by Mary Contini
‘God took her to save her any suffering in this life, cara. He took her because she was so good and pure she did not need to travel this path of doubt and disappointment. We should be glad for her. She is already in his arms.’
‘Do you think so, Alfonso? Is she already happy in Heaven?’
‘Of course, my darling. God would not take her and leave her unhappy. She doesn’t want us to be unhappy. She is in Heaven praying for us.’
This seemed to console Maria a little.
‘Maria, you must remember the children. They need you to be strong for them. They need you to hide your pain so that they can show you theirs.’
Maria moved towards him and sat at his feet, laying her head on his lap. He stroked her hair. She was vulnerable, this precious jewel of his. She had been so brave when he had to leave her to fight in the war. She didn’t deserve this to happen.
‘Alfonso,’ she looked up at him, doubtful if she should speak.
‘What, darling, dimmi?’
‘I dreamt last night that La Madonna came to me.’
Alfonso said nothing.
‘She said I was to stop weeping. She consoled me, Alfonso. She said I would have another child. That she was looking after Olivia and I was to look after my children, and another child would come.’
‘That’s good, Maria. That is a blessing. How strong your faith is.’
He pulled her towards him and held her close, kissing her head gently. ‘Brava, Maria. You have been so brave.’
She looked up into his eyes and blushed a little. She kissed him gently on the lips, for the first time since the child had died, the kiss of a lover rather than a sister.
He stayed with her until she fell asleep, then carried her through to their bed where Margherita was sleeping. He kissed her and left her to rest. Her healing had begun.
The loss of his child affected Alfonso much more than the death and carnage he had seen while fighting. He had suffered then, terribly, but this was much worse. He sat up all night trying to lift himself from his despair. In Maria’s final unburdening after almost fourteen months of mourning, his own anger and frustration rose to the surface as if a dam had burst. He wept until his tears no longer rolled down his cheeks. Then he wept more.
He felt destroyed by doubt. His life was a failure. He didn’t know what to do next. He had encouraged Maria to come here against her will. He had left her to cope alone, through no fault of his own. Now he was working every waking hour to try to improve their lives. Domenico would be ten years old next year. What had he achieved? An ice cream shop in a Scottish town, a rented house, debts to pay and five mouths to feed.
Maybe Maria was right. Maybe they should have stayed in Fontitune. He felt unsettled. Here they were branded as aliens but there was no way back home. He felt unsure of the future.
Alfonso was lonely.
In Fontitune he spent many weeks with Pietro or Tadon Michele in the Prato de Mezzo, weeks when they talked, cared for the animals, protected their flock. He was a shepherd. He missed his father. He missed his flock.
It was four in the morning and he would have to start work at six. He shook himself from his self-pity and went through to the bedroom. The Devil was tempting him to lose courage; he was angry with himself. He should thank God for all his blessings and have some faith.
15
Edinburgh
January 1923
Alfonso was wearing the new suit he had bought in Wight’s stocktaking sale. He felt just the thing, dressed in smart, pin-striped trousers, with a dark grey waistcoat and black jacket. His new fob watch hung between the two buttons on his waistcoat, and his starched wing collar finished a very pretty picture. He straightened the black armband on his jacket and sprinkled his handkerchief with some Ashes of Roses before tucking it into his top pocket.
‘How do I look?’
Maria undid his tie and sorted it for him. ‘There, now you look the part.’
She kissed him on the cheek.
‘Where are you going, Papà? Can I come with you?’ Domenico was working in the shop after school. He loved being with his father as often as possible. He loved being with the customers.
‘No, son. Not this time. There’s a man coming to talk about Italy. He’s from Torino. Remember, I told you, Zio Emidio and I worked in the market there when we were on the way to Scotland.’
‘Will he know you, Papà?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Alfonso self-mockingly puffed up his chest, ‘but I look so good he’ll want to know me!’
‘Alfonso, your pride will be the death of you,’ Maria loved Alfonso’s bravado but didn’t think it was good to encourage him.
