Бесплатный фрагмент - South Tyrol. The Other Italy

To my families: in Russia and in Austria

Preface

The art island of Naoshima in the Seto Inland Sea features a work The World Flag Ant Farm by the artist Yukinori Yanagi. The artwork is made of rows of plexiglass boxes with flags inside of them made of coloured sand. The boxes are connected by tubes, through which ants are running, carrying the sand from one part of the installation to another. Everything is real in the work of the Japanese artist: the insects build nests, move, eat from specially designed food dispensers, and die. Yanagi’s philosophy is as follows: “Nations, ethnic groups, religions are limited by imaginary boundaries, born of social or institutional constructions.” When ants destroy clear contours of the flags, they, in his opinion, demonstrate “a simple and encouraging way to gradually unite all the peoples of the world.” Yukinori Yanagi’s installation is symbolic. It questions the importance of borders between countries, raises the issue of their gradual destruction and the consequences of migration.

I wonder if the ants in the Japanese artist’s work were of different species… Alas, there is no information about that, and yet not all the varieties of those insects are friendly to each other. Quite like people, they fight for their territory, food, children, and domination of their own species. Who knows how quickly the fragile sand boundaries would become multi-coloured well-organized fortifications in real life?

Chapter One. 
Personal File

The first time I saw South Tyrol was through the train window on my way from Milan to Munich. The huge snow-covered mountains seemed to be at arm’s length from me. Never before had I seen them so closely. Long after this journey, I would still believe that nothing could be more beautiful than these magnificent walls of rock. According to my calculations, there was some time left before we would cross the Austrian border, but the names of the stations, indicated both in German and Italian, instilled in me vague doubts about the whereabouts of the train. “Are we still in Italy or already in Austria?” I thought. My fellow passengers suddenly put off whatever each of them was doing: their books, newspapers and magazines were lying on the tables and on their laps, the covers of the laptops, the boxes of cookies and chips were closed. We were all gazing, spellbound, at the beauty outside.

I was 21. From Milan, where I studied at the Department of Architecture, I was going to intern at a Munich architectural magazine. Not knowing any German and having a very vague idea of the Bavarian capital, I was still travelling by train through the mountains and into the uncertainty. In Moscow, where I had grown up, there were no mountains, as there were none of them in the place where I had gone every year for my vacation, Kaliningrad Region, a semi-exclave which after World War II became part of the Soviet Union.

I still remember myself at the age of five or six, when an elderly German Frau, who had obviously come to her historic homeland, approached my grandmother and me in a street of the resort town of Svetlogorsk and gave me a full package of foreign sweets. At that time, Germans were treated with disbelief, nothing good could be expected from them, and out of that generous gift I only got one lollipop. As to the rest of it, my grandmother threw it all away, saying that the sweets could be poisoned. I can hardly remember what that lady looked like, but I do remember very well her emotions and the multi-coloured wrappers of the sweet treasure that had come so unexpectedly to me. What did she feel when she came to the Russian Svetlogorsk, which, in the days of her youth, had used to be the German Rauschen?

Approximately one year after the victory in the Great Patriotic War and the World War II, Königsberg was renamed Kaliningrad. Pillau became Baltiysk, Tilsit – Sovetsk, and Cranz – Selenogradsk. Lutheran churches were first used for economic needs, but then, gradually, they began to bring Orthodox paraphernalia there. German inscriptions were painted over – only to be found a bit later in the same places again. For three years, Germans and Russians were forced to live on the same territory. People were brought to Kaliningrad Region from all over the Soviet Union; they had to “master” the new territory, to introduce Soviet culture to East Prussia. Both sides still had vivid memory of the recent war. For obvious reasons, it was not easy for people from the Soviet Union to separate in their minds the peaceful German population from the Nazis, who only yesterday did terrible things on their land and to their families. No less difficult was it for the Germans: in order to feed themselves, they, like the Soviet citizens, had to do the hard work of restoring Kaliningrad, which was in ruins. There, under the rubble, were their houses, apartments, personal belongings, and often the bodies of their families and friends.

One would think that the relations between yesterday’s enemies would be terrible; however, in real life things were somewhat different. Of course, there’s no denying that the defeated Germans were insulted by their victors, looted and ousted from their own homes, but the fact that the two very different cultures were forced to co-exist on a very small territory also contributed to the increasing rapport between the people. Both German and Russian residents would quickly pick up each other’s languages, both Russian and German doctors would treat their patients without looking at their nationality, and young people would go dancing together. There were both good things and bad things, but neither Russians not Germans would refuse to help each other.

However trivial it may sound, there are no bad nations. There are bad people.

In 1948, the last of the Germans living in Kaliningrad Region were deported to the Soviet occupation zone in Germany. It was not until late 1990s that they got a chance to see Kaliningrad again. Some of them were silent, and some of them wept looking at the houses that were not theirs anymore. There was no more Königsberg. It had turned into Kaliningrad long ago.

Looking back, I can’t help thinking that everything which happens to us in life happens for a reason! If there had been no Kaliningrad in my life, or that train from Milan to Munich with the subsequent necessity to know well both German and Italian, I wouldn’t have been able to write about South Tyrol. I would not have become interested in this region’s bi- and trilingualism, and wouldn’t have seen anything strange in the entanglement of Italian, German and Ladin cultures on this land, which is officially a part of Italy. It is quite possible that I, like hundreds of other tourists, would have left this place taking with me dozens of pictures and pleasant recollections of the local hospitality. However, being already aware of a story similar to one that took place in South Tyrol, I felt an urge to understand better this mountain region. I had a feeling deep inside that the seemingly different stories of these two territories actually have something in common.

When I asked Italians in Milan and its vicinities about South Tyrol, it quickly turned out that their knowledge of this region is very superficial. As a rule, they referred to the local people as “Germans” or “calculator people,” hinting at the proverbial “German accuracy” in their character.

As to my efforts to find out what people know about South Tyrol in Russia, they were a complete failure. The people I talked to either didn’t know anything about the place or started recalling something about Austria.

In Germany and Austria, the situation with knowledge of South Tyrol was much better: both Germans and Austrians were able to describe the region’s geographical location and had a general idea of its cultural and historical peculiarities.

To summarize my small, though international, poll, people knew either nothing at all or very little about this beautiful mountain land and this lack of knowledge in some cases even engendered unaccountable negative attitude to it.

As I gradually went further into studying South Tyrol, I couldn’t help comparing it to other border territories of the world. The history of every such place involves difficult times, and some of them are still experiencing them. Their people fought for independence, asserted their rights for their native tongue and culture. The wisdom with which these same problems were solved in South Tyrol seemed to me a worthy example for other similar territories. After all, what we often need is just to know that we are not alone and that somebody else has faced the same challenges in life.

It was quite logical that my interest in South Tyrol should grow into something material. And if you want to know the main reason why I have written this book I will answer that I simply could not help writing it.

This book is my acknowledgement to South Tyrol and its multinational population for being a model of bridging the differences and of overcoming the challenges of history, for the priceless vivid example of what results can be achieved with love and desire for peace. This book is my own collection showcasing the many facets of this region.

One’s perception of this or that place in the world is always based on their personal experience, education, profession, and, of course, emotions. Naturally, I am present in each of the stories that I have included in this book: my architectural, artistic and literary taste, my sensitivity to the destinies of people and buildings, my love of the good and of those who do the good no matter what. At the same time, I tried to write about everything impartially, leaving to you the right to make your own conclusions.

Choosing the subjects for this book, creating my own collection of stories for it, I understood why collectors so often devote their lives to their work. Choosing the best of so many beautiful creations is an art. Choosing the most significant things in the life of a whole region is not an easy task. Therefore, I apologize in advance for the things that I may have overlooked. The history of South Tyrol, as well as its present, is, of course, abundant in things that are still waiting for their narrator.

After reading my collection of stories you will surely see a single image of this mountain land – its face, if you like. This is how I see South Tyrol. I cannot promise that your vision of this region will coincide with mine, but what I know for sure is that after reading this book you will pack your suitcase, backpack, or travelling bag and will head for South Tyrol. I also know that you will fall in love with it.

Chapter Two.
North – South

With so many cities whose central squares are featuring monuments to marshals, admirals, generals, monarchs, kings or empresses, it feels so great to finally find at least one city in the centre of which there is a monument to a poet.

In fact, Walther von der Vogelweide, the German poet and composer of the period of the classical Minnesang whose figure towers proudly on its pedestal in the square of the same name in Bolzano (Bozen), hardly had anything to do with South Tyrol. This man, who belonged to the knightly class but did not own any land, spent his life wandering, and a considerable number of legends have formed around him. The only thing known for sure from his rich biography is where he is buried (his grave is located in Würzburg), but the birthplace of the famous poet still remains a mystery which one after another generation of admiring researchers of his work have agonized over.

Due to the absence of significant historical documents, most of the information about the life of Walther von der Vogelweide was drawn from his own writings. At different times, Switzerland, Austria, Bohemia and Tyrol were announced to be the possible places of his birth. Finally, one main version had to be selected, and that was the Austrian region of Waldviertel, where in the Middle Ages there was a farm house named Vogelweidhof (it exists even now, though under a different name). Von der Vogelweide’s own statement also speaks in favor of this option: “In Austria, I learned to sing and to speak.”

