“Yes, Pipo, that is more good news.”
However, the elation of realising that Enzo may not have lost the complete use of his legs is short–lived and there develops an atmosphere similar to that of a sudden lowering of air pressure before a storm.
The old fisherman turns away, as if to hide embarrassment.
“Pipo,” Enzo says, his voice dark and intimidating, “there is more bad news, isn’t there?”
The silence between them extends, only to be interrupted now and again by the squeals of an infant and the groans of the aged.
“Pipo,” he repeats more insistently, “I have lost my family and my home, yet I have been spared. If you have more bad news, and I cannot imagine how there could possibly exist any worse news, please tell me now.” He waits, anticipating, his expression dour and anxious. “Now, Pipo, tell me now or the fear of not knowing will surely kill me.”
Still facing away, Pipo Sorbello, sways from one foot to the other and dips his head from side to side as if debating with himself.
Finally, he decides. “There is a woman with Lilla, an English woman. Her name is Mrs Robertson–”
Robertson. Robertson. “Wait,” Enzo interrupts, frowning in concentration, “I know this name. I heard the doctor speak to a woman by this name when all I could do was hear. When I could not so much as turn my head to look at them, I heard the doctor discuss my state with her.” His frown deepens, like the sea floor to the north of the Strait. “This Mrs Robertson, she knows Lilla? How does she know her, I’ve never heard Lilla speak of her?”
Pipo glances and quickly returns his gaze to the floor. “She is from Taormina. She has been working in the aid station in the Piazza Cairoli. It was where Lilla was taken after she was injured while she was out looking for you.”
“She came to look for me?”
“Yes, with this Mrs Robertson and some British Marines. They went to your house in the Via dei Templari; the house collapsed and Lilla was injured.”
“But I was at the house. I was trapped in the cellar.”
“You must have freed yourself and left. When I asked the doctor about you, he told me you were found crawling through a street in the north of the city. He told me your legs would not work and that you were dying of cold.” Pipo glances again, this time a look of guilt suggesting the doctor had broken his oath in revealing so much about his patient.
Enzo studies his bandaged hands. “I don’t remember crawling? All I remember is trying to free myself from the cellar. I remember I was trapped for hours, perhaps days, and then the ground shook and the beam pinning my legs moved and I was able to climb up. I don’t remember crawling, though. All I remember is a desperate need to find Lilla. That is what kept me going; the thought of finding Lilla.” He quiets for a moment, contemplating his luck, in equal measure both good and bad. “So, I found a way out, that was why I was not there when she came.” He quiets again, his expression suggesting he is coming to terms with the extraordinary twists and turns of fate. “What a terrible irony, eh? Trapped all that time and free just when it would have been better not to be.”
“Yes, terrible. Terrible because Lilla believes the ruins of your house are your grave, Enzo. She believes you are dead and, what with her family the same,” he crosses himself and hangs his head in respect for a second, “Lilla also believes that there is nothing left to keep her here. And that, Enzo, is why she is leaving Messina today, with this Mrs Robertson, to go to live in England.”
Chapter 29
Their transfer out to the liner seems to take a long time and when they arrive, Lilla gazes up in awe at the steep sides of the ship, wondering how on earth they will manage to get her stretcher up on deck. They tie her into a canvas boatswain’s chair and haul her up in a series of slow and irregular ascents.
An armada of skiffs crammed with survivors mill around the SS Bremen and occasionally a lone voice calls out a plaintive appeal in the hope of being granted permission to board. The grand ship is, though, already packed with gaily–dressed passengers who line the rails pointing, gasping in horror and weeping in sorrow for the ravaged city.
As Lilla is hoisted skywards, the devastation along the front and high up at the back of the city becomes all the more apparent.
“Oh, Messina,” she whispers, “how will you ever recover?”
