We saw the young men everywhere in that Italian hinterland-usually in groups of two or three, walking along the road, climbing the hills, sitting on a wall. They were a good deal more interested in the African migrants, who gathered with persistent hopelessness on the Italian side of the border, just a few feet from the guard post. We didn’t have to stop, and the listless border guards barely glanced at our respectable little hired car, with its four white occupants. Daily, we crossed the border into France and back again into Italy. Dry hills, the azure Mediterranean, scents of rosemary and lavender, a lemon tree in the garden. Illustration by Andrea Ventura reference from Mimmo Frassineti / REX / APĮarlier this summer, my family spent a week in an Italian village near Menton, just over the border that Italy shares with southern France. In “Go, Went, Gone,” a retired German academic becomes involved in the precarious lives of African asylum-seekers.
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