Mother told me not to ask and during my frequent visits, he never offered to explain how it started. Mattl, short for Mathias, was our immediate neighbor, living in the house at Masern 14.

Mother said that as a young man he had a small injury on his leg and when he waded in the cold and poisonous flood waters that overflowed the basin during most springs after the thaw, the injury became infected and that is how he got it.

Mattl, as he was known in the village, had an open sore above the right ankle that perpetually oozed and never healed. He covered the sore with rags wrapped around his leg and secured it in place with string. The women of the village, including Mother, periodically stopped by to collect the rags and his laundry, wash them at the cistern and hang them to dry on the line in the rear of his crumbling house. Sometimes he would ask me to help him retrieve the dried rags from the line and I stayed to watch him redress the wound. It pained him when he limped even when using his cane, his spotted trouser leg hiding the rags but not the source of the stains. None of this however prevented him, during the Schaffer fire, from climbing the roof of our barn and helping Father to save it from the flying embers and certain destruction.
 
Now in his late 50's, he lived alone in the house of his older brother, the owner of sizable property who had left for America in the early 1900's, leaving Mattl and his younger teenage brother behind. The youngest of these three brothers was killed during one of the storms that came from the south across the steep hills during hot summer days, sometimes at speeds that took even seasoned villagers by surprise. Lightning found the scythe on the shoulder of the young man rushing home from mowing grass in one of the meadows, and left a blackened body.

Mattl lived from the occasional moneys sent him by his older brother in Brooklyn and on meals the villagers gave him, as payment in kind for the use of his brother’s lands. He often ate with us and other neighbors. Mitzi and I ran his errands; Mother and other women helped him keep his quarters reasonably clean.  More often than not, he was gossiping and swapping stories with other men in Father’s shop.

I suspected that Mother’s tale about the origin of his sore was her way of discouraging me from copying the annual attempt of the other boys to build a raft on which to sail the flood waters in the basin or be carried away by the swift stream flowing from it, seeking lower levels. After the thaw started, the water rising from the cistern slowly filled the basin and came up the sloping road past our house toward the village square. But just before the water reached the lower wall, it flowed into our garden and the adjacent orchard.  Since the grounds on which the house stood also sloped downward to the side opposite the road, the water soon came around the corner. As it kept rising the water was eventually high up on the wall of two of its four sides.
 
After that, it flowed under the raised part of the barn on to Mattl's back yard, garden and orchard and then, past other houses on to lower parts of fields and roads. Eventually it disappeared into crevasses in the woods just beyond the farmland and meadows, all part of the lowest point of the bowl surrounding the village called the Unterbinkl, or the Lower Corner.

- - - -

No matter what we were told, Mattl's sore was not a deterrent, neither to me nor to the other boys and girls. To all of us, the rising water was a magnet that distracted us from paying attention in our one room school and drew us to its expanding and later its contracting edges as soon as Alojzij Dežman our teacher let us go.  We ran to see how quickly it flowed and how far it spread. Little boats, constructed or carved from pieces of wood, were launched and followed, retrieved when they sank and launched anew at more promising sites. I deeply resented being retrieved myself, first by my sister and when neither of us returned,  by Mother,  none too happy over my usually wet feet in my wet shoes and with the rest of me at least damp, to say the least. And punishment, in whatever form, was always accompanied by reminders of what happened to Mattl.

None of it to much avail.  It took many days until the water stopped rising, stopped flowing and then started receding. During all this time there were many opportunities to be part of it but Mitzi was instructed to keep an eye on me and my many efforts to construct a raft and float on it came to nothing.

Some of the older boys were more resourceful. One day, when both parents were away they dragged the slaughtering trough from our barn to the waters edge to use it as a boat. And when filled with boys, if without me it was pushed into deeper parts, it nearly ended in disaster. But Mitzi fetched Schaffer who, with his booming voice, commanded them to paddle back to safety.

- - - -

I visited Mattl whenever I was bored and remembered that he sometimes had candy. He bought sweets at Ivanka's store to draw the occasional youngster mainly to interrupt his boredom and shorten his day. He let me finger his knick knacks, look at the few photos he had received from Brooklyn and allowed me to rummage through the trunk containing his older brother's war time memorabilia.

Deep in the trunk, below various articles of uniform, caps, belts, clips, ID papers and the helmet belonging to Mattl’s brother, I found the revolver.

