A Child Al Confino: The True Story of a Jewish Boy and His Mother in Mussolini's Italy (27 page)

“I guess you'll never change,” Runia remarked as she joined the others, adding her self-conscious laughter to theirs.

As much as I enjoyed this man's sense of humor, I was even more captivated when Ettore was serious and spoke of his experiences as a correspondent. Sicilian by birth, gypsy by choice, Ettore graduated law school after his father had denied him the pursuit of music.

“I spent every waking hour with my artist friends,” he said. “Never had enough sleep. It was a miracle I passed the exams.”

After obtaining two degrees, law and journalism, he followed his call to travel. “I became a foreign correspondent, a sure way to see the world.”

As a young man, he had covered North America and a number of European countries for an Italian newspaper. “Fabulous country, the United States. Immense farms, gigantic cities, and people of every race. I wish I had spent more time there.”

In Spain he witnessed the civil war and in Germany the beginning of the rise of Nazism. He even admitted that, when Mussolini first came to power in 1922, he had been an ardent supporter of Fascism, only to become a passionate antagonist once he realized that his idol had become a dictator. “I have more than made up for my mistake of supporting Fascism. I have grasped every opportunity to write against the regime and have paid a pretty price. Look at these thick glasses.” He had taken them off his head.

He told us of the many months spent in prison. How, while incarcerated, ignoring the ever-present censorship, he amused himself by writing anti-Fascist sentiments on postcards and sending them to friends. “They generally only censor letters because those idiots are sure that no one would dare express himself on a postcard.” But a guard did read one of his cards and Ettore's audacity provoked a fierce beating that resulted in a severe loss of his eyesight. But for this idealist, being an anti-Fascist had become a crusade, a crusade he fought in the light of day unconcerned for his personal safety.

Cultured, intelligent, conversant in three languages, a confirmed bachelor, and a gifted painter, Ettore Costa fit the mold of the true Bohemian. Even his unruly hair — he seldom combed it except by running his fingers through it — matched his personality. “Life is to be lived,” was a favorite expression of his. Then, casting his arm in the air, “Money? Possessions? Who cares?” And this man lived by his principles, for he hardly ever had money or possessions. Often he needed to ask his friend Pietro for a loan until his monthly government stipend arrived. He told us that before the war he could easily spend in one night all he had earned in one week. “Money burns a hole in my pants pockets.” When asked why he didn't write about his life, he responded, “I'd rather live it than write about it.”

Ettore was an absent-minded scatterbrain. Few mornings went by that he did not forget something — his watch, a handkerchief, to eat breakfast, or, once, even his socks. “You can't imagine what I forgot this morning,” he announced. His impish grin betrayed him. “Forgot to call
Il Duce
to remind him there is a war going on.”

Ettore lived life with great intensity. An abiding optimist and an inspiration to many who shared these times with him, he had the enthusiasm of a much younger man. For more than a year he brought humor, purpose, and hope to us all. Eventually, he was allowed to move to Fiesole, near Florence, because of his declining health.

“I hope one day I can be as funny as Signor Costa,” I said.

“Maybe you will,” Mamma replied. “I just hope you will not be as loud.” My mother was still not especially fond of the man.

One day someone asked Ettore about Germany at the time Hitler came to power. “You want to know what went on in Germany in thirty-four and thirty-five? It was like nothing you could possibly imagine and I had the guts to write about it, but nobody listened. I saw people beaten until they couldn't move anymore. I saw the rise of anti-Semitism. The burning of books. I witnessed the beginning of the end of civilization. And no one cared. That's when I decided that I would not stand by silently if the same ever happened here in Italy.”

“All your writing and talking. What good did it do you?” Karel Weil asked. “You ended up in jail. You got beaten. Look at Dottor Russo. He, too, landed in jail just for saying a few negative words about Fascism.”

