A Child Al Confino: The True Story of a Jewish Boy and His Mother in Mussolini's Italy (39 page)

When I heard the rumor, I ran home. “Mamma, there is fresh bread at the bakery. Give me our coupons.”

Quickly, she handed me some money and the bread coupons. Down the stairs I dashed, coupons and money clenched in my hand, then down the incline through the village toward the center square. Little clouds of dust shot up from each step, showing how fast I was running. When I got to the bakery, optimistically exhilarated and out of breath, I found dozens of people already waiting in line.

“How much bread can we get?” I asked the woman standing in front of me.

“Who knows? The bread is still in the oven.”

The line was getting longer and, as more people joined us, the murmur grew louder.

“Eh, Giuseppe,” someone yelled at the baker. “What's going on? By the time the bread is ready the war will be over.”

“Yeah and we'll all be dead from starvation,” someone added. There was laughter in the crowd.

Giuseppe appeared at the door. “I'm working as fast as I can. But bread has to bake and that takes time. Please be patient.” He reentered the shop and closed the door behind him.

The crowd was growing and so was the murmur. “He's taking the bread out of the oven,” a woman shouted. A man at the front of the line pushed the door open and everyone shoved to squeeze through the narrow opening. Surrounded by this mass of people, I was carried inside by the herd. There was no bread anywhere. Where did that woman see bread being taken out of the oven?

Instead of waiting outside, most of the people now waited inside the small shop. Nothing else had changed. Finally, as Giuseppe opened the oven, the smell of freshly baked bread floated into the air. The fragrance was inviting, but the sight of the bright yellow bread reminded me of its taste. Why was I here?

“What is this garbage?” one woman screamed. “You call this bread? Did you use piss instead of water?”

“Here are my coupons,” someone shouted.

“I can give you only one loaf!” the baker called out above the clamor.

“I've got seven kids at home. They haven't had a piece of bread in days. I want three loaves.”

“Sorry, Anna. Only one per family.”

A man jumped on the counter. “Give them what they want!” he shouted.

Another man darted behind the counter. A woman followed. Giuseppe, ashen, stepped out of the way and hid toward the rear of the shop. People reached for the bread and filled their shopping bags, then threw a few loaves to others standing in line. Soon all the loaves were gone. I didn't see anyone pay for the bread or turn in their ration coupons.

I had tried to push my way to the front of the line, but I was just a kid and all the adults, bigger and stronger, kept shoving me from one side to the other. By the time I got close to the counter, the ersatz bread was all gone.

September 8, 1943, brought cheer but also new fears into our lives. We had finished our evening meal and descended the one flight to the Guerrieros'.

“Do you mind if we listen to the news?” Mamma asked.

The landlord invited us into their kitchen. “
S'accomodi, Signora!
”

Instead of the regular newscast, the radio announcer informed us he was about to bring us a special bulletin.

“Another bulletin,” Mamma remarked. “They have so many of these bulletins and never anything important.”

We waited in silence. The radio was still. Then a male voice: “This is Maresciallo Badoglio. Having been entrusted by His Majesty Victor Emmanuel III, King of Italy and Emperor of Albania, to form a new government, on behalf of Italy and the glorious Italian army, I have signed an unconditional surrender with the Allied forces.”

No one moved. The only sound was Badoglio's voice, but after the initial statement, much of what he said afterward was lost on us. Our silence expressed everyone's reaction.

Mother broke the hush. “Antonio, what's going to happen next? Does this mean we have a new government?”

He shook his head. His eyes were glazed and stared in the distance. “I don't know. I really don't know. With all the German troops around us, this could turn nasty.”

“I am concerned about your safety,” Mamma said. “Everyone knows you are a
Camicia Nera
,” reminding him of his black shirt, a symbol of the Fascist party.

“I've never hurt anybody. I'll just have to have faith in the Lord.”

“Why is she talking about our safety?” Filomena asked.

“
Niente
,
niente
,” Antonio said. Then looking at my mother, he said, “This should mark the end of the war for you.”

