Il personaggio del colonnello Mari e lo zio resistente

The story of the murder of the doctor from Piazze, Alberto Rinaldi, and his illustrious patient, Arturo Toscanini, is told from the perspective of a new investigation entrusted, fourteen years after the crime, to Colonel Luigi Mari.

I confess that it was easy to draw inspiration for the character Mari from the substantial memoirs of a family member particularly dear to me.

My paternal great-grandfather needed to replenish the family finances, which had been depleted by the exhausting post-unification conflict in the lands of southern Italy, a fratricidal war that was complicated and almost forgotten. Thus, the dowries of two sisters were contracted by him for the marriages of his two sons, my grandfather and his brother. Uncle Michelino was the son of the latter, thus doubly cousin to my father, both on the paternal and maternal sides.

An officer by choice and vocation, like his older and younger brothers, he pursued his career during the years of the fascist regime. He also undertook university studies outside the military academy, was passionate about history, politics, and philosophy. He loved Latin classics more than Greek ones, was a refined Dante scholar, and had memorized countless verses of the Comedìa.

After adventurous missions at the front, he was sent to Berlin from August '42 to February '43 as a liaison officer for the Eastern Front, Russia. He returned to Rome to the Aegean Armed Forces Command and after September 8th, he worked with Colonel Giuseppe Cordero Lanza di Montezemolo to organize the Clandestine Military Resistance Front. He took command of the partisan band “Castelli Sud Lazio,” also known as the first group, and the responsibility for difficult intelligence tasks.

He escaped capture by the Gestapo and fascists in a daring way, rescued and saved by Iolanda, the partisan who would become his wife two years later. Due to a service-related disability, his military career ended.

Uncle Michelino and Aunt Iolanda were protagonists of my childhood and adolescence. When I was born he was present, the first to congratulate my parents. His flowers even filled the corridor of the clinic. The same happened with my brother three years later. There was no Sunday without the uncles, no car trip without them. When they left for holidays in Rapallo or Lake Como I was sad for days and days. Their return was always a celebration, a joy of affection.

I also spent a lot of time at their place. My aunt’s atelier near Via Veneto intrigued me every time: the tireless sewing machines, the workers cutting and embroidering, the draped mannequins and the shelves of colorful fabrics. I would go up to my uncles’ home and from their balcony it was great fun to look down at the comings and goings at the Excelsior hotel, the car traffic in front of the cafés, the tourists with their cameras. Uncle Michelino’s stories had captured my imagination, from La Fontaine’s fables to the three musketeers, from Mompracem to Mr. Fogg. My uncle had nicknamed me “so what?” because I never accepted the conclusions of the stories, I insisted they continue always, without pause all day until I collapsed exhausted on the sofa next to the gramophone. Then came the history lessons, the war chronicles, the tragedies of the occupation of Rome, and more.

The last lesson was the day of his funeral. After almost half a century since his wartime exploits, a huge military formation paid the two-star general, the brave partisan, and the virtuous man the honors of the flag and the ceremonial silence.

Aunt continued the stories for many more years, until her mind began to cloud, more and more each day. She was almost a hundred when we brought her near my uncle in what for me is the chapel of the heart.