‘Cover me.’
Two, three hundred yards at most, Frank ran in a crab-crawl. Under continuous fire, dragging the dumbass Ivan back towards La Limonaia, Comanche still firing, an eternity of shooting until Bear hollered: ‘Cease!’
The Buffs stood still. The echoes of their gunfire ricocheted in the basin of the mountains. Waiting for a response. None came.
Four dead Germans. Two prisoners, a dead partisan (the Slav one). A bleeding-thighed Ivan, cussing to the heavens, a whooping, smoke-wreathed Bear, being introduced to Tiziano while simultaneously on the radio, and yelling, Ist mehr? Is there more? at a hog-tied German boy. Frank sought out Vita. She was in the schoolroom with the kids, had them all cowered behind the altar, her up front by the door with her gun.
In his head, he could see her standing there even after they’d trooped the kids out and safe home, after they’d locked up the church and radioed for transport and marched their prisoners down to the pickup. Standing in her own glow. She had said ‘Thank you’, and he’d said something like, ‘Did you get your mom?’ But she’d only smiled, a sad smile, and still her glow had not left him, nor let him in. Frank held her by her elbows, because he’d thought she was going to faint. Escorted her home. All the occupants of Catagnana were to be interviewed: standard practice after an ambush. He volunteered to take the statement from Vittoria Guidi.
They sat outside on the terrace as the autumn sun began to set. Ten minutes before the Buffs moved out of Catagnana. Another patrol had gone to recce Sommo.
‘We’ll need to go in when it gets dark,’ said Vita. ‘Curfew. Else your men will come and shoot us.’
‘No, they won’t.’
‘Ach, well, someone will. La Limonaia is burned now.’
‘Burned?’
‘Canny be a safe house? Not now tedeschi have been here.’
‘Yeah, but none of them got back to base, did they? No comms on them that I could see. So your secret’s safe. Nobody knows this is a hotbed of—’
He was making a joke of their bravery. And she was moving away from him again. He had minutes left. ‘Why did you pretend you didn’t know me?’
‘I don’t.’
‘But you do. You did. In Lucca?’
She shrugged. ‘My mother’s dead.’
‘Oh, Vita. I’m so sorry.’
‘Germans shot her.’ Her jaw worked down on itself. Hand flicking her hair behind one ear; one slight movement of her hand, and then she was brittle. Like glass. A glass silence fell too. They concentrated on the curious holed mountain on the far side of the valley. Barga spread below, the square tower of its cathedral defiant in its straightness. Long land that concealed men and arms, given a final burnish by the sun, until the earth was blood-coloured, the mountains gilt-edged. This was her view, every day. Frank thought of his momma, how she would love it here. The speckled cough of gunfire came, high and far away.
‘And your dad?’
‘My da? Jail. Germany.’
‘Shit.’
‘Aye.’ She rubbed a strand of hair from her eye. ‘How could you no have come here sooner? Just a few weeks sooner.’
‘We’ve been—’
‘And how can yous not stop bombing now? You know how many days Barga’s been hit? Thirty. Thirty bloody days non-stop, by yous and them. Why? What have we done? You say you are our friends?’
‘Vita, it’s just war. Collateral damage. Because you’re in the middle.’
‘I know that.’ She nodded towards the mountain. ‘You like our Monte Forato?’
‘Sure.’
‘Two sunsets. You get two sunsets there. Two shots.’
‘Yeah, right.’
‘Is true. If you are still here in January, you’ll see it.’
‘Deal. January. Once we’ve won the war.’
‘Aye.’ Vita kicked at some pebbles on the terrace. Beside her was a small tree in a terracotta pot, its fruit shrivelled and black. ‘But I only believe in things I see now. No promises.’
‘No?’
‘Nah. Just believe what you see. Things are true. That’s all.’
‘You can see the sky.’
‘So?’
‘Well. The sky’s not a thing. How does that work?’
‘Vittoria!’ It was the partisan with the red hat, leaning out the window. ‘Basta! Vieni dentro!’
‘Scusi?’ Frank wasn’t sure what the guy was saying, but Vita ruffled herself, like an angry bird.
‘Tiziano ha bisogno di te.’
She made a face. ‘I’m away in. You done interrogating me?’
‘For now.’
Frank lay in his billet that night, in some broken-down farm outside of Barga. Listening to the calls of night creatures, thinking how he could have died today. And that he had found her again. Vittoria. On a stained mattress to the left of him, Ivan rolled and groaned. By candlelight, Comanche wrote a letter. Luiz was in the corner, cleaning his rifle and humming a jazzy tune. Bear was someplace in Barga, with the prisoners. One of them was just a kid, as young as their Vincenzo. Did the US Army torture kids? He felt his lips retract. Fuck, yeah. Blowing a smoke ring at the ceiling. He was getting good at it. What did you learn in the war, Daddy? He tried to recollect Berkeley and the guys there. Were there flags on the wall of his college room? Triangular pennants of a football team?
Maybe Frank could stay here until January. She would believe in him till then.
Chapter Twenty-two
November 14, 15
Three barghigiani dead, many injured.
