Finding Lives Again

By Simone Malacrida

At the end of an intense journey represented by his life, Olivier rediscovers several pasts of which he did not keep track.
It will be time to take stock and conjure up every possible action and thought to find that lost thread in other eras.
A traveler through Time in search of the fundamental questions of all existence, transcending the concepts of spatial, temporal and cultural boundaries, with the aim of arriving, by degrees, at an unexpected conclusion, consisting of Truth and the very essence of life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookRix
• Release date: Apr 11, 2023
• ISBN: 9783755438601

Simone Malacrida

Simone Malacrida (1977) Ha lavorato nel settore della ricerca (ottica e nanotecnologie) e, in seguito, in quello industriale-impiantistico, in particolare nel Power, nell'Oil&Gas e nelle infrastrutture. E' interessato a problematiche finanziarie ed energetiche. Ha pubblicato un primo ciclo di 21 libri principali (10 divulgativi e didattici e 11 romanzi) + 91 manuali didattici derivati. Un secondo ciclo, sempre di 21 libri, è in corso di elaborazione e sviluppo.

Book preview

SIMONE MALACRIDA

Finding Lives Again

Simone Malacrida (1977)

Engineer and writer, he has worked on research, finance, energy policy and industrial plants.

ANALYTICAL INDEX

PART ONE

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

PART TWO

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

PART THREE

XV

XVI

XVII

XVIII

XIX

XX

XXI

PART FOUR

XXII

XXIII

XXIV

XXV

XXVI

XXVII

XXVIII

PAR T FIVE

XXIX

XXX

XXXI

XXXII

XXXIII

XXXIV

XXXV

PART SIX

XXXVI

XXXVII

XXXVIII

XXXIX

XL

XLI

XLII

PART SEVEN

XLIII

XLIV

XLV

XLVI

XLVII

XL VIII

XLIX

PART EIGHT

L

LI

LII

LIII

LIV

LV

LVI

PART NINE

LVII

LVIII

LIX

LX

LXI

LXII

LXIII

PART TEN

LXIV

LXV

LXVI

LXVII

LXVIII

LXIX

LXX

PART ELEVEN

LXXI

LXXII

LXXIII

LXXIV

LXXV

LXX V I

LXXVII

EPILOGUE

AUTHOR'S NOTES:

The book contains precise historical references to facts, events and people. These events and people really happened and existed.

In particular, the names of towns and places are given as known at the time in which the events are set, and it is left to the reader's curiosity to understand what they correspond to today.

On the other hand, the main protagonists are pure figments of the author's imagination and do not correspond to real individuals, just as their actions did not actually happen. It goes without saying that, for these characters, any reference to persons or things is purely coincidental.

At the end of an intense journey represented by his life, Olivier rediscovers several pasts of which he did not keep track.

It will be time to take stock and conjure up every possible action and thought to find that lost thread in other eras.

A traveler through Time in search of the fundamental questions of all existence, transcending the concepts of spatial, temporal and cultural boundaries, with the aim of arriving, by degrees, at an unexpected conclusion, consisting of Truth and the very essence of life.

" This life, as you now live it and have lived it, you will have to live it again and again innumerable times, and there will never be anything new in it, but every pain and every pleasure and every thought and sigh, and every unspeakably small and great thing of your life will have to return to you, and all in the same sequence and succession - and so also this spider and this moonlight among the branches and so also this moment and myself.

The eternal hourglass of existence is turned upside down again and again and you with it, speck of dust!"

Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche

PART ONE

I

Avize, 13.00 on 22-02-2022

" If you are possessed by an idea, you find it expressed everywhere, you even smell it."

Thomas Mann

Lying on his bed in the blue room, between the blinks of an eyelid, Olivier Desmoulins remembered his first name and his entire existence.

Open your eyes.

He clearly saw the piano, placed in the extreme corner of the living room, which had been silent for too long, having found no executor worthy of the original owner.

Precisely, almost seventy-six years had passed since that afternoon at the end of May in which the inhabitants of Avize, including Olivier Desmoulins, who arrived in that place three years earlier, had listened to a sublime melody, composed of every possible sensation and every arousable emotion.

No one had understood " The lament of life ", so was the name of the composition saddled by the same performer, that Julien De Mauriac son of the builders of the immense mansion.

Olivier had kept in himself the memory of each note and mentally went over it at least once a day, just as the sun was about to set on the horizon.

That was Olivier's favorite hour.

Sunset.

Symbol of transience and extreme end.

An end as coveted as it was feared, inevitable but not definitive.

The certainty that he had in his heart was that of always seeing the next sunrise, even if, sooner or later, the irreversible event would have happened.

He now felt that the time had come.

The Sunset Moment by Olivier Desmoulins.

Quickly, he turned his attention to the rest of the furniture, which had remained unchanged since the end of the 19th century.

The central chandelier, in blue crystal, radiated a different light according to the seasons, days and times.

The sun's rays, penetrating from various angles and with different intensities, created an infinite play of reflections which bounced off the two mirrors placed on the side walls and illuminated the plaster, also blue, of the ceiling and walls.

Myriads of small lapis lazuli inlays decorated the finishes of the jambs and the majolica stove.

The writing desk, placed to one side, was upholstered in blue satin velvet, the same material that was used for the upholstery of the chairs and armchairs.

Olivier Desmoulins had wanted the circular table, placed in the center of the room right under the chandelier, to be moved temporarily to place his bed.

He felt that the hour of his departure had come and he didn't want to be anywhere else but in that room under that chandelier.

The best view of his entire life.

Around him were, in religious silence, the grandchildren and great-grandchildren of the friends of his mentor, Julien De Mauriac.

He couldn't remember all their names.

In the end, it didn't matter.

It was their presence that was crucial.

A cycle was about to be completed, of which, however, those present were only aware of the visible part.

