Partigiani

Paranoid, probably clinically paranoid, the old captain saw partisans everywhere. He called them “partigiani,” the only Italian word he could pronounce properly.

As we entered Bolzano the captain spotted a mansion, badly damaged by our artillery during the early morning shelling. He believed it was a potential partigiani hiding place and sent a dozen of us to search the building.

I kicked down the door and found an entirely family, man and wife and four children, in the room. They all raised their arms, even the two youngest, barely toddlers. The man’s face showed defiance mixed with worry, probably more for his family than for himself. His wife was shaking with fear and her eyes were begging for a miracle. The four kids were so little they must’ve thought holding their hands up in the air was a fun game because they were giggling.

Are these six partigiani? I asked myself. Yes, the man was probably member of the resistance and so was his wife, at least by association, but the kids were definitely not. I shushed them and pointed at the wardrobe to hide there.

That moment the woman fainted. We both jumped to help her up. She felt almost weightless. I realized then how emaciated all six of them were. I handed the man my army ration and the pane toscano bread I’d lifted from a village bakery the previous day. The woman broke into silent tears, her husband accepted the food without acknowledging me.

I was the last to get back to the unit. What took you so long?! the captain screamed at me. I almost said, I pride myself in always doing a thorough job, but the question was rhetorical.

Later that evening while eating Parma ham and stale Wonder bread sitting by myself in the mess tent, I noticed all the others who’d participated in the search were quiet too. Suddenly it hit me, there may’ve been a bunch of partigiani left intact in that bombed out mansion.