Restoration

by Olaf Olafsson

  Only two of his comrades followed. Both were wounded, one apparently worse than the other. They were hurriedly helped into the back of the leading truck, which then set off toward us. We waited, watching the dust whirling up in the still air, floating over the road and drifting out over the field, until the vehicles came to a stop beside us.

  Of course there was a risk that the planes would return and attack the trucks, but temptation overrode our fear because we were all on the point of collapse.

  I made my way over to the soldiers as soon as we were moving, supporting myself on the iron frame that held up the canvas, and waited for my eyes to grow accustomed to the gloom. The injured men were lying down, and their comrade had torn up his jacket to bandage their wounds. One of them was fatally injured, a very young man, his eyes rolled back in his head, his thin lips trembling ceaselessly.

  “Montepulciano?” He groaned, so faintly that it was barely audible.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “We were on our way there,” his comrade said, wiping his forehead with his torn jacket.

  The trucks rattled along. Some of the children had fallen asleep as soon as we set off, and others were singing tunes from Snow White. One by one they fell silent, to be replaced by the jolting, the groans of the engine, and our fears. The badly wounded man beckoned to his companion to come closer and whispered something in his ear. His comrade didn’t understand at first so he had to repeat his request. Then the other straightened up and said to me, “He asks if the children could sing some more.”

  We had taught those who spent Christmas with us to sing “O Tannenbaum” and “Stille Nacht,” among other favorites, so now we reminded them of these carols and soon they were singing them as if nothing were more natural.

  So we drove up the valley and over the hill to Montepulciano, in the heat and burning sunlight, with the soldier dying on the floor and the roar of explosions behind us, singing the same Christmas carols over and over again. We continued after he died. None of us stopped, neither his companions nor our party. His eyes were open and his lips were parted. From his expression you would have thought he was still listening.

  WE’VE NOW BEEN IN MONTEPULCIANO FOR TWO days. The Allies have taken Castiglione and Rocca d’Orcia and are heading this way. From the veranda we can see the clouds of smoke over the valley and hear endless explosions, both nearby and in the distance. The Germans still control the village but are preparing to leave. They go around plundering and pillaging, forcing people out of their homes and grabbing everything of value that they can find.

  I have been put up with Mayor Bracci, his wife, Margherita, together with four of our children. Our group has been dispersed around the village—three here, four there—and I check on them all twice a day. We are comfortable enough, despite the chronic food shortages and the lack of light or running water.

  We have received no reliable news from San Martino. The uncertainty is driving me mad. There are rumors, of course, but none of them firsthand and all of them contradictory. We know that the fighting began the day we left but not whether it is still going on. We’ve had no news of our people. If I climb onto the veranda wall, I can just make out the hill above our house in the distance. It is blue and hazy in the heat and the longer I stare, the more it seems to recede. Sometimes I think I can see smoke rising from it.

  In the afternoon the Germans blow up several houses in the village to make the streets inaccessible. They also destroy the magnificent gate that has greeted locals and travelers since the days of Lorenzo Medici, but the German army is in such disarray that they get their vehicles stuck in the rubble and can’t get back into the village. From the veranda, we watch them, as well as their comrades down in the valley who plant dynamite on the bridge over the river before tramping back up the hill in the afternoon sun.

  At dusk, retreating soldiers start pouring into the village. The last rays of the sun fade on the rooftops, and below in the narrow streets the shadows swiftly deepen and intensify. The soldiers’ footsteps are heavy; they pass in silence. During the night the explosions come closer. I cannot sleep; the moon shines uninterruptedly through my window, and when I get up to pull the curtains, I end up staring forever into the distance. Are my people safe? Have they been spared? Are the houses still standing? Will they have bombed my son’s grave?

  Just before five there is a huge explosion outside. The house shivers and quakes and there are crashing noises from the kitchen as crockery and glasses tumble to the floor. I hurry in to the children to comfort them but by then all is quiet and the silence is so deep that you would have thought we were underwater. Bracci comes into our room and tells us that the Germans have left, blowing up the bridge behind them. We go out onto the veranda and watch the troops receding into the distance in the moonlight.

  In the morning, bursts of firing can be heard some way off but we hardly notice them. People move slowly, not daring to celebrate, not until after midday when the first Allied troops appear by the river. They are British and South Africans who climb the hill warily for fear of land mines. We can hardly believe our eyes when they march up the streets and the people run to greet them, flinging their arms around them; they smile awkwardly, detached and weary. The shutters that have covered the windows since we arrived are thrown back and shopowners bring out the goods that they have been hiding from the Germans. I ask the British commanding officer about San Martino, but he knows little, as his unit came here straight from Chiusi.

  I watch the celebrations but am too anxious to take part in them. Instead, I go out onto the veranda, climb onto the surrounding wall, and peer in the direction of my home. But now there is a mist in the air so I can only make out the faint outline of the hill above the houses for an instant—then it is gone.

  I hasten to pack the little I brought with me. Bracci tries to dissuade me but eventually gives up and has some food prepared for my journey. He offers to send a man with me but I won’t hear of it and also forbid Signor Grandinetti to accompany me.

