A Child Al Confino: The True Story of a Jewish Boy and His Mother in Mussolini's Italy (8 page)

“Do you want something to eat?”
Mutti
asked.

“No, thanks.”

“You haven't said a word. Is something the matter?”

“Just thinking.”

“About what,
Hasele
?”

“Nothing. The trolley car, Millie, Rina, Papa. Why couldn't Papa come with us?”

“He just couldn't at this time,
Schatzele.
”

When other refugees had come to visit my parents in Milan, they spoke of horror stories of how people, trying to escape the Nazis, had risked their lives crossing illegally into Switzerland or France.

“The Alps are an excellent camouflage,” someone had said. “For the young who are capable of scaling the high passes, there is little risk, but for the older and physically weak, life often ends in a long fall down the snowy slopes and an agonizing death.”

“And I understand there is no assurance,” my father had said. “We don't know that, even if one is successful in crossing the border, France or Switzerland would be willing to offer asylum.”

Someone warned that families traveling together were a sure target to be intercepted at the border.

Although an indomitable woman, my mother was not ready to cross any mountain peaks and said so. “I would rather rely upon my own ability. Scaling mountains with a small child is not for me. My husband will be able to join us later.”

When the conductor announced we were reaching Ventimiglia, my mother used the toilet to make a quick change from the winter clothes she had been wearing to a flowery summer dress and a white straw hat. She looked radiant without any traces of the tears she had shed earlier that morning.

We left the train and were walking from the small railroad station when, baffled that we had left our luggage on the train, I asked, “What about the suitcases?”

“Somebody will take care of them,”
Mutti
said. “We are going to take a long walk now and I want you to act as though you are here to see the sights.”

That is how, after stepping off the train in Ventimiglia, we found ourselves facing the breathtakingly beautiful stretch between the Italian border town and Menton, its French counterpart.

Bending at the knees, Mother stooped and brought her pretty face down to mine. With one hand she gave my clothes a maternal yank. She always did it whether they needed it or not. Then, with her moistened fingertips, she smoothed out my hair.

Clutching the fresh bouquet Papa had bought for her in Milan and, holding hands with me,
Mutti
and I advanced toward the French border along the wall overlooking the blue waters of the Italian Riviera. The road wandered along the spectacular azure Mediterranean. High above the horizon, the sun produced an uninterrupted shimmering streak upon the nearly quiet waters. My mother seemed as enthralled by nature's splendor as I was, and we paused to bathe in the surrounding beauty, forgetting for a short, solitary moment all that had happened to us in the previous eight months and the unknown dangers facing us.

As we continued our walk, we passed the Italian customs agents without a hitch and approached the French control point. Mother let go of my hand, walked up to the little shed, and spoke with a border guard. Because she spoke in Italian and used much gesticulation, I was able to somehow follow what she was trying to convey to the bewildered official. We were going to meet some friends for lunch and would return before evening. That's what Mother tried to tell him with many smiles. Finally the man — whether he understood or was confused or was charmed — relented and allowed us to cross the barrier and walk onto French soil. We strolled a bit farther until we were out of view of the border guard.

Mutti
mumbled, “I hope he doesn't change his mind,” which caused us to hasten our pace with every step.

Mother's nervousness, transmitted through our clasped hands, made me sweat like I had never sweated before. The walk to the Menton railroad station was only a few minutes long, yet I imagined police dogs chasing after us and soldiers dragging us into some dungeons.

As though just waiting for us, a train for Paris was on the tracks ready to depart. We boarded and, though we departed a few minutes later, I did not stop trembling until we picked up full speed.

Paris

W
e arrived in the City of Lights the morning after we had left Milan. It was 1938, and Europe was still at peace. Mother handed the taxi driver some written instructions and he dropped us off at a small second-class hotel.

Our baggage was already in the room, neatly lined up. “How did our suitcases get here?” I asked.

“Someone I know arranged it.”

