Extract: Dear Alfonso: An Italian Feast of Love and Laughter, by Mary Contini

For the past few years life had started to improve for Annunziata.

Although she had had a little daughter, Lilla, who had died of measles aged three months, finally she was blessed with two healthy boys: Vincenzo and Ernesto. They were named after Carlo’s older brothers who had died all those years ago.

Her husband Luigi had also managed to purchase one of life’s newest luxuries: a radio. This became a source of great novelty to Annun- ziata and her neighbours: personal in-house entertainment!

To hear the music she loved in her own home was almost as good as looking at the view from her window. She could listen to Neapolitan ballads and opera, Caruso and Gigli; everything she was familiar with in the streets she could now hear in her own home. Carlo quickly learned to sing the songs, and serenaded and twirled her round the room like a young girl.

Like his father and younger brothers, Carlo’s greatest pleasure, apart from Neapolitan music, was football. Listening to the excitement of a match live over the radio was intoxicating for the men, making them feel very proud of Naples and their country. Italy won at football!

However, as sometimes happens when there are moments of tranquillity in life, before you know it things begin to change. The radio, at first a welcome source of pleasure, gradually became one that generated worry and concern. Instead of listening to football, they became disturbed by the constant bulletins alerting them to the danger of impending conflicts, failed alliances and distant wars. Exhilarating music programmes were interrupted by Mussolini delivering hypnotic and ominous speeches and propaganda.

Before they knew it, the broadcasts of music and football were less frequent, replaced by patriotic anthems and a dull background murmur of male voices discussing interminable news.

When the first military aeroplanes were seen flying above Pozzuoli like a metallic flock of starlings, it had been very exciting. They had all run out into the streets, shading their eyes against the sun, straining to make out the bulky, shadowy machines in the sky. When it became a frequent occurrence, they turned away and went indoors, unsettled.

There were changes at school as well. Carlo could no longer play truant: there were constant registers and close supervision. It became compulsory for all students to attend the afternoon military clubs. It was impossible to sneak away, even to go to work.

Now he had reached his 15th year, Carlo was promoted into the Fascist Youth Combat Corps, the Avanguardisti. He was issued with a new uniform: black shirt, grey-green trousers, badges with Fascist emblems and an azure kerchief for his neck. A black fez added further inches to his height, now over six feet, a good head taller than most of his classmates. His moschetto was a scaled-down, fully functioning version of the Italian army rifle.

When Annunziata saw him in uniform for the first time she clutched her hands to her heart in terror. He was a child soldier! ‘Carlo, don’t grow. Stop growing. Don’t listen to them at the

Avanguardista. Don’t join the army! You’re still only a boy.’ At first, he had laughed. ‘Don’t worry, Mamma. I don’t listen to any of it; it goes in one ear and out the other,’ he said, pointing

to one ear and then the other. Fortunately, he was too young. It was the boys from the classes

ahead of him that were being enlisted into the army. Carlo knew this was not the career path for him, but he was doubtful if he would have a choice.

One afternoon when he was making his way home after a training exercise, still dressed in his Avanguardista uniform, Carlo became uneasy. The shops had not re-opened after lunch. The street sellers in the piazza with their carts piled with vegetables and fruits were nowhere to be seen. The fishing boats in the harbour were all tied up, but there were no fishermen mending their nets. The coffee shop was closed, its green shutters locked. Even the door of the church was jammed shut. It reminded him of the day of his uncle’s funeral. He wondered if someone had died.

When he arrived, Annunziata was very relieved to see him. His father was already home, sitting at the table with his four grandparents. The radio was on, playing military marches.

‘We’re waiting for news, Carlo.’ His father looked uneasy. He had dark shadows under his eyes.

‘Papà, are you ill?’

Luigi shook his head. ‘No, I’m fine, Carlo. Siediti, vicino a me. Sit next to me.’ He pointed to the chair on his left.

It was very warm outside. He left the door open to encourage a breeze through the room, some aria fresca from the balcony. They all sat there for the rest of the afternoon, talking, anxious, empty coffee cups lying unwashed.

Luigi smoked another cigarette. He smoked more than usual these days. The girls were all sitting on the bed in the corner with Vincenzo nestled between them. Annunziata was at her chair at the window, gazing out towards the islands, young Ernesto asleep on her lap.

The familiar beat of the Fascist anthem started again. Carlo sang it twice a day at school and at the club. He detested it.

Luigi leaned forwards and turned up the volume. Annunziata crossed herself. Even before the anthem had stopped, huge cheers rang out

from an enormous crowd. A silence descended on the room; no one moved. Luigi reached out to move the volume dial again. The broadcast was from Rome. He gave the radio a tap, trying to get the clearest signal.

Suddenly they heard rapturous applauding and uproar, shouting for Il Duce. It echoed around Rione Terra, all the cheers from all the radios in every home. Then, after another interminable pause, they heard the unmistakable voice of their leader.

‘Soldati! Soldiers! Sailors! Aviators! Black Shirts of the revolution and of the Fascist Legions! Men and women of Italia, of the empire, and of the kingdom of Albania! Ascoltate! Listen!’

He paused.

Silence. Not a sound to be heard. Not from the crowd in Piazza Venezia, where Mussolini was speaking, nor from the streets of Rione Terra, nor from any one of them in the room. Not even the dogs and cats dared make a sound. Not even the birds in the skies. Not even the waves lapping on the shoreline.

The whole of Italy was holding its breath.

‘An hour appointed by destiny has struck in the heavens of our fatherland.’

The crowds erupted with fanatical, adoring cheers. The room was silent. ‘La dichiarazione di guerra è già stata recapitata! The declaration of war has already been delivered.’ An obscene outburst of exhilaration screeched from the radio. ‘Guerra! Guerra! War! War!’ Luigi looked at Annunziata. Their fearful eyes filled with tears. Neither of them looked at Carlo; they couldn’t bear to. Mussolini stayed silent, letting the crowd vent its emotion. It

was chilling to hear. Carlo was stunned. He looked from his father to his mother.

His eyes widened. He felt a knot in his stomach. ‘What does it mean? Who will we be fighting against? Who will be our enemies? What will happen to me?’ Questions raced through his mind. He couldn’t open his mouth to say a word. He shuddered.

Mussolini continued, proclaiming Italy’s fate.

‘The declaration of war has already been delivered to the ambassadors of Great Britain and France. We go to battle ... we go to war!’

When Carlo thought back in years to come he remembered clearly this was when the wailing started. His father dropped his head in his hands in despair. His grandmother dropped to the ground, beating it in anger. His sisters sobbed, horrified at the confusion around them. Ernesto awoke with the commotion and burst into tears.

The church bells started to toll, in Rome, in Naples, in Pozzuoli; the horrifying clamour swept across the land. They heard the crowd cheering and shouting. ‘Duce! Duce!’ The men were all shocked, quiet and fearful. In the street below, in front of the harbour, a crowd had gathered. They were cheering as well, the ominous racket reverberating around the room.

‘Duce! Duce!’

Annunziata came away from the window and closed the shutters. She looked at Carlo, still dressed in the uniform of the Avanguardista, with dread in her tear-filled eyes. Her heart was broken.

Her son was 15 years old. This war was for him.

From: Dear Alfonso: An Italian Feast of Love and Laughter, by Mary Contini (Birlinn, £17.99)