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Naples, 1947. Piazza Garibaldi
binaries are covered with rubble, destroyed by bombing the rails, the debris accumulated in the corners to form compact and arid hills. After the war ended only a part of the railway has been restored, and provide two tracks running a few times a day.

's still dark, but the station is already full of people.
The convoy, which must start a load rather unique: hundreds of children, mostly street urchins, boys and girls aged six to twelve years.
Paola is one of them and has almost seven years, but it shows less, it is all wrapped up in the coat too big that gave women the Committee. He rubs his clear eyes with dirty hands, leaving two black stripes on his face haggard. "I keep cool but '" he says, yet again, pulling the skirt of the mother who raises her eyes to heaven, but then if the charge in her arms, covering her with her shawl. To her, the cold has settled it will give the bones that almost does not hear him anymore. It fits the child around the neck holding a grimace of pain. The feet, the feet are a plague, it seems that at every step you ficchino dozens of pins under the trees, 'Do a good mum, on' "she says trying to comfort her, "Mo take you in Modena, they give you milk, bread ..." continued chanting. Paola knows how that story by heart, the mother repeated it to him for a month like a fairy tale.
He sank his head in the shawl, search for the 'familiar smell her mother's neck, hairline, a mixture of lemon and camphor he uses to wash her hair instead of soap that never happened.
Michele walks beside them all intrizzito and silent. Hair rapati to zero because of head lice are growing back as velvet. Paola looks. To see him now, all mangy, would you mind taking it around to a few days ago. He continues to pull on his nose, but the mucus has now formed a flake crystallized around the mouth. It can be cleaned with an old handkerchief held in the sleeve of his coat, but the crust is always reforming.
Gaetano, a young thin man thin, with funny glasses with an intellectual, he begins to make the call: "... Mario Capuano, comes forward with a child looking down" This way "the man says, pushing the first wagon, "Casolaro Rosa ..." continues with a stentorian voice. One after the other are divided so that each group corresponds to a wagon.
The radio controls in the cabin, tuned to the weather forecast continues to predict bad weather.
Paola queues with the other holding hands Michael, who turns constantly looking at the mother. Soon they are all in, placed on wooden seats.
The train is almost ready to go when, from a wagon to another, you hear the same appeal and coat! "And in less than no time all the children take off his coat with the label sewn laboriously recognition from Red Cross on each animal, and throws it out of the windows to the other that remain, which need more. So fast that the station is emptied in an instant and there's no way to recover the jackets. On the train you want to ask the names wagon wagon to all children. No one answers! "What's your name?" Ask the women of the Committee, but the kids turn their face. But then carry the bread and languages \u200b\u200bbegin to melt. "My name is Giuseppe, Giuseppe Russo," "I Maria di Girolamo ... I've got so years," says another opening his hand with five fingers extended. When his turn, as Paul says in a low voice that no one hears and Michael is compelled to repeat it. "What beautiful eyes," says the guard by lifting the chin with a finger, "most of the blue sky." Paola face down with force, because it is what he always says his mother.
It takes hours before, lists in hand, unable to identify them all and sew other numbered plates, this time directly on clothes. If you just want to talk to are convinced by a trick: "Anto '" they shouted through the cars until one turns instinctively do not feel called, "Then TTU Antonio," and the stitching him caught on the fly to the plate. The last two, one male and one female, are identified for exclusion. "Why did not you meant to say that Ciro was your name?" Asks a woman of the committee that the child does not utter a word grumpy, "you are dumb, perhaps?". The kid looks tough, "He had to be cracked or ddic Nomme my" before closing the answers in his silence.
Finally the train is moving and shaking all at each other to get heat, while the women go between the cars to bring blankets and comforting words.
not nobody crying, more than any child complains in his sleep. Paola
brother who looks at the sniffles, sleepy. The mother has been advised to look after him until you stick together and fight off sleep until Michael, lulled by the rocking of the train, does not collapse all rolled up like a kitten. Only then closes his eyes es'addormenta Paola.

They woke up in Reggio Emilia.

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's race voided

If only I think about it now. If you only think about how ashamed I felt, in the very long half hour, I am overwhelmed by a rage so deep, gnawing by such a liver, that no time can never erase, despite Brillane degree in psychology and psychosomatic publications on Riza.
He and his damn race voided.

