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Whiteness blinds my sight

The great march

By Giovanni ProfetaPublished 3 years ago Updated 2 years ago 16 min read
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Whiteness blinds my sight
Photo by Duncan Kidd on Unsplash

The connecting halls seemed larger than usual, I find it difficult to be relaxed in a place like this. You might ask, if I don’t like to be here, why am I in this situation again? Well, a promise is a promise. The last time we saw each other I said that I’ll back on my own to ask him the same old questions. He assured me that we could dive deep into what sparks my imagination. My curiosity goes beyond morbid knowledge of gruesome past events. I don’t know what lies behind this veil of secrecy of him, could it be a vow? Could it be so traumatic that he wants to forget and never revisit the ordeal? I guess I’ll find out today.

One hundred and two, one hundred and three, I’m getting closer, ten more to go. As I walk, I can feel eyes upon me. Well, I’m just a man walking by with a cheerful eatable fruit bouquet at 2pm in the afternoon.

“Excuse me, can I help you?” A mid-age lady with immaculate uniform appears right in front of me like a ghost from a b-movie.

I’m going to 114, Eraldo Di Berardino.” Taking a detailed look at my present and appearance she adds, “He is awake right now, third door on the left.” Without giving me time to say anything, she passes me by leaving only the sharp sound of her starched pants bouncing at the hall.

C’mon, have a seat. And all that?” From his bed, he can’t keep his eyes away from all the colors of the fruits. Petals made of vivid-color cantaloupe and bright green grapes. The slices of yellow Californian oranges adorned with Florida strawberries created such a fine contrast with the green kale that embellish the bouquet. It was incredibly fresh and eye-catching.

Looking right at me he simply adds: “And what about the other thing?” I knew he was going to ask, he made a special request and I couldn’t let him down. “Look inside, it’s there.” Like a kid looking for hidden Easter eggs, he meticulously looked all around to finally get to the heart of the matter. “Ohh, this is different, thanks you!” With a hint of naughtiness picks up the item and whispers, “Clever way to sneak in some of this.”

I can see his eyes glow with delight, “Thank you, thank you. I don’t think this small amount of Chocolate will do me any harm.” After the first bite he continues, “I’m here thanks to my lungs, not my diabetes.

I made a special request at the store, one single chocolate-coated strawberry inside the bouquet. I specifically asked for a medium-to-large one. Only the size of it would help to tame his cravings for the “food of the Gods” as it was once called by the Mayans. There’s no need to argue, chocolate is comfort food.

Mr. Di Berardino had some breathing complications less than a week ago, this is his third day at the hospital and my second visit. “Here they starve you, no salt, no pepper. I want to eat food, real food. They keep telling Raffaella not to bring any food to my room, can you imagine? MY WIFE IN NOT ALLOWED TO BRING ME ANYTHING!"

Moving his hands in rapid succession continues with his rant. “My stomach is alright, this is just a flu, just a flu.” Like a lion in a cage, he couldn’t hide his discontent about what the doctors said about his forced alimentary regime.

So tell me Roberto, we're all alone here, what you want to know?” Bite after bite, the gigantesque strawberry succumbed under the ravenous attack. His face glow in delight under the spell of chocolate. The clock on the wall indicates ten past three, I could hear the distinctive sound of nurse’s rubber shoes against the freshly mopped floor as they make their rounds in clockwork fashion.

I want to know everything; I’ve never had the chance to ask my Granddad. You were there too, why don’t you tell me something?” Looking at the ceiling, Mr. Di Berardino takes a deep breath and makes himself comfortable in his own bed.

I see, he had his reasons, I got mine. There’s nothing good there, believe me Roberto, nothing good there.

Still looking at the ceiling, without any warning he starts to dig deep into his memories and says:

“Listen, I was a bit younger than your Granddad when I voluntary enrolled to fight on the Russian front. You must understand that the world was different back then, we didn’t know what was happening outside the borders of our fences, the world was smaller to say the least. I was seventeen when the cumbersome journey towards U.S.S.R. started. I was so naïve, not aware of how hard and merciless war is.

As soon as Mussolini heard that Germany was moving troops to take over the red giant of the east. He managed to send the best of his army towards the Russian front, 230.000 men. Italy was ready to take his fair share of the bounty, the month was July, 1941.

My journey towards the front was made first in cattle wagons, far from being comfortable or pleasant. We didn’t mind at that time; it was all about being part of something bigger than ourselves. We left behind what we knew to face an unknown future. As days, towns and Countries passed by, the realization that many of us will never see our homeland again struck me like a fist right in my stomach. We were told that the whole affair would last not more than a few weeks. How little did they know how long this conflict would last.”

He manages to sit even more comfortable using a worn-out pillow as back support and continues.

“The open field was almost infinite, it was always the same, green fields for as long as the eye could see. Endless green pastures with not even a single mountain to change the scenery. No houses, no barns, just an open field. One day we woke up to the colors of sunflowers, millions of them. It was like the train tracks made an incision into this pure yellow and green tapestry. What a beautiful place to be, it was like being inside a fairytale.

