by Philip Paris
As fate would have it, shortly after the photographs were taken, a bell was retrieved from a sunken blockship. It took Buttapasta, Domenico and Pennisi several hours to hang it in the bell tower, attaching a rope that could be pulled from inside the front door. When the job was complete they each took turns, to the joy of everyone around.
Since the summer, rumours had been circulating as to what was going to happen to the Italians once the main reason for them being on the islands had been removed. There were plenty of small jobs to be completed on the causeways, but even laying tarmac on the surface was to be carried out by Orkney Council employees. One day in September, when they were assembled on the parade ground, Major Buckland addressed them about their future. His Italian had improved greatly since he had arrived at the camp.
‘As you all know the huge task you set out to do nearly three years ago has been completed. It has been a colossal project that could not have been achieved without your enormous efforts and sacrifices. Connecting the islands of South Ronaldsay and Burray to mainland Orkney will be a great benefit to the people of these islands for generations to come. I know many of you have made good friends of local people and I am certain you will be made welcome if you return in future years.
‘At the end of next week, you will be transferred to Overdale Camp near Skipton, which is in Yorkshire. Farms in England are very short of labour. I think you will find the work less cement-based. Although I’m sure you will be pleased to avoid another Orkney winter, I think many may be sorry to leave these islands.’
The service Padre Giacomo held that Sunday was attended not only by the Italians and British of Camp 60 but also by a large number of Orkney families and civilians. Row upon row of seats and benches had been laid out facing the chapel entrance for the hundreds of people who could not fit inside, and even then many men stood. Micheloni set up a speaker system so that everyone could hear what was said. Major Booth had been able to borrow a harmonium, which was brought over from mainland Orkney in an army truck and positioned to the right of the porch. Fortunately, it was a warm, dry morning.
Inside the chapel people could hardly have been more squashed. Soldiers, officers, engineers and workers were all mixed up with local people. Some of the smaller children sat on the knees of Italians, much to the delight of both. People sat, dressed in their Sunday best, and exchanged excited whispers.
The atmosphere in the little vestry was very different. Padre Giacomo had been there for several hours, praying, reflecting quietly on his life and thinking of those back home. Every now and again he re-read the letter that had arrived a few days earlier from his brother, telling him that their mother had died. Over the months, he had consoled many men who had received sad news but his letter shocked him greatly. The priest had not told anyone in the camp.
He could hear the murmur of voices from the congregation. They were waiting for him. Everyone went instantly quiet when Padre Giacomo emerged from the vestry through one of the curtains that had reached their destination undamaged. He walked to the microphone and paused for a few moments.
‘When you arrived on this little island that cold, wet January night, I know your hearts must have been gripped with dread, both for your future in this strange, apparently hostile land and for your loved ones left behind. Who could have foreseen the journey you were about to undertake; the hardships, the dangers, the loneliness and the despair? At times it must have seemed like a journey without end. And yet here we are, on the brink of leaving.
‘But what wonders we have also found along that journey together: friendships with our fellow prisoners, selfless acts of help; great understanding and compassion from the commandant, Major Buckland. Many of us will leave behind friends amongst the British and the local Orkney people, who have demonstrated huge kindness and embraced us with an open heart. I know that a piece of my heart will be left behind on this little Orkney island.’
The congregation sat in mesmerised silence. This wasn’t a normal Sunday service but a reflection on where many of them had come from and what they had become.
‘Long after we have left, and Camp 60 has been erased and the land returned to the owner, this little chapel will remain. It will stand after our bodies have returned to the earth and our souls to the Lord. Here will remain a monument to the ability of the human spirit to lift itself above the greatest adversity, to touch others regardless of race or religion, to join together and create, out of the scraps of another war, a place that transcends physical beauty.
‘The chapel will reach out across generations to those not yet born. For as long as these walls stand, those who enter will never forget what has happened here. The war still rages in Europe and many of our countrymen alive today will tragically not return to their families. Let us pray for them and let us thank God …’
Padre Giacomo stopped. People inside the chapel initially thought that he had finished his sentence and was simply pausing before the next. But an increasing number became aware that the priest was staring down the aisle to the door, which had been left open for the service. When he spoke again his voice had taken on a different timbre.
‘Let us thank God for the safe return of a lost son. For what greater joy is there in Heaven? Welcome back, Aldo.’
Everyone turned. There, standing in the doorway, was Aldo. He looked thinner than ever and had a walking stick in one hand. His other arm was looped tightly through that of a young woman, the nurse who had met them at the hospital entrance the day of his accident. All of this could be taken in at a glance. But what captured people’s attention was the expression of pure joy that beamed on Aldo’s face. Many thought afterwards they had rarely seen anyone radiate such elation.
‘Come, my son. Your friends will make space for you at the front.’
It was a morning of so many mixed emotions; remembrance and regret, rejoicing and hope. Padre Giacomo was equally bombarded by conflicting emotions and heard his own voice waver when he spoke again.
‘Let us continue with a hymn. Thanks to the generosity of one of the Kirkwall churches we have books for our service this morning, so let us turn to hymn number eighty-two.’
