by Annie Murray
‘You need to rest now,’ Clara Finzi instructed them.
She led them upstairs and into a small passageway at the top from which led several doors. The first she opened was for Rose. It was a simple, white room, very cool, in the middle of which a huge wooden-framed bed took up most of the space. Wooden shutters were closed at the windows, and when she pushed them open, letting in warmer air and languid flies, she realized the room looked over the back of the house. The Finzis had a small plot of land which stretched out to the point where the trees took over. They cultivated it intensively, and among all the rows of growing vegetables and tomato plants, chickens and geese ran here and there. Rose could still hear the dog, but it was not in sight.
She breathed in the warm air, her headache easing off a little now they were out of the direct heat, and turned to the whitewashed room behind her. Over the bed hung a small wooden crucifix. There was a chair and a rough chest of drawers with a deep porcelain bowl resting on top. That was all.
Well fed and tired enough now for all thoughts to be blocked out, she lay down gratefully on the firm, white bed.
Twenty-Seven
When she awoke, the only sound was the clucking of chickens below the window. She had left the shutters open and the light had grown softer, with the gentle, pinkish tinge of late afternoon. Her watch said four-thirty. Slowly she drank the cup of water by her bed and stood up, stretching her limbs.
There were no signs of life in the rest of the house when she left the room, so she let herself out of the front door. She would walk. It would be good to be alone, really alone for a time. Army life meant always being with other people.
The air outside was caressingly warm, full of the scents of herbs and gorse, and from somewhere the smell of frying onions. Rose turned towards the path which led up the hillside and began to climb, still feeling rather muzzy from her sleep. Every few yards along the sloping path there was a deep step, and she could feel the muscles in her legs pulling hard as she climbed between the greyish olive trees, with salamanders scuttling away from the path and the loud, abrasive rhythm of the crickets and cicadas.
She soon realized this was more than a convenient path up the side of the hill. In fact there were no other houses up there that she could see, nowhere for the path to lead. But at every other bend in the route as she made her way up was a little brick shrine, about waist height. Bending to look inside she found that set into each brick column was a roughly painted picture, each bearing a number. The pictures were the same as she had seen on the walls of the austere Naples churches, the fourteen Stations of the Cross. Jesus receives the Cross, Veronica wipes Jesus’ face, Jesus is nailed to the Cross. On the sills of some of the shrines she saw the remains of candle stubs and wilted flowers, perhaps left over from the Easter procession.
It felt appropriate that she should have come walking here to think about Sam. Sam, who had had his own beliefs, in his way, even if he would have staunchly disapproved of the colourful Catholic imagery in this thread of shared belief she was following up between the trees. She tried to concentrate on Sam, to talk to him.
She sat down on one of the cold steps, suddenly overcome by a great welling up of feeling. Hot tears ran down her cheeks.
‘I’ll miss you. I’ll miss you so much.’
Putting her hands over her face she wept for a few minutes, picturing the old, hard life in Birmingham, the way it had all been swept away by the war, changing and displacing all of them. Killing them, one way or another. None of it would ever be the same again. This thought was reinforced by the sight of the worn black skirt pulled tight over her strong tanned legs. It seemed such an alien thing. Who was she now? Who was Rose Lucas? Alone in a far-away country, dressed in strange, foreign clothes, giving her heart to a man who could not love her back. She remembered the smile Falcone had given her as they looked at the photograph together, and it made her cry again. It felt so cruel, that glimpse of how things could have been.
Angrily she stood up and walked on up the hill, trying to work the pain out of herself by physical exertion. She passed the final three stages of the pilgrimage without stopping to look at them, her legs aching.
At the top there was a small stone chapel. Outside stood a pale, bland-faced statue of Mary. The path led on upwards behind the chapel, but it looked less well tended.
She pushed open the door of the chapel quietly. It was gloomy inside, but her attention was drawn straight away to a raised altar where stood a Madonna quite different from the lifeless image depicted outside. She was dressed in heavy blue velvet, and at her breast was pinned a large metal heart, pierced through with a bristling collection of pins, large and thick like nails. One of her arms was outstretched, and her mouth was open as if she was constantly crying out, her grey eyes staring across the chapel in anguish. This was no serene plaster statue, but a woman who had watched her son die a most terrible death and had been powerless to stop it.
In front of her lay all kinds of tributes: garlands of flowers and sacred hearts, offerings of money and rosary beads. And more personal objects: the army cap of someone else’s son, a ring and some bracelets, a pair of thick black-rimmed spectacles. Had she been able to save the kin of others when she had failed so completely with her own?
Rose stood staring at her for several minutes. As if sharing the grief of the woman in front of her, she thought of all the people she had lost, Falcone among them. Try as she might to think of anyone but him, he was rarely out of her mind. She remembered that first night when they had talked all through the hours of darkness with the children sleeping round them, how there had been that new sense of herself moving out to him from her very centre, which she later recognized as love.
She turned to look at the rest of the chapel, and jumped violently. As if her thoughts had spirited him to the place, there he was, kneeling at the back of the rows of chairs, looking across at her.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said gently, standing up. ‘Didn’t you know I was here?’
