All day, Vita waited for the sound of bridges tearing. The Germans must have changed their minds. Perhaps Kesselring was more civilised than other Nazi generals. They’d not blown up Lucca, had they? Under his command. Under his command they’d—
Vita pushed her hands deep into the sink, water breaking across her forearms. She would not go there. A few more days, and the Germans would be gone – then the cowardly Brigate Nere would flee too. Brave americani were marching onwards. Men like Francesco. Frank. It sounded honest; like biting an apple. All those soldiers she’d seen in Lucca; in days, hours perhaps, they would free Barga, and the war would pass them by. Once more, she tried to remember the americano’s face. The image was cloudy. His moustache was clear, the curve of his mouth. And she thought she might recognise his eyes. If they looked at her in that hungry way, then, yes. She would know him again.
She watched her shape move in the window. Was hers a face you would remember? Smudged and dark, she assessed herself. Too thin, too sharp, but her mouth was full. Outside, the trees shimmered. Soon the leaves would fall, and the underwater light of La Limonaia would be done for another year. Winter-bright would come instead, with her chestnut tree a skeleton, and Vita, alone in a house that should be full. She opened the window, and it was as though the evening had been pushing there, desperate to pour in. You could smell the cut of the harvest, the long drill of disturbed earth. The sky, thickening, shifting, and the thought pressed again, of the americano. The girl in the window was tracing her collarbone. Why did he lodge below her breast like this? Joe had never made her feel this way. Not close. But then, Joe was real.
The girl’s mouth changed to something soft. Her nipples quickened, hardened. She wondered what happened when men and women lay together, and how it would be if she died untouched, if the liveness inside her simply withered and passed away. Who would she tell of the things inside her head, foolish, lovely things she wanted to share? Who would come for Vita and save her, tear her enemies with their teeth, if she withered here alone?
The damp from her hand settled on her smock. She shook herself into some sense, closed the window. Maybe she should go up to Renata’s. She was suddenly hungry; all she’d eaten was that cold polenta. She’d go early though. The tedeschi patrolled at dusk, sniffing like truffle-hounds. Vita put on her zoccoli and donned her shawl.
You could hear the music before you reached Sommocolonia’s steps. A badly played fiddle, and raucous singing, coming from the first of the piazzas. Little Giuliano, of course, scraping his bow. The clicking, heel-stamping sound of dancing came. When Vita got to the top of the rampa, she could see the flash and turn of wrists held in the air. This was more than a few girls; the piazza was in full festa mode. She could smell the candy-scent of roasting chestnuts. The dance the village girls were doing – hands low and push, and swoop, then twirl. Had she missed the chestnut harvest? But there they were: baskets of nuts. How was that possible, if you couldn’t walk freely in the woods? Platters of mushrooms too, flecked with fresh herbs. And strange, dark bread and a kind of cabbagy salad. Where had all this food come from?
‘Oh, you came, Vita! I’m so glad.’ Renata was carrying a plate of – Vita wasn’t sure. Pale, sliced slugs? ‘Come and sit by us.’ She pointed to where little Rosa sat with the lady who ran the fruit and vegetable shop.
‘Is that sausage?’ Vita poked at the dish.
‘It’s really nice. Bratwurst, I think.’
‘Bratwurst? From them? Are there Germans here?’
‘No. Not yet. But there might be a few coming. Don’t worry, just the nice ones. You know, the boys who did the concerto, and a few of their mates. We promised we’d show them what a festa was like—’
‘Tedeschi? How could you?’
‘Vita, they’ve been really generous. Look at all this food. I mean – do you have a problem with me feeding my daughter?’
‘But. . .’ Her throat hurt. It didn’t feel real; none of this felt real. ‘Renata. They shot my mother.’
‘They didn’t. Guards in Castelnuovo did. Might have been Brigate Nere for all we know. Vi, I’m truly sorry about Zia Elena, you know I am.’
‘Well, why didn’t you stop her then?’ she shouted.
‘Why didn’t you?’ Renata shouted back. She shook her head. ‘Look, I’m sorry, Vita. But this is war.’
‘The Germans took your father-in-law.’
‘Yes, and the Allies took my husband. Gianni’s in some stinking POW camp, and I’m here. Trying to survive. You seem to forget, Vita, the tedeschi are on our side.’
