The Girl from the Paradise Ballroom (26 page)

As he said it Antonio felt a terrible desire to speak Olivia's name, to taste it in his mouth as two hours ago he had tasted her skin. I could tell Filomena, he thought, she would understand, she would not judge me. Instead he said, impulsively: “I was wrong to stop you marrying your Englishman. I liked him, he is a good man. He would have made you a good husband.”

He thought that Filomena would weep with a kind of delayed gratitude, but she did not. Her mouth twisted into a bitter little smile, and she got to her feet.

“Well, it is too late for that now.” She slid her apron over her head. “Stan will never be a good husband, not to me, not to anyone. He was killed last month in Norway. I had the news from his mother.”

“Mena! And you told nobody?”

Filomena's mouth gave another twist. “Who was there to tell? You? Papa?” She took her knife and her chopping board from the drawer. “And now I am going to make the supper.”

“That is kind of you, Mena, but I do not think I can swallow anything—”

“Neither can I,” said Filomena, slicing through an onion with savage precision, “but when you do not know what the future holds, Antonio, it is better to greet it with a full stomach.”

They came for Antonio at first light on that mild June morning, just as Constable Sellers had warned. Their booted footsteps in the corridor woke Renata, who, remembering Bruno's disappearance, began to howl.

Antonio picked up the suitcase he had packed the night before. It was an old suitcase, bought in Rome twenty years ago, the metal corners scuffed from a history of quaysides and luggage racks and station platforms. In it he had put a warm jersey for Enrico and a snapshot of Valentino.

“I've prepared some food,” said Filomena. “Bread and cheese, and a few slices of sausage.”

She could see the policemen eyeing her, unnerved by Renata's monstrous wailing. Their wariness sparked Filomena's pride. She was not a hysteric, she knew how to conduct herself. Tightening her lips she embraced Antonio, awkwardly because he had his suitcase in one hand.

Antonio patted her on the shoulder. The night had been hard and sleepless; now that the men had come he felt easier, as though the trial before him had begun. “Where are you taking me?” he asked.

The men exchanged glances before one of them said: “To the police station first. Then there are collection points, while the authorities check who's who. You will be well treated, my friend. Don't be afraid.”

“I'm not afraid. I want to find my father, that is all. He was arrested in the Italian hospital last night.” He smiled at Filomena. “Don't fret, Mena. I will write as soon as I can. You had better go and comfort Renata. Stop her wailing fit to wake the dead.”

Filomena did not trust herself to speak. She clasped her brother in her arms for a long charged moment; then she turned away, so that she would not see the policemen lead him from the house.

Antonio spent the
day in the police station, herded with the others who had been arrested in the dawn raids. The cell was so crowded they had to stand, jostling one another for half inches of space. The next morning they were moved to the Brompton Oratory School in Chelsea. As Antonio entered the building he remembered taking the bus to Dickie Belvoir's flat beside the river, to rehearse Olivia's song.
Oh, she doth teach the torches to burn bright.
He pushed the memory away. If he once allowed himself to think about Olivia he would be lost.

In the school hall he found Bruno, sitting cross-legged on the parquet floor. There was a nervous look about him, the look of a man who would jump at a car backfiring, not the bold patriot who had fought in Abyssinia. He had not seen Enrico, either in the police station or elsewhere in the school.

“What are they going to do with us, Antonino?” he asked. Antonio shrugged.

“I don't know. I don't think they know themselves. They can't hold tribunals, there are too many of us. I daresay they'll move us on once they've found somewhere to put us.”

Antonio was right. Three days later they found themselves on a train with fifty or so other men. The nameplates had been removed from the stations they passed—a precaution against invasion—but Antonio had the impression that they were traveling north. He looked through the black-smeared window at the fields bowling past, moist and green in the June sunshine, studded with graceful ancient trees. Then the fields gave way to factories and dense brick houses, blocked as far as the horizon, and a pungent smell of smoke seeped into the carriage.