However, South Tyrolean researchers of history and literature did not stand idly by, either. They believed that the famous Walther could well be from their region; the following places were named as the potential birthplace of the minnesinger: the Valley of the Upper Isarco (Wipptal) near the town of Vipiteno (Sterzing), the neighborhood of Chiusa (Klausen), and, finally, the local community of Laion (Lajen) (for a long time the latter was considered the most plausible version of all). Alas, all these assumptions have been refuted. The main argument against the idea that von der Vogelweide was born in South Tyrol was the fact that, over many decades, he did not even once find the time to visit his alleged homeland. But then again, why should the monument to a person who had nothing to do with South Tyrol have been mounted in the main square of the region’s capital city?

In the Middle Ages, when Tyrol was already part of Austria, the place of the present-day Walther Square, as well as the territory to the south of the city walls and its historical centre, was occupied by wine fields. At the beginning of the 19th century, Austria was defeated by the Napoleonic forces in the battle of Austerlitz, and, under the Peace of Pressburg, ceded Tyrol to one of Napoleon’s main allies – Bavaria. The then King of Bavaria, Maximilian I, who took possession of the vineyards near the walls of Bolzano (Bozen), agreed to sell them to the city for 3,000 guilders, but on the condition that they should be replaced by a square. The city kept its promise to the monarch: Maximilianplatz, a square named in his honour, was inaugurated in 1808.

Life in Tyrol as part of Bavaria was not easy, and in 1809 an uprising against the Bavarian and French authorities broke out in the region, headed by Andreas Hofer. Through joint efforts, the local population and the Austrian troops that entered Tyrol restored Austrian power in it. The triumph, however, did not last long, as after a few weeks the new French army ousted the Austrians from the region. According to the Treaty of Vienna of 1809, Tyrol was divided between the two countries: North Tyrol was left to Bavaria, while South Tyrol was given to the Italian kingdom.

It is only in 1813, after the Vienna Congress, that it was returned to the Austrian Empire. A year later, Maximilianplatz in Bolzano (Bozen) was given a new name, Johannesplatz, in honour of the Archduke Johann (John) of Austria. The Austrian elite started coming more often to Bolzano (Bozen). Rave reviews about the beauty and the mild climate of this city quickly reached the Viennese court. Inns appeared around the square, which were soon followed by a hotel. The monument to Walther von der Vogelweide was installed on it at the initiative of the Austro-Hungarian government in 1889. The monument was made by the South Tyrolean sculptor Heinrich Natter from the Laas white marble quarried in the region. The German poet and composer of the period of the classical Minnesang is standing with his face to the south, and that is not mere chance.

It is in the south that Trento is located, which at that time, being a part of the Austrian Empire, was called Trient. The absolute majority of its population was Italian, and the irredentist movement for the incorporation of Trient and other Italian-populated border territories to Italy quickly gained momentum. As early as in 1886, people there had already started talking about making a monument to Dante Alighieri, at that time – simply on the occasion of setting up Pro Patria Foundation in Rovereto. Decorating the square in Bolzano (Bozen) with the figure of Walther von der Vogelweide, a man known for loving German culture and glorifying it throughout his life in his works, was a kind of remote response to the unrest in the south of the Austrian Empire.

The reaction of Trient (Trento) to the monument to Walther was not long in coming: already in 1893, the foundation stone of the monument to Dante was laid with an inscription on it: “The foundation stone to the monument from Trento citizens to Dante Alighieri, who showed what our language is capable of. XX APR MDCCCXCIII.” The Austro-Hungarian monarchy was well aware of the possible consequences of what was happening, but did not consider it appropriate to stand up against the project. Dante Alighieri’s figure was clearly facing north.

After World War I, under the Treaty of Saint-Germain, South Tyrol was returned to Italy. The notorious forced Italianization of this territory which followed had its impact both on the square and on the monument to Walther von der Vogelweide. First, in 1925, Walther Square was simply renamed in honour of the Italian king Victor Emmanuel III, and then, in 1935, the Fascist government that came to power in the country got around to the statue of the Minnesang poet. The monument of Walther von der Vogelweide was moved to Peter Rosegger Park. Ettore Tolomei, who headed the process of the Italianization of South Tyrolean population, insisted on erecting in its place a monument to Drusus the Elder, the Roman commander who in the 15th century BC fought on the territory of Raetia against the bandits raiding Roman tribes and receiving support from the local tribes. Drusus the Elder then destroyed both the bandits and the local tribes. There’s no need to mention that Tyrol at that time had also been part of Raetia, and Tolomei was not simply referring to ancient history.

In the end, they did commission South Tyrolean sculptor Hans Piffrader to make a statue of Drusus the Elder, but, for unknown reasons, it was never made.

With the end of World War II, in 1945, the main square of Bolzano (Bozen) was renamed again, this time to Marienplatz. It bore this name until 1947, when it was changed to Waltherplatz, or Walther Square. The statue of the same name was moved to its place only in 1981.

Nowadays, the main square of the South Tyrolean capital is known as the “drawing room” of Bolzano (Bozen). At any time of the year, the cafes and bars around it are filled with locals and visitors to the region. It is home to the most famous Christmas market in Italy and the equally famous flower festival. Walther Square is then renamed (this time only jokingly) Waltz Square (Walzer Platz instead of Waltherplatz), and dancing parties are arranged here.

Cities, the main squares of which can boast a monument to a poet, are a rarity; however, the reasons for putting up such monuments are often far from poetic. The figures of Walther von der Vogelweide and Dante Alighieri symbolized the silent confrontation of two worlds speaking different languages within one country. Now, when they are once again part of the same, though completely different, country, neither the north nor the south recall the past of these two monuments. They understand that the future depends on respecting each other’s cultures.

Chapter Three.
Grüss Dich!

The landscape outside the car window is constantly changing, and the chances are good that I will make the word “beauty” the refrain of my narrative if I start describing everything that I see. Every now and then I can glimpse signs bearing the names of hotels and guest houses, most of which necessarily contain, modified in one way or another, the words Edelweiss, Alpin (“Alpine”), Weissen Rössl (“White Horse”) (to be quite fair, I must say that sometimes the horse is of some other colour), Panorama and Mondschein (“Moonlight”). In the same way as in the Soviet Union each city had its own Lenin Street, in South Tyrol you will always come across the good old rössl (“horse”).

If you have got lost, you can stop your car and ask the locals for directions – they will help you, but only after saying Grüss Gott or Grüss dich (“Hello” in the local dialect). After that, you can continue your way to see another signboard of a hotel bearing the name Post, which is also very popular in the region.

South Tyrol is The Other Italy.

Chapter Four.
We Are in Italy, Are We?

Vipiteno (Sterzing) is a fairy-tale South Tyrolean town in which you want to use a diminutive name for absolutely everything. It is so charming in late spring that I don’t even dare to think of it at Christmas season, when it must be covered with an even layer of soft fluffy snow, decorated with ornaments and strings of lights, permeated with the smells of fresh gingerbread, hot chocolate, roasted chestnuts and fruit punch. I can’t but think: what would it be like, to be born here? It would probably be great to wake up and run to the window to see the snow-capped peaks, the Zwölferturm tower – the symbol of the city – and the conventional boundary between its “new” and “old” parts, and to smell the perfect aroma of fresh buns coming up from the cosy family coffee shop – there would simply have to be one on the ground floor. This is my first visit to Vipiteno (Sterzing), though I’ve known about its existence for a long time.

The fact is that I love to start my day with a delicious breakfast, an integral part of which has always been yoghurt. While studying in Milan, I found out “by trial and error” in the literal sense of the word that the best product of all the variety presented in the stores is the one in minimalist packaging with a coat of arms and the inscription “Sterzing-Vipiteno.” Needless to say, I was in advance disposed more than favourably towards this South Tyrolean city, considering rightfully that only a good place and good people can produce such a high-quality, wholesome and tasty product.

Of course, in addition to yoghurt, which is produced by a company founded in the times when South Tyrol was part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, in Vipiteno (Sterzing) you can and should pamper yourself with traditional speck, smoked sausages, all kinds of knodels and fragrant strudel with apple, apricot or cottage cheese. It would be a crime to just walk past hand-made chocolates laid out in the windows of pastry shops and the freshest Sacher cake with homemade whipped cream.

In this town you must go by your senses and be sure to enjoy not only the beauty around, but also the local cuisine. At the time I found myself in the town, my knowledge of German was poor; sitting down at a table in a restaurant and finding that the menu was only in German, I asked the waiter to bring it in Italian, adding with a smile: “We’re in Italy, are we?” The local citizens, who were watching the scene closely, literally collapsed with laughter.

But that was the same kind of good-natured laughter that parents laugh when their child says something silly.

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Chapter Five.
Walter

From the interview with the architect Walter Angonese for Archi.ru (11.05.2016)

(The conversation is in Italian)

Me: It seems to me that all South Tyroleans love their motherland (patria)?

Walter Angonese: Motherland (patria) is not quite the right word. Italian doesn’t have the right equivalent for that, so I will use the German word Heimat. It is not the same as the Italian patria. The Italian word implies a nation, while Heimat is a place, a corner that you come from, where your roots are. The great German poet Kurt Tucholsky defined Heimat as the place where you feel that you are understood. It is Heimat that we, South Tyroleans, love.

Me: They call you an Austrian, German, Italian architect… Which of those do you think you are?

Walter Angonese: I am an architect who works here, in South Tyrol, a region which was largely shaped by its position at the crossroads of two cultures: the Alps and the Mediterranean. And this is a great wealth: we have the heritage of both Central Europe and the Mediterranean at our disposal. This is our capital. If we want, we can be inspired by both worlds, and there is a special beauty in this position. For example, take the way we live: we are quite rational, we work a lot – these qualities are characteristic of Central European, even North European mentality, but we also know how to enjoy life, we like tasty food, we like to have a good drink: we took the best of both cultures.

