The Sound of the Hours

by Karen Campbell

  ‘Francesca!’ Vita ran towards the vehicle.

  ‘Surprise, bella!’ Frank jumped from the jeep, and his easy smile was too wide, too satisfied. ‘I volunteered to do the mail—’

  Her hand flew up, striking his face. ‘Why would you bring her here? I told you, no. Is bloody raining bombs. Even to risk the road – you don’t get to decide for me. You’re just as bad as Joe. Gesù, she was safe in Lucca. What were you thinking, you stupid Moor?’

  The words made little spears in the air. Her palm, smarting. Pain like a tuning fork down her veins. Frank’s poor face. His eyes. The hurt bursting there was incredible.

  She put the back of her hand to his cheek. ‘Why did you no speak to me first?’

  ‘Whoah.’ Cesca caught Vita’s wrist. ‘Well, Frankie One. For mia sorella, can I just apologise?’

  ‘Take her back,’ said Vita. ‘Right now. Get in the car.’

  Cesca lifted out a bag.

  ‘You hear me?’

  ‘Aye. And am ignoring you. Cheers for the lift, Frankie One. Oh, and the Buffalo patch. I’ll sew it on my jacket!’

  ‘Sure thing, Frankie Two.’ Frank kissed her sister’s cheek. Got back in the jeep, his gaze fixed ahead, on the wall. ‘Stay cool.’

  ‘Did none of yous bloody hear me? You did this to keep me down here, didn’t you?’

  ‘Leave him alone, Vita. I wanted to come; he didn’t drag me.’ Cesca slung her bag over her shoulder. ‘At least he gave me a choice. You have a very kind man there. Only one that’s bothered to tell me what’s happening with my own bloody family.’ But Frank was driving off, away from them. ‘Bye, Frankie One,’ Cesca shouted in English. ‘Mind and bring more sweeties.’ He didn’t look back. She switched to Italian. ‘You are one rude cow.’

  ‘What did he say? What did he tell you?’

  Clouds passed the struggling sun, turning the stone bleak.

  ‘Cesca, did you know? Did Nonna get the Monsignor’s letter?’

  ‘About my mamma being dead? Yes.’ Harsh set to her sister’s face. ‘Oh, and thanks for all yours, by the way. Words from my big sister were such a comfort.’

  ‘I couldn’t. . .’

  ‘Couldn’t be arsed? Fair enough. Why would I need to know Papà’s in a Nazi prison either, or that my cousins got butchered? What would be the point in bothering to tell me that?’

  ‘He had no right. . .’

  ‘I asked him, Vita. You any idea how awful it’s been for me, stuck in Lucca? Hearing all these rumours and knowing bloody nothing?’

  ‘I was trying to protect you. And don’t swear.’

  ‘I’m not a baby! And you’re not my mamma.’ Cesca’s cheeks blazed like apples. ‘You’re not in charge of me.’ Shoulders rigid, only her throat moving, up and down. ‘You left me behind. You know I hate Nonna.’

  ‘You don’t hate her.’

  ‘See? That’s you again. You don’t know. You’re her favourite, not me. Anyway, you just left me, you didn’t even come back and tell me you were going. Nothing.’

  ‘I couldn’t.’

  ‘We thought you’d been kidnapped.’

  ‘But did Frank not come? To Nonna’s house? He said he’d speak to her.’

  ‘Nope. We got a few tins of corned beef left outside and a note. That was it, Vi. A three-line note. Nobody to answer questions or calm Nonna down. Zio Cesare ended up coming to Lucca, she was in such a state – that’s the only reason I could leave. Because I wouldn’t have left Nonna on her own, Vita. Not like you.’

  ‘Nonna wasn’t on her own. She had Serafina – and you.’

  ‘But I’m just a stupid kid. That’s what you keep telling me.’ Cesca’s eyes glistened. ‘You said you’d gone to save my mamma, and you didn’t, so how can I believe anything you say again? It’s you that’s the stupid kid, not me.’ Rocking, holding herself, caging in her tears. ‘I want Mamma.’

  ‘So do I.’ Vita pulled her close. ‘I miss her so much.’ Cesca’s face filled her vision, and the black, deep tears came on again.

  ‘Oh, Vita. We’ve lost them all. The babies were so little. I can’t believe I’ll never see Joe again. And Mamma. . . I’ve been praying so hard.’

