Resistance. These partisans are neither individualists nor isolated from the others; they are, instead, everyday heroes whose beliefs can be problematic because they are not based on ‘certain’ fascist ideals. Their uncertainties are ­proportional to the dubitative horizon of their religious conviction. Within such a horizon it is possible to understand catholic faith as an open path to self-­ discovery. Through this Barolini shows that the everyday heroes’ commitment 74 Barolini, Le notti della paura, 201. 75 Barolini, Le notti della paura, 217. 76 Teodolinda Barolini remarks that, while rejecting “hatred and masculine ­aggressiveness” Gir asserts a “form of intervention, a dialogical openness.” This evokes Capitini’s “­nonviolent technique.” “By declining conventional heroism,” she concludes, “Gir affirms a different moral typology.” See Teodolinda Barolini, “Testimonianza storica e ­nonviolenza”, in Antonio Barolini. Cronistoria di un’anima, 252. 77 By adopting George L. Mosse’s terminology, Barolini’s frail but conscientious man could be seen as a “counter-type” of masculine chauvinism; see The Image of Man. The Creation of Modern Masculinity (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999). 78 Barolini, Le notti della paura, 201.

Everyday Heroes

175

to ­nonviolence puts their inner convictions to the test in a world where violence distorts convictions. For him, the behavior of the everyday heroes, who move en masse with other ordinary individuals like them, is slow. If a change is to be expected from them, it will not occur quickly, because self-discovery requires time and occurs, first, in people’s presence to themselves (in interiore homine). Bibliography Bandini, Fernando. Ed. Neri Pozza e Antonio Barolini: Lettere (1955–1970). Bassano del Grappa: Grafiche Tassotti, 1998. Barolini, Antonio. Giornate di Stefano. Padua: Tolomei, 1943. Barolini, Antonio. “Il Capitano Antonio Giuriolo.” La rassegna d’Italia 1, no. 9 (1946): 86–92. Barolini, Antonio. Our Last Family Countess and Related Stories. New York: Harper & Brothers, 1960. New York: Backinprint, 2000. Barolini, Antonio. Una lunga pazzia. Milan: Feltrinelli, 1962. Helen Barolini, trans. A Long Madness, New York: Pantheon, 1964. Barolini, Antonio. “Il Capitano Toni”. Il ponte 2, (1964): 1374–82. Barolini, Antonio. Torquato e Franco Fraccon. Vicenza: Neri Pozza, 1967. Barolini, Antonio. Le notti della paura. Milan: Feltrinelli, 1967. Barolini, Antonio. L’ultima contessa di famiglia. Milan: Feltrinelli, 1968. Barolini, Antonio. La memoria di Stefano. Milan: Feltrinelli, 1969. Barolini, Antonio. Il paradiso che verrà. Momenti di un’esperienza religiosa. Florence: Vallecchi, 1972. Barolini, Antonio. Diario di clandestinità e altri scritti in tempo di Guerra. 1943–1945. Susanna and Teodolinda Barolini. Eds. Vicenza: Neri Pozza, 2019. Barolini, Teodolinda. Ed. Antonio Barolini. Cronistoria di un’anima. Atti dei Convegni di New York e di Vicenza. Florence: Società Editrice Fiorentina, 2015. Bollati, Giulio. “L’italiano”. In L’italiano. Il carattere nazionale come storia e come ­invenzione, 34–123. Turin: Einaudi, 1983. Cacciari, Massimo. “Il destino dell’analogia”. Humanitas 54, no. 3 (1999): 350–353. Capitini, Aldo. Elementi di un’esperienza religiosa. Bari: Laterza, 1937. Capitini, Aldo. Religione aperta. Preface by Goffredo Fofi, Introduction by Mario ­Martini. Rome-Bari: Laterza, 2011. Croce, Benedetto, Storia d’Italia dal 1871 al 1915. Naples: Bibliopolis, 2004. Crotti, Ilaria, Monica Giachino, and Michela Rusi. Eds. Un italiano in America. Poesia e narrativa in Antonio Barolini. Rome: Bulzoni, 2012. de’ Liguori Carino, Beniamino. Adriano Olivetti e le Edizioni di Comunità (1946–1960). Rome: Quaderni della Fondazione Adriano Olivetti, 2008.

176

Sartori

De Rosa, Gabriele. Ed. Cattolici, Chiesa, Resistenza. Bologna: il Mulino, 1997. Erspamer, Francesco. La creazione del passato. Palermo: Sellerio, 2009. Foot, John. Pedalare! Pedalare! A History of Italian Cycling. London-New York: ­Bloomsbury 2011. Gioberti, Vincenzo. Del primato morale e civile degl’italiani. Turin: UTET, 1843. Giuriolo, Antonio. Pensare la libertà. I quaderni di Antonio Giuriolo. Ed. Renato Camurri. Venice: Marsilio, 2016. Kertzer, David I. The Pope and Mussolini. The Secret History of Pius XI and the Rise of Fascism in Europe. New York: Random House, 2014. Kertzer, David I. Il patto col diavolo. Mussolini e papa Pio XI. Le relazioni segrete fra il Vaticano e l’Italia fascista. Trans. Leonardo Clausi. Milan: Rizzoli: 2014. Liucci, Raffaele. Spettatori di un naufragio. Gli intellettuali italiani nella seconda guerra mondiale. Turin: Einaudi, 2011. Michelstaedter, Carlo. La persuasione e la rettorica. Ed. Sergio Campailla. Milan: ­Adelphi, 2010. Mosse, George L. The Image of Man. The Creation of Modern Masculinity. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999. Pozza, Neri, Ed. Antonio Barolini. Vicenza: Neri Pozza Editore, 1973. Riva, Massimo. Malinconie del moderno. Critica dell’incivilimento e disagio della nazionalità nella letteratura italiana del XIX secolo. Ravenna: Longo, 2001. Spackman, Barbara. Fascist Virilities. Rhetoric, Ideology, and Social Fantasy in Italy. ­Minneapolis-London: University of Minnesota Press, 1996. Stewart-Steinberg, Suzanne. The Pinocchio Effect. On Making Italians, 1860–1920. ­Chicago-London: University of Chicago Press, 2007. Traldi, Alberto. Fascismo e narrativa. Una proposta di critica politico-ideologica, con qualche riscontro Americano. Foggia: Bastogi, 1984 Traldi, Alberto. Fascism and Fiction: A Survey of Italian Fiction on Fascism and Its ­Reception in Britain and the United States. Metuchen, NJ: Scarecrow, 1987.

Chapter 9

An Antihero in Command: Soffici under the Orders of Captain Punzi Enrico Riccardo Orlando Abstract Enrico Riccardo Orlando highlights a quite unexpected facet of Ardengo Soffici’s ­writings about the Great War. Commonly seen as an irredentist and a strong defender of the rhetoric of heroism, in his Atti e detti memorabili del capitano Punzi ([Memorable Acts and Deeds of Captain Punzi], 1918), Soffici shows a comic, as well as polemical vein against the presumed logic of warfare and the entanglements of social hierarchies in the Italian army.

Literary history has often portrayed Ardengo Soffici (1879–1964) as a staunch supporter of Italy’s participation in the Great War. This essay demonstrates that his outlook on intervention was less clear-cut and more nuanced than it may appear at first glance from his war novels Kobilek (1918) and La ritirata del Friuli (1919). This evidence emerges not only in his vast correspondence with friends and other writers, but also in his comic novel Atti e detti memorabili del capitano Punzi. This work shows how Soffici’s opinion about the First World War was no less problematic than that of many of his collaborators in La Voce, the journal founded by Giovanni Papini and Giuseppe Prezzolini, where Soffici published Lemmonio Boreo (1912). The protagonist in this novel is the epitome of Soffici’s rebellious attitude and tendency to criticize the conformism of his contemporary stagnating middle class. Like the young Lemmonio, “a man similar to a priest or a warrior, with a frowning face and a truncheon in his hand” (“un uomo dall’aspetto fra di sacerdote e di guerriero, con viso corrucciato, e un randello in mano”) who walks “from village to village” (“di paese in paese”) searching for an excuse to fight,1 Soffici – in the years before the war – is keen to use verbal violence, to break with the tradition and the political stillness and neutrality that characterized Giolitti’s government. In 1914, when Italy was 1 Ardengo Soffici, Lemmonio Boreo (Florence: Vallecchi, 1912), 53. All translations from this and other texts are mine unless otherwise specified. © Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2023 | DOI:10.1163/9789004548145_011

178

Orlando

still neutral, France – Soffici’s country of adoption – attacked Germany. During the previous years, in Paris, the Tuscan writer had met the likes of Guillaume Apollinaire, Pablo Picasso, Georges Braque, André Gide, Jean Moréas and Max Jacob, among others. Without doubt, their vibrant intellectual life shaped the French capital and influenced Soffici. For him, this period became a sort of concrete “initiation to modernity.”2 Upon his return to Italy, for instance, he promoted what he called France’s “revolutionary art of Cubism.” Because of it, he immediately became “a great animator of the Italian avant-garde.”3 In 1913, a year after the publication of Lemmonio Boreo, Soffici, with his friend Papini, founded the Florence-based literary journal Lacerba. Through this collaboration, Soffici created his own space of action where he could vent, through his articles, the violent and polemic impulse against the cultural and political tradition of his time. Despite several points of contact,4 he took a ­distance from the Futurists, the group of unrestrained and dynamic young people led by Filippo Tommaso Marinetti that interpreted the avant-garde as the main event for a whole generation of intellectuals and artists. Neither Soffici nor Papini wanted to be associated with Marinetti’s Futurism. They explained their desire to distance themselves from Futurism in the article “Il Futurismo e ‘Lacerba’” (December 1914).5 Also in Lacerba, in May 1915, Soffici wrote “Sulla soglia. La buona guerra,” an article published just a few days before the Italian declaration of war against Austria-Hungary. In it, Soffici argued that the Italian involvement in the war was the natural consequence of a period of intellectual conflicts and violent disputes among neutralists and interventionists. In his view, this period was characterized by the contrast between an “old and putrescent” Italian society and a new and more dynamic one.6 For many intellectuals of the time, war was the definitive solution to the political-institutional 2 Winfried Wehle, “Guerra cubista. Pace fascista. Come l’arte fa politica. Il caso Ardengo ­Soffici,” in In trincea. Gli scrittori alla grande guerra. Atti del Convegno Internazionale di Studi (Firenze, 22–24 ottobre 2015), Simone Magherini, ed. (Florence: Sei, 2017), 276. 3 Wehle, “Guerra cubista,” 275. 4 We can find clear signs of Soffici’s interest in Futurist graphic and rhythmic research in Simultaneità e chimismi lirici (1915). Still, a few years before, the writer was involved in a ­violent episode with Marinetti’s group. Soffici visited a Futurist art show that inspired him to write an article published in the Florentine journal La Voce. Marinetti, Russolo, Boccioni e Carrà joined him at “Giubbe Rosse” café in Florence; a fight ensued that was ultimately contained by the police. Only Palazzeschi’s mediation solved the conflict among them. 5 Marc Föcking, “Amiamo la guerra? «Der Sturm», «Lacerba» e l’inizio della prima guerra ­mondiale,” in In trincea. Gli scrittori alla grande guerra. Atti del Convegno Internazionale di Studi (Firenze, 22–24 ottobre 2015), Simone Magherini, ed. (Florence: Sei, 2017), 135. 6 Giuseppe Prezzolini and Ardengo Soffici, Carteggio. I. 1907–1918, Mario Richter, ed. (Rome: Edizioni di Storia e Letteratura, 1977), 119.

An Antihero in Command

179

stasis. It was the beginning of a new era that had to be built upon the ruins of the past, a “way to exit from a surrounding reality” considered “as a refusal of the present and a social legitimation of an aggressive instance.”7 In a letter dated May 8, 1915, a few days before the Italian intervention in the war, Soffici wrote to Prezzolini: “Has the fetid Italy, designed by Giolitti, died? We must bury it. We must burn its pestilential vests. After the war, the time will come to disinfect.”8 At the end of May 1915, several intellectuals in uniform met at the “Giubbe Rosse” café in Florence. They were ready and eager to take part in the conflict. Among them, there was Nicola Moscardelli, a poet and collaborator of both La Voce and Lacerba, and the Florentine painter Ottone Rosai. Giovanni Titta Rosa, the literary critic who will publish a successful anthology of I­talian contemporary narrators in 1921, was also present.9 Prezzolini and Soffici were ready to fight as volunteers. The author of Lemmonio Boreo, however, will have to linger “over six months [...] in the useless wait for the letter of acceptance as volunteer” while his friend Prezzolini “was already wearing the military uniform by summer.”10 In December 1915, Soffici was finally enrolled and sent to Pistoia with the rank of Second Lieutenant of the 83rd regiment of infantry. His enthusiasm for the war was “damaged by several months of waiting” that were not conducive to “any poetical or moral inspirations.”11 But in Pistoia he seemed to regain his enthusiasm, even though he led a “not extraordinary” or “interesting” life.12 In fact, he wrote to Prezzolini that he would spend his time “looking” around and inside himself.13 During this time, Soffici studied the manuals on soldiers’ training and tactic that Prezzolini recommended to him.14 On May 7, 1916, after spending the month of April in Naples, Soffici’s battalion was ready for the front and sent to Udine. After a year of war spent “for all intents and purposes in calm, despite working in anti-aircraft defense near Cividale,”15 on June 4, 1917, he was injured during a bombardment near Cormons. This ­episode would later inspire the incipit of Errore di coincidenza, a novel published in 1920 in the

7 8 9 10

Mario Isnenghi, Il mito della Grande Guerra (Bologna: Il Mulino, 2007), 90. Prezzolini and Soffici, Carteggio, 263. Giovanni Titta Rosa, Narratori Contemporanei (Milan: Il Primato Editoriale, 1921). Simonetta Bartolini, Ardengo Soffici. Il romanzo di una vita (Florence: Le lettere, 2009), 295. 11 Prezzolini and Soffici, Carteggio, 265–6. 12 Prezzolini and Soffici, Carteggio, 269. 13 Prezzolini and Soffici, Carteggio, 267. 14 Prezzolini and Soffici, Carteggio, 266. 15 Bartolini, Ardengo Soffici, 303.

