PRISONER OF WAR
Diary of the first four months.

Giovanni Notte (1923-1985)

1st. instalment.
September 20/43
Finally, we are departing. [From the island of Brioni, near Pola (which was then Italian)]

The most disparate rumors make the rounds as to our destination. The more optimistic ones say we are going home, subject to recall in the Republican Army (sic); others to Salzburg, others to Lubien. Everyone invents a destination according to his own hypothesis.

In the morning four fascists came to induce us to enrol in their volunteer battalions. No takers.
We then left in the afternoon. The rooms had the appearance of those who leave suddenly not to go forward to an unknown destiny, but for a pleasure trip which shall not last long.
Perhaps the same would not have happened if we left for a furlough, not that much disorder .Poor room!
Our departure is quite orderly, though. The German instilled not just fear, but terror.
On the other hand the same happens in civilian life: when pushed by self-interest, everything is done orderly, particularly when watched by a stranger.
The sea is rough and the salt water reaches us on board, giving us a bath.
In Pola, knapsack on our back and we go to the "Nazario Sauro" barracks.
We sleep on the floor with a single blanket.
I thing of the brig, where I spent some nights in good spirits. We look happy here too, but it is only a show.
At dusk I eat with Jovine [a dear childhood friend] a can of corned beef and some hard tack. How everything is sweet when you are hungry!
Then we lay down trying to go to sleep. The floor is so hard and the wind whistles from the windows... with no panes.
Thus Nov 20 ends.
September 21
Sad is the fate of a prisoner!, "Cellone" (Jovine) says. And this sentence, perhaps ironic, is unfortunately true.
A visit to the barracks is simply disheartening. One has the distinct feeling of a defeated army, in disorderly retreat, impression of the vanquished. Everything is strewn about: rifle magazines, hand grenades, canteens, clothing items, paper, accounting sheets, all which is needed to operate large barracks such as "Sauro".
We eat some milk with friends: Jovine, Di Tullio, Mario Fedele, and Sandro Storti. Jovine you know well and so I will not describe him,. Di Tullio is still a boy and so he cannot be assessed. Mario Fedele is a Neapolitan accountant. Now finally I have learned that all accountants are nitwits. Moreover he is a miser and this is perhaps his worst misfortune. Storti is a very good friend. I shall always remember him with great pleasure. D'Annunzio was right: "Abruzzo, forte e gentile" [Storti must have been from the Abruzzo Region].
Time runs slowly. But it is rather stressing to be behind a steel fence, and see people circulating freely and soldiers with gun on the ready. And to think that these soldiers were until a few days ago our allies, and that our brothers have fought with them, and died for them. But let's keep going, unencumbered by a baggage of useless thoughts.
At noon two tin cans of meat and hard tack, for four people.
After, we reach an agreement with a woman, who promises to bring us bread and pasta. The waiting is long, but in the end crowned with success. To what we are reduced! We have studied so long and now we are reduced to begging!
We pass the evening having a merry time, and we chat laying down on the floor. What is the subject of our conversation? What else can 5 twenty year old young men talk about, after a long abstinence?
Then our thoughts turn towards home, but of this I prefer not to talk now.
September 22
Boring day, nothing of importance happening, at least in the first half. The sky is gray, but despite any prevision our morale is very high.
We clean up, eat some condensed milk, play a game of cards.
I finally get some chow, but it is smoky. Hunger is great and everything is eaten.
A woman from Pola had promised some bread; we waited needlessly from noon to 6 p.m.. I must change my opinion of the women from Pola. However perhaps one bad example is not enough to damage the reputation of generosity of an entire city.
A horrible spectacle was that of people who came in the barracks to loot everything they could grab. Real hyenas, jackals who tried to profit from a nation in ruin, from their own army to satisfy their hunger for prey. I would have wished to kick them in the ass, but my disgust was stronger than hate.
In the evening, the order came to leave. Where to, home? No, to Maridepo of good memory! Here everything is occupied, everything is dirty. We go exploring and finally find an empty room. Place together three tables together and go to sleep. Always on planks!!. When will we find a soft something, high above the floor? How many wool mattresses are not being used at home?
September 23
God willing, morning comes. My right side is aching and my back cannot stand it any more. Then I try to make myself a better pallet, somewhat softer and moreover high above ground. So I fold the blanket and with ropes and strings I make myself a primordial hammock. Satisfied, I admire it, try it out and go to sleep.
I go for chow, and due to lack of discipline of the other cadet officers I get only a few grains of pasta and a spoonful of broth. Not enough for a whole day! Fortunately we have with us some bread and so we eat.
Our officers, as usual, do not give a damn. They are outside the fence, dressed in civilian clothes. They come in and out at will, go to town to eat, while we sailors pull another notch in our belt. The army people, instead, are well ordered and have received everything. And they used to say that the Army....
We sleep in the afternoon. Then, about 5 pm., a sensational news: the arrival of two ships, an oil carrier and the Vulcania [a large passenger liner].
We leave. Happiness shows on all faces. By now everybody is edgy, the soil burns under our soles. Everybody wants to move, run around. All depends from a single fact: to know our destiny, to get out from this exhausting indecision.
We go aboard the oil carrier. The usual mess!. More and more I feel loathing for my people. I think back to Settembrini [a 19th century nationalist] and so many others, who sacrificed themselves for Italy. I think they were under an illusion, that they never understood the true character of the Italian people. Perhaps, no, not perhaps, people and nation are two widely different things.
We are in the hold, the air cannot be breathed. I think of the novel about Uncle Tom, and have no trouble imagining what those black people had to suffer during the infamous slave trade.
I go to sleep about 3 a.m., over two knapsacks, my head on a suitcase.
I was forgetting an important detail. While going aboard they were counting us as it is done with sheep. I remembered that the Australian shepherds do that, as well the shepherds on our own mountain. To say that I had to study so long and hard to be treated like an animal is too much to take. My university ID card is now useless . Anyway one does not study only to pass exams, but for life. Hurrah for life!!. Our morale is still high and then everything is OK.
September 24 and 25
Two hard days of travel. After having spent a terrible night in the hold, we were able to make it to the deck with all our luggage. I am seated at the stern, where I am enjoying the view. Who could have ever told me that my first trip on the Adriatic would be in an oil carrier, escorted by German soldiers.
We looked like so many deported convicts, or like those emigrants who traveled to America on caravels and the crew packed them in the hold or on deck and away they went. [Our paternal grandfather went that way to the United States in 1895].
We did not have with us the women with coloured kerchiefs, but the uniforms contributed to the variety.
The Germans are manning the machine guns; they have shown to be well behaved. Perhaps because there is only a few of them versus over 3000 of us.
