It was just before Christmas in 1942 when one of the soldiers let slip that there were over sixty-three-thousand people in that camp alone.”
I’d heard some of this before and still couldn’t fathom what it must have been like for my husband.
“Well, at least you were safe in that camp,” Yvonne says flippantly. “All those other Italians out there during all that dreadful fighting.”
Eugenio doesn’t answer straight away. He had told me one night that his incarceration had been the hardest thing of all. My heart had gone out to him when he had revealed, “Being brought up a fascista, meant that I had to do my duty. Fight for Italy and keep my family safe. I would rather have died honourably than be stuck in that camp with thousands of others. We were slave labour; acting on orders, or made to suffer the consequences, at the whims of our captors.”
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