The Italian Chapel

by Philip Paris

  There was a lot of rubbish left and so the Italians made a bonfire, which attracted most of the camp. Aldo walked around selling distilled spirit. He was struggling to pour the liquid into mugs, take the payment, and move to the next batch of outstretched arms. But his pockets were bulging with cigarettes and tokens, so he was happy.

  By late afternoon, there was a carnival atmosphere and an increasingly large circle of men danced around the fire to the music of the camp band, which had set itself up nearby. The British left them to it, so the fire crackled and men drank, laughed and danced. Aldo had eventually given up the idea of walking around and set himself up at a small table in front of which was a line of continuously moving men. Dino guarded the precious liquid, stored in a variety of bottles on the ground, and helped to take the tokens. Aldo maintained a constant monologue.

  ‘That’s it. That’s it. Come and sample the finest spirit in Camp 60, the finest in any camp in Orkney. I guarantee you won’t have tasted anything like this before.’

  None of the men could argue with the latter statement as they coughed and choked on the burning fluid, but several came back for more.

  ‘Aldo’s doing a roaring trade,’ said Domenico, looking on thoughtfully.

  ‘Why does that not surprise me,’ said Buttapasta. ‘I gather he’s got two stills going now and is producing a stronger spirit by distilling it twice. Of course, he sells that batch for more.’

  ‘It’s good to see the men enjoying themselves,’ said Carlo. ‘They work hard and there are no thanks for it, just another day of sweat and labour. The chapel is already benefiting people and we haven’t even moved the huts yet.’

  ‘Some men will feel the weight of loneliness upon them even more heavily because of the light and laughter here,’ added Domenico quietly.

  Buttapasta sensed some of Domenico’s mood, a conflict of apprehension and excitement at what they had just began, of pleasure at the men’s simple enjoyment and of sadness at being so far from home.

  ‘Domenico, you cannot take on the responsibility to reach out to all these men. You’re right. It can be difficult for those whose nature does not allow them to walk up to a party and join in, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t hold the party. Now a chapel … no one needs to hesitate before walking up to a house of God.’

  Domenico smiled. He understood his friend was trying to lighten his mood. Unseen by them Aldo had approached, carrying four mugs.

  ‘Hey, I hope my two favourite Domenicos are not talking shop again. You both look far too serious. You need to drink this,’ he said, handing them a mug and passing one to Carlo.

  ‘Well if we were talking of something serious I’m sure it will stop now,’ said Buttapasta, sniffing the liquid suspiciously.

  ‘Drink up, it will make you big and strong,’ said Aldo, whose head barely reached Buttapasta’s broad shoulders.

  The men looked at each other, grinned and downed the liquid in one go.

  ‘Heaven save us,’ choked Carlo. ‘What’s in this?’

  ‘Don’t ask, but it’s not too bad considering,’ said Aldo, the hint of a slur to his speech. ‘Perhaps not so much boot polish next time.’

  Domenico was unable to speak at all and was still trying to catch his breath when their attention was taken by the loud blowing of a whistle, which eventually stopped the band and the dancing. The men fell quiet. A British sergeant moved into the centre of the Italians.

  ‘Alright, you’ve got ten minutes to clear away and then we’re going to hose the fire,’ he shouted, generating a gaggle of protest. ‘Don’t you lot know there’s a war on? If this blaze is still going by nightfall we’ll attract every German bomber for fifty miles. Then you’ll be complaining about the noise of bombs keeping you awake. You’ve got nine minutes.’

  Aldo had sold out of spirit and left Carlo and Dino to collect the empty bottles. He walked a short distance away with Domenico and Buttapasta to watch the British privates as they ran out hoses from the camp. The fire was quickly reduced to a smouldering heap and without its heat they quickly felt the cold.

  ‘Come on you two,’ said Aldo. ‘Let’s go to the recreation hut and I’ll stand you a free drink of Aldo’s finest.’ He and Dino would have to start all over again with their little stills, which they had only recently taken apart and hidden amongst the cooking equipment in the mess hall kitchen. Ingredients were often difficult to obtain, particularly at this time of year.

  ‘Why do we want to drink more?’ said Buttapasta, who wasn’t altogether certain the comment about boot polish had been a joke.

  Two days later, Domenico stood by the first of the Nissen huts to be moved. There were eight men along each side of the building, which consisted of a double skin of corrugated iron sections, fixed either side of an iron and timber frame. The structure had already been loosened from the foundations and the end brick walls. All that was needed was to lift the building over one wall and carry it to the new site.

  However, Domenico was worried that the frame would distort once raised or that the building might be dropped. When the recreation hut had been constructed, before the steel stays were added, the entire building had been tipped over by the wind and badly damaged. That was a much bigger and heavier Nissen hut than the one in front of him now. The wind was picking up as the men waited for his signal. He didn’t want to stop. Everything was set for today. Buttapasta and another gang were already waiting at the new site. He took a big breath.

  ‘Are you ready?’ he shouted.

  Men bent over, gripping whatever they could. They all waited.

  ‘Lift!’

  The hut rocked, men fought for better holds and then the entire building rose into the air, albeit rather unsteadily.

