July 18. The sun was very high. It was noon, the hour in which the gendarmes were accustomed to begin their period of rest. We started on our journey. Before arriving at Vittorio we met numerous squads of Russian and Italian prisoners working on the roads, breaking stones with hammers. The roads were so badly kept that whenever a vehicle passed huge clouds of white dust arose. Those miserable remnants of men whose faces and bodies were evidence of the unheard of sufferings they had endured, staggered and swayed, for they were drunk from the heat of the sun and fatigue. An enemy soldier, armed with rifle and drawn bayonet, superintended the work and another oppressor held a whip in his hand. As soon as one of them fell, overcome by heat and weariness, the watchman cracked his whip in the air, and unless the prisoner resumed his work at once the watchman struck him heavily on the poor, lacerated shoulders and the torn flesh. I should have liked to delay a moment with one of them; I should have liked to pour out to them all my compassion, all my sympathy, but I restrained myself to avoid arousing suspicion and the need for explaining to them who I was, for, from my way of talking, they might suspect that I was an Italian officer.
It was very warm and the pack on my shoulders weighed heavily upon me. The bundle was full of wood which I took with me as a precaution, since I intended to go into my house which had been turned into an Austrian headquarters. If someone were to ask me the reason why I entered I could say that I was a peasant who had come to bring some wood to the civilians who were still living in the house. Along the entire road there was a great deal of commotion and everywhere the hungry, weary prisoners trailed heavily about. An immense sultriness weighed us down, and the mountains, burned and tanned by the sun, flung back their heat upon the white roads. We arrived at Costa where the Austrians had constructed a large station for despatching the aerial cable cars with material and food for the army at the front. On that day I scarcely recognized the scenery which I have known for so many years, because it was so changed. Where there used to be broad, tranquil cultivated fields there was now the noise and excitement of a great railroad station despatching along many tracks the traffic of its trains. Only one thing had survived, the little church surrounded by cypress trees which adjoined the cemetery.
My comrades continued on their weary way, but I entered the cemetery for a moment to bring a greeting to the tomb of my mother. Nothing had changed, the little graves were still there, so were the round wreaths which trembled in the wind, and at the background near the encircling wall was our family tomb. The sepulchral stone was still intact and on it were yet engraved the words, “Famiglia De Carlo Granelli.” The great rose bush which climbed up the cross looked weary; its fallen petals rested on the tomb. I knelt with one knee on the ground. All my life reappeared before me with the sweetness of infancy, and from my dry lips there came the cry of suffering humanity, the cry I have heard so often from the mouths of the wounded and dying, “Mother, Mother!” I prayed for a moment, then I plucked one of the red roses which still bloomed for the dead and their survivors and returned to the dusty road.
As I reached the first houses of Vittorio everything seemed devastated, everything seemed changed. It was as if I were meeting a person I had known as young and beautiful and whom I now saw again after his surviving some terrible skin disease. Every place was cluttered with filth left by the soldiers and reeked with the nauseating stench of their refuse. I recognized the smell; it was the smell which would greet us on entering the trenches seized from the enemy, it was the smell of the enemy, of the Austrians. I slowly sauntered along the road flanked by mansions on which bulletins in German were posted, “Weg nach Fadalto.” I had reached the great gate in front of my house, the faÇade had not been touched, the large coat-of-arms in hammered brass was still in its place. This was strange because they had gone about requisitioning all metals for making projectiles. On the threshold I met several Austrian officers who were leaving the house and they did not even look at me. I went up the service stairs and reached one of the ante-rooms. The doors were open, an inch of dust lay on the old furniture, and on the huge, round chest of drawers under which we used to hide when we were children. The huge carved portals of the ballroom were open and I entered. The great mural paintings which celebrate the glories and clemency of Alexander—because one of my ancestors was called Alexander—were still hanging on the walls. The chandeliers of Venetian glass still depended from the high ceiling and the beams in the Sansovinian style still displayed the whiteness of their plaster and their gilt coatings. The room seemed larger than usual and more severe in its nakedness. The furniture had been removed so that I could better appreciate the calm, harmonious lines of the Corinthian columns supporting the beams. The gilt painted figures high up near the gallery were still in their places and seemed to gaze out at me from their carved frames. In that gallery, in the eighteenth century the musicians were wont to sit, and powdered ladies bent in courtesies to the gay sound of violins. Now the room was filled with little beds; it looked like a ward in a hospital. The transient Austrian officers slept here and several Generals had occupied the inner rooms in which the tapestries hung. Therefore, I was not able to venture in for I was a stranger in my own home. Several Russian prisoners were polishing the brass knobs on the doors and dusting the heavy woodwork. No one looked at me, no one bothered about me.
