Protagonist: Annamaria Zennaro Marsi
Author: Annamaria Zennaro Marsi

The housing situation of my family, consisting of 4 people, hosted after the exodus in my aunt's house, was very troubled. We were forced into a small room of perhaps 8 square meters where there was barely room for a double bed and a camp bed. The greatest despondency was caused by living with my aunt (my father's sister and little known to my mother). After insisting on hosting us in her house in the Roiano district of Trieste, she hadn't foreseen the difficulties of living so close with people who were, after all, strangers—except for my father, her brother. However, after a very short time, to support us, he had accepted a job on an oil tanker bound for Port Said, leaving us alone for a long time.  The assignment of a space at SILOS, after nine months of long and painful waiting, was therefore accepted as a liberation, as the possibility, for my mother, psychologically and physically destroyed, to regain the autonomy to which she had always been accustomed.  We could not have imagined, however, what, albeit different, anxieties we were about to encounter.  The boxes, delimited by wooden boards, prepared to accommodate the numerous requests and continuous arrivals of refugees and displaced persons, were insufficient, so we were temporarily assigned an empty space of about 16 mXNUMX, dark, without windows, adjacent to two other families, delimited at the back by a wall and completely open in front, with the possibility of hanging grey blankets on a rope, already prepared, to protect our privacy.  A light bulb dimly illuminated the "room" and a small circular burner, with a coil resistor, was used to heat milk for breakfast in the morning and to boil water for some broth in the evening. The first month we went to get or eat lunch at the canteen in via Gambini where we were served an excellent, for me, “pasta rossa.” Every morning, alone, from Silos, with a half-hour walk, I went to Roiano to the Tarabochia elementary school to finish the school year in the same fourth class, with the same classmates and with the same teacher, Mrs Albanese, demanding and strict, but very understanding and human, to whom I was very fond. After school, I sometimes wandered around Roiano until 15 pm, that is, until the Brunner recreation center in via Solitro opened where, in the afternoon, in addition to some pleasant activities, they offered me a different snack every day and, on Wednesdays, even custard and hot chocolate.  At the Silos, the toilets were easily accessible but insufficient for the number of people who needed to use them, and often, during rush hour, people had to queue to find a seat. The water in the sinks was freezing and did not encourage frequent washing, so poor hygiene, mediocre food, forced cohabitation and the impossibility of heating and receiving a little air and natural light, negatively affected the development of children, generating influenza epidemics, respiratory diseases and above all the much feared "pulmonary glands". And, precisely to limit the damage to the health of a community of children so exposed to ailments, the Italian Red Cross intervened. After subjecting all the children to tests and vaccinations, it presented parents with solutions to remove their children from that risky environment. These included the possibility of staying in mountain health centers during the summer for those who were particularly debilitated, and the opportunity for others, aged 10 and up, to be placed with families in other European countries.  Thus – desperation or perhaps recklessness – pushed some parents to send their children, mostly boys, to Denmark, a country that was certainly not around the corner, with the belief that they would experience a period of unexpected well-being, returning reinvigorated and healed. ON THE ROAD TO……… DENMARK June 1949 So, unbeknownst to my father, who would never have allowed it, I found myself, at the age of 9 and a half, together with 5 other unknown girls, in a train compartment, departing for a country that I had indeed identified on the map, but which, for all of us, represented the unknown.  I was proud of my little suitcase, new, made of cardboard, with tiny white and green knots that contained the change of underwear requested on the Red Cross form: a sweater, a bar of soap and the necessary personal hygiene items. My mother added a packet of OSVEGO biscuits for breakfast in the morning.  Since I was small and puny, they assigned me the highest seat on the train, on the net, where I would lie down during the night (so I understood that I would also sleep on the train).  The journey, after the initial excitement, turned out to be increasingly uncomfortable. At every stop I felt nauseous and the half lemon given to me by the assistant did not produce any improvement. The stops were very long and boring. I had no appetite and could only eat the sandwich that was handed to us when the train was stopped. The only toilet was far away and to reach it you passed in front of the men's compartment, where I glimpsed, among unfamiliar faces, a childhood friend from Cres, also an unwitting protagonist of the unknown adventure.  