by Angela Petch
Molly blew smoke rings into the space above them. ‘Little ’aloes,’ she giggled, turning over to look down on him, her breasts heavy with milk, resting against his chest. ‘But I ain’t no angel, Massi.’
He didn’t contradict her. He was no angel either, sleeping with another man’s wife. He wondered if she could tell it had been his first time, and if he’d been good enough for her.
She sat up, bringing her head down to her knees. Massimo, lazy and dreamy, traced the curve of her back along the knobbles of her spine. ‘Molly,’ he said. ‘Forgive me. I so sorry…’
She turned to him. ‘Don’t be a daft halfpenny bit, Massi. It was just what I needed. It’s been a long time. But next time, you wear protection. I don’t want another Denis just yet.’
She was so different from the girls back home, who flirted and teased but never let a boy touch them, even through their clothes. And of course, she was married. He felt a pang of guilt as he thought of Lucia back in Tramarecchia, and then dismissed her from his mind almost immediately. She was from another world. Who knew how long this war would go on, and if he would ever see her again? He’d received a couple of brief letters from home, but nothing from Lucia. His young Tuscan sweetheart was most likely married to somebody else by now. Years had passed. He’d confronted death. A man needed to take any type of comfort he could. He pulled Molly down again and kissed her just as Denis started to cry upstairs.
‘He needs feeding again,’ she said, pulling away from Massimo’s arms. ‘Lawks, look at the state of me…’ She mopped milk leaking from her breasts with her petticoat discarded on the floor. The sight brought back his guilty feelings about sleeping with a married mother.
* * *
‘How was Holy Mass?’ Salvo asked when, later that evening, Massimo pushed open the door to their room in the stable. He was lying on his bed, reading a week-old newspaper that Arthur Spink had given him to practise his English. He swung himself up and round, his legs dangling over the side of the bed.
‘How many Ave Marias did you recite? And how many Acts of Contrition? You have sex written all over that face of yours, you rascal, sei birichino.’
‘Don’t know what you’re talking about. I dug her vegetable garden, that’s all,’ Massimo muttered. ‘I’m tired. We have an early start tomorrow.’
Salvo watched as his friend undressed, not commenting on the scratch marks on his back. ‘Your Molly, does she have a friend?’
‘Good night, Salvo. We have a field to plough in the morning.’ Massimo turned his back. Usually they shared each other’s confidences, having grown to be more than brothers. Massimo willed sleep to come so he wouldn’t have to talk to Salvo, but his thoughts were full of Molly writhing beneath him on the floor of her sitting room.
As he worked the field next morning, Massimo decided he wouldn’t visit her again. He wasn’t in love with Molly. She was a comfort, that was all. Their affair could only lead to trouble. Her neighbours were bound to notice his coming and going. Her husband would find out. Three lives could be ruined, not to mention the punishment meted out to himself if he was discovered fraternising, because even though he was now considered an ally, there were still rules. Strictly speaking, they were not even allowed to drink alcohol. The conduct of the Italians was always under scrutiny. Two weeks ago, a group of co-operators working on a farm across the valley had gone on strike, demanding better conditions and more pay. Massimo had listened to Mr and Mrs Spink discuss it in their kitchen.
‘Old Tom was irate,’ Arthur had said, ‘he wanted to send them packing. Said his three land girls worked harder than those Italian boys, and he didn’t see why he should have to pay them anything. That they were a drain on the country’s economy. Thank heavens our two aren’t shirkers.’
The Spinks had been good to them. Arthur had even hinted that there would be a job and a cottage on his land when the war was over, if he wanted to stay. Massimo was very fond of them. He’d welled up when Arthur, after a couple of glasses of home-made cider, had grasped hold of his arm and said, ‘You’re the son we never had. You’re part of our little family now, you know. We were too late to have any children of our own. You’re a godsend, my lad.’
Massimo wasn’t sure what he was going to do with his life if this war ever ended, but he knew, even if he were to choose to make a life in Suffolk, he would have to first pay a visit to Tramarecchia to check on his family. The Allies had been moving steadily northwards up and across the Apennines, but progress was slow, and fighting was bitter along the Gothic Line that ran straight through his area.