Anyway we proceed. Always sky and water, water and sky.
They have distributed bread and cheese. An army lieutenant colonel has personally supervised the distribution. Everything is done with regularity and sufficient speed. I think back to the days at the [Naval] Academy, when threat of prison, pushing and lots of time were needed to lineup 600 people, to distribute a small piece of bread with very little jam. I thought the Army lacked discipline, etc, etc; instead they can teach us sailors something. And our officers look, look without realizing they are a big failure. They were active when they could steal. Afterwards, each one for himself.
We arrive in Venice. I see the Bridge of Sighs, San Marco Square, various canals, the small lanes [calli].How beautiful Venice, especially when we know that for God knows how long we shall not see it again. All is a question of luck. But then does this blindfolded woman exist? Perhaps yes, perhaps no, D'Annunzio would say. And so I shall repeat.
The whole population is on the wharf and greets us. The famous gondolas come close to our ship. They all ask news of their dear ones.. This is the first show of Italianity and solidarity.
All offer their services to send to our families addresses and messages. I write home and to Giosue' [a Roman friend] laconic messages where I say that I am well and am departing.
As soon as we dock, they rush us to disembark and get into already stationed cattle cars.
"40 men and 8 horses" []. Some cars leave; 56 men with their luggage per cattle car. A screech, a creaking and the door closes. A pang of grief.
I think of my parents, at the time I said goodby to my mother. I see both of them crying, she seated and I on the floor hugging her. I shall always remember her sentence :"my son, I would kill you". [Mothers in our hometown say so to their small boys who misbehave.] Yes, mother, you would have done well to kill me. I would not have given you so many displeasures, I would not have stayed so long away from you, I would not have kept you in so much distress. Tears well up to my eyes, some even come out, but a secret premonition helps me not to cry. Perhaps because my condition as a prisoner will not be for long. I leave with confidence in my future, in the rest of my life.
A father comes to meet his son, who can barely show himself. The man can also barely say something, over the shouts of the sentries. What an excruciating and painful scene. Our Italian hearts bleed and tears come down our cheeks.
Departure. The rail workers are simply admirable; I shall talk in the future about them. I already had a good opinion of them. Now my admiration for them knows no bounds.
The people then...But why talk? They defy the sentries, take bread from their own mouth and throw bread, meat, apples, cigarettes to so many poor young soldiers who go to languish in a foreign land. They cry and we try to console them!
We are about twenty years old, the spirit of adventure attracts me. We do not think too far. "Carpe diem". And let us catch this day that runs away with our youth. "How beautiful youth that runs away".says Poliziano.
It is the destiny of the Italian people. This nation of Saints, Heroes, Navigators, Traders, lighthouse of civilization has a cruel, very cruel destiny. This people works, suffers, fights, then is called a traitor!. After, retaliation, concentration camps, pains and suffering. Everything then is reduced to suffering, nothing else but suffering.
Night comes. We try to lay down as well as we can, but it is impossible. Everywhere there are feet and heads, mainly feet. It looks like malicious dwarfs have amused themselves by lengthening our feet and legs. If you stretch a foot, you find immediately ten, twenty more feet and a good number of persons who shout.
I could not sleep until such a time when I ignored it all, laid down and caught a wink.
Strange, even if I cannot sleep enough, during the day I do not feel tired or listless. I am getting used to the sufferings.
Everything had proceeded so well, too calm, too peaceful. Because of what is now happening to me, I am sure I left a boy and shall return a man. A stretch of military service matures a young man. In truth this is not what I had in mind when I left home.
Railway stations follow stations. We arrive in the morning at Tarvisio. They allow us finally to discharge our bodily needs. Then we resume our trip. We are now in foreign lands.
A stop in Aruoldstien. What a difference of panorama, of people. They are all gloomy, silent, frozen. They look at us more with savagery and curiosity than pity. Not a wave of greeting, only from time to time a loud laugh. Yes, strange animals these people who from 1935 till September 8 1943, 7 p.m. were allied and now are prisoners.
From this station we go to Villache. Here we can breath a little and eat some watered down broth with potatoes. The bread is rather abundant, but it is for the whole day.
We arrive in Sbittal, then in Mark-Pongau, our destination.
After a while they let us come down and walk for about a kilometer to the barracks.
Good bye, Italy! You are alive only in our memories and in the signs of railway cars which pass on the track close to our camp.
September 26 and 27.
My first day as a war prisoner is starting. We are, as I have said, at Mark-Pongau. Of this town I only know the railway station, because we arrived at night. This camp is made of many brick barracks, surrounded by barbed wire. It goes by itself, a concentration camp cannot be conceived without a good barbed wire fence, a sentry who walks behind the wire, a police dog and the searchlights. We do not yet have emaciated faces and long beards, but do not worry: These are only the first days.
We are located in a small valley completely surrounded by mountains already covered by snow. The panorama is typically Austrian: pine trees, horses and cows in the meadows. Here and there on the mountains we can see neat, white little houses of their typical architecture. It is all green and I greatly admire the view. It is of course totally different from the Frosolone's view, but why make comparisons. Each panorama is different and has its own characteristics.
Some generals pass by. We would like to pity them, but it is not worth it, because theirs is the fault for what has happened. If they had behaved as men, if they had done their duty to the nation, if they had not allowed themselves to be bought, they would not lay now on a straw mat, in a barrack, without freedom, under the power of a simple corporal or even soldier.
In the meantime it has started raining: a fine drizzle that penetrates your bones, especially mine which are not covered by a raincoat. I do find a pair of gloves and the side of a tent.
Insistent is the rumor that on a review they will search and take away everything from you. We try to salvage what is possible, passing items to those colleagues who have already passed the search. In the end, though, they did not take much, in fact very little, except for compasses, drawing squares and from me also a magnificent pair of sunglasses, which were Persol. The soldier looked at them, took a second look, then pocketed them.
As a prisoner you have to accept some prevarication. Luckily, these soldiers are Austrian, and they make life somewhat possible.
They gave us our dog tag. I am now number 34535. I started my military life a number and continue being a number. After; they took our fingerprints as if we were normal criminals.
The rain continues implacably.
In the evening, because the barrack chiefs are Italian, there is a balls-up. In the end all I can get is a spoonful of jam. That is my supper. Not much, to tell the truth, but..."sorry is the life of a prisoner".
September 28 and 29
It does not rain any more, but the sky is overcast. Ah, the Italian sun, the magnificent days of September and even October which is so close now!
The temperature could be tolerated, but our shoes are soaked, due to the muddy roads. Only now I realize the great difficulties encountered on the Russian front, where mud is half a meter deep. The mud sticks to the shoes and after a while you have to make a great effort just to stand up.. But Italians, used to sacrifices and suffering, accept everything in silence.
