The Italian Chapel

by Philip Paris

  He moved the lever further and with a sudden jerk the train was free and started to swing wildly. More than forty men were holding ropes tied to strategic points and between them they struggled against the wind to steady the load. Carlo raised it slightly higher then moved the engine as gently as he could to a stable part of the track. This was the most crucial point of the operation and where he was completely dependent upon the eyes of the men on the ground. To drop the wheels on to the track required the train to be lowered precisely, with no more than a couple of inches of leeway.

  Men squinted into the rain, fought with ropes that slipped through fingers and slithered in puddles, while the wind rocked the train and cab. Carlo kept his eyes on the engineer, who had one hand on a buffer as if this would let him guide several tons of metal. His other arm moved in slow motion. Down … down. Carlo guessed the wheels were still at least a foot off the track. He never knew whether a steel wire snapped or some connection came apart but the train fell with such force he felt the vibration through his feet.

  Several men lost their balance and fell over, while the engineer threw himself backwards in fright, to land yards away in a huge puddle. He wasn’t hurt and was quickly helped by a couple of Italians. Everyone crowded around the train, which was neatly standing on the track, as if it had been there all along. A great cheer echoed around the quarry and the Balfour Beatty man gave a ‘thumbs up’ to the cab.

  But when the engineer looked he was astounded to see Carlo coming down the ladder with no apparent concern for safety, descending with a combination of sliding and jumping, as he missed rung after rung in his desperate bid for speed. The engineer slowly dropped his arm, as more men noticed the Italian’s manic flight and went silent in surprise. As soon as he was on the ground Carlo started running, screaming as he went, as though he had lost his wits. He skirted around the outside of the group without slowing, men following his journey with startled eyes. Moments later, as they realised where he was heading, they felt their hearts crushed with dread.

  When they caught up with him, Carlo was kneeling on the ground. Only part of an arm was visible from beneath the overhang of rock, which had sheared off completely from the rock face and now lay in three huge broken sections. Dino’s hand still held tightly on to the little sketch pad on which the half-finished picture of the train was blurring quickly in the falling rain. Men crossed themselves and several fell to their knees to pray.

  Carlo tenderly removed the fingers from around the pad and put it inside his coat then he held Dino’s hand and wept. He cried for the loss of his cousin and friend, for the beautiful voice that was gone forever, for the two small boys who would never see their father again. He cried for the loss of a man who could reach out in the darkness and bring someone back from the brink of despair. As the tears falling down his cheeks mingled with the rain, he wept for the utter waste of it all.

  23

  Dino was buried with full military honours at St Olaf cemetery about a mile outside Kirkwall. Padre Giacomo conducted the service and a platoon of men from Camp 60 was given permission to attend. Sergeant Major Fornasier wrote to Dino’s family and his few possessions were wrapped up and sent to Italy via the Protecting Power. Carlo wrote to his own family and to Dino’s wife, enclosing some wildlife sketches that had been drawn for the boys. He carefully put away the other pictures Dino had produced. When the war was finally over, he would take these back to Italy himself and give them to Dino’s sons.

  Carlo could not bring himself to keep the picture of the train and tore it from the sketch pad. Then one afternoon, shortly after the funeral and when the hut was almost empty, he burnt it in the stove. He sat watching the paper turn black and disintegrate, disappearing into the embers of the wood and coal, then he picked up the poker. He was completely unaware of how long and how viciously he had been thrusting the poker into the stove but stopped suddenly, as if coming out of a trance, when Sergeant Primavera gently laid a hand on his shoulder and suggested they go for a walk.

  * * *

  Padre Giacomo, with the help of Major Booth, had been in touch with J. Wippell & Company, an old established firm of church furnishers in Exeter. Following some correspondence during May, the cost, dimensions, colour and design of a pair of curtains had been agreed. The firm had promised to send them on a certain date, but it was impossible to guarantee when a package sent from the south of England would arrive in Orkney. The money for the purchase had come from the chapel fund.

