The Eve of the Escape from Nonantolla!

Reconnaissance and Border Planning

A man named Pacifici, nicknamed Cicibio, arrived to the Seminary with news that a safe crossing to Switzerland was possible near Ponte Tresa.
Preliminary Trip: Before moving the eighty children, Yoshko and Cicibio traveled ahead to inspect the route.
Encounters on the Road: During their journey, they witnessed S.S. checks near Reggio Emilia and encountered a deserting soldier heading to the mountains.
Securing a Guide: In Ponte Tresa, they met a guide who agreed to lead the children across the border from a nearby hut.

Financing the Escape

The Cost of Rescue: The transfer was priced at 1,000 lire per child, totaling 100,000 lire—a sum the group did not have since “Delasem” had disappeared.
Strategic Contact: Through Cicibio’s brother, Yoshko met a Swiss transport manager in Como who acted as a liaison.
The Benefactor: This contact secured the necessary funds, as well as cheese and pocket money for the children, while providing instructions for the Swiss border guards.

Tension in Nonantola

Imminent Danger: While Indig was at the border, the residents in Nonantola learned that the “beginning of destruction” for the Jews was scheduled to begin in two or three days.
Clerical Support: Monsignor Pelatti and local nuns prayed continuously for the children’s safety, even as the Monsignor began to show signs of doubt regarding divine intervention.
The Expulsion Order: The group was ordered to leave the Abbazia (monastery) within three days, facing a forced return to Villa Emma if they did not escape.

Final Mobilization

Unity in Crisis: Despite past quarrels, Yoshko and Marco united to coordinate the departure.
The Green Light: Upon returning to the Abbazia, Yoshko informed Marco and the Monsignor that the first group would depart the following day.

Disguise and Departure: Yoshko contacted smugglers and prepared to move the children to Milan, though he noted with regret that he eventually forgot the name of the Swiss benefactor who made the rescue possible.

From Yoshko’s Memoirs

I am on the train to Nonantola, security and joy in my heart. Again the routine check. They give me a penetrating look… I am already accustomed to these, looking with indifference, ignoring them. It is possible to deceive even the S.S…. In Modena, it turns out that I missed the train to Nonantola. What to do? In an hour the curfew will begin and the Germans shoot without distinction. I call the Abbazia and ask to reach Marco.

Collapsing from exhaustion and trembling from the danger of failure on the threshold of rescue, I count the moments of waiting. We were ordered to leave the Abbazia within three days. We will be forced to return to the Villa… and let happen what may… A car approaches. The hour is nine-thirty. Half an hour remains until the start of the curfew. Marco has arrived! Fear is sealed on his face! Marco too! We were never friends and there were quarrels between us. Now fate and the shared concern for our wretched children unite us. We will bear the shared yoke together. I bring him the news: “Tomorrow the first group goes out!”

We arrived at the Abbazia. The Monsignor’s large eyes ask, and I inform him that tomorrow we move. “God give you rescue!” I still have to cast an eye on the sleeping children upstairs. Upon my entering, everyone wakes. Some jump from their beds, others sit up. With wide eyes, eyes expressing terror, they expect the words of my mouth. Late into the night the four of us sat: Beccari, Don Rosso, Don Alberto, and I. The conversation turned to fear and to faith.

Don Beccari asks: “Indig, won’t you forget us?” “I do not know what awaits us, but if we merit and reach the Land of Israel, we will not spare letters to you. The spirit of the early Christians we found among you here during our stay in your house this past month.” “…Indig, simple Christians full of errors and doubts you found here. When one sees what is happening around, thoughts of heresy creep into a man’s soul… As for myself, I buried every doubt long ago and two are the principles that guide me: the connection to God and the love of man. In our serving man, we serve God in whose image and likeness man was created. We helped, not so that the matter would be recorded to our credit. And meanwhile, we gained a soul-friend—we the priests and you the revolutionary socialist… and we ourselves were swept into the struggle for the liberation of our country, sending weapons to the mountains and fulfilling in our bodies ‘love your neighbor as yourself’… Let us hope you succeed!”

