The Matteotti Murder and Mussolini: The Anatomy of a Fascist Crime (Italian and Italian American Studies) 3031414705, 9783031414701

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ITALIAN AND ITALIAN AMERICAN STUDIES

The Matteotti Murder and Mussolini The Anatomy of a Fascist Crime Mauro Canali Foreword by Ruth Ben-Ghiat

Italian and Italian American Studies Series Editor

Stanislao G. Pugliese Hofstra University Hempstead, NY, USA

This series brings the latest scholarship in Italian and Italian American history, literature, cinema, and cultural studies to a large audience of specialists, general readers, and students. Featuring works on modern Italy (Renaissance to the present) and Italian American culture and society by established scholars as well as new voices, it has been a longstanding force in shaping the evolving fields of Italian and Italian American Studies by re-emphasizing their connection to one another. Editorial Board Rebecca West, University of Chicago, USA Josephine Gattuso Hendin, New York University, USA Fred Gardaphé, Queens College, CUNY, USA Phillip V.  Cannistraro†, Queens College and the Graduate School, CUNY, USA Alessandro Portelli, Università di Roma “La Sapienza”, Italy William J. Connell, Seton Hall University, USA

Mauro Canali

The Matteotti Murder and Mussolini The Anatomy of a Fascist Crime

Translated by Ann T. Pichey

Mauro Canali Rome, Italy Translated by   Ann T. Pichey New York, USA

ISSN 2635-2931     ISSN 2635-294X (electronic) Italian and Italian American Studies ISBN 978-3-031-41470-1    ISBN 978-3-031-41471-8 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-41471-8 © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive licence to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2024 Translation from the Italian language edition: “Il delitto Matteotti” by Mauro Canali, © Il Mulino 2004. Published by Il Mulino. All Rights Reserved. This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors, and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG. The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland Paper in this product is recyclable.

Foreword

In December 1922, in the northern city of Varese, fascist militiamen beat up mourners returning from a funeral. In May 1923, in Musocco, near Milano, a fascist squad invaded a socialist social club and beat up two workers with clubs. And in September 1923, in Florence, fascists assaulted two people at the Apollo Theater who refused to sing a fascist song. These and hundreds of other fascist aggressions are documented by Italian Socialist Party head and Parliamentary deputy Giacomo Matteotti in his 1923 book A Year of Fascist Domination.1 Violence had facilitated Benito Mussolini’s rise to power. The Italian Fascist Combat Leagues (Fasci italiani di combattimento) Mussolini founded in 1919 operated as private militias financed by industrial and agrarian bosses to repress strikes, occupations of farms and factories, and other post-World War I leftist labor actions. Between 1919 and 1922, as the fascists seized control of municipal governments in the north of Italy, they murdered hundreds of Socialists and other leftists, including progressive priests. King Victor Emmanuel III, as Commander of the Italian armed forces, could have disarmed the 30,000-strong blackshirts easily, but when Mussolini announced a “March on Rome” in October 1922 to extend fascist control to the Capital, the timid monarch chose the path of least resistance and appointed Mussolini as prime minister.2 The new coalition government claimed it was restoring order to Italian society, but Matteotti’s book showed that violence and intimidation would be central to the way the fascists intended to govern Italy. The Socialist deputy, who was trained as a lawyer, argued in his book that the rule of law v

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was being replaced by “arbitrary action,” the daily aggressions by fascist militias being the most obvious manifestation. He had personally experienced that violence, having been kidnapped and assaulted by fascists in 1921. That did not deter him from speaking out in Parliament. In May 1922, when fascist squads occupied the city of Rovigo, Matteotti denounced the “state of terror” there as “armed gangs” took over. Once these thugs and their leaders became the ruling party of Italy, Matteotti continued to sound the alarm, producing powerful critiques of fascist abuses of power that would cost him his life.3 Between 1922 and 1924, Mussolini pioneered a set of authoritarian strategies to weaken democracy that are utilized by today’s autocrats as well. He built up his personality cult, turned Parliament into a bully pulpit, and denounced negative press coverage of him and fascism as “criminal.” He expanded his executive powers, creating the Fascist Grand Council and the Voluntary Militia for National Security as parallel governance and defense structures under his direct control, and he privatized the electric, telephone, and insurance sectors to win support from financial and business elites.4 During the run-up to the 1924 elections, the fascists passed an electoral reform (the Acerbo Law) that would hand any party receiving over 25% of the vote two-thirds of seats. This measure, plus voter intimidation and fraud, gave the Fascist Party 64.9% of the vote. Matteotti protested in Parliament that the election results should be annulled, leading Mussolini to single him and his speech out as “monstrously provocative.” Two months later, on June 10, 1924, Matteotti disappeared. Witnesses saw men attack him on Rome’s Lungotevere and drag him into their car. His body, bearing stab wounds and other injuries, was only found two months later.5 As Mauro Canali writes in this pathbreaking book, several factors converged to keep the full story of Matteotti’s death from being told. Matteotti was not merely killed for being an outspoken Socialist. He was killed because he had also gathered evidence of a massive scandal: the American oil company Sinclair (already tainted by the American Teapot Dome Scandal) was paying bribes to fascist officials in return for a monopoly on mineral oils, gas, and hydrocarbons found on Italian territory. Corruption during the fascist regime received little attention from scholars until very recently (beyond the topic of fascism and organized crime or the illegal practices and earnings of individual fascist officials). And so, the Sinclair Oil scandal, and Matteotti’s investigations into it, figured little in histories of fascist Italy. This anti-fascist was also an anti-corruption crusader who

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had information that an autocrat wanted to keep secret—a figure who anticipates many martyrs for the truth in authoritarian history, such as Boris Nemtsov, an opposition politician turned anti-corruption activist who was murdered in 2015 for exposing Vladimir Putin’s financial crimes.6 Entrenched narratives about Mussolini’s savvy as a politician also led to incomplete and incorrect accounts of this tragic murder. The identities of the men who physically killed Matteotti were never in doubt: members of the fascist Ceka, the secret police force Mussolini created to target anti-­ fascists, did the deed. Yet the crime did not go as planned. Matteotti struggled so much that he had to be stabbed to death almost immediately, leaving the car the killers rented (in the name of the Ministry of Interior) full of his blood. Amerigo Dumini, a squadrista and leader of the Ceka, was found with Matteotti’s bloodstained trousers. It did not take long for Cesare Rossi, head of Mussolini’s personal secret police and his press office, to emerge as a prime instigator of the assassination. But here the trail ended. Although it was widely known that Rossi did nothing without Il Duce’s approval, neither the 1926 investigation nor the 1947 one launched by the High Commissioner for Sanctions Against Fascism produced definitive answers about Mussolini’s involvement. As Canali recounts, thus did two false narratives continue: one, that Mussolini, a wily master strategist, could not have been part of this poorly executed butchery, and two, even if Il Duce ordered the attack, he had not intended for Matteotti to be killed. It is not surprising that among the many historians of the fascist period it is Canali who managed to bring truths to light that had been hidden for almost a century. His work on fascist spies and informers and fascist corruption leads him to situate fascist crimes and their cover-ups within larger structures of repression and profiteering. And Canali’s lifelong interest in historiography is present in this book that is also a story of whose narratives prevail in shaping history and who is allowed to speak and be remembered. Matteotti spent nights and weekends documenting fascist crimes because he knew that silence about those crimes was essential to upholding a certain view of Mussolini and fascism.7 Canali’s tenaciousness as an archival researcher has also made this book possible. The book starts with a discussion of archives because it was difficult to access the documents necessary to tell the full story of Matteotti’s murder. Autocratic crime is often transnational in scope, especially where oil is concerned. So, it’s not surprising that documents on the events surrounding this crime—fascist agreements with Sinclair Oil—were located

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in London and Washington D.C. as well as Rome. That Mussolini singled out the papers regarding this corrupt arrangement from a mountain of documents generated by twenty years of dictatorship to take with him as he sought to flee the partisans in April 1945 is notable. As Canali discovered, the documents in Il Duce’s suitcase included evidence of his payments to Dumini and Matteotti’s widow as well. As Canali concludes, his death was no accident—it was a crime that was carefully premeditated, planned, and carried out in cold blood. Mussolini’s responsibility from the start can now be fully documented… The decision to murder Matteotti was linked to what was called the “oil trail” and specifically to the corrupt operations by which the Sinclair Oil Company made large payments to leading fascists, all of whom were acting as intermediaries for Mussolini, in return for the exclusive monopoly to drill for oil on Italian soil.

Matteotti’s life and death changed history, in that the fallout from this murder led Mussolini to take a leap into the void and declare the world’s first “totalitarian” regime in 1925—Mussolini put that term into circulation that year as a positive attribute of fascism, appropriating it from anti-­ fascist critiques of his government. It is a measure of Matteotti’s status in Italian politics and society that his murder plunged Il Duce into a political crisis that could have ended his career. Mussolini became the first autocrat (but not the last) to engage in desperate measures to avoid losing power and going to prison. During the six months that followed the Matteotti killing, Mussolini’s authority and reputation were severely tested. With Rossi and Dumini arrested, special prosecutors launched a murder investigation that put Mussolini on the defensive. As headlines of opposition newspapers accused him of complicity in the crime, and street-corner shrines to Matteotti proliferated all over Italy, Mussolini’s conservative allies pressed him to step down. Veterans, long his core supporters, turned in their party cards, and far fewer people came to see Mussolini in this period about jobs or favors. By December, rumors of his resignation prompted public celebrations. “Really, there are two dead men, Matteotti and Mussolini,” was the critic Ugo Ojetti’s arch assessment at the time.8 The Italian leader extricated himself from an impossible situation by applying the strongman’s golden rule: do whatever is necessary to stay in

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power. On January 3, 1925, a day after the Liberal leader Giovanni Amendola told the London Times Mussolini “was finished,” the Italian leader announced the first fascist dictatorship, declaring himself and his party to be above the law. Challenging Parliament to impeach him, Mussolini conducted a sort of one-man mock trial: “Gentlemen, I am the one who brings forth in this hall the accusations against me,” he began. He rebutted the imputed crimes against him and the idea of fascism as “a movement of bandits and marauders” that had laid siege to the nation and then delivered a dramatic closing statement that declared himself and his party to be above the law. From now on he would be the sole judge of what constituted a crime. I, and I alone, assume political, moral, and historical responsibility for all that has happened… If fascism has been a criminal association, I am the head of that criminal association… Gentlemen, Italy wants peace, quiet, work, and calm… We will give it love, if possible, or by force, if necessary… You can be certain that within the next forty-eight hours after this speech, the situation will be clarified on every front.9

That same day, Mussolini granted Italian police the power to ban public assemblies, shut down groups preaching anti-State ideologies, and seize all illegal weapons. On January 5, he instructed prefects to enforce the 1923 press law that allowed publications deemed disrespectful to the Church, the Monarchy, or the State to be suppressed. The message was clear: fascism’s violence began at the top. The Matteotti murder was the subtext of that declaration which stands out even today for its frankness: “If fascism has been a criminal association, I am the head of that criminal association….” The window to unseat the fascist party, and him, had closed. As Canali writes, of all the politicians who struggled against fascism in those years, Matteotti was the one “who had best understood fascism’s deep totalitarian core.” That is why he lost his life, and it is why we must remember him today. Professor of History & Italian New York University, New York, NY, USA 

Ruth Ben-Ghiat

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Notes 1. Giacomo Matteotti, Un anno di dominazione fascista (Sala Bolognese: Arnaldo Forni Editore, 1980), 48, 65, 75. 2. Mauro Canali and Clemente Volpini, Gli uomini della marcia su Roma (Milan: Mondadori, 2022); Giulia Albanese, La marcia su Roma (Rome and Bari: Laterza, 2006). 3. Matteotti, Un anno di dominazione fascista, 3; May 1922 speech in Giacomo Matteotti, Discorsi parlamentari (Rome, 1970), vol.2, 660. (This is note 78 on p. 33 of Canali ms). 4. Denis Mack Smith, Mussolini (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1982), 56–58, 62–74; Clara Elisabetta Mattei, “Austerity and Repressive Politics: Italian Economists in the Early Years of the Fascist Government,” The European Journal of the History of Economic Thought, vol. 24, no. 5 (October 2017): 998–1026; Germa Bel, “From Public to Private: Privatizations in 1920s Fascist Italy,” European University Institute, Robert Schuman Center for Advanced Studies Working Paper 2009/46. 5. “Sobrero,” Il Popolo d’Italia, June 1, 1924. Canali attributes this unsigned editorial to Mussolini (this is note 103 in Canali, p. 40 of ms). 6. Canali and Volpini, Mussolini e i ladri del regime. Gli arricchimenti illeciti del fascismo (Milan: Mondadori, 2019); Il fascismo dalle mani sporche. Dittatura, corruzione, affarismo, eds. Paolo Giovannini and Marco Palla (Rome: Laterza, 2019); Ilaria Pavan, Tra indifferenza e odio. Le conseguenze economiche delle leggi razziali in Italia, 1938–1970 (Milan: Mondadori, 2019). For the Matteotti murder in context of a century of authoritarian cover-ups of corruption, see Ruth Ben-Ghiat, Strongmen: From Mussolini to the Present (New York: Norton, 2020). 7. Mauro Canali and Dario Biocca, L’informatore Silone i comunisti e la polizia (Milan: Luni Editrice, 2000); Mauro Canali, Le spie del regime (Bologna: Il Mulino, 2004); Canali and Volpini, Mussolini e i ladri del regime. 8. Ugo Ojetti, quoted in Laura Fermi, Mussolini (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1961), 238. 9. Giovanni Amendola, quoted in Denis Mack Smith, Mussolini (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1982), 85; Benito Mussolini, “Discorso del 3 gennaio,” in Benito Mussolini, Opera Omnia, eds. Edoardo and Duilio Susmel (Florence: La Fenice, 1961), vol. XXI/235–241.

Contents

Part I Anatomy of a Political Crime   1 1 New  Interpretation of a State Crime  3 The Documents in the Van   6 2 June 1924 13 The Kidnapping  21 The Discovery of the Body  24 The Days After the Crime  29 3 Dumini’s Lies 37 4 Giacomo Matteotti 43 Matteotti and Fascism  46 Travel Abroad  51 The Article in English Life  56 Matteotti’s Final Days  57

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Part II Mussolini’s Responsibilities  65 5 The Fascist Ceka 67 The Ceka’s Major Oppressive Actions  67 Exposing the Ceka  73 A Dangerous Liaison: Rossi and Dumini  78 6 The  Fascist Regime on the Ropes101 The Storm Erupts 105 The Bonservizi Murder Motive 110 An Unexpected Lifeline 117 The Trial in Chieti—March 16–24, 1926 119 Dumini’s Unpublished Letters 121 Part III The Business Motive for the Murder 127 7 The  Cold War for the Italian Oil Market129 The Origins of Sinclair Oil 132 The Negotiations in Rome 135 Suspicious Negotiations 139 Standard Oil’s Bribes 143 Legal Dispensations for Sinclair 144 8 The Business Motive151 Plans Before the May 30 Speech 152 Matteotti’s Undelivered Speech 155 Matteotti’s Papers 156 Dumini’s Memoir 160 Part IV Mussolini’s Defenders 165 9 Mussolini’s  Great Defender: Carlo Silvestri167 Silvestri’s Conversion to Fascism 172 Silvestri and Mussolini 175 The June 7 Speech 180 The King and the Business Motive 184

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Part V After 189 10 During  the Fascist Ventennio191 Recompensing the Murderers 195 Dumini in Fascist Prisons 199 Dumini the Colonist 207 11 Funding  for the Matteotti Family215 Velia Matteotti Makes Peace With the Regime 217 After the Fall of Fascism 224 12 The Second Matteotti Trial231 13 Concluding Thoughts237 Archives245 Newspapers (Years 1923, 1924, 1925)247 Bibliography249 Index251

PART I

Anatomy of a Political Crime

CHAPTER 1

New Interpretation of a State Crime

On June 10, 1924, Giacomo Matteotti, a young member of the Italian Parliament and Secretary of the Socialist Unitary Party (PSU), was kidnapped outside his home by agents of the fascist Ceka, Mussolini’s secret police. Two months later Matteotti’s body was found a few kilometers outside Rome. The barbaric murder marked the end of the so-called legalitarian period (1922–1924) of the Mussolini government. Prior to that date, Mussolini had been successful in skillfully navigating between conflicting pressures within the fascist movement represented by intransigent currents on one side, and moderate sectors on the other. The hardliners were guided by a totalitarian view of the political struggle that envisioned the establishment of a single-party regime. They saw the “moderate” outcome of the March on Rome as a betrayal of the fascist revolution resulting in the formation of a coalition government that included men and political parties they firmly opposed. The other less radical fascists, to the contrary, felt the revolutionary period of fascism had come to an end with the formation of the Mussolini government and supported the “normalization” of Italian political life. Liberal political groups were aligned with the moderate fascists. They were allies of the Mussolini government and demanded more vigorous action against political violence as well as the return to political debate between the majority and opposition parties. Mussolini had made concessions to both sides and pursued a strategy of “duplicity.” That strategy

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2024 M. Canali, The Matteotti Murder and Mussolini, Italian and Italian American Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-41471-8_1

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consisted of displaying purely formal respect to the political procedures and the institutions of the liberal state, along with a certain degree of tolerance towards criticism leveled by the opposition forces. At the same time, Mussolini encouraged the use of violence. He considered the Ceka necessary because, as he had confided to his close advisors, “all governments in a state of transition need illegal organizations to keep their opponents in their place.”1 Despite Mussolini’s repeated formal assurances that he respected the rule of law, the political atmosphere during the “legalitarian” period was marked by numerous acts of violence against the opposition carried out under his orders. Many supporters of the Duce have steadfastly maintained that Mussolini was extraneous to the murder of Giacomo Matteotti. There are those who affirm that he merely gave the order to administer a strong lesson to the socialist deputy, which however ended tragically due to botched execution. Others are convinced that the crime was carried out without his knowledge, for obscure reasons, by some of his unfaithful collaborators. There are also those who are still convinced that the crime was the result of a tragic misinterpretation by some collaborators of Mussolini’s verbal outbursts against Matteotti, which they understood as an actual order to kill him. Finally, there are those who limit Mussolini’s responsibility to the moral sphere only. They contend that Mussolini did not order the crime, but they are willing to admit that it took place within a climate of violence that he was instrumental in creating. As for his moral responsibilities, it is difficult to deny them. In a speech of January 3, 1925, the fascist leader himself claimed that if “all the violence was the result of a certain historical, political and moral climate, well, I am responsible for it.”2 He also assumed responsibility for “everything that happened” including, consequently, Matteotti’s death. Historical work on the murder of Giacomo Matteotti has remained largely dormant for many years, consisting substantially of two now classic books on the subject. One is by Renzo De Felice: Mussolini il fascista, published in 1966, which presents the Matteotti story in the context of a broader biography of Mussolini.3 The other, from 1968, is Giuseppe Rossini’s Il delitto Matteotti tra il Viminale e l’Aventino.4 Both are silent when facing the most difficult obstacle presented by the Matteotti affair. They suspend judgement regarding Mussolini’s direct responsibility. They do not answer the question, “Did he give the order?”

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Given the documentation that was available to the two historians, they could not have made significant headway in that direction. Both serious scholars pointed out the moral responsibility of the fascist dictator but remained reticent when faced with determining the actual role Mussolini played in the organization of the crime. Research remained stalled for many decades. The reason for this delay in the production of new work aimed at establishing Mussolini’s responsibility derives in part, and indirectly, from a law governing records. Although the law was conceived to protect privacy, its narrow interpretation until just a few years ago prevented scholars from consulting the documents of the preliminary investigations of the two Matteotti murder trials, the first held in Chieti in 1926 and the second in Rome in 1947; both sets of documents are in the State Archive of Rome (ASR). In the middle 1990s, however, I was able to track down a copy of the preliminary investigative documents from 1924. Through a series of fortuitous circumstances, they wound up in the archives of the London School of Economics. They had been donated to those archives sometime between the end of 1926 and the beginning of 1927 by Gaetano Salvemini, who at the time was writing The Fascist Dictatorship in Italy. Salvemini had persuaded Giuseppe Emanuele Modigliani—who, as the lawyer for the Matteotti family as civil plaintiffs, had access to the documents of the preliminary investigation—to secretly send him a set from Italy. We have no idea how Modigliani overcame the practical hurdles involved, but we do know that a copy of the proceedings finally made its way into Salvemini’s hands, and that Salvemini, who shortly thereafter would have to leave for the United States, donated it to the London School of Economics. As a result, in London I was able to examine a vast quantity of documents and exhibits from the preliminary investigation that had never been seen by a historian other than Salvemini; these documents proved fundamental to the revival of studies on the Matteotti case, which had until that point been largely based on the use of secondary sources such as newspapers, memoirs, and so forth. Another invaluable source for a new understanding of the “Matteotti case” are the documents held in the National Archives and Records Administration (NARA) in Washington, DC, and specifically the Records of the Department of State Relating to Internal Affairs of Italy. They contain reports that the commercial attaché at the American embassy in Rome sent to the American Secretary of State concerning the negotiations underway between the fascist government and the officers of Sinclair Oil;

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these reports provide interesting details on the meetings between those officers and Mussolini.5 They shed light on the Sinclair Oil–Fascist government case—the agreement that the American oil company stipulated a few months before Matteotti’s murder which gave it a monopoly to drill for and exploit any oil fields it might find on Italian territory. The documents made clear the role that Mussolini personally played in the complex negotiations carried out with the executives of Sinclair Oil. The decision to murder Matteotti was linked to what was called the “oil trail” and specifically to the corrupt operations by which the Sinclair Oil Company made large payments to leading fascists, all of whom were acting as intermediaries for Mussolini, in return for the exclusive monopoly to drill for oil on Italian soil. This book was able to incorporate this critical documentation, which was completely unknown to both De Felice and Rossini. It enabled me to provide a new interpretation and analysis of the motives behind, and execution of, the murder. The analysis links together politics and business, and sheds light on previously unknown aspects of Mussolini and the fascist regime. The new documentation clears the field of any ambiguous interpretations of Matteotti’s murder because it proves that his death was no accident—it was a crime that was carefully premeditated, planned, and carried out in cold blood. Mussolini’s personal responsibility from the start can now be fully documented. The trial documents reveal that the murder was also closely linked to the system of bribes that served to finance Mussolini’s propaganda machine and the press that served it.

The Documents in the Van I found another body of particularly important documentation whose existence was unknown in the Central State Archive (ACS), where it had been since 1969, forgotten and devoid even of an inventory. These are the documents that Mussolini had packed into a van on April 25, 1945, in the midst of the final anti-fascist insurrection, and that he clearly meant to take with him in his escape. In the feverish phases of his flight northward, the documents wound up in the hands of the rebel partisans who handed them over to their leaders in Milan. In 1946, the documents were sent to Rome. In 1969, the Ministry of the Interior finally handed delivered to the ACS, where they lay forgotten and uncatalogued6 and where I discovered them.

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To understand the importance of these documents, it is necessary to briefly review the events surrounding Mussolini’s archives during the last turbulent years of his regime. Until the summer of 1941, all the archives of what was commonly called the Segreteria Particolare del Duce (SPD) were located in the Viminale Palace. At that time, they were separated into ordinary documents, which were left at the Viminale, and confidential documents, which were transferred to Palazzo Venezia. When Mussolini was arrested on July 25, 1943, his confidential archives were at Palazzo Venezia. From an inventory reproduced by Emilio Re, who was the Superintendent of Archives for Lazio, Umbria and Marche when the fascist regime fell, and who in the summer of 1945 was given the responsibility by the Presidency of the Council of Ministers to coordinate the return to Rome of all the archives of the ministries transferred to the north during the RSI, it was possible to ascertain that in July 1943 there was a file in Mussolini’s private archive labeled “Carteggio relativo al processo Matteotti e ad altri processi.”7 Colonel Renato Nani, who was Mussolini’s secretary until the time of his fall, handed over the inventory of Mussolini’s private archives to Emilio Re. He had remained in Rome to direct the transport of the fascist archives to Gargnano. Nani ended up staying in Rome, and when the Allies arrived, he agreed to collaborate with them; he produced a valuable, albeit brief, description of the Mussolini archives.8 He provided Re with the inventory of the archives of the Duce’s confidential secretariat. It should be noted that Nani’s list does not include the correspondence relating to the Matteotti affair, which, on the contrary, appears in Re’s list, but there are categories that could have included this material. But since his list is similar to Nani’s, and in some places more detailed, Re evidently expanded upon the information that Nani had given him. After Mussolini’s arrest, Badoglio had his confidential archive moved from Palazzo Venezia to the Viminale and recombined it with the ordinary archive that had remained there. When the Germans occupied Rome and the Repubblica Sociale Italiana (RSI) was established, Mussolini had all the files in his confidential archive moved from the Viminale to Gargnano where they were placed in Villa Feltrinelli. He left the ordinary archive in Rome. By the end of October 1943, the transfer was complete.9 During the last days of the RSI in April 1945, Mussolini, by then on the verge of moving from Villa Feltrinelli to Milan, transferred a selected part

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of his archive to the Lombard capital where it was stored in a suitcase and a large chest. On April 25, Mussolini left Milan followed by a long procession of cars with relatives, high-ranking fascists, and members of the former regime, in flight towards the Swiss border. Some of the documents he had brought from Gargnano were placed in a leather suitcase that Mussolini carried with him until his arrest.10 The rest of the documents was in two zinc boxes. One of the boxes remained on the premises of the prefecture of Milan.11 The other zinc box was placed on board a van which joined the caravan fleeing towards Como. Before reaching Como, the truck broke down and was abandoned by its occupants together with its precious load. The area was by then swarming with partisans, and it was therefore very dangerous to delay in an attempt to repair the vehicle. The news that the van had been deserted plunged Mussolini into a state of great agitation. Some collaborators were ordered to attempt to recover it, but they soon realized that the mission was impossible. Besides, the van had already fallen into the hands of some partisan groups in the area commanded by the brothers Carlo and Arturo Allievi from Garbagnate. A few days later, on May 2, the Allievi brothers gave the documents in the case to Luigi Meda, head of the Milanese CLN (National Liberation Committee). The documents were inventoried, and Meda issued a regular receipt for the material delivered to him. The receipt contains a list of documents divided into 19 items. Item 5 reads: “Group of files tied with a tricolor string PROCESSO MATTEOTTI.” Item 9: “File (white folder with blue string) Processo Matteotti,” and item 14: “File (light blue folder) with the label ROSSI CESARE.”12 Meda gave the documents to Count Pier Maria Annoni of Gussola, head of the National Liberation Committee for Lombardy, who deposited them in the prefecture of Milan where they lay for almost a year. On February 13, 1946, as part of the recovery of the archives transferred to the north during the war,13 De Gasperi, then Prime Minister, requested the documents. The documents were transferred by hand from Count Annoni, for the CLN, to the Prime Minister. Annoni was given a receipt with an inventory of the material, and from examination of the receipt it can be seen that among other documents there were “N. ? (illegible but could be 8) files Matteotti trial (Matteotti-Varia and Velia Titta)” and “N. 1 complete file on Cesare Rossi.” Evidently the files on the Matteotti trial had in the

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meantime been combined into a single group.14 Unless one wants to believe the highly improbable hypothesis that there was more than one dossier regarding the Matteotti trial which, however, do not appear in the list published by Re, these must be the Matteotti trial documents that were in Mussolini’s private archives at the time of his fall. Usually, the documents collected by the Presidency of the Council of Ministers were processed through the Ministry of the Interior, to be reviewed and numbered for consultation in the post-war purge, then deposited in the State Central Archives. After the war, the press returned to investigating the documents that Mussolini had with him when he fled at the end of April 1945, and details about the van came to light. Meda’s receipt to the Allievi brothers with the list of seized documents was found and published in Corriere della Sera. Ferruccio Lanfranchi, who conducted the investigation for the newspaper, wondered why the files on the Matteotti and Cesare Rossi trials had not been used in the Matteotti trial still in progress at the Court of Assizes in Rome.15 They realized that the whereabouts of the documents was unknown. Renzo De Felice, after searching in vain for the papers, had concluded that the files on the Matteotti trial and on Cesare Rossi had not been transferred to the State Central Archives, as had happened with the other documents that Mussolini had with him when he was arrested. He also stated that “the searches we made at the Ministry of the Interior to find them had also failed.”16 In fact, it would have been impossible for De Felice to find the documents at the Ministry of the Interior, as they had never been inventoried by the ministry’s archivists. Until July 1969, they had been kept in the Ministry of the Interior archive storehouse, and were still in the boxes in which they had been returned from the north in 1946.17 In July 1969, they were transferred to the State Central Archives and inventoried under the heading “Processo Matteotti.” These are the documents of the Matteotti trial taken from the van in Mussolini’s convoy. There are five files. In three of them, the documents are collected in folders labeled “Fascist Party.” The three folders bear a progressive but discontinuous numbering in the upper left corner, which shows that there were originally other folders together with the three. Folder No. 1 is labeled “Matteotti Trial,” No. 5 is labeled “Matteotti Trial-Miscellaneous,” and finally No. 7 is labeled “Matteotti Trial-Party Confidential.” The

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other two files are labeled “Matteotti Trial-Expenses” and “Matteotti Trial-Correspondence A. Dumini.” At least two files are clearly missing. The documents in the van proved to be incredibly important in that they provide evidence of Mussolini’s guilt. They included in particular secret correspondence between Amerigo Dumini and Mussolini (via Dumini’s lawyer), payments made by Mussolini to the assassins and their families when they were imprisoned, and documentation of the financial assistance that Mussolini provided to Matteotti’s widow, Velia, to obtain her acquiescence. When writing this book, I was thus able to consult unpublished sources, unknown to other scholars—investigative documents produced during the first Matteotti trial and confidential papers that Mussolini had with him when he attempted to flee Italy.

Notes 1. From the memoir that Cesare Rossi sent to magistrates on February 11, 1925 from Rome’s Regina Coeli prison. AS Roma, Interrogatori, Cesare Rossi, 174–175. The complete memoir is on pp. 124–193. It can be consulted in the State Archives in Rome (AS Roma), which will be cited from here on. [Rossi Memoir] 2. Opera Omnia di Benito Mussolini. Dal delitto Matteotti all’attentato Zaniboni, vol. XXI, in D. Susmel ed., (Florence: La Fenice, 1956), 236. 3. Renzo De Felice, Mussolini il fascista, vol. I, La conquista del potere 1921–1925 (Turin: Einaudi, 1966). 4. Giuseppe Rossini, Il delitto Matteotti tra il Viminale e l’Aventino (Bologna: Il Mulino, 1966). 5. NARA, Records of the Department of State Relating to Internal Affairs of Italy, 1910–1929, M527, Roll 52, Folder 865.6363Si6, and Ibid, Roll 11, Folder 865.00/1272. 6. Can now be consulted in ACS, Polizia politica, Serie B, b. 28. 7. E.  Re, Storia di un archivio. Le carte di Mussolini (Milan: Edizioni del Milione, without a date but certainly from November 1946), 17. 8. See ACS, UCAS, 1949–1952, b. 109bis. 9. Ibidem. See report by R. Nani of June 1944. 10. Regarding the vicissitudes of this bag and questions regarding its contents see G. Contini, La valigia di Mussolini. I documenti segreti dell’ultima fuga del duce (Milan: Rizzoli, 1996). 11. The documents in this box were subsequently deposited in the Central State Archives where they were known as the documents “from the zinc box.”

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12. Gianfranco Bianchi, “L’odissea del camioncino fantasma,” in Tempo Illustrato, 16 June 1962. 13. For the operation of recovery see E. Gencarelli, Gli archivi italiani durante la Seconda guerra mondiale (Roma: Panetto & Petrelli, 1979). 14. Gianfranco Bianchi, cit.; the article includes a photocopy of the two receipts. 15. F.  Lanfranchi, “L’elenco dei documenti trovati nella cassetta di zinco di Mussolini,” in newspaper Corriere della Sera, 6 March 1947. 16. De Felice, Mussolini il fascista. La conquista del potere 1921–1925, 600–601. 17. This is in the letter that accompanied the inventory compiled by the Ministry of the Interior when the documents were deposited in the Central State Archives.

CHAPTER 2

June 1924

Giacomo Matteotti was kidnapped and killed at 4:30  p.m. on Tuesday June 10, 1924. All the men who committed the crime belonged to a Milanese group of fascist arditi (a military corps created during the First World War to conduct particularly dangerous missions behind enemy lines), and all were members of the fascist Ceka organization—a secret police force created by Mussolini to carry out actions of intimidation against anti-fascist leaders, modeled on the Russian Cheka. Six of those involved—Amerigo Dumini, Albino Volpi, Amleto Poveromo, Giuseppe Viola, Aldo Putato, and Filippo Panzeri—met in Rome at the Hotel Dragoni on May 22. The hotel served as their base for the organization and execution of their plan. On June 4 an Austrian, Otto Thierschald, joined the group, and another Italian, Augusto Malacria, arrived from Milan on June 10. Dumini was the leader of the group. To organize the assault on Matteotti, he and his men were backed by a solid logistics and communication structure. The daily expenses alone that the small group of arditi incurred were substantial. From May 22 onwards, they stayed in two rooms at the hotel, where Dumini was responsible for settling the account on a weekly basis. Starting in February 1924 the room that served as their headquarters was always reserved for Dumini. He also had an apartment in Rome for his private use, located at Via Cavour 44. He moved there sometime between March and April, where he stayed in one of the two

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2024 M. Canali, The Matteotti Murder and Mussolini, Italian and Italian American Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-41471-8_2

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rooms in the apartment. Before the move Dumini had lived in an apartment on Via XX Settembre. Whenever he traveled to Milan he stayed in another apartment on Via Cappellini. It was certainly not Dumini who bore expenses for these residences; he merely administered funds provided to him through Cesare Rossi, Director of Mussolini’s Press Office, from Mussolini’s slush fund. Amerigo Dumini was born in Saint Louis, Missouri, on January 3, 1894, to Adolfo, a Florentine art dealer, and Jessie Wilson, an English citizen from a wealthy family. He had returned to Italy to fight in World War I. In October 1918, on the Grappa, he was seriously wounded in the left hand by shrapnel from a shell and was awarded the silver medal for military valor. He was one of the leaders of the Florentine fascists. When a warrant for his arrest was issued by the Italian court in July 1921 for having organized the tragic ‘punitive expedition’ against the ‘red’ city of Sarzana, Dumini took refuge in Milan under the false name of Gino Bianchi. His friendship with Cesare Rossi, one of the most powerful leaders of the fascist movement, dates to that time. After the March on Rome, when Rossi was appointed head of Mussolini’s press office, he brought in Dumini to work for him. Dumini continued to use the pseudonym of Gino Bianchi; at times he also used the names Gino D’Ambrogi or Gino Manfredini. When he was arrested, he was in possession of three passports, one for each of these false names. He was very active in the business of WWI arms trafficking. In August 1923 Dumini was arrested in Trieste while he was about to sell a large stock of weapons which had been assigned to him by the Ministry of War to Yugoslavian separatists, even though Yugoslavia was listed as an enemy nation. Dumini himself obtained the contract, while the Banca Adriatica of Trieste provided financial coverage. Someone of Dumini’s stature obviously could not have obtained such a large credit line nor such a large quantity of weapons if he had not been backed by people in the highest ranks of the fascist regime. The deal followed a typical pattern: Dumini, the “front man” for the PNF, obtained the contract to purchase the weapons. The bank that financed the operation compensated Dumini for his part in selling the weapons and divided the profits with the PNF.  This deal, and the events surrounding it, point to the real role played by Dumini within the fascist organization. The purpose of his arms trafficking was to finance fascism and its leaders.

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Francesco Giunta, leader of the Trieste fascists who was however not aware of Dumini’s role in the operation, contributed to Dumini’s arrest by notifying the prefect of Trieste that he was in the Balkans. Afterwards Giunta sent Mussolini a report saying he was convinced that the deal was dark and shady and that “people from your circle were involved.”1 In the meantime Dumini sent a telegram to Rome in which he ordered Cesare Rossi, Arturo Fasciolo (Mussolini’s personal secretary), and Michele Bianchi (secretary of the Fascist Party) to get him out of trouble.2 Dumini threatened that he did not intend “in the most absolute way, to serve as a smokescreen for anyone.”3 He was promptly released from prison, and Mussolini’s staff, led by Rossi, set to work to cover up the scandal. Dumini was not satisfied until the official fascist organs published a communiqué exonerating him from the charge of arms trafficking with an enemy country. The PNF drafted a communiqué, ordered personally by Mussolini, while Rossi advised Arnaldo Mussolini to accompany its publication in the Popolo d’Italia with a supporting comment, which he quickly did. Arnaldo referred to “alleged arms trafficking,” and was pleased that “his friend Dumini,” a “valiant ex-fighter of long and proven patriotism,” had been cleared of the charge of arms trafficking with an enemy country.4 The embarrassing PNF communiqué was full of falsehoods and failed to explain what Dumini had been doing in Trieste with a load of weapons destined for Yugoslavia.5 After his disappointing business deals in the Balkan Peninsula, Dumini was sent on a secret mission to France in mid-September where he also returned the following November. Upon return from his second French mission, Rossi appointed him to a position at the Corriere Italiano, the daily newspaper directed by Filippo Filippelli6 and controlled by Mussolini. Everyone on the editorial staff knew, however, that he was paid a salary for political reasons. In fact, Dumini’s job at the Corriere Italiano was a cover. As will be described later, he oversaw all illegal activities originating from Rossi’s office. The other members of the Ceka involved in Matteotti’s murder had similar backgrounds. Albino Volpi, a 35-year-old carpenter, was a felon who had been convicted of several crimes between 1910 and 1920. He was accused of desertion, but the amnesty of 1919 relieved him of further legal entanglements. He was the leader of one of the most violent factions of Milanese fascism. De Bono, the head of police, remarked that he “did not think it was

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mistaken to attribute to him many of the illegal actions committed in and around Milan.”7 Volpi was an old acquaintance of Mussolini, who had already enlisted him, on the evening of November 17, 1919, to throw a bomb on a socialist march that was celebrating the victory of the Socialist Party in the recent political elections. Fortunately, there were no casualties.8 In December of 1921, he was prosecuted for the premeditated murder of a socialist worker but was acquitted thanks to a false deposition made by Mussolini himself. Afterwards the fascist leader could always count on Volpi’s absolute loyalty; he even referred to him as “the apple of my eye.”9 When Mussolini became the head of government, Volpi was often called to Rome for political police operations. He and his comrades continued to be called upon when fascist leaders wanted to intimidate opponents who were particularly disliked by the government. Volpi was certainly with Dumini in France on two of the fascist Ceka secret missions Dumini conducted there. Dumini would later confess that he felt safe only when Volpi had his back. Aldo Putato was 22 years old and liked to think of himself as Dumini’s alter ego. During his military service in Rome, he had established close relations with Dumini and was often with him at the Ministry of the Interior, the Prime Minister’s headquarters at Palazzo Chigi and at Fascist Party headquarters. Early in November 1923 Rossi recruited him in the Ceka and used the same cover as he did for Dumini at the Corriere Italiano newspaper. He was among the seven who traveled to France on a Ceka mission in November 1923. Giuseppe Viola, a 28-year-old Milanese merchant, was a member of the fascist arditi group in Milan. He had previous convictions for robbery. On May 27, 1918, he was sentenced by the military court of Alessandria to five years and two months in prison for desertion. He was released under the 1919 amnesty. Amleto Poveromo, a 31-year-old butcher from Lecco, also had previous convictions for common crimes. He was an old acquaintance of Volpi, who had recruited him for several operations against anti-fascists. In November 1923 he, too, had been in France with Dumini, under the false name of Cesare Mariani.10 The chauffeur Augusto Malacria was 36 years old and a former captain in the Royal Army. Son of a general, he had behaved valiantly in the war. After inheriting a large sum of money from his father, he resigned from the army and turned to commerce, but with little success. In 1922 he had

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joined Volpi’s arditi group. Towards the end of 1923, criminal proceedings had been brought against him for fraudulent bankruptcy. His mother was a French citizen and he spoke English and German as well as French; when he was wanted for the Matteotti crime he sought refuge in France. Filippo Panzeri, a 27-year-old Milanese with previous criminal convictions, was also a member of Volpi’s arditi. He had been convicted to 12 years in prison for desertion, but he had benefited from the amnesty of September 1919. He, too, was in France in November 1923 with Dumini, Putato, Volpi, and Poveromo. His knowledge of French made his presence in the Ceka group invaluable. When he was wanted for Matteotti’s murder, like Malacria he too took refuge in Marseilles, and was the only one of the group to avoid arrest. Although Otto Thierschald was called “the Russian,” he was Austrian. In 1918, during the war, he was condemned by the Austrians for espionage in favor of Italy and imprisoned in Trieste. He was one of the many displaced persons of the post-war period. In 1919, he went to Tuscany, where he worked occasionally in the lignite mines of San Giovanni Valdarno. He expatriated to France and entered Italy again in 1920, where he pleaded with socialist leadership to grant him subsidies as a victim of Horthy’s reactionary Magyar regime. He had met Dumini in 1921 when he had spied on communists for the Milanese fascists. In 1922 he was arrested, imprisoned, and finally expelled from the country. He went to France but then returned to Italy. Between March and April 1924 when he again begged the socialist leaders for subsidies, this time as a victim of the Bolsheviks, he was already working as a Ceka agent. At the end of April, Giovanni Marinelli (administrative secretary of the Fascist Party and, with Cesare Rossi, head of the Ceka) reportedly put Thierschald under the direction of Dumini, who sent him to Naples to spy on a group of local communists. He was arrested on May 22 while wandering around the port area and incarcerated in Poggioreale prison where he remained until the following June 2. Thierschald was freed through the intervention of Marinelli, who sent a telegram to the director of Poggioreale on May 31 which described the Austrian as “one of our secret informers.” After ordering his release, Marinelli instructed the Austrian to go to the Hotel Dragoni in Rome without delay to seek out Dumini.11 On May 31 Marinelli had also sent a second telegram to De Bono, so that police headquarters would send a request to Poggioreale for Thierschald’s release. On June 1 De Bono also

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sent a telegram to the Prefect of Naples ordering the release of the Austrian,12 who joined Dumini at the Hotel Dragoni on June 4. Thierschald was considered an important element in the organization of the crime because of his previous contacts with Matteotti. When he returned to Italy in early 1924, he had repeatedly approached Matteotti, then the secretary of the Unified Socialist Party (PSU), asking him for a refugee subsidy,13 and Matteotti had become used to his presence. Dumini intended to take advantage of the acquaintance between Matteotti and Thierschald. As soon as he arrived in Rome from Naples, Dumini assigned him the task of spying on the PSU secretary.14 But Matteotti mistrusted Thierschald, and it was not long before he realized that he was an informer. When his wife Velia asked him about the strange character who had been wandering around their home for a few days, Giacomo confided that the man “was spying on his party and his opponents.”15 By June 4, when Thierschald joined Dumini, the group had lost two members. Volpi and Panzeri had returned to Milan. The arrival of the Austrian in Rome seems to mark the end of the preliminary planning phase of the crime. On the same day, De Bono and Mussolini decided to release Matteotti’s passport, as he had requested. Police headquarters informed Matteotti that he would be issued his passport for travel to Austria only, where he planned on attending a meeting of international socialist organizations in Vienna. Thierschald immediately began his surveillance operation. On the night of June 5, he was already lurking near Matteotti’s home. His wife Velia testified that “from the window with the light off” she had “seen a stranger prowling” around her home.16 That same night his furtive behavior had also aroused the suspicions of the head of the fascio in the Flaminio neighborhood, who was on voluntary surveillance duty in the area. When he was stopped, Thierschald showed a card with a stamp of the Ministry of the Interior, “a kind of pass saying that the holder should not be harassed by the police,” but also added that for more information about him he should contact police headquarters.17 Late in the afternoon on Saturday June 7, he went to the parliament where Matteotti was working on the speech he was to deliver on the government budget when legislative sessions reconvened, and asked to speak to him. Matteotti arranged for him to meet with his assistant who felt that Thierschald appeared agitated; he was aware at the time that Matteotti had been issued a passport for Austria.18 His purpose was to determine whether the PSU secretary would be leaving for Vienna that evening.

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Evidently Dumini had informed him that Matteotti’s passport had been released.19 Police headquarters had thus contributed to the organization of the crime by disclosing confidential information to Dumini. Laino himself, a high-ranking officer at police headquarters, confirmed later that Dumini was known there as a “trusted person of Rossi,” and for this reason they did not deny him the information he requested.20 On Saturday night, June 7, the group was in a state of great agitation. Thierschald reported to investigators that Dumini wanted to be sure that Matteotti would be taking the 11:40  p.m. train to Milan (at that time, trains to Austria traveled via Milan). Immediately after leaving parliament, the Austrian began a steady watch around Matteotti’s home. He withdrew only after midnight when he was sure that Matteotti had not left home. But that information did not satisfy Dumini. He went with Putato to Termini Station to see for himself that Matteotti was not on the 11:40 p.m. train to Milan. If they had spotted Matteotti on the train, they would probably have left with him. Dumini’s preferred plan was apparently to kill Matteotti on Austrian soil. If Matteotti had boarded the train, someone would have followed him and moved into action as soon as he arrived in the Austrian capital. Almost certainly, when the train stopped in Milan, Volpi and Panzeri, who had probably returned to Milan earlier for this reason, would have replaced or simply joined those who had followed Matteotti from Rome. Rossi himself confirmed this a few years later, when he admitted that the organizers of the crime had considered eliminating the socialist deputy in Austria.21 It would have involved less risk to commit the crime across the border. There would have been more opportunities to act since Matteotti would have been less conditioned by the habits imposed by family life, and because staying in a country that was less hostile towards him than fascist Italy would have made him less suspicious. They had probably also considered blaming the crime on German or Austrian right-wing circles. The assassination only two years earlier of Walther Rathenau, the German Foreign Minister, had revealed the existence of right-wing German extremist groups that had remained active up to the time of the crime, so Matteotti’s murder could have plausibly sprung from the same political humus. Given this possibility, Dumini agreed to Volpi’s departure to Milan at the beginning of June. However, the organizers had also considered another scenario— Matteotti’s non-departure and the consequent necessity of carrying out

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their plan in Rome. In fact, on June 7 Volpi sent an urgent telegram to Dumini with an unequivocal meaning: “I am anxiously waiting to know if my presence is required.”22 The group spent the morning of Sunday June 8 ascertaining that, in fact, Matteotti had not left for Vienna. Dumini, Thierschald, and Poveromo wandered around Montecitorio until 1:00 p.m., when they saw Matteotti leave the Parliament building and head home. Once they were certain that Matteotti had not left for Austria, they set in motion the alternative plan. The Ceka had to act with great urgency because Matteotti had to be killed before the Chamber of Deputies reopened on June 11. Matteotti’s sudden change in plans gave Dumini and his companions only two days to implement their criminal scheme. Only Monday June 9 and Tuesday June 10 remained. And since the library of the Chamber was closed on Mondays and Matteotti would not have left home, Dumini and his accomplices had no choice but to act on Tuesday. To carry out the crime in Rome, Volpi needed to return. On Sunday afternoon, Dumini replied to Volpi’s telegram: “Please leave immediately Stop Your presence required to define advertising contract Stop Bring Panzeri and skilled chauffeur. Greetings. Gino D’Ambrogi.”23 The chauffeur was Augusto Malacria, who arrived in Rome with Volpi on the morning of June 10. In the meantime, on Friday, June 6 Filippelli had reserved the Lancia automobile that was used on the 10th for the kidnapping. When the garage owner asked who to invoice, Filippelli replied that the car was “for himself and for the Ministry of the Interior.” He specifically requested a Lancia hardtop without a chauffeur; when the garage owner observed that a Lancia convertible with chauffeur would be more convenient, Filippelli “insisted that he wanted the Lancia hardtop without chauffeur.”24 In a subsequent defense deposition, Filippelli admitted that he had indeed asked for that specific car, but only because one of his editors, who had used it on previous occasions, had told him that “it was a good car that drove well.” Filippelli’s statement contained a clear contradiction. While on the one hand he told the investigators of his alleged irritation at Dumini’s request for that specific car and his concern about the damage that might come to it, on the other hand he had taken care to ensure that the car he was renting for Dumini was in good condition and rode well. On June 9, Filippelli’s driver brought the car to Dumini. On the same evening, between 8:30 and 10:30  p.m., the car was seen circling near Matteotti’s home. It roused apprehension in the young couple who were

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the concierges in nearby Via Stanislao Mancini 12. Thinking that the drivers might be thieves, as a precaution they jotted down the plate number, Roma 55-12169.25 Another telling episode reveals the lack of trustworthiness of the police surveillance service at Matteotti’s residence. Four carabinieri took turns covering the entire 24-hour period. The carabiniere on duty on the night of June 9 declared that he had repeatedly walked the entire length of Via Stanislao Mancini, from the Tiber embankment to Via Flaminia, but that he had not noticed “suspicious persons in the area.”26 This was in clear contradiction to the statements of the Via Mancini concierges who reported that the Lancia had been parked in Via Mancini for two hours, that three other people walked up and down the street and approached the car several times, and that because of their suspicious behavior they worried they were thieves. Nor, beginning on the evening of June 4, had the police guards ever noticed Thierschald who had been wandering continuously near Matteotti’s home. But the head of the Flaminio district fascio on night watch duty in the neighborhood told investigators that he had seen Thierschald at least three times on the nights of June 5, 7, and 9.27 On the night of June 9, when Dumini returned from his reconnaissance mission along Lungotevere Arnaldo da Brescia, he parked his car in the courtyard of Palazzo Chigi and returned the next morning. To those who asked him for an explanation he replied sharply that the car belonged to the Ministry of the Interior. After all, “Cavalier Dumini” was well known in Palazzo Chigi, and the staff knew that he was Rossi’s assistant and secretary, a sensitive position.28 At 11 o’clock on the morning of June 10, Dumini and Malacria returned with the Lancia to the Trevi garage to fill the tank. They introduced themselves as plain clothes agents of the Ministry of the Interior. Dumini then gathered the group. At noon they were seen at the Galleria Colonna, near the Parliament. From there Dumini took them to lunch at Il Buco, a Tuscan restaurant in Via S. Ignazio. The group left the restaurant before 2:00 p.m., then lurked along the Tiber waiting for their victim.

The Kidnapping At 4:30 p.m. on Tuesday June 10, Matteotti left his home on Via Pisanelli, turned right up Via Pasquale Stanislao Mancini and at Lungotevere Arnaldo da Brescia started to walk towards the center of Rome. Witnesses reported that when Matteotti reached the Tiber embankment the car with

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the kidnappers was already waiting at the corner of Via degli Scialoja and Lungotevere Arnaldo da Brescia. Via degli Scialoja runs parallel to Via Mancini, and from the corner of Via degli Scialoja it was possible to see the door of Matteotti’s building. The assailants therefore had time to ascertain Matteotti’s route—to arrive at the same location as their victim they only had to go one block up or down Via degli Scialoja. When Matteotti reached the Lungotevere, he crossed the street and walked along the side bordering the river. This unforeseen circumstance probably forced the assailants to reveal their intentions sooner than they had planned. In fact, if they had also moved slowly to the same side of the street, they would have aroused Matteotti’s suspicion, and he could have returned to safety by retracing his steps. The attack, therefore, began very swiftly. Two of the five men ran towards Matteotti and grabbed him. Matteotti managed at first to fight back and throw one of them to the ground. Just then a third attacker, probably the stronger Poveromo, jumped in and stunned Matteotti with a powerful punch to the face. He fell to the ground. They grabbed him and dragged him across the street towards the car which in the meantime had started to pull closer. As they dragged Matteotti towards the car, the attackers continued to punch him violently in the face and chest. Only when they were about to force him into the car did Matteotti find the strength to react. He began to shout and struggle, kicked out the window dividing the passenger compartment from the driver’s seat, and managed to throw his deputy’s ID card out of the car window.29 An eyewitness noted that Matteotti’s papers had fallen scattered to the ground and that one of the assailants hurriedly picked them all up and took them with him. The car sped off so quickly that one of the attackers had to cling to the running board for the first few hundred yards. As the Lancia drove away at high speed, witnesses reported seeing two men flee on foot towards Ponte Margherita. The car was seen crossing Ponte Milvio and disappeared north towards the Roman countryside. The last time the Lancia was reported seen, it was speeding along Via Flaminia while the driver honked the horn continually to muffle the screams coming from inside the car. A few kilometers from the scene of the kidnapping, Matteotti was clearly still fighting his attackers. Perhaps it was precisely his indomitable resistance that made the attackers suddenly decide to stab him in the heart. They killed him in the car sooner than they had originally planned.

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Giuseppe Emanuele Modigliani, Matteotti’s colleague, reported his disappearance on the evening of Wednesday June 11 at 8:30 p.m. Late on Wednesday morning, Velia, who had spent the night worried sick at her husband’s prolonged absence, had alerted his colleagues who decided to wait a few more hours before going to the police station to report him missing. When Modigliani contacted the police, he found that chief Bertini was already aware of the news. The police officer would later tell the investigators that he had been informed by De Bono. Matteotti’s body was found two months later, on August 16. Carabiniere Ovidio Caratelli discovered it near the edge of an abandoned charcoal pit in the Quartarella district, in a thick wood 150 yards from the Via Flaminia. The discovery of the body could not have come at a more convenient time for fascism and Mussolini. It was the day after the Ferragosto holiday, a Saturday and semi-holiday for the working class. Parliament had not been in session for weeks, and most opposition politicians were on vacation or at home in their districts. It would therefore have been very difficult for the opposition parties to coordinate and manage the great wave of antifascist emotion that nevertheless swept through the country. On August 18, the official identification of the body took place in the small cemetery of Riano. On August 20, at 6:00 p.m., a train departed from the nearby station of Monterotondo to bring the remains of the socialist deputy to his hometown of Fratta Polesine. Velia was against having a solemn public funeral, and from the beginning had expressed to her husband’s fellow party members her desire to transport the body directly to Fratta. Filippo Turati, the socialist leader, had tried to convince her to bury him at least temporarily in the Verano cemetery in Rome, and it seemed that they had reached an agreement to do so. But on the evening of August 19 Turati and his companions learned that Matteotti’s body was already at the Monterotondo station and was about to leave for Fratta; Mussolini had put pressure on Velia to take her husband directly to Fratta for his burial, and she had finally relented. Thousands of citizens and workers waited along the entire route as the train passed by. In impressive silence, they paid homage to the fighter, the courageous militant of the socialist cause. In the early morning hours of August 21, the train carrying Matteotti’s remains arrived in Fratta Polesine.