  ‘I am so, so sorry. I promise I won’t try to replace her.’ Vita kissed her. ‘And I will never leave you again. No matter what.’

  She felt Cesca’s shoulders relax a little. They stood awhile in the shadow of the wall.

  ‘Did you tell Nonna you were coming here?’

  ‘Yes.’ Indignant. I’m not a coward was left unsaid.

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘“My brave girl. You are all my brave girls.” Then she went to write a letter for Mamma. I think she’d have come here too, if she could.’

  ‘You mean a letter for me?’

  ‘Nuh.’ Cesca wiped her nose on the cuff of her shirt. ‘For Mamma. She wants it buried with her.’

  ‘But we already. . . We had a funeral.’

  ‘Without me?’ Her sister withdrew.

  ‘We couldn’t wait.’

  How to explain: the papery fingernails on their mother’s hand? Livid. Vita knew it described anger, but it meant a colour too: the hue of absent life, which Vita could never unsee. She put her arm round Cesca. ‘We’ll go to the grave. We’ll sort something. God, I thought about you all the time, Ces. But we didn’t even know if you’d got the Monsignor’s letters.’

  ‘Well, we did. And we sent letters back.’ Her sister’s lips were pale. Tinges of blue beneath. ‘Lots of letters. At least some of them worked. They let Mamma come home.’

  ‘Thanks to the Monsignor.’

  ‘And Zio Cesare. He said he’d speak to people – and he did.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I don’t know. He’s working in something called “Transitional Liaison” now. Very well connected. He brought lots of stuff with him to Nonna’s, food and that. I know he’s an arse—’

  ‘Ces!’

  ‘Well, he is. But he’s broken-hearted about Mamma. So’s Nonna. But she couldn’t travel and he couldn’t leave her.’

  ‘I thought Cesare would be in jail by now. They’ve been rounding up all the Fascists in Barga.’

  ‘Serafina says he’s a “fixer”.’

  ‘Well, as long as he stays to look after Nonna, he can fix anything he wants. Ces, you’re shivering. Come on. Inside. Mother Virginia will want to see you.’

  Cesca held her in a filthy, dark stare. ‘I told you. You are not in charge of me.’

  ‘No. But I am a bossy cow, so move it.’

  One week passed. Became two. The weather grew colder. No Francesco. Vita, drooping, dropping a precious jar, seeing the last of the farina spill. Quarrelling with Cesca over who was more tired. Hearing boots outside. Stiffening. More drooping.

  ‘You should have said sorry, you know.’

  ‘To who?’

  ‘Your Buffalo. You should have apologised before he left.’

  ‘Shut up, Ces.’

  ‘Grow up, Vita.’

  Fighting with her sister was good; a straightforward, familiar pleasure. Patterns brought comfort. Vita wondered, when they were old women, would they still bicker like this; sistercode for knowing a history no one else did? Only they would remember Joe’s daft jokes, or how it felt, when Mamma sung you to sleep.

  They went to the camposanto, to watch Nico carve their mother’s name on the Guidi stone.

  ‘They won’t have a proper grave, will they? At Sant’Anna.’

  ‘Nope,’ said Vita. They were sitting on a wall, in low winter sunshine which gave Nico a halo as he chiselled. A dog barked, delighted at the uncanny, cold quietness of the day.

  ‘I keep feeling worse. Like I’m falling down a well.’

  ‘I know.’ The sky began to darken. Aeroplanes were carouselling in the distance. Long smoke trails wove together at different heights, their trails like twining plaids. ‘It was my fault,’ Vita said quietly.

  ‘What was?’

  ‘Joe, Carla – everyone
. If it wasn’t for me, they wouldn’t have been in Sant’Anna. Not then. And if it hadn’t been for me, Papà would still be here.’ She hunched up her legs. ‘And Mamma.’

  ‘Well, that’s just a load of. . . Vita, why would you even say that?’

  ‘I just think it. I think it all the time. Joe shot the blackshirt—’

  ‘Because of him. Joe shot that blackshirt because he wanted to. God, Vita – it’s always got to be about you, hasn’t it?’ Her sister’s scorn was forceful. Hurtful. She turned her head to tell her so and Cesca crossed her eyes, then burst out laughing. Her laughter was infectious. Nico looked up at the noise.

  ‘We should’ve brought some food,’ said Cesca. ‘Had a pity picnic.’

  ‘I really hate you sometimes.’

  ‘No, you don’t. I am the light of your life.’

