Between Enemies

by Andrea Molesini

  So I left the church for a second time, shuffling cautiously, dragging my feet where the recumbent bodies allowed me to. I wasn’t even aware that Teresa was holding me up. But as soon as I got a mouthful of the cool evening air, I told her to turn right around and go back to my aunt.

  There was no guard at the front gate. In the garden there were wounded men everywhere, men with arms strapped to their chest, men with crutches, one with a bandaged eye, another with a gauze-wrapped neck, but nearly all of them still on their feet. The field kitchen was distributing soup amidst the billowing fumes of a locomotive. I stopped before I reached the portico, I was starting to feel better. There were a few soldiers there who seemed not to be wounded at all, but they were only able to stay on their feet because they were helping each other not to topple over. They were all smoking, and they were all blank-eyed. They were staring straight head, looking at the lawn but not seeing anything.

  A hand crushed my shoulder until it hurt. I turned around. ‘Renato!’

  ‘The artillery has practically knocked these men’s heads off their shoulders, they’re empty shells, but tomorrow’s another day and maybe a few of them will recover.’ He explained that some of them would remain in that state of apathy for days, others for months, and a few for good. They were empty bodies, perfectly healthy but empty, the soul, incapable of maintaining its grip, long separated from the flesh.

  And so I vomited onto the steward’s shoes before he had a chance to step aside. I vomited air and saliva, and weariness. I wiped my mouth. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘It’s all right.’

  ‘I’m going to see Grandpa.’

  I passed through the empty kitchen. I climbed the stairs one step at a time. I heard someone behind me. It was Giulia. She’d seen me in the garden.

  ‘You look like someone who just threw up.’

  I shot her a resentful glare.

  She caressed my cheek with the back of her hand while Teresa went past us on her way downstairs. She must have come home while I was staring at the demented infantrymen. ‘Diambarne de l’ostia,’ she said, trailing behind her something of that warm and terrifying presence that certain elderly women possess, their hair parted sternly down the centre, indifferent to the urgency of life, firmly endowed with the strength of those who age slowly, the way domestic animals do.

  I could see that Giulia was upset.

  ‘She knows about us, but she won’t tell,’ I said under my breath.

  ‘Do you think I care about that? It’s just that…that woman… she’s,’ and she hesitated, ‘it’s as if she were trying to tell me… with every ounce of her being, every pound of her flesh: you have to come here too, where I am, the wrinkles will take over your face too, and the smell of your skin will change too…and you’ll wither and dry out the way that branches do, and leaves, and plums; I’m waiting for you, here in the land where no one desires you or loves you, and when you get here you’ll stop doing what you’re doing, you’ll stop being what you are.’

  It was the first time that I’d seen that brazen Giulia show a hint of fear. Fear of something as ordinary as the passage of time. And it was then, for those few sincere, trembling words, that I felt something strong for her.

  Twenty-Eight

  THE RIVER PIAVE WAS SWOLLEN, IT WAS THE COLOUR OF THE earth, the colour of the dead. That’s the way that the wounded and the prisoners told it, on the morning of 18 June. The reports became increasingly confused.

  ‘High water is to our advantage,’ Renato said. ‘They won’t be able to supply the offensive.’

  High above the Villa the squadrons wheeled in dogfights. The biplanes swooped low, like birds fleeing a darkening sky. Black crosses and tricolour cockades. We had stopped rooting for one side or the other. It was all mortar shells, mutilations, fear, and practically nothing to eat. Now when the wounded came up from the river, they stretched them out one crammed against the other, even in the Villa’s big dining room; there were even a few in the kitchen, and the whole park was covered with tents.

  I hadn’t set foot in the church again. Only the dead ever left there: they were buried immediately, without benefit of coffin, in an improvised cemetery, tucked away out of view. The graves were dug by Italian prisoners, easy to identify by their Adrian steel helmets and their new uniforms, as often as not badly tattered, true, but still unmistakably new. Renato had talked a few of them into trading information for a bowl of Teresa’s soup; she was still pulling off the occasional miracle in the kitchen. They told him that on the Montello their battalion had allowed itself to be caught off guard and that they’d surrendered without firing a shot; but they also said that further south the offensive had already ground to a halt by dawn on the 15th, and that they’d heard about it from other prisoners, captured south of Nervesa: ‘They’re stuck fast along the river bank, for kilometres, all the way to Zensón, and the Duke of Aosta’s artillery is tearing them to shreds.’ Judging from the sheer numbers of the wounded, it was hard to disagree; but others said that the Austrians were winning, and nobody really knew what to think.

