Constant Tides

by Peter Crawley

  Aldo shakes his head. “This is in some part good news, because it means that in these last few days there is unlikely to be any fighting in this area and, perhaps even better, it means the British and Americans will refocus their bombsights on the Calabrian side. Besides, soon there will be nothing left for them to bomb here and because of the many anti–aircraft guns, it would be suicide to try: the raids of last week cost them too many crews.”

  “Then where is the bad news, the grave news, as you put it?”

  “I am getting to it, Signor Sorbello. Please, patience. The grave news is that Generale Guzzoni has passed control over what is left of the island to the German, General Hube. This changes everything because up until now, I have been only partially under German command, by which I mean that if I didn’t agree with their orders, I could appeal to my senior officers; not that it would have done me any good. As of today, though, I have no recourse and I am theirs to control absolutely. They can order me to fight to the last man if they believe it helps to delay the enemy advance sufficiently for them to complete their evacuation, and why wouldn’t they? Do we matter to them?” He hurries to answer his own question before Pipo can stick his oar in. “No. They would throw us beneath the tracks of the American tanks for all they care.”

  He glances at Pipo, daring him to speak. When he doesn’t, he smiles briefly and carries on. “The worst part of it is that the prison is now under German command and I have heard that before they leave, rather than bother with transferring prisoners to the mainland, the Germans intend to execute all those guilty of capital offences.”

  Chapter 27

  “Mama, please drink this.”

  “I’m not hungry, Mira. What is it?”

  “It is a broth I have made from the last of the tenerumi, the dried tomatoes, onions and squash. I’m sure it won’t taste as good as yours, I always add too much or not enough pepper. Tell me, what do you think?”

  The photograph of Mussolini that once took pride of place above the stove now lies smashed among the greater wreckage beyond the front door.

  Francesca sits up slowly in her bed.

  Mira smiles at her mother; asking Francesca for her opinion has done the trick; for Mira knows that in the kitchen her mother holds sway and whatever Mira cooks for her, she is always, always going to find some fault.

  The broth steams from the bowl: she dips the spoon and holds it up to Francesca’s lips.

  “Now, mama.” Trying to exaggerate the supposed intimacy of their conversation, Mira speaks only a little louder than a soft whisper. “I know you are upset about papà, and that you are upset is perfectly normal and justified. But we have a guest and it doesn’t do for you to ignore him, however much you feel he may be partly responsible for what has happened. Think of what papà would say if he was here.”

  Francesca wipes her mouth on the cloth her daughter has laid on top of the bedcover. “It could do with a little more salt,” she says, craning her head forward in expectation of another spoonful.

  Mira grins to herself. “Of course, mama, but we are running low and therefore I have been sparing. Remember what Aldo said?”

  “No, what did he say? And the tenerumi should have been cooked for longer; the leaves are tender, I’ll grant you that, but the rest is a little chewy.”

  “Yes, mama. The squash is dry, too, I should have allowed it to stew.” Pleased that her mother’s appetite has returned, Mira is happy to put up with the criticism.

  “And more pepper, it needs more pepper. Otherwise, it’s not bad.”

  “Aldo told us that we cannot expect to get our hands on everything we would normally expect to be able to, so we will have to be careful. The tomatoes, the lemons, the figs, the zucchini and all those peppers you have preserved in all those mason jars, they will have to see us through until things return to how we would like them. And salt particularly will be in short supply.”

  “And if your father doesn’t come back and your brother does not return from Africa, who will look after us? We will starve.”

  “So that is what this is about, eh mama? It is not about whether or not our men will survive: you are more concerned that you will be left to fend for yourself. Well, have no fear of that; even if I have to sell my body to the Americans, I will never let you starve.”

  “You wouldn’t! Mira! Please tell me you wouldn’t. Why I would rather die than have you stoop to such degrading behaviour.”

