Loose End. Eva Mikula

accept my silent and heartfelt presence at the commemorations of October 13th as a surviving victim of a fierce, absurd and unforgettable story. Waiting for your in-depth evaluation and understandable response, I renew my best regards.

      Eva Mikula. Rome, January 28, 2015

      The response from Mrs. Zecchi, president of the Association, was not long in coming: “It is a request that does not stand, I do not know on what basis you can make such a request”.

      I was still of the opinion that at least those who had been closely touched by this story of the White One knew the truth about the capture of the gang. I was wrong, I realized, however, that this was not the case at all. No less angry was the reply of Valter Giovannini of the public prosecutor of Bologna, which no one had called into question in the letter, but evidently he felt compelled to put his seal with the reply: “Silence is enough to respect the victims”, as if to say to be silent so as not to raise questions already closed and sedimented in the procedural truths.

      I felt more and more alone and marginalized, I was not yet ready to face and publicly reveal the truth about the dynamics of the gang capture. My daughter was still small, my energies were used to manage a life full of responsibility and I still had a step, a pawn to put in her place: to tell the story of her life, of her destiny, why she does not have a dad. But for all this I had to wait until she was at least 9 years old, as the child psychologist suggested to me that followed me in the single-parent education path.

      The years passed quickly and on the right day made itself known without having planned it.

      7.

      7. Eva Mikula a selfie at home, 2011

      8.

      8. Eva Mikula and her son Francesco, 2012

      5. JULIA ARRIVES AND EVERYTHING CHANGES

      My belly was growing and my life finally seemed to go smoothly, perhaps also thanks to the rules I had imposed on myself starting with the first one: to avoid emotional jolts, nervousness and discussions in working relationships.

      I tried to resolve any misunderstandings, conflicts, unforeseen events, with Olympic tranquility, like a true number one. I thought positive and this satisfied me; I worked hard so that no negativity could cross my mind and body as I was about to become a mother for the second time.

      I protected the creature that was growing inside of me and in the long evenings in solitude I talked to her a lot. I imagined her small, small, looking up and listening to her mother.

      She was giving me almost supernatural strength. At the same time she detached me from the disappointments of the past and illuminated the hopes of the future.

      Yes, the regulator of my new responsible happiness was coming. I was able to bask in these strong and languid sensations, loaded with projects to be carried out by myself. The plan did not include associates or partners, I did not want to share my new life even with Biagio.

      So it was that, when the pains began, I got into my car and, without saying anything to anyone, I went, for the planned Caesarean section, directly to the hospital.

      I parked and arrived to the ward I already knew: I had done the tests and checks right there, at the Santo Spirito Hospital in Rome and it was the second caesarean section I was undergoing.

      Everything went well and the next day Julia was born. I was in seventh heaven. The first question I asked the healthcare staff was: "Is she healthy? Is she okay?" "Sure" replied the midwife. "She's a beautiful little girl" she added enthusiastically. I cried for joy. The inner voice whispered to me, caressing my soul: "Eve, you did it again, I'm with you".

      That day it started my new life together with Julia. Biagio and our son came to visit me in the hospital, I have some beautiful photos of that very pleasant visit.

      I went back to my nest driving the car. Biagio carried the baby inside the basket and escorted me aboard his car. Entering the house, he placed the basket with the baby on the sofa and left. A few hours later I went out with the baby in my arms to go to the pharmacy to buy what the doctors had prescribed for me and Julia.

      The pharmacy was not far away, but it was almost evening and it was very cold in that gloomy November.

      The wound from the caesarean section, still fresh, caused me a bit of pain. I hooded and, step by step, I arrived to the goal. The pharmacist widened his eyes when he saw me entering: looking like this and with a baby in her arms, he must have thought I was a gypsy begging for alms.

      To his great surprise, however, he found himself in front of a mother who, with all her strength, and with her baby in her arms, asked for the medications for the surgery just undergone, the necessary to dress the umbilical part of the baby and the products for post-partum hygiene.

      Really heroic, as only a mother can be. Returning home I thought that in those conditions, in the first few days, I would really have a hard time managing the baby, standing up, walking, bathing her, dressing her, taking care of her day and night. I absolutely had to get someone to help me; I thought about calling my mother in Romania, but a bad memory came to mind. When she learned months ago that I was pregnant, she seemed happy. As soon as I explained to her that Julia's dad had died in a car accident while I was in my third month and that I had also decided to continue the pregnancy, she fell silent. She disappeared altogether, for half a year, an interminable time.

      I was really alone, without even her comfort, but I was happy all the same because I knew that she, my mom, had recovered and was fine. With the treatment she had stabilized. Fifteen days before the birth, the phone rang, I recognized her number. I really didn't expect it, after that long absolute silence. Finally I heard her voice again, it was my mom. I began to hope to have her soon in Rome.

      She began with these words: "Excuse me, I had to think a lot about your choice, but I came to a conclusion: a good parent is better than two bad ones. I am proud my daughter for the choice you have made and if you need me, I'll be with you".

      The profound meaning of what she told me came from a reflection on her life and, consequently, on mine.

      As a child I had both parents and both declared themselves Christians; therefore a Christian family, yet it cannot be said that mine was a happy childhood nor that my mother was a loved woman, except in the first years of marriage.

      It came natural to propose spending some time with me, after all I was about to give birth to her granddaughter. She replied that at that moment she would not be able to move because she had to bring the flowers to the market to sell them and she did not want them to be ruined, so as not to lose a profit.

      I was disappointed "I'm worth less than her flowers" I thought. The economic costs that I would have had to face to get her to come to Italy so that she could stay for the necessary period would have been a hundred times more expensive.

      I didn't count for anything to my parents when they had their busy schedule. After the birth, however, I called her with a determined desire to have her close for a while. I couldn't move and had a baby who needed to be looked after.

      "Mom, this time I need help, I can't do it, I never asked you for anything and even now I would like to ask you, if I weren't in this condition: please come, don't tell me no".

      So it was that my mother got on the first bus to Rome; she traveled for 24 consecutive hours from the north of Romania and I went to pick her up at the motorway exit.

      We met in the petrol station service area located near the junction; I got out and walked towards her with little Julia in the basket, a 5-day-old girl. "But you took the creature with you, so small!" my mother exclaimed worriedly.

      I laughed because I realized that she still had no idea what conditions I was in at the time, what it really meant to be alone in the world.