*
Carla was heartbroken, not just for the man she loved, but for the life they’d dreamed of together. All through the long months of pregnancy she’d waited, and the weeks following Theo’s birth, patiently ticking off the days, writing lists, planning her emigration, boasting to jealous girlfriends, working at her English, only to have her dreams shattered at the bottom of a Scottish mountain. Her instincts were to travel to England immediately and to find and reclaim her poor Victor somehow, yet in her heart she knew it was impossible: she wouldn’t know where to start, and anyway there wasn’t the money. Instead she sank into a well of despair, staying in her room, barely eating, not sleeping, relinquishing Theo to her mother. Weeks passed, then months, until one day she emerged from her room, picked up her son and gazed into his eyes.
‘Are you there, Victor, my love?’
Theo chuckled up at her, blue eyes beaming, and the healing began.
So he grew up fatherless, but not without father figures. Erwin Rommel would become an important one, John Frost another, but in the early years his family served, principally his grandfather Josef. A staunch separatist with strong views and an anarchic streak, it was Josef who inducted him into the culture of his motherland. From an early age Theo spent long evenings at Josef’s knee, poring over photos and picture books, wrestling with German and Ladin texts, and listening to Josef’s endless stories of strife, struggle and ancestral heroism, while Tyrolean folk music played on the gramophone. Josef also, at Carla’s insistence, taught him what little he knew of Theo’s paternal homeland, spinning made-up tales of great kings and queens, far-flung empires, eternal rain, a presidente called Lloyd George, and a poet called Shake-a-spear. Theo listened in rapt attention, fascinated by his two homelands, both the real one of snow-capped mountains, rushing rivers, Tyrolean streets and Grandma Ellie’s strudel, and the imagined one of his lost hero father, with its fearsome kings, pea-soup fog and week-long games of ‘criquet’. Greedily he devoured all information put before him, which was as well for Grandpa Josef brooked no backsliding. Stoutly built with piercing eyes and stiff hair that stood up as though electrified, he had a gravelly voice and smelled of printer’s ink, and could anger quickly, especially over matters political. But he was rarely short with Theo, and as time passed the pair grew close.
Meanwhile Josef’s father, Josef the elder – Theo’s great-grandfather – took charge of the boy’s physical education. In his eighties, short and wiry with wispy hair and a drooping moustache, Josef senior enjoyed legendary personal fitness, having grown up a goatherd in the mountains. From an early age, in all seasons and weathers, Theo found himself frog-marched into the Alps, gasping to keep up, there to learn hiking, map-reading, making camp, making fire, reading the stars, shooting straight with a rifle, and how to avoid freezing to death in the storms that blew in without warning. One March evening when he was eight, such a blizzard forced the pair to take refuge all night in a snow scrape. Shuddering with cold and terrified by the shrieking wind, Theo whimpered in the darkness while the old man stumbled about. Then he heard tutting in his ear, felt dried meat and raisins being pushed into his mouth, then a drink that burned in him like fire. Before he knew it he was being trussed up within a canvas sheet and gripped tight by wiry limbs, there to lie cocooned like a moth in a web till morning. Striding down through the snow into Bolzano next day, Theo sensed a change within him, as though a test had been passed. ‘Take action and be brave, Theodor,’ Josef said quietly in Ladin, ‘for it is fear and inaction that kills.’
Another male influence was his uncle Rodolfo, Eleanora’s brother, a Fascist Party functionary who lived partly in Bolzano and partly in Rome. He was rich and elegantly dressed with oiled hair, a glamorous wife and a daughter Theo’s age called Renata, and he would arrive outside the print shop in an open automobile to whisk the children off to cafés for hot chocolate and ice cream. There he would extol Mussolini’s vision for a strong and united Italy, the importance of ethnic purity to achieve this, the need for discipline among the proletariat, and a sturdy governing class. Much of this passed over Theo’s head – he was more interested in Renata’s ribboned curls – but Rodolfo promised to show him Rome one day, and the ice cream was delicious.