She helped him put his overcoat on.
‘I’ll be late; un bacio a Papà.’
He kissed them all, lit up his cigar and took his hat from the table. The aroma of smoky tobacco and cologne lingered after he’d gone, leaving a warm sense of security with his little family.
The meeting of the Scoto-Italian Society was being held in the New Café Hall. Alfonso, Emidio and Giovanni often attended these monthly meetings. They enjoyed the contact with other people: lawyers, officials, doctors, Scottish people who all loved Italy.
The Italian professional community also attended: the Consul, his officials and pen-pushers, a few teachers and translators. The immigrant women folk rarely came with them. They preferred sermons in the church, and felt intimidated by the so-called educated community.
When he arrived, Alfonso was warmly greeted by the Edinburgh Italian ex-combattenti, about twenty war veterans who had fought in the war. They usually met informally in the back of one of their shops, but this time they’d all had a letter from their regiments encouraging them to attend this evening’s meeting. Mr Nicol Bruce, a Scottish lawyer and the Italian Consul for Edinburgh, had invited Signor Carlo Lupo, from Torino, to talk about Italy.
‘Oh, look at you! Che bello! You must be doing well!’ Giovanni patted Alfonso on the back and whistled at his new get-up. He was glad to see him looking better; he had watched his brother suffer after losing Olivia. It had knocked him back a lot.
Twenty-five minutes after the lecture was scheduled to start, Mr Nicol finally stood up to introduce the speaker. Everyone clapped.
‘Buonasera. May I extend a warm welcome to our Scottish friends.’
A round of applause.
‘And to our Italian ex-combattenti who fought so bravely in the war and defended our freedom. Stand up, stand up!’ Consul Bruce signalled to all the ex-soldiers to take an applause.
Alfonso and the others stood up, a group of immigrant shopkeepers, recognised by many in the audience.
‘Grazie, Grazie amici.’
The audience clapped enthusiastically. A ripple of acknowledgment whispered round the group, ‘I didn’t know Mr D’Agostino fought in the war. Mr Crolla too. How marvellous.’
Carlo Lupo stood up. He was a tall, slim man with a handsome narrow face and a very impressive moustache. He was well dressed, sporting a serious selection of medals and badges on his lapel.
The lecture was in Italian. For the non-Italian speakers in the audience, Miss Cornwall, a pretty spinster who had blushed when Alfonso had bowed to her at the door, translated each point with a gentle, Morningside accent. Some of the immigrants found both the northern dialect and the Morningside accent difficult to understand, but Alfonso sat entranced, concentrating on every word.
‘Thank you, gentile Signor Bruce, for inviting me to talk this evening.
‘After the war, so bravely won side by side with our Allies, Italy has had a period of turmoil. The red Socialists thought they sensed disunity and strife among our people. They used cunning and propaganda to encourage strikes and street fighting. They thought to break up our new country again and take control.
‘But they misjudged our new, awakened patriotism. They misjudged our strength and brotherhood. They underestimated our new leader, Prime Minister Benito Mussolini.’
Alfo
nso was surprised at the warm response this brought from the audience. He sat quietly, studying the lecturer, assessing his tone.
‘With audacity and braveness, firm action and genius, Prime Minister Benito Mussolini has destroyed the threat of civil war in our beloved country. He has offered salvation and vision to our people. He has guaranteed for us all the peace that our men have died for in war.’
Another, more enthusiastic, round of applause.
‘He is a labourer, a workman’s son. He fought alongside our men in the war. When he was shot down in action, his iron will helped him survive his wounds. He fought on with his heart and his pen to raise morale and maintain our spirit.’
More clapping.
‘At last we are in safe hands. He knows what he wants. His aim is to make the Italian people a true nation. He will instil a collective responsibility and a desire for the common good. He will create a valued, protected workforce. He will inspire increased production. He will create unity. He will maintain peace. Peace at home and peace abroad.’
