But it was also only twenty minutes flying time from German and Italian bomber bases in Sicily. Twenty minutes . . . At the peak of the raids, that was precisely the amount of time allowed to elapse between bombings. Day and night they came over every twenty minutes and dropped their bombs.
The heroism of the civilian population was matched only by the valor of the handful of RAF fighter pilots who, along with insufficient ack-ack, comprised the only defense the island had against the siege. Gasoline for their aircraft and food and medical supplies for the civilians had to be shipped to Malta by submarine. The Axis blockade barred any other means of supplying the island.
Capitulation was expected daily, but it didn’t come. In April, 1942, George VI of England paid tribute to Malta’s heroism by awarding the George Cross “to the island fortress of Malta to ear witness to a heroism and devotion that will long be famous in history.” This is the only time in history that such an honor has been conferred upon an entire people. But with the awarding of the medal, the ordeal was far from over. It went on for fourteen months more, and still Malta survived the constant pounding.
Now, driving from Valletta through the suburbs of Floriana and into the mountainous countryside, I could still see evidences of the pounding the city had taken more than twenty years ago. The British government had made an outright gift of ten million pounds to rebuild Malta, but there were still ruins visible of some of the more than seven thousand buildings destroyed. Among those still standing which were irreparably damaged, but not completely destroyed, are such historical structures as the Cathedral of St. John and the opera house. The destruction of some of the archaeological excavations is a loss which can never be redeemed. As I left the city behind me, I reflected that all the new construction was changing its character; the works of the Maltese artisans were now unique where once they had been the rule, and mass production housing was turning the skyline behind me from fabled Phoenician to a vulgar Mediterranean Parkchester.
It was sad, but the sadness left me as I drove through acre after acre of fields cultivated to produce “sulla.” This is a tall clover with beautiful purple blossoms, and it looks far more romantic than the fodder it is. Passing the cultivated fields, I came to the grazing lands, and here the goats I was seeking abounded everywhere.
Spotting what looked like a well-kept farmhouse, I pulled my car off the main road and into a wide driveway. The driveway led to an area behind the house which was large enough to be used as a parking lot. I got out of the car and walked toward a sort of patio in the rear.
A middle-aged woman was standing there, sorting fresh-washed clothing from a large wicker basket. The garments were all black, and all seemed to be feminine. There was a clothesline running from a corner of the house to a tree. Three young girls were busy hanging clothes on it. Like the older woman, they wore the black dress which is the uniform garb of Maltese females in city and countryside alike. The dress itself is a shapeless frock with a high neckline and reaches halfway down the shinbone. Heavy black stockings and sturdy black shoes are worn with it. From the shoulder a large semicircular cowl extends upward above the head, giving the wearer the look of a medieval monk from a distance. The garment is made of heavy wool, but the women of Malta wear it the year round. On this particular day the temperature was around sixty degrees—warm for January, but not really unusual—and the dress seemed sensible enough. But I knew they’d be wearing the same garb in summer when the thermometer hit the nineties, and that they’d probably appear just as coolly comfortable then as they did now.
The older woman greeted me in Phoenician Maltese, the native tongue of Malta which is akin to Syrian and Arabic. I recognized the language, but I don’t speak it, and so I replied in English. The Maltese are a bi-lingual people, and speak English fluently. Now the lady switched over without effort.
“It is too early for guests,” she said. But she said it with a smile, and her tone was more hospitable than the words would imply.
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to disturb you. It’s just that I’m interested in your goats.”
“Our goats? But of course.” Her very lack of inflection seemed all-permissive, as if to say “Well, why not? everybody gets his kicks different ways.”
“I’d like to observe one being milked,” I told her.
“All right.” She shrugged. “Out there behind the barn.” She pointed. “Domino is milking the goats. You may watch if you like.”
I thanked her and started off toward the barn. The three girls at the clothesline shot me glances from over their shoulders as I passed, but they quickly turned away when I smiled at them. Maltese girls are usually quite sheltered and man-shy, and so I kept going, not wanting to step on any local mores. Later I’d learn just how misguided my delicacy was.
My assumption was that Domino would be a man. With the women at the washing, it seemed likely that the men of the household would be performing the barnyard tasks. But I was wrong. Domino turned out to be another black-cowled female, a strikingly beautiful girl with the lustrous black hair and olive skin indigenous to the Mediterranean, but much taller than the average Maltese girls, who are generally quite petite.
“Are you Domino?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“The lady of the house said you wouldn’t mind if I watched you milking the goats.”
“All right.” She shot me a curious look. It wasn’t shy, but it wasn’t bold either. Rather it was frankly inquisitive and a bit suspicious. Domino smacked the rump of the goat she’d just finished milking, and it bounded off toward the patch of “sulla” where its fellows were grazing. She placed the bucket of milk alongside the barn where half a dozen other brimful buckets were already standing. Then she picked up an empty bucket. “Come along.” She motioned to me to follow as she crossed over to a stall. She led a goat out of the stall and back over to where she’d left the milking stool. Halfway there a goose crossed her path, squawking loudly and flapping its wings. Domino’s hand swooped down, and she wrenched a long tail feather from the goose. It squealed even more loudly and shook itself wildly as if in energetic protest. Then it scurried off with a flat-footed burst of speed, as if to tell the world at large of the indignity it had suffered. Domino smiled—a bit sadistically, I thought-and tickled the goat’s whiskers with the long quill she’d plucked. The goat reared back, irritated. “Making her a bit skittish churns up the milk so it will flow freely,” Domino explained to me as she brought the goat under control.
“I see.” I bent low to watch as she manipulated the faucets of the goat’s udder.
Too low. And too close. The goat bleated, and the stream of milk shot straight from the teat and into my eye. It was surprising how much it burned. No matter how I poked with my handkerchief and squeezed the eye shut, it continued to smart.
“I’m so sorry.” Domino apologized smoothly.
“My own damn fault,” I said, embarrassed at the way my eye kept tearing.
“I’m afraid it’s all over your jacket, too,” she said. “We’d better wash it out immediately, before it leaves a permanent stain.”
Domino put the goat back in the stall and then led me back to the farmhouse. We went in the back way; the only sign of the women who’d been in the yard was the wash neatly strung out along the line. Domino guided me through the back door and into a small downstairs bedroom adjacent to it. “Wait here while I get some hot water,” she instructed.
I waited. A few moments later she returned with a basin. I took off my suit jacket and she scrubbed at it until the milkstain vanished. Then she crossed over to the window and hung it over the sill to dry in the sun.
When she turned back to me, Domino seemed somehow transformed. She no longer had the serious mien of a farm girl with mundane tasks to perform. Rather her expression was kittenish, a sort of “school’s out” attitude that anticipated an afternoon of fun. And the way she chucked me under the chin with the goose feather said she was eager for the fun to begin.