‘Been so much bellyaching with the socially-communists and the national committee of fuck-knows-who, colonel’s come back to umpire ’em. But they all talk so goddam fast none of our interpreters know what they shouting. Italians, man! Worse than the goddam Irish.’ Bear slapped him a second time, but softer. ‘OK. Go. Get yourself into a church, look up at the towers. Get yourself human, yeah? But wash first. Thas an order.’
Cold shower on a hot day. Rough towel on a sore body. Sluicing off the dirt. Bliss.
They’d set up field showers behind the lines, using water from the canal. Basic, but efficient. Strip at one end, get clean clothes at the other, while your dirty ones were washed and recycled to someone else. You’d to stand under the water bladder, which was meant to be heated by the sun. Squeeze the nozzle, let it fall. Jesus. Cold. Don’t let the water splash your mouth, because Godknew what was in it. Frank didn’t look at his body as he washed. It wasn’t really his.
He hitched a lift with two other privates into Lucca. They were off duty and they were not, that lizard eye always flicking. You were in uniform. You kept a side arm on you at least. But a pocketful of candy and cigarettes – these things were appreciated more than dollars. Frank left the other two at the gates. Months of snoring and shitting in unison. He wanted to be on his own. Needed to. A huge, open-arched gateway was carved into the massive city walls. Frank walked through, and it was like a whole other shower. Slim trees lined broad avenues, trees and greenery everywhere, even on the tops of the walls, where generous paths looped a circle round the city. In an ideal world, he would begin at one end and traverse Lucca from on high. A perfect morning stroll. He picked his way up the stone staircase, over the leavings of partisan guards, the spent cartridges, the stinking blankets. Empty bottles and pools of piss.
Up here was exposed. Experience told him he should crouch and skitter. A sharpshooter could easily take him out. An airplane might dive. Briefly, though, Frank let his shoulders be upright. He stood on the walls of Lucca and took in the view. How beautiful it was. To his right were plains and mountains. To his left, red-tiled roofs and crenellated towers. At his feet, pale stone ramparts that were echoes of other circles, still present in the undulating green land, circles guarding this city since Roman times. He felt a sharp sense of his own perimeters. The shadowed edge of cheek below his eye. The papery breeze tonguing his collar. Sting of raw flesh where he’d cut himself shaving, and all the empty, unanchored pieces that jarred inside. He saw a rust-coloured blot on the stone parapet in front of him. If he bent real close, he’d be able to smell it. The iron-black tang of blood. He thought of the sniper who had stood here yesterday or the day before, eyes narrowed over this same view. The whizz of air as the bullet came straight back at ya, or did the sniper trip and bang his head, or were the wounded piled up here to die?
He could see the city walls from Villa Orsini. Frank searched the hills beyond the canal, trying to glimpse their tented village, imagining he could see a string of clean laundry dancing in the breeze, all nice and homey. Why? Why did he need to see the camp? The instinct of the lost, searching for the familiar so you could wave up at it, like baby-Frank would wave to Momma at the window. But here was only empty spaces, vast craters in a conscience-less world. Sun baking hot, but there was no warmth in it. Hard-gleaming, unblinking light, laying over the wreckage they had wrought.
On the other side of the walls, mediaeval Lucca seemed relatively unbombed. The tallest tower he could see had a white-faced clock on pinkish brick. The hands did not move. Frank climbed back down the stone staircase. If he had known, then, that there would be a before and after, he would have taken so much more care to note the details. He would have drawn and recorded in intricate precision the threads that were binding and spinning him on. But he was just a guy on a walk in an unknown place.
