Dacia Maraini: Train to Budapest

‘Are these all the photographs of the prisoners?’ she asks a guard who has been watching her. ‘No, miss,’ he answers in broken English. ‘To begin with they photographed everyone, writing down first name and family name, date of birth and place of origin. Then they stopped. So many arrived they had no time to register them all.’

Amara has noticed some Italian names among the multitude of Germans and Poles: Ascoli, Padova, Levi, Roberti, Canepa, Sereni. In one corner, in capital letters, is a long list of the numbers deported in Europe: Poland 3,000,000, the Soviet Union 1,100,000, Slovakia 71,000, Hungary 550,000, Bohemia 80,000, Lithuania 140,000, Germany 165,000, the Netherlands 102,000, France 75,000, Latvia 71,000, Yugoslavia 60,000, Greece 60,000, Austria 65,000, Belgium 28,000, Italy 8,000, Estonia 1,500, Norway 762, Romania 350,000.

Vienna. April ’40

Hitler and Mussolini have shaken hands at the Brenner Pass. Mamma has shown me the photo published in all the papers. ‘See what good friends we are with Italy,’ she said. ‘No need to worry about the business at Rifredi even if Papà says they’re virtually taking it from us. We have occupied Denmark and Norway,’ says Mutti. ‘Showing the world how strong we are. In fact, we’re firmly in the saddle,’ she insists. She’s happy. But I’ve no idea what saddle she’s talking about. A saddle on a flying horse? A friend of Papà in Florence has sent him a book by a young poet called Eugenio Montale. In the evening, after supper, Papà read us a poem from the book, the title of which is Cuttlefish Bones . I didn’t understand much. But now and then a phrase struck me: ‘A gloomy air weighs/ on an undecided world’ it says in a poem called ‘Sarcophagi’, and I seemed to see a black cloud descending very slowly on our roofs bringing scary long shadows. ‘Now let your step be/ more cautious’ says another poem, and I looked at Mutti with apprehension: her steps are far from cautious, in fact they’re headlong. Will she be able to hear this young Italian poet?

I’m building a wonderful machine, Amara my love, to bring me to you. My inspiration has been the little planes the Wehrmacht have developed from studying the relationship between the wingspan of a seagull and the body which navigates the sky. The weight of its body including intestines, breathing apparatus and reproductive organs relates perfectly to the span of its wings which have to be three times more voluminous. Do you understand the secret? It’s all there in that proportion. And I’m working to achieve the same result. If only you could see my room, it’s full of sheets of paper covered with numbers. And there are pieces of wood and boards of every kind, with cords, string, iron and copper wire all over the place, on the bed and the chairs. Mamma says all this mess prevents her tidying the room. But she doesn’t get angry unlike Papà who just dismisses the whole thing as ridiculous. Deep down she’s happier if I stay at home to work on my plane than if I go out.

On my way back from school yesterday I saw that a huge poster had appeared right at the corner of our house. A man with a repulsive face and thick dark hair over a low forehead and hairs growing out of a curved nose. He is reaching out a claw to grasp the throat of an Austrian soldier over the words ‘The Jewish Bolshevik has his eye on you. Give him a chance and he’ll wring your neck. Act while you still have time!’ ‘What does Bolshevik mean?’ I asked Mamma, and she laughed. ‘Stupid rubbish,’ she said, ‘stupid propaganda by a few blockheads.’ But Papà is worried. ‘I’m Jewish but I’m no Bolshevik,’ he says. ‘Listen, tonight I’ll go and pull that abomination down.’

Other arrows point the way to other rooms. Bare floors made of inferior tiles worn down by visitors’ feet. Suddenly Amara finds herself facing a mountain of dusty shoes. ‘But, Mum, can dead people walk?’ comes a voice from low down in front of her. A plump little boy is sucking a strawberry-coloured lollipop as he contemplates the sad pile of shoes long since reduced to a uniform shade of faded grey.