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The Discovery of the Body The investigation of the crime was assigned to the president of the Office of Public Prosecutors, Mauro Del Giudice. He was assisted by the deputy attorney Guglielmo Tancredi. The search for Matteotti’s body followed many dead ends, based on several reports officials received. Some caves in the Grottarossa area near Via Flaminia were searched because fragments of glass had been found that were similar to those in the Lancia that Matteotti had shattered during the scuffle in the car. The bed of Lake Vico was sounded with a seaplane, without success, and several of Matteotti’s colleagues also participated in a thorough search of the Macchia Grossa, an area of thick undergrowth around the lake. On the afternoon of August 12, a worker who was clearing debris from the roadside at the 18th kilometer along Via Flaminia spotted something in the drainage gutter that caught his attention. He climbed down into the culvert where he retrieved a jacket that had one sleeve missing and was smeared with blood-stained soil. He turned the jacket in to the Sacrofano train stationmaster, who instructed some railway coworkers to go inform the nearby carabinieri station at Prima Porta, just north of Rome. On the morning of the 13th, a carabiniere at Prima Porta, brigadier Piras, went directly to the location on the via Flaminia where the jacket had been found. He also found a sleeve there, with its lining partially torn. The jacket turned out to be the one Matteotti wore on the day of the kidnapping. Captain Pallavicini, the local carabinieri commander, picked it up from Prima Porta on the morning of August 13 and brought it to Rome. The events that led to the discovery of the jacket, as well as the subsequent discovery of the body, are surrounded by contradictions and unanswered questions. When Captain Pallavicini brought the jacket to the carabinieri headquarters in Rome, he wrote in his report that on the morning of the 13th, at 8:25 a.m., he had learned about its discovery totally by accident. He reported that he had overheard people talking about it at the Sacrofano railway station, then went immediately to the Sacrofano stationmaster to get it. The stationmaster testified that Captain Pallavicini had, in fact, come to get the garment that morning, but added that he was accompanied by a brigadier of the carabinieri, Ovidio Caratelli, a fact that Pallavicini had never mentioned. Nor did Caratelli mention Pallavicini during his first interrogation; he decided to mention him only on August 21, during his

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second interrogation, when the investigators had begun to express doubts about his account. Pallavicini’s deposition was also contradicted by brigadier Piras’ version of what happened on the morning of the 13th. Piras said that when Pallavicini arrived at Prima Porta that morning, Pallavicini was already aware that the jacket had been found, and that it was at Sacrofano. Pallavicini’s report was further complicated by Caratelli’s explanation, in his second interrogation on August 21, about why he was with Pallavicini at the Sacrofano station. He said he had met the captain on the train on the morning of the 13th, adding carelessly that they had run into each other between the Riano and Sacrofano stops. But one or both were lying. Since after his visit to Prima Porta (where he ordered Piras to go to the location where the jacket had been found) Pallavicini had continued to Sacrofano, he could not have also been on the train arriving at Sacrofano from Riano, because the two trains traveled in opposite directions. Pallavicini had to change the version he had given in his written report to avoid being questioned about the contradictory fact that he learned the jacket had been found before arriving at the Prima Porta carabinieri station on the morning of the 13th. He modified his story to say he had actually heard about the jacket the previous evening when he overheard fellow passengers speaking about it on the train traveling from Prima Porta to Rome. Pallavicini said that in Riano, Caratelli boarded the same car he was in. Caratelli had already heard that the jacket had been found and was at the Sacrofano station. At that point the two men had decided to go to Sacrofano, where Pallavicini retrieved the jacket and took it to Rome. However, Pallavicini’s new description of events both contradicted the testimony of the Sacrofano stationmaster who had arranged for the two men to visit him on the morning of the 13th, and also put Caratelli in a difficult position because it did not align with his version of meeting Pallavicini on the train on the morning of the 13th. In short, the depositions of Pallavicini and Caratelli regarding the jacket were in stark contradiction with each other. Unfortunately, investigators did not dig more deeply into the incongruity in their versions; they never questioned Pallavicini or Caratelli further. But Pallavicini needed to hide an entirely different truth—he was an informer for the police, and when he arrived at the Prima Porta station from Rome on the morning of August 13 he had already received orders to simulate the discovery of the jacket. He was already in agreement with Caratelli, who had been assigned the task of feigning the discovery of the

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body. The jacket had been placed in the ravine a few days earlier so that its discovery would trigger the search for the body. In fact, when the jacket and the sleeve were examined by experts, their report stated they were both in good condition and excluded that they could have been laying where they had been found for two months, but rather “must have been placed at the site shortly before their discovery.”30 The fake “discovery” of the jacket on the morning of August 13 was the first step in the series of events that led to the choreographed discovery of Matteotti’s body. Ovidio Caratelli was an old acquaintance of Domenico Pallavicini, and he had served under his command a few years earlier at the Civitavecchia carabinieri station. Pallavicini felt he could trust him to collaborate in the extremely confidential operation he had been assigned. On August 11, 1924, Caratelli was on a 30-day leave and had arrived that day at his family’s home in Riano where his father worked as a farmer on an estate belonging to Prince Ludovisi Boncompagni. The Quartarella forest was on the estate. He had arrived in Riano just in time to be present when Matteotti’s jacket was found. Caratelli told the investigators that after the jacket had been found he was convinced that the body could not have been buried far away. He had therefore intensified his search and wandered around the Quartarella ­scrubland for a few days. On the morning of the discovery, his dog had suddenly crouched down near the charcoal pit and barked nervously. Caratelli poked a stick into the ground, which was covered with leaves and dry oak bark. When he saw “that the stick sunk in, I kicked with my foot to see if the ground yielded; it was then that I smelled a strong cadaverous stench.”31 Without digging further, he returned to Riano and sought out the stationmaster of the Roma Nord railway there, Geremia Conti, to whom he reported that he had probably found Matteotti’s body. Conti told the investigators that Caratelli said to him that morning: “Would you like to come with me? Because I found the hare.” Surprised by his question, Conti asked him for an explanation. Caratelli said: “I found Matteotti.” Conti exclaimed: “Are you kidding?” And Caratelli said: “I’m not joking, I’m serious, come with me and we’ll agree on other things later.” Conti immediately understood that Caratelli was alluding to sharing with him the compensation that he might receive for the discovery.32 When Conti reached the spot indicated by Caratelli, he noticed that the ground did not give way at all. On the contrary, the grave containing poor

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Matteotti’s remains was well camouflaged in the undergrowth of the bush, and difficult to identify. In fact, before starting to dig, Conti had to clear a layer of leaves and tree bark from the ground. After “having dug into no more than four or five fingers of soil,” he told the judges, “the skull appeared, so I put the shovel on the ground and used my hands and knife to slowly remove the soil to uncover the skull.” Only then he began “to smell a strong odor of putrefaction.”33 Based on Conti’s description of the condition of the ground it is easy to understand why the investigators were skeptical of Caratelli’s version of how he had discovered the body. What perplexed them was Caratelli’s confidence when he claimed to Conti to have found Matteotti’s body, because Conti’s description of the conditions of the ground surface where the grave was located did not lead so obviously to the same conclusion. The version of events that Caratelli told to his friends and to the carabiniere who first arrived on the scene right after the discovery34—that he had come upon the grave by chance while he was hunting—contradicted the version he told the investigating magistrates in his three depositions when he described his systematic and meticulous search for the body.35 The investigators therefore subjected Caratelli to insistent interrogations during which he remained faithful to his first version of the facts. It was therefore impossible to ascertain whether the finding was the result of chance, as Caratelli claimed, or of searches conducted in complete autonomy, or—and this was what the magistrates were interested in establishing—whether he and captain Pallavicini had colluded in simulating the finding, and that therefore Caratelli had arrived in Riano with instructions on where to look. This hypothesis emerged from the investigations, but the magistrates were not able to gather sufficient evidence to prove it. The bulk of the evidence led to the conclusion that the discovery of the corpse represented for all intents and purposes a macabre farce, and the 1947 sentence pronounced at the second trial did not exclude the role of Captain Pallavicini, who was no longer alive, as a skillful and discreet choreographer. The grave in which the corpse was found was ovoid in shape, with a maximum length of 1.20 meters, a maximum depth of 0.45 meters and a width of 0.40 to 0.75 meters. The chemical analysis of the soil in which the corpse was found confirmed that it had “remained there for a long time” and that “the body had decomposed in the same ground.”36 Hypotheses that had been proposed, and with some insistence, that the body had been moved numerous times and even soon before it was

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discovered could thus no longer be supported. The Quartarella grave was probably the only place Matteotti had lain since June 10. If the body had ever been moved, it would have been on June 10 or the days soon after. When the body was unearthed a large metal file was found slanting in the ground at shoulder level. It was thought for a moment that it was the improvised weapon that the murderers had used to kill the socialist deputy, but when the tool was examined, experts found no trace of blood or human tissue on it and the idea was discarded. The most probable explanation was that the file had been used to dig the grave and forgotten there when the corpse had been covered with earth. The corpse lay huddled and cramped in the narrow grave. Experts concluded that the body had not been subjected to mutilation, as suggested by some grisly rumors circulating insistently in Roman journalistic circles. The body was intact. A fracture on the fourth right rib was attributed to the violent pressure exerted to force it into the grave. It had been buried after being stripped of all clothing, in order both to prevent identification and to prevent the condition of the clothes, especially the shirt, from establishing the cause of death. The decision to undress Matteotti before burying him revealed that the murderers, contrary to what Dumini later claimed, were in control of their nerves, and were clearly thinking through even small details. After all, an examination of the remains of the body alone would not have made it possible to determine the precise cause of Matteotti’s death. But the jacket provided valuable information. The blood stains allowed the experts to exclude the hypothesis that Matteotti’s death could have been caused by a sudden hemoptysis, as Dumini later tried to assert. The hemorrhage that caused the stains came without any doubt from a wound. Forensic pathologists concluded that “it would be improbable and absurd to say the blood stains were produced in any other way.” They excluded that the wound could have been caused by a firearm and considered it “more likely to have been produced by a sharp pointed weapon.” The lack of signs of a sharp weapon on the jacket led to the conclusion that, at the time he was stabbed, Matteotti probably had “the jacket unbuttoned and open on the front part of his body.”37 Pathologists determined that Matteotti was fatally wounded in the “upper left anterolateral thoracic region.” Ultimately, the various expert reports ascertained that the death of Matteotti took place in the car and was almost certainly caused by a single knife blow to the heart. The murderer had not stabbed blindly; he had deliberately tried to end Matteotti’s life quickly.

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The Days After the Crime The most pressing problem the murderers had to address when they returned to Rome on the night of June 10 was how to get rid of their bloodied clothes. We know they did not return to their hotel, so they must have been aided by someone. It appears that person was Fasciolo, Mussolini’s personal secretary, who let them come to his home and gave them clean clothes. Fasciolo, in fact, played a much more active role in the murder than he led the investigators to believe. A few years after the crime, Giovanni Vaselli, Dumini’s lawyer, revealed to prosecutor Del Giudice that the five Ceka members had gone to Fasciolo’s home on the night of the crime to remove the traces of blood they had on them.38 Immediately after, Dumini parked the car in the courtyard of the Viminale (Ministry of the Interior), and then went to the office of the Corriere Italiano. Several witnesses noticed him at around 11:30 p.m. and described his demeanor as “very calm and quiet, not at all worried.”39 Shortly before going to the Corriere Italiano offices, Dumini had instructed Putato and Panzeri to retrieve the car at the Viminale. Putato had then joined Dumini at the newspaper while Panzeri remained waiting in the car. Dumini’s main problem was where to hide the car, given the condition of its passenger seat. He obviously counted on help from Filippelli since, after all, the Lancia had been rented in his name. Filippelli arrived at the newspaper after midnight and met with Dumini, alone, in his office. After some time, he called in Nello Quilici, the editor-­ in-­chief of Corriere Italiano, and asked him if he could store the Lancia in his home garage for a few days. Dumini waited for Quilici to finally finish his work, then at 2:00 a.m. they met Putato, who was evidently waiting for them. As the three of them approached the Lancia, Quilici saw an individual inside. It was Panzeri. Dumini took the wheel and when Quilici was about to enter the back seat, he asked him to sit next to him in the front to give him directions. At Piazza Esedra they hired a taxi which Putato used to follow them to their destination. Quilici noticed that Dumini was very calm, explaining technical details about the Lancia to him while he drove. Once the car was in the garage, Dumini and his friends left in the taxi, after assuring Quilici that they would return later that day to pick up the car. On the way back, Dumini was dropped in front of his house in Via Cavour. Panzeri and Putato continued on in the taxi. It was at this point, according to Putato’s version, that Panzeri revealed he had learned from

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Poveromo that “they had taken the Honorable Matteotti, they had forced him into the car, he did not know exactly what had happened, but it is certain that they had killed him and buried him. As for the place where they had buried him, Poveromo had said that “after wandering around the countryside for a long time they buried him near Rome.”40 On Wednesday June 11, in the afternoon, Putato, Thierschald, Panzeri, and Poveromo left for Milan. They took an indirect route to avoid being noticed as they got off a train from Rome. They got off in Bologna and took a train to Vicenza, where they changed trains for Milan. Amerigo Dumini did not leave Rome immediately. He spent Wednesday morning organizing the escape of some of his companions, then very early, at 11:30 a.m., he had lunch at Il Buco with Viola, Volpi, and Malacria. There is no trace of him and his companions until later that afternoon when he showed up at the Trevi garage. Between 6:00 p.m. and 7:00 p.m. he was inside the Parliament, wandering in the area reserved for the press. He was not seen again until midnight, when he was noticed in Filippelli’s car near the office of the Corriere Italiano. On Thursday the 12th, at one o’clock, he dined again at Il Buco with his accomplices who were still in Rome. At two in the afternoon, an unexpected event caused Volpi, Malacria, and Viola to leave hastily for Milan. That morning, in fact, the concierges who had noticed the Lancia on their street two nights earlier had read about the murder and gone to the police to report the license plate number. The chief of police, De Bono, was immediately informed, and at around 1:00  p.m., he informed Rossi, Mussolini’s closest collaborator, that the license plate of the car used to kidnap Matteotti had been identified. After meeting with Mussolini to inform him the car had been identified, Rossi searched anxiously for Filippelli and informed him of the fact when they met at two o’clock. Since the police knew the car’s plate number, the Lancia had to be removed from Quilici’s garage quickly, and repaired in a trusted body shop. At 3:00 p.m. Filippelli was at Quilici’s garage with Dumini where they were seen working hard on the passenger seat of the Lancia to remove the blood stains from the upholstery. At 6:00  p.m. Dumini returned to his home on Via Cavour; he left two hours later carrying his luggage. He got into a carriage which, instead of going up Via Cavour in the direction of Termini Station, was seen descending in the opposite direction towards the city center. He was arrested at 11:00  p.m. at the station as he was about to leave for Milan on the 11:45 p.m. train.

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Filippelli later claimed that he had met Rossi at his home after having been at Quilici’s. Of course, he did not want it to appear that he already knew the Lancia’s license plate had been identified when he went to Quilici’s garage, so he denied having met Rossi at 2:00 p.m. But the president of Corriere Italiano, the lawyer Adolfo Olivieri who was present when Rossi arrived, refuted his statement and gave investigators the correct version of events—that Filippelli and Rossi had met at around 2:00 p.m. Even before tracking down the car, the police had arrested Tommasini, owner of the Trevi garage, and one of his chauffeurs, Sabbatini, who had driven the Lancia from the Trevi garage to Dumini on June 9. Another driver, Gigi Colini Baldeschi, was soon issued an arrest warrant for having driven the car to the body shop. The Lancia was found at 10:00 p.m. on Thursday at the body shop where Filippelli usually brought his cars for repair. The identification of the car was a crucial turning point in the investigation. If, until one o’clock that afternoon the instigators and perpetrators of the crime felt coolheaded and secure, the calm of the previous hours had now dissipated. They knew that they could be identified, so they frantically moved into action to hamper police investigations that could lead to them. The hunt for the assassins and their accomplices had begun. Putato was arrested on the night of June 12. Volpi was arrested on the 16th, Thierschald on the 18th, Viola on the 24th. On the morning of Friday the 13th Poveromo had managed to leave his lover’s home under the complacent eyes of the policemen sent to arrest him. He took refuge for a few days in an attic of friends near his home, where he was surprised by the police and arrested on June 28. Panzeri and Malacria managed to escape to France. Albino Volpi was able to benefit from more active complicity. When he was stopped for the first time at 6:00 p.m. on Friday the 13th he was with a group of loyal armed arditi and resisted at first. At one point, he seemed to surrender to arrest, but he asked the agents to take him to the headquarters of the Milanese fascio to meet with the political secretary before he was taken to jail. There, a group of fascists blocked the agents while Volpi escaped through a back door. He found refuge in a hotel in Bellagio, near Lecco, from where he intended to reach Switzerland. When he was arrested, he had around 5000 lire on him along with a passport for France in the name of Giuseppe Faini, which had been issued to him during one of his secret missions to France as a Ceka agent.

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Dumini had asked Putato to deal with Otto Thierschald. When he arrived in Milan, Putato took him to the headquarters of Volpi’s arditi. They gave him clothing and tried to disguise him by cutting his hair, which he wore long, and by shaving his moustache and his two-pointed beard, which made him easily recognizable. But after Putato was arrested Thierschald was on his own. He turned unsuccessfully to other fascist groups for help. He slept in the waiting room of the railway station. On Tuesday June 17 he decided to go to Busto Arsizio to visit a friend. He told him he was implicated in the Matteotti murder and that he would like to confer with a leader of the Communist Party. The friend then contacted the Socialist Workers Union leaders who, after ascertaining that Thierschald was telling the truth, turned him over to the police. Giuseppe Viola was back in Milan where the Milanese fascists helped to keep his whereabouts unknown. He then sought help from relatives who asked a fascist friend to take him in. They betrayed him, and handed him over to the police. For Filippelli, the situation was complicated. It was not difficult to see that his arrest was imminent. On Thursday afternoon he returned to the Viminale in search of Rossi again. This time he felt the need to request protection from those who had gotten him into trouble. The conversation was dramatic. Filippelli shouted several times at Rossi “You have ruined me! You have ruined me!” His position precipitated completely after a long deposition that Quilici gave on Saturday morning. To avoid being accused of complicity because he had helped to hide the Lancia, Quilici had decided to tell the magistrates everything he had witnessed on the night of June 10. On Saturday, Filippelli started his day by meeting Rossi at his home. Rossi informed him that he would be meeting Mussolini, who would certainly provide direction for Filippelli’s defense. While Rossi went to Palazzo Chigi, Filippelli waited for him at the Fascist Party headquarters. On his return from Palazzo Chigi, however, Rossi was the bearer of very bad news—Mussolini had just demanded his own resignation. All he could do, with a bitter touch of irony, was to advise Filippelli to get himself a lawyer. After leaving the PNF, Filippelli went to meet with two friends, Tullio Benedetti and Pippo Naldi, and informed them of recent events and the dire situation he was in. They were joined later by Giuseppe Galassi, a journalist for Corriere Italiano. Naldi suggested that Filippelli take refuge

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in France, from where he could defend himself through the press after the initial storm had passed. To guarantee his safety, Naldi suggested he write a memoir documenting his knowledge of the events surrounding the Matteotti murder. Filippelli penned the document shortly after and gave it to Benedetti. They decided that Galassi would accompany Filippelli to France, where Naldi could connect him to a reliable support network. Galassi and Filippelli departed Rome on the afternoon of Saturday June 14. Naldi had given Filippelli the passport of his chauffeur who bore a vague resemblance to him, so he could expatriate under a false name. When Filippelli and Galassi reached Nervi, they rented a motorboat that they intended to take to Montecarlo, but when they were still in Italian territorial waters the police stopped and arrested them. Naldi was arrested in Rome. Later, Tullio Benedetti sent a copy of Filippelli’s memoir to his friend Carlo Carnazza. Although he was subjected to heavy pressure from both the opposition and the fascists, who for very different reasons wanted to get hold of Filippelli’s memoir, Benedetti nevertheless jealously guarded the document. Only when Naldi was released from prison on October 14, 1924, did the memoir fall mysteriously into the hands of the opposition, but not before Benedetti reported a strange theft in his office, evidently to protect himself from accusations of complicity in its publication. On June 18, Giovanni Marinelli was arrested as well. On Wednesday morning, when he already knew about the murder, Rossi attended his regular daily meeting with Mussolini, and in the evening he met with him again. Around 2:00 p.m. he met Filippelli. He had another meeting with him in his home at about 5:00 p.m. On Thursday evening, after the session of the Great Fascist Council, he summoned Aldo Finzi, De Bono, and Marinelli for a secret meeting at the Viminale. Dumini had been arrested and their position had become more precarious. Rossi, who had met again with Mussolini twice that day, probably intended to communicate Mussolini’s directives to them. On Friday morning his regular meeting with Mussolini took place. The two met again on Friday evening, after the parliamentary session during which Mussolini had announced the indefinite shutdown of the Chamber. On Saturday morning, Rossi went to Palazzo Chigi for his usual meeting with Mussolini. Giacomo Acerbo, Mussolini’s undersecretary, refused him entry and informed him that Mussolini requested his resignation as head of the press office. Despite Acerbo’s advice, Rossi insisted on meeting with Mussolini, who confirmed his demand for his resignation, which

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he deemed “necessary, because too many serious rumors were now circulating about the relationship between him and Dumini.” Rossi was beside himself and accused Mussolini of ruining him for the benefit of “four scoundrels in Montecitorio.”41 Rossi refused to sign his resignation. He went to the PNF headquarters and consulted with the members of the directorate, who finally convinced him to sign. From there he went to the Viminale, then to Finzi’s home where he stayed for an hour and a half. Later he went to the Brecche restaurant and told his driver to wait for him out front. He never emerged from the restaurant; he disappeared. A week later, on June 22, he voluntarily turned himself in to the director of Regina Coeli, the Roman prison. Rossi had found refuge at the home of his friend Attilio Susi, a deputy and freemason. While in hiding, Rossi took the precaution of writing a memoir detailing what he knew of Mussolini’s many illegal activities. The memoir was given to Susi, but Susi’s son-in-law, Alberto Virgili, another freemason, took it from him and photographed a copy which he sent to Domizio Torrigiani, Grand Master of Italian Freemasonry. In early August, Torrigiani personally delivered the memoir to Giovanni Amendola who showed it to the king to induce him to ask for Mussolini’s resignation. His efforts were in vain. The memoir was then given to Alberto Cianca who published it in the Mondo newspaper late in 1924.

Notes 1. Archivio di Stato Trieste, Prefettura, Gabinetto, b. 52. 2. Ibid. 3. ACS, PS, Affare Matteotti, sc. 1. 4. “L’oscuro equivoco del contrabbando d’armi destinate alla Jugoslavia”; in newspaper Il Popolo d’Italia, 21 August 1923. 5. “Per la notizia del contrabbando di Grado. Una smentita dell’Ufficio Stampa del Pnf”; newspaper Il Popolo d’Italia, 19 August 1923. 6. Filippo Filippelli was an old, close acquaintance of Arnaldo. He was born in Cosenza in 1890, earned a law degree, and moved to Milan before the war. After the war he joined an anti-Bolshevik league and then joined the fascist movement. In 1920 he had joined the administration of the Popolo d’Italia as a fundraiser and secretary to Arnaldo Mussolini. After the March on Rome, when they decided to open a daily newspaper in Rome as the unofficial organ of the government, the Mussolini brothers did not hesitate to entrust the paper’s direction to Filippelli. Judging by the docu-

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ments that were seized as part of the investigation into the Matteotti murder, Filippelli functioned as a true leader, lobbyist, and tireless intermediary between the economic and financial milieu and the new fascist ruling class. He had ties with FIAT, Ligurian steel companies, SIAP oil tankers, Piedmont hydroelectric companies, Tuscan ship building companies, banks, and financial institutions. 7. AS Roma, Processo Matteotti, Esami, vol. I, 284, De Bono deposition of 9 July 1924. 8. Cesare Rossi’s memoir in Mauro Canali, “Documenti inediti sul delitto Matteotti. Il memoriale Rossi del 1927 e il carteggio Modigliani,” in Storia Contemporanea, n. 4, August 1994, 601. 9. AS Roma, Processo Matteotti, Esami, vol. I, 284, De Bono deposition of 9 July 1924. 10. AS Roma, Processo Matteotti, Requisitoria presentata alla Procura Generale, 61 and 103. 11. Copy of the telegram in ibid., Atti generici, vol. II, 40–41. 12. The telegram from Marinelli to De Bono is in ibid., vol. V, 46–47; for the telegram from De Bono to Poggioreale see ACS, Direzione generale PS, Ufficio Cifra, telegrammi in partenza, telegr. n. 12104. De Bono telegrafava: “Release Austrian Otto Thierschald.” 13. See AS Roma, Processo Matteotti, Esami, vol. I, 55–56, Modigliani deposition of 19 June 1924. 14. Ibid., Interrogatori, Otto Thierschald, 9, interrogation of 23 June 1924. 15. Ibid., Atti generici, vol. II, 134, deposition of Velia Matteotti on 28 June 1924. 16. Ibid. 17. Ibid., Esami, vol. I, 250, deposition of Arturo Dell’Aquila. 18. See also ibid., vol. III, 216–223, deposition of 17 October 1924. 19. See also ibid., Interrogatori, Otto Thierschald, 43, interrogation of 22 October 1924. 20. See also ibid., Esami, vol. I, 333, deposition of 11 July 1924. 21. See his memoir in Canali, “Documenti inediti sul delitto Matteotti,” 590. Modigliani, too, believed that the Ceka’s original plan was to kill Matteotti during his trip to Vienna; see G.  E. Modigliani, L’assassinio di Giacomo Matteotti, New York, Italian-American Labor Council, 1945, 8. 22. The telegram is in AS Roma, Processo Matteotti, Documenti, vol. I, 36. 23. Ibid. 24. AS Roma, Processo Matteotti, Esami, vol. I, 376, deposition of Tomassini of 22 July 1924. 25. Ibid., vol. II, deposition of Ester Erasmi and Domenico Villarini, 24–27 and 35–37. 26. Ibid., vol. III, 372–373.

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27. Ibid., vol. I, 250–251. 28. Ibid., vol. II, 251–257, deposition of Giovanni Olivo of 9 September 1924; and ibid., 375–378, deposition of Rodolfo Sartori of 18 September 1924. 29. The ID card was picked up by two cart drivers who drove by immediately following the kidnapping. They handed it in to the police only two days later.; see. AS Roma, Esami, vol. II, 258–259. 30. Sentence of the 1947 Matteotti trial, 60–61. 31. AS Roma, Processo Matteotti, Esami, vol. II, 80, deposition of Ovidio Caratelli of 16 August 1924; this is the first of three Caratelli depositions. 32. Ibid., 116–117, deposition of Geremia Conti of 21 August 1924. 33. Ibid., 118–119. 34. Ibid., 183, deposition of Salvatore Cau. 35. Ibid., Atti generici, vol. VI, 44–48. 36. See the sentence of the 1947 Matteotti trial, 52. 37. Ibid., 67–69. 38. Mauro Del Giudice, Cronistoria del processo Matteotti (Palermo: Lo Monaco, 1954), 68. 39. AS Roma, Processo Matteotti, Esami, vol. II, 412, deposition of Nello Quilici of 23 September, and ibid., 136, deposition of Armando Bevilacqua, journalist of the newspaper Corriere Italiano. 40. Ibid., Interrogatori, Aldo Putato, 40, interrogation of 27 August 1924. Previously Putato had stated he first found out from Panzeri when he went to get the Lancia in the Viminale courtyard. 41. Ibid., Esami, vol. I, 239, deposition of Giacomo Acerbo.

CHAPTER 3

Dumini’s Lies

Dumini himself disproved the idea that he and his accomplices merely wanted to give Matteotti a “fascist lesson” that unintentionally ended in tragedy. He knew that the zeal he and his men exhibited when they abducted Matteotti made that version of events unconvincing. The attackers’ clear intention to abduct the victim differed from the typical dynamics of punitive “lessons” conducted by the Ceka in which their victim was clubbed then left bleeding on the asphalt as the attackers fled (as they did to Amendola, Misuri, and Cesare Forni). When, after four months of silence, Dumini finally gave his version of the facts—that the plan was in fact to kidnap Matteotti who then died unexpectedly from hemoptysis. Dumini said that his motive for kidnapping Matteotti was to question him about the assassinations of fascists that had taken place in France that he suspected Matteotti had knowledge of.1 His conviction had prompted him to have Matteotti watched. He had never planned on kidnapping him but had decided on impulse to seize him when he was “organizing the surveillance near his home so a person would be there continuously day and night,”2 and he unexpectedly caught sight of Matteotti from the Tiber embankment. At that moment, the thought of Nicola Bonservizi came to mind. I saw the person responsible for his death standing in front of me and I gave an order. Everything happened in ten seconds.3

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Dumini told the investigators that he intended to take Matteotti “to a secluded place to question him about the murder of Bonservizi and others.”4 After abducting Matteotti, he drove the Lancia out of Rome. The victim remained calm. “I turned around from time to time and repeatedly ordered that no harm be done to him,” but he had only gone a few kilometers when he was “frantically warned that the Socialist deputy was ill.”5 Dumini then “noticed with fright that Matteotti was terribly pale and vomiting blood from his mouth. We tried to help him in every way, but every attempt was in vain, and he expired while we tried to save him.”6 He added that the unexpected death of the socialist deputy caused the attackers to panic; they wandered aimlessly through the Roman countryside for hours until darkness fell before regaining control of their nerves, and they decided to bury the corpse in the Quartarella forest where it was found months later. Most of what he said about the impromptu abduction was contradictory and did not stand up to deep scrutiny. For example, Dumini objected that it would have been impossible for him to know when or if Matteotti would leave his home that afternoon. But previously he had carelessly admitted that he had ordered Thierschald to follow Matteotti a few days earlier, so he must have known his habits and schedule very well by then. When he began to monitor Matteotti’s movements, Dumini must have realized quite early on that he could count on the victim maintaining the daily schedule that was imposed on him by his family and political responsibilities. Velia Matteotti had testified that her husband “went to the Chamber every day in the early morning hours from about 9:00 a.m. to 1:30 p.m. and again in the afternoon; when parliament was in session he returned there before 3 and returned home between 9:30 and 10:30 p.m. He never went out immediately after lunch. When there were no sessions in the afternoon he went later.”7 On days when parliament was closed, there was therefore no reason to doubt that Matteotti, who was preparing a speech on the provisional budget in the library of the Chamber, would have kept to his usual schedule and would have left home at 3:00 p.m. at the earliest. Dumini also said that he had driven the Lancia to the Arnaldo da Brescia embankment on June 10 “just to show my friends Honorable Matteotti’s house.”8 But he was lying, because the Lancia used for the kidnapping had already been noticed on the evening of June 9 with several men on board in front of Matteotti’s house. The concierges who had noticed it even wrote down the plate number. So on the same day the car

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was delivered to Dumini, he drove it with his accomplices to inspect the scene of the following day’s kidnapping. This was decisive proof that Dumini’s account of an unplanned kidnapping was false. The presence of these men on the Tiber embankment on June 10 was not accidental; they were waiting for their victim. Dumini’s insistence that he had decided entirely on his own to kidnap Matteotti and release him after questioning was also implausible. The investigators were convinced that no one, unless they were out of their mind which Dumini most certainly wasn’t, would have made such a consequential decision without authorization from fascist leaders, given the damaging consequences it implied for the very stability of the regime. The evident skepticism of the investigators did not discourage Dumini, however. He certainly could not claim that he had been unaware of the risks his actions would provoke for the fascist regime. He told them that he had decided on his own to act because he was convinced that any damage would be amply compensated by the advantages gained from Matteotti’s confession of his involvement in the Bonservizi crime, and that he believed the abduction could have even led to the indictment of the entire leadership of the Unified Socialist Party. These are obviously groundless statements. It would be an insult to Dumini’s intelligence to believe that he would have organized such a serious crime based on the conviction that Matteotti kept secrets that, if confessed, would have justified violent acts against him. The truth, clearly, was another. Dumini’s role in the fascist movement was more substantial than the one he described to investigators. He was certainly not a prominent figure, but neither was he, as the graphic description in the 1925 investigative judgement states, a “simple foolish and unaware wingman, operating out of blind fanaticism, unaware of the risk of possible loss of precious protections.”9 He was bound to high-level fascist leaders and had never acted without first being sure of their cover, let alone would he have taken the initiative to kidnap a prominent figure like Matteotti, who at that time was at the center of a serious crisis between the opposition and the majority. In the aftermath of an action against Matteotti, that crisis would undoubtedly have precipitated and disastrous results for the fascist government would have ensued. It was in fact not difficult to imagine that, once free, Matteotti would have made Mussolini and fascism pay dearly for the affront suffered. The kidnapping plan did not envision partial solutions. Matteotti was not supposed to come out alive.

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To support his death-by-hemoptysis contention, Dumini pointed out that, had he planned on killing Matteotti, he would not have done so in the car, given all the complications that could have arisen. Dumini’s observation may seem logical, but the forensic analysis of the jacket contradicts it; it established that the blood stains on the jacket had not flowed spontaneously from Matteotti’s lungs, but from one or more wounds caused by a knife when Matteotti was stabbed in the car. If the kidnappers had not originally planned on killing Matteotti in the car given the risk involved, unforeseen difficulties must have forced them to do so. The kidnappers had probably underestimated Matteotti’s reaction, or perhaps they had thought it would have been easier to restrain him. When he was seized, Matteotti, understandably so, must have been assailed by the memory of his horrible kidnapping in 1921 at Castelguglielmo. He must have panicked, and his desperate reaction must have left his attackers with no alternative. As the victim struggled desperately and shouted to attract the attention of passers-by, the kidnappers had to resort to using a knife earlier than planned. The unplanned detail of the kidnapping was not, therefore, that Matteotti was killed, but that he was killed so soon. Dumini continued that, if the murder really had been premeditated, he would have brought more suitable tools for digging a grave instead of being forced to resort to the jack and the file from the car’s toolbox. But if Matteotti was not to have been killed in the car why should Dumini even have brought tools suitable for digging a grave? The original plan must have included a prepared site where the victim and the kidnappers would hide, and where it would be possible for them to kill Matteotti without running any risks. A grave had probably already been dug somewhere for Matteotti’s body. In his American memoir, which will be described later, Dumini confirmed that a pit with quicklime had been prepared to bury the body, and that Matteotti’s early death prevented them from reaching it, since they would have had to reenter the city. We also need to examine more closely Dumini’s account of the six hours immediately following the kidnapping. It is difficult to imagine that men like Dumini and Volpi would lose their calm in the face of Matteotti’s unexpected death, and ride desperately through the Roman countryside for six hours with their tragic load. And it is even harder to believe that after six hours they had not yet come to their senses, as Dumini tried to assert, and had not recovered the control necessary to lucidly complete their task and bury the body using a less improvised method.

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There are contradictory elements in the burial itself. On the one hand the shallowness of the grave seems to indicate that the killers were anxious and rushed feverishly to get rid of the corpse as soon as possible; on the other hand, the fact that they removed Matteotti’s clothing to hide the cause of death shows they were clear-headed. If the deadly weapon had indeed been a knife, the state of Matteotti’s shirt would have removed any doubts in that regard. Six hours is a long time, and Dumini’s story is not sufficient to explain events during those hours. The preliminary investigation was not even able to establish how the killers spent that time; much more must have happened, and Dumini obviously thought better to keep those events hidden. After the car crossed Ponte Milvio, apart from a few reports that turned out to be unreliable, there is no information regarding its whereabouts. It is as if it had vanished. If one reads between the lines of the investigative reports, it appears that the investigators evidently suspected that there had been a second phase in the execution of the crime, and that a second team could have carried it out. The distances were not so great as to make this impossible; despite all their driving, Dumini and his accomplices had not gone far at all—Quartarella is little more than 20 kilometers from the location of the kidnapping. In Milanese fascist circles, rumors of two distinct phases—the murder and the burial—circulated widely. They were probably spread by the murderers themselves during the few days they spent as free men in Milan. There are in fact some important clues that suggest the murder and burial took place at two different times, perhaps even on two different days. The first one concerns Putato and other members of the group, who, contrary to what they declared to the magistrates, did not sleep at the Hotel Dragoni on the night between June 10 and 11. Among them, besides Putato, were certainly Panzeri, Volpi, and Poveromo. Where did they spend the night? Why did only some of the group leave for Milan the day after the crime? Why were Volpi, Viola, and Malacria in Rome on the afternoon of Wednesday, June 11? It cannot be ruled out that the body was already lying under cover in the dense undergrowth of Quartarella and remained there guarded over all night and for a good part of the following day by some of the group, perhaps Putato and Panzeri. After having thought through how to stage the crime as an involuntary tragedy, the team that had remained in Rome— Dumini, Volpi, Viola, and Malacria—returned to bury it.

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It is difficult to believe that in the face of an unforeseen problem such as Matteotti’s premature assassination, and the probable impossibility of being able to reach their prearranged hiding place, Dumini and his men continued their partially compromised mission, and even made important decisions on their own without consulting their bosses. Since Dumini’s account of the six hours was not credible, some newspapers repeatedly hypothesized that, after having placed the body near to where it was eventually buried, Dumini may have returned to Rome to consult with the instigators of the crime.

Notes 1. Interrogatori, Amerigo Dumini, 92. 2. Ibid., 81. 3. Ibid., 98. 4. Ibid., 82. 5. Ibid., 100. 6. Ibid., 83. 7. Ibid., Atti generici, vol. II, 133–134, deposition of 28 June 1924. 8. Ibid., Interrogatori, Amerigo Dumini, 81. 9. Preliminary sentence of 1 December 1925.

CHAPTER 4

Giacomo Matteotti

Giacomo Matteotti was born to Girolamo and Elisabetta Garzarolo on May 22, 1885, in the town of Fratta Polesine in northeast Italy. His father, originally from Trentino, had settled in Fratta when he was 20 years old. He opened a store and made a discreet fortune which he then invested in the purchase of farmland. When Girolamo died, his wife Elisabetta, an energetic and shrewd woman, took over the reins of the family’s various commercial activities and succeeded in appreciating the family assets considerably. At the end of the first decade of the twentieth century, the Matteotti’s were one of the few wealthy families in Polesine. Giacomo attended the Faculty of Law at the University of Bologna, where he graduated with a thesis on recidivism. He entered politics very early and joined the Italian Socialist Party (PSI) around 1900. In May 1908, he joined the editorial board of the left-wing publication Lotta. During the political election campaign of 1909, he supported the candidacy of Ivanoe Bonomi who opposed Eugenio Valli, representative of the agrarians, in the town of Lendinara. Between 1909 and 1910 his two brothers, Matteo and Silvio, died of tuberculosis, a tragedy that was probably at the root of Giacomo’s temporary withdrawal from politics, which he perhaps thought of abandoning to devote himself to a university career. This would explain both his refusal to run in the provincial by-elections in July 1910 and his long study trip to England. His doubts towards politics did not last long; at the end of

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1910 Matteotti was already among the protagonists of political and administrative life in Rovigo. Opponents had been targeting Matteotti for some time, using creative epithets to highlight the apparent contradiction between his political choices and his comfortable financial situation: the “social millionaire” and “padrone Matteotti” among others. A staunch anti-militarist, he was among the most resolute opponents of the Italian invasion of Libya in September 1911. At the congress of Reggio Emilia in July 1912, in complete autonomy from Filippo Turati, he stood in favor of the expulsion of the right wingers Bonomi and Leonida Bissolati when they hesitated to condemn the Libyan campaign. The Reggio Emilia decision revealed that Matteotti, and the group of leaders from Rovigo gathering around him, were forming a political vision and seeking a dialogue with the maximalist and revolutionary components of the left. It is therefore not surprising that the prefect Michele Darbesio commented that in Rovigo the PSI had taken on a revolutionary character. At the 1914 Socialist Congress in Ancona, Matteotti personally faced Mussolini for the first time in a discussion over the relations between the PSI and Freemasonry. Both Matteotti and Mussolini stated that it was incompatible for socialists to also be Freemasons. They differed, however, on how to treat socialists who were already members of the organization. Matteotti supported simply requesting that they unravel the knot of double membership, while Mussolini called for the expulsion of those who did not comply. Mussolini’s position prevailed. At the outbreak of war Matteotti sided resolutely with the neutralists. He actively opposed the positions of Mussolini who had resoundingly abandoned the neutralist front, and who saw participation in the war as an opportunity to bring revolutionary change to Italian politics. He was even more opposed to the democratic interventionism of Bissolati and Gaetano Salvemini, which he felt was subordinate to nationalism. An article he published in the February 1915 issue of Critica Sociale attracted a certain amount of attention. The piece contributed to the debate within the Milanese PSI between the extremist wing which supported a general strike against the mobilization of the army, and Turati who was against the strike in agreement with the PSI leadership. Matteotti not only sided against Turati, but he was even more extremist than the maximalists; he called for “insurrection.” It was certainly quite surprising for a reformist to make such a proposal. In a subsequent speech on March

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19, 1915, to the Provincial Council of Rovigo, he expressed his regret “that the proletariat and the Italian Socialist Party do not know how to affirm at this time their resolution to rise up against any war.”1 Because of his uncompromising aversion to the war, Matteotti was often accused of being pro-Austrian. To those who ironically invited him to move to Austria, he replied that in Austria people were not so poor as to die of pellagra. Even after Italy’s entry into the war, Matteotti did not waver in his strong neutralist position, in contrast to the line taken by the PSI which was entrenched behind the ambiguous slogan “neither join nor sabotage.” The Hapsburg culture which he must have felt in his family probably contributed unconsciously to his neutralist and intransigent political attitude, which was stronger than radical sectors of the PSI. An echo of sympathy towards Austria can be found in a September 1914 letter to his wife Velia, in which Matteotti wrote that an insurrection would be legitimate “if they wanted to start a war against Austria tomorrow with very little loyal backing.”2 Giacomo Matteotti’s extended family situation probably contributed to his complex and contradictory feelings towards the war, personally as well as politically. His young wife Velia’s family had close family ties with the Steiners, a family of Bohemian origin. Two of her sisters were married to Emerich and Guglielmo Steiner, two brothers who were close friends with Giacomo. A third Steiner, Max, who had been interned in Sardinia when the war broke out, also lived in Italy. And the Steiners had two other brothers, officers in the Austro-Hungarian army, who were fighting on the Italian front.3 When Matteotti was called to arms he was assigned to an artillery regiment stationed in Verona. The Supreme Command, however, considered him “a stubborn, violent agitator, capable of harming national interests at any time,”4 They ordered him removed from the war zone and interned him at Campo Inglese, a village in eastern Sicily. After being discharged in March 1919, Matteotti immediately resumed his place in the ranks of the socialist movement and, in the political elections of November 1919, he was elected for the first time as a member of parliament for the districts of Rovigo and Ferrara, winning the highest number of preferences among the other five socialist candidates elected.

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Matteotti and Fascism On January 1921, Matteotti was in Ferrara where the local socialist leadership had been arrested after the bloody events provoked by fascists at Castello Estense. The brief experience in Ferrara seemed to reinforce Matteotti’s view of agrarian fascism. In Ferrara he saw that the rise of fascism in the countryside was a danger for the socialist movement, and a reaction to the significant victories obtained by peasants and laborers during the struggles of 1919 and 1920. Fascism was the violent and angry response of the agrarians and landowners to their own wounded interests. This was particularly true of fascism in the Polesine area. Matteotti attributed its rapid rise to the agrarians’ desire to prevent the implementation of the agricultural pacts they had reluctantly signed after the massive strikes in the spring of 1920, which Matteotti himself had led. The new obligations that the outcome of the strikes imposed on them—the recognition of employment offices and the taxation of labor—led them towards fascism. As he would explicitly and repeatedly affirm in Parliament, fascism was a sort of “white guard” of the agrarian bourgeoisie. At the end of October 1920, in Rovigo and in the entire Polesine, a fascio di combattimento was formed which carried out punitive actions against the “red” labor unions (Camere di lavoro) and workers leagues (Leghe operaie). The actions of the organized labor forces had been more incisive there during the so-called biennio rosso (1919–1920), but now the fascist reaction flared up more violently, inextricably linked to the large landowners’ desire for revenge. In the province of Rovigo, especially in the first half of 1921, squadrismo agrario scored its most effective blows. The Leagues were soon reduced in number as fascism knocked down the hated symbols of “red” organizations one by one. League halls and employment offices were vandalized, and union organizers and political leaders were often kidnapped and assaulted.5 Matteotti completed his political formation in this climate. Through his fight against fascism, he proved himself to be a leader of national stature, a true spokesperson for the working classes. Every violent act perpetrated by Polesine fascism echoed in Parliament through Matteotti’s passionate condemnations. He soon became the most hated and feared opponent of all anti-socialist forces in the country. On March 10, 1921, Matteotti denounced a series of violent incidents against socialist party and union leaders in the province of Rovigo. He blamed the agrarian organizations, defined as “criminal organizations,” as

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the instigators of the violence with the collusion of the police. Two days after he gave this speech, Matteotti suffered a vile attack, the details of which he and his fellow party members always treated with understandable reserve. On March 12, Matteotti went to Castelguglielmo for a meeting. When the local fascists learned he was coming, several hundred of them gathered in the town and asked to be given the opportunity to publicly repudiate his claims. Matteotti refused, saying that the meeting he was attending was not public. He proposed, however, that he meet the fascists afterwards to debate in their headquarters. When he showed up at to meet with the fascio, he was attacked, severely beaten, loaded onto a truck, and driven into the open countryside, where he was subjected to the most repulsive violence.6 Matteotti returned to comment several times about the rumors that had persistently circulated about the attack on his person. He always maintained that the insinuations were “absolutely false,” and that if he had really suffered that kind of violence he would not have hesitated to denounce it, “because they would represent not the shame of the victim, but the shame of a faction that had reached such extremes of barbarism.”7 Despite his denials, doubts about what really happened remain, fed by comments by Turati and Modigliani. In a letter to Anna Kuliscioff, Turati wrote of “outrages suffered” by Matteotti in the Polesine; Giuseppe Emanuele Modigliani made fleeting reference to a “disconcerting aggression” that Matteotti succumbed to in 1921.8 Matteotti never stopped condemning fascist violence, as he did in the December 2, 1921, parliamentary session. The uproar and violent reactions from the extreme right-wing benches did not deter the socialist politician from continuing his strong accusations. But, beyond Matteotti’s courage, about which Turati wrote to Kuliscioff in admiring and tragically prophetic tones—“this good boy” who “was not frightened by the outrages suffered in Polesine and is not frightened by the prospect of the offences that still await him,”9—one can detect in Matteotti’s speech tones of conscious despair for the condition of the Socialist Party. Under the pressure accumulated from fascist actions, members of the great popular party of the masses could not openly and actively express their political ideas. The conclusions of his speeches were dramatic; if the violence with the complicity of the government continued, if no one from the very heart of the institutions rose to oppose fascist violence, then the socialists, he warned, would be forced to take note, even knowing that serious acts

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would surely follow, that “every civil bond” between the political forces would be irreparably dissolved.10 After the assault, constant threats by Polesine fascists forced him to leave Fratta Polesine. He moved to Padua where he took an active part in the campaign for the political elections of May 1921 and was elected for the district of Padua-Rovigo. Even from a distance, he continued to disturb the sleep of the Polesine agrarians, who were the most tenacious and invested supporters of the movement against him. Matteotti did not underestimate the danger he was in. As early as July 1921 he had agreed to have special police protection when parliamentary commitments obliged him to remain in Rome. But because of his deep distrust of the police, he denied the Prefect of Rome permission to protect him when he was away from Rome. He considered it not only useless, but harmful, to make his movements known. But the Bonomi government, which had tried to curb the violence of fascism, fell in February 1922. Bonomi was succeeded by Luigi Facta. Aware of the weakness of the new government, the fascist squads escalated their initiatives and raised the level of the conflict. Their actions ranged from punitive expeditions against the headquarters of socialist organizations to the temporary occupation of cities. From May 12 to 14, 1922, Italo Balbo’s squads occupied Ferrara and a few days later occupied the city of Rovigo. These actions prompted Matteotti to make his voice heard again in Parliament, asking the government to account for the evident connection between the occupation of Rovigo and “the state of terror and abandonment to armed gangs allowed by the authorities in Polesine for over a year.”11 Coinciding with the fascist offensive, an internal crisis developed within the PSI. The party was torn by conflicts between reformists and maximalists, which were not resolved even when the communist wing left the party in January 1921 to create the PCI. The split between maximalists and reformists occurred at the 19th congress held in Rome in early October 1922, three weeks before Mussolini’s March on Rome. The reformists were expelled from the PSI and formed the Partito Socialista Unitario (Socialist Unitary Party or PSU). The tragic diaspora of the socialist movement could now be considered over. Within two years, three different parties, fiercely hostile to each other, had sprung from its sturdy original stock. Matteotti was called to direct the new PSU. Paradoxically, the young secretary’s greatest effort was directed towards countering the

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collaborationist tendencies that had already surfaced in some sectors of his party after the March on Rome. Matteotti considered any form of collaboration with Mussolini’s government as fatal to the very existence of the socialist movement. He thus found himself engaged on two fronts: against fascism, and within his own party. In his eyes, the two battles were very closely linked; the more he succeeded in exposing the reactionary character of the fascist government, the more difficult it would be for the “collaborationists” to engage with it. The period from the beginning of 1923 until his death in June 1924 was the most dramatic in Matteotti’s political life. To counter the “collaborationist” currents headed by trade union leaders, he tirelessly denounced fascist wrongdoings and violence, continually pointing out the irreconcilable differences between fascism and democracy, bringing to light fascism’s reactionary vocation and its most turbid and violent manifestations, exposing himself to dangers of reprisals by his adversaries. He wanted to unmask the totalitarian essence of fascism that was opportunistically hidden behind a traditional policy of alliances. The idea of writing the book A Year of Fascist Domination was born from this need. Matteotti’s goal was to highlight the profoundly anti-­ proletarian nature of the fascist government’s first measures, and its corrupt use of government institutions. Even the moderate sectors of his party opposed the publication of the book. He would remind Turati: “They did not want me to write the Year of Domination; they did not want conferences; they want nothing because they are nothing.”12 The push for collaboration did not come just from the right wing of the labor unions—other sectors of the PSU leaned toward an agreement with the fascist government. When Gino Baldesi, an important trade union leader, met with Mussolini and D’Annunzio to explore the possibility of labor union reunification under the auspices of the fascist leader, Turati approved of the action in an interview in the Mondo. The interview provoked Matteotti’s anger, and he reminded Turati not only that he was personally opposed to the maneuver, but also that Baldesi’s mission had taken place without the approval of the PSU national committee.13 Turati’s hesitation about the approach to adopt towards the Mussolini government are well known. He was probably influenced by Anna Kuliscioff. From the beginning she had sided with the union organizers’ “open-ended” approach in contrast with “catastrophism” of the PSU leaders such as Matteotti and Modigliani, who were resolutely set against fascism. Kuliscioff was also under the illusion that fascism would soon turn

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to normalized political dialectic.14 In the face of the surprising political short-sightedness of some of the most lucid socialist leaders in their evaluation of fascism, Matteotti appeared as the leader who had best understood fascism’s deep totalitarian core. His intransigence, however, in such sharp contrast with the tendencies of part of his party, weakened his position as political secretary. He was often forced to threaten resignation to counter the party’s centrifugal tendencies. He managed to preserve its integrity using this tactic, but only with great effort.15 The party’s stability was precarious, which did not elude Mussolini, who for all of 1923 tried to draw sectors of the PSU into his sphere of influence. Matteotti was thus isolated within his own party. The responsibility for Matteotti’s isolation was not caused only by those who openly expressed dissent against the young secretary’s rigorous intransigentism; it was also largely due to those like Turati who had called him to lead the party and then left him dramatically alone. Matteotti always nurtured a certain mistrust for the older leader, in part because of the disagreements of 1910–1920, which had been renewed by Turati’s wait-and-see attitude towards fascism. In a letter sent to him at the beginning of 1924, Matteotti accused him and other leaders of the PSU of defeatism, precisely because of his caution towards the Mussolini government.16 Matteotti’s views differed substantially from many of his fellow party members. One must wonder whether his election as party secretary was more than a case of blind selfishness on the part of the party, and whether the other leaders of the Socialist Unitary Party were aware of the dangers in having a secretary whose view was so foreign to the party’s ministerial vision. Seasoned politicians such as Turati and Treves could not have failed to foresee that Matteotti, had he not been adequately supported by the party, would have been an easy target for the fascist regime, ready to take advantage of his obvious political isolation. Equally serious was Matteotti’s error of judgement when he accepted the PSU secretary position, due in part to the generosity and sense of duty that inspired his every political act. “Because he,” as the historian Alessandro Roveri wrote, “had conceived (albeit deluding himself, in this, and not just a bit) the creation of the Socialist Party as the separation of serious and concrete socialism from the demagogic and irresponsible chatter”17 of socialist maximalism. But he had not foreseen the enormous amount of energy he would have to spend, not so much to fight political opponents, but to keep his own party united in opposition. He

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antagonized large sectors of the party and clashed with figures of undisputed authority, beginning with the union organizers who exercised effective power within the party. The more he became aware of his isolation within Italian socialism, the more he redoubled his efforts to link his party to the international socialist movement, perhaps seeking the idealistic and moral support he did not find in his own party. Between the end of 1923 and 1924, he frequently travelled abroad both to make the new party known to the international socialist movement and to denounce the dramatic conditions of the Italian workers’ movement.

Travel Abroad Unlike socialist leaders of the first generation, Matteotti had begun to travel at a very early age, which gave him a cosmopolitan culture open to the influences of the more mature northern European social scene. He had taken an early interest in English and German legal culture. A study trip to England in 1910 had inspired him to study English criminal law and its prison system. In September 1912 he went to Vienna and Budapest. The war had forced him to interrupt his travels, but when conditions allowed it again Matteotti resumed crossing borders with some frequency and traveled more than once to Vienna and Budapest. During his trips abroad he never missed an opportunity to denounce the authoritarian and anti-proletarian developments of fascism, which greatly annoyed Mussolini who was committed to representing fascism abroad as a normalizing force. While the regime was keeping a careful eye on his movements abroad, government and pro-fascist newspapers accused him of acting against the interests of his country. In February 1923, Matteotti went to Lille to attend the French socialist congress. The following month he was in Paris. From the French capital he traveled to Berlin, as directed by the war reparations commission following the crisis that ensued after the French occupied the Ruhr. In Berlin he met with German social democrats. After that trip, the Mussolini government withdrew his passport. Matteotti continued to apply in vain for his passport to be returned. In January 1924, he tried to obtain it to travel to the French socialist congress in Marseilles. At first De Bono authorized the request but in a subsequent phonogram gave instructions to reject it. Matteotti turned directly to De Bono who informed him, in a very embarrassing note, that Mussolini himself had decided to deny him his passport. The following month

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Matteotti tried again, this time to go to Brussels to attend the congress of the Belgian Workers Party. De Bono abruptly replied that the head of government would not authorize the issue of the passport. Mussolini’s dry signature “no” to Matteotti’s request, sent on April 9, confirms that he made the final decision; De Bono was simply moving paper. Mussolini had evidently taken upon himself the issue of Matteotti’s passport. Having been denied his passport again, Matteotti decided to go abroad covertly. On April 20 he was in Brussels, where he spoke at the congress of the Belgian Workers Party. On the 22nd he visited Bruges and Ghent, and on the same day he secretly crossed the Channel and landed in England where the first Labor government, led by Ramsay MacDonald, was in power. It is difficult to surmise what the purpose of the secret mission to England was. It is not clear whether Matteotti and party leaders decided he should go, whether it was a simple exploratory trip to establish contacts with the new English government, or whether it concealed other objectives of a more confidential nature. What is certain is that he intended to keep the news of his presence in London secret.18 From the moment he set foot in England, his movements appeared to be dictated by an unusual caution, confirmed by the testimony of Backlund, a delegate of Swedish workers organizations at the Labor Conference in Geneva, who met Matteotti by chance and was asked “not to tell anyone about his presence in London.”19 He stayed in London until April 26. His four days there were packed with meetings with top leaders of the British government and the Labor Party, to whom he conveyed the dramatic developments in the Italian political situation, the climate of intimidation and violence established by fascism, and the difficult conditions under which working class organizations were forced to operate. Matteotti left England on April 26 and arrived in Le Havre on the morning of April 27. He stayed in Paris at least two days and on April 30 he was in Modane about to return to Italy. Absolutely nothing is known about the two days he spent in Paris; we don’t know who he met or the reason for the brief and, as far as we know, unplanned interlude, or whether it had any connection with his visit to London. After his death, Labor Party sources divulged some news about Matteotti’s visit to London—that he had met with Labor Party and Independent Labor Party leaders and had participated on April 24  in a meeting of the Labor Unions Congress attended by the Labor Party executive, but nothing was leaked about the topics discussed during the meetings.

