‘I do not think so. Fascism is the strongest support of an evil system…’
‘Do not lecture me about systems. I know all about them. Old Buonocorso used to be an expert on the subject.’
‘…a system that denies the world to the people who live in it. When we have destroyed Fascism, men will be more free to create the world as they wish it to be.’
‘You have a touching faith in their ability to understand what they wish it to be. You believe in man. Others believe in God. I cannot believe in either, for I am cursed with the capacity to think.’
‘I believe as I do because I think. I can prove to you…’
‘Please do not try. You will not convince me, and I have no desire to create doubt in you. It would make your life very unpleasant.’
‘Speak freely, I am not frightened to listen.’
‘No. On my side, too, it would be a waste of breath. When one is upheld by faith, no reasoning can weaken it, nor even experience. The more your experiences belie your faith, the greater your need for that faith becomes, and the more you cling to it. Every blow only serves to strengthen it. The tragedy is that experience stores up within you, and one day, when some crisis forces you to think, everything is revealed to you in a terrible flash. Faith crumbles, and you are left adrift.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I had a faith once. I was a Fascist. You are angry?’
‘No.’
‘Do not worry. I am not a problem for the authorities. It was a long time ago. I was not unhappy then. Life made a clear picture. There was the feeling of strength when the bands played in the packed stadium, there was the illusion of grandeur when the great shout went up in the square, there was the pride of having something to serve and the joy of having something to hate. There was the illusion that one could compel respect.’
‘I do not think that a defeat could change me so easily.’
‘It was not defeat, it was what defeat revealed. Everything that should have seemed tragic seemed only ridiculous. I despised myself when I saw the shabbiness of the things which had dazzled me. If I believe in nothing, it is because I have seen everything. I have not even…’ he could not avoid seeing Graziella walking in front, and his glance lingered like kisses on her smooth calves, hesitated, cheated, at the hem of her skirt, and moved on to discern the sway of buttocks and shoulders beneath her black dress. His entrails hurt…‘I have not even the energy to hate.’ He drew a long breath. The road was steep. ‘Nevertheless you are an intelligent man. It pleases me to speak with you.’
‘Me, too. I do not often have a chance to talk about these things. It is one of the things I miss.’
‘Yes. Do you know, one of my greatest pleasures used to be to talk, every evening, with the men in the street, and with my friends at the café? I had many friends. It is very lonely now, living among a crowd of empty women. One cannot talk with women. That is why I value your friendship so much. You do not mind if I consider myself your friend?’
‘No, it pleases me very much. I cannot see the priest in this procession. Where is he?’
‘He will be waiting for us at the cemetery. He has many burials to perform.’
‘Do you enjoy football? We are going to Acireale on Saturday to play against another battalion. I am in the team. We are going in lorries, and you will be welcome if you wish to come.’
Among all the black shapes swaying in front of him he tried not to see Graziella’s. ‘I shall be proud to come.’
§§§§
All the whispers mingled and the mother heard them, a devout undertone that surrounded her and comforted her.
She was emptied of her grief, weak and dizzy, as if after vomiting. Her mind was numbed and freed of the weight of affliction. She consoled herself that her child was at peace. ‘May the angels lead thee into Paradise,’ the priest was chanting.
On each side of the narrow flight of steps that led up into the cemetery vaults lay open, their thick stone walls torn apart by bombardment. In some of them lay heaped unconfined bodies, the cadavers of the poor cast here like refuse, shrunken by hunger, mangled by wounds, or bloated with decay, made loathsome by the heat and the flies. The stench was horrible. Behind, a soldier lurched out of the procession and stumbled down the steps to the gate, retching loudly, his eyes streaming, a handkerchief clasped against his nose. The pallbearers did not notice the smell as they grunted up the steps, their faces red and dazzling with sweat. The children did not notice it, watching the priest with big eyes. The priest did not notice, chanting mindlessly the too-familiar prayers. The mother did not notice, walking up the steps with the light tread of the dazed.
