A Child Al Confino: The True Story of a Jewish Boy and His Mother in Mussolini's Italy (34 page)

Mamma and Pietro spent more hours behind closed doors. Once or twice I tried to open the bedroom door, but it was always locked. Mother had never kept secrets from me, which made these strange goings on even more strange. My mind was so confused that I didn't want to be angry. Not at my mother and certainly not at Pietro. If only they would tell me what was happening.

In June 1942 the postman delivered a telegram to Pietro Russo. We were in the kitchen when Mamma read the message on the narrow paper strips glued to the canary sheet. The telegram slipped from her fingers as both arms fell to her sides, eyes downcast and her expression grave. After a long silence, she whispered, “When do you plan on leaving?”

Pietro didn't look any happier. “I guess soon. I don't really know when.”

Mother asked me to leave then closed the door behind me. They remained alone while I waited in the hallway. I tried to listen but heard only mumbling. When Mamma opened the door, her red, swollen eyes clearly spoke of her feelings. Pietro sat at the kitchen table, his forehead slumped between his cupped hands.

I did not know what message the telegram brought. Perhaps the upsetting news was about Ettore Costa who, because of his failing health, had been allowed to leave some weeks before. Before I could do any more guessing, Pietro lifted his head and pulled me close.

“I will be leaving soon. Going home. I just received the news.”

I had grown to love this man and although I still called him Pietro in public, within the walls of our home I started calling him
Pupo
. “Why is
Pupo
leaving?” I asked.

Mamma handed me the yellow piece of paper. “Pietro has been pardoned,” she said then read the message: “GREAT PERSONAL PLEASURE TO GRANT YOU FULL PARDON STOP FREEDOM RESTORED AT RECEIPT OF TELEGRAM STOP BENITO MUSSOLINI.” Most official notices in those days were sent Mussolini's name. It was impressive but not unusual.

As with all local news, Pietro's pardon spread quickly and the next morning the group of
confinati
remained at the corner unwilling to start their walk on time. This was an extraordinary event and the
internati
reacted with joy. As the telegram moved from hand to hand, everyone showed their excitement and made congratulatory remarks. Even the cantankerous William Pierce wished Pietro well.

“Well, I think this calls for a celebration,” John Howell said.

“Absolutely,” everyone said in chorus.

“Maybe we can get a permit to go to Montevergine,” Willy suggested.

“I'll talk to the
maresciallo
,” Pietro said. “I'll show him the telegram. He'll be impressed by
Il Duce
's signature.”

I went with Pietro to the police station and, as he had predicted, Maresciallo Marchetti was impressed with the telegram and delighted to grant the permit. “You can take as many people you want, Dottor Russo. I'll send one of my men with you. Just let me know when.”

As we left the small building, the maresciallo stepped out into the street. “
Auguri
!
Auguri
, Dottor Russo!” he shouted.

Two days before the planned celebratory hike, Pietro asked me if I wanted to go with him to Avellino. Of course. To go anywhere with Pietro was exciting. The following morning I woke up earlier than I needed to, but stayed in bed until Mamma came into my room. “It's time,” she whispered in my ear, and I jumped out of bed.

After breakfast, which I forced myself to eat, we kissed Mother goodbye and walked to the small square to board the broken-down bus. In Avellino we stopped at the police station, where Pietro had to complete his release papers. First he spoke to one person who sent him to speak to someone else, who sent him to another floor, where we sat and waited.

“Nothing is ever simple with bureaucracy,” Pietro whispered. After a long while, we were ushered into a small office, where a man emerged from behind an open newspaper. Methodically, he folded and placed the paper on the desk corner, then acknowledged our presence. Pietro concluded his business in less than five minutes, but that did not include waiting, the obligatory niceties of the handshake, asking where the man was from, and showing admiration for his office. When we walked out of the building Pietro remarked, “We were here more than an hour.”

As we strolled down the main street, we passed a jewelry shop. “Let's go inside,” Pietro said. In the store, he asked to see some men's watches.

After spreading black velvet on the glass counter, the shopkeeper picked a tray of watches and, as though handling some delicate living creatures, with theatrical gestures, placed each watch on the cloth. “Here you are,
Signore
.”

Pietro lifted one of the watches from the black velvet and held it close to my face. “How about this? Do you like it?”

“Very nice,” I said. What did I care?

He held my arm and placed the leather strap around my wrist. “How does it fit?”

“I guess all right.” I couldn't imagine why he was asking these questions. Getting out of that shop would have been my choice. This was boring. Whether I liked it didn't mean the person for whom Pietro was buying it would have liked it too. Anyway, what did I know about watches?

“Well, you better make sure, since you'll have to wear it.”

Those words were so overwhelming that my tongue got glued to the roof of my mouth and refused to respond. I stood there feeling foolish and unable to utter a word.

“Let's start again,” Pietro said. “Do you like it and does it fit?”

I gathered my thoughts and tried applying the brakes to my run-away emotions. Finally I found my tongue. “I don't believe it. You're buying me a watch?”

“Stand still for a moment. Do you like it?”

Still moving about the store, my eyes transfixed on the shiny round instrument on my wrist, I answered, “I love it.” Then, with some hesitation, I pointed to another one lying on the counter and said, “If I could, I like this one better.”

The clerk removed the timepiece from my wrist and replaced it with the one I had pointed to. The strap was a bit too large. “No problem. I can adjust it to fit him perfectly,” the man said.

As if someone had shot a handful of sharp needles into my buttocks, I was hopping in circles about the store. Waiting for the jeweler to put two holes in the leather strap drove me up the wall. Getting a watch had been the furthest thought from my mind, and now the reality of this new, beautiful shining timepiece made me lose control. I had just turned twelve and this was my first wristwatch. The one my
Opapa
had given me in Poland six years earlier was a pocket watch.

