The French Governor General escorted the royal family to his executive mansion for an official luncheon. Meanwhile, Yifru took Ceseli to the American consulate.
“Thank you for everything,” she said, choking with emotion.
“I am very sorry about Marco. He was a fine young man. But I’ve said that.”
“Thank you, Yifru. That’s very kind of you.”
“You shouldn’t have any trouble now. The Americans will help you get home.”
“Yes, I’m sure they will,” she said, thinking that if I only she knew where that was. “And I’m grateful. But first I have an appointment in Geneva.”
“Then we shall see each other in Geneva,” he said, taking her hand. “The emperor asked me to give you these,” he said, taking a small pouch from his pocket. “He always meant to pay you.”
“The coins,” she said, recognizing the pouch.
“He is sure they will be safer with you, and perhaps you can do the necessary research on them,” he said, smiling at her. “These will keep you tied to Ethiopia.”
Ceseli smiled up at him, hardly able to breathe.
“There’s a French ship leaving this evening. I have asked that you be favored and your trunk will be loaded shortly. It stops in Naples, if you don’t mind going to Italy. Otherwise you can get off in Marseilles and from there you can catch a train to Geneva.”
“Thank you, Yifru, you don’t know how much that means to me. But I feel confident I can go to Rome and then Geneva.” He held her hands and bent down to kiss her. He held her to him.
“You have to have faith in Ethiopia, Ceseli. It might not be tomorrow. But in the end, this is my country, my whole life, and I will come back.”
“I hope that happens.” Ceseli smiled up at him. “Yifru,” she began. “There’s something important I have to tell you,” she smiled, realizing how trivial this all would sound. “There’s a Templar cross at Lalibela.”
He held her to him hard cradling her head under his chin. “Perhaps one day you’ll show me,” he said, still holding her.
“I’d like that,” she said, leaning back from him and turning her head so he could not see the tears forming in her eyes.
“And I will keep my promise about the Ark. I’m a good promiser, remember that. I will come back.”
Ceseli smiled. “If that happens, I’ll come as well.” He kissed her gently on the forehead. Yifru, she realized, was everything his name implied. ‘Let them be afraid of him’. Yet she had not been afraid of him. She had come to love and admire him. And she would miss him, dreadfully.
At 4:15 in the afternoon of May 4th, Haile Sellassie boarded the British cruiser Enterprise sent to carry him to safety rather than face the last humiliation of capture by his conquerors. They would go to the British mandate territory of Palestine and to Jerusalem, where they would pray.
As the ship left the harbor, the French gave a farewell cannon volley and an aircraft flew by. The cruiser was escorted at a discreet distance by five British torpedo boats.
Two days after his arrival in Jerusalem, the emperor had Yifru send a cable to the League of Nations: “We have decided to bring to an end the most unequal, most unjust, most barbarous war of our age, and have chosen to take the road to exile in order that our people shall not be exterminated, and to consecrate ourselves wholly and in peace to the preservation of our empire’s independence. We now demand that the League of Nations should continue its efforts to secure respect for the Covenant, and that it should decide not to recognize territorial extensions, or the exercise of an assumed sovereignty resulting from an illegal recourse to armed force and from numerous other violations of international agreements.”
The hope of gaining the sympathy and support of the world by appearing in person at the rostrum of the League of Nations was all the Neguse now had.
CHAPTER 57
ALL AFTERNOON AND EVENING, in the torrential rain, the tanks, trucks, and armored cars rolled forward. Some three thousand vehicles were strung out along the only road to the city of the King of Kings. Finally, on the afternoon of May 5, 1936, seven months and two days after the start of the war, the “March of the Iron Will” reached its destination.
General Pietro Badoglio, at the head of his victorious columns, made a spectacular entrance into the capital. The pouring rain did nothing to dampen spirits. With him rode the Italian journalists. Bruno looked out at the Ethiopian people lining the roadway. Some were waving white flags, some held up their arms in the Fascist salute.
