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BANDINELLI
RIDES TOO FAST Gambettola's Culture Councilor cleared his throat, took a sip of water and shot a glance at the audience. No dice, the situation wasn't about to change, he was wasting his time. He figured there were no more than five, at most six voting citizens in the hall. The
seven old men in the front row had probably voted last time at 1946
monarchy-republic referendum. Their caregivers, all of them middle aged
women from Eastern Europe, were focused on their cell phones behind
them and didn't count as registered voters. Dumb, he had been really dumb. He put down his glass with a small sigh and continued: -We now call to the stage Master Corporal Matteo Baldinelli, one of the brave few soldiers who survived the horrors of Stalag III C in Kostrzyn, from September 9th, 1943 to June 1945. One of the caregivers in the second row jumped up, scampered among the others and went to stand in front of the shabbiest of the seven war veterans, a wren of a man, his face concealed by a pretty worn oxygen mask. The woman made him stand up vigorously, slung the oxygen canister over his shoulder and pushed him toward the stage. Lance Corporal Bandinelli arrived with uncertain steps in front of the Councilor's podium and was stopped there by the woman with a small, efficient tug. He stood still, his gaze uncertain and fearful, his right arm in the grip of an uncontrolled tremor. The speaker mechanically continued to play his part: -Major Corporal Baldinelli, with you and your brothers in arms, today the Gambettola Municipal Administration seeks to tear away the veil of oblivion that has prevented new generations from knowing the deeds, heroism and suffering that characterized your imprisonment in the Kostrzyn camp for almost two years. He took the small gold plated medal and started to pass its ribbon around Baldinelli's neck. He was fumbling to untangle the medal and the oxygen tube when the wren had an unexpected reaction: he grabbed the Councilor's hand and forced it tightly to his chest; with the other hand, very slowly and very trembling, he lowered his mask, revealing an emaciated face and a toothless mouth. - But you… you have to tell me… do you know how I arrived at home from Kostrzyn, huh? Do you? No you don't. Listen… you want me to tell you, huh? Nobody knows about that and I know that you… you want to know, don't you? The Councilor stared at him goggle-eyed, his mouth wide open in a grimace of disbelief. Bandinelli was still squeezing hard his hand and showed no sign of letting go. The caregiver next to them was on the alert but careful not to intervene; at the back of the room the six other old wrecks and their caregivers had suddenly become very focused on what was happening in front of them. - You know how many kilometers are from Kostrzyn to Gambettola, don't you… huh? 1229 kilometers, there are. And do you know how many days it took me to get home when the Germans escaped from the camp? 18 days it took me, 18 days. I walked 70 kilometers a day with broken shoes, no laces, nothing to eat, jumping into ditches as soon as I heard the sound of engines along the road. Now you know it, don't you? 70 kilometers a day I walked… a few days more than 70… Bandinelli paused, a few moments of blank stare while struggling to remember, his trembling hand always clenched on that one of the Councilor. - Indeed, there were two of us who escaped from Kostrzyn... the other one I didn't know… he was in hut 27. The Nazis never let them out, the ones in hut 27. Anyway, I see this guy joining me along the road, and in two days time we both do the same things: look for fruit, steal tomatoes and potatoes in fields, sleep next to each other, raise alarm if we see any soldiers. We never talked, there was nothing to say to each other. After four days we're lucky: in front of a house we see a woman's bicycle, old and rusty, flat tires. We look around, see no one, I get on it and we run away, me on the bike and him walking quickly - sort of - behind. After
two kilometers I stop and he catches up with me, all sweaty. From that
day on we take turns, one on the bike, the other on foot, and then change.
We didn't go fast, the bike was old and small... but we got less tired
that way... |
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A pause. The Councilor tried to regain control of the situation. - Very interesting indeed, Mr. Bandinelli. And so you have returned to Italy that way, cycling and walking, walking and cycling. Thank you for your valuable testimony, and now I'd like to call to the stage... - I didn't finish yet, you don't understand, you must let me finish telling my story Bandinelli stopped him forcefully, raising his trembling voice. The Councilor realized he had no choice: he gave up and turned mute, cursing himself one more time for his dumbness. - After three days, we were dead tired. We were passing a small town destroyed by bombing, we were walking at night so we wouldn't be seen; the other guy suddenly stops and disappears behind a house. A minute later he comes back holding a bicycle. A man's
bike, beautiful, almost new, even with a pump. We rode away from the
village with the two bicycles, very happy and very excited: we had just
finished walking. Only… the guy was weaker than me, in a lot of pain, we had to stop all the time. He had diarrhea, the saddle made his hemorrhoids bleed, in short most of the time we were standing still. The corporal paused for a moment remembering, the shadow of a sly, toothless smile on his face. - I mean, I was almost sniffing home air and getting tired. It wasn't my fault he was sick and there were all those climbs... I had given him the best bike but he was always stopping, always sore. One day we passed climbing a little village, Fritzens, I still recall its name. He stops and says that his butt is bleeding, that he has to rest, he throws himself under a little tree and after two minutes he's there sleeping the big one. I lost it, was fed up with him, a real ball and chain. I was standing there thinking what to do next, when I began to hear the sound of an engine. It was a truck coming up the hairpin bends behind us, an army uniform at the drive. I looked at my guy, snoring, destroyed by fatigue, his pants all bloody... and I did it: I mounted the man's bike and left him there sleeping, I started to pedal hard, harder and harder, harder and harder, I felt like a lion. If I were at the Giro d'Italia I would have won a stage, for sure. I rode three hours without ever stopping and then I arrived... A sudden hoarse weird shout came from the back of the hall, all eyes moved that way, looking for the shouter. One of the six old wrecks had risen and was ranting, his arm outstretched toward Bandinelli, his face half-hidden by the mask, his eyes two bolts of lightning sparkling hatred and fury. His stunned caregiver behind him didn't have the time to get up and follow with the oxygen canister. The old man tried to step forward continuing to shout, but weaker and weaker each passing second, his trembling arm extended, his furious eyes blazing. He tried
to take two more steps toward the stage, but the oxygen tube stretched
to the limit and he was forced to stop, helpless. The wild cries fast became hard wheezing gasps, his legs gave out, he scrambled heavily to the ground and moved no more. His
right arm tenaciously and fiercely still exactly aimed at the cyclist
Lance Corporal Matteo Bandinelli. |