Our Families
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I decided to tell one of the many stories about World War II that my great-grandmother Alda, my mother's grandmother, has to offer. It was the year 1940, Granny was only sixteen years old but as was the custom at the time, despite her young age she was already married to a man from Rieti; the two could not move in together right away, so, being distant, they married "by proxy.” When she visited him for the first time she fell pregnant, and in the eighth month of pregnancy she convinced her husband to move to the Aosta Valley, her birth region, to which she had always been very attached. Due to work issues, however, unfortunately, her husband could not accompany her immediately and joined her a few months later; in any case, Granny decided to live on her own and give birth to her son in her hometown, which was very important to her. Trains at the time were rudimentary, uncomfortable means of transport, almost like cattle carriages; once she had found her seat Granny began the journey, immersed in her thoughts, disturbed at times by the din of bombs exploding here and there or the noise produced by bullet fire. On arriving in the Aosta Valley, she found no one to greet her at the station, and to reach her home she had to climb on foot, in an advanced state of pregnancy, up the mountain, taking refuge when necessary in the huts and shacks she found on her way home, hoping not to be discovered by the owners. Once she arrived at her mother's in Etroubles, she was close to giving birth, and she had only a few days left to rest. When the long-awaited day arrived, there was only my grandma, her mother, and her sister at home; she had to give birth there because she could not afford the hospital costs, and amid much toil and with minimal assistance, her son came into the world. It was a boy and was named Ezio. When her husband finally joined her they moved into a house of their own near her mother's home, where they lived until his untimely death in 1955. Today that child born during the war is the only one left alive of the three children my grandmother had; she still lives near him and, at the ripe old age of 99, likes to drink a glass of red wine a day and eat what she grows in her garden. Edoardo BICH |
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My grandparents had different experiences; I was able to listen to all four of them. My grandfather on my mother's side experienced the war in Milan. There were many differences between him and my other grandparents because he was well off and during the war, he continued his studies and stayed at a boarding school. There were not so many problems with food and health. I was told an anecdote, however, that his teacher ate very slowly to feel like he was eating a lot. My grandparents often argued because my grandmother said that my grandfather had lived the war “well”. In fact, he used to say that he could see tall buildings collapse near him, fearing that they might hit him at any moment. My grandmother on my mother's side lived in Friuli, in the countryside. She suffered severe hunger because she had 10 siblings, her mother was sick and they had health problems. one of her brothers fell sick at the age of two and died during the war. My grandmother told me that sometimes they would come out of hiding to look for fruits and berries to eat. Their house was bombed and they had to flee. My paternal grandparents lived through the war in the Aosta Valley. They have not told me much about it; it is not something they talk about easily, unlike my other grandmother. My grandfather, however, told me that he was once put up against the wall and was about to be shot along with other people, but a priest who spoke German prevented it. In addition, my grandfather's dad, therefore my great-grandfather, was able to tell my dad about several things that had happened during the war. He was at the front but was able to return home after his son had been born. His brother had also gone off to war but when it was over he never returned. Just as the war ended the hands of the clock which was in the family household suddenly stopped and two years later, when the missing brother returned, they started again on their own. It seems to all something unbelievable, maybe it was just a coincidence, or maybe it was a real sign of destiny. My grandfather also told me that some friends of his whom have died by now, had some numbers tattooed on their arms because they had ended up in concentration camps, but had managed to survive. They had told him that to fight starvation they sometimes ate the little pieces of oats found in donkey dung. This was because they worked in the concentration camps and had to feed the animals, but when the guards left, being hungry, they waited for the animals to defecate to get those little oat grains. Unfortunately, my grandfather died in 2023 and I did not have enough time to ask if he knew anything more about their war experiences. Such stories seem unthinkable to me nowadays; it is so painful for me to think about how much they suffered, and how many people died, that I almost cannot believe it. Studying history on the other hand may serve the purpose of not repeating the same mistake. Amanda CHATRIAN |
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My name is Alessio Cino and I chose to tell what little I know about my family’s experiences during the Second World War. What my maternal grandmother told me is about her father, Bruno Frison. After the outbreak of war, my great-grandfather joined the partisan resistance as a messenger and his code name was "Cinnamon". Unfortunately, I do not know much more about him also because he died young in a car crash and my grandmother could not ask him much about his past. As for the paternal side of my family, I know for a fact that there were no fighters either for the partisans or for the fascists. The only remarkable thing is the fact that my great-grandfather and his sister were baptized respectively with the names of Benito and Italia by their parents in order to receive the prize money awarded in these cases by the Fascist government. As children they attended the Fascist Elementary School, which was very different from ours, for example, the classes were divided by gender (male and female). As for the subjects, they studied "Women’s and manual work", "Various notions and Fascist Culture" and even each student’s hygienic state was evaluated. Despite being few, I think these stories are worth sharing because they can lead to some cultural enrichment. Alessio CINO |
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Today, in 2024, 85 years after the outbreak of the Second World War, we are left with only a few rare opportunities to hear authentic testimonies from the voices of the people who lived through that era. This collection of work is essential so that a period that seems so distant from us, but which still marks and affects us today, does not fade from memory. Last summer, I had the opportunity to have a family friend tell me some memories of those years. Despite his age, he still has a clear memory of certain moments, seen through the innocent eyes of a three-year-old child. My grandmother also lived through the war years, but as she is no longer alive, I had my mum tell me one of her memories and, I too will have the opportunity to pass on this story to my children and to those who want to hear it. This family friend told me that as a child he and his mother met three Tuscan “Republican soldiers”, namely the soldiers and officers, who after the 8 September 1943 armistice, chose to remain loyal to Mussolini and the so-called “Republic of Salò” and continued fighting against the British and American armies. "They were Italians who did not intend to change faction or flag, they considered the Americans invaders since they were the ones who were bombing Italy, so those ‘Republican soldiers’ considered themselves patriots. These boys promised us they would keep in touch when they left, but then they were killed by the partisans. My family knew them because they would go to my mum, who was a seamstress, and take her clothes to be sewn or washed. Fifty metres from my house there was a shack and inside it was full of their belongings, such as provisions and also round-coloured sweets. I would go down with them and they would fill the little box for me. And they left me something, I still have something there that belonged to them, for example, two steel metal razors while the other things disappeared. I vaguely remember it like a dream. I was three years old at the time and it has stayed with me because they gave me sweets. My mother, more than anything, was sick because before they left she had told them to give her some news. These ‘Republican soldiers’ were young boys, they must have been twenty years old, we heard nothing more about them.” A family friend Chiara CONDÒ |
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My grandmother "Giusy", as she was always nicknamed by the family, was born in Calabria in 1936 and lived for the first three years of her life in southern Italy. Soon, however, her family emigrated to northern Italy, more precisely to the Aosta Valley, in search of a safer place given that in the meantime the Second World War had broken out and Italy was first involved in the conflict and subsequently occupied by the German army, so her parents thought that a town in the Alps might offer a safer home. However, Grandma and her family were not among the unluckiest at the time, in fact, she told me that despite the war they were doing quite well and all things considered they overcame certain difficulties better than others. When Grandma tells me about the war she often remembers that sometimes, while she was setting the table, she would hide and take away the loaves of bread so she could eat them alone after dinner since, although they were not in dire straits like the others, food was always scarce and priority at the table was not given to her. After dinner, she would be in bed, munching bread under the bed covers and while sleeping she would be stung by crumbs. She still remembers the terrible feeling of when the planes and bombers flew over the town, her house, and her head, or of when being frightened, she would take refuge under the bed in search of shelter, hoping that nothing would happen to her. Grandma has always lived in a very close-knit family and from what she has told me it is clear that she had a wonderful relationship with her dad, who, especially during the war, in turn told her about the experiences of his father, my great-great-grandfather, who had fought in the Great War. Granny remembers everything about his tales, which affected her to such an extent that years later she wanted to go to Trieste to look for and find her grandfather's tomb. Furthermore, Granny is convinced that the events she learned through these stories helped her overcome that tragic period in her life and I am happy that she was able to tell me all this.
