by Alison Love
“But what if they lock you up? What if we can never find each other?”
“Of course we will find each other. I would do anything on earth to find you, you must know that.” Antonio took her in his arms, not as a lover this time but as a comforter. Her eyes were huge and terrible, like Medusa’s. The sight made him shudder. Sensing it, Olivia rallied.
“I am behaving like a fool,” she said. “I am making it worse for you. You are right. Of course we will find each other, the world is not so large a place.” She pressed her head against his shoulder once, very hard; then she stepped away from him, twisting her tumbled hair into a knot. Her face had closed up once more. “No, don’t kiss me. I’ll die if you kiss me. Just go, my darling. Go.”
—
Within two hours of Mussolini’s declaration eighty Italians had been arrested in London. They included Bruno, who was scooped up at the Casa d’Italia in the act of helping to destroy a heap of the fascio’s records. He had no opportunity to let Renata know, and by the time Filomena returned to Frith Street she was in hysterics.
“Calm yourself, Renata,” said Filomena, as she hung her coat upon the peg. “You are not the only one in this position.”
Uncle Mauro was eyeing his niece from a distance, as if he were afraid she might bite him. Nobody had attempted to arrest Mauro. Despite his enthusiasm for Mussolini he had never possessed the twelve lire necessary to join the fascio. “I’ve told her that,” he said, “but she won’t listen.”
Renata gave a high-pitched yowl, and buried her head in her hands. Filomena contemplated her for a moment, coldly. “Go to Fortuna’s, Mauro. See if they have something that will pacify her.”
Fortuna’s was the Italian pharmacy in Frith Street, a few doors away. Mauro shook his head. “It is shut. Ricci’s café is shut too. Someone threw a brick through the window, and now they’re all hiding upstairs, under the beds. How is your father? Is he shocked by the news?”
Filomena did not answer. She knew that if Renata heard about Enrico’s arrest she would scream the house down. Opening one of the kitchen drawers she took out a bottle of aspirin. “Take Renata upstairs, Mauro, give her a couple of these. I don’t suppose there will be any news of Bruno until the morning.”
Mauro screwed up his wizened face as if he guessed that Filomena was concealing the truth, but he had the sense not to argue, and taking the bottle of aspirin he led the whimpering Renata away.
—
It was past seven o’clock before Antonio reached his home. He did not dare take a bus for fear of being trapped by an avenging crowd. It was broad daylight, it would be light for hours yet, and anyone could see that he was Italian. Instead he made his way by foot from Hyde Park, ducking to and fro to avoid the angry knots of people on the streets. The words that floated in the summer air were ugly words: Eyeties, cowards, stab in the back. Once, as he drew close to Soho, he heard the splintering of glass.
Filomena screamed when he walked into the house. “Where were you? You said you were visiting Papa.”
Guilt swept through Antonio, cold as nausea. “Why? What has happened?”
“They’ve arrested him at the hospital. I went to find him, but I was too late—” Antonio moved to touch her but Filomena threw him off. “There is a list. They are rounding up all Italians whose names are on the list. Bruno has vanished too. They must have arrested him at the fascio.”
“Perhaps they will be together,” said Antonio, “perhaps Bruno will take care of Papa.”
“You lied, Antonio. You said that you were going to visit Papa. If you had been there—”
“What could I have done? Tell me that, Filomena. Could I have rescued him from the police? I do not think so.”
His reply quelled Filomena. She sat at the table, staring at the palms of her hands: wide, capable hands, the skin coarsened by her years working in the laundry.
“I saw Constable Sellers at the hospital,” she said. “He used to work with Stan—with Constable Harker. He told me they would be making more arrests in the morning. They won’t come for you, though, Antonino, will they? Your name won’t be on that list?”
Antonio was silent. He remembered how he had signed the loan document beneath the blue satisfied glitter of Signor Follini’s eyes. That document, that signature, would be there in the fascio’s records; more than enough to put the authorities on his trail.
