by Nadia Marks
‘It seems to me that the world is full of madmen,’ she replied wistfully and looked up at the diamond sky. ‘Why can’t people just live in peace? Why so much hatred and pain?’
‘You have a lot to learn, Ourania mou,’ Michalis replied gently. ‘The world is a hard place, you don’t have to go further than this island, this country, to see the division and hatred between people who don’t share the same views.’
But even if Ourania’s knowledge of politics and the wide world was limited, she knew more than he could imagine about intolerance, prejudice, superstition, and the human condition and its perils.
Part Three
Naples, Italy, 1944
1
The first time he saw her was from behind. She was standing with her back to him in front of a vast stone sink in the old kitchen, washing a pile of pots and pans with water heated in a kettle. She stood in a shaft of light which streamed through the high window, dust particles gyrating in a synchronized sun-dance all around her. Her hair, a mass of dark curls, was held back with a pink ribbon matching the apron she was wearing, which was wrapped tightly around her waist, tied into a big floppy bow that hung over the hollow of her back and onto her rounded buttocks. He noticed that her bare legs, the colour of ripened wheat, were covered to knee length by a floral-patterned dress and that her shoes had seen better days. He stood motionless, thinking that if he as much as blinked he would cause her to vanish and Signora Philomena would appear in the girl’s place.
He stood staring at her for some moments, until, as always seems to happen, the girl became aware of being watched and turned around. It would have been hard to say which of them looked more flustered. She blushed a rosy pink to match her apron and Alexis felt beads of sweat break out on his brow.
‘Scusa, Signore,’ she stammered, casting her eyes down and starting to wipe her hands on the apron.
Alexis was lost for words. He leaned on the doorframe to steady himself. The girl who was now facing him had reminded him so much of Ourania that for a crazy second, a wild moment of lapsed reasoning and logic, he had fancied that when she turned around it was going to be her standing there.
She was quite lovely, this girl. Huge, brown, sorrowful eyes dominated her face. It was the kind of beauty Alexis understood, a familiar kind of beauty that spoke to him. But she was not Ourania.
He’d met many girls over the years. There were always plenty to be found when the soldiers were on leave and all willing to please. War seemed to have such a liberating effect on people and the paradox never ceased to amaze Alexis. Once in a while he’d meet a girl who stirred something in him and then he would give in, and let his youthful lust take hold of him, but always the memory of his cousin lingered. Throughout the eight years of separation from Ourania, Alexis had never met anyone who moved him as much, until right then in the old kitchen; the girl standing in front of him in her apron and old shoes made his pulse race in a way it hadn’t since he had left the island.
‘Buongiorno,’ he finally said, finding the use of his vocal cords again. ‘Where is the Signora?’ he continued in Italian, not knowing what else to say.
‘She is feeling ill today, signore,’ the girl replied shyly in the Neapolitan dialect. ‘Signora Philomena, she is my aunt, she has sent me in her place.’
The Signora was a warm, friendly woman, who reminded Alexis of his own mother. She had been their housekeeper for a few months now; she came to the HQ every day without fail, always alone. She cooked and cleaned, and she was well liked by all the officers, even if most of them couldn’t say more than arrivederci to her. All verbal communications were made through Alexis, as a result of his duties as the Allied Intelligence Unit’s translator.
Any volunteers who possessed some kind of linguistic skill were considered a great asset to the war effort, as both Alexis and Costandis discovered soon after they enlisted. Anyone with more than a slight grasp of a foreign language was often directed into the British intelligence corps to act as a translator. Since both boys fell into the category of linguists, they were sent off for a few months of basic infantry and intelligence training, before being dispatched to their overseas posts. Alexis’s most recent posting was to Naples, by way of North Africa, where he put his small understanding of Arabic to good use. Italian, he found from his time on The Doric, was quite easy and similar to Greek, so in the few months since he’d been in Italy he’d become almost fluent.
