At night, before going to sleep, Volpe Rossa told him of the successes and frustrations of the day. And, after a while, she told him of the near disasters, too. And that cold sweat broke out again.
He had to keep himself from worrying about her all day, or he’d lose his mind. So Lupo took on an additional task: he read underground newspapers to the men in the clinics who were too wounded to read for themselves.
He read about the Allies liberating Rome. The invasion of Normandy, in France. The return of the king to his rightful home in Rome. Life was changing at last.
The wounded in the clinics congratulated one another. The war would be over soon.
He read about the partigiani victories in the hills. And a massive prison break in Belluno—seventy-three political prisoners freed. Another prison break in Alba followed just days later. Groups of partigiani in the hills passed the news by signaling with their falò—small bonfires.
Everything was changing fast.
He read about the Allies liberating Orbetello and Orvieto. Then Perugia and Siena and town after town, moving north constantly. It wouldn’t be long now—all Italy would be free.
Then in late July, Hitler was wounded in a failed assassination attempt. Furious, he ordered all anti-Fascists in Italy to be killed—not imprisoned—simply killed. Shot on sight.
And the news that Lupo read to the men in the clinics changed drastically.
Over the following days, five thousand partigiani and their sympathizers were killed. Five thousand.
In Milan and Turin, Nazis came into homes at three in the morning and shot people in their beds. Small villages that were known to be the homes of partigiani were burned to the ground. Corpses of partigiani were hung from trees and lampposts to intimidate others. And sometimes people who had nothing to do with the resistance at all were shot. Gratuitous killing. It was as though killing had become a habit. Or a disease.
Lupo read about how one of the past duties of the partigiani had now become a massive undertaking: letting the family of a partigiano know of his death and bringing them some little thing of his. And his voice cracked in sorrow. It had been only a week since the assassination attempt on Hitler, but it felt like the chaos was never ending. Each new bit of news beat him up. And it beat up all these wounded men.
In silence, he folded the newspaper and set it on a table and went up the stairs from the basement clinic into the bakery above it to get fresh air.
Through the open doorway he saw Volpe Rossa. She was coming his way slowly. On foot.
As she stepped through the doorway, he said, “Your bicycle?”
“They confiscated it at a checkpoint.”
So it had finally happened; the Nazis had stopped her. Lupo held out his arms.
But Volpe Rossa didn’t move into them. She seemed to sway on her feet, as though in a daze. “They searched me.” Her voice was small, like the whir of a hummingbird wing. He had to strain to hear. “But it’s okay,” she murmured, “I had already delivered everything.”
“They suspect you now, though. They must.”
“So I’ll work with you indoors.”
“Yes,” said Lupo. He walked to her and took her hands. “We’ll be a team again.”
They worked side by side on all those same chores but one: Lupo ceded to Volpe Rossa reading aloud the newspapers to the men in the clinics. He couldn’t bear it anymore.
The news reported battles. An enormous one on the upper Secchia River became legendary overnight. The Germans had tanks, mortars, flame throwers, every sort of artillery. The partigiani had only one-shot rifles and a few grenades. But they had determination and they knew the terrain. In four days of fighting, fourteen hundred Nazis died, and only two hundred and fifty partigiani died.
Volpe Rossa read of the Allies liberating Florence. In every newspaper the slogan was bold: “Questa è la nostra ora—This is our hour.” The men in the clinics cheered quietly. And Lupo cheered with them. He’d worked in Florence; it was partly his city. Next, the Allies liberated Pisa and many other towns of Tuscany.
Maybe it was better that Volpe Rossa was the one to read the news. Maybe she was somehow charmed, and so long as she was reading, the news would be good. Maybe if Volpe Rossa kept reading, tomorrow the Allies would liberate Bologna. And next week they’d liberate Venice. Lupo was desperate to believe that.
But then the news changed.
The Allies stopped. Though they were in Florence, they didn’t come north to Bologna. Though they were in Southern France, they didn’t come south into Liguria. They didn’t come from any direction. They said the rains were torrential, the winds were gale force, it was impossible.
