The ‘ndrangheta stole my doll

There is a time in every child’s life that remains suspended. In what seems like an eternal present tense, memories and dreams and nightmares all mix up, for a future self to store and reorganize. I have a strange memory that comes back to me when thinking of that suspended childhood time. It’s strange in the sense that I was unable to place it in time and space for a very long time, yet it’s extremely vivid, like a feeling crawling under the skin.

It’s late afternoon. We are in Dad’s car. I am sitting on the back seat, wearing light clothes, must be warm outside. I am five or six or seven years old, I cannot be sure. I have my hair in a sort of bob cut, which I used to have at that age. I remember a light blue t-shirt but that I think it’s not really part of that memory, I’m not sure why. I cannot recall whether my sister and my mum are also with us; odd, isn’t it? I am very tired, I do remember that, almost snoozing. Drive, Dad, drive. Where to? By the time we arrive, it’s dark, it must be very late. Lots of lights from cars around us, while we stop in a little square; there is a fountain, so typical of the villages of Calabria. Fresh water always streaming down to God knows where. People outside, I see from the car windows, are agitated; I still feel quite confused, maybe I had fallen asleep just before. I hear my father’s voice. Stay in the car, Anna. What if I have to …? Stay in the car. His voice, so firm, his order, so final, as always. I stay in the car for what feels like eternity. Something is happening outside, I cannot quite see, but I am aware of cars’ headlights. I grab my doll, a Barbie, half naked like all the Barbies I used to have – I kept losing their clothing, for some reason. I am playing with the Barbie. I hear commotion, people moving, my father still in sight, tense, while speaking with someone in uniform, a carabiniere I believe. It feels like forever.