Westburn Blues E-Book

Jim Ellis

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Dante Rinaldi is born to Italian immigrants in the West of Scotland. Stranded by World War Two in Italy during a summer with his grandfather, Dante grows roots in his family's rural homeland and, as a young adult, identifies with a band of mountain partisans fighting the fascists.

Young love delayed and the Rinaldis' struggles in post-war Scotland carry Dante into the life of Chris McCoull: a neglected adolescent who finds his calling and romance while working for a Greek-owned shipping line.

Carefully researched and historically detailed, Westburn Blues is a rendering of the Scottish-Italian experience and filled with a cast of colorful characters... from sympathetic to truly evil.

Leseprobe

Westburn Blues

Jim Ellis

Copyright (C) 2018 Jim Ellis

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Cover Mint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Acknowledgements

Thanks to Cynthia Weiner, for her support and encouragement; and a warm thank you to Heidi Smith and Ethan James Clarke, Silver Jay Editing for their editing guidance and proofreading. A special thank you to my Good Lady, Jeannette.

Thanks to John Curran, Duncan Cameron and Teddy Hunter who put me in touch with local Scots-Italians. To Captain Roy Smith, formerly of Clan Line for seaboard life. And to Clive Service for restaurant and kitchen lore.

I'd like to thank the Scots-Italians who shared their family stories: Elsa Acerini; Mario Bacchi; Dante Biogoni; Vincent Caira; Luigi Guisti; Tony Matteo; Ciano Rebecchi; Aldo Spella; Roland Toma; Doris and Sandro Vanni.

For my friends Cello Toma, Joe Rossi and Hugh Church.

Chapter One

“Dante, go to soldier. In dugout behind cow shed,” Old Mario said.

“A soldier?”

“Talk. He is British, from Scotland.”

Mario gave Dante food wrapped in a clean dish towel, a jug of milk. “Agate milked the cow,” he said, and handed Dante a flask of his own red wine. “Feed him.”

Sergeant Alfred Forte, Seaforth Highlanders, came from Kempock, the small town next to Westburn. In July, Germans had captured Fred in Sicily and transferred him to Italian custody to a POW camp near Rome.

Italy signed an armistice with the Allies in September 1943, taking her forces out of the war. The guards had vanished, and Fred had walked out of the camp. He'd no desire to be taken again by German forces occupying Italy and sent to a POW camp in Germany.

Dante and Fred weighed each other up. Fred wore ancient countryman's work clothes, a stout navy cotton jacket and grey cotton trousers, a black beret placed straight on his head—kit given him by friendly Italians when he went on the run and passed from hand to hand, sending him on to Liguira and Garbugliago. His broken footwear, with a dirty sock protruding from the cracked upper of the left boot and a gap between the sole and the upper of the right, told of his long hike, two hundred miles through the Apennines to his father's village.

The time in captivity had affected Fred, sapping his self-confidence, making him wary, afraid of recapture. The long walk up the Italian Peninsula, often navigating by night, had reduced him to skin and bone, draining the fighting spirit right out of him. In the flickering light of a candle made by Old Mario from sheep fat, a dishevelled, gaunt man, not yet twenty-five, stared at Dante. Fred cowered at the back of the dugout, holding a thick wooden shaft, trying to merge with the bales of straw, rough wooden plough, firewood pollarded from olive and chestnut trees, scythes, spades, hoes, a thresher, flails, rakes.

Dante, sixteen, was dressed in the torn remains of a velvet suit jacket bought by his grandmother before wartime rationing bit, the sleeves finishing above his wrists, over a soiled blue shirt. Ragged velvet trousers hung at half-mast above rough-worn peasant's boots, repaired more than once by Old Mario, and now finally with wooden soles, shoe leather being impossible to find at this stage in the war. He shuffled under Fred's vacant gaze, glad that the foreigner couldn't see the holes in his socks.

“That stick in your hand,” Dante said. “Put it down.”

He said it again in English.

“Sorry,” Fred said.

Dante laid the food and drink on a roughhewn table. He pulled a stool and a bucket to the table.

“Sit down,” Dante said, pointing to the stool, and sat on the upturned bucket. Dung smell wafted in from the byre, but Fred was too hungry to notice.

Fred drank the milk in two gulps straight from the jug. He wiped his mouth with a soiled handkerchief, then rubbed his hands, took the clasp knife from Dante's hand, cut two thick slices from Agate's round loaf, piled hard cheese shavings on the bread, laid translucent wafers of cured ham over the cheese, and wolfed it down. He cut a slice of polenta into squares and popped them into his mouth, one after the other.

“Delicious,” Fred said. He took a long pull from the flask of Mario's sour red wine, then swallowed more. “Been a while since I had wine.”

“The ham,” Dante said, “is from wild boar. My grandfather shot one a while back; cured it himself in the stagionatura. He kept quiet about it. If the Fascists knew, they'd stop our meat ration.”

They spoke Italian. Dante held out his hand.

“I'm Dante Rinaldi. I'm from Westburn.” They shook hands.

“Alfredo Forte, from Kempock; call me Fred. My dad's Italian, and my mum's Scots; born in Kempock. But he's British; had a passport since they married.”

“How long have you been on the run?”

“About six weeks.”

He told Dante about his escape and the Italians who'd helped him along the way. “I'd never have made it without them. Makes me proud to be a Scots-Italian. I came here; it's where my family came from. I might try to get to Switzerland.”

When the Italian soldiers abandoned Passo Corese near Rome, there were 4,000 POWs; too many for a successful escape. With his Italian looks and fluent Italian, Fred reckoned he'd a better chance of getting away. He approached his C.O.; told him he had relatives in Liguria, living in Garbugliago, a village in the hills behind La Spezia and the Cinque Terra, who were bound to assist him to the Swiss border. The C.O. gave permission.

A friendly Italian soldier, a camp guard heading for home, gave Fred a school atlas.

“Leave before Germans come,” he said.

Fred exited the camp wearing his shabby battle dress that identified him as an escaped POW. He'd have to get rid of it. Navigating the Apennines running the length of the peninsula would be hard, but safer. He carried his few belongings in a sack with cloth shoulder straps cut from an abandoned shirt and sewn on with his service housewiff. Peasants who saw Fred, a soldier hiding from Germans and Fascists, pass while working their small holdings, fed and sheltered him. One family—the father had worked in Scotland—gave him work clothes, and he got rid of his British Army battle dress. Fred passed for Italian. A family of charcoal burners advised him to watch out for the hard fit men of the Guarde Forestale who might take him prisoner. Fred, ever on the alert, ignored the natural beauty of the mountains travelling northwest to Garbugliago.

“You look Italian; speak good Italian,” Dante said. “That must have helped.”

“It did. What about you? How did you end up here?”

“My grandparents had come back to Italy by the time I was born,” Dante said.

