War in My Town (4 page)

“Hello, Bruna,” the old woman smiled as she struggled to keep the soap bar and washboard balanced on top of the heap of clothes.

I set the flour down on the side of the cobble path. “Let me help you with that. I’ll carry the soap and washboard to the laundry tub for you,” I said, eagerly grabbing the washboard from the top of the laundry pile. As I watched in horror, the washboard caught on the knotted sheet with which Evelina had secured the bundle. The entire basket and contents toppled to the ground. Shirts, housedresses, socks and underwear scattered everywhere.

“I’m so sorry, Evelina,” I gasped, mortified. Straight away I lunged forward to gather up the clothes. Before I could even begin, the old woman’s hand reached down and gently tapped me on the shoulder.

Evelina sighed. “If you don’t mind, Bruna, I can bring it all to the tub myself. Thank you though, for the offer,” she added patiently, shaking her head slowly from side to side. She bent down to reassemble her wash bundle.

“Of course — if you insist. I’m so sorry again. Good morning.” I scooped up the sack of flour and swiftly resumed my way home without looking back. That entire awkward display was typical for me.

Why do I constantly make a pest of myself?
I questioned.
My cheeks turned red. Why was I so clumsy and gawky? I was just eleven, but some of the girls my age in the village had already begun to mature. My sister Mery was fifteen, but she looked twenty. She was beautiful, like one of those movie actresses from Hollywood in America. Everyone said how beautiful Mery was. But, I was just Bruna, the ugly, skinny, tanned baby of the family.

Shoulders slumped, I tramped down the last set of steps and turned the corner on the path to my left, past Oreste and Ida’s house built into the same rock as ours. I inhaled the wonderful aroma of fresh bread baking in the little hearth oven. Mamma made her own bread, and sometimes she made
polenta
, a porridge made from corn meal. But today, for me, it would be chestnut meal.

I walked slowly, distracted by my thoughts, under the kitchen window and past my mother’s abundant geraniums that adorned the
terrazza
, overlooking the dirt road below. Looking over the wrought-iron barrier down to the road, I thought of my brothers negotiating the steep hill on their bicycles in the early morning, while it was still dark. I loved them because they protected me, and our mother.

“Mamma, I’m home,” I called out. The little kitchen consisted of a simple basin and a wood stove. An oversized table and a variety of chairs and stools stood pushed against the back wall. It wasn’t necessary to pull the table away from the wall unless all my siblings were there at one time, an increasingly rare happening.

Aurelia had found work as a cook for a wealthy family in Pisa and came home when she could. And Pina worked in the steel factory at Fornaci di Barga. The town’s name literally meant the furnaces of Barga. The steel factories had become very busy with the possibility of war breaking out at any moment. Pina stayed in a rooming house with four of her friends from the village and would come home on Fridays after her last shift.

My brothers Cesar and Alcide worked at the factory in Fornaci di Barga, too. But they made the daunting ride on their bicycles back up to Eglio every evening after work. Cesar would come back every night, because he felt a keen obligation to Mamma and to us younger siblings. Alcide was just too young to venture out on his own. Even though he was very tall and imposing, barely able to get through the doorway, Mamma would sometimes jokingly say that he was afraid of his own shadow.

As I set the chestnut flour down on the scrubbed table, I wondered if Evelina would tell mother about the laundry. That nagging worry about what the rest of the village thought of me usually served to preoccupy me at least once or twice a day.

“I’m coming, Bruna,” Mamma answered, as she gingerly descended the stairs. Her arthritis had been bad lately, and she had to be cautious when she used the stairs. The flights of steps to the second and third floors were extremely steep, almost like a ladder. The house itself was built against the hillside and one of its walls was the rock face of the mountain. It was a sturdy house built with mortar and brick and stones from the hillside. It was whitewashed inside and the roof was made of red clay tile. Its shutters on the neat little windows were green, like the fields in the valley.

This was my mother’s family home. Though it had three floors, it was small but served our purpose. The first floor consisted of the kitchen and my sisters’ bedroom with a single and a double bed. The second floor had one bedroom for my mother and me, and the third floor was the boys’ bedroom. We had no indoor plumbing and brought water from the fountain in the
piazza
for cooking and bathing. Our outhouse was located farther down the pathway, out of sight. It was a very modest home, but we all made do and were content.

