Fracassi entered the mill several men behind Savattini. He had been brought to Warth Mills in an army truck with thirty other men, outfitted with benches that could seat only ten comfortably.
As Fracassi joined his fellow prisoners, he moved through the crowd dressed in his long black cassock and Roman collar. The internees stood out of respect, creating a path for the priest to pass. They bowed their heads and murmured greetings to the old priest. Fracassi nodded, acknowledging the men until he made it through the crowd to the far end of the mill.
* * *
Savattini walked through the mill, searching for familiar faces, knowing that the most important aspect of a ma?tre d’s duties was to make connections. His eyes fell upon a group under a window, three men who had formed a circle. This looked like the group for him. He needed a drink and they were sipping grappa. Savattini reached into his pocket to count his cigarettes. He had exactly thirteen left, which would get him through to the morning.
“Gentlemen,” Savattini said as he joined Antica, Mattiuzzi, and Piccolo. “Where are you from?”
“Glasgow.” Piccolo extended his hand, introduced himself and the others.
“No, I meant in Italy. Where are your people from?”
Antica lit up. “Bardi. Do you know it?”
“I’m from Emilia-Romagna too. From the hills.”
Antica made room on his suitcase. “Sit, sit.”
Savattini sat. “What do you make of this?” He drew a circle in the air with his cigarette.
“I served in the Great War,” Mattiuzzi offered, “and there’s nothing about this that makes any sense at all.”
“They arrested me in the hotel kitchen. I was starting my day as I always do.”
“I never met a cook who wore patent leather shoes.” Mattiuzzi offered the men taralles, savory biscuits his wife had made.
Savattini laughed and helped himself to a tarelle. “I’m the ma?tre d’ at the Savoy. I live in the hotel. I observed plenty in my time there, and I figured they arrested me because I knew a thing or two about the gambling that goes on in the salon there. Half of Churchill’s cabinet sits in on the games.”
“Write to him,” Antica said. “If you know the man, write to him and tell him this is a terrible mistake.”
“Let them play their games. This is a message for Mussolini and nothing more. Churchill cannot tolerate spies and sacrificed the Italians to make a point.”
“But we are not the enemy. We are loyalists!” Mattiuzzi insisted.
“It’s almost impossible to prove one’s loyalty. It’s a lot like love, it can only be proved in reciprocity,” Savattini explained.
Antica poured Savattini a cup of grappa. The tin cup was regulation, issued by the British navy. Savattini thanked him and swirled the liquor inside the cup. He sipped the grappa. It burned his throat before the warmth spread through his body.
“A man used to drinking from crystal won’t like the taste of the metal cup,” Antica said.
“It doesn’t matter what I like now, gentlemen, or what I’m used to; it’s about what I can endure.” Savattini looked around the mill. “What we can endure. I’m happy to make new friends.”
* * *
Fracassi had spent the evening comforting the prisoners. The following morning, he found a corner and set up a makeshift altar on his suitcase. The altar cloth, chalice, paten, and pyx were placed on the suitcase as they would be on the marble altar at Saint Alban’s in Ancoats. The police had been kind enough to let him pack the essentials of his trade in the rectory before putting him on a train to Warth Mills. Fracassi opened his prayer book and made the sign of the cross. A few men removed their hats and joined him.
Word spread through the mill that the priest was saying Mass. “Let’s pray,” Mattiuzzi said, and turned to the altar. Savattini was skeptical. He whispered to Antica, “My faith is in the farmer who churns the butter for my scampi.” Savattini believed it until the chatter in the mill fell away, until a reverent silence set in and the only voice that could be heard inside the mill was Fracassi’s.
“Gentleman, it may appear, in the situation that we’re in, that we are helpless. But I assure you, God is listening.”
Antica leaned in to hear the message. Piccolo Mattiuzzi put his hands on his father’s shoulders. Savattini pulled a cigarette out of his case. He looked to the altar and sheepishly returned it to the case. He, too, listened to the priest.
Fracassi continued. “He will not forsake you. He will not abandon you. But you must pray. God knows your heart. Saint Bernard of Clairvaux was the wise doctor of the faith. He encouraged us to reflect on the past. Make peace with it. You cannot control the evil done to you. You cannot turn back and right the good left undone. You cannot make up for the time wasted. But you can earn your salvation. Open your heart to His love. All is forgiven. We find strength in our confession. And we need it, gentlemen. We need it.”
Antica shivered when he heard Fracassi’s words. Did the priest know something?
“Forgive me, my brothers, I don’t have enough wafers to give each of you Holy Communion. When I was collected at the church yesterday, I brought only the essentials.”
It did not matter to the men. They knelt for the consecration.