Old Mario and Agate had sold up in Westburn in 1925 and returned to Garbugliago. Agate melded with her village and never returned to Scotland, though she wrote often to her son, Luigi.

Dante's grandfather came back from Italy to Westburn in December 1938; his first visit since he had returned to Garbugliago. Old Mario intended taking his only grandson to Italy for several months to attend school, to spend the summer on the family small holding, and to become Italian.

Going back to Italy returned Mario Rinaldi to his peasant roots: his pale Westburn face retreated, and the Ligurian sun transformed his complexion to the colour of the family's polished mahogany table. Like the treasured, well-used furniture, his face showed signs of wear: the lined forehead; deep gashes on either side of his mouth that vanished into a full and luxuriant moustache with waxed, pointed ends. A sombre countenance under his habitual flat cap, a meagre dewlap, a thin fold of skin on his jaw, mouth working in small movements chewing and smoking twisted black stogies, thumbs hooked in waistcoat pockets, he might have passed for a rural Mafioso. Past seventy, Old Mario, a lean, muscular countryman, was strong as the mature chestnut trees bordering his small farm.

“I thought my grandfather was wonderful when I met him. He had a silver tongue.”

The twelve-year-old Dante had loved the stories about life on the farm: hunting wild boar, rabbit and hare; shooting birds; harvesting olives; picking grapes; milking the family's only cow; moving the handful of goats to fresh pastures; and Old Mario making and drinking grappa and wine.

Dante's parents did not want him marooned in Italy if war broke out. But Dante, full of boyish enthusiasm, pleaded, begged his parents to let him go.

“Only for summer holidays, Celestina,” Luigi said, always deferential to his father. So Dante went to Italy, but on condition that he return in August to Westburn for the new school term.

“My first time away from home and I never slept the night before we left,” Dante said. “In the mornin' I was goin' crazy wi' excitement.”

Dante and his grandfather left Westburn for Italy in January 1939. They spent four days on the train, crossing into Italy from France. Old Mario waved his passport.

“British and Germans, go to war,” he said. “Mussolini strong. Il Duce is clever, he join Germany. British lose war.”

Dante kept his British passport hidden in a linen pouch under his shirt.

“Old Mario, back then before the war, he was dead keen on Mussolini,” Dante said. “The war and the German Army cured him. I had no idea how much my life would change, an' no' for the better.”

Depressed and hungry from the wartime rationing, missing his family, Dante dwelt on the happy times in Westburn before the war.

“I never realised how much I liked Westburn. Someday, Ah hope I'll get home to my mum an' Graziella, my big sister.”

“What stopped you going home?” Fred asked.

In 1939, the British and French armies faced the German Army on the Siegfried Line. Skirmishes along the front and dogfights above the lines disturbed the calm of the “Phoney War.” By sea, the U-Boats attacked Allied ships: at the beginning of September, the U-30 torpedoed and sank SS Athenia with the loss of 98 lives. Two weeks later, the U-29 torpedoed and sank the carrier HMS Courageous. The family refused to risk Dante's life bringing him home by ship. Obtaining permission to leave Italy and travel overland into a war zone was not easy.

“Safer to stay here,” Dante said. “Then Italy declared war, and it was too late.”

“Bad, that was bad,” Fred said.

Poor grieving Dante could not understand why his country had made his father a prisoner for being an Italian. A man who'd fought on the Allied side against the Germans and Austrians in the Great War, surviving the horrors of the White War on the Dolomites, was wounded on the Piave. Dribs and drabs of worrisome news reached Garbugliago. Then, late in 1940, the letter from the Red Cross arrived telling him that his father had drowned when the Arandora Star went down a hundred and twenty-five miles west of Ireland. Old Mario and Agate mourned for their son, and they wept for their distraught grandson. Dante felt the British and the Germans murdered his dad. He raged for months afterwards, and he cursed the war, the British, the Germans, and Mussolini.

“My dad's dead; killed on that boat, the Arandora Star.” He wiped his eyes with his sleeve. Fred laid a hand on Dante's shoulder. He had much to tell Dante about the sinking of the ship, but not yet.

“God forgive me,” Dante said, “but when I thought about my dad, an' the disaster at Dunkirk, the Germans thumpin' us, the British an' the last of the French taken off the beaches on boats, I said the British had it comin'.”

“It's all right, son. I understand. Mum and Dad know your family,” Fred said. “Funny we never met; but then I'm older.” He wanted to cheer Dante up. “My dad used to take me to the Italian grocers in West Stewart Street. Did you ever go there?”

“Sometimes, for a treat,” Dante said. “I loved it.”

The Italian grocery in West Stewart Street, owned by a man from Garbugliago, had always been packed with a bounty of Italian delights: pasta, cured hams, rich-smelling cheeses, and the wine that the men drank when they played cards in the back shop reserved for the men. They played Scopa, a Neapolitan card game. Luigi took Dante among the men for almond biscuits, a cup of drinking chocolate, a spoonful of sweet jam or a dainty glazed fruit.

“I was there when the cops raided the shop,” Dante said. “They scared me. There was a right commotion.”

“That was in 1938,” Fred said.

“Yes.”

The police entered the shop looking for Fascists and Italian propaganda. All they found were old editions of Italian newspapers: Il Secolo, published in Genoa; La Nazione, the La Spezia daily. Near the wine racks they found bottles of Val Polcevera, Colli di Luni del Tugullio, and Riviera Ligure di Ponenti Golfo wrapped in ancient broadsheets of La Stampa and Corriera della Sera. They left the wine and removed the newsprint.

Most Italians in Scotland took little interest in politics in the homeland; they were glad to have done well and planned to stay in Scotland. But the British popular press described them as traitors. Some families recently arrived, sent wives and children back to Italy. The men stayed working. Italians worried more but carried on.

Fred handed the flask to Dante, who swallowed a mouthful or two of the red wine. He thought the boy might benefit from talking about his Westburn memories; and he could do with cheering up himself.

“Your grandfather told me he'd lived and worked in Westburn for many years.”

“That's right. My grandparents came over in the 1890s, but they came back here to Garbugliago before I was born. I first met Old Mario in 1938.”

* * *

In 1895 Dante's grandfather, and his new wife, Agate, six months pregnant, took to the road, leaving Italy to escape poverty and make a better life through hard work and thrift. The idea of Scotland, a faraway land of sea lochs and mountains on the West Coast, drew them. They came from Garbugliago. Mario and his wife walked most of the way, he taking casual work on farms and building sites, she seeking domestic work, cleaning, washing and ironing clothes to earn enough for the next stage of the journey north.

Three months after setting out, Mario and Agate arrived in Ostend. Luigi, their only son, was born, and they stayed several weeks.

“My dad was born in Belgium,” Dante said. “Old Mario made sure he was an Italian citizen.” Mario registered Luigi's birth with the Italian Consul in Brussels.