‘Our side?’
Their faces were tight-close, Renata’s lips stretched thin and white. ‘Yeah, well, with you lot, who knows.’
‘What’s that meant to mean?’
‘You, your dad.’ Folk were looking over. ‘Bloody Giuseppe too. Just stop pretending, Vita. You can’t be Scots–Italian. You’re either one thing or the other. You not get that? Gesù – do you think they’d have taken half of Barga away if Joe hadn’t—’
‘Fuck you.’ Vita slapped her hand wide; the dish upended. The air was filled with falling bratwurst and a spatter of Guten Abend and Buonasera as a stream of German soldiers trooped into the piazza. Vita’s hand shook; the skin of her fist stretched so fine it shone.
Renata knelt to retrieve the sausage. ‘You’d better watch yourself, Vittoria. A foul mouth is never a nice thing in a woman.’
Vita stared round the village square, at the gleeful, breathless dancers, at the German soldiers bearing bottles and cigarettes. She looked at the old women frowning at her; at the kids like Rosa, wide-eyed and sunken-bellied, clamouring for kuchen. The familiar felt foreign. The air full of whispers. Mice hiding. Owls arguing, trees crouching at glints of steel.
She took a glass of wine from a table, waited quietly in a corner of Sommocolonia until the rampa was clear of tedeschi. Fifteen or so of them, legs planted wide in chairs dragged from houses to accommodate them or legs akimbo as they stood to survey the dancing girls. A few of them were officers, greatcoats worn casually across shoulders or draped on the backs of chairs. Little Giuliano started up a new tune, and there was a rush to dance. Renata untied her headscarf, shook out her hair. Then, deliberately fixing her eyes on Vita, she extended her hand to one of the slick-haired officers. Formed her mouth into clear, slow words. ‘You dance?’
Vita downed the wine. A few empty chairs, piled with coats and hats, blocked the rampa. She pushed them to get past. Blurry smudges of gaberdine and black leather. A gun belt slung underneath. Careless, the way it was left hanging, and who’s to say where the actual gun might end up, the brown-handled pistol of an officer who can’t even be bothered to secure his weapon, the pistol all sleek and evil, perhaps it wanted to do good and that’s why it was shining there, and it was the matter of unthinking seconds to pull her shawl down over the gun belt, unclip the little leather flap and slip out the gun.
Sommocolonia shrank tiny-wee, the pistol burning inside her shawl. This must be what hunters call tunnel vision; this narrowing of the world to a single shaft. One step, two steps. Polished glimmer of a brass lamp swinging; the open door of a house. She saw a soldier touch his moustache and yawn; an awful bustle through the hallway. One poor woman, crying as another soldier dragged her by the hair. A buzzing sound filled Vita’s head, and she realised the woman was laughing, not crying, at the soldier untwining his hand from her hair, pouring wine across her unbuttoned breast.
It was like watching Hell. Vita began to run down the steps. In through the trees, away from paths and people. Night was coming, and this was a nightmare. No idea what to do with the pistol scalding her skin. Her feet fell on the hollow woodland floor, twigs snapping and breaking like gunfire. Weaving between the shadows of the trees, balancing on roots and rocky edges. Rims and margins were less likely to be mined. She touched the tree trunks as she passed, because wood was meant to be lucky. All the low snuffles and coos, the squeaks and scrapes of nocturnal life, worked to slow her breathi
ng.
She came out on the road, beside the wayside chapel. It was a shrine to San Rocco, open at the front so any wayfarer could leave offerings, or rest on their journey up the hill. A painted Madonna sat under San Rocco’s icon, a votive candle flickering below. The light brought the statue’s face alive. Time and the elements had chipped her; you knew she wasn’t real, but there was a substance there, from all the tired hands that had touched her. A cloak so blue it made your throat ache, and her sad face, forever looking at her feet. How many prayers had been offered up to this Madonna? They hadn’t thought to bring her to the sagra this year. Vita picked some of the wild thyme that grew everywhere, laid it on the ledge.
‘For my family.’
Then another voice floated, in the shadowy, pale air. More soldiers.
Her hand hovered over the pistol. There was an alcove behind the statue, where folk would leave corn sheaves and wine for other, more ancient, gods. It was a forbidden practice. She gripped a handful of shawl, reached for the Madonna.