  I set off at three. I’ve borrowed a horse, a dark beast with a beautiful eye. It’s hot. The river is tepid when we ford it just below the ruins of the bridge, and I find the purling music of the water soothing. I listen as the sound fades, gripping the reins tighter than necessary.

  PRITCHETT AND KRISTÍN WATCHED IN SILENCE UNTIL Alice and the group had disappeared. When they got back to the house, Father Augusto was closing the eyes of one of the soldiers who had stepped on a land mine.

  “It’s not too late for you to leave,” he said as he looked up from the corpse.

  He didn’t expect an answer and Pritchett didn’t say anything.

  “Have you decided where you’re taking your people?”

  Pritchett nodded.

  “Good. Keep it to yourself.”

  They heard a plane overhead and jumped. There was shouting and firing but the plane kept going without dropping a bomb.

  “You should get a move on,” said the chaplain, adding without much conviction: “God be with you.”

  Melchiorre and the cook were waiting in the kitchen when Pritchett and Kristín arrived. Pritchett gave them quick orders: Melchiorre was to round everyone up, Kristín to help the cook pack food and water.

  “Where are we going?” asked Melchiorre.

  “There is a vault,” Pritchett answered in a low voice. “Up by the mill.”

  They didn’t leave till late afternoon. The fighting got worse; one armored German column after another descended on the houses, seeking refuge from the Allied planes that were hunting them on their retreat. They waited in the cellar for an opportunity to leave, keeping to themselves. There was constant shouting and confusion, soldiers coming and going, and the noise from the planes and the artillery was deafening.

  They left during a brief lull, as quietly as they could. They hurried away from the buildings to the far side of the slope before setting off up the old path. They were very careful, Pritchett walking slowly ahead looking for land mines and Melc
hiorre helping the cook, who was quickly out of breath. Dusk was falling when they made it to the mill; flashes lit up the darkness and the bombing was unrelenting. It did not lessen as the evening passed and the planes left, since the Allied forces were drawing closer, keeping up a constant bombardment.

  They hurried to the vault, Pritchett holding the trapdoor open and, together with Melchiorre, helping one after another climb down into the moist darkness. They sat on the floor with their backs to the walls and their legs straight out in front of them, so tightly packed that they were touching, listening to the booming in total silence. There was a tiny gap around the trapdoor and during the first half of the night, flashes were visible from time to time, but later there was nothing but moonlight. They gazed at the light because there was nothing else to see in the darkness, except when Pritchett lit the lantern. Then they looked around, at the gray walls, the steps up to the trapdoor, the suitcases containing Alice’s valuables, and the crate by the wall farthest from the entrance.

  Kristín stared at the crate. Even when the lantern was extinguished, she thought she could see it in the darkness, thought she could see through it, see the girl with her face turned away from the brightness, in blue shadow. She imagined the smell of paint, her fingers remembered the texture of the canvas, and Marshall’s voice echoed in her head, remote and unfamiliar.

  She was shaking as she drew both knees up to her chin and clasped them tightly. Her breathing became shallow and rapid, and Melchiorre, who was sitting beside her, touched her gently. She groped for his hand in the darkness and held it.

  She didn’t sleep that night. There was a short lull around midnight, but apart from that the fighting was constant. They could have been blown up or buried alive at any moment, but no one showed fear. They were all quiet, all alone in their thoughts.

  The following day, the ground shook from dawn to dusk. Stone crumbled from the walls, the trapdoor vibrated, and the booming echoed in the vault. It occurred to Pritchett to raise the trapdoor and let in some air but, in the end, he didn’t dare. The fighting carried on a second night, only diminishing at daybreak. They heard engines start up, and the rattling and firing grew distant. Yet they were too afraid to show themselves until around noon when the birds began to sing. Only then did Pritchett rise to his feet, inch his way up the steps, and raise the trapdoor off the vault.

  Kristín was the last one to go up the steps. Melchiorre waited for her briefly, but she motioned to him to go. She had seen no more than the bottom of the crate because the tarpaulin covered the top half, but now she lifted the cloth a little and took hold of the box to check how heavy it was. Realizing that she would never be able to carry it on her own, she concluded that she would have to bring the appropriate tools to open it. A hammer. A screwdriver. And a knife to cut the canvas from the strainer. Almost forgetting herself, she didn’t move until she saw Melchiorre get ready to climb down again. Then she turned quickly and hurried toward the light.

  Gradually her eyes adjusted to the brightness. There was no movement by the buildings; everyone was gone. They retraced their steps, making their way slowly. The sky was cloudless and silent, the roads empty: the Allied units had continued their pursuit up the valley.

  The house was still standing, but there was a gaping hole in the facade and two in the roof. The fattoria and the clinic had also been hit, and there was a deep crater in the middle of the courtyard with bodies lying in it, though it was difficult to tell how many because they were all half-burnt. The garden had been dug up, and there were still more bodies in and around the trenches and in front of the greenhouses. The tanks had gone but two vehicles lay there on their sides, a Kübelwagen by the front door and an army transport truck at the top of the drive. The truck was still burning but the flames were dying down and smoke curled harmlessly into the air above it. For some reason, the Canary Bird Roses and the lemon trees had been removed from their pots and now lay strewn here and there around the buildings, among the mattresses, upholstery stuffing, books, and broken crockery. Clothing hung in the trees by the shed, along with the Moroccan prisoner of war, a noose around his neck, the turban still on his head.

