My eyes fall on the folder still resting on that table, full of notes jotted down on a sheet of paper. Traces of medicine boxes, of appointments made, some crossed out. The name is still legible on that worn folder, and it is not my name.

I turn my gaze and find other boxes. More supplements and bottles. I close my eyes and the walks to the pharmacy come back to me. The freezing air, the scarf, my hands reddened by the winter wind. But I went on foot, for that small outlet - that half hour of movement in a static time.

The pharmacist would ask questions and offer advice. I nodded and smiled, but understood nothing. I just wanted that time to end. Then she would ask how I was. Fine. Even though I was eating sweets and losing weight. Even though I slept like a stone, but little. Even though I dreamed - and not of what I would have liked.

Then I see the antibiotics - mine, this time - that I took a few weeks ago. When, at last, I could afford to be ill myself. For a few days. I can't stay away from my life for long.

I look at the calendar and the weather forecast on the device in front of my eyes. Sun, warmth. The plan is for a fine day out. I think to myself that I need to put that folder away. Winter is over, thankfully.

I press the button and wait: 104/58.

I get up and return to my chair, without looking back.

On the left, the paintings are gone. On the right, the bright living room sits bare, stripped of its small ornaments. My eye looks for the photo of me with the red telephone, forgetting it is already at my own house. The sofa has been shifted slightly, the small table pushed into a corner. It was the only way to get through with the walker. The shutter is up, the curtain open onto a pleasant, sunlit day.

The big living room television is gone, leaving a patch of different colour on the cabinet. Next to it, the kitchen. The fridge is off, the small television also gone, the table pushed into a corner. The smell of the stuffed olives she used to make for me is still there. Or perhaps it is only in my mind. Without thinking, I open the oven. Empty, as it never was. I close it again. The mantel clock has vanished, and so has the Frate Indovino calendar. The fireplace is still sealed. They said it was the regulations, but grandfather was tired of carrying the wood up. The old boiler is off, its dial worn down.

I turn back and step toward the hallway. The old pendulum clock is still there, stopped. As a child, in the old house, I used to play around it, circling it. It looked enormous to me. When they moved, grandfather cut it short at the bottom and hung it on the wall. Crooked, otherwise it would stop. I lift it off the wall, revealing the mark behind it, and set it down on the floor. I remembered it lighter. To the left, the room where I slept only once. I smile, because everything is the same. I open a drawer, empty. The family photos used to be in that drawer. I close it. On the wall, my embossed poster with a cat and a dog. Faded with the years, flattened by games and house moves. I fought to keep it from being thrown out, even in that state.

I leave the room and move on to theirs. The photos are gone, and all the furniture is polished and clean. A ray of sunlight comes through the window and falls on the chest of drawers - it's morning, the sun comes from the east. When they were here, the shutter was always half-lowered at this hour. They would get up very early and take a nap mid-morning. Then they'd raise it again, and I'd know I would find them awake. Ready to make me something good when I was hungry. Or just a comfort, when I was tired.

I turn and go into the room across the hall. I open the doors of the large wardrobe, but it is empty. My comics are gone, and so are my toys. All of their things are gone. How big that wardrobe is, and how full it used to be! There are still some things on the old red table. Thirty-five years ago, give or take, in its place there was the cardboard box. He had brought it home so we could play with it, and we had turned it into a kind of fort, with all our friends. It seemed enormous, but it was probably smaller than that table. So many memories, here. Out of habit, I look at the corners of the room. My friend had brought the fishing worms and we had forgotten to close the box. They had spread all over the room. But I got away with it, that time too.

I leave the room, on the right the brown bathroom. In good shape, but worn by time. I didn't remember that handle. Ah yes - grandfather had put it in when he was starting to have trouble moving. The shower could use some work, but it still functions. I keep walking and reach the other bathroom - my bathroom. The tub is still untouched, even after more than forty years. It can't have been used five times. The toilet still has its original seat, in perfect condition. That day, just back from school, I was peeing when she came running into the bathroom. She was crying. A boy in her class had insulted her. "Don't worry, just tell me who it is, I'll come to school and your big brother will have a word with him." She smiled and calmed down, while grandmother was telling us to wash our hands because everything was ready. The bidet is still gleaming, while the sink shows a few more signs of wear than I remembered. Maybe, in the last few years, she had taken some shortcuts to clean it more quickly. But I haven't been in here for a long time, maybe I'm not remembering well. The tiles are still spotless. Except for the one near the window, where I dropped the hammer.

