The next morning dawned cloudy but calm. The place appointed for the execution was the military Exerzierplatz between Villa Opicina and Trebiciano, up on the arid comb of the karst ridge that towers above the city of Trieste: a bleak, windswept expanse of roughly levelled ground among the thin pine trees, worn bare of vegetation by generations of tramping soldiers’ boots and the bellowing of countless drill sergeants. I was relieved by this: as I had suspected, the original plan had been to shoot di Carraciolo against the wall of the Citadel in the centre of the city, but in the end it had been decided to carry out the grisly ceremony up here on the ridge for fear of unrest and perhaps demonstrations among the city’s Italians. There was a small, overgrown cemetery near by, used once for burying smallpox victims from the city below. After the execution the body would be discreetly interred here in an unmarked grave. Old Austria had centuries of experience at this sort of thing and knew that patriots would be less inclined to keep laying wreaths if they had to trudge all the way up from Trieste to do it.
Meyerhofer and I arrived at first light in the Flik’s staff car. Neither of us spoke much. Inside us our stomachs were already knotted with apprehension. Suppose that someone got nervous and talked? We stood waiting in the early-morning chill of autumn as the sky began to lighten over Lipizza. It had not been easy for us to get permission to attend. Myself, I had had a very trying interview with the Naval District Defence Commander, Rear-Admiral the Freiherr von Koudelka, to explain exactly why I thought that I ought to be present at the execution to represent the k.u.k. Kriegsmarine. In the end I had been reduced to arguing that since Fiume came within Military District No. 72, which was a naval recruitment area, di Carraciolo might technically speaking be a deserter from the Imperial and Royal Fleet. The Admiral had given me a very strange look, perhaps wondering whether I collected leather straps and manacles as a hobby.
“Hmmm. Why are you so anxious to attend this execution, Prohaska? Interested in that sort of thing are you? I’ve always tried to avoid it myself, ever since I was a lieutenant on a torpedo-boat and had to attend as a witness when they hanged one of my crew for stabbing a tram conductor in Zara. Leave that kind of business to the provost’s department if you’ll take my advice: they have a taste for it.”
“I obediently report that I have no interest in executions, Herr Admiral. It’s just that my brother-officers and I are . . . er . . . outraged by this man’s dastardly treachery towards his Emperor and King and his base disloyalty towards the Noble House of Austria.”
“You’re what? ”
“Outraged by his disloyalty, Herr Admiral. We feel strongly that now the swine is getting his just deserts there should be representatives there from both armed services to see justice done.”
“But Prohaska, for God’s sake: from what I can see of it this Italian chap of yours is an Austrian subject only in the most technical sense of the word. Damn it all man, if we shot everyone who’d dodged service in the k.u.k. Armee and left the country these past thirty years we’d have all the ammunition factories working overtime to meet the demand. At a guess I’d say that about two-thirds of the United States Army must be technically Austrian subjects. No: in my official capacity as local naval commander I have to agree that the fellow deserves shooting, but as a sailor and a fighting soldier of the House of Austria I have to say that it stinks. If you ask me the military are looking for victims to frighten the rest, and frankly I’m surprised that you young fellows should wish to have any part in this wretched charade. This cursed war’s destroying everything we used to value. Even the junior officers are turning into prigs and informers now—no better than a bunch of Prussians. Frankly I’d have expected better of a Maria-Theresien Ritter. But there you are . . .” He scribbled something contemptuously on a slip of paper. “There’s your damned permission and may you choke on it. Once you’ve seen some poor devil tied to a post and shot you won’t be so keen for a second showing.”
So we waited there on the exercise ground, fortified only by a swig from Meyerhofer’s hipflask. I looked at my watch: 6:10 a.m. We had said 6:30. Would they arrive late even if they arrived at all? What would happen if they arrived before the execution party? It had always been a dictum in the tactics lectures back at the Marine Academy that in military operations, at least seventy-five per cent should be planning and no more than twenty-five per cent left to the vagaries of chance. I was beginning now to suspect, as I shivered in the early-morning chill, that we had pretty well reversed those proportions.