In the morning we went to fetch the dishes at the little village. The Germans, needing aluminum, stole the mess tins from our soldiers and gave them terra cotta dishes, which shatter at the least touch. How nice it was to see our cadets carrying those dishes!. At the Naval Academy they would have complained at the least effort. Here they do everything, even if cursing all along. The sentry with his rifle strikes fear.
After, the Camp Commander came, to give us warnings regarding cleanliness, order in the barracks and proper discipline to get chow. They are standard warnings, but it is necessary to know them because one never knows what may happen.
The day passes without our doing anything. I still cannot understand how you can always look busy doing nothing!
On the 29th my thoughts go to my brother and I think that today is his saint's day. Who knows where he is now! [ luckier than my brother, I had managed to reach home from Genoa in the north, in just about a week] At home, in a concentration camp? Who knows!.
Then they give us some tests, because in the afternoon a commission will arrive to get us to enroll in the M battalions.
After, those who have knives or pocket knives go to the kitchen to peel the potatoes. It is hard labour, but at least it is warm there. Then we hope to get a little more food. Instead we get the usual shafting: the same amount and moreover at the very end.
In the afternoon a propaganda puppet arrives, but he does not succeed. Moreover he is an ignorant man, or at least so he pretended. Imagine: he said that Graziani [ a general who was the Governor of Libya under Mussolini] saved Italy at Caporetto, in 1918. Poor Badoglio!! But only about 30 people enrolled in the SS.
September 30
The usual muster, thus the usual life. Reveille earlier than usual. Everybody was furious uttering swear words. It isn't pleasant to get up at 5 am, these days.
A Russian dead passes by, covered by a sack. Two other friends carry him on a stretcher. A sign somewhere a little further away from camp has been planted to indicate that a number died in a concentration camp. The bystanders will bow or will remove their hats and those who were once prisoners will perhaps shed a few tears.
They say he died of a liver disease. Who knows?. I do not believe it. So I saw him pass by and I was not moved. I remained expressionless, I laughed at a witty remark of a friend and I admired the panorama. I have become an egotist: my life is all that interests me.
In the afternoon a German warrant officer shot a member of the Alpine troops who was cooking some potatoes near a barrack. Who was at fault? The Germans had warned us not to steal potatoes and not to light fires especially near the barracks. The Alpine however was hungry. Then! The Alpine should have resisted the pangs of hunger and the German should have abstained from shooting. After a warning shot, he could have gone there and thrown down everything.
But the event was not finished there. Towards evening the Camp Commandant came and gave us magnificent news: barracks five and six will skip supper! One more notch to close on our belt.
But a friend from Civitanova [del Sannio, a village near Frosolone] gives me some bread and butter. Some more tea and the evening goes.
Around 8 pm. Somebody came to say that a French newspaper had the following news: English troops have occupied Rome since September 27, and the Russians broke through in 5 locations. Great general happiness. Groups form to analyze the situation and forecast future developments. The optimists give another two months life to Germany. We shall see!
October 1
Nice day, the sun is out and we have the illusion of being in Italy. Almost everyone has used this day to wash himself and do his laundry.
I have seen a stupendous spectacle. The mountains, which are normally covered by clouds or fog, have finally shown themselves. We have seen first this or that peak lighted gold by the sun's rays, then we have seen the balance.
Cheerfulness came back. I have even changed my shoes. I have not started wearing canvas shoes only because of the sun, but mainly to save the boots. God knows how long we have to remain here and so one must be prudent.
Finally after so long I could read a newspaper. We already knew something, that is: Rome occupied, and the front broken by the Russians in five spots. Rome's news was false, but not the second one . That paper admitted it. This was for September 21. What has happened in the ensuing four days?
October 2.
My brother's birthday. My thoughts go to him and from him to our family. What are they doing? What are they thinking? This is the only thought that saddens me and disheartens me. Never like now I have felt so much the separation from my dear ones, the need to see them and hug them.
As I look through the window, I see a long line of civilians. I ask, and they answer that they are from Gorizia, sent away by the Germans as a precautionary measure. Many have sallow bird-faces Their wrecked looks, due to the long trip, contribute to augment and corroborate my impression. Many are old, many are very young. Some may not even be 15. Their clothes are shredded, dirty; some are barefoot; no blankets, no food. How can they survive in such a cold environment? They were not just caught, they were torn from their homes, families, occupations and sent away. It was, to summarize, a minor deportation of a people. And this happens in the twentieth century!
I have seen also barrack head Florean. Having attempted escape, he is back , a wreck.
Naturally we ask for news. The most disparate news circulate: the Russian are already in Poland, eighty English ships are on route towards North Italy, they have landed and occupied Ancona, they will land at La Spezia, parachutists over Florence. Is there any truth to it? One day, if I have the means and the will I shall verify all that and shall see how much truth there is in it. Anyway, even if false, these rumors lift our morale and bring me to this conclusion: we may not be home by this Christmas, but the war will be over.
I try to convince others of this. What is the base of my certainty? The rumors and my premonition that is solidly planted in my heart. [Poor John, he will have to wait another 19 months before reaching home!]
But there is also another disheartening bit of news: when the Germans retreat, they destroy everything, according to the news. [That was true in many, too many instances.] Attila the Hun finds in them his true grandchildren. Where they pass, the Reaper passes. What has happened of my house and home? Did my family escape the destruction? [Barely, because only two weeks after they left our hometown, the Germans stopped their retreat for about three months and much destruction happened to many unfortunate villages in the North Molise and South Abruzzo. It was then, at Cassino and Ortona, that the Canadians had their greatest casualties]
I was able to trade and buy a pair of shoes and a sweater. This coming winter, I will be able to stand the cold, even if we have to spend it here.
I have written a postcard-telegram home, asking for their news and giving them mine. My morale is still high
October 3.
The days continue to be tedious. In camp, the usual routine, the usual line-ups, the usual food. However today they should have given us a loaf of bread for four, but it was to be distributed among five. My portion moreover will have to last two days, because yesterday I exchanged mine with a sailor for a woolen sweater. Until now, I can stand my hunger sufficiently well.
I also look at the passing trains. I got a heavy heart when I saw a whole train loaded with airplane bombs. Over which city will they fall? How many people will be killed? How many will remain homeless? Let's hope that an English bomb be smart enough to blow it all.
After this train , I keep a better watch because more bombs mean that the Reaper with its scythe is advancing on Italy. Poor Italy! It is still mired deep in the chasm where renegades and traitors have thrown her. How long will it take before she will come back to the former splendor? How much money, how much labour?. I cannot comprehend exactly the present status of Italy to which she is reduced, or better, has been reduced.
