VARIETY
485
"But what would you do? Whom
would you deal with? You have to
have someone who can wear the
trappings of authority."
There is more than a little cyn–
icism in the word "trappings."
And when an official speaks cyn–
ically of officialdom, when he takes
you, so to speak, into his little
room off the main corridor, he has
only one motive- to patronize.
Such is the way one dedicates a
flagpole, addresses a boys' club,
greets a d elegate of a furriers' sing–
ing society.
It didn't work. "Mr. Squarciga–
lupo," declared Salvemini, "Bado–
glio is a Fascist. Fascism is dis–
credited in Italy. What is Bado–
glio? H e is a rag . . ."
Now about voices. Squarcigalu–
po spoke in a bass clarinet, round,
measured, phrased. He said "uh"
and "ah" in a manner profoundly
. and magisterially grave, pausing,
qualifying, distributing his weight,
shaking his jowl, pursing his lips,
frowning. He spoke the English: of
a well set New York official, sen–
tentious and bronchial and slightly
incorrect-you thought of night
school, of elocution and diligent
self-improvement, of the grinding
polish and the slow ascent, street
by street and position by position,
until he had reached the point
where he was accustomed to clear–
ing his throat in silence. He called
Salvemini "Professor".
Salvemini spoke Italian. English,
of course, but Italian. His voice
was shrill, his words were broken
up by trailing vowels. He gesticul–
ated, using his hands, arms, legs,
eyes, lips, teeth, head, cheeks, the
reflection of his glasses and the
point of his beard. He popped out
of his seat, shot forth, sputtered
and burned. He ignored the proper
title and called Squarcigalupo
"Mister".
And so much greater was his
dignity! Here, these two men, both
of them immigrant, both from
Southern Italy, both in America,
between them the whole national
scope. And one had a frog in his
voice--though he spoke perfect of–
ficial English-an ugly little toad
that jumped out of his mouth and
croaked: "be practical, consider,
if, but, whereas, authority, autho–
rity." And the other had scorn,
high scorn: "Badoglio is a fascist,
a rag, a rat, criminal and vile. Who
dares say a word in his behalf? Fas–
cism is discredited in Italy, the
Italian people are sick of it-what
more need be said? Authority–
what authority? Authority is
guilt. The lowest Sicilian bootblack
ask him, he knows. The King?
Or~
der? The Vatican? Ask the boot–
black!"
"But, but, but-be practical!"
"Mr. Squarcigalupo," said Sal–
vemmi, losing patience at last,
drawing himself up and pointing
in no uncertain direction-"Fas–
cism is dead. There are no more
Fascists in Italy. Alia the Fascists
are in
New Y orka!"
This is dignity. It is the dignity
of having nothing to retract, noth–
ing to explain, no qualification to
make, nothing to spoil. It is the
dignity, straight and pure and
simple, of the truth-Fascism is
dead, and I have }:lelped kill it.
IsAAc RosENFELD