At last we heard the clashing and grinding of gears as a motor lorry laboured up the last steep stretch of the road that zigzagged up from Trieste. It contained the firing squad: a party of ten young and very sick- looking soldiers led by an Oberleutnant whose face expressed an intense desire to be anywhere else on earth but this particular place on this particular morning. The lorry was followed by a motor car containing the notorious Major Baumann—who always liked to be present at the execution of his victims—and a captain from the staff of the Militarhofgericht. They were accompanied by a military chaplain with two gold stripes on the cuffs of his soutane and by an army doctor with a black bag: to certify death I supposed. A working party out on the exercise ground had just finished driving a post into the stony soil and painting a whitewash line on the ground about ten paces in front of it.
Finally there arrived a second lorry, some way behind the rest of the procession. It lumbered to a halt and two soldiers with rifles and fixed bayonets got out to let down the tailboard. The lorry contained the star performer in this entertainment, handcuffed and escorted by four more soldiers. He was helped down none too gently from the lorry. He looked pale and exhausted: clearly Baumann and his assistants had still gone through their accustomed procedures even though the accused had admitted to everything from the very beginning. But I considered that, even with his hair cropped almost to disappearance and dressed in a patched infantry uniform several sizes too large for him, Major di Carraciolo still managed to comport himself with the dignity and bearing of a true officer. I glanced again at my watch. It was 6:17 already. Meyerhofer and I were straining our ears to catch any unusual noise, but so far we had been able to hear only the sounds of the city below awaking to yet another day of the war: the whistles of engines in the goods yards and the sirens of the factories. And of course the constant dull rumble of gunfire away on the Carso.
The rituals of justice now commenced. I had been present at an execution once before: my own, at a fort in the Arabian desert early in 1915, when the Turks had taken it into their heads to hang me as a spy. But this was the first time I had seen these procedures as a witness, and the whole business only served to reinforce my intense dislike of capital punishment. To kill a man in battle is not much: I had done as much several times already and would do so a number of times again. In those circumstances there is usually no time to think about it or to devise any better reason for doing it than that your victim will undoubtedly kill you if you do not kill him first. What I found obscene about this whole rigmarole as I saw it there that morning was the cold-blooded deliberation of it all: a thousand times more horrible and despicable than the lowest villain who sticks a knife into a cafe landlord in a brawl.
First the firing squad was marched up and sent forward one by one to pick up a loaded rifle from the ten weapons leaning against the lorry. Two of the ten had been loaded with blanks so that the young conscripts might console themselves afterwards by thinking that they had not after all fired a bullet into a defenceless man: a feeble pretence in fact, because anyone who has ever fired an army rifle will at once recognise the difference in recoil between ball-cartridge and blank. That part of the performance completed, the prisoner was led forward and bound to the post. Then, to my surprise, the doctor came up with his black bag and produced a stethoscope as di Carraciolo’s tunic was unbuttoned. He applied the instrument to the condemned man’s chest, then felt his pulse.
“What’s he doing?” I whispered to Meyerhofer.
“Making sure that the poor sod’s fit to undergo capital punishment.”
“What happens if he isn’t?”
“I suppose they just take him to the prison hospital, then bring him back here and shoot him when he’s feeling better.”
The medical profession having done its bit for the victim’s well-being, it was the turn of the Catholic Church, as embodied in the young Feld- kurat, complete now with crucifix and purple penitential stole. This appeared to be causing problems. Baumann strode over, then the chaplain signalled to me to join them. Di Carraciolo was being awkward and refusing to speak German.
“Tenente,” he said to me, smiling, “I’m afraid that the mental stress of preparing to be shot has caused me to forget how to speak German. Would you be so good as to tell these people that I’m an agnostic and a Freemason, and that I certainly don’t require the ministrations of this reactionary black-frock.” I translated these remarks for the benefit of the chaplain and Major Baumann. It looked for a moment as if the latter was going to explode. A large, red-faced man who always carried his head jutting forward like a bullock, his eyes bulged and he turned purple with rage.
