Then Bertolino Pietro appeared in her life. After the lost battles in the streets in 1922 he promised her not to fight any longer against the fascist world, to dedicate himself to a family life. She believed his words, she married him, and she had a baby. But Pietro's ancient desire to fight came back again, and he threw himself again into the struggle.

How much sorrow borne in silence!

How much anxiety when she, with the baby in the arm, was waiting for her husband coming home, when she heard approaching steps in the dark courtyard!

How much fear when he saw grim faces going around her house.

How much sorrow in her heart when she imagined the gloomy future, when she foresaw the approaching end.

Then November 17 along the river, Pietro lying dead on the bank, the threatening words of those who had killed him. Abandoned in poverty at the age of 46 with a baby.

A life of fear, a life of poverty, a life of hardships.

And at the end a little grandson came, born on the same day of Pietro, July 12. The little grandson began to mistreat her without cause, to poison her last days of life. And she did not reply, she did not react, as she has done in her long life.

Grandmother, only now do I understand.