“Thisss eeezz Poveglia…!” and he let the words hang in the salt-thick sea air. I stared silently at the island as it floated on the mist and myth that surrounded it. It was almost dusk and as the sun set behind the silhouetted island, for a brief moment, the sea and the island’s bell tower seemed to have been set on fire… reminiscent of the tall flames that used to crackle on this island centuries ago… flames, the smoke and the screams… screams that rent sky, until the fire doused the screams…
But I’m running ahead of my story…
We had reached Venice. From Venice’s Marco Polo airport, we hopped into a water taxi that wound its way towards the Venetian lagoon and as the arches and canals of Venice drew closer, I went and stood by boat’s and prow, soaking in the spray and taking in the vistas. As the famed canals and villas of Venice closed in, I glanced to my left and saw a lonely island drifting by. Tall cypresses stood silently, imprisoned by a boundary-wall that surrounded the island. I asked the boatman, a young man in a baseball cap, about the island but he did not respond. I thought he hadn’t heard me over the din of the motor-boat engine but before I could complete the question a second time, he replied “Cemetery! The dead of Venice are here.” Separated from the bright lights of Venezia by a tongue of water, this island, like a bolt of lightning on a dark night, illuminated a terrible legend that was lost in the recesses of my mind - a forgotten tale of another Venetian island where horrible things had happened. It was the dark side of Venice that I’d forgotten about…“Is this… er… the haunted island?” I asked. The boatman turned, looked at me, blinked and said,“ No… it’s the cemetery.” Then he was quiet. A few awkward minutes passed and then as he navigated the boat into a canal that ran into the city, he said “Poveglia! …That’s haunted!”
Can we see it? Is it nearby? But Pierro, our boatman, shook his head. “No one’s allowed there… not us, not tourists…”. We reached the hotel. My friends picked up our bags and got off the boat. As I too was about to get on to the pier, he motioned for me to stop and moved the boat into open waters. We headed south, south-west, alongside the setting sun, glowing like a portal into another world. The boat stopped.
“Can’t go closer…”He pointed towards the horizon… “There’s Poveglia!” I strained at the horizon but couldn’t see a thing. Then as my eyes got used to the light, I noticed the silhouette of an island at the very edge of the horizon. “That’s Poveglia? Can’t we go any closer?”
“No one goes there”, he said. I tried again “If you don’t go, how’d you know if it’s good or bad. Maybe it’s paradise…” He looked up and said, “It’s not paradise.” He kissed a pendent he was wearing around his neck, came closer and took out his phone. “Listen… I was there…”
In the 14th century, neighbouring Genoa attacked Venice and since the island of Poveglia was in the line-of-fire, it was evacuated. Before it could be resettled, the Black Death, struck. On Venice’s congested waterfront, people were coughing and bleeding and dying on the streets, like flies falling dead in the heat. Self-preservation forced families to dump ailing relatives. Most died unattended. Mass graves were dug and bodies buried and burnt.
Health officials instinctively felt that separating the infected from the healthy, could prevent the spread of the disease. So, anyone with the slightest sign, a runny nose, a slight fever, was apprehended and packed off to the abandoned island of Poveglia. Though they didn’t know it then, but it was a masterstroke and Venice had less than half the fatalities per 1000 than the mainland. But there was a price paid. Many healthy individuals were torn from their families and forcibly removed to the island on mere suspicion of the disease. And there they walked amidst the piles of the dead and dying until they too contracted the disease and died.
So great was the fear of the plague that just coughing in public could result in a witch hunt ending in a send off to Poveglia, the Isle of Death. And fear makes us cruel. Many of the living were burnt with the dead by masked officials. “You can still smell them burning in Poveglia” said Piero.
“And if you go now, you’ll hear them scream…from the living graves and from the bell-tower”. In the 1920s, they built a lunatic asylum on the island. It is said that the haunted island drove many inmates to strange deaths and depths of madness, including the doctor who would strap his patients to their beds and open up their brains with a hammer and a nail to check what was wrong ‘inside’. He would perform lobotomies on them as they screamed in excruciating agony till they were overcome by pain or death. At such times, it is said, that screams of agony would erupt from every corner of the island, disembodied voices rising in chorus, reminded of their own agony by the tortured patient’s cries. These voices eventually drove the doctor to his own grisly death as he fell from the bell-tower. Some say he was thrown while others say he jumped.
The island’s been abandoned ever since. “The carbineri (police) won’t let you get any closer…”Piero handed me his phone… a video file… on the screen was a bell tower, shaking, as if the camera was held by unsteady hands…” “Thisss eeezz Poveglia…..!” he whispered into my ears. The picture became hazy. Now I could see feet, running along a path, overgrown with grass and brambles…“I couldn’t stay… I heard the screams,” he said.
