“Good morning, Andrea. I bet you don’t know who I am. I am one of the Bottecchia from Minelle, and as you see, after numerous vain attempts I have succeeded in escaping from the concentration camp at Gemona with my comrade here.” “Oh, you are the driver who used to bring me the casks before the war. Now we don’t talk any more of casks or of wine; they have drunk it all up and in December when they wanted to build bridges across the Piave they took away even the vessels in which we used to keep it. This year, even if we had any grapes, we should not know where to put them, but the good Lord has taken care of this and so have the Germans who hitch their horses by the vines. As you see they are nearly all ruined, and then without any sulphur what kind of a crop can you expect? Were I to tell you of all the subterfuges we had to resort to, to keep this bit of sulphur I am spreading about the vines, it would take me till to-morrow morning. Would that sulphur were the only thing we did not have!” A painful expression spread over his face. “We don’t even have any bread. So these poor blameless people are dying of hunger!” This sad news so impressed my soldier that he asked anxiously after his family. “Do you think my people are still alive?” “Yes, I should believe they were, but one never knows for certain these times,” he answered carelessly and indifferently. “Do you think it would be possible for me to get as far as home?” “I would not advise you to try. Even I stay at home as little as possible, and furthermore, at Minelle there are always many gendarmes about. If you want to stop at some place it would be better for you to look up someone on the side of the mountain: for instance, your relatives who live near Fregona. That region is less frequented and you might find a way to settle down there and be able to see some of your people occasionally.”