by Philip Paris
‘Domenico! The plasterboard has been delivered and it’s about to get a soaking.’
Horrified, Domenico suddenly shot up the path.
‘Come on everyone,’ shouted Buttapasta setting off after his friend.
Then they were all running, a couple of younger men overtaking the artist in the frantic dash to reach the precious material and save it from being ruined. The rain was falling faster every second. It took two men to lift each board and so pairs of men started to carry them into the hut as quickly as they could. Suddenly it became a race against the rain and each other, so that men were slipping, laughing and calling out and all the while rushing backwards and forwards. Buttapasta and Domenico positioned themselves inside to ensure nothing was damaged by anyone not taking sufficient care. Aldo entered, carrying the end of a large board.
‘How come you two get to stay in the dry?’ he complained.
‘That’s the difference between skilled and unskilled workers,’ said Buttapasta.
It took only a few minutes to get all the plasterboard stacked safely. The men stood around out of breath, grinning at each other, while the rain pounded down on the roof.
‘Another five minutes and your plasterboard would have been a soggy heap,’ said Dino to Domenico.
‘It was a close thing,’ agreed the artist, who had been considering that very possibility.
‘I think this deserves a celebration and the drinks are on Aldo,’ said Carlo who knew that Dino, although Aldo’s partner in the business, preferred to create things rather than make money and wouldn’t be upset at his suggestion.
‘Why me?’ asked Aldo aghast.
‘Because we happen to know you’ve just completed distilling your latest batch of spirit,’ came another voice from the increasing gloom within the hut.
‘That may be true, but it’s not easy getting hold of the right ingredients. I don’t just find them under my bed.’
‘We know what’s been under your bed,’ said another man, who started to imitate a chicken. The others joined in, flapping their arms by their sides. Everyone roared at the sight and Aldo had to shout his protests to be heard.
‘Oh very funny. Very funny. It was only for one night. Only one night!’
‘Fancy Aldo having a bird under his bed,’ said the man. ‘It’s an odd way to keep your pecker up!’
‘Aldo’s distillery,’ shouted another voice. The cry was quickly taken up as several men grabbed Aldo and lifted him high in the air.
‘Put me down. Don’t think you’re getting a drink for free,’ cried Aldo desperately.
Despite his protests they carried him outside into the pouring rain and, with most of them making loud clucking noises, set off as fast as they could for the kitchen where they knew Aldo hid his supply.
‘Mind my oil,’ was the last thing Domenico and Buttapasta, standing in the doorway, heard from the struggling figure as the group of men ran into the falling darkness. They were both laughing loudly.
‘Poor Aldo. I don’t think he’s going to win that argument,’ said Buttapasta.
‘I worry about Aldo’s spirit.’
‘I know, Domenico. But he’s young. And I think he’ll be alright.’
The hut was noisy that evening, partly because it included some of the men who had carried Aldo off earlier. Domenico sat on his bed, trying to block out the babble, writing to Maria.
My dearest Maria,
I pray daily that you and all the family are well and safe from harm. I am in good health, though of course missing you and everyone at home. I pray for the day when I can return and we can have a normal life together. Work on the little chapel continues slowly but steadily. Everyone is so eager to help but we can only progress when we obtain materials.
Thank you for the socks and the cream for my hands. Can you send more cream? I’ve shared it with the others and it has all gone. Also, could you send more woollen gloves? I put them on under my working pair but they still wear out with the hard work. Life in the camp is otherwise the same as ever. We are treated well.
Aldo is sulking behind a copy of Il Corriere del Prigioniero because the men drank his entire stock of spirit without paying and now several of them are quite drunk. Across the hut, on the other side of the stove, Dino is singing to a ferret! No, I have not been drinking! He struck up a friendship with a local farmer who delivers vegetables to the camp’s kitchen and the man keeps ferrets. He smuggled one in to show Dino, who immediately fell in love with the little creature.