  Mira lays the bowl on the bedside table and studies her mother. “We have known hard times before, mama, and I am sure we will know them again. And whatever happens to papà, I know we will make do. I cannot, though, face all of this with you lying here feeling sorry for yourself; your weight I will bear only when you no longer have two strong legs on which to stand. Do you understand me, mama?”

  A scolded, apologetic and mournful expression assumes Francesca’s face. “How long have I been here, Mira, I seem to have lost count of the days?”

  “You have been here since Tuesday. Since Pipo and Aldo came.”

  “Pipo was here?”

  “Yes, mama, I told you, yet you refused to come out of your room. How you will live down your poor manners is anybody’s guess. And today is Sunday, so if you don’t get out of bed, you will be absent from Mass and tongues will wag.”

  “No, you’re right; people will ask questions and that I could not live with after all that has happened to the widow Ganci. What has been going on outside, Mira? All I have heard is men shouting, wheels turning, machinery grinding, bombs falling and that deathly rat–tat–tatting of guns. Have the Germans not gone yet?”

  “No, mama, though I don’t think it will be long now. The barges and ferries plough back and forth across the Strait: the aeroplanes come, they bomb the barges, the guns shoot the aeroplanes, the aeroplanes fall: it has been terrible. All those poor men lost to the waters: all those poor women who will never see their sons and husbands again.”

  “Yes, and Enzo? What will happen to him?”

  “Nothing good if we do nothing, mama. I will bring hot water and you can do whatever it is you need to do with your hair; it looks like a handful of rat’s tails. Get washed and dressed, please, I need you to come to mass with me.”

  *

  Walking up over the rise and down to the lagoon, Mira hurries her mother with small talk. They have had no word of Enzo since he was arrested over a week before and because of the constant bombing and strafing in the Strait, and therefore the constant demands made on the anti–aircraft batteries, they have not seen Aldo since his visit five days before. As they walk, they can hear the not so distant rumbling and grumbling of cannon fire, and when they reach the lagoon, they stand for a moment watching the convoys of vehicles and battle–weary troops filing south.

  The Tenente arrives just as the congregation floods out onto the steps. He no longer resembles the elegant dilletante in uniform, for now his boots are muddied and scuffed, his jacket is frayed and soiled, and the dark rings around his eyes tell a story of days and nights without sleep. People besiege him, desperate for news.

  “Bronte and Maletto have fallen to the British and Americans,” he states loudly so he will not have to repeat himself to those hard of hearing. “And yesterday, the ancient city of Randazzo was brought to its knees. As I speak, what remains of our forces are retreating north along Highway 116 to the north–coast road, and others east along Highway 120 to the east–coast road. Most of the large explosions you can hear are caused by the German engineers blowing bridges to the south of Tremestieri in order to buy themselves more time to complete the evacuation. However, the last to leave will be elements of the Hermann Göring Division and as we know, many of their soldiers are not well–mannered and it is likely that they will try to take with them anything they can carry. If you should come across them, I humbly suggest you let them take whatever they want; let your generosity be your salvation.”<
br />
  He waits while his news sinks in. More than a few succumb to their emotions, while others turn and jeer at the retreating troops.

  “We expect…” Aldo searches out the faces of Pipo and Dottore Roselli, and once he sees them, he continues, aiming his words in their direction. “Please, if you can, try to refrain from making a bad situation worse. Do not vent your frustrations on these troops. Many of them will, like you, have lost friends and loved ones, and they are exhausted from days of fighting without water in this heat. Allow them to leave in peace. Please do not provoke them.” He pauses to make his point.

  “Now, the British and Americans will in all probability be here by tomorrow night or early Tuesday morning. So, for your own safety, please stay indoors. Do not leave your homes unless you cannot avoid doing so. That is all I have to say. May the Madonna look upon you these next few days! Thank you.”

  He grabs Mira by her arm and leads her away as they dodge through the convoy over to the piazza.

  “You speak well,” she says, attempting to flavour her compliment with a dash of humour. “Perhaps you missed your vocation, you should have been a politician.”

