Villa Emma – Last Day!
The departure from Villa Emma began on September 9, 1943. On this night forty of the youth of the Villa, boys and girls, pass to the monastery of the disciples of Jesus from Nazareth. They slip through the narrow streets of Nonantola, near the S.S. barracks and penetrate secretly into the monastery. The group entered the monestary through its side entrance.
From Yoshko’s Memoirs
There stand two old nuns, crossing themselves and clasping their hands in prayer. The girls remain on the ground floor with the nuns. The boys, pale as lime, go up to the second floor, crossing the bedrooms of the young seminarians who are sunk in their sleep and know nothing of what is happening in their country. They enter the classrooms: benches, tables, the image of Jesus. From the corridor arrives the sound of the rustling of Monsignor Pelatti’s robe. He passes by the sleeping seminarians and casts loving looks at them… the study benches he now designates as beds for our children.
The girls downstairs are sobbing. They are not coping with the change of place and stand as if frozen. Tears, tears. The transfer and arrangements took a few hours. Everything was completed in peace. I struggle to keep my peace of mind and find a place for my weary body on one of the tables, near the children. A figure cloaked in black approaches me slowly from the end of the corridor. I jump toward him: “But, Monsignore, everything has been put in its place in peace, why aren’t you lying down to rest?”
“He is dragging an iron bed for you, my dear Indig. At least you should sleep as required. You will need your strength. Is it not so? Yes, I understand, but even the children will justify this. You need a good sleep.” I have no words in my mouth to thank him. It is understood anyway. Helping is part of his faith. From my mouth escape the common expressions: “Thank you, Monsignore, thank you from all my heart… I hope that this is only for a few days.” “Sleep well and do not be worried! The poor ones… but Dio Mio… what a world!”
Silence reigns in the thousand-year-old Abbazia. I take another look at the faces of my sleeping children. They are staying in the house where Pope Julius II, the patron of Michelangelo, chose to dwell from time to time. I find no sleep for my eyes. The souls of the children seem to press upon me. “My God!” What will tomorrow bring? Daydreams and images of horror disturb my rest. My brain is feverish and in my ears ring the voices of the children:
“…Why change my home again… since I can remember myself I am always fleeing… only yesterday we ate ice cream on the street corner… they told me, mother, that you are in Poland and I cannot help you… look, you see, how miserable I am myself… I don’t even know how to cry anymore… only out of fear I cry and even then I hide so they won’t see me… everyone says they want my good and shouts at me… everyone is so wild and restless… they say our lives are in danger… mother, your life too?”
Sometimes I think that if I cross the whole world I will not find rest—so many and mighty are my enemies!… but what in the end do they want from me?!” A night of horrors. From every side they rise against us. And with us so many children and none of us knows what will be done or where we shall turn. In Villa Emma a few adults remained. They were placed in charge of the warehouse, the refugee archive, the books.Midnight. In the monastery, shadows move. A time for prayer. The nuns downstairs also cast their supplication to the Creator of the world. From now on they will pray every day for the rescue of the children of Villa Emma. The prayers are sincere and soaked in the love of fellow beings. We forget all the barriers that rose over generations between us and them. Our hearts are with the nuns of Christianity. There is no missionizing here. The words of Don Beccari are engraved in our minds: “There is no importance to the nature of a person’s faith or worldview. What is important is that the person be decent. Gentiluomo.”
Sonja's Story 