By the time Alexis arrived in Naples in January 1944, Italy had already signed an armistice with the Allies, yet the devastation he encountered was enormous. What the Allies had left standing, the retreating Germans had razed to the ground, leaving the city in ruins. Huge bomb craters, rubble and debris blocked the streets, with cars, trams, all kinds of vehicles left abandoned and the entire urban infrastructure demolished.
Air raids had destroyed the main water supplies, and people were forced to distil seawater for drinking and cooking – if they could find anything to cook. Neapolitans resorted to combing the countryside for anything edible and had even been forced to start eating the animals in the zoological gardens and fish from the city’s tropical aquarium. An unbearable stench from the damaged sewers hovered in the air like a grim reminder of the city’s general decay. It was by far the worst war experience Alexis had encountered.
Amongst the devastation a few buildings were still standing and one of those, a former palazzo, had been commandeered by the FSO and British Intelligence for their HQ. It was in a dilapidated state, cockroaches and mice had been permanent tenants there for years, and its past grandeur was only detectable from the marble staircase, high ceilings decorated with mouldings, huge gilded mirrors and lavish chandeliers. But compared to the rest of the city it was still a palace, and Alexis was more than relieved to be stationed there.
Theirs was a small unit with much work to be done. The Anglo-American alliance had prompted many people to start offering their services as informers, apparently out of gratitude for what they considered their liberation. It transpired that many of the volunteers had previously been working with the fascists, so all names had to be checked and vetted, a tedious task which was passed down to Alexis, who at twenty-four was the youngest in the unit. But it wasn’t all dull desk work; since his main responsibility was translating between civilians and his officers, Alexis was regularly taken out on field work around the city and the neighbouring countryside and villages. If Signora Philomena reminded Alexis of his own mother, and her cooking transported him back to Aphrodite’s kitchen, then the local citizens of Naples reminded him of the ones he’d left behind on the island. He felt a close affinity towards these Neapolitans who were so much like his folk back home, the people he loved and longed to be with, but had no idea when, or if, he’d ever see again.
Alexis continued standing in the old kitchen in awkward silence, trying to think of what to say next to the girl across the room.
‘Oh, I see . . . your aunt,’ he eventually heard himself speak. ‘Did she say how long she will be away? Er, does she need a doctor?’
‘I don’t know, signore,’ the girl replied, ‘she was unwell in the night. We see how she is tomorrow. My name is Rosaria, signore,’ she said again shyly and walked towards Alexis to shake his hand.
‘Pleased to meet you, Rosaria, my name is Alexis,’ he replied, snapping out of his predicament and taking her hand in his. He held it like a small bird, still damp from the washing up, and wished he could have kept it there forever.
He no longer wanted to know or cared how long Signora Philomena was going to be absent. He just wanted to stay holding Rosaria’s hand for as long as possible because she was making his heart beat in an old forgotten rhythm he hadn’t heard in years and which he was now welcoming back with joy.
2
After that first meeting Alexis couldn’t get the girl out of his mind and did his utmost to be in her presence whenever possible. He seemed to have an inbuilt ‘Rosaria radar’ and was able to locate whichever part of the
building she was working in and strike up a conversation. Rosaria on the other hand seemed to lose the power of speech in Alexis’s presence and flushed rosy pink at the very sight of him.
Apparently, in typical Neapolitan style, no one at HQ had been informed about the girl replacing Signora Philomena; Rosaria just turned up and started working there. As it transpired, the Signora’s condition had worsened and to Alexis’s delight her niece would continue working there until her recovery.
Since the unit consisted of only twelve men, it was inevitable that friendships would develop between them, and Alexis had become particularly friendly with two English soldiers, Tim Anderson and John Simons. Just a couple of years older than himself they had become to Alexis almost what Costandis had been to him the years before the war. Once the two friends got a whiff that Alexis was sweet on the new housemaid, they never missed an opportunity to rag him about it.