That morning, the distinguished Professor Dr. Mastrangelo, vice-rector of the Faculty of Medicine, an expert in neuropsychiatry and president of my examination committee, had greeted me with an expression of arrogant enough to irritate a saint, let alone I.
I was able to stay still, sitting motionless in front of him without making them cry, just because it forced me to concentrate on his wig, a reddish obscene, and the fact that he fell to pieces, who was in the curve descendant of life, gave me an atavistic sense of security.
"So miss, I speak of these stages."
Ok. Calm and concentration. Phases. I know the stages. "Du ... then" start stuttering, mouth so dry that even in the middle of the Sahara, "basically are three phases: oral, anal and phallic ..."
"'Genital is more correct," she corrects, "not only happens to boys "
says" boys. " Who is it that says "boys"? But he does, sfotte?. M'impappino immediately, "No, yeah, right, genital, in fact ... so ... pretty ..." I try to recover, "first occurs in the newborn, which in fact tends to put their fingers in his mouth and eat anything they come across, and the second is ... almost ..."
"practical or theoretical?" he inquires with an unbearable air by spin doctors, "please, you save catch all these unnecessary," and I, "And ... yeah, right, so ... so ... I was saying ..." I could not remember what I was saying.
"We talked about the anal phase," he says with an evil grin stragatto style.
How is it that this man is a doctor and save human beings? "I asked as he kept talking, "takes pleasure in hearing it from incorporating, it suggests not only the need to eat, but also a desire of a sexual nature ..." he said, treading the words "in the anal phase the child eroticized other parts ... up, go ahead ... "I had
the Po Valley in the brain, and a single application shone in the middle: Why the hell I brought Freud?
torment the sweaty hands I try to go "Yeah, well ... the second, the second phase is that ... that ..."
"Anal, we have already said," he says with a psychotic expression.
"already ... analeanale anal ..." I repeat I am stunned, as in those stupid games that make you repeat a word that seems pointless many times in a row until you realize that you're saying something vulgar like "ion". I
Body temperature was increased by about three degrees within two to three seconds, I had covered a thin sweat everywhere and I began to seep back.
was my exams, shit. It was going very badly and most talked about holes in the ass with a man rather than an adult, a doctor, damn it, he was there to judge, with the balance of power inexorably that hung on his side.
"In this second phase ..." tried again, trying to think of a any suitable synonym. Aware that he could not even bear to mention again that damn jew orfizio on which the psychiatrist had based half of his theories, "in this second phase the child is the exciting moment when the parents ... especially that of stimulates the opposite sex ... well ... this area ... for example ... during the diaper change ... the child may even have the urge to eat their own feces ... to ... um ... an instinctive pursuit of pleasure. "
Oddioddioddio. I said that shit is nice to eat? Seeking to recover, "Freud describes the infant as a being already capable from the first days of life, to feel erotic, until about four years old, after suffering a quiescent until puberty ... shifts the focus ... "
" Miss, this concept is a bit 'confused, wants to be more precise, I do not know, give some examples? "
" I wanted to say that the baby ... well ... the child "were things that I knew, I had repeated without any problem, even my father, just two days before, porcamiseria.
"Maybe he wants to say that holding and releasing the baby's excrement sensitizes the urethral and the anal area by activating an additional source of pleasure?"
"Yes, yes, indeed ..." I whisper now the color of the radish.
"Miss ..." he tried to register my name in front of him, slid the index list, found him, "... Ms. Onorato, does not seem very prepared, he never saw the boys when they get in line and compete to see who sends voided farther? "
" Which? "I said shocked, trying to recover the memory that something steered me to an understanding, if not total, at least for guidance of the subject matter .
Mitto voided, I thought frantic, Mitte, from Latin, Mitte, issue, let go, throw out, what the hell is the race of the voided porcaputtana?!
"The Miss voided, the cast, as she calls it?" He became impatient "Those races are the kids between them. Not one has ever seen? "
No, I had never seen, I would have had to respond. I should say that my friends were competing to see who was there the longest, who drank the most beers in one evening or perhaps to those who could get more girls in a summer, but this race I had just voided never seen or heard, perhaps in his time, I should say. That night I dreamed
five Huckleberry Finn, a straw hat on his head, dropped his pants and peas in hand, trying to overcome the piss a line made of sticks. I ran back and forth, brandishing a tape measure.
Maybe it was something like you meant, I was never particularly clear, it was not for any of the committee. Maybe if it was only invented to embarrass.
I graduated with a sad 41.
The shame was never washed.