Behind him were the Eritrean Askaris: tall, handsome, and fast running, wearing their red fezzes and waving curved swords. Yet, Bruno knew that for nationalistic reasons, they would not be the first to enter the city. That glory was reserved for the white Italian troops: tired, dirty and hungry, but undaunted by this test of endurance under the tropical sun.
At 5:45 that afternoon, while several Italian R.O.-37 pursuit planes flew in an aerobatic display, the red, white and green tricolor flag was raised above the Italian Embassy. There were three cheers for the King and three for Caesar. Ethiopia was finally Italian.
Bruno sat down on the nearby stump of a Eucalyptus tree and began scribbling in his notebook. He didn’t want to miss this historic moment. He watched attentively as Badoglio turned to Air Marshal Magliocco, whose face was wet with rain or tears. Suddenly, the two older soldiers embraced, kissing each other Italian style on both cheeks.
“We’ve done it! We’ve won!”
The Emperor did not see his beloved city burning. In the absence of authority, pillaging, rioting, and violence ruled for three and a half days after his departure. Even ex-soldiers joined in the destruction to vent their frustration over a war that could never have been won. Most of the foreigners, fearing the carnage, had taken refuge at the British compound that was well protected by Indian Sikh troops.
Warren Rutherford and Standish Forsythe stayed put for those three days. The U.S. Legation, unlike most of the others, was not sieged. Daniele had warned his countrymen that he would stand for no such defacement.
They had not gone to see the Italian forces enter the city, but a few days later, Standish Forsythe was surprised by a visitor. Daniele showed him in. “Zeri.”
“Forsythe. I’m glad to see you again.”
“I heard it was a spectacular occasion. Sorry we didn’t put it on our agenda.”
“You weren’t missed. Badoglio was looking for divine guidance,” he smiled, taking the seat in front of Standish.
“You’re well, I see.”
“Oh yes. And ready to start home.”
“You’re leaving then?”
“With Badoglio. He has asked to be relieved. He wants to enjoy his fame in his beloved motherland. I can’t blame him, although it will be hard on the Ethiopians. I brought you something you might like to see. More propaganda.” Zeri lit his cigar. “You know, Forsythe, I really can’t tell you how much I love propaganda. It’s so floral. Beautiful adjectives. The Fascist ones that are fashionable today. It may change tomorrow, mind you, but today! The soldiers are always brave, the speeches of their leaders are vibrant and Italy, of course, is great and powerful and noble. Adjective diplomacy.”
“You have to follow those directives?”
“Oh, no. You can do whatever you want. The piece just won’t get published.” Bruno seemed as if he were about to laugh, but he caught himself. “Sorry. It’s not funny.”
Standish looked at him carefully. It’s not as funny as he’s making out, he thought, perhaps that’s the weight of the war. “Just as long as you don’t get too much of it,” Standish added.
“Oh, you can never get too much of it. That’s why it’s propaganda. This one, however, has been more of a sporting event than a page of military history.” Zeri smiled as he fished something out of his pocket. “Here, you should see this.”
“What is it?”
“Mussolini’s latest orders to Badoglio. His formula for restoring law and order to the ravished capital.”
“Can I read it?”
“Of course. That’s why I brought it.”
“When Addis Ababa is occupied,” Il Duce had written, “Your Excellency will give orders that all those in the city, or its surroundings, who are caught with arms in hand will be summarily shot. All of the so-called Young Ethiopians, cruel and pretentious barbarians, and the moral authors of the sacking of the city be shot summarily.”
Standish paused thinking of Yohannes and glad that he was out of the city. He and most of the other Young Ethiopians were already at Bulga with the Freedom Fighters.
“Anyone who participated in violence, sacking, or fires, be shot; all those who within twenty-four hours have not given up their arms and munitions, be summarily shot. I await word which will confirm that these orders will be, as always, carried out.”
Standish looked at Bruno as he put down the paper. “This is not going to bring them garlands of roses.”
