A Child Al Confino: The True Story of a Jewish Boy and His Mother in Mussolini's Italy (12 page)

Working with the circus, I got to see the performance every day. I liked the clowns but, most of all, I loved the wild animals. Bears, lions, elephants. Each time I saw the lions perform, I had a vision of owning a cute cub and raising it in our small apartment. I told Mamma how great it would be to bring home a little lion cub.

“A
meshugene
. A lion he wants to bring home. He can't kill me by himself, so he looks for help.”

The circus, together with its sideshows, remained in town for a month. I enjoyed the camaraderie with many members of the troupe and stayed on the job for the duration. The following year, when I reapplied, they were happy to hire me again. No one asked me if I was Jewish. Little did I know they had problems finding dependable boys who were willing to work for nothing.

Mother Goes to the Hospital

D
espite our own hard times, Mother always found someone who was worse off. Soon after we settled in San Remo, she had met two German refugees, an older man and his daughter, and immediately invited them to share every Sabbath dinner with us. “He lost his wife recently and I found out when they escaped, they left with nothing,” Mutti explained. “The man is half blind and cannot work. I don't know how they manage.”

One Wednesday morning I was awakened by my mother lying next to me moaning in terrible pain. She looked dreadful and scared me out of my mind. “What's the matter?” I asked.

She made an attempt to answer but, no intelligible sound came from her lips. Bent over from cramps, she waived me out of the room with one hand. In my pajamas I ran to Guerino and breathlessly told him about Mamma. In his slippers he rushed to the nearest phone down the street at the butcher shop. He returned, running up the steps panting and puffing. “The ambulance will be here soon.”

Together with
Mutti
I rode in an old, open-air ambulance holding her hand in mine. When we reached the hospital, the two attendants rapidly carried the canvas stretcher inside. One of the men stopped me at the door. “Wait here.”

Through tear-blurred eyes, I watched as my mother's sheet-covered body, her face pale and her eyes unfocused, was carried down the corridor. I thought for sure my heart would stop ticking.

A nun, wearing a white habit and apron, arrived to escort me down a long corridor that reeked of medicine. With her hand on my back, she eased me into a small hall. “Wait here,” she said. “Your mother has to be examined.”

I waited for what felt like hours. While sitting alone in that quiet room, terrible thoughts ran through my mind. I was still a child, I had been forced to move three times. My papa was who-knows-where, all my possessions were left behind, and now I was about to lose my
Mutti
.

I was half asleep in the chair when a nun came for me. “Your mother has to remain here. She has had a gall bladder attack and must rest. Perhaps by tomorrow she will be able to go back home. I think you had better go now.”

“Is she going to die?”

“No, no!” The nun reassured me with a big smile.

“Can I see her?”

“I'm afraid not.”

That meant I wouldn't kiss my mother good night. “Can I at least stay here for the night?” I asked.

“No, little boy, there is no room here.”

Reluctantly, I turned away from the good sister, who seemed heartless to me. As I walked out of that gloomy place, the tears I had tried so hard to contain now freely streamed down my face. As the fresh air hit my nostrils, unconsciously, I set my worries aside and hopped down the hill toward home. All around me were large fields overflowing with brightly colored carnations. Halfway down, I stopped for a moment to take in the view and allow the flowers' fragrance to fill my senses while the afternoon sun bathed my face.

Once home, my grim thoughts about Mamma came back to haunt me. What were they doing to her in the hospital? Would they feed her? I should never have left her there alone. Then I realized I too, would be alone that night.

Guerino prepared my dinner, challenged me to a few games of checkers, then helped me get ready for bed.

“You are a real friend,” I said and kissed my friend good night.

Early the next morning, after a glass of milk and a slice of bread and butter not to be compared to the breakfasts my mother prepared for me
,
I retraced my steps up the steep incline to the hospital. Inside the clinic I spotted a clerk in the hallway.

“Do you know where I can find Signora Lifschütz?” I asked.

“Sorry. You'll have to ask a nurse.”

I walked the full length of the white antiseptic corridor before I saw a nurse coming my way. “She is in room two-oh-one,” she replied.

