Finally I could write home - a simple postcard. I had so many things to say, but in the end I
couldn't say anything at all, just the salutations. Will it arrive, when? Anyway in it I sent my wishes
for a Merry Christmas. A Christmas of peace or blood? I am sure it will a peaceful one.
November 20-21-22
Time passes and everything is normal. What we eat depends for a large part on the mood of the
woman cook, but generally it is good. There isn't always enough of it, however. We have also had
a taste of spaghetti. At Pongao I thought I would have to forget God knows how many things, but
not here. I have had coffee, dessert, spaghetti, meat. It would be nice to have some chicken, and
oil, but I am forgetting I am a prisoner. Still however one must complain and so every once in a
while I compare Hallein to Saltzburg. Now enough of this.
November 23-24
Always the same story, not of the shepherd, but of the prisoner. The type of work is more or less
always the same. After having helped the workers to make concrete, I was returned to the job of
stone-cutter in a bomb shelter. Here work is not too heavy because we are under little surveillance,
and we can talk to the Frenchmen. They are, generally, very good people. One of them,
Rodriguez, is a real rascal, but still an agreeable person. I caused Di Tullio to sell this Frenchman
his Navy pants in exchange for a pair of French Army pants, plus seven kilos of bread and 300
grams of meat. I have sold my tobacco allowance for bread and sugar. Germans do not want
tobacco and chocolate. A Frenchman tells me that for a chocolate bar one can kiss a
woman.
250 grams of chocolate are paid up to 35 marks. Englishmen do not work because they receive a
parcel each week. I thought that in Germany the black market did not exist, but it does and it is
well organized.
There is a rumor of an intense bombing over Berlin, with fifty thousand casualties. The Austrians
are very happy because they see in the end of Germany the beginning of a new era: that of their
own freedom. It never changes: "mors tua, vita mea ["your death is my life "].
November 25-28
I wrote home on the 26th. Four days!. Why I am so neglecting my diary? Lack of events, and
laziness, that's why. Yes, laziness of body and mind; in fact I am not willing to think any longer,
and, because "memoria minuitur nisi eam exerceas" [ the memory is reduced if it is not
exercised], I am worried. It is because my job, or better, my profession requires good
memory. > Now I see why manual labour is preferable to the mental one: I would be quite content
here, if it were not for the thought of my family.
Freedom? We lost it twenty years ago. Also, what did I do in Frosolone and in Rome if not
locking myself in my room and study? Here instead during the day I go out to work (this verb on
my lips is a desecration) and in the evening I return to my barrack, hoping that the cook sends us
full kettles.
The food is good, except the eternally present potatoes: they are the national staple, especially
during wars. The food is also varied; every once in a while they give us some dessert, spaghetti,
roast meat, some stew. At times I couldn't say I am a prisoner.
Even though I curse Hitler, I must thank him for having so organized Germany, as to be able to
feed so many, so well.
The Austrians cannot stand him ,however. They think back to their former freedom, and wait, wait
as we do and so many thousands, millions more wretches do. With me a Polish man works; he is
the portrait of his unlucky people. Thin, low in stature, almost dumb and moreover poorly dressed.
Poor man!. He was caught in his home while sleeping, taken to Germany where he must work.
How I pity him!
Yesterday November 27th with four more I went to throw garbage into the Galzac river. The boss
saw me and Di Tullio skimping in our work; he wanted us to remain and unload coal, while
letting the others go. At the beginning we refused, but then we did a little work up to five. Going
back to camp, we took to the sidewalk, but he compelled us to walk on the pavement. Poor
vengeance of an imbecile!
When we were near the gate, Di Tullio said: it must come to an end, then so many kicks in the
ass...My God, what a bedlam ensued. The boss understood "vaffanculo" [ a kind of swear
word] and told the soldier that we had insulted him. The following day, 28th, there has been a
kind of a third degree. I tried to convince the corporal otherwise, giving him a version quite
favourable to us.
On the 28th we have received another postcard to write home. Will they believe me I have written
so many. Will this card arrive ?. This is one of those cases where the truth may not be believed!.
They may think that I am now very hungry. Instead I am gaining weight. At times I have to lay
down on my bed.
November 29-30 and December 1-2-3
Going back to that guy who wanted us to do more work, I said: small vengeance of an
imbecile!
His vengeance did not stop there: in fact Di Tullio has been thrown out of the factory. He now
works outdoors. Whether under snow or rain, here one must keep working.. When it's snowing, I
think instead of my home, of my fireplace and, most of all, that I would then still be in bed.
Jovine and I are unique at work. If everybody produced as much as we do, Germany would have
lost the war long ago.
In the meantime December has started and Christmas is getting closer. Christmas! How will my
family pass it? [I can tell; I was there on furlough: sighing about John, whose fate was
unknown]
This evening, December 3, I have read about Teheran's meeting Are the English about to launch
their final attack? Let's hope so.
