The Girl Who Rode the Wind

by Stacy Gregg

  “No,” Marco said. “We can’t.” And his arms closed tight around me and the next moment he was kissing me. It was the best kiss in the world and as he stood back and let me go he said, “I don’t think it is you, I really think there might be a dead rat in the stables.”

  People will tell you that falling in love is the most wonderful feeling in the world. It is not. Falling in love is sickening, like a roller-coaster ride on an empty stomach. But being loved back, that is incredible. It sounds so terrible to say that 1944, the year when all around us lives were being destroyed by war, was a joyful time. But for Marco and me it was truly happy. In a way, I do not know if our love could have existed without the war. Our families had been turned upside down and the chaos made our relationship possible. Who was going to notice a hidden romance between a girl from Lupa and a boy from Istrice when there were Nazi troops marching their way into the countryside and the fascists were hunting down freedom fighters and putting them on trial as criminals?

  “All the same,” Marco said, “we must be careful. Your family and mine would not approve if they knew.”

  “They will have to know eventually, won’t they?”

  We were out riding on Serafina and Stella. It was a gloriously sunny day and I was having trouble holding Stella to a walk, she was keen to gallop and so was I. I kept the reins taut, rather enjoying the way she jogged impatiently, springing along with her head held high.

  Marco went silent for a moment and then he said, “If we tell them we are in love they will never accept that we should be together …”

  I was dismayed until he added, “… but if we were married, then surely they’d have no choice.”

  There were a thousand butterfly wings pounding inside my chest, this overwhelming sense of pure happiness lifting me up, up into the sky.

  “You want to get married?”

  “That is what I just said, Loretta,” Marco said softly. “I want to marry you. Do you want to marry me?”

  I thought about this for a moment. This was a real marriage proposal and although I was only fifteen I knew it was serious.

  “Would our children be raised as Lupa or as Istrice?”

  “They would be raised as our children and we would love them together as a family,” Marco said. “To me that would be all that would matter.”

  “And when would the wedding be?”

  “After the war is over. In spring. In the chapel on the outskirts of the city.”

  “And what sort of flowers would I carry?”

  “Loretta!” Marco laughed. “You are being difficult now and you have still not given me your answer. Are you going to marry me or not?”

  That night, back at the stables, I spent a long time alone with my horse, brushing her and putting a braid in her mane. “This is how you will wear it for my wedding day,” I whispered to her. “I am getting married, Stella. What do you think of that?”

  By 1944 the piazza, where we had once thrilled to the sound of racing hooves, had become a haunted place. The fascists had set up their headquarters in the mayor’s chambers and no one wanted to go anywhere near, for even looking at a Blackshirt the wrong way, or whispering to a friend in the street might be enough to see you dragged into their rooms and “questioned” for hours. Some men who were taken away for interrogation were never seen again.

  The horror stories that Marco had once told me when we were young children about castor oil and beatings were true, and they were nothing compared to the cruelties that the fascists dished out now that their power base was crumbling. As more and more young Italians chose to join the freedom fighters, and the Nazis rode into town on tanks, the fascists were beset from both sides, trying to crush the rebellion and to keep control from the Germans.

  One day I came home from the market and told Mama about a poster on the wall of the town hall.

  “The Blackshirts have put it there, and it lists crimes and punishments,” I said.

  “What crimes?” Mama asked nervously.

  “Stealing food, disobeying curfew and failing to salute the Nazi troops,” I told her.

  Mama said nothing. She knew we were guilty of all of these crimes. Everyone stole food now – how else could we possibly survive? We were starving and the Nazis would come and grab from us what little supplies we had. Our cow had been taken from us long ago and then last week the Germans took Gertie, our milking goat, too. We had no vegetables in the garden and no grain to make bread. Without Carlo to hunt for us there was no meat to put on the table. Theft was all we had left. As for saluting the Nazis – we saluted their faces, but as soon as their backs were turned we would spit in the streets after them.

