大象传媒

Continued from 'The Front Door'

Our father had managed to escape from the prison where with other political prisoners he had been told they would be sent to a German concentration camps.

I remember hearing that some prisoners managed to grab a guard and got the cell keys he was carrying. In the aftermath a jailer was shot. The next thing we knew of our father was that he had ran away.
He had gone to the 'macchia' in hiding. He was a partisan.
Months passed and on and offour mother would get coded messages from friends and people when they wouold talk to her from the street below our house balcony.
Our mother's instructions were 'If anyone asks you anything, answer "I don't know anything"'

The summer came and our mother told us we would go and see our father. He was hiding in the highest mountain near our town. The village could only be reached on foot, on horse or mule back or with a 'troglie' a wooden wheeless vehicle like a raft pulled by ab ox.
For this the village was strategic point on the mountian as the partisans could keep watch for any German troops. They could not use their trucks on the mountain's narrow road and had to leave them in the widest spot which could be seen very well from the village by the partisans keeping watch. By the time the Germans would climb on foot to the village the partisans would scatter further up on the wooded mountain sides.
Our house was right in front of the 'carabineri's caserme' (Policeman's billet) and there was always a sentry with a gun on his lap and a revolver passing up and down the length of the building. Two narrow roads were on the left and right.
The day came, it was a hot afternoon about 2 o'clock. From the closed shutter slits we watched for the sentry to walk the lengh of the road furthest from the right side of the house. At that moment, quietly we sneaked from the house side road and went tot the back of the buildings behind us. There was a horse and cart waiting for us and our mother. We hid under a big canvas.
Motionless and in silence we crossed the roads that led out of the town. When we reached the open countryside we were told 'You can come out now' With sighs of relief we pushed the canvas off, breathed the hot air and saw the clear blue sky over our heads away from the sentry and the hostile town.
I can't remember how long it took. Hours after we had to get off the cart and make our own way on foot to the top of the mountain.
Our mother had given us clear instructions- 'We are going to Dad, but you must not show he is your father and you will call him Signor Meunini every time you address him. He is known by this name.'
We reached the village and our father met us and the 'acting' not to know him as our father and him not to knowing us as his three children started- I think we lived in separate houses as well.
The summer days passed by, we must have played and enjoyed the cooler mountain air but the nights were different from sleeping nights. In a dark room of our house was aradio which the partisans used to listen to very quietly. One night I must have got up quietly and peeped throught the door, a man a New Zealander, was bent over the radio in the darkness when suddenly I heard repeated sounds like a drum then a voice said. "Qui Radio Londre" (Here is Radio London) That's all I remeber. I learned much later that this was the means by which the partisans used to get the latest news on the progress of the war. If anyone was caught listening he woulod have been in great trouble.
The holiday on the mountain village came to an end. We said bye bye to 'Signor Meucini'and we started our journey back to the unsafe town. This time on foot slowly down the mountainsied. Nightime caught us still a fair way away from home. When we came across a farmhouse our mother begged the farm hand to give us a bed for the night. All four of huddled in this huge poster bed with a crackling straw mattress. We were very tired but felt safe. Suddenly during the night we all started to itch all over our bodies. This was our first encounter with fleas!
The carabineri never noticed our departure or our absence and our father never went to a German concentration camp.

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