Vacation Readings

(Ulli Breor)

Undying lovers

Cupid strikes again. . . .
Sooner or later when speaking of Liguria, you’ll hear of this famous couple: the lovers of Alassio. Maybe you , too, will be entranced by their story.
Yes,we ,too,made our way toward Alassio. It doesn’t take much looking – the place is easy to find. One just has to ask for ‘il muretto’, ‘the little wall’, that was the brainchild of the painter Mario Berrino in the year 1951 and that continues to attract tourists magically even today. There, the more or less famous ,have immortalised themselves by putting up individually created tiles.
Now, we didn’t come for that!We came for them, our lovers, cast in bronze by the sculptor Eros Pellini!

They look more thoughtful and dreamier, than in love. But maybe they’re still thinking about how hard the beginning of their love had been -until they were finally able to stare off at the sea ,happy and united in the warming Ligurian sun for evermore. (Which, unfortunately, isn’t even possible for them anymore, due to building development!)
A love story is entwined around the two. Even if it’s not historically proven, it’s still so beautiful to believe in it—in the story of how love grew between the emperor’s daughter and the stable boy. A love, from which the noble Aleramici family and the earldom of Montferrat are said to be descended.

At Aleram’s birth—possibly in the year 927—his life wasn’t looking very promising. His parents had left the western part of Germany’s Franconia for the long pilgrimage to Rome. They were very faithful Christians and had taken the journey upon themselves as the fulfilment of an oath. According to all records, they made it to Sezze, the modern day Sezzadio in Piedmont, when Aleram was born.
His parents apparently left the small child there so that they could spare him the hardship of completing the pilgrimage. No matter what, they were certainly planning to come back for him. But unfortunately he was left an orphan because his parents were reported to have died in Rome. The boy was raised in a monastery and grew to be a strapping young man. His love for horses was discovered early on, and he became a competent stable boy. Having always been courageous and ready for adventure, his search for employment led him all the way to the modern-day area of Emilia-Romagna.
When Emperor Otto laid siege to Brescia, he ordered the surrounding communities to place men to his disposal. All young men, including Aleram, were handed over to the Emperor’s army. He flourished in that environment, quickly learning the conquerors’ language—no doubt due to his German heritage. As could be expected, he was assigned to the cavalry division.When his amazing skill with horses was noticed, he was quickly promoted to the personal keeper of the Emperor’s own horses. With time he became acquainted with many important and powerful figures in the army and nobility. But that didn’t impress him—and at first, neither did the attractive noble girl, who daily picked up herfor a ride through the country.
He had never spoken with her, as there had always been pages or maids in her entourage. But he had heard her name. They called her Adelheid.
Time passed. One day, Aleram noticed that his feelings for this young girl had been changing. All of a sudden, he felt himself looking forward to her visit every single morning. Maybe he’d be able to catch another glimpse of her! Soon he realised that his glances were being returned. Then one morning, the unthinkable occurred! As he handed her the horse’s reins, her hand brushed over his. He froze instantly, despite the feeling of warmth like sitting next to the hearth on a cold evening. Adelheid and Aleram locked eyes for an eternity. Or so it felt, at least!
From that very moment onward, the fire of love burned within him, wild and impetuous. He was sleepless by night, yearning for the next morning to come. And on the days when she didn’t come, he suffered unimaginable torment. Eventually, others noticed the changes in him as well. One day, the old stable hand Piero took him aside. He had noticed Aleram’s eyes -full of love for the young lady . Had he lost his mind?The daughter of the Emperor was far out of reach for him, a stable boy! That’s what the old Piero said!That was the end of the burgeoning love.Aleram didn’t think he could or would live much longer.

