A Child Al Confino: The True Story of a Jewish Boy and His Mother in Mussolini's Italy (23 page)

“I said the wrong things at the wrong time in the wrong place. Frankly, I don't quite remember exactly what I said. It had to do with Mussolini. Anyhow, someone overheard me and reported it to the police and so here I am.”

“Were you tried in court?” John Howell asked.

“Are you joking?” Pietro replied. “If someone reports you, that's it. No trial.”

Nobody seemed to notice that it was almost 10:30 and the group was still standing at the corner. “If we don't start walking, we might as well stay here,” someone said.

“Are you going to join us on our morning stroll?” John asked the new men.

“Nothing else to do,” Ettore responded.

As we left the piazza, I attached myself to Pietro Russo. I had endured a disruptive life over the previous three years, no father and few friends my age. But this man's charisma and friendly, sparkling eyes broke down my reluctance to open up to an adult.

“Tell me, how do you spend your days?” he asked me.

“I try to do things. Sometimes I get to play
boccie
. I am also learning bridge, but the adults don't let me play often. Do you play bridge?”

“Yes. I picked it up when I was going to law school in Palermo.”

“Is that where you're from?” I asked.

“I'm from Mazara del Vallo, not far from Palermo. Do you know where Palermo is?”

“I've only heard about it.”

Patiently he drew me a verbal map of Sicily, Palermo, and Mazara del Vallo. Mother walked up to us and put her arm about me. “Is my son bothering you?”

Pietro grabbed my hand. “Not at all.”

“Enrico can be full of questions. But as long as he doesn't bother you, that's fine.” Then looking at me, she added, “Why don't you ask Signor Russo to join us for lunch?”

Mother also invited Ettore and on that day we were the first to learn much about these two captivating individuals. I liked both. although my mother had reservations about Signor Costa.

That evening after dinner I asked Mamma, “What don't you like about Signor Costa?”

“He's too brash for my taste. Signor Russo is a real gentleman.”

Both Ettore and Pietro became very popular among the
confinati
and remained so.

I formed an immediate attachment to both men, to Ettore Costa for his devilish character and to Pietro Russo for his infectious charm. Before their arrival, the morning walk had been a way to reduce the daily boredom. Now, I couldn't wait to bask in Pietro's warm smile and hear Ettore's satirical political comments.

Autumn brought the chestnut season. The luscious green, dense forests, Ospedaletto's natural blanket, produced a large chestnut harvest. But in spite of the crop's abundance, I could risk my life if I as much as entered the woods during that period. Various families from the village laid claim to sections of the woods and protected their territories with shotguns. But nature, in its generosity, allowed a few chestnuts to fall outside the woods from the heavily laden trees that bordered the roads. Children and adults hastened to compete for the rich fruit, for it provided a delicious meal or a dessert. Although only eleven, I was aware how much my mother struggled to provide food with the little money she received and anytime I could, I was proud to make a minor contribution.

“Before this stinking war, this region was renowned for producing the best chestnuts in the world,” one villager told us.

The harvest season lasted about sixty days, but the sweet, tasty nuts were easy to preserve and ours to enjoy for many months. Chestnuts could be prepared in many ways. I preferred to boil them in their shells, drain them, and let them cool. Then, with my teeth clenched around the narrow tip to create a crack, I squeezed the luscious purée into my mouth. What a delicacy! They were also delicious roasted or boiled without the shell. For roasting we placed the slit chestnuts on a rusty roasting pan, or buried them under the ashes of the open fireplace.

Some evenings, for fun, I would intentionally omit slitting a few of the chestnuts, then wait for them to burst, showering glowing coals and ashes all around us. If the explosion had ever started a fire, all of Ospedaletto would have gone up in flames since by the time one of us could run down to the square to awaken the postmaster, to open the office housing the only telephone in the village and call the closest fire truck, five miles away in Avellino. But at that age, such consequences never entered my mind.

In December of 1941, Antonio Dello Russo was inducted into the Italian army and sent to fight in Albania. Dora came to us, wringing her hands over her pregnant belly. “What am I going to do?
Madonna mia
, what am I going to do?”

