Less than a mile away, in Via Roma, the sunlight nudged through sumptuous curtains. It polished a group of German generals and high-ranking Brigate; it gleamed on dignitaries from Lucca and white-coated surgeons from the Barga hospital; it cast a slight shadow over the Comune hangers-on, who knew they must answer specific, local queries only if asked – But my, isn’t this pranzo good? And isn’t General Kesselring smaller, in real life?
Tucking into slabs of cheese, steak, rich puddings, in a room draped with fresh flowers, in a house where a family no longer lived. The family’s fine china was being clashed carelessly, their good silver-plate would be left stained. Some crystal that came from Austria three generations before, in a dowry wrapped in lace, was smashed as a meaty hand reached for more wine, while the question of putting a Red Cross flag above Barga was discussed.
‘It will protect you,’ Kesselring said. ‘Protect your lovely town. They will not strike the centre. Not while the Red Cross is flying.’
‘But what of the German positions?’ said a thin-lipped Fascist. ‘The guns outside the Duomo? Surely they’ll attract their fire?’
The men, for it was all men, chatted a little round this, and sipped their vino santo, which was holy wine. The meaty hand, which had brushed the glass shards he created off the table, lifted a slice of almond cake. Popped it into a generous mouth. The meaty hand belonged to a meaty general of the Wehrmacht, who felt a fleeting sense of guilt. He recognised the goblet as Austrian. He was a kindly man. His children liked him. Every day, his soldiers brought him a chicken from Catagnana – a place he had heard of, but never seen. He thought he might visit it before he left, to thank the supplier of his daily breast. (He was a leg man too, but so was his aide, who worked very hard for him, so he did not object to sharing.)
The conference was drawing to a close and, as expected, Generalfeldmarschall Kesselring’s views held sway. They would do what he deemed best. Although he was a Luftwaffe man first and foremost, as Commander in Chief of the South, Kesselring had been an effective leader, thought the meaty general. He was glad the Führer did not accept Kesselring’s resignation last year, over that crass power struggle with Rommel. Despite their current trials, it was a wise decision. Kesselring listened, he was more humane. These Italians did not know how fortunate they were. The general’s meaty hand signalled his aide to bring the staff car round. ‘We will take a little detour,’ he said, manoeuvering himself in.
The same stringy blackshirt who’d accompanied him earlier came too; it was an affectation Utimperghe insisted on, a Fascist bodyguard for their ‘guests’. Kesselring thought it funny, so he permitted the delusion. They called them the ‘Wheatsheaf Brigade’. But not to their faces, naturally. That would be rude. And meine Güte, that blackshirt’s face was rude enough; it was a positive road map of pustules.
As they drove, the meaty general held his face up to the rolling sun. Tuscany was truly beautiful. He thought, after the war, he might buy a villa here. Up there, on that very ridge. Hildegarde would love the rolling views, and there were singing caves, he’d heard, inside the mountain, with stalactites and an underground lake. He could tell the children it was a fairy grotto. The car jolted on the rocky road. Ahead was a bridge, a pretty arch of grey stone, with huge boulders and a fringe of trees above. Maybe the cake was chestnut, he mused, not almond after all, because those trees were all kastanienbaum; he recognised the broad five-fingered leaves from when he was a boy and his vater took him camping. Ah, this was nice. His belly was full, he was a little sleepy and he saw one of the boulders shimmer in the heat.
Except it is not a shimmer, it is a sleeve and he is wondering if he should shout as the sleeve rises up and there is a head, a face, and inside that head, there is a boy who is no longer nervous because ice has fallen, it has frozen him shut and there is just the puttering black car on the road and unwavering, resolute light and the nose of the gun before him, the bullets coming out fast, and he thrills with the actual violence of the thing, up till now it has not been real; his job has been to deliver: bundles, ammunition, souls – he has ferried folk as high as the mountains of Versilia, immense, perpendicular, a place where bolts of blue shadow catch you unaware, where heaven is a handbreadth above and you feel you’re falling backwards as you climb in a sky so high you can taste the breath of God, the air thinning, and it is thinning now, for when the boy feels the squeezing of his finger on the trigger, he feels the squeezing of other fingers, their imprint on a young girl’s thigh and her anguish and how he used to be her hero and then the ice cracks wide and it is press, release, press, release, and the wonderful foreign weapon sings as it is meant, the ice melting, becoming light, and freeing the thing inside which is him, the heart of him, and he had thought that to bring death might invite the horrors back, was terrified that he would be there again, in the burning water, watching his father die, but no. That was the strange thing. As first the pus-laden blackshirt, then the fat general in the open car toppled backwards, as the blackshirt’s head skewed left and blood gouted from the general’s breast, as the driver veered and crashed, parapet, embankment, river, splash, and the pulsating light flowed on, Joe felt only one emotion.
