by Mary Contini
It was a glorious day, the kind of unexpected Indian summer that delighted the Scots and Italians alike. The streets of Edinburgh were cheered up with young Italian girls dressed in national costume walking alongside young Scottish girls from Newhaven dressed in traditional costume.
Members of the Boys’ Brigade joined in, selling the badges and handkerchiefs in aid of the Italian war effort.
Maria dressed the older children with ribbons on their clothes in the colours of the Italian flag. She walked with them, the new baby strapped to her chest, down to Newhaven to see Zio Benny. She felt very happy. All along the way she was smiled at, people clapping her pretty children and wishing her luck. There was a general feeling of goodwill towards the Italians since they had joined the war. Maria felt it and it gave her new courage, made her feel less alien in the community.
Before long, she started to work again. The children played behind the counter in the shop and she laid the baby in an open drawer and gave him a rag to suck so that he didn’t cry. Little Vittorio Fortunato spent the best part of the first six months of his life in a drawer in his father’s confectionery shop.
Maria still couldn’t speak much English. When the local kids came in with their farthings to choose their weekly bag of sweeties, Maria could do no more than point to the jars with a long stick and weigh out the sweeties in the brass scale. She learned the value of the coins by their size: the small farthing and the large flat brown pennies. When she was given a half-crown to pay for cigarettes she knew by memory which coins to give in return. In the evening she sorted the coins into bundles ready for Mrs Glen to count them and write them in the accounts book.
Maria worked through the day and in the evening crossed the road to her small flat with her three children to feed them, wash them and put them to sleep. When they were asleep, she washed their clothes, did any mending and scrubbed the flat clean. At night she lay in bed with her children, exhausted but often unable to sleep.
She worried about Alfonso, missing him more and more as the days and weeks passed. Night after night she lay awake in the cold dark room and prayed incessantly, imploring La Madonna to protect him for another day.
Was he alive now, now, still alive now? She was tormented that if she stopped praying for him, even for a moment, he might be killed. If she kept praying for him he would surely survive.
Autumn faded into winter, and the long dark nights left Maria depressed. She lived only for her children and did everything to keep them healthy and clean. On Wednesday afternoons when the shop was closed, she would visit Preziosa or Carolina to see if they had any news of the war. The Scotsman newspaper had fairly frequent war reports from the Italian Front. Zio Benny gave the women abridged versions to keep their spirits up.
She spent Christmas alone with her three children. She knitted socks and scarves and made up parcels of chocolate and cigarettes to send to her husband. She and Alfonso had been married less than four years. The feast days of the New Year came and went: La Befana, Sant’Antonio, La Festa della Luce. She clung to the rituals of the Church to put order in her life. She showed the children the only photo she had of their father, looking handsome in his Corporal’s uniform. At night, before going to bed, they all prayed for him and kissed his picture.
To try to forget her worries Maria took the children outside as often as she could. If she crossed London Road and walked down the hill she reached Arthur’s Seat, a large hill to the south of the city. The children loved to chase the ducks at the pond, or pick the daisies to bring to their mother. Maria recognised some plants from the hills at home in Fontitune: crocuses, dandelions and wild garlic. She picked them with the children. She would cook with them that evening.
She made pasta and, while it was boiling, she warmed some oil in a frying pan and added the chopped wild garlic. The aroma filled the house. She felt she was at home. She drained the pasta, tossed it in the olive oil and added some young dandelion leaves that wilted in the heat.
She sat at the table with Domenico and Margherita.
‘Mangia! Mangia! Come e buono. Pasta con aglio e olio, pasta with garlic and oil. Isn’t it tasty?’
‘Si, Mamma, Si, Mamma.’ They were hungry after the walk.
Vittorio was six months old by now and, sitting him on her knee, she offered him a tiny taste of the pasta with her fingers. He smacked his lips and opened his mouth for more.
‘Ecco, Vittorio.’ Domenico stretched out to put some of his pasta into his brother’s open mouth.
‘Bravo, Domenico, bravo.’
Just as Maria was about to start eating, there was a knock at the door. She was not expecting anyone. With Vittorio in her arms she opened the door.
She was shocked to see a policeman. Her neighbour across the landing was standing at her door, a scowl on her face, her arms crossed.
Maria’s heart stopped. Alfonso? Had something happened? She knew the policeman from the shop. He came in to buy his cigarettes and to make sure everything was in order. He removed his hat and tucked it under his arm.
‘Good evening, Mrs Crolla.’ He smiled oddly at her.
‘Buonasera.’
She moved out into the stair and noticed Mrs Glen was behind him as well. He had brought her to help him by the looks of things.
‘Mrs Crolla, I’m sorry about this but your neighbour here has complained to the police that there is a terrible smell coming from your house. She thinks it’s gas.’
Domenico came to his mother’s leg and tugged at her skirt. He had his empty plate in his hand and wanted more pasta.
‘Oh, Mrs Crolla,’ Mrs Glen realised it was the smell of the cooking. She had smelled this before in Mrs Crolla’s flat. ‘What a lovely smell.’ She burst out laughing and turned to the policeman and neighbour. ‘It’s not gas leaking. Mrs Crolla is cooking with garlic. She uses it a lot in her cooking. It’s really delicious. There’s nothing at all to worry about.’