There was a general commotion as everyone stood up and tried to find the relevant page in their books, most of which were shared between two or three people. Sforza, who played the accordion in the camp band, was at the harmonium and had the music ready. He started to pump the pedals and play the first few bars. He had pulled out all the stops and pushed out the swell pedals with his knees to get as much volume as possible. Sforza stopped for a moment to ensure that everyone had found the right place and when he began once more hundreds of voices joined in praise and friendship.
‘Immortal, invisible, God only wise …’
The sound of singing drifted across Lamb Holm and over the water. To the south, on Glimps Holm, a pair of seals lazing in the sun lifted their heads and twitched their noses, while to the north a lone soldier walking on the shore of mainland Orkney stopped to listen. He looked over at Lamb Holm and could see the chapel. A little girl sat on top of a man’s shoulders, her long hair golden in the sunlight. The soldier couldn’t remember when he had last sung a hymn, but the whispered words were pulled from his body as if they feared what might be released with them.
‘Unresting, unhasting, and silent as light …’
He had been involved in almost continuous fighting for longer than he could remember, until he had been wounded and eventually returned to Britain. He had been posted to Orkney only a few weeks earlier.
‘Thy clouds which are fountains of goodness and love …’
During the last fourteen months, he had lost every friend he had had in the battalion, and in all that time he had never shown emotion at their deaths. He had not cried in Sicily, when he had buried his first friend with his own shovel. There was nothing to bury of the second, who had disappeared before his eyes, hit by an artillery shell. He had left the third by the side of the road in Salerno, patting his helmet and saying he
would see him later, both of them knowing he would not. It had continued until there was no one.
‘Great Father of glory, pure Father of light …’
And in all that time he had never cried. They began calling him ‘Hard Jock’; a big, tough man who would barely acknowledge anyone. But his fighting days were over.
‘All laud we would render: O help us to see …’
And he couldn’t see for the tears flowing down his cheeks.
‘Tis only the splendour of light hideth Thee.’
The congregation stopped and the harmonium fell silent. The stillness was physical. Everyone’s attention was captured by the chapel, the head of Christ on the façade and what was happening inside. Only the little girl from her vantage point looked across the water and saw a tiny figure on the opposite shore, saluting. The smartest salute he had ever given. People put down their hymn-books and knelt to pray. The soldier on the opposite shore couldn’t make out the words but he could tell what was happening and hear the murmur of voices. He knelt in the sand.
30
Domenico and Buttapasta were mesmerised by the expression of wonder on the face of a small boy, who was being shown by an Italian how to peel an orange. A couple of men had collected fruit that had arrived in parcels from Italy and had brought it out to share once the service was over. They had gathered quite a crowd of inquisitive children, but the men in the hut were generous and there was plenty for everyone. The scene was causing much amusement amongst the adults, for many children were completely baffled by some of the objects. The two men, both fathers themselves, were in their element, explaining and helping small hands to peel skins.
The congregation inside the chapel had quickly emerged into the sunlight to join those outside and there were now more than a hundred different conversations taking place around the building. A few elderly ladies from South Ronaldsay had remained seated and several Italians had moved chairs around so they could speak to the women about their lives on the island. Many people were swapping addresses and there was a great deal of handshaking and hugging.
Beside the harmonium, Aldo and the nurse were in deep conversation with Padre Giacomo. Giuseppe stood on the other side of the crowd, talking to Mr and Mrs Merriman, having arranged to meet Fiona later so they could say their goodbyes in private. Giuseppe wished he was already at the farm. He hadn’t been back since that terrible afternoon two weeks earlier, but no one mentioned it that morning. Mr and Mrs Merriman wished him all the best in his life back in Italy. It was a sad parting.
A short distance away Domenico and Buttapasta stood watching the various scenes around them.
‘It’s a shame the chapel has been in use for such a short time before we leave,’ said Buttapasta.
‘Yes, but as Padre Giacomo pointed out it’ll be here for generations to come. At least, I pray to God it will,’ said Domenico, who was concerned about the chapel’s future. There was nothing they could do once they left the island, which was scheduled for the end of the week.
‘It’ll be strange leaving Lamb Holm after all this time,’ said Buttapasta. ‘It’s an odd place. It seeps into your bones until you feel yourself becoming part of the land.’
‘Remember when we first arrived? Dino said … Dino said we had arrived in Hades and discovered it wasn’t hot but freezing cold,’ said Domenico.
‘I don’t think I thawed out until the August,’ said Buttapasta.
Domenico was about to speak when Aldo walked over. They hadn’t seen him since that fateful day on the Emerald Wings and each now embraced him.
‘Aldo. How are you?’ said Domenico.
‘We’ve kept up to date with your recovery but it’s not the same as seeing you and hearing about it from yourself,’ said Buttapasta.
‘You look thin,’ commented Domenico.
‘Do you want to sit down?’ added Buttapasta
All this was hurled at him almost in one breath, so Aldo had no chance to answer.
‘I’m fine. I’m fine,’ he said laughing. ‘I’ve had a good rest and having my leg in traction made a nice change from you two pulling it. They say I won’t need the stick for much longer and everything will be back to normal. To be honest, I’ve never felt better.’