In Milan, other children from other refugee camps were welcomed and, proceeding through interminable tunnels, exhausting stops and increasingly turbulent nights, we reached Switzerland. From the window, near which I was sitting, I admired in ecstasy the varied postcard panorama.  Two days and two nights passed and the destination still seemed far away. The assistant reassured us, but rumours began to spread, coming from the older children, that our parents had abandoned us to dump us who knows where and with whom. The sight of a devastated Germany increased our sadness. Piles of rubble, ruined houses, broken roads, stones everywhere passed before our eyes and, as we crossed large rivers, it seemed as if the train was proceeding in the void. The destroyed bridges had in fact been quickly rebuilt only to support the tracks and allow the very slow passage of trains. We were all disturbed, leaning out of the windows, to follow, with bated breath, the daring passage over the murky and impetuous Elbe River, which seemed interminable and extremely disturbing.  After 5 days of travel, resistance was waning, some were crying at night and others did not even have enough energy to complain.  When we reached the border, Denmark welcomed us with pouring rain that didn't stop for several days and temperatures we weren't used to. It was June and few people had adequate equipment to deal with the cold. We were placed in barracks from which we only left for a medical check to ensure our vaccinations and documents were up to date, and then we took the train back to the collection center.  I must have been as yellow as the half lemon that my chaperone gave me every day, cold and exhausted, and I think that's how they saw me when, in the gym in Aarhus, with a tag around my neck, lined up in a row with all the other children, Nielsa, Nielsafar, and Birte came to pick me up. They made me get into a black car, as big as an English taxi, in which, after a journey of over 6 hours, I finally reached Grenaa, a pretty town on the sea facing Sweden. My mind was so confused that I couldn't connect, I barely heard voices speaking an incomprehensible language, I saw smiling faces that I couldn't even manage to smile at. I didn't even see the beautiful red brick house at Havnevej 48, nor the flower garden, nor the other family members who welcomed me joyfully. I barely read the questions in the little dictionary in the colors of our flag, which they had procured for the occasion, continually shaking my head to answer that no, I was not hungry, nor thirsty, nor in any way in need, until when they asked: “Are you sleepy?” I nodded again.  They understood and led me to a real bathroom, white and perfumed, with a tub and hot water and, after having urged me to brush my teeth too, they placed me on a small bed with wooden sides, at the foot of their double bed.  The next day I would realize that I had not lived a turbulent dream, nor participated in a distressing film, nor reworked an adventurous story, but that I was totally immersed in a reality that would require a great effort every day to adapt and accept the continuous novelties that the new environment imposed on me and from which I could not escape because I was without any lifeline. AWAKENING IN DENMARK When I woke up the sun was already high so I realized I had slept a lot.  There was absolute silence all around, as if there was no one at home. All I could smell was a strong aroma of celery and carrots, stronger than the one I smelled in Cres when my mother cooked meat for the broth. I didn't know what to do: I could have said "Good morning" out loud and maybe someone would have intervened; I could have lowered the bed rail and gotten up, or made some noise to indicate I was awake... or... instead I lay still with my eyes closed, trying to quickly recap the events of my life that had occurred over the last 9-10 months.  Away from Cherso, from my habits, from my friends, from my grandmother, from the masiere, from the boats, from the sea, away from the light and the freedom of the Prà, from the pink house, from the mandule, from the fresh figs and the “suti” ones, from the olives and the cherries, away from the Porta Marcella and the Bragadina, away from the Turion and the Loggia, away from the Duomo and the Church of the Friars, from the Munighe and the Piscio…Away from everything that represented my childhood, even though tested by the sad vicissitudes of the war.  In Trieste I had to adapt to a new life, to the school in Roiano, to new classmates, to the concrete, to the trams, to the buildings with many floors and many windows, without my grandmother, without my cat and without the chickens, in a small space and with my mother always sad and suffering. After the first shocking “pirouette” and after only a few months another upheaval: the SILOS, without windows, without air and without light, among unknown people and a life to be reinvented. Now, after an interminable journey, a humiliating wait to be chosen, as in an animal fair with a tag around your neck, by someone who didn't know you and who relied on his own intuition and needs. I remember anxiously watching those who entered, looking away when someone I didn't like appeared at the entrance.  