The Politics of Sacrifice: Remembering Italy's Rogo di Primavalle (Italian and Italian American Studies) 3031455495, 9783031455490

Table of contents :
Foreword
Preface
Acknowledgements
Contents
Abbreviations
List of Figures
Part I: 1973–1995: Memory, Martyrdom and the MSI
Chapter 1: Introduction
1.1 The Years of Lead and Their Legacy
1.2 The Meanings of Political Martyrdom
1.3 Violence and the Movimento Sociale Italiano
1.4 Overview of the Book
References
Oral History Interviews
Chapter 2: Mediated Memories and Contested Narratives
2.1 Caught Red-Handed
2.2 The March on Milan
2.3 Squadrismo Returns
2.4 Public Spectacle, Private Tragedy
2.5 Creating Witnesses
2.6 Instilling Doubt
2.7 Trial in Print
2.8 Conclusion
References
Oral History Interviews
Chapter 3: Constructing Party Martyrdom
3.1 Casting Death as Sacrifice
3.2 ‘The Halo of Martyrdom and Clandestinity’
3.3 Violence and Political Allegiance
3.4 An Ideological Fight Without Borders
3.5 Courtroom Plot Twists
3.6 Verdict
3.7 From the Political to the Personal: The Second Primavalle Trial
3.8 Conclusion
References
Oral History Interviews
Part II: 1995–2013: After the Svolta di Fiuggi
Chapter 4: Honouring a Lost Heritage
4.1 A Mother for the Party
4.2 Performing Political Identity and Celebrating Far-Right Sacrifice
4.3 The Chapel of the Fascist Martyrs
4.4 Obscuring Ideology Through Narratives of Patriotic Sacrifice
4.5 Conclusion
References
Oral History Interviews
Chapter 5: Confessions and Denials
5.1 ‘The Real Truth, I Mean, Not the Official Truth’
5.2 From ‘Ideological Silence’ to Media Noise
5.3 ‘There Were Three of Us That Night in Primavalle, Only Three’
5.4 Giampaolo Mattei: A Belated Public Victim
5.5 Conclusion
References
Part III: 2018–2023: From CasaPound to Fratelli d’Italia
Chapter 6: Counter-Memories in the Populist Era
6.1 Online Counter-Memories
6.2 CasaPound Italia: Hosting Memory Transmission
6.3 Far-Right Commemorative Culture in Public Space
6.4 Neutralising Memory in Public Space
6.5 Conclusion
References
Chapter 7: Afterword
7.1 Dramatic Spectacle
7.2 Primavalle: A Space of Alterity
7.3 Explaining the Unthinkable
7.4 Conclusion
References
Oral History Interviews
Index

Citation preview

ITALIAN AND ITALIAN AMERICAN STUDIES

The Politics of Sacrifice Remembering Italy’s Rogo di Primavalle Amy King Foreword by Prof. Alessandro Portelli

Italian and Italian American Studies

Series Editor

Stanislao G. Pugliese Hofstra University Hempstead, NY, USA

This series brings the latest scholarship in Italian and Italian American history, literature, cinema, and cultural studies to a large audience of specialists, general readers, and students. Featuring works on modern Italy (Renaissance to the present) and Italian American culture and society by established scholars as well as new voices, it has been a longstanding force in shaping the evolving fields of Italian and Italian American Studies by re-emphasizing their connection to one another. Editorial Board Rebecca West, University of Chicago, USA Josephine Gattuso Hendin, New York University, USA Fred Gardaphé, Queens College, CUNY, USA Phillip V.  Cannistraro†, Queens College and the Graduate School, CUNY, USA Alessandro Portelli, Università di Roma “La Sapienza”, Italy William J. Connell, Seton Hall University, USA

Amy King

The Politics of Sacrifice Remembering Italy’s Rogo di Primavalle

Amy King University of Bristol Bristol, UK

ISSN 2635-2931     ISSN 2635-294X (electronic) Italian and Italian American Studies ISBN 978-3-031-45549-0    ISBN 978-3-031-45550-6 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-45550-6 © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive licence to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors, and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. Cover credit: Agenzia Fotografica Foto A3 This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG. The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland Paper in this product is recyclable.

For Wes

Foreword

British and US readers may be familiar with Dario Fo’s 1970 play, Accidental Death of an Anarchist, about the death on December 15, 1969, of the anarchist railroad worker Giuseppe Pinelli who fell or was thrown out of a window of the police central in Milan while being interrogated about the bomb that had killed 14 people three days before in a bank in Piazza Fontana in Milan. A song that most people from that generation remember describes the scene: when the police try to break him by telling him that a comrade of his has already confessed to the crime, Pinelli cries out: “Impossibile, grida Pinelli: un compagno non può averlo fatto”—it’s impossible, a comrade would never do a thing like that. Pinelli was twice innocent: he had committed no crime and was not aware of the violence that was mounting on his side and in his own name. Most of us were like him: we believed in the moral superiority of our side, and when the Mattei brothers were killed, we couldn’t believe it either. Many of the best minds on the Left, people whose judgment I respected, petitioned in favor of those who turned out to be the actual perpetrators. It was a tragic and symbolic moment of loss of innocence: alas, indeed, comrades did it and would do it again in the years to come, as the Red Brigades and other underground groups carried out what they imagined as a reprisal of the antifascist struggle of the Resistance. Of course, we shouldn’t forget that the Fascists were doing worse, that it had all begun with the Piazza Fontana massacre (and the complicity of members of the police and the secret services). And even the Red Brigades never perpetrated mass murders, as the Fascists did at the Bologna railroad station in vii

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1980. But that is beside the point: the point is that “comrades” were doing it, and they were claiming that it was done in our name. This is why this book is so necessary. Whenever we have tried to ignore, forget, or deny difficult aspects of our history, they have come back as ghosts and nightmares in the form of right-wing narratives that, in the silence created by our denial, occupied all the space of memory and imagination. I am thinking, on a larger scale, of what has happened to the memory of the foibe, the mass killings in ravines perpetrated by the Yugoslav liberation fighters during World War II on Italy’s north-east border. Because the Left has been silent about them, the false and one-sided narrative concocted by the Right has now become the official history of events, even overshadowing the Shoah (as I write, the Ministries of the Interior and Education have required all of Italy’s school to commemorate the foibe but forgot to mention the Shoah—let alone the earlier and much worse Italian war crimes in occupied Yugoslavia). This book, therefore, does much more than set the record straight: in its objective but not neutral approach, it helps us—antifascists—to face events like the Primavalle arson, take responsibility for them, and work to overcome the impulses and ideological distortions that led to them. This, incidentally, is precisely what the Right is unwilling to do. On the occasion of the anniversary of the Nazi-Fascist massacre at the Fosse Ardeatine in Rome (335 men killed in cold blood on March 24, 1944, in supposed retaliation for a partisan attack the day before), Prime Minister Giorgia Meloni claimed that the victims were killed “only because they were Italians.” This is wrong: at least 12 of the victims were born abroad (Leone Blumstein, for instance, had been born in L’viv, in present-day Ukraine); 50 names were included in a list delivered to the Nazis by Italian officials of the RSI (Repubblica Sociale Italiana), Mussolini’s puppet state; and, most importantly, according to RSI’s founding Verona Charter, the 72 Jews murdered at the Fosse Ardeatine were not considered Italians but “members of a hostile nation.” This, however, is only the latest, and most blatant, attempt to exorcise and deny the memory of a war crime that was perpetrated by Meloni’s own political ancestors and ideological models. I believe that the roots of Meloni’s “error” narrative are much deeper than irresponsible ignorance or a barefaced lie: just like those of us who refused to believe the facts in the Mattei murders, if she were to face the historical truth, she would have to reconsider the morality of her political roots and personal identity.

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Ultimately, denial is related to shame, and it takes courage to recognize shame. I am glad Amy King had the courage to reconstruct this story and help us deal with it. Perhaps the passing of time and the cultural and linguistic distance may have helped. I remember that around 2007, when I was working as Advisor on Historical Memory for Rome’s mayor, Walter Veltroni, he introduced me to Giampaolo Mattei. Veltroni, a Left-wing representative, was working at the time to have the city of Rome recognize the event and honor the victims. I asked Mattei if he were willing to do an interview; he thought it over and, in the end, said no. He wasn’t ready then; perhaps I wasn’t the right person. So, I am doubly glad that now he has found the courage and strength to work with Amy King and share his story. We needed it. Università di Roma, La Sapienza Rome, Italy

Alessandro Portelli

Preface

As I write this preface, Giorgia Meloni’s far-right party Fratelli d’Italia heads up a right-wing coalition with Matteo Salvini’s Lega and Silvio Berlusconi’s Forza Italia. Meloni became prime minister in 2022, the same year her party celebrated its tenth anniversary and Italy marked the centenary of Mussolini’s March on Rome. But despite its relatively young age, the essence of Meloni’s party has a long tradition. Fratelli d’Italia is a direct descendent of the party at the centre of this book: the Movimento Sociale Italiano (MSI). The founding of this party in 1946 fanned the still-­ glowing embers of Fascism in postwar Italy and kept the neofascist fire alight for almost five decades. Meloni joined the MSI as a teenager. The day after the election, the New York Times pinpointed the ‘deliberate amnesia’ of the postwar process, positioning Meloni’s victory as the culmination of Italy’s failure to work through its Fascist past, as Germany sought to during the process known as Vergangenheitsbewältigung (‘coming to terms with the past’). But what if, rather than diagnosing amnesia as the root cause of this steady legitimisation of far-right politics in a constitutionally antifascist Republic, we turned our attention to memory? This book is about deliberate memorialisation and the role it plays in building support for neofascism. Italian neofascists have long used memory work as an opportunity to stamp their contentious (and banned) ideological symbols onto public spaces, to contest those memories they deem incompatible with nationalist historic narratives and to build a community defined along political lines. Memory of the historic far right was ever present during Meloni’s electoral campaign. Stitching historically loaded words like credo (I believe) and slogans like Dio, patria, famiglia (God, xi

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fatherland, family) into her speeches, some of Meloni’s rhetoric echoed Mussolini’s—a complicit nod to those who wished to find it. In mid-­ August 2022, she tweeted an image of Fratelli d’Italia’s logo, with a tricolour flame at its heart, declaring it ‘a symbol we are proud of.’ Selected by MSI founder and long-time leader Giorgio Almirante as his party’s logo to reflect the torch that would never go out at Mussolini’s tomb, the tricolour flame marked—and still marks—a timeless commitment to honour Il Duce’s memory through contemporary politics. Meloni’s explicit declaration of pride spoke directly to long-standing supporters of the far right who had mourned the loss of this historic symbol in the mid-1990s, when the debate around the MSI’s heritage climaxed and its leader, Gianfranco Fini, dissolved the party (and its logo), launching Alleanza Nazionale in its place. Moreover, in a gesture of solidarity with the far right of the 1970s, on the morning of the party conference in Milan in April 2022, Meloni attended the official commemoration ceremony for Sergio Ramelli, a member of the MSI youth organisation killed in 1975. This engagement with memory politics was more than just a timely electoral strategy to appeal to those furthest on the right. Since its foundation a decade ago, Meloni’s party has made support of far-right memory initiatives a priority, particularly those that anchor far-right memory in public space. The party is behind long-standing calls to dedicate a road in the Italian capital to Almirante. Ercole Viri, the mayor behind the monument to the Fascist military and colonial leader Rodolfo Graziani erected in Affile in 2012, has subsequently joined Fratelli d’Italia. Moreover, the party’s local councillors Alberto Mariani and Stefano Oddo were behind the proposal for the latest plaque dedicated to the Rogo di Primavalle— the subject of this book—which was unveiled in 2019 at the site where two sons of a local MSI leader lost their lives in 1973. Celebrating the plaque’s installation, Meloni described the brothers’ deaths as an example of the fatal consequences of political hatred. But despite this apparent gesture towards tolerance, she drew on the language of political sacrifice to revere their deaths within a broader narrative of ideological commitment, continuing the binaries she ostensibly decries. Since taking power, Meloni’s party has presented memory politics as an issue of national reconciliation, and her party has frequently addressed the question of who is considered a victim in Italy (and who is not) through institutional mechanisms and popular channels. In December 2022, Fabio Rampelli, vice president of the Chamber of Deputies, proposed a Parliamentary Commission of Inquiry into Political Violence covering

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1970–1989. The political intentions of this committee in its proposed form are clear, as is the community of victims to which it demonstrates its allegiance; not only does the time period exclude further examination of the Piazza Fontana massacre of 12 December 1969, for which three members of the far-right militant group Ordine Nuovo were given life sentences in 1991, but also the proposal only explicitly names the far-right dead, who, Rampelli told the Chamber, were not accidental victims but lost their lives at a time when the slogan “killing a fascist isn’t a crime” could be heard on the streets. As the first section of Article 1 of the proposed law makes clear in outlining the Inquiry’s intention to ‘ascertain the reasons that have prevented the identification of those responsible for the crimes of political violence that remain unsolved’, this proposal looks past political violence to interrogate the continued failures of the antifascist Republic. The proposed legislation is as much about remedying the perceived injustice of the years that followed these acts of political violence, extending far-right victimhood beyond the initial act of violence, as this book demonstrates. Meloni has engaged explicitly with Italy’s national politics of memory and the idea that memory has a part to play in what she terms ‘national pacification’, as addressed in the penultimate chapter of this book. On 25 April 2023, the day Italy celebrates and remembers its liberation from Nazi-fascism and the victory of the Resistance, Meloni published a piece in Corriere della Sera, hoping to make Liberation Day a ‘moment of rediscovered national harmony’. Meloni turned her attention to the gatekeeping of Italy’s national Liberation Day memory narratives by ‘those who consider themselves the guardians of this conquest’ who act ‘according to scores that have nothing to do with history but much to do with politics’. The letter rejected any connection between the contemporary right and historic Fascism, alluding to the institutional right’s efforts to formally distance itself from its heritage in the mid-1990s—a period analysed in Part II of this book. Stating that her Liberation Day reflections were offered ‘with the serenity of one who saw these reflections mature fully within the ranks of their political party 30 years ago’, Meloni underlined the institutional right’s rejection of nostalgia for fascism, suggesting that any such suggestion was dishonest political gameplay: ‘as any honest observer recognises, the parties representing the Right in Parliament have declared their incompatibility with any nostalgia for fascism.’ Having discredited suggestions of the party’s Fascist lineage, Meloni celebrated the MSI’s contribution to the antifascist Republic, referring to ‘those who had

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been excluded from the constitutional process for obvious historical reasons, [who] undertook to ferry millions of Italians into the new parliamentary republic, shaping the democratic right’. The letter is notable for its failure to use the word ‘antifascism’ once—extraordinary, given its focus on Liberation Day—leaving readers asking exactly what Italy had been liberated from. Crucially, it also writes neofascism into the history of the Republic’s (antifascist) foundations and, under the guise of ‘pacification’, dissolves the fascist–antifascist ideological binary, presenting Italy’s national holiday as a celebration of freedom and thus disregarding the values of antifascism upon which the Italian Republic was founded. Memory has long been the lifeblood of Italy’s far right. This is clear from the name given to those at its fringes: so-called nostalgici (nostalgics) revere the country’s Fascist past, basing future aspirations on what has already been. Memory builds far-right communities and inspires their future momentum. If the first months of Meloni’s government are anything to go by, debates around the values Italy represents will play out in the space of memory. This is a book about the memory of an attack on a far-right family and the ways the far right has engaged with that memory over the five decades since the attack. It uncovers the narratives that have allowed the far right to represent deaths as sacrifice and, by extension, to present the far right’s ideological fight as one of morality, not politics. Over the last 50 years, the memory of the Primavalle attack has moved Rome’s far right to march, chant and commemorate; its memorialisation has divided political leaders at a local and national level; and its name has been spoken in Italy’s parliament as a symbol of the fatal consequences of political extremism. Analysing the myriad ways in which it has been remembered over time underlines how various iterations of Italy’s far-­ right have revitalised memory, charging it with contemporary nuances and new meanings to ensure longevity. The far right never forgets. If we are to prevent a continued groundswell in support, we must shift our focus away from well-trodden discussions of collective amnesia to examine with increasing urgency the emotive power of far-right memory culture, its role in recruiting new members and the part it plays in mainstreaming this pernicious ideology. Bristol, UK

Amy King

Acknowledgements

This book was possible thanks to the time, energy and support of many people in the UK and beyond. I am grateful to the AHRC for funding the doctoral research from which this book developed and to the University of Bristol’s Returning Carers Scheme for a much-needed term of teaching buyout. Travel grants from the University of Bristol and a fellowship at the British School at Rome also made fieldwork possible with funding and beautiful surroundings in which to write. Thanks also to the History Department at the University of Bristol for providing funding to buy image rights. There are few perks to precarious employment, but working in three departments at the same institution has meant I have learnt from brilliant and generous colleagues in Italian, Liberal Arts and History. Thanks to Karen Skinazi in Liberal Arts for her support, and for helping me to carve out writing time wherever possible! I am particularly grateful to my colleagues and friends in the Italian Department, who have been a great source of advice and support for so many years now. Special thanks to Ruth Glynn for her module on the memory of the Anni di Piombo, which first inspired my interest in the period as an undergraduate. Much of academia runs on the generosity of others, and I am fortunate to have had feedback from colleagues and friends around the world. I am grateful to Mark Seymour and Brian J. Griffith for their thoughtful feedback on early chapter drafts, and to Alessandro Portelli for his support for this book. My PhD examiners, Rebecca Clifford and Phil Cooke, both gave excellent advice on developing this book, and I have revisited those nervously scrawled notes countless times! Sincere thanks are also due to xv

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my PhD supervisors, Anna Cento Bull and John Foot, for their expert guidance and support. I am particularly grateful to John, whose advice and encouragement has been so important in my career so far. Thank you. I am grateful to the American Academy in Rome for the opportunity to present part of this work at a conference on political violence in 2022, to the Association for the Study of Modern Italy for a postgraduate travel bursary during my doctorate, and to the editors and reviewers of the journal Modern Italy for feedback on an article that helped me define this research. Thanks also to archivists and librarians at the Archivio Centrale dello Stato, Biblioteca di Storia Moderna e Contemporanea, the British Library, the Beinecke Rare Book & Manuscript Library at Yale, the Library of Congress, and the Arts and Social Sciences library staff at Bristol. Thank you to ANSA and Agenzia Fotografica A3 for many of the images included in this book. To the whole Humanities Executive team at the University of Bristol, thank you for your patience in the face of endless requests—we would be lost without you! Thanks to Jess Farr-Cox for expert proofreading and an excellent index, and to the Palgrave team, including series editor Stan Pugliese, for their hard work. I would also like to thank Giampaolo Mattei for conversations and correspondence over the years, which offered invaluable insight into the legacy of political violence. I am also grateful to Giommaria Monti for his thoughts on the book co-authored with Giampaolo Mattei. Simone Conte from the association Vengo da Primavalle was generous with his time and network, introducing me to residents of Primavalle who kindly agreed to share their memories with me during oral history interviews. Victoria Witkowsi has been an excellent sounding board and friend—I wouldn’t observe far-right events with anyone else! Grazie mille to Flora Derounian, who has been a source of light and laughter during our PhDs, book-writing endeavours and beyond. We did it! Thank you to Stefania Placenti for lunches and espressos that have lifted my spirits. Rachel Murray has been the best champion since day one of the PhD, and I’m so glad we have you back in Bristol. Thank you to the Arvon writers’ community, expertly led by Patrick McGuiness and Fiona Sampson, who guided us through writing blocks and gave us permission to write creatively. Rosie Arnold, thank you for the laughter after long writing days. Emma Crowley and Beth Wilson were

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excellent writing retreaters, and I look forward to annual writing, walking and pub trips! Friends and family have been the best cheerleaders. Special thanks to my lifelong friends Fi, Steph and Ben for so many decades of friendship now. Catherine, thank you for always checking in and cheering me on. Thank you, Mum, Neil and Zak, for your support, love and laughter. I am especially grateful to you, Dad, for our daily chats, and for championing all successes, however small. Clementine, I’ll do my best to explain all this someday, but for now, concentrate on dancing and making us laugh over breakfast. Your laughter is my greatest achievement. Finally, to Wes, thank you for your endless support and for always propelling me forwards. Family life is a juggle, but we are so lucky to have each other. This book is dedicated to you, with love.

Praise for The Politics of Sacrifice “Amy King’s book is a highly original, courageous, and innovative study which makes an important and much-needed contribution to our understanding of an extraordinarily difficult topic. The Rogo di Primavalle was one of the many tragic episodes which characterised the 1970s in Italy, and King’s definitive, professional, study makes a highly significant contribution to research in the important field of historical memory, and to the key area of ‘agonistic’ memory. The politics of sacrifice not only advances our knowledge of the ‘Years of Lead’, but offers key insights into our understanding of the myths, symbols and memory politics deployed by the far right in Italy.” —Philip Cooke, Professor of Italian History and Culture (University of Strathclyde Glasgow) and Chair of the Association for the Study of Modern Italy (ASMI) “Whenever we have tried to ignore or forget or deny difficult aspects of our history, they have come back as ghosts and nightmares in the form of right-wing narratives that, in the silence created by our denial, occupied all the space of memory and imagination. [...] This book, therefore, does much more than set the record straight: in its objective but not neutral approach, it helps us - antifascists - to face events like the Primavalle arson, take responsibility for them, and work to overcome the impulses and ideological distortions that led to them.” —Alessandro Portelli, Professor Emeritus, Università di Roma “La Sapienza”

Contents

Part I 1973–1995: Memory, Martyrdom and the MSI   1 1 Introduction  3 1.1 The Years of Lead and Their Legacy  9 1.2 The Meanings of Political Martyrdom 14 1.3 Violence and the Movimento Sociale Italiano 18 1.4 Overview of the Book 23 References 25 2 Mediated  Memories and Contested Narratives 29 2.1 Caught Red-Handed 31 2.2 The March on Milan 34 2.3 Squadrismo Returns 37 2.4 Public Spectacle, Private Tragedy 41 2.5 Creating Witnesses 43 2.6 Instilling Doubt 48 2.7 Trial in Print 58 2.8 Conclusion 63 References 66 3 Constructing Party Martyrdom 71 3.1 Casting Death as Sacrifice 75 3.2 ‘The Halo of Martyrdom and Clandestinity’ 82 3.3 Violence and Political Allegiance 86 xxi

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3.4 An Ideological Fight Without Borders 93 3.5 Courtroom Plot Twists 95 3.6 Verdict 99 3.7 From the Political to the Personal: The Second Primavalle Trial103 3.8 Conclusion106 References108 Part II 1995–2013: After the Svolta di Fiuggi 113 4 Honouring  a Lost Heritage115 4.1 A Mother for the Party119 4.2 Performing Political Identity and Celebrating Far-Right Sacrifice123 4.3 The Chapel of the Fascist Martyrs128 4.4 Obscuring Ideology Through Narratives of Patriotic Sacrifice135 4.5 Conclusion139 References142 5 Confessions and Denials147 5.1 ‘The Real Truth, I Mean, Not the Official Truth’149 5.2 From ‘Ideological Silence’ to Media Noise156 5.3 ‘There Were Three of Us That Night in Primavalle, Only Three’163 5.4 Giampaolo Mattei: A Belated Public Victim166 5.5 Conclusion174 References176 Part III 2018–2023: From CasaPound to Fratelli d’Italia 181 6 Counter-Memories  in the Populist Era183 6.1 Online Counter-Memories187 6.2 CasaPound Italia: Hosting Memory Transmission190 6.3 Far-Right Commemorative Culture in Public Space197 6.4 Neutralising Memory in Public Space209 6.5 Conclusion212 References219

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7 Afterword223 7.1 Dramatic Spectacle225 7.2 Primavalle: A Space of Alterity228 7.3 Explaining the Unthinkable234 7.4 Conclusion237 References240 Index241

Abbreviations

AFM AG AGI AN AS CGIL CPI DC DN FdG FdI FI FN FUAN LC LN MSI NAR ON PCI PDIUM PLI PO PPI

Associazione Fratelli Mattei (Mattei Brothers’ Association) Azione Giovani (Youth Action) Agenzia Giornalistica Italia (Italian Journalistic Agency) Alleanza Nazionale (National Alliance) Alternativa Sociale (Social Alternative) Confederazione Generale Italiana del Lavoro (Italian General Confederation of Labour) CasaPound Italia Democrazia Cristiana (Christian Democracy) Destra Nazionale (National Right) Fronte della Gioventù (Youth Front) Fratelli d’Italia (Brothers of Italy) Forza Italia (Let’s Go Italy) Forza Nuova (New Force) Fronte Universitario d’Azione Nazionale (National University Action Front) Lotta Continua (Continuous Struggle) Lega Nord (Northern League) Movimento Sociale Italiano (Italian Social Movement) Nuclei Armati Rivoluzionari (Armed Revolutionary Nuclei) Ordine Nuovo (New Order) Partito Comunista Italiano (Italian Communist Party) Partito Democratico Italiano di Unità Monarchica (Italian Democratic Party of Monarchist Unity) Partito Liberale Italiano (Italian Liberal Party) Potere Operaio (Workers’ Power) Partito Popolare Italiano (Italian Popular Party) xxv

xxvi  PRI PSI RSI TP UdC VN

ABBREVIATIONS

Partito Repubblicano Italiano (Italian Republican Party) Partito Socialista Italiano (Italian Socialist Party) Repubblica Sociale Italiana (Italian Social Republic) Terza Posizione (Third Position) Unione di Centro (Union of the Centre) Volontari Nazionali (National Volunteers)

List of Figures

Fig. 1.1 Fig. 2.1 Fig. 3.1

Fig. 3.2 Fig. 4.1 Fig. 4.2 Fig. 4.3 Fig. 4.4 Fig. 6.1

A police vehicle passes through Primavalle on the day of the arson, while residents gather on the streets or look from their balconies. Photo: ANSA 5 An edition of Potere Operaio’s weekly paper published in April 1973 suggested Almirante’s party was involved in the arson, which is described as ‘Primavalle Reichstag’ 50 MSI leader Giorgio Almirante walked behind the Mattei brothers’ hearses arm-in-arm with Anna Mattei, to his right. Almirante’s wife, Assunta, walked on Anna’s other side. Photo: ANSA 77 Many photographs taken during the first Primavalle trial and published in the media captured Lollo’s smart suit and calm demeanour. Photo: ANSA 90 The Chapel of the Fascist Martyrs in Rome’s Verano cemetery. Photo taken by the author 130 Inside the Chapel of the Fascist Martyrs. Photo taken by the author131 A plaque honouring the RSI dead inside the Chapel, with the names of Stefano and Virgilio Mattei added. Photo taken by the author 132 Signs of destruction on the plaque dedicating a local park to Stefano and Virgilio Mattei. Photo taken by the author 138 The 2018 Acca Larenzia commemorative poster celebrates strength and renewal. Reproduced with thanks to the digital archive Where Monsters Are Born 199

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List of Figures

Fig. 6.2 Fig. 6.3 Fig. 6.4 Fig. 6.5 Fig. 6.6 Fig. 6.7

A flame dominated the 2019 commemorative poster for the Acca Larenzia dead. Reproduced with thanks to the digital archive Where Monsters Are Born 200 The 2022 commemorative poster for Mikis Mantakas shows a phoenix rising from flames. Photograph taken by the author 201 The 2019 poster to honour Mantakas emphasises youthful innocence. Reproduced with thanks to the digital archive Where Monsters Are Born 202 In 2018, the poster for the Mattei brothers put the commemorative march at its centre. Reproduced with thanks to the digital archive Where Monsters Are Born 204 The 2019 poster for the Mattei brothers includes a call to memory205 1970s poster, notable for its inclusion of an image of Stefano alive. Reproduction courtesy of Archivio Centrale dello Stato 206

PART I

1973–1995: Memory, Martyrdom and the MSI

CHAPTER 1

Introduction

We were sleeping, it was night-time and… and… basically I saw a red light moving—flames opposite my bedroom window. As I said, my bedroom overlooked the very place where the flames broke out, well, the Matteis’ entire house caught fire, but I could see these red lights and hear screams: “call the fire brigade, help, help!” Carlo, oral history interview with the author, 2019

As the clock approached 3 am on 16 April 1973, three men emerged from a Fiat Cinquecento into via Bernardo da Bibbiena, north-west Rome, under cover of darkness. Achille Lollo, Marino Clavo and Manlio Grillo belonged to the extreme left group Potere Operaio (Workers’ Power, PO) and knew this area of Rome well. The poor suburb of Primavalle was staunchly left wing, and the men lived in and around the area. They climbed staircase D in building 15 of the large social housing units that defined Primavalle’s landscape. Carrying the components of a rudimentary explosive device, including a large tank of petrol and a chemical trigger made up of potassium, sugar, and sulphuric acid, they stopped at flat 5 on the third floor. This was the home of Mario Mattei, a local leader of the neofascist party Movimento Sociale Italiano (Italian Social Movement, MSI), his wife and six children. Lollo, Grillo and Clavo poured petrol onto the landing, some of which ran under the door and into the flat.

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 A. King, The Politics of Sacrifice, Italian and Italian American Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-45550-6_1

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Then they fled, leaving the chemical trigger. Flames quickly engulfed the Matteis’ flat. Anna Mattei and her two youngest children Antonella, 9, and Giampaolo, 4, escaped through the front door and down the internal staircase. Mario Mattei, their father, stood on the balcony of a second floor flat to catch his daughters two older daughters Silvia, 19, and Lucia, 15, as they dropped from the window above (Poggio 1973). Virgilio, 22, and Stefano, 10, died at their bedroom window in full view of a crowd gathered at the foot of the building. The attack was quickly labelled the Rogo di Primavalle, or Primavalle Fire. In Giampaolo Mattei’s account of that night, his mother, Anna, recalled running from the burning flat with two of her children. She was barefoot because her slippers had melted into the floor (Mattei and Monti 2008, p.  13). As she emerged from the building, she was met by the flashing bulbs of photographers’ cameras. Her sons’ deaths would soon be captured on camera as they stood at the threshold between public and private space, trapped by flames. Foreshadowing public participation in the funeral, the trials, and decades of debates around culpability, their deaths were witnessed by a community. A priest was among the estimated 5000 people who gathered in the garden below the flat throughout the next day, and he blessed the dead. Virgilio’s burnt torso remained at the window ‘like a coal statue’, according to one journalist (di Dio 1973). Over the following days, locals met at the foot of the building to pay their respects (Fig. 1.1). Standing beneath the charred window, a blackened trace of recent tragedy, they discussed the desperate need to respect political difference, the cowardice of those who had attacked a family in the dead of night, and asked why Virgilio hadn’t jumped (Vaccari 1973). Although police guarded the entrance to the building and allowed only residents to pass, one person managed to enter the crime scene, where they left three red roses, a palm and an azalea plant—for some, a symbol of the home and a longing to return to it (Vaccari 1973). Mario Mattei led the Primavalle section of the MSI in an area where 60% of residents voted for the Partito Comunista Italiano (Italian Communist Party, PCI). Named after an oasis town in eastern Libya where Italian troops were besieged for nine months by British forces during World War II in an act of resistance much celebrated by the Fascist regime, the ‘Giarabub’ section was based in via Svampa—a 10-minute walk from the Matteis’ home. Mario’s eldest son, Virgilio, was a member of the Volontari Nazionali (National Volunteers, VN), the youth division of the MSI, who considered themselves bodyguards for party leaders and frequently engaged in street violence. The Giarabub section had previously

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Fig. 1.1  A police vehicle passes through  Primavalle on the day of the arson, while residents gather on the streets or look from their balconies. Photo: ANSA

been led by a more radical faction within the party. But when Mattei took over, he adopted a more moderate approach inspired by MSI leader Giorgio Almirante. It is hard to know what the average Roman knew of Primavalle before it made the front pages in 1973, a densely packed suburb of north-west Rome with 4200 people per square kilometre (Paoli 1973). Perhaps they had lent an ear to a former artisan whose family had long toiled in a workshop in the historical centre before Mussolini’s remodelling of the capital saw them and their livelihoods deported beyond the old city walls to this new suburb, where sales dried up. Maybe they had scribbled down an address dictated by a Primavalle resident and wondered how to get there when no street name was given, the number of a social housing unit offered in its place. Or perhaps they had heard of the open sewage system that exposed Primavalle residents to disease until the 1960s.

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Isolated from the city, severely lacking in infrastructure, and devoid of green spaces, this was a borgata—the name given to groups of suburban buildings at a city’s outskirts that were originally built to house those displaced by the Fascist regime’s remodelling of central Rome. Intended as a temporary solution, their eventual (and unexpected) permanence posed serious problems in terms of infrastructure and integration. Poorly connected and around 6 km from the historic centre, Primavalle’s residents had built a road to the nearby Pineta Sacchetti Park in the 1950s. Constructing this road was an early example of active protest in the community, and demonstrations occurred frequently against local conditions, unemployment and poverty. Giuseppe Tanas, a Sardinian former partisan living in Primavalle, was a member of the workers’ union Confederazione Generale Italiana del Lavoro (Italian General Confederation of Labour, CGIL). He took part in a ‘strike against hunger’ on 5 December 1947. Having walked through the city, protestors rallied at the gates of the local police station in Primavalle. Clashes with the police ensued, and Tanas was shot. Nobody was ever prosecuted for his death, but 25  years after the bloodthirsty bullet was fired, Tanas’s memory returned in the context of the Primavalle arson. A note found at the scene of the crime read: ‘Brigata Tanas—guerra di classe—Morte ai fascisti’ (Tanas Brigade—class war— death to the Fascists). Via Pietro Bembo runs perpendicular to the road on which the Mattei family lived. I interviewed a former member of the far-left group Lotta Continua (Continuous Struggle, LC) who lived in the area in 1973, and asked him about the attack. Davide set his account in an osteria on via Bembo, where local neofascists—a minority in left-wing Primavalle— rubbed shoulders with their political adversaries. The madness of this story was born inside that osteria because everyone visited it. Mattei visited it because it was next door to the refuse collectors’ offices—the cleaners here in the area, he was a refuse collector. Potere Operaio people visited it because it was next to their base. Lotta Continua, who were 50 metres away, visited it less. And amidst this chaos, there were people who theoretically hated each other—and sadly it reached this sort of conclusion—but they were just fine, almost always talking around a table a little tipsy, and that’s how this story came about.

Lollo, Grillo and Clavo belonged to Potere Operaio. Active between 1967 and 1973, Potere Operaio was a militant communist movement inspired by Marxist thought and dissolved only a few months after the

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Primavalle arson. Six years later, an investigation into the extra-­ parliamentary left led by Pietro Calogero, Padova’s deputy prosecutor, and Achille Gallucci and Francesco Amato, investigating judges in Rome, uncovered PO’s structure, which included a clandestine, militant channel established during a secret meeting at the group’s third conference in 1971. The investigation found that this section of PO operated so covertly that at first ‘some grassroots militants and even some members of the movement were unaware of its existence’ (Grandi 2003, p. 299). Armed militants were subordinate to PO’s political leadership, and they were managed by local leaders. Militants were provided with weapons, military training and financing.1 Often retrospectively painted as an unruly subsection of the movement that acted independently, Lollo, Grillo and Clavo were thought to be heavily influenced by PO’s celebration of violence for political ends, evident in the newspapers and pamphlets the group produced. Lisa Gerusa (2009, p. 133) has identified the frequent association drawn between the words violenza and lotta in Potere Operaio publications, whereby ‘the component of violence is inherent to lotta as expressed by Potere Operaio’, and we might therefore consider the group a ‘transitional point on the road to the radicalization of political opposition’ that led to the armed fight. Indeed, some of its former members went on to join the Brigate Rosse (Red Brigades, BR). When judge Francesco Amato filed his indictment against the trio on 28 December 1973 after the Primavalle attack, he stressed the influence of Potere Operaio’s culture on the accused, noting its ‘feverish exaltation of violence against institutions and people, and its recourse to hatred’ (Grandi 2003, p. 299). He was equally damning in his depiction of the perpetrators: Not proletarians, not workers, not even real students, but from petty-­ bourgeois backgrounds, with political or rather ‘pseudo-political’ views that are limited to reckless anarchist slogans, the defendants pose as revolutionaries while relying on their families to lead a life of no responsibilities or financial worries, with all the other comforts of the consumerist civilisation they contest. They maintain aristocratic detachment from the masses, and from the democratic political forces towards whom they direct their contempt. They harbour hatred for anyone who is not part of the elite. For this reason, unable to operate on any ideological and political level, they identify the ideas they say they want to eliminate with the people who manifest them. (Grandi 2003, p. 300)

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This attack was a turning point in Italy’s experience of political violence. It was the first fatal attack to take place within a domestic space and prompted some to take up weapons and to contribute to the political violence that was to come. Indeed, in 2006 Senator Marcello De Angelis, one of the leaders of neofascist militant group Terza Posizione (Third Position, TP), said the Primavalle attack and the killing of a Greek far-­right student during the first Primavalle trial in 1975—both analysed in Chapter 3—led many on the far right to join the armed fight, frustrated by the MSI’s response and the failure of the judicial process (Cento Bull 2012, p. 121). The attack was a turning point for the left, too. It marked the end of innocence in public consciousness which, until this point, broadly discussed the violence of the Years of Lead in relation to the far right. MSI members Giuseppe Mazzola and Graziano Giralucci were shot dead during an assault on the MSI base in Padova in June 1974; their deaths were the first to be claimed by the BR. At a political level, the Primavalle attack alienated many engaged in left-wing activism who were unable to recognise themselves in this act of unimaginable horror, as the oral history interviews analysed in the final chapter of this book demonstrate. Over the last five decades, memory of this attack has moved Rome’s far right to march, chant and commemorate; its memorialisation has divided political leaders at a local and national level and its name has been spoken in Italy’s parliament as a symbol of the fatal consequences of political extremism. But it is not easily discussed, nor researched. On my first research trip to Rome in 2010, I went to a local cafe to ask for directions to the Associazione Fratelli Mattei (Mattei Brothers’ Association, AFM), an organisation run by the victims’ surviving brother, Giampaolo Mattei. When I handed the address to the barista, he looked at me with mistrust, asking why I was looking for this address when “they were just a family of Fascists”. To engage with the memory of this tragedy, even within the context of academic research, is still perceived by some as supporting far-­ right politics. I have presented my work at academic conferences at home, internationally and in Italy, and have sometimes met a frosty response or outright hostility. Judging from speakers’ remarks, research on the far-­ right dead is seen as a threat to the beliefs upon which the antifascist Republic was built. On the contrary: this book is a response to the resurgence in far-right support, which saw Fratelli d’Italia (Brothers of Italy, FdI)—a far-right party directly descended from the MSI—win the September 2022 general election. Giorgia Meloni, a former member of the MSI youth division, currently serves as Italy’s prime minister, with

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Ignazio Benito Maria La Russa holding presidency of the Senate. His father, Antonio La Russa, was secretary of the Fascist party in Paternò, a political tradition Ignazio continued with his involvement in the MSI youth in Milan (and one he carried in his middle name). Against this political backdrop, my book aims to understand the emotive role memory plays in building the next generation of neofascists and sustaining a dangerous ideology whose threat remains stronger than ever in post-war Italy. So far, less attention has been given to the memory of far-right tragedies during the Years of Lead, with scholarship focusing instead on case studies pertaining to left-wing memory. Historian Andrea Hajek’s comprehensive study Negotiating Memories of Protest in Western Europe (2013) also adopts a case study-approach, examining how the 1977 killing of the left-wing activist Francesco Lorusso in Bologna has been remembered officially and unofficially across generations. The judicial enquiries and two trials for the Primavalle arson have been included in comprehensive studies of the legacy of political violence, including Anna Cento Bull and Philip Cooke’s Ending Terrorism in Italy (2013). The deaths have also been dealt with in popular Italian books such as Luca Telese’s Cuori neri (2006), which was unique at the time of publication for its sole focus on right-wing victims of political violence. However, with the exception of one article by the author (King 2019), the attack is yet to be the sole focus of a piece of academic research. Using the Primavalle arson as a case study, this book sets out to explore, contextualise and offer interpretations of how far-right communities have engaged with memory over the past 50 years. As we witness a resurgence in support for Italy’s institutional far-­ right, and, with its success, more rigorous claims to neofascist memory in public space, it is essential to consider the role that memories of far-right victimhood play in the construction of contemporary political identity and the mainstreaming of far-right ideology.

1.1   The Years of Lead and Their Legacy From the late 1960s to 1980, Italy lived through a long decade of political violence. More than 12,000 instances of political violence were recorded, primarily taking place in the streets, on public transport or in public buildings. Though the Piazza Fontana bombing of 1969 may mark the start of the period in Italian collective memory, it was not the first act of terrorism that year. Its ‘exceptional nature’ may have eclipsed two smaller explosions, but it was in fact part of a wider series of attacks (Cento Bull and

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Cooke 2013, p. 2). By 1969, the so-called strategy of tension had emerged as a feature of Italian political life. This term, so frequently evoked in discussions of Italian political violence, first appeared on the pages of the British newspaper The Observer. Writing a few days after the Piazza Fontana massacre, journalist Leslie Finer (1969) used it to denote the collusion between neofascists and the Italian state. In their meticulously researched explanation of the causes and decline of Italian terrorism, Leonard Weinberg and William Lee Eubank outline the aims of this strategy of tension: to demonstrate the ‘validity’ of the might-is-right thesis, and to point to the need for repressive action on the part of the state to control civil unrest. The longer term objective was to destabilize Italian democracy […] whereby a fear of terrorism would encourage the civilian population to opt spontaneously for the relinquishment of certain freedoms in exchange for the physical security provided by a military dictatorship. (1987, p. 59)

The early 1970s were characterised by massacres (stragi), in which bombs caused mass loss of life. In the early Years of Lead, these explosions were recorded in places including Piazza Fontana in 1969, in Piazza della Loggia, Brescia, in 1974, and on board an Italicus train passing through a tunnel under the Apennine mountains in 1974. As we shall see, investigators found that a failed bomb aboard a Torino–Genova train just days before the Primavalle arson might have caused up to 500 deaths, which would have made it the largest massacre in the Years of Lead. These acts were the work of neofascist terrorist organisations like Ordine Nuovo (New Order, ON), introduced later in this chapter. Ordinary citizens lost their lives in ordinary spaces: the bank, the train, the piazza. There were also smaller, daily acts of violence and aggression. Piero Ignazi states that from 1969–73, ‘95% of “minor” episodes of violence (beatings, aggressions, damages) can be attributed to extreme-right activists’ (1994, p. 38). From the mid-1970s, far-left terrorism began to dominate. Characterised by firearms and the strategic targeting of state representatives, which culminated in the kidnapping and murder of former  prime minister Aldo Moro in 1978, this was a shift in Italy’s experience of political violence (Cento Bull 2012, p. 120). In democratic antifascist Italy, these are thorny memories to integrate into national narratives. Building on the ideas of ‘defensive amnesia’ and a psychological wound proposed by Ruth Glynn (2013, p. 8), Hajek has argued that

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memory of left-wing terrorism is still too sensitive in the collective memory of Italians, and the 1970s therefore represent a “collective” and “cultural” trauma where narratives of victimhood stand in the way of a reassessment of historical facts that might allow this wound to really heal. (2013, p. 32)

Not only has the repeated failure of the legal system and subsequent lack of closure further stymied engagement with this difficult past, but these obstacles have also sustained historic far-right narratives of injustice, persecution, and an ongoing ideological battle for truth, which are often expressed during commemorative practices. Memory has played an important role in the delivery of justice after violence in many countries. Within conflict resolution, justice generally involves the recognition of suffering, and subsequent punishment. Following the break-up of Yugoslavia, for example, this was a discernible priority, as expressed in the creation of the International Criminal Tribunal for the Former Yugoslavia, which aimed to promote reconciliation among this group of new nations (Fatić 2000). In post-apartheid South Africa, memory played a central role in the Truth and Reconciliation Commission and the delivery of transitional justice, though the Commission was heavily criticised for granting amnesty to perpetrators who gave testimony. In balancing the need for truth and justice with reconciliation, the Commission followed a path ‘somewhere between impunity/amnesia at the one extreme and retribution/prosecution on the other’ (Marais 2020, p. 114). Other nations have focused on education in their management of difficult legacies. In Northern Ireland, the state has promoted the sharing of narratives of political violence, which features in school curricula (Barton and McCully 2003). The Spanish case is particularly interesting for the role of memory— and forgetting—in the resolution of conflict after civil war. According to Carolyn P. Boyd (2008, p. 141), common slogans including ‘never again’ and ‘we were all guilty’ during Spain’s transition to democracy cast civil war as fratricide, an attempt to minimise political divisions in the national narrative to create a shared sense of responsibility. The institutionally endorsed Pacto del Olvido (Pact of Forgetting), which was codified in the Amnesty Law of 1977, was presented as a means to create the space needed for national recovery, enabling institutions to closely manage narratives of the past in the hope of reducing ideological discord. In reality, however, it was ‘a third route towards impunity’ (Huyse 1995, p.  51); not a self-­ serving impunity imposed by an authoritarian regime nor a blanket

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impunity within a process of truth and reconciliation, but an agreement not to punish those involved in crimes defending or attacking Franco’s regime. This opened a chasm between official memory narratives and painful individual memories. Three decades after Spain’s transition to democracy, the Historical Memory Law passed by the Spanish parliament in December 2007 condemned Franco’s repressive regime, recognised those who suffered violence and persecution during the civil war and dictatorship, and offered compensation to the relatives of victims. The law was significant in Spain’s management of the historical memory of violence for its simultaneous invocation of ‘the spirit of reconciliation of the transition’ while stressing ‘the need to honour those who suffered the consequences of the Franco regime and to provide them with reparations’ (Sumalla and Maria 2013, pp. 84–5). Notably, however, the Act did not use the term ‘victims’, instead referring—in the past tense—to ‘those who suffered the consequences of the Civil War and of the dictatorship’, a choice Tamarit Sumalla (2013, p. 85) attributes to ‘a view of these persons as not fulfilling the moral imperatives attached to the “ideal victim”’, namely, total innocence. Alongside these developments in the legal realm, evidence of the ever-­changing relationship between the Spanish state and its memory of fascism can be found in public space, too. The 2019 exhumation of Franco’s body from the Valle de los Caidos (Valley of the Fallen) monument outside Madrid—for some, a site of neofascist pilgrimage— underlines the fact that much of the memory work of reconciliation takes place beyond spaces of justice or education. A symbol of recognition and step towards reparations, a piece of evidence or an educational lesson, memory plays an important role in delivering justice. But Italy’s management of its violent legacies has been more hybrid than clear-cut. Anna Cento Bull and Philip Cooke write of a hazy strategy that has led to ‘Italy’s partial and incomplete process of ending terrorism’ (2013, p.  103). Though pentitismo—a media-invented term describing the process by which perpetrators were encouraged to turn state’s evidence in exchange for a reduced sentence—is widely held to have brought about the end of terrorism and the disbanding of former perpetrators, the legislation was heavily criticised for its uneven treatment of equal crimes and the early release of convicts. Institutional management of this legacy has impacted the vigour with which victims from the period are remembered. The state introduced a National Day of Memory for the Victims of Terrorism, which might have encouraged mutual recognition of shared experiences. However, the choice of date—the anniversary of

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the discovery of Aldo Moro’s body—shows the privileging of high-profile individuals in national narratives and positions the period as one of violence against the state, not one of state violence. Within this context, stories of martyrdom have flourished, some of which have been promoted by the state. Social scientist Baldassare Scolari has analysed the role of what he terms ‘state martyrs’ in ‘opening a civil religious space’ in his work on the memory of Aldo Moro (2017, p. 71). Their celebration encourages individuals to identify with the nation, and to celebrate and adhere to its foundations. They were part of the state’s transition process. Moreover, as historian Valentine Lomellini’s recent study demonstrates, Italians, especially those living in Rome, experienced another strand of violence during the 1970s, and those victims have by and large been left out of collective memory (Lomellini 2022). In her investigation of the so-called Lodo Moro, a dynamic agreement between elements of the Italian government and secret service and parties in the Middle East, Lomellini documents the terrorist attacks carried out on Italian soil by individuals connected to the Palestinian resistance and analyses the nature of this ‘agreement’—the formality of which remains contested. She argues that representatives of the Italian government and secret services likely had contact with members of the Palestinian Liberation Organization and the so-called state sponsors of terrorism—Libya, Syria and Iraq—to agree to a truce after devastating acts of violence like the 17 December 1973 attacks at Rome’s Fiumicino airport, which killed 34. She highlights how this pact ‘violated the right of Italian citizens to justice’, and her work is offered in response to the many silences in collective memory so as not to ‘desecrate our right to truth as well’ (Lomellini 2022, p. 124). In his work on collective remembrance, historian Joseph Theodoor Leerssen addresses ‘state-sanctioned public commemoration’, which is mediated, geared towards social harmony and canonises individuals in one official history (2001, p. 215). We might consider Scolari’s state martyrs within this framework. But, Leerssen argues, grassroots memory is often discordant with the national narratives promoted by institutions. In other words, ‘community remembrancing’, which is ‘carried largely by local or small-scale communities rather than by the elites of nations-at-large’ often ‘evinces a different sense of history, one which sees history from the point of view of the losers, the bereaved, the victims’ (2001, p. 215). Sometimes this ongoing conflict between national narratives and grassroots remembering results in a cycle that stirs more civic discord. Sociologist Jefrey K. Olick writes:

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Victors and victims are now entwined in ongoing struggles of claim and counterclaim, memory and countermemory: Contemporary politics continues past wars as discursive battles over their legacies. The question is whether these discursive struggles tend toward a resolution or generate new cycles of hatred and atrocity. (2013, p. 139)

Olick identifies ‘mnemonic resistance’ undertaken by individuals or groups that challenge official versions of events, and demand acknowledgement of past wrongs. This, he argues, has become ‘a decisive factor’ in transitional justice, ‘as well as in domestic and international politics more generally. What forms such acknowledgment should take, what acknowledgment means, have thus become central questions where this politics of regret has taken hold’ (Olick 2013, pp.  139–40). Tension between institutional and grassroots remembering recurs throughout this book. As we shall see, martyrs have become protagonists on this contested stage.

1.2   The Meanings of Political Martyrdom What, then, does it mean to call someone a ‘martyr’? Martyr narratives give the dead posthumous purpose. To label someone a martyr is to ascribe them a legacy that extends into the future, to contextualise a death within a broader conflict—real or imagined—or to position the death as part of the pursuit of a goal (Middleton 2011, p.  29). Looking to the past to inspire a future, martyrdom is nevertheless tethered to the present. Historian Lacey Baldwin Smith’s work on Christian martyr narratives demonstrates that martyrs were the result of ‘unbalanced and unstable societies experiencing a process of cultural, economic, and political restructuring’, often produced in ‘expanding and crusading societies’ where individuals were indoctrinated to ‘die for their faith, for their nation state, or for a political-social ideal’ (1999, p.  18). As the sociologist Michael Schudson argues, martyrdom ‘is a role that is assigned for present needs’, called upon ‘when people may need a symbolic object to define, explain, or galvanise a course of action’ (1989, p.  159)⁠. Martyrs are powerful, multifaceted symbols, able to ‘elicit devotional zeal and encourage affiliation with a cause’ (DeSoucey et al. 2008, p. 105). But they are built, not born. The term relies upon individuals or state institutions to craft the emotive narrative that keeps it aloft. After all, martyrdom is, as the scholar of religion Elizabeth Castelli writes, ‘rhetorically constituted and discursively sustained’ (2004, p. 173).

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Competing martyr stories within political conflict is not a  uniquely Italian  phenomenon. Equally contentious examples can be found in Northern Ireland or Spain, where Catholic culture is fertile ground for this rhetoric. Historian Avner Ben-Amos has demonstrated the centrality of state funerals in creating ideological consensus in France’s Third Republic, considering the role of martyr narratives (2000). In Italy, the martyr paradigm has been recycled at various points throughout the nation’s history from the moment of its inception. Various actors have built on this long tradition of martyrdom, adding (or removing) nuance found in existing national narratives. Historian Lucy Riall (2010) examines the use of ‘martyr cults’ by religious and nationalist movements during the Risorgimento, when stories of secular martyrdom were part of the propaganda arsenal needed to graft the idea of an Italian nation onto day-­ to-­day life. Nationalist groups reframed death and military loss as sanctifying sacrifices for the nation, and martyrdom became proof ‘of an Italian valo[u]r that transcended death, defeat, and political decline’ (Riall 2010, p. 256). The movement provides a clear example of the ‘transposition of religious vocabularies onto the nation’ (Riall 2010, p. 259).2 Riall identifies the attempts of the republican Giuseppe Mazzini to reframe tragic losses of life within the battle for unification as revolutionary heroism, and his promotion of martyrs ‘were a fusion of the romantic idea of the free individual […] with the more dolorous image of Catholic suffering’ (2010, p. 268). She writes: ‘For Mazzini, the martyred revolutionary not only sanctified the nation: he also embodied it as a cause worth joining and for which it was worth fighting and dying’ (2010, p. 268). The promise of martyrdom was a nationalist call to arms. After the Risorgimento—a revolution that had ‘wrapped the idea of the nation in a sacred aura, raising it to the status of the supreme collective entity to which a citizen owed dedication and obedience—to the point of sacrificing his own life on its behalf’ (Gentile 1996, p. 44), came Liberal Italy. Stories of sacrifice for the new nation played a crucial role in the process of unifying disparate cultures and histories into one nation. The philosopher Giovanni Gentile describes this period as ‘the first universal, liturgical manifestation of the sacralization of politics in the twentieth century’ (1996, p. 17). The army and educational establishments were tasked with perpetuating the new civil religion, instilling the moral values of the state in its citizens—be they soldiers or students—and finally attempting to make Italians. Stories of suffering in the name of the nation were taught in Italian schools, in an attempt to build national identity and encourage

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dedication to the national project by linking suffering to glory (Mancini 2015, p. 28). The media also played its part, publishing accounts of glorious battles or heroic defeats (Mancini 2015, p. 37)3 and efforts were made to infuse the civic calendar with a ‘memorial liturgy’ linked to the state, through rituals, feasts and commemorative practices to honour the monarchy and founding fathers (Gentile 1996, p. 10). During the First World War, Catholic Italy was fertile ground for the commemoration of martyrs by the unified nation. Martyrdom became a foundation of civil religion—a position it retained after subsequent periods of violence on Italian soil. Again, this was not confined to Italy. As historian George Mosse argues, images of fallen soldiers in the arms of Christ were ubiquitous in Europe, and ‘projected the traditional belief in martyrdom and resurrection onto the nation as an all-encompassing civic religion’ (1990, p. 7). Despite this shared experience, this was nevertheless an important period in terms of the fusion between war and national identity, and the first time Italy had embarked upon a military campaign as a single nation following unification in 1871. Fighting for king and country, soldiers’ deaths could be framed in the wider context of a battle for national liberty and values. Identifying the early stages of a sacralisation of politics that reached a climax under fascism, Gentile (1996, p. 17) writes: ‘The Christian symbolism of death and resurrection, dedication to the nation, the mystical connotations of blood and sacrifice, the “communion” of comradeship—all these became ingredients for a new “patriotic religion”⁠’. Martyrdom and the nation state were tightly bound. Much like a traditional religion, Fascism relied upon cults, symbols and ritual to stir emotions and inspire loyalty in its followers, and martyrs played an important part. Historians Simonetta Falasca-Zamponi (1998), Roberta Suzzi Valli (2000), Alessandra Staderini (2008) and John Foot (2009) have considered the rituals and rhetoric of Fascist martyrdom, while Marla Stone has examined the aesthetics of martyrdom (1998, p. 198). Under Mussolini, the families of the dead received war pensions, and monuments to the Fascist dead were constructed in civic spaces throughout the country (Foot 2009, p.  57). Some of these structures retain their memorial magnetism for neofascist groups today, who add new names to an old pantheon, as we shall see. Beyond these physical structures, the regime also commemorated those who died abroad in large ceremonies, adding a transnational element to Fascist memory (King 2021). Such was the strength of martyr rhetoric in Mussolini’s Italy that after his death at the hands of partisans, Mussolini’s body and final resting

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place became a bone of contention as antifascists desperately sought to prevent his ascent to martyrdom (Luzzatto 2006). Historian Stephen Gundle (2000) has examined martyrdom in relation to Italy’s much venerated Resistance—a theme examined by Guri Schwarz (2010) in his study of the new Republic’s commemoration of its dead after the fall of Fascism. The partisan-martyr paradigm has also been considered by Alan R. Perry (2001) in his work on the rhetoric of sacrifice in commemorative biographies of partisans. Addressing the accepted origins of the Republic that were maintained by the political and cultural lite, he explores the breakdown of the Resistance tradition as a founding myth, arguing that the nation’s government chose to ‘adopt a view of continuity of the state in which as little as possible was made of both Fascism and the Resistance’ (Gundle 2000, p. 118). This process involved the removal of monuments that honoured Mussolini and the Fascist martyrs, and a number of monuments were constructed to honour fallen partisans (Gundle 2000, p. 119). In areas of left-wing rule, the partisan figure was accentuated in monuments, influenced by the classical tradition of the military figure, but also ‘images of the partisan diffused since the Spanish civil war. These clearly portrayed an irregular soldier, a fact signalled by the absence of helmet and uniform, and the presence of a beard and rough, informal clothing’ (Gundle 2000, p.  120). Photographs were also published in newspapers, magazines, books and exhibitions, which were ‘important in establishing the individuality of the partisan martyr, who could not be summed up in an abstraction of the ‘unknown soldier type’ (Gundle 2000, p. 120). Resistance martyrs were, by and large, citizen-soldiers.4 The martyr paradigm was also part of the symbolic fight of the Years of Lead, as this book makes clear, and excellent work has been done in this area. Sociologist Baldassare Scolari has analysed the creation of ‘state martyrs’ as part of the legitimisation of political authority, using the memory of Aldo Moro as a case study (2017). Pierpaolo Antonello’s work on narratives of sacrifice considers the testimonial role of the martyred body and its use as a political instrument through analysis of the representation of Moro and Pasolini’s bodies (2009). Moreover, Hajek’s longue-durée examination of the memory of Francesco Lorusso, a left-wing activist, examines the use of martyr narratives as a way to make sense of the unthinkable (2013, p. 128). However, there is no comprehensive study of far-right martyrdom during the Years of Lead, a lacuna this book seeks to fill. As we shall see, the MSI leveraged the emotive power of martyrdom by framing deaths as acts of sacrifice. The first part of this book will show

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that martyr stories were part of the MSI’s rhetorical arsenal, a way to fit death within a broader narrative of ideological battle and a means to encourage supporters not to cower away from violence. The party did not invent this tradition, but rather injected these narratives with new meanings. The concept of martyrdom also draws attention to the agency of the killer and makes them ‘the principal actor’ of the event; to be sacrificed requires a sacrificer (Portelli 2007, p. 196). The far right has also used the martyr narrative to demonise and dehumanise the far left, building a mythology of monsters while encouraging its followers not to fear violence—a concept at its historic heart.

1.3   Violence and the Movimento Sociale Italiano Founded in 1946 for those who still identified with Fascist values, Italy’s MSI had a dual aim: to revive and rethink fascism, and to fight communism. The presence of the radical right in post-war Italy was notable in the European context. Though the political systems of post-war Europe had been designed to foster consensus, precluding the rise of another extreme right mass movement, in Italy the memory of Fascism and the sharp class cleavage kept space open for right wing extremism and allowed the radical Right to perform a ­supporting role in favor of the ruling interests, especially when social conflict was more acute. (Ferraresi 1996, p. 188)

Moreover, the rise of the largest Communist Party in the west prompted those in power to ‘overlook the antifascist solidarity of the Resistance, thus allowing for the resurgence and reorganization of neofascism around the MSI’ (Ferraresi 1996, p. 188). The MSI was politically, ideologically and geographically divided from the outset (Ignazi 2015, p.  213). A group concentrated predominantly in the north of Italy, which had experienced Mussolini’s puppet state the Repubblica Sociale Italiana (Italian Social Republic, RSI, also known as the Salò Republic) from 1943–5, wanted to precipitate a return to fascism. Giorgio Almirante, party leader at the time of the Primavalle arson, was Cabinet Chief in the Ministry for Popular Culture during Mussolini’s short-lived Salò Republic, and was deeply involved in its propaganda (Cheles 2010). His experience in constructing convincing rhetoric becomes evident in Chapters 2 and 3, during his leadership of the party (it was his second time in that post). Indeed, he was known for his ‘spoken newspapers’—he would travel to piazzas to meet

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supporters, where he would read news extracts and comment on them to his audience (Zagami 2020, p. 45). A second group—the party’s primary electoral base—favoured a more conservative approach. Narratives relating to this radical–moderate split played an important part in the attribution of blame for the Primavalle arson, as we shall see throughout this book. Pino Rauti, a former volunteer of the Salò Republic, was a leading figure among those who wished to see the return of fascism. He considered violence a means to reach this goal. In 1954, he unofficially founded Centro Studi Ordine Nuovo (CSON), which was formally established in 1957 as a ‘think-tank for ideological-doctrinal discussion and dissemination of radical right doctrine’ (Wolff 2019, p. 70). Rauti and 87 followers left the MSI to pursue a ‘new order’ at the fifth party congress in 1956, committed to the philosophy of Julius Evola and the principles of tradition, authority, hierarchy, discipline and order (Wolff 2019, p.  70). According to historian Elisabetta Wolff (2019, p.  71), CSON was the ‘most important right-wing extra-parliamentary group to oppose the moderate line of the MSI’ for more than a decade, with more than 3500 militants in 1966 and 10–11,000 members, predominantly in Rome, Sicily, Milan and Padova. However, the group had confirmed links to state apparatuses and agencies, making it more than just a think-tank. CSON collaborated with Italy’s Servizio Informazioni Difesa (Defence Information Service, SID), a secret service branch for national defence, which was anti-communist (Wolff 2019, p.  72). Rauti’s network even extended internationally; he belonged to the right-wing organisations Jeune Europe (Young Europe)  and Nouvel Ordre Européen  (New European Order), a network of neofascists ready to use political violence for ideological ends (Wolff 2019, p. 71). As we will see throughout this book, this international outlook and reverence for violence characterise the commemorative culture of those inspired by Rauti’s ideology. In spring 1960, the MSI took centre stage when it lent its support to Fernando Tambroni’s one-party Democrazia Cristiana (Christian Democracy, DC) cabinet, enabling the government to win its first vote of confidence. Led by the moderate Arturo Michelini, for whom this agreement offered an important step in the MSI’s institutional integration (or ‘strategy of insertion’, as he called it), the MSI announced that its annual party congress would be held in Genova. The provocative choice of a city associated with Italy’s insurrectionary Resistance, and the decision to invite Carlo Emanuele Basile, the last Prefect of Genova during the Italian Social Republic, prompted weeks of protests, one of which involved 30,000 people (Zagami 2020, pp.  152–3), and led to violent clashes

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between antifascists, MSI supporters and the police. In discussion with Tambroni, the Genovese Prefect postponed the congress. Pressure on Tambroni’s government continued to rise, fuelled by violent street clashes, rallies, and strikes. He resigned on 19 July, and he was succeeded by a Christian Democrat cabinet, who relied on centrist parties rather than the MSI.  The downfall of Tambroni’s government revealed the strength of feeling against the MSI, and it put the party in a difficult position. As historian David Broder (2023, p. 63) notes, the MSI was ‘a self-proclaimed “party of order” that could not come close to power without dragging Italy into turmoil.’ Giorgio Almirante returned to the MSI leadership in 1969 after his first run as president (1947–1950). As Ferraresi notes, the shift of Italian politics to the left in the 1960s provoked panic among a ruling class that, throughout the history of unified Italy, had never been averse to using illegal, authoritarian means in order to keep the lower classes away from power positions. The result was the long period of the strategy of tension. (Ferraresi 1996, p. 195)

Moreover, those on the radical right who were frustrated by the MSI’s turn to parliamentary politics were now ready to take part in the season of plots, conspiracies, attempted and failed coups d’état, which were unleashed by a mixed company that included domestic and foreign intelligence, separate corps of the state, veterans, and restless sections of the armed forces and the (so called) law enforcement agencies. The radical Right was involved in most of the significant episodes, from street brawls to bomb attacks to massacres, the highest point occurring between the end of the sixties and the first half of the seventies, concomitant with a period of extremely intense social and industrial strife. (Ferraresi 1996, p. 195)

The early 1970s was an important time for the MSI, as addressed in Chapter 2. Conti (2013, vii) characterises the MSI’s political project in the 1970s as ‘the re-absorption of Ordine Nuovo; the revival of the militant activism of the “right-wing piazza”; [and] representation of the rebellion seen in impoverished areas of southern Italy and the call for order in northern Italy.’ After a period of moderate leadership under Augusto de Marsanich (a Salò veteran) and Michelini, when Giorgio Almirante took charge after the death of Michelini in 1969, he strengthened ties with more militant groups and reintegrated radicals, even granting a seat on the

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central committee to Pino Rauti. As part of this reintegration, the party leadership shelved all existing internal disciplinary measures against Ordine Nuovo dissidents (Zagami 2020, p. 212). Despite this engagement with radical militants, the sociologist Franco Ferraresi (1996, p.  195) notes Almirante’s efforts to ‘renew the look of the MSI (its language, choreography, and style) and repeatedly stated his commitment to democratic procedures.’ Almirante sought to create a broader right-wing nationalist block that could appeal across social classes, offer an effective opposition to Communism and counteract the powerful DC. Indeed, the party was renamed Movimento Sociale Italiano—Destra Nazionale (Italian Social Movement—National Right, MSI-DN) in 1972 with the absorption of the monarchist party the Partito Democratico Italiano di Unità Monarchica (Italian Democratic Party of Monarchist Unity, PDIUM). Almirante opposed Michelini’s efforts to insert the party into the existing government system, instead presenting the MSI as an alternative to Italian party politics, which he deemed incapable of facing Italy’s serious crises (Zagami 2020, p. 210). The party achieved what the historian Andrea Mammone (2015, p.  141) describes as an ‘electoral breakthrough’ with its highest ever proportion of votes in the 1972 general election (8.7%). As we shall see in Chapters 2 and 3, in the early 1970s, Almirante battled to bring the more violent elements of the party under control, and pushed back against widespread accusations of squadrismo, seeking to attract more moderate right-wing voters. Against this backdrop, he used the Mattei brothers’ funeral as a heavily orchestrated performance of political redemption which, through the rituals and rhetoric of political martyrdom, underlined the suffering of the party at the hands of antifascist institutions and its stoic non-violence. A further shift in the radical right’s relationship to violence came in the late 1970s. In his analysis of the development of ‘armed spontaneity’ during this period, Ferraresi (1996, p. 189) writes: by then the strategy of tension had lost much of its purpose. It was originally meant to create bloody accidents and blame them on the Left: but by the late seventies the volume of bona fide left-wing violence, obligingly produced by red terrorism, was so high as to render, in principle, right-wing falsifications needless.