Poor Salvo had no idea if his loved ones were still alive in Sardinia. The news from Italy, broadcast on Arthur’s old wireless set in the evenings and on Radio Repubblica in the camp, was not good. There’d been mention of fierce fighting around Salvo’s home town. His parents were illiterate, so he’d never received a letter from them, and he was desperate to return. He talked to Massimo about the island; the sapphire-blue sea he swam in, the taste of prickly pears growing wild at the edge of the cliffs. However, they both avoided serious talk about fears for their respective families’ well-being, as if by unleashing these worries they’d turn into reality.
‘Porca Madonna, Massimo, you’re ploughing a wonky furrow,’ Salvo shouted, perching on the side of the tractor. ‘Let me take over. Where is your mind?’
Usually, Massimo was precise in his work, but he couldn’t stop thinking about Molly, how he wanted to see her again, how he didn’t.
‘It’s nothing, I have a headache, that’s all,’ Massimo said, climbing out of the seat to let Salvo take over.
‘More like ball-ache,’ his friend said. ‘I think your heart is lovesick.’
‘Molly is nothing to me.’
‘She doesn’t have to mean anything, my friend. If somebody offers you a whole load of lemons, then it is time to make liquore—’
‘Are we going to plough this field today or not?’ Massimo interrupted. Salvo laughed as he turned the ignition and for two hours they worked in silence, concentrating on the task in hand.
‘Seriously, Massimo, be careful. Occhio!’ Salvo said as they walked back to their stable room later that afternoon. ‘Women can be trouble. Is Molly really worth it? She’s married.’
‘I know.’
It was a relief to share his thoughts, and after Massimo had confided in his friend, they returned to their usual, easy patter together.
‘If she’s all right about it, and you are straightforward with her, then where is the harm? Just ration yourself, that’s all,’ Salvo reasoned. ‘Take comfort from each other. Porca Madonna, who knows if we shall be alive tomorrow? A bomb could drop on the camp or on our stable and that would be it. Finito!’
That evening, they cooked together over the open fire in the stable using the same method as their mothers back home, turning the meat over hot ashes. Salvo had snared a rabbit a couple of days earlier and they skinned the foraged animal, chopping it into pieces, adding sage, salt and rosemary for seasoning.
‘A pity we have no wine to wash this down with,’ Salvo said. ‘I’ve been thinking of distilling pears to make a liqueur. I could sell it in camp. What do you reckon?’
‘I reckon you could do anything you put your mind to, Salvo,’ Massimo laughed. ‘But you’d need to get hold of alcohol first. How are you going to do that?’
‘Fermented fruit and yeast, my friend. I need to get cosy with a baker’s daughter…’
‘Or signora Spink. Maybe she would like to taste your liqueurs!’
They chatted for a little while about recipes. Massimo’s mother produced peach-leaf liqueur every year, steeping one hundred new leaves in alcohol for one hundred days, adding sugar and shaking the mix once a day. Salvo’s favourite was his mother’s basil liqueur.
That night Massimo slept straight away, tired from hard work, his mind easy after coming to the decision to only visit Molly from time to time.
Despite his best intentions, Molly came to find him the fo
llowing Sunday. He and Salvo had slept in late and Massimo was shaving in front of a cracked mirror leaning against the pump, his shirt off and foam lathered onto his face.
‘I won’t come near you with that stuff plastered on you,’ she said, plonking herself down on the chair outside the door. ‘My feet are killing me. Been all over the place looking for you. I went to the camp first,’ she said, pulling Denis out of the pram and onto her lap. She undid her blouse and started to feed him. ‘Friendly lot, ain’t they? They all wanted to kiss and cuddle the little beggar. I’ve learned how to say bel bimbo and carino.’
‘Brava,’ Salvo said. ‘You will soon be fluent.’ He winked at Massimo.
‘They miss their families, don’t they?’ Molly continued. ‘One of your friends showed me a photo of his kiddywinks. Bless ’em.’
