Northern Italy 1943-45



A Panzer IV of the Waffen SS "Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler" division in Milan, Piazza del Duomo, immediately after the German occupation that followed the September 8, 1943 armistice

A Panzer IV of the Waffen SS “Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler” division in Milan, Piazza del Duomo, immediately after the German occupation that followed the September 8, 1943 armistice. (Wikipedia)


Rosanna Albertini (niece) – I was born in the new days without war in an Italian village near Milano, and grew up with stories that nobody was able to forget so they were told over and over like an exorcism. For two years, before my living time began, the space between Milano and the Swiss border was a confused arena of bombing and killings. Large numbers of people were filling the streets, especially in Milan, manifesting collective feelings, raising their heads against military occupation and lack of jobs and food shortage.  To see the end of fascism in person was a way to become witnesses, to be sure there was an ending to bring home.

September 8, 1943, after the armistice, Milano was occupied by the German army.
April 25, 1944, under the directions of the partisan command of Northern Italy, Milan was liberated.
April 28,1945, Mussolini was arrested and killed. His collaborators had the same destiny.

I was an outcome of the war. By hope or by accident, I will never know. The doctor taking care of my mother’s pregnancy lived by the lake. Mother was eighteen. In no way our transportation could be safe: they still used horses and carts in December 1945: the horse was old, maybe the driver was drunk and the steep road toward the lake covered with ice. Despite the fact that details about the accident have been steadily hidden from me, I do know that I did do the first somersault of my life. I did not break from her body that day as the terrified members of my family expected. Christmas was approaching, I stayed warm where I was until the 28.

Alberto Albertini (my uncle) – In the early 1944, the dying regime tried to save little pockets of power. Placing blockades near the borders, for instance. Besano, our village, was four miles on a steep road up from Porto Ceresio, where the Swiss border starts, and the blockage was mid-way between the two villages. Because Besano’s city hall was in Porto Ceresio, to go to Porto we had to show a permit with identity photo. As I was the only one in the village doing photographs, I did portraits of everybody. I only saved a few of them. A curious thing: the blockage controllers were a special auxiliary police whose members, on April 25, merged into the partisan forces, as if such a decision were normal.
        The same happened with the customs officers. I was supposed to enlist with them exactly for this reason. I never did, the X hour struck. On the way home from Milan, I had to wait for the night to find a train. But I also wished for a lift from some truck. There was none. Not far from me, a bunch of young black shirts was hanging about. One of them was my age. I basically told him: ‘What a heck are you doing wearing a fascist uniform that is now against the law, when the war is lost and everything is falling apart? And the guy felt smart enough to tell me that his name was Felice Mascetti and he was happy (Felice) by name and by fact… when one has an idea! Comic and tragic facts followed. The guy was from Varese, he had tried to score with my girlfriend (I learned it when the news appeared) and died in a small fight against the partisans. The corps of fascism, already decayed, enlisted young and very young boys who might feel proud of themselves thanks to weapons and uniforms.

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Technological war-craft: making the camera for portraits.

For lack of money and tools Alberto adapted 35mm film to a 6×9 camera, borrowing parts from a cheap Ferrania.

  1. he added a plate adaptor, as if the 6×9 camera were a plate camera.
  2. made a 35mm drive in the Ferrania and a piece of wood pressing on the film to keep it in the right position.
  3. Then he made by hand a small, indented wooden spool connected to a spring, so that at every perforation he could hear a ‘tac’ while rolling the film.

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Post scriptum by RA

It is difficult to read those eyes. They drank the war darkness and maybe kept looking at the bottom of their glass. What do they bring to me, to us, in 2016? Do I see their pain because they are my tribe, from the village where I was born? Is this the same pain of all those who survived years of war? In Palestine, in Africa, in Afghanistan? Is ours a completely different time? There is a layer of photographic or filmic splendor in the war images we share  today. Even a video recently made by a Palestinian girl about life in her refugee camp in Jordan is just beautiful. Images versus reality? The homeless’ eyes around me in Los Angeles are not as desperate as my people’s. I don’t have an answer. A vague sense of real things in my guts tells me that the war eyes are still like the ones in the identity portraits made by Alberto. We don’t see them in the newspapers. Maybe we like better not to see them, to keep them out of our walls. More than ever we need artists, hands showing the real thing, creating a new visual grammar, and new words, tearing off the lies of illusions. 

The greenness of night lies on the page and goes
Down deeply in the empty glass. . .

