The Last Double Sunrise

by Peter Yeldham

  Vastly overcrowded, the accommodation in these camps often comprised barns or wooden sheds, while alternatives were made of breeze-block or asbestos. Insufficient structures were supplemented by tents of little resistance against the cold English winters. Because of the speed to establish them most lacked essentials, like enough latrines, showers or any amenities.

  It was where Carlo and others from the Tenth Army were taken. Luigi finally discovered this through Italian military headquarters. Knowing of Beatrice’s anxiety, he phoned her urgently from Naples, where he was deployed on a court case.

  “He’s definitely in Southern England, Beatrice. At a POW camp near a place called Marlborough Downs, not far from the town of Swindon. But the mail situation is hopeless. The Red Cross are trying to sort things out, so there may be a delay before you can send letters or get any from him.”

  Her relief was unrestrained. “At least he’s safe. The letters can wait. I can’t begin to thank you enough, Luigi.”

  “I’ll be back in Rome soon and will be in touch,” he promised.

  Freed from her concern for Carlo after such a long and stressful period, Beatrice’s personal life began at last to feel more relaxed than any time since the end of her marriage. She’d met with former friends, made new ones and spent time with her father and mother. And frequently, her thoughts turned to Luigi. From that first day, when he came to their home with his news, she’d felt an attraction. And now he had persevered to bring her this thankful reprieve that Carlo was safe in southern England.

  He’d done so much to help her, including the search for this apartment. In the process they’d been shocked to learn how many empty places had been owned by Jews trying to escape from Italy, fearing for their future because of the links with Nazi Germany. Gestapo and S.S. agents were being sent to Rome. She found it hard to believe until one day Maria-Elena, a teacher friend, met her for coffee.

  At a quiet corner table where they could not be overheard, Maria spoke of how Jews had been treated in Germany. Beatrice had seen shocking pictures and newsreels of the terrifying Night of Broken Glass, where windows of Jewish shops were smashed by crowds with sledge-hammers and all the Berlin synagogues were burnt. While well dressed women applauded the murder of Jews, youths roamed the streets killing their victims with lead pipes. It was barbaric, unbelievable. Now there was a cruel new law. It was a criminal offence for German children to even speak to Jewish children.

  Beatrice felt Italy’s Jewish population had always lived in peaceful accord with the rest of the country. She told Maria-Elena, “I hope it never happens here.”

  “But it will, Bea. It is happening. Berlin is ordering that the names of all Jewish families in Italy be listed. After the lists will come roundups and arrests. So would you meet with a group of people who hope to prevent this?” she was asked. “Before you agree, I must warn you it might be dangerous, but you come highly endorsed.”

  She went to the meeting a week later. It was held in a private room above the office of a defunct magazine and the first face she saw was Luigi’s. He was not in army uniform, just flannel trousers, an open necked shirt and pullover. He smiled and she moved to join him, thinking how young he looked. So it amused her when, after they left the meeting together he deftly turned the conversation to their respective ages over lunch. He studied her for a few moments after they ordered their meal, then asked, “Has anyone ever said you look too young to be Carlo’s mother?”

  “I was quite young at the time,” she replied with a smile.

  “Like how old? Ten?”

  She laughed. “Double it, Luigi. Then add Carlo’s age, and you get the answer you are obviously seeking?”

  “In your early forties then. That’s young.”

  “Am I older than you?” She watched him hesitate.

  “Not by much. I’m thirty-nine, or I soon will be. Fairly soon.”

  “At the school I teach, our maths class would call that a four year gap.”

  “Three. Definitely not four. I’ve been wanting to see you so much.”

  “Been busy?” she asked.

  “Quite busy. And a little nervous.”

  “Of me?”

  “Of not knowing the status quo. Whether you’d gone back to your husband, or replaced him. Or perhaps think me presumptuous? It’s that three year gap insecurity. But when Maria-Elena asked if I knew anyone courageous and reliable, I thought of you. I had a feeling you’d see it as a good cause. It was also a way to find out if you’d have lunch with me.”