“How dare you, you grovelling miserable Italian serpent! You’re under military law now and if I say you’ll get benediction you’ll damned well get it! Is that clear? Herr Feldkurat, absolve this bastard and give him the last rites at once so that we can get on with shooting him.”
“But Herr Oberst, the prisoner refuses to make confession . . .”
“DO AS YOU’RE DAMNED WELL TOLD!”
So di Carraciolo was hastily absolved and smeared with unction in nomine patris et filii et spiritu sancti. Then the chaplain was curtly dismissed to make way for a sergeant bearing a metal disc on a loop of string. It was the top of a ration tin. He hung it around the Major’s neck so that it lay over his heart as an aiming-point for the firing squad. Our fellows should have been in the air a good quarter-hour already, to draw away the hunt. Where were they? Meyerhofer said that they had certainly seen the message canister as he dropped it.
My thoughts were suddenly interrupted.
“Herr Leutnant, Herr Major, if you please. It’s the prisoner again: he wants to speak with you both.” I walked over once more to di Carraciolo, tied to the stake but still unblindfolded. Baumann stalked along beside me, head lowered and spluttering with rage.
“What is it now, damn and blast you? Herr Leutnant, tell this insubordinate Italian swine to stop wasting my time and to stand to attention when he addresses me.”
I conveyed these remarks to di Carraciolo.
“Please tell the Maggiore,” he said, “that I have not been granted a last request.” I relayed this to Baumann. The response was an immediate and vicious slap around the face for the condemned man.
“Himmeldonnerwetter! Last request, you miserable horse turd . . . By God I’ll have you shot . . . I mean, damn your eyes you greasy Wellischer bastard . . .”
“I only asked to be granted a last request. It is the custom I believe for condemned prisoners . . .”
I felt at this point that things were getting out of hand: Baumann was loosening his sabre in its scabbard and might soon use it. I beckoned Meyerhofer across to give me moral support. “Herr Major, we respectfully suggest that this man should be granted a last request. It is the custom in all civilised countries.”
“There’s nothing about it in military regulations.”
“No, Herr Major, but it is still the custom. Oberleutnant Meyerhofer and I are here to represent the k.u.k. Fliegertruppe and the Imperial Navy respectively, and we feel that it would be unfortunate if our reports on these events had to make reference to such an omission.”
“Oh very well then, damn you. Give the bugger his request, but quick about it: I’ve got prisoners waiting to be questioned back at the barracks. What does he want? ”
“To make a last speech if you please, Herr Major.”
“Speech? Speech be damned: I won’t allow it . . .”
“But Oberleutnant Meyerhofer and I must respectfully insist, Herr Major. It is also the custom that a condemned man should be allowed a speech from the gallows—or from the stake in this case. So if he can combine that with his last request time will be saved and everyone will be happy.”
Baumann rolled up his eyes, appealing to heaven. “Oh all right then. What language does the scum want to speak in?”
“In Italian I think, Herr Major.” Carraciolo nodded his assent.
“Herr Oberleutnant,” Baumann called to the officer commanding the firing squad, “do any of your men know Italian?”
“Obediently report that no, Herr Major. They’re all Ruthenes.” “Carry on then. But make it snappy, and no sedition, do you understand?” So, lashed tightly to his post, di Carraciolo proceeded to make his last oration. Of those present I suppose that only I understood the full import of the ringing phrases as they resounded across that barren, empty plateau high up there on the ridge of the karst, as the young soldiers of the firing squad fidgeted uneasily and the waking birds twittered among the pine trees: la Patria; Italia; il Risorgimento; the sacred flame of patriotism; the liberation of the last unredeemed fragments of Italy from under the rule of Francisco Giuseppe—“that blubber-lipped old hangman,” as the Major was pleased to describe him. By now Major Baumann was tapping his boot on the ground with impatience and looking at his watch. But Carraciolo was in full spate now on the glorious privilege of shedding his blood for his nation in these last days of struggle “to choke the life for ever from the two-headed Austrian vulture.” Future generations, he predicted, would hold sacred this spot where he had spilt his heart’s blood in the holy cause of freedom. Then he turned his attentions to me. “But what shall we say . . . si orrible, si perfido . . . of those vipers whose miserable lives I once spared, but who now come to gloat over my death. Yes my Austrian friend: you were unable to get the better of me in fair combat in the air, so now you have come to watch them shoot me, helpless and bound to a post like a dog. Be thankful that they will blindfold me, so that my eyes may not look into the depths of your black soul.”