The better part of the day is used to discuss politics. I am sure the war is finished for Michael [Not for another 25 months!] and I try to infuse this certainty of mine into the others. I have succeeded in convincing some, not all. I hope the events will prove me right.
The rumor returns of the English landing in Ancona and of the Russian advance beyond the old borders.
I spoke to a sailor who came from a camp in Modena. What an horror!. The Germans are the masters of our beautiful Italy and of our brothers' life..A soldier in that camp was talking to his father near the barbed wire and was shot. Another soldier was shot while advancing to hug his mother. The barracks have been looted. A few stupid German soldiers with hand guns have captured thousands of people.
Even in Modena there have been examples of great patriotism. In fact some women showed some soldiers the way out through the sewers. They placed there oil lamps, ropes, signs so the fugitives would not lose their bearings. A woman (fascist!!) squealed to the Germans and so some soldiers, caught in the sewers, have been cudgeled bloodily. The true Italian women have then indicated another opening. In a few days over three thousand people thus escaped. Three thousand fewer prisoners, three thousand mothers now happy to have their sons with them.
The love for our Italian brothers has been reborn with the armistice. "Gentle Latin blood"
I go to sleep with a stronger conviction that by Christmas the war will be over. Just 82 more days to Christmas. Would God listen to the prayer of so many hundreds of thousands of poor wretches.
October 4 and 5
Totally meaningless days. The next few days will perhaps be the same, unless a new fact will intervene, the one to which the propaganda man for the SS made allusion, that is the end of Germany and consequently of the war.
The hours pass slowly and tediously, especially in the afternoon. Luckily the sun seems to come out always, even if it is only after 10. We then stretch in the sun and accumulate heat for the winter. But will it be necessary? I do not think so.
The time of day is occupied by continuous discussions regarding the military situation. All the prevision and forecasts are founded on rumors which start from the French prisoners. The only rather sure fact now is that the Russians are in Poland and the Germans are in rout there. The landing in France is rumored about incessantly, either at Boulogne-sur-Mer and at Calais or Toulon. Some English prisoners (but how do they know?) have confirmed a landing at the first two sites and have said that the Russians really are in Poland.
81 or 80 more days to Christmas. Will God grant their wish to so many thousands young people, parents, wives? How beautiful it would be to pass Christmas at home. My thoughts are always there and I portray my return in the most minute details. I have also made up the program for the first few months: rest and food. Will I be able to satisfy it? All depends on the conditions in which I shall find my house and my family, in the conditions in which the Germans will have left Italy.
On the afternoon of the 5th we have been transferred to barrack number 1. Having been unable to find a spot, I have had to lie on the floor. It was cold for me during the night. A single blanket had to do for mattress, bed sheets, blanket, and pillow. Sometimes I dream of resting on a nice wool mattress, but then a strong ache on my side, at my ribs convince me that the mattress doesn't exist, that the floor or my pallet is too hard. Perhaps it will take some time for me to get used again to a soft mattress, at home.
They called a meeting to see who would volunteer to work as a mechanic. The Germans have urgent need of them. But before too long they will not need them any more!
Yesterday I succeeded finally to almost appease my hunger. Every once in a while I feel my body and note that my ribs have started showing and can be counted. Yet I have been a prisoner only 16 days! What will happen if my expectations do not come true?
Churchill and Roosevelt have promised a bloody Easter and a peaceful Christmas. We Italians have come to believe them, unfortunately at our expense. They do keep their word. Oh, to be at home for Christmas, what a magnificent thought!
October 6 and 7
The most disparate rumors are making the rounds. "Camp Radio" works, but many times it works badly. Many forecasts are given as news, and are based either on the German warrant officer on kitchen duty or on a poor, unknowing German sentry or, as of late, an Italian lieutenant colonel of the General Staff.
A joker said: somebody cannot sleep at night and then makes things up.... It may be true, but many pieces of news must have a true foundation. Goebbels's appeals to the German people are too similar to those of Sforza, which were a prelude to Italy's end. When will Germany's surrender? Somebody says November, some December.
I am fixed in my idea that by Christmas the war must, I repeat, must end. Germany cannot last longer. Their population is tired. The Anglo-American bombing raids are too powerful and I cannot believe it is nice to stand them day and night. Everybody is convinced that they are a prelude to a large scale landing. Before too long there will be a large flourishing of landings which will accelerate by a lot the end of Germany.
The news circulating these days is: a lieutenant, medical doctor, back from a furlough to his home town said that Hungary and Romania have requested an armistice. I have asked a Frenchman, who said that he did not hear any of that on the radio, not even a hint. Io had received that news with much circumspection.
Then an even greater news: Germany, through England, would have asked Russia for an armistice and Russia would have turned it down. A bit of common sense soon blew up this rumor. In fact a German bulletin of October 3, which clearly referred to events two or three days old, said that harsh fighting was taking place in the Propet swamps. Russian attacks follow each other without respite and the German air force launches bombing attacks over the ground left by their army.
London Radio said on October 3 that Minsk had been occupied and the [Russian] border bypassed by about 50 kilometers. All this may also be true, as the Germans admit the violence of the Russian attack, which has not been contained in some spots. The news of landings turned out to be false, but it may turn right before too long.
Enough now of politics. Still 2 months and 20 days to Christmas. I have made a vow to Jesu's Sacred Heart that I will light candles if the war is finished by Christmas.
We have disinfected the camp, I have taken a nice bath and I feel restored. We have also changed barrack, around ten.
From there we have returned by 5 p.m.. This seems to me to be St. Vitu's dance. We go, come back; orders, change orders; a terrible mess..
My hunger is great. Yesterday I did my laundry and that little effort weakened me. To say that only 15 days have passed from September 20! What would happen if the war lasted longer? Would I be able to return home?
A soldier who took chow twice was beaten mercilessly, then thrown to the ground with fists and kicks.
They have started taking down the names of apprenticed mechanics. I am among them.
October 8.
The sky is overcast and so the day is spent inside the barrack.
The German lieutenant in charge of discipline comes and says that we must not walk on the main lane. We must keep the windows open and clean the barracks in order to avoid epidemics. He also said that our postcards did not leave, as many of us did not follow the rules, which only allowed for three lines of text. I wrote two cards, will they have left?
I would like my family not to be anxious any longer. But a little at a time the memory of my family seems to fade, almost to the point where I am only dimly aware to have had a family.
Sometimes it comes back to my memory the waltz by Svanodovic [ which John used to play] ; then I see my harmonica, the dining room, the mirror which I used to check the position of my left hand, my father sitting on a rocking chair, my mother, my sister, my brother. I see them all and it makes me cry.
