(by Gianni D'Amico) I was born in 1935 in a crumbling suburb in the north-eastern part of Palermo known under the name of Sant’Uffizio. At 8 years old I was the youngest one just on paper, even if I was the most industrious, daring and unquestioned leader of a restricted group of brats.

 

The elderly had spread the rumour: “stannu trasennu ‘i Miricàni”, the Americans are arriving. It was not easy for the piccirìddi, young

children aged between eight and ten, to understand who these Miricàni were and why they were arriving. We asked our mothers for an explanation, who sometimes knew less than their children and gave elusive answers.

 

Benedetto’s grandmother knew something more, since she had dozens of relatives who had moved to the United States. The answer old donna Cecilia gave us was extremely convincing. In fact she explained with a dominating and wise tone: “… the Americans are those who rescued us from the Germans, landing on the south-eastern coasts of the island”. Then she said nothing for a couple of seconds and finally, hit by an apparent severe pain, with her face turning animal-like, she added: “They are brave and generous soldiers.

 

They always give something to eat to the people they save, and they do not mistreat children as the Germans usually do!”. We couldn’t wait, we were electrified!! We were impatient to meet our benefactors and her explanation worsened the opinion we had about the German oppressors. If you want to really think about it, the kicks in our bums, and in general the German daily abuse, were the logical consequences of the impertinence with which we always asked for food. The first word I learnt in German language was scheiβe that I unconsciously said when I saw the private’s leg reaching by bum I returned to school and, lazy as usual, after having finished my third-class-homework, I joined my friends ‘nto bàgghiu, in a field, to play ball. An old ball, with no air inside, but we couldn’t ask for more because if we inflated we would have risked the leak from one of its many “holes”.

 

During those times we were happy with the little we had. I must say that our group was lucky, because other children played with balls made of cloth, that could have caused a brain trauma if hit with a header.

 

Translated by Chiara Nunnari from John Milton Institute