by Annie Murray
Couples sat round the tables laughing and drinking. A band was playing songs of home: ‘The Lambeth Walk’, ‘There’ll Be Bluebirds Over’ and, as ever, ‘In the Mood’.
As Rose sat beside Tony they were joined by another fair-haired lad who Tony introduced as Alex. He was a fellow engineer and the two of them were soon chatting beside her. Opposite them, a chap called Stan from Huddersfield was trying to entertain everyone by telling jokes. The ATS girl with him kept snuggling up like a kitten, resting her head on his shoulder, giggling. After a quarter of an hour of this Rose could have happily socked the pair of them.
Lightly she nudged Tony, who turned a little apologetically from his conversation with Alex.
‘I’m just going to find the Ladies,’ she murmured.
She walked towards the front entrance where there was a small reception desk, as if to enquire. Then, casually glancing back towards the table to check none of them was watching her, she walked to the door. A moment later she was standing alone out on the street.
Nineteen
She knew she needed to move fast. Her eyes adjusted quickly to the dark of the unlit city. Now that the Germans had moved out of Naples it was their turn to bomb it, so the inhabitants were still constrained by a curfew and blackout. When she reached the end of the street the Piazza Municipio opened out in front of her. In the gloom a huge building loomed up, round, dark turrets at its corners, and she remembered having driven past it. It was the Castel Nuovo.
She made the mistake of stopping for a moment to get her bearings. The sea was a whisper to her left. From somewhere else she could hear a wheezing, squeaking sound as if someone was playing a very old and asthmatic concertina. She heard carts go by, creaking to the exhausted clop-clop of the mules’ hoofs, and a number of shadowy figures passed her in the darkness, some of them in uniform.
And then she felt a hand grip her. She jumped, giving a loud gasp, feeling bony fingers clasping her lower arm. She turned to see a minute old lady standing beside her whose body was bent forward so that her shoulders were rounded into a grotesque hump and she had to twist her head round to look up. Her mouth appeared like a terrible empty hole in the darkness and Rose could make no sense of the cracked whimpering noises she was making. In revulsion and panic of which she was immediately ashamed, she jerked her arm down to rid herself of the goblin-like figure beside her and walked away very fast. She began to hear other voices calling out to her from people she could barely see.
Rose knew she had no definite way of finding her way back once she left the main square. But she had been taken over by her old drive to press on and explore, and it would not let her turn away. She turned her back on the sea, her stomach churning with fear and exhilaration, and walked quickly towards the dark, mouth-like openings of the side streets. She could just make out a pale off limits sign over her head, suspended in the smoky air. She felt as if she was watching herself from the outside and was not really responsible for what she was doing: an ignorant, reckless foreign woman heading into the blackness of the slum streets; and thought, I must be off my head.
And then she was inside, or that was how it seemed: that these streets were the real heart of the city. It was even darker here, the sides of the buildings looming on either side of her very close together, so that looking up she could just make out a ribbon of sky above her head between them. There were a couple of stars showing their minute clear light. Around her the shadows were thick and menacing. She had no idea whether anyone was watching her, but ahead she could see a faint flickering light which must have come from a candle burning in one of the bassi. Further along the street she became aware of an orange glow playing on the outlines of the buildings. She could hear voices, women shouting, and somewhere a man was singing.
There was no chance of walking very fast. There was too little light and the thick paving slabs underfoot were littered with rubble from the destruction wrought by the bombing and such rubbish as the Neapolitans could spare lay rotting and urine-soaked on the street. Among the stones and chunks of wood, Rose felt her foot slide on something rounded and yielding and nearly cried out in revulsion.
As she moved along, now and then she felt hands clutching at her. She held her bag clutched tightly to her chest, cursing herself for bringing it. She pushed people away with a roughness born of fear and panic. She was beginning to realize just how foolish she had been to come.
I’ll just go a bit further and then I’ll get myself out of here, she said to herself. She was breathless with fright.