He’s named it ‘Churchill’ and keeps it in a cage at the end of the next hut. He can’t use this one because Aldo has made his chicken coop here. Dino has arranged with the farmer to use the ferret to hunt rabbits as long as the farmer can have the skins. Dino loves animals but he is not so sentimental he would turn down the chance to improve the men’s food. Carlo is much less sure about this development. I think he is wary of the sharp teeth and I can’t blame him. One of the British sergeants complained that the camp is turning into a zoo, but I think he was only joking.
Domenico stopped for a moment and looked over at Dino singing to the ferret, which he held in his arms. Carlo was sitting well back on his bed. He had a small pile of cigarettes on a wooden board and was slicing them lengthways with a razorblade. Every man in the camp received a weekly ration of thirty-five cigarettes and it was a common pastime amongst the smokers to cut them and rearrange the tobacco to make it go further. The scene was so amusing that he quickly sketched the image on the paper then began writing again.
There, when you receive this letter you will see what I am looking at now. As you know there are many things I cannot talk about because it will be cut out by the people who read our mail. The British tell us their letters are also opened and read. We are all in the same position. People are not even allowed to mention the weather, even though it seems to be the main topic of conversation for everyone.
Domenico looked up. Everyone had fallen silent. All except Dino, who up until that point had been trying odd snatches of different songs to see how the ferret reacted. He put the animal on top of his mattress and started to sing De Crescenzo’s ‘Rondine al Nido’. A few beds away Sergeant Primavera picked up a violin and the passion that emanated from them was like a physical force that filled every corner of the hut.
When the last note died away everyone remained silent. It went far beyond a performance.
Eventually, Dino picked up the little animal and walked from the hut and only when he closed the door was the spell broken. Even then, no one made a sound. When Domenico finally looked down at his letter he saw the drawing he had done was smudged, because tears had fallen down his cheeks and dropped on to the paper.
18
Domenico, Esposito and Sforza were fixing sheets of plasterboard to the wooden frame that had been constructed in the chancel, when the door opened. Padre Giacomo and Sergeant Major Fornasier entered.
Domenico stopped work to greet the new arrivals.
‘Domenico,’ said Sergeant Major Fornasier. ‘I trust everything is going to plan?’
‘Yes, thank you, sir.’
‘I see your helpers are getting on well,’ said Sergeant Major Fornasier.
There was a relaxed atmosphere in the camp regarding rank. Sergeant Major Fornasier was only twenty-eight, but he was both liked and respected by his men and the British officers, with whom he was in constant liaison.
‘What will be the next stage, once the plasterboard is fixed?’ he asked.
‘Well, once we’ve taped the edges to create a smooth surface then we can start painting the chancel.’
‘A task that falls on your shoulders,’ said Padre Giacomo.
‘Which means it will be slow work I’m afraid,’ said Domenico. In addition to Buttapasta and Giuseppe there was a small army of skilled men – bricklayers, carpenters, electricians – but Domenico was the one artist. Only he had the skill to paint the chancel.
‘Perhaps I could speak to Major Buckland about relieving
you from working on the causeways?’ suggested Sergeant Major Fornasier. ‘That way you could concentrate all your efforts on the chapel.’
‘That would certainly make a huge difference, sir,’ said Domenico, who was taken aback at the suggestion.
‘Leave it with me. One less man working on the causeways is hardly going to make any difference to their completion.’
‘Thank you, sir. While you’re here I would value both of your opinions on the designs I have created,’ said Domenico, moving the small table into the centre of the room. ‘This is the overall design for the chancel,’ he said, pointing at the top sheet.
The priest had been intimately involved in the chapel’s design but Sergeant Major Fornasier spent several minutes studying the drawings.
‘This is excellent. Are these curtains?’ he asked.
‘One to hide the door into the vestry and a similar curtain on the other side of the altar to create balance, although there’ll be nothing behind that one except the wall. The curtains are something I know we can’t make in the camp.’