  The last crime on the list was separate from the rest and printed in bold, black type:

  Anyone who assists or hides the “freedom fighters” will be punished by death without trial.

  “Loretta. I cannot let you do this.”

  Marco blocked the doorway of the stables. “The Nazis are everywhere and the Blackshirts too. It is too dangerous to go into the woods. Show me the path, give me directions and I will go instead.”

  “No!” I was horrified. “I can’t let you take the risk. He is my brother.”

  “Then at least let me come with you?”

  I shook my head. “It is safer if I go alone. If there are two of us there is more chance of attracting the attention of the Nazi soldiers.”

  “I am begging you, Loretta, please don’t go.”

  I threw the backpack over my shoulder and gave Marco a kiss. “I must. I will be back before dawn, I promise.”

  As I walked along the Via di Vallerozzi that evening, I heard the bells in the tower chime and I knew it was almost nine. In one hour’s time it would be curfew and if the Blackshirts caught me out on the streets I would be taken away. I had to hurry.

  Outside the Contrada of the Lupa I looked left and right to check that there was no one watching me before I gave the secret code – four knocks on the door followed by four more. There were footsteps inside and then a moment later the door swung open and there was the Prior.

  “You are late,” he hissed as he handed me the package.

  It was wrapped in brown paper. I had no idea what was inside but I knew better than to ask. I shoved it inside my backpack. At my feet, Ludo gave an anxious whine as if to say, “We should get going”.

  I was about to leave when I noticed the bruises on the Prior’s face.

  “What happened to you?” I asked.

  “Nazi soldiers were here earlier today,” the Prior said. “They … asked me a few questions.”

  He seemed shaken, and I noticed that his hand that held the door was trembling.

  “They beat you? What did they want to know?”

  The Prior looked past my shoulder and checked anxiously up and down the Via di Vallerozzi.

  “You should not dwell here on the doorstep,” he said. “It would be bad for us both if the Nazis were to find us like this. Go to your brother, Loretta, no more questions!”

  We were clear of the city before the bell tolled for curfew. That night there was a full moon, which was good because it made it easier for me to see once we had left the lamplights behind. Although by the time Ludo and I were actually inside the forest it was so dark we could barely make out the path. I relied on the dog to lead me as he had done so many times before, his instinct for sniffing out Carlo remained as strong as it had ever been.

  We had been walking for about half an hour when I heard voices. Not Carlo and his men, but other voices, coming towards me. With my heart pounding I grabbed Ludo to me and flung myself down into the undergrowth.

  “Ludo, please! Shhh.”

  Ludo was growling. A low, protective growl – the sort of growl that a dog instinctively gives when there is an intruder.

  “No!” I hissed at him. “You must be quiet!” I wrapped my hand tight around his jaw and he stopped growling, as if he knew that it was a matter of life and death. Just as he did so I saw the men, a pat
rol of five Blackshirts. They were walking along, their guns hanging at their waists, cigarettes in their hands. They were talking about their girlfriends. One of them was complaining that she didn’t cook spaghetti as well as his mother and then another Blackshirt said that although his girlfriend was an excellent cook, she nagged him terribly and which was worse? All this time I was lying on my belly on the cold, damp, rotten leaves with my arms wrapped tight around Ludo. I was so certain that at any moment they were going to hear me because in my ears my breathing was as loud as a jet plane and my heart was beating so hard it was like a kettle drum. The men had stopped! They were standing right there next to us. I felt a growl rising in Ludo’s chest and I held my breath. Please no, Ludo, please.

  And then … nothing. The men began to walk again. I heard their voices receding, moving away from me down the path towards the city and then the air was silent and empty once more. I stayed lying there, face down, for what seemed like an eternity until I was certain that they had gone. Then I got to my feet and I ran.

  I ran in the dark, Ludo leading me, tumbling down banks and pushing my way through the undergrowth. By the time I reached Carlo’s camp, almost an hour later, I was sobbing and shaking like a leaf.

