In memory of Lucy Sanna.
Lucia Sanna has left us. I've heard only days after a funeral facts. And I regret this. I wanted to pay tribute to a wonderful person, a great Italian. He lived in Mount Calcara and frequently saw her on her heavenly Panda, always busy. I had met a few years ago and I had made a sharer of his memories and documents. He wanted them to know more truth than the official trumpeted hypocrisy. His brother had fought in the "Tenth," in Social Republic. At the end of the war, in Turin, stopped his uniform, was approached, as was the case with his other comrades, by Communist partisans, who invites him to join them. A real demand for recantation to embrace a new "faith." Today we know that there was an actual plan for the physical elimination, systematic, all potential opponents of the Communists.
After talking to her sister decided to reject the offer. The same moral integrity and love of country, which had made him choose to fight on the side of the Social Republic, now made him a convenient refuse "rehabilitation" by a gang of criminals.
disappeared after a few days .......... and only much later, Lucia Sanna was able to locate the body among the many killed during and after the "radiant" days of "Liberation", which we continue to celebrate on April 25.
In memory of Lucy Sanna, transcribe some passages of heartbreaking tale that evokes the tragic vicissitudes experienced to find the corpse of his brother, and three poems: two written by herself in commemoration of the joint, the third written in his honor by a Davide Lajolo, his friends, who convinced fascist was about to land, with the ongoing "search for myths", the Italian Communist Party.
After talking to her sister decided to reject the offer. The same moral integrity and love of country, which had made him choose to fight on the side of the Social Republic, now made him a convenient refuse "rehabilitation" by a gang of criminals.
disappeared after a few days .......... and only much later, Lucia Sanna was able to locate the body among the many killed during and after the "radiant" days of "Liberation", which we continue to celebrate on April 25.
In memory of Lucy Sanna, transcribe some passages of heartbreaking tale that evokes the tragic vicissitudes experienced to find the corpse of his brother, and three poems: two written by herself in commemoration of the joint, the third written in his honor by a Davide Lajolo, his friends, who convinced fascist was about to land, with the ongoing "search for myths", the Italian Communist Party.
Lucia Sanna remember ... ...
Cemetery Torino! Field F! field of the fascists of the murdered ... ...!
From a corner of the field with anxiety, in a far-off morning of November 1945, I watched the hundreds of mass graves aligned, were nameless, shapeless mounds and bare, in the mist that took a look of bleak abandonment.
I was desperate. After months of alternating hope and despair, all the commands of research at partisans and allies, I never knew that my brother would come between us: he had been shot on April 29 at a street corner in town.
chilled limbs and heart, motionless, as if fascinated, looking at the labels on each mound of "unknown", "Nn" ...
............................................. .................................................. .................................................. ............
My eyes were wide and without tears. The plants had all my tears, only felt the pain of living, remember ... ... .. to see!
After so many months had managed to obtain permission for exhumation of remains in order to find some clues for their recognition. Loving hands of sisters and mothers looking for their loved ones, he took the job. Every morning some grave was opened, searched among the poor remains something that would allow a mother to say: "It 's my son."
The sign was collected, was compilato un cartellino con l'indicazione della fossa….Silenziosa opera d'amore che non ha avuto altro elogio che la benedizione di coloro che hanno ritrovato un corpo adorato, hanno avuto una tomba su cui pregare.
Quella mattina ero andata pur'io al cimitero per assistere alla riesumazione, per cercare le spoglie di mio Fratello. Mi si avvicinò il custode e forse gli fece pena il mio viso stirato nello sforzo di essere forte e mi disse: "L'accompagno ove sono custoditi i cartellini delle fosse già aperte, chissà che non trovi tra di essi…….eviterà di assistere all'esumazione…"
Attraversammo il cimitero in silenzio, passammo nel campo ove erano i busti dei martiri della rivoluzione…..non c'erano more ... ... a strip of bare earth ... .... ... ... the pieces of stone farther is the grave of a boy, on a Balilla. ... frost freeze the pale rays of the sun gave him chills as life , seemed to have her face wet with tears.
Over the mortuary I was in interiors of the cemetery in front of the door of a closet. I opened the door and entered with trepidation. A place of few square meters, along the three sides of shelves of white wood in bulk from hundreds of packages and envelopes as a starting point, here a piece of cloth torn, there is a gaping angle photography, a yellowed letter ... ... I could not
to raise an arm to move a step to the shelves.
is what remains of hundreds of lives!
................................................. .................................................. .................................................. ..... And the sad
I began counting. First with feverish anxiety, and then slower and slower.
