by Alison Love
Filomena liked the way Bernard spoke to her, as if she were an equal, almost as if she were a man. She also knew that she owed him a debt of thanks. After Antonio’s death he had intervened in her family’s life with the transforming touch of a magician. How he had done it Filomena did not know, but he had rescued the kiosk from the grasp of the Custodian of Enemy Property, which had taken over several Italian businesses, including some of the city’s best restaurants. Mauro was now running the kiosk. Confectionery was in short supply, but he made enough from selling cigarettes and soft drinks to support Renata and her baby. The child was a boy, christened Luigi after Renata’s late father.
As she marched back toward the vegetable plot, Filomena thought how glad she was that Bernard had convinced her. The simplicity of life in Sussex had slowly begun to heal the terrible wounds of loss. All day she worked hard in the open air, the hills serenely cradling her; at night she slept beneath the eaves of Dickie’s house, between expensive white sheets that smelled of lavender, with no sides-to-middle seams to gall her. From time to time the screech of an owl would waken her in the night, and she would remember Antonio, or her father, or Stan lying dead in icebound Norway, but then physical exhaustion like a blessing submerged her once more.
—
On March 8 the Café de Paris in Coventry Street was bombed. Eighty people died, including the manager, who had boasted that the café was the safest restaurant in the city, protected beneath four stories of masonry.
Three days afterward the Paradise Ballroom took a direct hit, with nearly two hundred casualties.
“Look!” Olivia pointed indignantly to the newspaper. “One small paragraph. Because it’s only shopgirls in ten-and-sixpence frocks nobody cares. It’s not a chic expensive place like the Café de Paris, Lord and Lady Mountbatten don’t go there and order a dozen oysters.”
“You can’t blame the papers. The Café de Paris is famous, of course they are going to write about it. And it is consoling for some people, to learn that the wealthy and the glamorous have not escaped the blitz.” Filomena paused. “I think my brother Antonio used to sing at the Paradise Ballroom. I remember the name.”
These last weeks Filomena had made a deliberate effort to speak of Antonio. I have my whole life in which to remember him, she thought, I do not want that memory consigned to some shadowland of silence. Olivia looked as if she had been stung, pressing her hand to her swollen stomach. It irked Filomena. What right did this rich unhappy woman have to claim intenser grief than Antonio’s own sister? Folding her lips she marched to the closet and took out her coat and hat.
“Where are you going?” asked Olivia.
“It’s Thursday, Mrs. Rodway. My afternoon off. I’m going to bicycle into Lewes and see what’s on at the cinema. Do you need any shopping while I’m there?”
Olivia’s face was so stricken that Filomena thought she would say, Don’t go, please don’t leave me. This had never actually happened, but Filomena was constantly afraid it might.
A moment later, though, Olivia turned her head coolly away. “No,” she said, “no, thank you, Filomena, I don’t need anything at all.”
The steamer to the Isle of Man sailed from Fleetwood, since Liverpool—a regular target for German attacks—was considered too dangerous. When Bernard disembarked in Douglas it was raining: cold, dense rain that whisked under his umbrella and drenched his socks. The air smelled tangily of salt water and of herrings. Oh, joy, thought Bernard, as he trudged along the promenade, his leather bag in his hand.
Bernard had broken his journey for a night in Cheshire, to visit his mother. Penelope was having a miserable war. There had been no bombings in Macclesfield, and although the prospect of air raids terrified her she was disgruntled at being excluded from the drama of the blitz. She was also bored, since she could no longer indulge in her favorite activities: shopping, flirting, pushing expensive food around her plate. When Bernard suggested that she take on some war work she was appalled. Even the government doesn’t expect women of my age to get our hands dirty, she said. Nobody over sixty has to register with the authorities. Bernard smiled, to think of his mother’s indignation. It was the first time he had ever heard her confess to being more than fifty years old.
