Dear Olivia

by Mary Contini

  After about eight days, without warning, a group of them were called by their prisoner number and instructed to gather their belongings. They lined up at the gates, a motley crew of over two hundred. Alfonso looked around. They had been living and sleeping in their clothes, sharing a couple of latrines and a few cold-water taps to wash with. Their clothes were decidedly the worse for wear.

  ‘Now we really look like “filthy Eyeties”,’ he thought wryly.

  The camp commandant issued instructions.

  ‘Married men to the left, single men and sailors to the right.’

  Then he repeated the instruction in German, and in Italian.

  Most of Alfonso’s friends were married; the younger sons were not with them. They all stepped to the left. Families tried to stay together, so they moved to the same side. A sense of apprehension settled over them. The cards were being dealt again.

  The first group moved forward to take their places on the waiting buses. Cesidio and Alfonso climbed the steps.

  ‘Stop!’

  The sergeant put his gun forward, barring the way for Harry to climb the steps. A fresh-faced young boy, thin and lanky, the colour drained from Harry’s face.

  ‘You’re in the wrong group, lad. You’re not married. Move to the right.’

  ‘No. No, please. I want to stay with my father.’ Harry started to panic. He had to stay with his father. He couldn’t go to the right.

  ‘Move, lad, come on.’

  Louis stepped forward. Without hesitation he pushed his hand forward and pushed something into the sergeant’s hand.

  ‘Let him be, man.’

  Before the sergeant could stop him, Louis pushed his son up the stairs of the bus. The men behind moved faster, pushing their way on to the bus. It would be more hassle to get the young man off; Harry was lucky again.

  As the buses pulled out of the camp and drove south, the men were subdued. God knew what was ahead of them.

  Warth Mills, near Bury in Lancashire, was a decaying cotton factory, disused for over ten years. Two acres of uninhabitable wasteland became home for three thousand prisoners. There was no electricity or heating, filthy dug-out latrines for toilets and cold taps of running water for hundreds of men to use to wash or drink.

  Issued with a straw mattress and a single blanket, the men made a bed wherever they could find a space. Oil, grease and old rusting equipment made an odious, dank environment. At night, rain dripped through the rotting roof and rats scurried around.

  Seven-foot-high barbed wire fencing separated the men into groups; heavily armed guards punished the inmates severely if fights broke out over lack of food.

  Alfonso and his relatives stuck together, terrified of being separated. Now they thanked God their sons were not with them. Poor Harry, he shouldn’t see this squalor. Night after night passed, more and more men arrived. Surely they weren’t going to be kept here? It was inhuman.

  The men gradually became weak; their food allocation was meagre. Illness broke out: dysentery and chest infections. Each day was spent queuing for food, for water, for use of the vile latrines. Each night was even worse, with men moaning and coughing, some crying, calling out their prayers to the Madonna, disoriented and distressed.

  Surely this couldn’t be where they were going to be kept? Surely this wasn’t a British camp?

  Alfonso still had fight in him. He spoke to the guards repeatedly.

  ‘What’s this all about? We have rights. At least let our families know where we are. At least feed us enough food. Give the sick medication. Let us have a chance to wash, clean our clothes.’

  ‘It’s war, mate. Our soldiers have just crawled back from being slaughtered in France. Nobody cares about bloody Italians.’

  Men turned up from other parts of the country, from London, from Manchester. The young Italian priest, Father Rossi, who had been in Glasgow last year, arrived. He had been on holiday in Manchester, and had been traced all the way from Glasgow. He had been arrested during the night at the church he was visiting.

  Perhaps it was best that Alfonso didn’t know that by now Domenico had also arrived in Warth Mills. He had been transported south two or three days after his father, and was in another part of the prison with other young men, enduring the same inhumane conditions.

  It was now almost eighteen days since they had had any news of their families, since they had been fed a decent meal, since they had been able to wash properly.

