by Philip Paris
Domenico found the morning even more unnerving. There was no one to tell him when to get up, so he dressed when he felt like it, stoked the stove and walked over to the wash block. It had never been so empty.
After a surprisingly good breakfast, Domenico wandered around the camp to stretch his legs. The temperature had dropped significantly over the last few days. Autumn was in the air and the clouds threatened a downpour. He stopped by the statue of St George and the dragon.
A friend of Domenico’s, Bruno Volpi, one of the many workers on the chapel, had typed the names of every single Italian who had been held captive in Camp 60. The two men had put the sheets of paper into a milk bottle along with a handful of Italian coins then closed the top. Before Domenico had cemented the last part of the base of the statue, sealing it forever, they placed the bottle directly under the dragon. It was a record of them all, which would remain on that distant piece of land for as long as the statue survived.
Domenico ended up at the chapel, the only place where he didn’t feel lonely. He had decided not to work in the chapel making the holy water stoup as every single inch of it had been swept, cleaned and polished in preparation for the service the previous Sunday. Eventually, he went back to his hut, collecting en route the clay he kept in a storeroom.
He felt like a naughty schoolboy. Even as POWs they had kept their army discipline and there had been regular hut inspections. Everything had always been spotless. Now, Domenico was about to make an unbelievable mess in the middle of the floor and he smiled at the thought. He had already drawn the design for the holy water stoup and made sure all the materials were to hand. He worked quickly and precisely, moulding the clay to the right shape and size, following his own drawing carefully.
He joined the British soldiers for meals and they often brought a mug of steaming coffee to the hut, checking if he needed anything else so he did not have to interrupt his work. He appreciated their kindness. One day Major Booth entered with two mugs. The two of them sat either side of the stove, surrounded by bags of cement, lumps of clay and half-made plaster moulds, talking about their lives and families.
Domenico was drawn more and more to the chapel as the days went by and if he wasn’t working on the holy water stoup or eating in the canteen, he could be found praying or simply sitting and thinking about the things that had happened since he had arrived all that time ago.
Before Aldo had left to return to the hospital, he had asked Domenico to do something for him. The two men shared a small cupboard between their beds and it still contained Aldo’s belongings. Following Aldo’s instructions, Domenico burnt the notebook that listed who owed him money, spent the significant pile of tokens at the camp shop then distributed the cigarettes and other treats between the men in the hut. The British money was sent to Aldo.
Domenico had wanted to see Padre Giacomo, but the priest was too ill for visitors. The artist remembered all the excited conversations they had enjoyed together in the little vestry, planning the minute details of the chapel and its contents. Domenico had carefully taken down the Italian flag hanging in the vestry and Major Booth had arranged for it to be delivered to the hospital.
He thought of the triumphs the men had achieved in creating it, all the enormous obstacles and limitations they had overcome. In its own way it had been just as much of a challenge as building the barriers. He hoped the chapel would be as permanent. Men had put so much effort into it, so much of themselves into it.
On the morning they were to leave, Domenico rose early and went to the chapel as soon as it was daylight. He polished the inside then went outside and cleaned the windows, checking they were all tightly shut. None of it needed doing, but it was the last act he could perform for the building that had come to mean so much to him. The flowers left over from the service were thrown out and new candles placed in the holders.
He was kneeling before the altar when the truck’s horn sounded just outside the camp gates. He stood and took a last look around, but there was nothing more to be done. He picked up his rucksack near the entrance and walked out into the sunshine, quietly closing the door behind him.
Domenico took a big breath, let it out slowly and took his hand off the handle. That was it. He walked away briskly. Two soldiers were standing at the gates, one half of which was already closed. They were waiting for him so the artist hurried over and climbed into the back of the truck, a couple of the men helping to pull him inside. The gates were closed and locked with a heavy chain and padlock. One of the soldiers followed Domenico into the back of the truck and the second man lifted and secured the tailboard then ran around to join the driver.
The truck pulled away with a lurch. Domenico could only see the chapel through the barbed-wire gates. It suddenly looked so forlorn and vulnerable alongside the much larger accommodation huts. The truck gathered speed. Domenico couldn’t tear his eyes away and sat staring back at the camp as they travelled across the barrier. He still watched the chapel as they started along the coast road on mainland Orkney, but suddenly they turned a corner and he couldn’t see it any more. It was over.
33
The D-Day landings in June 1944 heralded a change in the war, and with dramatic events unfolding almost daily on mainland Europe the eyes of the world were focused on lands far away from the little Orkney island of Lamb Holm. The south of England needed men and equipment, and throughout much of that year the defences around Scapa Flow were reduced significantly. The departure of large numbers of people resulted in pockets of normality returning to the islands.
Several of the gun emplacements around Scapa Flow were now empty concrete structures, visited only by gulls, while the balloon barrage was moved to London to provide greater protection for the capital. The transfer of most of the Balfour Beatty construction workers led to the disbandment of the 2nd Orkney Battalion of the Home Guard, known locally as ‘Orkney’s Foreign Legion’ because it contained so many civilians from the south. By November, the threat of any form of invasion of Orkney was considered to be so slight that Orkney’s Home Guard was stood down.
