A Child Al Confino: The True Story of a Jewish Boy and His Mother in Mussolini's Italy (31 page)

Since I remembered the road to the dingy shop, I walked ahead of the others, trying to urge a faster pace. The tailor was ready for us, a miracle in southern Italy. He brought out the two suits and Giorgio and I tried the jackets first.

“What is that?” Mamma asked. “This jacket will fit my son in three years!”

The man, who claimed a faultless memory and prided himself on never making a mistake, had not made my jacket too big. He had switched fabrics and used my material to make Giorgio's suit and his to make mine.

I had rarely seen my mother so angry. She looked at Runia and in German shouted, “I should never have asked you to come along. This would never have happened. Mine was a pure British cloth. How am I going to replace it?”

“I shouldn't have come with you,” Runia shouted back. “Giorgio didn't need his suit now. You are the one who told me about going to a tailor and now I get the short end of the stick.”

“You got the short end? What about me? What about Enrico? He is the one who is getting an inferior suit.”

Watching the two mothers quarrel rather than focus their rancor on the one who had made the error, I couldn't help but chuckle.

“What are you laughing about?”
Mutti
screamed. “You thought I was a worrier. There you have it!”

By now I was smart enough to realize that my best move was out to the street. As for the two suits, the damage had been done. I was smaller than Giorgio by at least four inches and nothing could be done to the suits. Nevertheless, the two mothers bickered as though establishing who owned the more expensive fabric would make a difference in the outcome. In the end, they settled their quarrel by leaving matters as they were. I got a navy suit with two thin pinstripes, Giorgio got a suit of the same color with only one stripe, and the two mothers remained friends. But we never did get to the movies.

To survive on the government's meager rations would have been difficult if not for the supplies we were able to find from local farmers or, when one could afford it, the black market. Living in a small village gave us access to much of the Earth's produce and, thanks to the chicaneries of the townspeople, we were able to share in some of the locally raised meats.

With communication limited to the one telephone inside the post office, it was amazing how fast news spread within the village. Thus, when a farmer was preparing to butcher a young calf, everyone in town knew about it. To kill an animal was illegal unless it had been injured, for all livestock had to be handled by a special government office in charge of meat distribution. But rarely did an animal injure itself and, after a farmer killed a calf, he would quickly break one of its legs, thus skirting the existing laws.

At the time and place of the slaughtering, more people would show up wanting meat than one animal could possibly provide. The ritual was always the same. Everyone had to wait until the veterinarian concluded his examination and certified that the killing had been done according to law. Only then could the carcass be cut up. The few times I witnessed such a killing, the first cuts were always shared among the
maresciallo
: Don Pepe, Dr. Sellitto, and the pharmacist.

During late summer, fruit was plentiful in this fertile stretch of the Italian boot. This was the ideal time to make preserves for the winter months, the only drawback being that sugar was in short supply. The priceless coupons were hardly sufficient to provide enough of the sweetener for the daily coffee, let alone make jams and jellies. As did most Jews, we did not eat pork products, so Mamma was able to trade lard coupons for sugar ones. Whenever we found someone willing to make a swap, my mother would bring home the sugar while I went on a frantic search for fresh fruit. I rushed from farm to farm to pick pears, apricots, mulberries, cherries, plums, peaches, figs, or whatever else I could gather. Because I did my own picking, I was able to save my mother some money. My homecoming from these trips was always a joyous occasion for Mother and me. We would examine what I had brought home; then for hours I would help stir and watch the fruit turn into a soft jelly.

When Mother declared “
Pronto!
” announcing the jam was ready, I stopped the stirring and helped pour the delicious preserves into special glass containers. I then waited for them to cool so I could seal the jars with their airtight caps. On those rare occasions when she had extra sugar, Mother made enough jam to last us until the next season — unless some
internati
had none of their own and my soft-hearted mother shared some of ours.

Of all the rationed products, the most difficult to find was soap. The two shops that sold groceries were always out of the precious item and the few crude homemade bars we were able to buy from the local people were never enough. We also enjoyed another advantage. With Mother in command of the kitchen, our consumption of pasta was a fraction of a typical Italian family. That gave us some extremely valuable paper squares which our Italian friends were eager to exchange for other items. The villagers would happily do without soap. I had seen ample proof of that. But pasta? Never.

Everyone had an ample supply of coffee coupons, certainly not for lack of wanting the brew, but because the aromatic beans were nowhere to be found. Barley was the popular substitute and the first time our landlady roasted this grain, I yelled, “The house is on fire!”

Mamma called out from the kitchen, “It's nothing. Signora Filomena is roasting
orzo
.”

I went to see what Filomena was doing. In the kitchen, with one hand protecting her eyes from the acrid smoke, she was turning a metal cylinder positioned over the open stove. This strange circular contraption spewed smoke throughout the house, making it reek like the charred remains of a fire.

When nothing else was available, there was always the black market. Although hardly anyone acknowledged it, everyone knew of its existence. The
mercato nero
was attacked with regularity by the government radio, labeled a crime against the Italian war effort and all its citizens. But few Italians took their government's view seriously. Once in a while rumors circulated that someone had been arrested for selling rationed items, but mostly they were only rumors and rumors there were many.

