The Boy in Abruzzo: A Novel of WW II Italy

By Louis A Rosati

Motivated by severe food-rationing imposed on his Italian village in the rugged Abruzzo region, a fifteen-year-old boy hikes to a nearby town where a family takes him in. He soon discovers the family, disillusioned by the Fascist government, is also sheltering two fugitive British Army soldiers who have escaped a nearby prisoner-of war camp.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Arizati Press
• Release date: Aug 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9780984962143

Book preview

Part I

A Time of War

Chapter 1

Roccamorice, Italy. September, 1943

Francesco was seated at the kitchen table in the farmhouse chatting with his aunt when he heard the vehicle rumble down the lane. Looking out the window, he craned his neck to see an olive-green lorry slowly sway side to side, its brakes grinding and suspension straining as it inched down a narrow track. The tires finally crunched to a stop on the gravel in front of the house. His breath caught at the sight of the iron cross on the door panel. He clenched his fist. Merda, he whispered. An officer stepped out and adjusted his cap, pulling the visor low over his eyes. A blunt-featured enlisted man wearing a flange helmet emerged from the driver-side door with a rifle. The two doors slammed in rapid succession.

Donato, fuori, subito! the officer shouted, as he walked toward the house. Francesco understood the officer wanted his uncle to come outside quickly.

He rose and whispered this to his aunt as he ducked out of view of the window.

Chiama Zio Donato—I Tedeschi sono qui.

Aunt Carmela struggled to rise and limped to the door of the root cellar. She looked back and forth worriedly at Francesco as she called down to her husband: Veini su! I Tedeschi…

A white-bearded man stepped into the kitchen in his soiled work clothes to face his wife. Taut and tight-lipped, he motioned to Francesco to stay back; then the couple shuffled to the door and emerged onto the small landing above the yard.

Francesco stood at the window looking at the assembled group, the couple close together facing the Germans. He stepped back a bit from the window and pressed his back into the shadow of the wall. He had walked down to the farm from his home in the village of Roccamorice to collect a package of beef from a cow his uncle had butchered. He hadn’t anticipated any problems, but the unexpected arrival now had pinned him to the wall, his face swiveled to the window. He thought, this isn’t worth dying for.

The stern-faced officer peered out below his visor at the couple. Bring us the beef, he uttered matter-of-factly. His square-cut jaw hardly moved as he spoke.

What beef? Donato replied. I sold my cow in San Valentino weeks ago. Don’t lie to me. I have it on good authority, the officer responded more sternly. More than one person has informed us that you butchered the cow and sold some of it. We also know you still have most of it, so where is it?

Believe me I don’t have anything left. It’s all sold.

The officer pulled the luger from his side holster and quickly got off two rounds that hit the framing of the house above their heads sending shards of wood into the air. Listen to me, Donato, if you don’t fetch the meat in the next two minutes, the next time I shoot it will be at your wife—understand?

Donato and Carmella ducked their heads together as Francesco recoiled and slid to the floor. Donato, wide-eyed, held up a trembling hand and said, almost in a whisper, "Va bene, aspetta, I’ll get it." Leaving his wife standing there, he went back inside. A few tense minutes passed. Francesco remained still, taking shallow breaths. No one moved, then Donato emerged, his arms cradling a large cloth-wrapped bundle. Francesco sneaked out behind him.

Staring intently at the officer, he shouted, "La gente ha fame. Don’t take their food!"

Donato turned to Francesco, mouth ajar, his face contracted in shock. Carmela had raised her hand covering her mouth, her wide eyes exhibited unspoken horror. The officer abruptly threw back his shoulders and scowled. He returned his pistol to his holster and asked, How old are you, boy, and who are you to make demands?

I’m fifteen. I’m their nephew, here for a visit. Please don’t take the meat. It’s all they’ve got. Francesco had not spoken to any German military man during the occupation, let alone an officer. He had heard stories about the attitudes the soldiers manifested toward village residents, but had not had a direct experience. His stomach felt unsettled and he could feel his heart beating faster as he struggled to maintain control. He hoped a plea might work. It is all the family has left to share.

