It was September 9^th, 1943 when the King came to our house and stayed for a day and a night with a few generals and ministers. Months earlier, the American and British troops had landed on the Southern shores of Italy, in Sicily, tearing this wonderful country of mine in two. Mussolini’s fall had been a fact within days, and Marshal Badoglio took his place at the government. I had heard of these events on the wireless, leaning against the doorstep to the living room and listening in as my family gathered around the radio, thinking I was in bed. Everyone seemed to be upset with our King, His Majesty Vittorio Emanuele III, who didn’t have the resolution to revoke the martial and racial laws promoted by Mussolini during his reign. Fascism was falling apart but Italians and Germans were still fighting the Allies invading our country, and Jews were still discriminated, and pretty much everything had stayed the same.

My name is Matilda, and I had turned thirteen a couple of weeks before the event that would change our lives forever. On September 8^th, Marshal Pietro Badoglio announced on the radio that Italy was a liberated country, and basically edged Italians to defy the Germans and join the Allies in their battle against the Nazis and Hitler. I didn’t understand what this meant, but it sure didn’t sound good to me, because there were German soldiers everywhere, and I thought they would be angry. Little did I know how much I was right: that was going to be the start of a long series of repercussions, slaughters and murders perpetrated by the Wehrmacht against Italian civilians, as an act of revenge.

That very afternoon I asked my mother what was going on, but she said I was too little to understand and to just focus on my studies. I insisted, and I must’ve got impertinent, because I remember she gave me quite a spanking before letting me up. She was nervous and angry, as were my uncles and aunts, and my cousins, and the maids and butlers in our manor. All the adults seemed to understand everything while I, the baby of the house, didn’t. That was really annoying.

But then something drastic happened, something that not even my mother’s strict discipline could keep hidden from me.

We were an upper-class family, the core of Italian aristocracy in the 40s. Our manor was in the forest between Chieti and Pescara, two cities near the Adriatic Sea facing Yugoslavia. Our contact with the war that was tearing Europe apart was limited to what we heard on the radio and read on newspapers that my old uncle Mario bought in Pescara from time to time. German soldiers would inspect our house on a monthly basis to make sure we weren’t hosting any Jews or something, I don’t know, but I remember these tall, handsome guys with arrogant smirks on their faces trying to catch my eye whenever they got the chance. But apart from those little events, we managed to keep the war itself off our lives.

So, you’ll understand what huge surprise it was to me when Vittorio Emanuele III himself showed up at our house, in the early morning of September 9^th. Once again, no-one would tell me anything, but there was no hiding the truth from me or anyone else, and on my mother’s crestfallen face I could read the horror and the shame of what was going on. Rumours spread among the servants that the King was escaping, getting away from Rome and trying to reach the Adriatic, where he would embark and leave the country to its frightful destiny. I was little more than a child, but I remember that day he stayed there like it was yesterday.

The King arrived in the early morning, with his generals, part of the government, Marshal Badoglio himself and a few supporting troops. They came on large, long black cars that took all of our front yard to be parked. Armed guards started patrolling the gardens and lock the gates, and I overheard people conversing about how vital it was to keep the Germans out until the King was safe. I suddenly realised we were in danger too, and I understood that as long as the King would stay there, we would be a target. But that was not what was pestering me the most; the thought which just kept revelling around in my mind was... “why is he running like a coward while the Nation needs his lead?”

I grew up with a strong sense of right and wrong, and a strong sense of patriotism as well. To this day, I admit they had been spanked into me rather than been taught, but back then, it made little difference. I might have been only thirteen, but I grasped the sense and importance of discipline early on in my life. So you will understand how such a thing affected me. I was born and raised when Fascism ruled this country, but one of the advantages of belonging to aristocracy was being able to stay out of certain political fights. On the outside, we were a pure, non-dangerous “Fascist Patriot Family”, but both of my parents – when dad was still alive – kept telling me how I was an Italian, more than a Fascist. I was taught to love my country for what it was, worship the flag and value Monarchy over everything. Yes, even over Mussolini.

