Constant Tides

by Peter Crawley

  “It is good news for all of us, Nicholas. The sooner this is all over, the sooner the Germans will leave and I can reopen the café and make enough money to find myself a place to live. Your being here has made me aware of many things and one of them is that I have outgrown my parents’ patience.”

  They sit in silence for a while, each affording the other time to imagine what may be to come.

  “What was he like, Carlo?”

  Mira smiles at her memories. “What was Carlo like?” And recalling what her mother had said regarding how much easier it was to address certain issues from the sanctuary of seclusion, she blows out the candle and sets it on the table.

  “What was he like? Oh, Carlo’s eyes were unusual: they were the colour of olive bark and his hair was brown like a walnut. He was tall, taller than me, and for a girl from these parts I am taller than most. His limbs were long and slender and he moved with a grace one rarely sees in men, like his body had never grown used to manual work, even though he worked hard in the harbour in Messina. His skin was lighter than that of most, he was more likely of Norman blood, and his voice was always warm and comforting and he rarely raised his voice in anger. For a time, I thought perhaps he was a little feminine and I wondered if he might not be a man for women. However, it was not long before I found out he was.” In the dark, she colours and Mira wonders whether, had Nicholas been able to see, he would notice.

  “Where did you meet him?”

  “At a dance to celebrate the end of Novena di San Giuseppe, the nine days of prayer. It is like knocking on the door of God’s house for nine consecutive days, hoping he will answer. If you knock loud enough and for long enough, there is a better chance he will; so you knock as hard and as often as you can. It is no surprise that by the end one feels the need to enjoy oneself, eh? My mother was my chaperone at the dance, of course. I sometimes think that because Carlo was the first boy I met, he was always going to provide my mother and father with their first opportunity to reject whoever I wanted. That was so foolish of me, wasn’t it, eh?”

  “No, not foolish, Mira, so much as young. When we are young, we choose the easy way to understand life, otherwise it all becomes too confusing. Your father didn’t take to Carlo right away?”

  “Not just not right away, not ever. My father thought he was too immature, “too young for you” he would say. My father thought Carlo lacked even a fistful of common sense: he said Carlo was always talking, always dreaming, and that for Carlo the tomatoes would always grow quicker and rounder and redder in his neighbour’s garden: he said Carlo would never be satisfied with life in Messina. Although my father did admit that he was just the same at that age.”

  “So, you ignored your father.”

  “Yes, naturally. I knew Carlo was a little childlike in his thinking, but I found his ambition, his hopes exciting. And things that concerned others, like the tide or the wind or the clouds or what saint’s day or whose name day it was, didn’t seem to affect him. That was one part of him that attracted me; that lightness and that he excited me in ways I had never imagined I might be excited.”

  “And because of the way he made you feel, you thought you could prove your father wrong.”

  “Yes, only I didn’t, did I? Or perhaps it is that Carlo proved him right, I don’t know. I had always trusted Carlo, that was my mistake. Trusted him not to look at other women. Trusted him to stand up for me. And trusted him never to leave me. And look what happened, eh? One smell of Mussolini’s perfume and my husband was gone, not half a year after we were married. My God, how much we argued. My God, how much I cried. My God, how I hated having to return home with my tail between my legs. But that was how it was to be.”

  “I’ve done it again, haven’t I, Mira? I’ve made you think of things that have brought you only sadness. I’m so sorry.”

  “Oh, I’m not so sad, Nicholas. Really I am not.”

  “Then why is my hand wet with your tears?”

  Chapter 16

  “But papà, we have to move him,” she whispers, glancing towards the door to check it is shut. “I have told you what Aldo said. If the Germans come looking, how are we going to explain the presence of a wounded Englishman in my bed?”

  “Mira, please think clearly. The risk of moving him is too great. How can we expect to move a man who is blind when around every corner walks a German patrol? We might as well turn him out on the street and leave his future to chance. We might as well shoot him ourselves.”