  My aunt, who never seemed to leave the church, had assigned me to bring canteens to the men under the portico and in the tents. All of them were thirsty, constantly. And for the past few hours it had been pouring rain like nothing I’d ever seen before. Some of them would stagger out of their tents and tip their heads back, open-mouthed, to the sky. They looked like lunatics, an army of crazed raggedy cripples. Under the portico, the young men with nothing but emptiness in their heads waggled their shoulders and stared at me sightless, gripping the canteen with trembling fingers, chilled hands, lifting the water to their lips as if those lips belonged to somebody else, as if they’d never been thirsty in the first place.

  That morning, bright and early, Don Lorenzo came to the Villa. He’d lost weight, he hadn’t slept in two days, his eyes were bulging out of their sockets and his face was greyer than the prisoners’ uniform jackets. I asked him about my aunt, he looked at me for a second, and then turned his eyes to the wall and started scratching at the plaster with two fingers, as if trying to remove an imperfection in the mortar: ‘She has four pairs of hands, God bless her.’ He pulled his fingers away from the wall. ‘They say that you’re no layabout yourself, that you’ve been carrying canteens.’ He gave me a look. ‘Good boy,’ he said, absentmindedly. So I asked him why he’d come up to the Villa.

  ‘They’re going to hang a couple of Czech boys, two prisoners; they claim that they were traitors to Austria, and one of them, whom I just heard in confession, asked me…he wants to be executed by a firing squad, he wants to die on his feet, he says. “I’m fighting for homeland, I’m not traitor,” and I wanted to ask your grandma if she’d come with me to see the baron, because your aunt refuses to even discuss the idea, she won’t even think of it.’

  The words tumbled out of his mouth, he was talking so fast, I had a hard time following what he was saying.

  ‘Then the baron…Has come back from the Piave.’

  ‘He’s got a bullethole in his shoulder…He’s not in danger and he’s resumed command. I left him in the church, he wants to be close to the dying men. But his determination is unshakable: “Hang them both, they’re traitors!” That’s what he said. “Look at them, all these men…They’re dying for their country and for their – for our emperor.” Still, I want to give it one more try, and your grandma could help me. All that boy wants is to die on his feet, like a soldier.’

  ‘What about the other one? You said there were two of them.’

  ‘The other one refused to talk to me…Maybe he’s not Catholic, maybe he doesn’t care much about dying…I asked him what I could do for him, if he wanted to confess his sins, but he just spat on the groud and said, “Place for priest in hell.”’ The priest made a foolish face, and looked me right in the eye: ‘He must be one of those godless ones, a…Socialist.’ He took off his rain-drenched hat and crammed it against his chest. ‘I’m tired,’ and he went back to rubbing the pads of hi
s thumb and forefinger on a specific spot on the plaster.

  ‘I’ll take you to Grandma Nancy.’

  On the stairs, I glimpsed my grandpa crossing the hallway. The second he caught sight of the black tunic he scurried into his Thinking Den, miming a military salute in Don Lorenzo’s direction.

  ‘My respects, your excellency,’ said the priest in an ironic voice, without even bothering to make the expected bow.

  Grandma stood up as soon as she saw us, crumpling with her left hand the sheets of paper on which she’d been writing. Her index finger was blue and the sickly sweet odour of ink wafted from the inkwell. The rain had just stopped pattering on the windowpanes, and a timid bit of blue sky was lighting up the window.

  ‘Bad news?’

  Grandma’s face struck me as more surprised than concerned. Even if I’d never heard her say so, I knew that she didn’t much care for the curate. Religion had never really interested her, and in any case she thought it was stupid to entrust its administration to people ‘born with patches on their butts’. Unlike my aunt, Grandma Nancy believed in wealth more than rank: ‘Money can be counted, and that’s why it counts.’

  ‘Yes, bad news,’ said the priest, as he crumpled with all ten fingers the circular brim of his black hat, still dripping wet.

