The Metal Heart

by Caroline Lea

  He can’t bring himself to turn, to look at her. He feels ashamed of the way he’d shunned her, the way he’d blamed her for simply delivering the news. The war isn’t her fault. She isn’t the enemy.

  Who is the enemy now? He isn’t sure he knows.

  He watches her shadow on the wall, watches her reach out a hand, as if to touch him, then sees her withdraw it. He tries to keep his breathing steady, but on each outbreath he thinks, Please, please, please.

  Finally she touches him. Not on his shoulder, where the sheet covers him: she places two cool fingers on his bare neck. Skin on skin.

  He stirs; he turns.

  On her face, a tremulous smile. ‘I talked to Major Bates. I told him that you – that all of you – must hear news from Italy. I said you should have a companion to read your letters from home. One of the other men to read the Italian. I said – forgive me, but I had to convince him – I said that many of the prisoners probably couldn’t read.’

  Cesare sits up, with effort. ‘He knows I read. What did he say?’

  ‘He said . . . well, he said a lot of things. I think he feels guilty about what has happened.’ She looks down at her hands, then glances back at him. ‘And he has agreed, as long as there are other guards here to make sure there is no trouble.’ She shifts uncomfortably as she says this, but he nods in quick agreement.

  ‘Sì. There are many guards after . . .’

  ‘After the riot, yes. Fifty more.’

  ‘Sixty,’ says a voice from the shadows, and Cesare jumps. He hadn’t realized that Con was standing there. He can’t see her face, but her voice is hard. ‘There are sixty more men on the island.’

  ‘So,’ Dorotea leans forward, ‘I asked for a man from your hut, Gino, to read some letters to you, and to the other men. He is allowed to come in the evenings. A guard is bringing him now.’

  Cesare sits up, just as the door opens and Gino is there, walking behind a stern-faced guard, carrying a pile of letters and grinning. ‘You look terrible,’ he says to Cesare in Italian.

  ‘English only,’ the guard snaps.

  Dorotea flashes Cesare a quick smile and then, before he can thank her, she goes to tend the other prisoners. Her sister follows her, like a shadow.

  Gino sits in the chair next to Cesare’s bed, opens one of the letters and says, ‘Mio caro,’ at the same time as the guard says, ‘In English, you Italian pig. I’ve told you.’

  Still smiling, Gino turns, and says to the guard, ‘Il mio inglese è molto buono.’

  ‘What’s he saying?’ The guard glares at Cesare.

  ‘Stronzo.’ Gino’s smile doesn’t falter as he says arsehole.

  ‘His English is very not good,’ Cesare says, although he knows Gino speaks English well. ‘He must read this letter for me in Italian.’

  ‘You can’t read your own language but you can speak English? That doesn’t sound right.’

  Cesare shrugs. ‘My village is small. I learn English when I help the priest in the church. No time for reading.’

  The look the guard gives him is the same expression he’s seen on the faces of dozens of other guards: it says, You are stupid, you are worthless, you are an animal.

  Cesare swallows the rage he feels, then nods at Gino to continue.

  ‘Mio caro,’ Gino begins again, and then, squinting at the paper as if he is reading the letter, he says, in Italian, ‘There has been trouble in the camp. No one would work for a long time and we were fed bread and water. Then the major told us that we were working on causeways, not barriers, and that these causeways are needed for the islanders in peacetime, so are not part of the war effort.’

  ‘Stronzate!’ Cesare curses.

  ‘English from you!’ the guard says.

  ‘Sorry. The letter is bad news.’

  Gino continues in Italian, still studying the letter. ‘Some men have started working on these “causeways”. Those who won’t work are still being given only bread and water. The guards are making them stand all day in the yard in the cold. If we don’t do something, then more of us will be ill.’

  Cesare struggles to keep his face smooth. The guard is watching them closely. He finds himself gripping the sheets and forces his hands to relax, his jaw to unclench, and makes himself nod, sadly, as if he has heard some unhappy news from home.

