Cossacks have long captured the imagination—an exotic, faraway people often portrayed as fierce warriors, freedom lovers, and adventure seekers. As a child, I too was captivated by simplified versions of Russian classics like Gogol's "Taras Bulba" and Tolstoy's "The Cossacks," which romanticized them as noble warriors. The vivid illustrations from these books haunted my childhood dreams for years. However, the reality—especially during World War II—is far more complex and darker than these romanticized portrayals suggest. Their atrocities against Jewish people have often been minimised, and historians have long relegated their role as Nazi collaborators in Western Europe to a mere footnote, overlooked by most.
In 1944, the Cossacks arrived in Friuli, in the far northeast corner of Italy. They came not on a heroic mission, but to do the Nazis' dirty work, lured by the promise of a new homeland. In the end they were betrayed - by the Nazis, by the British Army, by the whole world negotiating the end of the Second World War.
The only exception were the poor mountain villagers who, despite having to endure them, eventually learned to coexist and empathise with these unexpected occupiers.
This story unfolds in the part of Europe where I was born, at the crossroads of East and West, North and South of the continent. It's a European story - forgotten, but crucial to understanding the complexities of our past.
Have you been possessed by the devil to come to this country?
(Friulian) "Vejso vût il diaul a vignî in chest paîs?"
"Have you been possessed by the devil to come to this country?"(Russian) "Brodili, brodili, brodili."
"We wandered, wandered, wandered."
This is an honest exchange between two women: one, asking, is from Carnia—a small, mountainous region that separates Friuli from Austria. It’s a region within a region, still unique today for its language and cultural identity.
Now, many of you listening might not even know where Friuli or Carnia are. But if you pull up Google Maps, you’ll find them tucked away in the top-right corner of Italy, bordering Austria and Slovenia. Together with Trieste, they form Italy's northeasternmost edge—a place where kingdoms and empires have clashed, mixed, and left their mark.
It’s the region where the brutal Isonzo front was fought during World War I, where the Nazis occupied during the Second World War, and where, until just 35 years ago, the Iron Curtain began—stretching from Trieste to Stettin. I spent my first 18 years living in the shadow of that curtain.
But let’s go back to Carnia: this small, rugged land of mountains and narrow valleys, where Carnic Friulian is spoken—a language born from the fusion of Celtic, Latin, German, and ancient Slavic. Here, the grand events of the world—the empires, wars, and nations that rose and fell—filtered in only as stories. Tales brought back by mountain men who, driven by necessity, emigrated to Austria, France, Switzerland, Germany, even Russia. They’d leave for months or years, returning with a little money and a lot of stories.
Carnia was isolated, inhabited by tough, proud people, accustomed to solitude. Few outsiders came here. That is, until 1944, when, in the chaos of World War II, the Nazis brought in a strange mix of Cossack and Caucasian peoples to occupy the region. They were there to crush the partisans, perhaps even to settle—a new homeland for the Cossacks, a "Kosakenland" outside their native lands.
This wasn’t just an army—it was an entire displaced people on the move, refugees mixed with soldiers, swept along in the tide of the Nazi war machine. And so, a Cossack woman stood before a Carnic woman, asking for shelter. For eleven long months, they would share a home, memories, and their lives—after wandering, wandering, wandering, in search of a lost homeland.
Why did Càrnia become so crucial for the Nazis in 1944?
After Italy signed the armistice on September 8, 1943, switching sides and ceasing to fight the Allies, the Nazis swiftly occupied Friuli, Trieste, and Istria. They established the Operationszone Adriatisches Küstenland—the Operational Zone of the Adriatic Littoral—which was, in all but name, a Nazi protectorate.
As in other occupied territories, the Wehrmacht guarded key towns and military objectives, while the SS focused on crushing resistance. However, in Friuli, especially in the mountains of Carnia, the SS struggled. By late winter and early spring 1944, partisan battalions had grown stronger, bolstered by young recruits seeking refuge in the highlands.
By summer 1944, the partisan movement in Friuli reached its zenith. Relentless sabotage, attacks on German installations, and the elimination of numerous Nazi-Fascist garrisons led to the liberation of several areas.
Two "Free Zones" were established—one of them in Carnia, a thorn in the Nazis' side. From these mountains, partisans could block all key passes and cut off German supply lines.
Carnia's free zone was no small feat. Spanning over 2,500 square kilometers and home to about 90,000 people, it was the largest of its kind in northern Italy during the German occupation.
The partisans not only succeeded militarily but also created a democratic organization, making strides in education, justice, tax reform, and economic policy. The climax came on August 1, 1944, with the birth of the Free Republic of Càrnia. A provisional government was established, and elections were held throughout August and September. In a revolutionary move for Italy at the time, women who were heads of families were granted voting rights.
For the Nazis, this became an obsession. A liberated zone of this size, with such a strong democratic foundation, was intolerable. It was time for them to act—and act decisively.
The Cossacks
"We'll lay down our souls and bodies to attain our freedom
/ And we'll show that we, brothers, are of the Cossack kind."