They did not know every possible facet of the life of Olivier Desmoulins, who was the only one who possessed a clear vision of his work.

Looking back, he could be said to be satisfied.

His thoughts drifted to the loved ones he'd met and the thousands of strangers he'd helped out.

Thinking about it, a smile always appeared on his face.

It was strange for those present to see him smile.

The moment of a person's death is always thought to be painful, perhaps because one tries to mirror the internal pain of loss that those who remain have.

One never thinks of the person lying on the bed, what he feels.

Olivier had thought that day was the last.

He felt at the end of his physical and mental faculties, moreover it was a palindrome day.

Perfect for how he had conceived his life.

He thought he knew everything about himself, but the greatest mysteries of his existence had yet to be revealed.

For such a journey, someone (or something?) had arranged a strange twist of fate and necessity.

The last turn of the clock, the last hour.

Still amazed by the dream that he had just finished revealing in his mind, a oneiric construction derived from the projection of his life into another dimension, he hadn't been able to utter a word.

You don't need too many speeches in certain circumstances.

The looks and gestures are enough.

The fundamental moments of life are marked by looks, not by words.

Within each look, there is a blend of thoughts and emotions, feelings and ideas.

How to put into words what he had experienced in the previous instants?

And the myriad actions performed during life?

Had he left stories, writings or memories?

Not in an indelible form, but subtly.

Every person who had met him kept the memory of Olivier, his actions and his words.

Many had already left and the memory of Olivier had been scattered to the wind, like a fluctuating of atoms in the almost cosmic vacuum.

So what was all this dedication for?

If then everything is destined to disappear with people you know directly, what is the point of dedicating one's life to others?

Wasn't it better to think about your own well-being?

Olivier had never been of this opinion.

He had been raised with a mission and he had completed it, at least so he told himself.

Could more be done?

Of course, but the task was to distribute to others.

Sow small shoots and then see the fruits.

What was in Olivier's head?

Notes and thoughts.

Music reigned in his mind.

They were sounds heard everywhere and collected in that instant.

Noises of waves against the rocks, of children's shouts, of animals waking up in the morning, of artificial human constructions.

The sound of silence, above all.

We don't notice it too often, but silence has its own timbre and tonality.

There are different silences.

The silence of a forest is different from that of the desert which is different from that of an empty house.

In the silences, the slightest ripples of the soul and of the Cosmos can be seen.

It is not simply the absence of noise or sound.

Plus, there were the colors.

The imperceptible shades of blue and green, red and yellow, of a palette that not even the finest impressionist is able to emulate, were all present in Olivier's soul.

The smells did the rest.

A blend of sensory experiences that triggered all sorts of ideas.

What was the first experience?

What is the first cry?

He had to dig into his own mind.

Go backwards, back in time and space.

Remove the consequences of evolution, like a clock that runs backwards, bringing everything back to its initial state, or at least to the one experienced by Olivier.

It was an arduous job of memory, susceptible to sweetening and idealization.

Getting to the essential point, to the substance itself without any form of personal interpretation could seem like a wishful thinking and a useless exercise.

Instead, it was time to explore that possibility.

Time, the tyrant of the Cosmos, no longer gave space to possible references.

Olivier's synapses got to work, consuming the last available energy.

Internal electrical discharges, chemical reactions, physical interactions and a mixture of mechanisms still unknown to science went fishing in the memory, expanding the cerebral faculties.

A certain threshold had to be exceeded in order to achieve the desired result.

Olivier shuddered.

The people present in the blue room interpreted it as a manifestation of pain and were sorry for it.

Nothing further from reality.

It was the extreme attempt of thought to contrast the transience of the physique.

And perhaps Olivier would have gone at the peak of his intellectual faculties.

There was still so much to explore in the back part of his brain.

The simulacrum that he had perceived a few moments before had given him proof of the immensity of the possible construction that was hidden there.

Now it only remained to take the last step.

I enter decisively through the narrow door.

Crossing the last border and experiencing the possible consequences first-hand.

Besides, what did he have to lose?

He had been lying in bed for two days, unable to get up.

He would never walk again.

It was time to risk.

Driven by the immense will that had characterized him, he closed his eyes and said to himself:

Yes we go. Force.

The cerebral whirlwind overwhelmed him.

It was an adrenaline rush that would have brought an elephant back to life.

He felt his heart leap and his body contort.

He wasn't afraid.

He would pay any price to discover all that had always been hidden in his mind.

Something that had been placed there without the possibility of fruition, except in the last hour of its existence.

A search that lasted a lifetime that had materialized in that instant and in that place.

He hadn't lingered on why and on the reasons.

He no longer had time for further ruminations.

He went straight to the point.

A white light enveloped him and introduced him to a new dimension, beyond the blue room.

It was the light of Provence, his homeland.

So different from the Avize area, less harsh and sweeter.

Such a brightness had accompanied his early years of life.

It was a carefree feeling, as every slightest roughness was smoothed out.

The colors were almost bleached out and the smells overpowered.

Olivier perfectly remembered the scent of the olive trees and vines, of the wind and the forest, of the earth parched in summer and the mildness of winter.

There he had learned to walk, lingering on uneven ground in the middle of the fields.

There he had seen the sea for the first time.

A tranquil mirror which reflected the sun and which was dominated from within, from some privileged glimpses known only to the locals.

The Mediterranean was so different from the ocean.

Sweet and bewitching, almost to make you forget the power of the waves.

The first steps had been marked by the constant presence of his parents, Henri and Julie.

His father, a man of other times, had an aristocratic bearing in himself although he had humble origins.

He was one of that group of men ennobled by hard work and who bore the marks of precocious maturity.

Born exactly in 1900, between two centuries, when Olivier was born he was already considered a grown-up man who had been working in the fields for eighteen years.

The thick black beard was the primary image that little Olivier had imprinted on his head to recognize his father, together with the timbre of his voice.

