War in My Town Page 4

  Once my clean things were hung outside in the warm sun to dry, I removed my apron and ambled up the path to the village center. Clip, clop, clip, clop in my wooden shoes. As I walked past the houses, I could hear snippets of conversations.

  “…it may not be practical to go to the butcher until tomorrow…”

  “…what would your father say if he knew you had…”

  “…this Sunday I think I will wear this to…”

  Conversations of an ordinary day. People living, day-to-day, not knowing what was to come in the future. I walked at an easy pace and glanced up at Evelina’s house. Her laundry was not hung out to dry. She must not have gotten to the washtub after all.

  I turned the familiar corner to my left and walked along the main road of the village, ever on an incline going uphill. As I got closer to the general store, I could hear the radio crackling and blaring. There was the ever-present sound of men’s voices coming from Ferrari’s bar, discussing politics and global issues as if they all had the answer to the world’s problems. I stuck my head in to say “hello,” and as always, everyone said “hello” back. Ferraro Ferrari and his wife, the proprietors, were busy serving their customers. It was the village meeting place. There was a familiar tune coming from the radio, a love song.

  Alfezio’s house was almost directly across the street from the bar. I knocked and opened the door without waiting for an answer. In our village, the doors were never locked and everyone was welcome inside at any time. “Permission to enter,” I called. This was a courtesy, a warning of sorts that someone was about to enter the home.

  “Come in,” said a voice from behind a stack of books. Alfezio was at his desk, the afternoon sun streaming in from the crystal clean window behind him.

  “Good afternoon, Alfezio,” I announced. “I’ve come to borrow a book, if I may.” I wondered how he could concentrate on what he was reading with the radio blaring from across the street.

  “Help yourself, Bruna,” he said, not looking up from his book. He looked extremely engrossed in what he was reading.

  I began to look about at the shelves full of interesting titles. Some were old, some were new. All were intriguing to me, but today I was preoccupied. Knowing that Alfezio had been in the last war, I was curious about what it was like, but I hesitated to ask since that might be rude. I didn’t know how he would react to my questions. After all, he had lost a leg and that was quite serious. Still, my inquisitiveness got the better of me. I circled around the room to where he was sitting. I pretended to be interested in the Renaissance poetry section.

  “How are you today?” I asked, scanning the stacks. There were books by Dante and Petrarch. On the next shelf were science books.

  “I am well. And yourself?” he replied. He allowed himself a slight glance in my direction. I noticed his cane placed strategically against the side of his desk.

  “Well, thank you.” I craned my neck to get a better look at his book. “What are you reading?”

  “It is an old book. The Odyssey by Homer,” he said patiently, looking up.

  “Who was Homer?” I asked.

  Alfezio chuckled. “He was a Greek philosopher who lived many years ago. He also wrote The Iliad.”

  “Well, he can’t be that good. I’ve never heard of him.”

  Alfezio laughed out loud and closed his book. I couldn’t understand what was so funny. He clasped his hands and folded them under his chin. “You are rarely this talkative, Bruna. Is there something on your mind?”

  With a blush, I looked away. “I was just wondering….” As I started to speak, I turned my gaze toward a colorful picture dictionary, and pulled it halfway out of its spot, pretending I was interested in it. “You were in the Great War, weren’t you?” I put the book back and pulled out another, still not looking at him. How odd was that question. Everyone knew that he had been in it. He had a wooden leg to prove it.

  “Yes?” As if he knew that there was another question coming.

  “And your leg, did it hurt…when it happened?” I gathered up the courage to look at him now. He looked thoughtful, his hands folded against his mouth.

  “Very much,” he answered. “But eventually the hurt went away.” He tilted his head. “Why do you ask?”

  “Just so that I understand,” I shrugged. “In case it happens to someone I know.” I looked away again, because I didn’t want him to see the tears in my eyes.