180

Orlando

periodical Rete Mediterranea.16 Following a brief convalescence, partly spent in Florence, in July Soffici returned to the battleground, under the command of Alessandro Casati. He was a Milanese intellectual well-known in the cultural landscape of the early 1900s. To him Soffici will dedicate his best war novel: Kobilek. Giornale di battaglia (1918). The novel centers on the battle in which the author suffers a severe wound in his left eye. After the convalescence, ­Soffici is fully involved in the dramatic retreat of Caporetto, a tragic experience that gives him the inspiration for the book La ritirata del Friuli. This work, published as a diary in 1919, documents the dramatic situation of ­Italian troops during the retreat. In it the author foregrounds his closeness to the masses of young men “consumed by an endless conflict”17 and forced to fight in a war that they did not comprehend. The soldiers, for Soffici, were not responsible for the clobbering; rather, they were only victims of the decisions made by the ruling class. In Soffici’s view, this class was the architect of the defeat in Caporetto. Both Kobilek and The Retreat of Friuli are important historical documents; yet they are full of that interventionist and nationalistic rhetoric that Soffici, as responsible for propaganda, promoted among the soldiers. In this role, from November 1917, he collaborated to found and spread the satirical periodical La Ghirba. It is worth noting that the first issue of this periodical was written entirely by Soffici.18 This publication was successful owing to the collaboration of several intellectuals, including the painters Carlo Carrà and Giorgio De Chirico. It was also praised by Apollinaire for its “powerful and very unusual caricatures.”19 After the end of the conflict, contrary to those who were disappointed by the atrocities of the war experience and despite thousands of young Italian victims, Soffici did not renege his intellectual stance regarding the conflict. He remained a proud supporter of Luigi Cadorna, the general who was largely accused of the bloody defeat of Caporetto. Despite his tactical mistakes, Soffici strongly defended Cadorna from all accusations throughout the postwar period. In addition, he always praised the worthiness and valor the Italian army exemplified vis-à-vis the enemy. Also, Soffici did not view the retreat of Caporetto as the result of the soldiers’ negligence or cowardice. Rather, he rationalized the defeat as “a Christian escape from a violent regimentation,” 16 17 18 19

Simona Storchi, “Ardengo Soffici’s ‘Rete mediterranea’. The Aesthetics and Politics of ­Post-war Modernism,” Annali d’Italianistica 33 (2015): 321–340. Mario Isnenghi and Paolo Pozzato, Oltre Caporetto. La memoria in cammino. Voci dai due fronti (Venice: Marsilio, 2018), 154. Prezzolini and Soffici, Carteggio, 309. Guillaume Apollinaire, Croniques d’art (1902–1918) (Paris: Gallimard, 1960), 439.

An Antihero in Command

181

organized by millions of farmers “serenely ignorant about political and institutional reasons of the war, who use the opportunity to leave the front […] to reach their homes, their families and their fields.”20 His assertion rang true as a great part of the army was composed by farmers and workers with little education and poor awareness of the motives that had triggered the war. For many of them, the only goal was to return home as soon as possible. It bears to remember that his literary experience of the war was not limited to the narratives set at the front. In fact, he also wrote the curious, short novel Atti e detti memorabili del capitano Punzi. Initially published in Corriere d’Informazione in 1957, the novel later became part of the third volume of his Opere,21 “with the indication of the year 1930 as the date of issue.”22 He authored this work several years after the end of the conflict, using materials collected during that time. It focuses on Soffici’s brief period of training in Pistoia (December 1915-April 1916). In 1921, in his literary newspaper column “Libri nuovi e usati,” Emilio ­Cecchi expressed hope that Soffici put together all the notes “inspired by soldiers or directly experienced during the war.” The critic also asserted that once Soffici would have turned the notes into a book, the Italian narrative genre “will make a very good purchase.”23 The person responsible for Soffici’s training in Pistoia was Captain Punzi, a “slim gentleman, squeezed in a totally black uniform” (“un piccolo signore smilzo, strizzato in un vestitino tutto nero).”24 It is not clear from the beginning whether the protagonist was a real person; in Soffici’s correspondence there is no trace of Punzi, and he bears the traits of a fictional character. Moreover, this strange-looking man is described by the author as an officer who landed in his position of authority by pure chance. In fact, in his city of origin, he was the owner of a laundromat. Punzi is not a captain; he is disoriented, and, for this reason, he soon begins to make an incredible series of gaffes. For e­ xample, a few days after his arrival, the garrison is required to complete a military training in the main town square. When all the soldiers look for Punzi, he seems to have disappeared. After two hours, he arrives drenched in sweat, with a 20 21

Isnenghi and Pozzato, Oltre Caporetto, 154. Ardengo Soffici, Atti e detti memorabili del capitano Punzi, in Opere. III. Errore di coincidenza. Kobilek. La ritirata del Friuli. Atti e detti memorabili del capitano Punzi (Florence: Vallecchi, 1960), 389–432. 22 Giovanni Capecchi, “Fronte esterno, fronte interno e fronte interiore: diari e memorie di guerra di Valentino Coda, Giuseppe Personeni, Ardengo Soffici e Arturo Stanghellini,” In trincea. Gli scrittori alla grande guerra. Atti del Convegno Internazionale di Studi (Firenze, 22–24 ottobre 2015), Simone Magherini, ed. (Florence: Sei, 2017), 467. 23 Emilio Cecchi, “Libri nuovi e usati,” La Tribuna, December 16, 1921, 3. 24 Soffici, Atti e detti, 391.

182

Orlando

red face, and trousers worn backwards.25 The man continues to manifest his inadequacy when he interacts with his superiors; and he literally loses control when he is convened by military officials. Waiting for a briefing with his commanders “he [Punzi] nervously walked inside the room like a tortured soul” (“girava da un capo all’altro del locale come un’anima in pena.”)26 Punzi has no autonomy in the management of his soldiers; he places the big register with his ­company’s reports in front of the quartermaster and the lieutenant and asks them what he should say to the other officers.27 In this, he behaves like an unprepared student about to sit an important examination and reveals his own sheer ineptitude in managing the bureaucracy of his regiment. This is one of the first examples of the author’s mistrust of the military leadership and of its practical capabilities during the war. Punzi represents the thousands of ­officers who are incapable of taking decisions and managing their troops. In another example, the troop involved in a sharpshooting training exercise faces a series of comic moments. Captain Punzi walks in front of his regiment “keeping his face down, scratching his head, and mumbling to himself” (“a viso basso, grattandosi la testa, borbottando fra sé e sé”).28 Worried for what will happen and incapable of giving directives, he gives confusing commands that cause chaos among his soldiers. As a result, they begin shooting in a disorderly manner, filling up “both the camp and sky with lightnings, smoke, clattering of bolts, and an infernal rumble” (“il campo e il cielo di lampi, di fumo, di sferragliamenti d’otturatori e d’un fracasso infernale”).29 The captain, “surrounded by shots, jumped right in the middle of his garrison and began to gesticulate as a possessed” (“il capitano Punzi, balzato in mezzo ai soldati e agli spari, urlava gesticolando come un invasato”).30 His soldiers “became deaf and didn’t understand anything, while the gunshots continued to be fired from all the angles of the training field” (“ormai infruscati e assorditi, non capivano più nulla, e raffiche di fucileria o colpi sparsi e isolati seguitavano a partire da tutti i punti del campo”).31 The situation fails to improve with tactical exercises. One day Punzi receives the order to lead his company to Collegigliato.32 There, they are ­scheduled to train under the careful watch of major Landi. From his position, 25 Soffici, Atti e detti, 397. 26 Soffici, Atti e detti, 399. 27 Soffici, Atti e detti, 399. 28 Soffici, Atti e detti, 402. 29 Soffici, Atti e detti, 404. 30 Soffici, Atti e detti, 404. 31 Soffici, Atti e detti, 404. 32 Collegigliato is a rural area located north of the city center of Pistoia.

An Antihero in Command

183

the major can hear all the commands imparted to the soldiers and, in this fashion, evaluate the ability of every single company. The only commands that Landi does not hear are Punzi’s. In fact, his company is almost invisible, it does not even move a branch of brushwood.33 The major, curious about this anomaly, verifies the situation in person and, behind a crag, he discovers Punzi’s soldiers seating side by side on the “felled oak trunks” with rifles between their legs. Punzi is not only unable to justify the situation, but he cannot even explain the fact that some of his soldiers are “playing cards.” Indeed, he candidly admits: “Poor guys […]. I can’t move them in this heat. We are not at war, here” (“Poeri figlioli – rispose – […] Qui ‘un siamo mica alla guerra”).34 His ineptitude to lead soldiers escalates during another military practice. On this occasion, they have to “divide the regiment into two parts, one of which would represent the enemy, and maneuver them according to the rules of the military art” (“scindere i battaglioni del reggimento in due parti, una delle quali doveva rappresentare il nemico, e con esse manovrare secondo le regole dell’arte militare”).35 At the end of the operations, the major praises all the companies, underlining the fact that some of them use stratagems to elude the ‘enemy’ soldiers’ aggressive attempts while others use tactical movements to surprise the opponents behind their lines. Some companies are also applauded for their physical energy.36 Without showing any self-control, Punzi requests an evaluation of his work even though he is aware that his garrison had been entrusted with simply raising the flag as soon as they discovered the movement of opposing troops. In his reply, the major answers him in a laconic and embarrassed tone: “Well. You’ve done well, too” (“Bene. Bene anche lei”).37 Despite the gaffes, Punzi’s mood does not seem to be adversely affected. This man, perpetually inappropriate and embarrassing, is not only accepted by the soldiers, but also becomes the key figure of the whole garrison. Soffici seems to appreciate the captain’s moral support of his troop: [Punzi] amava mescolarsi con noi ufficiali subalterni e prender parte ai nostri svaghi, che consistevano poi in partite a carte o di biliardo […]. Il capitano Punzi, arzillo e giovanile nonostante i suoi dieci o undici lustri, non tralasciava di gareggiare di brio, d’abilità, di resistenza, d’arguzia, di

33 Soffici, Atti e detti, 405. 34 Soffici, Atti e detti, 406. 35 Soffici, Atti e detti, 413–4. 36 Soffici, Atti e detti, 414. 37 Soffici, Atti e detti, 415.

184

Orlando

senso poetico con i più giovani [...] e sempre con resultati ben consentanei alla sua bella natura.38 [Punzi] loved mingling with us lower ranking officers and taking part in our leisure activities, like playing cards or pool games [...]. Captain Punzi, lively and youthful despite his age (he was fifty or fifty-five years old), competed in vivacity, ability, resistance, keenness, and poetic sense with the younger men […] and always with results that were in keeping with his beautiful nature. Punzi’s awkwardness stimulates Soffici’s imagination. Indeed, he continues to describe the adventures of his captain, a man who is constantly on the edge between his authoritative role and his comic appearance. Although he is an ­officer, the captain behaves like a clown, especially when he bets with his ­soldiers on his ability to jump a ditch on a bicycle. Punzi organizes his ­performance along a small side road that is “neither rough, nor long, nor ­reasonably tilted. Rather, it is straight only in the last stretch” (“non troppo scabroso, abbastanza lunga, ragionevolmente inclinata, ma diritta soltanto nel suo ultimo tratto, che era peraltro assai considerevole”).39 The captain climbs to the top of the street by bike and then launches downhill headfirst. Of course, during the descent he reaches a remarkable speed that increases in the last section of the road. The result of the experiment, not surprisingly, is simultaneously disastrous and comic: [l]a ruota davanti aveva appena toccato l’orlo del fossetto, che noi vedemmo quella di dietro alzarsi in aria come la groppa di un cavallo che scalcia, il capitano Punzi capriolar via come un fagotto e piombar col sedere e le spalle in terra tre o quattro passi lontano.40 the front wheel had just touched the edge of the small ditch when we saw that the rear side of the bike held up like the rump of a runaway horse. Captain Punzi was catapulted away like a package and landed on his ­bottom and shoulders three or four footsteps away. His soldiers run to rescue him; they find him “supine, immovable” (“supino, immobile”), not understanding whether he is “fainted or wounded” (“svenuto 38 Soffici, Atti e detti, 417. 39 Soffici, Atti e detti, 420. 40 Soffici, Atti e detti, 420.

An Antihero in Command

185

o ferito”). Punzi stands up, refuses their assistance, and removes “the earth and grass that were smearing his coat and pants” (“la terra e l’erba che gl’imbrattavano la giubba e i calzoni”), blaming, in Tuscan vernacular, his failure on the road that “is not completely smooth” (“la nun’era filiforme”).41 In another stage of his unbelievable military career, just before one of the colonel’s periodical checks of the dormitories, Punzi realizes that Malavolta,42 the “shabbiest soldier of his company” (“il soldato più scalcinato della compagnia”), is filthy (“lercio”), underdressed (“sbracato”), with “his muddy shoes, without ties, without buttons on a coat open on his hairy chest” (“le scarpe infangate, senza cravatta, né bottoni alla giubba aperta sul petto peloso”).43 To avoid any embarrassment, the captain tries to chase him out of the dormitory, but he notices that the colonel is already there. For this reason, he decides to hide the soldier under a straw mattress. Yet the colonel understands immediately that something moves under the mattress; thus, he orders Malavolta to get out. The soldier appears “with his red face, dirty with dust and sweat, his disheveled hair and his even more ragged uniform” (“con la faccia rossa sporca di polvere e di sudore, i capelli scarmigliati, il vestito ancor più acciabattato”).44 Disgusted and resentful for this unacceptable lack of respect for the uniform, the colonel leaves. Significantly, Malvolta appears so different from the other soldiers. It is possible that through him Soffici wanted to emphasize the ­presence, in the army, of people who were completely uninterested in military discipline. Yet they were forced to enlist and participate in a war that they did not comprehend. Often, they came from poor and marginalized regions; and the fact that they possessed little, or no education played a major role in their ineptitude to evaluate the importance of military hierarchy and rituals. An example of this is Captain Punzi who shows his lack of understanding of military discipline when he announces that he has invented a new type of ­backpack, specifically designed for military service life. Instead of the classic sack with two belts that pass under the armpits, the captain designs a “new backpack [...] divided into two parts, in the shape of a saddlebag, to be worn at the front and back, connected by two leather straps held up by the shoulders” (“il nuovo zaino era diviso in due parti in forma di bisaccia, da portarsi una 41 Soffici, Atti e detti, 421.” 42 We are not sure that Malavolta is the soldier’s real surname. This name is common even in today’s central Italy, but more likely, in this case, it is a pun inspired by the moral ­characteristics of this unpredictable and insubordinate character. The Italian term “­Malavolta,” comprising “mala” (bad) and “volta” (quick change of direction), means “wrong path.” 43 Soffici, Atti e detti, 425. 44 Soffici, Atti e detti, 426.