Mother tried to console the poor woman. “I will be here anytime you need me.”

Dora was hysterical, a heavy stream of tears rolling down her round cheeks. “Do you realize I have never lived alone before I married Antonio, I lived with my parents. And now I have two children and one on the way. This criminal Mussolini is going to kill my Totonno.”

“No, no. He is not going to get killed. He is too smart for that,” Mamma said.

“Do you really think so?”

Mother placed her arms around the woman. “Of course. Meanwhile, if you need anything, I'm right here, next door. Remember that. You and the children come for dinner tonight.”

“I can't. I know how many coupons you have. You cannot afford to feed three more mouths.”

“You come. No discussion.” Mother pointed a scolding finger at her friend.

“I will give you some of my coupons.” The two women embraced and kissed, then Dora kissed me, too.

Dinner was a new experience for our neighbors, as they approached each dish guardedly.

Alba was the first to express herself. “This is absolutely delicious, so different from what Mamma makes.”

“I'm glad you like it. You'll have to come more often,” my mother said.

Over the next twenty or more months, Dora became increasingly more dependent on my mother, strengthening the bond between them. Our door remained always open for Dora and hers for us.

“Dora, is this an iron?” Mother asked. She was intrigued by the contraption in Dora's hand. It was different from those Antonietta had.

“Yes. No need to keep two irons hot on the stove. Just keep hot embers inside this one.”

“How do you keep the embers burning?” Mamma asked.

Dora twirled the hot iron through the air. “Like this.”

Mother saw sparks flying from the iron's small side holes. She pointed at the glowing ashes falling through the air. “What about these? Don't they burn your clothes?”

“You have to be careful.”

Mother laughed. “Just like you.”

The first time my mother tried the iron, she used it on a torn rag. “I'm glad I didn't experiment on something good. Look what I did to this
shmatte
.” She showed me the rag with several ash marks and one scorched spot. “What has my life come to? I'm learning to use tools your grandmother stopped using years ago. We're going backward.”

“Someone is taking my handkerchiefs,” Mother complained.

“Don't look at me, Mamma. I wouldn't use those girly things.”

“Always joking. I know exactly how many handkerchiefs I have. First, one was missing now three are gone.”

“Who do you think is stealing them?”

“In this town, who knows?”

I was helping to search for the hand-embroidered items when Mother let out a shriek. “Oh, good heavens! No!”

“What is it?” I asked after quickly crawling out from under the bed.

Mutti
stood totally motionless, staring out the balcony window. Clutching my shoulder, she said, “Look.”

There, in a corner of the balcony, neatly wrapped in Mother's missing handkerchiefs, were five newborn mice.

“They're cute,” I piped.

“Cute?” Mother screamed and stormed into Dora's apartment. I could hear her from the hallway. “He thinks they're cute. He doesn't care that his mother may have a heart attack.”

“What's happened?” Dora asked.

“There are mice in my apartment. Dozens of them. Hundreds! Come, quick.”

Dora, armed with a long broom, came marching through the open door. Mother followed at a distance. “Where are they?” Dora asked.

My mother remained outside her room. “Enrico, show Dora where they are.”

I was amused by her fear but didn't dare laugh. Frankly, I was not too brave myself. Pointing to the balcony, I said, “There!” Then made a fast retreat and backed out the door.

Dora turned the handle of the balcony's French door. Mother, still in the other room shrieked and fled into the hallway at the squeak of the balcony door being opened. At forty my mother, who had lived through the Great War and had braved crossing into foreign countries and cities, disintegrated at the mere sight of a small, harmless little mouse. As Dora reached for the embroidered linen squares, the larger mouse leaped in the air, making a feeble attempt at protecting her babies. With a push of the broom, Dora shoved it off the balcony, then wrapped the newborns in Mother's fancy possessions and carried them away.

As she passed me by, with the bundle in her hands, I asked, “What are you going to do with them?”

“Drown them.”

Dora returned a few minutes later, bringing back Mother's treasured handkerchiefs. “That's great. Your mother was supposed to give me strength and she falls apart at the sight of a few mice.”

