Domenica walked back to the hospital in a fog. She didn’t hear the birds in the garden, or the horns of the automobiles, or the music that swelled as a convertible sped past the hospital. She would soon be uprooted again, without her consent.
It would take a few more weeks for the nuns to close the hospital and return to the motherhouse. There were patients to transfer, packing to be done, and paperwork to complete.
The nurses of Fatima House would also depart, returning home or, like Domenica, reassigned to another city. One by one, like pearls off a broken string, the young women scattered in all directions. Domenica said goodbye to Josephine and Stephanie, who took positions in London. They promised to stay in touch. The Sisters arranged official letters and passports, sought permission, and made arrangements for each of their nurses. Domenica wished she could have convinced just one of the girls to go with her to Scotland. The heartache of losing her friends was as devastating to her as having been ignored by the captain. She believed she could get over a failed romance but wasn’t so sure she would ever heal from the loss of her friends.
As Domenica Cabrelli boarded the train in Marseille for the first leg of the journey to Scotland, she wore her nurse’s cap and a red cross on her uniform. A train took her to Paris, and another to Calais, where she would board a ferry across the English Channel to Dover. She would take another train from Dover to London, and finally north to Glasgow. It would take fifteen hours from Marseille to Glasgow. With every turn of the wheels on the train, she was farther away from home. Italy was just a dream now.
Heavy rainstorms along the route caused delays as tracks flooded, and the cars were rocked by gale-force winds. It was so hot she could not sleep. Her appetite left her. When the storm subsided, she stood between the train cars and took in the cool breeze after the rain. When the train pulled into the London station, Domenica Cabrelli was the loneliest she had ever been in her life.
LONDON
Domenica made the connection that would take her north to Scotland. After she took her seat and the porter punched her ticket for Glasgow, she wept. She felt relief, having navigated the complicated steps of the journey through the terrible weather. She allowed herself a cup of hot coffee and a soft roll from the sweet trolley. Her stomach had been too upset to take any food, but now that she was close to her final destination, she became ravenously hungry.
The train was packed with men in uniform, which made her wonder about the state of the world. But Liverpool was an industrial city, where ships were built and soldiers were trained. In peace time, the train full of troops was a sign that the English were industrious. The mood was upbeat; occasionally she would hear laughter and conversation around their card games. Most of the soldiers disembarked in Liverpool. Domenica was relieved to depart the Liverpool station. The port was a gray steel wall of battleships so massive she could not see the sky or sea. The claustrophobia she felt in the port melted away as the train chugged north to Scotland, where the hillsides were green and the sky had no edges.
Serious matters weighed on Domenica’s mind. She agonized about her parents, and hoped they were getting on without her. She had seen the submarine drills off the coast of Viareggio with her own eyes. If they ran drills on Il Tirreno Mare, and sidled up the Ligurian coast like snakes, surely the Italians were preparing to go to war. Her father wasn’t a fighter, and her mother talked too much. The Fascisti were cruel to older people; she had witnessed their contempt—they were like Guido Mironi: relentless.
Domenica opened the paper sack from Sister Marie Bernard. Inside, she found a pot of raspberry jam, a sleeve of crackers, a chocolate bar, a small bottle of whiskey, and a jar of the miraculous bee ointment. She snapped off a square of chocolate and savored it as it melted on her tongue. Domenica said a quick prayer of gratitude for the treats, and another prayer so her luck might hold. If she needed a sign that all would be well, she found it; at the bottom of the sack, Sister had placed a set of rosary beads.
MARSEILLE
August 1939
The peal of the bells at the entrance of H?pital Saint Joseph reminded Mary Gay that she had promised the Sisters she would unbolt the wheel and chimes and pack them to be taken with the final round of boxes to the motherhouse. As a postulant of the order, she was assigned chores that required youth and stamina.
Mary Gay quickly made her way down the stairs to the entrance to answer the bells. She wove through the boxes stacked in the lobby and unbolted the front door. An attractive young seminarian wearing a long black cassock and a wide-brimmed Saturno hat fished a stack of mail out of a worn leather sleeve and gave it to Mary Gay.
“Are you being punished, brother?” she joked.
“They thought it wise to send a religious instead of a layman. There are people who fear the hat.” He tapped the brim. “It’s getting more difficult to move mail through France.”
Mary Gay thanked him and went inside. She bolted the front door, sat down on a packing box, and shuffled through the mail. She whistled when she came upon a blue onionskin envelope addressed to Mademoiselle Domenica Cabrelli. She remembered when the Italian nurse arrived at Fatima House. Mary Gay had hoped that Domenica would join the order with her, but it soon became clear that Domenica would not become a nun. And now, the mail confirmed it. The return address on the envelope was Glasgow, Scotland, with the seal of Captain John L. McVicars. It was postmarked 10 August 1939. Mary Gay slashed a line through the hospital address and rerouted the letter to Dumbarton, Scotland. Before placing it on the stack, she drew a small Sacred Heart on the back for luck.
CHAPTER 23
Viareggio
NOW