By this time, I have become firm friends with the interpreter who continues to give me lessons in French and English. One day, he throws me a bundle of letters that have arrived from my mother. ‘Wait! What is this?’ My delight at receiving the letters turns to anger, as I remove one from an opened envelope and holding it up, see that sections have been cut out, leaving jagged edges.
‘Probably news about the war that they don’t want you to know about.’ I stare at him, taken aback by his nonchalance. Then, I start to smile as I think that it must be good news for the Italian army if they had to hide the information. I read around the bits of paper that in some places are ribbon-like. My mother would definitely have written about Mussolini and all that is happening in Italy.
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