The Lanzis Ii: The Age of Consciousness (Coming of Age)

© 2012 Giancarlo Gabbrielli. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 9/07/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4634-0624-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4634-0625-7 (e)

ISBN: 978-1-4634-0626-4 (sc)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011908546

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

- INTRODUCTION -

BOOK ONE

- 1 -

- 2 -

- 3 -

- 4 -

- 5 -

- 6 -

- 7 -

- 8 -

- 9 -

- 10 -

- 11 -

- 12 -

- 13 -

- 14 -

- 15 -

- 16 -

- 17 -

- 18 -

- 19 -

- 20 -

- 21 -

- 22 -

- 23 -

- 24 -

- 25 -

- 26 -

- 27 -

- 28 -

- 29 -

- 30 -

BOOK TWO

- 31 -

- 32 -

- 33 -

- 34 -

- 35 -

- 36 -

- 37 -

- 38 -

BOOK THREE

- 39 -

- 40 -

- 41 -

- 42 -

- 43 -

- 44 -

- 45 -

- 46 -

- INTRODUCTION -

Sept. 06, 1944

As Riccardo Lanzi had feared, on May 1943, after the fall of the African front, the fighting had extended to the Italian territory. During the spring of 1944, on their retreat northword chased by the Americans, the Germans had placed a temporary defence line along the River Arno and the two armies fought from and near its banks.

The Lanzi family found themselves in the midst of the conflict, on the north side of the river, in German occupied territory. They were persistently bombarded by the Americans from the air and constantly harassed by the Germans on the ground. Wishing to escape the danger, though reluctantly, the Lanzis decided to abandon their little villa – perilously close to one of the bridges over the Arno and an important roadway – as they had both become strategic targets. Fortunately, they found refuge with a generous farmer’s family, the Banchini, who lived in the countryside.

Around mid September, after months of endured dangers, thanks to a further retreat by the Germans, for the population of the Arno valley, the long nightmare ended.

Thirteen year old Roberto, his mother Patrizia and his Grandmother –also called nonna- Luisa, were about to return home.

*****

BOOK ONE

- 1 -

September 1944

"After so many misadventures," nonna Luisa said, The time has come to pick up the pieces and begin living again.

That splendid morning, under a clear sky and an almost mid-summer sun, the Lanzis were about to return home, leaving the farmhouse which had been their refuge.

Gino, in his usual casual attire – brown trousers slightly worn at the knees, held by a heavy leather belt, a multi-colored checkered shirt, and leather boots with wooden soles – took out of the stable the only two Chianine cows which had survived the German raids. He connected their harness to the cart with swift, accurate movements, while singing passionately an old operatic aria from Cavalleria Rusticana. Meanwhile, Luisa and Patrizia kissed and embraced all the members of the family – Giulia, La Rossa, Mario, and Amato Banchini.

They reminisced, and talked of the hard, dangerous times endured together; Patrizia’s valiant and nearly deadly stand against the area German Kommandant; Luisa’s charitable night trips to share her scant food with other less fortunate refugees; Gino’s nephew, Ivo, perilous capture by a dreaded SS platoon and his subsequent providential escape.

Each shed a few tears, or looked mutely at each other for long silent moments, caught in the maze of personal feelings which could not be shared. "Had them been alive, said Giulia to Patrizia, your parents would have be very proud of you for what you done."

In the kind words and body language of the farmers and the evacuees, Roberto understood the deep appreciation for his mother’s contribution to the enlarged family during the threats and perils of the past months. She had been their leader, their unwavering guide, their rock. And now, at the moment of separation, they wanted to be certain they would try to see each other again, soon. Hopefully, as early as the vendemmia – the time for gathering the grapes – which, weather permitting, was to occur around mid-October.

We will be back, the Lanzis promised, it will be a real pleasure.

After exchanging a final goodbye with the family and several refugees – the Lanzis ensured their scattered belongings were all loaded onto the wooden cart.

They were ready to leave.

"Via, - Yhuh, yelled Gino cheerfully urging the team forward, we’re gonna go to town." He cracked the whip in the air and the cart pulled away with a jerk, to the sound of shouted salutations and gravel grinding under its huge ironclad wheels.