To reach our position, we had to walk East with all our gear for more than one month. This country is so vast that no matter which way you look, it looked all the same. The starry sky was simply mind-blowing. There were no lights on those remote fields, nothing could interfere with the star’s glow. Under the canopy of stars I thought about my Mother and siblings back home. I felt so small, so frail, insignificant in what it seemed to me the end of the world.

Near December, 1942. Germany watched their troops being decimated by the unforgiving Russian resistance in their stubborn quest for Stalingrad. Mussolini commanded us to move towards the Don River and serve as a back-up. Pitifully the line that we had to cover was so vast that all troops ended up in the line of fire, there was no one behind us, only the cold snow of one of the worst winter of those years.

From the other side of the Don river, you could hear The Russians speaking and playing Italian music through the loudspeakers for days. They tried to demoralize us and warn us about the unfruitfulness of our endeavor. The recurring message was: "ITALIANS, GO HOME! THIS IS NOT YOUR WAR!" Broadcasted in Russian and Italian language Ad nauseam. Songs like "Bambina Innamorata" e "Tornerai" were just two of the most played tunes. It was heartbreaking to hear those melodies in a place so far from home. Under the spell of music you begin to wonder, "Is the place I call home still there? Are we going to be able to go back?" How can I forget the look on everyone's face inside the freezing trench? Tell me how?... White snow all around, it was pure torture Roberto."

He wipes off a single tear that runs smoothly from his freshly shaved face and continues:

"By Dec 21. We fought one the worst battles of WW2. Some people called it "The Battle of the Valley of Death." We encountered heavy artillery fire coming on way. It was impenetrable, The Russian army used against us their mighty “Katyusha.” A rocket launcher that was capable of sending sixteen to forty-eight rockets at once. Sometimes, in the dead of night, I can still hear the "Katyusha's" making their terrifying sound. How I made it alive? I still don’t know. The amount of losses was so big, human remains everywhere, no place to hide Roberto, it was certain death.

After infinite minutes of fire coming from the skies, tanks and soldiers came towards us at full speed. You could see the black smoke contrast with the whiteness of our surroundings. They closed their iron first with all their might upon us, no place to run Roberto, no place to run... I was caught prisoner on that day, I was lucky because I’m Italian. If you wore a German uniform... Their order was to execute them right at the spot.

The sound of artillery was deafening, we were so afraid of it that even as prisoners, we took cover as soon as the howl of the Katyusha's began. Pitifully, only to be mocked and kicked by our captors marching behind us.

They made us march towards the enemy line and I finally saw the monsters that spitted endless rounds of rockets straight into our positions. How vicious to call such infamous machines after a beautiful female name. Later I understood that for them, "Katyusha’s" ammunition are the tears of all the women waiting for someone to come back from the war...

Roberto, can you handle me that glass."

With trembling lips he manages to sip a bit of unsweetened orange juice and continues:

"I was so afraid; I saw how they killed dozens of prisoners without any remorse or regret. To see their tanks and troops coming back from battle was even more disturbing. It made me sick to my stomach, horrendous scene Roberto, a living nightmare.

Listen... Their tanks were whitewashed for winter camouflage. When they withdrew from battle, their mighty T-32 tanks were red below the turrets. It was the blood of my people, my brothers in arms. I’ve never seen such carnage before and ever since.”

I was speechless by the amount of detail in his story, this was a mistake. His gaze is still fixed upon a small crevice on the wall near the pristine white ceiling. How can I make him stop? In his mind he’s still behind enemy lines, revisiting all those horrors of his days at the front. He turns at me and says with determination:

“Listen, you need to take war as a natural disaster. When it happens, you don’t waste any time asking questions, all you need to do is to take action, either in war or in an earthquake, action is what keeps you alive.”

Giving me no time to say or do anything, he starts with his tale again.

“They made us march for weeks under the coldest winter imaginable in what was called by the Italian newspapers as "Le marce del Davaj." Roberto, they kept yelling "Go On" in Russian non-stop for days. "DAVAI! DAVAI!" We had no strength or will to talk, nothing to eat, only snow to fill our bellies, no time to rest. Underequipped and beaten, it was a march full of woe towards the Gulags.

You were not allowed to stop, if you stopped, they could execute you right at the spot. The cold was so brutal that it was difficult for me to focus on how tired I was. Hunger was a real torture, under those conditions you're ready to do the unimaginable for a piece of bread, sell your soul if you could for a meal Roberto... Snow so white it hurt my eyes, whiteness blinded my sight... DAVAJ! DAVAJ!

He pauses for a moment, takes a deep breath, turns his gaze towards the empty food tray resting by the overbed table and continues.

"At any giving time they made us take off our shoes, look at our bare feet and judge who was still capable of keep marching. Black toes? If you're lucky, a bullet in the back of the neck. Same with your nose, yellow nose? You probably would not make it. It was better for them to shoot you and keep moving.

Many died on the horrendous march, left there like stains of black in an immaculate white linen. As we continue marching, those stains became little black dots in the distance, in no time, whiteness covers all in this freezing hell."