  ‘Move!’

  They started to walk sideways with short steps. Gradually the Nissen hut was lifted along its length over the brick wall nearest to Domenico, who shouted encouragement and words of warning when one side dropped lower than the other. Eventually they were clear and the little procession, watched by several hundred Italians, began its painstakingly slow journey.

  By the halfway point the wind caught the hut one way and then another. Domenico was horrified. They were losing control. He shouted at the men to increase their efforts but the hut was such an awkward thing to carry that they couldn’t go any faster. If anything, they were slowing down. Domenico considered calling on the help of those standing around watching, but he thought that suddenly having dozens of newcomers enthusiastically pushing in, without any real thought, could result in disaster.

  He had hand-picked these men and they were balanced down each side for strength and height. He couldn’t change anything now, and so they gasped and moved as quickly as they could. As they neared the new site it started to rain heavily. Buttapasta was frantic. He had already sent men to bring back stakes and rope so that they could tie the hut down and when Domenico arrived, the site was a hive of activity, with men hammering stakes into the frozen ground as fast as they could.

  ‘I don’t like this wind,’ shouted Buttapasta, looking over Domenico’s shoulder at the hut about twenty yards behind.

  ‘It was fine less than an hour ago,’ said the artist miserably. ‘We’ll never predict the weather in this place.’

  As the exhausted men tried to manoeuvre the structure into position the wind took hold of it completely and started to flip it over. Those on one side were forced on to the ground, while the others felt the corrugated iron torn from their grasp. Suddenly men were shouting warnings and those in danger of being trapped underneath started to let go. Potential disaster was moments away. Domenico ran forward closely followed by Buttapasta and a dozen of his men, some of whom rushed inside the hut. Between them they took hold of every square inch they could reach and with huge efforts combined against the elements, eased the building as carefully as they could into position.

  ‘Tie it down!’ snarled Buttapasta. He was angry; angry like the wind that howled around them. ‘Tie it down!’


  Ropes were thrown, hurled back by the gale and thrown again, until one by one about half a dozen stout ropes straddled the hut and were tied firmly to the stakes.

  ‘Damn this weather, Domenico. We should have seen this coming. We can’t lift the other hut in this weather and we won’t be able to do anything with this one other than fasten it down as best we can. God knows if the hut will still be here in the morning if we get a real storm during the night.’

  ‘And we’ve already loosened the second hut. We’ll have to tie it down or we could lose that one as well.’

  ‘You’d better go back now. Take those spare stakes and rope,’ said Buttapasta pointing to an Italian holding both items, ‘and whatever men you need. We’re not going to be able to do any more than that today. It’s a bloody mess.’

  14

  Domenico lay in bed, going through the day’s events in his mind. They had come so close to disaster right at the very beginning. He let out a long sigh to ease the tension in his body. The worst times for the Italians were at night. During the day they were always busy and there was constant interaction.

  In the dark, lying in bed alone and unable to sleep, men fretted about their families and friends. They worried whether ageing parents would die before the war was over and feared for the safety of wives and children. The severe food shortage in Italy was common knowledge in the camp. They tormented themselves that young children would have long ago forgotten who their father was, and would scream at sight of the ‘stranger’.

  Men wondered if they would even recognise themselves after so many years away. Could they simply pick up family life, a normal job and domestic routine after so long? Did such basic things even exist anymore? Had a sweetheart left behind already found someone else? For some, darkness meant despair, which ate away at their spirit.

  There was a faint glow in the centre of the hut from the open stove, where Dino sat with a man whose descent into depression had concerned many. Sergeant Primavera and the camp doctor were aware of the situation, but there was little that could be done. It had become an unspoken rule that someone always kept an eye on the person concerned, without him being aware. Dino was leaning close and in the flickering glow from the flames Domenico could see him whispering earnestly, trying to make a connection. Domenico was reminded of their first day at the quarry and Buttapasta’s comment about Dante’s journey into Hades. In many ways, the man was standing at the gates of Hell and it was only the indomitable spirit of Dino that refused to let him enter.

  Outside the wind and rain beat down on the corrugated iron roof. Domenico was certain he could see the sides of the hut twisting and distorting, fighting against the steel stays that held it down.

  There was a new face in the hut, one of half a dozen Italians who had arrived on Lamb Holm that day. The men had been captured in Sicily following the Allied invasion of the island during the summer, and had immediately been grilled by those desperate for news about their own villages or towns. The men in Camp 60 learned about events in Europe from the radio in the mess hall, and for several days that October the main topic of conversation was the Badoglio government’s declaration of war on Germany. But it was information on events that might directly affect their families back home that the Italians craved, rather than the larger, military picture. None of the new arrivals had any knowledge of Domenico’s home town, Moena.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ questioned Aldo, who was lying in bed facing Domenico.

  ‘I was wondering if the chapel will have a roof in the morning. What about you?’

  ‘Nothing really.’

  ‘The war won’t go on for ever, Aldo. You never talk about your life back home. Who do you have waiting for you when all this madness is over?’

