The Red Horse: A Novel

By Eugenio Corti

A literary phenomenon in Italy, this European best-seller was voted the best Italian novel of the decade in a public survey. Its success has gone way beyond Italy, having been translated into Spanish, French, Japanese and 3 other languages. This epic historical novel about World War II and after, written from the author's own personal experiences as an Italian Freedom Fighter, is a profoundly moving account of the war, those who fought in it on both sides, and the effects the war had on families in the author's hometown in northern Italy.

On a wider scale, it is a faithful witness to the actual events of the war-including the historic personages who appear, the Russian campaign, the Nazi barbarism, the Communist gulag, the North Italian resistance, and beyond to the political life in the two decades after the war. This world, filled with powerful personalities, drama and clashing armies, bathes in the complex light of the truth.

A truly great historical novel with its epic scope, what makes this a masterpiece is the underlying spiritual dimensions of the protagonist, his family and friends, which illuminates the ongoing tragedy of the war and its aftermath. In the end, it is a story of faith and hope in a world reduced to barbarism and cruelty.

Born in 1921 in Lombardy, Eugenio Corti joined the Italian Freedom Fighters. From his experiences of the tragic retreat from Russia, Corti wrote a fascinating chronicle, Most Did Not Return, and a book about the Italian Freedom Fighters, The Last Soldiers of the King.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ignatius Press
• Release date: Oct 19, 2010
• ISBN: 9781681495385

Book preview

BOOK ONE

THE RED HORSE

PART ONE

1

The end of May 1940. Slowly advancing, side by side, Ferrante and his son Stefano were cutting the meadow. Behind them the small chestnut horse, tied to the cart, was waiting. It had already finished the entire pile of grass Stefano had put in front of it when they began the work. The horse had eaten eagerly, continually lifting and shaking its head to shrug off the bulky collar that was sliding along its neck. Now, without taking a step, it reached forth with its muzzle to tear off the leaves from the mulberry tree, where it had been left in the shade; it also tore at the bark of the more tender branches, which looked broken and white as tiny bones where the horse’s teeth had left their mark.

From time to time Ferrante stood up, gave a half turn to the long handle of his scythe, resting the point on the ground; the blade was then parallel with his chest. The edge of the blade was rimmed with green foam, the living spirit of grass. With the whetstone made of an ox horn that hung from his waist, Ferrante first cleaned green slime from the blade, then sharpened it, alternating the two sides of the blade with a steady rhythm of the whetstone. Then, out of consideration for his father, the son stopped working and also turned his own scythe round and began to sharpen it in the same fashion.

He’s a good worker, Ferrante thought, observing him while he carried out this operation. He doesn’t quit unless he has a reason, and he’s never the first.

Now I can outlast him, his son Stefano was thinking, in contrast, and he had a feeling of pride mixed with regret. Only last year it was the other way around, he reflected. He looked at his father out of the corner of his eye: robust, with his neck solidly planted between his shoulders like a tree trunk, and with a peppery mustache that covered almost his entire mouth, he certainly was not someone who inspired pity. But he’s practically fifty, Stefano told himself. Realizing that his father had noticed his look, he slowly shifted his gaze, always sharpening the edge of his blade with the whetstone, and fixed his eyes on the cart road from Nomanella, his farm, up to the town of Nomana.

Ferrante guessed what had passed through his son’s mind, so well did he know him. Very good, my boy, he thought. To break the silence he asked, obviously in the local dialect, What’s happening? Are you waiting for someone?

Yes, Father, Stefano answered. I’m not sure, but Ambrogio could be coming.

What Ambrogio, Riva?

Yes.

Ferrante was a bit surprised. It’s still May, he said. Isn’t today the last day of May?

Yes, Father.

But doesn’t your friend always return from school in the second half of June?

Normally, yes. In fact, because of the exams he would have had to return later this year, at the end of July or even in August. At least that’s what he told me at Easter. But yesterday Giustina heard from the girls at the factory that he’s going to arrive today, this afternoon.

I see, Ferrante said vaguely.

Maybe because of the war, the danger of war, Stefano suggested

Ferrante reflected a moment in silence, and then he said, If you young people only knew what a dirty thing war really is. And he shook his head several times with a gesture of no, no, meditatively. Several memories were flowing confusedly through his mind, among which one prevailed: an indescribably disagreeable sensation that he had experienced, more than twenty years ago now, listening to the lugubrious words of a comrade in the trenches, an infantryman like himself, while they waited to take off for one of those terrible assaults that were always announced as decisive ones, which later were never really decisive. He no longer remembered the words, but he remembered well that extraordinarily disagreeable sensation.

Poor fellows, he concluded, incapable of completely expressing his own thoughts. You’ll find out that. . ., he continued, still saying no with his head.

Then he went back to handling the scythe energetically.

In any case, there’s still no war, Stefano said, also starting to mow again. And while there’s no war, there’s hope.

Ferrante nodded, but he was thinking, There’s no war yet, no. But the others, they’re already at war, the Germans, the French. . . . Yes, the others. And in the cities, even in Milan, there are those bloody damned students and the rest of that mob who are staging prowar demonstrations. It was like that in 1915, too; it began that way.

But he did not want to continue; he even forced himself not to think about the war, not to become obsessed with the topic.

So they both continued, interrupting their work only occasionally to sharpen the scythes, until they finished the square of grass they had set out to mow.

When they reached the end, they turned and went back together to the cart, from which Ferrante took the water bottle his wife had prepared, wrapped in green fig leaves. Without speaking, first the father and then the son drank from the bottle, between sighs of satisfaction. They took rakes from the cart and gathered together the cut grass, which smelled fresh, into green rows first and then into piles, which took some time. When they finished, they were again at the end of the mowed section.

At a sign from his father, Stefano went for the horse, waiting with its head up and its ears stiff, and started it walking vigorously as soon as he had it secured with the reins.

They began the loading: the young man on the cart distributing and arranging the growing heap of grass with the pitchfork; and the older man below, who kept hurling new forkfuls. Ferrante reserved the hardest work for himself. From the height of the cart, Stefano glanced occasionally toward the road that led to Nomana in case his friend Ambrogio appeared. From there he could see him come down the cart road from the beginning, where it turned off the main road that entered the town.

