what seemed miles, including past one roadblock. It seemed Father Mario was a familiar sight with his round pebble-glass spectacles, ac-
knowledging the local militia guards cheerily as they waved him through. ‘The Bartolinis will keep you for a few days only. Everyone here is afraid of reprisals.
There are Fascist sympathizers in every village with tongues as big as the Grand Canyon. You must head south to the Allies as best you can, only at night, of course. The cassock may help you – or not. This area is very mixed.’
The truck jolted to a stop outside a small farmhouse with golden stone outbuildings and a red tiled roof. It nestled in the hillside with a good view of the track. Hearing the sound of the truck, an old man and woman stood in the doorway, blinking into the sun and watching as Frank and the priest got out and then pulled Roddy out.
‘This is Father Francesco Bartolini, and his comrade, the captain.’ Their leathery faces stared as they shook hands with the priest and gabbled in Italian.
They stood politely eyeing them cautiously but pointed to the door. Roddy was blinded for a second as they were ushered into a dark room with a smoking
fire, a polished table, and stucco walls lined with fading portraits. The first thing he noticed, though, was lace. It was everywhere: lining the mantelpiece, the back of the old armchairs, the edge of the tablecloth, the panels on the curtain netting. Everything was pristine, though the room was humble and smoke filled. They were given a thick soup of pasta and veget-ables and slices of hard cheese with deliciously ripe peaches that melted into their mouths.
Frankie was stumbling, trying to understand their dialect, nodding, waving his hands and pointing to the photographs. Roddy noticed a very old lady was weeping in the corner as she listened to his story, shaking her head, and crossing herself, and when it came to the bit about the lucky shoe, which he’d pulled out from under his cassock, she almost collapsed. ‘Merletto d’Anghiari , Salvatore, look.’ She was so excited. The atmosphere in the room suddenly changed. ‘Il bambino d’Angelo, Francesco!’
Frank was shaking his head, trying to explain why she was in such a state. ‘She says my father brought this many years ago. Now she knows I am truly his son. They thought we might be spies. It’s from one of the Marcelli patterns, a pattern of the paese , the loc-al district. She says it is a miracle. Look over there at her lace maker’s stool and cushion. I’ve seen those in New York. This is my grandmother and my cousin and his wife. They must have no name, just in case . I must be dreaming this. Wait until I tell the folks back home.’ He smiled and sipped a rough country wine, which was as sweet as liquorice.
All too soon the sun crossed over the ridge and it was time for them to return. Father Mario was especially anxious to be off. ‘You must get back to the camp. We mustn’t be out by curfew.’ But Frank was reluctant to part from his family with so many questions still to ask and so much to tell them.
Roddy felt moved to have witnessed such a reunion. He would stay the night in their at-tic, their hidden guest, stripped of his cassock now. All he could give them was cigarettes and a few Red Cross tins, muttering his grazies , as best he could.
Once outside he dared not show his fair skin and hair in case there were other eyes watching. Nothing would remain secret in these valleys by sundown. He shook Frank’s hand. ‘If and when I get back, I’ll make sure your folks know you’re safe and that you met up with your father’s family at long last. I promise.’
Frank edged towards the door and his cousin offered him the shoe back but he refused it. ‘It belongs here. It joins us back together, proof of my visit,’ he said, shoving it back into her hand. ‘My father wishes it.’
There was something about this act that moved Roddy so much he found himself doing a strange thing. He bent down on one knee. ‘Give me a blessing, Father. I may need it where I’m going,’ he whispered. ‘When this is over we’ll dine out on the stories for many a year. How can I thank you all for what you are risking, my friends?’ he added. ‘Tell them what I’m saying, Frank.’
Frank translated and then whispered in his ear, ‘Just get the hell out of here tomorrow and make a home run.’
The truck hit a puncture somewhere close to Arezzo. It was getting late and Frank knew he would be late for roll call. They would be in trouble now. The commandant was a decent man but he would not stand for this deception and by now would realize that another man was missing. Frank sighed, knowing he’d have to walk the rest of the way back. The old priest was not up to his faster pace but he knew where the entrance was on the perimeter wire.
