Legacy of Sorrows

by Roberto Buonaccorsi

  I nodded my head in agreement. ‘I’ll try to change. Italo has already spoken to me about it. He told me to let my anger simmer and not continually boil over.’

  ‘Good lad that Italo, that’s sound advice. Make sure you take it to heart.’

  Life in the partisan camp was very structured and based on strict military discipline. We had our own cooks and medics as the regular forces would and everyone was always very busy working around the camp. We even had our own ranks and a distinct military structure that was necessary for efficient organisation. The only official activity that I detested were the political lectures, usually from the communist commissars, that all partisans in our band had to attend. Even though we were called a Garibaldi Brigade, the name was not an indication of our political affiliation, though most Garibaldi Brigades were communist. If anything, we were mainly non-political and we took these mandatory lectures in a light-hearted manner.

  The only reason that our leader allowed the communist commissars to operate in the camp was because of his agreement with the Italian communist partisans under the control of General Tito in Yugoslavia to supply us with arms. The payback was Tito had agreed to do so, through the local network of Garibaldi brigades, if he allowed the politicisation of the band with commissars attached to carry out the work, and for us to be absorbed into the communist network of Garibaldi Brigades fighting in Italy.

  There was another unofficial activity that took place in the camp on an irregular basis, and that was the visits that took place from some local prostitutes from Bologna. When I first saw them I wondered why they were there, however I soon came to understand that their function was to boost morale. One night, during a visit from these girls, I found myself sitting alone at a camp fire when Marisa, one of the prostitutes, sat down beside me. I found her to be very friendly and extremely talkative, and before too long the inevitable curiosity on my part turned into active participation. The experience of losing my virginity that night was one I shall always remember. Marisa treated me with tenderness and understanding, and as for my part, I felt that I had passed that night into the ranks of manhood.

  The autumn turned to winter, and a cold winter it was that year. The snows came early to the mountains, and perceptibly changed from a serene white dusting that covered the countryside and the mountains around us to deep snowdrifts that hindered all movement on the mountain and the surrounding area. Gianni reasoned that if the snow impeded us moving around, then it would also impede the Germans. He decided to give some of the men with families in the area some leave time, which was gratefully accepted, but left the camp much quieter than usual.

  Not having much to occupy me, I found myself dwelling on the massacres and on my family. As I focused more on my dead family and friends, I experienced a tremor in my hands which quickly spread to my whole body. I found myself shaking like a leaf from head to toe. I felt tears well up within me like a pent-up force and suddenly erupting with a passion and fury that surprised me. Some of the partisans heard me scream out and came running over to me. I found myself being held down by them as I continued sobbing, violently shaking and screaming out to the heavens. The partisans were concerned in case I hurt myself and they held me down until I became calmer. After about ten minutes I began to relax and returned to normality. I later realised that this episode was the result of all the horror I had experienced for such a young person, even though it was a delayed reaction. I had become a closed book since the events and even when I had witnessed the second massacre, I had shown no sign of it having affected me in anyway. I was told by the camp medic that what I had experienced was a healthy sign, and was probably the first stage of emotional healing. These days, you would probably call it post-traumatic shock; however, in those days, the older men called it shell shock: a delayed reaction to a violent traumatic experience.

  Whatever normality was, I welcomed it. Although, when I look back on those times, I wonder how “normality” could be achieved for a now 14 year old orphan living in an armed camp high up in the Italian mountains, being trained to kill Germans.

  The heavy snow had also disrupted our food drops, as the Allied supply aircraft wouldn’t drop their loads in case the supplies were lost in the snowdrifts and never seen again. Consequently, we took to hunting the scarce game in the woods. I was surprised, at how easy it was for me to show my comrades my proficiency, thanks to my papà’s training. I hoped that when it came to hunting Germans I showed the same measure of skill.

  My first taste of action was just before Christmas on an operation we had set up just outside Bologna to ambush German military vehicles moving men and materials further north to set up new defensive positions. Our leader, Gianni Bellucci, who previously had been a Colonel in the Italian Army, was an excellent soldier and all the partisans under his command were highly disciplined. Gianni was well liked by his men and he in turn treated us all with respect. He put me to work with a group who were setting up a machine gun post hidden in nearby woodland, which had a clear view of the main road. My orders were to wait until the machine gun opened fire, and then I had to pick off any Germans trying to run or take cover in the undergrowth. I was given a heavy British-made Lee Enfield bolt-action rifle and, even though I was feeling very nervous over my first taste of action, I couldn’t wait to kill my first German.

  I didn’t have to wait very long before I heard the rumbling sound of heavy transport coming our way. I saw a convoy of about ten trucks, all in olive green with military insignia painted on the sides, moving at speed along the main road in an attempt to put off any snipers lying in wait for them. As they approached us, the first truck hit a buried landmine and was blown over onto its side, which effectively blocked the road ahead. There was another explosion almost immediately after this as our men threw hand-grenades at the last truck and successfully disabled that as well. With the two trucks on fire, and blocking the road at either end, the German soldiers on board had no alternative but to seek cover where they could. As they dismounted, our men opened fire with their machine guns, and most of the Germans were cut to pieces. Some of them ran into the undergrowth and managed to return fire with whatever light weapons they had. That was where I came in. With shaking hands I looked along my rifle sights and fired as fast as I could into the tedeschi to great effect.

