A Child Al Confino: The True Story of a Jewish Boy and His Mother in Mussolini's Italy (19 page)

My mother was touched by the woman's concern. “We'll pray right here. God is everywhere. We don't have to go to church.”

Antonietta embraced my mother for a long moment and left.

The landlady's ignorance of our religion was typical of the towns-people who, because of their prejudices, regarded us as foreigners intruding into their lives. A few of the villagers did befriend some internees, but most kept their distance.

For a few short instants, church bells broke the serenity of the morning. I ventured out to look at the brilliant sky and watched the undisturbed butterflies and the birds flitting among the tall trees. What a glorious day! Not a soul anywhere. The workers at the lumbermill had extinguished the fires of the large boilers and the strident noise of the saws had ceased as if everyone had heard the godly message and wished to preserve nature's tranquility. This serenity was a new experience for a boy who had come from the city. Wandering through the deserted hamlet, passing shops boarded up by dark green wooden shutters, I had the uneasy sensation of being the only living soul in a long-dead village. The sudden apprehension hastened my pace and down I rushed the steep-sloping road that lead to the church.

Religion in Our Lives

T
he three-hundred-year-old village church stood in the center of Ospedaletto d'Alpinolo. Perched at the top of a slight elevation above the town square, it faced the caffê where Don Pasquale spent most of his leisure hours playing scopa or briscola, two classic Italian card games. The steeple, midway between the town's highest and lowest point, towered over the houses as a constant reminder to the towns-people of the Divine omnipresence.

Just as I approached it, the bell struck twice to mark the half hour. It was 11:30 and the church's massive wooden doors swung inward to allow a stream of happy-looking people to emerge. As was the custom in Italy, the crowd was mostly men and children, as the women had attended an earlier mass and now were home preparing the traditional Sunday meal. The people descended the incline leaning back to slow the involuntary speed the steep slope added to their steps. Men wore their Sunday's best: a black suit — some with matching tie, others without one — a white shirt and a black hat or cap. No one in the crowd looked familiar until I saw Antonietta, Raffielina, and Maria.

“Going home?” I asked.

“Sure. Coming with us?”

I joined them up the shortcut, a narrow and cobbled alleyway with wide steps reminiscent of the footpath in San Remo. The four of us cut through the center of the village and, after crossing the main road, we found ourselves a few paces from home, where Mother had prepared a Viennese dinner for our landlady and her girls. For the three of them this proved to be a new experience, for they had never had a meal without pasta. As usual, Mother's culinary talents won them over.

As we sat around the kitchen table, I remarked, “It looked so deserted this morning when I went through town, I was really glad to see all the people come out of church.” Then I asked: “How come everyone was so full of smiles?”

“They think by confessing they have been pardoned for all their sins, including the ones they contrived while being in church,” the older daughter answered.

Her mother reprimanded her. “That's not nice.”

“It may not be nice but it's true,” Raffielina said.

One midweek morning, while no one was in sight, I ventured inside the dark church. Laid out in the form of a cross, its walls were mostly barren and reflected the village's poverty. Each step echoed in the large, hollow chamber, adding to its feeling of emptiness. Adorning the otherwise austere altar was a large portrait of the Madonna and child. As I admired the painting, a sparkle caught my eye. Moving closer, I saw the glitter emanating from the Madonna's necklace. At that instant, Don Pasquale emerged from the sacristy.

“Hello, Father.”

“Hello. What is your name?”

“Enrico.”

“Oh, yes. You are the Jewish boy. I remember.”

“Father, is the jewelry on that painting real?” I asked.

“It sure is. The Madonna deserves real jewelry.”

I stood in awe. Real jewelry on a painting? That was new to me. Walking through the church I had noticed something else that was new to me: silver miniatures of human limbs decorating the walls.

“What are all those legs and arms hanging from the walls?” I asked.

Don Pasquale placed his arm around my shoulder and, with an encouraging smile, said, “Come, I'll show you.”

He guided me to one of the walls covered from end to end with hundreds of silver replicas. “These are gifts from people who received a miracle from the Holy Mother.” Pointing to a miniature leg, he said, “For instance, this man was born with a crippled leg. When he was miraculously cured, he ordered this amulet and dedicated it to our Queen of the Church.”