  One day around this time Major Buckland and Major Booth arrived at the chapel. Domenico was inside. He was using part of the school floor to work on clay brought back by a group of Italians from a nearby farm. Everyone in the camp knew that Domenico Chiocchetti required clay to make the altar and it had been with pride that these men marched into camp, carrying their heavy load in sacks given to them by the farmer. When the two smartly-dressed British officers entered Domenico was on his knees, wearing an apron made out of an old blanket and fighting a substance that did not quite wish to do what he wanted. He stood up.

  The officers greeted him warmly, for they liked this quiet man, always working with skill and determination to create something for his fellow men and for the glory of God.

  ‘We’ve heard you’ve completed your painting above the altar and wanted to see it for ourselves,’ said Major Buckland. ‘Would that be alright with you?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’d be grateful for your comments,’ replied Domenico.

  The three men walked to the chancel and stood looking at the picture of the Madonna and Child reproduced from the little religious card. Around the image of the Blessed Virgin and the Infant Jesus, Domenico had added cherubim holding a scroll inscribed Regina pacis ora pro nobis (Queen of Peace pray for us). One cherub, on the left hand side of the altar, carried a blue shield, the heraldic badge of Moena, depicting a boat sailing out of a storm and into calm waters. The cherub on the opposite side was sheathing a sword. No one spoke for several minutes.

  ‘I’m sorry, Domenico,’ said Major Buckland eventually.

  ‘Sorry, sir?’

  ‘I had no idea. I don’t think I really understood what you intended to create. I never thought it would be this. What you’ve painted here is a true work of art. It’s a masterpiece.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Domenico, feeling rather embarrassed. ‘Many people have been involved in working on the chapel and it’s not finished yet by a long way.’

  ‘What’s the next step?’ asked Major Booth.

  ‘I’m using the clay to make a mould for the altar and altar rail,’ said Domenico, indicating with his head the lump on the floor, which was still pretty much as he had taken it out of the sacks earlier that day. ‘Palumbi did a good job building the forge and spends all his spare time working on the rood screen, but it’s painfully slow work.’

  Domenico paused, hoping the hint would not be ignored.

  ‘Well,’ said Major Buckland, choosing his words carefully, ‘as long as their work is covered, I think Major Booth can speak to Sergeant Major Fornasier about relieving the men you need of other duties. How does that sound?’

  ‘Thank you for your understanding, sir, and also for arranging the materials for the rood screen with Balfour Beatty.’

  ‘Oh, they were quick to volunteer when I explained what it was for,’ said Major Buckland.

  ‘Various things have already been made and stored away, such as the candelabra and lanterns,’ said Domenico. ‘Actually, as you’re here, sir, there’s one thing I wanted to ask. Padre Giacomo, Sergeant Major Fornasier and I have been talking with the men and everyone agrees there’s such a contrast between the chancel and the remainder of the hut that they think this should also be converted, so the whole building can be used as a chapel.’

  ‘What about the classes? I hear they’re going really well,’ said Major Buckland.

  ‘The men are happy for them to be held in the mess hall or the huts, sir. No one has come up with any objections to the idea, unless you
have any, Major Buckland?’

  ‘Well, I can’t see that I can object if this is what the men want. Do you see any problems, Major Booth?’

  ‘Not at all, sir.’

  ‘There’s one thing,’ said Domenico.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Once we’ve fixed a wooden framework to the rest of the building we’ll need to purchase more plasterboard.’

  ‘So I need to get on to my friendly Orkney supplier again,’ said Major Buckland with a smile.

  ‘My idea is to paint the plasterboard in the nave to look like bricks, with a dado running along the bottom of the walls to resemble carved stone. But the area to paint will be too much for me.’

  ‘What do you suggest?’ asked Major Buckland.

  ‘In Camp 34 there’s an artist, Sergeant Pennisi. I knew him well before we arrived on the islands. If he could be transferred to work with me then the job would be possible.’