They took ship across the English Channel from Ostend to Dover. A moderate roughness of funds allowed them to travel third class by train from Dover to Carlisle where the surplus cash ran out. With enough money left to feed themselves, the Rinaldis walked across the border to Scotland. They liked the shore and the sea views as they travelled north along the West Coast. From the day they arrived on the outskirts, having passed through Kempock, Mario felt the tug of Westburn. Its natural beauty, the blue skies, the sweeping panorama of mountains and the river, delighted him. Mario decided to establish roots. Agate, weary and footsore, offered prayers of thanks for deliverance to San Giuseppe, Patron Saint of La Spezia.

A handful of Italian families had settled in Westburn. There was room for the Rinaldis, and Mario found employment.

The Rinaldis saved hard. In 1897, Mario rented premises near Cappelow park, home of Morton, football club. He opened Rinaldi's Café in Wee Dublin, the Irish quarter.

Mario, established in business, wrote to his relatives and friends telling them of his success. They followed him: a trickle of close-knit families bound by blood and hardship, settling among the Scots and the Irish, a connection between Westburn and Garbugliago that flourished into the twentieth century.

The café prospered, and in 1904 Mario sold the business in the East End to a distant cousin from Garbugliago. He moved to the edge of the West End, buying a tenement flat in Campbell Street, entered through a tiled close. He opened a posh café in Grey Place a few minutes' walk from his new house. By 1910, Rinaldi's Café had become a Westburn institution, popular with the genteel citizens.

“My family found Scotland strange when they arrived,” Fred said.

“So did my grandparents,” Dante said.

The Westburn Scots accepted the Italians as shopmen, recent arrivals, peasants who minded their own business, but they did not love them. They remained Italians with strange ways: talking foreign, reeking of garlic, eating outlandish food like fidelini and trenette, noodle lasagna made from chestnut flour, everything smothered in olive oil and funny-looking sauces.

“White worms and wee beasties covered wi' the boak,” one citizen of Westburn said.

Dante's father, Luigi, had a happy childhood in Westburn. He spent the last year of school at St Mary's, opened in 1909, built with monies donated by Scots-Irish Catholics. Mario Rinaldi gave what he could afford.

Luigi Rinaldi was proud of his fluent Italian, but thought that he belonged to Scotland; he spoke English with a Westburn accent.

“They had some terrible barneys wi' the Irish,” Dante said.

Fred nodded. “I heard about that.”

To the impoverished Irish, recent arrivals shunned by Presbyterians, the Italians were outsiders lower than themselves in the pecking order.

Agate clad Luigi for the winter, a self-conscious adolescent attending St Mary's in his Italian clothes: sturdy warm coat; long, woollen socks below his Nicky Tams and ankle boots; woollen scarf; and a large, flat, worsted cap.

“That's some fuckin' bunnet,” a bareheaded and threadbare Scots-Irish boy from the Vennel said one chilly morning.

Two Scots-Irish attacked Luigi, a better dressed and better off, but just Eyetie shite.

Luigi fought back, hammering one of his attackers. Brother Michael, the Irish assistant headmaster, pulled the boys apart, boxing ears, cuffing them. He lined them up and gave each of them six of the best with his well-used Loch Gelly tawse. Luigi and his tormentors nursed aching palms and blood-blistered wrists as they sat in class.

When Luigi got home, his mother's fingers fluttered above his injured eye, touched his split lip. She swallowed her tears as she applied a cold compress to Luigi's bruised face and swollen eye; dabbed iodine on his split lip. Agate held her son's battered hands. Her intake of breath whistled in Luigi's ears when she looked at the clusters of blood blisters and red lines erupting on the inside of Luigi's wrists.

“Mario look. This Brother Michael is barbaro. Insult family.”

“Si,” Luigi said. “Egli è merda.”

Agate told Mario to go to Brother Michael and tell him he must never beat their son again. Mario said no; he did not want a reputation as a troublesome foreigner. Agate defied her husband, and next day kept Luigi from school. Dressed in her Sunday clothes with hat and gloves, Agate slipped through the staff entrance of St Mary's and knocked on the door of the Brother's office.

The Brother, a haughty man, sat back in his chair and glowered across his desk at the Italian woman. Sure, hadn't he studied the Faith and been educated for teaching at the Irish College in Rome? He would deal with her.

“And who might you be?” he demanded.

“Mrs Rinaldi. Yesterday boys attack Luigi. You beat my son like animal. I keep him home. Never you do again.”

Brother Michael paused, sipped tea from the cup resting in the saucer on his desk, then raised weary eyes to the ceiling. His long sigh fractured the silence.

“I punished Rinaldi for fighting. If he misbehaves, I'll thrash him again.”

Agate pulled off her shoe, and balanced on tip-toe and shod foot, waved the sharp heel in his face.

“Stronzo!”

Brother Michael's jaw dropped. She had called him an arsehole.

“Get out of my office and don't come back.”

“Vaffanculo!”

Sweet Jesus; now she'd told him to fuck off.

Agate drove the heel of her shoe into the cup and saucer. Tea spilled on the desk and splashed onto the Brother's trousers; shards of broken china crashed to the floor.

“Luigi no come back. I take him to Protestant school. Husband, he go to Bishop; make troubles. Then he come for you.”

Brother Michael's superior would ream him out if he heard of the incident. The Brother's stomach heaved, terrified that Mario Rinaldi would black his eye; or worse, knock out his front teeth.

“Now, now, Mrs Rinaldi, we can't have that. Sure it'll do Luigi no good at all putting him among Protestants. If Luigi promises to behave, everything will be all right.”

“Luigi is good boy. No need promise.” Agate placed her shoe on the floor and slipped it on. She fixed Brother Michael with an icy stare, turned and left the office.

“He was a right bastard that Brother Michael,” Fred said. “An Irish nutter. He was headmaster in St Mary's when I was there; beat the Hell out of me a couple of times. The boys'll thank God he's retired and gone back to Ireland.”

Dante handed the flask to Fred.

“There's wine left. Finish it.”

“Thanks, son. Are you not tired?”

“Not me; I'd like to speak English now. It's been a long time.”

Fred said Okay. He liked Dante; a level-headed youth.

“Have you any idea how long I might be here?”

“Maybe a few days. When it's safe Ah'll be takin' you further up the mountain to Decimo, a hamlet, to hand you on to the Widow Murro. She'll hide you. There's Catholic partisans up there. After that, Ah don't know, an' it's better Ah don't know.”

Fred shook his head. Dante laughed.

“Don't worry, Fred. Ah've taken a couple of shot-down pilots up the mountain; one American and one British. Ah didn't need any help. Ah heard they got away.”

“Good, son. I'm in your hands. Tell your grandparents thanks for the food and wine. You'll come tomorrow?”

