1. Lorna
May 11, 2024 at 10:27 AM
End of April, 1943
The rhythmic sound of the train's wheels put me to sleep. Honestly, I’m already tired of these changing landscapes outside the window, it’s still the same thing: villages gave way to fields, fields gave way to forests, occasionally you drive past a city, and there’s at least something interesting here. Paolo, my brother, was always interested in looking out the window. He poked his nose into the glass and tried to peer into nature. It's funny. The elderly lady sitting opposite us sometimes imperceptibly frowned and pursed her lips, looking at her brother’s behavior. As if she herself was not like that at his age, as if she was not interested in the world around her and was indifferent to it–it’s hard to believe. — Lorna, are we going to arrive soon? I looked at my father's watch. They showed 7.30. — Yes, Paolo, in three hours we will be in Munich. — Grande! The brother squirmed with joy and impatience, touching the lady’s skirt with his boots. She winced, but didn’t say anything. Thank God for rewarding her with patience. An hour and a half later, the train stopped near a small town, at the station of which there were German soldiers. Document control was inevitable. But Paolo and I had nothing to fear. We are purebred Italians, our father was a major, was respected in society, even shook hands with Mussolini, which most Italian citizens could not boast of. Mother-secretary, I don’t remember which office. Before leaving, my brother and I were members of the popular Italian Lictor Youth, a paramilitary-type fascist youth organization in Italy. So even if the Germans wanted to, there was not a single blemish in our reputation. Oh, no, there was something. My father, Alonzo Carbone, was murdered in Via Duomo late one night near our house. Some man had lynched him, slit his throat with a kitchen knife, and left him there in the shadows. The body, lying in a pool of blood, was found by the townspeople at 7.13 am. Identifying him as the Major, they immediately called at our house. Paolo was asleep, I wasn't. It was a frightening thing to hear. At first, I did not dare to tell my brother that Daddy would never come home again, but when I pulled myself together at breakfast, I told him everything. Paolo cried all day and wouldn't leave his room. I decided to leave immediately. It was a pity, of course, to part with a rich house, with a warm climate, with ancient cathedrals, but we could not stay here. It was a necessary measure. Two weeks later the house was given to our distant relatives, and we took a suitable amount of money for living and clothes and took a train to Germany, namely to Munich. Of course, everything is strictly Nazi there now. If you are a Jew, a Russian or a Gypsy, you are assured a terrible life. But we had nothing to worry about. A German in a gray uniform entered the train, with peculiar "sig" signs on his collar. He approached us. — Your papers. — His voice was hoarse and commanding. This man did not tolerate objections. — Here you are. After a brief inspection, he handed over a stack of papers and smirked. — What made you, Fräulein, leave the warm lands? If I were you, I would have stayed there. With these words the soldier and the other Germans left, the train rumbled on, I decided to sleep a bit. I was awakened by Paolo's nudge on my shoulder. I sat up and blinked. We were in a large train station, the sign next to the tracks read: "Münich." We had arrived. After gathering our things we walked through the station building. There were military men standing everywhere. With guns. But I didn't care, we were obliged now to get an apartment and wash up. A one-room apartment with a single window that smelled of dill. But there was running water and gas, so we were lucky, but from the look on Paolo's face, he didn't think so. — Don't say anything. It's the best apartment we can afford. But he didn't say anything, just pressed his lips together, walked over to the big bed in the corner, sat down on it, and started unpacking. Well, I understood him perfectly: we lived in a nice bright three-storied house with a big garden, and here was a half-dark apartment where there was nothing to do at all, only a small courtyard, and that with a withered grass. I walked over to Paolo and leaned his black-haired head against my chest. — I'm sorry, Paolo, but we have to get through this. He sobbed softly, pulled away, and started to continue sorting things out. — I know, Lorna. You want what's best for you. I'm going to be strong. I joined him. Soon the apartment took on a more or less residential appearance. — Did we bringthe radio? — Yes, now, I have it. After an hour we finished, I decided to see what the view was like from the window. I pulled back the curtain and looked out. Opposite me was a five-story building, and beyond it another, and in the distance I could see similar ones, but above them all was a green hill. Like a giant watching the ants. Beautiful, but it was better in Italy. I told Paolo I'd be back soon, so I decided to look around the neighborhood where we were staying.
