Dedicated to my father and his people
Dear Frank, my dear friend,
's been two months since we met for the last time . First I would like to give you news of me. I'm quite well, the wound in his leg has now healed, but unfortunately the diagnosis of Dr. Molina has been confirmed: my leg can no longer be what it used to, and in the future so I can walk, but with a limp. In short, the damn piece of shrapnel has done its good work. I left the hospital for two weeks and try to get along as I can. Mates have welcomed me here, but, to be honest, my soul is much worse than the leg. And you, how are you? I know things here in Spain no way to behave. I knew how I regret not being there with you, to fight with you ... As I said
are not good days, the ones I'm going through here in France. Perhaps what I am gonna write you a lot, but just because we're friends, because we grew up together and we fought together, I know I can be open and honest with you.
here a few days you play the Football World Cup, with the Italian team that is among the favorites (think, I did not know that Italy was sample ... in office). With other Italian exiles, we organized a group to follow the games of the National and whistling to create a hostile climate around her. On June 5th we went to Marseille, where Italy played their first game against Norway. Be ', believe me, my friend, we did a good job. Since the teams have entered the field we started a great uproar. I do not say at the time of presentation, when those bastards have made the Roman salute. The stadium was full of anti-fascists, we have been at least eight to ten thousand. The Norwegians were astonished, could not understand why those boos and cries of those, but I think after a while 'have it understood. We continued throughout the game: every time an Italian player touched the ball seemed to come down the stadium. The game was ugly. Norway on the map of Italy was much less strong, but threatened to win, and I hope that the Italian team has played so bad for our merit. Well, Italy won 2-1 after extra time, and the players left the field with his tail between his legs. I knew how I hated them, during that game. I remembered the war we are fighting, here in Spain, I'm reminded of Guadalajara, the sufferings we have now, the junk they did to us and our country ... And then there was my leg to remind me all, the fact that I can never run in my life, the pain ...
At the end of game I had no voice, but I was happy, or at least I thought so. Yeah, maybe I wanted to convince me to be happy, because deep down inside me, there was something, a something, a kind of hole. On the one hand I was pleased, but on the other hand I felt agitated, and I did not know why.
fact is that the week after, I and other comrades went to Paris. Italy was to meet with France, and we wanted at all costs to continue to make us feel. However, since the beginning of the game, my friend, is a strange thing happened, which left me for a while ' breathless. They played 'good'. The Italian team looked more than a football team, a kind of orchestra playing a beautiful symphony by heart. Well, 'I must confess one thing: after a bit of that wonderful show are no longer able to whistle. I stood there, mouth open, looking at those beautiful gesture, and I could not even bring out a sound. I was almost to the edge of the field, at one point when two Italian players have come close to beating a free kick. They talked to each other very well and I could see their faces. Franco, my friend, were our faces were the faces of our farmers, our people! Until then I had considered soldiers that we defeated in Guadalajara, the bastards as I have torn my leg, like the cowards that in Italy, by dint of blows, castor oil, of violence have forced us to leave, but no! They were not like them! They were us! I continued to follow the game, and when Italy scored the winning goal, well, 'I exulted. Not so coarse, I just closed fists and eyes, and I started crying, softly, silently. Franco, at that time were you and I to have won, our parents, the poor people who have left the country. How could I not love? They were beautiful, they were proud, just like people who have grown up. They were the 'people', Franco, the people of whom you and I belong, and in whose name we have fought in Italy and fought in Spain!
I left the group, taking out the excuse of the leg, and I told them that I was not going to Marseille for the next game. Instead I went to Marseille, by itself, but not to cheer against, no, I went there to support them, to help them, for that little 'that could make a wretch like me.
was to meet Italy in Marseille, Brazil, the highest in Brazil, in the semifinals. Entering the stadium, I remembered my state of mind of eleven days earlier, during the game with Norway, and I was amazed at myself, indeed, I'm really scared. My God, I knew how I enjoyed that game. Brazil seemed much stronger than Italy, but in the end we won! It was tough, but our stubbornness and our tenacity eventually prevailed. You see? I said 'our'. Yeah, because those guys have fielded the stubbornness, tenacity and the will that are the result of years of toil, misery, years of farming, to make struggle with hunger, the suffering. If they were the dandies as I had thought until a few days ago, would never come to that point. No, they were also shaped by our own misery, by our own hunger, by our own pride. Remember when, a few months ago, you did that with Duilio fierce debate on the concept of home? I did not say anything, because then I had confused ideas, but now no, now the ideas are much clearer. Yes, Franco, the country is there, and it's beautiful. Only it's not the stupid rhetoric, not the fanfare, there are soldiers in their shabby uniforms, not the rich who are starving us, we take away what belongs to us, no. The home is you and me, are the flower pots that our women bring out the windows, it is our farmers who wake up at four in the morning to go to work the land, is the sound of our bells, is a smoke Winter covers our fields, laughter and tears of our children, women are the songs while washing clothes in the river, are our struggles, our desire for redemption, not to give it won, so here, my friend, this is the home ! And then, my dear Frank, I tell you that the boys are home to the Italian national team that I feel, that I fight for. Their faces full of wrinkles, their hands calloused, their fatigue and hunger that have suffered are all things that make them like us. They have represented us in these days, not the fascists, not the landowners, not all pieces of shit overbearing and arrogant in their filthy uniforms!
My God, Franco, I knew what a mess I have in me right now. On the one hand my soul is full of love, pride, almost of joy, were it not that speak of joy these days is almost a crime, but the other I feel so much anger inside of me, so much sadness, desperation! They are my home, but my homeland, my homeland is far away, there, unattainable. My dear, my people, my river, my campaign. My home is you, my poor friend, who is buried in a distant and remote corner of Spain, after the grenade that I mangled the leg took you away. You see, I am so lonely now, so lost, I can not do is talk to the 'my friend who died in his arms two months ago. I feel anxiety within me, a suffering that sometimes I would feel like banging your head against the wall. What happens? It was so simple, until a few days ago. But now it's all so hard and complicated. How many times have we helped each other, how many times, with two words or a pat on the back, or even with a simple and quiet look, we have been a comfort to each other? In Spain, under the bombs in front of the guns and cannons, to know that you were there holding me up, gave me comfort and courage, and I'm sure the same was true for you. But now? What's happening to me, my friend?
Right now I'm in Paris. It's almost midnight. Tomorrow Italy will play the final of the FIFA World Cup against Hungary. And win, I'm sure will win, indeed, that we will win. I know that tomorrow will be a strange day, feast on the one hand and of anguish and despair on the other. I know that laugh, that fill me with joy and pride, but I also know that I cry, I hear a claw, evil and cruel, I grab my heart and I will crush him. Franco
Hello, my dearest friend, my great companion of struggle and life. I just hope that the land of the lost corner of Spain that we have received and that we welcome you to always be slight.
I, meanwhile, try to move forward.
Your friend
Viscardo
Tale Piero Cavallotti
0 comments:
Post a Comment