Nero Italiano - Italians prefer it black - Published in Italy in 2003 by Fratelli Frilli Editori (Genova)

The night was cold and rainy. Two grenadiers on guard duty stood statuary on the wide platform at the top of the imposing stairway, one on each side of the massive plaque. Such a martial bearing was not dictated by the respect for a thirty-year-old memory, but rather by the violent light projected on the monument by three powerful spotlights placed on Palazzo Venezia and on the Forums of Augustus and Caesar. In the perpetual daylight that enveloped the old "typewriter” relaxing was not an option. A Militia officer had been specifically appointed to make sure the Guards of the Fatherland Mausoleum observed the strict code imposed by the War Ministry. Every morning, a new report was filed: a few words exchanged at the feet of the Sepulchre could mean a ticket to the Eastern African Front. Patriotism, however, was not the only reason behind the luminous cascade on the former Unknown Soldier Monument. Lately, its sheer white marble had been regularly defiled by slogans celebrating democracy and socialism. No matter how many workers were dispatched every night equipped with water cannons, brushes and white paint, the writing could not be wiped off. The Militia itself seemed unable to catch the faceless vandals, usually students darting through the night on board of their Vespas. This was the real reason why in 1975, twenty-four months after the Islamic cessation of all oil exportations towards western countries, the monument was flooded with light despite the fact that Italy and its fascist regime could not afford it. It so happened that while the light projected over the Fatherland Mausoleum was visible from miles away, the rest of the streets in Rome was left in total darkness. After hitting the white surface of the Duce’s Sepulcher the beams of light reverberated all over the nearby buildings. A diffused halo as pale as moonlight drew a wavering rectangle on the antique floor in one of the halls of Palazzo Venezia. The only other source of light was a low-intensity chandelier hanging from the ceiling. The face of the people sitting at the long tables close to the walls remained in the shadow. There were twenty-four men and three women, only a couple of them wore a uniform. An elevated tribune with red brocade upholstering dominated the central wall. It contained a sturdy Renaissance chair with armrests and an old man slumped in it. Probably attractive in his younger days, he wore his raven black hair combed backwards with gel and a double-breasted grey suit a little too tight on his protruding abdomen and hips. His thick neck was framed by the collar of a white silk shirt and a black tie embellished with a single pearl. In spite of the poor illumination provided by the chandelier, a huge portrait of Benito Mussolini stood out against the back wall. As he waited with the usual indolence to open the session of the Supreme Council, the Fascist Party National Secretary Gian Galeazzo Ciano glanced at the admonitory scowl of his father-in-law. “If only he could see how we have transformed the Regime in the past thirty years,” Ciano thought tapping his fingers on the leather folder in front of him. He then cleared his throat to command attention, switched on a tiny reading lamp and began to speak. "Comrades, I will try to be brief,” he commenced in his usual shrill voice. “What I have here are the reports compiled by the Foreign Office and the Economy Ministry concerning the consequences of the energetic crisis on international relations. I also have the Home Office dossier in my folder. But let us proceed in an orderly fashion.” Ciano produced the first of the two files stored in his folder, his platinum cuff links sparkling even in the semidarkness of the hall. “For the past two years we haven’t received a single drop of oil from the Islamic countries. Italy can only rely on the scarce reserves of Libya, and the ongoing war in Ethiopia and Somalia prevents us from reallocating the existing resources to get what we need. The situation is not brighter abroad. The United States is using up its national reserves after the Shiites fomented public unrest in Persia, the only supplier they had left following the Islamic Revolt in Saudi Arabia, forcing the Shah to cut oil exportation. Great Britain and France are looking for new venues to acquire oil in Africa, but a new theocratic republic is born every other day, and they all refuse to sell oil to the old colonizers. The German Reich has plenty of natural resources but no oil. Nevertheless, President Albert Speer has personally granted me a supply of natural gas and coal. After the recent betrayal of Greece, Portugal and Spain, Germany is the last friend we have in Europe. Only the Soviet Union is doing well. Really well. In the name of internationalism and humanitarian help to the developing nations, the communist high ranks stroke the mullahs and get all the oil they need for next to nothing. Trouble is, as you all know, Italy has had no diplomatic ties with the Soviets for the past fifty years.” Ciano undid a button on the collar of his shirt, took a sip of water from a crystal glass and turned his attention