In the following battles surrounding the city of Brescia, Aleram was one of the most fearless warriors. His life meant nothing to him anymore.
Back at home he did all he could to avoid Adelheid.When he met her in the stables, he no longer trusted himself to look her in the eyes.
But that’s when the miracle happened! One evening, after unsaddling the white stallion, entrusted to him by Adelheid, a small square of parchment fell to the ground. He picked it up and read, ‘Tonight, in the eleventh hour, at the old charcoal kiln.’ His thoughts exploded wildly, and his heart began to race. He had tried to smother those feelings! But they were back again. There was no more going back. He could only accept two options: her love or death itself. The hours seemed to drag on and on. But finally, he hurried away through the darkness.
He hid himself in a thicket near the dilapidated charcoal kiln and waited. Time stood still while the fear of being discovered rose higher and higher. Suddenly, at the forest’s edge, he saw a shadow swooping by. It could only be her! And if not? His fear was big, but his love was gigantic. He let out a small sound. The shadow reacted immediately, coming in his direction. Aleram crept out toward the shadow. Finally, he recognised her, despite the long, dark mantle she was cloaked in. Even under the depths of the raised hood, he recognised her beautiful face instantly. A feeling of unending happiness came over him and he ran to her as fast as he could! It must have been the pains of the endless longing that let them fall into each other’s embrace. Soon, tears of happiness were running down both of their cheeks. Not much time remained for them that evening. They had to part ways soon after meeting, as both feared that they would be missed, that someone would come searching for them.
Secret meeting places were arranged through hidden notes again and again. Their love grew from day to day, until they made the decision to flee together.

That was the greatest proof of their love they could offer one another. The plan was, after all, extremely dangerous!Aleram would pay with his life! And Adelheid, she could be forced to spend the rest of her life in a convent.
And so they finally stole away together, one foggy night. The Emperor’s daughter—with a stable boy—fled the region of Brescia on stolen horses.
They headed south, towards Alessandria, near Sezze, where Aleram had been born. There they could hope for help from friends or seek protection in the monastery where Aleram was raised. But soon they had to continue onward, for the Emperor did all in his power to find his daughter.
The lovers decided to go further south, past the regions of Asti and Alba, into the Ligurian Alps. There, amongst the valleys and woods, no one could discover them. Indeed—many months later—the trail went cold. The mountains could only be traversed with great effort, and so the Emperor’s search party was eventually forced to give up.
In the meantime, Aleram and Adelheid had built themselves a cottage in a sequestered valley and begun constructing their own charcoal works. Putting bread on the table was now only possible with hard work. They sold wood charcoal in neighbouring villages, including the small town of Alassio. From then on, the charcoal kiln represented the Emperor’s daughter’s and the stable boy’s life and existence. There, under humble circumstances, they lived for many years and had four sons together.
Most of the time in such love stories, the protagonists live out the rest of their days happily and satisfied to be together, but. . . .
…..Adelheid’s father, Emperor Otto, went to war yet again with Brescia. And again, he needed soldiers for his army to be recruited amongst the populace. Now, Brescia is far away from the Ligurian Alps, but the Emperor had confederates—such as the Bishop of Savona. And so the bishop aided him in conscripting soldiers. Thus Aleram and his oldest son entered the ranks of the Otto’s army and—for Aleram— this was the second time.But now, it was his son who shaped the family’s fate. He fought so bravely and boldly that the Emperor himself took notice. He asked the Bishop of Savona to find out the name of the heroic soldier. As a result, the Emperor was informed that this courageous soldier was the son of a certain Adelheid. . . and that this young man very well could be his grandson.
Is it surprising to hear what happened within the mighty Emperor’s fatherly heart? Well, he forgave his beloved daughter and chose to recognise Aleram as his son-in-law. He granted the family all the land between Turin and Genoa—from the Maritime Alps to the river Po—to rule over as marquis!
That was the formation of the margraviate of Montferrat and its ruling family, the Aleramici.

Although this story could be viewed as a fleeting fantasy, a pure fairy-tale, it actually has a historical background.
The community of Alassio came up with the idea of taking the story and marketing it: therefore, an artist, inspired by the legend, created a striking sculpture. Those who come to see it believe in the power of love to overcome all and make the impossible happen.

