The Italian Chapel

by Philip Paris

Fiona reached up and touched his cheek.

  ‘It means you need a good wash before dinner.’

  ‘Oh, does it. Well don’t think I’m the only one around here that’s … barkit,’ he said, tweaking her nose.

  They heard someone approaching the barn and so moved apart just as Mrs Merriman entered, carrying two mugs.

  ‘There you are. I thought you might be ready for some tea,’ she said, handing them each a mug.

  ‘Good morning. Thank you very much …’ said Giuseppe. He was about to say ‘Margaret’, but it felt too familiar and he couldn’t get the word out.

  ‘Giuseppe has fixed the barn door mother and says he’ll make a new part for the plough, once he’s got his forge made.’

  ‘That’s extremely kind of you. We haven’t been able to use that old plough for years.’

  ‘Oh Lord, we thank you for this food before us. We pray for the safe return of our two boys and an end to the war. And we thank you for bringing Mr Palumbi to us to help on the farm. Amen.’

  The five of them were sitting around the kitchen table, Rebecca having returned shortly before, full of excited tales about British officers and secrets she had supposedly overheard. Giuseppe felt his eyes moisten at his name being mentioned in Mr Merriman’s prayer and couldn’t trust himself to speak for several moments. Fortunately, Rebecca maintained a running commentary for quite a while before turning her attention to Giuseppe, who then had to face a barrage of questions before Mrs Merriman stepped in.

  ‘Becky, let the poor man eat his food.’

  ‘It’s the best meal I have had in years,’ said Giuseppe honestly.

  ‘You can’t beat a good Sunday roast, Mr Palumbi,’ said Fiona’s father, handing over the bowl of potatoes. Giuseppe guessed he was several years older than his wife and had a manner about him as though he belonged to an earlier age. After lunch, Fiona’s father offered to take Giuseppe around the farm. He had already seen it, but appreciated the gesture. The two men took a leisurely walk while the three women cleared up.

  ‘There have been many newspaper articles in the British press over the months that have put the Italians in a rather bad light,’ said the older man, when they stopped to look at the cattle. ‘But in my brief dealings with the men in Camp 60 I have found them to be decent and hard-working. I believe you can only judge as you find, Mr Palumbi, and as to anything else, I leave that to God.’

  Giuseppe was not sure how to answer or whether there was something more to the comment than appeared on the surface.

  ‘We have all found the friendliness of the Orkney people to be so sincere, we have been deeply touched by it, Mr Merriman.’

  ‘Ah, do unto others …’

  Giuseppe didn’t know the saying and it showed on his face. Mr Merriman smiled and laid a hand on his shoulder to indicate they should start walking again.

  The two men returned to the house sometime later in amiable friendship and Giuseppe was immediately roped in to help make chutney in the kitchen as though he was part of the family.

  He lay for hours in his bed that night thinking about the day’s events, and was still replaying the moments in his head the following afternoon on the parade ground, hardly aware of his surroundings. However, as roll call was coming to an end, he saw Major Buckland walking towards the front of the lines. Sergeant Major Fornasier ordered them to attention.

  ‘Stand at ease,’ said Major Buckland, standing on the crate. ‘Since Italy’s capitulation the governments of Italy and Britain have been in extensive negotiations. It has taken a long time and I know this drawn-out uncertainty about your position and future has caused much concern and frustration. Men have asked if they will be going home. I’m afraid that will not be possible until the war is over. However, agreements have been reached between the two governments that affect all of you and there are important decisions you must make.

  ‘Italian prisoners of war are now free to co-operate with the British authorities as volunteer co-operatives, with the ultimate aim of creating Italian labour battalions. Men in these battalions will be paid in British coinage, instead of camp tokens, for work carried out, and this can be spent within the local community. If you wish, it can even be arranged for money to be sent home to your family. Rates of pay will increase. Unskilled workers will receive seven shillings a week and skilled workers nine shillings a week.