The camp where they were heading was a disused cotton mill, not far from Liverpool. Warth Mills had been commandeered hastily, and rusty machinery and cotton waste still littered the floors. The cracked skylights let in the cold and rain—for it was raining now, inexorable English drizzle, not warm and drama laden like the storms of Lazio. Antonio and Bruno were given a pair of blankets each; then they went to queue for their evening meal, bread and a small hunk of cheese.

“And no friendly glass of grappa to wash it down, alas,” a voice said in Antonio's ear. It was Peppino, the waiter from La Rondine.

“Peppino! But you hate the
duce
. Why have they arrested you?”

“I am a communist, my friend. There are powers in this country that, much as they fear Hitler and Mussolini, fear the Russians even more.” Peppino gave his wolfish smile, displaying his long white canines. “Meanwhile you will observe that we have been herded together with Nazis as well as refugees. There's a whole troop of sleek young Germans from one of Hitler's merchant ships. They do not care, these British. We are foreigners, that's what counts, and all foreigners are the same.”

“They are disorganized, that is all. Disorganized and frightened.”

“You are too trusting, my friend,” said Peppino. “You always were.” Contemptuously he held out his metal cup for some tea, thin and over-brewed. “By the way, Antonio, you know that your father is here, don't you?”

Antonio found Enrico wedged into a corner beneath one of the cracked skylights, wrapped in a gray blanket. The crucifix and the coral horn about his neck quivered as he struggled for breath. When he saw his son his eyes filled with tears.

“Oh, Papa,” said Antonio, crouching beside his father on the damp floorboards, “I have been praying that I would find you.” Enrico's hand was leathery and familiar, a hand that he had touched all his life, a hand he remembered from walking through the village in Lazio, with the foam of oleanders upon the trees and the shriek of crickets. “Everything will be all right. Bruno is here, my friend Peppino is here. We will take care of you now.”

Enrico did not speak. He leaned his cheek against Antonio's shoulder as though he no longer had the strength to remain separate, but had to rely on the heartbeat of his son to keep him alive.

That night, as Antonio lay listening to the scuttle of rats, he heard a crash in the darkness. Nobody could see what had happened but next morning one of the Nazis—a sailor from the captured merchant ship—appeared with a black eye. Later, as he was fetching water for Enrico, Antonio saw that Peppino's knuckles were red and bruised. There was a gleam in his eyes, though, as if it had been worth it.

There was a
strange normality about Old Compton Street the day after Mussolini's declaration of war. In some places the pavement was scattered with glass and splintered wood, but most of the shops had opened, and there were people milling peaceably in and out as if nothing had changed. Olivia picked her way along the street, looking for Ricci's café. It was only half past ten, but she had been awake half the night and when dawn broke she had not been able to sit still anywhere in the house. Every room was like a cage, hemming her in. Bernard was asleep in his study when she left. He had come home at three in the morning; she had heard him clatter into the drawing room to pour himself a whisky. Her first instinct was to run to him and beg him to protect Antonio, but she stopped herself. He will guess the truth, she thought, I will not be able to hide it, not now, not tonight. Better to wait and find out what has happened.

She passed a men's clothing shop, with white starched collars on display. Outside the spaghetti house next door, a man in overalls was sweeping broken glass from the curb. He touched his cap politely to Olivia. All I want is to see Antonio, she thought. We do not have to speak, we do not have to touch. One glimpse of him, that is all, to know that he is safe. Her face felt stiff from lack of sleep, as though her skull was too large for her skin, stretching it like a canvas over her forehead.

At last she caught sight of the sign—Ricci's—and her heart leaped. Then she saw that the café was closed. The front window had been smashed, cracks radiating from a jagged hole in the glass. It was boarded up, clumsily, so that it was difficult to see inside. Olivia took a breath. Well, it does not matter, she thought, I can wait for him. It is not yet eleven. That's what he said: eleven o'clock, tomorrow or the next day. He knows I will be here; sooner or later he will come.

