“You’re right—after all the trust she put in me, I’ll just have to find a way to see her again and beg her forgiveness.” And my parents’. I hadn’t even considered the possibility that she would show them the note. “I just can’t worry about it now, Violetta. There is such important work to do.”
Chapter Ten
Friday night was the eve of St. John’s Day, a celebration I had always looked forward to until the war called a halt to our rituals. Named for John the Baptist, the holiday paid homage to water, fire, and plants, coming as it did nearly on the summer solstice and at the front end of the growing season. On that night, in its long, lingering dusk, we always lit bonfires in front of houses, in the courtyards, and along the lanes. People threw kindling, old furniture, bundled straw—whatever would burn—on these fires until the flames reached up, crackling hungrily with a fierce, hot heat that could purge a person’s soul. The whole area was dotted with these fires, almost like earth stars twinkling as the last of the light faded into darkness.
The Germans had imposed a curfew in the village from six p.m. until six a.m. The SS soldiers, who wore black uniforms with a zigzag yellow lightning sign on their collars, patrolled the streets.
Out in the country, where we lived, there was not as much surveillance, and a few of my friends had hatched a plan to light a bonfire Friday night—just to prove that it was still our country, that we could be who we wanted to be. It was a cheeky thing to do, but we were young and heedless.
Two boys—Flavio and Luigi—were the ringleaders. They were seventeen and still too young to be recruited to fight, but they were by no means safe. Boys like those two were constantly on the lookout, living in fear of being snatched up for labor by Nazi soldiers. That made them mad enough to want to pull off a rebellious bonfire. The two of them had been working all week, secretly stashing wood and straw and other burnable items near the place in the lane where they had decided to have the fire.
Flavio, who had light, curly hair and a sweet smile, was Violetta’s cousin. I loved him for his shy manner and the way he doted on animals. He would never have come up with this idea, but he would do anything his best friend, Luigi, said to do. Luigi Santini, our neighbor, was a lot taller, all gangly limbs and big feet, with a bad complexion. It was Flavio who had worked up Violetta’s enthusiasm about the fire, and she had recruited me to come along. I had always loved the St. John’s Eve fires, and I was ready for some excitement.
We had dinner at home as usual that night. So far there seemed to be no word from Graziella about my note to Klaus. Toward the end of the meal, I flexed my jaw until a yawn began spreading into a real one. “I guess it’s been a long week for me. I can hardly keep my eyes open,” I said.
“Maybe you should think about limiting your new schedule at the clinic to the mornings,” my mother said.
That was the last thing I wanted to do, but I yawned again. “I’ll think about it, Mother, but now, if it’s all right with you, I’m just going to go to bed early.” I got up and slid my chair carefully back to the table. “Good night, Mama.” I kissed her. “Sleep well.” I kissed Papa on the cheek and went to my room, closing the door.
Outside the open window, it was still light. I thought I smelled a whiff of smoke, but that was probably just my imagination. I picked up a book and stared blankly at the pages, listening hard.
After dinner was cleared away, my parents spent a half hour in the tiny parlor before going into their room and shutting the door. I put on my softest, most comfortable shoes, pulled on a sweater for the night chill, and cracked my door as quietly as I could. No one was about. I tiptoed silently down the stairs and out into the thickening dusk. It was about a quarter to ten.
The group was already gathered in the lane half a mile or so from Villa Farfalla’s front gate, silhouetted in front of the flames that were taking hold. I came up behind Violetta and surprised her with a quick hug. “I was beginning to wonder whether you were going to get away,” she said, taking my hand. Sparks were flying as Flavio and Luigi piled more and more kindling on the fire.
Then I noticed a third boy working with them. Ignazio Lazzari had not been part of the original plan, but he had heard about it somehow and, as Violetta whispered to me, had already been there when they arrived. He was in the boys’ class at school and was a notorious troublemaker: loud and rough, with a perpetual sneer on his face.
“What’s the matter, Giovanna, have a hard time sneaking out?” He laughed a little too loudly and gave me a quick shove toward the fire.
