‘They are fine young men. It’s only natural they would need supplies.’ Patting the back of a soldier, as he stuffed necci into his pouch.
‘Danke. Danke.’
Thank God Papà had been out. Only after the soldiers left did Carla speak. ‘They are not at all fine men, Elena. Believe me.’
‘You Romans are all the same. No backbone. These boys are only doing their job. And so smart, so polite – you know they’ve asked us to a concert on Largo Roma?’
‘A concert?’
‘Sì. That boy Hans is doing a trumpet solo.’
It was Mamma, too, who pre-empted the soldiers journeying further up the mountain. ‘Oh, those Sommos are a mean lot,’ she’d said. ‘Thin-lipped misers, stuck on rocky soil. They’ve barely even got chestnut trees. You’ll get nothing of value up there.’
Later, when everyone else had gone to bed, Vita reached to trim the lamp wick. Papà was still at the fascio. Mamma leaned forward then, pinching the back of her hand. ‘I don’t know where Giuseppe’s gone now, and I don’t want to know. But you’d better tell him to move on. And keep moving.’ She returned to her knitting, clacking at inhuman speed.
‘I don’t know where he is either. Why would you think that?’
‘That Antonella Nardini was going on about him at Mass. Is it safe, do you think? For your family to shelter a foreigner, in such dangerous times?’
Vita’s heart tightened. ‘And what did you say?’
‘I told her Giuseppe was as Italian as she was, and that if she ever took the name of Guidi in vain again, I would cut out her tongue and feed it to her cat.’
‘Mamma!’
Flash-flash-flash of glinting needles. Mamma was a shape-shifter; she made you hate and love her with equal passion. The fury of her needles, how did she not stab herself? What would it be like to have your mother as your friend, this person you once lived inside? Vita suspected Mamma barely saw her family as separate entities at all, merely an extension of her own limbs. Or some kind of awkward tail.
‘But the old witch is right. Joe needs to disappear – properly this time. Here. Wind this wool.’
Vita took the hank, spreading and turning her fingers. The burnish of lamplight smudged Mamma’s frown lines, her eyelashes soft over her work. ‘I’m sorry for you, though.’
The room glowed, shadows making the air dense until it felt that, if you pressed against them, the shadows would ripple and press back.
‘Do you think there are different kinds of love?’ Vita teased out a knot.
‘Of course there are. I love you, and your father, I love God—’
‘I don’t mean that. More, like, a practice?’
Her mother smiled. ‘You mean like a crush? Oh, yes. You’ll never guess who my crush was.’
‘Who?’
‘Well, he was at the seminary with Cousin Nello.’
‘A priest?’
Mamma winked. ‘He wasn’t a priest then.’
‘Who?’
She shook her head. ‘I will tell you one day. Maybe. What? You think I was never young? We all need our secrets.’ She looked sharply at her. ‘Is Joe your crush?’
‘I don’t know. Mamma – have I to marry Joe?’
‘Have you? I thought you wanted to?’
‘Do I? Nobody’s asked me – och, I don’t know.’ Vita stared at the home-dyed wool. Some poor soul was getting a beetroot-coloured jumper.
‘Well, what do you feel about him?’
‘That I don’t want to hurt him.’
‘So, you care about him?’
‘I suppose. But he makes me angry too, and sad and frustrated. I’m not sure he listens to me – well, he doesn’t really know me.’ She looked up. Felt zinc-bright clarity. ‘I still want to be a teacher. That’s what I really want.’
‘I see. Well, that’s one thing about this pitiful war. All normal life is on hold. It gives you space.’
‘How did you know, though? With Papà? Did you get a choice?’
‘Choice? My choice was a little different. Your nonna did not approve. How could you live with such a man?’ She mimicked Nonna’s mannered accent.
‘Wasn’t he a student though? Surely that was respectable enough?’
‘Oh, yes. But he was also a foreigner.’ Mamma shrugged. ‘So. I asked myself, not could I live with this man, but, could I live without him? And I decided that I would follow your father into Hades if I had to.’ She bit off the end of her wool. ‘Now, it’s late. Enough talk, yes? What will be will be. Joe must keep himself safe, I must find more flour in the morning, and those children will be up with the rooster.’
