D. E. Fredd lives in Townsend, Massachusetts. He has had many short stories appear in literary journals and
reviews. He received the Theodore Hoepfner Award given by the Southern Humanities Review for the best
short fiction of 2005 and was a 2006 Ontario Award Finalist. He won the 2006 Black River Chapbook
Competition and received a 2007 Pushcart Special Mention Award. He has been included in the Million Writers
Award of Notable Stories for 2005, 2006, 2007 and 2008.
reviews. He received the Theodore Hoepfner Award given by the Southern Humanities Review for the best
short fiction of 2005 and was a 2006 Ontario Award Finalist. He won the 2006 Black River Chapbook
Competition and received a 2007 Pushcart Special Mention Award. He has been included in the Million Writers
Award of Notable Stories for 2005, 2006, 2007 and 2008.
Francesca’s Story
During a stifling August morning in1941, an unattended Francesca Fenech struggled to give birth in a tiny room
off Valetta Square. It would only be human to wish that, as she screamed for some aid and comfort to her
plight, her fiancée of several months, Angelo Ancilleri, was equally alone and at mortal peril on the other side of
the Malta valiantly defending their beloved island nation from horrific German air strikes. Such was not the case.
A Previous Generation
Francesca was born in the fall of 1918. The family name was Fenech. They were sixteenth generation Maltese
fishermen and boat builders from Floriana, a suburb of Valletta, the capital. She had a pleasant disposition, an
average face and a figure which, as she matured, thickened demonstrably at the hips and thighs. She had few
suitors so, at twenty-two, her family was surprised (and relieved) when a scruffy-looking character, Angelo
Ancilleri, ambled through the door of their tiny home to initiate the courtship ritual.
The meeting that June evening in 1940 was between Angelo Ancilleri, Mr. Fenech, his oldest son, Carlo, and two
aged uncles who were still part of the boat building and repair enterprise. War dominated the conversation.
Information and rumor, at times blurring into one, were exchanged. It was easy to despise the Germans. The
trick was how to feel about the Italians, especially those Sicilians sixty miles to the north who grew the best
tomatoes and raised mouth-watering veal. Angelo’s opinionated contribution to the roundtable was that one
need not fear the Italian Air Force for two reasons. The first was their incompetence, something of a given
anyway. The second was that he had heard of Italian pilots sent to soften up Malta for any invasion being
ordered to drop their loads in the sea or on pasture lands. The familial and cultural bonds between Sicily and
Malta were too strong for anything else to happen.
Angelo offered further, personal evidence that the military storm threatening Malta would be a passing shower.
He was working for the British, right now as an airplane mechanic, but his aptitude had been noticed and they
were teaching him to fly. The Hawker Hurricane had been more than capable of besting Germany’s medium
bomber, the Heinkel He111, in its raids over England. British ships were transporting fifty of them to Malta
sometime soon. The English were also bringing a new plane on line, the Spitfire, which could easily intercept the
clumsy Stuka. That was what he was being trained to fly. It would be like shooting Baltic herring in a barrel.
By midnight he had impressed the Fenech family far beyond his initial goal of escorting Francesca to a festival
honoring St. Jerome. They were willing to elect him governor-general in charge of island defense. Such was the
power of Angelo’s gift for gab and not a little Hophead Ale, the local brew. Of course Angelo had exaggerated
his military connections and position slightly and not just to curry favor with the young woman’s family. No, in
point of fact, Angelo embellished the fabric of most everything because that was his nature; call him an artist in
that regard. He was twenty-five and not twenty-one as advertised.
He was not being taught to fly. He was not a mechanic, had never picked up a spanner. He wasn’t in anyone’s
employ. He did spend his day at the airfield, but it was to run errands for the pilots and, when there was some
down time, he fantasized about flying, clad in a leather jacket and silk scarf, a gold cigarette case in one side
pocket, a silver flask in the other. True, he had been under enemy attack, twice actually, when German aircraft
had strafed the field. He experienced first hand the unmistakable scream of the Stukas as they dove in low over
the airstrip, dropped their payloads, quickly climbed and banked over the Mediterranean for the trip back to the
relative safety of Naples.
After a long day of rubbing shoulders with the truly heroic English servicemen, Angelo usually found a pub and a
bevy of young ladies an eager audience to recount with harrowing detail his imagined role in the day’s
vainglorious event. The evening often ended with Angelo being rewarded for his exploits either in a back alley or,
if luck was really with him, the ruffled comfort of a feather bed where he spent his considerable sexual energies
until dawn wherein the routine would begin anew.
Unfortunately for Angelo the female population of Malta was in constant communication in some inchoate way
still unknown to the male. Certainly women enjoyed the pleasures of sex, particularly when it involved a noble
cause. But it soon became apparent that Angelo’s only patriotic cause was his penis, and it was decidedly not
noble. His deeds became hollow especially when other men were dying for their island nation. There came a time,
then, when Angelo Ancilleri was given the cold shoulder, to name one body part, by most women.
When the darkest night of Angelo’s sexual urge was at its lowest, Francesca Fenech entered his life. He had
been celibate for nearly one month. His formula for economic success — to steal small items from the British
which he could then barter or sell — was going strong. But he had no one to share or impress with his good
fortune.
He was mildly attracted to her face. She was an attentive listener as well. She had wide hips mind you, and it
would be foolish not to project what her bottom half would be like after a few children. One look as she
devoured another plate of rabbit and chips was ample evidence there. But right now she was ripe for the
picking; in a year or two — God knows!
She was devoutly religious. He was a seasoned veteran in storming that barricade. She had no close friends and
this was the first time she’d been in a pub. She would not have come at all if it hadn’t been for her older
brother, Carlo’s, birthday celebration, which had since broken up. She stayed alone at the table drinking a lemon
squash and enjoying the new American music on the phonograph.
He walked her to the bus stop. He kissed her. As she mounted the vehicle steps, he reviewed her expansive
rear. It would be a daunting project to tackle, but he had no other prospects.
After two dates with him, Francesca thought it proper that he meet the family. When he sized up his audience
that June evening he knew he was home free when it came to expounding upon the war. And, if they ever did
find out the truth, cutting his losses, in this case Francesca, would not be a difficult emotional task.
A Spermicidal Maniac
Malta was bombed more than London in World War II. The amount of the tonnage that rained down on the
small island stuns the imagination. Francesca Fenech’s body also took a pounding in1940 and 1941. She lifted
the siege on her virginity when Angelo muttered that he loved her. On a Friday evening after a fine meal of
freshly grilled lampuki, three sorties upon her flesh were conducted upon between the evening hours of seven
and ten. The next afternoon they bicycled from Valletta up to St. Paul’s Bay for a picnic. Another Angelo
onslaught occurred. He called them “couplings” and stated that it was her sexual allure that allowed him to
repeat the act over and over again. That evening she told her parents it was the bicycle ride that caused her
rear end to be so sore she couldn’t sit for supper. In reality it was Angelo’s hatchet like pelvic bones banging
into her fleshy bottom. His “goosey goosey pillow” as he creatively called her derriere.
Francesca had little idea of how life with a man was supposed to be. He told her that he could not get enough of
her. After he came inside her, he would get up, go over to the pitcher and washbasin, remove the condom, rinse
it out as he might his only pair of socks and ready himself for action all over again. When he did rest, he would
lie with his head on her stomach and gaze at the dark thatch of pubic hair, like a jungle animal lying in wait,
digesting its meal before going after
another weak member of the herd.
Their trysting place was an English pilot’s room on Triq San Pawl. Angelo, in return for cleaning it and keeping
the uniforms neatly pressed, was allowed the run of the place until late afternoon. The usual schedule was for
Francesca to go to market for her mother early in the morning, arriving at Flight Lieutenant Kincade’s room by
eleven. The mattress was placed on the floor to avoid any telltale noise from the squeaking bed. Then a
blitzkrieg of semen would inundate the premises. By 1400 hours the “au revoir” process began, and Francesca
would start the trek home, preparing a tale of woe for her father concerning the lack of fresh produce, and the
long queues one had to endure just to get the basics.
By February of 1941 Francesca missed her period for a second time. To her credit she had endured Angelo’s
daily “couplings” through the summer and well into the fall without becoming pregnant, but she was only
human. He was an unmanned fire hose left on full bore. It was all she could do to grab his organ, point it in the
general direction and then hang on for dear life. There was bound to be reproductive residue leaking from his
reusable condom, but she was in love. Keeping him from expressing how he felt about her was like trying to
dodge raindrops during a thunderstorm.