One thing keep me going: my unshakeable faith in the coming end of Germany. Christmas must not pass [in war]! The Russians advance too fast. The English, according to news of October 4 or 5, are in Termoli, which is near home. Will the Germans have arrived at the interior? I hope not.
They have taken away the radio from our camp. Good sign, says the lieutenant colonel. The Germans have stopped making propaganda and this may mean something.
What are the English doing? Why don't they move? This is the question that torments everybody. Will landings sprout all together like mushrooms? God willing!
On the afternoon supper was in jeopardy. Many who were charged with the task of mowing the grass near the barbed wire went away when they heard the signal that bread was being distributed. A good thing that the German warrant officer was magnanimous: we had to complete the work first, then we could eat.
Later in the evening we have learned of the mass execution of Neapolitans by the Germans. Is it possible that such a people exists on the earth in 1943? The whole world invokes their destruction. Let's hope it is going to happen.
October 9
Colourless and flat day. In the evening we received news of the fall of Pinsk in Poland to the Russians and that in Italy Chieti was occupied and Rome evacuated. This boosts our morale, because it seems that Pinsk was occupied for real and therefore Warsaw is next, then the border, then the end of the war and so our return home too.
However now it seems there is no truth to Chieti. As to Rome, a French paper said that Mussolini and his Government left Rome, moving to a location in North Italy.
Then they made us a proposal, to exchange the money we have deposited with them, with the excuse that the lira now has a certain value, after who knows! The mark instead....
At the village they have padlocked the radios and given the order not to sell us newspapers. Isn't this the forerunner of the end? Let us hope that at Christmas....
October 10
Finally I could attend Mass. A little altar made up of a little table in a flat space, a crucifix on this table covered by a rough blanket and a white tablecloth which is strangely similar to a shroud. We are all around. The chaplain wears the sacred paludament and the ceremony commences. I don't think there has ever been a more severe and simpler rite. At the elevation an officer gave the order to stand at attention. Oh, the nice religious services in my town, accompanied by the sound of the organ, vivified by it, I would say.
My thoughts go to my home. The morale is very low and tears come out by themselves. This low morale, my family, the distant sound of bells claw at my heart. I would like to cry, but I must force myself to abstain, otherwise if I cried Jovine also would cry, and so Di Tullio.
What are they doing at home? Last night too I have reconstructed in my mind my return home. I constructed it in all most minute details, pro and con. Will that ever happen? There are 76 more days to Christmas and so many things can happen in such a long stretch.
The fated September 10 was a month ago. We were in Brioni pleased and happy. The Vulcania is near the island, we shall leave for home. First however everything must be loaded. Everybody is busy, carrying beds, potatoes, flour, boxes of toilet paper, of pins, of thumb tacks, etc, etc., of the prams for the children of our officers, of their pet dogs. Ah, so much time wasted!!!
October 11
Luckily, the sun is always out. It comes out only around ten, but it does. For us Italians the sun means life. However I must concede that it may be the same for other people, because one does not feel the cold in the sun, so he does not need too much to wear and can wait calmly his turn for chow.
The road is not muddy any longer and so even tennis shoes are OK.
More prisoners passed by. We waived and then everyone is gone back to his occupation, that is to shave himself, or to lay in the sun or to do his laundry or something of the kind. Yet they are Italians too, who are going God knows where, to suffer in another camp. Poor young men!
Trains loaded with things stolen from Italy also pass by. Vengeful thoughts are in our minds. Germany must pay dearly for its misdeeds: thefts, shootings, deportations.>
Let's go back now to our daily news. The fall of Pinsk is a sure thing; even the bulletin of October 6 has admitted it. Apparently there is fighting going on around the city of Nicolaiev, that is about 100 kilometers from Odessa; the Germans have abandoned Corsica and the Tuscan archipelago, plus the occupation by the Germans of one of our islands in the Dodecanese. This the so called sure news. Then there is the false or semi-false one such as the landing in France.
Some who go to work at headquarters say they have seen Frenchmen consulting with much attention a map of the Channel coast and mark there some spots. What importance may this detail have?
More civilians arrived from Italy. They say Genoa has been under general alarm for 24 hours because of an attempted English landing. Are the English going to wake up now? It is about time!
October 12
Discovery of America, glory of the Italian genius. Columbus arrived to destination defying all kind of dangers. I am almost tempted to say Hurrah for America and sing the praise of its President. How human things change! Until a short time ago, if I had met an American I would have tried to cut him to shreds; if I met him now I would embrace him as my liberator and saviour.
The Russians or the English are expected with great anxiety. We follow the events through "shoe-radio", or infantry-radio, or camp-radio, whatever the say. And it is this great anxiety that gives credence to the most strange and absurd rumors. In the end the truth will come out and we shall show at large characters on the first page of all newspapers: Armistice.
Who can then hold us any longer? The so despised camps will open their doors; the sentries, especially those we have now, will have already disappeared and we shall achieve the so desired freedom.
Today they have asked for workers. I have enrolled as a lathe hand. Many have warned me about the difficulty of that job: what if they ask you to make a screw..., what if they ask you to do a precision job...what if this...,what if that...Because we are only twenty years old and we have studied and not worked with our own hands. I am convinced that after a week I shall be able to perform somewhat. I remember James's empirical philosophy.
A kind of black market has appeared in camp. Since winter is so near, everybody tries to outfit himself. The English have underwear, gloves, sweaters, woolen socks, scarfs and they exchange them for cigarettes or watches. This is an approximate price list: ten cigarettes gets a pair of gloves; fifteen cigarettes a sweater or a balaclava; twenty a pair of shorts; ten or fifteen a dish pf spaghetti; thirty cigarettes an overcoat; a watch gets a pair of shoes or some socks or chocolate.
From Frenchmen or Serbs we can get bread, butter, cigarettes or scarves. A single cigarette has been sold for ten to twenty liras; a cigar "empire" 150 liras. To what heights your vice can push you. I cannot even conceive it. Somebody even trades for cigarettes his meager bread allowance! Fountain pens are traded against chocolate or some bread. Someone apparently for his watch has received 32 bread allowances, 200 grams of butter and a whole loaf each week. The entire barrack has been punished.
I got out scot-free because I was mowing the grass. For my labor I have received a scant ladle of soup, and I had to share it with Jovine. In short, the Germans are only feeding us the minimum amount to keep us alive.
Tomorrow I shall go to Salisburg with an engineer, to work. I hope that everything will go well.
October 13
It may seem strange perhaps that I do not name or rarely name my family: When I think of them I cry and my morale is low. My only desire would be to give them my news and receive theirs, and thus be reassured and comforted. Whatever happened to my brother? I hope well.
I went to work on rags. My work was only perfunctory, and I have spent a magnificent morning.
