Authors: E. Graziani
“What is it, Bruna?” she asked, worried.
“Oh, Mamma!” I cried as I rushed to her and flung my arms around her.
“What’s wrong?” She was almost knocked off balance by my lunge.
“Mamma! Something terrible is going to happen. Beppina told Armida and me that her brother said that Il Duce will go to war. If this is true, then Cesar and Alcide will have to become soldiers, won’t they?” The tears were streaming now.
Mamma shook her head. She hugged me tightly and attempted a smile. “There, there now.” She stroked my back soothingly. “Don’t worry about such things.” She held me at arm’s length so that she could see my eyes. She smiled down at me and kissed my forehead. Her eyes were so wise and kind.
“You are too young to worry about such things. No more tears, little girl. Look, your lunch is waiting and getting cold.” Mamma motioned to the plate of meal on the table, a spoon beside it with the sugar bowl nearby. “Promise me you won’t think about it any longer. It won’t do any good to worry anyway.” She gently nudged me.
I wiped my tears on my sleeve and walked half-heartedly to the steaming bowl. I couldn’t be farther from hungry if I tried, but I ate anyway. Food should not be wasted.
Mamma sat beside me and tried as best as she could to distract me from the troubling gossip. I knew that she was worried too, but she dared never let it show. Mother always protected me. “Now that you’ve eaten, don’t you feel better?” she asked.
“Yes,” I answered, wiping my mouth and drinking the last of my goat’s milk. “I think I’ll go to Alfezio’s library after I hang up the wash. Maybe if I find a book to read, it will take my mind off of all this.”
“That is an excellent idea. Find a good book to read. It will fill up your head and push all the bad things out through your ears.” We both laughed at the notion. “Perhaps you can read to me and Ida tonight.” Ida was our neighbor next door. She spent many an evening with us in our warm little house. Sometimes she bustled to her house next door and fixed a plateful of chestnut meal with a dash of hot goat’s milk and a pinch of sugar, as a treat. Like my mother, she couldn’t read either.
Chapter 6
Alfezio was a well-educated man. He had served in the army in the Great War of 1915-1918 and had survived a bombing. Although he escaped with his life, his leg was badly injured and the doctors had to amputate it. The government had given him an artificial wooden one. In his lifetime, Alfezio had collected many books and had amassed quite an extensive assortment. He didn’t mind sharing them with others. Eventually the villagers called the first floor of his family home “the library.”
Once my clean things were hung outside in the warm sun to dry, I removed my apron and ambled up the path to the village center.
Clip, clop, clip, clop
in my wooden shoes. As I walked past the houses, I could hear snippets of conversations.
“…it may not be practical to go to the butcher until tomorrow…”
“…what would your father say if he knew you had…”
“…this Sunday I think I will wear this to…”
Conversations of an ordinary day. People living, day-to-day, not knowing what was to come in the future. I walked at an easy pace and glanced up at Evelina’s house.
Her
laundry was not hung out to dry. She must not have gotten to the washtub after all.
I turned the familiar corner to my left and walked along the main road of the village, ever on an incline going uphill. As I got closer to the general store, I could hear the radio crackling and blaring. There was the ever-present sound of men’s voices coming from Ferrari’s bar, discussing politics and global issues as if they all had the answer to the world’s problems. I stuck my head in to say “hello,” and as always, everyone said “hello” back. Ferraro Ferrari and his wife, the proprietors, were busy serving their customers. It was the village meeting place. There was a familiar tune coming from the radio, a love song.
Alfezio’s house was almost directly across the street from the bar. I knocked and opened the door without waiting for an answer. In our village, the doors were never locked and everyone was welcome inside at any time. “Permission to enter,” I called. This was a courtesy, a warning of sorts that someone was about to enter the home.
“Come in,” said a voice from behind a stack of books. Alfezio was at his desk, the afternoon sun streaming in from the crystal clean window behind him.
“Good afternoon, Alfezio,” I announced. “I’ve come to borrow a book, if I may.” I wondered how he could concentrate on what he was reading with the radio blaring from across the street.
“Help yourself, Bruna,” he said, not looking up from his book. He looked extremely engrossed in what he was reading.
