On October 16, Dr. Leonardo De Benedetti died suddenly in the Jewish nursing home where he had been living for many years. He was eighty-five years old; a former district doctor in Rivoli, he was arrested in 1943 while trying to leave the country and deported to Auschwitz, where he lost his wife. In the Lager, his abilities as a medical doctor were not recognized; he spent almost a year there, enduring hunger, cold, exhaustion, and alienation with an unusual serenity and strength of mind that spread to anyone who happened to talk to him. Freed in January 1945 by the Soviet Army, he was given the task of organizing an infirmary in the transit camp of Katowice. The means were scant, but his zeal was great, and the news of the Italian doctor who listened to everyone and treated everyone free of charge spread far and wide, so that it was not just former Italian prisoners who came to him but also other former prisoners, many Polish citizens, and even some Soviet soldiers.
After a long and adventurous journey back home, he settled in Turin and resumed his practice. His patience, experience, and humanity were such that every client soon became his friend and turned to him for advice and assistance. He did not like solitude, and lived first with some relatives, then with a family of friends, Dr. Arrigo Vita and his two sisters. They passed away, one by one, and Dr. De Benedetti was left alone again. Until he turned eighty, when he retired from his profession, he was the diligent and highly appreciated doctor in the nursing home, where he had decided to settle with the serene resignation of those who know they have not lived in vain. But he was never alone there. Every day until his last, he received visits and invitations from loving relatives, from friends, colleagues, and fellow prisoners. He also received a lot of mail, even from faraway countries, because those who had known him did not forget him, and he answered them all, even the annoying ones, with scrupulous care.
Last spring, he had some signs of the illness that he ultimately succumbed to. He treated himself with the wisdom of his long experience, and continued to live with a tranquil mind, prudently but fearlessly. Death was sudden and merciful, he didn’t suffer. He was a courageous and gentle man who gave invaluable help to many and never sought help from anyone.
Ha Keillah, December 1983