Me: It seems to me that all the advantages you have named were here already before the Italian influence.

Walter Angonese: Well, I believe that there is some difference between South Tyrol and North Tyrol; it’s about the ability to enjoy life, which we inherited from the Mediterranean culture. It is exactly 3 km from the place where I live to the linguistic barrier, beyond which everyone already speaks Italian. South Tyrol has beautiful landscape and rich history. I consider myself as an architect from South Tyrol, a person with an Italian passport, and a native speaker of German.

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Chapter Six.
Margaret According to Feuchtwanger

But this Margaret! The clumsy figure!

“Carinthia!” said the Emperor.

The underhung jaw!

“Tyrol!” said the Emperor.

The hanging cheeks! The slanting, prominent teeth!

“Trient! Brixen!” said the Emperor.

Lion Feuchtwanger,
The Ugly Duchess, 1923

Margaret of Tyrol, nicknamed Margarete Maultasch, could hardly imagine that she would get the not so very flattering title of “the ugliest woman in history”. The picture by the 16th century Flemish painter Quentin Massys invariably gathers crowds of visitors in the National Gallery of London. His portrait of the grotesque Ugly Duchess is often referred to as a portrait of Margaret of Tyrol, but that is not true. The caricature image created by Massys is a pseudoportrait having nothing in common with the historical figure. But what did the countess of Tyrol really look like?

This question is difficult to answer. The only portrait made during her lifetime and available today is scarce in details: one can only see the full-length figure of a slender woman, though her facial features are rather vague. Written comments by contemporaries of Margaret of Tyrol are contradictory: in some sources she is described as an ugly, wicked and dissolute woman, while in others she is called a very beautiful lady.

In the Spanish Hall of Ambras Castle in Innsbruck, among portraits of Tyrolean rulers, you can see a full-length picture of Margaret, portrayed against the background of nature. The Countess of Tyrol looks rather attractive in this picture of mid-16th century. This slender, tall woman with harmonious facial features and her eyes modestly cast down cannot be called ugly. Margaret appears as the same attractive woman in the album of engravings Tirolensium Principum Comitum of late 16th century. The author of the album, the Flemish painter and engraver Dominique Kustos, who served at the court of Emperor Rudolf II in Prague, depicts Countess of Tyrol among 28 Counts of Tyrol, from Albert IV (1190–1253) to Rudolf II (1552–1612). In the engraving by Kustos, Margaret looks obviously similar to the portrait from the Ambras Castle Spanish Hall, though the countess’s lower lip seems intentionally exaggerated. Most likely, the artist wanted to emphasize the connection of the nickname Maultasch with one of the meanings of this word – “big-mouthed”. However, even with the disproportionally big lower lip, Margaret doesn’t look unattractive in Kustos’s engraving.

Actually, it is not only Maragaret’s appearance that is veiled in mystery, but also the origin of her nickname – Maultasch. This word can be translated in various ways, from “big-mouthed” and “mouthpocket” to “dumpling”, to “dissolute woman” and even “whore”. If the former three meanings could point to the unattractive appearance of the Countess of Tyrol, the latter two must characterise her behaviour. One version says that Margaret was first called wanton by the family of her first husband, John Henry, with whom, by her own admission, she never was in actual marital relationship. Their marriage was purely political in nature: at the age of 11, the Countess of Tyrol was married off to the 7-year-old son of the Czech king John of Luxembourg. Margaret and John Henry disliked each other at first sight, and as years passed, their attitude to each other turned from neutral to explicitly negatve. Having solicited the support of the Tyrolean nobility and secretely made an alliance with the Holy Roman Emperor Ludwig IV the Bavarian, the Countess expelled her husband from her lands. The emperor announced her marriage to John Henry void, which made it possible for her to marry the senior son of Ludwig the Bavarian – Ludwig V of the House of Wittelsbach, Margrave of Brandenburg in Meran.

The Countess of Tyrol and her new spouse, who got married illegally from the point of view of the church, were immediately excommunicated by Pope Clement VI, who was a political opponent of Ludwig of Bavaria. Tyrol was placed under interdict; church services and ceremonies were banned throughout its territory. The Catholic Church did not approve of Margaret’s actions, and did not hesitate to express its opinion about the Countess, including in the form of diatribes. It is easy to guess that the ruler of Tyrol was portrayed in them as vicious, depraved, and unpleasant both in her appearance and character.

The flow of unflattering epithets used by the church in relation to Margaret was strongly supported by the relatives of her former husband, John Henry. The latter, six years after the marriage of his ex-wife with Ludwig V Wittelsbach, nevertheless decided to marry again, for which he asked the Pope for permission to divorce, recognizing that their union with the Countess of Tyrol was not consummated, but rejecting in advance all the possible charges of impotence. The divorce was approved, and the excommunication of Margaret and Ludwig from the church continued to be in effect for another ten years; only after that, with the support of Albrecht II, who had already petitioned to Pope Innocent VI on behalf of the spouses, it was completely removed.

The identity of Margaret Maultasch, the Countess of Tyrol, remains shrouded in legends. It is impossible to call any information about her absolutely reliable. Therefore, any materials related to the life of the ruler of Tyrol have always aroused great interest. Needless to say, the historical novel of the German writer of Jewish origin Lion Feuchtwanger, The Ugly Duchess, first published in 1923, did not only attract the attention of several generations of readers to the story of the countess and of Tyrol at her time, but also made them believe in the reality of the image of the ugly but intelligent woman with an unfortunate fate whom the author described in his book. But was Feuchtwanger’s Margaret similar to her historical prototype? Was Tyrol at the time of her ruling the way the writer presented it? Can The Ugly Duschess be believed, and if so, to what extent?

In a historical novel, the historical truth is always combined with fiction, and the real historical figures coexist in the text with fictional persons. This is a difficult genre to write in, and it has always been chosen by very few writers. The Ugly Duchess was the first historical novel by Lion Feuchtwanger, but fortunately not the last one.

Any historical novel needs to be based on reliable historical sources. While working on The Ugly Duchess, Lion Feuchtwanger definitely used the three-volume work by Josef Egger Geschichte Tirols von ältesten Zeiten bis in die Neuzeit, published in Innsbruck in 1872. This is proved not only by the same order of the events described, but also by the fact that the writer borrowed some episodes from Egger’s story word-for-word.

The writer uses Margaret’s image to show the advent of a new age in Tyrol, the gradual transition from medieval way of living to early Renessaince. It is Margaret that Feuchtwanger credits with everything which is good and progressive in this mountain land. The author of The Ugly Duchess exaggerates the ugliness of his heroine’s appearance, endowing her with extraordinary intelligence instead, and showing her as a champion of progress and humanity. This is how Margaret is first presented in Feuchtwanger’s novel: “She looked older than her twelve years. Her thick-set body with its short limbs supported a massive misshapen head. The forehead, indeed, was clear and candid, the eyes quick and shrewd, penetrating and sagacious; but below the small flat nose an ape-like mouth thrust forward its enormous jaws and pendulous underlip. Her copper-coloured hair was coarse, wiry and dull, her skin patchy and of a dull greyish pallor.” A bit later in the book, the author says the following on the Tyrolean ruler: “God had deprived her of feminine charm so that she might sink all the woman in the ruler.” Feuchtwanger’ Margaret is a strong-willed person, who fought all her life against her own ugliness, the greed of her subjects, and takeover attempts of her neighbors; who fought for the happiness of her people, her Tyrol, and for her own happiness as a woman.

And now let us turn to the historical source – the three-volume work by Egger Geschichte Tirols von ältesten Zeiten bis in die Neuzeit, which the author of The Ugly Duchess resorted to when he was writing his book, and see what the historian says about Margaret Maultasch: “As time went by, Margaret more and more often expressed her dissatisfaction with her spouse, and the Tyrolean barons – with the domination of Luxembourg. Both the legends and the writings of historians portrayed Margaret as very unattractive, both physically and spiritually. While she was not totally ugly, she would, nevertheless, never get an award for beauty, for, according to trustworthy testimonies, she had a big, wide mouth disfiguring her face, which, as legend has it, earned her the nickname ‘Maultasch’. Neither could she be considered the ideal of a virtuous woman. Of course, her alleged carnal excesses and cruelty towards her lovers might as well be fictional, but it is undoubted that her penchant for sensual pleasures by far surpassed the boundaries of natural propriety. John could not sufficiently satisfy this inclination. Even as he entered adolescence, Margaret remained childless.” The same Joseph Egger speaks of the political role played by Margaret in Tyrol. During her reign, while she was still married to her first husband, John Henry (1330–1340), she, judging from the historian’s writings, was far from independent politically: “She was deprived of any influence on management, and Bishop Nicholas of Trent ruled the country.” During her marriage to her second husband, Ludwig (1343–1361), as well as during a short period after his death and her own abdication of power (1361–1363), Margaret again failed to show herself to be a strong and independent ruler. Egger describes her as a “weak” (schwache) and “indecisive” (wankelmütige) woman, who, from his point of view, could not hold power and was forced to give it up. Margaret’s great desire to develop Tyrolean cities and trade, to promote the prosperity of the people, described by Feuchtwanger, is not confirmed by Joseph Egger. Indeed, such aspirations could really be observed at that time, but it was not the ruler of Tyrol who was engaged in making those visions a reality, but completely different people.

