This story takes place against the background of the Second World War. During the war, the Germans and Italians fought side by side. At the end of the war, under leadership Marshal Badoglio, the Italian army turned against the Germans and joined the British and Americans. The charters in “ His Excellency” are Italian prisoners of war who have been captured by the Nazis. This is a short story, literature, about conditions that either shape “ who” we pretend to be ,or a qualification into “what” we really are. You decide. His Excellency By Indro Montanelli There it is, lined up with the other sixty-four coffins from the Fossoli concentration camp, and the crowd has sprinkled it, like the others, with flowers. Among all these people gathered here in the silence of the Milan cathedral, surely I am not the only one to know. Yet there has been no protest. Truly, men are as lenient to the dead as they are harsh with the living. The coffin will now pass like the others between the reverent throngs, like the others it will be buried and, on June 22 of each year, will receive its quota of rhetoric spilled over the common grave. Fair enough...Who are we to judge? His Excellency, General Della Rovre, army corps, commander, intimate friend of Badolglios and “ technical adviser” to General Alexander, was locked up by the Germans in San Vitore prison of Milan in the spring of 1944 when the Allied armies were still fighting their slow way up to the Italian peninsula. He had been captured near Genoa while trying to land at night from an Allied submarine to take command of the resistance movement in the north. A soldier to his finger tips, he had impressed even Franz, the German Warder, who would stand at attention when addressing him and had gone so far as to have a cot placed in his cell. So the Italian guard, Ceraso, informed me as he passed my spy hoe with a rose in a glass, picked expressly for His Excellency. Later Ceraso returned to say that the General wished to see me, and, letting me out, escorted me to his cell. “Calvary officer” was written all over those arched legs, that slight build, and aristocratic profile. Tight-corseted, he wore a monocle and false teeth, an the though struck me of how convincing, after all, is our racial destiny. What else could a man like that become if not a general? With a steely grace he could give an order and make it sound like a plea, and given now, weeks after his capture, his cheeks were clean shaven, his trousers miraculously pressed, while one could almost detect on his polished shoes a pair of invisible spurs. “ Montanelli, I presumed?” he said with a slight drawl, polishing his monocle without giving me his hand. “ I already knew of your presence here before landing. Badoglio in person had informed me. His majestys Government is following your case with uttermost sympathy. Let it be understood, however, that the day you face the firing squad you will have done no more than your duty. Please stand at ease.” Only at these last words did I realize that I was standing heels joined, thumbs touching the seams of my trousers just as the drill book says. “ We are all on temporary duty here, right? He continued, cleaning the nail of of one little finger with the nail of the other. “ An officer is at all times merely on temporary duty, he is nocvio de las muerte, as Spaniards say, a bridegroom of death.” He smiled at me, paced leisurely up and down the cell flexing his slim, arched legs; then stopping again before me, cleaned and replaced his monocle. “ We two are very near our wedding day,” he continued. “ My sentence has already been pronounced. And yours?” “Not yet, sir,” I answered almost mortified. “ It will be,” he went on. “ you shall have the honor of being shot in the chest, I hear. Splendid. There is no better proof of your conduct under interrogation, the Germans are rough in obtaining confessions but chivalrous toward those who abstain. Good. Your orders are to continue. In case of torture, it you feel you must utter a name-I cast no doubt on your spiritual endurance, bu there is a limit to the physical-utter mine. I have nothing to lose. Actually, I had nothing to hide even from my old friend, Marshal Kesserlring, when he questioned me. I did, however, explain that I hardly expected the British submarine captain to be such a fool as to answer the decoy signals of a German patrol boat. “ You trust the English? Kesselring smiled. “ Why not? We even trusted the Germans once, I smiled back. “ Sorry!” he said, I have no choice but to shoot you. no hard feelings, I concluded. But to come back to your case; when you are up for questioning again, stick to your line. After all, we have such a simple duty left to die like gentlemen. What is your indictment?” I explained my case fully. His Excellency listened with his eyes to the ground life a confessor, nodding approbation from time to to time. “ A clear case,” he concluded. “ Captured in the performance of duty. Its a soldiers death. They absolutely must shoot you in the chest. Its strictly regulations. Let me know how things develop. You can go now.” That was the first day in all six months since my arrest that I did not think of my wife locked in her cell in another wing of the