by Philip Paris
Padre Giacomo had been called up in 1938 and had been in Gondar three years later when his father died. He had been captured not long afterwards and ever since the only contact with his family had been via very infrequent letters. He wrote to his mother back home in Missano, telling her about life in the camp and how the men were building a chapel.
On the evening that Domenico and Giuseppe were alone in the chancel, the stove was cold and they shivered under the naked lightbulbs, which Micheloni and De Vitto had hung from the ceiling.
‘Can you do it?’ Domenico asked Giuseppe.
‘Phew, that’s a rood screen and a half,’ said Giuseppe eventually, letting out his breath, which instantly misted in the air.
He had spent several minutes studying the various sheets of paper Domenico had handed him. The drawings had been produced in minute detail, with every different section enlarged so that each individual curve and loop could be followed clearly. There was a master design that showed how the different portions fitted together and Domenico had calculated all of the measurements down to the last half inch. The aim was to create a rood screen that separated the chancel from the main body of the hut without obscuring the view of the altar. If it could be made, the rood screen would be a thing of elegance and strength, beauty and permanence.
‘What do you think?’ asked Domenico.
He appreciated that Giuseppe was working out how the wrought iron could be heated, stretched, twisted and thinned into the myriad of intricate shapes to form the physical embodiment of his sketches. He could almost see the other man beating, turning and hammering the red-hot metal in his mind. He sensed the blacksmith was assessing the practicalities and difficulties, weighing up the sheer amount of work involved for one man, as he himself would have done before commencing on a sculpture or painting. But he was still eager to hear the answer.
‘It could be done.’
‘Are you willing to do it?’ asked Domenico, who knew he could not simply assume the blacksmith would be happy to undertake such a task. Giuseppe didn’t answer straight away. He looked at the chancel that Domenico had spent so much time on.
‘It will take several months but, yes … it will be an honour.’
Sergeant Major Fornasier had spoken to Major Buckland, who had agreed immediately that Domenico could dedicate all his time to the chapel as long as his workload was covered. By the middle of March, he had painted the plasterboard to look like stone work, leaving gaps on the walls where he wanted to add pictures. The two glass windows had been made and fitted to the openings in the stud wall either side of the altar and it was one of these that Domenico was painting when Aldo entered. He had just returned after a shift of laying track, some of which ran so near to the shore it was often damaged during rough storms. Repairing track was an on-going task.
‘Of all the Italians in the camp you are the only one who I always know where you will be,’ said Aldo. ‘And I don’t understand how you can work in this temperature.’
Aldo always let everyone know how cold he felt. This day was actually bright, dry and calm. Domenico was standing in the vestry and had left open the door to the outside to provide extra light. He had known it to be far colder in the chapel than it was on that particular afternoon.
‘Aldo! What scheme are you working on at the moment?’
‘Hey, can’t a man come to see a friend without being accused of trying to make money!’
‘Sorry,’ said Domenico. ‘I’m very pleased to see you.’
‘Well, I thought I’d see how you were getting on. Check whether you need any guidance or advice,’ said Aldo, who had not been in the building for several weeks. ‘What are you putting on the glass and why are you painting it from this side?’
‘I’m painting St Francis of Assisi.’
‘The founder of the Franciscans.’
‘At least you know who he is. If I paint his image on this side of the glass and then put black lines on the chancel side, the final result will have depth and look more like leaded glass.’
‘And what about these gaps on the walls where there are no stones?’
‘Oh, I thought angels might be appropriate, perhaps playing a few instruments. Up here I’m going to paint the symbols of the evangelists, Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. I’ve got a few other ideas as well.’
‘I hope you don’t get any knocks to that head of yours and forget all these ideas, or there’ll be an awful lot of disappointed people.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘What about the materials?’
‘I can’t say it’s not a challenge but we’re trying to be inventive. Do you know Sergeant Primavera made a lantern out of a used bully-beef tin? The result was so good I’ve asked him to make some more. Finding suitable wood for the tabernacle has proved difficult. However, there’s a lot to do before that becomes urgent. But how are you, Aldo? It seems you’re so busy with your deals and I’m so busy with the chapel we don’t get time to speak.’
‘Since you ask, I’m cold, I’m sick of the food and I ache from head to foot. I’m tired of spending my nights in a tin hut, listening to the sounds made by forty other men. I want to lay my head on the breasts of a good woman … not too good you understand. And my hen has stopped laying.’
‘So, the same as normal then,’ said Domenico smiling. ‘That’s good. I wouldn’t want to think you’re unhappy in any way.’
‘I knew I would get no sympathy coming here. I don’t know why I bothered. Anyway, there’s been a delivery of parcels. It looks like you’ve got one from Maria. I’ve put it on your mattress.’
Domenico opened his parcel that evening after supper. It was packed with a variety of items such as chocolate and cigarettes, hand cream, woollen gloves and socks. There were letters from Maria, his parents and two of his sisters, as well as some recent family photographs. Maria had also packed some of his brushes, which she had retrieved from his parents’ house where he had lived before the war.
