by Mary Contini
There was a great clash between the British Union of Fascists and their opponents. Crowds gathered and shouted for the death of Mosley. Police had to be called out to control them and, after street brawls and fights, three men were arrested. The newspapers were full of anti-fascist talk.
In the ice cream shops in Easter Road, Maria felt uncomfortable. Some customers were quite aggressive to her and Margherita, especially if Domenico wasn’t there. She became nervous and wanted Alfonso to resign from the Fascio Club.
‘But, Maria, these British Fascists have nothing to do with us. They have nothing to do with the Italians, not even in Italy. We are just a social community looking after our families and protecting our businesses.’
‘Alfonso, please. Please. There’s going to be trouble. You weren’t here during the last war. I was here on my own. Sometimes I felt afraid to go out of the door. I don’t want to go through that again. Why are you involved with all this? You need to look after us. You’re away all the time in the van as it is. I’m exhausted looking after the house and the family. I just want a bit of peace and quiet.’
She started to cry. She loved Alfonso and admired all that he had achieved. She admitted that because of him her position within the Italian community was elevated and she enjoyed the respect the other women gave her. But somehow she felt that things could not go on as they were. The mood from her customers had changed since the Abyssinian affair. She felt the old suspicions and prejudices of the past raising their ugly head again.
‘Cara, I only want peace as well. These people rioting are not against us. They are against Mosley. Maria, I can’t stand aside and back away from my duty. With this unrest it is even more important that I keep working for the Italians. A lot of them are struggling with debts. It’s not easy. I’ll look after you. Don’t be frightened.’
Maria was uncomfortable. She always wondered why some families kept out of it all, kept their heads down and never came to the Fascio. Cesidio and Marietta would not join. They hadn’t put any money into the Italian Bank. Marietta had been shrewd enough not even to give up her wedding ring. Maria had had no choice, married to the secretary; she had to set an example. She fingered the steel ring that had replaced her gold one. She hated it.
‘Alfonso, I am afraid. Things are not going to go well. I can see it coming. Mussolini is too big for his boots. He is a fool. He’ll make friends with Hitler and then we’ll all be lost. We will have no friends here and no friends in Italy. We’ll be enemies to everyone.’
Alfonso laying a wreath
When Alfonso next talked to Consul Trudu he explained his concerns. Trudu convinced him the Abyssinian affair was done now. Il Duce wanted peace, as all Italians did. Alfonso spoke to Father Guido, the Italian Chaplain, and asked his advice. He was advised to pray for peace. When Alfonso met Cesidio and Benny for their walk from Corstorphine village into town, a habit they had recently started, just to get away from everything, they discussed the situation at length. They could only hope the leaders would make the right decisions and take everyone’s needs into account.
On Armistice Day that November they attended Mass in St Mary’s Cathedral. Alfonso, Consul Trudu and members of the Italian community took a car up to the City Chambers. A crowd of well-wishers gathered as two young Italian men removed their heavy overcoats and in their black shirts and headgear of the Italian Fascist Party stepped forward at the Stone of Remembrance, laid a wreath, saluted smartly and bowed. The wreath was inscribed ‘To our Scottish comrades who fell while fighting in Italy’.
As he stood and looked at the small, peaceful crowd Alfonso felt no animosity from the Scottish veterans beside him. A soldier understands the unconditional loyalty you feel to each other, not the king or the government, but the man fighting alongside you, fighting for his family as you fight for yours.
As he listened to the haunting lament of the ‘Last Post’ Alfonso wept for the men he had seen die beside him in those horrific years of war. Italian, Scottish, French, German, Austrian men, all men just like him. As he wept he prayed to God that Maria was wrong and another war would never come.
Alfonso escaped the disaster of the bank closure with the luck of the Devil. Valvona & Crolla owed a massive £1,062 16s 0d. The liquidators agreed to settle for the sum of £600, which was all Alfonso could raise. The manager of the Clydesdale Bank in Easter Road had known the family since they had their first shop round the corner and offered them an unsecured overdraft.