At dawn, preparation in the kitchen. Marianna is busy preparing food packages for the children, provisions for the way. An old nun enters: “Signora, God bless you and the children. To Signor Indig we sent a glass of good and old wine. Last night he returned from his way so tired… we prayed all night… Oh, Signora, for what and why are they pursuing you, after all, you are good people! Signora, here is an amulet of our Holy Lady. She will protect you. We will pray three consecutive days for your welfare and God be with you!…” The old nuns wept over the disaster that descended upon the beautiful world of the Creator of the world…

The News of the Departure from Nonantola changes the mood. Already they are cheerful and shower me with a flood of questions. And also requests. “Yoshko, I want my brother to accompany us too…” “Quiet, do not wake the priests. Tomorrow you will know the arrangements. Go to sleep. Good night, children! It will be good!”

The Escape

Don Beccari informed her of the plan to escape. On the evening of October 8th, she left Nonantola with the second large group of twenty-one boys and girls, along with six adults — the number is correctly noted — heading to Milan, where they were met at the central station by Goffredo Pacifici, a Delasem worker from Villa Emma, who then escorted them to the Swiss border. Sonja vividly describes the crossing of the Tresa River in her diary. There is no second account in existence, which comes even close to describing in such detail the flight of this gr

From Sonja’s Diary

Switzerland, October 15

Finally, I’ve arrived in Switzerland, where I’m now living with the girls in a home that’s very clean and nice. But I’m just not going to feel comfortable here. Helene is also here.

[This entry order, while not chronolgically incorrect, follows the order of entries in Sonja’s diary]

At the Border, Switzerland, October 12, 1943

I’ve finally made it to Switzerland. Here’s how it happened: On the last day I spent with the people, the pastor came to me in the evening and said that a group had already left that day and that I would be going the next day. When I heard that, I really started to cry. Part of me was upset about leaving the people, and part of me was really sad that no one thought of me. I felt so miserable and abandoned. About forty people left. Honestly, someone could have told me. If the pastor hadn’t said anything, I wouldn’t have left the next day. That really annoyed me. The next day, I packed my things and said goodbye to the family. It was really hard to leave. When I got to the seminary, they told me that we wouldn’t be leaving until the next day. I was so mad about that and started crying again. I really don’t know why I just keep on crying. Eventually, I went back to the Villa, where only a few girls were left. In the afternoon, Marko told me that we would probably leave in the evening. I was really looking forward to it. Finally, evening came, and we were in a group of 27 people at the Nonantola train station.

With my backpack, I traveled with everyone else to Modena. When we arrived in Modena, we had to wait over two hours for the train that would take us to Milan. What I went through emotionally during that time is indescribable. At nine o’clock the next morning, we finally arrived by train. I was hoping that I would see my aunt and went there with Pacifici but it was in vain. My aunt wasn’t there any more because she had already fled. I was really upset about that. At one o’clock in the afternoon, we took the train to Farese. By the time we got there, it was five o’clock. Then we took the tram for about three hours. When we got off, we walked with a farmer to a remote farmhouse, where we rested. We spent the night there, which wasn’t really a night for me. The next evening, we crossed the border. First, we went through forests and mountains, then we came to the water. Before I got in the water, a little child was already drifting in the water. When I saw that, I thought, “No way, I’m not going in there.” But what could we do? We had to. Courage!!! So Mrs. Weiss and I went in, and when I couldn’t move forward anymore, Schuldenfrei came and took my hand. That’s how I made it across the water, but it wasn’t over yet. We still had to cross a narrow bridge that was all crooked. If you fell into the water, you wouldn’t be able to make it out. Before I crossed the bridge, we saw the Swiss coming. That gave me courage, and I went over the bridge. Thank God I made it across safely, and the Swiss helped me across the other paths. Finally, we all made it to Switzerland across the water, soaking wet but safe. We went with the soldiers to a house where they lit a fire so we could warm up and dry off. Then we drove in a car to a hotel where we were welcomed very nicely. There were also English people there, and we talked to them in English. We stayed there for four days. On the fourth day, we parted ways with the boys and only us girls went to a home in Lugano.

