“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.
“Forgive us,” Walker said quietly. “We saw your name on the list and made sure it was friends who came to collect you, to make this as dignified as possible.”
Savattini exhaled. “Before we go, may I finish my breakfast?”
Walker and Chapman sat down at the table. Savattini handed each man a linen napkin before pouring two cups of coffee. He served them and placed the sugar and creamer on the table when Savattini remembered an American guest he had served in the hotel years before. The American spoke of his own misfortune when he shared, “The haves are the haves until they have not.” Now, Savattini understood the riddle. The ma?tre d’ sat down, snapped the linen napkin open, placed it on his lap, and ate the cold eggs.
MANCHESTER
Don Gaetano Fracassi looked up from the Communion railing as two policemen entered the back of Saint Alban’s Church in Ancoats. They removed their hats and stood beside the holy water font, one on each side, resolute like the statues of Saint Peter and Saint Paul on the altar.
The priest continued to distribute Holy Communion to the communicants kneeling along the rail. An elderly parishioner served as altar boy. He was holding the paten when he looked up and saw the police. The gold paten held under the chin of a communicant began to tremble in his grasp.
After receiving the host, the communicants blessed themselves and returned to their pews. Fracassi brought the extra Communion wafers back to the altar. He placed the lid on the gold pyx and set it aside. He drank the remaining wine in the chalice and buffed it with the altar cloth. He folded the cloths neatly before placing the pyx filled with the consecrated hosts into the tabernacle.
Fracassi sat for the reflection, his back to the pews. After a while, he rose to give the final benediction. He blessed the parishioners, making the sign of the cross over them.
Fracassi usually led the recessional to the back of the church and greeted his flock as they dispersed. Instead he said, “My friends, I would like you to leave the church before me this morning.”
The parishioners looked at one another, confused. They turned and saw the policemen in the back of the church.
“Do not be alarmed,” the priest said kindly. “The gentlemen are only following orders.”
Instead of exiting the church, the small group of parishioners lined up at the foot of the altar to express their gratitude. The priest blessed each one and advised them to be instruments of peace and leave the church without trouble. When the church was empty except for the priest and the policemen, Fracassi joined them.
“Don Fracassi, you are under arrest.”
The priest nodded. He turned and genuflected to the altar. In his haste, he had left the tabernacle door open. The good Sisters would close it when they came for the altar linens.
GLASGOW
Amedeo and Piccolo Mattiuzzi were waiting on the sidewalk outside their shop to be collected by the police. They had packed one suitcase each, per the law. They wore their Sunday suits and shoes. Mattiuzzi wore the Borsalino hat his wife had given him on his last birthday. His son wore his father’s old brown fedora, which was still in good shape.
Lester McTavish, their stout Scot neighbor who owned the emporium next door, joined them outside. “Best to be agreeable with these folks. You’ll be back in no time. I’m talking to the authorities. Don’t worry.”
“Do you know where they’re taking us?” Mattiuzzi asked.
“Isle of Man or one of the Orkney Islands.”
“And for how long?” Piccolo asked.
“May be a week or two until they process the good Tallies from the bad.”
“Two weeks,” Mattiuzzi grumbled. “I don’t have time for this nonsense. My business will suffer.”
“I will help your wife however I can. She’ll keep the place open, take orders until you return. Look at your arrest like a glitch. You’ll take some sun, get some good rest, and the war will be over in no time,” McTavish assured them. “At least it’s summer.”