Around the same time he began at a new school. He was already attending an ‘official’ one, where only Italian was spoken and only an approved curriculum taught. Oddly this included English as its second language, but of Ladin, or German, or South Tyrol as a cultural entity, there was no teaching. Then one afternoon Carla met him at the gate and led him by the hand through Bolzano’s back streets to an unfamiliar part of town. As they went she kept looking behind, as though checking for followers.
‘Where are we going, Mama?’
‘Somewhere secret, somewhere you must tell no one about.’
They were called Katakombenschulen – catacomb schools – secret hideouts where the language, literature and culture of Austria and Germany were still taught. Many South Tyroleans aligned themselves with these northern influences, as opposed to the Italian nationalism of the south, but under Mussolini’s directives their study was strictly forbidden. Hundreds of German-speaking teachers lost their jobs, but some braver ones clubbed together in attics and basements to continue their work in secret. South Tyrolean children attended in their hundreds.
Theo’s Katakombenschule was located in the cellar of a disused chemist’s shop smelling of mothballs. It housed thirty pupils between eight and twelve, and one teacher, a kindly girl in her twenties, called Nikola Angeletti. That first evening Nikola gave a brief introduction to the basics of German grammar, then took out a book by the writer Wilhelm Müller and read them poems about a broken-hearted man on a long winter’s journey. She read slowly, pausing to ensure her students understood before resuming in a clear melodious voice. Theo was entranced, both by the story, and by Nikola, who unlike his ‘official’ teachers was quiet and gentle, and seemingly oblivious to her shabby classroom and the subversive nature of her work. Looking round the dusty basement, pin-drop silent, he saw all his classmates were likewise captivated. When she had finished reading Nikola moved to a box in the corner.
‘Here are Herr Müller’s poems again, children,’ she said, cranking the handle of a gramophone player. ‘Only this time they are sung to music by an Austrian man called Franz Schubert.’
The teaching Theo received at catacomb school, combined with that from his official school – despite its prejudices – ensured he grew up well educated. He was no maths scholar, angrily struggling with calculus, geometry and algebra, but was strong in history and geography, and especially languages, becoming fluent in German, Italian, English and Ladin by his early teens. His greatest strength, however, lay in all things outdoors. Thanks to a competitive streak, years of fitness training from Josef senior and a growth spurt that transformed him from portly to statuesque in twelve months, he was soon leading the field in sports, particularly athletics, cross-country and running. He was also an accomplished skier, proudly telling classmates he inherited his skill from his late father, the British Olympic champion Captain Victor Trickey, tragically killed smashing the downhill record in Norway. The same Victor Trickey, he would add, who won medals in the Great War leading the charge at Piave River. His male friends may or may not have been impressed, but, by now tall, strong and fair, with generous lips and alluringly Slavonic eyes, he was certainly stirring the girls.
By the mid-1930s the South Tyrol Question, as it was by then known, was reaching a climax. It had also spread beyond the tiny province to be taken up by governments across Europe, some insisting its autonomy be recognized, others urging diplomatic compromise. One government in particular, under its energetic new leader Adolf Hitler, paid special attention, as Germany’s influence widened towards the Saar in the west, the Sudetenland to the east and then down towards Austria itself. Eager to secure his southern flank, Hitler entered direct talks with Mussolini over South Tyrol’s future. And from these talks a diabolic
al pact would in due course emerge.
In the meantime life for Theo continued much as before: strudel and sedition at home, Carla and Josef embroiled while Eleanora clucked disapproval, bustling streets with shopkeepers, market traders and placard-waving protestors all jostling for trade, and the final stages of a twin-track education, although catacomb schools were ruthlessly suppressed by Tolomei’s thugs. Winters were long and hard; Theo and his friends passed them at the chocolate parlour, or the outdoor ice rink, or Bolzano’s first department store, or at the cinema where he held hands with a girl called Mitzi Janosi and watched newsreels about persecuted Germans in Czechoslovakia.