“But if we all keep silent, evil will have won its first victory and, even without going to jail, we will all be prisoners for the rest of our lives.” I could tell from the agitation in Ettore's voice that Karel had touched a sensitive chord. “What's life worth when you're afraid to say what you think because your neighbor or perhaps your own friend will report you? Tell me, what is it worth? Only by raising our voices can we hope to bring sanity back to Europe. Today I speak, tomorrow you do and before long others speak and then soon the fervent hope we now have for justice becomes a reality.”

I was so impressed by this man's mastery with words. Oh, how I wished I could speak like him.

Signor Pierce made the mistake of meddling. “You sound like the Communists. They use the same line: justice. Justice. What justice?”

“With due respect, you're an imbecile,
mio caro Signore
. Forgive me, but you are the most indisputably, matriculated, absolute imbecile I have ever met and I have met a few.” Ettore was shaking and his voice was higher by an octave. “Comparing me to a Communist? That's a laugh.” Then, turning to the others, he said, “This idiot has the nerve to call me a Communist. What do you know about Communism, Signor Pierce? You still believe anyone against your wonderful
Duce
has to be a Communist.”

But Ettore's anger was short-lived. He had gotten it off his chest and within moments he was back in good spirits.

When John Howell asked what could have been done to stop Hitler before he embarked on war, Ettore, in his straightforward, undiplomatic manner, blamed Great Britain and France. He was certain Hitler would not have prepared for war in 1937 or 1938 had the German dictator been convinced of those countries' resolve. “But that idiot Chamberlain went to kiss Hitler's derriére. I hope you'll forgive me, Signor Howell. Let's not forget, tyrants have succeeded throughout history because good, naïve people just stood by and did nothing. Fear of war has never stopped despots; it only stopped decent people.”

Pietro Russo offered his thoughts. “What's so sad is that, as decent people lose their courage, the others gain more of theirs. Right here in Ospedaletto there are many local people who don't support the Fascist regime or the war. They still remember the castor oil, which was used by the
camicie nere,
or Black Shirts, to silence those who opposed Mussolini. They're afraid to get involved or speak. Look what happened to me.”

“So, is anyone suggesting we start a revolution?” Perutz asked.

“Not at all. Just to speak up whenever the opportunity presents itself,” Pietro said. “Education is the greatest threat to any dictatorship. Fascism had succeeded in instilling in us fear of our own neighbors, friends, and even relatives. I no longer speak unless sure that only trusted friends are listening.”

Ettore's sense of humor kept everyone's spirits high and his encouragement helped many to come out from their self-imposed censorship and be more outspoken. The Kamplers, John Howell, Runia Kleinerman, all generally timid in expressing their political ideas in public, became less apprehensive about verbalizing their aversion to Fascism. But Ettore had little effect on my mother. She insisted on remaining cautious in public about her political views. Anytime I risked saying anything that could be misunderstood as being against Mussolini or his government, Mamma was quick to shush me.

One morning Don Giuseppe, the young priest I had befriended, walked up to the corner where we gathered every day. With his usual friendly smile, he asked, “Do you mind if I join you for your walk?” No one did and, after ceremonious introductions, some of which I performed, we began our leisurely stroll.

Ettore seemed pleased at the priest's presence. “Great! We can put politics aside and talk about religion. I am a devout atheist.” Whenever Ettore spoke, he savored his own words and this time was no exception.

“I was brought up as a Catholic,” Ettore continued. “You know, Father, we Sicilians are supposed to be devout Catholics. What I cannot understand is this fanaticism to believe that ours is the only real religion. We go around the world trying to convert everyone so they can go to heaven. We preach about poverty and sacrifices, yet the Catholic Church is the wealthiest institution in the world. Father, forgive my directness, but when I became smart enough to see the true color of the church, I abandoned my early teachings and I'm happier for it.”

There was a moment of silence. Only the soles of our shoes brushing the gravel road could be heard.

“These are strong words, my son,” said the priest. He had fire in his eyes but his voice was calm. I had a close-up view of the two men since I had managed to walk alongside them.

“My dear father,” said Ettore, “I've met many priests during my travels and the hypocrisy I've seen in many of them convinced me that my decision was the correct one.”