Neither the violent death of Margaret’s husband Louis, nor the similarly violent death of her son Meinhard, described in Feuchtwanger’s The Ugly Duchess, correspond to the historical truth. Both of them died natural deaths, and as to Ludwig, the Countess of Tyrol lived quite happily with him to the end of his life. The political fate of Margaret was different in reality as well: having ceded power to Rudolf IV Habsburg, the historical ruler of Tyrol left for Vienna, where she spent her last days honoured and protected by the Imperial court. According to Feuchtwanger, Margaret lived the rest of her life in modest conditions on a deserted island, in the company of a single maid.

It is obvious that the description of the ruler of Tyrol by Egger has very little in common with Feuchtwanger’s description, and as to what she really was like, it still remains to be found out. In general, historians point out that the information about that era is too scanty, but the information that we do have allows us to judge about the personality of Margaret Maultasch only to a certain extent.

At the beginning of The Ugly Duchess, Feuchtwanger writes: “It had been manifestly proved that in Tyrol only he could rule whom the Tyrolese themselves wanted to rule. With mountains and valleys and passes God had so disposed it that no foreign power could overrun it by violence.” At the end of his historical novel, describing Margaret’s decision to cede Tyrol to Habsburgs, the author leaves all the prompousness aside: “Schenna thought this proposal very advantageous. He had always preferred the gay, affable Austrians to the heavy, violent Bavarians.” That is how Tyrol lost its independence and became a part of the Austrian monarchy.

And what about Margaret? She, having left her lands, never came back to Tyrol either in the book or in real life.

Chapter Seven.
The “Bolzano Effect”

At first, they took away only the toilet. The explanation that it was only an innocent curtsey to the classic of modern art, the Dadaist Marcel Duchamp, didn’t help a bit; the work was ruthlessly impounded by the city authorities following a complaint from National Alliance activists. The toilet was a work by the Roman artists Eleonora Chiari and Sara Goldschmied, working under the pseudonym Goldiechiari. When a person approached it, the plumbing fixture would play Italy’s national anthem along with the sounds of flushing. The case came to trial, and the court ruled that the toilet did not insult either the anthem or the state of Italy, and it was returned to its place.

Then, their “crucified frog” by the German artist Martin Kippenberger was glimpsed by a representative of the Roman Curia, who was pretty much bothered by the sight. As a result, Pope Benedict XVI personally spoke out against this scoffing green amphibian on the cross with an egg in one hand and a beer mug in the other. The Italian Minister of Culture Sandro Bondi called the frog “an unnecessary provocation”, while Franz Pahl, an official, went on a hunger strike as a sign of protest against the sculpture, and even ended up in hospital. Meanwhile, the artist Martin Kippenberger, who died in 1997, called his work Zuerst die Füsse (“Feet first”), and said it was a self-portrait of a person in a state of deep crisis.

Finally, the whole world heard the news about the installation Where Shall We Go Dancing Tonight? which the cleaners took for garbage. The work by the already mentioned Roman artists Eleonora Chiari and Sara Goldschmied was supposed to tell about the ideology of the consumer society, to ridicule the luxurious parties and scandals around the Italian politicians of the 1980s. Empty bottles scattered on the floor, cigarette butts, streamers, festive decorations, items of clothing and shoes – cleaners took all this for garbage from the celebration held the night before, sorted it into recycling bags and cleaned the room. Fortunately, the installation was recreated.

All of these stories took place at the Bolzano (Bozen) Museum of Modern and Contemporary Art. It has been blacklisted, and it seems that all the international press has written about scandals associated with its exhibitions. However, even at the most difficult times, here, at the Museion, the staff have fought with word and action for the right of the art to be free, and all the unpleasant “incidents” were perceived philosophically, as a basis for discussing contemporary art.

Unfortunately, the construction of the Museum of Modern and Contemporary Art in Bolzano (Bozen) did not bring the so-called “Bilbao effect” to the region. Even now, artists from London or New York, who are invited from time to time to take part in the Museion exhibition programs, first have to figure out its exact geographical position. Nevertheless, the architectural design of the Museum of Modern and Contemporary Art, created by the Berlin architects KSV Krüger Schuberth Vandreike, is very interesting in itself. The 25-metre-high parallelepiped is located on the border between the “old” and the “new” Bolzano, with one of its glass facades reflecting the life of the historical part of the city and another one – the rapid flow of the Talfer river and the modern city across the river. At sunset, these glass facades become an “exhibition tool” of multimedia art. Inside the multi-layered facades of the museum there are opaque glass panels, which during the daytime are used to control the lighting inside the Museion. Thus, in the afternoon, when the panels are “open”, you can see everything that happens in the building from the outside. Who knows, whether the representative of the Curia, going on his way past the museum, would have seen Kippenberger’s “crucified frog”, if the sculpture, hanging in the hall above the cashier’s desk, had not been visible from outside through the transparent walls?

The Museion was created not as a “container” with works of art, but as an international research laboratory in the field of contemporary art. In addition to the exhibition halls, the museum has venues for events and seminars, a library, a cafe, a shop and, moreover, a multipurpose indoor space on the ground floor, open to everybody. The latter was created by a guest designer from Merano (Meran), Martino Gamper, who has been living in London for many years. The Museion Passage was made free-to-enter for all kinds of events, both related and non-related to the work of the museum.

The wonderful initiative of the Museum of Modern and Contemporary Art in Bolzano (Bozen) – opening its covered passage with designer furniture for free public use – almost turned into another scandal. Migrants began to gather there. They charged their phones in the museum, used its restrooms and its high-speed free internet. Migrants filled the stone benches in front of the museum – the Wi-Fi signal was fine in the street. Soon the benches got decorated with inscriptions “Bolzano ai Bolzanini!!” (“Bolzano is for the residents of Bolzano”) and “Integrazione = Degrado!!” (“Integration equals degradation”).

Well, we forget that people never run from their countries, homes and families, if everything is all right. Tomorrow, you can find yourself in their place: run away from bombs, hunger, poverty, an unfair political regime; carry your children in the arms mile after mile, not knowing what awaits them ahead; try to cross a sea, realizing that the chances of drowning and of reaching the coast are about equal; risk your life and the lives of your families for the sake of hope for the future. Put yourself in the shoes of these people. What do you know about them?

The reaction of the Museion’s administration was not immediate, but nevertheless the only correct one: they gave the migrants the opportunity to speak about themselves. The project was called “Where do you imagine yourself?” Within its framework, meetings were held, at which the migrants were told about the place in front of which they would spend hours on benches, separated from it, however, by an invisible barrier. The experimental project of the Museum of Modern and Contemporary Art in Bolzano helped these people to take the first steps to adaptation and became an opportunity to learn about their stories and life situations. And that was only the beginning. A few months later, migrants, young people from South Tyrol and other European regions were already working together on an art project at Museion. The barriers had been finally brought down. The migrants got an opportunity to become a part of the community, while the community got a chance to feel closer to the migrants.

This art project, like many others, was created through common efforts in the studio – the building located next to the Museum of Modern and Contemporary Art. The house-studio was designed, along with the Museion and two bridges – for pedestrians and cyclists, by the Berlin KSV architects, as part of a single museum complex. The interior space of the building was occupied by the South Tyrolean designer Harry Thaler, whom the press usually calls “a London designer of South Tyrolean origin”. Interestingly, during his studies in the capital of Great Britain, Thaler, before setting up his own firm, worked at the office of Martino Gamper, the designer of the Museion Passage. The house-studio was designed as a temporary housing and a workshop for guest artists and curators invited to the Museion in Bolzano (Bozen).

The museum complex continues with two bridges spanning the Talfer river. Though made from the same materials as the museum itself, they were designed curvilinear in contrast to its strict forms. The bridges connect the historical centre of the city with the “new” Bolzano (Bozen), and you will have to cross them in order to look at the last part of the museum complex, located in the modern Don Bosco district.

There used to be a huge garden where Don Bosco district is now, but in 1940, under the Fascist regime, workers who came from various places in Italy to work in the nearby industrial area of Bolzano (Bozen) began to settle here. This project was part of the plan for the Italianization of South Tyrol – the result of the agreement between Hitler and Mussolini concerning the region. The period from 1943 through 1945 was for Don Bosco the time of Nazi occupation. A transit camp was established here, in which the Jews and the partisans of South Tyrol and other occupied territories were usually held before deportation to concentration camps in Germany. Today, you can follow the history of Don Bosco by looking at the few monuments of the past still found on its territory: remnants of the camp wall, sculptures dedicated to the victims of the inhuman regime, and one of the houses for Italian workers, now turned into a museum (casa semirurale, “a semi-rural house”).

People generally go to museums for knowledge and new impressions, but the administraton of Museion reckoned that the opposite is also possible. That is how a small glass pavilion – the Garutti Cube, or the Little Museion, as people call it – appeared in Don Bosco district. The artist Alberto Garutti studied the population of the district and came to the conclusion that its residents have practically no interest for arts. Garutti wanted to change this state of affairs, to establish a dialogue with the city, to become as close to the potential audience as possible, to step down from the creator’s “pedestal”, and to produce a piece of art that would possibly become a link between his work and the audience. As part of this project, it was decided to decentralize the system responsible for contemporary art in Bolzano (Bozen) by moving one work of art from the Museion collection to the outskirts of the city every three months or by creating “autonomous” exhibitions. The simple glass-and-concrete pavilion installed next to a playground became a mini-representation of the Museum of Modern Art. You cannot enter the transparent cubic sculpture – you can only look at its contents from the outside, but when you approach the pavilion, the lighting is turned on at any time of the day (or night). People passing by the Garutti Cube inevitably find themselves in the role of spectators, and over time it becomes an everyday object for them. The pavilion naturally generates around itself numerous meetings of local residents, of people interested in the exhibited works and in art in general. The architectural solution of the Little Museion was made as simple as possible on purpose – so that the concept of introducing modern art into different parts of the city could be continued in the future.

