Legacy of Sorrows

by Roberto Buonaccorsi

I realised that I had to do something to come out of this dream-like state. Unsteadily, I stood up and walked over to the breadboard, lifted two loaves and put them in a bag. I then took a wedge of the Pecorino cheese and some salami and did the same with them. Mamma always had homemade lemonade in the larder, so I put a couple of bottles in my pack and left the house, taking care not to look at the dead bodies of my sibling lying in the ruins and growing cold. I paused outside for a few moments, said a prayer over my parents’ bodies and read what the blonde killer had written on the ground in my mother’s blood. Then I prayed for the souls of my siblings lying dead in the house before moving on. I vowed never to return to the house or Monte Sole ever again.

  Chapter 4

  Having nowhere else to go, I returned to my hiding place on the hillside. I just couldn’t tear myself away from the place no matter how much I wanted to and I couldn’t think where else to go. The events of the day had exhausted me, so I sat down on the warm ground and tried to plan what to do next.

  Feeling somewhat hungry, I ate a little of the food I had brought with me and before too long my eyes felt very heavy and I fell asleep.

  It was a silly thing to do. No sooner had I done so than I was awakened by a terrible nightmare. I tried to sleep again but the nightmares were always there. They always had the central figure of a tall, blonde-haired man, standing laughing over my family. I realised that I had to move away from the house, but I wasn’t sure where to go. I picked up my meagre belongings and turned away from the scene of my hellish nightmare, and in the black mountain night I walked down the path I knew so well and headed for the village of Marzabotto. I felt I just needed contact with other people that I knew.

  Usually, at this time of night, the village would have been asleep, however tonight there were people gathered in small groups all over the main street. I saw my father’s friend Pietro talking to some people and I ran over to him. I grabbed him round the waist and let my tears erupt in loud sobbing cries. Pietro reached down and lifted me up in his arms. ‘Bruno, what’s wrong? Where are your parents?

  I couldn’t answer him; the words that confirmed my family were all dead just wouldn’t come out of my mouth.

  Pietro slowly nodded his head as if understanding without hearing any words.

  ‘Did the Germans come to your house Bruno?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Did they harm your family?’

  Again, I nodded.

  Pietro took a deep breath before asking me, ‘Are any of them still alive?’

  I looked up at him for the first time and said in a clear voice, ‘They are all dead. I saw it happen to them and to my aunt and uncle at the farm.’

  Pietro held me close to him and said, ‘Bruno, you can stay with us tonight until we think this thing through. The Germans were also here today and killed a lot of villagers; however, I don’t think they will return tonight so we should be safe enough to get some rest and have a talk in the morning.’ He took me by the hand and we walked through the village to his house. I saw that some villagers were openly weeping on the streets, and I realised for the first time the extent of the killings the Germans had brought on us.

  Pietro told me that the Germans had forbidden anyone, on pain of death, to bury any of the dead villagers. The Parish Priest, Don Francesco, had tried to bury some of his own parishioners but was discovered by the SS. They executed him on the spot without mercy.

  Eventually, we arrived at Pietro’s house, a small terraced villa facing the village piazza, and only a few houses along from the Church. His wife, Giovanna, made a panino for me, before showing me to a small attic bedroom for the night. Giovanna was very kind and made sure that I was comfortable there. After eating my panino I was so exhausted that, as soon as my head hit the pillow, I was fast asleep.

  I was wakened early in the morning by the sound of shouting in the street below. I jumped out of bed and when I looked out of the attic window, my heart skipped a beat. The Germans had come back again, and were rounding up the remaining villagers into the piazza. I felt so afraid; however, I knew that if I didn’t act quickly to escape they would soon discover me up here in an attic bedroom with the only way out through the lower part of the house.

  Then I saw him again, the giant blonde soldier. He was in charge and was separating the men from the women and children. Blood rushed to my head and once more, I felt physically sick. I knew what this man was capable of - if I didn’t get away from him, I was certain I would be killed.