Vita’s tree waved skeletal fingers. The shutters were open so she could keep an eye on the track outside. It was cold, the light in La Limonaia’s kitchen tinted blue. She chewed a fingernail. Skin grimy. She probably smelled. She rubbed Mamma’s ring across her lip, and tasted metal.
Barga no longer felt real. Vita walked through its streets on padded air. Senses taut, heightened like an animal’s. Frank was moving in her town. Where was he now? Where was he when that last bomb howled? The splintered sounds of war had become more wicked, because they might hurt him too. In the day, she searched for him. Hot and fretful at night, thinking how, if she met him again, she would explain, then glimpsing him, just once, in the Conservatorio and clamming up as she balanced bedpans, and he, in a group of Buffaloes, laughing and chatting and stopping and turning. Knowing that she watched him.
Vita had run to the pump outside, inarticulate curdled nonsense playing in her head. Impossible to explain; she didn’t know why she was ignoring him. I was shocked to see you. See, that sounded like she didn’t want him here. It’s like I was punched. I am scared you – they – might laugh at me. I’m an idiot.
By the time she’d gathered herself, returned to the hallway, Frank was gone, and then a bleeding family limped through the doors, and it was stazioni di azione! Water, bandages, chair. Some of the older folk weren’t up to moving, so the more able took turns to bring food, ease bodies to prevent bedsores and – where possible – hobble them through to the buckets the nuns had lined up in a flagstoned store. Sheets were a rarity – anything decent had been shredded into bandages – so it was imperative to keep bedding clean. Whenever a poor soul had an accident, you were mortified for them. Dignity was another thing the barghigiani lacked.
November 22
The numbers spewed beyond the madia, onto the wall with the sink. When that wall was used up, she would write them down the other side of the window too.
November 24
The tail of the 4 dribbled slightly. She rubbed it clean, screwed the cap back on Papà’s fountain pen. There was no ink left, so she’d been using watered-down paint.
‘I don’t know why you do that, Vita. It’s morbid.’ Renata sat at the kitchen table, shelling fagioli. ‘Rosa, stop eating them!’
‘But I’m hungry.’
‘We are all hungry.’
Renata and Vita had reached a truce. Though neither apologised, a small pot of heather appeared one morning on Vita’s doorstep; a great
-great-grandchild of the plant Zia Antonia brought back years ago from Scotland. Vita was grateful, for she missed her friend, and loved little Rosa. They didn’t replace her sister, but it was nice to have some life about the house.
‘Am bored, Mamma. Can I go out and play?’
‘Only if you stay on the terrace. And put on your coat.’ Renata brushed the pods into another pot. ‘Boil these, Vita, and you can wring some soup out of them. Oh, did I tell you I got another letter from Gianni?’
‘Good. All well?’
‘Yes. But he’s been asking about his dad. What do I say? Have you not heard anything at all from Mario?’
‘No. Nothing.’
‘You should ask the Red Cross lady to chase it up. The one at the Comune. I’m going to.’
‘I will.’
Vita thought of her papà, alone in a Nazi cell or maybe bunked with Orlando in the outhouse of a German farm, while Orlando’s son languished in an Allied prison. All of them Italians. Viva l’Italia! That big swirly banner folk were clinging to. Where six weeks ago the Monsignor was giving Communion to the Germans, yesterday he was with the americano chaplain, singing hymns at the piano.
‘What about Francesca? Any word from her? I heard they might open the road at Borgo a Mozzano soon.’
‘Really?’ Vita didn’t tell Renata that she slept in her sister’s bed some nights, high in the soffitta. When she woke, in the slow drift up from sleep, there was a moment she could convince herself that Ces was curled beside her, and they’d been dreaming.
‘Vita.’ Rosa spoke quietly, shyly, lingering at the open door.
‘Shut the door, piccola. It’s freezing.’ Today had brought the first of the proper snows, which would make movement difficult for the partigiani. Snow meant tracks, and tracks could be followed.
‘Vita.’ Rosa’s voice had turned urgent. Vita looked up, the movement rapid, stars behind her eyes becoming pin-dots in the blue-white glare.
Aware of each single hair rising on her forearms. The heartbeat in her ears.
Frank stood in her doorway. Waiting, unsure, the freezing, ice-feathered afternoon beyond.
‘I thought you might need some medicines,’ he was saying. ‘Bandages, a little morphine?’
‘Thank you.’ Thank you, thank you, thank you. The air was full of friction, sparking bright, clean shadows on the empty walls, replacing the leaf-light now the leaves had gone. They both knew he could have brought the medicine to the Conservatorio.
‘Fancy a walk, did you?’ Immediately, she was sorry, because he looked away, shy-like and stupid. ‘Is a long walk up. Would you like to come in?’
‘No, it’s fine. Hey, hi there.’ He crouched down to Rosa. ‘Would you like some candy?’ He offered her a small packet. ‘Caramelle?’
‘Sì!’
‘Rosa,’ called her mother. ‘Vieni qui.’ She pulled on her shawl, lifted her basket. ‘Stiamo andando a casa.’
‘Renata, wait!’
‘No. Ogni volta che vengono qui, si soffre di rappresaglie.’
‘What she say?’ asked Frank.