Francesca’s first major issue concerning the pregnancy was informing Angelo. She rehearsed it many times. It
was not too late to salvage some decency. If they posted banns quickly enough, she explained to Angelo one
morning after his second “flourish” (as he now called it), they might sneak under the wire. After the delivered
news, she watched as his ardor for another sexual go round as well as his overall interest in their relationship
flagged. The real world was crashing down upon Angelo’s shoulders as much as German bombs and the
Messerschmitt 30 millimeter nose cannons. A child, marriage, having to find a job, a place to live, responsibilities
— all these elements threatened his moment to moment pleasures. It was true that Francesca was a serviceable
receptacle during this slow period in his life. And sex in the late morning and early afternoon was a pleasant
indulgence. Most people have their main meal in the evening. Angelo was stuffing himself well before that time.
At night he could partake of the pub life. If a little late night snack chanced his way, so be it, Francesca never
knew. To use an old adage, he was having his cake as well as consuming it, enjoyably so.
When he gave the issue much more thought, agreeing to marriage was the path of least resistance, a biding of
time, especially knowing what her closely knit family might do if he didn’t. He could certainly string her along for
a few more months, like a tube of toothpaste being squeezed until the last. Soon, as the child grew in her belly,
she would lose all her bedroom appeal anyway. It was a small island, but if he needed to escape, there were
places he could go. The war couldn’t last forever, and he’d be free to head elsewhere. So he agreed to the
marriage. In her happiness Francesca rewarded him by participating in a few conjugal acts that, for many
months, he had broadly hinted would be fun to try.
The first wedding date was March 15, 1941. It was postponed. Angelo claimed his services were needed that
week to complete a mission he really wasn’t at liberty to speak of. April became May. Then June went by. The
Allied command had big summer plans for Angelo. Things he wasn’t at liberty to speak of. There were inferences
of clandestine night raids made upon the Sicilian coast. Mining of the Palermo harbor was also a possibility. The
heat of July and some medical issues relating to the pregnancy precluded Francesca from selecting that month
for a wedding. The pregnancy cat was out of the bag anyway. Her extended family would see her through this
trouble, but, when all was said and done, she was a blight upon the family honor.
To carry more coals to Newcastle, Angelo’s past, both distant and recent was checked into during the early
summer. His value to military causes as a pilot in training, his interaction with a barmaid nearly twice his age and
some shady dealings involving stolen American coffee drastically lowered his rating as a son-in-law. But he
became a moot point on August 24, 1941, the day his son was born.
A Pasquinade
While Francesca was by herself in labor, Angelo was at Forna Point with the recently widowed Carmella Ansonia.
Forna Point is a small beach on the northern edge of Gozo. It is about as far away as one can get in Malta and
still be in it. Carmella and Angelo always enjoyed the powdery white sand. They burrowed into it to escape the
intense heat as small animals might. They made love then rinsed off in the Mediterranean. Carmella was
especially impressed by Angelo’s recuperative powers when it came to “flourishing”. Angelo was happy to have
an appreciative audience. Carmella, at thirty-six, had had two husbands. The first was killed a year after their
marriage in a bus accident. Her latest spouse was taken from her three months previously in a bombing raid
which had leveled several blocks in the town of Sliema, which housed their cottage and shoe repair business.
Fifteen minutes before the air raid sirens cried out, she had been in the back with her second husband
performing some marital duties. She had gratified him enough that he opened the cash box and handed her a
five pound note to go out and get a little something for herself. Unknowingly, he had given her a gift of life
because she was in the Marcello’s Millenary two blocks away when the bombs struck. Angelo had heard this
story several times. It brought tears to Carmella’s eyes when she told it, but she was always a more
enthusiastic sexual companion after its rendering.
As they indulged themselves privately on the beach, off to the east was a fine piece of Italian engineering, the
Savola-Marchetti 79, part of the Italian Aerosiluranti or torpedo-bombing squadron. It’s an ugly plane, the
dorsal canopy giving rise to the nickname, Gobbo (the hunchback). It was developed in 1934, refined and well-
liked by its proponents for the anti-aircraft pounding it could take. Normally it had a crew of five — two pilots, a
flight engineer, radio operator and a bombardier. That morning they left Palermo just after ten with two pilots
and a bombardier. The flight was a mere 250 kilometers, less than an hour to Malta with clear weather and little
enemy aircraft to harasses them. With luck they would be back for lunch and a quiet siesta. The payload was a
dozen one hundred kilo bombs and one 450 mm torpedo. The primary target was the ship repair yards at
Valletta; secondarily, any size vessel that would warrant the use of an expensive seventeen foot torpedo.
The officer in charge was Lt. Paulo Barcoli. It was his second mission in “the hunchback,” which was always
sluggish to respond when heavily loaded. Earlier morning runs reported heavy anti-aircraft fire around the
target, some of which had been quieted by using heavier, 250 kg. bombs. Fifty kilometers away from the
Valletta harbor they encountered heavy ground fire and saw a few British Spits lurking to the south. Lt. Barcoli,
much to the relief of his small crew, banked right, headed west, then turned the plane over to the bombing
officer who promptly dropped the load one mile off shore into Salina Bay. With the plane more maneuverable,
the bombardier then manned the 7.7 mm waist gun just in case. They flew further west looking for anything
afloat. The co-pilot spotted two small, ten meter fishing boats, but they went by them too quickly. He thought
about striking a passenger ferry pulling out of Comino, but he had a great aunt who lived on Malta, and enjoyed
visiting her during the summers. She was responsible for the little English he knew. By the time those thoughts
flashed through his mind, he was running parallel to the Gozo coast. If he didn’t launch soon they would have to
circle back and look for something on the southern shore where he’d seen enemy planes. He’d be damned if he
would lug the torpedo back to Sicily and risk landing with it attached to the undercarriage. Then, up ahead and
off the port side, he saw a flat stretch of beach with a bombed out trawler hulk just off shore. He motioned to
the co-pilot who read his mind instantly. They corrected course slightly and lined it up. Lt. Barcoli steadied his
hand on the release cable and counted backwards from three. At “two” his bombardier screamed “Spits — three
o’clock, closing fast.” He yanked the torpedo cable and pulled up on the yoke. The plane lurched upwards and
north towards Palermo, pasta, grilled sardines and white wine.
The Gymnosophists
The intensity of the lovemaking that morning between Carmella and Angelo was unusually passionate. Any
sound from the errant torpedo was drowned out by the approaching waves from high tide and Carmella’s
tendency to be highly vocal when near climax. Angelo’s attention was focused on the number of thrusts needed
to release his own payload. The first time with Carmella it had taken only twelve strokes. An hour later it was
close to fifty before he was satisfied. He had just passed the one hundred mark, much to his partner’s delight,
but he was beginning to feel fatigue in his thighs and stomach muscles. He had enough stamina for a dozen
more strokes and then he’d either take a breather or they’d resort to oral gratification. However, at the one
hundred and fifteenth thrust his erstwhile member gloriously gushed forth its fluid allowing Carmella to
experience multiple, explosive orgasms, the only time she could recall that ever happening in her extensive
copulative career.
They never knew what hit them. Vincentia Debates, a pensioner walking his dog up on the dunes some two
hundred feet from the beach, heard the plane to the east, listened to the high pitched whine of the torpedo,
even saw the telephone pole-sized object as it headed for the sand near the water’s edge. He wondered why
anyone would torpedo a barren strip of beach until he glanced and saw the couple sunbathing in the nude. They
must be very important, perhaps government or military dignitaries. He noted that the man obviously sensed
what fate had in store and had thrown himself upon the woman perhaps to spare her physical harm. As such,
Angelo Ancilleri was perceived to have died a hero. Disregarding any thought for his own well being, he gallantly
played Sir Walter Raleigh and protected Carmella’s delicate and highly exposed charms.
It took several weeks before it was determined with a fair degree of certainty that Angelo was dead. He and
Carmella had “appropriated” bicycles to get to Forma Point. It could have been anyone who stole the bikes,
children most likely, so it was never reported. Angelo didn’t show up at the airfield to play the sycophant but
missing a week was not that unusual. The officer whose billet he cleaned had been killed so no one reported
Angelo’s absence from that area.
And Francesca had other worries. The family home had been hit and destroyed that very day. The only survivor
was her mother who had left the area and was attempting to be with her daughter while she gave birth. The
child was born without complications. Francesca’s mother arrived three hours after the blessed event and when,
her daughter was able to cope with the news of the bombing, she was duly informed. Therefore, on August
27th, three days after the carnage, the two women and a newborn son found makeshift shelter in southwest
Malta, outside the village of Tal Vecca near the Dingli Cliffs.