‘Still stehen!’
In her panic, she knocked the votive from its place. Dropped the gun. She fell to her knees, sweeping out her hand to reach it; finding only air. Then her fingers hit hard metal.
‘You! What are you doing?’ This voice was Italian.
‘Praying.’ She drew the pistol closer.
‘Stand up.’
The bent head of a praying woman, offering alms. Vita’s head swam as she rose. Shawl wrapped tight. ‘Bitte. I have to get home.’
‘Nein.’ Two soldiers, right behind her. One of them was smoking.
‘Scusi?’
‘Is not safe. Papers.’
Careful hands, moving down to reach her documents. They were in the side pocket of her dress. A good, wide pocket. Slow, slow slide of her fingers. Letting go, the sly trigger trying to snag her finger.
‘Here.’ She withdrew her papers, the rustle of them deafening.
The smoker shook out the folded document. ‘Veet-orra. Vittoria – is victory, ja? So you pray for our victory? Ha.’ He clapped his hands, cigarette ash and sparks flying wide.
‘Hello again.’ The other figure came closer. It was the Brigate Nere soldier from earlier. He took her papers from the German. ‘Where are you off to?’
‘Catagnana. Just down there. I’ve got to get home by curfew.’
He clicked his heels together. ‘Signorina, you look. . . unwell. Let me accompany you.’
‘No! Honestly, there’s no need. I’m fine.’ She willed her voice not to break. The pistol waited under one single wisp of fabric, rubbing on the curve of her hip. Surely they would see it?
‘Ah, but there are parmigiani about in the hills tonight.’ The blackshirt sniffed the air. ‘You can smell their cheesy feet on the breeze. Zehen von käse, ja?’
His companion also sniffed. ‘Ja, ja. Käse. Das is gut.’ He laughed, but his face was terribly weary. He carried his helmet, dangling it in his hand, and stood to the side of her, frowning. Sweat in Vita’s eyes, she kept wiping them, kept repeating the action because it was the only thing she could do, a rabbit staring at a hunter’s gun; there was a burning urge to urinate, to turn and flee. Her foot must have brushed the fallen votive, for it clinked and rolled, Vita confused. Petrified by his frowning. She began to stoop.
‘Nein, nein.’
The German gripped her arm. The pistol a hand reach from where he held her.
‘Bitte.’ He retrieved the votive. ‘Das is nicht gut.’
Vita couldn’t speak. The Nazi struck a match. Relit the candle. Gently, he positioned it so it was central before the Madonna. Replaced Vita’s thyme at the front.
‘Das ist besser.’ He frowned again, eyes flitting as if he were counting. ‘Um. Wir. . . we. . .’ Fiddling inside his collar. ‘We alle. . . ein kleine. . . hope?’ He showed her the crucifix he wore round his neck. ‘Little hope, ja?’
‘Ja.’
The Italian soldier leaned back against a tree. ‘I had a kleine hope there would be pretty girls to dance with in Sommocolonia.’
‘Please,’ said Vita. ‘Enjoy your evening. I must go home.’
‘You’re not going to the festa?’
‘No.’
‘Shame. And you don’t fear bandits?’
‘Me?’ She winked. ‘Nah. I’m a mountain witch. I just draw a magic circle round the house and they keep away.’
‘Oh, witches are the worst kind.’ He tipped his cap to her. ‘You take care, Vittoria Guidi.’ Carefully, carefully, folding her papers. ‘Watch out for wolves.’
‘I will.’
Head low, she picked her way downhill. The path zigzagged round the contours of the slope, then doubled back, so the men were directly above her. She heard the German say, ‘Momento. I too. . . would. . .’
‘Klaus. We’ve a party to get to. Might be our last chance.’
‘Ja, but. . . I cannot. . . nicht recht. Was not right, Rossi.’
‘Sant’Anna?’
‘Ja. Is too. . . Bitte. To pray. Fünf minuten.’
Sant’Anna? Vita held her face against gnarled tree bark. Cold down her spine. What had happened at Sant’Anna that would make a Nazi pray? She waited for other words to come, or for the German’s shout as he looked down and saw her there. Felt the night close round her. Faith used to be like breathing; it brought rhythm and purpose. But where had prayer brought her? Here, to a forest, alone, in the dark. Words and prayers and ritual and promises. The ground seemed to undulate. If she opened her eyes, the sensation grew worse.
