A Child Al Confino: The True Story of a Jewish Boy and His Mother in Mussolini's Italy Read Online Free PDF Page A

Italians had mules to carry their big guns. We were set in place and our machine guns just cut them down. Tat , tat , tat . Even the animals were killed.”
    “Did you get wounded?” I asked.
    “Oh, no. Never.” Then he told me he had been kept from combat because of his flat feet.
    “That was a blessing,” Mutti said. “The Polish army was part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire and, if your father had been allowed to fight, the empire would have collapsed sooner than it did.” Mother had regained her sense of humor.
    Papa's words created all sorts of fantasies in my fertile mind. As he related stories of battles, I envisioned swarms of soldiers rushing from the dense foliage, surrounding the fast-moving train and shooting wildly at an invisible enemy. I could see bodies partially entombed under a thin layer of soil, their bloody limbs stretched upward toward the sky, the gruesome sights of death.
    For hours my mind ran wild as my eyes followed, in the faint light coming from the window, the smooth up-and-down movement of the telegraph wires as the train raced from one pole to the next. In the end, overcome by fatigue, I fell asleep until the screech of the iron wheels, braking to a slow halt in the Milan terminal, awoke me.
    As the train came to a full stop, excited passengers moved with a new charge of energy. Everyone in the compartment was standing, stretching limbs, loosening necks by turning from side to side, then reaching for items placed on the overhead racks the night before. There was no room for anyone to stand for the floor was covered with baggage. Papa was close to the window and pushed it down. A strange smell, a mixture of steam and burning coal, invaded the cabin. Mother was busy gathering the belongings we had pulled from our luggage during the night, while Papa, with the aid of a stranger standing outside on the platform, pushed our two valises through the open window and into the man's outstretched arms. Nothing about my father's dapper look betrayed that he had sat up all night. His hair was neat, his tie perfectly knotted and the white handkerchief in his breast pocket gave a finishing touch to his steel gray, double-breasted suit.
    He grabbed his overcoat, then rushed down the corridor and onto the platform to claim the luggage gathered there. Mother looked around one final time to be sure nothing had been left behind, then, handed me my fur-lined coat and pushed me ahead through the corridor and down the three steep steps. The height of those steps made it impossible for a woman to get off the train in a ladylike fashion, for she needed to lift her skirt way above her knees. Standing at the top of the platform, her head outside the door, holding on to both side railings, Mother looked to either side, before lifting her skirt and stepping down.
    Seeing my father's hand gesture, a wrinkled porter, who seemed older than any other person I had ever seen before, rushed up to us. He grabbed a thick and heavily worn leather belt that was holding up his pants and ran it through the handles of our two suitcases. He secured the strap to the buckle and then with a rapid jolt, draped the belt over his right shoulder, letting one suitcase fall in front and the other behind. After balancing himself under the heavy weight, mumbling words I could not understand, he led the way through crowds of passengers. We walked the full length of the platform under a steel and glass roof, blackened by years of smoke from the coal-burning locomotives.
    The old man carried our bags to the side exit, from where he hailed a taxi. The driver rushed from the cab to place our luggage on the car's roof, then tied it down with a rope that was hanging there. The porter looped the leather strap through his drooping pants, gave them a yank to stop them from dragging on the ground and, respectfully removing his oily and sweat-stained cap, turned to my father and said, “ A suo favore ,” leaving the tip to my father's discretion.
    Papa