(Ulrich Peine)

Gênes!-Patent 139.121

Today, Tuesday, the 20th of May in the year of our Lord 1873, there was reason to celebrate! Just for that occasion, Levi Strauss brought a bottle of ‘Original Spumante di Genova’ with him to Jacob’s workshop. As of today, they were both holders of the patent 139.121!
Of course, he had accepted the deal right away: he had the funds and Jacob had the invention! He had been forced to invest a nearly ludicrous sum! Yes thankfully,Jacob was no businessman who could smell a profitable business venture from kilometres away, like he could. Jacob Davis was a tailor—and he never had enough money! Not even the few dollars it would cost to protect his invention from copycats and competitors.
Levi Straus just knew Jacob for years. His wholesale business didn’t only supply Jacob’s tailor shop with cloths and haberdashery, but also many other workshops in the region. They all served the growing need for the work clothes of the gold diggers and railway workers here -robust shirts and pants,preferably cheap, but able to last a bit. His firm, Levi Strauss & Co., had been importing the ideal cloth from Europe for years. To be more exact, they imported it from Genoa, where the coarse canvas had been used for centuries as the ideal material for making work clothes for sailors and farmers of the Mediterranean. That’s why the cloth from ‘Gênes’ was so popular in many of the tailor shops here in California. And Jacob Davis’ tailor shop was one of the best. In contrast to many of his competitors, who simply followed the well-known processes identically day after day, Jacob had continuously sought to improve his products. He had strengthened his thread and incorporated more pants pockets. Unfortunately, the pockets’ seams were always ripping open. And it was no wonder—the workers kept stuffing their tools into them! Their wives complained to Jacob about constantly having to repair their husbands’ work clothes.
And Jacob had finally found a brilliant solution for exactly that problem: he began strengthening the seams of his shirts and pants with metal rivets, just like local farmers had been doing to close their cotton sacks for years! His ‘Gênes’ became bestsellers. But unfortunately, the competition never rests! And certainly not in America! Several other shops had already copied Jacob’s invention and started producing similar ‘rivet pants’. Jacob Davis knew how he could protect his invention: with a patent in San Francisco! But to do that, he needed money! And, as normal, he didn’t have it. The workshop’s profits weren’t that high! What could he do?
That’s where he, Levi Strauss, came into play! Thankfully Jacob Davis—as a good customer—had turned to him first. And he,Levi Strauss, certainly couldn’t pass up such an opportunity! For him it was simple to give Jacob the 68 dollars for a patent application.
Just 68 dollars!!!But nothing in life is free, of course! And so he would be—as a co-holder of the patent—taking part in the production of the ‘jeans’, as the Americanised version of the ‘Gênes’ came to be.
And the day had come: that morning, the certificate for their invention had arrived at the patent register with that morning’s mail coach: Patent 139.121

‘To us, cheers!’ Levi Strauss toasted. The ‘Gênes’ from Genoa had begun their triumphant sweep, starting in the western USA and spreading from there to the entire world.

The true heroes aren’t always those who win the fame! Everyone thinks of Levi Strauss immediately upon hearing about ‘Levi’s’, blue jeans (Genes!), riveted trousers, the ‘pants of Texas’. But that praise ought to belong to Jacob Davis! Someone has to say it!

(Ulli Breor)

Biaggio’s Trauma

Biaggio Verando Cagna slowly trudged up the winding streets of his home town Triora. At 85 years old, it had become increasingly hard to drag himself from his cantina, up the steps of the Via del Ponte to his house. And doing that in the snow! It was yet another extremely harsh winter; a winter that was as bad as back in 1587—a winter that changed everything! ‘Away with such thoughts!’, he mumbled to himself. Despite the hardship of his advancing age and the terrible memories, the old Biaggio hadn’t yet forfeited his will to live. He was looking forward to an evening next to a crackling fire with a large cup of tea. As the former town farmacista, he, of course, would mix the herbal mixture himself using one of his own special recipes. Yes, yes, his herbs would boost his feeble strength in this winter again.
But there were things for which herbs could offer no help -nothing could drive away the memories of the all the terrible things that he had seen back then.
Arriving at his small house, Biaggio tended to the weak coals in the fireplace. The flames consumed the freshly added wood, spreading out, licking further and further upwards. And then they came back, the terrifying images. He heard people screaming, saw pools of blood lying on the floor of the piazza and smelt the scent of scorched flesh. He cried bitterly. For 45 years, he had been carrying this trauma on his back.
‘Well, that’s just how it is,’ sobbed Biaggio, ‘very few still remember the events from back then. And those who still remember, don’t speak about it anymore.’ In such hours, the quiet hours, everything comes flooding back to the old man. His thoughts explode. Again, and again!

