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- Herausgeber: Edizioni ae
- Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
Can the enigma of Italy ever be understood, especially by a foreigner? How can the complex war experiences of even one Italian family ever be told?
On the birth of his eldest child in a medieval hillside town in central Italy in 2007, Irishman Paul Martin, first heard a troubling two lines about his Italian family.
His wife’s grandfather, Bruno, had been denied his war pension because it was suspected he had sided with Mussolini’s extremist Salò Republic after the 1943 Armistice. How could more be learnt if Bruno had been killed in 1956 and his wife, Babi, would never discuss the war up to her death in 2015 aged almost 100?
Was this suspicion linked to Bruno’s remarkable, though undocumented, journey home on a stolen bicycle after liberation from a German prison in 1945? Or had it something to do with Babi’s origins in Alto Adige, the German-speaking region of northern Italy? And why had Bruno’s father, Oronzo, attempted suicide immediately after the war?
In the decade after 2008, as Europe faced into the seething consequences of the global crash, Paul would unravel this complex family – and unexpectedly national – story.
In conversations with remaining members of the war generation, this tale would wind through the former Austro-Hungarian empire, to a Jewish internment camp in the Marche, to Italy’s disastrous Albanian campaign, to vile wars in Russia and the Balkans, to a prison in East Prussia and a forced labour factory near Leipzig, to an impoverished and troubled post-war Ancona before arriving at its conclusion in today’s Italy.
Faced with the unrelenting question of “what is the truth of history?”, this intriguing story ultimately uncovers some of the buried past and deep humanity of Italy’s extraordinary people. But above all it reveals the character of one Italian family and how – rather than Bruno’s suspected Fascist sympathies – something far more nuanced and painful lay behind Babi’s decades-long, dignified silence.
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Paul Martin
The Bicycle Thief and the German Wife
The Hidden War of a German-Speaking Italian Family
© Copyright 2019 by
affinità elettive
Edizioni ae di Valentina Conti
vicolo Stelluto, 3 – 60121 Ancona
www.edizioniae.it
e-mail: [email protected]
Tel. 333 7778153
Tutti i diritti riservati
Paul Martin
The Bicycle Thief and
the German Wife
The Hidden War
of a German-Speaking Italian Family
affinità elettive
Indice dei contenuti
Principal Names (Family and Non-Relative)
Acknowledgements
Introduction
1. Origins
PART 1 EARLY YEARS 1915-1940
2. North Meets South
3. Sistemato
4. A Fading Picture
5. Memory Loss
6. Disputable Facts
7. Outsiders and Jews
PART 2 THE UNRAVELLING 1940-1943
8. Albania
9. War is Betrayal
10. The Balkans – A Black Hole
11. Returning from Russia
12. Collapse and Capture
PART 3 ARMISTICE TO LIBERATION 1943-1945
13. A Mountain Retreat
14. Travelling the Tyrols
15. A Devil’s Choice
16. Divided Loyalties
17. Authentic Voices
18. East Prussia
19. The Void
20. Survival and the Bombardments
21. Salò or Starvation
22. Eilenburg 1944-1945
23. The Bicycle Thieves
PART 4 Ancona 1945-1950
24. A Partisan History
25. A Family Home
26. Daily Life
27. Suspicions of Salò
PART 5 La dolce vita 1950-2018
28. German Whispers
29. (Re)writing History
30. Bruno’s Death
31. Passing Centuries
Bibliography
Remembering
Bruno Calcagnile (1915-1956)
Babí (Barbara) Pichler (1915-2015)
Their daughter,
Adele Calcagnile (1937-2018)
And their grandson,
Stefano Gatti (1962-2008)
1. Lecce, Puglia: Bruno’s birthplace
2. Bari, Puglia: from where Bruno embarked for Albania, 1940
3. Ancona, The Marche
4. Mestre, Veneto: Bruno’s battalion headquarters
5. Postumia, Venezia Giulia (now Postojna, Slovenia): where Bruno was captured by the Germans, Sep 9th 1943