Roberto, Luisa called not seeing her grandson, where are you?

Taking advantage of all those effusive farewells, he had sneaked out of the yard to meet Giulia’s beautiful niece, Lina, at their rendezvous behind the bamboo canes. For one last time the two young lovers stood face-to-face, while the sun shone overhead and their faces blushed with desire. They looked at each other silently, held hands, embraced and then kissed. A long sensual kiss that sent shivers of pleasure throughout Roberto’s body.

A kiss; just two pair of lips touching. And yet, it had the power to make one believe that life was beautiful. That’s what Roberto had thought when they had kissed before. Now, that same kiss, mixed with the flavour of gratification, contained the bitter trace of an adieu. Lina slowly drew apart, caressed his face and then pulled away.

I’ll never forget you, she whispered. Then turned away and ran toward the farmhouse. Roberto felt like running after her. To what avail? Each had to follow their own family, pursue their own duties, their separate destiny. The blissful event of war’s end was suddenly embittered by their inevitable separation. He was left alone, prey to his anguish.

Will I ever see her again? he wondered.

Soon after, he heard his mother calling. His nonna joined in, but he didn’t answer. Instead, he took another look at the space around him, as though to impress in his mind the fact that Lina was really gone, and breathe in one last time her delicate scent.

Roberto! His nonna called again.

Finally, he shook himself from his state of bewilderment, peeked through an opening in the bamboo canes and saw the cart already disappearing beyond the first curve in the road. It was time to go. He released a deep sigh, took a few steps, and began to run across the rugged terrain of the fields. Faster and faster, with a motion as fluid and effortless as a bird, while his heart mourned.

Goodbye Lina. He jumped onto the cart, climbed over the furniture and settled on top of a pile of blankets.

Finally, said nonna Luisa, I thought you were lost.

Perhaps he was said Patrizia in a knowing tone. But he is young… she added with a sigh, he’ll be alright. Luisa glanced at her quizzically, but did not inquire further. Then she looked at her grandson. Roberto closed his eyes, but allowed his mouth to soften perceptibly, just enough to erase any suggestion of disquietude from his face; his pain was to remain his own.

Momentarily, through his sorrowful train of thoughts, he heard the cheerful chattering of the three adults. They were talking about the passage of the war front, and prophesying the happier times to come; desperately hoping the family would soon receive news of Riccardo and Lorenzo.

With the peril to their personal lives now removed, the thought of Riccardo and Lorenzo weighed heavily in their hearts. – Both men were Luisa’s sons. They had been called to arms in 1941, upon Italy’s entrance into the war. Riccardo was Patrizia’s husband and Roberto’s father. He served as an artillery officer with the Pavia Division at the African Front. His last letter was received a few weeks before the final surrender of the Axis troops in Tunisia. Lorenzo was his younger brother and served as an infantry officer with the elite Julia Division on the Greek Front and was last heard of in June 1943. Over thirteen months had elapsed since the family had last heard from the two brothers.

They didn’t know if they were prisoners of war, wounded or even dead.

At about the same time, the Italian war front – in its northward movement up the peninsula – had reached the region of Tuscany. The Lanzi family had found itself in the midst of battles on the north side of the Arno River, held by the retreating Wehrmacht army. They were subject to frequent bombing by the Americans from the air, and constantly threatened by German reprisals on the ground. Unable to endure this relentless danger, they reluctantly abandoned their small villa in Castelvecchio – perilously close to the bridge, the highway, and other targets – and found refuge with the Banchini, a friendly family of farmers who lived deep within the countryside.

Now, thanks to the retreat of the Germans, they could return home and, as nonna Luisa said, try to pick up the pieces, and begin anew a normal way of life.

Roberto listened quietly for a long while, as the cart slowly progressed along the country road. At long last, he opened his eyes and glanced at the countryside. It was really a beautiful day. The sky was a flawless blue canopy, the gold of the wheat fields stood in contrast with the deep green vineyards. Birds and butterflies fluttered about, and the distant hills no longer resounded with the blasts of cannon fire. Nature had quickly forgotten the violence of war. He wished he could be as forgetful as that, or as fast to recover.