Back then he was 40 years old. Life in his village was going well for him. His little farmacia provided for him. All came to him—with their aches and pains, wounds and even serious illnesses. Although he must have seemed strange to them: he was an oddity having no wife and no children!And especially this obsession with the healing power of herbs! Also he had brought some strange ideas from distant lands when he returned to the small village after a long absence.More than once these views had resulted in loud confrontations with the priest. But his herbal medicine could heal many diseases. And so the people of Triora and its surrounding came anyway. Up until that time!

The winter had suddenly become cruelly harsh, much harsher than normal and significantly longer. Or so it felt, at least! But without a doubt—the last winters had truly been especially hard. Even the village elders agreed! Such a long-lasting cold was unlike anything they had ever experienced, either.
But the hunger was yet even more terrible. At first, it set in on the poor, but constantly more and more of the well-to-do began suffering as well.
The summer had been chilly and rainy. The harvests were as poor as one might expect. It had been that way for years. The price for bread was becoming cripplingly high and almost no one could even consider meat any more. On top of that, in the year of our Lord 1579, the Plague struck.
Quite appropriately, the authorities ordered all townships to post guards in the streets, to ensure that no strangers could bring the deadly sickness into the town. The spread of the pestilence had to be stopped!
That made trading for food nearly impossible. The supplies had been consumed. Even the last draft animals were slaughtered. The hunger was unbearable, and the people suffered. They ate everything: rotten meat and decaying fish, boiled grass, mice, cats and dogs. Sicknesses arose—high fevers and ghastly blood spots. No one in the village had ever even heard of such a thing! The child mortality rates grew without end.
In this most desperate of climates superstition and discord began to flourish. Who was responsible for this misery? Had God turned away from humankind? Or were there dark parts at play? Who and where were these sinister powers in the village? The mistrust grew among the villagers until no one trusted anyone any more.
For some time already, hardly a single person in need of help came to the healer whom they used to praise so highly. Why? Now they just whispered about him and his mixtures of herbs and dubious essences. He had been to the Orient—with the Muslims! Who knew, he could even be mixing excrements and chopping body parts into his tinctures! That’s the kind of thing that could be expected of the friends of the Muslims! Such were the thoughts of many villagers. And Biaggio had even quarrelled with the village doctor, Lucillo, because he had accused him of quackery!No, they would not be buying from him anymore!

The old man laid another log on the fire.

Not only Biaggio, a small group of women had also fallen under the scrutiny of some men: didn’t these hags meet each other daily at the washing place just to chatter secretively? There were some, who attributed every possible immoral piece of devilry to the women. The curse must come from them! The people searched for reasons for their suffering!
From their village leaders, they demanded clear direction and redemption from the evil, while those leaders, due to their own helplessness, were piled under more and more pressure to do something. Biaggio knew that. He had seen how even the community leader, Stefano Carrera, who could normally handle himself so cleverly, attempted to dodge the piercing questions of the populace. It couldn’t be good for long! In the end, someone has to be the evil in the land!
And it didn’t surprise Biaggio either, when rumours about higher, evil powers suddenly raged throughout the village. Witchcraft was said to be at work. It had to be revealed as quickly as possible! A bounty of 500 scudi was even offered for hints to the practice of witchcraft. A large sum for a bit of gossip and a bit of suspicion! Furthermore, Stefano Carrera had requested support from the Holy Inquisition in Genoa. And with that, the dam broke !