Shoes of every variety and size: big shapeless men’s shoes, little high-heeled women’s shoes, slippers, ankle-boots, tiny lace-up shoes for children; moccasins, bootees, clodhoppers, mules, galoshes, leggings, sandals, tight-fitting topboots, babouches.

Amara tries to fit the photographed faces in the corridor to the shoes piled at random before her. And fails. She can’t make herself imagine bodies moving in those shoes hardened by time, their creases penetrated by dust. Single shoes that have lost their partners, scratched ankle-boots that may once have been red but are now almost black; lace-up shoes without laces that poke out tired tongues.

It is only when her eye is arrested by a down-at-heel shoe for a little boy that something stirs in her imagination. Beyond the greasy-fingered glass that divides the visitor from the mountain of private possessions, she can see the bare legs of a little boy in well-worn shoes. And next to him the robust ankles of a countrywoman. The woman is walking with difficulty, her knees wide apart. Why? Ah yes, she is pregnant, the baby heavy in her swollen belly. The little boy in his brand-new blue shoes skips lightly ahead, almost as if following some internal rhythm of his own. Now and then he stumbles and nearly falls, but recovers and hurries on, a little butterfly happy with the simple joy of being alive. The rest, men and women, follow in a crowd, their footsteps ever more confident. Thousands of feet on the move. But where are they going?

Vienna. September ’41

Mamma has sewn a beautiful yellow star on my jacket. She says I must always stay in sight of her. She has a star too. And Papà. I’ll wear the star if you sew me my wings, I told her. So she did this on condition that I don’t take off that mark of identification, because it’s dangerous to do so. And what’s more, please don’t try to fly out of the window, she added. I won’t. I shall throw myself off the barn at the Weisenbergs’ house where we are going on a country outing on Sunday. I’ve already worked out how to collect hay and pile it on the ground so that if I fall … but I won’t fall. This could be the real thing, don’t you think? And then I’ll fly to you. To be on the safe side, keep your window open. I’ve read that there’s a certain kind of glue strong enough to resist the wind, the cold and the heat of the sun. It’s made with caoutchouc from the trees of the Ivory Coast, mixed with the resin of Siberian firs. I’ve asked for it everywhere but no one seems to know anything about it. So I shall make it myself. A cement strong enough to hold together the pieces of wood to which the long cloth arms of the aircraft will be tied. But where can I find caoutchouc and the resin of Siberian firs? Can you get me any caoutchouc? I remember once in Florence we came on a dark little store in Via dei Calzaioli, d’you remember? We went down four steps that stank of cat’s piss, and came to a little shop with a tiny little man sitting on a stool gluing bits of leather together to make boxes, book-covers and belts. Remember? You were fascinated by the way he spoke, like Gepetto in Pinocchio. He had a little blond wig too. Maybe he was losing his hair. Or perhaps he really was Gepetto and didn’t want to be recognised. But Pinocchio himself wasn’t there. And this man, instead of working with wood, was using leather and skin: tanning, smoothing and tinting. Do you remember you said to me, ‘What a wonderful smell this glue has!’ And the man lifted his head in surprise. ‘People usually say stink,’ he said and you started to laugh. ‘What’s this fine glue made from?’ And he answered, ‘Caoutchouc from the Ivory Coast,’ Do you remember? Get some and send it to me. I really need it. My darling little Amara, I think of you all the time, I never even for a moment stop thinking about you. If I shut my eyes I can feel myself squeezing your hand. You always have nice warm hands, and I love it when you grab my hands which are too big and always so cold. I dream of kissing you. Isn’t it funny? When we were together all the time we hardly ever kissed and now I’m far away I never think of anything else! I can feel my mouth coming closer and closer to yours, closer and closer, till I can feel the warmth of your breath; then I shut my eyes and can’t see you any more but I can feel the tenderness of your top lip on the skin between my mouth and my nose and I’m so satisfied I wake up all sweaty and happy.