Rome, Monday, December 24, 1945 Luigi Mari threw the field exercise bag onto the flatbed at the back of the jeep and sat next to the driver. "What the devil has gotten into you?" he shouted, covering the engine's muttering. Captain Renato Villoresi laughed and shifted gears, flooring the accelerator. Mari jerked backward just in time to catch the wink from Major Antonio Ayroldi, perched astride between the two back seats. "And what are you supposed to tell me?" he muttered again, smoothing his hair ruffled by the gusts of air released by the windshield folded down onto the hood. "Well?" he insisted, resisting the temptation to curse. Renato and Antonio exchanged a knowing glance. "We thought we'd help relieve the tension you've been under lately..." the latter whispered. "Really! You have to believe us, Luigi," added Renato, raising his right hand from the steering wheel, "we have a clear idea of the suffering you feel, with all we've been through..." Mari closed his eyes and slapped his palm on the low side of the jeep. How could he blame his friends and fellow soldiers, how could he not recall the tragedies during the months of Nazi occupation, the atrocities committed by the fascist republicans, the anxieties of living underground on the razor's edge of betrayal or denunciation. The darkness of that period lingered indelibly in his mind. When Mari shook himself from the depths of those troubles, he realized they had taken the Via Ostiense: he glimpsed, through the leafy rows of trees, the bulk of the Pyramid of Cestius and the turreted walls, or what seemed to remain of them: Porta San Paolo had been the site of the most challenging and courageous battle of the Roman resistance. Perhaps, he thought, that day had spontaneously shown the best synergy ever between those belonging to the Royal Army and the first groups of free political and intellectual resistors. Unfortunately, that collaboration never happened again; on the contrary, bitter conflicts had undermined initiatives, actions, battles, and above all, the salvation of many innocents. "There's not a soul around, like on a holiday," shouted Renato, accelerating to the maximum on the straight stretch in front of the locked gates of the General Markets, "all the better, we'll get there sooner." "You still haven't told me where we're going," Mari objected impatiently, "or do you prefer to wander aimlessly, without direction..." "As you can see, we're not going to listen to sermons," Antonio sneered, pointing at the Basilica of St. Paul, which quickly slipped by on their right. "Commander, let's not listen to this irreverent Levantine," Renato exaggerated his Neapolitan accent and continued his reckless driving: he double-clutched to shift down and squeeze through the narrow arch under the railway, turned left up a steep hill, and continued among a sparse group of poor, dilapidated houses. "If I'm not mistaken, we're heading toward the Abbey of the Three Fountains," exclaimed Mari, with the excitement of someone who thinks they've solved a riddle. "No, not at all, Luigi," Antonio retorted, "I've already told you that today we'll stay away from priests, friars, and nuns..." Mari turned, frowning, ready to vent an irritation that now seemed justified, in his opinion. The jeep went over a bump and headed west. "We're going to the E42 area," admitted Renato, "an inspection to see what's been left unfinished and what remains after all that's happened..." "What's left of the Universal Exposition," added Antonio, "of the regime's megalomania, the pharaonic projects, the thefts managed by hierarchs and business cliques." "After the German troops were quartered there, only ruin will be left," added Mari with a note of bitterness. "But now it's necessary to consider tomorrow, we have to think about the future, Luigi. At least you who still can..." Renato laughed and slapped his hand on the dashboard. Mari thought that during the Nazi occupation, even though he was commander of the Clandestine Military Front for the territory south of Rome and for the Castelli Romani, he had never visited that area which now appeared to him as a desolate wasteland: the gentle lay of the countryside between natural hills and embankments, created for the planned but unrealized buildings, was dotted with scattered pine and eucalyptus groves, patches of laurel and juniper, all interspersed with winding tracks and cart paths. The amount of ruins, scaffolding, and installations here and there marking the land as clear traces of the transience of human interventions was impressive. The war had suspended the course of these, designed to glorify nationalist pride aggravated by imperialist delusions, fascism at the height of its claimed Aryan arrogance. Now everything was abandonment, even the cold morning light heightened and complicated it with unreal reflections.
"Look down there at the end," Antonio stood up, holding onto the backs of the seats, "that tower must be more than sixty meters high..." "That's the Palazzo della Civiltà Italiana," Renato stopped the truck, rested his chin on the steering wheel, and stared at the squared building, all covered with imposing arches, "we also fought there to stop the German invasion right after the armistice." "Let's go there, start the engine," Mari kept her eyes on the target, her words as sharp as an order. They got out and went back up a rough cart track until they were alongside a monumental rationalist building with a daring cross-vaulted roof, then crossed a wide road lined entirely with squared buildings. Some signs there too indicated the destinations of the various German troop quarters. From here the three comrades reached an open expanse where, on the left, tall wings of abandoned structures with arcades and colonnades stood out, a short distance away a pyramidal obelisk towered, and in front of them a wide avenue lined with holm oaks ended at the foot of a massive base: here the tall square building dominated, white with travertine and marble with large arches on the facades of each side. Mari was the first to get out of the truck. He was overcome by curiosity, amazed by the grandeur of the structure, captivated by the clarity of the stone cladding. He ran up the steep base, caught his breath, and raised his eyes to the top of the building. "A people of poets, of artists, of heroes," he shouted, reading the inscription on the head and syllabizing it, "of saints, of thinkers, of scientists, of navigators, of migrants." He crouched down and gave in to emotion. They were the same words that immediately came back to his memory, the same words he had heard from Mussolini's oratory in the frenzied speech of October 2, '35: the croaking voice from the loudspeaker connected to the radio in the barracks square, the repeated howls of the delirious crowds, the irreverent rhetoric of propagandized ignorance. As then, once again, the feeling of disapproval overflowed into repulsion until it exploded in uncontrollable anger. Furious, he stood up and kicked a stone, then another and another. "Calm down, Luigi," Antonio, out of breath, pulled him to himself by the arm, "we know how you feel, we've talked about it a thousand times and you know we share your convictions. That was the beginning of the end of the regime, but also the end of our hopes." "E jamm bell ja," Renato chimed in and impulsively hugged them, with so much energy that he almost knocked them over, "Luigi, now you must focus all your attention forward, on that future that the people and the country are waiting for." "Certainly it's not the claim of a nation that those wretches in black shirts exalted," Antonio added, tapping his friends on the shoulders, "they will never come back!"