The Kammersee Affair Page 23

  Bartelli had been brought up in one or another convent orphanage. Any education that he had received was from the nuns at the Catholic Church, or the orphanage. There were no uncles or aunts to take care of him. No grandparents to give him a home. There were no brothers, or sisters. No cousins. That’s how it had been for the subsequent eight years. During that time he had been moved on six different occasions. No lasting relationships had been established. He made no friends.

  That’s how it was until Uncle Sam needed him, and called him to join up. It was the first time anyone had needed him. From that time the guys in his unit were his only family. His poppa was Sergeant Kadowski. His brothers were the other guys – Brothers in Arms, that’s what they called themselves. A greater bunch you couldn’t wish to find. The Army did everything for him. The unit fed him, clothed him, and generally looked after him. If he was sick they tended him. If he was worried, the guys would comfort him. He didn’t have to think, the Army did that for him.

  The thoughts regarding his uncertain future once more came into his mind. How would he really manage, on his own, in Civvy Street? He looked along the platform, as though looking into the future. Without the others the future looked bleak. “I hope the guys keep in touch,” he thought. Would Kadowski try to recover the gold? Was there any gold, or was it only wishful thinking by Kadowski. Bartelli didn’t really care. He wasn’t interested. He just wanted to keep in touch that was all. He felt lost without their support and guidance.

  He slowly walked out from the station, and went over to the nearby cab stand. “Mason and 52nd,” he said to the driver, as he opened the cab door.

  * * *

  The drive was uneventful. The driver started to make conversation on a number of occasions, but Bartelli did not respond. Eventually the driver gave up. A short time later the cab turned into 52nd Street, a short distance from Mason. “It looks busy up ahead”, said the driver. “I wonder what’s going on?”

  There was a small crowd in the street ahead. There had been a traffic accident. The road was blocked, and a number of side streets had become gridlocked. There was no way through. “Sorry buddy, but I can’t get through there,” the driver said. “I gotta turn back.”

  “Okay, let me out here, I’ll walk the rest of the way,” said Bartelli. Some things didn’t change did they?

  “Okay, buddy, that’ll be,” the driver looked at his meter. “Two dollars eighty-five.”

  Bartelli gave him three dollars, and got out of the cab. A hundred yards further down the street he could see the accident site. A truck had collided with a bus. The truck lay on its side, at an angle, blocking the entire width of the roadway. Its load of canned fruit had been shed all over the highway. The front of the bus had been pushed in, and down trapping the offside wheel. Neither vehicle was going to move again, at least not in a hurry. A police motorcyclist had arrived. The officer was now trying very hard to organise the traffic. An ambulance was trying to make its way through, but was constantly blocked. Fortunately no one had been seriously hurt. Bartelli gave a silent thank you. He looked away, and continued walking toward his road. Not much further now.

  Eventually he reached the corner of the street where he lived. A short distance away was the tenement block he which he lived. He could see Mrs. Mulvaney, from the ground floor flat. She was standing at the front of the building talking to Mrs. Greenwood, from the block opposite. The local children were playing baseball in the roadway. What was wrong with the park? They always played in the street.

  A couple of dogs were barking close by. The children were screaming, and a young couple, on the other side of the road, was arguing. In the background he could hear the siren of the ambulance still trying to reach the scene of the accident. I’m home, he thought, wishing that there had been something better somewhere.

  As he reached the steps leading into his block, Mrs. Mulvaney stopped talking, and looked directly at him. “Hello Tony,” she said. “Good to see you back.”

  Bartelli, hoping for a little conversation, stopped, put his bags down, and started to thank her. She didn’t hear him. She had already re-commenced her conversation with Mrs Greenwood. Nothing had changed, same old gossiping. Didn’t they have anything else to do, he wondered. They were always gossiping. What was so important that they kept on with it?

  Then he smiled. “It is at least conversation, I suppose. That’s a plus.” As a small consolation, Bartelli told himself that at least her welcome back, short as it was, was still genuine enough. After all, she was smiling when she said it, and she was looking directly at him.

