by Ellie Dean
He ate the delicious pasta, content just to listen as she chattered away to his parents in fluent Italian. Small and dark-haired, with a raucous laugh and fearsome Irish temper – he guessed a legacy from her mother – Rita Smith had been a part of his life as far back as he could remember. He’d pulled her pigtails at school and teased her with dead frogs, earning himself many a deserved clip round the ear. They’d played in the street together, made secret camps out near the airfield, and sat next to one another in church. Rita was two years younger, but she could give as good as she got, and it had sometimes galled him to discover she could climb trees and race along the cobbles much faster than he – and that she could fight like a boy when necessary and knew more about engines than he’d ever learn.
He bit down on the grin as he finished the pasta and wiped the bowl clean with a bit of bread. Rita was a tomboy, racing about on that infernal motorbike in her leather trousers and ridiculous goggles, and there were times when he wished she’d just be a girl – but, he admitted, he loved her the way she was, and hoped that one day she might think of him as more than a brother, and love him back.
Roberto pushed his plate aside and sipped his wine. He held few illusions about his chances with Rita, for he was no handsome hero, nothing special – just a nineteen-year-old youth who would one day inherit the family café – if it survived the war and the strict rationing which had begun in January. He was of average height with the dark hair of his father and the creamy skin and blue eyes of his mother which, but for fate, might have made him handsome.
He fingered the scar that puckered his brow and eyelid. The childhood accident with a gas boiler had left him blind in his right eye, the scar a permanent reminder of that day. But not all the scars were visible. He was all too aware of the curious looks he still got, of the almost imperceptible shudder of the girls he tried to impress, and the fact that even now it set him apart. For, when he’d gone to enlist, they’d turned him down for active service, and he’d had to watch his friends excitedly leave for war while he had to settle for working in the canteen at the local hospital, and a position with the local Defence Volunteers along with his father and all the other old men.
The bitterness of his situation caught him unawares and he lit a cigarette to mask his emotions. There were others far worse off than he; he should be grateful he hadn’t been blinded in both eyes and had half his face blown off. At least he got to wear a uniform of sorts and was doing his bit to protect the vast sprawl of important factories on the other side of town from enemy raids, which were expected at any moment.
The meal continued in the usual leisurely fashion, even though there was no soft mozzarella cheese, no fruit or dark, rich olives to eat with salty biscuits and slivers of hard, strong-tasting parmesan cheese. The quiet chatter continued around him in the homely, loving atmosphere of the candlelit room and Roberto was reminded of all the other nights he’d sat at this table, and prayed that the war wouldn’t change things too much, and that it would soon be over.
With the blackout curtains closed, the room was like a cave, his mother’s brightly coloured home-made tablecloth, napkins and cushion covers adding a touch of further warmth to the ambient glow of the range and the candles on the table. The room where he’d once played as a toddler on the worn rug before the range was sparsely furnished. Apart from the table and chairs, there were two comfortable armchairs placed before the range, pictures of Naples on the walls, and a treasured statuette of the Madonna and Child taking pride of place on the mantelpiece. To Roberto, who had never been to Naples, it was a tiny corner of Italy, and he knew Rita felt the same, for it had become her second home.
His father finally pushed back from the table and lit a cigarette as Rita and Louise gathered up the dishes and put the kettle on to boil. There was no rich, dark coffee to finish the meal, no little almond biscotti to dip in it, but they’d become inured to the English habit of drinking tea – even though it was often as weak as the dishwater in his mother’s kitchen sink.
Antonino was off duty tonight, but Roberto was already dressed in his Defence Volunteer’s uniform, ready to leave the house in an hour’s time for his late-night stint of fire-watch duty on the new factory estate. The nine o’clock news would be on the wireless soon and his father was, as usual, twiddling with the knobs to try and get a better reception. He caught Rita’s eye as she stacked the clean plates in the rack above the wooden draining board, and they shared a knowing grin. Papa was forever messing about with the wireless, and it was a miracle the damn thing still worked at all.
