04. Via Roma – The war
When the war broke out in 1940, they thought Vallebona would be invaded, so they evacuated us. The priest, the postwoman Victoria, and 3 or 4 men remained in the village to patrol the area. They took us to Piedmont for 18 or 19 days. We left by train — we children had never been on a train before, so it was like an adventure. Looking out the window, it seemed to us that trees and houses were walking. We little ones were happy.
The first night we slept in Tortona in a theater on straw. I thought I was in a church because there were big chandeliers that I had only seen before in churches. For dinner, they gave us broth. The next day we were split up into different places in the nearby villages.
When we returned to Vallebona, there were the fascists. At that time, we had to pay duties to a certain Mr. Aiello, a Sicilian man who had a very long moustache. When my mother went to grind wheat, she had to bring a portion back to him.
At midday, we girls brought the rations to the soldiers — two pots in each hand — and they gifted us with pieces of chocolate or slices of black bread.
As kids, we collected bomb fragments on the ground among the olive trees and it was like a game for us.
Vallebona was full of evacuees who arrived on foot from Bordighera, Sanremo, Ventimiglia... maybe with a goat, which was all that was saved from the bombings. Here there was no free space left — even barns and cellars were all rented. Many men fought, and many others hid in the countryside.
They would send me on foot from Negi to Seborga to bring bread to the partisans in the woods, who would pass by to get supplies. The Germans shot one of them in the hands because he ran away. But for us children all this commotion was a bit of a party — it made us happy.
My dad was unable to write to us for a year and a half. That is, he did write, but the postcards were never delivered due to censorship. One time, a man who collected postcards and letters from the war brought me a postcard from my dad that he had found in a market. My mother cried a lot.
My father was stationed in Sardinia, in a department where they built bombs, and he thought: “Maybe this one is going to destroy my family.” When he came back home, he never wanted to talk about the war.
The day my father returned, I had clogs on my feet. While running down to greet him I lost them, but I never stopped until I saw his uniform and threw my arms around his neck. The entire village was around us.
A young soldier, missing in action in Russia, never came back — but his mother continued knitting sweaters for him. All of the residents went to greet the veterans returning home. They came on foot and were tired. Cities had been bombed and destroyed, making the journey home even more difficult.
And then one day, Lorenzo arrived. You see, I only truly understood the war once Lorenzo came back home. I feel sick every time I think about it.
Lorenzo had been a prisoner in a concentration camp in the Risiera di San Sabba, near Trieste. When he arrived, no one from the village came down to the square because it was said that Lorenzo was sick and was returning home to die. His elderly parents went to meet him. We were all up there in the neighborhood waiting… it still shocks me now.
Then we saw a skeleton arrive, walking in a military coat that seemed enormous. His mother was holding Lorenzo up by one arm and his father by the other. We were all silent. The whole village was silent. No one had the courage to move — we were petrified. He moved only his eyes as a nod of greeting, then he went home. A week later, he died.
