by Mary Contini
‘The German soldiers descended on us. They confiscated everything: sheep, cattle, wine, cheese.
‘Many poor people hid in the mountains, terrified. We helped them where we could.
‘The winter was cold. Very cold. The war came closer and closer. For miles around the ground was ripped up with shells. We saw hidden anti-tank guns blow the bodies of the advancing soldiers apart. Unexploded mines and barbed wire littered our beautiful mountain, all the way from Cassino to Frosinone. Air bombardments shook the mountains. Night after night we heard the bombs. We witnessed evil in its death throes.
‘Then, in February, just after the Feast of Sant’Antonio, the Gestapo came to Fontitune in ugly trucks and took us all away.’
‘Oh, Dio!’ Olivia stopped reading. She put the letter down on the table. She was shocked to the core. Filomena took the letter and scanned the words.
‘My God!’
Vittorio was shocked.
‘I hadn’t realised they were so vulnerable. When I was in the camps I used to wish we had never left Italy. I thought it would have been safer for us all there.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s just war. Normality disappears and luck decides your fate.’
‘What else does Zio Pietro say?’ Gloria wanted to know what happened. ‘Give me the letter.’
She took the letter from her sister and continued.
‘Non ti preoccupari, my dear family. We have survived. Thank God, we have survived. By the end of the spring the Allies had taken Monte Cassino and had advanced along the mountains, eventually freeing us from our captors. Although many perished, we managed to build a false wall in a back room behind which we hid our men and saved them from capture.
‘But cherish only this thought. The Italian Arditi fought with the British soldiers again, once more we were Allies.’
They all looked at each other with tears in their eyes. It was almost as if their father was talking to them through the voice of his brother.
Gloria continued.
‘Believe me when I tell you, after the fighting was over, Picinisco was once again full of laughter and singing. The Allied soldiers were surprised and delighted that here, in the heart of the Italian mountains, in a remote village that their trucks took half an hour to climb up to, there were people who had lived and worked in Britain! The piazza was full of British and Americans and we all understood each other!’
At this they all burst out laughing. Maria took her daughter’s hand and squeezed it.
Vittorio had some more news for the family.
‘Mamma, the lawyer came to the shop yesterday. Papà’s papers have finally been released. Everything can be sorted out once and for all.’
‘Good, Vittorio. Good.’ Maria was quiet, ‘Thank God. I know your father would have been proud of you all.’
Olivia had worked with Filomena all through the war, trying to keep the shop in Elm Row trading while their brothers had been interned: Vittorio on the Isle of Man, Domenico in Canada.
During the war Miss Dennison had taken on the responsibility of running the company. Astutely she had recognised that all the Italian businesses that had been destroyed now had to be refurbished, so Valvona & Crolla became a supplier of manufacturing equipment for ice cream and fish fryers. As the Italians gradually returned to their shops, she was at hand to help them get set up in business again.
Vittorio never wanted to dwell on the past.
‘Good. Enough of the past. Olivia, what’s for lunch?’
‘Home-made pasta with sugo. I’ve made it with polpettini.’
Rationing was still in force. Even now, three years after the war ended, food was scarce.
‘Gloria, did you make the pudding?’ In the camps they used to dream of Gloria’s cakes.
‘Yes. I’ve made my rhubarb pie, and Filomena is going to get ice cream from Easter Road.’
‘The boys, the boys!’ Vittorio was starving.
They heard a commotion in the stair.
‘That’ll be Domenico now.’ Olivia went straight to the kitchen.
The door flew open and in burst Domenico, laughing and joking, followed by two young lads, complete strangers.
‘Ma, I met these German boys outside the Cathedral. They’re working on the roads, digging the drains. They don’t have any family here. I’ve invited them for lunch.’
Vittorio looked at his mother; typical Domenico, mad as a hatter. Oh well, never mind. There was plenty of food to go round.
‘Sit down, my friends. Sit down. You are welcome in our home.’
Olivia went into the kitchen with her mother.
‘Trust Domenico, Mamma. He’ll never change.’
