SANT'ANNA

August 12, 1944

Mom always says that Matteo is a special boy, that he is different from us or the other children in the village. She knew that right after his birth, when she looked into his eyes for the first time. And now, five years later, even a stranger can see that in ten seconds.

Not because he might be a bit small for his age, or because he has very pale skin. We have all been a bit pale these past few months because of the food we are given. Nor is it because he looks different from us. We actually all look very much alike, and our eyes are even the same color. Green as moss with dew on it, Mom always says. And according to Mom, our hair is as black as the sky on a clear summer night and just as wavy as a turbulent sea. Every time she says that, her eyes sparkle, also as green as moss with dew on it, as if stars are suddenly trapped inside them.

Matteo is different from others because he doesn’t talk. He hasn’t said a single word in his life. He doesn’t make any sounds either. Except when he laughs. And he laughs often. Always with a very funny squeaky voice. If mice could laugh, they would sound like Matteo.

The doctor has no idea why Matteo doesn’t talk, makes no sounds, and acts like he doesn’t see you. Mom does. And I believe Mom. He doesn’t need words to talk to us. Through a look, a movement, a smile, little jumps of joy, we always know exactly what he wants. Besides, I talk more than enough for the two of us, Mom always teases me with a wink.

What he often really wants is to walk hand in hand. For example, when we go with Mom to the village square to chat with our neighbors and friends around the fountain, in the coolness of the trees. Or when we go for a short walk with her after dinner, when it is less hot and you can breathe more easily outside. Without her having to say it, Matteo grabs someone’s hand. Usually mine. Actually, almost every time. Mom always winks at me then.

When we are alone, Mom sometimes whispers that Matteo likes walking hand in hand with me because he thinks I am very, very sweet. He does indeed think that. And I think he is very, very sweet too. But personally, I think he mainly likes walking beside me because there is only a six-year age difference between us. When you are five, walking hand in hand with an eleven-year-old sister is a lot easier than with a seventeen- or twenty-year-old sister.

But I never say that to Mom. I want to see the stars twinkle in her eyes for as long as possible. She has it hard enough already, especially since Dad passed away, I often hear my sisters whisper to each other. But Mom never complains. Really never. If things are going even worse than usual, she always says that nothing matters because she has the sweetest children in the world.

Mom hasn’t said anything for quite a while now. She hasn’t made a sound either. She isn’t moving anymore. Not even a finger. Through a gap between the shelves of the stair cupboard, I see through my tears that she is just staring up at the sky. The bloodstain on her dress hasn’t gotten much bigger. I think she really is dead now.

Beside her, further along in the grass, I see part of the legs and bare feet of Giulia, my eldest sister. She had been screaming for a very long time, but was suddenly quiet, just like Adelina, the middle one of all the children, after she had fled upstairs screaming and crying. I do not know where my three other sisters are. I haven’t seen or heard from them since it started.

Matteo is with me. Before Mom fell on her back with a hard thud, she shouted that I had to hide with him in the cupboard under the stairs and wasn’t allowed to come out again. No matter what happened.

Just like Mom and Giulia, Matteo hasn’t moved for a while either. He lies on top of me like a limp doll. His beautiful green eyes stare away from me, as always. All the time at the same spot on the stairs above us.

I think he is dead too.

I think everyone is dead.