A Child Al Confino: The True Story of a Jewish Boy and His Mother in Mussolini's Italy (36 page)

Dora looked frightened. “What are you saying?
Madonna mia
, we are honest people. Totonno works hard to earn this money. What can we buy? The stores are empty.”

Antonio was less swayed by his emotions. “I think Lotte is right.”

“Go down to Avellino,” Mamma said. “Look in the stores. The first thing I would buy is the best radio I can find. Buy two or three. You'll be able to sell them later.”

“Three radios?” Dora repeated in a whisper. “That's crazy. We don't own one now. What would we do with three radios?”

“Your money will be worth nothing, Dora! Nothing, believe me. With all your money you won't be able to buy one pound of pasta.” My mother's voice was forceful and convincing.

Antonio understood and, a few days later, he attached the horse to the long cart and took Dora to Avellino, where they purchased a console radio with a built-in bar as well as several pieces of furniture. Upon their return, my mother was so excited with the purchases that one would have thought the items had been bought for her. Meanwhile Dora kept repeating, “We've spent all our money. All of it!”

By the time we left Ospedaletto d'Alpinolo in 1943, the Italian currency had lost most of its value, and the Dello Russos could not find adequate words to show their appreciation for my mother's farsighted financial advice.

Mr. and Mrs. Wovsi were older than most of the internees and seldom joined in our physical activities. In times when gossip and criticism helped the days slip away, no one ever uttered a critical word about them. Indeed, most internees spoke with a certain reverence for this refined and dignified couple.

One morning, soon after we arrived, Mr. Wovsi invited Mother and me to join him and his wife for tea that afternoon. “It would be nice to get to know you,” he said. “The Howells will also be there.”

Located on the slope where the footpath to Montevergine had its beginning, their second-floor apartment, furnished with a delicate touch, was much larger than what most of us could afford. For the Wovsis, Ospedaletto was a comfortable, even if hard to tolerate, retreat.

As we sat on the soft and elegant sofa, admiring their living room, Mrs. Wovsi rolled in a cart carrying a shiny brass samovar.

“That is absolutely lovely,”
Mutti
remarked.

“We brought it from Poland,” Mrs. Wovsi said. Then turning to her husband, she asked, “Was it 1927 or '28 when we first came to Italy?”

“I think it was 1928, dear.” I got the impression he felt ill at ease to remember what his wife had forgotten.

While Mother admired much of what she saw, I soon became bored by the conversation about furniture. What did I care what they had brought from where and when?

“Italy was such a marvelous country then,” Signora Wovsi said. “We felt welcome. People were so friendly. Remember, Morris? We didn't speak a word of Italian.”

He chuckled. “I still don't speak it too well.”

“We sent all our boys to
Yeshiva,
and nobody bothered us. Those were wonderful times. Mussolini left everyone alone until he made that stupid friendship with Hitler.”

“Signora Wovsi. Everything is so nice,”
Mutti
remarked.

“We were fortunate. They allowed us to bring our furniture from Milan. It makes being far from home a little easier to bear.”

“Have you heard anything about your request?” Agatha Howell asked. She was referring to their petition to return to Milan.

“Our children are working on it. We are very hopeful. How long have we been here, Morris?”

“It will be two years in November.”

“I miss my grandchildren terribly,” Mrs. Wovsi said.

Among the other restrictions, racial laws prohibited Jews from hiring servants. This same rule applied to all
confinati
, yet the Wovsis did employ a young woman who did their house chores. In Ospedaletto, regulations did not matter much, because those responsible for watching for violations seemed not to care.

The Wovsis told us why their sons had been able to remain up north. “In their business they have made many contacts and through them they are able to remain in Milan.” Now these contacts were trying to get the sons' parents out of Ospedaletto.

“You are so fortunate to have family who can help,” Mamma said. “We have nobody and I guess we'll stay here until the war ends.”

Several months passed before the long-awaited telegram arrived.

“WITH GREAT PERSONAL SATISFACTION I HAVE INSTRUCTED LOCAL AUTHORITIES TO RELEASE YOU FROM INTERNMENT STOP BENITO MUSSOLINI.” Their sons' efforts had paid off, and the Wovsis' dream to go back home to be with their grandchildren came to pass.

