by Mary Contini
4 organic free-range egg yolks
This is a small amount of fresh pasta and is easily mixed by hand.
Put the flour in a wide bowl and make a well in the middle. Add the egg yolks and whisk the eggs with a fork, gradually incorporating the flour to make a stiff dough. Depending on the size of the yolks, add more flour if the dough is sticky. Knead the dough for about 10 minutes until it is smooth and leave to rest wrapped in clingfilm for half an hour.
If you have a pasta machine, divide the dough into 3 pieces and roll out thin lasagne sheets. If not, roll it out by hand; simply use a floured rolling-pin to roll out the pasta sheets. Cut the pasta strips into rough squares.
Bring the soup to a simmer, add the pasta squares and cook for a few minutes for fresh pasta, 8–10 for dried. Add water if necessary.
Check seasoning and serve with plenty of freshly grated Parmigiano Reggiano.
Baccalà All’Aglio e Olio
Salt Cod with Oil and Garlic
A dish prepared on fast days when meat is forbidden.
300g–400g piece baccalà (salt cod)
milk
a fresh bay leaf
extra virgin olive oil
2 cloves garlic
flat-leaf parsley
Soak the baccalà over 24 hours in several changes of cold water. Once it is soaked, cut it into portion-sized pieces and press it all over to remove as many bones as possible. Poach the baccalà in the milk with the bay leaf, gently simmering for about 15–20 minutes or so until the fish is cooked.
Lift the cod from the milk and arrange on a flat serving plate. Dress with a good flavoured extra virgin olive oil, and 1–2 cloves of chopped fresh garlic and plenty of freshly chopped flat-leaf parsley. Season with plenty of freshly ground black pepper but not salt. Best served at room temperature.
25
September 1939
For over a year the British Government had been making preparations for the impending war. Air-raid shelters were built, gas masks issued, black-out rules and air-raid procedures practised. Even though all twenty-year-olds had been conscripted and over a quarter of a million children had already been evacuated from the major cities, the population as a whole still had a perception that war would never come. The gathering show of preparation made them generally feel secure instead of threatened.
It was with this mentality that, when Olivia pleaded to go with her friends to Italy again, Alfonso gave in. Bruce Nicol and Signor Trudu, the Consul at the time, had assured him that there was no risk. The girls had enjoyed themselves so much last time, and what harm would it do?
So it was that, a few days after Ferragosto, with her friends Vera and Wefa, Olivia joined half a dozen other youngsters from Edinburgh, and many more from all over the country, to holiday in the Fascio camp. They were even more excited than they had been the year before. Now fifteen, the girls were promoted to the Avanguardisti, the Italian army youth group. They would get extra privileges, the chance to visit Rome, perhaps even hear Mass with the new pope, Pius XII.
As they stood waving their daughters goodbye, Alfonso and Vera’s father, Achille, were oblivious to the plans the Home Office were drawing up for the future use of camps here in Britain.
‘Alfonso, do you think they’ll be all right? This war isn’t going to blow up, is it?’
‘Achille, I’ve spoken to everyone I know. The mood is that it’s all posturing, they’re just trying to move up the pecking order, look better in their own countries by looking strong abroad.’
‘I hope you’re right, Alfonso. I am a bit worried.’
Alfonso patted Achille on the back. ‘Let them have a good time. They’re young. There’s plenty of time for them to grow up, take on responsibilities. Let them enjoy themselves before they choose men and get married! Then they’ll have no chance!’
Both men laughed. They admitted that their poor wives put up with a lot from them at times.
When the usual pacco arrived from Fontitune, news was good. Emidio had decided to come back to Scotland and was on his way. They also had great hopes in Italy that lasting peace was on the cards. The propaganda of Il Duce was as effective as ever.
The business seemed to be faring better. Vittorio was doing a great job in the shop and Alfonso had been travelling in his Ford V8 all over Scotland. He had customers as far north as Dingwall and as far south as Galashiels. Valvona & Crolla was now supplying almost every Italian family in the country.
