“The Russians are out of their minds,” declared Primo one day. “Or am I just too dumb to realize the brilliance of their methods?”
“A little of both,” Fausto shot back, laughing. “One doesn’t rule out the other!”
“They aren’t stupid,” added Remolo, the only one of the division who spoke a few words of Russian, learned at university. “They just don’t see things the same way we do. Their country is almost sixty times bigger than ours and it’s cold thirteen months a year.”
“If they burn everything,” Fausto concluded, “it’s because they don’t know what else to do with so much space. Plus, they need to warm up.”
The strategy was bizarre, exhausting. The Russians would surround the ARMIR, preventing it from moving for two weeks, while two hundred kilometres further on they would rush about creating another front. Once the second front was completed, the first would withdraw, taking care to devastate everything in between. Once the path was clear, the Italians would advance, covering hundreds of kilometres on foot without meeting the slightest resistance. Then, when the fatigue had reached its zenith, the Russians, themselves fresh, prepared, and rested, would attack.
In late autumn 1942, the troops could hardly remember why they were fighting or which side they were on. Their movements were heavy, their reactions robotic. The men were no more than killing machines. Their sole satisfaction was to not count themselves among the dead. Scant consolation, for it couldn’t be said that their lives were desirable ones to live. An existence of dehydrated food, rationed portions, whole weeks without sleep, wounds that never healed, waking nightmares, and feet that couldn’t remember how good it felt to be dry.
Winter set in, quietly, stretching out its tentacles like a black-blooded octopus. The Russian winter seemed to rise up from the earth like tree roots perforating the soil, creeping insidiously under the leaves, ready to send you sprawling at any moment. The cold spread upwards, passing first through your toes, then reaching your heart, your fingers, and anything difficult to warm in the absence of a sweetheart. It was common for Germans and their allies to “borrow” clothing from the dead Russians for extra layers.
It had been more than twelve months since Sergio and his acolytes had wielded their weapons and resisted the wicked Bolsheviks. They should have been replaced by fresh troops, recently trained, fit and healthy, full of the vindictive energy typical of soldiers newly arrived at the trenches. But the Axis reserves were limited. In addition to the offensive on the eastern front, the hard-won territories throughout Europe and Africa had to be defended. There were no new faces lined up to be disfigured in Russia. The scarred, wrinkled, pocked faces already there would just have to stay.
“Guys, this just in,” offered Sergio, who couldn’t muster the energy to read the telegram aloud.
Fausto took over.
“Operation Barbarossa to continue. Stop. Stay another few months. Stop. Work hard. Stop. Bravo. Stop. Nation thanks you. Stop. Fight the good fight. Stop.”
It wasn’t clear to the soldiers if these were observations or orders.
“The nation can go to hell,” snapped Stefano, one of the soldiers.
He died the next day, hit by a shell.
Death came every day. But Stefano’s seemed like a warning. No crack in loyalty to the nation would be tolerated.
Hostilities were usually put on hold over the winter. Both camps would take a break since neither wanted to fight in temperatures of minus thirty-five degrees Celsius. That year, the Russians decided things would be different. They would annihilate their rivals while they hibernated.
Members of the Red Army were used to living in these frigid conditions; it barely added to their hardship. Besides, their patriotism would be enough to warm their hearts. Stalin had managed to convince even those he threatened to send to the Gulag camps that fighting for the USSR’s cause was in their best interests.
By December, General Gariboldi’s troops had stopped looking towards a brighter future. Days when the sun deigned to pierce through the snow-swollen clouds gave them just enough hope to stop them from putting a bullet in their heads. Some said men in other divisions had started eating the horses for lack of food. Without their mounts, it would be more difficult to flee the enemy. But, even with a horse, an empty stomach rarely manages to go very far.