“Yes, Mena,” he said at last, “it is very likely that they will come for me. I cannot explain, it is something I had to do for Papa. You will be all right, though. They are not arresting women, and besides, you were born in this country, you are a British citizen.”
“Much good may it do me,” mumbled Filomena. “And the kiosk? What about the kiosk?”
“I fear you will have to close it, at least for a few days. People will be avoiding Italian businesses now.” Antonio sat at the table beside her. He felt a peculiar sense of comfort that it was his shrewd calm sister taking charge, not his brother, not his wife. “Whatever happens I will let you know, Filomena. As soon as I can, I will send you word. And when I do, will you tell Mr. Rodway? I will write down his address. They will want to know where I am, he and his wife.”
As he said it Antonio felt a terrible desire to speak Olivia’s name, to taste it in his mouth as two hours ago he had tasted her skin. I could tell Filomena, he thought, she would understand, she would not judge me. Instead he said, impulsively: “I was wrong to stop you marrying your Englishman. I liked him, he is a good man. He would have made you a good husband.”
He thought that Filomena would weep with a kind of delayed gratitude, but she did not. Her mouth twisted into a bitter little smile, and she got to her feet.
“Well, it is too late for that now.” She slid her apron over her head. “Stan will never be a good husband, not to me, not to anyone. He was killed last month in Norway. I had the news from his mother.”
“Mena! And you told nobody?”
Filomena’s mouth gave another twist. “Who was there to tell? You? Papa?” She took her knife and her chopping board from the drawer. “And now I am going to make the supper.”
“That is kind of you, Mena, but I do not think I can swallow anything—”
“Neither can I,” said Filomena, slicing through an onion with savage precision, “but when you do not know what the future holds, Antonio, it is better to greet it with a full stomach.”
They came for Antonio at first light on that mild June morning, just as Constable Sellers had warned. Their booted footsteps in the corridor woke Renata, who, remembering Bruno’s disappearance, began to howl.
Antonio picked up the suitcase he had packed the night before. It was an old suitcase, bought in Rome twenty years ago, the metal corners scuffed from a history of quaysides and luggage racks and station platforms. In it he had put a warm jersey for Enrico and a snapshot of Valentino.
“I’ve prepared some food,” said Filomena. “Bread and cheese, and a few slices of sausage.”
She could see the policemen eyeing her, unnerved by Renata’s monstrous wailing. Their wariness sparked Filomena’s pride. She was not a hysteric, she knew how to conduct herself. Tightening her lips she embraced Antonio, awkwardly because he had his suitcase in one hand.
Antonio patted her on the shoulder. The night had been hard and sleepless; now that the men had come he felt easier, as though the trial before him had begun. “Where are you taking me?” he asked.
The men exchanged glances before one of them said: “To the police station first. Then there are collection points, while the authorities check who’s who. You will be well treated, my friend. Don’t be afraid.”
“I’m not afraid. I want to find my father, that is all. He was arrested in the Italian hospital last night.” He smiled at Filomena. “Don’t fret, Mena. I will write as soon as I can. You had better go and comfort Renata. Stop her wailing fit to wake the dead.”
Filomena did not trust herself to speak. She clasped her brother in her arms for a long char
ged moment; then she turned away, so that she would not see the policemen lead him from the house.
—
Antonio spent the day in the police station, herded with the others who had been arrested in the dawn raids. The cell was so crowded they had to stand, jostling one another for half inches of space. The next morning they were moved to the Brompton Oratory School in Chelsea. As Antonio entered the building he remembered taking the bus to Dickie Belvoir’s flat beside the river, to rehearse Olivia’s song. Oh, she doth teach the torches to burn bright. He pushed the memory away. If he once allowed himself to think about Olivia he would be lost.
In the school hall he found Bruno, sitting cross-legged on the parquet floor. There was a nervous look about him, the look of a man who would jump at a car backfiring, not the bold patriot who had fought in Abyssinia. He had not seen Enrico, either in the police station or elsewhere in the school.
“What are they going to do with us, Antonino?” he asked. Antonio shrugged.
