The Italian Chapel

by Philip Paris

  ‘Of course,’ said Carlo. ‘What else does a man do on a Sunday but clean his clothes and his soul.’

  There was a flurry of parcel deliveries during the two weeks before Christmas and men shared out presents and treats with others in their hut who had not received anything. Christmas fell on a Friday that year and on the Thursday the camp had a visit by Patrick Sutherland Graeme. Accompanying him was the Catholic priest from Kirkwall, as Major Buckland had arranged for him to travel over and take a service in the mess hall that evening before supper. Permission had been given for the supper to be later than normal and for the men to remain in the mess hall for longer than usual afterwards. The cooks had juggled rations during the week to make the meal more substantial, while the men made a special effort to look smart.

  Domenico had created a nativity scene, the figures and stable carved with great skill over many evenings before lights out, using scraps of wood. Before anyone arrived in the mess hall, he set it up at the front of the stage. It caught everyone’s eye as they entered, helping to set the atmosphere for the evening.

  The previous month Aldo and Dino had enlisted the help of half a dozen men in order to run the still continuously, which was now used to produce a spirit based on potato peelings. After supper that evening, as the small liberty boat was returning the priest and Patrick Sutherland Graeme to mainland Orkney, the group had gone around and left six bottles of pale amber liquid on the table in each hut. ‘Lights out’ was slightly later than normal but still before midnight. However, each hut had acquired a small stock of candles so the men gathered around their stoves, and in a semi-dark haze of cigarette smoke they wished each other ‘Merry Christmas’ with a brew that burned throats and made eyes water. Not every tear could be blamed on the spirit.

  Emotions were running high throughout the camp and only days after the men went back to work, a small riot erupted in hut three when the northerners’ teasing of the two from Calabria became too much for the long-suffering men. They exploded, and had floored three of their tormentors before guards came rushing in, whistles blowing and rifle butts at the ready. Doctor Rocco had some mending to do and all those involved were given time in the punishment block, although the two men were moved to another hut upon their release.

  It was a Tuesday in April 1943. Domenico crouched, hidden amongst the wood pile at the end of his hut, holding the end of a long piece of string. The idea for the prank had come to him several weeks earlier when he had spotted that the same gull often sat on the roof of the next Nissen hut while the afternoon roll call was being carried out. Since then he had been training the bird to take small crusts of bread off a line of string lying on the ground.

  Today, there were several pieces of bread, each fixed carefully at about one foot intervals. On this occasion, the string went into and out of the back of a wire cage, around a stake driven into the earth then out of sight by the corner of a hut, where Carlo sat, peering anxiously. Aldo and Dino were both keeping a watch for sergeants of either army, as they didn’t want to get caught halfway through their scheme.

  Timing was vital. They had arrived back at the camp only a short while earlier and everything had to be completed before roll call, which was less than an hour away. Domenico was in an uncomfortable position and started to get cramp in one leg. He held the string that would collapse the cage around the gull once it entered — assuming it did — and, being so near, he didn’t want to move too much in case it saw him. The men waited, checking their watches regularly, having agreed that if they reached a certain point without the gull taking the bait, they would abandon the idea until the next opportunity.

  Domenico was about to call a halt when the gull dropped from the sky and ate the first piece of bread. Carlo pulled gently at his end and the morsels of food moved slowly along the ground towards the cage. The bird was used to this and hopped along, grabbing the second piece. Carlo continued. By the time the gull had eaten the third crust the fourth one had been dragged inside the cage. Carlo stopped. The bird looked but remained still. The cage was something new. Domenico’s leg was throbbing. Under his breath, Carlo was cursing the bird for its cautiousness.

  Suddenly, it hopped into the cage, stooped to get the bread and Domenico yanked away the two sticks. The gull appeared quite undisturbed and continued to eat the other crumbs that had been left at the rear of the trap. Carlo whistled, which brought Aldo and Dino running, while Domenico retrieved his tools from beside the woodpile.

