Restoration

by Olaf Olafsson

  I walk back to the buildings with him once the ceremony is over. The families remain behind by the grave. I offered them lodging but I don’t know if they will accept. Looking back, I see in the glow of the lanterns that they have not moved.

  EVERYTHING HAS BEEN TURNED UPSIDE DOWN IN the rooms occupied by the Germans. There are scraps of food all over the place, and the floors and furniture are filthy. Wet overcoats lie in heaps on the floor and tables, underwear hangs from washing lines rigged between a bookcase and window in one instance and two light fittings in another. The air is filled with the sour odor of our guests and the cigarettes they smoke. My stomach turns as I hurry from the kitchen to the stairs, trying to look neither right nor left.

  My room has been broken into. The few pieces of jewelry I kept there have vanished, along with two silver bowls, a vase my mother gave me, and the picture frames on my dressing table. The photographs lie on the floor, having been torn from their frames with little ceremony. I pick them up; one is of you and me just after we had moved here, taken by the front door; the other is of our newborn son. I’m wiping the dust off them when I see out of the corner of my eye something lying on the floor near where I hide my diary. I panic, thinking for a moment that the loose tiles have been discovered but to my relief, when I walk closer, I see that it’s only a piece of paper.

  My diary is still in its hiding place, but when I pick up the tiles, I realize how insanely risky it is to keep it there. People have been executed in the past few days for far more trivial crimes than those the Germans would accuse me of if they got hold of it. And not only me but everyone in this household and many of the farmers. How can I have been so irresponsible?

  I picture the parachute commander with the book in his hands, see him turning the pages attentively, reading not only about our assistance to the partisans and the Allied soldiers but also about you and me, Giovanni and Connor. I pick it up, shove it in my pocket, and hurry downstairs, past the living rooms and through the kitchen, not answering when Pritchett asks where I’m going, not stopping until I’m out in the courtyard. It’s still raining and I stand momentarily at a loss, then cross the courtyard in the direction of the cemetery. I don’t have a lantern with me and can hardly see the hand in front of my face, but I keep going until I reach Giovanni’s grave.

  The ground is wet and I pick up a spade along the way and dig a deep hole by my son’s headstone and place the book in the hole, having wrapped it in a thick cloth. I stand over the hole once I’ve finished filling it in and ask myself whether it’s in any way justifiable to hide my secrets in the ground with him. Then I pull myself together and leave, not even realizing that I’m still carrying the spade until I reach the gate, where I put it down.

  When I return, I see a crowd of German soldiers walking up the slope to the house. A whole platoon of thirty or forty men, leading a goat and two donkeys they have stolen. The donkeys are loaded with plunder, and the sight would be ridiculous if the men didn’t look so threatening. The artillery officer comes out into the drive and addresses them brusquely, whereupon their ringleader answers with a distinct lack of respect. There is an angry exchange after which the soldier falls silent while the officer reprimands him. To my disbelief, the altercation ends with the officer inviting them inside.

  The crowd in the kitchen has grown. The people from the outlying farms whom we told to go home have returned and now tell us that they have been hiding in caves on the western boundary of the property. They are wet, hungry, and exhausted, men and women, children and babies, and Pritchett is at his wit’s end. He no longer tries to hide his distress, none of us do, and he asks over the heads of the crowd as I come in, “Alice, what are we to do?”

  He doesn’t usually address me by my Christian name in the presence of other people and his plaintiveness immediately spurs me to action. I tell the people that we will open both the chapel and the parts of the fattoria that are habitable—the garage, the corn store beside the bakery, and the cellar under the olive press. I take part of the crowd to the chapel while Pritchett takes the rest to the fattoria, leaving the youngest children and their mothers to go down to the cellar with the other children. The farmhands take the remaining blankets and rugs, as well as some bread and water, to the chapel and the fattoria.