In 1976, a new party was formed, Destra Nazionale (National Right, DN), by the more moderate members of the MSI. Though it did not last long, the new party adopted a more moderate turn and rejected

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revolutionary ideals, with members open to collaboration with other parliamentary parties. Its spinout isolated the MSI, particularly amidst the extreme violence from the far left and the far right in 1977—an isolation exacerbated by the ‘formation of the “national solidarity” governments in the late seventies, which in fact sanctioned a sort of grand coalition including all parties, with one exception—the MSI’ (Ferraresi 1996, p. 195). The party’s relationship with violence is a recurring theme of this book. As Ferraresi (1996, p. 195) notes, ‘the MSI as such cannot be held responsible for neofascist terrorism. But it certainly produced a radical political culture, propounding a “system alternative” that encouraged violence.’ Moreover, it allowed for the simultaneous engagement of MSI personnel with the political party and violent extra-parliamentary groups, including Avanguardia Nazionale (National Vanguard) and Ordine Nuovo—a characteristic of the ‘more complex physiognomy of Almirante’s MSI’ (Conti 2013, vii). In the late 1970s and throughout the 1980s, the party turned towards democratic collaboration and constitutional legality—a process that reached a climax with the so-called Svolta di Fiuggi (Fiuggi Turn) of 1995, which marked the dissolution of the MSI and its rebirth as Alleanza Nazionale (National Alliance, AN) led by Gianfranco Fini, who was appointed MSI leader in 1987 aged just 35. AN entered government in 2001 and Fini became deputy prime minister. The entry of an ex-­neofascist party into democratic government was astonishing in post-war Europe. Two years later, Italy witnessed the foundation of CasaPound, a neofascist movement and party that describes its own members as ‘third millennium fascists’. Although CasaPound does not openly encourage violence, Froio et  al. have shown that the group nonetheless celebrates violence through its reverence of the Fascist action squads (2020, p. 91). Moreover, as I argue in Chapter 6, the celebration of violence is implicit in CasaPound’s reverence of the victims of the political violence of the 1970s, including Stefano and Virgilio Mattei. However, these commemorative events position memory—not violence—as a contemporary act of political militancy. As I write in 2023, 50 years since the Rogo di Primavalle, which, as this book demonstrates, marked an escalation and turning point in Italy’s experience of political violence, the Italian media is beginning to turn its attention to the violence of 1973 and beyond half a century later. Journalists covering the 50th anniversary of the death of policeman Antonio Marino, who was killed in Milan during an unauthorised demonstration on 12 April 1973 led by the MSI that turned so violent it was

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nicknamed ‘the march on Milan’ by Corriere della Sera (Pieroni 1973)—a clear reference to Mussolini’s March on Rome—found themselves including the name of the current president of the Senate, Ignazio La Russa, in their accounts of that day. At the time, La Russa headed up the MSI youth branch, and he, with his brother Romano (now councillor for security and civil protection in Lombardy’s regional council), were among those investigated in connection with this violence. La Russa is one of the founders of Fratelli d’Italia. Although he and his brother were both acquitted in connection with Milan’s street violence, revisiting these episodes half a century later shines a spotlight on the violent heritage from which Italy’s current leaders are directly descended.

1.4  Overview of the Book This book is organised chronologically and divided into three parts spanning 50 years. A longue durée approach to the study of memory allows us to trace the explicit intertwining of grassroots neofascist memory communities and changes in institutional politics, exposing the flexibility of memory. Part I begins a month before the arson in 1973 and runs through to the mid-1980s when the perpetrators stood trial, in absentia, for the second time. Chapter 2 traces the roots of the powerful campaign of misinformation in the mainstream and subversive media that pointed the finger at the MSI as the instigator of this violent act and destabilised public opinion—a strategy with a long afterlife. I ask why MSI leader Giorgio Almirante decried the ‘moral lynching’ of his party at the hands of the media in the 1970s, and how that narrative intersected with the ideas of political sacrifice and martyrdom he put forward in remembering the Primavalle victims. Chapter 3 examines why the MSI engaged so emphatically with commemoration of the attack, and identifies a public performance of party redemption evident on the streets of Rome during the boys’ funeral. This chapter also documents the two Primavalle trials, their outcomes and the extreme political violence that took place beyond the walls of a Roman courthouse, which led to the death of a Greek far-right student, Mikis Mantakas, and the construction of a parallel martyr story honoured by the MSI. After the intense political patronage of memory by the MSI in the 1970s and throughout the trials, Part II takes us to the mid-1990s to examine the impact of the dissolution of the party and its rebirth as Alleanza Nazionale (National Alliance, AN), a renaissance (at least on

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paper) that marked an official rejection of the party’s Fascist heritage and Blackshirt violence. Here, I examine the distance AN sought to put between the party and this memory by adopting a moral, rather than political, framework to remember the attack, identifying a bifurcation in the far-right community that saw institutional and grassroots groups set upon different memorial paths. Chapter 4 identifies a resurgence in neofascist iconography and rituals in grassroots ceremonies immediately after the dissolution of the party, and asks what the Mattei brothers’ memory meant to those who resisted this shift in institutional politics towards moderate conservativism. Chapter 5 transports us three decades beyond the arson, when a public confession from one of the perpetrators silenced the rumour of MSI involvement in the attack once and for all but resurrected a cacophony of counter-confessions that created more divisions in memory, with significant repercussions for how the Italian state engaged with memory of the attack. This period also created the conditions in which Giampaolo Mattei, the victims’ surviving brother, could emerge as a public victim, a role I interrogate in the chapter. The final part of the book addresses memory of the attack in the contemporary populist age. Moving us beyond rumours in national newspapers, courthouse proclamations, or reverential rituals in cemeteries, Chapter 6 takes us to the rooftop terrace of CasaPound Italia to observe the intergenerational transmission of memory. Here, I ask what this memory means to young members of the far-right born long after the attack, and analyse how the memorial mantle is passed from one generation to the next. This chapter also uses commemorative posters and urban graffiti as a lens to examine the incorporation of far-right iconography into public space. Finally, the afterword narrows our focus from the collective to the individual, using oral history interviews with those who lived in Primavalle in 1973. Presented as a coda that allows us to reflect on the analysis contained in this book, these testimonies offer insight into how the narratives, symbols and inaccuracies resonated at a personal level.

Notes 1. Franco Piperno, one of the founders of PO, denied the existence of this clandestine, armed division in his interrogation by the Parliamentary Commission investigating the via Fani massacre, the kidnapping and murder of Aldo Moro and terrorism in Italy in 1994 (‘Commissione Parlamentare d’inchiesta sulla strage di via Fani sul sequestro e l’assassinio di Aldo Moro e sul terrorismo in Italia’ 1994, p. 96).

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2. The French Revolution is acknowledged as an early example of the creation of civil religion, where the sacrality of traditional religion is transferred to the nation through symbols and rituals. In the penultimate chapter of Book Four of the 1762 The Social Contract, Rousseau addressed the concept of civil religion. He argued that the state needed its citizens to believe in a civil religion that would incite them to do their duties. Revolutionaries in France witnessed the development of Robespierre’s Cult of the Supreme Being following revolutionaries’ rejection of Catholicism. With its encouragement of loyalty to the notions of liberty and democracy, this early civil religion fused elements of early Christianity, like belief in one God and the afterlife of the human soul, with elements of civic virtue. Exemplifying what the historian Emilio Gentile (1996, p. 2) labels ‘the sacralization of the nation’, which spread across Europe and saw politics and the sacred merge, the civil religion of the French Revolution ‘made politics religious and gave an educational mission to the state’—that of schooling its citizens in democratic virtues and morality. 3. According to Gentile (1996, p. 11), the tone was too sombre: ‘sorrow dominated, and nostalgia, and rue for the loss of the “fathers of the nation,” the “good and generous King,” or the other avatars of the new state, Cavour or Garibaldi. It was not the sort of liturgy calculated to make people enthusiastic for a “patriotic religion.”’ The movement lacked vibrancy, and ‘a communal myth of regeneration and rebirth through the sacrifice of life.’ Civil religion needed acts of martyrdom as testament to the sanctity of the nation and symbols of renewal. 4. Such images of martyrdom did not extend across Italy as a whole, remaining anchored instead in the regions in which the fallen lived or died. In the immediate aftermath of the Resistance, commemoration was site-specific.

References Antonello, Pierpaolo. 2009. Narratives of Sacrifice: Pasolini and Moro. In Imagining Terrorism: The Rhetoric and Representation of Political Violence in Italy 1969-2009, edited by Pierpaolo Antonello and Alan O’Leary, 30-47. Abingdo, Oxon: Routledge. Barton, Keith C., and Alan McCully. 2003. History Teaching and the Perpetuation of Memories: The Northern Ireland Experience. In The Role of Memory in Ethnic Conflict, 107–24. Ethnic and Intercommunity Conflict. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Ben-Amos, Avner. 2000. Funerals, Politics, and Memory in Modern France, 1789–1996. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Boyd, Carolyn P. 2008. The Politics of History and Memory in Democratic Spain. Annals of the American Academy of Political and Social Science 617 (May): 133–148.

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Broder, David. 2023. Mussolini’s Grandchildren: Fascism in Contemporary Italy. London: Pluto Press. Castelli, Elizabeth A. 2004. Martyrdom and Memory: Early Christian Culture Making. Gender, Theory, and Religion. New York: Columbia University Press. Cento Bull, Anna. 2012. Italian Neofascism: The Strategy of Tension and the Politics of Nonreconciliation. New York: Berghahn Books. Cento Bull, Anna, and Philip E.  Cooke. 2013. Ending Terrorism in Italy. Routledge Studies in Extremism and Democracy 18. Abingdon, Oxon; New York, NY: Routledge. Cheles, Luciano. 2010. Back to the Future. The Visual Propaganda of Alleanza Nazionale (1994–2009). Journal of Modern Italian Studies 15 (2): 232–311. Commissione Parlamentare d’inchiesta sulla strage di via Fani e sul sequestro e l’assassinio di Aldo Moro e sul terrorismo in Italia. 1994. XXIII no. 5. Senato della Repubblica, Camera dei Deputati. https://www.senato.it/service/PDF/ PDFServer/DF/284488.pdf. Conti, Davide. 2013. L’anima nera della Repubblica: storia del MSI. 1st ed. Quadrante Laterza 193. Rome: Laterza. DeSoucey, M., J.  E. Pozner, C.  Fields, K.  Dobransky, and G.  A. Fine. 2008. Memory and Sacrifice: An Embodied Theory of Martyrdom. Cultural Sociology 2 (1): 99–121. di Dio, Giuseppe. 1973. ‘Le reazioni: gli abitanti’. Il Messaggero, 17 April 1973. Falasca-Zamponi, Simonetta. 1998. Of Storytellers and Master Narratives: Modernity, Memory, and History in Fascist Italy. Social Science History 22 (4): 415–444. Fatić, Aleksandar. 2000. Reconciliation via the War Crimes Tribunal? London: Routledge. Ferraresi, Franco. 1996. Threats to Democracy: The Radical Right in Italy after the War. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Finer, Leslie. 1969. ‘480 Held in Terrorist Bombs Hunt’. The Observer, 14 December 1969. Foot, John. 2009. Italy’s Divided Memory. 1st ed. Italian and Italian American Studies. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Froio, Caterina, Pietro Castelli Gattinara, Giorgia Bulli, and Matteo Albanese. 2020. CasaPound Italia: Contemporary Extreme-Right Politics. Routledge Studies in Fascism and the Far Right. Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon; New York, NY: Routledge. Gentile, Emilio. 1996. The Sacralization of Politics in Fascist Italy. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Gerusa, Lisa. 2009. A (Conceptual) History of Violence: The Case of the Italian Extreme Left in the 1970s. In Imagining Terrorism: The Rhetoric and Representation of Political. Violence in Italy 1969-2009, ed. Pierpaolo Antonello and Alan O’Leary, 128–138. London: Routledge. Grandi, Aldo. 2003. La generazione degli anni perduti: storie di Potere operaio. Turin: Einaudi.

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Gundle, Stephen. 2000. The “civic Religion” of the Resistance in Post-War Italy. Modern Italy 5 (2): 113–132. Glynn, Ruth. 2013. Women, Terrorism and Trauma in Italian Culture. Italian and Italian American Studies. New York, N.Y: Palgrave Macmillan. Hajek, Andrea. 2013. Negotiating Memories of Protest in Western Europe: The Case of Italy. Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire; New  York, NY: Palgrave Macmillan. Huyse, Luc. 1995. Justice after Transition: On the Choices Successor Elites Make in Dealing with the Past. Law & Social Inquiry 20 (1): 51–78. Ignazi, Piero. 1994. Postfascisti?: Dal Movimento sociale italiano ad Alleanza nazionale. Bologna: Il Mulino. ———. 2015. Fascists and Post-Fascists. In The Oxford Handbook of Italian Politics, ed. Erik Jones and Gianfranco Pasquino, 211–223. Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press. King, Amy. 2019. ‘Antagonistic Martyrdom: Memory of the 1973 Rogo di Primavalle’. Modern Italy, 1–16. ———. 2021. ‘The Battle for Influence: Commemoration of Transnational Martyrs in the Italian Diaspora of the U.S. under Fascism’. Memory Studies, February, 1750698020988774. https://doi.org/10.1177/1750698020988774. Leerssen, J.T. 2001. Monument and Trauma: Varieties of Remembrance. In History and Memory in Modern Ireland, 204–222. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Lomellini, Valentine. 2022. Il ‘lodo Moro’: terrorismo e ragion di Stato, 1969–1986. Prima edizione. Storia e società. Bari: GLF editori Laterza. Luzzatto, Sergio. 2006. The Body of Il Duce. New York: Metropolitan Books. Mammone, Andrea. 2015. Transnational Neofascism in France and Italy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Mancini, Roberto. 2015. Il martire necessario: guerra e sacrificio nell’Italia contemporanea. Le ragioni di Clio 1. Ospedaletto (Pisa): Pacini editore. Marais, Anél. 2020. Reflections on the Work of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission in South Africa: Memory, Counter-Memory and Restorative Justice. In Just Memories: Remembrance and Restoration in the Aftermath of Political Violence, ed. by Bert van Roermund and Camila de Gamboa Tapias, 113–134. Series on Transitional Justice. Cambridge: Intersentia. Mattei, Giampaolo, and Giommaria Monti. 2008. La notte brucia ancora: Primavalle: il rogo che ha distrutto la mia famiglia. Milano: Sperling & Kupfer. Middleton, Paul. 2011. Martyrdom: A Guide for the Perplexed. Guides for the Perplexed. London: T & T Clark. Mosse, George L. 1990. Fallen Soldiers: Reshaping the Memory of the World Wars. New York; Oxford: Oxford University Press. Olick, Jeffrey K. 2013. The Politics of Regret: On Collective Memory and Historical Responsibility. New York: Routledge. Paoli, Franco. 1973. ‘La Borgata al Kerosene’. Tempo, 6 May 1973.

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Perry, Alan R., ed. 2001. Il santo partigiano martire: la retorica del sacrificio nelle biografie commemorative. Il portico 123. Ravenna: Longo. Pieroni, Alfredo. 1973. ‘La marcia su Milano’. Corriere della Sera, 13 April 1973. Corriere della Sera Archivio Storico. Poggio, Bruno. 1973. ‘Mattei supplicava i due figli di salvarsi gettandosi dalla finestra’. Il Messaggero, 19 April 1973. Portelli, Alessandro. 2007. The Order Has Been Carried Out: History, Memory, and Meaning of a Nazi Massacre in Rome. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Riall, Lucy. 2010. Martyr Cults in 19th-Century Italy. Journal of Modern History 82 (2): 255–287. Schudson, Michael. 1989. How Culture Works: Perspectives from Media Studies on the Efficacy of Symbols. Theory and Society 18 (2): 153–180. Schwarz, Guri. 2010. Tu mi devi seppellir: riti funebri e culto nazionale alle origini della Repubblica. Turin, Italy: UTET libreria. Scolari, Baldassare. 2017. State Martyrs: Aesthetics and Performativity of a Contemporary Political Discourse. Journal of Religion in Europe 10 (1–2): 71–106. Smith, Lacey Baldwin. 1999. Fools, Martyrs, Traitors: The Story of Martyrdom in the Western World. Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press. Staderini, Alessandra. 2008. La “Marcia dei martiri”: la traslazione nella cripta di Santa Croce dei caduti fascisti. Annali di storia di Firenze 3: 195–214. Stone, Marla. 1998. The Patron State: Culture & Politics in Fascist Italy. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Sumalla, Tamarit, and Josep Maria. 2013. Historical Memory and Criminal Justice in Spain. A Case of Late Transitional Justice. Cambridge: Intersentia. Telese, Luca. 2006. Cuori neri. Milano: Sperling & Kupfer. Vaccari, Luigi. 1973. ‘Primavalle ancora sotto choc. “Cancellare tutto questo odio”’. Il Messaggero, 18 April 1973, sec. Cronaca di Roma. Valli, Roberta Suzzi. 2000. The Myth of Squadrismo in the Fascist Regime. Journal of Contemporary History 35 (2): 131–150. Weinberg, Leonard, and William Lee Eubank. 1987. The Rise and Fall of Italian Terrorism. New Directions in Comparative and International Politics. Boulder; London: Westview. Wolff, Elisabetta Cassina. 2019. CasaPound Italia: “Back to Believing. The Struggle Continues”. Fascism 8 (1): 61–88. Zagami, Francesco. 2020. Storia del Movimento Sociale Italiano. Rome: Gruppo Albatros.

Oral History Interviews Carlo, interviewed by Amy King, telephone interview, 25 July 2019. All translations from the original Italian throughout this book are the work of the author. Davide, interviewed by Amy King, Rome, 19 May 2016.

CHAPTER 2

Mediated Memories and Contested Narratives

In the space of just a few days, two extremely serious episodes of violence have been recorded in Italy. Two episodes that were not coincidental, because both the bombs in Milan and the double murder in Rome reveal cold determination, precise criminal design, and a method of struggle that has reached the most absurd sectarianism and a rejection of every basic rule of civil coexistence. […] Can history repeat itself, is the present situation in any way similar to that which, in the post-war period, was the root of fascism’s rise to power? Alberto Sensini, Corriere della Sera, 19 April 1973.

Four days after the Primavalle arson, residents of the Calabrian town of Cosenza found posters attached to lamp posts and boards that described Stefano and Virgilio Mattei as ‘human torches on the pyre of subversive hatred’. Bearing the logo of Cosenza’s MSI-DN Federation, these posters drew attention to the perceived persecution of the party, declaring: ‘The preaching of hatred continues. The government, political  parties, the press, the regime’s Rai TV, have resorted to the most brazen lies in an attempt at the moral lynching of the MSI-DN, which has always preached the pacification of souls’ (Il Secolo d’Italia 1973g). Those who had not watched the news for a few days or picked up a newspaper might have wondered who these boys were, how they died and what they had to do with the MSI’s ‘moral lynching’ by the national television network or the © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 A. King, The Politics of Sacrifice, Italian and Italian American Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-45550-6_2

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press. The term ‘moral lynching’ was first used by Giorgio Almirante during a press conference after the Primavalle attack on April 19, during which he decried the MSI’s mistreatment by political parties and the media, saying that no other party had ever been subjected to ‘a political and moral lynching like that which has been unleashed upon us’ (Il Secolo d’Italia 1973e). He described coverage of the Primavalle attack as ‘bestial’, stating that the evening news programme by state broadcaster Rai at 8.30 pm the previous night had incorrectly reported that an arrest warrant had been issued for Angelo Lampis, a well-known MSI member, for perjury. This was retracted in the 11 pm edition of the news, and the next day the news agency Agenzia Giornalistica Italia (Italian Journalistic Agency, AGI) released an official statement, reproduced on the front page of the MSI’s newspaper, Il Secolo d’Italia, confirming Lampis was not sought in connection with the case (Il Secolo d’Italia 1973d). ‘But,’ Almirante responded, ‘when the television of twenty or thirty million Italians, the listeners of the 8.30 evening news, delivers poison and then denies it in front of an audience of far fewer listeners, it behaves neither lawfully nor honestly’ (Il Secolo d’Italia 1973e). The Cosenza posters illustrate the questions at the heart of this chapter: how was the arson covered in the media, and how did the MSI respond to this coverage? This chapter also considers the impact of this coverage on public opinion. The analysis that follows sits at the intersection between politics, the media and the Italian public. This position is crucial to our understanding of how the arson has been remembered across the decades— the subject of Parts II and III of this book—because heavily politicised media coverage shaped the public’s response to the attack and weakened the foundations of collective memory. As Erll argues, ‘cultural memory is unthinkable without media’, be it photographs or mass media; ‘media do not simply reflect reality, but instead offer constructions of the past’ (2011, p.  114). What is notable about coverage of the arson is how left-wing media shaped public perception of culpability, building an incorrect narrative that attributed blame to the MSI itself, a theory that dominated until Lollo’s admission of guilt in 2005 and echoes of which can be found today. The aims of this chapter, then, are to trace the origins, characteristics and evolution of these rumours and to examine the debates around the reliability of media coverage immediately after the arson. In turn, this analysis will help us to understand the context and outcome of the 1975 trial, the subject of Chapter 3, and the enduring divided memory of the attack.

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The mainstream and subversive left-wing print media drove the rumour that implicated the MSI in the fire, blurring the lines between victim and perpetrator. The MSI’s mouthpiece, Il Secolo d’Italia, monitored and responded to this coverage, rejecting this version of events and, as Almirante’s reference to ‘moral lynching’ demonstrates, the paper presented this coverage as part of the broader persecution of the Italian far right. These representations of the past were further spread among more extremist communities through detailed and convincing counter-­information texts—the term given to narratives disseminated to oppose and discredit information presented by institutional sources like the judiciary or government, or in the mainstream media—that drew on, or refuted, the official evidence gathered during the investigation and used in the trial in 1975. Some of the arguments presented in these texts then fed into the mainstream media, creating public fora in which to determine culpability that were outside the official realm of the judiciary. To understand these dynamics, we must first turn our attention to Genova station nine days before the arson.

2.1   Caught Red-Handed After finishing up a game of pinball at Genova station on 7 April 1973, Nico Azzi, 22, and Mauro Marzorati, 19, boarded a fast train from Turin to Rome (Ferrari 1977). Shortly after the service left Genova-Brignole station at around 1 pm, an explosion was heard in carriage 5. As the toilet door opened, a young man—charred and bloody—emerged from plumes of smoke. He was later found hiding in the baggage storage area with serious injuries to his hands and thighs and was arrested at Santa Margherita Ligure station. Azzi had tried (and, mercifully, failed) to detonate a kilo of TNT. When carabinieri examined the nearby train tracks, they found a second detonator, a battery, tape, and the TNT, which they thought Azzi had thrown from the train window. Azzi had not acted alone. Nine days later, on 16 April, a 19-year-old from Milan named Mauro Marzorati was arrested. He was part of a Milanese neofascist group named La Fenice (The Phoenix), which ‘recent investigations consider nothing but Milan’s branch of Ordine Nuovo’ (Ferraresi 1996, p. 128), the militant neofascist group founded by Pino Rauti in 1956. According to Ferraresi (1996, p. 131), the constellation of groups connected to Ordine Nuovo carried out around 45 bomb attacks between the end of 1973 and the start of 1975, which were designed to ‘acquire consensus and catalyze the source of social protest’, and to ‘spread indiscriminate terror’ within a strategy of tension.

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Marzorati confessed to having helped Azzi commit the attack, which he said was intended as a ‘purely demonstrative’ act—a justification upon which the perpetrators of the Primavalle arson would also rely. Describing himself as just ‘the sidekick’, he denied the involvement of any other accomplices (Corriere della Sera 1973c). According to investigators, the whole carriage could have been destroyed in the blast, which would likely have caused the entire train to derail, potentially killing around 500 travellers (this would have been the highest number of fatalities in Italy’s Years of Lead so far). Had the explosion occurred in one of the many tunnels between Genova and Rome, that figure could have been much higher. Investigators said the attack failed because the detonator exploded in Azzi’s hands while he was loading the delayed ignition explosive device with a kilo of TNT. They believed the perpetrators were planning to frame the far-left organisation the Gruppo XXII Ottobre (22 October Group), an extra-parliamentary far-left group active in Genova whose name appeared on the flyers thrown by Azzi from the train window and on those distributed by accomplices at nearby stations before they realised the bomb had failed (Agostinelli 1974a). Azzi had also been seen moving around the train holding a copy of the far-left newspaper Lotta Continua (Zagami 2020, p. 296), which Guido Panvini (2009, p. 136) describes in his examination of the publication and far-left terrorism as ‘the benchmark for counterinformation campaigns’. These conspiratorial narratives of framing the left—the ‘strategy of tension’ in action—would emerge immediately after the Primavalle attack. The media concentrated heavily on the connection between the accused and the MSI—a focal point of the public prosecutor’s enquiry, too. Azzi, Marzorati and Francesco De Min, a third accomplice, all held recent MSI membership cards and admitted to having had contact with MSI deputy Franco Servello. An unknown source hinted at the threat Azzi posed for the MSI, telling Corriere della Sera ‘if he talks, it’s the end’ (Agostinelli 1974a). Moreover, La Fenice, the neofascist group to which the accused belonged, was thought to have connections with the neofascist group Rosa dei Venti (Wind Rose), operating in Ortonovo, Liguria, and in the Veneto region. The investigation thus offered the opportunity to expose a national network of extra-parliamentary farright violence and its connections to the MSI. Seeking to distance himself and his party from the accused, Servello submitted a letter to the prosecutor in which he painted a picture of Giancarlo Rognoni, the 29-year-old editor of the far-right magazine La Fenice who had since

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fled Italy, as an independent instigator of youth violence (Agostinelli 1974b). At this point, the public prosecutor was also waiting for authorisation to prosecute Servello for the disorder in Milan on 12 April, examined later in this chapter; Azzi was also suspected of having sold explosives to those involved in the Milanese violence. The failed bombing and the perpetrators’ efforts to frame the left led many journalists to discuss the ‘strategy of tension’—a point the media would return to in relation to the Primavalle attack. In the lead-up to trial, Corriere wrote: The “black plots”, fascist bombs that have bloodied Italy recently, and the subversive plans to make our country fall into chaos with the “strategy of tension” and facilitate the rise of an authoritarian regime, will be discussed at Genova’s courthouse next Tuesday during the trial of the neofascist “commander” who, on the 7 April of last year, had planned and attempted to blow up the high-speed train from Turin to Rome. There could have been five hundred victims. (Corriere della Sera 1974a)

Azzi stood trial alongside Marzorati, then 20 years old, and Francesco De Min, 23, both accused of having helped him to execute the attack, while Giancarlo Rognoni, 29, was tried in absentia as the leader and organiser of the attack (he fled to Switzerland immediately after the failed explosion). All four were accused of two crimes: massacre (strage) with the aim of subverting the rule of law, and possession of explosives. Rognoni was sentenced in absentia  to 23  years of imprisonment (in 2001 he was handed a life sentence for his role in the Piazza Fontana massacre of 1969, and acquitted in 2004). Azzi and Marzorati were sentenced to 20  years, with De Min receiving a sentence of 14  years for massacre with the aim of attacking the security of the state. The public prosecutor determined the attack was not a ‘demonstrative act’, but designed to frame the 22 October Group. The accused protested, claiming Rognoni had intended to make a second call from Milan to warn the authorities of an explosive on board and explain where the detonator was located in enough time to defuse it, but the prosecution rebutted this false defence strategy, arguing that the attack was part of a wider strategy of tension designed to instil popular support for an authoritarian government in the face of social and political violence (Agostinelli 1974b). The extra-parliamentary violence of April 1973 put MSI violence under the spotlight once again and undermined its attempts to build support

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among a more moderate, middle-class demographic. Azzi’s actions on 7 April presented a clear and recent example of far-right individuals attempting to frame the far left for their own violent acts—a narrative that quickly came to light after the Primavalle arson a little over a week later. It is also worth recalling here that between 1969–1971, 161 members or adherents of the MSI had been arrested for squadrist acts—acts of violence akin to those committed by black-shirted militias during Fascism’s rise to power (Ferrari 2016, p. 37). This threatened to undermine Almirante’s efforts to present the party as non-violent; at the time, Almirante himself was under investigation for ‘reconstitution of the Fascist party’ (Piazzesi 1973a). Italian media dedicated significant ink to their coverage of this violence, discussing the connection between the institutional far right and the executors of extra-parliamentary violence. Not only did the ramping up of far-right violence pose a problem for the MSI, but it also threatened the stability of Italy’s government. In the 1972 general election, the MSI had become Italy’s fourth largest party, taking 9% of votes and 56 seats.1

2.2  The March on Milan The issue of the MSI’s contact with the perpetrators of the failed train explosion paled in comparison to the problem posed by MSI Senator Francesco Franco in Milan on 12 April at an MSI demonstration against ‘red violence’. Known as Ciccio Franco, the Reggio Calabrian senator drew much of his support from those known to be violent. Franco had been a leading figure in the so-called Reggio Revolt of 1970–1, a period of strikes, occupations, roadblocks and violence perpetrated by neofascists with, allegedly, the support of the ‘Ndrangheta, in protest against the naming of Cantanzaro rather than Reggio as the regional capital of Calabria—a decision that had significant repercussions for resources and public sector employment possibilities in two of Italy’s poorest cities. Almirante took over leadership of the party in 1969 following Michelini’s death. The Reggio Calabrian revolt exemplified a key characteristic of Almirante’s MSI, which revealed itself ‘capable of mobilising mass components of society on the basis of a rebellion with traditionalist connotations’ (Conti 2013, viii–ix). Franco was synonymous with the Reggio Revolt and its memory. When he was elected to represent the region in the Senate the following year, he secured his party’s highest ever proportion of votes in the region with 44,000 votes, a 37% share of the Reggio constituency (Veltri 1991). He remained in office until his death in 1991.

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Franco was due to lead an MSI demonstration on 12 April 1973  in Milan. The Milanese prefecture had initially authorised the demonstration, but at 10  am that day imposed a last-minute ban on all political demonstrations in public space until the Liberation Day celebrations of 25 April for reasons of public order (Il Tempo 1973e). In the wake of Azzi’s failed attack, representatives of the Partito Socialista Italiano (Italian  Socialist Party, PSI), Partito Comunista Italiano (Italian Communist Party, PCI), Partito Liberale Italiano (Italian Liberal Party, PLI) and the Partito Repubblicano Italiano (Italian Republican Party, PRI) passed a motion in Milan’s city council to ban the demonstration, which they said ‘represented a clear attempt to install in Milan, too, the climate of provocation and tension that sadly characterised life in Reggio Calabria’ (Ferrari 2016, p. 17). Having initially refused to sign the order, Servello, commissioner of the provincial federation of the MSI, was under pressure following the party’s implication in the Turin–Rome train attack, and he called Franco on 12 April to share the party’s orders not to go to Milan. By the time he made the call, however, Franco was mid-flight and demonstrators were enroute from nearby towns and cities to meet him (Zicari 1973, p. 5). Though he was unable to reach Franco immediately, some efforts to prevent the demonstration were successful: a coach of demonstrators from Vicenza was intercepted at the motorway exit, as was one from Rimini. Coaches from Turin, Varese, Como, Luino, Brescia and Bergamo were stopped before they set off. The ban was communicated on television, radio and in the afternoon press. When Franco arrived in Milan, he was taken to the MSI base in via Mancini where he was immediately recalled by his party to Rome to take part in a vote in the Senate. Unable to find a flight until later that night, he remained in Milan. Corriere della Sera called Franco in via Mancini that afternoon. In the interview, Franco described the ban on public demonstrations as ‘a clear act of subservience by Government authorities to the subversive left’ (Zicari 1973, p. 5). The paper then asked Franco if he had brought his followers from Reggio, since around 200 of them had made it to Milan, conjuring recent memories of Reggio and violent insurrection. Franco denied their presence, leading the paper to enquire as to the source of audible shouts from the streets below his office. Franco replied: ‘I am comforted by the fact that despite all the political and trade union protests, no one has been able to find or invent a single word of condemnation of my work from southern emigrants who  have demonstrated the

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validity of our actions  with their massive protest in the square this evening.’ (Zicari 1973, p. 5). Despite the orders to cancel this public demonstration of support, demonstrators arrived in Milan from Lombardy, Tuscany, Veneto, Turin and central Italy (Il Tempo 1973e, p. 7). Led by important MSI figures including Pietro De Andreis (leader of the MSI’s youth division in Genova) and Massimo Anderson (national secretary of the MSI youth division), demonstrators set off through the streets. The presence of MSI figures seemed to validate the march and their appearance, the conservative newspaper Il Tempo wrote, was a signal to violent fascists to begin disorder (Il Tempo 1973e, p.  7). As they walked, demonstrators chanted “boia chi molla” (death to those who give up), a slogan made famous by Blackshirts and repeated during the Reggio Revolt (Corriere della Sera 1973a). Once they arrived in Piazza Tricolore and the surrounding streets, they were met by a police barrier and officers using tear gas to prevent a mass gathering (Il Tempo 1973e, p. 7). Some protestors threw stones at the officers, many of whom had been called in as reinforcements; the rally dispersed and participants scattered into the nearby streets, where violent clashes between the police and demonstrators ensued (Corriere della Sera 1973b). Most demonstrators used rudimentary weapons, though some had arrived armed. In Piazza Tricolore, one threw an SRCM hand grenade, typically used by the Italian military during World War II, at a police officer, injuring his arm. The violence reached its fatal culmination in Via Bellotti, around 500 m north of the piazza, when neofascists threw two hand grenades, one of which killed the 22-year-old police officer Antonio Marino.2 Dubbed Milan’s ‘black Thursday’, 21 police officers and seven civilians were injured that day (Ferrari 2016, p. 73). Among them was a 14-year-­ old boy, Giuseppe Cipolla, whose liver was punctured by a bullet fired by a neofascist demonstrator. Seventy-one people were stopped by police, and seven arrested (Ferrari 2016, p.  73). A further 64 members of far-­ right organisations, including Fronte Universitario d’Azione Nazionale (National University Action Front, FUAN), Avanguardia Nazionale, and the MSI youth organisation, Fronte della Gioventù (Youth Front, FdG), were sought by police. Hot on the heels of the failed train bombing, this far-right violence undermined the MSI’s attempts to present itself as a peaceful party—a task that had occupied Almirante recently. Indeed, when he first heard about events in Milan, Almirante was said to have turned hysterical and threatened to leave politics (Il Tempo 1973d). Immediately distancing the party from this instance of far-right violence, Servello, who

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had been discussed by the media in connection to Azzi’s failed attack five days prior, put up a reward of 5 million lire for those able to identify Marino’s killers. Just before midnight, an MSI informant called the police headquarters with information about the killers, shifting attention away from the party and towards a subsection of unruly thugs. Despite the party’s efforts to frame the violence as the work of uncontrollable extremists extraneous to the party, on 15 April, the names of those involved in the attack were published in the media. Journalists were particularly interested in Vittorio Loi, son of world champion Italian boxer Duilio Loi. While in custody, Loi, 22, admitted to having thrown an explosive in Piazza Tricolore, but said that Maurizio Murelli, 19, had thrown the explosive that killed Marino in via Bellotti. Troublingly for the MSI, Murelli had been photographed at the start of the march, and that image had been published across the press. It showed Loi, Murelli and De Andreis, member and leader of the MSI Youth Front in Genova, walking alongside Senator Franco (Lugli 1973). Loi and Murelli belonged to the San Babila action squad, named after Piazza San Babila—a hub of neofascist activity and violence in Milan. Loi had been a member of the MSI but had left due to disagreements with party members.

2.3   Squadrismo Returns Important figures in the Italian left responded to this street violence by publicly condemning the party, issuing statements that resurrected the memory of Fascism. Pietro Nenni was unequivocal in drawing these historic parallels, describing events in Milan as ‘real Fascist squadrism’ the next day (Corriere della Sera 1973c). Sandro Pertini, president of the Chamber of Deputies, also denounced MSI violence and compared it with the squadrismo of the 1920s (Melani 1973a). Testifying to the gravity of this moment, three workers’ unions—CGIL, CSIL and UIL—declared a strike against ‘fascist provocation’ as they had after the kidnapping of the socialist deputy Giacomo Matteotti in 1924. Several political groups and parties, including the student movement and the PSI, called for the MSI to be banned (Corriere della Sera 1973a, p. 9). The increase in far-right violence in April 1973 also prompted journalists to question if Almirante’s party had really left behind its historic roots in favour of a more moderate conservatism (see Montanelli 1973, p. 2; Piazzesi 1973b, p. 1). Indeed, the event was nicknamed ‘the march on Milan’ by Corriere della Sera (Pieroni 1973)—a clear reference to Mussolini’s March on Rome.

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Historian Renzo de Felice spoke to Paolo Spriano for a piece in Corriere della Sera that analysed the Fascist ‘identikit’, comparing its 1922 and 1973 models, and debated the possibility of a return to dictatorship (Sensini 1973). This deep concern that an armed insurgence had formal links to a political party as it had in 1922 was expressed in international media, too. Writing in the International Herald Tribune, a paper with readers in 160 countries, Rome correspondent Claire Sterling (1973) said: ‘The scenes of that riot, as shown on the national television network, brought back chilling memories of the calculated mob violence that brought Mussolini to power half a century ago.’ Photographs of Marino’s body surrounded by police, officials and a priest were published across the media, warning of the neofascist threat to democracy. The paper Il Popolo (1973) highlighted the complicity of the MSI in Marino’s death, identifying an ‘inextricable intertwining of political and common criminality’. According to Il Tempo (1973c), this group of neofascists were called upon when the MSI needed to stir up civic unrest: Incapable of ideas and initiatives even within their shallow horizon of brawls and assaults, for these young people the figure of the MSI special envoy who engages them for punitive missions is the link to parliamentary fascism, unconscious for some. Knowing that in any case the MSI is just a stone’s throw away is the only way they can allow themselves this obvious dissidence, this underground action.

Responding to these accusations just two days after the Primavalle arson, Giorgio Almirante wrote an extraordinary article for Il Secolo on 18 April condemning the framing of political violence by the media and political leaders of Italy: They take hold of the poor dead with such readiness, delve through their flesh with such ferocity, speculate on the misfortunes and affairs of the Italian people with such cynicism! For months they have all been trying to crush the Destra Nazionale, whose appearance on the horizon, whose success, whose very presence, are the nightmare of the political forces that once called themselves ciellenisti and now call themselves members of the constitutional arc. (Almirante 1973)3

Almirante then identified a tendency to equate far-right violence with the MSI, while violence perpetrated by the far-left was seldom equated with the Socialist or Communist parties. Violence was thus framed as the

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domain of the far right only, and constant coverage of MSI violence was a political attempt to stem the party’s increasing electoral success (Zagami 2020, p.  300). The party called a press conference the following day. Though many leading MSI figures attended, Franco was absent. When asked by Corriere della Sera whether he was unavailable or simply had not wanted to attend, Almirante assured attendees Franco was busy but remained firmly behind the MSI leaders (Il Secolo d’Italia 1973e). During the conference, Almirante referred to the photograph of Franco at the head of the march through the streets of Milan, walking with known neofascist militants and MSI figures whose violent backgrounds were already in the spotlight, including deputies Servello and Petronio, and the youth leader De Andreis. According to Almirante, these were not neofascist extremists but undercover police, whose attendance at the march demonstrated the ‘extremely strange behaviour of Milan’s chief of police’ (Melani 1973b). Using the language of conspiracy that had been used to discuss Azzi’s failed train bombing, Almirante described events as a ‘plot’ to distract media attention from recent scandals, including the discovery in March that the Quirinale and Constitutional Court’s phone lines had been bugged by the Secret Service, as had the lines of several members of the Communist Party, and even that of Andreotti—a ‘sensational disclosure’ that demonstrated the ‘disintegrating democratic authority’ in Italy, according to the International Herald Tribune (Sterling 1973). Almirante’s efforts did little to prevent the media from reporting on connections between the party and violent neofascists. Indeed, Vittorio Loi’s mother gave an interview, reported on by the PCI’s mouthpiece L’Unità, in which she stated that MSI figures, including the deputy Francesco Petronio and Tomaso Staiti di Cuddia delle Chiuse, Milanese municipal councillor, had recruited the young men arrested for Marino’s death (Oldrini 1973). Journalist Giorgio Oldrini, who penned the article, was clear that the failed train attack and Milan’s Black Thursday were explicitly set up to create a violent environment that called for the intervention of a hard-line government as part of the strategy of tension (Oldrini 1973). Hot on the heels of the wiretapping scandal, Black Thursday further undermined faith in the Andreotti government and its reliance on MSI votes, shaking the government’s credibility. Il Messaggero summarised the response of Italy’s major political parties. Though the DC called for political, social and economic forces to come together in the ‘defence of

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republican lawfulness’ in Il Popolo, those on the left of the party were vocal in demanding ‘rapid change’ in the government (Il Messaggero 1973a). La Voce Repubblicana, the Republican party’s paper, declared democracy under threat, calling for an urgent and ‘decisive turnaround’ in how the country was governed and describing the coming months as ‘decisive for democracy. What is needed is a new way of doing politics’ (Il Messaggero 1973a). Avanti declared: ‘Away with the government of the turn to the right’, saying that MSI votes ‘are the votes of a party and those forces that revolve around it, whose aim is violence and bloody and deadly aggression’ (Il Messaggero 1973a). L’Unità published a press release issued by the PCI that explicitly called for the end of Andreotti’s government: The Andreotti government is incapable of governing: it aggravates and exacerbates all political and social problems, eludes and tramples on the demands of justice and welfare made by the masses, and feeds the subversive plots of the right. No democratic force can still endorse this situation, which is increasingly dangerous for the democratic system. The Andreotti government must go. (Il Messaggero 1973a)

The bloody days of early April culminated in calls for a major overhaul in Italy’s government in order to prevent a return to the violence that precipitated the rise of Fascism 51 years prior. Black Thursday exposed the links between the MSI and a violent neofascist paramilitary, and constant media coverage ensured these links entered public consciousness, alienating more moderate supporters. In a last-ditch attempt at underlining the party’s commitment to democracy, Almirante floated the idea of changing the party’s name to Movimento Democratico Sociale (Democratic Social Movement, MDS) (Zagami 2020, p.  299). Media coverage also made clear the divisions within the MSI between those who saw violence as a means to achieve political success and those who sought to distance the party from violence—a division that came to the fore in discussions of the Primavalle arson a few days later. Aware that this ‘purge’ of neofascist thugs from the party could lead to further division, Almirante declared the need for unity, describing his approach as a ‘firm hand in velvet glove, because I don’t want division’ (Il Tempo 1973d). It was against this backdrop that the media began to report on the Primavalle attack.

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2.4   Public Spectacle, Private Tragedy Just hours after the deaths of Stefano and Virgilio Mattei, Rai journalist Bruno Vespa visited the social housing units in via Bernardo da Bibbiena to interview witnesses for that evening’s news bulletin, the TG1 (‘TG1 Aprile 1973 Servizio Sul Rogo Di Primavalle’ 1973). His report demonstrates the immediate understanding of the tragedy as a turning point in Italy’s Years of Lead: political violence had penetrated the boundaries of domestic space. Though print media coverage quickly became divided along ideological lines, Vespa’s report is notable for its narrative of human, rather than political, tragedy. The report opens and closes by panning over the social housing units in Primavalle, a compositional decision that positions the tragedy within a broader context of poverty and isolation in this Roman suburb. The camera then settles on the window of the Mattei flat where Virgilio’s body remained beneath a white sheet. While the camera focuses on this lifeless form, Vespa says: Under this sheet is the body of Virgilio Mattei, 22 years old, the eldest of Mario Mattei’s six children. Death left him with an arm outstretched. At his feet, not visible in this image, is the body of his 8-year-old brother Stefano, his arms holding tightly onto Virgilio’s legs in a desperate and loving gesture, pleading with his brother for impossible protection. Today, his classmates have laid flowers on his desk. He is a happy boy, they said.

This tragic description centred the fraternal bond between Stefano and Virgilio Mattei, heightening the affective power of the report. Its pathos is increased by references to Stefano’s young age—though he is incorrectly described as  eight  rather than ten years old, a mistake often  made by the media since 1973—to his helplessness and to his mourning classmates. Next, the report moves to footage of fire engines and ambulances at the scene that night and Vespa provides a timeline of events, beginning with the first call to the emergency services. Speaking over the sound of sirens, he uses the present tense rather than the typical journalistic conditional, placing the viewer into the role of witness (‘let’s go back to 3.20 this morning’) and conveying the dramatic immediacy of events (‘the first alarm is raised in the police headquarters: a building is burning in Primavalle’). Referring to a  recent and  dramatic explosion within another  multistorey dwelling, Vespa says memory of the explosion in a block of flats in Prenestino-Labicano on 1 December 1972 had prompted

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the emergency services to send six of the available ten local ambulances to via Bernado da Bibbiena. Caused by a clandestine fireworks factory in the basement, the explosion led to 15 deaths and affected 120 people, many of whom stood on their balconies watching the fire engulf large parts of the building while they waited to be saved (L’Unità 1972). Vespa then conducts an eyewitness interview with a woman living in the building opposite the Mattei flat. The witness’s recollections are both auditory and visual; she describes being woken by two loud explosions, the family’s screams for help and the shouts of onlookers imploring Stefano and Virgilio to jump to safety. She also recalls seeing family members climb out of the third-floor windows and falling to safety below, and the image of the two boys on fire, including Virgilio’s attempts to remove Stefano’s burning clothes. This interview takes place on a terrace at the same height as the charred window opposite. The camera frames the witness’s face as she recalls the traumatic moments of the night before, and her eyes flicker as she turns her head, looking over at the burnt window and occasionally casting her eyes to the ground, unsettled, conveying her disbelief. Next, the camera moves inside, showing inspectors examining the crime scene. The first mention of the family’s involvement in the MSI comes four minutes into the report, a stark contrast to the newspaper coverage that typically mentioned this in the headline. There is no suggestion of internal party divisions nor of the Mattei family’s involvement in the crime—narratives would later be published in the print media. In the next section of the report, the viewer moves from Primavalle to the hospital burns unit, tracking medics as they walk towards Mario Mattei’s room describing the family’s injuries and estimated recovery times. Here, the focus is on the physical suffering of the family and the range of injuries—from burns to fractures—caused by jumping to safety. The closing section of the report returns the viewer to the interior of the building. While the camera focuses on the threshold to the flat, Vespa asks ‘who committed this attack?’ As the camera pans over the melted petrol tank, which Vespa says was found by inspectors near the front door, he explains that several litres of petrol were poured under the door. Again, the present tense is employed to describe the method of attack. The camera then settles on the melted petrol tank. Vespa does not mention on which side of the front door the tank was found—a detail that would quickly be questioned in the left-wing media, and became a point of contention during the trial two years later. As a result, there is little sense of doubt surrounding the facts of that night, in stark contrast to the debates soon to be printed in newspapers.

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Finally, the camera widens from its close-up on inspectors on the street below the flat to take in the nearby public housing units from above, before coming to rest on Virgilio’s covered body at the window. The reporter closes the piece stating that the Mattei family expected an attack and had recently acquired a fire extinguisher, though this could do little ‘in the face of ten litres of petrol.’ Discourse analysis demonstrates the report’s framing of the attack as singular in its ferocity against the backdrop of a rising tide of violence in the capital. Stefano and Virgilio are described as ‘innocent victims’ of a ‘ferocious crime’ that is an example of ‘the inhumane depths fanaticism and violence can reach’. The report does not draw on the language of sacrifice and martyrdom that quickly characterised the rhetoric used by the MSI, as analysed in Chapter 3. Instead, Vespa conveys the unexpectedness of this attack, and contextualises it within political violence in the capital more broadly. No suspicion is cast on the Mattei family. Instead, through the eyewitness interview and the opening and closing shots of Virgilio’s body at the window of the family home, the report positions the attack as public spectacle and private tragedy, underlining the human cost of this violence that had played out so publicly in a working-class suburb of Italy’s capital.

2.5   Creating Witnesses Virgilio’s body remained at the window for several hours after his death. Recalling that day, one oral history interviewee, Franco, likened it to the mummified remains of religious figures sometimes found inside a Catholic Church: He looks like a mummy, do you see? It’s Catholic taste—if you go around Rome, in all Rome’s churches you’ll find a pope or a cardinal standing inside, with the shrine, bones, some have a liver or a hand...

Though Franco did not visit the scene of the crime, he has this distinct memory of Virgilio’s body because, on 16 April 1973, the photojournalist Antonio Monteforte took one of the defining images of the Years of Lead. Working for the national news agency ANSA, his photograph shows Virgilio Mattei’s burnt face and torso leaning out from his bedroom window. Smoke pours from the open window behind Virgilio, its charred frame a trace of the fire that killed him. Obscured from view is the body of Stefano Mattei, who lay gripping onto his brother’s legs.4

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This horrifying photograph was published in Il Messaggero the morning after the tragedy. Over time, it would be replaced by a photo taken from the same perspective of Virgilio’s body covered in a white sheet, which became the logo that ran alongside all coverage of the attack in Il Messaggero. Although another equally chilling image was published in Il Tempo (1973b)—shot from a low angle beneath the window and cropped closely to capture just Virgilio’s hands extending over the threshold of the balcony—Monteforte’s photograph was on the front pages of the national dailies across the country including Corriere della Sera, La Stampa and L’Unità. The attack on the Mattei family flat was the first fatal attack on a domestic home during Italy’s Years of Lead. Media coverage demonstrated the shifting threat of violence from streets, piazzas or public infrastructure into the private realm, as this photograph made so clear. Unique for its  unfolding at the literal threshold between the public and private realm, the tragedy was witnessed by a community, and the image of Virgilio’s body at the window converted the Italian public into witnesses of a new form of violence. Much like Eddie Adams’s historical photograph Saigon Execution: Murder of a Vietcong by Saigon Police Chief, 1968, Monteforte’s image captured death as it happens (Adams 1968). The scholar Sarah Patricia Hill (2016, p.  418) argues that photographs taken during the Years of Lead can, broadly speaking, be divided into those taken to prove the subject is alive, and images of ‘the photographed cadaver’. Polaroids of Aldo Moro taken during his captivity are the defining example of the first category. Here, the kidnappers used photography to keep their victim in the public imaginary through mass media channels. Images of Moro fall into both categories, however, because the discovery of his body in the back of a Renault 4 was also captured by photojournalists. We might also consider the image of policeman Antonio Marino’s body on the streets of Milan on 12 April in this second category. However, the photograph of Virgilio at the window challenges this binary between photographs of the subject alive and dead. Instead, this image captures the process of death, converting its viewers into witnesses of fatal violence. In his work on the effect of the photograph on the viewer, philosopher Roland Barthes describes the photograph as ‘literally an emanation of the referent’ (2000, p. 80). The referent, or subject, emits light that marks the film and chronicles a presence, creating ‘a sort of umbilical cord [which] links the body of the photographed thing to my gaze: light, though impalpable, is here a carnal medium’ (2000, p.  81). But since the moment

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recorded in the image has passed, ‘the photograph suggests that it is already dead’ (2000, p. 79). Barthes describes the studium and the punctum of the photograph, respectively, the detail that generally draws us to the photograph and the detail that captures our attention. The studium originates in the individual, while the punctum springs from the photograph. He writes of the punctum as the ‘element which rises from the scene, shoots out of it like an arrow, and pierces me’ (2000, pp. 26–7). In the case of Monteforte’s photograph, two things pierce the viewer. First, that the body at the window is blackened by smoke, a charred face burning at the threshold of the home. Secondly, the realisation that the shadows around the body are billowing plumes of thick smoke and that this photograph must have been taken as the tragedy unfurled. A live shot of death. At the time of the arson, one of my oral history interviewees, Franco, had worked at Il Messaggero for 11 years. He started as a delivery boy and went on to become head of the photography department and, eventually, a director. He explained the speed with which Il Messaggero staff were able to attend the crime scene: There were news drivers, because whenever something happened, they would go out, and the drivers would leave with the journalist and the photographer. Then there were the editorial offices, the archive, the document centre: the majority of all these services disappeared [...] Back then there was competition, at the beginning, so if something happened, the Messaggero car would set off, the Tempo car would set off, and then the Paese Sera car would set off: you would go there, they would have arrived before the police because they had all the police stuff in there, and the photographers would set off on motorbikes [...] I’m not exaggerating, sometimes the photographers would arrive first, because they had all bought the little machine that picked up the police radio signals.

The mediatisation of death is a feature of the contemporary age; developments in mobile phone technology and the ubiquity of social media have enabled bystanders to record and share images or footage of violence experienced by citizens at the hands of state institutions, or perpetrated by citizens against citizens. Sometimes this footage captures the very moment of death. Though this feels a contemporary phenomenon, we find a similar dynamic in print media during the Years of Lead, where powerful images capturing the infliction of injuries that  cause death  were

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sometimes  published alongside newspaper articles calling for an end to political violence. Readers who lived in Italy during this period might recall the harrowing image of university student Roberto Crescenzio, who was struck by a Molotov cocktail, sat in a chair in front of the Angelo Azzurro bar in Turin, 1977, while his skin continues to burn. Thanks to listening devices that could intercept police radio channels, photojournalists would often arrive at the scene of a crime while it was still unfurling, as with Antonio Monteforte in Primavalle, and capture a tragedy as it took place. The speed with which Monteforte was able to take this photograph converted the viewer into a witness of the final minutes of Virgilio’s life. The public nature of this tragedy was also evoked by the name immediately given to it by the press, and by which it remains known today: il Rogo di Primavalle. Alongside its primary meaning of ‘fire’, the word rogo also translates as ‘pyre’, a heap of combustible material upon which a body is placed for cremation during a funeral, or ‘stake’, a post to which someone is strapped for execution or burning. It therefore evokes religious or political sacrifice at the hands of a powerful majority for crimes such as heresy or witchcraft and denotes a level of spectacle through the public quality of these deaths. The term was first used to describe the events of 16 April 1973 by Il Secolo d’Italia, a major organ of right-wing communication and a mouthpiece of the MSI, the day after the tragedy, and would be quickly adopted by other mainstream newspapers (Corriere della Sera 1973d). In an article titled ‘He died in the tragic rogo to try to save his younger brother’ with the subtitle ‘Virgilio’s sacrifice’, the paper wrote: Organised down to the smallest detail, the crime reveals a furious, uncontrollable, bestial, and cynical homicidal mania, like the ideology that inspired it, like the political conspiracy that desired it. A family of workers, people who still believe in the sacredness of duty, in the purity of the mission to educate children, in the need to work to build something that serves as an example for the younger generation, to show them an honest path uncontaminated by drugs, by easy compromises that grip and suffocate like quicksand, by the mirage of easy careers and gains at any moral price. (Il Secolo d’Italia 1973a)

References to the family’s ‘mission’ and their belief in the ‘sacredness of duty’, and representation of the perpetrators as ‘uncontrollable’ maniacs in the ruthless pursuit of political ends, divides the attackers and victims into a religious framework of good and evil. This language sits within the

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rhetorical framework used by the MSI to elevate the deaths to the level of martyrdom—a narrative that reached its apex during Almirante’s funeral oration, as Chapter 3 examines, and continues into the present day among contemporary neofascist groups. It marks the first example of a framing of the tragedy as one of sacrifice, spectacle and, ultimately, martyrdom. There were many more to come. The photograph of Virgilio at the window, public death in a private setting, has been described by the journalist Luca Telese as ‘the photo-­ symbol of the violence of the Years of Lead’ (Telese 2006, inset). While the iconic photograph of man aiming a gun at the police in Milan may challenge this assertion, it is fair to suggest that the photograph of the Mattei brothers’ deaths summarises the Years of Lead for a Roman audience, capturing the violence, injustice and trauma of the period. On the 30th anniversary of the arson, in an article for Il Messaggero, journalist Roberto Martinelli (2003) wrote: The photo of that burnt window, which thirty years ago documented one of the most gruesome episodes of hatred and political intolerance, should have been a warning and a lesson to all. The reporter’s merciless lens immortalised the bodies of an eight-year-old child and a twenty-two-year-old boy, scorched by fire and guilty only of being the sons of the secretary of a section of the Social Movement.

The historian Norman Klein has identified the enduring, historical quality of some photographs, describing such an image as an ‘imago’. In his analysis of the role of the photograph in the construction of collective memory of the war in Vietnam, Klein references two widely recognisable images: We see in our mind’s eye the war in Vietnam primarily as two photographs: a general shooting a man in the head; a naked girl running toward the camera after being napalmed. [...] The imagos are preserved inside a mental cameo frame [...] [The imago] remains where we put it, but the details around it get lost [...] They are the rumors that seems haunted with memory, so satisfying that it keeps us from looking beyond it. (Klein 2008, p. 4)

With this definition in mind, we might consider Monteforte’s image an ‘imago’. This is not a photograph that invites a nuanced response, instead eliciting an emotional—and, for some, visceral—reaction. As we will see in Chapter 6, the clear message conveyed has ensured the photo remains a powerful signifier of extremist violence and victimhood that continues to be

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used in the commemorative material of the far right. For contemporary neofascists, it demonises the adversary, condemns the extent of the far left’s potential for evil, and explicitly underlines persecution of the far right—a powerful narrative upon which much of the contemporary far right’s identity is based. But, in 1973, it formed a foundational part of the narrative of political suffering and sacrifice constructed by the MSI in relation to Stefano and Virgilio’s deaths.

2.6  Instilling Doubt As the enquiry got underway, mainstream and subversive media immediately began to propose their own versions of events. Just hours after the attack had taken place, Il Messaggero (1973b) published that day’s edition with a front-page photograph of Mario Mattei being carried to safety, his clothing coloured by smoke, under the headline ‘Attack in Primavalle. Child and young man burned alive’. Comprehensive coverage of the arson followed on the next page, including images and a minute-by-minute breakdown of events. The paper declared: ‘It is clear that the sinister tragedy has an obvious political motive and was deliberately intended.’ Its reporter, Virgilio Crocco (ex-husband of the singer Mina), was among the first to reach the scene of the crime, which he would document closely over the following months. The next day, Il Secolo d’Italia immediately blamed the ‘Marxist assassins’ who left their name at the crime scene, attributing ‘unequivocal responsibility to the government, the left and RAI-TV who unleashed the hate campaign’ (Tedeschi 1973, p.  1). According to the paper, this was part of a wider series of attacks on Primavalle’s far right, and the escalation in violence was predicted; the MSI base in via Svampa had been attacked on 11 April using a rudimentary explosive containing ammonium nitrate (signs of the explosion can still be seen on the exterior wall). The attack was also preventable, the paper argued; after the via Svampa attack, the Provincial Secretary of the Roman Federation of the MSI, Loffredo Gaetani Lovatelli, district councillor Francesco Spallone and Mario Mattei had visited the police station in via dei Cristofori, where they had asked for increased surveillance of the via Svampa headquarters. According to Il Secolo d’Italia, Mattei had told police officers that he and his relatives had received written and telephone threats from communists, including an anonymous phone call from ‘proletarian justice’ warning him that by 15 April there would be an explosion at the local headquarters, and ‘then it’s your turn’ (Il Secolo d’Italia 1973b).

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While Il Secolo d’Italia was clear in blaming the extremist left, the left-­ wing press—mainstream and subversive—began to cast doubt over this version of events. Writing on 17 April, the PCI’s mouthpiece L’Unità (1973, p.  1) described the sign found at the crime scene that declared Mattei had been ‘struck by proletarian justice’, which, the paper wrote, ‘anyone could have drawn up and placed in front of the apartment’, and so ‘it does not seem the investigators are giving it much weight’ (though the paper did concede investigators were interested in the particular material used for the sign, which is not widely available in stationers). Hinting at an MSI rift as a potential explanation for the crime, the paper continued: ‘Because of this and many other details, the investigation will not, or at least should not, be a one-way street; among other things, there is talk in Primavalle of a violent altercation that allegedly took place last Saturday, just twenty-four hours before the tragedy, in the fascist branch, specifically between Mattei and a member who allegedly left hurling threats.’ It concluded its coverage describing the attack as ‘one more link in the strategy of tension of criminal provocateurs.’ Lotta Continua, the newspaper of the eponymous extreme leftist group, went further, making its version of events clear in an article published on 17 April titled ‘Fascist provocation beyond all limits: it has gone so far as to murder their children!’ (Lotta Continua 1973). Penned by an anonymous author, the article describes Stefano as a ‘fascist’s son, killed by fascists’, suggesting the attack may have been a ‘criminal punishment for a “pacifist” fascist who had expressed his disapproval of the unleashing of murderous provocation’. The article mentions the police search of the homes and haunts of some far-left ‘comrades’, stating that Primavalle’s proletariat are clear that this crime is the work of fascists. In his work on Lotta Continua and left-wing terrorism, Panvini (2009, p. 126) describes the paper as having ‘broken away from the canon of the normally austere and sober Italian revolutionary press, taking up the overtly political language of student protest in its entirety.’ Indeed, the paper called for ‘mass mobilisation’ to bring about the dissolution of ‘gangs of assassins, of the MSI and all fascist organisations, and the fall of a government that bases its intolerable existence on blood and cowardly terrorism.’ Hinting at a set-up, the anonymous article went on to reference the sign left at the scene of the crime that declared ‘death to Mattei and Schiavoncini, struck by proletarian justice’, which, the paper wrote, remained ‘miraculously’ untouched by flames. The suggestion of a neofascist set-up was made more explicitly in the 30 April edition of Potere Operaio del Lunedì (1973, p. 1), a weekly paper

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produced by Potere Operaio, which described the attack as Primavalle Reichstag, a reference to the 1933 fire in Berlin, thought to have been set by the new Nazi government to turn the electorate against its opposition (Fig. 2.1). The paper’s choice of parallel shifted the scale of significance from the local to the national by suggesting this was an issue of national

Fig. 2.1  An edition of Potere Operaio’s weekly paper published in April 1973 suggested Almirante’s party was involved in the arson, which is described as ‘Primavalle Reichstag’

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importance and a cover-up that threatened the future of Italian democracy. Inside, the paper (1973, pp. 2–3) presented its emerging counter-­ inquiry under the subtitle: ‘It is old school fascism to fabricate provocations and attribute them to others. From the murder of Matteotti to the Reichstag fire. But this time the most heinous and pointless crime cannot put the revolutionary left on trial’, a framing that positioned this cover-up within a historic tradition dating back to 1924 with the murder of the socialist leader Giacomo Matteotti. The paper also underlined the pressing contemporary motivation of such a cover-up, reproducing a press release issued by PO two days after the attack in which it presented two explanations: either the MSI had attempted to stage an attack on Mario Mattei to divert attention after Azzi’s failed train bombing and the killing of police officer Antonio Marino in Milan earlier in the month, or Avanguardia Nazionale or Ordine Nuovo were behind the attack in an act of revenge against the MSI for having handed the names of those involved in Milan’s Black Thursday over to the police two days before the arson. Inside, the group presented the findings of its counter-inquiry, which formed the basis of a book published the following year. The writers identified a campaign of misinformation against Potere Operaio in relation to the Primavalle arson, which the paper likened to the treatment of the anarchist Pietro Valpreda, who was accused of the Piazza Fontana bombing of 12 December 1969 and held without trial until 1972 (he was fully acquitted only in 1987). Speaking on the national news just four days after the Piazza Fontana bombing, journalist Bruno Vespa, whose Primavalle report for the state broadcaster was analysed earlier in this chapter, had declared: ‘Pietro Valpreda is a guilty man, one of the perpetrators of the Milan massacre and the Rome bombings’—an incorrect assertion that Dondi (2008, p.  14) describes as ‘a considered choice aimed not at informing, but at forming public opinion’ given the monopoly of the Christian Democrats over the state broadcaster Rai. Presenting Lollo’s incarceration as another example of the Italian state and the media framing the far left for an attack perpetrated by the far right, Potere Operaio del Lunedì declared: ‘It took three years for the monstrous stitch-up of Valpreda to finally be exposed. […] It won’t be like that this time.’ Parallels with the treatment of Valpreda would be drawn throughout the Primavalle trial, too. On 17 April, Il Manifesto outlined ‘the most consistent hypothesis’ that the attack occurred because of an ‘internal struggle’ within the MSI, before adding:

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But there is an even more cruel hypothesis [...] circulating: the Fascists decided to burn the Mattei family alive [...] to make it appear that they were victims of the Communists. And if one thinks of the long tradition that fascist squads have in this area, one would not find it hard to believe. (Ferretti 1973)

Within 24  hours, according to Il Tempo (1973a), press releases were issued by PO, the Camera del Lavoro di Roma and the Roman Federation of the PCI, which positioned the arson as part of the strategy of tension— an explanation that made sense within existing frameworks of understanding, as the oral history interviews analysed in the Afterword to this book make so clear. The political office of the PCI also released a statement on 19 April, which was published on the front page of L’Unità and called for ‘vigilance and antifascist unity’. It expressed ‘the indignation of all communists for the latest serious crimes and the long bloody plot of violence, attacks and provocations with which they want to create a climate of intolerable tension and lacerate the democratic fabric of the country.’ The press release contextualised Primavalle alongside the failed Turin–Rome train bomb and the killing of Marino, suggesting that these events might also be acts of neofascist violence (Ufficio Politico del Partito Comunista Italiano 1973). In Il Tempo on 29 April, the political journalist Vittorio Gorresio explicitly condemned the MSI’s connection to violent thugs, implying that the emphasis on party violence might be a deflection strategy for Andreotti’s government. He asked: ‘Who are the thugs of San Babila, who commands them and who finances them; what dark plots are hidden behind the monstrous episode of Primavalle; what is happening in the MSI.  And, above all, why is the violence of the right promptly unleashed at every crisis of the DC leadership’ (Gorresio 1973). Having initially described the fire as ‘a terrorist attack’ just hours after the arson, Il Messaggero quickly changed tack, launching a staunch campaign against the accusation of manslaughter levelled at Potere Operaio. This so-called ‘innocentist’ campaign shaped public opinion through sustained reporting on the investigation, its pitfalls, rumours and unexplored avenues. It emerged quickly, and took root in public consciousness because it made sense within Italy’s experience of political violence so far: until this point, fatal political violence had largely been attributed to the far right in the cultural imaginary, and discussions of the strategy of tension after Piazza Fontana had propelled conspiracy theories into the public eye via the media. One oral history interviewee, Alessio, lived with his parents in

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Primavalle in the 1970s. He recalled his response to hearing about the arson, expressing his search for an explanation beyond that of a purely political attack perpetrated by the far left: ‘I mean the idea of starting a fire and causing two deaths… there had to have been a mistake, some kind of big mistake, or a grudge, anger, a string of such strong vendettas that couldn’t have been political in nature.’ Moreover, the speed with which the ‘innocentist’ campaign began meant the readers of Italian newspapers or those switching on their radios and television for the daily news first encountered these narratives when the truth was yet to be known—timing that meant these narratives landed. In the preface to the edited collection I neri e i rossi, which examines the mediatisation of violence during the Years of Lead, Mirco Dondi (2008, p.  16) analyses the impact of early media coverage of terrorist attacks, arguing that The sensationalist use of information, fuelled by an effective oversimplification that seems to explain and solve everything, leaves those seeking another explanation for the incident in the shadows. The emotional impact of the first moments is what most affects, and thus, shapes, public opinion. This proposed version of events is grafted onto an emotional state of mind, which is more easily permeated. Later developments in investigations—which often contradict the versions of the first moment—come months or even years after the terrorist act and do not affect public opinion in the same way.

The clearest attribution of blame to the MSI itself came just two days after the arson when Il Messaggero published an article that cemented rumours of internal party divisions, propelling a name linked to the crime scene into the headlines and giving the impression of a party imploding— plausible, given the MSI’s implication in recent violence and Almirante’s repeated calls for unity. Crucially, this suggestion of far-right culpability came not from a member of the far left, but from an MSI member, increasing its perceived credibility. Anna, known locally as ‘Anna the fascist’, was the wife of MSI activist Marcello Schiaoncin, whose name (misspelt as Schiavoncini) was included on the sign left at the crime scene. As such, Anna appeared a credible witness with a close connection to the Matteis and to Primavalle’s MSI branch. Her confession, and the subsequent withdrawal of her words the following day, provided another example of the destabilisation of public opinion through this ongoing cycle of conspiracy and counter-conspiracy presented by the mainstream and subversive media.

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In her interview with Il Messaggero, Schiaoncin—her name was misspelt as Schiavoncin throughout 1973, reflecting the spelling used on the sign found at the crime scene—discussed internal party divisions, spies and traitors. More scandalous, though, was her suggestion that the arson was the work of five or six MSI members who wanted to punish Mario Mattei for being ‘too democratic, not reacting to provocation, for being against violence’ (Pandolfo 1973). Echoing broader media discussions of divisions within the MSI with regards to the use of violence for political ends, journalist Mario Pandolfo opened his piece with a quote from Schiaoncin—‘They have the courage of cowards’—which, Pandolfo wrote, she had uttered in connection to a group of far-right extra-parliamentary dissidents close to Avanguardia Nazionale who were behind the Primavalle attack. Schiaoncin described the local MSI section as divided into ‘hawks’ and ‘doves’; the former were the more extreme, pro-violence members who had previously run the section, and whose beliefs aligned with Avanguardia Nazionale, while Mattei and his supporters comprised the more moderate group, with Almirante as their figurehead. The hawks had sought to close the Giarabub section, Schiaoncin said, but Mattei was too ‘tough’ to give in despite the efforts of one ‘traitor’ who lived in Primavalle. She then explained the threats made against her and her husband, whose car had recently been set alight, including a phone call she received hours after the arson when an anonymous speaker warned her to “Be careful, now it’s your turn.” She closed the interview by outlining a recent meeting in the Giarabub section, in which the unnamed ‘traitor’ attacked Mario Mattei, screaming “coward” into his face. This theory of internal divisions within the party, already in the public eye due to Almirante’s struggle to control those who had used violence to achieve their ideological aims earlier that month, took firm root in public consciousness. Il Messaggero also published a piece alongside the Schiaoncin interview proposing three lines of enquiry for investigators, bringing the more mysterious elements of the attack into the public domain and introducing doubt around the efficacy of the investigation (Il Messaggero 1973c). The first peculiarity related to the flyer found at the scene, which declared Death to ‘Mattei and Schiavoncino’ (a third spelling of the name used by the media). According to the unnamed journalist, the incorrect spelling could be linked to a particular individual who called Schiaoncin by this name. Secondly, the size of the petrol tank was notable, as such large containers are hard to come by and thus perhaps the perpetrators could be traced, the article suggested. Thirdly, the method of the attack bore similarity to recent arson attacks in the capital. Were they connected, the paper asked?