6. Bolzano, Alto Adige: near Babí’s home village of Cornaiano
7. Eilenburg, Germany: where Bruno was in forced labour in Fleischer und Sohn, 1944-1945
8. Hohenstein, East Prussia (now Olsztynek, Poland): where Bruno was imprisoned, 1943-1944
Principal Names (Family and Non-Relative)
Extended family members (mentioned in text)
Adria (née Murgi) Campetti ?-1976: Jewish mother of Nazareno; Enrico’s grandmother Corianna Murgi ?-?: Adria’s sister; Franco Galeazzi’s motherEbbe Murgi ?-?: Adria’s sister; Franco Galeazzi’s auntNazareno Campetti 1918-1978: Enrico’s father Antonietta (née Pagano) Campetti 1915-2012: Enrico’s motherDon Franco Galeazzi 1932-2014: Second cousin of Enrico; Corianna’s son; Adria’s nephewErmanno Marasà b. 1969: Married to MarinaPaul Martin b. 1969: Married to BarbaraExtended family members (mentioned in text)
Roberto Gatti 1935-2017: Adele’s husband Emilio Sabbatini 1936-2010: Anna’s husband Stefano Gatti 1962-2008: Adele and Roberto’s sonExtended family members (mentioned in text)
Florian (Flor) Wohlgemuth 1908-1987: Babí’s brother-in-law; married to Maria Josefine (Peppi) Wohlgemuth b. 1931: Babí’s niece; daughter of Florian and Maria Johanna Wohlgemuth b. 1940: Babí’s niece; daughter of Florian and Maria Adelaide (Heidi) Pichler b. 1948: Babí’s niece; Josef’s daughterNotes:
*Child death
Maria: Peppi and Johanna’s mother; Florian’s wife
Josef: Heidi’s father
Other central individuals (non-relatives mentioned in text)
Alba Anibaldi 1924-2009: Santé’s wife Prima Anibaldi b. 1947: Santé’s daughter Santé Anibaldi 1918-2009: Bruno’s prison and bicycle companion Elpidio Calcagnini b. 1918: Served in Albania and Greece, in German prison after Armistice Mirka Morresi b. 1927: Lived during 1943/44 evacuation with Adria and Nazareno’s familyAcknowledgements
This book is, in essence, a historical tapestry of many, very human stories. In weaving it, I am enormously indebted to many Italians for entrusting me with their often deeply personal, individual and family tales.
I am especially grateful to the Calcagnile, Pichler and Campetti families – and in particular to Babí and Bruno’s five children, Adele, Anna, Bruno junior, Gianni and Franca – for allowing me to explore, interpret and set down their history.
The writing of such a very sensitive family – and unexpectedly national – story was not without many pitfalls and potential causes of offence. So I hasten to say that any errors in fact, text or interpretation are wholly down to me.
Other family members I would like to thank include Enrico Campetti, Diego Campetti, Franco Galeazzi, Ermanno Marasá, Roberto Gatti, Antonietta Pagano, Adelaide (Heidi) Pichler, Emilio Sabbatini, Josefine (Peppi) Wohlgemuth and Johanna Wohlgemuth. Those outside the family who gave important accounts to me were Prima Anibaldi, Elpidio Calcagnini, Mario Fontana, Simone Angelelli, Mirka Morresi, Rosanna Recchi, Giorgio Salmin and Andrea Tartaglini.
Five people – Franco Galeazzi, Roberto Gatti, Antonietta Pagano, Adele Calcagnile and, of course, Barbara (Babí) Pichler herself – have passed away since I talked to them during the writing of this book. Each left a deep impression on me which I hope comes across to the reader.
There was another group who were endlessly generous to me over the last seven years of research and writing. Nicoletta Talevi was always most encouraging and supportive. Similarly, Ashley Butler was from the start my go-to and always straight-talking reader and sounding board. As the process continued, I was greatly helped by Roberta Manuali (whose friendship first brought me to Ancona almost 30 years ago), Gerry Mullins, Dr. Bob Gigliotti, Marilyn Nash, my parents, Fred and Cecily, and Doreen Gluecksmann. I would also thank Valentina Conti of Affinità Elettive for agreeing to take on an English-language version of Italian history written by an Irishman and for being so professional as we brought this book to publication.