  “Hey, hey.” Carlo hugged me tight. “You are OK now, Loretta. Everything is OK.”

  I couldn’t speak. My words kept getting stuck in my throat, and it was taking all my effort just to gulp down air, hyperventilating and gasping for breath.

  “You are certain that they went the other way?” one of the freedom fighters asked me. “The Blackshirts? They went back towards town?”

  “Yes,” I said. Although even as I said this I realised I was not completely certain. I hadn’t dared to move when I was lying there on the ground with Ludo. I had heard the voices fading but I wasn’t sure what direction the men had taken exactly.

  “I have something for you,” I told Carlo. “From the Prior.”

  I handed him the package from my backpack and also a block of cheese and a loaf of bread, which, considering how hungry I was, felt like handing over gold bullion, but I knew that Carlo and his men were starving.

  “Do you want coffee?” Carlo asked me. “It will warm you up. Here, sit down!”

  I sat down on a fallen log beside the open fire and warmed myself while Carlo poured me a drink.

  “You are very brave, Loretta,” my brother said. “I know it is more dangerous than before to come here.” He ruffled my hair and then he said, “Loretta my little Scavezzecolla. How are the horses? How is Stella?”

  “She is fit,” I said, “and sound. Ready to run the Palio.”

  “Good, good!” Carlo said. “I knew I could count on you, Loretta. She is a great horse. You must keep her safe for me until I come home, yes? Until I return no one else can ride her, Loretta, only you. You understand?”

  I nodded and took a sip of coffee. The warmth of it in my stomach made me bold.

  “I have news to tell you,” I said.

  “What is it?”

  Another sip and then I spoke. “Marco has asked me to marry him. We are engaged.”

  For two weeks now, ever since Marco had asked me to be his bride, I had been dying to tell Carlo. I had thought about this moment, fondly imagining his reaction. What I did not anticipate was the utter fury that confronted me as his face darkened and he began to rage.

  “No!” he shouted, raising his voice so that the other men in the camp came rushing to see what was wrong. “Out of the question, Loretta! Forget about it! It will never happen!”

  “But …” I stammered. “I thought you would be happy for me!”

  “Happy for you to destroy our family by marrying some filthy Porcupine!”

  “You told me that you didn’t care about contradas – that they don’t matter!” I cried.

  “You can be friends with him – sure!” Carlo shouted. “But marrying him is another matter! You will break Mama’s heart! Do you know what you are doing? If you marry a Porcupine then you will be disowned by the Lupa contrada. You will be an outcast! Did you ever think about that?”

  “You, of all people, Carlo!” I shouted at him. “I thought you would understand. You should be happy for me.”

  Carlo shook his head. “I cannot be happy for you, Loretta, when you are making the wrong decision. A marriage between a Wolf and a Porcupine will end in disaster. It cannot happen.”

  “Well, it is going to happen,” I told him as I flung my backpack over my shoulders. “And when I walk up the aisle I will do it alone, without you to hold my hand because you are no longer my brother!”

  “Loretta!” Carlo shouted after me, but I turned my back on him and left the campsite in floods of tears, running alone through the woods. Ludo, who had been whimpering while we fought, remained loyal to my brother as always, abandoning me to stay behind at his master’s feet.

  No longer my brother. I have regretted my bitter, cruel words now for seventy years, for they were the last I ever spoke to Carlo.

  The troop of Blackshirts that I thought I had so cleverly avoided in the forest that night had not gone back to town. They had followed me, silently, patiently stalking my every step, until I led them right to where they wanted to go.

  When they stormed the camp it was bedlam. Two of the freedom fighters were killed that night. The rest were captured by the Blackshirts and forced at gunpoint back into Siena. In the mayor’s chamber they interrogated them. My brother was beaten until he was unconscious. They cut him and electrocuted him and spat on him and abused him and tried to make him talk and then, when he refused to tell them what he knew, they dragged him to the piazza where they had erected the gallows for all to see.

