A Child Al Confino: The True Story of a Jewish Boy and His Mother in Mussolini's Italy (29 page)

When Enrico concluded that we had removed enough from the plank, he shoved us aside and took over for the next phase. Using a different plane, he reduced the board to about one inch. More than half of the original lumber ended in a waste pile. The labor, which took two days, could have been done in one hour with power tools had Enrico not insisted on remaining entrenched in the nineteenth century.

Enrico did make beautiful furniture but took forever to make it. After cutting each piece by hand, using different planes to produce groove and tongue fittings, he would prepare a special glue, a glue that came from fish bones and had to be heated every time he needed it. To tighten the glued parts together, Enrico used a homemade cord contraption, which acted as a vise. Nothing he built ever came apart.

After the glue dried, the cabinet was given a final sanding. That took at least one full day or more. Last came the finish. For days, hour after hour, with an old worn rag wrapped around a wad of wool and soaked in stain and mineral spirits, Enrico rubbed the cabinet with a circular motion, alternating from hand to hand until the surface glowed with the luster he wanted. This little man took great pride in his workmanship and the finishing steps were his alone to do.

Mamma and Pietro were happy to see me so involved and, knowing where I was spending my hours, they never complained about the time I spent away from them.

Quartered in nearby Avellino was the officers' cadet academy, which used the forests of Ospedaletto for target practice. Each morning, rain or shine, one or more companies of ninety cadets marched up the main road and through the village followed by the ever-present barefoot urchins.

My only indelible memory of the military was of the terrifying experience at the Vienna train station when we were surrounded by the black uniformed Nazi soldiers. Yet, not smart enough to know better, I remained fascinated by soldiers, especially officers.

So, when the cadets came marching by, I rushed to watch them from our balcony. I soon learned their schedule and, instead of looking from a distance, each morning waited for them outside our building. I wanted to approach the lieutenants, but was intimidated by that smart uniform and polished leather boots. I had seen some officers chase other boys out of their way and I didn't want to suffer the same indignity. For days I stood by the side of the road trying to build up my courage. Then, one morning, pushing my fears aside, I fell in step alongside the officer at the head of the column.

“Could I march with you?” I stammered.

He looked me over from head to toe. “You're not from here, are you?” he asked.

“No.”

“I thought not. You look too clean. Sure, come along.”

In seconds I felt ten years older. Looking straight ahead, I made an effort to match his stride as my vanity exploded with every stretched step I took. How those local urchins would envy me and for certain my mother would be so very proud of me.

“What is your name?” the officer asked.

“Lifschütz, Enrico. And yours?” I never changed my pace nor looked at his face.

“Benedetti. Lieutenant Benedetti.”

The fear that had permeated my whole being only moments before was gone. I felt perfectly at ease marching at the head of those cadets.

“What song is this?” I asked my newfound friend. The cadets were singing a tune I had not heard before: “
Sotto la caserma mi metto ad aspettar
…”

“'Lilli Marlene.' A gift from the German army.”

When we approached the spot where the cadets entered the woods to reach their target-practice area, the lieutenant stopped me. “You cannot come with us. Too dangerous. Wait here.”

At the edge of the road I waited a long time, four hours according to the bell tower clock, until the troops came marching out of the woods.

“Come back with us,” Lieutenant Benedetti ordered.

The cadets seemed glad to see me judging by how they welcomed me back. I would have liked to sing along with them but knew none of their songs. They seemed such a cheerful bunch and I was so happy to have become part of them.

As we passed my building, still a bit reticent, I addressed the lieutenant. “This is my home. I have to leave now.”

“Don't forget tomorrow. Same time!” the officer shouted.

I shot up the two flights in a state of euphoria, two steps at a time, dashed through the doors of both bedrooms and, losing my breath on the way, shouted, “Mamma! Mamma!”

“You scared me half to death with your screaming,” she said. “What are you so excited about?”

“You should have seen me, Mamma. I marched with the cadets and the lieutenant asked me to march with him again. And you know all the kids from here? He chased them away. Isn't it exciting?”

“Sure is.
Eyn glik hot mik getrofen
!” Mother mumbled the sarcastic remark referring to the good luck I was bringing her. “Wonderful. Now go wash your hands. I have lunch ready.”