  ‘You will continue to work as before on the causeways, but will no longer be escorted by armed soldiers. You will instead be taken to and from the camp by your own NCOs. When your work is completed for the day, you will be able to travel up to a distance of five miles from the camp. However, you must be back inside the perimeter by ten o’clock every evening. You will not be allowed to use public transport or visit public houses. It is also forbidden to form sexual relationships with local women.

  ‘Those men who do not wish to accept these conditions will continue to be treated as prisoners of war in all respects and be moved to other, more appropriate, camps as soon as transport can be found. This agreement will be implemented in ten days time, on 1st May. You have one hour to make your decision.’

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant Major Fornasier.’

  ‘Sir. Attention!’

  Major Buckland looked at the lines of men standing smartly to attention. He wondered what their reaction was going to be, how many familiar faces would leave Camp 60. He stepped down from the crate, returning Sergeant Major Fornasier’s salute.

  ‘Carry on, Sergeant Major.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Arguments broke out on the parade ground almost as soon as the men were dismissed. Most were willing to take a pragmatic view of their situation and felt that if they were going to be working and housed in camps until the end of the war, they may as well be paid for their trouble. Also, no one knew when the war would end and the idea of greater freedom was extremely appealing. However, there was a hard core of Italians against it.

  When they reassembled an hour later to give their individual verdicts, sixteen men elected to remain as POWs and move to another camp. Most huts had at least one person who would not agree to accept the new conditions and Domenico’s hut was no exception. A volatile argument between the man and some of the others raged throughout the evening, particularly with Carlo.

  In the darkness Carlo and his compatriot jabbed each other in the chest. They pleaded. They swore. But the chasm that had been wrenched open between them was so huge that no bridge could cross it. There was no middle ground to stand upon. The arguments continued throughout the next day and the atmosphere in the camp became a mixture of pain and guilt, sadness and anger. Men who had been friends, who had endured hardships together and looked out for each other, before even arriving at Camp 60, hurled insults and shouted until they were red in the face.

  Transport could not be arranged until the following day so another night of tension had to be endured. Extra guards were brought in. As soon as breakfast was over the small group were lined up in the parade ground with their kit. The other men had assembled outside their huts. There was a sullen but quiet tension in the air and it looked as if the last of the shouting was over until the last minute when one called out.

  ‘You’ve sold out to the enemy!’

  ‘Dirty fascists!’ shouted back another man.

  Insults flew thickly between the two sides as the guards did their best to hurry the small group towards the gate. As they left the camp for the last time, determined to remain POWs and loyal to Mussolini, the men could be heard chanting.

  ‘Viva il Duce! Viva il Duce!’

  But for all the aggression and anger, the greatest emotion for most that day was deep hurt and sorrow. It was a feeling that would stay with Carlo and many others for decades, until the end of their lives.

  21

  Major Booth had received a message from the construction company agreeing to lend one of their small Nissen huts to house the proposed forge. The Sunday after Giuseppe’s visit to the Merriman’s he and Buttapasta walked to
the Balfour Beatty workshops on Lamb Holm with four Italians, including the bricklayers, Barcaglioni and Battiato.

  A few days earlier a lorry had dropped off a small quantity of carefully selected stone from the quarry and this had since been joined by several bags of cement. Both items lay on the ground by the building they had been given. Buttapasta was keen to look inside to make sure it didn’t need emptying, and when they entered Giuseppe’s eyes widened in surprise at the object in one corner.

  He walked over and picked up a hammer; a blacksmith’s hammer, the large, heavy head made silver by years of use. He tested the balance of it in his hand and it felt familiar and reassuring, like stroking an old faithful dog. Giuseppe struck the anvil that lay on the floor, hitting it from horn to heel and back again so that the hut was filled with ringing, which was more beautiful to him than a cathedral choir. When he finally stopped and turned around the others were standing in a group, grinning. Reluctantly, he gently put the hammer on the floor.

  ‘Well, someone’s a lucky boy,’ said Battiato.

  Giuseppe shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘I’m not sure where it came from, but I’m not about to refuse it.’

