My First Seven Years (Plus a Few More)

CHAPTER 2. The Anarchists Depart

Quite unexpectedly, with the first ferry after the resumption of service, we saw Bruno arrive alone, without Bedelià. What had happened? Kisses, embraces … I hoped at least for a box of chocolates, but nothing was produced. My first thought was: ‘Something has gone wrong here!’ Bruno and my father communicated in low, intense whispers.

The following day, as soon as Bruno had set off for home, my mother took me aside and said to me softly: ‘My darling, Papà wants you to do him a big favour. We have to get a letter to one of those friends you met in Lugano … you remember that church?’

‘Oh yes, the one where they played and sang the black music.’

‘Good for you. You’ll have to join Bruno over there, and I’ll stitch a letter into your jumper. The police will definitely not bother about you.’

‘All right!’

‘You won’t be afraid…’

‘No, not at all.’ I drew my knees together so as not to let her see that they were knocking with fear. The next day they took me down to the pier, where I was entrusted to the care of the ferry captain. During the crossing, I stayed seated with a blanket over me.

‘Why don’t you go upstairs with the other children?’ asked the head sailor. ‘Is something the matter? Not feeling well?’

‘It’s not that. If I’m upstairs I feel like vomiting. I get seasickness.’

‘What a pity. Someone who lives on the lake and who cannot even go out on a boat,’ said the sailor.

Bruno was there waiting for me on the wharf at Brissago. He gave me a hug and together we went to get the coach for Bellinzona. The anarchists were already preparing to move out. The Italian government had made a complaint to the Swiss authorities because they had allowed subversives to set up home there, on the border. They had to pack up, get out of the Ticino and even out of Switzerland. My cousin was enraged and I heard him curse: ‘Great country, this! All neat and tidy, the cleanest cesspool in Europe. They bow and scrape to every arsehole who farts out orders at them!’

From the conversation, I learned that was not the first time the anarchists had been forced to undergo that kind of violence. Around forty years earlier, in the days of the famous anarchist Pietro Gori, a large number of refugees had been forced out of Lugano. The king and government of the day had pressurised the Swiss parliament into denying those subversives the right of asylum.

We were still recalling that first diaspora when we arrived at the Caffè Lungolago. Bruno took me into the toilet, where I took off my jumper and put on another which I had in my bag. In the corridor outside, one of the anarchists grabbed the garment which had the letter sewn into it and stuck it in his rucksack. He took me in his arms, held me tightly and told me: ‘Thank your father, give him a kiss when you next see him. Tell him to be careful, not to give anything away.’

‘Yes, I’ll let him know.’

We went out. There were lorries drawn up to carry off the possessions of these undesirables. Before leaving, they drew themselves up in a line along the quay from where they could make out Italy on the far side of the lake.

‘Now they’re going to give us a song.’ I thought to myself, ‘they’ll beat time with their hands and start swaying about in a dance like last year in the church.’

Instead, to my surprise, they intoned a low, almost tearful, tune to take their leave of the lake and of the friends who had come to say goodbye. There were people from the Ticino, but also others from further afield, from other cantons. The moment the lorries and the coach moved off, they waved their hands in the air and some even applauded. I was about to applaud as well, but Bruno grabbed my arm to stop me. ‘Don’t move a muscle. There are policemen here from Italy in plain clothes. It’s better if they don’t find out who we are.’

Many years later, after the war, I heard time and again that song of the anarchists, which goes:

Addio Lugano bella,

Oh dolce terra pia.

Cacciati senza colpa

gli anarchici van via.

Farewell fair Lugano,

Gentle, blessed land.

Expelled without guilt

The anarchists take their leave.

I have sung that song many times myself, but I have never managed to get to the end. At some point, my voice always turns hoarse, and I can only pretend to be singing. Each time, I find myself back there, on the quay, a boy once more, attempting to applaud while my cousin holds me back: ‘Let’s try not to stand out.’