The symbol of my childhood was the King, my role model, the one I believed could solve everything and make it alright. That old, handsome man with white hair and big white moustache represented on money bills, stamps and posters, was now there in my house, and he was being a coward. I couldn’t stand the thought, it was making me sick to my stomach. I wanted to yell and scream it out that he had to go back and fight, because now the Germans were against us and they would kill us and... oh, I was not sure of what I thought, but I didn’t like the fact that he was escaping in the first place.

So, later that morning on September 9^th, my mother came to my room and finally decided to tell me something. She said the King was travelling to attend important business in Pescara, and that it had to do with Marshal Badoglio’s message on the radio that we all heard the night before. She said it was most important for us not to disturb the King and let him rest, because he would leave as soon as possible, perhaps that very evening, and that for no reason at all I was to approach him and try to talk to him. She must’ve added this last part because she knew what huge admiration I felt towards him.

Being the stubborn girl I was, I argued with my mother, and she scolded me, ordering me to just do as she said and shut up, but I wouldn’t let it go, and after she slapped my face in anger, I ended up yet again across her lap, with my skirt raised and my knickers taken down for a brief but hard spanking with her hand. As I stood and straightened my clothes, trying not to cry, she told me I would get much, much worse if I disobeyed, and confined me to the North wing of the house until further notice.

As soon as she left the room, I threw myself down on the bed and cried in the pillow, rubbing my sore bottom and whining about the unfairness of it all. I must have fallen asleep, because when I woke up I could hear the smell of flour coming from the kitchen, which meant the bread for dinner was being prepared, and hence it was somewhere around noon. Rubbing my eyes, and my still smarting bottom too, I approached the window and peeked past the lace curtains. An army car was speeding on the path leading to our yard, six or seven soldiers on it. As soon as they parked by the front gate, I saw people rushing out of the house to meet them. One soldier was wounded, and was screaming bloody murder. I didn’t want to watch that.

Exiting my room, I ran upstairs to meet Carlo, who was the butler’s son and always informed about everything. It was rumoured that he had a relationship going on with Maria Antonietta, my mother’s 22-year-old niece. It was of course strictly forbidden, but it was fun to spy on them when they would hide away and exchange kisses and stuff among the bushes, or flattened against a wall at night. Carlo lived in a very small, wooden flat upstairs, like most servants, and as I heard noises coming, I figured he must have been there. Imagine my surprise when I did see him... trousers down and moving rhythmically against Maria Antonietta as she laid on the floor half naked.

I clasped my hands on my mouth in surprise, and my cousin gave a high-pitched shriek when she saw me.

“Oh Matilda! Che cazzo fai qui??” Carlo yelled, and his words are better not be translated for the non Italian speaking.

“I... I’m sorry, I...” I stuttered.

“Please miss!” he said as he re-arranged his pants and got up. “Don’t tell on us... you won’t, will you?” he smiled nervously.

I shook my head. “N-no, don’t worry...” I whispered. That seemed to be enough for him, because after giving a quick smile to Maria Antonietta, he darted out of the room and dashed downstairs.

My cousin, meanwhile, was giggling and shaking her head. She too re-arranged her petticoats and smoothed her dress back over her beautiful legs. “Ah, Matilda... you have awful timing, you know?”

“I’m sorry,” I repeated, really ashamed. I must have been blushing like crazy.

“And awful tact. I heard mamma whip you this morning.” I nodded in silence, looking at my shoes. “What was it?”

“That I... that I wouldn’t stop asking about the King, I guess. I don’t know. She hits you when she’s angry.”

Maria Antonietta gave a big sigh and walked to me, enclosing me in a hug and giving a mild slap to my still sore bottom for emphasis. “Yes she does, but you need to watch your manners, young lady. This tomboy attitude of yours is only giving you a hard time around here. I thought you’d understood this by now.”