By the first week of September authorities finished the investigation and one plus one added up to the demise
of Angelo and Carmella. A deeper search of the torpedoed site led to the discovery of Carmella’s fragmented
jewelry which cemented the case. A priest was dispatched to the hovel at Tal Vecca to bear the bad news.
Francesca collapsed. Her mother, listening to a replay of the eyewitness report of Angelo’s bravery, spat into the
fire. She had known Carmella Ansonia and her family for years. If ever there was a woman destined to die with
her heels facing the sky it was she. Good riddance to both of them.
A Lebensluge
Little Nicholas came into the world on August 24, 1941. If Francesca had broken God’s law against fornication,
the twelve hours of labor, the death of her family and loss of their home plus her own exile was more than
enough penance. All debts were cancelled forthwith. Exhausted, dehydrated, and weak from the birth, she was
in something close to a coma for the first three days in the new village. Nicholas was doing fine but his mother
was dying. On the fourth day she rallied, conscious enough to ask a few questions about the war. Her mother’s
answers were drowned out by German bombs pounding Mdina and Rabat, less than a mile from the cottage.
Nicholas eagerly took her breast, perhaps thinking this was a normal state of affairs as the ground shook all
around him.
For the next two weeks Malta suffered bombing night and day. Francesca and her mother were the only two left
to carry on the Fenech name. Mama’s hair turned white almost overnight. This war was the curse her daughter
had brought upon the family. She was visited by the idea of killing the bastard Nicholas. This would balance the
universe’s moral scale which Francesca had been gullible enough to throw out of whack. Though not capable of
murder especially of a newborn, she was able to see another solution, that of taking her own life. In late October
she jumped from the Dingli Cliffs. They were not really high enough to kill anyone, but she succeeded in
breaking her left ankle. Unable to move very far on the beach, she was drowned by the incoming tide. There
were indications that she was attempting to crawl to higher ground so the church had no issue with her burial in
sanctified ground. Enough had happened to Francesca that, when finally told of the incident, she lay back and
folded her arms across her chest as if preparing for death herself.
By early 1942 she had recovered enough strength to leave the cottage and move to Victoria in Gozo. Except for
infrequent aerial attacks it was one of the safer places in Malta. There was speculation that, because Angelo had
met his fate four miles to the north, she was drawn there to be close to him. Nothing could be further from the
truth. For the rest of her lifetime she never went near the place nor did she go to any beach. The relocation was
at the kind behest of friend of her late mother’s friend, Sergio Seglea, who needed a housekeeper and offered
Francesca one small room in exchange for cooking, cleaning, shopping and caretaking of his arthritic wife and a
Mongoloid grandson who suffered from a lung disease.
The Rodomontade Part
The war drew to a close. Baby Nicholas and Francesca survived. The bombed out family property in Florina was
leveled and sold as were the few boats and equipment from the repair business. It was a modest sum, but it
allowed Francesca to buy a three room cottage in Gelmus no more than one mile from the Seglea family. She
kept on caring for them, taking over the entire household when Sergio lost his ability to concentrate. She was
honest and had the patience of a saint when it came to handling what amounted to three adults whose age and
poor health rendered them childlike.
Since she had lost the father of her child plus her entire family to say nothing of all the pain she endured, it
would have been a blessing if Nicholas had been less of a trial. Yet, he was a needy child; at times nothing would
stop his tears. It was as if he were crying for the simple amusement of seeing his mother search in vain for a
cure. When he learned to talk one might have thought that he would communicate his wants and desires.
Instead he chose stoic silence, pouting or an extended tantrum. By six he was the terror of the neighborhood,
and despite his smallish size, other children were afraid of him. There were a number of opinions freely offered.
He was a child of the war. His father and grandparents were dead. There was no male figure. Francesca babied
him. He was a bastard. He was like his father. Francesca always gave into him rather than wait out his screaming
fit. None, some or all of these may have been the case, but the practical issue was how to cope with him on an
hour by hour and day to day basis. God help the island when he hit puberty.
Othello Said It Best: “Let Me the Canakin Clink”
In 1955 the economic aspect of Francesca’s life saw good fortune. Sergio died. His wife and retarded son had
preceded him by a year. In an act of extreme generosity, he left his Victoria property to Francesca. Within a few
months she refurbished it, installed running water and indoor plumbing and rented it out to provide a steady,
monthly income. The cottage in Gelmus was paid off and there was no reason for her to do anything but live
there and enjoy life.
Nicholas, now Nick, was fourteen. He came and went as he pleased. He attended school occasionally, which was
more often than his teachers might like. Girls were the stellar attraction. The fruit had not fallen that far from
the fatherly tree in that regard.
In 1958, as a gangling seventeen year old, Nick married Sifona Bonnic, fifteen, who had the misfortune to play
with the fire contained in Nick’s loins once too often. At the ceremony an obviously pregnant bride clung to her
new husband as if he were a tree branch on the edge of a cliff. Nick chewed gum, smirked and seemingly spoke
his vows with a sexual double entrendre. The Bonnic family stared at Francesca with contempt. She suffered
their outrage bravely.
She had experience.
Francesca’s wedding gift to the new couple was the old Seglea property in Victoria property free and clear. If she
could have sat down alone with Sifona, she would have offered up advice to run for the hills. The best she could
do was speak a cryptic, “My door is always open to you” at the reception. A month to the day later Francesca’s
grandson, Alfonso Ancilleri, was born. Nick was in Valetta accommodating some female tourists on holiday from
London. The Bonnics reported that over the phone he seemed interested and looked forward to finding the time
from his tour guide business to actually see the child.
If the Sea is Cruel, Stay on Land (a Self-Evident Maltese Proverb)
No disrespect was meant to the talented novelist and historian Nicholas Monsarrat when it was said by one
London literary critic that “World War II was very good to him.” The Cruel Sea was an instant classic and vaulted
him into the pantheon of the century’s important writers. Previous books, H. M. Corvette (1943) and Leave
Cancelled (1945) chronicled the heroic struggle of English seamen against the enemy. Still it was The Cruel Sea
(1951), based on his actual naval experience, and the film of the same title in 1953 that brought Monsarrat the
fame he deserved.
In 1969 Monsarrat was financially successful. Two stellar non-war novels were behind him. The Tribe That Lost
Its Head and Richer Than All His Tribe created a stir for their scathing commentary on the British foreign policy
of letting a small African nation have its independence and subsequent corruption among its new leaders.
Perhaps to escape controversy or just to have a place to experience tranquility, he and his wife Ann moved to
Malta, specifically a charming house in the peaceful village of San Lawrenz on Gozo. He had a spectacular view of
the sea, a lighthouse to his north and pounding waves coming onto the western shore. He felt writers should
always be on the move so the stay was planned to be no more than a year. He remained until his death in 1979.
That Damned Twain Converges
A decade passed since Nick’s wedding. Sifona had two more children, girls, to keep Alfonso company. They were
her only companions as Nick spent his days and nights elsewhere. When Francesca came to visit, Sifona sat in
sullen silence, a look of accusation on her face as to why she hadn’t been told of Nick’s behavior from the one
person who knew him the best. As retribution she took to keeping the grandchildren away from Francesca
except for rare occasions. The home became a bunker, isolating her from the news that her husband was seen
with this or that female or had impregnated that or this hussy. In the span of ten years Francesca had truly lost
count as to what percentage of Maltese youth had Ancilleri blood in their veins courtesy of her ill-begotten son
and his worthless father. Grieving parents came to her, begging her to do something to stop this pub-crawling,
sperm cannon from destroying their beloved daughters and, in two cases, wives.
She sought escape in work. She volunteered to clean for those who were up in years. In 1969 she was fifty-one
but looked older. Few men came to pay their respects; those that did were rebuffed. It was as if she had had
enough sex for a lifetime with Angelo and had seen its disastrous outcome in her own son Nick. Perhaps it was
an addiction like alcohol. No, a hard day’s work and a cup of strong tea before bed was what comforted her
most. But then there came word that a rich British author and his wife not more than a few miles walk were
looking for someone to help with housework and meals. Why should she toil for next to nothing when she could
be paid? It took her a week to decide and even then her heart was in her throat as she approached the home.
The Monsarrats were desperate. Several European friends were coming, and they wanted to treat them to
typical Maltese cooking. Could she do that? And there would be a vast cleaning job both before and after the
guests came. Of course Ann Monsarrat was not above helping, but this was a job for three or four. Might
Francesca know of others who could pitch in?
