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landscape. Then another shout: "Get off now! The planes... bomb..." and I ran down the four flights of stairs, just in time to get to the ground floor to the hiss and roar of the first bomb, quite far away.

Then another hiss and another roar, closer. And still others, and the strong walls of the house trembled and glass rattled and shattered, you heard the creaking and breaking of the branches of the old oaks.

In the room, constantly illuminated by the strong lights launched by swooping planes to better identify the bridge over the Tagliamento, there were only women. The lone male was Jackie, who was ten years old at the time. They all prayed. Giglia was rattling off a rosary while kneeling on the ground and, perhaps remembering the first time she had entered that house as a young peasant, she would give us children loving looks. Pina, my aunt's cook, looked at her mistress from under the big table, whimpering: "Countess, my help! Holy Virgin help!" Her litanies were interrupted by a shout from Linda, the dresser: "No, no!" Putting the rosary around her neck as if it were a necklace: "I'm not here waiting to be buried alive!" she screamed and ran out. Her body was found under the large chestnut tree, hit by shrapnel.

Linda left, Pina started screaming even louder. I looked at Pina, under the table, I looked at Aunt Clotilde, in exactly the same position as when I had just seen her, hours before. Sitting erect, feet together, hands gathered in her lap - only by the slight movement of two fingers one could tell that she was sliding a rosary - the white hair, neatly combed around her serene face, she seemed to be visiting, not under a shower of bombs.

I was ashamed of my fear. I sat in front of her trying to imitate her position and thus I remained, still watching her until the bombing stopped. "Papa liked pasta-and-beans a lot too," I said...