‘I’m going to speak to Major Booth and see if he can help us track down a firm to supply them,’ said the priest.
‘And these openings here?’
‘Windows, sir. At least the glass shouldn’t be too difficult to obtain. I’ve got one of the men helping. On the left, I’m going to paint St Catherine of Siena and on the right, St Francis of Assisi. Padre Giacomo and I each chose a figure. Micheloni and De Vitto are going to position lights in the vestry so that anyone standing in the chancel will see the images on the glass lit up from behind. At least, that’s the plan. I’ve produced designs for the altar, altar rail and holy water stoup. I was hoping to make them out of clay then create a mould in plaster into which I could pour concrete, but it might be difficult getting the clay. There isn’t any on Lamb Holm.’
‘Let me see if I can help,’ said Sergeant Major Fornasier.
‘What are these drawings here?’ said Padre Giacomo, who had picked up another sheet and spotted something he hadn’t seen before.
‘Designs for candelabra.’
‘You’re not making those as well?’ asked Padre Giacomo.
‘No, Padre.’
‘Many months of work yet?’ suggested Sergeant Major Fornasier.
‘It’s impossible to predict just how many, sir,’ said Domenico. ‘Of course, everything might change depending on what materials we can get hold of. We’re hoping to get some of it from the blockships.’
‘The blockships?’ said Sergeant Major Fornasier thoughtfully. ‘I don’t believe we have any divers amongst the men.’
‘We’ll take out only what can be brought up safely at low tide, sir.’
‘Make sure the men don’t put themselves at risk.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The following week Sergeant Primavera found himself being led along the deck of a blockship by Carlo and Dino, who were renowned for their practical jokes. They had insisted they had found something that would interest him greatly but had declined, politely, to say what it was. And so he followed the two cousins through a hatch and down a ladder, where Dino switched on a large torch.
The three men descended another ladder and Carlo lit two lanterns he had picked up on the deck of the ship. The lanterns were always kept dry in a cabin for anyone going below decks and were put back in the same place when people left. The men were now standing in a foot of freezing water and Sergeant Primavera’s patience was wearing thin. However, he took the lantern offered and followed, their splashing feet echoing noisily.
‘A few of the men have been down here looking around in their spare time,’ said Carlo leading the way. ‘It’s easy to get lost so ropes have been fixed as handrails along the corridors. Every so often there’s a dash of blue and red paint. If the blue paint is furthest away from you, then you are heading towards the way out. If the blue is nearest then you are walking further into the ship.’
‘It’s safe enough really,’ added Dino. ‘If water starts rising up your legs, get out fast.’
‘I hope you’re not planning to get me lost down here and run off.’
‘Sergeant Primavera!’ said Dino.
‘How could you think such a thing?’ asked Carlo.
‘Alright, just show me what you’ve found,’ said the sergeant.
The men set off again and after several turns and corridors Carlo suddenly stopped by a set of stairs that went, at a crazy angle, down to another deck below.
‘There! What do you think of that, sergeant?’ he said, shining the torch at the steps.
Sergeant Primavera was puzzled. The stairs were black with dirt and grime and he wasn’t sure if they meant him to go further down.
‘What am I looking at?’ he asked.
Carlo moved closer to the stairs and, taking a cloth out of his pocket, started to rub a very small patch on the top step. The area had obviously been cleaned recently because the metal of the steps reflected light from the lanterns. Sergeant Primavera leant down, snatched the cloth and rubbed vigorously at the same spot.
‘Brass!’ he exclaimed.
Dino and Carlo beamed
‘Yes, and we heard that Domenico has asked you to make brass candelabra for the chapel,’ said Dino.
‘Is nothing secret in this place?’
‘Of course not, sergeant,’ answered the men together.
Sergeant Primavera stood up, pleased.
‘Well done, lads. Well done. Will you take two steps out for me?’
‘With pleasure, sergeant … but not today,’ said Carlo. ‘It’s getting too near to the turn of the tide. We’ll get them for you tomorrow.’
