A Child Al Confino: The True Story of a Jewish Boy and His Mother in Mussolini's Italy (14 page)

“How come Papa doesn't write any more?” I asked.

“I guess the mail is bad because of the fighting. Soon we'll hear from him. You'll see.”

That autumn Mother did not re-enroll me in school, for the nuns' sex-segregation rules prohibited boys from advancing past the third grade, which I had already attended. Instead, much to my surprise, since hoping for a bicycle in those days was tantamount to wishing for an airplane, my
mammina
bought me a bicycle as a belated birthday gift.

The day the three of us, Mother, the bike, and I, walked out of the shop. I wrapped myself about her neck. “Oh,
Mutti
, I can't believe it. I will be the best son any mother has ever had.”

“You already are. I want you to promise me that you will be extra careful when you ride in the street. Promise?”

“I promise.”

“I also want you to promise me that you will not lend the bike to anyone or leave it alone in the street. Remember what happened in Vienna?” She was reminding me of the time I had lent my brand new scooter to a total stranger. It had never come back.

“I remember. How could I ever forget? I only had it for a day.”

I had never ridden a bicycle and now I owned one. Shiny black, the bike was the envy of any boy who knew me and big enough to last me for the next two, three, or even four years. But for now, not yet tall enough, I could not sit on the saddle and pedal at the same time. Yet nothing could stop me from riding it, not my lack of balance nor the many falls that created a number of minor scratches on my bike and major ones on my knees.

The previous year, a rich friend from school had invited me to go to a soccer game. I was thrilled to get a free ticket, but because I didn't have the money for the car fare, I had to run alongside the trolley car with my friend riding in it.

Another day, when Prince Humbert of Savoy, the son of the reigning king of Italy, came on an official visit, my bike afforded me the thrill of riding alongside his motorcade. I was riding so close to his open convertible that I felt I was part of the royal family.

I even dreamed of one day riding my bicycle the full length of the Riviera, but the time I tried to pedal toward Genova, I discovered that my legs didn't yet have the strength my mind had given them credit for. I also remembered my promise to Rina, but riding to Milan after my failed trip to Genova was completely out of the question.

Since none of the boys I knew owned a bicycle, I had no one to ride with for fun and so used the bike for transportation only. San Remo enjoyed a rich variety of seafood, which the sparkling Mediterranean yielded generously. At a street-stand near the port, I had often seen people ever so gently hold a raw oyster between two fingers, drench it with lemon juice, and slurp it down with obvious pleasure. As I saw those raw, rubbery, slushy things disappear down the people's throat, I felt the chill follow the same path down my own spine. One afternoon, with a friend, I stopped at an oyster cart. “Let's have some,” my friend said.

“You're crazy,” I answered.

My friend seemed challenged by my refusal and would not stop pushing me. Finally I succumbed and, with eyes closed and two fingers pinching my nose shut, he saw me swallow my first oyster. I was glad the thing was drenched in lemon juice to disguise whatever flavor the sea may have given it. I waited for my body's reaction. But to my great shock, I enjoyed the spineless glob slithering down my throat.

“That wasn't bad!” I said. Then I searched my pockets for more change to buy one more.

Our time in San Remo was a happy period in my life when I enjoyed an almost normal childhood. We had stopped wandering, and I began forgetting the upheavals of the previous three years. The town was small and in a short time, I had gotten to know every corner of it. Even when not going to school, I filled my days with a variety of activities.

This peaceful life came to an unforeseen and sudden halt the day, when coming home for my midday meal, I found our apartment in disarray. “What's going on?” I asked.

“We must pack fast. We are leaving in two days.” Mother's face showed the stress I heard in her voice.

I was baffled and convinced Mother had decided to disrupt my life one more time. “Where are you taking me this time?”

“I don't know.”“Why don't you know? How will we get there?”

“They will let us know when we are ready to leave.”

“Who are they?”

“The police.”