He stops for a moment to catch his breath, gaining his composure he starts again. This time, words come out of his mouth at a fast speed. So fast that seems like he is under a trance:

"Near our destination, my feet were numb, I was so afraid that if I took my boots off they could shoot me. When it was my turn, I said in perfect Russian, “YA MYASNIC, YA MYASNIC!” it means, “I’m a butcher, I’m a butcher!” I got to say that it took him by surprise, the soldier made me march right front of him until we reached our destination, the prisoner's camp."

Lowering his gaze, he manages to take another deep breath and sobs, From where I'm sitting, I can see a single tear running down his cheek. Still mesmerized by this recollection of events, I couldn't contain myself, I had to ask:

"But Mr. Eraldo, how did you learn to speak Russian? It was mandatory on training?” Just like that, his face lightened up. with a broad smile he looked at me with his dark-caramel eyes and starts another part of his incredible story.

When we left our wagons and started to march towards the front. We encountered a few villages along our way. Small and remote locations that looked like islands on a sea of green. Minuscule spots of civilization on the vast prairie, houses and barns inhabited only by women and children. Boys and men were called to fight at the Russian front to defend their Motherland.

They were peasants just like our mothers, brothers and sisters, people that lived from the land. It was so sad to see all those women all alone doing all the farm work. In many cases, we used to help them just to get a hot meal and a warm place to sleep. We were not wearing their enemy’s uniform. They had nothing against us and we had nothing against them. Those Mothers saw in us their own sons going into battle, there was no difference between us and them. The same drive and naiveté of someone who does not know the rash reality of war compel us to witness despicable acts.

One time I saw this incredible beautiful young female having a hard time doing man’s work. Her name was Lydia, a beautiful flaxen hair girl with prominent cheekbones and eyes as blue as the clear sky above. I understood was she was trying to do and offered some help.

My father taught me how to butcher animals when I was a little boy. As a kid, it was an unpleasant work for me, I always tried to hide not to be called to do that. I managed to tell the girl to handle me the knife and with mastery, I did what was needed to be done. She was more than pleased that I offered my knowledge and expertise if you know what I mean.

She was a little bit older than me, starved for human contact and so was I. It felt like a mirage in this emotional desert we walked into. I hope you never experience something like it. You become bitter, soulless, war takes out the worst of you. There are no words to describe how comforting a caress fells when goodness and beauty is just a distant memory.

Roberto, from that day on, my nickname was “ital’yanskiy myasnik.” (Italian butcher). Life works in such mysterious ways, what I hated as a kid ended up saving my life as a prisoner in the cold Russian front. Thanks to my skills with a knife, I had a steady job on the concentration camp. My captors kept me well fed and healthy, away from starvation and diphtheria...

Believe me Roberto, everything you learn in this life will serve you somehow. Never doubt my words, is true, if only I could thank my dad for all that.”

I simply lower my head with regret, as I look at my interlocutor, tears run down my cheeks. With trembling voice, I simply managed to say, “My Mom and Dad always say that to me, learn as much as you can, you never know when it will be useful.” His story is something that steers the very core of my values and believes.

Looking how affected I am by his words, he offers me a napkin and continues.

Listen, your Granddad managed to break the siege but he faced another ordeal, the Battle of Nikolajewka. I can’t tell you which one was the lesser of two evils, that’s not my story to tell. What he saw there, stayed there. We never talked about the Russian campaign, there was nothing for us to go back.”

I can see that Mr. Eraldo’s face has changed, he is not as serious as before, you could see some joy in his gaze and adds. "Now that he is not here with us anymore, why don’t we remember him for his delicious cooking? He was a master of his craft, wonderful cook and even better host.”

I was shocked to hear that my granddad was part of that battle. I’ve heard and read horrible stories about that dreadful chapter on documentaries and books. I managed to get up and look around. The sky outside the window was as clear at it can be. You could hear the traffic down below melt with the sound of people walking by the sidewalk. I wonder, does this people had to endure something like this to really appreciate what they have? Are we really aware of how lucky we are to be living in a place like this? Am I grateful enough of their sacrifice?

Don’t overthink about what I’ve just told you. There’s so much I cannot tell you, is better to keep all those dark times behind. Those memories are too painful. I’ve seen how massive the wound of war is, not only on us, in everyone touched by it.

By this time, his gaze got a bit lost in the distance again, I tried to say something but I was so overwhelmed by his words that I simply sat and stared at his aged face. It was a mistake to ask such questions, some things are better left unsaid.

“Let’s do something tomorrow Roberto, why don’t you bring me some ice cream? I’ll tell you a little story of how I met your granddad on a merry hot summer morning back in 1953.”

fact or fiction
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About the Creator

Giovanni Profeta

Swimming through life one stroke at a time.

Reader insights

Nice work

Very well written. Keep up the good work!

Top insights

  1. Excellent storytelling

    Original narrative & well developed characters

  2. Eye opening

    Niche topic & fresh perspectives

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