“Hey, watch it!” I shoved him back, folded my arms, and backed away. Then I noticed an army canteen hanging over his shoulder on a canvas strap. He took a swig.
“Want some grappa?” His lip curled into what I supposed was a smile.
“No, thanks.” I retreated to Violetta’s side.
A chair with a frayed rush seat went onto the fire and the flames leaped up with a vengeance; then a whole bale of bound hay sent a shower of sparks in an alarming arc over our heads. “Maybe that’s enough for now,” called Flavio. He was trying to keep his voice game and friendly, but I could tell he was getting worried. There was no way we could keep this fire small now. It must have been visible for miles.
Underneath the crackling and roaring of the fire, I heard the low rumble of an approaching vehicle. The boys, who were closer to the fire, didn’t hear it, but Violetta’s head turned at the same moment as mine. In the low light, beyond the halo of flames, we could just make out the outline of an open military jeep. We looked at each other, wide-eyed and silent, as it headed our way. Then it pulled to a stop just across the street next to a low stucco wall. Four German soldiers were outlined there in full uniform.
Ignazio, whose back was to the jeep, took another swallow from the canteen. “Take that, you sausage swine, you Nazi vermin,” he shouted, fluttering an open book onto the flames. “Let’s see who really owns this town.”
Doors slammed loudly, and the soldiers got out. As they came closer into the glow of the fire, their faces were clearly visible. One of them was Klaus. He looked straight at me but registered no surprise. He looked handsome and powerful, and I felt a flare of regret along with foreboding fear.
The three boys saw the soldiers now and knotted together, staring back at them like cornered game.
Two wore the SS emblem on their black shirts; Klaus and the other man wore the green khaki uniforms of the construction corps. An SS officer strode over and poked a finger straight into Ignazio’s chest, knocking him back a step or two. “Just where is the sausage swine? Just who you call the vermin?” He yanked the canteen off his shoulder, took a whiff, and threw it on the fire. He grabbed Ignazio by the back of the neck, and the other SS officer grabbed both Flavio and Luigi roughly, one on each arm.
Klaus broke from the group and came over to where Violetta and I were standing. “Are these friends of yours, Giovanna?” He said it sarcastically, loud enough for everyone to hear.
I nodded, looking at the ground. I was frozen.
“You know it is verboten to be out here like this.”
I nodded again, not looking up.
He walked off to the side and motioned the other soldiers over to him. They all put their heads together, holding the boys off, and talked in low voices. One said, “Jawohl,” and slapped Klaus on the back. The others chuckled. They let Flavio and Luigi go with a shove; then they headed back to the jeep with Ignazio in tow. Klaus turned back to the group. “You will put out this fire now. We will come back in one half hour. If you are still here, you will all come with us.” Before he turned to go, he stared back at me, poker-faced, mocking, and held my gaze.
I took Violetta’s hand and dragged her off, leaving the boys to put out the fire.
I was crying, inconsolable. “That was Klaus,” I sobbed. “It’s my fault, what’s happened to Ignazio. We’ll never see him again.”
She put her arm around me. “Shhh. You don’t know that it’s your fault. Really, you don’t. Mayb
e they would have taken all three of them. Maybe Klaus saved Luigi and Flavio because of you.”
She might have been right, but that was not the way it felt to me. Klaus was angry and hurt; Ignazio was small recompense. I still burn with responsibility at the memory decades later, but that was only the beginning.
Chapter Eleven
It seems ludicrous to me now to think that at seventeen I could envision myself affecting the war in any tangible way. Nevertheless, a raw energy and power surged through me that was naive, to be sure, but left me nearly fearless. I turned my entire focus to supporting the partisans. I was determined to impress Giorgio and to protect him in whatever way I could—and underneath it all, perhaps, to atone for my treachery.
All the next week, I hounded Rosa mercilessly. I raided two gardens after dark, telling my parents that training at the clinic was keeping me late, and I amassed quite an impressive store that I knew would make Hermes proud. A third garden that had been tempting me was the Santinis’ own. A cheeky and dangerous move. The garden was between the cellar and the house, fenced in iron, and shielded by a row of arborvitaes from any direct surveillance.