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “So that I know what to expect for my brothers if they go to war…”

  “Stop there, child.” Alfezio cut me off in mid-sentence. “There is no sense worrying about something that may not happen.” He took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “I’ve heard the rumors, too. The Blackshirts like to spread them to get everyone talking, but you should not worry before anything happens.” He reached for his cane with one hand and grasped the side of his desk with the other. Carefully he pulled himself up and walked around to the front of his bureau so that he was facing me. He patted me on the head and smiled a kindly smile. “Find a book and read. It will take your mind off things. Look,” he said, as he motioned to a shelf behind me, pointing out a colorful title. “Isn’t that one of your favorites?”

  I nodded and smiled back up at him. His mustache was curled at the ends. “Yes, it is.” I turned around to wipe the tear away. “I will try to keep my mind off bad things,” I sniffed. “Thank you for comforting me.”

  I chose a book by Carlo Collodi called Pinocchio. My mother loved that book. She would be pleased to hear it tonight. Feeling better now, I thanked Alfezio once more. It was understood that I meant for the conversation as well as the book. “You know, Alfezio, Pinocchio is one of my favorite characters and…” I stopped talking as I noticed that Alfezio had put a finger to his lips.

  “Shh,” he hissed as he listened and tilted his head towards the window. The music from the radio had stopped and there was a loud crackly voice blaring instead. All the other voices in the bar had stopped chattering. It sounded like there was an announcement on the wireless. A loud, authoritarian voice was speaking. It was Il Duce. I listened now, too.

  “…The hour of destiny is striking in the skies above Italy. The hour of irrevocable decisions. The declaration of war has already been delivered to the ambassadors of Britain and France. We are going to war against the plutocratic and reactionary democracies of the West who have invariably hindered the progress and often threatened the very existence of the Italian people.”

  That was all I heard. I looked at Alfezio. His color had gone from a healthy blush to ashen gray in seconds. He looked at me, but did not speak. He only shook his head.

  I held the book tight in my arms, as I heard cheers coming from the bar drowning out Mussolini’s voice. My first childish thought was that obviously some of the men were happy at the prospect of losing a leg in another war.

  Alfezio was speaking to me now, but my ears were buzzing. I couldn’t hear him. He leaned on his cane so that his face was close to mine. He spoke again, but his words were in vain. All I could think of was getting home fast. I turned slowly and exited the library.

  All of my nightmares had materialized in a matter of seconds. One minute I was happy to be reading Pinocchio to my mother that evening and the next there was the impending doom of war. My family might be torn apart. My breathing was shallow and I could feel the sweat on my brow. My stomach was churning queasily. Suddenly, I felt totally alone in my despair. I had to get back to Mamma. Mamma would know what to do. I would ask Mamma.

  As I stood on the narrow street between the library and the bar, I noticed in my dazed stupor that people in the town were beginning to spill into the street. Metal latches clanked furiously, doors opened wide and women wailed and cried their despair, running to one another, gesticulating wildly, questioning the radio transmission as to whether it was really true. Had they hear
d right? Were their sons and husbands being sent to join the war?

  Chapter 7

  Soon after Il Duce’s announcement, the draft notices calling the men in the village to serve their country began to arrive. Now all men between eighteen and fifty-four had to fight.

  Mamma walked gingerly to the post box every day, hoping to put off the inevitable, but it was inescapable. Alcide was still too young, but twenty-five-year-old Cesar soon received his letter. It was late June and the bright sun coupled with the approaching warmth of summer made the gloomy event surreal in the dazzling light.

  “God in heaven!” I heard Mamma exclaim one afternoon. She was at the door and I was upstairs in the bedroom changing after a day in my nonna’s little plot of farmland. This was not typical for Mamma as she was usually very even tempered. I angled my head to peer downstairs.

  “What is it, Mamma?”

  “Heaven help us.” I heard her voice tremble.

  “Mamma? What?” No sooner had the words left my mouth than I guessed what it was. It was Cesar’s letter. I heard Mamma crying.

