Chapter 33
Florence
Hélène had written about those conditions, too.
Florence had wept when she first read the letter but had brought it with her on the trip to Sicily, for on the back of it was a tiny line drawing Hélène had made of élise nursing her baby.
Florence took the letter out now to look at the drawing and then read it yet again.
My dear Florence,
It was lovely to hear from you but I have to tell you it would be most unwise to visit us.
France is on its knees. People are sick and hungry, two thirds of our children have rickets, and it’s heartbreaking to see many not even surviving childbirth.
Everything is completely disrupted and it’s impossible to get around except by bicycle as there are shortages of just about everything, including fuel for cars.
We will have to rebuild everything and start from scratch.
Despite the end of war, I find it hard not to feel bitter about how France has suffered.
Hundreds of thousands of buildings have been destroyed and we hear that industrial and agricultural production is running at less than half of what it was before the war.
The appalling state of ports, railway tracks, roads, and bridges, means even our medical supplies are not reaching us.
Doctor Hugo is beside himself with worry, and his wife Marie has still not been repatriated from London.
In parts of the countryside the farmers barely know where it is safe to work because of the landmines.
For all these reasons I think it will be some time before you can safely visit us, or us you.
Oh, my dear sister, we both miss you terribly as always, and send our love.
I hope you like the little drawing I made for you.
How is Jack? I was surprised to hear that he may be going to Malta with you, and that you stayed on in Devon so long, but Maman writes that by doing so you’ve been able to save enough money for your travels.
I wish you luck in your search for Rosalie.
Hélène
Florence folded the letter and put it away, shaking her head, and brushing the tears away. Even though she’d read it several times hoping for something different, of course the words remained the same and she couldn’t help feeling sad and worried for her sisters and for France.
Jack had managed to secure berths on a Royal Navy vessel delivering medicines and other supplies to Rome, Naples and Sicily, though not Malta. For Malta they would need a ferry from Syracuse.
She’d been thrilled to be going at last, but the journey had been slow and uncomfortable.
The many metal staircases were narrow and slippery, and the deck always wet from sea spray, which meant it wasn’t easy to get around the winches, coiled ropes and lifeboats lined up ready for use.
There had been a smell of metal and tar, as well as the odd whiff you get from thick orange tarpaulin.
The sea had seemed vast, and she’d been very seasick until she eventually found her sea legs.
But she managed to enjoy the final few days, running her fingers over the salt on the ship’s railings and feeling the wind in her hair.
And at last she was making a start with her mother’s request to find Rosalie.
As for Bruce, after he’d kissed her on the evening of VE Day she had realised that, much as she liked him – and she really did like him – she had not fallen in love with him, and knew she never would.
She still loved Jack. So, she’d met Bruce to tell him they could only ever be friends and over the past year that’s what they had been.
He’d been the first among the people she knew to predict the Labour landslide in July 1945 and Churchill’s failure to retain power.
And now Jack was going to have work in a place called Lipari, which turned out not to be on the Sicilian mainland at all but more remotely on one of Sicily’s tiny Aeolian islands.
Although she had longed to see Sicily, Florence had started to fret over how long it would be before she could go to Malta.
After arriving in Sicily and a few moments of gazing back at the sea, they heaved up their bulky canvas bags, walked away from the docks and into the hot, still air of the blazing town itself.
Palermo sat in the plain of Conca d’Oro – the golden shell – surrounded by a semi-circle of purple mountains, although nothing much looked golden in the afternoon.
Florence stared in shock, taking in the rubble piled up in the narrower streets of Palermo, the collapsed walls, the bullet-pocked plaster, the bombed remains of aristocratic houses the colour of soft pinkish cream.
Deeper into its dark passages the houses were either faded or crumbling and decayed, doors hanging at angles, red-tiled roofs absent.
She hadn’t seen London since the Blitz, although Jack had told her about it, but they’d sailed from Portsmouth and the bomb damage there had been enough.
And, of course, she’d seen first-hand the damage an unexploded bomb could cause.
Here in the ruined stony streets she coughed as the wind lifted the ochre dust to swirl in the air.
