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

morning, my mother, shielding her eyes from the sun with one hand, collided with a woman coming from the opposite direction.
    Mutti removed the hand from her eyes. “ Pardon .” she said.
    She looked at the person she had bumped. There was a long silence. “Bertl?” she asked.
    “Lotte?”
    The two friends, realizing who the other was, let out loud shrieks. Their screams made me jump and prompted a pair of men to come rushing to their aid. The women stayed in a long, warm embrace while I stood still on the hot sidewalk until I could feel the bottoms of my feet burn through the thin soles of my shoes.
    “When did you get here?” Mutti asked in German.
    “I don't remember. When did you get here?”
    My mother had a puzzled look on her face. “You don't remember? Bertl, you haven't changed at all. Let me look at you. How long has it been since I've seen you?”
    “Let me see….”
    “Oh, I remember,” said Mutti . “Where is your family?”
    “I don't know where anyone is.”
    Mother placed her arm around Bertl and asked, “Where are you staying?” But before Bertl could give an answer, Mother said, “Move in with us.”
    Bertl did so two days later, and the three of us shared the same room: I slept in a cot against the wall. Mother and Bertl doubled up in the large bed. I had hoped the newfound friend would give my mother less time to watch over me. Instead, now I found myself with two mothers — worse, two typical Jewish mothers. This was more than any child needed to add happy confusion to his life.
    Plump and barely a hairline taller than Mutti , Bertl resembled her in many ways. However, Bertl was not as pretty; while my mother had a petite and straight nose, Bertl's was hooked. Bertl did have a good sense of humor and a sharp mind, and she shared with my mother a strength of character that made both women survivors. The friends' similarities and compatibility made our lives quite harmonious in spite of the cramped quarters. Only their smoking I found intolerable. For hours, the two would sit in their robes in that small room, chatting and puffing on those thin, white paper tubes, creating enough smoke to force me to run out.
    “Where are you going?”
    “ Mutti , I'm getting nauseous from the smell.”
    “Oh, my poor Hasele? Come here. Give me a kiss, then you can go.”
    “I want a kiss, too,” announced Bertl.
    Ugh! That stench of tobacco on their breaths.
    “You don't have to hold your nose,” said Mutti , as she gave me a slight, playful swat on my behind.
    Bertl brought humor back into our lives. Mutti had not laughed as hard and as often since we had left Vienna. Laughter proved good medicine for her, often restoring the cheerful mood I so well remembered. Because Bertl was also an excellent cook, my two mothers took turns preparing Viennese specialties.
    “Who is cooking today?” I asked.
    “Who do you want to cook?” my mother replied.
    “I don't care, you both make good Wiener Schnitzel.”
    Bertl gave this very lucky boy the same warmth and motherly affection my Mutti did. On occasion Bertl even took my side by getting my mother to change her mind about one thing or another, like the day I asked for some pocket money.
    “You don't need money,” my mother said.
    “I'll give him some money,” said Bertl. “The poor child. Erich, get me my purse.”
    “You're trouble, Bertie. If I tell him something, please don't interfere. Stop spoiling my child.”
    “You mean our child.”
    Mother seemed obsessed with my schooling. Within days of our arrival in Nice, she enrolled me in public school. Again I was forced, like other children, to rise early and do homework.
    “I want you to learn to speak French,” Mutti said.
    French? Why did I have to go to school? This made absolutely no sense to me. What was wrong with the way I was living? But I had learned that I rarely came out ahead when I argued with Mother.
    My having acquired a good command of Italian made French easier to learn.