The Girl from the Paradise Ballroom (25 page)

The fall of
the Netherlands persuaded the government that stronger action was needed against the enemy within. Two days later the home secretary quietly gave the order that all category B aliens be interned.

The police arrested Konrad Fischer the next morning, knocking half-apologetically at his landlady's door in Riding House Street. Herr Fischer did not argue, but asked for time to pack some belongings: shaving tackle; a framed photograph of his sister, Brigitta, smiling toothily beside the Danube; the score of the song he had written for Olivia. When he was ready to leave he raised his Tyrolean hat to his landlady and bowed from the waist.

“Thank you for your kind hospitality,
gnädige Frau
. I hope that my presence here has not caused you any embarrassment. If you could do me one last service I should be grateful. Send, if you please, to Mr. Rodway and tell him I will no longer be able to give singing lessons at his house.”

Filomena was sitting in the kitchen with Renata when they heard that Mussolini had joined the war. He made the announcement at four o'clock on June 10, standing on the balcony of the Palazzo Vecchio in Rome. An hour appointed by destiny has struck in the heavens of our fatherland, he proclaimed, to loud and enthusiastic cheers. In private he believed the war would be a short one. I only need a few thousand dead, he said to Marshal Badoglio, his army chief of staff, so that I can sit at the peace conference as a man who has fought.

The past weeks had altered Filomena. She had told nobody about Stan's death. It seemed to her that she had swallowed all her grief, and now it was spreading through her like embalming fluid, transforming her into some inert resilient substance: rubber, perhaps, or nylon. The change unnerved her but it made her feel better able to face the future.

“What does it mean?” Renata turned her bulging rabbit's eyes upon Filomena. Pregnancy did not suit Renata. She was sick so often that there was always a sour whiff about her clothes.

“It means that we have become the enemy.” Filomena switched off the radio with a click. Bruno had taken charge of the kiosk that afternoon, so that Antonio could visit his father in hospital. She felt an overpowering urge to be with her menfolk, to see their faces, to touch their sleeves. Briskly she began to put on her coat.

Renata let out a cry of dismay. “Don't leave me on my own. What if the baby comes early, like Danila's?”

“Don't be silly. The baby's not due for months. Anyway, your uncle will be home soon. So will Bruno, he won't keep the kiosk open now.”

“But Bruno said he was going to the
fascio
after work,” wailed Renata, “to hear the latest news.”

“Well, then, he'll know to hurry back quickly. I can't stay, Renata, I have to make sure that Papa is all right. You'll be quite safe. Lock the door and don't open it to anyone.”

When Filomena reached the hospital she found it in chaos. Nurses with frightened faces were scurrying along the corridors, and high in the building she could hear shouting. As soon as she entered the ward she saw that Enrico's bed was empty. The sheets were idly pushed back as though he had disappeared, just for the moment, to the bathroom or the lobby. Then she realized that there were two policeman at the end of the room. They were waiting as one of the patients, a gaunt young man with a yellowish complexion, climbed into his clothes, his fingers all thumbs. Beside them the doctor from Verona hovered, fierce and ineffectual.

“The fellow is ill,” he said in English. “He has the jaundice, can't you see? You cannot arrest him. It is an outrage.”

“His name's on the list, I'm afraid.” The police sergeant tapped the piece of paper in his hand. “Collar the lot: that's what old Winston says. I'm sorry, my friend, but I have to do what I'm told.”

The jaundiced man was dressed now. As the policemen turned to escort him to the door Filomena recognized Constable Sellers, with his acned cheeks and his face too young for uniform. Salty, Stan had called him, Salty Sellers.

“Constable!” she called out. “Constable Sellers!”

Sellers took a diffident step toward her. “You heard about Stan, did you? Rotten luck. I'd go home, miss, if I were you. There could be riots in Soho tonight.”

“I'm looking for my father. Enrico Trombetta. He was here in the hospital. In that bed over there.”

As she pointed, the constable's face closed up, and Filomena knew that Enrico's name had been on the list. She seized his arm, the blue serge coarse beneath her fingers. “Do you know where they have taken him? My father's not well, he has an inflammation of the lungs.”

“Wait until morning, Miss Trombetta, that's my advice. You can ask at the police station tomorrow. Nobody knows anything right now.” Sellers glanced swiftly about and then hissed in her ear: “And be prepared. We'll be arresting another batch tomorrow.”

“Come on, Sellers,” the sergeant shouted. “Get a move on.”

“But they won't arrest my brother Antonio, he's not a fascist,” said Filomena. The constable did not answer; he only shook his head, and disappeared along the ward.

Antonio had not
visited his father in hospital that afternoon. He had gone to the apartment in Hyde Park, where Olivia was waiting for him, naked beneath an indigo silk kimono. He did not know of Mussolini's announcement until six o'clock, when he switched on the walnut-veneered radio in the living room.

“Oh my God,” he said, as the newscaster's voice boomed soberly across the thick carpet, the brocade curtains, the vast beige sofas.

“What is it, my darling? What's wrong?” Olivia was coming out of the bathroom. Her hair had got wet in the bath, and her head was wrapped in a white towel.

“Italy has declared war on Britain. It happened this afternoon, in Rome.” Antonio was climbing into his discarded shirt, struggling with his inside-out sleeves. “I must go home at once. I must make sure that my father is safe.”

“But he is in no danger tonight, surely—”

“I do not know,” Antonio said. He felt sick with the knowledge of his own lie. “Herr Fischer was arrested without warning. God knows what they will do.”

Olivia rubbed at the damp mass of her hair and let fall the towel. “I'm coming with you,” she said, as she reached for her own clothes, pulling on her silk knickers, hooking up her ivory brassiere.

“Olivia, you can't. How would I explain it?”