“I'm not so sure,” she remarked. “I do believe that now we are in the same boat.”

“Why?” he asked.

“To the Germans both of us are now their enemies.”

Through the open window, we heard what sounded like cheering.

“Somebody has to go tell these people to stay home and be quiet,” Mamma said. “When the Germans find out that Italy has surrendered and they hear people celebrating, it could provoke a massacre.”

Antonio got up from the chair and reached for his jacket. “I'll go talk to them.”

“I don't believe you are the right person to go,” Mamma said.

“Then who?”

“How about if we both go?”

“I'll come, too,” I said.

“No. You stay here,” Mamma ordered.

Mother and the landlord were back in minutes after having calmed the people in the street. I did not grasp the dangers brought on by the new events, but, judging from Mother's reaction, I was uneasy and that night asked to sleep in her bed.

In the middle of the night I awoke to find my mother sitting near the open balcony door. The room was pitch black. Still half asleep, I failed to hear the commotion outside. “Mamma, what's happening?”

She rushed to the bed. “Shush. Quiet. The German soldiers are down there and something important is happening.” She bent over to kiss my forehead, pulled the covers over me and, without making a sound, returned to the chair she had placed far back from the balcony to avoid being seen from the street.

The continuous loud roar of motorcycles sounded menacing. Over the din, a commanding German voice announced in a grave tone, “The Italian government has surrendered and as of today Italy is our enemy. You will consider yourself in unfriendly territory and will have to act accordingly. We will continue our just struggle until our final victory.”

Thus, a Jewish woman and the German troops received the information of the Axis breakup at the same time. Even after the troops dispersed and silence returned to the road below, Mother remained sitting absolutely still in her chair. Her worst fears were coming true. The silence that fell the night was foreboding.

Afraid to be alone, I whispered, “Come back to bed.”

Mother stretched out next to me. “I can't sleep,” she said. “I'm just too nervous. I'm afraid of what this will mean for us. Do the Germans know there are Jews in the village?”

With her words echoing in my ears, I succumbed to a restless and troubled sleep. When I awoke in the morning, I had more reasons to be frightened. Spying through the slits of the balcony shutters I saw the road below. Ospedaletto d'Alpinolo had turned into an armed camp. German soldiers were everywhere. These same soldiers, who the day before had strolled casually through the narrow streets laughing and joking, now marched in full battle gear. Helmets, bayonets mounted on rifles, and hand grenades stuffed in their black leather belts brought me face to face with the reality of warfare. In the months gone by, I had seen bombers overhead and heard distant explosions, but that had been too far away to make a meaningful impression on a thirteen-year-old. Even the small bombs, dropped during the first air raid over San Remo and which I had seen explode, were just a faint memory. Nor did the war stories my papa told us on the train to Italy create anything more than gruesome pictures conjured up in a childish mind. Now things seemed different. Even I grasped that.

“Are they going to start shooting?” I asked.

Mother, staring in the distance, didn't answer. The thought of getting caught in the midst of battle crossed my mind. I didn't have the slightest idea what a shooting war was all about and not knowing made it that much more alarming. I feared for my safety, but most of all I feared for my mother's.

“
Mutti
, I'm so scared!”

Her arms wrapped around me and her chin rested on my head. “I'm scared, too.”

“What will you do if the Germans take me away?” I asked.

“They're not taking children.”

“What if they take you?”

“They won't.”

“But if they do? What will I do?”

“You run to Dora and she'll take care of you until I get back. I must speak to John. I must tell him what I heard.”

We got dressed in a hurry. That day, for the first time in months, Mother did not make breakfast. I was not hungry anyway. “I'm going out,” she announced.

Although she ordered me to stay home, this time I would not obey and followed close behind. Perhaps her tone was not authoritative enough, or perhaps my fear of what was happening was far greater than the fear of my mother.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“To the Howells'.” When we arrived, other internees had already gathered.

“I guess everybody has heard about the armistice and the new government. Last night, under my balcony, the German commander was informing his troops what had happened. Then he told them Italy is now their enemy. That's why you see all these armed soldiers.”

