John Lawrie McVicars walked through Kelvingrove Park in Glasgow carrying a book. The title was of no importance to him because he had no intention of reading it. Its purpose was strictly utilitarian. He stored sheets of clean onionskin paper between the pages, and the blue envelopes between the endpapers. McVicars could sit in the middle of Glasgow, balance the book on his lap, and, with the fountain pen he kept in his jacket pocket, compose a letter whenever he pleased.
A sailor learns to take up little space on a ship, so it becomes a habit on land. Most tools in McVicars’s possession had multiple purposes. McVicars was shaped by his life in the military. He joined the merchant navy when he was eighteen; he had spent more of his life in service than he had as a civilian. He took out his pocketknife and gently opened a letter stamped Marseille, France. He smiled in anticipation as he opened the first letter he had received from Domenica Cabrelli.
17 April 1939
Dear Captain,
I hope your hands have continued to heal nicely. I purchased a small vial of holy water from Lourdes on the feast day of Saint Bernadette. Mary Gay thinks the holy water might have come from the faucet at Saint Joseph’s Church, but even if it isn’t officially from Lourdes, it has been blessed.
You are popular here at Saint Joseph’s. When you feel blue, remember the nuns of Saint Joseph are praying for you. They are also praying for my family.
My brother, Aldo, in the Italian army, has been assigned to a field operation in Tunisia. He wrote simply “I am here” on the postcard he sent to me. I don’t know if this has any meaning beyond my brother’s inability to write a letter. I have heard from my mother. There is talk in the village that an announcement was forthcoming. The old saying goes, if you want to know what the king is up to, ask the farmer, or in my situation, ask my mother.
Mama wrote that the Villa Borghese in Viareggio has been taken over by the Fascisti. The Blackshirts chose to occupy the most opulent residence in our village for their own use. Mama was also told the Fascisti were establishing field operations all along the coast of Italy. Lucca, the city closest to my village, is changing rapidly. The silk mills have been seized to make military uniforms. I pray it’s all just the typical pageantry.
Thank you for the scarf you sent, which reminds me of you and the way things used to be.
With a big kiss,
Domenica
McVicars was worried. An Italian émigré working in France in a Catholic hospital would soon be without a job and a country. He knew how these situations could go. The nuns would not be able to protect their nurses, so they would be discharged. Domenica would not be safe in France or Italy.
McVicars predicted his next assignment would most likely take him to the grid of the southern hemisphere. The Boidoin had been requisitioned by the British government, and he would be reassigned to a new ship. Like Domenica, he would be forced to transition out of his current position into the unknown. At his level and rank, they would likely send him as far away from home and Domenica Cabrelli as a ship could take him.
CHAPTER 21
Glasgow, Scotland
MAY 1939
The first Italian immigrants to arrive in Scotland at the end of the nineteenth century went into business as soon as they unpacked. They made gelato, opened pizzerias, and mastered deep-frying fish and chips, a local delicacy. Their dark eyes and hair and olive skin stood out in contrast to the robust, pale, blue-eyed Scots. The Italian women matched their hardworking men in ambition, as they worked side by side in the bistros and pubs. The Italians married and had children. In three generations, the Britalians had become part of the fabric of Scotland, giving the native silk wool a new heft, strength, and color.
Arcangelo Antica was part of the first wave to arrive in Scotland from Italy to peddle ice cream in Glasgow. His brother, Francesco, the smarter Antica, according to Arcangelo, became weary of the life of a peddler and borrowed money to put up a factory to make gelato. The factory did well enough to take care of his family in Scotland, with extra money left over to send home to Bardi, Italy. Arcangelo was happy to peddle his brother’s product.
Antica maintained a route through the streets of Glasgow that began on the west side and ended at the pier. At seventy years old, he wondered how much longer he could do the job. He had loyal customers, but there was more competition for their business now. The current Italian immigrants had brought an array of new offerings to cart service: peanut brittle, candy floss, and hot waffles and cream. When it came to selling, Antica remained faithful to the past. He burst into song along the route, usually an Italian folk song, and the old schtick attracted customers. He knew that children chose his cart not because his gelato was the best, but because it was an excuse to see the three-fingered man. When Antica was a young man, he had lost two fingers on his right hand in a quarry accident. He even turned that loss into a sales tool.
“General Antica!” McVicars saluted from across the street before crossing it to join the peddler.
“Where have you been, Captain?”
“Oh, you know. On the high seas. Port side, we were in Marseille for a spell.”
“Good for you, McVicars. France. Beautiful women.”
“My eyes hurt from the sight of them.” McVicars reached into his pocket. “How about a gelato?”
“How about it?” Antica scooped the vanilla ice cream into a cup and handed it to McVicars. “Keep your money today. I want our sailors strong.”
“You think we’re in?”
“Soon. And not just me. That’s what they’re saying in the pub. More accurate than the paper.”