In the afternoon, the mesmerised German boys left, bowing gratefully for the hospitality they had been shown and shaking Domenico’s and Vittorio’s hands as if they would never let them go.
Domenico came into the kitchen as Olivia and Filomena finished washing the dishes. Maria was sitting at the table, looking again at the parcel from Italy.
‘Come on, everyone, it’s such a lovely afternoon. Let’s go for a drive down to Cockenzie.’
‘That’s a great idea, Domenico. I’ll take some cheese and salsiccie to Marietta.’
It was well past five o’clock by the time the old black Ford drew up outside the Cockenzie Café. It was a beautiful spring evening, still bright, the sun reflecting red and orange on the clouds. The sea air was fresh and a little chilly.
Three ice cream tricycles were lined up outside the front of the shop. Johnny and Alex were standing outside, dressed in their white cotton coats, open necked, with their sleeves rolled up. They had had a very busy day, selling out to the hoards of day trippers that had taken advantage of the sunny weather.
Johnny had seen the car approaching and raised his hand in salute.
‘Happy Easter! Happy Easter!’
He called to his mother and sisters. ‘Mum! Anna! Look who’s here!’
The women came out from the shop. They had been busy making ice cream all through the day.
Italian internee football team, Isle of Man, c. 1943. Johnny back row, fourth from left
Marietta looked far older than her years. She was happy to see Maria. The two women embraced.
‘Buona Pasqua, compare. Come in, I was just making a cup of tea.’
Arm in arm the two widows went through to the back shop.
Outside, the young ones greeted each other and chatted together animatedly. They were firm friends, their common hardships bringing them closer together. Only Lena had married; she was living in Glasgow like Margherita, whose husband, Tony, had spent the first four years of their marriage on the Isle of Man.
Alex stood a bit apart. After six months or so in Saughton he had been released along with Eduardo Paolozzi and Ernie Capaldi, all of whose fathers had also perished on the ship. As soon as he had come of age he had volunteered to join the RAF and spent the war in Burmah and India, driving trucks for the British. This courageous act of solidarity for his country of birth underlined his family’s commitment to making a life in Scotland.
They all laughed and joked, planning to organise the next Alva Glen picnic, which had not taken place for almost ten years. Young and fit, they had all begun to look to the future and try to leave the past behind them.
Anna acted as hostess.
‘Come on, what would you like? Tea or an iced drink?’
Johnny spoke enthusiastically, genuinely pleased to see his friends. ‘As soon as the chip shop opens we’ll all have a fish supper! You can’t beat it!’
Olivia remembered the pacco in the car. She took it into the shop. Nothing in the shop had changed. It was just as she always remembered it. She kissed Margaret, who was working behind the counter. She had worked loyally with the family through all the troubles.
‘Oh, Olivia, how lovely to see you. Things are fine, the boys are back home and Anna is here with me in the shop.’
‘Zia Marietta, here is some pecorino and salsiccie from Fontitune.
’
‘How wonderful. Margaret, come and taste this cheese. You’ll remember Alfonso used to bring it for us.’
As Olivia unwrapped the cheese she noticed a picture on one of the sheets of newspaper. She pushed the cheese aside and spread the newspaper on the table. The date on the newspaper was 28 April 1945.
Olivia smoothed out the crumpled stained paper. Half the page displayed a gruesome picture of six dead men tied by their feet from metal girders. A woman hung among them, her skirt tied at her knees. Their arms hung below their heads, loose and helpless.
Soldiers and armed men stood underneath the corpses, where a crowd was gathered. The people looked angry and jeering, throwing things at the bodies.
Alex in RAF uniform, c. 1942
Johnny, c. 1946, after release from the Isle of Man
Olivia read out the headline: ‘Il Duce è morto!’
‘What does that mean, Olivia?’ Margaret didn’t understand.
‘It’s a picture of Mussolini. They shot him and hung him up from a meat hook in a garage in Milan.’
Olivia was silent. She thought of her father. Nothing made sense in her life. She started to cry.