These, are the stirring words from the chorus of the Ukrainian national anthem—echoing the proud, legendary spirit of the Cossacks.
The Cossacks are shrouded in myth, legend, and, at times, misconception. They weren’t a single ethnic group but rather a diverse collection of nomads and freemen, scattered across vast regions. Their story is complex.
It begins in the 15th century, when Cossacks first settled the great steppes along the Ural, Volga, Don, and Dnieper rivers. At the time, serfdom weighed heavily under Tsarist rule in Russia. But for the bold, freedom-seeking souls, there was an escape—an opportunity to head to the empire’s edges. The word “Kazak” or “Cossack” comes from Turkish and means "free, wandering man." And that’s exactly what they were.
They established stanitsas — self-governing villages that functioned both as economic and military outposts. Led by a chief called the Atamán, they defended themselves not only from central authority but from raids from across the Caucasus.
This fierce independence made the Cossacks captivating figures in both Ukrainian and Russian folklore. And now, as Ukrainian history resurges, the Cossack spirit is being rediscovered.
Over time, the Cossack story evolved. Conflicts between Russia and Poland, coupled with the empire's ceaseless expansion, gradually "Russified" these once-independent people. The Tzarist regime, recognizing the value of their settlements as military buffers, gave them special privileges—essentially turning them into a loyal force in exchange for border defense.
Ironically, the Cossacks, once fugitives from Russian control, became key to defending the empire. By the 19th century, they were a dedicated military force, serving in major campaigns, including the defeat of Napoleon in 1812. They also took part in crushing peasant uprisings—now tools of repression for the very state they once resisted.
In the 1800s, they settled further along the Terek and Kuban rivers, reaching the Black Sea, the Sea of Azov, and even the Caspian. By the early 20th century, Cossacks were among the Tsar’s most trusted soldiers.
When the Russian Revolution erupted in 1918, Ataman Krasnov—remember this name, as it will resurface later in our story—leader of the Don Cossack army, allied himself with the White Army, hoping to restore the old imperial order. After their defeat, Krasnov fled. By 1923, the Soviets had resorted to drastic measures: they banned the term "Cossack" entirely and renamed Cossack lands, attempting to erase all traces of their culture.
Fast forward to World War II, when Nazi forces invaded the Soviet Union. For many Cossacks, it felt like a chance to regain their autonomy. Anti-Bolshevik sentiment ran deep, and the Nazis took advantage of this, finding willing allies among Cossack ranks. In 1942, as the German offensive surged into southern Russia, more Cossacks joined, lured by promises of reclaiming their lands.
But these promises would never be kept. As the Axis powers retreated after Stalingrad in 1943, many Cossack collaborators were forced westward, trying to escape Soviet vengeance. Their new role was to fight the partisans—on behalf of the Nazis. They clung to the hope that, at war’s end, they might reclaim their old homelands. It was a fantasy, of course. With the frontlines constantly shifting, they had no choice but to keep following the Germans, further west, further into uncertainty.
First, they were moved to northern Belarus. But soon, the Kazachi Stan—as they called themselves, the Cossack Nation—was on the move again, westward with the frontlines. Some Cossack units even found themselves fighting against Polish insurgents during the Warsaw Uprising in 1944.
But most were sent south—to Friuli, the occupied zone where partisans had become strong enough to establish their own free republic.
On July 20, 1944, the first wave of Cossack and Caucasian troops arrived in northern Italy. Seventeen different ethnic groups in total—Circassians, Chechens, Ingush, Lezgins, Azeris, Ossetians, and more—crossed the Villach-Tarvisio railway line. They came with carriages, families, livestock, and household goods, and the arrivals continued until August 10th, after which they became more sporadic. They were now part of a larger drama, playing out far from home, on foreign soil.
The Cossacks arrive, a new Scourge of God.
In the archives of my region, there’s an incredible treasure trove of photographic material from the time of the Cossack occupation in Carnia. Official photos, yes, but also private ones—many of them taken by the Cossacks themselves. And as they fled towards Austria, they left these photos behind with the families they had lived with for months. Others were snapped by local photographers. Together with the diaries kept by parish priests, these images give us a detailed, almost intimate glimpse into those months—and, surprisingly, some of the stories are even amusing.
One particular photo always brings a smile. In it, you see an open Landau carriage, two young women seated inside, driven by a Cossack holding the reins of... two camels. Yes, camels! Everyone is smiling—the soldier, the two young women, and even the camels seem to be grinning!
Now, imagine: the people of Carnia had never seen camels before. Maybe in an old book or an illustration, but certainly not up close and in their own villages. This entire Cossack caravan that wound its way through the region over the course of weeks—it was terrifying, yes, but it was also mesmerizing. For these mountain people, it was the very embodiment of something exotic, something entirely out of place.
