Just before the last agreement

fingers. She had severed those flowers, broken their stems. His bullets had grazed their cold numb cheeks, leaving the last helpless kiss of a cruel mother.

He loves me, he loves me not. He loves me, he loves me not. She loves me not.

He blinked, a fleeting instant like the beating of a butterfly's wings, that

he used to chase in the meadow behind the barn of his childhood home.

He could still hear the laughter of his brothers overlaid by the rustling of the

leaves in the warm summer breeze. The scent of unaged hay,

the swaying of the willow by the pond. He saw its smooth skin trying to

grasping insects in the grass, experiencing the warmth of the sun. Those same hands

had become frosty, the purple fingertips peeped out of the

worn-out gloves.

He let his arms drop to his sides, let even the last grasshopper escape his grasp.

The sbaffapatate, the mangiasego, the Tugnitt. The nails pressed against the palms.

He clenched his fists, invested with unexpected rage.

Bastards.

That word sounded good. In the terrible silence of the summit it was the dissonant

symphony to accompany the footsteps of comrades in the trenches, the groans of the wounded,

to the sporadic cries of victory.

Bastards.

He could not help but think of the tales of the winter of 1914. Rumour had it that

at Christmas, on the Western Front, the war had stopped, that for a few hours

had not existed Tugnitt, Krauts or poilu. Only men.

He would have given anything to be able to remain suspended, like a sentence between a

comma and a dot, amid the faint flames of the lamps in that blind night. But the western front was far away, and another winter had passed.

Monte Cengio, 25 December 1916

Dear mother,

Nothing new here. Don't worry about me. I'm fine.

Give my regards to the guys and tell Giovanni not to touch my stuff, I'll be back soon.

and I don't want anything missing.

Happy Christmas.

I love you,

Michele

January

Snow.

The cliff seemed to have become less steep. A white expanse covered every inch of the mountain, softening the hard cliffs, hiding the bare rock. A white blanket had buried their deathbed.

The water was now up to his knees. He had tried to roll up his trousers, trying hard to escape the icy grip of winter. At lunchtime, the sun mockingly peeped out from behind the mountain, melting the snow.

So the momentary warmth on the skin was quickly annihilated by a cold

blocking his legs, preventing him from walking. If he had not seen them,

trembling below the rippling surface, he would have had no difficulty in

believe they no longer have feet.

The roar of the stream inside the mountain was the only reminder of home, along with

to the locket he clutched between his fingers. Behind the farmhouse was a pond, as emerald-coloured as the eyes of the girl smiling at him from that slightly creased photograph. In the midst of all that blinding white, the green he could only imagine, trying to fill in the sad black and white image with his memory, which he had meanwhile brought closer to his chest to feel her closer.

He loves me, he loves me not. He loves me, he loves me not. He loves me.

He and Agnes always sat at the foot of the willow tree. He would try to untangle her

golden hair while she, frowning, painted an amused grimace on her face.

They clutched each other, breathing together. Their chests rose and they

complementary lowered, their hearts ran the same marathon. They watched the leaves float placidly on the surface.

He loves me, he loves me not. He loves me, he loves me not. He loves me.

Something brushed against his leg. The pale memory of Agnes scattered in the wind,

almost as if it had never existed. What floated in the mud was not

a leaf, but a lifeless little body, a mass of wet fur. Another rat. In the tunnels there were thousands of them. Their squeaks were often the only friendly voice in the sleepy silence of the valley. It was not the first one he had glimpsed face down in a mixture of snow, earth and blood. It reminded him of the boy he had killed. He had seen him collapse, abandon himself to the earth. He had seen his eyes glaze over and his face disappear behind a boulder.

The rat's eyes were wide open, black and shiny like tiny cockroaches. The

tail stump left no doubt: Timmy. The little mouse with whom one of his

comrades, the one who had lost an ear after the last battle, shared breadcrumbs.