But the underground newspapers gave a different explanation. They said the Allies had set up bases in central and southern Italy from which they could attack Germany and the Balkans easily. So they didn’t need the north of Italy.
And, worse, the papers said the Allies didn’t want peace in the north. If the partigiani kept fighting the Germans in Italy, German forces would be diverted from the other war fronts—from France and Russia—and the Allies could win there.
The partigiani were all on their own for who knew how much longer. And everything horrible happened. The Allies bombed the northern Italian cities, trying to kill Nazis. And the Nazis bombed the northern Italian hills and mountains, raking for groups of partigiani.
Every semblance of sanity was gone.
22
LUPO WAS WALKING TO FASCIST HEADQUARTERS in the hopes of picking up food coupons when he saw a big cart pulled by oxen stopped in the piazza. Two priests stood arguing with the police. Lupo could hear bits and pieces. The cart had apparently been there for hours—and the police wouldn’t let the priests unload it.
From under the oilcloth that covered the mound in the cart stuck a foot. The cart was full of bodies.
Lupo moved closer, till he could catch all the words. The police said the bodies should be dumped outside town and burned like garbage; they were partigiani bodies, after all.
Lupo’s head went hot. It felt huge and hot and bursting. He walked up to the cart and pulled on the oilcloth till it covered the foot. Then he turned and continued his walk toward the Fascist headquarters.
A policeman yelled after him, “Stop!”
But Lupo felt suddenly drunk with recklessness. He kept walking.
One of the priests said loudly, “Don’t bother the boy. It was an act of Catholic charity. Mussolini’s still Catholic, you know. Or are you saying that that Protestant German Rudolf Rahn rules Italy rather than our own Mussolini?”
They argued.
Lupo ran.
The doors of the Fascist headquarters were still closed, and it was almost mealtime. Lupo easily lost himself in the frustrated crowd waiting for coupons.
A pair of Nazis came up to check documents. Lupo didn’t flinch. His mind was still on the foot of the man in the wagon, on those bodies that might get burned like filth.
But then he saw the old man in the crowd. The Jew he’d met in the park months before. Lupo was sure it was him. And he wasn’t wearing his armband. Of course not. After the assassination attempt on Hitler, the few remaining Jews in town were put on trains north. If these two Nazis looked at the old man’s documents, they’d find out he was a Jew. They’d find out he’d broken the law by not wearing his armband. He was a dead man.
The Nazis moved through the crowd, telling the people they’d already checked to stay on one side. They were still a good distance from the old man.
Lupo pressed his way toward a Nazi. He showed his documents. Then he walked over to the side with the people who had already been checked. He looked around and met eyes with a woman he didn’t know. Then he walked back to the side with the people who hadn’t yet shown their documents. He looked over his shoulder. The woman was watching him. He showed his documents to the other Nazi. Then he walked back to the other side.
He looked around and met the eyes of two other women and a man. Then he
walked back to the side with the people who hadn’t yet shown their documents. And one of the women followed him. She showed her documents for a second time. And now another woman did it. Now more people milled around, from one side to the other. Pinpricks of gratitude ran up Lupo’s arms.
In the glorious confusion, Lupo took the old man by the elbow and walked him to the side with the people whose documents had been checked. The old man didn’t question what Lupo was doing. He stood beside Lupo docilely, as though he was nothing but a dottering old fool.
After the Nazis left, he grabbed Lupo’s wrist, just like he’d grabbed Volpe Rossa’s in the park. “Don’t worry about me,” he said. “It’s the young people. I told you before. They’re the ones. Save them.”
All the rest of the day, the old man’s words played in Lupo’s head.
That night Lupo lay in bed and stared at a spider on the wall, outlined in the moonlight. Save them—save the Jews—that’s what this war was about. Sometimes it was hard to remember that. Sometimes it all felt pointless, a huge, sick game of running and hiding and killing and dying—for what?
Save the Jews.