building. Toward evening I begged Ceraso to sign me up for the barber the nest day and meanwhile to bring me a comb. And that night, braving the cold, I took my trousers off before lying on my plank and hung them on the window bars hoping they would regain their shape. On the following days, Through my spy hole, I was able to observe His Excellency in his cell just across from mine. One by one, all the prisoners were called to report to him, and all came. In theory, our wing, the dreaded Fifth, was for “solitaries” and so it had been up till the time, but the prestige of His Excellency was obviously so great that the Italian warders felt they could stretch a point. On entering his guests would stand at attention, even the Communists, and bow stiffly. Later, on leaving, they would wald with a prouder carriage. Number 215, who so often sobbed for his wife and children after talking with the General fell silent and even when caught smoking by Franz took his lashes without a whimper. Ceraso told me that almost all, after their talk had asked, like me, for their barber, a comb, and a little soap. Even the warders now wore their caps straight and tried to speak correct Italian. The wing had never been so quiet, and when Muller came on inspection he praised the new discipline. For the first time he omitted calling us “ anti-Fascist dogs” and dirty Badoglian traitors,” confining to himself to an allusion to the “ felonious King,” at which was all looked at the ceiling pretending not to hear, while His Excellency, who was standing a little forward as befitted his rank, turned deliberately on his heels and reentered his cell. Muller snorted but said nothing. One morning Colonel P. and Colonel F. were taken. Asked if they had any last wish, they mentioned the General, who received them on the threshold, and that was the only time I ever saw him shake hands. Then caressing with a slow gesture his silery hair and adjusting his monocle, he smiled and said something to the two officers-something cordial and tender, I am sure, Suddenly snapping to attention and fixing them coldly in the yes he gave them a military salute. P. and F. were pale as chalk, but smiling and never had they moved off, erect, with firm step, between the S.S. Men, We heard later that they both cried, “ Long live the King” as they fell. That same afternoon I was taken down for questioning and Muller warned me that this was my last chance and that if I did not speak up, etc...But hardly heard, nor, though I kept my eyes glued to his, saw hi. All I could see were the two pale faces of P. and F. and the marble face of His Excellency, and all I could hear was his drawling soft voice...”novio de la muerte...performance of duty....death on the field...Muller gave me up without torture after two hours. Even if he had tortured me, I believe I would not have uttered a word, not even the name of His Excellency, in front of whose cell, on my return, I begged Ceraso to let me stop. Della Rovere was sitting on the edge of his cot. Putting down his book, he starred at me at length while I stood at attention, Then he said slowly: “ Yes, indeed. I expected that much from you,” and dismissed me with gesture. But on the threshold he called my back. “ Just a second!” and he rose to his feet. “ there is a thing I still wish to say. A- uhm-difficult thing. I am, I wish to say, extremely satisfied with your conduct, Captain Montanelli. And I wish this good warder to listen well, for he will be our only surviving witness. Very, very satisfied...A jolly good show, sir1” And that night, for the first time, I felt alone in the world, joyously alone with my beautiful bride, Death, forgetful of my wife and my mother, and for once my Country seemed to me a real and an important thing. I never saw him again, but after the liberation I gathered details of his end from one of the survivors of Fossoli. His Excellency appeared very put out when suddenly, together with a crowd of other San Vittore inmates, he was packed inot a boxcar train and shipped to Fossoli concentration camp. During the journey he sat on a kit packs which the other prisoners had laid down as a seat for him and refused to rise even when Schultze came in for inspection. Schultze struck him, shrieking: “ Du bist ein Schwein, Bertoni!” Bu the General found it superfluous to explain that he was not Bertaoni, but Della Rovere, a corps commander, friend of Badoglios and technical adviser to Alexander. Without twitch he picked up his monocle, luckily unbroken, replaced it, and remained seated. Schultze went on cursing. At Fossoli, His Excellency no longer enjoyed the little favors he was used to. He was placed in a common shed and put to work. His companions took turns in sparing him the more humiliating tasks like latrine duty, but never, of his own initiative, did he shirk a job, even though manual labor weighed heavily on him, for he was no longer young. Digging or carrying bricks, often with a grimace of pain, he would keep a sharp eye open to see that no one gave a poor show and at days end he would reprimand those who needed it. To him, they were all officers and gentlemen, and such did they continue to feel under the flash of his monocle and the lash of his