  Aldo didn’t answer and Domenico didn’t press the question. Most of the men talked about their homes all the time, but if Aldo didn’t want to that was his right. Domenico lay quietly, watching the wall above his head move inwards several inches as if a huge hand was pushing it from the other side.

  ‘There’s no one for me. My mother died when I was eleven and my father pined away. He gave up a few years later. By the time I was twelve I had to earn the money we lived on, otherwise we would have starved.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Domenico didn’t want to pry, but it seemed ruder not to make a comment than to stay quiet. ‘No brothers or sisters?’

  ‘No.’

  They lay in silence for a while listening to the rain beating down on the roof.

  ‘Time and nature are great healers of scars,’ said Domenico.

  ‘I think, when you’re young, some scars go so deep they mould your character. They set you upon a path that has no turning and you will forever wonder what journey you might otherwise have known.’

  ‘God will always show you a new path, if you let Him.’

  There was another pause in the conversation. ‘Aldo,’ said Domenico at long last, ‘a crowded room can be the loneliest place on earth, while a man on an island can be in perfect peace with himself and humanity.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘But do you appreciate how easy it is to create your own crowded room?’

  For a long while Aldo didn’t answer.

  ‘I’m going to try and sleep,’ he said eventually, and rolled over to face away. The door was closed once more. Domenico sighed quietly and looked at the bed next to him. Shortly after they had arrived at the camp Aldo had acquired several additional blankets because he felt the cold so much. All Domenico could see in the semi-darkness was a mound of blankets, under which his friend lay, hiding from the other men in the hut, hiding from the demons of his past.

  15

  The storm passed during the night and a sunrise of brilliant red spread across the camp. Domenico and Buttapasta walked around in silence as they examined the hut. It had shifted a few feet but was still there, intact.

  ‘Well, I don’t know if you intend this part to be the school or the chapel, but it’s still here for whichever use,’ said Buttapasta. ‘But we’ll need to secure this properly to the foundations and fix steel stays before we think of moving the other hut into position.’

  ‘Yes, but perhaps we should try to get one of the locals to forecast the weather for us,’ teased Domenico, wondering if such a thing might be an idea. He was tired. They all were, for few of the men had slept much. ‘But we’re not doing any of it now. Building a house of God has much less priority than constructing a concrete road.’

  A few weeks after the first hut had been moved, Giuseppe and five other POWs, along with a guard, found themselves walking down a country track in Holm, on mainland Orkney. It was not uncommon for small groups to carry out repairs on local farms and this one sounded like another typical job of clearing ditches and replacing fencing. The men didn’t mind. Many of them had been farmers before the war and the work was certainly preferable to being on the causeways. Also, the farmer’s wife generally gave them a better meal and often some local treats. If they were really lucky there might even be some young women on the farm. When this happened the men would almost fall over each other trying to make conversation, even though they generally didn’t know sufficient English to make much sense. They would beg Giuseppe to translate and sometimes he entertained himself and everyone else by altering what each side said.

  They found the farm and the men sat down near the gate while Giuseppe walked up the path to the front door. He could hear someone playing the piano inside so he stood for a while and enjoyed the music. It was good. However, the guard finally shouted so he knocked and the music stopped. Giuseppe was glancing over his shoulder at the men when the door opened and he turned around to look into a woman’s face, a hand-some, honest face, surrounded by auburn hair.

  ‘Giuseppe!’ she said with delight.

  ‘Fiona. I can’t believe it. I’m … speechless!’

  She laughed.

  ‘You’ve come to help on the farm?’

  ‘Yes. This is your home?

 
‘Since I was born. Everyone else is away this morning. I’ve been left to tell you what to do.’

  ‘I was … distraught when I was unable to come back to the hospital.’

  ‘I know. There was nothing I could do. On the day your friend returned to the camp I didn’t arrive until later that morning and he had already left.’

  ‘Was that you playing the piano?’

  ‘Yes. I didn’t know anyone was listening.’

  ‘You’re good. Perhaps tomorrow I will bring my banjo.’

  ‘You play the banjo?’

  ‘Not for years, but I’ve bought one from the camp shop. It would be good to play together.’

  Their attention was taken by a series of wolf whistles and calls from the Italians, who had spotted Giuseppe talking to the woman in the doorway.

  ‘I’d better show you what needs to be done, but I’ll think of a way to get together.’

  Fiona and Giuseppe walked back to the gate where the wolf whistles grew louder. Fiona smiled when they reached the men, who stood up quickly, several taking off their hats and greeting her in Italian with a sudden show of respect and … admiration. She led them around the farm, pointing out the clogged ditches and the fence that needed to be put up. The new barbed wire and posts were stacked nearby. She took them into the barn to show them where the tools were kept and immediately two of the Italians wandered over to inspect the cattle, which were in the building whilst the fence was being repaired.

  Fiona could see by the way they handled the animals that they had a great affinity for them. They were soon shouting questions so in the end Fiona and Giuseppe walked over.

  It seemed to take a long while before any work was actually started, but Fiona liked the Italians. They made her laugh even when she didn’t understand what they were saying. She returned to the house to make coffee and said Giuseppe should follow to help carry everything out. He gave her fifteen minutes and left. The guard made no objection.