A Child Al Confino: The True Story of a Jewish Boy and His Mother in Mussolini's Italy (38 page)

Mother was visibly shaken. “I hope the SS won't follow.”

“Mamma, are you afraid?”

“Of course I'm afraid.”

“What can they do to us? We haven't done anything.”

“With the SS you don't have to do anything. You only need to be Jewish.”

During all the years of our wandering, my state of mind very much reflected my mother's demeanor. When she was relaxed, so was I, but when she was scared, I was terrified. What were the soldiers going to do? I wanted to ask but feared the answer, and in my fear I remained in the dark, allowing my thoughts to wander wildly. And wander they did. The memory of
Turandot
at La Scala opera house with its severed heads pierced on long poles and paraded on stage created a gruesome image of my own head at the end of a German bayonet.

“Do the Germans cut off people's heads?” I asked.

Mother was deep in thought and did not answer right away. “I don't know. Don't think of such things. Just stay away from them.”

The townspeople were busy selling their wares to the newly arrived soldiers. None of the villagers were intimidated by the new military presence. But we all, villagers and internees alike, suffered pangs of envy as we watched the soldiers enjoy foods none of us had tasted in years. We felt the indignity of our small ration while they ate sausages and fresh farm bread, spooned butter from large cans, or plunged their bayonets into a plump, canned chicken. The soldiers strolled through the village gorging themselves before our envious eyes without any regard to our dire condition.

Two German soldiers walked by a group of villagers.

“Did you see how they sneered? Those bastards!” a woman said.

“Watch them eat the salami. They're goading us like saying ‘You can't have it!’ I could just gouge their eyes out, those sons of bitches!” A man cautioned them to remain silent.

One woman spread her legs and with her hand made a vulgar gesture suggesting they should re-enter their mother's womb. “So what are they going to do to me?”

“My kids haven't had a piece of bread in days and these swine walk around our town teasing us?” another woman snarled. By then our bread, what little we had, was but a concoction of yellow corn that had the shape but not the taste of bread. It was impossible to slice, for no matter how much care one took, it crumbled into yellow granules.

Otherwise, the soldiers seemed amiable. They strolled through town unarmed. Didn't look dangerous and I started to question why my mother was afraid of them. I was twelve, almost thirteen, old enough to tell if someone was dangerous.

I went upstairs. It was as though
Mutti
had read my mind. “
Erichl
, don't start speaking to the soldiers. Promise me.”

“I promise.” As I spoke I could taste the good German bread on my tongue.

Pietro wrote every day, some days twice. Although war was raging all around Europe, the mail moved with regularity and we received his letters each day. Pietro's writings were poetic. The salutation, varying with each note, left an indelible mark on my young mind. “My most adorable, sweetness of my life, unique, intelligent, beautiful
mammina!
” was just one of the many poetic salutations he used to start his letters.

A few times Mamma let me read the entire letter but, even when she didn't, she always showed me the amorous greetings.

“Why won't you let me read that letter?” I once asked.

“Because it's just between
Pupo
and me.”

“How can you find so much to write every day?” I asked. “And to fill four pages?”

“I hope one day you will fall in love with someone as good as
Pupo
. Then maybe you too will write poetic letters, four pages long.”

During those desolate months, Pietro was our lifeline. At a time when it was strictly forbidden to ship items that were rationed, he risked imprisonment by sending olive oil, canned tuna, sardines, flour, anchovies and wine at least once each month. Antonio Dello Russo also took great risks by picking up the wooden crates from the railroad station in Avellino. But with food supplies getting scarcer with every passing day, people were prepared to take risks. Mother gladly shared her gifts with the Dello Russo family and a few internees.

Twice Pietro came to visit and each visit was a festivity for our group of
confinati
. Mamma was a woman transformed almost into a little child. The secret talks with Dora took place once again, piquing my curiosity to the point that I had trouble falling asleep. Then there were those muffled noises and laughter coming from Mamma's bedroom. I was almost thirteen; why could I not be told what was going on?

