by Philip Paris
‘Leave your boots on,’ she said to him at the door, when he was about to take them off. ‘This is a farmhouse. We’d get no work done at all if we took our boots off every time we came in.’
She led him to the kitchen.
‘We seem destined always just to have a few snatched moments together,’ she said. ‘It’s not enough, is it?’
She was testing the ground, searching for his feelings.
‘No. It’s not enough. I’ve thought of you constantly since we met,’ he said. ‘Have your nightmares stopped?’
‘I haven’t had one since we were in the hospital kitchen, when you were so kind.’
‘I was greatly affected by what you told me, by the fact you told me, and no one else.’
‘Sometimes we have no control over these things. They happen when they are meant to …’
They were quiet again, studying each other’s face, and the kitchen was silent apart from the whistling of the kettle.
‘I should make the coffee,’ she said at last, but didn’t move.
‘Let them wait.’
He reached out and touched her hair gently. ‘One day I would like a lock of your hair.’
Before she spoke they heard the front door open and someone enter. Giuseppe took a step back and Fiona moved to the stove. A few moments later her parents appeared.
‘Hello,’ said Fiona, pouring water into the mugs. ‘I didn’t know you would be back so soon. This is Mr Palumbi, who is one of the men helping to repair the fence. This is my father and mother.’
‘Mr Palumbi. We are very grateful for your help,’ said her father.
‘I am pleased to meet you, sir,’ said Giuseppe respectfully, taking the offered hand. He faced Fiona’s mother and very formally said. ‘I am pleased to meet you ma’am.’ This sent Fiona’s mother into peals of laughter.
‘Goodness me, you can call me Margaret like everyone else.’
She was a small woman but when she shook Giuseppe’s hand he felt the strength in her arm and he sensed a steely character; a person not to be deflected in the course she set, even by the fiercest of Orkney winds. Giuseppe was greatly touched. He had known many abuses and hardships over the last few years but the recent contact with local Orkney people had changed his mind about what he imagined people thought of him as a man and as an Italian.
‘Come on, Mr Palumbi,’ said Fiona, who had now filled the mugs. ‘You can help carry these outside then I must leave for the hospital. I’m on a late shift today.’ But before they left the kitchen she deliberately set the scene for the next day. ‘When the men come back tomorrow father, Mr Palumbi is going to play his banjo for us.’
‘Is he?’ said her father, as thrilled as Giuseppe was surprised. ‘Well, in that case you must all have tea with us in the afternoon, after you’ve finished your work.’
So the next day, six Italian POWs, who had spent the previous evening having their hair cut, polishing shoes and cleaning uniforms, sat around with the greatest politeness in the living room of Fiona’s parents’ house. They were even more delighted when joined by Rebecca, who at seventeen was quite stunning and wasn’t going to miss the event for anything.
The only person who looked uncomfortable was the guard. He had recently arrived in Camp 60. A new ruling meant guards were changed every six months, but this man knew the regulations and their little afternoon break in someone’s house was strictly against the rules. He told Giuseppe he would only allow it if the men agreed they would not mention the visit to anyone. Certainly, none of the men had argued with this point. They sat and talked, Giuseppe translating back and forth, about the farm and the camp. The Italians spoke with great excitement about the chapel that was to be built.
Giuseppe later took out his banjo and one of the other men entertained them with his commanding baritone voice. It was an afternoon they never forgot. When the Italians returned to the camp they felt elated yet subdued at the same time. They had been treated as equals and friends, which affected them all deeply. Giuseppe, in particular, was quiet. It had been a marvellous experience but he had not managed to get any time alone with Fiona and they only had one more day’s work on the farm before they would be working once more on the causeways.
However, the next day Fiona walked up to the men when they were clearing one of the ditches and said she needed someone to help her move some things in the barn. Only Giuseppe and the guard knew what she had said and Giuseppe was out of the ditch before the guard could respond.
‘Do you really need help to move something?’ asked Giuseppe when they were in the barn. It was silent. Even the cattle were back out in the field.
‘I don’t know what we’re going to do,’ she responded. ‘I’ve never been in this situation before. I’m not a silly young girl. And yet here we are … two adults hiding in a barn.’
‘Fiona, there is something I must tell you.’
‘I know … you’re married.’
‘You know?’
‘I guessed. You don’t talk about certain parts of your life in Italy.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. You shouldn’t be sorry for getting married and I’m not sorry for how I feel. There can never be shame in loving someone. But what can we do about it?’
Giuseppe took her hand, led her to a bale of hay where they could sit out of sight, and then told her about his life in Italy with his wife Pierina and son Renato. He told her about why he joined the army and how he had been captured in Bardia along with thousands of other Italians, moved around various prisoner of war camps until finally ending up in Orkney.
‘There you have it. And in a few hours we’ll have finished our work here and I will return to the camp, with no reason to come back … other than my feelings, and I don’t think the major will think that a good enough excuse.’
She leaned over and kissed him. It wasn’t a passionate kiss but it was one to be remembered by. And Giuseppe would remember it.
‘You must go back to the others,’ she said. ‘Fate may yet play its hand for us.’