Satisfaction.
Chapter Eleven
They found Joe washing his hands. Vita and Cesca had been gathering early mushrooms, fat pale stems that bulged in the middle. It was nice, working in silence. Deft, satisfying pops as you shook the fungi free from soil. The mushrooms tasted best when they were darker, but these would do. Any food would do. Vita hadn’t slept much, skittering awake at the least noise. Even in their own boschetto, a glade of truffles, and trees pollarded and chopped for generations, she felt stupid and scared. She’d told no one about the soldiers coming.
Joe was kneeling by the stream, shirt off, water beaded on his back. His spine was sinuous. Beautiful. For a moment, neither girl spoke. Vita tried to feel the skip in her belly; she willed it, but it didn’t come. He couldn’t see them, was staring straight ahead, listening to the dark-brown whisperings of the forest, waves of thin muscle flexing and dimpling his shoulder blades as his hands worried, and washed, and rinsed.
Cesca called out. ‘Joe!’
He started, turned. A cigarette smouldered in his lips.
‘It is you! How d’you not tell us you were back? We’ve missed you!’
He didn’t move.
‘Are you alright?’
‘Yup.’ The smoke made his eyes crinkle. Face like a stranger’s. His fingers jittered as he extinguished the cigarette.
‘You sure?’ said Cesca. ‘You look… starey.’
‘Joe.’ Vita spoke softly. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Garnet,’ he said. ‘That’s it, isn’t it? Red and purple. With that blue underneath.’
‘Has something happened?’
‘Right thick colour. Bright and dull at same time.’ He reached for his shirt. ‘I remember thinking when Papà died, how the blood in his mouth—’ He wiped the shirt across his lips, absent for a second. ‘The salt had set it, so it was. . . I don’t know the word in Italian. Like jelly – but shining like a jewel, and I couldn’t remember – I could never remember what the name of the colour was, but that’s it.’ He sat back on his heels. ‘Garnet. That’s what blood is like.’
Vita hadn’t seen him since yesterday, since he’d wrapped her shawl round her shoulders and left La Limonaia. Don’t do anything, Joe, she’d cried. Please.
‘Will you answer me? What’s wrong?’
‘Ssh.’ Cesca sat down next to him. ‘Here.’ She took his shirt, helped him into it. She was so much better than Vita, at being natural and kind. Vita watched them, thumbnails pressing into her fists; useless things, just hanging at her sides.
‘Tell me about your papà,’ said Cesca. Soothing him with straightforward bustle.
‘Brave lad.’
‘What?’
Joe moved his arm so she could pull the sleeve on. ‘That’s what he said I was. On the boat. They put us on a shi
p, see. A huge ship, with stars on the funnels. Thought we were going home. But it was taking us to Canada. Furthest point from Mamma I could imagine.’
Cesca nodded, tongue out as she buttoned his cuff.
‘She didn’t speak good English. I kept thinking, who’ll sort the milk order if I’m not there? We were sitting on deck; it was dawn, and I remember Ireland sliding into view. Papà was telling the man beside us it was called the Emerald Isle, and there was this. . .’ his breathing quickened ‘. . . this massive, creaking roar, and the ship buckled – it felt like the deck was folding up.’ He shook his head, and a cascade of water droplets fell from his hair. ‘It was a torpedo.’
Vita sat on the other side of him.
‘A German torpedo. D’you know how stupid that was? We were talking to a German man.’ Abruptly, Joe got up. He began to walk round the glade, hands behind his back.
‘The lights went out. Hundreds of us, scrambling for lifeboats. And the water. . . the water kept pouring over the deck. I saw a man on fire. He just hit the railings and cartwheeled into the sea. Someone yelling at me to jump. But I couldn’t let go the rails. Then this priest started praying, gathering folk round, then I could hear my papà, shouting, saying, I won’t leave you, and I thought, If I don’t jump, then you’ll die too. So I held his arm, and we jumped.’