  He picked up his bags, and continued up the steps, and entered into the lobby of the building. He looked up the stairway that stood in front of him. Another sigh, and then he started the long climb to the third floor, where his flat was located. As he reached the second floor the door to flat 2A suddenly opened, and a young lady stepped out onto the landing. She had her back to Bartelli as she locked her door, and had not seen him. It was Laura Stanley. Bartelli had been keen on Laura for as long as he could remember. The feeling had not, sadly, been reciprocated. “Hello, Laura,” he said. “It’s great to see you.”

  “Oh, hello Tony, nice to see you back,” she replied. “Can’t stop,” and rushed down the stairs.

  He looked down the stair rail watching her go. Whilst he had been away in Europe he had gotten up the courage to write to her. He had been encouraged when she replied a couple of times. He now knew that those letters hadn’t been significant. She hadn’t meant anything by them. She was just being neighbourly that was all.

  When she reached the bottom of the staircase, and was out of sight, he looked back up the stairs and continued on his way. Some welcome he thought. Well they did spend some time with me. What was it two, no three, whole seconds.

  He continued up to the third floor to his flat. He unlocked the door to the flat and went inside. He dropped his bags and slowly looked around. Whatever you might say or think about Mrs. Mulvaney, she certainly had looked after his flat whilst he had been away. It was sparkling clean. He really should buy her a little something, as a thank you. Just a token of his appreciation for what she had done. He would look around first thing tomorrow.

  On the table was a small pile of letters. There was nothing personal of course. There was nothing from friends, or family, which wasn’t really that surprising in the circumstances. There were a number of circulars, a letter from the Army, one from Social Security, and one from his old employer. He quickly glanced through them. None of them looked important. He decided to deal with them later, much later.

  There were also two handwritten notes. One, from Mrs. Mulvaney, which told him that the icebox had been stocked, but if there anything he needed, he should just ask. The other note was from Father O’Brien, at St Mary’s Church. He would like to have seen him, at the church hall, at 7.30 that evening.

  That was all that Bartelli needed. He wasn’t the most religious person in the world. Yes he had been baptised as a Catholic. The nuns at the orphanage had seen to that. Probably because of his Italian roots they considered that he must have been Catholic. Sure he occasionally went to Church for Sunday Mass. But it was more out of habit, than conviction. He went to Confession occasionally, although he couldn’t remember the last time. Why would the priest want to see him? I hope he doesn’t start with the preaching, and the “hope to see you on Sunday,” routine.

  Bartelli threw the note down. “Forget it. I can’t be bothered,” he said to himself angrily. “I’ve just returned from four years of hell,” he said. “Do I come back to a great big welcome? No. What do I get? Hope to see you at Mass on Sunday. Nice to see you back.”

  He paced back and forth. “Pathetic. Well I’m not going, and that’s final. Father O’Brien will manage quite well without me. The Church don’t need me, and I sure as – I don’t need the Church.”

  He went into the kitchen, and opened the icebox. It was stocked all right. He took out a cold beer. “Good old Mrs. Mulvaney
,” he said as he poured it into a glass. “At least she looks after me.” He returned to the living room, and sat down. He started to sip his beer. Then he shook his head. He looked around on the floor, and retrieved the note from Father O’Brien, and read it once more. “Oh, okay. I better go, I suppose,” he finally decided. “After all I’ve nothing else planned for tonight have I? My social diary isn’t exactly bursting at the seams is it? I seem to be free this evening.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Redfern House

  At the appointed time Bartelli walked around to the church hall in the next street. The door was wide open. Bartelli looked through the doorway. The hall appeared to be in complete darkness, apart from a small glow coming from a single light right at the end of the hall. In the gloom, Bartelli could just see Father O’Brien. He was sitting by a trestle table just in front of the stage.

