A Child Al Confino: The True Story of a Jewish Boy and His Mother in Mussolini's Italy (32 page)

Signor Perutz added levity to the bridge parties. He was an avid storyteller and to me it seemed he always had a new story to tell. But most of his jokes flew right over my head. When everyone laughed, it was irritating not to understand what he had said, yet I was too proud to ask for an explanation and let anyone know I didn't understand what was going on, so I joined in the laughter anyhow.

One day Mother asked me about my laughing at one of his remarks. “Did you understand what Signor Perutz said?”

I hesitated. “No, not really.” My face flushed. From the heat on my cheeks, I knew they were crimson red. Embarrassed for having to admit my ignorance, I never again laughed unless I understood what was being said.

Whenever Mrs. Perutz was present, her husband became sedate and serious. No more funny comments, only interesting thoughts. In some ways he reminded me of Ettore Costa, just a few years older but definitely not a Bohemian.

An afternoon at the Howells was more than just a card game. Tea and cookies were always part of the custom. At a given time, everything stopped. “
Eccoci. È tempo per un po' di tè
,” Signora Agatha would say.

At home Mother and Pietro made tea in a glass. The Howells served it in delicate porcelain cups. At home we dangled a small metal tea-ball in hot water, whereas here making tea was an art in a traditional British way. The dried leaves were put in an unglazed ceramic teapot, placed on top of a kettle of boiling water, and left to steep.

Mrs. Howell would return with an assortment of homemade sweets, the tea, and the kettle of hot water, which then served to dilute the concentrated beverage to one's own taste. Whether or not I got to play, I was always included in the snacks.

Occasionally someone mentioned a subject that was more important than bridge itself, bringing the game to a halt until the topic had been resolved, sufficiently discussed, or put to rest.

“If the German forces can survive the Russian winter, things will be hard for the Allies. I don't think the Russian army is strong enough to halt the German advance.” Judging from the people's head-shaking, Signor Perutz, in that one single thought, had expressed everyone's concern that summer of 1942.

“And we don't seem to be able to learn the truth about the Russian front. We need a second front in Europe,” John Howell said.

“That goes without saying, but only American forces can create a second front and it does not seem that America is ready yet,” Pietro Russo said.

“And if Russia wins the war, does anyone think this will be better in the long run for Europe?” Agatha asked.

“Well, at this point anything is better than Nazism. Later we'll cope with the Communist problem,” Mamma added.

“Does anyone think America and Great Britain will eventually have to fight the Russians?” John asked.

“Possibly,” Pietro responded. “This is the first time Communism has been given the opportunity to export its philosophy by using someone else's money. America is providing what Russia needs. What a coup for Stalin.”

“In the meantime, Hitler is putting all the Jews into labor camps. I have not received mail from my sister in months, not since she wrote that she and my mother were being sent to Poland,” Mamma said.

“For me, this is the greatest puzzle,” John said. “How can the Nazis find time and energy to seek out Jews? What are they really doing with these people anyhow? No one has been able to get any information.”

I was always eager to follow what was being said, though occasionally the arguments were beyond my ability to comprehend. Each day was boringly like the previous one, and I was becoming intolerant and resentful of our confinement.

While I enjoyed the enriching experience of growing up in the midst of adults, what I missed most was being a child. I thought of San Remo and the many games I played with my friends there. One morning I expressed my feelings to
Mutti
. “By the time this is all over, I won't be a kid anymore,” I moaned.

From the sad look in
Mutti
's tearful eyes, I believed those words hurt her more than the reality hurt me. “I wish I could do something,” she said. “I can't,
Hasele.
It will end soon. You'll see.”

So much had changed. No longer did I take pleasure in the sunsets I so loved. Even the spring flowers blooming all around stopped bringing any joy.

Only Sundays were different, not so much for us but certainly for most of the people of the village. Missing were the clamor of the lumber mill and the erratic engine noise of the mail coach with its clouds of dust. The townspeople put on their finer wear, and the urchins disappeared from the dusty village roads. Even we dressed in our best clothes.

One morning, during our walk, I spoke to Jimmy's father. “Time seems to stand still.”