After I dropped off that day’s supplies, I crept slowly up the path toward the house, my empty sack over my shoulder. I could see the gate was unlocked, so, with a quick glance up ahead, and feeling secure in the deepening dusk, I gingerly lifted the latch and stepped inside. The perky green tops of the onions beckoned to me, so I wrenched one from the black earth. Its underbelly was firm, white, and rounded to the size of a golf ball. Greedily, I pulled out a whole row, stuffing them into my sack and leaving a crumbled ditch right down the garden’s center. I yanked tens of handfuls of swollen, nearly dried pea pods off the huge, fading tangle of vine, and unearthed a dozen or so garlic bulbs.
Thank God I had everything in the sack and had already latched the gate when I saw the frail figure of Signora Santini, her shoulders draped elegantly in a rose-colored shawl, leaning on a cane and making her way slowly toward me down the path. Her skin looked sallow, even in the dim light of evening, and dark circles made her protruding eyes seem hollow. She stared at me quizzically, as if she were searching her memory, trying to orient herself.
“Giovanna? Is that you? What on earth are you doing here at this hour?” She eyed the sack.
Frantically I searched for an explanation, since I was facing the house, after all. “Oh, signora, I’m so surprised to see you outside! I’ve heard you’ve been quite ill. Mother suggested I pay you a visit, but here you are, up and about, catching a breath of air. Imagine that!” I shifted the canvas bag under my arm, pressing the top closed so she couldn’t see inside. “I intended to get here much earlier, but my work at the clinic held me up.” I was running off at the mouth now. “And I just thought I’d come back here to look to see if maybe I saw a light in your window, if maybe you were still up and I could safely announce myself.”
She stood there, staring, her hand trembling on the head of the cane. “I felt slightly better this evening, thank you.” She spoke slowly and deliberately, in a low, cultured voice that made me feel like a babbling idiot. Then she added, “Luigi tells me he thinks someone has been using our cellar as a supply drop. I thought I would investigate. I don’t suppose you noticed any men lurking back there.”
My face flushed hot. “Men? Why, no, no men at all. What do you mean, supply drop? Supplying the partisans?” I could feel my pulse racing, surely visible at the hollow in my neck where my blouse was open.
“You heard me, exactly.” She glowered, as if defying me to explain myself further. “Our family is in a vicious tangle over all of this. My husband is a stubborn Fascist, and he’d report anything suspicious to the Germans; you can bet on that.” She paused. “But I…” Her face shook slightly from side to side as she went on. “I’m terrified for Luigi, who turns eighteen next year and might be forced to fight. Rumors are that the partisans are making real inroads, interfering with German plans for this area. I’m all for it. Whatever they can do.”
Relief slowly infused my blood like a river settling out after a storm. This could be important. I gently took her elbow. “Signora Santini, you’re tired. Let’s sit down on the bench over there and have a chat.”
The moss at the foot of the gazebo’s columns was soaked after a badly needed rain the night before. I was forced to stand, to pace in circles, while Sunday afternoon crept by no faster than the hands on a clock. Well, why shouldn’t Giorgio be late? I had stood him up completely last week. I looked nervously at the sky through the lacy canopy above me—zinc, definitely gray. Would it rain again, catch me so far from home?
I did have work to do, though, mental work. The Santini situation was complicated. Signora Santini had given me her unqualified permission to use the cellar as a depository for supplies. She had been helpful too with details of her husband’s schedule and the hours of the day she felt were most advisable for pickup and delivery. Luckily, he was quite predictable, a man of routine. She warned me, though, that if he found out, it would mean serious trouble for me and for the men I was helping. She would have to deny any involvement, and I would be on my own. She had given me free rein as well in the garden, trusting me to gauge the amount I could take without its being noticed, and she promised to hold back on her own use of the basic onions and garlic, beans and potatoes that I needed most.