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Although little is known about his discussions with the Labor leaders, the agreement that the fascist government had recently signed with the Sinclair Oil Company was certainly one of the main topics.20 Undoubtedly the Labor government was an interested listener regarding the Italian oil business, since the Anglo-Persian Oil Company (APOC), one of the most powerful oil companies in the world, second only to Standard Oil, was state-owned and managed by the British government. In October 1923, APOC had signed an agreement with the Italian government that revealed the English oil giant had a renewed interest in the market. At that time, 80% of the market was controlled by the Americans of Standard Oil. In January 1924, with the opening of an Italian branch, APOC had begun the implementation phase of its project to enter the Italian market. A period of contention over a share of the Italian market with its long-standing American adversary, Standard Oil, was imminent. The arrival in Italy of a new competitor, Sinclair Oil, had caught the British government off guard. It followed the preliminary stages of negotiations with the fascist government very closely, since APOC’s projects included the exploration of the Italian subsoil. Despite the great secrecy with which the negotiations were carried out, at the beginning of February the commercial attaché of the British Embassy in Rome managed to get hold of the terms of the general agreement that had been reached between the negotiators. The English diplomat believed that A.C. Veatch, the Sinclair Oil negotiator, “was backed by powerful financial interests.”21 The British Consul General in New York also felt that the commitments the American oil company was undertaking in Italy were beyond its own means, adding that, probably “Sinclair, Veatch and their cronies are ready to do anything to affect the specific interests of the British, such as obtaining concessions or making agreements of this kind.”22 The British thus felt that Sinclair Oil’s initiative in Italy struck at their interests. It is therefore likely that the English Labor leadership wanted to include the Sinclair Convention in the agenda of their talks with Matteotti; they wanted Matteotti to be aware of the maneuvers of their competitor in Italy. In an article published on June 20, H.N. Brailsford, leader of the Independent Labor Party (ILP), was among the first in England to express his opinion that there was a connection between Matteotti’s murder and the threat posed to the fascist government by Matteotti’s denunciations of the muddier aspects of its gambling and oil decrees.23 It is legitimate to wonder whether the Labor leader was advancing mere conjecture, or

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whether he was aware of something more concrete. It may be that Brailsford, as suggested by Camillo Pellizzi, London correspondent for the Popolo d’Italia, was simply reporting news that had appeared the previous day in various American newspapers.24 In his article, however, Brailsford was careful not to include an important detail highlighted in the American newspapers—that Matteotti had obtained confidential documents during his visit to London. This omission makes one wonder even more about Matteotti’s London meetings. The references in the American newspapers to the Sinclair Convention and to the existence of documents alarmed Mussolini, who immediately asked the Italian ambassador in Washington for more detailed information on the matter. From Don Gelasio Caetani’s reply, it appears that Mussolini’s attention was particularly focused on the articles published in the Chicago Tribune25 by George Seldes, the newspaper’s European editor. American correspondents from Rome probably picked up many ideas regarding the dark sides of the Sinclair Convention from the Italian press, and in particular from the Messaggero and the Nuovo Paese. In the days following the murder these newspapers had begun to allude to Matteotti’s parliamentary speech in which he would have probably denounced the Sinclair Convention. The Nuovo Paese had written, “It appears that, during the debate in the Chamber on the provisional budget, Mr. Matteotti was to make a speech criticizing the Sinclair Convention.”26 But since up to June 19 the three Italian newspapers had never mentioned there could have been a “long handed” Englishman who could have given Matteotti documents, it can be ruled out that those newspapers had been the American correspondent’s source. The fascists, however, confirmed that such a rumor was circulating in political circles. In fact, a journalist from the Popolo d’Italia who hid behind the pseudonym of “Spectator” wrote, “I wouldn’t be surprised if it turns out tomorrow that the same hand that supplied Mr. Matteotti in London with the deadly documents (petroleum, Polish loans, German bonds, etc.) at the same time armed the killers who were to carry out the dastardly crime on Matteotti.27 The casual way in which Mussolini’s newspaper referred to an English information source confirms that the rumor must have circulated in political circles with such insistence that the regime’s official outlet could not ignore it. What is surprising is the anonymous editor’s unusual certainty in claiming that Matteotti had received documents in London that he defined as “deadly.” The article also tried to shift blame for the crime to an undefined “great octopus” or in the Popolo d’Italia was suggesting that the

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explanation for the crime should be sought in criminal plots set up by international finance and oil trusts aimed at creating difficulties for the fascist government. The director himself, Mussolini’s brother Arnaldo, was probably the author hiding behind the “Spectator” pseudonym. The long article in the Popolo d’Italia appeared to be a rebuttal to the speculation that a business motive, which directly implicated Arnaldo Mussolini, lay behind the murder. The political-journalistic circles of the English Labor movement had circulated this version, enriched with unpublished details, in an anonymous article published a fortnight earlier in The Daily Herald, the official organ of Labor/TUC. Without citing his source, the London newspaper correspondent pointed to Arnaldo Mussolini as the person who successfully pressured the fascist leader to sign the Sinclair Convention. The article stated that in order to obtain the monopoly for exploration, Sinclair Oil had had to pay 30 million lire to Arnaldo and other politicians, among whom the English newspaper mentioned Ettore Bernardo Rosboch and Aldo Finzi.28 The indiscretions that had allowed the English paper to meticulously reconstruct events, including the revelation of Arnaldo’s role, could not have come from any Italian journalists, since by the end of July, news about the Matteotti investigation no longer occupied the front pages of Italian newspapers, but was relegated to the inside pages. Even though Arnaldo’s name had been under investigation for about a month and had been mentioned in a few depositions, the Italian press had not reported it. It is difficult to establish the source of this version of the crime that The Daily Herald unexpectedly and belatedly provided, but given the reputation of the Labor newspaper, the news organ of the governing party, one can only assume that the sources were trusted and well-informed. In summary, British Labor newspapers devoted much space to the oil motive behind Matteotti’s murder, and there are important analogies between the thesis sustained by the English newspapers and the convictions expressed by Matteotti shortly before being killed. It cannot therefore be excluded that he may have received documentation from Labor circles that piloted his subsequent investigation into the involvement of members of the fascist regime in the stipulation of the Sinclair Convention. Mussolini proved to be very interested in Matteotti’s London stay. Only four days after Matteotti’s assassination, when he learned of his visit to England, he urged the Italian Embassy in London to ascertain, “1. The

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time and duration of Matteotti’s recent stay in London; 2. The contacts he had and for what purposes; 3. Whether he met with government representatives or people of other nationalities.”29

The Article in English Life Matteotti was highly respected by English political and journalistic circles, so when the London monthly magazine English Life decided to publish an essay by Mussolini,30 it invited Matteotti to comment on it. Mussolini’s article, which dwelled on the relevance of Machiavelli’s thought and exalted the use of force in the conquest and exercise of power, had attracted the attention of the British ambassador in Rome31 who sent a translated copy to the Foreign Office. Mussolini’s essay was published in the June 1924 issue of the English magazine with the title “The Folly of Democracy.” Matteotti’s reply appeared posthumously in the July issue, with the title “Machiavelli, Mussolini, and Fascism.” Matteotti’s article was undoubtedly written after May 16, 1924, because it cites a communiqué from the government press office published in Italian newspapers on May 16. The article is of great interest. In a few short but significant passages, Matteotti expresses his explicit evaluations on the oil convention stipulated between the American company and the fascist government. Before he had directly expressed his thoughts in this article, the only indication that he had an interest in the oil agreement between the fascist government and American oil company was in a brief note written during his talks in London with the Labor Party. In the English Life article, Matteotti challenged the statement in the government communiqué about Sinclair’s alleged independence from the big oil trusts. He wrote that, to the contrary, he believed that Sinclair Oil, “is connected with the octopus-like Standard Oil Trust.” He also considered the agreement harmful to national interests. Finally, in the most meaningful statement in the article, which is fraught with meaning, he refers to the agreement Sinclair Oil and the fascist government signed: “We are already aware of many serious irregularities concerning this concession. High officials can be accused of ignoble corruption and of the most shameful behavior.” He claimed to know (“we are already aware”) that there had been corrupt dealings, and implied that he knew who the corrupt parties were. He made the connection between fascism’s recourse to bribery and its need to finance its newspapers, stating that “even more dishonest is the behavior of many prominent fascists, who impose heavy financial costs on private

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and semi-private enterprises in order to finance fascist newspapers and other organizations for personal interests and profit.”32 The allusion in this passage to newspapers such as Il Popolo d’Italia and the Corriere Italiano is obvious; the newspapers certainly survived thanks to funding bestowed more or less spontaneously by the financial and industrial sectors. After discussing the matter with the English Labor Party, and even before writing the article for English Life, Matteotti had continued to take an interest in the Sinclair Convention. He paid close attention to the journalistic controversy that developed after the final approval of the decree-­ law between the fascist government and the American oil company. He was particularly interested in a series of articles against the agreement by Giorgio Cavallotti which were published in the newspaper Il Nuovo Paese. Nino Ilari, a friend of Matteotti’s and editor of the paper, told investigators that, dating back to the first ten days of May, Matteotti had asked him “who was the author of the articles that my newspaper was publishing on the oil business,” and then added that Matteotti “tended to cut them out because he found them interesting.”33 Cavallotti also told the investigators that Matteotti was interested in his articles against the Sinclair agreement.34 Until his final days, Matteotti continued to reflect on the regime’s corruption in connection to the two decree-laws on gambling dens and oil companies. On 5 June he again referred to those decrees, “of which the journalistic mentality of the prime minister brought back echoes of the latest scandals (oil, gambling).”35

Matteotti’s Final Days The PSU’s success in the April 6 elections, obtained thanks to the intransigent anti-fascist platform that Matteotti strongly advocated, had undoubtedly strengthened the young secretary’s leadership. In a letter to Turati at the end of March, he had expressed the conviction that in order to win the battle against fascism, it was necessary to “exacerbate it,” and that in order to do this, “people of will, not skeptics,” were needed.36 After the PSU’s notable victories, Mussolini could no longer consider realistic the hypothesis that Matteotti could be removed as the head of the party. However, although the elections had been a major victory for him, Matteotti understood that the collaborationist right wing of his party was not disarmed; indeed, it would very likely pressure the party seek collaboration with the fascists again, especially in view of the considerable support that the country had given to the government’s electoral list in the April

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vote. The political climate was thus bound to become more conflictual, and the opposition’s offensive against the government would become tougher; the climate of violence in which the elections had been held had already heavily contributed to this. Matteotti was given the difficult task of presenting the PSU’s positions in the May 30 parliamentary session, during which election results were to be verified and election committee proposals were to be discussed. The government’s proposal to validate the election of all those in the majority party in a single block instead of individually, an unusual practice in parliamentary history, set the session on fire. After expressing his dissent to a single-block validation, Matteotti proposed that their election be invalidated because of the violent tactics used by the fascist squadristi against opposition candidates during the electoral campaign. Amidst scuffles and angry shouts from the sectors of the majority, he courageously continued speaking, painting a dramatic picture of the violence and illegality exhibited by fascist regime. When he left the Chamber, Matteotti said to the PSU deputy Giovanni Cosattini who accompanied him, “Now get ready for my commemoration.”37 Matteotti received an initial response from Mussolini himself, in an unsigned editorial that appeared in the Popolo d’Italia on June first, which described Matteotti’s speech as “monstrously provocative and deserving of something more tangible than the epithet ‘masnada’ used by the Hon. Giunta.”38 On June 3, the fascists organized a demonstration against the parliamentary opposition. A few thousand Roman fascists gathered in front of the Chamber of Deputies. As the deputies left, what can only be described as a manhunt ensued through the streets near parliament. Cesare Rossi had ordered the demonstration, which was orchestrated by Italo Foschi, one of the leaders of Roman fascists. Rossi had previously sent a circular to all supporting newspapers stating that the opposition parties were attempting to “devalue the current Chamber,” and that Matteotti’s speech had been, according to him, agreed to by the opposition at a meeting organized “in the aftermath of the 6 April victory.”39 Mussolini’s men had also artfully circulated the “false rumor” that Matteotti had proposed that all members of the opposition abandon Parliament, leaving the majority to legislate alone.40 Matteotti, clearly, was considered the most active opponent by the Mussolini government. Not at all intimidated by the incidents of the previous evening, and true to his program to not grant respite to the fascist government, on June 4

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Matteotti returned to the floor to launch a bitter controversy directly with Mussolini. Taking his cue from a reference by the Republican Facchinetti to the amnesty of 1919 for deserters from the Great War, Matteotti recalled an article that Mussolini wrote in favor of the amnesty, and which the PSU newspaper had provocatively republished in those very days. Mussolini requested to respond in the Chamber and attempted to make a subtle distinction between what he wrote in the newspaper and what he expressed in his speeches. He concluded by inviting the PSU secretary to make the latter public as well. Matteotti ended the exchange by commenting with sharp irony: “You certainly don’t want us to publish the complete edition of your works!”41 The following day Matteotti took his offensive to the General Budget Committee, chaired by Antonio Salandra. The meeting agenda was to authorize the adoption of a provisional budget for June 1924–June 1925, and discuss the notes on budget changes presented on May 30. Matteotti argued that the committee could neither discuss nor vote on the bill, since the government had not yet provided the deputies with the notes on modifications to the budget. From the figures provided by the prime minister, it appeared that the official balanced budget presented by the government to Parliament and to the king a few days earlier, at the opening of the legislature, was false, while the real budget, which showed a deficit of two billion, was the one that the government was trying to get approved by the General Budget Committee. Matteotti concluded his speech by asking Salandra three questions that revealed the false maneuver the fascist government was attempting. Immediately after his return from London, Matteotti had applied for a passport so he could attend the Executive of the Second International which was meeting on June 5 in Vienna, and which would last for a few days.42 Matteotti, who until then had been denied his requests for a passport, must have been quite surprised when he heard that this time his request would be granted, even if only for travel to Austria. But Matteotti had already decided not to go to Vienna. On Wednesday June 11 the Chamber was to discuss the provisional budget, and he felt that his economic and financial expertise would undoubtedly have been valuable to his parliamentary group. A letter from Turati dated June 6, in which it appears that Matteotti was to give a speech on finances when the Chamber reopened, provides an indirect indication that Matteotti had decided to not leave for Vienna.43 In the meantime, from June 8 onwards, newspapers began to publish the names of the deputies who were to speak

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on the budget, and Matteotti was among them. It seems that Matteotti should have spoken on the very first day, since on June 11 Turati, alarmed at Matteotti’s absence, wrote to Kuliscioff from the Chamber that Gino Baldesi had taken the third seat and was already speaking.44 Matteotti’s speech would have been the most important one delivered by the PSU. He would have presented a more comprehensive criticism of the government’s financial projections. In addition, on June 7 Mussolini had concluded the debate following the king’s speech with a long, positive oration that appealed to some sectors of the opposition, especially the labor unions. Mussolini had included a brief but sharp allusion to the typically inflexible tone of Matteotti’s speeches. While continuing to appear conciliatory towards those he intended to lure onto his bandwagon, he did not forego the opportunity to express his irreducible hostility towards Matteotti, saying that when he denounced fascist violence Matteotti’s tone was the same tone as that used by the Communist newspaper Il Lavoratore. Matteotti had thus decided that it was more important to debate the provisional budget in the Chamber rather than attend the conference in Vienna. Later, Matteotti’s closest comrades testified to the extraordinary effort he put into preparing his speech. Anyone looking for him during those days was sure to find him in a reserved room of the Chamber’s library surrounded by documents, books, and newspaper cuttings. In Parliament, the belief had taken hold that he was focused on preparing a major speech. Antonio Priolo testified to magistrates how he himself, seeing Matteotti’s commitment to the approaching reopening of the Chamber, had contributed to the air of anticipation regarding Matteotti’s speech among politicians and parliamentarians. He denied, however, that he had ever given any hint of the speech’s content.45 This detail was important. The magistrates were trying to establish whether leaked rumors about what Matteotti was going to say included any reference to his intention to show Parliament evidence of the corruption he thought existed behind the government-Sinclair oil deal. A June 14 note written by an informer provides proof that political circles in the capital were speculating that Matteotti’s murder was aimed at silencing him before he could speak in the Chamber. The informer reported that the day before a senior liberal politician had been heard commenting that, “everyone was talking about the fact that Mr. Matteotti had documents about which he would speak today in the Chamber,” evidence regarding “business deals for oil, gambling houses and other

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things.”46 So one of the motives put forward—that the Sinclair Oil agreement was central to the crime—did not originate in the pro-fascist press in order to divert the investigations as had been claimed, but had begun to circulate spontaneously in political and economic circles since the day after the murder. After returning from London, Matteotti went a few times and “for various reasons,” to Milan to stay with family. His brother-in-law, Emerich Steiner, who hosted him, reported that Matteotti appeared to him “very worn out and his face was gaunt.”47 Renewed interest in the fascist government’s financial activities had inevitably forced him to return to his book, A Year of Fascist Domination, and perhaps he had realized that he had accumulated such a large amount of new material that a new edition of the work was in order. Matteotti said as much in a letter that to the editor of the socialist paper La Scintilla Roberto Marvasi, received on May 27, 1924, and most certainly written around May 24 or 25. Matteotti confirmed his “intention to write a second edition of the “Year.” I have already collected some items, but they are too disorganized to relate to you. The end of the letter is of great interest. Matteotti informed Marvasi that he had “a little something ready in Milan which I cannot write to you here by letter; and which I will send you, perhaps much sooner.”48

Notes 1. Giacomo Matteotti, Discorsi parlamentari, Roma, 1970, vol. III, 1510. 2. Giacomo Matteotti, Lettere a Velia, S.  Caretti ed., (Pisa: Nistri-Lischi, 1986), 68–69; the letter is from 3 September 1914. Italics are mine. Giacomo married Velia Titta on 8 January 1916. 3. See ACS, PS, cat. A4, b. 346. 4. ACS, CPC, b. 3157, fasc. Matteotti G. 5. Regarding agrarian fascist violence in Rovigo see the 1921 report of a superior officer of the police force in ACS, PS, 1921, b. 110, fasc. Rovigo. 6. See the report of the Verona carabinieri dated 2 April 1921 in ACS, PS, 1921, b. 110, fasc. Rovigo—Fasci di combattimento; inoltre, ACS, Ufficio Cifra, Telegrammi in arrivo, telegr. n. 200 of 13 March 1921 from prefect Frigerio to Giolitti. Many years later, in 1947, Carlo Silvestri gave the judges of the second Matteotti trial a detailed account of the type of aggression Matteotti was subject to on that occasion, saying that he learned of it in 1924 from one of the participants. See Carlo Silvestri, Matteotti Mussolini e il dramma italiano, (Roma: Ruffolo, 1947), 172–173.

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7. Matteotti, Discorsi parlamentari, vol. II, 450. 8. F.  Turati-A.  Kuliscioff, Carteggio (1919–1922). Dopoguerra e fascismo (Turin: Einaudi, 1977), vol. V, 752; G.E.  Modigliani, L’assassinio di Giacomo Matteotti, 4. 9. F. Turati-A. Kuliscioff, Carteggio (1919–1922). Dopoguerra e fascismo, 752. 10. Matteotti, Discorsi parlamentari, vol. II, 525. 11. Ibid., 660. 12. Filippo Turati attraverso le lettere di corrispondenti (1880–1925), A. Schiavi ed. (Bari: Laterza, 1947), 272. 13. Ibid., 204–207. 14. See F. Turati—A. Kuliscioff, Carteggio (1919–1922), especially the letters dated 21 and 24 November 1922. 15. See the letter to Turati of 28 March 1924, where Matteotti denounces the disbanding of the party’s leaders, and strongly states that he would not have remained “any longer under such conditions”; Filippo Turati attraverso le lettere di corrispondenti (1880–1925), 272. 16. See ibid., 261. 17. See Alessandro Roveri, “La formazione di Matteotti nell’ambito delle lotte agrarie padane,” in Studi Storici, 1978, 110. 18. On his stay in England, see G. Bianco, “Matteotti a Londra,” in Giacomo Matteotti a sessant’anni dalla morte (Naples: Edizioni Scientifiche Italiane, 1985), 123–126. 19. ACS, Minculpop, Report 87, fasc. Matteotti G. 20. Bianco, cit., 125. 21. Public Record Office, FO 371, b. 9945, C2359/2359/22, memorandum of the commercial attaché dated 6 February 1924. 22. PRO, FO 371, b. 9945, C4855/2359/22. 23. Bianco, cit., 124–125. 24. ACS, Minculpop, b. 164. The telegram reported: “Today’s American newspapers report correspondence from Rome that connect the Matteotti case with oil scandals and illegal activities of the Sinclair company. They state that when in London Matteotti had obtained papers damaging to some fascist leaders.” 25. ASMAE, Telegrammi di Gabinetto. Piccola Registrazione, telegr. from Caetani n. 188 of 24 June 1924. 26. “La ‘Convenzione Sinclair’ nei giudizi della stampa tecnica,” newspaper Il Nuovo Paese, 13 June 1924. 27. “La grande piovra,” newspaper Il Popolo d’Italia, 10 August 1924. 28. See “Revelations for which Matteotti died,” in The Daily Herald, 26 July 1924. 29. ASMAE, Telegrammi di Gabinetto. Piccola Registrazione, telegr. n. 92 of 14 June 1924.

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30. See Mussolini, “Preludio al Machiavelli,” in Gerarchia, III, n. 4, April 1924, pp. 205–209. 31. PRO, FO 371, b. 9950, telegr. di Ronald Graham of 9 May 1924. 32. Giacomo Matteotti, “Machiavelli, Mussolini and Fascism,” in English Life, July 1924, 87. Italics are my own. 33. AS Roma, Esami, vol. III, 12. 34. AS Roma, Esami, vol. III, p. 17. 35. Matteotti, “Parlamento e Governo,” in Echi e Commenti, 5 June 1924. 36. Filippo Turati attraverso le lettere di corrispondenti (1880–1925), 272. 37. See AS Roma, Esami, vol. I, 53. 38. “Sobrero,” in newspaper Il Popolo d’Italia, 1 June 1924. 39. The telegram is in C. Rossi, Il delitto Matteotti nei procedimenti giudiziari e nelle polemiche giornalistiche (Milan: Ceschina, 1965), 37–38; on the phantom meeting of opposition groups see Turati’s ironic comments in F. Turati and A. Kuliscioff, Carteggio (1923–1925). Il delitto Matteotti e l’Aventino, A. Schiavi ed. (Turin: Einaudi, 1959), vol. VI, 262 and 265. 40. See ibid., 265, letter from Turati to Kuliscioff of 4 June 1924. 41. Matteotti, Discorsi parlamentari, vol. II, 895. 42. ACS, CPC, b. 3157. 43. See Turati and Kuliscioff, Carteggio (1923–1925), 273. 44. See ibid., 286. 45. See AS Roma, Esami, vol. III, 13–16. 46. ACS, PS, 1924, b. 47. 47. AS Roma, Esami, vol. II, 83–4. 48. R. Marvasi, Echi del terrore (Rome: OET, 1946), 16–19.

PART II

Mussolini’s Responsibilities

CHAPTER 5

The Fascist Ceka

The Ceka—a centralized, repressive, criminal organization that already existed during the two-year “legalitarian” period (1922–1924)—reveals Mussolini’s early propensity to use systemic, unscrupulous violence to impose his totalitarian power on the country. He naturally always denied having founded the Ceka. In a speech on January 3, 1925, he stated: “It has been said that I founded a Ceka. Where? When? In what way? No one can say!” But he then asserted, If I had founded a Ceka, I would have founded it according to the criteria that I have always followed to protect against that violence which cannot be erased from history. I have always said that to be decisive, violence, and those who have been at my side throughout the five years of hard struggle remember well, must be surgical, intelligent, chivalrous. The actions of this so-called Ceka have always been unintelligent, incompetent, stupid.1

The Ceka’s Major Oppressive Actions In the two-year period between 1922 and 1924 there is no record of violent actions against members of the opposition for which perpetrators were identified and brought to justice. The identity of the attackers of Giovanni Amendola, Alfredo Misuri, Cesare Forni were not known, while none of the hundreds of fascists who carried out the virtual demolition of Francesco Saverio Nitti’s house were ever arrested. It was De Bono’s © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2024 M. Canali, The Matteotti Murder and Mussolini, Italian and Italian American Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-41471-8_5

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specific responsibility to ensure that the men of the Ceka could act undisturbed; they were assured complete impunity. This was why they never appeared to take precautions of any sort. In the case of Amendola and Forni the attackers acted in broad daylight. Forni was attacked in the middle of a crowd at the Milan railway station. All the members of the Ceka who participated in Matteotti’s assassination had false passports and there is proof that Dumini’s, Volpi’s, and Poveromo’s documents had been regularly issued by police headquarters. Dumini had three passports in three different names. Many years later in 1933, Dumini threateningly reminded De Bono of the active role he had played in providing him with false passports for his missions abroad. Hinting at blackmail, he told him that he had hidden the false passports issued by the Roman questura safely abroad, together with the correspondence related to their release.2 The establishment of the Ceka was gradual. During the first months of 1923, actions to repress political opponents were assigned as needed to different fascist leaders who turned to trusted accomplices for their execution. The attack against Giovanni Amendola was organized by De Bono himself; Italo Balbo ordered his group of faithful squadristi to attack the fascist dissident Alfredo Misuri. But beginning in August 1923 Ceka activity was increasingly concentrated in the hands of Rossi, who later revealed that he was aware of all the illegal actions carried out against anti-fascists, even those he had not organized. The centralization of political repression into the hands of the secret police arose from the need to shift away from the improvised approach followed up to then, which risked damaging the facade of respectability that fascism wanted to project. Dumini’s first Ceka operation was a trip to France with Albino Volpi in September 1923. They left on September 12 and arrived in Paris two days later. According to a statement Dumini gave in October 1924 to the Matteotti murder investigators, after five months in prison and confirmed in his autobiography, he arrived in Paris on the trail of an anti-fascist terrorist organization responsible for killing Gino Jeri and Silvio Lombardi— two emigree Italian fascists who had been killed during a brawl with anti-fascists. But even a superficial verification proves his version of the operation to be full of lies and inaccuracies. For example, he stated that they went to France because Jeri and Lombardi’s deaths had been preceded by numerous other fascist murders, and because Aldo Finzi and Giuseppe Bastianini suspected a criminal anti-fascist organization was behind them. Dumini mentioned murders of fascists in Strasbourg,

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Marseilles, Paris, Dieppe, Cannes, and Calais, and in some cases also named the dead. But, contrary to Dumini’s statement, a report by police commissioner Giuseppe Sabbatini sent to Rome from the Italian embassy in Paris on January 11, 1924, states that, apart from those of Jeri and Lombardi, “other murders against fascists did not occur here last year.”3 Dumini was lying. Evidently, he went to France for other reasons. Dumini’s trip to France was part the fascist government’s more complex strategy against fuoriusciti, political exiles. A few days later Curzio Suckert (the well-known writer known by his penname Curzio Malaparte, who was then a PNF officer) also went to Paris on a mission against emigrated workers. Malaparte wrote a memo on September 19, 1923, a day after Mussolini personally gave him the order for the mission and a few days before leaving for France, in which he mentions a project to set up fascist “assistance offices” to counter anti-fascist propaganda.4 Malaparte’s mission was to strengthen the presence of the fascist organizations and revive an embryonic network of fascist agents who had been sent to France under the guise of emigration. Dumini was very likely Malaparte’s armed collaborator. He certainly was there to see whether provocative political actions against the emigree community were warranted. Dumini’s remarks also suggest that the Malaparte-Dumini pair was there to determine whether French communists could be targeted while making it appear the French rightwing was responsible for the attacks. These were actions that should have been carried out by the Italian fascist organizations in France directed by Nicola Bonservizi, with whom Mussolini was very dissatisfied; Malaparte’s mission circumvented Bonservizi’s work. In fact, Dumini’s reports place much of the blame for the poor performance of the Italian fascist organizations in France on Bonservizi. In Paris there were several meetings between Malaparte, Dumini and Bonservizi. It seems that Bonservizi, who was well acquainted with the French political situation, did not welcome the arrival of the other two with enthusiasm. He was convinced that an increase in fascist activity would create dangerous tensions with the French government. In his final report, Dumini suggested conducting some terrorist actions against French communist organizations and infiltrating the Italian emigree community with an agile network of informers. Volpi and Dumini returned to Italy on September 20. On the 25th they were in Rome, and the next day they had already reported to Mussolini.5 Another brief mission to France followed. Dumini and his partners left Italy on November 12 and returned on the 17th. In his autobiography

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Dumini gave a completely fictitious account of this mission as well, beginning with the number and identity of his companions. All we know for sure is that Dumini hastily returned to Italy, slightly injured, and was admitted to a Milanese hospital. He left as soon as he realized his presence had been noticed. According to Dumini’s version, he was wounded in an ambush by Italian anti-fascists in the Bois de Boulogne. But the head of the Parisian fascists himself denied this and confidentially informed De Bono that the story was groundless.6 Bastianini, who was in charge of fascists abroad, was amazed at Dumini’s story of being injured in France, and suggested that the wound was self-inflicted.7 In a long letter sent from prison to his lawyer Vaselli, Dumini gave a darker and bloodier version of his second French mission, which was actually the second phase of the mission to revenge the deaths of fascists Jeri and Lombardi. Unpublished documents that have been found indicate that revenge was the motive. Dumini reveals that, in fact, he had killed three men who he described as “communists” and whose corpses he hid in a safe place: “the maps of Francesville and Issy les Molineaux mark the precise spots where they are buried.” He identified the three as “Mandelli Edoardo of Voghera or Stradella, a certain Francesco, a regular customer of the Madagascar café, and a certain Frenchman named Robert Millier, all guilty of killing the fascists Jeri and Lombardo. The identification papers of all three are in my possession.” He also mentioned “precise maps of the premises of Humanité, to blow them up.”8 The plan for a bomb attack against the Parisian building that housed the offices of the communist paper Humanité was actually the subject of a report that Dumini had sent to Rome during his mission in September 1923. His report included a detailed map of the newspaper’s offices.9 Dumini wrote that he was accompanied by three other people for whom he gave false names. Based on the expense account he presented upon his return, the group on the mission to France was composed of seven men. Volpi, Putato, Poveromo, and Panzeri were certainly among them. If we add Dumini, two remain to be identified, almost certainly Malacria and Viola. That is to say, the same group of men who would later participate in the Matteotti murder were in France in November 1923. Dumini later disclosed that he had been instructed to “blow up l’Humanité and make it appear as if the blame fell on the Camelots du Roi,”10 so the action probably fell within the framework of a more complex maneuver aimed at bringing the fascist/anti-fascist clash to French soil and raising it

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to a more radical level by carrying out a series of provocative actions in France. Bonservizi probably opposed this strategy. For actions where large groups of fascists were needed, Rossi usually used local fascist organizations. He turned to Italo Foschi, a Ceka irregular, to organize the devastation of Nitti’s home in Rome, carried out by a mob of fascists on the evening of November 29, 1923. Nitti’s house was ransacked and Nitti barely escaped lynching, and only because he found refuge in some of the rooms of the house which the mob had “no time to reach because police reinforcements that had been requested by telephone arrived.”11 The attack on Cesare Forni at the Milan railway station on March 12 is a good example of the role fascist leaders intended for the Ceka. Forni, a former ras from Pavia, had turned dissident. In a rally held in Biella on March 9 he had publicly denounced the business dealings of the “Viminale gang.” A few months later, during the Matteotti investigation, Rossi himself disclosed to investigators that it was he who had ordered Dumini to go from Perugia to Milan to take over the organization of the aggression against Forni.12 Rossi had sent Asvero Gravelli to Milan with instructions for Dumini and Volpi about the method and extent intended for the attack. Gravelli’s name was listed in Rossi’s accounts on March 10 for a payment of 5000 lire “for a special political assignment.”13 Dumini later confirmed Rossi’s role as instigator, even adding that he called him from a phone at the Milan prefecture to communicate the outcome of the attack.14 During the electoral campaign the government relied continually on Dumini to silence opposition voices, such as that of Alberto Giannini, director of the Becco Giallo, who was attacked by a small group of fascists led by Dumini and Putato and hit in the face with an “iron fist” in the foyer of the National Theater. This was followed on March 30 by a sword fight in which Dumini got the worst of it this time, receiving a wound to his right arm. The provocation had been ordered by Rossi and Mussolini.15 Dumini had been trained to use a sword at the Viminale armory. Rossi had ordered him to be trained, authorized by general Francesco Sacco, one of De Bono’s loyal men. In May 1924, Volpi and the group of Milanese fascist arditi were preparing to carry out another squadrista action to disperse a demonstration of Italia Libera, scheduled for May 25, 1924 in Milan. Before launching the initiative, Volpi had written to Rossi (“Dear Cesarino …”) to obtain his instructions for the group. “Knowing full well,” Volpi wrote to Rossi, “how much you care about our group, and on the other hand not wanting

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to do anything contrary to your instructions, please let us know your thoughts on the matter.”16 The operation did not take place because they had already decided in Rome that Volpi was needed in the organizational phase of the crime that was to lead to Matteotti’s murder. On May 21, ubi maior minor cessat, Volpi was summoned by Dumini and left for Rome. Rossi’s managerial role in another Ceka plan to harm the opposition is documented and clear, but the plan was abandoned after Mussolini, who at first agreed, later felt it would have been counterproductive. It was the eve of the April 1924 elections and Mussolini, at that time in Milan, received a letter from Rossi from which it can be deduced that the two men had a previous agreement regarding attacks against opposition offices and newspapers following the elections. Mussolini later reversed his decision and ordered the planned operation canceled. Rossi disagreed with this reversal and wrote, I am firmly of the opinion that it is a mistake to let the irons cool. We will end up being like Sisyphus here in Rome, because once the fear resulting from our victory has passed, the attempts at undermining and devaluing us will begin again. However, since De Bono has warned Igliori and Foschi that he’ll hold them responsible if anything happens, as far as I’m concerned, I’ve put everything on hold, and I mean it. What we must now prevent, however, is that others do things without our participation. Because in that case we’d have all the damage caused by violence without the benefits of the concrete, albeit temporary, crippling of our opponents.17

Mussolini and Rossi probably reached a compromise, since on the evening of April 11, taking advantage of Mussolini’s speech from the balcony of Palazzo Chigi, groups of fascists headed for several opposition offices and were dispersed with difficulty by the police. The attack was organized by Italo Foschi on orders, as usual, from Cesare Rossi. The last Ceka action before Matteotti’s murder was the attack carried out on June 3, 1924, against members of the opposition who were leaving parliament. This action was already part of the plan leading up to the actual murder. During a meeting on May 31, Rossi and Mussolini had decided to hold a demonstration. The impetus for their meeting had certainly been Matteotti’s provocative speech in parliament the previous day. The demonstration engaged hundreds of Roman fascists and soon turned into a frightening hunt for the deputy. This time, too, Foschi received the orders from Rossi, who, a few months later, confirmed that he had given

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the order immediately after his meeting with Mussolini. When he gave the order, recalling the clumsy way in which Foschi had assembled hundreds of fascists for the sacking of Nitti’s villa, Rossi ironically reminded him that “public announcements should not be made for the convocation of two thousand fascists.”18 As was decided in the meeting, Rossi also sent a telegram to all fascist-­ friendly newspapers advising them to comment on the incidents in parliament, to underscore the “responsibility that objectively falls on the arrogant leaders of the opposition, particularly the so-called constitutional one and the other unitary ones.”19

Exposing the Ceka Mussolini and his close collaborators could not, however, reveal the existence of the Ceka—a criminal body at the highest level of the State would have provided evidence that Matteotti’s death had been premeditated. Political allies would have surely withdrawn their support for Mussolini; the fascist government would have fallen, and Mussolini’s political career would probably have come to an end. Intense discussions regarding the existence of the Ceka took place in political and judicial arenas after Matteotti’s death. Mussolini considered fascists who divulged the existence of the Ceka his mortal and irredeemable enemies. Filippo Filippelli and Aldo Finzi were the first to mention the Ceka; they indicated Rossi and Marinelli as the leaders of the organization. Later, while Filippelli continued to defend the truthfulness of his first statements, Finzi tried to retract his. Filippelli spoke of the Ceka in the June 14 memoir he wrote before his attempt to take refuge in France. He hinted that a repressive body existed, that Rossi and Marinelli were in charge of it, and that it had murdered Matteotti on order from Mussolini.7 Filippelli spoke of the Ceka again during his first interrogation on June 18, when he confessed that, when Dumini returned from the tragic mission on the night of June 10, he had told him that he had carried out “a special operation on behalf of a special body created by the party secretariat,” and led by Rossi and Marinelli. Filippelli added that Rossi and Marinelli later confirmed Dumini’s statements to him.6 He returned to the topic during the long interrogations of July 24–26, during which he corrected some details from previous statements. He continued to maintain that he had received confirmation from Rossi and Marinelli that the organization “was in fact being created and

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that it was to be a secret police organization whose purpose was above all to gather political information but did not exclude direct action against the most adamant adversaries.”8 Finzi provided yet another confirmation of the Ceka, and of the roles Rossi and Marinelli played in it, in a document written immediately after he was forced to resign as Undersecretary of the Interior on Saturday June 14. That morning Finzi received a visit from Acerbo who informed him that Mussolini intended to remove him temporarily from his government post. Finzi requested to meet with Mussolini, and in their meeting that Saturday morning Mussolini promised him that within 48 hours his personal situation would be clarified. He explained to Finzi that his self-­ sacrifice was necessary to counter the suspicions that were gathering around his person, and someone from among his most devoted followers had to be the sacrificial lamb. Mussolini counted on quickly regaining control of the situation and Finzi would be generously rewarded. There was talk of a portfolio at the Ministry of the Interior or a possible ambassadorship in a prestigious city. But groups of hostile fascists verbally harassing him near his home added to Finzi’s sense of insecurity. Fearing for his life, he informed his friend Schiff Giorgini of the contents of his memoir in which he recorded everything he knew about the Ceka directly or from other fascist leaders. On June 15, through Schiff Giorgini, Finzi contacted journalists and politicians of the opposition and promised to reveal particularly important details about the illegal activities of the fascist government. Schiff Giorgini met with the editor-in-chief of Corriere della Sera, Albertini, and told him about Finzi’s memoir. Schiff Giorgini would later testify that Finzi’s document revealed that the Ceka had been formed on January 10, 1924, at a meeting attended by Rossi, Marinelli, De Bono, Giunta, Roberto Forges Davanzati, and Mussolini. In that meeting Mussolini sustained “the need to constitute a body, under his direct authority, to carry out actions made necessary by governmental or party politics.” The document went on to say that it was Mussolini who had designated Rossi and Marinelli “the direct heads of this body.” Later, Schiff Giorgini would also give the investigators additional sensitive information Finzi had revealed, including the names of those responsible for the attacks on Alfredo Misuri, Giovanni Amendola and Cesare Forni—Balbo, De Bono and Giunta. Finzi also said that a few months earlier Mussolini had directly ordered him to deliver 30,000 lire

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to Dumini, who he defined as the leader of the Ceka’s operatives, for a mission to France.20 Albertini had assigned two Corriere della Sera journalists, Carlo Silvestri and Guglielmo Emanuel, to report on Finzi’s disclosures. On the afternoon of June 16 Silvestri contacted Finzi; Emanuel met with his brother Gino who confirmed the existence of the memoir and gave him a summary of its contents. At first, Finzi had told Albertini that he was willing for the newspaper to publish his memoir, but later he reconsidered and no longer wanted to discuss its publication. A rumor circulated that Mussolini had threatened him during a dramatic meeting on the night of June 16. Silvestri and Schiff Giorgini, who saw Finzi immediately after his meeting with Mussolini, described a man who was shaken and already regretting the disclosures he had made to members of the opposition. Finzi had also contacted two journalists from the Secolo, Francesco Maratea and Gildo Cioli. When questioned, both confirmed—the former with many details, the latter with reticence—what Schiff Giorgini and the two Corriere della Sera journalists had said. They reported that Finzi’s disclosures were for the most part about the illegal activities of the Ceka, an organization, as Maratea told the investigators, “recognized by the government and led by Cesarino Rossi.”21 Cioli’s testimony regarding Finzi’s statements confirmed Maratea’s. The reasons for Cioli’s reticence become clear in a letter that he wrote to Roberto Farinacci sometime later in October 1926. “Being required to testify in the investigations of De Bono and of the Matteotti murder,” Cioli explained to the former secretary of the PNF, “and to report on a speech Finzi made to journalists, I had to say at least something so as not to say the very serious things I had heard and which not only I had heard.”22 Cioli’s important document confirms what the other four—Silvestri, Schiff Giorgini, Maratea and Emanuel had testified—Finzi’s memoir existed, and it was extremely damning regarding the responsibilities of Mussolini and his close collaborators Rossi and Marinelli. Finzi’s memoir never saw the light of day. On the contrary, in his initial testimony before the prosecuting judges he even tried to deny it ever existed. But the numerous and consistent statements of people who had met him at the time and discussed its contents finally convinced him that it would be pointless to deny it. He eventually admitted that he wrote the memoir but continued to deny that it contained any reference to the creation of the Ceka or its activities, and that what little he knew he had

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learned from Rossi and Marinelli during their conversation on the night of June 12. But confirmation of the content of his leaks to opposition journalists, and the denial of his retractions, came from the ranks of fascism itself. In fact, Senator Vincenzo Morello said that he had learned of the contents of the memoir when Finzi himself read it out loud to him. While reading, Finzi had added that, “the President would know more about the Ceka than he did.”23 Dino Grandi, Finzi’s replacement as Undersecretary of the Interior who inexplicably had not been questioned by the prosecution, was invited to testify before the Senate investigation committee because De Bono had included him in the list of exculpatory witnesses. He told the High Court that he had gone to Finzi’s home where he was witness to Finzi’s angry outbursts. Grandi also reported that he had seen the memoir and that it contained clear references to the existence of the Ceka and to Rossi and Marinelli as its top officers.24 But Grandi didn’t tell the whole truth. He had actually already been to Finzi’s home on June 15 and had heard much more from the former undersecretary than what he reported to the Senate investigation committee. A memoir by De’ Stefani, hastily written on June 17 immediately after meeting with Dino Grandi, states: Today 17 June at 4:30 p.m. Dino Grandi came to see me and told me that two nights ago he had been invited to Finzi’s house. Finzi handed him a letter and told him: “I will be speaking to the Vice President of the Chamber; open your eyes wide and read.” The letter said, “I give my country everything but not my honor. The instigator was only one: Benito Mussolini from Predappio.” The letter was addressed to his brother Gino and was deposited in seven different places. Finzi had told Grandi, “I have reason to believe that they want to kill me.”25

So Grandi had already gone to see Finzi the day after his resignation. His incredible admission, reported by De’ Stefani, not only lends additional credence to the existence and content of Finzi’s memoir, but also provides evidence of Mussolini’s direct responsibility. It was probably the meeting with Grandi that prompted the subsequent night-time meeting between Finzi and Mussolini. In fact, once Grandi informed him about the document, Mussolini felt the need to decisively threaten and intimidate Finzi to stifle his predictable reaction. His maneuver, as we have seen, was completely successful.

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On June 20 Finzi had already lost his battle. He requested that a parliamentary inquiry committee be appointed to investigate his much talked about business dealings. He said he was anxious to return “with his head held high among the ranks, loyal to my Party, to the Duce and to Italy.”26 The post-World War II investigation into the existence of the Ceka and Rossi’s role in it re-visited the investigative acts produced in 1924–1925. It was also able to substantiate them with some very important depositions and witnesses. Dumini himself, who was arrested on July 18, 1945, confirmed the creation of the Ceka in interrogations that took place on October 13, 1945, and during courtroom hearings on January 24–25, 1947.27 Finzi had died in the meantime, assassinated by the SS at the Fosse Ardeatine. His widow, Mimi Clementi, confirmed he had written a memoir which she herself had read. The memoir affirmed, in substance, the existence of the Ceka and Rossi and Marinelli’s role in it.28 These events and facts were further confirmed in a “declaration, collected by rogatory in Paris, by Aldo’s brother Gino Finzi.”29 Based on Filippelli’s deposition and Finzi’s disclosures, investigators questioned Cesare Rossi—the person who, up to the time of the Matteotti murder, was Mussolini’s most loyal collaborator as well as the effective head of the fascist Ceka. As soon as Rossi understood that Mussolini was about to sacrifice him, and after he felt backed into a corner by Filippelli’s confession, he decided to call into question Mussolini. And he had much to say about the Ceka. He revealed that in March-April 1924, the party leadership had discussed whether to set up “a secret body (Ceka) for the purposes of intelligence gathering, the surveillance of political opponents and the protection of Fascist Party premises and leaders, including acts of violence when necessary.” He specified, however, that his direct involvement ceased soon after its inception as Mussolini had appointed Marinelli to direct the Ceka. Rossi spoke of the Ceka again when he was interrogated on December 17. He was forced to do so because on December 4 the investigators had obtained the memoir Filippelli had written on Saturday June 14. To defend himself from the more serious accusations in Filippelli’s account, and to avoid a confrontation that would have inevitably been full of pitfalls if he had persisted denying the Ceka existed, Rossi said that when the crime was committed the organization was still in its infancy and that “its responsibilities had not yet been determined, responsibilities that would be definitively established by Mussolini.” He also stated that on Mussolini’s

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express wish Dumini, who “had had repeated talks with me and Marinelli on the matter,”9 was to be in charge of nominating the other members of the Ceka. The memoir Rossi sent to the judges on February 11, 1925, from the Regina Coeli prison contained even more detail; it revealed the criminal tendencies of Mussolini’s complex personality. He wrote that Mussolini had considered the Ceka necessary because, since the existing laws were influenced by “the liberal spirit against which fascism has risen,” the government did not yet have “legal means to strike at its enemies.” Regarding the impunity given to members of the Ceka, Mussolini assured that since the fascist government was in “control of the official organs of state,” they would be able “to cover up all illegal violence.”30 Rossi spoke about the Ceka in his fourth and last memoir, the one written for Gaetano Salvemini in 1927 while in France, in which he said more specifically that the Ceka was set up in January 1924.31

A Dangerous Liaison: Rossi and Dumini Rossi’s ties to Dumini put him in an awkward position. To convince the judges that he was not involved in the affairs of the secret Ceka and thus in organizing Matteotti’s murder, Rossi had to extricate himself from the problematic and widespread knowledge of their relationship. This was not an easy task, since in Roman political circles it was common knowledge that even though he did not hold an official position in Rossi’s press office, Dumini was the loyal executor of his orders. Investigators collected conclusive proof in this regard. They described Dumini as being “often seated at a table in the same room as Rossi while he was writing and typing letters, with Rossi present,” or “entering Rossi’s office and staying there during Rossi’s absence.” Dumini effectively “lorded over the press office” and “commanded with an air of grandeur and authority.”32 Other witnesses confirmed that Dumini “came every day to the ministry and went to the press office, where he stayed both in Rossi’s and Alarico Nucci’s offices.” He “gave orders and delivered letters and missives which he sent to other offices and also to undersecretaries of state;” he “commanded with authority” and “gave orders to carry out tasks (…) and even reproached people if he was not promptly obeyed.”33 Rossi’s chauffeur testified that he had often brought “Amerigo Dumini in the car with Rossi, as I often found him at Rossi’s home in the morning when I arrived

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to pick him up.”34 It was not uncommon to meet the two sharing a table at the Brecche restaurant. Dumini himself had never hidden his relationship with the press office; he had always led people to believe that it was he who carried out Cesarino Rossi’s secret missions. This role gave him undisputed power in fascist circles where he was held in high esteem and even feared. He had business cards printed with his real name and his numerous cover names, in which he appeared in the guise of an official of the Press Office of the Presidency of the Council. Starting with his first interrogation Rossi tried to present his relationship with Dumini as one that typically exists between subordinates and men of power. But documents seized in his office proved that the relationship between the two was of a very different kind. The first serious contradiction to this claim was in letter he addressed to Mussolini on January 23, 1924, in which he asked him to authorize a permanent railway pass for Dumini to allow him to execute “my orders or those of Finzi or others” more rapidly.35 Rossi’s attempts to deny Dumini’s position in his office were thwarted above all by the receipts seized by investigators from the press office safe. Rossi had issued them to Dumini beginning in August 1923, listing the unequivocal term “salary” as the reason for payment. On the November 10 receipt Rossi noted that the payment was made “in the first fortnight of November.” On the November 12 receipt he wrote “on account salary 1,500 lire,” and on another on November 28, “500 lire for the second fortnight of November salary.”36 As the investigation proceeded and Rossi found himself more and more in the investigators’ crosshairs and was fearful of being accused as the actual instigator of the Matteotti murder, he finally had to agree to disclose the various assignments he had personally given Dumini, including orders to carry out some so-called minor crimes. These were sensitive undertakings that required not only a hierarchical relationship between the two, but absolute trust as well. Rossi’s testimony painted a picture of deep complicity between the two, and, on the part of Dumini, complete devotion to Rossi. Rossi, however, while admitting to his previous dealings with Dumini, told the investigators that they had broken off relations between May 19 and 20, 1924, when, on his return from France, he learned that Dumini had taken advantage of his absence and had used his name to obtain a consignment of disused railway sleepers. Rossi asserted that he had no idea that the crime was being organized, because from that moment he knew

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nothing about Dumini’s actions or intentions. He built his entire defense on this detail. But he had exaggerated the gravity of Dumini’s indiscretion during his absence—Eugenio Gualdi, the railway executive who had been subjected to Dumini’s insistence, testified that he had easily unmasked Dumini’s clumsy attempt to deceive him.37 The public prosecutor Nicodemo Del Vasto was also convinced that this was a belated attempt by Rossi to distance himself from Dumini. In his indictment of October 1925, Del Vasto pointed out how Rossi had written a lengthy letter to Mussolini from his clandestine hideout that was published in the Nuovo Paese on June 15. In the letter he wrote about his relations with Dumini but made no reference to their break-up, as he loudly and insistently did afterwards. Del Vasto observed, “the most opportune and timely moment to mention the interruption of relations— evidently contrived later for defensive purposes—would have been in the letter he wrote for the public in his defense.”38 Investigators became convinced that Rossi’s version was fabricated after Putato confessed that, a few days before June 10 following a telephone conversation between Dumini and Rossi, Dumini sent him to Rossi to pick up money which was evidently needed for expenses related to the organization of the murder. The investigators also found the note where Rossi jotted down the amount of money he had given to Putato. Since he couldn’t deny that the meeting had taken place, Rossi tried to shift the date to the morning after the murder. But Dumini corroborated Putato’s testimony when he admitted he ordered his accomplice to get the money on Saturday June 7. Clearly, communication between Rossi and Dumini had continued while the murder was being planned, but with great caution. The preliminary ruling of December 1925, which had been fabricated to absolve the perpetrators from a premeditation indictment, gave little importance to Rossi’s explanation. After calling the story of their estrangement a “specious, exaggerated recollection” it concluded that Dumini’s misconduct in the railway sleeper deal was not a valid reason “to sever their relationship.”39 Rossi, however, continued to deny taking an active part or bearing responsibility for the criminal operations carried out by the Ceka. From his interrogation on July 29, he insinuated that Marinelli was the actual head of the organization. But it is unlikely that Mussolini would have given only Marinelli, one of the most opaque and stolid of his followers, the sensitive task of illegally organizing repressive actions against the

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opposition; it is more likely that in the Ceka he was assigned merely administrative and accounting tasks. At times he may have taken on coordination duties, which was generally tolerated by Rossi because of Marinelli’s authority within the PNF as one of the most senior fascist leaders. Indeed, when sensitive assignments had to be carried out, the intelligent head of the press office probably did not hesitate to place Marinelli between himself and the executors by cleverly tickling his desires to lead and be in control. The same evidence, depositions and testimonies used to ascertain Rossi’s responsibilities in the operation of the Ceka can also be used against Marinelli. In addition, the two telegrams are concrete evidence that, without a shadow of a doubt, the administrative secretary of the PNF was the second in command of the fascist secret police. But it was the powerful head of Mussolini’s press office who had the Ceka under his control. At the Viminale meeting on the night of June 12 Rossi insisted that, should they be arrested, Dumini and his accomplices should be released immediately, otherwise “they will tell all.” At this point De Bono asked Rossi what he was referring to and Rossi, alluding to Matteotti’s assassination, replied: “it was Mussolini who ordered it.” Rossi was supported by Marinelli who added that, during the week before June 10 when Rossi had informed him that “Mussolini ordered the liquidation of Matteotti,” he wanted to receive confirmation personally from Mussolini. Marinelli obtained that confirmation on Thursday June 5.40 Finzi confirmed what De Bono had said, telling the investigators that “about ten days earlier,” Rossi and Marinelli “had been severely reprimanded by Mussolini, who used harsh words urging them to make a greater effort to crush the initiatives of their political opponents.”41 That was June 2. Leaving aside the theatrics of the description—that Mussolini lashed out angrily at the inertia of his two collaborators—one can certainly conclude that the final agreement between Mussolini and the two leaders of the Ceka to kill Matteotti was reached at that June 2 meeting. Mussolini’s calendar provides a general but objective confirmation of what De Bono and Finzi reported about the conversation that night. It shows that Mussolini received Marinelli a first time on June 1, which must have been an extraordinary event considering that it was a Sunday, and a second time the following day, June 2, at 10:30 a.m. Rossi naturally always denied what Finzi and De Bono said, and he gave a less damaging version of the June 12 meeting. But proof that De Bono and Finzi’s version was

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true can be found in two letters which Dumini managed to send from prison to his defense lawyer Vaselli in July 1925.42 Dumini had recently become aware of part of the contents of the memoir that De Bono had given to the investigative commission of the High Court of Justice on December 22, 1924. He had read the memoir in a pamphlet, La questione morale,43 published by the Aventine opposition group, which faithfully reproduced extensive excerpts from the investigation, including De Bono’s deposition describing the rapid and troublesome exchange of words that took place between him and Rossi on the night of June 12  in the presence of Finzi and Marinelli. In his letters, Dumini was very worried about the serious repercussions that De Bono’s deposition could have on his criminal position, so much so that he told Vaselli that if up to then he had believed that “the trial was not only inevitable but necessary, now that criminal De Bono has made it impossible and even dangerous.” Most concerning to Dumini was that De Bono had told the magistrates that on June 12 Rossi had explicitly admitted that Mussolini had directly instructed him and Marinelli to give Dumini the order to kill Matteotti. In short, De Bono’s testimony gave the investigators evidence that the crime had been premeditated. Alarmed, Dumini wrote to Vaselli that “it is not possible to justify the behavior of that old prostitute De Bono, who reported the content of a conversation—true according to Rossi’s statement—eight months after the fact.”44 The passage, brief but of great significance, reveals that before writing to Vaselli, Dumini had managed to ask Rossi if what De Bono had said was true, and had received confirmation. To ensure that Vaselli understood what worried him the most, three days later he wrote to him again, specifying that the reason for his alarm was to be found “in the interview reported in De Bono’s memo to the investigative committee of the High Court.” He believed that the public disclosure of the four-way conversation between De Bono, Finzi, Rossi, and Marinelli on June 12 “called for a complete, cautious and careful revision, not only of our whole approach, but especially of the plan of action I set in motion on October 20, 1924, when I personally assumed complete responsibility for the conception and execution of Matteotti’s murder.”45 The letter confirms that the strategy begun by Dumini’s October 20 confession was part of a concerted maneuver by fascist leaders. But, above all, it is definitive proof that the June 12 conversation took place exactly as De Bono reported it to investigators. It was not difficult for Dumini to

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conclude that the evidence posed serious problems for everyone involved, starting with the material executors, since it would have allowed the investigators to maintain that the crime was premeditated. De Bono’s deposition called into question the responsibilities of Rossi, Marinelli, and Mussolini himself. Faced with the possibility of being accused of complicity, the chief of police had started calling Mussolini to account. Dumini had clearly understood this, and in a short passage of his letter he concluded that, by reporting to the investigators exactly what had transpired during the nighttime meeting, De Bono had “given away Mussolini.” The person who lied to the investigators about the details of the conversation that took place on the night of June 12 was Cesare Rossi, yet Rossi had always accused De Bono of lying and would continue to do so. Dumini’s letters, however, speak clearly: De Bono’s description of events was the truthful one.

Notes 1. Susmel, Opera Omnia di Benito Mussolini. Dal delitto Matteotti all’attentato Zaniboni, vol. XXI, 236. 2. See Dumini’s letter in ACS, Polizia politica, Serie A, b. 28, fasc. Dumini Amerigo. 3. The list and Sabbatini’s report are in ACS, PS, 1926, b. 107. 4. ASMAE, Archivio di Gabinetto, GM 14, Udienze di Mussolini, 1923–1929, I, fasc. Suckert C. 5. See the two men’s trip modules dated 24 September, and Putato’s letter to his father of 26 September, in ACS, PS, Affare Matteotti, sc. 1. 6. ACS, PS, 1926, b. 107. 7. AS Roma, Esami, vol. IV, p. 59, deposition of 3 January 1925. 8. ACS, Polizia politica, Serie B, b. 28, letter from Dumini to Vaselli dated 21 August 1924. 9. See the report of 17 September 1923  in ACS, Polizia politica, Serie A, b. 28. 10. ACS, Polizia politica, Serie B, b. 28. 11. Sentence of the 1947 Matteotti trial. 12. AS Roma, Interrogatori, Cesare Rossi, pp.  12–14, interrogatorio del 23 giugno 1924. 13. See Mauro Canali, “La contabilità di Cesare Rossi, Capo dell’Ufficio stampa del governo Mussolini (novembre 1922–maggio 1924)”, in Storia contemporanea, n. 4, August 1988, p. 748. 14. ACS, Polizia politica, Serie B, b. 28, letter from Dumini to Vaselli, 21 August 1924.