The room, also white and austere, was crowded with four white metal beds where only two should have been. A hand lifted from one. It was
Mutti
's hand. She had seen me and was slowly waving me over. She looked so weak and pale and I could see she was still in great pain. I gave her a long hug and kiss. I still feared I would lose her.

“Why are you sucking on ice cubes?” I asked.

“They do not allow me to eat anything,” she whispered.

With no chair in the room, I sat on the bed and reached for her hand. With her smile, she let me know my being there was of great comfort to her.
Mutti
motioned for me to come closer to her face. She had trouble talking. In a weak tone she reminded me of the German couple who would be coming to dinner the next day. She wanted me to contact them.

“Do they have a telephone?” I asked.

“No. You have to go to their house. Tell them what has happened.” She halted. Her head sank deeper into the pillow. She looked so exhausted. My poor
Mutti
! “As soon as I get better, they will come to dinner again. They'll understand.”

I sat up. “No,” I said, “I'll make dinner. I can do it. Just give me some recipes.”

A big smile lit up her chestnut eyes and spread over her pretty face. “You can't do that.”

But she was much too weak to argue and argue I did.

Resigned, she said, “Get a pencil and paper.” After some hesitation she gave me the recipes, more important, she showed how much confidence she had in me.

“Give me my handbag,” she said, then asked for her coin purse. “Here is some money to buy the groceries.” She stopped for a moment. “I'm sure Signor Grimaldi will go with you.”

As I was leaving, she whispered a last warning. “Be careful not to burn the onions. They should be yellow.”

The next morning, after my short visit with
Mutti
, Guerino and I went shopping. “What are you making?” he asked.

“German potato soup,
Wiener Schnitzel
, green salad, and fruit for dessert.”

“You want me to help you?” he offered.

“Oh, no! I want to do it myself.”

Fixing that meal marked the start of my fascination with cooking, and on that afternoon I did not visit my mother. Judging from the guests' comments, the Friday dinner was a great success and, filled with pride, I rushed to the hospital the next morning.

“Everything was delicious. Herr Gustaff and his daughter couldn't believe that I had cooked it by myself.”

“I knew you could do it. Never doubted it,”
Mutti
said.

Though she looked healthier, I was certain my mother had lost part of her mind. Normally, she would have said, “You couldn't do that.” Oh, sure, no one was finer than her
Erichl
when she spoke to an outsider, but to me she withheld those sentiments. With all the love she showed me, she rarely expressed her confidence to me or complimented me directly.

When
Mutti
returned home a few days later, she was still weak and incapable of doing much. Taking care of her made me feel so grown up.

In the narrow alley across from our building was a small, dingy looking eating place where, for the modest price of fifty
centesimi,
the cost of a trolley ride, they served a brimming dish of boiled tripe. The semi-dark tavern, with a few old tables and old wobbly chairs, served nothing but tripe and was primarily a poor man's eatery. The patrons had to bring their own bread and wine if they wanted a full meal. Guerino took me along one day and offered me a taste of what looked like worms floating in a soupy tomato sauce. At the sight, I immediately lost my appetite.

“Come on, try one bite,” he coaxed me.

“I think I'll just sit here.”

I watched my friend as he ate the repugnant dish with such gusto. “Is this ever good,” he murmured.

Guerino had reached his last few spoonfuls. The aroma of the tomato sauce, the grin of satisfaction on his face and my hunger pangs tempered my revulsion and gave me the courage I had lacked minutes earlier. “All right, I'll try one bite. A small bite, with only one worm.”

He handed me the overflowing spoon. With eyes shut tight, I shoved it in my mouth. Ugh! I didn't know what to expect. Now, moving around in my mouth, that stuff didn't taste too bad. Without thinking, I bit into the tripe and after that, I knew little else in the world could taste as good.

“Well?” he asked.

“Not bad. Not bad at all. In fact, delicious,” I had to admit.

When I told
Mutti
about my new discovery, she crinkled her nose and grimaced in utter disgust. “How can you eat such
chaserai
and rave about it? I make such delicious meals but you prefer garbage.”

