I know, the holocaust, sexual harassment,rnand intergalactic strife, may substituternthis with their own national cinematicrncliches, in glorious color orrnracially insensitive black-and-white. Thernpoint is, Saul became Paul.rnThe following day being Sunday, wernwent for a stroll along the Corso. ThernRomans, in couples or more complexrnfamily groups, promenaded, pausing tornexamine shop windows, and withoutrnthinking what this meant, we did as thernRomans. It meant stopping to look in everyrnshop window on a street of shops thatrnruns from the Vittorio Emanuele monumentrnto the Piazza del Popolo, somethingrnlike a mile or more. It meantrnstanding for two or three minutes in frontrnof each shop, peering at a display ofrnmen’s socks that had changed all but imperceptiblyrnsince the previous Sunday,rndiscussing, in respectful and leisurely undertone,rnthe nature and meaning of thernchange. We saw every commerciallyrnavailable sock in Rome, and also all thernties, shirts, shoes, and ladies’ unmentionables.rnWe were very serious, and nobodyrnlaughed and said: “Listen, what’s wrongrnwith you fellows? Why are you staring atrnshops you’d never notice in London,rneven if they were open? And they’rernall shut, you idiots, on account of Sunday!”rnBecause this was Rome, where we allrnbelonged. The mercer and the cobblerrnand the dyer had done their best duringrnthe week, and the photographer and Irnand everybody else in town turned outrnfor the performance. Tomorrow it mayrnbe the mercer’s turn to commission arnphotographic portrait of his children, myrnturn to sell an article, and everybodyrnelse’s turn to do all the other seriousrnthings that one may do in a communityrnof people who take life seriously andrnthink that every story worth telling mustrnhave a moral.rnFor obvious reasons, politics of thernglobal kind — “democratism,” as an Englishrnjournalist friend of mine calls (afterrnEdmund Burke) the modern hybrid ofrntotalitarianism and democracy—is justrnnot one of those serious things. It is forrnthis reason, perhaps, that the politicallyrndisabled Italians are such a joke amongrnnations that have lost their sense of humorrnalong with much of their liberty.rnAndrei Navrozov, formerly Chronicles’rnpoetry editor and London correspondent,rnis now Chronicles’ European correspondent.rnStanzas in the Valley of the Fallenrn(Santa Cruz del Valle de los Caidos)rnby Rudolph SchirmerrnRifles are quiet, perpetual thunder subsides;rnBut though battle is done, the wonder of battle abides.rnMy ears are but ears, not wondrously tuned to the soundsrnOf a nightmare that’s past, the sobbing of underground wounds.rnI am here on my own; I refuse to be otherwise drawn.rnI abstain from the partisan gesture, 1 never would fawnrnOn the cloak of a victor, nor mourn for the vanquished sword.rn1 am here like a dove, in the shelter and grace of the Lord.rnWere this earth but my earth, this sky but my sky, I would cryrnFor the horror entombed; for one corpse alone I would cr)’.rnBut my tear will not well for an alien clot, will not startrnFor a stranger’s doom; there are dooms enough now in my heart.rnYet I stand in a terrible trance. Am I struck? Am I lame?rnDo I falter so far from my hearth, am I seared by the flamernThat the rock cannot drown, nor the crowds ever quench with their tread?rnAm I damaged by death, by the distant, unknowable dead?rnGive me guns! Let me strike where I stand, let me fire through the cloudrnOf that stone for the sake of my star! Let it shine through the shroud!rnOr stay—I will pray soft words for the stricken, will bendrnDeep down for the friends of the lost, as though I were a friend.rnFor is it not owed in proof of the anguish I feel?rnMay the flesh stand erect when the soul would be silent and kneel?rnThink again. It was war, was it not? In this mountain are men!rnBlood has flowed, has it not? Women wept for that blood. Think again!rn”Who are you, who is anyone here but a leaf like the rest.rnAt the whim of the wind to be tossed, driven east, driven westrnOver land, over sea, in a swarm? Wlio are you to resistrnWliat the trumpet proclaims and the captain commands? Laws insistrnYou adhere. Disappear if you can! You’ll be caught, you’ll conform.rnAnd the price of your breach: to be thrust in the eye of the storm.rnDeath is your duty; alive, you are seeking the dead.rnThe valley ordained is never unscathedly fled.rnThere is no alternative. Man, you are foolish to leaprnFrom the fold; curb that urge in the order of shuffling sheep.rnWhat you cannot avoid you never should rule from your mind.rnPrepare yourself now for the slaughter; follow your kind.”rnBut I answer, “Here in the wind is a word—not sheep, not leaf—rnA word of ineffable joy, transcending the grief,rnA word worth my while to have climbed just to feel, not to hear.rnIn a context of stone, austere as the grave is austere.rnIts imprint is graven on arches and ceilings and walls.rnOutside on the hill, inside in the hill-hewn halls.rnIt extends to the plain, returns in a flash to the nave,rnIs aflame in the sky and a flame in the hearts of the brave.rnAnd the word says, ‘Wait! Never tremble. Silence is meet.rnThat sword was a Cross, and the death that it carved, complete.rnRivers touch that once ran counter, here at your feet.’rnGod is the Word turns the bitterest battle sweet.”rnJUNE 1998/45rnrnrn