by Mary Contini
Nearly every Italian business was attacked. Not a scrap of glass remained unbroken, not a stick of furniture undamaged, not a family’s livelihood left intact.
At the height of the rioting, the police charged and tried to control the crowds with batons. Mounted police attempted to break up the crowd but it was almost impossible.
Arrests were made, but each patriotic rioter was applauded by the crowd with the National Anthem and patriotic war songs. The hatred manifested against the foreigners was stripped to its ugly core.
Trapped in the back shop at Elm Row, Alfonso and his sons could only watch the carnage outside. Alfonso’s lifetime work and ambition were destroyed in minutes. He sat down on the floor, his jacket torn and his white handkerchief smudged with blood dripping from a cut on his face. He put his head in his hands and wept.
‘Ragazzi, mi dispiace. I’m sorry.’
Vittorio and Domenico put their arms round their father.
‘Papà, don’t say sorry. It’s not your fault. This is nothing to do with you.’ Vittorio kissed his father. ‘Papà, I saw some pals I know from the football, they’re good lads. This is just because of war, Papà. They’re terrified. They don’t know what’s going to happen. We’re all cannon fodder. Scots, Germans, French, Italians, we’re all in the same boat now.’
Looking up at his son, Alfonso saw a look that reminded him of Olivia. With a start he realised Maria and the girls would not be safe. ‘Oh Dio! The girls! Maria!’ The crowd could have gone along to Easter Road.
They ran out of the door, leaving everything. As fast as they could, the three men ran along Montgomery Street, pushing their way through the crowds, gasping for breath.
Vittorio reached the corner first. Maria, Olivia, Gloria and Filomena stood outside the shop in the middle of the road. Mrs Glen, Mary Praties and Lilly Rough stood beside them, crying. A small group of neighbours and customers stood behind them, a few paces apart.
‘Papà!’ Olivia shouted and ran to her father, her face smeared with black streaks of tears.
‘Papà, they broke up the shop! They broke up the shop!’
‘Are you all right? Are you all all right? Did they hurt you?’
‘No, Mamma made us come outside. She said to let them do what they needed to, we weren’t to stop them.’
‘Your Mamma’s right.’
His other two daughters came to him. He pulled them to himself and held them close. ‘Thank God you’re safe.’
Domenico came running up from their second shop near the football ground.
‘It’s too late. Everything’s destroyed, Papà. They’ve smashed everything. It’s all over.’
Alfonso looked at his wife. She wasn’t crying. It was as if she had been expecting this and it hadn’t come as a shock.
‘Maria, take the girls home. We’ll lock up the shops and come home as soon as we can.’
‘Mr Crolla.’ It was Jimmy, one of the men that helped in the shop. ‘Mr Crolla, you go home. I’ll help the boys board up the shops.’
In the back of the café the gramophone record-player was stuck. The eerie sound of Gigli singing an aria from La Bohème repeated itself over and over again.
By the time the boys got home, it was dark. The blackout was enforced. It had taken them four hours to go round everything with Jimmy. Lastly they had gone to the warehouse. Thankfully it hadn’t been touched. The mob probably didn’t know where it was, tucked away in St John’s Hill.
On the way round, they saw all their uncles’ and friends’ shops broken and destroyed. A fire had broken out in a fish and chip shop. The looters had thrown a bottle of lemonade into the hot fat, causing an explosion. People had been taken to hospital.
Vittorio and Domenico found their family in the front room, huddled round the fire. Olivia was sitting by her father, Filomena was on his knee. Gloria sat beside her mother. She had been crying.
Vittorio looked at his father. He was a broken man.
‘Thank God you’re home. Are you OK?’
‘Yes. We’re fine. Have you heard from Margherita? Have you managed to get a call through?’
‘No, I’ve been trying all night.’
Domenico sat down, exhausted. ‘They’ve been nearly everywhere, Papà. Up the Royal Mile, down Broughton Street.’
‘Surely not? Why? Why? We’ve never done anything but good here. Nothing but good.’