After three years working as a babysitter for a wealthy family in Rome, Maria had managed to get a job in the local grocer’s shop so was once more living with her parents in Moena. She had returned just before Domenico had been called up. It all seemed so long ago. He would often close his eyes and try to recall the details of Moena; its people, the smell of bread from the bakery, the sound of the church bell ringing, the feeling of peace, the joy of simply sitting and watching people going about their business in a place where everyone knew each other.
As Domenico read his letters, Dino was excitedly explaining to Carlo about the gift he had created for his sons. For weeks, he had been drawing with even more fervour than normal but refused to show anyone what he was working on. Now it was complete, he sat next to Carlo on the bed and went through it in detail.
‘You see,’ said Dino, turning the pages, ‘it’s a book telling the story of how the causeway separates a baby seal from its mother. Every day the mother calls out to the little seal, but the last boulder has been put in place and no matter how much they swim up and down, they can’t get back together.’
Carlo studied the images and felt sick.
‘Then a group of Italians see the baby seal’s plight,’ said Dino, showing a drawing of some men looking down into the water.
‘Hey, they look suspiciously like us,’ said Carlo, forcing a smile. ‘Don’t tell me … we save the seal?’
‘You guessed it,’ said Dino.
Carlo’s insides tightened but he sat patiently for nearly ten minutes while his cousin went through the entire story. It was superbly done and represented an enormous amount of work that would no doubt enthral Dino’s children.
‘Well … what do you think?’ asked Dino when he had finished explaining the last page.
‘It’s brilliant. Andrea and Roberto will love it,’ said Carlo then paused for a moment. ‘Dino, my friend, you can’t post this.’
Dino looked at his cousin and in that one instant realised what a fool he had been. He had been so absorb
ed in producing the book, in the delight his sons would have even though he would not be there to read the story to them, that he had totally forgotten about the censors. Not a single drawing would be passed because every one of the highly-detailed images contained the causeways, blondins, vessels in Scapa Flow or sentries on the shore.
‘The book is excellent, Dino. Put it away safely and you can read it to Andrea and Roberto yourself when you return home,’ said Carlo.
‘Perhaps, by the time we return home, they will be too old for such a story book.’
Carlo didn’t trust himself to answer but instead patted Dino’s knee in silence. He was saved from making further conversation by Micheloni shouting that a card game was about to start and their places were already set at the table.
The morale in the camp had been raised significantly by the building of the chapel, which had become a focal point, even though it was far from complete. It was the prisoners’ escape, a tunnel to spiritual and cultural freedom, while their bodies remained in captivity. Men often called in to see how it was progressing and Domenico and his team of skilled workers could ask for whatever help they needed.
By April the unfurnished end of the chapel was being used as a school, and Domenico became used to hearing the group of Italians who had taken on the role of tutor. Indeed, many of them had been teachers before the war and the subjects taught were wide ranging. The number of pupils varied according to the topic but there was a lot of enthusiasm for the classes. The English lessons, which had been painful to listen to at the beginning, were always well attended and the improvement had been noticeable. A row of benches were now a permanent feature, along with a blackboard, which had been donated from a primary school in Kirkwall.
Domenico had learnt to block out the sound of the other men and concentrate only on what was before him. He stood in the chancel and looked around him. Much of what he had created had been influenced by the church in his home town, whilst ideas for other parts had come from the many churches he had worked on as a painter of religious statues.
One of the carpenters had fixed wooden panelling along the lower walls of the chancel, which had created a warmer feel. The figures of St Francis of Assisi and St Catherine of Siena flickered as the sun coming through the side windows caught on the glass on which they were depicted. The ceiling had been painted blue with a white dove in the centre.
The most difficult image, the one above the altar, had been left until last. Domenico set out his brushes with infinite care, ensuring they were clean and undamaged. The poster paints donated by a local artist had been used up long ago and Domenico had bought supplies from a shop in Kirkwall, where he had become friendly with the manager, Ernest Marwick. The paints were in small glass jars and from these Domenico could create virtually any colour. He mixed them using an old dinner plate that he had acquired for use as a palette.
He had thought about this painting in great detail, drawing sketches, taking measurements of the space he had to fill, examining the surface in detail by eye and feel so that he knew where there were tiny defects in the plasterboard. As he lay in his bed at night he had painted the image many times in his head, working out the balance of the colours, the effect of the daylight changing throughout the day and how this main image would be influenced by those around it. He had painted the angels on the side walls as though they were lit by the picture he was about to create above the altar.
Now the day had come to make those first brushstrokes. From his jacket pocket Domenico took out the tin in which he kept the little religious card showing the Madonna and Child. He opened it and with tenderness bordering on reverence, kissed the card then placed it against the window, at the feet of St Francis of Assisi. In this position he could view the picture with the least movement of his head.