‘Stay with the truck and the driver. You can say you were going to give the last rites somewhere. No one will ever query it. I will walk back to camp, take a short cut across the fields. It can’t be more than a mile or two. Thank you for giving me this chance to see my family. We’ll not risk this again. You’ve done enough. I’ll never forget your kindness.’
Mario held on to him. ‘Stay you can escape too,’ pleaded the old man. ‘The capitano will not last three days on the run without you to help him. You are one of us, you look like one of us. You can pass as a native, who has come back from America. Your accent will give you away but we can make up a good story for you. Stay, Francesco.’
‘No, I gave my word. There are sick men who need me; the doc needs my help.’ He shook Mario’s hand firmly. ‘I’ll get back late, the only POW begging to get back into his prison. That will amuse them and I shall bore everyone with the story of my secret pilgrim-age. My knowledge of the terrain may be useful next time.’
He didn’t tell him he had a compass hidden in a button of his uniform beneath his cas-sock. It was a warm night as he ripped off the button of his uniform to set the directions.
How different a wood seemed in the dusk, the shade of the leaves, a drone of mosquitoes aiming for his face, the croak of frogs and a hint of mist. It would be so easy to get lost, but with the aid of his lighter, he checked his bearings, still feeling uneasy. It had been an indulgence to escape for a day. Now he must pay for the risk.
He’d played on the commandant’s faith in letting Father Mario in to see him. Had he put men’s lives at risk? He lingered, feeling the freedom of the open space, the smell of pines. Who would not want to dally in such a haven?
As it grew ever darker in the wood, the path grew less distinct, but a path he trusted led out onto the fields where he and Roddy had made their exits only that morning. He hadn’t gone far when he heard the barking of approaching dogs and glimpsed a flash of light. Hun-ters looking for deer or wild boar perhaps? But it took only a moment for him to realize he was the quarry, and it wasn’t hunters but the Feldgendarmerie , tough militia types hunting for escaped prisoners of war.
He stopped to put his cassock back on, hiding his uniform just as a torch flashed upon him. ‘Stop!’
Frank put his hands up and tried to explain. ‘I am Father Francesco Bartolini. I have been out for a walk and lost my way. Sono Padre Americano,’ pointing to the Cross and his in-signia.
A voice spoke in broken English. ‘You are an escaping prisoner. He is seen dressed as a priest. This is the prisoner.’
‘No I am not. I am Father Bartolini. I was coming back to the camp. The commandant knows me . . . Take me to the camp commandant. Capisce? I can explain.’
‘You are an American spy, an escaping prisoner. You will not go back to the camp,’ the military policeman sneered, his voice hard and threatening now. Frank carried on walking towards them, bracing himself when he heard the click of their rifles. There was no time to pray as the bullets sprayed into his chest.
117
Roddy woke on a mattress of straw covered by a horse blanket. He could hear rustling in the hayloft, and was alert to any strange noise and the beautiful birdsong outside. Where was he? Everything was a blur: his escape hidden in the truck, the smell of the farmyard, the scent of pasta sauce on his fingers. The sun was up and he was itching like mad, but lying back he tried to assess his chances of
making a home run.
Blond, blue-eyed, speaking only a few words of the language and here only by the mercy of Frank’s grandparents and uncles were not the greatest of assets. He wouldn’t be able to stay long, but a good night’s sleep and supper had worked miracles. He was ordered to stay hidden until it was safe to appear in the dark, knowing every moment he lingered would put their lives at risk.
What was all that business about the little shoe? Could Frank’s father be right? Could it be true that it was from the Titanic , and indeed from this very region? It sounded too much of a coincidence but Frank had been determined to give it to them.
He’d taken a huge risk in bringing him here. Roddy only hoped he’d got back before curfew. The milizia would be out combing the hillsides with dogs to sniff out the sweat of a man on the run.
Surely if he walked south by night he’d run into the Allies somewhere. If only there were facts and not just rumours to go on. He wondered if somewhere in the villages sympathizers were listening to BBC broadcasts on their hidden wirelesses. Maybe Frank’s cousins could find out the truth without alerting suspicion. He was at their mercy, dependent on their gen-erosity and humanity to shelter him for the rest of the day. He needed his wits if he were to survive.