Biaggio trembled at this memory and laid another gnarled branch
on the fire.

Genoa actually sent the priest Giorlano del Pozzo, who arrived in Triora in November 1587 after a week’s journey. Even Biaggio was in the parish church that day as the powerfully eloquent man of God thundered against the degeneration in the world and the faithlessness in the mass. The present misery, and that of the last months and years, was identified as the wrath of God. It became quiet in the church and the people glanced down in fear while del Pozzo denounced heresy, fornication and witchcraft, all of which were clearly rampant here in the small town of Triora. There could be no other reason for God to be punishing the populace so viciously. Each person was morally indebted to report unusual and suspicious occurrences!
And all of a sudden, one person or another remembered having seen conspicuous things with this person or that person and at this occasion or that occasion.
The blacksmith, Carmelo, for example, began wondering if he hadn’t seen Mazurella spit in the stoup as she left the church last Sunday.
Or Rosella, for example! She swore that her husband had been cursed by the harlot, Maria. He had become so neglectful to her in the last little while, after all!
Thus,in the depths of his soul, each person found someone whom he despised, whom he envied or of whom he was jealous. And thus, the seed of the clerical word fell onto fruitful ground.
After that mass, the villagers left the church without a word with downcast heads, weighed down in thought. Once they reached the churchyard, the congregation split quickly, and each disappeared in the alleyways of the village. Biaggio could still remember well how he had exchanged a few short words with Signora as they left the churchyard. She was one of the few inhabitants of Triora who still kept contact with him. Perhaps because she belonged to the more distinguished, educated and well-to-do class of the population.And she had retained both- enough money for medicine as well as a tolerance for his personality and way of life.

Biaggio took a deep draught from his mug. He remembered.

Yes, herbology. That had been his life!
Back then he had been engaged as a simple seaman on a ship of the Genoese trading fleet, when an argument with the captain led him to abscond and spend several years in Syria and Egypt. It was there that he came in contact with the great work of Ibn al-Baitar, a man known throughout the Orient. It was his book with descriptions of over 1,400 plants and the recipes that could be produced with them, that had become the foundation of Biaggio’s future career. That man, who had been dead for more than three hundred years, became his greatest example. He strived to become like him. He delved deeper and deeper into the study of healing plants and the drugs that could be obtained from them.

Biaggio smirked! The tea is good, he thinks.

Signora Stella had long been his patient.Secretly!She suffered from joint pains.And this was the reason she whispered to him quietly in the churchyard -asking him to steep the soothing ointment anew. While walking to his house, they discussed the sermon they had just heard. Signora Stella shared her fear with Biaggio that this call to denunciation could have devastating consequences: as long as illnesses and acts of nature were seen as the punishment of God,there must be people that were responsible for that.

But he—Biaggio—discovered yet other correlations with his sharpened sense of observation: what effects must have the catastrophic living conditions among the poorest of the poor? Further down in the village, they lived in tight quarters with numerous family members, the cattle and the rats all under one roof. In the butcher’s street it stank horrendously of rotting meat. The blood and the slime seeped into the earth. And all of their drinking water came out of the well right there!
But one couldn’t speak about that—and certainly couldn’t doubt the words of the church!
Because of that, Biaggio and Signora Stella were very anxious to avoid being seen or heard. The small crucible with the salve swiftly changed hands into the possession of the Signora—right as a floorboard in the second floor creaked above their heads. Had someone listened in and secretly been observing them? Biaggio didn’t check right away. That was, perhaps, one of the greatest mistakes of his life.

The old man took another draught of his precious herbal tea. But even that couldn’t drive away his guilt. If only he had gone to check at that moment! But he hadn’t thought that the public’s heart was already so poisoned. That next day was the dawn of an age of horror and dread, which no one could have imagined, not even in the worst of dreams. This age would split lovers in two, destroy families and wipe out friendships. It was to be the most gruesome time of in the history of the village—and of the entire region.