She took the job. On her way home that afternoon her mind reeled at the task. Planning the menu would be
easy. She had made these dishes all her life. There would be fenek (rabbit), mqarrun fil-forn (a baked pasta
dish) and aljotta (fish broth) would work as the first course. Her bragoli, similar to an Italian beef loaf, had
drawn praise. These were not complicated dishes. The secret was in selecting the freshest ingredients. Even for
the fish broth; most used a left over carcass that had long served its major usefulness. She always bought
fresh dorado.
Before she turned down the road toward her home in Gelmus, she thought of Sifona and wondered if she could
thaw their relationship by asking her to join the enterprise. Perhaps her daughter-in-law could be convinced
that, if they both saw themselves as victims of men, they could become allies.
Sifona unbolted the door but did not open it. Francesca stood on the hot slate stoop and outlined the
proposition. She mentioned in closing her argument that fifty lira was the base fee, but it could be more.
Francesca was ushered into the dank inside. The cottage stank of cat urine and mildewed clothing. Sifona had
been drinking, which subdued her normally laconic demeanor even more. It had been nearly a year since she had
seen what the place looked like from the inside. She was appalled. All the work she had put into the home when
she owned it had been blotted out by neglect. A cat sleeping by the hearth blinked as a rat scurried by. She
barely recognized Alfonso, now eleven, curled up in the rumpled family bed. The girls, nine and seven, were
nowhere to be seen, but she could hear someone crying in a room off the kitchen area.
“Lira or Maltese pounds?” Sifona uttered the words as if the currency really mattered in this windfall.
“They might agree to pounds, possibly as high as one hundred.”
She rarely contributed to her daughter-in-law’s financial plight. She knew Nick gave nothing. The Bonnic family
helped out. Neighbors brought food and hand-me-downs during holidays and important fiestas. This might be
more money than Sifona saw in a year.
The Only Break in the Overcast
The Monsarrat party went off without a hitch. Guests raved about the food. Francesca cooked for two days
straight then hired a taxi to transport both herself and her labors. Sifona was of little help. At times it was more
effort to explain what needed to be done than do it herself. At least the young woman had neatened herself up
and, in the right light, Francesca could see that she had the potential to be attractive. They were civil to each
other, but Sifona had to be told each time to do the most obvious thing, even to holding the door when an
overloaded Francesca was attempting to come in.
As they were going home Francesca counted out a generous portion of proceeds and handed it to Sifona. No
“thank you” was uttered. She merely put the money in her sweater pocket and got out of the taxi without any
goodbyes. When the Monsarrats called for her services the following weekend, Francesca asked Mrs. Caltaldo, a
widow who had been friendly to her on several occasions, if she would help.
Within three months Nicholas and Ann inquired if Francesca might like to work for them full time to the extent
that she could stay in one of the spare rooms. The salary was well beyond what was normal and, with room and
board taken care of, she could rent out the Gelmus cottage for extra income.
Twelve
In the End, It’s the End
The next seven years were happy ones for Francesca. The Monsarrats often included her at their meals; she
wasn’t just the housekeeper and cook who served and then left the room. Nicholas wanted to know all he could
about the war and her experiences. She felt a sense of pride when, in 1973, he finished a novel, The Kappillan of
Malta and read several passages to her which included some of the events she had related. He’d even named a
minor character after her. A specially bound edition of the novel was part of her fifty-fifth birthday celebration.
As the years went on she was more a companion to the couple than an employee. She helped Ann tend a large
garden and design an addition to their home, something along the lines of a carriage house for guests. Mrs.
Monsarrat, herself a writer of biography, was becoming more and more acquainted with Malta, mixing with the
elite of its social circles. She was a very down to earth woman, however, and was just as comfortable with her
feet up on the divan prattling to Francesca as she was discussing Thackeray’s life and novels with the a member
of the British High Counsel.
The one sticking point in Francesca’s life was when anyone, Monsarrats included, asked after her family. She
rarely heard about her Nick. When she did it was often concerning some scheme, often illegal, he had
undertaken that had gone awry. She knew he had been arrested a few times but never held for very long. Some
of her neighbors reported that he earned some money as a private tourist guide, leasing a taxi and escorting
rich Americans around the historical sights, usually ending up in a pub or restaurant until closing time. Middle-
aged women were his target of opportunity.
Francesca’s last contact with Sifona was in 1972, a few years after she began to stay full time at the
Monsarrats. She, in the spirit of sharing her largesse, took some old clothing Ann had given her and gone to
Sifona’s cottage to donate the bundle. The front door was off its hinge as if someone had attempted to break
in. Flies swarmed around the interior. Alfonso lay on the bed with a deep cough symptomatic of the croup. Of
the two girls, 12 and 9, one was naked and the other draped in what must have been her mother’s old dress.
The youngest girl’s eyes were encrusted with the pink eye. The stench was appalling. Their mother was asleep in
the back, but the childen eagerly accepted the package as though it was a Christmas Eve. There were two
courses of action — one was to immediately take charge and save these children, the other was to take a
handful of money out of her purse, give it to the eldest girl and leave as quickly as she came. The guilt she felt
as she left the home was balanced by the relief at leaving the animal squalor these people wallowed in.
In July of 1976 Francesca received a phone message from the Gozo constabulary. The postman had noticed
something amiss at Sifona’s cottage. He’d mentioned it to his supervisor who’d called the station and an officer
had been dispatched. Sifona was dead. Whether it was suicide or natural causes she, at thirty-three, was found
lifeless in bed. She had been dead for several days. Nick was nowhere to be found.
Francesca, with Ann’s help, took care of the funeral arrangements. Sifona was given a simple funeral and buried
in consecrated ground. The constable had gotten hold of Nick, and he came to the funeral. He was old looking
for thirty-five, hair already grey, very fleshy in the face. The necktie he wore choked him to the degree his
breath came is short gasps. He was civil to Francesca, but barely acknowledged his children. He was
accompanied by a young, smallish woman, introduced as Maria Galea, who looked half his age. When the service
ended the Monsarrats opened their home to the few who attended the services.
In a corner of the living room Francesca laid out a blueprint for Nick. He could have the Victoria cottage and one
thousand pounds to fix it up if he would be a father to his three children. She would help find him steady work
and hire a housekeeper. If he did not want to do this, she would start legal proceedings to take the children,
and she would be happy if she never laid eyes on him again.
He made her a counter offer. He was soon going to marry Maria Galea. She told him two weeks ago that she
was pregnant. He had applied for a taxi medallion. If she would take the girls, now sixteen and fourteen, he
would like to live in the Victoria cottage with Maria, the baby when it came and Alfonso who had just turned
eighteen and might be of help driving the taxi when he was too tired. Francesca saw disaster written all over the
plan but agreed to it. One look at Maria seated off in a corner told her that in a few years she’d be attending her
funeral as well.
Francesca’s granddaughters, Syrie and Lucia, were led out of the darkness into the light. Despite the Monsarrat’
s protest Francesca moved back to her old Gelmus home to care for them. The girls had little education and
were extremely shy. She took them to work each day, and they were of immense help as Francesca was fifty-
eight, and age was often a factor on how much cleaning and laundry she might do in one stretch.
Her greatest delight came on Sunday when she dressed the girls in their best frocks, and they went out for
afternoon tea. She told them stories of her past, how wonderful it was to grow up on Malta before the war. The
girls had never been to the main island and, for her own birthday present, she hired a car, took them into
Valletta where they pretended to be tourists on holiday. She loved the time they spent and the girls seemed to
as well, although they never smiled and stuck close to each other in some secret bond.
In March of 1977 Maria Ancilleri (nee Galea) gave birth to a sickly baby girl, Matild. Nick was not at the hospital
but, compared to his other fatherly absences, he wasn’t that far away and was able to arrive in time to take
Maria to their Victoria home in his taxi. He had mended his ways a bit. Whether it was age or a sense of
responsibility was uncertain. There were reports of dalliances, but he spent more time at the cottage and had
fixed it up to the degree that it was not an eyesore from the outside. Alfonso was not able to pass the simple
driving test. He was uncoordinated and slow to comprehend most everything, but he was a help to his
stepmother Maria in taking care of his half sister and keeping the taxi spotless.