A gag of vomit shook him, as the desperate cry of the soldier beside him permeated his ears.

It's just a stupid mouse.

His words remained in midair, suspended in a cloud of breath.

Monte Cengio, 18 January 1916

My beloved Nene,

Here life is difficult, but I am fine.

I would like to write more but I have almost run out of paper, I don't know how much longer it will last.

Please don't stop waiting for me. I'll be back soon.

I love you,

Michele

February

The hole allowed a glimpse of his face, from his nose to the tip of his hair. He knew

that he would risk a bullet in the middle of his forehead, but he let his gaze

was lost among the first blooms. The grey of the mountain was beginning to be broken by a few hints of colour. Downstream, the river had begun to flow again, the houses had lost their coats, and the last patches of snow rested in the sun, melting phlegmatically on the grass. He followed the cliff with his eyes, walked along the cold and lonely rock.

He would have preferred to be dead. Another body lying face down in the mud,

another murdered rat. He watched the blue gentians quiver among the

cliffs. They looked like men desperately clinging to life, or clusters

of houses hanging on the cliffs of the Ligurian Sea. The salty scent of those

summer hit him full in the face. He always closed the door of the house behind him

and ran towards the beach, shirtless. He reached the shore, sank his

feet in the rough sand, heedless of his mother's screams. He and John

lying with their calves soaking in the water, until their backs were

was too humid, until the sky became the same colour as their cheeks.

The murmur of distant clouds announced a storm. A dog chased the

master a few hundred metres away. They were happy, that happiness

sincere and improvised.

He smiled at his brother's question. He imagined himself on the other side of the sea, in

America. From that beach he could already smell the oil from the engines,

his vision was blurred by fumes from the machines in the factory where he would

worked. He would soon turn eighteen, he would soon escape from the farm, from the pond, from his mother calling him for dinner. He would have taken Nene, his first boat trip. They would have had children.

He closed his eyes as the sea breeze ruffled his hair, as if to carve an imaginary picture of their large house on his eyelids, to capture forever the laughter of children, the meow of a cat. He was sure they would be happy, even without a dog chasing them on the beach, even without a beach.

His confused words were interrupted by a flicker of light followed by a

roar.

The memory was so vivid that for a moment he thought the storm had reached the shore. He opened his eyes wide, ready to pick up his shoes and run home.

Yet, with his feet dipped in mud, he could see no shoes. He did not know

not even what a home was, the warmth of a fire, a hot meal.

The trench grew darker and darker, preparing for another night. No

incoming storm, no raindrops. Flat calm. He wasn't sure about

wanting to look away from the clear, cloudless sky to discover

the cause of the violent outburst that had torn him from the warmth of memories. The smell

acrid smell of gunpowder flared in his nostrils, alerting him.

Tugnitt do not attack in the evening.

Their eyes darted towards the walkway in the middle of the pit, where two pairs of

arms dragged a body away from an officer's shoes. He could not remember his name, he only knew that he had gone mad. He cried, he had tried to desert. He had been shot.

Monte Cengio, 11 February 1916

Dear mother,

I am fine.

Michele

March

The canary had stopped singing.

Its cage swayed, hanging from the ceiling of the gallery. The animal's body

lay motionless, abandoned on the cold metal floor.

The fog had advanced, faster than usual. It had hissed, brushing over the feet

of the mountain, had seemed like a scarf ready to choke the slope. Before the yellowish colour of that thicker, enveloping mist had reached the soldiers' nostrils, the chirping had ceased.

A dull thud coming from the command gallery behind him had

made the bones vibrate. The door had closed behind the officers, sealed by the oil

of the seals. The generals had walled themselves in, their lungs would not have known the lack of oxygen.

It was as if he had woken up from a dream.

He desperately tried to reach the nearest mask, but his legs

gave way. Gangrenous feet would have drowned him in smoke. He got up at

struggling, scratching the rock with his broken nails, gasping like a fish out of water for air. He trudged forward, blinded by fear, trying to hold his breath.