  I heard the outside door being kicked open and a German voice in the house shouting “Raus, Raus!” to Pietro and Giovanna, as he ushered them out. I heard them downstairs, searching for anyone who may be hiding in the downstairs rooms.

  I thought for a moment. How can I escape before they search here and find me? In desperation,n I opened the attic window on the opposite side of the room and looked out. I saw that the roof tiles there had a gentle slope and could quite easily be climbed onto. I pulled myself up onto the window ledge and lifted myself out onto the roof. I quickly reached behind me and pulled the window closed, then cautiously climbed up to the chimneystacks and perched between them out of sight from the soldiers below. As I huddled there, I heard the attic widow scrape open and the sound of German voices talking to each other. Eventually the window closed again.

  From my vantage point, I saw the Germans herd the women and children into the cemetery beside the church. The cemetery was of typical country design, with tall stonewalls on three sides and a padlocked metal entrance gate to the front. One soldier broke the lock off the gate with his rifle butt to allow the women in. The women were all shouting to each other as they searched for their loved ones in the crowd. The children were screaming and trying to hide. A soldier calmly set up a machine gun at the entrance to the cemetery and, once ready, he waited on the order to open fire. When the women and children saw the machine gun, their screams grew louder. Some women tried to climb up the walls to escape but were picked off by rifle fire from a group of soldiers standing close by. I closed my eyes and put my hands over my ears to try and cut out the loud chatter of the machine gun and the screams of the dying. Then there was silence, and when I opened my eyes and saw the pile of dead bodies in that small space, I felt a wet sensation spread between my legs.

  The blonde SS sergeant walked amongst the dead, stopping every so often to move a body, checking if there was anyone alive underneath it. Anyone he found still alive he shot twice in the head. His pistol shots echoed loudly in the still air. Other soldiers then came and threw the dead bodies ever higher on top of each other until they looked like some sort of macabre art form of twisted arms and legs sticking out of tortured flesh.

  Meanwhile, on the other side of the piazza, I saw the men being marched off into the woods. Amongst them were some of the boys I played football with. The contrast to the women in the cemetery was quite stark. There was not a sound from them as they walked along, as if they were resigned to their fate. I didn’t see what happened to them, but I did hear the chatter of machine guns coming from their direction and eventually the soldiers returning without them.

  About another twenty people, men and women, living on the outskirts of the village, were rounded up and escorted under gunpoint to the village church, protesting as they went. Some of them put up a struggle but they were soon subdued with a rifle butt or a shot to the head. The soldiers then took some of the boards from a nearby fencing and nailed them to the solid oak doors of the Church with the aim of stopping anyone from escaping. Some soldiers took dry tinder and placed it around the church then set it alight. It didn’t take long for the flames to engulf the timber-framed building and I could clearly hear the sound of screaming people hammering on the doors. Soldiers stood by the entrance to prevent anyone still alive from escaping. Soon the sounds coming from the church were no more. An eerie silence hung over the village, broken only by the crackling noise of burning wood and the smell of death.

  The Sergeant then stood back, surveyi
ng his handiwork. He looked up at the clear blue sky and watched the smoke from the fire drift lazily upwards, carried along by the slight breeze.

  Gripped once again with sheer terror, I clung desperately to the chimneystacks around me, afraid that the soldiers would hear the sound of my heartbeat, or the staccato noise of my breathing. I was so frightened that my bladder gave way once again and a small trickle of urine flowed slowly down the tiles in front of me. I clung tightly to the chimneys as if my life depended on it. My hands were bleeding and lacerated as the rough brickwork tore them.

  The tedeschi were killing everyone they could find. They were exterminating Italian lives as easily as if they were killing a chicken for supper.

  I stayed up there on the roof until I was convinced the soldiers had left before I climbed back into the house through the attic window. I sat on the bed and sobbed. I shouted out aloud, ‘Why God, why have you allowed this to happen? These were all good people who didn’t deserve to die!’ Of course, God didn’t answer, but to the mind of a thirteen-year-old boy, he should have had.

