7b
ALBERT
J.
GUERARD
after leaving Ancona (unirradiated ruins these, left by antiquated
bombs and one freighter of explosives, the harbor littered with sunk
or split hulls) we saw youngsters who obviously were traveling to–
gether for safety, with one or two guns protecting the lot and perhaps
a few grenades. But how can one know at a glance?
Near the old quarter of Genoa we looked into a narrow alley and
quickly looked away. A gang rape appeared to be in progress in the
afternoon shadows while two men with revolvers stood guard. Or
was it only a robbery with the victim stripped of her clothes to
obviate an easy hue and cry? We had only the moment's vision of a
white body pinned against the wall, only the moment's hearing of a
muffled scream and a loud volley of male abuse. There was nothing
at all we could do.
Not all these experiences were so grim. Even in Genoa or at the
border, that very afternoon:
Seguros, bereft of nationality and with only the one document
improvised and issued by the Free City (by the police of the Legiti–
macy, that is), l'lad difficulty at each border and roadblock. His birth
certificate had years since been confiscated by one country, his permits
and letters of introduction by a second, his passport by a third. He
was the more suspect because he knew a large number of Italian words.
As
a rule I found it prudent (with my hated blue passport and its
memories of American power) to know no Italian at all. The Genoese
authorities, for instance.... At the drab stucco outskirts (which had
escaped destruction, as did the Old Town, while the rest of the center
was a catacomb) the authorities insisted on emptying Peralda's sack
of leaflets. All the pleas and confrontations and pronunciamentos tied
in bundles, two or three hundred sheets each. They were nearly all in
Spanish. The customs officer went thoughtfully through each pile,
using a wet thumb. Then he pushed the mass of leaflets to the police
officer beside him, who undid all the strings.
The roadside table was sheltered from the sun by a shed with a
tin roof. Before it Peralda stood at attention. The sweat trickled down
his thick neck and under the collar. He watched with alarm
this
scrutiny of his one remaining identification paper. The police officer
dangled it between thumb and forefinger. A paper evil and dirty to
the touch:
-"This document is invalid, I have never seen another one.