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15. See the letter from Dumini published in Corriere Italiano, 16 March. 16. FBI Archives, Amerigo Dumini folder, letter from Volpi to Rossi, 20 May 1924. The italic is underlined in the text. 17. ACS, SPD CR, b. 130, fasc. Elezioni politiche 1924. 18. Rossini, Il delitto Matteotti tra il Viminale e l’Aventino, pp. 980 ff. 19. The text of the telegram is in Rossi, Il delitto Matteotti, pp. 37 ff. 20. AS Roma, Esami, vol. I, 364–365, deposition of Shiff Giorgini of 16 July 1924. Albertini confirmed the content of the conversation with Shiff Giorgini; see his deposition of 11 February 1925 to the Senate investigation committee for the De Bono case in Rossini, Il delitto Matteotti tra il Viminale e l’Aventino, 321–324. 21. AS Roma, Esami, vol. III, 115, deposition of Maratea of 2 October 1924. 22. ACS, Carte Farinacci, sc. 2, fasc. 6. The italics is my own. 23. See the deposition of Morello in Rossini, Il delitto Matteotti tra il Viminale e l’Aventino, 348. 24. See ibid., 352. 25. ASBI, Carte De’ Stefani, Pratica n. 3, fasc. 223. 26. La lettera dell’on. Finzi al Presidente della Camera, in newspaper Il Popolo d’Italia, 21 June 1924. 27. See p. 181 of the 1947 sentence. 28. A few lines from her depositions can be found on pp. 393–394 of the 1947 sentence. 29. G. Spagnuolo, Ceka fascista e delitto Matteotti (Rome: Ruffolo, 1947), 61. 30. Rossi Memoir, AS Roma, Interrogatori, 174–175. 31. Canali, Documenti inediti sul delitto Matteotti, 567. 32. AS Roma, Esami, vol. II, pp. 253–4, deposition of Giovanni Olivo of 9 September 1924. 33. Ibid., 335–336, deposition of Rodolfo Pagani of 13 September 1924. 34. AS Roma, Esami, vol. III, 352, deposition of Bruno Chiavegatti. 35. Rossini, Il delitto Matteotti tra il Viminale e l’Aventino, 759. 36. Sentence of the 1947 Matteotti trial, 315–316. See also Rossi’s embarrassing responses to the judges during his 14 October 1924 interrogation in AS Roma, Interrogatori, Cesare Rossi, 42 ff. 37. AS Roma, Esami, vol. II, pp. 383–387, deposition dated 19 September 1924. 38. AS Roma, Requisitoria presentata alla Procura Generale, 117. 39. ACS, Minculpop, b. 158. 40. AS Roma, Esami, vol. I, pp. 286–7, deposition of De Bono of 9 July 1924. De Bono confirmed his version in a memoir sent on 22 December 1924 to the Senate investigating committee united in the Alta Corte di Giustizia; in Rossini, Il delitto Matteotti tra il Viminale e l’Aventino, 224–241. 41. AS Roma, Esami, vol. III, 398, of 15 November 1924. 42. The two letters are in ACS, Polizia politica, Serie B, b. 28.

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43. A copy of the pamphlet La questione morale dopo le risultanze dell’istruttoria De Bono presso l’Alta Corte di Giustizia, is in ACS, SPD CR, b. 3, fasc. De Bono. During the Aventine succession all anti-fascist forces abandoned parliament in protest to the Matteotti murder. They began meeting in another venue and declared they would return only after the clarification of those who mandated and committed the crime. In response, Mussolini closed parliament. 44. ACS, Polizia politica, Serie B, b. 28, letter to Vaselli dated 20 July 1925. The italics is underlined in the text. 45. Ibid. letter to Vaselli dated 23 July 1925.

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Giacomo Matteotti as a young man

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Matteotti’s wife, Velia Titta

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A group of fascist arditi pose in front of a local meeting place. The man in the center behind the poster is Albino Volpi

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The photo Dumini used in one of his passports, this one under the false name of Gino Bianchi

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Onorevole Giacomo Matteotti at his desk in the parliamentary chamber, taken ­during the last legislative session he participated in

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The Lancia used to kidnap Matteotti. The open doors show the interior where Matteotti struggled against his captors and was killed

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The grave in the Quartarella woods where Matteotti’s body was buried

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Matteotti’s remains are carried from the Quartarella woods where they were found

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Photographs of Matteotti’s skull taken at the site where his remains were discovered, on the same day of August 16, 1924

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Matteotti’s jacket with the ripped sleeve; their supposed “discovery” on the roadside of Via Flaminia on August 12th triggered the search for Matteotti’s body

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The sea of mourners at Matteotti’s funeral in Fratta Polesine

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Wreaths of flowers and prayers at the site of Matteotti’s kidnapping on the Lungotevere

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Dumini in his comfortable Regina Coeli cell in Rome, where he was imprisoned after his arrest on June 12, 1924

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Dumini (seated at center) and other Regina Coeli inmates at dinner in prison

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CHAPTER 6

The Fascist Regime on the Ropes

How did Mussolini and his collaborators plan on explaining Matteotti’s disappearance? During the days preceding the murder they strategized and maneuvered to generate a heated political climate that would allow them to blame the crime on unknown extremists who targeted Matteotti and acted independently. Matteotti was unquestionably an adversary despised by fascist sympathizers, so it would have been easy for the regime to pass off the disappearance of the deputy as a political vendetta carried out by anonymous fascists. Whether in Austria or in Rome, responsibility was to be attributed to unknown fanatical fascist militants who had decided to take justice into their own hands. Matteotti’s May 30 speech in which he denounced fascists certainly played into this strategy, and Mussolini took full advantage of it to assert that the crime was not premeditated; it gave him an ideal opportunity to deflect responsibility from the regime. Mussolini and his men continued to further enflame fascists against Matteotti. Verbal attacks were aimed especially at Matteotti, as if to single him out as the only enemy of fascism. Filippelli lent credence to this hypothesis in his October 30 memoir, when he wrote that the order to kill Matteotti immediately after his May 30 speech meant, on the one hand, dampening the emotion of the public by justifying the crime as wrath against Mr. Matteotti’s provocative verbal intemperance

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2024 M. Canali, The Matteotti Murder and Mussolini, Italian and Italian American Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-41471-8_6

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while, on the other hand, justifying the fascist milieu that was still excited by the recent political indictment of the socialist deputy, and finding them more ready and determined to morally and materially defend the perpetrators of the crime, which would have appeared as the impulsive retaliation, albeit harsh and disproportionate, of a recent insult suffered.1

Filippelli’s memoir suggests that it was in the government’s interest to maintain a tense political climate after May 30 to conceal its own responsibility and the real motive for the crime it had planned. From May 30 onwards, Mussolini and his men did not miss an opportunity to fuel fascist animosity towards Matteotti. This explains the clamorous remonstrances and continuous threats that the fascist establishment publicly hurled against him: Mussolini and Rossi’s outbursts after Matteotti’s speech on May 30, the newspaper articles, the demonstration on June 3, Rossi’s subsequent telegram to pro-fascist newspapers and Mussolini’s speech on June 7, in which he repeatedly compared Matteotti to Communists because of his sectarian spirit. These were all lucid tactics meant to sway public opinion into believing the crime was a reaction provoked by Matteotti’s speech of May 30. By the morning of June 11, Mussolini and some of his closest collaborators certainly knew that Matteotti had been kidnapped and killed. Mussolini had also received Matteotti’s stolen passport and papers from Fasciolo, his personal secretary. Fasciolo would later explain: On Wednesday June 11 Dumini had handed me a sealed envelope for Mussolini, saying that a passport and other things were inside. I had orders from Mussolini not to open Dumini’s envelopes. I went to Mussolini’s residence at Via Rasella and handed him the sealed envelope. On seeing it he said: “I understand, it’s the Matteotti affair. He opened the sealed envelope in my presence. When he saw the passport, he ordered me to destroy it.”2

Cesare Rossi also knew about the murder that morning, but during his first four interrogations he denied having any knowledge of what had taken place. Two potentially converging complications kept him from admitting the truth. First, he would have had to reveal the identity of those who had informed him of the murder the night before. Second, he would have had to completely revise statements he had made previously. It would have been especially difficult to explain why he had not immediately informed Mussolini when he heard the crime had been committed.

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If he confessed that he had been aware of the murder, he would have had to revise his entire defense strategy and implicate persons whose depositions would have created problems for him. His admission could also have triggered a sequence of events that could have proved fatal for both him and the regime. When Rossi was questioned for the fifth time on the morning of Wednesday December 17, he had been put in a corner by Filippelli’s firm statement that he had met him the morning of the 11, and Rossi decided to admit that he had already been aware of the crime when he went to Filippelli’s house. He added, however, that he was not ready to reveal the identity of his source. Fortunately for him, his December 17 admission coincided with the transfer of the investigative acts to the senatorial commission in charge of the De Bono trial (described later), and thus he was never asked to account for what he said during the fifth interrogation. A few years later, however, when he was exiled in France, Rossi was unexpectedly maneuvered into revealing his source. In France he had met Gaetano Salvemini who was writing his book The Fascist Dictatorship in Italy. Salvemini asked him who had informed him, and Rossi answered that Fasciolo had informed him on the morning of the 11 after he left his daily meeting with Mussolini. Given that, Salvemini asked Rossi the question he had always feared—why, for two days, had he not spoken with Mussolini? Salvemini pointed out how incomprehensible Rossi’s reticence was, given that he had been aware of the murder since Wednesday morning. Rossi fell back on an explanation that was implausible, considering that he had officially met with Mussolini five or six times over the next few days. He answered that he did not tell Mussolini what he knew about the crime because he had fallen into a psychological panic that paralyzed him until Thursday afternoon; he explained he felt “condemned in Mussolini’s eyes” because of his relationships with Dumini and Filippelli, and feared that “he would take it out on me.”3 Emilio De Bono, too, was certainly aware of the murder as early as Wednesday morning. When asked, he lied to investigators that he had first received news of Matteotti’s disappearance from Acerbo at 7:00 p.m. on Wednesday. Remembering that Matteotti had been issued a passport for Vienna a few days before, at 10:00 a.m. on Thursday morning he sent a phonogram to the Brennero, Tarvisio, and Postumia provincial police offices asking for news of his possible expatriation. Around 3:00 p.m. on Thursday he received the first news of the identification of the Lancia’s license plate, and it was then that his “sixth sense” made him think that

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perhaps Dumini was involved in the affair. But instead of informing police functionaries of his suspicions as he should have, he made the unusual decision of assigning Augusto Agostini, a general in the fascist voluntary militia and a man he trusted, to search for and arrest Dumini. De Bono explained that he had turned to Agostini and not to police agents because Agostini knew Dumini personally, as if Dumini was not already well known to the police. But that was not the truth. De Bono was perfectly aware of the origination of the crime and who the perpetrators were. On Thursday morning he had actually ordered Agostini not to lose sight of Dumini,4 because if events had precipitated and it became necessary to arrest him the first person to lay hands on Dumini should have been someone who was completely trustworthy and who knew how to deal with Dumini before turning him over to the police. Aldo Finzi had been away since Saturday June 7 and had returned to Rome on Wednesday morning. He learned immediately of the crime from Filippelli. Even though he was undersecretary of the Interior, and thus De Bono’s superior, like all the other dramatis personae Finzi appeared strangely detached from events during the first two convulsive days following the crime. He appeared to have been involved only from the Thursday night meeting at the Viminale. Despite being aware of the crime and of the identity of the murderers, De Bono, Finzi, Filippelli, and Rossi did not show particular concern until the early hours of Thursday afternoon. They simply followed the developments of the investigation as if they were no concern of theirs and continued to maintain apparently normal relations with Dumini who was still at large and circulating within the safe confines of fascist power. After all, since everything was proceeding as planned, what reason was there to worry? In fact, the initial investigation and the statements of eyewitnesses did not make them fear that the kidnappers would soon be identified. As long as the criminals believed that they would get away with their crime, they remained calm. That is, until the early afternoon hours of Thursday June 12. On Thursday June 12, before the perpetrators of the crime had been identified, Mussolini even gave a speech to the Chamber of Deputies in which he shamelessly declared that “only an enemy of mine, who had been thinking diabolical thoughts for long nights, could have committed this crime, which today strikes us with horror and makes us cry out with indignation.”5 As soon as the responsibilities of people closely associated with him began to emerge, however, he began to refer to the crime as the

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irresponsible act of troublemakers, hotheads, fascist extremists that opposed any process of normalization.

The Storm Erupts Between 12:30 and 1:00 p.m. on Thursday, the concierges in the building near Matteotti’s home went to the questura and reported the Lancia’s license plate number.6 The news, of course, passed in a flash to De Bono, who hastened to alert the fascist leaders. Within less than an hour after the plate number was reported, some of Mussolini’s closest associates had already abandoned their feigned indifference and launched frenetically into action to hinder the investigation and conceal evidence. Rossi was one of the first to receive the news from De Bono. Between 1:30 and 2:00 p.m. he spoke with Mussolini, who in the meantime had already been informed by De Bono. It should be noted that the 1:30 p.m. meeting between Rossi and Mussolini was out of the ordinary: the head of the press office was received every morning at 10:00 a.m. Mussolini went into a rage when he heard the news that the Lancia plate had been identified. “Christ, they could have pissed on it! The dust from the road would have stuck to the number plate and covered it!” he said to Rossi. From that moment on, the government moved into action. It was easy to imagine that the perpetrators, and almost certainly Filippelli, would soon be arrested. Nor was it difficult to foresee that the investigators would soon reach the highest levels of government, most certainly Rossi, especially given the close relationship that bound Filippelli and Dumini to his office. Between Thursday the 12th and Saturday the 14th all the maneuvers of the men closest to Mussolini were intently focused on deflecting the blow that would strike the fascist government from the unexpected direction the investigations had taken. After meeting with Mussolini, Rossi urged Filippelli to clean up the Lancia as quickly as possible. Filippelli requested Dumini’s help to remove the blood-smeared upholstery so as not to arouse the inevitable curiosity of Filippelli’s driver who was ordered to drive the car to the Tattini & Maraga body shop, whose discretion they trusted completely, where auto body repairmen were to replace the upholstery. Even though in his memoirs Filippelli was at pains to claim the contrary, there is no doubt that between 2:00 p.m. and 5:00 p.m. on Thursday he was focused on removing blood from the Lancia. His chauffeur testified that he had personally received orders to take the car “to the Maraga & Tattini shop to have the necessary

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repairs made, as the car had been damaged and had to be fixed before being returned to the owner.”7 When the police tracked down the car, the upholstery had not been repaired and still had large gashes in it. Filippelli tried to defend himself against the charge of concealment of evidence by claiming that his repair trip to Quilici’s home garage took place before the Lancia’s license plate had been identified. But the investigative acts indicate without doubt that Filippelli went there with Dumini at least an hour after the questura received the license plate number. Rossi had certainly been encouraged by Mussolini to organize the meeting at the Viminale on the night of June 12. The purpose of the meeting was to strategize about how to thwart the efforts of investigators. Rossi and Marinelli’s opinion differed from De Bono and Finzi’s. While Rossi and Marinelli argued that it would be dangerous for the perpetrators to remain in custody for an extended period and insisted on their early release, De Bono was convinced that it was too late for that and favored trying to limit liability for the crime to the material actors. Despite their disagreements, however, the four did not forget that to save themselves they had to safeguard Mussolini’s government. All four were fully committed to the deception required to assure that outcome. They decided to focus on organizing a press campaign to sway public opinion into believing there were links between the Matteotti murder and the murder of Nicola Bonservizi, the leader of the Italian fascio in Paris who had been killed by the anarchist Ernesto Bonomini a few months earlier. Filippelli’s testimony confirms this. On Thursday night he went to Finzi’s house where Finzi, who had just returned from the meeting at the Viminale, told him to “begin to make the public understand that this was a political crime that was possibly connected to the massacre of Bonservizi and the other fascists in France.” When he returned to his office Filippelli received a call from Rossi “about how to prepare public opinion for the disappearance of Mr. Matteotti by linking it to the massacre of Bonservizi and other fascists in France.”8 The next day, in fact, Filippelli published an article in the Corriere Italiano recalling “the tragic end of Nicola Bonservizi, to which Mr. Matteotti would have been no stranger, at least from a moral and propaganda point of view.”9 Vincenzo Tieri, another Corriere Italiano journalist, confirmed that the Bonservizi-Matteotti connection was adopted after the phone call between Filippelli and Rossi. He told investigators that Filippelli dictated the modifications to be made to the article Ugo Marchetti had written for the next day’s issue, referring to

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the notes he had taken during his conversation with Rossi.10 Marchetti, the original author of the article, expressed his amazement and indignation when he realized that the biographical profile of Matteotti that he had written “had been almost totally changed.” It now hinted “at Matteotti’s responsibility for the murder of Bonservizi (a responsibility I had never heard of).”11 After a Friday morning meeting with Marinelli, De Bono, and Rossi, Filippelli published a note signed by Dumini, backdated to when he received the loaned car, in which he assumed responsibility for any damage incurred. Filippelli was thus supposed to be the unwitting lender of the car. That morning in Rossi’s office, the two agreed on the text of Filippelli’s declaration that he had nothing to do with the crime, which was published in Saturday’s edition. In his role as police chief, De Bono assumed responsibility for obstructing the activity of the judicial investigators, and, where possible, to concealing evidence or altering it before investigators were able to examine it. Two of his loyal followers, Francesco Sacco and Augusto Agostini, fascist MVSN generals, faithfully and efficaciously executed his orders. De Bono was also able to count on the complicity of high-ranking police officers, starting with the questore Bertini and his chief of staff Gaetano Laino. De Bono’s collusion is clear from a few episodes connected with Dumini’s arrest at Termini Station, when he prevented any damaging evidence that Dumini might have had with him, or left behind, from falling into the hands of the judicial investigators. When he learned that an arrest warrant had been issued against Dumini, and that the police commissioner intended to have his apartment searched, De Bono arranged for Sacco and Agostini to accompany the police officers responsible for the search. They brought them on a futile hunt to Dumini’s old home on Via XX Settembre, without telling them that Dumini now lived at a new address on Via Cavour. When De Bono learned of Dumini’s arrest, he also colluded with Bertini to have his own men arrive at Termini Station before the judicial police. In fact, the same Sacco was sent to the station with Bertini’s direct authorization to speak “one-on-one with Dumini.”12 Sacco, who had brought Agostini with him, was thus able to talk alone with Dumini for about a quarter of an hour, in open violation of the law. After ordering that Dumini not be taken to prison until De Bono arrived because Dumini had asked to speak with him personally, Sacco and Agostini left the station with Dumini’s luggage which they immediately took to De Bono’s office at police headquarters.

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Dumini’s conversation with Sacco and Agostini was the first phase of bargaining between Dumini and the fascist instigators. A few years later in a memoir addressed to Mussolini, Dumini recounted that “the two had rushed to Termini Station to tell me that I should ‘behave correctly’ because my detention would not be prolonged beyond three months; that there would be no further arrests after mine, and that since they had just received news of Putato’s capture in Milan, I should make sure that Putato wasn’t accused and that I remained the only one arrested. Not only that, but they also assured me that the incriminating pieces of cloth would be removed from my suitcase and leather bag.”13 De Bono went to Termini Station an hour later to discuss with Dumini how to extricate him from the situation. He, too, stayed alone with him for about a quarter of an hour, confirmed with him what Sacco and Agostini had already told him, and again reassured him that he would remove “the damaging pieces of cloth from the suitcase and the bag.” He left Dumini with the exhortation: “Deny, deny, deny. I want to save fascism.”14 On taking leave De Bono ordered that Dumini be taken to Regina Coeli prison, where he arrived at two o’clock in the morning of Friday June 13. From prison a month later, when Dumini believed he had been abandoned by the regime, he wrote a letter to Finzi that confirmed this version of his meeting with De Bono, and which was very damaging for the police chief. But later in March 1925 when testifying before the Senate Investigation Committee, and when he felt his rescue was near, he claimed that on that night De Bono had said, in a clearly mocking tone to emphasize the futility of the negative position he had taken, “Deny, that way you will save fascism.”15 Sacco and Agostini took Dumini’s luggage, which included a suitcase, a yellow leather bag, and a portable typewriter, to De Bono’s office. De Bono had the luggage keys that Dumini had given his men at Termini Station. He opened the bags and removed sections of Lancia upholstery and the pair of trousers that Matteotti was wearing when he was kidnapped. They had been cut into strips; evidently Dumini intended to dispose of them by scattering them at night from the window of the train. At their Viminale meeting later that night De Bono told Finzi that “he had removed a pair of bloody trousers from Dumini’s suitcase.” De Bono also took Matteotti’s jacket from the suitcase; its unexpected discovery two months later in a gutter on the via Flaminia would be used to justify the decision to search for Matteotti’s corpse in that area.

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A few hours later the police commissioner of Termini Station arranged for the luggage to be returned to him. But the luggage remained at Termini for only a short time before De Bono changed his mind and ordered that the suitcases be brought from the Termini police station back to his office. According to what he subsequently told Finzi, he was able to open them easily and go through their contents again. He returned the bloodied trousers to the case. As to why De Bono first removed the pieces of bloody trousers from the suitcase and then put them back, one can advance a very likely hypothesis. When De Bono ordered his men to take Dumini’s bags, he had not yet known that the Lancia had been found and had thought it best to dispose of Matteotti’s clothing. But when he asked the police commissioner at Termini Station to return the luggage to him, he had certainly been told that the Lancia had been seized between 10:00 and 11:00 p.m. and that the interior of the car was in poor condition. At this point it was useless to try to hide the evidence of the crime. De Bono may have made his decisions independently, but it is much more likely that he had received direction from higher up. During the night, in fact, he had had a telephone conversation with Mussolini; in addition to relating to him the news of the nocturnal meeting at the Viminale, he must also have reported the discovery of the bloody clothes in Dumini’s suitcase. In both cases, the tactic clearly had a single purpose—to put the bloody clothes back in order to exacerbate the position of Dumini and thereby link his fate closely to that of the regime. It was an important detail of the pact renewed that night between Dumini and the regime. The message to him was clear: “If the regime sinks, you sink.” De Bono “officially” opened the cases on Friday at 1:00  p.m. in his office. The yellow bag contained pieces of blood-stained cloth from a pair of trousers, car upholstery, and a car mat. De Bono had said “that he had considered it his precise duty to leave the trousers in the suitcase so as to hand them over to the judicial authorities.”16 Dumini later expressed his surprise at learning that the bloodied cloth was in the leather bag, because he remembered having “put them in the large suitcase with all the other pieces of cloth.”17 Dumini had not had time to pick up a third suitcase that he had left in storage at the Hotel Dragoni. De Bono’s men retrieved this bag, too, and consigned it to the investigating magistrates. In it they found a new, two-­ meter-­long chain. De Bono had certainly put it there himself to suggest to the investigators that the perpetrators intended to kidnap and confine

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Matteotti, and was therefore proof that his death was unintentional. The implementation of the plan to convince investigators that the crime had not been planned proceeded rapidly. Finally, De Bono took the initiative to ensure that all the apartments where Dumini had lived were cleared of any evidence that could have implicated Mussolini or the regime. Rossi confessed that on the morning of June 13 or 14, De Bono had asked him where Dumini lived. It was his intention, De Bono had explained, to go in person to Dumini’s apartment “around lunchtime to make everything disappear, such as photographs or any possible letter from the President [Mussolini] that might be found in Dumini’s home.”18 Dumini’s arrest had obviously forced Mussolini and his accomplices to modify their defense strategy. Surprised by the extent of condolence expressed by a public opinion deeply wounded by the cruelty of the crime, and pressured by the press and the opposition, the government was forced at first to distance itself from the assassins. Its condemnation of the perpetrators was so strong that at first Dumini feared he had been deceived and abandoned. Initially it was difficult for the regime to even find a lawyer willing to defend them. At the beginning of July Dumini finally managed to find a lawyer who would agree to defend him. He was Giovanni Vaselli, a second-rate fascist, Freemason, and member of a family of wealthy entrepreneurs. Initially Mussolini probably did not completely trust Vaselli, not least because of his young age. Shortly afterwards he had Roberto Farinacci join him. It was a risky decision on Mussolini’s part, since Farinacci’s presence on Dumini’s defense panel made the link between the fascist regime and the crime more explicit. But it was necessary, as it was too risky to allow Dumini to harbor doubts about whether Mussolini and the fascist movement would respect their commitments to him. Dumini had to see Farinacci as the guarantor that the regime was seriously coming to his aid. His presence on Dumini’s defense team sent a single and unequivocal message: the regime was there to directly defend the murderers.

The Bonservizi Murder Motive Mussolini and his men decided to shift their efforts to manipulating evidence and witnesses so it appeared that Dumini had committed involuntary manslaughter. To deflect responsibility from Mussolini and his direct collaborators, Dumini would have to take full responsibility for the crime.

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Given the impressive mass of evidence the investigation had acquired against him, this was not a great sacrifice; it would have been very difficult for him to avoid a heavy sentence if he had been brought to trial. The idea of linking the Bonservizi murder to the Matteotti murder thus became more central to their strategy. Rossi and Finzi had suggested implementing this tactic during the meeting on the night of June 12, and a related article had been published in Filippelli’s paper the following day. For many months after his arrest, Dumini denied his participation in the crime. He did so even when developments in the investigations allowed the magistrates to ask him more and more precise questions about the many contradictions that emerged from what little he had told them. Dumini was perfectly aware that if Mussolini needed him, he also needed the government’s complicity. In fact, he could not hope to obtain the ruling of involuntary manslaughter on his own; he was well aware that he needed someone on the outside to steer proceedings in this direction. In short, he and the government had overlapping interests. Both would be saved only if the sentence they desired, accidental death, was imposed on the judicial process. But Dumini had made it clear that he had no intention of playing the martyr and officially taking all the responsibility for the crime until he was sure that he could count on the testimony of authoritative persons to legitimize the thesis of involuntary manslaughter. The regime had to present witnesses who could support this line of defense with convincing testimony—that Dumini had carried out the kidnapping in absolute autonomy because he wanted to question Matteotti about the Bonservizi murder. The imminent opening of the trial against Ernesto Bonomini, the anarchist accused of murdering Bonservizi, at the court of the Seine in Paris in October 1924 gave them the opportunity to begin implementing this strategy. On September 22, 1924, Curzio Malaparte suddenly asked the investigators to be questioned. He had already testified but had not provided any substantial input. This time he gave a very articulate testimony about the connections which, in his opinion, would have connected the Matteotti murder to the Bonservizi crime. Malaparte said that in November 1923 he had been in France where he had often met Bonservizi. He had learned from him that Dumini had arrived in Paris to investigate the deaths of the fascists Jeri and Lombardi which had occurred months earlier. Dumini

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would later inform Bonservizi that he had become aware of a plot hatched against him by Italian expatriates. One evening, Malaparte testified, a fascist from Dumini’s group had knocked on Bonservizi’s door to tell him that a fist fight had taken place in the Bois de Boulogne during which Dumini had been slightly wounded. Malaparte reported that the small group of fascists had returned to Italy immediately after Dumini had been hurt. He also reported that a few days later Bonservizi had received a letter from Dumini, which Malaparte also read, in which Dumini warned Bonservizi that his life was in serious danger. Malaparte remembered reading, “Beware Nicola, especially of Matteotti.” Malaparte added that after the mission to France, in the months following Bonservizi’s murder and prior to Matteotti’s death, he had spoken with Dumini a few times and Dumini had mentioned that a member of parliament was involved in the plot to kill the head of the Italian fascist party in Paris. Malaparte believed Dumini was alluding to Matteotti. He concluded his testimony by telling the investigators of a meeting he had with Dumini between nine and ten o’clock in the evening on Tuesday June 10 in the Galleria, during which Dumini appeared to be very upset. On that occasion Dumini informed him excitedly of Matteotti’s kidnapping and death, referring to the deputy’s accidental death due to sudden coughing of blood.19 We will talk more of Malaparte’s belated deposition later but note here that given he decided to talk three months after the crime, it can hardly be called spontaneous. What is even more suspicious is that Dumini decided to start collaborating with the magistrates after learning of Malaparte’s testimony. In assuming all responsibility for Matteotti’s death, which he continued to define as accidental, his version during his tenth interrogation on October 20 followed Malaparte’s account exactly. He reiterated the same version in a memoir addressed to the investigators. It should be noted that Dumini’s confession came just as the trial of Bonservizi’s murderer began in Paris on October 20. Dumini testified that he had been a close friend of Bonservizi’s and that the news of his murder had therefore shocked him. The deep anger he felt against the presumed instigators of his friend’s murder, among whom he included Matteotti, was what had prompted him to act impulsively on June 10 as soon as he saw the socialist deputy walking on the Lungotevere. His only motivation was his desire to question him to shed light on Bonservizi’s assassination. But this avowed friendship for Bonservizi was pure fiction. On the contrary, whenever Dumini talked about him, he was always openly hostile.

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The reports which Dumini had sent from France to Cesare Rossi in Rome during his September mission, implied that all the difficulties the Parisian fascio was struggling with were due to Bonservizi’s incompetence. “Bonservizi is a complete disaster,” he had written in his first report from Paris. In another, he called Bonservizi’s work “criminal.” He concluded one of his reports by recommending his immediate dismissal from the secretariat of the Italian fascio in Paris. Putato’s deposition convinced the investigators that Dumini’s confessions of October 20 were manipulative. Putato stated that when they were planning Matteotti’s murder, he had never heard Dumini mention the Bonservizi crime in connection with Matteotti’s kidnapping. As for Dumini’s claimed friendship with Bonservizi, Putato confirmed to the investigators that when speaking of Bonservizi, Dumini said he “was too meek, and not suitable for the office he held in Paris, where it was necessary to place a much more proactive man.”20 At first the fascist government, which took part in the civil suit against Bonservizi’s murderer, had planned to send Malaparte to Paris to testify as a witness for the prosecution. His job was to suggest to the French jury that there was a connection between the Bonomini trial and the Matteotti murder. Dumini’s infamous letter to Bonservizi was also to be presented as part of his testimony. Thanks to new documents, it is now possible to faithfully reconstruct how the fascist government staged this presentation. Mussolini closely followed and actively participated in the preparations from Rome, thanks to telegrams sent to him from Paris by the ambassador, Romano Avezzana. Malaparte’s deposition was to precede the arrival in Paris of one of Bonservizi’s brothers who carried the fake letter from Dumini which warned Bonservizi to beware of Matteotti. Malaparte was supposed to merely repeat to the French judges what he had told the Italian investigators. The subsequent addition of the letter to the trial documents would do the rest. His deposition was at first scheduled for October 21, but a telegram reveals it was necessary to postpone it because the letter had not yet arrived in Paris. On October 22, Rome suddenly informed the Italian ambassador in Paris that the “known document would not arrive.” Why did Rome change its mind about producing the “well-known document?” On October 18, the Paris correspondent of the Voce repubblicana had revealed some background information regarding the Bonservizi crime. Above all, he had disclosed some comments Bonservizi had made to other journalists

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in which he pointed to the fascist hierarchies as the source of all his difficulties, and to certain individuals in it as his worst enemies. At the same time, according to the correspondent of the Republican newspaper, Bonservizi had also revealed the true purpose of Malaparte’s mission to France, which was to dismantle the Parisian fascio headed by Bonservizi and replace it with a kind of fascist union that was to take more aggressive actions against anti-fascist expatriates. In short, Bonservizi’s moderate approach was under attack. The newspaper concluded with an account of Bonservizi’s furious reaction, and his rush to Rome to protest to Mussolini himself.21 This news corresponds with Dumini’s reports from France and Malaparte’s memo written on the eve of his departure for Paris. The article was certainly the reason why Rome and Ambassador Avezzana decided to abandon their plan to tamper with the trial procedures. Avezzana, in fact, sent a telegram to Rome in which he pointed out that: Bonservizi brother has not yet arrived with expected documents. Malaparte deposition alone (as there is no other witness to support it) would be of little value and in opinion of lawyer extremely dangerous. Lawyer himself waiting for possible arrival of Bonservizi to decide on course of action. In the meantime, the local fascio informs me of the following telegram: “Rome 18th October. Renzo Pellati Paris. Invite Malaparte not to take any dangerous initiatives, stick to generalities without going into details, especially as yesterday Voce repubblicana alluded to his alleged deposition dates in Rome. He must not be allowed to act on his own initiative Janini.”22

The mystery of Rome’s sudden change of heart is thus revealed: the disclosures by the Paris correspondent in the Republican newspaper about Malaparte’s odd actions in Paris in the months preceding the crime had helped to neutralize Mussolini’s maneuver. The plan was abandoned not only because of the article in the Republican newspaper that exposed the tactics to establish a false connection between the two crimes, but also because Bonservizi’s family members refused to cooperate. They reacted very negatively to the Italian investigators when they were asked to testify about the existence of the infamous letter from Dumini. Bonservizi’s father and brothers, Giovanni and Carlo, were questioned. Upon hearing the news of the fatal attack on their brother, the brothers had immediately left for Paris. They had therefore been able to view the papers and documents their brother Nicola had

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in his possession at the time of his murder. Both declared that they had not found any letter from Dumini addressed to him. Other important documents help clarify how the fascist government planned to connect Dumini and the Matteotti murder to the Parisian trial against Bonomini. They obviously wanted some of the specifics of the debate to reach Italy immediately to make the link between the two murders more believable and provide support to Dumini’s version of Matteotti’s murder, which was being viewed with skepticism. A letter that Malaparte wrote to Vaselli and some handwritten notes from Vaselli, which certainly were written between Malaparte’s deposition in Rome on September 22 and his departure for Paris on October 12, clearly prove that the contents of the testimonies to be presented by the civil plaintiff (the fascist government) were carefully prepared down to the smallest detail, and were all aimed at proving the connection between Dumini’s missions to Paris and the subsequent crime committed against Matteotti. They were clearly concerned that the witnesses strictly adhere to the roles assigned to them, and that the French lawyer’s line of defense follow the lines that had been defined in Rome. In a paragraph entitled “Norme di massima” (Basic guidelines) the lawyer and witnesses were advised “not to name Dumini too often, and perhaps if you must name him, it would be better to call him Gino d’Ambrogi or Manfredini. Malaparte would explain that Gino d’Ambrogi was Dumini.” The guidelines also suggested that “we should not focus too much on Matteotti’s name, we should bring him up often, but not make him a central figure in the trial.” They also suggested how to present the anti-Bonservizi conspiracy theory that Dumini had been aware of, and naturally advice was given on how to introduce the imaginary letter into the judicial proceedings. In his confession on October 20, when Dumini spoke of the letter that he falsely claimed to have written to Bonservizi on his return from France warning him of danger, the Italian magistrates had immediately activated an international letter rogatory requesting the French magistrates to examine Bonservizi’s papers again to search for the letter. France replied that such a letter did not exist. Curzio Malaparte’s letter to Vaselli confirmed Mussolini’s original plan to present Dumini’s fake letter to Bonservizi at the Paris trial. After arriving in Paris on 13 October, Malaparte waited, according to script, for Nicola Bonservizi’s brother to bring him the fake letter. At this point he sent a letter to Vaselli. Extensive excerpts are provided below, because the letter sheds such clear light on the unscrupulous methods used by the men of the regime. Driven by the

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dangerous course the Matteotti crisis was taking, they resorted to creating false evidence and false documents to disentangle themselves from the disaster that was closing in on them. Malaparte wrote from Paris: I don’t trust the fascists here, and I can’t guarantee their loyalty. Marabini left last night for Turin and, I believe, will continue to Rome. He will return here on Tuesday, in time to testify at the trial. He has already been summoned. I have told him what he should say: but will he say it? Is he to be trusted? I didn’t tell him to come and see you there, because I don’t think we should speak openly with all these people. Neither Sironi nor Bonservizi have arrived yet. Why the delay, especially from Bonservizi? It is absolutely indispensable, for it to have any value, that Dumini’s letter should carry the explicit sentence “Beware of Matteotti” etc., and designate Spagnuolo as Matteotti’s liaison. Understand? I have already spoken at length with the lawyer, and I will speak with him again this evening at 7:00. I believe the sequence at the trial will be as follows: I will mention Matteotti, the defense will praise Matteotti, and then the plaintiff will portray Matteotti as factious, etc., and finally produce the letter. In order to do this, it is necessary to have material on Matteotti, his character, his treatment of his farm workers, etc. Send immediately by express mail to my address, which I enclose, the translation of Matteotti’s articles published in an English newspaper, anti-Italian articles; and the edition of the Impero (or of the Popolo d’Italia) (I no longer remember which of the two newspapers published it) containing the extract of a session of the Provincial Council of Rovigo, during which Matteotti refused to approve the subsidy for refugees from Veneto (after Caporetto). Last night a coded telegram was sent to He Who Can Do Everything, asking for the material on Matteotti.23

Another confirmation that the letter was forged later comes from a note, present in the same folder, that asks for information on how it should be composed. It asks for, a) the date of the letter written to Bonservizi; b) where it was written from and where it was addressed to; c) whether it was written on letterhead and which one, d) an approximate outline of the contents of said letter.24

It is also clear that Malaparte intended to make his September 22 deposition concur with the letter. The letter, written by Dumini in October 1924, was passed off as the letter written on his return from the mission in France in November 1923. It was therefore a wide-ranging plot, which served to link, as was explicitly admitted by those involved, the Bonservizi

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crime and the Matteotti crime, and in which Mussolini (referred to in Malaparte’s letter to Vaselli as “He Who Can Do Anything”) actively participated by being responsible for quickly getting defamatory material against Matteotti to Paris. At the same time, they created evidence to support the version that Dumini was giving to the police and that Malaparte had testified to on September 22. The letter was a key element in the plan, so much so that, in its absence, French counsel decided to waive Malaparte’s deposition. The letter had already been prepared, and it was filed in the same folder in the archives, but, as we have seen, subsequent unexpected problems induced the government not to use it. The letter followed the exact instructions given by Malaparte in his missive to Vaselli. Dated December 1923, it announced Matteotti’s imminent arrival in France, and the news gave Dumini the opportunity to utter the fateful phrase, recommended by Malaparte, Beware, Nicola! Further on in the letter Dumini, as he had been ordered, zealously indicated Spagnuolo as the intermediary to Matteotti’s contacts in France. Malaparte’s letter to Vaselli puts a definitive end to any speculation of the veracity of Dumini’s confession regarding unlikely connections between the Bonservizi crime and the Matteotti crime. The regime attempted to fabricate the connection because it was the only way to mitigate the defendants’ position, develop the version of involuntary manslaughter, and consequently save them along with the regime. When the attempt to link the Matteotti and Bonservizi murders failed, Mussolini was at a loss for resources to help the imprisoned assassins. This was probably the most challenging moment of the Matteotti affair for him. He understood very well that the two magistrates investigating the Matteotti murder, Tancredi and Del Giudice, could have inevitably caused a government crisis. Too many of his close collaborators had been accused, and some of them were in prison, but the Duce was unable to elaborate a credible defense—public opinion sided with the judiciary and was demanding clarity. Mussolini could do nothing, and his government was at great risk.

An Unexpected Lifeline At the beginning of December an unexpected lifeline materialized. Giuseppe Donati, an anti-fascist and the director of the Catholic newspaper Il Popolo, formally brought 16 charges against former chief of police

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De Bono. Since De Bono was a senator and could be judged only by the Senate acting in its function as the High Court of Justice, the allegation led to an inquiry into De Bono by the Senate. Tancredi and Del Giudice had to turn all their investigative material over to the Senate; on December 6, 1924, the investigation into Matteotti’s murder came to a halt. Donati had not understood Tancredi and Del Giudice’s astute strategy; he didn’t grasp that they were shrewdly following a precise plan and misread their cautious approach as corruption and service to the regime. The two magistrates had for some time reached the conclusion that Mussolini was guilty. However, they knew that Article 47 of the Constitution gave the Chamber of Deputies the power “to accuse the king’s ministers and to bring them before the High Court of Justice;” that is, the Senate, which was responsible for extraordinary judicial functions. If they accused Mussolini immediately and directly the investigation would have been taken out of their hands and turned over to the Senate, which was controlled by fascists and would have absolved Mussolini. Their strategy had been to strike at his close collaborators and build a cumulative base of evidence that would box in Mussolini, and against which he would have had no possible defense. A move like Donati’s was exactly what the magistrates had been trying to avoid, while it was what Mussolini had been hoping for—implicate individuals in the investigation who could only be judged by the High Court, and thus transfer the investigative acts from the hands of Tancredi and Del Giudice into the hands of “fascistized” institutions. Up to that point the two honest magistrates had guaranteed the confidentiality of the investigation, but that was now lost, together with the rigor and impartiality of the judicial procedure. Mussolini had little to fear from a superior court composed of senators who, in many cases, had in essence obtained their positions thanks to him. The Senate investigative commission communicated the results of its inquiry to the public prosecutor, who delivered his indictment to them on May 13, 1925. He called to dismiss all 16 of Donati’s counts against De Bono. But the public prosecutor’s decision was so utterly biased that the commission did not accept all the requests in the preliminary ruling that was issued on June 12. For four of the 16 charges they resorted to “acquittal with doubt.” These were four very important charges against De Bono: participation in the attack on Amendola, aiding and abetting the Matteotti murder, the attack on Misuri, and issuing Dumini a passport with a false

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name and a false date. The High Court absolved De Bono, even if based only on insufficient evidence. But Mussolini, who in the meantime had finally been able to read the investigative reports and realized the dangers posed to him by the magistrates’ strategy, did not waste time during the six months of the Senate trial. He freed himself of the two dangerous opponents, Tancredi and Del Giudice, by promoting them and thereby removing them from the Matteotti murder investigation. In their place he nominated two loyal fascist magistrates. In fact, when the investigative acts were returned to the Court of Assizes in Rome, Tancredi had been replaced on the court by non-other than Farinacci’s brother-in-law, Nicodemo Del Vasto, and Del Giudice had been replaced by Antonio Albertini. A month later, Del Vasto presented his indictment, and on December 1, 1925, the prosecution pronounced the preliminary sentence. It ruled that Rossi and Marinelli had merely ordered the kidnapping of Matteotti, and that the murder was therefore not premeditated. In order to exclude premeditation, the prosecutor had split the crime into two distinct and independent parts—kidnapping and murder. Therefore, whoever ordered the kidnapping did not order to kill; whoever killed, did so involuntarily. The resulting charge was involuntary manslaughter. Only the five material executors were put on trial, and their responsibilities were reduced to a minimum. What’s more, a few months earlier the regime had added another tile to the mosaic intended to protect the instigators and perpetrators of the Matteotti murder. On July 31, 1925, it issued a decree that granted amnesty for all crimes that were “determined by political motives or that were in any way connected to political motives, excluding murder even when involuntary.” But for murder, Article 4 of the decree allowed for a pardon that limited the sentence to a maximum of four years.25 The decree was often sarcastically referred to as the “Dumini Amnesty.”

The Trial in Chieti—March 16–24, 1926 With the preliminary sentence, only the five perpetrators of the crime remained in prison and were brought to trial, accused of involuntary manslaughter. Putato, Thierschald, and Panzeri were acquitted, the first two for not having materially committed the crime, and Panzeri for lack of evidence. The mandators Rossi and Marinelli were found guilty only of ordering the kidnapping; Filippelli was found guilty of collaboration. Since

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these offences were covered by the amnesty of July 31, 1925, they were all freed. In addition, the sentence stated that no one above Rossi and Marinelli was responsible for the crime. Mussolini moved the location of the actual trial far from Rome, justifying his decision with fears of serious public disorder. Chieti was chosen as the location for the trial; it was a small provincial city, whose dull social life lent itself very well to dampening the outcry that the judicial proceedings would inevitably cause. The out-of-the-way location also discouraged the participation of a sensitive and interested public, while the solid local loyalty to fascism would have allowed the trial to be held in an environment favorable to the defendants. The opening date of the trial was set for March 16. Since the preliminary sentence had excluded the Bonservizi crime as a motive for Matteotti’s murder, the court no longer had a motive for the crime. In Del Vasto’s indictment, the motive suggested by Dumini himself—kidnap Matteotti to interrogate him about the Bonservizi crime— was rejected because evidence of the imaginary letter from Dumini to Bonservizi could not be verified. The second piece of evidence, Matteotti’s presence in Paris preceding the attack on Bonservizi, had been proven to be false. Nor did the investigation into the business motive regarding the stipulation of the Sinclair Oil agreement provide the public prosecutor with proof that Matteotti possessed documents damaging to the regime. But Del Vasto could not completely ignore Matteotti’s English Life article. It led him to the conclusion that Matteotti had certainly “kept an eye” on the Sinclair agreement to “address it in his upcoming parliamentary speech on the budget,”26 but he was careful to not go so far as to mention the government’s fear that the socialist deputy intended to talk about corruption that occurred when negotiating the agreement. Without a motive, the prosecution was unable to explain what the kidnappers intended to do with Matteotti once he had been seized. Del Vasto himself candidly admitted that “the specific, immediate and direct reason the perpetrators carried out the criminal attack against Mr. Matteotti’s freedom which resulted in his death cannot be determined.”27 Del Vasto’s decision greatly exaggerated a brief mention in the investigative indictment of the chain found in Dumini’s luggage, which had almost certainly been placed there by De Bono, and claimed that the aim of Dumini and his companions was probably to “sequester the PSU deputy for the entire

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parliamentary session, because his tenacious opposition could not be tolerated by his fascist adversaries.”28 On January 18, 1926, the Matteotti family, representing the civil plaintiff, surprisingly announced its withdrawal from the judicial proceedings. In a long and noble note, their lawyer Modigliani denounced the intimidating climate that was building up around the trial, which he felt would heavily condition the trial proceedings and outcome. As Modigliani recalled many years later,29 his official declaration of withdrawal had been preceded by a short letter, sent by Matteotti’s widow “on her own initiative” to the president of the Court of Assizes. She wrote that because of numerous “judicial developments, and because of the recent amnesty, the trial—the real trial—gradually faded away,” so that “only a faint shadow remains of it today.” Aware that the justice she had asked of men would come only “from history and from God,” she asked to be spared “from the proceedings of a trial that has ceased to concern me.” By participating, she felt she would “offend the very memory of Giacomo Matteotti, for whom life was a terribly serious matter.”30 In Chieti, Farinacci was Dumini’s defense lawyer. Vaselli was not present; shortly before the trial, in recognition of the discretion and ability with which he had defended the regime during the Matteotti investigation, he was appointed vice-governor of Rome. On March 24, 1926, the Court of Assizes of Chieti reached its verdict. The court ruled that Viola and Malacria had not committed the crime. Volpi, Dumini, and Poveromo were sentenced to five years, 11  months and 20  days imprisonment, of which approximately one year and nine months had already been served while awaiting sentencing. The three therefore should have served another four years and two months in prison, but since the pardon of four years was applied, they remained in prison for only two more months.

Dumini’s Unpublished Letters Dumini wrote letters from prison that explicitly call into question Mussolini’s personal responsibility in the Matteotti murder. They were prompted by a clever move on the part of the investigating magistrate Tancredi during the interrogation of July 23, 1924, when Tancredi had shown Dumini some passages from De Bono’s July 9 deposition which heavily implicated him. In reference to his meeting with Dumini on the night of June 12 at Termini Station when Dumini was arrested, De Bono

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told the investigators that, when pressed by his questions, Dumini had admitted that during the struggle with Matteotti in the Lancia, his accomplices had “taken care of everything.”31 Concerned, Dumini immediately wrote two letters to Finzi in which he denied De Bono’s version of the interview and said instead that De Bono had urged him to deny everything. “If you know something, deny, deny, deny. I want to save fascism.”32 In the first of the two letters to Finzi he made serious accusations against Mussolini, advising that although he had not “compromised anyone yet, neither from the Viminale, nor from Palazzo Chigi,”33 he was nevertheless in possession of some documents that were very damning for the fascist government and which, if forced to, he would present at the trial. The allusion to Palazzo Chigi clearly referred to Mussolini. Another unpublished letter that Dumini wrote to Vaselli during his imprisonment, proves Mussolini’s responsibilities even more decisively. It was among the documents Mussolini had with him when he fled after the April 1945 insurrection. Written on July 23, 1925, it leaves no doubt—Dumini considered himself the executor of orders received from Mussolini. In July of 1925 the opposition published the pamphlet La questione morale that contained extracts of De Bono’s version from the trial records; De Bono described his conversation with Rossi, Marinelli, and Finzi at Viminale the night of June 12. It agitated Dumini, as it directly implicated Mussolini as the main instigator of the crime, with Rossi and Marinelli as the loyal interpreters of his order. The publication bewildered Dumini. Before writing to Vaselli, Dumini had in some way managed to receive confirmation from Rossi that De Bono’s version faithfully reproduced the contents of the conversation, which presented the crime in its naked and unequivocal guise as a premeditated homicide carried out in response to an order. It therefore contradicted the position behind the fabricated confession Dumini gave after the fascist leaders had convinced him to assume all responsibility. If they had gone to trial based on De Bono’s testimony, it would have been easy for the prosecutor to convict him on the charge of voluntary manslaughter, so Dumini picked up pen and paper and wrote to Vaselli, without refraining from very serious threats. The letter is impressive for the clarity with which it addresses the murder and the responsibilities of the protagonists. It forced Mussolini to issue the amnesty decree of July 31, 1925 that resulted in Dumini’s release from prison ten months later. In his missive, Dumini described in no uncertain terms the mutual responsibilities and agreements between the

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perpetrators of the crime and the fascist regime during the phases preceding the crime. I, or rather we, do not have this trust any more, and, although we do not want to precipitate events, or commit incompetent or irreparable actions, we have the right and the duty to defend ourselves as we can and I have already told you how, and we must defend ourselves because we do not want to face a terrible and irremediable punishment for a crime that we committed—certainly—but that was imposed on us and that we carried out, like so many others before it, with blind discipline and after being absolutely guaranteed legal immunity.34

Dumini thus admitted, in the crudest of terms in keeping with his anger, the role he had played in Matteotti’s assassination on behalf of Mussolini. Some extraordinarily important passages of the letter confirm without any room for doubt that the decision to kill Matteotti was taken at the highest levels of the fascist regime, including by Mussolini. In fact, after expressing his concerns about De Bono’s deposition to Vaselli, Dumini said precisely that the “public disclosure of the meeting between four people—De Bono, Finzi, Rossi, and Marinelli—requires a complete, cautious and careful review, not only of our entire process, but especially of the entire line of action I have followed since October 20, 1924, the date on which I assumed full responsibility—conception and execution— of the Matteotti murder.” Further on, Dumini says of De Bono: We have all understood that De Bono blackmailed Mussolini, because if he had not done so he would not be governor of Tripolitania today. The real traitor is him, this old prostitute—to repeat the term used by one of our comrades—whom I, with my lies that were complacently drunk by Santoro and the High Court, saved from prosecution that would have revealed, all the moral filth and the truly exploitative personality and vulgar opportunism carried out to the detriment of the State, under the skin of a pseudo-soldier from Grappa. And I am not speaking here of his part in the Matteotti crime.35

This important document allows us to conclude yet again that the self-­ accusatory strategy that Dumini assumed, starting with his false confession of October 20, 1924, was part of a concerted maneuver with the leaders of fascism. This passage of the letter indicates without doubt that Dumini had decided to accuse himself to cover for Mussolini’s direct responsibilities. For Dumini, De Bono’s deposition,

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or better, the part known as the ’Viminale meeting’, would make the trial impossible, or would turn it into a grotesque drama in which my skin and that of my comrades would be sacrificed at the expense of the “reason of state,” which would justify our conviction and which would try to restore virginity to the others who are responsible, which no one, not even the most idiotic among the 40 million Italians believes anymore.

But the question of the responsibility for the crime and the role the main actors played both in it and in all the other crimes committed by the Ceka becomes clear once and for all in an unpublished letter written previously by Dumini on September 7, 1924. It is addressed to Vaselli and is part of the same group of letters that had reached Mussolini by evading prison control. In one passage of the letter (which Dumini, realizing the seriousness of his revelations, had partially erased until it was almost illegible) it is possible to decipher the following sentence, “And you should know that in the Forni affair, as in all the others, we were only the executors, and Rossi and Marinelli were simply the transmitters. But has it been understood that we are all dancing with a mine under our feet? And not only the accused.”36 This passage contains the full confession of the premeditated crime, in which it is evident that Rossi and Marinelli are the secondary instigators, and Mussolini is the primary instigator of the murder. In it, Dumini abruptly and bluntly outlines the Ceka organization and hierarchy of responsibility. All the crimes of the Ceka, including the most serious one, the killing of Matteotti, were ordered by Mussolini through his two intermediaries, Marinelli and Rossi.

Notes 1. AS Roma, Interrogatori, Filippo Filippelli, 283–284. 2. Istituto Storico per la Resistenza in Toscana, Archivio Salvemini, b. 40, letter from Donati to Salvemini. 3. Canali, Documenti inediti sul delitto Matteotti, 579. 4. Dumini wrote about it at page 15 in his memoir, in ACS, Confinati politici, b.377, fasc. Dumini A. 5. Susmel, Opera Omnia di Benito Mussolini. Dal viaggio negli Abruzzi al delitto Matteotti, vol. XX, 328. 6. A subtle game was played regarding the exact time the license plate number was identified. The later the time was, the more the explanation of protagonists’ actions could differ. But for the exact time, see De Bernart’s

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­eposition to investigators dated 20 April 1925  in Rossini, Il delitto d Matteotti tra il Viminale e l’Aventino, 388. 7. AS Roma, Esami, vol. III, 164. 8. AS Roma, Interrogatori, Filippo Filippelli, 58, deposition of 25 July 1924. 9. L’on. Matteotti, in newspaper Corriere Italiano, 13 June 1924. 10. AS Roma, Esami, vol. III, 311, deposition of Vincenzo Tieri. 11. Ibid., 316, deposition of Ugo Marchetti. 12. Ibid., 415, deposition of Carlo Cadolino. 13. ACS, Confinati politici, b. 377, fasc. Dumini Amerigo, p. 17 of his memoir. 14. Ibid., 18bis. 15. Rossini, Il delitto Matteotti tra il Viminale e l’Aventino, 428–429. 16. AS Roma, Esami, vol. III, 404–405. 17. ACS, Confinati politici, b. 377, fasc. Dumini Amerigo, p. 19 of his memoir. 18. AS Roma, Interrogatori, Cesare Rossi, 105. 19. For the complete Malaparte story, see AS Roma, Esami, vol. II, 396–407. 20. AS Roma, Interrogatori, Aldo Putato, interrogation of 3 December 1924. 21. Il valore di certe sensazionali ‘rivelazioni’ sull’assassinio di Matteotti, newspaper Voce repubblicana, 18 October 1924. 22. ASMAE, Telegrammi di Gabinetto, Piccola Registrazione, inbound telegram n. 528 of 19 October 1924, from Romano Avezzana to Mussolini. 23. The letter is in ACS, Polizia politica, Serie B, b. 28. 24. Ibid., the text in italics appears to be crossed out, while there are notes written by multiple hands in the margins of the ticket with the requested information. 25. R.D. 31 July 1925, n. 1277. 26. AS Roma, Requisitoria, pp. 133–134. 27. Ibid., 132. 28. At p. 38 of the 1925 preliminary sentence; a copy can be found in ACS, Minculpop, b. 158. 29. Modigliani, L’assassinio di Giacomo Matteotti, 27. 30. The letter is reproduced in ibid., 30. 31. AS Roma, Interrogatori, Amerigo Dumini, 59. 32. Ibid. 33. The letters were confiscated by prison directors, but they were not handed over to the prosecution, as they should have been. They surfaced only in March of 1925, when the prison decided to deliver them to the high court. The complete text of the letters is in Rossini, Il delitto Matteotti tra il Viminale e l’Aventino, 438–441. 34. ACS, Polizia politica, Serie B, b. 28. 35. Ibid., letter from Dumini to Vaselli dated 23 July 1924. The italics is my own. 36. Ibid., cart. n. 5, fasc. varie. The italics indicate sections that Dumini crossed out after writing them.