“It goes very rapidly as you get older. You'll see,” he said.

His words were of little solace. Already the twelve or more months I had spent in Ospedaletto felt interminable. Ultimately, for twenty-nine months I would remain in this village and be deprived of things I had previously taken for granted. For twenty-nine months I would not see a movie, hear a telephone ring, go to a theater, have an ice cream cone, use a trolley car, take a full bath or shower, brush my teeth under running water, eat a candy bar or a banana, go to a dentist, see the inside of a classroom, or pray in a synagogue. Since crossing the Italian Alps on that March day of 1938, I had not tasted a
Frankfurter
or sunk my teeth into an ear of corn. In a country where there were as many salami varieties as there were dialects,
Frankfurters
were unknown and corn was snubbed as animal fodder.

When torrential rains stopped us from venturing out one evening, Pietro, Mamma, and I remained in the kitchen. I liked the hours we spent together. I especially liked getting to know more about Pietro. “Tell me something about Sicily,” I said.

“The Greeks called Sicily 'Trinacra.' It's a beautiful, fertile land. The people are hard-working, living either off the land or the sea.”

“Trinacra?” I asked. “What does it mean?”

“It goes back to the time Greece occupied the island, but I don't know the significance. It's the symbol of a woman's head with three legs.”

When Pietro spoke of Sicily, the words had a particular musical ring. His eyes sparkled and his face was radiant. He adored his native land. It made me want to know about the place where he was born.

“Mazara has one large industry: fishing. All around are plants that process sardines, tuna, and other fish. We also produce much wine and olive oil, grain and, oranges. One day you will both come to visit and you'll see how beautiful my country is.”

“I would love that,” said Mamma, her face aglow, as she sat quietly listening to Pietro speak.

“I promise you. When the war is over, you and your mother will come and be my guests in Mazara.”

“That's fine with me.” I wanted to know more, so I asked him about his family.

“It is a large family,” he said. “Nothing like here in Ospedaletto, but my dear mother had eight children. I am the youngest boy and my sister Giovanna is the youngest of all. My father died when I was about your age and we all had to go to work on the farm to support the family.”

“I'm sorry about your dad. Do you have a picture of him?” I asked.

“Not here. I do have a picture of my mother. I'll show it to you tomorrow.”

“When were you born?” I asked.

“Enrico?” My mother reprimanded me.

“That's just fine. In 1909. April 18, 1909.” Pietro, at thirty-three, was eight years younger than Mamma.

“Did you ever marry?”

“No. Only one of my sisters, Masina, is married and she lives in America. We all have been too busy working our land.”

When I asked about the farm, his face lit up with pride. “We have several farms but only one is dear to my heart. It was nothing but rocks and sand until my brothers and I turned it into a splendid garden. We call it 'Palio' and we grow many kinds of vegetables. At least we never go hungry in our family. When I go there, I also go hunting.”

This man, who read poetry like a god, was speaking of killing. What happened to his gentleness? “Hunting?” I said. “I've never gone hunting. I don't think I could ever kill an animal.”

“When you shoot an animal for food, you do it for survival, not for sport. It's not being cruel. We hunt for rabbits and birds. Then we cook them right away.”

“I just don't think I could do it.”

“If hunting is part of your upbringing, it becomes a normal part of your life.”

“Maybe when I come to visit, you'll take me hunting.” Looking at Pietro that moment, I detected his strong physical being. I noticed his large arm muscles, his sun-darkened skin.

“You know what I would like you to teach me more than anything?” I said.

“No. What?” he asked.

“To read poetry like you do.”

“I don't have to teach it to you. All you need is feeling in your heart. Penetrate the poet's soul and it will come naturally.”

I wasn't sure I understood. Penetrate the poet's soul? It sounded terribly difficult and I said so.

“Read the poem to yourself,” Pietro said. “Understand it, then feel what the poet meant. Poetry comes from the heart, the soul. Try it.”

“Not now, maybe tomorrow.” Then changing the subject, I asked, “Did you ever play billiards?”

“Sure. I shot my way through school. I was really good at it, too. Made enough money so I didn't have to ask for money from my mother every month.”

“Would you play with me?”

