E' molto difficile che noi portieri si faccia amicizia con i clienti. Intendo vera amicizia, ovviamente. Non una semplice conoscenza.

In più di venti anni di lavoro d'albergo ho fatto vera amicizia con due clienti. Uno è Simon, l'inglese di Manchester che mi lasciò, in fedele custodia, la sua chitarra. E che gli rendo tutte le volte che viene in Toscana. Beh, veniva. Aveva programmato di tornare a Luglio, ma è saltato ogni cosa. L'avevo già invitato a casa mia, per una cena, ma per il motivo che tutti sapete, è saltato tutto. Per ora.

Chi riuscii a invitare, molti anni fa, è Regina.

Regina è americana del Connecticut (e come orgogliosamente tiene a precisare, lo stato ha votato Biden), ha poco meno dell'età di mia madre e in passato era praticamente di casa, all'albergo. Voleva sempre la stessa camera, dalla cui terrazza si può vedere il Duomo. Ci stava anche due settimane, con puntate in altre zona d'Italia, soprattutto nei posti dove suonava Sergio Cammariere, di cui lei è una "groupie", come la Sara per i Take That. Comunque lei ha fatto amicizia davvero con tutti i dipendenti, ricevendo vari inviti. Io la invitai a cena a casa due volte, e lei portò dei regali per le figlie, quando erano ancora piccoline. Ad esempio due calze da befana personalizzate per loro. E gigantesche, per riempirle mi parte una rata del mutuo; i dipendenti della Ferrero hanno la mia fototessera in tasca, tipo santino.

Ma non è di Regina che voleva scrivere, bensì di suo padre Joseph. Il loro nome di famiglia è Kiska, che tradisce una lontana origine ungherese, ma da generazioni sulla costa orientale degli States.

Joe nacque nel 1920, da una famiglia decisamente numerosa -4 fratelli e 5 sorelle- e crebbe negli anni delle grandi spedizioni aeree. Il periodo dove dei matti spericolati percorrevano miglia e miglia su trabiccoli in legno e tela. Spesso rimettendoci la buccia. Ma non per questo meno ammirati, anche se il più amato di tutti fu quello che non cadde mai, cioè Lindenbergh. Perchè erano i suoi anni. Quelli delle grandi trasvolate.

Joe si innamorò di quegli eroi e del volo. Della conquista dell'aria. Del grande sogno dell'uomo di imitare gli uccelli. Così imparò a volare. Su un biplano, come avveniva in quel periodo.

Ma un biplano monomotore non poteva bastare, a Joe. Lui era uno che non si accontentava. Un motore era troppo poco. Neanche due. E nemmeno 3. Joe voleva andare al massimo.

1944. Inghilterra. Sui campi del sud dell'isola si trova la Mighty Eight, l'ottava forza aerea statunitense. Sono dotati dei migliori ferri del periodo: 4 motori Wright "Cyclone" da 1200 cavalli ciascuno, 13 Browning da 12,7 mm, 3000 chilogrammi di bombe da lanciare sulle fabbriche nazi.

Ragazzi di vent'anni, piloti, navigatori, puntatori e mitraglieri, che volano sul continente con il loro carico di distruzione -da wargamista, adoro questi termini- e compiono il loro dovere. Come facevano anche tanti altri, in guerra. Dentro scatole in acciaio con i cingoli, o in navigazione sull'oceano, o come semplici fanti armati di fucile e granate. E' così. Tremendo, crudele, atroce. Senza retorica.

Joe affrontò la guerra con il coraggio e la spavalderia dei suoi anni, oltre alla ferrea volontà di combattere il fascismo. In divisa è uno splendore, un sorriso solare che mostra tutta la forza dei suoi 22 anni. E' grazie a ragazzi come lui se io, ai miei 22 anni, indossavo una maglia da calcio e non la divisa militare.

Mentre erano in volo sulla Germania lo squadrone di B-17 viene attaccato dalla flak, la contraerea. In quel momento Joe, che era il secondo pilota, si trovava al posto del primo. Viene ferito, e l'aereo è duramente colpito. Devono lanciarsi, e sono sopra il territorio nemico. Lui e i sopravvissuti sono quindi presi prigionieri e finiscono in uno Stalag, un campo di prigionia. Ci resterà 13 mesi, prima della liberazione. 

La foto più bella è quella fattagli dai tedeschi, per l'identificativo del prigioniero. Si può vedere la sua spavalderia, la sua arroganza di fronte al nemico. Il suo sorriso sardonico sembra che dica "anche se mi avete catturato, i miei commilitoni arriveranno presto, cari i miei Fritz, e vi prenderanno a calci in c..."