The little one always reacted by waving his legs and, later, trying to keep up with Henri, first on all fours and then with an increasingly determined step.

He used to play with Henri since he was a baby, having fun and smiling at his father's every slightest move.

It was his father who made him taste the delicacies of the land, to recognize the animals and not to be afraid of them and to run at breakneck speed through the fields.

Henri's figure was completed by powerful arms, a majestic physique with legs planted on the ground like fir trunks and a general respect he had towards others, fully reciprocated by all.

He was considered a good person, someone to be trusted, a hard worker and an honest man.

He had had no problem asking Julie to marry him, although he was aware of less basic culture than his wife.

In those days, it was not easy to find women of working-class origins with a higher degree of education than men.

Julie had been in primary and some secondary school and used highly sought-after terms and words as opposed to the essential language of the countryside.

Five years younger than Henri, she had not seen the ugliness of the Great War due to the considerable distance from the front, while her husband had only been employed in the last months of the conflict, during the summer of 1918 which saw the collapse of Germany.

That was enough for Henri to forcefully reject any possible militaristic and conflicting idea.

A whole generation of his peers had been sacrificed on the Somme and the Marne and such a massacre would no longer have been conceivable.

The distance and the countryside had softened the blows inflicted by the war, although there were killed and maimed among the youth of Provence.

Likewise, the 1920s were lived as always, without the fury and ardor of the Parisian capital, nor later without the great collapse due to the crisis coming from America.

Thus Olivier was able to be born in a protected environment, in which his mother Julie was the main custodian of the armor that was created around the little one.

The woman had taken charge of the child's education, starting with the first words up to testing his propensities.

She had heard of a revolutionary method of childhood pedagogy and learning from Italy, based on the free expression of children.

She often watched Olivier to get ideas from her son to stimulate.

Ever since he was born, he had always been attracted to what was outside of himself.

Other people, the environment, nature, animals.

It was as if Olivier's identity was being shaped only through the confrontation with the other-than-self.

Of his mother, he kept a clear memory.

He always wore light colors, white or pale gray or blue or pink or yellow or green, but nothing bold or flashy.

The semi-olive complexion as befits the women of the south of France was in contrast with the color of the hair, which was brown tending towards blond.

The eyes, however, were black and deep.

In those eyes, Henri had lost his way as a young man when, returning from the war, he resumed work in the fields, carrying on the business that belonged to his father and, before that, to his grandfather.

They had met at the market in Ales, the main town nearby, on a late winter day in 1922.

Olivier remembered what his parents had told him.

It was exactly February 22, 1922, one hundred years ago.

At the same time their son died, a hundred years ago, Henri and Julie had met for the first time.

Others followed that meeting, until the official engagement and then the wedding, celebrated with sobriety in the summer of 1924.

Of those events, only a few old black and white photographs remained, taken by Olivier with him during his transfer to Avize.

He had returned several times to his native village, but had found nothing but ruins.

He had no uncles or cousins, as the majority of his few relatives had perished during the Second World War and the house that had hosted his childhood had been plundered and then occupied by others.

Olivier had only erected a funeral monument in honor of his parents, although he was aware that their bodies would never be found.

In the first years of life, all this was still far away and nothing foreshadowed the turn that events would take.

Above all, no one thought that, after a massacre like the one experienced between 1914 and 1918, there would be another just twenty years later.

There would be few generations that would not have seen the horrors of the period and Olivier's family was certainly not spared.

Running in broad daylight, possessing all the typical joy of children, Olivier grew up under the watchful eye of his parents.

Julie and Henri alternated in the time to devote to the little one, who never had the feeling that he was a burden or that the world was not suitable for children.

Growing up in complete freedom, the imprinting that would remain for his entire existence was given by the desire to explore and to weave bonds and acquaintances.

Each of us, at the end of time, discovers that, among all the things learned, there always remains the trace and imprint of what our parents handed down to us during our childhood.

He still remembered the first time he saw the sea.

Not so much for the sea itself, but for the emotion and amazement.

It was no longer a confined place, like the river or creek behind the house.

It was the sense of infinity and the absence of borders.

His father had carried him on his shoulders to allow him to see further, while his mother pointed to the beach, the waves and the animals with her finger, so that the little one would learn the names and their diction.

Without too much effort, he had learned to read and write long before he officially entered school.

At the same time, his mother stimulated his imagination and memory, trying to understand his talents.

Olivier, without ever leaving the fairy world of children, made up mainly of games and entertainment, thus refined his skills.

Nonetheless, he used to get together with other children of the area, mainly children of peasants or miners, whose condition of subordination was marked from an early age.

They would hardly have been able to rise from the proletarian condition, starting immediately to hard work and a life of hardship.

Seeing him in the company of others, both Henri and Julie had become convinced that their son's greatest gift was in relating to other people.

There was no child or adult who did not get along with Olivier and their son was comfortable around people.

They had regretted that Olivier could not have had a brother or sister, but the doctors had ruled in this sense, also given Julie's difficulties in getting pregnant.

Perhaps for this reason they had poured themselves into the care of their son and devoted much more time than the average time.

Unfortunately, the economic resources were not such as to be able to envisage trips or comforts that only the rich could afford.

Despite this, both Henri and Julie had always thought that this was not an impediment to happiness and little Olivier grew up without understanding the distinctions of wealth and class, treating every human being as a continuation of himself.

Enlightened by these memories, Olivier had printed a smile on his face, like when he played in the fields chasing butterflies or picking fruit directly from the trees.

Early pre-school childhood had been for him a formidable training ground for the world and for others.

Guided by the skillful hand of Henri and Julie, he had been raised in respect for all and in the knowledge of the beauty of Nature and of men, without understanding the evil that was possible to do and of which the world was full.

Precisely in those years, not too far from his home, other nations were veering towards absolute evil, the misfortune that would soon strike the world and that would change everyone's life and history.