Other Italians also came out better than they hoped, and so by default Alfonso gained the status of folk hero. Only Maria was not pleased.
‘All my savings! Alfonso, I worked so hard and now I’ve lost all my savings.’
The shop was still not making a profit and even Miss Dennison was giving Alfonso a hard time. He began to make himself scarce and, taking to the wheel of the shop’s delivery van, made his way round the Italians, stopping off and selling a little produce, giving credit for a lot more and collecting even more gossip. In the next village he gave a little gossip and picked up an order in return.
It reminded him of the days when they brought the sheep back up the mountain – sell a little cheese, collect a little gossip.
Miss Dennison was a clever businesswoman. While Alfonso was away, she sacked half the staff, including the salesmen and poor Addolorata. Vittorio argued fiercely with Miss Dennison but couldn’t persuade her to change her mind. She understood that, unless they cut costs drastically, the business would fold.
Now that the Valvonas were out of the business they were dependent on Miss Dennison for her knowledge of the suppliers and other contacts. They knew that without her the whole thing would collapse.
When Alfonso came back from his run he met Addolorata leaving the shop. She was not in her black uniform and had obviously been crying.
‘What’s the matter, darling? Don’t cry.’
‘Miss Dennison has sacked me.’
Vittorio and Domenico
‘Why? You’re a good girl. You work hard.’
‘She says you can’t afford to pay me.’
‘Oh.’
Alfonso realised they had no choice. He patted Addolorata on the head and she looked up at him. He was crying himself. He put his hand in his pocket and gave her a pound note and some liquorice allsorts.
‘I’m sorry, darling. Non c’è niente da fare. There’s nothing I can do.’
It took two years’ hard work to get over the bank crash. Olivieri was eventually jailed for fraud and embezzlement. It transpired he had never had any associations with any bank in Italy and had just been a conman on the make.
Alfonso was shocked by the whole episode. How had he been taken in? And, apart from that, how had the Italian authorities and the Fascio been taken in as well?
He took Father Guido’s advice and prayed more. Maybe God would help him understand.
23
Summer 1938
Even though it was barely half-past seven and it was pouring with rain, a bustling crowd had already assembled on platform 1 of Waverley Station. It appeared to onlookers that the Italians were moving out en masse. The place was full of them: whole families, all dressed up, laughing and shouting, making a horrendous commotion.
Families had come from all over the east of Scotland, bringing their sons and daughters to join the annual holiday trip to Italy. The youngsters all knew each other. Many of them were cousins or school friends. The reputation of the holiday induced an air of frenzied excitement and expectation. Most of their older brothers and sisters had already been on previous trips and had returned full of stories of great adventures. The consensus was that in Italy the sun shone constantly.
It was Olivia’s turn to go. Over the last few years Margherita, Johnny and Alex had all been on the holiday and she had waited patiently for her turn. She had been up since the crack of dawn sitting fully dressed at the side of her bed. Gloria and Filomena had got dressed as well, annoying her by asking endless questions.
Now
she ran around looking for her cousins Vera and Wefa. At fourteen years old they were in the top group of the Piccole Italiane so would be in charge of the younger children. They were going to enjoy that. Vera’s father, Achille Crolla, was Alfonso’s cousin.
The children were all dressed in the black uniform of the Opera Nazionale Balilla, the Italian youth group, fashioned on the principles of Baden Powell’s Scouts and Guides. The boys wore black shorts and shirts, long grey socks with a double yellow stripe round the top, pulled up to attention. A yellow tie and black fez hat with smart badges and ribbons completed their ensemble. The girls wore black skirts, white blouses and yellow cravats, with black felt cloaks pinned over their shoulders.
When they were spotted by some of their Scottish friends from school they turned round and stuck out their tongues. These lads made a fool of them for stinking of garlic or eating worms. Now they looked on, enviously watching them leave for a holiday abroad. Their reputation in school would go sky high.
