Paradiso
Francesca Scanacapra
Book 1 of the Paradiso Novels
SILVERTAIL BOOKS ♦ London
For Nonno Mario, Nonna Franca and Zia Rosa, whose spirits and stories inhabit this novel.
Chapter 1
Pieve Santa Clara, Lombardy, 23 October 1944
I was woken early on the morning of my departure by the shrill jingling of a bicycle bell and the scattering of gravel in the yard. I leapt from my bed and threw open the window to see a young priest rapping hard on our door.
‘The road is clear!’ he called. ‘Get to the meeting point within the hour!’ Without waiting for a reply, he hooked his leg over the saddle and made off at speed, the tails of his cassock flailing behind him.
‘Within the hour?’ exclaimed my mother. ‘Graziella, quick, get ready!’
I was dressed in more clothes than I knew I possessed and bundled into the kitchen. My parents tried to coax me to eat, but I could not swallow a thing.
‘You’ll be back home soon, my little one,’ said my father as my mother hurriedly buttoned my coat.
Hugging my father could not be done spontaneously. I always had to announce my intentions so that he could position himself comfortably, but that morning I flung my arms around him without warning and gripped him hard. He winced and let out a low moan, then he held me for a long time, kissing my head more times than I could count.
My father was the most important person in my life. Of course I loved my mother, and I loved her very much, but I loved my father more.
‘Please, Graziella,’ said my mother, pulling me from my father’s arms. ‘Be a good girl. We have to go.’
A pale winter sun was starting to break through the morning mist as my mother and I set off towards the village. She was walking so fast I had to trot to keep up. Even my feet were layered with extra clothing. Two pairs of stockings with socks on top made my boots far too tight. I hobbled, dragged along by my mother, and wondered what sort of a place I could be going to that would be so cold.
‘Mamma?’
‘What is it?’
‘Will I have to wear socks and stockings all the time?’
‘No, just for the journey. It’s easier to wear clothes than to carry them.’
As we approached the village we joined other groups of mothers and children hurrying towards the piazza. They appeared from all directions, hand-in-hand and carrying scruffy, hastily-packed belongings. I don’t know what I had been expecting, but I was not prepared for the chaos of humanity who clustered around several open-backed trucks parked in the square.
‘Who are those people?’ I asked my mother, gripping her hand.
‘They’re from other villages,’ she replied.
It had not occurred to me before that moment that the village of Pieve Santa Clara was not the only one being evacuated. I clung to my mother as we joined the haphazard line. More queued behind us, pushing us forward into the heaving crush of bundles and overcoats. The smell of damp wool, unwashed people and clothes filled my nostrils. The crying and calling of children and mothers filled my ears. Panic rose through me.
‘Don’t send me away,’ I begged. ‘I don’t want to go.’
My mother looked down at me and for the briefest moment I thought she might concede, but instead she shook her head and said, ‘You have to be safe and away from the soldiers.’ And with a thin, unconvincing smile, she added, ‘Just think how many new friends you will make.’
‘I don’t want new friends! I want to stay with you!’
My mother crouched down so that our faces were at the same level. ‘This is just a precaution, Graziella,’ she said.
‘What’s a precaution?’
‘It’s something you do just to be extra safe.’ Her tone was gentle, but grave.
‘But what will happen to you here? What if the soldiers come again, or if one of the bombs hits our house? How will I know if you’re killed?’ I held my breath so I wouldn’t cry.
‘Everything will be all right,’ she said. ‘Be a good girl and everything will be all right.’ But she didn’t sound as though she meant it.
‘How long do I have to go for?’
‘I don’t know. Just until it’s safe to come back. Nobody knows how long the war will last, but it can’t go on for ever.’
I hung my head and stood rooted to the ground, trembling. The prospect of being entrusted to the care of strangers for an indeterminate time froze fear deep into my bones. Despite my state of over-dress, my hands were so cold that they hurt.
We were shoved and jostled forwards. Dozens of children had already been loaded into the trucks. Some were pale and grim-faced. Others were flushed and crying. Some just sat wrapped in blankets with their heads bowed.
More children were being processed by a woman with a moustache. As each family approached her, a few words and paperwork were exchanged. Swift goodbyes were encouraged, but children and mothers would not let go. Every final hug and kiss led to another final hug and kiss.
My mother’s grip on my hand became tighter and tighter as we edged our way towards the moustached woman.
‘Your child’s name?’ she asked.
‘Graziella Ponti.’
The woman traced her finger down a list of names and nodded.
‘She will be going to the Convent of the Blessed Virgin near Lodano in the province of Pistoia. I need her ration card, please.’
My mother hesitated. ‘Can she not keep it with her?’ she asked.
‘No. It will be kept together with those belonging to the other children and given to the sisters.’
When my mother protested, the woman was adamant. It seemed she had had the same argument with every mother there.
‘We cannot take her unless we have her card,’ she said firmly. ‘And we need to get going soon, Signora, whilst the road is still clear.’
Reluctantly, my mother relinquished the card.
‘Thank you, Signora. Please sign here.’
My mother did as requested.
