Good-Bye, Trieste

By Elsa M. Spencer

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 22, 2008
• ISBN: 9781462827794

Elsa M. Spencer

Elsa M. Spencer was born in Trieste, Northern Italy. She was educated in Trieste and frequented the Magistrali, a school for teachers. She traveled to Africa with her engineer father and lived almost two years in Tripoli, Libya, where she learned Arabic. With her soldier husband, she traveled a lot over the USA, Hawaii, and Europe. She wrote Good-bye, Trieste, a memoir of a fascist childhood, a warning to socialism, and by herself, she visited China and Brazil. She belongs to Rosemary Daniell’s well-known writers’ workshop, Zona Rosa, of Savannah, Georgia. HER FIRST BOOK, GOOD-BYE-TRIESTE, WAS RECOMMENDED FOR MOTION PICTURE BY THE HOLLYWOOD READERS, AS AN EXCELLENT CONCEPT OF WWII MEMOIRE. IMPRESSIVE MATERIAL AND WONDERFULLY EXPRESSIVE,

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Copyright © 2008 by Elsa M. Spencer.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII

To my handsome son, Hank, who never knew his grandfather;, and to his children, my grandchildren: Travis, Kelly, and Cory.

To my husband, Ed, for his skillful typing and his untiring assistance

and support.

To my sisters: Valnea (Tea), for sharing the beginning of our lives;

and Gloria, for the rest of it.

To my mother, who shared all of it.

Thank you Professor Cameron Spencer for the editing of this book.

It is not my intention to deal with World War II in its entirety; only those parts pertaining to my or my family’s participation, directly or indirectly. But in regard to the War and to what I have set out to accomplish in writing this book, I wish to leave a message to the future and say,

I was there.

One sunny spring day, many years ago, I came home from school carrying a blue ribbon I had earned for my essay, Trieste.

Mother touched the silky brilliance of the ribbon, smoothing the creases with one finger, and without looking at me she said, One day you will write a book.

Here it is.

AN EXERCISE OF REMEMBRANCE

"Buzz, buzz. So it was 50 years ago today that World War II ended in Europe, and Hitler allegedly killed himself. Mussolini’s life was taken by his own countrymen more than one year before . . . Buzz, when . . . buzz, buzz . . .

Elsa, please turn off the radio. The static is driving me crazy.

Hugh—what? The picture fades, the past slowly retreats, and I am back; back in Springfield, Missouri, lounging at poolside of our home with my husband Eddy. What were you dreaming about? You seemed so far away!

Yes. I was—far back—before the war. I was back to the day when Mussolini visited Trieste; a grand day for me then.

Pappá said that the newspaper reported that 250,000 people had been on the piazza listening to Mussolini. Something else Pappá said, he said that for weeks afterward Triestini wore the man his one time appearance, like an ointment.

Your father was right; you were wholly under Mussolini’s spell. It seems to me that the whole country had been seduced by him for many years.

CHAPTER I

Duce, Duce, Duce! The chant is loud, energetic, and has hardly lost its momentum even after many hours. Enthusiastic young faces, dangerously red from long exposure to the Adriatic sun, reflect joyous expectations.

Duce, Duce, Duce. My voice begins to crack. I lick my lips. What would I give for a glass of cold water?

The sea waves billow and surge, as if on tip-toe, to see the reason for the huge assemblage of humanity.

"Better to live one day as a lion than a hundred as a sheep," shouts Mussolini, and thousands of little lions roar approvingly, creating a sound that is heard far out into the gulf and behind the green hills. I bend down, looking for my shoe, which someone had stepped on from behind. The crowd shifts and I barely manage to fish it out, scarcely escaping being crushed.

The large square, Piazza Unitá, is impressively and richly ornate, flamboyant with sculptures and prominent buildings. The chairs, tables, and umbrellas of the outdoor cafés are stacked to the ceiling indoors. No colors to compete with the stark harmony of man-made concrete landscape today. Festively dressed people, uniformed children, colorfully decorated uniformed adults and flags, flags waving in the wind everywhere. The hordes of pigeons flap their wings in protest peppering the domes and rooftops of the ancient buildings instead of mantling the square, pecking at everything edible. At each clamorous outburst, they spring upward in short, nervous flights, liberally spritzing over us.