She turned toward Charing Cross Road. “The battle of Soho,” a billboard on the corner proclaimed. A cluster of men huddled there, brandishing a newspaper, arguing. One of them glanced at Olivia, incongruous in her smart expensive clothes. Perhaps he thinks I'm a spy, she thought. The idea gave her a salty irrational pleasure. Somewhere in Soho a clock struck eleven. Olivia looked back at Ricci's café. It was still closed, still silent. He is late, that is all, she thought. He may be with his father in hospital, it may be that the police are questioning him. There are a dozen reasons why he has not yet arrived. I have to be patient.

The man with the newspaper was eyeing her again. It was wartime, nobody's business was private, you could be cautioned for all kinds of suspicious behavior, taking photographs, loitering. She wished there were an inconspicuous place where she could sit. As she thought this, she saw a figure moving in the depths of the café, a slim girl, dressed in black. Olivia did not hesitate. She ran across the pavement and began to rattle at the locked door.

“Hallo?” she called. “Hallo?”

Nothing happened; the figure beside the counter did not move. Olivia rattled again. At last a dark-haired girl, no more than sixteen, inched open the door. Her eyes were swollen and she had a bewildered expression on her face.

“We're closed,” she said, with a strong Italian accent.

“Yes, I can see that, but I wondered—I have arranged to meet someone here. His name is Trombetta, Antonio Trombetta, you may know him—”

“Antonio? No, I have not seen him. I cannot help you, I am sorry.” The girl made to close the door. Olivia sprang forward, grasping the frame with her gloved hand.

“He will be here soon, I am sure of it. If I could come in and wait—”

“Please go away. My aunt is not well, we do not want to be disturbed. My uncle Carlo was arrested last night. The police came and took him. They have taken all the men.”

“Where?” said Olivia. “Where have they taken them?”

The girl shook her head. “We do not know. They are gone, that is all. Now please, whoever you are, leave us in peace.”

The mass arrest of foreigners was causing difficulties for the British government. All the internment camps were overcrowded, and there were fears of what would happen in an invasion. The Germans had marched into Paris on June 14; soon there would be nothing to prevent Hitler from turning the full power of the Wehrmacht on Britain. Who knew what damage these enemy aliens might do, rising up to welcome their fellow fascists? Dark visions of Quisling and his Norwegian traitors, of the Dutch Nazis with their death lists, haunted the war cabinet. Churchill wanted to deport all internees from the United Kingdom. Several destinations were proposed—Newfoundland, perhaps, or St. Helena. In the end the Canadian government was pressed into accepting four thousand men. The first ships—passenger liners commandeered by the army—were made ready in Liverpool docks.

At Warth Mills, Antonio was absorbed in caring for his father. Enrico could not stir now without straining for breath. He lay on his blanket beneath the cracked skylight, cradling the photograph of Valentino. The only time his face lit up was when Antonio talked to him of Valentino: tales of his brother's mischievous childhood, fantasies of what he might be doing at this moment in Lazio. He will be eating his supper in my sister Paolina's kitchen, Papa, slurping his spaghetti to make the children laugh. He will be smoking a cigarette beside the fountain in the square, surrounded by the young men from the village. You know what Valentino is like, he makes friends wherever he goes.

When Enrico was sleeping Antonio spent his time with Bruno and Peppino, playing cards or walking in the dilapidated mill yard. The building was encircled by two barbed wire fences; in between you could see the guards on patrol. As bored as we are, Antonio thought, and probably as edgy, not knowing what will happen next.

The rumors began slowly, trickling through the camp. Peppino got the story from one of the orderlies, a fellow communist named Charlie who slipped him extra rations.

“We're moving on,” he whispered to Antonio. “Charlie doesn't know where, but there's a batch of men going. Maybe as soon as tomorrow.”

“They can't move Papa tomorrow,” said Antonio. “He won't be well enough.” Peppino gave the vaguest of shrugs. They both knew that all the time in the world would not improve Enrico's condition.

The following morning guards began to march decisively through the camp, calling out names from a list. When the men answered, they were handed papers and ordered to gather their belongings.

Peppino was one of the first to be picked out. “And what, may I ask, will our destination be?” he asked, showing his teeth. “Should I pack my winter or my summer wardrobe?”

The guard pretended not to hear. Examining his list he pronounced Bruno's name in a loud flat voice. Bruno let out a whimper.