Mid-December, 1942. Sergio, Angelo, Fausto, Primo, and Remolo, along with approximately five hundred other Italian soldiers, mostly Bersaglieri and communication engineers, were stationed near the Don River. Fifty kilometres to the north were the Poles and the Romanians, there to protect the rear flanks. But they were not able to resist the Soviets, who made it through to the Italian command posts.
With the commanders captured, the front was cut off from orders and instructions. The radio waves were fiercely silent. Primo tried to reassure his companions, telling them it was probably just a technical problem that would soon be fixed. But he knew that the break in transmissions did not bode well.
“What are you playing at, Primo?” Fausto had asked. “You know we’re screwed.”
“I’ve known right from day one we’d end up dead or captured,” added Remolo. “Just as well it’s today, because I’m frozen solid.”
Sergio nodded in agreement, while Angelo said nothing.
When the Bolsheviks arrived, their faces registered neither surprise nor despair. Only a great weariness.
They would have to flee, again.
The Russians encircled their enemies, forming a ten-kilometre diameter around them. The pocket of resistance to which the Italian troops were confined was large enough that a few men were able to escape. For most, however, efforts came to naught. They had been exhausted for months, and no longer had it in them to run for days and nights on end, hoping to shake off their rivals.
The youngest, craziest, and least handicapped seized their courage with both hands and took to their heels. They ran. In all directions, hoping the one they chose was the right one. While the Italians were running about like headless chickens refusing to accept their fate, the Wehrmacht’s General von Manstein sent the 6th Panzer Division to their rescue. Of the one hundred and thirty thousand encircled troops, only forty-five thousand managed to join the Panzers at Chertkovo on January 17, 1943.
Sergio was not one of them.
Neither were Primo, Fausto, and Remolo. They lost track of Angelo and never heard from him again.
On December 13, 1942, a few tanks managed to reach the surrounded soldiers, but they were completely useless: they weren’t designed to move over ice. The region was marked by hills and dales, which became ski slopes for any ill-equipped vehicle.
At some point, the tank that Sergio and his faithful companions had clambered onto was hotly pursued by Bolsheviks. The driver had exhausted all of his options and did not know where to turn next: he decided to leave it to fate and let the tank hurtle down an icy slope to gain speed.
At the bottom of the hill lay a frozen lake. The Panzer ran out of momentum halfway across. The ice began to crack as the men jumped out. There was no time to lose, no time to grab personal belongings: the tank was sinking.
“Porca puttana!”9 exclaimed Primo. “My photo of Luisa Ferida! She kept me safe.”
The backpacks containing food, water, and ammunition along with the soldiers’ keepsakes and amulets went down with the tank. Pity. Even the luckiest of charms could do no more for them.
* * *
7.Armata Italiana in Russia, the Italian Army in Russia
8.Name of the Wehrmacht on the Russian front
9.Holy shit!
Mamma, son tanto felice10
december 13, feast of Santa Lucia: the day Italians traditionally exchange little gifts. They slip a few surprises under children’s pillows—wooden toys, candy, new socks—and offer a flower, a pair of pretty gloves, or a brooch to their betrothed.
It’s an early Christmas, a way to mollify those waiting impatiently for the 25th. But on this Santa Lucia Day in 1942, Sergio’s only gift was to avoid getting captured by the Russians.
Poisoned offering.
After they abandoned their tank in the middle of the lake, Sergio and the other eleven men began to walk, a journey that would last over one hundred and forty hours. He’d kept count, minute by minute. It was how he stayed alert.
You might think that extreme fatigue wiped out all sense of time, that exhaustion reduced it to a blurry and approximate concept, but this couldn’t be less true.
The seconds had become a mantra for Sergio, a prayer that staved off madness and sleep.
