When they blew up the bridge over the Arno, it was a Sunday morning. My sister-in-law Silvia told me, ‘Run away, they’re dropping bombs,’ but I wasn’t afraid of bombs, so I went out to the farmyard to watch the American planes.
I wasn’t afraid of bombs, but I was afraid of the Germans because once they wanted to have fun with me.
It was 26 August, I was in the kitchen making puff pastry with my mother, when suddenly I heard a loud bang and the kitchen filled with dust and smoke.
When the dust and smoke cleared, I realised that my mother Pia was lying on the floor in a pool of blood.
I shouted, ‘Come quickly, Mum has been hit by shrapnel.
I went to get some pieces of cloth to staunch the wound and disinfected it with vinegar.
There was nothing more to be done.
I washed her face, stomach, hands, legs and feet and combed her hair.
Then, with my father, I took her to the cemetery in a cart.