Chapter 41
Riva
She was currently staying in Otto’s spare room within walking distance of the docks.
It was easier to be in Valletta for work rather than Mdina.
Had the docks been hit? Had people been killed?
She paused just for a second, too frightened to move, but then threw on her clothes and boots and together with Otto she tripped and stumbled down the stairs and ran out into the street.
People were begging for assistance as dust, smoke and flying debris ballooned in the air right across the entire dockyard, and ambulance bells began to ring.
Riva could barely breathe. She coughed and rubbed her stinging eyes as Otto dragged her into the new casualty station, set up just before Mussolini had declared war.
As the days went by, she longed for some guiding hand to show her the way.
Tell her how best she could help. She had no idea.
All she knew was that once she’d ensured Addison was safe, she would not be able to just stand by in Valletta.
She had to find a way to help, but then things went strangely quiet again – the calm before the storm, she later realised.
By December, a heavier and more terrifying German air offensive had begun, and in January the Luftwaffe began its attack on the aircraft carrier HMS Illustrious, pride of the British Navy.
Riva was reading in bed when the German flares came down, but she saw the blue flash on the walls of her bedroom.
She leapt up and ran to the window as the sirens wailed.
Then came a horrifying series of explosions above and beyond the Grand Harbour, the air expanding and swelling as if it might burst open and swallow the entire island.
Otto’s building vibrated so much she felt sure it was teetering on the verge of collapsing.
She’d been a fool and hadn’t left for the shelter in time and now could only watch in horror as she saw the searchlights and then one aircraft after another tearing away from the group and diving straight into the anti-aircraft flak.
These were not the Italian raids they’d experienced so far.
Riva had watched those bombs leaving the aircraft with a shrieking whistle only to fall into the sea with a splash.
Had even laughed at their failure. These now, were the much more ferocious German bombs dropped at close range from Stukas.
She saw the sky fill with bursting shells and twisting planes as the convoy including Illustrious was attacked and its multiple barrelled guns fought back with a tremendous barrage of fire.
She heard the appalling progress of the screaming bombs and then saw buildings crash to the ground and fires erupt.
By about ten that night, HMS Illustrious, listing unevenly, was dragged through the Grand Harbour’s entrance, its hull burning red in the darkness.
It finally berthed at a wharf in French Creek.
In air thick with the fumes of explosive chemicals, dockyard workers rushed aboard, bringing with them breathing and firefighting equipment to tackle the blaze.
When it was light, Riva ran, along with hundreds of other people, to the ramparts of the harbour and saw the devastation on the other side of the water, the dust billowing, the buildings turned to rubble, the houses still in flames.
She and Otto took the ferry from the Custom House Steps over to the so-called Three Cities which had taken the brunt of the attack.
As she climbed out of the ferry, she saw dozens of dead goats floating in the water.
The streets were impassable, piled high with sheets of concrete, broken glass and mountains of brick, and they were turned away by police.
Riva later learned one hundred and twenty-six men had died on the Illustrious that night and ninety-one had been wounded.
HMS Illustrious was caught again by two bombs during another air raid on Malta.
But, although damaged, like the dockyards themselves, Illustrious survived.
Still the Germans didn’t give up. Despite further bombings the dockyard men continued to work night and day to enable the ship to be seaworthy enough to escape.
On 23 January, a very battered and broken HMS Illustrious set sail for Egypt.
But still the bombs carried on falling.
Night after night.
Day after day.
Over the next weeks, while the raids continued and the people spent their nights in cellars and basements, ‘Demolition and Clearance’ were out in force.
When Riva crawled out of their shelter into the dust and debris, all she could do was help get the injured to safety and make herself useful wherever she could.
She knew she was not destined to be a nurse but helped as thousands of Maltese people left their dockland homes, their belongings – cooking pots, bedding, bundles of clothes – piled high on flat carts, most of their animals left behind to starve while they attempted to find shelter with relatives inland.
By day, she and Otto both wrote articles about what was happening.
She focused on the stories of everyday people, their courage, their endurance, their tragedies, and she tried to find nuggets of hope in the darkness that now engulfed them.
