A Child Al Confino: The True Story of a Jewish Boy and His Mother in Mussolini's Italy (20 page)

The column followed the circuitous narrow road through the village. Up the hill to the municipal gardens, right for a few hundred yards to the last house, then back and down the main road until it met up with the narrower way leading back to the church. The cortége passed by every house as though having the obligation not to leave out any of the inhabitants. As it wound itself through town to the irregular beat of the cacophonous sound, more and more people attached themselves to its tail. Children followed, hopping to the erratic rhythm. For many others, a procession was an excuse for a walk, for leaving one's chores for later, or for exchanging gossip with people other than their immediate neighbors.

As much as I wanted to join the march, I chose to keep my distance and never once joined in a procession.

For the first time in three years, Mother had no need to guess the dates of our High Holidays. That year, thanks to Signor Wovsi, we were able to observe the New Year according to the Jewish calendar. Clutching her worn and precious prayer book, Mother and I, as well as several of our religious brothers joined the Wovsis for services at their apartment.

An Orthodox Jew, Mr. Wovsi conducted all religious services. He had a hard time obtaining the necessary
miny'n
, the minimum of ten men required to perform a religious ceremony. Although more than ten Jewish men were interned in Ospedaletto, not all were observant and willing to attend a religious function. Thus, when there were fewer than the required number, Signor Wovsi would direct his eyes toward the sky and, nodding his head, murmured, “You understand and I hope You will forgive us.”

On the day of Rosh Hashanah, not enough men were present to form a
miny'n
, but the service proceeded and we invoked the Lord, asked pardon for any sins committed and wished each other
L'Shana Tova
. Over the period of ten days, Mr. Wovsi conducted an abbreviated service of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. Missing was the sound of the
shofar
, the blowing of the ram's horn that announced the start of the New Year and the chant of
Kol Nidre
that began the Day of Atonement. But despite these omissions, the simple rituals raised Mother's spirits almost to their old heights.

Throughout the services and during the full day of fasting, my thoughts went to distant Poland. As I heard Mr. Wovsi invoke the prayers, I could see my grandfather conducting services in the Lwow synagogue.

After I had waited for almost a month, word reached us that my bicycle had finally been brought up from Avellino and left at the
carabinieri
station. I ran to pick it up. Out of breath, I let the metal knocker fall against the heavy door. I knocked again for no one responded fast enough.

“Can I get my bicycle?” I asked the
carabiniere,
who finally answered my knock.

He let me in and pointed to my bike against the wall. What grief! My beautiful new bike, which had caused such sacrifice to my sweet
Mutti
and so many scuffed knees to me, had a bent frame. I was devastated. Walking it up the hill, I cried all the way home. We didn't have the money to have it repaired, I knew that. All this time I had been looking forward to taking long trips and exploring the surrounding areas, perhaps even daring to go beyond the limits allowed us. But I could not ride my bike on those rocky roads with a bent frame, for surely it would break altogether.

I returned home in a bad mood, but my mother, as she had done so often before, tried to console me. “One day I will buy you a better one. Anyhow, you're growing up so fast, soon it will be too small for you.”

Antonietta's daughters, seeing me in tears, tried to cheer me up. They introduced me to some of their friends in the neighborhood, which helped me to forget the bike, but I was not too happy to play with girls. My friends had always been boys, but Antonietta warned me that most of the village boys were not worth having as friends. So I spent most of my days with girls, learning to play jacks, but when they were busy dressing their dolls, I refused to join them and went home.

During the summer months, the twilight was long and darkness did not descend until 8:00 or later. Ospedaletto only had two solitary streetlights hanging from a thin wire, happily dancing at the slightest breeze. I had orders to go home when it got dark. Walking home with Antonietta's daughters, I saw the air aglow with luminous small flying creatures.

“What are those?” I asked.

“Fireflies,” Maria replied.

Without doing it any harm, she caught one and, for the first time in my life, I watched with wonder as the small insect flashed on and off while crawling in the palm of my cupped hand.