‘We all miss our families, Molly,’ Massimo said, ‘of course we do.’ He took Denis from her and held him up in the air above his head, so that the baby squealed with delight.
Molly watched him. ‘He’ll be sick all over you. Hand him over.’ He passed the baby back and then she said, ‘My family kicked me out when I was fourteen. I don’t miss ’em one jot. Been fending for meself ever since.’
The two men looked at each other.
‘Well, Molly,’ Salvo said. ‘I’ll leave you to talk alone to Massimo.’ Turning to his friend, he frowned a warning, and Massimo held up his hand, indicating for him to stay, but Salvo winked and moved away.
‘Why haven’t you popped round?’ Molly asked, when Salvo was out of earshot.
He paused. ‘It’s best,’ he said.
‘Best for you or best for me?’ she asked, switching Denis to her other breast.
‘Molly, you are married. Your husband…’
‘My hubby ain’t here and I don’t know when or if he’s ever coming back.’
‘But…’ he began.
‘Forget about buts. Buts go nowhere.’ She looked at him. ‘Massi, do you like me?’
‘Of course I like you,’ he replied. There was nothing not to like about her; she was pretty, fun and brazen – and unlike any of the girls he’d met back home.
‘Well, I like you too. In fact, I think you’re a bit of all right. So, where’s the harm?’
‘I no want to hurt you.’ He wasn’t sure how to tell her he liked her but didn’t love her, but she saved him from this.
‘There’s a war on. I’m lonely. You’re lonely. A bit of hanky-panky will do us both good. No strings, Massi.’
‘Hanky-panky? Strings?’ He frowned. English was so difficult.
She smiled and lowered her voice. ‘What we did the other day was hanky-panky. And it doesn’t matter, Massi. You don’t owe me nuffink… what I mean is, you don’t ’ave to marry me ’cos I’m married already, ain’t I? And if Ken turns up, so much the better, and then you can bugger off.’
He was once again lost for words with this girl, offering sex to him as if it was something like brushing your teeth or combing your hair. It was lust before love; basic, unromantic. But he wasn’t complaining.
She pulled a couple of small tins from her bag with the brand, Peacocks, printed across the lids. ‘And in case you’re worried – these are for you. I got them from one of the GIs – standard issue for the soldiers, he said.’
He took the contraceptives from her. He wanted to laugh at her sexual appetite. Instead, after she’d tucked Denis back into the pram and told him she’d see him next Sunday, he said, ‘See you!’
And without saying another word, she pushed the pram away, turning to wave before setting off down the dusty track behind the stables.
Salvo reappeared almost immediately. ‘Just make sure she hasn’t got the pox,’ he said, adding, ‘You’re a lucky bastard.’
The war dragged on for another year and a half, until 8 May 1945, when Churchill announced VE Day. A big party was arranged in the centre of Bungay a few days later, beneath the Buttermarket and down the length of the high street, everybody contributing what they could: a plate of corned beef sandwiches, cakes or a hoarded bottle of beer to put on the tables.
Salvo and Massimo hadn’t technically been classed as prisoners since 1943, but they weren’t civilians either. A few people still resented ‘the Eyeties’ being there, while others were fond of them and welcomed them to the party. Now described as co-belligerents, but indispensable for covering labour shortages, it conveniently took several months for the British authorities to arrange repatriation.
Molly was not the only woman on the platform at Diss railway station on a warm day in spring 1946 when Massimo and another hundred or so Italian POWs waited for the train to begin their long journey back to Italy. Dotted about the platform, each couple was entwined like ivy round a tree. Salvo had left two months earlier on compassionate grounds, having received a message from a cousin that his father was on his deathbed and his mother was too old to look after the rest of the family. Massimo had already said his emotional goodbyes to Ma and Pa Spink, as he now fondly called them, with promises to write and maybe return to work on the farm again if life didn’t work out back in Tuscany. They’d known about Molly and Massimo for a while, and they’d offered to look after Denis for an hour, so that Molly could accompany Massimo to the station.