I would especially like to mention Eric Haywood, Associate Professor and Head of Italian Studies (emeritus) in University College Dublin. His readings and editing suggestions and, of course, his erudite, witty and generous introduction (a true reflection of the man) were hugely appreciated.
This book could simply not have been written without two people. The patience and unfailing assistance of two of Babí’s daughters, Anna Calcagnile, and my mother-in-law, Franca Calcagnile, were beyond measure. Anna, for her endless research, honest descriptions and keen verification of family details; Franca for her indispensible introductions and many telling insights gleaned as the very emotionally-sensitive and observant youngest child of the Calcagnile/Pichler family.
Finally, although my wife, Barbara, has remained in the background throughout so much of this text, her support and forbearance as I tried to carve out precious hours to complete this book were almost saint-like! Like Babí, she too lives in a foreign-speaking land far from her much-loved family and native place. In her wonderful care for family, sense of fun and huge quiet strength, she shares much more than just the name of her Alpine grandmother. In her, as in all the Calcagnile family, Babí’s spirit lives on.
This book was written not only for the past but also for the future. Through it I hope the truth of Babí and Bruno’s lives – and some of their character, humour and endurance – might pass onto my children’s generation born, in Italy and in Ireland, a century later.
This is their book. I hope you enjoy reading it and that, in time, they will too.
Paul Martin
Greystones, Ireland
February 2019
I looked at Nina. “A family chronicle. Almost a family chronicle”. “But why put so much work into it? Fifty pages would have been more than enough”.
Marcel Möring – In Babylon
[Distortive and false reporting of the war] is frightening to me, because it often gives me the feeling that the very concept of objective truth is fading out of the world. After all, the chances are that those lies, or at any rate similar lies, will pass into history… and schoolchildren will learn about it generations hence.
How is a true history of the war to be written? For [even the anti-Fascist side] dealt extensively in lies. From the anti-Fascist angle one could write a broadly truthful history of the war, but it would be a partisan history, unreliable on every minor point. Yet, after all, some kind of history will be written… after those who actually remember the war are dead.
George Orwell – Looking back on the Spanish War
Introduction
If you blink, you could miss it. But if you’re careful, you will see that I have been given a walk-on part in this remarkable book. Or better perhaps, a sit-in part. I’m in a Dublin pub, together with the author, jumping to conclusions. I have the unfortunate tendency to do that. Worse still, the conclusions I like to jump to are usually the wrong ones, as in this case. But that alas is what happens when you grow up to be judgmental, which is by far the least appealing of human traits. Being judgmental means letting your prejudices run away with you, not opening your eyes to the world, not accepting people for what they are, in the unshakeable belief that you know best.
For our good luck that is not an accusation one could level against Paul Martin. He has a well tuned moral compass, but he never allows it to get in the way of his curiosity, his generosity of spirit and his openness of mind. He wants to unlock the past, not to lock it up. And in the process he writes a cracking story.
At heart the story is a love story. Paul’s love of Italy and his abiding affection for his wife’s Italian family shine through on every page. The book is an homage to them and it is quite clear that his affection is reciprocated in full. And why would it not be? What is there not to love about a son-in-law who labours for years in his spare time to give a voice to individuals whom History had rather silenced and Time consigned to oblivion? In doing so Paul has also succeeded in penning lively portraits of unforgettable characters, with all their strengths – their exceptional fortitude and endurance – and their weaknesses.
As Paul himself acknowledges, the voice he has given them may not appeal to everyone, especially in Italy, where views on Fascism and the Resistance are often held dogmatically. But he may take comfort from my own experience. At the beginning of my career as an Italianist, some forty years ago, when I was invited to give lectures in Italy I felt a bit like a dancing bear. The audience would ooh and aah at my Italian and my presentation skills but very few seemed to take notice of what I actually said. Like the friends from Ancona to whom Paul read the original draft of the story, Italians tend to believe that only Italians can understand Italy. But after a few years a fellow academic came up to me following one of my lectures and said to me generously: “you know our ‘things’ better than we do”. From then on people started listening!