‘Am I going a long way away?’ I asked.
‘Far enough for you to be safe,’ replied the moustached woman. ‘Take a blanket and go to the blue truck.’
My mother wrapped me in her arms and pressed her face hard against mine.
‘Be good,’ she repeated. ‘Be a good girl and everything will be all right.’
‘Signora, we need to get moving,’ said the lorry driver. He was a craggy old man with half a damp, spit-infused cigarillo hanging from his mouth. He peeled me from my mother, took me in his arms and lifted me into the back of the truck. His soil-stained, callused hands grasped me with a gentle strength, as though I weighed nothing at all.
‘Go as far to the front as you can and sit down,’ he said. ‘No standing during the journey.’
As the lorry horn blasted there was a frantic rush of activity and noise. I looked at my mother for one last time before more children were loaded on and I was shunted forwards and lost sight of her. A moment later the tailgate was closed and the lorry juddered into life. I had never seen as many little girls as were crammed into the back of the truck. I recognised some from church, but the rest were unfamiliar to me. As I lived outside the centre of the village and had not yet been to school, I did not know many children
I was seven years old. I couldn’t remember a time without war, but it had meant little to me before then. My existence had revolved around the sheltered confines of family and home. Despite our poverty, my life
was serene. But the brutality of war fought not on battlefields, but in the streets of my little village, had been condensed into three days of horror where my world had been shattered.
*
My only playmates in Pieve Santa Clara were my cousin Ernesto and my friend Rita Pozzetti.
Rita was my age. We were born just a month apart. Our fathers, who were lifelong friends, had also been born just a month apart. Rita and her family lived on the other side of the road. I played with her whenever I could, but she was a sickly child, frequently stricken with bronchitis, coughs and fevers. Most of my time was spent with my Ernesto.
Ernesto was five years older than me. He was my aunt, Zia Mina’s, son. Zia Mina had been married to my father’s older brother, but he had died when Ernesto was very young. My own father attempted to provide some paternal influence, but Ernesto did not like rules, or restrictions, or doing as he was told. My father used to say that one boy like Ernesto was enough for ten fathers, but ten fathers would never be enough for one boy like Ernesto.
I joined in his boyish games, making camps in the hedges, chasing rabbits and digging for worms with which to lure toads. He said he didn’t mind the fact that I was a girl, and for my part, I quickly learned not to be precious. In fact, I was more than happy to clamber and scramble, caked in mud or soaked in water from the stream which bordered the garden. The fields and woodlands around our home were our playground, where we could wander and ramble at will.
Ernesto could climb almost any tree with the speed and agility of a cat. Of all the trees in our garden, his favourite was the ancient chestnut tree which grew beside the house.
My father had hung a swing from one of its branches, but Ernesto soon grew bored of its intended use. Rather than swinging, he would climb one of the long ropes. It was the only way he could access the lowest boughs of the chestnut tree. Once he had scaled the rope he would clamber up to the very top of the tree, branch by branch. Seeing him balanced precariously so high up in the canopy made my aunt frantic. She would try every possible inducement and threat to get him back down, but Ernesto would just laugh.
We could be quarrelsome companions. Our difference in age and stature meant that he could out-fox and out-run me. He would taunt me by kidnapping my dolls and sprinting away to hide them in the branches of trees, where he knew I had no chance of retrieving them. My mother had chased him from the house with her broomstick when she caught him trying to put a frog in my bed, but despite his maddening tricks, I loved Ernesto.
Two days before my departure, my mother and I had been preparing to walk my father to the village when Ernesto sprang into the kitchen and asked, ‘Can I come with you?’
‘As long as you behave,’ my mother warned him. ‘And don’t run off.’
‘I’ll be an angel, Zia Teresa.’ He grinned, stretching out his arms and fluttering his fingers.
Mamma raised an eyebrow then said, ‘All right then. There’s bound to be an enormously long queue for the shop. You can keep a place in the line for me while we go to the cemetery.’
‘All right,’ replied Ernesto.
‘Go and tell your Mamma then, and ask her if there’s anything she needs. And put something warm on.’
Ernesto was never cold. He had bounded into the kitchen barefoot. One winter’s morning my aunt had woken to find him building a snowman in the garden, still dressed in his nightshirt. She fretted constantly that he would catch his death, but he never did. He seemed miraculously immune to the cold and to illness.
He disappeared for a moment, then reappeared pulling on his yellow knitted waistcoat.
‘Mamma wants me to see if there’s any sugar today,’ he said.
‘If there is, don’t eat it on the way home.’
Ernesto laughed. ‘I wouldn’t do that, Zia Teresa.’
My mother tutted. It was exactly what Ernesto had done two weeks previously. My aunt had been furious, but he had charmed her into forgiving him. Charming his way out of trouble was something at which Ernesto was highly skilled.
We walked down the road towards the village hand-in-hand, following my parents. Ernesto was complaining about his waistcoat.
‘It’s itchy,’ he said, scratching at the nape of his neck. ‘And hot. And it’s yellow. Yellow’s not for boys.’
My mother gave a disapproving look over her shoulder. ‘You’re lucky to have it,’ she told him. ‘Stop grumbling.’