Police! I felt my knees buckle. “We haven't done anything,” I said.

Then it flashed through my mind. Oh, my God! They found the bombs. Did Mother know? What would the police do to us? What would
Mutti
do to me? All day I pondered whether to confess and throw myself at her mercy or force my tongue to remain idle. I left my meal on its plate, for I had lost my appetite. Nor did I sleep for two nights. I couldn't help feeling that my own stupidity was going to punish us more than Hitler ever could.

Mutti
asked me to gather my belongings so she could decide what I could or could not take. What to do with the bombs? I certainly was not about to tell my mother or take them with me. What other choices were left? Could they explode by themselves? I didn't know. After much inner deliberation, I decided to leave my arsenal where it was, hoping someone would find it before it, together with our beautiful little villa, created a fireworks display.

Mother told me about the notice she had received to go see the police commissioner. “For almost two years this man has let us remain here, ignoring German orders. I hope nothing happens to him. He was funny. He said something like by sending us away, Mussolini would no longer be threatened by criminals like us.”

Too tormented by once again having to pack and leave, I paid little attention to what my mother had said.

A plain-clothes detective came on the day we were to leave to help place our luggage and my bicycle in a taxi and accompany us to the train station. Much to my relief, no one said a word about the bombs. As the cab negotiated the sharp curves of the serpentine descent, fresh emotions of sadness overcame me at the thought of leaving this delightful town and yet another home.

“Where are we going?” Mother asked.

“To a town in the province of Avellino,” the man replied.

“And where is that?”

“South of Naples. Nice country,
Signora
. My family comes from around there.”

It was June 1941.

Internment

F
or the fourth time in little more than three years, I was being forced to go where I did not want to go. Although this time I did not cry, not sure whether I had matured or just become hardened by experience, I'm unsure, the move raised similar emotions. I started to love San Remo. In school and in the park I had made many friends and even gained some status and now was being taken again to some unknown place where I didn't know anybody and I would have to start all over again. When was all this going to stop?

Looking at the bright Italian countryside slip by and watching passengers getting on and off the train at the numerous stops helped lessen the anxiety during the hot afternoon hours. But all that night, sitting in a third-class compartment, on a hard, dirty wooden bench, made sleep impossible.

Mutti
offered me her lap. “
Erichl
, put your head here.”

“No. I'll be fine.”

The detective stayed in the corridor, smoking near the open window till the morning light. He did his job. He had prevented our escape off the fast-moving train.

After long stops in Rome and Naples, we arrived at noon in Avellino, some twenty miles south of Naples. A porter took our luggage off the train, placed everything, including my precious bicycle, on a large cart and wheeled it into the street.

“Oh, I'm so relieved this detective is taking care of everything,” Mother said.

Our escort hailed the lone taxi sitting outside the terminal. The cabby, holding the door open and, using one hand on the steering wheel, pushed the vehicle the short distance to where we were standing. As the car rolled up, he hopped inside with only half his body to pump the brake pedal. After a short ceremonious greeting directed to my mother, he loaded our belongings, some on the roof and the rest inside the cab, leaving less than enough room for the three of us.

My two-wheeler was still leaning against the terminal while we were ready to leave. I was frantic. “What about my bike?”

“It must come later, there is no room on the taxi,” the policeman said.

I was not willing to leave my bike there. “I'll stay here with it.”

My mother talked to the detective. There was no other solution. He would arrange for the bike to follow the next day. It would be safe. He would make certain of that.

The taxi was not just old, it was ancient, its parts held together by rusty wires and frayed cords. The driver's door stayed shut thanks to his elbow holding it so. I noticed the many cracks in the age-worn canvas top and was thankful it was a sunny day.