In 1979 the literary world mourned the loss of Nicholas Monsarrat. Though he had been terminally ill for several
years, Ann was grief-stricken and needed Francesca more than ever during this trying time. Syrie and Lucia now
handled most of the menial chores while Francesca’s time was spent on running the household, meal planning
and taking care of the accounts. During this period the girls, eighteen and sixteen, learned to lived alone in
Gelmus while Francesca stayed with Ann in San Lawrenz. Nicholas Monsarrat was very kind to her in his will to
the tune of five thousand pounds. One supposes that this plus other savings and her real estate was enough of
a carrot at the end of the inheritance stick to cause Nick to be more attentive to his aging mother. To her dying
day eight years later she never paid for a taxi.
During a stifling August morning in1941, an unattended Francesca Fenech struggled to give birth in a tiny room
off Valetta Square. It would only be human to wish that, as she screamed for some aid and comfort to her
plight, her fiancée of several months, Angelo Ancilleri, was equally alone and at mortal peril on the other side of
the Malta valiantly defending their beloved island nation from horrific German air strikes. Such was not the case.
A Previous Generation
Francesca was born in the fall of 1918. The family name was Fenech. They were sixteenth generation Maltese
fishermen and boat builders from Floriana, a suburb of Valletta, the capital. She had a pleasant disposition, an
average face and a figure which, as she matured, thickened demonstrably at the hips and thighs. She had few
suitors so, at twenty-two, her family was surprised (and relieved) when a scruffy-looking character, Angelo
Ancilleri, ambled through the door of their tiny home to initiate the courtship ritual.
The meeting that June evening in 1940 was between Angelo Ancilleri, Mr. Fenech, his oldest son, Carlo, and two
aged uncles who were still part of the boat building and repair enterprise. War dominated the conversation.
Information and rumor, at times blurring into one, were exchanged. It was easy to despise the Germans. The
trick was how to feel about the Italians, especially those Sicilians sixty miles to the north who grew the best
tomatoes and raised mouth-watering veal. Angelo’s opinionated contribution to the roundtable was that one
need not fear the Italian Air Force for two reasons. The first was their incompetence, something of a given
anyway. The second was that he had heard of Italian pilots sent to soften up Malta for any invasion being
ordered to drop their loads in the sea or on pasture lands. The familial and cultural bonds between Sicily and
Malta were too strong for anything else to happen.
Angelo offered further, personal evidence that the military storm threatening Malta would be a passing shower.
He was working for the British, right now as an airplane mechanic, but his aptitude had been noticed and they
were teaching him to fly. The Hawker Hurricane had been more than capable of besting Germany’s medium
bomber, the Heinkel He111, in its raids over England. British ships were transporting fifty of them to Malta
sometime soon. The English were also bringing a new plane on line, the Spitfire, which could easily intercept the
clumsy Stuka. That was what he was being trained to fly. It would be like shooting Baltic herring in a barrel.
By midnight he had impressed the Fenech family far beyond his initial goal of escorting Francesca to a festival
honoring St. Jerome. They were willing to elect him governor-general in charge of island defense. Such was the
power of Angelo’s gift for gab and not a little Hophead Ale, the local brew. Of course Angelo had exaggerated
his military connections and position slightly and not just to curry favor with the young woman’s family. No, in
point of fact, Angelo embellished the fabric of most everything because that was his nature; call him an artist in
that regard. He was twenty-five and not twenty-one as advertised.
He was not being taught to fly. He was not a mechanic, had never picked up a spanner. He wasn’t in anyone’s
employ. He did spend his day at the airfield, but it was to run errands for the pilots and, when there was some
down time, he fantasized about flying, clad in a leather jacket and silk scarf, a gold cigarette case in one side
pocket, a silver flask in the other. True, he had been under enemy attack, twice actually, when German aircraft
had strafed the field. He experienced first hand the unmistakable scream of the Stukas as they dove in low over
the airstrip, dropped their payloads, quickly climbed and banked over the Mediterranean for the trip back to the
relative safety of Naples.
After a long day of rubbing shoulders with the truly heroic English servicemen, Angelo usually found a pub and a
bevy of young ladies an eager audience to recount with harrowing detail his imagined role in the day’s
vainglorious event. The evening often ended with Angelo being rewarded for his exploits either in a back alley or,
if luck was really with him, the ruffled comfort of a feather bed where he spent his considerable sexual energies
until dawn wherein the routine would begin anew.
Unfortunately for Angelo the female population of Malta was in constant communication in some inchoate way
still unknown to the male. Certainly women enjoyed the pleasures of sex, particularly when it involved a noble
cause. But it soon became apparent that Angelo’s only patriotic cause was his penis, and it was decidedly not
noble. His deeds became hollow especially when other men were dying for their island nation. There came a time,
then, when Angelo Ancilleri was given the cold shoulder, to name one body part, by most women.
When the darkest night of Angelo’s sexual urge was at its lowest, Francesca Fenech entered his life. He had
been celibate for nearly one month. His formula for economic success — to steal small items from the British
which he could then barter or sell — was going strong. But he had no one to share or impress with his good
fortune.
He was mildly attracted to her face. She was an attentive listener as well. She had wide hips mind you, and it
would be foolish not to project what her bottom half would be like after a few children. One look as she
devoured another plate of rabbit and chips was ample evidence there. But right now she was ripe for the
picking; in a year or two — God knows!
She was devoutly religious. He was a seasoned veteran in storming that barricade. She had no close friends and
this was the first time she’d been in a pub. She would not have come at all if it hadn’t been for her older
brother, Carlo’s, birthday celebration, which had since broken up. She stayed alone at the table drinking a lemon
squash and enjoying the new American music on the phonograph.
He walked her to the bus stop. He kissed her. As she mounted the vehicle steps, he reviewed her expansive
rear. It would be a daunting project to tackle, but he had no other prospects.
After two dates with him, Francesca thought it proper that he meet the family. When he sized up his audience
that June evening he knew he was home free when it came to expounding upon the war. And, if they ever did
find out the truth, cutting his losses, in this case Francesca, would not be a difficult emotional task.
A Spermicidal Maniac
Malta was bombed more than London in World War II. The amount of the tonnage that rained down on the
small island stuns the imagination. Francesca Fenech’s body also took a pounding in1940 and 1941. She lifted
the siege on her virginity when Angelo muttered that he loved her. On a Friday evening after a fine meal of
freshly grilled lampuki, three sorties upon her flesh were conducted upon between the evening hours of seven
and ten. The next afternoon they bicycled from Valletta up to St. Paul’s Bay for a picnic. Another Angelo
onslaught occurred. He called them “couplings” and stated that it was her sexual allure that allowed him to
repeat the act over and over again. That evening she told her parents it was the bicycle ride that caused her
rear end to be so sore she couldn’t sit for supper. In reality it was Angelo’s hatchet like pelvic bones banging
into her fleshy bottom. His “goosey goosey pillow” as he creatively called her derriere.
Francesca had little idea of how life with a man was supposed to be. He told her that he could not get enough of
her. After he came inside her, he would get up, go over to the pitcher and washbasin, remove the condom, rinse
it out as he might his only pair of socks and ready himself for action all over again. When he did rest, he would
lie with his head on her stomach and gaze at the dark thatch of pubic hair, like a jungle animal lying in wait,
digesting its meal before going after
another weak member of the herd.
Their trysting place was an English pilot’s room on Triq San Pawl. Angelo, in return for cleaning it and keeping
the uniforms neatly pressed, was allowed the run of the place until late afternoon. The usual schedule was for
Francesca to go to market for her mother early in the morning, arriving at Flight Lieutenant Kincade’s room by
eleven. The mattress was placed on the floor to avoid any telltale noise from the squeaking bed. Then a
blitzkrieg of semen would inundate the premises. By 1400 hours the “au revoir” process began, and Francesca
would start the trek home, preparing a tale of woe for her father concerning the lack of fresh produce, and the
long queues one had to endure just to get the basics.
By February of 1941 Francesca missed her period for a second time. To her credit she had endured Angelo’s
daily “couplings” through the summer and well into the fall without becoming pregnant, but she was only
human. He was an unmanned fire hose left on full bore. It was all she could do to grab his organ, point it in the
general direction and then hang on for dear life. There was bound to be reproductive residue leaking from his
reusable condom, but she was in love. Keeping him from expressing how he felt about her was like trying to
dodge raindrops during a thunderstorm.
Francesca’s first major issue concerning the pregnancy was informing Angelo. She rehearsed it many times. It
was not too late to salvage some decency. If they posted banns quickly enough, she explained to Angelo one
morning after his second “flourish” (as he now called it), they might sneak under the wire. After the delivered
news, she watched as his ardor for another sexual go round as well as his overall interest in their relationship
flagged. The real world was crashing down upon Angelo’s shoulders as much as German bombs and the
Messerschmitt 30 millimeter nose cannons. A child, marriage, having to find a job, a place to live, responsibilities
— all these elements threatened his moment to moment pleasures. It was true that Francesca was a serviceable
receptacle during this slow period in his life. And sex in the late morning and early afternoon was a pleasant
indulgence. Most people have their main meal in the evening. Angelo was stuffing himself well before that time.
