The Balilla Boy — Catherine Ste-Marie
My Matta has seen better days. The cranks are noisy, and the windows don't roll all the way down. The seats are patched where the sun has eaten through the seams, and the leather on the driver's seat is slightly discoloured. The scent of chestnuts fills the car, prompting me to look out at the rolling hills and the rows of brittle cypress that line the road. It takes two hours to drive from the city to the countryside. I pass a shrine, one of those whitewashed pillars with a cracked tile of the Madonna, and I slow without meaning to. I got on the road about an hour ago, and it feels like I couldn’t be farther from home.
Gravel pops beneath the tires, and the engine sputters. I pull into the driveway, remove the key from the ignition, and take off my sunglasses. I cautiously climb the steps to the old oak door, the wood cleared of varnish. This style of house is no longer built; grand houses like these are only found in the countryside. I hear the scurry of rats, which makes it clear I’ve invaded their nest. I wipe my feet on the carpet and my brow with my sleeve. The stairs to the second floor cascade into the entrance, a symmetrical arrangement with a dirty, faded red carpet. I leave the foyer as the curtains shift with a draft, letting light in through the dusty window. When I walk into the living room, I cover my face with my hat, not wanting to inhale filth.
The wallpaper had bubbled where the heat of summer pressed against it, leaving veins of deeper red underneath. A clock still ticks, however, half an hour slow. My coughs and the ticking are the only sounds; the rats must have returned to their nest. The room was once filled with lamps with thick shades, shelves of old books, and ornate moulding that adorned the chandelier’s medallion; now, dust covers the once-vibrant, floral upholstered chairs. The windows are cracked from the strife of winter, and suddenly the panes start to rattle against the frame, the putty disintegrated. It has been months since I received the telegram informing me of my inheritance of the property. Removing my gloves, I pick up a glass ashtray, the only item in this room that is not smashed or shattered. I look at old photographs and rosaries, polish them with my cuff, and decide to move on.
The kitchen looks different from the way it used to. Dishes are broken, the cabinet doors hang by their hinges, and the copper cups and steel pans have corroded, offering a patina to the dim room. The green wallpaper has peeled, and mould has grown around the tiles lining the floor. I remember being barely able to look over the counter as dinner was being made.
She hummed while she cooked.
“Take your shoes off, no dirt in the house,” she says. I run to the entry, take off my shoes, place them on the carpet, and run back. “What are you making?” I walk over to the counter and peer at the dough in her hands. We’ve had soup for the past week, and I get excited since it seems like she is making pasta, so I ask again. She shoos me away. “Go clean up, and then we will eat,” she says. I rush off to my room to change while she stores the flour and sugar.
I pass from the kitchen to the dining room through a small hallway. Glass crunches underfoot, and the floorboards creak from the weight of my boots. Velvet curtains once hung from the walls, covering the arched windows; the sun hurt Grandmother’s eyes. I hear the tick of the clock from the living room.
I run in, chased by my sister and sit down, eager to eat. We’d returned from another day of playing and swimming in the lake, as we often did. “Come inside, lunch is ready,” she had told us from the porch, but we were having too much fun, and I didn't want to go inside. “We eat together or not at all,” she says. She appears from the kitchen carrying the soup tureen like a reliquary. She is the cook and the oldest, so she eats first. I grow impatient and take a sip before she does.
She tells me to stand beside the table as she and my sister eat. After they finish, she invites me to sit back down, though the soup is cold and there is no more bread. I am upset because I have often seen her give bread to the people who come to our door.
I circle the table and picture the candles flickering on the chandelier, how long it’s been since we’d sat down together. Despite being alone, I look around, and I decide to undo my jacket and loosen my tie. I check my watch and see that it's almost noon. I have to start my return within the next hour or so.
I head upstairs using the rail to pull me up. I injured my leg last week on patrol; while it didn't prevent me from doing my duty, it’s been a hassle to drag around. I reach the top of the stairs and turn left into my old room. The room is smaller than I remembered, and so are the toys that litter the floor. My bed, however, looks like it did when I left, unmade and dirty. The posters are gone, but the outlines remain.
One morning, I wake up to her, her body hunched over me like a scary fable, tearing them from the wall, taking my soldiers and stealing my knife. I rush out of bed to confront her, my body feeling elastic and my eyes dry from sleep. She says, “You're not old enough to understand what these things mean, so you're not old enough to have them.”
I refute, “I need that knife, it's not yours to take, and neither are my posters or my soldiers,” She answers me with a glare. I left late that morning, scrambling to find my bag. I walk, brooding, as my ire has time to fester. I kick stones and glare at the wildlife. On my way to camp each day, I pass a shrine — whitewashed pillars with a cracked tile of the Madonna — and stop to pray on scabbed knees, muttering words from a breviary. On that day, I decided to walk past it. After dinner, Grandma sits in the living room and beckons me to enter. She hands me back my knife, but not my soldiers or posters. She doesn’t say anything, and neither do I. I sulk all the way to my room and hide the knife in my drawer. Now, I approach my bedside table and open my drawer to see that the knife is still there.
My sister’s door is closed, and I see light peeking through the crack under the door. I decide not to go in. Instead, I continue down the narrow hallway. Passing the bathroom, I glance at the mirror, the reflection distorting my face, and I walk on towards Grandmother's room.
