A Child Al Confino: The True Story of a Jewish Boy and His Mother in Mussolini's Italy by Eric Lamet Read Free Book Online Page A

parents to get old.
    My father was an impeccably elegant man. His tailor-made double-breasted suits, the white handkerchief folded into a perfect rectangle peeking from his breast pocket, and the knotted, thin-striped tie centered between the starched white collar were his personal trademarks. His hair, too, combed straight back without a part, was always perfect, thanks to the net he positioned with meticulous care before going to bed at night. He wore wing-tipped black shoes shined to a luster that, together with the squeaking soles, made them seem new.
    Five feet ten inches tall, my father maintained his slim figure by devoting ten minutes each morning to his own version of gymnastic exercise. In boxer shorts, garters holding up the knee-high socks, his arms outstretched forward, he slowly bent his knees while his torso moved up and down a dozen or so times. On occasion, crouching next to Papa, I tried to imitate him.
    The Giglis treated their cat and dog like children. Mrs. Gigli cooked special food for them, bathed them regularly, and each pet had a pillow at the feet on her bed. During our stay, the poor cat had to be put to sleep. It was a sad moment for everyone when we watched Mr. Gigli take the cat on its final trip to the veterinary.
    I had adjusted to the cat's being gone when a few days later, to my consternation, Rina brought the stuffed animal home. She placed it on the living room mantlepiece where it sat taunting the dog by refusing to play with his old friend. Whenever my parents sat in the living room, they whispered about the dead cat sitting on the mantlepiece. “ Takke meshuge !” Mutti remarked. Really crazy. One Sunday morning we were gathered in the living room with our landlords when the subject of religion came up.
    “You don't go to church, Signora Lotte. Are you not Catholic?” Rina asked.
    “No. We are Jewish.”
    “Jewish!” Rina shrieked. “ O, Madonna mia! I would never have guessed. But you don't look Jewish.”
    My mother was bewildered by Rina's statement. “How does a Jew look?” she asked.
    “Well, I thought….”
    Mutti was clearly impatient now. “You thought what?”
    “I thought all Jews … had horns.”
    Both my parents burst into loud laughter. The subject never surfaced again, nor did Rina or her husband show any difference in their warm feelings toward us.
    That year my mother came up with a great idea. She arranged for me to go to a summer camp in Switzerland. The camp had been organized and financed by a group of good-hearted Swiss ladies who had raised the necessary money to offer a slice of happiness to Jewish refugee children by selling home-baked goods on the streets of Zurich, Basel, and Geneva. I had turned eight, and the thought of my being allowed to travel to another country, away from my parents' strict discipline, was so exciting I could hardly sleep. “How many more days?” I kept asking.
    Two days before the long-anticipated departure, Papa took me for a haircut. As we were walking down the stairs, Mamma shouted, “Short, I want him to be cool!”
    A little with sign language and less in his poor Italian, my father tried to communicate with the barber. The man tapped my father's arm and indicated that he understood perfectly and proceeded to shave off my hair completely. Back home, at the sight of my bald head, Mother's eyes opened wide and from the lack of color in her face, I was sure she was about to faint. That haircut caused a long argument between my parents and, for most of the summer, it gave my camp playmates a reason to taunt me.
    The day finally came when we all went to the train station for my trip to Basel. Embarking on my first real adventure alone put me beyond exhilaration. I wanted my mother to stop hugging me, so certain that each hug was delaying the train's departure. My father had already placed the suitcase on the luggage rack and was waiting to get me settled in the third-class compartment.
    “I hope you have a very good time