I lived in Italy with my husband, Sidney, and our three daughters for almost four years from 1973 to 1976. We lived between Pisa and Livorno in Tuscany—one street away from the Mediterranean. We were stationed there with the US Army. It was a different posting from others we had experienced.
The base was very small, and there was no housing for anybody. The largest part was an underground weapon depot. A lot of engineers and weapon specialists were stationed at this post. The hospital where Sidney worked as a surgeon was about ten miles away from the base and about three miles away from our home.
We had been able to take most of our belongings with us when we moved from New York. Being together with familiar stuff around us made the girls feel at home. And they weren’t bothered by another language being spoken around them. They were used to speaking Dutch at home and English with everybody else—so Italian sounded like fun.
Judith was six years old and started first grade at the American school. We enrolled Naomi and Jordana in an Italian nursery school. Nobody at the Italian school spoke English, but I could communicate with the teacher who spoke French. Naomi and Jordana picked up Italian very fast. Their school was situated in one of Mussolini’s health sanitaria—buildings that were built on the beach, two steps from the water. Mussolini established these buildings to be used by his people to cure any disease, right on the beaches of the Mediterranean in Calambrone, Italy. The school was close to the hospital in Calambrone where Sidney worked.
Early in the morning, I would put Judith on the bus to her school and then walk to the corner and put the other girls on their bus. Usually there were about six other mothers with children waiting for the bus, too. I knew only a few words of Italian, but a smile and buon giorno was enough. Everybody was friendly. They tried to include me in their fast conversation—I could only smile. As soon as the children were on the bus, all the mothers went into the café at the corner for an espresso and pulled me in with them. Every day I learned more Italian.
The first Friday night we went to the base for religious services. There was a military chapel used for all denominations. For our service, the cross was covered with drapes and a small, portable ark was put on a covered table that could be used as an altar for another service. We were the only family with young children. The service was led by a lay leader, who was quick to tell us that he would only lead services once a month. If we wanted more, we would have to learn to do it ourselves. We were lucky if we had 12 people there at one time.
For special times, such as Passover and Rosh Hashanah, the army sent us an American reserve rabbi. They lived in Israel most of the year and did their reserve time at bases that did not have a rabbi.
For Passover, the commissary ordered special food for us, like kosher chicken, matzohs, matzoh meal, and gefilte fish. It was a worry every year if it would arrive on time. One of the Protestant chaplains put me in contact with the president of the synagogue in Livorno. I thought it would be good to get involved with a local Jewish congregation.
When I called, the person who answered spoke English. She sounded so welcoming and invited us to attend services. I forgot to ask if they were orthodox. They were Sephardic and orthodox. The girls and I sat upstairs. Instead of a traditional mechitzah, the separation between men and women, there was only a railing with glass as separation. Some of the younger men looked up more than they looked at their prayer books—they were flirting. If it went on too much, the rabbi would order somebody to cover the glass with a large sheet.
The congregation was very friendly. They considered us honorary members, and we started going to services once a month. We still had to support our own small community at the base.
One year, the commissary did not receive our Passover food on time, so I called the congregation in Livorno. No problem—we were invited to their community seder. Sidney and I went, after we first did something small with the girls at home. I was afraid that the seder in Livorno would take too long for them. I should not have worried; it was a true Italian family event. There were children running around and eating from the waiting dishes—they were hungry. Some of them fell asleep sitting on their grandma’s lap. When the time came to eat, I was surprised to see none of the traditional food we had been accustomed to.
We started with chicken soup, followed by fish over couscous, and then more fish or chicken with rice and tomato sauce. Just tomatoes, no meat. Then there was some very sticky dessert made with honey. Everything was delicious. They explained to us that this was the Sephardic way. It made me realize that even for Passover, you can always make a seder, even if you have to improvise.
I became friends with Denise, whose family had been part of the Livorno synagogue for many generations. I asked her what had happened with the members of the congregation during World War II. There must have been a couple hundred members. Denise told me that the congregation was saved by neighbors and the people of Livorno. When it was too dangerous to have services at the synagogue, some people opened their homes so that services could continue. When it became necessary, people found hiding places for their Jewish neighbors and friends. Saving lives was more important to them than risking their own.
This was at a time when not many Jews talked about the Holocaust. It was new to me. I had only heard stories from camp survivors. They had been my patients when I worked as a physiotherapist in Amsterdam. Even my own parents did not talk about it.
During most of Sidney’s career, he took surgical calls at Christmas. In Italy, the calls included the emergency room. Our family would be “off” for the New Year’s holiday.
One year, the other surgeon had made plans for New Year’s and asked if we could switch. It was one of those times when Chanukah and Christmas were on the same date. During most of the school vacations when Sidney was not on call, we would make plans for small, short trips or occasionally longer trips. Most of Sidney’s colleagues did the same, and we always shared recommendations for hotels and restaurants. Assisi was one of those ideas. The recommendation was to stay in a convent.The accommodations, we were told, would be spartan but clean, and breakfast and dinner were included. We could get all that for about five dollars per person.
We made reservations at the convent Beata Angelina, right in the middle of Assisi and across from the famous basilica. The ride took about three hours with the necessary stops. We checked in with the smiling nuns, and they told us our dinner time. They also asked if they could help us with directions and told us that the basilica would be closing early for tourists because it was Christmas Eve. We had told our daughters the story of Saint Francis, patron saint of all animals. They were convinced that they would meet Saint Francis and were a little disappointed when that did not happen.
We went back to the convent to freshen up. The dining room was in the crypt of the old convent, with lots of arches so low that you had to bend to go through.
Louise Lawrence-Israëls's chanukiah, which belonged to her grandparents. Courtesy of Louise Lawrence-Israëls
When we arrived at our table, we were the only guests. I took our old chanukiah and the candles out of my bag and put them on our table. This chanukiah is special to me and our family. It belonged to my grandparents and was buried in a metal box in their backyard during the war. My family had buried all the prayer books and ceremonial objects for safekeeping to make sure they would not be found by Nazis or their collaborators. The chanukiah is small enough to put in a bag to take with us during travel.
We lit the candles and said the prayers. Sidney had bought photo books about Assisi, and they were our presents for the girls that night. About five nuns were hovering around us, curious. The whole convent was decorated for Christmas, and here we were bringing our own candles. It was difficult to explain to them in Italian. Dinner was simple but delicious—especially the soup.
We went to bed early; breakfast was going to be at seven in the morning. When we came down, our table was decorated with greens and candles. Next to the girls’ plates was a home-knitted stuffed sock. Inside the sock were Italian candies and a little crèche scène. The girls were thrilled with their present and thought that baby Jesus was so cute. (The girls still have the plastic crèche scène.) The nuns sang carols and it was a very festive breakfast.
The custom in Italy is to give the children presents on January 6, called “La Befana.” Naughty children receive black coal. But considering how much Italians love children, even if it starts with coal, it is still followed by presents. Just for us, the nuns had decided that the girls should get their presents on Christmas Day.
We left after breakfast and could only drive around some more since everything was closed for the holiday. When we returned home, the girls put their crèche scène next to their bed on their night table.
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