“Ah'll come in the evening with food and wine. You'll have to make what's left of the bread and cheese last until then. You've got water?”

“I've enough. I'll see you tomorrow. Good night, Dante.”

“Good night, Fred. Give me your boots. Ah'll ask ma grandfather to repair them. Ah enjoyed talkin' to you.”

The next evening, Dante came to the dugout.

“Only chestnuts, a handful of mushrooms and stale bread,” he said. “The ham's finished. Plenty of wine. Ma grandfather likes his wine.” He handed the food and the wine flask to Fred. Dante dug into the pocket of his ragged velvet jacket and produced a small bottle. “Grappa, made by ma grandfather.”

“That's good, son, thanks.” Fred drank the grappa. “Ah, strong stuff.” Fred wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “What was it like when you came here?”

“The first few months,” Dante said, “Ah loved hunting, helping on the farm. Ah could speak Italian like as if Ah was born here. Ah went to school; like primary school. It got iffy after the war started.”

The late winter and spring of 1939 in Garbugliago made Dante proud of his Italian heritage, but Old Mario flirted with Fascism; he enrolled Dante in the Avanguardista. The Fascists in Garbugliago had the people worked up when Mussolini declared war on the 10th of June 1940.

“Wear uniform today,” he said.

“Ah don't want to,” Dante said. “Ah hate it.”

Mario raised his hand to the boy, threatening to cuff him, and with Agate nodding approval, Dante changed into the black shirt, grey-green knee-length trousers and long socks. Mario completed his grandson's humiliation by placing a tasseled black fez at a jaunty angle on Dante's head.

“Arditi cap, worn by Italian storm troops,” he said. “When you are fourteen you join Figli Della Lupa; Sons of the She Wolf.”

They walked to the village, and Dante joined the detachment of Avanguardista marching in the square. Villagers, encouraged by local Fascists, cheered them.

Later, Mario took Dante, still wearing the Avanguardista uniform, to a place in the hills. Through binoculars they watched troops moving west along minor roads. Back in Garbugliago, rumours had spread of armoured cars on the streets of La Spezia.

Dante did not share his grandfather's excitement.

“Ah want to go home to ma Mum and Dad, and Graziella,” he told Old Mario, who just shook his head. Dante cried himself to sleep.

“For a while the war unsettled me,” Dante told Fred in the dugout.

Refugees from towns and villages near the front came to Garbugliago and nearby villages looking for a place to stay. Some people let rooms to these poor souls at exorbitant rents.

Dante asked Mario if they'd be having lodgers. Mario shook his head.

“No, but we help when we can. What they do to the refugees is wrong.”

The uncertainty hanging over Garbugliago during the early months of the war perplexed Dante. It was far from clear how the war would turn out; no one knew how it might end. Dante felt loyal to Italy. But he was a patriotic Scots-Italian true to Great Britain, and a frightened wee boy worried about his family back in Westburn.

He loathed the blackout. The laughter of young men and girls of the village hiding in the shadows scared him. Rumours swept through the mountains. Peasants who'd never been farther than La Spezia or Genoa terrified themselves, spreading stories of saboteurs guiding enemy bombers to targets.

Late in 1940, Italian forces suffered reverses in the Mediterranean, Ethiopia, the western desert, the Battle of Britain. But village families, decent folk, sympathised with Dante's plight, and were kind to him. He made friends at school.

Hardship crept in as the war went on. Schoolchildren gathered waste newsprint and paper to send to the Italian Army fighting with the German Army in Russia. The soldiers stuffed the paper inside their uniforms. Paper insulation was feeble protection against the Russian winter.

One morning in class, the teacher, a Fascist, pointed to Dante, “Inglesaccio; you are English bastard.”

“Ah'm no' English,” Dante said. “Ah'm British, and Ah'm a Scots-Italian.”

The teacher boxed Dante's ears for impertinence. He went home for the midday meal, and refused to go back to school. Old Mario examined Dante's bruised ears, took off his neckerchief and wiped away the tear stains on his grandson's face. His belief in Fascism had taken a knock. Later, three years of war and an occupying German Army killed off any lingering enthusiasm for Mussolini and his German allies.

Mario decided to act, unlike the time in Scotland when the assistant headmaster beat his son Luigi and he'd wanted to avoid trouble. Now he was home, in Italy.

“Come,” he said, and took Dante's hand. At the school gate, Mario watched a teacher supervise the assembly of pupils. “Is that him?”

“Yes,” Dante said.

Old Mario strode into the schoolyard, Dante trailing behind. He grabbed the teacher by the lapels and pulled him up on to his toes.

“Apologise, or I'll break your bones.” He waved a finger at the teacher. “Be quiet. Get the police or your Fascist friends, and I'll come for you. Now apologise to my grandson.” Mario pushed the teacher's face down, level with Dante's head.

“I'm sorry,” the teacher said.

“Now, Dante,” Old Mario said. “You go to class.”

After he turned thirteen, Dante left school to work on the farm, helping Mario and Agate live off the land as shortages spread. And with the war going against Italy, he didn't join Figli Della Lupa, Sons of the She Wolf. Day by day, the war affected Garbugliago. Eleven local men died in Russia; another was killed at El Alamein. A survivor said of the battle that the Germans deserted the Italians, leaving them to the mercy of the British Army.

“At times Ah didn't know whether Ah was comin' or goin'. One minute Ah was loyal to Italy; five minutes later I wanted to cheer the British. Ma friends here grieved for the dead, the wounded, and for the thousands of Italian prisoners of war.”

Dante grieved with them. He'd cheered when the Italians sank the old battleship, HMS Barham. And he celebrated the successes of the Decima Flottiglia attacking Allied shipping in the Mediterranean.

“Ah'm tellin' you, Fred; now Ah'm glad the British are winning.”

An awkward silence after the talk about life in Italy, and the war. A marching song popular with the Avanguardista celebrating the conquest of Abyssinia filled Dante's head; he hummed the tune as Fred devoured the last of the food.

“The tune,” Fred said, “I heard it back when I was on holiday in La Spezia before the war.”

“Fachetto Nero Del Abbesine,” Dante said. “A boy from Westburn, just back from Italy before war broke out, sang it one Saturday in the Italian school.”

Later that day, Dante sang it, and quite out of character, his father erupted.

“Be quiet,” he said, and cuffed Dante hard, boxing his ears and pushing his frightened son into a chair. Graziella, terrified, collapsed in tears.

“Shut up,” Luigi said. “Shame on you, singing of a bad war. What the Fascists do in Africa is terrible; a stain on Italy.”

Luigi pushed Celestina aside as she came into the living room, drawn by the commotion. In the hall he dried his eyes, then bolted the bathroom door, horrified at what he'd done. He washed his face, composed himself, and disgusted, left early for the shop.

