A Child Al Confino: The True Story of a Jewish Boy and His Mother in Mussolini's Italy (42 page)

With conflicting emotions and against my own better judgment, I walked down the dusty footpath, twice crossed the serpentine road, until I came up to the armored vehicle.

The sergeant saw me first. “Hello! What a nice surprise.” He jumped down on the soft terrain, giving me a big smile and a pat on my shoulder. “Hey, look who is here!” He shouted to his men inside the vehicle. Two turned around, looked with disinterest and went back to their work.

He clasped his arm around me. I shuddered. What was he going to do? “I'm so happy you've come. Would you like something?”

“No, thank you,” I replied.

“I know. Chocolate.” Without waiting for my reaction, he hopped into the half-track and returned with two bars of chocolate and a canned chicken.

I could not remember how long it had been since I last tasted real chocolate. Must have been at least two long years or maybe more. The man must have sensed my reluctance. He pushed the candy toward me. “
Ach du lieber
! Take it. It will not bite you. It's good German chocolate.” Seduced by the sight of the candy, I took it from the man, tore open the wrapper and enthusiastically sank my teeth into it.

He laughed. “Take it easy. I can get you more.” He seemed to enjoy watching me eat the candy as much as I enjoyed pushing it into my mouth.

Without asking me, he lifted me inside the jam-packed cabin and showed me the radios. He hopped up and came alongside. “These are shortwave transmitters. They allow us to communicate with our head-quarters. From up here we can observe what the Americans are doing and we radio to our command.” He seemed pleased to share this information with me. “I don't even know your name. What is it?”

I was happy to be there but at the same time intimidated and tongue-tied.

“Well, what is your name?”

I gave him the Italian and German version of my name. “
Enrico.
Nein, Erich
.”

“My name is Gerhard.” Then turning to the men inside, he introduced me. “Ludwig, this is Erich. And this is Karl and this is Hans.” Each man nodded and turned back to his task.

I pointed to a large contraption mounted on a tripod alongside the truck. It resembled a strange animal with two gigantic ears.

“What's that?” I asked.

“It's a periscope.” Gerhard jumped off the vehicle and, holding his arms outstretched, he invited me to jump into them. I felt relaxed and allowed his strong arms to catch me in midair. For a long moment he held me close. The empty stare in his eyes looking through me suggested his thoughts were somewhere else. Side by side we walked down the poorly graded and unsurfaced road. “These Italians don't do anything right. Not even the roads are good. How old are you?”

“Thirteen.”

“How is it that you speak such good German?”

“I was born in Vienna.” I trembled, worrying what might follow.

“I'm from Munich. I have a son. He is eleven.” The look in his eyes was the same look I had seen moments before. “I often wonder what he is doing and if he will ever see his papa again.”

I instinctively knew I could trust this nostalgic man. “I haven't seen my papa in almost five years.”

“Where is he?” Gerhard asked.

“I don't know. He was in Poland the last time we heard from him.”

“What division is he in?”

“What division? I don't know what you mean.”

“Is he in infantry, Panzer Corps, air force?”

I did not understand his question right away. “Oh no, he is with his parents.”

He looked at his watch. “I have to go back. Come again tomorrow. You remind me so much of my boy.”

Mentioning my father saddened me, just as I sensed my presence seemed to have saddened the sergeant. I liked Gerhard. He was a gentle man and did not even closely resemble the soldiers in the Vienna terminal. Somewhat depressed, on my way back to the monastery I removed my shirt and wrapped the precious booty in it, fearful that, if someone had seen the food, they might attack me.

Mother was in the room alone. I took a fast look around and dumped the remaining chocolate and the large can on my bunk. She did not need to ask where it all came from. “You really are wishing for my death. Don't you know these people are murderers?”

I was incensed that she could say such a thing about that kind man. “Gerhard is not a murderer.”

“You're a know-it-all. Because he gave you a lousy piece of chocolate, now he is no longer a murderer?”

“No,
Mutti
. He's a good man who has an eleven-year-old son in Germany and I remind him of his son.”

“Sure, sure.” Then she posed the question I should have asked my German friend. “How are you going to open this can?”