It was Frank’s cousin Giovanni who called him down for a breakfast of cold ham, cheese and fruit served with acorn coffee and lashings of warm milk. The young man had a few words of English and drew a map for him out in the yard in the dust. ‘You walk over hill in mezzo notte. No stop, long way. Americanos come , sì ? No more bam bam,’ he said, pretend-ing to fire. ‘Allora, vieni.’
The family sheltered him for four nights, fed him, showed him letters from New York and snapshots of Frank as a child, his brother, Jack, and his little sister Patricia with pride. He wanted to give them money, but they pushed it away. Poor as they were, this pride was one
of the Bartolinis’ few luxuries.
It was Giovanni’s father who mimed that he must go up the hills where a shepherd he called Mani would guide Roddy down to the next valley. ‘Mani will find you.’
They sent him on his way with a blanket, cheese and ham, dried fruit in his pocket and a phial of some oil that smelled strongly of lemons.
‘Z anzara ,’ cackled the ancient lady, indicating he should put it on his face and neck. It was foul-smelling insect repellent. ‘Grazie, molto grazie, io non dimenticato,’ was all he had managed in response. How could he thank those who’d shown such kindness and giv-en him his freedom back?
They dressed him in old trousers and a shirt, but his disguise wasn’t convincing. He would have to evade all travellers, scavenge as best he could from the land. He had no pa-pers, just his identity round his neck. It was a crazy scheme, a game of cat and mouse, but he was willing to take the risk.
He walked for miles uphill, following a trail, listening for any telltale signs, but there were only the night sounds of the forest to comfort him. It was warm, too warm, and he searched out springs to quench his dusty thirst, making a bed hidden by branches and leaves. He spent his first night on the run under the stars.
In the weeks that followed he tramped down ever southward, thankful for the mercies of shepherds, guides and partisan sympathizers who passed him from valley to valley. They had a no-names policy, of course. What he didn’t know he couldn’t betray. He had nothing but a compass pointing south and west. His skin turned into tanned leather punctured with the red wheals of mosquito bites, despite the Bartolinis’ lemon oil, but his boots held out despite the blisters on his heels. He smelled of farmyards and dung heaps; no hobo could have reeked like he did. Once he found a lake and threw himself naked into it, washing out his shirt and spreading it to dry over a bush. His beard grew a foxy red, a giveaway to anyone who saw it. He could pass for a German deserter but his luck held. He ate what was offered, which was all that could be spared. Others went hungry because of him, he feared. His frame grew lean and muscular and he was always hungry.
He wouldn’t survive the winter in the open, and any fool could see it would snow here on high ground. Then a shepherd showed him a cave where he could shelter and make a rough fire when it was wet. One morning after a terrible night of hunger, his spirits were so low he wondered whether to hand himself in to the nearest militia. It felt as if he was getting nowhere. He’d made more than forty miles of progress cross country. Weak and disheartened, sick of living rough, he longed to be back in Akron, on his front porch, sup-ping a beer. Why had he put himself through such agonies?
The past months had changed him. All the luxuries of life in Akron now seemed so meaningless. Here he’d been doing an important job. He was fighting for the people who mattered to him most and for his men, who’d already paid the price so that ordinary folk could choose how and where they lived their lives, free from the tyranny of fear and bom-bardment. He owed all these local farmers so much and one day, if he made it home, he would pay them back. He had to survive. He’d promised Frank but just how he had no idea.
It was time to move on, hungry or not, when he heard twigs crackling. He wasn’t alone. He hid at the back of the cave, fearing the worst. Then he heard voices: ‘Americano, Amer-icano, buon giorno.’ There were two dark-eyed little girls in headscarves, one with a basket strapped to her back, peering into the darkness. ‘Ella?’ he croaked, thinking one of them was his sister. Was this a dream?