But instead of Ambrogio there appeared, very tiny on the road, his brother and sister, Pio and Isadora, who were returning from school, hand in hand. No doubt Pio had put his clogs in the lunch basket and was barefoot. It’s practically a vice, Stefano thought, smiling. That way his mother was forced to wash his feet, as she did every afternoon, as well as the lunch basket.

Ambrogio’s garden, or rather the garden of Ambrogio’s father, the textile industrialist, who before becoming an industrialist had been a laborer (yes, he had come a long way)—that garden was like a backdrop for the two little children.

The garden was like many others in Brianza. From the cart Stefano could see others, at the very edge of Nomana, or on the opposite side, that is, toward the north, farther from the Beolco factories, where the hilly terrain—which there formed a large shallow hollow—rose toward the background of Alpine mountain ridges. They were nineteenth-century-style gardens, with evergreen foliage—yews, laurels, firs, holly trees, magnolias—which grew thickly together like a single splotch of dark green vertical brushstrokes. The old gardens, no less than the factories, at that time characterized the hill landscape of Brianza.

Finally, when all the grass was in the cart, Stefano poked the pitchfork into it with energy, letting himself slide down to one of the shafts of the cart—which made the horse start—and then he leapt to the ground. His father took hold of the short hemp rein, and they left: the cart went from the soft terrain to the white road, pulled along by the horse’s strong and decided steps, until the moment they met up with Pio and Isadora, who immediately begged to be lifted up onto the cart.

Ferrante stopped the horse and, without speaking, gestured with his head to Stefano to allow them up. The two children were hurled, more than lifted, onto the heap of grass. Happily ensconced on it, side by side, they sat, their legs horizontal, their caps pulled down almost covering their eyes, the lunch basket beside them. The horse took off again amidst the happy chatter of the children and an occasional excited shout from Pio. Stefano walked behind the cart.

After a few minutes Stefano turned, alerted by an unexpected ringing of a bell: Ambrogio was coming on bicycle. Like Stefano—his old school friend—he was nineteen; he seemed especially euphoric at that moment: Hi, there! he shouted by way of greeting.

Hi, Brogio!

Ferrante, still walking beside the horse, and without letting go of the rein, turned to one side to greet the boy cordially. This one, he thought, even if he is a student, is not one of those jerks asking for war. On the contrary. . .

Good afternoon, Signore Ferrante! Ambrogio shouted back. He also greeted the two little children: Hi, Isadora. And, you, Pio, little loafer. . . And by that detail, the fact that he was taking an interest in the youngsters, Stefano could not help but notice, as on other occasions, that he did not behave like the peasants. Or the workers. In fact, everybody knew he was a liceo student.

Stefano, today is my last day, God willing. No more school for the rest of my life. Can you imagine? Ambrogio exclaimed, while he followed along on his bicycle in the middle of the road behind the cart. Unlike the peasants, he spoke in Italian.

But . . . those exams you spoke of?

No more exams! Ambrogio exclaimed, gesturing with one of his arms, given the impossibility of doing it with two. (Something must have happened, his friend was thinking, to make him this effusive) Of course . . . even I can scarcely believe it! Imagine, Stefano, we were on the point of doing our final review, a tremendous business—a regular nervous breakdown, seriously, I’m not kidding—when the news came that this year there are no exams. You understand? They gave us our grades right away, and everyone was sent back home on the thirty-first of May! When I think of those poor guys last year who had to spit blood to pass the exams

But why didn’t you take the exams? The war? I mean, because of the threat of war?

Yes, Ambrogio said, suddenly less euphoric. At least it seems so; it couldn’t be for anything else.

But what’s happening? Are we really at war?

Don’t know, Ambrogio answered. I hope not. In a reflective tone, more suited to him, he added, Of course, if war does come, we’ll pay dearly for this present piece of luck. . . They were silent for a spell.

Well, Stefano said, repeating what he had said earlier to his father, there’s no war now. And while there’s no war, there’s always hope.

Of course, it’s always stupid, as they say, to bandage your head before it’s broken, the other chimed in. Besides, neither you nor I can do anything, and his face again shone with a smile.

Do you know that Igino and the others from the first semester, Pierello, Giacomo di Contra, and Castagna, have all received their papers and must show up tomorrow at the district barracks?

Tomorrow? We heard about these papers at school. They left us students alone, on the other hand. Half the class is going, aren’t they?

Yes, they’ve called the first semester of the year ’21.

Igino and Pierello, Ambrogio repeated, tomorrow. . .

Stefano nodded. Pierello no longer works in the village. For the last six or seven months he’s been working at the forge in Sesto, did you know?

Yes, he told me at Easter. Listen, I’m thinking, why don’t we accompany them by car to the barracks? Should we?

Tomorrow? No, you know I can’t tomorrow. It’s a work day.

2

The cart entered the Nomanella farmyard. Nomanella was a small farm on two levels in the form of a U, open toward the south, that is, toward Nomana.

The western side was occupied by the stable, with its upper part for hay; the center area was taken up by the home of Ferrante, the owner, who had let the other side to a worker’s family.

The farmyard was bordered in front by a row of fruit trees: three old cherry trees, with disproportionately robust trunks, and a younger and shorter fig tree, whose color broke the harmony of the whole. The cart road led into the farmyard between the worker’s dwelling and the miserable fig tree.

On hearing the noise of the wheels, Stefano’s grandmother and mother appeared at the door of the house. Both were dressed in black, as was usual among peasant women, with a handkerchief tied round their heads. His mother had the same big brown eyes as Stefano.

The two children leapt rapidly from the cart and ran toward her, who caressed them while she first exchanged greetings with Ambrogio, before fully paying attention to them. She expressed herself in dialect, the only language used in the village then: Welcome, Ambrogio.

Thank you, thank you, Mama Lucia.

Have your studies been hard?

The grandmother, attentive, with her toothless mouth half open, brought a finger to her forehead, as if to show that mental work was fatiguing.

No. Besides, this time it has been even too easy: there were no exams.

There were no exams?

Yes, a piece of incredible luck. Ambrogio pointed to Stefano as if to say, I’ve explained it already to him. Stefano nodded.

Lucia smiled approvingly. I’m happy for you.