Emma DANIELI |
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I have decided to tell the story of my mother’s grandfather, Angelo Provenzano, as she told it to me. My great-grandfather fought in the Second World War. Before being called up to fight he had worked as a farmer, shepherd, and butcher. The feelings inspired by the war were: violence, brutality, loneliness, pain, melancholy, indifference to killing, not knowing whether one would ever return home, anger, and a sense of injustice, for example upon receiving orders and having to obey them, without any questions. The circumstances were very difficult, to say the least, in fact, the hygienic conditions were poor, and the soldiers were exposed to the cold, high temperatures, rain, and bombing. The senior officers treated the troops with arrogance and an almost tangible feeling of disgust, caused by the soldiers’ actions, was all around. The results were on the whole shattering, the war caused many traumas: many people never recovered (there were cases of depersonalization, shell-shock, and identity dissociation); war veterans could still hear the machine-gun fire; they had seen their comrades get maimed or die. Angelo also told my mother about the difficulties he had to face after the war had ended such as hunger, poverty, economic crisis, homelessness, migration in search of refuge, devastation, degradation, and environmental pollution. The war changed my great-grandfather's life and also that of my mother's family; anyway while he was at the front his only wish was going back home to them, which - thank God - was granted in the end. Sofia LANCELLOTTA |
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This anecdote was told to me by my grandmother and regards my great-grandfather Giovanni Battista. He was fighting the Russian campaign during the Second World War, under dramatic circumstances such as temperatures of -15 degrees, living the most tragic days of his life. Once he came home, he would not talk much about war, but one of the few stories he told sounds incredible; towards the end of the war the Italian army was forced to retreat, so my great-grandfather and three of his fellow soldiers had to make their way back home in Italy but at some stage they found themselves facing a Russian tank. The Russian soldiers stopped them asking for their identity, at that very moment my great-grandfather said he thought he would never get back home, but the Russians inexplicably let them go, and as they walked past the tank, he said that they were certain they would be shot in the back but miraculously it did not happen. Another anecdote was told to me by my great-grandmother Amalia who would tell us about her husband’s experiences during the post-war years. In the year following the conflict, his life changed drastically, for one thing, he had gone almost completely deaf, and on top of that, he had become mentally insane. The thing that most impressed his wife was that he would spend the nights on a small bed in the garden; no one could understand why he refused to sleep indoors. Giada MIRIELLO
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My paternal grandfather, Elio Munier, is a reserved man, always on his own. Despite this, when I asked him for the first time to talk about his father, my great-grandfather's experience during the Second World War, he immediately seemed happy to be able to tell me the little he knew. His father, Maurice Munier, whose name was translated into “Maurizio” at the registry office under the Fascist regime, was born in 1918 in Charvensod, in the Aosta Valley; in 1939 he was engaged in military service, so with Italy's entry into the war on 10 June 1940, he was not discharged but sent to fight on the Albanian front. A memory that must have remained particularly impressed on him regards the moment of the changing of the battalions when the piles of corpses could be seen beyond the trench. His father also told him about when he and two other soldiers, who had been tasked with carrying messages to the front, reached halfway but suddenly found themselves attacked by enemy fire; they hid in some underground tunnels but finally managed to resume their journey. Furthermore, Maurice was captured by Marshal Tito’s Yugoslavian soldiers and held prisoner for four years, between 1943 and 1947, first in Albania and then in Greece. At the time, the Italians were often taken prisoner together with German soldiers, who however were immediately killed by the Yugoslav communists; Grandpa tells of an episode in which a young German soldier, who was no more than 18 years old, tried to hide among the Italian prisoners, but when discovered by Tito’s soldiers was summarily killed without mercy. Various jobs were imposed on the Italians, so during his imprisonment my great-grandfather found himself working as a goose-herder, with no food except bread, potatoes, and onions; Grandpa often says that once his father returned from the war he was unable to eat anything other than those foods. In 1947 Maurice managed to return to Italy with another fellow villager thanks to the help of Palmiro Togliatti, who paid a ransom to Yugoslavia to have the Italian soldiers, who were still prisoners, released. This is what my grandfather decided to tell me about his father, the story of a man, who like many others of that era, was torn from his family for years, but fortunately managed to return to his homeland and his family. Coralie MUNIER |
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My grandparents do not have many memories of the war, given their tender age when it took place. While my paternal grandparents do not remember anything, my maternal grandparents do have some memories and that is why I will tell their stories. Valerio, my paternal great-grandfather was an Air Force general during the First World War and his father had fought for the Austrian troops during the Great War, however, neither of them took part in the Second. As for my maternal great-grandfather, he was probably exempted as he was a widower and had to take care of his four daughters. Among my grandmother Loredana's few memories there is certainly the one about her stay in Florence, more precisely just outside the city, while it was being bombed. During the war, my grandmother, her three sisters, and her father were living in a villa above Florence (since Rome, their home city, was not very safe) and from up there it was possible to see the bombing that was carried out on Florence at night: "The five of us would all lie on the double bed in the pitch dark, while our father would tell us stories or we would simply stand still in silence. At night, to pass the time, we would also climb the villa tower to get an even better view of the city and compete to see who could count the most bombs. Being the smallest, I didn't understand what was going on, so for me that was fascinating entertainment." The only recollection my grandfather has is of his frequent encounters with German soldiers in the countryside, who always gave him sweets and then asked him if he knew where to buy some milk nearby; their question was aimed at finding out where they could go to punish the people selling milk, a practice they considered illegal; this shows how annoying their presence was even to simple farmers. Although my grandfather has no other direct recollections, he had the fortune to have as a father a general (and one of the founders in 1923) of the Italian Air Force, Ettore Faccenda, who met two very important people; the first of these was Benito Mussolini, who visited Campoformido airport and on this occasion, my great-grandfather gave him his first flight in a two-propeller airplane; the second important meeting concerned Adolf Hitler's first visit to Rome, where in his honour, the fleet of which my great-grandfather was a member, was asked to fly in formation to reproduce the “swastika”, a hooked cross, a display which was a great success. These are some of the stories I had the good fortune to hear when I was younger, only now realizing their value as authentic historical testimony; I thank my grandparents for the time they gave me and for their contribution to keeping the memory alive. Valeria PAPAGNI
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When the Second World War broke out, my grandmother was still very young: she was only seven years old. Her name is Jeannette and she was born in the small town of Valenciennes in northern France on the border with Belgium. This terrible conflict affected her and her family profoundly, in fact, today, at the grand age of 91, she recounts that tragic period with much suffering and difficulty. The strongest memory she has is of when her mother, whenever they left home, told her not to look around so as not to see the dead people in the street. Furthermore, the noise that characterized her childhood was of military helicopters and alarms that sounded announcing that she had to run to the bunkers as soon as possible to protect herself from danger. In particular, my grandmother remembers that one day an air raid was scheduled so everybody had to evacuate from the city and, once they returned, they found their homes in terrible conditions. An important aspect that she underlines several times is that not all enemy soldiers were aggressive: in fact, many German soldiers repudiated the war and helped French families, including my grandmother's, by offering them the few portions of food they received and giving the children chocolate. Finally, the most traumatic event she remembers is when her uncle returned from a concentration camp: this man was extremely shaken, almost impassive, and was fed through a straw to readapt his body to the food he had been deprived of for too long My grandfather, on the other hand, experienced the tragedy of the Second World War at the age of 14. His name was Arturo and he was born in a small village in Sarre, called Oveillan, in the the Aosta Valley. He was an extremely good and peaceful person, in fact, he repudiated any form of conflict and decided not to fight because he did not want to kill anyone. For this reason, when he was drafted into the Italian army he fled from the Aosta Valley and his loved ones and found refuge in Emilia Romagna. There, he was hosted by a family who hid him in a hole near their home: my grandfather ate and slept in those terrible conditions for the entire duration of the war without being discovered. In fact, if the Fascist government authorities had found him, they would have arrested him and executed him for being a “deserter” and the family who had been sheltering him would have likely faced the same consequences. At the end of the conflict, he managed to return to the Aosta Valley and to be reunited with his loved ones, after having lived through difficult years in support of his freedom to choose to repudiate the war. Thank you, Grandma, thank you, Grandpa, I will always carry your example of strength and courage in my heart.