We will carry the Roman eagle to Addis-Ababa, and civilize Ethiopia.

Duce, Duce. Young and old cry transported by his unusual oratorios skill and prominence. Enraptured, I look up at the second floor of the gold encrusted building at a stocky man, his face florid with the excitement of the moment, his arms wrapped around his chest as if in confirmation of his words. His daring posture shows how sure he is of himself. His voice is strong, carrying far to the end of the huge piazza and beyond.

I look around and up at the balconies, windows, and even rooftops overflowing with people. I marvel at the daring of the more athletic who have climbed the plastered facades to dizzying heights. I feel the passion in the silence of the hundreds of thousand of people listening to his promises of grandeur. The excitement of the pageantry, the exalting speech, and the colorful Italian flags beating the air with the force of enormous whips overwhelms me. Then it is all over.

The military bands are marching away at the beat of a single drum. Hammers sound in the semi-deserted piazza dismantling the many stands.

"Piccole Italiane, dismiss!" The command given by the class leader, our teacher, releases thirty fourth graders from Fascist guardianship, and all around similar commands to hundreds of classes echo on the square.

We are going home, as usual, on our own.

Discarded sheaves of paper, twirling like corkscrews, slam against my legs and play with the swishing wind. I notice that my expensive black cape has suffered a small tear. I know Mama will be upset. I wait with many others for a place on the tram.

I arrive home tired, but not too tired to talk jubilantly with nine-year-old innocence. In a hoarse voice I tell my parents of my thrilling experience. I had seen and heard our great leader. I had been on the piazza for most of the day without food or water. My face is sunburned, and I am transported.

Pappá you should have been there. Mussolini was great. He told us that we are regaining our just place in the world, the Roman way. I do not understand the look my parents share.

By the way, Pappá, why didn’t you come? Mama sews in silence, repairing the ripped Fascist uniform while I talk on and on.

I was nine years old and in the fourth grade. I lived in Trieste, northern Italy, and I was a proud Fascist Piccola Italiana (little Italian), too completely militant and conceited about my position in the party to notice my parents’ worries.

I don’t recall feeling deeply about Fascism before this age. In school we learned about it and about Mussolini, like any other current event.

My arguments with Pappá about Fascism increased about the same time, perhaps because the danger of war was uppermost on my parent’s mind.

I recall interrupting my parents’ whispered talks about Poland, about the upsurge of the German army, and about Hitler. I remember, sometime with regret and too many times with sorrow, the subtle, almost incidental method of teaching Fascism in the schools.

In the few years before World War II, what Pappá called the most skilled kind of brainwashing was accelerated, taking over the minds of the very young. History became the power of the Roman Empire, the greatness of its conquests, the famous law of the land. Geography was the border of the immense sovereignty. Every day the slow ascent to the exaggerated feeling of pride grew, and in my mind I saw the Italian twentieth century legion enter the huge Piazza Unitá to take orders from Cesar, Mussolini. The enticement was intense and I swallowed their program without hesitation.

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My pride was further cemented by the seemingly sincere interest our leaders showed in us. We had dances, trips, and parades at which we were the attraction, making us feel very important.

Each class formed a platoon of girls, as we were not co-ed. Each girl was uniformed in a black pleated skirt, white blouse, four-in-hand black tie with a large medallion depicting Mussolini’s head, black shoes, and a full black cape. My blouse had gold braid and three stripes on the sleeves because I was my classmates’ commanding officer. Bedecked with medals and four-ra-gere, I was very visible at the head of thirty young girls.

Total obedience to Mussolini was emphasized, and orders were to be followed blindly. We had good family times mixed with the reality of the moment. But Saturdays were almost always times of confrontation, because Saturdays belonged to Fascism.

Well, ciao, Mama. I’ll be home for supper, I shout, hurrying down the corridor.

Wait a minute, Elsa. Where do you think you are going? Don’t you remember that we had planned an afternoon at the beach as soon as Pappá comes home?

Sorry, Mama, but it is you who have forgotten that today is Saturday. Our plans are much more important. We are learning about the time when Il Duce made the King give in and Fascism triumphed.

Mama turns her back murmuring under her breath, heads for the kitchen.