Thanks to the provisions Pietro had brought with him, Mother was able to prepare dinners for friends. The kitchen was small and only accommodated six at the most, so my Mamma would have two dinners on separate days to make room for all of the more intimate friends she wanted to invite. When Pietro was with us, our small home was overflowing with love and laughter. War and the German troops surrounding us seemed a faraway threat.

After Pietro and the Wovsis were freed from Ospedaletto and Ettore Costa transferred, an air of gloom descended upon our small family of
confinati
. In a short period we were deprived of the poetry of one, the spiritual guidance of the other, and the satire of the third. For me the morning meetings lost their appeal, and I stopped going to the gathering spot on the piazza.

With the German army so close to our homes, my mother didn't dare listen to the BBC, thus cutting us off from the only reliable news of what was happening in the rest of Europe. Runia's forced departure ended Mother's opportunity to converse in Polish as well as the companionship of her best woman friend. Much of what had sustained us during the previous months no longer was. Despair seeped into our lives. Mother lost the spirit so indispensable to me, and my mood slipped to an all-time low. I stopped going to the billiards hall, knowing how much it displeased her. We argued more often now. Everything and anything irritated us. Mamma's only serenity came from watching Lello, until the Dello Russos moved to a building belonging to Dora's family, located in the center of the village. Though Mamma Lotte kept caring for Lello in his new home, it was not the same as having him next door.

One morning I found Mother in the kitchen crying.

“What happened now?” I asked.

“Nothing and everything,” she said, using her apron to dry her eyes. Mamma tried to compose herself, perhaps only for my benefit. It was a useless attempt. Her voice was shaky. “Erich, I don't know what will happen to us. But whatever it is, I want you to know that I love you more than life.”

“I know that,
Mutti
.”

“I often worry that there will be no one left to say Kaddish for us.”

“You mustn't think that. Everything will be all right.”

“If anything happens to me, I want to be remembered as Szyfra. Don't forget!” She grabbed me by the waist and pulled me close. “I think you'll be fine when you grow up. I just hope I'll be around to see it.” Only our labored sobs broke the silence.

For a moment, as she let go of me, I had the feeling that Mother's spunk may have come back for an instant. And if indeed it was back, I believed she did it only to raise my own morale and give me courage.

Mamma began smoking even more than usual and, while in the past smoking made her lose weight, this time, despite smoking, she gained some. A box of a hundred paper sleeves vanished every three days.

On the morning of May 27, 1943, Mother slid under my covers. “Do you know what day it is?”

I was still half asleep. “I think it's my birthday,” I said.

“You're thirteen today.” She hugged me. “You can't even be
Bar Mitzveh'd
.” The room, except for our heartbeats, was wrapped in silence. Her voice was soft. “I do have a gift for you. Wait here.”

Back from her room, she handed me a book of Italian poetry. Pietro had sent it with one of his monthly packages. Somehow it had escaped my inspection. The dedication read: “May you grow up always surrounded by love, beauty, and poetry!”

“This is better than any Bar Mitzvah,” I exclaimed. I pressed the book to my chest. “I love you and
Pupo
so much!”

“We love you too, very much. What do you want to do today? Do you want to go with the group for a walk?”

“Since
Pupo
and Ettore left, the walks have not been the same. It's like the body is here but the spirit is gone.”

“I couldn't buy you anything. But I will bake your favorite cake.”

No longer was I a kid. The discomfort of being among adults had disappeared. By now I felt at ease with older people and had stopped seeking the company of boys my age. I also started to appreciate my mother in ways I never had before, realizing what a master she had been in balancing strictness with her consistent love.

Most of that day I spent reading my new treasure and composing a thank you note to
Pupo.

When in July of 1943, Mother was suddenly deprived of the joy of Pietro's writings, we did not know the cause. Each day Mamma insisted on going to city hall to check the mail personally. I felt so sorry for her and wished I could have done something to cheer her up. Back from her daily mail trip, she dragged herself up the stairs looking dejected.

