A Winter's Night

by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

  Wolf got close enough to touch him and looked him straight in the eye: “All right, I’ll trust you on this one. But if you’re wrong, if he runs off and tells the Nazis what he’s seen here, I swear by God I will have you shot.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” said Montesi calmly. “Where do we go from here?”

  “We go to Monte Sole. We have to protect our people.”

  “If we go back there, it’ll be the end. The Germans will come back with overwhelming force and crush us. All we have are light arms; they won’t get us anywhere. Let’s approach it from the other direction. We’ll reach the Republic of Montefiorino and unite with the Modena division. Strength lies in unity.”

  Wolf didn’t say a word, but went inside.

  “He needs to sleep,” said one of the men who’d come back with him. “He hasn’t closed his eyes in over forty-eight hours.” Sugano picked three men from among those who were better rested and assigned them to guard the commander and watch over his sleep.

  Wolf slept nine hours straight and woke up at four in the morning. He summoned Sugano and the other three battalion commanders: Corvo, Riccio and Labieno. He held council.

  “Tell me straight out if you’re afraid of fighting. We have never backed off. Nothing, nobody, has ever stopped us. There’s no reason we can’t reclaim Monte Sole.”

  Sugano felt cut to the quick. “What the fuck is that about, Wolf? Have you ever seen me flinch? Haven’t I fought at your side for hours and hours, day and night, snow and rain? Have you ever seen me run away? Did I ever leave your ass uncovered?”

  “So we’ll go. Where’s the problem?”

  “That we have enough ammunition for one hour,” replied Corvo.

  ‘Well that settles it, doesn’t it?’ concluded Sugano. ‘Unless we want to commit mass suicide. I was talking to the Blacksmith, he says we should go towards Castello di Ser­ravalle. There are friends there who can give us support and supplies. After that . . . ’

  “After that we’ll discuss matters,” Wolf cut him short. No one at that moment felt like contradicting him. They woke up the others one by one, each man rousing the next, without making a sound. Montesi headed one of the columns, walking next to Romolo, the boy whose life he had saved and whom he felt personally responsible for.

  They walked for a couple of hours until they reached Monte Vignola, not far from Vergato. It was there that Bruno Montesi recognized Fabrizio in the middle of a group of about twenty Red Star foot soldiers. They embraced.

  “You are crazy,” said Montesi. “Why did you come up here? You’ve never fired a shot.”

  “Yes I have, I’m sorry to say,” he replied. Fabrizio looked down at his shoes and thought of the boy that he had finished off. In his mind’s eye he looked even more like Rossano, although he knew that was impossible.

  “Useless asking you if you’d consider going home, right?”

  “Completely,” said Fabrizio. “My place is here.”

  “As you wish, I’m not going to insist, but be careful. This isn’t a game. Dying is easy up here.”

  They advanced at a steady pace until that evening without particular problems. They were careful about never letting down their guard; German troop movement had been reported throughout the area. They spent the night in a hayloft near Savigno and the morning after they reached Castello di Serravalle which was at a relatively low altitude. Wolf was nervous, his eyes continuously darted around as if he sensed danger. A friend of Montesi’s appeared and showed them where the provisions were: a shelter that had been used until a couple of days before by the German command.

  At this point, Wolf went back to his idea of returning to Monte Sole, but he found Sugano decidedly against it. “We don’t have enough ammunition and we know for certain that the Germans will be back, in strength and with heavy artillery. The Blacksmith is right: we have to go to Montefiorino and unite with the men of the Modena division.”

  Wolf became furious. “You are not going anywhere,” he said, “I decide where we go. We’ve come all this way for nothing.”

  “I’m going with my men to Montefiorino.”

  “Try it and I’ll kill you!” growled Wolf.

  “Kill me, if you have the guts!” shouted Sugano.

  Wolf was taking the safety off his submachine gun when Montesi stepped in between them. “Are you both crazy? That’s all we need, you two shooting at each other. Cut this out, now, you hear me? We can talk this out, for the love of God. Stop this right now, I said,” he repeated, pushing them physically apart. Fabrizio was shocked at what he was seeing: two men that he thought of as heroes were aiming their guns at each other. But his friend Bruno was getting the situation under control.

  “Listen to me, let’s start acting like people and not animals. Neither one of you wants to accept the point of view of the other. The only solution is to split up.”

  A deathly silence fell over the men. They were utterly demoralized by seeing their two top commanders fighting this way. Wolf was a mess. His authority had never been challenged before, but he had probably realized by now that it would no longer be possible to keep the brigade together. Montesi thought that the biggest obstacle to solving this dilemma was that, even if the Red Star could be persuaded to join the Modena division, Wolf would categorically refuse to submit to the decisions of another commander. Of any other commander.

  Montesi looked at Wolf and Sugano, in turn, and then scanned the men, all immobile with their fingers on the triggers, trying to figure out who was on which side. At a certain point, Wolf spoke: “All right. I’m not going to force you. I’ve never forced you to do anything. You’ve always followed me out of your own free will, you’ve always recognized me as your commander. If you want to go, I will not hold you back, but you have to leave your weapons here. They belong to me and to my men, to the men who are loyal to me and will not abandon me.”