If only you knew, I thought; if only you knew. But keep on, my Italian friend: the longer you spout the more time there’ll be. But where have they got to, damn them? It’s nearly 6:40 already. Suddenly Baumann barked:
“All right, that’s enough of that now, do you hear? You’ve had your say and breakfast’ll be getting cold.”
“But Herr Major . . .” I protested.
“Shut up. Feldwebel—tie on the blindfold and let’s get on with it.” My heart was pounding. No time left now: two minutes at the most. As the blindfold was being bound about his eyes Carraciolo burst into song: the “Chorus of the Hebrew Slaves” from Verdi’s Nabucco. Even after making allowance for the distressing circumstances, I considered that as an opera singer he was quite a good sculptor. At last everything was ready.
“Execution party, load and make safe!” The bolts of ten rifles rattled. “Execution party, safety catches off—take aim!” The rifles were levelled as the Oberleutnant stood with his sabre raised. I could see that his hand was shaking. Then a car horn honked from the edge of the exercise ground. It was a motor lorry lurching up the road with as much speed as a motor lorry could manage in those days when laden with soldiers. It stopped as the Oberleutnant hesitantly lowered his sabre and signalled to his men to order arms.
“Oh God, what is it now?” said Baumann.
As the officer marched up from the lorry and saluted I saw that he and his men were wearing the peakless high-fronted forage caps of a Hungarian cavalry unit. “Herr Major,” said the young Hauptmann in his singsong Magyar-German, “I fear that I must respectfully ask you to move your firing party aside and allow my men to execute this criminal.”
“On what grounds, damn you?”
“It has come to light that since this man is a native of Fiume he is a subject of Ferencz Josef, Apostolic King of Hungary, and not of Franz Joseph, Emperor of Austria, and therefore falls under the jurisdiction of the Royal Hungarian military authorities.”
“I don’t believe this,” Baumann muttered weakly. “Does that mean that you want to retry him?”
“Respectfully no: the royal Hungarian government in Budapest is quite content with the verdict of the Militarhofgericht here in Trieste. But it is also anxious that he should be shot by Hungarian troops. The matter has been referred to Prime Minister Tisza and he is quite emphatic on the point. I have the telegram here with me if you would like to see it.”
“But this is monstrous . . . outrageous. The court was assured that the man is an Austrian subject.”
“If he comes from Fiume then, by your leave, this cannot be. Fiume has been Hungarian territory since the Ausgleich of 1867.”
“But not all of it . . .”
“The suburbs perhaps not. But the main part of the city is ruled from Budapest.”
“I refuse to accept that: the court established that the man was born in the commune of Cantrida, which is Austrian territory . . .”
“. . . But with respect, his birth certificate was made out in the district of Bergudi, which is Hungarian territory . . .”
“. . . But he was later resident in the commune of Pilizza . . .”
“. . . Which became in part Hungarian territory in 1887 when the city boundary was extended.” The Hungarian captain turned to his sergeant and said something in Magyar. The man hurried across to the lorry and returned with a map. “Here, Herr Major. May I obediently suggest that we settle the matter by asking the condemned man on which street he lived before he left for Italy?”
So di Carraciolo’s blindfold was removed and, with me as interpreter, he was politely asked to indicate exactly where he had lived a quarter- century before, so that it could be decided whether Austrian or Hungarian troops would have the honour of shooting him. This delighted him.