Molly was crying. ‘Lor’ love-a-duck,’ she said through her snivels. ‘I promised meself I wouldn’t blub, but I’m going to miss you so much, Massi.’ She clung to him like she would never let go. They’d become almost like a couple, both understanding there were no strings, or at least that was what they’d told each other. But he was fond of her and Denis. The little boy was now a lively toddler, helping or hindering Massimo when he worked on Molly’s garden. Massimo had carved him a little train set in his spare time, and learned more words of English through the child. ‘Say ta, Denis,’ Molly said. And he’d learned how to sing a couple of English songs. Molly might not be a good wife, but she was a good mother. There had still been no word from Ken, and she spoke less and less about when he would come back.
‘I will write to you, Molly,’ he said, cupping her wet cheeks in his hands. ‘And once Ken returns, you’ll forget all about me.’
‘If he returns. And I’ll never forget you. Never in a million years. Don’t talk rot.’ She tucked an envelope into his trouser pocket. ‘Here,’ she said, ‘take this to remind yourself of us. It’s a photo I had done.’
But once he set foot on the ferry and crossed the blue-grey sea, it felt like the severing of shackles. He kept the photo in his wallet and glanced at it from time to time. The photo was taken in another world. He wouldn’t forget Molly and Denis, but he felt little loyalty to them. He had been a prisoner since 1941, and it was time to start afresh. Selfish as it might have seemed, Massimo’s intention to return to his village took first place. He needed to be back with his own family, to help them after their gruelling years under occupation. He needed to start down the road of peace.
Eleven
Tuscany, 1946
Each man was handed 10,000 lire as he set foot on Italian soil, and was then left to his own devices. Massimo bought a ticket to travel on a goods train from Rome to Arezzo, and he gazed through the window in horror at the devastation of his homeland. A start had been made on reconstruction and work on new blocks of flats had begun next to charred ruins, some walls half standing like grotesque sculptures, a reminder of the relentless bombing raids. There were piles of rubble and broken masonry in each town the train passed through. Bullet holes had pierced train signs and windows were boarded up where glass had once been. The people waiting on the platforms were mostly thin, shabby shadows. A few fields had been planted with corn, the cobs beginning to sprout. The train chugged past straggling vineyards in need of tending, but he noticed one or two hillsides where vines had been pruned and tied.
He’d forgotten how warm his country could be. His head drooped with fatigue and he dozed as the train rumbled on through the countryside. When he woke, a middle-aged woman passed him a bottle of
water.
‘Fresh from our spring,’ she said, as he swigged, grateful for her kindness. ‘Are you hungry, caro?’
She mothered him for the rest of the bone-shaking journey, passing him a heel of unsalted, home-made bread, harder than an English loaf, but perfect for soaking up the oil from slices of roasted aubergines and peppers that she shared. Once or twice, she fed a handful of maize to two hens in a woven basket below her wooden seat. ‘I’m taking these to my daughter,’ she said. ‘She’s with child and wants me to cook chicken broth.’
There were no questions from the woman about his war, where he had been and where he was going. She shared what she had without prejudice or suspicion. And it was good to be reacquainted with this gregarious side of the Italian character as she chatted about her vegetable garden, how it had done well this year, and the pig they were fattening up for New Year. As he listened to her sing-song voice, he realised how he had missed the easy Italian way of striking up conversation with strangers.
He slept that night on a bench in Arezzo station because he had missed the once-a-day transport to Sansepolcro, the main city nearest his village. Mosquitoes bothered him with their high-pitched whine and when he awoke, the exposed skin on his arms, hands and face was covered in welts.
After a cup of strong coffee and a sugary brioche from a bar, he wandered into the centre. His bus left at three thirty, and he had a few hours to kill. On the walls of the station he made out a faded fascist slogan: ‘WE WILL CONQUER’, with a painted line crossed through the writing. He wondered about the brave individual responsible for defacing the sign. Maybe a young man or woman – he’d heard talk of many female partisans – had stolen in under cover of darkness to pull down posters of Il Duce and leave messages of defiance. His war in the prison camps had been a different experience. He needed to catch up on the happenings in his homeland.