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Authors: Francesca Melandri, Katherine Gregor
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them thereâs a capercaillie holding a coat of arms in its beak, while on the third one thereâs a pheasant. High up on the edge thereâs a different date on each: 9/8/84, 12/5/88, 3/10/93. And three names: Kurt, Moritz, Lara. Dates of birth and names, just like those my uncle had written on the target dedicated to the newborn Ulli. Here too there are tiny holes in the center, in the picture of the animal. The owner of this restaurant is obviously a hunter, just like Peter, and like him, he and his friends celebrated his becoming a father by shooting (my God, shooting!) at the names of the newborn children. But he was a better shot than my uncle, or perhaps he had drunk less: because instead of the picture in the middle, Peter hit his own sonâs name.
The last time I saw itâthat horrid target even Ulli had always hatedâit was being lowered with him into his grave. It was easy to believe that being such a bad shot, his father, the uncle Peter I never knew, had riddled with bullets not just his sonâs name, but also his life. Yes, I remember it now. That day I missed Vito terribly. The day Ulliâs coffin was lowered into the grave.
âWeâve lost a friend, a wonderful person,â someone said to me. I was so angry I clenched my fists in my coat pockets. I hadnât lost anyone! I hadnât gone to the supermarket with Ulli and suddenly turned around and not found him like it happens with children. I hadnât put him in a drawer and then couldnât remember which one. I hadnât left him on the bench like a newspaper or my cellphone. Or in somebodyâs house, like an umbrella. Or on the train, like a suitcase. I hadnât lost Ulli. Ulli had killed himself. And there were many people there who could have spared him a few reasons to do it. My anger rose and dropped like a wave, then all I felt was great tiredness. Thatâs when I missed Vito.
I felt the need to rest my head on his shoulderâon his belly, in fact, because even though Vito wasnât tall, the last time Iâd seen him I was a little girlâhis little girl. Thatâs how I remembered him at that moment: strong arms wrapped around my chest from behind, me barely leaning my head back and brushing his breastbone with the back of my neck, reclining against him with all my weight, certain that he would support me. Standing by Ulliâs grave, I suddenly felt such an explosion of longing for Vito that for an instant it even covered the pain I felt for the death of my cousin, my playmate and confidant, more than my brother, my friend, perhaps my one and only love.
That was the moment when Lukas, the old sacristan, started his astounding speech. And only from Vito would I have accepted to hear, later: you see, Ulli didnât die in vain. Except that Vito wasnât there at the cemetery.
Itâs time to pay my bill and go. The train from Innsbruck that will take me to Bolzano is about to arrive.
1961 - 1963
W hen, at the headquarters of the Italian Armed Forces, they heard that Gerda had gone to work in a large hotel in Merano, they immediately decided to send about a thousand soldiers to Alto Adige. The army requisitioned her hotel, occupying all its rooms, as well as other major hotels in the renowned health resort. When the new and very young
Matratze
arrived at the hotel to begin her apprenticeship, she found over a hundred Alpini waiting for her. The soldiers saw the perfectly developed sixteen-year-old come in through the tradesmanâs entrance, wearing her Sunday dirndl, the knuckles of her right hand so tight around the handle of her suitcase that they were white. The troops expressed gratitude and enthusiasm for the decision made by their generals: they were finally seeing the reason for a mission in that land of Krauts where all they could understand were the swear words.
But no, thatâs not how it happened.
The reason for the arrival of all those soldiers
The last time I saw itâthat horrid target even Ulli had always hatedâit was being lowered with him into his grave. It was easy to believe that being such a bad shot, his father, the uncle Peter I never knew, had riddled with bullets not just his sonâs name, but also his life. Yes, I remember it now. That day I missed Vito terribly. The day Ulliâs coffin was lowered into the grave.
âWeâve lost a friend, a wonderful person,â someone said to me. I was so angry I clenched my fists in my coat pockets. I hadnât lost anyone! I hadnât gone to the supermarket with Ulli and suddenly turned around and not found him like it happens with children. I hadnât put him in a drawer and then couldnât remember which one. I hadnât left him on the bench like a newspaper or my cellphone. Or in somebodyâs house, like an umbrella. Or on the train, like a suitcase. I hadnât lost Ulli. Ulli had killed himself. And there were many people there who could have spared him a few reasons to do it. My anger rose and dropped like a wave, then all I felt was great tiredness. Thatâs when I missed Vito.
I felt the need to rest my head on his shoulderâon his belly, in fact, because even though Vito wasnât tall, the last time Iâd seen him I was a little girlâhis little girl. Thatâs how I remembered him at that moment: strong arms wrapped around my chest from behind, me barely leaning my head back and brushing his breastbone with the back of my neck, reclining against him with all my weight, certain that he would support me. Standing by Ulliâs grave, I suddenly felt such an explosion of longing for Vito that for an instant it even covered the pain I felt for the death of my cousin, my playmate and confidant, more than my brother, my friend, perhaps my one and only love.
That was the moment when Lukas, the old sacristan, started his astounding speech. And only from Vito would I have accepted to hear, later: you see, Ulli didnât die in vain. Except that Vito wasnât there at the cemetery.
Itâs time to pay my bill and go. The train from Innsbruck that will take me to Bolzano is about to arrive.
1961 - 1963
W hen, at the headquarters of the Italian Armed Forces, they heard that Gerda had gone to work in a large hotel in Merano, they immediately decided to send about a thousand soldiers to Alto Adige. The army requisitioned her hotel, occupying all its rooms, as well as other major hotels in the renowned health resort. When the new and very young
Matratze
arrived at the hotel to begin her apprenticeship, she found over a hundred Alpini waiting for her. The soldiers saw the perfectly developed sixteen-year-old come in through the tradesmanâs entrance, wearing her Sunday dirndl, the knuckles of her right hand so tight around the handle of her suitcase that they were white. The troops expressed gratitude and enthusiasm for the decision made by their generals: they were finally seeing the reason for a mission in that land of Krauts where all they could understand were the swear words.
But no, thatâs not how it happened.
The reason for the arrival of all those soldiers
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