“No. It’s not meant to. One wonders how he kept silent so long,” Zeri smiled. “Can you imagine what pre-verbal Mussolini must have been like?”
“Pre-verbal? I don’t understand.”
“He never talked for the first three years of his life.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“Absolutely.”
“He has certainly made up for it.”
“And Miss Larson?” Zeri asked, as he puffed on his cigar.
“She’s gone back.”
“I’m glad she’s out of here. Has she gone home?”
“She is going to Geneva. We got a telegram from Rome. That’s all I know.”
“If you see her, please give her my best.”
“I will, and thank you for saving her life.”
“Saving her life? Please, not so dramatic. That sounds like more propaganda. Helped her in a minute of need.”
“As you want. Modesty does not become you, Zeri.”
“Oh really? Well, until the next time. Take care of yourself, Forsythe.”
CHAPTER 58
THE NIGHT WAS WARM for May. Rome’s huge scenographic Piazza Venezia was already splitting at its seams. Jubilant crowds overflowed with great excitement into the Via dei Fori Imperiali and surged into other neighboring streets. More people climbed over the huge white marble monument to Victor Emmanuel II, while the fascist youth groups crowded its marble steps and perched on balconies and rooftops. It was 10 p.m. on May 9, 1936.
Rome was decked out like a beautiful woman going to a masquerade ball. The multicolored lights harmonized with the red, white, and green flags flying from all the flagpoles. The squares and ancient monuments were as light as day. The huge umbrella pines stood as sentinels above the lighted ruins of the ancient Roman Forum. Even the trickling water of the fountains seemed transformed into cascades of pure crystal.
All over the city, sirens and church bells vied with the braying of horns and rejoicing voices. A human avalanche of more than four hundred thousand people, massed in murmuring suspense as a tidal wave of pink faces, looked up to the balcony.
A militiaman, as motionless as a statue, raised his long trumpet and sounded three loud blasts. In the square, the noise ended. Caesar was ready. A spotlight from across the square trapped him like a poacher would a dear. Silver trumpets burst forth and an ear-splitting roar, a twenty-one gun salute, erupted on the waiting swell of people.
Mussolini placed his square hands on the marble balustrade, his massive face was expressionless as he leaned forward in the harsh glare of the floodlights. Then with the help of the amplifiers, he exhorted them, his voice rich and vibrant.
“Officers! Noncommissioned officers! Soldiers of all the armed forces of the state in Africa and Italy! Blackshirts of the Revolution! Italians in the Fatherland and in the world! Listen!
“With the decisions that in a few moments you will learn a great event is accomplished. Today, May 9, of the fourteenth year of the Fascist era, the fate of Ethiopia is sealed.
“All the knots were cut by our shining sword, and the African victory stands in the history of our Fatherland, whole and pure, as the fallen legionnaires and those who survived dreamed it and wanted it.
“At last Italy has her empire! A Fascist empire, because it bears the indestructible signs of the will and might of the Roman lector. Because this is the goal toward which for fourteen years the disciplined energies of the young and lusty Italians were driven.
“An empire at peace, because Italy wants peace for herself, and for everyone, and resorts to war only when compelled by the imperious, ineluctable necessities of life. A civilizing empire, humanitarian toward all the peoples of Ethiopia.
“This is in the tradition of Rome, who, after winning, allowed the defeated people to share her destiny.
“Italians, here is the law that closes one period of our history and opens another, like an immense passageway to all future possibilities. The territories and the peoples that belonged to the Ethiopian Empire are placed under the full and whole sovereignty of the Kingdom of Italy. The title of Emperor of Ethiopia is assumed by the King of Italy, for himself and his successors.
“Officers! Noncommissioned officers! Soldiers of all the armed forces of the state in Africa, and Italy! Blackshirts! Italians!
“The Italian people have created the empire with its blood. It will fecundate it with its work and defend it against anyone with its arms.