I take off my boots before entering, stalling and struggling in the hallway. She never allowed any dust to collect, and it seems it hasn't in her absence. The beige sheets that drape the bed still hold the pillows adorned in tassels that she sewed herself. They match the curtains and the tapestry that hangs on the walls. I walk to the window, peer out at the lake, and notice that the room no longer smells like her.
I wasn't allowed to enter her room as a kid, but when she went to the market or was downstairs reading, I would sneak in. The room was plain compared to the lavish style of the first floor. The most expensive item was likely the ebony dresser, pressed against the wall opposite the door. However, her most prized possession was the dress form, always draped in fabric. The first time I ventured into her room, the mannequin was in a very elaborate gown that seemed out of place. Now the mannequin has mere scraps covering its canvas frame.
It felt eerie being there, as if she were in the room with me. It is well past time for me to head back. As I step over the uneven floorboards, I see the trap door in the ceiling. I put on my boots and pull on the string, and it takes me a few moments to climb up. I duck as I enter the attic and see boxes and boxes of old clothing and toys. I remember playing up here in the attic when I was little.
As I explore further into the mountain of items, I see my old uniform on top of a box, my first blackshirt. I take off my jacket, undo my tie and pick it up. Though the coat still fits, it's snug and doesn’t leave much room to breathe. I place my hands in my pockets and pull out a piece of paper. As I read the broken text, I quickly put it back.
It was May, I was twelve and had been in the blackshirts for four years. I marched through the streets with other exuberant boys. I wanted to go to Rome and become a hero — we all did — but I wanted it most. I sang “The Youth of Italy” aloud again, as I had the night before. During the summer, we would run exercises, and the older kids gave us scaled-down versions of service rifles to fiddle with. During those warm months, sweating through my woollen jacket, I would walk up to the girls' camp for my sister, and we would walk home. We would play in the lake for hours behind the house. Often, I would see people in rags approach our door, and I would ask Grandma about them. “It is none of your concern. Go back outside and play,” she dismissed.
Hail, O people of heroes,
Hail, immortal homeland,
Your sons are reborn
With faith in the ideal.
The valour of your warriors,
The virtue of your pioneers,
Still shines in the hearts of Italy — in the hearts of faith!
We listened to veterans talk all day about the importance of loyalty and those who would betray our country, the partisans. That, according to the laws of fascist morality, when one has a friend, one marches with him wholeheartedly. I had a close friend who would come over to the house after camp some days, and whenever he did, I would carefully hide some books in Grandmother's collection, moving them from the living room to a cupboard in the kitchen. I had grown tired of feeling ashamed, of feeling like I was betraying my country. I wanted to do what was right. They taught us that evil exists, but that we are given the greatest gift, loyalty and free will. It was noon on a Sunday, and, confidently, with a pen in hand, I had made my decision and slid it into an envelope. I walked to camp the next day, just like every other day, but when I reached the entrance, I pulled the letter out of my pocket and handed it to the lead officer. He read it over and then leisurely handed it back. At lunch, I saw them get into their trucks and ride off over the hills toward Grandmother's house. The rest of the day, I had trouble with all my tasks, failing many exercises except the simplest. I reloaded my gun wrong, missed my targets and only after the veterans had finished their speech, realized I hadn’t heard a word they said. After camp, I did as usual and walked to the girls' camp, but she was not there. I asked where she had gone. “She’s been brought home,” they said. So I walked home on my own.
Youth! Youth!
Springtime of beauty!
Through the harshness of life,
Your song rings out and goes!
Balilla, young hero,
The pride of the homeland,
In your ardent gaze shines
The hope of tomorrow!
Approaching the door, I cautiously climbed the steps and, with shaky hands and rapid breaths, I reached for the doorknob. The house was completely ransacked, windows broken, books strewn everywhere, cupboards open, their contents littering the floor. I call out to my sister, panic creeping into my voice. Suddenly, a soldier enters, his jacket adorned in metal, his face pulled straight from a film, reminding me of my old posters. Giving me a nod, he tells me that I will be living elsewhere with a family of true patriots. “Where’s my sister?” I ask. “She will also be living with a new family, a family with a loyal mother.” He walks me back to the entrance. I look around and quickly turn my back to the house, hiding my tears.
Over Italian soil,
Over death and pain,
Rises the sun of labor,
Rises the sun of the future!
And for Mussolini, and for the Fatherland,
May the new path blossom —
Youth! Youth!
Springtime of beauty!
Her perfume lingers, and the attic smells sickly sweet. But that's not the only thing that smells; a rotting odour makes me nauseous —so nauseous that when I climb back down, I fall on my bad leg. I limp back through all the rooms, collecting my tie, jacket, hat and gloves and go out the front door.
The smell from the attic clings to my clothes as I step outside. The air is cooler now, and I turn to close the door, and it takes some force to shut it. When it finally latches, a hollow sound echoes through the house. I rest my hand on the doorknob for a moment before letting go. I put on my hat and make my way to the car. The house shrinks in the rear view mirror, and I see it just as wonderful as it was when I was young, before it disappears behind the hill. The cypress sway in the wind, their shadows trembling across the pavement. The road curls around the mountain, and the sea air fills the car.
I don’t know what I’ll do with the house. For now, I just keep driving.
Catherine Ste-Marie is a writer whose work has been published in OxJournal. Passionate about art, history and the environment, she dreams of helping create a better world so future artists and creators can thrive. When she’s not writing, Catherine enjoys playing her many instruments, reading or beating her two sisters at card games. Ever curious and optimistic, she approaches life with a “glass half full” mindset, ready to turn challenges into opportunities for improvement.