Mattl said it was Italian and that his brother had taken it from a dead officer in the trenches. He must have brought it back on a furlough before the armistice on November 11, 1918, when all weapons had to be surrendered to the victorious Italians before leaving for home.

This was a real weapon and not a toy gun I held in my small hands. It was heavy and a little rusted but the drum turned into place when I pulled the trigger.  However, Mattl was not concerned, knowing well enough that there were no cartridges in the chamber. The click of the hammer produced no response.

After I found the revolver, candy was no longer the main reason to visit Mattl. He let me play with the weapon, taking it apart, cleaning and oiling the parts and when it was reassembled, pulling the trigger at imaginary enemies. But in spite of all my pleas, he would never let me take it outside or even out of his sight. Also he made me promise to keep it our secret on penalty of never letting me handle it again, a promise that was difficult to keep.
  
The main reason for the secrecy was the martial law imposed by the occupying Italians shortly after they arrived in Slovenia in April 1941. This law demanded that all weapons in possession of the population be turned over to the military authority. A leaflet, nailed to the village linden, left no doubt about the severe consequences for not doing so. But the village men, still disdainful of the Italians they had faced across the trenches a quarter century ago, initially ignored the order, and Mattl’s attitude was no different. However, these were new Italians, now allied with the Germany of which we had become so proud. According to Jaklitsch, the demand to turn in the weapons was only a formality directed mainly at the hostile Slovene, and was not meant to include the Gottscheer loyal to the Reich and its allies.

Nevertheless, all such possessions were to be kept secret. Certainly from the Slovene in the village, who were not in line with the political orientation of the villagers, and might report the violation to the Italians. No weapons had been surrendered when so ordered by the occupier in spite of the fact that the village was bristling with arms.

- - - -

On April 17, 1941, barely a week before the Italians arrived, a unit of the Yugoslav army on its way out of the deeper hinterland, possibly ordered into a battle already lost to the Axis invaders, stopped in the village for the night. The light infantry unit, with its horse and oxen drawn wagons arrived early in the afternoon and took over the village square. They set up a field kitchen and later prepared a meal mostly from ingredients solicited from reluctant, none too friendly residents. Some of the soldiers bought wine at the two inns on the square. The hostile Jaklitsch stayed out of sight but let Regina serve the soldiers. They were more welcome at the other inn where the owner, Rudi Tschinkel, out of tune with the perspectives of Jaklitsch but sympathetic to the gloomy warriors, willingly accommodated their needs. Afterwards, some spent the night in a few tents around the wagons, while the rest slept in the barns of the surrounding houses.

In the morning of the next day they received news that Yugoslavia had capitulated and that the unit was to lay down its arms and surrender.

The soldiers, most likely relieved for not having to battle a superior enemy force, quickly began to disperse so as not to be caught by the conqueror who might be arriving at any moment. Some knocked on doors and asked for civilian clothing in exchange for anything of value in their possession including their military uniform. Others were startled to find themselves confronted by men who, on orders from Jaklitsch, emerged cautiously from their houses, but now dressed in their militia uniforms of riding trousers, shiny black boots and a swastika armband on the left sleeve of a white shirt, who urged them to surrender their weapons and go home.

While this was going on the villagers, realizing a one-time opportunity, frenziedly started to loot the no longer guarded wagons, loaded mostly with weapons, ammunition and other military gear. They hid the booty in places out of sight. Most of the horses had been taken by the officers who had disappeared on them. The horses that remained, as well as several teams of oxen, were soon being cared for by villagers overjoyed by the new livestock in their stables.

While this was going on, both Father and Mother were away. I don't remember where they had gone and why except that I was free to mingle and observe this unprecedented event. Having been conditioned never to take anything that was not mine, I struggled not to take part in the looting in which everyone participated with such gusto. Finally, no longer able to resist, I took an officer’s uniform leather belt, wide and glossy with a shining metal buckle and ran, not home but under Schaffer's barn to hide it there and retrieve it later. In line with the conditioning, I was afraid to take it home.
  
Much to my surprise, this secret place, the wedge of open space on the sloping ground below the barn floor, was already brimming with loot. But I carefully placed my belt separate and apart from all the other stuff to prevent any mistake.