They stood up and walked slowly towards the entrance but before they reached it Fiona spoke again.
‘Giuseppe, there is one thing more I wanted to say. Yesterday, the men were talking about building a chapel.’
‘The chapel? That’s right.’
‘Go and offer to help.’
‘Help build the chapel? Why do you suggest that?’
She put her hand on his chest, above his heart.
‘Because I think it will help to ease a troubled soul.’
She smiled at him. She was half joking and half serious but, as Giuseppe thought afterwards, inevitably right.
Towards the middle of December, Domenico and his men moved the second Nissen hut, this time without incident. Corrugated iron was fixed over the join of the huts and the two ends of the structure were cemented to the brick walls to make a watertight building. Each end wall had been built with a doorway because Domenico had already decided that the eastern door would be Padre Giacomo’s entry into the vestry, which would have an internal door leading into the chancel. The western end of the building, which faced into the camp, would be the main entrance.
A few days before Christmas, Domenico and Buttapasta found themselves in the new, enlarged Nissen hut, along with Aldo and Micheloni. They had just returned from a day of unloading bags of cement from a barge. Their backs and shoulders ached with the effort and their hair was covered in fine grey powder. The two doors from the original huts had been fitted the previous evening by a couple of the carpenters, so the four men had gone to view the building now that the structure was essentially complete. A weak light filtered in through the two windows that were situated each side of the building. It was a cold, echoing, empty space. Buttapasta and Domenico went around checking joints and brickwork in minute detail, but Aldo stood in the centre looking rather disappointed.
‘It’s an empty hut,’ he said at last, rather ungraciously.
Domenico and
Buttapasta, who had spent so much time and hard work just to get the two huts to this one spot, were not pleased at the observation.
‘What did you expect Aldo?’ said Domenico. ‘Did you think we had a self-erecting chapel? That all we had to do was assemble the parts and it would be ready for prayers?’
‘All I can see is another bloody freezing cold hut.’
This was too much even for the placid Domenico, who suddenly grabbed Aldo by the shoulders.
‘Sometimes you must see with your heart, Aldo. Making money is not what life is about.’
Aldo was quite taken aback by this uncharacteristic show of anger and he felt a mixture of regret and resentment at his comment.
The two friends stood facing each other, both angry and sorry in equal measure. The atmosphere had become very uncomfortable. Domenico, realising he was still holding Aldo by the shoulders, let his arms drop with a sigh.
‘Aldo does have a point, Domenico,’ said Buttapasta. ‘To convert this hut into a chapel will be a mammoth task. I’ll help all I can, but my skill is really only with stone and cement.’
Domenico looked at Buttapasta in silence and the big man wished he had not spoken. In the end it was Micheloni who broke the stalemate.
‘I’ve been speaking to De Vitto,’ he said to no one in par ticular. ‘You know we were both electricians before the war. We wondered if our skills could be used. We were thinking that if we run power from the nearest hut there would be light to work by and also light for the chapel when it is completed, so men could pray at any time of the day or night.’
It was such a simple observation. Domenico was greatly touched by the offer and by these men, who had been quietly working out ways to help without making a fuss.
‘Your skills would indeed be most welcome. Thank you,’ said Domenico, his anger of moments ago totally forgotten.
‘There is almost every skill imaginable in the camp, including some you certainly wouldn’t desire for a chapel, but the problem is not men … it’s materials,’ said Buttapasta.
Domenico didn’t quite know what to think. It had taken so much planning and effort just to get where they were that part of him felt they should celebrate, even for a few minutes, what they had achieved. Aldo lacked the vision to see they could create something great from elements that were not individually great.
‘I know,’ said Domenico. ‘It’s something that has been on my mind. But now we have a building and can move forward from there.’
‘I’m sure God will show us the way,’ said Aldo sarcastically. Domenico turned around to face him, but before he could speak the door opened and an Italian entered. He looked around at the four men inside.
‘Domenico Chiocchetti?’
‘That’s me,’ replied Domenico.
‘I’m Giuseppe Palumbi. Everyone is talking about your chapel. I wondered if I could help. Before the war I was an iron worker.’
‘A blacksmith. I’m sure your talents could be put to very good use,’ said Domenico, shaking Giuseppe’s hand warmly.
‘We were just saying the biggest problem facing us will be finding the right materials,’ said Buttapasta. ‘At the moment what we have is an empty hut and an endless supply of cement. With the best will in the world, not everything can be made of that.’
‘You should try the blockships,’ said Giuseppe.
‘The blockships?’ queried Domenico.
‘When the British scuttled the ships to block the channels between the islands, they didn’t bother stripping much out. At low tide you can get below decks, though not to the lower ones. There are all sorts of materials down there; iron, brass, glass, ceramic tiles and good quality wood. You just have to find a way to remove it and get it out before the tide returns.’
Blockships! Domenico and Buttapasta looked at each other. Why hadn’t they considered them before? It suddenly felt they had been shown the way forward.
‘Your gift is most welcome. Both of them,’ said Domenico, his face breaking into a huge grin.