  ‘Come on,’ said Buttapasta, ‘if we’re going to build a forge in one day we had better get moving.’

  The bricklayers went outside to start mixing cement, while the two other men began to carry in some of the stones. Giuseppe and Buttapasta marked the outline of the forge on the concrete floor at the far end of the hut. Giuseppe had produced carefully drawn sketches, showing the thickness of the walls and how they curved at the back, the height of the bed where the fire would burn and where the hole should go for the entry of the bellows.

  Giuseppe was outside, looking at the roof, when the engineer arrived.

  ‘Mr MacDonald,’ said Giuseppe, shaking his hand. ‘Is it you I have to thank for the anvil?’

  ‘Well, I simply put the word about. The person you really need to thank is Mr Mowatt, the blacksmith on South Ronaldsay. The anvil and tools have come from his smithy.’

  ‘I’m very grateful.’

  They were quiet for a while, but the small Scotsman had not missed the fact that Giuseppe had been studying the roof.

  ‘You’ll need to put a hole in that for your chimney. I guess you could do with a ladder?’

  He was back ten minutes later, followed by three civilian workers carrying a couple of ladders and a large box of tools. The Balfour Beatty engineer had taken such a keen interest in what the Italians were doing that a short while later he was on the roof with one of the workers, happily cutting a suitable opening for the chimney, so Giuseppe could go back inside to supervise the building of his forge.

  A strange compulsion seemed to take hold of the little group and the work took on a frantic pace. This wasn’t some monstrous task, so large that its completion was only a vague event in the distant future. This was something that could be accomplished that very day, if they could only work fast enough. Even the Balfour Beatty men were keen to help, but the hut was too small for more people to be sensibly employed. Instead, they did what jobs they could outside and brought over regular refreshments from the nearby canteen.

  By the end of the afternoon the forge had been built and a stone plinth erected in the middle of the hut. They all gathered inside the building to watch the stonemason and the blacksmith lift the heavy anvil and when they laid it gently on the newly-made plinth the men broke into applause.

  ‘That’s a grand day’s work by anyone’s reckoning,’ said the engineer, reaching into the rucksack at his feet and pulling out a bottle of locally-made Highland Park whisky.

  ‘Here, get rid of your cold coffee and put some of this into your mugs. I’ll bet it’s a damn sight better than the stuff you make in camp.’

  ‘To the forge,’ said MacDonald.

  ‘To the rood screen,’ said Buttapasta

  ‘To the chapel,’ said Barcaglioni.

  ‘To peace,’ said one of the civilian workers.

  As they drank, Giuseppe studied the forge with his eyes. But his thoughts were on what had been said, for it seemed to him that the forge and the rood screen, the chapel and peace, were all part of the same thing.

  Domenico had to wait until the following Sunday afternoon before he had the chance to walk over. He felt the heat coming out of the open door even before he entered. Giuseppe had his back to him so Domenico waited quietly, watching with fascin ation as the blacksmith heated the steel, ready to force his will upon it.

  For the last few weeks one of the camp’s carpenters had been working closely with the camp’s cobbler to construct bellows to a design drawn by Giuseppe, who now raised the temperature of the fire by gently moving the long wooden handle up and down, while holding a rod of steel in a pair of long tongs. Eventually, he turned around to lay the cherry-red metal on the anvil and noticed Domenico.

  ‘Have you been there long?’ said Giuseppe, his face running with sweat.

  ‘I didn’t want to disturb you.’

  ‘That’s alright. I’m trying to make myself another pair of tongs, but it’s slow work at the moment,’ said Giuseppe, leaving the bar to rest on the anvil. ‘The forge and I are like new lovers … we have to get to know each other’s intimate likes and dislikes. I need to find out how to keep a good heart in the fire with these bellows, which are not as big as I wanted. When I’ve done that, there’s the problem of the metal.’

  ‘The metal?’

  ‘It’s the floor sweepings of the junkyard.’