One would think that the residents of Don Bosco remained only outside observers of the Garutti Cube project, but that is not true. Several exhibitions were set up in the pavilion with their active participation. For one of them, residents of the district were asked to bring some of their personal belongings to the cube; those were used to create an exhibition dedicated to the collective activities of the population of Don Bosco. As part of another project, people were invited to turn the walls of the pavilion into a shared diary, which was then exhibited in Museion.

Isn’t art an amazing thing! It can unite; evoke feelings and emotions in people of any age, any culture, and any nationality. The inhabitants of Don Bosco, before the appearance of the Garutti Cube in their district, probably could not have imagined that their thoughts or objects preserving the memory of their lives would one day become museum exhibits.

It is wonderful how one building can put a whole region on the map of the world. The architect Frank Gehry designed the Guggenheim Museum Bilbao, and the life of the Basque Country changed dramatically for the better. The whole world started speaking about that part of Spain.

The Museum of Modern and Contemporary Art in Bolzano (Bozen) did not bring instant international fame to South Tyrol, so what? The most important thing is that Museion has managed to make a difference for its land and for its residents. You will probably say that not everyone will agree with this statement in South Tyrol itself, and that, according to opinion polls, not all the inhabitants of the region are proud of the museum. Well, there are very few things in life that people would be unanimously positive about, especially when it comes to art.

Chapter Eight.
Peace Already?

“Here at the border of the fatherland set down the banner. From this point on we educated the others with language, law and culture”, reads the inscription on the triumphal arch, the Victory Monument in Bolzano (Bozen). The inscription was supposed to look a little different, but at the last moment it was decided to replace the word “barbarians” in the original version with the less specific word “others”. It was officially reported that the phrase on the monument is an imaginary dialogue between a legionary of the Roman Legio X (15 BC) and an infantryman during the Battle of the Piave River, where the Italians blocked the Austrian army’s advance in 1918. The German-speaking residents of South Tyrol did not believe in the story of this imaginary dialogue; for them, the inscription on the Victory Monument was offensive, as it demonstrated the repressive policy of Italy towards their region. Given the historical context in which the ceremonial unveiling of the monument took place, South Tyroleans had every reason for such thoughts. The irony was that the people who were going to civilize them were representatives of a country in which the level of literacy was at that time lower than in their own very small region.

In South Tyrol, the campaign of oppression against its German-speaking residents was in full swing: the population of the region, in the absence of Italian education diplomas, were put out of their jobs in droves, their land was occupied by Italians, who most often came from the very south of the country, and the architectural image of South Tyrolean cities was forcibly changed. In 1923, Ettore Tolomei, the man who is still called the “grave-digger of South Tyrol”, put forward a draft law for South Tyrol which was called the Gentile Reform and affected all the formerly Austrian lands. It was prohibited to use the German language everywhere – at schools, administrations, associations. Local people were denied the right to their own culture. This process of linguistic fascism was referred to as “Italianization of the population”. It was even forbidden to pronounce the word “Tyrol”. The name of the region was changed to Alto Adige, and all the South Tyrolean cities, villages and settlements, as well as surnames of local people, were substituted by their Italian versions. The only place that managed to escape that fate was the village of Lana, whose name, apparently, sounded Italian enough as it was.

New teachers were sent from Italy to South Tyrol. The government saw them as enthusiasts and colonialists, who were supposed to bring the modernized Italian way of life to the Austrian province. Claus Gatterer, a patriarch of Austrian journalism of the 20th century, wrote that “Italian teachers were often in fact much better than the popular opinion about them. They suffered from the atmosphere of hostility that surrounded them, and had no social contacts. Farmers in the villages were suspicious of them, especially of teachers wearing town clothes, which were considered immoral.” In accordance with the Italian fashion of the 1920s and 1930s, the teachers wore miniskirts and men’s haircuts, which more than embarrassed South Tyrolean farmers, who were not used to this style. To deal with the stress from working in this region, where people were so unfriendly to them, teachers would sometimes go out drinking at night; in the morning they could not come to work, in which case their students had to be sent home.

In order for the language and the traditions of the region not to be lost by new generations, enthusiasts among German-speaking teachers secretly organized their own classes, called “catacomb schools”. One of their patrons was the Catholic priest Michael Gamper. He was outraged with King Victor Emmanuel III not keeping his promise to respect the national identity of the South Tyrolean people. The priest, under the protection of the Catholic Church, began creating German publishing houses in the region, wrote and published articles in German. The Fascist regime that had captured South Tyrol quickly ranked Gamper as the “public enemy number one”, and he was forced to hide from persecution in a Tuscan monastery. Nevertheless, the priest was lucky to survive, while many other enthusiasts of the “catacomb schools” were much less fortunate. They had to die for their cause. People remember with sadness the story of a very young teacher Angela Nikoletti, who died at the age of 25 from tuberculosis, which she had contracted in prison.

Even later, in the days of Nazism and Hitler’s meetings with Mussolini, German was forbidden in South Tyrol, as if the language of the “chosen people of Aryan race” was something illegal. The inhabitants of South Tyrol, as always, found themselves on the borderline – this time, between the two dictatorships. Formally, they had a choice: either to join the Nazi Germany and leave their homes, or to stay and experience all the “charms” of the Fascist regime.

It is against this background, and with an utmost ardour and desire to complete the work as soon as possible, that the triumphal arch was built in Bolzano (Bozen) – the monument in Neo-Romanesque style, with an ominous inscription in Latin that bode no good for the region.

The Victory Monument was Benito Mussolini’s ambitious idea. The dictator declared in the Italian parliament that “a memorial to Cesare Battisti and other martyrs” would be built in Bolzano, adding that it would be erected “on the same foundation as the monument to the German victory”. The “monument to the German victory” that Mussolini was referring to was the monument to the Tyrolean Kaiserjäger (Imperial Riflemen) in Bolzano (Bozen), which was actually dedicated to the memory of the dead, and not the “German victory” at all.

On July 12, 1926, on the tenth anniversary of the death of Cesare Battisti and Fabio Filzi, at a distance of approximately eight metres from the foundation of the monument to the Imperial Tyrolean Riflemen, the first stone was laid in the foundation of the Victory Monument. In a solemn setting, in the presence of King Victor Emmanuel III, Marshals Luigi Cadorna, Pietro Badoglio and several ministers, two more were added to the first stone. The first of them was brought from Monte Corno, where Cesare Battisti was captured, the second from Monte Grappa, conquered with enormous human losses only in 1918, and the third from Monte San Michele, a strategically important mountain located on the Italian-Slovenian border. The mortar was made using water from the river Piave. The first symbolic stone of the Victory Monument was blessed by the Bishop of Trento, Celestino Endrici, notwithstanding the written request from the clergy of South Tyrol to Pope Pius XI that the monument should not receive a church blessing.

After the construction of the Victory Monument was started, more precisely, on June 9, 1927, the monument to the Imperial Tyrolean Riflemen was blown up. The remaining blocks were given to the cities that had donated money for the construction of the Victory Monument. Only four sculptures by Franz Ehrenhofer were rescued, transported to North Tyrol, and then placed on Bergisel.

On the day when the Victory Monument was inaugurated, a protest demonstration was held on Mount Isel in Innsbruck, in which more than 10,000 people took part, including representatives of South Tyrol. Ernesta Bittanti, the widow of Cesare Battisti, opposed using the figure of her husband and other irredentists in the Fascist campaign, and did not come to the opening ceremony of the triumphal arch. Later, her daughter, Livia Battisti, would repeatedly suggest renaming the arch the Monument of Memory and Warning. Despite the discontent of the Battisti family, they did place into one of the niches of the 19-metre-high triumphal arch a bust of the 42-year-old journalist Cesare Battisti – a politician, a scientist, an irredentist, and a patriot of Trento, who had been executed by Austrians.

Cesare Battisti was a hero during his life and remained one after death. He did not need any monuments.

The Triple Alliance between Italy, Austria-Hungary and Germany was formed in May 1882. It was based on the Austro-German Alliance pact of October 1, 1879 and the union treaty between Germany, Austria-Hungary and Italy of May 20, 1882. The union was renewed on May 6, 1891. The core of the pact was formed by articles II and III, transferred from the previous treaties of 1882 and 1891 without changes. The articles stated that Italy, in the event of an unprovoked attack by France, would receive help from the Allies. The same obligation would be placed on Italy if France attacked Germany without direct provocation from the latter. Also, if one or two of the contracting parties, without a direct provocation on their part, were attacked and involved in a war with two or several great powers not participating in this treaty, then the circumstances requiring the fulfillment of the treaty would be present for all the contracting parties simultaneously. At the same time, the Triple Alliance agreed with the special statement of Italy that the participation of England in a war against the Triple Alliance would exclude the participation of Italy because of the vulnerability of its territory to the British fleet. The two treaties contradicted each other.

In August 1914, the tripartite alliance was broken; Italy declared itself neutral and refused to join the war on the side of Austria-Hungary and Germany. Italy explained its decision by the fact that articles II and III of the alliance treaty did not make sense in that situation: Austria-Hungary was waging an offensive war, not a defensive one.

Despite the neutrality officially declared by Italy, militaristic tendencies quickly gained popularity in the country and grew into movements which called for war, but on the side of the Entente. These movements were led by the Tyrolean socialist from Trento, Cesare Battisti, and the Italian playwright Gabriele d’Annunzio. A number of Italian deputies, as well as Alcide de Gasperi, doctor of philology and a native of Trento, considered that the country didn’t need to enter the war, and that it was better to continue to maintain neutrality.