  Father Rossi gathered all his strength. He was just twenty-four, but as one of only three priests in the camp he was looked on for leadership. The authorities also had more respect for him as a priest. He talked to the men and tried to communicate their concerns to their captors. He tried to find out what was going to happen. Were they staying in this dreadful place or were they to be transported out?

  He organised the men to clean the kitchens and eating areas. Bizarrely the kitchens were manned by chefs from some of the top London hotels, the Savoy, the Piccadilly, all Italian immigrants who had also been arrested on 10 June. Now they cooked with basic ingredients to provide meagre food for their compatriots.

  Most importantly, Father Rossi persuaded the authorities that he must be allowed to say Mass. After much discussion the commandant finally agreed. A makeshift altar was set up. An artist among the prisoners sketched a Holy Picture and pinned it above the altar. Father Rossi spoke to the men, thousands of them, bedraggled and destitute.

  ‘Friends, we need to keep our faith. This is a test of our will. Our faith in God will give us strength. You’ll see. This will pass. Tomorrow is 29 June, the feast of St Peter and St Paul. I have asked for permission to say Holy Mass. For those of you who would like to receive the Sacrament of Confession I will be available over in the corner.’

  This was a great morale boost for them all. They hadn’t heard Mass since being arrested. All gatherings were banned.

  That evening, beneath the stairs in the corner of the decaying mill, with a rusty metal door separating him from the young priest, Alfonso confessed his sins.

  ‘Bless me Father for I have sinned … Father, I have caused my family so much pain. I’ve let them down. I thought Mussolini would be the best for us all. Look at all these men here, suffering, hungry …’ Alfonso started to weep, ‘I encouraged so many of them to join the Fascio. It’s my fault they are here, treated like criminals, like enemies of the country they have grown to love and respect.

  ‘Father, my wife,’ Alfonso gulped, ‘my wife warned me. I was too proud to listen, too proud.’

  Of the hundreds of confessions the priest had heard, here was a troubled soul, a spirit broken by self-doubt and despair. He felt compassion for the man. He remembered him from the Ferragusto picnic the year before. It was not right that this man should blame himself.

  The priest paused, waiting for inspiration from the Holy Spirit, ‘My son, you used the talents that God gave you. Do not blame yourself for the evil that drives men to war.

  ‘You must take pride in the good that you have done. You must accept that God wanted you to lead and you did what you thought was right. Il Duce has betrayed your people, not you.

  ‘Coraggio, figlio mio, you still have a job to do. You must have courage and faith. Be strong for the other men. They will still need you in the trials to come. You are still their leader.

  ‘I absolve you of all your sins …

  ‘Ego te absolvo ab omnibus peccatis vestris …’

  Alfonso walked away past the line of men waiting for confession, visibly moved. Looking at each of them, poor souls, abandoned, weakened and frightened, he felt his courage rise in his soul. The priest was right. The Holy Spirit would guide him. This was the true test of his leadership. He had to sacrifice his own pain and give his all to his friends.

  He never did hear Mass the next day. In the morning, Alfonso and many of the men who had arrived with him were told to collect their belongings to prepare to leave. At roll-call as the guards called out their numbers each man stepped for
ward. Without regret, they marched away from the horror of the Mills.

  Alfonso walked with Emidio.

  ‘Where are we going now?’

  ‘I’ve heard rumours we’re being deported. That’ll be a joke, Alfonso. I’m just back in the country and they’re sending me away again.’

  ‘It can only be better than that place. I feel sorry for anyone left here, even for another day.’

  Farther Rossi had volunteered to go with the men. He stood waiting with his own small suitcase but was not allowed to go. He watched more than two hundred men leave with a heavy heart, fearful for them all.

  The spaces left behind were soon filled by more trainloads of prisoners, including one that had Johnny on board. He had spent the last ten days in the camp at Penicuik and was now to experience the Mills. He was distraught with worry about his father and brother. He too had had no news and was with a group of younger Italian men from all over Scotland. They had all been born in Italy.

