The official Italian roll call response, here written on the tomb of one of the multi-thousands of dead Italian soldiers whose name will never be known. This image is from the military cemetery at Kobarid, Slovenia, final resting place of 7,014 known and unknown Italian soldiers and the site of no fewer than 12 lost battles against the Austro-Hungarian empire.
In the United States we observe Veterans Day on November 11, the date of Germany’s formal surrender at the end of World War 1. To be precise, the ceasefire took effect at 11:11 on November 11. We called it Armistice Day when I was a sprout, but now the date recognizes veterans of all wars.
The war between Italy and Austria-Hungary, however, came to an end on November 3, when the ceasefire was signed at the Villa Giusti outside Padova, to take effect on November 4. That date has long been observed here as a national day of remembrance, though by the end of it all, the warring parties had signed no fewer than 16 peace treaties.
It’s bad enough to know who were the casualties, but the nameless ones are what haunt me. In 1921, Italy consecrated its national Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, in Rome, and this year marked its hundredth-year anniversary. There are military shrines (sacrario) all over Italy and it is appalling how many of their soldiers are unknown. The monument in Gorizia notes 57,741 Italian casualties, of which 36,000 are unknown. At the shrine at Redipuglia are 100,000 fallen, and 60,000 unknown. At Asiago are 54,286 dead of which 33,000 are unknown. Obliterated.
Which brings me to the sacrario crowning Monte Grappa. The Grappa massif was the site of some of the war’s most violent battles, and where the Austrian advance into Italy was finally stopped.
On even moderately clear days, the low outline of Grappa, here just behind the Murano lighthouse, is visible from Venice. A mere 52 miles/84 km separate mountain from lagoon.The cemetery on Monte Grappa contains not only the remains of thousands of Italian soldiers (foreground), but also many unknown Austrian soldiers in the circular area further back.Monument to the Fallen of Monte Grappa Reigning His Majesty Vittorio Emanuele III Leader Benito Mussolini May 24 1934 September 22 1935 XIII year of E.F. (Epoca Fascista). The plaque on the lower right says: “In this shrine rest the remains of 12,615 fallen Italians of which 10,332 are unknown and 10,295 fallen Austro-Hungarians of which 10,000 are unknown.”Austrians to the right, Italians to the left.Meaning no disrespect to the Italian casualties, but I was surprised to find so many of the enemy interred here.Atop the summit, walking toward the Italian tombs.Looking toward Venice. Lino says that on a clear day you can see the sea. Of course the Austrian army wanted to see it too, even closer than this.Looking northward.The smaller loculi contain identified soldiers, the larger ones contain some of the unknown. In this case, it says “Cento Militi Ignoti”” One hundred unknown soldiers. There are many of these.
The full inscription above reads: Gloria a Voi Soldati del Grappa. “Glory to you soldiers of Grappa.”Most of the streets and campos in the area of Sant’ Elena bear names recalling the First World War.
Two weeks ago — the evening of October 29 — a remarkable event passed through Venice in the form of the “Train of Memory,” a steam train that retraced the route of the train that traveled from Aquileia to Rome bearing the coffin of the nameless soldier chosen to represent all of them to his final resting place at the Altar of the Fatherland. As before, the train left Cervignano Aquileia on October 29, stopped at Udine and Treviso, and arrived at Santa Lucia station in Venice at 9:30 PM. A few hours later it departed for Bologna, Florence, Arezzo, and finally Rome.
We waited at the station, determined to see it despite a delay of 90 minutes. A ceremony had been organized, though it was less majestic than those I discovered had been held in other stations. Music, speeches, uniforms. More music. It was moving in spite of all that; for me, the emotion was compounded by the fact that Lino’s father had been a train driver in the steam era, and that Santa Lucia station was once full of puffing, gasping trains just like this one.
A platoon of cadets from the Morosini naval school were arrayed, along with detachments of veterans of various branches and the band of the Alpini Julia Brigade. The train is coming in on Track 1, as it did in October of 1921.
The original train carried the coffin on an open carriage like this one.It was said that this locomotive was the same that had pulled the original train. I can’t confirm that, but I can certainly confirm real steam.
The original train was something infinitely grander and more solemn, of course. This brief film clip shows scenes from the train’s passing towns and stations on its way to Rome, and I trust that even without your understanding the narration, the images will express something of the magnitude of the experience. It seems as though everyone who saw the coffin gave it something from the depths of their heart and spirit, as each person glimpsed, in a way, their own lost soldier.