words. Desperately. Heroically, he struggled to keep his nails spotless and his cheeks shaven. He never complained. Neither then, nor later, was the motive for the June 22 massacre ever made clear. The order cam from Milan, some said for reprisal for something which had happened in Genoa. Lieutenant Dikermann read out the sixty-five names drawn by lot from those of the four hundred inmates lined up in a square. Among the first was Bertoni. No one stepped forward. “ Bertani!” roared Dickermann. “ Ber-to-ti!” and he starred at the point where Della Rovere, stood. Did Dickermann understand, or did he merely choose to humor a good man? Gut, gut,” he chuckled “ Della Rovere, wie Sie wollen.... All held their breaths as they watched His Excellency slip his monocle into place and take three slow steps forward. General Della Rovere, please!” he corrected, taking his place by the other doomed men. With a nail of his right forefinger he began to clean the nail with his left-both marvelously steady. The sixty-five men manacled, blindfolded, and pushed against the wall. Only Hi Excellency refused to have his eyes covered and was humored. Then the machine guns were set. His Excellency took a step forward “ Hold it! Stop” cried Dickermann reaching for his revolver. His Excellency took another step. Gentleman!”he cried with a voice of a bugle. “ In this supreme moment let our thoughts rise..” But Dickermanns “Fire!”and the opening crash of guns cut him short. They all went down. But the General was the only one who did not squirm on the ground, and his monocle remained miraculously in its place. It was on when they dropped him into the common trench, and he is still wearing it, I assume, there in the coffin. The coffin which today, June 22, anniversary of the massacre , stand before me in the Milan cathedral, does not hold the body of the imaginary General Della Rovere -true! Merely the remains of the former jailbird Bertoni, a Genose, by profession cardsharp and thief, who, when arrested by the Germans fro some petty crime, offered to spy for them in prison by impersonating a non-existent general, and succeeded only too well... Does it really matter? Surley the Cardinal Archbishop did not wrong in blessing this body together with the others? For, after all, Bertoni, the cardsharp, the thief, the spy, was indeed the general at the hour of his death, and undoubtedly he died convinced that he was the friend of Badoglios and “ technical adviser” to Alexander. But for him, I would never have felt a hero for one night in my cell... And P. And F. would not have walked to the firing squad as colonels should...Because of him, those who lacked courage found it, and Number 215 stopped whimpering for his wife and children... Peace to his twisted soul. Discussion: I think the General did not become the general, he was the general. He challenged himself to undo the negative actions he did in life.- Maslow considered self-actualizing people to possess an unusual ability to detect the spurious, the fake, and the dishonest in personality, and in general to judge the people correctly and efficiently. Instead of focusing on what goes wrong with people, Maslow wanted to focus on human potential, and how we fulfill that potential. Psychologist Abraham Maslow (1943, 1954) stated that human motivation is based on people seeking fulfillment and change through personal growth. Self-actualized people as those who were fulfilled and doing all they were capable of. It refers to the person’s desire for self-fulfillment, namely, to the tendency for him to become actualized in what he is potentially. The specific form that these needs will take will of course vary greatly from person to person. In one individual it may take the form of the desire to be an ideal mother, in another it may be expressed athletically, and in still another it may be expressed in painting pictures or in inventions. (Maslow, 1943, pp. 382– 383). Self-actualization can be reached by any particular individual no matter who you are. People living in poverty also achieved self-actualization. Through examinations, it is concluded that people living in poverty are still capable of higher order needs such as love and belongingness. No matter who you are, you can fulfill self-actualization. Bertoni, was the General and loved his mates till the very end. He became a mother to all those that were on their way to death row and stood like a god to them. It didnt matter who he was, what mattered was he he was NOW. The past is nothing, we are who we are right now in life, we choose who we can or cannot be. In fact I see similarities to K the surveyor, he became a janitor, for his self-actualization was getting into the castle which he knew he never could, but the self-actualization is in the HOPE he never relinquished. We are who we are in the present. Question: We usually disapprove of a person who pretends to be something other that what he is. What makes Bertonis a special case? Did he have a right to buried as a general, together with sixty-four martyrs? Remember, Bertoni did not follow through with his commitment to the Germans. He helped his comrades through the horror of being sentenced to death!
Posted on: Wed, 19 Mar 2014 03:47:00 +0000