  A terrible situation had just gotten worse. The possession of their weapons was vital for both sides, and the two leaders were once again facing off with guns leveled.

  “That’s enough now,” said Montesi, “you both know very well that no one can survive up here without a weapon. Wolf, these men have made a decision that you don’t like. But is that any reason to condemn them to certain death? You know that they will never give up their weapons; the only way to disarm them is to kill them. You won’t do that, Wolf, because you’re their commander. Because you don’t want to spill blood among these men that you’ve always considered your brothers, more than brothers, men who have shared everything with you: dangers, sacrifices, nights out on the field, wounds, endless marches. Let them go. Let those who think differently than you do go their own way, and they will respect you, they’ll remember you and they’ll tell their sons and grandsons about you. Let us leave each other as friends, in the hopes that when we meet again, it will be in a better country, in an Italy which is freer and more just.”

  Montesi became emotional as he spoke. His own words, the measured rhetoric he had learned at the party school, moved him. He didn’t feel embarrassed, because he was the first to believe in what he was saying. Those present were simple men, who listened with their hearts, and were not difficult to influence. In the end, Wolf agreed to let Sugano’s group leave with their arms and he did not try to convince anyone to remain with him. The ones who wanted to stay would be enough.

  Sugano went off with about two hundred men and Wolf went back with the others. Wolf’s new army were all from the Reno river valley, from places like Marzabotto, Grizzana, Vergato, Monzuno and Pian di Venola. They went back with him because they knew what was going to happen and, if they had to die, they preferred to do so fighting in front of the doors of their own homes.

  There were no embraces, no tears. When they reached the ridge, Sugano turned around to watch Wolf’s column as they were making their way back to Monte Sole and, from deep inside, he wished them
luck, because he thought they were going towards sure death.

  Although Fabrizio was a newcomer to the brigade, living through such a harrowing experience had made him as tough and seasoned as any veteran. He would exchange a few words with Montesi now and then, seeking comfort for the remorse he felt at leaving Wolf and his comrades as they headed for their destiny.

  “It’s not your fault, Fabrizio,” Montesi replied. “Each one of us, in his own heart, made the decision he thought best. No one can know what fate has in store for us.”

  The next day, Sugano’s brigade entered Montefiorino and reported to Mario Ricci, known as “Armando,” the commander of the Modena division. He immediately assigned them to Frassinoro, not far from the border with Tuscany. Just a few days later, they received a telephone call from headquarters alerting them to the fact that two German motorized divisions had launched a massive attack against Montefiorino, at the northern edge of the territory, on the valley side. The partisans were seeking to resist in every way possible, but they were greatly outnumbered in terms of vehicles, men and arms. Sugano’s group was ordered to move west of Frassinoro towards Val d’Asta on the border with Reggio, because the Germans were attempting to outflank them there in order to deny them a line of escape towards Tuscany and the Allied lines. The brigade took up position in a village on the ridge which offered a vantage point over a vast territory, allowing them to spot troop movement at a distance. At four o’clock in the morning, a courier brought the order to move further southwest, in the direction of the Forbici pass. It was a difficult, risky transfer because the Germans had already infiltrated the entire area and had destroyed several villages.

  At about ten o’clock in the morning, Spino told Sugano that he had good news: “There’s a shepherd who has just come through the Forbici pass; I interrogated him and he says that the route is clear.”

  Sugano demanded to talk with the man himself. “Well?” he asked him. “What did you see up there?”

  “There’s a group of your men guarding the pass. I’m sure it was them because I heard them talking.”

  “Are you absolutely sure?”

  “As sure as I’m here talking to you now. They were men from the Modena division.”

  “All right, let’s go see. Eyes open and fingers on your triggers.”

  The brigade fanned out and started the ascent. Fabrizio very soon lost contact with Bruno Montesi, who was with another couple of guys from town: Aldo Banti and Amedeo Bisi. Fabrizio felt like calling out, asking them to wait up, but he couldn’t even see where they were. The unit was moving across open ground because most of the trees had been cut down, but the men had managed to camouflage themselves using the branches and vegetation from juniper bushes and oak saplings.

  The silence was unreal; not even the birds were singing. Sugano was ahead of the others; every few steps, he would check that the way was clear and signal for them to proceed towards the peak. All at once, the still air was torn by the deafening din of machine guns and artillery. Sugano shouted out: “Take shelter! The Germans! Shoot that fucking shepherd, dammit! Kill him, I want him dead!” He was furious, but his men had more to think about than shooting the shepherd. Some had been hit, others were trying to find some kind of cover from the thousands of rounds that were hailing down from every direction.

  Fabrizio dove into a drainage ditch, totally bewildered. In the distance, to his left, he thought he saw Montesi with Banti, Amedeo Bisi and three or four others, crawling, their bodies flattened to the ground as bullets hit the stones and rocks all around them, sending up sprays of sparks and scorching splinters. Fabrizio waited for the firing to cease and then took off at a run, bent over double, in the direction of his comrades, but the bursts started up again instantly. He felt a sudden piercing pain in his left leg as it folded under him and he crumbled to the ground.