  “It is a good cause and here I am at lunch with you. Would you like to come and see the new improvements in my apartment tomorrow? I’ll cook lunch there for the two of us.”

  Love had been absent for too long. She and Salvatore had slept in single beds for years before the irrevocable move to separate rooms. Their marriage had begun its slow death right then. When Beatrice woke the next morning and changed the sheets on her queen-sized bed, she did not shrink from imagining it could be occupied again that day. When she had bought it, she’d had to make a choice between sizes: a single bed would feel like an admission of defeat and a king size might be optimistic. So the queen-size was ideal for any eventuality. It left her open to whatever might happen. In fact something had happened during their playful chatter at lunch yesterday. All her emotions had surged into an overwhelming and rather alarming sudden desire.

  She wanted to slip her hand below the table, open his trousers and fondle him. She felt her face flush as if her thoughts were on display. The respectable diners at other tables would surely guess she wanted to take him home so they could strip naked and fuck all afternoon, then perhaps all night. It had been too long since this wave of heat ran through her body. It was such a passionate mix of lust and wild elation that her mind was hoping the words she spoke aloud made some sort of sense.

  “Tomorrow, then. Lunch?”

  “Lunch tomorrow,” he agreed.

  Afterwards she wondered why she hadn’t found a reason for them to go straight home that day. Waiting for tomorrow was going to feel like forever.

  It proved to be a slow and muddled morning. She cleaned the apartment, then showered. She changed clothes twice, cleaned her teeth again, then went to the kitchen wishing she’d not promised to cook lunch. Preparing something cold would have been so much easier. She looked at the clock on the kitchen wall, felt sure it was slow or else faulty. No, her watch confirmed the time was only ten-thirty. On an impulse she rang the friendly corner shop and ordered cold ham and ingredients for a salad to be delivered before twelve, plus olives for the Ravioli she’d planned, so she could give Luigi a choice of menu. She had never felt so foolishly nervous about preparing a meal for anyone.

  While waiting for the messenger from the corner shop, she thought over the meeting they’d attended yesterday. There was no doubt the Nazis would continue their crusade against Jews in Italy. They wanted refugees rounded up and held in the Campagna concentration camp. Rome would be ‘cleansed’ was the message from Himmler: all Jewish families resident in the city were to be listed and removed. The meeting she and Luigi attended had taken a pledge to protect them in defiance of the intention to eliminate an entire race.

  She paid the messenger who delivered her order, and tried to stop returning her gaze to the clock every few minutes. That was when the doorbell startled her. It was far too early for Luigi and she hadn’t put on any make-up. Perhaps the messenger from the shop again. She hurried to open the door.

  “I’m early,” he said with a wide smile.

  “Slightly,” she agreed, and put out her hand. In retrospect she wasn’t sure if she intended to shake Luigi’s hand, or wring his neck for the unexpected early arrival. It was the moment when he took the hand and raised it to his lips.

  “You are the most beautiful and gracious woman I know,” he said, “and I’ve been mad about you since the first moment I saw you.” By then his arms were wrapped tightly around her, their bodies locked together.

  A kiss
was clearly required. It went on for a long time, and when they broke from it, Beatrice could only think of one thing she wanted to say.

  “The bedroom is this way. Lunch can come later.” In five minutes they were naked and in bed. They had Ravioli for lunch at ten o’clock that night, before going back to bed again.

  ELEVEN

  The remote prisoner of war camp on the Marlborough Downs south of Swindon was one of the last to be hastily assimilated by the Department of Defence. It was a former borstal for juvenile miscreants, now needed for the group of Italians suffering malnutrition after their defeat in North Africa. In the rush to find a secure location for those who had been starved of food after capture, this rundown gaol was considered safe from intrusive journalists. The detainees, including Carlo, had recovered from their deprivation on transfer to Britain but were never informed that the food scandal was being secretly investigated. Nearly a thousand had been denied rations diverted to a black market in Alexandria, and while the army was determined the guilty would be dealt with, it was agreed the outrage must be hidden from public scrutiny. This was why a criminal group in Egypt was facing jail and the Italian POWs were held in a place considered unsuitable several years ago, but was now felt to be a useful if temporary containment. It was agreed to move them to somewhere more appropriate, when this mishap had been buried from memory.