They reached a garden, where cypress and Judas trees gave way to the green of an orange grove.
A few columns and arches stood undamaged, plus a building with the glass blown out from its windows but with intricate old ironwork still intact.
From there the tall spires of the cathedral were visible too.
‘It’s awful to see this, Jack. It must have been so frightening.’
‘I know. This was one of the loveliest cities in the world.’
‘Until the war.’
He nodded. ‘The carpet bombing of Palermo was designed to destroy the port, airfields, military bases, railway stations and so on but there’s always civilian damage. And naturally that discouraged resistance when Allied troops finally invaded.’
Florence found herself almost speechless, imagining Malta must be in the same dreadful state. She had seen the horrors of the Nazis close up in France, but somehow seeing the terrible destruction brought home the scale of the world war.
‘Come on,’ Jack said. ‘Give me your bag.’
‘I can carry it.’
‘Fine. But we need to get a move on before it gets dark. I don’t think we’ll get to Lipari tonight. What we need is a hotel, if such a thing still exists.’
They wandered on and he asked a few locals for directions. It seemed that along with his native English, Jack not only spoke French and German, but also had a smattering of Italian too.
‘The trouble is,’ he said as he shook his head, not always understanding the replies. ‘The Sicilians don’t exactly speak Italian. They virtually have their own language.’
Many of the people looked destitute, thin children ran about with no shoes and gaping holes in their ragged clothes and old ladies dressed in black sat with covered heads on stools outside what must have once been their homes.
Donkeys roamed freely as did the dogs, all as thin as each other.
A pitiful sight. Florence knew Sicily had a weighty history, heavy with the blood, sweat and tears of its people, she just hadn’t expected to see quite so much of it now.
After questioning more locals, Jack found a pension that had once been a private villa.
The owner now was a widow called Margarita and when Jack asked if she had rooms, she laughed bitterly and swept an arm around her. ‘See for yourself. Does it look like I have rooms?’
Jack did look. So did Florence.
‘It’s all right, Jack,’ she said, ‘let’s just find somewhere else.’
A few locals were wandering in and out of the pension and, apparently not ready to give up, Jack frowned. ‘Madam, if you do have any space, we can pay you well.’
Margarita narrowed her eyes and then she shrugged. ‘Most of the wiring and plumbing has gone. My beautiful rooms … well you see for yourself.’
Jack and the woman agreed a price and she took them out into a garden with a large terrace.
The scent of roses tumbling from a pergola took Florence by surprise.
How, amid all this destruction, had it survived?
Dazzling geraniums cascaded from pots as well and two broken stone benches sat either side of the terrace beneath a couple of palms. Margarita led them through a pint-sized orchard of gnarled olive trees to the end of the garden and a small barn that had no door.
Florence felt hot, dirty and hungry but all she wanted was a bed.
‘There is a well.’ The woman pointed to one side. ‘It is good water. So, there is your room.’ She nodded at the barn. ‘After the Germans, the Allies. Now only the homeless or destitute.’
She sighed heavily and left them to it.
Jack entered the barn first and turned to Florence. ‘You okay to bivvy up here?’
‘Sure. I don’t mind straw for beds,’ she replied, keeping up the appearance of being fine with them sharing the space but aware there was still a trace of awkwardness between them. ‘Sheer luxury.’
‘Are you sure? We can go elsewhere. There’s bound to be something better.’
‘I’m too tired, Jack. I just want to sleep.’
‘I’ll check out the well.’
She lay down on the straw relieved to be on dry land at last, but instead of falling instantly asleep there was too much going on in her mind and she lay awake wishing she could write it all down in her journal.
Over the last year, she had begun to write a novel too, inspired by her life in the Dordogne, and she was itching to return to it.
She sighed. It would have to wait and with that last thought she fell deeply asleep.
When she woke in the morning, she had to shade her eyes from the brilliance of the day. She glanced around the barn for Jack then went outside and saw he’d filled a pail of water and was chewing on what looked like a bun. ‘Here,’ he said and handed one to her. ‘They’re still warm.’
‘Thank you. What is it – some kind of brioche?’
‘Sicilian style, with almond paste inside.’