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.
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.