The broad roads shrank, becoming warrens, a dead-end maze that would suddenly open into the shocking brilliance of a light-filled square. Forcing your head up to meet the sky, bathing you in deep, sore blue. Strings of US Army trucks scattering people; an urgency at odds with the bruised sleepiness of the streets. Ancient towers and silenced fountains. Faces, faces, carved and wise. The air was flavoured with waste; a just-woken mouth taste sour from the night before. Then a peppery scent of olive oil would sneak from under a shutter, and you could imagine cooking, and life going on. He passed a baroque church dressed in white stone, frosted like Christmas cake, with a painted angel guarding the roof. Down a lane of towering houses so close the upper windows almost touched, then he’d turn and be in the shade of an arcaded palazzo, through a square wreathed with statues and sycamore trees. Following unknown streets, unknown people, who were tired or joyful or curious. A grandmother shielded her grandchildren as he passed, while another offered him purple flowers. He took one, bowed. Gave her a Hershey bar in return. Passed a group of giggling signorine who twirled back to have another brazen look. One of them touched her upper lip, tracing a line with her little finger. Self-consciously, Frank touched his own lip, where he’d sculpted a pencil-thin moustache, the sole remnant of the stubble he’d just discarded. It was on a whim, in the damp shiver of after-shower grooming, when he’d been confronted by his parched, savage face, and decided he did not like it. Soon as he got back, he’d shave the damn thing off.
The girls tittered.
Lesson. . . fuck knows. A zillion and one. Here, you are made exotic. It is the uniform, stupid. Not you.
Frank lowered his eyelids, and the laughing became murmurs. He gleamed the buttons on his tunic with his sleeve; fabric freighted with the power of the invader. Kissed the flower he was holding, presented it to the teenager who’d mocked his moustache. She blew him a kiss in return. Then it was Frank’s turn to do the predatory circling, a neat half-turn before a full-beam smile, switched in their direction. Could feel every bristle of his moustache, being electric. Then he sauntered off. Terrified he might trip.
He found himself in a huge, oval-shaped piazza ringed with pink and ochre buildings, three, four storeys high. Neat green shutters, wrought-iron balconies. None of them grand. For a space this size, there were no lavish fountains, no imposing marble recreations of ancient gods fighting ancient monsters. It felt like being inside an arena. He wandered for a while, his mind slackening. Probably the ringing rush in his ears would never disappear. But it was fine. Knots of Buffaloes perambulated the piazza. Plenty other soldiers too. Swarthy partigiani, swaggering under the weight of their cartridge belts like they owned the place. Which they kinda did. A bunch of Japanese Americans, some flag-draped men from the Brazilian Expeditionary Force, drinking grappa in a chequerboard hodgepodge of colour. The Brazilian units were not segregated. Frank avoided the lot of them, gravitating to where a market of sorts had been set up. Locals jostled for pickings. Candles. An empty picture frame. One lone shoe. Small knuckles of unidentifiable meat.
Bear hadn’t said how long he was to visit Lucca. Frank was glad he’d come. He felt refreshed, reminded of something that wasn’t olive drab. Beyond the market was one of the many small arches that cut through the clustered buildings, to let you exit the piazza. He’d head out through that one, walk round to the gate he’d come in, and that would be him done. Vehicles were coming and going; he could hitch a ride back to camp in time for a stolen siesta. Inside the arch, he saw another two Buffaloes, messing with an Italian girl. She was dressed in green, had her back to him and her hair piled high in a loose skein, but it was the neck. . . oh, man, it was the neck that hit him like a body blow.
Later, he could only suppose that he had felt this, that it would become a memory, or a story he would tell, but now – now it was a zooming ceaseless thrum; it was a sly line of promise from his groin to his gut; it was a conversation he had been waiting for. And it was the most gorgeous, most glorious, of necks.
The Buffs were only joshing with her, but it was becoming insistent, where the balance was tipping slightly, and you could see she just wanted to get by. It was perfect.
Frank and his ’tache would intervene. He’d be firm; she’d be grateful. The soldiers would concede (he was a PFC after all); Frank would smile and it would be—
A tornado. A wall of sound rising, echoing and booming, slipping along the tunnel to ricochet across the oval piazza and surprise the world. The glorious neck twisted. A chin rose. In the roughest, most guttural English he had ever heard, the girl screeched: ‘Will yous just piss off and leave me alane?’
Chapter Thirteen
They had reached Lucca in a day; Vita, riding on Gianni’s old cycle, Cesca on the crossbar, bumping under her chin. Freewheeling down winding roads, panting up the hills, smelling sharp air instead of dusty Barga. It was close to exhilarating – if you ignored the death-and-danger looming. They stayed off main roads, using the paths their forebears would have taken. Papà’s old mushroom knife rested a hand-grab away, in the pannier of the bike. The curved blade was vicious; the brush at the other end a friendly tail.