The officer stepped forward, brushing past Donato who had turned to face Francesco. Walking up to the outside landing, the officer motioned Francesco to step down. Standing a few feet apart, the officer hooked his thumbs in his black leather holster belt and stared down at Francesco. His voice had a hard edge. "Never speak to an officer of the Wehrmacht unless in answer to a question. Is that understood?"

Si.

Yes what? He raised his voice and said, Yes, sir is the response I expect, always and without exception.

Si signore, Francesco responded sheepishly, looking down at the ground. Look at me, boy. Now let me ask you, do you know why we are here, why the German army has occupied your village?

Francesco knew the recent events of the war but decided to shake his head no. Well, the officer said, sneering, I’m not surprised. For a boy your age who should know, you display appalling ignorance. You Italians have betrayed us. If your government had not broken the pact between our two countries and your soldiers had not abandoned their posts like cowards, we would not have had to come here.

But why take our food? Francesco asked.

The officer’s face hardened. "Don’t be stupid, boy. We need all the food we can get. Your needs, the needs of your family, your village are your concern, not mine, I could care less about la fame." With that he abruptly turned and motioned to his stone-faced companion who shouldered his rifle and stepped forward to retrieve the bundle from Donato. The soldier placed the bundle in the already full cargo compartment. Then the officer stepped toward Donato and ordered him to get into the vehicle.

Anger welled up inside Francesco. He clenched his fists and opened his mouth to scream an insult, but hesitated. The officer’s back was to him and events were moving too quickly.

Donato had regained some degree of composure, but now his face was unmasked in fear. Per favore, hai pieta—la fame, he pleaded for pity with the officer.

You lied to me, Donato. There is no mercy for that. Now get in the vehicle! No, you can’t take him, per favore, no! Francesco screamed as he rushed forward and reached for his uncle’s arm.

His aunt rushed to Francesco’s side and pulled him away. "Fermarti, Francesco! Non peggiorare le cose—don’t make things worse. God will take care of him."

Unless you want to join your uncle, I suggest you listen to your aunt, and move away from the lorry. I won’t ask a second time. He turned and gave Donato a shove toward the vehicle. Donato slumped his shoulders in resignation and lifted himself into the vehicle.

As the officer was about to step into the vehicle, Francesco pushed him aside and reached in for his uncle, shouting for him to get out of the vehicle.

The officer stumbled, nearly falling, but he regained his footing and pushed Francesco away from the open door, poking his leather crop hard into Francesco’s belly.

Visibly stunned, Francesco buckled over and let out a whoosh of air.

Such audacity, the officer of the Whermacht said coldly. I warned you once. If there were room in this vehicle for one more item you would be coming with me. As it is, consider yourself lucky to have only been double-warned. I tell you this in no uncertain terms. His voice slowing but growing colder, he stepped forward and pressed the crop to Francesco’s chest. If you come to my attention again you’ll find yourself in a work camp or worse. Do you understand? I only need to hear one more complaint about you. Now get out of the way!

Francesco, who had straightened up and recovered his breath, backed off in silence.

The officer got into the vehicle next to Donato who sat uneasily with bunched- up shoulders between the officer and his driver.

Turning the ignition, the driver cranked the engine to a low rumble. He swung the vehicle around, and as Donato craned his head back at the house, the lorry lurched up the lane to the road back to the village.

Francesco’s body went slack as he watched the men drive off. Then he turned and embraced his aunt.

****

The scent of autumn was in the air on this late September day. Yellowing hardwood trees flanking the road ascending from the Pescara River valley partially shielded the cluster of stone buildings of his village, but he wasn’t thinking about the change of seasons. He was angry, but one thought kept repeating in his mind as he walked—it just wasn’t worth dying for. The blue-gray slope of the Maiella range that rose above the tiled roofs and bell tower of the church had always had a spiritual significance, but pangs of hunger in the midst of his reflections on the confrontation distracted him from any such thoughts this day.