  Carlo had designed the cage so it could be unclipped in sections and undid a small flap at the top, which enabled Dino to put in his hand and grab the gull’s head firmly from behind. The rest of the cage was dismantled in a moment and three of them held the now alarmed bird. Domenico didn’t take long to fulfil his part and when he had finished they released their prey, whose angry screeches could be heard by the entire camp as it flew over the perimeter wire.

  ‘I hope we haven’t gone through all of this for nothing,’ said Aldo.

  ‘Yes,’ admitted Domenico with a sigh. ‘It would be a shame.’

  They heard the trumpet and, after putting everything quickly into the hole they had created within the log pile, they threw some wood on top and ran to join the lines of POWs on the parade ground. Domenico didn’t know if the bird would return that day, nor if it would ever come back after its indignant treatment. By the time the British officer had counted two thirds of the men, he was resigned to there being no further excitement. Then he saw it. The gull had landed on a different roof but was quite visible to the lines of men. It didn’t take long for it to be spotted and within moments a murmur went up and down the rows.

  ‘Stop that noise,’ bawled the officer. ‘Stop it!’

  But the murmur was rapidly turning into a loud babble as men pointed and called out to each other. The officer turned around, searching for the cause of the disruption. The noise scared the gull, which took off and flew above their heads, one wing green and the other red. Domenico had painted them so that the wings and the body made three equal stripes of green, white and red … just like the Italian flag.

  ‘It’s an Italian aeroplane,’ shouted a man then everyone was calling out. ‘Italian aeroplane. Italian aeroplane.’

  ‘Stop that racket! Get back in your lines!’

  The officer was becoming increasingly agitated. A few guards told the men to be quiet but most were watching the bird with as much fascination as the Italians. It circled graciously and, as the officer called out ‘Shoot that bloody bird,’ the gull sent down a white deposit that landed on the front of his uniform, before it flew over the nearest hut and out of sight. A roar of delight rang throughout the parade ground.

  As Domenico lay on the thin mattress in the detention block the next evening, he kept going over the events in his mind. In the bunk below, Aldo had been unusually philosophical about the situation and hadn’t complained once about their punishment of two days of bread and water. Dino and Carlo were in the next room. The four had immediately stepped forward when the officer, livid with rage, had demanded that the culprits own up. They had been marched away and rather roughly strip-searched before being bundled off to the little concrete block.

  Their short punishment was a small price to pay. Men’s spirits had been lightened. It was something they would have talked about in their huts the previous night, even when the lights had gone out, and they would continue to talk about it for weeks.

  8

  Giuseppe Palumbi had not heard from home for many months, but stood in the queue of men lined up outside the mess hall entrance to receive mail, as he did every time there was a delivery. The arrival of mail from Italy was generally delayed and often out of sequence, depending upon the irregularities of war and weather. Handing out post was an agonisingly slow process, yet the routine never varied and, since the mail was chosen randomly, they had to remain until the sack was empty before they knew if there was anything for them. It exacerbated their feelings of frustration. That morning the process w
as held up briefly when a guard came over and spoke to the sergeant, who suddenly called out.

  ‘Giuseppe Palumbi. Giuseppe Palumbi.’

  ‘Here,’ shouted Giuseppe, waving his arm in the air.

  ‘Go with this guard.’

  Giuseppe looked on in confusion but the soldier had noted his position near the back of the crowd and was already walking towards him.

  ‘You’re to come with me,’ said the guard.

  ‘Why?’ asked Giuseppe, who had never before been given such an order.

  ‘I don’t know, do I,’ said the soldier. ‘How should I know why I’m doing something? But you’ve to come with me. Major Booth said so.’

  Giuseppe followed the soldier, who led the way to one of the huts at the far side of the compound. Inside, Major Booth and the camp doctor stood around a bed on which an Italian lay, curled up on his side.

  ‘Ah, you’re Giuseppe Palumbi?’ asked Major Booth. ‘I gather you speak good English.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Excellent. You’re to accompany Private Kemp, and this poor fellow here, to the Balfour Hospital. We can’t spare the camp interpreter and this man speaks no English at all.’