The grandmother, Ferrante’s mother, came up and took the young man’s hand in hers, all too obviously pleased by his visit. She always acted this way. It did not seem real that he came to visit them, he, the son of the industrialist who provided work for so many people (they were in Brianza, where there was no aversion at all toward industrialists in those days). The old woman shook Ambrogio’s hand several times. Forward in her affection, so different from the delicate manners of his mother.

Ferrante, meanwhile, was shouting and pushing the horse backward in order to get the cart next to the stable door. Then he untied the animal, which, with its harness on, went to drink from a tub close to the wall. It pulled out its dripping snout to breathe and looked around. Once it had drunk, the animal went through the stable door and, alone, reached its stall, separated from the cows by a thick wooden partition. Ferrante and Stefano were looking at it, pleased, without moving.

Now. . .? the father said at last.

It was early evening, not yet sunset, time to milk the cows and carry out the late afternoon chores in the stable.

Yes, the son answered. And grabbing up a large load of new grass with his pitchfork, he preceded his father into the lower part of the stable.

Ambrogio followed them. The stable gave off a light musty smell of the country, not disagreeable. The two dark-coated cows hurriedly separated one from the other and, with their necks and heads to the back, pulled their chains forcefully, ready to receive the grass that was coming. Stefano went between the animals and unloaded the grass in the iron crib in front of one of them, from which it immediately began to eat voraciously, while the other stuck out its head in vain to reach the food. The young man returned shortly with a second enormous load of grass on the pitchfork and unloaded it in front of the other cow; then he continued to fill the entire crib. Later he filled the chestnut horse’s rack, of less capacity but higher. Ferrante, meanwhile, had tied the horse to the crib, freeing it from its trappings, which now were hanging from two sticks jutting out of the wall.

No one spoke: the sound of the three animals eating, the coming and going of the two peasants could be heard, as well as occasional kicking and bellowing of the only calf there, which, tied in the corner, had got to its feet and was also asking to be fed. Its legs were disproportionately long and its coat lighter than that of the cows (Brand new, thought Ambrogio), and it was wearing a basket of straw over its mouth to prevent it from eating the forage. Ambrogio knew that once the milking was over Ferrante would pour a measure of milk in a bucket and, not having a nursing bottle, would make the calf suck the milk by putting a finger in its mouth.

From the wall at the back—of an indefinable color, so dirty was it—in an old oleograph, Saint Anthony, who was shown next to a pig (Saint Anthony of the little pig, the people called him), seemed to stand vigil over the small stable.

How nice this place is, Ambrogio thought, and for a moment he was about to fantasize, this is the life I’d like to lead. . ., but he immediately corrected himself: The trouble is that this kind of work doesn’t allow one to live as one ought.

The grandmother entered the stable with two buckets: one small and dark, with water to wash the udders of the cows, and the other large and shiny, for the milk. Behind her came the little Pio laughing away: he was running around with his feet soaped up; no doubt he had escaped from his mother, Lucia, who was washing him. His mother appeared: the boy, after a few attempts, finding it impossible to flee, let himself be cornered; but his mother picked him up with affection, scolded him more with the severe expression on her face than with her voice. She took him in her arms, making sure the boy’s feet, once again dirty, were away from her apron. From the door, the grandmother, in contrast, did not fail to shout at him: For shame, you should get it, running off with soapy feet! You’ve made your mother have to wash you again! What will the gentleman say. . .?

Pio did not seem to be impressed by the gentleman. He was used to seeing him, so much so that on going by him, he tried to kick him in the chest with one dirty foot. Ambrogio hardly had time to back away. This time his mother gave him a slap on his behind and also said, For shame, you should be spanked! The boy replied with a guffaw.

These children. . . ! the grandmother sighed, looking at Ambrogio and then at Stefano, who was going toward her to take the two buckets. These children. . .! she repeated.

Is something the matter, Grandmother? Ambrogio asked.

It’s about my work, Stefano said, winking at Ambrogio. You know. Try not to wind her up.

Of course it’s about your work! the grandmother replied. About your work and your own good.

How’s that? Ambrogio insisted.

He’s fixed on being a peasant. They need apprentices now in the factories in Beolco; and he, no, he wants to be a peasant. It was not what we talked about or agreed on.

Well. . ., Ambrogio said. The agreement was that he would help in the country only until he was fourteen or fifteen, and after that he’d go into a factory. And the truth is he is already nineteen.

Not yet, Stefano corrected.

It’s a good trade, being a mechanic, the grandmother said, without handing over the buckets in order to delay a little. Work with a future. Isn’t that so, Signore Ambrogio?

Yes, of course, Ambrogio responded, who was completely serious on this point.

Did you hear, Stefano? the old lady exclaimed, triumphant that she had extracted that declaration. You see how even your friend says so?

It can be a good trade, being a mechanic—everyone knows it, Stefano said, and added mockingly. I’ve nothing against mechanics. And, serious once again, he added, But the point is something else, and it’s that I like the land. You know that, Grandmother. Come, give me the buckets.

But it’s for your own good, that I—that we—and your father first, tell you. . . . Does this small parcel of land seem so much to you? The grandmother, instead of handing him the buckets, looked at Ferrante, in whom she knew she had an ally, but he, however, as always in the presence of outsiders, did not intervene.

From a hole in the wall, next to the reproduction of Saint Anthony, a mouse peeped out; Ambrogio remembered having seen it in the same place during his last visit. The tiny animal tested the surroundings and then tucked itself away again, though not entirely: it left the point of its tiny nose visible, as if it had decided to form part of the group. The old lady insisted, Stefano, times are changing. You know very well that the boys here, even peasants’ sons, no longer work in the fields; too much work for too little profit. Only during the early evening, returning from the factory, do some of them help the old folks to get on with the land they have. Look at Giacomo di Contra and Luigino del Brivio, for example. You, too, if you like the land so much, could do the same. She addressed Ambrogio, Isn’t it true he could do the same as they do?

Ambrogio agreed easily, smiling, while Stefano, although full of respect, showed that as far as he was concerned, the conversation was over. Then the grandmother gave him the two buckets, turned around, and left the stable, complaining to herself that the boy was so stubborn.

The milking was going to begin. Ambrogio, who had thought of staying, suddenly felt like leaving. Well, goodbye, Stefano, he said without further ado. It’s been nice seeing you, but I can’t stay today. Perhaps tomorrow. Goodbye, Signore Ferrante!