In the afternoon they have reviewed our clothes. They [the German soldiers] have stolen - this is the only verb I can use- my civilian suit, my shoes and the tent's side, my white pants and cassock. That was all, because the reviewer was a good man. One of them made you undress and when he found someone with two or three undershirts he asked them to be removed, with a satisfied sneer. I will never forget his face.
More than anything else they were hunting for English items. They must believe that with their methods they will win the war...
I hope to return home soon and with my writing to champion the destruction of such an infamous race.
Perhaps in the way of compensation, in the evening they gave us tea, butter - this time of good quality- and stale jam.
Then I think of my gall of signing up as lathe hand. The lathe? What is this unknown utensil? Poor owner, I pity him!
October 14
The workers are meeting. The cold is rather intense, even though the sun is out. I am waiting to hear my name, or better, my number to depart, but my wait has been in vain until 10. I want to leave as soon as possible to get out of this damned camp and find an accommodation.
I long for a meal taken sitting on a chair before a table; undress at night and wear a pajama; see some light and read; eat a little more.
I hope to be called tomorrow, so that I can leave the same day. Here the soup is scarce and my stomach aches: is it the hunger or heartburn?
In the afternoon the sky gets overcast and unpleasant rain comes down. On the mountains it is snowing. This is only October: what will happen in December?. I hope then to be home!
Then in the afternoon a real surprising news: Badoglio has declared war to Germany. There is a great deal of optimism around. Everybody believes that Italy has done so because Germany is about to give up. Could the English have exercised pressure on Badoglio to legalize something which is happening already? Let's hope though that Badoglio will force the English to accelerate their steps and throw out before too long the hated Germans.
There is also the rumor of a landing about 100 km from Rome. The German bulletins are more and more laconic. Is this a good sign? (For us, of course).
The German, or better Austrian, staff sergeant gave us this news in a happy mood. As a personal comment he has added: Mussolini and Hitler, one month, then caput!. Let's hope this is a prophecy and the we may be home for Christmas.
In the meantime the cold is growing more intense and it is more and more difficult to sleep well and to be in line. What sustains and comforts us is the hope to return home soon
An important detail: They gave us a double allowance of margarine: what a luxury!!!
October 15
St. Therese
How many things this name brings back to memory! I can see the statue in our St. Peter's church and thus I see in my mind Frosolone, my family, my house. I remember my ....love drama, getting drunk, my walks, the gossips, Vittorino. Poor Vittorino! [Vittorio Jovine was killed in his barracks in Foggia, during an aerial bombing, the first night in Italy back from a long stretch at the front in Libya]. In St. Theresa's day I want to honour your memory, I want to render a tribute of affection to our sincere friendship. Death did not want you to suffer seeing the wretched conditions in which Italy has befallen, the havoc caused by the Germans... Perhaps you too would have had to endure the suffering of a concentration camp, number among numbers.
The snow has fallen also on the hills close to camp. The mountains are all white and the cold is intense.
No day passes without getting a sensational piece of news. Swede has declared war to Germany. Everybody dances joyfully and someone, the atlas on hand, makes prevision: table strategist. Will it be true? I hope to get confirmation tomorrow by a newspaper. They say also that the Russians are about one hundred kilometers from Warsaw and that in Italy Florence has been evacuated, same as Leghorn.
The source of this information is the staff sergeant in charge of the rags Is he a jester or does want to make fun of us?. In fact the bulletin dated October 14 says that there is fighting west of Smolensk, Gomel and Beliki-tuki, in Italy on the Volturno river and around Benevento. But didn't they say that Naples had been occupied by the Allies at the beginning of the month? Is it perhaps, both in Italy or in Germany, an entrapment?
The bulletin is on the third page. On the first one there is the agreement between Germany and the Philippines The rumor mill also talks of a shadow government headed by Hess in Russia. Let's hope it is true and that Germany collapses as soon as possible. Come on, because it is seventy-one days to Christmas.
October 16
Days follow days. One would say we have been here such a long time, but it is just twenty days, just twenty! Boredom is so acute, also because I cannot find a book to read.
The Staff Sergeant has said that the Russians are near Warsaw, but the Germans have launched a counteroffensive. It seems - but it is not sure - that Sweden has declared war to Germany. In Italy the Allies, with some help from Badoglio, have launched an offensive. So many rumors circulate in camp that one doesn't know what to believe. Somebody says that Germany has asked Russia for an armistice, but Russia has refused it. This news has two sources: the sergeant-interpreter and the cadet who was at the hospital in town and heard the radio. Because of this, the greatest optimism reigns in camp. Dates are established [for the surrender of Germany] of 15 - 20 days hence. I remain fixed in my idea that the war must end by Christmas. If the events then will allow me to pass Christmas with my family, I shall be the happiest man in the world.
Hunger is still great, because the soup becomes more and more watery, and without potatoes.
The workers are leaving, but us "lathe hands" are still stuck in this damned camp. I hope to leave soon and get settled sufficiently well. They say the workers can sleep well - will they have at least a straw mattress? - and eat better than us here. Let's have faith in God!
Our chief has said our postcards have left. I am glad, because my family will not be anxious any longer and I shall be able to get an answer from them.
October 17 - 18
A useless day, I would say. If from time to time a news were not arriving to lift our morale, the days would be totally useless. Yesterday though we got a wonderful news: Warsaw has been evacuated and so Florence. The German bulletin put it in these terms:" Warsaw has been evacuated according to pre-arranged plans". The newspaper was read by our interpreter who works in the kitchen. A "carabiniere" swore it is true. Were the news true, we shall soon go home.
I already portray to myself what I shall eat and do as soon as I arrive home: a good soup with potatoes and freshly baked pizza for lunch, spaghetti with oil and garlic sauce in the evening, then a pasta timbale, and so on. How lovely!
Someone hopes to be home sooner. I made this vow: if I am home by early December, the day of Immaculate Conception, I shall go to confession and take communion.
News is more and more optimistic: the German at the rags department told Sandro that the German army is surrounded in Poland, Sweden has declared war for sure and Finland has surrendered.
I hope to be home by the New Year. How much truth is there in all that? I am trying not to fall prey to excessive optimism, as disappointment would then be too great. Everything must be accepted with the benefit of the doubt.
It would be very nice to be home by Christmas and I certainly hope to be there by then, but otherwise I shall be patient. This would be my first Christmas away from home. How sad it would be!
In the meantime, we are not leaving. At least in Salzburg there is hope to be treated somewhat better and to not suffer hunger and to not have to listen to humbug. And time flies.
My premonition is always the same, though: the war will end by Christmas and, if this is true, be home by then.