  He looks at the window, where a lamp casts a sickly yellowish light on the flakes of snow being whipped through the air. Something cold writhes in his gut. He has never been a violent man but slowly, in this place, he is beginning to understand why some men hoard scraps of steel that they sharpen until the jagged edges gleam. He is beginning to understand why, over time, a man might start to lash out, or might plan something brutal and final.

  The sudden comprehension – hot and shameful – frightens him.

  He draws a deep breath. ‘We must do something.’

  After Gino has moved on to ‘read letters’ to the other men – giving them the same news, Cesare guesses, from the outraged whispers, the shocked faces – Cesare lies back, his thoughts whirling, as if some explosion is readying itself inside his skull. The anger feels like a return of the fever: first he is too warm; then he shivers. His hands are bunched into shaking fists.

  To calm himself, he thinks of home. He imagines the green sweep of the mountains, the little houses crammed as closely as teeth, one garden spilling into another. Women swept each other’s doorsteps, looked after each other’s children. Everyone shared bread, meals, stories. And at the beating heart of the little village, with the bell pulsing out its passing hours, was the church. Cesare remembers the comforting hum of the priest’s words, the gleaming censers casting smoke heavenwards, the touch of the holy man’s fingers on his forehead as the Communion bread melted on his tongue.

  Nel nome del Padre, del Figlio e dello Spirito Santo.

  And he remembers the paintings that stretched over the ceiling, so that everywhere was brimming with life. He remembers the church swelling with the music of joined voices. The peace on the faces of those he loved. The hope.

  He inhales deeply, filling his chest with a resounding longing for home. It echoes through his limbs, leaves him trembling, on the verge of tears.

  When he opens his eyes, he has decided: they must build a church on this island.

  March 1942

  Orcadians

  It is Robert MacRae who first hears from Angus MacLeod that the prisoners are to build a chapel – a Catholic chapel – on Selkie Holm.

  They’re drinking ale in the pub in Kirkwall, hunched over their pints in the corner, listening to the rain and wind batter the blacked-out windows.

  ‘What do they need a chapel for?’ Robert asks, sipping his pint. ‘Isn’t God everywhere?’

  ‘Exactly,’ Angus says. ‘I tried telling Major Bates it was a bloody cheek that they’re demanding a special place to pray.’

  ‘Well, at least that will stop them from trying to sneak into the church in Kirkwall. Neil MacClenny said he saw two of them trying to get into the church when they were supposed to be digging a ditch.’

  ‘Maybe. But still, it’s not right, is it? Foreigners building something on our land. I told Major Bates that people on the island wouldn’t like it, that the prisoners are here to work, not to spend their time building their own church in a place that doesn’t belong to them.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  Angus stares moodily into his pint. The major had shouted that Angus was a jumped-up little worm who couldn’t find his way out of a wet paper bag and he should stop interfering when he’d caused enough bloody trouble already. All of this mess is your fault. I should have you sent off to fight and die in Africa, but I suppose you’ve got some medical exemption or other. What’s it for – stupidity?

  ‘He told me to mind my own business,’ Angus says.

  ‘Who does he think he is?’ Robert demands. ‘The English are arseholes, I tell you. How does Major Bates think they’ll get the materials for building a church? Going to ship
everything in, is he? Because I’m sure the German U-boats in the North Sea need some target practice.’

  ‘He’s using two of the old metal huts and some leftover materials from the barriers –’

  ‘The causeways.’

  ‘Aye.’ Angus smiles. ‘The causeways. And they’re going to use scraps of metal and the like. He seems to think that some of the prisoners will be able to work with metal. He’s going to let them have a workshop with a furnace. Can you imagine? Think what weapons they could make in there. I told him it’ll only be a matter of time before a guard gets used as a pincushion. Those prisoners are angry – there’s a lot of rage for them to let loose.’

  ‘You’re right! What did he say?’

  Major Bates had raised his eyebrows at Angus and asked if he was offering himself as a fucking pincushion.

  Now Angus says, ‘He didn’t agree with me.’

  ‘Well, he’s a fool. From everything you’ve told me, that island is a powder keg.’

  Angus nods and, without thinking, he rubs at the irregular semicircular scar that stretches over his wrist. The skin is smooth, now, and numb, but sometimes, when the sunlight catches it, it shines and he’s certain he can still feel the warmth of her breath.