“Tenente,” he gasped, “please tell these buffoons to hurry up and shoot me, because if they don’t I think that I’m going to choke myself to death with laughing.”
In the end no decision was reached as to the precise nationality of the condemned man. Baumann thereupon settled the matter in his usual manner.
“Herr Oberleutnant, clear these greasy Magyar reptiles out of the way and shoot this man.”
“Herr Major, I must protest . . . My government will take a very serious . . .”
“Stuff your protests up your arse, you Levantine gyppo. Firing party— make ready . . . !”
But the firing party was otherwise occupied. The Honveds had moved up to the white line and attempted to elbow them out of the way. A scuffle had broken out and rifle butts were being used by the time the two officers restored some semblance of order. In the end an agreement of sorts was reached: the ten-man firing party would be made up of five Austrian and five Hungarian soldiers. However, the problem then arose of who would give the order to fire, and in what language. It was finally agreed that both officers would stand with raised sabres, and that the fatal order would be given in French. Thus it came about that the k.u.k. Militarexezierplatz above Trieste early one autumn morning in the year
1916 witnessed the bizarre spectacle of ten Austro-Hungarian soldiers standing for several minutes chanting, “Tirez bedeutet Feuer, Tirez bedeutet Feuer . . .”
They were still busy sorting themselves out when I heard it: the first droning in the distance. Meyerhofer and I turned to gaze into the sky to north-west. There were five of them. As they drew closer we could make out four Nieuports and a two-seater which looked like a Savoia-Pomilio. As for Baumann and the international execution squad, they were too preoccupied with French imperative verbs to notice anything amiss, almost until the first bullets were whining off the rocks as the leading single- seaters dived to attack. A few men tried to stand and return the fire, but most just scrambled for cover behind the lorries and among the boulders, contenting themselves with only the odd snap-shot as the two-seater came in to land on the other side of the exercise ground.
Meyerhofer and I scrambled from cover and ran to where di Carraciolo was standing, bound to the post, still blindfolded and (I should imagine) extremely bewildered by the sudden turn of events. When we were being questioned later we said that he had already cut himself free and that we grappled with him as he was about to make his escape. The reality though was rather different. Meyerhofer tore off the blindfold as I hacked at the cords with my pocket-knife. Bullets were singing about us in all directions now that the exchange between the soldiers and the circling fighters had been joined by the pilot of the Italian two-seater, who was firing bursts from his machine gun above our heads to harass the soldiers behind the lorries. I fear that even when he was free Major di Carraciolo was a troublesome customer. He had evidently been working himself up for martyrdom for several days past and was now finding it difficult to accept the sudden and dramatic change in his fortunes. I had judged at our first meeting that he was a powerfully built man, and I now had the opportunity to test that observation as he landed me a thump which knocked me clean over. In the end Meyerhofer and I had to overpower him between us, then practically frog-march him over to the aeroplane and fling him bodily into the cockpit before lying down flat as the pilot pushed the throttle forward and the aircraft began to bounce away across the stony field, followed by a spatter of farewell shots from behind the lorries. The last we saw of them they were climbing away into the autumn sky above the Gulf of Trieste, surrounded by their escorts. It was all over—at least, as far as Major di Carraciolo was concerned. The rest of us would now have to clear up the mess as best we could.
As you might expect, there was the devil’s own row about it: a condemned political prisoner impudently snatched in broad daylight from under the very noses of his executioners on the outskirts of one of the principal cities of the Dual Monarchy. Meyerhofer and I both underwent prolonged and detailed questioning by the Military Procurator’s department, who plainly detected a strong smell of rodents. We perjured ourselves energetically, and since we had all agreed our story beforehand they were not able—for the time being at any rate—to garner sufficient evidence to prosecute: even though Major di Carraciolo was found to have severed the ropes that bound him with an Austrian-made pocket-knife picked up on the scene afterwards and clearly marked with the initials o.p. My story that he must have picked this from my pocket before being bound to the stake sounded lame in the extreme and I knew it. I was dismissed for the moment, but was left in no doubt that investigations would continue.
