My First Seven Years (Plus a Few More)

by Dario Fo

  ‘Come on, do you really think the officers are going to endorse our applications?’

  ‘Well, we have devious ways of making them do what we want.’

  ‘But the whole thing would be thrown out by the Germans. They’re the real bosses in the camp now, and if everything is not signed and sealed by them, we’re done for.’

  ‘Exactly, so what then?’

  Bellosguardo appeared behind us, and interrupted in his no-nonsense way: ‘Relax, you’re going to get your passes.’

  ‘But how?’

  ‘Forge them!’

  ‘So who’s going to do it?’

  The miracle worker gave me a slap on the back: ‘No time for false modesty. I’ve seen how you churn out forged seals and stamps, you’re a real master.’

  ‘I’ve seen them too. You did some for me!’ Bianchi testified.

  ‘Not so fast! What you’re talking about were stamps printed on passes for evening leave. No sergeant on guard duty was going to stand there poring over them. But in this case, in addition to our own official ones, I’d also need to forge Wehrmacht stamps, as well as the Krauts’ signatures.’

  Marco took me by the shoulder and gave me a shake: ‘My dear boy, look me in the eye. It’s true that if they find we’re hopping it with forged documents, they’ll throw us in jail and put us on trial for attempted desertion. And the chances are that at the next round of reprisals, they’ll put us up against a wall with the other folk they’re going to shoot. So do you think for one moment that if I were not more than certain you could do it, I’d be betting my skin on your abilities as a forger?’

  He had me cornered. Bellosguardo got hold of pre-printed forms with our applications already typed out: ‘The undersigned requests transfer to the Parachute School at Tradate…’ etc.

  ‘Hold on one moment! If I am to reproduce the concentric circles you need for the stamps, I need some metal tops from small and medium-sized jars. Then, obviously, I’m going to need a few original documents, even if they’re out of date, with all the various headings and signatures.’ I set to work, crushed the lead of a copying pencil to a fine dust, added a few drops of alcohol, mixed them together and … hey presto! an excellent forger’s dye.

  I took a couple of very fine sable brushes from my box of water colours, and set to work. The first stamp that came out was a mess: my fingers were sweating … I put my hands under cold water and tried again. The second stamp might have done, but it was not yet perfect. At the fifth attempt, I pulled it off: a masterpiece! ‘Better than the original!’ my two satisfied admirers commented.

  I could not sleep that night. When finally I managed to drop off, I found myself playing the lead role in a terrifying nightmare. The German guards had uncovered the fraud, had collared us and were dragging us over to a wall. They fired at us with a twenty-bore machine gun, then took us to hospital. We were covered with bullet holes, but still alive. They extracted the bullets, took care of us, gave us treatment and then put us back against the wall and turned the guns on us once again.

  The following morning, accompanied by Sergeant Bellosguardo, we turned up at the exit gate where there were both Italian and German guards on duty. Each of the two of us had a light bag. We handed over the documents and the passes. Our guard scarcely gave them a glance before giving the two sheets of paper to his German colleague. At that moment, a car horn started hooting violently: the car belonged to the Komandant, who wanted out. The German guard needed his hands free of the documents, so he handed them back to our duty officer, and rushed to open the gates. The sergeant gave the documents back to us and ran to give him a hand. Bellosguardo pushed us bodily away from the checkpoint. Proceeding like two stupefied robots, we walked on I don’t know for how long, holding the passes tightly between our fingers. When the station was in sight, we were able to relax and look each other in the face. We burst into loud, liberating laughter, exclaiming at the same time: ‘My God, talk about brass neck!’

  Then we started to run. It seemed as though we were in a sequence of a comic film by Max Linder: there were never any dead moments. Everything went hell for leather, without a pause. We arrived at the platform, the train for Milan was standing there, we got on and it set off. There was a great crush of passengers, but we found two seats next to two girls who immediately smiled at us as though we were a pair of dandies on holiday instead of a couple of scruffy simpletons. A conversation was struck up, we offered them cigarettes, they took out of their bag a loaf of bread made with flour so dark it looked like rye, and offered us a piece each.

  At the Sesto San Giovanni station, we had to change train. There was half an hour to wait. ‘Listen, Marco, I’ll go and post our letters to the Tradate headquarters.’