186

Orlando

dietro, una davanti, sospese a due corregge di cuoio rette dalle spalle”). In his opinion, this type of backpack gives the soldier the advantage to ­balance the whole structure, saving him from “the torment of a large weight that pulls him back” (“il tormento di quel gran peso che gli tira il busto all’indietro”).45 He candidly argues that, in this manner, it is possible to place a little shovel on the front that will better protect the soldier’s chest. Yet, he does not consider the risk of ricochets caused by the surface of the shovel as a danger to the other men of the company. This points out Punzi’s lack of practical sense, an ­essential trait of a good commander during the war. Despite delays, lack of skills, reprimands from the superiors and ruinous falls, Punzi is impermeable to criticism and attacks. Soffici’s fresh humor, initially experimented during his collaboration with the review La Ghirba, appears here fully mature. He writes with affection about Punzi, drawing the portrait of an honest man, sometimes naïve, placed in a role that does not belong to him. From a biographical perspective, when Soffici and his comrades were sent to the front, the lively life full of amusing episodes lived in the Pistoia barracks was brusquely interrupted. Until that moment, they had only an idealized image of the war. The newspapers tended to give a rhetorical representation of military life in the trenches and often hid the real number of victims. During the same period, the critic Emilio Cecchi confided to his friend Antonio Baldini that the newspapers were full of war rhetoric and that there was no more space for other arguments.46 From that moment on, Soffici began to live his direct and personal experience of a war that isolated him from groups and intellectual schools. This change in perspective, according to Mario Isnenghi, allowed Soffici to put the ‘author in touch with himself.’47 He had to say goodbye to Captain Punzi and begin a new phase of his own war. The voice of a soldier returned to greet his companions after a military mission anticipates this concrete experience of the conflict. His name is Bardelloni, a young thin man with a pale face who “was short of breath and could barely stand” (“aveva il fiato grosso e si reggeva in piedi a fatica”).48 He is a survivor of the assault to the mount Kuk and his painful narration of the battle upsets the serene calm that characterized the barrack of Pistoia. He describes “in his rough peasant language, the fire produced by the machine guns, with pellets that meowed from everywhere like angry cats cutting the men as reeds” (“col suo ruvido 45 Soffici, Atti e detti, 430. 46 Antonio Baldini and Emilio Cecchi, Carteggio 1911–1959, Maria Clotilde Angelini and Marta Bruscia, eds. (Rome: Edizioni di Storia e Letteratura, 2003), 70. 47 Isnenghi, Il mito della Grande Guerra, 36. 48 Soffici, Atti e detti, 427.

An Antihero in Command

187

linguaggio da contadino [descrive] il fuoco delle mitragliatrici, con le pallottole che miagolavano da tutte le parti come gatti arrabbiati tagliando gli uomini come fossero canne”), while his company is almost completely decimated, “he had seen his companions fall next to him, friends, superiors disemboweled, blinded, burned like weeds” (“egli s’era visto cascare accanto compagni, amici, superiori, sbudellati, accecati, abbruciacchiati come ceppi”).”49 With these words Bardelloni draws a tragic and bloody representation of the war. This is in sharp contrast to the comedy provided during the military training in Pistoia. Yet again, a superficial reading of Soffici’s war narrations – particularly Kobilek and La ritirata del Friuli – could suggest his unconditional support of the Italian intervention into wwi. But Captain Punzi’s curious e­ xperiences allow us to reconsider some elements that the author introduces in his war-centered works. In them, it is possible to find, first, an unexpected tendency to criticize various aspects of military hierarchies. In Soffici’s rhetorical interventionism, there are clues and personal opinions that make his ideological position more dynamic. The author usually “acquits all his generals,” 50 because of their innate nobility and integrity; but he criticizes officers who have become leaders only because of the urgency of the war and not because of their personal qualities. These shortcomings recall Punzi, an awkward and unprepared c­ ivilian who was sent to play a crucial role in war. The contrast in Soffici’s perception of the war compared to his better-known works is also evident in Errore di coincidenza; in this work, soldiers in his military camp are described as “characters who recited a farce” (“personaggi che recitassero una farsa”).51 For instance, there is a Second Lieutenant who is ridiculously described as a man who has suddenly turned into “an old man full of ailments and a bit like a comedian” (“vecchio pieno di acciacchi e un po’ commediante”) who wants to “appeal to his audience’s sense of compassion” (“far compassione alla platea”), wearing a “scanty and dirty blue shirt that hangs down from his curved and narrow shoulders like a rag on a clothesstand” (“meschina e non troppo pulita camicia bluastra che gli pende giù dalle spalle curve e strette, come un cencio da un attaccapanni”).52 There is also a chubby and rosy colonel who visits Soffici in the military hospital, and who advises the doctors to prescribe a purgative to the patient, even though he has neither a medical background nor any knowledge of the patient’s health. The 49 Soffici, Atti e detti, 428. 50 Capecchi, “Fronte esterno,” 464. “Soffici […] assolve tutti i suoi generali.” 51 Ardengo Soffici, Errore di coincidenza, Opere. III. Errore di coincidenza. Kobilek. La ritirata del Friuli. Atti e detti memorabili del capitano Punzi (Florence: Vallecchi, 1960), 11. 52 Soffici, Errore di coincidenza, 31.

188

Orlando

colonel arrogantly believes that there are no limits to his leadership and that this is reason enough to give orders in the hospital wards. The author/patient writes that he has thought for a long time about this episode with a feeling of amazement, nausea, and exhilaration. This scene, both ridiculous and worrying, exemplifies the military hierarchy, usually regarded as a bizarre and odd comedy by the soldiers.53 Soffici’s impatience with military ritualism is also manifested privately. On 30 June 1916, he wrote to Prezzolini that, during a visit of another colonel, they had to go through a long list of formalities, wasting much time in useless procedures without any purpose.54 An ambiguous attitude also links the narrator to the military leaders in the incipit of Kobilek. General Luigi Capello is appointed commander of the ­Gorizia area by Cadorna because he is considered very clever and energetic and capable of winning everyone’s trust.55 Capello makes a good impression – on separate occasions – on both Filippo Tommaso Marinetti56 and Soffici; this positive opinion is confirmed in a private letter addressed to Prezzolini on 28 November 1917. In it, Soffici states in no uncertain terms that his general is a role model deserving absolute deference.57 The narrator explains that Capello’s humility is typical of a man who is both superior and realistic. Privately, the general is often happy and informal; he likes to joke with everybody, making everyone around him feel safe and secure. Soffici also describes an episode that involves both soldiers and officers; in it, he finds in Capello the typical nature of an ingenious man, open to all wonders.58 Major Alessandro Casati, the dedicatee of Kobilek, is another figure w ­ orthy of praise. This officer has the aristocratic traits and attitude of the “true leader” (“vero Capo”), wearing his “ample grey raincoat” (“ampio impermeabile ­grigio”) with a “high and rigid collar that seemed to extend his patrician face, pale behind the black beard, illuminated by his great dark eyes, firm under the visor of the shiny helmet dripping with rain” (“con un colletto alto e rigido che sembrava rialzare la sua faccia patrizia, pallida nel nero della barba e illuminata dai grandi occhi scuri, fermi sotto la visiera dell’elmetto lucido grondante di

53 Soffici, Errore di coincidenza, 74. 54 Prezzolini and Soffici, Carteggio, 276. 55 Alessandro Barbero, Caporetto (Bari: Laterza, 2017), 52. 56 In March 1917, Marinetti meets Capello and describes him as a man “fat jovial w ­ ithout severity” who seems to be “an Easter egg”: in reality, he is “a strong intelligent and ­energetic General” (Filippo Tommaso Marinetti, Taccuini 1915–1917 [Bologna: Il Mulino, 1987], 63). 57 Ardengo Soffici, Lettere a Prezzolini, ed. Anna Maria Manetti Piccinini (Florence: ­Vallecchi, 1988), 124. 58 Soffici, Errore di coincidenza, 86.

An Antihero in Command

189

pioggia”).59 According to Soffici, the box of his gas mask and a “long strong baton that supported him as a shepherd’s staff” give Casati the powerful aspect of a brave medieval knight, always ready to fight. His baton is like a noble scepter and the whole description seems to be a Medieval eulogy of a knight to his king. During a battle, the major takes on an even more noble aspect: [è] impassibile nella bufera delle pallottole, sordo a tutti i consigli di ­prudenza degli ufficiali, e dei soldati. […] Andava su, appoggiato a quel suo rozzo bastone, le lunghe gambe [...] attaccando a gran passi calmi la montata petrigna con le sue suole.60 [he is] impassive in the storm of pellets, deaf to all the suggestions of ­prudence coming from both other officers and his soldiers. […] He used his rough baton, while his long legs [...] tackled with long and calm ­footsteps the rocky mountain climb. The battleground seems to be less insidious for Casati because of his extraordinary physical characteristics. In fact, the major is described like a giant or a mythological titan from the Greek epics. Another positive figure, in Soffici’s opinion, is Captain Giovanni Borghi, praised not only for his communicative abilities, but also for his broad and solid culture.61 Soffici praises the lawyer/captain’s lack of “low egotism, t­ ypical of the tribunals, that takes the form of venal sophistry and trappings, as can be found among too many of his colleagues, here and everywhere” (“basso ­egotismo tribunalesco che si risolve in sofismi venali e trappole, come accade in troppi suoi colleghi, da noi e dappertutto”).62 This consideration is not marginal. Aimed at the military leadership, it reveals a merciless realism toward the military hierarchy that is far from the intellectual propaganda, typical of the interventionists, and exposes a crack in Soffici’s war rhetoric. Descriptions of soldiers, however, are always conditioned by Soffici’s ideology. He never criticizes the Italian intervention into the war, nor does he hide his admiration for the soldiers who fight on the field and remain cheerful, light-hearted, and witty, considering every battle like a party.63 In reality, the situation of soldiers was quite different. Indeed, minister Leonida ­Bissolati 59 Soffici, Errore di coincidenza, 88. 60 Soffici, Errore di coincidenza, 183. 61 Soffici, Errore di coincidenza, 104. 62 Soffici, Errore di coincidenza, 103. 63 Soffici, Errore di coincidenza, 113.

190

Orlando

decided to visit Soffici’s military camp to keep the troops’ spirits up. In a gesture that underscores his humbleness, the minister chose to share his lunch with the soldiers, addressing them with moving words “inspired by love for the nation and the whole of humanity” (“ispirate all’amor della patria e dell’umanità”).64 Yet Soffici perfectly understood that Bissolati belonged to an ageing and outdated social class, made of individuals who embodied the ‘old’ Italy that existed prior to the Great War. Those men believe that “beautiful words, typical of parliamentary eloquence and patriotic academy, along with ideological sentences and abstract minute moralizing, can satisfy people to whom we ask again and again for their lives” (“belle parole dell’eloquenza parlamentare e dell’accademia patriottica, che le frasi ideologiche, i minuti moralismi astratti possano soddisfare della gente alla quale si domanda e ridomanda la vita”).65 From the beginning of the conflict the political class seems to be removed from the experience of war faced by people belonging to the lower classes. While the upper class decided to fight against Austria-Hungary, they remained far from the battleground, safely protected by their social position. Unlike them, Minister Bissolati, already expelled in 1912 from the Socialist Party for his support of the Italian intervention in the Libyan war, mediated the relationship between the government and the army. He was a meek and hesitant politician; yet he tried to “take the nation closer to the people and the people closer to the nation.”66 He had a distorted vision of himself and was sure that all the soldiers considered him a great “soldier-minister.”67 But his attempt to rouse the army was ineffective. General Cadorna also chose to deny the minister “access to the battle zone” and attempted to prevent the government from interfering in military activities.68 Soffici also senses the contradictions of Bissolati’s role and writes that the approaches used by the government “before the war to dominate the crowds, now have lost their effectiveness.” For years, the politicians had spoken to the public about “Homeland, civilization, freedom, enemies and military victory,” not explaining the “real meaning of these words” and disseminating among the working class wrong, vilifying principles. This strategy was an act of “grim ingenuity.”69 Soffici’s criticism matures and turns violent; it is clearly directed at Leonida Bissolati, one of the Socialist leading figures and a strong interventionist, who hypocritically joins the troops near the front. This suggests that, in the tragic 64 Soffici, Errore di coincidenza, 115. 65 Soffici, Errore di coincidenza, 115–116. 66 Mario Isnenghi and Giorgio Rochat, La Grande Guerra. 1914–1918 (Milan: La Nuova Italia, 2000), 311. 67 Mario Isnenghi and Giorgio Rochat, La Grande Guerra. 1914–1918, 310. 68 Mario Isnenghi and Giorgio Rochat, La Grande Guerra. 1914–1918, 195. 69 Mario Isnenghi and Giorgio Rochat, La Grande Guerra. 1914–1918, 116.

An Antihero in Command

191

period of war, the narrator despises the distance between the political class and the combatants. In the face of the political class’s intellectual and moral deficiency, he praises yet again the pragmatic Italian soldiers who feel sorry for the enemies, showing “their noble instinct of citizen, deeply penetrated in their sense of justice, sharpened and tempered by centuries of civilization.”70 For Soffici, the Italian soldier is romantically heroic and immortal. He is the custodian of a type of nobility encompassed in the formulation “good soldiers.”71 This expression is mentioned several times also in his correspondence with Giuseppe Ungaretti. Still, when the narrator describes the battles, he uses some of the rhetorical solutions learned and tested in earlier years and, more specifically, when he was in contact with some of the members of the Futurist group. For example, he writes about the exaltation produced among the troops by the “din” and the “raging cackle” of the machine gun, by the “raging roar of gunshots” (“schiamazzo furente delle mitragliatrici”) and by “cries of infantries thrown into the assault” (“urli delle fanterie scagliate all’assalto”).72 Interestingly, some of the scenes he describes recall Umberto Boccioni’s lively and violent colors: Riflettori nostri ed austriaci allagavan la valle di un mobile chiarore lattiginoso, per entro il quale sbocciavano stelle radiose di luce bianca, ­splendevano steli e fiori di razzi, verdi, rossi; segnalazioni fitte e rapide a tutte le artiglierie vicine e lontane. In quelle luci di sagra, la lotta ­montava e rifluiva con un ritmo come d’onda arrovellata che ci faceva trepidare insieme di gioia e d’angoscia. […] Le valli intorno, fronde e ­tenebrose, brillano a ogni istante di fiammelle e di lampi istantanei che riempiono il cielo d’un bagliore violaceo di temporale.73 Italian and Austrian tracers flooded the valley with their milky light. Radiant stars of white light budded; stems and flowers of rockets shone; they were green and red. Dense and rapid signals were directed to near and distant artillery spotters. In these festive lights, the fight intensified and flowed with a rhythm as of wrestling waves that made us tremble together, both for joy and anguish. [...] The valleys around, deep and ­tenebrous, gleam constantly with small flames and sudden lightnings that fill the sky with a purplish flash as if under a storm. 70 71

Mario Isnenghi and Giorgio Rochat, La Grande Guerra. 1914–1918, 117. Giuseppe Ungaretti, Lettere a Soffici. 1917–1930, ed. Paola Montefoschi and Leone Piccioni (Florence: Sansoni, 1981), 13. Letter written on February 8, 1918. 72 Soffici, Errore di coincidenza, 120. 73 Soffici, Errore di coincidenza, 120–1.