  ‘Now we’ve seen what you’ve created here I can’t imagine how anyone could refuse,’ said Major Buckland. ‘Leave it with me. Let’s see if we can get Sergeant Pennisi to join the team.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Oh, by the way,’ said Major Booth. ‘I heard Wippell sent your curtains yesterday, a little earlier than expected. They should be here soon … unless the Germans have other ideas.’

  One Sunday around mid-June Domenico was putting the finishing touches to the life-sized altar he had made out of clay, while Sforza and Esposito were fixing plasterboard in the nave. The camp had been alive during the previous week with the news that Rome had been liberated by the Allies and that Badoglio had stepped down as Prime Minister. Domenico was lost in his own thoughts about home when he heard his name being spoken.

  ‘Sergeant Pennisi!’ he said, putting down his tools and walking over to shake his friend’s hand.

  ‘Domenico,’ said Pennisi, a big smile on his face. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Very well,’ said Domenico beaming. ‘And you?’

  ‘I’m well and interested to know about your chapel. I hear people talking about it everywhere I go. When I heard I was being moved to Camp 60 I was instantly intrigued.’

  ‘You’re now in the Sixtieth Italian Labour Battalion,’ said Domenico. ‘Also, you’re going to work on the chapel full-time.’

  ‘Full-time … not on the barriers at all?’

  ‘Major Buckland agreed it readily. As well as me, Palumbi the blacksmith and Buttapasta the stonemason dedicate all their time to the building. The jobs we should do are covered by the others.’

  ‘Excellent!’

  Pennisi walked over to look at the paintings in the chancel.

  ‘This is a wonder, Domenico. The story of what you’ve been doing here doesn’t do justice to what you’ve created. I stand in awe.’

  ‘Coming from you that is a great compliment.’

  ‘You know we have a chapel in Camp 34?’

  ‘I’ve heard. I’m sure you were instrumental in helping to build it.’

  ‘I worked on it, but it’s not on the scale of what you’ve done here. I understand the difficulties you must have had in obtaining suitable materials.’

  ‘I can’t say it’s been easy.’

  Pennisi walked around in silence, studying the paintings, looking at the ceiling then going back to the image of the Madonna and Child. Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Buttapasta who seemed, even before he spoke, particularly pleased about something. The big Italian had not met Pennisi before, but had heard about him so often he felt he was already a friend. Domenico did not miss the fact that Buttapasta was carrying a black square tile and he waited until the other two men had finished their brief conversation about their respective homes before mentioning it.

  ‘I see you’ve found a tile.’

  ‘Oh this,’ said Buttapasta, as if he had forgotten the thing was there. ‘Yes, I thought you might like it for the floor of the chancel.’

  ‘It’s very nice,’ said Domenico, taking the tile to study it more closely. ‘But I might need a few more.’

  ‘Will you? I thought that one might do … sort of in the centre. Though I suppose I could bring in more. There’s a pile of them outside the door along with some white tiles of the same size.’

  Domenico knew that Buttapasta was enjoying the moment.

  ‘Don’t you want to know where they’re from?’

  ‘I’m hoping you’ll eventually get around to telling me,’ said Domenico.

  ‘They’re from the floor of a bathroom in the Ilsenstein. I’ve been removing them for the last couple of weeks.’

  ‘I wondered where you’d been disappearing to.’

  Now Buttapasta was grinning widely and so was Pennisi.

  ‘I didn’t want to leave it to someone who wouldn’t take care removing them. They were well stuck on but I got the last one off yesterday. Micheloni and De Vitto have just helped me to get them up here.’

  The three men walked outside. Pennisi picked up a tile.

  ‘They’ll look good,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you could lay them to a design, Domenico.’

  ‘We’d be lost without Domenico’s designs,’ said Buttapasta.

  At first glance the tiles were actually in a pretty poor state, but the three artists could see beyond the dirt and stains.

  ‘I’ll clean them up in the workshop and if you draw a design I’ll lay them to it,’ offered Buttapasta.

  ‘It’s a deal,’ said Domenico.