When she thought of Papà, Vita’s chest grew vast, filled with cracks and rough edges, with a terrible, plummeting emptiness. So she tried to think only good thoughts. She thought of Joe. Him and Carla and the boys; they’d be there by now, safe in Versilia’s marble caves. How brave he was, and sad.
She’d called him a coward. The unpaved track bumped as the cycle gathered speed, veering precariously along the rim of a pothole, Cesca squealing. Air flowed effortlessly through Vita’s open mouth, and she wanted to shout into the wind.
Every few miles, they would see evidence of movement. Yellow plumes of smoke. Brown dust. Flat-bed trucks painted greyish-green. Refugees lugging their bundled lives, crawling north and scuttling south, because in truth no one knew where safe was. As they neared Borgo a Mozzano, they moved down from the old trails to cross the river. Rolling tanks passed them on the road, lumbering like prehistoric beasts. Metal-headed soldiers marched in squads, soldiers running reels of cable, shouting.
They slowed as they approached the river. ‘I need the toilet, Vi.’
‘Wait till we’re across.’
‘What about those tedeschi?’
‘Trust me.’
Wading over would get them shot. Nothing for it but to take the bridge.
‘You’d better do your teeth again.’
‘Oh, for Godsake.’
‘Just do it, Vi. Mamma will have some spy tailing us. You know she will.’
This was not a wholly unchaperoned journey. The Monsignor had accompanied them as far as the paper mill at Rocca, riding on the sisters’ donkey. At Ponte a Moriano, they would be met by Mamma’s cousin Nello, who was a rector in Lucca. This bit in the middle was courtesy of one cunning disguise: the ugly sister.
‘Here.’ Cesca handed her a stick of charcoal.
‘Gesù.’
‘Don’t swear, Vi. Mamma’s right. You’re becoming very coarse.’
Vita flapped her voluminous skirt. ‘Look at me.’ Clad in sackcloth and ashes, literally. The charcoal was to blacken her teeth. They were a priest’s housekeeper and her charge, out for some harmless foraging. No law yet against looking for food. But it was wise to take precautions, Mamma said. And you are such a beautiful girl. She’d said it thoughtlessly, looked more surprised than Vita when it trailed out.
‘Can I just pee here? I’m bursting.’
Keep away from La Macchia, the Monsignor had instructed. Easier said than done. La Macchia was all the broad flatlands near the Serchio riverbed. ‘There are mines beneath the soil,’ he’d said as he left them. ‘And they do not distinguish whose feet tread there. Keep to the high ground. Whenever the way looks easy, eschew it.’ He had twinkled merrily. ‘A good lesson for us all, Vittoria, no?’
‘Yes, Monsignor.’ Pretending to be demure, before she hugged him. The man of God went brittle in her embrace, but she clung on regardless, and was rewarded with a brusque patting of her shoulder.
‘I’m sorry I cannot accompany you all the way. But there is much to be done in the parish.’
‘Monsignor, you’ve done enough.’ She’d felt the frail ribs of him, seen the deep shadows made darker by the brim of his hat, which she’d knocked askew.
There was a crypt beneath the Duomo where the Monsignor went to pray. It was kept locked. The tedeschi respected the sanctity of this place, for didn’t the Church offer them succour? The Monsignor had been diligent in providing solace for German soldiers: Mass for those who wished it, the last rites for that awful blackshirt and the general. He was kindly and courteous to all, when other priests might have been firebrands or sycophants, and this allowed him to move freely, within limits. But a watchful housekeeper, who must account for every grain of rice and yolk of egg, notices things. And, if she is a nosy besom like Vita, she follows the breadcrumb trail. Sees it leading to the crypt, and the hidden souls inside. Nico knew, of course. Like he knew everything, and said nothing. They are Jews, he hissed at her. They won’t be here for long. And if you tell anyone, I will bury you in the camposanto. Nico never joked.
‘Vita, I have to pee,’ said Cesca. ‘Please. You want me to stink like an old fish?’
‘Now who’s coarse? Fine. May as well have a last supper.’
Her sister went pale.
‘I didn’t mean that. Look, what about here?’
They stopped just before the skinny arches of the Ponte del Diavolo, in a dip of land, tucked out of sight of the tedeschi on the bridge.