‘Papà, that’s what they’re afraid of. They are people who don’t want good. They are most likely not even Edinburgh people. They are probably organised gangsters, like the ones who rioted the last time. They’re trouble-makers.’
Vittorio had seen some familiar faces.
‘There were some youngsters I recognised but they were not the ring leaders. Food’s been rationed for months. They were just grabbing what they could.’
‘I saw quite a few women shouting at them, telling them to stop and leave well alone!’
Alfonoso was worried about his staff.
‘What about Miss Dennison? And the staff?’
‘They’re all fine. They’re really worried about us. Miss Dennison said she’ll do anything to help.’
Alfonso nodded, relieved. He was broken-hearted. How could Italy be at war with Britain? It had never happened before. He couldn’t understand it.
‘And Il Duce? Who has double-crossed him? Who has made him lead us into the abyss? Who has betrayed him?’
Maria had no sympathy for him. She was angry at Il Duce. ‘He has betrayed us, Alfonso. He has betrayed you.’
They were all exhausted. It was quieter outside now because of the black-out. They felt safer. At least they were in a top-floor flat. Tomorrow they would decide what to do. They had friends all over Scotland: Italian friends and Scottish friends. Tomorrow they would decide.
‘Girls, come and kiss your Papà. Say your prayers with me then kiss your old father.’
After their prayers the girls hugged their father, tenderly kissing him.
Olivia patted his face. ‘Don’t worry, Papà. We’re all together. We can clean up the shops. I’ll help. As long as we’re all together, nothing can hurt us.’
Alfonso hugged his daughter. Her words tore at his heart. He knew they were not over the worst. But he didn’t want her to be afraid. He scrunched her hair with his hand.
‘Capa Nera. Capa Nera.’ he whispered.
28
10 June 1940
Maria couldn’t sleep. She was waiting. Lying beside her husband, she could do nothing but wait.
She thought she heard the footsteps on the stair.
She waited.
She heard the punch on the door.
Alfonso was asleep beside her. She looked at him. She gently put her cheek beside his. She took a deep breath and smelled his cologne. She gingerly put her hand out and touched him.
He woke at her touch. He moved towards her, reaching out.
The banging on the door was louder this time, hostile.
Alfonso heard it. ‘They’re here. This is it.’
Vittorio came into his father’s bedroom. He didn’t knock as normal. Everything had changed. ‘Papà, the door.’
Alfonso cupped his hands round his wife’s face and kissed her tenderly on the lips.
‘Mi dispiace, cara. Mi dispiace. Be strong for the girls. Ti voglio tanto tanto bene.’
He got out of bed and pulled his trousers over his pyjamas. Maria put a coat over her nightdress.
Alfonso opened the door, keeping the chain on the latch.
A voice came from the other side of the door and a card was pushed through the space. ‘Alfonso Crolla?’
‘Yes.’
‘MI5. Please open the door.’
Alfonso removed the chain and pulled the door open. Three men in dark suits and the local constable from Easter Road pushed past him into the house.
‘That’s him, sir. That’s Alfonso Crolla.’
The four men stood in front of Alfonso’s family.
The saw a woman of fift
y-two, tired, her greying hair dishevelled, holding her coat protectively over her chest; two, strong, striking young men, in their mid twenties, unshaven, bare-footed and untidy in striped pyjamas; three beautiful young girls, sixteen, fourteen and thirteen, dark hair, sultry skin, big brown eyes, lovely young girls wearing matching, long fine nightdresses with anxious looks on their faces.
‘Who is Domenico Crolla?’
‘I am.’
‘Who is Vittorio Fortunato Crolla?’
‘Me.’
‘I have a warrant to search the premises.’
‘What, at eleven o’clock at night? We’ve all been in bed. We’re hardly going to have anything hidden if we’re all asleep.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Crolla.’ The constable felt uncomfortable. He knew Mr Crolla. Over the years he’d watched him lay many a peace wreath at the war memorial on Armistice Day.
The senior official in the suit wanted nothing personal to creep into the proceedings. There was a job to be done. This chap’s luck was up. He’d played the wrong card.