One morning as I was leaving the house, I found Antonietta sitting on the front steps searching for something in her daughter's hair. “What are you doing?” I asked.

“Killing lice.”

“Lice? What are they?”

Antonietta found one to show me before killing it. As she held it between two fingernails, the pest wiggled its legs in a futile attempt at freeing itself. What a repulsive sight!

I watched her as she used an extra fine comb to capture the tiny bugs, place them on one of her thumbnail and crush them with the other, but once I heard crunch signaling the bug's demolition, I cringed and dashed inside.

A few days later I suffered a worse experience when Mamma found the repugnant critters crawling on my own head. “You must have gotten them from the barber,” she said.

My whole body shivered, knowing I had those nauseating insects crawling on my scalp. “If I know where they came from, is that supposed to make me feel better?” I asked. “Are you going to sit on the street crushing them between your fingernails like Signora Antonietta?”

My mother would never do that; instead she ran to the pharmacy where the pharmacist suggested giving my head a good alcohol rub, and for a few days I smelled like a winery.

“
Mammina
, I don't feel well. Can I stay in bed?” I asked.

Since I was never one to spend time in bed, this was an unusual request. Mother felt my forehead with her hand, then did the same with her lips. “You're burning up,” she said, then shouted from our room, “Antonietta, do you have a thermometer?”

Antonietta came running. “No, but I can get you one. What's the matter?”

“He has a fever.”

A thermometer was fetched from a neighbor up the road. The fever was high. Antonietta sent her girls to call one of the two doctors. Dr. Sellitto, the senior member of the local medical establishment, made the house call. He examined me from head to foot, then, placing his chin in his cupped hand, delivered a precise diagnosis. “It could be a number of things. I need to make some tests.” He hesitated. “It could be pneumonia.”

He proceeded to give my mother instructions on how to bring down the fever. “I will be back tomorrow. Lots of tea and bouillon. Understand?”

He was very serious when he delivered these measured words. I looked at my mother's face for her reaction. From her expression, I could sense she was anything but thrilled by the diagnosis. She repeated the brilliant conclusion. “It could be pneumonia?” While the doctor was still in the room, I buried my head under the covers to keep from laughing in his face.

With great ceremony, the doctor wrote out a prescription, collected his fee and left. As soon as he was gone, my mother asked Antonietta, “What kind of doctor is he?” Then to me, newly emerged from under the covers.” And what do you think is so funny? I'm worried to death and you think it's a joke.”

“I couldn't help myself.” I was giggling. “You should have seen your face, Mamma. 'He could have pneumonia!”

“We have another doctor in town, Doctor DiGrezia.” Antonietta seemed to be reluctant to tell us about him.

“Let's get him,” Mother urged.

Dr. DiGrezia, some years Dr. Sellitto's junior, arrived less than an hour after the first doctor had left. He entered the room and took one long look at my face. “I need more light, please,” he said. “This boy has yellow jaundice. Nothing too serious. Just keep him in bed. I'll give you a prescription and indicate a diet.” He sat at the foot of my bed, took out a pad from his wrinkled jacket, and started to write.

The man had not examined me nor checked my pulse or temperature. Mother did not want to offend the young doctor, but I could see she was not satisfied with his diagnosis. With great hesitation and very faintly, she asked, “You don't think it would be a good idea to examine my son, just to be sure?”

“
Mia cara Signora
, I can see from his yellow eyes what he has. But if it makes you feel better….” He placed his ear to listen to my chest, pressed in my stomach, and placed his hand on my forehead. “Same diagnosis,
Signora.
Yellow jaundice.”

This time it was Antonietta waiting for the man to leave before expressing her skepticism. “I don't trust him!”

“Why not?” Mother asked.

“Nobody trusts him. He doesn't believe in remedies we've been using for years. Like, he thinks that leeches are an old wives' tale. Can you imagine? Leeches were used by my grandparents.”

“What are leeches?” Mother asked.

“You don't know leeches?”

“Never had the pleasure.”