This made sense to Alfonso. He joined in the even louder applause.
Signor Lupo, fired up by his oration, stopped, waiting deliberately to allow Miss Cornwall to translate. She stood entranced by his passion – and not unattracted to his dark good looks and fiery brown eyes.
‘Our saviour, the great Generale Garibaldi inspired the Risorgimento to unite our beautiful country, Italia Nostra. We have suffered war. We have suffered social injustice. We have suffered poverty and hunger. Our children have died and our mothers have wept. No more. Never again! Mai più!
‘Benito Mussolini, Il Duce, puts the love of mankind first; the love of the family first; the love of our country first. He has shown us a new patriotism, a purified patriotism, a selfless patriotism.
‘In a vision of genius, Prime Minister Mussolini has created Fascismo, Il Partito Fascista. Fascio, a bundle of reeds, a bundle of reeds, … signorina …
‘Signorina!’
He translated the last word himself almost in a screech to startle Miss Cornwall back into translating.
‘Binding the nation, holding us together with strength and vision. This is the true revolution in Italy.
‘A revolution which has the blessing of the King Vittorio Emanuele!’
Applause.
‘A revolution which has the backing of the great General Armando Diaz, who led us to victory with the brave British and French armies in the battle of Vittorio Veneto.’
Applause.
‘A revolution which has the blessing of our Holy Father, Pope Pius the 11th.’
A cheer reverberated round the hall, the audience carried away with the drama enacted before them. The orator, cunning in his approach, now lowered his voice so that Miss Cornwall and her audience had to strain to hear every word, had to force their very beings to hear the conspirator’s secret.
‘More importantly, Italians are joining the Fascio, joining all over the country, from Sicilia to Napoli, from Roma to Trieste, and in London and Manchester, Glasgow and Edinburgh; in every city where even a single Italian citizen exists.
‘Our Messiah, Benito Mussolini, will collect his flock and lead us to peace and prosperity. He tells me to inform you of the truth. La verità!
‘Onore, Famiglia e Patria! Onore, Famiglia e Patria! Questo è il cuore del Fascismo. Onore! Famiglia! Patria! Viva Il Duce!’
He pounded out his message. He held his hand in a fist, stopped and thumped the air, his whole being vibrating with passion. He looked into the souls of every man in the room so that each personally felt that Mussolini was calling only to them.
He waited, then looked down into the eyes of Miss Cornwall.
‘Signorina, Il Partito Fascista, puoi fare la traduzione, per cortesia, signorina gentilissima?’
Miss Cornwall was an educated young lady, exemplary in her training, equipped to cope under every situation, a woman of independent means. Trained to act efficiently, she unwittingly affirmed the message from Mussolini with as much enthusiasm as Signor Lupo.
‘Honour, family and motherland! This is the heart of Fascism. Honour, family and motherland!’
‘Viva Il Duce!’ Lupo encouraged her to continue.
‘Long live the leader!’
She looked up at Signor Lupo for approval. Was he happy with her translation? He looked down into her eyes and nodded gravely. He lowered his face towards her and pulled his eyebrows together.
Then, without moving a muscle on his face, he winked.
Taken aback, she blushed till her neck broke out in a sweat, her heart lurched and she promptly fell in love!
The Consul stood up, flushed and pink, drops of perspiration on his forehead. ‘Grazie, Signor Lupo. Thank you, my honourable friend, for taking the time in your busy schedule to give us this important message from Signor Mussolini.
‘My dear compatriots,’ he turned enthusiastically to his audience, overlooking the fact that they were mostly Italians and not his compatriots at all, ‘I remind you that on 17 September of this year we will be holding the Centenary Celebrations of the great Manzoni, who is, according to Mussolini, “The Italian Walter Scott”. May I respectfully suggest that, if you have not already done so, this would be an ideal opportunity to read his greatest work, I Promessi Sposi.’