Maria looked at Marietta. The older woman raised her eyebrows and, lifting her chin a little, skimmed her right hand under her chin. This man had been responsible for devastating both their families, with the loss of millions of lives in a wave of destruction he had created which had swept them all along in its path.
Neither woman had any pity.
‘Non c’è niente da fare! È finito!’
The boys came through from the front shop.
‘We’re going to the Thorntree for a beer.’ Johnny wanted to relax with his friends.
Vittorio saw his sister crying. He lifted the paper and, seeing the picture, screwed it up.
‘Olivia, don’t waste your time looking back. It’s all over. Finished.’ He tried to distract his sister. He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. He had been writing an advert to put in the paper. The writing was scored through.
‘Look. I’m going to put an advert in the Scotsman. Never mind all that old news. I’m going to create the news.’
Johnny was intrigued. ‘Read it then.’
Vittorio cleared his throat.
‘A Complaint!’
They all laughed. What was Vittorio up to now?
‘Listen! … A Complaint. We often hear that it is too expensive to drink wine with food as is done abroad.’ He looked up, making sure they were all paying attention. ‘Our reply is to offer “Good Bordeaux Wine, both Red (Dry) and White (Medium Sweet) at 6/6 per bottle. Valvona & Crolla Ltd., 19, Elm Row”.’
‘There! Between that and the salsiccie from Fontitune, the Scots won’t know what’s hit them. The boys, the boys! It couldn’t be better!’
Olivia Crolla, c. 1947
Pizza Farciti con Scarola
Pizza Stuffed with Greens
Prepare some pizza dough:
700g organic strong white bread flour
420ml hand-hot water
2 sachets instant easy-blend yeast
2 tablespoons sea salt
extra virgin olive oil
Make sure there are no draughts in the kitchen.
Add all the ingredients in the warmed mixing bowl of an electric blender and beat with a dough hook for 10 minutes. Cover the dough with clingfilm and a warm tea towel and leave it in a draught-free place for an hour or so until it has doubled in size.
Verdure
Greens
Use a curly endive, cimi di rapa or spinach.
5 tablespoons virgin olive oil
2 cloves garlic, sliced a piece of peperoncino
2–3 anchovies preserved in oil
5–6 capers, salted and soaked
10 small stoned black olives
preserved in olive oil
Wash the greens, removing any bruised leaves. If using curly endive or frisée use the coarse outer leaves, keeping the pale new leaves from the middle for salads.
Blanch the greens in salted boiling water for about 10 minutes, 2–3 for spinach. Drain and squeeze out any excess water.
In a large frying pan sauté the garlic and chilli in the extra virgin olive oil. Add the greens and fry for 5 minutes, stirring to coat them with oil. Chop the anchovies and capers and add them to the greens. Check seasoning.
Prepare a baking tray, covering it lightly with oil. Divide the pizza dough into two and roll it out. Place one sheet on the baking tray and spread the sautéed greens on top, sprinkle with the olives and put the second sheet of dough on top. Press down the edges to seal the parcel and drizzle the top with a little olive oil.
Bake in a hot oven, 230C/450F/gas 8, for 10–15 minutes, until browned on top. Take the pizza from the oven and turn it upside-down, replacing it to bake the underside for a further 10 minutes or so.
Serve at room temperature.
Frittata con Pasta
Frittata with Pasta
200g spaghettini
2 tablespoons grated Parmigiano Reggiano
2 tablespoons grated Pecorino
40g butter
6 fresh free-range eggs
a tablespoon of extra virgin
olive oil for frying
sea salt and lots of freshly ground black pepper
3–4 tablespoons chopped fresh parsley
5–6 cherry tomatoes
some fresh basil leaves
Boil the pasta in salted water until barely cooked, more al dente than normal. Drain and toss it with the butter and grated Parmigiano and Pecorino. If you have pasta left from the day before use that, as the Neapolitans do.
Beat the eggs and season well with sea salt and freshly ground black pepper. Add the chopped parsley and basil, and some more grated Parmigiano. Mix in the pasta.