For sure, talking about Italy’s Fascist past is not an easy task, especially when it risks intruding into family secrets. But Paul does so with great sensitivity and a good dose of self-deprecating humour, in the tradition of the great Italian poet Ludovico Ariosto (1474-1533). In his Orlando Furioso ( Orlando Gone Mad), Ariosto tells entertaining stories of damsels in distress and knights in shining armour – and knights in distress and damsels in shining armour – but at the same time he includes himself in the poem, as a mischievous narrator who continually challenges the readers to wonder whether what they are being told is true and what its import is. Paul does the same and with the same effect. By subverting his own narrative he subverts all narratives, in particular the narratives of those who flatter themselves they have a monopoly of the truth. So even as it tells the captivating story of Paul’s Italian family during the Second World War, the book depicts his own encounter with history. It is a dialogue with history and the truth.
It would be nice to think that it is also a cautionary tale for our times, but our times, I fear, have no desire to be cautious. The truth is whatever we choose it to be – we’d rather lock it up than unlock it – and our favoured method of communication is harangue and insult. But if it cannot be a cautionary tale, it can at least be an invitation to discover (more of) Italy. The Alto Adige/Südtirol region in the north, from where Babí, the story’s long-suffering protagonist hails, is picture-postcard perfect in its beauty and one can well imagine how heart-rending it must have been to have to leave it – though admittedly in those days it experienced none of the affluence it enjoys today. Ancona, where she settled in due course with her heroic husband Bruno and their children, has so far simply been a drive-through kind of place for me, a ferry terminal on my way to Greece. But now it will most definitely be a go-to place.
And all of this is most definitely a conclusion I have not jumped to! So, dear reader, enjoy the book as much as I did and be moved by it as much as I was. Buona lettura!
Eric Haywood
Associate Professor of Italian Studies (emeritus)
University College Dublin
Cavaliere dell’Ordine della Stella d’Italia
Dublin, February 2019
1. Origins
One of the most famous post-war Italian films, Vittorio De Sica’s The bicycle thief[1], ends in desolation. Struggling to feed a family amid the post-war poverty of Rome, a man’s survival is threatened when his bicycle is stolen. Without it, he will lose his precious job. Without it, his family will starve.
After a series of anxious and unsuccessful searches, towards the film’s end, in desperation, he steals the bicycle of a fellow hard-pressed citizen. Chased by a crowd, he is soon caught, manhandled and humiliated in front of his young son. The camera then turns to his crushed son, tearfully holding his father’s battered hat. On seeing him, the hard-bitten bicycle owner relents and gruffly tells the mob to let the man go.
The film’s final shot shows only the father’s pained expression of defeat as he walks aimlessly, carried by the tide of pedestrians, his disconsolate boy by his side. Before the eyes of his son, he had violated a father’s basic responsibility of teaching his child right from wrong and had attempted to steal from another man. And even in that he had ignominiously failed.
Viewed by Italians among the destroyed buildings and collapsed order of 1948, this finale must have posed devastating questions. After such a war what example could Italians give to the next generation? What sense of worth could any of them, as parents, claim or hope to impart? After all the shoddy compromises and deprivations of the recent past, how could they give a more innocent future to their children and ensure that these sordid times would be forever erased?
And more immediately, how could they feed their family the next day?
* * *
Over the following decades Italy’s situation dramatically improved. The economic boom of the 1960s, ’70s and ’80s brought extraordinary prosperity to much of the country. For almost two generations a welcome interlude effectively ended emigration, gave good employment and provided a welfare state that allowed most people to live a decent, if not a comfortable, life.
But in 2007, 60 years after the release of The bicycle thief, as we awaited the birth of our first child in a small medieval hillside town in Central Italy, it was palpable that challenging times were returning.
In a top-floor bedroom of the small hospital perched high in the hills of Italy’s Marche ( Mar-kay) region, I languished on that summer afternoon with my wife, Barbara, awaiting the emergence of our first born who, perhaps attuned to the world outside, seemed in no hurry to appear.