I entered the ante-chamber which leads into what used to be our dining room, I entered and found before me all the portraits of my ancestors who looked down upon me from their frames. “Jacopos Minuzius, 1593-1652.” It was strange the way they all seemed to be directing their glance towards me from the canvasses blackened by time. The walls were still covered by the antique brocade and above the chimney, little flying cupids supported a crown of laurel over the portrait of an august cavalier with powdered wig, who wore a light breastplate ornamented with beautiful carvings. Beneath was the map of a turreted city about which an attacking army aims its cannon, and the name “Andreas Minuzius,” a date, “Anno 1662,” and the inscription, “Buda ruens Bavaros claret augetque triumphos.” Farther on stands Marco Antonio Minuzius, Bishop of Zara, his hand white against the red of his cardinal robe.
“Good sirs, my ancestors, do you recognize your grandchild? The grandchild who is fighting a far different war from the one you fought, but not less worthy nor less adventurous. The enemies are always the same, Turks and Bavarians. Good sirs, my ancestors, are you proud of these poor rags which I have made my armor? Are you satisfied with your distant offspring?”
On the dark canvas a slanting ray of sunlight gleamed and I did not await their answer.
After having hurriedly greeted De Luca and Marietta, our old domestic, I rapidly resumed my weary way to overtake my companions on the road towards Serravalle. At the market-place I met two Austrian gendarmes who, with drawn bayonets, were accompanying three of our prisoners and with the butts of their guns were inciting them to hasten their steps. Ugly encounter!... Naturally, not to arouse suspicion, I retarded my pace and stopped for a moment feigning to contemplate the prisoners. Outside of Vittorio I overtook Bottecchia and the women, and we resumed our journey through the hills which lead to Tarzo where we found a road which led to Vidor.
The way was long and arduous and we followed the back of the hills which divide the plain from Valle di Folina. The little lakes of Revine and Santa Maria di Lago reflected in their deep waters the heavy azure of the sky, and the shadows of the mountains met in the changing reflections of the water. The road ascended continually until it became almost a path. We descended the little decline on which is nestled the village of Tarzo and, strengthened by some good warm soup, we stole a few hours of sleep. At one o’clock after midnight, when all was still, everyone was asleep and even the gendarmes were not accustomed to be about on the roads, we traveled on. An old man who had often been on the front lines and who knew the ground inch by inch had added himself to our group. Bottecchia was not happy in these days; he questioned everything which might prove a sign of the future and he was greatly depressed because when starting, a woman was the first person he met, a sign, which, according to his theory, denoted bad luck. At times we followed the road, and at times followed short-cuts which enabled us to gain time. After many hours, during which we traversed a long stretch of road, we passed through the villages of Refrentolo, Soliga and Solighetto only to find that soldiers were quartered in most of the houses.
We now had to cross a bridge where a sentinel was on guard, but after we had shown him our papers he permitted us to pass without further trouble. We reached Fara, the last village in which there were still civilians and we sat on the ground for a moment to eat a bite. The women spoke aloud since there did not seem to be a living soul about us. Suddenly, when we least expected it, there appeared before us a little, shriveled soldier who spoke German very badly and appeared to be a Slovene. He asked us for our legitimization papers; we showed them to him and kept on eating so as not to arouse suspicion. He frowned, wanted to know why we had come here, and told us that it was prohibited to go and glean wheat near the front lines because several women had been wounded recently by projectiles fired from the Italian side and because the sight of people attracts the fire of the Italian artillery onto the trenches. A magical method which usually succeeded in calming the Austrians was to offer them something to eat and we hoped that even our questioner could be calmed, like Cerberus, by throwing a cake into his mouth. I therefore offered to share our meal with him, but would that I had never done it! He was resentful, angry, said he was not to be bought, and that we must be spies. He drew his bayonet and ordered us to follow him to the nearest guard post. He made us march in line in front of him while he followed with his gun ready to fire at anyone of us who offered any opposition. We had no alternative but to follow and to try to win by using our wits. The stick I carried worried me for it was a hollow cane with corks at the ends, and in it I had concealed all the documents sent to me by Brunora for transporting them to the other side. But, before they arrested us, I should always have time to throw it away without being noticed.
