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Rating: It was raining and cold that morning, despite it being May, almost June. The 28th to be precise. Of 1974. The decade of lead had begun almost a lustrum earlier, starting from Milan. Secretly, there was fear that the PCI might win the elections, allowing enough room for the Soviet Union to spread into Italy. The mysterious "Anello della Repubblica," which came to light a few years ago, and the armed neo-fascism, were planning and utilizing every trick to contain the presumed red wave. Even at the cost of involving human lives. In Brescia, that morning, the only charge against the victims was attending a demonstration.
There had been attacks in the city in the days before, of a black origin. People then took to the streets to protest against these ignoble attacks. That morning the unions and the Permanent Anti-Fascist Committee had organized a march and scheduled a four-hour work stoppage. It was raining lightly but incessantly. Workers, teachers, retirees, Communist Party militants, unionists. Piazza della Loggia seen from above looked like it was covered in a shroud of umbrellas and a few red flags. And I underline a shroud.
Unionist Franco Castrezzati was among the moderators. At 10:00 the demonstration began while the rain did not want to end its free fall. Sad days are usually painted by rain. It’s 10:12. "...and was weaving ruthless repressions, today it can appear on television screens as the head of a party that is difficult to place within the anti-fascist and therefore constitutional spectrum. In Milan, alc .... ...." The speech was interrupted by a loud explosion. "...it’s a bomb...help!... " Flags and banners fly. People scream. The reactions are uncontrollable. Panic grows. "...stand still, comrades and friends... calm!...comrades and friends... stand still!...... stay calm!... stay inside the square!... " It's late.
The photo that became the icon of the massacre, along with the one portraying Manlio Milani seeking help as he holds his dying wife's head, Livia Bottardi, was taken by a photographer from Studio Eden, a few steps from the arcades. The man kneeling is Arnaldo Trebeschi. On the ground, on the wet slabs lies his brother Alberto, a teacher and member of the PCI, covered by a banner. Arnaldo does not know yet but he has also lost his sister-in-law Clementina Calzari, also a teacher.
From the banner that poorly covers him protrudes Alberto's hand, scarred by the explosion. Streaked with blood. The brother beside him has crouched, torn, lost. Perhaps he has collapsed to his knees from sudden emotion. He places his left hand on his brother's chest, perhaps hoping he could once again feel his heart beating. It’s a pity the photo is not very clear but you can perceive the look. Those cold, half-closed eyes, the tense cheekbones pushing to close them. Eyes that perhaps see a blurred and confused image due to the tears that flow unrestrained. Inflamed tears that probably mix with the acidic ones falling like bombs from the cumulonimbus-laden sky of Brescia. A step away, demonstrators form a cordon trying to hold back others who can only watch. Rendered helpless by the situation. Incredible caryatids of a temple of marble and dynamite. Someone has stained pants at the level of the knee. Perhaps they crouched trying to help someone or, at any rate, tried to give aid. As much as possible. Arnaldo, perhaps realizing that his brother can no longer respond. Raises his right knee, perhaps to maintain balance and rests his elbow on it. A support to fend off the tears that cannot be stopped. The emotion is strong. Maybe he looks around, at those stunned, helpless faces, hears the cries gradually dispersing, blending with the sirens of ambulances and police. He stays there on the ground, with that gaze that still breaks the heart, that lost and silent gaze, as if wanting to ask, as much as possible: "Help me."
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