FORTITUDE

The year was 1943, late September to early October; growing up in a then North-East Italy called Fiumè, it was a simple life. Like any other family, I had my step-mother Rita, who, with love and care, took care of the house (my biological mother, Albina, died years earlier from Tuberculosis, which was very common at the time). There was my father, Giuseppe, who went out and earned a living as a builder. Then there were my two younger siblings, Sergio, thirteen years old – only a year younger than myself and his sister Lucia who was no more than two years old. My brother and I would help around the house like any other dutiful sons would; Sergio and I were always on good terms. Fiumè was a beautiful place to grow up. Fantastic if you were a history buff, being on the border of Italy. It has traditionally been influenced by Italy, Croatia/Yugoslavia, and a bit further back by the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Treasured as it gave them an otherwise landlocked empire as desperately needed port. Fiumè was even an independent state for a very brief period, along with Trieste (another nearby border city). Its independence led US President Woodrow Wilson to suggest Fiume´ as the home for the “new” League of Nations post World War One at the Paris Peace Conference. The primary language was Italian at the time. We had Italian schools and institutions but many secondary languages, Croatian, English, Slovene, Hungarian & German, given to all of the influences of the past several hundred years. Alas, this was not a happy time. We lived in World War II Europe; one need not try hard to find death and destruction, pain and suffering. We lived in a time where you had to pick a side (not to pick one was to leave you open to being labeled whatever was convenient by agitators and could be worse for you in the long run), fascist, communist, socialist, or democrat. People were prepared to die for their belief and forcefully impose it on others. This is, after all, part of the definition of fascism, to forcibly impose one’s political beliefs on another. However, this day would not be like any other day; in fact, this will be a day that changes my life. My father, Giuseppe, was a leader in the local Yugoslavian Partisans. When I turned 14 years old, my father decided it was time for me to join him. We often went on patrols with groups of men, anywhere between four and thirty men. With my father as a leader in the local Partisans, I enjoyed friendly platitudes from the locals. Something that I would later learn wouldn’t always last. One early Saturday morning, my father and I left the family home to join our local Yugoslavian Partisan unit. As usual, my father took up the position of patrol leader. I, along with the other youth, was to follow behind a street or two. The purpose? If anything happened, we could easily fall back and call for reinforcements, tell the locals to get behind cover or help – only if we could make a difference. We were patrolling the inner-city of Fiumè ; it was a beautiful day, being a seaside town, there was the smell of sea salt in the air, the sun gently caressing our skin; it was picture perfect. Then the partisan patrol inadvertently happened upon a squad of German soldiers on their morning patrol. There wasn’t much time to decide what to do; it was apparent both the Partisans and the Germans’ didn’t expect to bump into each other. It was quickly decided that the most experienced of the group went ahead; this also meant that if things went by the wayside, the younger, more inexperienced group can scatter and report back to other partisans. It didn’t take very long before a scuffle broke out between the two sides. The Partisans gave as good as they took; the combat was intense. The Partisans were armed with truncheons, some with pistols, all with concealed knives. The Germans each had a weapon that gave them an immediate upper hand, mainly sporting Kar98 rifles and one MP40 submachinegun . Because the two sides accidentally happened upon each other, the fight was close quarters; this leveled the field of play for the Partisans initially. Both teams took heavy losses during the opening minutes of the skirmish. Alas, the clash quickly took a turn for the worst for the Partisans. The Germans, not for an excess of bravery or stoic resistance, but for being better equipped – quickly turned the tide against the Partisans. I watch eagerly with the other young men as the fight progressed, adrenaline-pumping; we too wanted to join for melee. Alas, we had our instructions to remain behind. Then it happened, my father was shot in the head by the officer with a service pistol. One of the other senior members screamed out to us, waiting in the rear, “RUN!”. The signal is given, though a moment of hesitation compelled me to stay if it were not for one of the other young men pulling me away, then I might have died there too. Myself and the other younger members saw that there was no way of us winning or influencing the outcome of the fight, and followed the instruction and fled on foot. Without a moment to pause to grieve my father, we all ran as fast as our legs could take us; there was no talking; we were running too fast to speak. Then we tried to make a break for the partisan headquarters; however, we just saw more German soldiers flooding the area. There was nothing for it, and we would have to go to “Plan B” (improvise), so we wouldn’t get caught nor accidentally betray the partisan leadership HQ. We decided to run into the nearby bush. We ran and ran, without thought of looking back.