Loose End

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.

Amused by this externalization, I replied: "I could leave her at home, so she made us coffee".

We hugged each other tightly, I was jonesing for my mother: I hadn't seen her for over a year. She stayed with us for two months; so I had time to recover. Health returned to its place and so did I.

I put the work in order, found a babysitter to follow Julia as I worked; I hired her full time with room and board, to have continuity and tranquility. I had fully recovered and re-stabilized. So, having found my full balance, my mother left to go back to my father, she was always apprehensive for him.

She continually asked herself a thousand things: "What is he eating? What is he doing? Who did he talk to? Let's hope he hasn't argued with anyone. Did he remember to lock the door of the house when he went out to go shopping? Will he have found the socks in the bottom drawer of the closet?". They were the little anxieties of a woman who, despite what she had endured, continued to be devoted to her man. For me this almost maternal affection was an inexplicable fact, towards a husband who had mistreated, betrayed and beaten her and who had plunged her into the darkness of depression, alcohol, pain. But it was her free choice and I respect her.

The days passed in serenity with Julia nearby, I had found my lifeline. She had a different color, beautifully charged. She grew strong and fast like a train.

I too proceeded like a Frecciarossa train: I managed the house, the woman who helped me, the company and myself.

The frame of a rediscovered everyday life were the smiles of a little girl in search of love. Her sweet happiness perhaps concealed an unconscious unhappiness, mysterious to her, but not to me: she did not have a father. Slowly, therefore, my life began to oil the gears that risked rusting.

After a couple of years, I also managed to carve out a space for myself. With a group of friends, at least twice a month, we would go out for an aperitif or to eat a pizza. It became my own corner ritual, because the rest was governed by the imperative of my duties, my responsibilities: my daughter, my son, home, work. I was at the same time man and woman, mum and dad and also the responsibilities were double or triple.

That small, innocent and one-of-a-kind amusement with my friends had thus become a vital diversion.

Once again karma sent me an unpleasant warning: ugly, hateful, humiliating, bad, the same adjectives that fit perfectly with the actor who played that role of a little man by treating me unfairly, or perhaps in retaliation, because I had not indulged his winks. It was certainly not my fault, I did not like it.

I liked to go with my friends to a restaurant in the center of Rome, where they played live music. A pleasant place, I liked it very much and we were happy, there was a nice atmosphere and was frequented by apparently decent people. In my life path I had learned firsthand that there are at least two types of people: respectable and "bad" to stay away from. But appearances are sometimes deceiving.

One evening it happened that as soon as I crossed the threshold of the room a bouncer approached and invited me to go out, to go away. I thought for a moment that he got the wrong person, but he took me by the arm and forcibly dragged me out of the club and told me I should leave immediately.

My friends watched astonished without understanding what was happening. "I'd like to speak to the owner" I said. "I have a right to know why you're throwing me out." "Now I'll tell you" he replied when we were well away from the entrance and went back inside. After half an hour no one had appeared yet, neither the bouncer nor the owner, but the girls joined me to keep me company. I did not know what to do and did not understand, I knew the owner of the restaurant, he had come several times to our table.

He seemed a nice person with me and with all the guests. In truth he had addressed some more appreciation to me and wanted to take me out to dinner, but I declined his invitation, he was not a man I liked and I did not, however, want and intend to relate to him.

I just had to go home, but I promised myself that I would return the following week and that, if the scene was repeated, I would call the police. I always keep my promises and in fact I went back. Again, as soon as they saw me they threw me out. I asked again insistently to speak with the owner. He did not deign, but he sent me to say by a security officer: "You are not welcome because you are Eva Mikula of the White One Gang."

I called 113 and when a patrol arrived I explained that I was being prevented from entering a public place. They recorded my grievances. The owner was invited by the agents to come out to provide an explanation, justified himself aloud, in front of everyone: "The lady is not welcome in my place because she has a criminal record, she is a delinquent, has frequented delinquency, has been the woman of the White One Gang".