A Russian captain has added something else: confirmation of the surrender of Finland, a Russian landing in Odessa, and subsequent penetration in Bessarabia. The end of this war should then happen in a matter of days.
October 19
Just a month ago we were in Brioni, hurling curses at our bad luck, and hoping to leave as soon as possible, if not sooner, for any destination whatsoever, to remove ourselves from that horrible indecision.
Don Nicolino celebrated Mass and at the end he gave the usual "Long live the King". Our answer was thunderous. Never as then we felt our attachment to the Savoy dynasty [A few years later, in a free referendum, the Italian people voted for a Republic!].
A month later everything has changed, or, should I say, most things are changed because now too we are expecting to depart, for Salzburg this time. I don't think there was ever such a desired departure to go to work. But they say that in factories there a good soup is provided with bread in the morning, double allowance with meat and bread at lunch, and soup and bread in the evening. Here, instead, the allowance is scarcer and scarcer and more watery, and a loaf of bread is still for five of us. I don't know why, but when you think you can satisfy yourself, either some bread or the soup is missing altogether. And besides, I feel as if nothing goes down into my stomach.
When I was at home, and I slept on soft woolen mattresses, I thought that to reinforce my bones I should sleep on a hard surface. Now however I don't agree with that any longer. In fact hard is now too hard and planks do not enjoy my liking any more. Last night it was warm, but my right leg's bones ache, because they start showing through and I sleep on my right side....
After yesterday's easy optimism, everything collapsed. The Frenchmen said that nothing was true. Our morale is still high though and I am convinced that the war will be over by Christmas. Would God listen to us!
October 20 - 21
Finally they have called me. I am so happy to get away from this damned camp, where so easily they make you skip a meal and where you are so hungry that you are not even capable of completing a peaceful game of tre-sette [a game of cards somewhat similar to bridge]. In fact Di Tullio has been suddenly compelled to stop playing and to go to lay down in bed. That's what hunger does to you.
I prepare my knapsack and go for review. They steal my sweater, but I succeed in saving everything else. After lunch we go to disinfection. After, another review.
In the evening I go get my bread . The barrack chiefs as usual take advantage of their situation and eat lots of bread, butter, and jam. I have proof of it when I can watch the lavish supper of one of them. Then I go to sleep in barrack number 1.
In the morning a new review. There goes another German staff sergeant who wants to enrich himself. They take away from me my tennis shoes, a woolen undershirt, and the Navy sweater. Someone wanted to steal also my gold watch, but luckily I was able to save it. These damned Germans will pay for it dearly!
After, they distribute a loaf of bread for three, with some salami, and we leave for Saltzburg, traveling third class. I must confess that traveling on German trains is not that bad. Our arrival is rather a happy one, but beds are infested with bed bugs. I try to kill those filthy little animals, but I do not completely succeed. I shall feel the consequences at night. Twenty-three of us are sleeping in a little room; we have a locker for each three of us. The only inconvenience is that water and toilets are outdoors.
I thought I would go to work in a factory, but no: it is pick and shovel for me. Manual labour ennobles man!
In the evening we get soup with lots of potatoes. And so the abundance of potatoes begins....until when?
October 22 - 23
They are my first days at work. My hands are not used to handle pick and shovel and they hurt. But slowly the pain is reduced and everything proceeds for the better. The soldiers who guard our barrack are very good people, except one who is somewhat a grumbler.
The first day we went to work escorted by a soldier, with the usual fixed bayonet. In the evening, however, we returned without an escort. It is such a nice feeling to go through Saltzburg free, without the obsession of a ruddy faced sentry, with a purple nose and the loud Teutonic step.
Contrary to Mark-Pongau camp, here we eat a lot. It is potatoes, but they sate you, and undoubtedly that is a very nice thing. When we left they gave us a loaf of bread for three and a salami. In the evening, in Saltzburg, they gave us two ladleful of potatoes. The day after also I am sated, and the 24th.
On Sunday we got some jam and for lunch a little helping of pasta, with a very good sauce, then boiled potatoes.
In the barrack however we have not reached yet a common understanding, but may be, just may be, this will happen. I don't think now that life here will reserve great surprises for us. It will be a monotonous life, but not a boring one.
October 25 - 26
The days pass without any special features. My manual job is not unpleasant. My hands are still aching, but I don't feel pain any longer, after a good half an hour work. We still work with pick and shovel. Then I think of those people who do calisthenics in the morning so as not to gain weight or for any other reason. They should try to work with pick and shovel for half an hour. How many gentle hands should handle those heavy tools: it would be their gain.
Our assistant is a very good man and so we do not work like convicts. Over nine hours, we work seriously not more than two.
I told a nice old man what they stole from me at Markt-Pongau. He was horrified and repeated that to everyone who would listen.
Some kids had a map of Italy. When I told them I am a teacher [ that was virtually true, a supply teacher] they insisted in giving it to me. At least in Austria there still is respect for teachers.
I took a breather, leaning on the shovel, and I was back home; I saw my family and the scene of my departure. Everything flashed before the eyes of my mind like a documentary. I was tempted to cry.
On the 26th I changed jobs. In fact in the afternoon I went with Jovine to help paint a barrack. This work is not so hard, almost pleasant.
The amount of food, after the plenty of the first few days, begins to become scarce. Let's hope for the best.
October 27-28-29
The days are always monotonous. I mean there are no events worth mentioning. No rumor makes the rounds, and this is good. We go to work carefree and quite happy, considering. Our only worry is that of our families.
In the barrack we have reached a degree of understanding and this is very good. Work is not difficult. My only problem is that I am left with one pair only of pants. They have requested for me an overall, but I doubt I will get it. Bureaucracy exists everywhere, always. The same can be said of thieves.
Our boss at work brought us two small sandwiches and two cigarettes. But there are still people who consider us numbers and nothing else.
October 30 - 31
Without any doubt, Saturdays and Sundays are the most boring days. To tell the truth, of them Sundays are the worst. When I was in Rome I dreamed of Frosolone, thinking that there I could have taken a walk up to the mountain. When in Frosolone, I thought of Rome, the movies, a stroll at the Pincio park, the concerts. Here, I just do not think of anything.
It is boring to be inside all day long, as if you were in an asylum. The barbed wire is everywhere, always around you. True, the dogs of Markt-Pongau are not here.
On Sundays, though, we can clean up and do our wash. On the 31st they said there would be a new review, the sixth or seventh - I can't recall well-. Nothing happened; instead they took note of those who need shoes and overcoats. Over more they gave us a piece of bread with some cheese.
This morning I had a wonderful breakfast: tea with four potatoes, then a half kilo of bread with some jam. All things considered, things are not too bad for a prisoner.