‘No. I thought I was on my own. Have you been here all the time?’
‘I’ve been here nearly an hour,’ he said, walking towards her. ‘It’s a very peaceful place, isn’t it? My father used to come here often and sometimes I came with him.’
He stood beside her, looking up at the statue.
‘You know she shares in all our sorrows?’ he said. ‘When I came and prayed here as a boy I used to remember all my father’s patients, those who were suffering great pain, and the ones who had died. It was as if I could commit them all to her.’
‘And now?’
Falcone shook his head sadly. ‘Now I wonder if even she can comfort all the suffering in the world.’
As they walked out into the early evening light he said, ‘The path doesn’t end here. Come, I’ll show you, it’s lovely. No one comes up here except on feast days. There’s just an old man who looks after the olive groves.’
Rose climbed beside him. The stones here were further apart, with tufts of wiry grass and weeds poking up between them. Falcone did not rush on ahead as he had earlier, but walked beside her, quite unlike his harsh self at midday.
‘Were you thinking about your brother?’ Rose noticed with bewilderment that he sounded rather nervous.
‘Yes. I was thinking about all my family. How the war has changed everyone. Taken away so much of what was there before. And the way everyone has become someone else.’
‘Do you think the people we were are still somewhere inside us?’ he asked, in that way she remembered, as if he really needed her opinion. ‘That one day we can be reunited with ourselves again?’
‘Not the same,’ she insisted. ‘I know I’ll never be the same after being here.’ After you, she added in her thoughts.
When they had climbed a little higher the path forked, one branch continuing upwards, obscured by the vegetation around it. The other, which Falcone took, led into a clearing. There was a flat area like a ledge that had been cut into the hill to make a semicircu
lar space, the long, straight side of it against the body of the hill. In the middle of that line stood one more statue, this time of the risen Christ, its stone stained by green lichen. Through the trees he looked out over the town, his arm raised in benediction.
‘It’s beautiful.’ Rose walked to the edge of the clearing. The air was hazy, but the faded terracotta roofs of the town were easily visible below. She stood trying to absorb herself in the sight, but she was acutely aware that Falcone was watching her. Her body tingled under his gaze. Her heart was beating hard. She knew that something had changed, that the charged atmosphere which had existed between them before had returned, but she did not know how to react, or what to do with the turmoil of feelings inside her.
When she realized that he had come to stand just behind her she said, ‘You were very angry with me this morning, weren’t you?’
She heard him make a low sound, as if in pain, and turned round quickly to look at him. She was moved by the look of sorrow and desire she recognized in his eyes.
‘If you knew,’ he said. He looked down at the ground, unable to face her.
‘Every step of the way up here as you walked behind me, all I could think of was that you were there, as if your shape was burning into my back, and I couldn’t look at you. The train was torture, pretending to read that newspaper when I could only think that you were there, a few feet away from me. I knew if I was alone with you again it would be like this. If I’d looked at you or touched you I would have—’ He shrugged helplessly. ‘I want you so much. I can’t help it.’
Each could feel the other trembling as they moved into each other’s arms. They kissed again and again, faces, lips, necks, in a great hurry as if at any second the experience might be snatched away. Rose made little whimpering sounds, almost of distress, at the strength of the emotions he aroused in her.
It did not occur to her to hold back from him. They clung together, exploring each other’s bodies with their hands. Slowly, Falcone unbuttoned the black blouse Rose was wearing, uncovering her breasts, cupped in a black cotton bra. His hands were trembling so much as he tried to undo it that she reached round and unfastened the hooks herself. She pulled the little garment out through one sleeve, freeing her breasts with their dark, generous nipples, already peaking at his slight touch.
‘You’re so, so beautiful,’ he said. As his hands moved over her breasts, stroking her, he heard her give a sharp intake of breath at the intense pleasure of it. Never had she been touched like this before. Alfie had not had the imagination to give her more than a clumsy squeeze through her clothes. But this, this stroking, his taking her nipple between finger and thumb sent waves of desire through her body such as she had never even begun to experience before. Her legs were trembling, and the lower part of her body had come alive. She felt a sharp, warm sensation of need rising in her.
‘Don’t stop,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t bear it if you stopped touching me.’
Quickly they looked round for the softest part of the dry, stony ground. There was not one patch which appeared better than any other, so they knelt down together anyway, unfastening clothes, and they were in each other’s arms again, with Falcone’s shirt spread out beneath them.
It was awkward, their lovemaking that first time, their unfamiliarity with each other’s bodies, the hard ground, but they barely noticed the discomforts of it. At the height of it she called out some words in English and burst into tears at the release. He held her tenderly until both of them quietened, stroking her wet face. He stayed inside her for a long time afterwards.
‘I love you,’ she whispered into the silence. ‘I love you so much.’
She heard his voice, felt his warm breath on her neck. ‘And I love you.’
*
He came to her that night, after they had eaten with the Finzis and talked long into the evening over fish and bread and glasses of wine until the old man fell asleep in his chair, snoring softly, his whiskery mouth hanging open.
As she let Falcone into her dark room, their lips were on each other before either of them had even spoken, their bodies already tight with wanting each other.