“Legionnaires! In this supreme certitude raise high your insignia, your weapons, and your hearts to salute, after fifteen centuries, the reappearance of the empire on the fated hills of Rome. Will you be worthy of it?”
Below the pink sea of moving faces burst forth in one resounding “Si! Si! Si!”
“Your cry is a sacred oath that binds you before God and men, for life and death!”
As soon as Mussolini finished speaking, the crowd broke out in an unparalleled ovation. Ten times the cheering masses clamored for his return while the fascist youths on the war memorial burst into the newly composed “Hymn to the Empire.” The Governor of Rome, Prince Pietro Colonna, breasted the human mass to reach the raised traffic rostrum in the Piazza Venezia and with the policeman’s white baton, directed the screaming mass of people. The pink waves were totally with him. In the loud rejoicing, only one word could be distinguished: “Duce! Duce! Duce!”
It was Mussolini’s crowning moment.
CHAPTER 59
IT WAS NOW MID-MAY and Ceseli was making her way to Geneva. The trip from Djibouti had been easy. The train ride from Naples to Rome was equally uneventful.
It seemed important to her to maintain some continuity with her previous plans. So in Rome, she climbed up to the Janiculum Hill to find the American Academy.
At Penn she had learned that the academy grew out of the inspiration of several American architects, painters and sculptures who had been asked to plan the fine arts exhibition of the 1893 World Columbian Exposition. These farsighted men wanted an American school in Europe where American artists and scholars could study and further their skills. Ceseli’s father had been a handsome contributor to the academy. Ceseli had applied for, and won, the coveted Rome Prize that would give her a place to live and a stipend for her to conduct her research. Ceseli’s father had been keen on this solution because she would be close enough to Geneva that they could visit often.
Now with the certainty that she could begin her studies in September, she was free to go to Geneva. She wanted to get there in time to hear the Emperor address the League of Nations.
She had thought about finding Bruno Zeri in Rome in the ghetto just at the foot of the Janiculum Hill where the American Academy was, but she knew it was premature. She had made him a promise that she meant to keep. But that would have to wait until her return to the Academy in the fall. Would he be back from Ethiopia, she wondered.
On her trip from Rome to Florence, she was very nervous. She wondered if she should be doing this at all: going to see Marco’s family, rather than just sending his book by mail. She decided that i
t was something she should do personally.
Out of the fast moving train window, she saw the Tuscan hills stretched out on each side of the train, with their symmetrical neat rows of vineyards as far as she could see. This is such fertile land, she thought, comparing it with the Ethiopian high plateau. The land the Italians were by now beginning to farm. The land that Mussolini seized. Ceseli decided not to think any more of the war. It was over. Italy had won.
The train pulled into Florence’s St. Maria Novella train station. As she pulled her satchel down off the rack, she noticed that many of the passengers were unloading suitcases through the train’s open windows. So it isn’t only Marco who likes windows better than doors, she thought. She left her trunk in the baggage deposit at the station and looked around her.
“His office is right next to the church.”
She walked out of the crowded railroad station and looked across the square. The façade of the basilica of the fourteenth century Santa Maria Novella Church, with its inlaid black and white marble squares was imposing. She had the fleeting thought that she had seen it before, perhaps on her visit here with her father. There was a small building on the left of the church.
She dodged the oncoming bicycles and crossed the square. Inside, she found immediately the buzzer for Dr. Antonio Antinori. She rang the bell and waited for the buzzer. After it came, she shoved the heavy door open and walked up the two flights to his office.
“Avanti, la porta é aperta.”
Ceseli opened the door, as instructed, and walked inside. To her left was a tall mahogany bookcase full of leather bound books. There was a dazzling print by contemporary painter Giorgio Di Chirico on the opposite wall, and a soft red and blue Persian carpet. There was nobody in the waiting room.
An older lady, dressed in a black dress and black woolen shawl despite the warmth of the evening nodded pleasantly to her.
“You have an appointment, signorina?”
Love in the Land of Barefoot Soldiers Page 25