I take another walk through, trying to memorise everything, one more time. The bare walls, to my eyes, are still full of life. The cabinets full of photographs. And again, I catch the smell coming from the kitchen.

I take down the pendulum clock and lift it onto my shoulder. I reach the door. I open it and step out. I turn, looking once more, for the last time, at the long, bright hallway.

I close the door, forcing the key a little, and tear the label off the doorbell.

This morning fell at that particular hour - the moment when every city releases its own scent. Like nature in spring, every city gives its best when the morning's activities begin to stir. Like when a curtain rises: the real theatre begins. The one where, in London, you could smell the Starbucks coffee everyone carried to the office. Too hot to consume on the go, scalding at just the right temperature to fill the air, otherwise already saturated with the smell of kebab. The one where, in Paris, you smell croissants and pain au chocolat, while the traffic on the Champs-Élysées reminds you that frenzy and poetry travel side by side, there. The one where, when I went to the market with my grandmother, it meant I would soon be eating my corn focaccia - the reward for... having eaten. Because, back then, getting me to eat was difficult, and they tried everything just to stop me wasting away.

And crossing Corso della Giovecca, you catch the stately, ancient scent of the old hospital. A place of care, respect, and reverence - the way hospitals were once regarded. Different and distant from the smell of disinfectant in the new one. Brighter, certainly. Precisely - more sterile. Smells that are familiar to me - like when I used to visit my parents at work, in a hospital too, but hundreds of kilometres from here. Yet the sensations remain the same.

The Palazzina Marfisa d'Este opens its ancient door and, from within, that unmistakable scent of old walls, mingled with the perfume of the flowers in its garden and freshly cut grass. And then the bars - from which drifts the aroma of espresso, typical of Italian bars - and the older the barista, the further back in time that scent carries you. The many buildings, at that hour, see their occupants stepping out to reach their destinations. Peeking inside, you glimpse damp courtyards, well-kept gardens, car parks. Or heaps of useless clutter, mixed with mould and weeds. Bicycles - oh, so many of them - everywhere. And each one emits its own perfume, its own smell. As people reach their destinations, these places come alive, and from their freshly reopened doors comes the scent of that building's era: the ancient ones smell of damp, almost of mould - but a precious, ancient mould. The merely old ones carry the typical smell of their era. For someone like me who has already lived through a few decades, these scents are somehow linked to memories of my own life, lived in buildings of that period. The modern ones, by contrast, smell of newness, of the future. Perhaps a little sterile, but clean.

Arriving in the main square, the distance between the buildings frees the air, and you breathe in history, antiquity. The many university students, sitting at tables talking about their insurmountable problems - love affairs, exams, accommodation - carry the mind forward, connecting past to future. Speaking of the present. And the scent is tied to whichever drink is fashionable at the moment, always surrounded by the unmistakable aroma of cappuccino. I'm not a cappuccino lover, but that scent takes me back to my university years. Then as now, in Bologna, I liked walking to lectures. Three and a half kilometres through the city centre, crossing streets full of bars, trattorias, hotels, hostels. Flats of young students stumbling out of their doors, still half-asleep, their faces still bearing the marks of the long night before. Like the nights I spent with my flatmates - sometimes until four in the morning - sitting on chairs, laughing, joking, chatting, talking about everything and nothing. Dreaming of the life we - hoped - we would have.

But the scent that envelops Ferrara in the morning is mainly one: bread. The coppietta, but not only. Every kind of bread, expertly prepared by artisans or bakeries that still contribute to the beauty of the landscape with an unmistakable, unique perfume. Bread that I remember, as a child, on my aunt's table. She wasn't from Ferrara, but she loved that kind of bread all the same. I liked it, yes, but it was... how to put it... exotic. It was the scent of the trip to my aunt and uncle's house, which I loved so much. Also because my uncle had a PC - which I didn't yet understand, except that the files I could run were the ones marked .com, .bat, or .exe - and it looked so professional!

Then, as the hours pass, the scents shift to the residential streets, which, with windows open, enrich the air with the aroma of ragù - each one different, mind you! - prepared by the person who lives in those places, following the ancient recipe of their mothers, grandmothers, great-grandmothers, in a ritual that remains unchanged despite the passing of time. Just as my grandmother used to do. Just as my mother does. As I do myself.

When evening falls, the scents change. The aroma of cappuccino transforms into spritz. That of bread becomes pizza. That of ragù turns into roast. Even Marfisa d'Este changes its scent, because the open windows and the coming and going of people have altered its atmosphere. And when people return to their homes, they imbue the buildings with a different aroma. All day long, they will have turned on air conditioners, opened windows, set out fragrances. But, all at once, they return to silence. And the silence, in the night, will restore their dignity and their original character. Because people, with time, come and go. They appear and they vanish. But the scent of the city - that remains.