“I don’t know. I don’t think they know themselves. They can’t hold tribunals, there are too many of us. I daresay they’ll move us on once they’ve found somewhere to put us.”
Antonio was right. Three days later they found themselves on a train with fifty or so other men. The nameplates had been removed from the stations they passed—a precaution against invasion—but Antonio had the impression that they were traveling north. He looked through the black-smeared window at the fields bowling past, moist and green in the June sunshine, studded with graceful ancient trees. Then the fields gave way to factories and dense brick houses, blocked as far as the horizon, and a pungent smell of smoke seeped into the carriage.
The camp where they were heading was a disused cotton mill, not far from Liverpool. Warth Mills had been commandeered hastily, and rusty machinery and cotton waste still littered the floors. The cracked skylights let in the cold and rain—for it was raining now, inexorable English drizzle, not warm and drama laden like the storms of Lazio. Antonio and Bruno were given a pair of blankets each; then they went to queue for their evening meal, bread and a small hunk of cheese.
“And no friendly glass of grappa to wash it down, alas,” a voice said in Antonio’s ear. It was Peppino, the waiter from La Rondine.
“Peppino! But you hate the duce. Why have they arrested you?”
“I am a communist, my friend. There are powers in this country that, much as they fear Hitler and Mussolini, fear the Russians even more.” Peppino gave his wolfish smile, displaying his long white canines. “Meanwhile you will observe that we have been herded together with Nazis as well as refugees. There’s a whole troop of sleek young Germans from one of Hitler’s merchant ships. They do not care, these British. We are foreigners, that’s what counts, and all foreigners are the same.”
“They are disorganized, that is all. Disorganized and frightened.”
“You are too trusting, my friend,” said Peppino. “You always were.” Contemptuously he held out his metal cup for some tea, thin and over-brewed. “By the way, Antonio, you know that your father is here, don’t you?”
Antonio found Enrico wedged into a corner beneath one of the cracked skylights, wrapped in a gray blanket. The crucifix and the coral horn about his neck quivered as he struggled for breath. When he saw his son his eyes filled with tears.
“Oh, Papa,” said Antonio, crouching beside his father on the damp floorboards, “I have been praying that I would find you.” Enrico’s hand was leathery and familiar, a hand that he had touched all his life, a hand he remembered from walking through the village in Lazio, with the foam of oleanders upon the trees and the shriek of crickets. “Everything will be all right. Bruno is here, my friend Peppino is here. We will take care of you now.”
Enrico did not speak. He leaned his cheek against Antonio’s shoulder as though he no longer had the strength to remain separate, but had to rely on the heartbeat of his son to keep him alive.
That night, as Antonio lay listening to the scuttle of rats, he heard a crash in the darkness. Nobody could see what had happened but next morning one of the Nazis—a sailor from the captured merchant ship—appeared with a black eye. Later, as he was fetching water for Enrico, Antonio saw that Peppino’s knuckles were red and bruised. There was a gleam in his eyes, though, as if it had been worth it.
—
There was a strange normality about Old Compton Street the day after Mussolini’s declaration of war. In some places the pavement was scattered with glass and splintered wood, but most of the shops had opened, and there were people milling peaceably in and out as if nothing had changed. Olivia picked her way along the street, looking for Ricci’s café. It was only half past ten, but she had been awake half the night and when dawn broke she had not been able to sit still anywhere in the house. Every room was like a cage, hemming her in. Bernard was asleep in his study when she left. He had come home at three in the morning; she had heard him clatter into the drawing room to pour himself a whisky. Her first instinct was to run to him and beg him to protect Antonio, but she stopped herself. He will guess the truth, she thought, I will not be able to hide it, not now, not tonight. Better to wait and find out what has happened.
She passed a men’s clothing shop, with white starched collars on display. Outside the spaghetti house next door, a man in overalls was sweeping broken glass from the curb. He touched his cap politely to Olivia. All I want is to see Antonio, she thought. We do not have to speak, we do not have to touch. One glimpse of him, that is all, to know that he is safe. Her face felt stiff from lack of sleep, as though her skull was too large for her skin, stretching it like a canvas over her forehead.