  ‘Oh yes, our requests to enlist … they had completely slipped my mind!’

  The post boxes were outside the station, on the other side of the piazza. I went out … crossed over … in the middle of the piazza I bumped into a crowd of people. There, in an avenue of plane trees, they were gathered in a circle around a man lying full length on a small grassy patch. He had a sign on his chest: ‘Bandit’. I asked for information and a woman in tears replied: ‘They killed him half an hour ago. They said they surprised him as he was distributing subversive leaflets.’

  Someone else added: ‘It seems he was a worker from Breda, a partisan.’ I stood there petrified, observing that dead man with his arms outstretched. His mouth was open as though he were about to cry out.

  ‘Move, move. On your way!’ A group of the Black Brigades pushed us away from the avenue. I made my way back to the station, sick at heart, my face grey. I found Marco. It took a terrible effort to tell him about the shot partisan. I could not do it. I had continual bouts of vomiting.

  Early in the afternoon, we arrived at Tradate. We went up to the castle where both the squadron HQ and the training school were billeted. We handed over our documents to a young officer, who ushered us into a large room.

  ‘Come forward,’ we were ordered by a medical officer behind a desk, ‘take off your rags and throw them on that bench.’ I found it hard to move: I was still stunned and could not get the image of that appalling act of violence out of my mind. We stood to attention, totally naked, in front of the desk.

  ‘You’re a disgrace!’ exclaimed the paratroopers’ medic. ‘OK, the final debacle is at hand, but derelicts of this sort have never crossed my path before.’ End of the comic film. The grotesque, with sniggers, was about to begin.

  ‘Sorry, boys, I didn’t want to mortify you, but stand in front of that mirror.’ He pointed to a big, opaque sheet of glass which still contained the remnants of the decor of a piece of antique furniture: our reflections appeared as though reproduced through a cloud of steam. We did not make an edifying spectacle. ‘Where have you come from?’ As he spoke, he was leafing through the documents the sergeant had handed him.

  ‘We’re from the barracks at Monza, well, first we were at Mestre,’ we started, breaking in to give each other a hand. ‘We got caught up in a blitz, we ended up eating like dogs and both of us caught dysentery. Twice we came close to being dispatched to Germany … in four months we lost as much weight as if they had given us three tapeworms and oysters to swallow every day!’

  The medical officer laughed: ‘Well, at least you’ve not lost your sense of humour. Put your underpants, trousers and all the rest back on. You can go, there’s no point in going on with the examination. You are not suitable.’

  ‘What!’ we stuttered.

  ‘I’m sorry. I like you but you are too thin and underweight. This is a heavy course. It would knock out even an athlete from the Gallarate Sports Club.’

  ‘But we used to go to the Gallarate Sports Club!’

  ‘You? Are you making a fool of me?’

  ‘Not at all. Until a couple of weeks ago, we were training with Missoni in the four hundred metres. We’ve raced with Siddi and Paternini.’ The medical officer whispered into his assistant’s ear something which sent
him speeding out of the room. Then he got to his feet and came over to us, and almost mockingly felt our biceps, pectoral muscles, calves and buttocks.

  ‘Yes, well, not too bad as regards toning, enough to make Volta’s breast-stroke squad envious. To get you into minimum shape, you’d need to undergo fattening-up therapy, maybe with force-feeding through a tube, the way they do with the paté de foie gras geese. But we’ll soon see if you’re a couple of chancers or champions down on their luck!’

  There was a knock at the door, and a muscular youth in shorts came in: ‘Here I am!’

  ‘Let me introduce you to the high-jump champion from the Gallarate Sports Club. Sergeant, cast you eye over these two. You recognise them?’

  I try to turn towards the newcomer. They stop me. ‘No, who are they?’

  The medical officer points his finger at us: ‘Enough of this shit, pair of bloody shysters!’ The assistant is about to take us out, when I shout out: ‘Enrico! Bloody hell, do you really not recognise me? It’s Dario, from Porto Valtravaglia … four hundred metres sprint.’

  Enrico is thrown for a moment, he looks at us with a little more attention. Then he points to my comrade in misfortune: ‘And you’re Bianchi. Yes, now I remember. My God, you’re all skin and bone. What’s happened to you?’