The sound of concert music drifted into the homely room as his mother made a pot of tea and finally sat down. Rita hung the cloth above the range to dry just as the tranquillity was shattered by the sound of heavy bombers taking off from the nearby airfield. They were heading south again for another raid on enemy ports.
They all looked up, not voicing their fears for the young men who flew so bravely towards conflict, but silently praying they would all return safely. There had been no serious enemy attacks on England so far, but with the Nazis now in Denmark, Norway, France, Belgium, Luxembourg and the Netherlands, it could only be a matter of time.
The music came to an end and the pips sounded, heralding the news. They sat facing the wireless which was perched on a cupboard next to the range, hoping beyond hope that for once there would be good tidings.
The solemn announcement stunned them. Italy had declared war on Britain and France.
‘Oh, dear God,’ breathed Louise through trembling fingers. Her blue eyes were bright with tears as she looked at her husband. ‘What does this mean, Tino?’
He took her hands and gently held them to his heart. ‘I don’t know,’ he murmured, ‘but I think it will not be good for us.’
‘But we are not at war with this country,’ she protested, snatching her hands away. ‘We have no allegiance with Germany’s Nazis. You and Roberto are with the Defence Volunteers. We will be all right, yes, Tino? Promise me, we’ll be all right.’
Roberto was as shocked as his parents, but he couldn’t bear to see his mother so distraught. He swiftly moved to her side and put his hand on her shoulder. ‘Papa has lived here for over forty years,’ he said calmly in Italian. ‘He married you, an English girl, and together you have run a good, honest business in this town. We have broken no law. We are not fascists, and have never got involved with politics. We will be fine.’
His soothing words and quiet manner had little effect on his mother, whose fear was palpable as she clung to him and his father. He glanced swiftly at Rita, who was ashen-faced and clearly as upset as his mother – though she was able to keep her emotions in some kind of check for once.
Louise wrung her hands, her face twisted in anguish. ‘I want to believe you, Roberto, but I remember what happened to the German families in the first war,’ she sobbed. ‘The mobs came and smashed their houses and shops, calling them terrible names, dragging them out into the streets and setting fire to their homes.’
‘It won’t happen here,’ said Rita firmly. ‘You’ve been a part of this community all your life, just as I have. They know and respect you, and . . .’
The sound of smashing glass interrupted her and all eyes turned towards the front of the house.
Before Roberto could stop her, Rita had rushed to the window to peek between the blackout curtains, and he had to drag her back out of sight of the mob that was gathering in the street below. ‘Get on the floor,’ he barked, ‘and stay away from the window.’
‘What is it?’ shrieked Louise as Antonino bundled her into a corner. ‘What’s happening?’
A brick came crashing through the window and Louise screamed as it landed with a thud in the middle of the kitchen table, scattering glasses, the red wine spilling across the tablecloth like blood, candles toppling, flames spluttering and dying in the deluge.
Roberto and his father shielded the cowering women as a cobblestone exploded through the glass and bounced across the carpet.
He felt Rita wince, and in the flickering light of the range fire, saw blood on her face and realised a tiny shard of glass was embedded in her cheek. With infinite care he plucked it out and made a pad of his handkerchief which he ordered her to hold against the wound.
‘We have to get them out of the house,’ he said urgently to his father.
‘They’ll be safer staying up here,’ Antonino replied grimly. ‘Come on, Louise, let’s get you and Rita into the bedroom and away from that window.’
‘I’m not hiding away up here while that mob chucks bricks through your windows,’ stormed Rita as she wrestled from Roberto’s embrace. ‘I recognise at least two of them, and if it’s a fight they want, then I’m quite willing to give them one.’ She reached for the poker and curled her fist around the handle.
‘You will stay in the bedroom,’ ordered Antonino as he snatched the poker from her and pushed them both out of the room. ‘This is for the men to settle.’