  Eventually, after a short-pitched fight, the remaining Germans held up their hands and surrendered. There were about eight of them. They threw their weapons down on the ground and walked out into full view, with their hands on their heads. The problem was that, as we lived a frugal life in the mountains, we had no facilities for taking prisoners. Some of the partisans motioned with their weapons at them, and pushed them up against one of the remaining trucks under armed guard while Gianni had a discussion with some of the other leaders on what to do with them. There appeared to be no alternative to shooting them because we may have been recognised from our visits to Bologna and by letting them go free we could be putting our own families and friends in danger. We drew lots and three partisans were selected to execute them. When the soldiers realised that they were about to be shot, one of them fell to his knees and began to pray out loud. Another took out a photograph of his family and began to shout ‘Kinder, Kinder!’ This visibly disturbed the partisan firing squad. They looked round at Gianni as if wanting him to change his mind. Gianni picked up his rifle and joined the firing squad; I suppose this confirmed again the kind of leader he was. Eventually they opened fire on the Germans and I watched them fall to the ground like rag dolls. This was the first time I had witnessed our side doing this kind of thing and it didn’t sit well with me. It reminded me of the slaughter on Monte Sole. After all, we were the good people and they were the bad guys. It blurred the edges of our moral high ground and I didn’t like it.

  After the ambush, Gianni told me that I was personally responsible for killing about three Germans with my rifle and, even though I was pleased by this news, the execution I had witnessed rather spoiled it for me. I didn
’t really want to kill Germans in this way. I wanted to kill them in combat; otherwise I felt that I was no better than they were. I needed to believe in our moral superiority, although back then I would not have expressed it in those words.

  I was very quiet on the march back to camp until Gianni came up and put his arm round me. ‘Bruno, listen to me. I wish we could fight a clean war under clean rules, but the Germans don’t recognise our status as combatants. They see us as criminals, armed gangsters, and that’s why they kill our families and friends and local villagers in an attempt to stop us. We couldn’t take the chance in releasing those soldiers.’

  Chapter 5

  One morning in early February, Gianni called me aside. ‘Bruno, we need you to go on a mission to Bologna for us. It may prove to be very dangerous as the Germans are becoming very nervous over the partisan attacks and they are checking identity papers at random on the streets. Do you want to go?’

  I immediately accepted the mission, ‘What do you want me to do, Gianni?’

  ‘It’s less likely the Germans will stop a young boy, so, I want you to make contact with a local doctor; his name is Roberto Galassi, and he works at the hospital. Tell him we need more medicines as soon as possible, especially first-aid supplies, and to leave them at the usual place for our pickup in seven days’ time. Give him the password “vinciamo” and he will know you are genuine.’

  I felt so honoured to be trusted with such an important mission that I didn’t give the danger aspect a second thought. I knew that if I was caught by the Germans I would probably be tortured before they killed me, as it had already happened to some captured partisans from our Brigade. They had been visiting their families in one of the villages nearby, when a fascist informer recognised them and reported them to the German authorities. The Germans came during the night and took them by surprise. They tortured the men for three days trying to find out about the partisan’s future operations and where their base was before they shot them.

  I filled a backpack with some food, put my revolver on top so that I could easily reach it in case of an emergency, and set off down the mountainside for the road below. I reckoned that I could walk the distance to Bologna without any problem and arrive there by noon. If I heard the sound of approaching vehicles, I would immediately dive into the undergrowth as I had been trained to do, and wait until they had gone before returning to the road.

  When I was about a mile from the outskirts of the city, I left the road and climbed up the mountainside until I had a clear view of the road ahead. What I saw there filled me with dread. The Germans had set up a heavily armed roadblock with about fifteen soldiers and they were checking everyone’s papers before letting them pass. Behind the roadblock sat two soldiers on motorbikes attached to sidecars, with their engines running. They were obviously prepared to chase after anyone or any vehicle that tried to break through their cordon. How can I get past this? Maybe if I climbed higher up the mountain I could get around them. On the other hand, if I waited a few hours they may leave.

  I decided to wait and see what happened, and if they were still there by mid-afternoon, I would try to get around them. I lay back on the grass and with the autumn sunshine warming my face I closed my eyes. It was inexcusable, but I must have dozed off.

  The sound of engines starting up and people shouting in German woke me up. I saw the Germans leaving and heading back into the city. I waited for a while longer before I ventured onto the road and began walking towards Bologna again. As I approached a bend in the road ahead, I saw two motorbikes sitting with their riders, parked just off the road and partially hidden by trees. They must have moved to their new positions when I fell asleep on the hillside. The Germans always left behind two soldiers to catch anyone who may have been waiting for them to leave and I had walked into their trap. I should have been watching to see if the motorbikes had left with the rest of the soldiers or if a German truck had stopped just out of sight ahead to wait on their men returning from their search of the area.

