The Italian writer, journalist Curzio Malaparte, offers us a perspective on the horrors of the second world conflagration, in the masterpiece Kaputt, through direct participation, as a spectator, director and sometimes even screenwriter of events.
Kaputt is a mixture of nostalgia, tears and hope, poetized in places with an incisive comparison between what was and what is. Revealing from the cloak of hypocrisy the doctrines fabricated by unclean minds, the masterpiece crushes false values in the open style, without tarnishing spiritual purity.
Malaparte does not deny the past, on the contrary, in certain hypostases, among the processions of the dead, the hungry and the beings indoctrinated to the point of animality, he relives the glorious past, almost in the way of the old Arcadians, slipping through the molds of destinies caught in the mix of uprooted souls. , a scent of aristocracy, of pure nobility and panacea.
Malaparte's style is a tangle of stories on the ground, but not from the point of view of the war correspondent or even that of the belligerent dragged volen non volens, in a war waged by hilarious doctrines fabricated in the vat of sick minds as a justification of the rot in us.
Malaparte recounts the horrors of war as a human being, slipping through the scorching atrocities the scent of humanity whipped with despair in those years of unrest and shattering destinies. Although he does not issue irrefutable verdicts, the author brings us closer to the nudity of the truth, disembodied by useless adornments with illusions, sitting in front of a seemingly forbidden door, he tells us that all we have to do is dare to open it.
Thus, Malaparte reveals to us a lot of historical characters with whom he intersected. Prince Eugene of Sweden, enveloped in the cloak of expectation, in a "spring" September, strives to display the aura of royal nobility. The madness of Ante Pavelici, posing as the savior of the Croatian people, besieged Belgrade, the Serbian child fighting to the last breath of ammunition, the endless Ukrainian plains full of animal and tank shells, soldiers, old men and children hanged and displayed in public squares, plone ghettos full of living corpses, all of which weave reality on a canvas of expansive madness through raisined indoctrinations.
Among all these shocking events, Curzio Malaparte introduces us to the bohemianism of some terrible characters, who live somewhere between death and immortality, in a "no men`s land" delimited by the barbed wire of helplessness, living and waiting in an age in which life had the same value as a moldy piece of bread. Among these terrorists are the Spanish Count De Foxa, the Governor General of Poland, the Reichminister Frank and Jaako Leppo.
The author is a witness to some historical events that he reveals to us somewhat in their unpolished form, yet glazing them with the just spirit of the learned man who will never agree with the sickening dehumanization produced by wars. Thus, in the words of the narrator-participant, he exposes the pogrom in Iași, the suffocation of Jews transported by cattle trains to Iloaiei Bridge, the massacre in the re-education camps of Soviets who could read fluently, the despair of fascist soldiers in front of "dogs the "reds" instructed by Soviet soldiers to blow up the German panzer, the hypocrisy combined with a wave of regret of the blazed Germans who see the failure of the spread of the "magnificent Die Kultur" among other peoples.
If at the beginning Malaparte shows us the enthusiasm of the Nazi soldier in front of the expansion with amazing speed through the bloody dust of torn Europe, but in time, he shows us the lame step of the proud Nazi army, chopped by the defeat at Stalingrad when, in the eyes who from day to day become terrifyingly young, but not necessarily innocent, one reads fear, the one that changes the turning point of the conflagration from the ideological enthusiasm of the conquest to the desperate struggle for survival.
It is a game of illusions and disappointments, of rudeness and ostentation practiced by the Germans in the palaces of conquered nations, of the mixture of myopia and hope that drips into the souls of ordinary people, death that is the same for all, despite the temptation of insane defiance of nihilistic ode overflowing in the rhythm of the insane and the continuous polishing of reality according to opportunities and whims.
It is the moment when the word Kaputt resounds under the headphones dusted by the blood of the collateral victims, the second spongiform in which the Superman transforms into a hunchbacked man to whom the temple of the temple demolished by another temple roars in his temples.
All this time Malaparte always plays with the cards in sight, emanating the whistle of unbridled terror in relations with Italy's allies, descending into dialogues with them the thorns of disagreement with everything that happens, even if sometimes he does not express himself sharply, just because he was never tempted to become the Grand Supreme Judge.
It is a masterpiece of masterpieces, a step that few can reach, although, judging by the whole bunch of events narrated in Kaputt, it would have been indicated like this not to bear the stamp of reality.