A Child Al Confino: The True Story of a Jewish Boy and His Mother in Mussolini's Italy (13 page)

That first evening, before darkness set in, I stepped out on the balcony again to watch as scores of fishermen rowed out in their small boats. Bright-burning acetylene lanterns hung from the bows, while the sea reflected their glimmering rays.

“Are you going to stay there all night?” my mother asked.

“
Mutti
, you have to come and see.” She joined me and we both admired what man and nature had laid out for us to enjoy.

Our little villa, as I referred to it, was neither ours nor a villa but a multifamily, three-story building. To the left, the road running in front of our home led to the main golf course and up the mountains; to the right, it snaked down the hill, past villas wrapped in lush tropical greens. At every straightaway the road intersected a cobblestone footpath, until both the road and the path merged and like two rivers flowing down the mountains, spilled into the market square of the town below.

The footpath, an endless sequence of wide cobbled steps smoothed from years of wear, was only a few paces from our villa. Every day I walked that path and soon learned to match my gait to the width of the steps so I could run rather than walk down. The same didn't work for the uphill climb, forcing me to do it at a much slower pace and with greater effort. But whether going up or down, the balmy weather, nature's gift to the region, made the hike a pleasure.

Many months had passed since Aunt Sally came to visit and brought the last news from my father.

“Can't you write to Papa?” I asked
Mutti
.

“Where do you want me to write to him?”

“To
Opapa
's home,” I said.

“Sure.”

I didn't quite understand what that meant but did not persist.

Before summer neared its end, as I had learned to expect, Mother searched and found ways to have her little
Erichl
go to school. Undaunted by the racial laws and ignoring my Jewish heritage, she enrolled me in a Catholic school where, in their zeal to keep sexes segregated, the nuns allowed boys to attend up to the third grade only. Though past my tenth birthday and old enough to be in the fourth grade, I was obliged to attend third grade.

Each morning, after the good breakfast my mother always prepared, I hopped down the uneven cobblestoned path to join the nun who waited at the corner of Via Roma, just one block from the market square. With each hand hidden in the opposite sleeve, this middle-aged, quiet servant of the Lord guided us down the long street. One by one the pupils joined the line until we reached the school, located about one mile away. The walk covered almost the entire length of the town and was an enjoyable way to start the day for it gave me a chance to talk to my heart's delight. And talk I had to or I would have exploded during classes. Though older than the other kids by at least one year, I got along well with my fellow schoolmates.

What disturbed me most about the school were the many crucifixes hanging from every wall. Had I not known better, if I considered misbehaving the message would have been, “This is what can happen to you.”

The teachers, all nuns dressed in long, dark brown habits covered by a large white apron and wearing a matching head gear fashioned into a long cylinder, spoke in a soft whisper. They gave me the definite impression that this was the school I had always dreamed of. Here, the devil in me would be free to roam, my vivid imagination my only limit! On my second day I faced a rude awakening and grasped how appearances can be deceiving.

My teacher caught me talking during a lecture. “You will remain after class,” the nun said softly. She had a kind smile on her partially visible face.

I had a good knowledge of punishments, having withstood my share of them, but staying after classes was new to me? “What will I do and how long will I have to stay?” I asked.

“We'll let you know.” I was sure the nun had curtsied to me.

The smile on the nun's face was always there, almost as though it had been painted on. Otherwise, why would anyone smile when they were punishing a child? If I was being detained just for talking, what would have happened if I had pulled one of my really bad shticks?

By six in the evening, five hours after the last class had let out, a nun poked her head through the door. “You may go home now.” The smile was still there.

I gathered my books and in the fragrant evening air, climbed the stony path on my way home. Having to stay after classes didn't bother me one bit, but I did worry about having to face my mother. With each step, I thought of a million excuses of why I was so late. Sooner or later she would find out the truth and so, once again to save my skin, I refrained from lying. Luck was on my side that night. Mother was already dressed and set to go out and, rather than dispense one of her more drastic disciplines, she simply sent me to bed earlier than usual on a very empty stomach.

