The Italian Chapel

by Philip Paris

  Domenico and Pennisi were still painting the walls and ceiling in the nave, while Buttapasta and his small team of helpers were working on the façade, which was being built in concrete sections and had reached roughly chest height. Barcaglioni and Battiato altered the brickwork of the end wall to create two openings either side of the door to match the shape of the lancet windows that were to be incorporated into the façade. Buttapasta’s team had erected a rough wooden scaffold, allowing the men to position the concrete sections at a higher level and Buttapasta was on top of the scaffold one afternoon in August as Domenico emerged from the door beneath him.

  ‘Hey, Domenico. I’ve got an idea.’

  Buttapasta jumped down and led Domenico a few yards away so they could look back at the chapel’s roof. Like all the Nissen huts, the chapel’s corrugated iron roof made the building cold in winter, hot in summer and noisy when it rained.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about the roof,’ said Buttapasta with his usual eagerness.

  ‘The roof?’

  ‘Well, we’ve virtually completed the chancel and now we’re working on the nave and the entrance, but we still have a corrugated iron roof. You’ve got to admit, it’s ugly.’

  ‘So what’s your idea?’ asked Domenico with a smile, knowing that his friend would have thought in great detail about whatever he had in mind.

  ‘Cement and sand.’

  ‘Cement and sand?’

  ‘Yes, applied by hand a small amount at a time to cover the whole roof. If we laid down steel bolster netting first, the final result would be even stronger. It’d be painfully slow and messy work but we could have several men working on each side at the same time and they don’t need to be skilled, I just have to show them how to do it.’

  Domenico studied the roof. In his mind’s eye he was trying to work out what the corrugated iron would look like covered. But he liked the idea of strengthening the whole building and making it watertight for years to come.

  ‘Well, we’ve got a concrete floor, altar and altar rail … why not a cement roof as well?’ he said eventually. ‘Let’s go and find Sergeant Pennisi, then I suppose we should tell Padre Giacomo that he’s about to be surrounded by the stuff. I hope he’ll be pleased!’

  28

  By the end of August, the city of Paris had been liberated and the chapel’s façade had risen to a height of eight feet. The next layers would start to taper as they rose, until eventually they would form a bell tower. Everyone thought the idea of covering the corrugated iron roof was excellent and one day the entire camp made a special effort to finish their quota of blocks and tasks quickly so they could return early.

  Buttapasta stood on the scaffolding like a conductor. His ‘musicians’ consisted of around forty Italians, half of them standing on scaffolding erected along each side of the building, from where they could reach the higher parts of the roof. The remainder stood on the ground to apply cement to the lower sections, down to the top of the concrete walls that had been built shortly after the Nissen huts had been joined.

  There were men assigned to mixing cement and others with the job of taking full buckets to those applying it and collecting their empty ones to be refilled. It was a hive of activity and people not involved watched from the sidelines, shouting out encouragement and insults in equal good humour.

  Before long, their natural competitiveness had them racing with each other. Each man put a hand into his bucket and scooped out the cold, wet material. The task might not have required skill but it was fiddly nonetheless and needed care to get an even finish over the top of the ribbed metal. It also had to be equal to the thickness of the man doing the next section.

  ‘Hey, you,’ shouted Buttapasta, to someone about half-way down the left-hand side. Several men looked up but the stonemason was staring at one in particular. ‘Don’t put so much on.’

  The man acknowledged the advice and carried on. Buttapasta had spent hours with Domenico and one of the Italians who had been a structural engineer before the war, discussing the load-bearing properties of the building. When the cement set it would be significantly lighter and carry its own weight. But until then it was a soggy, heavy mess and they fretted over how much could be applied safely at one time.

  Domenico was standing by himself when Major Buckland, Sergeant Major Fornasier and Padre Giacomo appeared beside him.

  ‘Domenico,’ said Major Buckland. ‘It looks as though you’ve attracted the entire camp.’

  ‘Not me, sir. I’m just a bystander today.’