We stood there in silence. “First, let's hide it. Then we'll think of a way to open the can,” I said.

That afternoon I explored the caverns surrounding the dormitory we called home. I found nothing except a new way to get to the monk's inner quarters. The passages proved to be of no help toward opening our treasured canned chicken. Disheartened, I returned to the room. I found Mother all smiles. She was pointing to our Neapolitan neighbor. “This gentleman was so kind to open the can for us.”

That evening we enjoyed the best meal during our stay in Montevergine. In fact, I thought it was the best ever, or so it seemed at the time. Cold chicken soup and a small piece of chicken, some of which we shared with our roommates.

That evening Mother implored me again. “Please, Erich, stay away from them.”

I ignored my mother's pleading and went to see my German friend every day for two weeks. He had become a real friend. For the time being he could even be the father my papa was or Pietro had become. Gerhard liked me. He allowed me to enter the cabin where his men talked with other German units. The soldiers had become friendlier. During that period when hunger was a major problem for us, these soldiers assured me of at least one good meal a day.

One morning, as Gerhard saw me coming down the road, he jumped out of the cabin and motioned for me to follow him. Once out of earshot of his men, he stopped and looked me in the eyes. “I know you are Jewish, but you have nothing to fear.
Nicht alle Deutsche sind gleich
.”

I should have been reassured to know there were decent Germans and that Gerhard was one, but, at that moment, those words caused me to shudder and the more I thought of what to say, the greater I felt the tightening in my chest. I had experienced that same terror twice before when that big, ugly, and mean Nazi woman searched my naked body at the railroad station and then when I heard the Germans were looking for Jews in Ospedaletto. Never should I have befriended this man. Never! Now I was angry with myself. I should have listened to my mother.

“Oh no, only my grandmother was Jewish,” I lied.

He added not one word, only a compassionate look. I was scared and wanted to run away while I was still alive. He sensed my turmoil.

“Please, don't be afraid.” A sad pleading tone rang in his voice, as though he was asking forgiveness. “Believe me. I will not harm you.”

Though his words would become embedded in my memory, the upheaval I felt at that moment surpassed any of the terrifying moments I had already known. The Nazi threat loomed and I felt closer to death than ever before. This was the man I had befriended, for whom I had developed such warm feelings. A gentle man, a caring father figure just like Pietro. Now he knew of my Jewishness and everything his uniform stood for made us enemies. Thus, while part of me screamed “Run away,” another part wanted to stay. I wanted him to show me that knowing I was a Jew had not changed his feelings for me.

“I have to go now,” I said.

“Please don't be angry with me. Nothing has changed the way I feel about you.”

“I know, but I have to go.”

“Can we at least shake hands?”

I couldn't say no to the man who had hugged me every day and in whose eyes I saw tears at that moment. Although no words were exchanged as we shook hands, it was a sad goodbye. I so much wanted to remain his friend but dared not.

Up the steep hill I ran back to my room at the monastery to bury my face in the clothes lying on my cot. How I hated the war!

For the next few days I watched Gerhard from a distance until one morning, from my hidden observation post, I saw the soldiers hastily preparing to leave. The antenna had been dismantled, the tent was gone. They had thrown everything inside the vehicle. Then the noisy rumble of the engine cut through the trees. As I stared at the half-track rolling down the mountain road, I felt the choking in my throat. I had not even said goodbye. I wanted to call out, “Stop! Stop!” Gerhard had never given me his full name and I wondered if he would get back to his son and if we would ever meet again.

The Battle for Salerno

S
oon after my friend Gerhard's departure, an uneasy stillness settled in on the mountain. The sounds of battle in the valley below had ceased and so had the familiar din of airplanes. For almost two weeks we had not seen a new refugee, and no one at the monastery knew what was going on down below. Nerves were tense and the unnatural calm made everyone more jittery. Strangely, we had become accustomed to the incessant rumbles and booms of war and now the total silence had become ominous.