We reached the guard post which was a little hut of straw. Two soldiers were asleep and only a corporal was on guard. A heated discussion now ensued between our captor and the corporal but I did not understand them for they spoke in Slav. From their gestures I understood that the corporal, after having examined our papers, found them valid, whereas, the other insisted that we be sent to the Command of Gendarmes at Miane where they could better judge of the validity of our papers. The women began to whimper, entreating the corporal to set us free, for at home our children awaited us. The corporal, a tall young man with a pleasant look, let himself be persuaded and ordered us to return home at once. We pretended to start on our journey home but instead, after we had gone a short distance, we changed direction, crossed the main road and walked for a long distance close to the embankment of the road that the soldiers on the other side might not see us. After we had traversed a goodly distance and had watched several wagons of artillery pass towards the front, we tried to reach the left side of the road to rediscover the short-cut we had been compelled to leave. At that point there was a little bridge and near the bridge were many tree-trunks. As we were about to pass behind the tree-trunks a soldier with drawn bayonet appeared crying, “zÜruck, zÜruck.” We did not make him repeat his command and hurriedly returned to the country on the other side. The man on guard was confident that he had obstructed our passage and did not suspect that as soon as he was out of sight we should resume our journey in the direction towards the front. To avoid being seen we stepped into a little ditch where the water was low and which had two very high hedges of acacia on either side. The water reached to our knees, but this was an excellent way of not being discovered and after we had passed the most dangerous zone we should be able to travel more freely.
Having journeyed for several hundred yards in the ditch we again followed the path through the country and fortunately we found no more sentinels to bar our way. We were now crossing the district where the artillery which took part in the recent combat had probably been stationed. Now there remained only little squares cluttered with torn telephone wires and tablets which must have indicated the division occupying that region. We crossed a demolished village with shattered houses and torn rooms, where bits of familiar objects which showed through the ruins reminded us of the tranquil life of days gone by. All the fountains were destroyed and in vain we sought everywhere for a draught of water to moisten our dry throats.
The country was now rougher and more wild for we were not far from the stream of the Piave. We began to come to extensive wheat fields from which almost all the sheaves had been cut and where women eagerly gathered the few left and threw them into their sacks that they might bring home the means of making a little bread. Near the long rows of grape-vines there were many store-houses for guns and artillery and I looked carefully about to see if there was a guard anywhere, but I saw no sign of an Austrian. The last one we saw before arriving at this spot was a Hungarian with a long mustache, who was resting peacefully on the grass beside a stud of horses at their meal. The vines of American grapes were heavy with fruit, and they were the only fruit-bearing vines I had seen in a long time because the others, which all needed sulphur, had shriveled and dried up. We reached the Chapel of the Madonna del Carmine which is a few hundred yards from the rim of the Piave. We should now have to be very cautious for there would be guards on the front lines. I could not understand how we had been able to come so far without finding any wire entanglements or a trench. We traveled on, keeping close to the grape-vines. When hidden in the wheat we imitated the women, who had begun sheaving. I tried to reach a point whence I could see the course of the Piave to get an idea of the defenses constructed by the Austrians and the difficulties we should have to overcome in crossing. Near the margin the enemy had dug huge holes lined with boards and prepared for machine-guns, but no soldiers were on guard. By crawling on the ground I reached another hole and I saw two Austrians who, instead of standing on guard were sleeping heavily. The trees were thicker near the brink, and with infinite precaution I arrived as far as a spot from which I could see the course of the river. The bed was very broad; the Piave separated into an infinite number of little streams and about half a mile away the real, strong current flowed. Along the entire bank beneath us ran a little wood and on the exterior edge of the wood there were entanglements. Then the gravel began and there were two lines of entanglements which did not seem to me to be firmly anchored to the ground. Our artillery was firing and its shells exploded on the other side of the major current where perhaps the enemy had some small posts.
I gained a sufficiently accurate notion of the topography of the place and when night fell we were to try to pass. All day we lay crouching on the ground covered by the wheat and chewed the little grass we could find, that we might feel less the terrible thirst which burned us. The sun had never felt so hot to me, and its ball of fire seemed never to wish to set. Toward evening several Italian aeroplanes flew low and performed tricks over our heads, upon which the outpost began to fire. Blessed are the flying men who have no entanglements to separate them from our lines, whereas we, as soon as the sun had set, would have to commence our struggle against man and the elements.
