‘Why Jews?’ whispered Cesca.
‘There is to be full co-operation with our German friends regarding requisition of any property, goods or personnel as required.’ Utimperghe’s voice was wrestling with the wind, his face gleaming wet. ‘This is one more effort for our country – and for Il Duce, who is with us in our struggles. Now, I know der Kommandant wanted to take this opportunity to introduce himself. It’s unfortunate that he and his colleagues have urgent war business—’
The Monsignor tutted.
‘There will be plenty of other opportunities to meet our guests. We hope you will enjoy the concert tonight, and the other cultural activities we have planned. A gesture of friendship, of the close connections we share with our German brothers.’
‘Excuse me, sir,’ said an old lady in the crowd. ‘May I ask—’
Utimperghe continued. ‘Remember – all this is for your own protection. The barbarians are almost at our gates. We must stay strong and trust in Il Duce and Our Lord.’ He raised his arm to the Monsignor, who shuffled backwards, reluctant to share the stormy spotlight. ‘Monsignor. Bless these, your fellow citizens, for the travails yet to come.’
Vita could see the Monsignor’s jaw dance. His face remained impassive. ‘My fellow barghigiani are always in my prayers. Indeed, I have been with them in prayer all morning. And, if our meeting is now adjourned, generale, you are very welcome to join us at the Duomo, for a rather delayed Mass.’
The generale bowed. ‘Very kind, Monsignor. Alas, the duties of office call me.’
Folk began gently to stir. Was this it? Were they done? Pasta was waiting to be cooked, shivering children to be dried. Utimperghe called the crowd to order. ‘I urge you, good people of Barga. Be vigilant to spies within your midst, and to those who fail to comply with our wish to keep you safe. My men will be stationed throughout the town, assisting our allies with every aspect of their work.’ He was shouting again, bludgeoning the other voices, the people desperate to mutter to their neighbours. ‘And it is incumbent on every good Italian to do likewise. It is Il Duce’s greatest wish, his express orders to his people. Now. Dismiss!’
Several faces in the crowd looked puzzled. A few people clapped. Most just stared, as the rain lashed harder.
‘You may go,’ called the Monsignor. ‘Go home and dry your clothes.’ He too was shivering. ‘Mass will now be in thirty minutes’ time.’
Utimperghe marched to a waiting automobile. Baldacci followed, but they drove off before he reached them.
‘Well,’ said Cesca, wringing out a hank of curls. ‘What a load of nonsense.’
‘Thank you,’ the Monsignor said under his breath. ‘A lift would be most welcome. Francesca, do not be so dismissive. Generale Utimperghe is Il Duce’s representative. As such, we must obey. Are those your Roman cousins over there? So you will all be coming to Mass? If you wait, Nicodemo and I will escort you. It will be nice for your cousins to worship inside the Duomo.’
Help me! mouthed Cesca, behind his back. Vita tried not to laugh. ‘Please eat something first, Monsignor. Let me get you a towel at least.’
‘No, it’s fine.’ He adjusted his wide-brimmed hat. ‘Do you know what I would love?’
‘What?’
‘A peach. A fat gold peach.’
‘But no one grows peaches here.’
‘Sadly, that is true. But I would love one, nonetheless.’
Where could Vita get hold of a peach? Imagine his face if she bowled up clutching one. The rain seemed to be easing, vapours rising from their soaking clothes. Poor Nico was trembling. Vita untied her shawl. It was a good thick one, the underneath was reasonably dry. She put it over his shoulders.
‘Oi!’
‘Nico, I’m too hot. Can you take it back to the house? I need to go on an errand.’
‘Skiving again? You’re supposed to be cleaning out the store with me.’ But he didn’t remove the shawl.
‘I’ll be twenty minutes. Half an hour at most. Ciao, Cesca! Carla. Enjoy Mass.’
From Cinema Roma to Ponte di Catagnana was not far. If she cut through the low woods and ran, she could be there in ten minutes. If anyone in the world knew where to get peaches, it would be Signor Tutto and his shop of wonders.
The forest was shiny-fresh after the rain. Perhaps it would be nice to go to a German concert, instead of chasing cobwebs with Nico. What about this curfew though? Were they really not allowed out at night? She wasn’t a saboteur, she was a housekeeper.