192

Orlando

As for Futurist artists and writers, initially the noise of bullets that splits the air is almost sensual, because it is like “a whistle, a caterwauling, a buzzing, and sometimes it resembles a long and refined kiss that even has a sweet and voluptuous core” (“un fischio, un miagolio, un ronzio, e talvolta rassomiglia a quello di un bacio, lungo, fine, e che ha persino qualcosa di dolce e voluttuoso”).74 Soon after, the sound of the machine gun becomes the gloomy roar of a bloodthirsty animal that screams “like a wicked beast” (“come una bestia malvagia”), and spits flames and poison in the narrator’s face.75 In Kobilek the interventionist rhetoric of war prevails, but in La ritirata del Friuli the author’s estrangement from a part of the leadership is already clear. At the end of October 1917, when the Italian army was about to collapse in Caporetto, Capello’s renal disease suddenly worsened. Because of this, the general asked to be exempted from command. In response, many journalists took the opportunity to criticize him. In a letter addressed to his newspaper director (26 October 1917), Rino Alessi wrore that Capello “ran off to Verona” and that Cadorna was furious at him.76 Cadorna objected to Capello’s idea to plan “a general retreat from the whole first line of the front.”77 After a heated argument, according to Alessi, Capello “ran away on the pretext of his illness.”78 Soon after, he telegraphed to Cadorna “to make himself available again.”79 But Cadorna finally refused. In another letter written on 25 October, Alessi ­commended Cadorna for “his strength,” “his perseverance,” “his faith” and “his decision-making ability.” These qualities differentiated him from Capello who was untrustworthy and acted like a “swine,” because he was only a “vain who ‘went on sick call’ in the culminating moment of the battle.”80 General Capello is criticized by Cadorna for seeking “excessive limelight.”81 He is also pilloried by his soldiers because, in their view, he creates “a governance based on terror, threats and cruelty,”82 pushing “his subordinates to maintain the discipline using shootings.”83 In spite of this, Soffici’s opinion never changes; rather, it remains positive. In La ritirata del Friuli, after the illness, Capello 74 Soffici, Errore di coincidenza, 128. 75 Soffici, Errore di coincidenza, 172. 76 Rino Alessi, Dall’Isonzo al Piave. Lettere clandestine di un corrispondente di guerra (Milan: Mondadori, 1966), 141. 77 Rino Alessi, Dall’Isonzo al Piave, 141. 78 Rino Alessi, Dall’Isonzo al Piave, 141. 79 Rino Alessi, Dall’Isonzo al Piave, 141–2. 80 Rino Alessi, Dall’Isonzo al Piave, 146. 81 Barbero, Caporetto, 54. 82 Barbero, Caporetto, 66. 83 Barbero, Caporetto, 63.

An Antihero in Command

193

appears “emaciated and paler than usual” (“più pallido del solito ed assai deperito”),84 yet he maintains his nobility and steadiness. And this transmits an exceptional sense of calm and confidence to Soffici and his companions.85 Also in this work, Soffici defends Capello and other generals of the army; the same does not apply to officers of lower rank. As with Captain Punzi, officers are figures that must often forcibly adapt to the circumstances of war, lacking both the preparation and the talent that military roles require. This is also the case of the officers who gather in the headquarters of the regiment, rigged up near the barnyard of a farmer. In that small room there are many officers who do not impress the narrator. Some of them look like “very ordinary and rather vulgar people” (“gente assai ordinaria ed un poco volgare”) who are “more worried about their own discomforts than about the general situation they can see [...] around” (più preoccupata delle proprie scomodità che di quello che si può vedere […] intorno”).86 In a similar episode set in a modest cottage, Soffici pinpoints the same small-mindedness: he notices, for example, that several aspiring officers are boys who have just turned twenty years old and are invested of their rank by force. Therefore, they are unable to understand the gravity and greatness that their new responsibility requires. In fact, they cannot shoulder their duties. Specifically, because the group has too many flaws that originate in the errors of military leadership, the young officers are incapable of doing justice to their new roles. They have “little learning and are too selfish, like the bourgeois. They are neither animated by living faith nor by a civil and national conscience” (“digiuni di vera cultura, troppo borghesemente egoisti, troppo poco animati di viva fede e di coscienza civile e nazionale”).87 Indeed, in the last phase of the First World War there was a great imbalance between the soldiers’ maturity and the officers’ young age. They were sorely ill-prepared with no experience of war and life in the barracks; and this prevented them to assert their authority. The fact that they were often made officers solely because they possessed high school diplomas while lacking any practical experience caused great ­confusion among them. Unlike Germany, a nation with a long industrial tradition and a competent working class that provided the army with people skilled in command and organization of the masses, Italy presented a different situation.

84

Ardengo Soffici, La ritirata del Friuli, in Opere. III. Errore di coincidenza. Kobilek. La ritirata del Friuli. Atti e detti memorabili del capitano Punzi (Florence: Vallecchi, 1960), 230. 85 Soffici, La ritirata del Friuli, 231. 86 Soffici, La ritirata del Friuli, 237. 87 Soffici, La ritirata del Friuli, 242.

194

Orlando

With its agricultural economy, it could only provide people “taken from their offices or from their studies” and “transform them into officers.”88 During the chaotic retreat from Caporetto, Soffici emphasizes the inefficiency of lower rank officers on more than one occasion. During this specific phase of the conflict, the narrator meets some of them who passively observe the operations, while others yell and run around aimlessly. Near one of the few military bridges that allow the passage of fugitives, troops, and war ­material, Soffici even meets “an enraged major, standing in the middle of the road with a revolver in his hand” who prevents anyone from crossing as a way “to vaunt his authority” (“un maggiore inviperito, ritto in mezzo alla strada, con la rivoltella in pugno, […] per fare sfoggio della sua autorità”).89 This paradoxical and dramatically harmful situation causes a line twelve kilometers long, a river made of hundreds of thousands of soldiers. Instead of freeing the bridge to let the crowd cross, people in commanding positions stop soldiers and civilians, holding back both the rest of the army and the civilians.90 In another episode the protagonist panics. Soffici recounts the major’s frightened attitude at the thought of being bombed by the enemy’s artillery. As the driver that follows Capello’s vehicle, the major is terrified because the general’s car has its lights on. During every break, when the general exits the car holding a map, the major’s impatience changes into exasperation, causing a sense of profound indignation and “a deaf disgust” (“un sordo ribrezzo”) in Soffici.91 In the last phases of the war, Soffici openly admits that “General Cadorna had better search for the cowardice somewhere else than in his Soldiers” (“[I]o dico che Cadorna avrebbe fatto meglio a cercare la vigliaccheria altrove che nei suoi Soldati”) because they are individuals who “showed their value during eleven terrible battles” (“gli hanno fatto vedere chi sono in undici tremende battaglie”).92 He writes to Prezzolini defending the soldiers’ innocence and blaming the high commanders of the troops for Caporetto.93 The weak ring of the chain of command, once more, is the group of intermediate officers who do not measure up to the roles assigned to them. In particular, he writes about three characters, chosen for the exemplary and “terrible”94 misery that they reveal to him. This is the case, for instance, of the Commander of Army Corps, known with the moniker of “swan of Creda” (“Il cigno di Creda”): 88 Barbero, Caporetto, 395. 89 Soffici, La ritirata del Friuli, 307. 90 Soffici, La ritirata del Friuli, 307–8. 91 Soffici, La ritirata del Friuli, 337–8. 92 Soffici, La ritirata del Friuli, 362. 93 Soffici, Lettere a Prezzolini, 123. Letter written on 28 November 1917. 94 Soffici, La ritirata del Friuli, 363.

An Antihero in Command

195

aveva fatto della propria sede una specie di villeggiatura, con un giardinetto, una vasca dove aveva fatto portare un cigno, e ci viveva in pijama, dando dei five o’clock teas, ma che al momento dell’offensiva se l’è trovata presa improvvisamente a cannonate, le quali hanno fatto saltar tutto.95 [He] transformed his office into a sort of holiday resort, with a small ­garden and a pond where he put a swan. He lived there wearing a pyjama, organizing five o’clock tea parties. During the enemy attack, his kingdom was suddenly destroyed by the cannon-shots. There is also another chief-of-staff, near Caporetto, who is considered “the soldiers’ terror” because of his strange habit of imposing immediate haircuts to all soldiers. This character can be identified with colonel Giorgio Boccacci, “the man who invented the dreaded checkpoints to cut his soldiers’ hair. A fanatic of discipline and physical exercises, he made his troops’ life impossible even while they were off duty.”96 Soffici also writes about a military officer who, while strolling around the empty rooms of a castle, puts on the owner’s clothes. When the enemy arrives, he wears them, carefully disguising himself as the custodian of the castle. Through this expedient, he becomes an unusual antihero masked like today’s enemies of comic-book superheroes.97 The ­chaotic retreat from Caporetto discloses the weaknesses of an army that is controlled by a class of inept officers; officers who are weak and incompetent. In this respect, the daily sacrifices of thousands of young workers and farmers become useless, and even the sensible directives imparted by General Capello and Captain Casati fall on deaf ears. Although captain Punzi’s ineptitude and awkwardness during training exercises produce only gaffes and farcical episodes, the officers’ incompetence in the face of the advancing enemy during the retreat from Caporetto is tinged with tragedy. The fragility of the army’s hierarchical structure emerges, showing its deep fractures when confronted by the reality of war. Even a strong interventionist like Soffici, possessing great intellectual honesty, not only understands, but also reveals them. Studying his works, one can reflect on the importance of leadership and the inner strength which cannot be taught solely through physical training. Thus, through these works one discovers an unexpected Soffici whose authorial persona is no less complex than his companions

95 Soffici, La ritirata del Friuli, 363. 96 Barbero, Caporetto, 70. 97 Soffici, La ritirata del Friuli, 363.

196

Orlando

of adventure in La Voce – among them, Giovanni Boine,98 the author of the controversial Discorsi militari.99 Yet in his works, Soffici loses his ideologist’s mask and wears the reporter’s one. Through this maneuver, readers discover an author who, in the comic experiences of an awkward commander, reveals his secret impatience with the military hierarchy and with the principles that artificially regulate life, death, and honor in war. Bibliography Alessi, Rino. Dall’Isonzo al Piave. Lettere clandestine di un corrispondente di guerra. Milan: Mondadori, 1966. Apollinaire, Guillaume. Croniques d’art (1902–1918). Paris: Gallimard, 1960. Baldini, Antonio and Cecchi, Emilio. Carteggio 1911–1959. Rome: Edizioni di Storia e Letteratura, 2003. Barbero, Alessandro. Caporetto. Bari: Laterza, 2017. Bartolini, Simonetta. Ardengo Soffici. Il romanzo di una vita. Florence: Le lettere, 2009. Boine, Giovanni. Discorsi militari. Florence: Libreria della Voce, 1915. Capecchi, Giovanni. ʻFronte esterno, fronte interno e fronte interiore: diari e memorie di guerra di Valentino Coda, Giuseppe Personeni, Ardengo Soffici e Arturo Stanghelliniʼ, in In trincea. Gli scrittori alla grande guerra. Atti del Convegno Internazionale di Studi (Firenze, 22–24 ottobre 2015), ed. by Simone Magherini. Florence: Sei, 2017, pp. 457–76. Cecchi, Emilio. ʻLibri nuovi e usatiʼ, La Tribuna, December 16, 1921, p. 3. Föcking, Marc. ʻAmiamo la guerra? «Der Sturm», «Lacerba» e l’inizio della prima guerra mondialeʼ, In trincea. Gli scrittori alla grande guerra. Atti del Convegno Internazionale di Studi (Firenze, 22–24 ottobre 2015), ed. by Simone Magherini. Florence: Sei, 2017, pp. 131–50. Isnenghi, Mario. Il mito della Grande Guerra. Bologna: Il Mulino, 2007. Isnenghi, Mario, and Pozzato, Paolo. Oltre Caporetto. La memoria in cammino. Voci dai due fronti. Venice: Marsilio, 2018. Isnenghi, Mario, and Rochat, Giorgio. La Grande Guerra. 1914–1918. Milan: La Nuova Italia, 2000. Marinetti, Filippo Tommaso. Taccuini 1915–1917. Bologna: Il Mulino, 1987.

98 99

Enrico Riccardo Orlando, “L’esperienza della Grande Guerra in Giovanni Boine,” in ­ appresentazioni della Grande Guerra. Atti delle Rencontres de l’Archet. Morgex, 15–20 R settembre 2014 (Morgex: “Centro di Studi storico-letterari Natalino Sapegno”, 2015), 243–49. Boine, Giovanni, Discorsi militari (Florence: Libreria della Voce, 1915).

An Antihero in Command

197

Orlando, Enrico Riccardo. ʻL’esperienza della Grande Guerra in Giovanni Boineʼ, in Rappresentazioni della Grande Guerra. Atti delle Rencontres de l’Archet. Morgex, 15–20 settembre 2014. Morgex: “Centro di Studi storico-letterari Natalino Sapegno,” 2015, pp. 243–49. Prezzolini, Giuseppe, and Soffici, Ardengo. Carteggio. I. 1907–1918. Ed. Mario Richter. Rome: Edizioni di Storia e Letteratura, 1977. Soffici, Ardengo. Lemmonio Boreo. Florence: Vallecchi, 1921. Soffici, Ardengo. Opere. III. Errore di coincidenza. Kobilek. La ritirata del Friuli. Atti e detti memorabili del capitano Punzi. Florence: Vallecchi, 1960. Soffici, Ardengo. Lettere a Prezzolini, ed. by Anna Maria Manetti Piccinini. Florence: Vallecchi, 1988. Storchi, Simona. ‘Ardengo Soffici’s “Rete mediterranea”. The Aesthetics and Politics of Post-war Modernism’, Annali d’Italianistica, 33, 2015: 321–340. Titta Rosa, Giovanni, ed., Narratori Contemporanei. Milan: Il Primato Editoriale, 1921. Ungaretti, Giuseppe. Lettere a Soffici. 1917–1930. Ed. Paola Montefoschi and Leone ­Piccioni. Florence: Sansoni, 1981. Wehle, Winfried. ʻGuerra cubista. Pace fascista. Come l’arte fa politica. Il caso Ardengo Sofficiʼ, in In trincea. Gli scrittori alla grande guerra. Atti del Convegno Internazionale di Studi (Firenze, 22–24 ottobre 2015), ed. by Simone Magherini. Florence: Sei, 2017: 271–308.

Chapter 10

Between Epic and Anti-Epic: Observations on Italian Literature of the Great War Tancredi Artico Abstract In contrast with a recent study by Simonetta Bartolini, L’epica della Grande Guerra. Il fallimento degli intellettuali ([The Epics of the Great War. The Failure of Intellectuals], 2015), Tancredi Artico attempts to distance war narratives from the critical lenses imposed by ancient epic tradition and proposes to identify a corpus of texts which becomes emblematic of this anti-rhetoric, incorporating works like Gadda’s Giornale di Guerra e di prigionia [Journal of War and Imprisonment], Palazzeschi’s Due imperi… mancati [Two Missed Empires], and many others.