“Only if we play for money.” That was not the answer I wanted to hear. To play for money? I didn't have enough money for that. I saw that grin on his face and couldn't tell what it meant.

“You're probably too good for me,” I said.

“I was only joking. Of course I'll play a few games with you. And no money.”

What a relief to hear that.

“I'll only allow you to go with
Dottor
Russo,” Mamma interjected. “You understand?” Mother insisted on being formal when she spoke of Pietro.

I understood, and every week we played once or twice. He paid for the table fee, and I learned a lot from the many times he had the upper hand.

“You are getting better,” Pietro said. He had placed his arm around my shoulder. “I'm proud of you.”

The only time I ate in a restaurant during the Ospedaletto period was when Pietro, with a permit from the
carabinieri,
took me on a one-day trip to Naples. We rode the bus then took the train at Avellino for the forty-five minute ride to the big city. What an exciting day! I got to ride the train, see a new city and, best of all, get out of that lousy village.

In Naples, upon my request, Pietro took me to stamp store.

On Via Roma we entered a shop and, by some strange circumstances, the owner, Signor Ravel, had also been interned in Ospedaletto. Of French descent, he had been released after France surrendered. Though we did not know each other, we were linked by our shared experience.

“Pick what you want up to twenty lire,” Pietro said. “I have to run a short errand and will be back in time for lunch.”

Twenty lire! That was a small fortune, almost half our rent of fifty lire. He must be wealthy.

“Go ahead, pick more,” Signor Ravel said. “I will give you a nice discount, my fellow
confinato
.”

Leaving the Ravel shop with a large envelope stuffed with more stamps than I had ever handled at one time, we walked down Via Roma, passed the
galleria
and the enormous and impressive Royal Palace. We continued toward the waterfront, where Pietro treated me to lunch at the world-renown Zi Teresa. Located where Via Roma meets with the bay, the restaurant was a few steps down, closer to the water than to the street level. One could easily walk on Via Caracciolo, which runs alongside the restaurant and miss seeing the many tables below the retaining wall. Only the high neon sign announced the restaurant's presence.

It was 1:00, the customary hour when Italians have their midday meal, yet only two of the thirty-odd tables were occupied. We picked a table outdoors, right at the water's edge, where we could hear the repetitive waves slap against the seawall and where the salty smell of fresh fish did much to increase our appetites. A waiter approached and handed us the menu. “You can have anything you want,” Pietro told me.

Before even looking at the short list on the menu, I had decided what I wanted. “I'll have spaghetti with clam sauce and for seconds a
milanese
,” asking for the Italian version of the
Wiener Schnitzel
. Then turning to Pietro, “Mamma always says, ‘All you get is bread crumbs and no meat.’ But I love a
milanese
and I don't care.”

A lone fisherman broke the rhythmic sound of the splashing waves by maneuvering his small boat and docking it alongside our table. The man's face was burned by the sun and his parched skin made him look much too old to still be rowing a fishing boat.

Leaning over the low railing, Pietro addressed the man. “Have any fresh fish?”

“
Certo
,
padrone
.” From a water-filled bucket he lifted a fish by its tail. “Just caught this nice yellow tail and a splendid looking sole.” He wasn't lying, for the fish was still flipping in his hand.

Pietro motioned to the waiter. “Buy that sole and sauté it lightly in butter. Can you do that?”

“If the cook has butter, no problem,” the server said.

Pietro handed the waiter our food coupons for the pasta and bread. The man took a quick look around, then bent to Pietro's ear. “If you prefer,” he whispered, “we could do it without them.”

“That's all right,” Pietro said.

I asked what the waiter meant by his remark.

“He wants to get some money under the table. Then I can keep the coupons.”

Why would anybody put money under the table? I asked myself.

The waiter served the spaghetti. How disappointing. Such a small portion. I had not been to a restaurant since rationing began and did not realize portions were limited to three ounces, hardly enough to fill a plate. In spite of the few strands in my bowl, my mouth began to salivate when I saw the tiny clams peeking through the thick sauce. I looked for Pietro to make the first move and was glad he did not hesitate. I picked up the fork and spoon and dove into that delicious dish.