“What do the silver eyes mean?” I asked.

“Those are from blind people who regained their vision. We prayed directly to the Holy Virgin and she performed the miracles.”

To regain one's sight or be able to walk again? This was more than just a miracle! Not being Catholic, I had not been taught to believe in such miracles. Nonetheless, I was intrigued and, excited by what the priest had told me, back home I related Don Pasquale's stories to my mother. I made sure not to sound too impressed for fear of upsetting her.

“
Mammina
, you have to come and see these things. They are beautiful. And that necklace I would love to give you one like that.”

She let out a deep sigh and shut her eyes. “Maybe when you get bigger, you'll be able to buy me jewels. As for miracles? Oy! What nonsense. You know we don't believe in miraculous healings.”

On our third Sunday in Ospedaletto d'Alpinolo, Mother had been invited to play bridge at the Howells'. I had not been invited to play, but not wanting to stay by myself, I went along anyhow. Their son Jimmy, whom I had met during one of our morning strolls, was home and I jumped at the opportunity to get to know him better. Towering a full head above me, he had a long, somewhat lazy gait and hair parted to one side, like his father's, which gave him a British appearance. His fingernails were so well shaped and groomed I was prompted to ask him if he had given himself a manicure.

“Not at all.” He seemed irritated by my question.

“Do you have any games we can play?” I asked.

“Not really. I may play bridge.”

“Why don't you try a game of checkers or chess?” his father asked.

“I don't feel like it.”

John Howell said something to Jimmy in English; then he and his son left the room. When Jimmy returned, he looked resigned and annoyed. “Do you know how to play chess?” he asked. His tone gave the unmistakable impression that he hoped I did not.

“Sure, I know how.”

From the stoic look on his face I could tell he wasn't thrilled to waste his time with a boy two years his junior. After I checkmated him three times in a row, grudging admiration showed in his eyes, and eventually we became the best of friends.

Late that afternoon, on our way home, Mother and I made our required second stop at the police station to report that we had not yet escaped. Through the small window, cut out from the heavy portal, peered the caretaker's eyes, nose, and mouth and with a vaguely disgruntled “
Bene, bene
,” she acknowledged our presence.

“This is the biggest farce I have ever seen,”
Mutti
said. “She is the cleaning woman and I'm sure she keeps no records. That's typical.”

“Typical of what?” I asked.

“Government.”

Some days at the morning gathering, someone I had not met before would pop up. New people were a source of great excitement and interest. For my mother and the other adults it was an opportunity to exchange old experiences from their homeland, depending on where the internee came from. For me it was a chance, slight as it might be, to encounter someone who would enjoy my company.

Agnese Caine, a British subject, was interned with us in spite of having lived in Italy all her life. Unassuming and somewhat reserved, she seldom walked with the group because of her swollen legs but often came with her dog just to say hello. She had a pleasant personality, a cheerful smile and, I soon realized, a large heart. Though I never got to know her well, I spent some afternoons with Agnese and, after learning how she devoted her time and energies, realized why we saw so little of her.

Though internees, deprived of their liberty, often regarded Ospedaletto as forgotten by man, the village was remembered by the thousands of swallows that returned every year. And the birds brought a spirit of freedom to us who had lost our own. Local urchins, not burdened by school or obligations, amused themselves by destroying the nests birds built in the trees, dragging out the newborns, then leaving the helpless little birds to die. Miss Caine told me that once she had seen a baby swallow die on the pavement in front of her window and from that day on had assumed the role of savior for the poor feathered creatures.

She converted her one-room apartment into a hospital crammed with the tools she needed to fulfill her mission. In this time of austerity, when so little was available, her clinic was well supplied. She told me how she had pleaded for donations from the pharmacist and the two local doctors and managed to fill a box with cotton and obtain salves to prevent infections and eye droppers to feed the little nestlings.

One afternoon while visiting, I asked her, “Did you ever study to do this kind of work?”

She had not but, because of her good work, many of the wounded birds were rehabilitated and, as she said, “saved from having to go to animal heaven before their time.”

