Townsend Harris High School - Crimson Gold Yearbook (Flushing, NY)

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CENTURIE AVANTI by John Ripandelli A few years ago I went to Italy to live. Although I went with the firm intention of returning to America as soon as possible, I did not know when I should see my country again. Fortunately I was able to return much sooner than I expected, so that my sojourn in that coun- try has remained fixed in my mind as a pleasant two-year lark. One of the remembrances which I have carried away with me, and which I shall probably never forget, is this little story I am going to tell. Because of my Italian parentage I was obliged to join the Fascist youth organi- zation. I remember having a hard time trying to find a uniform that would fit me, for Italians are generally of a small stature. After a great deal of trouble I finally suc- ceeded in completing my uniform which consisted of a grey-green alpine hat, a thin, black cotton shirt, grey-green flannel pants, leggings of the same material and color, and high black shoes. That same week I received a notice commanding me to appear at headquarters the following Sunday morning. Sunday morning came. It was a cold, dreary day, but that could not be given as an excuse for not appear- ing, so I started putting on my uniform as best I could. When I reached headquarters, I found the courtyard already full. The officers, who were easily discernible because of the silver or gold stripes they wore on their sleeves, were trying to arrange the boys in ranks. One saw me standing there; he hurriedly came over, told me to join the others as soon as I had left my overcoat in one of the empty rooms, and hurried away. Before long everyone was satisfied with our appearance and the Avanti, or Forward March, command was given. None of us knew where we were going. The excercise helped to keep us all warm; many in the ranks were in a happy mood and began to sing patriotic songs. Soon everyone joined in the singing. I did not know the songs, but when anyone chanced to look my way, I diligently opened and closed my mouth as if I were singing. They all sang as loudly as they could; no doubt many a late sleeper must have cursed us in his own inimitable manner that morning. After an hour ' s march our centuria (a body of one hundred men) was halted in the big square facing the railroad station; this came as a surprise, NINETY-SIX

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above the bedlam of the crowd. It ' s an orphan asylum. Poor kids! I wonder If they ' ll make it. Boy! what a story loaded with dynamite. No straight news this. But got to get the facts anyway. The reporter elbowed de- terminedly through the dense, jostling crowd. Then he fired questions at the laboring firemen who were too busy to answer, tried to pump the police, who told him to get back on the sidewalk. But finally, after hours of feverish hunting, Crawford got the details and phoned them in to the city editor. Great work, Crawford, came Nelson ' s voice. The rewrite men ' ll attend to this story. I ' ve got something else for you. Boy out in Sunnyside, Queens. Swallowed a whistle. Every time you pull his left ear the whistle blows somewhere down in his throat. It ' s a great human interest story. Cover it. We ' ll box it near the fudge column, where it ' s sure to be noticed. And so on. From Queens Crawford went to Wall Street to get copy on a savings bank that had attempted to do acrobatics with the money of its deposit- ors. From Wall Street, to the Central Park Zoo, where a monkey was annoying an elephant with uproarious results. And from there back to the office, to check in, do a bit of proofre ading on the home edition, rewrite the hash a cub had made of some small assignment, and take an emergency turn at the teletype. Then he was dismissed for the day, with a commendatory jest by the city editor. Good job, Crawford. If this keeps up we ' ll have to send you as our correspondent in the next war. Well s ' long. Goodbye, Mr. Nelson, grinned Crawford. the offer. I ' ll think it over. And thanks for And when late that night the newspaperman retired, hungry and tired, to the little Italian restaurant around the corner, the waiter, coiling spaghetti on Crawford ' s plate, asked him: Anything new in the papers today, Mr. Crawford? Johnny Crawford hitched his chair closer to the table and at- tacked the spaghetti. No, Tony, he replied absentmindedly, just the usual things. Nothing new ever happens to the newspaper busi- II ness . . . NINETY-FIVE

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for none of us had expected to leave the city that morning. Runnors started circulating, as usual, annong the ranks that we were going to Venice, which was extremely unlikely for Venice had its own Avan- guardisti, or Boy-Scouts. Meanwhile the square was filling up with more and more Avanguardisti; even the Sea-Scouts or Marinaretti had been summoned, for several squads of them, each trundling its light field cannon had just come into the square. By this time several hours had elapsed, and we, the first arrivals, were becoming restless. Although I had had some experience in standing on line (for example, when trying to buy a ticket in the lunchroom), it was hardly compar- able to this. It was tiring standing there in complete ignorance of what we were supposed to do, and of where we were going. Besides, we were all cold and stiff, for the thin shirts we were wearing afforded no protection against the keen mountain air coming from the Alps. At noon when everyone in the square had become restless and tired, the trucks containing our food rumbled up and we each received a paper bag with our lunch in it. Almost simultaneously the order to file into the station was given. Slowly the square was emptied of all the humanity it had contained a few minutes previously. Two trains were needed to take all of us to our destination. While the trains were going at full speed we found time to eat lunch, and to take pot-shots at objects standing along the embankment with the refuse. The food had warmed the vocal cords of a few budding tenors, who started singing the same songs they had sung that morning. There are only seven or eight of these songs, so they become slightly monotonous at the third or fourth hearing. When the trains finally came to a stop, the great mystery of our destination was solved. We had arrived at the historic village of Legnano, which is situated to the north-west of Milan, about seventy-five kilometers away. Without further ado, as soon as our ranks reformed, we marched, centuria by centuria, to a little square located in front of the city- hall. There we were stationed with our backs to the sidewalk, facing the street. The ranks four deep could be seen extending down the street as far as the eye could reach. As usual rumors started circulat- ing again, but none of them sounded convincing; to this day I still do not know why they brought us there. It was colder in Legnano than in Milan, because it is nearer the Alps. The hours dragged on; two hours had already elapsed since we had been stationed there, and there was no sign of the official who was to inspect us. Singing had been given up long ago because everyone was tired of hearing the same old songs. No one knew any more jokes; those who did, reminded me of the humor often heard in hiarris locker rooms, they were that bad. There was a general dampening of spirits in the ranks. It had NINETYSEVEM