‘You love it, having boys to feed up.’
‘I do actually. Much better than feeding tedeschi.’
The German occupation coated the valley like varnish. The real Barga was underneath and visible, but with a hard new glint on top. Swastikas flew at barghigiani windows; tedeschi police directed traffic on barghigiani roads; tedeschi voices in barghigiani shops and bars. The film settled over the sky too, clipping it shut in a hollow echo. The Monsignor ensured the Conservatorio and Canonica were unaffected, but he couldn’t stop the requisitioning of food and supplies – or his telephone.
‘It’s most inconvenient, Vita. They’ve fiddled with the switchboard so only they can use the telephone wires. How are we meant to function?’
She didn’t mention that the Pieris’ goat had been seized, along with half their chickens.
‘Still. A nice diversion, this concert. Very pleasant. And we’re to have a public meeting too, in the cinema. I suppose they are doing their best to be approachable.’ The Monsignor dabbed his mouth. ‘Apart from my telephone.’
She took his coffee tray into the kitchen. The back door was open, Nico dragging in wood.
‘Why do we need all that?’
‘Woodshed’s leaking. And it’s going to rain.’
‘Rubbish. It’s really warm.
‘Exactly.’ He heaved his load into the hall, leaving a trail of muck.
‘Suppose I’m cleaning this, then?’
She warmed some water, poured it into the sink. Maybe he was right. Outside, the sky was changing colour, a dull grey patch emerging in the west. That leaden feeling had left her; she felt lighter since she’d talked with Mamma. It was like someone had been pressing down hard on her skull, and now they’d stopped.
‘Vita.’
She wished the Monsignor made more noise, not perambulate like some benign ghost. ‘Is there more coffee? We have visitors.’
‘So early?’
Coffee was running low. Carla said to use acorns, but Vita had no clue what she meant. Grind them? Steep them? She assessed the tin, then the gunk inside the macchinetta. Could she reuse the dregs? ‘Enough for one more pot. Maybe.’
‘That will do. Bring it to the dining room. And some of those little cakes your mother makes?’
‘The necci? All gone, Monsignor. Sorry.’
‘Ah. Well. Just the coffee then.’
She carried in the tray. A group of men were gathered round the table: Dr Baldacci and other Homburg-hatted men from the Comune, Don Sabatini and old Don Leoni too. Complaints flying. ‘Misfits everywhere,’ said Don Leoni. ‘Speaking gibberish, expecting to be fed and sheltered. What are we to do, Monsignor?’
‘What would Our Lord do, Father?’
A long, fraught silence, before the Monsignor answered his own question. ‘I would imagine He would say you are to offer them food and shelter. Be blind and deaf to what they are, but awake to what they need.’
‘But, Monsignor—’ said the old priest.
‘Yes, Father, you may have some coffee. Our hospitality is boundless, no? Now, in addition to refugees, I think we must discuss rations, and housing.’
‘Monsignor, I’m not just speaking of refugees,’ said Don Leoni. ‘This latest decree: Harsh sentences for those who give hospitality to deserters.’
‘Indeed, Father. I too have had such a letter from our friends in Lucc
a, as I imagine we all have. It’s good our illustrious leaders see fit to include us in their daily utterances. And particularly good to have such copious amounts of paper in ready supply, don’t you think? Once I have enjoyed the contents, I can use the other side of these epistles on which to write. A most satisfactory arrangement.’ The Monsignor’s voice gleamed.
Vita decided to take in the torta di riso she’d made for lunch. Crisp, fluted crust: it was a triumph. Even Mamma would have been impressed. The Monsignor frowned. ‘Such largesse, Vittoria. When our parishioners survive on crumbs?’
She was ready for him. ‘The chard’s from our garden, sir, and the eggs are from my mother.’ The smell of pecorino was too much for Don Leoni. ‘Tre becchi, Vita.’ She cut him a slice three beaks wide.
‘The Allies are in the Pisan hills now,’ said Dr Baldacci. ‘Near Cecina, I believe.’
‘So close? That’s nearly the edge of our own diocese.’
‘Why don’t the tedeschi keep moving then? If they get over the mountains—’
‘I fear they’re digging in.’ Baldacci stirred his coffee.
‘Here? In Barga?’