Mutti
took just enough time to remove her hat before using the toilet down the hall. When she returned, she busied herself emptying the suitcases. Some garments went into the armoire and others in the small four-drawer chest. I stayed out of her way. Curious to see the new city, I reasoned that my presence served no purpose since I had no talent for unpacking. The thing to do was to get out and take a walk. By then, having traveled alone from Milan to Basel, I considered myself a world traveler.

“I want to go out,
Mutti
,” I said, my hand already on the doorknob.

“I'm busy now.”

“I'll go by myself.”

“Don't you want something to eat? You haven't eaten since last night,” she replied.

“No,
Mutti
.”

“How will you find your way back?”

“I will, I promise.”

“I want you back no later than four. It gets dark early.”

I promised that, too. Then my devilish mind questioned whether
Mutti
was letting me go because she trusted my ability to retrace my steps or really was trying to get rid of me. I was almost out the door when Mother called me back. “Where do you think you are going without a kiss?” As she kissed me, she placed something in my pocket. “If you get lost, show this paper to a policeman. It has the name of the hotel.” I knew it all along. She didn't want to get rid of me.

As I left the hotel, I took notice of a large statue of a medieval soldier in full armor astride a horse. Assured that the landmark would help me recognize the street later. I went forth to explore this new city.

Fascinated by each street and every square, I kept walking, trying to maintain my sense of direction so I could keep my promise. I started on the return trip by three o'clock. Much to my relief, fifteen minutes later, high on his horse, I saw my medieval friend. I had kept my promise and was back before dark.

In Paris, Mother contacted the Bretschneiders, a couple whose daughter often had come to our hotel in Vienna to give
Mutti
a manicure. What a surprise, when the young woman came to call, to see a familiar face so far away from home.

Mother also met her old friend Clara. She had lived in our hotel at the same time we did. I loved the plump woman who often poked fun at herself. I referred to her as “Aunt Clara” and
Mutti
referred to her as a comic character. The two spent much time together, laughing and carrying on. Clara was constantly on some diet that did not last and always using exercise machines designed to create minor miracles when she needed major ones.

“Remember when you didn't want to eat your dinner at home?”
Mutti
asked me. “You only wanted to eat with Aunt Clara. Remember? You always said that you liked her cooking better than mine. Well, I used to send your dinner to her apartment. Clara has never cooked a meal in her life.”

After a short pause, I broke out in a big laugh at this revelation.

As much as I'd always enjoyed Clara, I loved her father. I used to call him “Papi” and considered him the grandfather missing from my life in Vienna. Whenever he visited Clara, he told spooky stories that kept me awake at night but made me ask for more. Papi also had given me my first piggyback ride.”

“How is Papi?” I asked.

“He died just before I left Vienna,” Clara replied. “I'm glad for him. He didn't have to witness all that went on.”

I was grieved, yet too reserved to show my emotions. “I'll cry when I get back to our room,” I said. But I never did.

We remained in Paris a little longer than two months. I had learned my way back to the hotel and was allowed to be on my own. I discovered the electric map in the Metro stations where, at least once a day, I felt the need to test the tracking system. I descended below the Paris streets to reach the magic machines. Not tall enough, I had to stand on my toes to see the row of tiny lights showing the location of the next train. I marveled at the mysterious mechanics that could create such a miracle of information.

But Paris did not hold the same interest as Milan. The small hotel room made it impossible to get involved in any kind of woodworking and, though Mother introduced me to some of the city museums, nothing compared to building things with my own hands. More than anything, I missed my papa and our life in Milan with Rina.

Nice

I
n February 1939, we packed our belongings and, without my knowing why, boarded the train to Nice. Nestled between the blue Mediterranean and splendid rolling hills, Nice was known as the gem of the French Riviera. We traveled by night and arrived in the early morning. Although still tired, we were cheered up by the tall, swaying palm trees lining the streets and by the red, blue, purple, and orange flowers adorning the side-walk gardens outside the small rail station.

