Dear Olivia

by Mary Contini

  During the meals, the officials walked around to inspect the youngsters.

  Olivia put her head down as three men approached her table, guided by one of the teachers. They looked impressive in their uniforms – medals and badges glistening in the light. They stopped right in front of her. Wefa nudged her and, nervously, Olivia looked up.

  One man asked her if she was enjoying her holiday, ‘Ti diverti qui?’

  She replied, ‘Dieci giorni, Signor.’

  In her eagerness to reply, Olivia had misunderstood the question. She thought he had asked how long they were staying here.

  The sergeant and his comrades burst out laughing. He patted her encouragingly on the shoulder.

  ‘Brava, Inglese! You must keep learning Italian. Keep coming to visit us and we’ll teach you.’

  The girls would have put on weight if it hadn’t been for the strict regime of the day. Woken early in the morning by a blast of martial music from loudspeakers, they all had to march for half an hour to the booming of military tunes.

  Then, after listening to a recorded message from Il Duce, they had to stand to attention and answer the call from the teachers.

  ‘Ragazzi d’Italia! What do you believe?’

  ‘In the name of God and Italy I swear to carry out the order of Il Duce and to serve with all my strength and offer my blood in the cause of the Fascist Revolution.’

  Patriotic Italian songbook

  ‘Soldati d’Italia! Who must you obey?’

  ‘We must obey Il Duce!’

  ‘Why must you obey?’

  ‘I must obey because I must.

  My first duty as a child is obedience.

  The second, obedience.

  The third, obedience!’

  After a Fascist song, the day would proceed with sports and competitions, more singing and meals. For the girls there were separate times for sewing and playing with dolls, learning about being good mothers. For the boys, there were more strenuous games, harsher drills and more military-style training; they marched with wooden replica guns and thrilled at playing soldiers and war games.

  The most exhilarating thing for all the children was the continuous hot sunny weather. They ran around in shorts, swam in the sea and enjoyed the feeling of freedom that the Italian climate provides. They never felt that it was too hot or too sunny. It was as if their bodies had craved the sun all their lives. Even though it was sunny sometimes in Scotland, it wasn’t a clear, bright translucent sun as it was here.

  ‘Olivia, Wefa, the Capo says that we are going to see Il Duce the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘When?’ Olivia was so excited. Her Papà had told her if they were good Il Duce would come to see them. She felt as confident and excited as if her own father were coming.

  Finally the day came. They were all issued with new uniforms, spotless and clean. Women sat in the mess hall sewing up trouser hems and adjusting skirt lengths so that every child was dressed exactly to specifications.

  This was an impossible task because no sooner had one child been sorted than the next came in with a torn shirt from falling out of a tree. Nevertheless, after lunch and their hour siesta, which had become a natural habit to them all, the music rang out over the loudspeaker to call them into their positions.

  What a scrabble of seven hundred excitable children and a hundred terrified teachers and helpers all running, bumping into each other, knocking the smaller ones over, to get to their positions on time.

  When they were all lined up they stood silently in anticipation. The sun was still high in the sky, beating down on them. Their fez hats were warm, sweat was dripping down under the rim. The sweat poured out under their shirts, the boys in the black shirts suffering worst as the airless claustrophobic atmosphere made them feel faint and dizzy.

  ‘I can’t stand this,’ Wefa whispered to Vera.

  ‘Sh!! Sh!!’ Olivia was furious. They weren’t allowed to talk.

  ‘You shush!’ Wefa was feeling decidedly cross.

  Just as Olivia was going to whack her with the side of her hand they all nearly jumped out of their skin as the music started up over the loudspeaker. As the Italian National Anthem blared out over their heads they automatically in unison raised their right hands, straight in a Roman Salute.

  Then, on a magnificent, tall white Austrian stallion, towering high over their heads, rode Mussolini, resplendent in a white Navy uniform, straight back, chin jutting forward, one hand holding the reins above the other, seemingly oblivious of the army of youths below him.