  Domenico walked over to the pile of bars that were lying on the floor and picked one up.

  ‘Reinforcement bars for concrete blocks?’ asked Domenico.

  ‘The steel is a mixture of metals, everything from old farm machinery to kitchen pans, and the impurities make the rod inconsistent.’

  ‘Is that a big problem?’

  ‘It will be a challenge,’ said Giuseppe. ‘It means along its length the rod is likely to react differently to heat, so some parts may soften more quickly while other parts may be more brittle and likely to fracture. Also, each rod will vary from the one before it.’

  ‘I’ll stick to my paints,’ said Domenico, putting down the rod. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

  ‘Now you ask, you can break up those lumps of coal into smaller pieces … about the size of a walnut,’ said Giuseppe, indicating a pile of coal in one corner.

  Domenico, walked over and his attention was taken by a small mound of what looked like clinker next to it.

  ‘What’s that?’ he asked, gently kicking the substance. ‘It looks like the leftovers from a stove.’

  ‘It is,’ said Giuseppe. ‘I mix it with coal to achieve the type of fire and heat that I need. That pile is from a couple of huts during the last week, but I need much more and it has to be cleaned so I’m left with only the coke and charcoal. I was wondering if I could show one man from each hut how to gather and clean the remains of the previous night’s fire then bring it over here perhaps once a week … what do you think?’

  ‘I don’t see why not. You know the men will do anything to help,’ said Domenico, picking up a lump of coal and examining it. ‘The size of a walnut you said?’

  ‘A walnut,’ confirmed Giuseppe.

  Domenico looked over at his friend.

  ‘Any particular variety?’

  22

  Oaths flew, if not with the same frequency as the raindrops, then at least with a similar ferocity. It had started raining four days earlier and on the third day a steam train leaving Lamb Holm quarry had come off the track, which had become unstable. Five wagons had overturned, sending their cargo of skips and rock spilling across the entrance. All quarry work was stopped immediately and since the accident men had cursed, heaved and gasped with the effort required to manhandle the rock out of the way.

  A crane, larger than the diggers used in the quarry, had been brought from barrier number two to pick up the wagons and place them, one by one, further along the tra
ck. For the last hour men had been working out how best to lift the engine. Carlo sat in the crane’s cabin, which would have provided him with an excellent view across to Glimps Holm and Burray beyond, if the weather had not been so foul. He had become one of the most skilful crane drivers on the construction site and sat patiently waiting for the Balfour Beatty engineers to finish their preparations.

  He wasn’t entirely without apprehension, for he thought the steam engine was probably heavier than the maximum weight the crane was designed to lift. Men and machinery were all being pushed to their limit in this race to build the causeways and one of the other large cranes had toppled over the previous month. No one had been hurt, but Carlo felt good luck should not be relied upon so soon.

  At least he was dry. He looked down at the quarry. The men around the train looked about as miserable as it was possible to be. Dino had found a sheltered spot under a large overhanging rock a short distance away from the activity. He had been drawing sketches of the wagons as they were lifted back on the track and was waiting to draw a picture of the train. He had jokingly asked Carlo to hold the engine in the air for as long as possible so he could get the correct perspective. Carlo smiled at the thought.

  Carlo could see men signalling to him. Like most crane drivers he relied on experienced men on the ground to guide his actions with clear arm and hand movements. He grasped the long handles that controlled the workings of the crane and gently took the slack out of the steel rope. As it went taut he could feel the structure of metal beams beneath him shifting. This was going to be a close fight between gravity and mechanical strength. He moved the levers with a tenderness that would not have been out of place caressing a lover’s cheek. The men around the train stepped well clear apart from one engineer, who was winding his hand quickly to indicate the train should be lifted.

  ‘You come up here and lift the bloody thing then,’ muttered Carlo under his breath.

  He pushed the lever and felt the cab sway. He tried not to think of the huge strain being forced on rivets, wires and girders, but a feeling of danger hung around the edges of his mind. The train seemed to be embedded in the waterlogged ground.