  Giuseppe looked at Doctor Rocco for further guidance. The doctor held a surgery for an hour twice a week after afternoon roll call. He had been allocated the end of one of the huts to use as a small infirmary, but was provided with little in the way of medical supplies and had virtually no equipment. Unless a POW was feverish or had been injured he was expected to carry out his work and the normal treatment for most ailments was ‘aspirina’. The doctor spoke to Giuseppe in English so that the man on the bed wouldn’t understand.

  ‘I think he’s got a stomach ulcer, but there’s nothing I can do here. You’ll have to translate for him at the hospital and then explain to him what the doctor says. He’ll almost certainly have to stay there.’

  ‘You can remain at the hospital while you’re needed then return to the camp with the guard,’ added Major Booth.

  A short while later Giuseppe and Private Kemp helped the man into the back of an army truck, which took them to the Lamb Holm pier where they boarded a small liberty boat that had come over from the mainland. An army ambulance was waiting for them on the other side. Sometimes army efficiency works well, thought Giuseppe. He didn’t know the sick man but spoke to him softly throughout the journey, with what he hoped were reassuring comments. The only information he got out of him was that his name was Lorenzo.

  The hospital reception was bustling. However, there was a spare wheelchair just inside the entrance and so they lowered Lorenzo in it, while Private Kemp went over to the desk. Giuseppe stood awkwardly, acutely aware of the stares from other waiting people, or those passing by. He felt ashamed of the red target discs on his uniform although he sensed that the interest was more of curiosity than animosity. Ill soldiers were normally taken to the military hospital ship, the Dinard, which was moored permanently in Scapa Flow, or to the recently built military hospital. However, the latter had, as yet, no X-ray facilities, and so occasionally a sick soldier arrived at the civilian Balfour Hospital in Kirkwall. Italian POWs were even more of a rare sight.

  Giuseppe concentrated on a patch of floor just beyond his feet. When he had first arrived at Camp 60 he thought it might be wise to keep his knowledge of English to himself, and not to stand out from the crowd in any way. But it had been impossible to remain quiet during those first few weeks when misunderstandings between the guards and the POWs had led to increasing frustration and anger on both sides. He had defused many potentially dangerous situations and his ability to speak English had become quickly known throughout the camp. It was a double-edged sword.

  Giuseppe was aware that someone was standing in front of him and was speaking. He looked up. It was a nurse. She looked about sixteen and was extremely pretty.

  ‘Can you follow me, please?’ she said flashing a smile that made him momentarily forget about the target discs, the stares of the others, and the fact he was a POW far away from home.

  Giuseppe pushed the wheelchair after the nurse who led them down a corridor and into an examination room. They got Lorenzo on to the bed only moments before the door opened. Giuseppe took in several things at once. The man in the white coat was big, in his fifties, and he walked towards the bed with a terrible limp.

  ‘Hello, I’m Doctor McClure,’ he said jovially to the Italian on the bed. Lorenzo remained silent and looked up with an expression of pain, bewilderment and fear.

  ‘Sir, I am here to speak for the patient because he does not speak English,’ said Giuseppe.

  ‘No English eh?’ said the doctor, sitting on the bed, gently laying a muscular hand on the man’s chest. It was a tender gesture, almost strange from such a large man, but it was meant to reassure and Giuseppe took a liking to him. ‘Well then, can you please ask the patient what his symptoms are?’

  They spent the next ten minutes together. The little nurse writing down relevant details as Giuseppe translated back and forth between the doctor and Lorenzo.

  ‘Right then,’ said Doctor McClure eventually. ‘Please explain that we’re going to take some blood and then send him for an X-ray. Then I suggest you go to the waiting room. Into the corridor, turn left and it’s the fourth door along. Someone will come to collect you when you’re needed again.’

