ITALY: Mussolini Trionfante

• Share

Upon the Capitoline, smallest of Rome's seven hills, Premier Mussolini spoke last week in a mood of fervent exaltation before the International Congress of Surgeons.

"Oh, illustrious masters of the surgical art! It is through you that medical science has achieved its greatest and most glorious conquests throughout the centuries! . . . Italia, Italia bella was the cradle of your art. With the Italian Renaissance surgery attained one of its most transcendent periods through the labors of Vesalius Paracelsus and Pare . . . Ah, but you are too modest, you surgeons! The great Pare, leaning over a patient and raising his eyes to Heaven exclaimed: 'I have bandaged this man's wound, but God is healing it!'

"No! I say no! Pare not only bandaged but healed. As a soldier in the Great War I have experienced on my own body your wise skill. What I have experienced, all the millions of wounded have experienced. . . .

"The soldier can rest when the battle is over. The surgeon never rests until his dying day. When the last cannon has sounded, your fight is but begun!"

Bullet. Amid delirious cheering, Signor Mussolini quitted the Capitol and strode toward his automobile. In the general excitement no one noticed a wild-eyed white-haired Irishwoman who sprang up beside the Premier's motor and thrust a small object at him with both hands. Her gesture was not that of a woman pointing a revolver. II Duce, intent upon his thoughts, did not notice the blue steel muzzle trained upon his temple. As a band struck up the Fascist hymn, "Giovinezza," he threw back his head and fixed his eyes on a staff flying the Italian flag. The bullet sped, but not into Signor Mussolini's brain. He had thrown back his head sufficiently so that it pierced only the tip of his nostrils. Tiny stinging powder burns seared his cheek, his lips.

"Nothing!" Famed Italian surgeon Professor Bastianelli, rushed to Premier Mussolini and deftly checked a possible nasal hemorrhage by holding his handkerchief in such a way as to stop the flow of blood partly, without allowing it to back up in the nasal passages. For an instant the Premier reeled, muttered under his breath, "A woman! Fancy, a woman!"

Simultaneously a raging crowd of Fascists were paying no attention to the sex or age of his would-be assassin. As a policeman tried to drag her to safety, sharp fingernails clawed at her neck, her arms. The mob was on the point of ending her life by crunching slimy means. . . .