How did the group manage under under Nazi Occupied Nonantolla?

During this period of the Nazi occupation, the residents of Villa Emma lived a clandestine life defined by local cooperation, strategic dispersal, and the support of the clergy:

Dispersal and Daily Survival

Strategic Hiding: Older boys were dispersed among local families and barns, masquerading as “relatives” of the farmers to avoid detection.
The “Command of the Persecuted”: A coordination center was established on the second floor of the monastery, where messengers reported on the boys’ conditions and leaders managed the logistics of clothing and food distribution.
Logistics and Supplies: Leonardo, a local Communist, and a generous village grocer became essential links in the supply chain, providing bread, cheese, and macaroni without requiring money or food stamps.
Clandestine Operations: Under the cover of night, wheat harvested earlier was moved by cart to the monastery, where a small-scale “macaroni industry” flourished to feed the dispersed group.
Jacob the Messenger: A youth named Jacob moved through the streets in a small cart, delivering food to his friends; his appearance allowed him to pass the “Pipeks” (Germans) without suspicion.

Leadership and Resistance

Clerical Support: The leadership found sanctuary and intellectual companionship with local priests like Don Rosso and Don Alberto within the seminary.
The Moral Stand of Don Beccari: Don Beccari emerged as a figure of active resistance, using his position to smuggle bombs to the English in the mountains and provide forged documents to Italian army deserters.
Religious Conviction: The priests viewed their aid as a Christian duty to “strike the devil,” choosing to face danger with indifference rather than fail in their moral obligations.

German Commander’s Promise: While the German garrison commander reportedly promised the children’s safety, the leadership remained cautious, fearing he could be replaced by someone less honorable at any time.

From Yoshko’s Memoirs:

The older boys were dispersed throughout the village of Nonantola, in houses and barns, within the families of farmers. Outwardly they are “relatives”… Moreali is the owner of a small estate. In his large barn, ten of our older boys were settled. Joy reigned over the barn from morning until evening. Fatalism, self-mockery, impudence, and also a little hope joined together and created a strange picture of life. Fruits of the macabre time. From their childhood they knew the lives of gypsies, and gypsy blood foams in their veins.

On the second floor of the monastery, the “command of the persecuted” was organized. Messengers from our various dispersed locations would reach me and report on the condition of the boys and on what was happening in the village. Current problems of moving clothes from one farmer’s house to another and similar matters were decided here. There were worries about supplying the necessities of existence to all the places, but precisely under these conditions of pressure, mutual aid celebrated its brilliant victory. We could lean without fear on the “guys.”

Behind the villa stretched the fruit tree garden of Leonardo, our good friend, a veteran Communist since the days of Mussolini’s “March on Rome.” There, in the shade of the trees, we would gather and hear the songs of the workers and farmers of Italy played by Leonardo in his pleasant voice, and his and Moreali’s longing stories for the “other Italy.” Now Leonardo’s house and barn are our supply center, and threads are woven from it to all our dispersed locations. Some of our boys also live in the barn, and girls found a dwelling for themselves in a remote room in our host’s house. In the evenings the “guys” arrive here and receive cheese, bread, macaroni… honor and respect to the grocer in the village who did not ask for money or even food stamps. Simply, he gave us everything required.

In the attic of the villa lay “our wheat” bags that we sowed and harvested. At night we would reach there through field paths in the small cart of the priests’ seminary and bring wheat to the monastery. Everything was camouflaged properly thanks to the wonderful cooperation of the village population. In the monastery, our macaroni industry flourished. Hundreds of kilograms of this coveted food were produced here and supplied to the “guys” in all corners of Nonantola. Outside rattled the German tanks and inside the macaroni machine roared…

In the streets of Nonantola, a small cart makes its way and upon it sits a dark youth—this is our Jacob—delivering food to his dispersed friends. He, the “realist” who adapts to every reality, whistles Italian songs to himself. The “Pipeks” do not doubt his Italianness… the blackness of his eyes and his curls testify for him… is he not a cute ragazzo (boy)?

The older friends stand in the shade of the trees and exchange impressions. Twilight, an hour before the curfew. Alex tells with his humor what the horses, in whose neighborhood he slept, said about the situation. As if embarrassed he whispers to me: “…now I feel how connected I am to the whole group. The fate of the small ones in the monastery gives me no rest. Is it not funny?…”

We were informed that the commander of the German garrison in the village expressed wonder at the dispersal of the children. “As long as I am the commander”—so it is reported in his name—”not a hair shall fall from their head.” We did not heed his advice to return to the villa, but became more cautious. Even if he is a man of his word, who can guarantee that tomorrow they won’t replace him with another?

Raffaele Cantoni, our friend from Florence, invited us all to him. In the big city, a safer hiding place will be found. Helena traveled to check the details. Thus our lives continued from September 8 until the end of the month. My life was as if in a nightmare. I walked like a ghost. I willingly joined the company of Don Rosso and Don Alberto in the small room in the seminary. We dreamed of another world that would rise outside the thick walls of the Abbazia.

Don Rosso is an enthusiastic man of science. His mind’s eye rests on the church, on the sciences, on philology, and on man. His childish gaze seems to betray his rich spiritual world. In me, he sees a friend. He spent the years of his life in the Duomo di Modena, the thousand-year-old church. He sits with us, quiet, listening, moving his gaze from person to person and in his face, as if sealed, the question: “What do I have to do with all this. War… Fascism… anyway I understand nothing in this…”

Don Alberto is the symbol of friendship and the open heart to others. Don Beccari, compared to his colleagues, is perhaps the closest to the world of action. A stoic, a model of abstinence from life’s affairs and yet, now he is close to the “valley of tears” raging more than anyone else. He knows what he dreams of and fights for. Tomorrow he will ride his bicycle or limp on his damaged hip and bring bombs in his worn-out bag to the English hiding in the mountains above, or transfer forged documents to soldiers who deserted the Italian army. With indifference he meets the dangers, and who will prevent him from bringing clothes from our warehouse to the English in the mountains? And all this under the scouting eyes of the German guards!

“My friends, if we Christians do not help to strike the devil, all my prayers are in vain. The dangers? A marginal matter… the main thing is that we can help. We fulfilled our duty and then we can calmly welcome the day of our death.” Every such conversation seemed to ease the burden that weighed upon me.