…

Sognavamo nelle notti feroci Sogni densi e violenti Sognati con anima e corpo: Tornare; mangiare; raccontare. Primo Levi, La tregua1

…

L’onore… ’n culo, ’n culo, l’onore… Ciccina Circé non conosce altro onore che quello di buscarsi la vita. Questo è onore: restare in vita. Stefano D’Arrigo, Horcynus Orca2 1 Primo Levi, Opere, 3 vols (Turin: Einaudi, 1987–1990), vol. I, La tregua, 213. The English translation comes from The Truce, in If This Is A Man. The Truce, trans. Stuart Woolf (London: Abacus, 2013), 197: “Dreams used to come in the brutal nights, / Dreams crowding and violent, / Dreamt with body and soul, / Of going home, of eating, of telling our story.” 2 Stefano D’Arrigo, Horcynus Orca (Milan: Mondadori, 1975), 348: “Honor… up yours, up yours… Ciccina Circé does not know any other honor than that of chasing her life. This is honor: to

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2023 | DOI:10.1163/9789004548145_012

Between Epic and Anti-Epic

∵

199

In Baracca 15C, a diary printed in 1961, but reminiscent of his captivity during the First World War, Bonaventura Tecchi states that “not everything in battles is as heroic as one reads in schoolbooks or as children used to imagine long ago” (“non tutto è eroico durante le battaglie, come si legge nei libri di scuola o come i ragazzi di un tempo immaginavano”). He continues by saying that “there are folds during warfare in the front line, like those among the pages or pictures in a book. Folds that crease the page and tend to hide the picture” (“ci sono pieghe durante i fatti d’arme in prima linea, come nelle pagine o nelle figure di un libro. Pieghe che sgualciscono la pagina, tendono a nascondere la figura”).3 A multi-decorated veteran captured by the Austro-Hungarians during the battle of Caporetto in October 1917, Tecchi neither diminishes the value of the war experience nor detracts from it being truly heroic. On the contrary, he clearly undergirds the inadequacy of literature to represent war by means of ancient classical forms and styles. Consequently, he splits the boundaries between life in the trenches and warfare as they are told in ancient epic literature. Tecchi’s post facto meditations on his experiences are shared by most Italian writers of the Great War. A closer look at the corpus of war diaries and novels reveals how acts and examples of bravery and courage consistently emerge. Nevertheless, most works depict those feats without heroic exaggeration. Writers avoid the trappings of non-verisimilitude; in fact, they try to resist the impulse of a sublimation of reality.4 In these readings war events must stay alive.” The translations are mine, unless otherwise specified. The Truce and Horcynus Orca, both published after 1960, concern the Second World War but show many affinities with the literature of the previous war when dealing with imprisonments and returns. I have decided to quote them, in the epigraph and further on, to stress the truthful heritage concealed in the otherwise abhorred First World War literary corpus, a heritage which shapes a deep moral lesson instead of a superficial example of heroism. 3 Bonaventura Tecchi, Baracca 15C (Milan: Bompiani, 1961), 97. 4 Or, on the other hand, the lack of memory: see, for instance, Emilio Lussu, Un anno sull’Altipiano, 5th ed. (Turin: Einaudi, 2014), 9, 71–72, 139, and, most of all, 41 (see note 30 below); ­Attilio Frescura, Diario di un imboscato (Milan: Mursia, 2015), 248–53; and the preface to Paolo Monelli, Le scarpe al sole. Cronache di gaie e tristi avventure d’alpini di muli e di vino (Vicenza: Neri Pozza, 1994), 8–9. On the inaccuracy of memory see Maria Bartoletti, “Memorialistica di guerra,” in Storia letteraria d’Italia, ed. Armando Balduino, xi: Il Novecento. Dall’inizio del secolo al primo conflitto mondiale, ed. Gregorio Luti (Padua: Vallardi, 1989), i, 623–53; and, with a different approach, Fabio Caffarena, Lettere dalla Grande Guerra. Scritture del quotidiano, monumenti della memoria, fonti per la storia. Il caso italiano (Milan: Unicopli, 2005). Finally,

200

Artico

be ­celebrated, not necessarily through fictitious accounts, but by emphasizing historical truth. They must also capture how meaningful these events are for the self, next to, or in spite of, their significance for the whole society.5 This outlook on heroism is far from universally accepted. In a recent essay, Simonetta Bartolini states the opposite and reads a substantial number of literary diaries through the lens of ancient epic, particularly Homer’s. Thus, she endeavors to demonstrate that the quotations from classic works are indications of the breakdown of this literature as modern epic and its inability to establish a new narrative form. In her book L’epica della Grande Guerra, diaries as well as novels are compared with an indistinct notion of ‘epic.’ In doing so, Bartolini contends that “taken as a whole, war narratives offer a Homer-style epic” (“l’insieme dei racconti di guerra ripropone un’epica alla maniera omerica”).6 What is more, Bartolini points out that First World War literature could not provide a national war-tale; she also asserts that it fails in its attempt to describe a modern warfare as Homer did. As a result, according to her, it does not garner the importance of war as a radical break with tradition and strives, though inadequately, to narrate that turning point using archaic forms – for example, in the representation of heroism, antagonism, power, death as transcendence, heavenly intervention, to name but a few classical themes. Arguably, Bartolini’s analysis raises some intriguing theoretical questions that should be clarified. First: how can classical paradigms be extended to modern war literature? Second, what are the consequences of this scholarly approach? In response to Bartolini’s essay, I briefly address these two issues by detailing some explanatory examples of attitudes towards heroism and anti-epic rhetorical structures present in First World War literature. In doing so, I will demonstrate that ancient epic could not serve as a touchstone for see the thought-provoking considerations on American literature stated in Kali Tal’s Worlds of Hurt: Reading the Literatures of Trauma (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995). 5 The exaltation of a state’s foundation story is an epic prerogative, as stated by Eleazar ­Moiseevič Meletinskij, Introduzione alla poetica storica dell’epos e del romanzo, trans. by ­Chiara Paniccia (Bologna: Il Mulino, 1993), David Quint, Epic and Empire. Politics and Generic Form from Virgil to Milton (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993), and Sergio Zatti, The Quest for Epic. From Ariosto to Tasso, Introduction by Albert Russell Ascoli, ed. Dennis ­Looney, trans. Sally Hill and Dennis Looney (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2006). 6 Simonetta Bartolini, L’epica della grande guerra. Il fallimento degli intellettuali (Milan: Luni, 2016), 37. Despite its inaccuracies, Bartolini’s book is full of good textual proofs and analyzes a substantial number of texts.

Between Epic and Anti-Epic

201

modern trench literature. This is because, on the one hand, diaries and testimonials do not have the same purpose as epic poems.7 On the other, both diaries and ­testimonials patently aim at negating the exaggerated epic tone, as for ­example in journalism, and rendering the association with the classics implausible. The quotes are indeed consciously used for a demystification of the classical epic paradigm. Herein lies the real innovation of this type of literature: demystification prevents authors from building a modern epic based on the ancient one. At the beginning of L’epica della Grande Guerra, Bartolini details a theoretical framework that allows to recognize a misunderstanding regarding epic and war testimonies. In a concise statement, she defines the path of Italian epic from the Middle Ages to the 20th Century under the precarious concept of nationhood fashioning: L’Italia infatti deve aspettare il ’900 (dal ’300 in poi l’epica letteraria si esprime con Dante e il suo grandioso poema cristiano, che sostituisce quello di un’identità nazionale, e sulle cui tracce proseguirà la tensione epica dei secoli successivi) e il lavacro di sangue della Grande Guerra, per poter esprimere una propria epica nazionale.8 Italy waited until the 1900s and the bloodbath of the Great War to voice a national epic. From the 1300s onwards, epic expresses itself through Dante and his Christian epic poem, which substitutes any kind of poem focused on nationhood, and on whose tracks the epic tension of the ­subsequent centuries will proceed. This assertion contains at least two inaccuracies. Firstly, it is questionable to define Dante’s poem as “epic.” It was read as the masterpiece of Italian awareness and national consciousness, but only after the eighteenth century and during the Risorgimento. This reading coincided with the shaping of Italian

7 Surely one of the main problems of Bartolini’s investigation is the confusion of the t­ heoretical frame: when she talks about epic, she uses categories that belong to other genres, as on p. 182, and misunderstands the rhetoric of the epic, as on p. 238. More generally, Bartolini uses the word “epic” in a generic sense, as an adjective, without considering the term’s h ­ istorical ­perspective and its structural hallmarks. 8 Bartolini, L’epica della grande guerra, 42.

202

Artico

nationhood and the development of the ‘idea of nation.’9 Secondly, Bartolini forgets to consider the ‘modern’ epics that has developed throughout the Renaissance. These include, among others, the touchstone poems of Boiardo, Ariosto, and Tasso. Perhaps, it could be argued that they are not examples of a national epic because, for all these poets, nation means the Duchy of Este. But they certainly embody the Italian epic and a genre that did not consider the Divine Comedy among their major sources of inspiration.10 As a result, stating that Italy does not have a national epic tradition is a simplification that leads to a misinterpretation of First World War literature. This point is highly ­contentious, given that the epic genre was expected to fill the identity gap that haunts the Italian national conscience. Moreover, as to the national character of epic, to adopt nationhood as a point of view is to superimpose the interpretative system elaborated for epics on a non-epic corpus of texts. This is a theoretical inaccuracy. Great War ­literature radiates an epic-heroic halo because of the themes it touches; but it is not epic at all when compared with classical epic. Considering war literature as epic is surely inappropriate; its heroes do not resemble Achilles at all. Yet, no writers affirmed that they would narrate the story of peerless champions sacrificing their lives for a just cause! In truth, most of the authors tell the deeds of ­humble infantrymen – as will be demonstrated. These introductory reflections usher in a larger question concerning literary genres, while suggesting three characteristics of epic poetry that deny the diaries’ status of epic texts: collectivity, heroism, and imitation (in the classical sense). The discussion will encompass a wide range of texts in order to draw a bigger picture of epic demystification and its underlying presence in World War i Italian literature. First, the notion of storytelling as a social experience, conveyed through epic, is largely dismissed in Great War narrative. This literature was (apparently, at least) an instrument to enhance group identity, but it did not convey 9

10

The ‘idea of nation’ is recent. It came about in the 18th century, and it cannot be taken as a parameter for interpreting epics. I take the expression from Federico Chabod, L’idea di Nazione, Armando Saitta and Ernesto Sestan, eds. (Bari: Laterza, 1961). Another ­intriguing essay is Alberto Mario Banti’s La Nazione del Risorgimento. Parentela, santità e onore all’origine dell’Italia unita (Turin: Einaudi, 2000), which argues how the sense of ­awareness of belonging to a nation was not a political feeling. The bibliography on this theme is vast. In addition to the titles given here at note 3, see Antonio Belloni, Il poema epico e mitologico (Padua: Vallardi, 1912) and Marco Arnaudo, Dante barocco. L’influenza della Divina Commedia su letteratura e cultura del Seicento ­italiano (Ravenna: Longo, 2013). Both are useful to understand Dante’s marginal role as an epic model throughout the 16th and 17th centuries.

Between Epic and Anti-Epic

203

and highlight a sense of collective triumph. Second, the diaries from the trench did not epitomize the whole society’s feelings.11 Authors speak privately, as if in confession. The sub-title of Salsa’s Trincee is emblematic: Confidenze di un fante, at times translated as “A Foot-Soldier’s Tales.”12 Here the protagonists expose their personal concept of nation and how they think one should join the community. It is inherently wrong to state that “individual anecdotes […] give life to a great choral epic, where each individual contributes to a narrative patchwork […] which calls forth the modes and characteristics of classical epic.”13 This categorization is something alien to the characters, considering that the events narrated are all private stories. Epic authors like Homer, Virgil, and Tasso, on the contrary, have the ability – and the goal – to encapsulate the feelings and anxieties of an era, something that the First World War authors did not even desire to do. Even if one accepts a more selective view of collectivity, its own f­ undamental nature and that of heroism have changed in such a way that highlights the ­difference between ancient epic and twentieth-century war literature. In the context of a global warfare in which artillery and technology prevail,14 the bravery and exploits of a single soldier completely lose importance. This is an aspect that many authors emphasize, specifically through comparisons with ancient literature. Tecchi does that, as well as Corrado Alvaro in his Vent’anni and Emilio Lussu in his Un anno sull’altipiano. These three examples, and many more, shed light on the type of heroism recognized during war. Modern heroism was completely different from the classical one – not just the literary. Indeed, the First World War dismantled the chivalric and aristocratic interpretation of warfare and its system of rules based on the notion of honor and on the disdain of death.15 A renewed sense of duty survived, especially among middle-class officers, whereas soldiers drafted from lower classes showed an inconstant patience and silent sacrifice. 11

The sublimation of a collective mindset is an epic prerogative (see the aforementioned essays by Quint and Zatti). Moreover, the fundamental Mario Isnenghi, Il mito della Grande Guerra (Bologna: Il Mulino, 1970) shows the existence of several different political mindsets in pre-war Italy that obviously do not encourage a recapitulatory epic. 12 Lucio Valent, “Sender, those who have not returned: Carlo Salsa and his Trenches,” Revue européenne d’histoire 25, no. 5 (2018): 724–45. 13 Bartolini, L’epica della grande guerra, 49: “l’aneddoticità individuale […] dà vita ad una grande epica corale alla quale ciascuno porta la tessera della propria narrazione [...] ricorre e richiama i modi e le caratteristiche dell’epica classica.” 14 See Martin Gilbert, The First World War. A Complete History (New York: Holt, 1994). 15 It is the path established by Mario Domenichelli, Cavaliere e gentiluomo. Saggio sulla ­cultura aristocratica in Europa (1513–1915), (Rome: Bulzoni, 2002).