But that fear—well, it was real too. And it’s captured perfectly in a report sent by the Archbishop of Udine to the Vatican Secretariat of State. It describes the Cossack arrival in blunt terms:
“More than 20,000 Cossack and Caucasian soldiers, some with their families, bringing with them an enormous number of horses. They are the scourge of God. Where they pass, it’s as if a swarm of locusts has descended. Where they stop, everything is literally plundered.”
That sense of awe—the sheer astonishment at the sudden appearance of such an exotic world among the Italian Alps—is something that shows up again and again in the diaries of parish priests. They were witnessing something so extraordinary, something that felt completely out of place in their quiet mountain towns. While there was fear—real fear—there was also this undeniable fascination.
One priest captured it perfectly in his church diary. He wrote:
The town was literally overrun by Cossacks. They roamed far and wide, almost exclusively on horseback—as if walking were beneath them or a source of shame. These were handsome young men with mustaches, clad in pristine coats and their distinctive furry caps. Astride their immaculately groomed horses, they cut an imposing figure indeed.
It was as if the Cossacks had stepped straight out of a fairy tale or leaped from the pages of a Tolstoy novel. Imagine it:
Cossacks typically appeared in the towns of Friuli and Carnia on horseback, blowing horns, shouting primitive war cries, firing wildly, and brandishing sabers—those who had them. Their dress and armament varied widely: many wore German field-gray uniforms with slight Cossack modifications but carried modern rifles and submachine guns. Others donned more picturesque, if absurd, uniforms of the ancient Tsarist cavalry, complete with large fur hats, crisscrossed cartridge belts, long blue or red trouser stripes, and an array of swords, daggers, and ornate pistols.
But it wasn’t just their military presence that left a lasting impression. No, it was the human element—the diverse and chaotic panorama of Cossack civilians—that really struck the locals. This comes across vividly in the description given by the parish priest of Buia. He noted:
On primitive carts were piled the most disparate items: utensils and pots, demijohns and barrels, boxes and sacks, hay and potatoes, corn cobs to be husked, grape vines, straw mattresses, blankets, and clothing of all sorts, all heaped up haphazardly. And people: men of all ages with unkempt beards, many women, some families with small children, all in poor condition. Their goods left a nauseating stench as they passed. Many carts were covered with freshly slaughtered cattle hides, rugs and runners, tent cloths, or bedspreads... The men wore a variety of uniforms, most sporting the Cossack headgear—black fur caps with red, blue, or green tops.
It was a spectacle—both terrifying and mesmerizing. A world utterly alien to the people of Carnia. Another diary vividly captures the scene:
"... the horses of the long procession, which included several thousand head of men, women, children and quadrupeds, were untied and put out to pasture. The people settled down as if they were on the steppe, pitching tents between the wagons; under the trees, in sight of the lake, a picturesque village immediately arose ..."
How many of them actually descended into Friuli?
Records suggest there were around 22,000 in total. That included about 6,000 elderly family members, 4,000 other relatives, 3,000 children, and a mix of other acquaintances. In truth, they resembled more of a refugee convoy than an invading army. Thousands of exhausted, worn-out people who had endured an incredibly long and grueling journey were now looking for somewhere—anywhere—to settle temporarily.
And the situation was dire. Practically no arrangements had been made to ensure they had proper shelter or enough food. So, in those first few weeks, it was all about survival. They plundered anything they could get their hands on—anything that could help them scrape by. Unfortunately, this included acts of violence. Including violence against women. At least 250 cases were documented—likely an underestimate due to reporting challenges.
In a land where wine and grappa are staples, these quickly become objects of desire for the Cossacks. However, once drunk, keeping them under control proves difficult:
"They crave drink, but there's little or no wine. Once intoxicated, they turn violent, threatening with hand grenades or rifles, seeing partisans—whom they fear—everywhere. Last night, the first severe acts of violence occurred: they tried to force their way into houses, stealing here and there. We had to summon the Germans for relief... Yet, among them are also some meek ones, resigned to their harsh fate. They say that for three years, their odyssey has been increasingly difficult: taken from the Kuban and other Russian regions with promises of support and assistance, they were moved to Hungary, then Austria, Germany, and now Italy. Everywhere was supposed to be their 'promised land'—an uninhabited, fertile place where they could pitch their tents... Now they realize they've been deceived, betrayed."
Once the Cossack troops were relocated and local chiefs installed in each village, things began to stabilize—at least somewhat.
The Germans, though, were bitterly disappointed. They had expected battle-hardened military units ready to take on the partisan forces. Instead, what they got was an army of desperate, tired, and impoverished people. One high-ranking Nazi official in Berlin noted:
“Well-organized Cossack brigades and regiments were expected, ready for immediate deployment against the partisan bands. It was not widely known that these were refugees who had been traveling for months from the east, on foot and by rail, with makeshift equipment, armament, and clothing. The caravans included the families of the armed Cossacks... This resulted in enormous difficulties with quartering and provisioning.”
It was clear that the reality on the ground didn’t match the Nazis' expectations.