I had tasted my mother's wrath a few times before. Once a year, almost like clockwork, after accumulating my transgressions and drawing a grand total, Mother would mete out her single punishment. As the fateful hour was approaching, she would utter in a wry tone, “I can see we are getting close to that time of year.”

When I did something to break the thin thread of her patience, Mother used whatever tool was within her reach: a belt, the rug beater, even a broom were perfect to mete out her punishment. Mother was determined and efficient. First she locked the door and placed the key in her pocket, then she chased me through the house or under the bed. She would not give up until she had accomplished what she had set out to do.

The discipline I suffered in school didn't make me any less mischievous, only more cautious and restrained in the classroom. My newly found restraint might also have been inspired by a divine looking ten-year-old fourth grader, named Anthemis. I had noticed her as we were leaving school and remained captivated by her Shirley Temple look: long, silky blond curls falling about her lovely round face, dimples in her smooth cheeks, and large, deep, penetrating eyes. We were studying poetry at the time. I wished I could have written a poem describing how this angel looked to me.

For days I waited outside the school, hoping to attract her attention or perhaps earn a simple smile. When one day she stopped to talk to me, my tongue froze and the words I had prepared so carefully and for so long vanished, sending my first love affair into a fatal spin and leaving me with a tightening in my chest whenever our paths crossed.

Being in third grade gave me a distinct advantage. Homework was easier than if I had been placed in the grade where I belonged. Most days my assignments were finished soon after lunch, leaving me the afternoon to get into whatever mischief I could find.

Sugar, coal, sulphur, and potassium nitrate, someone told me, made a powerful explosive. Sugar and coal we had in the house, the other two ingredients I had to buy in a pharmacy. I went to a pharmacy.

“Potassium nitrate and sulphur,” the pharmacist repeated. From his looks I knew he had guessed my sinister intentions and, judging my age to be less than that of reason, he sent me scrambling. “I know what you're up to, you little scoundrel. You're lucky I am here alone. Otherwise, I would grab you by the ear and drag you to the police.” His shouting followed me the full length of the store.

I was out of sight before the echo of “police” could bounce off the wall. Being picked up by the police and thrown in jail would really kill my mother — unless she killed me first.

Buying the items from two pharmacies averted a repeat of my first experience. Next, I set out to find some fuse and a casing. With tension making my chest feel as though it were cast in cement, I entered a store that sold material for miners. When the clerk wanted to know what I was going to do with the fuse, I decided to make a fast retreat and slid out of the store.

Not one to easily be defeated, I found a good soul on the street who took my money and offered to buy the fuse for me. For casings I found spent shotgun shells in a nearby shooting range, then went to our cellar to prepare my creation. I pulled out the hidden shoebox containing the ingredients. First I smashed the coal between some old newspaper; the resulting fine powder floated in the air, coating everything in sight. With my hand I tried to clean the oily patina, but it adhered with even greater tenacity. Not wanting to be delayed by some dirt, I resumed the more important task of measuring the components.

I mixed the ingredients in a brown paper bag, a rare commodity in those days when groceries were wrapped in newspaper or placed in your own net shopping bag. Beads of sweat started running down my face. Could this explode in my hands? Gingerly, I set the bag on the concrete floor and took refuge in a corner.

When nothing happened, I packed one of the cardboard shells, placed a length of fuse inside the powder, and tied the end with a thin chord. Again, rivulets of sweat ran down my forehead, something was being pumped furiously into my blood, and my breathing had reached an unmanageable rate. I hesitated, trying to regain control.

Grateful that I did not run into Mother, I gathered the supplies, placed them back into the shoebox and put them all in a secret place. Box of matches in hand, I ran to the field where I had collected the used shells. With my bare hands I dug a hole and moving as carefully as a mother holding her newborn baby, I slid the bomb into it, gave it a little love pat, and packed dirt and stones all around.