204

Artico

These opposite attitudes are attested to in literature. In Carlo Emilio Gadda’s Giornale di guerra e di prigionia, the sense of duty appears as an unavoidable moral obligation towards the nation.16 In Attilio Frescura’s irreverent Diario di un imboscato, a detailed war diary published in 1919, loyalty is perfectly delineated. Replying to the rhetorical exaggeration of the famous journalist Arnaldo Fraccaroli, who tells the imaginary tale of a soldier refusing to leave, Frescura affirms that “our brave soldiers are men, and we appreciate them as heroes because they are men. And when they have gladly performed a heroic undertaking, they will even more happily go on leave” (“I nostri bravi soldati sono degli uomini e li apprezziamo eroi perché sono degli uomini, ed essi quando hanno compiuto lietamente un atto eroico, ancora piú lietamente se ne andranno in licenza”).17 Carlo Pastorino too, talking about the love of one’s homeland, says that it is “made of self-sacrifice and silence” (“fatto di dedizione e di silenzio”).18 We can identify the last difference between classical epic and First World War narrative in imitation. Does war literature seek to emulate the ancient epic? Suggestions and allusions establish a dialogue that does not necessarily imply the will for literary emulation. Often, quotations are consciously used to overturn the epic paradigm, while mentions of the classics could suggest a hidden echo of a particular reading.19 The relationship between Great War literature and the classics takes place through intertextuality. They may be superficial connections, we will call them ‘reminders,’ whereas Genette calls them “allusions” or a subtle interrelationship resulting from quotations or cogent references. It is important, however, to distinguish these two cases, because they do not have the same textual 16

It is sufficient to read the first pages of Carlo Emilio Gadda, Giornale di guerra e di p­ rigionia, con il «Diario di Caporetto», 5th ed. (Milan: Garzanti, 2015) to understand the romantic sense of duty most Italian graduates still had at the beginning of the war. Gadda’s perception has been well reconstructed by Antonio Daniele, La guerra di Gadda (Udine: Gaspari, 2009). 17 Frescura, Diario di un imboscato, 65. Against journalists’ exaggerations see also 92, 165–68. 18 Carlo Pastorino, La prova della fame (Genoa: Società Editrice Internazionale, 1943), 231. 19 Bartolini investigates the meta-textual function as if it were an allusion, trying to demonstrate the desire of war diaries to emulate epics. More carefuly, Andrea Binasco, “Ettore e Achille al fronte. Parametri classici e visione del corpo nella poesia della Grande Guerra,” in Essere corpo. La Prima Guerra mondiale tra letteratura e storia, ed. by Tancredi Artico (Trieste: Lint, 2016), 137–48, explains allusions to the classics as a method to elude the traumatic present. Bartolini’s survey considers a larger corpus of texts, but it employs a paradigm that could not be used in the case of Italian literature. This paradigm works well for English literature instead, as evidenced by Paul Fussell, The Great War and Modern Memory (London: Oxford University Press, 1975).

Between Epic and Anti-Epic

205

significance, even though they intertwine. Reminders establish a direct (and often broad) contact with ancient literature, an aspect which must be more thoroughly investigated by probing the interaction between quotations and the classics; for, despite their differences, those two elements cannot be separated.20 In Corrado Alvaro’s novel Vent’anni,21 Luca Fabio, the intellectual protagonist sent to the front, compares his classical memories with the present and ­concludes: “Just think how ridiculous ancient heroes are, compared to the humblest of our infantrymen” (“Pensa che cosa ridicola sono gli eroi dell’antichità in confronto al nostro più povero soldato”).22 This is an opinion shared by most Italian and European authors. Carlo Pastorino, discussing the infantrymen asserts that “these silent and resigned lice-pickers, are loftier than the heroes of all the poems” (“Questi taciti e rassegnati cercatori di pidocchi son alti più degli eroi di tutti i poemi”).23 In his Voyage au bout de la nuit, ­Louis-Ferdinand Céline, observing how the bourgeois act like heroes, says that “the poetry of heroism holds an irresistible appeal for people who aren’t involved with war, especially when they’re making piles of money out of one” (“La poésie héroïque possède sans résistance ceux qui ne vont pas à la guerre, et mieux encore ceux que la guerre est en train d’enrichir énormément”).24 These examples illustrate the contrast between the classical world and the contemporary ones that the respective authors describe. Lussu goes even further. He condemns the false heroism of those who quote Horace’s aphorism, “Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori,” that has become the emblem of an intolerable rhetoric used by those on the s­ idelines to create false expectations in public opinion.25 For those who do not experience 20

I adopt the system stated by Gérard Genette, Palimpsests. Literature in the Second Degree (Lincoln-London: University of Nebraska Press, 1997). 21 Printed for the first time in 1930, it is regarded as one of the best Italian war novels. For a complete review of the bibliography see Aldo Maria Morace, “Introduzione”, in Corrado Alvaro, Vent’anni, Aldo Maria Morace, ed. (Milan: Bompiani, 2016), 5–56 (38–54), and the later Aldo Maria Morace, Alvaro e la Grande Guerra. Stratigrafia di «Vent’anni» (Rome: Sapienza Università Editrice, 2018). Alvaro fought as a volunteer and was wounded in November 1915 before being given leave. He also wrote a collection of war poems, Poesie grigioverdi. 22 Alvaro, Vent’anni 250. 23 Carlo Pastorino, La prova del fuoco. Cose vere (Turin: Società Editrice Internazionale, 1966), 231. 24 Louis-Ferdinand Céline, Journey to the End of the Night, Ralph Manheim, trans. Afterword by William T. Vollmann (New York: New Directions Books, 2006), 66. 25 One of the most memorable examples of the “dulce et decorum est” anti-rhetoric climax is Wilfred Owen’s celebrated poem with the same title (1917).

206

Artico

it, like the town mayor in Lussu’s pages, war is simply a matter of superficial heroism. For this reason, it can be described through the ancient notion of honor. Those on the sidelines deliberately use classic maxims to convey a false image of a sublime and harmless warfare experience in order to reassure ­public opinion: “Belle e sublimi attrattive. Infelice colui che non le sente! Perché, o signori, sí, bello è morire per la patria…”. Quest’accenno non piacque a nessuno, neppure al colonnello. La sentenza era classica, ma il sindaco non era il piú indicato per farci apprezzare, letterariamente, la bellezza di una morte.26 “Beautiful and sublime attractions. Unhappy is the one who does not feel them! Because, gentleman, yes, it is beautiful to die for one’s country…” Nobody liked this mention, not even the colonel. The quote was classic, but the major was not the most appropriate person to make us appreciate, in literary terms, the beauty of a death. Many works focusing on war literature play down the Latin concept of pulchram mortem. For instance, Umberto Saba’s poem “Durante una marcia” shows a strong similarity with Alvaro’s journalistic prose in Vite parallele di eroi (a title that clearly parodies Plutarch). Ancient classic quotations are useful to ­highlight the differences between pre-modern and modern concepts of heroism. While in the former the aristocratic and chivalric mindset considers death the worthiest and, aesthetically, the most beautiful act possible – an act of bravery – in the latter it is an anonymous and futile disgrace, the consequence of an annihilating war. Similarly, the narrator of Erich Maria Remarque’s All Quiet on the Western Front, recounting the deeds and the doom of a young group of classmates, ultimately asserts the same.27 Parody is a stronger weapon against the false rhetoric used in journalism and the High Command’s propaganda bulletins intended to reassure popular opinion. It is also common practice, hidden in the texts by means of accurate, but inexplicit quotations, that must be discovered and explained. Citations, which have not yet been properly investigated, offer some examples of a deliberate recycling of the classics. Lussu is clearly echoing Ludovico Ariosto when 26 Lussu, Un anno sull’altipiano, 17. Horace’s famous aphorism, Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori, was à la page on the Western Front. For a complete review, see Fussell, The Great War. 27 Erich Maria Remarque, All Quiet on the Western Front (London: Pan books, 1993).

Between Epic and Anti-Epic

207

he states that “the youngest [,] scampered all over like knights errant, searching for a sip of joy’” (“i più giovani [,] scorrazzavano da cavalieri erranti, cercandosi un sorso di gioia”).28 Lussu refers to Ariosto’s epic throughout Un anno sull’altipiano; in fact, the expression “knights errant” parodies the chivalric characters and the mindset of the Orlando furioso, which begins with “I sing of knights and ladies, of love and arms, of courtly chivalry, of courageous deeds.”29 In the context of Un anno sull’altipiano, the image of the wandering knight always in pursuit of glorious adventures becomes the metaphor for either a quest for loving or goliardic feats even though Lussu interprets Ariosto’s masterpiece as a parody of the chivalric code governing Renaissance culture. Whether ironical or congruous with Ariosto, Lussu’s citation challenges the old paradigm of chivalric honor. As a matter of fact, by quoting the classics, Lussu is relying on the readers’ ability to connect the past with their present. Previously, he had provided an ethical evaluation of the Orlando furioso. By comparing his own experience at the war front with Ariosto’s epic invention, Lussu directly denounces (through a manifest reminder) Ariosto’s untruthful battles that seem to recall “pleasant excursions”: È sui monti d’Asiago che ho imparato a conoscere due fra i più caratteristici spiriti della cultura occidentale. […] Ariosto era un po’ come i nostri giornalisti di guerra, e descrisse cento combattimenti senza averne visto uno solo. […] È il genio dell’ottimismo. Le grandi battaglie sono per lui delle piacevoli escursioni in campagne fiorite e persino la morte gli appare come una simpatica continuazione della vita.30 On the Asiago mountains I became acquainted with two of the most characteristic spirits of Western culture. [...] Ariosto was a little like our war reporters and described hundreds of fights without having seen a single one. […] He is the genius of optimism. Great battles are, for him, pleasant excursions into a blooming countryside, and even death itself appears to him like an agreeable continuation of life.

28

Lussu, 192. See also D’Arrigo, Horcynus Orca, 13–14, with the expression ‘carabinieri erranti’ [‘errant carabinieri’] to ironically describe the broken Italian army, compared to ­Charlemagne knights after the defeat at Roncevaux Pass. 29 Ludovico Ariosto, Orlando Furioso, Guido Waldman, trans and ed. (Oxford-New York: Oxford University Press, 1983) canto I, ottava 1, lines 1–2: “Le donne, i cavallier, l’arme, gli amori, / le cortesie, l’audaci imprese io canto.” 30 Lussu, Un anno sull’altipiano, 114.

208

Artico

In this case, Lussu takes Ariosto as an example of fictitious literary sublimation. It is obviously an arbitrary interpretation, but it is interesting in the way it deliberately points out the discrepancy between contemporary war and classic literary works. For him, the cruel present is incompatible with the classical description of warfare, in Ariosto as well as in Homer. In a well-known page of Un anno sull’altipiano, Lussu spoofs ancient heroism, saying that if Hector had drunk some cognac, like the First World War infantrymen usually did, he would, perhaps, have dueled better with Achilles.31 Bartolini randomly appropriates this quote and establishes a connection with Homer because Hector dreaded the duel with Achilles.32 Lussu, instead, parodies the Iliad, underlining the differences rather than the similarities with his own present. Other authors also incorporate reminders from Torquato Tasso’s poem in their parodying strategy. Arturo Stanghellini studied Italian literature before the conflict started and was drafted in 1916 as a lieutenant. In his Introduzione alla vita mediocre, he jokingly quotes from the Gerusalemme liberata to condemn the ridiculous ‘heroism’ of those who made a lot of money with army supplies but did not fight. He also recounts that, when the war ended, the ­veterans’ endless sacrifices were not acknowledged; indeed, when they returned home, they discovered that draft dodgers were exalted as the true war heroes. The citation of the famous first ottava of Tasso’s poem gives a parodic representation of the industrialists and profiteers, absorbed with their false claims of sacrifice. These claims obfuscate the infantrymen’s true sacrifice: distribuendo [...] onori e laudi ai trinceristi, ai tornitori di proiettili, ai pescicani, agli accaparratori perché, dal momento che aveva vinto, tutti i suoi figli indistintamente dovevano aver contribuito alla vittoria col senno, con la mano e, qualcheduno, anche col piede.33 lavishing […] honors and praises to draft dodgers, industrialists, and profiteers because, from the moment victory was achieved, all of her children indiscriminately must have contributed to the victory with their wit, their hand, and some, also with their feet. Moreover, at the beginning of the Gerusalemme liberata, Tasso describes ­Godfrey of Bouillon’s courage by asserting that ‘molto egli oprò co ’l senno e 31 Lussu, Vent’anni, 78–79. 32 Bartolini, L’epica della grande guerra, 187. 33 Arturo Stanghellini, Introduzione alla vita mediocre. Dal 1916 al dopoguerra passando per Caporetto (Mulazzo: Tarka, 2017), 182.

Between Epic and Anti-Epic

209

con la mano’ (emphasis added) (“Much he wrought with his wit and with his hand”).34 Through this description, the poet zeroes in on the hero’s cleverness as a strategist, as well as on his strength as a fighter. Yet, Stanghellini adds a satirical element. He refers to the foot, to spoof the feat of those slackers who ran away to elude the draft. As a result, Tasso’s celebrative and aristocratic poetry is ridiculed; but this does not mean that Stanghellini wants to make fun of Tasso’s masterpiece. In truth, the mocking quote from the Gerusalemme liberata is the writer’s way to vent his disappointment with the circumstances of the war that he is fighting. Nor does Lussu want to diminish Ariosto’s work; rather, he is pointing out that the representation of warfare in the Orlando furioso jars with his own experience of war. In his Diario di un imboscato, Attilio Frescura achieves similar results by quoting from Greek and Latin epics. This crucial occurrence emerges during an ironic discussion on bravery. The narrator states that during an attack, fear triggers heroism; according to him, real heroism is demonstrated by those who run away because they will be accused of cowardice and shot by their comrades. This behavior is described as that of the hunted and trapped wild boar: Cosí anche si muore, correndo verso la morte, perché là, oltre quella trincea, “vi è la vittoria e forse la vita”. Meravigliose parole di un ordine di battaglia del generale Oro […]. Ma chi fugge ha la morte certa, come il cinghiale nella battaglia, quando, circondato e ferito, s’avventa allora verso la muta che latra e verso i cacciatori, offrendosi.35 This is also how one dies, running towards death, because there, beyond that trench, “there is victory and perhaps life.” Marvelous words from General Oro’s battle order. […] But those who desert face a sure death, like a wild boar when, surrounded and wounded, rushes towards and ­surrenders to the hunters and their pack of barking dogs. The similitude of the wild boar is typically epic, at least from Homer’s Iliad (Book XII, 41–48) for it indicates an immovable courage, even in desperate situations.36 Frescura uses it to define the paradoxical courage of those who 34

Torquato Tasso, Jerusalem Delivered, ed. and trans. Ralph Nash (Detroit: Wayne State ­ niversity Press, 1987), Canto 1, 3–5. U 35 Frescura, Diario di un imboscato, 98. 36 Homer, The Iliad, trans. Alexander Pope (London-New York: Routledge, 1872), 284: “He, like a whirlwind, toss’d the scattering throng, / Mingled the troops, and drove the field along. / So ’midst the dogs and hunters’ daring bands, / Fierce of his might, a boar or lion stands; / Arm’d foes around a dreadful circle form, / And hissing javelins rain an

210

Artico

intentionally commit suicide. In his understanding, running away is not folly, but a savage behavior. If soldiers wanted to end the absurdity of war, they had to kill themselves, like trapped animals. The wild boar is no more the emblem of absolute and generous bravery. On the contrary, it becomes the symbol of utter and wild desperation, borne of a purely animal instinct. All these works share a common antiheroic goal. They avail themselves of the epic repertoire to represent a new kind of heroism that could be defined as antiheroic compared to the ideal prowess exemplified in the epic tradition. Yet the definition of a new heroism does not mean only parodying epics. It could also encompass different genres, by virtue of which First World War literature marks its distance from epic influences. Picaresque novels, for instance, offer fundamental examples of uncommon heroes and deeds that are closer to modern sensibility and taste. Mario Puccini’s Cola, a war novel first published in 1927, explores the subversive opportunities offered by the picaresque genre. Its main character is a Tuscan peasant sent to the rearguard on the Asiago front. There he spends his time pursuing women and engaging in soft military training until he is wounded during an Austro-Hungarian attack and loses an arm. Cola has a deep sense of duty and patience but, at the same time, he does not want to sacrifice himself to the nation; most of all, he desires to go back home. He personifies both Jacovacci and Busacca, the protagonists of Mario Monicelli’s La Grande Guerra. Cola is neither “eager for glory nor a cowardly skunk” (“smanioso di gloria, ma neppure tremebonda carogna”) as a critic of Puccini has said.37 Indeed, he is exactly like the unwilling, yet dignified, heroes played by Vittorio Gassman and Alberto Sordi in Monicelli’s movie. The tragedy of war is not forgotten in Cola. Instead, it bursts dramatically into the private lives of the humble people. For that reason, Cola is a “hero who lost his heroic hallmarks” (“eroe diseroizzato”),38 that is to say, a type of character with whom the reader could identify. Contemporary authors appreciated Puccini’s portrayal of unusual heroes. Thomas Mann, for example, referring to Cola, commended “the simple and unpretentious truth” (“verité simple et sans artifice”) and lack of heroic artifice of the characterization. In particular, Mann described the “Italian people” (“le peuple italien”) portrayed in the novel:

37

38

iron storm: / His powers untamed, their bold assault defy, / And where he turns the rout disperse or die.” Lorenzo Giusso, in Omaggio a Mario Puccini, ed. by Sergio Anselmi (Urbino: Argalia, 1967), 151. See also the comparison with Ardengo Soffici’s Kobilek stated by Silvio Ramat in “Prefazione,” in Mario Puccini, Davanti a Trieste. Esperienze di un fante sul Carso, ed. Tancredi Artico (Milan: Mursia, 2016), 9. Giusso, 151. For a complete discussion about Puccini’s war diaries and novels, see my “­Puccini scrittore di guerra”, in Mario Puccini, Davanti a Trieste, 165–93.