“I will not question your experiences, but I want you to remember that priests are only human and subject to temptations. Only our Lord Jesus Christ is perfect and, if some of his disciples are less than perfect, that does not make our Lord so.”

“What makes you think that only the Lord Jesus is perfect? How about Mohammed or Buddha?” Ettore asked.

“You know the answer, my son. There is only one God.”

“Why could it not be Mohammed?”

“Because the Old and New Testament teach us who the only God is.”

“If I remember my facts, the Koran says otherwise.”

The group, fascinated, moved slowly, stopping every few moments to listen to the heated debate. We went only half the distance that morning and when we arrived back at the piazza, the contest had not yet stopped. It was nearly 1:00 and time for lunch, yet no one seemed eager to leave.

“My dear Father, you have not told me anything I have not heard dozens of times in catechism class, but these answers are no longer sufficient for me.”

“Perhaps someday you will see the truth again,” Don Giuseppe said.

“For sure not,” Ettore said. “But let's remain friends. Now I must go get a good dish of spaghetti.”

A Letter from
Omama

T
he last time we heard from Aunt Stefi was in 1940, when we were still living in San Remo. So when in early 1942 we received a letter from them, our jubilation was boundless.

At city hall I picked up the envelope, defaced by a number of Nazi swastikas. The black markings and the brown tape, used by the censors, intimidated me. Was this some letter from the Nazis? Even after I recognized the sender's name, my anxiety lasted all the way home.

Mother ripped the envelope with her forefinger and struggled to hold the three pages up straight. My aunt had obtained our address from the Swiss Red Cross and thanks to them, we were able to rejoice in this rare family communication.

Our joy was short-lived. From the three-page letter we learned Aunt Stefi and
Omama
were in a German labor camp. Starting in the early morning, before four, they dug potatoes and cabbage from the cold and wet ground. Life was good and safe. They were treated well, had plenty of food, and were happy to be together, my aunt wrote.

“I am sure only the last part of that sentence is true,” said Mother, her eyes so swollen by tears that she strained to read the words on the paper. “She must have known her letter would be read by German censors.” Then, pointing to the black marks covering a good portion of the letter, Mother added, “Look at it. This censor didn't like what Aunt Stefi wrote so they just covered everything with black ink.”

In the half of the letter we were able to read, Aunt Stefi wrote how happy she was that, just before leaving Vienna, she had succeeded in getting a friend to send us some of
Mutti
's personal possessions. She was sorry that she could not have done more, but our apartment had been emptied by the time she got there. We had received the package from the anonymous friend just before we left San Remo. Among other items, the package had included a down comforter that served us well during the cold winter nights in Ospedaletto.

By the time she laid the note on the table, Mother was sobbing. “Can you picture
Omama
? She is seventy years old, getting up at four in the morning, kneeling on the wet ground to dig out potatoes. But I thank God that at least they are alive and well.”

I wondered why she had this fear of our family being dead. Did Mamma think the Germans were going around killing people?

We put our arms around each other and held ourselves tight. I felt my own tears mix with
Mutti
's as they ran down my cheeks.

We received three more notes from Aunt Stefi, all bearing the unmistakable markings of the German censors. From my aunt's shaky handwriting we could tell that writing must have become difficult and painful for her.

“I want you to write a few words to Aunt Stefi and
Omama
,”
Mutti
said. She handed me a blank sheet. “I will help you.”

I still spoke German fluently but had never learned to write it well. By revising and correcting,
Mutti
helped me overcome my limited knowledge of the difficult Teutonic grammar. With great patience, she continued teaching me the language I would have learned to write if only I had been allowed to continue school in my native city.

Sitting at the kitchen table, I struggled to put together a few words from thoughts I had great difficulty formulating. After much writing and scratching out, I handed the sheet to my mother. In my short note, I wrote my aunt, among other things, of having a stamp collection and how happy she would make me if the next time she wrote she would use commemorative stamps. Her reply arrived about two weeks later. As had become my habit each afternoon, soon after the arrival of the coach from Avellino, I went to city hall to pick up the mail.