At night he could partake of the pub life. If a little late night snack chanced his way, so be it, Francesca never
knew. To use an old adage, he was having his cake as well as consuming it, enjoyably so.
When he gave the issue much more thought, agreeing to marriage was the path of least resistance, a biding of
time, especially knowing what her closely knit family might do if he didn’t. He could certainly string her along for
a few more months, like a tube of toothpaste being squeezed until the last. Soon, as the child grew in her belly,
she would lose all her bedroom appeal anyway. It was a small island, but if he needed to escape, there were
places he could go. The war couldn’t last forever, and he’d be free to head elsewhere. So he agreed to the
marriage. In her happiness Francesca rewarded him by participating in a few conjugal acts that, for many
months, he had broadly hinted would be fun to try.
The first wedding date was March 15, 1941. It was postponed. Angelo claimed his services were needed that
week to complete a mission he really wasn’t at liberty to speak of. April became May. Then June went by. The
Allied command had big summer plans for Angelo. Things he wasn’t at liberty to speak of. There were inferences
of clandestine night raids made upon the Sicilian coast. Mining of the Palermo harbor was also a possibility. The
heat of July and some medical issues relating to the pregnancy precluded Francesca from selecting that month
for a wedding. The pregnancy cat was out of the bag anyway. Her extended family would see her through this
trouble, but, when all was said and done, she was a blight upon the family honor.
To carry more coals to Newcastle, Angelo’s past, both distant and recent was checked into during the early
summer. His value to military causes as a pilot in training, his interaction with a barmaid nearly twice his age and
some shady dealings involving stolen American coffee drastically lowered his rating as a son-in-law. But he
became a moot point on August 24, 1941, the day his son was born.
A Pasquinade
While Francesca was by herself in labor, Angelo was at Forna Point with the recently widowed Carmella Ansonia.
Forna Point is a small beach on the northern edge of Gozo. It is about as far away as one can get in Malta and
still be in it. Carmella and Angelo always enjoyed the powdery white sand. They burrowed into it to escape the
intense heat as small animals might. They made love then rinsed off in the Mediterranean. Carmella was
especially impressed by Angelo’s recuperative powers when it came to “flourishing”. Angelo was happy to have
an appreciative audience. Carmella, at thirty-six, had had two husbands. The first was killed a year after their
marriage in a bus accident. Her latest spouse was taken from her three months previously in a bombing raid
which had leveled several blocks in the town of Sliema, which housed their cottage and shoe repair business.
Fifteen minutes before the air raid sirens cried out, she had been in the back with her second husband
performing some marital duties. She had gratified him enough that he opened the cash box and handed her a
five pound note to go out and get a little something for herself. Unknowingly, he had given her a gift of life
because she was in the Marcello’s Millenary two blocks away when the bombs struck. Angelo had heard this
story several times. It brought tears to Carmella’s eyes when she told it, but she was always a more
enthusiastic sexual companion after its rendering.
As they indulged themselves privately on the beach, off to the east was a fine piece of Italian engineering, the
Savola-Marchetti 79, part of the Italian Aerosiluranti or torpedo-bombing squadron. It’s an ugly plane, the
dorsal canopy giving rise to the nickname, Gobbo (the hunchback). It was developed in 1934, refined and well-
liked by its proponents for the anti-aircraft pounding it could take. Normally it had a crew of five — two pilots, a
flight engineer, radio operator and a bombardier. That morning they left Palermo just after ten with two pilots
and a bombardier. The flight was a mere 250 kilometers, less than an hour to Malta with clear weather and little
enemy aircraft to harasses them. With luck they would be back for lunch and a quiet siesta. The payload was a
dozen one hundred kilo bombs and one 450 mm torpedo. The primary target was the ship repair yards at
Valletta; secondarily, any size vessel that would warrant the use of an expensive seventeen foot torpedo.
The officer in charge was Lt. Paulo Barcoli. It was his second mission in “the hunchback,” which was always
sluggish to respond when heavily loaded. Earlier morning runs reported heavy anti-aircraft fire around the
target, some of which had been quieted by using heavier, 250 kg. bombs. Fifty kilometers away from the
Valletta harbor they encountered heavy ground fire and saw a few British Spits lurking to the south. Lt. Barcoli,
much to the relief of his small crew, banked right, headed west, then turned the plane over to the bombing
officer who promptly dropped the load one mile off shore into Salina Bay. With the plane more maneuverable,
the bombardier then manned the 7.7 mm waist gun just in case. They flew further west looking for anything
afloat. The co-pilot spotted two small, ten meter fishing boats, but they went by them too quickly. He thought
about striking a passenger ferry pulling out of Comino, but he had a great aunt who lived on Malta, and enjoyed
visiting her during the summers. She was responsible for the little English he knew. By the time those thoughts
flashed through his mind, he was running parallel to the Gozo coast. If he didn’t launch soon they would have to
circle back and look for something on the southern shore where he’d seen enemy planes. He’d be damned if he
would lug the torpedo back to Sicily and risk landing with it attached to the undercarriage. Then, up ahead and
off the port side, he saw a flat stretch of beach with a bombed out trawler hulk just off shore. He motioned to
the co-pilot who read his mind instantly. They corrected course slightly and lined it up. Lt. Barcoli steadied his
hand on the release cable and counted backwards from three. At “two” his bombardier screamed “Spits — three
o’clock, closing fast.” He yanked the torpedo cable and pulled up on the yoke. The plane lurched upwards and
north towards Palermo, pasta, grilled sardines and white wine.
The Gymnosophists
The intensity of the lovemaking that morning between Carmella and Angelo was unusually passionate. Any
sound from the errant torpedo was drowned out by the approaching waves from high tide and Carmella’s
tendency to be highly vocal when near climax. Angelo’s attention was focused on the number of thrusts needed
to release his own payload. The first time with Carmella it had taken only twelve strokes. An hour later it was
close to fifty before he was satisfied. He had just passed the one hundred mark, much to his partner’s delight,
but he was beginning to feel fatigue in his thighs and stomach muscles. He had enough stamina for a dozen
more strokes and then he’d either take a breather or they’d resort to oral gratification. However, at the one
hundred and fifteenth thrust his erstwhile member gloriously gushed forth its fluid allowing Carmella to
experience multiple, explosive orgasms, the only time she could recall that ever happening in her extensive
copulative career.
They never knew what hit them. Vincentia Debates, a pensioner walking his dog up on the dunes some two
hundred feet from the beach, heard the plane to the east, listened to the high pitched whine of the torpedo,
even saw the telephone pole-sized object as it headed for the sand near the water’s edge. He wondered why
anyone would torpedo a barren strip of beach until he glanced and saw the couple sunbathing in the nude. They
must be very important, perhaps government or military dignitaries. He noted that the man obviously sensed
what fate had in store and had thrown himself upon the woman perhaps to spare her physical harm. As such,
Angelo Ancilleri was perceived to have died a hero. Disregarding any thought for his own well being, he gallantly
played Sir Walter Raleigh and protected Carmella’s delicate and highly exposed charms.
It took several weeks before it was determined with a fair degree of certainty that Angelo was dead. He and
Carmella had “appropriated” bicycles to get to Forma Point. It could have been anyone who stole the bikes,
children most likely, so it was never reported. Angelo didn’t show up at the airfield to play the sycophant but
missing a week was not that unusual. The officer whose billet he cleaned had been killed so no one reported
Angelo’s absence from that area.
And Francesca had other worries. The family home had been hit and destroyed that very day. The only survivor
was her mother who had left the area and was attempting to be with her daughter while she gave birth. The
child was born without complications. Francesca’s mother arrived three hours after the blessed event and when,
her daughter was able to cope with the news of the bombing, she was duly informed. Therefore, on August
27th, three days after the carnage, the two women and a newborn son found makeshift shelter in southwest
Malta, outside the village of Tal Vecca near the Dingli Cliffs.
By the first week of September authorities finished the investigation and one plus one added up to the demise
of Angelo and Carmella. A deeper search of the torpedoed site led to the discovery of Carmella’s fragmented
jewelry which cemented the case. A priest was dispatched to the hovel at Tal Vecca to bear the bad news.