I nodded and sighed, hugging her back. There was never hasty reprimand in her words, only gentle advice. She was such a beautiful, smart young woman, wise beyond her years, and everyone in my family praised her. I secretly wished that she was my mother, though I dared not voice such a thought, of course.

“Well, you want to know about the King?” she asked.

My eyes brightened up as I broke the hug and nodded eagerly. “Why, what do you know?”

“Oh, I know everything,” she said in a calm voice as she sat down on Carlo’s bed and patted her lap. I sat on it, wincing just a little, smelling her hair which bore a mixture of her rose-scented cologne and the typical smell of horses from the stables – something from her young lover, indeed. “They let me in the living room when they talk, you know.”

Again I nodded. “So? What’s he doing here?”

“He’s escaping. Leaving Rome with the government.”

I felt my heart drop as my suspicions were confirmed, and for a moment I hated him more than anything.

“But why?...”

“I don’t know, Matilda, I really don’t know. No-one does,” she said in a heavy, resigned tone. “The Savoia household is in decline anyway. He didn’t have the strength to stop Mussolini to come to power in the first place, and that was twenty years ago... how can we expect him to face his responsibilities now?”

“But Mussolini is imprisoned now,” I stated.

“Do you think that makes any difference at all? We’ve been allied with the Germans for years, they are here, they are everywhere, and now Badoglio says on the radio that we need to stand up and fight them because the Americans have come to free us. Sounds right to me, but how do you think the Germans will react? They’ll kill us all. They’ll feel vengeful and will want to unleash that anger on someone, and it’s going to be us, Matilda. The Führer lost his puppy dog Italy and his soldiers aren’t going to be happy about it.”

“Yes I kinda figured this but why can’t the King just face it and stay?... our troops are going to need a thinking head!”

She sighed again, and shrugged. “Because he’s old, and weak. In these months, he didn’t even have the courage to change the laws Mussolini made... how do you think he’d have the courage to face the Germans and repel them? No, he’s a wimp. He prefers going away and letting the people of Italy deal with that, and mark my words, Matilda: many of us are going to die because of Badoglio’s words, and even more of us are going to die because of the King’s defiance. A Nation needs a leader, and ours’ is trying to get away.”

I don’t really know why, but I started to cry, right there and then. I hugged Maria Antonietta tight and sobbed like a child on her still half bare chest. That was really what I had feared, and which was now being confirmed by someone who knew all about it, and I was scared.

“Shh, easy kid, easy, I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry,” she whispered as she rubbed my back, then stood me up. “But you’re thirteen and a woman now, you deserve to know the truth. I don’t agree with Aunt’s decision to keep this all hidden from you, but... well, I am not your mother,” she concluded with another sigh, and before I could say anything, she had gathered the last of her clothes and left the butler’s son’s room.

I stayed there a bit longer, taking another peek out of the window and seeing nothing but trees, and the beautiful, thick foliage surrounding our manor. I couldn’t believe that such a wonderful place like my country might have become the theatre of yet another war. I was scared, and didn’t understand, but most of all I was angry, because a King should stay with his people rather than fleeing like a coward.

And then a sudden realisation struck me. I had been told to stay within the boundaries of the North wing... well... even in my little 13-year-old mind, that probably meant the King was staying in the South wing. That made sense, also because we had spare bedrooms in there. And I also suddenly remembered Giuseppina, the chief maid, barking an order to one of her girls about taking new bed sheets to the Carlo Alberto hall. That was my Dad’s private bedroom when he was still alive, the largest in the whole house, and I wondered why the heck making a bed there when it had been uninhabited for years. It was for the King, what else? All I needed to do was sneaking out to the South wing and reach that room.