  Kristín followed Pritchett and Fosco in through the front door. They stopped in the sitting room and stared out through the hole in the wall, then continued farther inside the villa where everything had been turned upside down. The stuffing was hanging out of the furniture, light fittings had been torn from the ceiling, bookcases knocked over. The floor was littered with leftover food, broken glasses, and empty wine bottles that the soldiers had brought in from the storeroom. Everything of value had been stolen. The drawers of Alice’s desk lay strewn around her room, among her summer hats, letters, and photographs. The lavatories were all blocked, the floor was awash with feces and urine, and the stench was so powerful that they had to cover their noses and mouths.

  They couldn’t enter Giovanni’s room because of the wreckage from the ceiling. The door had been torn off its hinges and they could see blue sky through the hole in the roof. They went downstairs and into the kitchen where pots and pans had been flung into the hearth and a bag of flour emptied over the stove. Yet the clock was still ticking on the wall, and each of them glanced at it in turn because it was the only sound in the silence.

  Pritchett turned on a tap in the kitchen sink but there was no water. Nor was there any electricity, but he kept flicking the switch on the wall up and down, click-clack, click-clack, until Fosco coughed. Then he came to his senses, silently shook his head and walked out into the courtyard with them.

  They waved away the flies that greeted them. They were everywhere, both outside and indoors—buzzing over the food and the excrement and corpses. People from the tenant farms had begun to trickle out of the forest into the courtyard, quiet and dejected. Instead of going to meet them, Pritchett walked off. He had a good idea what kind of tales people would have to tell, but he couldn’t face listening to them. Not yet. Not until he had got his bearings.

  He walked a little way along the hillside to be alone and when he came back, he had recovered his composure. He knew he had to show strength and, despite feeling sick to his stomach, was able to gather everyone and say a few words of encouragement.

  “We are fortunate. We’re alive. Everything here can be repaired. Now is the time to start.”

  They were all hungry, and he instructed the women to clean the kitchen and the men to start carrying the corpses out of the building so they could eat. While the kitchen was being tidied, Melchiorre and Fosco fetched ham, eggs, olives, and vegetables that they had hidden before escaping to the vault, carried water from the well, lit a fire to heat the water, and helped the women wash the floor and tables. Finally they crowded around the table, eating in silence at first, but then someone felt the need to say something and soon everyone was talking. The people from the farms had all lost something, either a loved one or a home, some both, and Pritchett was ashamed as they described the events of the last days and nights, and told himself he had failed them. He knew he couldn’t have done anything, couldn’t have changed anything, yet he was ashamed. He had escaped. He had hidden in a hole while others suffered.

  He started when someone asked after Alice and the children.

  “No,” he said, “no news.”

  He had wondered whether he or someone else should go to Montepulciano to try to track them down but decided it was a bad idea. Booming still sounded from farther up the valley and the roads were hazardous—a man from one of the farms reported that a group of partisans had that very morning come across some German soldiers who had been separated from their unit and were hiding in the valley. Pritchett did not ask how their encounter had ended.

  They worked all day long. Some who had shoveled earth over the bodies of their loved ones out in the forest, not knowing how long the battle would last, now went to dig them up and bring them down the hill. It was unclear how many bodies there would be by the end, and there were no open graves in the cemetery, so Prit
chett had them kept until just before sunset in the shed behind the chapel, which was shaded by trees. The corpses of the soldiers were dragged out of the crater in the courtyard and the trenches in the garden and taken to the shed as well. Pritchett and Fosco cut the Moroccan down from the tree and laid him with the rest, then spread a canvas over the bodies to protect them from the flies.

  Daylight was fading when they saw a vehicle down in the valley. Pritchett raised a hand to his brow and watched it maneuver around holes and craters in the road until it finally stopped at the turning and continued up to the house.

  THERE WAS AN OVERTURNED GERMAN TRUCK AT THE top of the drive, and the two soldiers, both American, one in his early forties, the other in his midtwenties, got out of the open jeep and walked the last stretch to the house. Seeing Pritchett and Kristín coming toward them, they waved and quickened their step.

  “We thought we’d never make it up here. The road is a disaster.”

  “There was fighting here till this morning.”

  “We know. You British?”

  Pritchett nodded, introducing himself.

  “Captain Duane Heller, US Fifth Army, Monuments, Fine Arts, and Archives. This is my partner, Lieutenant Hart.”

  They shook hands.

  “What is that?” asked Pritchett. “Monuments, Fine Arts, and Archives?”

  “Yes, sorry. Let me explain,” said Captain Heller. “The Monuments, Fine Arts, and Archives program was established last year. We’re mostly art historians, museum directors, and curators. We follow the troops, try to protect cultural property, and recover art stolen by the Germans.”