Free Solitaria by Genni Gunn Page B

do all that is possible to prevent this conflict of a colonial character from assuming the nature and scope of a European conflict…”
    The crowd murmured and shuffled. Vito elbowed his way towards the blackshirts, stood within metres, eyed the cigarette packs in their shirt pockets.
    â€œNever before as in this historical epoch have the Italians revealed the quality of their spirit and the power of their character. And it is against these people to whom humanity owes some of its greatest conquests, and it is against these people, these poets, artists, heroes, saints, navigators, emigrants — it is against these people that one dares speak of sanctions.” Mussolini paused, as if for effect. The radio crowd cheered.
    â€œItaly, proletarian and fascist, Italy of Vittorio Veneto and of the Revolution, arise! Let the cry of your decision fill the heavens; let it be a comfort to the soldiers who wait in Africa, a spur to friends, and a warning to enemies in every part of the world: a cry of justice, a cry of victory.”
    â€œVictory! Victory!” the men shouted, then the Italian national anthem began once more, and everyone sang along, carried away by the fervour, the promise. At the end, they erupted in applause, although some of the women crossed themselves, thinking no doubt of their sons and husbands who would be conscripted, of the famine which would inevitably follow sanctions. Papà shook his head. Mamma touched his elbow and leaned in, whispering, “Please, Ovidio, I beg you. They’re watching us.”
    A song began on the radio in the square, and we children stood up hastily and began to sing along.
    If you from your plateaus stare out to sea
    Little black one, slave among slaves
    you’ll see as if a dream of many ships
    and a tricolour flag flying for you.
    Little black face of the Abyssinian
    Wait and hope that the hour is near
    when we will be with you
    to give you a new law and a new King…
    â€œNonsense. All nonsense!” Papà said. “Has everyone gone mad?”
    â€œHush, hush, Papà, please,” Mamma implored.
    The butcher’s teenaged son approached them, his black shirt wet in the armpits. “Are you not singing, Signor Santoro?” he said, his voice pleasant, his eyes narrowing.
    â€œHe is tone deaf,” Mamma said, smiling. “Let him spare our ears.” She waited until the children had finished singing, then nodded, picked up Clarissa, and carried her to me, who was expected to care for her after school. Mamma was a good seamstress, and she used this skill to augment Papà’s income, sewing in the afternoons and often into the night while we slept. Papà turned and strode off towards his field, while Mamma marched down the hill, away from the village, back to the railway casello where we lived. The tobacconist switched off the radio and began to carry everything inside. People dispersed, murmuring among themselves.
    As soon as the teacher dismissed the children, I moved to one side and waited with Aldo and Clarissa. Across the piazza, Vito smoked a cigarette and chatted with two young men in black shirts. He laughed, joked with them, nodded. And when they held out the pack, he took the cigarettes and slipped them into his pants pocket.
    The piazza was almost deserted now. Clarissa was restless, seated on the ground, her legs dragging across the dirt, raising dust. Aldo and I stood stoically in the sun. The teacher ran a hand through her hair and smiled. “Well?” she said.
    â€œWe’re waiting for our brother,” I said.
    â€œOh.” The teacher smiled again, hesitating. She seemed unsure as to whether she was to wait with us or not. A woman called out her name, her mother perhaps. The teacher shrugged, gave us a small wave, and walked off across the piazza.
    Aldo sat cross-legged on the ground. He reached into his schoolbag and pulled out a textbook. Only six, he was already in Form 4, his eyes