What, you’re going?

Stefano left the buckets on the ground and gestured with his head to his friend. I’ll see you out.

Outside the night air was fresh, pure. The sun in the west, already going down, lit up the whole horizon: the large amphitheater of the Alpine foothills. Look, Ambrogio observed, what a lovely color the mountains are this afternoon, especially the Grigne and Resegone, look.

The what, the mountains? Stefano shook his head. Student interests, he thought. If you want to know the truth, I neither look at them nor think about them.

Because they’re always in front of you, Ambrogio said. If you lived all year in a school, in the city, with only houses around you, walls, trolleys . . . Well, I’ve finished school today, forever! Making this declaration, already repeated several times during the course of the afternoon, he felt a new joy. (To which he paid no attention, for happiness seemed obvious to him, almost obligatory. He did not know that the moments of happiness, infrequent even in youthful years, would be more and more infrequent during his lifetime.) He said to his friend, What freedom!

Stefano smiled. Well, I’m going back to work. So long.

So long.

On his way to his bicycle, which was against the wall, Ambrogio shouted out, Wait a minute! You said Igino and Pierello were leaving tomorrow. . .

Yes, tomorrow.

What time?

I don’t know. I didn’t ask.

Listen, I’ll go over and see Igino before dinner, no, right after. Why don’t you come with me?

To town, this evening?

Yes, after dinner. Come on, we’ll meet at Igino’s at eight-thirty. Stefano thought it over as he scratched his head. (He does the same things as his father without realizing it, Ambrogio noticed.) All right, he finally agreed.

See you later.

Fine.

Once at his bicycle, a lightweight blue racer, Ambrogio lifted it with only one hand, turned it in the right direction, and mounted.

3

Ambrogio pedaled slowly toward his house. He was accompanied, from a nearby field, by the intermittent song of a quail. In the pauses of that lonely song, the evening’s silence was punctuated by other rustic voices, very faint in general, to which the boy listened: my land, he thought, this is my land. How many times, locked between the oppressive walls of school, had he turned his thoughts to these places, to the place he had been born!

Suddenly he heard coming toward him along the road the sound of footsteps, the unmistakable tread of clogs. He looked ahead curiously, but at that spot in the road, flanked by high hedges of mulberry and white hawthorn, there was a curve that blocked his view.

Who could that be? he wondered, full of curiosity. Who can be coming to Nomanella at this hour? Perhaps someone coming to buy fresh milk. If not, who then? We’ll know now.

It was Giustina, the twenty-something-year-old sister of Stefano, the oldest of the four Ferrante children. Ambrogio met her head on in the middle of the curve; he braked and stood up. Giustina! Hi!

Good afternoon, she answered, happy, looking at him and wondering if she should stop or not. She was wearing a black worker’s apron. Her hair was chestnut brown, with braids gathered in a bun, held to the nape of her neck with a comb; she had the same big brown eyes as Stefano and their mother. The high clogs made her slender figure even slimmer. (Perhaps even too thin, looking back on it now.)

How are you, Giustina?

Working. . ., she answered in dialect, accentuating her pretty smile.

I see. Are you just coming back now?

We did an extra hour. She looked as if she were about to set off again.

Are you going already? Ambrogio asked regretfully. Are you afraid I’ll eat you?

Giustina blushed to the roots of her hair. No, she answered. I know you, and I know you’re clean, not just on the outside, but inside, too.

That’s out of Don Mario’s books, Ambrogio immediately guessed. It’s a typical phrase of his. But spoken by Giustina I must admit it doesn’t sound too bad.

The young woman smiled again, said, Good evening, and left.

Before entering Nomana, the road, about a kilometer in length, went by Ambrogio’s garden, or rather that of his father, the textile industrialist. As the ground level of the garden was several meters higher than that of the road, it was supported by an old wall, which had a sandstone balustrade over its central area; the rest was surrounded by a long myrtle hedge, from which thick branches of trees showed here and there, curving over the road. While cycling parallel to the wall, Ambrogio looked carefully at it, as he usually did. He noticed a few new water leaks, probably at spots where the tree roots were pushing out from within. If one looks closely, everything breaks down, everything comes to an end, he thought. The old walls are like the lives of people, who also grow old and die. But his life—he answered himself—was only beginning; up to now it had been only preparation. Now his real life was going to begin, next autumn, for example, at the university, where, above all, there would be girls. . . . There were so many other things to think about instead of death! Thinking about the end was all right for . . . for the . . . old people, or might it be for the others, but not for him. The prospect of death made him smile, so far off it seemed to him. He did not dwell on these thoughts, since he was not given to daydreaming.

He looked up to see if one of his family was at the balustrade; there was no one. Naturally. It isn’t the time of day to come and enjoy the view of the mountains.

His brothers and sisters (six of them, all younger than he) were at home at that moment with his mother. Those who had returned from school were probably telling stories of their student life, and the two little ones listening, no doubt, most attentively. Only Manno, his orphan cousin who had always lived with the family, would be missing from dinner; he was two years older than Ambrogio and an architectural student. Manno was in Pesaro now, in the artillery officers’ school: if war broke out, Manno would suddenly find himself up to his neck in it.

After skirting the garden, the cart road joined the main road, which from the north went to Nomana. At the juncture the garden wall formed a blunt angle in which a niche had been cut with a fresco of Our Lady of the Rosary holding the infant child in her arms, against a background of mountains (they clearly resembled the two Grigne and the Resegone); crowning the fresco was a legend in the form of an arc: Regina sacratissimi rosarii, ora pro nobis. Ambrogio bowed slightly, by way of a salute, and turned left to the main road, which at this height, at the entrance of the town, became cobbled. He pressed hard on the pedals, coasted along the west side of the garden, then along one doorless wall of his house, and at last, after another enclosure, came to a larger space enclosed by a small half-moon entranceway grating, the entrance to the garden.

From here the entire house could be seen, peaceful, ochre colored, with three floors, and at least a hundred years old. It looked a comfortable house, almost manorial, despite the fact that fifty years before it had been a textile factory, and then half factory and half living quarters. Only some twenty years before (when his father married) had it been transformed completely into their home. When Ambrogio was a child he had still seen the last manual looms in the granary. Only one still functioned, and it continued functioning until the worker who handled it retired, a pensioner with handlebar mustaches, playful with children, and extraordinarily simple (Ambrogio imagined that everyone must have been that way once), who assured them he still remembered when the women in Nomana wore fan-shaped silver ornaments in their hair.