‘Pee behind that tree. No one can see you.’
Vita brought out the water and focaccia Mamma had packed. Then their papers, and a pass for the bike. Cesca reappeared, brushing down her skirt. If they stayed calm, it would be fine. Vita’s legs were shaking; it was all that cycling, Gesù, these were the animals who’d beaten her mother. Who’d stolen away her father. Blank, she must stay blank, was actively trying out her blank expression as the sky poured in on top of them.
From nowhere, stuttering dreadful growls, two fighter planes coming in fast, swooping so low she could see bright bullseyes painted on their fuselages. She threw her arms over Cesca’s head. The planes banked suddenly, swerved to the right in a beautiful arc, before a rain of gunfire hit the bridge. Spitting dust and stone, screams; Vita, seeing a body fall, his helmet clanking off the buttress of the bridge, then his body hitting water. She could not breathe. There was a salvo of hopeless shooting from the bridge, but the planes had zipped far into the sky again, like triumphant birds of prey.
‘Vi, you’re choking me. Let me up.’
‘Shut up till I tell you.’ She held her sister until the body floated past, face up in the river. The boy’s eyes were open, his chest leaking scarlet. He came to rest ten metres downstream. Two tedeschi ran along the river’s edge, waded in to get him.
‘Get off.’ Cesca, muffled, squirming until she fought herself free.
‘Cesca. Please.’ Vita didn’t know what the soldiers would do. From here, they could see straight to the opposite bank. See two Italian girls having a picnic while they wrestled with their dead.
‘Do not move.’ She made them be statues, neither looking at nor away from the funeral scene on the other side. The tedeschi were soaked. They managed to drag the body up the bank. Another ran down with a makeshift stretcher. The body was laid on top. The soldier who’d brought the stretcher bent to listen to the boy’s heart. Ear to chest, his head angled so his eyes were directly on Vita. She didn’t blink. Neither did he. Then the soldier did an uncanny thing. He straightened himself up and saluted her. It was not at the others, or the body on the stretcher. It was at her. She found herself lowering her head. For the dead boy, though. Not the medic.
He had looked surprised, the boy. Astonished by his lack of readiness. Vita listened to the shift of the gleaming river. She had never seen a death so immediate; not the actual moment of it. Could taste metal in her mouth.
She waited until the trucks clanked off before releasing her sister.
‘Can we move now? Oh my God, that was awful. Did you see his face?’
&
nbsp; ‘Cesca, just be quiet.’
Her sister seized the bike. ‘Well, excuse me for getting a fright because some man just got killed in front of us. God. What is wrong with you Vita?’
‘Can we just go? Please?’
A clear run, no one left to challenge them. They wheeled the bike over the thin humps of the Devil’s bridge. The river below was emerald green, shimmering eerie faces back at them. Weeping trees lent their colours to the water. Or maybe it was magic, mingled with blood.
On the other bank, the land rose steeply. Sheer rock faces edged the road, dripping with foliage and clinging trees. They began to cycle again, looking for a path back into the hills. Way up ahead, a couple and a little boy were also walking, the three of them limping under bundles and packs. Quickly, the cycle gained on the family, but they seemed to have stopped.
‘What on earth is that?’
Vita braked. The road ahead was blocked – a wall stretched right across it, with a curious, curved lip on top. They both got off the bike.
‘Is it to stop trucks?’
‘We’ll need to climb over – or get back down onto the riverbank. What d’you think? It looks quite steep.’
‘Wheesht.’ Cesca drew her to the side of the road. ‘Look.’
From nowhere, a sentry had appeared, rifle flashing in the sunlight. Then another soldier slipped from inside the rock face itself; you could see the long vines part as he emerged. Tunic off, sleeves rolled – he was carrying a brush. He ignored the couple remonstrating with the sentry. Instead, he started daubing at the stone.
‘What’s he doing?’
‘I think he’s painting it.’
Pale grey where the soldier was dabbing, turning stony black as he stippled away. Transforming it.
‘That rock’s not real. That must be it! That’s the German wall they all go on about.’
‘It’s not very big.’ Cesca was looking at the concrete blocks on the road.
‘It is, if it’s all that rock face too. They’re actually building fake cliffs—’
The Sound of the Hours Page 16