  The night passes slowly. The children are all in the cellar with Schwester Marie, Signor Grandinetti, Kristín, and the mothers from the tenant farms. I had planned to sleep in my own room but lose my nerve. There’s a tremendous racket from the living rooms and endless comings and goings, and when I knock on Pritchett’s door, it turns out that he hasn’t gone to bed either. We go down to the cellar, taking along pillows and quilts, and try to get some sleep there.

  I must have dropped off for a few minutes, no more. My head feels boiling hot and my mind won’t stop racing. I think about you and Giovanni and my mistakes and Marshall’s painting and the diary I have buried with our son. I know I should have burned it, but it’s all I have left of our son and possibly of you as well. For I’ve begun to doubt that I will ever see you again.

  Giovanni’s face appears to me again and again in my dreams. When I come to, I discover that I’ve reached out a hand to touch him. I am slow to pull it back; it’s still dark and I can’t hear the same racket as earlier from upstairs. But I can hear something else, a buzzing, and I can’t work out where it’s coming from at first. I strain my ears, trying to empty my mind and concentrate, then rise up a little and sit quite still until the buzzing separates out and the words become distinguishable.

  He is lying against the wall a short way from me, rattling off verses from Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. Again and again, though he does not stumble over the lines and seems to have no need of further practice, his voice soft and expressionless.

  The bird sings merrily for you,

  Fair Snow White.

  The sun shines gaily on your cheek,

  The south wind kisses you,

  Fair Snow White,

  Snow White good and fair . . .

  Over and over again in the darkness, never raising his voice, never pausing before beginning again. I recognize the voice; he is six years old, his name is Mario and he’s an orphan from Turin. I want to go over and take him in my arms but I refrain because the floor is covered with sleeping bodies and there would be no hope of crossing it without waking the others. The voice contains no hint of fear, no hint of anything but conscientiousness. He doesn’t want to fail his fellow actors, doesn’t want to see disappointment on Kristín’s or Signor Grandinetti’s face. “Fair Snow White, Snow White good and fair . . .”

  I get up while it is still dark. Melchiorre and Fosco are both asleep on the kitchen floor, having pushed the chest of drawers against the door so the soldiers can’t get in. The kettle on the stove is hot, so at least one of them must have been up recently, but now they are both sleeping as soundly as the children in the cellar. Dawn comes slowly; a reluctant gray light descends on the courtyard and enters diffidently through the windows. The clouds are departing, and there is a glimpse of blue sky above the fattoria. I turn up the heat under the kettle and make myself a cup of tea, at which point the men wake up and clamber to their feet. Still worn-out, they take a seat at the table and are sitting there when the plane flies over and the bomb lands in the garden.

  The soldiers spring from their sleeping places, grab their weapons, and fire wildly after the plane even though it has vanished from sight. Everything is in turmoil. There are screams of terror and whimpers from the cellar and Pritchett suddenly emerges into the kitchen with the whole crowd on his heels. Those who were sleeping in the fattoria and chapel rush over the courtyard and in the back door, some only half-dressed. I try to calm them, but it is easier said than done while the soldiers keep up their futile counterfire; gradually, they lose heart and the guns fall silent.

  We try to get our bearings. Standing up on a chair, I tell the people to stay where they slept while the cook and the maids prepare breakfast. They o
bey in the end but it takes some effort to persuade the children back down into the cellar.

  I track down Father Augusto. He tells me that the Allies are no more than a mile away and are now trying to force their way down the hillside from Sarteano, but the Germans are still holding them for the moment. While we are talking, some soldiers arrive with the first prisoner of war, a turbaned Moroccan with a thick mustache who got separated from his troops. They have no sooner locked him in the shed than we hear an explosion from the forest to the west of the villa and shortly afterward a group of paratroopers appear, supporting two wounded comrades. They have trodden on a land mine that they themselves had planted. The army chaplain says that they started laying them yesterday and throws up his hands when I ask if it didn’t occur to them to let us know.

  “How are we to do our work?” I ask.

  “There will be fighting here later today,” he says. “The cellar is not safe and you can’t go to the trench. There are land mines all around it. You’ll have to get out of here.”

