by Mary Contini
‘It could go either way. I am afraid that if he does declare war we’ll all be in the firing line.’
‘What do you mean?’ Cesidio sensed Alfonso was hiding something.
‘Well, put it like this. I’ve heard rumours that a ship is leaving from Glasgow in a few weeks.’
‘So?’
‘So it will be full of Italian diplomats and nominated friends of Italy who want to return home.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I don’t. Not officially. That, Cesidio, is what’s worrying me. I haven’t been officially told anything. I haven’t been advised to leave. Even if I had, I wouldn’t choose to go. This is our home after all.’
‘It’s a bad business. Johnny is upset about the whole thing. Most of his local friends have been called up. He’s still here and he feels uncomfortable.’
‘My boys feel the same. But would Johnny fight for Britain? He was born in Italy, wasn’t he?’
‘Yes, I presume he’d be called up to fight for Italy. But how can he fight against his own home? And look at Alex. He was born here. Thank God he’s only sixteen. He won’t be touched.’
Marietta came back through and heard what they were saying. ‘Is there news of the boys being called up, Alfonso?’
‘I haven’t heard anything. That’s the problem, Marietta. Mind you, some of the Edinburgh boys who were born here have already been called up for the British forces. We’re all in no-man’s-land. In Italy we are strangers, here we’re aliens.’
‘Domenico was born in Italy, Vittorio was born here. Whose side can they be on, either of them? We’re in the hands of God. Like the deal of the cards, we’ve no control of the outcome.’
‘Non c’è niente da fare! You’re right, Alfonso. There’s nothing to be done.’
As he waved goodbye to Alfonso, smoked salmon, two dozen eggs, baccalà and a big box of fresh vegetables in the back of the car, Cesidio crossed himself and said a prayer.
He felt anxious for Alfonso. The poor man was worried sick about his involvement with the Fascist Party. Here in Cockenzie they had had nothing to do with it. Only the boys had been to the holiday camps, but that was when they were still children. It had nothing to do with the situation now.
He thought about the local Cockenzie boys who were away fighting. A sick feeling filled his stomach as he remembered his own experiences in the last war. He knew some of these brave lads would not be coming home.
Why were their lives controlled by a few powerful men, men whose decisions could change the course of history?
As he went into the shop to light the fryer for the evening, he shook his head sadly. C’è niente da fare.
27
10 June 1940
In Cockenzie, Mrs Donaldson came rushing out into the street. She shouted at Alex, who was pushing the ice cream cart up Harlaw Hill.
‘Alex! Alex!’
Alex stopped and looked round. He must have given her the wrong change.
‘Alex, you’d better go hame, son. That’s Mussolini declared war!’ Mrs Donaldson still held the three cones she had just bought from him. She’d gone into the house and heard the news flash on the wireless.
‘Away hame, son. Yer Ma’ll be worried sick.’
This June it had been warm and sunny every day. Alex and Johnny had been really busy, selling as much ice cream as their father could make. Even with sugar and milk in short supply, somehow there was always enough to make a fresh batch.
Alex turned his tricycle round and pushed it back down the road. He ignored the kids that ran up to him shouting for a penny cone. As he walked past, they stood still and looked. Something must be wrong if Alex wasn’t selling his ice cream.
Margaret had been sent to find him. ‘There you are, Alex. You’ve to come home.’
They pushed the trike home together, not exchanging a word.
The shop was full. Mr Osborne, the minister, and Dr Black were in the back shop with Cesidio and Marietta. Police Constable Alex Craig was standing outside the shop. Most of the locals were standing around, hands deep in their pockets, shirt sleeves rolled up in the heat.
‘Ye’re OK, lad. Not to worry.’ Bobby Dates called after Alex as he went in.
His mother was sitting at the table crying. Anna and Lena were trying to console her.
Jeannie Heriot came through with a cup of tea. ‘Here, Mary, take that. I’ve put a wee nip of whisky in it for you.’
