If only I had not gone to that meeting upstairs with “Cato” on that evening of January 2. I had landed in this desperate situation out of my own carelessness. I was weighed down by a sense of fatalism: The deportation train was an irrevocable instrument of my fate. We still had some food: apples and a few pieces of bread. Things were still more or less under control. I was slumped down in the corner, jammed in among other bodies. Vaguely, we began to talk of escape.Īfter several hours of standing still at the station in the northwest outskirts of Bolzano, Italy, the train started moving. I could visualize the plank being pried loose. The opening was blocked by a wooden plank, nailed shut from the inside. Instinctively, we had made for a corner spot, under one of the four small vents high up against the roof that, under normal conditions, served the purpose of ventilating the cars. We had stopped innumerable times.Īlberto, Giacomo and I had been among the first to be herded into our cattle car. We had not gone more than 10 or 20 miles. We had been locked in the cattle car for some 10 hours.
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