A Child Al Confino: The True Story of a Jewish Boy and His Mother in Mussolini's Italy by Eric Lamet
Authors: Eric Lamet
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total darkness, the scene became a bedlam. The men invoked the name of the Lord, the Holy Mary, and every saint. I never knew so many saints existed. Because the men yelled, the would wailed and the children screamed. The noise in the basement was louder than that created by the bombing outside. I curled up to my mother for protection. As frightening as those nightly episodes were, my fears would evaporate as soon as the “all-clear” siren sounded; thoughts of games and beaches would soon replace the angst in my head.
For weeks, small planes deprived us of a full night's sleep. Once, when the all-clear sounded a few minutes after the initial alarm, it was rumored that the siren had been sounded to allow Mussolini to go through town unnoticed.
The French battleground was about thirty-five miles from us. Day and night, the gruesome images of war were with us in the constant flow of ambulances rushing through the narrow streets to one of the two local hospitals. Small, canvas-covered camionette, built to carry only four stretchers, came from the front with eight or ten wounded soldiers at a time. The sight of heads hidden behind bloody bandages and limbs partially detached from the bodies by the furor of war terrified yet fascinated me. I remembered the war stories Papa had told me that night on the train as we fled Vienna. Now those remote images had turned into powerful and horrible realities.
Much changed in San Remo in a short time and there was little left to remind us of what, only a few weeks before, had been a peaceful and idyllic place.
Homeowners and storekeepers were busy lining their windows with newspaper and long strips of tape and all cars had their headlights masked by heavy, dark paper so that only a thin beam of light could shine through.
In San Remo, most of the pretty villas, draped by luscious flowers and tropical trees, were surrounded by decorative wrought iron fences. I enjoyed running a piece of rolled-up cardboard or a scrap of wood across those vertical bars to create the sound of a drum roll. To my dismay, within days after the war broke out, I saw men with acetylene torches cut down these elaborate metal enclosures.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Mussolini needs the metal to make guns,” they explained.
Because air raids always happened during the night, the only victim was our sleep. But as soon as we left the shelter, Mamma would insist on my going back to bed. “You have to get some sleep, Schatzele ,” she'd say.
For a kid of nine, these nightly raids had become more of an adventure than the danger the adults claimed them to be.
In spite of the racial laws in effect since 1938, local authorities seldom took steps to enforce them. True, aliens were not granted work permits, nor were Jewish children allowed to attend public schools, but other than these restrictions, Italy was still a safe haven for those attempting to escape the German jaws.
San Remo, like Nice, enjoyed delightfully balmy weather year round, and almost every day I went to the beach to swim in the placid blue Mediterranean Sea. Unlike Nice, San Remo had fine, silky sand beaches. Barefoot, I would walk on the sand, feeling its softness caress my feet as the sun bronzed my body.
On those days when I didn't go swimming, I went to the city park. Many local boys gathered there and in a very short time I made a number of friends. We would shoot soccer cards against the wall or race small metal cars weighted down with putty, or run all over town, up and down the stairs of four- and five-story buildings, playing cops and robbers. My favorite of all the games was shooting paper cones through metal or bamboo tubes. I became proficient at it and could soon hit a target from quite a distance. Playing with my friends in the park took a back seat the day the circus set up its tent in town. Upon hearing the circus needed people to work, I eagerly volunteered my services. I was given the job of making sure no one went
For weeks, small planes deprived us of a full night's sleep. Once, when the all-clear sounded a few minutes after the initial alarm, it was rumored that the siren had been sounded to allow Mussolini to go through town unnoticed.
The French battleground was about thirty-five miles from us. Day and night, the gruesome images of war were with us in the constant flow of ambulances rushing through the narrow streets to one of the two local hospitals. Small, canvas-covered camionette, built to carry only four stretchers, came from the front with eight or ten wounded soldiers at a time. The sight of heads hidden behind bloody bandages and limbs partially detached from the bodies by the furor of war terrified yet fascinated me. I remembered the war stories Papa had told me that night on the train as we fled Vienna. Now those remote images had turned into powerful and horrible realities.
Much changed in San Remo in a short time and there was little left to remind us of what, only a few weeks before, had been a peaceful and idyllic place.
Homeowners and storekeepers were busy lining their windows with newspaper and long strips of tape and all cars had their headlights masked by heavy, dark paper so that only a thin beam of light could shine through.
In San Remo, most of the pretty villas, draped by luscious flowers and tropical trees, were surrounded by decorative wrought iron fences. I enjoyed running a piece of rolled-up cardboard or a scrap of wood across those vertical bars to create the sound of a drum roll. To my dismay, within days after the war broke out, I saw men with acetylene torches cut down these elaborate metal enclosures.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Mussolini needs the metal to make guns,” they explained.
Because air raids always happened during the night, the only victim was our sleep. But as soon as we left the shelter, Mamma would insist on my going back to bed. “You have to get some sleep, Schatzele ,” she'd say.
For a kid of nine, these nightly raids had become more of an adventure than the danger the adults claimed them to be.
In spite of the racial laws in effect since 1938, local authorities seldom took steps to enforce them. True, aliens were not granted work permits, nor were Jewish children allowed to attend public schools, but other than these restrictions, Italy was still a safe haven for those attempting to escape the German jaws.
San Remo, like Nice, enjoyed delightfully balmy weather year round, and almost every day I went to the beach to swim in the placid blue Mediterranean Sea. Unlike Nice, San Remo had fine, silky sand beaches. Barefoot, I would walk on the sand, feeling its softness caress my feet as the sun bronzed my body.
On those days when I didn't go swimming, I went to the city park. Many local boys gathered there and in a very short time I made a number of friends. We would shoot soccer cards against the wall or race small metal cars weighted down with putty, or run all over town, up and down the stairs of four- and five-story buildings, playing cops and robbers. My favorite of all the games was shooting paper cones through metal or bamboo tubes. I became proficient at it and could soon hit a target from quite a distance. Playing with my friends in the park took a back seat the day the circus set up its tent in town. Upon hearing the circus needed people to work, I eagerly volunteered my services. I was given the job of making sure no one went
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