Celestina sat on the settee.

“Come,” she said to her children, opening her arms, and they sat on either side of her. “Your singing, Dante; the song upset your father. He is a good man, and he loves you both with all his heart. In the White War, terrible things happened; your father suffered. That's why he doesn't go back to Italy, and he worries about us.”

Luigi walked to the shop, head down, ashamed of himself and concerned about Il Duce and the creeping influence of Fascism on the Scots-Italians. He worried about their vulnerability since the 1920 Aliens Order, placing his people under police surveillance, punished by deportation if they broke the law.

Long before Italy invaded Abyssinia, the Italian government spent money on Italians abroad: dining clubs for Scots-Italians, sporting events, Italian holidays for children. Luigi suspected that these stratagems legitimised the regime and indoctrinated children.

“No good will come of Mussolini's meddling,” Luigi muttered as he walked.

He would have nothing to do with events organised by Fascists—the fools who called Il Duce “the Messiah” who'd saved Italia from civil war.

Proud to be Scots and Italian, a volunteer for the Alpini, fighting by the side of the British and the French, Luigi had no desire to relive the fighting on the Izsonso. When Luigi heard of former Italian soldiers parading in uniform with Scots ex-servicemen, having foregone the regular olive green shirts of combat veterans for the black shirts of Fascism, he shook his head in disgust.

Some Scots-Italians yearned for their home villages and relatives. Luigi, proud of his Italian heritage but born in Belgium, and grown to manhood in Scotland, resisted the emotional pull of Italia. True, he had extended family in Liguria, and had spent brief furloughs from the front with them.

Luigi did not know the sunny uplands of Italy: the rhythms of the seasons, of sowing and harvesting, the beauty and vibrancy of the cities. He soldiered; an Alpini, for three years at the hell of the front.

After the war, married and settled down with Celestina in Westburn, Luigi often attended the Armistice Day service at Westburn Cenotaph, mourning alone for all the young men who had suffered and died in those terrible years.

He had to tell someone about the war; someone he trusted. When Luigi chose her, Celestina knew that he loved her.

In 1915 when Italy entered the Great War on the Allied side, Luigi, an Italian citizen, went to Italy and volunteered for the Alpini, elite mountain troops. By 1918, Luigi wanted an end to the fighting and the killing. Across No Man's Land, Austrians, Hungarians and Germans felt the same. One day, while attacking the Austrian lines, the machine guns and the rifles stopped. The silence halted the charging, scrambling Alpini line. Fifty yards to the front a helmeted head appeared above the rim of the Austrian trench; an officer yelled through a speaking trumpet, “Italians, go back; go back. You don't want to die.” Then, in a gesture of good faith, his machine gunners and riflemen shot high, and the Alpini returned to their lines.

Austrians and Italians worked against the killing: staging fake raids; observing informal truces to recover dead and wounded. Visits to the other side took place and gifts were exchanged.

“The white silk blouse I wear in the summer,” Celestina said, “I made it from an Austrian parachute flare. About Christmas time, a patrol came over to the Italian lines. An Austrian soldier gave the silk to your father, who gave him pipe tobacco and they drank grappa. Young men who'd rather have been home.”

Celestina left the room and came back with a brown leather photograph album.

“Your father's pictures from the war.” She withdrew a postcard-sized sepia print, and handed Dante a picture of his father. “Pietro, the mule, was his friend at the front, carrying food, water, weapons, ammunition. Your father grieved when a shell killed Pietro. Keep the picture.”

Dante saw his own likeness in his father's younger, smiling face, eyes shaded by the brim of his Alpini hat.

Celestina told Graziella and Dante that, in quiet moments on clear days, Luigi liked to borrow binoculars to look across sixty miles to Venice. Magnifying the beautiful skyline of the city let Luigi mull over four days on leave spent there, lifting him out of the squalor and brutality of the front.

September 1918, on the Piave River, a round from an Austrian trench mortar hit the position, blowing his comrade to bits; nothing left of him but shards of flesh and bone, tatters of uniform. The explosion hurled Luigi out of the trench. He was in shock, his right arm and leg lacerated by shrapnel. He spent four months in a military hospital. Released from the Italian Army, Luigi came home to Westburn in March 1919.

Home six weeks, often sunk in lethargy, Luigi refused to work in the family business, irritating his parents by sleeping late, walking around the town he loved, glad to be home, and in the evening drinking wine.

But the torment didn't stop; Luigi's parents, puffed up that their son had been a soldier of Italy, wouldn't let him forget the war.

“Italy give you medals,” Old Mario said. “You are hero.”

Luigi downed a tumblerful of wine, refilled the glass and drank it off.

“You have no fucking idea what you're talking about. If you mention the bloody war again, I'm leaving. I'll find work elsewhere.”

Although proud to have served in the Alpini, and to have fought elite German Alpenkorps and Austrian Kaiserjager, Luigi regretted what he'd had to do. The front terrified him, but to avoid death, he got a grip on himself.

“Let me tell you what it was like,” Luigi said.

He told them about the death of his friend Salvatore Giannini.

“He was a great chap; handsome. I spent a leave with him in the Cinque Terra. I wrote to his intended.”

August 1918, out on patrol, a barrage of daisy cutters bracketed the squad. Luigi made it back to the Italian lines. Salvatore, hit in the buttocks, did not. Luigi went out and carried him back to the trench. His shattered hips revealed exposed bone, joints and shredded flesh. Blood pumped out of him, staining the trench. Luigi knew that Salvatore would die in agony, but said he'd take him to a dressing station; it was hopeless.

“I'm done for, end it now,” Salvatore had said.

“I shot him. I killed my friend, then I tied his body to a mule and sent it to the rear for burial.”

Luigi refilled the tumbler with wine, and gulped it down.

“The wounds to my arm and leg got me out of the line; saved my life. Twenty-three when I got out of the hospital, and fucking ruined by the war. I'll never leave Westburn, and I won't go back to Italy.”

Agate sobbed; Mario blew his nose.

“I'll start work in the café tomorrow morning,” Luigi said.

“Graziella, Dante, after your father told me what happened to him in Italy and when he came home, he never again spoke to anyone about it,” Celestina said.

Dante knew that these were his father's last words on the war.

Luigi went to work again for his father in the posh café. The mood of the café and the daily routine helped him bury the war deep in his memory. The brilliant jars of boiled sweets lining glass shelves, the display of assorted chocolate and macaroons. The presentation of cakes and sweetmeats, the posters of the Ligurian Riviera. The comfortable basket chairs and tables. In the mornings, the soothing, rhythmic thump of the ice cream machine. Luigi smiled at Westburn's taste for weak coffee and milky tea; appetites for a dish of hot peas, Ninety-Nines and fruity drinks.