‘She’s a beauty that one, better be quick and ask her out,’ was Tim’s initial advice.
‘If you don’t hurry up I’ll do it,’ added John. ‘You know what these Italian wenches are like, anything in a uniform . . .’
‘I can see she’s got it bad for you, Alexis, my old mate,’ Tim teased, giving Alexis a slap on the back. ‘Better strike while the iron’s hot.’
‘Stop pussy-footing about, man, and get in there, she’s pining for you, can’t you see?’ the ragging continued.
Alexis took his friends’ affable jesting in good humour but ignored any advice they had for him. He knew all too well what their attitude towards women was like: bed them, have your fun and then move on to the next one. Besides, Alexis wasn’t at all sure if Rosaria was sweet on him too. What he did know was that he’d fallen for her and that she was the only girl who interested him. But Rosaria appeared to be unlike the majority of Neapolitan girls, who, as Tim suggested, were eager to throw themselves at anything in a uniform. She kept herself to herself, got on with her work and possessed a shy dignity that seemed to keep the men at bay. Conversation with any of them had to go through Alexis, which he looked forward to more than any other duty. Those conversations had also become the highlight of Rosaria’s day and the main reason she got up in the mornings. She liked Alexis more than she would ever dare to admit.
The majority of Allied soldiers she encountered frightened her, they were either alarmingly white-skinned with cold, pale eyes, or big as mountains and black as ebony, and they all made her nervous. He was different, his gentle manner made her feel safe, protected and at ease and when she was with him she could forget her troubles. Even though Rosaria was falling in love she would not, could not, allow herself to admit it. She knew it would only lead to disaster.
Having Rosaria around made all the difference to Alexis’s frame of mind. As the months passed and the first signs of spring appeared, a new, more positive mood was beginning to take hold of the city. It was as if the entire population of Naples simultaneously inhaled as much oxygen as they could into their lungs and with a synchronized exhalation attempted to rid themselves of all the toxic waste they had been carrying inside them for so long.
Windows and doors were flung open to welcome light into the damp dark rooms, and the start of a communal spring clean began to take place. Carpets, mattresses, sheets and blankets were being hung out, exposed to the long-awaited sunshine. Rosaria too joined in this seasonal ritual, unfastening long-closed windows to give the palazzo a good airing.
‘We are welcoming the new season,’ she explained to Alexis when he asked what was going on. ‘It’s good luck to make a fresh start. This place hasn’t been properly cleaned in years.’
Rosaria took her work seriously, arriving punctually each morning to take up her duties, starting at the top of the villa and working her way down to the old kitchen to begin the day’s cooking. She was an imaginative cook and performed miracles with the food rations and meagre supplies available to her. Flour and water were her main ingredients, and pasta and pizza her main dishes. Alexis had never tasted pasta like Rosaria’s. His mother and aunt made it at home too and as a little boy he often watched them rolling the pasta and laying it out to dry, but he didn’t remember it ever tasting as good as Rosaria’s. He didn’t know if it was the tomato sauce she served on it from tomatoes grown in the yard or his constant hunger that made it taste so delicious.
The kitchen was Alexis’s favourite meeting place with her, but Rosaria too looked forward to his visits and especially to the days when he was required to drive her to the market.
‘How come you are such a good cook?’ Alexis had asked, surprised to see she was as good as her aunt.
‘Maybe because my aunt taught me. Or because I love it, but probably because I’ve been doing it since I was seven years old,’ she replied, but volunteered no more information.
As the initial shock and chaos began to subside, the people of Naples were gradually venturing out into the squares along with a variety of vendors who were out selling their disparate selection of goods. A little local produce was starting to make its appearance, even if black market prices made it almost impossible for most people to afford it. Black marketeering was at its peak, with stalls displaying and selling anything from stolen American cigarettes to tins of food. Soldiers often turned a blind eye to these petty thefts, choosing to concentrate on bigger things, such as the shiploads of army goods that were continually going missing, mainly controlled by the Camorra, Naples’ home-grown mafia. Many ships were loaded with medical provisions, penicillin being the most popular on the black market for the treatment of syphilis, which nearing the end of the war had reached crisis proportions.
