by Wesley Stace
SEPTEMBER 12TH, 1943
The first thing I saw was a mountain, and far beneath, an island exploding with colour: forests, orchards, vineyards, wheat fields, and olive groves. It wasn’t a mountain, it was a volcano: Etna, no less.
Somewhere over the Straits of Messina, they are already making plans to take Rome. I shan’t bore you with the details, but they don’t want us on the mainland prematurely, so we will be left here kicking our heels, making the usual round of hospitals. Not so bad. I am on a beach, behind the Villa Leopardi — an elegant old pile requisitioned on our behalf, complete with croquet lawn and bandstand — watching the sea peter out against the shore and then tiptoe back again. Greedy Tommies feast from the fat of the land, helmets full of bulbous tomatoes, plucking grapes as they fancy from vineyards for saken by their owners. We’ve landed on our feet in Sicily all right, but it’s not all heaven. Signorina Mosquito is everywhere, and she likes my uniform; sits there, abdomen swollen with blood.
Food is scarce on the mainland, but in Siracusa they brought us baskets of fruit and bottles of wine. Perhaps they took us for soldiers. And what can we give them in return for their kindness? You, of all people, know the answer to that.
The kids are fascinated by this motley group of Inglesi. They went wild when they saw us perform for the first time. We sat on a dried-up well, and they crowded around, squatting on the ground in their homemade wooden sandals. I don’t speak much Eyetie (Ti amo, and, erm, gottiglia di girra), but when we got going we might as well have been fluent. It was just gibberish, with olio added to the end of English words, and a pasta or Bolognese thrown in, but the kids couldn’t stop laughing whichever one of us was speaking. It was as though they’d never seen such a thing before. My attitude to children and their parties has changed: laughter is in short supply here, and what better medicine do they have?
An older girl came to fetch her brother, the loudest and most hysterical of our audience. He stubbornly refused to notice her, so she waded into the crowd, at which he grabbed the handle of the well so she couldn’t drag him away. Everyone was laughing — his reluctance, her determination, their slapstick. Finally it fell on me to tell him, as sternly as I could, to go. He went and she smiled. Probably doesn’t speak a word of English.
After this impromptu turn, we visited the hospitals. Even when you’ve seen it all, sometimes you’ve seen enough, and today was one of those days. They can’t smile; they can’t laugh; some of them can’t see — but at least they’re alive — at least — hanging on, or having the nurses and doctors hang on for them. They’re not doing much for themselves. I’m sure they’d rather slip away, relax their fingers and float, but they can’t. They’re not allowed. Effort is so painful; our knuckles are white, yet we keep clinging. The alternative is suicide — and we are too fearful for that.
When it’s time to give in, there is no need to say a word. I won’t stop you. Don’t stop me either.
SEPTEMBER 29TH, 1943
I don’t sound like myself, I know. Perhaps I am a little war weary; perhaps I have seen enough. But on we drive, newly reunited with our precious pink Matchless, so we can go deeper, farther, faster.
The boy who clung to the well? His name is Ettore Ansalone and he came to find us at the camp. He’s eight years old, an astonishing little thief, and appears to have fallen in love with us. Seriously. He is nervous, anxious not to cause offence, but he can’t help himself bringing gifts, offerings from Sicily: yesterday some shrimp, and today a guinea pig those nimble little fingers of his swiped from some trap. What on earth are we going to do with a guinea pig? We manage conversations based on a little Italian and a great deal of mime. As for the guinea pig . . . Oh, dear . . . I’m afraid it’s meant to be eaten.
Last night, the kid begged for a ride on the Matchless, so we drove him home, bombing down the country lanes, Ettore in the sidecar, navigating, the wind gusting through his hair. Ettore shrieked. We took corners a little too fast. Ettore shrieked louder. We drove too close to the side of the road so the unkempt branches stung our cheeks. Ettore shrieked loudest of all. It was the ride of his life.
