In memory of Giuseppe Manni (1921–1944) and Cammilla Manni (1936–2020), my grandmother, who told me this story one day.
Giuseppe died in the war.
To be precise, the commander of the platoon he was serving under woke up one morning and said, “Boys! Go home, if you can. The war is lost now.” And Giuseppe was one of the lucky ones for whom fate cleared the path of enemies and allowed him to return to Pontenano. Not too lucky, perhaps, because there were still people looking for deserters to bring them back to the front, those who still held out hope for victory. So it was that while Giuseppe was walking along the road to go make love to Lina, he was captured and taken back to the front in the hills of Scandicci. But first, they told him:
“Manni, go have breakfast.” And they put a rifle in his hand and led him in front of a living man, buried from the waist down. Giuseppe stared at them with his dark eyes and replied, “You have breakfast with me, I won’t shoot him,” and he gave the weapon to someone who had no qualms about shooting.
And again, the commander sent them all home, and again, Giuseppe returned.
On July 4, 1944, the front reached the town of Pontenano, only to disappear at the end of August. That day, the entire Manni family, along with other people from the town, fled into the bushes to camp under a large rock that served as a shelter. And it was there that, as they were running breathlessly through the undergrowth, a man, taken by a sudden illness, collapsed. Giuseppe immediately went back to help him while his mother yelled after him, “Beppino! Leave him there!” Her son turned and, with an unperturbed expression on his face, replied, “I don’t have blood spilled around the world”—meaning he had no children—“if I can help someone, I will.” And he carried the man on his shoulder, taking him to the shelter. No one thanked him, and he didn’t complain about it.
In the meantime, the Germans threw everything they found in the Manni house out the window and took straw from the hayloft, scattering it throughout the house and setting it on fire. At the end of the day, only the four walls were left standing.
On the morning of July 9, Giuseppe and Gino Olinti, the husband of one of his sisters, set out for the town to look for flour, but first, Giuseppe wanted to stop at the burned house, where he had absentmindedly left his wallet and identity card, which were later found by the fascists. As the two scouted the town for food, noises erupted from a house. Not knowing if it was the British, Germans, or fascists, the two rushed into the bushes where they met Raffaello Gianerini and Gino Pennati, who hadn’t seen their families for three days. The two begged Giuseppe to accompany them into town. At first, the young man replied, “Not even if you kill me!” but then he gave in to their pleas.
Behind the bend, the fascists captured all three of them and lined them up.
“What class are you, Giuseppe?” [What year were you born?]
“Twenty-seven.”
And pulling out his identity card, which was not from the Fascist Party, they replied, “No, you are from ’21.” The year in which one had to serve.
That same night, my grandmother says, his mother let out a scream:
“They’ve killed the boy, Roberto!”
She had dreamed of Giuseppe showing her the palms of his hands, pierced by bullet holes, and saying, “Look what they did to me, Mom!” But no one gave credit to a dream, and they went back to sleep.
The following day, at ten in the morning, Giuseppe Manni was found dead without his ring, his gold necklace, or his shoelaces. His hands were pierced by seven rifle shots, presumably as he tried to cover his face at the moment of execution.