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The next day, Il Secolo responded to Pandolfo’s piece with its own interview with Schiaoncin in which she claimed Il Messaggero had misrepresented her words (Il Secolo d’Italia 1973c). Il Secolo decried the ‘immorality of the print press’, which, the paper wrote (echoing Almirante), was part of the ‘Primavalle tragedy’. Schiaoncin explained that she and Pandolfo had covered two topics: the recent attack on the MSI base in Primavalle, and divisions in the local MSI branch—a line of enquiry the journalist pursued. According to Schiaoncin, her comment on cowardice was made in relation to Communists and had been misrepresented by Pandolfo. She went on to refute the majority of Pandolfo’s article, claiming she had been drawn on the issue of internal party divisions because she wanted to set Pandolfo straight on a number of matters, explaining that she had told Pandolfo that the former MSI party member (a ‘traitor’) who had attacked Mattei in the street had done so to discredit the local MSI branch and to please Communist activists with whom he now aligned himself. Pandolfo had omitted this explanation, Schiaoncin told Il Secolo, instead representing the branch as divided. Il Messaggero continued to comment on the efficacy of the investigation, bringing to light a significant error made by investigators, who had issued a national arrest warrant for an individual named Mario Sorrentino, suspected of having accompanied Lollo to the home of one Aldo Speranza some hours before the attack. A member of the Republican party, Speranza, a local cleaner, had been physically attacked by members of the far right and was in contact with local members of far-left groups, including Achille Lollo (MSI-DN 1975). Speranza later told the court that just before the arson, Lollo had come to his home, blindfolded him and driven him to an apartment—later proven by investigators to belong to Diana Perrone, daughter and niece of the owners of Il Messaggero—to ask for the addresses of neofascists living in Primavalle (La Stampa 1975). Investigators suspected Sorrentino and Lollo of having visited Speranza to identify the entrance to the Mattei family flat (the family had removed their names from the door due to safety concerns). Despite investigators issuing a warrant for Sorrentino, Il Messaggero wrote: ‘It is now certain that the young man, also accused of strage, was identified erroneously: another “Marino” spoke to Speranza’ (Crocco 1973a). First published on page four, this story was front page news the next day (Il Messaggero 1973d). The rumours published in Il Messaggero were confirmed in dramatic fashion during a press conference held by Potere Operaio in defence of Achille Lollo on 25 April, a notable choice of date that marks Italy’s

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national celebration of its liberation from Fascism. Held in a large apartment on via del Boschetto in central Rome, the briefing was attended by the left-wing press only (those deemed ‘fascist’ were left outside). It was led by Oreste Scalzone, co-founder of PO and a prominent figure on the historic extra-parliamentary left who had played a central role in the 1968 student movement. Scalzone argued that events in Primavalle were the work of the far right with the support of the State, working together to frame the attack as perpetrated by the extra-parliamentary left in order to counterbalance the recent violence of the far right in Milan and on the Torino–Rome train (Crocco 1973b). As the briefing concluded, a letter was passed from one attendee to another. Addressed to the magistrate Domenico Sica and signed by Marino Clavo, the ‘second Marino’ confirmed that he, not Marino Sorrentino, had visited the home of the refuse collector Aldo Speranza with Achille Lollo shortly before the arson (Menghini 1973). Clavo compared the treatment of Potere Operaio to the incarceration of Pietro Valpreda after the explosion in Piazza Fontana, 1969, stating that in both cases the police had decided who they would arrest in connection with the attack despite the evidence. Though Clavo did not mention Pinelli, the first anarchist arrested in connection to the Piazza Fontana bombing who fell to his death from the fourth floor window of Milan’s central police station three days after the bombing (prompting the police to claim he had taken his own life and therefore was guilty, while others suspected he had been pushed), this story of institutional conspiracy would no doubt have been in Italians’ minds. Clavo concluded: ‘Allow me, Mr Prosecutor, not to harbour any confidence in the bourgeois justice system, which sends unfounded arrest orders for the sole purpose of finding a person to whom the massacre can be attributed’ (Crocco 1973b). The original letter was immediately delivered to the public prosecutor by Lollo’s legal representatives. The press dwelt on its impact on the credibility of the investigation, and investigators’ efforts to downplay the gravity of their mistake. La Stampa described the ‘small earthquake’ it had caused in the Palace of Justice, where investigators had held emergency meetings throughout the day (Santini 1973). Corriere’s Paolo Menghini (1973) described the faces of the magistrate, police and carabinieri working on the investigation as betraying ‘the embarrassment of someone who has made a big blunder’, which ‘removes the credibility of those “steps forward” that investigators say they have made’ since the night of the arson. However, Clavo’s letter confirmed a fact that Lollo had previously

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denied: the pair had visited the home of Aldo Speranza on the night of the attack. Consequently, on 7 May, investigating magistrate Francesco Amato signed a warrant for the arrest of four people in connection with the deaths of Virgilio and Stefano Mattei: Achille Lollo, Manlio Grillo, Marino Clavo and Aldo Speranza. They would be investigated for the crime of strage, massacre (Santini 1973). But before the trial had even begun, its credibility had been undermined by various papers, including Il Messaggero, which had moved the investigation and the evidence into the realm of public opinion. With the benefit of hindsight, the paper’s staunch campaign in defence of the accused is perhaps unsurprising given that the paper was owned by brothers Ferdinando and Alessandro Perrone, respectively father and uncle of Diana Perrone, who, in 2005, Lollo named among those involved in the attack. At this point, however, she was considered just a witness: in a piece published on 9 May 1973 in Corriere della Sera detailing the national hunt for Marino Clavo and Manlio Grillo, then suspected of involvement in the Primavalle attack with Lollo, Diana Perrone was reported to have given Grillo’s name to the police (Corriere della Sera 1973e). The speed with which the paper was able to break developments in the investigation—sometimes even doing so simultaneously with investigators—suggests a direct link between investigators and reporters for Il Messaggero, though it is unclear whether the paper was supplying evidence to investigators, or the investigators were leaking information to the paper. Certainly the paper influenced the case, publishing information that investigators had sought to clarify. Indeed, the two were so closely intertwined that when reporter Virgilio Crocco was fatally hit by a stolen car outside his hotel during an assignment in La Crosse, Wisconsin, on 18 October 1973, Lollo, Grillo and Clavo’s lawyers suggested that it was because he knew too much about Primavalle (Corriere della Sera 1974b). Speaking to the magazine Novella 2000 in a piece covered in Corriere della Sera, Lollo’s defence team demanded the police determine who had paid Crocco’s hitman in order to find the killer of Stefano and Virgilio Mattei (Corriere della Sera 1974b). Novella 2000 also suggested Crocco, who had been included on the list of witnesses to be called at trial as one of the first to arrive at the scene, had meticulously investigated the Primavalle attack until he met Diana Perrone, daughter of one of Il Messaggero’s owners. Though no mention of motive is offered, the writer does note that by this time he had separated from his former wife, the singer Mina (Corriere della Sera 1974b). But though its chief reporter on the case was

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gone, many of the discrepancies and theories Il Messaggero published, much of which had appeared in the subversive press as a counter-inquiry, would be brought together in a meticulously detailed publication released the following year.

2.7  Trial in Print While print media spread and contested a narrative of internal party divisions, a book titled Primavalle, incendio a porte chiuse (Primavalle: Fire Behind Closed Doors) went further, and made public the material that would be discussed at trial in 1975. Penned anonymously by ‘the authors’, it was published in 1974 with a belly-band that read ‘Achille Lollo is innocent. HERE IS THE PROOF’. With more than 300 pages of densely packed analysis, the text, the anonymous authors write, is a response to the incorrect attribution of blame to Lollo and Potere Operaio. It stands alongside the strong community response to this set-up, as evidenced by the demonstration in Primavalle on 25 April comprising students and workers (who shouted “Let’s free Lollo” and “Red Primavalle”), the occupation of the nearby Castelnuovo school (attended by Lollo, it was nicknamed ‘the red school’ for its strong left-wing student body, though Il Secolo d’Italia called it ‘the most anarchic high-school in Rome’), and ‘local counter-information work’ (Il Secolo d’Italia 1973f). The book includes analysis, re-prints of interviews published in mainstream media, transcripts of the intercepted phone calls used in evidence, photographs taken at the scene, floorplans, witness statements and transcripts of witness interviews. Its central argument revolves around the container that held the mix of petrol and kerosene, which the authors said was found inside the apartment near the door to Stefano and Virgilio’s bedroom (Potere Operaio 1974, p. 223). This vital evidence was not only ignored by magistrates as it undermined the accusation that left-wing militants had poured petrol under the front door from outside, but it was actually moved to the outside of the apartment during investigations, the authors claimed. Although they conceded the container was the source of the fire, they argued it was a fire lit from within the apartment, a theory that gave the book its title. The book stated: There is enough evidence to state that the fascist headquarters in Primavalle has been, for some time now, one of the least tranquil, and is in fact torn apart by increasingly heated internal struggles. There is also reason to believe

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that some of these attacks, truly very “strange”, were nothing more than the latest act of violent internal divisions. (Potere Operaio 1974, p. 32)

In the opening letter, the anonymous authors deny that the Primavalle arson was a long-planned, high-level example of ‘state massacre’, instead proposing that this ‘setup’ was ‘a plot’ pulled together ‘frantically’ by the police and magistrature. This, the authors argued, allowed them to manipulate ‘a banal incident or dark episode’ that had been born and developed in the ‘infested’ local MSI headquarters, reviving extremist oppositions and discrediting far-right extremists already implicated in the death of Marino in Milan (Potere Operaio 1974, p. 5). After an introduction by the anonymous authors, the book begins with a letter dated 15 January 1974 from Riccardo Lombardi, a former partisan, parliamentary deputy and member of the Italian Socialist Party (of which he would become president in 1980), to Achille Lollo in jail (Potere Operaio 1974, pp. 7–9). Lombardi offers Lollo his solidarity, and states his duty as a parliamentarian and militant to examine the findings of expert reports and legal processes to identify how and why the clear evidence exonerating Lollo was doubted. Lombardi suggests that Lollo’s arrest presented an ‘unrivalled opportunity’ to frame the Primavalle attack as a retaliatory act ‘at a time when systematic black violence had revealed itself to so many doubters’, and to thus ‘even the score’ (Potere Operaio 1974, p. 8). Underlining the credibility of the views expressed, the authors of the book note that Lombardi’s letter was written on paper with the Chamber of Deputies letterhead, and had been approved by the prison censor (Potere Operaio 1974, p. 9). Prominent left-wing cultural figures also publicly expressed their support of Lollo. The playwright, actress and activist Franca Rame—who was married to playwright Dario Fo—was reported to have written to Lollo when he was in prison, expressing her ‘pain at knowing you are the protagonist of a drama written by a terrible author’ (Cirri 1975). Their son, Jacopo Fo, published another counterinformation text during the trial in 1975, which combines interview excerpts from newspapers and commentary to satirise contemporary political affairs and state-sponsored violence. The section on the Primavalle deaths includes a cartoon suggesting the MSI and the State had started the arson (Fo 1975, pp. 115–127). The detail provided in Primavalle, incendio a porte chiuse is meticulous, enhancing its credibility. This was not the first time the extra-­parliamentary left had engaged in a campaign of counter-information. In July 1970, the

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publisher Samonà e Savelli printed the essay La strage di stato (State Massacre), which examined and rejected the version of events put forward by the police with regards to the Piazza Fontana bombing of 1969 that attributed the bombing to anarchist circles and individuals, including Valpreda and Pinelli. La strage di stato proposed instead that neofascist subversives were behind the bombing, and that they had worked in contact with the Italian armed forces, secret services and international agents, including the Nixon administration. According to a 2001 report from the Parliamentary Committee of Inquiry on Terrorism and Massacres, which ran from 1988–2001, the Strage di stato editorial team comprised at its core a small team of writers, supported by around 30 people who coordinated the various research groups made up of 300 members who sourced information from the right-wing press, conducted interviews with former far-right militants who had since aligned themselves with the left, and gathered intelligence gleaned from social circles, institutional contacts and associates in prison (‘Commissione parlamentare d’inchiesta sul terrorismo in Italia e sulle cause della mancata individuazione dei responsabili delle stragi’ 2001, p. 68). By October 1971, it had sold 100,000 copies, and further print runs were completed throughout the 1970s, making it an ‘editorial success story’ according to Panvini (2009, p. 145). As Panvini (2009, p. 144) has demonstrated, coverage of and investigations into the Piazza Fontana massacre in the subversive media ‘inaugurated the “counterinformation” phase’ of the Years of Lead. Primavalle, incendio a porte chiuse built on this blueprint, drawing on and reproducing large sections of the investigation’s documentation, alongside media coverage and published interviews with those close to the victims. It is remarkable not only for its detail but also for its compelling layout, which combines eye-catching typography, succinct but informative subheadings and several photographs later used in evidence at trial. In February 2005, after Lollo’s admission of guilt, Ruggero Guarini, who had been head of the culture pages of Il Messaggero at the time of the arson, spoke to La Stampa journalist Francesco Grignetti. Guarini described a huge party in a villa in Fregene, near Rome, to celebrate Lollo’s release after the initial verdict of acquittal due to insufficient evidence marked the end of the first trial. In the article, Guarini described the paper’s staunch dedication to the ‘innocentist’ narrative, stating that he didn’t know Lollo was guilty, before outlining the support given to the three accused members of Potere Operaio by prominent left-wing intellectuals. He also mentioned that he, along with the editor-in-chief Pasquale Prunas and Piergiorgio Maoloni,

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who led the paper’s graphic design team—Il Messaggero was the first major daily to have a department dedicated to questions of page layout and the interaction between text, image and headline—had worked with Potere Operaio to put together Primavalle, incendio a porte chiuse (Grignetti 2005). Traces of this partnership are evident in the impactful typography and the effective use of visual evidence to underpin written arguments. Though Primavalle, incendio a porte chiuse is widely thought to have been the first publication to argue the fire was set by the MSI in collusion with the Matteis to frame the left, this first emerged just six months after the attack in issue 0 of the anti-capitalist magazine Controinformazione published in October 1973. The parallels between the coverage printed by this magazine, Potere Operaio’s work of counterinformation and Il Messaggero demonstrate the layers of collaboration that sustained the so-­ called innocentist campaign. Rumours that began in a small magazine producing counterinformation were amplified in a dedicated, subversive book and then woven into articles in the mainstream media. Initially available at around 85 left-leaning outlets in Italian cities, just four of which were in Rome (including Feltrinelli, which stocked the publication across the country), Controinformazione was easiest to find in Milan where it was stocked at 15 outlets. Presumably to protect its writers from the state, the publication rarely includes authors’ names, though some letters to the editor are signed, as are contributions from prominent left-wing militants. For example, the imprisoned communist militant and poet Sante Notarnicola signed his work in the first edition from his cell. Controinformazione ran until 1984, publishing 27 editions and nine supplements. Controinformazione included articles, photographs, drawings, official documents and inserts addressing national and global struggles, themes and events, including exploitation at the hands of multinationals, the changing nature of factory work, neofascist and state violence and police provocation. State-sponsored violence and the connection between the far right and the fourth estate are among the magazine’s major themes. The Primavalle investigation and the perceived mistreatment of the accused are positioned as part of a broader struggle, and one that feels familiar to us today: fake news. On the contents page, coverage of the attack is described as a piece-by-piece dismantling ‘of the fake evidence, imaginative testimonies and “scientific” observations in the experts’ report’ (Controinformazione. Numero Unico in Attesa Di Autorizzazione 1973). Mirroring the form and content of Primavalle, incendio a porte chiuse, a 14-page exposé titled

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Primavalle. Come costruire una strage con poco (Primavalle, How to Build a Massacre with Little) includes crime scene photographs, floor plans, images of evidence, and excerpts from the evidence file provided by the team defending Lollo, Clavo and Grillo (Controinformazione. Numero unico in attesa di autorizzazione 1973). There are several instances where the same point is made verbatim in Controinformazione and Primavalle, incendio a porte chiuse, including in the conclusion, suggesting collaboration between the authors creating these counter-information texts. The far right responded to these publications with Due vite per l’Italia: L’eccidio dei fratelli Mattei (Two Lives for Italy: The Slaughter of the Mattei Brothers) (MSI-DN 1975). Published shortly before the trial began, it is divided into two, with one part made up of analysis and the other reproducing the evidence. The tone, however, is different. The philosophical and ornamental language of the left-wing intelligentsia that was used to frame events like those in Primavalle as an expression of capitalist exploitation and part of the strategy of tension is replaced by a more emotive tone, which hinges on a Manichean division between good victims and evil perpetrators. The opening pages paint the accused as indulgent and lazy bourgeoisie who dabble in extremism during aimless days eased by alcohol, trips to the Farnese cinema, Cuban revolutionary music, or the poetry of Pablo Neruba. Diana Perrone—‘the red Venus’—is painted as central to this group of extremists. This dichotomy between the wealthy perpetrators and hard-working, poverty-stricken victims is further underlined by the text’s visual composition. For example, an image of a bedroom in Perrone’s flat, thought to be a hub of Potere Operaio activity, shows a poster of Karl Marx alongside a nineteenth-century advertisement for a French brewery titled Bières de la Meuse. On the opposite page is an image of the ravaged interior of Mattei brothers’ small shared bedroom after the fire (MSI-DN 1975, inset). Due vite per l’Italia reproduces the reports of the investigating magistrate, and the documents gathered as part of the investigation. This material is reproduced in the book in full, including the report produced by the court-appointed experts visiting the crime scene on 1 May 1973, who identified the charred wooden handrail on the landing in front of the Matteis’ flat, the partial carbonisation of the door to the neighbours’ flat across the landing (with signs of fire propagation from the ground upwards), and the total carbonisation of the door to the Matteis’ flat (MSI-DN 1975, p. 97). The presence of carbon deposits on the walls of the landing outside the Matteis’ door and on the stairs leading upwards,

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the broken windows in the stairwell from the third floor upwards, the burnt exterior door of the flat opposite the Matteis, ‘lead to the conclusion that a fire occurred on the landing between apartments no. 5 and no. 6’ (MSI-DN 1975, p. 102). The report also found evidence to show the fire had moved from the landing into the Matteis’ flat when the front door was opened (MSI-DN 1975, p.  102). The fire had not started behind closed doors. The book argues that the defence team’s dismantling of the evidence in the media and in Primavalle, incendio a porte chiuse ‘distorts the reality of the facts, disorientating public opinion’ (MSI-DN 1975, p. 45). We see the legacy of this disorientation throughout this book. Due vite per l’Italia condemns the media’s framing of events and represents the coverage as part of the broader ‘moral lynching’ of the MSI, a point Almirante frequently made in 1973 and which he drew upon during the boys’ funeral, analysed in the next chapter. According to the writers of Due vite per l’Italia, ‘the deaths of two boys burnt alive bothers the regime’s newspapers, because it disturbs their nice antifascist war and, even more importantly, because it might slow their persecution of MSI-Destra Nazionale’ (MSI-DN 1975, p. 8). This adversarial dialogue between the two publications, their reflections on the body of evidence gathered during the investigation, and the proposal of new hypotheses made public the processes that typically occur in a courtroom. These heavily politicised debates entered the public realm through various media, destabilising the credibility of the upcoming trial and creating a sense that whatever the judges’ findings, powerful political forces were at play.

2.8   Conclusion When the investigating magistrate Francesco Amato issued his indictment against Lollo, Grillo and Clavo in 1973, he expected the trial to be framed as part of a broader ideological battle, and for the accused to be cast as martyrs: The Prosecution Office, which will be called upon to ascertain the truth according to the laws of the Republic, will be considered an instrument of political repression and will receive the title of Holy Inquisition, an inappropriate expression that evokes burnings and innocent victims, like Stefano and Virgilio Mattei were innocent. (Grandi 2003, p. 299)

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However, Amato may not have expected the extent this political framing would reach in the 14 months between the indictment and the trial itself. Media coverage, mainstream and subversive, is as much a part of the Primavalle story as the funeral, trial, or Lollo’s confession 30 years later. After the bloody days of early April, journalists decried the strategy of tension, while politicians resurrected rhetorical ghosts of the March on Rome and squadrismo to underline the threat of far-right violence. Those calling for the dissolution of Andreotti’s government, shored up by the MSI who were able to provide a critical margin of votes, became increasingly vocal as investigations into the national network connecting the party to underground militants progressed. So far, though, political violence had been confined to the streets, public transport or public spaces. That changed with the Primavalle arson when political violence penetrated the boundaries of domestic space. But the deaths of Stefano and Virgilio Mattei at the window of their family home, the literal threshold between public and private space, converted those who called for the boys to jump to safety into witnesses to their deaths. This sense of public spectacle and private tragedy was captured in Antonio Monteforte’s photograph of Virgilio’s carbonised body framed by the charred window, beside billowing plumes of smoke. Its reproduction across the national press carried the story far beyond Rome, a reminder of the fatal consequences of violent political extremism. As Vespa’s TG1 report demonstrated, coverage initially focused on familial tragedy, but it would quickly shift in tone as mainstream and subversive media aligned with the far left positioned the tragedy as yet another example of the strategy of tension, designed to incite calls for an authoritarian government to quash civic disorder. Parallels were drawn to Valpreda’s treatment by the police and judiciary, contextualising the arson alongside examples of conspiracy that had only recently come to light. Some went further, reading the attack as the result of internal division within the MSI, divided as it was between those who believed violence had a role in ideological progress and those who did not. For the MSI and its media mouthpiece Il Secolo d’Italia, this reporting was yet another example of its ‘moral lynching’ at the hands of those powerful institutions built across three decades of antifascist Italy. Debates around media coverage became even more explicit with the production of counter-­information texts in the run-up to the trial. After two years of media speculation on the integrity of the investigation, not only did these texts destabilise the credibility of the evidence and disorient public opinion, they also suggested

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that politics, not justice, would play out in Rome’s Corte d’Assise when the trial began in 1975. As Francesco Amato waited for the trial to begin, he received hundreds of postcards with the message ‘from Piazza Fontana to Primavalle, same perpetrators, same instigators’, some of which arrived in envelopes containing gun cartridges (Adnkronos 2005). ‘Boia Amato’ (death to Amato) appeared on the city’s walls in the area around Rome’s courthouse, threatening the so-called ‘fascist judge’. Criticisms of Amato were expressed by his colleagues, too. In his memoir, Amato recalls sit-ins organised by magistrates belonging to the professional association Magistratura Democratica (Democratic Magistrature) against the unjust imprisonment of Lollo, which was allegedly facilitated by forensic investigations steered—it was said—by the investigating judge. One of these colleagues had the audacity to express his disappointment to me: “Do you really not understand that this is a fascist provocation?” (Amato 2011, p. 74)

These examples point to the impact of the ‘innocentist’ campaign built by the left-wing media, both mainstream and subversive, to frame Primavalle as another episode of the strategy of tension after the Piazza Fontana bombing, which had led to a national round-up of anarchists. The media cycle of conspiracy theories, presented as counterinformation and refuted by those on the far right, painted Lollo, Grillo and Clavo as suffering the same treatment as the anarchist Pietro Valpreda, who was held in custody for three years without trial. Potere Operaio and the left-­ wing press built on existing stories of conspiracies, plots and cover-ups that had circulated in the cultural imaginary since Piazza Fontana and the death of the anarchist Giuseppe Pinelli, which became ‘a central event during the 1970s in Italy’, according to Foot (2009, p. 185), not least because it was ‘a fascinating detective story, with twists and turns, mysteries and misrepresentations, and a cast of shady personalities.’ Not only was there a blueprint for these stories of institutional conspiracies and state-­sponsored violence at a national level, these stories also resonated because they made sense in the antifascist Republic, wherein the far right could not be victims in the moral framework that had underpinned the nation’s foundation story since its construction. The MSI would respond by staging a funeral that transposed narratives of sacrifice and persecution onto the party itself.

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Notes 1. Christian Democrat prime minister Giulio Andreotti could initially call on this small margin of votes to keep his centrist government afloat (though he went on to lose 13 consecutive parliamentary votes in 1973). 2. Marino belonged to the same police division that had lost 22-year-old Antonio Annarumma, killed when a large strike organised by the Union of Italian Communists (Marxist–Leninist) and three trades union against high rent costs turned violent on 19 November 1969. Dying at the hands of far-­ left militants, Annarumma and Marino were honoured as martyrs by communities at both ends of the political spectrum. 3. The term ‘ciellenisti’ refers to those who sat on the Comitato di Liberazione Nazionale (National Liberation Committee, CLN), the political organisation representing the Resistance after Italy’s surrender to the Allies in September 1943, which comprised the main antifascist parties and movements. Pietro Nenni, who spoke out against MSI violence in such clear terms, was among its founding members. 4. A traumatic space of memory, out of respect for the Mattei family’s wishes not to further disseminate the image, I have decided not to include it in this book.

References Adams, Eddie. 1968. Saigon Execution: Murder of a Vietcong by Saigon Police Chief, 1968. Photograph. Adnkronos. 2005. ‘Rogo Primavalle: Parla Francesco Amato, il giudice istruttore che firmò rinvio a giudizio per Lollo, Clavo e Grillo’, 14 February 2005. https://www. adnkronos.com/Archivio/AdnAgenzia/2005/02/14/Cronaca/Giudiziaria/ ROGO-­P RIMAVALLE-­PARLA-­F RANCESCO-­A MATO-­I L-­G IUDICE-­ ISTRUTTORE-­CHE-­FIRMO-­RINVIO-­A-­GIUDIZIO-­PER-­LOLLO-­CLAVO-­ E-­GRILLO-­ADNKRONOS_114456.php. Agostinelli, Remo. 1974a. ‘Anch’essi volevano “liberare” quelli della “XXII ottobre”’. Corriere della Sera, 8 June 1974. ———. 1974b. ‘Rognoni è stato condannato a 23 anni. 20 ad Azzie e Marzorati, 14 a De Min’. Corriere della Sera, 26 June 1974. Almirante, GIorgio. 1973. ‘L’Italia allo specchio’. Il Secolo d’Italia, 18 April 1973. Amato, Francesco. 2011. Annali di piombo: diario di un servitore. Rome: Pagine. Barthes, Roland. 2000. Camera Lucida: Reflections on Photography. Vintage Classics. London: Vintage. Cirri, Luciano. 1975. ‘Dichiarazioni Di Franca Rame in Merito All Caso Di Achille Lollo’, Il Borghese, 2 March 1975, Archivio Dario Fo e Franca Rame http:// www.archivio.francarame.it/scheda.aspx?IDScheda=20653&IDOpera=166.

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‘Commissione parlamentare d’inchiesta sul terrorismo in Italia e sulle cause della mancata individuazione dei responsabili delle stragi’. 2001. Doc. XXIII, nn. 64, Volume Primo, Tomo III. Senato della Repubblica, Camera dei Deputati. https://www.parlamento.it/service/PDF/PDFServer/DF/9726.pdf. Conti, Davide. 2013. L’anima nera della Repubblica: storia del MSI. 1st ed. Quadrante Laterza 193. Rome: Laterza. Controinformazione. Numero Unico in Attesa Di Autorizzazione. 1973. ‘Primavalle. Come costruire una strage con poco’, October 1973. Beinecke Library. Corriere della Sera. 1973a. ‘Agente ucciso a Milano da una bomba durante scontri con dimostranti missini’, 13 April 1973. Corriere della Sera Archivio Storico. ———. 1973b. ‘Eco in Senato dei tragici fatti di Milano’, 13 April 1973. Corriere della Sera Archivio Storico. ———. 1973c. ‘“Ero d’accordo con Nico Azzi” confessa lo studente arrestato a Milano’, 18 April 1973. ———. 1973d. ‘Respinto un tentativo di bloccare l’inchiesta sul rogo di Primavalle’, 22 April 1973. ———. 1973e. ‘Caccia ai due latitanti per la strage di Primavalle’, 9 May 1973. ———. 1974a. ‘Processo a Genova per la bomba sul direttissimo Torino-Roma’, 8 June 1974. ———. 1974b. ‘Virgilio Crocco fu ucciso su commissione a Nuovo York perché aveva scoperto troppo sul tragico rogo di Primavalle’, 16 November 1974. Crocco, Virgilio. 1973a. ‘Sulla strage di Primavalle non ha parlato. Marino Sorrentino non c’entra.’ Il Messaggero, 25 April 1973. ———. 1973b. ‘Il vero Marino si chiama Clavo “Non c’entro e non mi presento”’. Il Messaggero, 26 April 1973. Dondi, Mirco, ed. 2008. I neri e i rossi: terrorismo, violenza e informazione negli anni Settanta. Riflessi 4. Nardò (LE): Controluce. Erll, Astrid. 2011. Memory in Culture. Palgrave Macmillan Memory Studies. Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire; New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Ferraresi, Franco. 1996. Threats to Democracy: The Radical Right in Italy after the War. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Ferrari, Antonio. 1977. ‘Il dinamitardo Rognoni promette “Farò grossi nomi e rivelazioni”’. Corriere della Sera, 19 October 1977. Ferrari, Saverio. 2016. 12 aprile 1973: il ‘giovedì nero’ di Milano: quando i fascisti uccisero l’agente Antonio Marino. Rome: Red Star Press. Ferretti, G. 1973. ‘Delitto nazista a Roma dopo Milano’. Il Manifesto, 17 April 1973. Fo, Jacopo. 1975. Se ti muovi ti stato! (Milan: Edizioni Ottaviano, 1975). Foot, John. 2009. Italy’s Divided Memory. 1st ed. Italian and Italian American Studies. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Gorresio, Vittorio. 1973. ‘Terrore in Italia’. Il Tempo, 29 April 1973.

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Grandi, Aldo. 2003. La generazione degli anni perduti: storie di Potere operaio. Turin: Einaudi. Grignetti, Francesco. 2005. ‘“Noi, gli innocentisti, portammo Moravia alla festa per Lollo”’. La Stampa, 11 February 2005. Hill, Sarah Patricia. 2016. Double Exposures: The Photographic Afterlives of Pasolini and Moro. Modern Italy 21 (4): 409–425. Il Messaggero. 1973a. ‘Unanime reazioni dei partiti antifascisti’, 14 April 1973. ———. 1973b. ‘Attentato a Primavalle. Bimbo e giovane arsi vivi’, 16 April 1973, Midday edition. ———. 1973c. ‘Tre piste indicano una trama (locale)’, 18 April 1973, sec. Cronaca di Roma. ———. 1973d. ‘Con una lettera al magistrato il vero «Marino» ha scagionato Sorrentino’, 26 April 1973. Il Popolo. 1973. ‘Ferma condanna della violenza’, 18 April 1973. Il Secolo d’Italia. 1973a. ‘È morto nel tragico rogo per tentare di salvare il fratellino’, 17 April 1973. ———. 1973b. ‘Entro il 15 salterà la sede: dopo tocca a te’, 17 April 1973. ———. 1973c. ‘“Smentito” Il Messaggero’, 19 April 1973. ———. 1973d. ‘Un altro falso del Telegiornale’, 19 April 1973. ———. 1973e. ‘Anche la TV continua a seminare odio’, 20 April 1973. ———. 1973f. ‘Al Liceo Castelnuovo una scuola del crimine’, 21 April 1973. ———. 1973g. ‘Orrore a Cosenza per la strage di Primavalle’, 21 April 1973. Il Tempo. 1973a. ‘Per i comunisti la colpa è dei fascisti’, 17 April 1973. ———. 1973b. ‘Un delitto premeditato’, 17 April 1973. ———. 1973c. ‘La madre di Murelli: “Un certo Romeo l’ha arruolato nei picchiatori”’, 29 April 1973. ———. 1973d. ‘Le bombe stanno spaccando il MSI’, 29 April 1973. ———. 1973e. ‘Quel giovedì nero a Milano’, 29 April 1973. Klein, Norman M. 2008. The History of Forgetting: Los Angeles and the Erasure of Memory. London: Verso. L’Unità. 1972. ‘Decine di famiglie colte nel sonno’, 1 December 1972. ———. 1973. ‘Per l’atroce delitto lunghi interrogatori’, 17 April 1973. La Stampa. 1975. ‘Il principale accusatore non può riferire sul rogo di Primavalle’, 4 March 1975. Lotta Continua. 1973. ‘La provocazione fascista oltre ogni limite: è arrivata al punto di assassinare i suoi figli!’, 17 April 1973. Lugli, Remo. 1973. ‘Due giovani indiziati per la bomba. Uno è figlio dell’ex pugile Duilio Loi’. La Stampa, 15 April 1973. Archivio La Stampa. Martinelli, Roberto. 2003. ‘I nostalgici dell’odio’. Il Messaggero, 17 April 2003. Melani, Eugenio. 1973a. ‘Il MSI sotto accusa alla Camera’. Corriere della Sera, 14 April 1973. Corriere della Sera Archivio Storico. ———. 1973b. ‘Almirante si sforza di dissociare il MSI dai “picchiatori” neofascisti’. Corriere della Sera, 20 April 1973. Corriere della Sera Archivio Storico.

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Menghini, Paolo. 1973. ‘Scossa l’istruttoria su Primavalle dalla comparsa del secondo “Marino”’. Corriere della Sera, 27 April 1973. Montanelli, Indro. 1973. ‘Ideologia del manganello’. Corriere della Sera, 21 April. MSI-DN. 1975. Due Vite per l’Italia: L’eccidio dei Fratelli Mattei. MSI-DN. Oldrini, Giorgio. 1973. ‘Vittorio Loi teme rappresaglie dei fascisti contro i familiari’. L’Unità, 7 May 1973. L’Unità Archivio Storico. Pandolfo, Mario. 1973. ‘La moglie di Schiavoncin accusa dissidenti del Msi’. Il Messaggero, 18 April 1973. Panvini, Guido. 2009. Ordine nero, guerriglia rossa: la violenza politica nell’Italia degli anni Sessanta e Settanta (1966-1975). Einaudi storia 29. Turin: G. Einaudi. Piazzesi, Gianfranco. 1973a. ‘I fascisti smascherati’. Corriere della Sera, 14 April 1973. Corriere della Sera Archivio Storico. ———. 1973b. ‘Portare a fondo l’inchiesta sui legami fra MSI e neosquadristi’. Corriere della Sera, April 20 1973. Corriere della Sera Archivio Storico. Pieroni, Alfredo. 1973. ‘La marcia su Milano’. Corriere della Sera, 13 April 1973. Corriere della Sera Archivio Storico. Potere Operaio. 1974. Primavalle, incendio a porte chiuse. Rome: Giulio Savelli Editore. Potere Operaio Del Lunedì. 1973. ‘Liberare Lollo’, 17 February 1975. Santini, Francesco. 1973. ‘Un Vertice Di Magistrati per La Lettera Di “Marino”’. La Stampa, 27 April 1973. Sensini, Alberto. 1973. ‘L’identikit del fascismo modello 1922 e modello 1973’. Corriere della Sera, 19 April 1973. Sterling, Claire. 1973. ‘As Far as Law and Order Is Concerned, Things Are Going from Bad to Worse’. International Herald Tribune, 18 April 1973. Tedeschi, Mario. 1973. ‘Bruciati vivi due ragazzi del MSI’. Il Secolo d’Italia, 17 April 1973. Telese, Luca. 2006. Cuori neri. Milan: Sperling & Kupfer. ‘TG1 Aprile 1973 Servizio sul Rogo di Primavalle’. 1973. TG1. RAI. https:// www.youtube.com/watch?v=bRxOr8sc8TM. Ufficio Politico del Partito Comunista Italiano. 1973. ‘Vigilanza e unità antifascista’. L’Unità, 19 April 1973. Veltri, Filippo. 1991. ‘Dal “boia chi molla” al Senato’. La Repubblica, 17 November 1991. Zagami, Francesco. 2020. Storia del Movimento Sociale Italiano. Rome: Gruppo Albatros. Zicari, Giorgio. 1973. ‘Il retroscena della decisione di vietare i cortei a Milano’. Corriere della Sera, 13 April 1973. Corriere della Sera Archivio Storico.

Oral History Interviews Franco, interviewed by Amy King, Rome, 26 May 2016.

CHAPTER 3

Constructing Party Martyrdom

It is almost impossible to describe what that massacre represented for us, the young militant Missini of the time: we felt alone, besieged, desperate. […] It was no coincidence that my friendship with Gianfranco Fini began in front of the Matteis’ coffins. (Ignazi 1989, p. 85) Maurizio Gasparri, who became vice secretary of the MSI youth division a decade later, and was a leading figure in the MSI and its successor party, Alleanza Nazionale

This chapter moves us from the ink of the newspapers to the rhetoric used by the MSI in the courtroom and on the streets to examine the claims to the dead made by the living—political patronage that shaped how the attack would be remembered in the following decades. As we have seen, the image of Virgilio at the window and the labelling of the attack as the Rogo—a term that evokes burning at the stake, connotes inquisition and underlines ideological intolerance—were part of the MSI’s early construction of a martyr narrative that counterbalanced widespread discussion of MSI violence. The dead body and the suggestion of its physical suffering were central components of this emotive rhetoric. In his work on the ‘social meaning’ of mortal remains, the historian Thomas Laqueur (2015, p. 10) argues that ‘social death takes time even in the West’, while biological death ‘is regarded as more or less instantaneous’. The time frame © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 A. King, The Politics of Sacrifice, Italian and Italian American Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-45550-6_3

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Laqueur writes of is even more prolonged when the dead are remembered as martyrs. The language of martyrdom immortalises; it upholds the dead as hallowed leaders. What, then, were the roots of the Matteis’ long afterlives? And how did political pressures shape the MSI’s response to the tragedy, setting the tone for its engagement with memory for decades to come? These questions lie at the centre of this chapter. The verbal and visual rhetoric of martyrdom staged at the funeral presented the party as a peaceful, persecuted minority and provided an opportunity for the party to begin to perform its own redemption. The party’s central role in the funeral was a symbolic act in a long process of legitimisation that culminated in the transformation of the party in the mid-­1990s— the period under discussion in Chapter 4. Far-right veterans like Giorgio Almirante and Pino Rauti, leaders of the two competing factions within the party, walked behind the Matteis’ coffins, leading a new generation of far-right supporters in mourning this attack on the party. This was a pivotal moment in MSI history. Indeed, Gianfranco Fini and Maurizio Gasparri met for the first time that day. Both went on to be central figures in the history of the MSI and its successor party Alleanza Nazionale, although their relationship to the memory of Primavalle diverged. In the Berlusconi II cabinet of 2001–05, Gasparri was Communications Minister, while Fini, at the time leader of AN, was deputy prime minister and Minister for Foreign Affairs. The pair took different approaches to developments in the Primavalle case following Achille Lollo’s confession in 2005, with Fini noticeably quiet on the matter, as analysed in Chapter 5. The Mattei brothers’ funeral also played a unifying role among the far right at a time of division, both through the coming together of the party faithful and through narratives of martyrdom. After all, to collectively honour someone as a martyr is to assent to the values for which they died, drawing the boundaries of the community of mourning and uniting members through collective grief for the individual and for their values. Given the centrality of the cult of martyrdom to the Fascist regime’s propaganda, as addressed in Chapter 1, awareness of the emotive power of martyrdom was part of the party’s DNA, and Giorgio Almirante proved adept at leveraging its impact in public space, in the media and in parliament. Large in scale and saturated with the iconography and rituals of Fascism and neofascism, funerals for the far-right dead were an important part of MSI political culture from its inception—a relic of Fascist culture more broadly. Indeed, this was true of the Fascist regime in its most embryonic stages. Historians Victoria De Grazia (2020) and John Foot (2022, pp.  85–6) have analysed a funeral held after an anarchist attack on the

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Teatro Diana, Milan, in March 1921. The explosion killed 21, and injured scores more. Organised by a government prefect, the Fascists played a prominent role in this public funeral, which included a procession through the city with carabinieri on horseback, war veterans, Fascist columns, and musicians. De Grazia writes: ‘The Fascists turned the funeral into their own moment of glory’ (2020, p. 64). Of course, as Chapter 1 made clear, martyr rhetoric was not confined to the far right, and existing scripts had long been developed across the political spectrum and across Europe. But the intensity of the martyr narrative, its longevity over subsequent decades and the role these narratives play in contemporary far-right recruitment— as analysed in Chapter 6—are striking. Funerals played a legitimising function for a party rising from the ashes of a fallen regime and inspired by an ideology criminalised in law. An early example came in 1955 with the funeral of the Fascist colonial general Rodolfo Graziani on the streets of Rome. A means for the party to represent themselves as a new generation of far-right leaders by honouring their ideological forefathers, the party’s presence at the funeral was immense (Witkowski 2021, p. 280). Revealing its understanding of the emotive power of political martyrdom, the party cast the dead as martyrs before the funeral even began, often holding the camera ardente within the local headquarters. This act also sacralised political space through the presence of a mourned body. The MSI continued to use commemorative events as opportunities for public displays of neofascist support throughout Italy’s Years of Lead by mourning the party faithful where they could. As early as 1970, Corriere della Sera noted the MSI’s efforts ‘to lend solemnity to the funeral’ of MSI member Ugo Venturini through the participation of its leaders in the funeral in Genova. As he did at the Matteis’ funeral, Giorgio Almirante walked behind the victim’s family (Corriere della Sera 1970). But while most victims mourned by the party had died during political rallies or demonstrations, the Mattei brothers’ deaths provided the most compelling example of innocence thus far. As such, the funeral gave the MSI an opportunity to perform the rituals and rhetoric of martyrdom with new legitimacy in the postwar period. The courtroom also provided a stage upon which to perform—or, at least, to attempt to perform—party suffering, which provoked a strong response from political adversaries. Many trials for crimes committed during the Years of Lead took place in the cool of the courtroom while violence raged outside. Public space outside the court became a battleground, with members of opposing groups threatening or committing violence, their political allegiance clear from the clothes they wore or the banners they held aloft. These everyday acts of political threat incited fear in the city. While some trials were moved from large cities to smaller, calmer

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towns in the interests of public order, as was the case when the Piazza Fontana trial was relocated from Rome to Catanzaro, Calabria, the first Primavalle trial remained in Rome’s Corte d’Assise (Court of Assizes) despite intensely violent clashes outside. This street violence created a second far-right martyr, the Greek student Mikis Mantakas, who would subsequently be honoured alongside the spectral figures of Stefano and Virgilio Mattei at another large funeral. As its pantheon of martyrs grew, the MSI formalised the narrative of suffering it had first constructed at the Mattei brothers’ funeral by presenting itself as civil plaintiff in the first trial, which would have given Giorgio Almirante the opportunity to participate. Quickly rejected by the court, the propagandistic value of this request did not go unnoticed.1 L’Unità considered it an effort to don ‘the mask of respectability’ that had been ripped off ‘by a series of events that revealed the true face of the fascist party’ and a clear attempt to turn the trial into a ‘propagandist stage’ they could tread wearing ‘the martyrs’ robes’ (Gambascia 1975). Nevertheless, the party was represented in court: the civil party was represented by Raffaele Valensise, a lawyer, MSI deputy for Calabria, and deputy secretary of the party under Almirante (and later Gianfranco Fini). Achille Lollo, Marino Clavo and Manlio Grillo were acquitted for manslaughter and arson on the grounds of insufficient evidence—a verdict reversed at the second trial 11 years later when they were sentenced to 18 years. Lollo was the only one present at the first trial because Clavo and Grillo had fled the country immediately after the arson. None were present at the second trial. None served their sentences. The intensity of emotion evident on the streets, in the courtroom, and on the pages of newspapers in 1975 is striking. Newspaper reports in the run-up to the trial betray heightened anticipation of the events to come and a sense that, whatever its outcome, the trial would not be straightforward. These sources also show increasing fascination with the emotions and behaviours performed or restrained in the courtroom by both perpetrators and victims. Historian Mark Seymour’s (2020, p. 113) work on emotional arenas argues the emotions that create meaning from death are both ‘public’ and ‘concrete’—in cemeteries and churches, for example—but they are also ‘occasional’, as in the case of the funeral procession (a major focus of this chapter). Though not always a deathly arena, this chapter analyses the courtroom as arena where meaning is created from death because, as in cases of murder or manslaughter, death is the driving force. Within the court, the MSI attempted to stir the

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emotions of the Italian public by presenting itself as persecuted (though courtroom officials proved a hostile audience, quickly rejecting the party’s attempt to act as civil plaintiff). The  far-right faithful present in court and at its entrance sought to instil fear and demonstrate ownership of proceedings, underlining the role of threat within the arsenal of political violence.

3.1   Casting Death as Sacrifice On 17 April 1973, the front page of the MSI mouthpiece Il Secolo d’Italia (1973a) shared the news that the Mattei brothers’ funeral would be held the next day. Though few details were provided, the paper did announce that a vigil for the brothers ‘martyrised by communist flames’ was underway in the local MSI-DN headquarters at via Alessandria, offering mourners the chance to pay their ‘last respects to our two boys’. The reader’s eye would no doubt have been drawn to the nearby photograph of Virgilio at the window. Cropped closely to frame his charred face and shoulders, this combination of language and image hinted at the emergence of a narrative of martyrdom. In addition to this front-page announcement, the party also affixed posters on the streets of Rome calling for public participation in the funeral (Carbone 1973). This communication strategy worked; large crowds gathered outside the MSI headquarters on via Alessandria on 18 April, including hundreds of people who had found the time to pay their respects to what Il Secolo described as ‘the martyred bodies’ of the Mattei brothers (Il Secolo d’Italia 1973b). A poignant reminder of the child victim, Stefano’s classmates had also gathered, easily identifiable among the party officials, MSI youth members and citizens of Rome. At 4.30  pm, the two caskets were carried out by the MSI youth division. They were met by crowds holding tricolour wreaths, white flowers and black flags, many of whom stretched out their arms in the Roman salute. One journalist described a ‘heavy silence’ that hung over the Trieste neighbourhood, which was guarded by a large police force fearing violence (Carbone 1973). This was, as Carbone described, ‘a political demonstration’ rather than a private funeral (1973, p. 2). It gave the party an opportunity to descend into the streets of Rome in an area full of support for the MSI and perform a choreographed ritual of political suffering, re-­ framing its place in public consciousness as a party of violent perpetrators after Milan’s Black Thursday and Azzi’s attempted train bombing.

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The party’s immediate patronage of memory was evident in the organisation of the funeral procession, which positioned the party alongside the family in an extended community of suffering. Carbone describes the procession as ‘carefully orchestrated’; groups of young people carried tricolour wreaths and cushions of white flowers. Next came MSI deputy Giulio Caradonna, son of Giuseppe Caradonna—a former Fascist deputy, vice president of the Chamber of Deputies during the dictatorship, and participant in the March on Rome. Giulio Caradonna was known for his violent past—indeed, in 1995, he would be described as the ‘former thug par excellence’ in Corriere della Sera, referring to his participation in National Volunteers brawls (Fertilio 1995). He was flanked by his ‘“boxers”, massive, stocky men with grim faces and their eyes fixed on the rows of people standing at the side of the road’ (Carbone 1973, p. 2). The next section of the funeral procession centred Stefano’s childhood innocence. Girls from Stefano’s school walked ahead of the hearses, each carrying a large wreath of white flowers (Bianda 1973). One of them had left her Easter egg at the foot of his coffin during the camera ardente (Il Secolo d’Italia 1973b). Onlookers who glimpsed the two passing hearses would have quickly identified Stefano’s small, white coffin beside his older brother’s larger, black one. The child victim elicited a strong outpouring of support from the residents of Primavalle, a suburb that had witnessed this sort of suffering 20 years prior. On 18 February 1950, 12-year-old Annarella Bracci, who lived in Primavalle with her mother and siblings, was sent out to buy coal on an errand from which she would never return. The police only began to investigate her disappearance six days later, prompted by demonstrations in the local community. Her half-naked body was eventually found in a nearby well on 3 March. The highest ranking members of the police force, government representatives, and many residents of Primavalle attended Anna’s funeral, which was funded by the local council and covered by the media. Not only were there historical parallels in terms of community engagement, the two cases mirrored one another with respect to the poignancy of the innocent child victim. For Primavalle locals, these parallels heightened the funeral’s emotional pull. But while the funerals of Bracci and the Matteis elicited an outpouring of collective sorrow for the senseless killing of an innocent child, the atmosphere in the 1970s was volatile, unfolding as it did against a latent threat of further violence. One former member of the National Volunteers, whose testimony is examined further in the Afterword of this book, described the atmosphere to me:

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I didn’t go to the funeral precisely because someone told me stay out of sight. My boss told me to go away for a few days and not to be seen because he thought that there might be other incidents, and at that time... I hadn’t accepted the situation. Having lived alongside Virgilio and Mario for years, actually with the whole family, it affected me a lot.

Tens of thousands of Romans caught a glimpse of the funeral procession as they gathered along its route to pay their respects (Vaccari 1973). With the boys’ father still in hospital, Giorgio Almirante walked behind the hearses arm-in-arm with Anna Mattei. Almirante’s wife, Assunta, walked on Anna’s other side. A photograph that captured this moment, showing Almirante arm-in-arm with Anna Mattei at the head of the funeral procession (Fig. 3.1), was published in full or cropped form in newspapers including Il Tempo (Il Tempo 1973) and Il Messaggero (Il Messaggero 1973). The PCI paper, L’Unità, was notable for its total lack of coverage of the funeral. The image placed Almirante in a paternal role—a mourning father of the party—a framing that extended the community of mourning

Fig. 3.1  MSI leader Giorgio Almirante walked behind the Mattei brothers’ hearses arm-in-arm with Anna Mattei, to his right. Almirante’s wife, Assunta, walked on Anna’s other side. Photo: ANSA

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to include the political family. The composition of the image is striking for the repetition of various elements, each of which embodies unity. The top third captures rows of faces united in grief; shot at eye level, the viewer receives the gaze of Giorgio Almirante, the sole figure to look at the camera. The middle third captures a chain of linked arms and clasped hands, framed by the rears of the hearses. Feet in perfect step are the focus of the bottom third and the diagonal lines of the hearse windows and the centre line of the road lead the viewer’s eye back into the procession, creating a depth of field that underlines the vast number of mourners. This is an image of unity between a mourning family and a suffering party, with Giorgio Almirante as the protagonist. This moment of unity between Anna Mattei and Almirante (Il Messaggero 1973) foreshadowed how the media would represent Anna as a mother of the party who mourned her children and the subsequent loss of her party under Fini, as Chapter 4 examines. The MSI paper Il Secolo printed a range of photographs of the funeral, each of which underlined the scale of public and party participation. The front-page photograph on 19 April was a bird’s-eye shot that captured crowds proceeding through Viale Regina Margherita behind the two hearses. A further eight photographs of the funeral were printed within that day’s edition, seven of which showed members of the MSI or its youth division Fronte della Gioventù alongside members of the Mattei family. These photographs included Almirante and his wife, Assunta, standing beside a grieving Anna Mattei, and MSI members carrying the coffins, wreaths, or walking in the funeral procession. This latter image was shot from the side, capturing the number of party leaders who walked in the front rows of the procession including MSI-DN president Alfredo Covelli and national vice-secretaries Pino Romualdi and Tullio Abelli (Bianda 1973). In his coverage of the funeral, La Stampa journalist Fabrizio Carbone described ‘a huge presence from the top of the MSI’ (1973, p. 2), noting the isolation of Liberal leader of the Regional Council Teodoro Cutolo among them. These photographs were published under the title ‘Plebiscite for the anticommunist martyrs’ (Bianda 1973), a headline that made the political role of the funeral explicit. This was a chance to condemn the adversary. MSI representatives were tailed by a parade of tricolour flags with a large black V in the middle, carried by the National Volunteers, the group to which Virgilio belonged, followed by crowds wearing black turtlenecks and black shirts. The procession was so long that when those at the front

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arrived at the Chiesa dei Sette Santi Fondatori where the religious ceremony was to be held, the tail end was still 50 metres away in Piazza Regina Margherita (Il Secolo d’Italia 1973c). Inside the church, the boys’ coffins stood on a black carpet, wrapped in tricolour flags and surrounded by the banners and insignia of MSI-DN branches across the country (Il Secolo d’Italia 1973c). Underlining the blended composition of this community of mourning, to the left of the coffins were flowers left by their parents, the President of the Republic, Giovanni Leone, and the mayor of Rome. To the right were flowers from Almirante, the MSI, and the government. The religious ceremony focused on the Christian principles of peace and love, calling for an end to violence. The celebrant, Oscar Zanera, auxiliary bishop of Roma Nord, read a telegram sent by Pope Paolo VI, who extended his prayers and condolences to the victims and the survivors, expressing his hope that the civic conscience, whose Christian traditions and human principles have been so deeply offended by recent violence, will unanimously stand against the rise of blind and destructive barbarism and in defence of the inalienable values of mutual understanding and meaningful social harmony. (Vaccari 1973)

Next, the celebrant read condolences sent by the pro-vicar of the diocese of Rome, Ugo Poletti, who shared his consternation at this ‘unspeakably sad episode of cruel violence’, wishing ‘divine comfort’ upon the family (Vaccari 1973). Zanera closed his sermon by declaring: We have forgotten the love of God, this is the truth, so we are no longer able to love our neighbour. A spirit of charity is essential for Christians. Otherwise we are not worthy of calling ourselves Christians. May the Lord bring light and rest to these souls, and light to us so we might see the truth.

Within the four walls of the Church, the attack was framed not as an act of political violence, but as the tragic result of a lack of tolerance so evident in the violence of Italy’s Years of Lead, demonstrating the many meanings the same deaths can hold contemporaneously. The story of Stefano and Virgilio Mattei’s deaths would continue to be told as a warning within this local community, a metonym for the fatal consequences of intolerance. One oral history interviewee, Carlo, whose testimony is analysed closely in the Afterword, told me:

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They spoke about it after, in the years that followed. I had my communion in the same parish, the local parish where they had the funeral, and Don Mario spoke about it briefly when I was ten years old. Don Mario told us how we must… we can have different views, but we must respect the views of others to avoid extreme things happening as they did in the Mattei house. So, we carried this example forward to say that thinking differently mustn’t lead to hatred.

As the religious ceremony neared its end, a group on motorcycles sped towards the thousands of mourners waiting in Piazza Salerno in front of the church. With their helmet visors hiding their identities, they threw empty bottles at the crowds, before driving towards a line of MSI youth who blocked the road to traffic. Some people gathered in the piazza fled the sounds of shattering glass, motorcycle engines and raised voices. The commotion even penetrated the heavy wooden doors of the church, stirring emotions during ‘five long and dangerous minutes’ (Vaccari 1973). According to Corriere, one woman inside the church shouted “bomb!” In response, the church doors were barred, and many dropped to their knees in panic. Only when the celebrant raised the consecrated Host above his head did the congregation regain its calm (Corriere della Sera 1973). With the atmosphere on a knife-edge, Almirante moved to the exterior steps of the church to deliver his funeral oration in front of thousands. He began with a clear statement of the party’s public patronage of the deaths—an approach that would continue with the MSI’s efforts to participate in the trial as civil plaintiff and in its organisation of the work of memory for years to come. He said: The great family of the MSI-Destra Nazionale gathers around the family of Mario Mattei in this moment, saying farewell to the bodies of Virgilio, twenty-two years old, and Stefano, eight years old; and it gathers especially around the mother, who is here, and the father, who is still lying in hospital in his bed of torment. (Il Secolo d’Italia 1973d)

Almirante’s opening made clear the many layers within this community of mourning, which was made explicit throughout the funeral. Layered like a Russian doll, the outer shell was political and contained within it smaller groups including the family, the local community, or Stefano’s schoolmates. Next, Almirante described the crime as the most heinous ever committed in Rome: ‘so heinous that, despite knowing its precise

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political matrix, we hesitate to define it as political. Thuggery and delinquency have no colour. Thuggery no, but hatred, hatred, yes. Hatred has only one colour: the colour red’ (Il Secolo d’Italia 1973d). Demonstrating the propagandistic value of this public funeral, he drew on the same language of thuggery and hatred that had been widely adopted in the media to discuss the MSI, but attributed this violence to the far left alone. Finally, testifying to the seriousness of the attack for the MSI, he called for the death penalty to be reintroduced for the perpetrators. Indeed, in 1982, the boys’ mother was the first signatory on the party’s petition to reinstate the death penalty, demonstrating its continued emotive use of this tragedy for political ends. Almirante was quick to contextualise the Mattei brothers in a pantheon of martyrs that included police officers Luigi Calabresi, shot dead outside his home by a member of Lotta Continua in retaliation for the killing of anarchist Giuseppe Pinelli, and Antonio Annarumma, who died during a left-wing protest. These officers were honoured alongside two young MSI militants, Ugo Venturini, who led the Genoese National Volunteers and died after violent clashes during a rally organised by Almirante in 1970, and Carlo Falvella, vice president of the Salerno section of the MSI’s division for university students, FUAN, who was fatally stabbed in 1972. Almirante’s sermon-like speech centred on the enduring relationship between the dead and the living: You are not alone in the heaven of martyrs. The twenty-year-old law-­ enforcement officer Antonio Marino stands beside to you; Calabresi and Annarumma, Venturini and Falvella stand beside you; our boys of Trieste and the carabinieri of Gorizia stand beside you; the uniformed young men assassinated in Aldo Adige, in Sardinia, in Sicily, stand beside you. And we are not alone on this earth, in cruel Italy. You are and you will be with us, in the name of the inextinguishable capacity for love which is your beauty, which is our strength. (Il Secolo d’Italia 1973d)

Crucially, the MSI leader made explicit reference to the policeman Antonio Marino killed in Milan six days prior because of political violence perpetrated by far-right subversives connected to the party, as analysed in the previous chapter. This framing downplayed far-right violence, emphasising instead the violence of those on the far left which, as the previous chapter demonstrated, Almirante felt was ignored by the media. This

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oration was the crescendo in a narrative of far-right sacrifice that first rang out on the front pages of Il Secolo, and would resonate for decades: Virgilio e Stefano Mattei. You are the dearest Rome to us, the humble and high Rome, the proletarian and national Rome of the working-class suburbs; from the sweet suburbs that clasp the sacred and imperial city like you, Stefano, clasped Virgilio: so as not to suffocate, so as not to die, to breathe. Primavalle has become the real front line, as we used to say years ago when our branch was born. The front line of martyrdom is always the front line in the redemption of civilisation. (Mattei and Monti 2008, p. 23)

Almirante’s words blended contemporary deaths into a broader pantheon of far-right martyrdom through rhetorical echoes of the Fascist regime’s language of sacrifice and its repeated reverence of imperial Rome. ‘From the pyre of hatred, the flame of martyrdom, the light of justice,’ Almirante continued, emphasising the concepts of sacrifice and rebirth typical of the classic, Christian martyr paradigm so familiar in Catholic Italy that lay at the heart of far-right commemorative culture since the Fascist regime. Shortly afterwards, family members and select MSI leaders departed for Rome’s nearby Verano cemetery to bury the dead. Drivers entering Piazza Salerno as it opened back up to traffic might have wondered if a political rally had just taken place as they glimpsed MSI figures, posters, and young men clad in black shirts disperse across the five exits of the roundabout.

3.2   ‘The Halo of Martyrdom and Clandestinity’ Almirante’s recourse to the emotive language of martyrdom was not confined to the Mattei funeral. This was part of a broader rhetorical pattern throughout the early 1970s that used the language of martyrdom to underline the persecution of the party and its leader for their political beliefs. Almirante’s words of suffering and sacrifice were expedient because, in June 1971, the public prosecutor, Luigi Bianchi D’Espinosa, had launched a judicial investigation into the Italian far right. After continuous calls from the left to ban the MSI, on 1 July 1972, Guido Gonella, minister for justice and member of the DC, shared a formal request from Bianchi D’Espinosa written on 7 June 1972 with the Chamber of Deputies. Between writing his request and Gonella sharing this letter with the Chamber, Bianchi D’Espinosa died of cardiovascular problems. Recounting

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his investigation into the far right that he began in 1971 at great risk to his personal safety, D’Espinosa described the requests he had sent to the carabinieri, finance police and police stations across the country for information relating to incidents from 1969–1971 that demonstrate groups or movements pursuing antidemocratic means, using violence for political ends, denigrating the values of the Resistance, or producing propaganda that is racist or exalts Fascism: The numerous notes received to date in response to my requests list a large number of incidents testifying to the use of violence against political opponents and the forces of law and order, the denigration of democracy and the Resistance, the glorification of leaders and principles of the fascist regime, as well as outward manifestations of fascist nature by members of various extreme right-wing organisations. (‘Domanda di autorizzazione a procedere in giudizio contro il deputato Almirante’ 1972, pp. 1–2)

Describing his examination of propaganda produced by these right-­ wing groups, D’Espinosa identified ‘a very significant correlation between thought and action’. He continued: It then emerged that a large part of this conduct originated from the Italian Social Movement […] as can be deduced both from the party’s press material referred to in the documents and from the fact that many of the incidents reported in the many official notes enclosed were committed by members of the various organisations of that movement, sometimes in isolation, more often acting in unison.

D’Espinosa then expressed a wish to proceed against Almirante for the crime of reconstitution of the Fascist party under the Scelba Law because it was under his stewardship that so many of these incidents from 1969–1971 had occurred. D’Espinosa made his request for authority to proceed on 7 June, exactly a month after the elections in which the MSI had  recorded a significant uptick in its electoral fortunes—timing that Almirante later suggested was evidence of the investigation’s political motive. The MSI responded by painting Almirante as a martyr-like figure persecuted for his beliefs in a sustained propaganda campaign that included the creation of a ‘solidarity committee for Giorgio Almirante’ in 1972—a committee the party publicised with a postcard showing Piazza Navona full of MSI supporters, and an invitation for supporters to sign their names and return the postcard to the committee on its reverse.

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A seasoned orator, Almirante rose in the Chamber of Deputies on 23 May 1973 to respond to the request for authority to proceed against him, which deputies would be asked to vote on the next day. In the 18,500-­ word speech that ensued—the whole debate lasted six hours—Almirante painted a picture of a politically motivated campaign to discredit the party poorly disguised by the thin veil of the Scelba Law (La Stampa 1973). This allowed Almirante to present himself as suffering in the name of ideology and the proceedings brought against him as political persecution. The MSI leader began his speech by declaring that he would welcome the Chamber’s authorisation to proceed against him, if and when it came, stating that this did not demonstrate ‘an attitude of sacrifice or martyrdom’, but was driven by ‘reasons of personal decency’. As the only person under investigation, he drew the Chamber’s attention to the implausibility of this charge: It seems, for the time being, that I have unleashed a climate of violence throughout Italy, that I have fundamentally caused the crisis that institutions are going through; I have learnt that I, all alone, am a danger to Republican institutions; I have learnt that I became one recently, I wouldn’t say in this exact moment but at least from mid-1969 onwards, that is to say from the time when, if I remember correctly, our party’s electoral fortune was on the rise […]. (‘Seduta di mercoledì 23 maggio 1973 presidenza del presidente Pertini indi del vicepresidente Boldrini’ 1973′ 1973)

Two recurring motifs anchored Almirante’s lofty oration: the suffering of the party and the moral stoicism of its young supporters in the face of provocation from the far left. ‘Are you accusing us of inciting violence?’ he asked the Chamber, before listing examples of far-left attacks on the party in Genova, Parma, Salerno and, of course, Primavalle. He continued: Acting responsibly, on none of these occasions did the National Right allow the language of hatred, revenge and resentment to be spoken. We have tightened our lips to avoid uttering words that sound like threats of reprisal, when it would only have been human to say them, and it might even have seemed inhumane not to say them in front of the parents, relatives and children of the victims. Even so, we were silent. We have even knelt before victims of other political parties who have unfortunately been mown down by indiscriminate violence, and we are always ready to do so again, precisely because we are the national right, because beyond political pro-

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grammes, beyond social and economic programmes, we have a desire to unite for Italians and with Italians.

Almirante’s references to silence, respectful genuflection, stoicism, and morality framed the party’s conduct as pious and its members as disciplined and inspired by a semi-religious ideological commitment. Moreover, though he was not present at any of their deaths, Almirante bound his persecution to the fate of far-right victims Venturini, Falvella and the Mattei brothers, representing himself as a living martyr under constant attack. His repeated self-presentation as an individual persecuted at the hands of a majority for a belief—the paradigm of religious martyrdom— painted a picture of political stoicism and moral commitment, depicting party suffering as living martyrdom. The rhetoric and rituals performed by the MSI in this period with Almirante as their conductor were part of a broader performance of party redemption in the early 1970s. Journalists, politicians and everyday citizens had discussed the connection between the party and a new form of squadrist violence, while investigators examined evidence of Almirante’s reconstitution of Fascism. The party’s public expressions of stoicism and piety were intended to incite empathy, dissolve blame and shift discourse. This was a turning point for the party, the Mattei funeral its fulcrum. Aware of the propagandistic power of martyr narratives, which rely on this trope of persecution, some newspapers warned against the proposal to dissolve the MSI for reconstitution of the Fascist party. The day after his speech, Corriere d’Informazione published a front-page article that described the rumoured proposal to dissolve the MSI as ‘political madness’. The article argued: Any act of repression that goes beyond the rules of the democratic game would now be a gift, a lifeline for the Social Movement in the most difficult days of its history. It would give the MSI the opportunity to present themselves as victims in public opinion. It would guarantee them the halo of martyrdom and clandestinity. (Corriere d’Informazione 1973)

On 24 May, the Chamber of Deputies voted in favour (484 yes to 60 no) of proceedings against Giorgio Almirante under the Scelba Law. As the results were announced to the Chamber, sardonic MSI deputies murmured “long live liberty” (La Stampa 1973). The press was sceptical about the likeliness of Almirante ever being brought to trial; La Stampa

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(Giurato 1973) anticipated some of the issues that then arose, asking, for example, whether Rome’s public prosecutor would be able to take over the case, given it had been formally launched in Milan. Reporter Carlo Casalegno also questioned the implications of the fact the speech that Bianchi D’Espinosa identified as proof of Almirante’s continuation of Fascist thought, during which he declared ‘we are ready to replace the state’ and ‘our young people must prepare for a face-to-face clash... when I say face-to-face clash, I mean also a physical clash’ (Casalegno 1972), had taken place in Florence. Finally, the paper asked, how would the public prosecutor manage the 104 proceedings against other parliamentarians and non-parliamentarians across the country and flagged by the investigation for having violated the Scelba Law? Authorisation to proceed against Almirante would again be sought in 1975, 1979 and 1984. These false starts gave Almirante several opportunities to represent himself and the party as suffering for their ideological beliefs, presenting political stoicism as a moral mission. The party claimed its dead within this framework, tying death to political persecution through the rituals and rhetoric of martyrdom. This attempt to tie the party’s fate to individual deaths would reach a peak in the first trial for the Primavalle arson in 1975.

