Free Solitaria by Genni Gunn Page A

childhoods wanting to be the perfect fascist children, but we had no money with which to buy the uniforms and for the boys, the toy guns. Everything we owned was handmade and tawdry in our eyes. If only we had seen Mamma sewing while we all slept, or watched Papà whittle the toy guns after fourteen hours of work.
    Even at home, where Papà often grumbled about fascism, we didn’t understand. The newspapers — controlled by the fascists — had us believe that we were readying to become a world superpower and that it was our duty to endure the present hardships for this greater glory. But we had always been poor; hardships were part of our normal life. Military glory was not within our dictionary of needs or wants. Food, good health, a roof that didn’t leak, shoes in winter, schoolbooks — these were our imagined glories.
    At the far end of the piazza, Vito shifted his weight and narrowed his eyes. He was a handsome boy, like Papà, with fine features and lustrous wavy hair. Already the village girls promenaded past him, their glances coy, their lips smiling behind modest hands.
    â€œ When in 1915 Italy exposed itself to the risks of war and joined its destiny with that of the Allies, how much praise there was for our courage and how many promises were made! But after the common victory to which Italy had made the supreme contribution of 670,000 dead, 400,000 mutilated, and a million wounded, around the hateful peace table Italy received but a few crumbs from the rich colonial booty gathered by others.
    â€œWe have been patient for thirteen years, during which the circle of selfishness that strangles our vitality has become ever tighter. With Ethiopia we have been patient for forty years! It is time to say enough !”
    â€œEnough!” the people said in unison. Visible in the crowd were a number of young men in black shirts, their arms crossed, their eyes surveying the people in the piazza. Vito eyed them, took in their stance, their clothes. He mimicked them, and moved a few steps closer.
    â€œ In the League of Nations there is talk of sanctions instead of recognition of our rights. Until there is proof to the contrary, I shall refuse to believe that the true and generous people of France can support sanctions against Italy.
    â€œSimilarly, I refuse to believe that the people of Great Britain, who have never had discord with Italy, are prepared to run the risk of hurling Europe along the road to catastrophe for the sake of defending an African country universally recognized as a country without the slightest shadow of civilization.”
    The voice droned on, and the smaller children began to play games using small stones. Some of the girls drew pictures in the dirt. Their restlessness was a wave of heads and shoulders. Now and then, the teacher signalled for quiet, and for a few moments, the children would be still.
    â€œWe shall face economic sanctions with our discipline, our steadfastness, and our spirit of sacrifice.”
    From the radio came a rallied cry of solidarity.
    â€œAgainst military sanctions we shall reply with military measures.”
    â€œMilitary measures!” the radio boomed, and some of the villagers joined in.
    â€œTo acts of war we shall reply with acts of war.”
    â€œActs of war!” they all cried.
    â€œLet no one think that he can make us yield without a hard struggle.”
    â€œWar! War!” the radio voices said. The villagers were unsure of this. Several women began to fan themselves in hyperbolic gestures. A man removed his hat and scratched his scalp.
    â€œA people guarding its honour can use no other language nor can it adopt a different attitude.”
    â€œHonour! Honour!” the radio voices boomed. They sounded thick, immense, as if all of Italy were shouting at once.
    â€œBut let it be said once more and in the most categorical manner — and at this moment I make before you a sacred pledge — that we shall