When I was born, it was a joy. Much wanted, I came into the world a bit late, on a cold December morning. The hospital was up on a hill but that hadn't discouraged my loved ones. I didn't seem very eager to come out, apparently, but everyone had rushed to wait for me. Outside the delivery room were my grandparents, without doubt the most impatient. One of my grandfathers walked back and forth along the corridor, restless, while the other (who had already lived through this experience with my cousin) tried to calm and reassure him. It wasn't easy for my mother. A somewhat complicated delivery, but everything turned out well.

When I finally started breathing, many smiled. I had so much hair - red! - and it was impossible to comb it down. The midwife, bringing me out, apologized for not managing to flatten my hair. Poor woman, it wasn't her fault: it's still impossible to flatten it today, even though it's a fraction of what it was back then.

Sometimes I think about the day I'll die. If I'm lucky, I'll be very old. If I'm very lucky, I won't realize it. If she's lucky, my wife won't have to live through this experience. And I think that, probably, I'll die alone. On one hand this reassures me: I've never liked to inconvenience others or to be a burden to them, and I don't want that to happen when I take my leave from life. Yet, from another point of view, it casts a veil of sadness over me. Perhaps I'll be in a sterile hospital room, alone or surrounded by strangers, and when my heart stops I'll be just another old man who passed away, handled with the appropriate professional detachment by staff who see these situations every day.

When I arrived, there was joy, anticipation. I was surrounded by loved ones. When I leave, if I'm lucky, there will be silence, indifference, and solitude.

I close my eyes again, in the overwhelming silence of the night.
Tomorrow morning, thankfully, there will still be familiar people, lights and sounds.
My coffee. My breakfast. My life, still waiting to be lived.

The truth was different.

That morning, I had received a phone call from my mother, telling me that my grandmother wasn't feeling well. We thought it was just a common flu, but it felt "strange". I rushed to her. I found her standing, in high spirits, welcoming me with her usual affection and joy. She was already feeling much better but was a bit tired, so she had already eaten dinner and was heading to bed early. Her usual spirit, her usual stride, her usual grit.

Relieved, we decided to pick up some seafood takeout from a restaurant owned by a former classmate of mine. And the fish, besides being delicious, was abundant.

The next morning, I received a call from my mother: my grandmother was doing terribly - in her view, perhaps close to death. She had wanted to stay in her own home, alone - she refused to give up her independence - but seeing that her shutters hadn't been raised, my parents had burst into her house before 7:00. She was barely lucid, very lethargic.

The point was this: she was nearly 93 years old and almost unconscious - would it be right to call an ambulance, or would it be better, since she wasn't suffering, to let her take her leave from life that way? We talked about it for a moment: she was in perfect shape, took no medication, and until the day before, she went for walks of over an hour every day (to do the grocery shopping and back), carrying a cane only "to give her security" but never actually using it. We decided to call the ambulance immediately, and she was hospitalized as an emergency. The doctor told my father to prepare himself - it was too grave, and saving her was almost impossible. That night, mentally, I tried to prepare myself to say goodbye. I tried.

A week later, she was back at her house, on her feet, in good shape, with perfect lab results.

But it was a hollow victory because, as my other grandmother used to say, "death looks for its reason". Her condition would decline - slowly - over the following months, giving her both the awareness of her own frailty and the knowledge that she was leaving. She lost the self-sufficiency that meant everything to her.

I would only see her two more times, and speak to her on the phone a few others. On her birthday in March, she was angry because she had wanted a party, knowing it would be her last birthday. She knew it; we didn't. We saw a recovery; she saw the decline.

And today, looking at that photo, I asked myself if, perhaps, it would have been better to avoid calling that ambulance. To let her go like that, without suffering, in her own bed, in her own home. Independent, until the very end. Things went differently: one is never truly ready to let go of someone they love.

And today, looking at that photo, I can't help but think that the restaurant in the picture is now closed. Because the restaurateur, my former classmate, passed away a few months ago. At an age when one should be living life to its fullest, certainly not gone.

Sometimes, a photo is enough to bring you back to the exact mood of that precise instant. A photo where all you see is excellent and abundant fish, but all you feel is anguish, suffering, and sadness.

Far away.

Connected with someone who is no longer here.

Like a ten-year-old boy with glistening eyes, behind a pair of glasses, watching a movie, unaware of what was to come. Yet, somehow, sensing it. Because not everything can be explained.