As the clock struck eight, the train’s whistle gave a piercing squeal. Steam escaped noisily from the funnel, the brakes screeched and the engine started to strain and snort, desperate to go.
‘Ragazzi! Ragazzi! Attenzione!’ The Capo, Joe Pia, whistled twice, the noise piercing above the hubbub of mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles. Everyone was caught up in the excitement of the trip. No one was the least bit anxious. After all, they were visiting home.
‘Olivia, Olivia.’ Maria shouted to her daughter to say goodbye. Olivia left her friends and ran over to give her mother a big hug.
‘Fai la brava. Be good! Say your prayers every day. And remember to eat everything.’
There was no worry that the children would not eat well. When Margherita had been on the trip two years ago, she had sent a three-page letter describing the wonderful meals that they had eaten. Four a day!
‘Mamma, il cibo qui è cosi buono.’
‘Pasta, vegetables, omelettes, meat. And we get a cup of coffee every morning with the biggest doughnut in the world!’
Maria had been so happy when Alfonso had read that out to her. Her mind had filled with the aroma of the food she remembered in her youth, the pasta her mother used to make with the rich oxtail sugo; the vegetables; pepperoni, courgettes and melanzane, the bitter greens sautéed in olio, aglio e peperoncino. Somehow the memories of the smells and the flavours were always more intense, more satisfying than the food she cooked here.
She held Olivia tightly. Olivia was going to have such a wonderful experience. Maria gave her a final squeeze and watched as Gloria and Filomena hugged their sister. They felt uncomfortable that she was going without them.
‘I’ll bring you a present. I’ll bring you something nice.’
Alfonso bent down to face his daughter and pulled her to him. Her face was squashed into his chest. She breathed in deeply, imprinting the smell of her father in her mind.
Her Papà was the greatest ally in her life. If she was in trouble with her mother, which was not unusual, he would pretend to give her a row but wink at her when her Mamma turned her back. If the boys were annoying her, he would shout at them to leave her alone. She trusted him with everything and would do anything to please him. She hugged him.
His heart was full of pride. Look at her. Beautiful child.
‘Capa Nera!’ He held her away from him and looked at her. ‘Capa Nera!’ He kissed her on both cheeks.
‘Papà, grazie. Thank you for letting me go.’
Alfonso straightened himself, held her shoulders and looked down into her eyes. ‘Olivia, this is the most important thing in your life. You are going to step on Italian soil. You are going to see Il Duce. You are going to salute the greatest man on earth!’
He put his hand into her pocket and pushed something inside.
The train whistled again, louder and longer than before.
‘Ragazzi! Ragazzi! Attenzione! Uno, duo …’
In a final flurry of excitement the children all lined up in order as they had practised over and over again in the Fascio hall. Their rucksacks and food parcels were balanced on their backs. They stood to face their parents and raised their right arms in Roman salute.
‘Amore, Dio, Parenti e Patria!
pa pa pum pum, pa pa pum pum,
Giovinezza, Giovinezza’
Then, singing with gusto, they turned with a military stamp of their feet and marched onto the train.
Avanguardisti, Italian children from Scotland on holiday in Italy
As soon as they were all on board, discipline broke down as they scrabbled to the windows to wave goodbye. They pulled the windows down and hung out precariously, pushing forward to catch sight of their families as they waved and shouted their goodbyes.
About fifty children in all, aged from twelve to sixteen, dressed like miniature soldiers, left Edinburgh for Italy to visit their homeland for the first time.
Olivia shouted from the window.
‘Ciao! Ciao! Papà! Mamma! Ciao!’
Her sisters waved and shouted, jumping up and down.
There wasn’t a tear shed. Neither the youngsters nor anyone on the platform had a single doubt about the adventure. To give the children the chance of a holiday in Italy was wonderful. For the children the adventure was almost too exciting to contemplate and the feeling of privilege and trust that had been given to them only compounded their confidence.
