At almost no point at all! We had been thrown headlong into a devilish nightmare; something that is difficult to describe because it seemed… it didn’t seem to be real in the first place. The train had come to a dead end. There was that famous arch of cast iron which said, "work is liberty" - the ultimate insult! And immediately, it was evening by now, we were pulled out of the wagons by the men of the SS, who shrieked away at us at the top their voices. We were all thrown out of the wagons and separated, there and then, immediately. So we were divided up at once; immediately cast into this "Dante style" atmosphere, something that went well beyond every imagination, I would say. Therefore there was no… the only thing I did hear was the shrill screaming of a mother whose little daughter had been forcefully torn away from her arms. And then they immediately led us off into a shanty, where we were all completely stripped naked, the men and the women together. We were shaved clean from head to toe - I will leave out the details - right in front of men. Then we were taken to a room where I can't remember whether it was then that they gave us a shower.

It would have seemed as if they had given us a clean shave just because we were infested by lice - which might have then been interpreted as a sanitary measure. In reality, however, this was nothing less than the beginning of a process leading to the total annulment of the human person: the very fact of having stripped us naked and shaved us from head to toe in front of our men, and… So the next move was that of putting us into this room where the rugs belonging to the people who had gone through this place had been gathered. For better or for worse, we were then able to dress up again, even if… with completely insufficient clothing, and, more still, with our heads shaved. It was still summer, but not long after this came the Polish autumn, which… well, it was cold. And being bare footed, our feet, in fact, got frost-bitten. And at this point… no, hold on, I was skipping the moment in which we were tattooed on the arm.

I don't really remember how long, in terms of hours and days, it might have taken for all these things to happen. I only see them coming in a succession of flashes.

And so they marked with numbers, and from that moment onwards we became part of that array of non-human beings; just numbers! Starting from that moment, we never heard our names again. The life in the camps had begun: forced labour, hunger, beatings, and all the rest that you can imagine for yourselves.

At the end of January 1945 the Russians arrived. There is a very beautiful description of this in Primo Levi's book, which I advice you all to read, and that I always carry with me whenever I go to talk with the youth. It describes the arrival of the Russian soldiers in a marvellous style. By the way, the first to arrive was actually a reconnaissance platoon, and just before… Oh! I was forgetting to… there would be… my sister and I had in a way been able to, let's say, save ourselves because, with frost-bitten feet, they had exonerated us from work and put us up in a so-called hospital shanty, where we practically did nothing. It seems to me they must have medicated my feet, which were covered with sores, and so it was here that we had practically waited for the end.

By the time the Russians arrived we were already starving, because the Nazis, taking along with them most of the people who were in the camp, had fled a few days earlier. As for us, they didn't… they either did not have the time, or decided to leave us behind simply because we were unable to walk, I just don't know… Nevertheless, we spent those days before the arrival of the Russians literally dying, one person after another… Being physically better than my sister, I would go out into the freezing Polish winter, and search around the camp for some leftover on which we could somehow survive. This went on until the greater part of the Russians arrived and were then able to get the kitchens functioning again. Slowly we all began to rebuild our strength and… Anyhow, as for me I was immediately picked out and assigned to the task of peeling potatoes and caring for those who were closer to dy… closer to dying than I myself was; I mean to say the sick.

It is curious to note how one is always able to find a comical cue amidst all sorts of circumstances, no matter how dramatic. And so it happened that a Yugoslavian lady and myself were assigned the night-time responsibility of keeping watch over these dormitories in which the survivors slept. I did… I would sleep during the first part of the night, and would then be woken up by the Yugoslavian lady who would take my place in bed. Unluckily for us, however, we were completely unable to understand one another, and therefore each time she would simply throw me out of bed by shouting at me, "hey fascist!" Well, this was really the limit! Who knows what the poor thing must have gone through back home in her country? She was thoroughly convinced that since I was Italian, then I should also have been a fascist; and, try as I could, I was never able to explain to her that even though I was Italian, I really was an interned Jew rather than a fascist. Ultimately, there wasn't anything more I could do to defend myself against this lady, absolutely nothing. And so this little tragicomedy was repeated over and over again with every single night…!

As time passed, I slowly began to put on weight. We spent about six more months with the Russians - which therefore brings us to a total of exactly one year because I turned twenty-one on the way there, and twenty-two on the way back.