  ‘That’s what Papà called Mamma.’ They both stared at the grave.

  ‘Yup.’ Cesca swung her heel against the wall. ‘D’you think it ever goes away? This ache? Or do you just get another layer of sadness dolloped on for every person you love?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Do you love him? That Buffalo?’

  Vita focused on the great wheel of sun, ignoring the winged shadows. Made her face inscrutable.

  ‘You look like a smug cat, just when I mention him.’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘You’re doing it right now. And you light up like a firefly when he’s around.’

  ‘How would you know? You’ve only seen me hit him.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Cesca nodded towards the grave. ‘Whose example d’you think I’m going by?’

  Way above them, in the steel blue sky, one of the planes peeled off.

  ‘Don’t lie to me. Life’s too short, Vi. Do you?’

  ‘I do,’ Vita said softly.

  ‘Ha! I knew it. More than Joe?’

  ‘Oh, Ces. It’s nothing like that.’

  The plane moved like a lazy snake, down past the towers of Sommocolonia, easing left, circling round.

  ‘Folk were always going on about me and Joe. But it wasn’t – I’m not even sure it was Joe’s choice. I’ll always love him, same as you. He’s. . . He was my family. But, see, with Francesco. . .’ Toes curling, the heat of her skin in the cold, cold air. ‘God, I can’t explain. It’s like there’s a candle inside me. Don’t say anything to anyone. Please.’

  ‘It’s alright, you know. He’s really handsome. And nice.’

  ‘He’s a Buffalo.’

  ‘So?

  ‘So, it’s different. Plenty folk don’t like the Moors. Here.’ Vita got up. ‘Give me Nonna’s letter.’

  ‘Thought you said it would be sacrilegious?’

  ‘Nico.’ Vita went to where the old man was working, chewing his tongue as he concentrated. ‘This is a letter from my nonna. She wanted it buried with Mamma. Please?’

  The errant plane drifted wide, snaking back in the direction of Barga. A lazy, yawning snake, its great underbelly gaping as it dipped across the Serchio. Drifting, drifting.

  Nobody moved.

  ‘We should get inside,’ said Nico.

  Tearing echoes rang across the valley, before a brilliant, slow explosion lit up the sky and turned the air from grey-blue to orange. All three of them stood mute, staring at the terrible colours. The rest of the planes disappeared.

  ‘Where was that?’

  ‘Gallicano, I think. Oh, give it here, child.’ The old man snatched the letter from her. ‘But do not tell the Monsignor. Now get indoors, the pair of you.’

  ‘He likes you,’ whispered Cesca. She was pretending to smile, but her lips trembled. ‘I thought Nico hated everyone.’

  The roaring in the sky diminished. Gallicano. Where Francesco was.

  The days, and the bombs, continued.

  December 4, 5, 6

  Francesco had been wrong. It was not safer here.

  The Conservatorio was a desperate place. Almost no water, little food. Despite stuffing rags in the gaps, the wind blew through holes and glassless windows, freezing the sick and homeless gathered inside. The sisters did their best. An old man had rescued the rabbits from the Asylum, and they were stinking out the cellar. More mouths to feed, but the Monsignor said the rabbits in turn would feed more mouths, and Vita was not to grumble. She couldn’t bear to look at them. Her mamma would have slapped her for her sentimentality. Cesca said she’d feed them when the old man grew too sick to move. Cesca was braver than Vita. She was also an excellent nurse. She would aid the nuns with lint and salve, fold bandages, thread needles with a dextrous touch that Vita lacked. All Vita did was drop stuff. Whenever boots crunched on a fragment of Conservatorio window, that jangling feeling started again, her breast filling with glass. Shaking floors, gullies, mines: the very earth you walked on was not safe. An unexploded missile brooded in a house below the Duomo, and there was nobody to move it.

  Almost impossible now to reach Catagnana. Whenever she tried, Buffaloes she didn’t recognise would stop her at the bridge, turn her away, and she’d give up protesting. Ask instead: Do you know Francesco? Francis Chapel?

  Sometimes they’d laugh, say, Hey, baby doll. Why you wasting time over him. He bailed, sugar. I’m here. How ’bout me? Other times, they’d frown and ask her name. From where had she got her information? Was she fascista? Partigiana? But Vita was nothing. Her absence meant the House of Miracles had ceased to perform.