Soon the black pit would yawn before her. She would gather all her strength for a last performance. She would rave, shriek, tear her clothes, struggle to cast herself down into the grave. She would move all the women to a wailing chorus and the men to a mumble of pitying admiration. But now she was uplifted by her visions. She could see the hundreds of candles in the dim churches, tall and slim in their white purity. The soft radiance of their flames shimmered in her eyes like tears. She could see the priests, all those priests in all those churches, bowing before their altars and plying the saints with prayers on her behalf. She could hear the intonations of their requiems. It was all for her child. It was glory. The angels were bearing him up to Paradise like a little prince. They were lifting him up; their robes shone white against the sunlit vastness of the heavens; their wings beat with slow, soft power as they went upwards, infinitely upwards.
It was she who was being raised up, she from whose womb had come this glory, she of whom all would speak. She walked lightly; her head was proud; there was a blind radiance in her eyes. Not at her marriage had she walked like this. No bride could ever walk like this. She was ascending the steps of heaven.
Chapter Fourteen
CORPORAL Honeycombe fastened his belt, gave the gleaming brass buckle a last wipe with his cuff, and said, ‘Well, I’m ready when you are.’
‘I just want to finish these letters,’ said Craddock. ‘There’s no hurry.’
‘Getting a proper family man, aren’t you, inviting your friends for supper?’
‘You won’t get no supper. I told her to get some nuts and wine in, that’s all. We’ll have a bit of a chinwag and play the gramophone. It ought to make a nice evening.’
‘Ah, it makes a change, in this sort of life, doesn’t it? You’re a lucky bloke, Joe, getting your feet under the table like that.’
Craddock went on writing. ‘Oh, I don’t know.’
‘Be funny if they forgot about us, wouldn’t it, and left us here for the duration? I’ve heard of things like that.’
‘You’ve heard wrong, mate. They don’t forget. Do you really want them to?’
‘Well, it’s a cushy enough billet, isn’t it? It ought to suit you, anyhow, the way you’re fixed up.’
‘It suits me all right. I can’t help thinking sometimes, though, it’s not the life. Not for us.’
Honeycombe brooded. ‘You get fed up with everything, I reckon.’
‘Hand us over that box,’ said Craddock. ‘It’s some almonds for the missus, and a doll for the kid. Just these last couple of days I’ve been feeling it. I can’t keep my mind off it. Those poor kids. It’s as if the old war had suddenly popped up out of that rubbish heap, right in the middle of us, and said, “Hi! Remember me? Thought you’d forget me, eh? Well, here I am, and I’ve been here all the time, see!”’
‘You don’t half get some queer ideas.’
‘Me? You look at the blokes on parade in the morning. There’s not one of ’em wouldn’t swear blind, if you asked him, that he was willing to stay here till doomsday, yet you can see the difference already. These last few days, they’re taking an interest in their training again. They don’t know it, but something’s given ’em a shot in the arm. They’re restless. And I know why. It’s a laugh, though, old Perkington thinks he’s the one that’s done it. “They’re looking brighter,
sergeant,” he says, “definitely brighter.” Oh, well, if it makes him happy!’
Honeycombe asked, ‘Everything all right at home?’
‘Yes, the baby’s fine. She’s having a photo taken. I’ll be getting one soon. Kid’s trying to walk already. She’s very playful, too, she likes banging saucers on the floor. She’s broke four of the willow-pattern set my in-laws bought us when we were married. Writes a nice letter, my missus. I didn’t hear from her for weeks, then a whole heap of ’em came, all at once.’
He laid his hand fondly on the pile of letters. He knew what an effort it was for his wife to write a long letter. These letters were cheerful, full of news, affectionate. She must be missing him more than he had thought possible. She was trying, in her own way, to tell him for the first time what he meant to her, and to fortify him against ordeals which she could only dimly comprehend. At the sight of the envelopes he had felt a stab of resentment; it was a fresh blow from the outside world at the sealed, timeless life he was leading. But the letters touched his heart and aroused a sense of guilt. He tried to remember home. After all, he told himself, it ought not to be so hard. It was only – how long was it – Good Lord, it was only four months since they had sailed.