From Yoshko’s Memoirs

“At noon we slipped out of Nonantola like thieves. The people of the village knew the purpose of our journey. Through the windows, they blessed us secretly. We reached the railway station and already two families from Benghazi from Villa Emma had preceded us. Cold sweat covered my face. The old man is seventy years old, deaf and half-blind. Their two small children scream without ceasing and must be carried by hand. The two women’s minds are impaired and they do not grasp any advice. I see before me the way until the Swiss border crossing… to take them with us means risking the entire group; to leave them—a criminal abandonment of responsibility!…

“We are coming with you! You don’t want to? We will shout! We are Jews and you are Jews! We are English citizens!… Wait, we’ll tell them that you didn’t want to help us and they won’t let you into Palestine!… as if you were something better than us!” I try to silence their claims: “Do what you decide. I know nothing about you…” “Whether you know or not, to where you go, we will go too. Your way will be our way.” A penetrating look hits my eyes. Hanna. Her face expresses mercy and strength: to do justice to these wretched ones. There is no time for arguments. The train approaches. Our dog Petrela is sad, worried, lest they forget him… Strange, Petrela arrived first at the station. How did he find out?…

We all squeeze into the full carriage. “Marco, as we agreed, tomorrow at this hour you set out following us. Cicibio waits for you at the station in Milan. Be precise. Blessings to all, see you! No time for sentiments. No arguments. Flawless discipline. No problems.” Reggio. Again S.S. inspection. I instructed the children to take out the documents and hold them open, raised above the head. The “theory of the psychology of inspection” taught us that [this] is a proven virtue for a superficial check… This time too the method justified itself. The S.S. officer cast an eye from afar and ceased. Here too was found an army deserter, a partisan who managed to slip from the eye of the checkers.

Fortunately, the train was only slightly late, but we did not find Cicibio at the Milan station. Perhaps he was arrested? We try to be calm and nonetheless our large group of children stands out among the mass of people filling the station. Near the buffet, a man fell asleep sitting up. Something in him reminds [me] of our Cicibio… I sat down near him. Indeed, I was not mistaken. I wake him. “Madonna Mia, did I sleep? Where are you? I waited for you a long time. These idiots don’t even know when their trains arrive! Come, in half an hour the train departing for Varese will arrive.”

We cross the city to reach the other railway station. Dispersed in a sort of invisible single file, mixed in the crowd of passersby, but keeping eye contact. The man from Benghazi shouts at his daughter and she expresses wonder aloud that she wasn’t allowed to see, as she should, the city of Milan… I am boiling with anger.

Milan – Varese – Ponte Tresa. No, the way to Varese is still long… only in the morning will the departing train arrive there. And in the meantime? Where will the forty children spend the night? And the lodging of Jews is strictly prohibited. Cicibio manages to bribe the guard of the public underground toilet and we all squeeze into the cubicles and corridors, after a dangerous wait in the streets of Milan until it grew dark. In the restrooms, a night of hell passed over us, but the children were aware of the dangers and behaved exemplarily. As much as they could, they tried to doze in the oppressive crowding.

In the late morning hour, we arrived in Varese. A small place, packed with Fascists and Germans. Near the station—a large S.S. barracks. There also is the tram to Ponte Tresa. Is it possible we won’t attract attention? The children disperse into small groups wandering the streets. The girls linger near shop windows. The boys look for some adventure in the small town. Licking another portion of ice cream… Death is in front of us and we are indifferent… Varese does not notice us. The walls are covered with large posters containing German warnings that fill every passerby with fear and trembling. A few days ago, partisans attacked the Germans here.