Francesco walked into the main piazza just beyond the village entrance. To his left he frowned at the group of German soldiers, rifles slung over shoulders, standing next to their military lorry in front of the municipal building. A Nazi flag, featuring a black swastika on a circle of white against a field of red, hung over the entrance. Smoking and chatting with one another, the soldiers paid him no attention as he spit on the cobblestones in their direction. At the fountain, a woman in a wool shawl and cotton skirt flared by layers of petticoats raised a copper amphora to her head, balanced it with one hand, grabbed her young daughter’s hand in the other, and walked off. Francesco’s mouth was dry; he licked his lips. On the far side, the village baker, a stout man in a black jacket over his white apron, was sweeping the pavement in front of his shop. Francesco thought the villagers should have come and gone by now for the bread ration. He winced at the remembrance of his mother coming home in tears when the bread for the day had run out before she got to the head of the line. His grumbling stomach hoped that hadn’t happened today. He continued around to the right where he passed three village men seated on chairs at a café table holding cups of espresso in one hand while engaged in an animated conversation. Coffee, as with so many other items, was in short supply, but every occupied village had at least one café supported by the German military.

Francesco knew these men, always arguing over nothing, even the jowly town mayor who looked ridiculous in the black fedora with red-feathered hat band tilted jauntily on his head. Francesco frowned at the Fascist lapel medal on the mayor’s jacket, a fascicle of birch rods tied with a red cord to an axe. He had been told Mussolini chose it as the symbol of his Fascist Party because it represented the power of the magistrates of the Roman Empire. He, like most Italian boys, was a member of a Fascist youth organization, but he was becoming disillusioned. He had begun to question credere, obbidiere, combattere—believe, obey, fight, the credo the Fascist government tried to instill in him and his friends. On the one hand he felt an allegiance to the country, and he knew that most of the people in the village supported the government; on the other hand he was aware of rising anti-Fascist sentiment. Mussolini was in trouble now that the war had come ashore in Italy. But it was a matter for the adults; not something that he and his friends thought about very deeply. Besides, one could get in trouble with Mussolini’s secret police, the OVRA, and there were spies everywhere.

"Ciao, Francesco. Where have you been this morning?" the mayor asked. He answered he’d been to see his uncle.

Where is that smile? he chided. Didn’t he give you anything to eat?

Niente, he mumbled. His stomach growled as he spoke; he wasn’t in the mood to discuss the incident.

The site of the coffee cups annoyed him. Beneath his voice , he groused. There are things more important than coffee. He walked off with rounded shoulders thinking back to the farm: if not for the hunger, none of it would have happened.

Turning a corner, he entered a winding cobblestone walkway lined on both sides by two-story attached buildings constructed of locally-quarried, light gray Maiella stone. Many of the homes had windows bordered by shutters with scattered spots of color from red geraniums in terra cotta pots on iron-framed balconies. Neighbors often chatted with one another across the alleyway. The slightly recessed doorways, a step up from street level, also saw people standing in the stoop engaging neighbors or passersby. Francesco always enjoyed stopping to chat with friends, but the street was empty, matching his gloom, and no one looked down from the balconies. Two German privates approached from the far end of the alleyway. Francesco narrowed his eyes at them and stepped up on a door stoop to let them pass. Asini, he mumbled.

The soldiers were chatting to each other when suddenly one of them stopped, unshouldered his rifle, and glared at Francesco. His partner took a few more paces before he stopped and looked back in anger. Francesco suddenly felt heat flush his temples as he recognized that the soldiers understood the Italian words. The second soldier now unshouldered his rifle. He started walking toward Francesco frowning, but his partner held him back. Francesco stepped down from the stoop and stood defiant. So, you’re going to shoot me? he shouted in Italian, not knowing if they would fully understand what he said. A tense moment passed. Glaring at Francesco, the soldier pointed the fingers of his free hand at his own eyes and then at Francesco, sending him a clear message. Francesco responded with a time-honored, Italian up-thrusted arm gesture meant to communicate contempt—up your ass!