From that day on and whenever
Mutti
wanted to give me a special treat, she either prepared a
Wiener Schnitzel
or gave me the coins to buy a plate of tripe.

On June 21, 1940, France surrendered. Store owners all over town placed radios in their windows and outside of their shops. News bulletins blared, from time to time interrupted by a Fascist hymn. Victorious Mussolini signed an armistice with France and the whole country was exuberant.

Much to my bewilderment, when Mother heard the news, she began jumping up and down in the street. What was going on? She could not have wanted Mussolini and Hitler to win.

“How can you be glad that France lost?” I asked. “This means the Nazis will win the war.”

“Maybe it will bring this horrible bloodshed to an end. Or maybe I'm just losing my mind and don't know what to hope for anymore. I just want this war to end. Maybe that maniac will allow our families to get back together and go back home. Maybe.”

Even though I was a kid and understood little of what was going on in Europe, Mother's logic made no sense. I couldn't recall hearing that the war had ended, only that, based on what the Fascist radio told us, Italy had defeated France.

The celebrations continued for days. Men and boys wearing the customary black shirts and caps with the long dangling tassel, marched through town singing Fascist hymns.

Mother's initial elation turned to anguish. Unable to bear what was going on, she stayed home for days. “I can't stand going in the street.
Schatzele
, please do the shopping for
Mutti
. Here is the list. You can find everything at the vegetable stand.” She handed me the piece of paper and some money. Holding my hand and caressing my cheek with her other hand, she added, “Erich, don't tell anyone what I said the other day,” she whispered.

“What did you say?”

“That I was glad the war might be ending soon. I don't know what came over me.”

Our quarters at the Grimaldis' were cramped. Though I had just turned ten, I still had to sleep in the same bed with my mother. Mother too, was unhappy about that as well as having to share the kitchen with the ever-complaining landlady. Conveniently, we had received a new sum of money from the parents of the Turkish student who was living at our hotel in Vienna. Now we could afford better housing.

After France's surrender, Mamma needed “a moral boost,” she said. And so much to my distress, she started to look for another place for us to live.

“I found a beautiful full-sized apartment up on the hill,” she whispered to me. “Not just a furnished room like we have here.”

The thought of moving away from Guerino dampened my spirits. I wanted to remain with him. I would never find a better friend.

“You can come and visit. It's not that far,”
Mutti
said.

Guerino tried to make light of it. “You'll find a nice girl and you'll get married.”

My mood soon changed when I saw our new place. For the first time since we had left Vienna, we would have an entire apartment: living room, two bedrooms, kitchen, and bath. At last, nothing to share with anyone else! I would again have my very own room. Since we had only our clothes and a few accumulated books, the physical move was uncomplicated. Not so the emotional one.

Mrs. Grimaldi looked pleased to see us leave. Not Guerino. His deep-set gray eyes were moist. “Take good care of your mother and don't forget to come see me sometime.”

“I will. I swear I will come to see you often. I still have to beat you at chess.”

We never saw each other again. I met Mrs. Grimaldi on the street. She told me that Guerino had died a few weeks after we moved. I promised myself then I would never again swear to anything in my life.

Our New Home on the Hill

T
he small apartment house, standing alone halfway up the hill, offered an extraordinary view of the valley below. Looking out from our second floor balcony, I held my breath. A gentle breeze stroked my face as my eyes embraced the town below and the blue waters of the Mediterranean. Straight down I could see the two small gulfs forming part of the coastline, the fishing port to the right and the sandy beaches to the left. Turning left a bit to the north I could see the delicate rolling hills that became the majestic Alps, while to the right lay the fields of flowers gracefully undulating on smaller hills followed by streams that ran down to the beaches. This wonder prompted the local people to call San Remo the pearl of the Italian Riviera and had inspired Goethe to pose the question: “
Kennst du das Land woh die Zitronen bluehn?
” Across the street, a bit down in a valley, separated by a narrow creek and surrounded by several large fig trees, was the church of San Romolo. Farther down lay large fields of white, pink, red, and yellow carnations in bloom, one of nature's great works of art.