It had been easy to remember home on the warm decks on the troopship. Home in those days had been something of which to talk and sing sentimentally. It had been easy to remember home in the first days ashore, on the white, wandering roads, passing through the deserted ruins of towns, lying among the olive trees in the green hills. Every letter had brought a beautiful pang. Where had it all died? On the plains, yes, on the parched, wide plains where so many men had died. The heat had killed it; the stink had killed it; the noise had killed it; the endlessness of the whole thing, the twitching, fear-burdened, obsessed endlessness, the days when men were afraid to move from their oven holes and the nights when the sky had been lit with great jagged flashes and flares had winked like traffic lights in the darkness. Home – he tried, clenching his fists, to remember. Yes, there was something there, at the back of his consciousness, as disturbing and elusive as a recurrent dream. He fought to recall it, so that he might answer her kindness with kindness and send her, with the gifts, a letter as sincere as her own. He said, ‘She sent me a poem. She cut it out of a newspaper.’
‘Show us.’
Craddock read it, not mocking it, but gently:
The room is quiet, your empty chair
Reminds me of my heart’s desire.
I sit for lonely hours and stare
Into the dream world of the fire.
But then I put my thoughts away
And set to work with might and main,
To help bring near that radiant day
When you, my love, come home again.
They were both silent for a little while.
‘You got a good wife there,’ said Honeycombe.
‘I know.’
‘Here,’ said Honeycombe, breaking the silence again, ‘give me that parcel. I’ll wrap it up while you finish your letter.’
§§§§
Graziella had drawn the table back to the rear wall of her room and the tiled floor, cleared for dancing, was freshly scrubbed. She had covered the bed with a gaily patterned counterpane, and a curtain had been hung across the window recess to make a little scullery. Paloma beamed at the men as they came in. ‘I am invited, too,’ she said. ‘Now the corporal will have someone to dance with.’
‘Where is the baby? Craddock asked.
‘I took him to my aunt’s,’ Graziella said. ‘I do not want him to be kept awake all the evening. Nella will look after him there.’ She ran to pull a chair out for Craddock, and when he put a cigarette between his lips she hastened to light a match for him.
‘We have guests,’ Craddock said. ‘Look after them. I am not a baby.’
‘Let them look after themselves. A woman’s first duty is to her husband.’
She would never let him do a thing for himself. She washed his clothes, helped him on with his jacket when he was dressing, cleaned his boots for him; she had even wanted to scrub his webbing equipment and polish the brass, so that he might be the smartest-looking soldier in the street, but his pride had revolted at this. She had been brought up to believe that it was the duty of a wife to wait on her man in this way, and she would not listen to his protests. In the last day or two she had redoubled her attentions. Craddock suspected that she sensed a change in him and was trying the harder to bind him to her. He was grateful, but uncomfortable. The more she tried to please him, the more aware he became of an intangible barrier between them. That was one of the reasons why he had arranged this party.
‘I thought your eyes would still be red,’ he said, ‘you wept so much last night.’
‘Why?’ asked Paloma. ‘Did you beat her?’
‘No, we went to the cinema. It was a sad film, Wuthering Heights…’
‘An English film,’ interrupted Graziella, ‘but they spoke in Italian. And he has never beaten me.’
‘My husband never used to beat me,’ said Paloma. ‘Few wives can say that. But then, there are few wives like me.’ She laid Honeycombe’s hand on her biceps, flexed her arm, and winked. ‘If you beat her,’ she said to Craddock, ‘she will love you more.’
‘I will try to remember that. I have never heard women weeping like last night at the cinema. It was worse than Rico’s funeral. Sometimes I could not hear the words of the actors, all the women in the hall were wailing so loudly.’
‘There were few who wept like me,’ said Graziella proudly. ‘Ah, that poor girl. How she suffered! It made me so sad. I have been sad for her all day.’
Honeycombe was sitting uncomfortably forward on his chair, showing by his look of strained attention that he could not understand a word.