  I rushed downstairs to comfort her, putting my arm around her as she sat on the stoop half in and half out of the house. “Please Mamma, don’t cry.”

  I could tell that she was trying very hard not to upset me, but I could see by her eyes that she too was extremely worried. “Oh, goodness.” She wiped her tears with her apron. “I don’t know why I’m carrying on like this. It’s no surprise that this would come sooner or later.”

  “That’s all right.” It was my turn to comfort her. “Cesar is strong and brave. No one can hurt him.” Deep in my heart, I believed every word and I knew I was right.

  Later that afternoon, I was told to visit my grandparents, before the boys came home from work. Mamma tried hard to keep me from seeing she was upset, but I knew better. Still, if it gave her peace of mind to think that she spared me the heartache of seeing her cry when she gave my eldest brother the letter, I was willing to oblige. I could give her at least that much.

  Separations like these soon became commonplace in Eglio. The letters arrived, the mothers cried, the fathers secretly fretted about losing their sons, but were proud to have them fight against the “enemy.” We were told by Mussolini’s Ministry of Popular Culture that we had an enemy and that the youth should learn to “believe, obey, fight.” Mussolini is always right. I had heard this all my life. I had seen images of Mussolini as a good family man, photographed with his wife and children, as a musician playing the violin, as the hero of the peasants harvesting grain, and as the brave commander-in-chief flying a fighter plane.

  Cesar soon left for his basic training. The base was near enough that he would be able to visit once in a while on leave. He was very brave and did not make a fuss when he left. Mamma cried for days afterwards, but I tried my best to be strong. After all Alcide was still home and now he would become the man of the house until he turned eighteen.

  Italy had invaded southern France earlier that year. Cesar was soon stationed on the Italy/France border in the Alps as a guard in the Alpini troops, which were light infantry troops, specializing in mountain combat. He was fortunate because he was not directly in harm’s way and because he was close to home. The army gave its soldiers many things: their uniforms, boots, rifles, backpacks filled with necessary gear. But best of all were the chocolate bars.

  Rationing of food and resources had started soon after the war broke, so luxury items were in short supply. I eagerly awaited Cesar’s visits not only to see him, but also for the rare treat of his chocolate bars. They were supposed to be a quick source of energy for the soldiers to keep them warm in the winter months. Never having much of a sweet tooth, Cesar would save his chocolates and bring them when he visited. And he gave them to me. I would save them and hide them in a shiny tin box that my grandmother had given me, carefully storing them away for a special occasion.

  By Christmas time, I had filled the box with the tasty treats. This fact was not lost on Alcide.

  “Hey, Bruna,” he would say. “Come on, let’s count your chocolate bars to see how many you have now.” I was always delighted with the attention, since Alcide rarely gave me the time of day unless it was for a joke of some kind. I would run up to my room and carefully carry down the box. Since it was the Christmas season, we would sit by our modest little tree, adorned with oranges, nuts, bits of ribbon, and small homemade gifts, the fire burning cheerfully in our kitchen hearth, and start counting.

  “Here, you count this pile and I will count these,” he would say very seriously.

  “All right. One, two, three, four…sixteen in total.” My eyes gleamed. “You should have seventeen, because I counted thirty-three last time.”

  Alcide would press his lips together and shake his head pensively. “No, Bruna, I only have fifteen. You must have miscounted. Try again.” Though I counted again, my chocolate calculations never did balance. I couldn’t understand this. I was sure my counts were accurate.

  “Hey! You aren’t taking them are you, Alcide?” I would ask with narrowed eyes. “While you’re counting?”

  “Me? No, I’m trying to help you!” he assured me. “But, I’ll tell you a secret. I hear that mice love chocolate. I bet it’s mice that are eating your chocolate.” This would upset me immensely since I worked so hard to save the sweet treats, yet somehow they were slowly disappearing.

  One day, Mamma overheard the exchange between my brother and me. My chocolate had dwindled down to five or six bars. I burst out crying. Mamma knew right away who the culprit was.