Unaware of all this, the Desmoulins family lived isolated in a modest country estate, surrounded by the small plot of land on which Olivier's ancestors had poured sweat and toil.

Little Olivier was enveloped in an all-round light, emanating from the spirit of his parents.

The same light that he now saw inside his mind and that released sensations that had been appeased for too long.

A light that opened up a part of his mind.

The search was about to begin.

The journey back was indisputably heading towards a rediscovery.

The counterpoint to the Recherche is a Redécouverte.

And it's not about time lost, it's about lives found.

The lives we forgot we lived.

II

Parma - Italy, 1848

It's not just Sicily, Padua has also risen.

The news reached Otello Fubini's ears through one of his most trusted friends, Luca Carnieri, a shoemaker by profession and who had a shop right in front of the bakery where Otello's family had been working for many years.

Both were sons of the lower middle class of Parma, the capital of the Duchy which the previous year had seen the disappearance of the beloved Duchess Maria Luigia of Austria, she who had succeeded in a difficult task, that is to be recognized and respected after the Restoration, who he had tried to undo the Napoleonic conquests in terms of freedoms and borders.

Everything seemed to be back as it was fifty years ago, but it was the spirit that was different.

Otello's father had had a background in the insurrections of 1831, despite being the father of a child of only one year.

Growing up in such a family, the young man had imbibed liberal and national ideals and was eager to get down to business.

The job of the baker was close to him, knowing full well that this would guarantee him food and sustenance for the rest of his life.

His brother Giovanni, four years younger, also worked in the shop and this lifted the young man's spirits, convinced that the family business would have continued without his presence.

In previous years, Otello had been busy and had frequented Mazzini's clandestine circles, which, first of all, had taught him to read and write decently and to use terms of the Italian language and not of the dialect.

First, it was necessary to train Italians with a certain culture and reasoning and only after these people would they be routed to military knowledge.

Otello's father was well aware of the steps his son was taking and had warned him:

Don't risk your life for them…

Otello, however, did not feel the same way.

In his view, becoming a patriot was the best life possible, even at the cost of going to death.

There was in him a sort of mixture between myth and literature, fueled by reading the " Last Letters of Jacopo Ortis ", a book that even his father had owned in his youth.

After years of being stuck, something seemed to happen.

If the revolts had spread throughout Italy, there was hope that they would also take root in Parma, above all because Charles II of Bourbon was certainly not appreciated like Maria Luigia, who had indeed been Austrian and daughter of the Emperor, but at the same time was she was the wife, against her will, of Napoleon and this was seen as a sign in the history of the city.

Tonight we meet at the usual place.

It was the last sentence whispered by Luca.

At the Mazzinian circle, nicknamed by the same Young Italy, as in the will of the founder, the news circulated quickly and often in previews.

There were many people scattered in various cities who delivered letters by trusted couriers.

The organization was widespread and capillary, with a high level of loyalty.

Otello's father knew it very well, having been a part of it and pretended not to see, hoping, in his heart, that his son would be more successful than they themselves had in 1831.

Of normal build, Otello did not have characteristic and peculiar somatic traits, going to conform with an indistinct mass of people, who, in the crowd, all became equally similar.

This anonymity was an important advantage since the soldiers would hardly have recognized him.

There was talk of other cities ready to rise up and the way in which the rulers would try to sweeten the requests.

They will give bestowals of their own free will.

Few understood, so it was said explicitly:

They will grant Constitutions.

In fact, it was like this in Sicily, in Florence and even the Savoy gave way.

Even the Pope…

The atmosphere became incandescent with each passing day and people began to speak openly of revolt.

Barricades had to be set up and weapons hidden.

There were few rifles available, muskets old and in use in 1831, but even fewer people were able to shoot effectively.

Luca and Otello were selected for trials, to be carried out in the countryside, where the shots would have been mistaken for hunting trips.

They waited for early spring and the first Sunday of good weather.

Venice had just arisen and the same was happening in Milan.

On the wave of enthusiasm, letters arrived which exalted the heroic behavior of the citizens of Milan in chasing away the Austrian ruler.

It was easy for Otello to learn to shoot.

Load and aim.

He wasn't surprised by the recoil or the weight of the weapon.

Luke, on the other hand, had some difficulty.

You will make up for it with the patriotic spirit…

A wind of revolt was blowing throughout Europe, not just in Italy.

Elsewhere there were different instances, but the goal was always the same: to overthrow the pre-established power son of the Restoration.

It was something that would not have been accepted.

" Sooner or later, they will try to repress the uprisings by force and that is why we must be ready at the military level.

Only if we resist will it be possible to win freedom."

Otello went home in the evening.

It is bread to be made, not the revolution, so his father welcomed him, aware of what he had done that day.

He hadn't believed the trip among friends with Luca and others.

Perhaps he had also been informed by someone in the circle, since he had been a member and had contributed years before.

For this reason, Otello was held in high esteem.

It could be said that he was a second generation patriot, raised with Mazzini's ideals of republican freedom.

It was difficult to implement what was in Mazzini's intentions, as all the powerful were enemies because they were kings.

There was no regular army that would have joined them and, in many, they thought that Italy should first be built by relying on the Savoy.

Otello did not possess his own vision.

He was too young and hungry for action.

He wanted to participate in a revolt, be part of it and install a republic in Parma in which all citizens could recognize themselves.

No more subjects, no more nobles, but just people.

The day arrived and Otello was able to ascertain the extreme effectiveness of the action.

Supported by the population, Parma was liberated in a short time, with almost no reaction from the soldiers.

There had been few shots and few deaths, mostly much confusion and shouting.

At first they were emitted to exorcise fear and to intimidate the enemy, later they exploded in a blaze of joy.

Otello and Luca returned home with tricolor cockades on their chests and a rifle over their shoulders, honored and respected by the population.