Within an hour, they neared the town and the outline of the church dome and the old belltower became visible. Other familiar landmarks however, had disapperared from the landscape – as though erased forever by a capricious hand. Castelvecchio had fallen victim to the many air raids which, though meant to destroy the bridge over the Arno River, had missed the target and hit the town instead.

They call it ‘collateral damage’, he thought, as though the newly coined expression would be less lethal.

Finally, they arrived at the outskirts of the town and in ten more minutes, Gino pulled the reins of the cart and stopped in front of the house.

Luisa and Patrizia apprehensively scanned their dwelling for signs of damage to the Persian shutters, the front door and the façade. They had avoided the subject during their short trip. However, they feared finding their home in worse condition than first envisioned when the German Captain – of the nearby Command Post – told them their home had sustained some hits. Also, that Italian vagrants had broken in and stolen or ravaged some of its contents.

Son, said Patrizia, please open the gate.

Roberto jumped down from the cart, pushed the wrought iron gate open, and Gino backed the farm cart into the garden. As soon as he stopped, a cow began to urinate, splashing the gray stone pavement.

Oh, my poor begonias, lamented Luisa – noticing the foamy fluid streaming over the tiles and into the flower bed.

Only yesterday we feared death, Roberto heard his mother muse, and today you’re already concerned about the begonias?

Roberto smiled. He knew the garden to be one of his grandmother’s passions. She loved flowers and plants and treated them with the same care as she did human beings.

"Don’t worry, Nonna, he said reassuringly. They won’t die. Then he ran upstairs to unfasten the front door which had been secured by the German captain. He opened it wide to facilitate the haulage of furniture, and to let fresh air in. His gaze flew immediately to his mother’s piano. In addition to the torn top and loose twisted wires, four words had been etched into its shiny side: Per te ricca puttana, – For you rich whore."

Roberto felt the blood boil in his veins.

Why? By whom? Was it the random insult of a hooligan, he wondered, or an intended slander by someone they knew?

Many things were either missing or out of place. Some items, he remembered, had been packed and stashed away in the attic or hidden somwhere. He wondered if they were still there.

After the cart was unloaded and the belongings had been carried inside, they sat around the kitchen table to rest and drink cold water which Gino had manually pumped from the artesian well.

I hope they’ll restore the electricity soon, said Luisa.

They probably will, added Gino, seemingly unmoved by her comment. He had never had the benefit of electric power at the farm and he probably could not see the urgency.

It’ll be alright… he continued, there’ll be lots of work rebuilding what’s been destroyed. Plenty of jobs around…

Yes, echoed Luisa looking at Roberto. Children will be able to return to school and, God willing, our men will return home.

I hope so, too, said Patrizia pensively. "But at least we’re alive and healthy. The future will unfold as it should.

She sounded confident.The war front in Italy had stabilized around the Tosco-Emiliani Appenines. She knew the Germans, though still holding fast to their Gothic Line of defense, were demoralized and weary. Only their tremendous sense of discipline, difficult terrain, and the Allies’ overly-cautious approach, allowed them to continue their systematic strategic retreat. Their shrinking forces and depleted armament however, precluded any possibility of them making a counterattack.

Therefore, at least in this part of Tuscany, the war was now over.

On all the other fronts as well, the soldiers of the once mighty Wehrmacht were said to be retreating rapidly, squeezed between the jaws of the Russian-American military vise.

How much longer can they resist? Patrizia wondered, How soon will the conflict end?

Now it was only a matter of time, many people said.

After many considerations, exchanged between Gino and the Lanzis, the conversation dried up.

It was followed by a long moment of almost embarrassing silence. Finally, Gino slapped his thighs loudly and stood up.

Well, he said with a sigh, "I must be on my way. I’ve got them animals to feed. He hugged and kissed the two women. Then he put his hands on Roberto’s shoulders and shook him affectionately. Remember my boy, he said with mock seriousness, until your father is back, you be the man of the house. Take care of these wonderful women. He stared into Roberto’s eyes, grinned and then added, And come to see us when we harvest them grapes. You and Mario work good together – like a good team of oxen."

I will! the boy exclaimed.