And the men? What did the men wear on their heads? the children would ask him, though they already knew the answer.

The men? Perhaps a louse or two, he would answer. And one did not really know if he was telling the truth or was saying it to make them laugh.

4

After dinner, Ambrogio left again to go to Igino’s house. He was beginning to feel a certain weariness. The day had been fairly intense, especially on the emotional level.

Igino lived less than a hundred meters away, on the same uneven cobbled road, Alessandro Manzoni Street. Stefano was already waiting in front of his door. Just look, Ambrogio told himself, Moonface is already here, with all the work he had to do when I left. . . . He must have eaten in five minutes. A few steps from him, he said, You’ve been here a while, eh? This is what happens to people who have nothing to do.

The other grimaced, a look of wry forbearance on his face, and informed Ambrogio that Igino was not at home.

Ah! Ambrogio exclaimed, taken aback.

I sent his brother to let him know. But, if you agree, we could go to wait for him in the square.

Yes, of course. They went off together.

Besides, if we go to the square, Stefano added, we’ll meet some of the others going off tomorrow. Are you interested?

Of course! Ambrogio said.

They were not the only ones in the street, which, after some curves, led to the main square, to where the church and town hall stood. There was an unusual amount of activity for these hours.

What are all these people doing in the street? Ambrogio asked Stefano.

It’s the hour of benediction, the latter answered. Didn’t you hear the bells?

Oh, yes! Ambrogio said. We’re in the month of May, that’s true. Stefano added, Today’s the last day.

Going into the square—wide, and on the two sides, to the north and the west, like a belvedere facing the amphitheater of the mountains—an unexpected and formidable clanging of bells dinned over them. They stopped and looked up to the top of the bell tower, where the bells were moving frenetically, almost turning over on themselves.

The sacristan is in good form tonight! Ambrogio shouted to be heard.

What? Stefano screamed back. Ambrogio shrugged his shoulders.

It’s already the third! Stefano shouted again.

Yes, the third ringing, Ambrogio repeated.

The ceremony would begin in five minutes. They had time to get to the church calmly; however, the people in the streets and square, after that explosion of sounds, accelerated their pace. The swallows, as on every afternoon, flying low over the broad cobblestoned square, immediately began crossing it like arrows, carrying out every kind of pirouette.

Almost everyone going by, mainly workers, would greet the two young men, generally with a nod.

We all know each other here, Ambrogio suddenly observed, no longer having to scream, because the din of the bells had unexpectedly ceased. Only a kind of buzz hung in the air, like the muted growl of dogs after they have unleashed their fury.

Always the same faces, Stefano said, moving his head disapprovingly.

Well, for me. . . Ambrogio did not finish the phrase. He would have liked to say that for him, especially when he was returning after a long absence, like today, these same faces were very welcome, and he realized it every time he returned. He was afraid of sounding sentimental.

He took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and offered one to his friend. Meanwhile, people kept crossing the square. The familiar figure of Sister Candida was among them, their teacher when they went to lower school: a little humped now, accompanied by a young novice. Behind, like chicks following the brood hen, a handful of little girls trailed.

Romualdo, the town’s official drunk—as he had been aptly defined once by Stefano’s grandmother—was coming along from another part of the square. He was the town drunk for two quite different reasons: because he was the biggest drinker of the district and because, in a professional sense, he had a connection with the town. He watched over the small parking area for bicycles next to the town hall. Romualdo, at this moment, was walking straight, not zigzagging—a sign he was not drunk, or at least not very—and with a sad face—a sign he was going through one of his repentance phases.

Tea and Isa, cousins, both students, a little younger than the two boys, arrived hurriedly. Tea, plain looking and quick to laughter, was becoming a teacher. Isa was doing accounting in Monza: she was every inch a woman, with chestnut hair, very pretty, perhaps a trifle too massive for her age (destined to fade early, poor girl, Ambrogio predicted every time he saw her). The two girls overwhelmed the boys with exclamations and words of surprised joy, intermingled with news about the closing of their respective schools, which had also been early, and critical remarks about the two boys being there in the square like two idlers instead of in the church.

The two boys, especially Ambrogio, would have liked to answer them but had to put up with the deluge in silence, while Stefano shook his head disapprovingly. Until they suddenly took off at a run, pulling each other and saying, Let’s go, let’s go, we’ll be late, too.

Come along.

What chatter! Ambrogio commented. Stefano only showed his disapproval with one last shake of his head.

There was a group of three workers there from the Riva factory: Costante, straw blond, corpulent, with a red face; Tarcisio, tall and straight, his eyes and curly hair black (Ambrogio remembered that during the Great War, he had been brave); and Ignazio, small and a little hunchbacked, his suit always threadbare and his head that, at every step, seemed to be nodding yes. The three of them showed they had realized that Ambrogio had returned home before the usual date, but they did not stop. They exchanged greetings and continued on quickly. They went to church as if they were arriving late for work.

From Manzoni Street came Marietta of the shuttles, also a worker from Ambrogio’s father’s factory: about fifty, very tiny, with twisted legs, she was the most uncouth worker in the entire factory. Her hair was thin and curly, repulsive, and she had an incredibly large and yellow face, in which lamblike eyes had somehow lodged. Her supreme aspiration was to go unnoticed: Ambrogio knew that and greeted her with the slightest nod of his head, almost without looking at her. He knew that if he had addressed a word to her, she would have answered incoherently, unintelligibly, hurriedly, and if he had insisted, she would have taken fright.

With her hand in that of Marietta of the shuttles came Giudittina, Ambrogio’s little sister—a child of five with blue eyes and blond hair gathered into two ponytails behind her ears—and she delightedly greeted her brother, shouting, Hi! Hi! Hi! while walking with Marietta, who scolded her for shouting with mysterious whisperings and stammered phrases. When the two young men were behind them, Marietta, calm now, seemed to pull herself together: with little children she was in her element.