‘You’ve heard the rumours? This wall they’re building? Has it crossed your mind they might be entrenching?’
‘But we can’t possibly sustain them – we’ve barely enough to feed our own, what with all these extra bodies. If the Germans start taking food out of our mouths—’‘They already are,’ said Vita. ‘They’ve been up in Catagnana.’
‘Vittoria!’ The Monsignor’s cup rattled in its saucer. ‘Go back to the kitchen. None of this concerns you.’
But it did. Why did these tired, earnest men think food was their concern? Who eked it out and cooked it? She pressed her ear to the door, trying to hear. Baldacci was saying they’d enough grain stored to last until September. So what were they worrying about? The tedeschi would never stay that long.
‘We’ll call on all the parish priests,’ said the Monsignor. ‘They can do an inventory of what we have, whom we might prevail upon. Gentlemen, you must excuse me. I will do the rounds of our parish Masses now.’
‘This morning, Monsignor?’
‘Indeed. Time is as pressing as our hunger. I think the Gospel of the loaves and fishes is in order. Nico! Nico!’
Nicodemo was squirelling his wood somewhere. Vita waited a second before responding. The men were collecting their stuff. One by one, they filed past. Dr Baldacci raised his hat.
‘Ah, Vittoria.’ The Monsignor was standing by the window. You could not ignore the black tip of the guns outside the Canonica, their terrible one-eyed gaze. ‘I need Nico to go and borrow the sisters’ donkey. And can you fetch me my travelling cloak, please?’
His disposition was completely pleasant, as if he had never been sharp. That big smelly thing? She’d forgotten to wash it. ‘It’s very warm, Monsignor. Are you sure?’
‘Well, perhaps not. It is muggy.’ He tapped either side of his breast, searching.
‘Here.’ Vita got him a pen from the sideboard. ‘You need paper?’
‘Thank you. Loaves, fishes. What else might I speak of, Vita?’
‘How about telling them to stop talking?’ No paper in the first drawer. ‘That’s all folk do. Stand round gossiping. How about “don’t grind your teeth, grind your grain”? Something like that? Here.’ There was a pad of cheap paper in the third drawer down.
‘That’s rather clever, child. Yes. Talk does not make flour. Share your food, not your thoughts. Very good. Very good indeed.’ One hand still on his breast, his elbow crooked. Brain cogs turning, he froze in this manner often, when he was composing a sermon or some lengthy prayer. ‘Yes. And a three-day petition to San Cristoforo. For the needs of war. We must pray for our parishioners. Ask others to pray for us.’
‘Why?’
‘Stop asking so many questions. Go find Nico, child. Go, go.’
Monsignor was gone for ages. Vita wasn’t sure how old he was, but his energies were boundless. Bereft of her torta, she prepared him a hearty lunch. Two types of cabbage today – workaday green and cavolo nero. Who knew there was such variety? Nico tended their garden with religious devotion: rows of cabbages, fagioli, basil. Weedy vines. More cabbages. The worst thing about the soup wasn’t that it made them fart: it was the stink of it that clung to your hair. And soap was such a precious commodity. She prayed for the day cabbages were too.
It had turned properly overcast, wind whipping up dust in the piazza, catching at the tarpaulin-covered boxes where the Germans kept their bombs. Soft splats of rain began to hit the window, just as the Monsignor came home.
‘I’ve made you lunch.’
‘No time, no time. That meeting is now.’
‘What meeting?’
‘The one in Cinema Roma.’ He was rummaging in the tin box of junk Nico kept above the sink. ‘The German generals are insisting – and no one can find the key. Ach!’ He smacked the lid of the box shut. ‘Come, Vita.’
‘Why have I to go?’
‘No exceptions. The whole of Barga is to be present – the sisters are already down there.’ This was unlike him. He was discomposed. Agitated.
‘Well, technically, Monsignor, I’m not barghigiana, am I? Catagnana’s the other side of the river. . .’
‘Vittoria. Take off your apron, brush your hair and get your shoes on. You will be representing this household. Dignitaries are coming from Lucca. Generale Utimperghe too. It will not look good if we stroll in late.’
‘But you’ve not stopped all morning. And you didn’t eat the torta. Will you at least have some soup?’