The journey back proved to be yet another of these tragicomic things. I could even just as well write about it, but simply prefer to remind you that Primo Levi's "La Tregua" comes quite near to the type of experience that we ourselves had… As you know, by then we were young and still full of vitality, in spite of all that had happened. So… even though the return journey was very hard, very difficult and without anything to eat, we still managed all the same. Thank God, at last we were able to get to Rome. We were filled with scabies; but this was really the least among the things that could have happened to us. During the journey we were helped by a boy from Sicily, who, during the intervals… this train, in fact, would stop every now and then, and nobody knew where, when, or for how long this was going to be. We therefore took advantage of this, and each time it seemed that the break… the stopover would be long enough, we would rush to… to the toilet and refresh ourselves a little bit. It happened that on one of these occasions we actually would never have caught the train again if we had stayed just a second longer. Luckily we managed to clutch our fingers tight onto the side of the last wagon, and with a helping hand from… Salvatore, who reached out and pulled us up over the stockade, we were able to arrive safely in Italy.

As for the details, these are really infinite. Once we came across a column of Jews who were departing for Palestine. They were carrying food with them, and so they gave us some bread and some marmalade; and, well, somehow we were then able to eat something. Besides, Salvatore would sneak into the nearby fields to steal something, bringing back to us apples as well as potatoes, which we would then cook under the train: this ended up in all those belonging to our wagon suffering from a terrible diarrhoea. But, all the same, he was able to let us finally enjoy those apples that we hadn't seen for a whole year, even though they had a sour taste since they were still raw, but this as well is yet another of those tragicomedies!

Eventually we arrived in Rome. We did not go back to Rhodes - I am referring to my sister and myself - because there was neither something nor somebody waiting for us there anymore. In Rome we still had some relatives, who we hoped we would find still alive. At the end we did find them, and this marks the beginning of another story altogether.

So, this is how it was, from a fleeting point of view…

Umm… umm…

Now I will tell you something quite incredible: our ingenuity was at such a point that my sister and I were actually incredulous; we were unable to believe in the existence of gas chambers and crematories. Well, we really did become aware of the crematories, even owing to the stench they emanated and the fires that could be seen. But I really didn't think that the gas chambers would exist; to me it seemed like something that went well beyond every human imagination that… nevertheless, it was this that eventually saved us from ending up being terrorised. Actually, the others who were with us were constantly scared to death since they couldn't know when, but still were sure that sooner or later it would be their turn. In fact, very often they would talk us into believing they were taking us to the shower rooms; but the truth is that these shower rooms were actually the gas chambers. We realised this only in the very last moments. In some ways we had been spared from a great deal of anguish. Anyhow, we did see them with our own eyes after the… both the crematories and the gas chambers; we only discovered their existence afterwards.

Can we have a break? I am at a loss about how to continue…

No, we were neither men nor women any more.

Not at all; even because it must always be kept in mind that after only a few weeks, we really were nothing but skeletons, and, as a result, we had neither a female body form nor face. We were skin headed, and had neither breasts nor anything; just… It took more time for some, less for others. I myself was already thin, and came out of the camp weighing roughly about thirty-five kilos I think. So, as you can see, even our feminine characteristics had disappeared; perhaps having been the lesser defended than the others, I do not know… some women; and I am telling you the plain truth, there were some: in fact it was really a mystery how some…

Naturally, we had remained with the women and, as for the men, we never ever saw them again. There were some that seemed to be physically fitter because they had been able to eat. With all probability, they must have belonged to families that were better off and, therefore, had in the meantime been able to purchase food on the black market. Well, these all died in a very short time - whereas my sister and I, who were already as thin as spaghettis, were able to survive, and nobody knows why. This is one of the mysteries of Auschwitz… the doomed and the survivors; without any one knowing why… I wonder what it is that would have helped us… the fact that we were very young in the first place, that is to say, as far as I am concerned. For someone else it was even religion, perhaps trusting in some god, I wouldn't know. I for one never prayed at Auschwitz, I was never able to. Perhaps the only form of prayer that I actually expressed was the desire that I didn't want to die in there, covered with mud, darkness and horror, but outside! In fact when the gates were finally thrown open, the first great satisfaction was being able to freely come out and go in again.

Do tell me yourself if I should still go on talking about Auschwitz: because Auschwitz is such an enormous thing that… it is quite impossible to describe…

No, I don't.

Tell me why one shouldn't any longer be able to pray after Auschwitz, or…

No, what I would say is that… I was brought up the Jewish way, even though on very approximate terms, I would say, but certainly not by fundamentalists. Not really very observ… observance of all the principal feasts was kept, but nothing further than this. What we did have was the awareness of being Jews since we were treated in a different way. But, personally, I don't believe I was a very religious person even then; and from this point of view, I wouldn't say it was Auschwitz that made me lose my faith. Let's say this is rather owed to the fact that in the course of life the things that I see don't make me think that God would exist. Perhaps he does exist, but is not what we would imagine him to be. I don't even pray: I don't pray for myself even because I keep saying, "if he does exist, why should he care about me at all; and why not about the child who is dying of hunger, of thirst, or from some sickness; why must I ask for something for myself; how is all this possible?" And what really gets me mad is when I hear them talking about miracles, for then I say, "at the end of it all, this god who is so righteous and merciful can afford to perform a miracle for Tom but doesn't do the same thing for Dick; why should this be so?" No, I cannot accept it!