Tonight is one of those moments, and music - my music - helps me go back.

No, not with a DeLorean. Because the flux capacitor doesn't exist. But the mind can do much, much more.

And those tears, inexplicable then, are full of meaning today.

The waiting room was packed. Too many people, perhaps. But, according to the receptionist, it’s always like this in the days leading up to Christmas. People probably want to get their check-ups done before the holidays. They probably want to eat. Probably, barring emergencies, none of us will be going for tests in this period anymore.

While we were waiting, in silence, I looked up - seemingly absent-mindedly - and saw an old sign displaying social distancing regulations, dating back to when the Covid emergency was still ongoing.

I felt a jolt.

On the morning of 29 June 2022, I was sitting right next to that sign. That was the last time I had seen that waiting room so full. The last time I waited so long. This time I was a companion, for a routine check-up. That day I was the patient, and I was alone because, due to Covid containment regulations, companions were not allowed.

The previous afternoon I was in my bed, watching some relaxing videos. I felt, once again, that something was happening. The fever was returning, and with it, the chills. Even though it was summer and temperatures were well above average. Even though it was 33 C degrees in that room. My wife urged me to measure it. I didn't want to, but I followed her advice. It was well over 38°C. I decided to wait, as per the doctor's instructions. But ten minutes later it had risen. And after another ten minutes, it had risen even further. In half an hour, I was nearing 40°C. I rushed to call the doctor, who suggested I take medication to contain it but to go for an urgent blood test to (finally) understand its origin. Previous tests had given no indication, so we were flying blind. My wife was at her limit; I brushed it all aside and looked forward with confidence and enthusiasm. It's nothing serious - I thought - it will pass. But it didn't pass; in fact, it increased. And yet, I didn't feel that bad. Slight fatigue, nothing more. But my temperature was skyrocketing.

I called my parents - who were far away - my grandmother was in the hospital and, according to the doctors, the situation wasn't rosy. Because things, when they happen, always happen all at once. Life taught me this. Much, too soon.

I don't even want to think about what they went through in those moments. My grandmother, although elderly (but in excellent health until very few months prior), in that condition, and me, hundreds of kilometers away, like that. With what they had lived through almost 30 years prior. This was my main thought. More than my own health, I didn't want to worry my wife and them. I downplayed it. But the thermometer no longer allowed me to.

The antipyretic, fortunately, worked. The fever went down and disappeared within a few hours. And, although I was perfectly and inexplicably able to stand up and do things even with that uncontrolled temperature, I understood that things were improving. The energy was returning. And I was starting to feel the heat. But the medication was only treating the consequences, not the cause. And this nagging thought, in everyone's mind, was very clear.

I won't recount the following hours. I was definitely better. But many things happened around me that I will never forget. A funny, almost ironic photo will forever bear witness to it. That seemingly innocent photo embodies the spirit of what happened in those hours.

At 21 I was trying to rest in bed, without falling asleep. Just some physical rest. The phone rang. It was my mother. My grandmother was gone. She was unsure whether to tell me or not, but she knew me and knew that if she hadn't told me, I would have been very, very hurt.

The last grandmother was gone and, with her, the last chapter of an entire part of my life.

I remained catatonic. I knew it could happen, but not so soon. Not on that day. Not with me unable to reach her. I felt relief for her. I felt a void - that void you feel when you know something has closed forever.

I tried to sleep, in the suffocating heat of that boiling room, under the unbearable weight of the guilt of being sick right while she was facing the most difficult journey of her life. And in the guilt towards the people close to me, who had to bear these two heavy burdens. Together.

I got up very early, washed, and dressed, listening to my wife: we went to the hospital immediately for the tests, hoping they would let her in and that, given the urgency, they would let me in sooner. But the rules were clear, and they didn't want her to risk a Covid infection - for herself, and to avoid infecting me. So she stayed outside. And all the people present that morning were more or less urgent.

I waited an hour, until my appointment time. Alone, on that chair, with the weight of everything that had happened and was happening. I stopped thinking about anything. Anything at all. I took my smartphone and started looking at photos published by people on the Fediverse. And although I still had few contacts, the poetry of the #Photography hashtag without the interference of algorithms let my mind travel. Dreaming of returning to travel with my body too, as soon as all this had passed. To return to living as I always wanted.

Every now and then I looked up and looked at that sign next to me. By now I knew it by heart, and it reminded me why no one was by my side at that moment. But it was better that way. I would never have accepted someone getting sick just to be close to me.