Christine PELLU
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My grandmother, Giuliana, told me that as a child during the Second World War, she unfortunately had to deal with German soldiers very often. Giuliana and her family lived in the Genoese countryside and her father, an armed fighter with no rules, joined the partisan struggle and fought against an official army for his territory. The German soldiers, intending to seek out and capture the partisans, searched for them by going from house to house, and my great-grandfather, who had created a hiding place for himself out of a hole under the floor, used to hide while the house was being searched, only to come out after hearing the enemy military vehicles drive away, holding his breath not to be discovered. No one in the family understood German, nevertheless, at every search by German soldiers, my great-grandmother tried to keep them occupied by making them coffee and offering them something to eat so that they would not look more carefully, while my grandmother and her sisters tried to be as polite as possible to prevent the soldiers from becoming suspicious; unfortunately, this attitude of theirs was misunderstood by those men, who raped them. Everyone in the neighbourhood was terrified of the German army, also, because many fathers and sons were driven away from their families and killed; fortunately, my great-grandfather was never discovered, thanks to his ability to hide in a different place each time and to the courage of the women in his family. Sara PEZZOLI |
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I had the honor of interviewing an elderly family friend, Maria Paolini, who unfortunately lived through the horrors of the Second World War. When it all started, Maria was ten years old and lived in Abruzzo, in the village of Castelvecchio Subequo, in the province of L'Aquila. Living with her there were only her mother and her grandmother since her father was soon called to arms. Maria does not remember many details of her life at that time, however, she remembers perfectly what going to school was like; by order of the Fascist regime the students had to wear a uniform; the girls’ one was made of a white blouse and a black skirt, and the female students were called "Little Italians"; the boys’ uniform consisted of a black shirt decorated with Mussolini's initial "M", and a pair of grey-green shorts, the male students were called "Balilla". Maria and her brothers ready for school The days at school were very monotonous - says Maria - “first we sang the anthem dedicated to Mussolini”, a song that this lady kindly sang for me from memory. The school, initially organized into male and female classes, had now become mixed during the war due to organizational constraints; furthermore, since it was not safe to travel, there were not enough teachers available, so most of the time a single teacher was employed to teach all subjects, and Maria had a parish priest as a teacher. When she returned from school Maria would help her mother, for example, to go and buy some food; she remembers how everyone suffered from hunger in that period; her family, like the others, had received the so-called ration card which was necessary to purchase basic necessities such as bread, sugar and salt which were scarce and therefore rationed. “Some days were apparently normal and completely carefree, but we absolutely must not forget the curfew limit - in the evening after 8 pm we were forbidden to go out, violating this ban could lead to immediate arrest”. Maria also remembers well the moment in which she saw hundreds of planes flying above her head, coming and going, bombing the aqueducts, bridges, and railways of her beloved country and its surroundings. For years, even after the end of the war, her country, like many others, suffered the difficulties of rebuilding everything that the conflict had destroyed or taken with it and it took decades to return to normality because the war may end but the damage caused remains.
Nancy RAFFA |
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I grew up with my great-grandmother's stories and tea with milk. I used to spend afternoons sitting next to her on the sofa listening to her happiest memories, among which paradoxically there were those regarding the war years. Marthe was born in 1921 and during most of World War II, she lived in a small village near Marseille, France. Not only was that a territory bordering Italy, but also a place where the two cultures blended. She and her sister were in their early twenties when the war broke out and lots of Italian soldiers arrived in Marseille; among them, there was my great-grandfather, a boy from the Aosta Valley called Laurent. My grandmother's village was too small to be considered a battlefield; there, its people never really felt the threat of war; therefore there were plenty of festivals and parties going on. It was there that my grandmother met Laurent and fell in love. They spent a lot of time together and when he left he told her that he lived in Aosta, giving her his address. In 1944, a few months after this coup de foudre my grandmother found out she was pregnant: she tried hard to send letters to her beloved but she never received a reply: luckily she was very brave, so as soon as my uncle, Eddy, was born, she decided to leave to go to Aosta. Only when she arrived in Italy, she found out that her letters had never passed through the customs. Grandma always repeated to me how long and dangerous that journey was. However, thanks to her Piedmontese surname she managed to arrive at her destination without any big problems. I have always thought that her story sounds like a fairy tale because when she met Laurent and told him that the child was his, they got married. A few years later in 1946 my grandmother, Josette, was born, then Uncle François and lastly Elisabetta. Thanks to my grandmother's stories I like to think that the war was not only a time of horrors and suffering but some people were lucky enough to have lived their teenage years normally. Grandpa Laurent passed away a few years before I was born while Grandma joined him at the age of 93 in 2016; in that 11-year gap, she liked to remember everything about their love, including their fights. Claudia SORO |
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The protagonists of this story are Valentina Pellissier and her family (father, mother, and brother). Her mother, Luisa Pellissier, was a housewife and her father, Adriano Proment, was a farmer. Valentina was born in Villeneuve in the Aosta Valley in 1935, but at an early age, her family moved to Courmayeur in "Via dei bagni" to live in a larger house, which consisted of a stable and a barn. Her war experience began in 1943 with the German occupation. Valentina was an eight-year-old girl when one day the German soldiers decided to expropriate the family home. They had chosen that property because it was equipped with useful spaces to keep the horses supplied to the German army. Valentina’s father gave up his home and land without much discussion and took care to ensure a safe place for his family in another house they owned in the hamlet of Courmayeur called La Saxe. A great quality of Adriano’s was his infinite generosity and for this reason, the Germans were repeatedly grateful to him by rewarding him with packets of cigarettes. It is worth pointing out that the soldiers used the Proment’s house only to house the horses while sleeping at the local restaurant: Excelsior, which was a few meters from Valentina’s house. However, in the days following the expropriation Valentina and her father had to transport all the hay from the stable to the new house. This proved to be particularly difficult for Valentina because, to reach the house, she and her father had to walk along a path parallel to a stream, and they had to walk several stretches of water to be less exposed to the bullet fire. At other times this operation could have been avoided, but as cows were their main source of livelihood, they could not be short of hay. The interesting aspect of this story, however, is that Valentina came into contact with the German soldiers establishing a bond of friendship with them; working at the restaurant Excelsior she was in charge of peeling potatoes and once she had completed her task, the soldiers would reward her by giving her cookies. This did not change the horrors of the war, but receiving a gift from enemy soldiers was not something that happened to everyone. In 1944, exactly one year after the expropriation, Valentina was able to return to her home in "Via dei bagni", only after the property had undergone a major renovation. Giorgia Alessandra TEGAS |