  “But if he is found here, they will shoot all of us. Are you willing to risk our lives? To risk me and mama and you, for this one man?”

  He glowers at her. “I must say, I am surprised to hear you talk like this. Listening to the way you talk to him in the night, I would have expected you to be the one who wants to protect him, not me.”

  Francesca, fiddling nervously with her apron strings, stands mute; again, a spectator to their argument.

  “I do want to protect him, papà, but surely there has to be a better way than keeping him here. Why don’t I take him to the hills: there must be people we know who we can hide him with. What about the sottocapo; where did you take him?”

  “I took him to Pipo’s house. I told him he should send the sottocapo to the hills. He didn’t. He should have done so when he had the chance and now, he has left it too long and the man is hidden in his loft. Even Pipo recognises that to try to move him is too dangerous.”

  “But papà, at least let me try.”

  Enzo stands up from the table and stares at her. “No, Mira. I will not permit it. And as long as there is a breath left in my body and I am master of this house, you will do as I say. That is the end of this discussion; the Englishman stays and I will hear no further talk of moving him.”

  She glares back at her father, not with hate or disrespect; rather with sadness that he does not trust her to spirit Nicholas away to safety. “You are as stubborn as Pipo’s mule, do you know that? And I don’t understand why you cannot see the sense in what I am saying.”

  “I am stubborn, eh? Well, let me tell you young lady, that were it not for my stubborn streak, you would never have been born. Now go, prepare yourself for your evening with your fancy Tenente de la Grascia. Perhaps he can talk some sense into you.”

  Chapter 17

  As Mira expects, De la Grascia arrives punctually at six. Anxious to keep him away from the house, she waits at the top of the alley that leads up to the road.

  The Tenente parks up and hurries round to open her door. “Good evening my angel. I was hoping to pay my respects to your father. No matter; now you are here, let us take a drive.”

  The Sciroccu of the previous day having blown through to the north, the evening air is less oppressive, though it fails to cool her temper. They drive in silence until their lack of ready conversation weighs too heavily on her.

  “Is there any more news than yesterday?” she asks, gazing out the side window.

  “The British and Americans bombed Milazzo yesterday and Marshal Badoglio has outlawed the Fascist party, which is ironic when one considers he was perfectly happy to do the Duce’s bidding when it profited him. Caviglia would have been a better choice; he at least hated the Fascists.”

  “Politicians!” she scoffs. “They are like fish left too long in the sun: one smells just as bad as the other.”

  De la Grascia drives on, and the further he drives the darker, if he believes that it could be possible, falls Mira’s black mood.

  “What is it that bothers you, my angel? Have I called at a bad time?”

  “No, Aldo, although I’m not sure that at the moment there is a good time.”

  “We have time together,” he says, pleasantly, “is that not cause for some minor celebration? Can we not forget about the great disturbance to our lives and simply enjoy each other’s company?”

  “We can try,” she replies, with an abruptne
ss that implies the effort is unlikely to prove worth his reward.

  He drives to the village of Pace, a distance of a mere four kilometres down the coast road, but a journey which seems to them to take an eternity.

  At every turn, convoys of tanks, halftracks and trucks loaded with German troops head against them, forcing them time and again to pull over and wait, and roadblocks and checkpoints have sprung up like weeds, further truncating their journey.

  They arrive at a café and order ice cream. The waiter appears honestly polite and a wizened pensioner serenades them with his accordion. However, that the café is open and busy serves only to deepen Mira’s mood and she scowls at German officers when they pat their knees, inviting women.

  De la Grascia is patient: he humours her, he flatters her and he agrees with her even when her observations are less than complimentary; and by the time Mira has finished her second ice cream, his patience is all but exhausted. Looking around to ensure he is not overheard, he whispers, “Mira, my angel, I must apologise for no longer being able to deliver you the supplies you need to open your café. I imagine this place keeps open only because it panders to the black market: that or it is owned by, well, let us call them marginal fellows and, judging by their prices, the black market is alive and thriving.” He pauses, waiting or perhaps expecting his mention of how much her ice creams have cost him to provoke a change in her demeanour. When it doesn’t, he plays his final card.