Uno, due, tre, quattro,
The fugitives kept out of sight by day, staying as far as possible from inhabited areas to avoid being seen by some peasant who would promptly report them to the Red Army. Every movement was driven by the fear of being caught. They even went as far as to check the sound of their breathing. Every breath was counted.
cinque, sei, sette,
Sometimes they would stop to rest behind a rock or in a ditch, but they could never really close their eyes. They had to be ready to run at any moment. The fight against sleep was their biggest battle. As soon as they stopped, someone would invariably nod off. They were forced to slap each other in the face to remain awake. Each time one of his companions knocked him around, Sergio would thank him for saving his life. That was the irony of violence: you had to endure the blows or end up dead in a snowdrift or—worse—spotted by the Bolsheviks.
otto, nove, dieci, undici, dodici,
The group resumed its march once the sun set, avoiding the streets and villages filled with Russian soldiers. They passed through fields of snow lit by a winter moon that was sometimes too bright for comfort. It seemed to follow them, a moving spotlight manipulated by a Machiavellian lighting engineer trying to corner them.
tredici,
But the décor looked nothing like a scene from the stage. The heavy crimson curtains had been replaced by veils of powdery flakes that hindered visibility and threatened to conceal the enemy. The creaky wooden floors had become a carpet of ice, each step requiring extreme caution or they risked falling. And if one of the fugitives broke an ankle, the men would need to abandon him where he fell.
quattordici, quindici,
Though their odyssey could have been written by Homer himself.
sedici, diciassette, diciotto, diciannove,
After six days, the Italian soldiers, beyond exhausted to the point of utter collapse, arrived at the outskirts of a village that seemed deserted. The evening was clear and cold, and the men struggled to move their frostbitten fingers.
venti,
A Bersaglieri lieutenant named Pietro Agnesio had taken command of the expedition; the army believes all troops must have a leader since free will inevitably leads to chaos. Agnesio surveyed the area.
“It’s quite small, only about five or six houses. Maybe the Russians skipped over it. Let’s hope so. We might finally be able to rest.”
At the word “rest,” the men let out a cry, a strange mixture of relief, incredulity, and abandon.
ventuno, ventidue, ventitré,
Fausto and another soldier set out with Lieutenant Agnesio to determine whether it was safe to proceed. An hour later, they returned to announce joyfully that the village was deserted. They would finally be able to get some sleep. But nobody heard the good news: the men had all fallen asleep at the village entrance, clinging to each other like little Portuguese fish in a can, their heads resting on an old stump. Ready for the guillotine.
ventiquattro, venticinque,
The lieutenant had to kick them all awake.
ventisei, ventisette,
The twelve men crept slowly into the village, their eyes darting left and right, trying to detect the slightest movement from the enemy.
ventotto,
All of a sudden, harsh voices filled with ice sliced through the darkness. Russian voices. About twenty of them barked, “Ruki vverkh! Ruki vverkh!”11
ventinove, trenta,
As they shouted, the Bolsheviks began firing about a foot over the Italians’ heads.
trentuno, trentadue, trentatré, trentaquattro, trentacinque, trentasei, trentasette, trentotto, trentanove, quaranta, quarantuno, quarantadue, quarantatré, quarantaquattro, quarantacinque, quarantasei, quarantasette, quarantotto, quarantanove, cinquanta, cinquantuno, cinquantadue, cinquantatré, cinquantaquattro, cinquantacinque, cinquantasei, cinquantasette, cinquantotto, cinquantanove, sessanta, sessantuno, sessantadue, sessantatré, sessantaquattro, sessantacinque, sessantasei, sessantasette, sessantotto, sessantanove, settanta, settantuno, settantadue, settantatré, settantaquattro, settantacinque, settantasei, settantasette, settantotto, settantanove, ottanta, ottantuno, ottantadue, ottantatré, ottantaquattro, ottantacinque, ottantasei, ottantasette, ottantotto, ottantanove, novanta, novantuno, novantadue, novantatré, novantaquattro, novantacinque, novantasei, novantasette, novantotto, novantanove,
cento,
The macabre opera, punctuated by unintelligible shrieks and uninterrupted explosions, lasted about ten minutes. To Sergio, it seemed much longer than six hundred seconds.