3.3   Violence and Political Allegiance Neofascists gathering at dawn in front of Rome’s Court of Assizes on 24 February 1975 would no doubt have cast a favourable eye on the posters that had been affixed in the court’s vicinity and celebrated Stefano and Virgilio as symbols of ‘italianità’ (italianness), condemning their deaths in a ‘communist massacre’ (Carbone 1975a). Judges, lawyers, journalists and witnesses attending the trial for Stefano and Virgilio’s deaths were met by a wall of ‘fascist thugs’ that flanked the security barriers erected at the entrance to the court. But these far-right supporters were not alone. Although the extra-parliamentary left had sought police authorisation for a demonstration in Piazzale Clodio that day, a request that was swiftly rejected, hundreds gathered, carrying banners in support of the accused (Alfano and Baldoni 1975). Perhaps they had seen the supplement published with the 17 February 1975 edition of Potere Operaio del lunedì dedicated to Lollo’s treatment and the Primavalle ‘set-up’, which shared the details of the trial-day protest and called for all those on the extra-­ parliamentary left to defend Lollo: ‘only the mobilization, struggle, and engagement of all vanguards will succeed in finally bringing down this

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absurd provocation’ (Potere Operaio Del Lunedì 1975). Shouts of ‘free Lollo!’ could be heard above the sounds of traffic in Piazzale Clodio, part of a ‘revolutionary performance’, according to Il Secolo d’Italia (Maria d’Asaro 1975). Journalists described the surrounding streets as ‘besieged by police’ (Menghini 1975a), creating an ‘extremely tense’ atmosphere as police officers patrolled the court’s vicinity in preparation for ‘guerrilla warfare’ (Zara 1975). They dispersed crowds of far-left and far-right demonstrators using tear gas, batons and shields (Menghini 1975a). Looking out of his office window that morning, one magistrate saw clubs and rocks being loaded into cars by neofascists who roamed the area, ready to attack their adversaries (Carbone 1975a). This tension had not appeared overnight. It was the result of almost two years’ coverage of the criminal investigation in the mainstream and subversive press, which tore apart the evidence and proposed theories to demonise their political adversaries. In anticipation of further violence, safety measures were introduced in and around the Court. Drawing a parallel that had frequently been drawn by the left-wing press, L’Unità noted that the same system of walkways and barriers installed to control the flow of attendees had been used in the trial of Pietro Valpreda in 1972 for his involvement in the Piazza Fontana bombing (Gambascia 1975). The paper was not alone in making a connection to this highly charged trial, which was eventually moved out of Rome for reasons of public order. Avanti journalist Guido Zara (1975) noted the Primavalle trial was to be held in the very same courtroom as that of Valpreda. Not only were there parallels in terms of safety measures and courtroom setting, Il Secolo d’Italia reported that the anarchist Roberto Gargamelli, who was arrested, tried and acquitted alongside Valpreda, had sought entry to the Primavalle trial; when access was denied, he demonstrated his solidarity with Achille Lollo by standing in Piazzale Clodio for the duration of the opening hearing (Il Secolo d’Italia 1975a). These parallels resurrected recent memories of violent trials and incorrect accusations  in collective consciousness, further heightening the tension surrounding the trial. On the opening day, almost the entire space available for the viewing public was occupied by far-right supporters who had queued outside the court from the early hours in an effort to claim the trial as ‘theirs’ (Gambascia 1975). Described as ‘the cream of the crop of Rome’s squadrist violence’ (Zara 1975), these ‘thugs from boxing academies’ (Gambascia 1975) were easily identifiable because of their uniform of blue jeans,

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leather jackets and Ray-Bans (Menghini 1975a). Spread across the public galleries, they were there to see and be seen (Alfano and Baldoni 1975). The hearing began shortly before 10 am when a roll call of the accused was read out. Only Achille Lollo was present, as Grillo and Clavo had fled the country (Menghini 1975a). The indictments were then read out to the court, and the names of the 101 witnesses were provided. There had been 102 witnesses, but the journalist Virgilio Crocco, ex-husband of the singer Mina, who had been one of the first to reach the scene of the crime to report for Il Messaggero, had since died while working in the United States. The clerk then reminded the court of the facts, and summarised the expert reports (Menghini 1975a). The atmosphere within the court was ‘strict’, according to Il Secolo, leaving little room for emotions (Maria d’Asaro 1975). This initial composure would quickly burst. Shortly after the rejection of the MSI’s request to join the civil party, Mario and Anna Mattei approached the court clerk to sign their names as civil plaintiffs. When they returned to their seats, Anna Mattei found that the space assigned to her was occupied by a journalist from the paper Momento Sera. This provoked a ‘strong outburst’ from Anna and an ‘unseemly reaction’ from neofascists who shouted ‘provocateurs, assassins’ in the direction of the journalist and defence lawyers (Carbone 1975a). According to L’Unità, two ‘fascist lawyers’ then struck the journalist in question and the court President struggled to regain control (Gambascia 1975). The next day, several papers published an image that captured this moment of breakdown, showing Mario Mattei physically supporting his wife, emotion clear on her face (Menghini 1975a; Gambascia 1975). This photograph demonstrated the media’s initial appetite for evidence of maternal grief—something that would soon get lost among the sensationalist coverage that focused more on the political repercussions of the trial rather than its impact on the family. It would not be until the second trial more than a decade later that familial tragedy would return to the fore of the media’s reporting. As the first hearing got underway, around ten left-wing militants sought entry to the court, but quickly found themselves surrounded by their political adversaries. The police reacted firmly, separating the two groups and containing those on the far right in an internal courtyard (Carbone 1975a). Had left-wing militants gained entry  to the court, they would have been met by neofascists seated in the gallery, ready to unleash shouts, insults and threats in a performance of political allegiance that showed ‘precise and studied orchestration’ (Carbone 1975a), according to La

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Stampa. Highlighting the latent threat of violence even within the courtroom, reporter Fabrizio Carbone noted that the photographer from Il Secolo d’Italia was photographing every journalist present one by one, presumably to supply neofascists with images of who to target (Carbone 1975a). This was a suspicion Avanti shared. Resurrecting memories of historic Fascism, the PSI’s paper wrote: Their creed is violence, their justice is that of special tribunals and lynch mobs, their Constitution that of Salò and of firing squads: it is therefore no surprise that the fascists have turned the Primavalle trial courtroom into a camp for their gang of thugs. (Avanti 1975)

The article concluded with a direct address to the court president, asking whether the court could deliver a fair trial or if the final sentence would be influenced by the threat of violence and intimidation exerted by the those in and outside the walls of the court. Beyond the threat of political violence, another element of the trial caught reporters’ attention: the behaviour of Achille Lollo, the sole defendant present in court. A man whose life and appearance were a far cry from the underground world of violent extremism that media reports on political violence so often painted, this trial presented a new type of perpetrator. Reporters commented on Lollo’s clean image, dressed in ‘an impeccable blue suit with a white shirt’ (Menghini 1975b) (see Fig.  3.2). Il Secolo d’Italia noted his calm demeanour, which it notched up as a ‘defensive strategy’ and focused on his silence (presumably this struck a notable contrast to the shouts and chants in Piazzale Clodio). The paper wrote: ‘Lollo did not put on a marxist-leninist show, he did not shout, he did not get worked up, he did not hurl invectives against the judges, he did not insult the carabinieri’, writing that he only raised his closed fist to comrades in the public gallery when they exhorted him to do so (and even then, he was ‘clearly annoyed’) (Maria d’Asaro 1975). This restrained ‘bourgeois behaviour’, the paper noted, stood in stark contrast to Valpreda’s political gestures and interactions with the public during his trial (Il Secolo d’Italia 1975b). Having missed this unexpected gesture of political allegiance, reporters requested Lollo repeat the gesture so they might photograph him doing so—a request that demonstrated their hunger for a performative perpetrator, and some unease around this wealthy young man implicated in a double killing who offered few visible declarations of his political motivation.

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Fig. 3.2  Many photographs taken during the first Primavalle trial and published in the media captured Lollo’s smart suit and calm demeanour. Photo: ANSA

Lollo’s cross-examination was scheduled for the second hearing the following day, and the public prosecutor and legal representatives for the defence had all agreed to the use of recording equipment so the tapes could be used during deliberations (Carbone 1975a). An unnamed source involved in the trial was quoted in La Stampa saying this equipment would be good enough to capture ‘even the breathing’ of Achille Lollo (Carbone 1975a), betraying some fascination with his physical presence and performance in court. But despite the court’s technological ambitions, a problem with the recording equipment meant the court had to wait until 28 February to see Lollo take the stand. In his testimony, Lollo admitted to having visited the home of Aldo Speranza late on the night of 15 April to collect the signatures Speranza had gathered in support of a nursery in Primavalle—a project proposed by Potere Operaio (Menghini 1975a). As we saw in Chapter 2, Il Messaggero had exposed investigators’ erroneous account of this visit to Speranza and their issuing of an arrest warrant for Mario Sorrentino (‘the wrong Mario’). Lollo denied Speranza’s declaration that he had forced Speranza—blindfolded—into a Fiat 1500, driving him to an unknown location to gather information about Mario Mattei.

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Lollo claimed he was at home asleep at the time of the arson, which he learned about the next day from the newspapers. Lollo said that he had spent the day of 15 April with his family at their second property in Trevignano, a town on Lake Bracciano, a statement that elevated Lollo above the poverty of Primavalle and matched his bourgeois characterisation in the media. Picking up on this economic inequality, Il Secolo (1975b) described Lollo as not having betrayed any emotion, avoiding eye contact with the Mattei family, and demonstrating ‘bourgeois behaviour’ and clothing ‘so different to the attitude taken in the past’, which was ‘strong, intransigent, tough’. Lasting just three hours, the brevity of Lollo’s interrogation was unexpected. Nevertheless, he declared his innocence three times. Outside the court, violent clashes occurred between the many far-right and far-left groups gathered in the streets around the Palace of Justice. They reached a crescendo when a group of 400 associated with groups including Potere Operaio and Lotta Continua tried to enter the courtroom while Lollo gave his testimony. They were met by a group of neofascists who lined the entrance to the building, and violence erupted involving slingshots, iron projectiles and metal bars. Police dispersed rioters into the surrounding area but violence only increased with the conclusion of the morning’s hearing, when those belonging to the extra-parliamentary right and left who had been in the courtroom (or the nearby piazza) flooded into the city where they came face-to-face. They threw punches, Molotov cocktails, stones, and metal bars. Some sought refuge in the nearby MSI headquarters on via Ottaviano. Among them was Mikis Mantakas, a Greek medical student belonging to the youth division of the MSI. When explosives were thrown inside the headquarters, Mantakas fled the building onto Piazza Risorgimento where he was shot by Alvaro Lojacono, member of Potere Operaio and, later, the Brigate Rosse. Mantakas died in the operating theatre. In 1997, Lojacono was sentenced to life imprisonment for his involvement in the assassination of Aldo Moro and his escort in 1978, and, in 1980, he was given 16 years for killing Mantakas (but he has not served either sentence as he fled Italy, obtained Swiss citizenship in 1986, and avoided Italy’s extradition requests). Mantakas will return in Part III of this book, and remains a martyr for the international far right. On the night of his death, the general prosecutor of the Court of Appeal met the head prosecutor of the Republic, and the president of the tribunal, to determine whether to move the trial out of Rome for reasons of public order and questions around its neutrality (Corriere della Sera 1975a).

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The next day, more than a thousand law enforcement officers were in the streets around the Palace of Justice. One police officer told Corriere della Sera: We fear the worst and we are ready for anything. By dawn, in front of the MSI headquarters in via Ottaviano where Michele Mantekas [sic] was killed, there were several hundred young people belonging to far-right organisations. Tempers are flaring and a full-scale clash between the two sides  is expected. (Corriere della Sera 1975a)

This police presence did little to deter neofascists from smashing windows, setting cars alight, threatening passers-by and committing acts of violence (Corriere della Sera 1975b). Hinting at the scale of this pre-­ planned violence, a backpack containing five Molotov cocktails was discovered near the Palace of Justice (Corriere della Sera 1975b). FUAN, the university division of MSI, issued a statement confirming that this was a response to Communist violence, restating their commitment to prevent the PCI taking power (Dragosei 1975). Corriere journalist Alberto Sensini (1975) compared the violence unleashed on those associated with the left at the hands of fascist thugs to the violence perpetuated by squadrists in the early 1920s. Almirante released a statement describing the ‘civil war’ underway on the streets of Rome, which he closed by calling for the government to step in to prevent further civil unrest and act against far-left violence, honouring Mantakas as an anti-communist martyr: MSI-DN, forced once again to kneel before the sacrifice of a young man, guilty of nothing but being anticommunist, publicly denounces the situation of real civil war that has been created in Italy’s capital, which has been abandoned to the violence of red guerrillas and common criminality without the government doing anything to prevent or stamp out this phenomenon. (Il Secolo d’Italia 1975c)

Against this backdrop of civil unrest, the trial continued. So many police officers were present in and around the courtroom  that Corriere described it as an ‘unconquerable fortress’ (Menghini 1975a). Despite the protection their presence offered, a journalist for La Stampa was nevertheless punched to the ground as he got off the bus in Piazzale Clodio (Paolo Menghini 1975a). But, at the opening of the hearing the court president declared that since nothing had happened within the courtroom itself, justice could be fairly delivered. The trial continued.

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3.4  An Ideological Fight Without Borders On 3 March 1975, a funeral was held for Mantakas. While the media continued to cover the Primavalle trial and the violence that surrounded it, the funeral afforded the MSI another opportunity to honour its martyrs and reinforce the narrative of victimhood. Organised by the MSI, Mantakas’s funeral was held in the Basilica of Santa Maria sopra Minerva behind the Pantheon in the historic centre of Rome. As he had following the Mattei brothers’ funeral, Almirante delivered an oration to honour Mantakas. He began with the assertion that this was not a political ‘rally’ but a ‘rite’, a description that infused the ceremony with religious significance and is often used in funeral orations for those mourned as political martyrs, demonstrative of the sacralisation of the political dead of all creeds. Indeed, Filippo Turati made the same assertion in his oration for Giacomo Matteotti during a meeting of the parliamentary opposition after the socialist leader’s assassination (Tempo Presente 2014). Deeply infused with the rhetoric of martyrdom, Almirante positioned the deaths of Stefano and Virgilio Mattei and Mikis Mantakas within a broader tradition of political sacrifice that broke the boundaries of the nation state. Almirante declared that although Mantakas’s mortal remains would be laid to rest in Greece, Italy would guard his spirit alongside the ‘strong and kind’ spirits of Stefano and Virgilio Mattei, ‘in whose name and for whose sake you fell’. He then described Mantakas as ‘a martyr of an idea, of an order of fighters and believers that crossed the borders of our land to unite the best part of the Western world’s young generations in a pact of civilization, order, and freedom’. Not only did Almirante’s words elevate a perceived ideological battle to the level of international crusade, they also positioned Italy as a crucible of the global far right and the heartland of a moral civilising mission, echoing the imperial rhetoric that characterised Italy’s historic far right. This representation of Mantakas as a European martyr was likely to have appealed to those on the right of the party and therefore had a unifying function during this collective commemorative ritual. By elevating Mantakas beyond the confines of Italy’s national borders, the party was able to both claim a foreign national as its own and celebrate its mission as global, suggesting those supporting the MSI on the streets of Rome were in fact part of a universal movement in pursuit of a ‘new order’ built on solidarity between neofascist nations.2 This positioning of martyrdom as beyond the nation state aligned with the philosophy of Julius Evola, whose work is still considered influential by Italy’s far

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right, particularly his notion of the spiritual nation (Ferraresi 1996, p. 44). Popular with European far-right radicals in the 1950s and 1960s, Evola’s spiritual nation saw the nation as made up of those who shared certain ideals and remained loyal to tradition, rather than defined by the physical borders of the nation state (Wolff 2019, p. 74). This cross-border affinity was pushed by those on the radical right who were unlikely to garner electoral success and thus sought legitimacy through new conceptions of the nation (Wolff 2019, p. 74). Among them was Pino Rauti and his Centro Studio Ordine Nuovo, which adhered to this notion of a nation founded on ideals. By elevating the ultimate sacrifice made by Mantakas, a Greek national, as above and beyond the nation and a sign of a transcendental commitment to far-right ideology, Almirante hoped to appeal to those on the right of the party, including Pino Rauti, who were often disillusioned with Almirante’s perceived betrayal of traditional fascist values. Almirante described Mantakas’s death as ‘a crime against justice, a crime against the State’, suggesting he was assassinated so the Primavalle trial would stop (Silvestri 1975). He described it as a duty to collectively declare that ‘either the State defends itself or the citizens have the right and the duty to defend themselves,’ apparently validating violence in the name of self-defence. The statement marked a shift in the narrative regarding MSI violence, demonstrating the importance of this period for the development of the party. Almirante was no longer distancing the party from violence; rather, he framed it as a justifiable reaction to threat. Standing in front of the Basilica of Santa Maria sopra Minerva, he said he was not calling for revenge, but asking for ‘steadfastness and courage,’ an invocation he likened to an oath before a temple ‘dedicated to a saint who knew that love is combat,’ referring to Minerva, the Roman goddess of strategic war (and trade and wisdom) who wore armour and carried a spear. Some of those present responded with Fascist salutes. The MSI leader’s belligerent tone was striking, and the press took note. A Corriere article noted Almirante’s use of the word ‘revenge’ and the implicit threat that neofascists would take matters into their own hands (Corriere della Sera 1975c). On 2 March, Il Secolo d’Italia (1975d) published a round-up of press coverage of this violence, continuing to argue that ‘the regime’s press’ was fuelling it. The article described a ‘Pilate-esque’ silence from political leaders, and ‘underhand’ coverage on radio and television that attempted to downplay responsibility for Mantakas’s death. Several of the major

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left-­ wing dailies including Il Messaggero and L’Unità were criticised, though the most damning criticism was reserved for La Stampa. The Torinese paper was condemned for framing the violence as ‘gunfights between extremists’ when, Il Secolo d’Italia said, only ‘ultra communists’ opened fire, and for writing that ‘Romualdi and Almirante make threats of sedition’. Il Tempo was lauded for having immediately identified the killers as members of the extra-parliamentary left. Writing from Rome a few days later, New York Times special correspondent Paul Hofmann described the atmosphere in Rome. Pilgrims visiting Vatican City to mark the Roman Catholic Church’s Holy Year were warned to stay away from the nearby Piazza Risorgimento, which had become a hotbed of political violence (Hofmann 1975). The site of Mantakas’s death was adorned with flowers and flanked by a tricolour flag at half-mast, and Hofmann wrote that ‘the neofascist movement has adopted Mr Mandakas [sic] as a martyr’. As the first Primavalle trial unfolded and accusations of squadrist violence grew, the MSI added to its pantheon of martyrs, drawing on the rituals and rhetoric of martyrdom to honour Mantakas as a symbol of commitment to the global cause and strengthening a narrative of persecution.

3.5   Courtroom Plot Twists While early coverage of Lollo stoked his emerging celebrity, the emerging sense of spectacle was boosted by the testimony of key witnesses who rocked proceedings. In response, the mainstream media began to adopt the language of fiction and film in its coverage, drawing out plot twists, conspiracies and recusals for public consumption—qualities that define coverage of the trial and the public’s relationship to it. In mid-March, the court heard the testimonies of Diana Perrone and Paolo Gaeta, who had initially provided an alibi for the accused for the day before and night of the crime. However, both then rescinded their alibis, moved by what they described in court as a ‘case of conscience’ (Menghini 1975b). The pair were reprimanded by the court president for their ‘equivocal’ attitude to the truth (Menghini 1975b). Explaining these twists and turns, Perrone said she had told investigators on 3 May 1973 that she had seen Clavo and his girlfriend, Elisabetta Lecco, return to the apartment Perrone and Gaeta shared with the couple in via Segneri, Trastevere, at around midnight. Three days later, Perrone told the investigating judge that she had not in fact seen Clavo with Lecco at midnight; rather, she had seen Lollo, Grillo

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and Clavo in Piazza Farnese, over the Tiber, at 10.30  pm, noting that Grillo had shaved off his thick beard (Menghini 1975b). She then told Elisabetta Lecco that Grillo, who had changed his appearance, had asked her for an alibi. Perrone told the court that though she had wanted to help a friend whose political beliefs she shared, she was moved to tell the truth when she realised her apartment was being painted as a den of extremism (Menghini 1975b). Pushed by the defence, she explained that her father, Ferdinando Perrone, had told her that she ran the risk of arrest and might become a suspect rather than witness. Gaeta, on the other hand, had told investigators he remembered speaking to Clavo over the intercom when he rang at the door of the flat, before letting him in to meet Lollo. Perrone subsequently told the court she didn’t remember this, but that she did not consider herself a false witness. She also confirmed that she had since left PO for ‘personal reasons’ (Menghini 1975b). The credibility of the evidence was further shaken by the appearance of MSI member Anna Schiaoncin, known in the media as ‘Anna the fascist’, who had given an interview to Il Messaggero two days after the Primavalle attack in which she declared that the perpetrators of the crime were MSI dissidents close to the extra-parliamentary group Avanguardia Nazionale: ‘They had it in for Mario Mattei because he was too nice. They reproached him for being too democratic, for not reacting to provocations, for being against violence’ (Pandolfo 1973). As analysed in Chapter 2, Schiaoncin had told journalist Mario Pandolfo (1973) that the Giarabub section had always been divided between ‘hawks’ and ‘doves’, but that one unnamed ‘traitor’ wanted Mario Mattei out. He, along with the other dissidents, had set about spreading rumours about Mattei to try to get him to stand down. These rumours suggested that Mario’s wife, Anna, was a communist who sold L’Unità, and that Mario was having an affair with Anna Schiaoncin and his political actions were dictated by her. Anna Schiaoncin had refused to give the name of this ‘traitor’, though she told Pandolfo he lived in Primavalle and had fought in the Repubblica di Salò. Schiaoncin later denied having made these allegations in a subsequent interview, but her words had already cast doubt over the party and they became the subject of significant column space in the mainstream and subversive press. At the 14th hearing of the Primavalle trial, Anna Schiaoncin gave testimony. She confirmed the interview she had originally given to Il Messaggero was in fact the truth, saying that her subsequent denial in Il Secolo was because she feared for her life (Carbone 1975c). She told the court that

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the Matteis lived in fear of being attacked; they had purchased fire extinguishers and implored her to do the same. She also told the court about Mario Mattei’s suspicion that the bomb attack on the MSI headquarters that had taken place just before the arson had been the work of MSI members. Having delivered her testimony, she returned to her seat, fainted, and was carried into another room to recover (Carbone 1975b). The narrative of internal party divisions had moved from the papers to the space of the courtroom, voiced by a member of the MSI itself. La Stampa wrote of a ‘sensational and dramatic hearing; it was like she was taking part in the epilogue to a detective film, with the classic courtroom plot twist’ (Carbone 1975c). The paper described the evidence brought against the accused as having ‘wilted’ following the ‘sensational declarations’ of Anna Schiaoncin regarding internal divisions within the MSI (Carbone 1975c). This was not a surprise to everyone. A taxi driver for La Stampa’s Fabrizio Carbone told the journalist: ‘The judges never came to hear what the locals were saying: they have been talking about it for a while. For a while people here in Primavalle have been saying that MSI members committed the attack’ (Carbone 1975c). Some asked whether the MSI’s rumoured involvement in the crime would mean a new investigation or even a permanent halt to proceedings (Carbone 1975c). With this revelation hanging heavy over the court, the trial was delayed until 4 April by Easter celebrations and the absence, thought by La Stampa to be due to illness, of one of the minor defendants’ defence lawyers. This pushed back important testimonies— the court had been due to hear from expert witnesses who were expected to address the plaintiff’s argument that flammable liquid had been put under the door and then set alight, and the defence’s version, which proposed that the fire started within the apartment. Threatening another delay, on 26 March, Mario Mattei’s lawyers pointed to strikes taking place in hospitals and argued that legal professionals should also be permitted to down tools. Lollo’s defence team responded saying their client had the right to a quick trial as he was being held in custody (Corriere della Sera 1975d). The court rejected this unexpected request to strike. The trial hit its next hurdle—this time placed by the defence—on 12 April, when one of the so-called ‘popular judges’ stood down as questions were raised about his impartiality. Italy’s Court of Assizes comprises two professional judges known as ‘gowned judges’, and six citizens appointed as ‘popular judges’. Suspicions were raised when the panel of judges visited the Mattei flat to review the site of the crime. As one of the popular

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judges, Elio Aversa, director of a pharmaceutical company, climbed the stairs to the third floor, he suggested to one of the lawyers for the civil party that they conduct an experiment by pouring liquid under the front door to an equivalent flat on the second floor to see if it would penetrate the threshold. Since Italy’s procedural code forbids popular judges from making such suggestions, Lollo’s defence team put in a request for his recusal the following day. This request was rejected by the court, but the next day a group of journalists who had witnessed the incident sent a letter expressing their concern to the court and Lollo’s team requested a recusal once again. Amidst this uncertainty, Aversa decided to stand down (though he restated his impartiality) (Corriere della Sera 1975e). Nevertheless, on 14 April, the jury conducted this experiment in a building on the same estate to determine whether such quantities of liquid could be poured under the door and set alight in a re-enactment covered by the press. The lawyers for the civil party and the defence were present along with Mario Mattei (Anna Mattei had sent a letter saying she did not wish to return to the scene of the crime). The plaintiff maintained that the accused had poured a significant amount of liquid under the door to the flat, some of which remained on the landing, and set fire to it; when the Mattei family opened the front door to flee, the rush of air carried the flames directly into the flat, where they spread to Stefano and Virgilio’s bedroom. The defence claimed that the lack of significant fire damage to the landing in front of the door suggested the fire broke out inside the house. Of the 1.5 litres poured from a 5-litre tank at a height of a metre, around a third of the liquid penetrated the apartment, with the rest remaining on the landing (Menghini 1975c). Finally, the lawyers put forward their primary defence: the fire was started by members of the far right due to internal divisions within the party (Corriere della Sera 1975i). On 28 April 1975, the evidence hearings ended in Rome. The trial began again on 9 May with statements from the plaintiff’s lawyer, Raffaele Valensise, who maintained that the fire had started outside the Mattei family’s front door, beginning on the landing (the defence had called on the family’s neighbour Gualtiero Perchi, who denied that there had been any flames on the landing). Although the petrol tank was found half-melted inside the flat, the plaintiff argued that it had been blown inside by the  force of the water used by the fire brigade. Valensise described the actions of Lollo and his accomplices as ‘imbued with violence and hatred of their political enemies and the bourgeoisie’. When it came to the

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various speeches in defence of the accused, Lollo’s representative referred to the narratives already discussed in the media, which stated that opportunistic MSI members had taken the chance to frame Potere Operaio by planting a note signed ‘Brigata Tanas’ at the scene of the crime, describing the events of 16 April 1973 as part of a ‘strategy of tension’ (Corriere della Sera 1975g). A final interruption came in the closing days of the trial. On 15 May, Clavo and Grillo were arrested in Stockholm, where they had requested political asylum in March 1974. Corriere della Sera managed to contact Clavo via his lawyer, learning that he was being held in isolation in a small cell for 23 out of 24 hours (surprisingly, the first question put to him by the newspaper after enquiring about his well-being was what he thought of Swedish food) (Corriere della Sera 1975f). The article outlined the strong press campaign in the Swedish media in favour of Grillo and Clavo, citing an article by the renowned Swedish journalist Torsten Bergmark, an expert on Italian affairs, as well as a campaign to grant them political asylum with tens of thousands of signatories. Their arrest threatened proceedings. Not only did the Swedish judiciary immediately declare a wish to review the evidence against them before responding to any extradition request, the pair’s arrest also meant they were no longer officially at large and therefore the court needed to offer them the right to reply to the evidence that had been presented, examined, and debated during oral arguments before it could proceed to sentencing. If they did not wish to attend, Italy would have to make an official extradition request, the bureaucracy of which could delay proceedings by a month. Moreover, this might have meant the court could call for more investigations and a new inquiry, which would see the trial delayed indefinitely as the court could not by law use the same judges and jury, so oral arguments would have to be heard again (La Stampa 1975a).

3.6   Verdict Speaking on 4 June in defence of his client Marino Clavo, during a hearing in Stockholm to decide whether his arrest should be upheld, the Swedish lawyer Hans Goeran Frank declared that, ‘Italy now belongs to that category of countries where justice is influenced by politics and by underground forces that have infiltrated the courts’ (Corriere della Sera 1975h). The judge concluded that Clavo’s arrest would be upheld but that if no

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official extradition request was received from Italy by 6 June, he would be freed. At a press conference the same day, Frank compared the plight of Clavo and Grillo to that of Italian anarchists Sacco and Vanzetti in the US (Corriere della Sera 1975h), drawing on historical memory of far-left persecution at the hands of the courts to paint his client as being unjustly detained for political motives. No extradition requests were received, and the pair were freed. In their absence, the Italian court proceeded to sentencing. Lollo, Grillo and Clavo’s defence team had focused on undermining the credibility of the investigation, a task made easier by the sensationalist twists and turns and constant media coverage that had turned the trial into a drama for public consumption. The public prosecutor and the plaintiff’s representatives had focused on the danger posed by the accused, who were represented as violent subversives motivated by hatred—a portrayal that Lollo’s courtroom restraint undermined. While the jury reviewed the case documents, the building was once again surrounded by police and carabinieri who feared political violence. On 5 June, after 101 days, 42 sessions, 116 witnesses and 200 hours in court, it took the jury just over 11 hours to deliver their verdict: acquittal on the grounds of insufficient evidence (Carbone 1975d). The public prosecutor’s pursuit of a life sentence for Lollo, Grillo and Clavo had failed, and the warrant for Grillo and Clavo’s arrest was revoked. As the verdict was announced, those present in court to support the accused celebrated with an ‘unstoppable explosion of enthusiasm and slogans that drowned everything out’ (Lotta Continua 1975). Some even broke into a chorus of Bandiera Rossa, a song cherished by the labour movement. One of Lollo’s supporters ran from the courtroom to deliver the news to the hundreds of far-left supporters waiting outside the court, who clapped, raised their fists, and broke into a rendition of ‘The Internationale’. Lollo was immediately taken from the courtroom to Regina Coeli jail where he had been held in custody. Unbeknown to the large crowd of supporters waiting to greet him as a free man, he had been escorted out of the prison via a back door; according to the paper Lotta Continua this was to avoid media coverage of him being greeted by his supporters in the piazza, and one that showed an acute awareness of the media circus surrounding the trial, which, in the absence of Grillo and Clavo in court, had centred on Achille Lollo (Lotta Continua 1975). Supporters waiting at Regina Coeli did not believe the custody officer who told them he had been released via a back door, responding with a rhyming chant: ‘Poliziotti, magistrati, non

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raccontate balle, i fascisti hanno fatto la strage di Primavalle’ (‘Policemen, magistrates, don’t tell lies, the fascists committed the Primavalle massacre’) (Il Messaggero 1975). It was only when court journalists confirmed Lollo had left an hour ago that they began to disperse (La Stampa 1975b). Speaking on behalf of the defence lawyers, Tommaso Mancini said the sentence had crushed a set-up that the defence had flagged in the very early stages of the investigation (Menghini 1975c). The public prosecutor lodged an appeal the following morning. The plaintiff also immediately announced their intention to see the sentence revoked on the grounds that one of the popular judges was not fit to give a sound judgement (an argument that would only be accepted in 1981) (Menghini 1975c). The following day, the newspapers covered the verdict. La Stampa suggested Lollo’s acquittal apportioned blame to the fascists, returning to the rumour that implicated the MSI (Carbone 1975f). Il Secolo (1975e) ran with a simple declaration: ‘Justice has not been done’. According to the paper, the court had clearly been swayed by the media and the presence of left-wing militants throughout the trial, as evidenced by the President of the Court’s readiness to reprimand those in the gallery who interrupted proceedings but his failure to stop the court from singing Bandiera Rossa when the verdict was announced. Lollo immediately agreed to meet only three journalists (including one television journalist, who recorded an interview that was then projected in Piazza Navona on 6 June) belonging to the ‘movement for democratic information’ (Isman 1975). Speaking to La Stampa, he expressed dissatisfaction at his acquittal due to insufficient evidence, saying this ‘doubt still leaves a space for the fascists’ and declaring his intention to launch an appeal to clear his name completely (Carbone 1975e). He also announced his intention to get involved in politics ahead of the elections scheduled a week later, with plans to hold a large assembly bringing together all members of the extra-parliamentary left. Presenting himself as a selfless leader in an ideological fight, he told Il Messaggero that his first thought upon hearing the verdict was ‘that it was a victory for everyone, for the entire left. In that moment, it didn’t even cross my mind that I was about to get my freedom back after two years in jail’ (Isman 1975). During the interview, Lollo reflected on his two years awaiting trial and the trial itself, declaring the best part ‘the responsible behaviour’ of his supporters who, he said, did not fall for the relentless provocations in the first 20 days of the trial, taking beatings so that the trial could continue

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(Isman 1975). On 6 July, newspapers reported Lollo’s request for political asylum in Sweden, where he joined Grillo and Clavo. According to La Stampa, he had left the unstable atmosphere of Rome for Paris shortly after the trial but was threatened by militants belonging to the French far-­ right  group Ordre Nouveau (La Stampa 1975c). A group of Swedish social democrat youths supported the trio in making a request for political asylum, organising fundraising and a media campaign to stir public opinion in their favour (La Stampa 1975c). Thirty years later, Lollo admitted to having left a rudimentary bomb in front of the Matteis’ flat and named five accomplices. Speaking to Corriere della Sera, Lollo’s interview exposed the narrative that implicated the MSI and the Mattei family as entirely false. The interview sparked a chain of confessions and denials from those involved in the attack, led to renewed extradition requests and prompted the Italian state to begin to engage with the Mattei brothers’ memory, opening up a space for Giampaolo Mattei to become a public victim, as the next chapter addresses. Lollo’s confession also led to renewed interest in the attack and its cover-up in the national media. La Stampa responded to Lollo’s Corriere interview with a piece that described a party held to celebrate Lollo’s freedom in Fregene, a beach town near Rome, in 1975, attended by the network of cultural figures, lawyers, and journalists who built and sustained the so-called ‘innocentist campaign’ that had protected Lollo, Grillo and Clavo. Penned by crime reporter Francesco Grignetti, the piece quoted the journalist Ruggero Guarini, who had headed up Il Messaggero’s cultural pages at the time of the attack. Guarini told La Stampa that Potere Operaio founder Lanfranco Pace—a ‘diehard innocentista’—had asked Guarini to invite well-known left-wing intellectuals to the party. Given Guarini’s contact with cultural bigwigs, he brought along a number of prominent figures, including the novelist Alberto Moravia, who, Guarini recalled, allegedly exclaimed ‘what have you got me into!’ when he realised the recently absolved Lollo, Grillo and Clavo were in fact guilty. He was said to have attended nonetheless, such was his desire to be associated with ‘fashionable, revolutionary, extremist’ young people, Guarini told La Stampa (Grignetti 2005). Guarini also recalled many Il Messaggero staff leaving the office to attend the party, including the editor-in-chief, Pasquale Prunas, and the head of design, Piergiorgio Maoloni. The lawyer Pasquale Vilardo from the defence team described the atmosphere at the party that night: ‘For us it was like waking up from a nightmare. The acquittal washed away a stain and gave us our honour back’ (Grignetti 2005).

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3.7  From the Political to the Personal: The Second Primavalle Trial On the first anniversary of the Mattei brothers’ deaths, a mass was held at the Church of Santa Maria sopra Minerva (Il Secolo d’Italia 1974). Demonstrating continued MSI sponsorship of their memory, the mass was organised by the party leadership. Ahead of the upcoming divorce referendum on 12 May, Almirante was absent from Rome. Instead, high-profile party figures, including admiral Birindelli (party president 1972–3), Massimo Anderson, founder and president of the youth division Fronte della Gioventu, represented the party. They were joined by the president of the Unione Nazionale Combattenti RSI (National Union of RSI Combatants), with a notable turnout from young members of the far right. Members of the Mattei family also attended. Throughout the late 1970s, the MSI and Il Secolo d’Italia, its media mouthpiece, remained the primary memory choreographers. The paper continued to draw on the language of sacrifice and martyrdom to remember the brothers, publishing an article on 16 April 1976 titled ‘We remember the sacrifice of the Mattei brothers’, with the subtitle ‘three years from the holocaust’ (Il Secolo d’Italia 1976). Signed by ‘a woman from the right’, it adopted hagiographical rhetoric, imagining how they might have committed their lives to work and family, joining their parents in their ‘fight to improve and grow our society’. Upholding the brothers as leaders to emulate, the paper declared: The life of our martyrs, cut short in the prime of their lives, lives on in us and in our everyday feelings, lives on in our children and our young people […] Our memory, our homage to Stefano and Virgilio, should be born of this: the idea that they are alongside us facing our difficulties and our battles. And if sometimes we might feel tired or disheartened, we will think of them as they fight with us and will be with us forever! (Il Secolo d’Italia 1976)

Outside this narrow, political patronage, memory of the attack fell out of the spotlight until six years after the first trial when, on 30 June 1981, Rome’s Court of Assize accepted the civil party’s argument that one of the popular judges involved in the original trial, Dr. Amati, had been affected by a psychiatric illness that had caused depressive symptoms. Since Amati had been given a leave of absence of 90 days beginning in February 1975 for a ‘depressive neurasthenic disorder’ that made him unable to carry out

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his duties as Director of Studies at an institution in Fiuggi, the civil party argued he had also been unfit as a judge (La Stampa 1981). The Court declared the original sentence invalid. The accused and the public prosecutor immediately filed a formal complaint with the Supreme Court of Cassation in protest at the overturning of the original sentence. It would take until 1984 for the Supreme Court’s ruling. Italy’s highest court declared that Judge Amati was of sound mind at the time of the trial and had overcome the effects of the neuropsychiatric illness (La Stampa 1984). This judicial back-and-forth captured media attention, but this time reporters reflected on the relative disinterest in the case among the public, contextualising it as part of the country’s recent history with little contemporary resonance. A temporal line had been drawn in the sand. La Stampa opened its coverage describing the attack as one ‘that few people remember by now, but that certainly marked the start of a dramatic escalation in the war between red and black extremists in Rome’ (La Stampa 1984). On 26 April 1986, the press reported that the trial would be heard by the Court of Appeals, the Corte d’Assise d’Appello, which would review the evidence in its entirety beginning on 29 May, almost five years after the original verdict was declared invalid (La Stampa 1986). However, on 29 May, the trial was postponed because of an irregularity in the court notice sent to defendants—‘the umpteenth delay’, according to La Stampa (Franzi 1986)—and then again because of an issue with the writ of summons served to Grillo. It would take until 1 December 1986 for the appeal trial to begin, 11 years after the original sentence. The atmosphere of the second trial was markedly different. Not one of the accused stood in the docks. A sole carabiniere stood guard (Mattei and Monti 2008, p. 87), and a handful of relatives were present to support Anna and Mario Mattei. Corriere della Sera noted the silence of the ‘desolately empty’ courtroom, a contrast to the cacophonous  first trial: ‘No chants were heard glorifying the three members of Potere Operaio shouted by their ideological comrades, nor did echoes resonate of clashes and violent demonstrations organised by MSI members in revenge for the atrocious death of the young sons of the secretary of the Primavalle section’ (Haver 1986). Delivering his closing arguments, Valensise told the court that the attack occurred because the defendants were trying to halt the ascent of the MSI in a traditionally left-­ wing area, describing the arson as ‘the first real terrorist act’ on Italian soil, overlooking the Piazza Fontana bombing of 1969, centring left-wing

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violence instead. The Mattei family’s legal representative then spoke, reconstructing the events of 16 April and reminding the court of the evidence against the accused and the findings of the initial investigation. On 16 December 1986, just 15 days after the trial had begun, a verdict was announced. Lollo, Grillo and Clavo were sentenced to 18 years imprisonment for arson (eight years), double manslaughter (three years for each death) and the use of explosives and incendiary material (four years). The sentence was definitive, rejecting the suggestion that had dominated the first trial and its coverage that the fire had started behind closed doors, an argument the judges declared ‘irrational and unfounded’ (Mattei and Monti 2008, p. 90). The sentence was challenged by the public prosecutor, who asked how the crime could be considered manslaughter if the cause was recognised as arson, proposing that the three should have been prosecuted for strage, which carries a life sentence. The court rejected this, confirming the sentence of manslaughter and arson on 13 October 1987, a technicality that had a big impact when Achille Lollo confessed to Corriere in 2005 (Mattei and Monti 2008, p. 91). There were no ambiguities: the three had been judged guilty of starting the fire that caused the deaths. Despite the sentencing, none spent any subsequent time in jail, a fact that would sustain the narrative of injustice spread by the far right in remembering the Mattei brothers today. Since the first trial, Italy had witnessed the kidnap and murder of Aldo Moro, the Bologna massacre, the rise and fall of the Brigate Rosse and the beginning of Dalla Chiesa’s investigations in the fight against terrorism. Many of the relatives of the dead had emerged as public victims in the wake of these violent attacks. The violence of the Years of Lead was over, as was the mediatised cycle of information and counter-information that had characterised the period—a rhetorical battle that worked alongside the physical clashes on Italy’s streets. Without the clear political motivations that had driven media coverage of the first trial, which sought to construct and deconstruct the far left’s ‘innocentist’ campaign, the minimal coverage of the second verdict framed the case as a familial tragedy, a re-personalisation of the attack that had been so highly politicised in the 1970s. Although the words were still penned by Paolo Menghini who had covered the original trial, Corriere’s coverage was markedly different in tone. Titled ‘Those Primavalle Flames By Now Far and Forgotten’, Menghini opened with a moving depiction of maternal suffering, isolating the figure of a grieving mother amidst an empty court: ‘The sobs of an

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elderly and tired woman, holding tightly onto the arm of her husband who lowered his head, accompany the rushed reading of a verdict in a courtroom with no other audience’ (Menghini 1986). This time a mother’s grief was the recurring motif. Menghini described the sentence as ‘a conviction with the value of a curse’ because Lollo, Grillo and Clavo had long since fled to Sweden, Angola ‘or some other penal paradise’ (Menghini 1986). Il Messaggero, notable for its defence of the accused during the first trial, reported only the facts of the verdict and a brief recap of the previous trial on page 32 of that day’s edition (Il Messaggero 1986).

3.8   Conclusion Akin to the large events held for prominent public figures, analysis of the Mattei brothers’ funeral demonstrates the role commemorative events play in the constitution of political communities, and in the creation of the public dead. After a period of alleged internal division and rumours that fuelled the theory that MSI members had set fire to the Matteis’ flat, Rome’s urban space became a stage for the performance of party suffering and attempted political redemption. Early commemoration also presented an opportunity to demonstrate unity and to uphold the boys as spiritual leaders, encouraging continued commitment to ideological progress among the party faithful. Carefully orchestrated visual and verbal rhetoric refocused the public’s gaze, presenting the party as a victim of violence and dampening speculation around the extent to which the MSI had left behind its extremist roots in favour of a moderate conservative approach. A turning point in the postwar history of Italy’s far-right, Almirante—an expert rhetorician—leveraged the emotive power of the attack to propel the party onto a path to symbolic redemption, culminating in the launch of Alleanza Nazionale in the 1990s, with significant repercussions for memory of the attack, as I argue in Chapter 4. Almirante’s rhetoric packed a punch thanks to the emotional power of martyr narratives. The iconography and rituals of the far right combined with the rhetoric of martyrdom in the funeral oration given by Almirante to convert personal tragedy into political sacrifice, extending the community of mourning. The presence of important figures from the party hierarchy at the funeral further contributed to this representation of the boys’ deaths as a party tragedy that showed the right, too, was under attack, counterbalancing widespread discussion of MSI violence in the media. But the narrative of martyrdom has

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a second rhetorical function. With its dual suggestion of self-sacrifice for a belief and suffering inflicted by the enemy, the concept of martyrdom unites the collective while simultaneously condemning the oppressor. The MSI was thus able to point the finger at powerful institutions of power, including the mainstream media and the Italian judiciary, presenting itself as a stoic, persecuted minority. This politicisation of the dead gave them their long afterlives. However, although it challenged many of the political pressures the MSI faced at the time, it would prove an obstacle to bipartisan engagement with memory in the decades to come. The first part of this book has shown that three elements combined to confine memory of the attack to far-right communities, a question examined in the chapters that follow. Firstly, a campaign of misinformation in the mainstream and subversive media attributed the arson to MSI members motivated by internal party divisions, as Chapter 2 showed. Secondly, the MSI’s immediate patronage of memory tied the attack to neofascist culture inextricably, because the boys were presented as having died for ideological beliefs within a broader narrative of martyrdom constructed by Almirante. Finally, faced with uncertain alibis and inconclusive reports with regards to the origins of the fire, the court acquitted the perpetrators not on the strength of their case but on the grounds of insufficient evidence, a ruling that would be overturned a little over a decade later. Despite their eventual sentencing in a courtroom absent of the accused, the failure of the judicial system to deliver justice for the victims was the foundation of a narrative of far-right persecution that has sustained neofascist engagement with the memory of the attack into the contemporary age, as the next part of this book examines.

Notes 1. Almirante’s request was denied by the court on the grounds that none of the charges brought against the accused and listed on the indictment referred to the party itself; there was therefore nothing that required the party to respond. Although the indictment included an attack on the local party headquarters, the charge did not include damages to the party. 2. For more on the concept of the ‘nation empire’ and neofascist engagement with Evola’s work, see Ferraresi (1996, pp. 58–9).

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References Alfano, Franco, and Adalberto Baldoni. 1975. ‘Queste le contestazioni mosse agli imputati’. Il Secolo d’Italia, 6 June 1975. Avanti. 1975. ‘Il loro credo è la violenza’, 26 February 1975. Bianda, Renato. 1973. ‘Plebiscito per i martiri anticomunisti’. Il Secolo d’Italia, 19 April 1973. Carbone, Fabrizio. 1973. ‘I funerali dei due fratelli morti, tra camicie nere e saluti romani’. La Stampa, 19 April 1973. ———. 1975a. ‘I fascisti scatenati assediano il tribunale al processo per la strage di Primavalle’. La Stampa, 26 February 1975. ———. 1975b. ‘Primavalle: Anna “la fascista” dice “furono i missini a incendiare la casa”’. La Stampa, 23 March 1975. ———. 1975c. ‘Nuove accuse ai missini di Primavalle forse il processo dovrà ripartire da zero’. La Stampa, 25 March 1975. ———. 1975d. ‘Processo di Primavalle: i giudici riuniti di notte per la sentenza’. La Stampa, 6 June 1975. ———. 1975e. ‘“Non ho mai pensato che mi condanassero”’. La Stampa, 7 June 1975. ———. 1975f. ‘Processo per il rogo a Primavalle: l’assoluzione dà torto ai fascisti’. La Stampa, 7 June 1975. Casalegno, Carlo. ‘Le minacce di Almirante’. La Stampa, 6 June 1972. Corriere d’Informazione. 1973. ‘Una follia politica scogliere il MSI’, 24 May 1973. Corriere della Sera. 1970. ‘Senza incidenti i funerali del missino’, 6 May 1970. ———. 1973. ‘Momenti di estrema tensione durante i funerali delle vittime’, 19 April 1973. ———. 1975a. ‘Via da Roma il processo Primavalle dopo l’uccisione dello studente greco?’, 1 March 1975. Corriere della Sera Archivio Storico. ———. 1975b. ‘Ore di violenza nelle strade di Roma’, 2 March 1975. Corriere della Sera Archivio Storico. ———. 1975c. ‘Almirante: saremo costretti a difenderci subito da soli’, 4 March 1975. Corriere della Sera Archivio Storico. ———. 1975d. ‘Rinviato il processo di Primavalle perché uno dei difensori è assente’, 27 March 1975. ———. 1975e. ‘Si ritira il giurato popolare contestato dalla difesa di Lollo’, 13 April 1975. ———. 1975f. ‘Marino Clavo da Stoccolma “Con Primavalle io non c’entro”’, 24 May 1975. ———. 1975g. ‘Terracini ha difeso Lollo’, 24 May 1975. ———. 1975h. ‘Stoccolma: l’arresto di Marino Clavo protratto al 6 giugno’, 5 June 1975.

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———. 1975i. ‘Rogo Primavalle. Poteva essere l’ergastolo ma è arrivata l’assoluzione’, 6 June 1975. De Grazia, Victoria. 2020. The Perfect Fascist: A Story of Love, Power, and Morality in Mussolini’s Italy. Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press. ‘Domanda di autorizzazione a procedere in giudizio contro il deputato Almirante’. 1972. Doc. IV, N. 2. Camera dei deputati: Camera dei deputati. http://legislature.camera.it/_dati/leg06/lavori/stampati/pdf/004_002001.pdf. Dragosei, Fabrizio. 1975. ‘Raid di neofascisti nelle strade di Roma dopo l’uccisione dello studente di destra’. Corriere della Sera, 2 March 1975. Corriere della Sera Archivio Storico. Ferraresi, Franco. 1996. Threats to Democracy: The Radical Right in Italy after the War. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Fertilio, Dario. 1995. ‘La svolta: fiamma che va, destra che viene’. Corriere della Sera, 24 June 1995. Foot, John. 2022. Blood and Power. The Rise and Fall of Italian Fascism. London: Bloomsbury. Franzi, Pierluigi. 1986. ‘Primavalle, dal ’73 in attesa di giustizia’. La Stampa, 30 May 1986. Gambascia, Paolo. 1975. ‘La Corte respinge un tentativo missino di strumentalizzazione’. L’Unità, 25 February 1975. Giurato, Luca. 1973. ‘Almirante è imputato a quando il processo?’. La Stampa, 25 May 1973. Grignetti, Francesco. 2005. ‘“Noi, gli innocentisti, portammo Moravia alla festa per Lollo”’. La Stampa, 11 February 2005. Haver, Flavio. 1986. ‘Quelle fiamme di Primavalle ormai lontane e dimenticate’. Corriere della Sera, 2 December 1986. Hofmann, Paul. 1975. ‘Left-Right Strife Growing in Rome’. The New York Times, 9 March 1975. Ignazi, Piero. 1989. Il polo escluso. Profilo storico del Movimento Sociale Italiano. Bologna: Il Mulino. Il Messaggero. 1973. ‘L’addio alle vittime dell’attentato di Primavalle’, 19 April 1973. ———. 1975. ‘Lollo è tornato nella sua abitazione di Primavalle’, 6 June 1975. ———. 1986. ‘Strage di Primavalle. Condannati a 18 anni Lollo, Clavo e Grillo’, 17 December 1986. Il Secolo d’Italia. 1973a. ‘Domani i funerali’, 17 April 1973. ———. 1973b. ‘L’omaggio dei romani a Virgilio e Stefano Mattei’, 18 April 1973. ———. 1973c. ‘Commosso Addio ai Fratelli Mattei’, 19 April 1973. ———. 1973d. ‘L’orazione funebre pronunciata da Almirante’, 19 April 1973. ———. 1974. ‘I fratelli Mattei nel ricordo dei romani’, 17 April 1974. ———. 1975a. ‘La solidarietà di Gargamelli’, 25 February 1975. ———. 1975b. ‘Achille Lollo alla sbarra’, 1 March 1975.

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———. 1975c. ‘Ormai il clima è di guerra civile’, 1 March 1975. ———. 1975d. ‘La stampa di regime soffia sul fuoco dell’odio civile’, 2 March 1975. ———. 1975e. ‘Giustizia non è fatta’, 6 June 1975. ———. 1976. ‘Ricordiamo il sacrificio dei fratelli Mattei’, 16 April 1976. Il Tempo. 1973. ‘Una immensa folla commossa’, 19 April 1973. Isman, Fabio. 1975. ‘Lollo: la vittoria non è soltanto mia. L’esperienza dei due anni di carcere’. Il Messaggero, 7 June 1975. La Stampa. 1973. ‘Il processo ad Almirante 484 favorevoli, 60 contro’, 25 May 1973. ———. 1975a. ‘Arrestati in Svezia i due contumaci’, 16 May 1975. ———. 1975b. ‘Strage Primavalle dopo due anni manca un colpevole’, 6 June 1975, Evening edition. ———. 1975c. ‘Minacciato dai fascisti, Lollo si rifugia in Svezia’, 6 July 1975. ———. 1981. ‘Rogo di Primavalle sentenza annullata’, 1 July 1981. ———. 1984. ‘Arriva in appello dopo 11 anni il rogo di Primavalle (due morti)’, 29 May 1984. ———. 1986. ‘In appello il rogo di Primavalle dopo 13 anni’, 26 April 1986. Laqueur, Thomas Walter. 2015. The Work of the Dead: A Cultural History of Mortal Remains. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Lotta Continua. 1975. ‘Lollo è libero’, 7 June 1975. Maria d’Asaro, Franz. 1975. ‘Processo all’odio’. Il Secolo d’Italia, 25 February 1975. Mattei, Giampaolo, and Giommaria Monti. 2008. La notte brucia ancora. Primavalle: il rogo che ha distrutto la mia famiglia. Milan: Sperling & Kupfer. Menghini, Paolo. 1975a. ‘Scontri tra ultrasinistra e neofascisti all’apertura del Processo per Primavalle’. Corriere della Sera, 25 February 1975. ———. 1975b. ‘Dopo la “prova-acqua” a Primavalle accusa e difesa promettono battaglia’. Corriere della Sera, 15 April 1975. ———. 1975c. ‘Come si è arrivati ad assolvere gli imputati del processo Primavalle’. Corriere della Sera, 7 June 1975. ———. 1986. ‘Primavalle in appello: 18 anni ai tre incendiari. Non sconteranno la pena, da tempo sono all’estero’. Corriere della Sera, 17 December 1986. Pandolfo, Mario. 1973. ‘La moglie di Schiavoncin accusa dissidenti del Msi’. Il Messaggero, 18 April 1973. Potere Operaio Del Lunedì. 1975. ‘Liberare Lollo’, 17 February 1975. ‘Seduta di mercoledì 23 maggio 1973 presidenza del presidente Pertini indi del vicepresidente Boldrini’ 1973′. 1973. Camera dei deputati. http://legislature. camera.it/_dati/leg06/lavori/stenografici/sed0135/sed0135.pdf. Sensini, Alberto. 1975. ‘La minaccia di Almirante’. Corriere della Sera, 5 March 1975, Milano edition. Seymour, Mark. 2020. Emotional Arenas: Life, Love, and Death in 1870s Italy. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

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Silvestri, Giuliio. 1975. ‘Tu sei morto per noi. Noi combattiamo per te.’ Il Secolo d’Italia, 4 March 1975. Tempo Presente. 2014. ‘Filippo Turati: La commemorazione di Giacomo Matteotti del 27 giugno 1924’, April 2014. Vaccari, Luigi. 1973. ‘Cinque minuti di paura durante il rito in chiesa’. Il Messaggero, 18 April 1973. Witkowski, Victoria. 2021. ‘Remembering Fascism and Empire: The Public Representation and Myth of Rodolfo Graziani in 20th-Century Italy’. European University Institute. https://cadmus.eui.eu/bitstream/handle/1814/72739/ Witkowski_2021_HEC.pdf?sequence=1. Wolff, Elisabetta Cassina. 2019. CasaPound Italia: “Back to Believing. The Struggle Continues”. Fascism 8 (1): 61–88. Zara, Guido. 1975. ‘Il MSI estromesso dal processo di Primavalle’. Avanti, 25 February 1975, Rome edition.

Oral History Interviews Carlo, interviewed by Amy King, telephone interview, 25 July 2019.

PART II

1995–2013: After the Svolta di Fiuggi

CHAPTER 4

Honouring a Lost Heritage

The incident happened in ’73, and I can tell you that for about twenty years it wasn’t really talked about. Forgotten immediately. Then it came back because in ’94 […] they went and recovered their memories, which they themselves had completely cast aside, and the Primavalle incident re-surfaced. Davide, oral history interview with the author, 2019

On 22 May 1988, Giorgio Almirante passed away. That weekend also saw the passing of two other men who had played an important role in Italy’s historic far right: Dino Grandi, once minister of justice then minister of foreign affairs under Fascism, and Pino Romualdi, who had played a prominent role during the RSI, had been an MSI deputy from 1953 to 1979 and was rumoured to be Mussolini’s biological son (a rumour he himself embraced) (Ferraresi 1996, p. 222). Writing in Corriere della Sera, journalist Francesco Merlo described the impact of Almirante’s death on the MSI, then led by Gianfranco Fini, who, with Almirante’s support, had won the party’s leadership. In a piece titled ‘MSI: Death of Almirante, Now It’s War’, Merlo explored Almirante’s efforts to hold the party together. Speaking to MSI member Giuseppe Niccolai, a known adversary of Almirante, Merlo recounted a trick Niccolai had played on the party to demonstrate that ‘we missini have no idea who we are, nor where we’re going’ (Merlo 1988). Niccolai had taken a document written by the PCI © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 A. King, The Politics of Sacrifice, Italian and Italian American Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-45550-6_4

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about political alliances, institutional reform, and the treatment of economic powerhouses, added a couple of phrases and presented it to the leadership of the MSI, who approved the document unanimously (Fini had even stood to countersign it). The response to this prank, Niccolai argued, was evidence of the party’s serious identity crisis. It ‘was proof that Giorgio Almirante was a great propagandist but a terrible politician’ and that his death left behind ‘a party with no line and no cultural project’ (Merlo 1988). Many within the party questioned whether Fini could remain at the helm after the death of his chief supporter. Tomaso Staiti di Cuddia delle Chiuse who, along with Rauti and Pisanò, had opposed Fini’s turn to moderate conservatism after Fiuggi and founded Movimento Sociale Fiamma Tricolore in response, told Corriere: ‘Sentiment isn’t a glue that can hold us together’. Describing Fini as a ‘poor orphan’, his opponents within the party told Corriere the MSI’s next real leader was yet to be found. Niccolai declared his intention to bring together those who had split from the MSI to form Destra Nazionale in 1976, a group made up of ‘those most interested in and competent in opening up and maintaining contact with other parliamentary forces’ (Ferraresi 1996, p. 195), to discuss the party’s future direction. Almirante had appointed 35-year-old Gianfranco Fini, former leader of the MSI youth, as his successor in 1987 when he stood down at the MSI party congress in Sorrento. Fini had initially made his commitment to the party’s origins clear at the congress, calling for a ‘Fascism for the year 2000’. This approach continued for several years. Indeed, in 1992, shortly after returning to the secretariat, Fini celebrated the 70th anniversary of the Fascist seizure of power with a grand parade, declaring Mussolini the greatest statesman of the century (Ferraresi 1996, p. 197). Fini’s return to the secretariat followed Rauti’s short spell at the helm, which began in 1990 and ended after fifteen months due to his turn to leftist anticapitalism—a ‘turning point in MSI history’ according to Ignazi (2019, p. 85), marked by significant ‘change in the [party’s] ideological reference’. Fini’s admiration for Mussolini contradicted his subsequent statement in support of parliamentary democracy, which the social scientist Franco Ferraresi (1996, p. 197) read more as ‘a necessary and mechanical effect of living in a democratic polity’ than ‘a result of a true revision of a political culture rooted in Fascism.’ Nevertheless, a real shift came in the mid-1990s with the collapse and transformation of Italy’s existing party system after the Tangentopoli (Bribesville) scandal. In his work on the impact of the scandal on Italy’s right wing, Ferraresi identifies 1994 as a turning point for the MSI and its reincarnation as a new party, Alleanza Nazionale (AN),

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following the dissolution of the DC and the shifting to the left of its heir, the Partito Popolare Italiano (Italian Popular Party, PPI): In such a climate the previous years’ exclusion of the MSI became a badge of honor, allowing the party to portray itself (with some justification) as the only party untouched by a system of corruption that had caused the inglorious end of all the others. That also sharply reduced the significance of antifascism as a discriminating value. Quite apart from its rhetoric and rituals, antifascism had proved incapable of keeping the crooks out of the “constitutional arch.” (Ferraresi 1996, p. 198)

Public appetite for something new in Italian politics, a party that would not succumb to corruption as established parties had, meant that Fini could: “sell,” as a significant novelty, the group he led […] which in fact was nothing more than the old MSI.  Until its refounding congress at the end of January 1995, AN had no structure, no organization, no funds, no headquarters, and no staff of its own, and more than 90 percent of those elected to its ranks were old MSI cadres and former MPs. (Ferraresi 1996, p. 198)

The movement of the right continued in 1994, when AN formed an electoral alliance with Berlusconi’s government—an electoral campaign that ‘crowned the MSI’s entrance into a broader right-wing camp’, for historian David Broder (2023, p. 87). Led by Fini, AN enjoyed great success in elections, taking 13.5% of the vote, and 27% in Rome (Dunnage 2007, p. 223). However, the official foundation of AN as a political party, which marked the end of the MSI, only came in 1995 at the party congress in Fiuggi, south of Rome, and the so-called ‘svolta di Fiuggi’, or Fiuggi turn. Official congress documents presented ‘an alternative genealogy’ for the party, emphasising democratic right-wing values that predated Fascism (Tarchi 2003, p.  140). This marked the completion of a long period of legitimisation, which included symbolic acts like the public performance of party redemption witnessed at the Mattei brothers’ funeral, as analysed in Chapter 3. At the 1996 elections, the party took 15.7% of the vote, up 2.2% on the previous election. However, despite this ‘resounding success’ the party could not take the leadership of the far-right coalition, which remained in Berlusconi’s hands (Ignazi 2015, p. 222). In response to this shift towards conservative politics, Pino Rauti, who protested against what he deemed a betrayal, founded the neofascist Movimento Sociale-Fiamma Tricolore (Social Movement-Tricolour Flame) in March 1995. Rauti was expelled in 2004, going on to support

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Roberto Fiore’s party Forza Nuova (New Force, FN), a group that originated as the ‘grassroots faction’ of MS-FT before splintering off to focus on a formal agenda against abortion, euthanasia and same-sex marriage, thus combining ‘historical Fascism ideals with ultra-Catholic values’ (Froio et al. 2020, p. 26). AN supported Berlusconi’s government in the 2001 elections, when Fini undertook the role of deputy prime minister (he went on to become foreign minister in 2004 and leader of the Chamber of Deputies in 2008) (Norris 2005, p. 64). In a final shift towards the conservative centre right, Fini stepped down in 2008 and the following year the party merged with Berlusconi’s centre-right Il  Popolo Della Libertà (The People of Freedom, PdL). So closely tied to MSI identity by Giorgio Almirante immediately after their deaths, the dissolution of the party had significant implications for how the Mattei brothers were remembered. After Fini sought to sever the party from its Fascist roots, remembering the Mattei brothers took on another role for those who found themselves outside institutional politics after the dissolution of the MSI: a means to mourn a lost heritage. This chapter examines what happened to the memory of two deaths so entrenched in MSI heritage once the party had been dissolved. I analyse representation of Anna Mattei, the victims’ mother, in the mainstream press, which intertwined her private maternal mourning with her mourning for the party. I also consider the work of grassroots ‘memory choreographers’, defined by Conway (2010, p.  6) as ‘human actors involved in creating and propagating commemorative discourses and strategies at the small-group level’. The mid-1990s saw the return of violence to commemorative events as radical young neofascists without direct experience of the Years of Lead performed their heritage in public space—an act of subversion that rejected Fini’s turn to a more moderate politics. I analyse the incorporation of the Mattei brothers’ names into a plaque to commemorate the RSI within a mausoleum to the Fascist martyrs of the 1920s, positioning the Matteis as fallen revolutionaries of the historic far right, and the proposal of local councillors on the right (and a few on the left) to dedicate a handful of public spaces to the brothers. As we will see, the approach to memory adopted by memory choreographers after Fiuggi reflects the antagonistic mode of remembering examined by scholars including Cento Bull and Hansen (2016), Erll (2009) and Leerssen (2001). This mode of remembering is exclusionary and divisive; it ‘privileges emotions in order to cement a sense of belonging to a

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particularistic community, focusing on the suffering inflicted by the “evil” enemies upon this same community’ (Cento Bull and Hansen 2016, p. 398): Across Europe, populist nationalist and/or radical right movements have developed counter-memories in a strongly antagonistic mode, re-imagined territory in exclusionary terms and constructed rigid symbolic boundaries between ‘us’ and ‘them’. In direct opposition to current processes of critical reflection on past conflicts and injustices, these movements promote memories which essentialize, as opposed to problematizing, a collective sense of sameness and we-ness, with accompanying sentiments of they-ness. (Cento Bull and Hansen 2016, p. 6)

This approach to memory was evident in the commemorative events organised by far-right groups who no longer saw their ideology or heritage reflected in Italy’s institutional politics after Fiuggi. In some ways, this approach was a continuation of the one adopted throughout the Years of Lead, when martyrological narratives were part of the symbolic violence of the period. Groups at both ends of the ideological spectrum commemorated their martyrs while vilifying their enemies, and opposing groups regularly contested the commemoration of their adversaries’ dead, as we saw in interruptions to the Matteis’ funeral. However, the dissolution of the party destabilised far-right heritage and saw many seek recourse in the historic symbols of far-right identity, including the Mattei brothers. So closely tied to MSI identity, from the mid-1990s and beyond, the boys had become symbols of an irretrievable and glorified ideological period, and young radical neofascists commemorated them with renewed vigour. Memory was a foundational stone that cemented that collective identity shaken by Fini’s declarations in Fiuggi. As we will see in Chapter 5, Fini would later distance himself and his party from memory of the arson, framing developments in the case as legally, rather than politically, significant. The boys’ mother Anna was among his most vocal opponents.