He had gotten up early in the morning to gather herbs and to look for a bit of wood. As Biaggio wanted to go to the olive grove for that, he had to pass through the village. Strange, that so many people were already going into the parish and to the town hall or were waiting on the Piazza. Most of them seemed intimidated. Some had buried their faces deep in their coats, with the collar turned up.
From midday on, one could see the judge accompanied by the priest del Pozzo and several bailiffs, which had been sent with him from Genoa, patrolling through the village. After a short while, fourty women had already been apprehended as witchcraft because sorcery had also been reported in the nearby villages. The prison was, of course, not prepared for so many people. So, they began transforming private dwellings, their cellars and attics into prisons.
The entire village was in uproar. Everyone had seen or heard something.The sub-prefect Garlindo was so glad, that the problem would finally get cracked down on. He had always known that something was off down there at the well. He had personally observed the barber’s wife, the old beggar Francesca, the butcher’s sister and two other female subjects there planning what was certainly some kind of witchcraft. And, as it came out, someone else had even seen Francesca riding a broom at midnight! Everyone knew that the old hag Francesca had an evil eye. She had always been jealous of the young women for having children—she herself having been childless her entire life. It was possible that she was responsible for the deaths of many other children!Such things could finally be said and were acted upon. And it had been known practically forever that the beautiful Mazurella fornicated with the devil. And what a shame, she had such a nice fiancé!

Biaggio poked at the fire in the stove. Yes, that’s how it was back then! He had been there!

Among the other accused were four young girls and a small boy. No one was safe from the denunciations. Even members of influential families and nobles themselves were denounced and hauled away. Hatred, envy and resentment were to go one step further in the coming months. And so, many disappeared into dungeons and cellars.

Full of shame, Biaggio remembered how he, too, had kept away from those places out of pure fear of the Inquisition.

But despite that, he had to pass the cooper Alfredo’s house one day. It had been strangely still in the house. Biaggio could only barely perceive some whimpering and groaning behind the gate to the workshop. What was going on? A strange feeling of curiosity and fear overcame him. So, he took a few steps closer. He recognised the sonorous voice of the Priest del Puzzle.Biaggio heard prayers and incantations, but also curses and insults. And then all this moaning and wailing! Through a split in the door,he recognised what had nearly taken away his breath—a woman, scarcely dressed in a shirt, and bound at foot and hand. They had hoisted her up with a rope, so that her feet just barely touched the ground. Next to her stood one of the town bailiffs with a rod and was beating the poor soul. At that moment, a beam of light fell on the woman’s face and Biaggio stepped back, shocked. No, no. . . that couldn’t be true! That was Signora Stella! The back of the poor woman’s shirt was already torn to pieces and smeared with blood. Her hair hung tangled in her face. Biaggio stared spellbound and speechless at the victim of the torture. He flinched violently as the next swing landed. The Signora groaned bone-chillingly. What could she possibly have been accused of? Everyone knew that she led an honest life. Fear crept up in him as he heard the priest scream, ‘Admit it, admit it, you sinner, that you fornicated with the farmacista Biaggio and got his devil’s salve for free for it!’
It was like a terrible dream. Biaggio ran away in a pure state of panic. Fear of his own arrest took possession of him.
Just a bit later it was seen—so they said later—as two soldiers from the Genoese government summoned the village doctor Lucillo to the cooper’s house, where he remained for about an hour.
Then two soldiers hauled a linen sack out of the house and threw it on the wagon of a hastily summoned henchman, who disappeared almost immediately, but was indeed observed out past the village turning off the path into a secluded piece of the woods. They had always buried the suicide victims and the leprous there. And, nearby, the murdered women, too!
Biaggio had to know for certain. Where did Signora Stella end up?
Like a thief cloaked in a dark cape, he made his way there that evening. He crept through the village on dark paths, all the while filled with fear of being discovered. Once, he heard a group of young people speaking loudly coming in his direction. As fast as he could, he forced his way into the entrance of a dilapidated cantina. Luckily, it hadn’t been locked. He crouched in a corner and threw his coat over his head. . . and waited what seemed like an eternity, until the voices could barely be heard any more. As he left the cellar, a light turned on in the house across the way. Someone had lit an oil lamp.
Now all that was left was getting around the old night watchman, Alfonso. But Biaggio had no fears there, as the old man was as deaf as a post and had usually consumed his nightly flask by that time. So, he arrived—without being seen—outside of the village. Now he just had to find his way out into the forest. By day that wouldn’t have presented any difficulties, but this night was pitch black, and he could hardly see his hand in front of his eyes. He stumbled over stones and fallen branches. Once he even slipped into the sewage trench. Then finally he arrived at the grisly place. He could see the excavated graves laid out in rows. Now, he just had to keep his nerve. His heart rose into his throat.
He slid down and saw the sack, which clearly outlined a human body. They had already carelessly thrown a bit of dirt over it. Biaggio felt around in his pockets for the knife he had brought and slit the coarse fabric open. He carefully opened the split and pulled the fabric to the side.And he gazed into the pale, swollen face of a woman!Although it had been deformed to the extreme by the torture, he could still recognise the features of Signora Stella. At that moment, grief overwhelmed him, and he cried bitter tears. He ran back home and didn’t leave his house for days—in constant fear of being arrested, as well.
No one spoke of the Signora’s disappearance. Biaggio had tried to speak to the village doctor Lucillo, who had been present at the harsh hearing at the cooper’s house for at least some time. But that had ended in coarse insults. Lucillo claimed not to have been there! No one claimed to know anything. No one wanted to stand at odds with the Inquisition.
At the end of March, another incident took place on the village piazza, directly underneath the Cà de Baggiure. In the early morning hours, some villagers heard loud screaming and banging. Then came noise of a broken window and a dull thump. People streamed immediately to the Piazza. One could see the lifeless body of a woman lying on the cobblestone, around her a pool of blood had already formed. The gaping wound on her head couldn’t be overlooked. They knew that the dead woman was Antonella. She had been the pastor’s cook, before being accused of witchcraft and dragged away. The crowd was quickly dispersed so that the minions of the law could bring the dead woman back into the house. It was clear to some that Antonella had thrown herself out the window. Or was she pushed? There was no end to the rumours. The Inquisition shrouded itself in silence.