Miss Dennison, ever vigilant, was still concerned that Alfonso was too lenient with his customers. Most families were still a month or two in arrears with payments; the debtors’ balance was uncomfortably high.
‘Mr Crolla, the turnover and profit have increased but I have to warn you that we do have a perilously high level of debt on the books.’
‘I know, Miss Dennison, and I appreciate your concern. I am in a very difficult situation. Many of our customers are still recovering from the collapse of the Italian Bank. You know, they hold me partly responsible.’
‘I understand, Mr Crolla. But we are not running the “Next Italian Bank”. At the moment we are in effect financing many interest-free loans.’
‘You are quite right, Miss Dennison. I hadn’t looked at it like that.’ Alfonso still felt dependent on this good woman but how could she understand the psychology of the Italian? Everything relied on goodwill. A favour was repaid with loyalty, a valuable asset to any business. ‘I’ll make sure I collect as much debt as possible. Please send out the orders as usual.’
But Alfonso still returned with too little cash. The excuses varied. The cigarette traveller had just been. The doctor’s bill was overdue. Or, if the account was very overdrawn, the customer might threaten to buy from the opposition, Fazzi’s van from Glasgow. That in itself was enough to persuade Alfonso to supply more goods on credit. One way or another, Alfonso succumbed to the wiliness of his fellow compatriots, who sensed an inherent soft spot in him and were happy to exploit it.
Despite this cash-flow crisis, the company finally made a profit, £650 14s 9 ½ d: the biggest profit in its history. Alfonso felt justified. His policy of building customer loyalty was paying off.
He was happy to put Miss Dennison’s concerns aside. He had more pressing worries at home. Margherita’s wedding preparations were in full swing. The date was set and the house was in turmoil. The groom’s mother was a force to be reckoned with. Every time Alfonso got home there was another catalogue of problems to solve. Guest lists, church rehearsals, dress fittings, venue selection, menu planning, the list was endless.
Life was generally so frantically busy that the Soviet–Nazi pact on 23 August went by with little discussion. But the news on 1 September that Germany had attacked Poland could not be ignored. This would mean war. What sane person would choose war?
In Rome the group of 384 British children on holiday at the expense of the Italian Government were having a ball. The weather had been glorious and the camp was a tremendous success. The high spirits of the group were not suppressed when they were taken to Rome to join in one of the many Fascist parades in honour of Il Duce. Kitted out in the uniform of the Avanguardisti, Olivia, Wefa and Vera joined their group.
The older boys were all issued with real rifles, some loaded with live ammunition. The younger groups, the ‘Figli e Figlie della Lupa’, some as young as four and five, were given wooden rifles to parade with. They held them straight-faced and serious, mimicking the older boys.
When they paraded in the afternoon down the Via Del Corso towards the Piazza Venezia, crowds lined the streets and hung out of windows, waving Italian flags and shouting and cheering. Like a miniature army, the youngsters looked straight ahead, legs kicking out in the Fascist march.
At the Piazza, they lined up, over a thousand in all. When Mussolini appeared on the balcony he looked god-like, in a bright white uniform, laden with medals. They cheered crazily and shouted as he saluted them. After songs and recitals that they had rehearsed for days, he ca
lled out to them, his voice powerful and hypnotising, ‘Figli e Figlie della Lupa, a chi la vittoria?’
To which each youngster replied with conviction:
‘A noi! A noi! Viva Il Duce!’
The crowd of young people cheered with as much conviction and enthusiasm as if it had been a famous football team or Mickey Mouse.
When Count Ciano took his turn to speak it almost looked as though a cartoon character had arrived. The contrast to Mussolini could not have been greater. Ciano was short, balding and frail-looking, lacking in charisma. His voice was high and squeaky; after the bombastic gravitas of Il Duce, he seemed like a puppet. Instead of inspiring them to cheer, the girls found they had to nip each other to stop giggling.