December 4-5-6
Truly meaningless days. First and foremost, we have great faith in the promised bombing raids. Is
their effect going to open the Germans' thick skull? They say the terms of an ultimatum will expire
at Christmas. If it is not accepted, 50 cities will be razed to the ground. Everyone enjoys to hear
such news.
A soldier even told us that the Russians have reached German soil, but this is false. Camp radio,
here at Hallein, does not work well. I know, because the Frenchmen give me their paper almost
every evening, and so I can read the official (German) bulletin, although it cannot be much
trusted.
Intense cold is not here yet. At work there is a lady, owner of a restaurant, who every once in a
while, gives us some cafe'-au-lait, for money. All summed up, we are not really in bad shape
here.
December 7-8
On December 7 I have seen, around 11 a.m., a number of people, into formation, in the factory's
yard. For the most part they are civilian Frenchmen, but there are also Italians and a few Polish.
There are also German policemen, and some representatives of the well known Gestapo. One of
these, dressed all in black, a really grim face, is totally like those people's commissioners we used
to see in propaganda movies. I am thinking it would not be healthy to be in his
clutches.
What happened? Apparently they complained about the food and in protest they refused to go to
work. The lager chief phoned the police and in the end some twenty people were sent to
jail.
The following day I went to Puck on the truck, to load stone. My work is always the same, more
or less: pick, shovel, wheelbarrow, stones, stone-cutter chisel.
I talk to Jovine about parcels, because in a few days we shall receive forms to get parcels from
home. They say also that the population of Hallein will donate parcels to us prisoners for
Christmas. How is it possible, if they themselves are short of food!
In the evening they paid us our wages. I have earned in 17 days the princely sum of 24 marks, that
is something like 10 liras. In Italy I used to earn in the same number of days 1600
liras!!
The corporal has warned us not to steal any more potatoes. Now our suffering will
begin!
Someone has received mail from home. My hair stand on end, when I think of the devious route
my card has to go through.
On December 8 still nothing new, except that a woman gave me some bread. There are still some
compassionate people in this world!
What a difference with last year's conditions! Then, wearing a very nice pair of pants, good shoes
and my wonderful checkered jacket I would have gone to Mass, then to teach for an hour. At
noon I would have eaten quite well. Here instead I am, shovel in my hand, under the falling snow,
thinking of my far away home, of my family, of my past life.
Only now I can appreciate the goodness of my house, and the exquisite taste of my mother's
cuisine.
Jovine and I plan the meal we shall have, by ourselves. It will be based on potatoes. I am used by
now to stand rain, snow, and wind: luckily I have not had a cold so far. In the evening we enjoy
the warmth of our barrack. Ah, could we always stay in this barrack!
December 9-10-11
The Frenchmen, residents of the next barrack, every day bring us some potatoes or something else,
that is part of their chow. To thank them, we
have bought four cases of beer and gave it to them. I was selected to be an interpreter, to convince
them to accept our gift.
Our work productivity has been steadily going down. I will never be able to say that I worked hard
in Germany. Our boss too, who otherwise is such a good man, complained through our team
leader, a sergeant major, whose name is Pavesi. This chap is an ignorant man, town-hall usher by
profession, haughty, and once again, an ignorant man. He doesn't understand a word of German,
yet he wants to explain to us what the boss says. He does no work himself, but pushes other to
work. The boss says: "langsim" and he wants us to work faster. Truly he is a disaster. The poor
usher is beyond himself thinking he can issue orders. So, let's let him issue orders.
I take this opportunity to fill up on beer. In Italy I never really wanted that, but here I can do it. To
tell the truth, I could have gladly done without.
On the 11th they gave us the forms for parcels from home, plus some cigarettes.
December 12-13-14
Nothing new to report. The type of work is unchanged: shovel, wheelbarrow, or go to the train
station to unload a car or two.
I always think of home, but some merriment is not lacking. My morale is high, because a secret
premonition tells me that the end of this war is not too far away. Camp radio has said that the
English now would be in Milan, and that the Italian fleet will be sent to fight the Japanese.
December 15-16
Nice weather, but the temperature is quite low. The thermometer in the morning marks already six
or seven Celsius below zero. Even at noon the sun cannot warm us up. It is a northern sun, devoid
of colour and warmth.
In the morning the reveille at 6 is somewhat painful. Then I think of home, see a calendar with the
heading "Sweet Home" and then I begin to understand the beauty of my house.
The work is unchanging: prepare the loam, or do some shoveling or carry rails for the
track.
Camp radio has announced a landing in France ( this is unconfirmed) and the bombing of
Innsbruck.
December 17-18
Nothing new. My laziness is somewhat responsible. They passed another review, but this time they
didn't take away anything. I got something instead: a flannel shirt and a pair of shorts, which,
incidentally said, carried lice eggs.
I also got another form for a parcel and a postcard to send home. Will my family send me what I
keep asking? I hope so, because it is my belief that the war left them untouched. [This was
largely true]
Read more, on the 3rd instalment.
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