  Bartelli called out softly. “Hello, can I come in”. There was no response. He moved a few steps forward, and actually entered the hall lobby. He stopped, and once again called out. Again there was no response. He tapped on the door. He thought he heard a sound in the darkness. He peered over to his left side. He could see nothing. He listened carefully, but heard nothing more. He moved further into the hall, toward the stage. As he walked along he realised that there were a number of other tables close by. They appeared to be ready prepared for a party of some kind. Bartelli gave it no more thought, and continued on his way. He called out once more. Again there was no response. As he drew nearer to the stage, the priest looked up.

  “Antonio, welcome,” he said. “Do come in, please.” He looked at the large clock, just above the stage area. “And right on time. Seven thirty, on the dot. You are very prompt. That’s a good way to be. It says a lot about a person’s character. I’m sorry I didn’t hear you come in.” The priest got up and walked over to where Bartelli was standing. “Must have been day dreaming,” he continued. “I seem to do that a lot these days. Getting old I suppose.”

  “Oh I called out a couple of times,” Bartelli said, taking the Priest’s outstretched hand. “I didn’t mean to intrude.” He then thought about the prepared tables. “I better not stay though. You have things planned for tonight?” He looked around indicating the tables. “I can come back another time. Maybe tomorrow evening, if that’s all right.” He turned and started to leave. He had not gone far when once again, he thought he heard something in the darkness. He looked around but saw nothing.

  “No that’s all right, Antonio, please stay.” The priest quickly called him back. “I wanted to have a word with you.” Bartelli turned around and walked closer to the table. As he came near to where the Priest was sitting, he stopped and stood formally to attention, as though on parade.

  “Please, please Antonio, do sit down,” he said. “And we can dispense with the formalities.” Bartelli relaxed, and sat down. “Would you like a coffee?” the priest asked. “I don’t have anything stronger, I’m afraid.”

  “Coffee will be just fine, sir,” Bartelli replied, as he sat down opposite the Priest.

  Father O’Brien poured the coffee. “Milk and sugar?” he asked. “It’s really very good to see you back home, you know,” the Priest continued, taking Bartelli by surprise. “We were all so worried about you, when you went away.”

  Bartelli wondered who the “we” were, but kept silent.

  “And now, thank God, you are back home, back with us,” the Priest continued.

  Here it comes, I look forward to seeing you at Mass, wait for it.

  “Have you any plans, for your future?” the Priest asked. “Or is it all a little bit too soon just yet?”

  That was not what he had been expecting. Maybe next time, Bartelli reasoned. For a while he was unsure of how to respond. “I’m not really sure, Father,” he mumbled. “I need to think things out a bit more, but I think I’ll probably stay on in the Army. I think I might sign on as a regular soldier.”

  “Oh I see,” said the priest, sounding slightly disappointed. “Well, you could do worse, I expect.” He did not sound very convincing. “You might not know it but I am connected with a small orphanage, just a few miles outside of the city. Redfern House. Have you heard of it?”

  No, Bartelli hadn’t heard of it. There was no earthly reason why he should have heard of it. He was beginning to get impatient, and wondered where this was all leading.

  “It’s a very active place, and they are a bit short of staff. They could use some additional full time help,” said the Priest.

  Bartelli wondered why he needed to know all of this. Perhaps the “hope to see you at Mass” routine might have been preferable after all.

  The priest continued regardless. “You know the sort of thing, a general handyman. The pay isn’t great, but it’s really not too bad, considering. Besides the accommodation is supplied free of charge. Your own small apartment, everything you need. And food is all included. Oh and there’s a small clothing allowance. You can imagine there’ll be a lot of wear and tear.” The Priest gave a little chuckle then he continued. “Plus three weeks annual holiday. So all in all it’s not really too bad a deal.”

  “That’s real interesting, father, that sounds real great I’m sure,” said Bartelli, with little, if any, enthusiasm. “Not at all bad, really. But why are you telling me? What does all this have to do with me?”

  The Priest looked at him for a moment. “Oh no reason, not really,” he said. “I just thought, that maybe, just possibly, it might have been something that you might have considered. It seemed quite suitable, to me.” The Priest then shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t worry about it. Perhaps I was wrong. It wouldn’t be the first time. Perhaps it isn’t your type of thing after all.”

