A Child Al Confino: The True Story of a Jewish Boy and His Mother in Mussolini's Italy (18 page)

“Are you studying anything?” the lady asked.

“Not yet. We just arrived here, but I am sure my mother will find something for me.”

“Do you like to read?” Mrs. Rozental asked.

“I love books.”

“Well, if you wish to borrow any books, feel free.”

I was watching Mr. Rozental. He had said nothing and, after our introduction and handshake, he had gone back to the table. Mrs. Rozental must have noticed my stare. “My husband is engrossed in translating books from Italian into Polish. It's good mental exercise.”

Even at my age, looking at the large selection of German, Polish, and Italian books on their shelves, I realized this family, from son to mother to grandparents, was an intellectual group.

That afternoon Runia showed us photographs taken in Poland. She also brought out some taken at her husband's funeral. I was surprised to see pictures of that event.

“How did you get out?” Mother asked in Polish. She had spoken slowly enough for me to understand.

Runia's response was more than my limited knowledge of that language could grasp. Later, at home, I asked Mamma what Runia had said.

“She, Giorgio, and her parents were able to escape in 1940, a few months after the German occupation. They were smart. They left, not like your father, who traveled there instead.” It bothered me that whenever Mother spoke about my Papa she did it in a negative and bitter tone.

Of all the internees, Runia had the most extensive wardrobe. Her costly clothes — I heard my mother make a remark to that effect — were more matronly than stylish. Her severe hairstyle and lack of makeup also added years and gave her a professorial appearance.

Sleep in Ospedaletto was placid. The nights were cool and peaceful and each morning when we walked down our narrow road that lead to the main piazza, the still cool, clear air caressed our senses. A right turn took us past the corner where the two roads crossed and to the
carabinieri
station for our first reporting of the day.

Usually by the time we reached the meeting spot, people had begun to show up. But no matter what time we arrived, William Pierce was always the first one there. His wrinkled face, large bulbous nose, raspy voice, and abrasive demeanor made liking this man somewhat difficult — at least on our first meeting. But our restricted living environment brought us in close and regular contact with our fellow internees and as I got to know William Pierce better, I realized why it was so difficult to like him. He was, without doubt, an unlikable character! He had found himself interned in Ospedaletto because of his British name, he still used William rather than the Italian Guglielmo. Yet his ardor for the Fascist government and unwavering faith in Mussolini made his presence in our midst a unique source of controversy, debate, and scornful jokes.

Someone else who always arrived early at the assembly site was John Howell. English by birth, John had lived in Italy most of his life. Here he had married, raised his family, and managed his glove manufacturing business. In spite of his thirty or more years away from England, John was still the perfect model of the English gentleman. Just short of six feet, straight-backed, slender, a meticulous dresser, with long fingers and well-manicured nails, he carried himself with unmistakably upper-class elegance. His hair, too, parted on one side, had a distinctive British look and was a radical departure from the Italian men's custom of greasing their hair and combing it straight back. Even his flawless Italian sounded distinguished. John never raised his voice no matter how heated the conversation. Not even during an emotional game of
boccie
, when everyone became excited over their own good throw or the opponent's bad one, did John lose his composure. Every time a player landed a perfect hit and the rest of us either cheered or cursed, John would calmly say, “That was a fine throw. Well done!”

One morning Mother and I arrived earlier than usual. Only William Pierce, wearing his customary gray pants, gray vest, and black wool jacket, was there. After the conventional polite handshake, something one did with all members of the group whether you liked them or not, Signor Pierce tried to start a debate with my mother.

“Have you been following the news? I believe the war will be over in less than a year. What's your opinion?” he asked.

My mother, evidently reluctant to reply, busied herself running her moistened fingers through my hair and removing some imaginary dirt from my clothes.

“Don't you think so?” he asked again.

“Well, that would be fantastic, but I doubt that Hitler and Mussolini will be willing to surrender so soon.” I knew my mother well. This man had picked the wrong adversary.