  Robert watches Angus and, very quietly, says, ‘Have you spoken to her?’

  ‘Not for a while.’ Angus stands up so suddenly that the chair falls over. The other men in the bar freeze, but don’t dare to look over. Best to turn the other way when Angus is in this sort of mood.

  Angus downs his pint, bangs his glass onto the table, then stalks from the bar, leaving his chair on the floor and the door wide open to the biting cold and rain.

  March 1942

  Constance

  The mist is massing thickly on the hills when the last lorry clanks past the infirmary, delivering supplies up the hill for the new chapel.

  ‘It’ll blow away in the first storm,’ I say to Dot. ‘Won’t it?’

  There is no answer, and when I turn, Dot isn’t behind me – I’m so in the habit of speaking to her that I’d forgotten she isn’t there. I haven’t seen her all morning and I’m starting to worry.

  I search behind the curtain in the infirmary: our bed is neatly made and bare. Her boots are gone. I walk past the lines of beds, aware of the men’s eyes following me. None of them calls but, still, their gaze feels like something heavy pressing on my skin. I keep my head down.

  The bed that had been Cesare’s is empty too – he was sent back to his hut yesterday evening, still coughing, but without the fever. He had recovered so quickly, after he’d spoken to Major Bates about the chapel. Every time I saw him, he seemed stronger, his limbs filling out, his eyes brightening. He and Dot had sat late into the night whispering. She had laughed and leaned forward over his bed. I had watched from behind the curtain as her hair fell across his face. I had watched him reach out and gather it in his hand, twisting it into a long red rope. My breath had stopped in my chest. I’d imagined him winding that rope of hair around her throat, or yanking on it to pull her in closer.

  I stepped forward.

  He’d looped her hair over her shoulder and released it so that it spilled down her back. She’d tucked it behind her ear and smiled at him.

  Still, the fear swelled like a balloon beneath my ribs. He’s pretending – I know he is. All the prisoners are play-acting the role of polite gentlemen, but it is a shabby costume. I know how a man can pretend to be affectionate and concerned when he wants something. I know how warmth can deceive.

  Now I can’t find Dot, the mist is closing in and there are a thousand men on this island, not to mention the cliffs. Not to mention the curse.

  I push my face up to the infirmary window, but all I can see is the greyish churn of the fog, pressing against the cold glass like some slick-backed beast.

  It’s a ridiculous curse, the one they say is on this island. That if two people fall in love here, someone will die. I tell myself it’s a story, a foolish superstition. But that doesn’t stop the sick twisting in my stomach, and the thought that I cannot escape: the story tells us that someone will die, but it doesn’t say who. A lover, it says, but which one?

  I hear soft footsteps behind me and turn suddenly to find Bess behind me, her eyes wide as if she is frightened of me. I must, I realize, look half wild. I smooth my hair and press my mouth into a smile. ‘Have you seen Dot?’ I try to keep my voice level.

  ‘No, I . . . Not since I heard you . . . talking to her last night about the chapel.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, turning away, bundling myself into my coat, my scarf.

  ‘You can’t go out in this,’ Bess says.

  ‘I have to find her.’

  ‘But the cliffs!’ Bess voice rises in pitch. ‘Con, it’s not safe.’

  She grabs my arm but I brush her off.

  The men are sitting up in their hospital beds, watching me, talking to each other in a rapid patter of Italian. What are they saying? What are they planning? I dig my hands into my coat pockets and push my shoulder against the door. Gasping at the cold air, I call Dot’s name.

  The mist swirls around me, swallowing the sound. It’s like shouting with a cloth pressed over my face. Suffocating.

  For a moment, the memory of his hand covering my mouth, and how small my smothered scream had sounded.

  What if he’s waiting out there for me?

  I close my eyes against the nausea. I dig my nails into my palms. ‘No time for this, Con,’ I say aloud, to myself, to the mist, to whatever creature or human may be listening.

  I make myself walk, counting my steps. I can see perhaps two paces in front of me, but any further is a swirling grey blur.