From the day we first met, I bonded with Lieutenant Benedetti and our friendship grew through summer, winter, and the next spring. I also became acquainted with other officers, but none of those relationships became as warm or lasted as long as the one I enjoyed with Benedetti. Six days a week the cadets marched up the road. Even though I did not join the cadets every day, I resented Sundays, their day off.

Most mornings I waited outside our building anxious to lead the platoon. There were some disappointing days when another lieutenant led the company or when Benedetti signaled that the captain was present and for me to stay away. But I was grateful that those days were few. More with apprehension than with glee, one day Mamma watched from the balcony as her son led a platoon of officer cadets.

The weeks went by and I was adopted as the company mascot. Even the supposedly grouchy captain was not opposed to my presence and I learned he was not grouchy at all.

“Do you want to try one of these machine guns?” Benedetti asked me.

I looked at him. He could not possibly have spoken to me, so I did not reply.

“Well?” he said. “Do you want to or not?”

He
was
speaking to me. “Did you ask … if I wanted to do what?” I blabbered.

“Yes. Do you want to shoot a machine gun?”

“Yes! Oh yes!” I shouted.

“Let's wait until the old man leaves,” he whispered, referring to the captain.

When it was safe, a sergeant handed me an ammunition clip, gave me the military salute, and left me to walk alone to the dirt platform where six guns were lined up on the ground. Trying to remember what I had seen the cadets do, I copied every step. I lay on my stomach behind the weapon, legs spread wide, resting my elbows on the hard ground and placing the gun on my shoulder. If only my friend Jimmy or Mamma or anyone I knew could have seen me. I could sense the cadets' eyes on me and, between my pride and tension, I couldn't find the calm needed to load the gun.

For a never-ending moment, I remained motionless. As the tremor diminished, I was able to push the clip into the gun, draw back the lever, and hear the first bullet enter the chamber. My cheek leaned against the gun's butt as, aiming at the target across the narrow ravine, I pulled the trigger. Nothing had ever equaled the experience of that moment. The vibration of the rapid firing, the kickbacks against my unsuspecting shoulder, the bullets rushing through the barrel and leaving the gun all filled me with an awesome sensation of strength and apprehension. The discharge was fast and furious and, before my brain could gain control over my finger that pulled the trigger, the clatter of twenty bullets was followed by the quiet click of the pin hitting the empty chamber.

I waited in my prone position. Soon the target man across the ravine would identify the hits. One, two, three, four … twelve, thirteen, the flag signaled. Thirteen hits out of twenty? I couldn't believe it. I heard cheering behind me. “
Bravo!
” the cadets yelled. Just a kid, I was being applauded by mature men. The surge of power of those few minutes gave me the feeling that I could have conquered the world.

As we came down from the mountain, keeping in step with the lieutenant at the head of the platoon, I began to sing in my boyish voice: “
Sotto la caserma, mi metto at aspettar, una volta ancora ti voglio salutar, addio piccina dolce amor, ti porteró sempre nel cuor, con me Lilli Marlene, con me Lilli Marlene
.” I had learned the complete lyrics of the song that by now was filling the airwaves several times a day.

The cadets joined in the tune and the singing helped keep my excitement at bay. When we reached home, with the blood pumping at my temples, I forgot to properly salute my friend and his men. From the doorway I turned, waved my arm and shouted, “
Ciao
!” In nonmilitary fashion, many responded in kind.

Bursting with breathless enthusiasm, I ran upstairs. “Mamma, you won't believe what I did today. They let me shoot a machine gun!”

Mother was not in the least interested in my military accomplishments. On the contrary, she acted irritated and covered her ears with both hands before I had a chance to say another word. “I don't want to know!”

She did not want to know. She was a woman and couldn't possibly understand military pride. I forgave her. Pietro was not home, so I had to wait to share my enthusiasm with him.

One day, before leaving the shooting range, I took a small souvenir with me; a tracer bullet. I needed to know how it worked. Why did these bullets burst into flames when they hit the target?

