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La storia di Bortolo Pezzuti

Andrea Polini
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L’11 novembre di ogni anno, in Canada, è il Remembrance day, il...
E sempre, note e giorno,
i du Ucraini,
Missa e Oto,
che iè del'Esse-Esse.

Nel bloco dele cele come Dio
comanda i Ucraini Missa e Oto:
el tormento de tuti ghe va drio
e quando i ciama tuti se fa avanti
e quando i parla scolta tuti quanti
e quando i tase tuti quanti speta
e le done spaise le le fissa
come pàssare fa cola siveta.

Le man de Missa
vive par so conto.
El g'à vint'ani
co' 'na rossa schissa
sensa pél da sinquanta,
la crapa tonda coi cavei rasà
invanti la se pianta
sensa col,
e le mane... le mane... quele mane...
Querte da mace nere e peli rossi,
coi dedi desnoseladi, longhi, grossi,
che termina a batocio,
anca quando ch'el dorme o no'l fa gnente,
piàn a piàn le se sèra, le se strense,
le se struca, le spàsema in convulso,
se fa viola le onge, s'cioca i ossi
e deventa sponcion i peli rossi.
Ma po' tuto de colpo le se smola,
le casca a pingolón, sfinide, rote,
i déi se fiapa come bissi morti
e continua sta solfa giorno e note
e tuti se le sente intorno al col.
(...)
Un furlàn magro biondo
co' 'na bocheta rossa da butina:
l'avea tentà de scapàr via dal campo
e l'é finido nela cela nera.

Tri giorni l'à implorado
Missa e Oto,
tri giorni l'à sigà
"No voi morìr",
tri giorni l'à ciamado
la so mama.

E nela note avanti dela Pasqua
s'à sentido là drento un gran roveio,
come de gente
che se branca in furia
e un sigo stofegado in rantolàr.

Ma dopo no se sente
che 'n ansemàr
pesante e rauco e ingordo
come quando a le bestie del seraglio
i ghe dà carne cruda da màgnar.

L'è Pasqua. De matina. E lu l'è in tera
lungo tirado
duro come'l giasso:
ocio sbarado
nela facia nera,
nuda la pansa, cola carne in basso
ingrumada de sangue e rosegà.

Nela pace de Pasqua tase tuti.
Imobili. De piera.
E nela cela nera
tase el pianto de Bortolo Pissuti.
(...)

Stanote s'è smorsada l'ebreeta

come 'na candeleta
de seriola
consumà.

Stanote Missa e Oto
ià butà
nela cassa
du grandi oci in sogno
e quatro pori osseti
sconti da pele fiapa.

E adesso nela cassa
ciodi i pianta
a colpi de martèl
e de bastiema
(drento ale cele tuti i cori trema
e i ciodi va a piantarse nel servèl).

E a cavàl dela cassa
adesso i canta
esequie e litamie:

" heiliges Judenschwein
ora pro nopis,
zum Teufel Schweinerei
ora pro nopis "

Stanote s'è smorsada l'ebreeta
come 'na candeleta
de seriola
consumà.

Quel giorno che l'è entrada nela cela
l'era morbida, bela
e par l'amór
maura,
ma nela facia, piena
de paura,
sbate du oci carghi de'n dolór
che'l se sprofonda in sècoli de pena.

I l'à butada
sora l' tavolasso,
i l'à lassada sola,
qualche giorno,
fin tanto che 'na sera
Missa e Oto
i s'à inciavado nela cela nera
e i gh'è restà par una note intiera.

E dala cela vièn par ore e ore
straco un lamento de butìn che more.

Da quela note no l'à più parlà,
da quela note no l'à più magnà.

L'è là, cuciada in tera, muta, chieta,
nel scuro dela cela
che la speta
de morir.

Sempre più magra la deventa e picola,
sempre più larghi ghe deventa i oci.


And ceaselessly, night and day,
the two Ukrainians,
Misha and Otto,
who are in the SS.
In the cell blocks, as if they themselves were God
the Ukrainians Misha and Otto reign supreme:
they ignite everyone’s torments
and when they summon everyone advances
and when they speak everyone listens
and when they are silent one and all wait
and the frightened women stare at him
they way a sparrow stares and an owl.

Misha’s hands
have a life of their own.
He’s only twenty
with a red forehead
bald as a man of fifty,
his round head, hair shorn off
is inclined forward
without a neck
and the hands…the hands…those hands…
covered with black marks and red hairs,
with knotty fingers, long, thick
and ending like the tongue of a bell,
even while he sleeps, or does nothing at all,
slowly, slowly, come evening, he clutches them into fists
he rubs them, they make convulsed spasms,
the nails turn purple, he cracks his knuckles
and the red hairs stand on end.
But, suddenly the fingers unfold,
falling as if dead, exhausted, broken,
the fingers shrink like dead snakes
and this goes on constantly, day and night
and everyone can feel their presence around their necks

(…)
A young blond Friulian
whose mouth was small, red and girl-like:
once tried to escape from the camp
and he ended up in the black cell.
For three days he implored
Misha and Otto,
three days spent shouting
"I don’t want to die",
for three days he cried for his Mamma.
And in the night of the Easter vigil
such noise was heard coming from that cell,
it sounded like people
in furious altercation
and a suffocated cry that muted into a death rattle.
But just after that, one could hear
a sort of panting
heavy and coarse and greedy
as if it were caged beasts
pouncing upon the raw meat thrown their way.

It is Easter. In the morning. And he is on the ground
stretched out
hard as ice:
eyes opened wide
in a black face,
his stomach naked, with the flesh
torn apart and caked in blood.
In the peace of Easter everyone is silent
Immobile. Still as stone.
And in the black cell
The cry of Bortolo Pissuti was silenced as well.

(…)
Tonight the small Jewish girl died
just like a candle
made of tallow
burnt down to the wick.

Tonight Misha and Otto
threw her
in the coffin
two huge, dreamy eyes
and four poor little bones
hidden by pale skin.
And now in the coffin
they are pounding nails
and with every blow of the hammer
a curse is nailed down
(in the cells, every heart trembles
and the nails are pounded into their brains).
And before the coffin
now they are singing
funeral rites and litanies:
"heiliges Judenschwein
ora pro nopis,
zum teufel Schweinerei
ora pro nopis"

Tonight the small Jewish girl died
just like a candle
made of tallow
burnt down to the wick.

On the day that she first entered the cell
she was soft, lovely
and ripe
for love
but in her face,
full of fear,
two eyes that blink with the pain
and that sink in centuries of sorrow.
They threw her
upon the dirty table,
and they abandoned her there,
several days,
until it happened one evening
that Misha and Otto
shut themselves in the black cell
and they stayed there the entire night.

And emanating from the cell
for hours and hours
the tired lament of a baby who is dying.
From that night on, she never again spoke,
from that night on, she never again ate.
And there, huddled on the floor, mute, still,
in the obscurity of the cell
she is waiting
for death to take her.
She becomes ever more skinny and small,
ever more large become her eyes.


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