4.1   A Mother for the Party In the four decades between the arson and her passing, Anna Mattei was interviewed by many newspapers about the Primavalle attack, ongoing judicial enquiries, and the evolution of the MSI. Although a handful of articles focused closely on her maternal grief, media coverage often connected this grief to Anna’s political beliefs, presenting the arson as a

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tragedy affecting the MSI as a party (and therefore neither private nor bipartisan). This coverage of her political beliefs had an impact on the traditional paradigm of the grieving mother that is an inherent feature of the religious martyr narrative and, with its roots in representations of the Virgin Mary, draws on a culturally understood trope—particularly in Catholic culture—of the mourning mother. Anna’s ongoing expressions of her political beliefs in the wake of Fiuggi tied the loss of her sons to the now-defunct MSI, not to its successor party AN, which she explicitly opposed. This dual representation of Anna Mattei as suffering the loss of her children and of her party extended her grief over several decades. It is worth recalling here that media immediately tied Anna’s grief to the MSI as the primary community of mourning when several papers covering the Mattei brothers’ funeral published a photograph that showed Anna at the front of the funeral procession behind her sons’ caskets, as analysed in Chapter 3. Beside her, in the place traditionally occupied by the father, stood MSI leader Giorgio Almirante, who had broken the news of her sons’ deaths to her. To draw on the work of Peter Homans (2000, p. 4) on mourning practices, in the case of the Primavalle arson, the ‘community that bears the burden of the loss’ was the party itself. As we saw in Part 1, this had never been a tragedy that sat within the history of the nation, but one that belonged to the far right and, more specifically, to the now-defunct MSI. In the mid-1990s, Anna was repeatedly interviewed about Fini distancing the party from its far-right heritage, using the question of the party’s new logo to interrogate the issue. On 25 September 1994, La Repubblica published an article outlining the decision of Giorgio Pisanò and his party the Movimento Fascismo e Libertà  (Fascism and Freedom Movement), which had split from the MSI in 1991, to incorporate the tricolour flame into their logo alongside a lictor—the traditional symbol of Fascism. This iconographical decision was a reaction to Fini’s attempts to move the MSI away from its roots and symbols, as shown in AN’s new logo (La Repubblica 1994). AN’s ‘most striking innovation’ in logo design was blue as the dominant colour, a choice that reflected Italy’s national colour and a desire to blend in with the blue logos used by two other parties in the centre-­ right coalition, Berlusconi’s Forza Italia (Let’s Go Italy, FI) and Pier Ferdinando  Casini’s Unione di Centro (Union of the Centre, UdC) (Cheles 2010, p. 235). The logo included the party’s name in large white characters that stand out against the blue background and dominate the overall space of the logo; beneath this stands a much diminished MSI

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logo, with the tricolour flame above the letters MSI contained within in a trapeze intended to denote Mussolini’s coffin and eternal influence (Cheles 2010, p. 235). AN’s foundations were therefore contained within the logo, but the message was clear: a ‘page had been turned’ (Cheles 2010, p. 237). Responding to this shift away from its historic roots, Anna told La Repubblica: ‘Our family gave two sons for this symbol. Leave us it, Fini, and leave us the MSI name too’ (La Repubblica 1994). Demonstrating the centrality of the fallen to far-right identity, the paper also spoke to Almirante’s widow, Assunta, who had also walked in the Mattei brothers’ funeral procession. Assunta Almirante said the MSI leaders had ‘betrayed’ her husband’s memory, demonstrating the repeated framing of this political shift as an act of disloyalty to the far-right dead (La Repubblica 1994). Anna also told La Stampa: ‘We have nothing to reproach ourselves for in our past, unlike the communists, so, Fini, leave us the symbol and the name’ (La Stampa 1994). She then made a direct call to Fini in response to the proposed transition to AN: ‘leave us what we really suffered for’, strengthening the connections between the evolution of the party and her family history and returning to the idea of the boys as sacrificial martyrs for the party promulgated by the MSI in the immediate aftermath of the attack. Her commitment to MSI symbolism continued to feature in media coverage over the next decade, a reminder of her resolute commitment to MSI ideology. Indeed, a 2008 Corriere article referenced Anna’s keyring: a tricolour flame (Caccia 2004). In the early 2000s, as AN continued to distance itself from its roots, Anna’s grief was represented as both grief for her sons and for a lost far-­ right heritage. In 2004, Corriere della Sera ran a series of stories that illustrate the changing identity of the Italian far right, past and present. These included the Rogo di Primavalle, the killing of Sergio Ramelli, a member of the MSI youth organisation killed in 1975, and the life of Giuseppe Dimitri, the founder of the extra-parliamentary neofascist group Terza Posizione who later joined AN, serving as an advisor to Gianni Alemanno during his tenure as Minister of Agriculture, Food and Forestry between 2001 and 2006. In its piece on the Primavalle attack, the Mattei family was described as ‘the symbolic family of Roman missini’, the definite article revealing the significance of the tragedy in MSI history (Buccini 2004). The article focused on Anna’s response to Fini’s public denunciation of the Fascist regime’s racial laws and involvement in the Holocaust, which he had made in Jerusalem in November 2003. This move was

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considered highly symbolic and part of Fini’s efforts ‘to rehabilitate the term right wing, given the previous fascist or undemocratic connotations of the term’ (Ruzza 2009, p.  148). Anna’s response in the article was: ‘From the way Fini speaks now, it seems like I killed my children myself’, conflating personal and political events (Buccini 2004). This distancing of the party from its history, within which the Rogo found a privileged position, is represented in the media as a second tragedy suffered by Anna—a mother of a lost party. Media representation of Anna Mattei as both grieving mother and MSI matriarch became even more explicit after her death in 2013. Broken by the right-wing paper Il Giornale d’Italia, the news prompted public expressions of condolence from political figures including Gianni Alemanno, former mayor of Rome for the centre-right Popolo della Libertà, who posted on Facebook: ‘Goodbye Anna Mattei, courageous mother who never stopped calling for justice for her children. Now she is with them again, we will continue the battle of this splendid family’ (Alemanno 2013). More striking were the words of Francesco Storace, leader of the neofascist, national-conservative party La Destra (The Right), upon his visit to the chapel where Anna’s body lay: ‘Thank you, Anna, for your lifelong battle. Proud to have loved you as one loves a mother’ (Il Giornale d’Italia 2013). Notably, Anna Mattei’s political engagement was never presented by the media as a result of her marriage to a local MSI leader. As such, it forms an interesting contrast with media coverage of the female perpetrators of terrorism, as examined by Glynn (2013), where romantic interest is represented as motivation for political engagement. The staunch politicisation of Anna’s mourning in media narratives prevented her emergence as a state-sanctioned mnemonic agent. Instead, her mourning was tightly bound to a well-defined political culture. The same can be said of Carla Verbano, another mother who lost her child during the Years of Lead in a violent attack in a family home.1 Like Anna, Carla Verbano had clear political views (firmly left-wing). She was regularly interviewed and often pictured with a raised fist. She told me of this intertwining of public victimhood and political beliefs in an interview in 2010: Every now and then I get into an argument with the mayor, and then journalists, well, if something happens, they phone me immediately: ‘What do you think?’ So I say what I think, and then the mayor doesn’t like it, he calls me, and it’s off to the newspapers. Either on television or in the newspapers, I’m always in the middle.’ (Verbano 2010)

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However, unlike Anna Mattei, Carla Verbano’s political beliefs did not preclude her involvement in state-run commemorative events held to remember the victims of the Years of Lead. Anna Mattei’s frequent statements against AN and its efforts to distance itself from its far-right heritage made her politics incompatible with state-sanctioned paradigms of victimhood in antifascist Italy. As a result, the brothers’ memory remained firmly entrenched in far-right commemorative culture, isolated from mainstream memory. As Chapter 5 examines, it was only with Lollo’s admission of guilt in 2005 that Giampaolo Mattei, the surviving son, would be afforded the role of public victim and invited to state-run events, marking the beginning of a shift in how the tragedy was remembered. Until then, the organisation of commemorative activities fell to Rome’s neofascist organisations.

4.2   Performing Political Identity and Celebrating Far-Right Sacrifice In the years following the attack, grassroots commemoration ceremonies were originally organised by Pino Rauti’s Ordine Nuovo and members of the local MSI branch. In the 1990s, however, groups of younger neofascists who had not lived through the political violence of the 1970s began to commemorate the brothers. In the early 1990s, these were relatively small, non-violent events that garnered little media attention. This changed in 1995, the year the MSI relaunched as AN and began a process of rejecting (or claiming to reject) its heritage. On 16 April 1995, around a hundred young neofascists gathered in Primavalle. Reflecting the sartorial choices of their predecessors, who had used clothing as an outward declaration of political support during the Primavalle trial, the majority wore black bomber jackets and boots, and several had their faces covered. Along with the flowers they intended to lay beneath the former Mattei flat, many carried weapons including knives and pickaxes, which they used to smash parked cars and intimidate the public (Grignetti 1995). Fascist symbolism featured heavily during the commemorative march; skinheads dressed in black gave the Roman salute and carried flags bearing Fascist iconography (Grignetti 1995). There was little suggestion that this group rejected Fascism. Fearing clashes with Break Out, a nearby left-wing social centre, Primavalle residents called the police. Three arrests were made, and five

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policemen were injured. One of the arrested men was 18 years old, while the other two were 21—all were born after the Primavalle attack in 1973 (Guerzoni 1995). According to the police, in custody each detainee referred to the dissolved group Movimento Politico Occidentale (Western Political Movement)—the political strand of a radical right skinhead movement comprising gangs that explicitly extol the use of violence (Ferraresi 1996, p. 201). Violence, which had been a defining feature of historic Fascism as the recent work of historian John Foot (2022) has shown, returned to public space as younger neofascists reclaimed part of their ideological heritage. It is worth recalling here that in 1991, the MSI’s youth movement, Fronte della Gioventù (Youth Front, FdG), polled its members on their attitudes to democracy and tolerance, revealing ‘an extremely high acceptance of violence as a means of struggle’ (Ferraresi 1996, p. 200). Four years later, many of those dissatisfied with the Italian right left FdG to join more radical groups. As institutional politics shifted away from the far right with the birth of AN, youths faced with the dissolution of Italy’s Fascist heritage performed their ideological commitment to the radical right by incorporating the rituals, violence and iconography of Fascism into commemoration of the Matteis. Corriere Roma interviewed residents of Primavalle on what they had witnessed that night in an article that highlighted the increasing violence of young skinheads in the capital, who travelled to Primavalle to inflict violence. The longstanding manager of the local centre for the elderly decried the lack of opportunities to socialise available to young people in the area, which he argued made Primavalle ‘fertile ground’ for extremists from outside the suburb who came there to recruit (Guerzoni 1995). According to one member of the far-left centre Break Out, commemoration was not about remembering the dead but a ‘political pretext’ for Naziskins to act violently. The final testimony was given by an elderly lady living in the same social housing unit as the former Mattei flat. She told the reporter that little had happened on the anniversary of the tragedy until last year, which marked the return of ‘guerrilla warfare’. As the institutional right shifted towards the centre, young extremists travelled to Primavalle on 16 April to demonstrate their allegiance to the historic far right, in opposition to shifts towards the centre in institutional politics. This violence was not confined to Primavalle; the paper also described the arrest of skinhead extremists in the Tuscolano area of Rome, who were found in possession of a switchblade, a hatchet, a manganello (the baton used by Mussolini’s Blackshirts), a tricolour flag with a swastika and images

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of a youth organisation parade cut from a newspaper printed during the dictatorship (Corriere Roma1995). The following year, the police and local residents feared a repetition of this violence. Members of Break Out tried to disrupt the ceremony by erecting a barrier to block neofascists marching down via Borromeo from the religious commemoration ceremony held in the Santa Maria Assunta church close to the former Mattei flat. Despite provocation, leaders of the institutional far-right, including those at the head of Movimento Sociale Fiamma Tricolore, the party founded by Rauti in 1995 in opposition to Fini’s AN, quickly dissociated themselves from any violence that might take place on the streets after the official Mass held for the Mattei brothers, stating their distance from the group of violent extremists (Corriere Roma 1996). Since the dissolution of the MSI, commemorative events have been organised by a range of groups, including the youth division of AN, the far-right political party Forza Nuova (New Force, FN) and the far-right coalition Alternativa Sociale (Social Alternative, AS), established by Mussolini’s granddaughter Alessandra in 2004. Contemporary ceremonies are analysed in Chapter 6, but on the whole, these have been peaceful events (with the exception of the 1995 commemoration). More recently, organisation of this event has fallen not to an official party or a formal coalition, but to the local branch of Magnitudo Italia, an extreme right group made up of ‘patriots, militants and warriors’ that describes itself as ‘the calm after the storm—neither a party nor a profit-making organisation’ (‘Chi siamo—MAGNITUDO ITALIA’ n.d.). Publicity typically draws on the idea of the duty of memory, incorporating slogans like ‘chi ama non dimentica!’ (‘those who love do not forget!’) and ‘i camerati non dimenticano’ (‘comrades don’t forget’). Photos of commemorative graffiti and posters in via Bibbiena feature heavily on the group’s social media in the run-up to the event, suggesting the graffiti is their work. The group also holds commemoration ceremonies for the Irish republican martyr and former IRA member Bobby Sands, who is described as one of several ‘combattenti europei’ (European combatants), underlining the importance of hagiographical heritage in legitimising the existence of newer neofascist groups. In her study of the changing role of violence in the construction of neofascist culture within far-right youth divisions (defined as such by their respective parent organisations) in Italy, the political scientist Stéphanie Dechezelles (2011) analyses the impact of the dissolution of the MSI and

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the subsequent shift towards moderate conservatism required of its successor party, AN, following its participation in the institution of government. Dechezelles (2011, p. 105) argues that the institutionalisation of AN delegitimised any recourse to violent political action; instead, neofascist youths were to pay their respects to the glorious dead by honouring their memory. This created a hierarchy, whereby youth groups repeatedly showed their loyalty and obedience to their fallen predecessors through commemoration, creating a ‘macabre fascination’ with lives sacrificed that creates a permanent connection between young militants and their heroic predecessors. As a result, nostalgia is one of the most important units of the group’s emotional economy (Dechezelles 2011, p.  107). Internally, these stories act as a foundation of the group’s collective memory, mirroring Fascism’s construction of ‘a myth of its own past’ through the cult of Fascist martyrs and serving as a reminder of the group’s suffering, inflicted by the barbarity of their adversaries (Dechezelles 2011, p. 109)—a theme I return to in the next chapter. I have directly observed this ceremony annually since 2010, either in person or via videos uploaded to social media. The group meets in Piazza Clemente XI in central Primavalle in the early evening on 16 April, some hours after the official commemoration ceremony organised by the state. Some participants perform the Roman salute as they walk through Primavalle behind a wide banner decorated with the Celtic cross—a symbol co-opted by neo-Nazi and white supremacist movements globally— that reads ‘honour to the Mattei brothers’. As they walk towards via Bibbiena, the group chants. Shouts include ‘Contro il sistema, la gioventù si scaglia, boia chi molla, è il grido di battaglia!’ (‘Youth lashes out against the system, death to those who give up is our battle cry!’). An enduring feature of the historic far right, this slogan was first used by the squadristi, then the Fascist military of the Italian Social Republic, and subsequently by neofascist groups in the 1970s, and the football ultràs of the extreme right as ideological (and generational) conflict shifted into sports arenas (Testa and Armstrong 2008, pp.  474–5). Furthermore, as analysed in Chapter 2, the chant was sung by those involved in the Reggio Revolt led by Ciccio Franco. Like other protests, the chant follows the typical template of 3/3/7 syllables, highlighted by the historian Alessandro Portelli (1991, p. 177), who writes of the ‘emotional community’ formed at a rally or march, ‘which moves and speaks collectively, and generates specific oral forms in order to synchronize these actions’. The chant is one example of how ceremony binds collective identity through an emotional

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experience—a typical feature of the divisive antagonistic mode of remembering. Slogans defaming the left are shouted throughout the march, showing the double function of martyrdom (to revere the dead and vilify the perpetrators) and the ‘symbolic boundaries’ intrinsic to the exclusionary antagonistic mode of remembering (Cento Bull and Hansen 2016, p. 393). The lines between ‘us’ and ‘them’ typical of this mode of remembering are clear. As well as binding the group together, the auditory element of the ceremony is also used to separate attendees by rank. When they reach the flat in via Bibbiena, the group leader speaks a few words about the deaths of Stefano and Virgilio to attendees, who stand to attention in the organised lines of a military formation, and typically references the ‘cowardice’ of the assassins. A member of the group then walks through the gardens below the window where the boys died to lay a wreath, while others stand in silence. Upon his return, the leader of the group shouts ‘Camerati, Stefano e Virgilio Mattei!’ and gets the response ‘presenti!’ three times, with each shout accompanied by the raised arm of the Roman salute. This shout was used consistently under Fascism to celebrate the eternal life of those who died for the regime. The group is then told to stand down. By mourning Stefano and Virgilio using the rituals and symbolism of Fascist period, the group reaffirms the value of sacrifice for the party in a period in which it has been increasingly isolated from institutional politics. The ritualistic reverence of sacrifice encourages members to reaffirm their commitment to the group through the celebration of martyrs that came before them. An exclusionary mode of remembering is promoted by neofascist memory choreographers who clearly delineate the community of mourning along political lines, in turn reinforcing the ghettoisation of the memory of the Mattei brothers, who are upheld as symbols of an irretrievable and glorified ideological period.2 The lines between ‘us’ and ‘them’ typical of the antagonistic mode of remembering are distinct (Cento Bull and Hansen 2016, p. 393). Since 1995, young neofascist groups have consistently engaged with the memory of the Mattei brothers—two figures whose deaths were so quickly absorbed into the martyrology of the MSI— in response to the perceived weakening of neofascist heritage in the wake of the dissolution of the MSI and reflects the need of contemporary neofascist groups to legitimise the group within a broader tradition of Italy’s far right, from Mussolini’s regime to present, by honouring martyrological heritage. The incorporation of the Mattei brothers’ memory into a

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far-right hagiographical tradition is not only expressed ritualistically; it also finds concrete form in Rome’s largest cemetery.

4.3  The Chapel of the Fascist Martyrs A mausoleum unveiled almost forty years before the deaths of Stefano and Virgilio Mattei is an unlikely place to find their names. Indeed, I stumbled across it by chance. This is not a memorial space designed to capture the attention of the passer-by, but a concerted attempt to contextualise the brothers’ deaths as part of a broader tradition of revolutionary far-right sacrifice. Designed on the orders of the National Fascist Party, the Chapel of the Fascist Martyrs was unveiled in Rome’s monumental Verano cemetery on 23 March 1933. As historian Hannah Malone (2017, p.  127) notes, ‘monumental cemeteries continued to provide arenas for political imperatives’ during the dictatorship, when the memory of those who died during Italian unification and World War I was co-opted by the regime and framed as part of Fascist ideology. The unveiling of the mausoleum was part of the national celebrations to honour the 14th anniversary of the foundation of the Italian Fasces of Combat (the predecessor to the National Fascist Party of 1921) on 23 March 1933, a large portion of which focused on honouring the Sansepolcristi—those who attended Fascism’s foundational rally in Piazza San Sepolcro, Milan, on that day in 1919. It was, therefore, a means to honour those early ‘revolutionaries’ whose ideological commitment set them apart from the political mainstream. This programme of events included a parade of (supposedly) 150,000 Blackshirts in Rome, public rallies with music and national flags, speeches from party leaders, including Mussolini, and collective commemoration of the fallen—both in Verano and beyond (Corriere della Sera 1933). At the unveiling ceremony, Achille Starace read the names of those buried within, receiving in response a call of ‘presente!’ from the Blackshirt battalion lining the pathway in front (Corriere della Sera 1933). The mausoleum’s construction was significant in the development of Fascism’s glorification of its dead, marking the transition of shrines to the Fascist dead (or  ‘martyrs’) out of the church and into public space (Staderini 2008). As stated, it was built to honour those who had sacrificed their lives during Fascism’s rise to power in 1920–1922, demonstrating the regime’s effort to create a pantheon of martyrs that pre-dated the formal beginning of the National Fascist Party. The Chapel had space for twelve martyrs, but since only four Romans died in the battles of

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1920–1922, the remit was widened to include those who died later because of injuries sustained during the rise to power. Among them was Angelo Scambelluri, who had left Rome to support D’Annunzio’s occupation of Fiume, receiving official recognition from D’Annunzio, and was later injured by antifascists during Enrico Toti’s funeral as it passed through San Lorenzo, Rome. He died of complications linked to his injuries in 1924. The Chapel also includes a female martyr, Ines Donati, known as the ‘squadrista heroine’ (Willson 2009, p. 83). Donati was exhumed in Matelica on 12 March 1933 to much fanfare and transferred to the mausoleum on the orders of party secretary Achille Starace.3 She died of tuberculosis in 1924—not a heroic, ‘fascist’ death—but, in the summer of 1921, she was attacked by members of the Trastevere section of the militant antifascist group the Arditi del Popolo and spent twenty days in hospital. Her dying words were reported to have been: ‘I wanted to be too virile and forgot that, in the end, I was a weak woman’ (Spackman 1996, p.  41). This representation of womanhood was more palatable to the regime than her reputation for direct action.4 Designed by the architect Aldo Mascanzoni and decorated by the sculptor Giovanni Prini, at 8 m tall and 6.8 m wide, the mausoleum is relatively small compared to the regime’s other commemorative structures. Moreover, unlike the Monument to the Martyrs of the Fascist Revolution in Bologna’s Certosa cemetery, which was designed by architect Giulio Ulisse Arata and unveiled in 1932, this is a closed structure, and therefore does not allow for processions or gatherings within its confines. As such, the Verano mausoleum appears as a functional, rather than ceremonial, space.5 All the bodies were removed from the mausoleum between 1946 and 1964 following the State’s confiscation of PNF assets, and returned to private graves. Despite the absence of bodies, many traces of Fascist martyrology remain. The exterior of the mausoleum displays several Fascist symbols, including the fasces—a bundle of wooden rods, sometimes including an axe head, which symbolised magisterial power in ancient Rome as it contained all the elements needed to carry out corporeal punishment. It was later co-opted by the regime as a sign of strength in unity and the threat of violence. The exterior also includes the heads of eight military figures, each adorned with a fez. Above the doorway is winged Victory in relief; she holds a crown in her left hand and a bundle of fasces in her right (Fig. 4.1). Inside the mausoleum is a dark marble altar with a torch, one of Fascism’s many symbols, etched into it (Fig. 4.2). Visitors to the mausoleum from 1933 onwards would no doubt have been struck by

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Fig. 4.1  The Chapel of the Fascist Martyrs in Rome’s Verano cemetery. Photo taken by the author

the figure of Christ beneath a veil of black marble studded with crystals that adorned the altar (Corriere della Sera 1933). Above the altar, a cross-­ shaped window lets in a little light and underneath there is an inscription, ‘to the fascist martyrs’, sacralising the regime through religious iconography and the language of sacrifice. Beside the altar, at ground level, is a headstone-shaped plaque dedicated to the ‘fallen for the honour of Italy’ (Fig.  4.3) during ‘Spring 1945’. At the head of the list of the fallen is Benito Mussolini, whose name is written in large bold letters. A further 17 names are listed below. Cross-­ referencing these names with the list of the dead of the Repubblica di Salò produced by the Fondazione della RSI (RSI Foundation) reveals that among those honoured are Rodolfo Tucci, a member of the RSI’s naval flotilla, Decima Mas, and Antonietta Bellissimo, a member of the women’s auxiliary corps (Servizio Ausiliario Femminile) shot in April 1945 (A. Conti 2019). The last person listed is Armando Testorio, a spy paid by the Nazis to inform on antifascist activity. Testorio was involved in the round-up of prisoners at the via Tasso prison, who were among the 335 victims killed

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Fig. 4.2  Inside the Chapel of the Fascist Martyrs. Photo taken by the author

by occupying Nazi forces at the Fosse Ardeatine in Rome (Rendina 2016). This was a reprisal; the previous day, a partisan attack in via Rasella had killed thirty military policemen from the Bolzen regimen of the German army (three more died later). In response, Nazi officers executed ten people for every German killed. They were rounded up from homes in via Rasella, or the street itself, and from nearby prisons. Just three of the

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Fig. 4.3  A plaque honouring the RSI dead inside the Chapel, with the names of Stefano and Virgilio Mattei added. Photo taken by the author

prisoners included in the round-up had been condemned to death for Resistance activity—the majority had no involvement in the Resistance at all.6 Testorio was later shot dead by partisans at Forte Bravetta in June 1945 (Failmezger 2020, p. 294). At the foot of the plaque, beneath a line that seems to demarcate a new temporal period, are the names Stefano Mattei, Virgilio Mattei, and Michele Mantakas, the Greek student killed in the clashes that took place during the first Primavalle trial. The plaque closes with a declaration—PRESENTE!—used obsessively on monuments dedicated to the Fascist dead across Italy to honour the eternal life of the fallen (Foot 2009, p. 56). No other names from after 1945 feature permanently in the mausoleum. The inclusion of the Mattei brothers’ names alongside Mussolini’s RSI faithful within a mausoleum built to honour those who died during

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Fascism’s rise to power shows an attempt to contextualise the brothers’ deaths (and that of ‘Michele’  Mantakas, whose first name—Mikis—has been Italianised to blend into the plaque) within a pantheon of far-right revolutionaries. This space does not commemorate fallen Fascists across the ventennio. Rather, this is a commemorative space to revere those who gave their lives for Fascism in its embryonic stages and dying days. In other words, these militants set themselves apart from the majority through their unwavering ideological commitment at the dawn and dusk of Fascism. In his study of the radical right in Italy since the postwar, social scientist Franco Ferraresi underlines the particular place of the RSI in neofascist mythology due to its ‘existential subversivism’, which was close to Fascism’s original revolutionary roots (Ferraresi 1996, p.  36). This mythology converted the RSI’s military defeat ‘into a political resource, an instrument for building a strong, ethically grounded identity, capable of surviving disruption and ghettoization’ (Ferraresi 1996, p. 36). It had at its core ‘the myth of a legion of the braves who had fought for a lost cause in the name of honor and loyalty to ideal values and who now refused to accept the verdict of history, trying instead to carry on the fight even after it was materially lost’ (Ferraresi 1996, p. 36). We see, then, an explicit attempt to honour the Mattei brothers alongside those who fought for Fascism despite its likely defeat. As Chapter 3 demonstrated, the Rogo marked the beginning of a long process of re-­ legitimisation of the far right, which began with Almirante’s sustained efforts to reframe the MSI as non-violent victims after the attack and culminated in Fini’s AN in 1995. The inclusion of the Mattei brothers’ names on a plaque to honour the RSI dead, who fought ‘a battle that could not be won’ (Ferraresi 1996, p.  40), positions their deaths as the ultimate ideological commitment in the face of inevitable defeat. As neofascists in postwar Italy revered the sacrifice of the RSI dead, the inclusion of the Matteis’ names suggests that contemporary neofascists consider the brothers martyrs for a vanquished ideology—that of the MSI—and symbols of a subversive ideology that some considered betrayed in 1995. Moreover, the parallel enables the contemporary far-right to present the Years of Lead as a period of physical heroism and moral bravery during which neofascists, outnumbered by their adversaries, retained their ideological integrity, and remained ready to fight to the death. It is not known who added the Mattei brothers’ names to the plaque. Verano archivists have told me there is no date for the names being added to the plaque in the official record for the Chapel (Sovrintendenza

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Capitolina ai Beni Culturali, email to the author, 4 February 2022). Last updated in 2014, the boys’ names are included in the document, so the addition must have occurred before then. When I asked the Mattei family about it in 2018, they were unaware of the plaque’s existence, and unhappy about the inclusion of the brothers’ names in the Chapel. Giampaolo Mattei has since made further enquiries among people connected to contemporary far-right grassroots groups and has been told that the names were likely added by those who participate in a commemoration held at Verano on 7 January, the anniversary of the 1978 double killing of two young MSI members who were shot as they left the party base in Acca Larenzia (a third young member died during demonstrations later that day), to honour the far-right dead. The event is typically organised by members of Forza Nuova and Comunità di Avanguardia (Vanguard Community), a contemporary Nazi–Fascist group that presents itself as a continuation of Avanguardia Nazionale, an extra-parliamentary MSI breakaway group founded in 1960 by Stefano Delle Chiaie (the neofascist accused of being involved in the 1980 Bologna bombing) and dissolved in 1976. It involves a procession through the cemetery, stopping to honour those deemed part of Italy’s right-wing heritage, including Goffredo Mameli, the Risorgimento-era patriot, poet and writer of Italy’s national anthem, the far-right victims of the Years of Lead, and those named in the Chapel of the Fascist Martyrs, where the procession ends. ‘For years now, we have chosen the Verano chapel as a symbol of all comrades who died on the path of honour’, said Vincenzo Nardulli, a leading figure in Rome’s radical right, explaining the decision not to hold the 7 January ceremony at the site of the Acca Larenzia killings (Corriere della Sera 2019). Nardulli and Forza Nuova’s Rome leader Giuliano Castellino were sentenced to five years and six months’ imprisonment in 2020 after attacking two L’Espresso journalists documenting the 7 January commemoration at the Chapel in 2019 (La Repubblica 2019). Nardulli’s explanation as to why the Verano mausoleum was chosen as the ‘symbol of all comrades who died on the path of honour’ also points to an attempt to re-signify this historic Fascist space by presenting the ‘path’ as ongoing. This is a space that constructs and celebrates a narrative of ideological integrity and bravery in the face of a dominant adversary. Although members of the contemporary far right who participate in the commemorative events at the mausoleum are not engaged in the physical fight, their commitment to openly honour the memory of the historic far right is framed as the next step on the path of ideological progress in a

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country that, they argue, fails to remember far-right victims. As a result, participants represent themselves as contemporary revolutionaries belonging to a powerful minority, like the Sansepolcristi, RSI dead, and Stefano and Virgilio Mattei, whose names are eternalised within the building. Not only do the additions to the mausoleum and the annual commemoration ceremony position participants at the vanguard of this historic fight through claims to this far-right heritage, the continued engagement with the building through the permanent addition of the Mattei brothers’ names and through temporary gatherings can be read as acts of resignification that re-frame the building not only as a historic space of Fascist heritage, but as a site with contemporary relevance for ideological progress.

4.4  Obscuring Ideology Through Narratives of Patriotic Sacrifice As we have seen, the dissolution of the MSI re-energised grassroots commemorative activity related to the Mattei brothers in public space as symbols of the ultimate commitment to a now lost heritage. This definition of memory communities along distinctly political lines left memory of the brothers ghettoised, left out of national narratives of victimhood. Although this would, to some extent, shift in 2005 with Lollo’s admission of guilt, as examined in Chapter 5, prior to that, commemoration of the arson remained deeply connected to the far right. Because of this continued claiming of memory by grassroots neofascist groups, and indeed relative lack of engagement with memory from across the political spectrum, Giampaolo Mattei has refused to lend his support to any institutional proposals to create physical sites of memory to commemorate the tragedy. His decision is driven by a concern that these sites will become spaces of far-­ right pilgrimage, as in the Verano cemetery, or indeed come under attack. The sparse memoryscape linked to the Mattei brothers is surprising, particularly since the tragedy is commonly known in collective memory as the Rogo di Primavalle. Place lies at the centre of the public narrative yet is strikingly absent in its commemoration. This contrasts starkly with the range of sites dedicated to Sergio Ramelli, an 18-year-old student and active member of the MSI youth organisation the FdG, attacked in Milan by left-wing extremists in 1975. Throughout Italy, 21 streets and public gardens bear his name, many with the description ‘victim of political violence’—a passive construction that omits reference to a killer.

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However,  there is another plaque at the site of his killing that declares Ramelli ‘fallen for Italy’. Installed by MSI-DN and FdG, it draws on the martyrological narrative typically used by the far right, drawing heavily on notions of patriotic sacrifice.7 In 2003, a local park was dedicated to Stefano and Virgilio Mattei in via Battistini, Primavalle, on the suggestion of Marco Visconti, head of the local authority and member of AN.  When the motion was presented, opposition councillors left the hall in protest, expressing the enduring tensions surrounding commemoration of those associated with the Italian far  right. Nevertheless, the motion was accepted, and the plaque was erected, albeit without the consent of the Mattei family. It is one of very few permanent markers of the attack. The plaque reads: Stefano and Virgilio Mattei Martyrs for liberty 16.04.1973 16.04.2003 30 years from their sacrifice

The wording is remarkable for its efforts to recontextualise memory of the arson within broader historic narratives of political martyrdom that equate death with sacrifice, reflecting the original framing put forward by the MSI in 1973. The text makes no mention of how the brothers lost their lives, instead painting their deaths as ‘sacrifice’. To those familiar with far-right commemorative culture, it may therefore be recognisable within the rhetoric of far-right martyrology. However, the plaque eschews any explicit reference to political beliefs or the cause of the brothers’ deaths. In many ways, the plaque blends into the nation’s existing commemorative culture. The term ‘martyrs for liberty’ holds significant historical, political and patriotic meaning in Italy. Balzani (2008, p. 9) has shown the term ‘martyr for liberty’ emerged as a successor to the honorific ‘fallen for the patria’, which was used during the early Risorgimento wars of the 1820s as individuals gave their lives for the future nation (or at least were commemorated as having done so).8 With the Wars of Independence in 1848 and the subsequent introduction of recognition systems for the dead, including medals and military honours, the fallen were officially remembered as patriotic martyrs and contextualised within a broader narrative of patriotic sacrifice, retrospectively earning the label ‘martyr for liberty’ (Balzani 2008, p.  18). This term originated during the French Revolution, as part of an effort to create a public image of the nation

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through symbols, rituals and commemorative celebrations (Riall 2008, p.  23). After the Second World War, ‘martyrs for liberty’ appeared frequently on Italian memorials as a stand-alone term without further qualifiers referring to the nation or patria. There, martyrs for liberty became part of Italy’s national narrative in the postwar period, when the vocabulary of hagiography was employed to commemorate fallen partisans, victims of Nazi occupation, or prominent antifascists. The term used on this 2003 plaque is therefore loaded with historical and cultural significance, and sacrifice is its central message. But unlike the pro-independence fighters of the Risorgimento, murdered antifascists or the fallen partisans of Italy’s much venerated Resistance, neither Stefano nor Virgilio died in defence of a belief (although Virgilio is often remembered as having done so, as Chapter 6 addresses). The concept of martyrdom obscures the fact that they were the unsuspecting victims of a political attack on their home. Though this narrative might reflect a human need to find purpose in tragedy, it is more likely that the hagiographical lexicon traditionally associated with the nation was used for two purposes. Firstly, because it connected to the rhetoric originally adopted by the MSI during the Mattei brothers’ funeral, which in turn built on historic Fascist narratives. For those on the right, the reference to sacrifice created a line of rhetorical continuity that connected their deaths with a broader tradition of far-right martyrdom. Secondly, the specific terminology of ‘martyr for liberty’ blends in with existing rhetorical traditions on commemorative plaques that can be found across Italy, minimising the contentiousness of publicly commemorating a tragedy that had been so closely associated with, and mourned by, the far right. It is worth recalling here that, at the time of the plaque’s installation, Lollo was yet to give his confession and memory of the tragedy remained divided. During the unveiling of the plaque in 2003, Giampaolo Mattei was interviewed by broadcaster Giovanni Minoli, known for his support of the Italian Socialist Party, alongside a local councillor and former activist of the Volontari Nazionali. During the interview, an elderly man came out of a shop across the street from the park and said: ‘Still going on about these Matteis, but they did it themselves, there was an internal split’ (Mattei and Monti 2008, p. 59). A few hours after its unveiling, unknown vandals attacked the plaque and caused significant damage (Fig.  4.4). While local authorities were keen to restore the plaque to its original condition, Giampaolo Mattei was not. He told me: ‘It was my wish not to change it. institutional and municipal politicians wanted to change it and

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Fig. 4.4  Signs of destruction on the plaque dedicating a local park to Stefano and Virgilio Mattei. Photo taken by the author

I said no because it’s right that people see how much hatred still remains with regards to the Primavalle massacre’ (Mattei 2010). In its partial destruction, the plaque is a counter-monument, defined as ‘brazen, painfully self-conscious memorial spaces conceived to challenge the very premises of their being’ (Young 1994, p. 27), standing in stark contrast to the traditional monument’s ‘essential stiffness’ and permanence (Young 1994, p.  13). In reminding passers-by that monuments are formed through human design and construction, counter-monuments, Young (1994, p. 14) argues, ‘might thus save our icons of remembrance from hardening into idols of remembrance’.

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This was not the first public memorial to the brothers. In 1998, the Turin city council debated the motion put forward by AN to dedicate the public gardens on via Nizza in Rivoli, a town around 14 km east of Turin, to the Mattei brothers. An article published in La Stampa on March 26, 1998, reported that members of Partito Popolare Italiano (Italian Popular Party, PPI), the Federazione dei Verdi (Federation of Greens) and the Partito della Rifondazione Comunista (The Communist Refoundation Party) had attempted to vote down the motion by protesting the partisan nature of the dedication (Longo 1998). In support of the motion, Rivoli mayor Nino Boeti of the centre-left Partito Democratico Della Sinistra (Democratic Party of the Left) highlighted the place of memorials among institutional acts of reconciliation, arguing that this plaque was part of a process of national reconciliation, while Valerio Calosso of AN said that it marked an important step in overcoming old political binaries (Longo 1998). Giampaolo Mattei’s reluctance to anchor memory (and therefore institutionalise it) does not reflect a fear that the creation of lieux de mémoire will begin the path of collective amnesia, as Pierre Nora (1989) suggests in his examination of sites of memory, but rather a fear that it might create further opportunities for the far right to claim memory. By withholding permission for permanent structures of memory, further misappropriation of memory is minimised. Today, most motions to commemorate figures associated with Italy’s far-right heritage come from members of prime minister Giorgia Meloni’s party, Fratelli d’Italia (Brothers of Italy), as in the case of the Mattei brothers. As we will see in Chapter 6, the Mattei family’s decision not to support these memorial sites is also driven by a desire to block any attempts to remember the brothers without acknowledging the political context of their deaths in an empty gesture of reconciliation that might be used to garner electoral support.

4.5  Conclusion The mid-1990s saw the dissolution of the MSI and the culmination of a long process of relegitimisation of the far right. The launch of AN, which represented a shift towards the centre and openness to collaboration with other parties, saw memory of the brothers reclaimed by the more extreme right fringes. For those groups, commemoration of the Mattei brothers represented a double mourning: the loss of two lives, and the irretrievable loss of the party the Rogo had come to symbolise. This period marked the

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beginning of a bifurcation in far-right memory of the attack. For those engaged in institutional politics like Fini, the arson would be honoured as a symbol of injustice and institutional failures. But for those at the far edge of the extreme right, the brothers were to be remembered within a broader pantheon of Fascist martyrs that united ideological militants who, despite their minority position, nevertheless resisted. After the Svolta, neofascists once more adopted the antagonistic mode of memory to remember the brothers. Faced with a rejection of their ideological past by their former representatives in institutional government, grassroots groups on the far right sought to assert their heritage. The Mattei brothers continued to hold a particular place in the pantheon of neofascist martyrs for Roman far-right groups throughout the 1990s for two reasons. Firstly, the nature of their deaths, caused by an attack on a domestic space, creating a very clear narrative that expresses the innocence of the victim and the evil of the perpetrators—a Manichean division Almirante recognised, doubling down on commemoration at a time when the MSI was widely criticised for its involvement in fatal street violence. Secondly, the MSI’s immediate framing of their deaths as ideological sacrifice meant that after the dissolution of the party in 1995, the brothers became symbols of a lost heritage for groups associated with the radical (rather than conservative) right, who no longer saw themselves represented in institutional government. Renewed engagement with the brothers’ memory after Fiuggi demonstrates the importance of a powerful symbolic heritage to validate collective existence and unite group members. This is particularly true of groups operating outside institutional, parliamentary frameworks who are unable to derive a sense of legitimacy through formal structures of power. After the launch of Fini’s AN, commemoration of the Mattei brothers became an occasion to honour a double loss. Far-right grassroots groups drew heavily on historic symbols of Fascism from its revolutionary foundation in the 1920s to the present day, as evidenced by the addition of the boys’ names to the plaque honouring the RSI dead in the Chapel of the Fascist Martyrs—a memorial to the ultimate ideological commitment in the face of rejection by the majority. This double mourning was explicit in media representation of Anna Mattei. Anna’s mourning for her sons was repeatedly connected to this loss of far-right heritage in the mainstream media, and, as the mother of two boys whose memory was so closely connected to MSI history, she was often called upon to comment on symbolic changes within the far right. The staunch politicisation of Anna’s

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mourning in media narratives prevented her emergence as a state-­ sanctioned public victim. Instead, her mourning was tightly bound to a well-defined political subculture and memory remained firmly entrenched in far-right commemorative culture. All that would change in 2005 when a public confession transformed the status of the attack in collective memory, triggering a series of criminal investigations that pointed the figure at a new set of culprits and shifting how Fini and his party engaged with memory once again.

Notes 1. Valerio belonged to the group Autonomia Operaia, born from the dissolution of Potere Operaio after the Primavalle attack. On 22 February 1980, three armed men entered his home in Montesacro, Rome, bound and gagged his parents and waited for Valerio to return. A fight broke out when he returned, and bullets were fired by the assailants; one struck Verbano in the back, provoking a fatal haemorrhage. 2. In opposition to this, the Roman leader of Italy’s Communist Refoundation Party called for a moment of quiet reflection on 16 April 2014, instead of the instrumentalisation of memory and stirring of hatred that he identified during the commemorative march (Barraco 2014). 3. A staunch supporter of the early Fascist movement, Donati, nicknamed ‘la Capitana’ (the Captain), was involved in several instances of squadristi violence, including the attack on the socialist Alceste Della Seta in Caffè Aragno in Rome in February 1921 and the 1922 armed occupation of Ravenna on 2–5 August. She was one of very few women to take part in the 1922 March on Rome, where she met Mussolini. The following year, he declined her request to join the paramilitary Blackshirts (Colonnelli 2008, p. 49). 4. Donati was upheld by the Fascist regime as an icon of female youth. To mark a decade since her death, a ceremony was held in the Santa Cecilia church in Trastevere, during which nineteen commemorative flags bearing Donati’s name were officially blessed and then given to nineteen groups of the Fasci femminili (the women’s section of the Fascist party) for inclusion in public processions. In 1937, a large monument was erected in her honour in San Severino Marche, which included Mussolini’s description of her as ‘an indomitable Fascist’. Partisans later destroyed it. Donati’s remains were removed from the Mausoleum in the postwar period and returned to Matelica, and the monument to her was turned into a memorial for the victims of war by removing the statue and the text quoting Mussolini, which was replaced with a generic dedication ‘to the fallen’. Neofascist sympathisers continue to place Donati’s image and a commemorative wreath there on the anniversary of her death.

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5. Indeed, celebrations held during the Exhibition of the Fascist Revolution to honour the Fascist martyrs were held in the Chapel of the Martyrs (one of the 23 rooms that made up the Exhibition of the Fascist Revolution), which was designed to elicit ‘emotional and impassioned responses’ from visitors as they came face-to-face with bloodied relics, theatrical lighting and a blood-­ red pedestal (Stone 1993, p. 226). 6. For more on memory of the Fosse Ardeatine and the construction of the myth it could have been prevented if the partisans had only given themselves up to the Nazis for the via Rasella bombing the previous day, see Alessandro Portelli’s 2007 book The Order Has Been Carried Out: History, Memory, and Meaning of a Nazi Massacre in Rome. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. 7. Generally, plaques commemorating far-right victims of the Years of Lead make little reference to the political identity of the killers, with one notable exception. In the Tuscolano quarter of Rome, there is a plaque commemorating the Acca Larenzia dead, which describes the three victims as ‘assassinated by communist hate and by servants of the state’. 8. Analysis of the term’s use in Italian newspapers provides clear examples of retrospective application to those who died during the 1820s following Italy’s unification. For example, an 1879 newspaper article published in Gazzetta Piemontese (Gazzetta Piemontese 1879) refers to a plaque commemorating the seven liberals condemned to death in 1824 after accusations of involvement in the organisation of a revolution against foreign oppression. The article commemorates names the seven liberals as ‘the precursor martyrs to Italian liberty’.

References Alemanno, Gianni. 2013. ‘“Addio Anna Mattei”.’ Post. Facebook. https://www. facebook.com/Alemanno.Gianni/posts/pfbid02xojcHPGnUJZe gY4EWRJL13T7ADPzdpz6Tmu3pSFDZM15s4YK3ttHJWqp2mfvKyiRl. Balzani, Roberto. 2008. ‘Alla ricerca della morte “utile”. Il sacrificio patriottico nel Risorgimento.’ In La morte per la patria: la celebrazione dei caduti dal Risorgimento alla Repubblica, ed. Oliver Janz, Lutz Klinkhammer, and Roberto Balzani, 3–21. Saggi. Storia e scienze sociali. Rome: Donzelli. Barraco, Maria Romana. 2014. ‘Commemorazione fratelli Mattei: il corteo di Roma Nord e le polemiche del PRC’. RomaToday, 17 April 2014. http:// montemario.romatoday.it/primavalle/commemorazione-­fratelli-­mattei-­il-­ corteo-­di-­roma-­nord-­e-­le-­polemiche-­del-­prc.html. Broder, David. 2023. Mussolini’s Grandchildren: Fascism in Contemporary Italy. London: Pluto Press. Buccini, Goffredo. 2004. ‘Rogo di Primavalle, l’accusa di mamma Mattei’. Corriere della Sera, gennaio 2004, sec. Politica. Corriere della Sera Archivio Storico.

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Caccia, Fabrizio. 2004. ‘“Bel gesto di Veltroni, ma ora ci diano gli assassini”’. Corriere della Sera, Settembre 2004, sec. Cronaca di Roma. Cento Bull, Anna, and H.L.  Hansen. 2016. On Agonistic Memory. Memory Studies 9 (4): 390–404. Cheles, Luciano. 2010. Back to the Future. The Visual Propaganda of Alleanza Nazionale (1994–2009). Journal of Modern Italian Studies 15 (2): 232–311. ‘Chi siamo—MAGNITUDO ITALIA’. n.d. Accessed March 3, 2022. http:// www.magnitudoitalia.it/chi-­siamo/. Colonnelli, Igino. 2008. Giuseppe Moscatelli “Moschino”. Macerata: Halley Editrice. Conti, Arturo. 2019. ‘Albo caduti e dispersi della Repubblica Sociale Italiano’. FONDAZIONE DELLA R.S.I.—ISTITUTO STORICO ONLUS. http:// www.fondazionersi.org/caduti/AlboCaduti2019.pdf. Conway, Brian. 2010. Commemoration and Bloody Sunday Pathways of Memory. Basingstoke, Hampshire [England]; New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Corriere della Sera. 1933. ‘Il Duce acclamato con ardente entusiasmo dal Senato e dal popolo di Roma’, 25 March 1933. ———. 2019. ‘Aggredito giornalista durante la commemorazione di Acca Larentia al Verano’, Corriere della Sera, 7 January 2019. https://roma.corriere.it/notizie/cronaca/19_gennaio_07/roma-­a ggredito-­g iornalista-­e spresso-­l a-­ commemorazione-­acca-­larentia-­verano-­f f5d7036-­129f-­11e9-­8e32-­62f2e5130 e0b.shtml. Corriere Roma. 1995. ‘Tuscolano: fermati tre estremisti’, 19 April 1995. ———. 1996. ‘Incidenti a Primavalle per i Fratelli Mattei’, 17 April 1996. Dechezelles, Stéphanie. 2011, September. Boia chi molla! Cultures & Conflicts, 81–82: 101–123. Dunnage, Jonathan. 2007. Twentieth-Century Italy: A Social History. London: Longman. Erll, Astrid. 2009. Wars We Have Seen: Literature as a Medium of Collective Memory in the “Age of Extremes”. In Memories and Representations of War: The Case of World War I and World War II, ed. Elena Lamberti and Vita Fortunati, 27–44. Amsterdam: Rodopi. Failmezger, Victor. 2020. Rome—City in Terror: The Nazi Occupation 1943–44. London: Bloomsbury Publishing. Ferraresi, Franco. 1996. Threats to Democracy: The Radical Right in Italy after the War. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Foot, John. 2009. Italy’s Divided Memory. In Italian and Italian American Studies, 1st ed. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. ———. 2022. Blood and Power. The Rise and Fall of Italian Fascism. London: Bloomsbury. Froio, Caterina, Pietro Castelli Gattinara, Giorgia Bulli, and Matteo Albanese. 2020. CasaPound Italia: Contemporary Extreme-Right Politics. Routledge

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Studies in Fascism and the Far Right. Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon; New York, NY: Routledge. Gazzetta Piemontese. 1879. ‘Corriere di Milano’, settembre 1879. La Stampa Archivio Storico. Glynn, Ruth. 2013. Women, Terrorism and Trauma in Italian Culture. Italian and Italian American Studies. New York, NY: Palgrave Macmillan. Grignetti, Francesco. 1995. ‘I naziskin firmano una notte di terrore’. La Stampa, 18 April 1995. Guerzoni, Monica. 1995. ‘Primavalle, terra di nessuno’. Corriere Roma, 19 April 1995. Homans, Peter, ed., 2000. Symbolic Loss: The Ambiguity of Mourning and Memory at Century’s End. Charlottesville: University Press of Virginia. Ignazi, Piero. 2015. Fascists and Post-Fascists. In The Oxford Handbook of Italian Politics, ed. Erik Jones and Gianfranco Pasquino, 211–223. Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press. ———. 2019. The Changing Profile of the Italian Social Movement. In Encounters with the Contemporary Radical Right, ed. Peter H. Merkl, 75–92. Abingdon, Oxon; New York, NY: Routledge. Il Giornale d’Italia. 2013. ‘Grazie Anna, per la tua battaglia di una vita’, 7 April 2013. http://www.ilgiornaleditalia.org/news/cronaca/847583/-­Grazie-­ Anna%2D%2Dper-­la.html. La Repubblica. 1994. ‘Giu le mani dalla fiamma’, 25 September 1994. https:// ricerca.repubblica.it/repubblica/archivio/repubblica/1994/09/25/giu-­le-­ mani-­dalla-­fiamma.html?ref=search. ———. 2019. ‘Giornalisti dell’Espresso aggrediti dai neofascisti, il gruppo Gedi sarà parte civile’, 21 October 2019, sec. Cronaca. https://www.repubblica.it/cronaca/2019/10/21/news/giornalisti_dell_espresso_aggrediti_dai_neofascisti_ il_gruppo_gedi_sara_parte_civile-­239105387/. La Stampa. 1994. ‘Fini: è tempo di evolversi’, 25 September 1994. Leerssen, J.T. 2001. Monument and Trauma: Varieties of Remembrance. In History and Memory in Modern Ireland, 204–222. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Longo, Grazia. 1998. ‘Si ai giardini dei fratelli Mattei’. La Stampa, 26 March 1998. Malone, Hannah. 2017. Legacies of Fascism: Architecture, Heritage and Memory in Contemporary Italy. Modern Italy 22 (4): 445–470. Mattei, Giampaolo, and Giommaria Monti. 2008. La notte brucia ancora. Primavalle: il rogo che ha distrutto la mia famiglia. Milan: Sperling & Kupfer. Merlo, Francesco. 1988. ‘Msi: morto Almirante, è subito guerra’. Corriere della Sera, 24 May 1988. Nora, Pierre. 1989. Between Memory and History: Les Lieux de Memoire. Representations 26 (1): 7–24.

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Norris, Pippa. 2005. Radical Right. Voters and Parties in the Electoral Market. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Portelli, Alessandro. 1991. The Death of Luigi Trastulli, and Other Stories: Form and Meaning in Oral History. Albany, NY: State University of New York Press. Rendina, Claudio. 2016. ‘Processo a Fritz il torturatore del carcere di via Tasso’. La Repubblica, 24 April 2016. https://ricerca.repubblica.it/repubblica/ archivio/repubblica/2016/04/24/processo-­a -­f ritz-­i l-­t orturatore-­d el-­ carcere-­di-­via-­tassoRoma17.html. Riall, Lucy. 2008. ‘“I martiri nostri son tutti risorti!”. Garibaldi, i garibaldini e il culto della morte eroica nel Risorgimento.’ In La morte per la patria: la celebrazione dei caduti dal Risorgimento alla Repubblica, ed. Oliver Janz, Lutz Klinkhammer, and Roberto Balzani, 23–44. Saggi. Storia e scienze sociali. Rome: Donzelli. Ruzza, Carlo. 2009. Re-Inventing the Italian Right: Territorial Politics, Populism and ‘post-Fascism’. Routledge Studies in Extremism and Democracy. Routledge Research in Extremism and Democracy; 10. London: Routledge. Spackman, Barbara. 1996. Fascist Virilities: Rhetoric, Ideology, and Social Fantasy in Italy. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Staderini, Alessandra. 2008. La «Marcia dei martiri»: la traslazione nella cripta di Santa Croce dei caduti fascisti. Annali di storia di Firenze 3 (2008), 195–214. Stone, Marla. 1998. The Patron State: Culture & Politics in Fascist Italy. Princeton, N.J: Princeton University Press. Tarchi, Marco. 2003. The Political Culture of the Alleanza Nazionale: An Analysis of the Party’s Programmatic Documents (1995-2002). Journal of Modern Italian Studies 8 (2): 135–181. Testa, Alberto, and Gary Armstrong. 2008. Words and Actions: Italian Ultras and Neo-Fascism. Social Identities 14 (4): 473–490. Willson, Perry. 2009. Women in Twentieth-Century Italy. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Young, James E. 1994. The Texture of Memory: Holocaust Memorials and Meaning. New Edition. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press.

Oral History Interviews Davide, interviewed by Amy King, Rome, 19 May 2016. Mattei, Giampaolo. 2010. Interview between Amy King and Giampaolo Mattei. Interview by Amy King. Verbano, Carla, interviewed by Amy King, Rome, 8 August 2010.

CHAPTER 5

Confessions and Denials

[Things] are changing thanks to my brothers’ assassins. Because Achille Lollo’s statement created a political and social tsunami in Italy that I’m riding. […] And the most absurd thing is that it was Veltroni and the left who took the concrete action needed to move forwards along this path. Giampaolo Mattei in an interview with the author, 2010

‘I have respected silence for more than thirty years, but it no longer makes sense today. I want to tell the whole truth about the arson and about the Mattei brothers’ deaths’ (Cotroneo 2005). Spoken by Achille Lollo in an interview with Corriere della Sera on 10 February 2005, these words reignited public interest in the Primavalle attack and created an environment in which Italian institutions would begin to engage with memory of the arson. Perhaps most significant of all, the details of Lollo’s confession triggered a landslide of confessions from those formerly involved in terrorist groups, which prompted new criminal investigations, and proposals to reclassify the original crime to strage (massacre) that might have had significant repercussions for the handling of historic crimes from the Years of Lead. Moreover, some of these confessions insinuated that a network of support within Italian institutions and perhaps internationally had enabled the perpetrators to live freely for more than 30 years. Institutional involvement in stragismo, the term given to bomb massacres perpetrated by the © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 A. King, The Politics of Sacrifice, Italian and Italian American Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-45550-6_5

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far right, which Cento Bull (2012, p. 7) calls ‘the most bloody, the most sinister, the most repulsive’ violence of the Years of Lead, was widely discussed. The suggestion of institutional support for far-left criminals was a better kept secret. Italy’s management of the violence of the Years of Lead has been hybrid rather than clear-cut, as described in Chapter 1. Anna Cento Bull and Philip Cooke (2013, p. 103) have argued that a hazy strategy led to ‘Italy’s partial and incomplete process of ending terrorism’. Though pentitismo, the name given to former perpetrators’ collaboration with the authorities in exchange for reduced sentencing, is widely held to have catalysed the end of terrorism and dissociation from violence among former perpetrators, this legislation was also criticised for the uneven treatment of equal crimes. It also ensured the early release of convicts, and many people, not least the relatives of the victims of terrorism, have questioned these strategies of reconciliation. The state also adopted other approaches in pursuit of reconciliation. For example, in 2004, a National Day of Memory for the victims of terrorism was introduced. While its inauguration might suggest recognition of shared experiences from across the political spectrum, the choice of date—the anniversary of the discovery of Aldo Moro’s body— shows the privileging of those killed by the far left in national narratives and positions the period as one of violence against the state, not one of state violence. This chapter takes Achille Lollo’s Corriere della Sera interview in 2005 as a starting point from which to examine the continued divided memory of the attack, and the status of the victims’ surviving brother, Giampaolo Mattei, as a public victim. In his work on divided memory, John Foot (2009, p. 1) examines those events that have been ‘interpreted in contrasting ways’, whereby ‘the facts themselves are often contested.’ As we shall see throughout this chapter, Achille Lollo’s 2005 interview sparked a chain of confessions (both intentional and inadvertent), investigations, and trials so complex that any public consensus around the events of 16 April 1973 and the events that followed became impossible, revitalising the divided memory that had been so intentionally orchestrated during the 1970s. I begin by tracing these developments, before analysing the impact of this new information on the state’s engagement with memory of the attack, which had been minimal until this point. As Chapter 4 demonstrated, in the mid-1990s, neofascists engaged with the memory of the arson with renewed vigour, honouring both the attack itself and the lost heritage the brothers represented. But with the exception of a few right-­ wing local councillors, there was little engagement with memory on the

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part of institutional representatives. Conway (2010, p.  6) has used the term ‘memory choreographers’ to describe those ‘human actors involved in creating and propagating commemorative discourses and strategies at the small-group level’. Until Lollo’s confession, grassroots neofascist groups were the primary memory choreographers. However, as we shall see, from the mid-2000s, Italian institutions began to engage with memories of the attack, accepting Giampaolo Mattei as a public victim. It is worth recalling that Lollo, Grillo and Clavo were convicted of arson and manslaughter in 1986, and they had their sentences confirmed in 1987. There was no judicial ambiguity. The state’s engagement with memory in the mid-2000s was driven by renewed discussion of the attack in the public realm and irrefutable proof of the culpability of the far left, which marked a definitive rejection of the campaign of misinformation that began in 1973.

5.1   ‘The Real Truth, I Mean, Not the Official Truth’ ‘There were not three of us who organised the attack. There were six of us.’ Speaking from his home in Brazil to Rocco Cotroneo (2005), Latin America correspondent for Corriere della Sera, Achille Lollo named those involved in the Primavalle attack: Paolo Gaeta, Diana Perrone, Elisabetta Lecco, Marino Clavo and Manlio Grillo. Lollo knew he was free from prosecution thanks to Italy’s Statute of Limitations. According to the Italian Criminal Code, criminal sentences are time-limited and expire after a passage of time equal to twice the imposed penalty. This includes cases where the overall duration of the sentence is made up of separate prison sentences, as in the case of the Primavalle attack, where the 18-year sentence handed to Lollo, Grillo and Clavo comprised 8 years for the arson, 3 years for each of the two manslaughter charges, and 4 years for possession of explosives. The statute of limitations calculation was based on the most serious offence, carrying a sentence of eight years. And so, 16 years after sentencing, on 12 October 2003, freedom was restored to the convicted. The perpetrators’ freedom was formally confirmed on 28 January 2005 when, at the request of Marino Clavo’s defence counsel, the Rome Court of Appeals declared their sentence had expired (Mattei and Monti 2008, p. 98). Had the trio been convicted of strage (massacre), the sentence would not have lapsed. Journalist Francesco Grignetti, who had documented the violent commemoration ceremony in 1995, covered the story for La Stampa (2005) in a piece that opened: ‘The strategy of absconding won out in the end.’

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The piece discussed tensions between the Mattei family, AN’s Gianni Alemanno, who expressed his shock at the sentence lapsing, and the Justice Minister at the time, Lega Nord (Northern League, LN) member Roberto Castelli, who had failed to secure Lollo’s extradition in response to his sentence lapsing (Mattei and Monti 2008, p.  101). Giampaolo Mattei conveyed his frustration with those on the right who he felt had abandoned his family’s case. Alemanno expressed his surprise at the time-­ limited sentence lapsing, stating his intention to do everything ‘constitutionally lawful’ to stop this from happening. Castelli responded, telling La Stampa (2005) that ‘the Italian government made every possible effort’ to secure Lollo’s extradition, ‘but in this case it was not possible to bring the perpetrators to justice. As part of the Berlusconi government, minister Alemanno should know that perfectly well.’ The Mattei family declared that they would ask the European Commission for Human Rights to examine the state’s treatment of the case. Anna Mattei was quoted two days later declaring ‘I am ashamed to be Italian’ (La Repubblica 2005a). At the time of Lollo’s interview, the second Berlusconi government was part of the centre-right coalition House of Freedoms comprising Forza Italia, AN, LN, and the Unione dei Democratici Cristiani e Democratici di Centro (Union of Christian and Centre Democrats, UDC), which had won a landslide victory in 2001. Though the coalition fell just two months later in April 2005, many had expected this political union to commit to bringing the Primavalle perpetrators to justice across its relatively long stint in power. The day after the Court of Appeals confirmed the sentence had expired, Azione Giovani (Youth Action, AG), the youth branch of AN, organised a protest in front of the Palace of Justice in Rome, carrying a banner that read ‘Rogo di Primavalle. Italy is ashamed of its justice’ and an Italian flag at half mast. Giampaolo and his sister Silvia interrupted the protest, seized the banner and told protestors to go home because their efforts were futile (Lugli 2005). AN’s Gianni Alemanno, then Minister for Agriculture, asserted the party’s intentions to intervene, stating ‘this story cannot end like this.’ Communications Minister Maurizio Gasparri, who is thought to have met Gianfranco Fini at the Matteis’ funeral, said the news had caused ‘great pain and anguish’, while AN coordinator Ignazio La Russa (who went on to found Fratelli d’Italia with Giorgia Meloni in 2012, and currently serves as President of the Italian Senate) said the fact the sentence had expired was evidence ‘the State has been absent in this case’ (La Repubblica 2005a).

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Amidst the noise from a number of right-wing figures, AN leader Gianfranco Fini was noticeably quiet. At a party event held in the Roman suburb EUR the next day, Fini dedicated just 30 seconds of an 80-minute speech to these developments. He acknowledged Veltroni’s statement that the assassins would not be welcome in Rome until they had served their sentences, a framing that put centre-left Veltroni at the front of the protest against this injustice, and criticised those on the left who continued to describe the attackers as participants in an act of justice rather than assassins (Mattei and Monti 2008, p.  100). At the time, Fini was also Vice President of the Council of Ministers and Minister for Foreign Affairs, so many expected him to comment on the perpetrators’ impunity having fled Italy. However, given the event in EUR marked the tenth anniversary of AN’s foundation, Fini’s lack of engagement with a case so deeply rooted in the memory and identity of the party’s predecessor, the MSI, is perhaps unsurprising. Hot on the heels of these legal developments, Lollo’s sensational interview propelled Primavalle back into the headlines. Lollo described a meeting at the Potere Operaio base in via del Boschetto, where PO members grilled the six about the attack. All of them denied any involvement, Lollo said. At the meeting, Lollo told Cotroneo, the six made a private pact not to speak about the attack for 30 years nor to divulge the names of those involved. ‘We called it ideological silence,’ he said, ‘it was the language of the times.’ For the first time since 1973, Gaeta, Perrone and Lecco returned as suspects. Confirming a cover-up that had protected the perpetrators, Lollo said: Many people came to know the truth about Primavalle in the following months, including those at the top of Potop. The real truth, I mean, not the official truth. Another important aspect is this: the day after the meeting, I was arrested and none of the other five fled. They were so sure I wouldn’t talk. Clavo and Grillo fled abroad shortly afterwards. The other three never needed to, someone or something saved them from prosecution.

According to Lollo’s account—a partial confession that avoided full responsibility—the six met around midnight on 16 April 1973 near Piazza Farnese on the eastern side of the Tiber. Lollo and Grillo had travelled in a Fiat Cinquecento, with the remaining four in another  vehicle. They discussed plans for the attack in Primavalle and separated. At around 1:30 am, Lollo and Grillo went to meet Clavo and Lecco, who had the petrol can.

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They stopped at a petrol station to use an automatic pump, spending 1000 Lire on fuel, which they split between the can and the car. The four of them arrived beneath the Mattei family flat on via Bibbiena at around 2:15 am. Realising the lights were on inside the flat, they decided to come back later. At around 2:45 am, Clavo and Lollo climbed the stairs to the landing in front of the Mattei family flat carrying the petrol and a sign claiming responsibility for the attack, which was later found at the scene (Lollo claimed Gaeta and Perrone had made the sign). ‘And that’s when the disaster happened, the terrible fuck-up,’ Lollo said, explaining that they had only ever intended the attack to be a ‘demonstrative action’, and not to kill anyone. Lollo told Cotroneo that the homemade explosive included a trigger made of two condoms containing sulfuric acid, weedkiller, and sugar, which, if all had gone to plan, would have caused the gasoline gases to explode, causing a loud blast and blackening the front door. Instead, one of the condoms split in Lollo’s hands, and they fled the scene leaving the device unexploded. ‘Since that day, I have doubted what really happened next. We never thought about slipping petrol under the door to set the flat on fire. Never. All the expert reports proved us right, by the way,’ he added. Hinting at broader conspiracies, Lollo then complicated the narrative further by accusing Gaeta and Perrone of having broken this ‘ideological silence’ in exchange for their freedom, saying that they had intentionally omitted Elisabetta Lecco’s name from their accounts of that night so that she could provide them with an alibi. Lollo also drew attention to the fact Gaeta and Perrone had quickly become witnesses in the trial after Adolfo Gatti, initially part of Lollo’s defence counsel, withdrew unexpectedly from the team. His place was taken by PCI Senator Umberto Terracini, who deemed Gatti’s unexpected withdrawal from Lollo’s defence part of a sell-out operation that sought to create three scapegoats. When asked why he, Clavo and Grillo were scapegoats, Lollo said there was a clear class distinction between those who secured their freedom (members of Rome’s wealthy intellectual middle-class) and those who stood trial (residents of the borgata). Lollo then recalled a visit paid to him in the Regina Coeli jail by the public prosecutor, Domenico Sica, who, he said, invited Lollo to denounce the leaders of Potere Operaio for having ordered the crime in exchange for bail (an offer Lollo says he refused, challenging Sica to issue a life sentence if he had to). When asked why it had taken him 32 years to break his silence, Lollo said he had waited for the sentence to expire because he wanted to be certain he was not jeopardising the freedom of the other perpetrators. ‘I’m

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speaking out today because I believe it will help the case for amnesty, for a political solution. We can’t have skeletons in our closet anymore,’ he said. ‘Enough with this monster Lollo who has been living the good life for 32 years. What about those who have been living a nice, quiet, middle-class Roman life for 32 years?’ he asked. However, the most contentious statement came with Lollo’s refusal to apologise to the Mattei family—a decision he justified with a declaration that showed the partial extent of his confession: ‘We did not set fire to the Mattei house.’ According to his account, the perpetrators fled the scene without having set off the homemade bomb, and, Lollo argued, the Mattei family were expecting them. Resurrecting the narrative evident in Primavalle, incendio a porte chiuse, Lollo recalled having heard someone inside the flat say, ‘Here they are, they’re coming.’ Painting himself as a victim of an ineffective inquiry, Lollo told Cotroneo: ‘I’m not saying I’m innocent. I am saying I didn’t set the petrol alight. And if they had given me eight years instead of sixteen, I would have served them without escaping. I said to my father: I am ready to go inside, I will take a maximum of six or seven years, because I have faith that inquiries will reconstruct the facts. Instead, I have had to do that, after 32 years.’ Four days after his interview with Corriere della Sera, Lollo appeared on the evening television talk show Porta a Porta hosted by Bruno Vespa, whose TG1 report on the Primavalle attack on 16 April was analysed in Chapter 2. During the interview, Vespa asked Lollo directly if he still maintained that the Mattei family had set fire to their own flat in order to frame it as a political attack. ‘Yes, evidently,’ Lollo replied (La Repubblica 2005c). Lollo’s account had enormous repercussions. It sparked several subsequent interviews with those involved, who offered yet further versions of events, prompted new lines of judicial enquiry, and raised important questions around institutional complicity in the far-left violence of the Years of Lead. Rome’s public prosecutor announced its intention to reopen the case based on new details given by Lollo. Demonstrating the potential impact of the confession on other historic crimes, the public prosecutor Maria Monteleone even suggested it might be possible to reclassify the crime from the time-limited omicidio colposo (manslaughter) to strage (massacre), which carries no time limits (La Repubblica 2005b). This time, Lecco, Gaeta and Perrone were to be investigated as suspects, rather than witnesses, in a new case known as Primavalle-bis. However, despite the surprised reactions of many like Alemanno, some members of the institutional right had anticipated Lollo’s quiet slide

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towards freedom, signalling this potential injustice on both a national and international stage. Almost a year before Lollo’s confession, in March 2004 Corriere della Sera ran a story confirming Lollo’s registration on the Ministry of Interior’s electoral list of voters in the Committee of Italians Abroad (Comites) in the Rio de Janeiro constituency (Cotroneo 2004). Comites is a representative body elected by Italians living in consular jurisdiction where more than 3000 Italians reside. Despite being named on a list of ‘actively sought fugitives’, Lollo was able to enter the consulate in Rio to cast his vote. In the piece, Lollo told Corriere journalist Cotroneo, ‘I have accepted the sentences given to me from afar as a consequence of my errors.’ He described having made a life for himself, first in Angola and then in Brazil, promising, ‘I will break the silence.’ He continued: ‘In a month, I will present a document full of untold facts. I will open up my archive on the events of those years’ (Cotroneo 2004). His right to vote was revoked three days later (Salvia 2004). The following month, the Primavalle attack became an issue of international concern, when the Member of the European Parliament Roberta Angelilli, then regional co-ordinator for AN in Lazio and a former MSI member, took part in a commemorative march led by Azione Giovani in April 2004 to call attention to Lollo’s presence in Brazil. She also organised large posters calling for Lollo’s extradition to appear in Brazil on the anniversary of the Primavalle attack (Angelilli 2004). Lollo quickly sought a ruling from the Brazilian judiciary to remove the posters, and the judge ruled that unauthorised political posters should not be affixed in commercial advertising spaces. The posters were taken down, but Angelilli continued her campaign. She filed a question to the European Commission requesting Lollo’s status as political refugee be revoked and calling for his extradition from Brazil (Angelilli 2004). She underlined Lollo’s sentence of eighteen years’ imprisonment, explaining that he had not served a day in jail since his sentence, and then addressed the 1993 decision by the Brazilian government to turn down Italy’s extradition request  on the grounds that the offence was time-barred and because Lollo holds political refugee status. Angelilli argued that this status was unlawful because Italy ‘is a country that respects fundamental and civil human rights and so there are no legal grounds for Achille Lollo being considered to have suffered political persecution’. She argued that Lollo’s continued participation in elections, as the story broken in March 2004 showed, was evidence of his implicit acceptance of Italy’s jurisdiction. Moreover, Angelilli argued, article 1(f)(b) of the Geneva Convention states that the Convention

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does not apply to any person suspected of having committed a serious non-political crime outside the country of refuge, and Lollo’s original crime was omicidio colposo—manslaughter. These extradition requests were again refused on the grounds of Lollo’s political refugee status. But, in October 2004, journalist Silvio Leoni published an article in Panorama magazine that cast doubt on the validity of this status, quoting a letter from Joao Andrè Pinto Dias Lima, counsellor for the Brazilian embassy in Rome, which confirmed that Lollo did not have political refugee status according to information from the Brazilian Ministry of Justice (Leoni 2004). Requests for Lollo’s extradition from Brazil, where he had lived with his wife and four children from 1987, had already occurred several times. Indeed, on 20 February 1993, Interpol apprehended Lollo in Rio, where he was director of the magazine Nação Brasil. That same year, Italy lodged a formal extradition request, which was rejected by Brazil’s Supreme Court, citing the fact the crime was time-­ barred and had, under Brazilian rule, expired. Moreover, Brazil’s highest court ordered that no foreigner be extradited for a political crime (though Lollo’s sentence was for manslaughter, arson, and possession of explosives). Angelilli’s campaign exposed the obstacles posed by a lack of international cooperation with regards to the retrospective bringing to justice of those who fled Italy after their crimes, shining a spotlight on the favourable treatment of condemned far-left terrorists in Brazil and exposing a lack of action on behalf of the Italian state, with most developments uncovered by a handful of investigating reporters or a sole member of the European Parliament. Lollo was not the only militant convicted in absentia to have found exile in Brazil. Cesare Battisti, formerly a member of Proletari Armati per il Comunismo (Armed Proletarians for Communism), is a renowned criminal and terrorist from Italy’s Years of Lead. Sentenced to 12 years’ imprisonment in 1979 for the illegal possession of a firearm and contraband, he escaped from prison in 1981 and was sentenced in absentia to life imprisonment for four murders in 1985. He fled to Brazil in 2004, having spent periods in France where he was protected by the Mitterrand Doctrine, which prevented extradition of former far-left terrorists if they pledged to renounce violence and integrate into French society. In 2022, the French courts again refused to extradite ten former members of the Brigate Rosse (‘French Court Rejects Extradition Requests for 10 Italian Red Brigades’ 2022). In 2010, Battisti was granted asylum by Brazilian President Lula, who refused Italy’s extradition request in 2011 on the grounds that Battisti

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might be persecuted due to his political beliefs. In 2018, Brazil’s former President Michel Temer revoked Battisti’s status and, in 2019, with close relations forming between Matteo Salvini and the new Brazilian president Jair Bolsonaro, Italy’s extradition request was granted. Battisti was arrested in 2019 in Bolivia by Interpol and returned to Italy, and, in 2020 former President Lula gave an interview to TV Democracia in which he declared that granting asylum to Battisti was a mistake and apologised to the families of Battisti’s victims. He explained his decision to refuse Italy’s extradition request, stating that his former Justice Minister, Tarso Genro, was convinced Battisti was innocent: ‘He deceived many people in Brazil,’ Lula said of Battisti. ‘I don’t know if he did the same in France, but the truth is that many people thought he was innocent. And if we made this mistake, we apologise’ (La Repubblica 2020).