“They can save your life.” Antonietta left the room and soon returned holding a jar filled with water in which colored, slimy creatures stuck to the glass. “Here. These are leeches.” They reminded me of the oysters I ate for the first time in San Remo.

“What do you do with them? Eat them?” I asked.

Antonietta broke into loud laughter. “Of course not. You put them on your body and they suck out the evil blood.”

During our short stay in Ospedaletto, we had already heard of the evil eye; now we were being introduced to evil blood. What strange traditions.

As with all news, my sickness soon became common knowledge among the internees. Some came to call to keep my mother company, pop their heads in my room, and comfort me with a book or two. I stayed in bed only a few days, for the jaundice was soon under control — without the help of the leeches.

“
Got sei dank
,” my mother said, thanking the Lord. “We didn't have to use those … whatever you call them.”

“How do I iron something?” Mother asked Antonietta.

“I'll give you the irons. Come in the kitchen.”

We followed and watched Antonietta as she fished out two heavy metal objects resembling nothing I had ever seen before.

“What do you do with these?” my mother asked.

“You put them on the stove and let them heat.”

“That means I have to start a fire.”

“Not really. You iron after you've cooked your meal.”

Mother and I were slowly learning how backward life was in Ospedaletto d'Alpinolo. During our first days, my mother asked Antonietta if gas for cooking was available in the village.

With disbelief, Antonietta repeated: “Cooking with gas? Never heard of such a thing.” Only wood, she said, could be used for that purpose.

Anything you wanted to warm required fire. The various items needed to start this luxury were all in short supply: the paper, the wood to get it going, and the critical matches. And if starting it was a task, keeping it lit was even more so, for it was essential to fan it every so often to keep the flame alive and turn the burning wood into embers. Every kitchen had a straw fan for this purpose, and Mamma soon learned to count on me to do the fanning.

The standard kitchen appliance, the cast iron stove, consisted of a large oven with a front door and a top with three or four round openings, each opening holding a number of concentric iron collars. These collars, which could be made to fit the pot size, served to control the heat, thus providing us with the most modern convenience Ospedaletto had to offer.

“Antonietta, I want to try some ironing.”

As always, our landlady was accommodating and hurriedly provided Mother two of those metal contraptions. “You know what to do?” she asked.

“I think so.”

The stove was still hot and Mother placed the irons on top of two semi-open holes. “Antonietta, how do you know when these things are hot?” Mamma asked.

“You spit on it.”

“You spit on it?” Mamma repeated in a murmur. I don't think my mother had ever spat on anything in all her forty years.

Using the potholder the landlady had provided, Mother went to pick up one of the irons. Evidently it was hotter than she thought for it scorched her hand through the thin holder.

“They're hot all right. I don't have to spit.”

I was concerned, but Mother, after placing her hand in some cold water, assured me the hurt had gone away.

“This is like living in the jungle,” she murmured. “No one has an electric iron?” she asked Antonietta.

“An electric iron? Never seen one. Are you sure they make such a thing?”

Thanks to Antonietta's patience, we learned to adapt to our new life. We stayed there until the end of summer and, while we were comfortable in that house, my mother missed not having her own kitchen. She had mentioned her need to everyone in our group of internees and someone brought us the news that a new apartment, which included a full kitchen, had become available.

Moving to Our Apartment

B
efore fall set in, we rented an apartment for the same fifty lire. We had grown fond of Antonietta, where our stay had been so pleasant, but the new place offered what
Mutti
prized more than anything else: her very own kitchen.

We moved to the apartment on the top floor of a three-story building. The stone building, situated at the edge of town, occupied the far corner of the main piazza and overlooked the municipal gardens. It faced the carriage road that came from Avellino and led to the nearby town of Summonte. Past the building and along that road lay a large forest, while to the rear of the building there were open fields that rolled softly into the valley.

Antonio and Filomena Guerriero were our new landlords. Antonio was modern by local standards, well-mannered, with a university degree. An ex-mayor of the village, he was now one of its public school teachers. An avowed Fascist and proud to tell us that he was a card-carrying party member, he wore his black shirt uniform at every opportunity.