Germany suggested that Austria-Hungary should hand over to Italy the territories inhabited by Italians. It was assumed that this would stop the Italian supporters of the war on the side of the Entente. The vote on that issue in the Italian parliament showed an unexpected and discouraging result: 320 deputies were for neutrality, and 508 were for joining the war. On May 23, 1915, the Italian ambassador in Vienna declared war. A week earlier, Italy had joined the Entente Powers (Russia, Britain and France) and took on the obligation to enter the war against Austria-Hungary in exchange for the territories of Trentino, South Tyrol, Trieste, Istria and part of Dalmatia. The position of Austria in relation to its former ally would be expressed by Kaiser Franz Joseph I, who, addressing his people, would say that this was “a breach of fidelity unknown in history”.

Cesare Giuseppe Battisti, born in Trento into the family of a wealthy Tyrolean merchant and an Italian countess of the ancient family of Fogolari, was happy that the war started. Since his childhood, he had been dreaming of liberating his land from slavery and the status of a Habsburg province.

As early as in 1847, the idea of the national unification of Italy and the liberation of its territories from the “Austrian yoke” began to gain momentum. The Austrian bureaucracy, of course, did not share this idea, and expressed strong confidence in its right to dominate over the Italian regions. The Austrian statesman, diplomat and prince von Metternich referred to the Italians who lived outside their own country, on the Austrian territory, not as a nation, but as a “geographical concept”. What Metternich said did not contradict the official position of Austria-Hungary with regard to the Italian population living in Austria, and the “Tyrolean Italians”, who lived in Trentino in large numbers, were offended by this attitude. As a result, in 1878, Menotti Garibaldi founded the Italian irredentist movement, which advocated the accession to the Italian Kingdom of the territories bordering Austria-Hungary and inhabited by Italians: Trentino, Trieste, and others. The term irredenta was used to denote a part of an ethnos constituting a minority within the state, but living compactly in close proximity to a state in which people of the same ethnos constituted the majority.

The fact that the irredentist movement arose among the Italians who were actually trapped on the territory of the neighboring state is not surprising. The patriotism of the “Tyrolean Italians” was dual: besides the sense of their “small homeland” and their own land (Trentino), they also had a very strong sense of their historical homeland, that is, Italy. On October 24, 1911, Cesare Battisti appealed with passion to the common sense of the parliament members: “This monarchy cannot control itself, to say nothing about its territories! Just take a look at what’s happening with its government, if this helpless gang of embezzlers can still be called a government! They are failing to approve their own budget for the second year! Why do we, Italians, have to hold this country that has been ruined long ago on our shoulders? They consider us to be their slaves and demand loyalty – is this not the greatest absurdity in the world?” The Italian mentality, not prone to assimilation, made the problem of “Tyrolean Italians” practically impossible to solve in any other way except war.

Cesare Battisti died on the scaffold, caught by the Austrian army and executed as a traitor. The last thing he saw before his death was the sky of his beloved Trento, which at that time was still remaining in the grip of Austria-Hungary.

The death of the national hero became a call to fight for other Italians. They fought for Trento with extraordinary fervour, fought to the last drop of their blood. They composed poems about Battisti, embroidered his portraits on banners, went to the battle to the sounds of the march “La leggenda dei Piave”, dedicated to Battisti.

The Entente kept its promises: Trentino, South Tyrol and other lands specified in the agreement became Italian. The biography of Alcide de Gasperi, like the biographies of many other “Tyrolean Italians”, would state: born in Austria-Hungary, died in Italy.

Cesare Battisti was not the only Italian national hero executed by the Austrians to be immortalized in the triumphal arch of the Victory Monument. The busts of two other people occupy another niche of the monument: the 35-year-old lawyer Fabio Filzi and the 22-year-old engineer-technician Damiano Chiesa (both sculptures were made by Adolfo Wildt). All the three of them were natives of Trentino and officers of the alpini detachments.

The project of the Victory Monument in Bolzano (Bozen) was implemented by one of the key architects of the Fascist era, Marcello Piacentini. The sculpture on the tympanum of the monument, above the ominous inscription about the borders from which the “others” were to be taught “language, laws and culture”, was made by Arturo Dazzi. It is called Vittoria Saggitaria, “Victory with an arrow”. On the back of the arch, there are three sculptural medallions: “New Italy”, “Air” and “Fire”. The inscription in Latin under the medallions says the following: “In honour and in memory of people of incredible courage, who, fighting in legal wars, resolutely won their homeland back with their own blood. All Italians donated money for this.” An irrefutable proof of the fact that the Victory Monument belonged to the Fascist era was a direct written reference to it on the south side of the monument. However, that inscription – “Benito Mussolini, Il Duce of Italy, the 6th year (of the Fascist era)” – was removed after 1945.

A surprising number of talented people worked on the implementation of the triumphal arch in Bolzano (Bozen) and on its details. For example, there is a sculpture of Christ the Redeemer by Libero Andreotti in the centre of the monument. The risen Christ ascends the granite altar calmly and solemnly. The statue produces an impression of calm and peace, not characteristic of other monumental works of the Italian master. Christ the Redeemer by Andreotti is one of the rare examples of truly sacred modern sculpture, and it seems paradoxical that it should be combined with the monument of the Fascist era.

The triumphal arch of the national martyrs was surrounded with a high fence almost immediately after its opening. Nevertheless, over the course of the 20th and 21st centuries, many things happened around it: protests, demonstrations, referendums, hanging memorial plaques, clashes between Germans and Italians, between the right and the left. It was repeatedly suggested that the Victory Monument should be demolished because it incites ethnic strife. In 1977, a union of several South Tyrolean parties submitted a bill in which they asked to consider the possibility of demolishing not only the Victory Monument in Bolzano (Bozen), but also all the buildings in the city which praise fascism. The bill, however, didn’t receive much support.

In 2001, Bolzano (Bozen) city council decided to change the name of the square in front of the monument from Victory Square to Peace Square, but in October 2002 it was renamed back. The results of the referendum showed that the German-speaking population voted unanimously for renaming the square, while the Italian-speaking population voted against. Once again, the Italians missed the opportunity to show their openness to the German-speaking residents of South Tyrol by giving up the idea of “victory” over their region – at least in the name of the square. We must, however, give credit to the city council, which attempted to put the inscription Già della Pace (“Already of Peace”) under the new sign of Piazza della Vittoria (Victory Square).

In 2004, information panels were installed approximately 50 metres from the Victory Monument; they contained the following text about the significance of Bolzano (Bozen) triumphal arch, written in four languages (Italian, German, Ladin and English): “Italy’s Fascist regime erected this monument to celebrate victory in the First World War, an event which brought the division of Tyrol and the separation of the population of South Tyrol from Austria, their mother country. The City of Bolzano, a free, modern and democratic town, condemns the discrimination and divisions of the past, as well as any form of nationalism, and pledges its commitment to promoting a culture of fraternity and peace in the true European Spirit”.

Installation of information panels next to the Victory Monument or on the monument itself was prohibited by decree of the Ministry of Culture following mass protests of the Italian right-wing parties.

On July 21, 2014, a permanent exhibition called BZ’18–45. One Monument, One City, Two Dictatorships was opened in the crypt and in other underground spaces beneath the triumphal arch in Bolzano (Bozen). The Victory Monument ceased to be inaccessible and frightening; now it was “speaking” about its own history, about the new Bolzano (Bozen), about past and present relations between language groups in the city. Numerous attempts to destroy the Victory Monument or to “weaken” it by depriving it of its historical significance would have had less effect than this exhibition. Trying to destroy or distort the past is a weakness. The power is in studying it, in understanding and transferring knowledge about it to next generations, so that they have the opportunity to become better than their predecessors. South Tyroleans were wise enough to clearly define their own position – that of commitment to peace and democracy – and to arrange a permanent exhibition under the Victory Monument.

The walls of one of the underground rooms, besides quotations from Cicero and Horace about fame and sacrifice to the fatherland, bear laser-projected quotes by Hannah Arendt (“No one has the right to obey”), Bertolt Brecht (“Unhappy those peoples who need heroes”), and Thomas Paine (“The duty of a patriot is to protect his country from its government”). One might say that the quotations have been taken out of the context, but the main principle – not to destroy, but to add – was chosen quite correctly. The quotations, superimposing the still phrases from the past, which can still be clearly seen, show explicitly that you need to know your history, no matter how painful it is, but you also need to be able to re-examine it, so that horrible mistakes should not be repeated in future.

The exhibition in the limited space under the Victory Monument tells and shows the history of the region with all the happiness and sorrow of its people, who fought for themselves and for their traditions; it highlights the process of building the “new Bolzano”, the relationship of the Fascist regime with art and culture in general, the rise of Hitler’s power and the illegal national socialist movement in South Tyrol, the history of the Victory Monument and the history of other political and ideological monuments, as well as the fate of the architect Marcello Piacentini.

The Victory Monument in Bolzano (Bozen) became a crucial point in the life of South Tyrol. This monument has a strange fate. With surprising unanimity, both Italian nationalists and peace-loving left-wing German-speaking residents defended it from demolition and destruction. With no less unanimity, the nationalist representatives of the German-speaking community and the Italians who opposed fascism wanted to wipe it off the face of the earth. Ironically, sometimes the Victory Monument would, quite on the contrary, unite people who believed that they were on opposite sides.