Then the elderly Mrs. Eleonora appeared, so dignified (where are you, bygone time, where are you? With words only shadows can be evoked), dressed in sequined black, in the style worn at the beginning of the century, and wearing a hat with ostrich feathers and carrying a cane for promenades. How old was the ancient lady, without a single living relative in the world, who went out of her house only to go to church? Since as long as Ambrogio and Stefano could remember (from their births), they had always seen her like this, exactly as she appeared at the present moment.

Miss Quadri Dodini, a schoolteacher at a nuns’ school in Monza, also crossed the square. Middle aged, crippled, her hair cut like a man’s, she also needed a cane and wore thick glasses. She, Ambrogio thought, would have arrived on the last train, after having eaten any old thing for dinner. A few young boys, thirteen or fourteen, caught up with her, walking in long strides and passed her (cruel, without realizing it) and hurriedly entered the church before her.

Do you realize? We’ve seen two people with canes.

Not two, three.

Who’s the third?

It was Galbiati, employed at the Savings Bank and mutilated in the battle of Piave: with one leg missing, he also walked leaning on a cane. A son of Galbiati, Giordano, who was finishing law studies, was going to the Alpine officer’s school: if war broke out—Ambrogio thought—Giordano, too, would suddenly find himself involved up to his neck.

A few more latecomers went by, and the last was Carlaccio. He was of an undefinable age. At one time he was the strongest person in the village: no one was able to get the better of him in his work, which was building carts. Unfortunately, he wanted to take out an enormous stone from an excavation: Either you or me, he said, raising it for the admiration of the bystanders, and he collapsed, or rather his spine did. Since then his large back was as if pushed inward, and his arms hung slack. Carlaccio greeted the two friends with his perennial melancholic smile, which seemed to say, You see how unfair fate has been with me? The two boys responded sympathetically.

When he had gone by, the square was left empty. Only the swallows went on flying across.

5

Suddenly, from a street that gave onto the square a few meters from via Manzoni, came Igino’s voice, alternating with that of another recruit, nicknamed Castagna. Ambrogio and Stefano went over to meet them. Igino and Castagna were coming along talking loudly, as Italians often do when they are in public, aroused as if instinctively to show off. This evening these two were aroused even more because in a way they really were protagonists. Ahead of them by a few steps was Igino’s nine-year-old brother, who turned back toward them every now and then to urge them on, like the old ladies he had seen dragging their drunken husbands out of the tavern.

Before they even reached them, Ambrogio greeted them jokingly: But what a racket, such a noise! Castagna stopped and lifted his large head, opened his arms, and recited the verse of a recruits’ song: It’s the Twenty-First on the march. Afterward, as if he had said something quite funny, he began to laugh uncontrollably. He worked on his own as a craftsman, a blond, with a pink face and puffed-out cheeks. Igino, a worker, had a sharp face and dark hair, combed straight back without a part: he smiled in a way that always seemed forced, even when, as at this moment, it was not.

Hi, Ambrogio said when they were close enough to talk and held out his hand to them. Where were you? In Pasqualetta’s tavern?

Yes, they both answered.

Igino’s brother explained, I found them there. They were with the other conscripts.

With the other conscripts? Ambrogio said, surprised. Then. . .

But not all! Igino said. We met four there, rather, five, by chance, but it wasn’t something planned. Well, come along, too. Why don’t you?

I’ve come especially for that, Castagna declared, to bring you two back to the tavern, dead or alive. And turning toward Stefano, before he could open his mouth, he added, You won’t say no.

Of course I’ll say no! Stefano exclaimed. I’ve nothing to do with this. I’m second semester. He was really thinking that tomorrow he had to get up early for work. Castagna understood very well, so much so that he replied, Who cares if it’s this semester or that? What you really mean is that tomorrow at five you have to milk the cows! Tell the truth!

Yes, agreed, that’s why, Stefano admitted.

You’re a beast! Castagna insulted, again shouting, as if he had caught him out in who knows what fault, and he began to laugh at his own joke.

I see you’ve been drinking, Stefano only said.

Well? Igino asked of Ambrogio. Are you coming or not to Pasqualetta’s?

Even though he felt like going (it was lovely, at that age, to find themselves together again, with so many hopes and illusions in every one of them!), Ambrogio could not. It would not have been correct to leave Stefano in the lurch after having made him come to the village. No, he answered. I’m pretty tired, and I don’t feel like making a late night of it. I only wanted to ask you one thing: What time do you have to be at headquarters tomorrow?

Instead of answering, Igino asked him, But how come you’re back so early this year?

Ambrogio explained.

Well, if it’s like that, then the war’s going to come for sure, the other boy murmured worriedly.

No way! Ambrogio said. Well, I don’t want you to waste your time. Just tell me. . .

We’ve more than enough time, Igino assured him. Come. At least we can sit down for a moment at home.

They made their way slowly.

6

There was no one at home. His mother was—it hardly needed saying since the villagers were all practicing Catholics—in church.

It’s my father’s shift at the Beolco factory, Igino explained, as he turned on the light.

Ah, so they’re on shifts in Beolco? Ambrogio asked.

Yes, in the factory they are, Stefano answered for Igino.

Wouldn’t it also be because of the war? Igino suddenly conjectured. Like his father, Igino also worked in the factory.

But what war? Castagna shouted. They make chains and gears for bicycles in the factory there!

And the bicycles for the Bersaglieri? How about them, eh? Igino observed, half serious. He turned to the other two with his forced smile and indicated with a gesture of his head at Stefano, who in his recruitment had been assigned to the Bersaglieri. The Bersaglieri, how about them? Come, let’s sit down, he concluded.

The others followed suit and seated themselves around the table, which was covered with a synthetic iridescent damask cloth, its colors wavering between red and blue. A little enameled lamp hung over the table, with a round shade and a pulley with weights to regulate its height. Igino went to the sideboard, opened its tiny crystal doors, and took out a yellow metal tray, a bottle of Braulio amaro and four small glasses. You, go play outside, he said to his nine-year-old brother, who followed his activities with keener interest than the others.

Forgetting the judiciousness he had displayed up till then, he began to protest, and so Igino—making disapproving gestures—added a fifth glass to the tray and put it all on the table.