I looked at the horizon. Far away, I could still make out the shadow of an island in the darkening gloom...I was far away, and hell, even I could hear the screams…
But I’m running ahead of my story…
We had reached Venice. From Venice’s Marco Polo airport, we hopped into a water taxi that wound its way towards the Venetian lagoon and as the arches and canals of Venice drew closer, I went and stood by boat’s and prow, soaking in the spray and taking in the vistas. As the famed canals and villas of Venice closed in, I glanced to my left and saw a lonely island drifting by. Tall cypresses stood silently, imprisoned by a boundary-wall that surrounded the island. I asked the boatman, a young man in a baseball cap, about the island but he did not respond. I thought he hadn’t heard me over the din of the motor-boat engine but before I could complete the question a second time, he replied “Cemetery! The dead of Venice are here.” Separated from the bright lights of Venezia by a tongue of water, this island, like a bolt of lightning on a dark night, illuminated a terrible legend that was lost in the recesses of my mind - a forgotten tale of another Venetian island where horrible things had happened. It was the dark side of Venice that I’d forgotten about…“Is this… er… the haunted island?” I asked. The boatman turned, looked at me, blinked and said,“ No… it’s the cemetery.” Then he was quiet. A few awkward minutes passed and then as he navigated the boat into a canal that ran into the city, he said “Poveglia! …That’s haunted!”
Can we see it? Is it nearby? But Pierro, our boatman, shook his head. “No one’s allowed there… not us, not tourists…”. We reached the hotel. My friends picked up our bags and got off the boat. As I too was about to get on to the pier, he motioned for me to stop and moved the boat into open waters. We headed south, south-west, alongside the setting sun, glowing like a portal into another world. The boat stopped.
“Can’t go closer…”He pointed towards the horizon… “There’s Poveglia!” I strained at the horizon but couldn’t see a thing. Then as my eyes got used to the light, I noticed the silhouette of an island at the very edge of the horizon. “That’s Poveglia? Can’t we go any closer?”
“No one goes there”, he said. I tried again “If you don’t go, how’d you know if it’s good or bad. Maybe it’s paradise…” He looked up and said, “It’s not paradise.” He kissed a pendent he was wearing around his neck, came closer and took out his phone. “Listen… I was there…”
In the 14th century, neighbouring Genoa attacked Venice and since the island of Poveglia was in the line-of-fire, it was evacuated. Before it could be resettled, the Black Death, struck. On Venice’s congested waterfront, people were coughing and bleeding and dying on the streets, like flies falling dead in the heat. Self-preservation forced families to dump ailing relatives. Most died unattended. Mass graves were dug and bodies buried and burnt.
Health officials instinctively felt that separating the infected from the healthy, could prevent the spread of the disease. So, anyone with the slightest sign, a runny nose, a slight fever, was apprehended and packed off to the abandoned island of Poveglia. Though they didn’t know it then, but it was a masterstroke and Venice had less than half the fatalities per 1000 than the mainland. But there was a price paid. Many healthy individuals were torn from their families and forcibly removed to the island on mere suspicion of the disease. And there they walked amidst the piles of the dead and dying until they too contracted the disease and died.
So great was the fear of the plague that just coughing in public could result in a witch hunt ending in a send off to Poveglia, the Isle of Death. And fear makes us cruel. Many of the living were burnt with the dead by masked officials. “You can still smell them burning in Poveglia” said Piero.
“And if you go now, you’ll hear them scream…from the living graves and from the bell-tower”. In the 1920s, they built a lunatic asylum on the island. It is said that the haunted island drove many inmates to strange deaths and depths of madness, including the doctor who would strap his patients to their beds and open up their brains with a hammer and a nail to check what was wrong ‘inside’. He would perform lobotomies on them as they screamed in excruciating agony till they were overcome by pain or death. At such times, it is said, that screams of agony would erupt from every corner of the island, disembodied voices rising in chorus, reminded of their own agony by the tortured patient’s cries. These voices eventually drove the doctor to his own grisly death as he fell from the bell-tower. Some say he was thrown while others say he jumped.
The island’s been abandoned ever since. “The carbineri (police) won’t let you get any closer…”Piero handed me his phone… a video file… on the screen was a bell tower, shaking, as if the camera was held by unsteady hands…” “Thisss eeezz Poveglia…..!” he whispered into my ears. The picture became hazy. Now I could see feet, running along a path, overgrown with grass and brambles…“I couldn’t stay… I heard the screams,” he said.
I looked at the horizon. Far away, I could still make out the shadow of an island in the darkening gloom...I was far away, and hell, even I could hear the screams…
http://prashantobanerji.blogspot.com/2010/08/island.html
ReplyDelete.............In the 14th century, neighbouring Genoa attacked Venice and since the island of Poveglia was in the line-of-fire, it was evacuated. Before it could be resettled, the Black Death, struck. On Venice’s congested waterfront, people were coughing and bleeding and dying on the streets, like flies falling dead in the heat. Self-preservation forced families to dump ailing relatives. Most died unattended. Mass graves were dug and bodies buried and burnt.
Health officials instinctively felt that separating the infected from the healthy, could prevent the spread of the disease. So, anyone with the slightest sign, a runny nose, a slight fever, was apprehended and packed off