When, later that day, Father and Mother returned home, the looting was over; the wagons gone and the village square picked clean. A lone soldier from Croatia begged Father for some civilian clothing, an appeal that was difficult to accommodate given the fact that all of Father’s trousers had one leg cut away and the opening stitched up. Nevertheless, a desired pair was found and together with a non matching suit jacket, the grateful soldier left his uniform behind as payment, a reasonable exchange since the uniform was in better condition than the clothes he had received.
 
Later during the day, it became obvious that Father was unhappy for not being around earlier when the army unit disintegrated. Realizing this, I braved the admission that I had taken the belt. But instead of displaying anger he asked me where it was and after I said that I hidden it under the Schaffer barn, he told me to get it.

But it was no longer there and neither was the other loot. Whoever moved his booty took no notice that the belt was separate and belonged to someone else. If Father was disappointed when, with an unhappy face, I reported the theft of the belt, he hid his disappointment by saying that it was not ours anyway.

- - - -

When the Italians arrived a few days later we were much surprised. We had been expecting Germans, not knowing that Slovenia was to be divided between the two conquerors. Italy occupied a portion of Yugoslavia along the Adriatic coastline, much of which the French under Napoleon had called the Illyrian Provinces, including the part of Slovenia south of the Sava River and its capital Ljubljana. The rest of Slovenia including Lower Styria (except a small part in the north-east allocated to Hungary) was occupied by the Germans and de facto annexed to the Reich. But contrary to expectation and to the great disillusionment of most of its residents, the enclave  was allocated to the Italians. 46

As had been the case for the arrival of the new fire pump a few years before, lookouts were posted in the church steeple and a bell ringing sequence agreed upon to announce the approach of the expected Germans. However, this time it was not Fire Chief Schaffer but Sturmführer Jaklitsch, the leader of Sturm 13, who was making certain there would be no mistake.
 
Again, as with the pump, there had been preparations. Girls readied flowers and garlands, swastika flags were hung out and when the bells sounded all, including the militia men, were to show up immediately and line up according to the Sturmführer’s instructions.
 
But, as with the fire pump, it did not work out as planned.

When the bell started ringing on that afternoon, everyone leaped into action.  However, this time it was not a slow moving wagon approaching the village but a convoy of rapidly moving trucks, followed by clouds of dust, that rolled into the village before Jaklitsch could put on his uniform jacket or his men could reach the square. The surprise was even greater when it became obvious that they were not Germans but Italians.  This required some adjusting by young and old.

But what the heck, they were allies of the Reich and therefore there was no reason to hold back the welcome. Jaklitsch, having lost the initiative, was not able to give his prepared welcoming speech.  And since it was in German, the Italians would not understand it anyway. The girls with their flowers and garlands were the first to climb the trucks and kiss the dumbfounded but now grinning youngsters from Lombardy, Tuscany, Sardinia and Sicily, echoing the smiles radiating from the faces of the villagers surrounding the trucks. These girls were hardly aware that barely 25 years ago the fathers of these boys were killing their fathers at the Isonzo.
 
The Italians too were overcome by surprise.  Barely 15 minutes before, as they were rolling through Dolenja Vas, they saw only sour faces and heard only hostile murmurs. And now in Masern, smiles from everyone and hugs and kisses from the girls who had climbed the trucks. They started throwing whatever sweets they had at the kids and many a sardine can was caught by older hands.
 
They left as quickly as they arrived; they had another destination. But not before they nailed a poster on the village linden, announcing martial law and the order to surrender all weapons by a given date. When they were gone, Jaklitsch was again in control and called a meeting to be held at his place.

He had some explaining to do.
 
Some days later, Jaklitsch received instructions from the VGL to comply with the order and turn over to the Italians the weapons left behind by the Yugoslav unit. Not all, just some.  Soon after that, a group of friendly Italians arrived with trucks to collect the weapons. They were received with great hospitality by Jaklitsch who invited their commander into the big room of his tavern for lunch and pitchers of his better wine.
 
Outside, the men of his Sturm were turning in some of the rifles they had taken from the disintegrated Yugoslav unit to the Italian soldiers who were also sipping from glasses served them by Regina, the Sturmführer’s wife. But most weapons remained safely hidden when the Italian group, with their now none too steady leader and the trucks, not exactly loaded to the brim, left the village.