Why I wanted to do that, you might be wondering. That’s a good question. I believe I saw it as the fastest way to relieve myself of my anger, and then I just needed to let him know that his choice was wrong, that he needed to go back and reconsider. I perfectly knew I had no say and he would probably just shoo me away, but I had to try. I got the feeling that was one of the once-in-a-lifetime chances you get, and that would never present itself again.

Needless to say, I also knew I would get it long and hard by my mother if only she found me there, or knew I had been there at all. Who knows, perhaps the King himself would complain about this pestering little girl coming to disturb him when he had specifically said he wanted to be left alone. I didn’t care. I really, truly, completely didn’t care.

It took me less than five minutes to take my decision and go with it. I went back downstairs and looked around for a while, pacing the long hallways and checking for signs of activity. Things were pretty fervent in the house, as you may understand, so it was hard to go unnoticed, but I managed: I had learnt pretty much every little way to sneak around things and people, because I used to spend most of my free time with the servants’ kids rather than with my family’s and my mother’s friends’ boring company – all those girls with the names of colours... Bianca, Viola, Azzurra... so boring, them and their pretty dresses and polite talk.

In less than an hour I reached the South wing and climbed upstairs to the Carlo Alberto hall. There were guards of course, so I had to stop and wait until they would leave. After several minutes, they just wouldn’t move, but rather stayed there chatting, whispering about things I couldn’t hear. I was about to give up, when the solution came sudden and unexpected. A boy around my age named Roberto was climbing up the very same stairs to the upper floors, carrying hot food and beverages on a tray. He was a helper in the house, the son of a cook, and I asked where he was going.

“The King’s lunch,” he said. “Boy, I’m so excited I’ll see him!”

I swallowed, gritted my teeth and took my chance. “No you’re not... I’ll take it to him.”

“B-but...” he stuttered. “Come on, miss Matilda! It’s the only chance I’ll ever have, and...”

“I’ll give you 100 Liras,” I offered, taking the bill directly from my pocket. It was little more than small change to me, but sure meant a lot to him.

His eyes widened as he looked at it. “Miss Matilda, I... I have orders. I’ll get whipped if I don’t do as I’m asked.”

“I will whip you myself if you don’t do what *I* ask, and you know I can!” I raised my voice as much as I could without letting the soldiers hear. “And then I’m giving you more money than you’ll see in the next month. Don’t be foolish!”

I don’t know where such boldness came from, but I was resolute to achieve my goal and there was just no way I would let such a chance slip by. Fortunately, Roberto sighed and nodded his head, and handed me the tray as I let him take the bill from my hand. It might’ve been just my impression, but he looked considerably happier once he stuffed the 100 Liras into his pocket and strolled away.

Taking a deep breath, I climbed up the stairs again, carrying the heavy tray with the food, and soon came within the guards’ sight.

“Hey bellissima,” one of them addressed me, tossing away the cigarette he was smoking. I gave him a smile. “Ti prendi cura di noi o di Sua Maestà?” he said, and the other laughed. (= are you here to “take care” of us or His Majesty?)

“Sergeant Bevilacqua,” I said, reading the tag on his uniform and recognising the rank on his collar – my Dad had been a soldier, after all. “I am Matilda Angelina Franzelli, Contessina di Chieti,” I responded with my full name and title, and that seemed to work because they took those smirks off their faces and let me pass with a bow and an apology.

“Countess, why isn’t a maid taking the King his meal, by the way?” one asked, though, raising an eyebrow.

“They’re all busy,” I promptly replied. “Is His Majesty in the Carlo Alberto hall?”

“He’s on the roof, miss,” the other one said, raising his chin at the ceiling.

I nodded and headed for the hard stone stairs which would take me to the rooftop. I heard them snicker behind me and I knew they were peeking under my skirt, but I couldn’t care less. My heart was thumping wildly as I saw my objective nearing more and more. Just a few more steps... only a couple more... I swung the rusty old door to the roof open... a few steps in the warm September breeze...