  He dismounted and climbed up onto a podium that dominated the camp, an absurd contraption that looked like the end of a battle-ship.

  The music stopped.

  Everything was silent.

  Mussolini strode over to the very edge of the platform and stood, feet wide apart, head up and hands clasped behind his back. Without moving his head he looked down at them, as if he was inspecting every single child’s appearance and demeanour.

  He waited.

  They trembled.

  Then he thundered out, shouting over their heads:

  ‘Gioventù d’Italia! A chi la vittoria?’

  In unison, enthusiastic and completely without prompting the children shouted out to their leader.

  ‘A noi, Duce! A noi!’

  The music started up, and to the rendering of the ‘Faccetta Nera’, song of the Abyssinian victory, the young future army of Italy marched past Il Duce.

  Olivia, Wefa and Vera kept in line as they had been drilled.

  ‘Uno, Due, Uno, Due!’ Arms stretched out high, as far as the shoulder of the person in front, higher if the person in front was barely three feet tall.

  ‘Uno, Due! Uno, Due! Passo!’

  On cue, Olivia turned her head with a sharp jerk to the right and looked up, up, straight into the mesmerising, deep cornflower-blue eyes of the most beautiful man she had ever seen in her life.

  In the tent that night, the girls talked non-stop.

  ‘Olivia, wasn’t he really handsome? Even more handsome than Cary Grant and Errol Flynn rolled into one.’ Vera couldn’t get over how stunning Mussolini looked. Tanned and smooth-skinned with a strong nose and jaw, he looked like a film star.

  ‘Did you see him look at me?’ Wefa was convinced that Mussolini had especially looked at her, somehow noticed her among all the other children.

  ‘What do you mean, Wefa? How did he look at you? He looked at me. I’ve never seen eyes as blue as his. He looked right into my eyes and I’m sure he saw right into my mind.’

  Olivia’s outburst shocked the girls. They fell silent and lay quietly with their thoughts. Each felt a curious mixture of pleasure and guilt.

  A disconcerting thought crossed Olivia’s mind. Was this feeling what falling in love was? He was magnificent. Papà was right. How could any other man compare?

  That night Olivia forgot to say her prayers or to dream of her father.

  When the girls got back to Edinburgh they were full of Italy: the food, the music, the swimming and the sea; everything about it was wonderful.

  But they were all quite reticent about speaking about their experience with Il Duce. Somehow those feelings were private and special and perhaps even a little shameful.

  When Alfonso asked Olivia how she had felt when she had seen Mussolini, she blushed.

  ‘He was nice, Papà. But not as nice as you.’

  While the girls were away, the political crisis with Germany had reached fever pitch. On 15 August Hitler had mobilised the army strictly against all agreements and post-war pacts. His intention was to take Czechoslovakia, having earlier in the year annexed Austria, without much opposition from the Austrian people.

  To people all over Europe it looked like another life-threatening cliff edge. They waited to see, this time around, how the politicians – elderly gentlemen in pin-striped suits, with bowler hats and umbrellas – would deal with this medal-bedecked, gun-toting uniformed leader of Germany.

  On 30 September 193
8, just weeks after Olivia had returned from Italy, it appeared that the umbrella was mightier than the gun.

  Chamberlain, the British Prime Minister, stepped down from an aircraft courtesy of Adolf Hitler, with a Swastika emblazoned on its wings, clutching a piece of paper in his hands. The ink was hardly dry. It bore evidence of the peaceful resolution he had negotiated.

  That evening people gathered in each other’s homes and cafés to hear the BBC radio news bulletin at nine o’clock. Chamberlain assured the nation that ‘… this paper is symbolic of the desire of our two peoples never to go to war with each other again’.

  All round the country everyone cheered. It looked as if at last there was a leadership in Europe that would put an end to threats of war.