  I reasoned that I couldn’t stay on this mountain any longer and that I should leave immediately. There wasn’t much point in trying to seek out my other relatives and friends because if they weren’t already dead, they soon would be. I thought of Bologna. It was only ten miles away, and I could easily walk that in an afternoon. Perhaps I could find shelter there with some charity or even find some work in a restaurant. I would take with me any food and clothing I could from the house and, if I was lucky, even find some money. My mind was beginning to switch off from the horrors I had witnessed over the last few days. Perhaps it was a coping mechanism I was developing, but I knew I had to leave as soon as possible before the Germans returned. I walked slowly downstairs, not sure of what awaited me there, but to my relief the house was empty. I looked around the kitchen then took a bag and loaded it with food from the larder. I opened a drawer in the downstairs bedroom and took some clothing from it. A pair of trousers, a pullover and a shirt that belonged to Pietro. I didn’t care if they fitted or not, they were clean. I found some money in a jar on the kitchen table. Giovanna probably used it to pay for the household items she needed on a daily basis. I counted it before putting the notes carefully in my pocket. It was enough to buy me food for a few more days.

  I then noticed a shotgun that Pietro used for hunting boars sitting in a corner by the outside door. I picked it up and checked it for cartridges. I already knew how to use a shotgun with some accuracy. My father had taken us hunting in the woods every Sunday before lunch, and he had made sure that all of us were familiar with the weapon. I also found a box of cartridges in a sideboard drawer, and I put those in my bag as wll.

  When I was ready, I left the house and headed warily down the street in the direction of Bologna. I kept my eyes firmly fixed ahead, as I didn’t want to look to the left or right in case I saw the dead bodies of the villagers lying there, and perhaps recognise some of them. The stench of death was in the air, and the smell of burning flesh that filled my nostrils made me feel sick.

  I had only walked a few metres along the road when I saw some military vehicles blocking the road ahead. I threw myself to the ground and crawled to the end of a building for cover. I knew I had to get off the road before the Germans saw me, and the only place to go was up the steep hillside behind the village. I crawled along until I reached the grass verge and crawled my way quite high up the hillside to safety.

  I now had time to think about what had just happened and the violent massacre of people close to me I had witnessed for the second time.

  My young mind could not take in the total extent of what had happened.

  As I lay there, I heard a rustling sound in the long grass behind me. I again felt absolute fear fill me and I sunk lower into the ground, hoping that my pounding heart wouldn’t betray my presence. The sound of a moving body crawling towards me grew ever louder. I pointed my shotgun in the direction of the sound and waited. A face appeared through the grass and spoke softly in Italian to me. ‘Don’t be afraid, I’m with the Stella Rossa. I saw you coming off the road and hiding up here. What’s your name?’

  To my relief I recognised the man as one of the partisans who frequently came to the village to visit his girlfriend. He was about twenty years old and dressed in a British Army jacket and an Italian infantry hat with a red ribbon tied round it.

  ‘My name is Bruno Verdi,’ I managed to answer in a shaky voice.

  ‘Well Bruno, my name is Italo Arcari. Lower your weapon, stay here and don’t wander about. The tedeschi have a patrol out searching the hillside for stragglers.’ As if to emphasise this he pointed to his Sten gun, ‘and if they come near us I’ll be ready.’

  We lay together on that hillside until we were sure all the German vehicles had left the area, and even then, we continued to wait, and wait. I wondered what for. After some time, the partisan’s body stiffened as he saw a German uniform below us crawling up the mountainside in our direction. Italo whispered to me, ‘It’s all right; this is their usual tactic after a rastrallemento. They drop off one or two soldiers to see if they can flush out anyone who escaped and are still hiding from them. If they do, then the soldiers finish them off. They then leave and are picked up further down the road by their comrades.’ I could only see one soldier moving below me, ‘Are there any more?’ I whispered.

  ‘There’s probably another one covering his back with an automatic weapon,’ he said as he cocked his own Sten gun.