Buttapasta held out his hand to Giuseppe, who was smiling with surprise that his information had been so useful.
‘Welcome to the team.’
16
The days rolled by and, one cold but clear Sunday morning in January 1944, Aldo appeared at the ‘chapel’ on a bicycle that looked as though it had been made before the First World War. The huge basket at the front contained three rucksacks. Domenico was working outside with Esposito and Sforza, who had been carpenters before being called up. Their carpentry days seemed as though they belonged to another life and the men were glad to have the feel of wood between their fingers once more.
‘Domenico. What are you doing?’ asked Aldo, stopping several yards away so he had to raise his voice. He was in ‘wheeler-dealer’ mode, full of chat; the whole world his friend.
‘Hey, Aldo. We’re building a frame to fit to the inside walls of the hut at the far end, where the chancel will be situated. The idea is to prevent any damp that may come through the corrugated iron affecting the plasterboard. Where are you off to?’
‘The men have been busy and have a lot they want to sell. There are all sorts of appealing trinkets. Why don’t you have a look? You might see something you want. I’ll do you a good deal.’
‘I’ll leave that for the locals,’ said Domenico smiling.
‘I’ve even got a ship in a bottle. Do you know how they do that?’
‘I’ve an idea.’
‘Ha! I thought you might. Anyway I’m off to the mainland. You and Buttapasta say I should get more exercise … I just hope this monster doesn’t kill me along the way. Did you know, some of the men want to donate their takings to the chapel? They’re talking of creating a chapel fund to help buy the things you need.’
Domenico was taken aback. He hadn’t heard this news and wanted to know more, but Aldo was already wobbling towards the gate. He would have to curb his curiosity until later.
‘You be careful of those pretty girls,’ he shouted after the retreating figure.
Aldo called back without turning around, ‘Why do you think I suggested they make necklaces?’
Domenico stood for several moments watching man and bicycle disappear down the road. He still believed there was a different Aldo hidden behind armour-plated cynicism. The artist shook his head and turned back to the task in hand.
The exact status of the Italians was still confused but Aldo had obtained a permit that allowed him to travel a short distance from the camp on a Sunday, and he quickly reached the causeway leading to mainland Orkney. All of the causeways were now passable on foot, though there was much work to be done to make them suitable for vehicles.
Dividing the sea had resulted in a strange calmness to the water, which no longer raged through the channel. While there had still been gaps between the bolsters and concrete blocks, or sections over the top that water could pass, the tide would surge with a terrible force, trying to squeeze a huge volume of water through a few small areas whereas before it had the entire channel. It was frightening to see and hear. But once the gaps had been filled and the height of the causeway lifted sufficiently, the sea rose and fell quite calmly, trickling gently back and forth unseen beneath the surface.
Aldo looked along the causeway for a while before setting off. A narrow-gauge railway line had been laid temporarily along part of it, in order to transport ten-ton concrete blocks to an electric crane. The crane positioned the blocks to a carefully worked out pattern, and as it gradually moved along the causeway, more track was laid so the train could continue to supply it.
He reached the other side with nothing more than a wet trouser leg, and continued past the Rockworks block-yard and the entrance to the Balfour Beatty offices. He had no great plan other than to knock on doors and show the work that had been produced. The deal with the craftsmen was that he could keep fifteen per cent of anything sold, which was a big incentive. It wasn’t long before Aldo pulled up at the first cottage.
When the front
door opened his heart almost missed a beat, for the girl who stood before him was not much younger than himself and was as beautiful a vision as he had ever seen. Twenty minutes later the girl stood in the doorway wearing a pale blue necklace and Aldo had a shilling in his pocket. Aldo could have done the transaction in less than half the time but couldn’t bring himself to rush the sale.
Aldo was not an imposing figure, but his delicate features and cheeky smile made him very appealing to women.
‘You were the most beautiful girl on the island but now you’re a queen,’ he said. ‘Anything you want, you ask for Aldo at Camp 60.’
The gradient of the path meant he was quickly opening up a gap between himself and the cottage.
‘Don’t forget, you are beautiful and I am Aldo Tolino,’ he shouted.
He wasn’t sure if she could hear. It didn’t matter. He had made his first sale of the day, the weather was good, he was out of the camp and he was happy. The girl fingered the blue necklace and watched the attractive young Italian ride down the path.
Three hours later Aldo was heading up a hill towards a cottage he had spotted a while earlier. He had sold everything apart from one item but his basket was far from empty. In addition to buying his wares, many people had thrust food into his hands. He felt both elated at the successful afternoon and slightly humbled by the friendliness of the locals.
He now had quite an abundance of home-made items in his rucksacks, including a freshly made loaf, two jars of jam and something an elderly lady had called ‘bannocks’. She had repeated the word, each time a little louder as if he was hard of hearing. In the end he had stood there, smiling gratefully, but with no idea what he was holding within the well wrapped paper, while she shouted ‘Bannocks! Bannocks!’
As he approached the cottage on the hill he could see an old man sitting by the front door, smoking a long clay pipe, a picture of complete countryside contentment.