The two men turned to one another and mumbled something Francesco could not understand. Then, looking back at Francesco with the disdain of someone not worth bothering with, the soldiers both shouldered their rifles. As they walked off, Francesco felt his heartbeat slow as he breathed more evenly. He turned away and walked on.

Francesco’s home was at the head of the street, separated a few paces from the others. His father, Luigi, had built it in 1925 with money he had earned the first time he went to work in America. It wasn’t his first departure to find wages that were adequate to support his family. He and his brothers had first tried their luck in South America, first Brazil, and then Argentina, around the turn of the century as migratory workers—galandrinos, swallows they were called. They were part of the great Italian migration that had begun in the 1860s when Italy bled out its citizens to foreign shores. The United States became the ultimate magnet to draw Francesco’s father and uncles.

The house was a simple construction of Maiella stone. It was situated at the edge of the village on a sloping plateau with a deep encircling ravine, and had a panoramic view of the countryside at the back. A mulberry tree framed the east end where morning sunlight slanted through the leaves and dappled the patio doors of a balcony enclosed by a waist-high wrought iron railing. A fig tree framed the west end.

Francesco’s father had since returned to work in the United States and was hoping to send for his wife, Francesco, and his older brother once he had accumulated enough money. But war had broken out and the future proved uncertain. For Francesco, who missed his father, the house lacked not only his presence, but his spirit.

Francesco approached the weather-beaten front door at street level and paused to consider what he would tell his mother, fretting like any teenager who was about to give a parent disappointing news.

Finally, he opened the door and entered the main room, a kitchen and sitting area with a table and a few mismatched chairs. The residual stale, smoky scent of a cooking fire permeated the air. His mother rose and turned away from the hearth where she had placed a bundle of wood. Francesco saw she was surprised to see him empty-handed.

Where is the meat?

The Germans have it.

What happened?

They found out about the butchered cow. But how did they find out? she scowled.

Who knows? His fists were clenched as he continued. You know how hard it is to keep a secret in this town. When someone knows something, soon everyone knows.

I can’t believe it. Now what? Her face continued to register displeasure.

Francesco began to pace about the room gesturing angrily, clenching and unclenching his fist, and repeated the events that had transpired, leaving out his personal involvement with the officer at the farm and the soldiers on his way home.

His mother waited for him to finish. Casting an accusatory look and tone she asked about her sister-in-law, "What happened to Zia Carmela"?

They left her behind. On my way back here I stopped at Margarita’s and told her what happened. She went over to check on her. I think Zia will be okay for now.

"Dio Mio! his mother exclaimed, slapping her hands together as she looked upward. Light filtered through a cloudy window in a door that led out to the rear balcony. She walked out nervously twisting her apron and peered down over the iron railing looking for Francesco’s older brother, Antonio. He was working in the small terraced garden below. The ground was nearly devoid of produce. Her eyes were drawn to the garden’s grape arbor backdrop where Antonio was tending vines with clusters of purplish fruit ripening in the late morning sun. Antonio was a good-looking, slender young man, slightly taller than Francesco with a full head of dark wavy hair. Antonio! she shouted. Something terrible has happened."

Moments later Francesco’s brother hurried into the room removing a soiled gray beret and tossed it on a chair. He walked over to the tarnished copper sink to wash his hands. "Che successo, what happened, what’s the problem? The Germans, right?" The annoyance in his voice was clear.