—
The Isle of Man had become a prison island when mass internment began in the spring of 1940. Now whole settlements were swathed in barbed wire. Hutchinson, the camp where Herr Fischer was interned, was formed of a cluster of houses behind the promenade. In fine weather the inmates played bowls upon the lawn, using the gilt knobs from their bedsteads. Bernard waited for the musician in the front room of the house to which he had been assigned. It had been a boardinghouse before the government commandeered it, and it had the self-conscious gentility of seaside lodgings, with yellowing lace curtains and antimacassars on the armchairs. Through the window, beyond the barbed wire, Bernard could see the gray March waves lash and swell. A guard stood at the door, to ensure that Herr Fischer did not plot treason or smuggle out uncensored mail.
Bernard’s first thought when he saw the musician was how he had aged, his hair scant and brittle, his skin the color of parchment. Then Herr Fischer caught sight of him, and his face was transfigured.
“Mr. Rodway,” he said, sitting eagerly in the chair opposite Bernard’s, “have you come to fetch me to London?”
“What?” said Bernard, startled. “No, I’m afraid not.”
“But there are new tribunals in London now, examining the cases of men like me, writers, musicians, men who have made a contribution to the arts.” Herr Fischer leaned forward, his eyes bright with hope. “Several of the men here have been set free, to continue their life’s work.”
“Yes, I know. Indeed, I have been pressing for them to reopen your case—”
“The composer Ralph Vaughan Williams is chairing the musicians’ panel. I have written to him three times, although I have not yet had a reply. I am sure that if he could hear my work—if he could hear the song that I wrote for your wife—he would urge the authorities to release me.”
“Yes, I am sure that he would, Herr Fischer. I am sure that in time he will. But you must be patient, you know. The panel has many cases to review.”
Herr Fischer stared. “So that is not why you have come?”
“Not this time,” said Bernard. “This time I have come to be sure that they are treating you well, Herr Fischer. It is not so bad here, is it? The camp commander seems a decent enough fellow, and I hear the men themselves organize plenty of activities. Lectures and concerts. I understand that last summer there were performances of Schubert and Puccini. You do not lack kindred spirits.”
There was a wheedling note in Bernard’s voice. He had intended to play on Herr Fischer’s discontent, to prompt criticism of the camp officials or the internees’ food to add ballast to his report. Faced with this despair, though, he could not do it.
“Oh, yes,” said Herr Fischer, “there is music here. Some of it to an acceptable standard.”
“The camp commander tells me that the BBC news bulletins are broadcast every day,” Bernard went on. “You will know that London has taken a drubbing from Hitler’s bombers. Liverpool, too; I daresay you have glimpsed the fires across the water. At least it seems that we are no longer at risk of invasion. The Jews in this country will be safe from Nazi persecution, which must set your mind at rest. And there is good news from North Africa. Our troops have pushed back the Italians.”
Herr Fischer gave a flick of his hand, as though success in Africa meant nothing to him. “So you do not know, Mr. Rodway, when—or if—my case will be reopened?”
“Not yet, no. As I say, Herr Fischer, you must be patient. I am doing all I can on your behalf, you must believe that.”
Herr Fischer nodded three times. Then, abruptly, he rose from his chair. “Thank you for coming to see me, Mr. Rodway. I am very grateful. I hope that your visit here will be a pleasant one.”
And before Bernard could protest he was gone, vani
shing soft-footed into the shabby depths of the boardinghouse. It made Bernard feel foolish. He hoped that the soldier at the door had not been paying attention. He got to his feet with a bluff, devil-may-care expression.
The guard, though, looked at him and shrugged. “Don’t take it to heart,” he said. “They all ask that question, all the time. When am I going to be released? It’s the boredom, sir. Doesn’t matter how cushy it is here, they can’t stand the boredom. It eats their souls like rust.”
—
Two days later, before he left the island, Bernard went to see Bruno, who was interned in Palace, one of the camps for Italians. A former hotel above the sea front, it was notoriously overcrowded; the inmates had been segregated into two groups, fascists and antifascists, to stop their constant fighting. Bernard did not want to waste his time on a supporter of Mussolini, a man who had fought in Abyssinia for God’s sake, but Filomena had asked him especially, her face luminous with concern. She had taken a snapshot of Renata and the baby for Bernard to give to Bruno. He has never seen his son, she said, and Bernard, thinking of his own soon-to-be-born child, had relented.