The Italians never again stopped in the village although they might have breezed through it on their way further into the Hinterland. It also became evident, judging from the frequent rifle shots coming from different parts of the forest, how much of that weaponry had not been turned in. There was no weaponry turned in by the residents of number 15, because we had no rifle. But later on that summer we nearly acquired one.

- - - -

To keep the residents highly motivated in their support of the Reich, the young leadership invented various tasks for the residents of the enclave, young and old. One such task was assigned to the village youth by Herbert Primosch, the village Youth Leader, during one of his meetings later that spring. He tasked us to collect a certain wild flower from which could be produced a valuable medicine needed by German soldiers fighting the communists in Russia. This flower grew abundantly on various fields surrounding the village. The person bringing in the most was to receive a special prize.

I knew just the place and kept it from the others but confided in Mother who was skeptical.  Nevertheless, she woke me early next morning and I wandered off toward the Unterbinkl, where we had both acreage and meadows, with patches of fog still covering the way and the heavy dew wetting my shoes. When I reached the spot that I knew was covered with the flower, I quickly started gathering and filling the basket I brought along.

Then I heard footsteps. Not to reveal my presence and the spot that was surely going to bring me a prize, I hid behind a bush and held my breath. The man I saw was Mams, known as Hanshe, a man of about 27 years.

He passed and walked toward a bush some distance away. At the bush he bent down and from among the underbrush and leaves he pulled an army rifle which he shouldered as he walked into the forest.

I returned to gathering the flowers. But after a while there was a shot which startled but did not scare me as much as what followed. It was a cry of agony that penetrated my bones. It was a cry of a mortally wounded animal, most likely a deer.
 
Petrified, I was afraid to move, not knowing what was to happen next. But eventually I again heard steps and from my hiding place, I watched Mams return to the bush and hide the rifle in the same place. After that he left the way he came.

I did not move for a long time. When certain that Mams would not return, curiosity drew me to the bush and from the underbrush I pulled the weapon that was the cause, only a short while ago of a frightful scare and most likely the end of an animal. After fingering this potent piece that could inflict such agony, I pushed it back into the underbrush. But I was no longer inclined to return to my task and I left for home with the basket only half full. I told no one about what happened, not even Mother, and I did not get the prize.  But it did not seem to matter anymore.

I returned to the bush several times thereafter to finger the rifle and play with it. Disappointingly, there were no cartridges in the magazine which might have discouraged me from pulling the trigger when aiming at the tree. But without that, all I heard was a benign click.

Days later, the whole family was again in the Unterbinkl having lunch after working in the fields all morning. During slices of smoked sausage, crusty bread from the big oven and water from the wooden barrel, I mustered enough courage to tell Father the story of Mams and his rifle, hidden under a bush not very far away.  Much to my surprise, he asked me to fetch it. As with the belt, I ran to get it, but it was no longer there.
 
- - - -

But back to Mattl's revolver.

Some time after the arrival of the Italians, Father, Mother and Paul had again left for the market in Ribnica leaving Mitzi in charge. And again, like so many times before, I was with Mattl playing with his revolver. And yet again, I pestered him to let me take it, even if only next door. This time he said yes, his resistance finally giving way to my endless begging. Bring it back, he yelled as I ran out of his house, knowing exactly what I was going to do next.  Load, aim and fire.

In a small compartment of the pull-out drawer underneath the workbench in Father’s shop, I had seen, among nails, screws and such, a small brass cartridge with its blunt lead bullet firmly in place.  It had never been used.
 
When, breathlessly, I got to the shop, it was still there.  But when I tried to push it into a hole of the drum it would not fit. It was just a little bit too big, but not quite as big as my disappointment. Not too big enough to discourage me from proceeding.
 
The soft lead bullet easily gave way to one of Father’s files and in no time the diameter was reduced to fit the hole of the drum. But not the cartridge whose harder brass resisted the much abused file more than the soft lead. But I kept filing and after many tries and more filing much of the cartridge fit the hole. Finally, I pushed very hard, only to discover that I could not pull it back out. Now impatient, I clamped the drum into the vise on the bench and used a hammer to drive it home, oblivious to the fact that the end of the cartridge I was banging at also contained the explosive trigger capsule.

The explosion tore apart the weakened brass casing. And immediately after the brilliant flash and earsplitting sound, I sensed the warm blood running down my face.
 