Antonio listened as Francesco repeated his story, again selectively excluding his involvement with the officer. Pouring water from a copper amphora into a bowl, Antonio rinsed and dried his hands. He turned to face his brother who looked weary; plainly clad in a cotton shirt that hung loosely on him. His faded corduroy trousers bore tattered cuffs that draped on his dust-covered shoes. The sturdy adolescent with dark, ruffled hair, mature beyond his years, had lost weight. They both had. But as they had always been good friends as well as brothers, they had always discussed their situations rationally. Antonio’s annoyance with him now, however, was clear in the tone of his voice. Francesco, we’ve talked about this. Some of the Fascists here have difficulty accepting what happened to the government, and they sympathize with the Nazis, he growled. You have to be careful what you say and to whom you speak; nothing anyone says can be kept in confidence." He turned to pour the used water down the drain and leaned back against the counter.

Francesco thought about the mayor’s comment. Look, I didn’t say anything to anyone about the beef. Don’t blame me for this, he snapped.

His mother exhaled a sigh. Her face had relaxed the scowl. No one is blaming you, Francesco. We all need to be careful.

Shrugging and throwing up his hands, Francesco signaled he had enough discussion. I have things to do, he said, angrily; then turning, he quickly descended to the lower level before anyone could say another word.

At the foot of the narrow stairway he opened the door to his bedroom which resembled a cell, and tugged the string that turned on a light bulb dangling from the ceiling. He had been frustrated by his inability to satisfy his hunger, and the presence of German troops everywhere added more misery. Still upset about the latest incident, he thought it would be best if he just left home. It was not the first time he had that thought.

A cloth drape covered a narrow gap in the wall he used as a closet. He pulled the drape aside and looked at his shirts, trousers, and a sweater hanging on a wooden bar. The approach of winter required warmer clothing, but what else would he need? There was not much to ponder. The room held only a metal-framed cot on one side; a small chest of drawers on the other. A small crucifix hung on the wall above his bed and a team poster of the 1938 World Cup Champions, Gli Azzuri, was pinned to the side wall. He looked at the players. A wry smile broke on his face. He was very proud of the Italian National Team. They had won Italy’s second World Cup and were the undisputed kings of football. The onset of the war had postponed a possible repeat.

He shook his head disappointedly and went through the chest of drawers searching for anything that might be of use. He wouldn’t need his old football jersey or the sack of marbles that he used to shoot with his pals in the schoolyard. The hunger had made his friends listless and bleary-eyed. No one wanted to do anything anymore; no football, no nothing.

He picked up an old football magazine with a smooth, glossy cover featuring Sergio Bertoni, one of the team stars. The musty scent of old newsprint wafted up as he flipped through the pages, remembering the times he shared stories with his father who knew all the old players. The magazine had covered a book a teacher had lent him in the spring—Fontamara by Ignazio Silone. He replaced the magazine and picked up the book, quickly flipping through the pages surreptitiously. His teacher warned him to tell no one about it, to keep it hidden, and to read it secretly because it was critical of Fascism. He was about to read it when the fighting in Italy began; in the turmoil he had forgotten about it.

Muffled footsteps on the floor above him caused him to quickly replace the book beneath the magazine. His brother, Antonio, called down to him.

Francesco, don’t be foolish. Come up here. Let’s talk about it.

When I’m finished, he responded, closing the drawer and opening another. The drawer contained his writing journal and several articles and essays he had written. He had developed a special bond with his teacher who recognized his intellectual aptitude and encouraged his writing. He leafed through the journal pages, pausing to reread a poem. He smiled as his eyes glanced over the first stanzas, but the smile faded quickly. There would be no time for that sort of thing and Silone’s novel would also have to wait. In another drawer that held his socks and underwear he picked up a small wooden box tucked away in the corner. It contained a wooden whistle his grandfather had carved for him. It seemed childish now. His hand reached for the Jew’s harp his father sent him in a family package. He had honed it from steel and tin scraps at the steel mill in America where he worked. He thought about him now as he placed the harp against his teeth sensing its ferrous metallic taste, and plinked the flexible tongue piece while rapidly inhaling and exhaling. The instrument sounded discordant twangs and the vibrations rattled his teeth. He put the device back deciding one try was enough. He slipped on the steel ring his father had also sent him, but it was still too big. Frowning, he replaced it and grabbed a pocket knife.

