The Good Left Undone(87)

“Gentleman, it may appear, in the situation that we’re in, that we are helpless. But I assure you, God is listening.”

Antica leaned in to hear the message. Piccolo Mattiuzzi put his hands on his father’s shoulders. Savattini pulled a cigarette out of his case. He looked to the altar and sheepishly returned it to the case. He, too, listened to the priest.

Fracassi continued. “He will not forsake you. He will not abandon you. But you must pray. God knows your heart. Saint Bernard of Clairvaux was the wise doctor of the faith. He encouraged us to reflect on the past. Make peace with it. You cannot control the evil done to you. You cannot turn back and right the good left undone. You cannot make up for the time wasted. But you can earn your salvation. Open your heart to His love. All is forgiven. We find strength in our confession. And we need it, gentlemen. We need it.”

Antica shivered when he heard Fracassi’s words. Did the priest know something?

“Forgive me, my brothers, I don’t have enough wafers to give each of you Holy Communion. When I was collected at the church yesterday, I brought only the essentials.”

It did not matter to the men. They knelt for the consecration.

Antica opened his suitcase. He smiled at the thought of his wife, who had insisted he take the bread for his journey. Even in this instance, she was right. Antica tapped the man kneeling in front of him and handed him the bread. The man nodded and tapped the man in front of him, giving him the bread to pass forward, and so it went, until it was passed through the crowd and made it to Fracassi’s altar. Fracassi thanked the men for the bread and proceeded with the Mass. He prayed over Antica’s donation and consecrated it. Fracassi broke the bread and invited the men to take Communion. A prisoner in the front row stood to serve as altar boy. Others became ushers and helped organize the rows of communicants in an orderly fashion, so Fracassi might serve every man in Warth.

Fracassi began to distribute Communion to the men closest to the altar. He broke a few crumbs, placed one on the tongue of the first prisoner, then another and another. Each communicant made the sign of the cross before returning to his knees. By the time the priest reached Antica in the back, there was a small piece of the consecrated bread left.

“You provided the bread?”

Antica nodded.

“Thank you.”

Antica kept his head down. He hadn’t been to church since the incident that ruined his hand. “I’m not worthy, Father.”

“You are worthy, my brother.”

Fracassi waited. He placed the consecrated host, a crumb of bread so small the priest had to pinch it between his thumb and forefinger, on Antica’s tongue. Antica tasted the bread of life and felt redeemed.



* * *





At night, the mill heaved with a sound reminiscent of the breath of a whale as the men slept on their straw sacks. Moonlight streamed through the broken skylights. Antica sat against the wall on his straw bed. He couldn’t sleep. He looked out over the vast factory floor. The round contours of the men’s bodies in repose in the dark reminded him of the harvest season on his father’s farm outside Bardi, Italy, when he was a boy. Antica would watch his father from the farmhouse window as he walked the field in the moonlight. His father would caress the wheat and whistle. For anything to grow in this world, you had to first love it. Antica wondered if he would ever see anything grow again. He would have to survive this, but deep in his soul, Antica was not sure it was possible.





CHAPTER 32


JULY 1, 1940


After a two-week stay, the internees of Warth Mills were ordered to pack. Savattini decided to shave before the transfer. He used the basin the four men had shared, foamed up the brush, and carefully shaved his beard. He cleaned the implements and packed them away in a leather travel case. He put on his cleanest shirt and tie. He snapped the cuff links into place. The jewels shimmered in the light.

“Are those rubies or garnets?” Mattiuzzi asked.

“You’re the jeweler, you tell me.”

“I need a loupe. My eyes aren’t so good anymore.”

“You’ll have to take my word for it, then. They’re rubies.”

“Do you know where they’re from?”

Savattini shrugged. “Does it matter?”

“Only if you want to sell them someday. The best rubies are from India.”

“Didn’t I tell you? These rubies are from India.”

They shared a laugh.

As the prisoners lined up to be taken to the train that would deposit them at their final destination, they found out that they were going on foot.

The polished shoes, pressed shirts, and well-cut suits they’d worn upon arrival were shabby. Their suitcases were lighter, after they had consumed the wine, cured meats, and cheese their wives and mothers had packed for them. They were two weeks into their internment, and three days into being hungry again. Mattiuzzi turned to his son, Antica, and Savattini and whispered, “Stick together.”

The single-file line of rumpled men snaked out of the mill and into the street, extending all the way to the railway station in Bury.

“They’re putting us on a train,” Piccolo whispered quietly.

The Britalians were loaded into train cars, which would transport them to Liverpool. The prisoners said little on the trip that lasted less than an hour. When they arrived in Liverpool, they disembarked the train in silence. The men and the boys were herded into two lines that led them to the gangplank of the Arandora Star.