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During the years of World War II, my paternal great-grandfather was drafted and sent to Montenegro to fight. Upon returning to Valtournenche, he emotionally recounted how the local people had distinguished themselves through generosity and courage during that difficult time. Once he returned, he committed himself to ensuring the livelihood of his family and also the community. He owned a pickup truck that he used to travel to Piedmont, where he bought flour to bake bread and other primary goods, which were essential during such a difficult time. However, he seemed the only one willing to sacrifice himself for the common good, the only one who possessed the courage to make those trips to help those in need. One day, on his way to Piedmont, he was stopped by a partisan checkpoint. Being convinced that he was a fascist, they put a rifle to the back of his head; in a situation of maximum tension, he had to urgently explain that he was not a fascist and desperately tried to convince them to let him pass unharmed. Fortunately, the partisans did so, but that experience, in which he risked his life while trying to bring help to his family and fellow citizens, marked him deeply. My great-grandfather's story is a touching example of how courage and dedication to others played a crucial role during the dark days of war. Martina TOUSCOZ |
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My maternal grandparents were born after the Second World War and obviously could not tell much about that period, they have been living on the Ligurian Riviera all their lives. However, they lived through the post-war years and told me about the crisis and the hardship of those days when there was little money, little food, and life was simple and its main goals were trying to recover as quickly as possible, start smiling again and looking forward to a better future. The paternal side of my family instead was more affected by the conflict. My grandmother Carla is Dutch and in the war years she lived in Haarlem, near Amsterdam, but has very vague memories about the war; however, she spent most of those years at home without too many restrictions. Her grandfather or an uncle of hers had to go to the front but no close relatives of mine. Fortunately, she did not suffer too much after the war and travelled around Europe for work, translating texts for important companies on the typewriter; when she arrived in Italy she met my grandfather on the Ligurian Riviera, and from that day on they never left each other. Giorgio, my paternal grandfather, is certainly the grandfather who told me the most stories. He grew up in Piedmont and moved with his whole family to his beloved Cervinia after his parents had found fortune there. "Giorgio, we are lucky here and we won't move anymore" his mother always told him, but it was not all rosy, with the advent of the war came the crisis, and for a couple of years my grandfather had to live in a ruin even in the middle of winter, sharing a room with his cousin; he often tells me that he used to sleep without getting undressed and with newspaper in his boots given the thick layer of ice that was on the wall behind his head. He had a difficult childhood but fortunately, the war did not cause him any further damage. Tommaso ZAVATTARO |
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The Aosta Valley, a small region in north-western Italy, experienced a particular form of fascism that can be defined as 'Border Fascism'. During the 20-year fascist period, the Aosta Valley suffered a powerful and systematic attack against its linguistic, historical, and cultural identity, which resulted, for example, in the bankruptcy of one of its main banks, the Bank Réan, the massive emigration of many local people to France and Switzerland, and the compulsory use of the Italian language (when, at the time, the local population mainly spoke the local dialect - which the locals term ‘patois’ - or French). Moreover, there was the introduction of a questionable programme that not only did Italianise all the local place names but also the family names, even the most unlikely ones, for example, the surname Perruquier was Italianised to “Perrucchione”, Champorcher became “Ciamporcero”; the village of Pontboset was Italianised into “Pianboseto”, Pré Saint Didier became “San Desiderio Terme” to name but a few. In 1925, under the leadership of Emile Chanoux (a local distinguished notary, politician, and intellectual), the patriotic society Jeune Vallée d'Aoste was founded, which made the protection of the language and local identity the necessary principle for the defense of freedom in the broadest sense. Before going underground to escape persecution by the Fascist dictatorship, this association collected several thousand signatures of heads of families in support of a petition in defense of native languages, a clear sign of the intolerance of the Aosta Valley population towards the abuses of the regime. In 1943, Chanoux took part in the historic “Chivasso meeting”, during which the Charter of Chivasso was drafted, a document that by reaffirming the rights of ethnic minorities within a future democratic state, actually provided the guidelines for the elaboration of the Special Statutes of the Autonomous Regions in the newly-born Italian Republic. Emile Chanoux’s prestige and commitment were an inspiration for the entire population of the Aosta Valley as well as a point of reference for its sense of identity, which the Fascist dictatorship did not manage to eradicate; this is why, on 18 May 1944, in the attempt of stifling autonomist aspirations, the regime had Chanoux arrested. After a night of interrogation and torture, Chanoux was found dead the following morning, hanged from the prison bars, an apparent suicide - a story no one believed. The influence of the fascist period in the Aosta Valley left clear signs, visible today in the names of some towns and several municipalities. During the Fascist regime, as all the local place names were Italianised, Courmayeur was renamed “Cormaiore”, La Thuile was renamed “Porta Littoria” and finally Breuil-Cervinia was renamed just “Cervinia”. In January 2023, at the end of a discussion between the regional and municipal administrations and the toponymy technical table, which had begun in 2011 and ended with the favourable opinion of the then mayor, it was decided to rename the Aosta Valley tourist destination, now internationally known with the name Breuil - Cervinia, only Le Breuil, thus eliminating the name ‘Cervinia’, a legacy of the Fascist era. In November 2023 the news hit both the regional and the national headlines, proving that certain historical issues are far from over and touch raw nerves even today. Ruslana ZELIONII |
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War stories have always been told from the point of view of adults who are fully able to understand what was going on, but this is not my grandfather's case. In 1940 my grandfather was only a 3-year-old child, who lived with his parents and three brothers. He did not have a clue what was going on. He would spend his days helping his family on the farm and going to school. However, one day his father came home announcing that he had been fired from the Chavonne factory because he had refused to sign the Fascist Party membership card. Despite Grandpa’s young age, I think that there and then he began to understand that something was about to change. Afterward, roadblocks were installed at both ends of the village of Villeneuve, where anyone wanting to enter, (and even kids on their way to school) were checked out; such roadblocks were used to collect those who were arrested as well as all the dead bodies of those who were shot on the spot. Grandpa also remembers the sound of the air raid sirens, which went off at all times of the day or night warning them to go into a cellar, usually hidden behind the houses, until the alarm stopped. My grandfather's house is in front of the cemetery where in those days the people were shot, so while he and his family were working in the fields, they sometimes heard the sound of the firing squad. Nowadays the cemetery is composed of three parts but back then one was used for the tombs, whereas the other two were used as a mass grave into which the dead bodies were thrown after the executions. One day, knowing that a relative of theirs was going to be shot, my grandfather’s family stopped working and started staring at the soldiers of the firing squad who were taking the civilians to be executed. On arriving in front of the cemetery wall, some shots were heard, but the minute the soldiers realised they were being observed, they started shooting towards my grandfather’s house. I do not think they truly wanted to hurt them, they rather intended to scare and discourage anyone from watching what they were doing again. In 1943 Mussolini visited the Aosta Valley, an event that Grandpa vaguely remembers, he only recalls the crowd taking to the street waiting for the Duce’s motorcade arrival, to applaud as he passed by. However, apart from all these negative aspects he also has some positive memories: for instance, he recalls that every Saturday all the children met at Chavonne where plays and leisure activities were put on for them - a sort of propaganda to instill the fascist principles into the youngest members of the community. In 1945 when the war ended, Grandpa’s father resumed his work at the Cogne steel works, where he had previously worked because the town of Aosta, where the Cogne factory is, was less strictly supervised than Chavonne, and the Fascist Party membership card had never been required. After the war my grandfather went on with his life, he married my grandmother Alda and they had a daughter, my mother Daniela, but I do not think that those war memories will ever be forgotten. Silvia ZERBINATI