to the second dossier. “Here, the Home Office Minister Casamassima informs me that tens of thousands of students have taken to the streets not only in Rome, but in Naples, Palermo and Milan as well. Yes, you heard me well: tens of thousands. I trust you will not rely on the official statements delivered by press, radio and television. Comrades, we are faced with more than a few hooligans who enjoy scribbling their love for communism on the Fatherland Mausoleum. After fifty-three years of Regime, it appears our youth would love to get rid of us. Thank God, in the factories the situation is not so critical yet. The workers of Alfa Romeo, Fiat and Italsider are just complaining as usual, demanding a forty-eight-hour week and the introduction of factory-councils.” Ciano sighed, then resumed his speech while distractedly examining his hands. “You see, the point is that have grown old. I am well into my seventies. When I succeeded the Duce in 1944, I witnessed how lucky Italy had been in choosing to remain neutral during the most devastating conflict of the century. Of course we ended up poorer but not floored like the others.” Ciano’s massive frame shifted in the seat. He drank some more and began to talk once again, wearily. “I’m afraid that keeping fascism alive did nothing but delay its end. I did everything I possibly could: I relinquished the title of Duce and, in 1945, I abolished the racial laws and anti-semitic measures introduced by Mussolini in 1938. I opened the Fascist Party to women, and to the dismay of some of you, I keep in touch with a few exponents of the old parliamentary opposition. Censorship has loosened its grip and newspapers have been allowed to occasionally criticize the Regime. Modernization has reached Italy: the industrial sector offers plenty of employment opportunities and almost everybody can afford a car. Getting divorced is legal and that was enough for the “Roman Observer” and the Vatican Radio to accuse Fascism of being enemy of the family. Fascism an enemy of the family!” Ciano slammed his massive fist on the desk. “Thank God, our Duce is not here today to listen to such nonsense!” He wiped his glistening forehead with a white linen handkerchief embroidered with a red monogram. “But there is more. After the return of the monarchy in Spain, the Italian King is doing his best to paint himself as a democrat. As if the man responsible for clearing the way for Mussolini fifty-three years ago hadn’t been his father! Who could have missed Umberto II waving at the demonstrating students from his balcony at the Quirinale? What a show! And those pictures have travelled the whole world. The offspring of one of the most authoritarian dynasties in Europe, an old man like me, caught celebrating communism with a mob of youngsters! And Prince Vittorio Emanuele will soon leave for a private visit to Moscow.” Ciano was exhausted, but he wanted to get to the end. “As I said, I played my part in order to build a modern regime, but fascism is not an elastic band, there is a limit to how much you can stretch it. We cannot loose our identity. We cannot go back to the same parliamentarianism that was the ruin of liberalistic Italy. We cannot afford a free press. We cannot give up secret police nor the Militia, but neither can we reintroduce fascist celebrations on Saturdays and Sunday musters. Thanks to me, the black shirt gets worn only on the 28th of October, the anniversary of the Revolution, and it is not even mandatory to do so. We are standing at a crossroad, Comrades, and t is your responsibility to select the path ahead. So be extra careful when choosing the next turn.” The national secretary of the Fascist Party finally rested his back against the upholstery of his chair and remained in silence. He was drained; his heart pounded like a hammer inside his chest. He swallowed two pills with another sip of water. The hall was completely quiet. The counsellors only exchanged quick glances before returning to their notes. In the end, it was Maria de Carli, the Culture and Communication Minister, who took the floor. Her blue eyes, the dark hair styled in a bob and the austere beige suit she wore gave her a Germanic look. She stood up and, from her almost six feet of high, she took the time to look all of the participants in the eyes, one by one, with one of those famous gazes made so popular by television. “The National Secretary has enlightened us with his deep and brilliant analysis,” the woman said. “But, with all due respect, I find it defeatist." Her words echoed like a whiplash. Although the counsellors had become accustomed to hearing criticism against their Leader whispered behind the scenes, this time the accusation was loud and clear. The gerarchi broke their long silence all at the same time, releasing the tension accumulated during Ciano’s speech. Only Maria de Carli, Ciano and the Home Office Minister Adolfo Casamassima, one of the last early fascists, an old man who still attended the Great Council in his raven black uniform, kept quiet. Ciano stared motionless at Maria de Carli. Eyes as cold as ice, the Communications Minister waited for calm to be restored before speaking again. “The fascist revolution was a winning revolution. An