He was calling them to thank Mussolini for his efforts in maintaining peace in Europe. Olivia sensed unease about the man, a nervousness and insincerity; it was as if he didn’t believe what he was telling them.
Three days later, on the morning of Sunday, 3 September 1939, her misgivings made sense. Their camp leader called them together and informed them all that Hitler had declared war.
In Cockenzie, most of the village was in the café or spilling out into the street. Although it was Sunday, the church was empty. Cesidio switched on the wireless. No one made a sound. They all expected the news to be bad.
At a quarter past eleven the Prime Minister’s very English voice was heard, formal and sombre. Hitler had ignored Chamberlain’s ultimatum.
‘… consequently this country is now at war with Germany.’
He spoke of the evil that they would be fighting, the Nazi injustice. When he had finished speaking, the National Anthem sounded around the shop and into the street. Everyone stood silently, tears in many eyes, children hanging on to their parents’ hands.
Cesidio, Marietta, Johnny and Alex stood among the crowd. Lena, Anna, Margaret and Jeannie were behind the counter. They burst into tears. When the music finished, Cesidio switched off the wireless. He spoke very quietly, deeply shocked at what he had heard:
‘God help us,’ and then, louder so they could all hear, ‘God Save the King!’
Everyone answered in agreement. Not one person thought it odd that he spoke up, nor questioned his sentiments. He was one of them after all.
In Edinburgh the Italian ice cream shops and cafés were open as usual but were all empty. In the city, few chose to hear the news in the company of Italians. Mussolini was in cahoots with Hitler. Who knew what he would do next?
When Vittorio translated the announcement for his mother, Maria was distraught.
‘Olivia is in Italy alone! Vittorio, how will she get home? What will happen to her? Oh Dio!’ she cried out in anguish.
Maria lived her life expecting God to let her down. No matter that she prayed incessantly, no matter that she obeyed all the fasts and abstinences without fail, somehow she had an inner premonition that God could not save her from her fate. She was terrified. She remembered the nights she cried alone with her babies when Alfonso was fighting in the war, tortured nights of uncertainty. Nights that stretched her faith to the limits. The same terror engulfed her now.
Mussolini was well away from Rome by the time Olivia and her friends were assembled in the dining hall and told the news. They were told not to be concerned. It might be difficult for them to get back to Britain, but Italy was not entering the war, so they would be safe here.
Olivia didn’t feel safe. She felt a cold fear in the pit of her stomach. Everyone assured them that they would get home safely but she was not convinced. Many of the children panicked as a wave of shock swept over them.
Irrational fears took over. Petty things started to worry them. Would Olivia miss being a bridesmaid at her sister’s wedding? Wefa was worried that the Germans might bomb her bedroom at home and she would not have any clothes left. Vera was terrified of leaving the safety of the camp. Surely it would be better to stay here? What they were all afraid to acknowledge was the fear that really haunted them: would they ever see their parents again?
Alfonso and his sons went immediately to Picardy Place. Achille was already there with the other parents, anxious for news.
‘Alfonso, you said it was safe!’ Achille was angry.
‘I didn’t know. I didn’t know. Do you think I would have let them go if I thought this would happen?’
‘Have they closed the borders?’
‘I think so. I’m trying to find out. I think they’ve organised transport for some of the children to stay with their relatives in Italy.’
‘Do you mean they’ll end up in Fontitune?’
‘I don’t know, man. I don’t know!’ Alfonso was close to despair.
They telephoned the Consul’s office in London; it took hours to get a connection. They couldn’t help. They tried hopelessly to contact Italy. It was impossible. Alfonso tried to get help from the local police but they had more pressing concerns. In Edinburgh the streets had an air of menace about them: armoured cars, soldiers in uniform, men with suitcases, women crying. The war had already affected everyone. The Italians’ problem was not a priority.