The Courthoud twin brothers: Ovidio and Gastone - at their village - Villeneuve. |
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L. Fimiani - self-portrait - Shardlow Hall - England 1945 The man wearing the Italian army uniform in the picture is my grandfather, Leopoldo Fimiani, my mum's dad. He was born in 1907 and in 1942 was conscripted to go and fight on the African Front of the Second World War. At home, in Rome, he left a twenty-five-year-old wife and two little daughters, my aunt Pina who was four, and my mum who was not even two. When I think about them, I honestly do not know how they could make it through the war’s many hardships, the horror, the hunger, the poverty, the bombing raids, and the German occupation without losing their minds; all I know is that they did make it - against all odds. While in Africa, Grandad and his battalion were captured by the British army and deported to a prisoner-of-war camp in England, where my grandfather spent a few years. Being one of the few of his fellow soldiers with a high-school education, he was made to do some office work by the British; he learnt English and in his spare time he was allowed to go for walks in the countryside, which as an artist, being sensitive to natural beauty, he soon started to paint. When I saw the English countryside for the first time, which did not happen until I was in my forties, I had a sort of déjà vu, recognizing the same places I had seen for years in the paintings hung on the walls of my grandparents home, and that Grandad had painted while being a prisoner in England; the emotion was so strong that I suddenly burst into tears, an effect that inexplicably - or maybe not - some English landscapes still have on me… L. Fimiani - watercolour - England 1945 Being short of means, Grandpa would actually offer to make portraits of the British officers and their family members in exchange for paper, canvas, brushes, and paints. As a little girl, I would hear his wartime stories without realising what war had actually implied and therefore not asking all the questions that I would ask now (my grandad passed away in 1994)… I found his tales quite fascinating, for instance, he would tell me about the beauty of the starry nights he had seen in the African desert, or about the moving Christmas Eve Mass his battalion had wanted to celebrate there; he would make detailed drawings of the instruments he had learnt to operate. In hindsight, I guess he may have somewhat sugarcoated his anecdotes - the war could not just have left pleasant memories - but one thing I am sure of is that he never said any word of hatred about anyone - war had not managed to corrupt his well-known profoundly good-natured and warm-hearted soul. When he was finally released and returned home in 1947, my mum, who had not seen him for about five years, could not remember having a father at all; Mum remarks it must have taken him all the love and patience in the world to find the key to his youngest daughter’s heart and with it the right to sleep in his marital bed again… I remember that one day in May 1984 I went to see my grandparents and found a couple of ladies from England there with them; I had heard about the “English ladies” - as they were named in our family - from the letters my grandparents had been exchanging with them for decades, but I had never met them; actually, my mum’s family were all very familiar with them as Avril, Cathleen, and Muriel (three of eight siblings) had started visiting my grandfather and his family in Italy in the 50s, repeating the experience on various occasions, going sightseeing and sometimes even on holiday together, before my mum and my aunt got married. A letter my grandfather sent his family while being a prisoner of war in England as it is visible from the stamp Still, as a teenager, I could not fully understand how Grandad, who was no businessman, could have foreign friends. Who were they? Well, they were people he had first met and befriended exactly while being a prisoner of war in England! It was not until I became older that I realised the authentic value of that extraordinary relationship: my grandfather and those people, absolute strangers to one another - with the war not being over yet - had been able to see beyond the political sides, and most of all had gone so far as to build an emotional bridge, trust one another, and had become lifelong friends. The story of their long-lived friendship, which in those critical days (war and its aftermath) had managed to defy and overcome both physical obstacles and cultural prejudice, has always been a great source of inspiration for me and my whole family. Thanks, Grandpa - with all my heart! Valentina TENEDINI A photo of my grandparents, Leopoldo and Ermina, taken in 1964. By the time my grandfather passed away, they had been married for over fifty years. |
| MAURICE MUNIER |
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Mio nonno paterno, Elio Munier, è un uomo riservato, sempre sulle sue. Nonostante ciò, quando gli chiesi per la prima volta di parlare dell’esperienza di suo padre, mio bisnonno, durante la Seconda Guerra Mondiale, mi parve subito contento di potermi raccontare quel poco che sapeva. Suo padre, Maurice Munier, il cui nome sotto il regime fascista, fu tradotto all’anagrafe in Maurizio, era nato nel 1918 a Charvensod, in Valle D'Aosta; nel 1939 era impegnato nel servizio di leva militare, quindi con l'entrata in guerra dell'Italia il 10 giugno 1940, non venne congedato e fu inviato a combattere sul fronte albanese. Un ricordo che deve essergli rimasto particolarmente impresso riguardava il momento del cambio tra i battaglioni, quando oltre la trincea si notavano le cataste di cadaveri. Suo padre gli raccontò anche di quando lui e altri due soldati, incaricati di portare dei messaggi al fronte, giunti a metà strada, si trovarono attaccati dal fuoco nemico; si nascosero in alcuni cunicoli sotterranei, e infine riuscirono a riprendere il cammino. Inoltre, Maurice fu catturato dai soldati del maresciallo Tito e tenuto prigioniero per quattro anni, tra il ‘43 e il ‘47 prima in Albania e poi in Grecia. All’epoca gli italiani venivano spesso fatti prigionieri insieme ai soldati tedeschi, che però venivano subito uccisi dai comunisti jugoslavi; Nonno racconta di un episodio in cui un giovane soldato tedesco, che non avrà avuto più di 18 anni, tentò di nascondersi tra i prigionieri italiani, ma una volta scoperto dai soldati titini fu ucciso sommariamente senza pietà. Agli italiani venivano imposti vari lavori, così durante la prigionia il mio bisnonno si ritrovò a fare il pastore di oche, senza cibo se non pane, patate e cipolle; Nonno racconta spesso che una volta tornato dalla guerra suo padre non riusciva ad alimentarsi con altro che quei cibi. Nel 1947 Maurice riuscì a tornare in Italia insieme ad un altro suo compaesano grazie all’aiuto di Palmiro Togliatti, che pagò un riscatto alla Jugoslavia per far tornare i soldati italiani rimasti prigionieri. Questo è quanto mio nonno ha deciso di raccontarmi su suo padre, la storia di un uomo, che come tanti altri in quell’epoca, fu strappato alla famiglia per anni, ma che fortunatamente riuscì a tornare in patria e in seno alla sua famiglia. Coralie MUNIER |
| RICORDI DEL CIELO | ||||||