PART III

The Business Motive for the Murder

CHAPTER 7

The Cold War for the Italian Oil Market

In the early 1920s, 80% of Italy’s demand for oil was met by importing refined crude from the Standard Oil company. The Italian demand for oil was rapidly increasing; manufacturing and military were converting their operations to oil-based energy sources, motorization was advancing swiftly, and consumption was rising steeply. Standard Oil never let its guard down to the potential risks to its Italian monopoly. The high costs of transportation forced it to charge a steep price for its product. To reach the European market Standard’s oil had to traverse the 4200 miles that separated New  York from Messina, the European port that handled petroleum traffic from the United States. In the short term its monopoly was not in danger, since its main competitor, the English Anglo-Persian Company (APOC), did not have a refinery in the Mediterranean area that could process the oil it extracted in Mesopotamia. But at the end of 1923 a new chapter began in the Standard Oil/APOC fight for the Italian market. The English oil company had stipulated an agreement with the fascist government, drawn up in secret by finance minister De’ Stefani and signed by Orso Mario Corbino, the Minister of the National Economy. In the agreement, APOC acquired oil tanks located near Trieste that had belonged to an Austrian company, and which were near Standard Oil storage facilities. In addition, APOC agreed to sell oil to Italy “at the lowest price possible.”

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2024 M. Canali, The Matteotti Murder and Mussolini, Italian and Italian American Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-41471-8_7

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This was a heavy blow to Standard Oil, considering that 120,000 of the 400,000 tons of the oil that it distributed in the Italian market was absorbed by the state. The agreement also contained more bad news for Standard Oil—on specific request by the Italian government APOC would be able to “search for oil in the Italian subsoil” and eventually “exploit fields that were discovered.” But the greatest dangers were in article 5 of the agreement, which provided for the construction of an oil refinery in Italy in the near future. Given that much of the high cost of the American product derived from transportation, a refinery close to APOC’s Middle Eastern wells in Persia and Mesopotamia would have allowed the British company to charge much lower prices in Italy than Standard Oil. Standard Oil’s monopoly was, in fact, in danger. It was clear that within a short time it risked losing its hold in Italy and, on a larger scale, in central Europe. In January 1924 APOC began its assault on Standard Oil’s monopoly by forming an Italian subsidiary—Benzina Petroleum. In March it submitted a request to the Italian government to authorize the construction of six large storage facilities for refined oil near six big Italian cities. The American commercial attaché in Rome, Franklin Gunther, saw the news as a serious threat to Standard Oil, because an Anglo-Persian refinery in Italy would have allowed the English to offer lower prices than Standard Oil. The American consul in Venice also correctly observed that “the arrival of Anglo-Persian with its conspicuous resources and relative closeness to its output locations will lead to an intensification of competition, especially regarding the interests of American oil in Italy.” The American company was worried, and it asked the Secretary of State to gather information on the agreement. The American Trade Commissioner at the American Embassy in London confirmed the news from Italy—the agreement with the Italian government would certainly have given APOC an upper hand and enable it to rapidly “become a very feared competitor of Standard Oil in Italy and Central Europe.” The Italian market was not the only one at risk; the location of storage facilities in Trieste would have allowed APOC to target its product to the vast German-speaking area of Europe where Standard Oil had secured an advantageous position. APOC’s goals, of course, went beyond the Italian market into those in Central Europe, but from a geopolitical perspective the immediate theater of the Anglo-American conflict was the control of the Italian oil market, and especially distribution and exploration.

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This was the status of the clash between the two oil giants when an unexpected competitor, Sinclair Oil, appeared on the scene. Sinclair was a mid-size company that certainly could not compete with the two much larger firms, either financially or technically. None the less, Sinclair was quickly able to establish high-level relationships within the fascist power structure and present its own projects for exploiting the Italian subsoil. It is almost unbelievable that the smaller company managed to win against fierce competition, especially since Sinclair had never operated in Europe and thus did not even possess the infrastructure needed to implement the commitments it undertook. I believe, and, as we shall see, so did Matteotti, that Sinclair was in fact one of the tentacles of the Standard Oil octopus, and that Standard Oil had decided to use the smaller company to block Anglo-Persian access to the Italian market. Matteotti was probably an unknowing victim in the great battle between the two giants for the Italian and Central European oil markets. On July 10, 1923, Gelasio Caetani, the Italian ambassador in Washington who was nominated by the Mussolini government, arrived in Naples. He was returning for a holiday in his home country, but he was also the bearer of a draft of a Sinclair Oil exploration project to submit to the Italian authorities. He was accompanied by Guido Jung, who had been sent to the United States in December 1922 as plenipotentiary minister assigned to initiate talks with the federal government regarding Italy’s war debts to the Americans. The Sinclair Oil Company had delegated the two men to present their proposal for the exploration and eventual exploitation of oil in Italy to the Italian government. In Rome they wasted no time in getting to the heart of their mission. On July 17 Caetani visited the Ministry of Agriculture De’ Capitani, and the following day was received by Minister of Finance De’ Stefani,1 who met with him again on July 25. Jung met De’Stefani first on July 23 and again on July 25. Sinclair’s proposal included requests for some important tax concessions, and Minister De’ Stefani’s consent would have been decisive for their approval. On July 28 Caetani met with Mussolini.2 The two men had arrived at a time when oil issues were the focus of government attention. Responsibilities for oil were being transferred from the Ministry of Agriculture to the newly formed Ministry of the National Economy. Mussolini had recently established the new ministry but had yet to decide who would lead it. On the same day Mussolini met with Caetani, the name of Orso Mario

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Corbino also appeared for the first time on Mussolini’s meeting register. Caetani was in favor of Corbino’s nomination as head of the new ministry, as he knew that he could count on him as an ally in his proposed agreement between the Italian government and Sinclair. Corbino, in fact, was the representative in Italy of powerful American financial and industrial interests. He was an adviser to Edison, SME, and the Soc. Generale di Elettricità della Sicilia. He was also vice-president of the Compagnia Generale Elettricità, an electricity company set up with a decisive capital contribution from the US electricity giant General Electric, a subsidiary of the House of Morgan; in Corbino, Morgan had the support of an influential person in the fascist government. Caetani knew that Corbino’s appointment would be well received in American financial circles; as the new Minister for National Economy, he shared Mussolini’s keen interest in oil issues. A few days later Caetani informed Augusto Rosso, who was temporarily replacing him in Washington, that the Sinclair proposal would be discussed in September when the Ministry of National Economy was operational. When he returned to Washington, Caetani met with two Sinclair representatives, Foster Bain and Arthur C. Veatch. The three agreed that it was time to initiate direct contact between the interested parties. During the first half of September, the Sinclair proposal was reviewed by experts from the Ministry of National Economy and the Ministry of Finance. By mid-September, the draft of an Italian counterproposal was ready. It contained two main changes to the original proposal. Sinclair had put forward a request for exploration on all Italian subsoil, while the fascist government intended to grant the exploration permit “only for a few regions.” Sinclair had also requested significant tax relief, while the Italians were willing to “examine which of the tax concessions already granted for the establishment of new industries might be applicable to Sinclair.”3

The Origins of Sinclair Oil Sinclair Oil Company had managed to become a player among the world’s major oil companies in a relatively short amount of time. The company was created in April 1916 through the merger of small oil companies operating in the rich areas of Kansas and Oklahoma. Harry F. Sinclair was one of the many independent oilmen who had tried to do business with the meager remains that Standard Oil and a few other major players left behind. In early 1916, Sinclair Oil merged with the Cudahy Refining Co.

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which, in addition to some refineries operating in the Chicago area, owned a network of pipelines and about 400 distribution points, which meant that the company was now vertically integrated. The Cudahy family was one of the four families, the big four, who held a monopoly on meat slaughtering and partial control of financial activity in Chicago and in New York. Through the Cudahy’s, Sinclair had therefore been introduced to the New York of big finance. This substantially increased the firm’s capital and placed it among the ranks of medium-sized oil companies. The first board of directors of the Sinclair Consolidated Oil Corp. included several representatives of Wall Street finance; through them we can trace the identity of the financial groups that Sinclair was able to tie to its business. Among them were representatives from the major New York financial institutions, in particular the House of Morgan, the Guggenheim’s, and Andrew Mellon, the king of aluminum. The strongest stake in Sinclair Oil was held by the Guggenheim group, with well-known representatives such as Harry Paine Whitney and Daniel C. Jackling on the board of directors.4 The House of Morgan was directly represented by W.E. Corey, the former chairman of the U.S. Steel Corp. The Mellon’s had a seat at the board through W. L. Connelly, a Sinclair director who was on the board of several Mellon banks. The American financial system guaranteed complete independence only to those large companies that were self-financed. The so-called independence of Sinclair Oil was thus strongly limited by the variety and number of its financiers. Because of the money trust—the intricate network of interests that inevitably united the American banking and financial worlds—the young oil company was conditioned by interests that at times appeared antagonistic. In addition, the well-known, solid connections between the House of Morgan and the Rockefellers made it impossible for Sinclair Oil to operate independently from the world oil trust, in this case from Standard Oil. It would be incorrect to conclude that Sinclair Oil was a subsidiary of Standard Oil. But due to its heavy financial dependence on the New York money trust of which Rockefeller’s bank was a major exponent, Sinclair would never have been able to resist pressures the oil giant might have thrust upon it, especially through Morgan. The Italian Embassy in Washington had long warned that negotiations and agreements among the players in the oil market were generally stipulated “with the most possessive secrecy.”5

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In 1923 and 1924 Sinclair Oil and Standard Oil had several businesses in common, some of them very lucrative. They had even set up joint companies, such as the Sinclair Pipeline Co. and the Sinclair Crude Oil Purchasing Co., which managed the transport of crude oil from the fields of Oklahoma and Wyoming to the industrial area of Chicago, with a considerable capital of 75 million dollars. This strategic agreement reveals much about the real state of affairs between the two American oil companies. Not infrequently, Sinclair Oil aroused suspicions that it was actually being used as a front for other, more powerful interests—that its characterization as an “independent” company masked its relationship to the big trusts. This was the case with a deal regarding the rich oil fields in the northern part of Persia. By bribing Persian political sectors and leveraging the solid support it had within the American legation in Teheran,6 Sinclair succeeded in snatching a deal from Standard Oil and Anglo-Persian, which had joined forces. Many authoritative scholars suspect that Standard Oil was actually behind the agreement that Sinclair signed with the Persian government in December 1923, and which excluded its English partner from the deal. They surmise that the Persian government’s subsequent cancellation of the agreement was due to its certainty that a previous “private arrangement” existed between Sinclair Oil and Standard Oil.7 The Persian deal is important because it exemplifies the same scheme that was followed in Italy. It provides insight into the strategies that Standard Oil used when it faced political obstacles and needed to neutralize potential competition. The approach killed two birds with one stone in Persia: it overcame political obstacles from the Soviet government, and it excluded the English APOC from the deal. Standard Oil turned to the “independent” Sinclair Oil to eliminate the political obstacle. Given its self-styled independence, Sinclair Oil could count on excellent business relations with the Soviets, which Standard Oil could not. This was a decisive factor for the future exploitation of the Persian fields, since the shortest pipeline route to transport oil from the wells in Northern Persia to ports in the Mediterranean passed through Soviet territory, and the government in Moscow had made it clear that it had no objection with regard to Sinclair, while it had refused to grant permission for a pipeline to Standard Oil or to Anglo-Persian. To neutralize competition from APOC, it co-signed a joint venture agreement with it to exploit the oil fields together. But Standard Oil was in fact using the “agreement” to serve its own ends—ensure that Sinclair

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Oil succeeded. The winner of the contract, Sinclair Oil, was not a competitor; it was secretly acting on behalf of Standard Oil. The use of corruption was modus operandi at Sinclair Oil, whose meteoric rise was interrupted by the Teapot Dome scandal. Thanks to the intervention of Albert B.  Fall, President Harding’s secretary of the Department of the Interior, a company of the Sinclair group had succeeded in obtaining the exclusive right to exploit the oil fields of Teapot Dome in Wyoming from the secretariat of the Navy. The fields were subject to federal restrictions and, therefore, could not be exploited by private companies. Sinclair had made large donations to Republican politicians in the 1920 electoral campaigns, and in exchange Fall intervened so Sinclair obtained authorization to exploit the Teapot Dome fields. The agreement, stipulated in April 1922, went unnoticed at first. The scandal erupted towards the end of 1923, when Sinclair was incriminated in the scandal while in the midst of negotiations with the fascist government.

The Negotiations in Rome Standard Oil was using the same “Persian model” to obtain the rights to exploit oil fields in Italy, where the political obstacle to be overcome was Standard’s hegemony in oil distribution. Eighty percent of the oil sold in Italy was supplied by the New Jersey company through its Italian subsidiary, SIAP. It would have been difficult for the government to concede the exploitation of the Italian fields to Standard Oil, as it would have meant giving control of both oil production and distribution to the same foreign company. Since Standard Oil would not have been able to find an ally for its proposal in the government, it turned to Sinclair Oil. The secret alliance with Sinclair was a useful strategy in dealing with competitors for the Italian oil fields as well. One of the fiercest competitors was the Banca Commerciale, which had recently decided to enter the new oil market. Standard Oil quickly proposed the creation of a company with the Banca Commerciale, Saper, and to jointly propose a project for the exploitation of Sicilian fields to the government. Sinclair Oil, which had already presented a proposal for that territory, appeared to be their competitor. As was the case in Persia, in the final stages of the process Saper was out maneuvered by SIAP. Toeplitz, the president of the Banca Commerciale, suspected foul play and expressed his doubts privately to a close collaborator, saying that “there must be something less clean going on” in the

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negotiations between Sinclair and the Italian government; that in the Sinclair affair there was “something irregular.”8 In a letter to the president of SIAP, he used angry tones towards the American partner: You will certainly have, like me, read the letter published by former Minister Corbino. Since you never mentioned to me that you had recourse to intermediaries, and even less to the person mentioned in the letter, I am certain that these actions are not in the interest of our Company. However, I would be grateful for your confirmation.9

Toeplitz was too late. Saper had already been excluded from the deal, and Sinclair Oil—Standard Oil’s fake competitor—was about to clinch it. A. C. Veatch arrived in Rome on December 7. He proposed a Sinclair monopoly to exploit the southern and northern areas of the country. He also requested total exemption for the first three years from any tax burden for the import of the material needed for exploration.10 On December 22, Veatch met with Mussolini. Although the content of the meeting is not known, the outcome was encouraging for Sinclair, as can be seen from a speech Corbino gave in Milan a few days later in which he made explicit reference to the Italian government’s willingness to accept foreign contributions per “oil exploration and processing.” A few days later Veatch let it be known from London that he was available after January 1 for a meeting with Mussolini. The two met, with only Corbino present, on January 3. Gunther produced a detailed report of the meeting in which he reported to Washington that Mussolini had said “to be in favor of proceeding with his project.” Corbino had also stated “during the meeting, and then to me personally, that he approved in principle of Dr. Veatch’s proposal.”11 On January 3 Sinclair Oil had thus obtained the green light from Mussolini himself. In spite of the harmonious climate in which the negotiations took place, Corbino made some strange moves upon their conclusion. On the same day, January 3, he sent a note to Mussolini announcing the establishment of the Oil Office. One of the office’s responsibilities was to gather information “about oil companies and their activities.” Corbino asked Mussolini, in his capacity as Minister of Foreign Affairs, to take an active part in requiring diplomats and consular authorities abroad to send the newly established Oil Office “periodic information on questions concerning oil production and the oil market in the various countries of their residence.”12

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Corbino’s decision to establish the Oil Office on the same day as the meeting with Sinclair Oil executives seems extremely odd. The office was set up when it was no longer needed—after the decision had been made to cede the monopoly for oil exploration to a foreign company. Corbino’s decision was dictated exclusively by the urgent need to make Mussolini co-responsible in corroborating Sinclair Oil’s credentials. Mussolini did not transmit Corbino’s request to diplomatic and consular offices until February 10, 40 days after it was submitted, and he did so only after he had already decided to grant the exclusive right to explore for oil to a foreign company. There thus seems to have been a silent agreement between Mussolini and Corbino to delay implementing Oil Office administrative procedures until they were no longer necessary. Their collusion seems even more apparent considering that, in the meantime, Caetani had begun to send Mussolini reports from Washington on the Teapot Dome scandal.13 Although Caetani tended to present the scandal as the fruit of a “poisonous tree” in the political struggle between the two major American parties in view of the presidential elections of 1924,14 the scandal was enormous, and the corrupt role Sinclair Oil had played was evident. Given that Italian newspapers had begun to publish widely on Teapot Dome, the need to proceed prudently in negotiations with Sinclair was evident even without the additional warnings in Caetani’s diplomatic missives. However, discussion between the government and Sinclair continued throughout January and concluded with a partial agreement in early February. On February 7, Veatch presented a draft agreement, in which the open issues merely regarded the boundaries of the areas to be granted in the concession. While an agreement had been reached granting the whole of Sicily, the question of the territorial lines in northern Italy remained unresolved.15 But the persistent campaign in the Italian press regarding the Teapot Dome scandal could not be ignored by the Italian negotiators. The press raised doubts about the independence of Sinclair Oil, claiming that Standard Oil was behind it, and that Sinclair’s real goal was to gain exclusivity to the most promising areas in Italy for a long period of time, and then conduct fake searches to prevent competing companies from carrying out serious attempts that had more chance of success. In short, the press suggested there was a secret agreement between the two American oil companies. Corbino finally decided to temporarily halt the negotiations, and even broke off contact with the American negotiator. But at this point the

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Sinclair representative surprisingly contacted Mussolini directly, a serious diplomatic gaffe, justifying his move with, “I remember that you expressed the wish that this affair be discussed and finalized without any waste of time.”16 Mussolini then summoned Corbino, and together they decided to ask Caetani’s opinion. Don Gelasio felt that there was “no reason why the Italian government should not continue with negotiations in progress,”17 an incredibly surprising remark. For the ambassador, a scandal that was constantly on the front pages of major American newspapers and that was creating great difficulties for the Coolidge presidency, was not sufficient reason to interrupt negotiations. His opinion was the opposite of the American government’s, which had begun to distance itself from Sinclair Oil and its Roman negotiations, as evidenced by the telegram in which the secretary of state, Charles E. Hughes, reminded Gunther that American diplomacy was not given to taking “part in individual negotiations, but let such initiatives be conducted directly by the nationals.” His commercial attaché was invited to “not take any initiative regarding the affairs of Sinclair Co. without specific instructions.”18 An example of prudence that was evidently not shared by the Italian ambassador in Washington. However, despite Caetani’s exhortations to continue with the negotiations, the press campaign against the Sinclair agreement conducted by some influential newspapers, and the increasingly alarming news coming from the United States, convinced Corbino to halt the negotiations again and postpone everything until Mussolini made a decision. On February 22, newspapers reported that the Ministry of National Economy, after having decided “to postpone the signing of a convention that had been stipulated with an organization supported by an American syndicate,” had referred the matter “to the personal attention of the Prime Minister, who would make the decision he deemed most appropriate.”19 Corbino had therefore decided to pause to reflect, apparently with Mussolini’s assent, since on the same day the memo was published, February 22, the register of Mussolini’s hearings shows that he had met with Corbino before he left for Sicily. At this point Mussolini’s behavior in the Sinclair affair becomes difficult to understand. From the beginning of January, he had worked actively for a successful outcome to the negotiations and expressed his approval on several occasions. He had then apparently yielded to Corbino’s hesitancy and blocked the process to finalize the agreement.

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But subsequent events show that his decision was not based on an unexpected change of mind. Rather, he simply considered it inappropriate, on the eve of an election campaign, to strike an agreement with a company that was at the center of a scandal. The text of a telegram sent by the American ambassador in Rome on February 29, when Corbino was still in Sicily, sheds light on Mussolini’s intentions. Gunther reported to Hughes that Veatch had informed him that Sinclair was “confidently anticipating the signing of the contract, the terms of which are in substance those anticipated in his memorandum of February 7 attached to my dispatch n. 906 of 8 February.”20 Seven days after Mussolini’s peremptory gesture, the American negotiators were once again certain that the agreement would be signed. A certainty that Corbino, who would return to Rome only a few days later, certainly had nothing to do with. With Corbino away in Sicily, Mussolini had reassured the American negotiators of the government’s willingness to conclude the negotiations very soon, demonstrating that he was a most resolute supporter of the agreement with Sinclair. A few days later, unbeknownst to the press, he discreetly set the process in motion again.

Suspicious Negotiations On his return to Rome, Corbino was received by Minister De’ Stefani. There was an urgent need to clarify their positions regarding the contents and prospects of the Sinclair Convention. On March 7 Corbino met Mussolini. Their meeting concluded the first phase of negotiations, as revealed by some American documents and by a copy of the agreement, which bears the date March 10 and the label ‘Final.’ Mussolini personally put his seal on the agreement, as Gunther reported on March 13. Veatch had personally told him that, Mussolini had verbally assured him, through his Minister of National Economy, Signor Corbino, that the matter could be considered settled; however, for political reasons he preferred the signature to be made after the elections, which, as the department knows, will take place on April 6.21

It is thus clear that Mussolini had blocked the agreement only because of contingent, electoral considerations; he had never intended questioning the advisability of signing it. Veatch and Corbino finalized it on March 10 only after Mussolini had expressed his approval in the meeting of March 7. One

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of Mussolini’s unwritten conditions was to postpone the Italian’s signature of the agreement until after the elections of April 6. Mussolini was worried about the foreseeable backlash that news of an agreement with a highly suspect company could provoke in public opinion during the run-up to the election campaign. Mussolini’s apparently inconsistent behavior is further highlighted by a surprising comment he wrote in the margin of Veatch’s request for a hearing on March 10, immediately after reaching the agreement with Corbino. Veatch, who was to leave for the United States on March 12, expressed his “wish to be received by V.E. in a very short hearing to bid farewell, tomorrow or the day after.” Mussolini wrote a dry “No” next to the request and added that, “After the scandals that the papers are full of, he can leave without seeing me.”22 If the scandals that filled the newspapers made a simple visit inappropriate, all the more reason why the agreement, too, should have been inappropriate. It is therefore fair to question why Mussolini, despite being aware of Sinclair Oil’s damaged reputation to the point of deeming it prudent not to meet with one of its officials, nevertheless signed an agreement with the company. One can only conclude that it was Mussolini himself who made the agreement possible, even though he was aware of the questionable morality of Sinclair Oil that emerged from the Teapot Dome scandal. The documents are therefore clear: Corbino had advised Mussolini to break off negotiations, but between March 7 and 10 Mussolini personally decided to reopen and rapidly conclude them. He did so with the greatest discretion, in spite of the press welcoming the news that negotiations had been interrupted. In the March 7 meeting Corbino had addressed the question of Sinclair Oil’s independence and expressed doubts about the real relationship between Standard and Sinclair. He began having doubts about Sinclair Oil late in the game; it took more than five months before he felt the need to verify the real status of the American oil company’s financial independence. Corbino then appointed his two officers to collect information on Sinclair Oil, but it appears that until March 7 neither of the two offices had requested information about Sinclair Oil from the Italian Embassy in Washington. Throughout the preliminary phase of the negotiations, Corbino evidently did not investigate the oil company’s relationship with the world oil trust, nor who the real owners of Sinclair were.

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Veatch arrived in New  York on March 24 with the agreement in his pocket, and a week later requested a meeting with Caetani. He intended to report “something of the interesting and useful experiences of my latest trip.” After his meeting with Veatch in New  York, Caetani informed Mussolini that the Sinclair vice-president would be in Rome towards the end of April “to carry out the final formalities concerning the oil exploration concession agreement.” On April 19, Veatch was in Rome again, and three days later he had a meeting with Mussolini, who had no difficulty granting him an audience this time. The elections were now behind him. He felt more confident in dealing with an issue that had been prickly due to extensive hostile press coverage. The official signing of the Sinclair Convention took place on April 29th. On May 1st the agreement was approved by the Council of Ministers, and on May 4th the king signed the relative decree-law. On May 9 Victor Emmanuel III received Veatch.23 The signing of the agreement triggered a new anti-Sinclair flare-up in the press, which again raised the issue of the independence of the oil company. At this point, Mussolini intervened to interrupt the annoying press campaign with a long article in which he personally took full responsibility for the decision, confirmed the government’s positive opinion of the agreement, and above all assured Sinclair’s independence from the “trusts which today hold the monopoly of the foreign trade in imported oil in Italy,”24 that is, Standard Oil. The day before releasing the statement, Mussolini had received Corbino; the reason for the meeting was certainly the drafting of the communiqué itself. Government circles did not share the same brash certainty regarding Sinclair’s independence from Standard Oil as Mussolini had circulated in the press release. On the contrary, Corbino and his close advisors in the Ministry of National Economy not only continued to harbor serious doubts but had finally taken the initiative to investigate on their own. In fact, on May 13, by order of Minister Corbino, a telegram was sent to Washington, urging the embassy to investigate and to send “news about existing relationship between Sinclair and Standard and Anglo Persian.”25 The telegram was signed by Giovanni Scanga, one of Corbino’s top advisors on oil matters. How could it be that while soliciting information, the Minister of the National Economy did nothing to prevent Mussolini from venturing into evaluations and judgments on Sinclair’s independence without the

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support of that same information? Since it is difficult to believe that when Corbino met with Mussolini on May 15 he did not tell him about his request to Washington for information, one would have expected Mussolini to adopt a more cautious stance, at least until the requested information arrived. On the contrary, he rushed to issue a press release, which contained statements that had not been verified. One gets the impression that Mussolini’s office was marching in complete autonomy from the Ministry of the Economy. While Mussolini’s actions confirmed that he wanted to reach an agreement at all costs and as soon as possible, Corbino seemed to have assumed a more cautious position. Scanga’s telegram was received by Augusto Rosso, who was temporarily replacing Caetani. Rosso turned to H. Foster Bain, a Sinclair representative, to obtain the information requested. On May 16 Foster Bain sent him a long informative note. In it he made a first serious admission about the existence of relations between Sinclair and Standard Oil. He referred to an operational alliance between the two companies that had been set up “on the basis of a partnership on equal terms,” in the form of the Sinclair Crude Oil Purchasing Co., that was a clear contradiction to Mussolini’s May 16 statement.26 Bain’s sincerity was influenced by his personal situation—at the time he was being investigated by the Senatorial Committee for his role in the Teapot Dome scandal, and was in no position to continue to conceal what the American newspapers were openly reporting. Augusto Rosso sent the information to the Ministry of National Economy on the 17th27 after Mussolini’s communiqué that vouched for the independence of Sinclair Oil had been printed in all the newspapers. But Rosso had sent the information to an incorrect address. Two days later, to ensure that Corbino had received it, he personally sent him a new, longer report in which he confirmed the existence of common interests between Sinclair and Standard Oil.28 So as early as May 20 Corbino was aware of the web of interests between the two American corporations. Evidently Corbino had not informed Scanga that Rosso had personally provided him with the information he had requested. After waiting in vain for about 20 days, and seeing no reply from Washington, Scanga renewed his request to Rosso for information on the relationship between Sinclair Oil and Standard Oil. Of greater importance is the text of the telegram Scanga sent to renew his request to the Washington embassy. He wrote: “By the 10th of this

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month urgently need news requested by my telegram 2475, especially regarding the existing relationship between Sinclair and Standard and Anglo Persian. If necessary, please inquire at the Oil Division or the Oil Institute of New York.”29 The opening words (“by the 10th of this month”) reveal that it was not a routine request, but that it served a well-defined purpose, and that the information would have been useless if it reached Rome after June 10. On June 11 the Chamber of Deputies reopened to discuss the provisional budget. Scanga’s telegram reveals that the Mussolini government expected to be attacked by the opposition regarding the Sinclair Oil issue, especially regarding its ‘independence’ from Standard Oil.

Standard Oil’s Bribes The men behind Sinclair Oil negotiations with the fascist government surfaced two weeks after the agreement was reached. Standard Oil, in fact, contacted Mussolini’s collaborators on March 24, 1924, 15 days after Sinclair Oil had reached its agreement with the Italian government, to arrange for payment of the bribes necessary to facilitate the final phases of the agreement. Standard Oil turned to the person who managed Mussolini’s brother Arnaldo’s shady business—Filippo Filippelli, the director of Corriere Italiano. The entrepreneur Adolfo Olivieri, the representative of Genovese financiers on the newspaper’s board, was the liaison between the director of Corriere Italiano and Standard Oil management. On March 24, Filippelli received a telegram from Olivieri informing him, “assigned group’s representative, lawyer Terrizzani will come to Rome, make preliminary arrangements, arrange meeting Wednesday 6:00 p.m., Affectionately, Olivieri.”30 Francesco Terrizzani was an important administrator of SIAP, Standard Oil’s Italian subsidiary. Terrizzani was to meet with Cesare Rossi, the influential head of Mussolini’s press office. A few days later, Rossi sent a telegram to Terrizzani in which he confirmed his “full approval of the payment to the newspaper,” asking him “to speed up the initial operation with lawyer Olivieri,” and assuring him that “after the elections everything else will be defined with Olivieri and lawyer Filippelli.”31 The echoes of the April 6 election results had not yet faded when Filippelli sent the following telegram to Terrizzani:

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In reference to your previous telegram, please come to Rome with friends tomorrow or Thursday, considering that your assurances in the matter were seriously counted on Stop On your arrival we shall also have interview S.E. Acerbo stop.32

A similar telegram was sent to Olivieri who announced the arrival of the Standard Oil representatives in Rome on the 11th. Olivieri assured Filippelli that after meeting with Acerbo, “they will immediately make the first payment.”33 Giacomo Acerbo at the time was undersecretary to Mussolini in his capacity as the President of the Council of Ministers. The purpose of the meeting was to agree on how to make payments for the commitments that Rossi and, above all, Acerbo had made. A telegram from Acerbo on the 12th confirmed the meeting in Rome between Rossi, Acerbo and SIAP management.34 A letter from Olivieri to Filippelli dated April 19, which is part of the investigative acts of the Matteotti trial, confirms that Standard Oil paid a sum of money to Rossi and Acerbo in exchange for their favorable intercession regarding the oil rights. Olivieri wrote to Filippelli: I will send you the details of the other paperwork next Tuesday, in particular the one concerning the concessions requested by the American company, as soon as Terrizzani has sent them to me. It will be necessary to take care of it right away because the extent and promptness of the American payments will depend on the authority of our services.35

Olivieri had already alluded to the paperwork to be done for the SIAP deal in a letter to Filippelli the day before. “Tomorrow, as we agreed, I will send you the instructions concerning the various papers regarding the Americana. Needless to say,” he concluded, “It is necessary to complete at least one of them before the end of the month.”36 Evidently, before the end of the month, alludes to the date the Sinclair Convention was to be signed. In April 1924, after mediation by Rossi and Acerbo, SIAP paid Filippelli the first million lire. The deal could be considered closed.

Legal Dispensations for Sinclair Veatch returned to Italy for the final signing of the Sinclair Convention, which took place on April 29, after the first installment of 1,000,000 lire had been paid by SIAP. Decree Law No. 677 was registered with the

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Court of Auditors on May 17. This was an unusually rapid procedure, which aroused the suspicions of the convention’s opponents. The rumors about the contents of the agreement that began to circulate fueled a press campaign that roughly followed the themes of the February controversy. Above all, the independence of Sinclair Oil from the global oil trust was again called into question, while the specialist press emphasized the numerous exceptions in the agreement to the tax and mining laws in force. The agreement granted Sinclair Oil an exclusive monopoly, for the first three years, on exploration for mineral oils, natural gas and hydrocarbons in Sicily and Emilia, regions which geologists had long indicated as the most promising for oil exploration. It covered a quarter of the national territory. Some clauses allowed Sinclair Oil to make use of the vast territory granted for a period of ten years, and only at the end of this period did the agreement require it to delineate a smaller area of 75,000 hectares in which to start production for the entire duration of the concession, that is, 50 years. The company also obtained substantial tax breaks. For the first eight years Sinclair Oil was exempt from paying any duty on the importation of equipment, machinery, and spare parts necessary “for the exploration of oil fields and for all installations relating to the exploitation of said fields, the installation of pipe-lines, distillation, refining or preparation of mineral oils and their by-products and natural gas obtained from the chosen areas.” Sinclair Oil was also granted exemption from tax on its own income from movable wealth for a period of ten years. All profits distributed to shareholders, directors, and officers, including those set aside in any form, which would only be taxed on their subsequent distribution, were exempt from taxation. Even interest on any debts Sinclair might have incurred abroad was exempt for the same period. The considerable tax exemptions, compared to the treatment that the legislation in force normally reserved for joint-stock companies, called into question the responsibilities of the Ministry of Finance, which granted Sinclair Oil special treatment denied to Italian companies operating in the sector. The protagonists of this maneuver were the two experts Guido Jung and Ettore Rosboch, respectively financial adviser, and head of cabinet of the Ministry of Finance. The enormous territory granted and the long duration of control over two of the most promising areas in terms of oil fields gave Sinclair a de facto monopoly over the entire national territory.

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Regarding Corbino’s responsibilities, the impression one gets from the complex affair is that he saw, or was forced to see, only the official aspect of the Sinclair deal. He was therefore a pawn who was aware of the contractual favoritism that the fascist regime showed towards the American oil company. Certainly, it was not difficult for him to imagine that behind the stipulation of the agreement there might have been transfers of money to members of the fascist government, but he does not seem to have been privy to more confidential details. When he took office at the Ministry of National Economy, Corbino was convinced of the need to make a change in oil policy and, in good faith, had opened the doors of Italian subsoil to Sinclair Oil. One can imagine an original agreement between Caetani and Corbino to promote the Sinclair Oil proposal, which stood until the news of the Teapot Dome scandal became widespread in Italy in January-February 1924. With Teapot Dome, Corbino began harboring doubts about the transparency of the operation. From that moment on, he certainly acted to protect himself from possible future accusations of favoritism towards Sinclair. He had reservations about Sinclair’s morality and showed signs of resistance to the favorable treatment that Mussolini on the one hand, and high officials in the Ministry of Finance on the other—especially Jung—were clearly giving to the American company. He also had doubts about the nature of the relationship between Standard and Sinclair. A few days after the Matteotti murder, when rumors about the relationship between Sinclair and Standard became more insistent, Corbino resolutely took the initiative to ask Sinclair Oil for information: All Sinclair subsidiaries, the names, and details of the controlling interest in such companies both in the United States and abroad, the names of other companies in which Sinclair is interested both in the United States and abroad, the names of Sinclair’s partners in such companies, the details and financial organization of Sinclair Consolidation Oil Company, Sinclair Navigation Company, Sinclair Pipeline Company and Sinclair Crude Oil Purchasing Company. Also requested are data on the number of pipelines owned exclusively and in partnership with Standard Oil Company of Indiana.37

Corbino returned to the question of the relations between the two American oil companies by initiating a wide-ranging investigation, with

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the aim of dispelling the increasingly strong suspicions regarding his recent work. Jung immediately understood the purpose of Corbino’s plan. After learning of Corbino’s inquiry, and unbeknownst to Corbino, he advised the company’s New York executives to add to the requested documents a memoir with information about the “competition between Sinclair and Standard companies,” which he must have felt would have countered the alarm that news about the co-interest between Standard and Sinclair would certainly have raised in political circles.38 Corbino did not have time to complete his defensive actions, because on July 1, 1924 he was dismissed from the Ministry of National Economy and replaced by Cesare Nava. One may criticize Corbino for his weakness towards Mussolini throughout the period of the negotiations, but when he began to see more clearly what was behind the Sinclair Convention, he tried to obstruct its progress. In early September 1924, Toeplitz received a letter from Corbino, which unfortunately has not been found, in which the former minister evidently gave such detailed information on the Sinclair affair that, in his reply, and after expressing his appreciation “for your interesting communication,” the managing director of the Commercial Bank emphasized Corbino’s willingness to “communicate with such precision on this well-­ known subject.”39 To conclude, one can exclude that in the final phase of the negotiations Corbino desired the agreement with Sinclair Oil; on the contrary, all evidence indicates that he was against the agreement. As can be seen, a core group of managers in the Fascist Party and government were involved in the Sinclair agreement, all of whom were Mussolini’s closest associates. Rossi, Filippelli, Acerbo, and Arnaldo Mussolini were linked to the Duce through years of friendship and political service. They were men who had much to lose if they acted against his will. When taking another look at Matteotti’s article for English Life, it seems clear that Matteotti knew who had held Mussolini’s flank. Two passages from the article particularly stand out. Matteotti states with great certainty that Sinclair was not independent but was “connected to the octopus-like Standard Oil Trust.” He alludes to the vast, closely linked money trust network between American banks and industries that gave a few financial groups great control, especially in the oil industry where Standard Oil and its National City Bank held indisputable power over other companies. The second passage of great importance is the direct declaration, expressed without qualms or veiled meanings, that sheds light

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on the operations that led to the signing of the Sinclair agreement. He asserts, with no doubts that “we know of great irregularities regarding this concession,” and he doesn’t hide the fact that “high level officials” participated in corruption and bribes. Matteotti wrote the article in mid-May, and it was certainly the reason why he decided to remain in Rome and take part in the opening sessions of the Chamber of Deputies. His presence would have been a problem for the government, which knew why he had not left for Vienna and knew what he planned to speak about—the Sinclair agreement. The telegram that Corbino’s office sent to the Italian ambassador in Washington at the beginning of June is proof of the government’s fear: “Must urgently know, by the 10th of this month, the relationship between Sinclair Oil and Standard Oil.” A telegram that reveals much.

Notes 1. ASBI, Carte De’ Stefani, Pratica n. 64, fasc. 3, agenda 1923. 2. ASMAE, Archivio di Gabinetto, GM 42, b. 29, giorno 28 luglio 1923. 3. ASMAE, Ambasciata Washington, b. 24. 4. See J. H. Davis, The Guggenheims. An American Epic (New York: William Morrow & Co., Inc., 1978), 115. 5. ASMAE, Ambasciata Washington, b. 29, fasc. 242, letter from Augusto Rosso to O. M. Corbino dated 17 May 1924. 6. See the interesting report by P. Loraine, officer at the English Embassy in Teheran, regarding contacts between Sinclair Oil agents and directors of the American legation in the Iranian capital PRO, FO 371, E544/44/34. 7. S.H. Longrigg, Oil in the Middle East, (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1954), 39. 8. ASBCI, Segreteria Toeplitz (ST), cart. 31, fasc. 1; letter to Pietro Fenoglio. 9. ASBCI, Copialettere Giuseppe Toeplitz (CpT), vol. 35, fasc. 267. 10. A translation of these proposals is in ACS, PCM, 1923, fasc. 3-1-3/394. 11. NARA, Records of the Department of State Relating to Internal Affairs of Italy, 1910–1929, M527, Roll 52, folder 865.6363Si6/1, dispatch n. 884. 12. ASMAE, Affari Economici, RG, 1924, pos. 4/7. 13. ASMAE, Affari politici, Stati Uniti, anno 1924, pacco 1599. Caetani’s first report regarding the Sinclair scandal is only on 31 January 1924. The senate committee created to shed light on federal responsibilities began meeting as of January 21. In addition, for the entire second half of 1923, front pages of American newspapers gave ample space to the Teapot Dome scandal. 14. See ibid., Caetani’s report of 3 February 1924.

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15. For all this see report n. 906 by Gunther at the Department of State, in NARA, Records of the Department of State Relating Internal Affairs of Italy, 1910–1929, M527, Roll 52, folder 865.6363Si6/3. 16. See some passages of the letter from Veatch to Mussolini reproduced by Corbino in, La Tribuna, 14 December 1924. 17. Archivio Gelasio Caetani, A-1/3, telegram n. 65/53 of 15 February. 18. NARA, Records of the Department of State Relating Internal Affairs of Italy, 1910–1929, M527, Roll 52, folder 865.6363Si6/4. 19. See the communique entitled “Per le ricerche petrolifere in Italia,” in newspaper Corriere Italiano, 23 February 1924. 20. NARA, Records of the Department of State Relating Internal Affairs of Albania, M1211, folder 875.6363/138. 21. NARA, Records of the Department of State Relating Internal Affairs of Italy, 1910–1929, M527, Roll 52, folder 865.6363Si6/4. 22. ASMAE, Archivio di Gabinetto, GM 14, Udienze 1923–1929, b. 1, fasc. A.C. Veatch. 23. ACS, Real Casa, Primo Aiutante di Campo, Sezione Speciale, Diario 1924. 24. “A proposito della Convenzione Sinclair”, newspaper Il Popolo d’Italia, 16 May 1924. 25. ASMAE, Ambasciata Washington, b. 29, fasc. 242, telegram n. 2475 of 13 May 1924. 26. Ibid. 27. See ibid. telegram n. 188 and 189 of 17 May 1924. 28. Ibid. 29. Ibid. telegram n. 2885; italics is my own. 30. ACS, PS, Affare Matteotti, sc. 1. 31. ACS, Ministero Interno, Ufficio Cifra, telegrammi in partenza, telegram n. 7816 of 3 April 1924. 32. ACS, PS, Affare Matteotti, sc. 1. The telegram does not have a date or a signature, but from a handwriting analysis it is without doubt Filippelli’s. It was sent on 7 April 1924. 33. Ibid. 34. ACS, Ministero Interno, Ufficio Cifra, telegrammi in partenza, telegram n. 8499 of 12 April 1924 from Acerbo to Arturo Mercanti. 35. AS Roma, Documenti allegati agli atti processuali, vol. I, p. 19. 36. ACS, PS, Affare Matteotti, sc. 1, lettera del 18 aprile 1924. Italics is in the original text. 37. ASMAE, Ambasciata Washington, b. 24, letter from Soper to Caetani dated 24 June 1924. 38. Ibid., letter from Soper to Caetani dated 3 July 1924. 39. Unfortunately, I was not able to find Corbino’s letter. For Toeplitz’s reply see ASBCI, Copialettere Giuseppe Toeplitz (CpT), vol. 36, fasc. 268, letter of 9 September 1924.

CHAPTER 8

The Business Motive

In 1966 when Renzo De Felice turned to the Matteotti murder in his multi-volume biography of Mussolini, the materials he had available convinced him to focus on the political motive for the crime—Matteotti’s May 30 speech, the irritation Mussolini expressed to his followers in its aftermath, the “fascist lesson” that mistakenly ended in the socialist’s death. The probe into Matteotti’s murder from a merely political point of view left some important questions unanswered. For example, why, if there were no other urgent problems to address, was he kidnapped hastily and in broad daylight, instead of waiting prudently for a more favorable opportunity which no doubt would have presented itself later? Why pay so much attention to the documents that Matteotti had with him? If the mandate had been simply to kidnap the deputy and kill him, why take the time to gather up the documents that he had with him that day, and which had been scattered on the ground during the fierce hand-to-hand combat that he engaged in with his captors? When De Felice examined the unresolved aspects of the Sinclair affair and the trail of corruption that led to the highest spheres of the fascist regime, he also wrote that, even though there was insufficient documentation at the time to support the theory of a business motive behind the Matteotti murder, it remained “the most controversial and darkest aspect of the tragic event.”1

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2024 M. Canali, The Matteotti Murder and Mussolini, Italian and Italian American Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-41471-8_8

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The investigative acts, the private papers Mussolini brought with him when he fled in April 1945, and documentation regarding the negotiations between Sinclair Oil and the fascist government that are available today point to a different conclusion than De Felice’s: Matteotti had to be kidnapped, the documents he was carrying had to be taken, and then he had to be killed. This is the only conclusion that answers the many questions the political motive leaves unanswered.

Plans Before the May 30 Speech The fact that the Ceka began planning the crime on May 22 when Dumini’s group arrived in Rome, ten days before Matteotti’s speech on May 30, rules out the hypothesis that the decision to kill Matteotti was politically motivated in reaction to his speech. In his autobiography I diciassette colpi Dumini himself confirmed that planning for the Matteotti operation began towards the middle of May, and that his accomplices were summoned to Rome to monitor the socialist deputy.2 The operation began one or two days after Rossi’s return from France, the purpose of which is not clear. It is the only trip abroad he had ever taken. Rossi had arrived in France on May 9. He stayed in Paris for a few days, where he carefully avoided being seen by any fascists. He returned to Rome between May 18 and 19. Given the coincidence between when Rossi returned and when Dumini summoned his accomplices to Rome, there was probably a connection between the two events. It is quite likely that Rossi gave Dumini the order to set the operation in motion, and that the order was based on news or information gathered by Rossi during his trip to France. In fact, Rossi sent Dumini a telegram from Paris on May 16 shortly before leaving for Italy. Unfortunately, the text of the telegram is unknown, but it must have contained instructions for Dumini, who replied promptly that he would comply. On May 17 Dumini had sent his response to Milan where Rossi picked it up when he passed through the Lombard capital on his way back to Rome.3 Five days later, on May 22, Dumini started the operation that was to end with Matteotti’s murder. Dumini instructed Putato, who was in Milan at the time, to join him in Rome, after having first told Volpi that he, too, should leave for Rome and bring two or three arditi with him. The same day, Putato took the train to the capital city. The next day Dumini received a short telegram from Volpi, “OK.  Albino.”4 On the morning of May 22 Volpi arrived in Rome

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accompanied by Panzeri, Viola, and Poveromo. The Prefect of Como, who had the episode investigated confidentially, reported that before leaving the four men had confided to some friends that they had been called to Rome “for a confidential political mission.”5 On the evening of May 21, Panzeri and Poveromo confided to their wives that they were leaving for Rome because “three or four of us were called by Mussolini.” After arriving in Rome, Poveromo had sent his wife a postcard informing her that he was in Rome “employed by the Ministry of the Interior, under the orders of Cesarino Rossi.”6 On the same date, for reasons that are not clear but that are certainly related to the organization of the crime, Dumini sent Thierschald to Naples where he was soon stopped and detained because of suspicious behavior. Dumini repeatedly asked the Roman police that the Austrian be released. On May 20 Dumini also sent a telegram to the director of Cita, a Florentine public transport company, ordering that Everardo Mazzoli, an old contact of his who was employed there as a chauffeur, be sent to Rome to “replace the driver for an important member of the government who had suddenly taken ill.”7 Mazzoli arrived in Rome on May 22. On May 29 Mazzoli, who had been in Rome for a few days, asked an old acquaintance of his from Florence, the publicist Giuseppe Meoni, to meet with him to discuss serious matters. The two met at the headquarters of the Press Association where Meoni was president. Mazzoli confided to his friend that he was very worried about the questionable comments he had heard Dumini and his cohorts making. “It sounds shady,” Mazzoli had concluded, and he had begged Meoni to help him orchestrate his immediate return to Florence to make it appear that it was his employer who was requesting that he return.8 Even though Mazzoli refused to be specific about what he had heard, his desertion of the enterprise is meaningful. He did not want to be accomplice to a serious crime and preferred returning hastily to Florence (“you know me well, it is not for lack of courage,” he had said to Meoni). Many years later during the second investigation, Dumini himself involuntarily provided confirmation that Mazzoli left Rome because he had heard him plotting against Matteotti. When questioned by the examining magistrate, he admitted that he had spoken to Mazzoli “about Matteotti’s intrigues.”9 Thierschald, as subsequent developments have shown, was considered an indispensable element in the plot. That Dumini himself solicited

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Thierschald’s release from prison in Naples is confirmed not only in Laino’s deposition, but also in the text of the telegram Marinelli sent to De Bono’s chief of staff on May 31, to confirm that Thierschald was an informer and to order his release. In this telegram Marinelli refers to the “conversation Mr. Dumini had with one of your officers.”10 Dumini was aware that the date of his co-conspirators’ arrival in Rome was an element that contradicted the “improvised kidnapping” version; he had to cobble together an explanation that, upon serious examination, turned out to be false. He said that the group of Milanese arditi had come to Rome to attend the national convention of war volunteers. But the convention was held days later; it was held on June 1–4. New documents have been found, dated prior to May 30, that provide more evidence that the crime was premeditated. Amerigo Dumini signed over 19 promissory notes to his father Adolfo, each one for 1000 lire. The dates of most of the notes were all earlier than June 10, but most interestingly the date of the first one was May 28, 1924. Some of the 18 others bear the dates of May 30 and June 1, and others are dated after June 12, the day Dumini was incarcerated in Regina Coeli prison. Even a superficial handwriting examination reveals that the notes were all signed at the same time, on the date of the first one, May 28, 1924. The expiration dates have a monthly frequency from June 30, 1924, to December 30, 1925.11 The promissory notes prove that towards the end of May, Dumini felt the need to guarantee a monthly income for himself, received through his father, as if he feared something would happen to prevent him from personally accessing the money. Considering the amount and the monthly frequency, the promissory notes must have been part of the salary that Dumini received from the PNF, paid to him under the guise of a debt Dumini had towards his father. It was not Dumini who paid his father, but the PNF; Adolfo Dumini then delivered the money to his son. Dumini had taken the necessary precautions to ensure that part of the monthly stipend paid to him by the PNF would continue to come to him through safe channels, the actual identity of which could not be traced. The first note expired on June 30 and was not paid for obvious reasons (Dumini had been arrested and contacts between him and the PNF, whose administrative secretary Marinelli had also been arrested, had been temporarily interrupted). Later, when contacts between Dumini and the party were re-established and his lawyer Vaselli took on the role of guarantor, all the promissory notes were directly redeemed into the

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hands of Adolfo Dumini by Vaselli himself, who punctually paid the 1000  lire per month, in addition to urgent sums paid to Dumini for other reasons.12 These promissory notes, for payments every month for over a year and a half, show that both the PNF and Dumini were aware that the action he was planning could have led to a period when he was forced to be on the run, leave the country, or be imprisoned.

Matteotti’s Undelivered Speech Matteotti had returned to Rome amidst a press campaign against the recent ratification of the agreement between Sinclair Oil and the fascist government. A number of people who testified said he became immersed in the oil issue. Mussolini and his collaborators were certainly aware that when the Chamber reopened Matteotti intended to speak again on the provisional budget, and they knew that he would not spare them his criticism. The names of those deputies who had registered to address the Chamber had already been published in the newspapers, and Matteotti’s name was among them. They also knew Matteotti would specifically attack the Sinclair Oil Convention. The telegram that the Minister of the National Economy Corbino sent to Washington requesting urgent replies “by the tenth day of June,” the day before the Chamber reopened, dispels any doubts that when the Chamber reopened the government expected Matteotti to denounce its corrupt dealings in the stipulation of the Sinclair Convention. The request to clarify the real relationship between Sinclair Oil and Standard Oil that Corbino sent to the Italian embassy in Washington reveals his own doubts about Sinclair Oil’s asserted independence from Standard’s world oil trust. Since, in his communiqué of May 16, 1924, Mussolini had assumed direct responsibility for Sinclair Oil’s independence, and stated that this had been a decisive factor in the government’s decision to partner with Sinclair, Corbino’s last-minute doubts about Sinclair’s real autonomy are particularly relevant. His telegram implies, regardless of Mussolini’s statement, that he felt the need to clarify the nature of the relationship between Standard Oil and Sinclair Oil. Matteotti, however, had no doubts. In the article he submitted for publication in English Life he clearly states that Sinclair was acting in Italy on behalf of the “octopus-like” Standard Oil. The Sinclair convention was thus certainly in the crosshairs of Matteotti’s

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investigation, and the government justifiably expected the opposition to expose the agreement and call for a response to the issue during the parliamentary debate.

Matteotti’s Papers All the eyewitnesses to the June 10 crime agreed that when Matteotti was struck violently he dropped the folder of documents13 he was carrying, and the papers in it scattered on the ground. One of the aggressors picked them all up before fleeing in the car. These documents were never found and are presumably those that Matteotti was using to prepare the speech he would have delivered in Parliament on June 11—that is, documents related to the shady Sinclair Oil deal. Were the documents in Matteotti’s possession a risk to the fascist government, and Mussolini in particular? Could he have presented them during his speech? In the article that appeared posthumously in English Life, he wrote he was certain that some of the highest government officials had engaged in corruption when stipulating the Sinclair agreement. He was also convinced that the fascist regime reverted to bribery to finance its newspapers. In other words, he had the proof that graft lurked in the highest spheres of fascism, and that funds to finance the fascist press were obtained using unlawful means. Matteotti’s insight into the links between unscrupulous business maneuvers, the government, and the fascist press revealed to him how instrumental bribery was in raising funds to finance a press that was still struggling to obtain adequate resources. No other opposition leader had made the same connection. They typically denounced the corruption of the fascist government along the traditional rhetorical lines of moralism, and their attacks were not well-documented like Matteotti’s. The journalist Nino Ilari, of Nuovo Paese, testified that on his return from London Matteotti began to closely follow the heated debate that erupted in newspapers after the Sinclair agreement was signed. His deposition leaves little doubt as to Matteotti’s intention to make use of the journalistic material written about the controversy. Before his trip Matteotti had never shown interest in the long negotiations that had preceded the signing of the agreement, even though at times news of the agreement was on the front pages of the newspapers. La Giustizia, Matteotti’s newspaper, had been completely absent from the controversies in February when it was rumored that the government was nearing a deal with Sinclair.

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Matteotti had found articles that Cavallotti published in the Nuovo Paese to be of particular interest. His work focused on the assumption that Sinclair Oil was not as independent from the world oil trust as it had claimed during the negotiations, but on the contrary was a pawn of the powerful Standard Oil. In the article he published in English Life, Matteotti was in complete agreement with Cavallotti. He pointed out corruption in the direct negotiations between the oil company and the fascist government. The condemnation he expressed in the article published in the English magazine are those of a person who knew about shady dealings. His statements that some sectors of fascism used graft to finance their newspapers was not simply a generic accusation—it was a lucid and conscious denunciation. Matteotti seemed to know very well who he was alluding to, and above all he gave the impression of possessing the evidence to back his claims. All this leads one to believe that, while in London, Matteotti had received more than just summary information about the Sinclair affair. An informational note written by the Ministry of the Interior in August 1924 sheds light on how fascists reacted to the brief passage in the English Life article about the shady business dealings of the fascist government and the secret funding of newspapers. The note concluded that Matteotti’s analysis, was accompanied by precise indications of the financial organization and of the more or less illegal business dealings he referred to, so as to make one believe that he was in possession of related documents.14

There were only a few fascist newspapers with large circulations which Matteotti could have alluded to: Il Popolo d’Italia and Corriere Italiano, which obtained financing through questionable business deals. Matteotti’s article most probably alluded to these two newspapers. Another telling note on the connections between business and political motives was written by Epifanio Pennetta, the chief of the office of judicial police, who collaborated with the prosecutor’s office during the preliminary investigation. In a report dated June 18, Pennetta defined Naldi and Filippelli as “agents in Italy for the Sinclair Company,” and concluded that the cause of the crime was not to be sought “in political reasons alone, but in the need to silence Mr. Matteotti who was determined to stir up a scandal against financial groups in their relations with politicians.” At the beginning of September, the investigators asked Pennetta to lift the secrecy with which he had ended his June 18 report, and Pennetta replied:

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From the moment I began investigating this murder I had the impression, concerning the motive, that aside from the political motives there were other motives of a financial nature. The material perpetrators and their instigators were evidently bent on a political vendetta; others instead would take advantage of their state of mind for the defense of their personal interests. They, therefore, would have supported the criminal objective and assisted them without revealing their own aims, even pretending to help them in their political vendetta. Filippelli had no special political interests to protect; he only feared that Mr. Matteotti, with the documents in his possession, might attack his shady financial activities.

