wexirsa9's Journal

@@@@@He thought of Italy, which he had visited
@@@@@He thought of Italy, which he had visited with his parents when he was a childVery few memories remained; he could recall the town in which his father was born and a little of the city of Naples, but the rest had become clouded
In his father's village the houses tumbled down a hillside in a network of tiny alleyways and dusty courtyardsAt the foot of the hill a little mountain stream lashed over the rocks and raced along vigorously into the valley belowThe women would carry their laundry down in baskets in the morning, and wash the family clothing on the flat rocks of the bank, kneading and slapping and scrubbing with the ancient absorbed motions of peasant women at workThe boys in the town would fetch water every afternoon from the same stream and carry it up the hill, moving slowly, their small brown legs cording with labor as they toiled up the footpath to the town
Those were about the only details he could remember, but they stirred himHe seldom thought of the town, and he had forgotten almost all the Italian he once knew how to speak, but when he was moody or reflective he would remember things like the heat of the sun between the walls of the alleyways, or the acrid fermy odors of the dung on the fields
Now, for the first time in many months, he brooded about the war in Italy and wondered if the town had been destroyed in bombardmentsIt seemed almost impossible to him; the little houses of rock and plaster must remain foreverHe was very depressedHe had seldom thought of returning to that village, but now, transiently, it was what he wanted most to doJesus, that place all ruined, he thoughtFor a few seconds his mind held in montage all the wrecked towns, the corpses on the road, the perpetual muted thunder of artillery over the horizon; it even contained a place for this patrol on an island in another oceanEverything's being smashed all over the worldThe magnitude of the idea was too great; his mind veered away, careened back giddily to the rock on which he was sitting, absorbed itself once more in the wretchedness and fatigue of his bodyAaah, it's all so big you get lost in itThere's always some goon on top of yaDespite himself, he pictured his village destroyed, the cold shattered walls standing like the upraised arms of dead soldiersIt shocked him, made him feel guilty as though he were imagining the death of his parents, and he tried to shut out the fantasyHe was enraged at the wasteAgain it seemed impossible that the women should not be washing laundry on the rocksAaah, that fuggin MussoliniBut he was confused; his father had always told him Mussolini had brought prosperity, and he had accepted itHe could remember the arguments between his uncles and his fath