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I miei nonni non hanno tanti ricordi della guerra, data la loro tenera età quando si è svolta. Se i miei nonni paterni non ricordano nulla, i miei nonni materni, invece, qualche ricordo lo posseggono ed è per questo che racconterò le loro storie. Il padre di mio nonno materno Valerio era stato generale dell'aeronautica militare durante la Prima Guerra Mondiale e il padre di mia nonna materna Loredana aveva combattuto per le truppe austriache sempre durante la Grande Guerra, mentre nessuno di loro prese parte alla Seconda (riguardo il mio bisnonno materno probabilmente fu esonerato in quanto essendo vedovo dovette occuparsi delle sue quattro figlie). Tra i pochi ricordi di mia nonna Loredana c’è sicuramente quello riguardante il suo soggiorno a Firenze, più precisamente appena fuori dalla città quando questa fu bombardata. Durante la guerra, mia nonna, le sue tre sorelle e suo padre vissero in una villa sopra Firenze (dato che Roma, la loro città natale, era poco sicura) e proprio da lassú era possibile vedere i bombardamenti che venivano effettuati su Firenze di notte: “Stavamo tutti e cinque sul letto matrimoniale nel buio pesto dovuto all’oscuramemto e nostro padre ci raccontava delle storie, oppure rimanevamo semplicemente tutti immobili in silenzio. La notte, sempre per passare il tempo, ci capitava anche di salire sulla torre della villa per vedere ancora meglio la città e fare a gara a chi contava più bombe. Essendo la più piccolina, non avevo capito che cosa stesse accadendo e quindi per me quello era uno spettacolo affascinante.” L’unico ricordo che mio nonno possiede riguarda invece i suoi frequenti incontri con i soldati tedeschi in campagna, i quali gli regalavano sempre delle caramelle per domandargli poi se sapesse dove comprare del latte nelle vicinanze; la loro domanda era finalizzata a scoprire i posti dove potevano andare a punire la gente che vendeva il latte, pratica da loro considerata illegale; questo fa comprendere quanto la loro presenza fosse fastidiosa anche per dei semplici contadini. Nonostante mio nonno non abbia alcun altro ricordo diretto, ha avuto la fortuna di avere come padre il generale (nonché uno dei fondatori nel 1923) dell'aeronautica militare italiana, Ettore Faccenda, il quale ebbe l’occasione di fare due incontri molto importanti. Il primo di questi riguarda la visita che Benito Mussolini fece all'aeroporto di Campoformido, e in questa occasione il mio bisnonno gli fece fare il suo primo volo su un velivolo bielica. Il secondo incontro rilevante riguarda invece la prima visita di Adolf Hitler a Roma, dove in suo onore venne chiesto allo stormo di cui il mio bisnonno faceva parte, di volare in formazione cosí da riprodurre una croce uncinata, esibizione che ebbe un gran successo. Queste sono alcune delle storie che ho avuto la fortuna di ascoltare quando ero più piccola, comprendendone solo ora il valore di testimonianza storica autentica; ringrazio i miei nonni per il tempo che mi hanno dedicato e per il loro contributo a mantenere viva la memoria. Valeria PAPAGNI
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| JEANNETTE E ARTURO | ||||
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Quando la Seconda Guerra Mondiale scoppiò, mia nonna paterna era ancora molto piccola: aveva solamente sette anni. Si chiama Jeannette ed è nata in un piccolo paese della provincia denominata Valenciennes, nel nord della Francia al confine col Belgio. Questo terribile conflitto segnò profondamente lei e la sua famiglia, infatti oggi, alla veneranda età di 91 anni, Nonna ricorda ancora quel tragico periodo con molta sofferenza e ne parla con difficoltà. Il ricordo più forte che ha è di sua mamma che, ogniqualvolta uscivano di casa, le raccomandava di non guardarsi intorno per non notare i cadaveri disseminati per strada. Inoltre, la sua infanzia è stata accompagnata dal sottofondo del rumore degli elicotteri dell’esercito e degli allarmi antiaerei che, suonando all’improvviso, indicavano la necessità di andare immediatamente a rifugiarsi nei bunker per cercare di scampare alla furia del bombardamento. In particolare, mia nonna ricorda che un giorno che si temeva un attacco imminente, la città fu evacuata e lei ed altri abitanti al rientro trovarono le loro abitazioni devastate. Ciononostante, un aspetto che mia nonna ha tenuto a rimarcare più volte è che non tutti i soldati nemici maltrattavano la popolazione locale: infatti, molti militari tedeschi disapprovavano fortemente la guerra e aiutavano le famiglie francesi, tra cui quella di mia nonna, offrendo loro le poche razioni di cibo che ricevevano e regalando ai bambini del cioccolato. Infine, l’evento più traumatico che Nonna ricorda è il ritorno di suo zio dai campi di concentramento: quest’uomo era talmente scioccato da sembrare quasi impassibile; corpo e mente erano stati messi a dura prova, fatto sta che fu necessario alimentarlo tramite una cannuccia per far riabituare il suo corpo al cibo di cui era stato privato per troppo tempo. Mio nonno paterno invece, visse la tragedia della Seconda Guerra Mondiale all’età di 14 anni. Si chiamava Arturo ed era nato ad Oveillan, una frazione di Sarre in Valle d’Aosta. Nonno era una persona estremamente buona e pacifica, infatti ripudiava ogni forma di violenza e si rifiutò di combattere, non volendo uccidere nessuno. Per questo motivo, quando fu arruolato nell’esercito scappò dalla Valle d’Aosta e dai suoi cari e trovò rifugio in Emilia Romagna. Qui, fu ospitato da una famiglia che lo nascose in una buca vicino alla loro abitazione: Nonno mangiò e dormì in queste tristi condizioni per tutta la durata della guerra senza mai essere scoperto. Infatti, se i funzionari del governo fascista lo avessero trovato, lo avrebbero arrestato con l’accusa di essere un "disertore" e sarebbe stato condannato a morte e con lui la famiglia che lo aveva nascosto. Al termine del conflitto riuscì a tornare in Valle d’Aosta e ricongiungersi con i suoi cari, dopo aver vissuto anni difficili per sostenere la personale libertà di scelta di ripudiare la guerra. Grazie Nonna, grazie Nonno, porterò sempre con me il vostro esempio di forza e di coraggio.
Christine PELLU |
| DI NASCOSTO |
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Mia nonna Giuliana mi raccontava che da piccola, durante la Seconda Guerra Mondiale, ebbe purtroppo molto spesso a che fare con i soldati tedeschi. Giuliana e la sua famiglia vivevano nella campagna genovese e suo padre, un combattente armato senza regole, si uní alla lotta partigiana, e combattè contro un esercito ufficiale per il suo territorio. I soldati tedeschi, intendendo scovare e catturare i partigiani, li ricercavano andando di casa in casa, e il mio bisnonno, che si era creato un rifugio ricavato da un buco sotto il pavimento, era solito nascondersi durante la durata della perquisizione, e uscire solo dopo aver sentito i mezzi militari nemici allontanarsi, trattenendo il respiro per non farsi scoprire. Nessuno in famiglia capiva il tedesco, ciononostante, ad ogni perquisizione dei soldati tedeschi, la mia bisnonna cercava di tenerli occupati affinché non cercassero più a fondo, preparando loro il caffè e offrendo loro qualcosa da mangiare, mentre mia nonna e le sorelle cercavano di essere più gentili possibile per evitare che si insospettissero; disgraziatamente, questo loro atteggiamento fu frainteso dai soldati che le stuprarono. Nel quartiere erano tutti terrorizzati dall'esercito tedesco, anche perché molti padri e figli furono allontanati dalle famiglie e uccisi; fortunatamente il mio bisnonno non fu mai scoperto, grazie alla sua abilità nel nascondersi ogni volta in un posto diverso e al coraggio delle donne della sua famiglia. Sara PEZZOLI |
| CON GLI OCCHI DI MARIA |
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Ho avuto l’onore di intervistare un’anziana amica di famiglia, Maria Paolini, che purtroppo ha vissuto gli orrori della Seconda Guerra Mondiale. Quando tutto iniziò Maria aveva dieci anni e viveva in Abruzzo, nel paesino di Castelvecchio Subequo, in provincia dell'Aquila. In casa con lei c’erano solamente sua mamma e sua nonna, poiché suo papà fu presto chiamato alle armi. Maria non ricorda molti dettagli della sua vita a quel tempo, tuttavia ricorda perfettamente com’era andare a scuola; per ordine del regime fascista gli alunni dovevano indossare la divisa; quella femminile era composta da una camicetta bianca e una gonnellina nera, e le studentesse erano denominate “Piccole italiane”; la divisa maschile consisteva di camicia nera decorata dall’iniziale “M” di Mussolini e calzoncini grigio-verde e gli allievi erano denominati “Balilla”. Le giornate a scuola erano molto monotone - dice Maria; come prima cosa si cantava l’inno dedicato a Mussolini, inno che la signora ha gentilmente cantato per me, ricordandolo a memoria.  