Black Brigade

                                                                                     APRIL 26

On the evening of April 26, 1945, in the city of Como, a thousand fires lit up as if to bid a final farewell to the last rays of the sun, reflecting on the waters of the lake. These were the campfires of the fascists, coming from all directions to gather around Mussolini and seek refuge in Valtellina, while at the same time reaching out, like a futile hope, towards the Swiss border just beyond the city center.

Around one of these fires, near the little bridge that spans the mouth of the Breggia in Tavernola, sat forty or more members of the Black Brigade, no officers among them, the highest-ranking had the insignia of an Adjutant. The news was grim; the Swiss had mobilized the army to close the border, Mussolini's whereabouts were unknown, and individuals with lawyer-like and political faces were circulating through the camps spreading the word that surrender would be inevitable the next day.

For this reason, they discussed gloomily among themselves, in their dialect.

Many from the same homeland would not have recognized that dialect because they were Italians from Nice, who had joined the Party and later formed the Black Brigade of Nice to affirm the Italian identity of Garibaldi's city. For this, they were considered traitors by the French.

When they had to leave Nice, they were transferred with their Federal leader to Parma. There they split up; some stayed to defend their families, hoping to be captured by the Americans rather than the partisans. The others, the more pragmatic ones, headed towards the last stronghold in Valtellina.

Now they were trapped in Como with the others, faced with the choice of falling into the hands of the partisans or being handed over to the French, which was even worse.

"Fanti, what should we do?"

"If we return to Nice, the French will kill us all."

"To pass into Switzerland we should become birds."

" Whatever, but surrendering is not an option."

"And finally, someone who understands! Anyone who stays here to get caught is already dead."

The last sentence, spoken with a perfect Tuscan inflection, came from outside. Paolòn, the bearded Adjutant, raised his gaze beyond the circle of his companions, to see a pair of gray mustaches amidst the flickering firelight.

"And who are you?" Paolòn asked.

The newcomer stepped into the middle; he was of average height, but the uniform of an Sturmbannfuhrer of the Italian SS division, a Major, gave him an imposing presence.

Accompanying him was an old man with a green cap tilted to the side, shrunk by age but whose eyes and posture betrayed the seafaring background of a sailor.

"I am the Cantucci," said the officer. "This other gentleman with me is called Cicciamiccia, and he's been a smuggler since birth. He has crossed all sea and land routes, knows paths even the Swiss army is unaware of, and can lead us beyond the border. I need people who can keep the partisans at bay but not a number to attract too much attention."

They did not respond, intimidated by the ranks, and Cantucci continued to speak as if they had already expressed their approval, transitioning from the tone of exposition to that of command.

"However, it must be people willing to leave now, as soon as it gets dark, and march all night, even into the morning if necessary. Because tomorrow will be too late. I'm telling you, tomorrow will be too late to escape this mousetrap. Sergeant! Or whatever you call yourselves in the Brigade! Take two armed men and follow me; I have a truck full of equipment."