Every now and then I stopped ... .... I felt I could no longer continue ... .... But there were moments. ... Back again ... ... How many forces were, my God, how many!
remember that a tag was attached to a faded photograph of a woman. A young woman's dark face, maybe the bride, maybe his girlfriend, her lover perhaps, a pale face that had assumed an expression of dreamy accorata dolcezza, di struggente tenerezza. Forse era stato lo sguardo che la donna ebbe nel salutare il suo uomo quel lontano giorno in cui partì per la guerra. Il soldato lo tenne chiuso nel cuore e lo fissò nella fotografia nell'ultimo appassionato sguardo dato prima di cadere. Dove sei donna della fotografia? Forse sei ancora in attesa, non sai arrenderti……oh vorrei stringerti tra le braccia e piangere con te.
Accanto ad un altro cartellino vi era un unico bottone e una mostrina tedesca. E' poco per riconoscere un uomo, troppo poco…..nessuno potrà mai dire chi è che aveva portato quella divisa!
"Italia bella, tutto bello, cielo, mare……..ma Germania mia terra!" Aveva gli occhi lucidi di R ... crying. when he spoke of his land, all proudly showed her photographs of his wife, his little blond girl, who had built his house himself. Quanta nostalgia in him. Was on duty at the station goods yard, with all talk of his return and if anyone ever asked him why did the war, looked at him in amazement and said Germany! Duty! One day he came to control a communication in a bombing his home had been destroyed, the bodies of his wife and child were not found! For days he had a light in the eyes of mad pain, took a fixity which frightened. And again he said, Germany! Duty! ... ... Then he added "does not want to go back in Germany! "... ... ... .. he was killed.
With the button in the palm of your hand, I thought of him ... .. R ... .. Other envelopes opened
... ... ... ... and I stopped again, an identity card, a face of a little girl happy and open. He set out to conquer a dream. Nurse! When war broke out he was too young, a girl, who sent him to play with dolls, just turned eighteen but no longer held. Shortly lasted their dream! It was struck down at the corner of a street, was defiled by vulgar insults. They wanted you to ask forgiveness! But that, my God? God forgive them for what they did! Remember our song? Who knows how many Sometimes, perhaps, we sang together:
"It made one day women diventerem sisters!"
Sister, by the roadside, is not much, I found a swallow (there chiamavan "swallows" remember?) Of boys had killed with stones. In her eyes was the agonizing question that had been your "Why?"
too my hands were trembling, as I could not open the envelopes.
................................................. .................................................. .................................................. ......
I opened so many other bags yet, so many other packages ... ... ... nothing!
As the slow pace of research: Titles of currency, of clothes for men and women followed one another ... ... ... ... .. someone made me a sinking heart, but ... ... ... ... nothing.
Maybe that piece of torn black jacket and was the father who came to seek her son's body, found in a hundred, fell into a frenzied last embrace because he dared to protest against the infamy committed to a boy ... ... .... And the ' Another, perhaps, was a piece of apparel quell'anziano lord, who was murdered in an alley because any tee madman, drunk, threw him against the terrible accusation: 'is a fascist! "... ... and this is a photograph of a Mother: bloodstained soil and almost no one could distinguish them see his face, white hair and the attitude of the tired lips was all that was left ... .... but look, I guessed, it contained the same agonizing questions that I read in many other eyes, "you have done! Son .... " Other
envelopes, other packages more tears ... .. I could not cry and weighed greatly on my eyelashes.
I could not find anything ... .... I was already at the end, I turned around looked like a last goodbye and I looked up the top floor of the shelves ... ... .. in the corner was turned inside out and a tag attached to it a clip with some pieces of cloth ... ... looked at with eyes wide open, amazed. ... not I had not touched my heart but already knew.
plan raises his arm, took it: a piece of clothing explained gray and white, tie a piece dell'inconfondibile ... .... When I read: "Campo F, No 6 pit" I went up to her lips a cry .... And then I do not remember anything.
Later I found myself in the pool with a tight fist on card ... ... ... and finally cried.
I wanted to go immediately to see him, they opened the hole for the award ... .... They had to forcibly take away screaming and unconscious. He remained a friend of his. He was without a doubt. He lay with his arms crossed over his chest ripped open. The front was still lying under the white tuft of hair blacks!
I was lucky, I could go home and tell his mother: "We have found, we know where it is buried. Think how many more mothers will never know!"
Lucia Sanna.
Cemetery Torino! Field F! field of the fascists of the murdered ... ...!
From a corner of the field with anxiety, in a far-off morning of November 1945, I watched the hundreds of mass graves aligned, were nameless, shapeless mounds and bare, in the mist that took a look of bleak abandonment.