I began to look about at the shelves full of interesting titles. Some were old, some were new. All were intriguing to me, but today I was preoccupied. Knowing that Alfezio had been in the last war, I was curious about what it was like, but I hesitated to ask since that might be rude. I didn’t know how he would react to my questions. After all, he had lost a leg and that was quite serious. Still, my inquisitiveness got the better of me. I circled around the room to where he was sitting. I pretended to be interested in the Renaissance poetry section.
“How are you today?” I asked, scanning the stacks. There were books by Dante and Petrarch. On the next shelf were science books.
“I am well. And yourself?” he replied. He allowed himself a slight glance in my direction. I noticed his cane placed strategically against the side of his desk.
“Well, thank you.” I craned my neck to get a better look at his book. “What are you reading?”
“It is an old book.
The Odyssey
by Homer,” he said patiently, looking up.
“Who was Homer?” I asked.
Alfezio chuckled. “He was a Greek philosopher who lived many years ago. He also wrote
The Iliad
.”
“Well, he can’t be that good. I’ve never heard of him.”
Alfezio laughed out loud and closed his book. I couldn’t understand what was so funny. He clasped his hands and folded them under his chin. “You are rarely this talkative, Bruna. Is there something on your mind?”
With a blush, I looked away. “I was just wondering….” As I started to speak, I turned my gaze toward a colorful picture dictionary, and pulled it halfway out of its spot, pretending I was interested in it. “You were in the Great War, weren’t you?” I put the book back and pulled out another, still not looking at him. How odd was that question. Everyone knew that he had been in it. He had a wooden leg to prove it.
“Yes?” As if he knew that there was another question coming.
“And your leg, did it hurt…when it happened?” I gathered up the courage to look at him now. He looked thoughtful, his hands folded against his mouth.
“Very much,” he answered. “But eventually the hurt went away.” He tilted his head. “Why do you ask?”
“Just so that I understand,” I shrugged. “In case it happens to someone I know.” I looked away again, because I didn’t want him to see the tears in my eyes.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“So that I know what to expect for my brothers if they go to war…”
“Stop there, child.” Alfezio cut me off in mid-sentence. “There is no sense worrying about something that may not happen.” He took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “I’ve heard the rumors, too. The Blackshirts like to spread them to get everyone talking, but you should not worry before anything happens.” He reached for his cane with one hand and grasped the side of his desk with the other. Carefully he pulled himself up and walked around to the front of his bureau so that he was facing me. He patted me on the head and smiled a kindly smile. “Find a book and read. It will take your mind off things. Look,” he said, as he motioned to a shelf behind me, pointing out a colorful title. “Isn’t that one of your favorites?”
I nodded and smiled back up at him. His mustache was curled at the ends. “Yes, it is.” I turned around to wipe the tear away. “I will try to keep my mind off bad things,” I sniffed. “Thank you for comforting me.”
I chose a book by Carlo Collodi called
Pinocchio
. My mother loved that book. She would be pleased to hear it tonight. Feeling better now, I thanked Alfezio once more. It was understood that I meant for the conversation as well as the book. “You know, Alfezio, Pinocchio is one of my favorite characters and…” I stopped talking as I noticed that Alfezio had put a finger to his lips.
“Shh,” he hissed as he listened and tilted his head towards the window. The music from the radio had stopped and there was a loud crackly voice blaring instead. All the other voices in the bar had stopped chattering. It sounded like there was an announcement on the wireless. A loud, authoritarian voice was speaking. It was Il Duce. I listened now, too.
“…The hour of destiny is striking in the skies above Italy. The hour of irrevocable decisions. The declaration of war has already been delivered to the ambassadors of Britain and France. We are going to war against the plutocratic and reactionary democracies of the West who have invariably hindered the progress and often threatened the very existence of the Italian people.”
That was all I heard. I looked at Alfezio. His color had gone from a healthy blush to ashen gray in seconds. He looked at me, but did not speak. He only shook his head.
I held the book tight in my arms, as I heard cheers coming from the bar drowning out Mussolini’s voice. My first childish thought was that obviously some of the men were happy at the prospect of losing a leg in another war.