  “Alcide, you horrid creature.” She plucked up one of her tea towels and smacked him on the back of the head with it.

  “Hey! What was that for?” He held the back of his head, feigning great injury.

  “This is your mouse, Bruna. A very tall mouse named Alcide.” I wailed for what seemed like forever when I discovered who was taking my chocolate bars. Needless to say, I never allowed Alcide near my chocolate box again.

  As the cold mountain winter gave way to spring, Eglio was still relatively untouched by the war raging in other parts of Europe. Our lives went on as usual, except for the missing men who had been sent off to fight for the cause. When Alcide turned eighteen, his conscription letter came too. Mamma was very concerned about Alcide. Some of the men were being sent far away and it was more difficult for them to get home for visits.

  He did his military training and then word came that he would be stationed with the Italian forces on the island of Rhodes in the Aegean Sea near the Greek mainland. Il Duce’s army had invaded Greece since the declaration of war. I feared for Alcide more than I had for Cesar. Aside from the fact that he was so much younger than Cesar, he just seemed more vulnerable. I could sense that my mother felt the same way.

  The day came when he had to ship off. “Oh, my heavens,” Mamma fretted, as we said our good-byes. “Why do you have to be so far away? Why all the way to Rhodes?” She wiped at her eyes as she let go of him.

  “Just stay as far away from the enemy as you can,” I said simply, as I stood beside Zelinda, Alcide’s sweetheart.

  “Well said, Bruna,” she smiled down at me, then looked up at my towering brother. “You had better do as she says. And come back safe.” They hugged each other before he turned to step in the truck that would take him back to his base.

  “I will,” was all he could manage to get out. His eyes were misting up. Alcide tried to be brave, but I could tell he was anxious. He tried to smile at us, a timid smile, as we parted. As the truck drove off, my brother’s image blurred through my rising tears.

  Chapter 8

  Slowly things began to change. Some people were no longer as keen about the war as they had been at first. There were still the staunch fascists in our town who supported Il Duce without question. Husbands and sons, fathers and brothers left our village, leaving only the very young or old men, along with the
women and children. This affected the village and its farmlands. Much of Eglio still relied on farming, and the farming still had to be done. The soil needed tilling and the crops needed to be planted and harvested, especially with food becoming more scarce all the time.

  Our family was grateful that our grandparents had a plot of land on which they cultivated wheat, a variety of vegetables, and fruit trees, but not all of the families in Eglio were so fortunate. Mamma had always worked in the fields, sometimes helping my grandparents on their land, or working for wealthy landowners. In this way she was able to save as much food for the winter as possible. Now her work in the fields became a necessity.

  Once as I was walking to school in the autumn, Palmira, a landowner who lived in the upper part of the village, was heading to work in her family fields to harvest for the winter. Two of her sons had been drafted and she felt the heavy hand of war directly. She, her husband and their young daughter were left to reap their harvest of grain on their own.

  “I need my sons back. I don’t care what people say. Mussolini doesn’t know what he’s doing.” She gave her negative opinion of Il Duce quite openly, which could be very foolish. I continued to walk to school in my black tunic and white collar uniform, hearing Palmira as she strode swiftly in the direction to her fields, muttering her curses.

  “Palmira, you’d better keep that talk to yourself,” snapped one of the villagers, still loyal to Il Duce.

  “I will do no such thing!” she answered, defiant as ever. As time passed, many had come to feel the same way she did, but were hesitant to speak up for fear of reprisals from the Blackshirts.

  As I walked, I noticed Edo Guazzelli striding down the steps from the center of town. Edo’s family had lived in the village for generations. He was the second of five siblings; the eldest, Mario, had been drafted shortly before Alcide. Mario had helped to look after the family, as did many other first-born sons in the village. Now it was Edo who helped take care of the family, more every day since his mother was a sickly woman and his father had become ill. “Hello, Edo,” I said in a guarded voice. I was still thinking about the exchange between Palmira and the villager.