MADDALENA
Mussolini's 'Daughter of the Wolf'
Maddalena Rossellini's Story - Written By Alice Haro.
The right of Alice Haro to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patent Act 1988.
Copyright 2011 Alice Haro
Book Cover Design: Nick Brown
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Dedication: To Gio
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter One:-Ignorance is Bliss
Chapter Two:- Dramatic Changes
Chapter Five:- Food Glorious Food
Chapter Eight:- Flirting with Death
Chapter Nine:- Lies and Destruction
Chapter Ten:- The End is in Sight
Chapter Eleven:- Crushed and Broken
Chapter Thirteen:- Love and Heartbreak
My name: Maddalena Rossellini. I was fourteen years old when World War Two was declared on 3rd September 1939. Italy didn't officially join the war until the following June 1940, which was in contravention of the 'Pact of Steel' made with Germany in May 1939. This pact committed both countries to support the other if one of them became involved in a war. However, for all his ambitions to make Italy a super-power in Europe, Mussolini realised that the Italian Army was not ready to join the fight at the outset. When Mussolini joined his ally, Germany, known as the 'Rome Berlin Axis', it was with great optimism as he believed that it was only a matter of time before Britain surrendered and Europe would then be 'easy pickings' for what he saw as the two strongest nations in Europe. His nearest rival geographically, France, was, he thought, on the brink of surrendering. So in great haste, on June 17th 1940, the date France sought surrender terms from Germany, and only seven days after Italy joined the war, Mussolini ordered an Italian invasion of southern France. The invasion grabbed a small piece of land but, to Mussolini's surprise, the French put up fierce resistance and a full-scale invasion of southern France did not materialise. Determined to make his mark, and gain more land for Italy, Mussolini then ordered an attack on Greece and the British troops, based in Egypt, later that same year. This was the start of Italy's direct involvement with the war; a war that was to be a disaster for the Italians.
The news reels gave us regular and victorious reports about the progress of the war, but it did not directly affect our lives to any great extent, or reach the town where I lived in Lugo, Northern Italy, until 1943. I was then eighteen, with a steady boyfriend, and was preparing to go to University in Venice. My life was settled and happy, despite the war. I planned to train as a teacher, like my mother, and I thought I would marry a local boy, Adamo, the son of wealthy parents. But, everything changed when Mussolini was arrested in July 1943, on orders from King Emmanuel. This threw Italy into chaos. However, despite an attempt to keep Mussolini's location secret, Hitler was determined not to be robbed of his closest and most valuable ally and had Mussolini rescued in a daring raid.
The German Army then seized control of Rome and Northern Italy; as the Allies landed in the south. What followed was a virtual state of civil war between the north and south of the country. Shortages of food and other goods followed very quickly as supply lines were affected by the Allied bombing raids; the purpose of which was to cut off supplies to the Germans fighting in Italy. Rumours were rife about what was true and what was propaganda; with doubts creeping into the minds of previously ardent supporters of the ruling Fascist Party. The iron grip of Mussolini had been fractured by his arrest; and a more emboldened anti-Fascist movement were prepared to speak out and even take action against the State. The dissemination of information to the masses, and the fear of State-sponsored retaliation, was undermined and people began to risk listening to foreign radio broadcasts for the 'truth'. The cracks that started to rapidly appear in what was for me the very fabric of our society was unnerving. I wanted the truth, but feared it just the same.
With Germany controlling the north of Italy, through a now cowed and compliant Mussolini, day-to-day life became more uncertain and unfamiliar. The Fascists and Germans were determined to regain and maintain an iron-grip in the north; as a result severe punishments were metered out to anyone even suspected of seditious activities. Under this more oppressive rule of law fear governed our every action; just being a good Fascist didn't seem to be enough to stay out of trouble anymore. Therefore, in early March 1944, when posters appeared on lampposts instructing all able-bodied males, born in 1926 or after, to assemble in the square on a given day, there was no question of disobeying such a directive. So my brother, Pietro, duly reported to the authorities on the designated day. My mother and I expected him home for tea, as we assumed the call was to some sort of motivational rally. However, when he didn't return, we found out that he, along with many others, had been taken to Germany to work. Having heard about the dire conditions in German Labour Camps, my mother and I ran to the railway station to find him. We didn't have a plan, but we knew we were going to try and stop him leaving somehow, but, unfortunately, we were too late. Undeterred, we followed on the next available train. We were so determined to bring him home, that all else was forgotten and it had suddenly become our sole focus in life.