But once the spring thaws came, the town’s youth were released like caged birds, scattering to the Alpine sunshine to hike and fish, camp, canoe and shoot. These mountain adventures were sometimes organized into competitions by scouting groups such as Wandervogel or Pfadfinder in Austria, or the new Hitlerjugend movement in Germany, and in the summer of 1936 Theo and his friend Otto Wörtz were selected to represent Bolzano at a regional jamboree in the Bavarian town of Mittenwald. Over four days they competed in target-shooting, athletics and cross-country events. Otto won a bronze medal in the javelin; Theo to his astonishment finished second overall. On the final evening he, Otto and the other winners were formed into a line, down which a party of dignitaries processed presenting medals. At their head was a compact man in his forties, wearing the grey uniform of the German army. He was a major, Theo saw, with an impressive row of battle ribbons on his chest and a much-coveted Iron Cross at his throat.
‘Congratulations, young man,’ he said in German upon reaching Theo. ‘A very commendable silver medal. What is your name?’
‘Theodor Victor Ladurner-Trickey, sir.’
‘Quite a name. And where are you from?’
‘Bolzano, sir.’
‘Ah. A most beautiful town, in a most troubled province. So are you Italian in your sympathies, or German?’
‘Well, I, um – Neither, sir, really. I am sort of South Tyrolean, you see. Although I’m half-English – my father…’
The German’s eyes narrowed. Beneath them a chiselled jaw ended in a cleft chin. ‘You mean you don’t know?’
Theo’s head spun. ‘Well, yes – I mean, no, sir, that is – Oh goodness, I don’t—’
‘Then you must decide, Theodor. Because it is perfectly all right to be South Tyrolean, or Italian, or German, or even half-English. As long as you know it. Because if you don’t know it’ – he pointed at Theo’s medal – ‘then this and everything it stands for is meaningless. Do you understand me?’
‘I… Yes, sir.’
‘Good man.’ And with that he was gone, moving up the line like a passing squall.
Otto sniggered. ‘Nice going, champ.’
‘Who the hell was that?’
‘Rommel, you idiot. Head of the whole Hitlerjugend!’
*
Erwin Rommel’s question to Theo was pertinent, for within months notices were going up around Bolzano announcing yet another edict from Rome. But this one was different.
‘My God, have you seen it!’ Carla shouted, brandishing the newspaper.
Josef glanced up. ‘Don’t look surprised, we knew it was coming.’
‘But not like this! Not so… so cut and dried. It’s inhuman!’
‘It’s the new reality, Carla, the new order.’
‘What will we do?’
‘Resist. As we always have.’
The edict was called the South Tyrol Option Agreement. Hammered out in private between Hitler and Mussolini, it required everyone in South Tyrol to adopt either German or Italian citizenship. No exemptions, no abstentions, no third choice: South Tyrol was to vanish from the map. Inhabitants choosing Italian nationality could remain in the province, those choosing German must leave; everyone had six months to decide and another six to relocate as necessary. In the meantime the entire population must register full details of their birth, marriage, residence, national identity, ethnicity and religion. There was one more clause. Young men of military age, having made their decision, would automatically be enrolled for service in the Italian or German armed forces.
‘What will your family do, Otto?’ Theo asked his friend at the cinema one night.
‘Germany, of course! Father has relatives in Munich, and a job waiting at the university. We’ll get an apartment, I’ll join the army – it’ll be terrific.’
‘And you, Mitzi?’ He turned to his girlfriend. The Janosi family were neighbours of the Ladurners and known pro-Italians.
Mitzi shrugged. ‘Father says we’ll sign and stay. And you?’
Theo stared at the screen. ‘God knows.’