‘Wine?’ Graziella asked him. She imitated the raising of a glass to her lips.
His expression brightened. ‘Vino,’ he said, ‘I know that word. Vino…’ he struggled to summon up more words. ‘Molto buono, eh?’
‘Ha!’ Paloma thumped him on the back. ‘You are learning. You know amore?’
‘Sure. Amore buono, too.’
‘Give him his wine! He knows all that he needs to know!’
They drank, and danced to the music of the gramophone. Paloma had brought a song sheet and they crowded round it to sing together. Graziella went behind the curtain and returned with a dish of torrone. ‘Do not eat too much,’ she warned them, as they took the lumps of sticky almond toffee.
Craddock said, ‘Why not?’
‘Wait and see. We have a surprise.’
‘Now,’ she said a little later. ‘You two men go to the door and look at the street for a little. Do not look round till I tell you.’
Craddock and Honeycombe stood in the doorway. From behind them came the scuffling of the women’s feet, whispering and giggling and the clatter of plates.
‘Now!’ Graziella commanded, and they turned round. The table was covered with dishes, and the two women were still hurrying backward and forward with more plates of food.
Craddock stared at the display. ‘Where did all this come from?’
‘All food comes from God.’
‘Unfortunately we still have to pay the middleman. Where did it come from? I only gave you enough money…’
‘To talk of money now is not polite. We have guests. Remember? Look after them.’
Paloma and Honeycombe were already at the table and Craddock took his place, frowning. They began with crispelli, oily fritters stuffed with cream cheese or lumps of half-cooked fish. The men did not like them but forced themselves to finish one each. The women ate enormously, tearing at the fritters with their fingers and stuffing great lumps into their mouths. Then Graziella set before them plates heaped with spaghetti. ‘Here,’ protested Honeycombe. ‘Tell her that’s too much for me!’
‘Are you men or babies?’ jeered Paloma.
‘Perhaps they have worms,’ suggested Graziella.
The women attacked their food with the boundless appetites of those who know hunger. Graziella was bending low over her plate, grinning up at Craddock like a greedy child. Her chin was smeared with tomato sauce. He could not get used to some of her habits; the way she ate, the physical franknesses in which she indulged in his presence, her bawling at his side at the cinema, her lack of concern when the baby was dirty. When he tried to discuss these things with her she would look at him with big eyes of incomprehension, or would make a scornful reply, or dismiss his suggestion with a shrill, hostile laugh. He felt able to look at her critically now.
After the pasta came big plates of soup with eggs beaten up in it. Craddock finished his soup and said, ‘Well, that’s the biggest meal I’ve had for a long time.’
Honeycombe groaned. ‘Don’t talk too soon. Look what’s coming up now. Oh, my guts. Where do those women put it all?’
The men eyed in misery the hard-boiled eggs rolled in strips of meat which Graziella placed before them, and the mounds of fried potatoes with which she heaped their plates. ‘There,’ she said contentedly. ‘Eat and be happy.’
They ate what they could, and leaned back in their chairs, gasping and heavy with food. The women laughed and chattered, and rounded off their meal with plates of fried sprats, which they ate with their fingers.
‘I reckon,’ said Honeycombe as he lit a cigarette, ‘I reckon we ought to get mentioned in dispatches after that, Joe. It was a smashing dinner, but I’d sooner take on a tank with a tommy-gun than face another lot like that.’
‘Oh I don’t know,’ said Craddock. ‘It makes a smoke taste good afterwards, anyway.’
The men could not move, but the women were busy clearing away the dishes. ‘I am sorry there was no bread,’ Graziella said. ‘I tried to get some but it cost too much.’
Craddock took her hand and squeezed it. ‘Thank Heaven for that, love. Another mouthful and I would have burst all over your nice clean floor.’
Paloma shrilled from the scullery. ‘That bread, it is a disgrace. There are supposed to be rations for all, but it all goes into the black market. If the women in this street were not such cowards I would take them all with me and teach some of these shopkeepers a lesson.’
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