  The prisoners had to fend for themselves so he had taken a job in the kitchen, hoping he could find his family during meal times. When he was transported out, he had hidden a lump of cheese in his pocket, desperately thinking that he would be able to give it to his father when he saw him.

  Arriving in Warth Mills, the soldiers stopped each man.

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Category?’

  By now they all knew under which legislation they were being held.

  ‘Category A.’ Johnny, the twenty-year-old ice cream barrow pusher from Cockenzie, was classed as a ‘dangerous enemy alien’ and was to be interned for the duration of the war.

  ‘Empty your pockets.’

  Johnny pulled the lump of cheese from his pocket. Having had only bread and jam since the early morning, he had been starving on the journey. The cheese had sweated in his pocket, enticing him constantly to eat it. Thinking of his father, hoping the next place he was taken to he would see him, he resisted. His father would need it more than he did.

  The soldier took the cheese, looked at it disgusted and without a thought threw it in a bucket.

  Johnny burst into tears, ashamed at his reaction. He’d hidden that cheese for two days to give to his father. It was as if the soldier was throwing away his last chance of finding him.

  Day after day he walked round the camp asking anyone he recognised for news. No one knew anything. No one had seen any of the Edinburgh Italians. Eventually he met up with the young priest he had seen at the picnic the year before. He asked him if he had seen his father.

  Father Rossi recognised Johnny.

  ‘Johnny, I can’t tell you for sure. I don’t know if your father was among them, but a lot of older men from Edinburgh and Glasgow left last Sunday. I know Alfonso Crolla was among them. Would your father have been with him?’

  ‘Yes, that’s Zio Alfonso. He must have been with him.’ Johnny felt an enormous relief. Here at last was some evidence. ‘Father, do you know where they were going?’

  ‘God will give them strength. Anywhere’s better than here, so don’t worry.’

  The young priest didn’t realise how wrong he was.

  The train had disembarked the men at Riverside Station. Alfonso, Cesidio, his brothers and his friends were marched out of the station straight to Liverpool Docks.

  In front of them towered a 15,000-ton liner of the Blue Star Line, the magnificent Arandora Star. A luxury liner that had sailed the Mediterranean hosting luxury cruises for the rich and famous, its lavish fittings had been ripped out, its holds fitted out with crude metal bunks and its sparkling white paintwork hastily camouflaged in grey.

  A 4.7-inch cannon and a 120-lb anti-aircraft gun decorated its decks along with barbed wire and a swastika menacingly painted on its funnel.

  Directed by armed soldiers, the men climbed the gangplank, each calling out their name and prisoner number.

  ‘My God! It’s a sailing boat.’ Giovanni had seen ships like this before. ‘They’re not taking us to the Isle of Man. They’re deporting us.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Emidio was confused.

  ‘We’re going to Canada. Look.’ Giovanni pointed at a partially hidden sign on the wall, Canada Wharf.

  They were directed to cabins on A deck, one of the lower decks of the ship. Their allocated cabins held four or six to a room. When the cabins were full, more Italians took mattresses that were laid out in the stunning mirrored ballroom nearer the top decks. There were 734 Italians in all.

  There were toilets and shower rooms but when the men ran the water it dripped out brown and filthy.

  It was sweltering. They made their way back on to the deck for air. They watched as more prisoners were embarking, Germans this time, some in uniform, some in civilian clothes. Some were rowdy, confident, happy to be leaving British shores. Others were bedraggled and despondent like the Italians. They made a sorry sight. Piles of discarded luggage lined the quayside; one light suitcase per person was the maximum baggage allowed.

  Armed British soldiers aggressively kept the men in line. Any arguments were quickly subdued.

  Further along the docks they saw rows of more men climbing the gangplank onto another similar ship. They tried to see if they could recognise any one but they were too far away. Little did they know that hundreds of their sons and nephews were boarding that ship, the Ettrick, including Alfonso’s son Domenico.

  Gradually Alfonso and his compatriots moved to the starboard side of the ship, away from the dock. The sight of the alighting passengers was too oppressive. It was a warm sunny evening. The sea was calm. If it wasn’t for their circumstances this journey would be an adventure.