Look, realist, not knowing what you expect.
The green falls on you as you look,

Falls on and makes and gives, even a speech.
And you think that that is what you expect,

That elemental parent, the green night,
Teaching a husky alphabet.

WALLACE STEVENS, Phosphor Reading by his Own Light – From: Parts of a World, 1942-1951
in Wallace Stevens, The Collected Poems, New York, Vintage Books, 1990.


Alberto Albertini using the camera he had built for the identity portraits.





BESANO, 1948: growing up in an artist’s family. I figli di persone fuori norma, vuoi artisti scienziati o che comunque non rientrano nella routine dei mestieri comuni, spesso si trovano a disagio nei confronti dei normali. Io non sfuggivo a questa regola, anche se mio padre, pur degno artista, non aveva atteggiamenti che non fossero più che in linea con la media. Il fatto che vivesse di un’attività atipica e in fondo un po’ eccezionale: esponeva le opere che erano valutate da persone lontane dal nostro modo di vivere, forse, venivano a farci visita, spesso avevano l’automobile, tutto questo mi induceva a pensare di essere anch’io diverso. In che modo non l’avevo ancora deciso però non mi sentivo come il figlio del droghiere o dell’impiegato.

A queste difficoltà se ne sovrapponevano altre, di carattere familiare, forse solo un pretesto per completare il mio personaggio ma, come secondo figlio, ero sempre il secondo: un po’ rachitico perché stavo gobbo, viziato perché mi prudeva il naso e me lo strofinavo, soprattutto era stata la mamma a rinfacciarmi, nei frequenti dialoghi con le amiche, la vita infernale che le avevo fatto fare quando ero ancora in fasce. Per giunta ero anche mancino. In sostanza mi sembrava di disturbare. Forse per questo ero solitario. Credo che accumulando ed elaborando interiormente e inconsciamente questi e altri reconditi complessi, ero riuscito ad anticipare di almeno quindici anni il personaggio incarnato da James Dean. È vero che durante l’adolescenza ho cercato di confrontarmi coi normali, che erano più avanti di me negli studi e quindi cominciai a capire che dovevo perlomeno fare i conti con questa realtà. L’evento decisivo fu però inaspettato, imprevisto e drammatico ma salutare: la disoccupazione contemporaneamente alla gravidanza della moglie. Tre giorni di disperazione per cambiare non il mondo ma me stesso. Con umiltà ho cominciato da zero e da qui può iniziare la storia del mio procedere come tecnico specializzato nelle colonne sonore, negli studi di registrazione: lavorando, studiando fino a costruire studi di doppiaggio e di registrazione discografica. BESANO, 1948.

Children of non-ordinary people, artists or scientists who don’t fit in the common jobs’ routine, often find themselves embarrassed in comparison with other, normal humans. I didn’t escape from this destiny even if my artist father, although rather well known, used to wear the most ordinary behavior. His activity wasn’t ordinary at all, I would say exceptional: the artworks he exhibited were evaluated by persons quite distant from our way of living; when visiting they often came by car, their own car; enough for me to start thinking that I also was different. I hadn’t yet decided how different, but I didn’t feel the same as a grocer’s or an employee’s son.

Other reasons of distress were coming from the family, perhaps made up by me to complete my character, but being the second son I was always the second: a scrawny boy with the bad habit of hunching the shoulders, spoiled, scrubbing my itching nose. Mother especially, while meeting her girlfriends, was throwing in my face the hellish life she had had because of me since I was a baby. Besides, I was left handed. To sum up, I felt I was bothering. That’s why, maybe, solitude was my escape. I believe that unconsciously processing in myself these and other hidden inferiority complexes, I succeeded in anticipating by at least fifteen years James Dean’s character. As an adolescent I tried to compare myself to regular young people, more advanced in their studies: a reality I had to deal with. In the meantime the decisive event came into my life unexpected, unforeseen, and dramatic: unemployment joined to my wife’s pregnancy. Three days of despair, not to change the world, but to change myself. Finally humble, I started from zero. It was the beginning of my growing as a technician, specializing in sound recording: working, studying to the point I was able to build full dubbing and recording studios.

Much later, 1980-85, discovering American cars and landscape (A.A. has been a photographer since he was 14. He is graciously going toward the end of his Eighties)


Alberto Albertini, Fort Lauderdale, Florida

Alberto Albertini, Nashville, Tennessee

Alberto Albertini, ,Fort Lauderdale, Florida

Alberto Albertini, Fort Lauderdale, Florida