“Now I understand,” John Howell said. He looked around. In the room were Perutz, Clara, the Spaechts, the Kamplers, and the Weil brothers. “This is grave, especially for our Jewish friends,” Mr. Perutz said. “I believe this is the beginning of the end of the war, but until that time comes, we must be very careful not to add to our problems.” It was the first time I had heard Signor Perutz make a serious comment. His face was drawn, his voice grim. “If none of the villagers talk, we will be all right.” He looked older than I had ever seen him look. As I glanced at all the faces, everyone seemed older. Even the Weil brothers had lost their dapper look.

Karel Weil had always seen danger, even where there was none. He moved about nervously. “But if someone does talk … ?” His voice quivered.

“They'll kill us all.” someone answered. “What else did the German officer say?”

“I was afraid they would discover me if I got any closer to the window,” Mamma said. “I didn't hear much else.”

“First of all, we must remain calm,” John said.

“How can we stay calm?” asked David Kampler. “We're surrounded by Germans who now view Italy as enemy country.”

“Any suggestions?”

“If only we could hide somewhere. Why don't we talk to some townspeople? Let's find out what ideas they have.”

“That's another problem,” my mother said. “The villagers. Some can't be trusted.”

But everyone agreed it was a good idea. Mr. Perutz would talk to Dr. Sellitto, Mother to Don Pasquale and John to Don Pepe at city hall. The Kamplers, the Spaechts and the Weil brothers looked relieved not to have been selected.

“One more suggestion. We must stay out of sight. Let's all stay inside and have just one person be the contact among us.” Willy Weil volunteered to be the contact.

Events began to happen rapidly. The following day Willy brought news that a German officer had requested from Don Pepe a list of all Jews living in the village. John Howell went to city hall to meet with Don Pepe and after would relate the details of his encounter.

“When I asked him what he was going to do, he exploded at me:‘Nothing!’ He was obviously annoyed by my question. He started shouting. Not at me. In dialect, he said he didn't have to give anything to those ‘
figli di puttana
.’ He wanted to suggest they should get the list from Mussolini.”

In less than three weeks, the Germans made the same request four times and four times Don Pepe told them he was trying to oblige but never did.

Some of the internees had lived in that village for almost four years. We were known to the townspeople. Anyone could have easily pointed out where each of us lived, yet, except for one isolated incident, no one did.

Knowing Germans were looking for Jews kept us in a state of constant alert. Mother and I stayed home and out of sight. The tension was more than I could cope with. Mother made a poor attempt at trying to hide from me how terror-stricken she was.

I broke down and in tears mumbled, “Are they going to kill us?”

“I don't know. I really don't know,”
Mutti
murmured. Had she realized how these words affected me she would have said nothing.

My mind went to places I didn't want it to be. Lying on a street, I saw my dead father's body covered with blood while people in black uniforms danced around his corpse.

“Do you think they killed Papa?

“I hope not. I don't know.”

“Let's run away,” I cried.

“Where?” The tone reflected Mama's own inner agitation. “I wish I could speak to Antonio or Dora, but that means going out.” Then a moment later, she said, “How could they help? What do they know about the Germans?”

That night Mother must have been spying from the door. She found me sitting in bed and came over to sit next to me. “Why aren't you sleeping?”

“Mamma, I don't want to die. I'm not yet Bar Mitzvah'd. I have not lived.”

“You're not going to die. Go to sleep.” I heard no conviction in her voice.

My mother slept very little the next few nights. For hours I heard her walk about and the strain showed on her once-beautiful face. The certainty that my life was ending just past my thirteenth birthday chased every rational thought from my mind and deprived me of sleep while keeping me in constant turmoil during the waking hours.

Nothing Mamma said could soothe me. A deep-seated anxiety had taken hold. Every day I stayed home, determined to spend my final hours next to the person I loved most. Day and night I hardly left her side and even spent the nights in her bed.

We were fast asleep when shooting in the distance woke us. I pressed close to Mother, dreading what was happening.

Antonio Guerriero had disappeared and Filomena didn't know 322 where he had gone.