We all believed we had already been assigned to the requesting families, but instead we were told that those who were not accepted would all go to a boarding school together, a solution that disturbed us. Also for this reason, when I saw the Nielsen family at the door, I looked at them with sympathy and was happy to leave the row where there were still many children, especially boys. Dino was no longer there. I later learned that he had been taken in by a wealthy family in Copenhagen, where he had felt at ease.  The slow motion of my thoughts continued to spin when a small head with short, blond hair appeared in the doorway and said, “Goddag!”—which I understood to mean good morning. She added her first and last name, Gudrun Nielsen, and quickly left, returning shortly afterward with a tray of tempting pastries and a steaming cup of tea. I wasn't used to drinking tea in the morning, but after devouring some pastries, I took a sip out of courtesy.  From that moment I was immersed in a new existence: I had to intuit and record continuous and new messages and, to be able to do it well, I erased all the recent past and even forgot my family members. The first few days, especially in the evenings when we were all around the big table, were spent getting to know each other and, with the help of “Den lille Italiener sproegforer”, with gestures and some rough drawings on my part, they learned a lot about me and I about them. I learned the names and ages of their four children: Johan, 4, Ersebeth, 18, Viggo, 16, and my peer Birte, a rather capricious and difficult child who, as her parents had hoped, could find a playmate in me. In fact, my presence made her, especially at the beginning, jealous and even more anxious.  During the day everyone went to school and I remained alone with Nielsa (as I christened, Italianizing it, her surname, and her husband became Nielsafar), names that they kept throughout their lives in their relationships with me.  I discovered the garden behind the house with two apple trees and at the bottom currant plants, stalks of fennel, lots of lettuce, celery and carrots and many colourful flowers on the sides. I loved climbing the low branches of the apple trees, doing somersaults on the grass and other acrobatics that Nielsa followed with some apprehension until, after a few days, Elda appeared, a girl from Trieste who lived in the house nearby and who became my playmate for a while.  She was sweet and kind, but she constantly complained because she lived with a young widow who, according to her, had taken her in to look after her four-year-old son. She didn't understand what she was telling her and couldn't stand her.  I could play and talk with her, but after a short time, I no longer saw her, nor did I hear anything about her. I still have two photos of it taken in the garden. I later learned that some children had been repatriated.  The first month passed quickly and I was also lucky that until mid-July the days were always sunny and warm. They took me to visit the town of Grenaa, its Lutheran church, the Nielsafar clothing factory and, every now and then, sitting on the shaft of my father's bicycle, we reached my grandmother's farm, in the middle of a park with ancient trees, many geese and a small river, frozen in winter, where the children could skate.  I didn't know how to ride a bike and I didn't feel like learning, so on long journeys they had to carry me.  One day, unexpectedly, a lady showed up on my doorstep and wanted to know my name and surname and asked to speak to Nielsa. She was a Red Cross official to whom my mother had turned to ask for news of me, since after a month I still had not written any letter, even though my family had urged me to do so. But the days passed so quickly and with so many new things that I forgot I had a family in Trieste. For a while I also attended school where, with great difficulty, I had to forget the long exercises of rod and thread and of the circles to be contained precisely within the squares of the first grade exercise book in Cherso and get used to the slanted, English-style writing of the Danish school. I could only do this by holding the notebook diagonally. Every time I got good results in dictation or arithmetic, the teacher gave me a coin with holes (hours) which, without Nielsa's knowledge, who didn't like these, which I considered little prizes, I hid in my briefcase threaded on a string until I made a precious and original bracelet. At school, during science class we moved to an experiment room with uphill seats like in some universities, to better observe the lessons. Often, acrobats would stop in front of the school and perform spectacular and thrilling acrobatics on a high rope, without any protection.  During physical education class, weather permitting, we played baseball outside and, since I was a fast runner, I was able to help my team score a few points too and this made me happy and well-integrated. I didn't feel so good when, in August, I wanted to go with Birte and Viggo to a Boy Scout-style camp, where I didn't like getting up early in the morning, the freezing water for washing, or the already autumnal climate, so they came to take me back.  