Where was he caught?’
‘Desert in north Africa.’
‘Like me.’ The soldier shakes his head. ‘I was lucky to survive.’
They reach Bologna. In the drawn-out wait at the station, Pistola is treated to a no-holds-barred account of life in that South African prisoner-of-war camp, some of it so gruelling he’s shaken by the intensity of his feelings as he listens. What can it have been like for that confident father of his, the man with the movie-star smile, to live on a barren plain where lightning killed so many prisoners in their tents that some preferred to hang themselves rather than sizzle like pigs on embers as they slept?
But there was a lighter side, the soldier tells him. A progressive new camp commander arrived who gave the prisoners bricks to build their own barracks, and encouraged them to play sport and stage plays and operas.
‘I can do quite a good soprano.’ The glimmerings of a smile appear on his sardonic face. ‘I also look quite good in a dress. Actually …’ He lowers his voice and winks. ‘I had an enormous fan club. Amazing what you can do when pushed. We had operas every weekend. Doubt there has ever been another prisoner-of-war camp like that …’
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