Mattiuzzi’s wife and daughter watched from the upstairs window. Mattiuzzi had been fearful that if the women waited with the men on the sidewalk, the police might have a second thought and take the women too.
Margaret Mary McTavish wrapped a proper shawl around herself as she closed the door of her father’s shop and joined the men on the sidewalk.
“Hurry up, Margaret Mary,” her father said as he surveyed the street from side to side. “They’ll be here soon.”
“Yes, Papa.”
Piccolo followed Margaret Mary into Mattiuzzi’s shop. “I wanted to say goodbye.” She smiled.
Piccolo pulled her close and buried his face in the waves of her russet hair. He inhaled the familiar scent of jasmine. He kissed her tenderly. “When I come home, I’ll talk to your father.”
“You’d better.” Margaret Mary gave his arm a playful slap before she covered her lover’s face in kisses. When she saw her father turn toward the storefront out of the corner of her eye, she pushed Piccolo away. “Go on,” she said.
* * *
“You cannot take your telescope, Arcangelo. There’s no room,” his wife, Angela, said as she arranged his suitcase for the last time.
“It will fit.”
“No it won’t. Cheese or a telescope? Eat or dream? Those are your choices. You can give up looking at the stars, but you can’t starve. You’re taking the cheese. I want to know you’re eating. There’s a long baguette.”
“I’ll be back in a day or two. That’s too much bread and cheese.”
“There’ll be others who packed nonsense and forgot their cheese. You will see. You’ll need extra. You’ll thank me.”
Antica stood across the bed he had shared with his wife for forty-seven years. “Yes, Angela. I will share the cheese. And the sausage.”
“And the grappa.”
“And even the grappa.”
“There are three pair of socks. Three underpants—”
“Please. I understand, after all these years, how to dress in the morning.”
“I want you to know what I’ve packed.” She snapped the suitcase shut.
His wife left the bedroom. Antica held up the telescope he had made. He had fashioned the optical tube out of birch wood, which was soft enough to bend into a cylinder. The eyepiece and lens were made at the jeweler’s. Mattiuzzi cut the glass and beveled the sides with a file. It had taken several tries to get it just right. Antica attached the lens, along with the focusing knob and the cradle. He mounted the telescope on the tripod he had built. Any night without rain would find him on the roof of his home in Glasgow, looking at the stars overhead.
He cocked his ear and listened for his wife. He removed the extra shirt and a pair of underpants to make room for the telescope. He placed the telescope next to the cheese and his socks and closed the suitcase.
“Arcangelo,” she called out. “They’re here.” Angela’s voice broke. She waited at the bottom of the stairs for her husband. When he reached her, Angela put her arms around him and kissed him repeatedly.
“That’s enough.” He took his wife’s face into his hands. “I’m coming back.”
BURY
Savattini sat next to the window on the crowded train as it sailed through the English countryside. The morning had begun as a lark, but the situation had turned. Savattini had waited in a long line with his fellow Britalians before enough train cars showed up to transport them. He listened to the conversation of the British soldiers to glean information but was disturbed when he realized they knew less about this roundup than he did.
The train passed the horse track, familiar to Savattini, that had been converted into the base of prisoner operations. The train blew by the circus grounds; the elephants and tigers were long gone, and now, underneath the tent of orange stripes, German prisoners of war were housed until they could be shipped out to internment camps. The train buzzed with banter as the British Italians were quietly outraged at being compared to Nazis.
Don’t they understand? Savattini thought to himself. There are only two sides in a war. And just my luck, Italy is on the wrong side. Savattini generally stayed away from the topic of politics, but like any other reasonable working man in Great Britain, he observed the fixed class system and had his opinions. You either served or were being served, not much in between.
Clothing factories had been converted to make military uniforms instead of skirts and blouses. Private homes had become recruitment centers, and public buildings were outfitted to create military hospitals. Where there had once been the production of wool and crystal and porcelain, now stood empty factories stripped of all equipment, waiting to be filled with enemy aliens. It wasn’t only the government that wanted the Italian men and boys shipped out of the country; public opinion supported it. Where there had been children at their school desks, there were now prisoners locked in classrooms until arrangements could be made. Germans. Austrians. Italians. Nazis. Fascisti. Intellectuals. Suspects all, classified as enemy aliens.