But people didn’t seem to care, the sun was finally out and the first warm rays caused the girls to shed their winter garments, which were often made from old curtains or blankets, exposing flesh, which they unashamedly flaunted at any soldier who happened to pass by. Prostitution had been rife all through the war in Italy; it had become a means of survival, and the trading of sexual favours for food was a common enough occurrence. Alexis and his friends were not strangers to it and although he was disturbed when he first encountered it, he too had become immune like everyone else.
The first time he was blatantly propositioned by a woman was in broad daylight, while he sat in a cafe with Charles Irvin, his commanding officer. After a demanding morning both men were in need of a moment’s peace and a strong glass of something. They had been called out very early to a nearby village to deal with an incident involving an old man and his underage granddaughter who, he claimed, had been raped repeatedly by four Allied soldiers, and had begun screaming the place down wanting to kill them all and demanding compensation. He had barricaded the soldiers in his barn and was threatening to hack them to pieces with an old meat cleaver.
As it turned out the old man had been trying to sell the girl, a small emaciated thing of no more than twelve years old, to one of the soldiers, who foolishly allowed the old man to engage him in conversation, oblivious to what he was saying. Not speaking the language the soldier hadn’t a clue what the old man was suggesting until finally the message got through and everything turned ugly.
‘You have no idea what these people are capable of,’ Charles Irvin had told Alexis over a glass of what was supposed to be grappa but tasted more like surgical spirit. ‘They’d sell their grandmother, or in this case their granddaughter, for a tin of bully beef. But what can we do, they are all so desperate?’
Charles Irvin had been in mid-sentence when Alexis saw a woman approach their table. He’d noticed her earlier standing by the entrance of the cafe. In fact Alexis had thought that something about her reminded him of his mother or his Auntie Chrisoula, as women in these parts often did. She was not young, probably in her forties, dressed in a threadbare housecoat and carrying a shopping basket as if she was going to the market. She walked purposefully across the room towards their table and stood very close; Alexis could feel her thigh pressing inappropriately against his arm. Then, looking at both of them
, first at the commanding officer and then at Alexis, the woman asked very softly and politely, as if she was doing nothing more than taking their order or enquiring about the price of fish, if by any chance either of them would care to have sex with her in return for some of their food rations. The mouthful of drink that Alexis had just taken suddenly and violently became expelled from his mouth and sprayed all over the woman’s arm and dress. Taking this as a reply of refusal she turned around and walked out of the cafe as quietly as she’d come in. It took Alexis a good while before he recovered his composure and was able to speak again. This time there was no need to translate to his commanding officer what had been said; apparently he, unlike Alexis, had heard it all before.
‘What did I tell you?’ was Charles Irvin’s only comment.
After that first encounter Alexis found that such incidents were all too common. Apart from the traditional sex trade – brothels, pimps and street walkers – otherwise decent women, ordinary housewives, were forced to offer their bodies or their children’s, to any willing member of the Allied forces in exchange for a few tins of food to feed their families. It was an act that repulsed and saddened him and he was sickened to see some of his fellow soldiers eagerly take advantage of the situation.
If these women, he wondered, were driven to such desperate measures, what was happening back home? How was the war affecting everyone there, how were his mother, Ourania and everyone he loved coping? Rosaria’s resemblance to his cousin had reawakened so many feelings in him. Thoughts of home started to torment him and he worried afresh about what his family might be suffering at the hands of the Germans. He had had no communication with any of them for so long that even the memory of their voices was starting to fade. He hoped and prayed that the island had been relatively safe due to its remote location, but he had no way of knowing.