Not to appear stingy, he filled the glasses to the very top. Ambrogio noticed it, and perhaps the others did, too, but for them this kind of behavior was taken for granted: it would have seemed strange if things had happened otherwise, according to some other ritual. Besides, everything else there was also anticipated: the furniture, vaguely modern, but also somewhat shabby, bare; the two oleographs on the walls, one of the Holy Family and the other of a deer at a fountain; the wood stove—in the absence of the traditional fireplace—served for cooking as well as for heating: in short, it was a typical worker’s home. Perhaps a little less usual was the presence, over the sideboard, of a tiny statue of a half-nude woman, who supported a fruit bowl on her upturned arms.

Having finished serving the amaro (the child with a half dose), Igino raised his glass.

Cheers! he toasted.

Cheers! the others echoed.

Here’s hoping the threat of war will go away! Ambrogio wished with singular originality. However, it was what the others expected of him. They were thoughtful.

And if it doesn’t. . . if it doesn’t . . . if it really does break out? Stefano suddenly blurted out.

Then who knows what there will be. No one knows how it will end, Ambrogio said. In those days, more than once he had heard that twenty-five years before, the Great War had been declared with the certainty that it would end immediately, and instead. . .

The only lively one was the child. He declared, To tell the truth, if the war comes I’ll be happy. His eyes shone.

Go and play, Igino repeated.

Puckering up his face a little, the boy finished his half portion of amaro and went out to the street, inwardly surprised by the cowardliness of the adults.

But Igino did not agree with Ambrogio. It’s not like last year now, when we didn’t know who was going to win. Now, he observed, the English and French are only making a show of hitting back, and besides, they’re running away on all sides. If we go in, victory is assured.

I wonder. . ., Ambrogio said, shaking his head. You can’t be sure about these things ever, he answered, defining his own feelings more concretely.

Eh, Stefano agreed sincerely, remembering his father’s remarks.

No, Igino insisted, with an unexpected touch of bitterness. This time England and France have to surrender. They’re about to pay their dues, my friends. They can’t go on having everything their way and depriving us of the minimum of . . . of. . .

Ambrogio looked at him, surprised.

Castagna noticed it and jokingly said, Does he or doesn’t he talk like Alfeo at the army training meetings? He began to laugh, happy too to have thought of this comeback, which he celebrated by moving his big head.

(Alfeo, a noncommissioned officer, was one of the few people in the village who believed in fascism. To be more precise, he halfway believed in it, because he subscribed to the prevailing Nomana opinion, as well as that of Brianza, that fascism was foreign: a phenomenon with motivations, developments, and results better suited to some other place, not their region.)

Without paying attention to Castagna, Igino concentrated on the other two, especially Ambrogio, almost defying him to refute him.

But Igino . . . do you mean to say you’re on the side of the Germans? Ambrogio asked, almost scandalized. The Nazis?

That’s not what matters, Igino said. What matters is . . . well, what I’ve already told you!

So why don’t they make him secretary of the local party? Castagna went on jokingly.

But tell me, what is it that attracts you? Ambrogio wanted to know Tell me the truth: Is it the spirit of adventure? Is it that you want to prove yourself? I’m asking because I feel the same way, too, sometimes.

Igino looked at him, surprised. No! Adventure? What in the devil do you mean by that?

Adventure. . . The pleasure of taking a risk, in short.

No, Ambrogio. Of course not. It’s simply what I’ve been saying: the rich nations this time will have to give in, to cough up a little. The time has come.

But to become allies of the Nazis. . .

Whoever, with the devil himself if there’s no other choice.

Good heavens! Ambrogio exclaimed, looking at the other two.

Well, listen, it’s useless to argue, Stefano said very sensibly. No matter what we do, we can’t decide anything.

Igino agreed with this. He suggested, "Another touch of amaro?"

Castagna raised his glass. I’m thirsty, he said.

Then wine is better, the host said, getting up.

No, wait, Ambrogio objected. It’s better you go back to Pasqualetta’s. The others will be waiting. We’ve seen each other and talked. It’s fine for one evening. . .

Yes, but we can have a glass of wine, Igino said. He went to the small sideboard and took out an opened bottle of wine and four glasses. He shut the glass door of the sideboard with his elbow. On the other side of the door was an old photograph of their school class. Nothing less than the second grade in elementary school! While returning to the table, he pointed it out to his friends with his head: If instead of calling up only one semester they had called the whole class, we could have been arranging a farewell party for the women conscripts.

The others agreed, smiling. Ambrogio stood up and went over to the photograph, which he remembered well. He brought his eyes closer to look at it. Look, Paolina with her curls. . . Olga, Teresa Conti. And Stellina, look . . . poor Stella.

She remained a dwarf, Igino murmured.

We didn’t realize then, Ambrogio said. She just seemed a little smaller than the rest of us. She didn’t even realize.

That’s right, Stefano said. Then she didn’t grow any more. She stayed like she was then, more or less.

In the face of that, Castagna also shook his heavy head.

She too was at the receiving end of the punches we dealt out to the girls at recess, do you remember? Just to show we were stronger, Ambrogio said. What animals we were.

Well, Igino replied, while he served, they were the punches of eight-year-olds. . .

But for them, for the girls, we hurt them, Ambrogio insisted, so much they sometimes cried, don’t you remember?

Especially Iole, it’s true, Igino agreed on that. How she rebelled!

Where is she? I don’t see her. In the dim light from the little lamp, Ambrogio looked for her in the photograph until he recognized her. Ah, look at her, here she is.

She was a little girl with a black smock and her arms crossed like the others, but blonder, the only real golden blond, with singularly bright features, very intelligent.

What an end she came to, poor girl, Stefano murmured. Is she . . . still away? Ambrogio wanted to know.

Yes, of course, Stefano said. Who knows if she will ever leave the insane asylum.

The same way her older sister ended up, Igino observed.

Ambrogio went back to the table. Igino put a full glass in front of him.

Even without a war, there are more than enough troubles in life, Ambrogio said, taking the glass.

To hear my father, war is still worse, no comparison, Stefano said. It’s something one can’t even imagine. And if he says so, he added, it really is.

The four friends looked at each other. Down deep they had no experience in these things. After a moment, Igino said, Well, if we two are to go back to Pasqualetta’s, we’d better decide.

They quickly emptied their glasses, stood up, and went to the door.

If it’s all right with both of you, tomorrow I’ll take you to district headquarters with the car, Ambrogio said at the last moment. As there’s room for another person, you could let Pierello know. Is he at Pasqualetta’s?

No, Igino answered.

