Free The Girl from the Paradise Ballroom by Alison Love

beckoned then, asking for a song. Antonio adjusted the strap of his accordion and began an Italian love song with a yearning melody: “Tornerai,” or “You Will Return.” He could hear his voice reverberate in the half-empty restaurant. One of the Englishmen, a fair-haired man, older and more smartly dressed than the others, turned in his chair to listen while his fellow diners gabbled on.
    “We are on the edge of a volcano. Think how quickly the Great War began. A fat archduke gets himself shot in Sarajevo, and the world blows up like a tinderbox. That is why, if we want peace, we have to rearm. We have to rearm at once.”
    —
    The love-struck couple left after Antonio’s song, but it was eleven o’clock before the table of Englishmen called for their bill. There seemed to be some confusion about paying: they began to slap their pockets, looking sheepish. In the end the fair man took charge. “I’ll cover the damage,” he said, shooing his friends toward the door. “Be off with you.”
    Antonio shouldered his accordion. Like it or not, it was time to go home to Frith Street. It was late; he would have to tiptoe into his cramped bedroom, so as not to waken Danila or the baby. He thought of the frowstiness of the room, the milky, faintly sour smell of the baby’s crib.
    “I enjoyed your singing,” the Englishman said, as he thumbed out coins. “Your voice is exceptional. Who is your teacher?”
    “I do not have a teacher, I am not a trained singer. I only perform in places like this, restaurants, dance halls—”
    “Oh, but you should train. With the right teacher you would go far. I’m a well-connected fellow, I daresay I could get a recommendation for you.”
    His effusiveness unsettled Antonio. He did not want to have to explain to a stranger—a wealthy, educated, English stranger—that he had no money for singing lessons.
    “Perhaps you would like another song, before you go?” he said, to change the subject.
    “That would be a great pleasure. Do you know ‘Core ’Ngrato’?”
    “Of course,” said Antonio. It was one of the tragic full-blooded Neapolitan ballads Peppino liked, that reminded him of home. He was just beginning the song when the door to La Rondine jangled open and two Italian men came in. One was in his thirties, a sallow swaggering fellow, the other a boy of about seventeen. Under their overcoats they wore black shirts.
    “We’re closed,” said Peppino swiftly.
    “I do not think so.” The older of the two pointed contemptuously to the glasses on the bar. “Two grappas, if you please. We want to drink a toast to the
duce
.”
    Antonio guessed why they had come. Peppino’s dislike of Mussolini was well-known in the Soho community. It was considered great sport—a rite of passage, almost—for young fascists to come and taunt him; Antonio had had to dissuade his brother, Valentino, from doing it. Sure enough the boy, lounging against the bar, began to sing the “Giovinezza,” the fascist anthem.
    “
Salve o popolo d’eroi, salve o patria immortale.
” His voice was loud and brassy. “Hail, nation of heroes, hail, immortal fatherland.”
    “Aren’t you going to sing too?” said the other man, glancing at Antonio. “You were warbling like a canary when we came in.”
    Peppino let out a gruff cry, and seizing the two Blackshirts, he banged their heads together. The boy shouted in triumph; then he snatched up the grappa bottle, ready to smash it against the bar.
    “Stop that!” said the Englishman, in a commanding voice. Rising from his chair he grasped the boy’s arm. At once the boy jabbed his elbow backward. It struck the Englishman hard in the solar plexus, and he doubled up with a groan, his knees buckling beneath him.
    “
Santa Madonna,
” said the older Blackshirt. At once he put a weighty hand on the boy’s shoulder and steered him rapidly from the restaurant, leaving the glass door ajar.
    Antonio eased the fair man into a chair, where he slumped