Footsteps came running up the stairs.
Lupo jumped out of bed. But before he could hide, Volpe Rossa raced into the room, smack into his arms, trembling. He held her tight. His lips pressed into her hair. Something awful must have happened. He knew it would. He always knew it would.
Volpe Rossa had hated working indoors. It was too tame for her. She’d taken to delivering messages again. But she had no bicycle anymore. So she went by train, sometimes walking long distances on the other end. Today, though, the trains hadn’t run.
When the trains didn’t run, Volpe Rossa used another method. She’d go to the market and buy their biggest apple, cut it, and stuff the message inside. Then she’d stand by the roadside nibbling the apple. She got a ride from a German to her “uncle’s,” who was dying, or to her “cousin’s,” who just had a baby.
Lupo wanted to scream when the trains didn’t run. He was always sure something awful would happen. And now it had.
He lifted his head away from her with difficulty and smoothed her hair. He was afraid to ask—to know. He hated facing the fact that he couldn’t protect her. But maybe she needed to let it out. He sat on the bed, pulling her down with him. “Tell me.”
Volpe Rossa turned around, so that she was still sitting in his lap, with her back toward his chest. She leaned her head beside his, and held her hands up in the moonlight in front of their faces. They glowed.
“We stole paint from a Nazi truck. You know, that phosphorous stuff they use to make the curbs at street crossings shine at night. We wrote on walls. We wrote ‘Go home, Nazis.’ We wrote ‘Italy will be free.’ We wrote ‘Hitler is a criminal.’ ”
Lupo watched those glowing hands. Brave hands. Reckless hands.
They’d both become reckless.
“A patrol came along. Just one soldier.” Volpe Rossa’s voice grew fragile. Her hands stopped moving. “Three of us got away. But he caught one.”
“They’ll torture her.” Lupo wrapped his arms around Volpe Rossa’s waist.
“I wish I’d been the one to get caught. It’s worse to know your friend is being tortured than to be tortured yourself.”
“If you’d been caught, you’d have died. But she’ll give up your names; she’ll live.”
Volpe Rossa put her hands over Lupo’s. She didn’t speak. Her back was warm on his chest. Her cheek was soft against his.
He ran his chin along the part between her braids. Her hair smelled fruity, like woods after rain. “There’s no time to lose.”
“Ahhh!” shrieked Volpe Rossa, skittering to her feet.
Lupo stood in confused shame. “I’m sorry.”
She pointed. “A spider.”
A spider? Lupo shook his head disbelievingly in the dark. Then he laughed.
Volpe Rossa slapped his arm. “Don’t laugh. I hate spiders. They have so many legs, and they crawl.”
Lupo laughed harder. When Volpe Rossa went to slap him again, he grabbed her hand. “Put on your jacket. Do you need to bring anything?”
“What have I got?”
They crept down the stairs without a word to Alessandro’s wife, their present host. It was better that she be able to show honest surprise at Volpe Rossa’s absence when the police came.
23
THE NIGHT STREETS WERE DESERTED. Lupo and Volpe Rossa hugged the walls, staying in the deepest dark, going from one narrow street to the next. Then they were outside town and immediately into fields. The ground was sloggy with late autumn.
“This way,” said Volpe Rossa.
Lupo’s chin jerked up defiantly. Volpe Rossa used to be the one who knew everything. But in Florence they’d become equals—she’d depended on him as much as he’d depended on her. Now, though, she took the lead again. It annoyed him. “How do you always know?”
“I don’t in the daytime. But night is easy. The stars. It’s not just a line in that partigiani song. It’s true. Partigiani navigate by the stars and learn to judge long distances just with their eyes. Let me give you a lesson.”
Volpe Rossa pointed out the constellations as they walked. Then they sang. All Lupo’s annoyance evaporated. They were a team, regardless of who was leading at the moment.
“We’re far enough now,” said Lupo. “We can stop to sleep.”
“No. We’ll travel by night and sleep by day. It’s safer.”