He then signalled to the audience to rise as he led the singing of the Italian National Anthem, loud and resounding in the hall, followed by an equally enthusiastic ‘God Save the King’.
By the end of this rousing finale there was much thanking and bowing, much kissing and back-slapping, enlivened discussion and talk. There was also a huge sense of relief that at last Italy had a strong leader, at last Italy and Italians could hold their heads up high and be counted. The mood in the hall was electric.
In a small side-hall the ex-combattenti gathered together, sharing a bottle of wine. Some had heard about Mussolini; some of their Arditi comrades had fought alongside him. They needed a vision in their lives. They needed hope. They were Italians, after all. They were proud and loyal. They felt as if they were in combat again; they had a sense of mission and objective to finish the job and make Italy great – this time by peaceful means.
Nicol Bruce came over to them accompanied by two Italian officers who had been standing at the back of the hall during the talk. ‘May I introduce Signor Carlo Tronchetti, the Fascisti delegate for Scotland, and Father Salza?’ Father Salza was a much decorated ex-officer and priest who had lost an arm in the war. Both men were in army uniform but, unusually, with distinctive black shirts instead of the olive green ones the ex-combattenti had worn.
After much hand-shaking and introductions, each man waiting in order of rank for the right opportunity to be acknowledged, Signor Tronchetti spoke to them. ‘Soldati! Compagni! I have an invitation for you all from Prime Minister Mussolini himself.’
Alfonso noted that Giovanni was standing slightly apart, listening, but not as animated as the rest of them. He caught Alfonso’s eye and raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
‘Prime Minister Mussolini, Il Duce, wants me to report to you all that he respects every soldier who put his life at risk for his country.
‘He especially respects those of you who have been driven from your homes, driven from your families and heritage, driven from your country by the corruption and bad government of the past. He respects those of you who have had the courage to make your own way in the world, abandoned by your government.
‘He has instructed me to say to you, to all of you in the country: no more. No more! He recognises that you are the strength of Italy, the courage of Italy, the heart of Italy. No longer will you be despised as an emigrante; you will be honoured as lavoratori Italiani all’ estero, Italian workers abroad. At last you will be given the respect and dignity you deserve.
‘No more will you feel afraid, called aliens, distrusted.
‘Join us, amici! Il Duce wants you to join us; join the Fascio here, to support each other and protect each other. Onor
e, Famiglia e Patria!
‘Ma senti, his instruction is clear. You must accept the discipline and responsibility of being an Italian. You must respect the laws of the country that has given you a home. You must set an example to every citizen. You must not take part in the politics of the country. You must take responsibility to keep good relations with other Italians living abroad. That is your Fascist duty.
‘Men, Il Duce says you must set an example of public probity and uphold Italian traditions, you must perform charitable works and discipline yourselves in the same way he demands that citizens of Italy must.
‘Men, join us. Join us for the good of peace and the good of your families.’
That night, Alfonso arrived home late and very excited. It all made sense. If this were true, if Italy really had a great leader at last, maybe things could change. He felt empowered. No longer would he have to be regarded as an alien in a foreign country and an exile from his own. Mussolini understood that they were still Italian citizens, even though they worked abroad. Mussolini knew that their hearts longed for home.
He felt that this was the path he had been looking for. This was the way he should go.
Onore, Famiglia e Patria. This was the truth that was in his heart. Benito Mussolini might be right.
The next day, out of the blue, a parcel arrived from Fontitune. It was wrapped up securely in white muslin and string and sealed with big stamps of red wax. Alfonso brought it across to the house, excited like a child, wondering what was in it. This was the first time they had had a pacco since the war had ended.
‘Il Pacco! Il Pacco! Children, look at what has arrived from Nonno Michele.’
The children had never seen their Nonno Michele but were told stories constantly about his wisdom and courage, about the sheep he cared for and the wolves he frightened away. They knew about the cheese that he made and they had wished many times that they could taste Nonno Michele’s salsiccie.