Legacy of Sorrows (9 page)

Then, a doctor came out to see me. ‘Well, Signor Verdi, everything went very well, although your wife is very tired and she is resting at the moment with your son.' It took a moment for this to sink in.

‘A son, doctor? Are they both all right? When can I see them?'

The doctor laughed. ‘Yes, they are both fine and I can let you see them both for a few minutes today, but that's all. She really does need rest.'

I got off my seat and followed a nurse into a small side room.

Maria was lying in bed with our new-born baby in her arms and she indeed looked exhausted. Her hair was soaked in sweat, but through her tiredness I saw a look of joy in her eyes as she gazed at her baby. I walked up to them and gently kissed Maria on her cheek before kissing my son on his head.

‘Are you happy Bruno? I knew you wanted a boy first so I thought I'd surprise you,' she said in a weak voice. I just looked at my son. I couldn't take my eyes off him. I stretched out my hand and very gently held his hand in mine.

‘Maria, I couldn't be happier. Let's call him Moreno, after my father, and we'll call our next child after your parents.' Maria nodded. I could see that she wanted to rest, so I kissed her again and left.

Moreno proved to be a great blessing in my life. I loved to hold him in my arms and tickle his tummy. His squeals of delight filled our new home with the sounds of family love. We had now rented a three bedroom terraced house that wasn't far from Maria's parents' house. The rent was a large chunk of our salary and, with Maria now only working part-time, we didn't have much left over at the end of the month. I was also studying for the civil service exams that were held every year, and if I passed them, I hoped to be accepted as an administrator with the local Council. The pay was much better than I made at the Principessa and there was even a pension at the end of your working life.

My friendship with Placido had deepened and it came as a shock to us all when he had a stroke that took his speech away from him. This once animated man became a quiet figure sitting in his armchair in the kitchen. He seemed to lose heart quite quickly and it was no great surprise to the family when he died the following year; a great sadness fell over us all for quite a considerable time. Maria was concerned at her mother being alone and I knew without asking that she wanted her to move in with us. And so she did. Now we were a real Italian family.

Moreno was growing up to be a real country boy with a love of fishing, hunting and the outdoor life. One time, when he was about fourteen years old, we went hunting together for wild boar in the wonderful countryside surrounding Bologna. Wild boar is a very dangerous animal to hunt. They can suddenly charge you from their hiding place and maul you with the horns on their snout, giving you a nasty gash. We also knew that over the years some hunters had been killed by them. Moreno thought that it added a little spice to the hunt.

As we entered some dense undergrowth with our rifles at the ready, I was charged by one from behind. He caught me with his horns with such force that I was propelled to the ground, injured in my right leg. As I fell, I saw Moreno calmly raise his rifle and take aim as the boar charged once again, this time at him. He fired, and the animal squealed as it dropped dead literally at Moreno's feet. He rushed over to me and looked at my wounds, which, thankfully, were not really that serious. I had two deep gashes on my calf which were bleeding quite freely. Luckily we had some ointment and bandages in our backpacks, which - with a snort of Brandy from my hip flask - soon had me limping back to our car, dragging behind us a large dead boar. I was so proud of my son that day. How he had stood in front of a charging boar calmly taking his aim had taken great courage from him. Needless to say, we lived well off the carcase and the storytelling for quite a long time.

As he got older, he began to ask more questions about his family and the massacre on Monte Sole. I found it very difficult to talk to him about these things, and only gave him curt answers and so I suspect he asked his mother for more details.

Moreno, according to his school reports, was considered an average student and therefore had decided not to stay on and try for university. So, when the time came for him to leave school at the age of eighteen and find a job, he was delighted. It didn't take him long to find work. A large estate outside Bologna was looking for an estate warden, and to his delight, he was successful. His job was to control the wildlife on the estate that could endanger the farm stock; foxes in particular. He was also to prevent poachers stealing fish from the river, and laying traps for the wild animals, and because he loved the countryside so much, this was his dream job and I was happy for him. Maria was also happy as it meant he would continue staying at home, at least for the meantime.

It was early in 1980 when Moreno and I had our first real conversation about the events on Monte Sole. It was after our evening meal and I was sitting at the table enjoying an espresso when Moreno said, ‘Papà, I went with some friends to Monte Sole yesterday and I visited Marzabotto. We also went to the cemetery at Casaglia.'

It was strange hearing those names from my son's lips, and I wasn't sure what to say in return. I looked at Moreno in silence as he continued. ‘I understand, Papà, that you still feel the pain of what happened, but I wanted you to know that I also feel the pain. It was my family as well.'

He got up from his seat and hugged me. I felt the tears well up from deep within me and I cried on his chest like a baby. This was my twenty-year old son telling me that he felt the pain as well, and that I wasn't alone in it anymore. I had carried it for thirty-six years, and it's true what people say that a burden shared is a burden halved. I cried on his chest as I had never cried before. What had been bottled up inside of me came flooding out in a torrent of tears. I found that I was now able to talk to him about the massacre in a way that I could not with anyone else because it was also his family, his blood, as well as mine, that was spilled that fateful day. Even though my son and I had always been close, this was a new bond being forged between us. A bonding of two men joined by a common tragedy and I have to say it did help me a little further along the road.