  “And that medication you requested? I have managed to procure it for you. Not much, but the amount should suffice.”

  Mira’s fortress walls, a moment ago seeming so high and impregnable, crumble. “Oh, Aldo, I am so sorry, so very sorry. I am being selfish. Here I am, being treated like a princess and all the while I am behaving like only the most spoilt princess would behave. That is unforgivable of me. All this talk of politics, all these uniforms – though not yours, I assure you – they remind me of so much that is unpleasant and I forget how much you do for me. Please,” she reaches across the table and takes his hand, “please forgive me. And please, don’t think it is because of the medicine that I agreed to come out with you; it was only that I find it so difficult to be cheerful just now.”

  “Here,” Aldo says, handing her his perfectly pressed, white silk handkerchief.

  She takes it and blows her nose. When she has finished, she goes to hand it back to him, but fortunately thinks better of it and pockets it. “I’m sorry. Thank you. It really is a welcome distraction to come here with you; you seem more suited to this café than you do to that dusty old battery up at Capo Peloro.”

  His eyes light up. “Yes, I must admit I do feel more at home here.” He leans forward and fixes her with a conspiratorial glare. “Except for the foreigners, of course.”

  Now that Mira’s guard is relaxed, if not dropped absolutely, and de la Grascia is reassured that she is properly listening to what he has to say, he talks freely of his family and his student days in Bologna. As the sun sets their conversation takes a more natural path and seeing that Mira is now relaxed, de la Grascia insists on more ice cream.

  “That German officer at the table behind you keeps staring at you,” she murmurs.

  Aldo smiles. “And why wouldn’t he? I must be the envy of every red–blooded, blond–haired, blue–eyed Aryan in Sicily. You have seen to that, my angel.”

  She colours. “If I did not know you were from the north, Aldo, I would think you’d studied at a charm school in Naples. That is the kind of ridiculous compliment a Napolitano would pay. All about how a girl makes him look; not about how beautiful the girl looks.”

  “I apologise.”

  “Now I know you are from the north: a Napolitano would never apologise for his compliments no matter how bad they were.”

  “Tell me, Mira, what is this officer like? The one who stares at me.”

  She leans to look past the Tenente. “He sits alone and he wears a uniform like all the others, except that he wears two crosses on one side of his jacket, one of which has swords and a small design above it and the other a swastika surrounded in gold. He has darker skin and could pass for Italian. Oh, and his left arm is…, well, he has lost his right arm below his elbow.”

  “You have good observation, Mira. Tell me, what colour are his eyes?”

  “They are dark and set a little close together, a little bit like Comune Simone, but this man has the twinkle of humour about him: he is not all serious and stiff like the other officers.”

  De la Grascia turns in his chair and looks.

  The officer, too, looks up and the light of recognition fires in his expression. “Aldo,” he calls, “Is that you, you old rascal? I thought you were dead.” For a man in German uniform, his Italian is near perfect.

  “And I you, Franz. Ah, I see they have promoted you.”

  “It is true, Aldo, and now I am in command of a prison filled with unfortunate civilians and soldiers who either refuse to fight or cannot be trusted to. When they do that to you, you know you are as much a danger to your own men as you are to the enemy. I see you must be of greater use; they have demoted you.”

  De la Grascia winces and then remembers Mira is watching him. “With your permission?” he asks her.

  “Why not,” she replies, “this is as much your café as it is mine and soon, if what you tell me is correct, this man will be as much your enemy as he is mine.”

  He waves the German over to join them and introduces him.

  The officer is tall and rangy. He clips his heels and bows, and before he sits, he turns to address Mira, “If you are sure I am not intruding?”