“I don't care.” Olivia stood firm and straight in her underclothes, her eyes burning. “We belong together, Antonio. We always have. I'm coming with you. We can go to the house in Sussex, Bernard can't stop me, I don't suppose he'll want to stop me, he'll be glad to have me gone. We can start our lives all over again…”

Antonio fumbled with his shirt buttons. He dared not stop dressing, even for a moment. “Oh, my love, I can't. You know I can't. I'm not a free man. I don't mean Danila, I mean my family, my father, my sister—”

“We'll take them with us. There's plenty of room.”

“Olivia.” Antonio had fastened his shirt and was dragging his braces over his shoulders. “My love, we don't have time. We don't have time to talk about this. They could be arresting Italians at this moment. I must go home. I lied, Olivia, I said I was going to see Papa in the hospital. I must find out if he is safe.”

Olivia stared. He remembered how he had first seen her face, across the floor of the Paradise Ballroom, that pale beautiful desolate face. It stirred him now as it had stirred him then.

“How will I know what has happened to you?”

“I will meet you,” said Antonio. “There is a café in Old Compton Street, Ricci's it's called. Go there at eleven, tomorrow or the next day. I will meet you if I can.”

“But what if they lock you up? What if we can never find each other?”

“Of course we will find each other. I would do anything on earth to find you, you must know that.” Antonio took her in his arms, not as a lover this time but as a comforter. Her eyes were huge and terrible, like Medusa's. The sight made him shudder. Sensing it, Olivia rallied.

“I am behaving like a fool,” she said. “I am making it worse for you. You are right. Of course we will find each other, the world is not so large a place.” She pressed her head against his shoulder once, very hard; then she stepped away from him, twisting her tumbled hair into a knot. Her face had closed up once more. “No, don't kiss me. I'll die if you kiss me. Just go, my darling. Go.”

Within two hours
of Mussolini's declaration eighty Italians had been arrested in London. They included Bruno, who was scooped up at the Casa d'Italia in the act of helping to destroy a heap of the
fascio
's records. He had no opportunity to let Renata know, and by the time Filomena returned to Frith Street she was in hysterics.

“Calm yourself, Renata,” said Filomena, as she hung her coat upon the peg. “You are not the only one in this position.”

Uncle Mauro was eyeing his niece from a distance, as if he were afraid she might bite him. Nobody had attempted to arrest Mauro. Despite his enthusiasm for Mussolini he had never possessed the twelve lire necessary to join the
fascio
. “I've told her that,” he said, “but she won't listen.”

Renata gave a high-pitched yowl, and buried her head in her hands. Filomena contemplated her for a moment, coldly. “Go to Fortuna's, Mauro. See if they have something that will pacify her.”

Fortuna's was the Italian pharmacy in Frith Street, a few doors away. Mauro shook his head. “It is shut. Ricci's café is shut too. Someone threw a brick through the window, and now they're all hiding upstairs, under the beds. How is your father? Is he shocked by the news?”

Filomena did not answer. She knew that if Renata heard about Enrico's arrest she would scream the house down. Opening one of the kitchen drawers she took out a bottle of aspirin. “Take Renata upstairs, Mauro, give her a couple of these. I don't suppose there will be any news of Bruno until the morning.”

Mauro screwed up his wizened face as if he guessed that Filomena was concealing the truth, but he had the sense not to argue, and taking the bottle of aspirin he led the whimpering Renata away.

It was past
seven o'clock before Antonio reached his home. He did not dare take a bus for fear of being trapped by an avenging crowd. It was broad daylight, it would be light for hours yet, and anyone could see that he was Italian. Instead he made his way by foot from Hyde Park, ducking to and fro to avoid the angry knots of people on the streets. The words that floated in the summer air were ugly words:
Eyeties, cowards, stab in the back
. Once, as he drew close to Soho, he heard the splintering of glass.

Filomena screamed when he walked into the house. “Where were you? You said you were visiting Papa.”

Guilt swept through Antonio, cold as nausea. “Why? What has happened?”

“They've arrested him at the hospital. I went to find him, but I was too late—” Antonio moved to touch her but Filomena threw him off. “There is a list. They are rounding up all Italians whose names are on the list. Bruno has vanished too. They must have arrested him at the
fascio
.”

“Perhaps they will be together,” said Antonio, “perhaps Bruno will take care of Papa.”

“You lied, Antonio. You said that you were going to visit Papa. If you had been there—”

“What could I have done? Tell me that, Filomena. Could I have rescued him from the police? I do not think so.”

His reply quelled Filomena. She sat at the table, staring at the palms of her hands: wide, capable hands, the skin coarsened by her years working in the laundry.

“I saw Constable Sellers at the hospital,” she said. “He used to work with Stan—with Constable Harker. He told me they would be making more arrests in the morning. They won't come for you, though, Antonino, will they? Your name won't be on that list?”

Antonio was silent. He remembered how he had signed the loan document beneath the blue satisfied glitter of Signor Follini's eyes. That document, that signature, would be there in the
fascio
's records; more than enough to put the authorities on his trail.

“Yes, Mena,” he said at last, “it is very likely that they will come for me. I cannot explain, it is something I had to do for Papa. You will be all right, though. They are not arresting women, and besides, you were born in this country, you are a British citizen.”

“Much good may it do me,” mumbled Filomena. “And the kiosk? What about the kiosk?”

“I fear you will have to close it, at least for a few days. People will be avoiding Italian businesses now.” Antonio sat at the table beside her. He felt a peculiar sense of comfort that it was his shrewd calm sister taking charge, not his brother, not his wife. “Whatever happens I will let you know, Filomena. As soon as I can, I will send you word. And when I do, will you tell Mr. Rodway? I will write down his address. They will want to know where I am, he and his wife.”