Potatoes have become our nightmare. We eat them cooked in all manners. They remind always of the little anecdote my father used to say: for a wedding they had made a meal , consisting of several dishes of broad beans, and only broad beans cooked in many different ways.
When I was in Markt-Pongau I hoped that, upon my return home, I would have a supper made entirely of potatoes. Here I am tired of them, deadly tired.>
Our boss keeps bringing us a couple of small sandwiches a day. So at ten I have a snack and that makes me feel good. Ten is the critical hour.
On the 30th they told me I would not do painting any more. However they rehired me. Until when? I hope for the duration.
I am collecting little charms to dangle from my university hat. I want to do something original. To say that I had to become a prisoner to find those trinkets!
Close by are some Italian workers, but it is forbidden to talk to them. What a strange destiny. Not to able to talk to your own countrymen. That's the limits that beats all!
A little longer and everything will be possible. We shall return to Italy, then....
November 1 - 2
A new month has started, but my life is unchanging. Always the same type of work, the same weather, except that in the morning it is colder. It is somewhat painful to stand on a ladder, in the shade, under dripping rain. When a drop falls on your hand it is like a pin falling on your it; still it is better than pick and shovel.
Paul, the Frenchman who is with us always gives us a little of bread and this way Jovine and I integrate the meager lunch. Still lunch is not bad, because there is still only 12 of us; the fewer, the better.
A good thing that the weather still keep good. My mother wanted me to take the heavy pajama pants, but I refused. But I should have taken that with me and also some woolen socks. But who could predict such an end!
Is it good or bad? When I return to Italy I shall know.
November 1 and 2: two days of festivities in Italy; two days of work in this damned German place. All saints and my dead are taking me for dead, and my family? Are perhaps some candles lighted before a tomb stone where my name is marked? I cannot believe that my family would do that.
Every holiday, every memorable festivity, my thoughts fly to Frosolone, and I see again everything I used to do. On November 2 I see myself enter the cemetery, a contrite expression on my face, and recite there the prayers for our dead. I see the devout women walking slowly, reciting the rosary, some crying. I see the priest saying the litany and also I see - why not- the people who just go there out of curiosity. I remember also our custom to carve a skull from a squash and to put inside a lighted candle to scare people. I see myself just a kid, seated atop a fountain's wall, with such a squash stolen from the vegetable garden belonging to "Cosimo La Roscia".
So many remembrances crowd my mind, including that of the separation from my mother. But this is better left unsaid now.
November 3-4-5-6
"Il Piave mormorava....." ["The River Piave whispered..."On the Piave the last offensive was launched by the Austrians in 1918, and the Italian army held. Piave still is a sacred river for Italians.] How many times I have sung it. I sung it even on this November 4th, but in what changed circumstances and heart. While in Italy I did not know what war is, and even less being a prisoner. I would then sing just for the pleasure of it; I followed the current. So many times improvised speakers have celebrated the anniversary of our....victory; there were ceremonies, Masses, laurel wreaths on the monument, the band played The Piave.
In Austria instead I went to work in intense cold. I thought back to my house, to my nice warm bed, to my mother, mainly to my mother. How often I think of her and how many times I sigh. I see tears streaming down her face. Now more than ever I would like to cry. Perhaps it is for me, for my brother, for my uncles [Two uncles were at war.]. Whatever happened to her and to all my relatives? What shall I find upon my return to Italy? Mother, mother, how often I think of you. Will I be responsible for your health?
In the meantime the days pass. A Frenchman who works with me has said that the Germans have lost in four months two an a half millions soldiers, the Russians are at 150 Km from the Romanian border and many German cities are bombed often. My soul is satisfied and I am sure that the war will be over by Christmas.
In the meantime the snow has made its first appearance on the ground. "Sad is the life of a prisoner!". Never before now I have found how right this sentence is. To be on a ladder in intense cold, while the snow falls down..., need I say more? At home instead I would have opened the shutters and I would have watched and enjoyed the view. I would have prepared my skis, ready to go to St. Egidio [A refuge on the mountain]. How life has changed!
They gave us wooden clogs, some soap and saponin. Am I a prisoner or a vacationer? All depends on how you are able to adjust.
November 7 - 8
November 7 is a day I will not soon forget. In fact I was able to eat "gnocchi" [potato dumplings usually eaten with spaghetti sauce]. In the morning I was on duty to peal potatoes and I stole 30 of them! I stuffed my pockets and pants, with great fear of a review. I had good luck, because everything went well. In the evening I boiled them and a barrack chief, Caporossi from Rome, made the gnocchi. I put together the needed flour during a whole week. I had been promised some butter, but in the end I could not get it. Those gnocchi were good. For a sauce, I set aside my soup allowance at noon and evening, then we wolfed them down. I still have some flour left, which will be for next Sunday. So it really has been a memorable day.
At night, it was much too warm in the room; the next day, outside, it is bitterly cold. Whether it rains or snows, we must keep working. With the Germans there is no way out of this. Whatever the weather we must work, and hard. Luckily I am working indoors, but it is not pleasant to think of my friends who work outside.
A civilian has told me Rome has been bombed, particularly Vatican City. This news however resulted in being false.
Life in our barrack is now possible, because we are all in good agreement, and this is a great thing.
November 9-10-11
I was able finally to listen to some music. Returning from work, supper was not ready, and so I went into the workers' room. There I listened to some music. I would have thought God knows what I would do, but I was simply astounded. I remember what my father used to say, when he recounted some of his adventures during the first world war. Once, when on furlough he heard some music and started crying.. In his case, though, conditions were quite different. His nerves were shot by the noise of guns, rifles and little things of the kind caused that effect on him. For me, it is a simple case of having forgotten a lot.
Sometimes I dream of sinking in a foam armchair, before a nice lit fireplace, listening to the radio. When will I see you again, my beautiful radio?. When will I be able to sit and sink in a comfortable armchair?. I hope soon, because according to news passed by a Frenchman the Russians are already in Rumania.
They passed around overalls for work, stamped with a magnificent, large, red marking :K.G. (Prisoner of war).But we students did not get them. I asked the German and he answered with a long babble, which I did not understand. At first I thought that we had to wear the K.G. on our normal clothes; this would have been degrading.
November 11: the King's birthday. What a difference!! No more festivities, no more flags, but only desecrations (in Germany) for this monarch who (according to the fascist press) may have sold Italy for a million British pounds.
November 11 is also the date when wine juice becomes wine. Who knows whether our vineyards are still in the family!.
Poor Italy!. At times I hate you, but when I see the marking FFSS on the railway cars, nostalgia assaults me and a knot comes to my throat. Oh Italy, you are always my land, and that of my ancestors.
NOTE. This is the end of Part 1. To continue, click on 2nd instalment.
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