Domenico knew by heart the text on the other side of the card, which called for men to recognise themselves as brothers, refrain from discord and to love and help one another. With war raging all around, the text echoed his inner feelings. The symbol that inspired him was peace. He picked up his brush.
20
Alone, Giuseppe walked across causeway number one, marvelling at the sheer scale of what had been achieved. It was a work day, so he carried a special pass in case he was stopped. The Badoglio government’s declaration of war on Germany the previous October had resulted in Italy being given the status of ‘co-belligerent’ but it had remained unclear what this meant for the POWs in Camp 60. Were they even POWs any more?
Major Buckland was waiting for instructions from higher up the chain. However, the British Government had been in a state of deadlock for months, whilst discussions had taken place between various departments, as well as with the American and Badoglio governments. It was a quagmire of complexity.
Giuseppe reached the Balfour Beatty headquarters on the south shore of mainland Orkney without being challenged and the paper remained in his pocket. Following a call from Major Buckland, the construction company had readily agreed to supply the steel for the chapel’s rood screen and help build the furnace, but they wanted the blacksmith to come to the headquarters and talk to an engineer.
Giuseppe had never been into the building before, but he walked into the reception area and a few moments later he found himself swinging Fiona around the room in a moment of utter madness and joy. She had flung herself into his arms before either of them had even spoken and he hugged her tightly, lifted her off her feet and spun her around so fast that, when he finally stopped they almost fell to the floor as they were laughing and so out of breath.
‘Why are you here?’ he said, beaming at her.
‘New job. I’m now a receptionist for Balfour Beatty. I knew you were coming because I heard that someone from Camp 60 would be arriving this morning … a blacksmith. So you’re involved in the chapel?’
‘Yes. You look lovely.’
‘Thank you. So do you.’
‘You were right. It has helped. Only now I have to make a rood screen that will take months of work.’
‘But you will be back at the forge.’
‘I have to make one first. There’s nothing suitable on Lamb Holm.’
‘Can you build such a thing?’
‘Well, I’ve done it once before. I’m here to meet one of the engineers and discuss how best to go about it.’
‘It’s so good to see you.’
‘I’ve missed you so much. I’ve thought often of coming to your farm one Sunday, but I wasn’t sure if I should …’
‘My poor Giuseppe. Still so torn. I’ll not insist that you come. It must be your decision.’
‘But if I did, what would your parents say?’
‘There are many things you could mend around the farm. I’ll tell them we met by chance in the office and you have offered to come next Sunday morning to help. In return we’ll give you Sunday dinner.’
Giuseppe spent the following few days in a state of nervous excitement, filling his spare time writing poetry. It was a pastime he kept a closely guarded secret. All his poems recently had been about Fiona. Sunday finally came around and, having made himself as presentable as possible, he arrived at the farm shortly after nine o’clock. Fiona was at the front door before he had even knocked and was wearing overalls, ready to work. Giuseppe had brought his with him.
‘Where is everyone?’ he asked as they walked towards the barn.
‘Father’s gone to church. Mother’s in the kitchen cooking and Rebecca’s working as a maid at the Kirkwall Hotel. Many of the hotels have been taken over for military people. She’ll be back for dinner, full of tall stories about the handsome officers she’s met.’
‘She’s a beautiful girl.’
Fiona punched him in the arm.
‘Not as lovely as her sister, of course,’ he added, rubbing the spot she had hit. ‘You’ve got a good punch. I think I’ll enter you for this afternoon’s boxing match.’
‘Boxing!’
‘They hold them now and again. The men have gloves
and there’s a referee so it’s all done properly.’
‘Men and aggression!’
‘It helps to relieve some of the tension.’
They reached the barn and stopped in the doorway.
‘I hope you don’t fight, Giuseppe,’ she said, gently rubbing his arm where she had hit him.
‘Why? Would you be worried?’
‘You know I would.’
‘Not as much as I would be! Some very big men enter the boxing matches. They would make cut meat of me. What …? What have I said?’
‘I think you mean mincemeat.’
‘Mincemeat?’
‘Yes,’ said Fiona, still laughing. ‘They would make mincemeat of you. But cut meat sounds good. I understood what you meant. Come on, we’ve got work to do.’
Fiona showed him the first job to be done, which was to repair the hinges on one of the barn doors.
‘It hasn’t closed properly for years but it’s become so bad now that the cows are complaining about the draught.’
He climbed a ladder to examine the top hinge. They worked well as a team. The two of them sparred, swapping from a frivolous subject to a serious one with comfort, talking openly of their hopes and fears, of their pasts, their likes and dislikes. They didn’t talk of their feelings and, by unspoken agreement, didn’t talk about the future.
Giuseppe was fascinated by her, from the life she lived in Orkney to the way she moved within the too large overalls, which belonged to one of her brothers. He loved the way she laughed so freely, her big brown eyes, so full of mischief and fun.
‘You’re barkit,’ she said. They were facing each other, both out of breath because they had been moving heavy bales of hay.
‘Is that bad?’ he asked, having no idea what she was talking about.