... and there he was.

King Vittorio Emanuele III was standing at the edge of the roof in an erect, elegant pose, his hands folded neatly behind his back, dressed in his high uniform. He glanced at the park beneath and all around the manor, not moving, not realising I was there. I didn’t see his face from where I stood, but even just his presence was enough to intimidate me, for he was a tall and well-built man, albeit an old one.

I approached with small, trembling steps, and when I was close enough, I cleared my throat to let him know I was there. Nothing happened for a second, then he turned around and looked at me.

“I... err... I was ordered to bring your lunch, Your Highness,” I declared in the most polite tone I could gather.

The skin on the King’s face was wrinkled and his eyebrows curved in a frown, his lips tight in tension and nervousness. I had never seen a man more scarred by life’s events.

“Grazie signorina... signorina...?”
(Thank you, miss… miss…?)

He wanted to know my name. That was more I could hope for. “Matilda Angelina Franzelli, Contessina di Chieti, at your service, Sir.”

“La figlia della Contessa,” he stated, as he pointed to a chair aside him for me to place the tray upon.
(The Countess’s daughter.)

I did as asked, then nodded my head and replied: “Yes, Your Highness.”

“Capisco. La ringrazio per la sua gentilezza. Può ritirarsi.”
(I see. Thank you for your kindness. You may retire now.)

He said that with such aseptic certainty that I wondered whether he had even understood what was going on. I figured he was too absorbed in thought to even care about who I was or what I was bringing him, but still... well, I hadn’t come there to serve him lunch, but to boldly let him know what I thought. But how could I ever do that? I had been so keen on reaching the South wing that I didn’t think about how to say what I had to say, and now that I was there I didn’t have the faintest clue.

So I did nothing, just stood there like an idiot, once again looking at the back of his neck. He must have noticed, after a few minutes, that I was still there, for he turned around and again looked at me.

“C’è dell’altro, signorina?”
(Is there anything else, miss?)

My mouth opened but no sound came out of it. There was just this huge lump in my throat which wouldn’t go away.

“Your Highness, I... well, I...”

“Signorina,” he cut in, now looking straight at me. “Non conosco le abitudini del suo casato, ma generalmente, alla figlia della Contessa non s’ordina di portare il cibo, nemmeno al Re. È compito della servitù.”
(Miss, I am not aware of the habits of your household, but generally, the Countess’s daughter is not ordered to bring food, not even to the King. That is the servants’ duty, is not it.)

Swallowing hard, I had to just nod and agree. “Yes, Your Highness.”

“Dunque lei si è fatta carico di questo compito... per quale ragione?”
(Then I understand you took the burden of such task on yourself for… what reason?)

There I was, he had backed me in a corner. I didn’t know what to say, so I just came out with the truth. “It’s just that... well, I wanted to meet you, is all.”

He said nothing for a moment, then nodded, his lips still tight, and still looking down at me with narrow blue eyes.

“Non mi sorprende. Ma a sua madre non piacerebbe sapere che ha disobbedito a un ordine, suppongo.”
(I am not surprised. Your mother would be disappointed to know you disobeyed an order of hers, though.)

And all of a sudden, I knew what to say, and I knew it perfectly and without a doubt. Taking a deep breath and gathering up all of my 13-year-old courage, I nodded my head in agreement.

“Yes, Your Highness. I was punished this morning because I repeatedly asked to see you, and my mother actually promised to punish me further if I disobeyed.”

Again he just nodded. “Lei è certamente determinata, signorina. Questo le porterà molti successi nella vita.” He said that last part with a bitter note, and I knew exactly what he was thinking about.
(You are indeed very resolute, miss. That will bring to many accomplishments in your life.)

There was my chance, and I grabbed it.

“Thank you, Your Highness. I was willing to meet you despite everything, and...” I gulped. “... and I shall face the consequences for my behaviour.”

He stared at me in silence.