Francesco clenched his fists and with a firmly set jaw was about to ascend the stairs determined to state his case for leaving when he was startled by a loud pounding on the door to the house. Footsteps across the floor above him were followed by sounds of the door opening and a voice demanding in heavily accented Italian: Where is your brother? We passed him a short time ago heading here.

He is not here now, his brother said with a voice loud enough to alert his brother. He left a few minutes ago to join friends on the football pitch.

Francesco’s heart began to race as he listened wide-eyed to the exchange between German soldiers, his mother, and brother. Although the sound through the ceiling was muffled, he got the gist of the conversation as he imagined the shocked looks on his mother’s and brother’s faces. The soldiers, who Francesco imagined were the two he encountered on his walk home, were there to bring Francesco to headquarters for questioning. Their commanding officer had overheard their discussing the run-in with Francesco on their return from patrol. The officer, eliciting further details, had concluded that the boy was the one he had warned at the farm, and he ordered the boy’s arrest. When Francesco heard they were going to search the house, he turned away from the door in a panic and slid to the floor by his bed.

His father had added a trap door when he built the house. It was barely noticeable, covered with a chest in which Francesco kept his boyhood games and toys. The door opened to the lowest outdoor level of the house, enclosed on three sides but open to the ravine. It was where they stored farm implements and sheltered the few goats they kept. Living with livestock was not uncommon for the contadini, the farmers and shepherds of Abruzzo. He pushed the chest aside sending a soccer ball bouncing around the room. Then he slid the latch and lifted the door enough to bend himself in. He dropped to the earthen floor below. The lingering scent of corn from an empty crib barely registered as he darted out. His heart raced as he scampered along a path on the side of the ravine to an overhang a few yards away. From that vantage point he was able to keep his eye on the comings and goings to the house. He squatted, taking shallow breaths as he waited.

It didn’t take long to make the search. Francesco watched the soldiers leave the same way they came. His anxiety eased and he resumed normal breathing. Judging it was safe, he rose, climbed to street level and reentered the house.

His mother was standing by the kitchen sink twisting her hands in her apron; his brother was pacing. Madonna Mia, his mother exclaimed when she saw him. What did you do to make the Germans so angry with you?

Francesco shrugged as he retold the incidents making light of the encounters and insults. They overreacted.

Antonio stopped pacing and turned to him. I don’t think so. What’s the matter with you? What’s going on in there? he asked, pressing his finger on Francesco’s forehead. You know how they are. They expect complete cooperation, no questions asked, and certainly no insults.

What are we going to do? his mother asked. They will be back when they don’t find him with his friends. Where can we hide him?

I need to leave, Francesco said. There is no place to hide here. Where will you go? Who is going to take care of you, feed you?

Antonio said, I think what Francesco did was relatively minor. But at the same time, until it blows over, we need to send him somewhere safe. What about the Sanelli’s place in Caramanico?

What made you think of them? his mother asked looking surprised. It just came to mind. You remember when we were last there with Papa before he left for the United States?

Yes, but I don’t remember your father talking about your brother going there.

"Papa and Pierluigi talked about it on a passaggiata after dinner. I was with them. He offered to let Francesco help out with the sheep and chores since Pierluigi sons were away in the army. That business of his in Sulmona keeps him away from home quite a bit. He just has his daughter at home."

That’s a great idea, Francesco chimed in. The mention of the Sanelli daughter rekindled a flirtatious memory; but putting it aside for the moment he said, Antonio is right, it’s safe there and they could use the help. Germans don’t occupy that town, they just patrol from time to time. And best of all they can feed me. I would be happy to work for food and a bed.

