On the 25th of April 1945, Torino and Milano, Northern Italy’s two biggest cities, were liberated from German occupation by Italian Partisans and the Allies forces. On the 28th of April Benito Mussolini was executed by the Partisans and by the 1st of May all of northern Italy had been liberated, thereby putting an end to the Fascist regime and the Second World War in Italy, a dark era in Italian history commonly referred to as il Ventennio Fascista (the Fascist twenty years). Every year, the 25th of April is celebrated as a national holiday: La Festa della Liberazione (Liberation Day), and memorial services take place throughout the country.

When I think about this particularly dramatic period in our history, the words of one of Salvatore Quasimodo’s most shocking poems always come to me. “Alle Fronde dei Salici” (On the Willow Branches) was published in 1946, and describes the violence and horror imposed upon the helpless civilian population by their invaders, a universal human tragedy that takes place in any war, and which crushes any form of creativity. Hence the poem’s opening lines: E come potevamo noi cantare, con il piede straniero sopra il cuore …

Partisans in Milan, April 1945

The poem’s title refers to Psalm 136, in which the Jews, deported from Israel to Babylon, hung their lyres on the branches of willow trees in protest. “Alle Fronde dei Salici” is filled with biblical images, but the careful use of a few poignant details immediately transports us into the WWII era.

Alle Fronde dei Salici di, Salvatore Quasimodo

E come potevamo noi cantare
con il piede straniero sopra il cuore,
fra i morti abbandonati nelle piazze
sull’erba dura di ghiaccio, al lamento
d’agnello dei fanciulli, all’urlo nero
della madre che andava incontro al figlio
crocifisso sul palo del telegrafo?
Alle fronde dei salici, per voto,
anche le nostre cetre erano appese,
oscillavano lievi al triste vento.

Crocifissione by Renato Guttuso, 1942

On the Willow Branches, by Salvatore Quasimodo

And how could we sing
with the foreign foot upon our heart,
amongst the dead abandoned in the squares
on the grass hard with ice, to the children’s
lamb like crying, to the black howl
of the mother who moved towards her son
crucified on the telegraph pole?
On the willow branches, in protest,
our lyres too were hung,
they swayed lightly in the sad wind.