Ljubljana, Yugoslavia

1941

 

“Credere! Obedire! Combattere!”

“Believe! Obey! Fight!”

 

- Fascist slogan

 

Francesco didn't remain long in Caserano. Men were needed on the front, so his training was cut short.  He was transferred to Bari, the capital of Puglia, and from there to Milan.   On October 16, 1941, his battalion, the 14th, was mobilized in secret, to Yugoslavia.

 

            The Royal Carabinieri that Francesco had joined were needed to police the newly acquired territories in the province of Slovenia in Yugoslavia. Serving as both a police as well as a combat force, they would be used for reconnaissance missions and intelligence gathering and also act as liaisons between the many units that operated in the region. Carabinieri were equal to corporals or lance corporals in other branches of the Italian Army. Better paid, well trained, well equipped and disciplined, these military police were under the direct control of the Ministry of War in Rome.

 

            The Central Station in Milan was jammed with soldiers waiting to be transported. When the train finally arrived, Francesco climbed along with the others.  The train was heading east, to the Ljubljana region in Slovenia. It was filled to capacity with soldiers from all parts of Italy. For many, this was their first time outside Italy, the first time away from home. They were young, like Francesco, and very enthusiastic. They sang, ate and drank and played cards to pass the time. It was one big party.

 

            Having safely packed his more formal carabinieri uniform, including the traditional tri-cornered hat in his suitcase, Francesco was now wearing a soldier’s drab olive uniform. He went into one of the compartments, and taking off his side cap, he asked,

 

             “May I sit here?”

 

            “Prego. Please join us,” replied the others. Francesco put his suitcase in the overhead rack and sat down.

 

            “My name is Francesco,” he said to the soldier sitting next to him.

 

            “I’m Rugerro from Matera. Pleasure to meet you.”

 

            The others introduced themselves as well.

 

             “I’m Lorenzo, from Bolzano.” The blond young man with horn-rimmed glasses leaned over and briskly shook Francesco's hand. A northerner from the mountains, thought Francesco. Another soldier leaned over and extended his hand.

 

            “Virgilio, from Bari,” he said proudly.

 

            “Ah, you're from Bari? I’m from Mola di Bari,” Francesco lit up. He had found someone from his region. “Do you know Mola?” he asked.

 

            “Of course I know Mola, beautiful town.  I’ve gone there many times, especially in the summer. Do you spend time in Cozze?”

            “Of course I’ve spent time in Cozze! When we were children we used to play hooky from school and go swimming there, even in the middle of winter. We would take off all our clothes so they wouldn’t get wet and go diving, stark naked, for sea urchins. Do you know what my mother used to do when she thought I skipped school? She would lick my arm or my neck when I walked in the house. If it was salty, out came the stick.”

 

            Virgilio started to laugh, tipping his head knowingly. So did the others in the compartment. “Then I would run for cover, usually out the door and onto my bicycle. I would stay at my grandfather’s place in the country until it was late. By the time I came home, my mother had forgotten all about it. Those were the days.”

 

            “They sure were,” answered Virgilio. They sat silently for a moment, remembering the days of their youth with nostalgia, as if they were part of a distant past.

 

            “Tell me, what you know about this place they're sending us, Ljubljana?” asked Virgilio.

 

            “Well, they didn’t tell us much, but from what I’ve read, the place is a mess, partisans everywhere. This Tito fellow is one of the leaders. He’s a Communist. They’re all Communists, you know,” answered Francesco.

 

           “The country is split in half from what I hear. Half for the Germans, half for us Italians.  Ljubljana is in the Italian section.”

           Virgilio leaned over and whispered to Francesco, “But that doesn’t make any difference. The Germans are in control there as well. And we have to answer to them.”

 

           “For sure,” answered Francesco not feeling particularly political but quite ravenous. He opened up his backpack and pulled out a parcel.

 

           “Are you hungry?”     

 

           “Famished,” said Virgilio. He pulled down his backpack and took out a parcel as well, opening it on his lap. “My mother packed my bag with enough stuff for a month! Here, try some of these. They’re figi secci.”

 

           “Dried figs? I love these!” said Francesco.  “Have some of my mother's taralli. She made some with fennel and some without. Eat some of this cheese with them.” Virgilio took one and munched on the crispy pretzel. The two sat enjoying their meal and their new camaraderie. Immediately comfortable with each other, bonded by the familiarity of their origins, they were on a new adventure and filled with anticipation as the train raced across the landscape.

 

           Making its way from Milan to Trieste, the train traveled north and out of Italy into Yugosla via. The terrain started to change as they entered a mountainous area. The forested hills were covered with a dense fog. Snow-capped mountains could be seen in the gray distance. As it got colder, ice and snow covered the windows of the train. Francesco moved his gloved fingers across the window trying to clear the fog so he could look outside. It began to get cold inside the train. Francesco was glad he had put on his heavy socks and wool sweater under his coat. They passed villages with peasants working in the fields. At first, the peasants waved to the train as it sped by. Later they didn't wave but continued to work, ignoring the train. The soldiers had certainly entered hostile territory. They could feel it and see it on the faces of those who looked up at the speeding train with empty expressions.

 

 

-----excerpt,  Chapter 10, Francesco's Song