And here in the café, in the summer of 1919, he met Celestina Belando, from Martinello, a village near Garbugliago. She was an orphan who'd lived with an uncle, her father's brother, a poor man who sent her to Scotland in 1913 when she was thirteen.

Celestina had become a petite young woman, the respected and loved nanny to the children of a prosperous Italian family in Kempock, a small coastal town on the West Side next to Westburn. She visited the Rinaldi Café on her day off, and liked it when Luigi spoke to her in Italian.

Luigi became determined to woo Celestina, and one day asked her to walk with him. The next Sunday, he waited for her outside St. Ninian's and after Mass walked with her to Ashton to the house where she was nanny. He walked with her for many Sundays that summer. Celestina's employers thought that Luigi should have asked their permission. Old Mario heard about it.

“Forget this orphan. I find you a wife, from Garbugliago, not Martinello,” he said.

“Yes, good Italian girl from Garbugliago,” his mother said.

Luigi said nothing, and the next Sunday after Mass, by the new war memorial for the dead, the sun shining over the panorama of the river, Loch Long, the Holy Loch, and Loch Goil before them, Luigi asked Celestina to marry him. She smiled and said yes.

Luigi's parents protested, having assumed the right to arrange his marriage. Celestina's employers regarding her as family, wished that their permission had been sought. Celestina and Luigi married in September 1919; the families rallied, celebrating in style. Following Nuptial Mass in St. Ninian's, a hired coach took the bridal party and thirty guests to Casa Italia in Glasgow.

That first year of marriage, the young couple lived with Old Mario and Agate. A surface calm kept hidden the tensions that festered between the new bride and her mother-in-law sharing the same house. Agate's love for her son led to a veiled jealousy of Celestina. Old Mario kept out of the domestic tensions of the young couple living in the family home. And Luigi, while giving Celestina support in private, before and after he made love to her in their bedroom, would not take on his mother. Respect and love for her and a horror of rows held him back.

He'd had enough of quarrels in the Alpini, chafing under the petty tyranny of NCOs and the insane orders of officers. Agate's barbed remarks, her severe face, wounded Celestina; Luigi simmered with fury. They had to find their own place or risk a permanent breach with his mother. Luigi and Celestina resolved to open a new business, leaving the posh Rinaldi's Café in Grey Place, and be free from Old Mario's influence.

When Luigi broached the subject, his father, driven by Agate's shrill remarks, dismissed him. It vexed Celestina and drove Luigi to frenzy; he'd lie awake next to a slumbering Celestina, fantasising about putting down Old Mario and Agate.

Luigi and Celestina made love often: the sublime comfort and joy of each other's arms in the small hours when passion wakened them. And one morning as they dressed, she said, “I'm going to have a child.” Luigi, overcome with happiness, covered her in kisses, and tears.

“Celestina, you make me so happy,” he said.

Luigi and Celestina had their due: Old Mario augmented their savings, helping them to establish a new fish-and-chips shop. The couple rented a tenement apartment without bathroom, but with a WC. A kitchen cum living room, with black-leaded coal-fired range, a black cast iron sink with brass swan neck cold water tap.

Luigi and Celestina slept in the kitchen in a set-in bed hidden by a door. The bedroom had a set-in bed. The good room too, over-furnished and seldom used, had a set-in bed.

Graziella Rinaldi was born 20 August 1920, delivered by the midwife at the apartment above the fish-and-chip shop in Holmscroft Street. She was the first child and a much-loved daughter.

The Rinaldis lived beside their working-class customers in a grid of cobblestone streets packed with nineteenth century sandstone tenements. To the east lay the badlands of the Avenues, and to the west, a row of tenements with tiled closes occupied by respectable Presbyterians. In the heart of the grid stood the Clachan Bar where men drowned their sorrows.

The douce Scots and Scots-Irish neighbours were private folk who kept to themselves. In the maze of tenement closes, tramped earth drying greens, a builder's yard and several family shops, children capered. Girls played peever and beds, skipped with the rope; boys frolicked as soldiers and cowhands. The Tims and Blue Noses rubbed along, but sometimes the peace would fail. Then men, mad with drink, resumed the wars of religion.

Luigi and Celestina worked hard, starting the business with a coal-fired fryer, and when they could afford it, installing a three-pan, gas-fired fryer. Dante's father made aprons from potato sacks for the heavy work in the back shop, away from customers' eyes, preparing to open for business. Luigi Rinaldi respected his customers. In the front shop he dressed in a white apron, white shirt and black tie, standing behind the counter for frying and serving. He made excellent fish and chips: buying haddock, the finest cold-water fish, cooking the batter golden and crisp, the white flesh tender and moist, and Maris Pipers, the best potato for making perfect chips: crisp to bite on, hot and tasty on the inside.

The people of the neighbourhood flocked to Luigi's fish-and-chip shop. After a year or two, as they got to know and like the family, they asked for things, and Luigi responded. He stocked lemonade, cream soda, Irn Bru, dandelion and burdock; snacks made from sliced potatoes dipped in batter and deep fried, jars of pickled onions, mutton pies, and black pudding suppers. His ambition rose to opening a proper fish restaurant with dining booths and tables, but the Great Depression, the Hungry Thirties, and the war shattered his dreams.

Graziella adored Dante from the day of his birth on 12 November 1926. The big sister, six years older, took care of him as they grew up together. And Dante loved Graziella, looked up to her. Dante and Graziella made Catholic friends at school, and with Protestant children in the quadrant, when together they sang Christmas carols in the Salvation Army Hall opposite the chip shop.

The good years before the war: the happy time for Graziella and Dante, of parties in the Casa Italia where they met Italian children from all over the West Coast.

Families with a roughness sent their children to Italy each summer for a couple of months, but Luigi and Celestina kept Dante and Graziella in Westburn, instilling an Italian identity by sending them to the Italian School held each Saturday in the Westburn Hall that became a jazz club after the war. There, Graziella and Dante practised their Italian vocabulary.

Luigi prospered; he joined with a partner, Jimmy Adams, expanding his business to include importing and processing the finest beef dripping from Argentina, which they sold and distributed to fish restaurants throughout the West Coast. By 1936, Luigi and his partner had a hand in the distribution of fresh fish to the fish-and-chips shops south of Glasgow. Luigi wanted better accommodation for his family, but near to the chipper and the folk who made the business a quadrant institution. He moved the family west on Holmscroft Street, buying a three-bedroom apartment with a bathroom. The Rinaldis lived among the respectable Protestants of the tiled closes.

At seventeen, Graziella's father introduced Graziella to a Westburn Italian boy, Tony Rebecchi, like herself born in Scotland to Italian parents who came from Garbugliago. Within months they were in love. When Graziella turned eighteen and Tony twenty-one in the spring of 1938, they became engaged. Both families were happy. That autumn they married.