Combating the partisans
In the occupied towns, life took on a new kind of hardship. Residents were forced to give up half their living spaces to the occupiers. But eventually, a kind of fragile stability emerged. It wasn’t peace, and it certainly wasn’t voluntary, but a more tolerable—if still forced—coexistence settled in.
The occupiers set up 44 stanitsas, outposts that mixed military personnel and civilians. They divided the Cossacks into several armies, named after the rivers from their homeland, and included various Caucasian groups and other minorities. The territory was essentially split in two: Caucasians controlled the northern part, while the Cossacks held the southern areas.
With these living arrangements somewhat stabilized, the Cossacks, alongside the German forces, could now focus on their main task: combating the partisans and dismantling their Free Republic.
It began in September 1944 with attacks on Carnia´s Free Zone. The victors unleashed brutal reprisals, destroying nearly 700 homes, killing 35 civilians, and deporting 220 others to camps.
Nazi forces quickly amassed troops around the Free Zone, cutting off any potential escape routes. In October, a major offensive was launched. The operation moved swiftly, and by October 8, 1944, they had taken control of Carnia, officially putting an end to the Free Republic of Carnia. By December, the Nazi Germans and their Cossack and Caucasian allies had mostly achieved their goal: eliminating the bulk of the partisan threat. But the resistance wasn’t entirely crushed. Some partisans continued their fight, conducting sabotage operations while hiding in the rugged, inaccessible mountain forests.
And let’s not forget the brave women of Carnia. Despite the immense danger, they risked their lives to bring food and supplies to the partisans on foot, trekking through the forests and hills.
The cost of this “reconquista” was staggering. 900 people died, with half of those being civilians. The toll on this small region, both physically and emotionally, was immense.
Preparing for a long stay
At first, it was all chaos and violence. But then, something shifted. The Cossacks, starting to think their stay in Friuli might last longer than they thought, began to settle in. They started building, not just shelters, but something more permanent.
It was uncertain whether this land – so unlike the Ukrainian steppes or the Caucasus mountains they knew – would be a temporary stop or a true 'Kosakenland.' Either way, they had to prepare for the long haul.
And so began a strange kind of coexistence. The Cossacks set up their own little society, just like back home. Hospitals, schools, even a theater and a dance school sprung up in the occupied towns. They even had their own newspaper, printed in Cyrillic. The old town names were replaced with new ones.
Over time, the locals began participating in Cossack feasts and public events. Adults joined in, perhaps out of curiosity or a desire to maintain peace. Children, however, simply embraced the novelty. In this tale of occupation, it was the youngest who perhaps fared best.
The Cossacks loved kids. Many of them had families of their own, with little ones also with them here in the occupied Carnia. And the kids here? They lived in their own world. Playing, chasing each other, chattering away in a mix of languages that somehow made perfect sense. Adults let them be, Cossack or Italian, they were all just kids.
But there was one thing all the kids dreamed of: riding those magnificent Cossack horses. And the Cossack soldiers? They were happy to oblige, especially when they headed up into the Carnia Valleys on patrol. The presence of a local child would protect them from partisan attacks.
One of the local boys back then, remembers riding all the way up to the mountains on a Cossack cart, perched right up front where everyone could see him. Today, we might call that a 'human shield.' But back then, it was also something else: a taste of normal life for the Cossacks, a reminder of the steppes where they'd teach their own kids to ride the same way.
For the adults, the situation remained challenging. In the occupied areas, very strict rules governed people's movements. Authorities rigorously enforced curfews, and residents needed passes to travel between villages—and crucially, to access grazing areas.
The most pressing issue was clear: how could they possibly feed a population—both people and livestock—that had now doubled in size?
It wasn’t just about living arrangements, with Carnic families forced to share their homes with Cossacks and their horses. It was also about the fields. These lands, already stretched thin, were now being divided up to give the Cossack families space to grow their own food. But the biggest issue? Hay. The Cossacks needed massive amounts of fodder to feed their 4,000 to 6,000 horses, and the burden fell entirely on the local population. Wartime production was already meager, and local requisitions meant that feeding their own livestock—a vital resource for their survival—was hanging by a thread.
As the hay raids became more frequent, the locals were left with empty barns. By early 1945, many families were forced to sell their cows because they simply couldn’t feed them. And in a place as poor as Carnia, losing a cow wasn’t just an economic blow—it was losing your daily sustenance.
And then, there were the camels. Though there were only a few dozen, they became infamous for their love of the local fruit trees, which they decimated without a second thought for the rightful owners. Once they’d had their fill, they were led back to the meadows, where they would then start spitting—sometimes at the windows of the locals’ homes.
Amidst this chaos, local parish priests often stepped in as mediators. They approached Fascist commissioners, German officers, and Cossack commanders, seeking agreements on resource sharing. One such pivotal meeting occurred in Tolmezzo, the small town serving as Carnia's district capital.
The parish priest brought along a local interpreter, expecting a language barrier, but to his surprise, the Cossack commander addressed them in Croatian, a language locals understood, being similar to slavic dialects spoken in the region. The commander proposed a plan: they would collect hay and distribute it fairly among the surrounding areas, with a starosta—a village headman—overseeing the process. Any abuses would be punished. The priest couldn’t believe his ears. "What a windfall! I’ve never met such a gentlemanly commander!" he wrote later.