  I didn’t go to watch the public hanging. I did not want the memory of my brother to be stained by those final, brutal moments as the rope caught his weight and his neck snapped.

  That is how my brother’s life came to an end. Hanged as a traitor. And I, the girl who led the Blackshirts straight to him, have lived with the guilt and horror of the ultimate betrayal all my wretched life.

  It’s not your fault. I told Nonna that. I said she couldn’t have possibly known the Blackshirts were following her, that it was an accident. But I knew how hollow my words were to her. If it had been Johnny or Vincent who’d got killed because of something I had done, no matter what anyone said, I would have felt the same way.

  When Nonna had spoken about forgiveness, I thought she had been angry at the Prior. It never occurred to me that it was her. That she was the one who needed to be forgiven.

  “The Prior knew about what happened that night?” I asked.

  Nonna nodded. “He told me to be quiet about it. He said that if the people knew I had been the one to lead the Blackshirts to Carlo and the others then they would turn the blame against me. He convinced me it wasn’t going to do any good, so I didn’t tell, not even Mama. I pushed it down inside me and I never spoke of it. Only Marco knew my secret and he swore he would tell no one. When my father came home Mama told him that Carlo had been tortured and killed by the Blackshirts and I said nothing …”

  “Your father came home?” I was surprised.

  “Yes, Piccolina,” Nonna said. “When the war ended he was released from duty. He made his way home to us, although he nearly died twice on the way back to Italy. Once when his boat was sunk and another time when the Nazi troops boarded his train. He was a changed man when he got home. He had seen so much death on the battlefields and he had long ago lost faith in Il Duce and what he had been fighting for. He was proud to hear that Carlo had been a freedom fighter before his death. If only my brother had known this because he believed himself to be on the opposite side of the war to his own father. Italy was so divided then – in our own town neighbours turned against one another as the civil war took its grip. And then in September of 1945 when the announcement came that the war had ended, with it came the news that the Palio would be held once more, and there would be a special Palio to celebrate. They called it t
he Palio of Peace.”

  Her eyes welled with tears once more. “I had prepared Stella all this time to be ready to race. If Carlo had still been alive he would have ridden for our contrada. To see the terra in the piazza for the first time in five years and for Carlo not to be here …”

  The terra in the piazza! I had forgotten all about it.

  “Nonna,” I said. “Right now there is dirt again in the square. Tomorrow they are holding races and Frannie has asked me if I want to ride Nico.

  “They are holding the night trials?”

  “Yes.”

  Nonna shook her head, “No, Piccolina. It’s too dangerous.”

  “Frannie says it’s not rough, not like the real race.”

  Nonna looked serious. “And this Frannie, he has seen it all before, has he? He has felt the slam of his bones against the bricks of the buildings when a horse fails to make the turn or the weight of a horse coming down hard on top of his body when it trips and falls? He is an expert on such things, this boy you have only just met? I have ridden the Palio, Lola, it is the most dangerous horse race in the world. The night trials are run on the same track, I cannot let you –”

  “Nonna!” I said. “If you don’t let me ride Nico then I’m going to lose him. They will give the ride to another fantino if I don’t say yes.”

  I felt my eyes blur with tears. “He’s my horse, Nonna. It should be me on his back. You told me that you felt the same way once. So you know how I feel and you know you have to let me ride.”

  Nonna took my hand. “Oh, Piccolina,” she sighed. “The trouble is, you have too much of my blood in you. Very well, ride the night trials. But I will come to watch, yes? I want to see this Nico for myself.”

  A jockey spends half their life in the dark. Back home I would watch Johnny and Vincent ride morning workouts at Aqueduct with no lights and nothing but a white rail to their left hand side to use as a guide to stop them from crashing off the track.

  Except a white rail is a different story from a wall of solid stone. Also, I wasn’t riding a workout in the piazza – this was a race. If I was to win it, I would need to fight all the way to the finish.