So where is the monument to the Unknown Soldier in Venice? There is only one and it’s at Sant’Elena, modestly placed amid a sort of garden, a genteel afterthought. For years this piece of stone just sat on the ground till finally a group of former soldiers managed to get it up onto a sort of pedestal. Some cities, such as Florence, organized ceremonies with the laying of a huge laurel wreath.
Here, not so much. The only wreath was placed by Daniele Girardini, president of a military history association named cimeetrincee (peaks and trenches). Not even a nod from the city government, much less a ceremony. Maybe ceremonies are empty calories, but no ceremonies are worse.
This plot is right in front of the vaporetto stop at Sant’ Elena. It’s officially named the Garden of Remembrance, but plenty of people go by every day who have yet to realize that there is a stone here, much less a memorial, so not too heavy on the “remembrance.”
“I was always embarrassed by the words sacred, glorious, and sacrifice, ” wrote Ernest Hemingway. “I had seen nothing sacred, and the things that were glorious had no glory and the sacrifices were like the stockyards at Chicago if nothing was done with the meat except to bury it…Abstract words such as glory, honor, courage…were obscene beside the concrete names of villages… the names of rivers, the numbers of regiments and the dates.”
Memorial Day is now disappearing in the traffic behind us (though my calendar notes that yesterday, May 30, was the traditional date for the same), but what are dates? As a wise person once remarked, for Gold Star families every day is Memorial Day.
In any case, many nations commemorate their fallen with masses of marble, eternal flames, and other worthy symbols of pride and humility. Italy has the “Altare della Patria,” or Altar of the Fatherland, in Rome.
Imposing. Serious. Solemn. (Photograph by alvesgaspar, wikimedia).
And then there is a schlumpy little chunk of some kind of stone that was sitting in a tangle of green-and-brownery at Sant’ Elena. This last bit of Venice before the Adriatic Sea isn’t known for monuments, unlike the rest of the most-beautiful-city-in-the-world up the street. But in fact the whole neighborhood is a sort of memorial to World War I, its streets named for generals, battlefields, dates and exploits. And there is also this cube on which two words were long since incised: MILITE IGNOTO (MEE-lee-teh Ih-NYAW-to). Unknown soldier.
Lino came across this relic a few months ago, and was startled and more than a little offended. Not that he makes a cult of military cenotaphs, but he stated clearly that he saw no point in having such a significant object if it was just going to lie there, neglected and forgotten. He said this also to a few other people too, especially to some of the officers at the nearby Scuola Navale Militare Francesco Morosini, where he teaches Venetian rowing.
“Unprepossessing” is putting it mildly. Till you think about it, and then you realize that this fragment is the exact equal of the mountain of metamorphosed limestone in Rome.
Most comments float away like dandelion fluff (if you’re lucky), but Lino’s particular comment stuck somewhere because a cultural association devoted to World War I entitled the Associazione Cime e Trincee (Peaks and Trenches) got to work, and last Sunday the newly furbished memorial was rededicated in the sight of God and a small but trusty company of assorted veterans.
This ceremony wasn’t matched with any particular date — they could have waited till Saturday and combined emotions with the national holiday commemorating the founding of the Italian Republic. But they did it on Sunday, and we went. We felt mystically involved, even though we still haven’t found out how the notion of bringing the stone back to life, so to speak, ever occurred. It’s enough that it happened.
The Gathering of the Participants from various components of the armed forces with their standards. The participants outnumbered the spectators, but the fact that there WERE spectators is a fine thing.When it comes to the bersaglieri (“marksmen,” or rapid light infantry) I’m not sure which is more dazzling — the fuchsia standard, or the cap cascading with turkey feathers. I’ll take both.Just about the best uniform ever.Last to arrive were three cadets from the naval school, bringing the Italian flag. They were accompanied by a very energetic ex-member of the Alpine Regiment who appeared to be acting as a sort of stage manager.Ready?And off we march.Hup two hup two.The flag is raised.We move a few steps back to stand along the border of the circular plot where the stone is placed.The two little girls pulled off the orange cloth to reveal the stone, which has now been placed up on a sort of pedestal and isn’t lying around in the dirt anymore.Don Gianni Medeot, the chaplain of the naval school and a naval officer, blesses the stone.Being blessed. The traditional laurel wreath has very untraditionally been laid — albeit reverently — on its side. The ribbons are supposed to be vertical. But let me not spoil the moment.As soon as the modest speechifying concluded, a youngish member of the Alpine regiment (not pictured, and not the stage manager) walked right up and straightened the wreath. I felt so much better. The picture of the three cadets also looks better this way.The standards were then packed up in their carrying cases, and the everyone proceeded to the refreshment phase — here as simple as the ceremony: red wine and potato chips.You don’t need a marching band or fireworks.