On the plaque indicating in large letters the name of Piazza della Vittoria (Victory Square), there was a modest postscript Già della Pace (“Already of Peace”) in very small letters, but South Tyroleans afterwards placed the postscript in almost imperceptible brackets. Establishing peace is not as easy as one might wish, but it can still be achieved – through acting step by step, persistently, politely and very intelligently. In order to be able to say, to write, to proudly declare: “Already peace”. And to put a full stop after that phrase, rather than the eternal question mark.

Chapter Nine.
No One Has the Right to Obey

When the German writer, philosopher and social activist of Jewish descent Hannah Arendt published her book Eichmann in Jerusalem: A Report on the Banality of Evil, most Israeli friends broke off relations with her, failing to appreciate her view of the events of the past. Arendt’s bold work was severely criticized, and the writer herself was boycotted in Israel for more than 30 years. At the heart of the plot of Eichmann in Jerusalem: A Report on the Banality of Evil was the 1961 Jerusalem trial of Adolf Eichmann, a former S.S. Lieutenant Colonel, head of Gestapo Department IV B4; inter alia, it was responsible for the “final solution of the Jewish question”, which meant mass extermination of the Jewish population of Europe. Arendt was present at the trial as New York Times correspondent. In the book, written based on the results of the trial, the writer analyzed the events she had witnessed and gave them a third-party assessment.

Adolf Eichmann, judging by Arendt’s book, was a déclassé son of a solid middle-class family, a normal person, without mental disorders, surprisingly not distinguished by fanatical anti-Semitic views or a commitment to any kind of doctrine. Both the psychiatrists and the priest who had talked to Eichmann unanimously recognized him to be absolutely reasonable and, moreover, even a person with “very positive ideas”. Hannah Arendt, describing Eichmann, noted that “the deeds were monstrous, but the doer – at least the very effective one now on trial – was quite ordinary, commonplace, and neither demonic nor monstrous”.

Eichmann himself, during the police interrogation, described himself as an “idealist”, meaning by this the degree of his readiness to obey orders, to sacrifice everything and everyone for his cause. He did not admit his personal involvement in the systematic extermination of the Jews, and repeatedly said that the only thing he could be accused of was “aiding and abetting” their destruction. Eichmann explained his actions by the desire to fulfill his duty, to obey not only the orders, but also the law. His defender, Dr. Servatius, echoed his client’s words, saying that the latter was innocent because he had not done anything illegal, simply because it was his duty to obey the laws adopted in the state at that time, as well as the orders of Hitler, which in the Third Reich were considered equivalent to laws.

Once, during the police investigation process, Adolf Eichmann declared with great vehemence that “he had lived his whole life according to Kant’s moral precepts, and especially according to a Kantian definition of duty”. He said: “I meant by my remark about Kant that the principle of my will must always be such that it can become the principle of general laws,” adding that he had read Kant’s Critique of Practical Reason. After that, judging by the records of Arendt, Eichmann “proceeded to explain that from the moment he was charged with carrying out the Final Solution he had ceased to live according to Kantian principles, that he had known it, and that he had consoled himself with the thought that he no longer ‘was master of his own deeds’, that he was unable ‘to change anything’. ” In connection with this statement, Arendt in The Banality of Evil mentions the wording of the “categorical imperative in the Third Reich” given by Hans Frank, which Adolf Eichmann could well have known: “Act in such a way that the Führer, if he knew your action, would approve it” (Die Technik des Staates, 1942, pp. 15–16).

Kant would be extremely surprised if he found out about such an interpretation of his philosophy. He, on the contrary, believed that each person, starting to act, uses his “practical reason” and becomes a legislator. Every man establishes for himself moral norms which can and even must become norms of law. The only thing which remained unchanged in Eichmann’s distorted Kantian philosophy was that a person must not only obey the law; he must go further and identify his will with the moral norm behind the law – with the source of the law itself. Hannah Arendt noted that “in Kant’s philosophy, that source was practical reason; in Eichmann’s household use of him, it was the will of the Führer”.

On November 9, 1964, in her radio interview to Joachim Fest, Arendt pronounced the phrase which immediately became famous: “According to Kant, no one has the right to obey.” Those who, committing crimes against humanity, justified themselves by their need to obey orders, had no right to such an excuse. Arendt insisted on the ethical duty of every individual to abandon unfair orders and to realize the significance of their actions. Adolf Eichmann justified his terrible actions by referring to Kant’s categorical imperative, which he completely distorted, whereas in fact the meaning of the Kantian moral doctrine was totally different. Hannah Arendt managed to get it across in a phrase that was as clear as possible: “No one has the right to obey”.

This phrase can be seen twice in the capital of South Tyrol, Bolzano (Bozen): in the museum under the triumphal arch – the Victory Monument – and on the facade of the former headquarters of the Fascist party. On the facade of the latter, the phrase, written in letters that glow in the evening, is superimposed over the bas-relief covering an area of 198 square metres – by far the largest work devoted to “Il Duce” Benito Mussolini and the Fascist era to still have been preserved in a public space.

The bas-relief was made by a South Tyrolean sculptor, Hans Piffrader, in the period from 1939 to 1942, to decorate the building of Palazzo degli Uffici Finanziari, which had formerly been called Casa Littoria and had been the headquarters of the Fascist organization in Bolzano (Bozen). The architects of the former headquarters of the Fascist organization were Guido Pelizzari, Francesco Rossi and Luis Plattner. This building was part of a general architectural project in the square named after Arnaldo Mussolini (brother of Benito Mussolini), which is today called Court Square (Piazza Tribunale). Piazza Arnaldo Mussolini was to become the central part of the plan of “new” Bolzano, developed by the Fascist regime in 1933–1934. Opposite the former headquarters of the Fascist organization, a courthouse was built by the design of architects Paolo Rossi de Paoli and Michele Busiri Vici. The two buildings formed the space of the square. Initially, the architectural ensemble was to include a 32-metre-high Torre Littoria, but the project of the tower was never implemented.

A few metres from the Court Square, next to the Dominican monastery, they built the church of Cristo Re (Christ the King). This work was created by the architect Guido Palmer in 1938–1939. Immediately after the Second World War, a bell tower was added to the church.

Thus, political, legal and religious forces were concentrated in one place, the “heart” of the new Bolzano (Bozen). The perfectly formed triad of the totalitarian state is still easily readable in the space of the urban fabric.

The bas-relief by Hans Piffrader is dominated by the figure of Mussolini on a horse with his right hand raised in the gesture of Roman salute. Few people remember that the sculptural image of Il Duce passed strict control of the Casa Littoria Construction Committee, and Piffrader had to repeatedly refine both the Mussolini on the horseback composition and other parts of the bas-relief. As a consequence, the work went slowly, and the last three of the 57 travertine panels were delivered to Bolzano (Bozen) about two months before the fall of the Fascist regime in Italy.

Piffrader’s bas-relief shows a brief history of the development, formation and “achievements” of the Fascist organization. Beneath the characteristic figure of Mussolini on the horseback, there is the clearly visible inscription: Il Duce’s commandment “Believe. Obey. Fight.” Next to this Fascist call, the year is stated by the Fascist calendar: ANNO XX EF, or the twentieth year of the Fascist era, 1942. Il Duce on the horse is surrounded by four allegorical figures, representatives of the Fascist university group, the Fascist national party, the organization of the national post-work rest and the union of Fascist youth.

The story on the bas-relief begins with a scene dedicated to the end of the Great War, the return of soldiers. Italy won World War I, in honour of which the gun on the bas-relief is decorated with a laurel wreath. The soldiers return to their homelands, and the first of them, the Alpine soldier, is welcomed by his wife and his two children.

The next scene of the bas-relief depicts the revolutionary fury of the “Red Biennium” period (1919–1920) – the rise of the labour movement in Italy, accompanied by a massive seizure of factories and plants by workers and by the creation of workers’ councils. The four male figures in the scene symbolize the “subversive actions” of the population in the years following World War I. One of the men, standing against the background of a burning building, is holding a torch.

The next scene of the bas-relief shows “Bolshevik violence” over the Fascist “martyrs”. Here we see a young Fascist, Giovanni Berta, dumped into the Arno River in Florence in February 1921, as well as two tied male figures who are tortured with fire, which symbolizes the sufferings of Fascists at the hands of Bolsheviks.

The origin of the Fascist movement in Italy is shown by the scene of the creation of the Italian Fasces of Combat by Mussolini in 1919, transformed in 1921 into the National Fascist Party. In the centre of this part of the bas-relief there is the figure of Il Duce with the constituent document in his hands. Mussolini is surrounded by three of his followers, who swear allegiance to the organization.

The history of the development of Italian Fascism on Piffrader’s bas-relief continues in the next scene, where Bolshevik enemies of the movement are shown again. The figures of the Nazis wounded by the Bolsheviks symbolize the former’s sacrifice in the name of their motherland. The image of the Fascist in the centre of the composition refers the viewer to another work by Piffrader – taking Jesus Christ down from the cross.

A young Fascist with a drum in the next scene of the bas-relief symbolizes the beginning of the “March on Rome” on October 28, 1922 – the prelude to the seizure of power in the country by the Fascist regime. The military phalanx in front of the young man is headed by a man who carries the banner in an aggressive manner. In the background of the sculptural composition, one can easily distinguish the Colosseum and the Seven hills of Rome.