opponent like Lenin taught us that in politics the aim must follow the means. So we reformed our Regime and survived the end of the Third Reich. I was only a little girl when Stauffenberg’s bomb buried Nazism and its Führer. I cried out of anger when Albert Speer, a renegade who owed fame and power to Hitler, formed the provisional military government that underwrote the armistice with the Western Powers and the Soviet Union. The renegade is president of the new German Reich now, and I am a mature woman. So, today, I can understand that Germany owes its territorial integrity to a traitor. As the National Secretary said, Germany is our last friend in Europe, so as reluctantly as I accept Speer’s rise in Germany I also accept a democratization of Fascism in Italy.” Maria de Carli waited in silence evaluating the impact of her words on the Council. Ciano kept staring at her; Casamassima was jotting down notes. The rest of the counsellors looked intimidated. “However,” she resumed as she began to move towards Ciano,“ I believe the National Secretary is wrong when he states Fascism is drawing to a close. Fascism is dynamism , perpetual energy.” She stopped in front of the Duce’s successor. “To see Fascism as motionless or dying is a point of view suitable for old democrats.” The atmosphere in the Great Council hall was explosive. The shorthand writer was obviously shaking. Never before a gerarca had dared attack Mussolini’s heir, not like this. Ciano looked strangely amused. “Galeazzo,” Maria de Carli said with a confidentiality permitted only to old Casamassima and to the fascist leader’s own relatives. “You say our youth wants to get rid of us. But we can still use diplomacy and propaganda to change their mind. To prevent some professional agitator from exploiting their protest to pursue his own motive.” Foreign Minister Giorgio Scola raised his head. “Where is all this leading to, Comrade de Carli?” Ciano asked, suddenly harsh. “To a friendship treaty with the Soviets,” she replied perfectly at ease. “It would appease our pro-communist students and, most importantly, it would grant us access to Siberian oil and gas not to mention the Arabic oilfields since the Saudis are allies of Moscow.” “It’s suicide!” Minister Scola said slamming his palm on the table. “The United States, Britain and France will jump to our throat! And what about Germany? It’s our first economical partner, it has come a long way and it’s in the process of rearming. What are we going to tell Speer? That this is just another pirouette of the Italian government?” “We are the first and the only surviving Fascist Regime in Europe,” said General Alfornso Paoloni, the slight War Minister. “No one would help us if Germany attacked. No one would shed a single tear on our defeat. With Austria as an ally, entering Trento and Venice would only be a matter of hours for the Reichswehr. Then Yugoslavia would take advantage of the situation to steal Trieste, Istria, Lubiana and Zadar. We might have a hard time keeping Albania. No, we are not ready. Both politically and militarily.” “So, comrade de Carli,” Galeazzo Ciano said. "How do you reply to these objections?” "I say that if Fascism is bound to die out in cowardice, then making a bold decision is well worth the risk of being destroyed. We kept neutral in Word War II. We kept out of the Cold War. We can’t keep hiding. I ask the National Secretary to let the Great Council express its will about my proposal, which I now submit as a motion.” The last words of the Communications Minister inflamed the hall. Gerarchi and ministers were not inclined to be called coward; the counsellors’ uproar threw the hall into chaos. "I support comrade de Carli’s motion,” a hoarse voice said. It belonged to the Home Office Minister Casamassima. At eighty-five he was the oldest gerarca of the Great Council, the only one who had marched on Rome in the October of 1922. He had been part of Mussolini’s inner circle and, after the Duce’s sudden death in 1944, he had favoured Ciano’s climb to power. Casamassima’s word was just as good as Ciano’s. Sometimes even better, as Maria de Carli knew well. A new wave of mumble travelled across the Great Council hall. Ciano recognized the same broken conversations he had heard in other crucial moments of the past. “The tables of politics are turning once again,” he thought. He called up the secretaries to open the poll and declared his abstention; a mere formality, as everyone knew. The fact that the Fascist leader had allowed the vote and that Casamassima backed the motion was a clear indication of what the result should be. As expected, all the counsellors voted yes except the ministers of War and Foreign Affairs who abstained. Galeazzo Ciano wrote a few lines on a notebook, then dialled a number and a government press agent appeared at once. “Pass this to all newspaper directors and inform radios and televisions that I will deliver a public address,” he said curtly. The tone of his voce, strong and full of determination, reminded him of his father-in-law. Ciano turned to face Mussolini’s portrait towering behind him and felt all of its weight on his fat shoulders. The Duce’s wild eyes stared right back at him and frowned.