We are all on the tram. Words were removed from our mouths, as if we had never been an organized group. Rain. It does not bode well for us. Before us is a walk on foot. The tram struggles to go up the mountain. Around us Italians, soldiers of the neo-Fascist regime. It is to be assumed they guess who we are, but they do not ask. The charming landscape as if declares: Behold, here is Switzerland. In the far distance, snow-capped mountain peaks rise. The tram touches the branches of the trees and drops splash on our faces. We do not lose our composure, traveling with confidence. What is the source of this confidence of ours? Alex gives me a look from time to time, as if he wanted to encourage me. I understand that the look of my face is not very encouraging. He whispers to me affectionately: “Cheer up, Yoshko…”

Ponte Tresa, in the light of the shining sun. A certain person named Pietro was supposed to be waiting for us. According to Cicibio’s description, it will not be hard for us to identify him. And indeed, a man stands there and his appearance is as if he does not belong here. “Pietro?” “Yes! Let’s go.” And the children descend from the carriage, as if they are on a vacation trip. Walking in a long line with Pietro at the head, whistling for his pleasure. It seems the people in the street are amazed at the sight of children going out for a trip in the mountains in the days of the war.

Our next station is an old house among rocks, surrounded by stream beds inside a thick forest. Around is the tranquility of silence and the fragrance of the Alps. The chirping of birds violates the silence. The children are brought into two rooms, according to age. And then Pietro sees for the first time the family members from Benghazi. “For no fortune in the world will I take the old man! Am I crazy? Also the infants I will not take. The women can come.” One granddaughter opens with a scream. One needs to plug her mouth. The old man mumbles in anger: “What is it? Let her shout… woe to us… we are all equal… we are all Jews…” They ask to persuade him to stay here until tomorrow and Pietro will come specially to take him. Without avail. “To wherever you go, we will go…” The Book of Ruth, 1943 version. There is no choice, the family comes with us. My insides turn within me and it is dark in my eyes. Seek mercy for the children of Israel!

“Cicibio, why won’t you come with us? What do you have left to do?” And he replies: “I must transfer another number of Jews, especially those I admire. It is my duty! And as for me and my fate—be it what it may… I will go to Venice, try to secure my wife and then—to the mountains. Madonna Mia… I must kill some of them… shoot the pigs and roast them, these stinking dogs!…” “Cicibio, go to Nonantola and take money from the Monsignor—so I agreed with him—and you will receive from his hands a note I left with him. You will need funds…” “No, this is no payment and do not thank me… when we meet in better times we will thank each other and unburden ourselves as our hearts desire…”

Tears glitter in his eyes. It was a final parting. The representative of all that is good in Italian Jewry. A proud Jew with a warm soul. The rescuer of many Jews from certain destruction… Cicibio fell on one of the danger-filled roads on which he walked without recoiling. The children of Villa Emma all carry the memory of Pacifici Cicibio forever! He was one of the heroes of our rescue, of the excellent ones we knew in the Italian exile… The evening fell slowly. Again we set out on the way and before us three hours of walking until the border. In the middle of our convoy, the old man and his family. It is still permitted to speak in a whisper.

The children march properly. The old man stumbles from time to time, mumbles, curses, and also sounds loud shouts directed at his daughter. She too answers him with a shout, that he shouldn’t shout… Pietro insists on leaving them on the way. Hanna’s mercy is stirred and she links her arm in the old man’s arm. On her face is the smile of a merciful nurse, a smile not of this world. Endless devotion, until self-forgetfulness. The whole group is in danger and Pietro does not move. No money will dispel the fear of the danger! Hanna fights the old man’s battle. The daughter threatens to open with shouts. Finally, they decide: Pietro will lead the old man by the shorter and more dangerous way and the rest will accompany his colleague, the second smuggler.

To our right, the longed-for Switzerland. A narrow stream separates us and the rescue. We continue to march along the stream, ascending a hill overlooking the surroundings. [We] sit and wait for the stragglers. When I get up to go toward those who have not yet arrived, the old man’s daughter suspects me that I won’t return and that I am abandoning them to themselves. The old man shouts and insists on going with me… “Leave your belongings here and then I will believe you!”