Domenico studied his young friend. Something about him had altered, which had nothing to do with the loss of weight or his slightly pale colour.
‘You look … changed,’ said Domenico.
‘A near-death experience can do that to a man,’ said Buttapasta.
‘No, it’s not that,’ said Aldo happily.
‘What then?’ asked Buttapasta.
‘The service was good,’ replied Aldo, ignoring the question. ‘Well attended.’
‘You know how to make an entrance, I’ll say that for you,’ said the stonemason.
‘I couldn’t miss the service after all the work and sacrifices made by so many people to build the chapel.’
‘You seemed engrossed in conversation with Padre Giacomo,’ said Buttapasta. ‘That must be a first.’
‘Yes. He’s actually a good man.’
‘Haven’t we been saying that to you for months?’ said Buttapasta.
‘You’re hiding something,’ said Domenico.
‘Oh?’ said Aldo.
Domenico didn’t answer, but stood looking at him.
‘Alright, I was about to tell you. It’s one of the reasons I’m here. Ailsa and I are getting married.’
‘Married!’ said Buttapasta.
‘To the young nurse?’ asked Domenico.
‘That’s the idea,’ said Aldo. ‘It won’t be until I’m out of hospital, which means you’ll all have left, including Padre Giacomo. Ailsa insisted we speak to him about it.’
‘Married,’ said Buttapasta again. ‘I had no idea. I don’t know what to say.’
‘Well that’s another first then.’
‘But what will you do, Aldo?’ asked Domenico.
‘Marry. Have children. For the first time perhaps, be happy and content. If we have a boy we’ll name him Domenico and please you both in one go.’
‘But where will you go?’ asked Domenico. ‘How will you live?’
‘We’re hoping to stay here.’
‘Stay in Britain?’ asked Buttapasta.
‘In Orkney,’ said Aldo. ‘I suppose when I’m fit enough I’ll have to work for the British until we’re all released after the war, but Orkney is Ailsa’s home. It’s where we want to be. She has a house near Kirkwall, so it’s a start. Perhaps I’ll be allowed to work on the islands and not be repatriated. I suppose … it’s in God’s hands.’
Domenico slowly held out his hand.
‘I think I see a different Aldo before me. The boy has become a man.’
‘Thank you,’ he said shaking his friend’s hand. ‘I have never thanked you both for helping to save my life.’
Aldo let go of Domenico and held out his hand to Buttapasta but the big man grabbed him in a bear hug and lifted him off the ground.
‘Oh my leg. Mind my leg.’
‘Little Aldo getting married. That’s the best news I’ve heard in years. Well done, lad. Well done.’
‘Put me down or I won’t be doing anything but going back in traction,’ said Aldo, but he was laughing … laughing and crying and hugging Buttapasta.
It struck Domenico it was the first time he had ever seen Aldo with tears in his eyes. The commotion attracted the attention of several people nearby, who watched with smiles and nods. Ailsa and Padre Giacomo walked over just as Buttapasta put Aldo back down.
‘I believe congratulations are in order,’ said Domenico to Ailsa, kissing her on both cheeks.
‘Thank you. And thank you both for looking after Aldo while he’s been in the camp.’
‘We now officially hand that responsibility over to you, Ailsa,’ said Buttapasta stumbling over the name, which seemed so strange to him. ‘We’ve done our best to train him, but it’s been an uphill job at the best of times.’
‘Hey, do
you mind,’ said Aldo. ‘I demand more respect in front of my future wife, not to mention Padre Giacomo.’
‘I can think of no better way to end our enforced stay on the island than learning of Aldo and Ailsa’s plans,’ said Padre Giacomo.
Giuseppe slipped away unnoticed as soon as he had said his farewells to Fiona’s parents and set off for the farm, carrying a parcel under his arm. Fiona had written and told him to arrive late that morning. It was the worst journey he had ever made and he ran much of the way, despair eating away at him. When he arrived, the front door was open. Fiona was standing in the kitchen. Giuseppe put down his parcel and they looked at each other for a long time without speaking. When he finally broke the silence, his voice cracked with emotion.
‘I’ll never see you again.’
They both knew it was true. Their paths were to part from that day onwards. Giuseppe’s love had brought him great joy, but no peace. He felt as though he had been broken into a thousand tiny parts and no matter how they were put back together he would never be the same again.
‘No,’ said Fiona gently. ‘Your future doesn’t lie here, so far from the life you know. You must go home to your family. You have a wife who deserves to have you back, and a son who needs his father.’
‘I have missed them so much,’ said Giuseppe. ‘Lying in bed at night, I try so very hard to remember what it was like to hold Renato and I’m frightened he’ll not even like me. I’ll be a total stranger.’
‘He’ll like you. Just be yourself and I know he’ll be proud of his father and that you’ll be proud of him. Be happy in each other’s company.’
A single tear fell down his face. Fiona reached up and tenderly brushed it away. She left her hand cupped around his cheek.
‘There will always be a place in my heart that loves you, no matter what happens in the future,’ she said. ‘Never forget that.’