Francesca collapsed. Her mother, listening to a replay of the eyewitness report of Angelo’s bravery, spat into the
fire. She had known Carmella Ansonia and her family for years. If ever there was a woman destined to die with
her heels facing the sky it was she. Good riddance to both of them.
A Lebensluge
Little Nicholas came into the world on August 24, 1941. If Francesca had broken God’s law against fornication,
the twelve hours of labor, the death of her family and loss of their home plus her own exile was more than
enough penance. All debts were cancelled forthwith. Exhausted, dehydrated, and weak from the birth, she was
in something close to a coma for the first three days in the new village. Nicholas was doing fine but his mother
was dying. On the fourth day she rallied, conscious enough to ask a few questions about the war. Her mother’s
answers were drowned out by German bombs pounding Mdina and Rabat, less than a mile from the cottage.
Nicholas eagerly took her breast, perhaps thinking this was a normal state of affairs as the ground shook all
around him.
For the next two weeks Malta suffered bombing night and day. Francesca and her mother were the only two left
to carry on the Fenech name. Mama’s hair turned white almost overnight. This war was the curse her daughter
had brought upon the family. She was visited by the idea of killing the bastard Nicholas. This would balance the
universe’s moral scale which Francesca had been gullible enough to throw out of whack. Though not capable of
murder especially of a newborn, she was able to see another solution, that of taking her own life. In late October
she jumped from the Dingli Cliffs. They were not really high enough to kill anyone, but she succeeded in
breaking her left ankle. Unable to move very far on the beach, she was drowned by the incoming tide. There
were indications that she was attempting to crawl to higher ground so the church had no issue with her burial in
sanctified ground. Enough had happened to Francesca that, when finally told of the incident, she lay back and
folded her arms across her chest as if preparing for death herself.
By early 1942 she had recovered enough strength to leave the cottage and move to Victoria in Gozo. Except for
infrequent aerial attacks it was one of the safer places in Malta. There was speculation that, because Angelo had
met his fate four miles to the north, she was drawn there to be close to him. Nothing could be further from the
truth. For the rest of her lifetime she never went near the place nor did she go to any beach. The relocation was
at the kind behest of friend of her late mother’s friend, Sergio Seglea, who needed a housekeeper and offered
Francesca one small room in exchange for cooking, cleaning, shopping and caretaking of his arthritic wife and a
Mongoloid grandson who suffered from a lung disease.
The Rodomontade Part
The war drew to a close. Baby Nicholas and Francesca survived. The bombed out family property in Florina was
leveled and sold as were the few boats and equipment from the repair business. It was a modest sum, but it
allowed Francesca to buy a three room cottage in Gelmus no more than one mile from the Seglea family. She
kept on caring for them, taking over the entire household when Sergio lost his ability to concentrate. She was
honest and had the patience of a saint when it came to handling what amounted to three adults whose age and
poor health rendered them childlike.
Since she had lost the father of her child plus her entire family to say nothing of all the pain she endured, it
would have been a blessing if Nicholas had been less of a trial. Yet, he was a needy child; at times nothing would
stop his tears. It was as if he were crying for the simple amusement of seeing his mother search in vain for a
cure. When he learned to talk one might have thought that he would communicate his wants and desires.
Instead he chose stoic silence, pouting or an extended tantrum. By six he was the terror of the neighborhood,
and despite his smallish size, other children were afraid of him. There were a number of opinions freely offered.
He was a child of the war. His father and grandparents were dead. There was no male figure. Francesca babied
him. He was a bastard. He was like his father. Francesca always gave into him rather than wait out his screaming
fit. None, some or all of these may have been the case, but the practical issue was how to cope with him on an
hour by hour and day to day basis. God help the island when he hit puberty.
Othello Said It Best: “Let Me the Canakin Clink”
In 1955 the economic aspect of Francesca’s life saw good fortune. Sergio died. His wife and retarded son had
preceded him by a year. In an act of extreme generosity, he left his Victoria property to Francesca. Within a few
months she refurbished it, installed running water and indoor plumbing and rented it out to provide a steady,
monthly income. The cottage in Gelmus was paid off and there was no reason for her to do anything but live
there and enjoy life.
Nicholas, now Nick, was fourteen. He came and went as he pleased. He attended school occasionally, which was
more often than his teachers might like. Girls were the stellar attraction. The fruit had not fallen that far from
the fatherly tree in that regard.
In 1958, as a gangling seventeen year old, Nick married Sifona Bonnic, fifteen, who had the misfortune to play
with the fire contained in Nick’s loins once too often. At the ceremony an obviously pregnant bride clung to her
new husband as if he were a tree branch on the edge of a cliff. Nick chewed gum, smirked and seemingly spoke
his vows with a sexual double entrendre. The Bonnic family stared at Francesca with contempt. She suffered
their outrage bravely.
She had experience.
Francesca’s wedding gift to the new couple was the old Seglea property in Victoria property free and clear. If she
could have sat down alone with Sifona, she would have offered up advice to run for the hills. The best she could
do was speak a cryptic, “My door is always open to you” at the reception. A month to the day later Francesca’s
grandson, Alfonso Ancilleri, was born. Nick was in Valetta accommodating some female tourists on holiday from
London. The Bonnics reported that over the phone he seemed interested and looked forward to finding the time
from his tour guide business to actually see the child.
If the Sea is Cruel, Stay on Land (a Self-Evident Maltese Proverb)
No disrespect was meant to the talented novelist and historian Nicholas Monsarrat when it was said by one
London literary critic that “World War II was very good to him.” The Cruel Sea was an instant classic and vaulted
him into the pantheon of the century’s important writers. Previous books, H. M. Corvette (1943) and Leave
Cancelled (1945) chronicled the heroic struggle of English seamen against the enemy. Still it was The Cruel Sea
(1951), based on his actual naval experience, and the film of the same title in 1953 that brought Monsarrat the
fame he deserved.
In 1969 Monsarrat was financially successful. Two stellar non-war novels were behind him. The Tribe That Lost
Its Head and Richer Than All His Tribe created a stir for their scathing commentary on the British foreign policy
of letting a small African nation have its independence and subsequent corruption among its new leaders.
Perhaps to escape controversy or just to have a place to experience tranquility, he and his wife Ann moved to
Malta, specifically a charming house in the peaceful village of San Lawrenz on Gozo. He had a spectacular view of
the sea, a lighthouse to his north and pounding waves coming onto the western shore. He felt writers should
always be on the move so the stay was planned to be no more than a year. He remained until his death in 1979.
That Damned Twain Converges
A decade passed since Nick’s wedding. Sifona had two more children, girls, to keep Alfonso company. They were
her only companions as Nick spent his days and nights elsewhere. When Francesca came to visit, Sifona sat in
sullen silence, a look of accusation on her face as to why she hadn’t been told of Nick’s behavior from the one
person who knew him the best. As retribution she took to keeping the grandchildren away from Francesca
except for rare occasions. The home became a bunker, isolating her from the news that her husband was seen
with this or that female or had impregnated that or this hussy. In the span of ten years Francesca had truly lost
count as to what percentage of Maltese youth had Ancilleri blood in their veins courtesy of her ill-begotten son
and his worthless father. Grieving parents came to her, begging her to do something to stop this pub-crawling,
sperm cannon from destroying their beloved daughters and, in two cases, wives.
She sought escape in work. She volunteered to clean for those who were up in years. In 1969 she was fifty-one
but looked older. Few men came to pay their respects; those that did were rebuffed. It was as if she had had
enough sex for a lifetime with Angelo and had seen its disastrous outcome in her own son Nick. Perhaps it was
an addiction like alcohol. No, a hard day’s work and a cup of strong tea before bed was what comforted her
most. But then there came word that a rich British author and his wife not more than a few miles walk were
looking for someone to help with housework and meals. Why should she toil for next to nothing when she could
be paid? It took her a week to decide and even then her heart was in her throat as she approached the home.
The Monsarrats were desperate. Several European friends were coming, and they wanted to treat them to
typical Maltese cooking. Could she do that? And there would be a vast cleaning job both before and after the
guests came. Of course Ann Monsarrat was not above helping, but this was a job for three or four. Might
Francesca know of others who could pitch in?
She took the job. On her way home that afternoon her mind reeled at the task. Planning the menu would be
easy. She had made these dishes all her life. There would be fenek (rabbit), mqarrun fil-forn (a baked pasta
dish) and aljotta (fish broth) would work as the first course. Her bragoli, similar to an Italian beef loaf, had
drawn praise. These were not complicated dishes. The secret was in selecting the freshest ingredients. Even for
the fish broth; most used a left over carcass that had long served its major usefulness. She always bought
fresh dorado.