Facing our courtyard was a small tool shed filled with hay. Other than Vincenzo, I had never seen anyone else use it. Unseen, I sneaked into the shed and searched for a tool to open the cartridge. I saw a large eyehook fastened to the doorjamb. This would do fine. Inserting the bullet into the hook, with all the strength I could muster, I broke the bullet off at its tip and, without warning, the portion still attached to the casing, caught fire. It was a violent and wild fire with sparks flying everywhere. Visions of explosions and buildings going up in flames filled my mind. This was my end. I did not want to die. How was I to know the bullet would catch fire? Oh, my God! All that hay! I was nailed to the ground with the flaming cartridge firmly in my hand. Filled with panic and not smart enough to know what to do, I tried to snuff out the wildly burning flame by pressing my naked palm on it. Looking down, I saw my hand on fire, but so overwhelmed by fear, I was not aware of the pain. As I saw the skin peel off my hand, I tossed the burning cartridge quickly into the open courtyard and, screaming from the now excruciating pain, I darted into the house.

Mother, seemingly calm, helped soothe the hurt. She placed my hand in cold water, then broke open a precious egg and tenderly covered my hand with the slimy white stuff. “Is this better?” she asked.

“A lot better, almost painless,” I said, trying to regain my newly learned military bearing and at the same time commend
Mutti
for her effort. That's when she let loose and gave me a few well-aimed whacks on my behind to keep company to the ache of my scorched hand.

One day the cadets were being introduced to a new automatic weapon. At each of the six positions on the platform was a soldier struggling to take apart and then reassemble the new gun. There were only three instructors to help them.

Lieutenant Benedetti, hands tightly clasped behind his back, his eyes transfixed on the ground before him, and wearing a grave facial expression, paced slowly back and forth. The fallen autumn leaves crunched under his polished boots. “This is taking too long,” he mumbled. He looked up and walked toward me. “You think you can help those fellows put the gun back together?”

“Are you talking to me?” I asked, not sure I had heard him correctly. I felt my legs shake under me. From the time I was three or four, I had enjoyed tinkering with mechanical toys, but this was way over my head.

“Yeah, you. You want to play sergeant?” he asked, a tinge of annoyance in his voice. “Here is your chance. Do you think you can put it back together? This is taking too long. You think you can do it?”

Totally confused, I didn't know what to say. “I'm only twelve.”

“I didn't ask for your age. Can you help them?”

I had never handled the gun. What I had put together as a kid were toys. “Sure. Yes, sir!” My voice conveying infinitely more confidence than I felt.

Benedetti gave me the military salute. “Then go to it, soldier.”

I returned the salute, then running instead of walking, got to the first cadet. While he sat on the ground looking baffled by the presence of a kid, much to his surprise as well as my own, I took the weapon apart.

“Here, follow me,” I said and began to guide him through the reassembly process. But when he became discouraged by his inability to do so, he let the pieces fall into my hands. I reassembled the weapon and, now experienced, walked to the next position to help another cadet.

The three instructors, who had been helping the cadets, left the platform, a signal for me to do the same. Quickly, I put together the last gun, gave the soldier a pat on the back, and left.

“Not bad. Not bad at all,” said Benedetti.

Flushed with conceit that gave me an air of invincibility, I circled about with arms behind my back, using up my overflowing energy. As a twelve-year-old boy, my greatest pipe dream had been realized that morning. I didn't want the moment to end and, when it did, I couldn't wait to get home. I found Pietro and Mamma in the kitchen and excitedly blurted out what had happened.

“Enrico, slow down. I can't understand what you're saying,” Pietro interrupted.

“As a small kid, Enrico always loved to take apart every new toy and then put it back together,” Mamma told Pietro. “I don't know where he learned it. His father couldn't hold a hammer. You should have seen the trolley car he once built.”

Pietro asked me about my experience and he too expressed his pride. For several days hereafter, I felt untouchable by common people and probably acted that way too.

Time prevented me from getting to know many cadets. They came and left so fast, as Benedetti explained, they were rushed through training so they could be sent to the ever-demanding battlefields. Several of the officers I had befriended also were called to join their fighting brothers. Many of them, I learned from Benedetti, had laid down their young lives for Mussolini. The captain, whom at first I had feared but eventually got to know as a gentle man, also was killed in North Africa.