The policemen left with the report in hand and I tried to enter, but the two bouncers stood in front of me. I never went to that place again, but the bitterness remained in my mouth.

Appearances are deceptive, in fact. Other than good people! I later learned that this place was a reference point for business meetings. I don't care what others do, it's their business, but the discrimination I suffered was really heavy. A little revenge from the owner, a real minus habens, who had failed to invite me out for dinner and maybe even get something else, which perhaps he had taken for granted. Like all cowardly people, he retaliated by rubbing it in to humiliate me in front of others.

The police report of that evening did not lead to anything obviously, only a piece of paper remained, but I didn't want to let him get away with it. I went to a lawyer. What a pain! I asked myself: "But if I have to convince the lawyer as well, where can I go?". How many prejudices behind that refrain that is always the same: "Forget it, there are many other restaurants".

People always tended to trivialize and discourage me without trying to make the slightest effort to understand what I felt inside, without even trying to understand my state of mind, putting themselves in my shoes for the wrong I had suffered, no one felt a shred of empathy towards me.

I tried to get over it. But the bitterness remained, like the fear that other similar episodes might be waiting around the corner.

With the global recession that began in 2008 after the bankruptcy of Lehman Brothers, the clouds began to thicken over the real estate sector as well. Between 2011 and 2012 the crisis in my professional world made itself felt in a pressing way. So I chose the path of increasing the business by extending the network of contacts: I intended to broaden the range of action outside Italy, especially in London.

I had become a Rome-London commuter, a great sacrifice for me as a mother and for Julia as a daughter, but everything was aimed at our future. Luck helped me for once: my daughter's babysitter was good and very honest, she stayed with us full time for four years and I am grateful to her for the quality and amount of effort she put into helping me to grow Julia.

I was a very caring mom. At the beach or at the playground, wherever there were many people and the risk of her getting lost increased, I wrote her name and my phone number in ink on her arm. I taught her to dial 113, and told her that in an emergency, if mom got sick or wasn't at home, she would have to dial it. She asked me, as all children do: "Why?", I explained to her that it is the police number and that policemen are good people who intervene whenever someone needs help. Julia listened to me in silence. And then: "I want to call them now!" I was blown away, I thought that perhaps I had not explained myself well. "There is no emergency now, we are all fine, there is no reason to call", she, in a voice full of love and innocence, said "I want to tell them that I love them". I melted, it was touching. Her naivety had broken all kinds of barriers on respect and trust in the forces of law and order. I hugged her and promised that one day she would have the opportunity to greet all the policemen in person, even through their boss. A secret wish.

Managing had now become the word of my life: I managed the small spaces with the son who lived with his father Biagio, I managed the trips to London; I was managing a complicated job that I had to invent step by step and day after day, because it was full of traps and characters that were not always crystal clear. Fortunately, my London collaborators were suitably professional. And I learned from them to focus on a deal, to put into practice strategies to search and find clients for prestigious properties, to acquire the techniques to work on construction sites and to sell houses on approved projects.

And here I am, in a 2020 that has come quickly. Aware and fortified by the thousand adventures, sometimes very difficult, dramatic, bad, above all unjust of my life. In July, the hot days passed quietly, commuting to London was over: there was Brexit.

Italy was discussing the anti-Covid measures that in March 2020 had resulted in the total closure of every activity, of every move. Now we were a little more free, so I decided to take a spin on Google. I typed in my name and surname: Eva Mikula. I was curious, I already knew many articles about me, others where I had been unjustly brought up for reasons of opportunity and marketing of certain police bodies, were known but caused me anger and sadness. For example, those on the robbery of my ex-husband arrested by the carabinieri, who were careful not to spread his personal details, indicating him only as Mikula's ex-husband, or those on the Savi brothers, the killers of the gang who were asking for benefits to shorten the time their release from prison. All stuff already seen, I found no new or unpublished ideas or news. However, I came across some video interviews that I did not know, where the capture of the members of the White One Gang was described.

