The Good Left Undone(86)
The mill was dreary. The air was thick with the filaments from the cotton looms. There was grease on the floor, left behind from the machines, no doubt. Overhead, the glass panels of the skylights were so filthy you could not see through them. The glass was broken and cracked, allowing the elements inside. The walls crawled with black mold.
The prisoners were issued canvas sacks to fill with straw for their beds. Once they stuffed the sacks, the prisoners stood around and wondered what would come next. Boys sat on their duffels. Some men turned their suitcases upright and propped themselves upon them. The incoming prisoners circulated, looking for familiar faces in the crowd.
Confusion was the mother of fear, and the lack of information given to the prisoners fed their anxiety. No one had explained exactly why they had been brought to Warth Mills and where they were going.
Antica joined the line to pick up a canvas sack and straw to make a bed.
Mattiuzzi and his son, Piccolo, picked up their mess kits: a tin plate, bowl and cup, knife and fork. No food was offered with the empty plate.
Savattini entered the mill, having disembarked with the last load of men from the train station. Savattini tried to assess the situation as he looked at the behemoth mill, filled to capacity with men. He wondered where the kitchen was located.
Fracassi entered the mill several men behind Savattini. He had been brought to Warth Mills in an army truck with thirty other men, outfitted with benches that could seat only ten comfortably.
As Fracassi joined his fellow prisoners, he moved through the crowd dressed in his long black cassock and Roman collar. The internees stood out of respect, creating a path for the priest to pass. They bowed their heads and murmured greetings to the old priest. Fracassi nodded, acknowledging the men until he made it through the crowd to the far end of the mill.
* * *
Savattini walked through the mill, searching for familiar faces, knowing that the most important aspect of a ma?tre d’s duties was to make connections. His eyes fell upon a group under a window, three men who had formed a circle. This looked like the group for him. He needed a drink and they were sipping grappa. Savattini reached into his pocket to count his cigarettes. He had exactly thirteen left, which would get him through to the morning.
“Gentlemen,” Savattini said as he joined Antica, Mattiuzzi, and Piccolo. “Where are you from?”
“Glasgow.” Piccolo extended his hand, introduced himself and the others.
“No, I meant in Italy. Where are your people from?”
Antica lit up. “Bardi. Do you know it?”
“I’m from Emilia-Romagna too. From the hills.”
Antica made room on his suitcase. “Sit, sit.”
Savattini sat. “What do you make of this?” He drew a circle in the air with his cigarette.
“I served in the Great War,” Mattiuzzi offered, “and there’s nothing about this that makes any sense at all.”
“They arrested me in the hotel kitchen. I was starting my day as I always do.”
“I never met a cook who wore patent leather shoes.” Mattiuzzi offered the men taralles, savory biscuits his wife had made.
Savattini laughed and helped himself to a tarelle. “I’m the ma?tre d’ at the Savoy. I live in the hotel. I observed plenty in my time there, and I figured they arrested me because I knew a thing or two about the gambling that goes on in the salon there. Half of Churchill’s cabinet sits in on the games.”
“Write to him,” Antica said. “If you know the man, write to him and tell him this is a terrible mistake.”
“Let them play their games. This is a message for Mussolini and nothing more. Churchill cannot tolerate spies and sacrificed the Italians to make a point.”
“But we are not the enemy. We are loyalists!” Mattiuzzi insisted.
“It’s almost impossible to prove one’s loyalty. It’s a lot like love, it can only be proved in reciprocity,” Savattini explained.
Antica poured Savattini a cup of grappa. The tin cup was regulation, issued by the British navy. Savattini thanked him and swirled the liquor inside the cup. He sipped the grappa. It burned his throat before the warmth spread through his body.
“A man used to drinking from crystal won’t like the taste of the metal cup,” Antica said.
“It doesn’t matter what I like now, gentlemen, or what I’m used to; it’s about what I can endure.” Savattini looked around the mill. “What we can endure. I’m happy to make new friends.”
* * *
Fracassi had spent the evening comforting the prisoners. The following morning, he found a corner and set up a makeshift altar on his suitcase. The altar cloth, chalice, paten, and pyx were placed on the suitcase as they would be on the marble altar at Saint Alban’s in Ancoats. The police had been kind enough to let him pack the essentials of his trade in the rectory before putting him on a train to Warth Mills. Fracassi opened his prayer book and made the sign of the cross. A few men removed their hats and joined him.
Word spread through the mill that the priest was saying Mass. “Let’s pray,” Mattiuzzi said, and turned to the altar. Savattini was skeptical. He whispered to Antica, “My faith is in the farmer who churns the butter for my scampi.” Savattini believed it until the chatter in the mill fell away, until a reverent silence set in and the only voice that could be heard inside the mill was Fracassi’s.