I was desperate. After months of alternating hope and despair, all the commands of research at partisans and allies, I never knew that my brother would come between us: he had been shot on April 29 at a street corner in town.
chilled limbs and heart, motionless, as if fascinated, looking at the labels on each mound of "unknown", "Nn" ...
............................................. .................................................. .................................................. ............
My eyes were wide and without tears. The plants had all my tears, only felt the pain of living, remember ... ... .. to see!
After so many months had managed to obtain permission for exhumation of remains in order to find some clues for their recognition. Loving hands of sisters and mothers looking for their loved ones, he took the job. Every morning some grave was opened, searched among the poor remains something that would allow a mother to say: "It 's my son."
The sign was collected, was compilato un cartellino con l'indicazione della fossa….Silenziosa opera d'amore che non ha avuto altro elogio che la benedizione di coloro che hanno ritrovato un corpo adorato, hanno avuto una tomba su cui pregare.
Quella mattina ero andata pur'io al cimitero per assistere alla riesumazione, per cercare le spoglie di mio Fratello. Mi si avvicinò il custode e forse gli fece pena il mio viso stirato nello sforzo di essere forte e mi disse: "L'accompagno ove sono custoditi i cartellini delle fosse già aperte, chissà che non trovi tra di essi…….eviterà di assistere all'esumazione…"
Attraversammo il cimitero in silenzio, passammo nel campo ove erano i busti dei martiri della rivoluzione…..non c'erano more ... ... a strip of bare earth ... .... ... ... the pieces of stone farther is the grave of a boy, on a Balilla. ... frost freeze the pale rays of the sun gave him chills as life , seemed to have her face wet with tears.
Over the mortuary I was in interiors of the cemetery in front of the door of a closet. I opened the door and entered with trepidation. A place of few square meters, along the three sides of shelves of white wood in bulk from hundreds of packages and envelopes as a starting point, here a piece of cloth torn, there is a gaping angle photography, a yellowed letter ... ... I could not
to raise an arm to move a step to the shelves.
is what remains of hundreds of lives!
................................................. .................................................. .................................................. ..... And the sad
I began counting. First with feverish anxiety, and then slower and slower.
Every now and then I stopped ... .... I felt I could no longer continue ... .... But there were moments. ... Back again ... ... How many forces were, my God, how many!
remember that a tag was attached to a faded photograph of a woman. A young woman's dark face, maybe the bride, maybe his girlfriend, her lover perhaps, a pale face that had assumed an expression of dreamy accorata dolcezza, di struggente tenerezza. Forse era stato lo sguardo che la donna ebbe nel salutare il suo uomo quel lontano giorno in cui partì per la guerra. Il soldato lo tenne chiuso nel cuore e lo fissò nella fotografia nell'ultimo appassionato sguardo dato prima di cadere. Dove sei donna della fotografia? Forse sei ancora in attesa, non sai arrenderti……oh vorrei stringerti tra le braccia e piangere con te.
Accanto ad un altro cartellino vi era un unico bottone e una mostrina tedesca. E' poco per riconoscere un uomo, troppo poco…..nessuno potrà mai dire chi è che aveva portato quella divisa!
"Italia bella, tutto bello, cielo, mare……..ma Germania mia terra!" Aveva gli occhi lucidi di R ... crying. when he spoke of his land, all proudly showed her photographs of his wife, his little blond girl, who had built his house himself. Quanta nostalgia in him. Was on duty at the station goods yard, with all talk of his return and if anyone ever asked him why did the war, looked at him in amazement and said Germany! Duty! One day he came to control a communication in a bombing his home had been destroyed, the bodies of his wife and child were not found! For days he had a light in the eyes of mad pain, took a fixity which frightened. And again he said, Germany! Duty! ... ... Then he added "does not want to go back in Germany! "... ... ... .. he was killed.
With the button in the palm of your hand, I thought of him ... .. R ... .. Other envelopes opened
... ... ... ... and I stopped again, an identity card, a face of a little girl happy and open. He set out to conquer a dream. Nurse! When war broke out he was too young, a girl, who sent him to play with dolls, just turned eighteen but no longer held. Shortly lasted their dream! It was struck down at the corner of a street, was defiled by vulgar insults. They wanted you to ask forgiveness! But that, my God? God forgive them for what they did! Remember our song? Who knows how many Sometimes, perhaps, we sang together:
"It made one day women diventerem sisters!"
Sister, by the roadside, is not much, I found a swallow (there chiamavan "swallows" remember?) Of boys had killed with stones. In her eyes was the agonizing question that had been your "Why?"
too my hands were trembling, as I could not open the envelopes.
................................................. .................................................. .................................................. ......
I opened so many other bags yet, so many other packages ... ... ... nothing!