That chance encounter with the commander would later prove to be lifesaving. When a Cossack disappeared from a village—known to have defected to the Slav partisans—the Germans issued an ultimatum: if the deserter wasn’t returned within 48 hours, the village would be destroyed. Tensions were high, but the Croatian-speaking Cossack commander stepped in, taking full responsibility and rescinding the order. The village was spared. The joy was overwhelming, and to express their gratitude, the locals offered the Cossacks all the wine and grappa they could gather—knowing it would be a welcome gift.
In the end, even the camels played a surprising role. As spring approached, the Cossacks sheared the camels and gave the wool to the local women, who knitted sweaters and blankets. They then traded these for the precious salt that the Cossacks had. Necessity truly is the mother of invention.
Getting to know each other, also religiously
The Cossacks arrived with more than just families and livestock—they brought their Eastern Orthodox Christian faith, intriguing the people of Friuli.
Imagine a religious service unlike anything the Friulians had ever witnessed, led by priests called popes. These ceremonies lasted for hours—sometimes up to three or four. Funerals featured food offerings placed on graves. In those hard times, some Carnic families even resorted to taking this food—the living needed it more than the dead.
Another fascinating aspect was how Cossacks celebrated their festivities with ritual baths in lakes and rivers, even in the depths of winter.
The pope, in particular, became a subject of fascination. Parish priests were intrigued, especially one from the village of Verzegnis. Picture his surprise when, in early November 1944, a pope arrived in the village—a man who had survived seven harrowing years in a Siberian labor camp. Having escaped, he had followed his people on their exodus, now finding himself in this remote corner of northeastern Italy.
Shortly after arriving, this pope approached the local parish priest with an audacious request: permission to celebrate Orthodox services in the village church. Surprisingly, the request was granted, albeit with conditions. Certain objects had to be removed for the Orthodox services. The locals were told not to attend, though no one knew why. It didn't matter—curiosity prevailed.
Men, women, children—they all came. They couldn't stay away. What they witnessed was truly mesmerizing: long, incense-filled ceremonies, choral songs, and bright, colorful vestments. Gold and silver robes glimmered in the candlelight, bathing the church in an otherworldly glow. For the Friulians, it seemed as if their humble church had been transformed into a place worthy of welcoming the divine.
The children had their own interpretation of these events. Week after week, they watched the pope and the parish priest alternate in the same space, performing their respective rituals. To them, it was like passing a baton in a relay race. One god would enter as the other left, in a seamless exchange that had become, in their young eyes, perfectly natural.
Women connection, human compassion
Eleven months of occupation can be a short or long time; it's difficult to say with hindsight. However, this wasn’t a typical wartime occupation. No, this one felt different. It wasn’t just soldiers marching in; it was whole families—Cossacks, fleeing their homeland, bringing with them their wives, their children. This changed things. Suddenly, there was space for something more than fear—curiosity, maybe even understanding—despite the fact that no one spoke the same language.
For the women, especially, there was a different kind of connection. Italian women and Cossack women, forced to share homes, kitchens, and lives, found themselves in this odd dance of necessity.
Some of the Cossack women, wives of officers, discovered the talent of local seamstresses, and out of that, a quiet camaraderie grew. They'd bring old clothes to be mended, or even ask for dresses made from whatever was available—sometimes even from old curtains. Imagine, Cossack aristocrats living in small Friulian villages, trying to hold on to some sense of normalcy.
One of these women, who lived near the church where the pope performed his Orthodox rituals, made frequent visits to the local seamstresses. She wasn’t just looking for a dress to wear. No, it was something more. Maybe it was an attempt to hold onto a life she once knew. For a few hours, chatting with these women over fabric and thread, she could pretend things were... normal.
She stood out in the village. Elegant clothes, refined manners—she wasn’t like the others. She loved to cook, and on Orthodox Christmas, she invited some of the young seamstresses to her home, offering them cakes and traditional Russian dishes. There, she shared her story—of how, during the harrowing journey from Russia to Friuli, two of her children had died. With tears in her eyes, she pointed to the only one left—a little girl, just ten years old.
And yet, survival wasn’t just about sharing stories. Food, clothes—these were the real lifelines. Finding something, anything, to cover the children became a daily struggle.
One Cossack woman came to the home of two Friulian women, cradling a three-month-old baby in her arms. The child was bundled in a shawl, wearing a cap, but as soon as she unwrapped him, the local women realized—he was naked underneath. The woman knew these two were knitters, and without saying much, they understood. They dug through an old wardrobe, gathering whatever they could—shirts, cloth diapers, tiny sweaters—anything that might help. They handed it to the woman, who left crying, overwhelmed with gratitude.
This was how things worked, or at least, how they should work. Kindness repaid kindness. In the same village, a Cossack doctor—Dr. Aršamov, from Leningrad—set up a small practice. He helped the locals, never asking for payment, distributing medicine, preparing certificates, doing what he could.
