The Good Left Undone(83)

Moulton saluted McVicars. “I’m too old for this job.” He smiled. “Ten years ago I was too old for it.”

“Sir, you look to be in excellent shape,” McVicars fibbed.

“I’m in decent enough shape to steer this tub. They give the exciting assignments to the younger men, as it should be. Explains why you and I were assigned to the Arandora.” Moulton laughed.

“Perhaps they need our wisdom, sir.”

“For what? Hauling prisoners? When did the British government become prison wardens? I would not have accepted this assignment given a choice.”

“Who are these prisoners?” McVicars asked.

“There are a few legitimate Nazis, and of course the German intellectuals and professors. Around five hundred of them altogether. Neither group supports England. The largest group will be composed of Italian Scots, and a few Italians from other provinces.”

“Italian Scots?” McVicars blanched.

“Yes, boys to men age eighty. Around seven hundred thirty Tallies in total. The authorities are rounding them up, arresting them.”

“What did they do?”

“There are concerns about the fifth column. We can’t have spies among us. We’re dropping them in St. John’s, Newfoundland. They’ve got prison camps set up there.”

“Why Canada? What about Orkney Island?”

“There’s a boat for Orkney too,” Moulton said.

McVicars had known many Britalians in his life before he met Domenica. Hadn’t he just bought their wedding rings at Mattiuzzi’s? “These enemy aliens are citizens. Just because they have an Italian surname doesn’t mean they’re loyal to Italy.”

“The authorities can’t tell a good Tally from a bad one, so they all have to go,” Moulton explained. He looked over his reading glasses and peered at his first mate. “Why do you care, McVicars?”

“My wife is an Italian expat. Will she be forced to leave Scotland?”

“She should stay put for the duration. You want her to be safe.”

McVicars decided he would send a ship’s telegram to his wife as soon as the plans for the crossing were clear. This was not the merchant navy he loved, nor was it the Scotland he knew, but he would not agonize about the changes. McVicars’s goal was to return home to his wife. Domenica loved him, that’s all that mattered now.


LONDON

June 17, 1940

Ettore Savattini, the dapper ma?tre d’, sat down in the kitchen of the Savoy Hotel for a light breakfast before his workday began. He picked up a pan of steamed milk that foamed on the burner using a mopeen wrapped around the handle. He was pouring the creamy foam into the demitasse of espresso when a drop hit his patent leather loafer. He cursed, placed the pan on the stove, and swatted his shoe with the dish towel. He finished pouring the steamed milk into the cup, then returned the pan to the stove, turned up the flame under the burner, and threw a dollop of butter into the frypan before cracking two eggs into it. The whites of the eggs sizzled in the pan. Savattini cranked the pepper mill over the eggs as they cooked.

Savattini threw a fresh mopeen over his shoulder. He leaned against the counter, folded his arms over his chest, and took stock of his life. He had a wife back in Italy with a new baby. His mother was well. Savattini had sent enough money back to Italy to build a house in the hills outside of Firenze. The Savoy Hotel had just given him a raise. He was in a good place. Savattini slid the eggs out of the pan and placed them on a plate. He had set out a linen napkin and silver on the chef’s table. The newspaper lay near the place setting. There was a loud knock at the hotel kitchen door. The milkman rarely pounded it with such ferocity. Savattini threw open the door.

Two policemen friends followed him into the kitchen. Chapman and Walker were regulars for dinner in the kitchen after their double shifts on Saturday evenings. The hotel had a good relationship with local law enforcement.

“Gentlemen. You’re a bit early for your after-shift dinner.”

“We apologize, Sav,” Chapman began, and looked at his partner.

Savattini smiled. “For what?” Savattini knew well, through his contacts, that they were coming for him, but he wanted to hear the charges firsthand, a right surely still in place for all subjects of the king in England.

“All enemy aliens are to be deported immediately,” Chapman explained.

Savattini lit a cigarette. He had been working in England for seventeen years. He lived in a small room at the hotel, worked seven days a week, and served the elite of London with distinction. He was neither enemy nor alien but servant.

“Well, er, that’s what they say you are,” Walker explained. “We don’t believe it.”

“Of course you don’t. Because it’s not true.” Savattini smiled. The ma?tre d’ had been in enough tight spots in his life to know there was no point in panicking now. He kept his emotions tucked neatly away, like his pocket squares. “Shall I call my barrister to meet me at the precinct?”

“Afraid not. We are putting you on a train to Liverpool.”

“I’m not a shipbuilder, gentlemen.”

“From there you will be dispatched to a prisoner of war camp. The prime minister wants all Italians off the island immediately.”

Savattini nodded. There was no way out of this one. His motherland had shown loyalty to the wrong side, and now he would personally pay the marker.