  I set off in the direction of the bothy – it is up the hill from the camp, so I know I am walking away from the cliffs. Dot and I have rarely been back to the bothy – when I asked if we might return there, away from the camp, she’d shaken her head. At first, when I was ill, she’d said I needed to be near to the infirmary. Once I was better, she still insisted that we stayed. We both knew why, although neither of us said it.

  In the back of my mind, as I walk, is the fear of Dot returning to the bothy alone and discovering the necklace I’d hidden in a gap between the bricks in the fireplace. I imagine her questions – how would I answer them? How can I lie to her? My cheeks burn and my pulse quickens at the thought.

  A gust of wind, and the mist clears for a moment. Ahead of me, I catch sight of a dim shadow, a figure moving quickly up the hill.

  ‘Dot!’ I shout, into the mist. The figure doesn’t stop – if anything it moves faster, then disappears as the fog regroups.

  ‘Dot!’ I call again. And I can hear footsteps now, fading, as if someone is fleeing from me.

  I begin to jog, blinking against the damp air, then stretching my eyes wide, but it’s useless. I can’t see or hear anything. I run faster, wishing she’d stop.

  She must be thinking of the argument we’d had last night, when she’d told me about the chapel. For two weeks, after Dot had helped Cesare across to Major Bates’s office, I’d known something was wrong. The prisoners all seemed suddenly excited, and Dot often talked to Cesare in whispers, both of them laughing. He made quick, expansive gestures with his hands, and I watched, thinking how strong they looked, how easily they could crush her.

  ‘What’s he telling you?’ I’d asked her, time and again. But she wouldn’t say.

  Finally, last night, Bess and I had been sweeping the infirmary when we’d watched a lorry drive past, loaded with sheets of metal and skeins of wire, followed by another two lorries, each carrying a metal hut.

  ‘What are they doing?’ I asked Bess, expecting her to be as baffled as I was.

  ‘Oh,’ she said casually, hardly looking up, ‘that’ll be for the chapel.’

  ‘The what?’

  She stopped sweeping. ‘Didn’t Dot mention it?’

  I waited until the evening, until the curtain was drawn around our little sleeping area. />
  ‘When were you going to tell me that the men are planning to build a chapel?’ I demanded.

  ‘I thought you knew.’ Dot’s eyes slid from mine.

  Behind the curtain, one of the men coughed.

  ‘So, they’re staying here, are they? They’re living on the island.’

  ‘I don’t know, Con.’ Her voice was soft and she held out her hands. ‘What’s the harm if they are –’

  ‘You don’t see it, do you? Or else you see it and you’re pretending not to. As long as he is here, you’ll be happy.’

  Dot stepped back, her expression suddenly cold. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘You know exactly what I mean.’

  I watched the movement of her throat as she swallowed. If I closed my eyes, I could imagine his hand around my neck. So many times since that day last summer I’d looked in the mirror and traced the invisible outline of each of his fingerprints. He hadn’t squeezed hard at first. He’d been so tender when he gave me the necklace – he’d told me he loved me.

  I blinked, to bring myself back to the infirmary. ‘You can’t trust Cesare. You don’t know him. You don’t know what he might do.’

  ‘I’m not you,’ she said.

  And I knew what she meant: that she wasn’t naive, that she wasn’t allowing herself to be deceived. That she wouldn’t be foolish enough or weak enough to get herself into trouble. I knew she meant that she believed nothing bad would happen to her. I knew she meant that she wouldn’t blame herself if it did.

  I sat on the bed, closing my eyes. My face felt rigid. Ice in my veins. I pulled my legs up and hugged them, as though I could close myself off somehow. I imagined myself inside a shell. Some creature that is soft and unformed, protected by an armoured carapace. But still I felt the tears on my cheeks.

  Dot put her arms around me but I stayed rigid. After some time, I lay down. I could feel her watching me but I said nothing. And, as so often over the past months, at the last moment before I fell asleep, I remembered again the feeling of pushing my coat down over the sailor’s face. And I knew that I must be a monster to do such a thing. That I must be a monster to long for that for myself sometimes. The peace, the silence.