As the months passed, something changed between the two peoples. They began to understand each other, sometimes in broken French, other times in bits of Slavic, but often without words at all. Music became a common thread.
The Cossacks sang often, their songs heavy with melancholy and nostalgia for the homeland they had lost.
One night, this deep connection through music left a lasting impression. Ornella Fabbro remembers that night clearly. She had been traveling, staying at an inn in a remote valley. She described her room as ice-cold, with a large bed and an unlit stove. Exhausted, she crawled under the covers and quickly fell asleep. But sometime during the night, she awoke to the sound of singing—a sweet, distant melody. At first, she thought she was dreaming. Then she looked out the window, and what she saw took her breath away.
During the night, I heard a sweet song. At first, I thought I was dreaming. Upon waking and realizing where I was, I jumped out of bed and went to the window. An incredible sight greeted me. The Cossacks had lit a fire in a large snow-covered clearing. In a wide circle around the flame, they were singing a nostalgic melody of hope and prayer. It seemed as if their song was reaching out to their loved ones in Russia, where they perhaps thought they could never return, having deserted by following the Germans. Moonlight illuminated the white valley surrounded by mountains, over which this nostalgic song spread. At that moment, I felt such anguish for their desperation in prayer that the chorus of Nabucco came to mind, and I felt united with them—with their song and their hope. I felt close to them; at that moment, I saw them as human beings.
But war has a cruel way of distorting such moments. The next day, those same Cossacks would be back alongside the Germans, terrifying the local population with roundups, checkpoints, and persecution. The war didn’t allow for simple narratives—heroes or villains. It was all more complicated than that. And that’s the story of this occupation—where humanity and horror intertwined, side by side.
January 1945
By January 1945, the two peoples had come to know each other better. Conversations became more candid, especially now that the advancing Allied troops made the war's outcome seem all but certain. Here's an actual dialogue between a Friulian priest and a Cossack non-commissioned officer:
PRIEST «What's your opinion of Stalin?»
COSSACK «He's a demon incarnate, sent from hell to destroy humanity.»
PRIEST «Good heavens! And what about Lenin?»
COSSACK «Lenin was a great man. Life under Lenin was good—he protected us and gave us freedom. Stalin has ruined everything.»
PRIEST «Then why do you cooperate with the Germans? Aren't they traditional enemies of the Russians?»
COSSACK «The Germans are anti-communists, and only they can overthrow communism. They've promised to restore our rights and lands once Stalin is defeated.»
PRIEST «But if the Germans lose the war, what will become of you?»
Silence.
Toward the end
By February 1945, the war was drawing to a close. The Allies were closing in on Germany from all sides. On the Eastern Front, the Soviet Red Army had surged into German territory, reaching the Oder River—just 40 miles from Berlin. On the Western Front, Allied forces had crossed the Rhine and were pushing into the heart of Germany. And in Italy, after months of stalemate at the Gothic Line, a new offensive was on the horizon. But while the world’s attention was on these frontlines, another story was unfolding in a small village in Friuli.
On February 12, 1945, the Cossacks living in this remote Italian region were joined by their Ataman, General Pjotr Nikolaevič Krasnov. Yes, this is the name we mentioned earlier—Krasnov, born in St. Petersburg in 1869, once a decorated general in the Tsarist army, now the leader of a displaced people.
Krasnov’s journey was extraordinary. A hero in Tsarist Russia, he had fought against the Bolsheviks during the revolution, leading his army in a valiant but ultimately doomed campaign. After his defeat, he fled first to France, then to Berlin, where he aligned himself with the Germans. And now, in the final months of World War II, Krasnov, at over seventy years old, had come to this small village in Friuli, Verzegnis. Not to wage war, but to find refuge.
Why now? Why leave Berlin, a city soon to be under siege, and come to this place? Krasnov still clung to his dream of a Cossack homeland, even though, by this point, that dream was fading. Verzegnis was chosen as a safe haven, far from the bombs and destruction. Soon after Krasnov’s arrival, his wife, Lidija Fjodorovna, a former opera singer, joined him. The two settled into this remote village, far from the grandeur of St. Petersburg or Berlin, still holding onto the belief that, somehow, their people might return home.
In history books, Krasnov is often remembered as a figure linked to the betrayal of Yalta, where he and his people were the victims. But here, in the mountains of Friuli, he was simply a man caught between worlds. Once again, it was Don Graziano, the local parish priest, who acted as a bridge between those worlds. He met with Krasnov twice, and their conversations were far from ordinary.
By the time of their second meeting, on Easter Eve, March 31, 1945, the grim reality had sunk in. The Cossacks' dream of returning home victorious was gone. Krasnov and Don Graziano spoke about everything—from religion to the everyday struggles of the soldiers and villagers. The priest, ever the diplomat, even suggested a possible negotiation with the Italian partisans, a way to avoid the inevitable bloodshed. He hoped for dialogue, for a peaceful end to this chapter.
But this is where the story takes a darker turn. Krasnov, driven by fear and pride, refused. He believed it was a trap. And that refusal—that pride—sealed the fate of the Cossacks.
If only he had accepted Don Graziano’s offer. Perhaps the Cossacks’ story could have ended differently. Maybe, through negotiations with the partisans, there could have been a path to surrender that didn’t lead to devastation. But Krasnov’s decision, born out of pride and fear, was a tragic mistake.
In these final months of the war, amidst the chaos and uncertainty, this small village in Friuli bore witness to a story that might have gone another way. But it didn’t.
The retreat
On April 29, 1945, Germany signs its unconditional surrender in Caserta. Just days later, on May 1, the Allies enter Udine, the capital of Friuli. The war is almost over. But for the Cossacks in Friuli, their long journey is just beginning again.
In early May, the Cossacks began their retreat, crossing the Monte Croce Carnico Pass, also known as the Plöckenpass, heading toward the Drava Valley. It was no simple retreat—it was a brutal exodus. A sudden snowstorm turned the already dangerous mountain paths into treacherous, slippery slopes. Carts, loaded with whatever belongings they could salvage, slid uncontrollably. But it wasn’t just the weather that weighed heavily on this journey. The despair, far deeper than when they had first arrived in Friuli, was palpable.
This wasn’t the orderly retreat of an army, but the desperate flight of families, refugees, once again on the run. Cossack women and children wept, reluctant to leave the place that had become a temporary home. One woman, her face streaked with tears, whispered to her Friulian housemate, now more friend than stranger, in broken French:
"Nos souffrances continuent"—Our suffering continues.
Some local families, having built connections over these past months, tried to protect their "guests." They offered to take care of the children, shelter them from the horrors to come. But the response was often bleak:
"If we are destined to die, he will die with us too."
Yet, there were exceptions. A few managed to convince their Cossack companions to stay behind, to surrender rather than continue a doomed march. One remarkable story is of a Russian family from Volgograd—musicians, drawn into this conflict and exiled to the Caucasus under Soviet rule. When the Germans retreated in 1944, they convinced this family to follow them—first to Berlin, then to Carnia. But on the day of departure, the insistence of their Friulian host changed everything. The musicians abandoned their weapons and luggage right there in the street and chose to stay behind, surrendering to the Allies instead of continuing the journey.
But for most, the retreat—this long and painful anàbasis—continued.
Then came the tragedies. On May 2, 1945, a Waffen-SS company massacred 51 civilians—men, women, children, the elderly. At the same time, retreating Cossacks killed several partisans, some Georgian deserters, and more than 22 civilians, including a priest. They looted and burned houses as they passed through. It was a day that left deep scars on those villages, marking the retreat with violence and loss.
By May 3, the Cossack vanguard had reached the Monte Croce Carnico Pass. Carriages continued to follow in a seemingly endless line.
Once they reached Carinthia, the southern Austrian region bordering Friuli, their aim was to reach Villach. But they found the Austrian population blocking their way, unwilling to let the column pass. After tense negotiations, they were allowed to continue, this time towards Gailberg, a valley lying between Carinthia and East Tyrol. They arrived there between May 3 and May 7.
It was there, in Austria, that their fate took another turn. The British took control, concentrating the Cossacks and their Caucasian allies in a camp in Peggetz, near Lienz. For about a month, they were isolated, cut off from the local population. The British confiscated their horses and their weapons.
The Betrayal of Yalta
In 1977, British-Russian historian Nikolai Tolstoy published Victims of Yalta (or The Secret Betrayal in the U.S.), a book that would uncover a deeply hidden chapter of World War II. It told the harrowing story of Soviet citizens who, after being under German control during the war, fell into the hands of the Western Allies. Thanks to a secret Moscow agreement in 1944—later confirmed at the Yalta Conference in 1945—these individuals were to be forcibly repatriated to the Soviet Union. For many, this was nothing less than a death sentence, either by execution or through the brutal reality of forced labor camps. Over five million people were affected—prisoners of war, forced laborers, collaborators, refugees, anti-communists. There was no distinction. Even those who had never set foot in the Soviet Union were treated as Soviet citizens.
This secret agreement, carried out by British commanders, would ultimately decide the fate of the Cossacks who had occupied Friuli.
General Pjotr Krasnov, now quartered in Lienz with his officers while his troops and civilians stayed in Peggetz, feared the worst. He made several attempts to convince the British to grant asylum to his people—if not for the soldiers, then at least for the civilians. He wrote to British commanders, reminding them of his alliance with Marshal Alexander during World War I, when they fought against the Bolsheviks together. His pleas fell on deaf ears.
On May 6, 1945, Allied Forces Headquarters in Naples sent a message to the British Corps in Austria: a clear, extensive definition of what should be considered a “Soviet citizen.” The writing was on the wall. Yet, in Peggetz, a strange calm hung over the camp. People waited, knowing something was coming but not knowing exactly what.