‘Soup? Who has time for soup? Except our honoured guests, of course. They’re all dining as we speak. A fine pranzo in Ristorante Libano. Thirty-five of them, gorging on pasta, steak and cheese – for which the Comune is to pay.’
‘Monsignor, are you feeling all right?’
‘No! No, I am not. I have spent all morning preaching about the importance of frugality in personal needs, about the Godly joys of sharing what little we do have, and these. . . these German visitors are consuming a month’s supply of food at one meal. It’s not right.’
The rain grew wild as they walked through the town. Quick licks of wind took Vita’s shawl from her shoulders. She gave up trying to hold it in place, tied it in a headscarf. Nico was battling the storm with his umbrella, but the wind bent it before they’d reached the first steps downhill. She held his arm, afraid he’d be caught in a gust and blown down the steep incline.
‘Stop pawing me, girl.’
The Monsignor strode ahead, a long smudge against fat grey sky.
They crossed Ponte Vecchio, its low parapet offering little protection from the wind. The thin bridge arched over land, not water, and the drop below was significant. Rain drove in heavy rods. When it hit, it hurt. Again, Vita held on to Nico, clutching until they reached Piazza San Rocco. From there, the going was flat, newer, squarer buildings offering some shelter from the gale.
The cinema straddled one corner of Via Roma, bridging the modern Giardino and the jumble of old Barga. A film poster fluttered. The ‘Roma’ sign was unlit, and a large crowd stood outside, miserably folding themselves against the storm.
Dr Baldacci greeted them. ‘Still no key. I think we are to have the meeting outside.’
‘You think? Surely you are in charge, Dottore?’
He raised his hands. ‘Apparently not.’
‘Ach, this is a nonsense. On whose authority?’
Generale Utimperghe appeared. Another who moved quietly. ‘Problems, gentlemen? Apart from your inability to locate the key.’ He showed a row of small white teeth. You couldn’t really call it a smile.
‘The cinema hasn’t been open in weeks,’ said Baldacci.
The gale scalded Vita’s neck. Rain stabbing into her face, lashes dripping. She could see a hazy figure waving at her from the queue: it was Cesca, with Carla and the boys. But no Mamma or Papà.
‘I jest,’ said Utimperghe. ‘In any
case, it seems our German friends have been detained.’
‘You mean they’re still eating lunch?’ The Monsignor brushed globes of rain from his sleeve. ‘Are we really to stand out here, generale? There are women. . . children.’
‘All of hardy Barga stock, no doubt.’ Those ugly little teeth again, his pink tongue behind them. Utimperghe strode to the head of the crowd, climbed the steps of the cinema. A small man with impressive epaulettes. Behind him, two blackshirts took up position. Cesca came over.
‘What’s going on, Vi? Are we not getting in? I’m wet to my bahookie. Oh, buongiorno, Monsignor.’ She bobbed her head. ‘Sorry.’
‘For?’
‘Bahookie – it’s not a nice word.’
‘People of Barga,’ shouted Utimperghe. ‘Thank you for coming. I won’t detain you – the weather is a little inclement, no?’ But he looked gleeful in the whipping rain. ‘Alas, in times of war, we must all make some sacrifices.’
Surrounding Vita were women who had husbands, brothers, sons at the front, in prison, in Greece, Russia, lost or broken, while this shiny man talked about sacrifice. He didn’t pause for a response. Utimperghe was speaking and they would listen. Hands behind his back, barrel-chested into the storm, neither air nor water stopping his flow.
‘We are delighted to welcome our German allies. We have absolutely nothing to fear. They are our friends, and our protectors. Along with your sons and countrymen in the Black Brigade, we are here for your safety. And, for your safety, it will be necessary to abide by certain rules.’ He unrolled a sheaf of paper, which soon became transparent.
‘All citizens are to carry personal papers at all times. If you do not have papers, you must attend the Comune forthwith. All citizens are to comply with the curfew, which will be instigated from tonight.’ Utimperghe turned slightly left to right, to acknowledge all the crowd.
‘From twenty-two hundred hours until oh-six hundred hours, no persons are permitted to leave their homes, without prior authorisation. All Jews are to report to the Comune for further instruction.’
The Sound of the Hours Page 9