As she drew nearer the glow of the fire she saw that it was burning in the shell of what had once been a tall building like the rest around them. Some lower sections of the outer wall were still standing. Inside was a chaos of stone and timber with beams jutting across at odd angles to the floor and heaps of rubble. In a space among the obviously dangerous ruin, what looked like two or three families were clustered round the darting flames. The stench of drains was even worse here. She watched the circle of people crowded round the fire over which a large cooking pot was balanced on a makeshift support.
She stopped for a few seconds, only to find herself surrounded by clamouring children. The shadows of the fire wavered over their faces, and Rose felt herself unable to move from fear and helplessness.
‘I haven’t got anything for you,’ she shouted. ‘Go away – leave me alone. Va te!’ Adults, attracted by the noise, were joining the children. She was crowded in by stinking bodies, all shouting and groping at her, moving in like vultures.
‘Leave me alone,’ she cried again. ‘Let me go!’
Only once before had she felt such fear: that November evening in Mr Lazenby’s office. But here she was also aware that she could disappear and never be seen again in this dark, fetid warren. An image pressed on her mind of the crowd carving her up and roasting pieces of her on sticks by the fire.
She tried to back away from them, hitting out in panic at the grabbing fingers. Someone wrenched her bag out of her hands and made off fast into the darkness. She found herself pressed up against the crumbling stones of the building opposite the fire. In despair she clamped her arms across her chest and shut her eyes tight.
She sensed a ripple of movement and the clamour around her quietened. She opened her eyes just as strong, male fingers gripped one of her upper arms and another hand reached roughly round her back and wrapped tightly over her mouth so that she had no chance to make a sound. The man shouted a few rough words to the people around who stepped back to let them through. Without loosening his hold on her, the man half dragged her along the street and round a corner.
They stopped, and still gripped by one arm, she heard him opening a lock. In the dim light she could make out a huge wooden gateway. Then a small door set into it swung open and she was pushed over the step and inside. She heard the dull slam of the door behind her and his key turning again in the lock.
He released her slowly, and she could hear him breathing heavily beside her. He stood in silence for a moment, and then uttered one angry word: ‘Pazza!’
Madwoman.
From then on it was like a dream. Rose realized they were standing in the entrance to an inner courtyard. There was a scratching sound as the man lit a match. He handed her a thick, white candle.
‘Follow me.’ Bending down to pick up a bundle wrapped in newspaper which had been lying by the outer door, he walked across the courtyard.
They came to a doorway which led to a flight of stone stairs. At each level the side of the building that looked over the courtyard was partly open to the air through high, rounded arches like huge windows without glass, with a low protective rail to stop anyone walking off the edge. In some of the arches Rose saw the wilted shapes of plants in heavy pots.
On each floor, doors opened off the stairway. She followed the young man’s legs in their dark trousers, bewildered, but sensing that he meant her no harm. They climbed three floors and then he turned off and walked to one of the doors. As she held the fat c
andle near the wall, Rose saw that on the greyish green of the plaster were painted in rough white letters the words IL RIFUGIO. The man knocked briskly three times on the door.
‘Where are we?’ Rose asked timidly, praying that her Italian might be good enough to understand at least some of the answer.
The man turned and she saw his face properly for the first time, a smooth, surprisingly aristocratic face with a long aquiline nose and thin lips. His curly hair was clipped neatly round his head and he had large eyes which he kept directed at the door as if he was listening.
‘Don’t worry,’ she thought he said to her, rather absently. ‘I’ll take you back.’
Then they heard a woman’s voice calling softly through the door. ‘Francesco?’
Impatiently he replied ‘Si, si,’ and they heard the door being unlocked inside. A young woman with a round, gentle face and black hair curling over her shoulders was looking out at them with anxious eyes. ‘Thank God,’ she said. And then, ‘Who’s this?’