“Can I do anything?” I asked.

“No. Nobody can do anything.”

“Why don't you go and visit the Howells? I'll go with you.”

“I don't feel like seeing anyone. I have never told you, but
Pupo
and I talked about getting married. After you, he is all I want in life. Now I have lost him. I don't blame him. Why should he burden himself with a woman who is older than he, who will probably never understand his family and will not go to church with him? And why should he burden himself with….”

“With what, Mamma?”

“Nothing, really nothing. I just wish … I don't know what I wish. Why don't you go out and play? What happened to your Italian soldier friends?”

Lieutenant Benedetti had stopped coming since the German troops had set up camp in Ospedaletto. “I don't know. They haven't been here in months.”

“If I didn't have you, I would put an end to it,” she murmured.

“
Mammina
, don't talk like that. You scare me.” I wrapped myself in her arms.

“Don't be scared,
mein Hasele
.”

This was the only time I saw Mother in such a state of depression. I started wondering if Pietro would ever come back and read to me or warm me with his infectious smile. I could see his chipped tooth and the twinkle in his eyes. I thought of my father. We had not heard from him in years. Four years, to be exact. Was he still alive? How could my mother think of marrying someone else, even if it was Pietro? She was still married to Papa. I questioned if I really wanted Pietro as my father. No, I wanted my real father to come back. Maybe Pietro could remain our friend. I was sure he and Papa would get along and I could have both.

“I don't understand how you can think of marrying
Pupo
. What about Papa? He is your husband.”

Mother did not respond. “I guess I won't worry about that any longer,” she said. “Pietro is not coming back.”

During the first half of 1943, Mussolini's presence was felt everywhere, more than ever before. Each day his voice filled the airwaves with exhortations to victory. When he was not on the radio, his dogmas, painted on most unencumbered walls, could be seen silently shouting at us. “
Se avanzo seguitemi
,
se indietreggio uccidetemi!
” This slogan, one of dozens, appeared on one of the village buildings.

We knew nothing of what was happening in the outside world. The Italian radio reports could not be trusted. Newspapers were not available and the BBC, more than ever before, was too dangerous to listen to with so many German troops surrounding us. Internees gathered more frequently at the Howells'.

During a bridge game with a number of other internees crowded in the living room, John Howell said, “I have a feeling things are not going well for the Germans.”

“Why? Did you hear anything?”

“No. I didn't hear anything in particular. I just have a feeling. Why is Mussolini on the radio every day?” John asked.

“My daughter Gaby used to hear from her fiancé regularly. Lately, nothing,” said Perutz.

“Do you think they may have sent his fighter group out of the country?” Mamma asked.

“Who knows? Remember when he used to fly his plane over Ospedaletto and tip his wings to send greetings? Gaby doesn't talk all day. She is so depressed.”

“I can understand that very well,” Mother said.

“Any word from Pietro?” Agatha asked.

“No. I pray to God he is well.”

“We all hope so,” John added.

The question caused a somber air to invade the room. The bridge game paused.

“Do you want to finish the rubber?” someone asked.

There was silence. “I don't think so,” John said.

“Just stay there,” said Agatha.

Bridge, so important to people during these times, was replaced by a simple cup of tea.

Many days would pass — days of despair — before details about Sicily finally reached us. We heard the news on the Italian state radio in our landlord's kitchen. Allied forces had landed, occupied the island and cut off all communications with the rest of Italy. But the announcer, with great confidence, assured us that soon these imperialistic occupying forces would be pushed back into the blue Mediterranean, signaling the beginning of Mussolini's march to the final victory. Mamma threw her arms around me. “I knew it! I knew it!” she exclaimed. “I was convinced of his love. Oh, Erich, how could I have ever doubted him?”

Filomena stood in silence. I was still too young to fully comprehend my mother's emotions.

I had gone to visit my friend Raffaele when word spread that the bakery had just made a fresh batch of bread. We had been unable to get bread in many days. “I don't get flour,” the baker complained. “How can I make bread?”