  But after the case had been dealt with, the offenders punished and the army undamaged, the plan to remove the Italians had been delayed and then forgotten. There were now POW camps all over Britain, too many of them it was felt, and by the start of their second year at Marlborough Downs, the prisoners all knew there would be no transfer. This dilapidated penitentiary was to be their home until the war was over. Nothing was done to improve the facilities, the money was needed for the war effort and workers being paid to improve living arrangements for enemy prisoners would have brought headlines and angry questions in parliament. If it had not been for one of the guards, Carlo Minnelli would’ve hated every day of the two bleak years he spent there.

  Herbert Mason had been a former teacher at the local village school, and before that had taught English at a London College. Too old for military service and volunteering for guard duty, he was on an early morning shift when he saw Carlo sitting near the wire fence drawing on a scrap of paper. He paused to watch and wondered whether or not to speak. Not many of the POWs spoke English, and most were bad-tempered because of the poor conditions. Not that he blamed them. He decided it was best to walk away.

  “Good morning,” Carlo said, surprising him by slowly asking in English, “Do you know where I get della carta?” When Mason looked puzzled, Carlo tapped the paper and tried to explain. “Documento?”

  “Do you mean paper?” Herbert Mason asked, making a writing gesture with his hand.

  “Si. Si, pape-per. Too small.” He indicated the little piece of paper, on which he had sketched a duck. They were often seen in the grounds after rain.

  Herbert moved closer to admire the sketch. “One of our ducks,” he said.

  “Duck. Si,” Carlo smiled.

  “Good drawing.” As Carlo looked blank he said, “Good. Very good.”

  “Grazie. Ah…you like? Thank you.”

  “You speak some English?”

  “In P…poco, poco…” It was the guard’s turn to look blank, as Carlo held up his hands to illustrate the small amount of English he spoke.

  “A little bit?” Mason guessed.

  “Si! Leetle! My Mamma…” he indicated his mouth, and waggled his fingers to demonstrate.

  “She teach?”

  “Si,” said Carlo, smiling. It was the first of several meetings.

  The following day he found Carlo at the same spot, trying to sketch on the other side of the same scrap of paper. Carlo could hardly believe it when he saw the guard carrying a parcel of sketching paper.

  “A present,” he was told as they met.

  “Presente! Un regalo! Molte grazie!” Carlo handed his piece of paper to the guard, gesturing it was a present in return. “Prego. Please, for you.” There was now a duck on the reverse side as well, but alongside it was a figure that was identifiable as Herbert Mason himself.

  A week later they had come to an agreement. The guard would give him regular lessons in English in return for Carlo doing large signed portraits of Herbert and his family. He would bring photographs of his wife and children and more sketching paper whenever Carlo needed it. And by the way his name was Herbert, but friends called him ‘Herbie’ so that’s what he wanted Carlo to call him.

  If there was anything that helped pass the time over that long second year of incarceration, it was learning to speak fluent English with Herbie. The basic words Beatrice had taught him became coherent sentences. He was quick to learn as he had so much empty time to fill. He took pleasure in surprising Herbie at each lesson by how rapidly he progressed. It had another value. He and other prisoners had often debated how the war was progressing, and in their first year it was impossible to know the truth. So much news was propaganda. But in the second year Carlo was able to hear and understand what the guards were saying, and also interpret the news on the radio. The British had endured a period when invasion seemed certain, but were encouraged by the voice of Winston Churchill when he announced the Eighth Army victory at El Alemein: “This is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.” Carlo heard the words and wrote them down to remember them, thrilled by the eloquence that was so different to the clumsy tedious rhetoric of Mussolini’s speeches.