Pietro and I go out toward the children who have not yet arrived. The night is dark and nothing is heard. Lately, the surroundings are sown with hundreds of escapees—Jews, Italians, and English—feeling in the dark and striving toward the border. A rustle of dry leaves and breaking branches is heard. Our “guys.” Happy, we all arrive at the hill. The old man finally calmed down. Now [we] wait a while until the German guard men turn into the tavern. Memories pass in a flash in my weary mind. All that passed over us since the autumn of 1940, when the first groups came from Germany, all the hopes and disappointments, the expectations…

…and the forced concessions. I remember the vow I vowed to Recha: to bring them to the Land of Israel… Will I succeed? I see them sitting together, pressed to each other and trusting in the “togetherness” of ours that we created with much hardship. I hope for the best…

On the night of Kol Nidrei… A wire fence is stretched along the border and tiny bells are hung on it scattered throughout its length. You but touch the fence and the bells tremble with their treacherous ringings. Also the wind shakes them, but the sound of the wind’s plucking is not like the sound of the touch of human bodies. From across the border arrive sounds of singing. How will the fence ring when forty bodies move its bells in their final rescue effort? And what will be the sound of the “plucking” of the old man from Benghazi? A shudder seizes my body. The pressure of concerns approaches its peak.

Someone whispers in my ear: “Yoshko, you forgot… tonight is the night of Kol Nidrei…” Yom Kippur! Exactly on the Day of Judgment we are supposed to go out to freedom! Had the things not been so real, tangible to the point of a shudder, we would have prided ourselves on the symbolism of this timing… in our reality we didn’t even notice the decision hanging over our heads: “who by fire and who by water…” The water we are destined to cross and the fire in the barrel of the German’s weapon… The melody of “Kol Nidrei” bothers me to the point of being unable to be free of it. God protect the infants, lest they atone for the sins of the world!…

The Tresa waters are raging here and therefore the smugglers chose this place. Nothing is heard but the roar of the water. The melody of Kol Nidrei seeps to the depth of the soul. Who to life and who to death… and in the heart of all of us the request for life. What wouldn’t I give to be sure that they won’t return us to the place from which we went out! For every return is death! Moving. An Italian soldier opens the fence before us. 5000 lire he received and nonetheless we know he is a good and generous fellow. A chain of forty children and adults: every toddler between two larger than him and every girl between two boys. The chain will remain steadfast until we reach a place of safety. The soldier barters and they add another 550 to him. He opens another wicket that needs to be passed through by crawling and woe to us if we shake the bells…

A funny idea tickles in my brain: funny, how the fat ones cross the wicket successfully. My hand grips the hand of a child. [We] turn right and the soldier shouts “Left!” A minor misunderstanding… The stream rages and we are inside it. Up to the knees. The current is strong and one must be careful of stumbling. The cold penetrates the bones. Hanna falls and I pull her by her hair. “Hanna, get up!” “Leave me in the river. I will stay here”—she answers me with indifference, but in a blink shakes herself off.

The chain was broken already at the beginning of the march. Sloshing of individuals, the help of one to his fellow. Fear. The water like ice-stabs and its rage strikes terror. We are all seized by horror and haunted by demons following us. “Leave me, I want to return!” “Father, where will you return? After all, the Nazis are there!” Uri struggles with his father Maurizio Avin, our cook. “Leave me, I want to die! I’ve had enough…” I arrive running. The son pulls his father with all his strength and the latter falls again and the struggle between them is waged for life and death. We both fish his body out of the water and drag [him] after us. Another girl collapsed in the water. Her belongings were dropped and lost and there is no chance to save them. Anyway, the meager bundle of clothes has no value.

Seven minutes the struggle in the angry current of the Tresa lasted. Seven minutes that seemed like an eternity. Sixty double seconds seven times and in every second are hidden horrifying possibilities. And before we arrive—again the old man shouts for help. His daughter bursts into hysteria and screams at the top of her lungs: “Come help, dogs! I’ll shout, if you don’t come!” There are those hurrying to help and I forbid them. We won’t risk everything. The old man will arrive at his slow pace… The shouts continue and meanwhile our feet stepped on something more solid that leads us out of the water. Precisely now, when the end of the way appeared, little Moritz walking next to me stumbles and the current begins to sweep the light body. I throw my suitcase with all the correspondence in it, with Yosef Kaplan in Warsaw, with Zvi Handels, with the Rescue Committee in Istanbul, all the connection with institutions and with individuals and with people of the Movement… the life of little Moritz is worth more than all these.