  ‘Don’t keep me on tenterhooks…Please, have a seat.’ And she pointed to the little canapé that could barely accommodate Don Lorenzo’s enormous posterior, emitting threatening creaks and groans beneath him.

  ‘What can I do for you? If this is about wounded men…the Villa is already packed.’

  ‘I’d like to ask you, Signora, to come with me and add your voice to mine when I beg this favour of the baron.’

  ‘The baron?’ Grandma went and sat down in her old armchair. ‘Are you referring to Baron von Feilitzsch? But if he’s come back…the Piave isn’t yielding.’

  ‘He has one arm in a sling…and he’s going to have two Czech boys, two prisoners hanged…They were fighting for the Italians.’

  Grandma ran her fingertips through her hair without mussing it. ‘I’m afraid he has every right to do that; the Czechs are Hapsburg subjects.’

  ‘But Signora, perhaps…not all of them want to be…They want their independence.’

  ‘Strange words from the mouth of a prelate…independence…’

  I broke in: ‘They’re fighting on our side, Grandma!’

  ‘Strength is the law. It’s true in nature too…and we are animals, even if we know to add and subtract and recite a few poems by heart, don’t you agree with me, Don Lorenzo?’

  The priest looked at me. I had remained standing, leaning against the door jamb. I think he must have been hoping for a word of support from me.

  ‘Yes,’ said the priest, with a note of melancholy in his voice. ‘But you see, Signora Spada, I don’t question Austria’s right to hang traitors, but one of the two young men implored me to… intercede…He wants to be shot by a firing squad, all he asks is to die with honour, and that’s something you can hardly deny a Christian!’ Waving his hat, he pointed at me. ‘He’s just a couple of years older than your grandson…’

  ‘You could have told me right away that the boy is just asking for a few bullets. Just think, that baron is planning to hang them from a tree in my garden…but if he thinks that I’m going to let him…’ Grandma was already on her feet. ‘Let’s go and see the baron.’

  ‘Actually…’ said Don Lorenzo, standing up and waving his hat in front of his belly, ‘actually only one of them asked for bullets, I don’t think the other one cares.’

  ‘No one is about to be hanged in my garden.’

  Grandma left the room, calling for Teresa in a loud voice.

  The cook came up the stairs towards us.

  ‘Teresa, my dark blue dust coat.’

  ‘But mistress…with all this heat?’

  ‘My dust coat! Get moving.’

  Grandma was putting on her best military posture when, directly outside the Villa’s front gate, she set the baron back on his heels.

  ‘Madame, what a pleasure to see you again,’ said the officer, his left forearm pinned to his chest. His bandages forced him to make an awkward gesture as he attempted to lift Grandma’s hand to his lips, and she promptly snatched it back. Don Lorenzo doffed his hat and stood at her side, boots planted firmly in a wide stance. I came to a halt a step behind them.

  ‘I understand, Major, that you intend to hang two prisoners.’

  ‘Two traitors, Madame.’

  ‘The parish priest informs me that they’re requesting bullets instead of a noose. I think that is a concession you can make, is is not…Baron?’

  ‘Traitors don’t deserve to die like soldiers. Many of their fellow Czechs,’ and his eyes narrowed to two slits, ‘are dying ten kilometres from here, in our uniform…Is that clear, Madame?’

  ‘I disapprove.’ The still air moved, a sudden gust of wind tugged at Grandma’s dust coat, uncovering her thin neck. ‘Where did you think you would hang them, Major? Not in my garden, certainly.’

  ‘In…your…garden? The Villa has been requisitioned by military law, Madame. It’s under my command!’

  ‘You describe murder as duty, and armed theft as requisition.’

  ‘Madame…it’s not me…it’s the war.’

  ‘Your impertinence comes as no surprise; but to judge from what I see,’ and here Grandma’s nose pointed at the expanse of tents and the wounded men, ‘our river hasn’t brought you luck, or have you requisitioned it too, Major?’

  A grimaced twisted the officer’s face. Grandma knew how to twist the knife.

  ‘Now, I’m sure you’ll excuse me…The traitors will be executed at noon. Hanged with a noose, in front of the latrines. If you’d care to honour us with your attendance…’ He stepped around us, because Grandma refused to retreat a single step.