Poor Pappá, he tried so hard to make me understand. He always seemed to be at odds with me on the subject of Fascism.

What are you studying about, Elsa?

Mussolini’s life and what he stands for, Pappá.

What does he stand for?

Why, Pappá, he believes in a better future for our country.

Does he? If he wants that, he won’t team up with Hitler in this miserable venture. His professing of nonaggression is a titillation, a kiss of death; Austria, Czechoslovakia and Poland with their ancient army—no match against modern Germany. France? It will take only a few weeks; all in the mind of a crazy man.

Father, what are you saying? Why do you talk of war? Hitler is our friend. We are all going to prosper if we work together. If there is going to be war, well, it will give us our glorious place in history, and like the Romans, we will be powerful again. He said so.

Again there was that look in my father’s eyes that I could not understand.

It was 1938, before the fall of Poland and Czechoslovakia that I remember overhearing Pappá talking to Mama one summer evening when all the windows were open and I was sitting on the small balcony of my room.

We have lost our freedom, and it doesn’t matter to them; they have forgotten the meaning. Our moral values are being altered and causing discord in many families. I am frightened for us and for our girls. The future is uncertain for our daughters and, who knows, maybe even their loyalty to us.

My God, Arturo. What are you saying? They are our babies. They would never turn against us. Mama’s voice was tearful.

Have you heard of our neighbors across the street who have been interrogated by the Camice Nere [Black Shirts, the most militant of Fascists]? Their son told his leader about his parents’ negative attitude toward Mussolini, confided PappÁ.

But he didn’t mean it in an accusatory way; he is a good boy, replied Mama.

That shows you how easily these days one can get in serious trouble.

I was confused and angry. I do not remember at whom, but my mind was easily distracted, and I soon forgot the incident.

That was the year of young Miss Cosulich’s first teaching job, and she knew little about the rules and the sequences of the mandatory calisthenics for our grade in the yearly Fascist gymnastic competitions. She was only too willing to leave the preparation and training of my classmates to me. She showed up at practice time in the school gym only for appearance’s sake and to enforce discipline when necessary.

My class won the annual gymnastics command performance for our grade category, and my name appeared in the newspaper. Exposed to this flattering recognition, my pride knew no bounds. For us, the fifth commandment now read: Honor Thy Party.

I was obsessed with Mussolini; I saw as our inherited right to have back what was historically ours, the rebirth of the Roman Empire. My rhetoric was high and proud, and I was well versed in Fascist prattle.

Years before, Mussolini had instituted a large bonus for the families with the greatest number of children. He decreed it an honor to be from a prolific family, and Italians multiplied like a tidal wave, swelling the beaches and beyond. Quickly the country became too crowded. We needed more space. I was saying to my speechless parents, Soon we will have the entire Dalmatian coast down to Greece, and maybe more.

CHAPTER II

La Bora will be strong this year; the winds have come too early, says the old fisherman, casting a worried eye on the high clouds. He shoves the blackened pipe in his mouth, and a toothless grin alights the creases of age, sun, and wind on his face.

You had better go home, honey. She will be here soon enough.

The preparation for winter starts days before the first winds. The thick posts with the metal loops are driven into the holes in the concrete of the city sidewalks. Heavy ropes are passed through and anchored with an extra steel post at the end of each measured distance. Then the dark sky darkens still further, blotching Mother Nature’s painting and swelling the sea to toothed waves nervously turning this way and that without direction.

Turn on the light in the kitchen, Elsa, and close the window in your room. Your mania for fresh air will give us all pneumonia, shouts Mama, sprinting from window to window, making sure the strong shutters are hooked securely.

In an eerie, uneasy silence the sky and the sea become one. La Bora comes, puffing her angry cheeks, howling menacingly, sending the sea scurrying, crashing upland, then roaring back in protest, returning to its natural habitat. As the water recesses, the piers freeze, and the wind-chill factor makes the temperature drop speedily. The accompanying rain soon covers the rest of the city with slippery ice, and walking becomes dangerous, icing the windows shut, covering the trees. I could hear the snaps, loud like a rifle shot, the snap of tree limbs laden with ice.