I drew inspiration from this kind woman by watching how she dedicated herself to her small friends. “Will you help me, please?” she asked once. “Hold this little fellow on your lap. He still needs to be fed with the eye dropper. He is less than a week old.”

Tiny and not yet fully feathered, the fluffy bundle trembled through the thick wrappings. Miss Caine filled an eye dropper with a liquid paste of flour and water and reached for the little bird in my hands. “Thank you. I'll take him now.”

With great concentration, she allowed only one small drop at a time to fall into the open and eager beak. “In a week or so this fellow will be able to eat worms and flies.”

Her words shook me out of my spellbound state. Flies were a common occurrence in everyone's home and I was certain she had no problem finding a sufficient supply of them.

“Where are you going to find worms?” I asked.

“Oh, you and other friends will help me find them.”

“Me?” I asked. How disgusting. But who could have resisted her captivating smile? The following week, when she asked me to find her some worms, I hesitated but only a bit.

When Miss Caine came to the internees' meeting corner, she often related her bird episodes. Just as these same people shared her sadness when she reported that one did not survive despite her loving care, so did the
confinati
rejoice when a bird regained its freedom.

During one of my visits, on a day when spring had melted winter's snows and the rich scent of wild flowers and pine trees filled the air, I shared an almost magical experience. A swallow appeared and landed on her window sill. Pecking on the glass, the bird attracted our attention. Miss Caine's eyes widened in disbelief and her voice choked with emotion. “I recognize him. I cared for him last year. Oh, my God, I don't believe it!” She looked as though she was going to faint. She opened the window and the small migrant, without fear, flew straight onto her shoulder. She reached for the bird, cupped it into her hands and with motherly tenderness brought it, unresisting to her lips for a kiss. For a few more moments she held the little bird, then placed it on her shoulder, from where, after a few chirps, it took off to fly out the open window. I will never forget the glow on the woman's face or the gleam that seemed to radiate from the bird.

“Does this happen often?” I asked.

“No. This is the first time.” She was still trembling with joy. Weeks later, I asked her if the bird had ever come back. It had not.

One of the internees, Isidor Grüner, kept mostly to himself. I saw him when we first joined the morning walk. He was a frail man and few knew anything about him. The times I saw him during our stroll, he chose not to join the group at the corner but caught up to us along on the road. He never smiled nor spoke to anyone. He simply followed in silence, seemingly content to be near the group. I would have liked to speak to him but was too shy to do so.

We had been in Ospedaletto less than a month when Mr. Grüner brought tragedy into our midst: We had to cope with his suicide.

“To think we've run from the Nazis,” Mother remarked. “Yet even in this remote place, the evil of Nazism can reach out and take its toll.”

Mr. Grüner was deprived of the
Kaddish
, the traditional Hebrew prayer for the dead, because in keeping with Jewish religious laws, none could be recited for someone who had taken his own life. Signor Wovsi, a senior internee, was considered an authority on Jewish matters. A meeting was held to seek a way to allow a proper Jewish burial, instead, in an ironic twist, the man had to be buried in the only available resting grounds: the Catholic cemetery.

Within the first few weeks I realized that religion played a major role in the villagers' life and not just on Sundays when most everyone attended mass. Going to church may not always have been a sign of religious conviction, for it was a way to avoid being criticized by the village busybodies, plus it gave young men a chance to make eye contact with the available young women.

Holidays — and there were many — presented an opportunity to participate in the religious cortége. They also provided the townspeople a form of escape from their daily doldrums. On those days, the more faithful gathered in church to watch the wooden statue of the Holy Mary being draped in a red mantel with a white fur collar, before being placed on a wooden platform. The crowd waited for the Virgin outside the entrance at the top of the small hill above the central piazza. From there the procession made its start and the heavy platform holding the holy statue was paraded through the village, carried by ten or more devotees. Always at its head was Don Pasquale, two altar boys, the mayor, a clarinet player, a trombonist, a horn player, and a drummer. The handful of instrumentalists, in their funereal black suits, hats and ties, seemed more intent on demonstrating how loud they could sound rather than on how well they could play. But their inability to play the right notes at the right time and their lack of musical talent added a measure of humor to the otherwise solemn event.