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Home > Histories & Narratives > Minnesotans > Minnesotans and the Holocaust > Liberation Scenes : Felicia Weingarten

For Paolo and Gaetano

Felicia Weingarten

The huge airplane factory was located in a picturesque Spa, hidden in a valley in Eastern Germany near the Czech border. Two thousand men and some women from many parts of Nazi occupied Europe were forcibly sent there to labor in twelve-hour shifts. There were civilian Frenchmen, Dutchmen, Belgians, Czech men and women and hundreds of prisoners of war. Russian soldiers, their uniforms and greatcoats in shreds, lived behind barbed wire in a camp close to the small concentrationlabor camp where I was with four hundred and ninetynine women and girls from the Lodz-Ghetto. In Nazi ideology the Russians and all Slavs were considered inferior, their lot was just a little better than ours. The next largest group of P.O.W'S was Italian antifascist soldiers' who had fought under General Bagdolio. The remnants of their uniforms clean, but oddly assorted, testified to their long captivity.

Oh. these Italians! They smiled encouragingly as they walked by our machines, gesturing with their hands to work slowly. Their fine voices filled the cavernous halls. It is there, of all places that I heard many Italian popular songs and arias from operas just vaguely known to me.

My head was shaved, a green dress, thrown at me after a cold shower in Auschwitz, covered my naked body. What the dress had in length it lacked in modesty, the top gaped open when I bent towards the machine I operated. Nearby at a long table, girls from my camp sat filing and polishing airplane wheels. Their foreman was a decent ethnic German from Silesia. His assistant was an Italian P.O.W. in his late twenties, short with a pockmarked homely face. He wore army pants and the same clean, ragged sleeveless T-shirt every day. I noticed he looked in my direction frequently. It was probably my slim, but still curvaceous figure which caught his eye. After a couple of days, he walked by unobtrusively and placed a safety pin near the machine, pointing to the plunging neckline. I was deeply touched by the man's sensitivity. We both risked punishment if observed by the S.S. guards, although my punishment would have been far greater.

Our daily food consisted of a bread ration, supplemented by dried turnip soup. The Italians saw and smelled the vile "soup" and knew we were terribly hungry. Many of them began to share their meager rations. Some flirted with the S.S. women to distract them, while others smuggled bits of bread into the Jewish girls'eager hands.

I had my own supplier! Forming words without sound, the Italian and I communicated across the aisle. Pointing to himself he mouthed "Paolo Mongelli, Roma". My lips formed "Lusia Karo, Lodz, Poland". He repeated "Lucia" and smiled. I pointed to my shaved head, the pale mark where my watch used to be and whispered "Auschwitz". The look in his eyes full of sympathy and understanding was a balm to my aching heart.

One day he noticed that I moved with difficulty and his eyes asked "What is wrong?". I pointed to my throat which hurt badly. My thin dress and shoes with holes offered little protection in the late autumn weather. I had strep throat and a fever but had to work nevertheless. Paolo looked toward the latrine and discreetly beckoned me to go. Standing at attention I asked the nearest S.S. woman for permission to go. In the corner of the tiny entry, Paolo had placed a container of hot coffee with milk. I drank fast feeling immediately better and was able to continue working. Often Paolo sneaked some bread or spaghetti to me. Once, after the nightshift, he and his friends waited outside as our column went by. Quickly he reached out with a portion of bread, but before I could take it another woman grabbed it although she knew for whom it was meant. It took much whispered and angry persuasion to get the bread, which I divided into four and shared with the line. I was lucky the S.S.women were in front of the column and busy talking.

Paolo'looked'in my direction a lot rolling his eyes and mouthing "Bella, bella." it was nice to be called beautiful even though I knew well that I looked awful. He clutched at his heart saying "Amore, amore." I found it quite comical, yet very touching.

Then a tall, handsome Italian electrician Gaetano, took to walking by my machine. He and I could only exchange fond glances under the watchful eyes of the S.S. while Paolo looked unhappily on. When Gaetano smuggled a letter to me, I ran to the only person in camp who knew Italian and begged her to translate. She was reluctant and afraid, but after some persuasion she did. I have memorized the few lines he wrote.

"Cara Lucia, I shall not speak of love, not because you are unworthy of being loved, but this is not the time to speak of love. Do not lose hope because the war will be over soon. Perhaps we'll meet after the war and then talk of love. Courage, amica. Gaetano."

To my great sorrow I was transferred to another camp. The support group we had formed in the camp was lost and I missed the friendly Italians and Czechs. Most of all I missed my two friends; Paolo and Gaetano, but I have never forgotten them. I hope they made it safely back to their beloved Italia.