They continued up into the hills, climbing slowly, all night long. The land grew drier the higher they went. The leaves underfoot crunched now.
In the morning they came across a dirt road. It ended in front of a large home. Lupo headed for it. But Volpe Rossa caught him by the arm. “It’s not a farmhouse. It’s a country home for rich people. A second home.”
“So what?”
“If there’s anyone there, they’re rich.”
“No one’s rich in Italy anymore.”
“Perhaps you’re right.” Volpe Rossa dropped her hand. “But every partigiano I know comes from a farm or a factory, or used to work as a cleric in an office. We don’t have houses like that.”
Lupo rubbed his eyes. He felt like he could fall asleep standing. “Maybe there’s no one there. Who goes to a country home these days?”
“Look at the chimney.”
A faint curl of smoke rose there. Lupo felt stupid. “We could peek in the window—see who’s there.”
“We’re not hungry enough or tired enough to take that kind of risk yet.”
“Not tired enough?” said Lupo. “I can’t get more tired than this.”
“Poor baby boy,” Volpe Rossa said mockingly. She gave a quick laugh. “You’ll see. This is nothing. We’ve been pampered, living in cities for so long.” She led him into the trees, to a pine grove littered with brown needles.
“Bed,” said Volpe Rossa.
Lupo curled into sleep.
He woke to sunshine filtered through pine needles. It was a balmy day for early November. The storms of the past couple of months seemed to have ended. The air was placid. Then he realized what had woken him: a car motor.
Lupo crawled to the edge of the wood and watched a plume of dust thrown up by a retreating car.
He woke Volpe Rossa. “A car just left the house.”
She yawned and rubbed her teeth with the side of her index finger. “Did you see how many people were in it?”
“No.”
“There could still be people at the house. How hungry are you?”
“I’m thirsty more than anything.”
“That cursed spider.” Volpe Rossa stretched and got to her feet. “If it hadn’t been for that spider, I’d have thought to bring canteens.”
Lupo found himself grinning.
“Stop that.” Volpe Rossa flicked Lupo’s arm with her fingers. “You could have thought of canteens. Anyway, I’m thirsty, too. We can’t wait till night. Let’s find a stream.” She pointed. “Over
there.”
Lupo looked. He couldn’t hear water, but the trees were thicker where she pointed. He followed her eagerly, his eyes taking in her slender back, the easy rhythm of her shoulders. He was so intent, he almost knocked into her when she stopped.
A middle-aged woman and a servant girl stood facing them. The woman held a bucket of water; the girl held two. The woman blanched. Then she put a hand to the base of her throat, in a gesture of relief. “You frightened me at first. Are you thirsty?” She held her bucket forward.
The servant girl fell back a step and silently mouthed the word no.
Volpe Rossa shook her head. Lupo did, too.
“Don’t be shy. You must be. And I bet you’re hungry, too. Come with us to the house.”
Volpe Rossa gave an embarrassed smile. “My boyfriend and I had a little picnic in the woods.” She picked twigs from her hair self-consciously. “We thought there might be a stream up here to dip our feet in.”
“Don’t be silly,” said the woman. “It’s too chilly for that. Come inside and have something hot to drink, at least.” She stepped forward. Her skirt swung. The right side bulged at her hip. Was there something heavy in her pocket?
The servant girl mouthed, “No, no, no.”
The woman’s hand moved toward her pocket.
“Run!” shouted Lupo as he lunged. He caught the woman around the waist, and they fell together, overturning the bucket. Water sloshed across his back. A gun went off. He heard a scream. He flailed and found the woman’s right arm. The pistol in her hand shone wet in the sun.
He rolled with the woman, disoriented at her unexpected strength. That scream had scrambled his brain. Who made it?
The woman bit him in the neck. She kicked. But Lupo finally wrested the gun from her and got to his feet, pointing it down at her. “Stay there.” He stepped back, so she couldn’t twist around and bite his ankle. He looked quickly behind him.
Fire in the Hills Page 10