  ‘All right, all right,’ the medical officer cuts us short. ‘Keep the hugs and pleasantries for a later date. Get your kit off once again, you two, and we’ll complete the examination.’ End of Round 1.

  Now it is time for the grand finale: test of courage and aptitude. They escorted us over to a field behind the castle where there stood a large, iron trellis-work tower, over fifteen metres high.

  ‘Come on,’ Enrico Ferri encouraged us, ‘climb up.’

  ‘Right up to the top?’ we asked, our hearts in our mouths.

  ‘That’s right, then you’ve got to jump off.’

  ‘Onto a safety net, I hope.’

  ‘No, using a brake rope.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The corporal on the platform at the top will explain everything.’

  ‘Could we not have a little hint?’

  ‘Shut up and get climbing.’

  ‘How do you get up? Where’s the ladder?’

  ‘There is no ladder, only alternating grips in the main column. Look, it’s easy, all you have to do is take hold of them one after the other and place your feet on the ones lower down. It’s all a question of rhythm and arm strength.’

  Off we go. We are already a few metres off the ground.

  ‘The main thing,’ Enrico Ferri shouted up to us, ‘is to stay calm and relaxed as you get higher, and never look down, especially if you’re prone to giddiness. Everything’d go haywire, and you’d plunge straight down.’

  I take deep breaths, hold on, support myself on one leg … then pull up the other one. I clench my teeth, stretch out one arm and cling on. I’m at the seven-metre point: I feel numb, as though it were the first time I’d done any climbing. But for God’s bloody sake, this is the same person who as a boy had gone hurtling down a mountainside hanging on to a cable wire, the same one who had plunged into the water from high up a cliffside! Yes, OK, but that was fool’s courage! Now that I’ve reached the age of reason, I’m shitting myself with terror! Come on, another five metres, another seven grips, four, three, two … made it. Here I am on the platform. The corporal instructor drags me to my feet. I’m soaking with sweat. Bianchi makes it as well, as white as a sheet.

  ‘Get your breath back, but move your arms about,’ advises the instructor, ‘and do some half-turns with your chest, otherwise you’ll catch a chill. That’s the idea, keep going. Meanwhile I’ll tell you what’s going to happen. Look up, and above your heads you’ll see a pulley.’ And he showed us a long pipe rotating on an iron axle. ‘There’s a rope tied around the pulley, with the other end attached to these harnesses which I’m going to ask you to put on, obviously one each. Be careful, the rotator is fixed onto one extremity of the axle. Take note: it’s good and big, with four blades which rotate as they are pulled by the cable and dragged by your weight in descent, and so they brake the speed of the fall. You understand how it works?’

  ‘And we’ve got to jump off just like that? Without a trial?’

  ‘Exactly. This is the trial.’

  ‘But is there anyone who’s going to show us what to do … how it works?’

  ‘No, that’s why this is called the courage and aptitude test. If you are not up to it, it means that you’re not suited for this discipline.’

  In a flash, I saw the German guards sneering as they welcomed us back, arms outstretched. ‘OK, I’ll jump.’

  The corporal checked the attachments of my harness. ‘Right, you’re all ready!’ he said as he took me over to the edge of the platform. ‘You’ve got to let yourself topple forward with your whole body almost rigid, then once you’ve jumped, open out your arms and hold your head up. When you’re about to hit the ground, make your leg muscles go taut and bend your knees slightly. The moment you feel the impact, react as though you were about to jump up in the air. That’s all there is to it. Take a deep breath and away you go!’ A dozen or so recruits who had done the jump had gathered at the foot. They shouted with one voice: ‘Don’t be afraid! The fall velocity is only thirty kilometres an hour!’ Then one of them with a baritone voice chimed in with the final message: ‘I warn you, if your legs fold up like an accordion, you’re done for! They don’t take on dwarves here!’

  General guffaw and I let myself fall forward as per the handbook. There was not even time to draw breath before I hit the ground. God, what a bump! I reacted awkwardly on landing, and nearly ended up on my back. They removed my harness. Marco came down as well. God help us, he came down at lightning speed, but he managed the final leap upwards better than me. We both received hefty slaps on the back from the medical officer. ‘Well done, you’ve made it, you’re enrolled!’ Another flashback: the German guards reappear, this time cursing and swearing in disappointment.