  Italo watched the German crawl his way up the hillside in a zigzag pattern for a further ten minutes, then, as if bored with the game, the German stood up and walked back down the way he had just come. Italo breathed a sigh of relief at the narrow escape. ‘He’s probably seen enough and thinks there are no more survivors here,’ he said, holding a shaking gun.

  The German soldier had reached the road, and was joined there by another soldier who had remained hidden all this time in the long grass.

  Italo laughed. ‘These Germans are so predictable in what they do. They have no imagination. They always have to follow the book.’

  For the first time in days, I smiled.

  ‘What do we do now?, I asked the partisan.

  ‘Well, I think we should take advantage of the rest and have something to eat. What do you think, Bruno?’

  I admitted that I did feel quite hungry, so I rummaged in my bag and pulled out some bread and cheese.

  ‘Do you think they will come back?’ I asked.

  Italo thought for a moment or two. ‘I don’t think they will come back to Marzabotto. Two soldiers being dropped off is usually a sign they have finished operations in an area. Although I don’t think they will have finished the rastrallemento on the mountain itself. They may come back tomorrow for operations on the other side of the mountain. They caught the Stella Rossa by surprise yesterday and almost finished us all off. The remains of the brigade are now scattered all over the place and we are not a credible fighting force anymore.’

  ‘What will you do now?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ll go to Bologna and join the partisans there. This war should not last much longer now and I want to be involved in the fighting when the tedeschi eventually surrender.’

  ‘Will the partisans take me as well? Those German bastards murdered every member of my family and I want to kill as many of them as possible,’ I said, lifting my shotgun to emphasise my point.

  Italo looked at me closely. ‘I’ll take you along with me to speak to them, but I honestly don’t know if they will think you too young to join them. How old are you?’

  I stood up to my full height and said in as deep a voice as I could, ‘I’m fifteen years old and I can fight as well as anyone. Just give me a chance to prove it.’

  Italo smiled, then said, ‘Well then little tiger, we’ll rest and settle down here until it’s dark, then we’ll head along the road to Bologna. If we see any vehicle lights, we’ll leave the road and hide. There won’t be
any night patrols out after what’s happened here so we should be fine. As far as I know, Bologna is still in German hands, so we’ll have to be careful entering the city.’

  And so, I left my childhood behind on the verdant slopes of Monte Sole. It seemed to me that my rite of passage from childhood to adulthood had been almost instantaneous. My nightmares continued, but gradually became less intense and easier to bear. However, in my quite moments, I can still hear the sound of screaming voices.

  The partisan band was based in the mountain region near Bologna and they were always looking to recruit new members, although they took great care over selection in case of infiltration by fascist agents. When they found out what had happened to my family they had no problem in accepting me into their band, and as Italo had already proved himself with the Stella Rossa, we both joined together.

  I was with the Bologna 8th Garibaldi Brigade of partisans until the war ended in April 1945, some seven months after I joined them. They never found out that I lied about my age, although they may have suspected it. I was involved in several operations against the Germans and never once did I show any mercy towards them. During that time, I was constantly on the lookout for a tall, blonde SS Sergeant, but our paths never crossed during those eventful months.

  The partisans taught me how to handle all different types of weapons, and I proved to be a quick learner. I did find out though, that the German rastrallemento on Monte Sole had lasted for four days, and that the final death count numbered over eighteen hundred people, including forty-five children under two years old. One of them was my Lisa.

  I had never felt hatred against people on this scale before, but I now experienced an overwhelming compulsion to eliminate every German I laid eyes on. Over the next few weeks I became eaten up with a desire to kill Germans and not to stop until they were all dead or they had killed me. My company commander noticed that I was being eaten up with hatred and took me aside.

  ‘Bruno, I realise that you have every right to hate the Germans and to want revenge for what they did to your family, but you must be careful. Many good men have felt the same as you do and threw caution to the wind in their attempt to get at the Germans and ended up dead. Don’t let this hatred consume you to the point that you lose your sense of reason. You are no good to me or to our cause if you continually burn with this anger. It could threaten us all. Do you understand what I mean?’