There was no one. No one was coming to help her.
Hardly breathing, she crept back up the path.
The chapel was maybe ten paces away, on the other side of the track. Two candles danced, casting faerie light. The Nazi’s head was bowed; she could see the tension in his neck; the little tick of life there, above his high collar. He was alone. Vita eased the pistol from her pocket. There was no way of telling if it was loaded; she only knew how a shotgun worked. Crouching low, she pointed the nose of the gun, testing her index finger; hardening her knuckle until it was a solid knot. One press would crack open the dusk, and his skull. What happened in Sant’Anna? Tell me. What did your people do?
What did Nazis always do?
Her finger twitched. One press. It would bring an avalanche of running feet.
Who was left to care?
The soldier moved, and the shadow changed, passing over the Madonna’s face. Vita lowered the pistol. Still crouching, she watched him walk away.
She felt so alone. Cradling her face in her hands, trying to think, and to not think. Knowing what must have happened, in her bones.
The partigiani. Joe’s friends. They had contacts. They would know.
There was a grangia in the mountains, a bothy the goatherds used in summer. There were hidden, inaccessible clearings too, where charcoal makers hid from their wives. Whole weeks they spent there, being carbonari instead of fathers. Papà had taken her once, when she was little. It was an excuse to camp out. The men brought dry pasta and eggs, cut branches into even lengths and stacked them into earth-clad pyramids taller than themselves, with a hole at the centre to set the fire. Then they would ignite, and wait. You must burn it slowly to make it strong, said Papà. If you rush, it will turn to ash.
There were many places where men could contrive to be absent from home. When you thought about it, the partigiani were not so hard to find. Simply climb into the forest. Of course it would be to their boschi the partisan men returned. Vita was careful; no eyes or aeroplanes followed her. She knew these woods as well as anyone. And, if you are a mountain witch you can see small differences, can smell them; how the grass is flattened, here. How these cut branches truncate just there. Threads of red wool adhering to a mossy trunk.
The forest spread itself across the hills and valleys of the Garfagnana, turning from oak and chestnut to spiky fir as the altitude increased. She climbed for nearly two hours, the rain changing to an icy sparkle. The grangia lay some
where outside the treeline, on the plateau stretching ahead. She took a breath, left the shelter of the forest, into open ground. Waiting for a shout, a gun crack across the dark.
It was too early here for snow, but she could see velvet shelves of white, packed and sparkling in the moonlight, all along the spires of the higher alps. Endless chains and peaks, shimmering into fairytale. Finally, she saw the shape of the grangia up ahead: a mound of stones, almost a trullo. Clever partigiani. They had fringed the roof with pine branches, so it was camouflaged from above.
Vita was thirsty. Her cheekbones tingled. Up here, on the horizon at the edge of the world, the darkness receded into faint, washed greys. She waited. Her thighs, fists, tense. In the bone-coloured sky, an owl swept in circles. She made herself move on. Walk boldly. They were on the same side.
There was a man by the side of the cabin, skinning a rabbit. He squealed as Vita approached, flinging the bloody carcass at her.
‘Stop! Who goes there!’
‘Fucksake, Puccini!’ A man in a red beret came from the shelter, rifle first.
‘What do we do, Lenin? Do we shoot her?’
The cold night settled on her shoulders.
‘I don’t know. Do we shoot you, bella?’ The man tilted his gun.
There was a third figure inside the cabin. What if it was Captain Bob? He would kill her, calmly, and resume his cleaning or map-reading without pause. But she could see no hairy knees within. Her black suitcase sat unashamedly in the centre of the floor. ‘I wouldn’t recommend it. See that? It was me brought you that thing. Ask Captain Bob. And I’ve brought you more goodies too. If you’re nice.’
The man inside was sitting on a heap of pine branches, absorbed in whittling wood. There was a little camping stove too, filling the room with smoke.
‘Like what?’ said Puccini.
The legendary transmitter got her through the door, but it was the unveiling of the pistol that got her trusted. They let her sit in their cabin, drink their horrible coffee. The one called Puccini shook her hand. ‘And you just took the Luger? From his coat?’
The Sound of the Hours Page 22