Our First Winter

W
inter blew in abruptly, early, and furiously to Ospedaletto in 1941. Living in a dwelling without heat, where the wind was free to invade the corners of every room, we learned new ways to cope with the cold. Because the only source of heat in a home was the stove and sometimes a fireplace, the kitchen was where residents spent most of their waking hours. We were lucky; in our kitchen, we had both a stove and a fireplace.

Though wood was all around us, it was an expensive commodity. The logs we bought to cook for one month cost ten lire, which was one-fifth of my monthly subsidy. The wood needed to keep us warm became my responsibility. Daily I combed the woods for the scraps left behind by some careless woodsman, a task made more difficult by the scores of villagers trying to do the same.

We rarely had enough wood for the fireplace and were thankful that most evenings either Dora or the landlady invited us to be with them. When spending the evening at the landlady's, we had to brave being crowded in with Vincenzo and his family. Although we had learned to accept the dirt we saw on others from a distance, to be close, shoulder to shoulder, was more difficult.

“Maybe if we live here long enough we'll be able to stop taking baths,” I said to Mamma. “Then we'll be as filthy as they are and we won't mind it anymore.”

With a perfectly straight face, Mother responded, “I'll tell you what. You go and live in the woods, and I'll leave you a food basket at our door.”

I was certain she was joking; nonetheless, not willing to chance it, I never mentioned my bright idea again.

Electric power was supposed to be available until 10:00 every evening, but many nights the lights failed long before the designated time. Though most of us kept a scarce candle ready by our side, we rarely used the precious commodity as a guide to our bedrooms. Candles were used for short periods only, while for prolonged times of darkness we improvised. A glass or other container half filled with water, a thin layer of hard-to-find olive oil, and a wick provided a handy lamp. The few who could afford it owned a new type of flashlight with a built-in generator. Never needing batteries, it required only the continuous squeezing of one's hand to keep the wheels turning.

By 10:00 at night, when the electricity was shut off, everyone was ready for bed. Rarely did the evening gathering extend past that hour. Before retiring, we would share the embers from the fireplace to fill our borrowed brazier, making the dash into the icy bed less of a shock.

Braziers came in all sizes and shapes. Artistic copper ones, resting on their own elaborate stands, were displayed as heirlooms. One evening, as we were dividing the glowing coals, Filomena remarked that someone in the village had died in their sleep the night before. “The doc says he died of the brazier's bad fumes.”

“What are bad fumes?” Mamma asked.

“Nobody knows,” Filomena said.

That was enough information for my mother to buy a hot water bottle, and we never used embers again.

There was something to be said for winter. We could wear the same heavy clothes inside as well as outside, for the temperature didn't vary much between the two zones. During the war, at a time when clothing, just as everything else we needed to survive, was either difficult or impossible to find, I realized that needing only one set of clothes was a blessing of sorts.

One November morning while still in bed, through my sleepy eyes, I saw white flakes flutter by the window. Snow! In my bare feet I jumped onto the freezing tile floor and glued my face to the icy window. Fresh powder had blanketed the ground and decorated the woods during the night. I was spellbound by the majestic picture nature had painted outside. The two imposing mountains facing the village had lost their menacing aspect and now looked like a collection of large, fluffy cotton balls. The snowfall, the first I had seen since leaving Vienna three years earlier, gave me an uncontrollable urge to run out.

“Put your slippers on or you'll catch pneumonia,” Mother warned.

“Oh,
Mammina,
I want to go outside. I haven't played in snow for so long.” In a whisper I added, “Please.”

Because the snow had come unexpectedly, my mother had not yet prepared heavy garments for me. A few days earlier, commenting on the sudden drop in temperature, Dora had said, “Snow never comes this early.”

That morning Mother broke just about every one of her rules when she allowed me to skip breakfast, dressed me in the only suitable clothes she could find, and let me go out to play. “Go, go.” She prodded me with her hand. “Have a good time. Be careful!” She kissed me as she always did and, eagerly, I dashed down the stairs into the total stillness of the morning.