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write

One day, a man with beautiful blond mustache told me - I want to be a director -. He said
now so decided.
I thought it was very charming, as if he had said astronaut or a dancer, whereas the same cynical vague chance of success.
A few nights later, in a scene by candlelight, on a bed with sheets burgundy-red, murmured kidnapped "You are beautiful in this color."
"Shit, director inside" I thought.
I realized then that he was serious, or at least acted as if it were really believed, had the right direction, the right attitude.
I want to be a director.
I want to do.
I want. I
. I felt ashamed
tremendously.
I, on the contrary, I often hide, I always get distracted, I let myself be swayed, I say, I'm not so sure.
Displaying the time and talent wasted in towers Smemoranda thick dense, as if it were impossible even before you begin. Without courage.
a girl was always the same story sound like a great book, do not put the subject, I do not follow the most, I'll explain a real shit and I quote Gibran down to half of what I say is incomprehensible, but I say that the ' other half comes pure and crystalline.
Not much has changed since then. My difficulty has remained more or less the same. I can not explain myself well, to make decisions quickly, m'incarto as I speak, I make serious errors in spelling, I invent things, evade responsibilities, I'm fucked. Always been a girl of eight, ten maybe.
But I tried to distract myself from the idea, for a very long time I have not even considered a realistic possibility but who do you think you are?
I swear I've got evidence, to support projects that seemed most interesting, useful, fun, socializing, practical and consistent. We always try to hold off my nature. She's not really sweet, caring, condescending, like me, is irresponsible, selfish, dangerous, naive, fierce. A little girl, what a shame.
I can make the bride, the daughter, my colleague, the other part of the apple, the missing link, the useful part, but I want first of all to write in peace.
Virginia Woolf is right, you need a room for himself and I thought he is unable to you never write anything worth reading. Maybe I never really looked (shame increases exponentially).
everywhere I go and I'm always passing through. What is wrong with me? Why do I always find myself with my legs slowly sinking in the quicksand of interesting projects that are not for me?
are nearsighted, but do not wear glasses. I always read with very little light, alone, when I should / could sleep, and I have always written everywhere, even on trains, flights, car seasick in the street. If there is no computer in pencil, my favorite, although it is not the only scripta manent, it does not matter, I do it always, since I remember munching after getting fucked while crying.
in 4th grade I wrote a poem in rhyming couplets entitled The pin Chamomile. He told incredible adventures of an unfortunate badge of mercy. The emphasis
declamai with my girlfriend of the heart, during the interval, and we laughed so much to piss on him. What made us laugh even more, struggling to quit.
around this problem we ran into the bathroom, we took off our wet panties and hid, locked in a plastic bag, obviously in my portfolio because I was the most disorganized.
remain in a state of total happiness for the whole day, giggling all the time, repeating the and taking steps funniest screams at the top of the teachers. That day we were invited to dinner at the home of a friend of ours and after eating revealed the secret. She was shocked so much that he insisted earliest two of his. What gave me I still have, as a warning You can not go around without pants, not you, that's all.
My father once said to think big, I still remember. He says things like Ginger Rogers did the same thing as Fred Astaire, but with a skirt and high heels, then when I explained that I was doing and also why I was fired, has injured thumb and forefinger together as a say "and the money?".
My mother, however, is a manually very clever woman, good at drawing, pottery works, creates forms. After that I for years I avoided like the plague his lab, I heard that someone said to me 'It' craftswoman of the head, no hands "as to justify myself, and I would not be sorry.
Maybe he wanted to say I'm one of those who may not show it to you, but maybe I'll write.
However, the first and only time I have paid in a nutshell a bullshit article, I felt great, even if the euphoria was short-lived, time to consume the money. But he did peep a little 'pride.
Everything becomes more powerful, it's like a shock, a circle it closes. When my
fomento tragic side are one of those who like to be a bit 'wrong, a fancazzista, too.
The lump in my throat every so often there yet, but I can finally take the piss, tirarmela a crazy, put "writer" in space to indicate where there is "Occupation" (as if writing was a job). Still struggle a bit 'to take me seriously, there is still an embarrassment, discomfort is not won, but I'm writing.