When I entered the blood test room, the nurse was kind and professional. She immediately understood that I wasn't well and asked if I wanted to lie down. I told her the chair would be sufficient - and I explained the reason for the tests. And that my Covid swab, which worried everyone so much (except her) at that time, was negative. She suggested I take off my shirt to reach the vein better. When I took it off, I immediately realized I had worn the wrong T-Shirt underneath. Clean, sure. But with three tiny holes on the shoulder, caused by me packing it poorly in a suitcase. Before Covid stopped us all. Before that fever stopped me too.

I lowered my gaze and couldn't take it anymore. "Look at this, I didn't even pick the right T-Shirt this morning. But 14 hours ago I had a fever climbing, climbing, climbing, which I stopped at 40°C with an antipyretic. Two hours later my grandmother died, and I can't even go to say goodbye to her. I barely slept at all last night. I am really, really tired.".

She, a mature and experienced person, was almost detached. She told me she was sorry, but not much more. I expected it - they see everything, they have to be professional. I know it well, from direct experience.

Right after the blood draw, while I was putting my shirt back on, she told me to wait a moment for the label. She took some time - more than usual - and when she turned around, her eyes were glossy. I thanked her with words, but we said much more with our eyes.

When my wife's turn came, we both stood up - she towards the blood draw booth, me heading towards the exit. I looked at that sign again, for an instant, and walked away, ready to accompany my wife to have her long-awaited breakfast and have an energizing, comforting coffee.

Maybe it's time to go to the cemetery, to my grandmother's grave. To accept that day. To stop feeling like I owe her an apology.

That evening, the little one in her belly was kicking more than usual. It wouldn't be long now and, in his last letter, my grandfather hadn't hidden his desire to return home. All of this, in the darkness of those years, provided him with the light to keep going.

The radio struggled to tune in. There was interference and they could hear many planes overhead. The volume had to stay low and the lights at minimum. Finally the white noise transformed into a distant voice, and her sister-in-law also came closer to listen to the latest news.

"Attention, important news from the front. The ship Italia - formerly Littorio - was sunk this afternoon. No survivors. I repeat. No survivors".

A sharp pain. Darkness. A thud. It was his ship. He was dead. She was alone. With a little girl in her womb who wanted nothing more than to come into the world. And her beloved, young and handsome husband was no more. How many other things would life have to take from her? How much suffering? Why?

Her sister-in-law tried to revive her, in vain. Suddenly, the radio interrupted the news for a new announcement: "Correction: the ship Roma has been sunk - there are perhaps few survivors - the ship Italia was hit and severely damaged, but managed to reach safety. No casualties reported".

She opened her eyes. Perhaps, this time, things hadn't gone so badly. For a moment the joy of the news was overshadowed by the awareness that on the ship Roma there were many of their friends. But he was alive. And this, for her, was all that mattered. She stood up, with a small bruise on her forehead, and felt another reassuring kick.

It was 9th September 1943. The sea was magnificent. The island of Asinara was an earthly paradise and my grandfather's young eyes fantasized: "one day we'll come here, my family and I, to visit these places. Free". And while his imagination wandered, enemy planes began to fly menacingly over their fleet. He understood immediately and ran to his commander. From there, pandemonium.

Agitation, noise, ears covered. Waves of heat, fragmented by minutes of disturbing silence. Many things happened, but when you're trying to save your life, you move more by instinct than reason and memories tend to become confused. Only the orders, because in war you follow orders, remain objective and absolute.

The bombs were falling, the anti-aircraft guns couldn't do anything. The planes were too high and the bombs, dropped from 5000 meters altitude, were too fast. Some ended up in the water, some produced non-fatal damage but the ship Roma, their sister ship, split open at the second hit. The young sailor who dreamed of returning to his wife and daughter could do nothing but watch, continuing to follow orders and securing his own ship. Yet they all stopped and clearly saw what was happening. The bomb that hit the ship Roma produced such a blaze that it deformed the hull and many, very many died burned alive, before their eyes. But two of his friends didn't. Disfigured by burns, they threw themselves into the sea. Nothing could be done. They were too severely injured and no one could abandon their own ship. They screamed my grandfather's name, repeatedly, begging for help. The orders were clear and their conditions too severe. He watched them die like that, before his eyes. He never forgot and those screams haunted him for the rest of his life.

They managed to escape to safety. A few weeks later, he received a letter from my grandmother. The little girl had been born and was doing well. Because of what had happened and thanks to the birth of the little girl, he managed to obtain leave to return home.

However, it took time and, while traveling, he couldn't receive other communications.