“My good child, come hold me. Come!” In the distance are heard the shots of the Germans into the night. They didn’t hit. Great God! After all, these are Germans! Suddenly we see them approaching toward us and their rifles aimed toward us. We froze in our place. There is no point in fleeing. They betrayed us! We are surrounded! They sent us straight into the arms of the Germans. The helmets glint in the darkness… But no… these are Swiss! The uniforms are almost identical… Switzerland! We are free! A recovery of seconds and the return of the certainty that this is Switzerland. We fall upon the soldiers as if they were “ours”…

The Swiss Hesitations and the Rescue I explain to them in confused language: “Your government in Bern knows about us. Were you not told? Switzerland… we are saved… the authorities know everything…” And in the release from the terrible tension I sound words of nonsense and the “guys” shower kisses on the soldiers who do not understand the meaning of our joy and behave with “dryness.” Perhaps something is not right… but the joy is too great and above our understanding that something is still expected to interfere with our rescue…

We are all led to the border station of the Swiss police. Here our bodies and our clothes are dried in front of a burning fireplace. An officer comes, looking at us he too with staring, formal eyes. I explain that the Yugoslav embassy received the government’s consent for our entry into their country. The officer is not moved: “Tsk…, so everyone says!”—and goes his way. What is happening here? I ask to contact Nathan and the Agency. From here it is forbidden to phone.

That same night they transferred us to a nearby camp and we had to wait until they decided on our fate: to leave us in Switzerland or to return us to our certain end. One of the “guys” accompanies me and we go to speak to the captain, a merchant from Zurich in his civilian life. “What to do?”—he says—”it is forbidden to send news about refugees from here. It is serious.” The telephone is on his table and in my hand the note with the number of Nathan Schwalb in Geneva… general depression. After the experience of the Tresa-crossing, we still do not know if we were saved…

The Swiss viewed our internal organization favorably. Robert took care of all the matters and they were free from unnecessary bothers because of us. A lady from the Red Cross arrived. I asked her to notify Nathan and added that another group would arrive the following night. To the captain too I told this and an instruction went out from his mouth to be alert and ready to receive the children. The lady too stuck to the regulations: “What has come into your mind, to suggest such a thing to me? Don’t worry, after all even the Germans don’t devour immediately…”

On this Yom Kippur, no one fasted. Not even the religious among us. But in the evening a spontaneous “Ne’ila” prayer was organized that came from the depths of the soul, whose meaning cannot be known. Somehow we expressed the Jewish unity in our torn world in a prayer of thanksgiving, but our fate had not yet been decided… The officers came to the prayer and stood silently with politeness. In our tired faces they read the hope of rescue, a hope that is also the “closing” (Ne’ila) to all our tribulations…

Another day of uncertainty passed and went. Without news, without clarity. In the afternoon the captain orders: “The gentlemen are requested to gather in the hall.” The officer, the merchant from Zurich, with whom we became friends over the two days, sounded his words with a stutter: “Oh, good people, I do not know, but it doesn’t look good with you, there was a policeman here who recorded a protocol and now ordered you to gather in the hall… please, go quickly everyone…”

He had learned to love us. The previous night he stationed his men along the length of the Tresa to welcome the second group. [He] prepared tea, cookies, beds, everything required… They did not arrive on that night they were expected to come, but on the night following it. Leaning on each other, we go as if to hear our final sentence. “Who by fire and who by water…” According to what we know, this wouldn’t be the first time Switzerland expels Jewish refugees from its gates.

The captain enters and casts a somber and serious look at us. I am on the verge of fainting. He tells of the situation of Switzerland, its laws and its troubles, talks and investigations and all such as these. His face remains frozen. And then came the concluding sentence: “In consideration of all these and relying on the talks conducted in the recent days, the central authority of the Swiss Confederation has decided that you, ladies and gentlemen, will be able to remain on Swiss soil.”

What?! Nevertheless? He smiles. Why did he torture us for so long? We are permitted to remain! Permitted to remain! I reached the end of my strength and “permit myself” to faint. Alex supports my body and prevents my fall. Everyone cries with joy. [They] laugh, tied in the bond of fate for good and for bad that ties us all together… We were saved…”