You could see spaced irregularly on the lawn hundreds of bundles of hay, some large, some small—one was at least three yards high—who knows what was hidden underneath? Perhaps nothing.
The starting signal was given by a blast on a trumpet, the tape marking the starting point was dropped and the children hurled themselves on the hunt with piercing yells.
But the children of the wealthy were too much for little Antonella. She ran here and there unable to make up her mind, while the others rummaged in the hay, some already running back to their mothers carrying huge chocolate eggs or gaily painted cardboard ones containing goodness-knows-what surprises.
At last even Antonella, thrusting her little hand in the hay, encountered something smooth and compact, judging from the contour it must be a monster egg. Beside herself with joy, she cried out, “I’ve found one! I’ve found one!” and tried to grasp the egg, but a boy dived headlong, as they do in rugby scrums, and then Antonella saw him running off clasping something enormous in his arms: he even pulled a face at her to add to her discomfiture.
Children are very smart. At three o’clock they were given the start, at a quarter past it was all over. And Gilda’s little girl, empty-handed, looked around for her nursemaid mother. She was indeed wretchedly unhappy, but at all costs she wouldn’t cry—that would put her to shame in front of all those children who would see her. But each one had his booty, some a lot, some only a little, only Antonella had nothing at all.
There was a fair-haired little girl of about seven who was having difficulty in carrying off all the good things she had collected. Antonella looked at her in astonishment.
“Didn’t you find anything?” asked the fair-haired little girl kindly.
“No, nothing.”
“If you like you may have one of mine.”
“May I? Which one?”
“One of the small ones.”
“This one?”
“Yes. Take it.”
“Thank you,” said Antonella, already quite consoled. “What is your name?”
“Ignazia,” replied the little girl.
Just then an important-looking lady, who must have been Ignazia’s mother, interrupted with: “Why are you giving that little girl one of your eggs?”
“I didn’t give it to her—she took it away from me,” replied Ignazia instantly, with that inexplicable perfidiousness of children.
“It isn’t true!” cried Antonella, “She gave it to me!”
It was a beautiful egg of shiny cardboard that you could open like a box, perhaps there was a toy inside, or a set of dolls’ dishes, or a needlework case.
Attracted by the dispute, one of the white-clad Violet Cross ladies appeared on the scene. She was about fifty years old.
“What is the matter, my dears?” she asked with a smile, but it wasn’t a pleasant one. “Don’t you like what you’ve got?”
“It’s nothing, nothing,” said Ignazia’s mother. “This brat—I don’t know who she belongs to—has taken one of my child’s eggs. But it doesn’t matter to me, let her have it! Come along, Ignazia,” and off she went with her little girl.
But the Violet Cross lady didn’t consider the matter closed.
“Did you take the egg?” she asked Antonella.
“No, she gave it to me.”
“Indeed! What is your name?”
“Antonella.”
“Antonella who?”
“Antonella Soso.”
“And your mother—where is your mother?”
Just then Antonella realized that her mother was standing motionless a short distance away, watching all that was going on.
“She’s there,” said the child, pointing.
“But isn’t she your nursemaid?”
Then Gilda came forward.
“I am her mother.”
The lady looked at her puzzled. “Excuse me, madam, you have your ticket? Would you mind showing it to me?”
“I haven’t got a ticket,” said Gilda, placing herself beside Antonella.
“You’ve lost it?”
“No, I haven’t got one.”
“You entered by fraud, then? Well, that alters the situation. Now, little girl, that egg doesn’t belong to you.”
Firmly she took the egg away.
“It’s disgraceful,” she said, “now, will you please go.”
The child stood as if turned to stone, her little face petrified with such grief that the heavens themselves began to darken.
Then as the Violet Cross lady was going off with the egg, Gilda exploded. All the humiliations, the sufferings, the anger, the suppressed desires of years and years were too much for her and she began to howl.
There were many people there, smart people in the best society and their children, laden with stupendous eggs. Some hurried away horrified. Others stopped and protested. “It’s shameful!” “It’s a scandal!” “And in front of children too!” “Arrest her!”
“Get out of here if you don’t want to be arrested,” said the Violet Cross lady.
But Antonella burst into violent sobs that would have moved a heart of stone. Gilda was now beside herself—rage, shame, hatred, all gave her a great and irresistible power.
“You should be ashamed, taking away my little girl’s egg when she has nothing. Do you know what you are? Scum!”
Two policemen came up and seized Gilda by the hands.
“Get out at once! Get out!” She freed herself.
“Let me go! Let me go!”
They fell on her, caught hold of her everywhere and dragged her toward the exit. “Now you are coming with us to the police station. Once there you will cool down and learn what happens to people who insult the forces of law and order.”
They had difficulty in holding her, small though she was.
“No! No!” she yelled. “My little girl! My little girl! Let me go, you cowards!” The child, clinging to her skirts and flung to and fro in the tumult, was shouting frantically through her sobs.
There were ten of them, men and women, against her.
“She’s mad!”
“Fetch a straitjacket!”
“Take her to the first-aid post!”
The police van had just drawn up, they opened the door and she was lifted off the ground by the impetus of the crowd. The Violet Cross lady seized the child firmly by the hand. “Now, you come with me. They are going to teach your mummy a lesson.”
No one remembered that sometimes an injustice suffered can unleash terrifying power.
“For the last time, let me