As for Major Oreste di Carraciolo, he returned home to find himself a national hero. The Italians had little enough to celebrate that autumn, after a summer of appalling carnage on the Isonzo for minimal gains, so here was a wonderful opportunity for whipping up the flagging enthusiasm of the public. He was promoted to Colonel, given a new squadron of the most modern aircraft to lead, sent to tour the United States and generally lionised wherever he went. He also wrote a book about his adventures. This came out early in 1917 and a copy was procured via Switzerland and sent to me at Cattaro, where I was back commanding a U-Boat. It was all highly entertaining, I have to admit—grand opera rendered into prose— but quite marvellously inaccurate on a number of points: notably on how the Major had smuggled a message to his squadron from his dungeon in the Trieste Citadel—conveyed, needless to say, by a jailer’s daughter who had fallen in love with him—and on how his oration from the scaffold (in his version they had been going to hang him) had so moved the Hungarian soldiery present that they had turned their rifles upon their Austrian oppressors with a cry of “Viva la liberta d’Ungheria! A basso la tiranneria Austriaca!” then set him free. I got only a walk-on part in all this I am afraid: as an Austrian naval officer of Polish extraction called Brodaski whose slumbering national conscience had been so pricked by the Major’s call to freedom that he had finally cast off the yoke of an Old Austria and thrown himself upon his own sword by way of expiation. Major di Carraciolo averred with complete confidence that it was his escape that had finally broken the heart of our old Emperor, whose dying words (it was reliably reported) had been: “O Carraciolo, questo diavolo incarnato!”
There was also the condemned man’s last letter to be disposed of, handed to the official of the Military Procurator’s department, on the morning of the execution. Normally this would have been forwarded unopened to the dead man’s relatives: even in 1916 Austria still had enough decency left to observe the proprieties in these matters. But now, since the condemned man had not been shot after all, it was felt proper to open the fat, triple-sealed envelope. It was found to contain detailed drawings for Carraciolo’s memorial, to be erected after the war on the site of his execution on the ridge above Trieste. Meticulously drawn during his last days in prison, it would certainly have been a most impressive sight if it had ever been built: a sort of wedding-cake structure of naked figures— mostly young women—in white marble with the top tier bearing a statue of the man himself in his death agony, radiant as Our Lord arising from the tomb, while his Austrian tormentors fell back blinded and confounded on every side. The inscription was to have read “Giovenezza, Giovanezza, Sacra Primavera di Bellezza!”—“Youth, Youth, Sacred Springtime of Beauty!”—which I thought frankly was a bit thick, coming from a man who was nearing forty-five at the time of these events.
That was not in fact the last that I saw of Major Oreste di Carraciolo, that September morning as his aeroplane climbed away into the Adriatic sky. It was in the year 1934 I remember, when Polish naval business took me once again to the port of Fiume to visit the former Ganz-Danubius shipyard at Bergudi, now rechristened the Cantieri Navale di something- or-other. There had been many changes since I had last seen the city where I had once been a pupil for fours years at the Imperial and Royal Naval Academy. I was now a grey-haired commodore approaching my halfcentury, charged with the task of organising the Polish Navy’s infant submarine service. As for Fiume, it was now at the very easternmost edge of Mussolini’s Italy. The years had not been particularly kind to either of us; but on balance I considered that Fiume had come off worst, as I surveyed the shabby streets of this once busy city. From being the principal— indeed only—seaport of the Kingdom of Hungary, Fiume had been reduced to the status of a ghost town, straddling the bitterly disputed frontier with Yugoslavia and split in two by a hideous rusting fence of barbed wire and corrugated iron.
Politics had done most of it, and the Great Depression had done the rest. My business in the town was to inspect the old Danubius shipyard, which was tendering to supply a number of submarines to the Polish Navy. I had concluded that in just about every conceivable respect the other tenderer, the Fijenoord yard at Rotterdam, offered the best bargain to the Polish taxpayer. So, having written out my report in my room at the old Lloyd-Palazzo Hotel on the waterfront—and having thereby added my two-pennyworth to Fiume’s decline—I went out for a stroll since I had half a day to kill before I caught the Vienna train.