As soon as he arrived in town, instinctively, he ran. The joy, enthusiasm, happiness of embracing his wife again and meeting his daughter were impossible to contain. The boots were heavy and uncomfortable, but he didn’t feel a thing. He was out of breath, but it didn’t matter. He had to run home. A casa sua. The war, in that moment, was far away. Mind and body, for the first time in so long, were in the same place. In the place where they should have remained. Free. Together.

Suddenly he met an acquaintance and greeted him. He seemed almost annoyed but, buoyed by the beautiful feeling, he stopped to exchange a few words.

"Condolences for your daughter. You didn't deserve this, with everything you've been through".

He had to sit down. A sharp pain. Darkness. A thud.

My grandmother's letter, with the news, was still traveling. His daughter, his little one, the one he thought about while his friends' ship was sinking, the one who gave him strength to go on in the worst moments, was no more. He would never hold her in his arms. He wept.

As soon as he managed to get back up, he ran to my grandmother and embraced her.

They remained like that - embraced and in silence - for an indefinite time.

The First Story

My grandmother was born into a peaceful and economically stable family. They weren't rich, but they lived well. Her grandfather had a textile business that produced specific garments for the Vatican. Her father was a cultured person, intelligent and passionate about technology (I wonder where I got that characteristic from!). He collaborated in the family business, but was also a stationmaster and wrote for some local newspapers. Very active and appreciated in the community. In the early 1900s, he also had a small photography workshop, and many historical photos and postcards of important events were taken by him. For this reason, we have many photos of my grandmother, born in 1920, as a child. Some with her gramophone, which she adored - like many little girls of that era. Many of these photos, unfortunately, have been lost.

When fascism took power in Italy, my great-grandfather was immediately contacted and "advised" that he would have to join the party and write articles aligned with the system. His father was essentially forced (under penalty of losing work contracts with the Vatican itself) and, although reluctant, accepted. He did not. He decided not to openly oppose them, but believed that period was an anomaly that, in his opinion, wouldn't last long. Things, however, went differently.

He was "disowned" by his father (at least publicly) and penalized - the most barbaric and violent part of the community (those who saw him as "successful" and modern) couldn't wait to turn against him. His wife, my grandmother's mother, died very young (I don't know exactly why), but he, as a loving father, still took care of his children with the help of his sister-in-law.

I still remember my grandmother's eyes when, very few times in her life, she told about her family's "night of broken glass". The sun had set a few hours earlier and her father was still at work because some trains had been delayed (so much for those who say trains were always on time back then), so he hadn't come home. As always happened in these cases, his sister-in-law was at home watching the children - my grandmother and her brothers, who were already in bed. She heard knocking and, looking out from a small hidden window, saw a group of men dressed in dark clothes. They were shouting my great-grandfather's name. She understood immediately, ran to the children's room and made them hide under the beds, where she also hid to stay with them.

The thugs broke down the door and began searching. They wanted to give him "a lesson" and, not finding him, decided to break everything they found. Plates, glasses, objects of every kind - both from the house and the children's belongings. They tore clothes, kicked tables and chairs, threw pots on the ground to bend and break them. Unheard-of violence. My grandmother still recounted, with terror in her eyes, those moments. The sound of all their things on the ground, broken and destroyed by the violence of these people. When they entered the bedroom, they saw the children's beds still unmade and thought they had fled. They "limited" themselves to breaking my grandmother's gramophone and the photos of my great-grandmother - the only memory these children had of their mother, who had died recently.

Then they left, saying they would go look for him at the station. To avoid being seen, my grandmother's aunt decided to climb out a back window and run to warn her brother-in-law - but this window was so narrow that, to manage to get through, she injured herself all over (my grandmother remembered the blood) and hurt her shoulder badly. She managed, however, by running, to reach the station before them, and my great-grandfather took refuge, hiding inside a stationary train on a secondary track.

The next day he went to file a report. The local authorities collected the complaint casually and advised him to "understand what times were underway and behave accordingly". The podestà, the highest municipal position in those times, was a close relative of his, but this was of no help.

He died very young - probably, it was said, of brain cancer, but the suspicion of poisoning always remained deeply rooted in many people's minds. My grandmother was orphaned at 15. Some years later, one brother had died, the other was at war. She was alone. She, of extreme intelligence and culture, who associated with the most educated people in the area and dreamed of studying Medicine at university, found herself with distant relatives, not even very kind ones, and with nothing.