Before she turned down the road toward her home in Gelmus, she thought of Sifona and wondered if she could
thaw their relationship by asking her to join the enterprise. Perhaps her daughter-in-law could be convinced
that, if they both saw themselves as victims of men, they could become allies.
Sifona unbolted the door but did not open it. Francesca stood on the hot slate stoop and outlined the
proposition. She mentioned in closing her argument that fifty lira was the base fee, but it could be more.
Francesca was ushered into the dank inside. The cottage stank of cat urine and mildewed clothing. Sifona had
been drinking, which subdued her normally laconic demeanor even more. It had been nearly a year since she had
seen what the place looked like from the inside. She was appalled. All the work she had put into the home when
she owned it had been blotted out by neglect. A cat sleeping by the hearth blinked as a rat scurried by. She
barely recognized Alfonso, now eleven, curled up in the rumpled family bed. The girls, nine and seven, were
nowhere to be seen, but she could hear someone crying in a room off the kitchen area.
“Lira or Maltese pounds?” Sifona uttered the words as if the currency really mattered in this windfall.
“They might agree to pounds, possibly as high as one hundred.”
She rarely contributed to her daughter-in-law’s financial plight. She knew Nick gave nothing. The Bonnic family
helped out. Neighbors brought food and hand-me-downs during holidays and important fiestas. This might be
more money than Sifona saw in a year.
The Only Break in the Overcast
The Monsarrat party went off without a hitch. Guests raved about the food. Francesca cooked for two days
straight then hired a taxi to transport both herself and her labors. Sifona was of little help. At times it was more
effort to explain what needed to be done than do it herself. At least the young woman had neatened herself up
and, in the right light, Francesca could see that she had the potential to be attractive. They were civil to each
other, but Sifona had to be told each time to do the most obvious thing, even to holding the door when an
overloaded Francesca was attempting to come in.
As they were going home Francesca counted out a generous portion of proceeds and handed it to Sifona. No
“thank you” was uttered. She merely put the money in her sweater pocket and got out of the taxi without any
goodbyes. When the Monsarrats called for her services the following weekend, Francesca asked Mrs. Caltaldo, a
widow who had been friendly to her on several occasions, if she would help.
Within three months Nicholas and Ann inquired if Francesca might like to work for them full time to the extent
that she could stay in one of the spare rooms. The salary was well beyond what was normal and, with room and
board taken care of, she could rent out the Gelmus cottage for extra income.
Twelve
In the End, It’s the End
The next seven years were happy ones for Francesca. The Monsarrats often included her at their meals; she
wasn’t just the housekeeper and cook who served and then left the room. Nicholas wanted to know all he could
about the war and her experiences. She felt a sense of pride when, in 1973, he finished a novel, The Kappillan of
Malta and read several passages to her which included some of the events she had related. He’d even named a
minor character after her. A specially bound edition of the novel was part of her fifty-fifth birthday celebration.
As the years went on she was more a companion to the couple than an employee. She helped Ann tend a large
garden and design an addition to their home, something along the lines of a carriage house for guests. Mrs.
Monsarrat, herself a writer of biography, was becoming more and more acquainted with Malta, mixing with the
elite of its social circles. She was a very down to earth woman, however, and was just as comfortable with her
feet up on the divan prattling to Francesca as she was discussing Thackeray’s life and novels with the a member
of the British High Counsel.
The one sticking point in Francesca’s life was when anyone, Monsarrats included, asked after her family. She
rarely heard about her Nick. When she did it was often concerning some scheme, often illegal, he had
undertaken that had gone awry. She knew he had been arrested a few times but never held for very long. Some
of her neighbors reported that he earned some money as a private tourist guide, leasing a taxi and escorting
rich Americans around the historical sights, usually ending up in a pub or restaurant until closing time. Middle-
aged women were his target of opportunity.
Francesca’s last contact with Sifona was in 1972, a few years after she began to stay full time at the
Monsarrats. She, in the spirit of sharing her largesse, took some old clothing Ann had given her and gone to
Sifona’s cottage to donate the bundle. The front door was off its hinge as if someone had attempted to break
in. Flies swarmed around the interior. Alfonso lay on the bed with a deep cough symptomatic of the croup. Of
the two girls, 12 and 9, one was naked and the other draped in what must have been her mother’s old dress.
The youngest girl’s eyes were encrusted with the pink eye. The stench was appalling. Their mother was asleep in
the back, but the childen eagerly accepted the package as though it was a Christmas Eve. There were two
courses of action — one was to immediately take charge and save these children, the other was to take a
handful of money out of her purse, give it to the eldest girl and leave as quickly as she came. The guilt she felt
as she left the home was balanced by the relief at leaving the animal squalor these people wallowed in.
In July of 1976 Francesca received a phone message from the Gozo constabulary. The postman had noticed
something amiss at Sifona’s cottage. He’d mentioned it to his supervisor who’d called the station and an officer
had been dispatched. Sifona was dead. Whether it was suicide or natural causes she, at thirty-three, was found
lifeless in bed. She had been dead for several days. Nick was nowhere to be found.
Francesca, with Ann’s help, took care of the funeral arrangements. Sifona was given a simple funeral and buried
in consecrated ground. The constable had gotten hold of Nick, and he came to the funeral. He was old looking
for thirty-five, hair already grey, very fleshy in the face. The necktie he wore choked him to the degree his
breath came is short gasps. He was civil to Francesca, but barely acknowledged his children. He was
accompanied by a young, smallish woman, introduced as Maria Galea, who looked half his age. When the service
ended the Monsarrats opened their home to the few who attended the services.
In a corner of the living room Francesca laid out a blueprint for Nick. He could have the Victoria cottage and one
thousand pounds to fix it up if he would be a father to his three children. She would help find him steady work
and hire a housekeeper. If he did not want to do this, she would start legal proceedings to take the children,
and she would be happy if she never laid eyes on him again.
He made her a counter offer. He was soon going to marry Maria Galea. She told him two weeks ago that she
was pregnant. He had applied for a taxi medallion. If she would take the girls, now sixteen and fourteen, he
would like to live in the Victoria cottage with Maria, the baby when it came and Alfonso who had just turned
eighteen and might be of help driving the taxi when he was too tired. Francesca saw disaster written all over the
plan but agreed to it. One look at Maria seated off in a corner told her that in a few years she’d be attending her
funeral as well.
Francesca’s granddaughters, Syrie and Lucia, were led out of the darkness into the light. Despite the Monsarrat’
s protest Francesca moved back to her old Gelmus home to care for them. The girls had little education and
were extremely shy. She took them to work each day, and they were of immense help as Francesca was fifty-
eight, and age was often a factor on how much cleaning and laundry she might do in one stretch.
Her greatest delight came on Sunday when she dressed the girls in their best frocks, and they went out for
afternoon tea. She told them stories of her past, how wonderful it was to grow up on Malta before the war. The
girls had never been to the main island and, for her own birthday present, she hired a car, took them into
Valletta where they pretended to be tourists on holiday. She loved the time they spent and the girls seemed to
as well, although they never smiled and stuck close to each other in some secret bond.
In March of 1977 Maria Ancilleri (nee Galea) gave birth to a sickly baby girl, Matild. Nick was not at the hospital
but, compared to his other fatherly absences, he wasn’t that far away and was able to arrive in time to take
Maria to their Victoria home in his taxi. He had mended his ways a bit. Whether it was age or a sense of
responsibility was uncertain. There were reports of dalliances, but he spent more time at the cottage and had
fixed it up to the degree that it was not an eyesore from the outside. Alfonso was not able to pass the simple
driving test. He was uncoordinated and slow to comprehend most everything, but he was a help to his
stepmother Maria in taking care of his half sister and keeping the taxi spotless.
In 1979 the literary world mourned the loss of Nicholas Monsarrat. Though he had been terminally ill for several
years, Ann was grief-stricken and needed Francesca more than ever during this trying time. Syrie and Lucia now
handled most of the menial chores while Francesca’s time was spent on running the household, meal planning
and taking care of the accounts. During this period the girls, eighteen and sixteen, learned to lived alone in
Gelmus while Francesca stayed with Ann in San Lawrenz. Nicholas Monsarrat was very kind to her in his will to
the tune of five thousand pounds. One supposes that this plus other savings and her real estate was enough of
a carrot at the end of the inheritance stick to cause Nick to be more attentive to his aging mother. To her dying
day eight years later she never paid for a taxi.
D. E. Fredd