“Never go back” is a sound rule for life, I have always found. The prosperous city where I had spent four happy years in my youth was now a poor bedraggled ghost of what it had once been: a living graveyard where grass grew in the streets and mangy dogs scavenged among the rubbish; a necropolis peopled by cripples and beggars and imbeciles of a horror equal to any port in Italy or the Levant, but still perversely stuck on to the fringe of Central Europe: the slums of Naples without the gaiety. Increasingly depressed, I returned from the old Marine Academy—now a tumbledown “public hospital” of the kind that serves only as a sorting-house for the cemeteries—and stopped for a drink in a cafe that I had once known on the Riva Szapary, now rechristened the Via Vittorio Emmanuele or something. As I stood at the bar I heard a voice from behind me.
“Tenente, non si me ricorda?” I turned around. I was quite unable to recognise him at first, this wretched creature with the eyepatch and the missing teeth, sitting at a table over a stagnant coffee with a crutch resting beside him. “Tenente, surely you remember me: your old enemy Oreste di Carraciolo, whom you helped escape that morning from under the rifles of the firing squad.”
I bought him a grappa, since he was quite clearly in great poverty. He gulped it greedily, then began to tell me what had happened in the years since we last met.
He had served with distinction for the rest of the war, he told me, scoring another eight victories, and had then returned to the studio after the Armistice, doing a wonderful trade for some time as the cities and towns of Italy vied with one another in the splendour of their war memorials. However, a measure of boredom had set in, and he had entered politics. He had returned to Fiume in 1919 with the poet-aviator Gabriele d’Annunzio and had played a leading part over the next year in that brief, bizarre episode in Europe’s history the proto-Fascist “Regency of Fiume,” when d’Annunzio and his desperadoes—mostly half-deranged survivors of the Isonzo trenches—had run the place as an independent city-state on messianic, near-lunatic principles. Parades and public circuses had been a major part of the Regency—especially when the bread ran out—and the Major had been appointed as a sort of artistic director for the whole ludicrous spectacle. In the end the League of Nations had moved in, but di Carraciolo had simply returned to Italy and taken part in Mussolini’s march on Rome.
This had advanced his career as a sculptor no end: for five or six years he had been effectively artist-in-residence to Il Duce. But then, in the early 1930s, as the residual wartime idealism was replaced in the Fascist movement by blackjacks and castor oil, he had quarrelled with the leadership and finally been thrown out of the party. He had refused to be quiet, so in 1932 he had been summarily arrested by the Blackshirts and so savagely beaten up that he had lost an eye and been permanently lamed. Six months later they had released him, tipping what was left of him back on to the street. Since then he had been a non-person, avoided by everyone who cared for their health and deprived of all pensions and royalties. By a nice irony, his only source of income was a small monthly payment from the Austrian Republic, which had expropriated some family property in 1919 and was now paying compensation. He was understandably bitter about it all.
“Before the war,” he said, “our slogan here in Fiume was ‘Give us Italy or death.’ ” He swallowed at his drink. “And now do you know what we have? Italy and death.”
That was the last I ever saw of him. I read many years later that he had not let up in his denunciations of Mussolini and his followers, whom he believed had stolen and misdirected the Fascist movement. In the end they lost patience altogether. In 1942 I understand that he was arrested one night and taken to the concentration camp on the Adriatic island of Molata. Very few people ever came back from that dreadful place, and di Carraciolo was not among those who did.
Often I think that perhaps it would have been better if we had let them shoot him there that morning. His marvellous white-marble monument would have been built, and each generation of Italian schoolchildren would now be taught about him as a great artist and patriot who died nobly for his people, not as a great artist and patriot who died miserably at the hands of his own people, after having helped bring to birth the cause which eventually devoured him.