However, Otello's father, as soon as he saw him, scolded him:

Stop playing…

Otello was disappointed, he would have expected a different welcome.

He sketched a smile.

But I thought that…

His brother Giovanni hovered around him, looking for news or anecdotes.

Did this really happen? Were you there?

Only at dinner did her father melt into an embrace.

Be careful. I can't stop you from doing something that I too did when I was younger than you. But I know how it will end…

Otello did not share this pessimism.

" This time it's different. Charles II will flee, you'll see, and he'll leave us a free field.

There is already talk that he will hand over power to a council."

The Mazzinians had acted in the shadows, contacting the respectable people of the city, high-ranking bourgeois who would not get their hands dirty with the revolt.

They had to officially stay out of it and then assume power.

So it happened.

They were days of exaltation and joy, in which news from other cities only increased the atmosphere of celebration and jubilation.

" The situation is as follows.

Milan and Venice are free, Sicily has a new kingdom with a Parliament and Savoy has declared war on Austria, annexing Cremona, Lodi and Pavia.

What do we want to do?"

In the following weeks, heated discussions were held within the Mazzini circle.

The most intransigent faithful to the doctrine of Young Italy were first-rate republicans and would never have accepted any interference from the Kingdom of Sardinia.

On the other hand, Piacenza had already expressed itself with a plebiscite of annexation and Parma did the same a week later.

Gioberti's intervention was crucial.

Luca and Otello went to listen to him and were ecstatic.

Both set aside republican intentions, at least initially.

We have to do Italy!

they said to each other.

The decision had been taken not only on logical grounds and on political conviction, but on the wave of emotion that everyone had felt in those months when, following the victorious success of the riots, a recently composed song was sung which united the peoples from north to south and from east to west.

It was called the song of the Italians and everyone, even the illiterate, knew its words, even without fully understanding them.

Otello's mother, for example, did not know who Scipio was or what Scipio's helmet meant.

Her husband took care of explaining the secret to her.

Having settled the situation in Parma, officially united with the Kingdom of Sardinia, now the whole story of the revolt centered on the war with Austria.

Volunteers were required to be sent to war.

As I told you, what I thought happened. Won't you get yourself killed for those? They are always kings and will always find an agreement.

Otello's father had been prescient and the boy had to agree on this.

His friend Luca, not knowing how to shoot well, had been exempted, while everyone expected a heartfelt yes from Otello.

The boy had to think too much.

It was his first real decision of a certain level.

What was he supposed to do?

Abandon his family and his city to go elsewhere to fight a war between kings?

Or leave things as they were and wait for the final solution?

In both cases, there was more to lose than to gain.

It didn't seem like an easy choice, much less risk-free.

What should I do?

He turned to his father as an adviser.

The man looked at his son's face and hugged him.

She wouldn't let her dreams break, but she also didn't want to lose him forever.

Do what your heart tells you. It is the heart that determines everything. We go where it commands.

He knew what that meant.

Somehow, he had always known that Otello was born to go away, to realize himself away from Parma and that he was just waiting for the spark.

And now the spark, indeed the fire, had been there.

And like his son, a whole generation was involved.

After a night of toil, Otello had found the solution and wanted to share it with his family.

" Father, you are right in saying that we must not fight the wars of the Kings and that we must defend our cause and not theirs, but I cannot allow a certain foreign dominating power to return to our martyred homeland.

For this reason, I have decided to leave, but I am not joining the Savoyard forces.

I'm going with Garibaldi's volunteers."

The mere name of Garibaldi lit up everyone's eyes.

He was recognized as an honest and upright man, alongside the peoples and who did not send his men to massacre, on the contrary he considered every life fundamental.

The younger brother immediately ran to hug him.

His example would always come back with a red shirt, as Garibaldi's volunteers used to be identified.

The father nodded assent.

His son had understood his heart and from that moment he had grown into an adult person, crossing the line as a boy.

You become an adult when you choose your own path, knowing that it is fraught with obstacles and that perhaps it will give rise to regrets, but you do it anyway because you feel it is the right thing to do because your heart has whispered this to mind.

Otello had taken that step.

He went to greet Luca and presented himself to the committee announcing his decision.

From Parma, ten of them left for Milan, where Garibaldi had set up the Anzani battalion.

It was the first time that Otello left the city of Parma.

He was surprised by the size of the Po and the majesty of Milan.

The Duomo appeared to him as an immense and magnificent construction and he took care to write a letter to his family.

Given the lack of training, he was held in the city and only later joined the battalion that had been ordered to march on Brescia to counter the Austrian advance and join what remained under the command of Garibaldi from Padua.

The war was turning badly for the Piedmontese troops, taken by surprise by the imperial counter-offensive.

In addition, there was a triple clash of positions between Garibaldi, Mazzini and Carlo Alberto.

No one trusted the other and there were too many different views.

Otello had the feeling that the outcome of the war was sealed and Garibaldi's triumphant entries in Bergamo and Monza were worthless, given that, in the meantime, the Austrians had reconquered Milan.

What were the efforts and the deaths worth then?

How to return to the starting point?

We must go north…

The risk was to be trapped in the Austrian grip.

At a steady pace, and Otello had never walked so much, they arrived in Como.

There was an evident pursuit by the Austrians who were probably extremely fearful of Garibaldi and his exploits.

Otello had been able to ascertain the leader's qualities first-hand.

Always attentive to every detail, he was close to each of them in the conduct of battles and in every situation, from rest to meal.

Furthermore, both in Como and in Bergamo he had been welcomed with enthusiasm, as had never happened to any King.

Maybe that scared more than anything.

After Como, Otello found himself having to choose.

Mazzini went to Switzerland, leaving Garibaldi with few troops.

Of the ten departing from Parma, only Otello chose the leader.