I was in the habit of visiting my local market once or twice a week when my shifts in the hotel allowed it. I liked to cook with fresh vegetables and various rare cuts of meat that were sometimes difficult to find in the shops. I also enjoyed the banter with the stall holders and I usually passed some time talking to some of the local people I knew. One day, as I was standing at a stall waiting to be served, a stranger pushed his way past me and began shouting, quite aggressively, in broken Italian to the stall holder. Old Franco, the stall holder, had apparently made a mistake with the stranger's change and he was now enraged. I had known Franco for many years and I knew that he was as honest as the day is long. I listened to the stranger's accent and realised that he was German. I could see that Franco was quite shaken by the verbal abuse the German was giving him so I decided to intervene. I tapped him on the shoulder and said, ‘Please don't shout at the old man like that, it's obviously just a mistake.'

The German turned to face me and with anger filling his eyes said, ‘What the hell has this to do with you? This old thief owes me money, so just clear off.'

He gave me a shove which moved me back a few feet. The thought ran quickly through my head:
the days when Germans could come to Italy and act like this are over. I'll teach him a lesson
.

A red haze came over me and, before I knew what I was doing, I sprang forward and struck the German with two powerful punches to the face. He went down and I stood over him and said, ‘Don't think you Germans can come to Italy and do what you want anymore. If you need more convincing, then just stand up.' I peeled a few lira notes from my pocket and threw them at him. ‘This should cover Franco's mistake. Take it and go home.' The German just lay there on the ground looking at me in amazement, but he had the good sense to stay down. I turned and walked away. My mind was churning. Did I hit him because of his attitude to Franco, or did I hit him because he was a German? Would I have been so angry if he had been an Italian?

I reckoned that there was a mixture of both in there, but the one thing I couldn't deny was that I enjoyed thumping him.

At last, the news that I had been hoping for came through. I had passed my civil service exams and had been accepted as a junior administrator in the department of employment in Bologna. The salary was a lot more than what I had been earning as a waiter at the Principessa, including my tips, and it meant that we could now afford things that we never could before. Another factor was I would not have to work crazy shift hours in the hotel anymore. When I told Italo that I was leaving, I could see that he was sorry to lose me, however we promised to keep in touch and to meet regularly for a coffee or a glass of wine at one of the many bars in the city.

It was a Saturday morning in 1984 when we were having a morning coffee together in a new Café not far from the city centre when we saw in the newspapers that Reder had written an open letter to the Italian Government apologising for the atrocity on Monte Sole and asking for forgiveness from the Italian people. This was followed up over the next few weeks by a campaign orchestrated by the Catholic Church and the Austrian Government to have Reder released back into society. Italo and I watched this develop with great interest. We even discussed if Reder was released if we should attempt to kill him, or whether he had paid enough for his crime with the thirty-three years to date he had spent in prison. It was only idle talk, but it brought to my mind Hans Kuller. If I could find out where he was, then I would go there and kill him with great pleasure and without a moment's hesitation.

Italo seemed to voice my thoughts, ‘Would you kill Reder if you had the chance?'

I thought for a moment. ‘He wasn't on the mountain during the massacre. I know he did the planning and gave the order for the
rastrallemento
but he has served a long prison sentence as a punishment for that.'

‘What about Kuller?'

‘He's a different matter. He killed unarmed civilians for pleasure, not just once but probably hundreds of times. He killed them in the most horrific ways imaginable, and he made no distinction between men, women and children. He deserves to be killed and if I could find him I would kill him without a second thought.'

‘It's strange, Bruno, that we were killing these people legally during the war, but as soon as some Generals signed a piece of paper ending the conflict, our fight against them had to stop, even though some atrocities personal to us still go unpunished.' He took a sip of his coffee as we sat together in a silence, only broken by the murmur of voices around us.

I was the first to speak. ‘The signing of that paper could change me from being a heroic partisan to a murderer in the eyes of the State. It's all a matter of perception and timing. I believe that my quest for justice was thwarted by this so-called peace, and that I cannot personally find peace until Kuller has paid for his crimes.'

We held each other's gaze for some time and I felt Italo's eyes burn deep within me, until he finally spoke. ‘The Stella Rosa partisans who were killed that day were armed fighters and knew well the risk they took fighting the
tedeschi
, but the villagers were different. I knew many of them as friends.' He stopped speaking for a moment as he choked up with emotion. ‘I promise you Bruno, if we find out where Kuller is, I will go with you to kill that piece of shit and, if need be, I'll be prepared to be called a murderer by the State.'

We stood up and embraced each other as the tears ran down our faces, merging into one. I sometimes look back at that moment and think how it was so like the ancient initiation ceremonies of pricking fingers and merging blood to symbolise the bond of a familial blood line. We had always been friends but now we were as one, with the same desire to see justice finally won for our friends and family.

Chapter 8

K
uller
soon found a job in a small bakery not far from where he was born. The owner was someone Kuller knew from their Nazi party days in the city and who Kuller knew was still sympathetic to the extreme right wing ethos. He worked hard in the bakery and soon earned the owner's respect. He was even offered a room over the bakery in the family house, which Kuller readily accepted.

He also saw an opportunity to ingratiate himself further by making advances to the owner's daughter, who was not exactly a pretty girl. One night, when they were in the house alone, Kuller made his move and after a few drinks he seduced her. The girl, whose name was Gertrude, was so overjoyed at such a handsome man finding her attractive that she readily entered into an affair with Kuller. It wasn't before long that she found herself pregnant with his child. Gertrude, with Kuller not far behind her, approached her father with the news. The father, being a pragmatist, realised that he had two choices for his not-so-attractive daughter. The first being a daughter with a child and no husband. The second being a daughter with a husband and a father for the child. He quickly gave them his blessing.

In Kuller's eyes, there was no such thing as romance or love: only duty and honour and so he proved himself a good provider for his family. The baker, who was getting on in age, turned a blind eye to the occasional bruising he saw on Gertrude's face and body. After all, what a husband and wife did in private was no concern of his.