Roberto could see Rita was ready to argue the point. ‘He’s right,’ he said, grabbing his mother’s heavy wooden rolling pin which was the only weapon to hand. ‘Mamma must not be left alone, and we need you to look after her.’
‘But . . .’
The sound of hammering and the splintering of wood silenced her. They were breaking down the café door. Roberto and his father headed for the landing. ‘Silencio!’ roared Antonino over his shoulder. ‘You will stay with Mamma.’
‘No,’ pleaded Louise. ‘They will kill you. Come back, come back.’
Her cries were ignored as the two men thundered down the stairs ready to do battle.
The mob was smaller than it sounded, but they were a rough lot, intent upon venting their spleen as the café door finally yielded to their heavy boots and the window was divested of its glass. They poured into the small café wielding spades and clubs and yelling obscenities.
Roberto stood beside his father, ready to protect their property. ‘Get out of my café,’ yelled Antonino, ‘or I will call the police.’
‘The rozzers ain’t interested in protecting Nazi sympathisers,’ growled their spokesman – a large, swarthy individual who was well known in the neighbourhood for drunken brawling.
‘We’re not Nazis,’ snapped Roberto.
A club smashed through the glass of the counter. Another swept through the shelves of cordial bottles and jars of sweets, and from the streets came more men, drunk on ale, and the promise of a bit of excitement.
The ringleader grinned as he towered over Antonino. ‘You ain’t gunna stop ’em,’ he said with a snarl. ‘And when they’ve done with down ’ere, they’ll be setting fire to this place. It’s the best way to get rid of vermin.’
Roberto shoved the man back, making him stumble, but he was surprisingly nimble and the right hook seemed to come from nowhere. Within seconds he and his father were embroiled in a vicious fight for survival, with fists and boots flying. But, inch by inch they were being forced into a corner of the café, and with rising panic, Roberto realised there could be no escape – there were just too many of them.
Rita could hear the terrible noise downstairs as she grimly held a sobbing, terrified Louise. She was furious at what was happening to the Minelli family business, and had been quite prepared to help defend it – but was wise enough to realise she wouldn’t have stood a chance. From her brief glance through the window, the mob seemed to consist mainly of known troublemakers, rough types who drank hard and fought hard – men who had few allegiances to anything but beer and fist fights.
As she and Louise huddled in the corner of the bedroom, the sounds worsened from below. The yelling had grown and was more menacing as it was accompanied by smashing glass and splintering wood which drowned out the Minellis’ attempts to shout for calm.
Rita knew she couldn’t just sit here and wait for the mob to burn the place down. ‘I need to see what’s happening.’
‘No, no, Rita. We must stay here.’ Louise’s clutching fingers bit into her arm.
Rita firmly prised her fingers away and gathered the older woman into her arms, rocking her like a child until her sobbing had subsided. But at every thud and every crash she could feel Louise wince as she moaned, and Rita’s own fear escalated. It sounded like a fearsome battle and she was as terrified as Louise, but she simply couldn’t sit here any longer.
Moving away from Louise, and deaf to her pleas to return immediately, she left the bedroom. Carefully stepping over the shattered glass on the carpet, she risked another peek through the blackout curtains.
‘Get away from there, Rita Smith,’ came a voice out of the darkness. ‘You don’t want to get involved with those greasy eyetie Nazis.’
‘Yeah, get out, Rita, if you know what’s good for you. We’re going to burn this place down.’
Rita was shaking with anger as well as fear as she recognised some of the hate-filled faces that looked up at her from the street. They were men she’d known since childhood – men who’d used the garage and café and had passed the time of day with Antonino and his son quite happily before the war. And yet they were now part of a mob, seemingly intent upon carnage.
‘Go home, and leave us alone!’ she yelled. ‘I’ve called the police.’ She hadn’t, of course, Antonino didn’t possess a telephone, but she hoped it would be enough to make them stop.