In particular, my curiosity was attracted by the stories of the public prosecutor of Rimini Daniele Paci and of the two agents, at the time of the events in the Rimini police station, Luciano Baglioni and Pietro Costanza.

They described, celebrating themselves in great detail, their great investigative capacity and the extraordinary courage put in place to complete the sensational operation.

I listened to their interviews found online for an entire afternoon. I felt like I found myself face to face with them, just like on that night between 25th and 26th November 1994.

From them not even a word about the young woman who, really bravely, put them on the right path, the girl who at the risk of her own life led them to the arrest of that group of policemen with a double life of brutal criminals.

They had erased me, as if wrapped in a black blanket. For them, in those paroxysmal and distressing days of 25 years ago, I had not existed. Not a single mention of my collaboration in the service of justice. They denied the evidence with the complicity of the time that had concealed the truth of the facts, sedimented under mountains of papers, among which they chose what to show and what not so that only their trial version emerged.

Now I'll tell you the real truth.

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9 and 10. Eva Mikula and her daughter Julia, 2013

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11. Her children, Julia and Francesco, 2015

12. Eva Mikula a selfie in the car, 2016

6. LETTERS FOR THE TRUTH

One day in July 2020, browsing the variegated world of the web, I found some videos online on YouTube with interviews with the two policemen, Luciano Baglioni and Pietro Costanza, and with the public prosecutor of Rimini Daniele Paci. I jumped into the chair. From the time of the events, in 1994, to that moment, summer 2020, I had always been convinced that, pending the celebrations of the trials following the capture of all the members of the gang, the investigators told false versions for the sole purpose of protecting my safety. I thought to myself: "They know very well how things went, but they don't reveal it to avoid me taking risks." I also had the same thought when they made the film about the story of the White One. On the other hand, their main task was to defend Italian citizens. And I, after 30 years of living in Italy, where I was welcomed, where I entered, where I studied, worked, paid taxes, I think I am a citizen like any other. I was also afraid that the spotlight would turn back on me. So I let it go and didn't want to go into the matter too much.

However, checking through the media all the information about me that was still disclosed to the public after a long time, I felt uneasy. In particular, listening to their reconstruction had the effect on me of making me feel excluded and therefore even more in danger, more alone and more defenseless. I had played a central role, even a primary one, I had risked my life, I had been under protection for the capture of those criminals, which is why I jumped at their version. The feeling I felt brought me back to the terror of when I lived with a ferocious killer who kept telling me: "I'll kill you". The nightmare was materializing again; I realized that I was alone against the demons of my past and I had two paths in front of me: to succumb to fear or to react, I chose the second.

I think it is not easy for anyone to retrace such traumatic moments of real life. With my memory I was painfully going back through that period in which I had to defend myself at the trials from very serious unfounded accusations, invented, only in retaliation, by the killer brothers. I had to do it: bring to mind those facts to understand what in reality was hidden behind the fallacies of those who served those lies to the media. I didn't think about advertising myself. On the contrary: my goal is still oblivion now because he has the double advantage of guaranteeing the serenity of loved ones and keeping them safe from possible cold revenge. Retaliation was and is a non-negligible risk, a probability to be taken into consideration also because, excluding the brothers Roberto and Fabio Savi, the other members of the gang were already in circulation.

Looking through the online mare magnum of unilateral information, I came across an interesting piece of news concerning two Italian journalists: Claudio Brachino and Sandro Provvisionato. In 2008 they were denounced for having questioned the official version of the capture, told by those who did it only for the benefit of the camera and spotlights.