Wait a minute, his mother said with a scowl. That was a long time ago and your father never talked to me about it. We don’t know what it’s like there now. The occupation changed everything. I just can’t let you leave, to impose on friends we haven’t seen in a while. There needs to be an explanation.

But Francesco’s mind was made up. Listen, he said in a raised voice, we don’t have time to waste talking about this. You said those soldiers would soon be back. I need to pack some things and leave now! With that he left and descended the steps to his room, leaving his mother and brother looking at each other.

Francesco gathered the shirts, pants, sweater, socks, and underwear he had looked over earlier. Lifting a canvas sack from the closet floor, he sat on the edge of the bed and stuffed the clothing into the sack. He looked around one last time. He thought about how it had come to this—how all the bad days, especially today had begun.

****

He had seen the headlines bannered across the Pescara newspapers months earlier. He picked up the discarded papers in the piazza; that’s how he learned the Allies had landed in Sicily in early July and driven out the Italian and German armies. In the aftermath the Italian government had collapsed and Il Duce, Mussolini, had been forced to resign at the end of the month. The king replaced him with the old former military chief of staff, Badoglio. Francesco listened to the men scornfully discuss what a bad choice he was. Too old and incompetent they said, all the while mocking the stupidity of government decision-makers.

But what no one knew until later was that Badoglio was extending peace feelers to the Allies all through August. In September, the Italian army withdrew from the field of battle after the government agreed to an armistice on the eighth of the month. The armistice was a big front-page story in the newspaper that arrived in the village a few days later, just ahead of the Anglo-American invasion of the Italian mainland. Until then, the newspapers contained only positive war stories and no hint that things were unraveling, just as the radio had played only patriotic songs and newsreaders spouted propaganda. Details of the capitulation were sketchy because there was little information from Rome. Who was in charge, they couldn’t tell. The Germans, anticipating the Italian surrender, rushed in several divisions of troops through the Brenner Pass to secure a line of defense across Italy, occupying many towns and villages.

The townspeople of Roccamorice learned the details for the first time when the Germans sent a garrison of soldiers into town. That was a bad day, Francesco remembered. When the army arrived in lorry after lorry, with columns of foot soldiers following up behind, a meeting was called in the main piazza in the late afternoon. The man in charge, dressed in a black uniform with red Nazi banner on his right arm, introduced himself as an officer of the Staatspolizei, the Gestapo. All adults were required to attend and listen to the rules and regulations regarding curfews, control of the food supply, and the requirement to turn in all guns and contraband, including radios, under penalty of death. The soldiers took down the Italian flag hanging over the entrance of the municipal building and replaced it with the Nazi banner. Francesco remembered the grim look on his brother’s and mother’s faces when they came home that day. Later, a house-to-house search was made and all livestock and produce was inventoried. Then the German soldiers took nearly everything of value. Anything considered a weapon or contraband was confiscated. They commandeered many of the larger homes and turned the convent into a military barracks. In homes not entirely taken over, families were forced to take in one or more officers. Francesco’s home was one of the lucky ones that avoided a billet, the modest living space apparently not good enough for the officer corps. But Francesco didn’t care—living in the same house with a Nazi would not be fun. In the beginning villagers did little to resist the occupation. They knew it would be hopeless. No one wanted to be a martyr; they shrugged and went on, just wanting to survive.

Francesco, his friends, and families were well aware that food products were in short supply all over Italy even before the Allied invasion. But the social, political, and economic disintegration that followed the surrender, made food more scarce along with all sorts of common items like razor blades and light bulbs.

The one item that still seemed to be available was coffee, the luxury the Germans could not do without. For many, however, the awful tasting ersatz coffee made from grain and acorns became the daily beverage.

The local garrison of soldiers was grudgingly tolerated at first. Sometimes they gave their leftover evening meal rations and the dregs in the soup cauldron to the village children. Francesco and his