  * * *

  At seven o’clock the following morning, we were lined up in the camp in squads of twenty each, around a hundred recruits in total, under the command of five instructors answerable to the captain of the training school. We began with warm-up exercises, the very same as we had done at the Gallarate club: bend to touch the toes, arm and leg stretching, short sprints, half-turns of chest and shoulders, press-ups, and so on, all executed at top speed, to the very limit of physical endurance. Half of the pupils were out of training, and in fact we all dropped one after the other, like skittles. Half an hour to get your breath back, then start all over again. In the afternoon, they gave out harnesses for us to put on, and then they suspended us from high bars held up by a structure similar to a swing: they invited us to swing about a bit, then without warning they sprang the catches supporting us and we found ourselves abruptly tossed to the ground: rolls and bumps at our own discretion. At this point, we embarked on lessons on the impact of landing, that is, they taught us somersault techniques. We had to learn how to carry out circular pirouettes while rolling on arms, shoulders, back and legs: how to transform ourselves into perfect wheels, with a suppleness which would enable us to adapt our rolling movement to any terrain or direction of impact. Of course they also taught us the angel drop with backward flip of the arms, and other acrobatic turns. As regards training for the jump itself, every day they taught us something new: diving jump into a tarpaulin, jump with weapons and rucksack, and finally the blind jump, that is, blindfolded, letting go of the swing while it was swaying. Obviously, sprains, dislocated joints and broken bones were the order of the day. And the instructors’ refrain was always the same: ‘Anyone who can’t stand it can pack up this very moment!’

  In the evening, we would be full of aches and pains, as well as worn out by sheer fatigue. Only a few had the energy to ask for an evening pass: the bulk of us lay on the camp beds chatting. As confidence among us grew, I grasped that others among the t
rainees felt the same way as me: we were taking part in that gut-bursting tour de force only to escape from something worse, but no one wanted to admit it explicitly. There were also some fanatical followers of the regime who came out with high-minded banalities about fatherland, sacrifice and defence of the race, but the majority ignored them. A large number of the lads had signed up for the course principally to prove to themselves that they had the necessary courage and physical strength, or else to escape from the shell of what they themselves considered a mediocre existence, bereft of all vitality. The commanders at the barracks at Monza had found out that we had skipped off to Tradate, but no one could ask for us to be sent back. In fact, it was as if we were in the Foreign Legion.

  The forty days’ training passed at incredible speed. We awaited the day of the jump with anxiety and trepidation, but unexpectedly the captain informed us that there were no aircraft available at the Venegono airfield. Some of the boys burst out crying in despair. There were only a few more days, then we were to be sent who knows where, perhaps to the front, perhaps to take part in a search-and-destroy mission near Cirié, in Piedmont. That very evening, Marco and I made up our minds it was time to get moving immediately. Taking advantage of an evening off, we ran to the station and got on the last train bound for the lake and along its shoreline. I had forged two other false passes. When we got to Laveno, we said goodbye. We had no precise programme for our escape. For the moment, Marco decided to go back to his family at Besozzo, then he would see. I got off at Porto Valtravaglia.

  I found the whole family at home, and explained my situation to them. I was once again a deserter, but this time the stakes were higher. My father had a friend who lived at Caldé, a colleague with whom he had organised the escape of many wanted people. He already had an understanding with him: the railwayman would put me up in the attic of an old, semi-abandoned house which belonged to him. Half ruined and almost completely overgrown, it was situated in the woods in the depths of the valley. The attic could be reached only by a ladder; once I was inside, I was to pull it up and conceal it. No one, not even my mother, knew about that hiding place. In the attic, I found a straw bed and a cupboard with some provisions obtained by the railwayman. My father and his friend did not even say goodbye; a few waves and they were off. That night, I did not sleep a wink. Sounds and noises from the woods and surrounding fields filled my ears. There were no windows, only a skylight camouflaged by creepers, but I looked out through a hole in the tiles and in the distance I could see the lake. It was a moonlit night, and the noise of barking dogs was redoubled by the echo from the valleys.