The seventies, in other respects beautiful and full of ideas and ideals, were characterized by many, brutal murders. In addition to statesmen, trade unionists, industrialists, journalists, many “comrades and comrades” died on the street.
Among the most absurd brutalities of that period is the Primavalle massacre, which took place on April 16, 1973.
That evening, Achille Lollo and five other people decide to throw a fire bomb in the house of Mario Mattei, garbage man, secretary of the MSI section. They probably don’t intend to kill but, sure, they don’t throw confetti.
In the house, at that hour, there are two of Mario’s children, Virgilio, 22, and little Stefano, aged 8.
The fire spreads rapidly throughout the house, burning the two brothers alive. Emblematic is the image of Virgil, a human torch, who comes out of the balcony begging for help that will never come.
They both die, innocent, but they are still “fascists”, to be “killed without committing a crime”.
Lollo and his accomplices are identified but the elite left, from Dario Fo to Franca Rame, from Terracini to il Messaggero (owned by the Perrone family, whose niece Diana is involved in the murder) rushes to his rescue. Perhaps, among them, also Giacomo Mancini.
And so Lollo escapes, first to Angola, then to Sweden, then to Brazil, where he works as a journalist.
During the trial, in the clashes outside the square, another young “fascist”, a Greek, Mikis Mantakas, was shot dead.
The prosecution asks for a life sentence but the trial ends with an acquittal for lack of evidence.
Later, incredibly, Lollo will be helped by the former republican Dario Fo and by Franca Rame, to escape for good.
He will be convicted of arson and double manslaughter at the age of 18 but the crime will be prescribed in 2005.
Two young people (one of whom a child) burned alive for the sole fault of being the children of a manager from Missino, will have no justice.
That cursed right, far from the subversive right of the following years, did not pity, nor did it characterize authoritative and certain responses from the state.
The Mattei brothers, to whom few squares have been dedicated, end up in the basket of general indifference, partly forgotten even by the modern right which, perhaps, is a little ashamed of those roots.
And so, an evident massacre declassified almost as a pyrotechnic game, is entered in the list of institutional impunity. With death in between and that Munchian cry of Virgil, hanging on the conscience of a country without memory