  For his annual Armistice Day speech, Mussolini stood on the balcony at the Piazza Venezia in Rome in front of an assembly of one hundred thousand ex-combattenti. Forceful and domineering, he delivered his speech. More than ever, he felt power was in his hands. A friend of both Britain and Germany, he was intoxicated with himself. He intended to dominate both Britain and Germany. His message of peace had a sinister tone.

  ‘The blue patch on the horizon of the political sky is spreading. Responsible men are working towards this end, but it would be imprudent and unlike Fascists to give way to exaggerated and premature optimism.

  ‘There are men, who, feeling themselves particularly beaten by the peaceful European and human policy followed by the Axis, dream with their eyes open of impossible retaliation.

  ‘For this reason, comrades, it is still necessary to sleep with our heads on our knapsacks as we used to do in the trenches.’

  The crowd cheered as he reaffirmed his goal to maintain peace, claiming it was due to him that this crisis had passed.

  Alfonso read the speech with trepidation. There was something ominous about Mussolini’s words. The mood in Britain was more optimistic. People here felt that peace was more secure. Perhaps Il Duce knew of things the British were still to find out.

  In his heart Alfonso was afraid that the chance for peace was dying. His faith in his leader assuaged his doubts and he clung desperately to hope.

  24

  15 August 1939

  It was the kind of morning that makes you glad to be alive: clear blue skies, a perfect morning for a picnic. Five open-topped charabancs and three Scottish Motor Traction Co. double-decker buses waited in line at the bottom of the steps of St Mary’s.

  On cue, as the church bells started to ring, the doors of the cathedral opened and a handful of men slipped out and immediately lit up cigarettes. They looked very up-to-date, dressed in light, loose-fitting tailored suits with wide trousers with turn-ups. After the first deep inhalation of smoke, as if pre-rehearsed, they loosened their ties and pushed their trilby hats to the back of their heads. Now they could relax.

  The open doors revealed the closing procession. The senior acolyte led the procession enthusiastically, swinging the thurible, filling the atmosphere with clouds of incense. Several altar boys in long white surplices with full white ruffs led the procession followed by the cathedral choir, men and boys dressed in long cream robes with gold bands round their waists. They sang the verses of the Ave Maria in Italian, accompanied by the women in the congregation.

  Four priests, Monsignor McGettigan and finally the Archbishop, resplendent in floor-length gold and white vestments, mitre perched high on his head, slowly followed the procession down the aisle. With his hands hidden under his stole, he held the spectacular gold monstrance high, exhibiting the Holy Host. As he passed, the congregation genuflected, made the sign of the cross and placed their thumb and first two fingers on their lips.

  The first four pews of the church disgorged four brigades of the Piccole Italiane choir, all dressed smartly in their black fascisti outfits. Marching proudly like little soldiers they each managed to sneak a look sideways as they passed their families, exchanging a wink or suppressing a giggle.

  At the end of the aisle they moved to the left and as the last of the singing died down, the congregation stood up en masse, genuflecting, and then busily made their way out into the warm summer sun.

  The young women were dressed in elegant day dresses of silk and linen, belted at the waist and fashionably three inches below the knee. Their light overcoats were loose and comfortable, slightly shorter than their dresses, swinging gracefully from the shoulders. Their chunky high-heeled shoes, white cotton gloves and summer hats jauntily perched on their curled hair completed the impression of Greta Garbo glamour.

  The more mature women, Maria and Marietta included, were dressed more staidly with longer dark-blue and black dresses with white lace collars. Their hats were darker and pulled down over their faces; their large black handbags displayed power and control, holding promises of intrigue and treats.

  The bus drivers whistled to each other. This was going to be chaos. After much kissing and shaking of hands among the crowd, Vittorio and Domenico started to usher the crowd onto the buses. Once the Archbishop and priests had changed into black suits and white Roman collars, they were ready to go.

  The Mass of the Assumption of Our Lady had been very moving. Cavaliere Tronchetti had read out a message from Il Duce himself, directed especially to all Italians living abroad. He implored them to pray for peace, to maintain good relations with their neighbours and to behave with honour and honesty in the name of their Italian citizenship. ‘Do not fear for war. I, Il Duce, will sue for peace in Europe. Peace in the World.’