Cesidio was talking to the men. ‘I can’t believe it. I saw it coming but still I can’t believe it. After all we’ve been through getting our poor men out of Dunkirk, Mussolini has to stab us in the back. I’m ashamed. I’m ashamed. I can’t imagine Italy fighting against us.’
‘He’s a treacherous monster, as bad as Hitler.’
Alex went over to his father. ‘What’ll happen, dad? Will we have to go to Italy?’
‘I really don’t know. We’ll just have to wait and see, son, but you’ve not to worry. You’re only sixteen. Whatever happens, you’ll be here to look after your mother and your sisters.’ Cesidio put his arm round his youngest son.
Since the middle of May the fate of the northern armies had hung in the balance. The rout at Dunkirk had had them all on tenterhooks over the last ten days. The café had been packed night after night; everyone’s attention focused on the wireless when Sis switched it on to hear the nine o’clock news.
When Churchill, now Prime Minister, rallied the country saying that ‘we will fight them on the beaches … we will never surrender’ there was a special significance to these fisherfolk. They well understood their vulnerability here on the Firth of Forth.
They had watched the huge concrete blocks being laid down all along the coast, as a defence against the invasion. Every day now they were reminded of how much of a threat an invasion was. They understood the North Sea. They knew only too well the sea routes to Holland and France. It was no coincidence that the first German war plane of the war had come down on their doorstep.
But they were fighting men. Their livelihoods made them strong, fearless men. They would fight on the beaches if necessary. Churchill had no worries there. They were behind him to a man.
After the speech the radio presenter said, ‘Now we’ll broadcast something to lift your spirits.’ Over the airwaves they were thrilled when they heard the roar of the Hampden football crowd. They all stood up and cheered, clenched fists stabbing the air.
When the troops had been rescued so heroically from Dunkirk the mood had been almost victorious, huge pride at the success over almost impossible odds; they had been buoyed up with relief.
Since then they had been waiting. Day after day they listened to see what Mussolini would do. Now the die was cast. Italy was at war with Britain.
Cesidio kept the shop open as usual. After the initial news, nothing had happened. They waited; they could do nothing else. They didn’t feel an immediate danger. Everyone here knew them. The whole village knew they were not a threat, not an enemy.
Nevertheless the shop was strangely quiet. Perhaps the locals would stay away for a few days till they got used to the idea. Those who did come in talked about the cowardice and double dealing of Mussolini.
Johnny, Lena and Anna sat talking. ‘Will you be called up by the Italian army, Johnny? What will happen?’
‘They can try if they like. I’m not fighting against Britain. I’ve only been in Italy for three weeks in my whole my life, for God’s sake. I suspect we’ll get internment papers. Or we might get deported. We’re still classed as aliens. They have already interned a lot of Germans so I suppose we’ll be classed as enemies.’
Cesidio came over and put his arm round his son. His face was drawn.
‘Dad, are you all right?’
Cesidio rubbed his forehead with his hand and shook his head. He took a deep breath. ‘Oh, Johnny, I’m so sorry.’
Anna saw tears in her father’s eyes.
‘I’m so sorry. Mussolini has betrayed us all. Not just us, but ever
y Italian man, woman and child in the country. He’s such a fool, looking after his own skin instead of his people. He has sided with the Devil; he has sold us all down the river. Poor Italy. My poor Italy.’
Anna was shocked to see her father so distressed.
‘What about the family in Picinisco and I Ciacca? Will they be in the fighting?’
‘God knows what is ahead of them. Nobody is safe from today on.’
He looked at Johnny, ‘Son, we’ll have to be strong for your mother. She’s going to find it hard. You know they’ll probably ask us to the police station. We will have to be interviewed by the authorities, face a tribunal to state our case.’
‘Do you think we’ll be interned, Dad, do you think they’ll lock us up?’
‘I don’t know. We’ve not done anything to make them think we’re a threat. We’ll wait and see.’
Anna was determined. ‘Don’t worry, Daddy. Lena and I will look after Mum.’