  “Where to?”

  “The way I see it, you have no other choice than to try to get to Montepulciano since Radicofani and Contignano are in ruins like the other hill towns closest to the road.”

  “How are we to do that?”

  “On foot. All vehicles will be targets.”

  “We’ll talk to the officer,” I say. “He said we’d be safe in the cellar.”

  “It’s a waste of time,” he replies.

  I’m about to object when I see the officer coming out of the house. He peers down the road and shortly afterward the first tank appears, rattling and chugging up the drive. They have turned back and soon the vehicles that left yesterday reappear—some of them, at least. They are in an even worse state than before and I’m surprised they still work.

  I don’t spot the plane until it dives over the trucks. The crazy noise of the machine guns paralyzes me; unable to move my legs, or raise my hands to protect my head, I stand rooted to the spot as the bullets tear up the ground in front of me and smack into the vehicles at the top of the drive. The soldiers are no better; they remain frozen until the plane has gone. Then they leap into action, dragging their wounded comrades out of the vehicles and firing pointlessly into the air as seems to be their habit when they are panicked.

  Father Augusto grabs my arm as Pritchett comes running to us.

  “You have an hour, maybe less, before everything goes up in smoke here. Are you going to waste time running around in circles?”

  I’m shocked. He sounds exactly like you.

  “We must leave now,” Pritchett insists. “I’ll go over to the fattoria. You see to the children.”

  With that, he’s gone.

  “What will you do?” I ask the chaplain.

  “I must stay here,” he says.

  He lays a hand on my shoulder and pushes me gently toward the kitchen.

  “You must stick to the road,” he says, “to avoid mines. Spread out so you don’t attract the attention of the planes. Everyone looks the same from the air.”

  The orders we issued were clear, although we had to repeat them again and again: “Take nothing with you but the clothes you are wearing, water, and a bag of food. All adults must carry either food or a child. The bigger children are to carry blankets. Those who wish to remain behind must keep to the fattoria.”

  I myself fetch a bag and pack it with underwear, shoes, a bar of soap, and a photograph of you and Giovanni. Schwester Marie, Signor Grandinetti, and Kristín see to getting the children ready for the journey. More people want to come with us than I anticipated, but Pritchett decides in consultation with the fattore who should stay behind with him. I’m glad not to have to make that decision although I don’t know whether it is better to go or stay.

  Melchiorre and Giorgio are staying as is Kristín, whose leg isn’t up to the trip. The cook too and three of the maids. The younger people from the farms want to leave but the older people do not trust themselves to make the journey. In the end around eighty of us set off down the drive with Signor Grandinetti in the lead, me in the middle, and Schwester Marie bringing up the rear.

  Pritchett and Kristín escort us halfway down our road. He hugs me good-bye, his weary smile reassuring.

  “The painting,” I say, pulling him aside. “You can’t let the Allies get it.”

  He’s taken aback but doesn’t say anything. I know what he’s thinking.

  “He’s not the only one who’s at risk,” I add. “We cannot take any chances . . .”

  He hugs me again, quickly this time, before letting me go.

  “I’ll take care of it,” he says quietly.

  The clouds are breaking up, and the sun dries the earth after the rain. A smell of baking bread wafts from the bakery, contrasting with the reek of cordite in the air and the stench of petrol that hits us as we walk past the tanks and armored vehicles in front of the buildings. The garden and forest beside the road are teeming with troops, but I notice that they haven’t bothered to camouflage the vehicles with branches, as it is probably pointless at this stage.

  It grows hotter as we descend into the valley. We no longer enjoy the shade of the trees that overhang the drive, and the clouds have now mostly disappeared, leaving the sky as blue and clear as if it had just been created during the night. We stop to rest before taking the valley road; I gaze up the slope at my home and find myself saying good-bye to it as if for the last time.