He stepped on something hard, heard a clatter of dry branches. The soldier whose arm he had just broken was lying on the ground, agonising. His face was covered by a mask.

He did not think. He was seized by an animal rage, slumped down beside his companion

and snatched the gas helmet from his head and slipped it on. Between his fingers remained

entangled a few strands of hair and lice.

He resumed breathing.

From behind the misted glass, he watched the soldier die.

She saw him squirm and cough. She stretched out her arms towards him, in a desperate

call for help. He flailed about, as if in that yellow sea he had been grazed

by hundreds of jellyfish. His eyes became glassy, his chest heavy.

He whispered something.

Then he went off, huddled on the wooden walkway.

He felt as if he were underwater. Sounds came to him distorted, filtered through the thick layer of metal covering his ears. The straps of the gas mask pierced his brain, preventing him from thinking.

The sun had now set, the red sunset had come to drown them in a sea of

blood. The fog had dispersed beyond the chestnut trees.

He fumbled feverishly with the dark leather buckles, scratching his already frayed hands, until that death grip was loosened. He ripped the helmet from his face and let it fall.

Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.

He arched his back to breathe in the clear scent of the moon that

trembled above their heads.

Monte Cengio, 24 March 1916

Cara Nene,

I am alive.

Michele

April

The earth was soft and hot. In the middle of the tunnels the stench of rats mingled with that of oil, cognac and excrement.

What does death smell like?

His nostrils were invaded by a new, icy smell. Pungent, almost sweetish.

What does death smell like?

There was no time to think about it. The corpse would have attracted even more flies. He moved with difficulty along with some companions. With bowed heads they crossed the passerelle, dragging their feet on the wet wood. He succeeded in freeing the soldier's shoulders from the stones that framed his pale face and barred eyes. He pulled off his worn boots, grabbed his ankles and lifted him up, while the other men held him by the arms. They approached the precipice and let him fall.

The body slid down, the way raindrops slide in the gutter. He watched it roll, bounce off the rock and get farther and farther away, smaller and smaller, more and more insignificant and useless as everyone was insignificant and useless.

A dull pain pierced his ear, causing a twinge in his temple. He squinted and when he opened them again, the soldier had disappeared, swallowed by the valley.

The echo of the lonely stones crashing to follow his end was his farewell; the chirping of the birds his cry. His only souvenir was a scrap of uniform caught on a ledge: it trembled in the wind, ready to detach itself at any moment and fly off, to chase its owner into the clear sky.

The dense air was broken by the mellifluous tinkling of a kestrel searching for its prey. The animal was motionless in the sky with its tail fanning out. From time to time it flapped its wings, letting the gusts glide impalpably through the feathers and keeping it there, hanging on a clear cloud.

Ki-ki-ki. She watched him swoop down to catch a mouse, like a pianist's hand just before the last chord. The end of the plateau melody was now in sight. The curtain was about to close, the show would soon be over. He laughed. In the midst of all that present he almost felt happy. He became drunk with the warmth of the spring sun on his skin, intoxicated by the trajectories of the insects, felt the water seeping through the karst rocks and bubbling underground. He joined in the cry of the kestrel and began to sing.

That little bunch of flowers...

From afar a trembling groan answered him.

Coming from the mountain...

What had once been a reassuring polyphony of voices had turned into a solitary dialogue. They went on like this, until the shadows became as heavy as their eyelids, as heavy as their hearts.

Tonight when the comes, it will be a bad night... 

Monte Cengio, 13 April 1916

Dear John, take care of Mum.

I will not return.

Be strong.

Michele

May

The beating of his heart ticked away the seconds. Fear slammed into his temples. It rumbled in his ears, echoing in the middle of his chest, between his ribs, behind his greyish, mangled flesh. It swung back and forth, back and forth, like a pendulum in perpetual motion.