Otto wrote about the progress of the war.
It was not good news. It was rarely good news.
Riva felt a pull to see Addison, to reassure herself again that he was still all right. Exhausted from another night helping in the casualty station, she headed by bus to Mdina, having long since given him back his beautiful car.
When she arrived at the top of the stairs, she saw his door had been left slightly ajar. She knew the butler did this occasionally to allow a through draught into the apartment, so she walked straight in only vaguely aware of the hum of voices and with no idea of what she was about to see.
‘Hello,’ she called out and entered the sitting room.
Addison turned towards her, as did another blue-eyed man in civilian dress.
She froze.
‘It’s been a long time,’ the man said.
‘Twelve years,’ she said curtly and turned to Addison. ‘I just came to see how you were.’
‘I’m fine, Riva. Thank you for keeping an eye on me.’
‘It’s not a problem. You know that.’ She paused, turned back to the other man and stood motionless, her heart beating furiously. ‘So, how are you, Bobby?’ she managed to say.
He nodded. ‘Well enough.’
She glanced around. ‘And your wife?’
‘Died five years ago. Cancer.’
She nodded and took a deep breath, stifling a rising feeling of bitterness. ‘Right. Sorry, Addison, but I have to go back to Valletta.’
‘Won’t you stay for a coffee?’ Bobby said, and as he took a step towards her, she could see he was walking with a limp.
No longer a pilot then, she thought as she shook her head and made for the door. ‘See you later, Addison.’
She paused on the landing to steady her breath and heard Bobby say, ‘Doesn’t she live here any longer?’
‘No,’ came the reply. ‘She lives with Otto, you know, the journalist in Valletta.’
She didn’t wait to hear any more and scurried down the stairs.
On Sunday night she heard the whine of a bomb, then a deafening crash and the sound of gunfire. There had been no warning siren. Otto’s apartment shook again, and he ran into her room to see if she was hurt.
‘Were we hit?’ she asked, her heart thumping.
‘I don’t know. You okay?’
She nodded. ‘We’d better get the hell out.’
He ran after her, racing down the stairs at breakneck speed while crashes and roars thundered around them.
When they finally reached the junk-filled cellar, he held on to her, both panting from the effort and cowering in fear.
The attack went on and on, until Riva’s head was throbbing with sound of engines and explosions and anti-aircraft fire.
Hell. Sheer hell. No other word for it and she didn’t feel prepared.
In the morning they surveyed the broken windows, the glass-strewn streets and the dust, so much dust, though so far most of the buildings close to theirs seemed intact.
But the people tramping the streets were angry, shouting and swearing and many so distressed they barely knew what to do.
Riva comforted the elderly among them and brought them blankets and hot drinks.
Reassured, they picked themselves up and carried on.
Eventually the night-time horror exploding in the purple skies above them became such a regular occurrence, they became accustomed to it.
When she lay awake at night listening, she allowed herself to think of Bobby.
What had he been doing in Malta? Why had he been at Addison’s place in Mdina?
There had been an all-out evacuation of most British civilians so it was odd that he should be there.
As much as she tried to forget him, he haunted her thoughts.
Months later, at the end of a terribly long day, Riva heard from Lottie that Hugh Lloyd, the RAF AOC, or commanding officer, was looking for women – on the quiet – to be trained for duties in the plotting rooms. The war rooms were overwhelmed and needed more staff, but it was top secret work and they had to be careful who they took on.
Riva, excited at the thought of it, went directly to the address Lottie had given her, but was worried they might just want Englishwomen.
She was ushered to a room where a stern-looking woman officer who called herself Roberts handed her some sheets of paper. ‘It’s an intelligence test. You have half an hour.’
Riva sat at a small desk in the corner and bent her head, feeling nervous. It was like being back at school with only half an hour to get it right.
When the time was up, which to Riva didn’t seem like half an hour at all, the woman rang a bell and beckoned her forward.
‘You are French,’ Roberts said, glancing down at the top sheet where Riva had written her name.
Then she pressed a button on her desk and another woman came in. ‘Mark this would you, Giovanna?’