Home was a ruin of an old farm with a circular driveway, weeds worming their way through the cracks unopposed, and lizards darting between them, in two minds about their destination. At the announcement of the engine, the whole family appeared: all women — a grandmother, Mamma; a mother; and two sisters, one of whom was the pretty girl who had tried to drag Ettore from the well. He sprinted towards them, rattling off rapid-fire dialect. The mother, a beautiful, strong-faced woman with long black hair, invited us in. The interior was in a terrible state: the main staircase had collapsed, leaving no way to the second floor, and all the banisters around the edge of the second storey had fallen away, not that there was any way to get up there. The elder sister, refusing help, walked down the hill with buckets to fetch water from a neighbouring spring.
We sat around the large kitchen table that was placed in the very centre of the house, where, every now and then, shifting plaster sprinkled us like icing sugar from a sieve. I looked up to see stars twinkling through the dilapidated roof. The mother offered a cup of coffee, and Ettore amused himself by making a little extra cup — sweet boy! — then drinking it and laughing. Whenever we spoke, he monitored the reactions of the various family members with a glint in his eye. The elder Mamma sat in her rocking chair and chuckled when we made a joke of spitting out plaster. The elder sister still hadn’t said a word but seemed pleased to see her brother so happy.
Their story emerged, courtesy of the mother Annagrazia’s broken English. The father had been involved in various illegal operations, one of which had involved the accidental shooting of an Italian soldier. It was possible to hide many things in Sicily, but not this, and the Mafia strong-armed Annibale into giving himself up. The worst might not happen, they had consoled him — there were ways of ensuring this — and his family would be cared for if it did. The sad state of the house was proof that they hadn’t kept their word. The elder brother, Salvatore, called Turi, had stepped into his father’s shoes, and now he too was dead, buried without honour in the back garden. They were still claiming his food ration.
And that left Mamma, Annibale’s mother; Annagrazia; and three of his children: Chiara, eighteen; Valentina, ten; and Ettore, eight, living in a house that needed repairs they couldn’t possibly afford, that might barely last another winter. Ettore and Valentina couldn’t stop talking — they wanted to keep us up all night — but Chiara was a silent enigma, her serious expression always directed somewhere else, far away.
“Va bene?” I asked. She smiled her sad smile as she twirled her sun-bleached hair with her right index finger, making the softest of whistling sounds. She’d stop for a few seconds when she caught herself, and then start again without noticing, just the same, twirling it loosely through her one finger, never letting it get too tight, never letting it slip from her finger. Annagrazia smiled indulgently. Shortly after, Chiara kissed them both and left through the front door. I wondered if she could possibly be going for more water so late at night. “It was very bad for her,” Annagrazia said matter-of-factly. “After Annibale die, and her elder brother, Turi, no one to protect her. Such a lovely girl. She don’t speak of it now. Nothing.”
Annagrazia offered a small bottle of bitter alcohol. To Ettore’s delight, we produced chocolate in trade. When cigarettes followed, it was adult eyes that lit up. A few minutes later, I noticed a petal on my right leg. I thought nothing of it as Ettore rationed the chocolate equally between us, but then another floated just past my eye, a pink rose petal. Valentina had fallen asleep at the kitchen table, but Ettore immediately looked up.
“Chiara!” he said, and laughed. At that moment, a handful of petals cascaded down on us, fluttering dizzily all around. I looked too, but there was no sign of her. When I asked how she got up there, Ettore showed us a ladder outside, wedged between two paving stones. They all slept up above, he said in charades, except Grandma, who w
as too fat for the ladder. He was also sent up before too long, but Valentina was already fast asleep, so we carried her up the ladder and laid her on her mattress. After another gift of chocolates, we said our good nights and got back on the Matchless.
“Good-byee, Giorgio!” Ettore shouted from the top window as his mother shushed him. “Arrivederci, Giorgio mio!”
P.S. This morning, another love token on the water tank outside the barn: a dead squirrel.
OCTOBER 15TH, 1943
We have left Sicily far behind.
There was a final show on the Leopardi bandstand, coincidentally featuring a partial reunion of Tonic for the Troops. Recently arrived on the island, terribly well rested, tanned, and healthy, they explained the concept of leave as though we’d never heard of it. No Toots, sadly — he had succumbed to a heart attack in Delhi. Yes, the Tonics had gone to India. Malaria had condemned us to the pleasant prison of the Canberra while they’d been posted precisely where we had wanted to go: where you were.