In slow motion, my shaky finger pushed open the small matchbox and reached for one of the skinny waxed sticks. From my toes to my head I trembled. My whole shirt was drenched in cold sweat. Suddenly my breathing, so fast moments before, stopped dead. Kneeling at the edge of the hole, I lit the match. By now I was wound up like a compressed spring. The small flickering flame that I held in my fingers searched for the fuse, but my jittering hand needed my other hand to hold it steady. Success! Caught by surprise and shocked by the flame's sudden swish, I lost my balance and fell backward, the burning match still between my fingers. Desperate to put distance between the bomb and myself, I rolled over on my belly and furiously crawled on all fours. I had never been so clumsy. My clothes stuck to my clammy skin and my body felt paralyzed.

Rolling onto my back, I waited. Nothing happened. I waited some more. Why did that bomb not explode? I even considered digging the bomb out of the hole, but visions of it exploding in my hands, blowing off my fingers, and blinding me in both eyes flashed through my mind.

I reached for a branch laying close by and used it to pry out the bomb. After just a little digging, the loaded cartridge, with several of the stones, shot out of the ground and up into the air. Startled, I collapsed. Panting, I stared at my creation lying two body-lengths from me. Nothing moved, neither I nor it. With stupidity granted only to a ten-year-old, I reached for it and with force clasped the bomb between my trembling hands, hoping that by holding it firmly, it would not explode.

With the help of my faithful penknife, I slit open the fuse and found that the thin filament, meant to carry the flame to the powder, had broken. In the cellar, I replaced the fuse and rushed back to the field and the waiting hole.

My clothes were still damp, but no new sweat was running down my back. I felt like a seasoned professional. With a steady hand, I packed the bomb back in the ground and lit the fuse. This time one hand was sufficient to hold the match. Now I felt only curiosity.

I walked backward while watching the smoke from the tiny flame disappear. Little drums beat in my chest … but not for long. The blast outperformed my greatest expectation. The stones I had so carefully packed flew high, very high, as my body hit the ground in a rigid state.

When the shock wore off, I was happy to still be alive. What an accomplishment! The kind of news one shared with his friends, his neighbors, his mother. Oh, no. Not my mother. Lotte Szyfra Lifschütz would never understand and could do me more damage than any exploding bomb.

One day I was carrying a few of my bombs when two German sailors crossed my path. I approached them in German. “Would you help me explode these bombs?” I asked.

They looked surprised. After a short glance at each other, with animation they responded, “
Natürlich
.”

I handed each one a bomb and used their cigarettes to light the fuse. The three of us hurled the flaming devices across the stream. Waiting for the explosions, I tried to guess what my mother's reaction would be if she saw me exploding bombs with German sailors. I must have had a worried look because one of the sailors placed his arm on my shoulder.

“
Dass kann dir nicht weh tun
,” he said, trying to reassure me that the bomb wouldn't hurt.

For me, France's surrender brought an end to the war. Air raids halted and ambulances stopped bringing wounded from the front that no longer was. Few people owned a radio and, at ten, I wasn't much interested in the events that engulfed the remote parts of Europe. My life in San Remo had normalized, with school in the mornings and the afternoons left to spend with my friends or practice billiards.

Thanks to my mother's passion for bridge, I learned to play billiards. The billiard tables were off to one corner in the same room where the ladies played bridge. Mother wasn't happy about my hanging around at the
caffê
but said it was better than my roaming the streets. Many afternoons, when she joined her regular game at the small coffeehouse across from the city gardens, I tagged along, for had I gone there alone, the owner would have kicked me out because of my age. But when the unfriendly proprietor wasn't there, I often could find someone to sharpen my skills with or practice by myself.

School ended. The war, despite France's surrender and Mother's fleeting hope of a quick end, raged on. From what little I overheard, France's early capitulation did nothing to improve the fate of European Jews.

The news from
Omama
and Aunt Stefi had stopped. The Turkish student, who provided us with information on our relatives, wrote that he had lost contact with them and did not know what had happened to them. Nor had we heard anything from Papa since the German invasion of Poland. But Mother, always protective, tried to keep these painful facts from me.