My mother said that my father returned from captivity thin, skin and bones.
arrived in Palermo, by sea, perhaps from Naples until the end of December 1945.
had been held in a prison camp of the French in Algeria, on the edge of the desert, in conditions far more severe than those experienced by, for example, the fallen Italian soldiers of the British prisoners. In those early days
viita together after my parents were reunited, my father always had a desire to eat sweets and soon to be returned than before.
My mother supports him as he could.
Every afternoon they went to a famous pastry of Trapani, a city where they remained to live for some time.
fact, at the end of the war, my mother had begun to teach in Trapani and Mrs. Sergio, which housed, helped my father get a job at the office of "postwar" in each prefecture of Italy, in fact, had been activated for an office like this provide the necessities of all who, because of the war, had been damaged.
returned back with the habits some of which are preserved in long.
In captivity, though an officer had the task of keeping up the morale of the troops (which, together with his other peers, took courses in history and other subjects, and it was back with a series of notebooks crammed with notes that provide the base for his lectures to the soldiers, the real work tools, built in memory, taking advantage of its culture), given the spartan conditions of life, had taken the habit of spitting on the ground and, without realizing it, still do, from time to time, even at home: to make up for that problem was restored using old family porcelain spittoon that in ancient times, every house was a customary object.
The other habit I always maintained was that of hot water for shaving in an old aluminum pot. The water for this purpose had to be hot, and it was there, in that pot, which dipped his razor (a common "hoe" Gillette). Q small T his morning ritual was an absolute necessity, even though we had hot running water from the tap.
Although this object is stored in the recesses of the cabinets in the kitchen: I just discovered some time ago.
my father brought back from captivity that he always kept a few items on display on the resting his desk: a fork and a spoon of aluminum or some other metal of small value, blackish to oxidation.
were her personal cutlery, those with which he ate as a prisoner.
Then, they bring back those notebooks, I mentioned before, and some pastel drawings made by a fellow prisoner depicting various views of the field, tables placed in an album made with a ligature and craft intritolato "Barbelet ( or, barbed wire), plus a portrait of a seriously sad.
But even an old Bible, in French, bound in green cloth worn and stained, which had been given by staff of the Red Cross visited the camp.
And this Bible he kept in his studio.
the period of imprisonment he used to tell me two episodes.
There was very hungry and the French, the Italian prisoners were treated badly. Do not forgive them the treacherous attack launched by Mussolini just as the war of invasion of the Germans had been won. Well, she came a plague of locusts, my father told me that they captured large quantities and eating them, cooking them to the least worst. "What did it taste? - I asked, amazed. " Well! were not bad - my father said - to vevano the taste of fried shrimp, more than anything else . "It was a real party, told me, this extra meal, truly rained from the sky.
The other thing I was told the ritual of gathering crumbs of bread, advanced daily from the table where he sat down to eat their meager meal distributed by the French. In turn, for a week, one of those table scraps collected and preserved as a valuable asset to enrich - the seventh day - the soup that was served by anchorite them.
Hunger suffered in those days had left a mark: My father was very able to strip the flesh off the bones of the smallest roast chicken from time to time we ate, clean and incredibly up to leave, the same way, calluses and painstakingly devoured bold slice of meat that I, with indignation, set aside.
arrived in Palermo, by sea, perhaps from Naples until the end of December 1945.
had been held in a prison camp of the French in Algeria, on the edge of the desert, in conditions far more severe than those experienced by, for example, the fallen Italian soldiers of the British prisoners. In those early days
viita together after my parents were reunited, my father always had a desire to eat sweets and soon to be returned than before.
My mother supports him as he could.
Every afternoon they went to a famous pastry of Trapani, a city where they remained to live for some time.
fact, at the end of the war, my mother had begun to teach in Trapani and Mrs. Sergio, which housed, helped my father get a job at the office of "postwar" in each prefecture of Italy, in fact, had been activated for an office like this provide the necessities of all who, because of the war, had been damaged.
returned back with the habits some of which are preserved in long.
In captivity, though an officer had the task of keeping up the morale of the troops (which, together with his other peers, took courses in history and other subjects, and it was back with a series of notebooks crammed with notes that provide the base for his lectures to the soldiers, the real work tools, built in memory, taking advantage of its culture), given the spartan conditions of life, had taken the habit of spitting on the ground and, without realizing it, still do, from time to time, even at home: to make up for that problem was restored using old family porcelain spittoon that in ancient times, every house was a customary object.
The other habit I always maintained was that of hot water for shaving in an old aluminum pot. The water for this purpose had to be hot, and it was there, in that pot, which dipped his razor (a common "hoe" Gillette). Q small T his morning ritual was an absolute necessity, even though we had hot running water from the tap.
Although this object is stored in the recesses of the cabinets in the kitchen: I just discovered some time ago.
my father brought back from captivity that he always kept a few items on display on the resting his desk: a fork and a spoon of aluminum or some other metal of small value, blackish to oxidation.
were her personal cutlery, those with which he ate as a prisoner.
Then, they bring back those notebooks, I mentioned before, and some pastel drawings made by a fellow prisoner depicting various views of the field, tables placed in an album made with a ligature and craft intritolato "Barbelet ( or, barbed wire), plus a portrait of a seriously sad.
But even an old Bible, in French, bound in green cloth worn and stained, which had been given by staff of the Red Cross visited the camp.
And this Bible he kept in his studio.
the period of imprisonment he used to tell me two episodes.
There was very hungry and the French, the Italian prisoners were treated badly. Do not forgive them the treacherous attack launched by Mussolini just as the war of invasion of the Germans had been won. Well, she came a plague of locusts, my father told me that they captured large quantities and eating them, cooking them to the least worst. "What did it taste? - I asked, amazed. " Well! were not bad - my father said - to vevano the taste of fried shrimp, more than anything else . "It was a real party, told me, this extra meal, truly rained from the sky.
The other thing I was told the ritual of gathering crumbs of bread, advanced daily from the table where he sat down to eat their meager meal distributed by the French. In turn, for a week, one of those table scraps collected and preserved as a valuable asset to enrich - the seventh day - the soup that was served by anchorite them.
Hunger suffered in those days had left a mark: My father was very able to strip the flesh off the bones of the smallest roast chicken from time to time we ate, clean and incredibly up to leave, the same way, calluses and painstakingly devoured bold slice of meat that I, with indignation, set aside.
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