That December, after they had blown up the houses, I did a few odd jobs, driving, to earn a bit of money.

Mastro Donato, the carpenter, asked me and a mate to take some stuff to Antonio Scattolone’s house where he had been evacuated to, out in the country near the Morgia. Mastro Donato was alone: his wife had died a few days before and his son was a prisoner of war in Germany.

He pointed to a fascist militia man’s cap hanging on a nail high up on a wall (he used to organise cadet training exercises on Saturdays), and he said: "Can you reach it?". "Sure!" I said, and I climbed up to get it. But then I dropped it. Mastro Donato got hold of a stick and began to hit the cap with it: "You’ve been the ruin of me" he said, "you’ve been the ruin of me".