Understanding the word ‘garlic’, Maria went into the house to fetch some of the bulbs to show the policeman. He laughed with Mrs Glen and looked at the neighbour with his eyebrows raised.
She turned away, embarrassed at her stupidity, and went back into her flat mumbling something about stinking Italians.
‘I’ll never understand women,’ thought the policeman. ‘The sooner this war is over the better. The men can sort out their wives’ problems themselves. I’ve got far more important things to do.’
Secretly he would have liked to have tasted the food. It smelled pretty appetising.
Maria with her children, Domenico, Margherita and Vittorio, c. 1916
More letters came from Alfonso. Maria asked Zio Benny to read them to her. She kept them in a tin in the kitchen, happy knowing that Alfonso was alive and well. He had still not seen their new baby. Maria had gone with her sister-in-law to Ledbury’s, the photographer on Montgomery Street, and sat with the three children to have a picture taken to send to their father. She wore her pretty blouse with the roses that he liked and borrowed clothes from the photographer for the children so that they all looked really smart.
By June it was very warm. The children were happily running barefoot in and out of the shop. Vittorio was starting to sit up now and they enjoyed playing with him. Lilly Rough and Mrs Glen worked in the front shop. They kept an eye on Domenico and Margherita as they ran in and out. Vittorio slept in his pram at the door, oblivious to the stream of customers coming in and out of the shop. There was plenty of business for a ‘penny slider’ on a sunny day.
Maria had got into the habit of sitting in the shop with the women, knitting, or sewing in the back room. The shop was as much her home as the dark room in the flat.
One day she was sitting in the back room finishing sewing a button on a dress she had made for Margherita. The children were growing so quickly she was constantly sewing and mending clothes for them. She put the needle into her blouse to keep it away from the children and bent over to pick up the dress that had slipped to the floor.
> As she straightened, the sun from the front shop dazzled her eyes. She blinked; they watered a little. As she rubbed them she thought there was someone in front of her, looking at her. She blinked again but still couldn’t see. She stood up and, clearing the trimmings of the material from the table, turned to call Margherita to try on the dress.
As she turned round she stopped dead in her tracks. She dropped everything. Her hand flew to her mouth as she drew her breath in shock.
There in front of her in an olive-grey uniform with the badge of a Senior Corporal of the Third Artillery of the Italian Army was a tall, slim, suntanned soldier. He was standing quietly at the door, the light shining behind him.
He stepped towards her and held out his arms. She ran to him, tears filling her eyes. Alfonso was home.
They kissed and clung to each other, whispering Grazie a Dio over and over again. The children had followed the man and were now standing at the door, looking on as their mother kissed the soldier.
Maria with Vittorio, Easter Road, c. 1916
Domenico moved into the room, closer to his parents. He stood near to his father and tugged insistently on his trousers. He looked up.
‘Papà, Papà. Un bacio per me!’
Alfonso looked down at his darling three-year-old son speaking such beautiful Italian words. He knelt down and held Domenico close to him, tears brimming in his eyes. He kissed him again and again and then his pretty daughter, laughing and crying at the same time.
When he stood up, Maria handed him his third-born child for the first time, Vittorio Fortunato.
Brodo di Pollo
Chicken Broth
The best chicken broth is made with a boiling fowl, an old bird that has had its day! These days you can order one from a good butcher who sells free-range birds, or at a farmer’s market. Alternatively a good Chinese supermarket will have boiling fowl, most likely frozen. If you can’t find a boiling fowl use the raw carcass of a free-range bird or two packs of free-range chicken thighs and wings.
1 boiling fowl, weighing 1–2 kg
a large bunch of flat-leaf parsley
sea salt
pastina (small pasta)
Prepare the boiling fowl: cut off the feet, remove the last joint and after scrubbing the feet well add them to the pot. Remove the head and discard. Check inside the cavity of the bird. Remove the giblets, the neck, heart and liver. After rinsing the bird well add to a good-sized pot and cover with cold water. Add the neck and heart for extra flavour, but don’t add the liver.
Bring to the boil slowly. A scum will rise to the surface, simply use a small tea strainer or slotted spoon to lift it away until the stock is clear. Wipe the insides of the pot with a damp cloth.
Bring to a slow simmer and add a large well-washed bunch of flat-leaf parsley, including the stalks. Continue to simmer the soup with the lid half on and half off for about 2 hours. Season with a little salt, not too much, you can add more if necessary.
Strain the broth and serve with small pasta, pastina, which has been boiled separately in salted water. Remove the bird and serve the breast meat, legs and wings warm with mashed potatoes.
Costolette
Roast Pork Ribs
12 free-range organic pork ribs, belly removed
extra virgin olive oil
fresh rosemary
cloves of garlic
lemon zest
lemon juice
rock salt
fresh lemon wedges
Separate the ribs. Mix the ingredients together, rub them on the ribs, cover and marinate refrigerated for 24 hours. Remove from the refrigerator an hour before cooking and heat the oven to 350C/180F/gas 4.