My grandfather treated her exemplarily, recognizing her intelligence, culture, and abilities. He was a baker, but felt honored to be beside this woman so beautiful and intelligent, cultured and refined. And she always acknowledged this, thanking him. But she could never forget that everything she was, everything she had, was destroyed in a few years. Her family, devastated. Her dreams, erased. And she didn't tell everything, of this I'm certain. And I will never forget her eyes when she told about all this.

The Second Story

The second story concerns another member of my family, but I won't give further details for privacy reasons. He was a farmer and owned land.

He was a young man who had been orphaned very early. He had sisters who were still very young and his mother, but for various reasons, they couldn't provide concrete work contribution, so he found himself managing everything alone and very, very young. He had the intelligence to understand that he couldn't make it alone and, as was customary in those times, decided to get help from sharecropper families. He, however, was careful but positive, so he gave these people much more than the law itself provided. A few years ago, for example, we met a person who, as soon as he learned of our family connection to this man, told us that his grandparents had been sharecroppers for this gentleman. When their daughter (this man's mother) reached school age (and wanted to study), he said that for the entire duration of the daughter's studies, he wouldn't demand his share, to help the family support her. This person managed to study, graduate and fulfill herself, to the point that she named her son after this gentleman. We had never known this; he had never told anyone. Because those who do good from the heart don't need to tell everyone about it. But anyone who dealt with him knew how good he was.

They were small country villages and there were people who, out of attitude or envy, spoke badly of this gentleman and his family, seeing them as "rich", but they weren't, since they shared much more than necessary with those who worked with them. Not to mention other private reasons and historical dynamics that further reinforced this perception.

When fascism arrived, the village was small and this gentleman tried not to get dragged in. He had an "elderly" mother, sisters still quite young and, despite being of the right age, hadn't married yet. He was absorbed in work, in not going to ruin, and in creating a future for his sisters and for the families who helped him. Even as the years passed, he was focused on the hard daily life, worried about feeding the people he cared about. He therefore didn't join fascism and didn't enlist with the partisans, continuing to work.

Given his condition as fatherless and his role, he wasn't obliged to leave for war and thus managed to continue maintaining a dignified standard of living both for himself and for the families who collaborated with him. For the local anti-fascists, this was "clear proof that he had connections in the party, otherwise he would have gone with the others". Gossips, from whatever political side they may be, always know how to find something to cling to.

When the war ended, in that area there was a strong retaliation against those who had been fascists. In the case of this gentleman, there was no direct attack since, in fact, he had never been one, but that sense of "retaliation" always remained because he hadn't left for war and hadn't enlisted with the partisans - and people who disliked him tried to take advantage of the situation to "punish" him. Specifically (and I have the document that proves it), some of them became politicians and municipal officials. The post-war demographic expansion had generated quite significant growth in the village, and new constructions had become necessary to house the new families.

There was already a law that required a certain amount of public green space for every certain number of inhabitants. That law, over the years, has been further strengthened, but it was already in effect. When this gentleman realized they had made buildable and contracted out (to companies that, it would later be discovered, were connected to cooperatives doubly linked to these officials) the construction of entire buildings right at the border of his land and without any public green space around them, he immediately asked for clarification at city hall: he didn't understand the point of this encirclement. They reassured him because, they told him (and I've seen the related documentation), "in an emergency they could waive that law" and, to prevent the village from expanding too much, they could designate another area as public green space, as long as it was in the same municipality, even if kilometers away. He was reassured but not entirely convinced.

Construction began and finished. Families moved in, and the gentleman received a notice: a summons to city hall. Obviously he went and, to his surprise (but not too much), they informed him that they had built "too much" and needed to create a public park and other "public utility buildings", having reached the critical mass of citizenship for those buildings. They therefore asked for the possibility of purchasing the gentleman's land or, "in case of refusal", to expropriate it. He was stunned: selling was impossible - there was his house, his tools, and the families who worked it. The proposed price, moreover, was insufficient to cover the purchase of another piece of land, cutting off a good part of his family's subsistence (he had another, smaller piece of land not far away). But he positioned himself positively and constructively, trying to find solutions that would be acceptable to everyone, while emphasizing that they had deceived him from the beginning. There was no way to discuss it. This gentleman, no longer very young but not elderly either (a little older than I am today), fell into total anxiety. So severe that he had a serious heart attack, coming close to death. The doctors told him he would have to rest, but he couldn't. He was trying to save the situation. A meeting was scheduled that he tried to postpone, but the officials were inflexible: "if you can't come to us, we'll come to your house". And so it was. When he, still recovering from the heart attack, tried to make a few small observations about how there were other (uncultivated) lands and space to use, the official shouted, "Listen, stop it. You fascists must be stripped of all your assets. If you don't give it to us willingly, we'll take it by force, that is, through expropriation!" He was dumbfounded. Okay, this official was one of those "sitting at the bar talking badly about people who work", but it seemed absurd that after so many years, there was still this (unfounded) accusation of fascism. It was useless that everyone in the village knew this person was foreign to such dynamics. This was the spirit of these people, those who "sat at the bar and envied those who worked". Years later, it would be discovered that in those parts (and not only) many were accused of fascism for the sole purpose of appropriating their assets. But at the time, calling someone a fascist was enough to put them in the public pillory, even without any proof or evidence. And many people, for their own gain, presented themselves as "anti-fascist" solely and exclusively to ride the benefits of the time.