They took no notice of her and continued to smash up the café. There was a roar of jubilation from below as something heavy crashed to the ground amid the splinter of broken glass. And Rita could clearly hear the scuff of heavy boots and the thud of what she suspected were wrestling bodies being thrust against the walls and the door that led to the stairs.
‘You’re a bunch of cowards,’ she yelled through the shattered window. ‘You should be ashamed of yourselves.’
One of the men separated from the others and stood looking up at her. ‘You should watch what yer say, Rita Smith. Talk like that could get you into trouble – and we all know where you live.’
Her heart was hammering and her mouth was dry. The threat had been all too real, and she knew the man was perfectly capable of carrying it out – his wife often turned up at the factory with a black eye. She melted behind the curtain, her legs threatening to give way as she stumbled back to the bedroom.
‘You shouldn’t have said such things,’ sobbed Louise. ‘It only stirs them up.’
Rita admitted to herself that Louise was probably right, but she stayed silent and held the other woman close, the fear growing with each crash and blow, her gaze fixed to the far door in dread. Men drunk on power and ale were capable of terrible things; she’d seen fights in the streets after closing time – had heard some awful stories from the women she worked with in the factory. But these were their neighbours – surely they wouldn’t set fire to the house knowing she and Louise were up here?
‘There’s a fight outside the ice-cream shop,’ came an excited yell from the street. ‘Gino and a bunch of dagos have got together and our blokes need some help. Come quick before you miss out.’
Rita felt Louise stiffen. Gino and his six burly brothers ran several successful businesses in the town including a butcher’s and market garden – they were distant cousins of Antonino, with wives and young families to protect.
‘Oh, Rita,’ Louise moaned. ‘What is to happen to us all?’
‘I’m sure the police will deal with it,’ said Rita with more certainty than she felt. ‘Gino and his brothers are big men and perfectly capable of handling themselves in a fight.’ She didn’t like to voice her concern that there had been no sign of the local policeman – or even some offer of help from those who lived nearby. It had also gone far too quiet downstairs now the mob had raced off.
She tiptoed across the main room to the door that opened onto the landing and, with Louise cowering behind her, hesitated at the top of the stairs. There were no yells or scuffles, no sound of thudding boots and breaking glass.
But then the door opened at the bottom of the stairs and a shadowy figur
e appeared.
Rita stifled a cry of alarm and stepped back into the shadows, keeping Louise behind her. There was nothing up here to use in defence. They were trapped.
‘It’s all right, cara,’ said Antonino with great weariness. ‘They are gone. It is safe now.’
Rita and Louise raced down the stairs and Louise flung herself into Antonino’s arms, the relief so great they could barely speak.
‘Come,’ said Antonino softly. ‘We will go upstairs and rest. I am very tired and Roberto needs some attention to his face.’
Rita couldn’t see much in the dim light of the stairwell, and it wasn’t until they reached the main room and collapsed into the chairs that she realised how battered they were.
‘Oh, my God,’ breathed Louise. ‘Antonino, Roberto. What have they done to you?’ She stroked their battered faces as if her touch could heal them, and then rushed for clean cloths and a bowl of water.
Rita placed a cool damp cloth over the swelling on Roberto’s cheekbone and tried not to wince at the amount of blood coming from his nose and the cuts on his chin.
‘It looks worse than it is,’ he said with forced cheerfulness as he took the cloth from her. ‘See to Papa, Rita. Mamma is too shaken by everything and needs to sit down.’
Rita nodded and, having pressed a distressed Louise into a chair, hurried to help clean the older man’s wounds and put ointment on the swellings that were already darkening into bruises. Louise was weeping and wringing her hands as she muttered to herself, and Rita was shocked at how badly she’d been affected. This was not the calm, stoic Louise she’d known all her life and she feared that the events of this evening had sent her over the edge.
‘How much damage has been done?’ she murmured to Antonino.
‘Too much,’ he muttered. ‘A life’s work ruined in minutes.’ He shook his head in confusion. ‘I don’t understand these people. Why do they do these things? Since when are we their enemy?’