Waiting at the rail is Kapitän Nierich, a warm, ruddy–faced man in his late fifties, his bright eyes beaming over a generous handlebar moustache. “You must be Signorina Lunapiena, the young lady Mr Gordon has spoken so highly of.” His Italian is clipped and Germanic. “We have arranged a cabin for you,” he ushers an officer forward. “This is Assistant Purser Lehmann; he will escort you.”
Lehmann bows and clicks his fingers, at which two crewmen come forward, untie Lilla from her confines and deftly lift then lower her onto another stretcher.
“Kapitän Nierich?” Lilla asks, careful to address him correctly, as Prudence has suggested she should.
“Yes, Signorina.”
“What about all those other people? Can you not find room for them, too? After all, you have a very large boat.”
He paws at his moustache, considering. “Quite naturally, I would like to accommodate all of them. However, we have already taken on board six hundred, our steerage is now overflowing and some of your fellow travellers will have to sleep on deck this night. I am sorry, but we simply don’t have the capacity to take any more.” He turns to the rail. “Ah, Mrs Robertson, so good of you to join us. You are our last addition.”
Prudence, not having enjoyed her trip in the boatswain’s chair, pats down her skirt. “Thank you, Kapitän. Though I’m used to the more conventional access to a ship of this grandeur, I am grateful to you for accommodating us at such short notice.”
“I assure you, Mrs Robertson, the pleasure is all ours.” Kapitän Nierich bows.
The grand staircase, the reception rooms, the lounges, smoking and dining rooms are a wonder to behold, and as Lilla is carried to their quarters, she can only stare wide–eyed at the sheer opulence of her new surroundings.
“This cabin is larger than my house,” she says, a reference that instantly brings to her mind the family she once had and the home she is leaving behind.
“Now, now, Lilla. There’s nothing to be gained by you getting all upset about what you can’t have,” Prudence chides. “We must appreciate what we have while we have the pleasure of it. Mr Lehmann says a nice couple have given us their berth and their charity does not deserve to go unappreciated.”
“Yes, I know that,” she mutters, as one of the crewmen picks her up and lays her on the bed.
Prudence glares at her.
“Thank you,” Lilla says, fuming silently for a minute before continuing. “But I am allowed to miss my family, to miss my home and to miss Enzo, aren’t I? I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t feel sad and I…” She begins to cry and soon enough to sob.
“Yes, my girl,” Prudence soothes, sitting beside her on the bed, “of course you are. What you have endured these past few days would be enough to make anyone cry.” She reaches around her young companion, lifts her by her shoulders and cradles her head. “You’ve been a very brave girl; braver than anyone can know. You cry, Lilla. Cry for your city. Cry for your loved ones and the love you have lost. Cry now and for as long as you want. Leave your tears behind you so that tomorrow you can start anew.”
And they stay sitting together, the older lady with her younger charge, while Lilla’s tears wash away the tragedies of recent days.
Beneath them, the decks begin to shudder and tremble and they feel the SS Bremen sway and turn towards open water.
Like only four others, their palatial cabin is situated on the bridge deck, and when Lilla’s sobbing has subsided, Prudence leaves her to open the doors onto their very own private promenade.
“Come on now, enough tears for the m
oment. There’s a chaise longue outside. I’ll take some of these pillows and wrap you up; it’s still awfully cold outside.”
Once warm and comfortable, they sit in silence and watch the enormous ship thread its way between the myriad smaller boats coming and going across the Strait.
“There,” Prudence says, pointing, “the British warships are tending to the Calabrian coast now. Mr Gordon told me they’ve sent a party of doctors and marines to set up a hospital at Villa San Giovanni. And that great warship is HMS Exmouth, she’ll be delivering supplies and men to Catona and Scylla.” She pauses, briefly, and looks down at Lilla. “Mr Gordon said all the world has come to rescue Messina.”
The heights of Aspromonte are shrouded in an evening mist made darker by the smoke from many fires.
“The hills look exhausted,” Lilla murmurs. “They look grey and weary, like an old man who is tired of walking.”