He grimaced, then laughed. “Surrender? I don't think you understand. How can you possibly think that our Duce is going to surrender? Mussolini would never have declared war unless he was convinced of the righteousness of our cause. He won every war in Africa and he will win this one, too. Mussolini is the greatest leader Italy has had since the Roman Empire.”

“Tell me, Mister Pierce, what is this righteousness you're talking about?”

He looked baffled by the question and groped for an answer. “Well, both Germany and Italy need more territory for their people.”

“So it is your opinion, then, that any country with too many people has the right to invade its neighbors. And when Mussolini invaded Ethiopia he did it so that millions of Italians could move to Africa? Is that what you are saying?”

“Certainly not. But in Germany's case this is justified since they are looking to regain only the territory they had before the Great War.”

I knew my mother's sense of sarcasm and saw it coming. But she also loved an audience and was willing to wait before holding this man up to ridicule. One by one, the internees came and stood silently, not wanting to interrupt the spirited debate.

Mother, with careful design, dragged out each word. “Oh, I see. Austria had been part of Germany before 1918. I almost forgot. Poland was also part of the German empire. You remember, Signor Pierce, the German empire, don't you?”

A perplexed look invaded the man's eyes. “What German empire?”

“Yes. What German empire?” Mamma mimicked.

“
Boh
?” the man grumped.

“The empire with all these territories you speak about. And of course Russia was also a German province.”

“You don't have to take everything literally,” the man stammered.

“If I don't take it literally, how should I take it?”

Runia, though composed, was thrilled. She turned to the others. “Well, Signor Pierce. You have met your match. Let's give Lotte a hand.”

Everyone joined in a subdued applause. I stared at Pierce. Nothing fazed this man, neither the argument nor the applause. Was he that dumb? With fingers in his two vest pockets, he fidgeted with his watch in one and the gold chain in the other. The church bell struck ten. William Pierce pulled out his watch and pushed the button to open the lid. Tilting his head toward the shoulder, he crinkled his face. The group commenced its march while he placed the watch back into his vest, then trailed behind looking preoccupied as though trying to gather his disoriented thoughts.

Runia took my mother by the arm. “Maybe he'll stay by himself.”

The elder Spaecht came up to me and grabbed me by my arm. “Your mother is something. I enjoyed how she put this guy in his place. Were you born in Poland, too?”

“No, I was born in Vienna.”

“We are also from Vienna.” He looked pleased to have found a compatriot. “When did you leave?”

“In 1938, just a few days after the Germans came.”

Mr. Spaecht, whose wife and daughter we had already met, walked in silence for a few steps. His dark, much-wrinkled skin, slightly stooped posture, and receding hairline made him look more like the grandfather than the father of his twenty-year-old daughter, Suzie. I calculated that Suzie must have been born when both parents were already quite mature.

One afternoon, my mother, chatting with Runia and her parents, commented on the Spaechts' conversion to Catholicism. “Many Jews were afraid to be persecuted, but they didn't run to be converted,” she said. “So look what happened even after they got
geschmat.
They ran away to Italy just like we did and ended up here with us.” Mother sounded angry.

My mother had a deep-rooted awareness of her Jewishness while the Spaechts had shed theirs without really embracing any other faith. “
Zey zindt keyn fleysh un keyn fish
,”
Mutti
said, neither meat nor fish.

It never ceased to amaze me how easily my mother made friends. Though she only finished high school, she could hold her own in any conversation. She spoke seven languages, five fluently, and her unique sense of humor was a magnet that attracted the other internees. Of the many friendships she struck up, her most intimate friends became the Howells, Runia, and Clara Gattegno. Mother also grew fond of Paula Alster and became her protector.

Paula was a pathetic human being. Born into an affluent Polish family, she attended school in her native Poland, then was sent to Austria and Italy to study there. Yet, in her late twenties, she was incapable of completing a sentence in any one of the three languages. Her excuse for not speaking Polish was that she had left the country at an early age. German she forgot because she had moved to Italy, and her poor Italian was due to her short residence of only ten years.