Much to my delight, we had arrived in the middle of carnival time, and I soon learned little else in the world could compare to the joyfulness of carnival in Nice. The festive mood permeated every street, every building, every corner of this small city. Large black cone-shaped loudspeakers blasted music from every tree strong enough to support one.

As in Milan and Paris, Mother had the address of a place where we were going to stay. She hailed a taxi from the terminal and gave the driver the magic piece of paper.

The single room, one of several in a large apartment, was sparsely furnished with some rundown items: one large bed, a cot, an armoire, a dressing table, and a solitary chair. The rent included kitchen privileges, meaning we could use the stove, provided it did not interfere with the landlady's or the other tenants' needs. There, on the kitchen table, we ate our meals under the curious eyes of the other tenants, who looked at us as though we were some exotic animals.

In Milan, where for the first time, Mother had to share a kitchen with someone else, Rina had been eager to please. “I hope this woman will be as pleasant as Signora Gigli in Milano,”
Mutti
confided. But Monique, our new landlady, did not even closely compare to Rina Gigli. After two days of failed attempts and frustrated by not being able to use the stove when she wanted it, my clever mother, who needed a kitchen just as a priest needs a church, found a solution. “I'm going to ask her to eat with us.”

Mutti
left the room with me right behind and found the landlady in the kitchen. “
Voulez-vous manger avec nous
?” she asked.

The woman seemed uncertain but replied, “
Certainement. Merci. Merci
.”

Monique was seduced by my mother's cooking a few times each week and the kitchen became ours.

Not much past thirty, Monique was lanky and a bit tall for a woman. Used to my mother's elegance, I found Monique's dresses to be drab. One dress looked like the other: long, below her knees; half-sleeves; a slight opening at the neck, dark, old-fashioned, and ugly. Without socks, the open sandals showed her dirty toes. Her short haircut made her plain and vaguely masculine facial features even more unattractive. There was no resemblance to my Rina, for whom I still pined and whom, in my naïve mind, I still hoped to visit on the bicycle I did not yet own.

During our seven-month stay, Monique never gained my affection, although in her own awkward way she did try. Like the day, for example she led me by the hand into another tenant's room to show me a photograph of the man's partially nude girlfriend.

“Pretty, no?” she said. “See this here?” she pointed to what the woman's raised skirt displayed.

I felt repulsed. Why would I want to look at a woman's private parts? With an impish look on her face, Monique replaced the photo in the book, then placed her index finger on her lips. “Don't tell anyone. I don't want him to know I saw it.” Her voice betrayed the pleasure she derived from showing me the photo, a pleasure I certainly did not share.

Not knowing quite what to say, I said nothing and hastily backed out of the room.

We had been in Nice less than one week when
Mutti
announced, “We're going to see the town.” The day was bright and sunny, not different from the other days we had so far enjoyed. When we walked out of our building in the late morning, my mother, shielding her eyes from the sun with one hand, collided with a woman coming from the opposite direction.

Mutti
removed the hand from her eyes. “
Pardon
.” she said.

She looked at the person she had bumped. There was a long silence. “Bertl?” she asked.

“Lotte?”

The two friends, realizing who the other was, let out loud shrieks. Their screams made me jump and prompted a pair of men to come rushing to their aid. The women stayed in a long, warm embrace while I stood still on the hot sidewalk until I could feel the bottoms of my feet burn through the thin soles of my shoes.

“When did you get here?”
Mutti
asked in German.

“I don't remember. When did you get here?”

My mother had a puzzled look on her face. “You don't remember? Bertl, you haven't changed at all. Let me look at you. How long has it been since I've seen you?”

“Let me see….”

“Oh, I remember,” said
Mutti
. “Where is your family?”

“I don't know where anyone is.”

Mother placed her arm around Bertl and asked, “Where are you staying?” But before Bertl could give an answer, Mother said, “Move in with us.”