As they went inside Rose heard Francesco explaining how he had found her in the next street. He unwrapped the parcel he was carrying and showed the young woman what was inside, though Rose couldn’t see what it was. The two of them conversed in the sort of quiet voices Dora had used when there was a baby asleep near by. She noticed that Francesco had seemed more relaxed the moment he was inside the place.
Rose looked round her as they talked. They were standing in a sizeable square hallway off which led four doors. On three of the walls there was nothing but bare, crumbling paintwork. Against the fourth stood a small shrine where a tiny candle burned in front of a statue of the Madonna, casting shadows over her gaudy face and robes. Around it hung carefully placed strands of flowers and leaves.
The young woman moved closer to Rose. ‘Who are you?’ she asked cautiously. ‘Are you American?’
‘No,’ Rose said. ‘Un’inglese. English. A soldier.’ She tried to explain that she had been lost, and the young woman smiled suddenly.
‘You have learned Italian?’
Rose nodded. ‘A little.’
One of the doors in front of them opened and Rose found to her further confusion that she was suddenly face to face with a short, plump nun, her heavy black clothes reaching to the floor. Cradled in her arms was a young child. The nun smiled, a rather odd gnome-like smile as she had a bad squint in one eye, and her expression suggested someone without all their mental faculties.
‘She needs water, Margherita,’ she said in a high, lisping voice.
The younger woman disappeared, returning a few seconds later with a small china cup and put it to the child’s lips.
Rose felt herself drawn towards them. She could see the child’s black curls resting on the nun’s arm. She reached out and stroked the dark mop of hair. It felt stringy with dirt. She knew all their eyes were on her.
‘You like children?’ Margherita asked her softly.
Rose nodded. Margherita looked questioningly for a second at Francesco, who gave a slight nod.
‘Then come.’ She beckoned Rose forward. ‘I will show you.’
Still holding the candle, Rose followed her to the door from where she had seen the nun appear. She came with them now, the scrawny child in her arms. They walked through the dark doorway into a long room which must have extended along the back of the building. There was one other candle in the room. Beside this other fragile light a second nun was sitting on the floor, her face in shadow.
After a moment, Rose took in that the little bundles of rags of varying sizes in rows along the floor were the bodies of children. There must have been twenty or thirty of them. She became aware of the sound of their breathing as they lay in exhausted sleep. Despite the size of the room she could smell the dirt on their bodies, and realized that the pungent stench of excrement was coming from a tin pail which stood near the door.
Looking first at the others for permission, Rose walked slowly along between the sleeping children. Some of them lay on mattresses which appeared to be stuffed with something coarse like straw. Others had only an arm crooked under their heads for a pillow. A few of them twitched and stirred in their sleep. They reminded Rose of George, how he had slept without really resting when he came back from his months in Wales.
Her mind was alive with questions about these people. As she drew near the seated nun, she saw that she was watching over a young girl. The nun’s face was pale and thin, with prominent cheekbones, and she looked up at Rose through thick black-rimmed spectacles.
Seeing the tenderness in Rose’s eyes as she looked at the girl she said in a whisper, ‘This is Maria Grazia.’
Rose smiled and nodded, looking at the little girl lying asleep on her side, her face half hidden by long, straight hair. She had to struggle to understand the next part of what the woman said.
‘E gravida,’ she said sorrowfully. ‘E ha solo dodici anni.’
Rose frowned. The girl was only twelve. She had understood that. The nun made a graceful gesture, a curving movement out from her stomach.
Rose gasped, pointing at the girl’s belly. ‘Un bambino?’
The nun nodded, watching the horrified pity spread over the stranger’s face. ‘Her father is dead,’ she explained. The woman spoke so fast that Rose could understand only snatches of what she said. She gathered that the girl’s mother had also recently died and that to survive she had ‘pleased’ the soldiers. ‘All these children,’ the nun went on, ‘they have seen terrible things. Some of their families are so poor they even try to sell them.’ Gesturing round the room she indicated that though they could only take in a few, they tried to create a home for them.
