at the end of some footpath and was already feeling I’d made it, when out of the bushes comes this Nazi with a machine gun. He was as big as an ox, about six foot six, shoulders as broad as a barn, really scary. He wasn’t wearing a helmet, and short blond stubble glistened on his bare head. After my run I’d practically landed on top of him, and now I was out of breath. I looked up at his big ruddy face, convinced my life was about to end. Now he’s gonna cut me in two with machine-gun fire, I thought to myself. Instead he gives me this German sort of smile and says: “Goin’ home to Mamma, eh?” I couldn’t manage to speak, and so I nodded “yes”, and he stepped aside and let me go. I didn’t wait to be asked twice. I was off like a shot, and as I was running I turned round to see what the German was doing. And there he was, waving goodbye like a friend, still smiling. The whole thing made a deep impression on me, because if that German had acted like a German, I wouldn’t be here today … Then … then a few months later, another thing happened to me …’
Bordelli interrupted him with a smile, took his time lighting a cigarette, then pushed his glass over to Diotivede for a refill.
‘My dear Botta, that’s a beautiful story you just told us, very moving, but for every story you tell there’s a thousand more, all different, and I’d like to tell one right now, really briefly, as long as everyone’s in agreement.’ He turned to look at the others and saw that there was no objection. ‘All right, then, this is the story of something that happened to a friend that I met back up with right after the war, Senior Grade Lieutenant Binismaghi, and since he told it to me himself, you might think it’s a happy story, but that’s not really the case. When his ship was taken by the German navy, the prisoners were taken to an Italian port under German occupation and treated with the proper respect due to them under the Geneva Convention. They had comfortable cells and plenty of food, all according to regulations. Until the day, several weeks later, when the SS intervened by order of Berlin. They took all the ship’s officers aside for interrogation. Lieutenant Binismaghi was led into one of the conference rooms of the town hall, which had been turned into the office of a German non-commissioned officer. And a fine office it was, bright and clean and equipped with a photo of the Fuhrer and the Nazi flag. Behind his thin, round spectacles, the young German had a pair of blue eyes straight out of a fairy tale of Prince Charming, and he cut a rather dashing figure. He couldn’t have been more than twenty years old, whereas my friend was nearly twice his age and felt a bit put out to have this young blond whippersnapper asking him questions. But these things happen in war. Naturally, he didn’t answer any of the questions, but only gave his name, surname and serial number and declared his loyalty to the king of Italy. The Nazi didn’t bat an eyelid and actually seemed quite unruffled. He changed the subject and started making small talk in rather good Italian. He asked Binismaghi where he was from, what his city was like, what the traditional dishes were, what the women of his region were like, and so on. And he listened very attentively, showing sympathy for this Italian officer loyal to his king. He even said some amusing things, and the two men laughed together. In the end he thanked Binismaghi for the pleasant conversation and stood up to shake his hand. He smiled, his pale blue eyes staring at Binismaghi from behind his eyeglasses. Binismaghi also smiled and turned away to leave. But he didn’t make it to the door, because Prince Charming shot him in the nape of the neck from barely six feet away. My friend woke up a few hours later under the dead bodies of his comrades. The bullet had entered at the base of the skull and come out of his mouth without touching his brain. The Germans had taken him for dead and tossed him into a large pit with the rest. Since no one paid any attention to the dead, he was able to escape … As you see, Botta, this story also has a happy ending, but it was only due to good luck, not to any good deed by a Nazi.’
Botta raised his hands as if to defend himself from an accusation.
‘But I said I wasn’t saying anything good about Nazis, only that they weren’t all the same,’ he said. Then he wanted immediately to tell the story of the other thing that had happened to him. First, however, he served everyone a last spoonful of pudding, scraping the bottom of the tureen. Nobody refused — on the contrary — and after that last bit of Turkish cream, some of them turned to the
Ennio then resumed speaking.
‘A few months later, I found myself face to face with another German. His uniform was in tatters, and he was unarmed. He showed me a picture of his girlfriend and seemed desperate. He told me he was a deserter and said he’d never shot anyone. He kept saying
Dante put a large hand on Botta’s shoulder, crushing him into his chair.
‘You did exactly the right thing. One man saves you, you save another, and he saves another. Human actions are links in a chain, whether they are good or bad. This is something you should always bear in mind: whosoever does evil not only does evil, but passes it on.’
Canapini knitted his brow and nodded solemnly. He’d had a lot to drink, and something important was simmering inside his head. Then he raised a finger and said:
‘Yes, but what is good and what is bad? If a man steals to eat, is it good or bad? And if a policeman catches him in the act and instead of arresting him gives him some money, is that right or wrong?’
Canapini was clearly drunk. He actually had a happy expression on his face. Fabiani looked at him fondly.
‘Good, I think, is everything that puts life above all else. Evil is everything that runs counter to this assertion.’
Canapini tried to get Bordelli’s attention.
‘What’s an “assertion”?’ he asked.
Bordelli was about to reply when Botta took the words out of his mouth. He had, in spite of everything, gone to school in his youth.
‘It means statement, affirmation, declaration … You know, something somebody says.’
Canapini smiled and took a sip of grappa.
‘So, someone who steals in order to eat is doing good,’ he said, ‘because he will die if he doesn’t eat.’
Fabiani smiled.
‘Naturally,’ he said.
This made Canapini very happy. He raised his glass and toasted the psychoanalyst.
Dante was in deep meditation. A mysterious shadow had fallen over his face, as if he were hatching some new invention. Bordelli lit his umpteenth cigarette and invited Diotivede to tell a story.
‘If you feel like it, of course,’ he said. The doctor asked for a cigarette, even though he normally didn’t smoke. Bordelli lit it for him, admiring, as usual, the old man’s fitness and childlike freshness. Diotivede looked down at the millions of crumbs scattered across the tablecloth. He looked as if he were searching among hundreds of stories for the one most appropriate to the mood of the moment.
He smiled.
‘This is probably a little silly, but it’s something that made a lasting impression on me, I’m not sure why. It must have happened at least fifty years ago, around 1914. I was almost twenty and engaged to a beautiful girl of Greek origin. If I close my eyes I can still see her: the long, black hair, and a mole right here, next to her lip. Her name was Simonetta. We were very much in love but quarrelled a lot, especially over silly things. We both wanted to be always right. We used to quarrel everywhere, even in public. That day we were walking along, about a yard apart, hurling abuse at each other. People were giving us a wide berth and looking at us with disapproval. At one point I said something particularly nasty to her and she came at me screaming and kicking me in the shins. Then she scratched me in the face with her fingernails and drew blood, so I grabbed her by the wrists and twisted them brutally …’ Diotivede mimed the gesture and grimaced in shame. ‘At that moment, I felt someone grab my arm, and I turned round in anger, only to find an old vagrant, dirty and smelly. He looked at us with despair in his eyes, trying to say something but not managing to say it. He had the foul breath of an alcoholic. He had seized hold of our wrists and wouldn’t let go, forcing us to stop hitting each other. He was staggering, and his face was covered with broken veins. I thought he might be unwell, or mad. Simonetta, too, had calmed down and was looking at the old man with a sort of disgust. He was still clutching our arms, when at a certain point he started shaking his head and saying:
