The fragment is part of the book written by Paolo Del Debbio. Here is the translation:
“What appears in these pages is the last writing of my father, Silvio Berlusconi. He threw it in a hospital room a few hours before the end of his life. It is a document that I find both tragic and great. And I believe, as I will explain later, that there was no better occasion to tell you this than this book by Paolo Del Debbio, a book about the relevance and power of the ideas that guided all my father’s commitment to values and beliefs which were the constant compass of his long political experience.
I was there with him, in that room in the San Raffaele hospital in Milan, in the early afternoon of Saturday, June 10, when he wrote these lines. And I will never forget, nor do I want to.
It was his second admission, it was supposed to be a short stay, during which he would have to do some therapy, new tests and then go home. I knew that his health was very fragile but I did not imagine, no one imagined that the end was so close. I visited him the previous evening, Friday, June 9. It was a very sweet and affectionate evening, he seemed fine, the hope was rekindled that the disease would spare him a little more time. I came back the next day, but unfortunately I found a different man. Abandoned in an armchair, very tired, gloomy, suffering. It was a terrible blow to me, although I forced myself, as I had done for some time, to keep my smile.
The last words he said to his daughter
He asked to be put at the table. He asked for paper and pen, bowed his head and began to write, evidently having already thought at night, as always, of what he wanted to say. I sat next to him and watched him work.
At one point he stopped, looked up, looked into my eyes and said something that will follow me until the last moment: “You see, Marina, life is like this: you come, you do this, you do the other… and then you leave. I don’t know how I managed not to burst into tears, in those days I had promised myself that I would never do it in front of him. Only a few tears fell as I tried to pretend I was stunned and find some words. He understood. He looked at me with a very sweet smile, took my hand and stroked it slowly. Then he began to write again, while I understood more and more clearly that he was preparing to say goodbye to the world. However, he was the one consoling me. He had done it during the hardest times of his life – and unfortunately there have been many in recent years – when, in the face of my turmoil and pain, he was the one who gave me strength.
He finished the first page, gave it to me, I read it. And the world fell on me. Because I realized that what he was writing was his ideal legacy, his testament, the synthesis of the beliefs and values that always accompanied him. I knew the end was near, but to realize word by word that he was also fully aware of it forced me to get up and leave for a few seconds, so that I could control the raging storm of my feelings. He continued to write, and when he had finished he asked to be taken back to bed. I stood there frozen, pretending that I didn’t quite understand what we both actually understood.
It is useless to remember what happened in the next few hours.
Then I read and re-read those four pages dozens of times, leafed through them in my hands for hours, days, and each time it took my breath away. It’s a very private memory, but I think it’s only fair that it doesn’t stay that way. They contain nothing new, but I like to share them with those who loved my father, with those who believed in him and continue to believe in his ideas. And not only with them. Even with those who didn’t love him, but can’t help but recognize his uniqueness. I’m sure he would have wanted that.
They are a tragic human document, but I believe they are of absolute greatness. My father never did anything to hide his frailty and suffering with false modesty. They are part of the life of every human being, and he did not pretend to be different from others, on the contrary. The writing that appears in those pages is more uncertain, the wording less fluid, the many corrections.
They all show the frailty of man, but together the greatness of Silvio Berlusconi. Because only a great man like him, a few hours before his death, torn by the evil that carried him, could find the courage, the strength, the determination to reiterate once more, knowing that it would be for the last time, the attachment to what he fought for. He composed his last hymn to love, love for family, love for others, irreducible love for freedom and democracy, for peace and justice, boundless love for the party he founded on these values, Forza Italia, to which he dedicated thirty years from life.
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