He threw his arms up, like he was tossing something away.
‘It was so quiet, after. When the boat went down. Just this one voice, over and over, calling: Cibelli! Cibelli! You’d feel stuff, soft stuff, and kick it away. But I knew. I knew what they were.’
Vita pushed her feet deeper into the loam. Crumbs of soft earth, falling into her zoccoli, working between her toes. The Guidi truffle grove was quite an ugly glade. Stunted limbs, pale fungi blooming from the tree stumps, and the circle of sun above, bleaching everything.
Joe was still talking, but it was to himself. ‘Then his head. . . He hit his head on the way down, I can’t remember how, but we were hanging on to an upturned lifeboat, and he’d all this blood coming out of his head. I couldn’t get him up on the boat; it was too choppy, and I kept trying, thinking if I could turn it over, but he kept slipping, so I just hooked my arms under his armpits. Clamped us to the side.’
A spider walked over her foot. Joe hugged himself. It was desperate. Vita went to go to him, but Cesca laid a hand on her arm.
‘Five hours. They worked it out. Five hours we treaded water, in freezing, undrinkable sea. Five hours till a warship came, and I woke up. Saw Papà had slipped out of my arms.’
Flickering on Joe’s face, as the trees broke the light above them. The wind caught a handful of rotted leaves, rippled them in the air. You could taste centuries of forest on your tongue. The weather changing.
Cesca walked over, put her arms round him. ‘I love you, Joe.’
‘I love you too.’
Vita ached to do the same, but she was too hesitant, and then he started speaking again. ‘Know what the bastards actually did? Put me on another ship to Canada.’
‘But how did you get here?’
He smiled at Cesca, and the spell was broken. ‘They don’t call me Stowaway Joe for nothing.’
Around them, trees nodded and shook themselves. When they were small, they used to play hide and seek here. The breeze picked up and the sadness grew finer, the way rain becomes mist. Joe kissed the top of Cesca’s head. ‘Right, come on, you. We’d better get home. I think it’s going to rain.’
It was already too late. Drops began to fall as they left the forest. Vita watched Joe’s face the whole time, trying to fathom him. Silent and damp, they reached La Limonaia. She couldn’t understand why Papà came running; he came out from behind the house. His palm made contact first, skiting the back of Joe’s head, and he was yelling: ‘What the fuck have you done, Giuseppe?’
In English, but the slap was pure Italian.
‘We’ve been looking for you everywhere. Get inside.’ He shoved Joe.
‘Papà!’
‘I had to do it.’
‘Do what?’ said Cesca.
‘A fucking general?’
‘Aim for the top, zio.’
Then Mario started hitting him harder, harder, with Vita and Cesca in the middle. Shoving them apart, Joe just curled in on himself.
‘Don’t, Papà. Please, stop it.’
‘He shot a car full of soldiers. Your precious, stupid Joe and his mates just murdered a Nazi and some spotty wee prick of a blackshirt. I’m sorry, darlings. Scusatemi. Scusate for the swearing. Please. Andate.’ Papa was spinning from English to Italian, was shaking Joe. ‘Do you realise what you’ve done? How could you be so fucking stupid?’
‘I’m sorry. But I canny keep watching them strut about. I had to do it.’
Vita took her sister’s hand. The air prickling as the sweat on her back evaporated; Joe, with his eyes too bright, panting; their breath making clouds on the cool stone walls of the kitchen. Her breath was the only part of her moving. Joe had killed two men.
‘I know.’ Papa was quieter. ‘I know.’
He did it for me, she wanted to shout.
Joe stared at the fornelli. Sweat trickled from hairline to temple; drips meeting, bisecting.
‘You’re a walking target now, wherever you go. You canny hide out with Lenin any more.’
‘Who’s Lenin?’ Cesca was crying. ‘Sure you didn’t shoot anyone, Joe? Tell him. Will everyone speak Italian?’
‘Scusi, bambina.’ Papà was dragging a knapsack from a cupboard, his boots from the soffitta. ‘Take these. I’d to hide them from Elena. She’s pinched all my shoes for the rastrellati.’
‘Where am I going?’