  24

  For three months men had talked about it, trained for it and planned for it. There had not been as much excitement in the camp since Italy’s capitulation. Sports day was an event that would bring together the Italians, most of the British army and civilians on Lamb Holm, not to mention a large number of local Orkney families. The sky was cloudless, the sun was hot and the wind had gone to blow elsewhere. There was to be no work this day and, for a short while, people could put the fact that half the world was at war to the back of their mind.

  Later that morning, the inhabitants of Camp 60 began to filter out of the gate and make their way to the fields. Everyone was leaving, except Aldo. As Buttapasta and Domenico walked past they saw a diminutive figure sitting on the steps of a hut, smoking a cigarette.

  ‘Aldo,’ said Buttapasta as he and Domenico walked over. ‘Aren’t you coming?’

  ‘You know me and exercise. Even watching it tires me out and all those men running around a field! The idea alone makes me want to lie down.’

  ‘Think of all the pretty girls you could meet,’ said Buttapasta.

  ‘Hey, I know all the local girls already. Anyway, I might have a little surprise for you two when you return.’

  ‘What are you up to, Aldo?’ asked Domenico.

  ‘You’ll have to wait, won’t you?’ said Aldo smiling.

  ‘Be careful, whatever you’re planning,’ said Domenico.

  ‘Careful is my middle name. Go on the two of you.’

  ‘We’ll see you later,’ said Buttapasta.

  Aldo waved as his two friends walked away.

  The camp was emptying quickly. Buttapasta and Domenico joined the stream of men. Aldo sat contentedly watching them leave, occasionally shouting a comment or simply waving at those who spotted him. When he had first arrived at the camp, the older men had called youngsters like Aldo ‘I Balilla del Duce’ meaning they were Mussolini’s boys, the Italian version of the Hitler Youth, but they were all older now and the term had long since lost its entertainment value.

  Most thought Aldo would follow once he had finished his cigarette but he was still sitting when the last man hurried out the gate to catch up with the others. He felt strangely calm. He shook himself, not sure if he had actually fallen asleep, stood up and went to retrieve his rucksack.

  It didn’t take Aldo long to reach the Lycia. He was surprised to find Micheloni and De Vitto fishing from the other side, where he had not seen them.

  ‘Aldo,’ they said together, equally taken aback.
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br />   ‘You’re not at the sports day?’ asked De Vitto.

  ‘No, it’s not for me. All that running about! But why aren’t you there? I didn’t expect to meet anyone up here today.’

  ‘This is the sport we like and when can we ever get such peace?’ said De Vitto. ‘There are normally so many noisy people they frighten everything away.’

  ‘What are you up to?’ asked Micheloni.

  ‘I’m off to do my own fishing. I’ve discovered some first class teak in the Emerald Wings, so thought I’d get it for Domenico’s tabernacle. He’s had trouble finding the quality of wood he wants and, well, this is a surprise.’

  ‘I didn’t know you had become involved in the chapel,’ said De Vitto.

  ‘I’m doing it for a friend,’ said Aldo. ‘Enjoy your fishing.’

  ‘Don’t stay down long,’ called Micheloni. ‘It’s too nice to be below decks.’

  Aldo walked to the stern and wobbled across the gangplank between the Lycia and the Ilsenstein, trying not to look at the sea far beneath his feet. The Ilsenstein was the vessel that had provided the tiles for the chancel floor, which had been cleaned and laid by Buttapasta and his helpers to Domenico’s design. Aldo reckoned that at any one point in time there was at least one group talking about the chapel somewhere in the camp. And here he was, about to get involved.

  He wasn’t quite sure why he was so reluctant to let the chapel become part of his life. Perhaps it was all tied up with his past, with feelings buried deep within. He knew Domenico and Buttapasta meant well when they tried to show him aspects of life other than the ones he followed, but making deals and money was his means of escape; what made him feel safe.

  He reached the stern of the Ilsenstein. Lamb Holm appeared quite different from this vantage point. Domenico and Buttapasta didn’t understand him because they had chosen alternative paths in their lives from those he had walked.