  “Mira, be serious. I have little time and I need you to listen. You want to save your father, yes?”

  “Yes, of course, Aldo.”

  “And what would you risk to save him?”

  She stares at him, her look hard and uncompromising, if a little questioning. “Why, everything. Everything. My life, if I have to.”

  “And what about the life of your Englishman? Will he risk his life for your father?”

  Mira considers, but only for as long as it takes her to draw breath. “Yes, I am certain he will. You know what my father has done for him and you know the history that exists between them. But, Aldo, my father is in the prison, what can we do?”

  “What you can do, Mira, is speak to Dottore Roselli. Ask him if he has some articles of clothing a nurse may have left with him: a Red Cross arm band, a white muslin cap, a cape with scarlet facings, an apron, anything that would make you look like a nurse.”

  She searches the thinning crowd. “Ah, yes. My mother is talking to him and if he does not have it, I am sure she can make it up. With a needle and thread, she is everything I am not.”

  “Good. Now, tomorrow morning, just after dawn, I will come by to collect you and your Englishman. I will bring him a uniform. Be ready.”

  Chapter 28

  De la Grascia had knocked softly against the door not long after first light. “I am late,” he had whispered. “I had to take fuel from other vehicles.” And now, down at the beach, Germans troops are being issued with bright red lifejackets and crammed into barges before being despatched into the gently swirling brume.

  “This uniform is a little on the large side,” she says to Aldo as she helps Nicholas on with the shirt.

  “I shouldn’t worry,” he replies, “show me a man who has not lost weight these past weeks and I will show you a man who has no uniform. Mira, you were right when you said your mother was a genius with a needle and thread; you could not possibly look more like a Red Cross nurse. Wherever did she get the material?”

  “From Dottore Roselli and Pipo. The grey cape was a blanket, the white from a sheet and the red cross from curtain material. If the weather turns cold, the good doctor and the old fisherman will have to wear clothes in bed tonight; eye patches too, if last night’s full moon is anything to go by.”

  “And the brooch at your neck looks most official.”

  “Dottore said it belonged to his aunt; apparently, it is an award she received from Queen Elena for her services to the orphans the Sisters of the Poor cared for in the years after the earthquake. It’s pretty, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Mira, it suits you.” Aldo turns to Francesca. “You are a clever woman, Signora Ruggeri: these hands of yours,” he grasps and kisses them, “have worked unimaginable magic.”

  “But why do Mira and Nicholas have to go with you?” she asks, her expression filled with anxiety.

  “Because, Signora Ruggeri, if I try to go alone, there is every chance I would be taken for a deserter and shot. With Mira as nurse and Nicholas as patient, I believe I may be able to convince whoever stands in our way that we are hurrying to the hospital.”

  When he releases her hands, Francesca grabs at his and she pulls him towards her and embraces him. “Tenente, Aldo, please bring my Enzo back to me. Please keep Mira safe. And Nicholas. And please, come back to us; you have been so kind and you are so very dear to us.”

  “With your blessing, Francesca,” he replies, lingering to stare into her teary eyes. “Now, Mira, Nicholas, are we ready?”

  “As long as you don’t want me to walk too far in these boots,” Nicholas says, getting up and taking a few tentative steps.

  The Tenente’s Fiat rattles and jolts as they wind through the narrow alleys down to the lagoon, their passage interrupted only by the sea of German soldiers trudging the last two hundred metres to the beach. The men, their faces haggard and dirty, their uniforms unbuttoned, their rifles slung over their shoulders, stare listlessly at the car as it noses its way against the tide.

  “They will be gone by the end of the day,” Aldo says.

  Beside him, in the front, Nicholas sits quietly, straining to listen, turning his head this way and that. “How has the evacuation gone for them?”

  “I believe the Germans have sent nearly 40,000 troops across, though for every man they have rescued, one in ten of them has been wounded and will not see battle again. We have sent nearly twice that number, and nearly one hundred guns.”

