Sister Matelda nodded. “Mussolini declared war on England and France in an alliance with Germany.”
Domenica’s heart sank. The news meant her husband would soon ship out. Her parents would remain in hiding. Families were splintered and friends were scattered, and no one was safe. The honeymoon was over, and there was no way to know what life would be on the other side.
June 11, 1940
Mattiuzzi looked around the apartment above his jewelry shop in the west end of Glasgow. His wife, Carolina, had left a teacup and saucer on the table and a hot kettle on the stove. He touched the kettle to make sure his wife had followed his instructions. She had. It was warm to the touch. He turned on the light by the window and lifted the shade by half before sprinting down the stairs to the shop.
Piccolo locked the display cases filled with replicas of the real jewelry his father had hidden weeks before. He cocked his head and looked up. “I hear them, Papa. Hurry.”
“Go,” Mattiuzzi whispered before turning off all the lights in the shop and lowering the shades. He had gone to the back room when he remembered the gold watches. He slipped back to the front of the shop in the dark and searched for the key. He remembered it was in his pocket. He trembled as he opened the drawer. He could hear the mob on the next block. He heard their chant and the smashing of glass. They got the Franzettis.
“Papa, now!” Piccolo said urgently from the doorway.
Mattiuzzi followed Piccolo to the back. He handed the gold watches to his son. As Piccolo went down the ladder, Mattiuzzi scattered worthless paperwork on the desk and tools on the worktable that he had planned to sell. He knelt and crawled under the worktable, following his son to the crawl space and basement below. Mattiuzzi placed his feet on the ladder. He took a final look around, making certain he had removed everything of value.
“Papa. Andiamo!” Piccolo whispered from below. Amedeo pulled the trapdoor shut over his head, locked it, and descended the ladder with his son’s help.
Mattiuzzi had covered the trapdoor overhead with a piece of woven carpeting that matched the rug under the table. He’d rigged the pedal of the bruting wheel to snap into place over the carpeting so the trapdoor would hopefully go undetected. He prayed the ruse would work.
Carolina made the sign of the cross as her husband took a seat on the bench next to her in the dank hole. Piccolo snuffed out the tiny flicker of the oil lamp. Mattiuzzi’s twelve-year-old daughter, Gloriana, was terrified in the void, but less so as her mother pulled her close.
The girl sat on the hamper of food covered with a blanket. There was a large flask of water, a lone tin cup dangling from its neck. There were more blankets and pillows stuffed underneath the bench. They brought the radio below and a spare can of oil for the lamp. Amedeo’s wife had packed their dishes and crystal from Italy in crates, which cramped the basement room. He was too frightened to be angry with her. Their money and personal papers were stored on Mattiuzzi’s person. Their cat, Nero, mewed.
“The cat?” Amedeo clucked. His daughter picked up the black cat and held her. The cat stopped mewing, as if she understood.
“What if they set a fire?” his wife whispered.
“They won’t burn their own property.” He pointed left and right to indicate the emporium and the bar, Scottish-owned.
Piccolo held his fingers to his lips and pointed above.
The Mattiuzzis heard the shatter of their glass storefront. They heard the repeated whack of an ax as it battered the front door down. They heard the voices. The chant of “Dirty Tallies” from the street was followed by the smashing of the display cases, one by one. Amedeo’s wife closed her eyes and clung to their daughter. She silently prayed the rosary as their life’s work was destroyed. Piccolo became enraged; his father had to restrain him from going up the ladder and confronting the looters.
“Matt-uh-zee,” one of the men called out in a singsong fashion. “Matt-uh-zee?” The mispronunciation of their family name told the Mattiuzzis that the mob did not know them. The floor above them shook violently as the looters trampled through the workroom. Their footfalls were so loud the Mattiuzzis believed they might come through the warped floor.
The Mattiuzzis froze, barely able to breathe. They heard laughter, which sent a chill through them.
“Smash the wheel,” one man said.
“Can’t get it to move,” another said.
“Take the papers.”
The ordinary sounds of the workroom, the hum of the wheel and the tinker of the tools, were replaced by an ugly overture of violence, the swing of wooden bats destroying their worktable. The looters picked up the tools the jeweler had staged and destroyed Mattiuzzi’s property with them too. Mattiuzzi felt the blows to his shop in his body as they smashed the window and shattered the glass in the picture frames and mirrors. They even swung at the lightbulbs overhead until nothing was left but wire.
“Go upstairs!” a man barked. “Make work of it!”