But our reputation has so risen in the meanwhile that there was a change in their attitude towards us. A revue means no star, but there was little doubt who was topping the bill, and Phoebe in particular fawned all over us. Even the Ansalones, invited en masse, commented upon it, much to our embarrassment. It was good to see the troupe again; their war, they hoped, was over. Could we have packed it in and gone home too, I wondered? To what? We’ll see it out until the end.
Before we left the island, Ettore pestered us as often as he could, showering us with possibly edible gifts. Between shows at the hospital, we went back to the Ansalone house to help them fix the roof, bringing gifts of corned beef, chocolate, and even some material for winter overcoats.
It was just in time; the rains started as soon as we disembarked on the mainland.
NOVEMBER 7TH, 1943
We have left everything in Sicily — good weather, food, and common sense. I have no idea where the rest of the ENSA folk are, but we are not with them, and at this point we are writing our own itinerary, if indeed we have one.
Our reputation precedes us. Yesterday we arrived at a camp and had barely turned off the engine before soldiers surrounded us. Did they want smokes? Chocolates? News from home? No, they’d heard that we were coming: Death Wish Fisher and George. Our most frequent stage now is the Matchless, and we sat on the saddle, surrounded by cross-legged soldiers (just like the scruffy Siciliani), and ran through a series of favourites — “The Siegfried Line,” of course, and the comic memories of the desert. It’s always the sketch where we come face-to-face with Hitler and his boy, Little Adolf, that gets the biggest cheer.
Rumour has it that we are spies: which is rather more daring than the truth — we deliver the occasional, probably rather tedious, message on the Matchless. But it adds to our mystique that the boys think us so daring — and we could hardly deny it.
NOVEMBER 20TH, 1943
Rain falls heavily from leaden skies, the countryside reduced to a quagmire by the constant to and fro of vehicles. The Matchless can handle the rain but hates mud, and the sidecar is a swimming pool: “Put me in the shallow end” always gets a good laugh at the end of the act. Oh, for the Villa Leopardi!
The Germans have fallen back slowly, destroying every bridge on the way, bombing dams, booby-trapping buildings, mining roads indiscriminately; anything to delay our inevitable advance. In the middle of our show two days ago, there was a huge explosion that sent us crashing from the piano stool and brought the show to a rapid close. We gingerly left the building (with our entire audience), tiptoeing our way to the front gate on only the most solid-looking of the stones. The house was found to be littered with devices, any of which could have gone up at any moment.
I used to worry about my number being up. That’s passed. We’ve had the chance to die so many times that I assume we are ghosts, that we must have died once. Perhaps this eases our guilt at having thus far avoided the short straw.
And still it pours. We sleep in improvised quarters; last night, a sheet slung between font and lectern in a bombed-out church. We parked the Matchless where the altar would have been. And tomorrow night — who knows where we will be then? Perhaps nowhere.
They say we will be held south of Rome for the whole winter. But I don’t think we can be held anywhere, not when there is petrol in the tank and a seat on the Matchless.
JANUARY 1ST, 1944
Happy New Year. You didn’t notice I didn’t write, but that doesn’t stop me being ashamed. In my defence, the weather hasn’t got any better, extremely wet, extremely cold, and we have been itinerant since late November. Apart from anything else, the beautiful Romando box, the best presentation box at no extra cost to the customer, is no more. The good news: it was empty.
We carry on regardless, sometimes sleeping in the sidecar under a piece of tarpaulin, with a sou’wester and army-issue raincoat. Pray for spring.
If there’s any kind of stage, then there’s a show: ceilings are surplus to requirements, luckily, since most have been blown off, walls an unnecessary luxury. The act has now become something of a communion of faith in the victory to come. We play our roles: the Honest Tommy and the Blimpish Top Brass. Plenty of laughs there, but nothing bad for morale, of course. The show itself (rather than our frequent impromptu improvisations on the Matchless) feels important now, with all those people seeing us, so we no longer make it all up as we go along. The audiences are coming to see something they have heard about, and we mustn’t disappoint. Certain routines are expected of us, and the jokes are carefully scripted: the act delivers every time. Few of them see it twice, so this works well for the theatres. These shows are not as much fun. I like when we’re sat on the saddle — then we chat as we used to, free to be ourselves as we were during the air raids in London, the nights onstage with you, the happiest times of my life.
