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to me about it. He told me to let my anger simmer and not continually boil over.’
    â€˜Good lad that Italo, that’s sound advice. Make sure you take it to heart.’
    Life in the partisan camp was very structured and based on strict military discipline. We had our own cooks and medics as the regular forces would and everyone was always very busy working around the camp. We even had our own ranks and a distinct military structure that was necessary for efficient organisation. The only official activity that I detested were the political lectures, usually from the communist commissars, that all partisans in our band had to attend. Even though we were called a Garibaldi Brigade, the name was not an indication of our political affiliation, though most Garibaldi Brigades were communist. If anything, we were mainly non-political and we took these mandatory lectures in a light-hearted manner.
    The only reason that our leader allowed the communist commissars to operate in the camp was because of his agreement with the Italian communist partisans under the control of General Tito in Yugoslavia to supply us with arms. The payback was Tito had agreed to do so, through the local network of Garibaldi brigades, if he allowed the politicisation of the band with commissars attached to carry out the work, and for us to be absorbed into the communist network of Garibaldi Brigades fighting in Italy.
    There was another unofficial activity that took place in the camp on an irregular basis, and that was the visits that took place from some local prostitutes from Bologna. When I first saw them I wondered why they were there, however I soon came to understand that their function was to boost morale. One night, during a visit from these girls, I found myself sitting alone at a camp fire when Marisa, one of the prostitutes, sat down beside me. I found her to be very friendly and extremely talkative, and before too long the inevitable curiosity on my part turned into active participation. The experience of losing my virginity that night was one I shall always remember. Marisa treated me with tenderness and understanding, and as for my part, I felt that I had passed that night into the ranks of manhood.
    The autumn turned to winter, and a cold winter it was that year. The snows came early to the mountains, and perceptibly changed from a serene white dusting that covered the countryside and the mountains around us to deep snowdrifts that hindered all movement on the mountain and the surrounding area. Gianni reasoned that if the snow impeded us moving around, then it would also impede the Germans. He decided to give some of the men with families in the area some leave time, which was gratefully accepted, but left the camp much quieter than usual.
    Not having much to occupy me, I found myself dwelling on the massacres and on my family. As I focused more on my dead family and friends, I experienced a tremor in my hands which quickly spread to my whole body. I found myself shaking like a leaf from head to toe. I felt tears well up within me like a pent-up force and suddenly erupting with a passion and fury that surprised me. Some of the partisans heard me scream out and came running over to me. I found myself being held down by them as I continued sobbing, violently shaking and screaming out to the heavens. The partisans were concerned in case I hurt myself and they held me down until I became calmer. After about ten minutes I began to relax and returned to normality. I later realised that this episode was the result of all the horror I had experienced for such a young person, even though it was a delayed reaction. I had become a closed book since the events and even when I had witnessed the second massacre, I had shown no sign of it having affected me in anyway. I was told by the camp medic that what I had experienced was a healthy sign, and was probably the first stage of emotional healing. These days, you would probably call it post-traumatic