Even though he still didn’t know exactly what it entailed, Roberto felt proud to be entrusted with the responsibility of protecting the family. Spurred on by Gino’s comments, and remembering his father’s identical words and recommendation upon leaving for the African front, he worked with enthusiasm. He helped bring chairs down from the attic where they had been stored, and insisted on lugging some of the heavier articles of furniture. Given his slender frame, he was pleasantly surprised at the gained strength that the time spent at the farm, and the new found responsibility, seemed to have provided.

Soon, the sparsely furnished rooms began to seem full again and the space became cluttered with assorted furniture.

***

Let’s go check the exterior of the house while it’s still daylight, Luisa suggested.

They began taking a mental inventory of the war wounds. The front, or south side of the house, had sustained some superficial damage from shrapnel. The Persian shutters though, needed extensive repair. The east and north sides were almost intact, but the west side had received a major hit. The middle section of the tiled sidewalk was shattered and the wall had a crater over five feet in diameter.

It was a cannon shell, said Roberto. Look, it exploded on the ground at the base of the wall. Fortunately, it wasn’t a direct hit and it didn’t break through the wall completely.

It’s still pretty bad, said Luisa in dismay. It will take some money to fix it.

Yes, Patrizia agreed, but at least it didn’t go all the way through, and the repairs can be postponed. The roof, however, might have received some damage. We should have it checked before the rains start.

You are right, said Luisa, we can have it looked at over the next few days. Now let’s see the rest and then we’ll have supper.

The tool shed and the hen-coop, detached from the house, had only light damage. In the orchard, here and there the ground was punctured by cannon shells and several trees had been blown away or crippled. Many were still standing, but their trunks were riddled with shrapnel.

What possible target had the Americans been aiming at over here? Roberto wondered.

I hope they’ll survive, exclaimed Luisa, touching a few branches compassionately as though they were wounded human limbs. Then, as though unable to endure any more devastation, she slowly shook her head, turned to Patrizia and said, "Let’s go eat the food the Banchinis gave us. Roberto must be starving by now. Tomorrow we can see if there is any food down-town, so I can prepare a hot meal.

Later, I’ll worry about my garden.

***

- 2 -

That night Roberto slept in his own room, but despite the soft mattress under his body and clean white linen on top he could not sleep. The air was free of musty odors. It was not filled with the breathing or the crowded proximity of other people, as it had been at the farm. Yet, he did not have the comfort of Lina near him, nor could he reach for her hand under the blanket. He twisted and turned, obsessed by the unusual silence which enveloped the room. Thoughts of his missing father, of the way he used to sit on his knees listening to his evening reading, the long trips on his bike, the rare but beautiful evening on the beach of the Arno River. He thought of his uncle Lorenzo, while images and emotions hounded each other relentlessly in his head. When he felt he was close to tears he tried to imagine the secret pain his mother and grandmother must harbor in their hearts and felt ashamed for his self-indulgence.

In spite of the physical comfort, he had a restless night and finally fell asleep just as the sun was ready to rise. When he awoke, his mother and grandmother were already uncrating the salvaged household items. The house resounded with the monotonous click-clack of inanimate objects being moved around.

Roberto was excused from this activity but he was told not to leave the house as the streets around the town were in considerable turmoil. He stayed in his garden watching the American convoys rumble by, heading in a northerly direction. About fifty meters north of the house the road had been widened to the right. A tract of the drain ditch which ran parallel to it had been covered to give vehicles sufficient space to circle around the bomb crater in the middle of the road. Roberto sneaked out of the garden to check it out.

Why don’t they fill it? he asked a passerby.

Apparently they can’t, he answered, I heard an unexploded 500 kilogram shell is still buried at the bottom.

Some of the trucks in the convoy were full of soldiers, others carried equipment and weapons or towed cannons and howitzers. A few people had stopped and pulled aside for fear of being overrun by that avalanche of steel.

Look at that huge amount of equipment! commented an amazed bystander, how come they are so slow at ending this damned war?

That’s what I was wondering too, replied another. It was a question present in many people’s minds.

Every now and then a parade of civilians passed by the house, and he noticed that people now marched with regular strides instead of goose-step. Italian tricolor flags replaced the fascist banners, and the Sabaudo coat-of-arms of the runaway monarch had been removed from its middle section. Banners with the pictures of Marx and Lenin had now dislodged Mussolini’s.