Biaggio felt ashamed yet again upon thinking of the young woman. He hadn’t done anything, either! And this disgraceful business continued. He remembered the fate of the neighbouring family.

At the end of March 1588, there was a sudden knock at his door. It shook him to the core. Now they’re coming for me, too, had been his first thought.
‘Who is it?’ he called.
‘It’s me, Pino!’ Biaggio heard.He recognised the voice of his neighbour and let him in. He was shaking from head to toe. He looked pitiful. Pino stammered confusedly through constant sobbing to Biaggio. After some effort, Biaggio managed to get the details out of him. They had brutally torn his daughter out of his house and accused her of witchcraft.Pino didn’t know where they had gone with his child. His wife fell into hysteria. Several of the neighbourhood women were taking care of her now. Biaggio could only calm the poor man with a strong valerian drink. He promised him that he would enquire after whereabouts of his daughter the next day.
The next morning, they went together to the parish hall, but were unable to extract answers from anyone there. Both neighbours tried to gain access to the community leader, but he was, of course, not available.
That evening, Biaggio encountered the parish secretary by chance in his cantina. With him was the Avocato Benini. They argued heatedly with each other and seemed to have already drunk several glasses of wine. As Biaggio knew both well from earlier times, the secretary and the lawyer welcomed him. Just as everywhere else, there was only one topic of conversation for them: No one had believed that recent events would have come to such a climax. Many residents of the village turned to their community officials for help in worry and desperation. The pressure grew especially strong as more and more well esteemed and noble citizens found themselves among the denounced. Several leaders in the community began back-pedalling. They didn’t want to burn their finger on this development.
Several prosperous families had even taken up contact with the government in Genoa and plead for their moderating influence.
After another glass, Biaggio learned—in a hushed whisper, of course—that another inquisitor was on his way from Genoa. He was to replace the current priest and shed light on the convoluted situation. They even knew the name of the new inquisitor already. Giulio Scribani was expected to arrive in June. And one could only hope that he would support a more moderate Inquisition General: Alberto Drago, who had been in the city since May, against the fanatics led by del Pozzo.
Everyone zwanted to return to normal life. For it had become very still in Triora throughout the past few months. Fear and mistrust had spread wide and poisoned the community. Feast days hadn’t been celebrated in a long time. The joyful laughter of children in the alleys and the chat. ter of women at the washing place had been muted.