Tick, tick. Tick, tick.

The enemy was advancing. He thought of Agnes' green eyes, of her hair as blond as ripe wheat.10 11He thought of the leaves on the water's edge, of the willow by the pond. He thought of the burning barn. His mother would have died of grief.

Tick, tick. Tick, tick.

He could feel every molecule of oxygen pass through his nostrils and settle in his seething blood. He wished he could be with them, become oxygen and drown in that depth of air and anticipation.

Tick, tick. Tick, tick.

He was seized by a new energy. He grasped his tools and began to strike the icy limestone rock. He dug, like a termite in the wood, like a mole just below the surface, in a last desperate attempt to build useless shelters.

Tick, tick. Tick, tick.

The sky became dark and clear. In the distance huge clouds of black smoke rose from the forests. The enemy had set fire to warehouses and stores. Hope was burning. The cliff was shrouded in silence. All he could do was wait for the thunder.

Tick, tick. Tick, tick.

He had so longed for death that he was almost fascinated by it. Yet, as he listened to the cannon shots, a blind terror closed his stomach. For the first time, he could hear nothing but the sound of bombs on the plateau.

Their terrible concert was over the dewdrop sliding on the leaf of the beech tree, the pawing of the ladybird on the stalks, the rustle of a sparrow's wings. The friendly voices of the lonely ones in the world like him had stopped speaking. The cry of the wind had fallen silent, the cicada did not chirp, the hazel was still.

The water swallowed by the rock did not mumble under his feet, the moss did not

whispered, the berries did not vibrate in the sun. The fog did not quiver, one had the impression that it had trapped the high ground.

Tick, tick. Tick, tick.

He had never been so alone.

It was only when he took up the rifle.

It was only when he fired.

It was only when he killed the enemy who looked so much like a brother to him.

It was only when he ran out of ammunition.

It was only when he saw the foot soldiers invade the path.

It was only when he tore human skins with the bayonet blade.

It was only when he grabbed onto the neck of a soldier.

It was only when he dragged him down the rocky outcrop, throwing himself into the void.

They fell entwined, twirling in the wind in a graceful and infinitely peaceful dance.

They joined in a final embrace between different uniforms, heart to heart.

The last thing he heard was a roar, the door of the house slamming behind his mother's back, her distant voice ordering him to run to the table. He was lying in the field behind the barn, eyes closed, as always. His size twenty-eight shoes, too big for his baby feet, had been left in a corner, abandoned among the bales of hay.

He smelled the scent of freshly cut grass.

C6H10O molecule. Cis-3-hexenal. Chemical compound responsible for that terribly summery smell. The desperate cry of the stalks thickened the air. Their broken bodies lay on top of each other, helpless.

They looked like him.

Thus, Michael abandoned himself to the mountain

Monte Cengio, 27 May 1916

Dear Mum, dear Dad,

If this letter reaches you, it means I will not see you again.

We woke up this morning knowing that none of us would be going home.

In a few hours everything here will be destroyed, so we enjoy the last moments before

of the battle, before everything is covered by the noise of grenades and the

projectiles.

I would like to tell you everything that I have not written over the past few months. I would like to tell you about

coldness, boredom, silence. I would like to introduce you to the stream and the mountain flowers.

that are born in spring.

I am sending you my medal in the hope that you will not forget me. When

The war will end, come and find me, you will recognise me in the cry of a kestrel.

I only ask one thing: when you get to the top, drop the plate from the

mountain and pray for us all, also for the Tugnitt.

Don't cry for me, don't be afraid. I have none.

I will die happy knowing that I did everything I could to defend you.

To John I leave all my things, they will be more useful to him than they can be.

Serving as a dead man. Give my regards to Agnes and thank her so much for the letters that she wrote to me.

he wrote.

I have to go now, but I will think of you until the end.

Goodbye.

Michele