Several days later, when he went downtown with his nonna, he saw that some streets had already been re-named for new heroes or martyrs, and on a plaque on the wall facing the main square he recognized the names of two young brothers brutally killed by the SS just days before the German retreat.

Death is always terrible, he thought, but coming so close to the moment of liberation, adds to the cruelty of the act.

The old Palazzo del Podestà was now called Palazzo del Comune or Town Hall. Many posters on the walls displayed words such as ‘proletariat’ and ‘bourgeoisies’, ‘materialism’ and ‘exploitation’. Words seldom seen or heard before were now coming into common use. Red shirts, the uniform of Garibaldi’s soldiers during the war of independence against Austria and the Borbons in the mid 19th century, now symbolized loyalty and adherence to the new communist party.

An old man sat smoking his pipe on the shaded steps of the main square, "There is so many of them guys in red, he said spitting dark saliva on the ground, that it’s hard to believe there was any fascists at all only a short time ago!"

Sometimes, gun shots broke through the otherwise peaceful summer evenings, followed by the discovery of an occasional dead body in a dark corner, with a sign written in the victim’s own blood, pinned to his clothes, Fascist Pig!

***

Next time I go to the grocery store said Luisa, I’ll ask if anything has been heard from the Gianis. I think the owner is a distant relative.

Their neighbours to the east had not yet returned from their hideout and she wondered if they had escaped unscathed.

Good idea, Patrizia said. However, I did check the doors and windows of their house. From the outside, everything seems in good order.

Roberto thought of Lucia – the Gianis’ daughter and his boyhood friend; he frowned at his own ambivalence. Deliberating about the two girls, Lina and Lucia, didn’t seem to create a conflict in his mind – he liked them both.

He also thought of Lucia’s little brother, Giovanni, and felt awful thinking that sometimes, during play, he had taken advantage of him, tripping him or wrestling him to the ground. He loved him like a younger brother, and couldn’t understand why, at times, he had behaved so badly towards him. Perhaps, as his nonna said, it was just an excess of exuberance.

For several days after his return, lacking the company of other children, Roberto spent his time reading or wandering around the garden and the backyard. The contemplation of precisely aligned porcelain cups didn’t seem a worthy exchange for the freedom and human warmth he had experienced at the farm. He missed Lina, and often thought of her, trying to imagine where she was and whether she would be thinking of him as well.

He also thought about Mario Banchini and the many things he had learned from him about plants, animals, companionship and the uncomplicated, yet powerful, ways of nature. He nostalgically remembered the time they stood at the edge of a wheatfield bordered by shallow drains. Straight lines of fruit trees ran parallel to the ditches and many of the young saplings had converging branches with peculiar V cuts covered with tar and wrapped with canvas.

What is that? Roberto had asked.

"It’s done to get fruit when them trees ain’t good enough to do it by itself. They call it graftin. Don’t dey learn you nothing at school?"

"Oh yes, grafting," Roberto repeated. I know what it is, but I had never seen it. A shoot from a yielding tree is splices to an infertile one to make it productive. Then he retorted, "Don’t they teach you to talk properly in the country?"

Noticing astonishment on Mario’s face he added, I’m just teasing you, silly. Don’t be cross. Go on, teach me something else.

He also thought of the time when the Germans had taken away Bianchina, Mario’s favourite cow.

Roberto missed all the other people too. Not individually, perhaps, but as a group who formed an integral part of the warm feeling he had experienced in their company.

He wandered through the cold silence of the house, feeling estranged, disappointed and lonely. War was bad, he knew that. Yet, at the Banchini’s farm he had often experienced happiness. Yes, they had sometimes risked their lives, but when the danger had passed, the exhilaration of being alive made even the smallest occurrence feel like an extraordinary thing – a warm soup gulped down during a short lull in the bombing, a compliment, a caress or a kiss captured behind a shrub. The intense feeling of all those different people around him, the fears, trepidations, the exultation of the next moment, had made him experience a different and fuller kind of life. Now, all those people were gone; likely forever. His father was still away, perhaps a prisoner of war, or possibly even dead – it was so long since his last letter. His mother and grandmother, despite their love and attention, seemed suddenly inadequate to fill his deep emptiness.