The photograph was not a very good one. The baby had refused to sit still on Renata’s lap, and its face was no more than a blur of grayish light. All the same, Bruno stared as though by staring he could step into the picture’s margins and touch his son. He was a ratty sort of man, Bernard thought, with the questing desperate expression that all the internees had.
“I wanted him to be called after Antonio,” Bruno said. “My letter was held up by the censors, though. It did not arrive until after the christening, and by then it was too late.”
“You swapped papers, I believe, so that Antonio could stay with his father?”
Bruno nodded. “We knew that Enrico was dying. All three of us knew, me, Antonio, his friend Peppino.”
“Peppino? The fellow who worked with Antonio at La Rondine?”
“That’s right. He sailed on the Arandora Star too, though I hear on the grapevine that he survived the wreck. He was picked up by a Canadian destroyer.” Bruno’s mouth twisted ruefully. “And then they shipped him off to Australia, with two hundred other survivors.”
“Dear God,” said Bernard. He wanted to add, There are times when I am ashamed of my own country, but he would not voice those words to a fascist.
“Filomena is well, is she?” Bruno asked.
“Yes. She is living in Sussex, as a companion to my wife, Olivia. Your wife is well too, I believe. Her uncle is running the Trombettas’ kiosk, she no longer has to worry where her next meal is coming from.” Bernard expected Bruno to recognize his cue and express gratitude; grudgingly, perhaps, but gratitude all the same. Instead he gazed at the picture of his son, as though he had not been listening. It annoyed Bernard.
“It is just as well that your wife has her uncle to support her. It seems to me, my friend, that you are destined to be here for a long, long time. As a man who has fought for the fascists they will be in no hurry to release you.”
Bruno closed his eyes. “Mr. Rodway,” he said, “I do not think about such things. I am a good Italian, a loyal Italian. Once upon a time I would have given my life for the duce. Now all I want is for this godforsaken war to end, so I can go home to Lazio with my wife and child.”
—
Privacy is a rare commodity in an internment camp. After supper, on the night that Bernard left the Isle of Man, Herr Fischer slid quietly away to the laundry that served Hutchinson Camp. It was a narrow hut with a row of slatted shelves and a copper for boiling the linen. He took with him a pencil and a sheet of notepaper, with its twelve well-spaced lines. He had intended to write to his sister, Brigitta, but he found he could no longer visualize her face. All he could see was the photograph he had of her, grainily fixed in time upon the banks of the Danube. Leaning against the copper he wrote to Bernard instead, in English, thanking him for his kindness. When he had finished he folded the paper and tucked it into his shirt pocket.
There were hooks in the ceiling, from which the airing racks were suspended. If you stood on a chair you could reach them easily. Herr Fischer chose a dirty sheet so as not to make more work for the men assigned to laundry duties. The hem was stoutly sewn, but once it had given way it was easy to rip the cloth. Herr Fischer tore two long strips and knotted them carefully together. Then he pulled, hard, to be quite certain that the rope would bear his weight.
The air in the De Luxe cinema was warm and thick with cigarette smoke. Filomena, nestled in her sixpenny seat, tried to quash the anxiety bubbling inside her. I’m entitled to an afternoon’s freedom, she thought, I shouldn’t feel guilty, it’s not my fault that Mrs. Rodway can’t stand to be alone.
The afternoon’s main feature was Waterloo Bridge. Filomena had started watching it in the middle, just as Vivien Leigh lost her job as a dancer and began her shady double life. That was how it worked at the De Luxe. The programs ran continuously from half past two until ten o’clock, and you went in whenever a seat became free. Filomena had seen Rhett Butler abandon Scarlett before he kissed her, she had seen Manderley burn before understanding Rebecca’s malignant power. You got used to it. Narrative was less important than a three-hour respite from the war. Sometimes, in the comforting fug of the cinema, Filomena found herself daydreaming of what might have been: Stan returning from the war, getting married, setting up home together in Soho or in Bermondsey. Mostly, though, she pushed such thoughts away and allowed herself to be swept along by the images before her.