Maria e i suoi fratelli pronti per andare a scuola. La scuola, inizialmente organizzata in classi maschili e femminili, durante la guerra, per ristrettezze organizzative, era ormai diventata mista; inoltre, poiché non era sicuro viaggiare, non vi era sufficiente disponibilità di maestri, così il più delle volte un solo docente era impiegato per l'insegnamento di tutte le materie e Maria ebbe un parroco come maestro. Quando tornava da scuola, Maria aiutava la mamma, ad esempio, per andare a comprare del cibo; ella ricorda come tutti abbiano patito la fame in quel periodo; la sua famiglia, come le altre, aveva ricevuto la cosiddetta tessera annonaria che era necessaria per l’acquisto di beni di prima necessità come pane, zucchero e sale la cui disponibilità era scarsa e quindi razionata. Alcune giornate sembravano trascorrere normalmente, e le si poteva passare in completa spensieratezza, ma non si doveva assolutamente dimenticare il limite del coprifuoco, la sera dopo le 20 non si doveva assolutamente uscire, violare questo divieto avrebbe comportato l’arresto immediato. Maria ricorda bene anche il momento in cui vide volare sopra la sua testa centinaia di aerei, che andando e venendo, bombardavano acquedotti, ponti e ferrovie del suo amato paese e dintorni. Per anni, anche dopo la fine della guerra, il suo paese, come tanti altri, patì le difficoltà della ricostruzione di tutto ciò che il conflitto aveva distrutto o portato con sé. Ci vollero decenni per tornare alla normalità, perché la guerra finisce, ma i danni causati restano. Nancy RAFFA |
| UN’ODISSEA CHE PARLA FRANCESE |
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Sono cresciuta a latte e the e racconti della mia bisnonna Marthe. Passavo i pomeriggi seduta accanto a lei sul divano ad ascoltare i suoi ricordi più felici, tra i quali paradossalmente c’erano anche quelli riguardanti gli anni della guerra. La mia bisnonna nacque nel 1921 e trascorse quasi tutti gli anni della Seconda Guerra Mondiale nel piccolo villaggio vicino Marsiglia, in Francia, dove lei e la sua famiglia abitavano. Questo non era solo un territorio di confine con l'Italia, ma anche un luogo in cui le due culture italiana e francese si fondevano. Marthe e sua sorella avevano poco più di vent’anni quando scoppiò la guerra e a Marsiglia arrivarono i battaglioni dei soldati italiani; tra questi c’era quello del mio bisnonno, un ragazzo valdostano di nome Laurent. Il villaggio della mia bisnonna era troppo piccolo per essere considerato un luogo di importanza strategica da occupare, così per fortuna la popolazione locale non avvertì mai veramente la minaccia della guerra, anzi, conduceva la propria vita cogliendo ogni occasione per festeggiare. Fu proprio in una di queste circostanze che Marthe conobbe il futuro marito Laurent e se ne innamorò. Passarono molto tempo insieme e quando lui se ne andò, le disse che viveva in Italia ad Aosta e le diede il suo indirizzo. Era ormai il 1944 e pochi mesi dopo questo coup de foudre Marthe scoprì di essere rimasta incinta, invió delle lettere al suo amato, ma non ricevette mai risposta. Così, appena zio Eddy nacque, decise di partire per andare a cercare il padre di suo figlio ad Aosta. Solo quando giunse in Italia scoprì che le sue lettere non avevano mai oltrepassato il confine. La mia bisnonna mi ha più volte raccontato di quel viaggio, rimarcando quanto fosse stato lungo e pericoloso. Giocò a suo favore avere il cognome piemontese, grazie al quale riuscì ad arrivare a destinazione senza grandi problemi. Ho sempre pensato che la sua storia somigliasse ad una favola, perché - mi raccontava - che quando finalmente rivide Laurent e gli disse che il bambino era suo figlio, si sposarono. Pochi anni dopo nel 1946 nacque mia nonna Josette, poi Zio François e infine Elisabetta, miei prozii. Grazie alle storie apprese dalla viva voce della mia bisnonna, mi piace pensare che la guerra non fu solo un periodo di stragi e sofferenza, ma ci furono anche persone più fortunate che riuscirono a vivere la loro adolescenza normalmente. Il mio bisnonno Laurent venne a mancare all'affetto dei suoi cari poco prima che io nascessi, mentre sua moglie Marthe lo raggiunse all'età di 93 anni, nel 2016; in quegli 11 anni dalla dipartita di suo marito le piaceva ricordare tutto della loro vita a due, litigate comprese. Claudia SORO |
| L’ESPROPRIO |
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I protagonisti di questa storia sono Valentina Pellissier e la sua famiglia (padre, madre e un fratello). Sua madre, Luisa Pellissier, era casalinga e suo padre, Adriano Proment, era agricoltore. Valentina nacque nel 1935 a Villeneuve in Valle d’Aosta, ma ben presto la sua famiglia si trasferì a Courmayeur in “Via dei bagni” per vivere in una casa più grande, che consisteva in una stalla e un fienile. La sua esperienza di guerra cominciò nel 1943 con l'occupazione tedesca. Valentina era una bambina di otto anni quando un giorno i soldati tedeschi decisero di espropriare la casa di famiglia. Avevano scelto proprio quella proprietà essendo dotata di spazi utili per custodire i cavalli in dotazione all’esercito tedesco. Il papà di Valentina cedette casa e terreno senza molte discussioni e si preoccupò di garantire un posto sicuro alla sua famiglia in un’altra casa che possedevano nella frazione di Courmayeur, denominata La Saxe. Una grande qualità di Adriano era la sua infinita generosità, e proprio per questo i tedeschi gli furono più volte riconoscenti ricompensandolo con dei pacchetti di sigarette. Vale la pena precisare che i soldati utilizzarono la casa dei Proment solamente per alloggiare i cavalli dormendo invece nel ristorante Excelsior, situato a pochi metri dalla casa di Valentina. Tuttavia, nei giorni seguenti l’esproprio, Valentina e suo padre dovettero trasportare tutto il fieno della stalla fino alla nuova abitazione. Questa operazione si rivelò particolarmente ardua per Valentina poiché, per raggiungere la casa, lei e il padre dovevano percorrere un sentiero parallelo ad un ruscello, e dovettero percorrerne vari tratti camminando nell’acqua per risultare meno esposti al fuoco dei proiettili. In altri tempi questa operazione si sarebbe potuta evitare, ma essendo le mucche la loro principale fonte di sostentamento, non potevano di certo rimanere a corto di fieno. L’aspetto interessante di questa storia, però, è che Valentina entrò in contatto con i soldati tedeschi instaurando con loro un legame di amicizia; lavorando al ristorante Excelsior, lei era incaricata di pelare le patate e una volta completata la sua mansione, i soldati la premiavano donandole dei biscottini. Un gesto del genere non cambiò di certo gli orrori della guerra, tuttavia, ricevere un regalo da parte dei soldati nemici non era cosa che capitava a tutti. Nel 1944, esattamente un anno dopo l’esproprio, Valentina poté ritornare nella sua casa di “Via dei bagni”, però solo in seguito ad una grande opera di ristrutturazione dell’immobile. Giorgia TEGAS |
| CORAGGIO CIVILE |
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Durante gli anni della Seconda Guerra Mondiale il mio bisnonno paterno fu arruolato e andò in Montenegro a combattere. Rientrato a Valtournenche, raccontava con commozione di come la popolazione locale si fosse distinta per la generosità e il coraggio durante quel periodo difficile. Una volta tornato, si impegnò a garantire il sostentamento della sua famiglia e anche della comunità. Possedeva un camioncino che utilizzava per recarsi in Piemonte, dove acquistava farina per panificare e confezionare altri beni primari, essenziali in quel periodo di magra. Tuttavia sembrava l'unico disposto a sacrificarsi per il bene comune, il solo a possedere il coraggio di affrontare quei viaggi per aiutare chi ne aveva bisogno. Un giorno, mentre si dirigeva verso il Piemonte, fu fermato da un posto di blocco dei partigiani. Costoro, convinti che fosse un fascista, gli puntarono un fucile alla nuca; in una situazione di tensione massima, dovette spiegare con urgenza che non era un fascista e cercare disperatamente di convincerli a lasciarlo passare incolume. Fortunatamente, i partigiani lo lasciarono passare, ma quell'esperienza, in cui rischiò la vita mentre cercava di portare aiuto ai suoi familiari e concittadini, lo segnò profondamente. La storia del mio bisnonno è un toccante esempio di come il coraggio e la dedizione verso gli altri abbiano giocato un ruolo cruciale durante i giorni bui della guerra. guerra. Martina TOUSCOZ |
| TRA MARE E MONTI |
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I miei nonni materni sono nati dopo la Seconda Guerra Mondiale e non hanno molti ricordi di quel periodo nel quale vivevano sulla riviera ligure, dove abitano tuttora. Hanno vissuto, però, gli anni del dopoguerra e mi hanno raccontato della crisi e delle ristrettezze di quegli anni, quando c’erano pochi soldi, poco cibo, lo stile di vita era semplice e volto all’obiettivo di riprendersi il prima possibile, tornare a sorridere e a sperare in un futuro migliore.