Vittorio and Domenico had all but made up their minds that they would just get on a train and go and get the girls themselves. They didn’t even know where the girls were but they could surely find out. If they could get news to Pietro they could at least get to Rome and take them up to Fontitune.
Returning home with no news, Alfonso found his wife lying on the bed, her eyes swollen with crying. She pulled herself up.
‘Have you found her? Is there any news?’
‘Nothing. The telephone lines are all busy. It’s impossible to get through. The boys are still trying. It will calm down soon.’
He stepped over to help her up. She pushed him away. She couldn’t take any more. Years of trying to make sacrifices, being alone, working hard and coping beyond her endurance crashed around her. If anything happened to Olivia she could not go on, she could not endure any more.
‘Cara, try not to worry. The authorities will look after them all. Of course they will.’
‘The authorities! The authorities!’ Maria pummelled Alfonso’s chest with her fists. ‘This is all your fault, Alfonso; your fault for trusting in the authorities. They don’t care about you. They don’t care about any of us. They are only interested in their own skins, their own jobs. I warned you. I told you so many times. Now are you happy?’
She did not consider the distress he felt. She blamed him. How did he not see this coming? How could he have allowed Olivia to go?
‘Maria, please. Don’t shout at me. What more can I do? What more do you want from me?’
‘Nothing, Alfonso. Nothing. Only my Olivia home safely.’
With this insult thrown at him she pushed him from the room and slammed the door. Alfonso leant on the door outside and wept. He couldn’t understand why she was so angry with him. Why did she resent his work so much? Why was she blaming him? He had only done what he thought was for the best.
They didn’t talk for two days. Alfonso spent all his time trying to get news. He went to Glasgow to see if they had heard anything there. At night, air raids and black-outs built up a sense of fear. News from London was bad. They were evacuating more children from the city. They were expecting bombings.
Notices came for them all to report to the police station to confirm their addresses. Italy was not at war with Britain but the Italians were still classed as aliens.
A few of the young Italian boys who were born in Britain received their call-up papers. They were going to fight for Britain.
The shops were quiet. In the street a young man spat at Alfonso.
‘Dirty Eyetie. Hitler’s pal!’
Three days, four days, there was still no news from Italy. Alfonso stopped sleeping, sitting up at night praying for his daughter to be safe.
When Maria had questioned his involvement with the Fascio in the past he had thought carefully about her concerns but always come to the conclusion that it was for t
he best. When he was young, Tadon Michele had taught him to be strong. He had always said, if honest men don’t take responsibility, it leaves the way for dishonest men to rise unchallenged.
He had had every faith in Mussolini. Who else could have pulled Italy together as he had done, from North to South, for the first time in its history? Harsh tactics had been used, but Alfonso remembered during the last war having to kill the enemy to prevent slaughter of his own soldiers. Women had never had to fight to the death in war. They didn’t know the depths a man could fall to.
Even Mussolini entering Abyssinia had seemed reasonable to Alfonso. He had fought in Africa when he was still a teenager. He had seen at first hand the poverty and deprivation. If Fascism could chase starvation from the mouths of Italian babies, then why should it not also help the poor black babies in Africa? Surely the end justifies the means when the futures of so many can be improved.
The collapse of the bank had shaken Alfonso. He had never suspected anything bad of Olivieri. He had misjudged him completely. Now war had broken out, and Mussolini had made a pact with Hitler. Could it be that Il Duce himself was a conman, an evil man disguised as good? Had Alfonso misjudged again? Could it be that he had risked his daughter’s life by placing his loyalty in an evil man? Alfonso lost trust in himself.
When it seemed the only thing to do now was to go to Italy and look for Olivia himself, a wire arrived, short and to the point:
‘Crossing arranged. Arrive Friday pm.’
When Maria read it she felt a flood of relief. She fell into Alfonso’s arms and wept.