Without yet being aware of it, an initial transformation had taken place in Otello's political thought who from a liberal and republican was about to become more and more a man of action.

The Austrians are more and they won't give us a break, we have to take them by surprise.

Garibaldi's words were peremptory.

Yeah, but how was it done?

We will attack them.

So it happened.

Otello found himself in a strange battle, in which the main objectives were two steam barges and the Austrian enemies were actually Hungarians.

Otello's mission was simple.

As an elite rifleman, he must defend the conquest of the boats needed to cross Lake Maggiore.

It's not over, tomorrow there will be more fighting.

Otello was beginning to gain experience and understand the dynamics of battle. Not even the following day, the Austrians succeeded.

This time they were Croatians and it went as far as a bayonet attack.

The number of volunteers dwindled and Garibaldi had to flee to Switzerland to avoid arrest, but his popularity grew.

An escape on foot from Padua to Varese without an Emperor's army being able to capture him or defeat a band of volunteers, whose professions were disparate, but none were professional soldiers.

Confidence, will, and passion had been shown to outweigh differences in numbers and equipment.

A thousand volunteers made more than five thousand soldiers.

Setting out on foot towards Parma, together with a group of Tuscan volunteers who would then continue on, Otello understood every little facet.

A political culture was being developed in the field, also going to improve the knowledge of the Italian people.

Living next to people from all over the world, we exchanged opinions on traditions and food, dialects and beliefs, readings and characters.

Therein lay the charm of the red shirt as a volunteer, unlike the restricted Mazzinian circles intended more for intellectuals.

It didn't matter if the Austrians had won because, sooner or later, they would have lost and Italy would have been built.

And it didn't matter if everything would then be resolved in the reign of a Savoy sovereign, given that the experience of a few months had taught Otello that the passion for freedom would push his generation, and subsequent ones, to fight for an ideal republican.

When he set foot home, his family found him changed.

Not physically, since it had been a short time, although his mother found him thinned by the march he had been subjected to, but mentally.

None of them had traveled so many kilometers in their entire life and none had seen so much of Italy.

Only Otello had entered various cities and had experienced what it meant to be Italian.

Embracing his father, just before a dinner he had dreamed of for weeks, Otello let himself go:

You were right. On the whole. Now I get it.

The man nodded his head.

His son, in two months, had matured nearly a decade.

Now no one could tell him what to do and where to go, as he would have chosen by himself.

He was free and he knew he was.

Autumn passed and the outbreaks of revolt were all extinguished, returning almost to the initial situation.

There was one exception.

On November 24, the Pope fled Rome, and a month later a decree was published for the National Constituent Assembly of the Roman state.

A new flame burned in Otello's eyes.

Rome, the capital of the Empire and before the Republic, the future capital of Italy.

He also convinced Luca this time.

His friend was struck by the stories of those months and wanted to participate in history too.

No one in the family was surprised by the decision and no one dared to ask why.

The only question he was asked concerned the timing:

When are you leaving?

With the new year…

A city resplendent with monuments and history awaited him, but Otello didn't go there because of its glorious past, but rather to build a new future.

He put the red shirt back in the sack.

He was sure it would come in handy.

III

Rome – Italy, 1849

Finally in Rome.

Luca and Otello embraced when they saw the city in the distance.

The former, in particular, was not used to marching for so long and had slowed down Otello's march which, otherwise, would have taken a couple of days less.

They had made use of help from the farmers only to overcome the Apennines which, during the winter season, were covered with snow at least in the upper part.

For the rest, they had continued on foot.

As soon as in the city, Otello presented himself to one of the many committees, showing off his credentials.

There were still no rules on the matter, as everyone was waiting for the National Assembly elections which would take place a week later, on January 21st and, therefore, the two were received with substantial coldness.

But Otello knew how to do it.

Volunteers from all over Italy were arriving in the city and the ties he had had a few months earlier had been profound.

He found a small group that had fought in Luino and joined it.

Luca went in tow, waiting for some important event.

In less than three weeks, it was not disregarded.

Both Garibaldi and Mazzini were elected and in early February the Roman Republic was proclaimed.

On the morning of February 9, Luca and Otello, together with a jubilant crowd, attended the reading of the fundamental decree, proclaimed at the Campidoglio.

Neither of them had ever seen such a splendid city and Otello had to change his mind about what he had judged of Milan.

Rome was definitely the real capital in terms of history and culture.

There were monuments of all kinds at every corner and only the widespread ignorance among the population did not allow us to fully enjoy what we had been.

The Papacy has kept everyone in ignorance for centuries, but that will change.

It was enough for Luke to listen to the first articles of the decree to be convinced of the good reasons:

" Article 1: The papacy has fallen in fact and in law from the temporal government of the Roman State.

Article 2: The Roman Pontiff will have all the guarantees necessary for independence in the exercise of his spiritual power.

Article 3: The form of government of the Roman State will be pure democracy and will take the glorious name of the Roman Republic.

Article 4: The Roman Republic will have the relations with the rest of Italy which a common nationality requires .

In addition, he had noticed that the population sympathized with them and always offered food.

He had never eaten his fill as much as in Rome and, in his heart, he told himself that if all military campaigns as a volunteer had been like this, he would not have minded a life of adventure shooting musket and sword.

Only a few female companions were missing to complete the picture he had always imagined.

He wondered why he hadn't joined Otello sooner.

His friend tried to dampen the enthusiasm.

" Here, for now, is Paradise, but the battle will not be long in coming.

First, we need to get you a uniform and a weapon."

After a couple of days, Luca wore a red Garibaldian shirt and had been equipped with a musket.

He did not understand why there should be clashes.

If the population had voted and if popular expression had been adequately represented, why should power go against it?

Otello tried to explain the situation to him, although he was ignorant of many political implications.