“I believe that it was the right thing to do for me to come here,” I continued, in a low but firm voice, as firm as my wild heartbeat would allow me, “and that however things may go, one needs to do what they know is right.”

Again, no word. His face was tight and expressionless as one’s could be.

“And that when my mother will whip me tonight, I will know I deserve it... because sometimes to do the right thing is dangerous and one risks to dirty one’s hands... but that doesn’t mean the right thing should not be done in the first place, and... and that’s all I wanted to say, I guess...”

My own voice trailed off and I looked at my shoes as the world around me became as silent as it had never been before. I could feel the King’s eyes on my short, slender figure, and I dared not say another word or look up to him. I had done what I needed to do, and said what I felt it was my right and duty to say, without being rude or inappropriate.

But when several minutes passed without a word or a move from him, I tentatively raised my head, and I was presented with the face of a dying man. His outline suddenly looked skinny, his chin was pointed and his nose thin as a line. His lips gaped open just a bit, and the look in his eyes was simply something I cannot describe. I saw a man defeated and losing every bit of resolution left in him. I saw every bit of my country’s past twenty years in that look he gave me, and I could tell he had grasped the meaning of what I had said.

It didn’t last long, though, because he soon regained his composure and looked away, even though he shifted from foot to foot, even though his hands fidgeted behind his back and he was no longer the calm, self-controlled man I had seen. Most of all, he was no longer the strong, wise figure I always thought he was.

“Vi sono cose nella vita di un uomo che lei non può capire, signorina,” he said, his voice now a hoarse whisper.
(There are things in a man’s life that you cannot understand, miss.)

It was my turn to be silent, and I was.

“Semplicemente, a certi errori non v’ha rimedio.”
(There is simply no remedy to certain mistakes.)

With that, I understood that the conversation between the King and I was over. That one sentence would change my view on life forever, even though I did not realise right there and then.

Vittorio Emanuele III turned back to contemplate the gardens of our manor, and after a few more minutes of silence, I quietly backed away and slipped back downstairs, too confused to do or say anything. I just went straight back to my bedroom and threw myself down on my bed.

I remained immersed in thoughts for hours and hours, I don’t even know how long. I didn’t get to nothing, not a morale, for everything was too blurred for me to understand. Something did happen though, because my mother had heard from the maids that they had seen me sneak back out of the South wing earlier – I must have been so shocked by the meeting with the King that I was careless and let myself be seen. And so that night she came to my room and, honest to her word, she nearly wore off one of my father’s belts on my bare bottom, yelling at me all along as I lay on the bed gripping the comforter. She whipped me until I was sobbing so hard I could barely breathe, then she must have stopped and left, but I don’t remember. Everything from that afternoon is a confused blur of images.

I just know I eventually cried myself to sleep, and slept all through the evening and night, and the following morning I was awakened by the sound of engines revving up. My bottom still ached terribly. Getting out of bed and approaching the windows, I could see a piece of the King’s uniform disappear inside a black car. Marshal Badoglio looked out of another car’s window, his face tight with anxiety. He said something to the driver. The moment later they were all gone, heading for the sea. It wasn’t even six in the morning.

The day of September 9^th, 1943 marked my life forever, and later on, as years went by, I recalled those events again and again. The bruises left from my mother’s whipping only lasted a week, but the scars in my mind and soul took much longer to heal. I’m old now, and even after half a century, I still cannot make up my mind about what happened, not entirely at least, and not the way I would want.

All I know was that I, a little girl of thirteen, did what I thought was right and got a spanking for it, and that the King of my country rode a car to Pescara and took a boat sailing on the Adriatic Sea, to never come back to Italy and letting thousands of people die by the hand of vengeful soldiers, before the Allies and our patriots in the Resistance eventually ended the slaughters and repelled the enemy.

I don’t have the strength, nor the right, to judge history. Perhaps someone else does.

– The End –