At last she caught sight of the sign—Ricci’s—and her heart leaped. Then she saw that the café was closed. The front window had been smashed, cracks radiating from a jagged hole in the glass. It was boarded up, clumsily, so that it was difficult to see inside. Olivia took a breath. Well, it does not matter, she thought, I can wait for him. It is not yet eleven. That’s what he said: eleven o’clock, tomorrow or the next day. He knows I will be here; sooner or later he will come.
She turned toward Charing Cross Road. “The battle of Soho,” a billboard on the corner proclaimed. A cluster of men huddled there, brandishing a newspaper, arguing. One of them glanced at Olivia, incongruous in her smart expensive clothes. Perhaps he thinks I’m a spy, she thought. The idea gave her a salty irrational pleasure. Somewhere in Soho a clock struck eleven. Olivia looked back at Ricci’s café. It was still closed, still silent. He is late, that is all, she thought. He may be with his father in hospital, it may be that the police are questioning him. There are a dozen reasons why he has not yet arrived. I have to be patient.
The man with the newspaper was eyeing her again. It was wartime, nobody’s business was private, you could be cautioned for all kinds of suspicious behavior, taking photographs, loitering. She wished there were an inconspicuous place where she could sit. As she thought this, she saw a figure moving in the depths of the café, a slim girl, dressed in black. Olivia did not hesitate. She ran across the pavement and began to rattle at the locked door.
“Hallo?” she called. “Hallo?”
Nothing happened; the figure beside the counter did not move. Olivia rattled again. At last a dark-haired girl, no more than sixteen, inched open the door. Her eyes were swollen and she had a bewildered expression on her face.
“We’re closed,” she said, with a strong Italian accent.
“Yes, I can see that, but I wondered—I have arranged to meet someone here. His name is Trombetta, Antonio Trombetta, you may know him—”
“Antonio? No, I have not seen him. I cannot help you, I am sorry.” The girl made to close the door. Olivia sprang forward, grasping the frame with her gloved hand.
“He will be here soon, I am sure of it. If I could come in and wait—”
“Please go away. My aunt is not well, we do not want to be disturbed. My uncle Carlo was arrested last night. The police came and took him. The
y have taken all the men.”
“Where?” said Olivia. “Where have they taken them?”
The girl shook her head. “We do not know. They are gone, that is all. Now please, whoever you are, leave us in peace.”
The mass arrest of foreigners was causing difficulties for the British government. All the internment camps were overcrowded, and there were fears of what would happen in an invasion. The Germans had marched into Paris on June 14; soon there would be nothing to prevent Hitler from turning the full power of the Wehrmacht on Britain. Who knew what damage these enemy aliens might do, rising up to welcome their fellow fascists? Dark visions of Quisling and his Norwegian traitors, of the Dutch Nazis with their death lists, haunted the war cabinet. Churchill wanted to deport all internees from the United Kingdom. Several destinations were proposed—Newfoundland, perhaps, or St. Helena. In the end the Canadian government was pressed into accepting four thousand men. The first ships—passenger liners commandeered by the army—were made ready in Liverpool docks.
At Warth Mills, Antonio was absorbed in caring for his father. Enrico could not stir now without straining for breath. He lay on his blanket beneath the cracked skylight, cradling the photograph of Valentino. The only time his face lit up was when Antonio talked to him of Valentino: tales of his brother’s mischievous childhood, fantasies of what he might be doing at this moment in Lazio. He will be eating his supper in my sister Paolina’s kitchen, Papa, slurping his spaghetti to make the children laugh. He will be smoking a cigarette beside the fountain in the square, surrounded by the young men from the village. You know what Valentino is like, he makes friends wherever he goes.
When Enrico was sleeping Antonio spent his time with Bruno and Peppino, playing cards or walking in the dilapidated mill yard. The building was encircled by two barbed wire fences; in between you could see the guards on patrol. As bored as we are, Antonio thought, and probably as edgy, not knowing what will happen next.
