The Good Left Undone(88)

They stood in the shadow of the ship’s enormous hull. Her dual smokestacks, now painted gray, appeared to be the size of two cuff links.

Savattini surveyed the grandeur, which lifted his spirits. “Boys, this is a luxury liner.”

“At least it will be safe,” Mattiuzzi exhaled.

“The Blue Star Line,” Savattini confirmed, knowledgeable of its previous reputation and splendor. “The food will be better on this ship,” he said to them, half joking. “I will see to it.”

“I was sick of Warth. I don’t care where they take us,” Piccolo said.

“You should care. We aren’t the only prisoners on this ship,” Savattini said as he climbed the gangway. “Non guardare in alto. Tedeschi.” Looming overhead on the second tier above the waterline, behind barbed wire, were German prisoners of war. They glared at the Italians as they boarded. The word soon spread down the line that the Italian Scots, loyal British subjects, were considered as dangerous as the Nazis.

“We don’t even get our own bloody ship.” Mattiuzzi sighed. “We are forced to sail with the German riffraff.”

“This is an awfully large rig to transport us to the British Isles,” Piccolo noted.

“The old girl, she was a beauty in her time,” Savattini marveled as he stepped onto the deck and into the ship. The vestiges of the ship’s previous life as a luxury liner could not be completely obscured. Her wide decks and corridors were stately. The lines of her hull and mast were architectural and sleek.

“She’s not so handsome wrapped in barbed wire,” Mattiuzzi said.

British soldiers were lined up on either side of the entrance hall, holding their rifles close. The prisoners formed a single-file line between the soldiers and proceeded aft, to the stairs that led them down to their quarters.

“Tallies to the bottom,” the purser barked. “Padre, step aside and wait.”

Fracassi did as instructed.

“Italians in steerage. Naturally,” Antica joked as they descended the narrow stairs into the bottom of the ship that held the boiler room, the coal carriage, and the crew cabins. The temperature rose as the men went deeper into the ship. The smell of oil and coal burning in the furnace wafted through the passageway.

Savattini led the men into the first cabin at the foot of the stairs, farthest from the boiler room. They were housed below the waterline, so there would be no light or fresh air. The portholes were sealed shut. They placed their luggage on the cots and began to remove their jackets and ties against the heat.

“Four men in a room built for two.”

“That’s about right.” Piccolo reclined on a cot.

The men had grown close at Warth. They shared information, bread, and shaving soap. The unlikely quartet had spent time discussing their options, even though as prisoners, they had none. The men’s trepidation about the transfer had exhausted them. The tight quarters and the heat made them drowsy. They lay on their cots, barely an inch between them. It was not yet evening but sleep was their only reprieve from their suffering. But too much sleep made a man soft, Savattini reminded them. They woke to the sound of a sentry shouting.

“Captain has given permission for prisoners to go up on the deck.”

Savattini stood in the doorway and peered down the passageway. Every cabin was filled with prisoners. If the men stepped out into the hallway at the same time, there would be gridlock. Savattini called out, “Gentlemen, let’s begin with the cabin closest to the boiler. Latrine is at the end of the companionway. Stairs take you up to the deck. Let’s do this in an orderly fashion.”

“Aye, aye, Captain,” one of the Britalians shouted out. The men laughed and followed Savattini’s suggestion. As the cabins emptied out, Savattini saw boys as young as sixteen and men as old as seventy file past.

“Now we’re dead last to get up to the deck,” Piccolo complained.

“We are building goodwill. Trust me. We’ll need it later,” Savattini told them.

“What I’d give for a cuppa Mazawattee tea,” Antica said. “Hot. Proper tea in a Lady Carlyle cup and saucer.”

“I’d rather have a beer.” Piccolo swabbed the sweat off his face.

“My mother taught me, when it’s hot, don’t think cool, think hotter and then you’ll cool off,” Antica offered.

“Go on,” Savattini said. “Dream.”

“I’ve got my tea. A sweet trolley arrives with a tower of biscuits, sandwiches, and chocolates. I pick up the little silver tongs and help myself to a sugar-dusted brioche. Pot of fresh butter churned that morning to dress it. I close my eyes and inhale the steam from the teacup. Madagascar. Sri Lanka. The islands,” Antica mulled.

McVicars entered their cabin. “Well, well, well. The west end Glaswegians!”

“McVicars! You old dog!” Antica stood to greet his old friend.

“How did you find us?”

“I saw you on the list,” McVicars said cheerily, but when he took in the cramped berth, his heart sank. He could not stand fully upright in the cabin; he slouched as he spoke to them. This was no way to treat human beings, no way to treat his friends.

“Ettore Savattini.” A man McVicars didn’t recognize extended his hand toward him.

“He’s our new friend,” Antica explained. “Ma?tre d’ at the Savoy Hotel.”