Well, I cannot consider myself atheist, certainly not. I do appreciate certain Jewish traditions. According to me the "Sabbath", for example, is a very important aspect, even though I am not all that observant. I sincerely think this is one of the pillars of Judaism: once a week not to be bothered with material things and not to have any kind of commitments, but only to have time to reflect and to communicate with nature; after which everyone is free to observe the Sabbath as best they can. I find this one of the most wonderful ideas of the Jewish heritage, but as for the other things "I quite don't agree", that's it.

I chanced to be born a Jew; and have two daughters, who, according to Jewish law, would be Jews as well, having been born of a Jewish mother. But still I got married to a Catholic and had a mixed matrimony; are you interested that I would continue?

My two daughters were baptised, and I personally took care of their religious upbringing. By doing so I managed to accompany them up to their confirmation; after which they simply decided to abandon the Christian faith… every now and then I even feel guilty about it because I keep saying to myself, "but, seriously…!" My husband had never taken on any responsibility in this; and so it was I who taught them the "Our Father", the "Hail Mary", the "Angel of God", and so forth, even though I was Jewish. Naturally, apart from this they also did a catechism course at school, which I imagine is what must have eventually forced them to quit… completely, that is to say…

With my mother, my grandmother, who is my father's mother, two brothers, one eighteen years old and the other four, and my sister - I am not talking about distant relatives, only the exclusive family. Dad, as I said before, had died of pneumonia - at that time people died of pneumonia - at the age of fifty-one. His is the only family tomb that I have, and in fact as soon as it was possible for me - after forty-three years I think - I went to Rhodes to visit my father's tomb and the places where we had lived…

It happened gradually; the truth took shape bit by bit, and at the end I was told about my brother, the elder one, directly by somebody. He died in a mine… on the eve of our liberation… this, perhaps, is the thing I have wept over longest… the children and the elderly had been killed immediately, and so this hadn't left any more problems to face… Then I also have some relatives in Salonika, and in Italy… Amongst the ones in Salonika I know that many were deported… from among my own in Italy nobody… should we have a break, or would you prefer to give me some orientation yourself…? You would help me if you could ask me a few questions…

Oh, well, at the beginning I hardly made any contacts at all. I must confess that… I went through a couple of episodes… while we were strolling about in Rome I heard someone say, 'not enough of them must have been killed', and this is one of the reas… the very fact that around us we would still be able to hear such incre… such incredulity and hostility combined together: I believe this must have then hindered me, as well as many other survivors, from speaking up for a good number of years, or better still, for years and years; and not even to my very own daughters! Well, at the end a more favourable moment, in which everybody seemed a little bit more awake, did arrive. And after an entire generation had passed, people started to realise that the last of the survivors were actually already on their way, and that it was time to gather their testimonials. This is how this other experience of mine was born. I began to go around in schools, to those in which I was invited. Many schools, and a few radio and television interviews too; but personally what I enjoyed most was talking with the kids. I had been a primary school teacher, and perhaps this helped me in creating a contact with children.

Generally speaking, I must say I lived a very isolated life: together with my husband's family, which I discovered, a little bit later, to be fascist. What a pity - even the good people like them! There is nothing one could say about it. Then came Africa: very few relations, really few. I led a very solitary life.

Let's say that following the death of my husband, I was only forty years old then, I started to teach again, and I believe that getting in touch with the kids for me must have been a very difficult thing because I wasn't… young any more nor had the teaching experience any longer. Nevertheless, this is still what gives me the greatest satisfaction: the contact with the youth, with the children to begin with. Just yesterday I met… I saw a young dark haired lady approaching me: she looked at me, 'teacher!' she exclaimed, 'it's me, I am Giovanna!' I threw my arms around her neck; I hadn't seen her again after Primary Five, and there she was, a young woman now… Most of my former pupils still remember me, saying those were the most wonderful years. Personally, I don't believe I really was that good as a teacher, but had sworn to myself that my pupils would never become victims of oppression or repression. Probably, I had become "the subject of criticism." No, "probably" is not the right word: I simply let myself become acquainted with being criticised because I did not accept to play an authoritarian role. Well, you surely would know how difficult it is to reconcile that little dose of necessary authority with the liberty of the pupils. "They made me bleed till I was dry…" Nevertheless, they were really adorable: they, sincerely speaking, taught me much more that what I myself would have taught them. Maybe… it's such a pity that at the moment in which I felt professionally ready… I had acquired knowledge through experience and had been able to develop… I had developed my own methodology, which would really have suited me, and which, perhaps, was even ahead of its time. Unfortunately I was forced to leave at the age of sixty-two: I had done only twenty years - must I continue? I had finished with a class in their fifth year, and would have had to start all over again with a group in their first year. I feared I never would have made it. Dealing with a first year class was too cumbersome, and I had already reached a certain age. Then came the idea of abandoning them when they were only halfway through - I decided it was time to retire. I had been granted… let's call it, or rather, fortunately, let's say, a war pension, which then helped me to integrate my own. This is what I lived on, and what I used for bringing up my little daughters.