It doesn’t matter. I’ll let him know, said Castagna, who, like Pierello, lived in Lodosa.

OK. What time should we meet here? Ambrogio asked.

Do you really want to come with us? Igino asked while opening the door.

7

The next day, in early afternoon, after getting permission from his father, Ambrogio arrived at Igino’s house in the automobile. He had planned to go by the Lodosa houses with his friend to pick up Castagna and Pierello, but it was not necessary, as they were both waiting there too.

Castagna was carrying a package tied with a string under his arm, and his rosy face bore the traces of worry. Pierello—who had left his own package on a chair for the moment—was a solid-looking boy and at the same time timid, with a round head and light brown hair and eyes. He greeted Ambrogio with his captivating smile. If you want to take me, here I am too. He said this as if he had not been invited, and, in response to the cordial handshake, he opened his arms and raised his eyes to the sky, exactly as Ambrogio expected. Pierello had this unique habit of opening his arms for any reason, at times even without a reason, and raising his eyes to the sky, like someone yielding to his destiny.

Igino was ready also: his small cloth suitcase sitting on the floor beside the door. Too impatient to wait, he turned to his mother to say goodbye. But she protested, But what’s the hurry, Igino? Is someone chasing you? Wait a minute.

She went to the sideboard and took a little glass for Ambrogio and put it on a metal tray, which was on the table, next to the bottle of amaro and some glasses that had just been used.

"A little amaro, Ambrogio? Should I pour you some?"

Mother, please don’t make us waste time, Igino protested.

Yes, thanks, Ambrogio answered. What’s the hurry, Igino? You’re not getting married, are you?

His mother poured the liquor, carefully filling the glass to the brim. Then she moved aside and timidly smiled at her son.

Igino had had enough. Puffing with impatience, he poured what remained of the amaro—two half portions—into Castagna’s and Pierello’s glasses, then picked up his case and went up to his mother: Tell Father goodbye. And don’t drive yourself crazy for no reason. There’s still no war on. You understand? There is none, and maybe there never will be. Now goodbye.

As his mother had not resigned herself to giving him her hand, he squeezed her wrist, turned, and left the house.

The woman covered her face with her hands and began to cry silently. The others swallowed the amaro and took their leave, embarrassed, except for Castagna, who, in his laudable attempt to resolve the situation in a lighthearted manner, sang a verse that came into his head:

     These stones will cry, will cry

     and so will the girls on this street

     because the Twenty-First is saying goodbye. . .

It was obvious how inopportune the words were. Even Castagna realized that, and to rectify the matter, in some fashion, while leaving the house, he made a kind of pirouette, mostly making a clown of himself.

Ambrogio shook his head indulgently; Pierello, looking at the woman, brought his index finger to his head to indicate the other fellow was a bit mad, and then, with his eyes turned upward, he opened his arms as usual.

In the automobile the three recruits held their small parcels on their laps. Igino’s mother followed them as far as the street and looked at them while covering her mouth. Ambrogio immediately turned on the motor and, out of emotion and lack of practice—he had only had a license for a year—took off joltingly.

They crossed through the middle of town. Thirty-five hundred inhabitants: it was not a big town. For the most part the houses were two or three floors high, fairly diverse, and had been built during various periods around and within a more ancient and uniform nucleus. This nucleus—which in some way even now characterized the whole complex—was composed of some old courtyards with porticos formed from the remains of brick columns and wooden galleries. Occupied then by workers, no longer by peasants as in the beginning, and adapted in diverse ways, they had a look of something halfway between the country and the outskirts of town, a rustic and urban mélange.

The departing young men stared at the walls, on which writing had been painted with fresh whitewash during the night saying, Long live the Twenty-First, the iron race or The Twenty-First have left / so all the girls / to the convent have gone and other similar jingles. They knew the words already and only pointed them out with a half smile.

As they went by the largest courtyard of the town, the only one that still looked rustic, Ambrogio glanced at its interior through the entrance: a flat arch bearing the date A.D. 1777. He glimpsed carts full of grass on one side, left in different positions; on the opposite side were women seated on chairs sewing and chatting; between the women and the carts a group of children were running and, almost at the same level but with greater speed, were flying a flock of swallows.

In Sansone’s courtyard, he said, pointing with his head and breaking the silence, I don’t know if you realize it, there are always swallows.

In winter too? Castagna asked, again being funny.

The others, who—like himself—felt an enormous weight on their hearts at having to leave their town for the first time, smiled politely.

I meant, Ambrogio continued, turning and smiling toward Castagna, that while in so many other places swallows don’t make their nests, even if one would want them to, here, in this courtyard, a lot do.

Well, it’s because of the mosquitoes, Igino, though not much interested, looked for an explanation. With all this manure. . .

In my house they sometimes make them under the eaves of the woodshed, Ambrogio continued, but not every year, even rather seldom.

I’m not surprised, Igino said. Your brother ties ribbons on their feet, so. . .

What? Ribbons on swallows’ feet? Pierello asked with curiosity.

Ambrogio nodded.

Yes, Pino does. Once he took them, parents and babies, from their nests and marked them to find out if they would return the following year: he tied an inch or so of red ribbon on every swallow.

And did they return or not? Castagna asked, also interested.

What do you mean return? In the last two years not even one has been seen in the woodshed, not those or any others.

They all smiled approvingly. By driving along Santa Caterina Street they left the town toward the south, went by I dragoni, the ancient villa of Signora Eleonora, the one whom, dressed always in sequined black, Ambrogio and Stefano had seen in the square the

Reviews for The Red Horse

[judithrs · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

The Red Horse. Eugenio Corti. Originally published in Italian in 1983, in English, 2000. Well, I finished it, all 1015 pages of it, and I am glad I did. The book has been a best seller in Italy. It is family sage that opens when Italy joins the Axis, and follows the family, mostly the sons, into the 1960s. It is anticommunist, conservative, and Catholic. It was not compelling, but interesting to read the “Italian side,” of WWII. I am familiar to the horrors of the Nazis and the Communists. The author was in the war and a prisoner so his descriptions are realistic. What fascinated me was the way in which the Communists were able to infiltrate the political parties in Italy, because the other parties, in the name of tolerance, allowed them. This is not great literature, and the lines in underlined were related to politics and religion, not because they were beautiful.