  ‘The chapel has been the best thing possible for the men,’ said Major Buckland. ‘Ever since the Nissen huts were moved, it has given the whole camp a focus.’

  ‘I think you could say it has been a team effort,’ said Padre Giacomo.

  ‘I imagine that Buttapasta is enjoying this immensely Domenico,’ said Major Buckland.

  ‘He has been in an even more jovial mood than normal sir,’ said the artist. ‘Of course, the news that Aldo is making a good recovery has cheered up the camp most.’

  ‘He has caused a great deal of concern to a lot of people,’ said Major Buckland. ‘But yes, the news of his recovery has been a tonic to everyone.’

  ‘Aldo has been the subject of many prayers,’ said Padre Giacomo. ‘I gather he has been moved to the military hospital but his leg will keep him there for a while yet.’

  ‘So it would seem from the sister, who has been most diligent at informing us about his condition,’ said Major Buckland. ‘We just need the war to be over then we can all go home. How does that sound, Padre?’

  ‘I pray daily there will soon be an end to the violence in the world,’ answered the priest.

  ‘Amen to that,’ said Major Buckland. ‘I wonder if the chapel will be completed before we leave the island. I don’t expect we will be here long now the causeways are almost finished. Then we’ll probably all be off down to England. They’re desperate for workers. What do you think, Domenico? How much is left to do?’

  ‘Many jobs can only be carried out at a certain speed, sir. Much of the inside is complete although there are still a lot of small tasks to do and I haven’t even started to make the holy water stoup. Buttapasta and his team have much to do on the façade, and then there’s the roof.’

  The four men fall silent for a while, watching the interaction of the different groups. Just at that moment an Italian picked up a hose and turned it on to some of those standing nearby. This caused a huge cheer and the men who had been drenched chased after the culprit, who ran off behind the chapel.

  ‘This process will have to be repeated several times,’ said Domenico, continuing his explanation. ‘We have to let the cement set in small amounts to support its own weight before adding more. And we need good weather.’

  ‘I believe the forecast is for sun,’ said Padre Giacomo.

  ‘It has been a glorious summer,’ said Major Buckland. ‘Before the war Orkney was a delightful place to visit.’

  Their attention was taken by a roar from the crowd as the man who had turned the hose on the others appeared from behind the chapel.

  ‘It looks as if the jester has had an unfortunate experience with a couple of buckets of wet cement,’ said Major Buckland, chuckling loudly. ‘If he’s not careful he’ll be turning into a permanent statue. Perhaps you could put him next to yours, Domenico.’

  Domenico turned his head slightly to look at the statue of St George and the dragon behind them.

  ‘It seems so very long ago since I made that. It sometimes feels that so much has happened and yet so little. We’re still here, carrying out the same work we were doing nearly three years ago.’

  ‘The causeways represent a huge achievement, particularly in wartime,’ said Major Buckland.

  ‘Perhaps the greatest change to the men has been to the part that is not visible to the eye,’ said Padre Giacomo.

  They fell silent.

  ‘The realisation that we may be leaving the island soon has sent everyone into a fev
er of activity,’ said Domenico. ‘No one can bear to leave the chapel unfinished when so much has been done.’

  ‘You must feel that more than anyone,’ said Major Buckland.

  ‘It seems to have been my sole purpose in life for quite some time,’ said Domenico. ‘I was extremely grateful for your permission to let some of the men work full-time on the chapel sir. It’s made a huge difference to what we have been able to achieve.’

  ‘Well, I have tried to do my part, but it’s been the men themselves who’ve done the work,’ said Major Buckland modestly. ‘Yes, all things considered, we’ve been very lucky on our little Orkney island.’

  Later that afternoon, Giuseppe went to the farm. He had fallen into the habit of going there a couple of evenings each week and for most of the day on a Sunday. The visits were golden moments of joy that had changed his life completely. With the rood screen finished he had more free time and his days were spent thinking about the visit he had just had, or the one he was about to make.