The solemnity (more and/or less) of the past three days — All Saints Day and All Souls Day — dissolves today into the genuine solemnity of the annual commemoration of the end of World War I. November 4 (1918) is the date on which war against the Austro-Hungarian empire and its allies ceased.
It sounds so tidy: Victory. Peace. Ninety years have gone by. Let’s move on.
But every year the moving-on stops, to observe what is now called the Festa of the Armed Forces. Many civic monuments, and not a few of the parish memorials listing the fallen sheep of the local flock, are decorated with shiny fresh laurel wreaths given by the City of Venice. And a ceremony performed by veterans’ groups and other military elements is held every year on this day in the Piazza San Marco.
In Rome, the President of the Republic made the traditional visit to the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, which soldiers guard night and day.
France had established the first tomb of the Unknown Soldier in 1920, and the Italians wanted to do likewise. They had lost some 1,240,000 men, almost entirely on the northern front which had stretched some 400 miles, almost one-third of the entire Alpine arc. In what some have called history’s greatest mountain battlefield, the gathering and burial of unidentified soldiers had been going on for two years.
A commission was formed to choose one soldier from each of the eleven sectors of the front (Rovereto, Dolomiti, Altipiani, Grappa, Montello, Basso Piave, Cadore, Gorizia, Basso Isonzo, San Michele, and Castagnevizza). No identifying marks of any kind were to be permitted — no name, or rank, or serial number.
The eleven caskets were taken to the basilica of Aquileia, not far from Trieste. Here they were arranged in a line, and on October 26, 1921, a woman named Maria Bergamas from Gradisca d’Isonzo stepped forward to choose one.
Her son, Antonio, had been killed but his body had never been found. No one imagined, I’m sure, that one of the eleven victims could have been her son. She was there to represent all of the mothers, wives and women of Italy.
One eyewitness reported that she walked toward the row of eleven coffins, “with her eyes staring, fixed on the caskets, trembling…in front of the next to last one, she let out a sharp cry, calling her son by name, and fell on the casket, clasping it.” Strangely, there are less fervid accounts, also by eyewitnesses: “In front of the first coffin she seemed to become faint, and was supported by her escort of four veterans, all decorated with the Gold Medal for Valor. In front of the second, she stopped, held out her arms and placed her mourning veil upon it.”
As a journalist, I can’t grasp how there could be more than one version of the event, but I assume everyone was extremely keyed up.
Here is the scene as depicted by “La Domenica del Corriere.” Meaning no disrespect, it clearly would have made an excellent third act to a tragic opera.
In any case, one was chosen, placed on a gun carriage, lashed onto an open-sided train carriage,and covered with the Italian battle flag. Four other open carriages were attached, to contain the flowers which undoubtedly were going to be offered by the people along the way.
The train stopped at Udine, Treviso, Venice, Padova, Rovigo, Ferrara, Bologna, Pistoia, Prato, Firenze, Arezzo, Chiusi, Orvieto, and finally Rome. But in fact it stopped — was stopped, actually, by the throngs which had waited for hours to see it — at all the stations, even the tiniest. Some threw flowers, others clasped their hands and knelt.
The train arrived in Rome on the evening of November 3, and the casket was taken to the basilica of Santa Maria degli Angeli e dei Martiri near the station. Mourners passed all night to pay their respects.
The next day, November 4, 1921, the war would formally end at 3:00 PM. The cortege proceeded slowly down the Via Nazionale toward Piazza Venezia and the massive monument known as the Vittoriano, where the body would be entombed.
The monument known as Il Vittoriano, in Rome. The “Altar of the Fatherland,” where the casket was placed is in the center, beneath the statue of the goddess Roma in the golden niche. (Photo: Alessio Nastro Siniscalchi)
Total silence reigned. King Vittorio Emmanuele III walked behind the gun carriage bearing the casket. At the monument, the casket was lifted and carried by six veterans, all of whom had been decorated with the Gold Medal for Valor. Finally, it was placed in the space beneath the statue of the ancient goddess Roma. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RrOMk91vCfo
You might be surprised, as I have been, to discover how many poems (at least in Italian) have been written about the Unknown Soldier. Some are even composed as accusations, reflections, admonitions, rebukes, spoken directly to the reader by the Soldier. There is also a number of songs about him and/or war, in the mold of the protest songs of the Sixties and early Seventies. They seem dated and futile.
Well, of course they’re futile. Just look around. Still, some respect for the fallen is the least we can do. Or apparently the most we can do.
She wasn’t weeping, she was eating something. Life insists on going on.