“They do, my young girl,” Prudence replies, gazing out from the protection of their nest high up in the ship. “They look as though they’ve been beaten to within an inch of their life, as though they need fresh air and sunshine to breathe new life into them.”
“I know how they feel,” Lilla says, yawning. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt so tired.”
“Right then,” her nurse decides. “For you Signorina Lilla Lunapiena, a proper wash is next and some clean night clothes; you look grubbier than some street urchins I’ve had the displeasure to step over. And after that, a good night’s sleep in those newly pressed sheets. It’s time for you to be treated to some of the finer things life has to offer.”
Lilla tries her best to muster a smile, but her fatigue, forced upon her by not only by the physical challenges of the last few days, but also by the sadness, the sorrow and the misery, get the better of her.
“Prudence?” she mumbles, looking up.
“Yes, dear.”
“I don’t know how I’m ever going to thank you for looking after me.”
“Oh, don’t worry, there’ll be plenty of time for that later. If you can remember where you’ve come from, you’ll always be humble. If you don’t forget that, you’ll have thanked me enough.”
“Prudence?”
“Yes, Lilla.”
“We did as much as we could to save Enzo, didn’t we? We couldn’t have done anymore. I mean, could we? Do you think there was anything more we could have done?”
“No, Lilla,” she whispers, kissing her on top of her darkly–matted mop of curls. “You did, we did, everything we could possibly have done. No one could have done more to find Enzo than you.”
“Prudence?”
“Yes, dear?”
“Would you mind if I slept here for a few minutes, I…” And as the Calabrian coast dissolves into dusk, Lilla yawns, her eyes fall shut and her question is lost to the ever–changing tides of the Strait.
Chapter 30
“You cannot move,” the doctor states, his face a mask of concern. “You must not move. It is very likely that you have internal injuries and if you bleed, you will die.”
With considerable effort, Enzo hauls himself up and onto his side. “I understand. I understand that you have already saved me once, and for that I am as grateful as any you have saved during the last few days.”
“No,” the doctor replies, summoning a weary authority to his tone, “clearly you don’t. What I am saying is, I cannot permit it, I won’t permit it.”
Enzo, reaching out and grabbing him by the lapel of his once–white coat, draws his face close to the doctor’s so that the man cannot escape either the heat or the force of his glare. “Listen to me, doctor. Please understand, I said I am grateful and more than that I cannot say.” His knuckles white, his face wracked from the pain caused by his moving, a sheen of sweat breaks at his brow. “And if my legs would support me, I would ask them to walk me out of here even if I had but one cup of blood left in my body. So, you can either help me and reduce the risk of me injuring myself further, or I will crawl out of here in the same manner I crawled out of the cellar of my father’s house.” The pitch of his voice rises in frustration. “Now, help me or stand out of my way.”
When the doctor neither moves back nor forward, but merely stands staring directly back at him, daring him to move, Enzo hauls against the doctor’s lapel, and, overbalancing, he topples out of the cot and lands flat on his face.
A nurse rushes to help him, but the doctor waves her back.
Pipo kneels beside him. “For the sake of your mother’s memory, listen to the doctor. You have come so far. You have lived where others have not; is that not charity enough for any man?”
Enzo again hauls himself up on his elbows and, through the forest of legs planted by those gathering to watch, he begins to crawl awkwardly towards the entrance of the tent.
“What is the name of the boat, Pipo?” he asks, gasping for breath and then spitting dirt from his mouth.
“Please, Enzo, stop.” he replies. “This is too hurtful to watch.”
“What boat?” Enzo asks again, his gaze focussed on the trampled ground immediately before him. “What boat? he yells, all of the frustration, the hurt and the wrong he has suffered let loose in his tone.
“A German boat, the Bremen.”
“Are you certain, Pipo? How do you know for sure?”
“They told me at the aid station in the Piazza Cairoli. Lilla was not there; she had already left.”
“When does the boat leave?”
“Before dusk,” he answers, softly.
“How long do we have?”
