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I had hoped our next stops would uncover hidden treasures in our backyard. The things anyone living in the past might struggle with. The idea of conflict didn’t conform to his world, not yet.Īs I prepared to leave on another assignment covering another armed conflict, despite his age, I wanted my son to feel much of what Hemingway sought to impart with his writing, to combine words explicitly linked to his time in northern Italy, and his decades-long struggle to reconcile strength with absolution, fortitude with comfortable desire. My son knew I was leaving town on assignment for a few weeks, but he didn’t quite understand what a frontline was or that they still exist today. I felt a bit like Hemingway, returning to a place I’d read about for years, one my son and I often shared together. I held his hand, so small in my own, walking beneath an overgrown levee.
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The house resurrected itself in a nightmare as “a low house painted yellow with willows all around it and a low stable and there was a canal.” There it stood before me and my son.
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The detail about the cheese haunted me as we reached the house along the Piave which Hemingway described in a Nick Adam’s story. Hemingway even recalled in letters and first drafts his fondness for the region and Italian culture, an inveterate travel guide by the writer himself: Fiesole, Taormina, Rapallo, Milan, Brescia, Verona, Vicenza, Mestre, Treviso, “all around the Venetian plain” and “all of the Dolomites.” He “loved northern Italy like a fool, truly,” he wrote in the original manuscript for a Death in the Afternoon, about Spain, diversions of luck which were later removed. Some have outgrown the Hemingway impersionario, becoming more refined and delicate, less rough hewn others have embraced the machismo of the literary giant. Many of the areas Hemingway once visited have blossomed into food, wine, and culture centers that he had found as secret redoubts more than a century ago.
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Today, there is a little-known plaque and chapel in Fossalta where once was the Italian/Austrian frontline.
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The episode grew in Hemingway’s imagination and perhaps helped propel his stiff, spartan style of writing free of literary devices.īut Italy and the surrounding regions (Slovenia and Austria included) never rid themselves of Hemingway. He wondered how one instant could change a person forever and whether he could write his way through it. It was there he met an American Red Cross nurse, ten years his senior, who the young writer immortalized in A Farewell to Arms, which also took sights and sounds from that day along a bank in the Piave, a place to which he often returned. “I was blown up while we were eating cheese,” he later wrote, fictionalizing the experience in A Farewell to Arms.Įventually he was moved to a hospital in Milan where he convalecesed for six months. He was one of the first Americans to receive the Italian Silver Medal of Valor. Running through gunfire, he carried, along with the two hundred twenty-seven shards of metal in his body, an Italian soldier to safety. After distributing chocolate and cigarettes to Italian soldiers, he sat down to lunch when “there was a flash, as when a blast-furnace door is swung open, and a roar that started white and went red,” he later wrote in the novel A Farewell to Arms. When Hemingway was wounded in the First World War in June 1918 by Austrian mortar fire, he was operating a mobile canteen. Down an unpaved road to a stretch of the Piave, a river in which we had both bathed and fished and swam, we found ourselves parking in the shade where Hemingway nearly lost his life. My toddler son and I, having just arrived for an early-morning walk in Fossalta di Piave, a town in northern Italy north of Venice, doubled-back. We missed the turnoff, above which was a sign of young Ernest Hemingway in an immaculate Italian military uniform.