The idea of the alleged historical continuity of Fascism is shown in the scene of the next fragment of Piffrader’s bas-relief. Two male figures are standing side by side: a Roman legionary in a fighting posture, holding a shield and a sign with the initials of the Roman Republic (S.P.Q.R – Senatus Populusque Romanus – Senate and the Roman people), and a Fascist soldier. The latter is holding Lictor’s rods – the symbol of the Fascist party after World War I, which was originally an attribute of power of the ancient Roman kings, and later, in the era of the Republic, of the highest magistrates. Behind the figure of the Fascist soldier we can see a book – a code of laws – and a sword.

In this “sculptural history of Fascism”, Piffrader perpetuated, inter alia, the conquest of Libya and Ethiopia by this organization. Libya is symbolized in the bas-relief by a male figure in a long tunic next to which we see the so-called Arch of the Philaeni (Marble Arch) – a triumphal arch that was built on the coastal road Via Balbia in the era of Italian rule in the country. This work by the architect Florestano di Fausto, inscribed with the Latin words “Alme Sol, possis nihil urbe Roma visere maius” (“Kind Sun, may you look upon nothing greater than the city of Rome”), was demolished when Gaddafi came to power in Libya.

In the centre of this scene of the bas-relief, there are two Fascists defeating two roaring lions. The first one is the lion of Judah, which allegorically personifies the emperor of Ethiopia, Haile Selassie, and the second one symbolizes Britain, vainly opposing the Italian conquest of Ethiopia.

The scene is completed by an African figure in shackles, which symbolizes the period of British colonial rule in the Mediterranean.

The visual narration of the achievements of the era of Italian Fascism continues on the bas-relief with a sculptural composition devoted to the participation of Italy in the Spanish Civil War. A tall bearded man with a cartridge belt thrown over his shoulder is an Italian legionnaire, who came to the country to fight on the side of Francoists from the Italian Fascist organization. He raises his hand as a sign that he is defending the Alcázar fortress in Toledo, which is depicted behind him. The three triangular flags in the background bear various symbols, one of which is a sign of the Spanish ultra-right political party, Falange Española (“Spanish Phalanx”), led by Francisco Franco. Next to the figure of the Italian legionnaire, we can see a woman with her head covered, who, according to Piffrader, allegorically represents the oppressed Spain. The third figure in the composition is a Spaniard in traditional clothing carrying a basket of gifts.

The last series of scenes in the bas-relief is devoted to the idyllic life during the Fascist era. The first three figures symbolize education in Fascist Italy. The young woman with classical theater masks is an allegory of art. The lady with a roll of parchment in her hand and scales in the background symbolizes science, and the third figure with swimmers behind her back symbolizes sport.

The agricultural riches of Fascist Italy are glorified by the following three figures of the bas-relief: women carrying grapes, grains and fruits. Thus, Piffrader showed the abundance and the food self-sufficiency of Italy during the Fascist era.

The next scene illustrates family life in peaceful Italy. The father of the family has laid down his weapon, and his wife is standing nearby holding a child in her arms; the child is holding out an apple to his father. At some distance from them, a worker is building a new house.

Next to the worker, there is a male figure, the last one in the visual story of the bas-relief. One version is that Piffrader portrayed Mussolini in the image of the architect of New Italy holding his project in one hand; another version is that the author immortalized himself in this figure. In the background, there is an easily discernible inscription “DVX”, which stands for “Il Duce”, and at the bottom – the signature of the sculptor: “Giovanni Piffrader, 52 years old”. Hans Piffrader, a South Tyrolean, whose full name was Johann, signed his name in Italian manner – Giovanni.

In the same way as frescoes in Catholic cathedrals tell us about the life of saints, the 198 square metres of bas-relief in the centre of “New Bolzano” can tell us much, if not everything, about the era of Italian Fascism.

Arendt’s phrase “No one has the right to obey” placed over Piffrader’s bas-relief in Italian, German and Ladin, the installation specially designed by South Tyrolean artists Arnold Holzknecht and Michele Bernardi, is neither an attempt to “weaken” the monument or, whatever opponents of this decision may say, vandalism of an art object. This is, above all, an appeal to critical memory.

As to those who asked to treat the bas-relief solely as an art object, I would like to ask them a question. Do they really believe that Piffrader’s work, glorifying the era of Fascism and standing on the land affected by two dictatorships, should be considered out of context and studied exclusively as “art for art’s sake”? The bas-relief of the South Tyrolean master is not a sculptural composition devoted to peace, goodness and beauty, but a totalitarian message, containing a definite appeal to “believe, obey and fight”. Do we really need to evaluate only the talent of the sculptor who moulded these words, without thinking about their meaning?

It is good that Piffrader’s relief was not destroyed – the South Tyrolean master was a talented sculptor, and it would be a pity to see his work gone. But it is also true that the sculptural “chronicle of Fascism” has now become a clear warning to future generations about the danger of passing superficial judgements on historical events.

At the epilogue of her book Eichmann in Jerusalem: A Report on the Banality of Evil, Hannah Arendt writes that “The trouble with Eichmann was precisely that so many were like him, and that the many were neither perverted nor sadistic, that they were and still are, terribly and terrifyingly normal.” The Nazis, who disowned their actions in the courts, said that they were tormented by remorse for their actions, but they could not disobey orders. Arendt summarizes their excuses, which sound surprisingly monotonous, with a rhetorical question: “Would any one of them have suffered from a guilty conscience if they had won?” Eichmann’s trial was to become a reasonable precedent for convicting perpetrators of similar crimes in the future. First of all, because, unfortunately, it is impossible to deny the possibility that such crimes will be committed again. Hannah Arendt notes that “The reasons for this sinister potentiality are general as well as particular. It is in the very nature of things human that every act that has once made its appearance and has been recorded in the history of mankind as a potentiality long after its actuality has become a thing of the past. No punishment has ever possessed enough power of deterrence to prevent the commission of crimes. On the contrary, whatever the punishment, once a specific crime has appeared for the first time, its reappearance is more likely than its initial emergence could ever have been.”

It is difficult to deny the reasonableness of what Arendt writes. But perhaps if people manage to critically reconsider the past it will become possible to minimize the risks that she describes.

In this chapter, we repeatedly come across the name of Eichmann, a man who regularly sent other people to death. It will be only fair to write about a man who saved them from death. True, his name, as is often the case in history, is much less well known. Anton Schmidt was a sergeant of the German Army. He was in charge of an office that was supposed to return stranded German soldiers to their units. During one of such raids, he stumbled upon members of the Jewish underground and helped them by supplying them with forged papers and military trucks. He did not do it for money. For five months, Schmidt continued to provide such assistance, until he himself was arrested and executed.

In The Banality of Evil, Arendt described the reaction to Anton Schmidt’s story in the courtroom as follows: “During the few minutes it took Kovner to tell of the help that had come from a German sergeant, a hush settled over the courtroom; it was as though the crowd had spontaneously decided to observe the the usual two minutes of silence in honor of the man named Anton Schmidt. And in those two minutes, which were like a sudden burst of light in the midst of impenetrable, unfathomable darkness, a single thought stood out clearly, irrefutably, beyond question – how utterly different everything would be today in this courtroom, in Israel, in Germany, in all of Europe, and perhaps in all countries of the world, if only more such stories could have been told”.

Before being caught by the Israeli intelligence services, Adolf Eichmann was hiding in Argentina under the name of Ricardo Klement. Ironically, his fake Argentine identity card stated: “Ricardo Klement, born on May 23, 1913, at Bolzano – in Southern Tyrol.”

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Chapter Ten.
Never Again

Close your eyes and imagine that you are forbidden to speak your native language; your university degree is rendered invalid; your name and surname are forcibly changed to new ones, and the same is done with the name of the city where you were born and grew up. Your history is taken away from you, and you are offered a choice in return: to stay and give up everything which made you who you are, or to leave, becoming part of the system that is commiting a crime against humanity.

This is not an illustration to the popular idiom “between Scylla and Charybdis”; it is an absolutely real situation, in which South Tyroleans found themselves after the First World War, when, under the Saint-Germain Peace Treaty, the region was annexed to Italy. As the Fascist Italy joined forces with the Nazi Germany, the inhabitants of Südtirol were offered a choice: either to stay in Italy and undergo total Italianization, or to join the Third Reich. There was even a memorandum drafted on the expediency of relocating South Tyrolean Germans to the Crimea, approved by Hitler. The latter emphasized that “…the Crimea will be both climatically and geographically ideal for the South Tyrolese, and in comparison with their present settlements it will be a real land of milk and honey. Their transfer to the Crimea presents neither physical nor psychological difficulty”.

The fate of the people was decided behind their backs.

When Angela Nikoletti was 13, she for the first time saw fascists burning Tyrolean flags and destroying historical paintings in her own house. She was a South Tyrolean girl who dreamed of becoming a teacher in the future. Later, in 1922, Angela left to get pedagogical training in Zams, in the Austrian Tyrol, but she managed to finish her studies only after a year’s break: she was denied the permission to leave the country because of the accidentally dropped piece of paper with a poem about Tyrol which she had written; the poem got in the wrong hands.

In 1923, a reform came into force in South Tyrol according to which, beginning with the new school year, only the Italian language was to be taught at first grades of all schools in the region. In essence, this meant complete elimination of German schools. Subsequent laws systematically excluded the teaching of German as an additional language, including in the form of private lessons.

Having refused a safer job offered by one of the families living in Bolzano (Bozen), Angela Nikoletti every day secretly taught 30 children their native language at her place. The girl knew that she, like several other people who were teaching secretly at similar “home schools”, was acting illegally, but she still continued doing it, wishing to keep the German language and culture alive in the region. In the end, her activity was discovered, and the young teacher was put in prison, where she contracted tuberculosis. At the age of 25, Angela Nikoletti died after spending the last years of her life in bed.