The journey to Ospedaletto d'Alpinolo, less than five miles up a graded, dusty, and unpaved mountain road, took more than two hours. The clunker's slow speed contributed to the delay. but the main causes were three breakdowns and the countless times the engine just quit, unable to take the uphill strain. Getting it restarted was not a simple task, since the electric starter did not seem to have a part of the original design. Instead, dangling from the front of the engine was a partially rusted metal crank that required all the strength the small cabby could muster to give it a half turn. Starting the engine also required an additional person to stop the car from rolling down the hill, for the hand brake had long become a useless metal grip which the driver made no attempt to engage.

While pressing one foot on the brake pedal, the driver fished out a block of wood from under his seat. With deference, he said to the detective, “
Commissario
can you put this under the back wheel? I don't want our lovely lady to end up back in Avellino.” He snickered as he tipped his beret to my mother. It was like a scene from a movie.

Our escort took the wood and wedged it under one of the rear wheels. “I'm only a detective, not a police chief,” he said.

Each breakdown brought out a series of invectives from the driver, most of them directed at Italy's head of state. “
Quel benedetto Mussolini
!” He removed his cap and used his arm to wipe the sweat off his forehead.

What for us was an annoying experience seemed to be an everyday occurrence for this driver. By then I was too tired to care. It was boiling hot at midday on that dusty road, but I was sure Mother's perspiration was due less to the heat than to her restraint from making comments.

“Close your eyes,
Hasele
, and try to get some rest.” She placed her arm on my shoulders and caressed my hair. I could feel her heavy breathing.

The poor quality of wartime gasoline caused carburetors to clog up with regular frequency and, while the driver may have been annoyed, Mother was incensed, especially when, after asking how far our destination was, she was told we could have walked the distance in less time than it took to drive. “I'd just as soon start walking,” Mother said.

“
Signora
, we'll get there soon. Don't worry. You're much too pretty to worry.” The driver spoke in dialect.

Tired, dirty, and hungry, we arrived at our destination, hoping our ordeal had finally come to an end.

The detective had told us he was going to spend time with his family. Now, his assignment almost completed, he looked eager to leave. With the taxi driver, he lifted our trunk and suitcases off the cab and set everything on the street at the entrance of the
carabinieri
headquarters. “I have to make sure I place you in the good hands of the local police officer, Signora.”

At the sound of the car stopping, a
carabiniere
stepped through the heavy wooden doors. He looked as though shaken from a deep sleep and not yet awake. Our detective approached him, and after exchanging more gestures than words and handing over our documents, he wished us luck, made a respectful bow and left us standing, a bit baffled, on the narrow road.

People's heads peeked out windows and doors. Our arrival must have been a newsworthy event for this small village. A group of boys of various ages, dressed in rags and without shoes, had followed the broken-down taxi from the moment it entered town. Curious, they now stood near us. More than anything, their filth caught my attention. The dirt that had accumulated on these boys was greater than I had ever seen on anyone before. So encrusted with it were their bare feet that their skin had the appearance of hardened leather.

“
Mutti
, did you see the feet on those boys?” I asked in German.

“It's disgusting. Keep an eye on them while our things are in the street.”

The
carabiniere
, entrusted with his new charges, was wide awake now. He invited us to come through the small inner door, cut out from the heavy wooden portal, then motioned to two boys in the group. “Take the luggage and bring it inside. Now!” he commanded.

“I'll wait till everything is inside,” my mother said.

“
Signora
, trust me. I will take care of it. Eh! Let's go, fellows. Hurry!”

Instead, Mother waited until everything was securely inside. I looked at her watch; it was 2:30. We had not slept the night before and the two-hour taxi ride had left us exhausted.

We followed the policeman through a dirt courtyard and into a small office that was badly in need of paint.

“
Signor maresciallo, sono arrivati i nuovi internati
!” The man announced the arrival of the new internees to his superior, who was stretched out on a wooden armchair, wearing regulation dark trousers with red stripes down each side, a gray shirt with visible sweat stains under his armpits, a loosened black tie, and suspenders. The officer must have been sleeping, judging from how slowly he responded to the news.