  Since he had fixed it, the farm gate opened silently. He closed it, walked up to the front door and knocked. Immediately, he could hear the sound of angry shouting and a woman screaming. He thought it was Rebecca. Giuseppe’s hand went to the handle but the door was wrenched open before he reached it. He stepped back instinctively at the sight before him. A large part of the face of the man in front of him seemed to have melted. The ear was missing from one side of his head, as was the hair, while the skin was horribly red and puckered. The eyes that stared at Giuseppe looked as though they belonged to someone who was completely demented.

  The man tried to take a step forward but Mr Merriman and Fiona fiercely held on to an arm each and the three of them crammed into the doorway, a mass of squirming misery. Giuseppe could see Fiona’s mother and sister just behind him and all of the family were shouting and crying; everyone except the young man, who was livid with a rage that seemed to be directed at him.

  ‘Not nice, is it?’ he shouted, still trying to get free. ‘Have a good bloody look. This is what I got for trying to free your country, fighting the Germans while you were here safe and sound, eating at my table.’

  Giuseppe was struck dumb by the unexpected horror, unable to understand what was taking place. Even with his terrible disfigurement there was something familiar about the man. Giuseppe had seen him before and his mind groped for a memory, anything that would make sense of the nightmare in front of him. Then it came. It was a picture he had once seen of two handsome young men in uniform … a picture Fiona had shown him of her two brothers.

  ‘Why weren’t you there?’ shouted the man. ‘Why weren’t you there instead of me? Why was I fighting your war?’

  In an instant, the anger went out of him and he crumpled, sobbing against his father who was holding him tightly in his arms. The old man’s face was ashen and wet with tears. Mrs Merriman pushed Fiona out of the front door so she could get to the other side of her son.

  ‘Take Giuseppe away, Fiona,’ she said.

  ‘But Mother …’

  ‘It’s for the best, love. Go now.’ Mrs Merriman gently took her son’s arm. ‘Come back inside.’

  She led him back down the corridor. Mr Merriman didn’t look at Giuseppe, but quietly closed the door, leaving the two of them standing outside, shaken.

  ‘Fiona, what’s happened?’

  Fiona was crying so much she couldn’t talk, but instead took his hand and led him into the barn, where she sat on a bale and he knelt at her feet. It took a long time before she was calm enough to speak.

  ‘It’s Bill. We received a letter two days ago saying he had been injured and was returning home, but we had no idea he was so badly hurt or would arrive so quickly. He turned up this morning. Everyone was so upset but he seemed alright until Rebecca mentioned you. Then he went berserk. We could hardly control him, he was in such a rage. I was on my way to stop you from reaching the farm, but you were early.’

  ‘I’m sorry … sorry for all of you.’

  ‘Bill was so beautiful. Now, I don’t know what will happen to him. None of our lives will ever be the same again. You know he doesn’t hate you personally, Giuseppe. How can he? He doesn’t even know you. But because you’re Italian and are here, it’s easy to blame you.’

  ‘I’ve read it often enough in the newspapers. Why are British people paying to feed and keep Italians safe in this country when they could be armed and sent back to free Italy? I have no answers to these questions. Such decisions are made by the British government, not by Italians in the camps. We’d be willing to go back and fight for our homes.’

  ‘I know. You mustn’t think badly of Bill.’

  ‘He’s right to be hurt and angry. And I don’t blame him for hating me. I would do the same in his position.’

  ‘I must go back soon, or he’ll feel I am betraying him by staying out here with you.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Giuseppe. There was a truth in what Fiona said that could not be denied. ‘You should go and I’ll return to camp. Is there anything I can do?

  ‘I’m sorry… but you’ll have to stay away from the farm.’

  Giuseppe was crestfallen at the suggestion but he knew she was right.

  ‘We could meet elsewhere,’ he said, hopefully.

  ‘Give me a few days, until I’ve worked out what to do for the best. I need to spend some time with Bill. He needs me. I promise I’ll get a message to you, even if I have to write a letter to you at the camp. Trust me.’

  He looked up at her.

  ‘Always,’ he said.