  In the congregation some had been captivated, reassured by the message; some had reacted with scepticism – they had heard it all before. None were indifferent. The threat of war was still real.

  Marietta looked across at Cesidio and made a sign of dismissal. She pushed her chin up, her mouth down and whipped the back of her hand under her chin then whispered under her breath, ‘What can he do? The baboon!’

  The previous day, the Scotsman newspaper had reported that Mussolini was indeed against any war and was convinced, twenty-five years after the outbreak of the last war, that extreme caution was necessary to avoid conflict.

  The newspaper had not yet reported that Winston Churchill was on that very day standing on the banks of the Rhine with General Spears and General George, the Commander in Chief of the Supreme Allied Command, watching the French build up defences against the German troops amassing on the other side.

  Europe was on holiday but its armies were on alert.

  The motorcade of charabancs and buses moved out of the city, making their way steadily towards Stirling. Everyone was in high spirits. As they approached the small villages along the way, locals, hearing the singing and laughter, came out of their houses to wave. Occasionally the whole shebang ground to a halt as they stopped at an ice cream shop or fish and chip shop to pick up some Italians who had not made it to the Mass.

  Scampagnata, Alva Glen, c. 1939

  As they approached the King’s Park a huge shout went out. ‘Aaaahhhh! Mannàggia!’

  The Glasgow Italian contingent had arrived before them. The buses pulled up outside the park. As they all climbed down Vittorio and Johnny went up and down rallying everyone. ‘That’s it, boys. The Glaswegians have arrived before us but that’s the only thing they’ll beat us at today.’

  With great hilarity and excitement, the baskets of food, tartan rugs and lemonade boxes filled with bottles of Chianti were carried into the park.

  ‘Marietta,’ Maria caught sight of her friend, ‘come over and sit with us. We can see everything that’s going on from here.’

  The women settled down, laying out the rugs and unpacking the food.

  Of course it was not like in Italy. At Ferragosto in Italy, 15 August, they had processions and feasts and fireworks for a whole week. The streets would fill with women making pasta, roasting porchetta and frying vegetables. Stalls would be piled with crostata and crespelle, creustella and biscotti di finocchio, all the treats that were associated with the Feast of the Ass
umption.

  But the tradition had been maintained in its own way here: Mass, a trip to a park, somewhere central so that Italians from all over Scotland could make it, and an afternoon of sports and games with a dance afterwards. This was the biggest get-together of the year and the one most looked forward to.

  The children were already running around the park, too excited to eat.

  The men joined the women on the rug, taking off their jackets, rolling up their shirt sleeves but leaving their hats perched on the back of their heads. The Ruffino in the straw flasks was warm and it was making them sweat in the sun.

  ‘Maria, your frittata is really lovely, grazie.’

  ‘It’s best when you make it with yesterday’s left-over pasta, isn’t it? Perfect for a picnic. Have another slice, here. You see, I prefer your pastone with the ricotta and salsiccie. This is very nice. Alfonso, Cesidio, have some pizza.’

  Alfonso bit into a thin slice of pizza that was stuffed with scarola, sautéed greens. The oil dripped down his chin and he wiped it with the back of his hand.

  Alfonso felt he had to clear the air. He felt he had misjudged Marietta.

  ‘Marietta, you know, you were right not to get involved with Olivieri. I am mortified. I really didn’t have a clue that he was a crook, and a big crook at that. To tell you the truth, I’m quite shaken by it all.’

  Cesidio felt embarrassed for his friend.

  ‘How could you know, Alfonso? A wolf in sheep’s clothing, that was what he was.’

  ‘I should have understood. It seemed to me the right thing to support Italy, but his bank wasn’t anything to do with Italy! I am a fool, Cesidio, a fool. And Maria’s still not pleased with me.’ He looked over at his wife. ‘She warned me. She was right after all. I don’t know when I’ll get back into her good books.’