The Good Left Undone(80)

“They’re gone,” his wife whispered.

“I’ll go look,” Piccolo said.

“We will not go upstairs until the sun comes up.”

“I’m afraid, Papa,” Gloriana whispered.

“Don’t worry. They’re cowards. They won’t show their faces in the light.”

“But, Papa . . .” Piccolo began.

“McTavish is coming for us at daybreak. If he says it’s safe, we go up. Not until then.”

The Mattiuzzi family settled in their hiding place.

Mattiuzzi’s father had been an immigrant who married a fellow Italian upon his arrival in Glasgow. Mattiuzzi felt indebted to Great Britain for the good life he enjoyed with his wife and children. The family had flourished in Glasgow. Proud Scots, Mattiuzzi had joined the British Army to serve in the Great War in France, fighting in the Battle of the Somme. They were active in community life. Carolina led the Thistle Sewing Circle, one of the oldest Scottish women’s clubs in town. His daughter had won an essay competition at her school, titled “Scotland for One and All.” His son, Piccolo, was in love with Margaret Mary McTavish, a family with a plaid whose father owned the emporium next door. It was Lester McTavish himself who had warned Mattiuzzi about the night of sticks and stones planned against the Italian Scots. He had heard about it after church in a gathering of Glaswegians. The merchant had hustled home that morning to warn his friend. There was not enough time to flee; instead, they quickly hatched a scheme. Now, they were living it.

Mattiuzzi lit the oil lamp. He thought of home. But it wasn’t the green hills of Bardi, Italy, covered in sunflowers that he pictured; it was the Highlands of Scotland, where he’d taken Piccolo to hike during the summer since he was a boy. Mattiuzzi had taught his son to fish in the same river where he had learned to fish as a boy. They camped in the open air and ate wild raspberries in the sun. The heather graced the hills, drenching them in blue. The air in the Highlands was the sweetest Mattiuzzi had ever breathed. But those mountains and the fruits of that river no longer belonged to him. The Scot in him wanted to fight back, while the Italian in him hoped to endure. Mattiuzzi was a man without a country, even though he had been willing to die for it. It was pure luck that he hadn’t died in combat, because the loyalty only went one way.


June 15, 1940

While Mattiuzzi considered Scotland his country, Domenica remained loyal to Italy. Her intention had always been to return to Viareggio, but fate had led her far from home. She was married to the captain now, which made her a Scot. But in her heart, if she put politics and the hubris of powerful men to the side, she remained an Italian and would die one. Her brother would be fighting against her husband. Her parents were hiding in the hills, and if family was her life, it meant that part of her was hiding too.

Domenica had begun to fall in love with Scotland despite her occasional bouts of homesickness. At first, she couldn’t see its beauty. She had traded, against her will, the warm waves of the Italian coast for the cold, green waters of the River Clyde. Eventually, she began to make her peace with it. Love had changed her point of view, and reminded her of her upbringing and duties. In her tradition, she had learned that her husband came first, so she placed him there. Domenica took care of John. She cooked for him, kept the cottage, and worked in the school to save her salary so they might be able to buy a home of their own someday. She would do her part. That morning, she had packed John’s duffel. His uniform was laid out on the bed. She had one more task to perform before he departed.

“Let’s get to it, Domenica,” her husband said.

He followed Domenica to the garden wearing his undershirt and trousers. She tied a bedsheet around him up to his neck, like a barber’s apron. Domenica combed his hair. She lifted a lock of hair and snipped it short.

“Careful of the ear, darling,” he said to her. “I need it to hear the enemy.”

“It’s the curves that are difficult. Sit still.”

“I’m certain you’re doing a fine job,” he joked.

“My best.”

“That’s all I can ask for. Let’s agree to a game of pretend this morning. I don’t ship out and we stay in this cottage for the rest of our days.”

“They’d come for you.”

“I said this was a game of pretend. For once, don’t be practical.”

“I have to be. I’m a problem. An Italian in Scotland.”

“You married a Scot, which makes you a Scot. Besides, I don’t think the Germans could get past the nuns. They haven’t for centuries. Even in Germany.”

Domenica removed the bedsheet from John’s shoulders and shook it out in the bushes.

“I like it,” John said, looking in the hand mirror at the haircut Domenica had given him. “It will suffice. But you must retire the scissors. You have no skill for it. Our children will look like numpties when you’re finished with them.”

Domenica put her arms around her husband and held him close. She kissed his neck.

“Mrs. McVicars.” The captain wanted to make love to his wife. He kissed her. “There will be none of that.”

“Not for a long time.” She ruffled his freshly cropped hair.

He checked his watch. “We do have the morning.”

“Do we now?” Domenica laughed and ran into the lodge. John followed her inside, closed the door, and locked it.