Mother did not sleep for two nights. Nor did she wash at the fountain or eat. Each morning, in a tremulous voice, she asked the same question, “Has anyone heard what is going on?” Confined to our tiny cubicle, she moved about restlessly. She never sat for more than a few minutes before moving around again. “I can't go on like this. Not knowing what is happening is going to drive me crazy.”

No one had news to share. Except for a few echoing steps, the sounds made by small children running, the long hallway was deserted. Everyone waited for something to happen.

Three days after the Germans left, just as we were reaching the breaking point of our mental exhaustion, four American soldiers, displaying the 5th Army emblem on their shoulders, arrived in an open car, which I later learned was a Jeep. The Allied forces had won the battle of Salerno and liberated the valley and the surrounding villages below. Cautiously, as people came out of their cubicles, an explosion of human voices filled the courtyard. The soldiers, in their early twenties or perhaps only late teens, looked bewildered. They sat in their open vehicle stopped before the church's staircase as they were greeted by a sudden burst of frenzied enthusiasm.

Soon, as reality set in and Mother realized what really had happened, she became delirious. She frightened me for a few moments, for I had never seen my mother dance, sing, and shout in such an uncontrollable fashion, but soon I too, became infected by her actions. Realizing we were finally free, we were anxious to touch those brave soldiers and speak to them. But, under such emotional stress, neither one of us could put together more than a few words in English, so we just stood and stared.

The four young men, mobbed by a cheering crowd, struggled to step out of their Jeep. When they finally did, they left their gear in the open car and started up the steps to the sanctuary. Through gestures, people in the crowd tried to tell them not to leave their equipment unguarded. The soldiers looked at each other. “What's he saying?” one asked. I understood the question but how could I tell them their bags and rifles could be stolen? I tried to create a sentence to convey the message but to no avail. In the end, people stopped them from going up the stairs and, with sign language, let them know they might not find their belongings when they returned.

And so, with guns over their shoulders and backpacks in hand, the Americans climbed the steps and walked into the church with me and others in tow. Their young faces showed the strain and fatigue brought on by war. Must not have slept in days. They knelt by the last row of pews, made the sign of the cross and, unable to hold back their tears, those four battle-hardened men cried openly. And so did I.

When I came out of the church, I rejoined Mother in the courtyard.

“
Erichl
, I can't believe it,” she cried out loud. “Do you know what this means? It means we can leave. We are no longer prisoners. We're free!” She clutched me tightly, covering my face with kisses and tears.

All around us people were celebrating. The Italians were rejoicing in being liberated by men who for three years had been their country's enemy. Liberated from Fascism and the German presence, friends and strangers hugged and kissed. I was caught up by this exuberance, even if not quite certain what it all meant. Only days before I had cried watching my German friend leave, now I was cheering the arrival of the Americans. As I sorted things out, the realization of what had happened began to sink in. For us, the war was over and I finally understood what Mother had been saying.

Before noon, I ran to say goodbye to the monks I had befriended. Mamma went to bid farewell to the people we had met and then, with what little we had in hand, we left our refuge and made a fast descent from the mountain. I could not believe how rapidly Mother skipped down that stony path. Keeping up with her was a struggle.

“What's your hurry?” I asked.

Instead of answering, she hummed a Viennese waltz. This was my mother of old. I heard her shriek every so often, cry out loud, and speak to shadows, leaving me somewhat perplexed. This was a side of her I had never seen. Had she lost her mind? I couldn't ask my mother that. Yet, she was doing things I would do, like kicking stones and jumping from shadow to shadow.

“Come here,” she called out. “Dance with me.”
Mutti
sang and we danced to the tune of the “Blue Danube.”

Some refugees caught up with us. They, too, were returning to their homes. “
Cche bella cosa na iurnata e sole
.” They had interrupted our music with “
O sole mio
.”

“
É veramente una bella giornata
,” Mamma shouted.

Our apartment in Ospedaletto was just as we had left it. The Germans were gone, leaving behind three fallen soldiers and a number of dead mules and horses. From the shallow graves by the side of the main road, it was obvious the dead men had been buried in great haste. A gun had been planted near the grave with a helmet hanging from it and a poorly made wooden sign identifying the fallen soldier's name had been laid on the ground.