The tree-covered terrain stretched far below the Italian single-car road. Above were mountains, their peaks covered by low hanging clouds. I was in the backseat of our rental car, cold from the blasting AC and dreading the summer storm supposed to hit the mountain later that afternoon. My mother, father, little sister, and I were in Northern Italy for a month, visiting my mothers relatives in the region––some in Pianorso, some in Palinago, and others in Sestola.
Montefiorino, a small Italian town, is home to the Museum of the Partisan Republic––the reason for our mini roadtrip. To get there, we had to go down one mountain and up another. The museum is in a fortified castle overlooking the region of Modena and the fortress had been a barricade for the Italian resistance against the armies of Mussolini.
I entered the first room of the museum’s 13 through a heavy wooden door, my family following behind. A projector facing towards a stone wall displayed hundreds of photos depicting the town as Fascism consumed Italy. The Partisan soldiers were mostly men and civilians, with little training compared to the armies they faced. In the photos, I began to see an eerie resemblance to my cousins in the round faces, in the thin smiles, in the curls of hair. They were from the same region, spoke the same dialect. They had been born right as Mussolini fell.
My mother, who was fluent, helpfully translated the Italian wall texts for us. Though I am not fluent, after two weeks immersed in the mountains of Italy, my comprehension was not bad. I surprised myself by how much I was able to translate, too.
One of the glass cases displayed throughout the museum compared the Partisan uniforms and battle accessories to that of the fascists. For the Partisans, dents in the canteens and scuffs on the leather holsters showed the true struggle of a civilian army. For the fascists, the government-provided gear was regulation––a black uniform and a sleek handgun. Two rifles were displayed, one from each side.
The rifles faced each other in a stand off, frozen in time.
Other rooms took us deeper into the history of the battles fought in Montefiorino. Room six was set up to look like a forest. Guns were propped against trees, packs rested against logs. A camp awaiting the enemy.
Room ten was where the history began to speak. The personal accounts started flowing from hidden speakers. I had stepped through a stone archway into a nearly pitch black alcove. Voices of Partisan soldiers and civilians began to speak over one another in Italian. Descriptions of fires blazing in the mountains. The search for loved ones as they fled. The voices of survivors, residents not much older than some of my cousins. The way they spoke, slipping in and out of mountain dialects, sounded so similar to my cousins.
The museum, like all Italian businesses, closed in the afternoon for an hour. My father wanted to return later for another go through. My sister and I did not––this would extend our day trip significantly. Torn between annoyance and wondering, when would I be in Montefiorino again?, I expressed my hunger. We ventured out of the museum to find lunch.
The sky was dark, the air moist: such unusual humidity was unwelcome on the mountain. Down the road, an oddly upscale restaurant was open. Thank God! Something about being in a museum for too long creates such an appetite.
The rain came down in sheets; we ordered our piatti primi.
I’ve always hated storms. The rain covered the glass windows and blurred the view of the mountains, trapping us in. Thunder boomed, lightning crashed. It was cinematic. The dramatics of storms make me anxious and, for the twenty raging minutes of it, I sat bouncing my leg under the table, only thinking about when it might clear. We were finishing off our tortelloni in butter and sage and tagliatelli in ragu with una scarpetta[1] when it finally did.
My father then made his way back up the road to the museum. I might have felt bad about not wanting to absorb more history; however, the charity shop across the street was calling my name. Set among Montefiorino’s borgos, alimentari, cafes, and small restaurants, the shop fit perfectly within the town. My mother, little sister, and I entered through the propped open glass doors. Inside it smelled slightly damp. Fine layers of dust coated hard-to-reach corners. Three folding tables stood in the middle of the first of two rooms. Atop each were precarious piles of various clothing items. A middle aged Italian woman seemed to be running it.
I began to browse the stacks. The only other customers were a clique of older women shopping around noisily. I picked up on their conversations. One of the women needed a new pair of pants for work. The others negotiated on prices, though there was not a single tag in the whole store.
In the corners of the shop were piles of narrow shoes with thin heels. They littered the floors and were stacked on top of one another. I made my way to them. Unfortunately, my feet were not Italian enough. They didn’t fit in a single pair except a large pair of knee high, brown boots. Much too big to try and shove into my already bursting suitcase.
The dresses next. I plucked two knee-lengths from the rack, imagining the possible footwear and accessories to go with. Both made it to the growing pile in my arms. In the second room were matching folding tables adorned with tchotchkes, kitchen ware, and jewelry. My little sister spent the majority of our time in this room.
A feeling of locality swept over me. I assessed what had landed in my arms, a process that I had done countless times before. I had a hard time believing that, just hours before, I’d learned about the historic battles that took place on the same mountain where I was now sorting through patterned tops. A duality of Italy. A town with a violent nationalist history. A 20-year-old American girl with an armfull of trendy, thrifted clothes.
I walked out with six items: two blouses with swirling patterns, a white long-sleeve for fall, two knee-length summer dresses, and polka dotted shorts with the button missing. My total came out to seven euros.
I felt exhausted. Shopping, like museums, seems to inflict a drowsy, heavy fatigue on me. My stomach filled with homemade pasta and bread, my bag filled with clothes, and my head filled with history, I carried myself towards the car. It cast a long shadow on the broken up asphalt. The mountain slant caused the door to fall open, beckoning me to the comfort of the cushy seats.
The sky had made way for late afternoon sunshine, warming the chill from the rain. We drove up the road one more time to collect my father from his dive back into the history. I got one last look at the old castle dominating the mountain. I clutched my bag of goods on my lap. Looking up from the backseat car window, the stones of the outer wall seemed to absorb the sunlight for a final time that day. I thought, I can’t wait to get back to try these clothes on. My tall father hunched into the passenger seat, my mother wound it down the zig-zag road to Sestola and away from Montefiorino.
[1] An Italian phrase which refers to using a piece of bread to mop up leftover sauce on your plate. Translated it means little shoe.