‘No, signor, Agnese,’ she said, smiling. ‘Come, eat.’ Roddy made his way into the light, blinking as if two angels had suddenly appeared. The
basket was loaded with cold meat, cheese, bread, a bottle of vino lavorato and a bunch of grapes. They must have walked from dawn to bring him his feast.
They sat silently watching him fill his face with all these treats, refusing to eat anything he held out to them. Then they beckoned and pointed down into the valley. ‘ Vieni a casa, mezze notte, vieni?’
Later Roddy made his way down the valley in the darkness to a cowshed, where the cattle were lined up for morning milking. He could spend the night tucked up in the manger covered in straw. He could only sleep there at night, but at first light crept out to hide back in the woods or in the cave until it was safe to return.
He never met the rest of the family, only the two little girls who tried to teach him their dialect. One morning he heard the dreaded word Tedeschi , Germans, and feared the worst. He spent that day perched high, ready to dive into the cave at the first sound of troops on their manhunt. Perhaps he had been betrayed.
After all this time the thought of being captured and brought back to camp or worse, after the selfless generosity of so many people, filled Roddy with despair, but the silence held until nightfall when he crept back to his itchy billet. He was met by a large man who threw his arms round him with excitement: ‘Americano amici, Inghilterra, Americano . . . Tedes-chi . kaput, vieni . amice. The women darted round in the shadows and he saw them all smiling. He was ushered into the farmhouse to a table lit with candles and the smell of roasting meat. He could just make out enough to know that there’d been a breakthrough. The enemy had moved further north in retreat and American troops were close by. A look of pure relief and joy flooded over their faces: Liberazione!
‘You are free.’ The girl who still reminded him of Ella looked at him with a big smile. ‘You are free.’
If only it were that simple. It was one thing to know that the troops were gone, but there was still local militia and collaborators in every village. He didn’t know who he could trust. But somehow the atmosphere was different. Italian flags were flying proudly. He still didn’t want to show himself in public so kept walking parallel with the tracks out of sight, under cover, until he saw an army Jeep in the distance.
Roddy shot out of the woods waving his arms. ‘Stop, stop!’ He ran in front of the Jeep in case the troops missed seeing him.
He was searched in case he was a spy, but he told them his rank and number, finally con-vincing them he was genuine. They handed him a shirt and some real cigarette
s. They were a British reconnaissance party, checking the road ahead was clear of ambushes. They took his ID particulars and the address of the Italian family who were sheltering him, telling him to return there until further notice.
It was all such a letdown after being in hiding for so long. But English cigarettes were like gold dust and he shared them out on the farm. Now he would repay them by work-ing out in the fields. There was time now to shave, to smarten himself up and write letters. Two weeks later he received a letter from Rome telling him to report to Allied screening for probable repatriation. He ought to feel glad that he was on his way home, but somehow it didn’t feel right. There was still a war going on, the enemy were not yet beaten, there was no way he would return stateside with a job half done. He would write to Father Frank, though, and tell him he’d kept his promise. Roddy’s war was not over yet.
118
The crowds in Cathedral Close watched the floodlights beaming up onto the Three Spires. The blackout was finally over. The war was ending at long last but Ella felt numb, indiffer-ent, going through the motions of celebrations at their village street party. She’d watched the bands parading in the city with the flags and bunting everywhere, but felt nothing. She could see Clare was jumping up and down, pointing to the lights. Celeste and Archie had taken her off to see friends leaving Ella alone with her thoughts.
The city was ablaze with light. Her hometown had seen her through good times and bad, and she felt such affection for the cobbled streets and spires, but now, she also felt empty, drained of emotion. The letter from the Air Ministry had finally ended any hope of Anthony’s return.
In view of the lapse of time and the absence of any further news regarding your husband, Squadron Leader A. G. C. Harcourt DFC, since the date on which he was reported missing, we must regretfully conclude that he has lost his life and for official purposes his death has now been presumed to have occurred on 10 December
1943.
Now it was official, she was a widow, just like her mother all those years ago. How strange that history was repeating itself. Life felt bleak and uncertain. At least in the war there’d been so much to fight for. It had been a team effort to keep life as normal as possible for the children. Now what?
Fleming, Leah - The Captain's Daughter Page 42