Rose was aware as she listened that Francesco and Margherita were watching her and discussing something in low, urgent voices. They beckoned her to come out of the room with them. Rose noticed that Margherita looked almost excited, as if in anticipation.
Now she spoke slowly and carefully. ‘What is your work in the army?’
Rose couldn’t think of the word and mimed turning a steering wheel and changing gear. She saw the two of them exchange glances.
‘I see by the way you look at the children that you have a special feeling for them. We have decided to ask you if you can help us.’
The dreamlike peculiarity of Rose’s evening was increasing even further. ‘I don’t understand.’
Francesco made as if to answer, but Margherita gestured at him to be quiet.
‘We need help here from wherever we can find it,’ she said, still speaking slowly. ‘Our refuge is linked with the Church, but it’s not official.’ Seeing Rose frown she said, ‘Francesco and I were members of Catholic Action when we were students. We are also anti-Fascists. The Fascists banned Catholic Action, a long time ago, from any sort of involvement which was not Church-related. We stayed in Catholic Action but we carried on our other activities outside. You understand?’
Rose nodded. She had picked up most of it.
‘Now that Mussolini has gone things have become a little easier.’ Margherita continued. ‘But our bishop has confused feelings about us. We are loyal Catholics, but we are also seen as troublemakers . . .’
‘You mean the Church supported Mussolini?’
Margherita sighed. ‘At first, no. Later – yes. Mussolini did deals with the Church, offered bribes . . . presents for them,’ she explained. ‘Anyway, because of who we are we cannot get official support from the Church for our orphanage. Not in the form of money. This building belongs to the Church. We do not have to pay rent. And the sisters, Magdalena and Assunta, help us with the work. And candles.’ Her mouth curved into a wry smile. ‘A lot of candles! But we have to feed the children from the black market like everyone else. There is hardly any water. Sometimes it is dangerous because people try to steal from us. They are hungry too, of course.’
Rose was struggling to keep up with her. ‘I’d like to help,’ she said, cursing her slowness in the language. ‘I like children. What do you want?’
; ‘Anything you can bring,’ Margherita told her. ‘Food, soap, blankets, clothes. We can use anything or we can sell it. I know you cannot come here often. But you come how and when you can. We cannot give you anything in return.’
‘Yes,’ Rose smiled, ‘I think you can. A refuge, perhaps.’
And the two women laughed for the first time. Rose had taken to Margherita straight away. She felt that they could be friends.
‘I will come,’ Rose said. ‘I promise. But you must show me the way back. My friends will be worried.’
‘What were you looking for here?’ Margherita asked.
‘I wanted to see Naples,’ Rose said. ‘Even at night!’
Francesco indicated that he was ready to leave and Rose went out with him. ‘You were very foolish to walk here alone. It is dangerous for us, but even more so for you.’
As they walked down the stairs again they heard hasty footsteps coming towards them and a man appeared, with something stuffed under his jacket. He looked startled as he saw them.
‘Evening Enrico,’ Francesco said. ‘What’s that? Bread? Rosa, this is Enrico – he is a magician. He finds bread from the stones.’
The man was staring with wide eyes at Rose and she saw sweat on his pallid skin even though it was a cool night. He had brown hair and a thin, stubbly face.
‘This is Rosa,’ Francesco said. ‘An English soldier. She is going to help us.’
The man gave her a long, intense stare, fearful or hostile she was not sure, and then ran on up the stairs.
‘He does not speak,’ Francesco explained to her. ‘We know almost nothing about him except that he has shown he can be trusted. We think perhaps he is a little—’ Francesco tapped a finger against his head. ‘But he has connections and from somewhere he brings us food.’
He walked with her, back to the edge of the dark square, from where she said she could find her way.
‘When you come again, you will remember,’ he said. ‘We are in the street next to Via degli Spagnoli. You will help us?’ For the first time he smiled, rather appealingly.