While Mother did not have the money to enjoy the luxuries this illegal market had to offer, she seemed to enjoy going along with Dora whenever she went where someone had goods to sell. When she came home, excitement was written all over her. “Erich, they had everything. I couldn't believe what I saw. All there in the open, like they didn't care about the
carabinieri.
Not just soap, but good smelling soap. Even real coffee, sugar, olive oil, and all sorts of pasta. I wonder where they get all that stuff?”

Pasta and bread had been the basic staples of the Italian table forever. The average adult needed at least two pounds of pasta every week, and the first ration, at the beginning of the war, provided that much. But when the ration was reduced to a bit more than one pound, there were such loud protests that Mother feared there would be a revolution. But nothing serious happened and people adapted.

By 1943, the black market all but vanished, cutting off anything other than what could be obtained with coupons. The well-known Italian generosity was cooled by a sense of self-preservation, a determination to stay alive. No longer did I hear the ritual invitation to “sit and eat with us.” People had become fearful that hunger might induce someone to accept. Even with so little resources, my extraordinary mother never failed to provide me with the basic necessities. Through all the war years I never went hungry.

The deprivation of our freedom was more painful for the adults in the group of internees. For me, however, it was just a different lifestyle. While hoping for the end of the exile, many turned to bridge,
boccie
, reading, and knitting to break the monotony. Many internees, especially those who came from affluent families, lived with their memories. Recalling what life had been before Mussolini's alliance with Hitler seemed to make it easier for some to accept their present condition. But whatever else one might have been doing at the time, a good debate was forever a puff of fresh air, electrifying the otherwise dull days. I especially welcomed these verbal exchanges and, thanks to them, my vocabulary expanded greatly. I began to understand more of what adults were saying and thinking. Mother tried to point out the benefits I was gaining from being around mature, cultured people.

Ospedaletto had two
boccie
fields. Internees used the one in the communal garden at the opposite corner from where the group had its morning meetings. Before each game I silently prayed for an uneven number of players to show up so they would have to ask me to be part of one team. Jimmy, though only two years older but two heads taller, was always the first one included. Oh, how I envied him! I wished he would catch a cold and have to stay home.

We played
boccie
in the afternoon, after lunch and the customary nap, so it would not interfere with the morning walk. The internees were amateurs compared to the local men. I had watched those villagers throw a wooden ball forty feet through the air and hit their opponent's ball dead center. Smack! The balls would go flying every which way as I stood in awe admiring their skill. We all tried to emulate those shots, seldom succeeding and then only by sheer luck.

Group playing boccie in Ospedaletto, June 1942; from left, Giorgio Kleinerman, Antonio Dello Russo, Pietro Russo, William Pierce, Luigi Michelgnoli, Willy Weil, John Howell, Karl Weil, and the author.

In addition to the regular players, there was Jimmy and I. On occasion, Antonio Dello Russo and Sabato Pisano would join in, while Ettore Costa came along occasionally, but his poor eyesight ruled him out.

Boccie
was restricted to the warmer months, while bridge was played all year. During spring and summer, playing cards was limited to a few evenings and Sunday afternoons, whereas in the cold weather, card games went on every day, usually at the Howells'. The hosts, Agatha and John and Mother and Pietro were the regulars, while Mr. Perutz, Willy and Karel Weil, Giorgio Kleinerman, Jimmy, and I made up the second table.

I was eager to play but still learning the finer points of bidding, which was why the others wanted to keep me on the sideline. With the exception of Jimmy, who played bridge fairly well and had told me how he considered me a pain in the behind, most adults tolerated my youthful zeal. But tolerating did not translate into letting me join in the game except when they needed a fourth. Occasionally, my mother intervened and came to my rescue, and I was allowed to replace Jimmy for a few hands.

The Perutz Family.

Watching and not playing was boring, so when no one was looking, I arranged the second deck of cards so that one of the partners would be dealt all the high cards. Oh, what fun watching the face of the lucky person whose finger stopped at each card. Two or three times the player counted the points with an expression of disbelief. “Seven no-trump!” It only worked that one time. Someone figured out that I was the culprit and the cards were reshuffled and dealt again.

From the intense concentration of the players, it seemed that bridge was not a game for fun. That is, except for Signor Perutz, a born actor. When his wife was not around, he was unwilling to maintain a serious demeanor, thus bringing a bit of cheer to the game. With a long silver cigarette holder between his two well-manicured fingers, he leaned his head backward to blow out small puffs of smoke, an elegant flair he had acquired from his wife, who claimed to be a descendant of Russian nobility. At all times debonair in his attire, he did not wear a suit but a contrasting jacket with the ever-present kerchief in his breast pocket and a tie held down by a diamond pin. He had a friendly face with eyes that always smiled.

This man had the uncanny ability to see all thirteen tricks unfold in his mind and was willing to rely more on luck than on accepted conventions. With each hand, win or lose, he was in equally good humor to the audible annoyance of the other players. I liked his style even if, most times, I was the only one who did.