  Giuseppe left the three of them in the room and started to walk along the corridor. It was an odd feeling. He hadn’t seen Private Kemp since leaving the reception area and he felt a mixture of elation and loneliness: concern that someone might think he had escaped; excitement at a moment that was almost freedom. Most of the people walking past seemed too preoccupied with their own tasks or problems and although a few glanced at him no one said anything. He was relieved to find the waiting room empty.

  Giuseppe was flicking through a copy of Woman’s Own when the door opened and a large vase of flowers walked in. At least, that was all he could see of the person carrying them until the vase was laid on the table in front of him, then he found himself staring at what was perhaps not a beautiful face, in the wartime, pin-up definition of one, but a handsome face, strong and honest. One you could easily trust. One you could so easily love.

  ‘Oh! Hello. I didn’t know there was anyone in here.’

  She smiled at him and Giuseppe felt something so utterly alien upon his own face that it took him a few moments to realise he had returned her smile. The strangeness of it, and the effect it had on him, took him completely by surprise.

  ‘Hello. I’m Giuseppe,’ he said, rising from the chair.

  ‘I’ve never met anyone called Giuseppe before.’

  ‘You have now.’

  ‘I’m not supposed to speak to you. You’re the enemy.’

  Before Giuseppe could register the enormity of the words, she continued.

  ‘Of course, there are some rules I don’t pay any attention to. I’m Fiona.’

  ‘I’ve never met a Fiona before. Your flowers are beautiful, just like you.’

  Fiona laughed. It was instant, infectious. Giuseppe felt giddy. He could not remember when he had last spoken to a woman and she radiated such joy and health Giuseppe thought she must be one of the greatest tonics possible for the patients. He found her long auburn hair fascinating. He was close enough to smell the cleanness of her.

  ‘Are all Italians like you?’

  ‘No, I’ve heard some are quite forward.’

  ‘Your English is good.’

  ‘When I was nine, my father went to America to try to earn more money. He sent for me when I was seventeen and we lived in Philadelphia where I learnt to speak English and … ferro battuto … how to make wrought iron. But I only stayed there four years. I longed to go home.’

  Giuseppe realised he was almost rambling in his attempt to keep the woman in front of him, revealing things about himself he had never hinted at in eighteen months at the camp. His mind raced to maintain the conversation.

  �
�But you must tell me something about yourself, or I will know nothing except your name and your face.’

  ‘Well, let me see … I live on a farm with my parents and younger sister. I’ve got two older brothers, both in the air force. We hear from them often enough to know they are safe. And when I’m not helping out on the farm I work in the hospital reception.’

  ‘I didn’t see you.’

  ‘I saw you, with your friend in the wheelchair. You were trying so hard to be inconspicuous … not to be seen,’ she added when Giuseppe looked as if he had trouble understanding the word.

  ‘I’ve only come to translate because he doesn’t speak English.’

  ‘Do you think he will stay in hospital?’

  ‘For a while I believe.’

  ‘That means you’ll have to come back.’

  She was quick. Giuseppe hadn’t considered he would have to make more trips to the hospital, but it made sense that Lorenzo couldn’t be left for days on end without anyone to translate for him or explain what was happening.

  ‘Yes, I suppose I might. Then perhaps …’

  The door burst open and Private Kemp, looking flushed, took two large steps into the room before stopping at the sight before him.

  ‘So this is where you’ve been hiding,’ he said, a mixture of anger, accusation and relief in his voice.

  Giuseppe felt like pointing out that it was actually the private who had disappeared, while he had been doing what he had been told. He guessed the soldier had gone off for a cup of tea and a smoke, probably chatting up any young nurses he could corner at the same time.

  ‘The doctor told me to wait here.’

  ‘Right, well, wait here then,’ said the soldier, sitting near the door as if to bar his escape.

  ‘I’ll bring you a coffee,’ said Fiona, ignoring their unwanted visitor.

  ‘There’s no need for that,’ said Private Kemp. ‘I’m sure you’ve better things to do than making coffee for the enemy.’