The amazement and indignation, as I read the events, caused me a real tachycardia, up to a bad panic attack. I wrote an open letter in one go. Baglioni, Costanza and Paci knew well how things had gone about the capture. My intention was to remind them of the truth: the capture, the days and nights spent, between 25 and 26 November 1994, fighting together to rebuild a puzzle of robbery, blood and violence that lasted seven years and half. I wanted to understand if they had forgotten the conditions in which they found me, the fear, the unconsciousness of a young girl as fragile as a leaf in the wind, the certainties and the sense of protection and security that they were able to transmit to me: "Now you are no longer alone" they told me, "You will have nothing more to fear if you tell us everything you know to capture them, the Italian State will activate the protection program". I, who had no doubts about the genuineness of their words and had believed their promises, helped them unconditionally.

Therefore, I wrote this letter dated July 28, 2020, hoping to have a reply:

"Dear and illustrious Dr. Paci, Costanza and Baglioni. Do you remember me? Eva Mikula? Have you ever wondered in these 25 years if she was a victim, an accomplice or a survivor? Surely NOT. You took all the credit, of course, I am in the way after having squeezed myself like a lemon and abandoned to my fate. A poor Romanian girl who is insignificant to Italian society. But which White Tipo? Which bar? What fishing license? It was the neighbor who had nothing to do with it, but I understand that the capture of the Savi must be told and justified in some way to give answers to the public interest. We live in days where criminals are finishing their sentences, and I? My sentence is infinite, it is for life; no protection, no anonymity, no compensation. I live in the abyss of my past, hiding in oblivion to face and defeat the prejudice of public opinion every day, conquer my daily life and give hope to that of my children. The Italian State has compensated the relatives of the victims with billions of lire, you have had the merits and degrees. And me? I was an uncomfortable character for both the good and the bad, nothing has changed. The relatives of the victims judge me morally complicit and guilty.

The Italian justice system (4 trials in the Court of Assizes, 2 on appeal and 1 in cassation) has shown my extraneousness to the crimes.

My collaboration, testimony, lived risk and years of life dedicated to condemning criminals, freeing even the innocent,... everything has vanished into thin air. Put your hand on your conscience while I'm still alive. It would do you honor. It would be enough to resume the files and the telephone calls between the various prosecutors of that night... November 24, 1994.

Do it on behalf of the victims, on behalf of the wounded and on behalf of the innocent like William, Peter Santagata and others.

My life is also worth something. I'm not looking for merits even if I could claim many.

I would like understanding, loyalty, consideration and protection. Thanks".

How naive I was to think of solving everything with an open letter! The meaning was simple: you have captured the Savi gang only thanks to me, but for me you have not spent a word.

You have taken exclusive credit, as if I did not exist, but not only that, with your particular reconstructions of events, you have produced the classic collateral damage. In fact, by doing so, the only concrete effect obtained was to expose myself to the resentment and hatred of public opinion, of the people I meet on the street, convinced by your words that you are faced with a murderess who got away with it. And I? I pay for injustice, I waited and hoped in vain for a reply. I was not seeking praise, I was not seeking compensation, I was not seeking anything. I was just waiting for a word that looked like a "thank you". I never asked for anything, only the truth to be with my face in the midst of ordinary people, without having to hide.

I wrote addressing Paci, Baglioni and Costanza and instead I was answered by Mrs. Rosanna Zecchi, president of the Association, and the ubiquitous Public Prosecutor Valter Giovannini, with these two statements entrusted to the press:

"The reply to Eva Mikula from the president of the Family Association of the Victims of White One, Rosanna Zecchi: "I'm a bit confused, you should be ashamed. You have been silent for years, because it suited you, you had money. Now maybe you need something and you showed up"." If you spoke it was because others discovered you - says Zecchi - you knew what the gang was doing, because you slept with the weapons under the bed. Were you hoping for compensation? After years of silence? We can't stand it anymore, we know very well the role you played in those years: I was in court and I have always seen you, you were on the other side. If I were you, I would leave Italy and never talk about it again. If you want to say something go to the Prosecutor's Office or write to the Prosecutor's Office. Leave us alone".