‘And, Anna, whatever happens, look after Alex. He’s just a lad. He’ll be the most vulnerable. Watch out for him.’
They closed early. It was ten o’clock but it was still reassuringly light outside. Cesidio was not surprised when the policemen didn’t come in for their usual drink. They must be busy somewhere.
Marietta felt calmer. Before they went to bed she called them all together.
‘Let’s say the rosary together. Just one decade. You’re all tired. Nothing drastic has happened so it looks like things are going to be all right.’
Cesidio was relieved. ‘It could have gone either way. There could have been some trouble. Thank God our friends here have supported us. I feel better. I’m sure things will be fine. We’ll have a good night’s rest, and tomorrow, Johnny, you and I will go to see Alex Craig at the police station and see what they want us to do. I’d have asked them tonight if they’d come in. They’ll look after us, you’ll see.’
When eventually they were alone, Cesidio and Marietta lay in each other’s arms and wept. Povera Italia! Poor people who have been betrayed, sacrificed. Being Hitler’s ally was no more than surrender. They had been afraid of this since Mussolini’s Abyssinian affair. They had seen this coming.
‘Marietta, you’ve not to worry. We’re lucky. We’ve not been involved with the Fascio. We’ve kept ourselves away from Edinburgh and we’re well known here. Thank God our home is in Scotland. Look how good the people are to us.’
‘What about everyone in Italy? And my family in London? We’re scattered all over the place. If only we were all together.’
‘Thank God, our own family here is together. That’s all we can look after at the moment.’
They lay quietly, holding each other. Cesidio stroked her hair. She was still his sweetheart, always would be. Never a day passed that he didn’t thank God for her love.
‘How long is it since I’ve told you how much I love you?’ He kissed her and moved closer to her, pulling her to him. ‘I can’t imagine life without you. We are one, you and I. We are so blessed.’
‘Do you know, Cesidio,’ Marietta laughed, ‘do you remember when you told me you loved me and I agreed to wait for you?’
‘I just knew it was to be.’
‘I’ve never told you. I had been watching you in the piazza when you were with the boys. You were standing apart, thinking. I noticed you. You were different, quieter than the others, who were making such a racket. I think I fell in love with you then, even before you spoke to me.’
‘Marietta, I asked you then to wait for me. No matter what happens, will you still wait for me?’
Marietta’s heart lurched. She moved her body towards him and kissed him tenderly. Wait for him? She couldn’t live without him.
In Edinburgh earlier in the afternoon, the boss of the McVitie’s bakery had come out of his office. There were forty or so workers on the shift, packing biscuits. He called for quiet. ‘Quiet! Listen please! Italy has declared war.’
He walked over to Addolorata, who had been working for him for nearly three years.
‘I’m sorry, Dora.’ He handed her an envelope. ‘There’s no job here for the enemy.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re fired.’
She sat on the bus going home, shocked. She had been sacked. Out of the blue, she had lost her job. What had she done wrong? She looked in the envelope. It had her cards and her wages; just the right amount for up to three o’clock today.
She looked in the envelope again. No reference. Nothing.
What would she do now? If she was an enemy as he said, how on earth would she get another job?
As the bus passed Di Ciacca’s shop in Morrison Street she noticed the window was smashed. The Di Ciacca boys were standing outside in the street with their father. She craned her neck to see what was happening but the bus moved round the corner.
As the news broke, a crowd had gathered outside the Italian Consul’s offices at Picardy Place. There were already a lot of police around, as if they were expecting trouble. Four special constables on horseback were approaching from Queen Street.
At about five o’clock a black car drew up. Two uniformed constables and two officials in dark suits and hats, incongruous in the summer heat, pushed through the crowd and banged on the locked door of the Fascio hall.
The two officials stepped aside. The constables broke the door open.