I also quickly got used to the food, especially the evening meal, when delicious, piping hot cold cuts, cheeses, and sausages were placed on a large wooden disc. which everyone placed on slices of black bread (smorrenbrod) spread with goose liver (leverpostaj) or delicious salted butter.  The adults drank beer, while we drank cold milk or apple juice.  Milk was considered a drink in all respects and, when I explained that I drank it hot and only in the morning, they were greatly surprised, but, although with an incredulous smile, they obliged me by often serving it to me also with sweetened oat flakes.  To celebrate some important event they cooked rice, which was considered a delicacy and which in that post-war period was rationed. Nielsa, after cooking it, put it in a pudding mould, then turned it upside down and filled the centre of the large ring with jam, which she made with currants. For them it was the height of gluttony, while over time I had to get used to the sweet and salty taste of some foods. Pasta was unknown, while foods consisting of potatoes with chervil or boiled and accompanied by tasty sauces were abundant. One holiday, with splendid sunshine, we all went to the seaside, on a sandy beach and a sea as deep blue as the swimsuit they had bought me for the occasion. A cool breeze was blowing from the sea and we sat in the shelter of a dune. I didn't understand why no one wanted to go swimming and I learned that no one knew how to swim and that the water was very cold even though it was summer. I couldn't believe it, I went for a jog and jumped in, without anyone being able to stop me. I still have the memory of my red, stiff legs and of Nielsa quickly wrapping me in a large towel. Nothing happened to me, but I learned that the sea was not the same everywhere.  September came with gloomy, cold days. They made me wear wool sweaters and a thick cloth jacket with a zip. Every morning Nielsa braided my hair and tied it at the top with ribbons of various colors. My arms were now shapely and my face rounder. The day of my departure was now approaching, which would take place a few days after my birthday. That day, to celebrate me, Nielsa placed a large container filled with wet sand in the center of the table where she placed flowers of various sizes and then prepared a special lunch with rice and shrimp followed by various types of sweets. In the afternoon the guests (relatives and friends) came to eat the cake and placed many gifts on the piano that I opened with greed, incredulity and amazement. Then they all sang a little song together accompanied by Nielsafar on the piano. It was an unforgettable day with games, laughter and so much good humor that I wished it could last forever. After a few days I went to get my suitcase, which filled up immediately and I had to carefully select what I wanted to take with me, so Nielsa added another bag, assuring me that the rest would be sent to me by post for Christmas, and so it was.  I said goodbye to all my family members, then they took me back to Arhuus, where the train arrived that would take me, along with many other children, back to Italy and then to Trieste. By now I understood and could speak Danish fairly well and Nielsa, before leaving me, with tears in her eyes said to me: "You must promise me that you will come back to us." I was very moved too, but I did not believe a return was possible, which instead happened, after 2 years, in 1951, again at their request and with the intervention of the CRI and then I saw them again, as an adult, in 1983, together with my husband and my daughter. We still keep in touch, especially at Christmas, with those who remain.  I don't remember the return journey, but it certainly wasn't as tragic as the outward journey, and upon our arrival in Trieste we were greeted with great celebrations. The journalist Italo Orto, then very young, interviewed us and made me sing the Danish national anthem, which I had learned at school. “Der er et Yndigt land…”This is a lovely land…” I felt like I no longer knew how to speak Italian, my mother and my sister saw that I had changed, I had gained 5 kg, which I struggled to put back on after a 4-month break.  I was disoriented and had to quickly readjust to a new reality, finding the strength to face new and complicated "pirouettes." To be closer to our home, they had enrolled me at the Ruggero Manna School, with another teacher and other classmates. I also had to adapt to an environment, that of the Silos, which before leaving for Denmark I had barely perceived as unfamiliar, and which for more than five years would host us amid numerous hardships, sad and happy unexpected events, but also extraordinary life experiences in a community forced to live elbow to elbow, where even a breath was perceived and reworked, and where, like the cells of a beehive, everyone provided for themselves, yet always connected to others; where tensions were often barely contained, but also joys publicly shared in a mix of degradation, despair, humiliation, but also of moral integrity, of secret and strong hopes, and of incredible and unforgettable experiences and adventures lived by us children in that enormous PALACE, teacher and training ground of life.