‘Under the authority of the War Office, Alfonso Crolla, I have a warrant for your arrest.
‘Domenico Crolla, under the authority of the War Office, I have a warrant for your arrest.
‘Vittorio Fortunato Crolla, under the Emergency Powers Defence Act, 1939, section 18b, I have a warrant for your arrest.’
‘Mrs Crolla, please stand aside. Right men! Search the place!’
While the girls sat terrified with their mother on the settee, four men turned their home upside down. They tore open cupboards, pulled out clothes and threw them aside, opened boxes, tipped letters and papers on to the floor. Any papers they found were in Italian, the men didn’t know what they were. They didn’t say what they were looking for. They found nothing.
In the girls’ bedroom Olivia’s picture of Mussolini was beside her bed, next to the holy picture of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. They took them both. They put her black shirt and Fascio uniform from her holiday into a bag.
In their thoroughness they pulled the sheets and mattresses off the beds, throwing them aside.
Vittorio was furious. ‘Why are you doing this? What are you looking for?’
‘What’s this?’ the senior official picked up the Il Duce Silver Cup that was on the mantelpiece.
This was a farce. Vittorio shouted, ‘For heaven’s sake, man. It’s a sport’s cup. We won it at the tug-of-war!’
The policeman looked at him sympathetically. ‘Don’t be angry, son. We’re at war.’
Vittorio shook his fist in anger. ‘I’m not at war! I’m not at war! I’m just a bloody grocer!’
‘There’s nothing here. Mr Crolla, I’ll have to take you and your sons down to the station to ask you a few questions. Please get dressed. You won’t need anything. Maybe a change of clothes.’
‘Where are you taking them?’
Maria was starting to panic. She had expected they would come for Alfonso. She never dreamt they would take her sons as well.
The policeman saw her shock. ‘Now don’t worry, Mrs Crolla. They’re only coming for questioning.’
Maria went through to the bedroom after Alfonso. She went to close the door but the policeman barred her.
‘If you don’t mind.’ He stood, arms folded, looking straight ahead.
She ignored him and went over to Alfonso who was sitting on the bed, dressed in his suit, struggling to put his socks on. He had a small suitcase at his feet. She sat beside him and put her arms round him. He tried to reassure her.
‘Non ti preoccupare, carissima. I’ve done nothing wrong. Everyone in the town council and the police knows me. I’ve been working with them for years. They know us. Once they see us and ask a few questions we’ll be allowed home.’
‘And if not?’
‘Maria, don’t think like that. You must be strong. Trust in God. Say your prayers for me, for us all. I’ll be fine. We’ll all be fine.’
The girls came through the open door to kiss their father. By now they were distressed and crying: a hideous, gulping crying that tore at Alfonso’s heart.
Olivia looked at her father as her sisters held on to him. Clinging to normality she noticed he had forgotten his handkerchief. She looked around. His drawers were all emptied out. She lifted a handkerchief from the floor. She found his cologne spilt out under the chest of drawers. She sprinkled some on the linen and tucked it into his jacket pocket. She patted him reassuringly.
‘Here, Papà. You have to look smart.’
The boys dressed quickly. This would be just a formality. It was too ridiculous. Maybe after the riots the authorities just wanted to make sure they were all right.
The boys hugged their sisters and their mother.
At the door, Alfonso embraced each of his sons. He whispered to them in the dialect of the shepherds of Fontitune, ‘Figlio mio, attenzione. Non dire una parola a questi Scozzezi. Chi sa quello che succede.’
He followed his sons through the door. He turned round and looked at his loyal wife and his three beautiful daughters looking on with disbelief at what was happening.
‘Now, girls,’ he said, ‘be good to your mother, or I won’t come back!’
He turned and walked down the stairs.
When Alfonso came out into the street he found a huddle of other Italians, all pulled from their beds like him. Alfonso was outraged. What in hell’s name was going on! Like criminals they were marched up Montgomery Street, the stragglers from the earlier rioting standing by, jeering and yelling insults.
