Torino, Italy – 1945
‘Don’t dawdle,’ Nonna says to me as I pick up a pillowcase and make my way out the door. ‘It will get dark quickly.’
‘Alright, Nonna.’ I stride out along the pavement, making my way to the Piazza, where apparently, I will be able to find some wood to burn; there is a sharp, fresh smell in the air that signifies snow. Thankfully, it didn’t snow for my eleventh birthday the week before. And even if it does happen soon, we will have some wood for la stufa, the stove, once I bring this wood back. I smile at the thought of the impending warmth and the comforting smell of a hot stove. We have not been able to get il coke, anthracite, for a number of weeks so as to make a fire to heat the house or to cook food.
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