“It was a great wedding. Ah liked Tony,” Dante said. “Ma dad pushed the boat out; he hired the Casa Italia in Glasgow. Ah remember it well.”

Luigi Rinaldi and Tony's father provided cash for the young couple to open a café looking onto the river at Cardwell Bay. A year after it opened, Rebecchi's Café had become a popular gathering place for young people.

Britain declared war on Germany on 3 September 1939. Tony volunteered, finishing up in the Seaforth Highlanders, an infantry regiment.

“What happened in Scotland,” Dante asked, “when Italy declared war on Britain?”

“Turned real nasty for a while,” Fred said.

In 1940, twenty thousand Italians in the UK attended Fascist clubs for fellowship and friendship. The British knew the few Fascist leaders, but the Secret Service, MI5, considered all Italians a threat.

“ 'Collar the lot,' Churchill said. The police had taken your dad away, and the mob wrecked the family chipper in Holmscroft Street, terrifying your Mum,” Fred said. “The police didn't try to stop them, and a neighbour took her in.”

Fred's parents ran a popular family café; that his father was a British subject married to one, and Fred had volunteered for a Scots Infantry Regiment, didn't inhibit the miscreants.

“The bastards looted and wrecked our cafe.”

Stationed up north in Fort George, he asked for compassionate leave, but his commanding officer refused. 'We are at war,' the C.O. said. “I felt like telling him to fuck off, and I wanted to desert, but that would have made things worse.”

Fred finally got leave. The scale of attacks on the Italians in and around Westburn shocked him.

“Folk we knew broke in to the shop, stole stock and wrecked the café,” Fred said.

The police baton-charged mobs of young and not so young men as they were looting Italian-owned shops and houses. Fred's younger sister had clothes stolen. At school she challenged the child of Irish immigrants wearing her coat.

“Aye, an' so what?” the Irish girl said. “Yer nuthin but a Tally bastard. Ah hope they take yer dad away tae a concentration camp.”

Her watching classmates jeered.

“Yer jist a fuckin' wog,” one brazen hooligan said, and punched Graziella in the face.

“Your sister had a hard time,” Fred said.

12 June 1940, two days after Italy declared war, bands of rough young men from Westburn flocked to Kempock. They came by bus and bicycle, others arrived by foot until they numbered several hundred. A loose band, a hundred strong, broke away to attack Graziella's cafe, and the police struggled to hold off the mob. Graziella stood her ground. She told the ringleaders to go to hell, and offered the stock to the police.

“Give it to the soldiers stationed in Westburn. My husband is in the Seaforths. Better the troops have it than this rabble,” she said.

Graziella had made a futile gesture; the mob looted and wrecked the shop.

A few months after the riots, Italians returned order to their lives and reopened for business. The Scots returned, hiding their shame, denying the crimes some of them had committed. People rubbed along again, though tensions within the Italian community simmered for several weeks. Some cafes and chippers in the town centre had not been touched by the rioters. Italians born in Argentina, who'd settled in Westburn, hung signs outside their shops saying that they were Argentineans, not Italians, hoping to spare their businesses from the rage of looters.

“Ah understand,” Dante said. “But Ah don't like it.”

“Then it got worse when we heard about the Arandora Star,” Fred said.

“Tell me,” Dante said.

“You're sure, Dante?” Fred asked. “You're ready for what happened?”

“Ah'm sure.”

The Arandora, a fine ship built in 1927, was refitted in 1929 and re-named Arandora Star, to carry 354 first class passengers cruising worldwide. The government requisitioned the vessel when war broke out and converted her for transport duties. Arandora Star evacuated troops from Norway and France in June 1940. When Italy declared war on Britain, the government chose the ship for grim work.

On 11 June 1940, the day after Italy declared war on Britain, police swept suspect Italian men into custody and internment. Dante, exiled in Italy for the duration of the war, did not witness the indignities suffered by his father when the police came for him, nor did he share the anguish of his mother and Graziella when they arrested Luigi.

The police took Italian internees to Princes Pier Station to begin the train journey that would end in Liverpool for embarkation on the Arandora Star and internment in Canada. The police inspector in charge told Graziella to wait on the pier, but permitted Celestina to see Luigi in the holding area and give him a parcel of food for the journey.

“How is my dad?” Graziella asked, when her mother came back from the holding area. Celestina just shook her head, sobbing into her handkerchief.

Graziella approached the police inspector at the station entrance facing the pier.

“Can I see my father before he leaves?”

“No; there's a war on. He's an enemy alien.”

Graziella's face turned white under her smooth, sallow complexion. She weighed up this cop, a fixture of thirty years in the Westburn Constabulary.

“My father is an Italian. He's lived here all his life. While you sat on your fat bottom in Westburn in 1916, he fought Austrians and Germans in the Alps.”

“Get her out of here before I lift her.”

Graziella shook off the restraining hand of an embarrassed Sergeant Lachlan Ponsonby, a well-liked regular in the family chip shop. She thrust her head forward.

“Go on, I dare you; arrest me. We're Scots-Italians, and my husband volunteered for the Seaforths. You know the Fascists; why not take them? You persecute innocent men, and harass women. That's all you're good for. You're a bloody disgrace.”

Graziella turned on her heel, anticipating a heavy police hand on her shoulder. She took Celestina's arm.

“Come on, Mum, let's get away from here.”

Commanded by Captain Edgar Wallace Moulton, Arandora Star left Liverpool on 1 July 1940 bound for St. John's, Newfoundland, and her passengers to Canadian internment. Aboard she carried three hundred and seventy-four crew and military guards, and about one thousand two hundred German and Italian internees, including eighty-six German POWs. The Italians numbered seven hundred and twelve men of all ages. Arandora Star, a grey fugitive painted in her wartime livery without the Red Cross on her hull showing that she carried Axis prisoners and civilian nationals.

At 6:58 on the morning of 2 July, U-47, commanded by Lieutenant Commander Gunther Prein, spotted Arandora Star. Perhaps Prein mistook the grey vessel for an armed merchant cruiser. He had one torpedo left and fired it. The missile struck the ship, and the explosion destroyed power onboard. Overhead, a Sunderland flying boat came, responding to Arandora Star's S.O.S.

Thirty-five minutes later she sank.

Horror and terror ran wild on the stricken vessel as she settled in the freezing North Atlantic. She carried fourteen lifeboats: the torpedo explosion had destroyed one; another lifeboat stuck in its winches; two launched damaged, rendered useless.

Men in their hundreds clung to the ship, others jumped into the sea, crashing into wreckage and debris, floating in life jackets and struggling in the freezing water. Waves swamped a lifeboat. The death-gurgle of seawater flooding into the ship's stacks, and the men aboard and in the sea fighting for their lives as she went down, struggling free of her suction as it threatened to draw them with her beneath the waves.