“Courage,” said Antonio, “courage, my friend. You will not be going far.”

Bruno began to weep, wiping his face clumsily with the back of one hand. With the other he was struggling to unfasten his suitcase. “It is my son. I am afraid that I will never see my son. Antonio, I should have married your sister, I should have married Filomena. Renata is a foolish woman, she will get something wrong—”

“Of course you will see your child. We will soon be free again, this cursed war cannot last forever—”

“Hush, Antonio.” Peppino gripped him by the shoulder. “Listen.”

The guard's voice was tinged with impatience. He was calling Enrico's name. The old man looked up as eagerly as an infant who wants to please.

“I am here,” he said. “I am Enrico Trombetta.”

Antonio sprang to his feet. “You cannot take my father, he is not well enough. Look at him. He can barely stand.”

The guard glanced stonily at Enrico. “His name is on the list,” he said, brandishing a sheet of paper, too quickly and too far off for Antonio to see. “Help him get his things together. We'll be setting off in the next hour.”

“What about me? My name is also Trombetta: Antonio Trombetta. Am I on the list too?”

The guard hesitated before looking at the paper. From the subtle change in his expression Antonio guessed that his own name was not there.

“But I have to go with him. My father cannot travel alone, he will not survive—”

“Nothing doing, I'm afraid. We've been told to pick out these men and no more.” The guard relented, and in a gentler voice he said: “I'd pack some warm clothes for your father if I were you. He's got a long journey ahead.”

Antonio sank to his knees. For the first time since his arrest, despair overwhelmed him.

“Where are we going, Antonino?” asked Enrico. “Where are they sending us now?”

“I do not know, Papa.” The words were like ashes in Antonio's mouth. His father gave him a trusting smile.

“Do not be unhappy. We will be all right. You will be with me, won't you, my son?”

They were beginning to round up the chosen men, chivvying them toward the yard. Peppino tried to linger, but the guards could see that he had packed his belongings, and they moved him on. Antonio threw open the suitcase he had brought from Frith Street and flung everything he could see into it, shirts, jerseys, underclothes, the photograph of Valentino. His eyes were half-blind with tears.

“Let's be having you,” one of the guards said, lifting Enrico by the elbow. “There's a train to be caught, we can't wait all day.”

A bewildered expression crossed Enrico's face as the guard pulled him away. “Antonino! Where are you? Aren't you coming too?”

Panic seized Antonio. He saw Bruno bend to lift his suitcase, and reaching out he grasped his arm.

“Bruno, my old friend, my countryman. Do me a kindness. Papa cannot go alone, it will destroy him. Change places with me.”

“But we will be punished…,” said Bruno.

“They will not find out, there are too many of us.” Antonio's fingers were tight on his wrist now. “Give me your papers, Bruno, for God's sake. Give me your papers, and let me go in your place.”

The internees were
taken by rail to the Liverpool docks, drab and breezy in the June afternoon. Enrico leaned against Antonio's shoulder. He was silent except for the hiss in his throat as he struggled for breath.

“Perhaps they are taking us to the Isle of Man,” Antonio said to Peppino, as they were marched toward the quayside. “That is where my old singing teacher, Herr Fischer, has been interned.”

He adjusted the jersey his father was wearing, to shield him against the biting wind from the sea. The jersey had been knitted by Filomena, and the ribbing at the neck was loose and uneven. At least in a proper camp we can settle, he thought. We do not need much, we have never needed much, we can build a life for ourselves anywhere. He did not say, even to himself, And Papa will be able to die in peace, but the thought was a shadow on the edges of his mind.

They had reached the quayside. Berthed there was a passenger liner, its funnels painted gray, its portholes a dark, opaque blue. There were two guns mounted on its decks, one a cannon, the other an antiaircraft gun. Scores of men were trailing up the gangplank past the barbed wire barricades. On the vast side of the ship Antonio could see its name:
Arandora Star.

Peppino grimaced. “That is an oceangoing liner. It must be at least fifteen thousand tons. I fear, Antonio my friend, that we are going a little further than the Isle of Man.”