On the evening of May 27, British Major Davies approached the Cossack officers in Lienz with orders. They were to gather at 1 PM the next day. The officers were told that Field Marshal Alexander himself wanted to meet with them to discuss the Cossacks’ requests for asylum.
No one could have imagined what was coming next, though some may have sensed the danger. At precisely 1 PM on May 28, the Cossack officers, led by Krasnov, were loaded onto buses. A column of forty or fifty vehicles, each one carrying two British soldiers armed with machine guns, slowly left the camp. As the convoy made its way down the road, it was stopped. British tanks emerged from the woods, along with armored cars and motorized infantry. At the head of the column, a tank positioned its machine gun toward them.
The promised destination, Villach, where the Cossacks believed they were headed for a conference, was never reached. Instead, the convoy was diverted to Judenburg, near the border with Styria, where, on May 29, 1945, Krasnov and his officers were handed over to the Soviet Red Army.
In the years since, rumors have swirled about Krasnov’s fate. Some say he never made it to Austria, that partisans killed him during the retreat—a story meant to shield him from the humiliation of Soviet capture. But the truth is darker: Krasnov, like his fellow officers, was deported to the Soviet Union. He was imprisoned for two years in Moscow’s notorious Lubyanka prison before being executed in 1947.
But what about the Cossack troops and civilians still left behind in Lienz?
Austrian records reveal that in early June, an unspecified number of Cossacks, including women and children, were loaded onto English troop trains and sent towards the Styrian border to be handed over to Soviet forces.
This forced handover was met with resistance, and resistance met with violence. British troops opened fire, and while we may never know the exact number of Cossacks who died, we do know that there were casualties—deaths, injuries, and chaos.
Many tried to escape. Hundreds of Cossacks, in a scene that has been compared to ancient tragedies, threw themselves into the Drava River, often after killing their own families to spare them from what lay ahead. The swollen river carried their bodies downstream, where they were later retrieved by British troops, their bloated corpses stacked like timber along the banks.
This haunting scene is vividly described in the 1985 Italian novel, The Army of Lost Rivers:
Howling like savages, they hurled themselves from the riverbanks into the icy, swollen Drava. It was a mass suicide nearly unparalleled in history—comparable only to the falls of Carthage, Numantia, or Jerusalem.
Bestial screams gave way to haunting silences. Days later, far downstream, the river began returning its dead. The impassive British fished out bodies with long poles, stacking them like waterlogged timber on the banks. The Drava teemed with brown corpses, bloated like wineskins from their watery demise. [...] Each dawn in the wooden barracks illuminated dozens, sometimes hundreds, of suicides. They had hanged themselves with whatever they could find—leather belts, braided cords, strips of sacking.
Most of those who survived were deported to Siberian gulags, where many perished. A few survived and eventually emigrated, seeking refuge wherever they could—South America, Australia—ironically, to places where many Friulians had emigrated years before. Today, some of their descendants return to Friuli, to Carnia, that small corner of northeast Italy, where their ancestors came as both occupiers and refugees. And where the people, rather than forget, choose to remember this shared history, marked by suffering and survival.
Epilogue
When researching for this story, I didn’t just rely on my old books. I also found myself scrolling through some Friulian blogs—those hyperlocal, personal stories that feel so genuine they almost transport you back in time. It was there, in the comments section of one of these posts, that I discovered the voices of children and grandchildren of the Carnic families who lived through the Cossack occupation. Their words bring this history to life in a deeply personal way, and I’d like to share them with you now, as an epilogue to this story.
Gianpaolo, born in 1936, wrote:
“Two rooms in my house were requisitioned, one assigned to an officer who only used it for sleeping, and another to a family of three, who lived there as if it were their apartment. Their behavior was impeccable, the memory of them extremely positive. And the compassion for their sad end is something that still lingers.”
A local innkeeper’s family shared their experience:
“The Cossacks took some rooms and provisions, but then they left an officer’s wife, Olga, and her child with us. Olga actually saved my father from a shooting that happened in the village. When the English arrived, Olga and the child were taken away, torn from the family. My grandmother tried to save them, because their time with us had been peaceful, respectful... They were like us—people who had lost everything. My father still tells these stories. They should not be forgotten.”
And finally, the daughter of a woman from Forni di Sopra added:
“My mother remembered the Cossacks as respectful people who didn’t commit any abuses in her village. They really met a terrible end.”
Sources
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Music credits
"Ой, віє вітер, віє буйний" (‘Oh, the wind is blowing, the wind is blowing wildly’) is an ancient Ukrainian Cossack song, here interpreted by the Ensemble Khreshchaty Yar.
"Перший псалом" (Blessed is the man) is an Ukrainian Orthodox chant, executed by the church choir at the Vydubychi Orthodox monastery in Kyjiv, Ukraine. It belongs to the Ukrainian Orthodox Church of Kyjiv Patriarchate. You can listen the full version here.
The other music, including the Intro and Outro themes, come from Royalty-free libraries. Sound effects come from the Pixabay library.
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