  ‘Signora, you must insist,’ said Don Lorenzo, setting his wet hat firmly on his bald head, ‘I beg of you, just think of that young man…’

  ‘Go back to the church and tend to the wounded, Don Lorenzo.’ Grandma’s voice was calm and tough. ‘Can’t you see? It’s over.’

  The parish priest stepped aside.

  Grandma Nancy gave him a smile: ‘Never miss a chance to answer a challenge. At noon, in front of the latrines.’

  Walking slowly and with his head bowed, the curate headed back to his church. He was a good man, and he was no coward, but he’d never be able to understand a soul as fiery as Grandma’s. Grandpa said that in Nancy’s heart there was ice and a parched wind, and that both forces battled it out every day, in a fight without quarter.

  The sun was hot, the air was muggy, and the grass was still drenched. There was mud everywhere. The western sky was dark with smoke. Every ten or twenty minutes, the artillery batteries reawakened and began to fire, only to nod off again. The gallows poles were two larch trunks, their bark freshly peeled off, with a wooden ladder leaning against the top, which terminated in an iron hook. The smells were strong: shit, tree sap, and tar. Von Feilitzsch’s uniform was spotless, but the visor of his cap was spattered with mud. Renato, off to one side, was leaning on his spade: he had just dug two graves, next to the latrines. ‘We don’t lay traitors to rest next to heroes,’ the baron had told him.

  Grandma was standing between me and Grandpa, and she was wearing a black skirt made of a coarse cotton fabric that hung down to her shoes, gleaming in defiance of the mud. Her blouse was white, ironed by Loretta’s inefficient hands: the sleeves were marred by a couple of creases running down to the starched cuffs. My aunt had stayed in the church, with her dying men. There were forty or so soldiers, all with only minor injuries, some dressed in the uniform of the Honvéd, others wearing the Schützen uniform; their tattered jackets, many without buttons, were pulled back here and there to reveal their flesh, even filthier than the cloth. A spectral army: one man leaning his weight on the shoulder of the next, hands, legs, and faces wrapped in bandages; their caps and the melanc
holy resignation on their faces were the only things that said: ‘We are soldiers.’ And yet in those compressed lips, in those mute eyes, there was still something that demanded respect: the echo of an ancient renown.

  Short gusts of wind kicked up revolting clouds of stench: the stink of sweat contended against the foul miasma of the latrines. Don Lorenzo hadn’t been allowed to comfort the two Czechs. ‘Traitors die alone, scorned by God and man alike,’ the baron had said.

  The first of the two – tall, broad-shouldered, his wrists tied behind his back – stepped forward in an awkward shuffle, standing straight even as he wobbled slightly. His chest was bare and he had bruises on his neck and the length of both arms, one cheekbone puffy and smashed, and a grimace spreading over his whole face. The two soldiers who were escorting him, bayonets fixed on the rifles slung over their shoulders, looked puny beside the prisoner, who still had the healthy appearance of a well-fed young man. The second boy was smaller and skinnier than the first, with his jacket neatly buttoned all the way up to the collar badges: a non-commissioned officer. His eyes were blue and he was staring straight ahead of him. ‘That’s him,’ Grandma said under her breath, ‘the one who requested…’

  I felt admiration, not pity. Those two boys knew that death awaited them, only a short distance away, and they knew they were about to die before an audience of foreigners. They had made up their minds not to miss this chance to die bravely.

  ‘Let’s stand at attention,’ Grandpa said.

  I stiffened my back. Grandma let go of my arm and let her hands hang straight down at the sides of her skirt. Even Renato, who had certainly not heard Grandpa’s words, stood at attention, his spade resting by his foot: he gripped it like a rifle.

  They hanged them one at a time. First the tall one covered with bruises. No offer of a hood or a cigarette, no last words. Just the noose. It was passed over his neck by large filthy hands. The Czech climbed up onto the chair that stood next to the pole, under the hook, while a corporal scaled the wooden ladder, fastened the loop at the end of the rope to the hook, and jerked it twice to make sure it was good and taut. The first jerk of the rope prompted a moan, the second only silence. The baron turned for an instant and looked in our direction. His right hand rested on his holster. The corporal climbed back down the ladder and gave the chair a kick. I heard the simultaneous crack: of the rope, the pole, and the man’s neck.