“Heaven help us, Bruna, but these stairs are getting steeper every day,” proclaimed Mamma, sighing and grasping the simple wooden banister.

“No, Mamma, they just feel that way to you. Here,” I said climbing the first few steps to reach up and assist her. “Hold my hand.” She readily accepted my help.

“You know, Mamma, I think I’ll go to
Nonna
and
Nonno’s
tonight. Nonna made cheese yesterday. Perhaps she will make
foccaccia
bread to go with it.” I loved goat cheese and foccaccia almost as much as I loved my grandmother and especially my grandfather.

“As you wish, dear. Just don’t get in their way,” she warned.

My mother dressed in a simple manner. She wore her skirts close to her ankles and when she was home she always wore an apron. Her long hair was braided and worn in a tight bun at the base of her skull. Sometimes I looked at her and thought that she looked much older than her years.

“Let’s get started,” she said smiling at me as she opened up the bag. She peered into the sack. “Looks like the miller did a fine job,” she said. “The chestnut porridge will be good this time.”

Mamma busied herself with measuring out the portions of flour and other ingredients for lunch, while I got the kindling ready in the fireplace. It would need to burn a while so that the embers were hot enough to cook the meal over the grills. Mamma would work the simple mixture of chestnut meal, goat’s milk, butter, and sugar in a bowl as I sat on one of the mismatched chairs watching her, my head resting on folded hands on the tabletop.

“When will it be ready, Mamma?” I asked. “I’m hungry.”

“Soon,” she answered patiently and glanced at me with kindly eyes. “Meanwhile, why don’t you go and check your collars. You will need to wash them before school tomorrow.”

“Yes, Mamma,” I answered obediently. I did not need to spend much more time washing my collars nightly. It was June, and soon school would be over for the summer. This made me both excited and sad. I enjoyed it when my siblings came home for summer holidays, but I also loved school and would miss it. As I turned to walk up the stairs, it struck me that I could make an event of the trip to wash my collars and see what my friends were up to.

Chapter 5

I scurried up the stairs to the second floor and walked sideways around the bed to the little bureau I shared with my mother. Beside it was a basket of clothes to be washed. I gently pulled out the familiar collars that were part of my school uniform. The girls all had to wear white collars and black tunics. The boys wore black shirts and ties. This is how the
piccole italiane
or Italian youth were required to dress. It was very important to Il Duce that we wore black. It was the color of his party, the fascists.

Everyone said that Il Duce was a great man because he had improved job opportunities and the economy for the common people. But there were also rumblings about his association with the German Fuehrer, Adolf Hitler. People said that Mussolini would support Hitler even if it meant war for Italy. This frightened me. If there was a war, my brothers would be called to defend the country.

“I have the collars, Mamma.” I dashed back down the stairs.

“Good,” she said as she prepared the meal in the cast iron pan. “Your lunch will be cooked and ready when you come back.”

I stooped under the kitchen basins and found a bar of homemade lye soap. I put it in a small hamper with the collars and some of my personal things to be washed. “Be back soon.”

The public
lavatoio,
or washtub fountain, was a very large oval basin, about the size of ten large wash tubs, located centrally in the village. It had continuously running cold water flowing from a pipe, replenishing the huge basin with fresh water. The women would arrive very early in the morning to get the cleanest water for washing their family’s clothes. There was a ledge around the entire basin so that clothes could be soaped up, scrubbed, pounded, and rinsed one by one.

By now the sun was high in the sky, sending its rays down on the whitewashed village. On my way to the wash tub, I decided to collect my best friends, Armida and Beppina. Nobody said that I couldn’t enjoy myself while working. With basket in hand, I found the familiar shortcuts through the steep inclines winding around Eglio’s houses, many built right into the hillside, just like ours.

I skipped lightly up the steps in my wooden clogs to Armida’s house first.
Clip, clop, clip clop
! They could hear me coming. Armida stuck her head out one of the upper windows as she heard my familiar gait. “Hey,” Armida smiled and waved down at me. “Are you coming my way?”