Biaggio was suddenly very tired. He closed his eyes. He remembered clearly, however, how the turning point finally came.

One muggy April day there was a deep unrest. The people of the village gathered themselves together on the Piazza. It had been announced that thirteen accused women would be transfered to the dungeons in Genoa. That was bad news-for everyone knew- that once someone disappeared into Grimaldi Tower he never would be seen again. The wildest rumours circulated of its prisoners starving to death, dying of abuse or decay after being infected with the Antonius fever or leprosy.
On that same morning, the ox carts from Genoa stood ready with which the transport was to take place. Chained women were torn out of cellar dungeons and attic prisons from all over the village. They were all more dead than alive, in a pitiful state, all terribly tortured, smeared with blood and indescribably filthy. Their own faeces and vomit clung to their clothing and were smeared through their hair. They stunk terribly and some couldn’t even stand on their own—their limbs broken, faces torn by the pains of torture, bodies battered by the seven stranded whip that was used by the Inquisition’s torturers.
But in this gruesome moment, a spark of mercy still burning in the hearts of Triora showed itself. Several young men and women jumped up and rushed to help the broken prisoners down that painful path. But they had no chance to help, the armed guards pushing them immediately away.
Amidst insults, curses and hits with coarse cudgels, the poor souls were driven to the wagons and thrown in like livestock. All was to occur as quickly as possible.
As the transport continued, it all came to a traumatic scene: Carlo, the barber, recognised his wife in the forced march. As if out of his mind, with the wild roar of a pained heart, he carved his way through the crowd. But he was stopped cold by the guards and thrown to the ground. His wife cried to him, heart-rending, but was dragged by her hair to the wagon and thrown violently in, knocking over several others in the process.
Once all had been loaded in, the piteous procession was put in movement. At first, one could hear the rolling of the carts on the cobblestones and the bellows of the oxen under the cracking whips of the drivers. And then all was still. A deathly silence hung over the town. Not much was said, although some cried, and the crowd of onlookers slowly dispersed.
The barber still lay unconscious on the cobblestone. Several young men took pity and carried him home. Days later, Biaggio went to look for him at his house. But the house was empty. The neighbours reported that he hadn’t been seen since that terrible day on the Piazza. He had been lain in his bed and taken care of as much as possible. Since then, he hadn’t been seen. He had simply disappeared!
In June of the year 1588, on a memorable Sunday, the inquisitor Scribani arrived with his entourage and several guards. The people of Triora had been so hopeful! But it was as if even the birds on that beautiful summer day wanted to stop singing.
Scribani unleashed an even more gruesome inferno than his predecessor. Spreading the climate of religious hate and persecution to the towns of Badalucco, Montalto and in the nearby villages Realdo and Verdeggio, then even to Sanremo, his regime ruled more unimaginably fanatically than ever before. New hearings and tortured confessions began.

It had been terrible. Biaggio had survived. But his memories of the events of that time had never stopped eating at his soul. He had lived, but he had never been happy! Biaggio brought the cup with the last drops of his herbal tea to his mouth. The clay mug slid from his hand and burst into pieces on the ground.

This story is historical fiction but was based on actual events that are believed to have occurred in Triora, a small city in the Ligurian countryside from 1587 to 1588. The memory of the terribly persecution of the so-called witches is still kept alive today in the ‘Museo Regional Etnografico e Della Stregoneria’ (Regional Ethnographic and Witchcraft Museum), which is very much worth a visit.