People who lived on Burray and South Ronaldsay were now able to visit Kirkwall by simply driving across the barriers and those on mainland Orkney could visit the islands with ease. The causeways represented a significant change in lifestyle for many.
On 12th May 1945, a few days after VE Day, the Churchill Barriers were officially opened by the First Lord of the Admir alty. Strict wartime censorship and travel regulations meant many people living in the northern islands were totally unaware the barriers had been built and were surprised by news of their official opening. Several of the admiralty and invited guests stared at the little chapel as the convoy of cars swept along the causeways. But once they reached mainland Orkney they had other matters to attend to and the building went out of their mind.
The years rolled by and, gradually, the war faded into memory while the chapel’s presence endured and its fame grew. People were enjoying holidays again and Orkney became a popular destination. The easy access to Lamb Holm and the uniqueness of the chapel made it an obvious tourist attraction for visitors to the islands, while the Orcadians themselves often visited the little gem on their doorstep. However, the winter winds and rain beat the building fiercely, making the old ship’s bell ring out as if a signal of distress. But no one took heed of the warning, and the state of the building deteriorated with every season.
Eventually, the force of the winds rocked the hut sufficiently to crack the concrete roof and the constant dampness in the air during the winter rusted the rood screen. The main door had rotted at the bottom, allowing access to mice looking for shelter. They ran around the nave, occasionally nibbling the surface of the plasterboard. The once-white façade was dirty and the plaster chipped. Pennisi’s beautiful bas-relief of the face of Christ was wearing away and the fine detail was disappearing. On top of the bell tower the tiny cross had rusted so badly that part of it had snapped off, whilst the dragon nearby looked up with scorn at th
e noble knight and his growing white crown provided by the local seabirds.
One day in June 1958, an elderly woman entered the chapel with Father Joseph Ryland-Whitaker, the Catholic priest for Shetland and Orkney along with Father Frank Cairns.
‘Every time I come here I am amazed by the beauty of it,’ said Father Whitaker.
‘As you know, Father, the local women have a rota to come and clean the chapel. Between us it’s tidied on a regular basis.’
‘And an excellent job you do of it.’
‘But the condition of the building gets worse every year. Now, there’s water coming in. You can see the damp patches on the plasterboard. I thought I should let you know how badly it’s deteriorating.’
‘You were quite right to have brought it to my attention. The question is what to do about it.’ He was standing looking up at the Madonna and Child and carried on talking whilst looking at the picture. ‘I suppose the first step is to contact Mr Sutherland Graeme. After all, he owns Lamb Holm so any restoration to the chapel has to be sanctioned by him. I know he’s had concerns about the building and will be eager to help. I’ll call on him this afternoon.’
A few weeks later the Italian Chapel Preservation Committee held its first ever meeting. The committee consisted of Father Whitaker, Patrick Sutherland Graeme, Beatrice Linton, Cecil Walls and Ernest Marwick, the same man who had been manager of J. M. Stevenson and had supplied Domenico with poster paints. He had put his shopkeeping days behind him and was now working for the Orkney Herald newspaper.
Father Whitaker, who had taken on the role of chairman, began the meeting.
‘If I may, I would like to formally start the first meeting of the Italian Chapel Preservation Committee by thanking Mr Sutherland Graeme for his instant agreement to be involved and, indeed, for his willingness to be the committee’s president.’
‘As you know,’ replied Sutherland Graeme, who was now Lord Lieutenant of Orkney. ‘I’ve voiced concerns for years about the condition of the chapel but I’ve always been advised that, due to the materials it is made of, nothing can be done to preserve it. However, I would be delighted if this is proved to be incorrect and there is some way that the deterioration can be halted and the building saved.’
The five people fell silent. No one had any instant answers to the problem but they shared a determination to do something to save a monument they all felt strongly about.
‘I understand the number of visitors going into the building is greater every summer,’ says Miss Linton, who taught classics at the local school.
‘You know,’ said Marwick, ‘the best person to help us would be the original artist, Domenico Chiocchetti, but as far as I know nobody has had any contact with him since the Italians left in 1944. I don’t think anyone here even knows where in Italy he lives. If, in fact, he is in Italy.’
‘Or if he’s still alive,’ said Walls.
Several of them nodded at this depressing possibility.
‘I think Ernest is right. If there’s a chance we could get Mr Chiocchetti to help, we should do everything possible to find him,’ said Father Whitaker. ‘Certainly the paintwork is one of the most urgent things to be restored.’
‘The most pressing need is to stop the water getting in,’ said Walls. ‘There’s a gap between the façade and the hut that is particularly worrying, and there are several broken windows. I propose the first task is to organise the relevant local tradesmen to make the building watertight and ensure the façade is safe.’
‘We’ll need funding,’ pointed out Marwick.
‘There is some money,’ said Sutherland Graeme. ‘Visitors often leave coins in the holy water stoup. Every so often my daughter Alison collects this and gives it to Father Whitaker when he is over from Shetland.’
‘Yes, I’ve been storing it in the church’s safe, but with no particular plan as to what to use it for,’ confirmed the priest.