She was a “good soul,” as my mother often said, but a “stupid good soul,” as someone corrected her. On a few occasions when someone made a derogatory remark about Paula, Mother came to her defense. “Say what you wish. If somebody needs anything, Paula is always ready to help.” And because my mother felt compassion for the simple woman, we were often subjected to Paula's company. She ate with us several times each week, not as an invited guest but as one who managed to conveniently show up at the right time. Referring to Paula's frailty, Mother wondered whether the woman ever cooked a meal for herself or ate only when invited to someone's home.

Once she showed up at dinnertime for her customary unannounced visit and Mother asked her to stay.

“I didn't come to stay for dinner,” Paula said meekly.

“That's all right. I never mind if you stay for dinner.”

Paula was ecstatic as she tasted the small dumplings in the chicken soup. “
Dass ist incredibile
,” she said, in a sentence that was half German and half Italian. Then, pointing to the small flecks of dough floating in the soup, she asked, “
Wie heist das
?”

“
Auflauf
.”
Mutti
said.

“You have to tell me how to make those little … what do you call them?”

“
Auflauf
.”

“
Auflauf. Auflauf,”
she repeated.

Two days later at our morning reunion, a visibly excited Paula proudly announced that she had made chicken soup with “
Einlauf
.” There was a sudden explosion of loud laughter from those who understood German and knew that
Einlauf
meant “enema.”

In a period of our lives when there was little to laugh about, Paula Alster provided us with some hearty laughs.

On another occasion, Paula asked Mother for the recipe of a cake she had tasted at our home. A simple recipe: pound cake with jam filling. The next day Paula came running to report that the cake was not a success. Yes, she did follow the recipe, step by step. Yes, she put it in the right pan. Yes, she put it in the oven for 35 minutes. No, it was terrible.

“What was wrong with it?” my mother asked.

“It was just like when I put it in the pan, soft and running.”

Mother fell silent. All at once I saw an illuminating ray on her face. “Did you heat the oven?”

Paula looked as though coming out of a fog. “Heat the oven? You didn't write that on the recipe.”

Mutti
hugged the woman. “It's my fault. I should have told you about the oven.”

Paula's physical appearance matched the lack of her intellectual grasp. Much too thin for her five-foot three-inch frame, day after day she wore the same black dress with the missing belt. Her long, free-flowing and disheveled hair and her lipstick, partly applied to the lips and partly not, gave her a pitiful appearance.

Paula loved to stand in a manner that gave the impression that nature had handed her two left feet. She had the uncanny ability to cross her legs above the knees and under cover of her dress, place the right foot where her left should have been and vice versa. The first time I saw this strange sight, I stared at her feet, certain she had placed the right shoe on the left foot. Only when she walked away from her spot, after having disentangled her skinny legs, did I realize Paula did have one right and one left foot. But true to my teaching, I made no comment.
Mutti
invested much time and effort in teaching me to be sensitive. For her the most important quality in a human being was character.

“Learn to be a
Mensch,”
she would say.

On Sunday, Antonietta and her daughters dressed for church. The girls' hair, combed with motherly care into chignons, looked lovely. Antonietta's hair, freed from her daily kerchief, was combed back, tied into a tight, shiny bun, and covered by a short, black veil. Her homemade dress fit well over her proportionately plump frame and the
zoccoli
had been replaced by a pair of old-fashioned, nice looking, lace-up, high-heeled shoes.

“Are you going to church?” Antonietta asked.

“No, we are not Catholic,” Mamma replied.

“Oh, what are you?”

“We are Jewish.”

There could not have been a greater expression of shock on the poor woman's face had Satan appeared to her in person. She made the sign of the cross and invoked the name of the Holy Mary.

I could tell Mother was refraining from breaking out into laughter. “Is something wrong with what I said?” she asked.

“Oh no, no, no, no. I just have never seen a Jew. All I learned in catechism class is that Jews were responsible for killing our Lord.” As these words escaped from her mouth, her expression changed. I could tell she was troubled by what she had said. “Where will you be praying?” she asked.