As the slow pace of research: Titles of currency, of clothes for men and women followed one another ... ... ... ... .. someone made me a sinking heart, but ... ... ... ... nothing.
Maybe that piece of torn black jacket and was the father who came to seek her son's body, found in a hundred, fell into a frenzied last embrace because he dared to protest against the infamy committed to a boy ... ... .... And the ' Another, perhaps, was a piece of apparel quell'anziano lord, who was murdered in an alley because any tee madman, drunk, threw him against the terrible accusation: 'is a fascist! "... ... and this is a photograph of a Mother: bloodstained soil and almost no one could distinguish them see his face, white hair and the attitude of the tired lips was all that was left ... .... but look, I guessed, it contained the same agonizing questions that I read in many other eyes, "you have done! Son .... " Other
envelopes, other packages more tears ... .. I could not cry and weighed greatly on my eyelashes.
I could not find anything ... .... I was already at the end, I turned around looked like a last goodbye and I looked up the top floor of the shelves ... ... .. in the corner was turned inside out and a tag attached to it a clip with some pieces of cloth ... ... looked at with eyes wide open, amazed. ... not I had not touched my heart but already knew.
plan raises his arm, took it: a piece of clothing explained gray and white, tie a piece dell'inconfondibile ... .... When I read: "Campo F, No 6 pit" I went up to her lips a cry .... And then I do not remember anything.
Later I found myself in the pool with a tight fist on card ... ... ... and finally cried.
I wanted to go immediately to see him, they opened the hole for the award ... .... They had to forcibly take away screaming and unconscious. He remained a friend of his. He was without a doubt. He lay with his arms crossed over his chest ripped open. The front was still lying under the white tuft of hair blacks!
I was lucky, I could go home and tell his mother: "We have found, we know where it is buried. Think how many more mothers will never know!"
Lucia Sanna.
April 29, 1955
a knot in my throat I wept
in the heart of an immense regret
love your smile!
much time has passed! Ten
long, short years,
life with torment and deception,
us all aged, hair
Mamma
are whitewashed and you, forever young, the frame
smile to your ideal, happy! A vile
you took away the life, death
, gave you endless youth!
softly tonight
our beautiful prayer will rise up into the heavens
imitated by the faithful hearts,
culminate in a powerful chorus,
in our appeal, "Present."
Lucia Sanna
in the heart of an immense regret
love your smile!
much time has passed! Ten
long, short years,
life with torment and deception,
us all aged, hair
Mamma
are whitewashed and you, forever young, the frame
smile to your ideal, happy! A vile
you took away the life, death
, gave you endless youth!
softly tonight
our beautiful prayer will rise up into the heavens
imitated by the faithful hearts,
culminate in a powerful chorus,
in our appeal, "Present."
Lucia Sanna
April 29, 1989
has passed by.
How many? Many
!
The pain is always the same! As in those distant days
anguish overwhelms me.
But now I know that we were right,
You died for an ideal
you have not seen a mess.
in us has been the regret of lost youth
,
of exciting feelings,
years
shining a unique past.
generations after us have not had this
.
We were lucky.
Lucia Sanna
How many? Many
!
The pain is always the same! As in those distant days
anguish overwhelms me.
But now I know that we were right,
You died for an ideal
you have not seen a mess.
in us has been the regret of lost youth
,
of exciting feelings,
years
shining a unique past.
generations after us have not had this
.
We were lucky.
Lucia Sanna
For Italian
on blacks eyes the illusion s'inquieta
bad for the world and real life
urge you in, or you know
the bitterness of lonely despair;
so the hair s'attorce
your last will to be alive and still believe
. In
slow to migrate your virgin eyes
repugnant views of old age and
rests in the pupil anxiety.
Neither your name nor your heart you know but you know
strong though often in the face
thee discovery
sleepy child. Arid I
into the blood and my poetry
fraying in rough
search of myths and digging into a
to the essential words.
I feel very bitter and my strength
soldier has won
and my passion of man and humanity.
Sola has been worthwhile to exist
slow as the exile.
Listen to this song, for the glow
of your eyes light up.
Davide Lajolo
bad for the world and real life
urge you in, or you know
the bitterness of lonely despair;
so the hair s'attorce
your last will to be alive and still believe
. In
slow to migrate your virgin eyes
repugnant views of old age and
rests in the pupil anxiety.
Neither your name nor your heart you know but you know
strong though often in the face
thee discovery
sleepy child. Arid I
into the blood and my poetry
fraying in rough
search of myths and digging into a
to the essential words.
I feel very bitter and my strength
soldier has won
and my passion of man and humanity.
Sola has been worthwhile to exist
slow as the exile.
Listen to this song, for the glow
of your eyes light up.
Davide Lajolo