I waited until we exited the store before flinging myself at Pietro. “I love you,
Pupo.
Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“It's your birthday gift. Now, every time you look at it you'll think of me.”

Little did Pietro realize that I didn't need a watch to think of him. He had become a large part of my life. As excited as I was about my gift, I would have been happier to relinquish my new watch in exchange for him remaining in Ospedaletto with us.

The day of the planned hike to Montevergine, twelve internees and Sabato Pisano, whom I had befriended and also had become Pietro's friend, planned to come along. Mother woke me at two-thirty that morning. She was already dressed, wearing her walking shoes and ready for the long hike. Outside it was pitch black. Faster than usual, I washed my hands and face, then reached for my new watch to see the faint phosphorescent glow. How amazing! I could tell time in the dark. Oh, how much I loved my beloved
Pupo
!

Breakfast was ready.
Mamma
came to my room. I was not dressed. “What are you doing? You've been up for more than twenty-five minutes. Hurry up!”

How could she know, how could anyone know how long it took a twelve-year-old to sufficiently admire a new timepiece?

When I entered the kitchen, Pietro was already there waiting. We ate in silence while the outside darkness added a sense of sadness to our somber mood.

In the piazza, by the pale light of early dawn, everyone got to see my glowing watch. I made sure of that. My only regret was that only twelve people were going on the climb. I would have liked a greater number so I could show my new gift to more people.

“Has anyone ever been to Montevergine?” someone asked.

No one had except for me. When alone in one of my rebellious moods, I had run up to the monastery, never revealing the escapade to anyone.

A little past 4:00, the lone
carabiniere
joined us and we started the ninety-minute, uphill hike. The gravel footpath cut through the woods where only traces remained of what must have been steps, perhaps from Roman times. Clara Gattegno had taught me that this area of Italy had been part of the Roman Empire.

For the first thirty or more minutes, shrouded by the dense forest, we walked in total darkness. Unable to see where to put our feet, we found staying upright on the rocky path to be a challenge. When the fluorescent glow from the watch told me it was 4:40, the sun's early light filtered through the thick foliage and we could almost see where to step. The playful rays danced about the ground creating magical sparkles as the leaves high up in the trees moved to the tempo of the mountain breezes. I joined in the dance, trying to stomp on the rays of light before they vanished, only to seek them out in their next spot.

For almost two hours we climbed the steep road. Someone cut a tree branch to make a walking stick. Pietro, attentive as always, made one and presented it to Mamma.

When we reached the monastery, none of us looked as tired as we should have.

“I feel free like a bird,” Pietro said. “Just being out of Ospedaletto.”

We spent most of the day under the watchful eyes of the solitary
carabiniere
assigned to us to foil any planned escape. Of course, the maresciallo knew that, if escape was what any of us wanted, we could easily have done so right under his very nose. But no one ever tried to escape. We had nowhere to go.

That day, for the first time in more than two years, Mamma allowed me to use the camera Papa had sent with Aunt Sally when she passed through San Remo on her way to America. Owning a camera was a serious infraction, and Mamma had forbidden the mere mention of it. But now, with Pietro leaving, it was an opportunity to use it and have him take it to Sicily. Besides, no one, including the
carabiniere
, would report it. But Pietro told William Pierce that it was his camera. “I take no chances with that imbecile,” he said.

The monastery of Montevergine was an imposing structure. Situated five miles from Ospedaletto by way of the serpentine road, but much closer by the path we had taken, Montevergine was 3,600 feet above sea level.

“How did they bring all these stones and bricks up the mountain?” I asked.

“Donkeys and horses, I guess,” Pietro answered.

The mountain
basilica
was three times larger than the church in Ospedaletto. Four rows of tall, white marble columns gave it an aura of grandeur missing in the village church but also a coldness not felt in the much smaller house of worship. Monks in white or brown habits moved briskly across the portico. A gift shop sold a variety of trinkets, key chains, postcards, viewers with photographs of the monastery, and pictures of the Madonna. Just as in Ospedaletto, the church's walls displayed hundreds of aged photographs and silver replicas of human limbs representing the claimed miracles. I shared with Pietro and Mamma the knowledge I had acquired from Don Pasquale. “You learned a lot in Ospedaletto,” Pietro remarked.

In respectful silence, we walked through the interior of the sanctuary. Only the echoes of our steps could be heard. Those who were Catholics genuflected as they stepped across the splendid altar; then all of us, following the signs on the wall, went to look at the body of Beato Giulio displayed in a glass case.

A friendly monk passed by and, satisfying our curiosity, explained that the monastery had been built around the beginning of the thirteenth century, then rebuilt and enlarged in subsequent years.

“When did Beato Giulio die?” I asked.

“In the year of our Lord 1801.”

“Eighteen hundred and one?” I repeated. “That makes him one-hundred-forty-one years old.”

I got chills staring at the embalmed corpse of the priest, dressed in his stark white tunic. The flesh shriveled by time and the skinless nose gave the remains a less-than-human appearance.

“Is this how we're going to look after we die?” I asked. But no one answered my question.

“Who would have thought I'd be celebrating an event in a monastery?” Mamma said.

“Why?” someone from the group asked.

“Well, Jews don't usually frequent a Catholic church. But these are crazy days and everything goes.”

After visiting the large cathedral, we walked to the fountain in the courtyard to fill our containers with cold mountain water. We looked for a place to escape the hot midday sun, found it on the monastery's front steps and sat down to have our picnic in the shadow of the basilica. Everyone in our group had brought lunch. Mother had prepared sandwiches consisting of a single slice of hard-to-find salami and one tomato between two slices of Dora's homemade bread. Simple but delicious. Just being out of the village was a jubilee of sorts. If only the reason had not been Pietro's leaving us.