  THE ROAD WAS HARD AND DUSTY, THE GRASS BY THE roadside dry and brittle, and the heat was merciless. After the first stretch, which was flat, the road began to climb a long slope and soon some of the children began to wilt. The road was widely pitted with craters and in the first hour I counted eight wrecked vehicles beside it. The bodies of German soldiers lay scattered at the foot of the hill; their numbers increased as we climbed higher, but here they had been gathered together and laid facedown, side by side. The shelling grew closer behind us and the crash of explosions tore the silence.

  Some of the bodies were badly mutilated, and I ordered the children to keep their eyes down as we passed them. Most obeyed but some had begun to whimper when little Mario suddenly picked up where he had left off last night and began to recite his lines from Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. The girl holding his hand chimed in, followed by the children next to them and so on until all the actors had joined in the recital. Seizing the opportunity, Signor Grandinetti started from the beginning, slipping in some songs that they all knew.

  So we walked for the last hour up the slope and along the ridge until the road divided, one fork leading to Chianciano, the other to Montepulciano. Those who had friends or relatives in Chianciano headed that way, but the rest of us carried on, fifty in all, including some thirty children.

  We hadn’t been walking long when we heard rumbling behind us and shortly afterward some military transport vehicles came racing along the road. We retreated to the side but didn’t dare go any farther for fear of land mines. The four trucks overtook us without slowing down and after they had gone past, we saw the mouths of the guns pointing out the back and the soldiers aiming them at the sky. A moment later a plane appeared in pursuit and we flung ourselves to the ground, pulling the children down with us as the shooting began, both from the plane and from the vehicles that drove for their lives off the road toward a farm at the foot of the hillside ahead. We were still lying motionless, not daring to move hand or foot, when the bomb dropped and almost simultaneously the plane was hit. We didn’t see the plane until later when we had climbed the hill in front of us; it lay burning in the middle of the field a short way from the farm, while all the trucks were parked in the yard, except for one that lay overturned beside the road with no sign of life around it.

  We didn’t stop, but a dog came running toward us from the farm and pursued us a little way before turning back. It was a small mongrel that rubbed itself against the legs of one traveler after another, children and adults alike. There was no mistaking the fact tha
t the thud of explosions was coming from the direction of San Martino. I thought about the people who had stayed behind and my son in the cemetery and the cow tethered to a tree in the forest. Strange as it may seem, when I suddenly remembered her plight, my heart lurched no less than it did at the thought of the people.

  The road ahead undulated in the mirage. The heat was unbearable, most of the children were complaining, and the youngest were all now being carried by adults. Some of the men were carrying two children; progress was slow and no one had the energy to sing anymore.

  We decided to take the old track at the bottom of the hill instead of the new road that runs through a broad cornfield. It was not an easy decision because the old road is both steeper and stonier, as well as being a little longer. But we didn’t regret it when a convoy of armored vehicles appeared shortly afterward in the valley, pursued by two planes that bombed the road and field incessantly until the vehicles were either in flames or careered into the cornfield where they soon came to a halt. The soldiers fled into the sea of corn in an attempt to hide, but they were plainly visible to us and we knew they would be to the pilots too. It was a terrible sight; they crawled, trying to save their lives, inching along as slowly and carefully as they could so as not to move the corn, in the belief that they were invisible. The planes flew in a great arc up the valley, metal gleaming in the sun, and for a moment it looked as if they would be swallowed up in the blueness. Then they returned, gradually lowering their altitude before releasing a hail of machine-gun fire into the corn. They repeated the maneuver twice, then vanished in the direction of San Martino, sunlight flashing on their wings.

  We stood motionless in the hush after the attack, gazing over the field. I didn’t have the presence of mind to cover the eyes of the children whose hands I was holding, or to instruct them to look away, but it probably wouldn’t have helped even if I had. A few of our men set off half-running down the slope to the trucks. After trying to start some of them without success, they finally managed to get two going and drove up onto the road. They were about to turn around in order to drive up to us when a soldier crawled out of the corn and staggered into their path.