  29

  The face of Christ, a crown of thorns upon his head, stared at Domenico and Buttapasta. The circular bas-relief had been moulded in red clay by Pennisi, who laid it gently on the table in the chapel for his friends to see. It was another skilled creation, amongst so many works of art adorning a building only seventy-five by sixteen feet in size.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ said Domenico, gently running his fingers over the clay, enjoying the feel of the fine detail. ‘It’ll be striking when it’s added above the door.’

  Pennisi had succeeded in capturing an expression that could be interpreted in many different ways depending upon the person viewing it.

  ‘I would be honoured if you would let me fix it. It’ll be the centrepiece,’ said Buttapasta.

  The façade had been a combination of angles and measurements, mixing concrete and hard physical labour. No one could dispute the effectiveness of what Buttapasta and his team had achieved for it did far more than hide the ugly end of the Nissen hut; it invited the observer to enter, but the impact of the basrelief of Christ was breathtaking.

  The façade had been completed with a small bell tower, although there was no bell, and on top they fixed a small iron cross. The porch, supported by two columns resting on steps that led up to the entrance, complemented the bell tower and both these, and the main gable, were decorated with cusps. Buttapasta had fitted the floor of the porch with inlaid stone, carefully cut and polished, to read 1944 in Roman numerals. He had carved two pinnacles out of concrete, which required many hours of work to chisel the solid blocks into the shapes drawn by Pennisi. The pinnacles had been added to the top of the square columns that formed the edges of the façade.

  There was very little remaining to be done. Pennisi had already painted the arching the colour of terracotta. The contrast with the rest of the façade, which had been painted white, was extremely effective. A group of men had taken only a few hours to dig a border around the chapel and a small delegation from every hut had planted flowers.

  The chapel was alive both outside and inside its walls. It was rare for there to be no one praying or thinking in the silence. It was as Major Buckland had said; once inside you could be anywhere in the world.

  A few days after Buttapasta fixed the bas-relief, Major Buckland arrived with James Sinclair just as Domenico and Giuseppe were making adjustments to one of the gates in the rood screen.

  ‘Ah, I’m glad I’ve found you he
re,’ said Major Buckland, walking up to the chancel. ‘Mr Sinclair has been kind enough to come to the camp to take some photographs of the chapel. Would you mind if he took your photograph outside the entrance? It’s such a lovely day and, well, we won’t be here much longer.’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ said Domenico.

  The four men stepped out into the sunshine.

  ‘Where would you like us, sir?’ asked Giuseppe.

  ‘How about one either side of the entrance?’ said Major Buckland.

  Domenico and Giuseppe each stood beside a column at the front of the porch, while the Orkney photographer set up his tripod.

  ‘That’s excellent,’ said James Sinclair, his finger poised on the button ready to take the shot. ‘It’s a pity about the bell tower. It looks rather bare.’

  ‘The bell!’ cried Domenico. ‘We’ve no bell. Can you give us ten minutes, sir?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Major Buckland. ‘But why?’

  ‘We’re just going to find a bell,’ said Domenico. ‘Come on.’ This was directed at the equally puzzled Giuseppe. Both men ran off towards Domenico’s hut, leaving the rather bemused officer and James Sinclair to take photographs of the chapel.

  The two Italians soon returned, Giuseppe carrying a ladder and Domenico a piece of cardboard that he had cut to the shape and size of a suitable bell. Between them they quickly fixed the cardboard in the bell tower and then stood by the tripod. It looked surprisingly convincing.

  ‘Well, that’s quite amazing,’ said Major Buckland delightedly. ‘Your makeshift bell looks real from here and in a photograph you’ll never tell.’

  ‘Let’s hope there isn’t any wind for the next few minutes, sir,’ said Domenico. ‘The slightest gust will have our bell on its way to Scotland in an instant.’

  However, Domenico wasn’t happy that there was only a photograph of the two of them and asked if James Sinclair would come back. He knew it would be impossible to gather everyone who had lent a hand, but they managed to get the main craftsmen together and, later that day, James Sinclair took a photograph of twenty-four men outside the chapel.