Between Epic and Anti-Epic

211

Les caractères, que vous nous montrez, sont tellement émouvants dans leur vérité simple et sans artifice et font participer le lecteur tellement vivement à leur destin que l’on peut considérer, du point de vue artistique, ce livre comme une des meilleurs et plus pures expressions du vérisme italien.39 The characters that you depict are so moving in their simple and unpretentious truth that the reader takes vivid part in their fate, and, from an artistic point of view, this book can be considered one of the best and purest expressions of Italian verismo. Before Cola, Puccini had published Viva l’anarchia (1920). In it, he strengthens the picaresque vein that will later re-emerge in Cola. Viva l’anarchia n ­ arrates the story of a bookseller who travels through post-war Italy, has strange ­encounters, and engages in bizarre political debates. This novel could not be considered an example of war literature, but it shares some common features with other war novels. One of these, the abovementioned Pastorino’s La prova della fame, provides a clear example of how war diaries could outstrip, through the blend of genres, the generic notion of an epic quality as described by Bartolini. The first half of La prova della fame narrates Pastorino’s imprisonment in an Austro-Hungarian concentration camp. In this context, there is obviously no space for heroism: the author’s main goal is survival, despite illnesses and starvation. The narrative is focused on corporeal needs and materialistic realism, in contrast with epic idealism. Something analogous appears in Gadda’s Giornale di guerra e di prigionia and in the latter part of Salsa’s Trincee. More broadly, corporeal realism is a peculiar hallmark of most European First World War works found beyond captivity diaries.40 It is also a strand connected with the Second World War, when millions of people who had been held captive died of starvation. A fitting example of both the picaresque dimension and the relationship 39 40

Thomas Mann, “Cinque testimonianze,” in Omaggio a Mario Puccini, Sergio Anselmi, ed. (Urbino: Argalia, 1967), 110. Translation by Aidan Carter. The first edition of the novel, printed in 1927, had the indicative sub-title ritratto dell’italiano [Portrait of the Italian]. The preeminence of corporeal needs in war literature has been well described by Donatella Rasi, “«Come le foglie sbattute dall’uragano»,” in Essere corpo, 51–70, and it has been contextualized in the suggestive frame of “bivouac literature” by Francesc Montero, “Everyday Life in the Trenches, Bivouac Literature. The Anti-epic Tone of the Catalan Testimony of Frederic Pujula During the Great War”, in From the Front. Zibaldone della Grande Guerra, Tancredi Artico, ed. (Rome: Aracne, 2017), 31–39, which refers to Catalan literature.

212

Artico

with the classics in a novel from the Second World War is Levi’s The Truce. The work, which, among other things, describes the Russian soldiers, recalls Homer’s description saying that “[T]hey were cheerful, sad and tired, and took pleasure in food and wine, like Ulysses’s companions after the ships had been pulled ashore” (“[E]rano allegri, tristi e stanchi, e si compiacevano del cibo e del vino, come i compagni di Ulisse dopo tirate in secco le navi”).41 Returning to Pastorino’s diary, the narrative structure changes in the second half of the work. The freed narrator undertakes a lengthy journey to return home; it is a modern nóstos embodying picaresque characteristics. He meets people and becomes familiar with different customs, like Ulysses in the O ­ dyssey, and strives to survive until he finally reaches his destination. Like the Odyssey, Pastorino’s works have epic qualities and characteristics. Yet they could not be interpreted as purely epic. The adventurous journeys may be tragic, but they still are “romance wanderings,” not epic deeds.42 This aspect imbues the First World War with the notion of nóstoi or comeback tales. It also surfaces in the works illustrating events and experiences of the S­ econd World War. From this, it appears that, in the storm of global ­catastrophe, ­witnesses who faced the atrocities of war reached the same conclusion – ­heroism means primarily survival. In a similar manner, Curzio Malaparte’s La pelle highlights the distinction between heroism and survival in the Second World War: Prima della liberazione, avevamo lottato e sofferto per non morire. Ora lottavamo e soffrivamo per vivere. C’è una profonda differenza tra la lotta per non morire, e la lotta per vivere. Gli uomini che lottano per non morire serbano la loro dignità, la difendono gelosamente, tutti, uomini, donne, bambini, con ostinazione feroce. Gli uomini non piegavano la fronte. Fuggivano sulle montagne, nei boschi, vivevano nelle caverne, lottavano come lupi contro gli invasori. Lottavano per non morire. Era una lotta nobile, dignitosa leale. […] Lottavano a fronte alta. Lottavano per non morire. E gli uomini, quando lottano per non morire, si aggrappano con la forza della disperazione a tutto ciò che costituisce la parte viva, 41 Levi, The Truce, 251 (264 of the Italian version). See also 294, a passage in which Homer’s heritage is connected with the full joy of living. 42 The epic status of the Odyssey is an unresolved problem; see Quint’s intriguing theories on the discrepancy between Iliad and Odyssey. According to him, the first is epic, the latter is made of “romance wanderings” and, as a result, has had a very profound influence on twentieth-century literature. See David Quint, Epic and Empire. Politics and Generic Form from Virgil to Milton (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993).

Between Epic and Anti-Epic

213

eterna della vita umana, l’essenza, l’elemento più nobile e più puro della vita: la dignità, la fierezza, la libertà della propria coscienza. Lottano per salvare la propria anima.43 Before the liberation we had fought and suffered in order not to die. Now we were fighting and suffering in order to live. There is a profound ­difference between fighting to avoid death and fighting in order to live. Men who fight to avoid death preserve their dignity and one and all – men, women and children – defend it jealously, tenaciously, fiercely. The men did not bow the knee. They fled into the mountains and the woods, they lived in caves, they fought like wolves against the invaders. They were fighting to avoid death. It was a noble, dignified, honest fight. […] They fought with their heads high. They were fighting to avoid death. And when men fight to avoid death they cling with a tenacity born of desperation to all that constitutes the living and eternal part of human life, the essence, the noblest and purest element of life: dignity, pride, freedom of conscience. They fight to save their souls.44 This assertion contrasts with the early modern notion of heroism, according to which death is a noble action and surrender is not an option. An example of this is one of Ariosto’s heroes, Brandimarte, who affirms that he would take on the final duel with the purpose of “dying or winning” (“morire o vincere”).45 First World War experiences would have drastically changed that standpoint. A step forward in the dismantling of the epic model is the work of Mario Rigoni Stern, a veteran of the disastrous Italian campaign in Russia during the Second World War. In his works, he gives examples of modern heroism that requires a tenacious resistance and a strong sense of duty and brotherhood. 43 44 45

Curzio Malaparte’s La pelle, Caterina Guagni and Giorgio Pinotti, eds. (Milan: Adelphi, 2010), 47–48 (emphasis maintained). The concept is developed on pp. 132–33. Curzio Malaparte, The Skin, trans. David Moore (London: Alvin Redman Ltd, 1953), 51–52. Consider how D’Arrigo in Horcynus Orca, 245, overturns the chivalric paradigm, talking of the Italians’ feelings after the defeat in the Second World War: “Finì il tempo di vincere o di morire, arrivò il tempo di perdere o di vivere” (“The time to win or die passed by. The time to lose or live began”). This passage should be compared, for example, with Ludovico Ariosto, Orlando furioso, Cristina Zampese, ed. (Milan: Rizzoli, 2012), Canto XLI, 41, lines 1–2: “e noi venuti / qui per morire o vincere con lui” (“and the two of us who have come to conquer or to die with him” [translation by Guido Waldman]). On the early modern concept of heroism, see Domenichelli, Cavaliere e gentiluomo.

214

Artico

After returning from the Russian front, Rigoni Stern looks at himself in a ­mirror. He appears ugly to himself, nonetheless he is able to smile because he is still alive: E questo sarei io: Rigoni Mario […]. Una crosta di terra sul viso, la barba come fili di paglia, i baffi sporchi di muco, gli occhi gialli, i capelli i­ ncollati sulla testa dal passamontagna, un pidocchio che cammina sul collo. Mi sorrido.46 So this is me, Mario Rigoni [...]. A crust of earth on my face, a beard like wisps of straw, moustache filthy with mucus, eyes yellow, hair stuck to the top of my balaclava, a louse walking on my neck. I smile at myself. Because the author was aware of the meaning of the word ‘epic’ – as he demonstrates in the foreword of the novel by Lussu47 – the description underscores the erosion of the classical hero. To be sure, the First World War marked a turning point for Western culture. For the very first time the masses played a decisive role in historical events, testifying and preserving history. The experience changed both the perception and the literary representation of the self, shifting them from a peripheral to a central position in the narrative. As a result, the early modern notion of heroism changed too because the war of artillery and mass warfare led to the marginalization of the individual. As a consequence, the rise of a new kind of selfhood, characterized by vulnerability and displacement, wiped out the classical notion of heroism. The lofty and brave hero who embodied ancient heroism vanished. First World War works viewed Achilles’s fate as emblematic of the lot determining the classical models, such as Homer’s Iliad, Ariosto’s Orlando furioso, and Tasso’s Gerusalemme liberata. Achilles – the hero – is constantly mocked as the symbol of a twilight culture, as in the case of Lussu’s novel and Alvaro’s Vent’anni. A new paradigm of heroism emerges from the pages of Italian as well as European literary works. Gadda, Frescura, and Pastorino, among others, conceive heroism as a bourgeois form of devotion to a sense of nationhood; this is a kind of private heroism which is akin to the ancient stoicism. But it also reflects the modern rise of nationalisms. At odds with the early-modern ­mindset, heroism 46 47

Rigoni Stern, Il sergente nella neve (Turin: Einaudi, 1965), 169. English version: The ­Sergeant in the Snow, trans. Archibald Colquhon (Evanston: The Marlboro Press/Northwestern, 1998), 101. See Mario Rigoni Stern, “Breve nota storica” in Lussu, Un anno sull’altipiano, 5. A ­passage in this introduction, referring to an “epica battaglia” was misinterpreted by Bartolini who took it as the proof of the Homeric and epic qualities in Lussu’s Un anno ­sull’Altipiano, 107.

Between Epic and Anti-Epic

215

consists in doing one’s job, and possibly surviving the war. Quoting the classics in war diaries and novels is a way to demystify and ­overturn the ancient outlook. In point of fact, in both private accounts and fictional narratives, the reader finds many echoes from classical literature, yet they are clearly ironical. In conclusion, the classic ideals of epic poetry should not be considered the foundation of war literature. A more convincing explanation of Great War rhetoric and narrative could be found in the picaresque novel and in the parodic tradition of Homer’s Odyssey. This element connects literary works concerning both the First and the Second World Wars. The focus on corporeal needs, the themes of imprisonment and of travel, the strange encounters made during the journey home, are all fundamental strands of Second World War novels which were first explored in First World War diaries and tales such as Pastorino’s La prova della fame, Gadda’s Giornale di guerra e di prigionia, and Puccini’s Cola. Rigoni Stern is emblematic of this transition. His most renowned work, Il sergente nella neve, is an autobiographical nóstos that narrates the retreat of the Italian 8th Army from the Russian front in 1942–1943 and is considered among the best Italian novels about the two World Wars. Acknowledgements I would like to thank Luigi Gussago, Pina Palma, Mariana Jo Bisset, and Enrico Da Rù for their pertinent comments and suggestions.

Bibliography

Alvaro, Corrado. Vent’anni. Ed. Aldo Maria Morace. Milan: Bompiani, 2016. Ariosto, Ludovico. Orlando furioso. Ed. Cristina Zampese. Milan: Rizzoli, 2012. Ariosto, Ludovico. Orlando furioso. Trans. and Intro. Guido Waldman. Oxford-New York: Oxford University Press, 1983. Arnaudo, Marco. Dante barocco. L’influenza della Divina Commedia su letteratura e ­cultura del Seicento italiano. Ravenna: Longo, 2013. Banti, Alberto Mario. La Nazione del Risorgimento. Parentela, santità e onore all’origine dell’Italia unita. Turin: Einaudi, 2000. Bartoletti, Maria. “Memorialistica di guerra,” in Storia letteraria d’Italia. Ed. Armando Balduino, xi: Il Novecento. Dall’inizio del secolo al primo conflitto mondiale. Ed. ­Gregorio Luti. Padua: Vallardi, 1989, i, 623–53. Bartolini, Simonetta. L’epica della grande guerra. Il fallimento degli intellettuali. Milan: Luni, 2016.