‘Nothing.’
Rosa spoke through crunching. ‘Aye she did. She say: Every time yous come near, we get. . .’ The child made a gun shape with her forefinger and thumb. ‘Bang!’
‘Rosa!’ Renata took her hand. ‘Vieni.’
‘Cheerio then. Thank you for my candy-melle.’ Rosa crammed in the remains of her sweets as her mother marched her out.
‘Cute kid,’ said Frank. ‘Also fluent in scozzese, I see.’
‘Her papà is my cousin.’
‘Is that true? What her mom said?’
‘No, just ignore her. Renata is a wee bit. . . conflicted. She doesny trust you.’
‘No?’
‘Nah. Thinks you’re gonny steal our chickens – no that we have any left – and attack us in our beds.’
‘She fascista?’
‘Sì. Well. . . no really. Same as most folk, I suppose.’ Vita couldn’t tell him everything Renata had said. Her friend, who thought the Moors were filthy black beasts. Hadn’t both their families gone to wipe them out in Abyssinia? But here they were, walking on their hind legs amongst decent Italians. Thieves and rapists, the lot of them.
‘Hey, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come.’
She felt a thread pulling out from her chest, tugging and unravelling at the thought of him gone so quick.
‘No. Let me get you a drink.’ She fumbled at the ladle; she’d scooped buckets of snow this morning and boiled them. Strained through a muslin, it was drinkable. The well in the piazza was out of bounds after the dead dog got chucked inside. The fascists were blaming the partisans, the Allies blamed the Germans. A petition had been made to the Comune to have it removed, but that was a week ago now. If someone didn’t sort it soon, Vita was going to climb down and drag it up herself.
‘Here.’ Her thumb bumped his as she passed him the scoop.
‘Outta this?’
‘Sì. Unless you got a terrible disease?’ She folded her arms. ‘Or you think we do?’
She saw his teeth, poised on the edge of a smile, and a sweet surge came over her. Standing there, with the terrace all laid out, Papà’s carved bench empty.
‘Well, if you won’t come in, I will come out.’ She grabbed the first thing hanging on the peg – Mamma’s fur coat. She’d taken to wearing it when she went to chop wood. Mamma claimed she’d worn it to the opera as a young woman. Vita hadn’t believed her, unable to connect her mother with the glamour of furs. But, occasionally, the faintest waft of Mamma’s perfume would rise when Vita swung the axe. Being inside the furs, having the coat hanging in the kitchen, you could pretend Mamma had just this moment taken it off. That she was animated. Not in a dark box at all.
‘Hold on.’
Vita placed a yellow jug on the kitchen windowsill. A sign for the partigiani. If there was no danger, the jug stayed on the sill. If tedeschi had passed recently, she took the jug away. Sommocolonia had returned to being a no-man’s-land. The Germans still moved freely on Lama, and the highest mountains behind. But sometimes they crept below the line too, using the trees for shelter. Like a church, the forest offered its protection to everyone.
She spread some fur over the bench so it was dry.
‘Very grand.’
Frank sat beside her, a pleat of animal skin and a handbreadth between them. There was a flickering in the hollow where his cheekbone met his temple. She wanted to reach out and smooth it away. He was skinnier than she recalled. Eyes narrowed against the brilliant sun. The Valle del Serchio was hushed today, crisp snow making everything pure. The earth was shadowed blue, but striped in rows of fiery sunlight, as if it were burning with cold. Bright, bright air, making smoke when they spoke.
‘There’s a saying my papà taught me: All fur coat and nae—’
‘What?’
‘Nothing. Is rude.’ She glanced sidelong at him, just as he was glancing down at her. A glimmer there. Snowblinding. It felt like the world was falling, dizzy with the brown tumble, the cool blue rip of the sky. Then the sore, familiar beat began, of gunfire beyond Lama.
‘Here comes the background music.’ Frank closed his eyes. There was a slight tremor in his knee; she could feel it run through the wood they sat on.
If you were up by the Arringo, the oldest part of Barga, you’d hear the thsh-doom of German bombs, falling all the way to the coast. Coreglia, then Trassilico, then Coreglia again. Then the Allies, thundering their reply. Fornaci, Castelvecchio, Fornaci. Mornings might begin with a tearing explosion, then a rain of salty white powder; fallout from the destruction of Bologna. It spreads that far? the people would say, although they were simply words. The barghigiani had ceased to be amazed. Ceased to feel much beyond indifference. Even when the sirens wailed, there was no longer panic. When the snow fell, there had been no rush from children to tumble in its glister. Barga was crystallised.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘For what?’
‘When you came here before. Kidding on I didny know you.’
‘Oh, yeah. That. Why did you?’
‘You did the same.’
‘No, I didn’t. I just. . . I was waiting to see. If you remembered me. Oh, man. Honestly? I was shit-scared you wouldn’t.’
She’d not been able to explain to him, yet here he was, untangling her thoughts, laying them out so it didn’t matter. He thought the same things she did.
‘Me too. Anyroad. I’m sorry.’
The shoogling in his leg had stopped. ‘OK. Well. I’m glad I came, then.’
The Sound of the Hours Page 26