Once again his family was split. On his grandmother’s side – Eleanora, Rodolfo, cousin Renata and the others – their choice was already made: register Italian and be done with it. But for the Ladurners the matter was less clear-cut. Josef and his kin had German ties, he had cousins in Austria too, he spoke German, he could probably find work and settle there. But Bolzano was his home and he was damned if he’d be exiled from it. Ellie agreed. You don’t need to be exiled, dearest, she pleaded, just sign the paper, adopt Italian citizenship and we can stay together right here. But signing the paper and accepting Italian nationality was for Josef the ultimate betrayal. If he signed, everything he believed in, everything centuries of freedom fighters had striven for, right back to his ancestor Andreas Hofer, would have been for nothing.
‘I can’t do it, Ellie,’ he told her at the table one evening. ‘I am not German, nor am I Italian. I am South Tyrolean and always will be. So I am refusing to register, and will stay here and continue the struggle.’
‘Me too,’ Carla added. ‘I’m staying.’
*
But she was mistaken, for within months events overcame them and everything changed. Firstly, at dawn one morning and without any warning, Josef was arrested. Pounding on their door, a gang of Blackshirts stormed in, ransacked the shop and then dragged Josef off. No explanation was given, no arrest warrant offered. After a week of frantic enquiry, Carla learned he’d been transferred along with scores of other dissidents south to Trento, where he was being held in prison. The charges against him, apart from disobeying the Option edict, included riotous assembly, incitement to civil disobedience and, most seriously, the production of treasonable propaganda, this last from leaflets and posters found hidden at the print shop.
Then in an unconnected development his wife Eleanora was summoned to Bolzano’s town hall for interview at the newly opened Bureau of Ethnicity.
‘Is this about my husband?’ she asked anxiously.
‘Your husband?’ the official replied. ‘No, signora, this is about you, and the registration card you filled in.’
‘Oh. What about it?’
‘It says you are one-half Jewish.’
‘Well, indeed, that is correct, on my mother’s side. She was Frederica Hartmann – from Hungary, you know, descended from the Habsburgs.’
‘Really.’
‘Yes. Is this important? My husband, you see—’
‘Yes, it is important. A register of all Jewish or part-Jewish persons is being compiled for the authorities.’
‘What for?’
‘It is a condition of our treaty with Germany. Now, your husband is Jewish?’
‘No. He is a Catholic. So am I, in fact.’
‘Children?’
‘One daughter. Widowed.’
‘Grandchildren?’
‘I have one grandson. His name is Victor Trickey, he is fifteen and registered British from birth.’
‘British?’
‘His father was an officer of the British army.’
‘British, very well.’
‘Will that be all?’
‘For now, yes, thank you.’
Arriving home an hour later she found Carla slumped ashen-faced in a chair and Theo sobbing in his room.
‘Carla, what has happened? My God, it’s your f
ather!’
‘No, Mother, not Father. It is Grandfather. He is gone.’
Theo’s beloved great-grandfather, Josef Ladurner senior, his indestructible physical coach and mentor, was dead of heart failure at ninety-two.
The three travelled to Trento to break the news to Josef. Though normally a short train ride across the border into Italy, their journey was frustratingly protracted, with everyone’s papers repeatedly checked, at Bolzano Station, at the Italian border at Salorno, then a third time disembarking at Trento. And gaining entry to the centro di detenzione proved practically impossible, with warning notices, patrolling policemen and high walls topped with barbed wire barring their way. Circling round, Carla eventually found a wooden doorway with bell-pull.
‘Go away!’ an angry voice replied when she rang.
‘We’ve come from Bolzano to visit my father. On a matter of domestic urgency.’
A peephole slid open. ‘No visitors allowed, now clear off.’
‘Please, signore,’ Carla murmured, moving close to the hatch. ‘It is my father, Josef Ladurner. We have news of a sad bereavement.’
An eye studied her through the hatch. She forced a smile. ‘Please?’
‘Wait there.’
Airborne Page 8