216

Artico

Belloni, Antonio. Il poema epico e mitologico. Padua: Vallardi, 1912. Binasco, Andrea. “Ettore e Achille al fronte. Parametri classici e visione del corpo nella poesia della Grande Guerra,” in Essere corpo. La Prima Guerra mondiale tra ­letteratura e storia. Ed. Tancredi Artico. Trieste: Lint, 2016, 137–48. Caffarena, Fabio. Lettere dalla Grande Guerra. Scritture del quotidiano, monumenti della memoria, fonti per la storia. Il caso italiano. Milan: Unicopli, 2005. Céline, Louis-Ferdinand. Journey to the end of the night. Trans. Ralph Manheim, ­William, Afterword T. Vollmann. New York: New Directions Books, 2006. Chabod, Federico. L’idea di Nazione. Ed. Armando Saitta and Ernesto Sestan. Bari: ­Laterza, 1961. D’Arrigo, Stefano. Horcynus Orca. Milan: Mondadori, 1975. Daniele, Antonio. La guerra di Gadda. Udine: Gaspari, 2009. Domenichelli, Mario. Cavaliere e gentiluomo. Saggio sulla cultura aristocratica in Europa (1513–1915). Rome: Bulzoni, 2002. Frescura, Attilio. Diario di un imboscato. Milan: Mursia, 2015. Fussell, Paul. The Great War and modern memory. London: Oxford University Press, 1975. Gadda, Carlo Emilio. Giornale di guerra e di prigionia, con il «Diario di Caporetto», 5th ed. Milan: Garzanti, 2015. Genette, Gérard. Palimpsests. Literature in the Second Degree. Lincoln-London: ­University of Nebraska Press, 1997. Gilbert, Martin. The First World War. A Complete History. New York: Holt, 1994. Giusso, Lorenzo, in Omaggio a Mario Puccini. Urbino: Argalia, 1967. Homer, The Iliad. Trans. Alexander Pope. London-New York: Routledge, 1872. Isnenghi, Mario. Il mito della Grande Guerra. Bologna: Il Mulino, 1970. Levi, Primo. Opere. 3 vols. Turin: Einaudi, 1987–1990,i: La tregua. Levi, Primo. The Truce. In If This Is A Man. The Truce. Trans. Stuart Woolf, Introduction by Howard Jacobson. London: Abacus, 2013. Lussu, Emilio. Un anno sull’Altipiano, 5th ed. Turin: Einaudi, 2014. Malaparte, Curzio. La pelle. Eds. Caterina Guagni and Giorgio Pinotti. Milan: Adelphi, 2010. Malaparte, Curzio. The Skin. Trans. David Moore. London: Alvin Redman Ltd, 1953. Mann, Thomas. “Cinque testimonianze.” in Omaggio a Mario Puccini. Ed. Sergio Anselmi. Urbino: Argalia, 1967. Meletinskij, Eleazar Moiseevič. Introduzione alla poetica storica dell’epos e del romanzo. Trans. Chiara Paniccia. Bologna: Il Mulino, 1993. Monelli, Paolo. Le scarpe al sole. Cronache di gaie e tristi avventure d’alpini di muli e di vino. Vicenza: Neri Pozza, 1994. Montero, Francesc. “Everyday Life in the Trenches, Bivouac Literature. The Anti-epic Tone of the Catalan Testimony of Frederic Pujula During the Great War.” From the Front. Zibaldone della Grande Guerra. Ed. Tancredi Artico. Rome: Aracne, 2017. 31–39.

Between Epic and Anti-Epic

217

Morace, Aldo Maria. Alvaro e la Grande Guerra. Stratigrafia di «Vent’anni». Rome: ­Sapienza Università Editrice, 2018. Pastorino, Carlo. La prova del fuoco. Cose vere. Turin: Società Editrice Internazionale, 1966. Pastorino, Carlo. La prova della fame. Genoa: Società Editrice Internazionale, 1943. Quint, David. Epic and Empire. Politics and Generic Form from Virgil to Milton. ­Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993. Ramat, Silvio. “Prefazione”, in Mario Puccini, Davanti a Trieste. Esperienze di un fante sul Carso. Ed. Tancredi Artico. Milan: Mursia, 2016, 7–12. Rasi, Donatella. “«Come le foglie sbattute dall’uragano»,” in Essere corpo. La Prima Guerra mondiale tra letteratura e storia. Ed. Tancredi Artico. Trieste: Lint, 2016, 51–70. Remarque, Erich Maria. All quiet on the western front. London: Pan Books, 1993. Rigoni Stern, Mario. “Breve nota storica” in Emilio Lussu, Un anno sull’altipiano, Turin: Einaudi, 1960, 5–6. Rigoni Stern, Mario. Il sergente nella neve. Turin: Einaudi, 1965. Rigoni Stern, Mario. The Sergeant in the Snow. Trans. Archibald Colquhon. Evanston: The Marlboro Press/Northwestern, 1998. Stanghellini, Arturo. Introduzione alla vita mediocre. Dal 1916 al dopoguerra passando per Caporetto. Mulazzo: Tarka, 2017. Tal, Kali. Worlds of Hurt: Reading the Literatures of Trauma. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995. Tasso, Torquato. Jerusalem Delivered. Ed. and trans. Ralph Nash. Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1987. Tecchi, Bonaventura. Baracca 15C. Milan: Bompiani, 1961. Valent, Lucio. “Sender, those who have not returned: Carlo Salsa and his Trenches.” European Review of History. Revue européenne d’histoire 25, no. 5 (2018): 724–55. Zatti, Sergio. The Quest for Epic. From Ariosto to Tasso. Introduction by Albert Russell Ascoli. Ed. Dennis Looney. Trans. Sally Hill and Dennis Looney. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2006.

Index of Names and Subjects anarchism 16, 26, 72 anarchy 211 antifascism 14, 17–19, 43, 76, 88, 97, 98, 101–103, 106, 107, 113, 114, 117, 157, 159, 159n6, 165, 167, 174 antiheroes 11–16, 18–21, 23, 25, 26, 28–39, 41, 42, 44–46, 50, 69, 73, 97, 98, 153, 159, 163, 173, 177, 195, 210 antisemitism 52, 52n8, 55, 63 Ariosto, Ludovico 202, 206–209, 213, 214 armistice 76, 78, 112, 113, 128, 157, 159, 165 Auschwitz 41, 54, 59, 61, 65n53 Badoglio, Pietro 76, 77, 77n24, 80, 83, 118, 119, 119n27, 124, 125 Barolini, Antonio 157–160, 162, 163, 165–169, 171–174 Bartolini, Simonetta 198, 200, 201, 201n7, 202, 204n19, 208, 211, 214n47 Cadorna, Luigi 73, 75, 75n15, 80, 81n34, 83, 180, 188, 190, 192, 194 Caporetto 75, 75n15, 80, 81n34, 82n39, 180, 192, 194, 195, 199 captivity 94, 96, 96n6, 97, 98, 100n24, 101, 105, 108–110, 166, 199, 211 Catholic Church 55, 58, 58n26, 62, 66, 66n59, 67, 82, 95 Catholicism 38, 39, 43, 51, 55–60, 62–68, 82, 95, 159, 163, 166–168, 174 communism 16, 22, 28, 35–37, 40, 80, 83, 84n47, 85, 94, 96, 97, 101, 105, 106, 107, 120n33 Croce, Benedetto 115, 116, 120, 122, 124–126, 131, 138, 161, 162 D’Annunzio, Gabriele 133, 133n2, 134, 134n4, 135, 136, 136n10, 136n11, 136n14, 137, 137n20, 138–142, 142n46, 142n48, 143, 143n49, 143n50, 144, 144n51, 145, 146, 147n66, 147n67, 148, 150–154 desertion 71, 72, 72n6, 73–76, 76n19, 77, 77n24, 78–81, 81n34, 82, 84–88, 90

Dessì, Giuseppe 78–80, 82, 82n39, 86–88, 90 diaries 93–95, 98, 99, 103–105, 108, 110, 112, 113, 118–120, 127–130, 134, 157n1, 166, 166n35, 169, 171, 172, 180, 199–204, 204n16, 204n19, 209, 211, 212, 215 epic 199, 200, 200n5, 201, 202, 202n10, 203, 203n11, 204n19, 207, 209–212, 212n42, 213, 214, 214n47, 215 and antiepic 8, 200 fascism 11, 13–15, 17–19, 21–26, 28, 29, 29n3, 30, 35–38, 40, 41, 43, 45, 57, 60, 63, 75, 76, 80, 82, 83, 85–90, 94–98, 101–107, 109, 112–115, 117–122, 124–130, 143n49; 159, 160, 162, 163, 165, 169, 171, 173, 173n68, 173n71, 174 father figure 14, 15, 45, 78, 79, 84–87, 89, 90, 97, 159, 173 fatherland 44, 97, 101, 105, 142, 144 First World War 15, 17, 71, 71n1, 73, 74, 77–80, 82, 83, 87, 89, 96, 114, 133, 135, 143n49, 177, 187, 190, 193, 199, 199n2, 200–204, 208, 210, 212–215 foibe 28, 29, 29n2, 29, 30n3, 30, 31, 33–37, 39, 40, 40n37, 41–45 Gadda, Carlo Emilio 138, 204, 204n16, 211, 214, 215 Garibaldi, Giuseppe 14, 15, 136n14, 139, 142, 143, 146 gender 23, 38, 113, 115–117, 126, 127, 128 blindness 5, 117, 126, 128 German occupation 18, 19, 25, 58–60, 64, 75, 78, 86, 112, 113, 122, 123 Gobetti, Ada 75n14, 112, 113, 115–119, 119n27, 120–122, 122n38, 122n39, 123, 124, 124n45, 125–131 Gobetti, Piero 113, 114n6, 114n8, 120n32, 120n33 Gramsci, Antonio 114, 117, 120, 120n29, 120n33, 121 Guglielmi, Donato 93, 94, 97–104, 104n35, 105–110

220 heroes 12–16, 18, 19, 31–37, 39, 44–46, 72, 97, 112, 137, 139, 143n50, 146, 173–175, 202, 204, 205, 208, 210, 213 heroism 12, 14–16, 18, 19, 21, 22, 26, 39, 43, 83, 86, 87, 89, 105, 133, 134, 134n4, 135, 136n10, 137, 138, 140, 141, 143, 143n49, 148n70, 149, 152, 154, 162, 163, 170, 174, 174n76, 199n2, 200, 202, 203, 205, 206, 208–214 Hitler, Adolf 25, 54–58, 58n26, 58n27, 61, 62, 65, 93, 94, 109, 162, 170 Holy Father 63 honor 30, 44, 75n16, 97, 122, 142, 196, 203, 206–208 Jews 28, 50–57, 58n26, 58n28, 59, 59n30, 60–62, 62n46, 63, 64, 64n51, 65, 65n53, 66, 66n59, 67–69, 84n47, 94 Levi, Primo 53, 54n11, 105, 212 Lussu, Emilio 199n4, 203, 205, 206, 206n26, 207, 214, 214n47 and Ariosto 208, 209 Marchione, Margherita 50–53, 56, 57, 60–62, 62n46, 63, 66–69 mother figure 38, 79, 81, 82, 84, 117, 127, 128, 152, 153 motherland 25, 79, 134, 143–145, 152, 153 Mussolini, Benito 14–16, 26, 45, 57, 75, 82, 83, 93–95, 159, 163, 169, 173n68, 173n71 Napolitano, Giorgio 30, 39, 40, 40n37, 41, 42 national identity 193, 201, 202, 214 Nazi Holocaust 30n6, 43, 50 Nazi occupation 51, 62, 68, 75, 98, 109, 118, 121, 125, 129, 130 Nazi regime 19, 29, 35, 52n8, 57, 58n26, 58n28, 60, 61, 63, 64, 94, 96, 113, 117–119, 124–127, 129, 165, 173n71 Nietzschean superhuman 136, 137n15, 138, 143, 146, 152 nonviolence 158n4, 159, 159n6, 160, 163, 164, 167–172, 174n76, 175 Orlando furioso 207, 209, 213n45, 214 pacifism 72, 74, 157, 160, 167

index of Names AND SUBJECTS Pellegrini, Michele 72, 79, 81, 83, 87–89 Picaresque fiction 210–212, 215 Pius XII 50–53, 55–58, 58n27, 59–68, 168, 173n71, 173n73 pow s 78, 94, 96, 96n6, 97, 98, 101–108 German 100n24 resistance: Italian 15, 17–19, 31, 35–37, 74–76, 97, 112, 118, 119, 121–123, 126, 127, 129, 131, 157, 160, 163, 163n23, 165, 169, 174 and Literature 22, 23, 25, 26, 29 moral and political 120, 123–126, 130, 169, 213 passive 170, 172, 173 Portuguese 19 symbolic 11, 13, 14, 16–21, 23–26 sacrifice 38, 43–45, 53, 72, 80, 96, 123, 128, 134, 139, 139n31, 140, 142, 143, 143n50, 144, 146–148, 148n69, 149–152, 154, 195, 203, 208, 210 Second World War 29, 29n3, 30, 34, 35, 41, 43, 45, 51, 52, 52n8, 54, 72, 72n4, 72n6, 73–76, 78, 79, 83, 87, 90, 102, 109, 199n2, 212, 213, 213n45, 215 self-sacrifice 32, 142, 143n49, 144, 204 shoah 52–54, 54n11 slavs 28, 29, 29n2, 30, 34, 34n18, 35, 37–39, 39n33, 40–45, 85 Soffici, Ardengo 177, 178, 178n4, 179–181, 183–196 Tabucchi, Antonio 11–26 trasformismo 161, 162, 174 Vatican 17, 24, 50, 51, 53, 55–58, 58n26, 58n28, 59–62, 62n46, 63, 64, 64n51, 65, 66, 66n59, 68, 173n73 women 38, 39, 44, 59, 88, 89, 112, 113, 115, 117, 124, 126–130, 210, 213 partisans 126, 127, 128, 129 Yugoslavia 28, 29, 29n3, 31, 35, 37, 38, 38n32, 42n45, 83, 84n47 Yugoslavian communists 28, 30n6, 35

experiences that these ‘outsiders’ confronted lay bare the intimate, if lacerating, choices that they faced in their struggle for freedom. Ignored by official history, the testimonials that war prisoners, female partisan leaders, spies, deserters, and disillusioned soldiers offer, provide a fresh insight into the social, political, historical, and ethical contradictions that define warfare rhetoric in the twentieth century. The book’s ten contributors delve into the conflicts between oppressive authorities and the desire for freedom. With verve and energy, they revive these largely neglected voices and turn them into a provocative medium to discuss, and redefine, issues still relevant today: heroism, pacifism, national pride, gender issues, faith, personal and collective history.

LUIGI GUSSAGO is associate research fellow at La Trobe University, Melbourne. His research interests range from semiotics to translation theory and practice, ecocriticism, and comparative literature. He has published the volume Picaresque Fiction Today (Brill | Rodopi, 2016). PINA PALMA teaches at Southern Connecticut State University. Her research focuses on medieval and renaissance literature, as well as on modern and contemporary female writers. She authored Savoring Power, Consuming the Times. The Metaphors of Food in Medieval and Renaissance Italian Literature (Notre Dame UP, 2013).

ISBN 9789004541108

9

789004 541108

Downloaded from Brill.com07/1 via Univ