  She prayed for a real miracle. On her knees in the Conservatorio chapel, clasping her hands over her trousers. Several girls had taken to wearing men’s clothes since the Mori appeared. The nuns had been encouraging it, doling out breeches and dungarees.

  ‘They are not all bad,’ Sister Agatha whispered. She was sitting in the row behind where Vita was trying to pray. ‘These Buffaloes. But they do have questionable gallantry. I had one of them propose marriage the other day.’

  ‘To whom?’ said Sister Bertilla.

  ‘To me!’

  ‘Well, two of them offered me some army boots.’

  The nuns continued to chatter as they waited for the Monsignor to begin. If it had been Vita whispering, they’d have chucked her out.

  ‘You should have taken the boots, Sister. We have great need of—’

  ‘No, dear. Sell me them. Not gift. They care too much for brandy and chickens, I think. Now, physically, they are unattractive. But with their hands full of cans and cigarettes. . .’

  ‘Sisters!’ The Monsignor cleared his throat. ‘A little charity, per favore. We must appreciate the more primitive nature of the Moors. It can’t be adequately controlled by moral education, you see. Even their spirituality is a little. . . wild.’

  Vita left them to it. What did they know about anything that was real?

  December 11, 12, 13, 14

  Closing doors, windows, closing your eyes, offered no protection from the winter storm. Der Wintergewitter. Beyond any mediaeval siege Barga’d suffered, she was being systematically battered to the ground. Her people were trapped. The americani, terrified of spies, had posted roadblocks at Borgo a Mozzano, prohibiting movement in or out. The near-dead were an exception – if escorted by military personnel. Even refugees could no longer leave in search of shelter or food. Jeeps and soldiers zooming everywhere, huge wheeled cannons, and boots, boots, forever rumbling past. None of them Frank’s.

  Vita slept with Cesca in the small room at the Canonica. At night when the bombs fell, they were meant to shelter in the cellar, but going outside panicked Cesca. So they would just hold each other, and wait for it to pass. Afterwards, Cesca insisted on opening the shutters. Together, they would count the stars until she was calm.

  December 17, 18, 19

  The thudding, demented war music screeched on, intensifying as more soldiers assembled. The promised Buffaloes arrived to take up residence at the Canonica – but they were white, not black. Officers, said the Monsignor approvingly. These men brought their own food, and didn’t share. Partisan battalions too w
ere joining the Americans, lending support from all sides – they were coming from as far off as Viareggio, Tiziano said. Vita met him one day in town, leaving a meeting of the Comune. He wore an air of desperation. She asked how the partigiani were faring.

  ‘Ach, everyone has perpetual coughs. We are all aches and rheumatism and strength to be preserved.’

  ‘Why are there so many soldiers coming here?’

  ‘Does it make you feel reassured?’

  ‘No.’

  He lowered his voice. ‘We’re to make a massive assault on Lama di Sotto. This is the big one. The final push. But you must not say; not to a soul.’

  ‘What can I do to help?’

  ‘You are serving here, Dolcezza. Soon, there will be no more subterfuge. Our men are mustering. We’re coming into the light.’

  Truth or rousing battle-cry? A new commander had arrived, Tiziano’s position in the hierarchy slipping even further. ‘Pippo.’ Tiziano sniffed. ‘That’s him over there. With his bodyguard.’

  Vita could only see heads and bright berets, swinging into a US truck.

  ‘They’ve made his battalion part of the Fifth Army. Autonomous Patriots. Ridiculous name. You keep safe, Dolcezza.’ He kissed her on both cheeks. ‘Stay here and do your best.’

  She surveyed her pitiful basket. Four large mushrooms and a meatless bone. This was her best. How was she to feed twenty mouths with that? Their basement was filled with refugees and strange Buffaloes, the Conservatorio packed with wounded souls. There was no longer any currency in using the Monsignor’s name, because there was nothing left to buy. Soon, very soon, they would starve.

  She made her way back to the Canonica. As she climbed over the fallen lintel of a house, a boy stepped out. Gallus lad, chewing gum, and affecting an American accent.

  ‘Hey. You Vita?’

  ‘Who’s asking?’

  ‘Vinnie. Work with Comanche and the guys?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ He looked dodgy. Could be after her mushrooms for all she knew. ‘Let me past.’

  ‘Got a message from Frankie.’

  Vita halted. Gripped the boy’s collar. ‘Is he alright? Is he alive?’

  ‘Sure he’s alive. Says to tell you he’ll be here at first light.’