To begin with, I myself was the first person who needed to study history! I will tell you that these were primary school kids; well, you know the story. The children would begin their course in Primary Three, starting from their personal history: studying their family history; bringing to school, I don't know, documents and birth certificates. The aim was to help the child to understand that the life of every single person was marked by happenings, and that this is what history is all about. Evidently after this the teaching of History proper was then undertaken. Anyhow, I really don't think I was able to teach all that much at primary level. Nevertheless, one of my former pupils says that while he was in High School he encountered, and was able to recall, one of the History lessons I had done; but he then also adds, 'yours was better, your lesson was far better!': I had always granted them a lot of freedom. And now they are all men and women, quite obviously.

This only applies to whoever is willing to learn something: whoever does not simply throw history behind his back. The existence of revisionists, after all, is a well proven reality… even if one wouldn't really know how they do it. History would have to teach something, this is true, but perhaps too much success in avoiding to repeat the same mistakes only leads to committing errors of yet another type, more or less like it happens even in the life of individuals. You know whom the experts in this are, don't you? They are the very people who have already committed all sorts of mistakes; and this entitles them to still continue committing others. I would hope that at least certain lessons might have been learnt. I am sure, however, that democracy in Europe has by now a very solid foundation; well, at least in a united Europe. I don't know, elsewhere things are not good at all, unfortunately.

As it were, music has been part of my life all through, even though the means at disposal were quite few. I can remember that when I still was a little girl we had a dozen of records, and that when we gathered together in the evenings we would then listen to some music: this was the first experience, my first approach to music. There wasn’t really anything much apart from a few songs, some oriental-style themes, and perhaps pieces from some symphony. Nevertheless I developed an evident passion there and then, and this has accompanied me through all my life. Then when I was old enough to make my own choices I started buying albums unto the million; which however didn’t prove enough to calm me down, for my thirst was almost unquenchable! Music, after all, is just like the sea: one cannot expect to drain in all up in one day. Similarly, one cannot simply say, "well, now that I possess three hundred records I can stop." There is always something new to try: This year has been the year for ethnic music, in a particular way, I mean to say. Contemporarily, however, I also purchased one of Bach’s masses; given that I am able to switch from Bach to rock and roll without any problems at all!

How did it save my life? Well, because it helped me to live: it gave me joy in my happier moments and sustained me in those that were the ugliest, and in which it would have perhaps been easier to die than to live.

I wouldn’t say… No, I really wouldn’t say… I did go through periods in which I would prefer just one type of music; but this was always to be successively over-ridden by my liking for other types of music. I really don’t recall any particular episode… yes, in these last years, which have been very happy ones, I have often said to myself, "wouldn’t you have ended up by committing suicide if there hadn’t been any music at all?"

Well, I really don’t know, and… I certainly could not jump down through the window because it is too low… and I am even a coward… Therefore all I say is, "as long as there are still nice things to enjoy I will remain here" - if I am able to - for a little while longer.

I suppose that for me death would, above all, correspond to the end of esthetical emotions: I am simply not interested in all the rest. My daughters are now grown-ups, and well into making headway in life the both of them. They don't need me and, if not for anything, it is I who on the contrary need them. What is it that I would have to leave behind? I could go along on my way without having to worry about anything. Well, I should love it if I could carry some music with me, even though I know "one is not allowed to": music, some scenery of Venice, some scenery of Africa, the beautiful places that I have seen; Rhodes.

When I finally managed to return there I was overwhelmed by the joy of being able to see her again. I crossed… I practically found myself at home, except for the fact that there were no more Jews in this place that once used to be the Jewish neighbourhood. There were Greeks instead, and the Jewish population had simply disappeared; with the exception, I believe, of a couple of families who were Turks by nationality, and who had been saved from deportation by the intervention of the Consul or some Turkish authority - given that Turkey had remained neutral - which had made it impossible for anybody to touch them. These were the only ones who had survived.

It was very touching experience for me to go back to Rhodes, which is really a very beautiful city. I was taken up by joy, but at the same time filled with sadness, given that I was practically walking amongst ghosts.