Place the ribs on a baking tray and cover with baking foil. Roast for 45 minutes. Heat grill to high and char-grill the cooked ribs to finish their cooking and increase their flavour. Brush with the marinade or extra virgin olive oil to keep them moist and turn them to prevent burning. Remember, pork must be cooked until there are no traces of blood.
Season with rock salt, fresh rosemary and a drizzle of extra virgin olive oil and some fresh lemon wedges.
Misticanza
Spring Herb Salad
Adding fresh herbs and young leaves can transform the quality and pleasure of a salad. The youngest leaves are often sweeter and more succulent. Don’t overpower the delicate flavours by using too much of any single strong-flavoured herb, rather use a few of each to add interesting flavour – try a mixture of the following depending on availability and your preference:
some yellow leaves from the middle of frisée
endive leaves
6–8 radicchio trevisano
6–8 rocket leaves
6–8 flat-leaf parsley leaves
6–8 dandelion tips
fronds of fennel
Prepare a dressing with about 8 tablespoons of a fruity extra virgin olive oil, perhaps from Liguria or Sicily. Add in 3–4 tablespoons of freshly squeezed lemon juice and sea salt to taste. Mix the dressing together, check seasoning and then add to the salad leaves.
12
Easter Road, Edinburgh
October 1919
Alfonso survived another two years of intense fighting before the war ended, and it was a further year before he was finally released from active duty. When he returned home, he had been decorated with the Ordine della Corona d’Italia, awarded to long-serving soldiers who had served Italy with honour. He had seen Italy defend its borders, achieve great successes and suffer disastrous defeats.
He was fighting in November 1917 when over 30,000 Italians died in a dreadful, bloody massacre at Caporetto, resulting in a humiliating retreat. Nevertheless, fighting alongside British and French battalions, they regained lost ground and finally, a year later, they fought the great victory of the battle of Veneto Vittorio, which ended on 3 November 1918 and won their war.
Alfonso had changed. He had gone away illiterate and returned educated and bilingual. He had gone to war unconditionally to do his duty and returned with a burning patriotism and loyalty to his country. He had fought in a war that had forged friendships between nations and had, they all believed, made the world safe for justice and for truth. He had fought in the ‘war to end all wars’. There must be no more secret plotting and scheming by powerful men, robbing the lives of the young.
Gradually many of the Italians returned to Edinburgh, going back to their wives, their families and their shops, ready to take up their lives where they left off. And many of the Scottish soldiers also returned to their families.
Many never came back at all.
The flow of emigration from Italy was now stemmed both by the experience of the war and new opportunities opening up in Italy. Both governments gradually changed legislation to curtail the movement of people. Italy needed to keep its men, with so many having perished and emigrated already. Britain needed to protect its workforce; post-war unemployment was increasing.
Cesidio had taken Zio Benny’s advice and, during his war leave, had returned to Picinisco to marry Marietta. Sadly, they lost their first child, Michele, at birth, but they now had a beautiful little girl called Lena, and another baby on the way. By the autumn of 1919, Cesidio was happy to leave for Edinburgh ahead of his young wife, just as Alfonso had done six years earlier.
After the war there were still a lot of food shortages; business was slow to pick up. Laws had been introduced to restrict hours of business, so the shops had to close at eight o’clock. But if a customer happened to pass and knock on the door they were more than happy to open and sell a packet of cigarettes or a bar of chocolate. Every penny counted, with takings no more than a couple of pounds a day.
The men felt unsettled. They missed the company of their fighting units, the camaraderie that had bound them together with strangers, strangers who daily saved each other’s lives. Selling ice cream and fish and chips could not live up to the life-and-death drama of the past few years.
They started to congregate again in one or other�
��s shops, talking together, sharing a glass of wine, relaxing, playing cards. They couldn’t talk to their wives about the horrors of the war. They felt a need to discuss their experiences over and over again among themselves. Few of them had fought together. They were hungry for each other’s experiences.
On an evening like this, the friends were all in the back shop at Easter Road: Benedetto, Giovanni, Alfonso, Emidio and Cesidio.
Alfonso was concerned. Maria had told him she wanted to return to Italy. If Marietta arrived it might help her to settle and not feel so interminably homesick.
‘Cesidio, are you sure Marietta still wants to come across here? Maybe, now that the war is over, things will change for the better in Italy?’
‘She’s made up her mind. As soon as the baby’s born at the end of the year she’s going to come. We’ve saved every penny, though my army pay won’t get us very far!’
The Italian army stipend was meagre and deductions were made for food and uniform, leaving very little over.
‘We have some good gifts of sterling cash at our wedding; they will help.’
Zio Benny was Cesidio’s padrone, helping him find work. ‘Cesidio, there’s a shop in Cockenzie, about ten miles east of here, along the coast; it sells ice cream and fish and chips. One of my boys opened it a few years ago. It’s a good site. There are no other families down there. You work with him, get started and build it up. It’s a lovely village, built on fishing and mining. I think Marietta will settle well there; she speaks English already, after all.’