Ponte was very quiet. They should call Sunday Shutter-day. Though Signor Tutto never went to Mass, his shop was not officially open on the Lord’s Day. But everyone knew if you tapped on his door, he’d open up. What could she offer for peaches? Money was useless; bartering was the way to go. A primitive currency of four-eggs-for-a-cooking pot, a bit of goat for some cloth, rubber, candles. Signor Tutto set the rate for most transactions, but he wasn’t greedy – he seemed to balance his weights and measures depending on need and your ability to pay.
Vita struck the door knocker. Thought she heard a shuffle inside. But there was no reply. Tried a second time. Rattled the door latch. ‘Signor Tutto? It’s me, Vita. I need peaches. I know it’s daft—’
The door opened. It was his wife; hair tangled, her eyes red. ‘Come in. Quick.’
Inky dark inside. Darts of daylight filtered through the shutters. A few blinks before Vita could make out what was wrong. The shop was in disarray. Where there should be a counter and bulging shelves were packing crates, baskets piled high, tins toppled, clothes spilling from opened bags. Herbs that usually hung from the rafters were on the ground, their fragrance trampled.
‘What am I to do?’ A man, high-pitched and desperate. Not jolly Signor Tutto. ‘We cannot take it all.’
‘We can’t take any of it, you old fool. Look, here’s Vita.’
‘What? No! I don’t want anyone.’ The voice came from a crouched shape in the corner.
‘Maybe she can help. Vita works for the Monsignor, don’t you?’
The kneeling shape unfurled. It was Signor Tutto.
‘What is it?’ Vita said. ‘Are you ill?’
‘Oh, Vita.’ He took her hand.
‘Please. What’s wrong?’
‘So many Germans,’ said Signora Tutto. ‘We thought they would pass through. Who would come to Barga?’
‘I know. Swanking about like they own the place.’
‘We’ve been told to attend the Comune.’
‘Is it to do with the shop? Have they commandeered it?’ Aware she was talking into a gap, her words falling over an invisible, sharp edge.
‘Vita, we are Jewish,’ said Signora Tutto. ‘Do you know what the Nazis do to Jews?’
‘No.’ In the darkness, her voice sounded like a child’s. There were rules, yes, about Jews not marrying Italians or teaching in schools. But nobody paid them much heed.
‘Bella.’ Signor Tutto stood on her other side. She was flanked by sadness. ‘It’s no longer safe for us here. We have to leave.’ Vita could see the outline of his hand, rubbing his brow. ‘Before we go, we need a favour. Will you do that for us?’
‘Tullio, no.’
‘What?’
‘Will you ask the Monsignor if he can dig up my mamma and papà?’
‘You can’t ask the girl that.’
‘From the Jewish corner. Please. Ask if Nicodemo will rebury them in the main cemetery.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘In case Ronaldo comes back. You remember Ronaldo, don’t you?’
Their son had been one of the first boys from the village to go to war. If you could prove your family fought for Italy in the past, they let Jews serve – and Ronaldo’s nonno had been a war hero. Signor Tutto had composed a tune in his papà’s honour.
‘Please. They will check. It won’t matter that Ronaldo’s a soldier. But if we’re not here, and we’ve no family buried as Jews, he might be safe.’
The perfumed dark was making Vita feel nauseous. Thick
scents like creeping oil.
‘You’ll try?’
‘Yes. I’ll try.’
‘Good girl. We would ask the Monsignor ourselves, but it’s not safe for us to go outside.’
‘How? They’re hardly going to arrest you off the street.’
‘They might.’
‘Folk wouldn’t let them.’
‘Darling girl.’ Signor Tutto’s hand squeezed hers. ‘We cannot risk it. We leave tonight.’
‘You can’t. They’ve started this curfew—’
‘It’s fine. We have a friend to help us. A guide.’
‘Oh.’ The sadness in the room pressed against her; fuzzy, like peach skin. ‘But where will you go?’
‘Far up into the mountains. Sant’Anna. No one will come there.’
‘Tullio! You are not meant to say. Not to a soul.’
‘Ah, but it is only Vita. Anyway, it’s her—’
‘Not a soul. Remember?’
‘Signora Tutto, my mamma often says I have no soul, so don’t worry.’ Vita kicked one of the baskets. ‘I wish you didn’t have to go. Who’ll mind the shop till you get back?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ Signora Tutto righted the basket Vita had kicked. ‘Just leave it unlocked, Tullio. People can take what they need. We can’t carry it with us.’