Words fail me. Writing no longer keeps me full of hope.
FEBRUARY 14TH, 1944
It’s Valentine’s Day. I am keeping my identity a closely guarded secret. I won’t even sign my name. I think back to little Valentina Ansalone — how I wish we were being pestered by Ettore, petaled by Chiara. And to Valentine Vox. How far am I throwing my voice? Perhaps nowhere.
Here is the one thing I would never ask at one of the shows, about which I would never joke — but I sometimes want to spit it out: what if there is nothing to go home for? The question is rhetorical — there is nothing to go home for. Why else have we been blindly chasing the front lines? We are trying to forget the past and ignore the future. We only have the present. A few years ago, I would have seen the name we have made for ourselves, the fame we now enjoy, as a stepping-stone to a life after the war, something we could take back to London and use as the foundation of a solid career. But, even if the war hasn’t changed everything irrevocably, even if there are theatres, even if we win the war, even if all the even ifs: I will not want to. After all the hard work and the setbacks, there it is: the truth. There is no way forward. The war can go on forever, for it is the only thing keeping the two of us together and, ironically, alive.
I am tired of speculating about your whereabouts. I am tired of everything. I will write no more.
APRIL 2ND, 1944
I was shot.
I was shot. Not shot, shrapnel. Of course I’m fine. It went through my uniform and lodged in my right side. I’ll wear it proudly.
How did I get shot? As ever, we were looking for an audience and somehow, somehow, we found ourselves through the German lines, though we had absolutely no idea until we came under fire. We were shelled and bombed: they wasted a lot of ammunition on one man and his ventriloquist dummy. And we both got hit.
We are in harm’s way.
JUNE 14TH, 1944
Banished from the front line, we have spent the last two months in comfortable and rather dull theatres. News of our injuries spread far and wide. It’s all a big fuss about nothing. I’m fine.
For once we’re sitting ducks for communication and
, unexpectedly, there was a letter from Queenie. If I wondered whether we had anything to go home for before, I know now. Frankie won’t remember me — I haven’t written to her in years — and now she has a sister I won’t even know: Sylvia. Why Sylvia? “Who is Sylvia? What is she?” I last saw Queenie five years ago. The letter read like a death warrant.
JUNE 24TH, 1944
Echo and Narcissus were playing the Bellini Opera House (Belle-ini, I thought); they’re flocking over now it’s safer. We went to see her, to see what she had to say about the letter. Mission unaccomplished.
Just before curtain, a bomb fell somewhere in the distance. It was nowhere near enough to worry a full house desperate for a laugh or two, but Echo was in her coach and back to Bari before you could say Jack Robinson, leaving the entire audience (us among them) in the dark. The announcement that Miss Endor was unavoidably detained was met with booing, which gave way to foot stamping and a painfully slow hand clap. What else could we do but cover for her? What else but stand up, announce ourselves, and give those soldiers the show of their lives? And of ours. Good to end on a high.
For a finale, I led a sing-along chorus of the new theme song of the Italian campaign:
We landed at Salerno, a holiday with pay.
The Jerries brought the bands out to greet us on the way,
Showed us the sights and gave us tea.
We all had girls and the beer was free.
We are the D-day Dodgers in sunny Italy.
In the tumult, as they rushed the stage, we were hoisted on shoulders and marched around the theatre to a never-ending chorus of “The D-day Dodgers.” We ended up at opposite sides of the ruined theatre, and as we were bounced past each other, I remembered why we had come to the theatre: a birth, a death.
We were passed over many an outstretched arm back to the stage, and the chair that had earlier been meant for Echo. We hushed the chanting and singing. “Death Wish!” turned into a long “Shhhh!” as they struggled to hear.