On the screen Vivien Leigh, in a low-cut satin dress, was touting for business at Waterloo station, welcoming soldiers as they came back from the trenches. There was something troubled about her beauty, which made Filomena think of Olivia: the same fragility, the same air of drama. All at once she remembered how Danila had gone into labor, without warning, just as they were arguing about Bruno. She tried to stifle the memory—it was her afternoon off, for glory’s sake, the only time she had for herself—but it was no use. I’ll have to go back, she thought, and seizing her coat she began to squeeze along the row of hunched knees. Two or three people tutted as behind her Vivien Leigh glimpsed the lover she had thought was dead.
Outside on School Hill it was already dark, with a silver wedge of moon in the clear cold sky. You’re a fool, Filomena said to herself, as she retrieved her bicycle. You’ll get there to find that nothing has happened, it’ll just be Mrs. Rodway all fey and weepy. Nevertheless she pedaled as fast as she could, down the steep hill toward the river and on into the blue-black, encompassing hills.
—
Olivia guessed what was happening as soon as the pain began. She had had pain before, rumbling through her body like thunder, but this was different: fiercer, more urgent. For thirty seconds it seized her in its fist, and then, just as suddenly, it released her. Olivia’s brain, which for months had been fogged by grief, became perfectly clear. Filomena would be away for hours yet; she had better ring the doctor.
Dr. Croft lived in the nearby village of Firle. It was his wife who answered the telephone.
“He’s at Mrs. Hobden’s, she’s had another attack. If the pains have only just begun it’ll be a while yet, Mrs. Rodway. I’ll tell him as soon as he gets home.”
Olivia sat on the stairs, beside the telephone. Bernard will be cross, she thought; he wanted to be here for the baby’s birth. Another contraction gripped her, twisting like a blade in the small of her back. They were coming more often now. She had a sense of her child’s impatience, kicking and wriggling to get out into the world. It pleased Olivia. She would have liked to go to bed but if she did there would be nobody to let in the doctor, and so she fetched a cushion from the green drawing room and lay on the hall rug. She could feel the tiled floor hard against the knobs of her spine.
That was how Filomena found her when she came back from the cinema. She gave a yelp of alarm; then she crouched beside Olivia and took her hand.
“Mrs. Rodway, are you all right?”
&nbs
p; “The baby’s coming.” Olivia struggled to sit upright. “I rang for Dr. Croft but he was visiting another patient. Maybe you should cycle to Firle and fetch him.”
Filomena’s competent palm was inching across Olivia’s pelvis. “I think it’s too late for that,” she said in a careful voice. “How often are you getting the pains?”
“I haven’t been counting. Every five minutes?”
“Let’s put you to bed.” Gently Filomena helped Olivia to her feet, one arm laced about her shoulders. “Don’t be afraid, I have done this before. I helped the midwife deliver my brother Antonio’s son.”
“I’m not afraid,” said Olivia, and Filomena could see that she was telling the truth. There was a brilliance in her face, as if she had just woken from a long stupor.
Upstairs Filomena opened drawers and cupboards, gathering towels, a nightdress, a ribbon to keep Olivia’s hair from her hot damp forehead. She hoped that she would remember everything she had learned from the bossy Tuscan midwife: when Olivia should breathe and push, how to clasp the infant’s head so its shoulders did not tear her flesh.
The baby was born an hour later, just before midnight.
“It’s a girl,” said Filomena. The child had dark tangled hair, plastered wetly over her head. She was squalling with a kind of thwarted rage, as though this was not in the least what she had expected.
“Let me see.” Greedily Olivia stretched out her arms for her daughter. “Oh, she is beautiful.”
“Yes,” said Filomena, “she is very beautiful.”
“She looks just like her father,” said Olivia, and she began to laugh.
Filomena looked at her. Their eyes met and held, laden with knowledge, but neither of them said anything at all.
—
Bernard arrived at lunchtime the following day. He had returned to London the night before and rolled into bed, unwashed, unshaven, only to be woken by Filomena with the news that the baby had come early. At Lewes station there were no taxis and he had to cadge a lift from a market gardener on his way home from delivering a van load of spring cabbage.