  As occasional letters began to arrive from Beatrice, he sometimes sent a few sentences of English in his replies to her. He thought of her often, and was glad to hear her frequent hints about Luigi. There were many nights also when he lay awake to nostalgically remember Silvana. In his wakeful memories, he tried to recall the lanes she’d led him through after they had left the locked Villa. But it proved impossible to remember the names of so many narrow back streets, let alone recollect the one she lived on.

  At first he’d found the British weather a shock after the Libyan heat, but he was now accustomed to it. And unlike many of his countrymen he did not mind the hard work. Some survivors from his platoon had come from office jobs and found it arduous, but Carlo was used to toiling in the vineyard. The local farmers had the prisoners working maximum hours on their land, keen to take advantage of this cheap labour. Five shillings a week was the proposed wage, but some farmers surreptitiously reduced that by half. He’d heard a few saying they should not have to pay anything, that these were enemies lucky to be allowed to work in the fresh air, not confined in cells like British air crews in Germany. He thought this last group sounded like his father and wondered if Salvatore had remained in Lombardy or put the vineyard and house up for sale. It would soon be approaching the third year since his early morning departure, but his boyhood in Santa Maria already felt like part of another lifetime. He wondered if the rest of this war, however long it took, would be spent in this isolated penitentiary in southern England? A place that would be sheer hell without his weekly lessons with Herbie.

  In June 1943, just after Carlo’s twenty-fourth birthday, a speech in Britain’s House of Commons declared there were too many prisoners-of-war having to be fed and accommodated in England. It echoed a growing body of opinion that U-Boats ruled the Atlantic, targeting merchant supply ships and creating a growing food crisis. “We are compelled to look after too many enemies,” declared members of the House of Lords and the civilian population faced with punitive food rationing agreed. Whitehall set out to discuss this matter with Australia, requesting they accept POWs from Italy and also Nazi Germany. The Australian parliament was less eager about the Nazis but after a series of cables deciding who would pay for the transfer, the matter was resolved.

  By coincidence in the months this took to organise, a riot broke out in the camp at Marlborough Downs started by a large fascist contingent, Blackshirts loya
l to Mussolini, who still believed his speeches claiming they could win the war. Guards were attacked, tents and huts burnt, and local infantry platoons had to be rushed in to quell the rampage before it got out of control. An enquiry was hastily convened but made little attempt to uncover the source. As a result the entire occupants, the Blackshirts and those who’d stayed well clear of the riot, were marked as trouble-making activists. Rather than find the ringleaders, all Italian POWs in the camp were listed for deportation when the first ship was available to transfer them.

  The rumours in the camp began slowly. At first it was just chit-chat and gossip that they were being moved to somewhere else in Britain. Then speculation suggested the move could be overseas. Somehow in the translation of this recurring gossip the destination was named as Austria, and the Italians all expressed their delight at being delivered to a neighbouring country. They’d be able to walk across a friendly border and go home again. Carlo heard this but found it difficult to believe, deciding silence was the best way to deal with absurdity. He was unable to discuss it with Herbie, who had been taken ill and was on temporary retirement. But Herbie aside, he was not unhappy to be leaving the camp in Marlborough Downs. Apart from the meagre facilities, they’d had two years of being poorly treated, made to work long spells—ten to twelve hour days on farms—sometimes forced to work on roads or building sites, often being abused or mocked by villagers and scorned by groups of schoolchildren. Many of the guards were no better, calling them ‘chocolate soldiers’ and claiming Italians were better at surrendering than they were at actual fighting.

  So wherever they were being sent, at least it was to another, and perhaps a better, place. Unfortunately it was a hot day in early September and there were no trucks to transport them. Nor were there any rations. After a route march across the Hampshire Downs, and no sign of a food van when they reached Basingstoke, they were forced to wait without food and water for the special train to move them to Southampton Dock. Even worse, sometime on that train journey came the news their destination was not Austria in Europe, but a place on the other side of the world with a similar sounding name and closely related spelling.