Our destination was Bolzano, in Northern Italy, which we were soon to learn, was a Nazi transit camp for prisoners of war, Jewish civilians and those press-ganged into slave-labour by the Germans. My brother fell into the last category, but to all intents and purposes he was a prisoner. I could see that my mother was extremely upset that her son had effectively been press-ganged; but she had a steely determination that made me believe that we could succeed in what would be a dangerous quest; dangerous because we knew that the Germans were not known for their humanitarian spirit. We had often heard disturbing reports about the appalling treatment of German prisoners, but like the rest of the world, we found them hard to believe. There were several interruptions to the journey, some of which threatened to bring our mission to an abrupt end. Twice we had to flee from the train because of Allied bombardments. The train would come to a screeching halt and we would all run for cover in the fields as the planes flew low and opened fire on the stationary train. After the heaviest raid, I was sure the train would not be able to move again as it was so badly damaged. However, after a few casualties were taken away, and running repairs were undertaken, we all climbed aboard to resume our journey.
On arrival at Bolzano, we were shocked at what we saw. Hundreds of men and boys were being loaded onto trucks and trains. Occasionally there was a disturbance, but the German soldiers acted swiftly and with brutality to bring the situation under control. It was a terrifying place, and I just wanted to leave, but my mother could think only of her son and rescuing him from this dreadful place. So, she bravely squared-up to the man that we had identified as the German officer in charge, requested that her son be released immediately, and then gave him my brother's name. She spoke with absolute confidence; and seemingly without drawing breath or waiting for his response. I stood by her side, holding her hand, praying quietly and shaking with fear. He burst out laughing, and looked at his subordinates to share his amusement, which they did. Then, he laid his hand on her shoulder, stared at her with cold, blue humourless eyes, and told her to go away or we too would be sent to work. As frightened as I knew she was, she clearly decided that she would not be so easily dismissed. She pleaded for my brother's release saying that he was only seventeen. He laughed harder this time, assuring her, that my brother was definitely old enough to work and, even if he wanted to release him, he couldn't as his train had already departed for Germany. Of course, had we thought harder, we would have realised that he didn't even check his list, so he had no idea if my brother had left this hellish place. But, we knew we had his final answer, as he had turned his back on us and was already issuing orders to group of German soldiers who were loading a cattle truck with more human cargo. Deflated and distraught, we left in tears, unaware that my brother was only yards from where we had been standing. He could see us through a crack in the side of a packed and closed cattle truck; an inhuman transport that he shared with other civilians and prisoners that gave them no room to move and barely enough air to breathe.
We would not see, or hear from, my brother again for over a year, during which time he was 'employed' in a German munitions factory. He was to witness unspeakable cruelty against his fellow workers, particularly the Jews and other 'undesirables', and be starved and beaten himself on several occasions. We returned home unable to speak, simply held each other's hands and wept from time to time. Again, we had to leave the train several times and take cover due to aerial bombardments by the Allies. So, it was no surprise to arrive in Bologna, where we had to change trains, to find we had entered the turmoil of a recent bombing raid, and that all trains had been suspended until wreckage had been removed from the rails. We left the station to get something to eat and drink. I will never forget the sight and smell of blackened, recently bombed buildings still smouldering in beautiful Bologna. We choked on the dust-filled air that smelt of death, burning wood and cordite. It was, however, a suitable setting for our sombre mood, and left me with a feeling that, like the devastation of Bologna, our lives had also been blown apart by the forced removal and uncertain fate of my brother. We finally boarded our connection and returned home to Lugo. The machinations and the horrors of the war had now been brought right into our tiny family unit and we could only imagine and fear what the future held for Pietro; and how we would cope without him should his life be claimed like so many young men in the name of war. As we walked into our home, a strong smell of Chrysanthemums permeated the house. As there were no Chrysanthemums in the house or garden, which gave me a terrible sense of foreboding as, in Italy, they are the flower of death. I didn't ask my mother if she could smell the flowers as she was far too upset for me to add to her distress with my fears.