Il ramo paterno della mia famiglia, invece, è stato maggiormente coinvolto dal conflitto; mia nonna Carla è olandese e negli anni della guerra abitava ad Haarlem, vicino ad Amsterdam; ha ricordi molto vaghi, e non rammenta troppe restrizioni. Ha avuto qualche suo nonno o zio che è dovuto andare al fronte, ma nessun mio parente stretto. Fortunatamente non ha sofferto troppo nel dopoguerra e ha girato l’Europa per lavoro, traduceva testi per compagnie importanti con la macchina da scrivere; giunta in Italia ha conosciuto mio nonno Giorgio sulla riviera ligure e da quel giorno non si sono mai più lasciati. Il mio nonno paterno è tra i nonni quello che mi ha raccontato più storie. Era cresciuto in Piemonte, ma la sua famiglia si traferì quando lui era ancora giovane, nell’amata Cervinia, dopo che i suoi genitori ebbero trovato lì la loro “fortuna”; sua madre era solita ripetergli: “Giorgio, qui c’è fortuna e non ci muoviamo più”. Nonostante ciò, la nuova vita non fu tutta “rose e fiori”. Con l’avvento della guerra, infatti, arrivò anche la crisi e per un paio d’anni mio nonno dovette abitare in un rudere, condividendo la camera con suo cugino, dove - mi racconta spesso - che in pieno inverno era costretto a dormire vestito, foderando gli scarponi con la carta di giornale, viste le tre dita di ghiaccio che c’erano dietro la testata del letto. Ebbe un’adolescenza difficile, ma fortunatamente la guerra non gli causò altri danni. Tommaso ZAVATTARO |
| ANNI ‘20 IN VALLE D’AOSTA |
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La Valle d’Aosta, una piccola regione ai confini nord-occidentali dell’Italia, ha conosciuto una forma di fascismo particolare che si può definire “fascismo di confine”. Durante il ventennio fascista questa zona subì un poderoso e sistematico attacco contro la propria identità linguistica, storica e culturale, che ebbe come effetto, per esempio, nel fallimento delle sue due banche principali (tra cui la Banca Réan), nella massiccia emigrazione di molti valdostani in Francia e Svizzera e nell'imposizione di parlare solo la lingua italiana (quando la popolazione parlava soprattutto la lingua locale, che i valdostani chiamano “patois” o la lingua francese), e attuando il discutibile programma di italianizzare, non solo tutti i toponimi, ma anche i nomi e i cognomi delle famiglie valdostane, persino i più improbabili (ad esempio il cognome Perruquier fu italianizzato in “Perrucchione”, Champorcher divenne “Ciamporcero”; la località di Pontboset venne italianizzata in “Pianboseto”; Pré Saint Didier divenne “San Desiderio Terme”, per citarne solo alcuni). Nel 1925, sotto la guida di Emile Chanoux (notaio, politico ed intellettuale valdostano), fu fondata la società patriottica Jeune Vallée d'Aoste, che fece della tutela della lingua e dell'identità locale il principio necessario per la difesa della libertà intesa in senso lato. Prima di passare alla clandestinità, per sfuggire alla persecuzione della dittatura fascista, questa associazione raccolse alcune migliaia di firme di capifamiglia a sostegno di una petizione in difesa delle lingue autoctone, segno evidente dell'insofferenza della popolazione valdostana nei confronti degli abusi del regime. Nel 1943, Chanoux partecipó all’evento che passò alla storia col nome di “Riunione di Chivasso”, durante la quale fu redatta la "Carta di Chivasso", documento che, riaffermando i diritti delle minoranze etniche all'interno di un futuro Stato democratico, forní le linee guida per l'elaborazione degli Statuti Speciali delle Regioni Autonome, nella neonata Repubblica Italiana. L’impegno e il prestigio di Emile Chanoux furono un’ispirazione per tutta la popolazione valdostana nonché un punto di riferimento per il suo senso d'identità, che la dittatura fascista non riuscì a sradicare; fu per questo che, il 18 maggio 1944, con l’intento di soffocare le aspirazioni autonomiste, il regime fece arrestare Chanoux. Dopo una notte di interrogatorio e tortura Chanoux fu trovato morto la mattina seguente, impiccato alle sbarre della prigione, una circostanza di apparente suicidio - versione cui nessuno credette. L'influenza del periodo fascista in Valle d’Aosta lasciò segni evidenti, visibili oggi nei nomi di alcune città e vari comuni. Durante il regime fascista tutti i toponimi vennero italianizzati, così, ad esempio, Courmayeur fu rinominata “Cormaiore”, La Thuile fu ridenominata “Porta Littoria” e infine Breuil-Cervinia fu ribattezzata “Cervinia”. A gennaio 2023, a conclusione di un confronto tra le amministrazioni regionale e comunale e il tavolo tecnico della toponomastica, iniziato nel 2011 e conclusosi col parere favorevole del di allora sindaco, si deliberó per rinominare la meta turistica valdostana, attualmente conosciuta a livello internazionale, col nome di Breuil - Cervinia solo “Le Breuil”, eliminando così il nome “Cervinia”, retaggio dell’epoca fascista. Dal 30 novembre scorso (2023) la questione è salita agli onori delle cronache regionali e nazionali, a testimonianza del fatto che certe questioni storiche sono tutt’altro che concluse e toccano nervi scoperti ancora oggi. Ruslana ZELIONII |
| UN’INFANZIA DI GUERRA |
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Le storie di guerra vengono in genere rielaborate quando si è adulti, e quindi più consapevoli dei fatti accaduti, ma questo non è il caso del racconto di mio nonno materno Ovidio che nel 1940 era un bambino di tre anni. Nonno abitava in Valle d'Aosta, a Villeneuve con i genitori e tre fratelli. Data la sua tenera età, non poteva affatto capire cosa stava succedendo realmente in queli anni; trascorreva, infatti, le sue giornate andando a scuola e aiutando i genitori nel lavoro dei campi. Un giorno il padre, rientrato a casa da lavoro nella centrale di Chavonne, annunció di essere stato licenziato poiché non aveva accettato di firmare l’adesione al partito fascista. Seppur piccolo, immagino che in quel momento nella mente di mio nonno egli abbia in qualche modo percepito l’inizio di un cambiamento. Successivamente, Nonno mi ha raccontato che vennero organizzati dei posti di blocco in ingresso e in uscita da Villeneuve, presso i quali chiunque voleva entrare o passare per il paese, persino i bambini, veniva controllato; queste postazioni fungevano anche da punti di raccolta dei cadaveri di coloro i quali venivano arrestati e poi fucilati. Le sirene dell’allarme antiaereo suonavano a qualsiasi ora del giorno e della notte e quando ciò accadeva, tutti dovevano andare a rifugiarsi in un luogo sotterraneo, in genere una cantina nei pressi delle abitazioni, dove si doveva rimanere finché non veniva suonato un nuovo segnale ad indicare la fine del bombardamento; la permanenza nel rifugio a volte poteva durare anche alcune ore. La casa di mio nonno si trova ancora oggi di fronte al cimitero, dove, in quegli anni, in genere avvenivano le fucilazioni, per cui ogni giorno, mentre lui e la sua famiglia lavoravano nei campi, sentivano il frastuono degli spari del plotone di esecuzione contro il muro di cinta del cimitero. Oggi il cimitero di Villeneuve è composto da tre sezioni, negli anni ‘40 ce n’era solo una ad ospitare le tombe; al posto delle attuali due c’era un vasto prato dove era stata scavata una fossa comune, in cui venivano gettati i cadaveri raccolti varie ore dopo la morte. Un giorno, sapendo che un loro parente era tra coloro che sarebbero stati fucilati, la famiglia di mio nonno si soffermó a guardare il plotone di soldati che conduceva i condannati a morte; una volta arrivati davanti al muro del cimitero si sentirono alcuni spari, ma in quel momento i soldati, probabilmente accorgendosi di essere osservati, si voltarono in direzione della casa di mio nonno e iniziarono a sparare verso di loro; non penso che avessero il vero intento di colpirli, bensì solo di spaventarli e scoraggiarli dal prestare nuovamente attenzione. Nel 1943 ci fu la visita di Mussolini in Valle d’Aosta; a questo proposito Nonno ricorda solo vagamente la folla di persone scesa in strada ad aspettare l’arrivo del corteo con l’auto del Duce per applaudire al suo passaggio. Oltre agli aspetti tragici e cruenti della guerra, mio nonno ha anche dei ricordi positivi: si rammenta, ad esempio, che tutti i sabati i bambini venivano riuniti a Chavonne per giochi e attività di gruppo, in quella che doveva essere un’operazione di propaganda per instillare i valori del regime nei più piccoli. A guerra finita, il papà di mio nonno fu assunto di nuovo a lavorare alla Cogne ad Aosta, dove aveva lavorato anni prima, dato che i luoghi di lavoro in città erano meno controllati rispetto ai paesi, e quindi aveva potuto lavorare anche senza essersi mai iscritto al partito fascista. Dopo la guerra, Nonno Ovidio ha continuato la sua vita sposando mia nonna Alda e diventando padre di una figlia, mia mamma Daniela, ma penso che i ricordi della sua infanzia vissuta in tempo di guerra non lo lasceranno mai. I gemelli Ovidio e Gastone Courthoud a Villeneuve Silvia ZERBINATI |
| NONNO LEO - UN PITTORE IN GUERRA | |||
Valentina TENEDINI
I miei nonni Leopoldo ed Erminia in una foto del 1964 - sono stati sposati tutta la vita - riuscendo a festeggiare anche le nozze d’oro |