As if in a nineteenth-century European drama, Franca, my mother-in-law, vainly tried to dispel the stifling heat with an elegant, almost out-of-place, silk fan. The birds chirped and trotted on the terracotta roof tiles outside while her daughter, seemingly untroubled, lay on the double bed lost in budding maternal thoughts.
The hospital was deserted that July Sunday as all but a skeleton staff seemed to have gone to the sea. As the minutes passed slowly, the expectant father and grandmother desultorily drifted in and out of talk. That hot afternoon possessed an amorphous quality as if something was poised to break through the crust of our unusual conversation.
By now I had known Franca for years. She had first met me as a 22-year old hardly out of boyhood and often treated me as if I were her fifth child. A curious, energetic and sociable woman, we often talked and she had a good sense of my interests. It seemed strange that she had therefore never before mentioned to me the war story of her long dead father, Bruno Calcagnile.
Later I would better appreciate how for an Italian woman of her generation (like The bicycle thief, she entered the world in 1948), she might think the story of no particular interest to anyone. Not being part of the here and now, it belonged only to the jumble of the past and the endlessly tedious tensions from the war.
With the impending birth, I asked about deceased family members on both her father’s and mother’s sides. It was between snatches of this conversation that she then told me about her father, Bruno; how he had been imprisoned in Germany during the war and on liberation had made his way back on a stolen bicycle to Italy and his awaiting family. Suddenly recalling the post-war chaos recounted in books like Primo Levi’s The truce, I imagined what he must have undertaken in his emaciated condition to scavenge for food and survive on the long road home. But when I pressed her to elaborate on her one-sentence story, all she could say was: “I really don’t know any more. My father died when I was very young and my mother never really talked about the war”. But then she added something odd. “But there was talk that he had sided with the Fascists and for that reason they never gave him his proper war pension”.
Events later that day took me away from her intriguing tale. But with the birth of our first son (twin boys would follow two years later), my blood was irrevocably co-mingled with theirs. Now wholly initiated, as a life-long member, into the hallowed sanctum of an Italian family, Bruno’s history (and integral to it so much of Italy’s contentious memory of war) was tentatively mine to explore. Only later would I better understand the responsibility I had unknowingly assumed; it would now be down to me – with the enormous help of Franca and her sister, Anna – to unravel this unyielding story and to pass it on to the next generations.
* * *
I had first come to Ancona 15 years before that July birth and it would take another decade before this book was completed. Still, a quarter century on, I am more than ever aware how impossible Italy – or any part of it – is to truly understand. The obfuscation that followed the war and the wide-scale anaesthetising of culture and history in modern Italy were to make this undertaking extremely complex.
This troublesome period essentially extended over two decades, starting with the invasion of Abyssinia just after Bruno had completed his early military training in 1935, continuing throughout the war and immediate post-war periods until his early death in the mid 1950s. I could have found few better narratives through this tangled web than the story of Bruno and his German-speaking wife, Babí – and my new Italian family. At each point they seemed quite uncannily to mirror the huge canvas of those remarkable times.
Over the 11 years of this book’s development the world would change profoundly as both memory of, and sensibility towards, the Second World War in many ways faded. The story’s unearthing would also not be simple; it would bring me to the former Austro-Hungarian Empire in Northern Italy, to a Jewish internment camp in the Marche, to quagmires in Albania, to Stalingrad, to a vile war in the Balkans, to a prison in East Prussia, to a forced labour factory near Leipzig, to an impoverished and troubled post-war Ancona, and finally to an almost ridiculously tragic road accident in 1956.
But more than anything it was to give me an unexpected appreciation of the generosity of my new Italian family, of the character of their native city of Ancona and of the memories and tensions which seem to be always simmering just below the genteel surface of everyday life in this extraordinary country.
PART 1 EARLY YEARS 1915-1940
T he ultimate truth is that history ought to consist only of the anecdotes of the little people who are caught up in it.
Louis De Bernières – Captain Corelli’s mandolin