Pennetta went on to give an interesting version of the negotiations that led to the Sinclair agreement. It is well known that the Sinclair Company asked for exploitation rights of all the oil deposits in Italy. When that request was met with serious objections, Sinclair was satisfied with the regions of Sicily and Emilia, with the involvement of the Nafta company of Genoa for the coastal deposits and the Saper company for the other regions. To all appearances the two companies were in competition with the Sinclair company, while in fact they were in cahoots with Sinclair.15

The agreement would have gone as follows: while Naldi “acted openly in favor of Sinclair, at the Ministry of National Economy, Filippelli was to pretend to act in favor of Saper.” Again, according to Pennetta, “Honorable Matteotti, according to what the Honorable Priolo declared in the presence of the journalists Nino Ilari and Giorgio Cavallotti, intended to stir up a scandal in the Chamber of Deputies in relation to the oil agreement.” The rumor that Naldi and Filippelli were both agents of Sinclair Oil was confirmed in the press. Giorgio Cavallotti wrote that the two businessmen were colluding on the Sinclair deal. Ettore Gregori, a journalist for the Corriere Italiano, also reported that he had learned that “Naldi and Filippelli were on close financial terms and that they were both agents of Sinclair.”16 Pennetta’s analysis is substantially correct, but its focus on Naldi and Filippelli is misleading. Naldi was a businessman who appears as a marginal figure in the investigative acts. Filippelli was not acting on his own behalf in the Sinclair business but for the Mussolini brothers; he was essentially their lobbyist. His stature in business deals derived from his connection to

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them. In the Sinclair Oil affair, Filippelli was in effect representing Arnaldo Mussolini. Many of Matteotti’s assailants were aware that the motive for killing him was to steal important documents from him. One of the killers, Poveromo, hinted as much, although not during the 1924 investigation when, as we have seen, all members of the Ceka denied premeditation. He did so many years later, between 1935 and 1936, when he evidently felt a lack of positive attention from the regime, and several times had opened up sufficiently to disclose details about the crime he had taken part in ten years earlier. On those occasions he always said that the objective of the Matteotti kidnapping was to take documents from him.17 Later, when he was arrested by a group of partisans in the wake of the insurrection of April 25, 1945 and handed over to the police, Poveromo added further details to his account. Between May 1, 1945, the date of his arrest, and May 10, when he was questioned by a police officer, he disclosed considerable information about the Matteotti murder. While he denied his direct responsibility in the death of the Socialist deputy and continued to insist on the accidental death version, he revealed that during the days leading up to the crime Dumini had explained to them that it was necessary to kidnap Matteotti because he “was about to make a major speech to the Chamber and that it was therefore important to get the documents he had with him because they were quite embarrassing for Mussolini and the Party.”18 On July 24, 1945, when he was questioned by the magistrate running the preliminary investigation in Milan, he stated that he had learned “from Volpi of the existence of an order, though he did not know who had given it, to kidnap Mr. Matteotti and take his documents from him.”19 He further reported that on the night of June 10, after their return to Rome, Dumini had immediately left “with the bag in order to deliver it, I believe, to Marinelli and Cesare Rossi.”20 Later, during the second Matteotti trial investigation, after he had been transferred to Rome and met with his surviving accomplices Dumini and Rossi, Poveromo naturally recanted everything and fell back on the innocuous version of the accidental crime. During the few days he spent on the run after June 10, Albino Volpi also confided in a friend that one of the reasons for Matteotti’s kidnapping and murder was to take some documents from him.21 In his memoir written on June 14 Filippelli wrote that he had learned from Finzi and others that “Mussolini had received Mr. Matteotti’s

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papers and passport as proof of his disappearance.”22 And Fasciolo confirmed a few years later that on the night of June 10 Dumini had given him an envelope containing Matteotti’s papers to deliver to Mussolini, which he brought to him at his via Rasella residence. So, on the night of the murder, Mussolini was handed Matteotti’s papers. No trace of them was ever found.

Dumini’s Memoir The murder investigation only brushed upon another important figure— Arnaldo Mussolini, the Duce’s brother. He is barely mentioned in the investigative documents. Only once was his name mentioned by a witness, who said he was a behind-the-scenes actor in the Sinclair agreement. That witness was Aldo Gibelli, the administrator of the Corriere Italiano, who had confided to some acquaintances that he was aware that Matteotti had been kidnapped because it was believed he had documents on the stipulation of the Sinclair agreement that proved that bribes of conspicuous sums of money had been paid to some members of the fascist regime. Arnaldo Mussolini was one of them. Mussolini’s brother had never been mentioned in the hundreds of inferences that had abounded in the press and had been considered by investigators immediately after the crime was committed. Many years later Arnaldo’s involvement in the Sinclair affair was substantiated in Dumini’s memoir. This document was written clandestinely in 1933 and sent to two Texas lawyers who agreed to make it public if fascists ever assassinated Dumini. When Dumini was released from prison on May 26, 1926, he demanded that the regime keep its promises to him regarding his compensation. But subsequent arrests, and a sentence to internal exile (confino) where he remained until November 1932, had convinced him that Mussolini had no intention of doing so. On January 7, 1933, he wrote a memoir and smuggled it to Major Charles M. Roberts, an American client of his father Adolfo who he had met in Florence in 1928. Roberts put Dumini in touch with the law firm of Martin Arnold & Hugh L. Robertson of San Antonio, Texas, and the firm kept Dumini’s memoir in custody along with other documents which he evidently thought important to save. In July 1933, when Dumini was arrested again while organizing his umpteenth escape attempt, the regime became aware of his memoir. When

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he was questioned, Dumini decided it would be opportune to disclose that documents about the murder were in safekeeping abroad, explaining that his agreement with the Texas law firm provided for their immediate publication should he die a violent death or go missing for more than one month. Some answers to the questions raised about the motive for the crime can be found in the memoir that Dumini sent to the United States. The content of the memoir seems plausible for the simple reason that it is the only existing document in which Dumini admits that the crime was premeditated. He describes, in great detail, that he received orders from Marinelli to kill Matteotti. While this is an accusation against Mussolini and Marinelli, it is also a serious accusation against himself. Should his confession have ended up in the wrong hands, he would have suffered serious consequences as well.23 Dumini revealed that he had received the order to kill Matteotti for both political and business reasons. Matteotti represented “the real and only serious opponent to fascism gaining complete power.” Further on, he states that the fascists were certain that Matteotti’s imminent parliamentary offensive against the Mussolini government would be based “as much on financial policy as on the scandals that had surfaced and then died down over the oil business.” Regarding the need to kill Matteotti, Dumini wrote that Marinelli had always linked it to “the threat of the oil dossier which they feared would be presented in Parliament.” Dumini explained that the conviction that Matteotti should be eliminated was strengthened by the rumor that Matteotti had come into possession of “proof of certain foul-smelling, low profligacy which involved a certain deal linked to oil, the stock exchange, and foreign currency; it even appeared that the brother of the head of the government was implicated in these dealings.”24 Dumini therefore accused Arnaldo Mussolini. Dumini’s testament can be considered a reliable source given that he moved within the inner circles of fascist power. As soon as Mussolini was certain that Dumini had succeeded in protecting his version of the Matteotti murder in a safe overseas location, his treatment of Dumini changed immediately. He stopped persecuting him, he set him up in Libya, and he allowed him to accumulate considerable wealth through illegal business activities and speculation. This is described in detail in the chapter dealing with the assassins during the ventennio.

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Notes 1. De Felice, Mussolini il fascista. La conquista del potere 1921–1925, pp. 660–661. 2. See Amerigo Dumini, Diciassette colpi (Milan: Longanesi, 1958), 70. 3. AS Roma, Documenti, vol. III, p. 17 and p. 100 of Dumini’s memoir in ACS, Confinati politici, b. 377, fasc. Dumini A. The telegram began with: “Dear Cesarino, I received your telegram this morning and I will do as requested. I will make Putato available to you, as you may be in need of him.” 4. See the interrogation of Putato of 21 October in AS Roma, Interrogatori, 74. 5. ACS, PS, 1924, b. 47, telegram n. 1358 of 14 June 1924. 6. AS Roma, Esami, vol. III, 202, deposition of Egidia Bosisio of 11 October 1924. See also the preliminary sentence of 1 December 1925  in ACS, Minculpop, b. 158, p. 15. 7. The telegram is in AS Roma, Documenti allegati agli atti processuali, vol. I, p. 41. 8. See Meoni’s deposition of 4 July 1924, in AS Roma, Esami, vol. I, 226–231. Meoni’s statements were confirmed by Mazzoli in a discussion that took place between the two on 5 August 1924; see in ibid., Confronti, pp. 21–24. 9. See p. 182 of the sentence of the 1947 Matteotti trial. 10. See the deposition of Laino, who stated he was ready to exhibit the telegrams that were sent without question, on Dumini’s insistence, to Poggioreale, in AS Roma, Esami, vol. I, pp. 334–335. Laino told investigators that Thierschald was “an agent of the Fascist Party, in linea riservata.” The text of the telegram is in Marinelli at pp.  455–456 of the sentence of the second Matteotti trial of 1947. 11. See ACS, Polizia politica, Serie B, b. 28. 12. Ibid., see especially the letter dated January 10, 1925, with the very explicit statement from Adolfo Dumini to Giovanni Vaselli. 13. Investigators spent a lot of time attempting to verify whether Matteotti was carrying a leather bag when he was kidnapped. All the statements of friends, associates and collaborators agree on one point—that at that time Matteotti did not use a leather briefcase. He kept all the documents he was using to prepare his speech on the budget in a large folder of heavy paper with the letterhead of the Chamber of Deputies. Velia told the investigators that her husband “that day, as always, carried an unopened folder made of heavy white paper with the Chamber of Deputies seal on it, where he carried the notes and documents he needed for his work at the Chamber.” So, there was no bag, although this does not change the substance of the matter. The paper folder and the documents it contained

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were never found, either at the site of the kidnapping or among the papers seized from Matteotti’s assailants. This continues to be an argument in favor of those who maintain that the explanation for his murder must be sought in those papers. 14. ACS, CPC, b. 3157, fasc. Matteotti G. The italics is my own. 15. AS Roma, Atti generici, vol. V, pp. 7–12. 16. Ibid., Esami, vol. III, p. 25. 17. See especially the note dated 28 June 1936, in ACS, Polizia politica, Fascicoli personali, b. 1102, fasc. Poveromo A. 18. Sentence of the 1947 Matteotti trial, p. 188. 19. Ibid., 197. 20. Ibid., 194. 21. See AS Roma, Esami, vol. III, p. 399, deposition of Giulio Ceroli dated 25 July 1924. 22. Rossini, Il delitto Matteotti tra il Viminale e l’Aventino, 929. 23. See Il Ponte, XLII, n. 2, March–April 1986, pp. 76–93. 24. Ibid., 82, the italics is my own.

PART IV

Mussolini’s Defenders

CHAPTER 9

Mussolini’s Great Defender: Carlo Silvestri

Carlo Silvestri had been an important figure during the 1924–1925 Matteotti investigation. He was an editor at Corriere della Sera, but a few days after the Matteotti murder he transferred to the Popolo, the Catholic newspaper directed by Giuseppe Donati. During the first investigation, the Donati-Silvestri duo led the entire press campaign for the popular anti-­ Mussolini newspaper. Silvestri had also been an important witness for the prosecution. He had informed investigators and the opposition press of the contents of Aldo Finzi’s memoir and the admissions Finzi made to him after his resignation. Silvestri’s depositions to prosecutors on September 29–30, 1924, implicitly indicated Mussolini as the instigator of the crime. At the second trial in 1947 Silvestri explained that he had seriously reevaluated his thoughts regarding Mussolini’s responsibility for the Matteotti murder. After being certain in 1924 and early 1925, when he was one of Mussolini’s most resolute accusers, he began having doubts after two conversations with Italo Balbo and Aldo Finzi. In June 1925, Balbo had confided to him that around June 7 he and Mussolini had examined the possibility of disbanding the MVSN, in the nearly imminent prospect of forming “a ‘great government’ with several socialist ministers.”1 Silvestri’s convictions were further shaken by a conversation he had with Finzi at the end of April 1926. The former Undersecretary of the

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2024 M. Canali, The Matteotti Murder and Mussolini, Italian and Italian American Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-41471-8_9

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Interior confessed to him that his sudden and clamorous reconsideration to not make his memoir public had not been provoked by fear or threats, as was thought at the time. Rather, on closer inspection he became convinced that the information he had received, and which had been the basis of his accusation against Mussolini, had proven to be unreliable. Finzi reported to Silvestri that, at the time, Mussolini was even considering speaking directly with Matteotti “so that he would not prevent the formation of a government in close collaboration with the General Confederation of Labor.”2 In 1943 Silvestri was granted a long series of interviews with Mussolini, and even at the first of his many meetings, on December 6, 1943, he claimed he already had serious doubts about Mussolini’s direct responsibility in the Matteotti murder. A later interview that Silvestri had with Umberto Poggi (who in 1924 had been secretary general of the Italian Federation of Seafarers) which took place between 1945 and 1946 before the second Matteotti trial, was no less decisive in changing his original convictions. There were four stages in Silvestri’s conversion: Balbo, Finzi, the talks with Mussolini, and finally Poggi. Balbo and Finzi spoke of Mussolini’s willingness to open his government to collaboration with the socialists. Mussolini subsequently confirmed these intentions in person. Poggi expressed his own personal doubts about Mussolini’s guilt; doubts that, in his eyes, were based on objective evidence. During the second Matteotti trial, in the climate of the post-war period, Silvestri was the first to contend that Mussolini’s June 7 speech was, in effect, an invitation to the socialists to collaborate with the fascist government—a first step that would have soon led to a complete reshuffling of the Mussolini government. Silvestri’s affirmations—based on what Mussolini told him during numerous meetings between the two men from December 6, 1943, until the eve of the insurrection of April 25, 1945—were not given much credence at the time. They were not embraced either by the public prosecutor’s office or by the court magistrates. But they continued to circulate and, despite not having been confirmed by subsequent historiographical research, they are back in vogue again. In the current climate of historiographical “revisionism,” the theory serves admirably in confounding the pursuit to establish who was responsible for the crime. All subsequent historiographic and journalistic interpretations of a “revisionist” nature regarding the political decisions that Mussolini may

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have considered in the weeks preceding Matteotti’s murder are based on Silvestri’s 1947 deposition. Since then, no meaningful knowledge has been added. Before looking more deeply into the substance of Silvestri’s claims, it is important to point out that all the affirmations that support his position were made by fascists or pro-fascists, and by people who had deeply entangled relationships with the regime, including Silvestri himself. What’s more, Finzi and Balbo, two members of the upper echelons of the regime, were dead and therefore unable to counter Silvestri. And lastly Poggi’s testimony, as we shall see, contains serious inaccuracies. Regarding Balbo’s statements about discussions to disband the MVSN with Mussolini, it should be noted that both before and after the murder Mussolini repeatedly mentioned the militia, and always insisted that the organization was not to be touched. In his last speech before the murder, on June 7, Mussolini praised the MVSN as “absolutely superb and admirable,” and concluded by addressing the opposition, “What shall we do with the militia? We will not disband it: get that into your heads!”3 In the case of Finzi’s remarks to Silvestri about Mussolini’s intentions to reach out to the socialists, they were made by a man who still hoped he could be accepted back into the political arena. If we are to believe Silvestri’s dates, Finzi spoke with him approximately a month after the Chieti trial, when Mussolini was again in complete control of the PNF. How is it possible to believe what Finzi said to Silvestri, when back in June 1924, with Mussolini at his weakest, he had not had the courage to defend the statements he had written in his memoir? What’s more, he was now a persona non grata who could only hope to make a political comeback by obtaining Mussolini’s forgiveness for his betrayal during the crisis caused by the Matteotti murder. And why confide in Silvestri, who in 1926 was still considered a tenacious opponent of the fascist regime, and still organically linked to the opposition? Perhaps it was in Finzi’s interest to make public exactly what he told Silvestri: I was the victim of a hoax, the news about the Ceka and about the responsibility for Matteotti’s crime came from a source who turned out to be untrustworthy and unreliable. Mussolini is innocent. It remains to be asked who Finzi’s “unreliable source” was, who had given him the information about Ceka activities on which he had based his memoir, since the same source had also given him the exact identity of the Ceka members who had instigated the so-called minor crimes that took place before Matteotti’s murder.

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The information from Balbo and Finzi had been enough to sow seeds of doubt in Silvestri’s mind, and they found fertile ground on which to germinate during his next five years in exile. His meetings with Mussolini did the rest. The conversation that Silvestri had with Poggi after the war confirmed to him that his long revisionist journey regarding the responsibilities of the Matteotti crime had led him in the right direction. Poggi told Silvestri that he had met Mussolini on the morning of June 11, 1924, when the news of Matteotti’s death had not yet spread. In a letter to Silvestri, Poggi recounted that he had to meet with Mussolini who had been extremely irritated by an initiative taken by Gabriele D’Annunzio. The poet had made public the text of a protest letter he had written to Spanish prime minister Primo de Rivera against the persecutory treatment of the Spanish regime towards Miguel de Unamuno, the great democratic writer, who had been forced into exile. The letter had been published by Avanti! and the newspaper had used the opportunity to launch an attack on Italian fascism. On the same day it was published, Mussolini sent an emissary to D’Annunzio in Gardone; D’Annunzio heard in time of the arriving messenger and sent Poggi in turn to Rome with a note for Mussolini. This was the background to the meeting between Poggi and Mussolini, which Poggi said took place on June 11.4 During that conversation, Mussolini lashed out at opposition leaders, who were guilty of not accepting the invitation to collaborate that he had extended in his speech of June 7. Mussolini resorted to unusually violent words: “If they want firing squads instead of collaboration—he exclaimed—they will have them, and their corpses will remain on display in Piazza Colonna as a warning.”5 This conversation convinced Poggi that Mussolini was extraneousness to the crime. How could Mussolini have so openly indulged in threats of violence, Poggi observed, if he had just carried out exactly that threat against deputy Matteotti? On the contrary, he would have made sure to control his behavior. But Poggi made a glaring mistake that turned his exoneration of Mussolini into incrimination. An examination of the contents of Poggi’s letter reveals some small but significant differences with respect to Silvestri’s statement. In his letter Poggi does not attribute Mussolini’s anger on that distant day to the opposition’s cool reaction towards his June 7 advances, but Silvestri suggested as much in his testimony. The letter contains no mention of

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invitations to cooperate with the socialists that were rejected. But for Silvestri, who by now was obsessed with his theory, everything was useful in his mission to blame Mussolini’s hostile attitude towards the opposition on the socialists’ lack of collaboration. Poggi actually linked Mussolini’s anger during their meeting to D’Annunzio’s condemnation of Primo de Rivera’s regime. What’s more, Poggi’s letter does not say that in his outburst Mussolini had said, “instead of collaboration.” But when Silvestri testified to the judges he stated exactly that, completely distorting the meaning of Mussolini’s words. It therefore appears that during his deposition Silvestri imprecisely adjusted Poggi’s recollections to corroborate his assertions about Mussolini’s openness towards the socialists. Poggi did confirm in his letter, however, the opinion he had expressed verbally to Silvestri—that Mussolini’s angry and violent behavior on June 11 was clear proof of his extraneousness to the crime. There are serious doubts about the truthfulness of Poggi’s testimony, starting with the date of the Poggi-Mussolini meeting, which Poggi said took place on June 11, 1924. Documentary evidence proves that Poggi’s memory was faulty—the meeting never took place. His name does not appear in Mussolini’s schedule of meetings either on the 11th or any day before or after June 11. Poggi claimed to have been received by Mussolini between 10:00 a.m. and 11:00 a.m. of June 11, 1924, but the first to be received on the morning of June 11, 1924, at 10:45 a.m., was Teruzzi. No other names appear before his.6 Poggi’s name appears in the schedule only on March 11 at 7 p.m. Poggi himself provides proof of this when he explained he had to meet with Mussolini to discuss D’Annunzio’s letter to Primo de Rivera which had been published in Avanti! Since D’Annunzio’s letter actually appeared on the front page of the socialist newspaper in the Sunday-Monday March 9–10 issue,7 clearly Poggi’s memory played tricks on him when he remembered June 11 as the date for a meeting that actually took place on March 11. It is thus clear that Poggi’s entire thesis is based on faulty memory. Mussolini was innocent not because he did not try to hide his animosity towards the opposition, but only because on March 11 he had nothing to hide. The disturbing testimony of his explosive invectives against the opposition remains valid. But since the exact date of the Poggi-Mussolini meeting was March 11, Silvestri’s comments on Mussolini’s references to the opposition refusing to accept his June 7 advances are totally impossible. Silvestri’s interpretation of Poggi’s testimony brings to light disturbing aspects of his character. All he needed was an indication of an apparent

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contradiction in Mussolini’s behavior that tended to exonerate him, and Silvestri embraced it as fact without bothering to check its veracity. His bias was so strong towards the Poggi evidence, that it should have sufficed to cast doubt on all his depositions in February 1947. Another unsettling aspect of his personality was the ease with which he manipulated statements to adapt them to his pre-established interpretative framework. Silvestri’s misinterpretation of Poggi’s letter underscores how he twisted its content, finding in it what it did not contain.

Silvestri’s Conversion to Fascism Who, then, was Silvestri? Obviously, we are not alluding to the Silvestri of 1924, but rather to a shadow of that man who, at the end of 1943 and after a long silence on the margins of politics, made his appearance on the national political scene in a role of no lesser importance. He was a man who had changed deeply after five years of internal exile, from November 1926 to April 1932. Like many other former opponents of fascism, Mussolini’s imperialistic foreign policy and, above all, the corporatist utopias of his regime in 1931 and 1932, had won them over and led them to completely reassess their overall view of fascism.8 Towards the end of his time in internal exile Silvestri was already rekindling relationships with some of his old friends who had long begun collaborating with fascism. He corresponded with Rinaldo Rigola and Giovanni Battista Maglione, the former leaders of the socialist trade unions, who now directed the pro-fascist magazine Problemi del Lavoro. Fascinated by the corporatist ideology proposed by the regime, he had taken an active part in the 1933–1934 attempt by the former socialist mayor of Milan, Caldara, to devise a way to support the regime, albeit limited to the publication of a periodical which published contributions by some old but not forgotten leaders of the workers’ movement. The effort was encouraged by Mussolini, who saw it as functional to his maneuver to reduce the wages of workers in Italian industries, where the effects of the economic crisis were being felt. But it was the eve of the Abyssinian campaign; Mussolini was distracted by more pressing foreign policy problems and ended up dropping the project. A shrewder man would have undoubtedly seen the failure of the project as a lesson in how little Mussolini valued meeting with the socialists, even such a modest group composed of a few idealists who had been completely tamed by repression and by the diffused and visible consensus

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surrounding fascism. But not Silvestri. He was now attached to Mussolini’s wagon, and he believed the improvised explanation that Mussolini gave him years later when they first met on December 6, 1943, when Mussolini attributed responsibility for the operation’s failure to Farinacci, who had spoken out against the recovery maneuver of Silvestri and the former socialists. As if in 1934 Farinacci could still impose his opinions and his ukase, as he had sometimes done when he headed the Fascist Party in 1925–1926. During the crisis that ensued between Italy and the League of Nations after the fascist conquest of Ethiopia, Silvestri, the committed Mussolinian, wrote a long letter to English and French foreign policy makers in which it is clear that the old opponent, the intransigent anti-fascist of ten years earlier, now interpreted political events as any pro-regime commentator. By 1935, little of his anti-fascism remained. In June 1938 he requested a meeting with Mussolini and concluded his request with a hymn to the fascist leader. “You, Mussolini,” he wrote, “are the Italy of the present and the future, because the new generations will not disappoint your (and my) wonderful expectations. (...) I am a soldier who obeys.”9 It is not surprising, then, that in March 1940 he applied for a membership card in the Fascist Party. But he was refused. Even though he considered himself a fascist, the regime evidently still distrusted him. So much so that at the beginning of the war he was interned with others considered internal enemies of the country. His internment lasted from July 1940 to January 1941. He was freed thanks to Luigi Veratti, a former socialist, Mussolini’s personal doctor since 1913, deputy mayor of Milan at the time of the Caldara council, and one of those who in 1933–1934 attempted to secure a meeting between socialist veterans and the regime. Veratti wrote to Mussolini in support of Silvestri’s release from internment that, it was time “for Carlo Silvestri’s political position to be reviewed and corrected and that his true and sincere beliefs be recognized, which can objectively be defined as Mussolinian.”10 Later, Silvestri began correspondences with Italian soldiers stationed on the Russian front, in which he mixed ideology and propaganda with patriotic themes in humanistic and idealistic prose. His anti-Sovietism drove him to exalt Nazi Germany, a sentiment that was not even tarnished by the unpleasant episode of his arrest by the SS, when he also ran the risk of deportation to Germany. He was naturally in favor of the constitution of the Italian Social Republic (RSI) because he saw the long-awaited realization of economic and social corporatism in its political platform.

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Regarding the responsibility for the Matteotti murder, two documents demonstrate how Silvestri, even before meeting Mussolini, had already fully elaborated his version—that the crime had been ordered by corrupt financial and business circles to prevent the feared convergence between socialists and Mussolini. In July 1943, a few days after Mussolini’s arrest, he had sent a letter to the editors of the Corriere della Sera reminding them that the task of journalists in that phase of the country’s life was to “prevent that the new reality resulting from the King and Badoglio’s proclamation not be exploited for reactionary purposes and used to safeguard the powerful interests that have supported fascism and have been supported by fascism, those same unscrupulous interests that wanted the tragedy of 1924.”11 He also sent a long memorandum to Mussolini at Rocca delle Caminate on October 3, 1943, two months before the two met. Silvestri wrote, In this sense the crime of June 1924 was fatal and could now be considered to have been carried out in order to create havoc between Mussolini and the socialist political and trade union movement, to create an irreparable fracture. In fact, that is what happened, to the great satisfaction of the Confindustria, of high finance, and of the wealthy bourgeoisie.12

So Silvestri had already elaborated his theory on the Matteotti murder when the RSI was constituted. The two documents are very important because on the one hand they prove conclusively that when Silvestri went to the villa of the Orsolines at Gargnano on December 6 he had already formulated his own version of the Matteotti crime, the version that he then brought before the judges in the second trial. They also prove above all that Silvestri had informed Mussolini, who was therefore aware of what he should say regarding his responsibility in the murder when Silvestri interviewed him. In the end it was an easy game for Mussolini to win Silvestri over to the version he suggested to him. It is clear that Silvestri’s version did not take shape from what Mussolini revealed to him in later conversations, but was conceived earlier and was the fruit of his conversion to fascism. When Silvestri went to the first of his meetings with Mussolini on December 6, 1943, his about-face towards fascism, which had progressively evolved over the course of the previous decade, was by now complete. He increasingly surrendered to the person and politics of Mussolini, towards whom he would end up nurturing near idolatry.

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Silvestri and Mussolini Silvestri and Mussolini met close to 50 times. In Silvestri’s papers of their meetings only two of them, the second and the seventh, contain explicit references to the Matteotti murder. The eighth probably also dealt almost entirely with it; unfortunately, Silvestri’s stenographic notes were destroyed and the content of that meeting is not included in his papers. What did Mussolini say to Silvestri about the Matteotti murder? At the second meeting on December 7, he declared that the Matteotti murder had not been committed by him, but against him. He then added that the purpose of Matteotti’s suppression had been to drive a wedge between him and the socialists towards whom he intended to propose a collaborative role in his government. The list of opposition politicians whose partnership he intended to seek was ready in his drawer. His June 7 speech was the preliminary move in this operation. According to Mussolini, the desire for a convergence with the socialists would have alarmed the crooked environment “of equivocal finance, of corrupt and corrupting capitalism, devoid of any scrutiny, of murky business dealings,” in which “every time the news of a possible collaboration between me and the socialists began to circulate again, there was an immediate reaction that I would call ferocious.” According to him the decision to kill Matteotti had matured in this environment, strengthened by rumors that had begun to circulate “that in his next speech to the Chamber, Matteotti would produce documents that would bring ruin to some men who had managed to infiltrate deeply into fascist leadership circles.”13 Silvestri told the judges that to confirm what he was telling him, Mussolini had showed him documents dating back, according to him, to 1924. The list of ministries that Mussolini was about to offer to members of the opposition in June 1924 was among these documents. Incidentally, these documents were not found in the Gargnano archives abandoned by Mussolini when he moved to Milan a few days before the uprising of April 25, nor were they among the documents he was carrying when he was arrested by the partisans. During this conversation Mussolini is said to have told Silvestri that he had told Nicola Bombacci and the young prefect Luigi Gatti to investigate along these lines—a sort of supplementary Matteotti investigation, 20 years later. Silvestri reported that he later spoke with Bombacci and Gatti and received general assurances that the evidence gathered up to that time

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amply confirmed that the mandate to kill Matteotti had come from the business world. Gatti kept the documents they collected in a dossier, but Silvestri was never allowed to view its contents. The only information that they shared with Silvestri was already known and, moreover, had been carefully examined during the 1924 investigation: that is, that Filippelli had not been unaware of the dealings between the business community and the perpetrators.”14 Even assuming that Filippelli was the intermediary between the mandators and the perpetrators, why was he never confronted for the Matteotti murder? The regime had him under its control for many years and could have done so. Why should conflict have emerged between Filippelli and the regime whenever he brought up the incident of which he was a protagonist? From the end of the 1920s and throughout the 1930s, Filippelli was a docile tool in the hands of the political police, a man completely adrift who was at the mercy of the fascist regime. Authorities would have had no difficulty getting him to divulge the circumstances of the crime. Could such a person have refused to reveal, even confidentially, from whom he had received the order to kill Matteotti, an order which was then passed on to the material executors? According to Silvestri, it was Marinelli who plotted the crime, aware that he was doing damage to Mussolini and working in the interests of the never-clearly-defined murky and corrupt business community. He was convinced that Marinelli had been the link between the notorious business circles and the perpetrators, the one who had ordered Matteotti’s assassination at the expense of Mussolini. Marinelli “was completely subservient to these people, he was dominated, he was controlled,” which is why he feared “those who had him in their hands and could threaten him more than Mussolini could.”15 Silvestri also told the judges that Mussolini had confirmed the existence of a letter that Marinelli wrote from the Verona prison where he was waiting to be executed after being condemned as a traitor by the Special Tribunal of the RSI. In it, Marinelli was said to have taken full responsibility for organizing Matteotti’s murder and to have exonerated Cesare Rossi of the charge. But believing that he could possibly save his life, Marinelli was probably willing to write anything. Silvestri, however, faced a simple but fundamental objection from the president of the jury, who pointed out that the plot he suggested was unlikely if one considered that as soon as he was acquitted in the preliminary investigation on December 1, 1925, Mussolini promptly restored

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Marinelli’s standing and reinstated him as administrative secretary of the PNF. What’s more, if Mussolini had really been convinced of Marinelli’s betrayal, not only would he have refused to rehabilitate him, but, on the contrary, he would have persecuted him as he had done so well to other adversaries. Silvestri tried to object that at that time Mussolini was a “prisoner” of Farinacci, who had been called to the secretariat of the PNF a few months before and had to yield to the latter’s insistence on saving Marinelli. According to Silvestri’s version, Farinacci had convinced Mussolini that Marinelli could not be harmed “because then the responsibility for the crime would be attributed to the party.” This version does not stand up to a closer examination of the facts. It is important to remember that it was Farinacci himself, as Dumini’s defense lawyer, who felt it was politically necessary for the PNF to take full responsibility for the crime, completely in contrast with Mussolini. Indeed, it was Farinacci’s failure to comply with Mussolini’s directive to not turn the Chieti trial into a political trial which had prompted Mussolini to remove Farinacci from the PNF secretariat. In 1944, on the other hand, Mussolini gave Silvestri an entirely different story. He said that Farinacci, anxious to keep the PNF out of the Matteotti judicial affair, had prevented Mussolini from removing Marinelli even though he was convinced of his guilt, indeed of his treason. But the contradictions in the Silvestri-Mussolini thesis do not stop here. Their position does not account for the events in Marinelli’s career after 1926. It does not explain how he was elected to the Chamber of Deputies in 1929, when Farinacci no longer counted for much and in fact had been completely marginalized from fascist activities and lived in relative political isolation. Nor does it explain why Mussolini appointed him undersecretary of communications in November 1929, a position he held until 1943. This was certainly a peculiar way of punishing the man who, according to Silvestri, had deliberately betrayed him by obstructing his initiatives towards the socialists; a strategy which, according to Mussolini, would have changed the course of the 20-year fascist era. Mussolini’s generous treatment of Marinelli would have sufficed to invalidate his version that Marinelli was responsible for the crime. The complicity Mussolini showed towards Marinelli throughout his 20 years in power proves the opposite. But that is the explanation that Mussolini gave to Silvestri. As we can see, it fully supports the proposition that the crime had political and business origins, and later was embraced among the supporters of Mussolini’s innocence.

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On December 6, 1943, the Silvestri who met with Mussolini—who was perfectly informed of the political parabola of his old Aventine opponent—was the ideal interlocutor with whom to reopen the discussion of his old and more recent responsibilities, a reopening that clearly shows his opportunism in relation to the events in progress. What was Mussolini looking for in Silvestri? To answer this question, it is first necessary to understand the reasons that prompted him to reopen a tormented, 20-year chapter in history when there were many other urgent matters pressing upon him. It seems frankly strange that Mussolini had waited all those years to try to unravel the tangled skein of the Matteotti murder. Should he really have wanted to identify the instigators of the crime, he had the power and means in his hands during the 20-year fascist period to do so, considering that there had never been any doubt about the identity of the perpetrators. The inconsistency in Silvestri’s version becomes even more evident when one considers the structure of the police force that Bocchini headed in the 1930s. The political police and OVRA would have been able to carry out a much more effective investigation than an earnest amateur like Bombacci. These kinds of objections were naturally posed to Silvestri, who had a certain amount of difficulty addressing them. Silvestri ventured, Perhaps there is a trail, perhaps it is the Sinclair Oil Company. Perhaps the contours of those assertions (referred to by a couple of witnesses) about the shady business environment from which the crime originated can be clarified. In essence, perhaps the curtain was raised for a moment, allowing the investigation to be rekindled.16

The decision to make Bombacci responsible for the late investigative operation left little chance of success. If the mandate to kill Matteotti had actually originated in capitalist and financial circles, how would Bombacci have been able to penetrate their secretive spheres? He was an ex-­ communist, a man who supported the need for massive injections of corporatism and state socialism within the fascist regime, so it is not difficult to imagine that the bourgeois and entrepreneurs felt deep distrust towards him. How could he have investigated and obtained cooperation and revelations from members and bodies of the financial milieu? No one in the upper ranks was less suitable for such a task, while, on the other hand,

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there was no person more suitable for winning Silvestri’s trust given their common view of the destiny of the new Socialist Republic. At the end of 1943 Mussolini could certainly not have had grand illusions about the final outcome of the war. The military battle was firmly in the hands of the Anglo-Americans. Mussolini had returned to the political scene almost as Hitler’s prisoner; it was Hitler who had imposed the terms of the RSI constitution, making it completely subordinate to the German war strategy. Mussolini was aware that to hope for sympathetic treatment from the future victors he would have to seem a prisoner who had tried to operate within the limits imposed by the German occupiers, so as not to make his country pay an atrocious price. He needed witnesses in the anti-fascist camp who could later testify that he had not been an Italian Quisling. Precisely for this purpose, he tactically implemented a policy of “rescuing” apparent anti-fascists by snatching them from the hands of the Germans. He was not unaware of the links that the former editor of the Corriere della Sera maintained with some sectors of socialist anti-fascism, who were willing to consider a compromise with the RSI to avoid the disaster of a fratricidal war. And he was well aware that Silvestri’s move was inspired by moderate republican fascists, like Piero Pisenti who had initially acted as an intermediary between Silvestri and Mussolini, and who supported national pacification through a convergence of fascism and non-­communist anti-fascism in defense of the homeland. In this prospect, it is clear what he had in mind by agreeing to speak with Silvestri, and to meet with him as many as 50 times. On November 1, 1943 Mussolini informed his secretary that he did not yet want to meet with Silvestri. He ordered Dolfin to wait for Silvestri to make another request before responding to him. The request arrived punctually at the end of November, and on December 6 a very excited Silvestri crossed the threshold of the Villa delle Orsoline to meet with the leader of the Fascist Party. On December 6, therefore, the seasoned politician—a perceptive observer of men and their weaknesses who had built much of his power on this prowess—and the neurotic, unbalanced, slightly megalomaniac journalist convinced that he could play a decisive role in the destiny of the country, sat face-to-face. Senise, who knew him very well, had told Rafaele Guariglia about Silvestri that, “From conversations that, at his request, I have had with him a few times, I believe that he is not completely sane.”17 When he received Silvestri, Mussolini had already seen all the political

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police files, among them Silvestri’s, which included Senise’s opinion quoted above. He therefore knew the character weaknesses of the man he was about to speak with very well. It is clear, therefore, that a person like Silvestri was almost custom made to fill the ambitious role of intermediary that Mussolini had him play, for better or worse. Mussolini knew he would have to clarify his position regarding his past responsibilities for the Matteotti murder, but he was also in possession of the version provided by Silvestri which completely met this need. It was inevitable that Silvestri would be open to absorbing, without question, whatever Mussolini fed to him about his non-involvement in the Matteotti murder.

The June 7 Speech Carlo Silvestri formulated the thesis that Mussolini intended to collaborate with the opposition. Others, for example De Felice, followed. They range from those who still maintain that Mussolini was willing to seek collaboration with individual members of the opposition and leaders of the trade unions, to those who maintain that in June 1924, a few days before the Matteotti murder, Mussolini had identified opposition members to whom he intended to offer positions in his government. It is true that there were faint hints of openness to the moderate sectors of the trade unions in November 1922 and June-July 1923, which however never went beyond generic declarations of intent. Both attempts were limited to a few informal contacts that concluded with veiled promises from Mussolini and cautious willingness expressed personally by Gino Baldesi and Emilio Colombino, trade union leaders. When it came to moving from expressions of goodwill to facts, nothing ever happened. From that time until June 1924 the subject of collaborationism disappeared entirely from political debate. It was no longer discussed. Of course, it was well known that Matteotti would always strongly oppose the project, and while it is also true that Baldesi and his comrades never showed the courage to openly challenge the PSU secretary’s opposition, the government never showed any willingness to verify the feasibility of the project. On the contrary, during the first half of 1924 Mussolini’s previously vague proposal died out completely, while there were more and more frequent public statements by Matteotti against the collaborationists. Baldesi and the others were less and less willing to challenge their

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leader, whose intransigent position towards fascism had been strengthened by his party’s strong results in the April 1924 elections. Some scholars have theorized that Mussolini was open to a socialist alliance in order to make the government less dependent on the extremist sectors of the Fascist Party, and that his speech on June 7 could be interpreted as the last and most significant episode of this attempt. The extremists were alarmed by his receptive position towards the socialists and murdering Matteotti would have been their attempt to prevent Mussolini from establishing a more moderate government. No documents from that period have been presented in support of this opinion, which actually creates more questions than answers. It doesn’t explain, for example, what would have pushed people like Rossi and Marinelli, who never missed an opportunity to express their mutual dislike for the extremist wing of the party, to align with the extremists regarding Matteotti unless one wishes to maintain that Dumini had deceived and betrayed them all. And since this hypothesis would delay the date when the group started organizing the crime to after June 7, all the organizational phases that occurred prior to June 7, which are extensively documented, are left unexplained. The only “evidence” to support this theory are belated testimonies that emerge after World War II and Silvestri’s statements at the second trial. From the dock at the second Matteotti trial Francesco Giunta, accused of collaboration in the murder, rose to confirm the details revealed by Silvestri. Some ten years later Giunta returned to the matter and said that immediately after his speech on June 7, Mussolini had confided in him his intention of forming a government with members of the opposition, and mentioned the names of Tito Zaniboni, of Giovanni Amendola at the Ministry of Education, and Ludovico D’Aragona at the Ministry of Public Works. These important details which Giunta provided at so late a date were totally new. He had never mentioned them previously, yet he had been given the opportunity to do so on August 4, 1924, when he was interrogated during the Matteotti murder investigation, and on March 16, 1925, in his deposition before the Senate Investigation Committee. What’s more, the idea of Amendola participating in Mussolini’s government was quite unbelievable, since the deputy from Salerno had been the victim of a fascist aggression a few months earlier that had been organized by De Bono and ordered directly by Mussolini. It makes no sense that Mussolini would have thought Amendola would be willing to accept a position in his government.

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It is worth noting that Mussolini himself, on June 24, 1924, a few days after the crime, had relegated the importance of his June 7 speech to merely “it had perhaps established the terms for a possible coexistence, necessary for the regular functioning of Parliament.” Indeed, shortly before he had admitted that the aim of his speech was to “overcome the understandably somewhat static positions of the parties,” to address himself “directly the nation.” He offered no openings to the socialists, therefore, whose static positions were acknowledged. He returned to the topic in a speech on January 3, 1925, much of which was spent demonstrating his past goodwill towards the opposition. While he saw the June 7 speech as a conciliatory gesture towards them, he made no mention of concrete intentions to extend the government coalition to sectors and members of the opposition, particularly to the PSU. Since Mussolini dedicated a good part of his January 3 speech to emphasizing his extraneousness to the Matteotti crime, it appears evident that if he had actually intended to express his political will to increase cooperation with opposition groups, and his convictions were mature to the point of drafting a ministerial list, he would not have hesitated for a moment to openly express that intent during his June 7 address. Such an overture would have demonstrated his good faith towards the socialists. There have also been scholars who have attempted to give the June 7 speech more limited importance than the radical one expressed by Silvestri and his many followers. They do so, however, to reach the same conclusions—to highlight the contradictory accusations against Mussolini who, in their opinion, demonstrated goodwill when he tried to attenuate the political climate, but then gave an order a few days later to suppress the leader of those same forces towards which he had extended signs of peace. But with his speech Mussolini had not made anything more than merely verbal concessions to the opposition. There was no concrete commitment in his speech to banish violence from political life. It was clear to the socialists that the problems that existed between socialism and fascism, which Matteotti had dramatically denounced on May 30, could not be overcome by an exhibition of dialectical skill. They expected other commitments from Mussolini if they were to start trusting him. Turati himself had not hesitated to define Mussolini’s parliamentary performance as histrionic. He did not think that two experienced politicians like Rossi and Mussolini could believe, as they later wanted to make it seem by exaggerating the impact of the speech, that the conflict between the fascist government and socialists could be resolved by a fiery speech, regardless of

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how skillful it was. The degree of ambiguity and instrumentality in Mussolini’s June 7 address can only be fully understood by also looking at how, at the same time, he used the press as a hostile instrument against Matteotti. In the ten days preceding the murder, Mussolini personally orchestrated a frenzied press campaign against Matteotti from the columns of his own and fascist-leaning newspapers. It began with an anonymous opinion piece in the Popolo d’Italia on May 31 (which was written by Mussolini) entitled “Krilenko Matteotti” full of scathing words against the socialist deputy. Mussolini struck the same note the following day when he had another anonymous editorial published, again in his newspaper, entitled “Sobrero,” in which, taking his cue from the venomous attack against the journalist of La Stampa, it emphasized that Matteotti’s “monstrously provocative” intervention of May 30 “would have deserved something more tangible than the epithet masnada hurled by Mr. Giunta.” Today we also know that on June 1 and 2 Mussolini had convened the two Ceka leaders, Rossi and Marinelli, to organize an effective response to Matteotti’s parliamentary offensive. In that meeting they planned a fascist demonstration to be held in front of Parliament. The demonstration was preceded by a press campaign launched by a telegram from Rossi to his allies in the press that mainly focused on Matteotti’s speech. Rossi hinted that the opposition forces had a plan aimed at provoking “legitimate reactions” from the fascist regime to “justify” their subsequent abandonment of the Chamber, and that Matteotti’s speech was their opening salvo. It concluded, threateningly, that the opposition’s intentions, “particularly the so-called constitutional opposition and the other unitary oppositions,” were destined to fail “because of the inevitable and painful reaction that the regime will unleash, at the right time, without any reservations whatsoever.” This was followed by a violent demonstration in the streets during which socialist deputies were hunted down. Not only, therefore, were we a long way from any hint by Mussolini that he was willing to normalize relations between majority and opposition. Mussolini indicated, on the contrary, that the socialists were adversaries to resolutely fight against. After the brief and aggressive altercation between Matteotti and Mussolini in the Chamber of Deputies on June 4 regarding the fascist leader’s past positions on amnesty for deserters that had been ruled on in 1919 by the Nitti government, Rossi seized the opportunity to initiate yet another move against Matteotti. Michele Darbesio, who had been prefect

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of Rovigo, reminded Rossi of Matteotti’s clamorous mishap at the Rovigo provincial council of 1916. Rossi saw the possibility of renewing old anti-­ Italian accusations against him, and asked Darbesio for “the minutes of the meeting and the outcome of the resulting criminal trial.” He evidently intended to use that questionable episode in Matteotti’s political life against him. Mussolini’s cohorts obviously had no intention of toning down attacks against the secretary of the PSU. On June 11 the Corriere Italiano also published an article entitled “Il sale inglese dell’on. Matteotti” (“The English Salt of Mr. Matteotti).” The text had been drafted on Friday the 6th or Saturday the 7th by Mussolini’s press office—the day before, or even the evening of, Mussolini’s so-called conciliatory speech to the socialists. At the beginning of June, the English newspaper The Statist published an optimistic account of Italy’s economic and financial prospects; Matteotti contested the correspondent’s conclusions in a long letter, published on June 7 in the same paper under the title “Italian Finances and Fascism.” Filippelli’s paper reproduced a short passage from the response, accusing Matteotti of tarnishing the image Italy and fascism abroad. Finally, it is worth noting the disturbing article entitled “Matteotti” which appeared on June 8 in Grande Italia, the daily published by Albino Volpi’s fascist arditi. The article loudly echoed the epithet masnada that Giunta repeatedly yelled at the opposition on the day of Matteotti’s speech and concluded that “Matteotti is a molecule of this masnada, which will soon be swept away by a final breath of common sense and a strong move by the Duce.” Instead of demonstrating receptivity towards the opposition and some sectors of Matteotti’s party, as posited by those who maintain that Mussolini was extraneous to the socialist deputy’s murder, Mussolini actually delivered a crescendo of attacks against Matteotti and his party.

The King and the Business Motive In 1978 the journalist Gian Carlo Fusco told how in the autumn of 1942, when he was a young officer on the North African front under the command of Ajmone di Savoia, Duke of Aosta, he involuntarily heard di Savoia disclose confidences about the Sinclair affair and the Matteotti murder to a few of his officers. The Duke of Aosta is said to have reported that when Matteotti traveled to England he had received evidence from the English Freemasons lodge ‘Unicorn and the Lion’ that Victor Emmanuel III was

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in the list of registered shareholders of Sinclair Oil, an Anglo-Persian affiliate since 1921. He had not paid a penny to become a shareholder, and in return for holdings in the company Sinclair Oil had asked the king to use his royal authority to keep the existing oil fields in Libya covered to prevent them from being exploited by Italian and foreign companies in competition with Sinclair. According to Fusco, in early June Otto Thierschald had told De Bono that Matteotti was in possession of documents that exposed the king. As a good general who felt greater loyalty to the monarchy than to fascism, De Bono had flown to San Rossore to inform the king. The two had agreed, without arousing suspicions of any kind, that the “lesson” that Mussolini had already decided to give to Matteotti should end in his tragic death, and that the documents concerning the relations between the king and Sinclair Oil should be removed from his bag before it was handed over to Mussolini. Fusco said that De Bono had bribed Dumini, who, unbeknownst to Mussolini, had followed De Bono’s directives when he carried out the crime.18 Giacomo’s second son, Matteo Matteotti, was one of the strongest supporters of this business-based version of the crime. Matteo’s contribution to research was the publication of a paper written by his father, totally unrelated to this version of the murder, which unexpectedly came into his possession in 1978. The text of the paper was already known, however, since it had already been published on June 5, 1924, a few days before Matteotti’s assassination. The paper was signed by Giacomo Matteotti— not anonymously, as Matteo claims—in the journal Echi e Commenti. In it the PSU secretary mentioned the “scandalous echo” of the decrees on gambling and oil.19 In addition to Fusco’s article, Matteo Matteotti used two other sources to develop his hypothesis: De Felice’s comments on the documents that Matteotti had with him at the time of his kidnapping and which were never found, and Silvestri’s statements at Matteotti’s trial in 1947. Since neither De Felice nor Silvestri mention any responsibilities of Victor Emmanuel III, it is evident that Matteo Matteotti’s only source for his inspiration was Fusco’s article. Fusco’s version is irresponsibly full of inaccuracies and historical falsehoods. Starting from the nationality of Sinclair Oil, which was purely an American oil company as all its financiers were American, and not, as Fusco claims, a subsidiary of the Anglo-Persian company.

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But the unreliability of Fusco’s story is demonstrated even more by his total lack of knowledge regarding the Libyan oil fields—in 1921–1924 there was no knowledge that they existed. The deposits were discovered only many decades later. From Pizzigallo’s excellent study of oil in Italy we learn, for example, that some drilling was carried out at modest depths in Libya between 1913 and 1917 but produced discouraging results. More systematic surveys carried out by the Italian geologist Ardito Desio towards the end of the 1930s gave the same negative outcome.20 It is not clear, therefore, what could have convinced Sinclair Oil or Anglo-Persian that there was oil in Libya and induce them to bribe the king to gain control of the deposits. During the long negotiations between Sinclair Oil and the fascist government the Americans never expressed interest in the Libyan subsoil, or for that matter in the Italian colonies in Africa in general. Sinclair Oil showed some interest, however, in the Albanian subsoil. After obtaining the exclusive right for exploration in Italy, it intended to immediately submit a similar request to the Italian government for oil exploration in Albania. Fusco’s theory attempts to shift the responsibility for Matteotti’s murder from Mussolini to the king, but unlike other hypotheses it gained more credence because the victim’s son, Matteo, was among its supporters. In general, historiographical revisionism in the case of the Matteotti murder has not produced new interpretations; on the contrary it has given rise to maneuvering that has nothing to do with historiographical method but is clearly aimed at the pursuit of more immediate objectives—historiography at the service of politics, to interpretations stemming from repressed or unconfessed psychological prejudices.

Notes 1. Silvestri, Matteotti Mussolini e il dramma italiano, XVII. 2. Ibid., XV. 3. Scritti e discorsi di Mussolini, vol. IV, Il 1924 (Milan: Hoepli, 1934), 159–160. 4. The original of the letter dated 21 March 1947, is in ACS, Carte Susmel, b. 8, fasc. Silvestri C. 5. Silvestri, Matteotti, Mussolini e il dramma italiano, 58–59. 6. ASMAE, Archivio di Gabinetto, GM, 42, hearing scheduled 11 June 1924. 7. See Dannunziana, in newspaper Avanti!, 9–10 March 1924.

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8. For a critical biography see G. Gabrielli, Carlo Silvestri socialista, antifascista, mussoliniano (Milan: Angeli, 1992). 9. ACS, CPC, b. 4809. 10. ACS, A5G II G.M., Internati, b. 308, fasc. Silvestri c; the letter is dated 3 gennaio 1941. The italics are my own. 11. ACS, SPD CR RSI, b. 7, fasc. Silvestri C. 12. ACS, Carte Susmel, b. 8, fasc. Silvestri C; the passage is included in the brief curriculum of Silvestri that precedes his papers, edited by Susmel. 13. ACS, Carte Susmel, b. 8, fasc. Silvestri C.; manuscript of the fifth meeting of December 10, 1943, dedicated completely to reconstructing the events of the Matteotti murder. 14. Silvestri, Matteotti Mussolini e il dramma italiano, 84. 15. Ibid., 93. 16. Ibid., 155. 17. ACS, Polizia politica, Fascicoli personali, Serie A, b. 92. 18. See G.  F. Fusco, Con Mussolini, anche il re dietro il delitto Matteotti, in newspaper Stampa Sera, 2 January 1978. 19. See Matteo Matteotti, Quei vent’anni (Milan: Rusconi, 1985), 237–244. 20. See Matteo Pizzigallo, La “politica estera” dell’Agip (1933–1940) (Milan: Giuffrè, 1992), especially pp. 73–93.

PART V

After

CHAPTER 10

During the Fascist Ventennio

In the months and years following the Matteotti murder, Mussolini put great effort into protecting the perpetrators and providing them with extensive benefits, another indication of his direct involvement in the affair. It is now possible to reconstruct the extraordinary logistical, financial, and legal assistance he provided for them. This assistance was also extended to the families of the prisoners and to the two fugitives, Panzeri and Malacria. It continued even longer for those who maintained their silence and entrusted their fate entirely to the goodwill of the regime. New documents, among those that Mussolini had with him when he fled (referred to as “the documents in the van”), help to shed light on the conspicuous flow of money that reached prisoners and fugitives, and that ultimately served to buy their silence. An examination of the expense reports distributed through the lawyer Giovanni Vaselli reveals some interesting and sometimes surprising discoveries. The prisoners, for example, were allowed to receive food from an external private restaurant, which the PNF obviously paid for. Catering services for the prisoners from July 1924 to December 1925 cost the PNF the considerable sum of 111,639 lire. A tailor who supplied the five prisoners with clothing for the period from May 1925 to February 1926 invoiced the sum of 42,000 lire. Dumini had an English vicuña suit lined with silk made for himself, while Viola opted for an English paletot, also lined with silk. The butcher Poveromo requested pajamas that were decorated with astrakhan fur. © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2024 M. Canali, The Matteotti Murder and Mussolini, Italian and Italian American Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-41471-8_10

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It was, of course, Dumini who received the best treatment; the Dumini family received 125,000 during their son’s imprisonment, while Amerigo personally received 10,000 lire. Augusto Malacria received 21,575 lire; the Panzeri family received 5000 lire while Filippo was in hiding. Albino Volpi received 14,375 lire, while Viola, Poveromo, and Putato had to be satisfied with 4174, 3575, and 2500 lire, respectively. Filippo Panzeri had taken refuge in Marseille. The fascist government had never lost contact with him, however, and through an intermediary managed to get him a monthly subsidy of 1000 lire. At the end of his time away he had received the sum of 15,000 lire from the PNF. The most neglected was of course the Austrian Thierschald who received a subsidy of 150 lire only once. In all, it appears that the Fascist Party spent 366,057 lire to ensure that the five prisoners lived in comfort. But in the end the expenses were certainly higher—when Marinelli took over from his temporary replacement, Pier Arrigo Barnaba, after being acquitted in the preliminary investigation, he found a deficit of one and a half million lire, the main item of which was the expenses for the Matteotti trial. A few episodes illustrate the role that Mussolini discreetly played, through Vaselli, to hinder the murder investigation. The first was the extradition of Malacria, who had fled to France with his girlfriend. The fascists had managed to establish contact with him to provide him with assistance. On October 3, 1924, Malacria was arrested by the French police. Upon receiving news of the arrest, the fascist regime activated a chain of assistance that led from Rome to the prison in Marseille. The aim was twofold: to let Malacria know that the regime would not abandon him and, above all, to hinder by all possible means his extradition to Italy. When he became aware of the arrest, the loyal fascist Giovanni Mariotti acted as an intermediary with the French lawyer Henri Bertrand who represented Malacria in Marseille. Mariotti acted as the go-between for both Malacria and Panzeri, “the occupied room and the empty room,” in the coded language that he used in his reports to Vaselli, alluding to prisoner and fugitive respectively. As for Panzeri, a multi-linked chain was organized to conceal the aid the fascist government was sending to Malacria. From the legal point of view, Rome assisted Malacria through two Milanese lawyers, who maintained relations with the French lawyer Bertrand. For economic assistance, Vaselli sent the money to Malacria through Mariotti. Bertrand’s legal fees were

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paid by Vaselli; Mariotti delivered them to Bertrand. Vaselli, in turn, used the private address of a lawyer in his office to receive all the correspondence from France, including the letters that the fugitive Panzeri sent him. The regime did not take long to discreetly and informally inform the French authorities that it would appreciate their rejection of the request for Malacria’s extradition to Italy. The Prosecutor’s Office in Rome had sent the request to the French judiciary as soon as it had received news of the fugitive’s arrest. The fascist government’s hopes were based on the fact that French law did not provide for extradition for political crimes. Lawyer Bertrand therefore intended to present the Matteotti murder as a political crime. The request faced difficulties, however, since, even if it had been possible to avoid extradition for the Matteotti investigation, other requests would certainly have followed because Malacria had accumulated several accusations during his turbulent life. But “since if Malacria’s extradition was denied for the Matteotti trial but was then granted for a new request, the same defendant, although extradited, could no longer be tried for the homicide charge.” The French court had thus to be convinced to not only reject the extradition request, but to reject it “as soon as possible before any new extradition requests were received.”1 It was also necessary to convince some Milanese magistrates not to issue any arrest warrants against Malacria, with relative extradition requests, before the French issued their decision regarding the request from the Rome Accusation Section relative to the Matteotti murder. After the Public Prosecutor’s Office in Marseilles had given a favorable opinion on extradition, pressure was put on the French Ministry of Justice, which had the final say on the matter. But, despite Vaselli’s immense efforts, on December 19 Malacria crossed the Italian border at Ventimiglia to join his accomplices at Regina Coeli. A few days after they entered prison, the accomplices had already obtained the ability to communicate with each other. Although consistency between the depositions given by the accused can be noticed only towards the end of July 1924 when Vaselli was appointed as Dumini’s defense lawyer and had begun managing the judicial proceedings, the prison director had in the meantime allowed contact between the prisoners by taking advantage of easy admission to the infirmary. Rossi mentions some of his meetings in the infirmary with Dumini. Outdoor time was arranged so that the defendants could be together. Putato admitted, for example, that he had

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perjured himself based on suggestions from Dumini during several meetings in the prison yard. This was an important element in the preliminary investigation. Putato, who up to then had testified to Dumini’s apparent calm and self-possessed attitude on the night of June 10, modified his testimony after Dumini suggested he declare to the judges instead that, on the contrary, on the night of June 10 Dumini had been very shaken by Matteotti’s death which he claimed was caused by hemoptysis, not by the kidnappers. Putato had made the change requested by Dumini in a memoir sent to the investigating magistrates on September 5, 1924. But this version was challenged during skillful questioning by the prosecution in a subsequent interrogation, and Putato confessed that Dumini had suggested he change his story. He confirmed his earlier statement that Dumini displayed a calm demeanor on the evening of June 10. The prison director’s complicity was total. In a letter to Vaselli on September 7, 1924, Dumini said of him, “The Director is very good, and we should be grateful for what he does for us.”2 At one point on November 26, 1924, Del Giudice was also obliged to inform the director of the prison that, with great regret he had to note that necessary precautions are not being used to prevent Amerigo Dumini and his co-defendants from communicating with each other and with the outside world.3

Counting on the complicity of the Regina Coeli prison director, Dumini used threats, intimidation, and offered favors to the custodial staff so that he and his fellow inmates had considerable freedom to operate within the prison walls. Thanks to him the others were often able to communicate with each other by exchanging letters and notes, which must have been intense since even the 1947 sentence makes explicit mention of it. It describes how the defendants wrote to each other continuously, making believe they were each other’s nephews or cousins, sometimes using code names or language (Poveromo at times signed his notes as “Nani,” Putato addressed Dumini as “dear ringleader”). They informed each other of the statements made to the investigators and the co-defendants they had seen, sent greetings to the other co-defendants and did not even hesitate to mock the investigating magistrates. Even Rossi and Marinelli, the main defendants, used Dumini when they needed to communicate with each other urgently. Marinelli once urged

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him to arrange a meeting between him and Rossi which had become necessary because of worrisome developments in the investigation.