  “Right,” said Bartelli. “No father, it’s certainly not for me. It doesn’t sound a bit suitable. Sorry you’re just wasting your time. I’m not interested. It’s as simple as that.”

  Bartelli remembered what orphanages were like, vividly. It was ingrained in his memory. They weren’t nice places. In fact he hated being in them. He hated everything about them. The old buildings were dreary, depressing, and dismal. The people in charge could be very cruel, and hurtful. They were dreadful places. “No I don’t think I’d ever want to go back to one of those places,” he declared. “Not even as a member of staff. Thanks all the same, but no thanks.”

  The look of realisation suddenly spread over Father O’Brien’s face. “Now I remember,” he said. “Of course, you were brought up in an orphanage, weren’t you, Antonio?” He knew exactly what the orphanages would have been like in those days. “I’m sorry. I had completely forgotten, how stupid of me.”

  “Yes father, I was in an orphanage. In fact I was in several orphanages,” Bartelli replied, a little impatiently. “And the name’s Tony.” As soon as he had said that, he felt sorry. That had not been necessary, he thought, and inwardly kicked himself. He hurried on hoping that Father O’Brien had not noticed. “They weren’t very nice places. In fact they were …” He stopped himself just in time. “They were awful places. And the nuns, well the least said soonest mended.” He noticed the shocked look on Father O’Brien’s face. “I’m sorry, Father, but that’s how it was. The nuns were terrible. I hated them. Sorry.” Bartelli looked down, avoiding eye contact.

  The Priest did not need to be told. He was ashamed to admit that what Bartelli had said was absolutely true. “Of course that was some years ago, naturally,” Father O’Brien said. He had either not heard the comment about Bartelli’s name, or he had chosen to ignore it. “I would guess that it was, what, about twelve years ago? Something like that?”

  “Yes Father, something like that, it was almost ten years ago, to be precise,” Bartelli replied, calmer this time, but anxious to be on his way. “Anyway, I’m sure that you have plenty of other things to do. I better get going now.”

  “I imagine that they were a lot different in those days. The orphanages I mean,” the priest said, completing ignoring the last comment. “I’
m sure that they are much better these days. I know that Redfern is a wonderful place, and….” He could see the look on Bartelli’s face, and he knew that there was no point continuing. “Still if you really aren’t interested, there’s nothing else to say. It’s a shame though. I just thought ….” He did not finish what he was saying.

  Bartelli was no longer listening. He had heard something, and was now looking behind him. He could see a number of people moving around in the semi-darkness. What was going on, he wondered. Then he realised. They are probably getting ready for choir practice, or something. Why didn’t they switch on the lights? He should leave, right now. He turned back to face the priest.

  “No father, I don’t really think I’m interested. In fact I know I’m not,” he said. “Sorry. But thanks for thinking of me. You’ll find someone else, somebody more suitable and more appreciative I’m sure. Now I really must go.” He stood up ready to leave.

  “Too bad,” the priest said. “I had hoped that you might go down there for a day or two. You know have a look around, that sort of thing. If you don’t like it, well what about it, no harm done, what have you lost? A couple of days in the country that’s all.” He stopped, hoping for a response, which never came. “Okay, we’ll leave it at that. Never mind, thanks for coming to see me anyway. I hope things work out for the best for you.” The priest suddenly stood up.

  As he did so, the lights in the hall came on. Standing behind Bartelli, were a group of his neighbours. There was Mr. and Mrs. Mulvaney. Next to them were Mr. and Mrs. Greenwood, and their three young boys. Young, did he say. The youngest was fifteen, the eldest was eighteen. What was going on? These people didn’t sing in a choir. Why many of them weren’t even Catholics. Then he noticed Mr. Jackman, from the top floor apartment; Mr. and Mrs. Tomlin from across the street. Altogether there were about twenty people. They must be having a residents meeting, or something. I’m out of here, and quick.