The apartment was his wife’s domain. She took her husband’s hand and gripped it as she imagined their feather beds ripped at the seams and the destruction of the wooden rocker her husband had made for her before Piccolo was born. She pictured the hand-carved spokes of the chair ripped from their sockets and the tongue-and-groove skis that curved the supports snapped in half. Ruined. Carolina thought of Gloriana’s room and her dollhouse. She had made her daughter a rag doll when she was little. “I have Fissay,” she whispered to her mother. Too old to play with dolls, Gloriana treasured her childhood toy because her mother had made it especially for her. The girl was not about to allow a group of thugs to destroy her mother’s handiwork.
More men poured into Mattiuzzi’s building, tramped up the stairs, only to return to the shop moments later, once again shaking the floor overhead. The family heard the footfalls cross from the back of the store to the front. They heard the tinkle of the bells over the front door as the mob left through the open frame. Mattiuzzi put his head in his hands. The front door of the shop had been a work of art, inlaid with the finest Scottish lead glass made in the mills of Edinburgh. They are destroying their own creations, Mattiuzzi thought.
After a few minutes of silence, certain they were gone, Piccolo whispered, “Let’s go up, Papa,” as he lit the oil lamp.
Mattiuzzi shook his head no, blew out the lamp, and looked up when the workroom floor creaked over their heads. Someone figured out where they were hiding.
More footsteps clomped through overhead as several men joined the man in the workroom.
In the basement, the Mattiuzzis dared not move. Soon the lingering footsteps crossed the workroom and followed the rest out the front door. They heard the jingle of the bells again as the door shook and the looters climbed through it.
“They’re gone,” his wife whispered.
“I’ll go look,” Piccolo said.
“We will not go upstairs until the sun comes up.”
“I’m afraid, Papa,” Gloriana whispered.
“Don’t worry. They’re cowards. They won’t show their faces in the light.”
“But, Papa . . .” Piccolo began.
“McTavish is coming for us at daybreak. If he says it’s safe, we go up. Not until then.”
The Mattiuzzi family settled in their hiding place.
Mattiuzzi’s father had been an immigrant who married a fellow Italian upon his arrival in Glasgow. Mattiuzzi felt indebted to Great Britain for the good life he enjoyed with his wife and children. The family had flourished in Glasgow. Proud Scots, Mattiuzzi had joined the British Army to serve in the Great War in France, fighting in the Battle of the Somme. They were active in community life. Carolina led the Thistle Sewing Circle, one of the oldest Scottish women’s clubs in town. His daughter had won an essay competition at her school, titled “Scotland for One and All.” His son, Piccolo, was in love with Margaret Mary McTavish, a family with a plaid whose father owned the emporium next door. It was Lester McTavish himself who had warned Mattiuzzi about the night of sticks and stones planned against the Italian Scots. He had heard about it after church in a gathering of Glaswegians. The merchant had hustled home that morning to warn his friend. There was not enough time to flee; instead, they quickly hatched a scheme. Now, they were living it.
Mattiuzzi lit the oil lamp. He thought of home. But it wasn’t the green hills of Bardi, Italy, covered in sunflowers that he pictured; it was the Highlands of Scotland, where he’d taken Piccolo to hike during the summer since he was a boy. Mattiuzzi had taught his son to fish in the same river where he had learned to fish as a boy. They camped in the open air and ate wild raspberries in the sun. The heather graced the hills, drenching them in blue. The air in the Highlands was the sweetest Mattiuzzi had ever breathed. But those mountains and the fruits of that river no longer belonged to him. The Scot in him wanted to fight back, while the Italian in him hoped to endure. Mattiuzzi was a man without a country, even though he had been willing to die for it. It was pure luck that he hadn’t died in combat, because the loyalty only went one way.
June 15, 1940
While Mattiuzzi considered Scotland his country, Domenica remained loyal to Italy. Her intention had always been to return to Viareggio, but fate had led her far from home. She was married to the captain now, which made her a Scot. But in her heart, if she put politics and the hubris of powerful men to the side, she remained an Italian and would die one. Her brother would be fighting against her husband. Her parents were hiding in the hills, and if family was her life, it meant that part of her was hiding too.
Domenica had begun to fall in love with Scotland despite her occasional bouts of homesickness. At first, she couldn’t see its beauty. She had traded, against her will, the warm waves of the Italian coast for the cold, green waters of the River Clyde. Eventually, she began to make her peace with it. Love had changed her point of view, and reminded her of her upbringing and duties. In her tradition, she had learned that her husband came first, so she placed him there. Domenica took care of John. She cooked for him, kept the cottage, and worked in the school to save her salary so they might be able to buy a home of their own someday. She would do her part. That morning, she had packed John’s duffel. His uniform was laid out on the bed. She had one more task to perform before he departed.
“Let’s get to it, Domenica,” her husband said.
He followed Domenica to the garden wearing his undershirt and trousers. She tied a bedsheet around him up to his neck, like a barber’s apron. Domenica combed his hair. She lifted a lock of hair and snipped it short.
“Careful of the ear, darling,” he said to her. “I need it to hear the enemy.”
“It’s the curves that are difficult. Sit still.”
“I’m certain you’re doing a fine job,” he joked.
“My best.”
“That’s all I can ask for. Let’s agree to a game of pretend this morning. I don’t ship out and we stay in this cottage for the rest of our days.”
“They’d come for you.”
“I said this was a game of pretend. For once, don’t be practical.”
“I have to be. I’m a problem. An Italian in Scotland.”
“You married a Scot, which makes you a Scot. Besides, I don’t think the Germans could get past the nuns. They haven’t for centuries. Even in Germany.”