And when no answer comes, a second shiver afflicts his limbs and his legs quiver and twitch.
“How long do we have,” he screams. “Answer me! How long?”
“Not long enough at the speed you are crawling.”
Before Enzo, a path opens through the forest of trees and he can see a dull light emanating from between the flaps of the tent. He stops, turns and looks up.
The doctor stands above him, looking down. “You men there,” he orders, shaking his head in resignation, “pick him up, gently. Mr Sorbello, you should find a handcart outside; please, bring it back when you’ve finished with it.” He pauses, evidently reconsidering some part of his offer. “In fact, bring him back, too, if he’s still alive.”
“Thank you, doctor,” Enzo says.
“Don’t thank me, young man.” His expression is harsh beyond unforgiving. “If you are hellbent on dying, better you do it outside where you will not distress those others in here who are equally hellbent on living.”
The cart is rudimentary at best; one with long handles, small wooden wheels and a modest platform. Understanding what needs to be done, men loitering by the entrance lend a hand and soon enough Enzo is wrapped in blankets and propped up on board; a swordfish on its way to market.
He looks up at the sky. How long before dusk, he cannot work out. The clouds obscure his view of the sun and light rain falls, causing him to blink repeatedly. All he is sure of is that if the sun is not already sinking behind the mountains, it won’t be long before it does as across the Strait the Calabrian coast darkens with every minute that passes.
Fortunately, the Via Boccetta is wider than most other streets and the harbourfront only a few minutes’ walk.
Along the route, soldiers and sailors of every regiment and ship and, judging by the different colours and styles of uniform, every nationality are clearing rubble and shoring up buildings. So many, that Pipo has to call to many of them to stand aside lest he run them down.
When they reach the front, the sight that greets Enzo’s eyes is beyond his comprehension. “I would not believe it, if I was not seeing it,” he says.
An alternative city of tents and awnings has grown up along the marina, and the bedraggled inhabitants stand and sit outside, each staring with the unfocused gaze of normal folk who h
ave had to face abnormal challenges. The well–dressed beside the poorly, the peasant beside the bookkeeper and the old beside the infant: they all share a common bewilderment. And beyond them out in the waters: “There must be more ships in the Strait than houses left standing in the city,” Enzo remarks.
“Yes,” Pipo shouts over his shoulder. “Our navy and everyone else’s. I hear the Americans are sending help, too.” The cart jolts over a discarded brick and his passenger is jerked up into the air. “Sorry,” he says.
“No matter, my friend. Hurry now. Don’t mind me, be as quick as you can. Do you know what this ship, the Bremen, looks like?”
“No. All I was told is that she is an ocean–going liner, so she’ll be big.” Pipo pauses in front of a boarding house, Le Phenix, intrigued that the building seems to have come through the terrors of the earthquake unscathed. He turns the cart to face the harbour so that Enzo has a better view.
In spite of the wretched pain in his hips, Enzo pulls himself upright and strains his eyes. “There are so many,” he mutters. “So many. How can we possibly know which one is the Bremen?”
Unseen behind them, a man steps out of the front door. He wears a heavy woollen overcoat with a velvet collar and a round hat with a curled brim. His way blocked by the cart; he steps carefully round the side.
“Excuse me?” Enzo asks.
“Sorry? I beg your pardon,” he replies, in perfect if stilted Italian. And taking in the curiously propped–up posture and the bandaged hands of the young man addressing him, he says, “Yes, of course. What can I do for you?”
“You are English?”
“Yes, my name is Gordon.”
“Do you know much about ships, Mr Gordon?” Enzo asks, tentatively.
The man hesitates then smiles. “We British are an island race, much like you Sicilians. So yes, I know a little.”
“Would you know the Bremen?”
“Mm, as a matter of fact I do. About five hundred and fifty feet long, hull dark, superstructure light and two white funnels.” The man looks out across the Strait. He points. “There. See that one, over there, to the left of the battleship; that’s her.”
Constant Tides Page 18