‘I can’t see you,’ Falcone whispered. ‘I want to see you naked – every part of you. Is there a candle in here?’
‘I’ll open the shutters,’ Rose replied, shivering slightly. ‘There’s a moon tonight.’
Laughing as quietly as they could manage, they released the shutters, both saying ‘Ssshh’ with childlike exaggeration as one of the slatted wooden blinds banged too loudly against the frame.
‘Well he won’t hear us anyway,’ Rose whispered.
‘No. But the signora, she’s always had ears like a cat.’
To Falcone’s amusement Rose was still wearing her striped army-issue pyjamas, not having bothered to get any others. Smiling down at her he unbuttoned the jacket. The solemn, concentrated expression in his eyes made her want to take him to her straight away, but she stood still. He pulled the top away from her breasts and pushed it off down her arms. He slid his hands gently inside the top of her trousers and eased them down over her hips until she could step out of them. She stood naked in front of him, her black hair falling in soft waves over her shoulders, her eyes wide and vulnerable, looking up at him.
For a moment he didn’t move to touch her, but stood gazing at her, the moonlight casting deep shadows on her small, curving body, the strong hips and slight curve of her stomach, her full breasts. How many times he had tried to imagine her like this, unclothed, ready for him.
He moved towards her but she raised a hand. ‘Wait a minute.’
He had changed into a very worn cotton shirt and frayed shorts. She pulled the shirt off and ran her hands through the black curling hair on his chest, feeling the powerful beating of his heart, aware of his wide brown eyes watching her, a little shy at her taking control. His body was slim but muscular, and she stroked him tenderly across his shoulders, down over his chest and belly. She brought her hands slowly along the soft hair of his thighs, feeling him shudder and flex his legs slightly in anticipation. When he was naked, hard and ready for her, she took him between her hands, caressing him until he gasped and moved to stop her.
‘No – wait. Not yet, please.’
And then he was touching her all over, his lips kissing her mouth, her breasts and limbs and then, laying her on the bed, exploring between her legs until she was whimpering with amazed desire, aching to have him inside her. At last she pulled him close, guiding him into her. They both cried out pleasure and both came almost instantly, first he, then she, and she began to make such a noise that Falcone lovingly laid one hand over her mouth until they both lay back laughing, quietly but slightly hysterically, in each other’s arms.
They stayed like that for a time, talking drowsily, sleeping at last on the hard bed. Later in the night Rose woke to feel Falcone’s hands moving over her body. The moon had moved and it was darker, but they made love under the covers, more slowly this time, with less urgency, an experience more of touch than sight, both taking longer to climax, but still moved to tears by each other’s pleasure.
When she awoke, Rose expected to find him gone. But as the lemon morning light bathed the room through the open shutters, she realized he was beside her still. His face and hair looked very dark against the coarse white linen of the pillow. He was lying with his head resting on his bent arm and she saw his smiling, long-lashed eyes watching her.
Rose half sat up, startled. ‘You shouldn’t be here! What if they—?’
‘They get up very early. I can hear them outside. Don’t worry.’
He stroked her hair and kissed her. Then, as they embraced, he pulled her over on top of him, moving against her. The feel of her immediately hardened him, and he lifted her until he could enter her. She sat, both of them moving together gently, his hands stroking her breasts.
‘You are a miracle,’ he said, rising under her like water until she felt herself come alive again with the tingling at her breasts
and his reaching deep into her.
‘It feels very good, like this,’ she told him. ‘I can feel you so far inside me.’
He smiled. ‘Good,’ he said, ‘good.’
She saw his eyes half close as the power of the sensations overcame him, and once more they moved together until they were lost in each other, and every other thought or feeling was taken from them.
Twenty-Eight
May 1945
It was over!
On 2 May the German forces in Italy made their official surrender, and the fortunes of Europe had fallen to the Allies. After the long stalemate in the Italian campaign, events had suddenly speeded up during April in a landslide of activity. The Allied Forces finally crossed the enormous span of the River Po, which had long proved such an obstacle, and pushed across the northern plains to the French border. It was a time of sudden reversals, of power overthrown. Mussolini and his mistress, Claretta Petacci, were seized by a colonel in the partisan army in a farmhouse at Dongo on Lake Como to which they had retreated in hiding. The two of them were shot and hung ignominiously by the feet for all to see outside a garage in the Piazzale Loreto in Milan. And on 30 April Hitler and his mistress Eva Braun committed suicide.
The Victory in Europe celebrations were set for 8 May. Caserta was taken over by an air of fiesta and celebration, although the work of administering the army still had to go on. The war was over! They would be going home! Sooner or later they would be back in Blighty with familiar people and places around them. Home, far away and long unseen, was enhanced in the memory and seemed the very sweetest place to be.
But among all the dances, the hugs and kisses and drinking and singing, there were deeply mixed feelings. Some ugly scenes broke out when British soldiers exulted in their victory by taunting the local Italians, whom they saw as defeated. Fights broke out, and at least one Italian in the area was stabbed to death. As it began to sink in that returning home was not just a dream which might be realized some time in the future, memories grew sharper, less softened by nostalgia.