" First of all, the Pope wants to return to command and has called various foreign powers to his rescue. And then, these are interested in finishing the job. They put down every revolt. In Milan, Palermo, Tuscany and Venice. And also elsewhere in France and in Vienna.

Why would they allow a Republic in Rome?

Do you know what it means for Kings?"

Luca thought about it for a while.

Also for the Savoy?

Otello wasn't sure of the answer.

He doubted every King, but he knew that the only hope for unifying Italy would come from a concrete commitment from the House of Savoy.

He waved a hand as if to say forget it and avoided the answer.

It was immediately clear that the military question was predominant.

You can hold elections and write laws, but if external powers intervene to forcefully put an end to such an experience, everything becomes useless.

Otello attended a couple of coordination meetings.

He told Luca to shut up and listen.

He himself would not have uttered a word.

At the end of them, he remained hesitant and some threatening thoughts began to swirl in his head.

If the provinces would have been at the mercy of the invasion of Austria and Naples, Tuscany and other armies, what was worth defending Rome alone?

It would be a matter of time, but eventually they would capitulate.

Why all this?

Why not surrender immediately without bloodshed?

When the French intervened, he was dumbfounded.

Had they, the defenders of the rights of the Revolution who had brought a Bonaparte back to power, betrayed in this way?

Would they, who forty years earlier had dislodged the Pope, now bring one of his heirs back to power going against a Republic?

It was impossible to believe.

Seeing him in this state, his fellow soldiers heartened him.

You think too much. Leave it to the bigwigs, as they say here. We only have these...

And they pointed to his arms.

Was it then a simple equivalence relation?

The people have arms and intellectuals have brains.

And what right did the nobles have more than anyone else?

He thought no further and drank some wine.

Alcohol had a strange effect on him, numbing his senses and making him fall into a deep sleep during which all doubts disappeared, waking up the following morning filled only with certainties.

Manara arrives with the Bersaglieri!

The Lombard Division was expected in Anzio by the end of April, but the French wanted to bring the times forward.

They sought a surprise assault, but Manara anticipated their arrival with a forced march.

We will be with the brigade commanded by Garibaldi and we will have to defend the Gianicolo.

In the city everything was a swarm of soldiers and preparations.

Luca trembled for his baptism of fire, but Otello tried to extinguish his enthusiasm.

Stay close to me. The important thing is to get to the evening alive, remember that.

The beginning of the battle was boring for Luke.

Immediate action was expected, but the French had decided to assault another area and all seemed calm on the Gianicolo.

Oudinot is afraid of Garibaldi and is trying to break through where the National Guard is, towards Porta Cavalleggeri.

Otello had made his way around the city well.

After only three months he knew the topography of Rome in great detail.

It was evident that he had already had experience and that, somehow, he was cut out for adventure and travel.

Luca, on the other hand, couldn't find his way around the labyrinthine melting pot of streets and alleys of the capital.

It was too vast for him, as he had always been used to Parma where everyone had known each other for some time and where there was no urban change that went unnoticed.

But they don't know what awaits them...

Otello concluded his speech as the sun rose high over Rome.

Spring had blossomed luxuriantly in the city, as if wanting to rejoice together with the population and wanting to give the historic monuments a less austere and more modern look.

If only he had fully enjoyed this spectacle without the guns ringing!

Otello had hoped for this, but he knew it was a vain omen until the powerful had played war, repressing a people's desire for freedom.

Abuse and injustice had to be fought precisely to allow everyone to live in peace and freedom.

Luca stared at him dazed and Otello, as he was finishing the loaf, scolded him:

The National Guard is equipped with cannons and sniper rifles. They will reject them.

So it happened.

Probably the French had underestimated the forces of the Republic.

Now it's our turn.

Garibaldi saw the military opportunity and exploited it.

Sending the French to rout, making them retreat in shame, affecting their pride and state of mind and, above all, unleashing a wave of indignation towards those who should have defended their attempt.

To the bayonet!

Otello showed Luca how to do it.

Run and stay close to me.

They came out of their positions screaming.

The French did not bear the brunt and it was a total triumph.

That same evening, there were celebrations throughout Rome.

An atmosphere of euphoria pervaded each person, although everyone was aware of the long-term result.

Oudinot would have asked for reinforcements and, waiting for them, would have stipulated a truce, while the Bourbons would have attacked from the south.

In addition, as usual, there were different views between Garibaldi and Mazzini.

The former accustomed to acting, he had an indestructible fame in the field.

The second still hoped for a French rethink.

With the army strengthened, Oudinot would have won and the Roman Republic would have ended.

Don't relax too much, there will be work for us outside Rome.

Otello warned his friend.

He was acting like a veteran now and, in fact, he was.

Few could boast on Italian soil more experience as a volunteer, combined with an unshakeable faith in the national and republican cause.

They participated in the sorties of Palestrina and Terracina.

Both not decisive, but enough to convince the Bourbons to desist from a major military campaign.

Everything is in the hands of Mazzini and the treaty with the French, so was the rumor that circulated among the departments, although few believed in a peaceful resolution.

The French were many more than before and now considered themselves militarily superior and would not have missed such an opportunity.

The new Bonaparte, only a simulacrum of his uncle, had to acquire a victory to reclaim France's role.

The treaty was reached, but Bonaparte himself disregarded it.

Now there were thirty thousand troops besieging Rome and it would only be a matter of time. Everyone knew it, but despite this, no one was willing to let the French enter through the main gate, handing over the city to them.

He attacked a day ahead of schedule, violating the established truce.

Cursed.

On the Gianicolo, however, there were Garibaldi's volunteers.

The battle was bloody and the French dominance prevailed.

We have to fight back.

At Villa Corsini, the volunteer corps attempted a masterstroke, but this time the French were too many.

In the evening, sad news spread among the soldiers.

Goffredo Mameli had been seriously injured.

Just him, the one of the song that everyone knew by heart by now.

