The train is packed; a thousandsquadristi are on their way to Rome. Thesquadristi are the Fascistsdella prima ora, those who belonged to the first squads of 1919. They are going home to celebrate the 20th Anniversary of the foundation of theFasci and to hear the Duce’s speech tomorrow.
The six in our carriage are all middle-aged men – stoutish, with their black shirts bulging at the waist; their boots, too, have an air of being too tight for them. From their conversation we realize that they are businessmen, and from the North: three Veneti, two Milanesi and a Romagnolo. One of them has a bicycle factory; one (the Romagnolo), is at the head of some cooperative stores. Now and again acquaintances in the corridor catch sight of them and come in to join them (apologizing politely for treading on my toes). The atmosphere is that of a college reunion – embraces, chaff, personal remarks; a hearty, a wholly masculine world. Is the heartiness a little forced? After a while there is silence; our companions take up their papers. The front page is wholly given up to themselves – “our glorioussquadristi…”. They put the papers down again. One of them – an elderly, grey-haired Venetian – shrugs his shoulders. “Well, we’ll know something more tomorrow. I don’t care what anyone else says. Tomorrow we’ll know whatHe says –il Capo!” I look across at him – a quiet, sensible, placid family man; there is no mistaking the genuine fervour of his tone. Everyone in the carriage agrees: “It isn’t only what hesays – it’s the whole construction behind it! In these twenty years – look where we’ve got to! I remember in 1919….” and the reminiscences begin again.
Well, he has spoken. These same middle-agedpadri di famiglia have shouted “No, no!” when asked whether they want “Honours? Rewards? Or an easier life?” They have accepted the axiom that “perpetual peace would be a catastrophe for human civilization” and the order to arm “at whatever cost, by whatever means, even if it should mean atabula rasa of all that is meant by civilized life.”
The applause, however, is definitely less intense than on previous occasions. It is a cold, wet day, and many of thesquadristi have slept in tents at the Parioli; but there is also another chill in the air: the universal distaste for Germany as an ally. The part of the speech received with the least applause is that which reaffirms the solidity of the Axis, but afterwards the prevailing comment is: “What else could he say? It’s England and France who have forced us into this position.” There is considerable relief, however, at the loophole still left for negotiation with France.
Later in the day we walk about town. Everywhere the pavements are crowded withsquadristi; they are walking up and down theCorso in parties of four or five, arm in arm. They are sitting at the cafés, they are flinging halfpennies (to ensure their return) into the Fontana di Trevi. They look – except for their shirts – good-natured, friendly and peace-loving. About 80% of them belong unmistakably to the working-class; the others look like small tradesmen or employees. Impossible not to like them; impossible too not to feel that Fascism was, in its beginnings, a genuine revolutionary movement of the people. Easy to see how they have been worked up to