The war of all wars was raging across Europe, and the Italian government had confined my parents, three brothers and me to the tiny town of Muro-Lucano, high in the Italian Apennines.[1] We had fled to Italy from Vienna not long after Kristallnacht, and were being detained along with many other families as a precaution. It was here, miles from the nearest synagogue, that I turned 13. My mother, undaunted by circumstance, wanted me to have a chance to celebrate my Bar Mitzvah.[2] She went to the local authorities, explained what a Bar Mitzvah was, and was told that while I could not possibly be granted permission to leave the village, no one would notice if I happened to “disappear” for a few days. On a sunny day in May 1942, dressed in shorts and a short-sleeved shirt, I set out alone for Naples, a faraway place of total strangers where I had never been, to celebrate my Bar Mitzvah.

      My family’s ordeal began four years earlier in Vienna. My father was arrested November 10, 1938, during Kristalnacht, and deported to Dachau. My mother and we four children, ages six to thirteen, were locked in a basement for a day by our neighbors and individually interrogated by self-proclaimed enforcers of the law.

      We were allowed to return to our apartment after nightfall, only to find that all our furniture and personal belongings had been plundered along with my father’s modest dental office. His tools and equipment were scattered on the sidewalk. Left without a home, my mother placed my youngest brother and me in an orphanage while she and my two older brothers found shelter with strangers. Luckily, my father was released from Dachau after six months – on my birthday – and given 48 hours to leave the country. With no documents or money, he managed to reach nearby Italy, and a couple of months later we were able to follow, reuniting in Milan. We then went to Genoa, where we stayed until World War II broke out.[3]

      The Italian government sent most adult male refugees to various concentration camps as a precaution. Women and children were confined to small villages up and down the country. My mother and we children went to the tiny village Pescopagano and my father ended up in Campagna-Eboli, near Salerno. He and the other inmates were treated well, and we corresponded with him. My father was allowed to join us after several months and a year later the authorities transferred our whole family to Muro-Lucano.

      This was hardly the ideal place for a young Jewish boy to turn 13, but my mother was determined that I should have the opportunity to celebrate my Bar Mitzvah. Mr. Salomon Schwartz, a fellow refugee, taught me the prayers and tutored in the rituals for several months. The nearest synagogue was in Naples. However, one of the few restrictions imposed on us by the Italian government was that we could not leave the village. That’s when my mother took matters into her own hands, approaching the local authorities and asking if I could absent myself for just a few days. When the man in charge implied he would look the other way, my mother packed me a lunch, wrapped in newspaper and I was off. My mother had also given me a small bottle of olive oil intended as payment for whoever would take me in for a couple of days. Food was in short supply in the village, but the cities were much worse off. The cooking oil would be a windfall to anyone. Other than that, all I had with me was a kipah (skullcap), a tallit and tefillin (giftsfrom Mr. Schwartz), the address of Signore Amedo Procaccia (president of the Jewish community in Naples), and enough money for a train ticket.[4] I arrived at the railroad station after a six mile hike down the mountain, and was off to Bella Napoli.[5]

      I had no trouble finding Mr. Procaccia. He was quite astonished when he answered the doorbell and I told him I had come from a remote mountain village to be a Bar Mitzvah. I looked like a frail nine-year-old boy, and he looked to me like a giant. After I introduced myself a second time, he asked me to come in and I told him my whole story. He was fascinated. He examined the contents of my bag (I had been too excited to eat my lunch) and decided that the oil should be brought to the synagogue to use in the eternal light. He then called the rabbi and directed me to the synagogue. Although the Germans dominated Italy, they did not yet persecute the Jews there as they did later.

      Rabbi Umberto Coen was equally captivated by my tale. After testing my knowledge of the prayers, he contacted some members of the congregation; Signore Riccardo Reisner offered me shelter in his modest apartment.

      Word of my arrival must have spread through the Jewish community, because on May 23, 1942, the synagogue was filled to capacity. At the conclusion of the service, the Rabbi made a moving speech about my ordeal; I have kept the Italian transcript to this day. Well-wishers brought gifts and invitations for dinner, outings, and shopping sprees. A few gifts are still in my possession – a poem penned for me by the local writer, Emilio Beer, a brass anchor paperweight, a three-piece silver letter opener set, and several pieces of correspondence. I have safeguarded these mementos for over 50  years – through my exile in Italy, my return to Austria, and my subsequent emigration to the United States in 1952.

      My projected stay of three days in Naples extended to more than two weeks, owing to the incredible hospitality of the congregation. Every so often, someone would telegraph my parents, advising them that my return home would be delayed a few more days.

      At the end of the extraordinary experience, I returned home by train, laden with gifts for my brother and myself. Instead of hiking up the mountain with my cargo, I found space on the roof of the daily bus. My family and friends welcomed me at the piazza, eager to hear all the details of my journey.

      I knew I was lucky to have had a chance to celebrate my Bar Mitzvah even as war spread across Europe, shattering people’s lives. But I could never have known at the time just how lucky I was. The night I returned home – after weeks without an air raid – bombs fell across Naples, bringing war and devastation to the city that had been my oasis.

P.S. At the end of WWII, we returned to Vienna expecting to get our belongings which were stolen by our neighbors on the infamous Kristallnacht (November 1938). Unfortunately, this did not happen, as the prevailing antisemitism had not diminished. This and other events prompted my parents, three brothers and I to immigrate to the USA in 1952.

      We settled in Chicago and after a year I was drafted into the US Army where I served for two years (before immigrating to the US I studied dentistry in Vienna. I was a dental technician in the US Army.) I was stationed in Washington, DC. Later, I switched to engineering, doing research with light amplifiers and making night vision scopes. My last job before retiring was with Shure Bros. making microphones.

       In 1987, I met and married my wife Judith. After living in Chicago, Las Vegas and in Surprise, Arizona, we ended up in Tucson in 2006. In 2014, we decided to move back to Vienna.

[1] This article “Shelter among Strangers” was published in Moment Magazine in the June 1999 issue.

[2] According to Jewish law, Jewish boys have their Bar Mitzvah at the age of 13. This rite symbolizes that they are now accountable for their actions and obligated to perform the commandments.

[3] On June 10, 1940 Italy entered the WWII.

[4] A tallit is a fringed garment traditionally worn by religious Jews. Tefillin are two small black boxes with black straps attached to them; Jewish men are required to place one box on their head and tie the other one on their arm each weekday morning.

[5] “Bella Napoli” means “Beautiful Naples”. This is what the Italians affectionately call this city.