Heat the olive oil in a heavy-bottomed frying pan, about 12 cm wide. Pour in the mixture and cook it slowly until it is almost dry on top. Put a large plate over the frying pan and tip it upside-down so the frittata slides onto the plate. Add the tomatoes to the bottom of the frying pan and slide the frittata back into the frying pan to finish cooking the underside.
Flip it over onto a plate when cooked. Serve at room temperature.
Acknowledgments
This book is inspired by oral history, some passed by word of mouth through generations, some recorded on tape or written in letters and articles. Over time, memories are blurred. Some reports highlight differing experiences. I have endeavoured to confirm and cross-reference as many details as possible. I am aware that other versions of this story will be known in other families. Many official files of this time are still closed. At the time of the disaster it was officially recognised that mistakes were made, though no apology was ever issued.
Thank you and all my love to my family, Marietta Di Ciacca (deceased), Johnny Di Ciacca (deceased), Alex Di Ciacca, Anna Di Ciacca, Cesidio Di Ciacca, Gertrude Di Ciacca and Margaret Davidson. Also to Vittorio Crolla (deceased), Olivia Contini (née Crolla), Gloria Crolla, Domenico Crolla (deceased) and Pierina Crolla. They have all supported me and encouraged me in the telling of this story, bravely talking about a time that was so painful for them and affected all their lives.
My love and thanks to Joe Pia (deceased), Desiderio Coppola, Addolorata Harris (née Valente) and Ines Craig and to the memories of all the Italian immigrant families who made their lives in Scotland. This story is a celebration of their heritage.
Thanks to the inspiration from so many professionals who encourage me, advise me and allow me the luxury of writing this book, all of whom have known me and Valvona & Crolla for years. Special thanks to Jenny Brown, my agent, and Giles Gordon (deceased), to Jamie Byng, an inspirational publisher, Helen Bleck, Jenny Todd, Jenny Vass, Jo Hardacre, David Graham and all at Canongate, and especially for the careful and gentle advice from Mairi Sutherland, who edited my work with kid gloves! Thanks also to Ian Begg, who drew the maps and the family tree and Russell Walker, who meticulously proo
f-read the book. My love to Sophie Dow and Charlie Fletcher and to Pru Irvine and Fiona McIntyre who both pushed me to write a long time ago!
I have had a passion to record this story all my life. I have lived the dreams of Cesidio and Alfonso, working first in the shops in Cockenzie and then in Valvona & Crolla. It is a wonderful privilege to have worked with and known so many colleagues and customers who have helped create, enjoy and maintain the vision of those early immigrants.
And most importantly, my true love to my husband and mentor, Philip, and my two daughters, dear Francesca and dear Olivia.
Mary Contini, Edinburgh, 2006
Further reading
Angus Calder, The People’s War: Britain 1939–45, Jonathan Cape, 1969
Michael Cant, Edinburgh Shops Past and Present, Malcolm Cant Publications, 2005
Winston Churchill, Their Finest Hour, Penguin, 2005 [Cassell, 1949]
Helen Clark and Elizabeth Carnegie, She Was Aye Workin’, White Cockade, 2003
Terri Colpi, The Italian Factor, Mainstream, 1991
Lt Edward H. Dalton, John Neale and Baron Dalton, With British Guns in Italy, Methuen & Co, 1919
David Forgacs (ed), Rethinking Italian Fascism, Lawrence and Wishart, 1986
Count Ciano Galeazzo, Ciano’s Diary 1937–1943, William Heinemann, 1947
Peter and Leni Gillman, Collar the Lot, Quartet, 1980
Des Hickey and Gus Smith, Star of Shame, Madison, 1989
D. H. Lawrence, The Lost Girl, Thomas Seltzer, 1921 [Martin Secker, 1920]
Patrick McVeigh, Look After the Bairns, Tuckwell Press, 1999
Svetlana Palmer and Sarah Wallis, A War in Words, Pocket Books, 2003
