They accompanied us into a forest, they stripped us (my God! Deprived of our uniform, the only sign of belonging, the only object in our possession, one cannot understand the sense of disorientation; we were no longer men) and gave us rags full of lice to cover the shame.

Our uniforms were highly coveted because they were heavy and tidy, so to speak, in addition to the symbolic value of the enemy uniform which made them proud as if they were simulacra of victory.

We had no shoes and the snow under our feet turned the ground into a carpet of needles.

Without proper clothes, without shoes with only grass torn up in the fields to eat.

In these terrible three months I fell ill with petechial typhus and reached 35 kilos in weight. I'll let you imagine my appearance and my mental health.

There was not a space free of scabs on my body, my body was completely devoured by those invasive and hungry little monsters; Among my long hair, eyebrows and beard there was an entire colony of nits and lice.

They moved us constantly, when they knew that the Italian troops were raiding the area they made us work like animals: we had to carry weights of 50 or 60 kilos on our shoulders, and as always only herbs found in the fields entered our stomachs, not food.

Since then I have been accompanied by respect even for the bread crumbs left on the table.

In my delirium I had a recurring dream: I saw my mother, very sweet, coming to visit me and bringing me food, but after sleep the wakefulness returned and the reality was there, raw, terrible, infinite.

One day they made me go into the woods with a guard.

They loaded me with a tree trunk of about 70 or 80 kilos, but my body couldn't take it.

I fell 4 or 5 times and asked for help from that young man who couldn't help but understand my condition but, in response, he pointed his rifle at me and shouted at me. "Aide! Aide!" "Go! Go!"; At that moment I stood up, opened my arms and shouted: "Shoot me". I heard the metallic noise of the magazine, I closed my eyes and waited for the world to end.

That moment the world continued: the birds continued to chirp, the trees continued to sway, driven by the wind, but time no longer had its rhythm. I heard that metallic noise again and I understood that my suffering did not end there, I had to finish my Via Crucis.

On May 22nd I had a dream: I was in a train station with two tracks, I was sure I was in the Bologna station, and in the dream itself I wondered how it was possible that in such a large station there were only two tracks, but that dream gave me an incredible push to hope that everything would soon be over.

It was after a few days, exactly three, that I realized the premonitory value of that dream that had given me so much strength.

On May 25, 1943, we were released.

We didn't know what was happening, why conditions had changed, what plots were being woven on the people's skin, but in the country they took us to, I saw the two tracks of the premonitory dream again.

We made myriads of assumptions, motivated by the fact that the Partizans anticipated that the Duce would be taken prisoner within two months (as in fact he was and on 27 July 1943 Mussolini was deposed).

The most accredited of this hypothesis was that the collaboration between Badoglio, Prime Minister of the Kingdom, called by the King to replace the ousted Mussolini, and Tito, who was head of the resistance, began to have its effects and therefore the Partizans were not enemies anymore and consequently we were no longer prisoners.

But the games were not clear.

I remember with how much respect and compassion my three fellow prisoners lifted me from the ground, from the wet leaves that served as my mattress, in a state of semi-consciousness; a Partizan accompanied us on a path, and after stopping at a crossroads, he showed us the road to follow to reach the Italian Military Command a few kilometers away.

The disinfestation was the first positive operation on my weak body, and then they admitted me to a military hospital where I stayed for 15 days.

They fed me gradually and little by little my strength returned, a strength that I needed, once discharged, to wander for another three months between Rijeka and Zadar looking for directions, for a way out of that nightmare, to be able to return home.

We no longer had stars on our uniforms so we were no longer military, we no longer had a guide so we had to make do and wait, even though we were forced to obey our superiors.

Meanwhile, the war machine continued along crazy channels.

Ironically, we underwent a military trial.

The reason was that my companions and I, unbelievably, during the clash with hundreds of armed Partizans, did not take out our four guns to kill them all, on the contrary, we raised our hands and surrendered.

One at a time we entered the Colonel's house, and the Colonel welcomed me by saying: "Here he is, the traitor of the homeland" I replied: "Hold on a moment Mr. Colonel, the military rule requires that before committing an offense one seeks defense", "But you had a weapon at your disposal" replied, "But Colonel, what could I do with a pistol against hundreds of machine guns and rifles?".

Fortunately, common sense prevailed and our defense was accepted, without judicial consequences; but the disappointment, the offense, the anger and the impotence in front of that soldier, or rather that colonel, who addressed me with the greatest insult "traitor of the homeland", has accompanied me throughout my life, demonstrating how much war is crazy.

On 8 September 1943, Marshal Badoglio proclaimed to Italy at two o'clock that the war was over.

On the same day, the order arrived for me, Corporal, to move with ten soldiers of the '24 class, therefore children, from Zadar to another place; but on the 9th I received the order to leave that position and return to headquarters.

There was total chaos, a jumble of orders and counter-orders that didn't make us understand what moment we were living in, what our present was but, above all, what our future could be.

On the 11th the General of the Division ordered us to set off for Šibenik, in Dalmatia, to the port where the ships would be waiting for us to embark for Bari, a city already liberated by the allies.

Our Division numbered ten/fifteen thousand men, so a sea of soldiers.

What a trick awaited us!

Along the way to reach the port of Šibenik, we made a short stop and here a German General arrived who introduced himself to us with five other officers and declared: "We are your prisoners".

Our general, thinking of saving his skin and returning home, said: "We are your prisoners"

Paradoxical situation: Fifteen thousand men declare themselves prisoners of six Germans; beyond belief!

Another trick!

Our general ordered us to lay down our arms, that the war was over for us, and that we were returning home!

After having put down a mountain of weapons, five or six vans of German soldiers arrived and, with machine guns aimed, ordered us: "Either with us or against us"

But we just wanted to return to Italy, because the war was over; we didn't want to make any other choices.

On September 13th, we arrived on foot in Knin, Croatia, where there was a railway and not in Šibenik (port) and they made us get on the cattle wagons.

We were thinking of returning home by train, because they told us that the ships in Šibenik were no longer there, they had had to set sail in a hurry under the threat of German bombing.

After passing through Zagreb, Bulgaria and Czechoslovakia, spending thirteen days and thirteen nights without eating, carrying out all bodily functions in the mass of desperate people that we were, we realized the destination was very different.

Thus we arrived at the concentration camp after thirteen days and thirteen nights on the wagons and they made us get off screaming and vomiting incomprehensible words in German, but the rifle butt on our backs immediately "translated" the orders and we arrived at the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp.

The second imprisonment began.

At night the phrase "alles rauss" still haunts my dreams today.