He glanced around as if to get his bearings.

He looked at the waxed marble floor: too perfect to be walked on with shoes, but too cold to be walked on in bare feet. The fluted glasses: too delicate to handle. The gilded picture of an ancient relative: too ugly to remain on the mantle. The crystal vase: too precious for daily usage. All those ornaments and dishes were mementos for other people. They were untouchable memories, important to others and so irrelevant to him.

He thought of the more rudimentary, yet more ‘real’ and purposeful objects seen, touched, and used at the farm, and suddenly he perceived his home as inhospitable. There was a strange atmosphere. It felt as though the house, after holding its breath for so many months without the presence of the family, was now afraid to begin to breathe, and come to life again.

I miss the countryside and the Banchini farm, he said one night during supper.

Both women looked at him strangely.

Never mind, Luisa finally said, you miss them because you are bored. Tomorrow we’ll start some of the old routines, so that when school begins you will be ahead of everyone else.

He quickly regretted having given voice to his feelings.

***

Over the next several days, the Lanzis were often downtown. They walked from store to store, rummaging through the bare shelves to find some food. It was always the same story.

Flour and rice will arrive tomorrow, said the shopkeeper.

No flour, no bread, said the baker. "I only have a few stale loaves if you want them. Maybe they’ll be good for minestrone or a ribollita."

There is no meat available, said the butcher, the Germans stole all the cows. The few left are needed to work the fields.

However, if one was ready to pay prices higher than those authorized by the authorities, suddenly the meat, the sugar, and the coffee would appear from under the counter.

In the main square, men with long stepladders and pails of white-wash were climbing up the prominent town walls like spiders, painting over the old fascist slogans. Some of the words stubbornly leaked through the first coating and a second one had to be applied. Someone suspected the painters, in order to do the job twice and get paid more, had diluted the white-wash. Fascist symbols and posters were covered or removed from public places. The normally quiet atmosphere of the town was frequently interrupted by new chants and hymns or political assemblies, called comizi, which were held in the Piazza del Comune. Many men who had performed public functions under the Fascist Regime were said to have suddenly disappeared for fear of reprisal.

As more parades passed by the house, Roberto watched, somewhat surprised to see those usually calm and mild mannered peasants now so inflamed, vigorously waving red flags with hammer and sickles. Shouting new slogans, with greater vigor and conviction than they had done with fascist ones. Saluting with a raised arm and a clenched fist while marching to the tune of the ‘Internazionale’.

How clever! he heard an observer say to the man beside him, The Americans supply trucks, food, medicines and money, while the Russians supply only songs and a few red rags; and look who the people follow!

Many newborn males were now named: Ivan, Sasha, Sergi and Yuri; while females were called: Irina, Katya, Maruska, Sonya and Tanya. To the dismay of the Catholic Church, often the infants were not even baptized. Communism was suddenly embraced by the majority of laborers and farmers, either as the strongest antidote to the previous regime, or as a mere reaction to it. Very few considered it a viable philosophical doctrine. Many people simply felt it was the last hope for the realization of the socio-economic improvements promised over the last fifty odd years. Yet for some, however, the specter of Stalinism with the recent revelations of the gulags, the inhumane treatment of prisoners, and the general repression of freedom and religion in areas under Russian control, were sufficient reasons to search for other alternatives. Some of these, stirred up by the diehard fascists, the Christian Democrats, the Americans and the Church, went so far as to create alliances with neo-fascist cells who worked hard to disrupt communist organizations, trying to prevent their eventual electoral victory.

Luisa Lanzi disliked communism as much as she had disliked fascism or, as she said, "Any other ism I can think of." She detested violence and the lack of personal freedom which seemed endemic to these movements. She also loathed communism because it did not allow freedom of religion and, last but not least, because it disputed people’s right to hold property.

***

- 3 -

"Fortunately," Roberto heard his mother say to nonna Luisa, they have stolen mainly the smaller things. At least they left the beds, the kitchen table, the chairs and the china cabinet.

The two women were cleaning and rearranging the main rooms of the house, substituting as best they could those things which had been stolen or destroyed.

The sound of a military band suddenly blared into the kitchen through the open door of the terrace, and Luisa made a dash to