‘Why don’t we leave a donation box for visitors to put money into?’ suggested Miss Linton. ‘We could advertise that it’s for the chapel’s restoration.’
They looked at each other around the table. It was a good, sensible start, but they all felt the need for something more, a grander action.
‘As ever, it’s the first step that’s the most difficult, but to stop any more water getting into the chapel is a good beginning. I’m just not sure what we do next,’ admitted Father Whitaker.
‘Perhaps,’ said Marwick, ‘we should start making a noise about the chapel, contact some national newspapers? Stir up some interest in the building and its plight.’
‘That’s a good idea,’ agreed Father Whitaker. ‘We could get in touch with some of the radio stations, or even some relevant Italian organisations. They might be able to help us track down Domenico Chiocchetti.’
‘Excellent,’ said Sutherland Graeme. ‘Let’s start creating some waves and see what washes up.’
34
A cold mist wrapped itself around the black Morris Minor on the morning in March 1960 when Ernest Marwick drove his guests away from Kirkwall airport. In the back seat were two men. One was Charles Ricono from the BBC. The other, who peered intently, trying to see beyond the mist to the countryside beyond, was Domenico Chiocchetti.
‘I can’t imagine the thoughts going through your head at this moment, Signor Chiocchetti,’ said Ricono, who had already interviewed Domenico over the telephone for a radio programme on the chapel, broadcast on the BBC Home Service the previous year.
‘I feel such a mixture of emotions I’m not sure what my thoughts are,’ said Domenico. ‘But one of them is certainly gratitude to you and to Signor Finoglio at the BBC. Without the huge efforts you both went to in order to track me down in Moena, and without the BBC’s generosity in paying for this return trip to Orkney, I wouldn’t be here today about to see the chapel once more.’
‘The chapel,’ said Ricono, ‘has created a huge amount of interest. When word reached us there was a small group of Orcadians, desperately fighting against time to save a beautiful chapel made by Italian prisoners of war and trying to trace the man behind its creation … well, we knew there was a story to be told. And it’s incredible just how many want to hear that story. People have been deeply moved by the plight of the little chapel and by what you and the other Italians achieved during a period of great hardship.’
The car emerged from the fog just in time for Domenico to see the causeway across Kirk Sound and a few moments later they were surrounded by water. It all looked so different. The coils of barbed wire had gone, as had all the machinery and equipment … all the mess of construction … all the mess of war. The barriers were proper roads. However, Domenico took this in at a glance because he could see the chapel in the distance and leant forward in his seat as if willing the car to get there faster.
A small welcoming committee was waiting and as the Morris Minor slowed down Domenico thought he recognised a couple of faces. He was overcome by the strangeness of seeing the chapel without the camp. He had known it had been completely taken away, but that was not the same as seeing the place without it. The chapel had never been visible from this position without looking through barbed-wire fencing. He was glad the statue had survived, with the names of all the POWs from Camp 60 sealed inside the base.
They got out of the car and Domenico was pleased to meet Alison Sutherland Graeme again. Her father had died soon after the formation of the chapel preservation committee and she had taken over as president. The Graemeshall home farm, including the island of Lamb Holm, had been sold to the Sinclair family who had been tenant farmers on the land for decades.
‘Signor Chiocchetti. It is a great pleasure to see you again,’ she said.
‘It is I who must thank you. I know without your help and that of the preservation committee I would not have this opportunity to see the little chapel again.’
Ernest Marwick made introductions where needed. Father Cairns was now based in Orkney and had taken over as chairman of the committee. The c
onversations were kept brief.
‘There will be plenty of time to speak to people over the coming days, Signor Chiocchetti. I know you must be eager to see inside,’ said Marwick, expressing verbally what was clearly shown on the artist’s face. ‘Please do not feel you have to hurry. We’ll wait for you here.’
‘Thank you,’ said Domenico gratefully.
His trained eye took in the general state of the façade as he walked to the door. However, as he stretched out his hand to the handle, he hesitated. Domenico had lost count of the times he had wished for this moment, but now he feared what might be awaiting him. There had been varying descriptions about the severity of deterioration and damage inside.
The serenity of the chapel enveloped him immediately and it felt as though he had stepped back sixteen years in time. He walked along the nave. The rust on the rood screen could be seen from yards away and the gate creaked alarmingly when opened. But then he was standing before his painting of the Madonna and Child. Domenico looked at it closely, from further back, then closely again. He had been more concerned about this painting than about anything else but it did not appear to be damaged, only faded. He set about inspecting the rest of the interior.
The committee had acted quickly after its formation to organise urgent repairs and these had stopped any further water entering the building, but not before damp had affected the paintings to the right of the altar, in particular the icons of St Matthew and St Mark. The images on the other side seemed untouched as did the ceiling with its white dove. Domenico quickly looked around the rest of the inside to obtain a general idea of what needed repairing.
When he weighed everything up, his heart sank. The BBC had paid for him to travel to Lamb Holm and work on the chapel’s restoration for three weeks, but he would make little impression in such a short time. He was back in front of the Madonna and Child, wondering what to say to the people waiting patiently outside, when Father Cairns appeared quietly by his side.