Most of the internees went to congratulate them for their good fortune and perhaps express a bit of envy of their returning to civilization and to all that we missed so much: running water, heat, a bath, and a real toilet.

Mr. and Mrs. Rozental, Runia Kleinerman's parents, were in their seventies and seldom ventured out to join the other
internati
. “We don't like these dusty roads and stony paths,” Signora Rozental said, speaking for her husband as well. “We feel very insecure walking. Besides, we would rather stay in and read a book.”

Books were every internee's constant companions. When going on the morning walks or to play bridge, more than one person brought a book along, looking to steal a quiet moment. Finding books, however, was not easy. Seldom did anyone get to a bookstore in Avellino. From time to time, a new book reached us from the outside world.

“It's an unwritten rule,” Runia said. “Whoever gets their hands on new reading material should share it with other
confinati
.”

I too was able to take advantage of the circulating books, thus expanding both my vocabulary and my impressionable mind. Though
Mutti
tried hard to find me some German books so I wouldn't forget my mother tongue, her efforts succeeded only a few times.

While Mr. Rozental exercised his mind with his translations, his wife, also an avid reader, devoted a small part of the day to cooking. I never had a chance to evaluate his work as a translator, but I did have occasion to taste her cooking. As often as I accepted one of her dinner invitations, whether in winter or summer, the first course always seemed to be the same: a watery cabbage soup suitable for prison inmates and served so blisteringly hot that I thought my teeth would melt. It was strange that the old lady could bring the soup to such high a temperature on a stove that strained to bring water to a boil. Of greater wonder was seeing everyone else at the table finish their portion before I could place the first spoonful in my mouth. I suspected that the soup's scorching heat was her secret way to conceal its lack of taste.

Each time I had dinner at Runia's, I tried to develop a friendship with Giorgio, but the boy, six years my senior and much too serious for his age, I thought, showed little interest in me. Thus, after my several attempts had met with rejection, I finally abandoned the efforts.

Although none of the internees expected visitors, the arrival of the bus from Avellino held the greatest expectation of the day. It carried the mail and perhaps an occasional letter for some lucky
confinato
.

Every day at 2:30, I began listening for the huff and puff of the dilapidated coach struggling up the steep mountain road. It arrived seldom on time, but, in those days hours were plentiful and filling them with waiting was part of our daily life. Starting from home at one end, I'd run the length of the village to meet the bus as it stopped after its first turn into town. The coach, avoiding the village center, traveled on the main road from where the mailman, or anyone else waiting there, picked up the village mail sack, the size of a small paper bag. With me in tow, the sack was carried into the post office, where, after separating the items addressed to the internees, Don Guglielmo handed those pieces to the mail carrier to take to city hall for the required censoring. The process was quick, for the man, entrusted to read our letters, never did but immediately handed the mail to the waiting internees.

To me it was a matter of pride to be first at city hall. With a feeling of self-importance, I had elected myself the internees' courier and seldom neglected my self-imposed duty. Several
confinati
were happy to let me pick up their mail and spare themselves the round trip on the dusty, steep incline.

When my mother wondered how they expected Don Pepe to read letters written in German or English, Ettore had replied, “That's why Italy will never win the war.” Despite Mother's personal feelings for the man, she often quoted that line.

One afternoon while distributing the mail, Don Pepe handed me a letter from the Swiss Red Cross. It was an invitation to become a pen pal with a Jewish boy somewhere in Italy. Enclosed was a list of names from which to choose. A chance to correspond with a Jewish boy was a novel and exciting event in my life.

The boy I picked, Dino Levy, was also twelve and lived in Venice. Thrilled and driven by my impetuousness, I wrote him a long letter that very day telling him about myself and my mother. I described our confinement, our needs, our frustrations. He replied a week or so later telling me about his private school and his imminent summer vacation in the Alps. No mention of how he and his parents had remained untouched by the Fascist regime and why his family had been allowed to continue pursuing whatever business they were in. I was disappointed he had not understood my plight, but Dino was generous, often sending packages of clothes, books and food items along with a measure of good cheer. He was the only person who wrote to me. I had never thought of getting addresses from my friends in San Remo, so I couldn't have kept in touch with them.