‘Italian traitors. Tally bastards. Papes!’
The vitriol and fury spewed at them were hideous. It was as if years of frustration and anger had come to a head and exploded.
Not everyone was against them. Many, mostly women, shouted in anger at the protesters, mortified at their display of hatred and xenophobia.
‘You should be ashamed! They’ve done nothing wrong. It’s Mussolini that’s to blame. Not them.’
Gayfield Square Police Station was pandemonium. There were about a hundred Italians jammed into cells and interview rooms, each becoming more distressed as they spotted a relative or friend. Emidio and Giovanni were there, Achille Crolla, Donato and Ferdinando, the Paolozzis, the Pias, the D’Agostinos, the Coppolas.
Practically all the chip shop owners and ice cream makers of Edinburgh were now in Gayfield Police Station, indiscriminately branded as desperate enemy aliens, dangerous characters, a threat to public safety.
All of them had the same thought. What the hell was going on?
At about the same time as Maria had heard the thump on the door, a Black Maria police van drew up outside the Cockenzie Café.
Three men got out. They were dressed in dark suits, their hats pulled down, shielding their eyes. One man stayed at the open car door, the other two climbed the outside stair to the front door.
Anna had not been able to sleep, anxious about the news. When she heard the loud knock on the door she ran to it and opened it, almost relieved. Who would come round at this time of night?
‘What’s wrong? Has something happened?’
The oldest man showed her an identity card and asked to be allowed in.
Confused, Anna nodded.
The man nodded to the bottom of the stair, where Anna saw the black car. In the dim moonlight of the summer night she saw the shadows of some people, a few more silent figures coming down School Lane. What were they doing out at this time of night?
Johnny came to the door, alerted by the noise.
‘What’s this? What’s happened at this time of night?’
The men shepherded him back into the house.
Anna went to get her father. Johnny led the men into the living room. It was dark. He fumbled to find the light switch.
Cesidio and Marietta came through, dressed in their night clothes. Alex followed, still sleepy, rubbing his eyes.
The older man in the dark suit spoke.
‘Mr Kes …’ He hesitated, he was annoye
d with himself. These foreign names put you at a disadvantage to start with.
The second man took the paper from him.
‘Mr Cesidio Di Ciacca. I have a warrant for your arrest. And,’ he looked across at Marietta who was standing with her hand over her mouth, ‘… for Alessandro Di Ciacca.’
Alex looked at his mother. What was the man talking about? Why were they saying his name? He had been born here. He was British. He was only sixteen.
‘Dad?’
‘There must be some mistake. Alex is only sixteen. What do you want him for?’
Alex was horrified. Terrified. Why did they want to take him? Who were they anyway?
‘Dad! It’s a mistake. It’s Johnny you want. My brother. It’ll be him you want.’ Alex didn’t understand. He had never experienced cold-blooded fear before. Not until now. He broke out in a cold sweat. He felt dizzy. He almost vomited.
‘Dad! Help me, Dad! They can’t take me.’
Johnny put his arm round his younger brother.
‘Alex, it’s a mistake. Calm down. It’ll be all right.’ He spoke to the older man. ‘You’re making a big mistake. Alex is only a boy. If they want anyone it will be me. I’m twenty. I’m the one born in Italy, not him.’
Marietta, seeing the terror on her youngest, agreed.
‘It’s a mistake. Take Johnny. He’ll be able to stick up for himself. This has nothing to do with Alex.’
The official sensed there must be a mistake but there was nothing he could do. These instructions were directly from the War Office in London. He had no power at all. They were on a war footing. He had no option but to obey instructions to the letter.
The second detective took over. ‘I’m sorry. There is no discussion on the matter. Please get dressed, bring a change of clothes and a toothbrush, that’s all you’ll need. Hurry please, we have more work to do tonight.’
Marietta followed Alex into his room and helped him get his things together. She gave him some money, two ten-pound notes. ‘Alex, hide this, in different places in your clothes. Don’t tell anybody. We’ll go to the police tomorrow and the Consul in Picardy Place and get you released.’
