Dario Fo - My First Seven Years (Plus a Few More)

‘You’re a disgrace!’ exclaimed the paratroopers’ medic. ‘OK, the final debacle is at hand, but derelicts of this sort have never crossed my path before.’ End of the comic film. The grotesque, with sniggers, was about to begin.

‘Sorry, boys, I didn’t want to mortify you, but stand in front of that mirror.’ He pointed to a big, opaque sheet of glass which still contained the remnants of the decor of a piece of antique furniture: our reflections appeared as though reproduced through a cloud of steam. We did not make an edifying spectacle. ‘Where have you come from?’ As he spoke, he was leafing through the documents the sergeant had handed him.

‘We’re from the barracks at Monza, well, first we were at Mestre,’ we started, breaking in to give each other a hand. ‘We got caught up in a blitz, we ended up eating like dogs and both of us caught dysentery. Twice we came close to being dispatched to Germany … in four months we lost as much weight as if they had given us three tapeworms and oysters to swallow every day!’

The medical officer laughed: ‘Well, at least you’ve not lost your sense of humour. Put your underpants, trousers and all the rest back on. You can go, there’s no point in going on with the examination. You are not suitable.’

‘What!’ we stuttered.

‘I’m sorry. I like you but you are too thin and underweight. This is a heavy course. It would knock out even an athlete from the Gallarate Sports Club.’

‘But we used to go to the Gallarate Sports Club!’

‘You? Are you making a fool of me?’

‘Not at all. Until a couple of weeks ago, we were training with Missoni in the four hundred metres. We’ve raced with Siddi and Paternini.’ The medical officer whispered into his assistant’s ear something which sent him speeding out of the room. Then he got to his feet and came over to us, and almost mockingly felt our biceps, pectoral muscles, calves and buttocks.

‘Yes, well, not too bad as regards toning, enough to make Volta’s breast-stroke squad envious. To get you into minimum shape, you’d need to undergo fattening-up therapy, maybe with force-feeding through a tube, the way they do with the paté de foie gras geese. But we’ll soon see if you’re a couple of chancers or champions down on their luck!’

There was a knock at the door, and a muscular youth in shorts came in: ‘Here I am!’

‘Let me introduce you to the high-jump champion from the Gallarate Sports Club. Sergeant, cast you eye over these two. You recognise them?’

I try to turn towards the newcomer. They stop me. ‘No, who are they?’

The medical officer points his finger at us: ‘Enough of this shit, pair of bloody shysters!’ The assistant is about to take us out, when I shout out: ‘Enrico! Bloody hell, do you really not recognise me? It’s Dario, from Porto Valtravaglia … four hundred metres sprint.’

Enrico is thrown for a moment, he looks at us with a little more attention. Then he points to my comrade in misfortune: ‘And you’re Bianchi. Yes, now I remember. My God, you’re all skin and bone. What’s happened to you?’

‘All right, all right,’ the medical officer cuts us short. ‘Keep the hugs and pleasantries for a later date. Get your kit off once again, you two, and we’ll complete the examination.’ End of Round 1.

Now it is time for the grand finale: test of courage and aptitude. They escorted us over to a field behind the castle where there stood a large, iron trellis-work tower, over fifteen metres high.

‘Come on,’ Enrico Ferri encouraged us, ‘climb up.’

‘Right up to the top?’ we asked, our hearts in our mouths.

‘That’s right, then you’ve got to jump off.’

‘Onto a safety net, I hope.’

‘No, using a brake rope.’

‘What’s that?’

‘The corporal on the platform at the top will explain everything.’

‘Could we not have a little hint?’

‘Shut up and get climbing.’

‘How do you get up? Where’s the ladder?’

‘There is no ladder, only alternating grips in the main column. Look, it’s easy, all you have to do is take hold of them one after the other and place your feet on the ones lower down. It’s all a question of rhythm and arm strength.’

Off we go. We are already a few metres off the ground.

‘The main thing,’ Enrico Ferri shouted up to us, ‘is to stay calm and relaxed as you get higher, and never look down, especially if you’re prone to giddiness. Everything’d go haywire, and you’d plunge straight down.’

I take deep breaths, hold on, support myself on one leg … then pull up the other one. I clench my teeth, stretch out one arm and cling on. I’m at the seven-metre point: I feel numb, as though it were the first time I’d done any climbing. But for God’s bloody sake, this is the same person who as a boy had gone hurtling down a mountainside hanging on to a cable wire, the same one who had plunged into the water from high up a cliffside! Yes, OK, but that was fool’s courage! Now that I’ve reached the age of reason, I’m shitting myself with terror! Come on, another five metres, another seven grips, four, three, two … made it. Here I am on the platform. The corporal instructor drags me to my feet. I’m soaking with sweat. Bianchi makes it as well, as white as a sheet.

‘Get your breath back, but move your arms about,’ advises the instructor, ‘and do some half-turns with your chest, otherwise you’ll catch a chill. That’s the idea, keep going. Meanwhile I’ll tell you what’s going to happen. Look up, and above your heads you’ll see a pulley.’ And he showed us a long pipe rotating on an iron axle. ‘There’s a rope tied around the pulley, with the other end attached to these harnesses which I’m going to ask you to put on, obviously one each. Be careful, the rotator is fixed onto one extremity of the axle. Take note: it’s good and big, with four blades which rotate as they are pulled by the cable and dragged by your weight in descent, and so they brake the speed of the fall. You understand how it works?’

‘And we’ve got to jump off just like that? Without a trial?’

‘Exactly. This is the trial.’

‘But is there anyone who’s going to show us what to do … how it works?’

‘No, that’s why this is called the courage and aptitude test. If you are not up to it, it means that you’re not suited for this discipline.’

In a flash, I saw the German guards sneering as they welcomed us back, arms outstretched. ‘OK, I’ll jump.’

The corporal checked the attachments of my harness. ‘Right, you’re all ready!’ he said as he took me over to the edge of the platform. ‘You’ve got to let yourself topple forward with your whole body almost rigid, then once you’ve jumped, open out your arms and hold your head up. When you’re about to hit the ground, make your leg muscles go taut and bend your knees slightly. The moment you feel the impact, react as though you were about to jump up in the air. That’s all there is to it. Take a deep breath and away you go!’ A dozen or so recruits who had done the jump had gathered at the foot. They shouted with one voice: ‘Don’t be afraid! The fall velocity is only thirty kilometres an hour!’ Then one of them with a baritone voice chimed in with the final message: ‘I warn you, if your legs fold up like an accordion, you’re done for! They don’t take on dwarves here!’

General guffaw and I let myself fall forward as per the handbook. There was not even time to draw breath before I hit the ground. God, what a bump! I reacted awkwardly on landing, and nearly ended up on my back. They removed my harness. Marco came down as well. God help us, he came down at lightning speed, but he managed the final leap upwards better than me. We both received hefty slaps on the back from the medical officer. ‘Well done, you’ve made it, you’re enrolled!’ Another flashback: the German guards reappear, this time cursing and swearing in disappointment.