  For a further hour the two officers sit, chat, laugh and drink a variety of liqueurs. They’d met in Russia, they’d fought, they’d suffered, they’d drunk themselves stupid and buried not only their men, but their emotions. And now, they mourn, they joke, they chuckle and they shoot each other knowing looks when either the Führer or the Duce wheedle their way into the conversation.

  Mira finds their friendship a welcome distraction. Yet she finds it hard to come to terms with the fact that they are sitting in a café, eating ice cream and drinking liqueurs, while only a short day’s train ride away other men are fighting and dying.

  The German laughs, perhaps a little too loudly considering the sarcastic tone of his amusement. “Yes, young lady, you are correct; the world in which we find ourselves is truly bizarre. Why, I heard the other day that our glorious commander has taken a fancy to a villa in Taormina; a villa that used to belong to an Englishman. Casa Cuseni, they say it is called. And they also say that our dear Uncle Albert has had en suite bathrooms built for his three senior staff generals because he was fed up with sharing his own personal toilet with them. Fed up with sharing a toilet when his soldiers have to squat behind bushes. Bizarre, no?”

  “So, what is the word from on high?” de la Grascia asks, sipping yet another glass of pear liqueur.

  The officer leans forward: his good humour evaporates. “I’m sure a man of your intelligence already knows how all this,” he sits back and spreads his arms wide, “is going to end. We have played out every possible scenario and every one of them leads to the same conclusion: we lose. And as soon as Kesselring has summoned the courage, he will report the same to the Führer. I am sure they are already planning the evacuation.”

  In the car on their way back to Ganzirri, Mira’s mind floats. “He was very charming, your Franz.”

  “Yes. An Austrian. A mountaineer, a climber. From near the Brenner. Another few kilometres south and he would have been one of us, though we’ve never been able to work out whether that would have been a blessing or a curse.”

  “Aldo?” The liqueurs have loosened her tongue and her voice comes across as that of a girl engaged in idle chit–chat.

  “Yes, my angel.”

  “If I ask you a question, will you be honest in your reply?”

&n
bsp; “Of course. What is it that you think might trouble me to answer you dishonestly?”

  “That German, or rather that Austrian, he said that you had been demoted: what rank were you before?”

  He negotiates a bend in silence, then sighs. “I was a captain, like Franz when I first met him.”

  “Why were you demoted? What happened?”

  “Oh, you don’t want to hear the details, they are not relevant. Just take it that I pretty much demoted myself.”

  “Why?”

  “Because.”

  “Because of what?”

  “Really, Mira. Can you not just accept some things for what they are?”

  She is quiet for a few seconds, before replying. “Oh yes, Aldo, there are many things that are all the better for being just how they are. I asked you a question though and I asked you to answer honestly which you told me you would.”

  “And that means I have to, I suppose.”

  She reaches across and pokes his arm, playfully. “Yes, Aldo, it does.”

  “Then,” he sighs once more, “I will tell you, though you must understand that it is difficult for me to convey the context in which what I am about to tell you happened. And you must understand that military law does not allow for context; battles are either won or lost, they are never conveniently drawn.”

  “It was bad, was it?”

  “Yes, Mira, it was bad. Do you remember at church the Sunday before last that I told your father I had served in Russia? Well, while I was there, my division was sent to the aid of a German regiment, the one Franz served in. The Russians tried to prevent us from crossing the River Don to relieve them and, against the odds and completely outnumbered, we managed to. It was during this battle that Franz lost his arm: I found him unconscious in a ditch, which is just one reason why we enjoy such a close friendship. Anyway, at one point, I had to send men to the rear to collect more ammunition and when they returned, one of them had gone missing: paralysed with fear, he had not come back. The Germans found him and brought him to us. As his commanding officer, it was up to me to punish him; to make an example of him. My senior officers demanded I had him shot and I refused. You must believe me, Mira, I tried every trick in my book to avoid this order being carried out but, in the end, they ignored my pleas and went ahead and executed him. For my sins of disobedience, I was demoted and banished to serve with this Coastal Division. In a curious way, my refusal to meet the obligations of my rank saved my life.”