I got there much later than I had hoped. I had spent much of the day elsewhere and had lost track of time. It was already beginning to get dark.
The campo seemed deserted. Shutters were closed and, apart from the tinkling of water in the wells, there was hardly a sound. There were no streetlights; barely even the glimmer of a lamp.
But in the branches of the trees, thousands of tiny lights were shining. Having nothing else to do, I wandered idly across the square. On a wall opposite, I spotted an imposing bronze plaque.
It was hard to make out in the gloom. Squinting, I could just see the image of a train pulling what looked like trucks. Hundreds of people—and around them, soldiers with guns.
I caught my breath—a sharp intake of icy air. Behind the plaque, in a large irregular recess set with a metal grille, there was an inscription with names. Not far off, there was another with a date.
I picked out the numbers slowly. 5 December 1943. Just then, I heard a sound coming from my right. A gentle song, joyful and defiant.
Extract — continue reading at the source.