  “And your battery?”

  “They have taken our lighter guns, but the heavier cannons they have abandoned. My Coastal Division is spread over too great an area and many of the men are Sicilian and have gone home.

  “Can they really have saved so many? Through all that bombing?”

  “Yes,” Aldo replies, sucking his teeth as he thinks. “Your air force could only bomb at night; they were inaccurate and they bombed many of the wrong beaches. Your small boats? They dared not come this far up the Strait.”

  “You men!” Mira scoffs, from the back seat. “Troops, boats, aeroplanes: they are nothing more than counters on a board. You make war sound like it is a game played by little boys.”

  “Yes, my angel,” Aldo agrees, solemnly, “it is a game; a childish game played by pompous degenerates with fatal ambition.”

  Once out of the village and through Sant Agata, their passage south is made easier by fewer troops and vehicles. The small village of Paradiso is pockmarked with craters and they have to swerve left and right, and then wait while a broken–down truck is shunted aside by an enormous tank, which slews and jerks and rumbles off towards the beach in a dense fog of exhaust smoke.

  The city begins at the Borgo del Ringo.

  “Nicholas,” Mira says, her tone void of emotion, “this used to be the fisherman’s quarter. My father told me that just after the earthquake, a great wave came and because the houses were to the north of the harbour wall, there was nothing to stand in its way. The wave was as tall as the Duomo and it filled every house, drowning all those outside and inside. The same wave swept all the villagers from Ganzirri. They found fish in upstairs rooms; can you believe that?”

  “The Borgo del Ringo. Yes,” he says, once more feeling for the bandages at his eyes, “I heard my mother talk of it.”

  Mira leans forward and gently eases his hands down. “Perhaps it is best that you cannot see it. Now, there is nothing more than piles of bricks and mortar, and sad people who wander around hoping to find something of value in the ruins of their houses. The Borgo del Ringo probably looked exactly like this the last time your mother laid her eyes on it.”

  The car slows.

  “There is a checkpoint ahead,” Aldo says. “Nicholas, try your best to look as unwell
as you can and speak only if it is unavoidable. Groaning would be better than talking.”

  A boom stretches across the road and four carabinieri stand waiting.

  Aldo suddenly speeds up towards them and then brakes heavily at the last moment. He leans out of the window and shouts, “Get out of our way, I have an injured man here I need to get to hospital.”

  One of the carabinieri strolls up to the car, his rifle at hand, his bayonet fixed, his self–conceit evident. When he notices he is about to address an officer, he stiffens upright and salutes. “I beg your forgiveness, Tenente, but I will need to see your papers.”

  “Papers? What papers? Don’t be ridiculous, man. If we do not get this fellow medical attention right away, he may lose his sight, or worse die.”

  “That may be so, sir, but my orders are not to allow anyone into the city unless they have the correct embarkation papers. There are many deserters who are trying to flee the island and we have received reports the Americans are already in the vicinity.”

  “And the Americans, are they trying to flee the island? When they pitch up here, will you be asking them for their papers too?”

  “I’m sorry, Tenente, I have been given my orders.”

  “Oh, you are one of those, eh?” Aldo sneers. “One of those cornutos, one whose wife presses another man’s trousers while he is out at work. Well, wear your own trousers for once and get out of our way: I have a wounded man, not papers.”

  Startled by the broadside, the carabiniere reels momentarily, and when his men snigger behind his back, he notices and draws himself up to his full height, a modest height that means he does not have to bend down to converse with Aldo, seated as he is in the Fiat. The carabiniere glances across at Nicholas.

  Aldo nudges him with his knee.

  Nicholas groans and holds his head. “Holy mother of God. Help me. Will someone please stop this pain.”

  The man frowns. “I am sorry, Tenente, I cannot let you pass without papers. If I do and later I am asked why, I am likely to lose my stripes.”