Clutching my head and blinded by the light I staggered out of the shop and ran toward the rear of the barn. Mitzi, who was in the house came after me as did Mattl who also heard the explosion. Others followed. With my face and front now covered in blood and Mitzi howling, I was led toward the house and into the hands of Schaffer who put me on the kitchen table and forced my hands from my face.

It was not as bad as it appeared. A piece of the casing had partially embedded itself in my lip just below the entry to the right nostril. With tweezers from the first aid kit brought by one of his firemen, Schaffer pulled on the twisted brass, part of which was sticking out and removed it from the wound which renewed the heavy bleeding. But he kept the cut closed by pressing on it with gauze saturated in iodine and eventually the bleeding stopped.

By now the house, reeking with the smell of disinfectant was filled with neighbors who berated Mattl for his foolish act. Mitzi, finally in a calmer state, on request from Schaffer, found the slivovitz which was passed around after he and Mattl had a major portion. And when it became clear that all was under control and the bottle empty, the curious slowly dispersed.
 
But Mattl and Schaffer stayed. Schaffer cleaned my face with a wet towel and helped Mitzi change my bloodstained clothes. Mattl sat on a chair with his face in his hands composing an apology and explanation and listening for the arrival of the parents of this pest of a boy.
 
When they finally arrived, the air in the courtyard was still heavy with disinfectant, a first indication of trouble inside. But Schaffer quickly reduced their alarm as they came rushing in by vouching that the wound was minor and there was nothing to worry about. Mother looked at me angrily while Father ignored the stammers from Mattl and was questioning Schaffer about the size of the cut and were stitches necessary. Schaffer said no and Jaklitsch, who arrived meanwhile, said it would be unwise to drive to the doctor in Ribnica which was full of Italians who might find out and with a determined force descend on the village to search for other weapons that had not been turned in.
 
This ramification of the event had not occurred to anyone and was particularly troubling Mattl, whose hot seat was suddenly much hotter. It was reinforced by Jaklitsch in a meeting the next day, reminding the villagers of the need for secrecy. There was also concern that the Slovene of the village might report to the Italians but Mother, who knew them well, got them to promise to say nothing, a promise that was kept by all.

My wound quickly healed, leaving only a minor scar. What happened to the revolver I don't know except that I am certain it did not leave the village but enlarged the arsenal of somebody who may have had a supply of fitting ammunition.
   
- - - -

Mattl’s ultimate fate had nothing to do with the revolver. His destiny was linked to the resettlement later that year and he became one of its early victims.

Mattl was one of two in the village who were classified by Jaklitsch as "A", one of the categories the VGL used in the upcoming process of determining who was fit or unfit for “Ingathering” and thereby becoming worthy and productive citizens of the Third Reich. (The VGL had been granted the “right for self selection” by Hitler on April 26, 1941. More on this later.)
 
The other villager classified A was Josef Peinitsch, the 67 year old incontinent recluse who lived in the still safe and dry half of his disintegrating house at Masern 66. Josef was seldom seen in the village and when spotted was taunted mercilessly by the quartet of village bullies for the urine smell coming from his perpetually wetted pants.

Josef lived by hand-outs in the village. He cooked his meals from the supplies given to him by neighbors and had some of his meals in the houses of villagers who took pity on his plight. But only after he changed into dry clothes that had been washed for him by women who took turns to look after him. I remember him coming to our kitchen and a meal Mother had prepared especially for him. But he ate alone except for her presence, since in spite of his recently washed pants he still smelled a lot.

But Josef was a skillful carver of wooden crucifixes which graced the rooms of virtually every house in the village. He sold them also in other villages, usually for small coins. In the past he had received commissions which helped him survive, however the demand for his work fell to nothing in the late 1930’s when crucifixes were replaced by pictures of Adolf Hitler.

Both Mattl and Josef were classified "A" to be separated during the resettlement process from their former neighbors and sent to the “Altreich”. This classification brought 570 similarly classified Gottscheer to the "inner" part of the Reich. Those fit to work were placed in labor camps to help with the war effort. (More on this in a later chapter). Others who were unable to work were sent elsewhere to places where it is likely that the administrators had little sympathy for those who would only be a burden to the State.  47

If Mattl and Josef survived the resettlement it was not for very long.  I do know that neither was ever seen or heard of again.
 
* * * *

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