Dopo la guerra Joe si dedicò a tutt'altro impiego: andrà a lavorare in campo ottico, tra l'altro collaborando anche al progetto del telescopio Hubble. Ma continuò ad avere la grande passione del volo aereo. Tra l'altro costruì una replica di un Focke-Wulf 190, e ci volava nel tempo libero. Un caccia del nemico, di quelli che tentavano di abbattere i B-17, perchè Joe non portava rancore e odio, e ammirava la tecnologia. Mi sarebbe davvero piaciuto vedere le espressioni degli abitanti del Connecticut nel vedersi sorvolare da un caccia con la croce teutonica (e pure la svastica). Poi anche lui, come me, ebbe due figlie, quindi non poteva non essere una persona speciale.

Non ho mai avuto l'onore di conoscerlo, purtroppo. Joe morì a 91 anni, nel 2012. Regina mi inviò le foto del funerale: ad Arlington, il cimitero di guerra statunitense. Quello come noi europei vediamo nei film, con la bara coperta dalla bandiera e portata dal carro trainato dai cavalli, e la squadra di soldati, in uniforme da parata e guanti bianchi, che spara in cielo le salve di fucile.

Tutto qui. La storia di un ragazzo del '20 come mio zio, anche lui militare e sopravvissuto, di cui ho già raccontato molto tempo fa. Ma il racconto non termina qui. Per chi è pratico d'inglese, vi lascio il rapporto di Joe sull'ultima missione, scritta nel capo di prigionia e, molti anni dopo, trascritta da Regina leggendo i suoi appunti.

Vale assolutamente la pena. E se non sapete abbastanza l'inglese, non vergognatevi a usare il traduttore. 

Joseph W. Kiska

“My Last Mission - April 13, 1944”

written on August 31, 1944, while a POW at Stalag Luft I (Barth, Germany)

(transcribed from handwritten notes in pencil)

Was awakened by C.Q. at about 3:00 a.m.  I was already tired as I could only manage to get 5 or 6 hours sleep as we flew missions every day for the past few days.  I finally manage to leave my nice, warm bed and get into my cold clothes.  We all walked down to the mess hall to eat what we didn’t know but, to this day, that was the last egg I had.  Caught the jitney and rode to briefing, which was at 5:00 a.m.  We were briefed on what looked like a real long raid to me.  Augsburg.  The route certainly did look long time on the map on the wall.  Pavia, our left waist gunner, was grounded with frost bitten hands so he was replaced by Jim Cullan, who was going on his first raid.  

Take-off was for about 7:00 a.m.  I went to Q.M. with Radman to get him red sun glasses, everything went swell.  I passed around the escape kits and chocolate bars and gum.  We carried forty-two 100-lb. incendiary that day.  We were flying 016, which we flew on our first mission.  We flew over England as usual and, after we were formed, we were on our way.  We entered the Continent between Ostend and Dunkirk, seeing no flak.  We were at 16,000 till we got near Frankfurt, then we clinched to 21,000 ft.  We had 47s for escorts, and they stood in close.  703 dropped out of formation when we were pretty deep and we took his position as #3 ship.  The view was terribly good as you could see the snow on the mountains and the castles near that area.  We finally turned on our I.P. and we could see flak ahead.  It looked pretty intense but we thought nothing of it as we rode through it before, which was as bad.  

The Navigator was riding in Bombardier’s seat and he dropped the bombs a few moments early.  The Pilot never knew as he was on V.H.F.  [RK note:  Although dad was officially the “co-pilot,” he was in the pilot seat on this mission, the pilot in the “co-pilot” seat].  A few seconds later we were in the middle of it.  You could feel that they were pretty close as it sounded as if pebbles were thrown against the ship.  The top turret was hit and plexiglass spread.  About a second later my left hand felt ajar so I looked down; I had a flak hole in my hand and the blood spurted out.  I held my hand over it and it felt ok.   

The interphone system didn’t work; shifted radio around but no use.  Had to feather #3 engine as manifold pressure fell low and engine was only windmilling.  Engine #4 was afire so we feathered that and we dropped from formation and turned right, losing altitude.  The other engine didn’t seem to run right.  Flak was tracking us right along as we flew alone.  A 47 pulled up alongside.  It didn’t seem as we could make Switzerland so the pilot told me to get out.  I pulled the warning switch as I was on the pilot side.  I told Engineer to go out.  I pulled the emergency release on the bomb bay, then threw off oxygen and helmet and went up into the nose to tell Bombardier and Navigator to get out.  I left through the lower escape hatch.  It wouldn’t jettison so I just sat on it and slid off.  I cleared the bomb bay pretty good .

