diario di un terremotato

FRANCAVILLA - Usual wake-up call at 6 am (but who is sleeping ...), leaving at 6.40 to arrive on time at 7 at the Brecciarola autogrill and have breakfast with the other displaced who are going back to L'Aquila. "Going to the funerals?". No. Turning over and over in my bed, I decided I do not want to go to the funerals. I have seen too many, too many dead. And then I do not know how I could look into the eyes of those who were spared. I know many of the victims. Daniela, for example, and those two pests of her kids Davide and Matteo, what could I possibly tell her husband Massimo, or the grandparents who lived for their children and grandchildren? What could I say to Maria Grazia who came to school with me and to her father who was my teacher? What could I say to doctor Sergio, who used to live two floors above me, who, on that end-of-the-world night, while taking care as he could of my wounded head, was asking if by chance I had news of the Santa Barbara area where he thought his son Andrea was? Who was, however, at Onna. Enough.

Since yesterday I have decided: I want to live. I am "dead", but not inside. Camilla and my loved ones are all alive. I have a roof. Above all I still have a job. And then I have friends and acquaintances with hearts of gold. What else do I need from life? Well, I want my city. I miss it terribly. And then, if this is what I want, better to roll up sleeves. I reach L'Aquila at 8.15 at the headquarters room of Reiss Romoli, where I enter with my friend Daniela whom I "picked up" at the autogrill ("You'll get earlier than my uncle, I'll come with you"). Seeking information on what to do. I do not want to create obstacles, but I want to make myself useful.

I meet a brotherly friend. Crying (me too). He is (he was. ..) a lawyer, with his office in a palace in the devastated area of San Pietro. "I need my agenda, the agenda of lawsuits, otherwise I am lost: what will I live on? Please, give me a hand." Yea, here I am! First we go to the seat of the city police, in via Scarfoglio, among the few safe plaes. After a brief interview, we are referred to the fire brigade central. Here, in a quiet chaos, they book our request for a visit. There is also a notary, Federico, who desperately needs to recover his "stamps". My lawyer meets among the fire brigaders a client ( 'I won a lawsuit for him ...") who immediately finds for him a place with a crew going downtown. We arrive at the stairways along the Viale Duca degli Abruzzi, just where sits the gutted house of my parents. 'We do not have a helmet for you - says the team leader - you must stay here. We cannot take risks. " It takes a while, but finally the team can retrieve the diary and even a laptop. "The study and the whole palace are in pieces, but at least I can work 'says my friend.

Victory. But I do not even have the time to taste it, that the atmosphere of the displaced camp in Piazza d'Armi plunges me back into despair. I asked permission to get in and say hello (and put myself at their disposal) to the celestinian nuns of the monastery of San Basilio ("Have them say a prayer" my wife advised), who according to a newspaper were lodging there, saved during that night by my friend Cesare who never left the city, and is each day fighting like a lion. I look for the sisters for an hour without finding them - they were transferred to the mother house in Puglia among the true IDPs, not like me and my family. What else do I need from life?