“Look, Mamma! Two books.” A package from Dino had arrived that day and I wasted little time immersing myself in one part of its contents:
The Rains Came
, by Louis Bromfield.

“Can you put the book down to eat something?” Mamma complained.

“Mamma, this book is so good.” Both the writing and the subject I found fascinating.

Dino's letters and the knowledge that someone my own age cared were great morale boosters during those days in exile. I harbored the hope to meet my penpal one day to tell him in person how much his kindness had meant to me.

During the months in Ospedaletto, I matured faster than a boy of twelve should. Of all my experiences, the one that left the most lasting mark was the day I witnessed death.

I was visiting my friend Raffaele and as luck would have it, found myself in his parents' bedroom just as his ailing father decided to exhale his last breath and let go of his life right before me. What an audible last breath in the otherwise quiet room! Why did he have to do that while I was there? Raffaele and his sister were at their father's bedside, while I, in shock, stood far away and in a bizarre reaction found myself imitating the man's last sound. I stared at that motionless body, alive only seconds before and now dead. Dead. Totally dead. It brought on the jitters. How could a man be alive one instant and dead the next? I couldn't remember how I had imagined someone dying, but this certainly was not the way.

Suddenly, I found myself surrounded by a wailing crowd of town folks who, as though by magic, had arrived to see the dead man. The new widow with her other three children entered, followed by a number of women dressed in black. While the family threw themselves on the body, shaking and caressing it, some women flung themselves on the bed. Some screamed, others rolled their eyes toward the ceiling as if trying to pierce through the roof to reach some supreme being in the hope of bringing the dead man back to life.

The children tried to console their mother, whose emotions were out of control. Though small of stature and slim, she was strong and it took all five children to restrain her from throwing herself on the floor.

In the midst of this pandemonium, I watched the pudgy figure of the village barber enter the room with a Napoleonic strut. He was bald and shorter than most people there and soon got lost in the taller crowd. Ceremoniously, the fellow placed a well-worn bag on the bed, removed his shabby jacket, and slowly rolled up his shirt sleeves. Then, as though preparing for some joyful task, he vigorously rubbed his hands. In slow motion and with concentrated attention, he pulled his utensils from the bag and laid them next to the corpse. Methodically, one item at a time, he pulled out a straight edge razor, a soap mug, a leather strap, and a limp brush.

“I need a glass of warm water,” he whispered.

With elaborate posturing, the man reached for the brush, raised it over his head and as if practicing an ancient rite, dropped it into the mug. He seemed poised to entertain the crowd with some magic acts. His calm performance in the midst of all that turmoil was truly an accomplishment, as though he was in a trance or had left his feelings at home on the mantlepiece.

Transfixed, I stayed put as the man pulled from his worn bag a frayed and dirty towel, which he tucked under the dead man's chin. Then, wetting the tired brush in the warm water that one of the sisters had brought him and rubbing it into the soap mug, he twirled the lather onto the face of the corpse with a well-rehearsed gesture of his hand. He rotated the brush and stroked it up and down, for just to lather was not enough. He was bent on creating a work of art! And, like the artist steps back to judge his painting, so did he after every few layers of the lather. Tilting his head to one side and then to the other, he studied his subject. After a few more strokes of the brush and a final examination from a distance, he tied the leather strap to the bed frame and sharpened the blade with a back-and-forth motion.

Returning to the bed's edge, he stood on his toes to reach the body, yet no matter how much he stretched, he was unable to get to the far side of the dead man's face. With a hop, he jumped onto the bed and kneeling on its edge, with two fingers pinching the cheek,
whuff,
he shaved off the stubble.

Standing to one side, moving from here to there to keep out of the way of people busy with their own histrionics, I had a problem keeping a straight face as I watched the pompous barber at work. To my relief, Raffaele was busy comforting his mother, for I would not have known how to explain my silly behavior.