There was nothing extraordinary about the scene in the village that morning. People were going about their daily business. Women with children and shopping baskets congregated to chat in the piazza. Several old men sat outside the bar playing cards, reading newspapers and smoking cigarettes. The line of hopeful customers outside the shop crept along at a snail’s pace. Ernesto joined them.
‘Make sure you stay in line,’ said my mother sternly. ‘Behave yourself and don’t wander off.’
Ernesto grinned cheekily and fluttered his fingers again.
I wanted to stay with him, but my mother wouldn’t let me. Despite his assurances, Ernesto couldn’t be trusted not to stray. A friendly dog, the thought of a climbable tree, or an instant of boredom were enough to divert his attention. We had disappeared many times before when Ernesto had been distracted. My mother said she had no wish to search the length and breadth of the village for us.
We carried on without him. We didn’t have far to go but progress was slow as my father, despite having my mother’s support on one side and a stick on the other, needed frequent rests and occasional sips from his bottle of medicine. As we rounded the corner of the road which led to the cemetery he stopped to catch his breath. It was then that four armoured German vehicles rumbled past.
Until that moment I had seen remarkably little military activity. Occasionally, Italian soldiers passed along the road in front of our house. I was allowed to wave at Italians and had learned to recognise their uniforms, but if German soldiers passed I would be ushered inside quickly.
My father had told me that Germans had no business being in Italy and that the Italian soldiers were fighting to make them leave, but the Italian army did not have enough men, so soldiers from other countries such as England and America were coming to help.
I had been in the garden with Ernesto one day when we heard a thunderous booming in the sky.
‘Look!’ he shouted. ‘ Aeroplanes! American aeroplanes!’
We had never seen aeroplanes before. Ernesto stood transfixed, gazing upwards and thrilled at the sight, while I, who knew that aeroplanes carried bombs, ran to hide in the barn and remained concealed under a wheelbarrow until I was sure they had passed.
Short bursts of gunfire in the distance were common. They came from near the railway line, and my father said that they were just warning shots, fired to signal to the trains that they should stop. I had grown so used to them that I paid them little attention.
However, that morning, there was a prolonged burst of shooting which came from the direction of the piazza.
‘Oh my God - Ernesto!’ exclaimed my mother, letting go of my father, but he grabbed her and held her back.
‘Stay here,’ he commanded.
‘But Ernesto’s down there!’
‘He’s quick and smart enough to hide. You can’t go down there, Teresa. You don’t know what you might walk into.’
Neither of my parents looked at me. They stood immobile, ashen-faced, staring at each other.
The gunfire rattled for several long minutes, then stopped. My father still held on to my mother.
‘Go back home across the fields,’ he told her at last. ‘Take Graziella and stay out of sight. I’ll go and find Ernesto and bring him home.’
My mother opened her mouth to object, but my father insisted.
‘Go,’ he ordered. ‘Go now! And when you get home, go inside, close the shutters and bolt the doors. Tell Mina to do the same.’
My mother took my hand and ran with me. The fields were cloaked in fog and wet with dew, which soaked our skirts and
boots. We climbed over fences and through hedges, sharp grass cutting the skin on our arms, and brambles and thorns snagging our stockings.
Zia Mina had heard the gunfire. She was standing at the gate watching for our return, but we did not arrive via the road. We clambered into her vegetable garden through the shrubbery, our clothing and hair woven with twigs and leaves.
‘What’s happened? Where’s Ernesto? Who’s shooting?’ she said. Panic shook through her voice.
My mother told her she didn’t know, but the two women did as my father had instructed. They pulled the shutters closed and locked us in. It was then that our windowpanes were rattled by a further burst of gunfire. I stood in the corner in silence in the darkened kitchen, my wet boots still on my feet.
We waited. My mother and my aunt paced the floor and said little. There was no more shooting, but it was over two hours before we heard the creak of the gate outside and my father’s voice calling to be let in.
‘Thank God!’ cried my aunt, clasping her hands together and raising her eyes heavenwards.
As my mother slid open the bolts my father stumbled in, drenched in sweat and gasping for air. Ernesto was slung across his shoulders. My father staggered to the table and let the boy tumble from his grasp. He landed with a dull thud on the wooden top.
I was seized by my mother, who screamed and pulled me away, covering my eyes with her hands. I heard my aunt howl as Mamma clutched me tightly and buried my face in her apron.
My world was blind and muffled, but as I felt my mother’s body tremble, fear infected me. I didn’t know what had happened, but Mamma never cried, so I knew that it must be something terrible.
‘I want to see,’ I said at last. ‘Please, Mamma.’
‘Let her,’ I heard my father’s voice say. ‘She needs to understand.’
My mother released me slowly.
I was aware of the smell before anything else – a butcher’s shop aroma, like cut meat. It crept into my nostrils and I could taste it in my throat.
Ernesto lay spread across the kitchen table. I stared at him for a long time, waiting for him to move, but he did not.
Paradiso: Utterly gripping and emotional historical fiction (The Paradiso Novels Book 1) Page 1