Inside some Italians were hastily tearing down the photograph of Mussolini. Others were setting light to some documents. In the confusion a fire broke out. When they were unable to douse the flames, fire engines were called. Everyone was evacuated from the building. Within minutes, fire engines pulled up outside the Fascio hall and several fire officers tackled the blaze.
Whether this was a trigger for what followed, who knows. The crowd outside now amounted to over a thousand. They stood watching, gauging the mood. They sang patriotic songs and intermittently shouted abuse at Italy and its citizens.
A commotion broke out in the street. A core element of youngsters, egged on by some older men in the crowd, started to move forward in a menacing group.
One of the mounted police shouted over the heads of the crowd.
‘Now come on, lads. Let’s not have any trouble. Make your way back to your homes. There’s to be no trouble.’
A stone flew past the policeman’s helmet, knocking it off. His horse reared in fright.
The youths split up and, from the top of Picardy Place, one group moved down Broughton Street, the others went up Leith Street, some spread down Union Place, the others marched down towards Elm Row.
The jeering and shouting began. They picked up sticks and bricks, anything lying around. Some produced knives. Some had guns.
Others joined them, coming from adjoining streets, converging on the trouble-makers. A terrifying aggression built up.
Giovanni Crolla’s shop on Union Place was the first to get hit. Inside the shop, getting ready for the night’s business, he heard the uproar. He sensed trouble. This is it. This is what he had been afraid of.
He chased his family upstairs. His staff ran out the back door. Not a word was exchanged. He switched off the gas under the fryer, locked the till and pulled the cigarettes off the shelves, hiding them under the counter.
He went to the door and stood with his two sons, all in their clean white overalls, sleeves rolled up, hair smoothed back with Brylcreem, ready for business.
The crowd of youths approached him. It was still light. He could see their faces clearly; at least a handful of them were regular customers.
‘Come on, lads. Come on now. What good’s this going to do?’
He was really lucky he wasn’t hurt. The ringleader yelled at him with unbridled fury and knocked him away from the door.
‘Get out of the way, you Italian bastard!’
He fell to the ground, hitting his head. Giovanni’s sons went to help their father up. Their mother and sisters were upstairs, barricaded in, hiding away from the windows. The noise outside was
terrifying.
The crowd pushed past them into the shop. They smashed the front window, breaking through with metal bars, tore the door from the hinges, kicking it in fury with thick steel-capped boots. They threw the chairs through the engraved glass partitions and wooden frames, demolishing them.
One lad picked up the wooden paddle that Giovanni used to make the batter for the fish. He waved it along the shelves sweeping all the polished sweet jars and sauce bottles from the shelves, smashing them on the tiled floor.
Giovanni’s sons pulled their father away from the shop. They stood and watched helplessly as the looting began. Cigarettes, chocolates, a tray of filleted fish, everything was taken. When the men couldn’t get the money from the cigarette machine on the wall they battered it with an iron bar until eventually it broke open. They threw the till against the wall, cracking the tiles. As the drawer sprang open they crammed the coins into their pockets.
Seeing more crowds of youths move down Leith Walk, Giovanni thought of his brother.
He called to his son, ‘Michael, run down to Alfonso’s. Quick. Warn him.’
By the time Michael reached Elm Row it was too late.
The tall Georgian windows of the shop were completely destroyed; the bottles that had been so proudly displayed lay smashed on the ground. Red wine, like a river of blood, flowed down Leith Walk.
The familiar smell of coffee was overpowered by alcohol fumes.
Inside it looked like a slow-motion movie. The coffee dust had risen like a fog. The vandals were climbing up the stout shelves sweeping everything onto the ground.
The looters were selective. They stole bottles of whisky, sherry and brandy. They left the salami, cheese and pasta. No one wanted filthy Italian food.
They disappeared as quickly as they had come, shouting and screaming abuse. They threw bottles as they left, moving on down Leith Walk, to get Costa’s, Gasparini’s, Capaldi’s, Coppola’s, Paolozzi’s. They knew exactly where all the Italian bastards were. ‘The Tallies are in yer face.’