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

great tension between my parents, making me realize how much these objects meant to my mother.
    In a short time, my life in Milan became almost normal, perhaps too normal. Within two weeks after our arrival, my parents enrolled me in the Hebrew school.
    “Why do I need scholastic discipline?” I complained. “Why can't you leave well enough alone? Do I bother anyone?”
    The school provided bus transportation. In Vienna I had had to walk. The bus came for me first, then, after crisscrossing the width and length of the whole city, it stopped to pick up the last child just across the street from where I had been standing an hour earlier. The same tedious route was repeated on the way home, keeping me a school hostage two hours longer than necessary. I asked the driver to let me off on the corner, which would have saved me one hour, but the answer was “no.” I was convinced my mother had a hand in arranging the schedule. This was a devilish way for my parents to keep me away from them. Only the constant display of their affection convinced me otherwise.
    The scholastic year ended two months after my enrollment and the lengthy bus rides were soon forgotten. But worse than those daily trips was adjusting to Milan's weather. The fog and humidity that greeted us on our arrival were a daily occurrence. Occasionally the fog lifted but only to make room for a heavy rainfall to make sure we would not miss the humidity. The weather was bad in winter and, as we soon found out, no better in summer.
    “I can't believe a city with such lousy weather has attracted so many famous people,” Mamma remarked.
    “And to think it is Italy's largest city,” Papa said.
    We arrived in Milan on March 19. Winter was almost over, and yet, because the apartment did not have central heating, every night Papa had to load hot embers into a brazier, which he placed between the covers to dry the damp sheets.
    We did have a short, but much too short, period of pleasant spring weather. Lying in a valley, surrounded by mountains, Milan had an oppressive and brutal summer. Almost every night my parents awakened me to take a walk to a city park, the beautiful Sforzesco Castle. There we could catch some breathable air. The idea was not original; thousands of the city's one million citizens did the same. The event, in fact, was so popular that the city authorities provided fireworks, imparting a festive mood to these nightly outings.
    We stayed in Milan eight months, during which I enjoyed many firsts. Seeing an opera was one. My mother often spoke about her experiences at the Vienna opera when she was a young girl. She had heard the best of that era: Lotte Lehman, Jan Kiepura, Richard Tauber, Joseph Schmidt, Enrico Caruso.
    “Do you realize,” Mutti said, “except for Caruso, these were all Jewish artists? And Hitler calls Jewish artists degenerate.”
    She described the times when she had followed Jan Kiepura from the opera house back to his hotel, then waited with a crowd of hundreds for the singer to appear on the balcony and serenade his fans below. Or when, one winter, she stood all night for the ticket window to open in the morning. She had wanted a standing-room ticket to hear the great Caruso.
    Through her vivid memories I relived the glorious moments of Vienna's past. Because she spoke with so much passion, I was able to feel the emotions she had felt many years before. Perhaps it was only how she remembered things, but I didn't care. Her stories gave me a great thirst to see an opera for myself. I was filled with curiosity.
    “Did you ever meet any of these artists?” I asked.
    “ Nein, mein Hasele .”
    Oh, how I loved the many terms of endearment my Mutti used for me, like Hasele, Schatzele, Katzele, Puppale, Tatale, Stück Gold, sometimes adding more schmaltz by prefacing them with goldenes .
    One day after lunch, Mother said, “You take a nap and I'll have a big surprise for you.”
    “What surprise?” I asked.
    “We'll take you to La