‘Where you said you would. With Carla. But this time, you’ll not be coming back.’
‘Where? Will somebody please explain?’ Cesca was growing more distressed.
Papà ignored her. ‘We need to get away before curfew.’
‘Papà! Where is Joe going?’ said Vita.
‘Sant’Anna,’ said Joe. ‘Mario’s right. I can’t stay here. The tedeschi will come after me.’
Papà stuffed a jumper inside the knapsack. ‘He was taking Carla and the kids to the mountains anyway. Vita – pass me that penknife. She’s scared they’ll get trapped here, like Rome. Our Joe’s managed to get a few folk up there already.’
Vita’s fingers hovered by the blade. ‘It was you who helped Signor Tutto?’
‘Yes.’ Joe took the knife from her.
She regarded her cousin again. All this time, it was Vita who didn’t know Joe. How many people had he saved? She wanted to ask if he’d been scared. And was he scared when he held that gun? How did it feel, to see a body fall, to snap the soul from it? She wanted to ask if he’d prayed when he did it, and did he feel the same ugly thrill that she did? Her hand rose to wipe her eyes. Vita was glad the blackshirt was dead.
‘Right.’ Papà scratched his head. ‘Your mother’s still at Albiano with Carla. Orlando’s away to get them. You girls, start getting all their stuff together. I’ve taken the boys to Sergio’s. We’ll borrow his donkey. I’ll take you as close to Gallicano as I can, Joe, then you’re on your own. You’ll need the donkey, for the mountain pass. The boys’ll never make it on foot.’
Unspeaking, they gathered up food, blankets. Papà led them down to Sergio’s farm. A stroll Vita did almost every day, hardly noticing the way light slanted on the cobbles, or how the chestnut tree sang as the wind gusted. Now, everything was sharp, and fleeting.
Orlando and the boys were waiting by the barn. ‘At last!’ he said. ‘You need to go. The tedeschi are up on Lama di Sotto already – I couldn’t get anywhere near Albiano. I think they’re working from the top down.’
‘Well, that’s one advantage to living in the middle of nowhere,’ said Sergio. He held his donkey’s head, stroking her muzzle, while Papà tried to attach her harness to the cart. ‘Bella, bella,’ the old man whispered. ‘I will miss you so.’
‘What about Carla?�
�� said Cesca.
‘If she’s here in the next few minutes, fine. If not. . .’ Orlando shrugged. ‘You either get Joe and the boys away now. . .’
‘Right, Giuseppe,’ said Papà. ‘In you get. You’ll need to lie flat, mind. The way we did with Tullio.’
Papà was a genius. He’d built a hidden compartment, a dip under the base of the cart; enough room for two folk to lie in. There were some packed sacks beside the wheels. Joe used them for a leg-up, then wedged himself inside the compartment.
‘No. Not on your back, son. Lie on your belly. That way you can breathe through the gaps. We’ll need to cover you.’
‘What with?’
Sergio began to chuckle. ‘Oh, you don’t know the worst of it, boy. Sacks of flour aren’t going to be enough today. Soon you will be a mushroom!’
‘Give him a minute more in the fresh air first,’ said Papà. ‘I’ll get the boys on the front. C’mon, young ’un.’ He swung Dario onto the bench.
‘Where’s Mamma?’
Vita smoothed his curls. ‘You’re going on an adventure.’
‘Don’t want a venture. I want to stay in my house.’
‘I know.’ Cesca’s voice broke, and she turned her face away from the children.
‘Where’s my mamma?’ Mario looked mutinous.
‘I’m going to walk up the track,’ said Cesca. ‘See if I can see her.’
‘Here.’ Vita got on the cart beside the boys. ‘C’mon, Marino. Sit. It’s just for a little while. You’re going to a lovely place in the mountains, where there’s plenty to eat. Loads of other boys and girls to play with. Not like here, where it’s just boring us.’
‘I like it boring.’
‘And I like cuddles. Come here.’ Marino shied away, but Dario curled into her lap. His hand stole a piece of her dress, pulling it towards his mouth. The wind grew stronger. ‘She’ll be here soon, I promise. Joe,’ she whispered, ‘you can’t go without Carla.’
‘I know.’
The three older men were huddled, muttering. Papà’s face went scarlet. ‘Absolutely not!’
The Sound of the Hours Page 13