The procedures went forward, so quickly that an expropriation authorization document arrived. Upon seeing the document, this gentleman became so upset that he remained locked in his room for two days, not even having the strength to get out of bed. Then came the final, fatal heart attack.

I'll stop here. I'll only say that, given the "unexpected" event, they managed to hastily organize the execution of the expropriation within 48 hours (incredible timing, in Italy), to carry it out during this person's funeral, convinced that all relatives would be absent. One of them, at the end of the funeral, went to the site of the expropriation and saw the official, with a satisfied smirk, boasting about how he "had taken the land" from this person during his funeral.

Years later the truth would come out: they had built too much, maximizing the builder's profit (a cooperative whose members were, strangely enough, the former "bar chatterers"). In this way, they had cashed in while passing the burden of public green space and services onto this gentleman. For the expropriation of his house, he was awarded a sum comparable to what one would pay today for a mid-level laptop computer.

And the expropriated land? Today it lies uncultivated, almost abandoned. After all, it served no other purpose than to "comply with a law". Public documents today prove this. But many years have passed and all the actors are deceased. In the name of anti-fascism, they plundered a family of honest, correct, and altruistic people.

Conclusion

A man of culture destroyed by fascist violence. A generous man annihilated by the hypocrisy of those who claimed to be anti-fascist. This legacy makes me a convinced anti-fascist, but also a fierce opponent of anyone who, under any banner, uses ideology to crush others. This is why respect for life, freedom, and the dignity of every person are the non-negotiable foundation of my worldview, and this, in turn, I transmit to all my activities.

You loved video games and sometimes we played together on my computer. But often, the games I had didn't appeal to you, even though you were good at them. We did well at Bubble Bobble, less so at others, but we had fun. My Game Boy had become yours and you would lend it to me occasionally. But you wanted your own console, with your own games and, I knew well, you wanted it also to have opportunities to play with me.

We arrived at opening time, got out of the car and started running toward the store. I don't know which of us was more excited about what was about to happen, about what you were going to buy. We came out shortly after, with your Sega MegaDrive (the box was bigger than you, so I carried it for you, while our parents helped us load it into the car).

We got home and unpacked it, connecting it in your room, on the desk. The TV was too old, so I lent you mine, since I used the computer monitor and didn't watch TV in my room. Sonic was beautiful, with those tunes and that graphics, but you preferred Disney games and "the one with the princesses" - but Sonic was fine too, as long as we were together and I stayed in your room to play with you.

You spent so many hours, in those few months, in front of that console. With me, with our little cousins, with your little friends. But when I came and asked you to play a game of Sonic, you would light up.

Just as I lit up when I learned you were born, exactly 40 years ago, today. I was a child, but I remember everything clearly - from the night before, when I slept in bed with dad because mom was in the hospital, with you on the way. I was worried and he let me sleep with him, to help me feel calmer. When you came home, I remember you in the crib and me, sitting beside it, watching you sleep. You were the most beautiful thing I had ever seen and already, even at almost 6 years old, I felt the responsibility to make sure you were okay. Every now and then you would move and I would be reassured, with your black hair and your smiling gaze, even as a newborn.

I wonder what you would be like today. You would turn 40 and, perhaps, your hair wouldn't all be black anymore but some gray streaks would be making more and more space, waiting for hair dye. I wonder if you would have had some small wrinkles, because your 40s often start to show the signs of the pains and thoughts of passing time. I wonder if you would have been as cheerful as you were then, still looking for reasons to spend time with me. I wonder where life would have taken you, just as it has taken me far from that house, from that store, from those moments. For sure, and I'm more than certain of this, we would never have been far apart - if not geographically, we would have talked often and would always have been present, one for the other.

Happy birthday, my little sister. Wherever you are, remember that there isn't a day when there isn't a thought for you, even after all these years.