Alfezio was speaking to me now, but my ears were buzzing. I couldn’t hear him. He leaned on his cane so that his face was close to mine. He spoke again, but his words were in vain. All I could think of was getting home fast. I turned slowly and exited the library.
All of my nightmares had materialized in a matter of seconds. One minute I was happy to be reading
Pinocchio
to my mother that evening and the next there was the impending doom of war. My family might be torn apart. My breathing was shallow and I could feel the sweat on my brow. My stomach was churning queasily. Suddenly, I felt totally alone in my despair. I had to get back to Mamma. Mamma would know what to do. I would ask Mamma.
As I stood on the narrow street between the library and the bar, I noticed in my dazed stupor that people in the town were beginning to spill into the street. Metal latches clanked furiously, doors opened wide and women wailed and cried their despair, running to one another, gesticulating wildly, questioning the radio transmission as to whether it was really true. Had they heard right? Were their sons and husbands being sent to join the war?
Chapter 7
Soon after Il Duce’s announcement, the draft notices calling the men in the village to serve their country began to arrive. Now all men between eighteen and fifty-four had to fight.
Mamma walked gingerly to the post box every day, hoping to put off the inevitable, but it was inescapable. Alcide was still too young, but twenty-five-year-old Cesar soon received his letter. It was late June and the bright sun coupled with the approaching warmth of summer made the gloomy event surreal in the dazzling light.
“God in heaven!” I heard Mamma exclaim one afternoon. She was at the door and I was upstairs in the bedroom changing after a day in my nonna’s little plot of farmland. This was not typical for Mamma as she was usually very even tempered. I angled my head to peer downstairs.
“What is it, Mamma?”
“Heaven help us.” I heard her voice tremble.
“Mamma? What?” No sooner had the words left my mouth than I guessed what it was. It was Cesar’s letter. I heard Mamma crying.
I rushed downstairs to comfort her, putting my arm around her as she sat on the stoop half in and half out of the house. “Please Mamma, don’t cry.”
I could tell that she was trying very hard not to upset me, but I could see by her eyes that she too was extremely worried. “Oh, goodness.” She wiped her tears with her apron. “I don’t know why I’m carrying on like this. It’s no surprise that this would come sooner or later.”
“That’s all right.” It was my turn to comfort her. “Cesar is strong and brave. No one can hurt him.” Deep in my heart, I believed every word and I knew I was right.
Later that afternoon, I was told to visit my grandparents, before the boys came home from work. Mamma tried hard to keep me from seeing she was upset, but I knew better. Still, if it gave her peace of mind to think that she spared me the heartache of seeing her cry when she gave my eldest brother the letter, I was willing to oblige. I could give her at least that much.
Separations like these soon became commonplace in Eglio. The letters arrived, the mothers cried, the fathers secretly fretted about losing their sons, but were proud to have them fight against the “enemy.” We were told by Mussolini’s Ministry of Popular Culture that we had an enemy and that the youth should learn to “believe, obey, fight.” Mussolini is always right. I had heard this all my life. I had seen images of Mussolini as a good family man, photographed with his wife and children, as a musician playing the violin, as the hero of the peasants harvesting grain, and as the brave commander-in-chief flying a fighter plane.
Cesar soon left for his basic training. The base was near enough that he would be able to visit once in a while on leave. He was very brave and did not make a fuss when he left. Mamma cried for days afterwards, but I tried my best to be strong. After all Alcide was still home and now he would become the man of the house until he turned eighteen.
Italy had invaded southern France earlier that year. Cesar was soon stationed on the Italy/France border in the Alps as a guard in the Alpini troops, which were light infantry troops, specializing in mountain combat. He was fortunate because he was not directly in harm’s way and because he was close to home. The army gave its soldiers many things: their uniforms, boots, rifles, backpacks filled with necessary gear. But best of all were the chocolate bars.
Rationing of food and resources had started soon after the war broke, so luxury items were in short supply. I eagerly awaited Cesar’s visits not only to see him, but also for the rare treat of his chocolate bars. They were supposed to be a quick source of energy for the soldiers to keep them warm in the winter months. Never having much of a sweet tooth, Cesar would save his chocolates and bring them when he visited. And he gave them to me. I would save them and hide them in a shiny tin box that my grandmother had given me, carefully storing them away for a special occasion.