Bombing raids by the Allies were becoming more frequent in Lugo necessitating the town's inhabitants to run to ditches away from the houses to take cover each time the sirens wailed. Each day people left the town for the relative safety of the surrounding countryside, but, like so many others, we had to stay so my mother could work and earn money for us to live. We could hear that the war was coming closer and that the atmosphere in the town was overcast by a palpable feeling of dread. It was awful to see our once vibrant neighbourhood torn apart by the constant bombing, together with the fear and mistrust, even of your neighbours, that the nearness of the fighting and oppressive German occupation brought with it. Before the war reached Lugo, our Street, Via Cento, had been like a self-contained little community, with small family businesses that served all the day-to-day needs of the residents. They were thriving concerns that included a butcher, baker, blacksmith, haberdasher, greengrocer and a general store. Sadly, the every day smells of freshly baked bread; noises of chattering shoppers and friends, together with the steady clang of the blacksmith anvil, slowly diminished as war closed-in on a busy, productive and close-knit neighboured. An increasing number of shops were closing through lack of supplies; tradesmen went out of business or just shut-up shop and took their families to safety. The feared Nazis became increasingly visible on the streets by the summer of 1944 as more Germans troops were moved into Lugo and the surrounding areas to meet the threat of the Allied troops. The Allies had made more progress than was anticipated, having advanced up the Liri valley, captured Rome, and pursued retreating Axis forces north across the Arno River into the northern Apennines Mountains, which was on the very edge of the Po Valley, in the heart of northern Italy.
Despite the obvious danger, my mother found the thought of leaving Lugo very difficult as she was concerned that Pietro would come home to an empty house. Each and every day she would try and get news of returning workers, but she was to be continually disappointed. The Germans were still rounding-up any able-bodied men they could find, by force if that proved necessary, for transportation to German work camps. It was known as 'rastrellamenti' (search and round-ups). My mother was badly affected by Pietro absence, but on the surface, she stoically carried on with her day to day tasks. However, despite her brave face, I would often hear her weep for my brother in private. On one particular day, a cart carrying a dead German solider was left outside our window in the street. My mother noticed that his feet were bare, as his boots had probably been stolen. Her heart went out to him as he was just a young man. Much to the amazement of the guards by the side of the cart, she went to him and covered his bare feet with a warm pair of socks, and said she hoped someone would return the kindness by being good to her son. A heart-rending sight, both the dead young man; and a mother fervently hoping that, as she had made this genuine gesture, so someone would be kind to her son, wherever he was.
The air raids on Lugo, by the Allies, intensified, resulting in widespread damage. Our street was no exception and it became much too dangerous to stay. Lugo was to all intents and purposes part of the front line, with the Allies and German lines being so close by. People were now leaving in droves, and the town was effectively closing down, including the schools. So, along with many others, we joined the now daily human convoy heading out of the town to find refuge away from the constant aerial bombardments. We were going to stay with an old and very dear friend of my mothers. Still with great reluctance, my mother pinned a note to the door for Pietro. 'Il mio carissimo Abbiamo lasciato per stare con il signor e la signora Russo in Belricetto. Si prega di venire a unirsi a noi, o inviare parola, e noi verremo a voi. Tua madre amorevole e la sorella'
(My Dearest Son. we have left to stay with Senor and Senora Rosso in Belricetto. Please come to join us, or send word, and we will come to you. Your loving mother and sister)