5.2  From ‘Ideological Silence’ to Media Noise Lollo’s Corriere confession propelled the attack back onto the front pages of Italy’s national newspapers and prompted a series of counterclaims, rejections and revelations that resurrected and revitalised the sense—so pervasive in the 1970s—that the truth of what had happened that night in Primavalle would never fully be known. Implying that there was more at stake than individual culpability, just hours after Lollo’s interview broke, the Mattei family’s legal representative, Luciano Randazzo, suggested that those who had mandated the attack might have held institutional positions, which had enabled them to help the perpetrators flee Italy (Corriere della Sera 2005a). Underlining the potential repercussions of the developments in the Primavalle case on the Italian legal system more broadly, Randazzo also argued that the most serious crimes should not be time-­ limited—a suggestion Alemanno publicly agreed with, raising questions around the precedent any reclassification might set for historic cases from Italy’s Years of Lead (Corriere della Sera 2005a). Randazzo also asked the public prosecutor to pursue criminal proceedings against former Potere Operaio leaders Lanfranco Pace, Valerio Morucci and Franco Piperno for having ordered the massacre in a new case known as Primavalle-ter. Randazzo had been involved in other high-profile cases related to far-­ right history. He represented the National Consulta of Combatants of the Repubblica di Salò, the second incarnation of Mussolini’s state, when they brought a mass murder case against former Yugoslav partisans Oskar Piskulic and Ivan Motika in 1996 for allegedly participating in a series of

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massacres in the foibé sinkholes in Trieste and Istria after World War Two. He also represented the relatives of Francesco Iaquinti, a civilian killed in the via Rasella attack of 1944, in a case brought against former Italian partisans in 1996 (L’Inchiesta 2018). Then, in 2007, he represented Benito Mussolini’s grandson, who sought a criminal inquiry into his grandfather’s death due to evidence he says cast doubts on accounts that the dictator was killed by a partisan fighter (Adnkronos 2007). The latter was rejected by Rome’s Court of Appeals in 2008 (Adnkronos 2008). Randazzo’s prior legal work and his decision to comment on institutional collusion in the Primavalle case on 10 February, the Day of Memory of the Exiles and the Foibé, tells us something about the contextualisation of the case within an existing tradition of antifascist violence by some members of the far right in the mid-2000s. 10 February commemorates the victims of the foibé and became a National Day of Remembrance in 2004—a decision Cossu (2009, p. 171) says was ‘perceived as a political decision able to generate shared memory’. The term foibé describes the large sink holes in the Istrian peninsula where bodies (many of whom supported Fascism) were concealed after their deaths at the hands of Yugoslav partisans, and during the subsequent exile of the Italian minority from the Istrian peninsula in the postwar period, which saw the migration of between 200,000 and 350,000 ethnic Italians (Ballinger 2003, p. 1). According to Cossu (2009, p. 167), these events have ‘become a powerful identity myth for the Italian post-fascist and nationalist movements’. Randazzo thus tied memory of the arson to historic far-right commemorative culture, framing the attack as continuing the persecution of the far right at the hands of violent antifascists since the fall of the regime, and within a broader tradition of deaths that were perceived by those on the right as having been forgotten by Italian institutions due to the state’s mnemonic hegemony, which has favoured the memory of left-wing victims. Later in 2005, the Mattei family parted ways with Randazzo because he had decided to stand for election as a candidate for Fiamma-Tricolore (Mattei and Monti 2008, p. 125). On 12 February 2005, two days after Randazzo’s announcement, Potere Operaio founder Oreste Scalzone admitted to Radio Radicale, the official radio station of the Italian Radical Party, that he had helped Clavo and Grillo to flee (Corriere della Sera 2005b).1 But this was not new information. Two years prior, Lanfranco Pace’s account of the group’s defence of Lollo, Grillo and Clavo was published in La generazione degli anni

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perduti (The Generation of Lost Years), a collection of interviews with former Potere Operaio members, in which Pace admitted: We were forced to take on the defence of our three comrades despite their guilt. Why did we do this? Because there was no alternative. If we had been true revolutionaries we would have had to kill them and have them found on some deserted beach. So we decided to defend them to the end. (Grandi 2003, p. 294)

This information had thus been in the public domain for some time before Lollo’s confession prompted renewed interest in the case. The day after Scalzone’s interview on Radio Radicale, Franco Piperno, who had been Potere Operaio’s national secretary at the time of the arson, also spoke out, telling La Repubblica he had helped to cover up Potere Operaio’s involvement in the Rogo, but adding he had only learnt the truth a month after the attack (for which, he said, he ‘will always carry the moral weight’) (Mazzocchi 2005). Piperno denied that he, Scalzone and Morucci had ordered the attack, attributing it to an extremist faction within PO—a framing Morucci put forward in his memoir, recalling his surprise at hearing about the arson, which he attributed to PO members operating at a very local level who acted without informing PO leadership (Morucci 1999, p. 85). Indeed, Morucci (1999, p. 86) wrote, he was so furious that these PO members had ‘jeopardised the survival of the group’ that he visited Clavo in the Tuscan hills where he was in hiding, armed with a Walther PPK fitted with a silencer. He later wrote, ‘even though it became clear that it was them, they were acquitted in the first instance. These sorts of things happened in those days’ (Morucci 1999, p. 89). These accounts of aiding and abetting, cover-ups and strategic denials had been in the public realm for years—fragments scattered across sources including Morucci’s 1999 memoir, the 2003 La generazione degli anni perduti and various newspapers and magazines. When pieced together, they revealed that the PO leadership had been aware their own members were responsible for the arson; that the staunch misinformation campaign analysed in Part 1 of this book was a cover-up; that the perpetrators had been helped to flee justice; and that their whereabouts had been known for some time. But it was only after Lollo’s confession that PO leaders spoke out, and the media listened. A range of newspapers interviewed left-­ wing militants and intellectuals of the 1970s, and their testimonies sometimes contradicted those put forward even the previous day. For example,

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Piperno denied PO’s involvement in the book Primavalle, incendio a porte chiuse, telling La Repubblica it had been written on the initiative of ‘some comrades’ but that PO was not directly involved—a statement contradicted in the previous day’s edition of La Stampa in which Ruggero Guarini, head of the culture pages of Il Messaggero at the time of the arson, had said his paper’s graphic design office had worked with PO to produce Primavalle, incendio a porte chiuse (Grignetti 2005). There was little consensus even among the group who had been in Primavalle on the night of 16 April. Two days after Lollo’s interview, Paolo Gaeta rejected Lollo’s account that six people were involved in the attack. In an interview from his wine bar in Siena, Gaeta told Corriere della Sera that he and Perrone (with whom he was in a relationship at the time) had gone home early to the apartment on via Segneri in Trastevere on the night of the arson because he needed an early night as he was working at his father’s law firm in Flaminio the following day (Roncone 2005). ‘Later, well I think later Elisabetta Lecco came home too,’ he added. Complicating things further, on 17 February, Grillo spoke to La Repubblica from his home in Nicaragua, strenuously denying Lollo’s version of events, telling journalist Alessandro Oppes (2005): ‘There were three of us that night in Primavalle, only three. There was never anyone else, neither then at the time of the attack, which was only supposed to be a demonstrative act, nor before in the preparatory phase.’ He justified his decision to speak out, adding: ‘Let me be clear, if I have decided to speak it is not because an alleged pact of silence has broken down, which is a figment of Achille’s imagination, but rather to try to re-establish the truth.’2 According to Grillo, on the night of the arson he had waited in the car to keep watch while Lollo and Clavo approached the Mattei flat. Grillo said the Matteis had heard Lollo at the door and, once Lollo had fled, the family had brought the abandoned petrol can inside the flat. While the rest of the family fled, Virgilio made phone calls to the police and to the local MSI branch. ‘What did he want, to be a hero?’ Grillo asked. Grillo then cited Lollo’s inexperience preparing the home-made explosive device and Mattei’s inexperience handling it as the ‘unintentional cause of the disaster’ (Oppes 2005). Grillo showed no remorse, stating: ‘Why should I feel guilty for something I didn’t do and I didn’t want?’ adding ‘We don’t know if what happened was just because of Lollo’s mistakes or because of those made by the Matteis, too.’ He denied any meeting between the six involved in the attack and the leaders of PO (Mazzocchi 2005), and explained it was Oreste Scalzone who had helped him to flee Italy—‘It was

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simpler than you might imagine’—by giving him the address of a Swedish friend, who Grillo went on to marry. Grillo remained in Sweden until 1978, when he returned to Italy, but he left the country around the time of the second Primavalle trial. He then fled to Nicaragua in 1986, where he met his partner Ignacia, a Sandinista militant. Grillo denied the involvement of the Secret Services in helping him to flee Italy and said he had seen Lollo only once since—in either 1976 or 1977—at Scalzone’s house in Paris, somewhat unexpectedly. The perpetrators’ smoke and mirrors strategy of partial confessions and denials further obfuscated the truth, creating additional divisions in the already divided memory of the attack and resurrecting the feeling that had defined public consciousness in the 1970s: the truth could never be known because there was more at play than just the innocence or guilt of six young people from Rome. If proven, these confessions implicated a range of state institutions and international parties. Arguing for the need to understand this attack as part of a network of collaboration between terrorists and powerful institutions, Ignazio La Russa, then leader of AN in the Chamber of Deputies and currently President of the Italian Senate, spoke in parliament on 16 February 2005 and called on the Italian government to explain ‘the deviations and paths that allowed this impunity’ (‘Resoconto stenografico dell’Assemblea. Seduta n. 587 del 16/2/2005′ 2005). Carlo Giovanardi, Minister for Parliamentary Relations from the centre-right Unione di Centro (Union of the Centre, UDC), echoed La Russa’s call, arguing that the government was bound to heed the requests of parliamentary deputies for further investigations to determine responsibility for the attack (and its cover-up) because of the public ‘thirst for justice and truth with respect to events that are temporally distant but still close  in the hearts and minds  of Italians’ (‘Resoconto stenografico dell’Assemblea. Seduta n. 587 del 16/2/2005′ 2005). As stated, the incumbent centre-right government included the Lega’s Roberto Castelli as Justice Minister, who many expected to revisit the case. But with little progress made, the Mattei family lamented the government’s initial failure to respond to the declaration of the 1985 sentence as extinct and to lodge another extradition request (Mattei and Monti 2008, p. 102). The day after La Russa’s call, AN deputy Vincenzo Fragalà gave a statement to the news agency Adnkronos stating his intention to access state documents that exposed the ‘network of complicity, connivance and coverups enjoyed by the perpetrators of the Primavalle massacre’, which had allowed them to evade capture for three decades (Adnkronos 2005). Fragalà,

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who had headed up his party’s representatives on the Justice Committee of the Chamber of Deputies from 2001, was one of AN’s two representatives on the Mitrokhin Commission, a parliamentary commission established under Berlusconi in 2002 to investigate ties between the KGB and Italian politicians from the left, including Romano Prodi. Named after Vasili Mitrokhin, a former KGB archivist who brought files relating to Italy to the UK, the Mitrokhin Commission quickly became ‘extremely controversial’ under accusations that, as  Anna Cento Bull (2012, p.  92) writes, ‘it was being used as a political instrument in order to discredit the leaders of the left, as opposed to ascertaining historical facts.’ The Commission’s documents were used by the two AN representatives on the Commission, deputy Vincenzo Fragalà and senator Alfredo Mantica, ‘to put forward totally alternative interpretations which appeared to place the blame for virtually all terrorism on the left’ (Cento Bull 2012, p. 100). The Commission’s subsequent failure to produce any evidence incriminating important leaders on the left may be because the most damning material ‘may have been the object of political negotiations between the left and the right, which might explain the fact that the files examined by the Commission were never made public’ (Cento Bull 2012, p. 93). In his statement to Adnkronos, Fragalà spoke of letters allegedly found in the house of Antonella De Stefani, daughter of Stefano de Stefani, a documentary film director who worked for Rai and was the brother-in-law of Giangiacomo Feltrinelli. These letters were discovered by Digos, the Italian law enforcement agency, and, Fragalà argued, proved the presence of left-wing extremists within the state broadcaster Rai, public associations and state bodies, who had used their power to conceal far-left violence via disinformation campaigns, and to finance terrorism (Adnkronos 2005). On 17 February 2005, Fragalà submitted a written question to the President of the Council of Ministers, the Minister of Interior and the Minister for Justice, referring to letters from Lollo to Antonella De Stefani in which Lollo said her father, Stefano De Stefani, had helped him to abscond, and that he had entered into a ‘collaborative relationship’ with various Italian companies and banks. Fragalà asked the government whether Lollo, Clavo and Grillo were known to have worked with Italian bodies, institutions or banks while absconding and whether they had benefited financially from Italian businesses during this period (‘Interrogazione a risposta scritta 4/13096 presentata da Fragalà Vincenzo (Alleanza Nazionale)’ 2005). The Mattei family lawyer, Randazzo, joined Fragalà’s campaign, giving an interview that positioned the cover-up as part of an international

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pro-­communist conspiracy. He explained that Fragalà was also due to ask the Mitrokhin Commission to investigate the role of Carlo Rienzi, founder and president of Codacons, an Italian consumer rights and environmental protection association, in the production of Primavalle: Come costruire una strage con poco, which informed the much more widely circulated Primavalle: incendio a porte chiuse, as analysed in Part 1 (Codacons n.d.). A respected lawyer, Rienzi founded the centrist party Lista Consumatori (Consumers’ List) in 2004 and made an unsuccessful bid to become an MEP that year. In this interview, published in the ‘press coverage’ section of the Codacons website, Randazzo described Lollo as ‘a pawn, one in contact with the  revolutionary army ordering the overthrow of non-­ communist governments globally’. Randazzo also declared his intention to investigate the role of the Italian state broadcaster, Rai, in providing financial support to Achille Lollo in Brazil, saying letters seized from De Stefani’s house suggested Lollo had received money from the state broadcaster to make documentaries that extolled genocide in Africa and South America as part of a ‘liberation of people’ perpetrated by Castro and communist guerrillas. This, he suggested, might explain Rai’s relative silence on the Primavalle attack (Codacons n.d.). The documents held by the Commission discussed by Fragalà and Randazzo seemed to raise important questions related to the Primavalle attack, which had the potential to expose the complicity of Italian business and state media in helping the Primavalle perpetrators to evade justice, widening the net of complicity beyond the national to the global. After little initial intervention in the debate, in July 2005 AN leader Gianfranco Fini, at the time Minister of Foreign Affairs, declared he would speak to Brazilian president, Lula, about Lollo’s protection. Lollo immediately responded, saying this was an empty political act with no real intention, given Fini’s failure to pursue the extradition of Giovanni Ventura, the Ordine Nuovo member who was thought to have been involved in the Piazza Fontana bombing of 1969, from Argentina (ilGiornale.it 2005a). Fini nevertheless declared that ‘the very idea of justice is at stake’ and identified a ‘moral need’ for justice, before expressing his hope that the Brazilian authorities would grant the public prosecutor’s request for further discussion with Lollo after his Corriere interview (ilGiornale.it 2005b). It is worth remarking here on Fini’s moderate language, which was that of institutional justice and morality, a stark contrast with the politically charged and emotive language used by Giorgio Almirante, as analysed in Part 1. Fini instead adopted a universalising approach that

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elevated the case above and beyond political and indeed national boundaries and enabled him to engage with it as a statesman, not as a member of Italy’s far-right tradition. He made no references to the MSI, nor to the place of the Primavalle attack in far-right commemorative culture, and he was clear to speak as Minister of Foreign Affairs, rather than AN leader. This attempt to universalise memory of the Rogo through reference to the moral pursuit of justice was part of Fini’s broader rehabilitation as a moderate figure of the centre-right. His response shows a concerted effort to distance his party from the Almirantian MSI through this moral framing, which allowed Fini to engage with the debate while maintaining some distance from its heavily politicised memory. While Fini used the language of justice and morality, adopting a more universalising approach, others like Fragalà looked closer to home, discussing institutional cover-ups and international collaborations that had enabled the far-left arsonists to evade justice, reflecting a wider preoccupation of the Italian right in the early 2000s. This line of inquiry soon came to an end. In January 2006, Fragalà gave a statement to Adnkronos, lamenting the Court of Rome’s decision to shelve the inquiry into the cover-ups in late 2005. He asserted that this decision confirmed the ‘aiding and abetting’ that had allowed the killers to flee Italy and, in Lollo’s case, to ‘maintain a gilded fugitive status’ abroad (Adnkronos 2006a). According to Fragalà, new evidence showed that Lollo was not ‘a loose cannon’ within Potere Operaio, as he had been painted by his accomplices and superiors, but a central figure who played an operative role within the organisation and that he had coordinated ‘a series of subversive activities’ (Adnkronos 2006a). To this end, Fragalà said this new evidence would be included in the final report of the Enquiry Commission into the Mitrokhin dossier, which would include a chapter dedicated to the Primavalle attack. The final report, published on 15 March 2006, does not contain this chapter (Guzzanti 2006).

5.3   ‘There Were Three of Us That Night in Primavalle, Only Three’ In 2006, Grillo inadvertently admitted that the version of events he had given to La Repubblica the year before—‘There were three of us that night in Primavalle, only three. There was never anyone else’ (Oppes 2005)— was yet another cover-up proposed by Lecco’s lawyer. Grillo’s 2005 declaration was shown to be false thanks to leaks from an Italian lawyer,

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Solange Manfredi, who had been living in Managua since 2003 (Adnkronos 2006b). Manfredi began interviewing Grillo to help him write his memoirs. Quickly realising that much of his testimony cast new light on the Rogo, Manfredi left the tape recorder running (even after Grillo had asked her to switch it off). Manfredi recorded more than 11 hours of conversation over 15 days (Adnkronos 2006b). Recognising their evidentiary value, when Manfredi returned to Italy, she submitted the tapes to a lawyer, Carlo Palermo, who brought a civil action case against Lollo, Clavo and Grillo, as well as Potere Operaio leaders Valerio Morucci, Francesco Piperno, Oreste Scalzone, and Lanfranco Pace, for a range of crimes including participation in an armed gang, aiding and abetting, and procurement of weapons, explosives and false documents. Manfredi also declared her willingness to speak in court about what she had recorded (Adnkronos 2006b). Yet another twist in this mediatised drama, the tapes were covered by the major Italian dailies. La Repubblica focused on Grillo’s statement that the Rogo was ordered by the nascent Brigate Rosse; that the attack was considered a sort of baptism of fire to enter into the Brigades; and that the Primavalle perpetrators were involved in a total of eight attacks, funded and ordered by an individual in the BR (Ansaldo 2006). Grillo also told Manfredi that when he fled to Milan after the attack, he was accompanied by the actress Paola Pitagora—a fact strenuously denied by Pitagora, who then pursued him for damages worth €2 million (Adnkronos 2006c). In an interview with Luca Telese, the author of Cuori neri (2006), a book documenting far-right deaths during Italy’s Years of Lead (analysed later in this chapter), Manfredi revealed that Grillo had been instructed by Lecco’s lawyer, Mancini, to deny Lollo’s confession in the 2005 Corriere article in which he named three others involved in the attack, and to re-state the involvement of the original three suspects only. According to Telese’s interview, Grillo had confirmed to Manfredi that Lollo’s confession was in fact true (Telese 2017), and that his denial of it was false. Suggestions of a wider, powerful network that had facilitated the perpetrators’ escape continued thanks to this ongoing cycle of mediatised confessions, rebuttals and exposés, which implicated institutions and well-known individuals, and crossed continents. But there was little institutional response to the narratives put forward during the latest round of confessions and the suggestion of conspiracy—an apparent institutional reluctance to engage that some have read as a defence strategy. Little further action was taken. Four years later, on 23 February 2010, Fragalà, one

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of two AN representatives on the Mitrokhin Commission, was violently assaulted outside his office and, after several days in a coma, died from his injuries (four Mafia bosses were sentenced for his death in 2021) (Marinaro 2020). In an interview three months later, the Mattei family’s former lawyer, Randazzo, told reporters he had given the documents regarding the Primavalle attack that Fragalà had collected to the Prosecutor’s Office in Rome, which, Randazzo said, showed that there had been an intelligence agent from the Ufficio Affari Riservati (Ministry of Interior’s Office for Special Affairs) working undercover in Potere Operaio who had suggested that the Primavalle attack was one of a series of similar attacks, including the burning down of a tobacconist’s shop, which had never been investigated (Ferrari 2011). Randazzo claimed that Lollo was able to flee Rome thanks to the secret services and ‘occult apparatus’ of the PCI. He pointed the finger at Cicalini, a former partisan who allegedly belonged to a clandestine group within the PCI and was in charge of expatriating terrorists from the 1950s through to the 1970s (Ferrari 2011). Randazzo said Fragalà’s evidence showed that Cicalini’s network had enabled Grillo, Clavo and Lollo to flee—first to Sweden, then to Angola, where Lollo joined the Angolan Liberation Army (Ferrari 2011). Notably, Randazzo’s interview was given to LiveSicilia and his allegations were not covered by the national newspapers, which had until this point shown renewed interest in the latest round of sensational disclosures and denials shared by the perpetrators (sometimes unknowingly). Although investigations had been reopened into Perrone, Lecco and Gaeta’s involvement in the attack, which was this time considered as strage, Lollo, Clavo and Grillo had already been convicted when the crime was classified as manslaughter and could therefore not be retried for the same crime (Viviano 2011). Rome’s public prosecutor then closed the investigation after unheeded requests from the Italian courts to their Brazilian and Nicaraguan counterparts to examine Lollo and Grillo as witnesses, in formal documents known as international letters rogatory (Corriere Roma 2010). Just three months later, in January 2011, new evidence brought to the deputy public prosecutor by the Raggruppamento Operativo Speciale (Special Operations Group), the investigative arm of the carabinieri, seemed to breathe fresh life into the investigation into Lecco, Gaeta and Perrone for strage (Viviano 2011). But this second attempt to reopen the investigation was quickly curtailed by another rejected international letter rogatory submitted to the Nicaraguan authorities, which would have enabled the prosecutor to ask Grillo how and

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when the attack on the Matteis was planned, and to ask about the role of Perrone, Gaeta and Lecco. Moreover, according to La Repubblica, Lollo was rumoured to have visited Italy between the closing of the first investigation in 2010 and its reopening three months later—a fact anti-terrorism sources strenuously denied (Viviano 2011). The investigation into Potere Operaio leaders Pace, Morucci and Piperno, known as Primavalle-Ter, for the crime of massacre was also suspended due to the original categorisation of the attack as manslaughter and arson; Lollo, Grillo and Clavo’s conviction for these crimes made it impossible for new accomplices to be charged for massacre. The case was closed. The information that emerged after Lollo’s 2005 confession implicated such a range of individuals, groups, institutions, national justice systems and international agreements that it was impossible to pinpoint the exact reason for this historic failure to bring the perpetrators to justice. These new details—proposed and quickly countered—emerged in fragments across print, radio, and memoir. Although the national media covered the perpetrators’ confessions  and denials, and recorded plot twists that would not have been out of place in a crime novel, relatively little attention was given to the less headline-grabbing efforts of the AN MEP Angelilli to engage the European Parliament with the question of Lollo’s political refugee status in Brazil, or to Fragalà’s question to the Council of Ministers as to whether Italian bodies, institutions and banks had helped the perpetrators to abscond. Moreover, some of the information the perpetrators gave to the media after Lollo’s confession had been in the public domain all along. This mediatised chain of confessions and denials demonstrated the media’s interest in the story rather than the case, and the treatment of Lollo as a protagonist rather than perpetrator—a role he performed during the first trial, capturing the media’s attention with his smart appearance  and ‘bourgeois behaviour’. While in the mid-2000s, the information was new, the sentiment was all too familiar: whatever the truth at a judicial level, the historic cycle of accusation and contestation that had played out in the media in the 1970s continued, perpetuating divisions in memory that had defined engagement with the Primavalle fire while the embers still glowed.

5.4  Giampaolo Mattei: A Belated Public Victim Though the years after Lollo’s confession yielded little legal progress, his admission opened up a space in which Giampaolo Mattei, the youngest of the Mattei children to have survived the arson, could emerge as a public

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victim. This period also witnessed a bifurcation in terms of the institutional right’s engagement with memory. While some, like Fragalà, presented the case as part of a broader international conspiracy and evidence of the continued failure of the antifascist Republic to deliver justice for the far right—an avenue that was never fully explored—others, like Fini, focused on international justice and the responsibility nations like Brazil had to extradite former terrorists. This section explores the question of who becomes a public victim in Italy, how they undertake commemoration, why, and when. Until the late 2000s, institutional engagement with memory of the arson had been scant, and the Mattei family were not involved in state-run public commemorative events, leaving memory of the arson firmly entrenched in a space of far-right identity—a fact Gianfranco Fini was wary of, opting to frame his engagement with the case in terms of morality. Giampaolo Mattei has continuously battled attempts to claim his brothers as neofascist martyrs, seeking to remove them from the pedestal upon which Italy’s far right has historically placed them since the MSI’s framing of their deaths as political sacrifice, in the hope of seeing his brothers commemorated as two of the many victims of the Years of Lead from across the political spectrum. He has consistently refused to support the commemorative events organised by local far-right groups, as examined in Chapter 4, favouring bipartisan initiatives that engage with the broader history of the Years of Lead instead. Many of these events are organised in collaboration with local schools or intellectuals, and therefore have a primarily pedagogical function. In her work on terrorism in Bologna, sociologist Anna Lisa Tota writes of the social, cultural and historical status of the relatives of those killed in terrorist attacks and their role within processes of civil society. She describes the assumption of a political and civil responsibility by the families of the victims. It is not a matter of privately mourning one’s dead [...] it is also a matter of demanding justice and questioning the fundamental pact that binds citizen and state. [...] If, on the one hand, this entails forms of official recognition and forms of widespread solidarity that are absent in the case of more ‘common’ family bereavements, on the other hand, it also entails risks of instrumentalisation and expropriation of memory. (Tota 2003, pp. 127–8)

Like the relatives of the victims of the Bologna bombing, Giampaolo Mattei has entered a public relationship with state institutions, which is evident in the coming together of both parties at this official event.

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However, this has only been possible since Lollo’s confession in 2005 and the subsequent engagement with memory by Rome’s local government, which was spearheaded by Veltroni. Unlike the victims of the Bologna bombings, whom Tota (2001, p. 230) argues have become ‘state victims’, Stefano and Virgilio Mattei have not been commemorated by wider Italian society—a mnemonic repercussion of the campaign of misinformation in the 1970s and the intense patronage of memory by the MSI. Their memory has, by and large, remained ghettoised and open to ongoing appropriation by the far right. Beginning the process of becoming a public victim, just four months after Lollo’s confession, Mattei established the Associazione Fratelli Mattei (Mattei Brothers’ Association, AFM) in June 2005. He secured premises thanks to Walter Veltroni, Rome’s centre-left mayor at the time. As historian Andrea Hajek (2013, p. 71) has argued, the memory communities run by the relatives of victims of terrorism have ‘proved particularly important’ in Italy, given the ‘unwillingness of the state to bring justice to the victims of political violence’ and the ‘partial interpretation of such traumatic incidents in history education and mainstream media’. Moreover, the complex chain of claims, counterclaims and conspiracies that began after Lollo’s confession in 2005, as analysed above, resulted in further reluctance to engage with the memory of a case where truth, fact and a  definitive version of events were elusive. The AFM organises debates, exhibitions and pedagogical events to promote discussion of the Years of Lead and public memory of the period. In 2010, the AFM launched a new initiative, Racconto la mia storia, inviting relatives of the victims of terrorism to tell their story via a web-television channel without the temporal or political restrictions of mainstream broadcasters. Three years later, AFM organised an exhibition in Rome to commemorate the Primavalle arson, which included the unsolved cases of 19 victims from across the political spectrum. However, it is only since Lollo’s confession that Mattei has been able to adopt this public role. He told me in an interview in 2010: Things are changing thanks to my brothers’ assassins. Because Achille Lollo’s statement created a political and social tsunami in Italy that I’m riding. […] And the most absurd thing is that it was Veltroni and the left that took the concrete action needed to move forwards along this path. (Mattei 2010)

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Walter Veltroni’s support of the AFM and its initiatives was unparalleled among the left and formed part of the former mayor’s broader efforts to remember the victims of terrorism from across the political spectrum through commemorative rituals and permanent markers in public space. In 2003, he dedicated a road through the Villa Chigi park in Rome to Paolo Di Nella, a 22-year-old member of the youth division of the MSI, who was attacked on 2 February 1983 and died a week later. Proposals for the street dedication were put forward by the municipal councillor Luca Malcotti of AN. Veltroni also proposed the construction of a monument to all those who died during the Years of Lead regardless of political identity. Continuing to propose permanent anchors of memory in public space, in 2004 he approached the Mattei family with the suggestion to name a street after Stefano and Virgilio, but the family rejected this, concerned that it was a political move ahead of the upcoming mayoral elections in 2006 (Caccia 2004). It is essential to contextualise these efforts within broader shifts in commemoration of the Years of Lead that have seen Italian institutions adopt a more inclusionary mnemonic approach. The first Day of Memory for the Victims of Terrorism was introduced in 2007; the following year, the first official ceremony was held to commemorate the Mattei brothers with the support of local government. In 2008, Veltroni invited Mattei to participate in an event to commemorate the victims of terrorism. Mattei told me: ‘It was a very important gesture that nobody had ever made before. This pacification [of memory], let’s call it, was always discussed on television, but nobody had ever taken a practical step forward’ (Mattei 2010). During the event, Veltroni invited Mattei onstage to meet Carla Verbano, mother of Valerio Verbano, the former Autonomia Operaio militant who was shot in front of his parents in their home in 1980. The domestic setting of the deaths of both the Mattei brothers and Valerio Verbano ties the cases together, despite their political differences. The public embrace between Mattei and Verbano caught the attention of Italian media, who saw it as a symbolic act of pacification of memory. The following year, another symbolic moment came with the famous handshake between Licia Rognini, the wife of Giuseppe Pinelli, and Gemma Capra, the wife of Luigi Calabresi, an act some have read as marking the end of the divided memory of Pinelli’s death. In 2008, on the back of renewed public interest in the case, Giampaolo Mattei published his account of the Rogo and its aftermath in a book titled La notte brucia ancora (The Night Still Burns), co-written with the

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journalist and television writer Giommaria Monti and published by Sperling & Kupfer—the same division of Mondadori that had published Luca Telese’s Cuori neri (2006). The book belongs to a corpus identified by Ruth Glynn (2013) as ‘victim-centred narratives’, which co-exist in the public domain alongside those written by the perpetrators. Former terrorists have commented on the violence of the Years of Lead in television programmes, documentaries, print media, and their own memoirs, ‘influencing contemporary understandings of the violent past and actively contributing to the shape of the anni di piombo in the cultural imaginary’ (Glynn 2013, p. 373). For Glynn, the real turn to the victim in the public sphere and, consequently, in cultural production, occurred at the start of the new millennium. Giampaolo Mattei’s account reflects a more recent development: the publication of accounts written by the children of victims by major publishing houses, including Einaudi and, in Mattei’s case, Sperling & Kupfer, owned by Mondadori (see  Tobagi 2015; Calabresi 2007). Indeed, some of their testimonies have been collated and published in Figli delle vittime: gli anni Settanta, le storie di famiglie (Morini 2012), and analysed in an edited collection addressing the father figure in books and films produced by the children of victims of terrorism (Gastaldi and Ward 2018). The familial lens is also applied by Monica Galfré (2022) in her compelling account of the Donat-Cattin family, and the story of Marco, a far-left militant belonging to Prima Linea whose father, Carlo, was a leading Christian Democrat (he resigned in 1980, after accusations he had used his position to protect his son). The corpus of books examining the impact of political violence on the family is expanded by accounts written by the spouses of high-profile victims, such as Licia Pinelli (Pinelli and Scaramucci 2019) or Gemma Capra (Capra 1990), the widows of Giuseppe Pinelli and Luigi Calabresi respectively. In the opening chapter, Mattei reflects on the political parameters of victimhood relating to the Years of Lead and the barriers his family faced in entering the public sphere. His family was denied the status of victims for 35  years, Mattei writes, because of their politics: ‘Not victims. Not human beings, or even boys. People who had it coming, instead’ (Mattei and Monti 2008, p. 1). Mattei argues that his family’s exclusion from the public domain only ended with Achille Lollo’s 2005 interview, showing once again the power of the perpetrator to direct the public narrative. Victimhood is a category that is externally assigned, as Mattei makes clear, and not one to which individuals automatically belong. It demands public recognition. La notte brucia ancora interweaves personal anecdote with

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historical context, documenting daily life after family tragedy and examining the sociopolitical context of the attack and its aftermath. The co-­ author, Giommaria Monti, was introduced to the project by the journalist and writer Luca Telese, who headed up a series published by Sperling & Kupfer that investigates contentious, often unresolved issues from Italy’s recent political past. Titled The Roots of the Present, the 30-strong series includes texts relating to the Years of Lead, a biography of Almirante titled Biography of a Fascist, and books about football ultras. Telese invited Monti to write a book that would share Giampaolo Mattei’s story and his pursuit of justice. Monti immediately accepted, describing the project as both a personal and political challenge. He told me: I have a left-wing background; I am not a militant journalist but I have my own convictions, which I keep to myself when I do my job. But they always carry weight. I know perfectly well that from the first hours of the Primavalle arson, many attempts were made to construct a horrible lie on the Left (and not only the extraparliamentary Left): that the Rogo di Primavalle was the result of a vendetta between fascists [….]. For decades, this obscene lie was repeated in articles, books (Primavalle: incendio a porte chiuse), appeals by intellectuals to Italian and foreign institutions so that those responsible for the massacre (who had fled abroad) were neither arrested nor extradited. As a left-wing journalist, reconstructing the memory and the truth of those years was an intellectual and moral duty. (Monti 2021)

As we shall see in the Afterword, others on the left share Monti’s moral imperative to uncover the truth of this violent attack that was, for so long, covered up by those on the left. Written from a first-person perspective, the book gives Mattei a public voice. Monti’s research brings together documents to reconstruct events from a historical and political perspective, from the time of the tragedy to Lollo’s confession. It is an emotive text, including recollections of Mattei’s sisters’ efforts to prevent their mother from seeing the photo of Virgilio at the window, which continued to be used by broadcasters, by standing between her and the television set or cutting it from newspapers. In the wake of Lollo’s confession, the book re-personalises a tragedy that had so far been contextualised within a purely political framework, with little attention to family loss. Mattei presents and rejects the misinformation that took root in the media in the 1970s, analysing the rhetoric in major newspapers alongside the publication Primavalle:

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incendio a porte chiuse, where he acknowledges the writers’ ability to present compelling evidence that exonerated the left. Rejecting the publisher’s first title suggestion, Gioventù bruciata (Burnt Youth), the final title of Mattei and Monti’s book captures the enduring repercussions of the attack (Monti 2021). Indeed, in an interview in 2010, Mattei told me he did not write the book in pursuit of revenge, and he had no desire to fuel further political hatred; rather, as with Carla Verbano’s book on her son’s murder and the subsequent campaign for justice, Mattei’s text is part of an awareness campaign to secure justice for the victims by drawing attention to corruption and the judicial failings that have stretched the family’s suffering and injustice across several decades (Verbano and Capponi 2010). This is a book about suffering after death. Photographs from the family album are included in the book, including the cover image of Stefano and Virgilio fishing. The inclusion of private family images alongside photographs of the attack is a poignant rhetorical strategy—a reminder that this was, first and foremost, a familial tragedy. These images of Stefano and Virgilio are striking given the diffusion of Monteforte’s photograph. ‘We wanted an image that portrayed the poignant sweetness of memory, not blood and pain,’ Monti (2021) told me. The book’s central insert contains a range of visual material, including family photographs, Virgilio’s National Volunteers membership card (showing Giampaolo Mattei’s efforts not to avoid his brother’s engagement with this violent group), a photograph taken inside the local MSI headquarters five days prior to the arson showing signs of an incendiary attack, several photographs of the via Bibbiena flat destroyed by flames, the front cover of Primavalle, incendio a porte chiuse, and the front page of a newspaper that quotes Fini’s promise to discuss Lollo’s extradition with the Brazilian president. The insert thus creates a clear narrative that the Mattei family were targeted due to their involvement in the MSI, shows the devastation caused by the attack, suggests the failure of Italian justice, and underlines a lack of engagement with the case by the contemporary institutional right, which is perceived as another betrayal. In addition to the initiatives he organises under the auspices of the AFM, Giampaolo Mattei also participates in the official institutional commemoration ceremony that has been held on the afternoon of 16 April each year since 2013. As a public victim, his presence is part of the ceremony’s memory-making. The event is organised by local government, and attended by members of the public, institutional figures, friends of the

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Mattei family and, sometimes, local school groups. It takes place at the foot of the building on via Bibbiena, and involves a short ceremony led by officials and the laying of a wreath in the gardens below the building, where some members of the local community also leave flowers. Typically, a state representative and Giampaolo Mattei say a few words. Compared to the impassioned commemorative events organised by neofascist youth groups, the official ceremony is somewhat perfunctory and devoid of many of the emotional markers witnessed in the unofficial event. Indeed, were it not for the presence of Giampaolo Mattei, the emotional value of the ceremony would be even lower. The ceremony’s primary aim is to counterbalance the highly politicised and emotive grassroots ceremonies saturated with the rituals and rhetoric of historic far-right martyrdom. Importantly, the claim made by this institutional memory community on public space, which converts this site into a mnemonic landscape, is temporary; the wreath and flowers are removed after a certain period. It is this temporary mnemonic investment that gives the building its memorial quality, creating a temporary lieu de mémoire that reverts to a residential space when the ritual ends. This official commemoration ceremony can be considered an act of ‘state memory-making’, as examined by Brian Conway (2010, p. 7) in his work on the memory of Bloody Sunday in Derry, Northern Ireland, which considers judicial enquiries as a way for official institutions to create memory. As this chapter has shown, the complexities and failures of the Italian judicial system regarding the Primavalle attack undermined the state’s role in memory-making. The combination of the failure of the first trial to deliver justice and, simultaneously, the incorrect narratives published by the mainstream and subversive media that implicated the Mattei family and the MSI in the crime left memory of the attack open to instrumentalisation by grassroots neofascist groups seeking to validate their existence. Despite the sentencing of Lollo, Grillo and Clavo in absentia in 1985, the state’s ambivalence with regards to memory of the arson meant the attack retained an ambiguous place in collective memory. Lollo’s confession in 2005 brought some clarity in terms of neutralising the pernicious narrative that implicated the Mattei family and the MSI in setting the arson, creating an environment in which the state would begin to engage with memory. This shift enabled Giampaolo Mattei to enter the public realm, where, slowly but surely, he has become a public victim.

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5.5  Conclusion Tota (2005, p. 57) has identified how terrorist attacks can re-define the relationship between citizen and state. She counts the perceived culpability of the state as one of the variables affecting this relationship, which is shaped by ‘the degree of change in the public representation of the state’ and ‘the number of contrasting versions of the terror event as recounted by the public’. State involvement in terrorism is broken down into four categories: failure to defend citizens; failure to prosecute terrorists; reluctance to pursue prosecution; and direct involvement in perpetrating terrorist acts (Tota 2005, p.  57). For Giampaolo Mattei, the state’s initial acquittal of the perpetrators, its subsequent failure to ensure their extradition, and ongoing institutional reluctance to engage with memory of the attack even after Lollo’s confession constitute a multitude of state failings. In other words, the retributive justice system of the courtroom and the restorative justice process, which focuses on truth-telling as a means of healing, have proved ineffective. As this chapter has demonstrated, these failings have sustained Mattei’s engagement with civil society in a new role as a public victim that he was only able to assume after Lollo’s confession, which, despite the complexities and conspiracies it caused, dispelled the rumour that implicated the MSI in the Primavalle fire. This shift nevertheless points to the power the perpetrators of violence continue to hold in shaping memory of the Years of Lead and the difficulties Italy faces in integrating far-right victims into the national narrative—a fact prime minister Giorgia Meloni’s party, Fratelli d’Italia, is challenging, as outlined in the Preface of this book. The period also marked a new framework for Gianfranco Fini’s relationship with the memory of the arson. As we saw in Part 1, for many, the attack was a symbol of an ideological heritage from which Fini had sought distance, which posed a problem for Fini’s engagement with memory. In the wake of Lollo’s confession, Fini framed his engagement with memory as an issue of legal, rather than political, importance, focusing on questions of international collaboration (or lack thereof) in the pursuit of justice. This depoliticisation of the primary community of mourning might be considered within the broader context of institutional memory of the Years of Lead. In the 2000s, much of the state’s reconciliation work focused on the creation of shared memory, as suggested through the inauguration of a National Day of Memory dedicated to the victims of terrorism. However, the state’s failure to pursue serious allegations of an

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international network that had facilitated the perpetrators’ escape abroad undermines these efforts to encourage respect of victimhood across the political spectrum. Beyond accusations of the inefficacy of the Italian justice system and questions around state, institutional and media involvement in the attack (and its cover-up), the complexities of this case—where confessions have been countered, incriminating details have been denied (even by those who first voiced them), evidence has been filed, lost or ignored, and international cooperation has proved elusive and sometimes obstructive—have destabilised any possibility of a definitive truth. It is worth remembering here that Lollo, Grillo and Clavo were sentenced for manslaughter in 1986 so, at a judicial level, their culpability is clear. That said, the state’s failure to ensure the perpetrators fulfilled their sentences, the role of some media outlets in sustained campaigns of misinformation, evidence declared by members of the institutional right that, they claimed, implicated powerful national and international institutions including the secret service, the state broadcaster, and a subsection of the PCI, have all allowed the modern far right to contextualise the case within a broader history of far-right persecution in the antifascist Republic (and the wider world). Born from the failure to deliver justice and exacerbated by a failure to correct the narrative, for some, the arson now represents another instance in a long line  of historic  far-right persecution in the antifascist Republic. This narrative sustains far-right  engagement with memory of the attack today. The final part of this book considers the engagement of contemporary far-right groups like CasaPound—a movement and political party, whose supporters describe themselves as ‘third millennium Fascists’—with the memory of the attack. In the last few years, the Rome HQ has hosted the launch of the graphic novel Il Rogo di Primavalle (Gravino and Manto 2018) published by the far-right publisher Ferrogallico in 2018, and the book Da Primavalle a via Ottaviano: Uccisi due volte (Rosseti 2019) (‘From Primavalle to via Ottaviano: Killed Twice’), which presents the failure of the justice system to punish the perpetrators as a second killing. Drawing attention to this continued cycle of injustice, older members of Italy’s far right seek to raise awareness among their younger counterparts, instilling respect for the so-called duty of memory but continuing the adversarial fight.

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Notes 1. Scalzone continues to campaign for political asylum for all Italian exiles formerly involved in political militancy as part of his self-fashioning as an ‘ego in perennial struggle’ within an ‘integrity narrative’ where biographical continuity is expressed in continued commitment to fighting injustice (Tardi 2009, p. 214). As part of this campaign, he shows a willingness to discuss the period continuously. 2. Like Lollo, he presented a narrative of class divisions within PO, saying Lollo and Clavo belonging to the proletariat while he, who worked in the Ministry for Education at the time, did not (though he did consider himself ‘one of them’). According to Grillo, this class divide drove Lollo to implicate the bourgeois Lecco, Perrone and Gaeta, because he thought they had not been sufficiently supportive (Oppes 2005).

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European Parliament. https://www.europarl.europa.eu/sides/getDoc. do?pubRef=-­//EP//TEXT+WQ+E-­2004-­1195+0+DOC+XML+V0//EN. Ansaldo, Marco. 2006. ‘Il rogo di Primavalle fu ordinato dalle Br’. La Repubblica. it, 19 October 2006. https://ricerca.repubblica.it/repubblica/archivio/ repubblica/2006/10/19/il-­rogo-­di-­primavalle-­fu-­ordinato-­dalle.html. Ballinger, Pamela. 2003. History in Exile: Memory and Identity at the Border of the Balkans. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Caccia, Fabrizio. 2004. ‘Veltroni: “Una via di Roma in ricordo dei fratelli Mattei” Ma la famiglia si oppone’. Corriere della Sera, 3 September 2004. http:// archiviostorico.corriere.it/2004/settembre/03/Veltroni_Una_via_Roma_ ricordo_co_9_040903044.shtml. Calabresi, Mario. 2007. Spingendo la notte più in là: storia della mia famiglia e di altre vittime del terrorismo. Strade blu. Milan: Mondadori. Capra, Gemma. 1990. Mio marito, il commissario Calabresi: Il diario segreto della moglie, dopo 17 anni di silenzio (Torino: Paoline, 1990) Cento Bull, Anna. 2012. Italian Neofascism: The Strategy of Tension and the Politics of Nonreconciliation. New York: Berghahn Books. Cento Bull, Anna, and Philip E.  Cooke. 2013. Ending Terrorism in Italy. Routledge Studies in Extremism and Democracy 18. Abingdon, Oxon; New York, NY: Routledge. Codacons. n.d. ‘Intervista, Randazzo: Il rogo di Primavalle sbarca nella Commissione Mitrokhin?’ Accessed June 17, 2021. https://codacons.it/ inter vista-­r andazzo-­i l-­r ogo-­d i-­p rimavalle-­s barca-­n ella-­c ommissione-­ mitrokhin/. Conway, Brian. 2010. Commemoration and Bloody Sunday Pathways of Memory. Basingstoke, Hampshire [England]; New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Corriere della Sera. 2005a. ‘Primavalle, la Procura di Roma riapre le indagini’, 10 February 2005, sec. Cronaca. https://www.corriere.it/Primo_Piano/ Cronache/2005/02_Febbraio/10/procura.shtml. ———. 2005b. ‘Scalzone: “Feci fuggire i due autori del rogo”’, 2005, 12 February 2005. https://www.corriere.it/Primo_Piano/Cronache/2005/02_Febbraio/ 12/scalzone.shtml. Corriere Roma. 2010. ‘Rogo Primavalle, archiviata inchiesta “Rogatorie impossibili per Lollo e Grillo“’, 7 October 2010 [accessed 6 July 2022]. Cossu, Andrea. 2009. Difficult Days and National Calendars: Italy, Cultural Trauma and Giorno Del Ricordo. In National Days: Constructing and Mobilising National Identity, ed. David McCrone and Gayle McPherson, 166–180. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Cotroneo, Rocco. 2004. ‘“Io, latitante, frequento il consolato italiano”’. Corriere della Sera, 10 March 2004. ———. 2005. ‘A Primavalle eravamo in sei’. Corriere della Sera, 10 February 2005. http://www.corriere.it/Primo_Piano/Cronache/2005/02_Febbraio/ 10/primavalle.shtml.

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Ferrari, Gianluca. 2011. ‘Enzo Fragalà sapeva troppo,| con la sua morte hanno chiuso la partita’. Live Sicilia, 25 May 2011. https://livesicilia.it/2011/05/25/ enzo-­fragala-­sapeva-­troppo-­con-­la-­sua-­morte-­hanno-­chiuso-­la-­partita/. Foot, John. 2009. Italy’s Divided Memory. In Italian and Italian American Studies, 1st ed. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Galfré, Monica. 2022. Il figlio terrorista: il caso Donat-Cattin e la tragedia di una generazione. Passaggi Einaudi. Turin: Einaudi. Gastaldi, Sciltian, and David Ward, eds. 2018. Era Mio Padre: Italian Terrorism of the Anni di Piombo in the Postmemorials of Victims’ Relatives. Oxford: Peter Lang. Glynn, Ruth. 2013. The “Turn to the Victim” in Italian Culture: Victim-Centred Narratives of the Anni Di Piombo. Modern Italy 18 (4): 373–390. Grandi, Aldo. 2003. La generazione degli anni perduti: storie di Potere operaio. Einaudi. Gravino, Annamaria, and Valeria Manto. 2018. Il Rogo di Primavalle. L’omicidio politicamente corretto dei fratelli Mattei. Anni ’70. Milan: Ferrogallico Editrice. Grignetti, Francesco. 2005. ‘“Noi, gli innocentisti, portammo Moravia alla festa per Lollo”’. La Stampa, 11 February 2005. Guzzanti, Paolo. 2006. ‘Commissione parlamentare d’inchiesta concernente il “dossier Mitrokhin” e l’attività d’intelligence italiana. Documento conclusivo sull’attività svolta e sui risultati dell’inchiesta’. 374. Rome: Senato della Repubblica, Camera dei Deputati. https://www.parlamento.it/application/ xmanager/projects/parlamento/file/commissione_mitrokhin_14leg/documentoconclusivo.pdf. Hajek, Andrea. 2013. Negotiating Memories of Protest in Western Europe: The Case of Italy. Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire; New  York, NY: Palgrave Macmillan. ilGiornale.it. 2005a. ‘Lollo: “Impossibile la mia estradizione”’, 4 July 2005, sec. Politica. https://www.ilgiornale.it/news/lollo-­impossibile-­mia-­estradizione.html. ———. 2005b. ‘“Primavalle, la giustizia non è in prescrizione”’, 5 July 2005, sec. Politica. https://www.ilgiornale.it/news/primavalle-­giustizia-­non-­ prescrizione.html. ‘Interrogazione a risposta scritta 4/13096 presentata da Fragalà Vincenzo (Alleanza Nazionale)’. 2005. Rome. http://dati.camera.it/ocd/aic.rdf/ aic4_13096_14. L’Inchiesta, Cooperativa Editoriale. 2018. ‘L’avvocato Randazzo: “Via Rasella è stata una strage inutile e misteriosa”’. L’Inchiesta Quotidiano, 6 July 2018. https://www.linchiestaquotidiano.it/news/2018/07/06/l-­avvocato-­randazzo-­ via-­rasella-­e-­stata-­una-­strage-­inutile/22785. La Repubblica. 2005a. ‘Rogo di Primavalle: pena estinta indignazione e polemiche’, 29 January 2005, sec. Cronaca. https://www.repubblica.it/2005/a/ sezioni/cronaca/primavalle/primavalle/primavalle.html.

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———. 2005b. ‘Primavalle, nuova indagine dopo le rivelazioni di Lollo’, 10 February 2005, sec. Cronaca. https://www.repubblica.it/2005/a/sezioni/ cronaca/primavalle/seinomi/seinomi.html. ———. 2005c. ‘Primavalle, Lollo insiste “Il rogo fu colpa dei Mattei”’, 15 February 2005. https://www.repubblica.it/2005/a/sezioni/cronaca/primavalle/lollaccusa/lollaccusa.html. ———. 2020. ‘Mea culpa di Lula su Cesare Battisti: “Ho sbagliato a dargli asilo. Scusate”. Torregiani: “Non ci faccio niente”’, 21 August 2020. https://www. repubblica.it/esteri/2020/08/21/news/l_ammissione_di_lula_su_cesare_bat tisti_ho_sbagliato_a_dargli_asilo_scusate_-­265151070/. Leoni, Silvio. 2004. ‘La strana storia di Lollo, rifugiato fantasma’. Panorama, 7 October 2004. Lugli, Massimo. 2005. ‘A destra hanno fatto carriera sulla morte dei nostri fratelli’. La Repubblica, 30 January 2005, sec. Cronaca. https://www.repubblica. it/2005/a/sezioni/cronaca/primavalle/carrieradestra/carrieradestra.html. Marinaro, Giuseppe. 2020. ‘Quattro condanne per l’omicidio Fragalà, l’avvocato temuto dalla mafia’. Agi, 23 March 2020. https://www.agi.it/cronaca/ news/2020-­03-­23/mafia-­enzo-­fragala-­palermo-­sentenza-­7790976/. Mattei, Giampaolo. 2010. Interview between Amy King and Giampaolo Mattei Interview by Amy King. Mattei, Giampaolo, and Giommaria Monti. 2008. La notte brucia ancora. Primavalle: il rogo che ha distrutto la mia famiglia. Milan: Sperling & Kupfer. Mazzocchi, Silvana. 2005. ‘Su Primavalle ho taciuto ma ne porto il peso morale’. La Repubblica, 13 February 2005. https://www.repubblica.it/2005/a/sezioni/cronaca/primavalle/piperno/piperno.html. Monti, Giommaria. Email to Amy King. 2021. ‘Giommaria Monti, Email correspondence with Amy King’, 4 July 2021. Morini, Maurizia ed., 2012. Figli delle vittime: gli anni Settanta, le storie di famiglia (Reggio Emilia: Aliberti, 2012) Morucci, Valerio. 1999. Ritratto di un terrorista da giovane. 1st ed. Casale Monferrato (Alessandria): Piemme. Oppes, Alessandro. 2005. ‘Rogo Primavalle, parla Grillo “Lollo mente, eravamo solo in tre”’. La Repubblica, 17 February 2005. https://www.repubblica. it/2005/a/sezioni/cronaca/primavalle/grillo/grillo.html. Pinelli, Licia, and Piero Scaramucci. 2019. Una storia quasi soltanto mia. Milan: Feltrinelli. ‘Resoconto stenografico dell’Assemblea. Seduta n. 587 del 16/2/2005’. 2005. Camera dei deputati. http://leg14.camera.it/_dati/leg14/lavori/stenografici/sed587/s180.htm. Roncone, Fabrizio. 2005. ‘“È un infamia, vogliono trasformarmi in un mostro”’, Corriere della Sera, 15 February 2005.

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Rosseti, Roberto. 2019. Da Primavalle a Via Ottaviano: uccisi due volte. I libri del Borghese 113. Roma: Pagine. Salvia, Lorenzo. 2004. ‘“Lollo no ha più diritto al voto”’. Corriere della Sera, 13 March 2004. Tardi, Rachele. 2009. Self-Narratives of the Anni di Piombo: Testimonies of the Political Exiles in France. In Imagining Terrorism: The Rhetoric and Representation of Political Violence in Italy 1969-2009, ed. Pierpaolo Antonello and Alan O’Leary, 200–220. London: Routledge. Telese, Luca. 2006. Cuori Neri. Milan: Sperling & Kupfer. ———. 2017. ‘Quella notte a Primavalle erano in sei’. Quella notte a Primavalle erano in sei (blog). 27 September 2017. http://www.lucatelese.it/cuoricontro/2017/09/27/quella-­notte-­primavalle/. Tobagi, Benedetta. 2015. Come mi batte forte il tuo cuore. Storia di mio padre. Turin: Einaudi. Tota, Anna Lisa. 2001. La memoria contesa: studi sulla comunicazione sociale del passato. Milano, Italy: FrancoAngeli. ———. 2003. La città ferita: memoria e comunicazione pubblica della strage di Bologna, 2 agosto 1980. Il mulino. ———. 2005. Terrorism and Collective Memories: Comparing Bologna, Naples and Madrid 11 March. International Journal of Comparative Sociology 46 (1–2): 55–78. Verbano, Carla, and Alessandro Capponi. 2010. Sia folgorante la fine: in un giorno di febbraio degli anni di piombo, Valerio muore assassinato in casa sua: sua madre cerca ancora la verità. Milan: Rizzoli. Viviano, Francesco. 2011. ‘Rogo Primavalle, il caso si riapre in tre sotto accusa per strage’. La Repubblica, 13 January 2011. https://ricerca.repubblica.it/repubblica/archivio/repubblica/2011/01/13/rogo-­p rimavalle-­i l-­c aso-­s i-­ riapre-­in.html.

PART III

2018–2023: From CasaPound to Fratelli d’Italia

CHAPTER 6

Counter-Memories in the Populist Era

‘Le sedi fasciste si chiudono col fuoco, con i fascisti dentro, se no è troppo poco’ ‘Fire closes fascist dens, it’s not enough unless the fascists are inside’ Aktion Antifascista chant, 10 February 2018

As residents of Primavalle descended the steps towards the entrance of the Battistini metro in spring 2018, they would have glimpsed several black-­ and-­white posters affixed to the red-and-white tiles of the station, bearing the ghostly outline of the charred exterior of the Mattei flat in a photograph taken while the interior smouldered. Above were the details of the upcoming commemorative march organised by a local far-right group; beneath was a large Celtic cross, a symbol co-opted by neo-Nazi and white supremacist movements, and the words ‘45 years of denied truths’. This slogan points to a shift in the meaning of memory for far-right communities today—one of the concerns of this chapter—a process that began in the wake of Lollo’s confession. Where once those on the far right remembered the Rogo as a brutal and violent act and honoured the dead for their political sacrifice, the attack has become an emblem of the state’s failure to deliver justice and to recognise far-right victimhood decades later. These posters are part of a broader push by the contemporary far right to honour victims in public space. On 10 February 2018, during a ceremony on the National Memorial Day of the Exiles and Foibé, Italy’s © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 A. King, The Politics of Sacrifice, Italian and Italian American Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-45550-6_6

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former interior minister and deputy prime minister Matteo Salvini declared ‘There is no such thing as A-list martyrs and B-list martyrs’, comparing children who died in Auschwitz to individuals killed in the foibé. The term foibé describes the large sink holes in the Istrian peninsula where bodies, many of whom were sympathetic to or supportive of the Fascist regime, were concealed after their killing at the hands of Yugoslav partisans and during the subsequent exile of the Italian minority from the Istrian peninsula in the postwar period, which saw the migration of between 200,000 and 350,000 ethnic Italians (Ballinger 2003, 1). Standing on a stage in Basovizza, a village on the Italy–Slovenia border with ‘a long and complicated history’ (Foot 2009, p. 86), Salvini’s words were welcomed by those on the far right who saw this public recognition of their martyrs as a sign of political strength. In calling for memorialisation of these atrocities, Salvini protested the ‘denied memory’ of violence committed against far-­ right victims—a term that is used by contemporary far-right groups in commemoration of the Rogo di Primavalle today. In the general election three weeks later, Matteo Salvini’s radical right populist party the Lega (League) took 18% of the vote, up from 4% in the previous general election. His party became an equal partner in a coalition with the Movimento 5 Stelle (Five Star Movement), marking the return of the far right to Italian institutional politics—a trend that culminated in the victory of the right-wing coalition led by Giorgia Meloni’s Fratelli d’Italia, a direct descendent of the MSI, in 2022. This chapter examines how the contemporary far right remembers the attack, identifying the role of memory within its mainstreaming strategy during a period of renewed electoral success. As outlined in the preface, many media commentators have reached for the language of collective amnesia in trying to understand the victory of a far-right party in a country with direct experience of Fascism. Here, I demonstrate the importance of the place of memory in the mainstreaming of far-right culture and iconography, and the role memory plays in forming far-right communities today. Though in many ways a more bipartisan approach to memory  dominated commemorative practices in the late 2000s, a period that saw Giampaolo Mattei emerge as a public victim, with political polarity once again acute in Italy since 2018, memory of the Primavalle arson has returned to the symbolic battleground. In response, far-right communities—both institutional and grassroots—have engaged with memory of the attack with renewed vigour, affixing posters in public space and graffitiing walls near the site of the Matteis’ deaths. These expressions of memory are also acts of protest, and can be considered part of what historians Peter Jan Margry and Cristina

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Sánchez-Carretero (2011, p. 2) identify as ‘the creation of memorial bricolages and makeshift memorials in public space in order to achieve change’. This ‘memorial bricolage’ created by Italy’s contemporary far right is growing, as groups bolstered by the success of their counterparts in institutional politics seek to bring ‘their’ victims and iconography into public space, underlining a perceived inequity in Italy’s memory politics and reproducing at an affective level the dynamics of counter-memory. As we have seen throughout this book, a sense of injustice in the face of incorrect but dominant narratives relating to the Rogo that began in the 1970s has motivated the memorial work of far-right memory communities. The campaign of misinformation analysed in Chapter 2 and the failure of the first trial to deliver justice discredited the version of events later confirmed as true by the second trial in 1986: the MSI had not set fire to the flat. Chapter 3 demonstrated how the MSI leader Giorgio Almirante constructed a counter-memory, which was ritualistically performed and rhetorically sustained during the funeral in 1973, signifying that the right, too, was under attack. Since then, far-right memorial initiatives have continued to push back against the legacy of a deeply rooted misinformation campaign and an apparent silencing of memory on the part of the Italian state, which became a central part of the narrative after Lollo’s confession. Contemporary groups see this as institutional silence, which is then framed as ‘repressive erasure’, to borrow Paul Connerton’s term (2008, p. 60). Classified as one of the ‘seven types of forgetting’, this intentional erasure ‘can be employed to deny the fact of a historical rupture as well as to bring about a historical break’ (2008, p. 60). For contemporary neofascists, the state has enforced repressive erasure to silence narratives of far-right victimhood and far-left violence, which would undermine the foundations of the antifascist Republic. In the face of these contentious and emotive memory dynamics, the state has proved reluctant to engage with commemorative events and did not endorse Giampaolo Mattei as a public victim until Lollo’s admission of guilt in 2005, as we saw in the previous chapter. Today, we see the legacy of this sense of injustice upon which the counter-­memory was founded. The philosopher Michel Foucault defines counter-memory as ‘a transformation of history into a totally different form of time’ (Foucault et al. 1980, p. 160). Counter-memories challenge the understanding of historical consciousness as ‘neutral, devoid of passions, and committed solely to truth’ (Foucault et  al. 1980, p.  162). Counter-memory is disruptive; it shatters any understanding of the pursuit of historical knowledge as objective, and questions the very possibility

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of ‘history as knowledge’, showing instead ‘knowledge as perspective’ (Foucault et  al. 1980, p.  156). Produced at a grassroots level, counter-­ memory probes the very possibility of a universal truth. As memory scholar Ann Rigney (2005, p. 13) explains, counter-memory is ‘defined in opposition to hegemonic views of the past and associated with groups who have been “left out”, as it were, of mainstream history’. This chapter examines the memorial initiatives of contemporary neofascist groups, who draw attention to this counter-memory in the wake of the complex developments in the mid-2000s, as Chapter 5 demonstrated. These groups explicitly identify the divided memory of the attack as evidence of continued injustice and institutional mismanagement of the case in the five decades since the Rogo. This was clear in the rhetoric of the 2018 poster, which decried ‘45 years of denied truths’—an inaccurate assertion given the clear sentence handed to Lollo, Grillo and Clavo in 1987 when the court confirmed the perpetrators’ sentencing for manslaughter, and Lollo’s confession in 2005. ‘Denied truths’ does not, therefore, relate to a lack of judicial verdict. Rather, it attempts to condemn a perceived cover-up that has obscured the networks and collaborations that facilitated and guaranteed the perpetrators’ freedom and obscured the identities of those who helped plan the attack, which became so clear in the fragmentary narratives that emerged after Lollo’s confession. In moving 50 years beyond the attack, this chapter also examines a second characteristic of contemporary commemorative culture: the participation of two generations of Italy’s far right. Older generations of far-­ right militants with direct biographical experience of the Years of Lead show awareness of the need to transmit memory to younger far-right groups during commemorative events and, in undertaking this memory work, younger neofascists are celebrated as the vanguard of Italy’s far right. In this way, commemoration is framed as an act of political militancy. The literary scholar and memory theorist Aleida Assmann (2004) divides memory into four formats: individual, social, political and cultural. Though some have considered the rigidity of this categorisation limiting (Karkowska 2013), the terms are useful aids to understand memory transmission. Individual and social memories, Assmann writes (2004, p. 25), ‘cling to and abide with human beings and their embodied interaction’. Political memory, on the other hand, ‘is not fragmentary and diverse but emplotted in a narrative that is emotionally charged and conveys a clear and invigorating message’ (Assmann 2004, p. 26). Today, we witness this inter-generational transmission through external stabilisers of memory,

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including newly published books, or during commemoration ceremonies, which are, as Assmann writes of political memory, both emotive and invigorating. This chapter moves us from semi-closed spaces, such as the headquarters of a far-right movement, to public spaces in the Roman cityscape to observe young neofascists from far-right groups, including Magnitudo Italia or CasaPound who remember the Rogo alongside older members of Italy’s far right. We begin our observation online.