And the sea gave up the dead, to the Scots on Colonsay; the Atlantic Ocean delivered two hundred and thirty-one to the Irish. The first corpse came ashore at Burtonport, Donegal. In the cemetery of Terrmoncarragh, the Irish buried an Italian beside a Lovat Scout. Another drowned Italian floated ashore at Inishowen, and the Irish buried him in the Sacred Heart graveyard, Carndonagh. The wreck of a lifeboat on the shore of Ross of Mull Peninsula reminded the islanders of the loss and killing. The tides drove ashore ninety-two unidentified corpses from the Arandora Star. More than eight hundred men died.

Italy mourned: the people of Bardi wept for forty-eight drowned men, and the townsmen of Lucca for thirty-one dead.

Later, HMCS St. Laurent, a Canadian destroyer, rescued five hundred and eighty-six survivors. The sick went to Mearnskirk Hospital near Glasgow. The authorities cited her commanding officer, Lt. Commander Harry DeWolf, for heroism.

Fred's father had a cousin, Aldo Forte, who survived the ordeal of the Arandora Star. Aboard HMCS St. Laurent, when she docked at Glasgow, he asked a sympathetic Canadian sailor to call his family and say that he was alive.

“Aldo knew your dad,” Fred said, “and while he struggled to get on a life raft, saw your dad high up on the boat deck, and waved at him to jump. Your dad just smiled and waved back. He must have known he was going to die.”

Tears filled Dante's eyes and spilled onto his cheeks. He sobbed, and then got a grip of himself.

“Ma dad was a strong man; a good swimmer. Why didn't he jump?”

It was worse than Dante had ever imagined. He cursed and swore, but finished up crying again for his father and all the poor drowned men.

“It's the forgotten tragedy,” Fred said.

“All Ah can say is it's grim,” Dante said. “The day God blinked.”

“The Navy sunk Prein,” Fred said.

Lieutenant Commander Prein, his boat, U-47, her officers and men, vanished on 7 March 1941 after an attack by the destroyers HMS Wolverine and Verity. Wolverine got the credit for the kill.

“Good,” Dante said.

“What about ma sister, and ma mum?” Dante said. “How are they gettin' on?”

“Yer mum's doin' fine, but she said to ma mum 'No get a totty.' ” Fred laughed.

Dante smiled. Just like his mum to mention a shortage of potatoes.

“My mother wrote, 'Graziella's working with your mum in the chipper, keeping everything right,'“ Fred said. “Her cafe's shut; can't get the stuff for repairs. She waited for Tony to come home, so they could fix up the café together.”

Fred rubbed his hands, sliced some cheese, and made another sandwich with the stale bread Dante had brought. Dante handed him the small flask, and Fred sipped the sour red wine.

“You've no' heard about Tony?”

“Ah think he's in the army,” Dante said.

“Seaforths,” Fred said. “After Dunkirk, we were in North Africa and Sicily. Tony's dead, son. German paratroops killed him in Sicily earlier this year at a place called Francofonte. Ah'm so sorry. The Germans captured me a couple of days later.”

Dante had liked Tony Rebecchi, and wanted to be with his mum and adored big sister, to comfort them; to mourn with Graziella.

“Jesus, Ah wonder how she's doin'.”

“My dad wrote to say Graziella wears black. Whispered hello to him in the street.”

Dante swallowed tears for his big sister, imagining her clad in the black, shabby widow's weeds of wartime Scotland.

“She visits Tony's mum and dad, and all they talk about is Tony; then they start greetin'.”

An ancient, angry word that he'd forgotten came to Dante.

“Fuck this war; it's ruined Graziella's life. Ma dad said war meant misery. This one has wrecked ma family. Ah'll fix everything when Ah get back home.”

Dante was past sixteen. When the war was over and he'd done with it, he'd get back to Westburn.

Italy was in the war on the side of the Allies, and Dante behind the German lines, distant from the Italian Co-Belligerent forces, too young to enlist, wanted to do right in the struggle. He'd speak to his grandfather.

Early next morning, Dante shook Fred awake. “There are Germans and Black Brigade down in the valley. Maybe they're comin' up to the village. Here's your boots.”

Fred ran his fingers along the welt where the sole, cut and shaped from an old tyre, attached to the upper by close driven nails. A stitched patch of old leather covered the crack on the left boot.

“Great job,” Fred said.

“You look Italian, so if we get stopped on the way to the Widow Murro, answer the questions. We'll tell the Germans and the Milizia we're out harvesting fungi. Ah hope you make it to Switzerland.”

“Why the rucksacks and the sticks?” Fred said.

“You'll need a stick going up the mountain. There's some spare kit in the old rucksack. After Ah pass you to the Widow Murro, Ah'm joining the Catholic Partisans up there. Maybe they're Fiamme Verdi; the Green Flames. Old Mario said Ah could go.”

Fred weighed up his chances. He was behind German lines. If he was lucky and got away, he'd finish up interned in Switzerland. Bad luck meant recapture and being sent to Germany, a POW for the duration of the war; or perhaps shot as a spy if taken by Fascist militia. On the run, he'd thought about a risky crossing of the German lines, finding a way back to the British lines and the Seaforths, but gave it up.

Now Dante had shown him a way to be a soldier again and recover his fighting spirit. Fred was a trained infantryman, skilled with small arms, a seasoned campaigner, a Scots-Italian, and a Catholic; Fred would fit in. And he'd watch out for Dante.

“I'm staying. I'll come with you.”

Old Mario came to the dugout.

“Time to go up the mountain to the Widow Murro, Fred.”

“I'm staying. I'm going with Dante to join the partisans.”

“You are a brave man. Hurry and get away. But first, come with me.”

They walked to the village church.

“I take you to the knight, Nicolo the Lombard, who went on the Small Crusade. He fought on God's side. We believe that on his way home to Lombardy from the Holy Land he died here from old wounds.”

The bones of the Lombard knight interred in the wall of the church behind a rude bas relief; a simple, primitive rendering of a soldier wearing chain mail under a surplice adorned with the Crusader Cross, a helmet with nose piece, carved by a twelfth-century country stone mason. Nicolo the Lombard held his sword in both hands, hard against the pommel, point down, the hilt resting on his breast, cross-guard forming an approximate crucifix. The knight's features were worn smooth by the searching fingers of Carbugliagians seeking his blessing before departing on perilous journeys.

“Touch his sword,” Old Mario said, “for you two will fight on the right side against evil.” Mario took Dante and Fred's right arm and placed their hands on the hilt of that ancient weapon. “Bless my grandson, Dante Rinaldi, and Alfredo Forte, Italians from Scotland. They go to fight Fascists and Germans.” The three men bowed their heads a moment. “Nicolo of Lombardy will keep you both safe.”

At the stoup by the door of the church, they dipped the fingers of their right hand in the Holy Water, and made the sign of the cross.