Once the train had moved out of the station and into the long dark tunnel that separated the countryside from the city, Olivia settled down into a seat by the window, opposite her friends. She looked out of the window at the houses and fields rushing past. The weather was dull and grey, rain splattering on the window.
As the train disappeared from view, Alfonso put his arm round his wife. The girls looked up, waiting for his reaction. Olivia was his favourite after all.
‘Papà?’
They waited. Was he going to cry? Sometimes Papà cried.
‘Right! What shall we do? Olivia’s having a holiday in Italy so why don’t we have a little holiday here? We’ll go to Patrick Thomson’s for tea and scones, and then go to see Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.’
How the girls loved their father! Who cares about Olivia! They were going to the pictures!
On the train, once the excitement of the parting had passed, Olivia pulled out the present her Papà had given her. Nestled in the folds of a white cotton handkerchief that smelled of her Papà was a five-lire note, a string of brown wooden rosary beads and a little paper note.
‘Cara Olivia, ti amo tantissimo. Prega ogni mattina per Mamma e Papà, la tua famiglia e anche per Il Duce. Fai la brava. Papà.’
Olivia took a deep breath and tucked her gift back into her pocket. She laid her head against the cold glass of the window and closed her eyes. ‘God Bless Mamma and Papà, my Family and God Bless Il Duce.’
The journey took three days and two nights. The girls were entranced. They saw the steep drop down to the sea at Dunbar, the land flattening out as they travelled down through England and then the white cliffs of Dover.
Crossing the channel by ferry was exciting. The sea was calm and they could run around the ship, looking at all the passengers.
It was night time when they boarded the train in France and they slept most of the way. When the train climbed up and through the Alps they felt they were going to Heaven. They couldn’t believe the snow glistening on the tops of the mountains.
When the train crossed into Italy they all had to get out to be counted against the communal passport that the Capo had brought. When they heard the guards talking Italian, they all burst out laughing. They understood it, but it was different from the Italian that they spoke at home. It was more like the Italian they tried to learn in the scuola in Picardy Place.
They all lined up to use the toilet. Wefa came out screeching, ‘Olivia, it’s a hole in the ground! Hold your nose and don’t fall in!’
In the station café trays of milky coffee and
brioches were lined up for them. The ladies in charge were clucking round them like mother ducks, blabbering away, laughing and joking.
‘Taste the coffee, Vera, taste the coffee.’
Olivia had never tasted anything so delicious in her life. She dipped her brioche into the warm coffee and sucked it. It tasted of a mixture of vanilla and butter with an intense coffee flavour. It gave her a feeling of well-being.
The lady behind the bar had seen her reaction. ‘Ti piace?’
‘Si, grazie, Signora.’
The woman was thrilled that these children from England (she didn’t know a country called Scotland existed) could speak Italian, were dressed in the costume of the Balilla – and enjoyed her brioche.
The following day, by the time they reached the camp site on the Adriatic coast, the youngsters were completely immersed in Italy. They found things familiar and truly felt at home for the first time in their lives. The camp site had over 150 canvas tents, split into groups for girls and boys of different ages. There were children from all over Italy, from France, Holland and Abyssinia. They all spoke Italian, different groups with different accents, but all in Italian.
The big tent at the top of the camp was the mess camp where they ate, four times a day. Just as Margherita had said, the food was wonderful. To Olivia it tasted familiar but not at all like Mamma cooked at home. There was much more variety, different pastas, meats and fish. Vegetables she had never seen before, fried or sautéed, in salads or raw, in pasta or in frittata. The bread was thick and chewy with a dark crust. They smeared it with thick cherry jam or chunks of pecorino cheese.
There was fruit in abundance, bigger and juicier than anything she had ever tasted. Huge soft peaches that dribbled juice down her cheeks when she bit into them, soft yellow apricots that tasted like jam inside, and green, seedy sweet figs that her Papà had often told her about but she had never seen.