Recompensing the Murderers During the 20 years of fascist rule, Mussolini demonstrated his indebtedness to Matteotti’s murderers and provided for them generously. After having manipulated laws so their sentences would be light and the judiciary benevolent, and ensured that they were treated well while they were incarcerated, when they were released from prison, he secured positions for them and provided ample financial assistance to them and their families. After he left prison Augusto Malacria settled in Novi, in the province of Alessandria. As soon as he was released, he wrote to the lawyer Vaselli to request benefits, but evidently received no reply. He wrote to him again a few days after Gino Lucetti’s attempted assassination on Mussolini in September 1926, offering to go to France on a mission against expatriates. He explained why he was convinced that he could still be of service to fascism: “my unquestioning faith, my calmness and perfect control of my nerves, the confidence that I can execute operations intelligently when the initiative and responsibility are left to me with no intermediaries in the way.”4 His words contain a veiled criticism of the way Dumini had managed the entire organization and execution of the Matteotti murder. But the regime obviously considered the group that had carried out Matteotti’s murder no longer operational, since Malacria’s proposal was not taken into consideration. In October he was back in Rome, where, accompanied by one of Vaselli’s associates, he repeatedly met with Marinelli to “obtain a position.” He declared himself willing to “go anywhere, even to the colonies”5 and in 1928 he was granted a transfer to Cyrenaica in Libya. Information about Malacria’s locations is hidden between the lines in documents regarding an accusation of embezzlement against him. After several postponements his hearing for embezzlement was set for June 18, 1928, but according to police documents this hearing, too, was postponed because in the meantime Malacria had been assigned as an officer to the regional commissariat of Gebel Auaghir, near Benghazi. Malacria died prematurely on March 1, 1934, but he had nevertheless managed to obtain the benefits the regime owed him, since he had become an officer in the Ministry of Colonies.6

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Giuseppe Viola returned to Milan, where, protected by the regime, he became prosperous in the construction sector. In 1928 he was president of the Impresa Milanese Costruzioni Co. through which he requested and obtained, with Bocchini’s approval, a passport for all European countries. He also obtained a concession to lease automobiles. In 1939, he co-owned the Viola Company with his brother. That same year a police informer reported that Viola, “because of the Matteotti affair, is very well protected and has already had several shady matters hushed up.”7 Amleto Poveromo resumed his activity as a butcher. Protected by the immunity the police guaranteed for him, he participated in various illegal activities, particularly smuggling processed meat. One of the audacious meat smuggling episodes he orchestrated was even reported in the Corriere della Sera.8 Poveromo let slip information about the role he played in Matteotti’s murder several times, and in public venues. When he was asked about the events of June 10, 1924, he did not hesitate to “explain in detail (...) how that painful episode took place.”9 His elaborate and embarrassing descriptions of those tragic hours made the voluntary nature of the crime evident. The regime could not let these transgressions continue. Immediately after the victory in the war against Abyssinia, Poveromo was sent to Eritrea where he was granted lucrative concessions for transportation and trade. A secret note reported that he had come to own about 200 vehicles, each of which earned him 3000–4000 lire per month.10 Some photographs show him in Africa in the classic pose of a wealthy and satisfied colonist devoted to commerce and hunting. Even in Africa, Poveromo did not stop boasting about his role in the Matteotti murder, so much so that some Italians returning from the colony had reported that “in Decamerè a certain Poveromo says publicly that he was the one who killed Matteotti and that he enjoys the esteem of His Excellency the Head of Government and of high authorities in Rome for this action.”11 This news alarmed the government in Rome which warned via police headquarters “the fellow countryman in question, residing in Decamerè,” to not spread further rumors and reckless statements that he was the murderer or he “would become undeserving of the benevolent interest shown toward him from higher powers.”12 Filippo Panzeri was acquitted for lack of evidence and continued to live in Marseilles where he enrolled in the local Fascist Party. He resumed contact with Marinelli, who had been reinstated as administrative secretary of the Fascist Party. In February 1926, in the service of Vaselli, he was on the

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trail of Cesare Rossi who had taken refuge in France.13 It is not clear what the purpose of his mission was, whether to bring the former head of the press office back to Italy or even to kill him. From the many letters he wrote to Vaselli he clearly had been assigned to follow Rossi, and it seems that he managed to contact him; it is also clear that Rossi was very suspicious and kept his address hidden from him. In May he traveled to Rome where he sent a business card to Dumini’s mother who was waiting there for her son to be released from prison. The card said, “I need to communicate with Dumini.” Dumini had the card delivered to the police commissioner of Piazza d’Armi accompanied by a comment in which he specified that, although Panzeri had been acquitted in the Matteotti trial, nevertheless “his trips to France and his stay in Marseilles are suspicious.” He concluded, “Panzeri should never come to me.” Panzeri told the commissioner that he had asked for a meeting with Dumini “on behalf of the lawyer Vaselli.”14 It is not clear what Vaselli’s intentions were or whether he sought out Dumini in connection with his surveillance of Rossi, who was known to have a relationship of absolute trust with Dumini even during his period of imprisonment. Perhaps he hoped to use Dumini to get past Rossi’s deep distrust which prevented anyone from getting near him. Following the failure of his Roman mission Panzeri fell progressively into disgrace. A rumor even circulated that he had tried to contact Matteotti’s widow. In June 1927 he was expelled from the Marseilles Fascist Party for moral unworthiness. Nothing more was heard of him for some years until he returned to Italy on August 6, 1929 and settled permanently in Milan where he was given the management of a newspaper kiosk. In March 1930 he was readmitted to the Fascist Party, but after May of that year his name no longer appears in party files. After he regained his freedom Albino Volpi intended to return to his previous role as commander of the group of Milanese fascist arditi, but the regime soon made it clear that it was in everyone’s best interest that he remain outside the milieu of Milanese fascism. When his attempt to return to the leadership of the group of dissident arditi was rejected, he found he needed to request assistance and in 1930 he wrote to Mussolini asking for help in securing work. He reminded Mussolini that, “obedient to Your Excellency’s wishes,” he had given up all political activity but that it was his fervent wish “to be able to prove once again his intangible loyalty to H. E. and to the regime.”15

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Volpi’s desires were expressed more explicitly in a letter written by his wife that accompanied his own. She asked that Volpi be given the management of the stables of the Verziere, the new Milanese slaughterhouse. That specific request was not granted, but Mussolini intervened personally so that in 1931 Volpi became manager of the service to feed livestock and provide stable assistance at the fruit and vegetable market of Porta Vittoria, which gave him an average annual income of at least 30,000 lire. In 1936 the concession had increased to include six or seven services to the market. The sub-contracts Volpi managed proved very lucrative. He had also opened a “debt collection” agency whose activities the police turned a blind eye to. He offered the merchants of the Verziere his services to recover their debts, 60-70% of which usually ended up in his pockets. Not infrequently, Volpi silenced the complaints of debtors by summoning them to the headquarters of the local fascist group and beating them up. In short, he was a real ras of Verziere, the boss of a money extortion racket. Frequent complaints about Volpi’s work often reached the ears of Mussolini, who, however, never intervened to put a stop to it. On the contrary, when Albino Volpi died in August 1939 Mussolini sent an extravagant wreath of flowers in the colors of the March on Rome, and the wreath’s ribbon was signed “Il Duce.”16 Aldo Putato returned to Milan after testifying at the Chieti trial where he retracted the statements he had made during the investigation. He wrote to Alessandro Chiavolini, Mussolini’s personal secretary, asking that a position be found for him. Chiavolini passed the matter on to Marinelli, the administrative secretary of the PNF, who wrote to Giampaoli of the Milan Fascist party ordering him to find a solution for “his friend Putato.” He obviously did; in 1929 Putato was employed in Florence. Despite this, Putato did not stop making requests and was granted other positions: in 1933 he was working as a representative for Agip, the state-owned company that imported and distributed gasoline. He had also managed to have his brother appointed as the Agip representative for half of the province of Varese. In December 1933, Putato wrote again to Chiavolini asking for representation of the remaining territory in the province of Varese. Chiavolini showed the request to Mussolini who once again did not miss the opportunity to comply with the wishes of one of Matteotti’s murderers. Chiavolini, in fact, noted in the margin of Putato’s letter: “seen by H.E.—take care of it.” He then wrote to Martelli, the president of Agip, informing him of Putato’s request, and informing him that “Your Excellency, the Head of the Government, has asked me to

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inform you of the above-mentioned request.” A few days later Martelli replied that he had given “instructions to company management in Milan to promptly consider the best way to satisfy Mr. Putato’s wish.”17 An informer’s report of 1934 states that “he is seen driving around Milan in a fancy car, and flaunting a luxurious lifestyle.18 At some point he, too, was sent to the colonies in Eritrea where he married the daughter of General Tessitore. At the beginning of the war he was appointed as federal governor of Kassala, Sudan. He was later taken prisoner by the British and was interned in the Bhopal camp in India.19 He showed up again in Milan in January 1947, but only after he was certain that the second trial investigation had concluded with his acquittal.

Dumini in Fascist Prisons Dumini was released from prison on the night of May 26, 1926, two months after the pronouncement of the Chieti sentence. The police immediately set in place security measures to prevent him from expatriating. He immediately contacted Marinelli and Vaselli and demanded that they respect the commitments made to him. He obtained a sum of 65,000 lire, as well as a monthly payment of 5000 lire, a sum that was certainly not to be snubbed but which evidently did not meet his expectations. He apparently felt he had been deceived, and continually exasperated the fascist leaders with his demands. Mussolini certainly mistrusted him and his fiery temperament and considered him capable of dangerous impulsive actions. The police were alarmed when they heard the rumor that Dumini had established contact with Rossi in France and that he planned to join him as soon as surveillance eased up on him. He knew too many secrets for the regime to allow him to leave. The first warning signal that Dumini received from Mussolini was his expulsion from the Milanese arditi group, in August 1926. The regime tried to make it appear that his removal was the result of a personal dispute between him, Volpi, and Malacria. Volpi and Malacria accused Dumini of appropriating 40,000 lire, which had been collected from friends to alleviate the prison conditions of the five accomplices while they were in jail. It was clear to Dumini, however, that his expulsion could not have taken place without the consent of the PNF. In response, Dumini notified the Rome Magistrate Court that the sum of 65,000 lire he had just received from the Fascist Party was only a small

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part of the compensation he was owed for his property that had been confiscated during his imprisonment. He listed among the non-compensated items his motorcycle, trunks and suitcases with clothes and undergarments, and objects of gold. In the notification he provocatively declared that “as an act of honesty and personal dignity” he was waiving his claim to what had been promised him by his defense lawyers during the investigation and the trial. Lastly, he sent the government’s request for payment of 32,754 lire for the costs of the trial to the administration of the Fascist Party, stating that those costs were not his responsibility.20 When the government became aware in mid-September that Dumini was negotiating with an American company for the publication of his memoir, it tightened its surveillance on him.21 Dumini was arrested again on the afternoon of September 25, 1926. He was tried on October 9 and was sentenced to 14 months and 10 days. The charges against him were two: illegal weapons possession and insulting Mussolini. It appears that, in the presence of witnesses, Dumini had stated that if he had been given seven years for Matteotti’s crime, the prime minister should have been given 30 years.22 The allusion to Mussolini was evident. Given this additional new sentence, Dumini would have had to serve the four years he had been given at the Chieti trial, but which had been pardoned, and thus should have remained in prison until September 11, 1931. However, on May 23, 1927, Bocchini informed Dumini’s mother that Mussolini had decided on “an act of clemency that would save her son from serving the part of his sentence for which he had already received a conditional pardon.” But since the foreign press had spread a rumor that Dumini had died in prison, Mussolini’s mercy would depend on Jessie Wilson making “a public protest against such false and tendentious news,”23 which she hastened to do. During the months of waiting, the regime began to support Dumini’s family financially. It gave them 10,000 lire and encouraged them to wait patiently for “the adoption of the requested measure.”24 On the morning of December 30, 1927, Dumini was released from the Viterbo prison by sovereign grace. The regime and Mussolini feared that Dumini would expatriate clandestinely, or that he might send compromising documents abroad—documents that Dumini himself had made clear were in his possession. News of his memoir had alarmed the police, who had tried to get their hands on it. Bocchini learned that on August 15 the memoir had been deposited in a safety deposit box at the Rome branch of the Banco di Napoli, and that

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the contract for the box would expire on November 15. The Dumini family tried to renew the contract but was thwarted by Bocchini. He had the bank reject the request and had the content of the box confiscated when Dumini’s mistress, Bianca Fanfani, came to collect it. Dumini knew that the political police were persecuting him not because he had publicly insulted the Duce, but because of their well-founded fear that he would reveal what he knew about Matteotti’s murder in a written memoir. He wrote this to Vaselli in a desperate letter he sent a few days after his arrest: “I understand that I am not here because of my statements against the Duce. Do not abandon me. I am willing to undergo anything. I will hand over everything, the manuscript and all copies. And the originals and photographs of the documents.”25 Mussolini quickly obtained the memoir, which narrated the history of Matteotti’s murder and proposed the well-known motive that linked it to the Bonservizi crime. But the memoir also contained some details that, if made public, could have been damaging for Mussolini and fascism.26 When he was released from the Viterbo prison, Dumini had confidential meetings with two of Mussolini’s emissaries, Guido Letta, Cabinet Secretary at the Ministry of the Interior, and Giovanni Vaselli. Letta, in particular, brought an offer of 100,000 lire from Mussolini. But the meetings did not produce the results Mussolini had hoped for. Dumini continued to reject all proposals, which tended to be single one-time payments to settle accounts between him and the fascist regime. He insisted that the regime carry the burden of compensating him adequately for his sacrifices when he had assumed full responsibility for the Matteotti crime. His mother reminded Vaselli of this at a meeting in Rome on April 18, 1928, during which Vaselli had evidently made yet another proposal to Dumini, the terms of which are unknown, but which certainly took the form of an offer of money, since Jessie Wilson deemed it “unacceptable because it was totally inadequate compensation over the course of a lifetime.”27 In May 1928 Dumini was imprisoned again for a short time. He realized that the regime was not willing to find a definitive solution to his demands, and he again looked to leave Italy. What’s more, his closest friends were exiles, Rossi especially, and they continually used diverse and indirect means to convince him to join them. In June 1928 a letter from Dumini’s mother addressed to Rossi and Bazzi, which had been mailed from England, was delivered to a printing plant in Brussels. In it she pleaded with the ex-fascist exiles to help her son escape from Italy. She asked them to provide an address where she could safely

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send other correspondence. Dumini was evidently unaware that Bazzi and Rossi, in order to put the fascist police on a false trail, had appropriated the name of the Belgian printing house which they used in their publications, but which in reality had had nothing to do with the printing of the first issue of the “Quaderni del Nuovo Paese.” The pamphlet, in fact, had been printed in Paris. Wilson’s letter, which was delivered to the printing house “14 Rue d’Or” in Brussels, ended up unbeknownst to Dumini in the hands of the Italian consul in the Belgian capital, Giovanni Giuriati. Bocchini then laid a trap for Dumini; he sent him the expected reply from Brussels containing the safe address he had asked for, as if his mother’s letter had actually reached the right hands. The address given was, of course, that of one of Bocchini’s trusted sources.28 Dumini took the bait and sent two postcards from Rimini. On the surface they were apparently harmless; he informed them that he was being “well watched over.”29 The regime had decided to grant one of Dumini’s requests and gave him a position in Somalia to dig artesian wells for a company based in Rimini. He left Naples on July 7, 1928, but not before having sent a postcard to the Belgian address in which he urged his correspondents to continue writing to his mother, who would forward their letters to him. Naturally, everything ended up on Bocchini’s desk. In the meantime, the regime continued to pay Dumini a monthly subsidy of 5000 lire. Sending him to Somalia was certainly not a punishment. Dumini was free to move around and sometimes even go to British Somalia, as he did a few times. He was, in essence, a distinguished guest of the colony. Governor Guido Corni showed interest in obtaining the concession for the embarkation and disembarkation of the port of Chisimaio for him, as well as the concession for the deforestation of the banks of the river Juba. But without any warning, on September 24, the provincial commission for internment met in Rome and sentenced Dumini to five years of internal exile. He was accused of having “relationships with exiles and specifically with Cesare Rossi.”30 He was arrested on September 29 in Chisimaio, and on October 2 he was put on a steamer which arrived in Naples on the 18th. At first the plan was to confine him at Ustica, but the location was changed because placing him with other political internees could have been risky. He was sent instead to the Tremiti Islands which housed prisoners for common crimes, where he arrived on the evening of October 31, 1928. This time, his and his mother’s repeated appeals were not enough to make the Duce reconsider his fate. All Mussolini allowed was for his

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domestic partner to join him, while subsidies continued to arrive in a discontinuous manner to him and his family. In February 1932, a request for release from the remaining period of internment was personally rejected by Mussolini. After repeated requests he was allowed to transfer to a healthier location. Mussolini himself indicated a town in Calabria, adding that the choice had to fall on a secure town that was easy to monitor— Longobucco in the province of Cosenza, Calabria. Dumini arrived there on July 10, 1932. When he realized that his new location was far from the railway station and that security had been increased, he made continuous complaints about returning to the Tremiti Islands. Mussolini finally accepted Dumini’s requests and allowed him to return there on August 1, this after Dumini had threatened to commit a crime under the jurisdiction of an ordinary court before which he would have revealed “things that have not been said so far.”31 On the tenth anniversary of the fascist revolution, Mussolini granted him amnesty and ordered his conditional release, giving him ten months’ pardon. He left the Tremiti on November 12 and arrived in Florence on November 13, 1932. Dumini immediately resumed pressing the fascist authorities with requests to immediately provide for him. He was ordered to move to Rome where he arrived on March 13, 1933. At the end of March 1933, through Mussolini’s direct intercession, Dumini received 50,000 lire and the promise of a job. But the job was slow in materializing and Dumini again began to badger the Ministry of the Interior. He asked for the concession to manage an Agip service station. At first Mussolini seemed amenable to this solution. A handwritten note by Bocchini in the margins of a report by police inspector Bellone states that he had received Mussolini’s approval to start “procedures at Agip for Dumini’s employment.” But Martelli informed Bocchini that he did not intend to hire him. When it became clear that the Agip deal would not work out, Dumini began asking for a sum of money and a monthly subsidy of 5000 lire to buy a pensione near Florence. To Bellone, who urged him to be calm, Dumini replied dryly, “It seems to me that it is about time that H.E.  Mussolini also came down from his pedestal.”32 He was arrested again on April 12, 1933, as he was about to return to Florence. Rumors circulated that he had been arrested for the disrespectful way in which he had treated government and PNF officials regarding his employment, but Bocchini and Mussolini had other concerns. The police were aware, in fact, that Dumini was concluding preparations to expatriate clandestinely.

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Dumini never abandoned the idea of leaving Italy. But his misfortune was evidently equal to his tenacity. When he returned to Florence after his exile Dumini immediately wrote a letter, dated November 28, 1932, to an American client of his father’s, Major Charles M.  Roberts, who was an ordinance officer of the Department of Defense. He asked Roberts to help him obtain an American passport in view of his possible expatriation to the United States. Roberts contacted persons at the State Department and the process was initiated successfully.33 In March 1933 the Ministry of Foreign Affairs received a note from the American Embassy in Rome stating that Dumini had applied for an American passport some time previously. This was evidently related to the application started in the United States by Major Roberts. In his passport application, Dumini had stated that he had been employed by the Ministry of the Interior in 1924. His declaration of past employment at the Ministry of the Interior worked against him. Since the American Embassy had to establish whether Dumini had had to “swear an oath of loyalty to the Royal Government”34 in order to work there, they had to obtain information from the Italian government. The fascist police thus learned of Dumini’s maneuvers to obtain an American passport without their knowledge. Bocchini ordered his return to internal exile for five more years, but this time Mussolini himself unexpectedly intervened to order his release. On April 27 Dumini was free again. Subsequent events in Dumini’s life reveal why Mussolini stepped in. Not two months had passed since Dumini’s arrest and sudden release from prison, when the Prefect of Grosseto informed the Ministry of the Interior about a probable, or rather imminent, attempt by Dumini to leave the country illegally. This time he apparently intended to travel to Corsica by sea. He had been betrayed by his partner in crime, Dino Castellani, who was responsible for procuring a motorboat suitable for the crossing. Castellani had been informing police headquarters about Dumini’s intention to leave Italy illegally from the beginning their collaboration in early March. The police encouraged Castellani to provide them with information, and Castellani informed the political police that Dumini had managed to send revelatory documents regarding the Matteotti murder to the United States. Mussolini and Bocchini had therefore been aware since the previous March of the documents Dumini had sheltered abroad. Most likely, this was the reason they decided to release Dumini in April. Since he did not know which documents Dumini had placed in safekeeping in the United States, Mussolini had not wanted to aggravate him and risk the

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publication of the papers overseas. Bocchini was later able to confirm the documents’ existence by a letter seized from Dumini that had been sent from the office of the two Texas lawyers. Dumini had contested the content of the letter saying that it was related to an inheritance he had unexpectedly received from his American godfathers. Thanks to the information obtained from Castellani, Bocchini did not believe him, so much so that he had a sub-file opened in Dumini’s personal file at the political police with the heading “Amerigo Dumini. Secret Documents.”35 Dumini was stopped again on July 17, 1933. This time he decided to admit that he had sent several documents “of a political nature that I had, and that more specifically relate to Matteotti” to the United States. He added that among the documents there was also a manuscript compiled in secret during the four years he spent in the Tremiti Islands. He also announced that the documents had been entrusted to a law firm in San Antonio, Texas, to the lawyers Hugh Robertson and Arnold Martin, with the warning that they “should be published only in the event of my violent death or loss of liberty.” As a safeguard, the agreement called for Dumini to send the lawyers monthly reports of his status. In fact, when he was released after his brief arrest in April, Bocchini had been able to ascertain that Dumini had quickly sent a cable to the two lawyers informing them that he had regained his freedom. When he was questioned on July 22, Dumini expressed concern about the content of the documents sent to the United States, saying he feared their imminent publication, since, They were documents of a delicate political nature that referred to the Matteotti murder and involved high ranking politicians. They also referred to assignments he had carried out abroad as a squadrista leader.36

But this time, at least for the moment, Mussolini was not intimidated. He took the implicit blackmail in Dumini’s deposition as a challenge, and he personally ordered that Dumini be sent into internal exile for five years; he was sent to the Tremiti Islands again. Dumini then wrote a threatening letter directly to De Bono. He lashed out against the police, “this grim and sinister dominating deity,” and against Bocchini “the high priest,” whom he considered his persecutor and the origin of his misfortunes. But above all he reminded De Bono of his deposition before the High Court in which he had assumed all

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responsibility for Matteotti’s murder, and which had cleared the former police chief of a charge of complicity in the crime. Towards the end, the purpose of the letter became clear when Dumini informed De Bono that some of documents entrusted to the two American lawyers concerned him personally, namely “the two passports issued by you and the letters from Butturini to Laino.” Dumini reminded the former police chief of his past complicity in the illegal activities of the Ceka, and as the person who supplied the false cover documents necessary for the illegal activities that Dumini carried out abroad.37 Dumini’s purpose was obvious. The identification of some of the documents convinced the regime that he was serious. The documents existed, and they were damaging. He turned to De Bono because of the position he held, because of the things involving him that Dumini knew about, and finally because he knew that De Bono, in turn, was in a position to successfully blackmail Mussolini. De Bono did not hesitate to speak with Mussolini about the situation, because the next time Dumini sent a plea to Mussolini it was successful. At the beginning of January 1934, on Bocchini’s orders, the prefect of Foggia sent one of his emissaries to the Tremiti to confer with Dumini and to document his requests to put an end to his feud with the regime. It was the beginning of negotiations that would finally lead to resolution. Dumini asked for a concession of about ten hectares in a place to be chosen between Sabaudia, Littoria or, as an alternative, Cyrenaica. In the meantime, to accelerate negotiations, he had his father send him a letter which said that “those friends and clients of ours in San Antonio” were asking if it was “time to send that package to its destination.” In the prefect’s note accompanying the letter Bocchini remarked that it must “evidently be about the eventual publication of the documents sent to America by Dumini.”38 At the end of March Dumini accepted Bocchini’s proposal of a transfer to Cyrenaica. Locating Dumini in the Libyan colony was also a small gesture of revenge by Mussolini towards De Bono, as it meant placing a troublemaker like Dumini under his jurisdiction as the Minister of Colonies, the man who owed Dumini a certain debt of gratitude. The choice certainly did not please the governor of Libya, Italo Balbo.

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Dumini the Colonist On the 20th of May Dumini embarked on the steamer “City of Benghazi” at Siracusa, with his domestic partner, a maid, and his dog. In the new arrangement he was not considered a confined person, but he would continue to be watched closely. He settled on a very large plot of 510 hectares that was suitable for livestock grazing and cereal cultivation, 10 km from Derna, near the Bu Msafer stream and not far from the sea. The concession was assigned to him at the trifling annual fee of 500 lire. There was an old, abandoned redoubt on the land which could be adapted as a dwelling, and a source of drinking water. On June 24, 1934, Mussolini ordered the governor of Libya to deliver another 12,000 lire to Dumini to renovate the building. Before two months had passed Dumini sent a request to Mussolini asking for his rehabilitation, which would have restored to him both his silver medal and disability pension from the war. Mussolini’s private secretary, Sebastiani, sent a copy of Dumini’s petition to Bocchini and warned that Mussolini was in favor and that “in consideration of Dumini’s military merits as a wounded soldier decorated with a silver medal for valor, his rehabilitation be granted.” Mussolini had commented in the margin of Sebastiani’s communication an annoyed, “These are things that are best done face to face.”39 Sebastiani’s note provides insight into Mussolini’s real state of mind towards Dumini. Once settled in Libya he again became the faithful fascist who had served the regime’s cause and Mussolini’s personal causes like few others. Despite all the pardons and amnesties, and Bocchini’s goodwill, it was impossible to rehabilitate Dumini immediately. The new Code of Criminal Procedure had in fact doubled the term for achieving rehabilitation for recidivists, bringing it to ten years. Based on various complex calculations, Dumini could have been rehabilitated in December 1937. In a “highly confidential” letter dated July 15, 1934, De Bono informed Balbo, the governor of Cyrenaica, that “His Excellency the Head of Government has taken charge of Dumini’s case” and had consequently decided to pay the new settler a sum of 125,000 lire for the development of his agricultural program. At the same time De Bono invited the governor to tell Dumini to “contain his initiatives within the limits of the aforementioned funding and make him understand clearly that nothing more could be done or given.” But as soon as Dumini’s letter of protest arrived

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on Mussolini’s desk he offhandedly backpedaled and decided to add another 25,000 lire to the sum established for renovation expenses. It should be noted that Dumini also received a monthly allowance of 2500 lire from the governor of Cyrenaica, while his mother in Florence received a monthly allowance of 500 lire. Regarding the monthly stipend of 2500 lire, the government decided to reduce it to 1000 lire. Sebastiani commented in the margin, “It’s the salary of a councilor of the Supreme Court. Reduce it to one thousand monthly.”40 Dumini of course protested to Mussolini, who however held firm this time. A brief note by Bocchini reveals that, from his departure for Libya until March 1935, Dumini had personally received the considerable sum of 112,899 lire total. When he learned that the monthly subsidy of 1000 lire would be withdrawn at the end of the first year of his stay in the colony he turned to Balbo, who wrote to Bocchini asking him to postpone the deadline. In his missive Balbo expressed some disapproval for the way the government was treating Dumini, ending his note with a sarcastic, “You certainly haven’t given me a gift by sending Dumini to the colony.” The request was granted, however, and by order of Mussolini the subsidy was extended for another year. Encouraged by this, Dumini sent another request for rehabilitation to Mussolini. This time the fascist leader noted in the margin of the letter, “I have no problem with this—give it some time.” But the quest for rehabilitation dragged on for a few more years. In October of 1941 Dumini revived his request to Mussolini, who this time noted in the margin, “Rehabilitate him and let’s not talk about it anymore.” But then something happened which led Mussolini to interrupt Dumini’s in-progress rehabilitation procedure.41 After this there was no further mention of it. Having ascertained that Mussolini and the government were well disposed to grant his continual requests, and stirred by greed for rapid enrichment, Dumini requested a new land concession of 1200 hectares around Faidia, which was immediately granted to him free of charge. He also asked for two trucks, a tractor and a Balilla car which were stored at the military car park in Benghazi; this time, too, Rome sent an affirmative response. At first Mussolini had said he agreed with Balbo in rejecting the request, but when Balbo informed him that Dumini was showing “signs of restlessness” he quickly arranged for the request to be granted. When Mussolini decided to visit Libya at the beginning of 1937, Balbo pointed out that Dumini’s presence in the country would inevitably be “an object of curiosity for the group of journalists accompanying him,

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especially since among them were many foreigners from various countries.” He suggested that Dumini be sent to Italy for the duration of the visit. Mussolini agreed; Dumini arrived in Rome by seaplane on March 9, 1937, and was flown back to Libya on the 29th. Naturally, at the end of the visit a new request for money punctually arrived. Relations with Balbo had become very tense. The governor feared that the obviously favorable treatment reserved for Dumini by the government would provoke “discontent and distrust in the Government’s sense of justice” among the small Italian community in Libya, “unless more judiciousness was used regarding all the requests, past, present and future, that Dumini himself keeps circulating with a constancy worthy of a better cause.” Not that Balbo did not comply with Rome’s orders, to the contrary. On his own initiative the governor had ceded to other requests from Dumini, such as giving him the contract to supply milk to the Derna hospital, and the management of a restaurant. But, as Balbo explained, “Dumini continues to make claims that clearly show how he is not content with his present lifestyle, but intends to get rich, and quite quickly.”42 Reasons for friction between Dumini and Balbo were therefore continuous. Taking advantage of the absence of the governor who was in Rome to attend a meeting of the Grand Council, Dumini had managed to illegally obtain a permit to import 10 thousand quintals of barley from Syria. This was purely a speculative transaction, since Dumini resold the barley even before it arrived from Syria and earned a large profit. The maneuver even caused an artificial increase in the price of barley and caused a scandal in the Libyan business environment. He then began to exert pressure on Mussolini to obtain the management of a bus route that provided public service between Derna and Tobruk, while the governor was in the process of deciding to grant it to the Libyan Railways. Although Balbo was exasperated by his inability to curb Dumini’s initiatives, he reluctantly treated his unwelcome requests with benevolence; Mussolini’s accommodating attitude and the many entreaties from Rome made it impossible to do otherwise. However, when he received yet another demand from Teruzzi in Rome asking him to take an interest in granting Dumini the Agip agency in Benghazi, taking it away from the official concessionaire, Balbo wrote a long letter to Rome. The letter starkly illustrates the true extent of the favors Dumini had enjoyed up to that point and dispels any doubt regarding the evident collusion between Mussolini and Matteotti’s murderer.

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Balbo sent Teruzzi a long letter listing the numerous concessions and financial support granted to Dumini by the government, concluding: Dumini was authorized to come to Libya in 1934 to comply with the request of the General Directorate of Public Security, which provided funding for him (initially 125,000 lire, to which he added a further 125,000 lire). Another 50 thousand were added at my instigation in order to allow him to exploit a concession that the Libyan government had offered him in the area of Bu Msafer, near Derna. Later on, since Dumini had debts with the Cassa di Risparmio (savings bank), which he could not meet, the Government took back the concession to help him, paying him the handsome sum of 159,000 lire determined by a large estimate of the improvements made. In the meantime, Dumini had opened a restaurant in Derna; he then found a way to get the Civil and Military Administration to sell him used material at a favorable price, so that he could resell it; he started a large commercial activity buying and selling barley and livestock; he bought vehicles for transporting goods and people. Finally, he did not fail to exploit another quite lucrative field. He had seasonal sowing permits assigned to him in vast areas of the Cyrenaean Gebel, traditionally used by the Arabs, and he used the Arabs themselves, by means of seed advances, to exploit the land with extensive cereal crops. When I established, with a general provision, that the lands could be granted to the nationals only to be rationally cultivated by our colonial families, Dumini, who had taken possession of an area of 350 hectares near Faidia without the new concession being legally recognized, hastened to start building, clearing and planting in that area in order to be able to make claims for compensation to the Government, when transferring the land to the Libyan Colonization Board. And once again the Government did its best to meet his needs, so much so that last January, after having checked the state of the land, the work carried out and the machinery purchased, he was paid the significant sum of 750,000 lire. An approximate but careful estimate of Dumini’s income from his Libyan activities was compiled in December of 1938 by the CC.RR. in Bengasi. The results were: Bu Msafer concession L. 159,000—for grain from various seasonal plantings L. 100,000—grain delivered to the Consortium L. 308,000— insurance against grain fires L. 26,000—for the sale of straw L. 64,000—for the sale of oats and barley L. 20,780—for the sale of livestock L. 210,000— for the sale of wool L. 45,000—for the Derna dairy farm L. 35,000—for the “Al parrot” exercise L. 86,000—for the importation of a barley consignment note L. 100,000—for the provision of vehicles by the companies Sicelp and Fontana L. 92,613.85—Total L. 1,246,393.85. This is apart from the sum given to him by the General Directorate of Public Security, to which I have already referred, and from the sum of 750,000 lire for the

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Faidia survey, which bring the total to 2,171,393.85 lire. “In spite of all this, Dumini is now looking for “representations” that will surely be profitable, and of course he cares little if such “representations” are already held by others who in his mind should certainly give way to him. All this completely distorts the principle on which the request to settle Dumini in Libya was based. He should have tried to live here quietly and inconspicuously. The Italian environment here is small, and the repercussions of any episode acquire such importance that it is impossible not to raise concern. If Dumini is unable to remain quiet and secluded, content to live modestly, it would be much better for him to return to Italy for good.”62

Balbo’s balance sheet is partial since it does not include the monthly subsidies and the extra payments the Dumini family in Italy continued to benefit from.43 Despite Balbo’s remonstrances, Rome continued to concede Dumini’s requests. He was also given the contract to transport water to the new villages in Gebel built by the Libyan Colonization Agency, and when he had to pay the first 50,000 lire installment of a loan granted to him by the Banco di Roma, he again turned to Mussolini’s secretary to take care of the payment. Sebastiani ordered Bocchini to deliver the funds. By this time Dumini was a very rich settler who was able to make frequent visits to Italy using free scheduled flights. He would later estimate that the damages caused to his home in Derna by British troops when the Italians were forced to abandon Cyrenaica in the war, amounted to one million lire for stolen “artwork and furniture.” The beginning of the war and the opening of the North African front posed problems for him, considering the numerous properties he had scattered between Derna and Benghazi. Counting on his knowledge of English and on the fact that he could present himself as an American citizen, he was among the few Italians who decided to stay in the area when, between January 27 and 28, 1941, the British advanced and occupied Derna. He hoped to remain incognito and contacted the British military authorities to offer to continue the water service to the Gebel colonists. However, he was spotted and arrested on March 12, 1941. On the night of April 7–8, as Dumini later recounted, he faced a firing squad that fired 17 rounds. In a report he sent to the Ministry of Culture in May 1941, and as he wrote in his “autobiography” (which was full of omissions and lies), he survived by feigning to be dead. Having so fortunately escaped the firing squad, he waited for the arrival of the Italian-German

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troops. He had the honor of receiving a visit from General Rommel who ordered his immediate transfer to Tripoli with an airplane provided by the Italian Red Cross. From Tripoli he was taken to Rome where he arrived on April 16, 1941. He was admitted to the Celio military hospital and was discharged a few days later. He left for Florence where he stayed until May 17, when he received permission to leave for Derna. But his stay in Africa was to be short-lived this time—the British advance forced Dumini to take refuge in Italy again. On Christmas Eve 1941 he was in Florence, where he boasted to his friends that he had become extremely wealthy and that his properties were worth 5 or 6 million. As we have seen, he was not boasting. No trace of Dumini can be found for all of 1942. He almost certainly followed the front around North Africa. A communication from the Ministry of Italian Africa in March 1943 mentions him in Tunisia, where he often made “journeys from Tunis to Gafsa in a van with the number plate L.B. 440, sometimes taking women with him.” Another communication from the ministry reports that on March 31, 1943, he was in Tunisia and about to return to Italy. He had “ceded 2 million 500 thousand lire, which he had in bank notes of 500 lire, to some car owners, for which he received in exchange checks payable in Italy.” The fall of Mussolini found him in Riva del Garda, where he was arrested on August 7. He was in possession of a false identity card and 257,000 lire. He was taken to prison in Trento together with his girlfriend and was subsequently released by the German troops. He naturally joined the RSI (Italian Social Republic) and began trafficking again. He profited from the evacuation from Florence by leasing passage in his automobiles to fascist republicans and their families who were escaping the city and heading north, under the pressure of the Allied advance in the spring-summer of 1944.44 He was arrested on July 18, 1945. At the end of the war, Dumini owned two buildings with several apartments in Derna and four cars, and a small villa and two apartments in Florence.

Notes 1. ACS, Polizia politica, Serie B, b. 28, letter from Danesi to Vaselli 1 November 1924. 2. Ibid. 3. Ibid.

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4. ACS, Polizia politica, Serie B, b. 28. 5. ACS, PS, 1930-31, cat. A1, b. 39, fasc. Malacria Eugenio. 6. Sentence of the 1947 Matteotti trial, 144. 7. ACS, Polizia politica, Fascicoli personali, b.1481, fasc. Viola G. 8. Drammatico inseguimento di contrabbandieri, newspaper Corriere della Sera, 12 July 1935. 9. ACS, Polizia politica, Fascicoli personali, b. 1102, fasc. Poveromo A. 10. Ibid., note of 30 March 1937. 11. ACS, CPC, b. 4099, fasc. Poveromo A. 12. Ibid. 13. See in ACS, CPC, b. 3705, fasc. Panzeri Filippo, the receipts issued by Panzeri to Vaselli for various amounts. 14. ACS, PS, 1937, cat. A1, b. 22. 15. ACS, SPD CR, b. 97, fasc. Volpi Albino. 16. Ibid. 17. ACS, SPD CR, b. 90, fasc. Putato A. 18. See ACS, Polizia politica, Fascicoli personali, b.993, fasc. Panzeri Filippo. 19. See Momento, 19 January 1947. 20. ACS, Polizia politica, Serie B, b. 28. 21. See ACS, PS, 1937, cat. A1, b. 22, telegram prefect Regard to the Ministry of the Interior dated 14 September 1936. 22. Ibid. 23. Ibid. 24. ACS, SPD CR, b. 84. 25. ACS, Polizia politica, Fascicoli personali, Serie A, b.28, letter from Dumini to Vaselli dated 11 October 1926. 26. See ACS, PS, 1937, cat. A1, b. 22. The news that the documents had actually been confiscated was in a secret message that the mother attempted to have delivered to Rossi and Bazzi in France; See ACS, Polizia politica, Serie B, b. 28. The original copy of the memoir Dumini was writing is in ACS, Confinati politici, b. 377, fasc. Dumini A.; a microfilm copy is in ACS, Jaia, Job n. 1, Dumini’s Documents. 27. ACS, SP CR, b. 84. 28. See the related instructions from Bocchini to the Italian consulate in Brussels, in ACS, Polizia politica, Fascicoli personali, Serie A, b. 28. 29. ACS, Polizia politica, Serie B, b. 28. 30. ACS, Confinati politici, b. 377. 31. Ibid., Bocchini noted: “Send him back to the Tremiti.” 32. ACS, Polizia politica, Fascicoli personali, Serie A, b. 28, fasc. Dumini A. 33. Ibid 34. ACS, PS, 1937, cat. A1, b. 22. 35. All in ACS, Polizia politica, Fascicoli personali, Serie A, b. 28.

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36. Ibid., report by the Florence commissioner dated 22 July. 37. A copy of the letter to De Bono dated 28 October 1933 is in ACS, Confinati politici, b. 377. 38. Ibid. 39. ACS, SPD CR, b. 84, fasc. Dumini A. 40. Ibid. 41. Ibid. 42. ACS, PS, 1937, cat. A1, b. 22, letter from Balbo to Bocchini dated 31 December 1937. 43. See ACS, SPD CR, b. 84, fasc. Dumini A. A note by the Duce’s personal secretary dated November 1940 indicates that the amount already deposited to Dumini was 2,376,780 lire. 44. See ACS, SPD CR RSI, b. 10, fasc. 45.

CHAPTER 11

Funding for the Matteotti Family

When documents regarding financial support to Matteotti’s family were found at the end of the 1980s and published in 1997 in the first edition of this book, a new chapter opened in the debate over whether Mussolini was extraneous to the Matteotti murder. In one of his numerous conversations with Silvestri, Mussolini reminded his interlocutor that on several occasions he had intervened to finance the family of the murdered member of parliament. He revealed to Silvestri that for many years he had helped Matteotti’s children financially, providing them with “a standard of living not unworthy of the past wealth of their father and grandmother. Carlo, Matteo and Isabella Matteotti know that it was I who thought of them.” Mussolini claimed this proved his extraneousness to the organization of the crime. “It will be said,” he concluded, “that I was driven to this act by remorse. Say what you will, but I have already shown you that I could not have felt remorse.”1 Documents from the van confirmed that Mussolini really did help the Matteotti family, but for reasons much different than what he later told Silvestri. The death of Giacomo, and above all that of his mother Isabella in January 1931, was a hard blow to the administration of the family assets, which in the mid-1920s were still considerable. But Velia, a woman weakened in spirit by the tragedy that had suddenly struck her young life, was by temperament and interests little inclined to deal with the administrative activities necessary to conserve the inheritance. Nor could she rely on the

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2024 M. Canali, The Matteotti Murder and Mussolini, Italian and Italian American Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-41471-8_11

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support of her relatives. On her husband’s side, there were none. On her side, one of her two brothers, Ettore, had emigrated to the United States at the end of the war and had not been in touch since. Her other brother, Ruffo Titta, the famous baritone, led a life that made it impossible for him to take on his sister’s problems. Velia had three sisters, Fosca, Settima, and Nelly, but they all lived far from Rome, the first two in Milan and Nelly in Lavagna. Fosca and Nelly ended up delegating the task of supporting their sister in the care of family interests and the protection of her children to their respective husbands, Emerich Steiner and Casimiro Wronosky. At first it was above all Emerich Steiner, a wealthy industrialist and a great friend of Giacomo, who took the greatest care of Velia and her children, but he unfortunately died prematurely in April 1929. Emerich Steiner was not only a reliable point of reference for Velia’s finances, but also helped her maintain firmness when dealing with the regime. His presence in the family life of Velia and her children made it impossible for the regime to make any attempts to soften the contempt and detachment that the young woman felt toward fascist institutions. With the death of Steiner and her mother-in-law, Velia lost the last true confidantes who could have guided her through the difficult task of managing the estate. After Emerich Steiner’s death, Casimiro Wronosky took over the task of looking after the family’s general interests. His temperament was much different than Steiner’s. He was a person who, because of his business activities—he was editor of several periodicals for the Rizzoli publishing house—had for some time established a rapport with the regime which gradually turned into open sympathy, if not open consent. Wronosky could certainly not be defined as an informer, but he did not draw back from corresponding in writing with Bocchini to inform him with irritating relish of everything that was going on within the Matteotti family, in particular regarding the affairs of the three sons. Starting at the beginning of the 1930s the political police succeeded in planting an informer within the Matteotti family. He was Domenico De Ritis, a family friend from when Giacomo was alive, and a person who Velia liked and respected. After Giacomo’s death, De Ritis had maintained relations with his widow for a few more years, and wrote to her, but he later interrupted relations.2 Towards the end of the 1920s he had become an informer for the fascist police and Bocchini made use of his prior friendship with the Matteotti family. De Ritis approached Velia Matteotti again in February 1930, this time as an informer. At first, she was diffident, but De Ritis had no difficulty overcoming her initial reservations and restoring

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their earlier relationship of trust. From that point he informed Bocchini of everything that went on within the Matteotti household, using the code number 331 and the nickname ‘Tisde.’ There was another informer among the Matteotti family’s acquaintances—Mario Mengoni, manager of the hotel in Salsomaggiore where Velia used to go for vacations. He, too, enjoyed the trust of Matteotti’s widow; she had sometimes given him letters to be delivered to exiles in France where Mengoni often went for work. The letters, of course, regularly ended up in Bocchini’s hands.3 Bocchini was therefore always aware of everything concerning the Matteotti family including the contacts, albeit sporadic, that Velia maintained with some old friends of Giacomo. This enabled the regime to thwart plans that were in progress to expatriate Velia and her children. Salvemini was among those who had maintained correspondence with Velia. Thanks to the collaboration of one of Zanotti Bianco’s brothers, who was an official at an Italian consulate in France, Salvemini had been able to send letters to Matteotti’s widow in his diplomatic pouch. In Rome, a Frenchwoman, Adrienne Marchand, was responsible for retrieving the correspondence from the French Embassy and delivering it to Velia. When Marchand was identified, at first the regime hesitated to intervene for fear of diplomatic complications, but in November 1928, on the orders of Mussolini, she was expelled from Italy.

Velia Matteotti Makes Peace With the Regime Velia had always been against sheltering abroad, but that did not stop the Concentrazione Antifascista movement from insisting that she expatriate, and for this reason the regime’s vigilance of the Matteotti family between 1930 and 1931 had become suffocating. In November 1929 it seems that Velia Matteotti had decided to give in to the insistence of the Concentrationists and go abroad, but after a brief visit to Fratta to consult with her mother-in-law, which obviously discouraged her, she dropped the plan again. It would not have been easy for her to make such a move, considering the financial interests she had in Italy. To not run the risk of having her assets confiscated by the fascist regime, she would have had to first liquidate them, which would have alerted her controllers who would have inevitably intensified their already tight surveillance. She was also uncomfortable with venturing into the life of a political exile, a lifestyle so foreign to her character and interests.

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The anti-fascist exiles did make two attempts to expatriate the Matteotti family. One of the two attempts was actually a plan to steal Giacomo’s body and transport it abroad. The initiative came from the republicans Chiesa and Facchinetti, who asked a young republican engineer, Giobbe Giopp, to approach Velia in search of her cooperation. The meeting took place on September 25, 1927. Velia Matteotti expressed disagreement but nevertheless did not put any obstacles in the way of the project. Her passivity discouraged Giopp who, when recalling the meeting later, also reported that he had taken the opportunity to speak to Velia about her willingness to emigrate and had received a firm refusal.4 By the end of 1930 Velia had removed the responsibility of administering family finances from the capable hands of her mother-in-law and had taken control of them herself. But at the close of 1931 the economic conditions of the Matteotti family had become precarious. Velia had made the risky purchase of a large rural property and found herself unable to meet the financial debt she had taken on towards some banks in the Veneto. Between the end of 1931 and the beginning of 1932, most of her properties in Fratta Polesine risked being expropriated. To avoid disaster, she turned to private individuals and financial institutions, but she found no one willing to guarantee a mortgage, even though the value of the estate provided collateral that was much higher than the debt she owed her creditors. As an insider close to the Matteotti family reported, potential lenders were evidently concerned “with the presumed troubles that granting a loan to Matteotti’s widow would possibly expose them to, in the belief that such a contract might be unwelcome to the Government or the Party.”5 Velia had also turned in vain to some anti-fascists still in Italy, as in a letter that the former deputy Guido Bergamo hastened to send to Bocchini after meeting with an emissary from Velia.6 She had decided to turn to Giacomo’s old companions in exile to help her find a loan of two million lire, an extremely large amount at the time. But she had also told De Ritis, or maybe it had been De Ritis himself who had suggested it to her, of her intention to turn to Mussolini as a last resort. De Ritis had immediately informed Bocchini, and the news reached Mussolini. Using calculated cynicism, Mussolini decided to intervene only after the Paris exiles had failed to obtain funds for her. To ensure the failure of the Paris mission, Mussolini manipulated to send his OVRA agent Domenico De Ritis as the envoy to the French capital. He didn’t have to do much to impose him on Velia, considering the

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role of absolute trust that De Ritis now held within the Matteotti family. The presence in Paris of a man who enjoyed Velia’s complete trust also allowed the government to send her reports of the negotiations in progress that would frame the exiles’ attempts in a bad light. The psychological impact on Velia that the regime expected from the failure of the De Ritis mission is summarized well by excerpts from a pro memoria that Bocchini wrote for Mussolini two years later. It was thought, as is well known, that the intervention of the fascist government would have had a greater and more precise effect, after the refusal by the exiles to grant the aid requested by Matteotti, to avoid that she might one day say or think that if the government had not helped her, the exiles would have solved her difficulties. Our services were therefore channeled in this direction—and we made sure that Matteotti’s emissary to Modigliani and Salvemini was our trusted representative.7

The regime evidently aimed at tethering Velia Matteotti to itself, convinced that the inevitable gratitude she would feel for the government’s gesture would immediately persuade her to abandon any plans to clandestinely expatriate with her children. The regime also wanted to reinforce her negative feelings towards anti-fascist emigration and Matteotti’s old friends, and to draw her closer to the government both morally and emotionally, an operation begun some time earlier through De Ritis and Wronosky’s daily nudging. It was necessary to make clear to Velia that without Mussolini’s aid she and her children would have found themselves in dire economic straits. De Ritis’ mission was prepared by Bocchini with great care. It could not arouse suspicion either among the exiles or among De Ritis’ colleagues in Rome. Since the trip to France was expected to last about two months, it was made to appear that De Ritis was being temporarily transferred for professional reasons. De Ritis arrived in Paris at the beginning of April 1932 and completed his mission in early June. Once in Paris, he tried to contact Mario Mengoni; Velia had indicated that he could be a possible intermediary with the men of the Antifascist Concentration. She did not know that Mario Mengoni was also an informer for the political police, code number 342. Mengoni naturally placed himself at her disposal and, ignoring the role of De Ritis, took it upon himself to report to Rome on the progress of the negotiations. The understandable mistrust of the leaders of the Antifascist

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Concentration towards all those arriving from Italy meant that only after eight days, through Mengoni, was De Ritis able to establish contact with the socialist Claudio Treves and the republican Raffaele Rossetti. Later he also met Modigliani and Salvemini. Modigliani attempted to convince Alfred Adler, the secretary of the Socialist International, to intervene in Velia’s interest, while Salvemini was willing to find a publisher in the United States for a book of memoirs that Velia was completing. Salvemini expressed his confidence in the size of the contract he could get her to sign with an overseas publisher. Adler’s response was not encouraging. The financial situation of the Socialist International was so dire that it absolutely could not come to Velia’s aid. The “Matteotti Fund” now barely provided a salary for the small number of staff employed there, and the International was forced to reduce the monthly contribution to Italian socialists from 25,000 francs to 5000. There were no other funds to call upon, but Adler would have continued to take an interest in the matter. Inquiries for bank loans did not fare much better; financial institutions pointed out the considerable risks involved in stipulating mortgages on assets such as those held by the Matteotti family, which could be seized at any time by the fascist authorities. It seems that in May there were signs from the communists that they would be willing to finance the Matteotti family, but the proposal was not finalized due to the diffidence of other parties that feared the communists might later use the assistance as propaganda against the Antifascist Concentration. Although they did not suspect De Ritis’ real role, the socialists later criticized the way he conducted the April–May 1932 Paris mission.8 Mengoni, the fascist informer who was working in Paris during De Ritis’ mission, provided the actual proof of De Ritis’ sabotage. He reported that “throughout the period spent here,” the man in charge of Matteotti’s mission, “has been careful not to do anything that might be of disadvantage to the Fascist Party; all his work has been carried out within the strict framework of the financial operation, which immediately proved to be unfeasible.”9 De Ritis was able to report to Velia about the progress of the negotiations so as to make it appear that Matteotti’s exiled companions were guilty of inertia, when in reality they were powerless to do anything. It was objectively impossible for them to rush to Velia’s aid. Consequently, without even waiting for the result of the mission and De Ritis’ return to Rome, on May 11 Velia sent her request for assistance to the chief of police, who sent orders to De Ritis in Paris that, “with the

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excuse of being called by the Bank” he would “immediately, albeit politely, turn the car around.” Mussolini was naturally very quick to act. On May 13 a sum of 100,000 lire was already paid to Velia, followed within a month by two other payments for a total of 550,000  lire, that she was assured could be repaid at her convenience. Orders were also given to the Credito Fondiario delle Venezie to suspend the executive actions taken against Velia Matteotti’s property, pending the completion of the procedures which would allow the Istituto San Paolo to issue a loan of 1,200,000 lire to widow Matteotti. Finally, she was granted an extraordinary contribution of 29,000 lire a year for 25 years from the Ministry of Agriculture at rates so low as to enable her to pay the annual portion of the loan taken out with the Istituto San Paolo without overburdening her family finances. Moreover, since a later and more precise estimate showed that the family budget deficit was greater than had been thought at first, at the beginning of October 1932 the government granted an additional loan of 565,000 lire, which brought Velia Matteotti’s debt to the fascist government to 1,115,000 lire. On his return from France, De Ritis was given a promotion at the Credito Italiano bank. Velia’s family reacted with condemnation when they learned of her contacts with Mussolini and the Viminale. In a dramatic conversation with one of her sisters, Velia reproached her that “the only doors I knocked on and that were opened to me, I mean the only ones, were those of the Head of Government and the Viminale.” The definitive acquiescence of Velia Titta to the regime was marked by a meeting she had with Bocchini on September 26, 1932, when her financial difficulties were now nearly resolved. Bocchini reported to Mussolini that he had met a “serene, measured Velia Matteotti, without bursts of drama, without bitter grievances, without resentment,” and added that “the only phrase about her husband, uttered in a subdued tone, was to call him a ‘victim of a historical moment’.” She assured Bocchini that she did not intend to create “embarrassment to her country” and explained that “if she has taken and is taking certain steps, it is to see that her children grow up and remain good Italian citizens, with feelings of love and goodness in their souls and not hatred and rancor.” She also informed Bocchini that she had almost finished a book of memoirs from which every political hint had been carefully removed; its goal was to represent the life she lived together with her husband, her

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family feelings. She had also found an English publisher who was willing to publish it, but “thinking of the possible impact of the publication, and feeling more than anything an Italian, had refused the offer.” She took the opportunity to assure Bocchini that she would never publish anything “without the prior consent of the government.” She also guaranteed that she would never try to leave the country illegally, and therefore asked that surveillance of her children be relaxed.10 The regime asked that Velia make a visible gesture that could be interpreted without possibility of misunderstanding as a sort of rapprochement between the Matteotti family and the fascist state. And Velia, who until then had resorted to private schooling for her children, decided to send her two youngest children, Matteo and Isabella, to public schools. The regime had thus achieved its goal. It was now impossible for the opposition in exile to continue representing the Matteotti family as prisoners of the fascist regime to world public opinion. A report by Bocchini summed it up effectively when he concluded that Velia’s recourse to fascism for her own financial rescue meant that the opposition could no longer use, “the old motifs of Matteotti’s wife as a prisoner in Italy, watched on sight, unable to move, persecuted, etc.” An informer from Paris in September 1933 reported that the leaders of the Antifascist Concentration were now convinced that a reconciliation had occurred between the fascist government and Velia Matteotti. In fact, from the time of the De Ritis financial mission onwards, there is no further mention in any documents of attempts by exiled anti-fascists to convince the Matteotti family to expatriate. But Mussolini was not satisfied with these indirect signals. In July 1935, against the opinion of the head of the political police, he ordered a letter be sent to the Paris editorial office of Merlo, an anti-fascist newspaper, for publication with the signature “A regular reader and admirer.” The letter was actually written by De Ritis and revised by the political police, and it outlined all the terms of the operation to save the Matteotti family’s property, with precise references, including the events leading up to the agreement. The political police had submitted a memorandum to Mussolini that advanced some doubts about the appropriateness of the operation, since, the publication of the detailed information about the aid given to her by the Duce could prompt her, given her prickly character, to hasten the sale of her

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assets and return the sums given to her, and then to publish all this abroad where the “Matteotti case,” which had been buried, would resurface.