He was only a few years older than Otello and Luca, who had known him personally and took him as a reference.

From that day on, the French started shelling the city.

A disfigurement for the history represented by Rome.

There was anger among the population and not so much for the future return of the Pope, who would now be back within a few months.

Anger at the opportunity that would have escaped.

Anger because Rome could put itself at the head of a free and independent state led by Italians, without the need for a king.

Anger because it was the French cousins, the ones who had brought the wind of liberation a couple of generations earlier, who had broken the dream.

Mazzini refused to surrender and this led to a resurgence of Oudinot's action.

By now it was the last desperate hours of the Republic, but the volunteers did not hold back.

Still on the Gianicolo, the last battle was fought.

And like a few months before, it was a bayonet assault.

Otello lost sight of Luca during the race and then did not find him in the fray.

It would have served no purpose, except to decree the great sacrifice of a generation for an ideal.

Luciano Manara fell.

A hard blow for everyone.

He was prepared for death, he had written a letter a short time before.

What Otello could not accept was seeing his friend wounded, but with a marked fate.

He had been shot through and he didn't have much time left.

A few slurred words.

Go tell…

Otello thought about his family, but Luca concluded.

… that a patriot of Italy and of the Republic died here.

He shook his hand and put it on his shoulders.

He would have received a proper burial.

Otello was unable to sleep.

It was he who had convinced him and now he was dead, partly his fault. Why? How was he going to continue his life with such a boulder on his conscience?

The following day there was the surrender, but not before proclaiming the Constitution of the Roman Republic.

Otello read it with tears in his eyes:

" FUNDAMENTAL PRINCIPLES

I. - Sovereignty is by eternal right in the people. The people of the Roman state is constituted in a democratic republic.

II. - The democratic regime has as its rule equality, freedom, fraternity. It does not recognize titles of nobility or privileges of birth or caste.

III. - The Republic with its laws and institutions promotes the improvement of the moral and material conditions of all citizens.

IV. - The Republic regards all peoples as brothers: it respects every nationality: it advocates the Italian language.

V. - The Municipalities all have equal rights: their independence is limited only by the laws of general utility of the State.

YOU. - The fairest possible distribution of local interests, in harmony with the political interest of the State, is the norm of the territorial division of the Republic.

VII. - The exercise of civil and political rights does not depend on religious belief.

VIII. - The Head of the Catholic Church will have from the Republic all the guarantees for the independent exercise of spiritual power .

What was it for now? The Republic would soon be cancelled.

To give a warning. To the French, first of all, to tell them that they have betrayed their principles and we are the embodiment of them. And then for posterity. Sooner or later, there will be Italians who will adopt these laws. It might even take a hundred years.

A gentleman never seen heartened Otello.

It seemed like a dream what he had sustained.

Otello wandered around the city in search of consolation.

No historical monument and no corner of Rome consoled him, not even the completely green meadows, which however had been stained with Italian blood.

The following day Garibaldi harangued the volunteers:

I am leaving Rome, whoever wants to continue the war against foreigners should come with me. I promise no wages, no soft idleness. Water and bread, when you have some.

There were four thousand of them, including Otello.

He knew what awaited him.

A long march north.

Umbria and Arezzo as first stops.

And like the previous year, there was a pursuer, but no more the Austrians.

They were French and the disproportion of forces was equally high.

In a month they arrived in San Marino, formally an independent republic, but to get to Venice they needed sea transport.

Venice had been considered as the last outpost from which to start another armed insurrection.

As on Lake Maggiore, Otello and the volunteers captured a flotilla of boats, but were immediately intercepted by the Austrians.

Many volunteers had already disappeared before and some had not embarked and only a few did not fall into Austrian hands.

Otello was aware that this meant being shot on the spot.

Like every time, the body of volunteers was decimated during the escape and it was just luck that they were on the right boat which ran aground in Comacchio.

But the worst was yet to come.

Those were days of anguish, fleeing from hut to hut escorted by the local population.

Everywhere the peoples helped them.

Of this Otello could be a witness.

There was no person who sided with the foreign power and who denounced them, indeed everyone did their best to lend a hand, even at the risk of their own lives.

Otello witnessed the heartbreaking scene of the death of Anita, Garibaldi's wife.

Was it possible that this was the only way out?

The death?

No hope?

And how many more deaths would there have been?

Was that really the life he would lead?

Luckily he had remained alive, how much longer would he have tempted fate?

They left from there, passing through Ravenna and Forlì.

Parma was not far away and Otello took leave of the general, who would go to Tuscany following the Apennine road and from there into exile.

By now accustomed to walking for long stretches without stopping, to hiding in the open, thanks to the warm weather, he would be in Parma in a few days.

There he would collect his thoughts and meditate.

His father and mother welcomed him as if he had been resurrected from the dead.

They had known nothing of him for three months and had believed him dead after the news of the failure of the republican experiment had arrived.

What was it for?

His mother asked.

Otello didn't know.

He didn't have all the answers.

His only gesture was to deliver his son's red shirt to Luca's family, reporting his last words.

He stayed in Parma for a month, long enough to see autumn arrive.

The few surviving volunteers had gone into exile.

Sooner or later the Austrians or the Savoy or others would have arrived at his door and would have translated him into prison.

His anonymous appearance would not shield him forever and he knew that, by remaining in Parma, he would put everyone at risk.

It wasn't fair for others to pay for his choices.

It was he who had wanted to leave as a volunteer.

Now he had to prove that he was an adult.

I'm going to Paris.

His father was amazed, not so much at the departure, he was certain of that by now, but at the destination.

Just by whom did he betray us?

Otello looked his father in the eye. He had included himself in the republican cause and a surge of gratitude welled up from his depths.

After all, they supported his choice of life.

Yes. We have a good network there. It will be easy for me to hide and find a job. Rebuilding my life until things settle down here.

Otello