6.1   Online Counter-Memories Social media platforms create a space for those on the far right to collectively mourn the deaths of Stefano and Virgilio Mattei and offer the researcher an insight into the meaning of these deaths in collective memory today. Crucially, these semi-private social media groups provide a space in which to perform mnemonic acts outside the public realm. The Facebook group that began as ‘Noi non dimentichiamo Stefano e Virgilio Mattei’ (We do not forget Stefano and Virgilio Mattei), before being renamed Associazione Fratelli Mattei (Mattei Brothers’ Association)  in 2021, is the most active online site of memory. As discourse in the group makes clear, the Mattei brothers’ memory represents a double persecution of the far right, both in the initial act of violence and then the subsequent act of forgetting. It is clear that several members understand this commitment to memory as a moral issue, conceiving of themselves as what Ashuri names ‘the (moral) mnemonic agent’, who ‘recall their memories about past events by which others have suffered, and in that act of witnessing make the suffering visible and hence difficult to marginalize and deny’ (Ashuri 2011, p.  109). In the face of institutional failure to ensure the perpetrators served their sentences and a perceived denial of far-right victimhood in collective narratives of the Years of Lead, members of the group sustain memory of this extreme example of far-left violence by creating a digital space in which to honour this counter-memory. The Facebook group in question is closed, so anybody wishing to join must be approved by its owner (Giampaolo Mattei), creating a semi-­ private public space. As of 2022, the group had almost 800 members, including a small number of profiles belonging to local groups and associations. Giampaolo told me in an interview that he disliked the appropriation of his brothers’ memory and took over the group, which was set up by another Facebook user, to filter out the radical right members that originally formed the group’s core, oversee its membership and create a

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more moderate memory community (Mattei 2010). Nevertheless, although there have been a small number of posts from individuals who identify as left-wing, the overall political identity of the group’s membership is evident from the commemorative language that draws heavily on far-right rhetoric. The group is a space for individuals to share their memories of the period, find out about the memorial initiatives that commemorate Stefano and Virgilio Mattei and to discuss developments in any legal cases. Reflecting the original name of the group, several posts assert ‘we will not forget Stefano e Virgilio!’ as though commemoration were an act of resistance against a conspiracy of forgetting—typical of the rhetoric of far-right commemoration. These statements are a reaction to the perceived ‘repressive erasure’ (Connerton 2008, p.  60) of the case. The most frequent comment among group members is the emotive call: ‘Onore a Stefano e Virgilio Mattei!’ (‘Honour to Stefano and Virgilio Mattei!’). A simpler interjection of ‘Presente!’ (a shout traditionally accompanied by the raised arm of the Roman salute) is often posted, signalling once again the place of memory within far-right heritage and the ideological beliefs of some members. Others also comment underneath posts relating to the Mattei brothers, referring to other far-right victims of the Years of Lead, with Sergio Ramelli—a member of the MSI youth organisation killed in 1975— the most commonly referenced, honouring a wider pantheon. Giampaolo Mattei is the most frequent contributor to the group, sharing information about upcoming events, photographs taken at commemoration ceremonies for other victims, including the dedication of a local park to a policeman killed by members of the extreme right group the Nuclei Armati Rivoluzionari (Armed Revolutionary Nuclei, NAR), and newspaper articles that feature the Primavalle Arson. Several of his posts articulate his disapproval of the continued use of the Mattei brothers’ memory by extreme right groups or local politicians; in 2021, responding to a proposal for a mural in Primavalle to remember his brothers, he asked when the ‘vulgar exploitations of politics will stop feeding on our blood. We’ve gone from comics to murals. When, I wonder, will it be a line of T-shirts, underwear and more?’ (Giampaolo Mattei 2021). Occasionally, Mattei asks group members to resist the re-framing of his brothers’ memory. This was the case in May 2015, when Cuori neri by Luca Telese (2015) was reprinted. First released in 2006, the book—at the time, unique in its focus on far-right deaths—tells the stories of 21 right-wing victims from the Years of Lead, including the Matteis. Its tenth reprint

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came in 2015, and included a new cover image: a close-up of Massimo Carminati’s face, who is immediately recognisable having lost an eye in a gunfight with carabinieri in 1981 while trying to cross the border to Switzerland illegally. A former member of the NAR and the criminal organisation Banda della Magliana, Carminati is a legendary figure in Italy’s criminal history. He was arrested in 2014 as part of the Mafia Capitale investigations into extortion, fraud and theft, whereby millions of euros intended for public services in Italy’s capital had been fraudulently diverted. Carminati was charged with fraud, money laundering, embezzlement and bribing public officials. The tenth print run of Cuori neri also included a new subtitle: Dal rogo di Primavalle a Mafia Capitale, storie di vittime e carnefici (From the Rogo di Primavalle to Mafia Capitale: Stories of Victims and Executioners), linking the far-right dead to a far-right criminal. Some considered this an opportunistic effort by the publisher to sell the relevance of a book published nine years ago by linking it to a contemporary crime, while others argued it cast the shadow of a far-right criminal underworld over these deaths. Moreover, this cover, which balanced victimhood and criminality, could be read as evidence of the antifascist Republic’s difficult acknowledgement of far-right victims. Many people expressed their displeasure on Luca Telese’s Facebook page. Among them was Italy’s current prime minister Giorgia Meloni, at the time leader of Fratelli d’Italia, who called Telese’s decision to republish with this cover ‘dishonest and unacceptable’ (‘#CuoriNeri. Le reazioni. Meloni: “Operazione disonesta e inaccettabile”’ 2015). The right-wing digital platform Barbadillo.it spearheaded a campaign asking readers to write to Sperling & Kupfer, demanding that they withdraw the latest edition (‘#CuoriNeri. Scriviamo il nostro dissenso alla Sperling: “Ritirate il libro di Telese”’ 2015). On 20 May 2015, Giampaolo Mattei called for group members to write to Sperling & Kupfer (the same publishing house that had published Mattei’s La notte brucia ancora) to express indignation about the new cover (Giampaolo Mattei 2015). Mattei’s anger was clear, describing his ‘unprecedented disgust’. In response, the publisher recalled and withdrew the edition with Carminati’s image and the new subtitle (Mascheroni 2015). However, despite his stated intention to create a bipartisan space of memory—an online milieu de mémoire, or environment of memory, to borrow Pierre Nora’s (1989, p. 7) term—that severs the ties between the far right and memory of the Rogo, voicing far-right memories thought to have been forgotten at an institutional level  remains the focus of this

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group, creating a chorus of counter-memories. While many contributors post images, links or slogans associated with the far right and its historic martyrs, few posts commemorate the far left. Moreover, the aesthetic of images shared and the rhetoric of written posts sit firmly within the tradition of far-right commemorative culture, including recurrent calls to honour the foibé dead, tying commemoration to questions of national identity and anti-fascist violence. Repeated veneration of far-right victims and the framing of memory as a moral act combined with protest against institutional amnesia in the cultural memory of anti-fascist Italy, this group is a space of digital congregation for a commemorative community to remember ‘their’ victims. As some posts and comments suggest,  these online mnemonic acts are gestures of remembrance  to honour  those individuals whose victimhood is denied because of their incompatibility with the memory narratives introduced and sustained by the antifascist Republic. More recently, similar acts of counter-memory have taken place on a rooftop overlooking the cupolas and terracotta of central Rome.

6.2   CasaPound Italia: Hosting Memory Transmission The neofascist movement and former political party CasaPound Italia (CPI) began in December 2003 with the unauthorised occupation of a large building in Rome that became its headquarters and home to 23 families, as part of its focus on the housing crisis in the Italian capital (Froio et al. 2020, p. 29). Between 2015–2020, the group opened 94 new local branches, expanding quickly across Italy (Froio et  al. 2020, p.  1). CPI presents itself as a continuation of Italy’s Fascist tradition and its members as ‘third millennium fascists’. Speaking on the 2018 campaign trail, spokesperson Simone Di Stefano described the party as the modern heirs of Fascism, as the MSI had been until its dissolution (Wolff 2019). CPI’s media visibility, recognisable brand and strong symbolism ‘are unprecedented for a fringe group so openly inspired by historical Fascism’ (Froio et al. 2020, p. 1). Heavily based in youth culture, CPI’s roots are similar to those of far-­ right groups that have spun out of larger parties. Gianluca Iannone, the group’s founder, ran as an independent candidate for Movimento Sociale-­ Fiamma Tricolore (Social Movement Tricolour Flame, MSFT) in 2006, a political party he and his group officially joined that year, quickly

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becoming the strongest minority group within the party (particularly in its youth division). However, Iannone would leave just two years later, and many of MSFT’s youth supporters followed (Froio et  al. 2020, p.  29). Since its launch, CPI has engaged deeply with what Wolff terms a ‘counter-­ cultural mission’, whereby ‘a cultural revolution must precede a political one’ (Wolff 2019, p. 67). As part of this strategy, CPI focuses on youth engagement, taking advantage of its many proprietary communication channels, including the magazine Il primato nazionale, its web radio station Black Flag Radio and online TV channel Tortuga TV. CPI also works with youth clubs involved in martial arts and theatre schools and organises concerts—‘an important tool for communication’ (Wolff 2019, p.  64). Reflecting its efforts to recruit members through social activities, CPI also runs the Cutty Sark pub in Rome and several headquarters across the country, which ‘are thought of as places to socialize’ (Froio et  al. 2020, p. 69). The rooftop terrace at CPI’s Rome headquarters, the venue for both events I analyse in this chapter, is a central part of its socialisation strategy, which centres youth culture. Both these events focus on cultural products, explicitly celebrate youth members as the future of the far right and provide a social aspect, elements that have come to characterise the commemorative culture of the arson today. Punctuated by an almost obsessive call to the duty to remember, these commemoration ceremonies position younger members of the far right as future guarantors of memory, historicising their role within a broader tradition of militancy and validating them as the contemporary frontline of the ideological battle. The shared emotional politics, martyrs and enemies celebrated (or denounced) play a fundamental role in defining the boundaries of the ideological community. In July 2018, CPI hosted an event at the rooftop bar of its Rome HQ to mark the publication of a graphic novel about the Rogo. The event was also streamed live on CPI’s national Facebook page (‘In diretta da CasaPound la presentazione del fumetto “Il rogo di Primavalle” con Antonella Mattei, Luca Marsella e l’autrice Annamaria Gravino’ 2018). The Rogo di Primavalle: the Politically Correct Murder of the Mattei Brothers was published by Ferrogallico, a right-wing publisher of ‘stubborn and contrary comics’ that draws its name from the black ink used throughout the Middle Ages. According to its website, Ferrogallico’s objective is to ‘pass on memories, characters and stories that are shrouded in the silence of cultural conformism and “political correctness”’ (Ferrogallico 2016). Positioning itself as  an account that pushes back against a perceived

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historical hegemony, this text is presented as an explicit example of counter-­memory. The book is also  part of a series documenting right-­ wing deaths during the 1970s alongside other texts that characterise themselves as modern works of counter-information. It sits alongside titles including Sergio Ramelli: When Killing a Fascist Wasn’t a Crime (a title that echoes a slogan used by some far-left militants during the 1970s), and Denied Truths: Bologna, 2 August 1980, which casts doubt on the trial that condemned NAR members Francesca Mambro and Valerio Fioravanti to life imprisonment for the Bologna massacre. The text for the graphic novel was written by Annamaria Gravino, a journalist from Il Secolo d’Italia, and illustrated by Valeria Manto. It was presented in Rome’s Montecitorio in June 2018. At the CPI event, Gravino sat alongside Antonella Mattei, one of the surviving Mattei children. Unlike Giampaolo, Antonella Mattei has explicitly engaged with far-­ right memory communities and is rarely invited to state-run memory initiatives—a fact she protested during the event. They were joined by the CPI councillor in Ostia, Luca Marsella, who, in 2018, was described as a ‘ras of black consensus’ in Ostia by the newspaper Il Mattino, a historically loaded word used during the Fascist era to denote local leaders with significant support from those ready to take violent action (Lo Dico 2018). Crucially, the ras played a central role in the early development of Fascism, suggesting once again that neofascists today amplify the rhetorical echoes of early Fascism to celebrate themselves as a new vanguard. Behind the panel was a large tricolour flag with the slogan ‘Some Italians never surrender’ emblazoned across it—one of CPI’s main slogans, often seen on T-shirts and other merchandise—reinforcing the sense of an exclusive political community. Gravino began by explaining Ferrogallico’s mission to bring far-right history to the widest and youngest audience, stating the editor’s choice of medium was designed to appeal to young people. Graphic novels are becoming an increasingly popular way to disseminate far-right history among younger generations in Italy and abroad. Unlike the classic history book, this medium allows for an exploration of interiority, but the medium retains its perceived authenticity as it is not an explicit work of fiction. It thus allows for a more emotional exploration of historic events by increasing the emotive power of the narrative. As we shall see, the text focuses on the psychological impact of the Rogo in its depiction of Anna Mattei’s maternal trauma. Thought bubbles are used to share the Matteis’ private reflections, alongside speech bubbles. The effect is to re-centre the Matteis’

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internal and familial worlds, re-personalising a tragedy that is so often remembered in purely political terms. Works of counter-memory like this play a powerful role in building the emotional community of the contemporary far right. Antonella Mattei was the next to speak. She was welcomed with a long round of applause that bound the emotional community together through recognition of her enduring trauma. Drawing heavily on the language of far-right commemorative culture where martyrs are upheld as moral exemplars, she told the audience: ‘Virgilio was an example for me. An example of never bowing down, never giving in to other positions, of never having to reach a compromise with anyone. Virgilio is a real martyr’ (CasaPound Italia [@CasaPoundItalia] 2018). Antonella Mattei then discussed the ongoing suffering of the family. Underlining the violence of the period, she recalled the surviving Mattei children being asked to leave their school because the head teacher had received so many threats from the extreme left. She recounted the night of 16 April 1973 with vivid detail, using the present tense to convey the immediacy of these recollections 45  years later: ‘I feel the heat behind me, heat in front of me. I’ll die if I jump, but if I stay here, I’ll burn to death.’ This notion of traumatic memories interrupting the present is evident in the graphic novel. The lightness of its early pages shifts to darkness on the night of 16 April, representing both the literal darkness at the time of the attack and the metaphorical darkness of the tragedy. A double page spread conveys the flashbacks suffered by Anna Mattei at night, interruptions of chronological time that evidence her maternal trauma (Gravino and Manto 2018, pp. 60–1). The rendering of these flashbacks in greyscale, rather than black and white, reflects the temporal instability of these memories, which are neither present reality nor completed past, as in Antonella Mattei’s recollections. The graphic novel also transports the reader back in time through its recourse to units of visual memory. In her work on memory in graphic novels, Golnar Nabizadeh (2019, p. 4) writes: ‘comic panels can perhaps be regarded as sites of remembrance placed within the gutters (the spaces between the panels) as a “sea of forgetting” or at least of unconscious memory’. Well-known images are included, such as Virgilio at the window or the photograph of Anna Mattei alongside Almirante at her sons’ funeral. Virgilio’s suffering is shown in an illustration of his body at the window reflected in his father’s glasses as he stands below the window, desperately urging his son to jump to safety. This use of reflection, rather than a direct viewer perspective, centres the emotional response of his father, rather

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than the charred body, focusing the reader’s attention on the impact of the tragedy within the family. Moreover, for those familiar with the photograph, this illustration is a prompt to recall their own first encounter with the original image and insert themselves into the story. Following her account of ongoing suffering, the support of the veteran far-right community became the theme of Antonella Mattei’s intervention. She identified Roberto Rosseti in the audience, saying he had been a source of great support and, as a former Volontari Nazionali and friend of Virgilio’s, he had helped her learn more about her brother. Next, she identified the wife of Guido Zappavigna, formerly a member of the MSI university group FUAN and a figure connected to Rome’s ultra community, and said Gloria and Guido had been a great support. Finally, she directly addressed younger members of the audience to describe the unwavering support the Volontari Nazionali had provided to her family for many years, accompanying the Mattei family to the shops, to school, and to visit their father in hospital. Positioning younger members of the audience as contemporary versions of the VN, she told young people it was a particular pleasure to share these tales of support with them. Centring the young neofascists present as the vanguard of Italy’s far-right historic struggle, former VN member Roberto Rosseti took to the stage and urged young neofascists to remember the Rogo and the failure of Italian justice, declaring: ‘I was a militant, like you are militants.’ Further positioning mnemonic work as a moral duty, in closing the event, Marsella implored the audience to read the book, so that the tragedy and the lies associated with its subsequent cover-up do not go forgotten. As this analysis shows, this event marks the transmission of memory from one generation to the next and puts continued memory work firmly on the ideological battlefield. In their work on CPI, Froio, Gattinara, Bulli and Albanese have demonstrated CPI’s complicated relationship with violence. Despite rejecting violence as an official instrument of politics, the group celebrates violence through its reverence for Fascist action squads (Froio et al. 2020, p. 91). I propose that the obsessive calls made by older members of the far right for the next generation of neofascists to remember the physical violence that occurred in Primavalle, and the subsequent psychological and moral violence inflicted through the state’s failings, frames memory as an act of contemporary political militancy. By remembering the violence and subsequent institutional injustice that the group has suffered, younger members of CPI continue to use the ‘rhetorical framework’ of violence that draws on the language of the battlefield to

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discuss political engagement, without recourse to active violence (Froio et al. 2020, p. 91). Moreover, the group’s reverence of those who suffered political violence and are upheld as martyrs to emulate implicitly suggests violence is not to be feared, retaining its place within far-right culture. A second event hosted at CPI continued to frame commemoration as an act of political militancy, drawing on the language of violence and warfare. On 18 July 2019, I attended the book launch at the CPI headquarters in Rome for Da Primavalle a via Ottaviano. Uccisi due volte (From Primavalle to via Ottaviano. Killed Twice) by Roberto Rosseti, who had spoken at the graphic novel launch. In 1961, Rosseti joined Giovane Italia, the youth division of the MSI from 1954–1971, going on to become national leader of Fuan and part of the leadership committee of the MSI in Rome. He worked at Il Secolo d’Italia and later joined Rai as deputy director of the news programme TG1 from 2002–2009. Published in 2019 by the right-wing publisher I Libri del Borghese, the book combines prose and images, excerpts from interviews with militants, and even the speech given by Rosseti at Anna Mattei’s funeral. It also includes a full reproduction of the far-right counter-information text Rosseti said he was involved in titled Da Primavalle a via Ottaviano, published in 1975  in response to the trial for Mantakas’s killing. Though this text is the basis for the title of Rosseti’s book, the addition of the subtitle Uccisi due volte hints at the perceived double injustice of these killings and judicial failings, one of the book’s main themes. Alongside the graphic novel, it aims to transmit far-right perspectives to the next generation. However, while the former ends with the confirmation of the trio’s sentencing in 1987 by the Court of Cassation, this text covers Lollo’s confession and beyond. Antonella Mattei sat alongside Roberto Rosseti and Gian Luigi Ferretti, who had discovered Achille Lollo’s inclusion on the electoral roll at the Italian Consulate in Rio de Janeiro in 2004 while acting as AN’s head of non-governmental organisations and a member of the tricolour Committee of Italians Worldwide (‘Seduta n. 436 del 10/3/2004’ 2004). He is thus closely tied to this narrative of continued injustice. The event was chaired by Annamaria Gravino, the journalist from Il Secolo d’Italia and writer of the graphic novel analysed in this chapter. Two primary themes emerged from the discussion. Firstly, the idea of ‘no surrender’, evoked through an almost obsessive use of the verbs ‘non arrendersi’ and its cognates, which was also reflected on the CPI banner behind the panellists. Again, panellists drew heavily on the rhetoric of the battlefield to suggest the engagement of younger far-right members with memory is a contemporary act of

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political militancy. Celebrating the RSI for its resistance to the dominant ideology, as examined in Chapter 4, young neofascists were honoured for their commitment to far-right values despite the dominance of antifascism. Rosseti told the audience that though it is normal for people to change their beliefs and opinions, those who do change are no longer part of ‘our family’. Reflecting on the unwavering values of the Volontari Nazionali, he told the audience: ‘You don’t have to be brave and heroic in life, you just have to stick to your ideals.’ Drawing on the language of martyrdom, he then said Virgilio had been lucky to die for his beliefs, because today the far right can only watch its ideals fade away. Secondly, speakers referred to their duty to transmit memory and values to the next generation. Rosseti told the audience: Our task is something else. Our task is memory. Because if we had a task in those years, which was to take to the streets for our beliefs, our task now is to pass on the fact that we did not make mistakes back then to those who are younger [than us].

As demonstrated in this chapter, these cultural events were an occasion to pass the mnemonic mantle from one generation of far-right supporters to the next, facilitated by external stabilisers of memory. Panellists spoke of the importance of transmitting memory of the Rogo to young people from local groups including Fronte della Gioventù in via Assarotti and Magnitudo Italia, who were praised for their willingness to sacrifice themselves for the future. Antonella Mattei underlined the importance of these events so that older people can explain their politics and what they lived through: ‘It’s right that we pass on these, our… more than our origins, our ideals.’ Centring younger audience members, she added: ‘I am here because you’re here.’ The two cultural events hosted by CPI analysed in this section point to a concern among the historic far right that if these stories, so deeply connected to far-right identity, are not transmitted to the next generation of neofascists, they will lose their emotional power to bind communities. As a living witness to violence and institutional injustice, Antonella Mattei has adopted a role in bringing together two generations of the far right at events that position contemporary far-right youths as modern-day versions of the Volontari Nazionali and present commemoration as an act of political militancy. She acts as an anti-institutional victim, in direct opposition to the stance taken by her brother Giampaolo. These events

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demonstrate the emotional community built during this handover of memory from one generation to the next. Those who lived through the violence of the Years of Lead validate the existence of contemporary groups through these moments of emotional engagement that position younger neofascists as the new custodians of memory, and frame memory work as a contemporary act of political militancy. CPI has hosted these events as part of its cultural strategy, building its youth subculture and positioning itself as a protector of counter-memories in antifascist Italy. Through its celebration of new cultural products linked to the Rogo, CPI facilitates the transmission of memory, ensuring its longevity. We might consider the hosting of these events as part of the construction of temporary and counter-hegemonic cadres sociaux, to borrow the sociologist Maurice Halbwachs’s term (Halbwachs and Coser 1992), spaces for mnemonic acts that challenge established cultural memory. The rooftop bar in the Rome headquarters plays a role in constructing these communities, facilitating the socialisation and politicisation of young neofascists, while retaining a sense of rebellion among the in-group that has long characterised far-right youth groups. Elevated above the city, this is a space that affords opportunities for political subversion that would—or at least should—be taboo in mainstream public spaces, including explicit reverence of Mussolini (which occurred at the end of Rosseti’s book presentation), and wearing the iconography of the far right. By bringing together various far-right groups, these events reinforce a historic sense of being a powerful minority that threatens the status quo in antifascist Italy. Memory of past violence and resistance to forgetting are acts of political militancy on the modern battleground—a narrative that is evoked in Rome’s public space through commemorative posters.

6.3   Far-Right Commemorative Culture in Public Space Each year in spring, as the anniversary of the Rogo approaches, posters commemorating the Mattei brothers appear in two cluster zones linked to the attack: on the streets of Primavalle, and in and around Piazza Risorgimento at the end of via Ottaviano, the street on which Mikis Mantakas died during the first Primavalle trial in 1975, as addressed in Chapter 3. These posters serve a practical function—informing people about commemorative events—but they also play a political role: asserting

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far-right identity in public space. Loaded with historic far-right referents, they act as visible, physical markers of far-right identity, values and history. The dual function of this method of communication—to inform and to assert—means these posters tell us something about the place of the Mattei brothers’ deaths in contemporary neofascist identity. More broadly, they also offer insight into how the far-right grafts its commemorative culture, martyrs, and symbols onto public space, creating a ‘memorial bricolage’ (Margry and Sánchez-Carretero 2011, p. 2). Here, I address the aesthetic codes used by contemporary far-right groups in posters affixed to honour the far-right victims of the Years of Lead, examining the recurrent symbols and narratives that convey meaning today. These posters also place the dead within an existing fascist hagiography and encourage the living to see themselves as part of a much broader, and ongoing, ideological struggle. Finally, I identify the different aesthetic of the posters to publicise the Mattei events, demonstrating the particularity of the Rogo in collective memory. The archive Where Monsters Are Born. Documenting a Fascist Revival in the Streets of Rome, 2018–2019, which I have built  with historian Brian J.  Griffith, is a digital repository of predominantly neofascist posters affixed in Roman public space in 2018/19—a period of institutional success for the far right— with accompanying analytical commentaries and teaching resources. As this collection makes clear, the posters publicising commemorative events for far-right victims of the Years of Lead present death as an act of sacrifice that leads, ultimately, to ideological victory. Three recent posters honouring the Acca Larenzia dead draw on the recognisable aesthetic codes of far-right sacrifice through two recurrent design features: flames, and evocations of upward motion. The symbol of the flame evokes the logo of the MSI—the party to which the five victims belonged—and its youth group Fronte della Gioventù, whose logo was a handheld torch. It is also the central component of Fratelli d’Italia’s logo, the largest party in the current coalition. As noted in Chapter 5, the flame is an enduring symbol of historic Fascism, and draws ‘a tacit connection with the fascist regime while referring to the “cult of the dead” and the funerary imagery’, providing ‘a potential space both for memory investments and emotional projections’ (Aït-Aoudia et  al. 2011, p.  12). The flame is thus a referent for the ideological community to which the poster belongs. Flames are used consistently to commemorate Acca Larenzia, either explicitly as in the 2019 (Fig. 6.2) and 2020 posters or implicitly through the colours of the 2018 edition (Fig.  6.1). These posters also

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incorporate design elements that evoke upward motion, including a large black arrow pointing skywards (Fig. 6.1), raised arms holding torches (as in the 2020 poster, where a hand carrying a torch is overlaid upon a large number seven denoting the date of the Acca Larenzia attack), or simply the tip of a flame as it licks the top quarter of the poster (Fig. 6.2). Read together, flames and upward motion can be read as a message of renewal after suffering, a narrative that places these posters firmly in the aesthetic field of martyrdom.

Fig. 6.1  The 2018 Acca Larenzia commemorative poster celebrates strength and renewal. Reproduced with thanks to the digital archive Where Monsters Are Born

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Fig. 6.2  A flame dominated the 2019 commemorative poster for the Acca Larenzia dead. Reproduced with thanks to the digital archive Where Monsters Are Born

The same design elements are evident in the 2022 poster to commemorate Mikis Mantakas (Fig. 6.3), which shows a phoenix rising from flames, positioning his death as part of far-right progress. Beneath the phoenix, the Greek text reads athanatos. Translated as ‘immortal’, the word evokes the Fascist call ‘presente!’ highlighting the eternal life of the martyr after death and elevating Mantakas to a larger pantheon of martyrs dating back to the ventennio. Notably, this poster does not refer to commemorative events: it is a paper memorial that brings far-right martyrdom into public

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Fig. 6.3  The 2022 commemorative poster for Mikis Mantakas shows a phoenix rising from flames. Photograph taken by the author

space. Although the aesthetics of the 2019 poster (Fig. 6.4) are very different, the message remains the same. The poster shows Mantakas as a young boy, clean-cut with dark eyes and styled hair, rather than at the time of his death when he had facial hair and mid-length hair, and it is based on the passport photograph taken five years before his death. The poster emphasises youthful innocence, but also prompts young neofascists to identify with the militants of the 1970s and celebrates their role in this perceived ideological fight through the statement ‘Europe rebuilds from its youth.’ The text below the portrait reads: ‘Europe fighting for liberty does not forget its martyrs.’ Here, commemoration is part of far-right ideological

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Fig. 6.4  The 2019 poster to honour Mantakas emphasises youthful innocence. Reproduced with thanks to the digital archive Where Monsters Are Born

progress on a global stage. Indeed, the previous year, on 28 February, a higher number than usual of Italy’s far right attended a ceremony to remember Mantakas. With them were supporters of Greece’s Golden Dawn, who then all marched to Piazza del Popolo, where Greek and Italian neofascists participated in a rally organised by the Lega. In an interview with Repubblica TV (2015), the news television channel of the eponymous newspaper, CPI president Gianluca Iannone said Golden Dawn had decided to join this far-right demonstration because it was organised on the fortieth anniversary of Mantakas’s death, underlining the

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transnational ties of solidarity that emerge at various points during the commemorative calendar. This community of memory extended beyond national borders, resurrecting a transnational solidarity that was evident immediately after Mantakas’s death, as analysed in Chapter 3, and reflected the concept of spiritual nationhood put forward by Julius Evola, an intellectual celebrated by the Fascist regime. Evola understood the nation as comprising those who shared certain ideals and remained loyal to tradition. The nation was not defined by the physical borders of the nation state—a belief shared by Pino Rauti and Ordine Nuovo, and expressed during Mantakas’s funeral oration as a means to encourage Italian neofascists to conceive of their fight as global, as Chapter 3 demonstrated (Wolff 2019, p. 74). It is beyond the scope of this chapter to analyse the aesthetics of a wide corpus of far-right posters, but this brief analysis of material commemorating Mantakas and the Acca Larenzia dead demonstrates that the visual and textual rhetoric used in these posters draws on historic narratives and symbols of sacrifice and renewal. These aesthetic codes are historically loaded and recognisable to far-right supporters. However, posters publicising commemorative events for the Mattei brothers differ in tone and imagery, and their analysis exposes a shift in the meaning of the Rogo for the far right today. Though the specific layout of the poster changes from one year to the next, these alterations are minor, particularly compared to the design changes for the posters commemorating Mantakas or Acca Larenzia, and the Mattei poster consistently includes four elements: firstly, practical information including the date and time of the event in large, bold text that contrasts in colour with the background (white on black, or black on white). This information is given a more privileged position in the Mattei posters than in those posters publicising commemorative events for the Acca Larenzia dead or Mantakas—indeed, the word ‘march’ (corteo) is the second-largest word on the 2018 poster (Fig. 6.5)—suggesting the demonstration plays a more central role in the commemorative culture of the Rogo than other deaths because it is a recognised part of protest culture, combining commemoration with condemnation in a performance of counter-memory. Secondly, the Celtic cross is incorporated—a symbol typically associated with white supremacism and neo-Nazism that has been banned in Italy in political contexts (though it remains a religious symbol in some parts of northern Italy). Thirdly, an emotive slogan, sometimes acting as an injunction to memory. For example, ‘we will never forget’ is on the 2019 poster (Fig. 6.6). At times, these slogans are a reminder that

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Fig. 6.5  In 2018, the poster for the Mattei brothers put the commemorative march at its centre. Reproduced with thanks to the digital archive Where Monsters Are Born

commemorative events are disruptive acts of counter-memory, as we see in the 2018 poster (Fig.  6.5), which declares ‘45 years of denied truths’, condemning a perceived cover-up that obscured the networks and collaborations that allowed the perpetrators to evade justice. Finally, the posters consistently include the photograph of the charred exterior of the family flat in via Bibbiena as the background image. Often the photograph is clear enough for the viewer to discern the sheet covering Virgilio’s body, reminding the viewer of the public nature of his death without recourse to the traumatic image of the victim’s burnt face. The window frame has been incorporated in commemorative posters since the 1970s, an index of political violence within the ‘traumatic topography’ of the Years of Lead, like the clock at Bologna station (Antonello and O’Leary 2009, p. 7). Early posters incorporated images of Virgilio’s body to condemn the extent of antifascist violence, however, as in Fig. 6.7, one early poster  included Stefano, the child victim. Produced by Fronte della Gioventù, this collage shows Stefano Mattei’s face at the window of the

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Fig. 6.6  The 2019 poster for the Mattei brothers includes a call to memory

flat underneath a white sheet that was used to cover the boys’ bodies. The poster reads: ‘At his feet lies an 8-year-old boy burnt alive. These are the fruits of antifascism.’ In the modern posters, though, the image of the charred window is combined with a call to memory or condemnation of a lack of justice, so that the narrative encoded in posters for the Mattei brothers is one of institutional betrayal and injustice—both physical, through depictions of a body  (typically that of Virgilio), and moral, through references to the ongoing ‘denial of truths’. These posters are not the only temporary markers of far-right memory in public space. Unlike the closed-door mausoleum in Verano analysed in Chapter 4, contemporary far-right groups have grafted their symbols onto public space, where they are clearly visible in the Roman cityscape as a

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Fig. 6.7  1970s poster, notable for its inclusion of an image of Stefano alive. Reproduction courtesy of Archivio Centrale dello Stato

reminder of resistance to perceived injustice. For example, the wall opposite the Mattei family’s former flat in via Bernardo da Bibbiena has emerged as a vernacular space that functions both as a site of memory and a space to publicise commemorative events. With layer upon layer of commemorative posters and slogans, it can be read as a palimpsest that demonstrates the competing memorial dynamics between the far left and the far right in Primavalle throughout the decades. Given the proximity of left-wing community centre Break Out, also on via Bernardo Bibbiena, with which

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clashes have frequently occurred during the annual grassroots ceremony, we can read this graffiti as a trace of the competing memorial dynamics created by opposing grassroots groups living in Primavalle. This interaction leaves a physical record and invests the wall with meaning. Moreover, its inherent dynamism keeps meaning alive, eschewing the permanence of monuments which, as Ann Rigney (2008, p. 345) has argued, may ‘mark the beginning of amnesia unless the monument in question is continuously invested with new meaning’. Google Street View provides a record of these dynamics, demonstrating the ongoing conflict around memory that keeps it alive.1 This platform allows users to ‘walk’ through the landscape, moving back in time by shifting a slider to a particular year. Though the dataset is not comprehensive, with some years unrecorded, the records do provide a broad overview of the memorial dynamics on this otherwise unremarkable wall. The first record dates to 2008, when Street View shows graffiti on the wall in large, red and black text that reads: ‘Primavalle never forgets. Honour for the Mattei brothers.’ Below is a smaller slogan, written in red: ‘Walter Rossi lives on’. Killed in 1977, Rossi was a member of Lotta Continua. He was shot during clashes with political opponents in the Balduina area of Rome while distributing antifascist flyers, following the shooting of comrade Elena Pacinelli in the Monte Mario area the previous day. Nobody was found guilty of his murder. Balduina was a well-known MSI stronghold in the 1970s—the addition of Rossi’s name on a memorial to the sons of an MSI leader is significant. Rossi was not murdered in Primavalle. The addition of his name suggests an attempt to counterbalance the representation of far-right martyrdom through a reminder of far-left victimhood, and violence perpetrated by the far right. It points to a dynamic of competing martyrdoms in grassroots commemorative culture. The next available Street View data is from August 2012, four months after the anniversary. The wall’s memorial role has been eclipsed; in place of the typical invocations to memory, we find posters for a left-wing event to debate the centre-right president of the municipality Alfredo Milioni, who gave his resignation before retracting it and returning to power. A red hammer and sickle are discernible on a second set of posters, which advertise a ‘red celebration’ event in Primavalle. This absence of commemorative text points to the fleetingness of meaning at this changeable memorial space. Meaning is created through interaction—a memorial call and response. By July 2014, far-right iconography once again dominated the wall, and meaning is reinvested through the addition of commemorative

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posters. These draw on the typical design features analysed earlier in this chapter: a black-and-white palette, an image of the charred window of the Matteis’ flat, and a call to honour the brothers. To the right of the posters, black graffiti reads ‘Chi ama non dimentica’ (‘those who love don’t forget’), underlining the emotive power of commemoration. Beside it are the dates 16/04/1973 and 16/04/2013 (this text was still visible on the Street View from April 2022). The number of commemorative posters grew significantly over the following year, rising from 16 in 2014 to 40 in 2015. Although the design changed slightly, with text overlaid over image, they retained the usual aesthetic elements and the declaration ‘we will not forget.’ The wall also includes the addition of a large Celtic cross and imposing text calling for ‘honour for the Mattei brothers’. The design of the 2015 posters was reused in 2016. However, there was a shift in 2018 when they were updated with a new, much darker design. Where previous designs made a call to memory, here the posters declared ‘45 anni di verità negate’ (‘45 years of denied truth’). This reference to denied truths is part of a shift we witness in the place of the Rogo in collective memory: where it was once remembered as an act of total brutality perpetrated by the political opponent, it has now become an emblem of historic and ongoing persecution of neofascists at the hands of antifascist institutions, including the government and judiciary—a narrative heard at the events hosted by CPI. By 2019, the image of the former flat is clearer than ever, and viewers are even able to discern the white sheet hanging over the window frame, which covered Virgilio’s charred corpse. Beside the poster, graffiti positions commemoration as part of the ongoing ideological struggle, using the language of war: ‘your memory allows no surrender.’ No further posters were affixed in 2020 when the grassroots commemoration was suspended due to the pandemic. Despite the incompleteness of the Street View data, analysis of the ‘memorial bricolage’ evident in via Bibbiena makes several things clear. Firstly, it demonstrates that sites of memory often are not constructed as such, but are understood as such by memory communities. Robert Bevan (2006, p. 7) has identified the ‘totemic quality’ of some physical sites of memory, which are politicised by their context. These spaces, he writes, ‘are attacked not because they are in the path of a military objective: to their destroyers they are the objective’. These competing evocations of far-left and far-right martyrdom on the wall in via Bibbiena make this dynamic clear. Secondly, from the posters found in central Rome to the graffiti in via Bibbiena, we see that the radical right uses commemorative

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material as an opportunity to stamp far-right symbols like the Celtic cross onto public space, inserting banned symbols into the Roman cityscape. Although the Mattei posters are part of this trend more broadly, their visual and textual rhetoric is different to that used in other far-right commemorative posters, a fact that points to the particularity of the Rogo in far-right culture today. Where neofascists of the 1970s foregrounded the violence of the adversary and the brothers’ sacrifice in commemoration of this attack on a family home, reflecting the discourse put forward by Almirante analysed in Chapters 2 and 3, contemporary groups spotlight the continued injustice decades later. These grassroots memorials are as much about condemning the antifascist Republic’s treatment of historic violence as they are a means to remember the dead. In this context, acts of memory are acts of political militancy, a means to contest perceived political (and memorial) hegemony, and those who remember are celebrated as part of this ongoing historic battle.

6.4  Neutralising Memory in Public Space While neofascists prepared for the upcoming commemorative march, a few days before the 2018 anniversary, the local council in Rome unanimously approved a motion to install a plaque on the building that housed the Mattei family flat in via Bibbiena (Bellumori 2018). Giampaolo Mattei had opposed this, concerned the apartment block would become a site of neofascist pilgrimage, but nevertheless the plaque was unveiled in 2021. It reads: IN MEMORY OF THE BROTHERS STEFANO AND VIRGILIO MATTEI KILLED BY POLITICAL VIOLENCE ON 16 APRIL 1973

The text on the plaque eschews any reference to the political identity of the Matteis or their killers through a grammatical construction without an individual agent. ‘Political violence’ becomes the subject of the verb in an official plaque that offers little detail. As with the institutional ceremony analysed in Chapter 5, the approach to memory seems designed to neutralise conflict, and demonstrates a concerted effort to avoid emotive language.

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Erecting the plaque in via Bibbiena was proposed by Stefano Oddo and Alberto Mariani of Fratelli d’Italia, the largest party in the recently elected right-wing coalition led by Giorgia Meloni. As outlined in the preface of this book, Fratelli d’Italia has consistently proposed topographical changes at a local and national level to ensure far-right memory is permanently represented in public space, often drawing on the language of martyrdom that lies at the heart of far-right commemorative culture in discussion of these spaces. For example, in 2022, the party put forward several proposals to dedicate public spaces to the ‘martyrs of the foibé’, reflecting the calls Salvini made at Basovizza (‘Richieste toponomastiche collegate al Giorno del Ricordo’ 2022). As part of its call for more topographical memory of the foibé, Fratelli d’Italia also requested that a street in Bitonto, Puglia, be dedicated to Norma Cossetto, an Istrian Italian student killed by Yugoslavian communists and thrown into a foiba. Moreover, the party frequently calls for public spaces across Italy to carry the name of Giorgio Almirante, successfully resulting in Piazza Almirante in Ladispoli in 2019 (RomaToday 2019). The party is now fighting for a via Almirante in Italy’s capital (Il Secolo d’Italia 2019). Memory work remains part of the party’s mainstreaming strategy, bringing far-right victims into public spaces permanently. The rhetorical neutrality of the plaque above continues an approach adopted by successive mayors of Rome, Walter Veltroni and then Gianni Alemanno, to dedicate public space to left- and right-wing victims without referring to the political identity of the victim or the killers. Indeed, the politically neutral ‘victim of political violence’ can be found on signs for Viale Valerio Verbano, Giardino Mario Zicchieri and Passeggiata Sergio Ramelli, among other sites. This limits the capacity for explanation through their physical dimensions and stands in stark contrast with the larger plaques put up by grassroots groups, which combine memorialisation and protest. Consider, for example, the plaque erected at the site of the Acca Larenzia killings in 2012, which reads: IN THIS PIAZZA ON THE 7 JANUARY 1978 FRANCO BIGONZETTI 19 YEARS OLD FRANCESCO CIAVATTA 18 YEARS OLD STEFANO RECCHIONI 20 YEARS OLD FELL ASSASSINATED BY COMMUNIST HATRED

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AND BY SERVANTS OF THE STATE THE COMRADES

The plaque is notable for its emotive rhetoric, which attributes blame to ‘communist hatred’, converting an abstract concept like hatred into a menacing agent. Moreover, the plaque also apportions culpability to ‘servants of the state’—a reference to the fact Stefano Recchioni, the third victim listed, was killed during clashes with the police after the Acca Larenzia violence. However, reference to state involvement implicitly suggests state collusion in violence, a charge typically levied against the far right and its involvement in the strategy of tension. The plaque was installed by a young far-right group that uses the former MSI headquarters in Acca Larenzia as their base. Carlo Giannotta, leader of this group, told Corriere della Sera (2012): ‘We felt it was our duty, towards those who died defending us, to specify the ideology of the killers,’ adding, ‘we want to remind Alemanno that the commemorative plaques that are posted around Rome do not tell the truth; and the truth is that boys like Mikis Mantakas and Cecchin were murdered by communists.’ Consider also the emotive, but somewhat archaic, rhetoric used to honour the left-wing militant Valerio Verbano in the plaque in front of his home (where he was shot in front of his parents), and erected by a far-left group. As with the plaque to honour the left-wing activist killed in 1977 analysed by Andrea Hajek, the focus of the plaque is the continuation of the values for which the individual died, marking a ‘rejection of the concept of “commemorating”’ in favour of the eternal life of these ideals (Hajek 2013, p. 153). It reads: VALERIO VERBANO 19 YEARS OLD A COMMUNIST ASSASINATED BY FASCIST LEAD HIS LIFE, HIS PERSON, DOES NOT NEED TO BE EXPLAINED, RECOUNTED HE IS IN ALL OF US AND IN THE REVOLUTIONARY MOVEMENT NOT A NAME ON A STREET BUT ON ALL STREETS ON ALL PIAZZAS COMMUNISTS DO NOT FORGET HIM HIS COMRADES

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The language on the plaque is so deeply rooted in the communist–fascist binary of the Resistance era that it would be difficult to date Verbano’s plaque based upon the text alone, although the reference to ‘lead’ (piombo) does evoke the Years of Lead. The turgid text is reminiscent of liturgical texts, which elevate the mourned individual’s status after death and celebrate their omnipresence. While ‘us’ presumably refers to the Communist collective, the affirmation that Valerio’s name adorns not one street but all streets, all piazzas, extends his influence to Italy as a whole, a political paradigm to emulate. Compared to the language on these two plaques affixed by grassroots groups, institutional appetite for rhetorical neutrality is evident. This approach has, unsurprisingly, been protested for masking the facts of these deaths. Posting on the Mattei Brothers’ Association Facebook page, Giampaolo Mattei described this wording as ‘useless’ phrasing ‘that means nothing and contextualises nothing’. He objected to the plaque’s failure to identify the killers as members of Potere Operaio, suggesting institutional bias and drawing on the example of the plaque unveiled on the 50th anniversary of the Piazza Fontana massacre, which reads: ‘Piazza Fontana massacre. 17 victims. Bomb planted by the extreme right terrorist group Ordine Nuovo.’ In the comments beneath the post, he also questioned the motives of Stefano Oddo who, he suggested, seemed to engage with the Mattei brothers’ memory only when it coincides with local elections. This institutional reluctance to explicitly remember the far-right dead reflects Italy’s problematic relationship with its far-right history. The portrayal of the ventennio as an aberration in the country’s long liberal history combined with the Republic’s emphasis on antifascist memory has shaped the nation’s approach to public memory of the Years of Lead, too.

6.5   Conclusion On the cold, sunny morning of 10 February 2018, thousands travelled to the hilltop town of Macerata, Le Marche, to demonstrate against racism and the far right. Just weeks ahead of a general election focused heavily on immigration, Macerata found itself at the centre of national tensions. A few days earlier, several dozen activists from the far-right party Forza Nuova had held an anti-immigration rally in the town, which was still reeling after 28-year-old Luca Traini shot and wounded six Black migrants in a racially motivated attack on 3 February. As officers approached the car to make his arrest, he left the vehicle, wrapped an Italian flag around his

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shoulders, walked towards the Monument to the Fallen built by the Fascist regime in 1933, and performed the Roman salute. With the fascist–antifascist binary threatening its violent return, schools and shops closed on the day of Macerata’s antifascist demonstration, which none of Italy’s main political parties attended. In an important demonstration of solidarity, participants carried Italian flags, banners calling for an end to racism, and heart-shaped balloons bearing the names of the victims of the shooting. Antifascist and antiracist demonstrations were also held in Milan, Turin, Bologna, Rome and Palermo. While most participants demonstrated peacefully, the international extreme-left group Aktion Antifascista sang chants conjured up violent memories of Italy’s Years of Lead, and echoed the slogans sung by some far-left militants during the 1970s. One chant evoked the memory of the Rogo directly: ‘Fire closes fascist dens, it’s not enough unless the fascists are inside’ (Grignetti 2018). Memory politics lie at the heart of neofascist culture today. Far-right supporters evoke the political binaries of the Years of Lead through provocative slogans chanted during demonstrations or inflammatory additions of competing martyrdoms graffitied on walls. These differing media have one thing in common: their public expression. We are witnessing renewed engagement with memory in public space today as members of the contemporary far right bolstered by Fratelli d’Italia’s electoral success attempt to bring their victims and their iconography into urban space. The success of the far right in institutional politics has affected the way the arson is commemorated not only because its memory is so deeply connected to historic far-right identity, but also because it so clearly condemns the violence of the perpetrators on that night of 16 April 1973 and institutional complicity in its cover-up across the decades. It is thus a past tightly tied to the present, and a potent counter-memory that sustains postwar far-right identity founded upon the idea of unwavering commitment and resistance to an oppressive (and ideologically immoral) majority. These commemorative events have therefore become an occasion for the inter-generational transmission of memory and the positioning of memory within the political battleground, with older generations of neofascists joining younger counterparts to participate in counter-hegemonic events that position mnemonic acts as political militancy. From labelling far-right figures as ras, frequent calls of ‘presente!’ and celebrating young neofascists as revolutionaries at the cusp of ideological progress, these events contain rhetorical echoes of historical Fascism. Contemporary far-­ right groups position themselves as the second coming of ‘First Hour’

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Fascists—the name given to those who participated in the proclamation of the Fascist Party’s precursor, the Fasci di Combattimento, in Piazza Sepolcro, Milan, in 1919. While their method of militancy is memory, not violence—though violence often surfaces—they are positioned as the new vanguard through rhetorical traces that evoke historic parallels. Within this, the Years of Lead experienced by the older generation of neofascists are portrayed as this generation’s biennio rosso, a period of left-wing tumult that threatened the nation and against which the far right could plot its identity. The renewed claim to memory and the inter-generational memory transmissions were all too clear in April 2018 when I observed the official commemoration ceremony held at the foot of the former Mattei family flat on the 45th anniversary of the fire. The ceremony began as it always does: Roma Capitale and Lazio representatives, Giampaolo Mattei, a local school group and other participants gathered quietly on via Bibbiena. Representatives of the comune and region began to prepare for the symbolic laying of a wreath below the window at which Stefano and Virgilio died. These preparations were interrupted by the arrival of the ex-mayor of Rome, Gianni Alemanno. Once a member of the MSI, Alemanno was the first Roman mayor to lay a commemorative wreath in Primavalle during his tenure in the early 2000s. He was accompanied by Guido Zappavigna, a known leader of the Roman ultras, and the historic neofascist Luigi Ciavardini, co-founder and member of the Armed Revolution Nuclei terrorist group, who, in 2007 was sentenced to 30 years’ imprisonment for his role in the 1980 Bologna massacre that left 85 dead and more than 200 injured (Cento Bull 2012, p. 22). That same year, he published an account of the attack and the judicial errors he argues led to his incorrect sentencing (Semprini 2005). He has lived in semi-freedom since 2009. As soon as Zappavigna, Ciavardini and Alemanno arrived, Giampaolo Mattei refused to participate in the ceremony, insisting that the two local school groups attending follow him away from the building. The official ceremony continued in his absence. Mattei then gave an impromptu speech about the attack on his family and expressed his incredulity that the officiators of the ceremony, representatives of Roma Capitale and the Lazio region, would conduct the ceremony in the presence of historic and contemporary extreme-right leaders: ‘They are laying a wreath with former assassins. It’s truly shameful,’ he said. He was offended by Alemanno’s decision to arrive at the ceremony with Zappavigna and Ciavardini given his participation in the ceremony for five consecutive years, a sign of his

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support of Mattei’s efforts to create a shared memory of the attack (La Repubblica 2018). Later that day, around 250 people participated in the unofficial neofascist march that occurs each year—the largest event for decades. Participants carried the usual banner, adorned with the statement ‘Honour to the Mattei brothers!’ and Celtic crosses. Most participants were dressed in the black clothing and black boots. Once they reached via Bibbiena, they performed the Fascist salute several times (Il Messaggero 2018). Among the crowd were young members of CasaPound, Roma Nord, and Forza Italia. This younger generation walked alongside figures from the local council and veteran neofascists, including far-right councillors Daniele Giannini from the Lega, Fratelli d’Italia’s Stefano Oddo and Maurizio Boccacci, former leader of Movimento Politico Occidentale, a neofascist party founded in 1984 by former members of Avanguardia Nazionale and the Roman branch of FUAN, the university group of the MSI, who in 2011 was arrested for the crime of apology of fascism and diffusion of racial hatred (ilGiornale.it 2011). Since the unexpected appearance of Ciavardini and Zappavigna in 2018, Giampaolo Mattei has not participated in the official ceremony, which he had traditionally attended as a representative of the Mattei family and as president of the Associazione Fratelli Mattei. On the 50th anniversary of the attack in 2023, his sister Antonella attended instead. As I have argued in this chapter, Antonella Mattei has taken on the role of anti-­ institutional victim, participating in several commemorative events that mark the transmission of memory from the historic far right to younger members of this community, turning memory work into an act of political militancy and strengthening the emotional community of the contemporary far right. Since 2018 and the unexpected arrival of Alemanno, Ciavardini and Zappavigna, this official commemorative event has evolved from its formerly pedagogic focus, becoming instead an opportunity for members of Italy’s historic institutional and militant far right to gather. Indeed, in 2023, attendees included historic institutional right figures like Fabio Rampelli  of Fratelli d’Italia, and Maurizio Gasparri, current vice president of the Senate, who walked behind the hearses at the Mattei brothers’ funeral in 1973, where he met Gianfranco Fini for the first time. Moreover, we are witnessing a split in the public roles undertaken by members of the Mattei family. While Antonella had previously attended more subversive events like those organised by CasaPound, where she witnessed the transmission of memory from one far-right generation to the next, she attended the fiftieth anniversary official ceremony with her son,

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Federico, 24, who has written a book about the Rogo and the impact on his family, signifying the passing on of the memorial mantle within the family itself. While Antonella took his place at the official ceremony on via Bibbiena, Giampaolo Mattei attended a 50th anniversary ceremony in the Sala della Protomoteca in Campidoglio, a ceremonial space adorned with a collection of historic busts of illustrious Italians that overlooks the Fori Imperiali. During this event, an official commemorative stamp produced by the Italian postal service, Poste Italiane, was unveiled. The stamp includes a portrait of Stefano and one of Virgilio overlaid upon an image of the Vittoriano monument at the nation’s epicentre in central Rome. Built to celebrate the first king of unified Italy, this monument to the nation also honours the memory of Italy’s war dead at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier and is the stage upon which national commemorative rituals are performed. The inclusion of the so-called Altar of the Fatherland on the stamp thus ties the Mattei brothers’ deaths to the city of Rome and the wider nation. An initiative of the Mattei Brothers’ Association, the stamp incorporates the name of the association at the top and, beneath a tricolour stripe, the honorific title ‘gold medal victims of terrorism’. This title is bestowed by the Italian Republic on citizens targeted by armed subversives for their ideas and moral commitment following an application by relatives of the deceased to the Ministry of Interior. Beneath this title are the words ‘strage di Primavalle’, or Primavalle massacre. It is worth recalling here that Lollo, Grillo and Clavo were sentenced for manslaughter, and not strage, and the Mattei family’s lawyers had sought to have the crime reclassified as strage, which is not time-limited. The term strage is not being used as a legal term here, but instead recognises the severity of the crime. At the unveiling of the stamp, Fratelli d’Italia’s Adolfo Urso, currently Minister of Economic Development and formerly a journalist for the MSI paper Il Secolo d’Italia, said the event ‘allows us to more fully realize that shared memory that can make our country stronger, overcoming the truly dramatic divisions that led to the Mattei brothers’ sacrifice 50 years ago. A heinous massacre with a false information campaign and no justice’ (‘Presentato francobollo dedicato ai fratelli Mattei’ 2023). Urso’s language echoed the rhetoric used by prime minister Meloni in a letter to Giampaolo Mattei to mark half a century since his brothers’ deaths. Meloni described 16 April 1973 as ‘one of the darkest pages in the nation’s story’

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(Martellini 2023), and positioned the attack as a turning point in Italy’s experience of political violence, describing the ‘heinous killing of two innocent young people, ages 10 and 22, guilty of being the sons of the secretary of the local branch of the Italian Social Movement, [which] brought political violence to a point of no return’. In the closing section, the prime minister reflected on the important role memory can play in preventing further violence and its power to bridge divides, declaring: ‘What we can do today is keep the memory of what happened alive to avoid any danger of relapse and to lead Italy and our people towards a full and true national pacification.’ The language of the ‘pacification of memory’, addressed in this book’s Preface, was echoed by Gennaro Sangiuliano, an independent politician named by Meloni as Minister for Culture and a former MSI member, who attended the official 50th anniversary commemoration in via Bibbiena. During the ceremony, Sangiuliano described the Primavalle attack as ‘an act of communist violence”’ declaring ‘we have a duty to close the twentieth century with all its lacerations, we must achieve national pacification  but preserve memory,’ while La Russa underlined the need for all political groups to find ‘a common ground of remembrance so that violence and hatred do not dwell in our nation any longer’ (Salvia 2023, p. 11). This idea of ‘pacification of memory’—that peace can be brokered across the political spectrum by creating a bipartisan memory culture—is a line Fratelli d’Italia frequently toes, as discussed in the Preface in relation to the 25 April celebrations. It is often used to justify the party’s calls to remember, for example, the foibé dead as patriotic victims of a foreign oppressor, a form of historical revisionism in which Broder (2023, p. 173) finds ‘not a recovery of the symbols of fascism so much as their airbrushing out of national and nationalist history’. By using the same language in relation to the memory of the Primavalle attack, whereby divisions in memory were intentionally created and sustained by a campaign of misinformation, judicial failings and suggestions of an institutional cover-up, the party legitimates its broader mission to ‘pacify’ Italy’s national memory culture that has its sights set on reframing the Fascist heritage from which the party derives, in order to dissolve the fascist–antifascist binary upon which the Republic was founded. This clear institutional engagement with memory of the arson on the 50th anniversary underlines a shift in Giampaolo Mattei’s public role away from his former status as a public victim at a local level in Rome, to

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become a public victim at a national level. Further demonstrating this shift, on 9 May 2023, Giampaolo took part in events organised on the Day of Memory dedicated to the victims of terrorism held in the Quirinal Palace, one of the official residences of the president of the Italian Republic. Although this new level of institutional engagement is likely facilitated by the new Italian government with connections to the historic far right, it nevertheless  marks the culmination of a process that began with Veltroni and the orchestrated embrace between Carla Verbano and Giampaolo Mattei (see Chapter 5). While Giampaolo Mattei participated in these official events, later that day the unofficial commemorative march through Primavalle concluded with a Fascist salute and calls of ‘presente!’ beneath the window of the Mattei family’s former flat on via Bibbiena. Following the 16 April unofficial ceremony, Digos, Italy’s law enforcement agency that investigates cases relating to terrorism and organised crime, was reported to be preparing to submit a report to Rome’s public prosecutor with images that circulated on social media of far-right militants performing the Roman salute (Esposito 2023). The following month, the Court of Cassation confirmed the Roman salute as a crime in its rejection of an appeal lodged by three defendants sentenced to a month’s imprisonment in Milan on 7 March 2022 for conducting this historic Fascist ritual during a commemoration ceremony held for Sergio Ramelli. The court deemed this act a ‘blatant display of a precise and formal fascist ritual, loaded with ideological meanings’ (Adnkronos 2023)—a declaration that made clear the Roman salute has no place in the antifascist Republic. While the official, institutional ceremony in via Bibbiena is becoming more clearly right-wing, a trend that looks likely to continue under the current government, the overtly neofascist nature of the grassroots event looks set to be challenged by the courts. The next and final chapter uses oral history to identify the recurring tropes in memory among those who lived in Primavalle in 1973. Many of these tropes can be traced back to media coverage of the attack, as analysed in Chapter 2. I consider the place of the social housing units in which the Matteis lived—symbols of poverty and isolation that connect to the earlier media analysis of Primavalle as a place of alterity—the harrowing image of Virgilio at the window, and the way the attack reconfigured many interviewees’ relationship with the left, drawing together many of the issues considered in the book so far.

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Note 1. Dated versions of Google Street View can be accessed via the following links: Google Maps, 26 Via Bernardo da Bibbiena, Rome (April 2008) [accessed: 24 May 2023]; Google Maps, 26 Via Bernardo da Bibbiena, Rome (April 2012) [accessed: 24 May 2023]; Google Maps, 26 Via Bernardo da Bibbiena, Rome (April 2022) https://goo.gl/maps/ pCgjqzzveRfTBWbW8 [accessed: 24 May 2023]; Google Maps, 26 Via Bernardo da Bibbiena, Rome (May 2015) https://goo.gl/maps/afW3mxw1n3S3zyqx6; Google Maps, 26 Via Bernardo da Bibbiena, Rome (July 2018) https://goo.gl/maps/VH5McnbJC6wtpE1PA [accessed: 24 May 2023]; Google Maps, 26 Via Bernardo da Bibbiena, Rome (April 2019) https://goo.gl/maps/vqAe3mnb35qJem3F9 [accessed: 24 May 2023].

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Grignetti, Francesco. 2018. ‘L’immigrazione infiamma il duello rossi-neri, torna l’incubo delle violenze degli Anni 70’. LaStampa.it, 22 February 2018. http:// www.lastampa.it/2018/02/22/italia/politica/limmigrazione-­infiamma-­il-­duello-­ rossineri-­torna-­lincubo-­delle-­violenze-­degli-­anni-­ts0pLg4gvpSLmtxO6kL1mM/ pagina.html. Hajek, Andrea. 2013. Negotiating Memories of Protest in Western Europe: The Case of Italy (Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire ; New York, NY: Palgrave Macmillan) Halbwachs, Maurice, and Lewis A.  Coser. 1992. On Collective Memory. The Heritage of Sociology. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Il Messaggero. 2018. ‘Primavalle, la destra ricorda i fratelli Mattei: saluti romani al corteo’, 16 April 2018. https://www.ilmessaggero.it/roma/cronaca/fratelli_ mattei_primavalle_saluti_romani-­3673703.html. Il Secolo d’Italia. 2019. ‘La “via Giorgio Almirante” la capitale d’Italia la deve avere: Fratelli d’Italia torna all’attacco’, 18 March 2019. https://www.secoloditalia. it/2019/03/la-­via-­giorgio-­almirante-­la-­capitale-­ditalia-­la-­deve-­avere-­fratelli-­ ditalia-­torna-­allattacco/. ‘In diretta da CasaPound la presentazione del fumetto “Il rogo di Primavalle” con Antonella Mattei, Luca Marsella e l’autrice Annamaria Gravino’. 2018. Facebook. https://www.facebook.com/casapounditalia/videos/in-­diretta-­da-­ casapound-­l a-­p resentazione-­d el-­f umetto-­i l-­r ogo-­d i-­p rimavalle-­c on-­a / 10155846199107842/. Karkowska, Marta. 2013. On the Usefulness of Aleida and Jan Assmann’s Concept of Cultural Memory for Studying Local Communities in Contemporary Poland—The Case of Olsztyn. Polish Sociological Review 183: 369–388. La Repubblica. 2018. ‘Rogo di Primavalle, Ciavardini con Alemanno a cerimonia. Mattei: “Sono offeso”’, 16 April 2018. https://roma.repubblica.it/cro naca/2018/04/16/news/rogo_di_primavalle_ciavardini_con_alemanno_a_ cerimonia_mattei_sono_offeso_-­194054215/. Lo Dico, Francesco. 2018. ‘CasaPound in marcia su Roma: a Napoli comanda la “Ducessa”’. IlMattino.it, 6 February 2018. https://www.ilmattino.it/primopiano/politica/casapound_in_marcia_su_roma_a_napoli_comanda_la_ ducessa-­3530622.html. Margry, Peter Jan, and Cristina Sánchez-Carretero. 2011. Grassroots Memorials: The Politics of Memorializing Traumatic Death. New York: Berghahn Books. Martellini, Laura, 2023. ‘Rogo di Primavalle, 50 anni dopo Meloni scrive a Giampaolo Mattei: “La memoria insegni: mai più odio politico”’, Corriere della Sera, 16 April 2023. Accessed May 19, 2023. https://roma.corriere.it/notizie/cronaca/23_aprile_16/rogo-­di-­primavalle-­50-­anni-­dopo-­meloni-­scrive-­a-­ giampaolo-­mattei-­la-­memoria-­insegni-­mai-­piu-­odio-­politico-­f0c9145f-­3f72-­4 d9b-­9007-­0d20e03c1xlk.shtml. Mascheroni, Luigi. 2015. ‘La rivincita dei “Cuori Neri”. Ritirata la copertina choc’. ilGiornale.it, 23 May 2015, sec. Cultura e Spettacoli. https://www.ilg-

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iornale.it/news/politica/rivincita-­d ei-­c uori-­n eri-­r itirata-­c oper tina-­ choc-­1132355.html. Mattei, Giampaolo. 2010. Interview between Amy King and Giampaolo Mattei Interview by Amy King. ———. 2015. ‘Da ieri imperversa sui social la giusta polemica riguardo la nuova uscita del libro “CUORI NERI”’. Facebook. https://www.facebook.com/ groups/36361354513/permalink/10152962847969514/. ———. 2021. ‘Associazione Fratelli Mattei | Sono venuta a sapere della possibilità di un murales per Stefano e Virgilio.’ Facebook. https://www.facebook.com/ groups/associazionefratellimattei/posts/10158165341824514/. Militia, Boccacci non risponde al gip ma si difende: «Non sono un criminale»’, ilGiornale.it, 19 December 2011 [accessed 7 April 2022] Nabizadeh, Golnar. 2019. Representation and Memory in Graphic Novels. 1st ed. Abingdon, Oxon: Routledge. Nora, Pierre. 1989. Between Memory and History: Les Lieux de Memoire. Representations 26 (1): 7–24. ‘Presentato francobollo dedicato ai fratelli Mattei’. 2023. Ministero delle Imprese e del Made in Italy. 17 April 2023. https://www.mimit.gov.it/index.php/it/ notizie-­stampa/presentato-­francobollo-­dedicato-­ai-­fratelli-­mattei. Repubblica TV. 2015. ‘Lega a Roma, nel corteo di Casapound spuntano attivisti di Alba Dorata’, Repubblica TV, 28 February 2015. Accessed April 12, 2022. https://video.repubblica.it/politica/lega-­a-­roma-­nel-­corteo-­di-­casapound-­ spuntano-­attivisti-­di-­alba-­dorata/193440/192423. ‘Richieste toponomastiche collegate al Giorno del Ricordo’. 2022. ANVGD (blog). 30 January 2022. https://www.anvgd.it/richieste-­toponomastiche-­ collegate-­al-­giorno-­del-­ricordo/. Rigney, Ann. 2005. Plenitude, Scarcity and the Circulation of Cultural Memory. Journal of European Studies 35 (1): 11–28. Rigney, Ann. 2008. ‘The Dynamics of Remembrance: Texts Between Monumentality and Morphing’, in A Companion to Cultural Memory Studies, ed. by Astrid Erll and Ansgar Nünning (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2008), pp. 345–56 RomaToday. 2019. ‘Ladispoli: inaugurata piazza Giorgio Almirante, tra le proteste di Anpi e sinistra’, 17 March 2019. https://www.romatoday.it/politica/ piazza-­giorgio-­almirante-­ladispoli.html. Salvia, Lorenzo. 2023. ‘Meloni ricorda il rogo di Primavalle: pagina buia, ora serve pacificazione’, Corriere della Sera, 17 April 2023, p. 11 ‘Seduta n. 436 del 10/3/2004’. 2004. Roma. http://leg14.camera.it/_dati/ leg14/lavori/stenografici/sed436/bt02.htm. Semprini, Gianluca. 2005. La strage di Bologna—Luigi Ciavardini: un caso giudiziario. Milano: Società Editrice Barbarossa. Telese, Luca. 2015. Cuori neri. 7th ed. Milan: Sperling & Kupfer. Wolff, Elisabetta Cassina. 2019. CasaPound Italia: “Back to Believing. The Struggle Continues”. Fascism 8 (1): 61–88.

CHAPTER 7

Afterword

In the 50 years since the Primavalle attack, memory of the tragedy has remained tethered to far-right political communities, the line that binds the two slackening and tightening as the relationship between the historic far right and institutional government has evolved. The first part of this book addressed the MSI’s immediate patronage of memory and Almirante’s transposition of the language of sacrifice onto the party itself. It also examined the sustained campaign of misinformation in the mainstream and subversive left-wing media in the lead-up to the first trial, which destabilised public opinion and created the conditions in which divided memories could take root, leaving memory of the attack confined to far-right communities. Part II examined the efforts of Gianfranco Fini’s AN to institutionalise the Italian far right and distance the party from its neofascist origins, a period in which Fini adopted a universalising approach focused on a lack of cooperation between national justice systems in the wake of Lollo’s confession, which brought to light new details about the national and international networks that had helped the perpetrators evade justice for decades. Today, far-right groups commemorate the arson at intergenerational events that signify the passing on of the duty of memory from one generation to the next, framing memory as an act of contemporary militancy, as the previous chapter explored. The Primavalle attack is not remembered by the nation in the way of Aldo Moro’s kidnapping, nor is it commemorated by the city of Rome in the way Bologna commemorates its bombing, though institutional © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 A. King, The Politics of Sacrifice, Italian and Italian American Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-45550-6_7

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engagement with memory on the 50th anniversary of the attack under Meloni’s government does point to a shift in the place of the Rogo in national memory at an institutional level. So far, this book has concentrated on the construction and contestation of collective memory of the arson. Here, I de-centre expressions of collective memory in monuments, texts and rituals, concentrating on oral history testimonies as a means to understand how Primavalle residents encountered and negotiated the narratives put forward by the media or the party. In shifting focus to this micro level, this last chapter furthers our understanding of why, for example, the counter-information narrative immediately put forward after the arson by the far left resonated beyond the political communities that sought to defend the perpetrators. Unlike many violent episodes from Italy’s Years of Lead, this is a crime with convicted perpetrators and a judicial account of events. And yet, conflict and contestation continue to characterise memory of the attack. Traces of these disagreements can be found in the way the story is told. This final chapter complements the rest of the book by offering a new perspective: the testimonies of those who witnessed the Rogo or its aftermath. Oral sources, historian Alessandro Portelli (2007, p. 14) writes, are ‘acts’, which are ‘not to be thought of in terms of nouns and objects but in terms of verbs and processes.’ Recalling the night of 16 April 1973 and the events that followed is an active process, and one that I analyse to uncover the dominant themes, symbols and narratives that persist in the cultural imaginary today. The details my interviewees chose to share with me—a younger, foreign, female researcher—reveal what they believe to be the salient points of this history, but they also point to continued divisions in memory along ideological lines. These memories are plotted onto stories of social decay and poverty in ways that reveal a much more nuanced explanation of the attack than that presented by the far right today. The attack lies on the near side of what historian Lutz Niethammer (1995) calls ‘the floating gap’, a space that demarcates events recent enough for there to be living witnesses. Over several years, I have conducted eight oral history interviews with people who lived in Primavalle on 16 April 1973. Initially, I sought the help of the association Vengo da Primavalle (I Come from Primavalle) in sourcing my interviewees. Comprising local residents, this association is embedded in the local community where it organises cultural and social events. These interviewees in turn put me in contact with others, allowing me to conduct snowball sampling. Most interviewees still live in Primavalle. As we have seen, memory of the attack remains contentious and emotive, and so I have changed

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interviewees’ names to protect their identities, with the exception of Giampaolo Mattei whose perspective is clearly that of a survivor and relative of the victims. Offering no illusion of objectivity, the recollections contained in this chapter connect the space between public and private memories. Though the dataset is not large enough to represent a comprehensive study with concrete conclusions, it nevertheless adds a multivocal perspective beyond my own and offers an individual counterpart to the broader narratives of the media or political groups that have dominated this book. All interviewees saw the aftermath of the attack in the community, and one was an eyewitness as the arson raged. Some interviewees were directly involved in the political violence of the 1970s, and one knew the perpetrators. One was a survivor. All my interviewees were male, Italian and older than me. Their responses are thus shaped by the interpersonal dynamics between two very different demographics. Often my interviewees assumed I had little to no knowledge of Italian terrorism, not least of  the arson itself. Aware of what historian Lynn Abrams (2016, p. 56) describes as my ‘subject position’, it was interesting to note the details they prioritised in recounting their memories, which demonstrated what they held to be the true significance of the attack.

7.1   Dramatic Spectacle Back then, especially in Rome, Primavalle was the start of the most unrestrained violence, because it was a truly horrible act. Until Primavalle, people used to get into fistfights and stabbings, for God’s sake, Molotov cocktails, all that sort of thing, but never such well-thought-out things. Because to do something like that you have to plan it out around a table [...] It was really planned out, the whole thing. Giampaolo Mattei.