Mussolini wrote at the bottom of the document: “prepare letter/ deliver copy of letter to 7 who will forward it to Merlo for publication.”11 “7” was the OVRA agent code for the socialist Livio Bini, an informer resident in Paris who maintained contact with the director of Merlo, Alberto Giannini, who had passed quietly into the ranks of the repented members of the fascist regime. In accordance with orders from the regime, De Ritis then focused on discouraging Velia Matteotti from paying off her debts to the political police. Documentation of this order is found in a note from Di Stefano, head of the Political Police Division, to De Ritis dated April 23, 1936, in which he was advised to work to persuade Velia to not to pay back the money. The regime clearly knew it could successfully and unconditionally exert psychological pressure on Velia Matteotti for as long as she remained indebted to it. When she died on June 5, 1938, she left her children the debt of several million lire contracted with the fascist government, which would never be settled. Still young and deprived of both parents, the three Matteotti children were entrusted to the guardianship of a family council, which appointed Casimiro Wronosky as guardian and the ever-present Domenico De Ritis as pro-tutor—two individuals whose efforts to bring the two young Matteotti’s closer to fascism is difficult to doubt. De Ritis left no stone unturned to influence and condition the growth of the young Matteotti boys; he was always diligent, as he had been with Velia, to highlight the positive aspects of the regime and all that it had done for the family. In an informational letter of April 3, 1940, he told Leto, who had succeeded Di Stefano as head of the Political Police Division, of a long conversation he had had with Matteo Matteotti during which he told him “of many things ignored or misrepresented; at his request I also spoke of your office and of your director’s fatherly care for his family.” De Ritis, in short, had cautiously begun to come out into the open by singing the praises of Bocchini and Mussolini to Matteo. In the meantime, De Ritis was appointed general manager of the Banca Nazionale del Lavoro—quite a career leap for someone who, only a few years earlier, had been a simple officer at Credito Italiano.

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In mid-March 1941, Wronosky and De Ritis met with Leto and succeeded in obtaining a military discharge for the eldest son Giancarlo, who had been called to arms in early March 1941. The removal of Senise as chief of police and the arrival of Chierici raised some concern in De Ritis and Wronosky about the prospects for Matteotti’s sons. De Ritis reported to Leto that Wronosky was “worried about a possible change in direction of this body [the General Directorate of the Police] in the treatment reserved until now for the boys. The boys are also worried about this despite my timely and appropriate insistence on remaining calm and serene.”12

After the Fall of Fascism As the fall of fascism approached, Wronosky and De Ritis became more vigilant, as old and new anti-fascists began to visit the sons of Giacomo Matteotti with the intention of turning the two young men against the regime. The anti-fascists who approached the two Matteotti’s had no doubt about the role the two guardians were playing. Rumors began to circulate that the two guardians were “firemen” and “responsible for the lack of dynamism of the two young people.” Until the liberation of Rome, De Ritis was able to play the role of an anti-fascist. But after Rome was liberated, many documents of the Ministry of the Interior ended up in the hands of the anti-fascist parties and the true role played by De Ritis in the service of the fascist regime became more evident. Matteo Matteotti, who in the meantime had joined the Italian Socialist Party, had already been advised by Pietro Nenni (secretary of the Socialist Party) in August 1944 to be more prudent in his relationship with De Ritis. From Matteo’s reply, it is clear that Nenni’s letter to him had been sparked by the “discovery of certain documents at the Ministry of the Interior” that had raised, regarding De Ritis, “reason for concern for the leaders of the Party.” Nenni and the socialist leadership’s concerns were strengthened by the fact that in the meantime De Ritis had joined the socialist movement. Despite Nenni’s calls for caution, Matteo Matteotti continued to defend his old tutor, describing him as “the first person who from our childhood educated us in socialist ideas.”13 The letter to Nenni shows that Matteo had been aware of De Ritis’s role since August 1944. But we know from other unpublished documents written by De Ritis when he was an informer, that he and

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Wronosky had informed Matteo and his brother since 1942–1943 of their compromises and contacts with the fascist political police, and it appears that it would not have been difficult for Matteo to understand the real role his guardian played in his family. It is thus reasonable to believe that Matteo’s defense of De Ritis in 1944 was based on his fear that the truth of the fascist financing of his family would come to light, a topic that De Ritis must have discussed with him when rumors of his role as an informer had started to circulate persistently, and his imminent incrimination was probable. In essence, the governing group of the Italian Socialist Party, which certainly had no interest in making the story of Mussolini’s financing of the Matteotti family public, was dragged into an ugly, unwanted blackmail scenario. A long shadow cast over the conduct of the Matteotti family during the 1930s would have eventually succeeded in tarnishing the memory of Giacomo Matteotti’s tragic martyrdom. By linking his tragedy with the subsequent travails of the family, perhaps his martyrdom itself would have been unjustly downplayed. It would have been easy for the pro- or crypto-­ fascist newspapers to say that it had been Velia’s own gesture, that is, her turning to the instigator of her husband’s murder for financial assistance, that would have reduced Mussolini’s responsibility in the crime. One of the symbols that held powerful sway on the collective imagination of Italians, the murder of Giacomo Matteotti, would have been torn from the hands of anti-fascism. The way the fascist purge in general was carried out should be seen in this atmosphere of counter-blackmail—how it was conducted and quickly concluded, and how De Ritis’ position, in particular, was handled. De Ritis was accused by the High Commissioner for the punishment of fascist crimes for having “with relevant acts, contributed to keeping alive the fascist regime in Rome and elsewhere after January 3, 1925, as a confidant of OVRA, salaried from January 1930 to January 1944.” The first accusation concerns a dozen articles that he had published, between 1937 and 1942, in two fascist magazines, Economia fascista and Terra. Rassegna politica dell’Italia fascista. He was convicted of the first charge on November 21, 1945; he appealed and was subsequently acquitted with a sentence pronounced on July 14, 1947. For the second charge regarding his activity as an informer for the political police within the Matteotti family, De Ritis was acquitted because the facts attributed to him did not constitute a crime. Although the judgement of the Investigation Section of the Court of Appeal of Rome acknowledged his role as an informer, it

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concluded that his work had not “helped to consolidate the fascist regime, against which it does not appear that Matteotti’s relatives ever thought of doing any harm.” Matteo testified in favor of De Ritis, claiming that De Ritis always behaved correctly towards the family. Matteo sketched a sort of political biography of De Ritis in which he recalled his youth in the socialist movement. Indeed, he reported that De Ritis had been, “in the years before fascism until June 10, 1924, one of his father’s collaborators, to whom he was bound by affection and admiration. Among other things, he collaborated with Giacomo Matteotti on the publication of Un anno di dominazione fascista (A Year of Fascist Rule) by providing the author with financial data.”14 He specified, finally, that he had only recently learned that De Ritis belonged to OVRA. On July 2, 1946, the Gazzetta Ufficiale published the list of names of fascist police confidants. De Ritis’ name was among them; on August 2, 1946, he filed an appeal to remove his name from the list. De Ritis defended himself against the accusations. He had the solidarity of Wronosky15 who had his own reasons to support him given that he too, as guardian of the minors, had established documented relations with Bocchini that reeked similarly of collaboration. Basically, by defending De Ritis, Wronosky was also defending himself. De Ritis not only regularly reminded him of this fact, but also attached several letters to his appeal that had been exchanged between him and Wronosky during the years of the regime in which their involvement with Leto and Bocchini is evident. It also plainly emerges from their correspondence that the two Matteotti boys, Giancarlo and Matteo, were fully aware of De Ritis’ role and agreed with his contacts with police headquarters.16 De Ritis also did not hesitate to reveal the loans the regime made to the Matteotti family, as well as the actions taken to prevent the two young Matteotti men from doing military service and thus from participating in the war. It was, basically, a real call to account for Wronosky and the two young Matteotti’s. Emboldened by the support he had solicited and obtained, and given the previous sentence issued by the criminal courts that listed him among those informers who had not acted in the interests of the regime—that is, his activity as a confidant had been useful to the Matteotti family but not to the consolidation of the fascist regime—he raised the level of his claims and demanded that his name be removed from the so-called OVRA lists “for the most basic and direct reason,

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that he had never been an informer.” He could not, of course, deny his contacts with the police chief, but he maintained that those contacts had been exclusively in the interest of the Matteotti family. He claimed, of course, that the same accusation that was made against him could have been made against Casimiro Wronosky, who in 1946 was even appointed as the commissioner of the Lombardy Journalists’ Union. Wronosky had not only maintained cordial correspondence and personal relations first with Bocchini and Di Stefano and then with Senise and Leto, but had often solicited their support for the frequent requests he forwarded to the fascist police regarding favors not only for Giacomo Matteotti’s sons but for himself as well. In essence De Ritis’ line of defense, justifiably supported by Wronosky, consisted in seeking and obtaining the support of Matteotti’s sons by making them understand that if he were forced to do so, he would reveal the web of compromises that had been woven for more than a decade between the Matteotti family and fascism, and which he had mediated. Wronosky probably used the same considerations as Matteotti’s sons when he decided to come to De Ritis’ defense. He would not have hesitated, as he made clear in his defense brief, to disclose the encouragement that the two young Matteotti boys had consciously given to his intercession with the chief of police. The efficacy of the blackmail technique, based on the threat of revelations that would have engulfed the Matteotti family in scandal, had in fact already been put to test in the anti-fascist press. On August 26, 1945, the Momento had used information leaked from the investigation in an article entitled “Bocchini’s Eye on the Matteotti House,” intended to be the first article in a more extensive press campaign. On August 31 Casimiro Wronosky rushed to the Rome offices of the newspaper with two lawyers. Justifying his gesture by the fraternal friendship that bound him to De Ritis, he demanded that publication of the articles be interrupted and that the paper publish a letter of his own in which he denied the role of De Ritis. To dispel suspicion from De Ritis, Wronosky gave the two managers of Momento a completely false account of the event that had led to the 1,000,000 lire loan. In his version, he assumed the responsibility of having personally initiated the procedure to obtain the loan, and De Ritis was relegated to a completely secondary role, to dispel negative perceptions of De Ritis’ friendships at the Political Police Division. At first the administrator of the newspaper, Realino Carboni, did not agree to Wronosky’s

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proposal, but he relented after being advised by the editor Tomaso Smith, that if the paper continued the campaign against De Ritis the involvement of the Matteotti family would have been inevitable. Wronosky’s fierce defense of De Ritis was a response to the same intimidation and blackmail tactics used by De Ritis on the young Matteotti’s. Wronosky, too, had benefited from the regime, and had also established very strong relations with Bocchini himself, who he admitted to having met nine times.17 This time, too, De Ritis had the support of Matteo Matteotti. Encouraged by Wronosky, Matteo sent De Ritis a letter in which he confirmed his own and his siblings’ solidarity and affection for him.18 This time Matteo Matteotti could certainly not claim to be unaware of the role Bocchini’s emissary played within his family, since he had been amply informed of this by the investigating judge of the High Commission for Fascist Crimes between February and April 1945. This heavy atmosphere of compromise hovered over the Matteotti family in the 1930s and early 1940s, and enabled De Ritis to avoid being made accountable by the law for his actions. The knowledge of the role he played, and the awareness that they had also been beneficiaries of the regime, drove Matteotti’s children not only to defend De Ritis, but above all to hope that by defending him their mother’s compromise with the fascist regime would not become public knowledge. Every time the two Matteotti sons showed signs of wanting to shed the veil of blackmail, Wronosky punctually reminded them that they had enjoyed the benefits from the regime that his and De Ritis’ past work had made possible. In short, De Ritis and Wronosky took full advantage of all this. It is clear, therefore, why Matteo and Giancarlo Matteotti decided to not appear at the second Matteotti trial, even though they had filed as plaintiffs. They feared that the trial would reveal information that would damage the moral integrity of the Matteotti family. It is actually not difficult to suppose, even if there is no proof, that the two young men’s presence at the trial was discouraged by their converging interests with the PSI leadership and of Nenni in particular, who was by now aware of everything. He considered it dangerous for the two sons to appear at the trial, to respond to questions to ascertain the harm they had suffered, when they were aware of the long-standing compromises established by the Matteotti family with the regime. The defense team of the accused probably made it discreetly known to interested ears that their presence would not have been appropriate.

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The constant and active presence of Matteo Matteotti as an exculpatory witness in the judicial proceedings against De Ritis also reveals that his awareness of the impending blackmail threat against his family lay at the heart of his behavior towards De Ritis. His constant attendance shows that he felt it was his duty to show solidarity with De Ritis, and he gave evidence in his favor twice during the summary investigation by the High Commissioner for Sanctions against the Fascist Party—on February 13, 1945, and again the following May 10. However, when the second Matteotti trial was held he did not appear, even after filing as a civil plaintiff. At the time, the press was highly perplexed by his decision.19

Notes 1. Silvestri, Matteotti Mussolini e il dramma italiano, 47; see also ACS, Carte Susmel, b. 8, fasc. Silvestri C., especially the manuscript of the 10 December 1943 meeting. 2. See his personal file in ACS, CPC, b. 1741. 3. See ACS, Polizia politica, Serie B, b. 28; it is the case of two letters addressed from Velia to Turati and Salvemini in November 1930. 4. Giopp gave the details of the operation in confessions to the fascist political police after his arrest in March of 1928. See ACS, Polizia politica, Fascicoli personali, b. 596, fasc. Giobbe Giopp, fasc. Reports written during his detention in Rome. See also the confidential report dated 26 December 1930, in ACS, PS, 1942, cat. A1, b. 76, fasc. Famiglia Matteotti. 5. ACS, Polizia politica, Serie B, b. 28. 6. Ibid., the letter is dated 10 March 1932. 7. Ibid. 8. Ibid., see some of the criticism that the socialist Musatti made towards De Ritis when he visited Matteotti’s widow. He said that while he was in Paris, De Ritis “was thinking more about being a bank officer rather than how to frame the issue well.” 9. Ibid. 10. Ibid., see Bocchini’s long report to Mussolini. 11. ACS, Polizia politica, Serie B, b. 28; note dated 9 July 1935. 12. Ibid., letter from De Ritis to Leto of 3 May 1943. 13. ACS, Carte Nenni, b. 32, fasc. 1582, letter from 17 August 1944. 14. Many years later Matteo was more cautious and clarified that it was De Ritis himself who said he was “an ex-associate of my father who, in 1922–23 provided his financial status.” Matteo Matteotti, Quei vent’anni, 62.

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15. His defense memoir is in ACS, PCM, Commissione esame ricorsi Ovra, b. 12. 16. Ibid. This point is fully clarified in Wronosky’s letter of 6 July 1943 that De Ritis exhibited as part of his defense. In it he refers to a family meeting during which he forced the two Matteotti’s to continue availing of the ­support of the fascist political police to obtain favorable treatment in issues involving them. 17. Ibid. 18. Ibid., the letter is dated 8 September 1945. 19. Ibid.; see attached documents n. 34 and 35.

CHAPTER 12

The Second Matteotti Trial

The Matteotti murder trial was held again in 1947. One of the first acts of the High Commissioner for Sanctions Against Fascism was to re-conduct trials that had taken place during the 20 years of fascism because the fair application of justice had not been guaranteed. Law n. 159 of July 27, 1944, established that all judgements pronounced during the 20-year fascist period resulting in prison sentences of more than three years could be nullified if moral coercion of the past regime had clearly influenced the decision. Armed with the appropriate legal tools, deputy high commissioner Mario Berlinguer set to work; naturally one of the first trials to be examined was the Matteotti trial of 1926. A new preliminary investigation was then opened, which the prosecutor referred to the investigation section of the Court of Appeal of Rome. Gennaro Giuffrè was assigned as the investigating judge, assisted by Giovanni Spagnuolo, attorney general at the Court of Appeal of Rome. The elements gathered during the investigation convinced Giovanni Spagnuolo of the existence of the Ceka and of a connection between all its so-called minor crimes and the Matteotti murder, which thus acquired greater significance when considered as a whole. Spagnuolo then re-­ opened the cases for the four crimes committed against Forni, Misuri, Amendola, and the Nitti residence; revoked the amnesty that had applied when they were closed; and ran a new investigation which was completed on March 27, 1946. Trial requests were submitted for: (a) Giunta, Rossi,

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2024 M. Canali, The Matteotti Murder and Mussolini, Italian and Italian American Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-41471-8_12

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and Dumini, for the crime of organizing the Ceka; (b) Rossi, Filippelli, Dumini, Viola, Poveromo, and Malacria for complicity in kidnapping and aggravated and premeditated murder; (c) Panzeri, for complicity in kidnapping; (d) Naldi and Galassi, for aiding and abetting Filippelli. Other requests concerning a host of minor characters for minor crimes followed. The preliminary investigation delivered its verdict on May 9 of 1946. It accepted almost all of Spagnuolo’s conclusions, but acquitted Panzeri and Putato “for not having committed the fact,” instead of “for insufficient evidence” as the Attorney General had asked. On June 22, 1946, one month after the preliminary hearing, a decree of amnesty and pardon was issued; the crime of aiding and abetting against Naldi and Galassi was extinguished because of amnesty, and a subsequent sentence of December 14, 1946, declared that there was no need to proceed against all the defendants of the four minor crimes. Ultimately, the trial for the Matteotti crime alone was held against the four defendants in custody, namely Rossi, Giunta, Dumini, and Poveromo, and the three in absentia, Filippelli, Viola, and Malacria. Among the perpetrators of the crime Dumini and Poveromo were present, while Viola and Malacria remained at large. Malacria had been dead since March 1934, but this was only ascertained during hearings. Rossi and Giunta were present, accused of being instigators of the crime and managers of the Ceka. Filippelli was tried in absentia. The second Matteotti trial began in Rome on January 22, 1947. It ended with the pronouncement of the sentence on April 4. Dumini, Viola, and Poveromo were sentenced to life imprisonment, which was commuted to 30 years’ imprisonment thanks to Article 9 of Presidential Decree No. 4 of June 22, 1946. The investigation and trial added nothing to what was already known. All the defendants maintained their previous positions. Dumini continued to assert that the crime had not been premeditated and that Matteotti’s death was caused by hemoptysis. Rossi continued to insist that he was in the dark regarding the organization of the crime and that he himself was the second victim of the Matteotti affair. The preliminary investigation was very lacking. Putato’s acquittal in the preliminary investigation should not, for example, have prevented the examining magistrate from calling him to testify, considering the sensational recantations he had made between the 1924 preliminary investigation and the 1926 Chieti trial.

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But the most significant absence was that of Curzio Malaparte, who was the main defense witness for Dumini at the Chieti trial of 1926. By retracting what he had testified at the Chieti trial, Malaparte could have knocked down Dumini’s defense, revealed Rossi’s true role regarding the Ceka from his position at the Viminale, and brought to light the true nature of the relations between Rossi and Dumini. But he would have exposed himself to the risk of being in turn accused by Dumini for his shady role during his years in the service of the PNF. If Malaparte’s fascist militancy in the not-too-distant past had surfaced in a trial, it would certainly also have represented an element of embarrassment for the Communist Party because of the criteria it had used in its policy of recruiting intellectuals. The famous writer leaned on the authoritative stature of his new friendships, and in the end was not called to testify. Dumini’s American memoir merits special attention. By now its existence was known, but a copy of it could not be exhibited at the trial. An explicit admission of premeditation by Dumini together with clear allusions to Rossi’s role could have had clamorous effects on the course of the trial. It would certainly have cracked the renewed omertà that had rapidly reemerged between him and Rossi, with unforeseeable developments. The existence of Dumini’s papers concerning the Matteotti crime, which were kept by the two Texas lawyers, had come to light because of events on the North African front. In 1941, during an offensive led by Field Marshal Archibald Wavell, Dumini’s Libyan possessions were occupied by the British. The British came into possession of a microfilmed copy of Dumini’s letter to De Bono of October 28, 1933, which referenced the documents deposited at the Arnold & Robertson law firm in San Antonio, Texas. The text of the letter was published on June 10, 1941, by Paolo Vittorelli, in the Corriere d’Italia, an anti-fascist sheet printed in Cairo. Later, in December 1944, the text of the letter appeared again in Italia Libera, as Paolo Vittorelli had started to collaborate with the newspaper of the Partito d’Azione. On February 3, 1942, William J.  Donovan, chief of the American Office of Strategic Services (OSS), wrote to J. Edgar Hoover, head of the FBI, inviting him to send agents to San Antonio to contact the law firm.1 The purpose of their trip was to view the contents of the Dumini papers to determine if they could be used as propaganda material against the head of an enemy state. Thanks to the cooperation of the two lawyers, between the second half of February and the beginning of March 1942, all of

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Dumini’s documents were photographed and translated by the FBI and sent to Donovan. It is significant that, although the documents contained explicit evidence of Mussolini’s criminal role in the crime, the Americans did not consider it appropriate to make use of it. It is very likely that the mention of an American oil company in the role of corruptor, to which the document made explicit reference, contributed to this decision. This consideration on the part of the Americans also explains their subsequent opposition to making the memoir public. It wasn’t until the summer of 1943 that English language newspapers began saying that a copy of the document held by the Texans could be in the hands of the FBI. In the face of growing leaks of indiscretions which fed a press campaign conducted by the most well-known American newspapers, the FBI could no longer deny it possessed a copy of the document. The admission allowed the Italian State to make a formal request for the papers through their embassy in Washington when the investigation into Matteotti’s murder was reopened in Italy. On October 13, 1945, investigating magistrate Giuffrè requested that the American government “arrange for the transmission to this office of the document in question, or at least a photographic copy of it.” But, after waiting nine months, the FBI reported to the State Department that, since Attorney Arnold “is respecting his professional ethics with regard to papers entrusted to him by a client, the Bureau did not have the authority to modify the terms imposed by Mr. Arnold.” In short, the U.S. government refused to hand over a copy of the document in its possession to the Italian judiciary, even though it was aware of the gravity of its content and its usefulness in the judicial proceedings. The trial therefore proceeded without Dumini’s memoir. When questioned about the content of the document, Dumini naturally maintained that it had no relevance to the proceedings in progress. After being convicted, Dumini appealed to the Court of Cassation, which rejected his appeal on January 18, 1950. In 1952 Poveromo died in prison in Parma. Dumini was freed on amnesty on December 23, 1953 but returned to prison a year later; on October 7, 1954 his amnesty had been revoked by the Court of Cassation. The Office of the Attorney General had at first granted the amnesty, but only three days later had had second thoughts and appealed to the Cassation, against itself, for its incorrect application. When Dumini heard about the appeal, he hurriedly applied

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to the President of the Republic, Luigi Einaudi, for a pardon. In the meantime, the Attorney General’s appeal, which was to be heard on June 6, 1954, was postponed to October 7. On that date Dumini’s pardon was annulled, but at the same time the procedure for granting a new pardon began. The relative decree, signed between October 20 and 26 by the Minister of Justice, was immediately sent to the President of the Republic for his signature. Dumini, having heard that the decree had been signed, came out of hiding and turned himself in the following November 18. He was definitively released on March 23, 1956.2 He died on Christmas Day, 1967.

Notes 1. All the documentation in ASFBI, File Amerigo Dumini. 2. Biographical information is from A.  Dumini, Galera……S.O.S. (Milan: Gastaldi, no date but 1956).

CHAPTER 13

Concluding Thoughts

A wide range of supporters defend Mussolini and maintain that he was extraneous to Matteotti’s murder. There are those who affirm that he merely gave the order to administer a lesson to the Socialist deputy, which ended tragically due to a botched execution. Others are convinced that the crime was carried out without his knowledge, for unknown reasons, by some of his unfaithful collaborators. There are also those who are still convinced that the crime was the result of a tragic misunderstanding, of a misinterpretation by some collaborators of Mussolini’s verbal outbursts against Matteotti, which they understood as an actual order to kill him. Finally, some place Mussolini’s responsibility in the moral sphere only. They contend that Mussolini did not order the crime, but they are willing to admit that it arose within a climate of violence that he was instrumental in creating. As for his moral responsibilities, it is difficult to deny them. In a speech of January 3, 1925, the fascist leader himself claimed “political, moral and historical responsibility for everything that happened,” and added immediately afterwards that if “all the violence was the result of a certain historical, political and moral climate, well, I am responsible for it.”1 He sarcastically reminded the opposition that article 47 of the Constitution gave the Chamber of Deputies the power to accuse him. Mussolini was thus challenging them to formulate an indictment against him. He knew they could not possibly succeed, since the Chamber was

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composed mainly of fascists and pro-fascists. And if by any chance the opposition had attempted and succeeded to accuse him, the trial would have been prevented by the Senate, which in fact soon after demonstrated its servility to fascism by acquitting Senator De Bono of charges based on more consistent evidence than could have been brought against Mussolini. From this point of view, the fascist leader could sleep soundly. The direct responsibilities of Rossi, Marinelli, and Fasciolo in the organization of the crime, and those of De Bono, Finzi, and Acerbo in obstructing the investigation and concealing evidence, lead directly to the political responsibilities of Mussolini. It is impossible to believe that an entire group of leaders, a group of men who demonstrated extreme loyalty to the regime, could formulate a plan and act in complete autonomy to suppress a prominent political opponent, while leaving their leader completely in the dark. It would have been impossible to maintain such secrecy, considering that they availed themselves of government and party funds, and that branches of the government knowingly collaborated with them. But even if this had been true, it would remain completely inexplicable why Mussolini did not subsequently prosecute his unfaithful collaborators, whose actions had put the fascist government at risk of being overthrown. Given Mussolini’s hostility towards anyone who betrayed him in any way, had he been extraneous to the crime he would not have hesitated to take decisive action against those responsible for the plot, to protect both himself and his regime. It is possible to explain Mussolini’s weak stand against the protagonists of the Matteotti murder, as some scholars have done, as a fear of possible reprisal, or of being accused as a co-­ conspirator in other crimes in the years between 1924 and 1926, that is, up to the time of the Chieti trial. But that same explanation does not hold years later, when the authoritarian regime was fully in power. Mussolini would not have run any risk in taking firm action against the criminals; he would have been able to unleash his wrath on those who had organized and committed a crime without his knowledge, and who were the cause of the most serious crisis faced by his government. Instead, he reinstated all the protagonists and collaborators of the crime back into the ranks of fascism, or, when more appropriate, offered them his generous protection, as described here. Throughout the entire Matteotti crisis he was hostile and showed aversion only towards those who did not maintain silence or were not willing to self-accuse themselves; those who tried to save themselves by laying responsibility on the regime and more or less directly on him, or more simply had made compromising

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admissions. Rossi, Finzi, and Filippelli fell into this category. Later, so did Dumini when, released from prison, he attempted to blackmail Mussolini. How, then, can the political responsibilities of the fascist leader be extricated from the proven and extremely serious responsibilities of his closest collaborators, if Mussolini himself did not do so? While accusations against Mussolini go from maintaining his generic political and moral responsibilities to claiming he directly ordered the murder, some scholars stubbornly insist on his innocence. Even if willing to admit that Mussolini was responsible for the many violent events that marked the first two years of the fascist government, they quickly minimize the seriousness of those events. Anti-fascist historiography also bears some responsibility: to explain the inevitability of fascism’s recourse to crime, it had never undertaken a concrete analysis of its structures and repressive mechanisms—as was its “institutional” duty. In the absence of research that shed light on the practices and structures that fascism introduced, and the means it used to consolidate its precarious rise to power, both historiographies focused explanations on Mussolini’s political skills only. Both schools remained victims of the personality cult engendered by Mussolini, albeit with different characteristics. The Matteotti crime thus remained disconnected from the historical and political context it took place in and appeared like a monstrous mushroom growing in the desert. Fascinated by Mussolini’s undoubted political ability, pro-Mussolini scholars concluded that the fascist leader could not have made such an obvious mistake; others concluded that Mussolini was simply morally responsible for a crime, and he had temporarily succumbed to a momentary lapse in his political lucidity. Both approaches tend to confound the Mussolini of that period with the man at the end of the 1920s and the 1930s, when Mussolini had become an established politician and statesman, the undisputed master of the country’s political life. The stability that had been achieved allowed the regime to use its repressive tools more efficiently and discreetly, and the exercise of repressive violence was now entrusted to state bodies set up for that purpose. But in 1924 the fascist reality was more complicated. The precariousness of fascism’s rise to power and the need to do “whatever it took” to remain in power, made Mussolini more willing to resort to violence and more intolerant towards the opposition. In this transitional phase, Mussolini could not count on widespread and unquestioned consensus; it

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was limited and conditioned. The fascist goal was to forcefully take over all sectors of civil society, and resorting to violence was considered a legitimate tool to clear all obstructions from its path. When Rossi went into hiding, he wrote a letter to Mussolini that included a partial list of the criminal actions that Mussolini and his cohorts were responsible for. It is a powerful document that expresses the despair of a collaborator who realized he had been abandoned to the vengeance of his political adversaries, after his unconditional loyalty to his boss had pushed him to adopt illegal and violent methods of political struggle. Rossi wrote that he was convinced he had been chosen by Mussolini as the only “scapegoat for the disaster that befell fascism,” a scapegoat “not only in political and moral terms but also criminally.” He informed his former boss that, if over the following days while he was in hiding he did not receive, proof that you recognize your duties of solidarity, not so much towards my person and my past, not so much towards me as your collaborator and executor at times of illegal actions ordered by you, but above all towards the basic need of the reason of State,

then he would put into action, what I declared to you this morning and have perfected during the day. I refer to the assault on Misuri, the assault on Amendola, sending Dumini to France to avenge Geri with money provided by Finzi and agreed to by Bastianini, the attack on Cesare Forni, the invasion of Nitti’s home that degenerated into looting and destruction, the recent action against the opposition you ordered to Foschi.

In short, Rossi announced to Mussolini, and it is clear from the letter that he had already told him verbally during their harsh conversation on Saturday morning, that he had compiled a memoir with a detailed description of all illegal actions he knew of that could be traced back to Mussolini. Rossi also hinted at fearing for his own life and those of his friends and associates. He continued, in fact, There is no point in warning you that if the cynicism you have shown so far, that is complicated by the unease that has invaded you even when you should have controlled a situation that you yourself created, were to lead you to order acts of physical suppression while I am in hiding or in the

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unfortunate event of my capture, you would still be destroyed and with you, unfortunately, the regime, because my long and detailed documentary statement is already, of course, in the hands of very trustworthy friends who truly act as friends should.

The head of the press office knew Mussolini well, so after threatening him he concluded by offering, It is necessary not for us, but for the enormity of what Italy has confidently entrusted to us, that contacts be established between us. It is up to you to see to it that this takes place. It is up to you, who remains head of the government. I have already sacrificed myself for you by fleeing.2

In hindsight, if one critically examines both the internal state of fascism at the time and the real extent of the electoral victory of the ill-assorted “listone” (in which Mussolini included not just fascists, but also representatives of moderate parties to take advantage of a new electoral law that would give him a parliamentary majority) it would be nonsense today to conclude that the Prime Minister would have refrained from resorting to crime after the electoral results of April 6, 1924. Even without considering the deeply anti-democratic and totalitarian character of fascism, the prospects for Mussolini’s government, even after the victorious elections, did not appear more solid than when he had come to power. As De Felice wrote, the success of the so-called “listone” was in fact “not without significant shadows.” It was, “stronger in the South than in the North, in the areas of fascism of the thirteenth hour rather than in those of the first hour.”3 Even a superficial analysis of the people elected in the “list” reveals a large presence in the new parliament of exponents of allied groups and of moderate fascists. On the other hand, the left-wing opposition, in particular Matteotti’s PSU, had gained considerable support among the bourgeoisie living in small and medium-sized cities in the north, expanding their support beyond the working-class and agricultural sectors. In the end, “the success, while remaining remarkable, could certainly not be said to be such as not to raise concerns for the future.”4 Mussolini had certainly not arrived in government with the intention of administering power like any other liberal leader, to establish a politics of reciprocal respect with allies, and to confront the opposition in accordance with well-defined institutional rules. There were too many pressures

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within the PNF that demanded a more radical stance, given the outcome of the March on Rome. Many signs from within the fascist movement revealed dissatisfaction and restlessness in the intransigent radical wing, and its inherent inability to compromise with adversaries and allies. Even if Mussolini was well aware of his unique role as mediator between opposing forces, represented on the one hand by the intransigent sectors of his party that wanted to bring about revolutionary change, and on the other hand by his government allies who urged him to rid his movement of radicals and to normalize political and institutional processes, it was clear to him that accepting this condition would have meant working towards a tactical balance that would have ended up sinking his government. After the incidents of May 30, it was not difficult to imagine that the conflict between the majority and the opposition in the legislature would become more acute. The fascists in government—the Rossi’s, the Acerbo’s, and the Finzi’s—had miscalculated; the victory of the “listone” had not given fascism a tamed, docile opposition. The events that took place during the opening of the legislature demonstrated that the opposition did not intend to recognize fascism as the legitimate government of the country. And the moderate fascists who wanted to work within the government feared that the opposition’s pugnacious attitude would favor the renewal of the intransigent fascists’ ambitions, to the detriment of their plans to absorb them into normal party dialectic. To understand Mussolini and company’s violent reactions to Matteotti’s speech on May 30, we must examine their own beliefs about their ability to maintain power in a political environment regulated by democratic norms. Mussolini had no illusions about this. On the contrary, he was convinced that in the long run a political battle carried out in compliance with democratic rules would have brought about the end of the fascist movement. Some factions would join the traditional liberal and democratic forces, while the others would be relegated to the ghetto of sterile extremism. The crisis would only have been postponed if the opposition had demonstrated more acquiescence to the resulting distribution of power after the elections, but the May 30 parliamentary session had made it very clear that the opposition intended to raise the level of political conflict. The dangers of this escalation were immediately clear to Mussolini, as they were to Cesare Rossi, one of his most politically astute collaborators. They realized that the kind of radical opposition that Matteotti theorized and practiced would end up exposing the basic weakness of Mussolini’s

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governmental alliance. The unstable institutional compromise that the moderate fascist wing had signed on to, which was partially bona fide and partially coerced, in part representative and in part Caesarism, ultimately favored strengthening the intransigent wing of fascism. Even though fascists had won the election, the opposition had not been crushed by the election results. The fascists thus had to look to more radical institutional and political solutions. Turati had understood this very well when, a few days before Matteotti’s murder, he declared that “the situation in this Chamber—and I’m not alone in feeling this—is unlikely to go on for long. The government will be forced either to follow the path indicated by Farinacci, introducing a legislation of terror, or to suppress the Chamber by keeping it closed; but it is not possible to continue in the current situation.”5 Mussolini was aware of the problems that would arise from the precarious and weak governmental compromise that, in October 1922, had put an end to the revolutionary ambitions of the fascist movement. He had tried to deal with them before it was too late by introducing institutional changes, changes that revealed his intentions to wield power outside the classic institutional framework of liberal governments within a more authoritarian structure. Among these changes were the creation of the spurious Grand Council, the organization of fascist squads under the MVSN (a Fascist Party militia within the police force), and most importantly the first nucleus of the Ceka, which had the characteristics of a secret political police force, and operated outside official ranks under Mussolini’s direct command. In fact, it is not difficult to see in Dumini’s small 1924 Ceka the embryo of the future OVRA, Organizzazione Volontaria Repressione Antifascista, the powerful and mysterious political police force that operated from 1927 until the fall of the regime. In 1924 Mussolini continually exerted pressure to establish the Ceka, and it was only because of the Matteotti crisis that the gestation of this illegal political police organ was delayed. But the seeds of the future OVRA were already clearly reflected in the functions assigned to the Ceka and the methods used to carry them out. What sense does it make, then, to pretend that Mussolini’s political actions were based on rationality and logical tactics, if it was already clear that his maneuvers were guided by a political vision whose ultimate goal, even if not yet well defined, was the elimination of the opposition and liberal legislative rights, and their replacement with a totalitarian regime? In the “ambiguous” period of his first two years, to free himself from the

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constraints of a coalition policy that he tolerated but did not accept, Mussolini resorted to functioning at a dual operational and organizational level. In 1924, the fascist government’s political balance was precarious. It maintained power thanks to alliances with moderate liberal and democratic parties—the support of politicians from the pre-fascist world, men who would not have tolerated a corrupt man at the head of the government. A forceful accusation of corruption together with documented proof from Matteotti would certainly have brought an end to Mussolini’s government in a ruinous political downfall. The path to avoid this danger was narrow, and at its end lay a political crime. An amoral and unscrupulous man like Mussolini did not hesitate to go there.

Notes 1. Opera Omnia di Benito Mussolini. Dal delitto Matteotti all’attentato Zaniboni, 238 and 239. 2. Rossini, Il delitto Matteotti tra il Viminale e l’Aventino, 266–267. 3. Renzo De Felice, Mussolini il fascista. La conquista del potere 1921–1925, 586. 4. Ibid. 5. Turati e Kuliscioff, Carteggio (1923–1925). Il delitto Matteotti e l’Aventino, 272, Turati letter of 4 June 1924.



Archives

Archivio Centrale dello Stato, Rome (ACS) Archivio di Stato di Roma (AS Roma) Archivio di Stato di Trieste Archivio Gaetano Salvemini, Istituto Storico per la Resistenza in Toscana, Florence Archivio Gelasio Caetani, Rome Archivio Storico Banca Commerciale Italiana, Milan (ASBCI) Archivio Storico Banca d’Italia, Rome (ASBI) Archivio Storico Ministero Affari Esteri, Rome (ASMAE) FBI Archives, Washington, D.C. National Archives and Record Administration, Washington, D.C. (NARA) The National Archives. The Public Record Office. Kew Gardens, London

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Newspapers (Years 1923, 1924, 1925)

Avanti! Corriere della Sera Corriere Italiano Il Popolo Il Popolo d’Italia Il Nuovo Paese La Tribuna La Voce Repubblicana The Daily Herald

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Bibliography

Bianchi, Gianfranco. “L’odissea del camioncino fantasma.” Tempo Illustrato, June 16, 1962. Bianco, Gino. “Matteotti a Londra.” Giacomo Matteotti a sessant’anni dalla morte. Naples: Edizioni Scientifiche Italiane, 1985. Canali, Mauro. “Documenti inediti sul delitto Matteotti. Il memoriale Rossi del 1927 e il carteggio Modigliani,” Storia Contemporanea, n. 4, August 1994. Canali, Mauro. “La contabilità di Cesare Rossi, Capo dell’Ufficio stampa del governo Mussolini (novembre 1922–maggio 1924).” Storia contemporanea, n. 4, August 1988. Contini, Gaetano. La valigia di Mussolini. I documenti segreti dell’ultima fuga del duce. Milan: Rizzoli, 1996. Davis, John H. The Guggenheims. An American Epic. New York: William Morrow & Co., Inc., 1978. De Felice, Renzo. Mussolini il fascista, vol. I, La conquista del potere (1921–1925). Turin: Einaudi, 1966. Del Giudice, Mauro. Cronistoria del processo Matteotti. Palermo: Lo Monaco, 1954. Dumini, Amerigo. Diciassette colpi. Milan: Longanesi, 1958. Dumini, Amerigo. Galera…S.O.S. Milan: Gastaldi, no date but 1956. Fusco, Gian Carlo. “Con Mussolini, anche il re dietro il delitto Matteotti, Stampa Sera,” January 2, 1978. Gabrielli, Gloria. Carlo Silvestri socialista, antifascista, mussoliniano. Milan: Angeli, 1992.

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Gencarelli, Elvira. Gli archivi italiani durante la Seconda guerra mondiale. Rome: Panetto & Petrelli, 1979. Lanfranchi, Ferruccio. “L’elenco dei documenti trovati nella cassetta di zinco di Mussolini.” Corriere della Sera, March 6, 1947. Longrigg, Stephen Hemsley. Oil in the Middle East. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1954. Marvasi, Roberto. Echi del terrore. Rome: OET, 1946. Matteotti, Giacomo. “Parlamento e Governo.” Echi e Commenti, June 5, 1924a. Matteotti, Giacomo. “Machiavelli, Mussolini and Fascism.” English Life, July 1924b. Matteotti, Giacomo. Un anno di dominazione fascista. Rome: Tipografia Italiana, 1923. Matteotti, Giacomo. Discorsi parlamentari. Rome: Stab. Tip. Carlo Colombo, 1970. Matteotti, Giacomo. Lettere a Velia, S. Caretti ed. Pisa: Nistri-Lischi, 1986. Matteotti, Matteo. Quei vent’anni. Milan: Rusconi, 1985. Modigliani, Giuseppe Emanuele. L’assassinio di Giacomo Matteotti. New  York: Italian-American Labor Council, 1945. Opera Omnia di Benito Mussolini, Duilio Susmel ed. Florence: La Fenice, 1956. Scritti e discorsi di Mussolini, vol. IV, Il 1924. Milan: Hoepli, 1934. Mussolini, Benito. “Preludio al Machiavelli.” Gerarchia, III, n. 4, April 1924a. Mussolini, Benito. “The Folly of Democracy.” English Life, June 1924b. Pizzigallo, Matteo. La “politica estera” dell’Agip (1933–1940). Milan: Giuffrè, 1992. Re, Emilio. Storia di un archivio. Le carte di Mussolini. Milan: Edizioni del Milione, without a date but certainly from November 1946. Rossi, Cesare. Il delitto Matteotti nei procedimenti giudiziari e nelle polemiche giornalistiche. Milan: Ceschina, 1965. Rossini, Giuseppe. Il delitto Matteotti tra il Viminale e l’Aventino. Bologna: Il Mulino, 1966. Roveri, Alessandro. “La formazione di Matteotti nell’ambito delle lotte agrarie padane.” Studi Storici, 1978. Silvestri, Carlo. Matteotti Mussolini e il dramma italiano. Rome: Ruffolo, 1947. G. Spagnuolo, Ceka fascista e delitto Matteotti. Rome: Ruffolo, 1947. Turati, Filippo and Kuliscioff, Anna. Carteggio (1923–1925). Il delitto Matteotti e l’Aventino. A. Schiavi ed. Turin: Einaudi, 1959. Turati, Filippo and Kuliscioff, Anna. Carteggio (1919–1922). Dopoguerra e fascismo. Turin: Einaudi, 1977. Filippo Turati attraverso le lettere di corrispondenti (1880–1925). A.  Schiavi ed. Bari: Laterza, 1947.

Index

A Acerbo, Giacomo, 103 Adler, Friedrich Wolfgang, 220 Agostini, Augusto, 104, 107 Ajmone di Savoia, Duke of Aosta, 184 Albertini, Luigi, 75 Allievi, Arturo, 8 Allievi, Carlo, 8 Amendola, Giovanni, 67, 231 Amendola, Giuseppe, 118 Anglo-Persian Oil Company (APOC), 53 Annoni, Pier Maria, 8 APOC, see Anglo-Persian Oil Company Arditi, 154 Arnold, Martin, 234 Avezzana, Romano, 113 B Badoglio, Pietro, 7 Bain, H. Foster, 132, 142 Balbo, Italo, 48, 167, 208–210

Baldesi, Gino, 60 Barnaba, Pier Arrigo, 192 Bazzi, Carlo, 201 Bellone, Guido, 203 Benedetti, Tullio, 32, 33 Bergamo, Guido, 218 Berlinguer, Mario, 231 Bertrand, Henri, 192 Bini, Livio, 223 Bocchini, Arturo, 178, 196, 201–203, 217, 219, 221 Bombacci, Nicola, 175, 178 Bonomini, Ernesto, 111, 113 Bonservizi, Carlo, 114 Bonservizi, Giovanni, 114 Bonservizi, Nicola, murder, 37, 106, 110–117, 120, 201 Brailsford, H. N., 53 Butturini, Piero, 206 C Caetani, Gelasio, 131, 138 Caratelli, Ovidio, 24, 26

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INDEX

Carnazza, Carlo, 33 Castellani, Dino, 204 Cavallotti, Giorgio, 57, 158 Ceka, 232 creation of, 67–74 Finzi’s memoir, 74 operations in France, 68–71 operations in Italy, 71–73 OVRA, 243 Rossi, Cesare, 77 Chiavolini, Alessandro, 198 Chierici, Renzo, 224 Cioli, Gildo, 75 Clementi, Mimi, 77 Connelly, W. L., 133 Conti, Geremia, 26 Corbino, Orso Mario, 131–132, 136, 137, 141, 146–147 Corey, W. E., 133 Corni, Guido, 202 Cosattini, Giovanni, 58 Cudahy family, 133 D D’Annunzio, Gabriele, 170–171 De Bono, Emilio, 30, 51, 81, 82, 185, 205 murder investigation, 103, 105, 107–109, 121 trial, 103, 118, 122 De Felice, Renzo, 4, 9 De Gasperi, Alcide, 8 De Ritis, Domenico, 216–221, 223, 225–227, 229 de Rivera, Primo, 171 De’ Stefani, Alberto, 139 Del Giudice, Mauro, 24, 29 Del Vasto, Nicodemo, 119, 120 Desio, Ardito, 186 Donati, Giuseppe, 118, 167

Donovan, William J., 233 Dumini, Adolfo, 14, 160 Dumini, Amerigo Bonservizi murder, 37 Ceka, 68, 71, 77, 78 death, 235 denial of guilt, 28, 38–40, 154 during the Ventennio, 199–212 financing of, 154–155, 192 kidnapping, 22 Matteotti documents, 102 memoir, 160–161, 200, 233–234 operations in France, 69–71 preliminary phases of murder, 13, 18–21 relationship with perpetrators, 13, 15–18 relationship with Rossi, 34, 78–80, 199 responsibility for murder, 37, 38, 82–83, 104, 108, 110, 121 second trial, 232, 234 E Emanuel, Guglielmo, 75 English Life article, 56, 147, 156 F Facchinetti, Cipriano, 59 Facta, 48 Fanfani, Bianca, 201 Farinacci, Roberto, 110, 173, 177 Fascism agrarian, 46 April 6 election, 241 collaboration, 180–184, 241–243 violence, 46, 58

 INDEX 

Ferrara, 46, 48 Filippelli, Filippo, 20, 73–74, 106, 119, 176, 232 arrest, 32–33 corruption, 134–135, 157 director of newspaper, 15 memoir, 33 murder vehicle, 20–21 Financing of perpetrators, 191 Finzi, Aldo, 104, 122, 159, 167, 169 Finzi, Gino, 74, 77 First trial, 5 Forni, Cesare, 71, 231 Foschi, Italo, 58, 71, 72 Fratta Polesine, 23, 43, 48, 218 Fusco, Gian Carlo, 184 G Galassi, Giuseppe, 32, 232 Garzarolo, Elisabetta, 43 Gatti, Luigi, 175 Giampaoli, Mario, 198 Giannini, Alberto, 71, 223 Gibelli, Aldo, 160 Giuffrè, Gennaro, 231, 234 Giunta, Francesco, 15, 232 Grandi, Dino, 76 Gravelli, Asvero, 71 Guariglia, Raffaele, 179 Gunther, Franklin Mott, 136 H High Commission for Sanctions Against Fascism, vii, 231 Hitler, Adolph, 179 Hoover, J. Edgar, 233

253

I Ilari, Nino, 57, 158 Italian Socialist Party, see PSI J Jackling, Daniel C., 133 Jeri, Gino, 68 Jung, Guido, 131 K Kuliscioff, Anna, 49, 60 L Laino, Gaetano, 107, 154, 206 Lanfranchi, Ferruccio, 9 Leto, Guido, 224 Letta, Guido, 201 Lombardi, Silvio, 68 M Maglione, Giovan Battista, 172 Malacria, Augusto, 13, 16, 121, 192, 195, 232 Malaparte, Curzio, see Suckert, Curzio Marabini, Camillo, 116 Maratea, Francesco, 75 Marchand, Adrienne, 217 Marinelli, Giovanni, 17, 81, 119, 161, 176, 198 Mariotti, Giovanni, 192 Martelli, Alessandro, 203 Martelli, Mario, 198 Marvasi, Roberto, 61 Matteotti, Giacomo denounce fascism, 58 discovery of body, 24–27

254 

INDEX

Matteotti, Giacomo (cont.) early politics, 44–46 English Life article, 147 family, 43–44 fascist attack against, 47 funeral, 23 grave, 27 identification of body, 23 kidnapping, 22 military service, 45 neutralist, 44, 45 press campaign against, 167 PSU, 48, 50–51, 57 Sinclair Convention, 53–57 speeches in Parliament, 59–61 stolen documents, 156–157, 185 travel abroad, 51–56 “A Year of Fascist Domination,” 49 Matteotti, Giancarlo, 228 Matteotti, Girolamo, 43 Matteotti, Isabella, 215 Matteotti, Matteo, 185, 223, 225, 226, 228 Matteotti, Velia, see Titta, Velia Matteotti, family, 121, 221, 223, 224 Mazzoli, Everardo, 153 Meda, Luigi, 8 Mengoni, Mario, 217, 219, 220 Meoni, Giuseppe, 153 Misuri, Alfredo, 67, 118, 231 Modigliani, Giuseppe, 121, 220 Morello, Vincenzo, 76 Morgan, House of, 133 Motives for murder business, viii, 6, 53–56, 152, 155–156, 161, 174, 175, 184–186 political, 151–152, 161 Murder of Matteotti Bonservizi murder, 106–107, 110–117 discovery of body, 24–27 Dumini arrest, 108

funeral, 23 grave, 27 identification of body, 23 kidnapping, 22, 38, 41–42 Mussolini responsibility, 101–102, 237–240 obstruction of investigation, 106–109 preliminary phases, 18–21 second trial, 231–232 vehicle used, 104–106 Mussolini, Arnaldo, 15, 143, 160, 161 Sinclair Convention, 55 Mussolini, Benito, 13, 14, 18 after the murder, 30 arrest of Filippelli, 32–33 arrest of Rossi, 33–34 Bonservizi murder2, 110–117 Ceka, 67–73 collaboration strategy, 180–184, 242–243 documents in van, 6 escape, 8 extraneous to murder, 4, 170, 180–184 financing of Matteotti family, 221, 225 Matteotti documents, 102 meetings with Silvestri, 168, 215 obstruction of investigation, 192–193 press campaign against Matteotti, 167 protection of perpetrators, 191 PSU, 50, 57 relationship with Dumini, 15 relationship with Filippelli, 15 relationship with Matteotti, 52 relationship with Rossi, 14 responsibility for murder, 81–82, 101–102, 237–240 Sinclair Convention, 54, 131, 138–140

 INDEX 

N Naldi, Filippo, 232 Naldi, Pippo, 32, 157 Nani, Renato, 7 Nenni, Pietro, 224 Nitti, Francesco Saverio, 67, 71, 231 O OSS, 233 OVRA, 178, 226, 243 P Pallavicini, Domenico, 24, 26 Panzeri, Filippo, 13, 17–20, 29, 30, 119, 153, 192, 196–197, 232 Partito Socialista Unitario (PSU), 48, 50–51, 57 April 6 election, 241 collaborationists, 49 collaboration strategy, 180–184 fascist government, 50 Matteotti secretary, 48 Pellizzi, Camillo, 54 Pennetta, Epifanio, 157, 158 Piras, Mario, 24 Pisenti, Piero, 179 Pizzigallo, Matteo, 186 Poggi, Umberto, 168, 170–172 Poveromo, Amleto, 13, 16, 17, 20, 22, 30, 68, 121, 153, 159, 192, 196, 232, 234 Priolo, Antonio, 158 PSI, 48, 224, 228 PSU, see Partito Socialista Unitario Putato, Aldo, 13, 16, 17, 29–32, 71, 113, 119, 152, 192, 198–199

255

Q Quilici, Nello, 29–32, 106 R Re, Emilio, 7 Rigola, Giovanni, 172 Roberts, Charles M., 160, 204 Rommel, Erwin, 212 Rossi, Cesare, 16, 31 arrest, 33–34 arrest of Filippelli, 32–33 Ceka, 17, 72, 77–78, 80–81 file, 8 press campaign against Matteotti, 167 press office, 14, 15 relationship with Dumini, 14, 15, 19, 21, 78–80, 199, 201 responsibility for murder, 19, 102–103, 119, 152 scapegoat, 240–241 second trial, 232 Rossini, Giuseppe, 4 Rosso, Augusto, 142 Rovigo, vi, 48 S Sabbatini, Antonio, 69 Sacco, Francesco, 71, 107 Salandra, Antonio, 59 Salvemini, Gaetano, 5, 103, 217, 220 Saper, 135 Scanga, Giovanni, 141 Schiff Giorgini, Giorgio, 74, 75 Sebastiani, Osvaldo, 207 second trial, 5, 77, 231–232 Senise, Carmine, 179, 224 SIAP, 135, 144 Silvestri, Carlo, 75, 167–169, 172–180, 215

256 

INDEX

Sinclair Convention, 57, 129–148, 184–186 Arnaldo Mussolini, 55 bribes, 144 criticism in press, 138 negotiations, 134–138 signing, 141 summary of agreement, 145 Sinclair Oil, 53, 184–186 board of directors, 133 corruption, 160 financial independence, 133–135, 141–143 formation, 132–133 Matteotti, 53–56 Matteotti case, 6 Sinclair Convention, 135–138 and Standard Oil, 56, 135, 140 Teapot Dome scandal, 135, 142 Sironi (consul), 116 Spagnuolo, Giovanni, 116, 117, 231 Standard Oil, 53, 56, 133–135 Steiner, Emerich, 61, 216 Steiner (family), 45 Stolen documents, 156–157 Suckert, Curzio, 69, 111–112 Susi, Attilio, 34 T Tancredi, Guglielmo, 24, 121 Teapot Dome scandal, 135, 142 Teruzzi, Attilio, 171, 209 Tessitore, Vincenzo, 199 Thierschald, Otto, 13, 17, 18, 20, 21, 30–32, 119, 153, 185, 192 Tieri, Vincenzo, 106 Titta, Ettore, 216 Titta, Fosca, 216 Titta, Nelly, 216

Titta, Ruffo, 216 Titta, Settima, 216 Titta, Velia, 8, 23, 45, 121, 215 and expatriates, 217–220, 222 fascist government financing of, 215, 223 Toeplitz, Giuseppe, 135, 136 Torrigiani, Domizio, 34 Turati, Filippo, 49, 60 U Unitary Socialist Party, see Partito Socialista Unitario V Vaselli, Giovanni, 110, 115, 121, 191, 201 Veatch, A. C., 53, 132, 136, 140, 141, 144 Veratti, Luigi, 173 Viola, Giuseppe, 13, 16, 121, 153, 192, 196, 232 Virgili, Alberto, 34 Vittorelli, Paolo, 233 Volpi, Albino, 13, 15–20, 30–32, 68, 71, 121, 192, 197–198 W Wavell, Archibald, 233 Whitney, Harry Paine, 133 Wilson, Jessie, 14, 200, 201 Wronosky, Casimiro, 216, 219, 223, 227–228 Z Zanotti Bianco, Umberto, 217