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

eyes, I watched as my mother's sheet-covered body, her face pale and her eyes unfocused, was carried down the corridor. I thought for sure my heart would stop ticking.
    A nun, wearing a white habit and apron, arrived to escort me down a long corridor that reeked of medicine. With her hand on my back, she eased me into a small hall. “Wait here,” she said. “Your mother has to be examined.”
    I waited for what felt like hours. While sitting alone in that quiet room, terrible thoughts ran through my mind. I was still a child, I had been forced to move three times. My papa was who-knows-where, all my possessions were left behind, and now I was about to lose my Mutti .
    I was half asleep in the chair when a nun came for me. “Your mother has to remain here. She has had a gall bladder attack and must rest. Perhaps by tomorrow she will be able to go back home. I think you had better go now.”
    “Is she going to die?”
    “No, no!” The nun reassured me with a big smile.
    “Can I see her?”
    “I'm afraid not.”
    That meant I wouldn't kiss my mother good night. “Can I at least stay here for the night?” I asked.
    “No, little boy, there is no room here.”
    Reluctantly, I turned away from the good sister, who seemed heartless to me. As I walked out of that gloomy place, the tears I had tried so hard to contain now freely streamed down my face. As the fresh air hit my nostrils, unconsciously, I set my worries aside and hopped down the hill toward home. All around me were large fields overflowing with brightly colored carnations. Halfway down, I stopped for a moment to take in the view and allow the flowers' fragrance to fill my senses while the afternoon sun bathed my face.
    Once home, my grim thoughts about Mamma came back to haunt me. What were they doing to her in the hospital? Would they feed her? I should never have left her there alone. Then I realized I too, would be alone that night.
    Guerino prepared my dinner, challenged me to a few games of checkers, then helped me get ready for bed.
    “You are a real friend,” I said and kissed my friend good night.
    Early the next morning, after a glass of milk and a slice of bread and butter not to be compared to the breakfasts my mother prepared for me , I retraced my steps up the steep incline to the hospital. Inside the clinic I spotted a clerk in the hallway.
    “Do you know where I can find Signora Lifschütz?” I asked.
    “Sorry. You'll have to ask a nurse.”
    I walked the full length of the white antiseptic corridor before I saw a nurse coming my way. “She is in room two-oh-one,” she replied.
    The room, also white and austere, was crowded with four white metal beds where only two should have been. A hand lifted from one. It was Mutti 's hand. She had seen me and was slowly waving me over. She looked so weak and pale and I could see she was still in great pain. I gave her a long hug and kiss. I still feared I would lose her.
    “Why are you sucking on ice cubes?” I asked.
    “They do not allow me to eat anything,” she whispered.
    With no chair in the room, I sat on the bed and reached for her hand. With her smile, she let me know my being there was of great comfort to her. Mutti motioned for me to come closer to her face. She had trouble talking. In a weak tone she reminded me of the German couple who would be coming to dinner the next day. She wanted me to contact them.
    “Do they have a telephone?” I asked.
    “No. You have to go to their house. Tell them what has happened.” She halted. Her head sank deeper into the pillow. She looked so exhausted. My poor Mutti ! “As soon as I get better, they will come to dinner again. They'll understand.”
    I sat up. “No,” I said, “I'll make dinner. I can do it. Just give me some recipes.”
    A big smile lit up her chestnut eyes and spread over her pretty face. “You can't do that.”
    But she was much too weak to argue and argue I did.
    Resigned, she said, “Get a pencil and paper.” After some