The Years of Lead saw clashes during demonstrations, attacks on political militants or the police, and large massacres like the Piazza Fontana bombing. Violence had escalated in April 1973 with the killing of police officer Antonio Marino during the ‘march on Milan’, and Nico Azzi’s failed bombing, which could have killed hundreds. But this was the first fatal attack to take place in the private space of the home, and the first to claim a child victim. Not the instantaneous explosion of a bomb nor the sudden shot of a gun, this was an attack that unfurled slowly. Fuel spreading under a doorframe, sparks triggered, flames moving through an apartment fed by the gust of an open door. As it progressed, witnesses gathered.

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Perhaps smoke had crept silently through a cracked window, an olfactory threat of a nearby tragedy that caused neighbours to pull back a curtain and become a witness. Or maybe, like Cesare, now retired, slumbering residents were woken by racing sirens: I was inside with my wife, and I said to her: “Are the ambulances and fire brigades stopping?”, because the sirens are different, ambulance ones and fire engine ones. We got dressed and went outside. It was full of lights, flashing cars, full of carabinieri, traffic police, police, and we stopped here, right at the second entrance to the ASL [Azienda Sanitaria Locale—Local Health Authority], we couldn’t go any further. You could see the smoke, and I asked someone who’d got there before me what had happened, and they said: “The Mattei family’s house is on fire”.

Now a journalist, Carlo watched as the arson raged through the Matteis’ flat from his childhood home in the adjacent building in via Bernardo da Bibbiena. The two buildings were connected, so the window of Carlo’s fourth-floor bedroom was close to the Matteis’ flat. He remembers the red light of flames and screams for help. His recollection contains repetition, interruptions, false starts and pauses that convey the panic felt by a child faced with this unthinkable scene: I didn’t understand what was happening, I didn’t know what was happening or which apartment was going up in flames. […] There was smoke, there was smoke in the whole building… and so to start with my parents, well, all of us living in the building, we went up to the roof, to the roof of the building where there was a sort of shared terrace. The two buildings were connected, and because we didn’t know how to get down from there… They couldn’t get out in the Mattei family’s building because the flames had invaded the whole building, even the stairwell, so they stayed in the building until the fire was put out.

Carlo describes his memories as ‘very fragmented’ because his parents quickly took him away from the ‘awful scenes’ that took place in front of a crowd gathered at the foot of the building. His memories include flashing lights, sirens, growing flames, plumes of smoke, screams, and people jumping from high windows: I have very fragmented memories because my parents took me away from the scene after a few moments. Awful scenes. I remember seeing things falling out of the window and then I realised they were mattresses. The Mattei family had

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thrown mattresses from the other side [of the building] from my room, but from down on street at that point I could see the whole building. They were throwing mattresses to the ground and some of the family managed to jump from the third floor onto these mattresses. I remember the screams because they broke arms, legs, etcetera, fortunately for them they were saved, but my parents didn’t let me see the sight that I saw in the newspapers the next morning.

These testimonies are characterised by motion—of bodies, voices, objects, lights. They offer a stark contrast to the stasis of Antonio Monteforte’s photograph, which dominates collective memory of the arson today. Today, on the whole, memory of the arson is visual: static, and enduring. At the time, though, visual memory of the attack was expressed dynamically, as we saw in the witness account centred in Bruno Vespa’s TG1 report the day of the arson, analysed in Chapter 2. The contrast between the ways the arson is recollected by those who witnessed it and those who did not—dynamism versus stasis—makes clear that the photograph of Virgilio at the window has become an imago for the wider public who learnt about the attack the next day, as discussed in Chapter 2. Historian Norman Klein uses the term ‘imago’ to identify the enduring, historical quality of some photographs in collective memory. These photographs, Klein (2008, 4) writes, ‘are preserved inside a mental cameo frame [...] [The imago] remains where we put it, but the details around it get lost [...] They are the rumors that seems haunted with memory, so satisfying that it keeps us from looking beyond it.’ Despite his parents’ best efforts to protect him from horrifying images, Carlo recalled going to the newsagents with his grandmother the day after the arson, where he was confronted by the photograph of Virgilio at the window. He described seeing the photograph of Virgilio ‘ready to jump’ and ‘little Stefano was behind and... the fire had got Stefano’s legs, Stefano’s body, he was clinging to his brother, and they basically became one body in the flames.’ Having avoided the sight on the night of the arson, ‘it was a shock because on the front page of all the newspapers there was an unfiltered photo of Virgilio burnt to a cinder, clinging to, hugging the window. He hadn’t been able to jump.’ Emanuele has lived in Primavalle all his life. A former city councillor for the right, he was a member of the Volontari Nazionali with Virgilio Mattei in the 1970s. As a friend of Virgilio’s, he knew the Mattei family personally. When I asked him if he remembered where he was when he first heard about the attack, he paused at the mention of his friend’s body at the

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window and, unable to find the appropriate word, chose a euphemistic description before quickly continuing his account: ‘In the morning while I was at the hospital, I don’t remember who, but someone called, I think the Primavalle police who knew me, and I came here to see, to see this— situation. With Virgilio, who was still attached to the—others who had been told were also there.’ His recourse to the euphemism ‘situation’ points to the uniquely powerful and traumatic symbol of Virgilio’s body at the window, which was reproduced by so many of the national dailies. Indeed, Franco, who worked at Il Messaggero at the time—the paper that first published Monteforte’s image—describes the image as ‘used excessively everywhere.’ For witnesses to the tragedy, Monteforte’s photograph was a space invested with traumatic memory. Printed and reprinted, it continues to haunt Emanuele: I mean always seeing them [the photos], imagining them, because afterwards there was a police photo of Stefano, he was clinging to his [Virgilio’s] legs. And that was horrifying. That was most likely when Virgilio got scared because they were high up on the third floor. He didn’t think, well, I’ll break one leg, two legs, but instead that it was too high up. It was a moment, a matter of a moment, because whatever Lollo said about not having put petrol under the door, first it was fifteen litres, then it was three litres. With three litres nothing happens. With three litres of petrol… with three litres of petrol you don’t get to the kitchen, the kitchen was beyond the small room, because when you came in, on the right there was the small room where Stefano and Virgilio slept and then the wall, the kitchen. I mean, it’s not possible with three litres of petrol, no way... And that’s what scared us. But it was probably just a moment. Having his brother who very probably made him fear that—my God—

7.2  Primavalle: A Space of Alterity Alongside Virgilio at the window, another symbol recurs across all interviewees’ recollections of the arson: that of the case popolari, the social housing units that housed families like the Matteis. The story thus starts 35 years before the attack took place. Built by the Fascist regime to house those displaced by the gutting of central Rome performed under Mussolini’s orders, these social housing buildings were densely packed but isolated—‘a kind of village’, according to Marcello, a chef who lived in one of Primavalle’s social housing units in the 1970s, close to the Matteis. Designed by architect Giorgio Guidi, these dwellings were constructed over a period of 31 years, beginning in 1938, and lasted well beyond their

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intended lifespan of a decade. This was an isolated space, a community. As Marcello explained: ‘the hard core of Primavalle was the social housing, they had known each other all their lives.’ While recollection focuses on the community aspect, for Davide, these buildings were motifs of abandon. Davide moved to Primavalle with his family as a child in the 1950s. By the 1970s, he had joined the far-left extra-parliamentary group Lotta Continua and had contact with the perpetrators of the attack in a local osteria. Davide described the demolitions that took place in central Rome on Mussolini’s orders, which displaced those from the working-class neighbourhoods of Borgo and Monti. He described these residents as having been ‘deported to Primavalle’, adding ‘deported in a very real sense, it’s not like you could choose [laughs].’ This had significant economic repercussions: ‘it ruined them, because they may very well have opened their shops again when they got here, but it wasn’t the same thing to have, say, a carpenter’s or stonemason’s shop in the Colosseum, or to have it in Primavalle, where there wasn’t even a bus to get here. So even people who weren’t really poor got here and became poor. And in ‘73 it wasn’t as if the situation had really changed, eh.’ Davide’s use of the word ‘deported’ reveals both the detachment of the area from the rest of the city, and the disempowerment of the local community in the face of the central Roman authorities. Emanuele’s description of the area also focused on the housing typical of the local landscape. He labelled the local economic situation ‘a disaster’ and noted the ‘total institutional abandonment’ of the area. Feelings of dislocation, abandon and isolation emerge in these testimonies through the recurring symbol of the case popolari. The ‘unidirectional gaze’ identified by Forgacs (2014, p. 65) in his work on cultural representations of Italian peripheries, where outlying parts of Rome like the borgate were looked upon ‘from an implied centre located elsewhere’, is reversed in memories of the arson. Here, memory is located within Primavalle and looks back towards the city. This anchoring of memory within the suburb tells us something about the place of the arson in collective memory and offers a contrast to the contextualisation of memory put forward by grassroots far-right groups within a history of persecution in the antifascist Republic. The attack is remembered as peripheral to the political violence in urban centres, including bomb attacks on institutions or infrastructure, or large and violent clashes during political demonstrations in public piazzas. This was an act of unprecedented violence in a context of social degradation and isolation. Where contemporary far-right groups remember the attack within a

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framework of persecution (which, as analysed in Chapter 5, dates back to the fall of Fascism and the short-lived RSI), those who lived in the community and witnessed the immediate aftermath of the tragedy reveal that this was an exceptional and incomprehensible act that struck not at the heart of a nation, but of a poor and isolated community. This representation of Primavalle as a space of alterity was evident in media coverage at the time. As Chapter 2 made clear, the television news drew heavily on panning shots of the borgata, a sea of social housing isolated from the city by desolate open space. This framing was echoed in the weekly magazine Tempo, which published a feature article by Franco Paoli (1973) on Primavalle three weeks after the arson titled The Kerosene Borgata. The area is labelled this way because two years prior, a 14-year-­ old boy had been kidnapped and taken to a tin shack, where he was sexually abused, tortured with cigarette butts, doused in petrol, and set alight. While recognising the two crimes were not linked, Paoli’s piece cites several sociologists as part of a wider investigation of the impact of the neighbourhood’s segregation from the capital, which turned residents into ‘prisoners of the ghetto.’ The article also labels the neighbourhood a lager, a term used to describe Nazi concentration camps that comes from the word Konzentrationslager. This echoes the rhetorical framework of displacement and ghettoisation used in oral history interviews, and points to how the attack was experienced as an exceptional act of violence set apart from the political clashes or bombings in urban space or infrastructure. This was a human tragedy. These notions of alterity and social decay take on an almost other-­ worldly quality for Davide, whose testimony draws on the rhetoric and tropes of fiction. The backdrop against which he recounted his memories of the Primavalle Arson is very specific; memory is temporally rooted and localised. Primavalle is described as a place of poverty, abandonment and community. This was not an attack that could have taken place at another place and time, nor was it understood as part of a broader chain of political violence throughout Italy. For Davide, this socioeconomic context created the conditions for the perpetrators to commit the crime, leading to what he described as ‘a tragic incident in the run-down outskirts [of the city].’ In his analysis of the role of time in oral history, Portelli writes (1991, p. 59): ‘That a tale is a confrontation with time is implicit in the attempt to carve out a special time in which to place the tale—a time outside time, a time without time. It is the time of myth, and the time of the fairy tale (as in “once upon a time”).’ This temporal disjunction and otherworldly

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nature are evident in the descriptions of Primavalle in the 1970s, but as a dystopian—rather than fairy-tale—world, akin to the ‘Middle Ages’. Davide told me: ‘I mean, we’re talking about a situation that, I told you, even for me... I mean, I’m over 60 years old, it sounds like I’m talking about the Middle Ages, and I realise that you’re not even Italian, I mean, I mean...’ Davide drew on storytelling techniques and well-known cultural reference points to recount his memories of Primavalle and the attack. He recalls that Lollo, Clavo and Grillo formed an armed group that went by the name Clockwork Orange—a fact confirmed in Aldo Grandi’s history of Potere Operaio (2003, p. 91). Davide suggested that the choice of name, neither political nor ideological, demonstrated their motivation ‘wasn’t political violence. It was really the stuff of... the reckless.’ Here, it is worth recalling the depiction of the perpetrators painted by the investigating judge Francesco Amato in his indictment of Lollo, Grillo and Clavo. While sharing Davide’s view that the perpetrators held ‘pseudo-political views’, describing them as members of the ‘petty bourgeois’ who ‘pose as revolutionaries’ while enjoying the luxuries and carefree life afforded by their family wealth, Amato nonetheless classified the attack as political violence (Grandi 2003, p. 300). He wrote: ‘They harbour hatred for anyone who is not part of the elite. For this reason, unable to operate on any ideological and political level, they identify the ideas they say they want to eliminate with the people who manifest them’ (Grandi 2003, p. 300). Davide, on the other hand, depoliticises the act, presenting it as an act of sheer recklessness—an interpretation many would contest. In contrast, Giampaolo Mattei positions the attack as part of the development of the extreme left, and the motivation as purely political. He explained: Something of the Red Brigades was already emerging then, there was Lotta Continua, there was the student movement, there was Potere Operaio, which was yet to position itself. In the meantime, we learned a few years ago that Valerio Morrucci, then leader of Potere Operaio, but he was also one of the founders of the BR in Rome, was involved. And Grillo, one of the attackers, needed this remarkable moment that night to make his quantum leap into illegality, into the armed struggle.

Davide’s testimony is therefore quite unique in its portrayal. He described the victims and perpetrators as ‘characters’, narrated his

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memories using rhetorical devices that set the scene (‘The madness of this story was born inside that osteria’), and referred to existing cultural works to evoke a particular representation of events: ‘It’s a story... well, as Gaber used to say, it’s another ‘awful mess’, which happened because of a series of events, some of which were truly diabolical, but accidental.’ Throughout the interview, he drew  several comparisons between Primavalle of the 1970s and the films and protagonists of Pasolini—a director known for his representation of working-class Rome: There was real poverty... petty crime, prostitution, in short, the phenomena of Pasolini’s films. If you’ve seen any of them, we’re not quite talking about the shacks of the Prenestina neighbourhood, but very very close. So it was a poor neighbourhood, and in my opinion this wretched story was born from the decline of this social situation. They’re all characters that I more or less knew personally—I was 19 years old in 1973, but I assure you, they were people I wouldn’t have trusted in the slightest, neither one lot nor the other, quite colourful characters typical of a downtrodden area, who might also become poetic figures… Pasolini’s Accattone.

Through his vivid descriptions of the poverty-stricken, isolated, periphery, the evocation of the films of Pasolini, painting of ‘characters’ and the use of storytelling devices, a level of abstraction emerges from this testimony that creates distance between the present and the past. There is a sense of Primavalle as another time, another place, another world. Davide presents a causal relationship between the socioeconomic backdrop and the tragedy, a narrative framing that reduces the political motive of the perpetrators and apportions blame equally to the Italian state for failing to provide for its citizens and creating the context of social decay in which such an attack could take place. Though Emanuele too located the memory of the arson firmly in Primavalle in the 1970s, describing detachment and abandon, he recollected the attack within a political framework, identifying the growing clout of the MSI in the community as the motive. He recalled frequent clashes with the left, which were ‘always resolved with a fistfight, a beating and that sort of thing’, and attacks that occurred on the party headquarters in via Svampa. Widening this geographical space of memory and broadening the context of the attack within the Years of Lead, Emanuele recounted a visit to Turin, where he joined fellow Volontari Nazionali members in front of the state university and the Fiat factory to campaign

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for greater worker involvement in management. The protest, he recalled, opened dialogue between the party and workers and was considered a success by the MSI—a development he underscored again in recollecting local progress: ‘We realised that our way of thinking awakened a lot of minds. So much so that from a single member of CISNAL, the MSI’s trade union, we managed to raise that figure to a hundred in the 1970s, and that was really satisfying. It guaranteed our survival in the neighbourhood.’ Emanuele’s explanation is therefore rooted in the political environment of Primavalle and positions the attack in a national context of far-right progress. In other words, progress in Primavalle was a microcosm of the party’s fate more broadly. For him, the Mattei family was a symbol of the growing popularity of the party in the traditionally left-wing area—a fact that contrasts with Davide’s description of the neofascist threat as ‘zero’. These dual narratives—social decay and political violence—are, of course, connected, but Davide, who was involved in far-left politics, and Emanuele, a former member of the MSI’s Volontari Nazionali, give each narrative a different weighting in their recollections. Emanuele considers the attack to have been a political attempt to quash the growing popularity of the right in Primavalle (and beyond), while for Davide the arson was the result of poverty and degradation, not politics. Writing the day after the arson, Corriere della Sera journalist Gianfranco Piazzesi (1973) reflected on these two framings: The Primavalle case shows a certain unfathomable abyss of hate and brutality, conceivable only in a social context like that of the Roman suburbs, which has by now reached an extreme state of degradation. But at the same time, it is not dissimilar from those that preceded it: it is one moment in the fundamental crisis shaking the country, only more conspicuous and shocking than all the others [...] For the past three years, right-wing and left-wing extremists have descended from their opposing sides in an increasingly determined attack on the besieged fortress of democracy. [...] We are witnessing a chain of attacks, of revenge, of cruel and sometimes atrocious feuds: a creeping civil war is already underway, and no one knows how to contain it.

Despite its sociological framing, for Piazzesi, the event must not be isolated from what he terms a ‘civil war’ holding Italy in its grip, an act ‘more conspicuous and shocking’ than its predecessors but nevertheless a continuation of wider political violence. This connection between

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poles—social and political—ran through Bruno Vespa’s TG1 report for Rai, analysed in Chapter 2, which began with a reflection on isolation and poverty in Primavalle, before presenting the attack as singular in its ferocity within a rising tide of political violence in the capital. But while reporters immediately connected social decay and political violence in the context of an attack on democracy (before coverage became heavily politicised), over time, these strands have decoupled in memory. A more sociological framing reduces the political motive of the attack, which is presented as a symptom of social decay and institutional abandon. Implicit in this framing is the suggestion that such an event could not occur again now that these circumstances have passed, and culpability is attributed equally to the state for allowing the social degradation in which this violence might arise. On the other hand, a more political framing heightens the victimisation of the party after an attack on its symbolic family. Despite these nuances, interviewees are united in presenting the attack as unexpected, and unthinkable.

7.3  Explaining the Unthinkable The unexpected nature of this escalation in violence is evident throughout these memories. Emanuele provided an emotional testimony that decried the nature of the Matteis’ deaths. As he recalls, this was not a ‘face-to-face confrontation’ between two parties committed to opposing ideological values—‘I might have a gun, he’d attack me and I’d give him a beating’— but an ‘ambush’. The unsuspecting victims set the tragedy apart from others in Emanuele’s mind: It’s something that sticks in your mind, shocks you, something you carry around for years. So much so that forty years have passed, but you still have it in your mind, and you still have those feelings. To die that way at night, taken by surprise, I mean...

Witnessed by a community, the unexpectedness of the attack created collective grief. As we saw in Chapter 3, many Primavalle residents participated in the Mattei brothers’ funeral, moved by the suffering of a local family. Carlo described this tight-knit community as ‘like a family in mourning’. He emphasised the particularity of this collective experience:

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In those buildings in the seventies there was a kind of friendship, a brotherhood, which has been lost. [...] To see two people we all knew, a family that was a family like any other who lived in that community, to see them suffer, to know that two of the family’s children had died, it was an incredible drama for us. It touched the social fabric of what was a large extended family.

This shared emotional response bred solidarity. Emanuele described the anger in the community as ‘enormous’: ‘No one expected something like that even if he was a fascist, they were fascists.’ He recalled the condolences offered by people across the political spectrum, shared devastation with regards to the child victim overriding political allegiances. But for those living in Primavalle, the unexpectedness of the attack made it very hard to process. The local far-right community was so small in an area so deeply oriented towards the left. Interviewees described the mood of the neighbourhood as one of total ‘incomprehension’. A PCI stronghold, a constellation of far-left extra-parliamentary groups could be found in Primavalle, from Potere Operaio to Lotta Continua and other smaller groups. Alessio lived with his parents in Primavalle in the 1970s. At the time of the attack, he was part of a Catholic group that assisted the elderly with household tasks and helped young children after school. Engaged in political activism, he belonged to the left-wing group Il Manifesto. Alessio recalled ‘virtually everywhere you went there were headquarters, branches, groups, circles of extreme left groups.’ Locals’ response to the tragedy was total disbelief: In that moment it was just fear, incomprehension of what had happened, an inability to pinpoint what the causes might have been and who might have done it. We were all stunned when in the afternoon people started talking about a political motive because the father was the secretary of the local branch, because... well for the very reason I mentioned earlier, the political community in Primavalle was strongly left-wing. The Giarabub branch was insignificant, nobody paid it any attention.

Bewildered, locals searched for an explanation, a truth that would fit within an existing framework of understanding. This longing was clear from Alessio’s use of the grammatical construction ‘had to have been’. Reminiscent of a subjunctive mood for its sense of possibility, the construction also suggests a need or a longing, bound up in the word ‘had’:

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It was hard to make the connection between this attack and a group on the left. So much so that in the early days people gave a lot of credence to the idea of problems within the branch, all those things that came out later, everything was cast in doubt because an attack like that was so serious that there had to have been… I mean the idea of starting a fire and causing two deaths… there had to have been a mistake, some kind of big mistake, or a grudge, anger, a string of such strong vendettas that couldn’t have been political in nature.

This incomprehension and incredulity in the face of the attack left many open to an alternative, non-political version of events, a re-framing that would resolve these tensions. Marcello conveyed the unexpectedness of the attack within the Years of Lead, telling me: At the beginning though, people didn’t think someone could do something like that, because it wasn’t yet the Holy Years, the Years of Lead as you call them, it was one of the first acts, one of the bloodiest acts, and I told you that the fascists didn’t have it easy in the neighbourhood, but in reality they got away with a slap or people not greeting them, and that was that. To think that someone had set fire to the house... it was unthinkable.

Incomprehension was also felt among the extra-parliamentary left, as Davide recalls: After the first few days of total bewilderment, we got to know these people [the perpetrators] and realised that they were fools. At first we went as far as to say that they might even have been capable of doing what had happened, but then it turned out the fire had started from inside. These people were not telling the truth, at two o’clock in the morning they were all dressed […] so we said that they were innocent, and we defended them. Even after the first conviction, until Lollo gave a statement to La Repubblica and admitted it, I was still quite convinced that they were innocent. I’m being honest, personally, I...

These accounts help us to understand why the campaign of misinformation constructed by the subversive and mainstream left-wing press, which presented internal divisions within the MSI as the motive for the attack, was able to shape public consciousness of the attack. These recollections explain the why, not the how. Within the extra-parliamentary community, this incomprehensibility made the attack a turning point, as Alessio explained:

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It was a terrible blow for people who were politically active in Primavalle on the extra-parliamentary left […] because it almost led them to dissociate themselves [from the extra-parliamentary left] because they didn’t recognise themselves in that act.

While Alessio’s recollection points to an alienation effect, other sources frame the attack as the moment that pushed some towards political violence. In his history of Potere Operaio, Aldo Grandi (2003, p.  298) describes that attack as a ‘detonator within a group that was about the explode’, highlighting its impact on Potere Operaio and the wave of resignations from the group over the following months. Gaeta and Perrone were expelled from the group for ‘damaging behaviour’, widely understood as their failure to sustain false alibis for those involved in the attack (Grandi 2003, p. 298). These accounts, oral and written, de-centre the contemporary focus on its significance for far-right communities, showing the impact on the far-left. I recall a conversation with a former member of the extra-parliamentary left who lived in Primavalle in 1973. Though he did not have time for a full interview, he summarised the feeling prevalent in his far-left community in the face of this unprecedented violence: ‘It could not be true. It must not be true,’ he told me. Until this point, fatal political violence had largely been attributed to the far right in the cultural imaginary. This was an end of innocence.

7.4  Conclusion The Primavalle arson marked an irrevocable escalation in far-left violence years before the sustained violence of the Brigate Rosse began, and one that provoked widespread incomprehension. It was also one that allowed the MSI to present itself as persecuted and launched the party onto a symbolic path of performed redemption in the postwar period, which culminated in the dissolution of the party. A turning point for the far left and the far right, it was, to many, unthinkable. Not only for its ferocity, child victim and domestic setting, though of course these three elements were significant, but also for its choice of target: a small far-right community in Primavalle. As these testimonies make clear, this unthinkable act left many searching for an explanation—a chasm in comprehension ready to be filled. A final point emerges from my interviews: a total absence of overtones of sacrifice and martyrdom that have characterised commemoration by far-right communities, a theme that has recurred throughout this book.

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There is no attempt to create meaning from death through the reverential language of martyrdom. Instead, the brothers are remembered as victims. In our interview, Giampaolo Mattei explicitly addressed the mythologisation of his brothers by the far right. Explaining his efforts to fully represent his brothers by sharing anecdotes—good and bad—that reflect them as they really were, he underlined the political importance of this approach: I make these “provocations”, in inverted commas, to bring down the mythical stories that have been built around these guys. […]. And unfortunately, the MSI community has created this sort of mythology around these boys, that they were handsome, blue-eyed, slim. No. I, on the other hand, would like to know ... who they were.

Martyr narratives obscure detail. While grief crosses ideological boundaries, and mutual recognition of this grief is an important part of reconciliation, martyrdom divides. Stories of martyrdom cement ideological boundaries and preclude bipartisan engagement. Martyrs have long been part of a narrative of persecution that gives the neofascist community a sense of purpose. This rhetoric defined Almirante’s engagement with memory at the Mattei brothers’ funeral, building on an existing far-right script for future iterations of Italy’s far right to follow. These martyr narratives were part of a public performance of political sacrifice initiated by Almirante amidst widespread discussion of MSI squadrismo. The Primavalle attack provided a legitimate example of far-right suffering, and its unfurling at the threshold between the public and the private provided the element of spectacle that has historically given martyrdom its power. Ritualistically expressed and rhetorically sustained, Almirante’s expert use of the martyr narrative was part of a broader effort to set the party on a path to redemption that culminated in the dissolution of the MSI in the mid-1990s. When the party for which the brothers made their sacrifice officially ended, far-right groups that objected to Alleanza Nazionale’s perceived centrism and Fini’s approach to its roots turned to the memory of two MSI martyrs to commemorate a double mourning. They honoured the Matteis within a broader pantheon, alongside the fallen of the RSI, a minority so committed to far-right ideology that they were willing to die for their beliefs. More recently, the Mattei brothers have been commemorated as examples of institutional corruption, judicial failures, and persecution of an ideological minority. Within this framework, an older generation of

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neofascists have conferred the duty of memory upon the next, positioning memory as an act of political militancy within a century-long ideological fight. The politics of sacrifice have retained their emotive power among these far-right groups, and memory continues to play a pivotal role in the far right’s recruitment and mainstreaming strategy. The recent 50th anniversary of the attack underlined the continued evolution of the Primavalle arson in collective memory. Of the 16 articles documenting the anniversary in Italy’s mainstream press, ten reflected on the place of the arson in collective memory and the role it might play in the ‘pacification’ of memory more broadly (indeed, five articles had the word ‘pacification’ in the title). This reflects the discourse in institutional spaces like the Senate, where Partitio Democratico senator Walter Verini, the son of a partisan, said on the 50th anniversary: Memory cannot be shared, but it must be complete and, above all, it must have a common denominator. In politics there must be an adversary, even bitter competition, but there must not be hatred and violence. This is the essence of democracy, which is enshrined in the Constitution and which we are preparing to celebrate next 25 April. (‘Resoconto Stenografico, 56a Seduta Pubblica XIX Legislatura,’ 2023, p. 82)

Verini’s intervention was immediately lauded by La Russa, president of the Senate, whose resignation the PD senator had called for just a fortnight before after La Russa’s appearance on the podcast Terraverso in which he incorrectly said the partisans involved in the 1994 Via Rasella attack had killed only a ‘semi-retired band’ of musicians rather than Nazi-­ Fascist soldiers (‘Terraverso, Ignazio La Russa: “Immigrazione, arma puntata contro l’Italia”’ 2023). It would be easy to attribute the unprecedented institutional engagement with memory witnessed on the fiftieth anniversary of the Primavalle attack, which saw several figures from the historic institutional right attend the official ceremony and prime minister Meloni write to Giampaolo Mattei directly, to a politically motivated settling of scores under Italy’s new government. But this explanation overlooks the steady evolution of memory of the Primavalle arson since Lollo’s confession in 2005 and undervalues the complex range of motivations and explanations that this book has examined. It is clear from the first year of a government headed up by a party directly descended from the MSI and its frequent recourse to the language of ‘pacification’ that memory is an arena in which the symbolic struggle over the values the nation represents is playing out, which is likely to mark a new chapter in how the Primavalle story is told.

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References Abrams, Lynn. 2016. Oral History Theory. 2nd ed. Abingdon, Oxon; New York, NY: Routledge. Forgacs, David. 2014. Italy’s Margins: Social Exclusion and Nation Formation since 1861. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Grandi, Aldo. 2003. La generazione degli anni perduti: storie di Potere operaio. Torino: Einaudi. Klein, Norman M. 2008. The History of Forgetting: Los Angeles and the Erasure of Memory. London: Verso. Niethammer, Lutz. 1995. Diesseits des “Floating Gap”. Das kollektive Gedächtnis und die Konstruktion von Identität im wissenschaftlichen Diskurs. In Generation und Gedächtnis, ed. Kristin Platt and Mihran Dabag, 25–50. Wiesbaden: VS Verlag für Sozialwissenschaften. Paoli, Franco. 1973. ‘La Borgata al Kerosene’. Tempo, 6 May 1973. Piazzesi, Gianfranco. 1973. ‘I fascisti smascherati’. Corriere della Sera, 14 April 1973. Corriere della Sera Archivio Storico. Portelli, Alessandro. 1991. The Death of Luigi Trastulli, and Other Stories: Form and Meaning in Oral History. SUNY Series in Oral and Public History. Albany, NY: State University of New York Press. ———. 2007. The Order Has Been Carried Out: History, Memory, and Meaning of a Nazi Massacre in Rome. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. ‘Resoconto stenografico, 56a seduta pubblica XIX legislatura, giovedì 13 aprile 2023’. 2023. Senato della Repubblica: Senato della Repubblica. https://www. senato.it/service/PDF/PDFServer/BGT/1374135.pdf. ‘Terraverso, Ignazio La Russa: “Immigrazione, arma puntata contro l’Italia”’. 2023. 31 March 2023. https://www.liberoquotidiano.it/video/liberotv/ 35369883/terraverso-­ignazio-­la-­r ussa-­immigrazione-­arma-­puntata-­contro-­ italia.html.

Oral History Interviews Alessio, interviewed by Amy King, Rome, 23 July 2019. Carlo, interviewed by Amy King, telephone interview, 25 July 2019. Davide, interviewed by Amy King, Rome, 19 May 2016. Emanuele, interviewed by Amy King, Rome, 21 May 2016. Franco, interviewed by Amy King, Rome, 26 May 2016. Marcello, interviewed by Amy King, Rome, 26 May 2016. Giampaolo Mattei, interviewed by Amy King, Rome, July 2010 and 2 February 2016.

Index1

A Anarchists, see Politicians, activists and militants Angola, 106, 154, 165 Anni di Piombo, see Years of Lead (Anni di Piombo) Antifascism (extreme left) anticapitalism, 116 Bandiera Rossa, 100–101 graffiti, 213 ‘Internationale, The,’ 100 Marxism (see Marxism) posters, banners, flyers and signs, 32, 49, 54, 207, 213 slogans, chants and language of; “boia Amato” (death to Amato), 65; “free Lollo,” 86–87; “guerra di classe,” (class war) 6; “le sedi fasciste si chiudono col fuoco, con i fascisti

dentro, se no è troppo poco” (fire closes fascist dens, it’s not enough unless the fascists are inside), 183, 213; “morte ai fascisti” (death to the fascists), 6; “poliziotti, magistrati, non raccontate balle, i fascisti hanno fatto la strage di Primavalle” (policemen, magistrates, don’t tell lies, the fascists committed the Primavalle massacre), 100; “uccidere un fascista non è reato” (killing a fascist isn’t a crime), xiii, 192; “Walter Rossi lives on,” 207 symbols, iconography and logos, 86, 207 Anti-Semitism, viii, 121–122 Arata, Giulio Ulisse, 129 Argentina, 162

1  Note: Page numbers followed by ‘n’ refer to notes and page numbers in bold refer the reader to images

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 A. King, The Politics of Sacrifice, Italian and Italian American Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-45550-6

241

242 

INDEX

B Banda della Magliana, 189 Barthes, Roland, 44–45 Bolivia, 156 Bracci, Annarella, death of, 76 Brazil, 149, 154–155, 162, 165–167 Presidents of, 155–156, 162, 172 C Cipolla, Giuseppe, 36 Confederazione Generale Italiana del Lavoro (Italian General Confederation of Labour, CGIL), 6, 37 D De Stefani, Antonella, 161–162 E European Commission for Human Rights, 150, 154 Evola, Julius, 19, 93–94, 203 F Facebook, 187–191 Fascism and neofascism (extreme right) ‘armed spontaneity,’ 21 Blackshirts, 36, 128, 141n3 Chapel of the Fascist Martyrs (see Public spaces, Chapel of the Fascist Martyrs) Da Primavalle a via Ottaviano: Uccisi due volte (Roberto Rosetti), 195 Fasci di Combattimento, 214 Ferrogallico, 191–192

Fosse Ardeatine Nazi-Fascist massacre (March 24, 1944), viii, 131, 142n5 graffiti, 24, 65, 125, 184, 207–208, 213 I Libri del Borghese, 195 Le Verità Negate. Bologna, 2 agosto 1980 (Riccardo Pelliccetti), 192 March on Milan (see Years of Lead (Anni di Piombo), March on Milan (12 April 1973; ‘Black Thursday’)) March on Rome (1922), xi, 37, 64, 141n3 media; Barbadillo.it, 189; Black Flag Radio, 191; Radio Radicale, 157; Rai TV, 41, 48–51, 153, 161–162, 175, 195, 227, 234; Repubblica TV, 202; Tortuga TV, 191 Nazi-fascism, viii, 131, 134, 239 nostalgia for (see Memory and memorialisation, nostalgici (nostalgics; ‘memorial liturgy’)) posters, banners, flyers and signs, 199, 200, 204–206; marches and funerals, publicity for, 75; public opinion, as a way to influence, 29–30, 86, 154; public space, as a way to claim, 24, 125, 183–186, 197–209, 215 ras, 192, 213 Roman salute, 75, 123, 126–127, 212, 215, 218 Sergio Ramelli: Quando uccidere un fascista non era reato (Marco Carucci), 192 slogans, chants and language; “boia chi molla” (death to those who give up), 36, 126; “camerati,

 INDEX 

Stefano e Virgilio Mattei,” 127; “chi ama non dimentica!” (those who love do not forget!), 125, 208; “combattenti europei” (European combatants), 125; “contra il sistema, la gioventù si scaglia” (youth lashes out at the system), 126; “credo” (I believe), xi; “Dio, patria, famiglia” (God, fatherland, family), xi; “45 anni di verità negate” (45 years of denied truth), 204–205, 204, 208; “i camerati non dimenticano” (fascist comrades don’t forget), 125; ‘national pacification,’ xiii–xiv; ‘non arrendersi,’ 195; “presenti!” and “presente!” (present!), 127–128, 132, 188, 200, 213, 218; “some Italians never surrender,” 192; “we will never forget,” 203, 205; “your memory allows no surrender,” 208 ‘strategy of tension,’ 10–13, 31–33, 39, 56, 64, 99 symbols, iconography and logos, 24, 79, 119, 125; Celtic cross, 126, 183, 203, 208–209, 215; flame (tricolour flame), xii, 120–121, 198, 200, 201; fasces, 129; lictor, 120; manganello, 124; phoenix, 201; swastika, 124; torch, 129, 198; ‘uniform,’ 87–88, 123, 215 Teatro Diana, attack on (March 1921), 72–73 ultras (football), 126, 171, 194, 214 Ferraresi, Franco, 116–117, 133

243

Fo, Dario, vii, 59 Foibé, viii, 156–157, 190, 210, 217 Basovizza, 184, 210 Cossetto, Norma, death of, 210 Day of Memory of the Exiles and the Foibé, 157, 183–184 See also Italy, Trieste; Yugoslavia, Istria France, 15 French Revolution, 25n2, 136 Mitterrand Doctrine, 155 G Germany Konzentrationslager, 230 Nazi-fascism (see Fascism and neofascism (extreme right), Nazi-fascism) Reichstag fire (Berlin, 1933), 50, 50 Google Street View, 207–208 Guidi, Giorgio, 228 H Hunger, strike against (5 December 1947), 6 I Iaquinti, Francesco, death of, 157 Iraq, 13 Italy Aldo Adige, 81 Calabria; Cantanzaro, 34, 74; Cosenza, 29; Reggio, 34–35 Emilia-Romagna; Bologna, 9, 129, 167, 213; Parma, 84; Rimini, 35 foibé (see Foibé) Genova, 19, 31–34, 84 Italianità, 86

244 

INDEX

Italy (cont.) Lazio, 154, 214; Fiuggi, 104, 117; Ladispoli, 210; Rome (see Italy, Rome) legal and state matters; Campidoglio, 216; Chamber of Deputies, xii, 59, 85; Committee of Italians Abroad (Comites), 154; Criminal Code, 149; Digos, 161, 218; Mafia Capitale, 189; Mitrokhin Commission, 161–165; Montecitorio, 192; omicidio colposo (manslaughter), 153–155, 216; police (see Police); Poste Italiane, 216; Quirinal Palace (Quirinale), 218; Scelba Law, the, 83–86; Secret Service, 175; Servizio Informazioni Difesa (Defence Information Service, SID), 19; Statute of Limitations, 149; strage, 55–57, 105, 147–149, 153, 165, 216; Ufficio Affari Riservati, 165 Le Marche, 212 Lombardy, 23, 36; Bergamo, 35; Brescia, 35; Como, 35; Milan, 9, 33, 60, 81, 135, 213; Piazza San Babila, 37; Piazza San Sepolcro, 128, 214; Piazza Tricolore, 36; Varese, 35; via Bellotti, 36–37; via Mancini, 35 Ortonovo, 31 Puglia, 210 Repubblica Sociale Italiana (Italian Social Republic, RSI, Salò Republic), viii, 17–20, 89, 96, 115, 118, 126, 132, 196, 229; Decima Mas, 130; Fondazione della RSI (RSI Foundation), 130; Verona Charter, viii

Republic, antifascist, 65, 175, 189–190, 209, 217–218, 229 Resistance, vii, 17, 66n3, 83, 132, 137 (see also Memory and memorialisation, Liberation Day (25 April)) Risorgimento, 15, 134–136 Rome; Affile, xii; Balduina, 207; Borgo, 229; Camera del Lavoro di Roma, 82; Campidoglio (see Italy, legal and state matters, Campidoglio); case poplari, 228–229; Chiesa dei Sette Santi Fondatori, 78; Fori Imperiali, 216; Forte Bravetta, 132; Fosse Ardeatine, viii, 131, 142n5; Giardino Mario Zicchieri, 210; March on (see Fascism and neofascism (extreme right), March on Rome); Montecitorio (see Italy, legal and state matters, Montecitorio); Monte Mario, 207; Monti, 229; Ostia, 192; Passeggiata Sergio Ramelli, 210; Piazza Clemente XI, 126; Piazza del Popolo, 202; Piazza Farnese, 96, 151; Piazzale Clodio, 86–87, 92; Piazza Navona, 83, 101; Piazza Regina Margherita, 78; Piazza Risorgimento, 91, 95, 197; Piazza Salerno, 80–82; Pineta Sacchetti Park, 6; Prenestina (Prenestino-Labicano), 41; Primavalle (see Years of Lead (Anni di Piombo), Rogo di Primavalle); Regina Coeli, 100; remodelling of (borgata), 5–6, 228–230; Rivoli, 139; Santa Maria Assunta, 125; Santa Maria sopra Minerva, 93–94, 103; Tuscolano, 124, 135; via

 INDEX 

Alessandria, 75; via Assarotti, 196; via Battistini, 136; via Bernardo da Bibbiena, 3, 41, 125–127, 172–173, 204–210, 214, 226; via Borromeo, 125; via dei Cristofori, 48; via del Boschetto, 56, 151; viale Regina Margherita, 78; viale Valerio Verbano, 210; via Pietro Bembo, 6; via Ottaviano, 91, 197; via Rasella, 131, 142n5, 157, 239; via Segneri, 95, 159; via Svampa, 4, 48, 232; via Tasso, 130 Salerno, 84 Sardinia, 81 Sicily, 81; Palermo, 213; Paternò, 9 Sorrento, 116 Tangentopoli (Bribesville) scandal, 116 Trieste, 157 Turin, 35–36, 139, 213, 232 Tuscany, 36 unification, 16, 128 Veneto, 32, 36; Padova, 8; Vicenza, 35 Wars of Independence, 136 J Jews and Judaism, see Anti-Semitism Journalists, photographers, writers and newspaper staff Adams, Eddie, 44 Adnkronos, 160–163 Agenzia Giornalistica Italia (Italian Journalistic Agency, AGI), 30 Bergmark, Torsten, 99 Carbone, Fabrizio, 78, 89, 97 Cotroneo, Rocco, 149–154 Crocco, Virgilio, 48, 57, 88 De Stefani, Stefano, 161

245

Finer, Leslie, 10 Giurato, Luca, 86 Gorresio, Vittorio, 52 Gravino, Annamaria, 191–192, 195 Grignetti, Francesco, 60, 102, 149 Guarini, Ruggero, 60, 102, 159 Hofmann, Paul, 95 Leoni, Silvio, 155 Manto, Valeria, 192 Maoloni, Piergiorgio, 60, 102 Menghini, Paolo, 56, 105 Merlo, Franco, 115 Minoli, Giovanni, 137 Monteforte, Antonio, 43–46, 64, 172, 227–228 Monti, Giommaria, 169–171 Nenni, Pietro, 37, 66n3 Oldrini, Giorgio, 39 Oppes, Alessandro, 159, 163, 176n2 Pandolfo, Mario, 54–55, 96 Paoli, Franco, 230 Piazzesi, Gianfranco, 233 Prunas, Pasquale, 60, 102 Sensini, Alberto, 29, 92 Sterling, Claire, 38 Telese, Luca, 47, 171, 188–189 Vespa, Bruno, 41–42, 51, 64, 153, 227, 234 Zara, Guido, 87 See also Newspapers and magazines L Laqueur, Thomas, 71–72 Lawyers and legal representatives Amato, Francesco, 7–8, 57, 63–65, 103, 231 Aversa, Elio, 98 Calogero, Pietro, 7 D’Espinosa, Luigi Bianchi, 82–83, 86 Frank, Hans Goeran, 99–100

246 

INDEX

Lawyers and legal representatives (cont.) Gallucci, Achille, 7 Gatti, Adolfo, 152 Lima, Joao André Pinto Dias, 155 Mancini, Tommaso, 101, 163–164 Manfredi, Solange, 163–164 Monteleone, Maria, 153 Palermo, Carlo, 164 Randazzo, Luciano, 156–157, 161–162, 165 Sica, Domenico, 56, 152 Terracini, Umberto, 99, 152 Valensise, Raffaele, 74, 98, 104 Vilardo, Pasquale, 102 Libya, 4, 13 M Mameli, Goffredo, 134 Marxism, 6, 62 Mascanzoni, Aldo, 129 Mattei, Anna death of, 122 funeral of, 195 images of, 77, 88, 193 public victimhood of, 4, 77–81, 98, 104, 118–123, 140–141, 150, 192 Mattei, Antonella, 4 public victimhood of, 192–196, 215–216 Mattei, Giampaolo AFM, leadership of, 8 Facebook group, managed by, 187–189, 212 interviews with, 147, 187, 224–225, 231, 238 La notte brucia ancora (co-written with Giommaria Monti), 169–170 Meloni, letter from, 216–217, 239

public victimhood of, 4, 134–139, 148–150, 166–173, 184–185, 196, 209, 214–218 Mattei, Lucia, 4 Mattei, Mario, 42, 48, 104 images of, 88 MSI, local leadership of, 3–5, 54–55, 96–98 Mattei, Silvia, 4, 150 Mattei, Stefano death of, 4, 41–43, 48–49, 64, 127, 227 funeral of, 21–23, 71–85, 106, 117–120, 137, 193, 234 images of; graphic novel, 191–195; photographs, 43–44, 64, 172 Mattei, Virgilio death of, 4, 41–48, 64, 127, 159, 193 funeral of, 21–23, 71–85, 106, 117–120, 137, 193, 234 images of, 71, 204, 208, 218; graphic novel, 191–195; photographs, 43–47, 64, 75, 171–172, 193–194, 206, 227–228 Memory and memorialisation counter-monuments and counter-­ memory, 138, 185, 197, 204, 213 Day of Memory for the Victims of Terrorism (National Day of Memory, 9 May), 12–13, 148, 169, 174, 218 Day of Memory of the Exiles and the Foibé (National Day of Remembrance, National Memorial Day, 10 February), 157, 183–184 ‘deliberate/defensive/collective amnesia,’ xi, 10–12, 184, 207 ‘denied memory,’ 184

 INDEX 

funerals; Bracci, Annarella, 76; camera ardente, 73, 76; Graziani, Rodolfo, 73; Mantakas, Mikis, 74, 93, 203; Mattei, Anna, 195; Mattei, Stefano and Virgilio, 21–23, 71–85, 106, 117–120, 137, 193, 234; Toti, Enrico, 129; Venturini, Ugo, 73 imago, 227 Liberation Day (25 April), xiii, 35, 55 (see also Italy, Resistance) martyrs; aesthetics, of 16; appropriation of, 71, 166–168, 187–188, 193, 196, 199, 217; ‘cults,’ 15, 126, 198; Fascist, 9, 16, 128, 210; ‘for liberty,’ 136–138, 138; Partisan, 17; religious, 14–16, 82, 85, 118–120, 127; secular, 15; ‘state,’ 17 mass held for, 103 ‘memorial bricolage,’ 185, 198 (see also Fascism and neofascism (extreme right), posters, banners, flyers and signs) ‘memory choreographers,’ 118, 127, 149 ‘mnemonic resistance,’ 14 nostalgici (nostalgics; ‘memorial liturgy’), xiv, 16, 126 Parliamentary Inquiry into Political Violence (1970–1989), xii plaques, 118, 133–138, 138, 142n7, 142n8, 210–212 public spaces (see Public spaces) ‘public victims’; Capra (Calabresi), Gemma, 169–170; Mattei, Anna (see Mattei, Anna); Mattei, Antonella (see Mattei, Antonella); Mattei, Giampaolo (see Mattei, Giampaolo);

247

Rognini (Pinelli), Licia, 169–170; Verbano, Carla, 122–123, 169, 172, 218 Sansepolcristi, 135 Vergangenheitsbewältigung (‘coming to terms with the past’), xi Moravia, Alberto, 102 N Neo-fascism, see Fascism and neofascism (extreme right) Newspapers and magazines Adnkronos, 160, 163 Avanti, 40, 87–89 Controinformazione, 61 Corriere della Sera, xiii, 23, 39, 76, 115, 121; Lollo, interview with, 102–105, 147–149, 153–154, 164, 170; Mattei brothers’ funeral, 80; Rogo di Primavalle, 32–35, 44, 57, 159; trials, 94, 99 Corriere d’Informazione, 85 Corriere Roma, 124 Gazzetta Piemontese, 142n8 Il Giornale d’Italia, 122 Il Manifesto, 51 Il Messaggero, 39, 61; Rogo di Primavalle, 43–48, 52–57, 77, 96; trials, 88–90, 106 Il Mattino, 192 Il Popolo, 38–40 Il Primato Nazionale, 191 Il Secolo d’Italia, 38, 55, 58; Almirante, article by, 38; Mattei brothers’ funeral, 75–78, 82; Rogo di Primavalle, 30–31, 46–49, 64; trials, 87–91, 94–96, 101–103 Il Tempo, 36–38, 44–45, 52, 77, 95 International Herald Tribune, 38–39 La Fenice, 32–33

248 

INDEX

Newspapers and magazines (cont.) La Repubblica, 120–121, 158–159, 163–166 La Stampa; Rogo di Primavalle, 44; trials, 56, 85–92, 95–97, 101–104, 149–150 La Voce Repubblicana, 40 L’Espresso, 134 LiveSicilia, 165 Lotta Continua, 32, 49, 100 L’Unità, 39–40; Mattei brothers’ funeral (coverage, lack of), 77; Rogo di Primavalle, 44, 49, 52; trials, 74, 87–88, 95–96 Momento Sera, 88 Nação Brasil, 155 New York Times, xi, 95 Novella 2000, 57 Observer, 10 Paese Sera, 45 Panorama, 155 Potere Operaio del Lunedì, 49–51, 50, 86 Tempo, 230 See also Journalists, photographers, writers and newspaper staff Nicaragua, 159–160, 164–165 Northern Ireland, 11, 15 Bloody Sunday, 173 Sands, Bobby, 125 O Oral history, 3, 24, 52–53, 76–80, 115, 224, 230–235 P Pasolini, Pier Paolo, 17, 232 Perchi, Gualtiero, 98 Perrone, Alessandro, 57 Perrone, Diana, see Politicians, activists and militants, Perrone, Diana

Perrone, Ferdinando, 96 Pitagora, Paola, 164 Poletti, Ugo, 79 Police, 5, 36–38, 75–76, 87–92, 124, 131 Annarumma, Antonio, death of, 66n2, 81 Calabresi, Luigi, death of, 81, 169 carabinieri, 56, 73, 81–83, 89, 100, 104, 165, 189 Marino, Antonio, death of, 22, 36–39, 44, 51–52, 59, 81, 225 Raggruppamento Operativo Speciale (Special Operations Group), 165 stations, 6, 48, 56, 83 Political parties and militant groups Aktion Antifascista, 183, 213 Alleanza Nazionale (National Alliance, AN), 106, 150, 165; foundation of, xii, 23–24, 116–117, 120–126, 133, 139–140, 151, 190; institutionalisation of, 126; leadership of, 71, 138–139, 160, 195 Alternativa Sociale (Social Alternative, AS), 125 Arditi del Popolo, 129 Autonomia Operaio, 141n1, 169 Avanguardia Nazionale (National Vanguard), 22, 36, 51, 54 Azione Giovani (Youth Action, AG), 150, 154 Break Out, 123–125, 206 Brigate Rosse (Red Brigades), vii, 8, 91, 105, 155, 164, 237 CasaPound Italia (CPI), 22–24, 175, 187, 190–197, 202, 208, 216 Centro Studi Ordine Nuovo (CSON), 19, 94 Comitato di Liberazione Nazionale (National Liberation Committee, CLN, ciellenisti), 66n3

 INDEX 

Comunità di Avanguardia (Vanguard Community), 134 Democrazia Cristiana (Christian Democracy, DC), 19–21, 34, 39, 51–52, 82, 117 Destra Nazionale (National Right, DN), 21, 38, 116 Fasci Italiani di Combattimento (Italian Fasces of Combat), 128 Federazione dei Verdi (Federation of Greens), 139 Five Star Movement, 184 football ultràs, 126, 171 Forza Italia (Let’s Go Italy, FI), xi, 120, 150, 215 Forza Nuova (New Force, FN), 118, 125, 134, 212 Fratelli d’Italia (Brothers of Italy, FdI); electoral success of, xi, 8, 210, 213; foundation of, 23, 150, 184; leadership of, 189; logo of, xii, 198 Giovane Italia, 194 Golden Dawn (Greek), 202 Gruppo XXII Ottobre (22 October Group), 32–33 House of Freedoms (Forza Italia, AN, LN and UDC), 150–151 Il Manifesto, 235 Jeune Europe (European), 19 La Destra, 122 La Fenice (The Phoenix), 31–32 Lega Nord (Northern League, LN), xi, 150, 160, 184, 202 Lista Consumatori (Consumers’ List), 162 Lotta Continua (Continuous Struggle, LC), 6, 80, 91, 207, 229–231 Magnitudo Italia, 125, 187, 196 Movimento Fascismo e Libertà, 120 Movimento Politico Occidentale (Western Political Movement), 124, 215

249

Movimento Sociale Fiamma Tricolore (Social Movement-­ Tricolour Flame, MSFT), 116–118, 125, 157, 190–191 Movimento Sociale Italiano (Italian Social Movement, MSI; later Movimento Sociale Italiano– Destra Nazionale, MSI-DN); Alleanza Nazionale (see Political parties and militant groups, Alleanza Nazionale (National Alliance, AN)); DC, support for, 19; Due vite per l’Italia: l’eccidio dei fratelli Mattei, 62; foundation of, xi, 17–18; Fronte della Gioventù (Youth Front, FdG), 36, 78, 103, 124, 135, 196–198, 204; Fronte Universitario d’Azione Nazionale (National University Action Front, FUAN), 36, 81, 92, 194–195, 215; Giarabub section, 4–5, 54, 235; headquarters, 97, 172, 211; Il Secolo d’Italia (see Newspapers and magazines, Il Secolo d’Italia); isolation of, 21–22; leadership, 3–5, 20–22, 195; Movimento Democratico Sociale (Democratic Social Movement, DSM), proposed re-naming as, 40; ‘moral lynching,’ 23, 29–31, 62–64; PDIUM, absorption of, 21; squadrismo, accusations of, 21, 34, 37, 64, 85–87, 126, 238; ‘strategy of insertion,’ 19; Svolta di Fiuggi, 22, 104, 115–119, 140; violence, relationship with, 8, 29, 32–40, 54, 83–94, 124, 237–238; Volontari Nazionali (National Volunteers, VN), 4, 76–78, 81, 137, 172, 194–196, 227, 231

250 

INDEX

Political parties and militant groups (cont.) National Fascist Party, 128 Nouveaux Ordre Européen (European), 19 Nuclei Armati Rivoluzionari (Armed Revolutionary Nuclei, NAR), 188, 214 Ordine Nuovo (New Order, ON), xiii, 10, 20–22, 31, 51, 123, 162, 212 Ordre Nouveau, 102 Palestinian Liberation Organization (Palestinian, PLO), 13 Partitio Democratico (Democratic Party, PD), 239 Partito della Rifondazione Comunista (Communist Refoundation Party), 139, 141n2 Partito Comunista Italiano (Italian Communist Party, PCI), 4, 35, 39, 52, 92, 115–116, 165, 235 Partito della Rifondazione Comunista (Communist Refoundation Party), 139, 141n2 Partito Democratico Della Sinistra (Democratic Party of the Left), 139 Partito Democratico Italiano di Unità Monarchica (Italian Democratic Party of Monarchist Unity, PDIUM), 21 Partito Liberale Italiano (Italian Liberal Party, PLI), 35 Partito Popolare Italiano (Italian Popular Party, PPI), 117, 139 Partito Radicale Italiano (Italian Radical Party), 157

Partito Repubblicano Italiano (Italian Republican Party, PRI), 35 Partito Socialista Italiano (Italian Socialist Party, PSI), 35–37, 59, 137 Popolo Della Libertà, 118, 122 Potere Operaio (Workers’ Power, PO), 55–62, 90–91, 96, 99, 163, 212, 237; culture of, 3, 6–8, 104, 231; foundation of, 56, 102, 157–158; headquarters, 151; leadership, 152, 156, 164–166; members, undercover, 165; Primavalle, incendio a porte chiuse (anon), 58–63, 153, 159, 162, 171–172 Prima Linea, 170 Proletari Armati per il Comunismo (Armed Proletarians for Communism), 155 Roma Nord, 215 Rosa dei Venti (Wind Rose), 32 Terza Posizione (Third Position, TP), 8, 121 Unione dei Comunisti Italiani (Union of Italian Communists), 66n2 Unione dei Democratici Cristiani e Democratici di Centro (Union of the Centre, UdC), 120, 150–151, 160 Unione Nazionale Combattenti RSI (National Union of RSI Combatants), 103 Politicians, activists and militants Abelli, Tullio, 78 Alemanno, Gianni, 121, 150, 156, 210–211, 214 Almirante, Assunta, 77–78, 121 Almirante, Giorgio; biography of, 171; death of, 115; Mantakas’s

 INDEX 

funeral, role in, 93–94; Matteis’ funeral, role in, 21, 47, 63, 72–85, 77, 106–107, 120, 185, 238; MSI, leadership of, 18–23, 30–39, 53–54, 92, 103, 121, 133, 223; persecution (see Political parties and militant groups, Movimento Sociale Italiano (Italian Social Movement, MSI; later Movimento Sociale Italiano– Destra Nazionale, MSI-DN), ‘moral lynching’) Anderson, Massimo, 36, 103 Andreotti, Giulio, 34, 39–40, 52, 64, 66n1 Angelilli, Roberta, 154–155, 166 Azzi, Nico, 31–39, 51, 75, 225 Basile, Carlo Emmanuele, 19 Battisti, Cesare, 155–156 Berlusconi, Silvio, xi, 72, 117, 150, 161 Bigonzetti, Franco, death of, 210 Boccacci, Maurizio, 215 Boeti, Nino, 139 Calosso, Valerio, 139 Caradonna, Giulio, 76 Carminati, Massimo, 189 Castelli, Roberto, 150, 160 Castellino, Guiliano, 135 Ciavardini, Luigi, 215 Ciavatta, Francesco, death of, 210 Clavo, Marino; acquittal, 74; arrest, 99; arrest, evasion of, 56–57, 88, 102, 106, 157–158, 161, 165; civil action against, 164; conviction (manslaughter and arson), 149, 166, 173–175, 186; Rogo di Primavalle, role in, 3, 95, 149–152, 231 Covelli, Alfredo, 78 Cutolo, Teodoro, 78

251

Dalla Chiesa, Carlo Alberto, 105 D’Annunzio, Gabriele, 129 De Andreis, Pietro, 36–39 De Angelis, Marcello, 8 de Marsanich, Augusto, 20 De Min, Franscesco, 33 Delle Chiaie, Stefano, 134 delle Chiuse, Tomaso Staiti di Cuddia, 39, 116 Dimitri, Giuseppe, 121 Di Nella, Paola, death of, 169 Di Stefano, Simone, 190 Donati, Ines (‘squadrista heroine’), 129 Falvella, Carlo, death of, 81 Feltrinelli, Giangiacomo, 161 Ferretti, Gian Luigi, 195 Fini, Gianfranco; AN, leadership of, xii, 22, 117, 133, 140–141, 162–163, 167, 172–174; Jerusalem, visit to, 121–122; Matteis’ funeral, presence at, 71–72, 150; MSI, leadership of, 22, 78, 118–120; Mussolini, reverence for, 115–116 Fioravanti, Valerio, 192 Fiore, Roberto, 117 Fragalà, Vincenzo (Enzo), 160–167; death of, 164–165 Franco, Francesco (Ciccio Franco), 34–39, 126 Gaeta, Paolo, 95, 149–152, 159, 165–166, 237 Gargamelli, Roberto, 87 Gasparri, Maurizio, 71–72, 150, 215 Giannini, Daniele, 215 Giannotta, Carlo, 211 Giovanardi, Carlo, 160 Giralucci, Graziano, death of, 8 Gonella, Guido, 82 Grandi, Dino, 115

252 

INDEX

Politicians, activists and militants (cont.) Graziani, Rodolfo; death of, 73 (see also Memory and memorialisation, funerals); monument to, xii Grillo, Manlio; acquittal, 74; arrest, 99; arrest, evasion of, 88, 102–106, 157–161, 165; civil action against, 164; conviction (manslaughter and arson), 149, 166, 173–175, 186; Rogo di Primavalle, role in, 3, 57, 149–152, 231 Iannone, Gianluca, 190–191, 202 Lampis, Angelo, 30 La Russa, Antonio, 9 La Russa, Ignazio Benito Maria, 9, 23, 151, 160, 217, 239 La Russa, Romano Maria, 23 Lecco, Elisabetta, 95, 149–152, 159, 163–165 Leone, Giovanni, 79 Loi, Vittorio, 37–39 Lojacono, Alvaro, 91 Lollo, Achille; acquittal, 74, 101; apology, refusal to give, 153; arrest, evasion of, 58; confession, 148–153, 156–174, 183–185, 223, 236; conviction (manslaughter and arson), 149, 166, 173–175, 186; electoral role, inclusion on, 195; extradition (failed), 100, 150, 154–155, 160, 172–174; “free Lollo!” (‘innocentist’ campaign), 86–87, 105; imprisonment, evasion of, 102, 106, 165; Rogo di Primavalle, role in, 3, 55–57; trial, presence at, 88–91, 90, 95, 105

Lombardi, Ricardo, 59 Lorusso, Francesco, death of, 9, 17 Lovatelli, Loffredo Gaetani, 48 Malcotti, Luca, 169 Mambro, Francesca, 192 Mantakas, Mikis; anniversary of, 200–203, 201, 202; death of, 23, 74, 91–95, 133, 195–197; funeral of, 74, 93, 203; Michele, misnamed as, 132 Mantica, Alfredo, 161 Mariani, Alberto, xii, 210 Marsella, Luca, 192 Marzorati, Mauro, 31–33 Mattei, Mario (see Mattei, Mario) Matteotti, Giacomo, death of, 37, 51, 93 Mazzini, Giuseppe, 15 Mazzola, Giuseppe, death of, 8 Meloni, Giorgia; Fratelli d’Italia, leadership of, 189; MSI youth, membership of, 8–9; Mussolini, reverence for, xii; speeches of, viii, xi–xiv Michelini, Arturo, 19–20, 34 Milioni, Alfredo, 207 Moro, Aldo; death of, 10–13, 17, 24n1, 44, 91, 105, 148; kidnap of, 10, 24n1, 105, 223; ‘Lodo Moro,’ 13; photographs of, 44 Morucci, Valerio, 156–158, 164–166, 231; La generazione degli anni perduti, 158 Murelli, Maurizio, 37 Mussolini, Alessandra, 125 Mussolini, Benito (Il Duce), 141n3, 141n4; death of, 157; March on Rome (see Fascism and neofascism (extreme right), March on Rome); memory of, xii, 16–17, 121, 130, 197;

 INDEX 

offspring of (rumoured), 115; Rome, remodelling of (see Italy, Rome, remodelling of (borgata)); RSI (see Italy, Repubblica Sociale Italiana (Italian Social Republic, RSI, Salò Republic)); speeches, 128; tomb of (see Public spaces, Mussolini, tomb of) Nardulli, Vincenzo, 134 Niccolai, Giuseppe, 115–116 Notarnicola, Sante, 61 Oddo, Stefano, xii, 210, 215 Pace, Lanfranco, 102, 156–157, 164–166 Pacinelli, Elena, death of, 207 Perrone, Diana; Rogo di Primavalle, role in, 57, 62, 149–152, 159, 165, 237; trial, presence at, 95 Pertini, Sandro, 37 Petronio, Francesco, 39 Pisanò, Giorgio, 116, 120 Pinelli, Giuseppe, death of, vii, 56, 60, 65, 81, 169–170 Piperno, Franco, 24n1, 156–159, 164–166 Prodi, Romano, 161 Ramelli, Sergio, death of, xii, 121, 135–136, 188, 218 Rampelli, Fabio, xii, 215 Rauti, Pino, 19–21, 31, 72, 94, 115–116; MSFT, expulsion from, 117–118 Recchioni, Stefano, death of, 210 Rognoni, Giancarlo, 32–33 Romualdi, Pino, 78, 95, 115 Rosseti, Roberto, 194–197 Rossi, Walter, death of, 207 Sacco, Nicola, 100 Salvini, Matteo, xi, 156, 184, 210

253

Sangiuliano, Gennaro, 217 Scalzone, Oreste, 157–160 Scambelluri, Angelo, 129 Schiaoncin, Anna (‘Anna the fascist’), 53–55, 96–98; Schiavoncini (Schiavoncin, Schiavoncino), misnamed as, 49, 53–55 Schiaoncin, Mario, 53 Servello, Franco, 32, 35–39 Sorrentino, Mario, 55 Spallone, Francesco, 48 Speranza, Aldo, 55–57 Starace, Achille, 128–129 Storace, Francesco, 122 Tambroni, Fernando, 19–20 Tanas, Giuseppe, death of, 6 Terracini, Umberto, 99, 152 Testorio, Armando, death of, 130–132 Traini, Luca, 212 Tucci, Rodolfo, death of, 130 Turati, Filippo, 93 Urso, Adolfo, 216 Valensise, Raffaele, 74, 98, 104 Valpreda, Pietro, 56, 60, 64–65, 87–89 Vanzetti, Bartolomeo, 100 Veltroni, Walter, 147, 151, 168–169, 210, 218 Ventura, Giovanni, 162 Venturini, Ugo, death of, 73, 81 Verbano, Valerio, death of, 169, 172, 211–212 Verini, Walter, 239 Viri, Ercole, xii Visconti, Mario, 136 Zappavigna, Guido, 194, 214–215 Pope Paolo VI, 79 Porta a Porta, 153 Prini, Giovanni, 129

254 

INDEX

Public spaces, 16, 124 Chapel of the Fascist Martyrs, 118, 128–135, 130, 131, 132, 140, 142n5 Franco, tomb of (Valle de los Caidos), 12 Graziani, monument to, xii Monument to the Fallen, 212–213 Monument to the Martyrs of the Fascist Revolution, 129 Mussolini, tomb of, xii, 16–17 R Rame, Franca, 59 Rienzi, Carlo, 162 Rogo di Primavalle, see Years of Lead (Anni di Piombo), Rogo di Primavalle (Primavalle Fire, 16 April 1973) S Salò, see Italy, Repubblica Sociale Italiana (Italian Social Republic, RSI, Salò Republic) Slovenia, 184 South Africa, 11 Spain, 11–12, 15–17 Stragismo, see Italy, legal and state matters, strage Strategy of tension, see Fascism and neofascism (extreme right), ‘strategy of tension’ Sweden, 99, 102, 106, 160, 165 Switzerland, 33, 91, 189 Syria, 13 T Tota, Anna Lisa, 167 Toti, Enrico, death of, 129

U Ukraine, viii V Vatican City, 95 Vietnam, 44, 47 Y Years of Lead (Anni di Piombo) Acca Larenzia (1978), 134–135, 142n6, 198, 199, 200, 203, 210–211 Bologna massacre (2 August 1980), vii–viii, 105, 134, 167, 192, 204, 214, 223–224 Cuori neri (Luca Telese), 188–189 Day of Memory for the Victims of Terrorism (9 May), 12–13, 148, 169, 174, 218 Fiumicino airport bombing (17 December 1973), 13 Italicus Express bombing (1974), 10 March on Milan (12 April 1973; ‘Black Thursday’), 22–23, 33–39, 51, 75, 225 Moro, Aldo, death of (see Politicians, activists and militants, Moro, Aldo) pentitismo, 12, 148 Piazza della Loggia bombing (28 May 1974), 10 Piazza Fontana massacre (12 December 1969), vii, 9–10, 33, 51–52, 56, 60, 65, 104–105, 162, 225; anniversary of, 212; examination of, xiii; trial, 74, 87 Reggio Revolt (1970–1), 34–36, 126

 INDEX 

Rogo di Primavalle (Primavalle Fire, 16 April 1973); anniversary of, 172, 197, 209, 214–217, 239; Associazione Fratelli Mattei (Mattei Brothers’ Association, AFM), 8, 168, 172, 187, 212, 216; explosives (petrol, detonator), 3, 42, 54, 58, 98, 151–152, 159, 228; Il Rogo di Primavalle: L’omicidio politicamente corretto dei Fratelli Mattei (Annamaria Gravino and Valeria Manto, graphic novel), 191–195; images of, 5, 43–47, 64, 75, 171–172, 193–194, 206, 227–228; mural dedicated to, proposed, 188; plaque dedicated to, xii, 118, 133–138, 138, 209; political sacrifice, language of, xii, 43–47, 82; stamp, in memory of, 216; trial (first, 1975), 8,

255

63–65, 74, 86–92, 132, 185, 197; trial (second, mid-1980s), 23, 88, 104, 185; Vengo da Primavalle, 224; victims of (see Mattei, Stefano; Mattei, Virgilio) strage (massacre) (see Italy, legal and state matters, strage) Turin-Genova train bombing (failed, 7 April 1973), 31–36, 39, 51–52, 56, 75, 225 via Fani (16 March 1978), 24n1 via Svampa attack (11 April 1973), 48 Yugoslavia, viii, 11, 210 Fiume, 129 Istria, 157 partisans; Motika, Ivan, 156–157; Piskulic, Oskar, 156–157 Z Zanera, Oscar, 79