‘But we must take this.’ Signor Tutto lifted a candlestick from the shelf beside her head. Vita caught a gleam of brass, of many curved arms like a great beetle, before it disappeared inside a sack. ‘And what of my music? My instruments?’
‘We’ll lock them in the attic. I am not carrying a tuba up the mountain.’ Signora Tutto opened the shop door. Daylight cut across her wrist. ‘You’d better go, child, while the street is quiet.’
‘Will we see you before you leave?’
‘I don’t think so.’ The older woman stretched up to kiss her.
Vita didn’t return the kiss. Barely registered it, just a press on numb skin. Signor Tutto also kissed her, his rough bristles scratching her face. Why were they being so calm? She wanted to shake him until he chuckled, said it was one of his silly tricks. Then, as they were bundling her into the street, she found her senses and went to hug them both. But it was too late. The door was shut. And she’d forgotten to ask about peaches.
Chapter Eight
As the Buffaloes moved forward, the air grew sultry. An occasional plane circled overhead. Bear would turn his face sideways, not up like the rest of them. He could calculate the speed, distance, make, by the sound of the engine alone. It was one of his ‘things’.
‘Best sound you can hear is the purr of a Merlin, boys. Ideally in a nice Mustang; they got that big, smooth ring to them. But that ain’t one of ours. It’s Charlie.’
Bed-check Charlie, the German observation plane that always came out at dusk. It was far above the mountains, seeking future targets, surveying the dance assemble. What could the Buffs do, except keep dancing? The airplane never came near, but they kept close cover anyway, using trees and low riverbeds, the natural dips and shadows of the land. And then, it began to rain. Great, heavy drops, which soaked you through.
‘Butt-end of a storm,’ said Claude.
‘You a weatherman now?’
‘I know ’cause a how it’s hard.’
They made camp near the foot of Pisano. Order was to wait until just before dawn, then move up, in a pincer movement. By the light, of the silvery moon, sang Bear, pretending to dance with the lieutenant.
‘What do we do now, sarge?’
The 370th were part of a far greater dance. They might cover ground fast, get themselves into position first, but, until all the players were in place, the Monte Pisano polka would not begin. Some of the 1st were nearing the eastern slope, but other battalions were still to assemble in the west. Bear said more and more Allied troops were pouring across the Arno. The front line was moving, pushing out, constricting the Bosch. The Buffaloes had them fleeing Pisa and holed up in them thar hills. And the rain had blown itself out.
Barring any ambush, Frank’s company had bought themselves a chunk of downtime. ’Course, it was not downtime; it was truncated, stolen time, same way sleep was, or shitting. It was a scooped-out hollow where you were neither marching nor shooting. You were waiting. You were listening to airplanes fly overhead, or to mortar-crunch, or bursts of gunfire not directed at you. You were watching pillars of smoke, and knowing that, somewhere else, a bunch of guys were burning. You were fingering your rifle like you loved it; you were feeding little birds or writing home. Patrols were sent out, raiding parties to search remote farmhouses and draw down enemy fire. Nothing doing. Sentries were set around the camp: four on, four off, Frank was due up next, but then another company, high, still damp from their river crossing, reached camp to relieve them.
‘Relieved? But we ain’t done anything yet.’
‘Calm before the storm,’ said Comanche. ‘I guess.’
A surprise gift of time, this new scoop. Dedeaux showed up to announce the 370th were no longer the forward line. You could tell it pained him to let them loose.
‘This comes from on high. Command believes you need some kind of respite, and this area has been secured. But I trust you men will not disgrace your uniforms.’
‘You heard the captain. Back by midnight, children,’ said Bear. ‘Else you turn into pumpkins. Stay in twos and fours, keep your wits about you and your dicks in your pants. And do not get drunk.’
‘Sarge, any chance of a new shirt?’ asked Frank.
Bear laughed. ‘Not unless you wanna take it off some dead guy.’
Frank and Comanche followed the herd. It seemed they’d become a pairing. A nearby nameless village with a church and a piazza was all that was on offer. Thin houses, where the occupants came out at the sound of bootsteps, opened up their windows, laid out tables and wine. Dollars, nylons, chocolate for grappa, wizened nuts and grapes.