  Alfonso saw the barriers on the deck.

  ‘What’s the barbed wire for? Do they think we’re going to jump overboard?’

  They looked down into the sea, a hundred feet down.

  ‘None of us can swim. None of us is likely to try to escape!’ Achille was sarcastic. They had been ground into submission, accepting the path that fate was taking them.

  They all gathered together: Alfonso, Giovanni, Emidio, Achille, Cesidio, his brother Louis and his son Harry, Benny and Donato. They’d shared a lot together in these last few weeks. They looked around. Scores of their friends from Edinburgh and countless relatives and customers from all over Scotland were milling around. There were hundreds of them. They talked about their wives and families, all broken-hearted that they were being taken away from them like this. They bitterly regretted not having been given the chance to say goodbye. Their fierce independence and self-sufficiency had been stripped from them, leaving them for the first time in their lives out of control of their own fate. Their self-respect had been taken from them.

  Cesidio was really distressed.

  ‘Why will they not let us just contact our families? I can’t bear to think of them still worrying about where we are. I can’t bear to leave them.’

  Giovanni tried to console him. He put his arm around the younger man.

  They had heard that some men had been given a card to fill in to send a message home. None of them had been given that chance.

  They stood quietly, thinking about what they were leaving behind. Alfonso shook his head in disbelief about what was happening to them.

  The noise of the anchor being lifted roused him from his thoughts. The rattling, clanking noise sounded dangerous and sinister. The horn sounded twice. This was it. He breathed deeply, trying to control his fear.

  A seagull called above their heads. He remembered the last time he stood on a deck with his brother, many years ago. He started to laugh.

  ‘Boys, you won’t believe this. The last time Emidio and I were on a ship was twenty-seven years ago, crossing from Calais to Dover. Do you remember, Emidio? We didn’t have two pennies to rub together, we looked like tramps and we were feeling nervous about the British authorities, even then!’

  Emidio laughed. He had almost forgotten.

  ‘Lads, you should have seen him! He made a great fuss at the desk a
nd the poor immigration officer didn’t know what had hit him!’

  ‘Yes, and you picked up that lovely young girl!’ Alfonso slapped his brother’s back. Emidio pushed his hair back from his brow and shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Well, you know, the girls have always had a thing for me. I can’t help it.’

  Giovanni wanted to hear more:

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘Even though we had nothing, Alfonso insisted we travelled first class and we got a straight run through immigration!’

  ‘Typical, Alfonso … always above himself.’ Giovanni looked with affection on his brother. He’d always admired Alfonso’s imagination, his desire to do things better, his drive to be the best.

  Emidio was enjoying the story.

  ‘Alfonso, do you remember you wanted to look like the fancy businessmen with their pin-striped suits and their umbrellas in the sunshine. You put a handkerchief in your top pocket so that you could look the part?’

  ‘It’s that why you always wear that handkerchief?’ Giovanni laughed.

  ‘Alfonso, I think you’ve cracked it!’ Cesidio took a step back. The fresh air, blue skies and relief from knowing at last where they were going was lifting their spirits.

  ‘Look at you, guaglione, poor boy.’ He gestured to Alfonso. ‘May I present Cavaliere Alfonso Crolla, businessman and entrepreneur!’

  Alfonso puffed out his chest, removed his hat and bowed with a flourish.

  ‘At your service, my friends.’ The middle-aged man standing before them was dressed in torn, grease-stained trousers and a tattered jacket. His waistcoat hung loosely around his middle. He had lost about a stone in weight. His white shirt was dirty grey and his collar frayed and filthy. His hat was bashed and ripped but his top pocket still sported a not so fetching, not so white linen handkerchief.

  He looked like a tramp.

  ‘A first-class passenger if ever I saw one!’ Cesidio bowed in return.

  They all burst out laughing and in mock salute raised imaginary glasses.

  ‘Salute! Cavaliere Alfonso Crolla!’