centouno, centodue, centotré, centoquattro, centocinque,
When the tumult of noise and fire was over, one of the Russians announced in surprisingly assured and fluent Italian, “Siete prigionieri. Lasciate le vostre armi da fuoco per terra e camminate per duecento metri. Avanti.”12
The men obeyed without hesitation, convinced they were taking their final steps of this unjust life.
centosei, centosette, centootto, centonove, centodieci, centoundici, centododici,
The Russians unloaded the ammunition from the surrendered Italian weapons and tucked the cartridges into their leather bags. They motioned for the prisoners to follow them. They would have to keep marching.
centotredici, centoquattordici,
Sergio had no idea where they were being taken, but he didn’t ask questions, sure that any sign of curiosity would earn him a bullet to the head. He simply slipped his hands into the torn pockets of his felt coat, tucked his head into his collar, and tried his best to disappear into himself.
centoquindici, centosedici, centodiciassette, centodiciotto,
The fugitives struggled to keep up with the pace imposed by the Russians, who in all likelihood had not spent the past six days on foot. They stumbled forward, one painful step at a time, rejoicing each time they did so without losing their balance. It made them realize that the simplest things—standing up, breathing fresh air, swallowing saliva—are actually incredible feats that, while banal, become joyous victories when one is faced with death.
centodiciannove, centoventi,
The Italians advanced limply towards a mysterious destination like little Pinocchios whose strings can no longer hold up the wooden frame. The Russians talked amongst themselves in their harsh and inscrutable language, laughing and passing a flask of vodka around for warmth. Unexpectedly capturing the twelve men had made their spirits soar. The soldier who had nearly mastered the language of Goldoni addressed the prisoners.
“Voi lavorerete in un campo e quando la guerra sarà finita, tornerete a casa.”13
Sergio felt a wave of heat sweep through his chest at the sound of those words. He hadn’t felt such happiness in a long time. Like the naïve happiness of a young man who has never known war.
centoventuno, centoventidue, centoventitré,
Then, something strange happened. Without exchanging a word, the twelve Italians burst into song. They warmed up with a few vocal exercises, then, building on Lieutenant Agnesio’s enthusiasm, they launched into a song by Beniamino Gigli.
Mamma son tanto felice
perché ritorno da te
la tua canzone mi dice
mamma son tanto felice
viver lontano perché
mamma solo per te
la mia canzone vola
mamma sarai con me
tu non sarai più sola14
The Russians let them sing. It was hardly a threat.
centoventiquattro, centoventicinque, centoventisei,
And the prisoners sang and sang, louder and louder, a crescendo calling for the freedom they had been promised. It was a distant freedom, certainly, but the dream alone can be more comforting than freedom itself.
centoventisette, centoventotto, centoventinove, centotrenta,
After days without eating, without sleeping, days filled with fear and anguish, dreading being shot or tortured, they sang. They sang in their finest voices, the ones usually reserved for whispering sweet nothings into a lover’s ear. They sang without holding back, without apprehension, a shiver of fear turning to a shudder of hope.
centotrentuno,
“You are prisoners. You will return home once the war is over.”
centotrentadue, centotrentatré,
These words formed the most sublime poem they had ever heard. Their only wish was to put the lines to song so that the tune would ring out in their memories and hold fast to the ears of women and children. They wanted everyone to call out for a life full of passion without anger and love without heartbreak.
centotrentaquattro,
That night they ate up nearly fifteen kilometres, half of which they covered to the rhythm of popular Neapolitan, Sardinian, and Piedmontese ditties.
centotrentacinque,
They were taken to a much larger village containing other prisoners of war. Germans, Poles, Hungarians, Croatians—upwards of two thousand people were crammed into a pen lined with barbed wire that would mangle any man foolish enough to attempt escape.
Behind the eyes we meet Page 10