I motioned with a nod to the bundle in my hands. “I am! Do you have wash, too?”

“Wait there. I’ll be right down.” She closed the shutters slightly, and then disappeared inside. While I headed to the front door to wait for her, I heard another familiar voice.

“Hello down there.” It was Armida’s big sister, Eva. She was the most beautiful girl in the village, even more stunning than Mery, and her smile could light up the sun. She was fifteen years of age and all the boys in the village would forget their own names when she walked by.

“Hello, Eva,” I nodded up to her. “Will you be in sewing tomorrow?”

“Of course,” Eva said as she shot a fleeting glance in the direction of Beppina’s house further up the path. Everyone knew that she and Beppina’s brother secretly liked each other, but neither would dare to admit it. “I must get to work on my linens for my hope chest.” All the girls in the village learned to embroider their sheets, pillowcases and tablecloths for their future marriages.

I furrowed my brow. “I can’t wait to be able to embroider. The seamstress is still having me do hems for her.” I looked up at Eva with a grimace.

Eva laughed heartily. “Don’t worry little one. Your time will come.” Sometimes, I wished that my own sister Mery would speak to me so kindly. But, I supposed, sisters were not ordinarily that kind to one another openly, though they still loved each other dearly as I knew Mery loved me.

Armida stepped out the door. “Come on,” she said, as she slipped her arm through mine, balancing her basket of clothes. “Let’s go get Beppina.”

Armida, Beppina, and I were inseparable friends and we did just about everything together. We lived innocently in the shadow of our church tower. We washed our clothes, chatting more than washing. We talked of our parents, our siblings, teachers, and the boys in whom we were interested. We sometimes spoke secretly of our menstrual cycles, but never in the open.

“I wish that Ugo and Eva would have the courage to admit that they like each other,” Beppina sighed as she rinsed out her last apron. Then suddenly she gasped, turned to Armida and grabbed her hand. “What if they get married!” she said dreamily, staring into the distance. “Then we’d be sisters.”

“That’s true!” exclaimed Armida. “Wouldn’t that be wonderful,” she squealed. She held Beppina’s hand to her heart.

“I want to be your sister, too!” I cried.

“You have too many sisters already,” laughed Beppina. We broke out in laughter, but soon Beppina took on a graver tone. She glanced surreptitiously over her shoulder. Then she leaned in to us and said, almost in a whisper, “I need to tell you something that I overheard my brothers talking about last night.” She checked over her shoulder once more to make certain that no one was listening. “I heard him say that Il Duce is very close to entering the war. And any day now, Italy will be at war, just like Germany.”

I gasped. “Oh, no. Don’t say such things. That would be wretched.” I shook my head in disbelief. I shuddered. “What would happen to our brothers? They would have to fight, wouldn’t they?”

“I’m sure they would,” said Armida. “But Il Duce and the Fuehrer know what is best. They love their people and we must trust them.” She spoke the words, but her voice gave away her uncertainty.

We had been told to trust and love Mussolini, but I could not support my brothers being put in harm’s way for any reason. “Let’s not talk about it anymore,” I said, getting a queasy feeling in my stomach. “After all, it might not happen.” I wanted to go home now, to my mother and to the security of Poggetti. Everything always seemed safe there. I began to gather my things, placing the pristinely washed white collars in the basket to bring home to hang dry. “I must get home for lunch. Mamma is preparing chestnut meal for me.” There was now a gray cloud hanging over my mood. I detested talk of the imminent war. It frightened me.

“And I must hurry home,” answered Armida, with a shrug. “Schoolwork.”

“Me too,” said Beppina. “See you in school tomorrow, then.”

“If you can, come to the library at Alfezio’s this afternoon.” I kissed my friends on the cheek and turned to go home. But as I walked, I couldn’t rid my mind of the thought of war. My pace quickened as my thoughts raced. As I got closer to my little house on the edge of the village, I was running and breathless.

“Mamma!” I shouted as I tore inside. “Mamma!” I set the basket on the floor haphazardly and scurried from the stairs to the bedrooms and back down to find her. “Mamma!” I shouted again as she rushed into the kitchen from outside, startled by the urgency in my voice.