The question in my mind concerned Luigi. He and his mother were of one mind, and here was potentially another healthy, resourceful person who could be useful to the cause. On the other hand, he was my age, and—what could I say?—a boy. I just didn’t trust him the way I could trust Violetta. And his friends…I cringed, thinking of poor Ignazio Lazzari. Would Luigi blame me and take revenge? No, I would have to go it alone at this point and hope to elude Luigi as I came and went on the property. It had worked so far. He slept late and never seemed to be about in the evening.
Where was Giorgio, anyway? Impatience was gnawing in my lower back. Maybe I should just leave—put a note where he could see it and call it a draw: one week for him, one for me. I was pulling my pad out of my pocket when a low murmur rose from the woods to the north. I held my breath. Yes, male voices. I smoothed my hair, redid the barrette.
There were four of them this time: Giorgio, of course, and the Fox. With them were two other men. They were strikingly similar—both of medium height with curly dark hair, both dressed in tattered camouflage, items of clothing obviously put together randomly from different national uniforms. One of them wore a patch over one eye; the other had his arm in a sling, a filthy length of gauze wrapped and knotted around it. Odd. I couldn’t identify exactly the feeling I got observing them, but I sensed a tentativeness about them, that they didn’t quite belong, as if Hermes and the Fox were in charge and these two were lucky to be along for the ride.
“Columba!” Giorgio gave me a quick hug. “I wasn’t sure whether you’d make it this time.” His eyes darted about, as if he were looking for someone lurking in the shadows. The Fox had wandered off and was peering down the path I had come on.
“I’m so sorry about last Sunday. I can explain, but it’s a long story. Remember how I told you—”
He reached out and put three fingers flat over my lips. “You’re forgiven, Columba. We don’t have time for explanations right now. First of all, the good news. Things are really heating up around here. The Allied forces have reached Pistoia in their march up the peninsula and are positioned to penetrate the Gothic Line just south of here. If that happens, the Germans will have to abandon the front and retreat up the river valley to northern Italy. We’re doing all we can to harass them, intercept their communications, and make it difficult for them to stay around here.”
“I thought the Allies wanted the partisans to do only defensive work, not to attack the Germans,” I ventured.
He looked irritated. “Screw that, Columba. It’s evolving. Right now we just need your help with something specific.” He pulled me over to the two men. “These are tw
o brothers I knew at military school. This one we call Patch. He was a couple of classes ahead of me in school.” I reached out my hand to shake his, trying to focus on his good eye and not wanting to appear to be staring. He glanced at me and then looked at the ground. “And this is Moses. He was in my class.” He clamped a hand on Moses’s good shoulder and gave it a squeeze. Moses, his right arm in the sling, reached out his left and gave me a warm smile.
“Hi, Giovanna. Giorgio’s talked about you so often over the years.” His brown eyes were overlaid with green, the color of the wet moss beneath our feet. When I looked into his eyes, I felt suddenly as if he were indeed familiar, as if I had, somehow, met him before.
“Damn it, Moses, I told you not to use her name. You’ve got to get used to that.”
“Okay, then, Columba. It’s nice to meet you.” He winked.
“It’s Moses here who’s the problem. You can see his arm is hurt. He was helping us work with some explosives and got caught in an accidental flare-up. It’s been bandaged for the last couple of days, but I think it’s infected, and we need medicine and some new bandages. Do you want to see the wound?”
“No, no!” I backed off too quickly and was embarrassed by my own squeamishness. “I’m sure I can imagine what it looks like. As it turns out, I’ve been working in the clinic at Villa Falconieri for a week or so. I think I actually can be of some help here.”
“I thought you were working at the school.”
“That’s part of the long story I was going to tell you,” I said. “I’m not going back there anymore.”
Giorgio studied me, squinting, a little smile playing about his mouth. “I can’t wait to hear this one. But we really don’t have time right now. We’ve got to get back.” He took me by the hand and pulled me over to the other side of the marble platform, leaving the three men talking quietly together. He draped an arm around me and rotated us so our backs were to the others. “This is a little touchy, but I think I’d better tell you.” There was a new tone in his voice, serious and guarded.
The Golden Hour - Margaret Wurtele Page 11