Carlo and Dino were removing the two brass steps the following day as Major Buckland and Padre Giacomo walked by on the shore, enjoying what had turned out to be a surprisingly calm afternoon. The two men, who were a similar age, enjoyed each other’s company and were in no hurry. For a while they walked in silence looking over at men fishing from the Lycia.
It was the responsibility of the British Government to provide clothing for the Italians as well as accommodation, food and other services. Since Italy’s capitulation the previous September the new chocolate-coloured uniforms did not incorporate target discs and so the red circles, which had caused so much offence, were no longer seen around the camp.
‘Domenico asked me to thank you for helping to find suitable paints and brushes, Major Buckland, without which the chapel could not be created.’
‘Oh, it was really down to the generosity of a local artist. Word about the chapel has got around the islands and generated a great deal of interest. How are Chiocchetti and his men getting on, Padre? I hear a lot of talk about “the chapel” as if it’s almost complete, when it’s no more than a hut with some plasterboard walls.’
‘I think his enthusiasm and belief have inspired those around him. Virtually everyone wants to be involved in something to benefit the soul, rather than the body. Men offer to do even the smallest of tasks, just so they can say they have helped.’
‘You have to admire his dedication. Without his drive and skill as an artist …’ Major Buckland stopped walking. ‘What’s that man doing there, Padre?’ he said, pointing at a man sitting apart from the others. ‘Can you make out?’
Padre Giacomo studied the man indicated.
‘Ah, I believe one of the locals, the man who runs the power station, has tried to teach him how to make a lobster …’ Padre Giacomo was stuck for the right word.
‘Creel,’ said Major Buckland with interest. ‘A rope box designed to catch lobsters. Yes, I believe Mr Johnstone is a keen fisherman in his spare time.’
‘A creel,’ repeated Padre Giacomo. ‘That’s it. A strange word.’
‘Hah, well, he’ll have to watch out for his fingers. They’re vicious blighters.’
The two men started to walk again.
‘So in the meantime will you continue to hold mass in the mess, Padre?’ said Major Buckland with a smile.
/> ‘It serves the purpose, Major. Although the smell of the previous night’s meal is sometimes not so pleasant, it doesn’t stop the numbers from growing.’
‘We’ll have to see what we can do to help Chiocchetti. It’s all in his hands.’
‘At the moment, it’s all in his head,’ said the priest.
19
Winter arrived at the end of February, with no feeling for the misery caused to men working in the quarry, trying to transport materials through snow-blocked roads, standing guard or lying in bed at night, separated from the howling wind by two pieces of corrugated iron. It was a bleak time. The news from Italy was of fierce fighting and heavy bombing by the Allies, resulting in the destruction of the sacred Monte Cassino monastery. Men fretted about loved ones more than ever.
New faces appeared, as small groups of Italians arrived on Lamb Holm. Occasionally, a man with a particular skill was sent to work in England, where his talents could be put to more effective use. At the beginning of the month, sixty men had been moved to a camp of the Royal Pioneer Corps near Stromness, where their labour was needed in the local dockyards. Camp 60 had taken on a slightly different feel. There were several empty beds and shorter queues for washing and at meal times.
One of the warmest places in the camp was the vestry, which had been created following the completion of a stud wall. The men had been eager to fit out the little room and, with help from Major Buckland, a desk, cupboard and chairs had been secured. However, the most exciting find was a small stove, which had been obtained by Gordon Nicol. If Padre Giacomo was alone while Domenico and the other men were working in the chapel, he would leave the door open into the chancel to let through some heat.
The vestry provided about the only place in the camp where two men could have a private conversation and it became a small sanctuary and confessional, where troubled men could sit and talk with the priest. It was the place where Padre Giacomo had meetings about the men’s welfare with Sergeant Major Fornasier and the camp doctor, the latter having moved his twice-weekly surgery to the vestry. At other times he would read or write letters home, just like the others.