I was clear of the ship and I got the last glance about 150 feet below it and it was a strange feeling to see it pull away with #4 sending out a stream of smoke and flame.  I was kind of groggy but, when I hit the cold air, I was ok.  I could see the blood on my hand turn a light pink as it was freezing.  It sure was nice just floating through the air.  I dropped from about 20,000 to 10,000 feet before opening chute – what a jerk.  Everything seemed so quiet.  In my left hand was the ripcord, which I threw away and watched as it fell away.  As I neared the ground it got warmer.  I noticed large pine trees and I didn’t like the idea of landing in one.  I swayed back and forth, I could see farmers on plows as I neared the ground.  I could feel the warmth rising from the ground.  

I landed near a farm with a farmer with rifle, waiting.  I braced up for the landing and hit ok.  I opened the first aid packet on my parachute and put a compress on my hand.  Took my chute off and, by that time, a farmer with a rifle was frisking me.  I put up my hands and he was amazed to find that I had no small arms.  There were quite a few people in this village, which had many religious statues about.  I was taken to the first house and was given water to drink.  I ate some of the candy in my escape kit.  I soon got used to the people staring at me; they seemed to be pretty nice.  A little later, as the pain increased in my hand, I gave myself a morphine injection and laid down for awhile and fell asleep.  

I was awakened by a German officer who had a car waiting, and off we went.  Was about 5:00 p.m. then.  We drove for about 5 miles and stopped at a little town.  The scenery on the way was pretty nice, mostly farm land with cattle roaming about.  At this town I was joined by my Engineer.  At first I pretended not to know him.  We were then taken to another town where we went to a building where there were German enlisted men.  We were searched and everything was removed from my pockets.  We stand there for about a half hour where the men sure sized us up. 

I was then taken to a hospital where I had the piece of flak removed, and I spent about 3 hours there.  When I was gaining consciousness  after having ether, I was being questioned by nuns as to the target we hit.  They asked if we bombed Munich.  There were many German soldiers at this same hospital.  At about 10 I was taken to a truck where I saw the Bombardier and Navigator, also Engineer, but that was all.  I asked where the others were.  He said two of them were in the box on the truck.  They were the Pilot and Left Waist Gunner.  We were told to get on the truck.  We went about 20 miles not saying much all the way but sure did a lot of thinking.  I was lying down on the open chutes that have been collected from the crew.  

We finally arrived at where we got quarters for the night.   We were stripped of all belongings – watches, rings, identification tags.  Here I found out that the rest of the bodies were supposed to have been in the ship.  Also was told by the Navigator, who was the last one out of the ship, that the Radio Operator would not jump.  He was to have summoned the men in the waist and had as he went through.  The Bombardier and Engineer and Navigator went out the Bomb Bay.  The Navigator was the last one out alive, and he left at about 8,000 when the ship went into a dive.  He could not force the Radio Operator to jump, so he had to leave to save himself.  The Ball Turret Operator was in his turret when we hit.  The Radio Operator was at his table.  The ship burned on contact with the ground and blew up, leaving quite a crater.  

I slept exceptionally well, as I had  morphine injection and anesthesia.   Breakfast was coffee and hard bread – and I mean hard.   The weather was real warm, much warmer than England.  About noon the bodies were ready for burial, and we saw them for the last time.  They loaded them on a truck and they were off.  The guards were very social, we passed the time very fast.  We left at 7:00 that night for Frankfurt.  We changed trains a few times.  We talked with many German soldiers who were from the States.  One was from Milwaukee, Wisconsin.  At one stop the soldiers were infuriated when they lost their compartment to us, so we had to get off and wait for another train.  We saw soldiers from all branches and all kinds of uniforms.  We rode all night and got to Frankfurt the next noon, where we got interrogated .  We were only 2 hours in Solitary, then taken out to the regular camp across the street.  We stayed there [RK note:  at Dulag Luft] for 2 days – met about 7 or 8 of the other fellas from my group who were shot down a few days prior to me.  The place was pretty dirty, and I was glad to get out of there.  We finally left and rode on a freight train 2-1/2 days and arrived at Barth [RK note:  at noon on April 20, which was Hitler’s birthday?]