‘Hey there.’
A little girl peeked from a doorway. ‘Com, you got any chocolate? Cioccolato? You want some?’
She shrieked as Frank came close, slammed the door.
Another soldier’s fist came over Frank’s shoulder, thumping on the house’s shutters. ‘We don’t motherfucking bite!’
Comanche pushed him. ‘Leave it, Ivan. I got plenty candy. We’ll just put it on the window ledge, see?’
‘No, you fucking leave it, Redskin. Christ, these people should be on they knees, thanking us.’
‘She’s just a baby, man.’
‘Who the fuck you scared of?’ Banging on the window. ‘You don’t gotta be scared, kid. Avanti!’
The front door opened again. A mother and her three daughters. She had them all wrapped inside of her coat. Frank could see a glint of metal in her hand.
‘Signora. Scusi, per favore. Va bene, va bene. No. . . problemo. Noi, um, assistiamo?’
‘Non ci mangiare,’ whispered the middle girl.
‘Mangeri? No, we ain’t hungry,’ said Comanche. He’d a bucketful of chocolate in his fist. ‘It’s for you. Is good. Ivan, put your hood down, man. Let her see you.’
‘I think she’s saying, don’t eat us,’ said Frank. ‘Jesus Christ.’
The oldest daughter dipped behind her momma. Came back with a leaflet, a crude drawing of a gorilla in US drab, taking a bite from a white woman’s neck. Bestien dripped in red letters. Frank shook his head. ‘No true. No, no. Bene, capite? Americani, sì?’
The mother moved forward. Without a word, she stuck her fingers in Frank’s mouth, opening his jaw. ‘Belli. Denti belli.’ Then she rubbed the side of his face. Showed her daughters the flat of her hand. ‘Il colore non si stacca.’
‘È il cioccolato?’
‘That’s right. Here.’ Comanche finally got the kids to take the candy. ‘Cioccolato.’
‘Think she’s asking if I’m chocolate, man.’
The three Buffaloes began to laugh. If you didn’t, you would weep.
‘Mm, tasty.’ Ivan drew his finger down his
own cheek, pretended to lick it. Then the kids started laughing, and, eventually, the momma too. But she was still wary as she closed the door.
They drifted on through the town. Left Ivan haggling over a bottle of moonshine. Frank and Comanche walked from one end of the town to the other. Didn’t matter that Dedeaux said this place was clear. You couldn’t relax in such narrow, shuttered streets. Despite the initial celebrations, folks weren’t coming out to play. Who could blame them? If it was Frank’s momma behind these walls, he’d keep her holed up too.
In the piazza, an elderly man played a fiddle. The music wavered, as if it were no longer sure. Faded notes, a headscarf streaming. Girls linking arms. A dance beginning, a different one. There was an open doorway, an arch really, leading down an alley to what might once have been a barn. A couple of women stood there, beckoning. Older soldiers, who knew the steps of this dance. Young bucks following. Giggling, nudging.
‘Behold,’ said an old-timer, ‘“Casa Prima della Montagna”.’
‘Huh?’ said Frank. But he knew.
‘Fuck knows, kid. I’m only reading the sign.’ A card inside the window; a woman’s chipped, painted fingernails pushing it to the centre of the sill. ‘Bordello below the hill? Big titty mountains? It looks clean, anyhow.’
To Frank it looked like a beat-up barn, with candles in bottles and lace across cracked glass. Caught in the flow, he was almost at the door before he finally turned away. Couldn’t see Comanche, didn’t know if he’d already gone inside.
‘Hey, deadwood.’
‘You wanna die a virgin, Chap-elle?’
He rounded on Luiz, leering at him. Hard-glazed eyes from hard liquor.
‘Who says I’m a virgin?’
The dumpy guy next to Luiz winked, cheek spilling over his eye. ‘You just did.’
‘Calm down, amigo. Is no big deal. Not that I’d know.’ Luiz hitched up his trousers. ‘I mean, all the ladies want a Latin lover. But, serious, Chap. You get shot up tomorrow on the hill? Might be your last chance. These ladies, they providing a public service. You gonna be rude and turn your nose up at that, college boy?’
The dumpy guy held the door. ‘C’mon, sweetpea. After you.’
The Sound of the Hours Page 10