Not to mention Valter Giovannini, current deputy attorney general in Bologna and at the time public prosecutor who coordinated the investigation and led the prosecution in the trial of the Bolognese crimes of the gang headed by the Savi brothers:

"When I called Mikula to testify in the trial of the White One gang, she exercised the right not to answer as a suspect of a related crime. Today, if she intends to make different and additional statements than those she made at the time to the prosecutors, there is only one way to go and that is to ask to be heard by the judicial authorities".

So do these protagonists think I should be ashamed? I looked around, in the mirror and inside my soul, despite 25 years having passed, I found nothing to be ashamed of in this story that only caused me incurable wounds, making me feel the wickedness of hypocrisy on my skin. I was metaphorically slapped to cover up the mistakes of others, portrayed as guilty to erase the definition of "survivor", too conflicting with the theorems of a public prosecutor's office.

Defamations and manipulations of reality to mislead the truth fabricated by those who, on the other hand, should discover it and do it justice. I was tried for complicity in robbery and murder with the Savi brothers and acquitted for not having committed these facts, not because I enjoyed any particular benefit.

Paradox: the Savi falsely accused me precisely because I had collaborated with the investigating bodies. Why don't you tell this, perhaps also to the relatives of the victims and to Mrs. Zecchi? They have all been diverted to a bogus truth, and I say this with the utmost respect, believing that certain responses oozing gratuitous malice are the product of the manipulation of a few.

Perhaps it is convenient for many, prosecutors, investigators, secret services, journalists, to disclose and maintain a false image of Eva Mikula. Are they afraid that the reconstructions shared by those who have undoubtedly benefited from manipulation can be overturned and denied?

I don't find it right because everyone: victims, relatives, journalists, newspaper readers, viewers, must know the truth. The Savi brothers were arrested because I collaborated with the police forces to have them arrested and sentenced.

So, I decided to go public with the real story of the capture. I also do it for my other "half of my heart", for the Hungarian journalist Làszlò Posztobànyi. I owe it only to him if I am still alive today and the Savi are in prison.

Twenty-five years ago he was my savior. But, dear Làszlò, in that July 2020 I again felt I needed you. I had made his contact details disappear so as not to allow the murderer Fabio to intercept him or trace him back. I could no longer contact him. Google took care of it, if necessary. By entering the name and surname that I remembered by heart, the search engine provided me with photographs of him. I remembered well the face, the kind eyes, his determination and the sense of justice that transpired from his smile. In this way I arrived on his social page and then to the email address.

On 30 July 2020 I wrote to him simply: "Eva Mikula, 1994, Rimini, Thank you".

After 2 hours he replied: "Contact me, this is my number". I wondered why in these 25 years he had never looked for me, what had happened. I remembered a report from the RAI broadcast in 1995, when the journalist sent, Stefano Tura, had gone to interview him to ask about me and why we knew each other. At that time I was in Rome, under guard, in a secret place. In front of the Italian camera he was confused and disoriented. Why was he gone? We have been on the phone for one day, and the next. I had to dismantle all the castles of judgments and prejudices that he had made based on the unfounded news that came to Hungary from Italy about me. We retraced everything, every detail, together we remembered that day in 1994, when I called him from Rimini: "Help me, get me out of here otherwise I will die. There are girls who have disappeared. There are policemen involved in the gang. My life is at risk, do something! We can't talk anymore, this is my number, you will find me here". I told him that I had reported the Italian authorities everything about that phone call, it is on record. How come none of the investigators went to ask him something about it, at least "who are you?". The Italian investigators explored my every single word and every single detail, but they didn't ask him even a question, they didn't look for him, they didn't question him. No one, neither the judges, nor the prosecutors, nor the policemen, nor the lawyers, took an interest in him, yet he was a key player in the capture of the gang. I could not believe. How naive. Why all this?