As always in the two colder months of the winter, December and January, Mama goes into hibernation for the duration of the bad weather. It is up to Pappá and sometimes to me, to do the marketing. Mama never learned to negotiate the combination of La Bora and ice. We would not have either, were it not for an ingenious metal device that we attached to the soles of our shoes, which broke the crust of ice with every step.

La Bora almost paralyzes the city and continues on its devastating course for a few days. People walk holding onto the ropes; chimneys crumble, and awnings fly dangerously through the scant traffic. Everything not tied down becomes a projectile, a menacing weapon.

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Miramare Castle

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Lighthouse—Faro Vittoria

This was Trieste, the city of my birth, before the Second World War: a bustling city framed by a chain of densely populated, color-speckled hills, serpentine driving streets meandering through the forest like growth, moored at the edge of the Adriatic Sea and the sparse green and skimpy trees of the rocky Carso. So Trieste is today, a blend of history, elegance, and coffee: coffee has become one of the city’s genetic codes. Every few city blocks a coffee house comes into view.

The ceaseless noise of my energetic city is still gentle to me, even soothing. Its loyal if prejudiced people share a cavalier attitude in their sense of citizenship of an overly proud city.

Trieste is perched on the northeastern doorstep of the Adriatic, the bluest sea in the world as it opens its bosom to a Nereid (the legendary Nymph of the sea) and introduces Italy to Yugoslavia. Mammoth rocks on the beaches prevent erosion from the sea, leaving only enough sand to walk to the water, but almost everyone dives from the rocks. The bottom is often treacherous because rocks make it uneven, unpredictable. There are no mediocre swimmers in Trieste except Mama, who dog-paddled among the pee-wees of the sport. At tide out, the rocks on the beaches always smelled baked in the hot sun and kelp curled into hard strips like leather. She looked especially beautiful at night. Lights glittered throughout downtown, creating a sculpture garden tucked along the black bay.

We thought of Trieste as the windy city of the North; a city cradled in a medley of shapes and colors and two thousand years of unique architecture. The center of progress was Trieste’s mighty shipyard; the livelihood of everyone depended on it one way or the other. The Lloyds of London and the Cosulich were then the most distinguished shipbuilders of battleships as well as luxury liners. The Andrea Doria and the Rex are only two of the many luxury liners built in Trieste.

The Cosulich lived across the street from our apartment building in a sumptuous villa. I was introduced to the great American West by the prolific writing of Zane Gray, thanks to the privileged use of their multilingual library, courtesy of my friend, the son of their lawyer.

In my imagination, which was always an untapped source of fecund impracticality, I dreamed of sailing around the world on an ocean liner, dancing with Prince Charming, as in the old tale, and they lived happily ever after.

Trieste was a small Roman colony before Christ was born and was named Tergeste. The Goths, the Lombards, the Byzantines, and the Franks followed at the fall of the Roman Empire.

Charles of Hapsburg and his successor Maria Theresa of Austria changed a modest fishing village into a bustling world seaport at the beginning of the seventeenth century. Declaring it a free port, they opened the door to people all over Europe and the Middle East who came to work and do business. Trieste was reborn, like St. Petersburg of Russia, by royal decree.

Austria’s political repression had encouraged the birth of a liberal Italian movement, promoted when Austria allowed Slavic and other non-Italians to enter to offset the predominantly Italian population.

Trieste remained Italian, and when the Austrian-Hungarian Empire collapsed in 1918 after World War I, the blood of untold thousands of Italians liberated Trieste ending 500 years of Austrian domination.

It was peculiar that the Italian dialect had never been forgotten. In fact, it had always been freely spoken the whole of the 500 years of domination. While researching the history of the region for a school project, I came across a passage written by Marshall Louis Desiek, a French soldier of Napoleon’s time, who said of the city in 1797, Germans and Hungarians dressed in Hussar garb, with short blue jackets, low boots, miserable hats, small horses tied to massive vehicles, while the Germans have big horses and huge carts. And then so many Levantines of all kinds: Greeks, Turks from Asia Minor and Africa each in his particular costume with extremely wide breeches reaching to the knees. They sit with legs crossed on all docks, continuously smoking their long pipes and often repeating, Hallah! Hallah!

There is a Latin inscription on the stock-exchange building that says it all. It calls Trieste the ultimate recess of the Adriatic.

"Trieste, like the rest of