  He shouted and called out but no one heard him. He started to drag himself back to the only point of safety he knew, the ditch. Once he had rolled over the lip and into the narrow trench, he elbowed himself forward, leaving a trail of blood behind him. At least he knew that he was following the slope of the hillside in a downward direction. After a while, there was a rise in the terrain flanking the ditch that he thought would afford him some protection. He pulled himself out and crawled with great difficulty over to a big beech tree and there he stopped, propped up in a sitting position against the trunk. One of the brigade members ran by, and then another, but neither of them stopped or even listened to his pleas for help. He realized that he was bleeding to death and he closed his eyes and prepared to die. So many had died, after all, young guys like him, on one side and the other, what was so special about his fate? His had been a brief adventure; he’d done nothing worthwhile, given no real contribution to the cause. He was dying for nothing. The one thing he had done burned inside of him like a red-hot iron. The shoes . . . the shoes were still almost new. Maybe someone else would get some good out of them. Your shoes are as important as your gun, when you have to fight and to run, run, run . . .

  The world had stopped and he thought his hour had come, but there was a hand on his shoulder and it was shaking him as if to wake him up. He opened his eyes: “Bruno!”

  The Blacksmith was there, standing in front of him. He heaved Fabrizio onto his back and carried him to a wood of oak saplings and there they waited. Bisi and Banti showed up along with other comrades, including those who had heard him call out but hadn’t stopped. “They were the ones who told me you were wounded,” said Montesi. They worked together to fashion a stretcher out of ash branches, cutting them with their bayonets.

  “Where’s Sugano?” Fabrizio managed to say.

  “I don’t know. We lost him. Now we have to try to save ourselves.”

  They began to make their way towards the nearest town, steering clear of the German soldiers who were still patrolling. They often met up with isolated groups of partisans who were still armed and organized. There was nothing to eat and Montesi himself was bleeding from a wound in his neck caused by shrapnel. They stayed awake the whole night. There was no food, but plenty of cold, clear water, that flowed in a thousand rivulets from the mountain peaks. Fabrizio became delirious. The next day they reached a tiny village, where two doctors had set up a sort of field hospital for the wounded partisans. They were out of everything they needed, from sterile surgical instruments to medicines.

  They had to amputate, without anesthesia, using a butcher’s saw and a pair of pruning shears. Fabrizio’s screams of pain could be heard at a great distance.

  Montesi wept.

  Those who could, sought shelter in Tuscany behind the Allied lines. Sugano and a small group of his most loyal soldiers returned to Bologna.

  Wolf and his men reached Monte Sole and engaged the Germans in a battle to the last drop of blood with their tommy guns and pistols against the Nazi tanks, heavy machine guns and cannons. In the end, the only surviving member of the group was Wolf, pitted against a German officer. They faced each other in an old-fashioned duel, one on one, until the Italian defender ran out of ammunition.

  Wounded in the shoulder, he managed nonetheless to get away and run for the woods, stemming the bleeding as best he could. Then just like a wounded wolf, he found a hidden den, tucked away in a mountain ravine, and went there to die.

  His stiff, cramped body wasn’t found until a year later, after the war had ended.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  In the end the Germans managed to destroy the defenses of the Republic of Montefiorino, but partisan groups continued to act independently in various areas of the mountains, trying to coordinate as best they could as they waited for the Allies to launch the final offensive. Bruno Montesi took refuge with his men on the other side of the Allied lines. Fabrizio was spirited back to town using the country lanes and back roads of the region. His parents welcomed him home with all the warmth and affection they were capable of, trying as best
they could to hide their dismay at the terrible toll that the war had taken on the once-perfect body of their beloved son. They did everything in their power to distract him and to help him to find ways to face this new life in which he’d never be equal to the others. But he was always sad and melancholy, and they’d often find him sitting under the big oak at the end of the courtyard with a lost expression.

  Rossano seemed to have vanished into thin air. His parents’ frantic efforts to locate him turned up nothing; no one had any idea of what might have happened to the boy or where he might be. Fabrizio heard he had gone missing, and in his nightmares the boy with the black shirt whose shoes he had taken became Rossano. One day when his parents were in the fields and he was home alone, he took the shoes from the closet where he’d hidden them and burned them.

  Sugano managed to reach Bologna with the few comrades who had decided to stay with him, including Spino. Disobeying his commander’s orders to lay low, Spino snuck out of the safe house one night to visit his mother and let her know he was all right. He was recognized and surrounded by a group from the Black Brigades. He put up a fierce fight with his pistol, but he didn’t have time to assemble the pieces of the Sten he kept in his rucksack and he was captured. He was tortured to death; for one day and one night, his enemies inflicted unimaginable abuse on him. Then they publicly exposed his scourged, lifeless body as a warning to anyone who followed his example.

  Like Sugano, many other partisans had gathered in the cities, imagining that the Allied offensive was imminent, but General Alexander halted the Allied advance in November, postponing the campaign until the following spring. The outcome was that the fascists who had run off came back to trap the partisans.

  Perhaps that was the blackest hour of the whole millenary history of Italy. Never had her sons been pitted so ferociously against one another.