  The soldiers saw me and immediately raised their machine pistols at me. ‘Stop, show your papers,’ one of them shouted to me in Italian as he walked forward. I stopped walking. I had no German ID papers, only my Italian ID card showing my name and address on Monte Sole. I reached into my pocket and pulled it out. The soldier stared at it and began shouting in German to me. I didn’t understand a word of what he said but I knew what he wanted. Eventually, the other soldier came over and roughly pulled my backpack off my shoulders and opened it. He pulled out my gun and showed it to his comrade. They spoke together for a moment as they decided what to do with me, before one of them turned to face me.

  It felt as if my head had exploded as he hit me with his machine pistol. I fell to the ground and tasted blood filling my mouth. I was dragged to my feet and tied with rope before being roughly pushed over to where one of the motorbikes with sidecar was parked. I felt my feet leave the ground as I was lifted inside it. For good measure, they slapped me a few more times round the face and head. I never knew that blood could taste so salty.

  They took me into Bologna to the Gestapo Headquarters and threw me into a cell. I lay on the floor on top of damp straw. I was very frightened. I had heard many stories from the partisans on the Gestapo’s interviewing methods, such as pulling out their victims’ fingernails with pliers, and I was terrified of what lay ahead for me.

  When my eyes became more accustomed to the poor light in the cell I could see that the straw was not damp with water but was wet with blood. I wondered what poor creature it belonged to, and if he was still alive. I shivered, not just with the chill permeating through my cell, but with fear of the unknown. Then, two black uniformed SS men came into the cell and pulled me to my feet. Without a word they took me from my prison, one on each of my arms. They dragged me along a corridor to an interview room where I was pushed into a seat in front of a large wooden desk. They then disappeared into the shadows round the walls, although I was still very conscious of their presence. I could feel my heart beating in my chest and I resolved not to show any fear.

  Sitting behind the desk was a Gestapo interrogation officer dressed in his black uniform and smelling sweetly of cologne. In Italian, he asked me my name and I answered him, ‘Bruno Verdi, sir.’

  There was a long silence following this, and it unnerved me.

  ‘Where do you live Verdi?’ He asked me in a gruff voice.

  ‘In Marzabotto, on Monte Sole, sir.’

  ‘Are you with the partisans?’ he asked, looking at me for the first time. He had small beady eyes set in a soft round face. He looked like a bank clerk and probably would have been completely unsuited to proper soldiering. He resembled a vulture feeding off human flesh.

  ‘No, sir. I’m not.’

  ‘Then why were you carrying a gun in your backpack?’

  I answered without hesitation, ‘I found it in Marzabotto after the rastrallemento there and I kept it to protect myself. These are difficult times, sir. I was alone and afraid.’

  The Gestapo officer stared at me with those cold beady eyes that seemed to pierce right through you, reading what was going on inside your head. I was scared. Eventually he came from behind his desk and stood in front of me and said, ‘I don’t believe you, Verdi. There has been no one living in Marzabotto since the rastrallemento. Where have you been since that time? How you have fed yourself and kept yourself so clean? The answer is that you are with the partisans. It also means that you know where their base is.’

  He leaned over me and said in a very quiet voice ‘If you don’t tell me the truth, I will have you taken from here to a nice country house where my friends will make you talk by attaching an electric current to your testicles. Do you understand, Verdi?’

  My heart was pumping at a fast rate and my mouth felt very dry as I answered him.

  ‘Sir, I don’t know anything about the partisans. I am an orphan and I have been living alone on Monte Sole. Please believe me.’

  He punched me
two or maybe three times in my face and head and I passed out.

  When I came to, my head and face were throbbing with pain and I could only see out of one eye. I was sitting in the back of a car with an SS guard beside me. I was being driven along a country road to, I presumed, the Gestapo interrogation centre in the country. I once again began to protest my innocence to the SS guard beside me, only to be greeted by a backhanded slap across my face. ‘Only speak when you are spoken to,’ he bellowed in my ear. Once again I tasted blood.

  Suddenly, there was the unmistakable sound of a British Spitfire flying above us. The two SS men started shouting at each other over the roar of its engines and the car accelerated faster and faster, as the Spitfire banked steeply and prepared to make a pass over us. With a screech of tyres, the car entered a bend in the road at speed. At that moment the plane opened fire with its machine guns, raking the car from front to rear with its heavy calibre bullets and immediately killed the driver. With the driver dead the car sped out of control, skidded off the road into the undergrowth and hit a tree before overturning onto its roof. Overhead, I could hear the sound of the Spitfire’s engines fading into the distance, apparently satisfied with its work. I had been thrown to the floor before the attack when the car had accelerated into the bend and it had probably saved my life. I looked round for my SS guard and saw that he had blood gushing from a head wound where he had made contact with the wooden dashboard. He was sprawled semi-conscious between the front seats. I seized my chance to escape. I crawled forward through the shattered windscreen onto the roadside, taking care to avoid the broken glass, and pausing only for a second to remove the dead driver’s handgun from his belt. Once outside and standing on the road, I cocked the weapon and shot my SS guard twice in the head through the side window. I couldn’t risk him regaining mobility and following me.