Stefano reaches his hand forward for the boy’s, but Michal is unsure whether to take it, one arm still looping through the handle of the basket and his other small hand hovering uncertainly at his side.
“Come,” says Stefano, nodding in the direction of the houses, and the boy reluctantly follows.
As war had raged on, and the future had grown darker, children were not what he envisaged, much less wanted. Michal must be sent elsewhere, and his fate must be in the hands of others who are better equipped to look after him. Stefano’s own battles are still not over.
“There is no gas or electricity unfortunately,” says Erich, near the front door. “As you are aware from my sudden arrival last night, and from the state of the house, I’ve been away traveling, seeking work in other towns. But now I am fortunate to have found something temporary not too far from here. Factory work . . . nights, afternoons, could be mornings as well. I have to leave shortly, but I will bring some food back with me late tonight if you can wait till then.”
Stefano swallows back words of gratitude. He does not say which way he is thinking, though his decision has already been made.
“The boy can take the other room upstairs,” says Erich. “You can boil some water while I am gone. There is a small piece of washing soap in the bathroom. It is good enough until I can bring some more. The boy could do with a wash.”
Stefano wonders at the state of the German. He is thin, but he is certainly not lacking any nourishment. He has been cared for; that is obvious by his clothing as well.
“As you can see, my accommodation is not exactly distinguished,” Erich says with a half smile. “But you are welcome to it. I felled a tree from the forest earlier. You can chop the rest of the wood for the stove while I am gone this afternoon, if you are up to it.”
Stefano nods his thanks, though there is something about all of this that doesn’t feel right. He is acting as if he has nothing to lose, thinks Stefano. And sometimes these people are the most dangerous to know because they do not care if they lose you, too. Stefano looks down at the boy.
“But if you want to go in the meantime, I will understand that also,” says Erich. “You have choices at least.”
Stefano remembers the fields that hold little charity or food, and the roads that hold questions and the likelihood of more dead bodies. Germany holds little appeal now or in the past.
“Do you have enough food to get you through till tomorrow? I may be quite late tonight.”
“I have a little.”
“Then I hope you are still here when I return.” Erich extends his hand, and Stefano recoils internally. He can tolerate him because the war is over and there is no more fighting, but shaking his hand is an acceptance of trust. There is a hanging space of time before he does so.
“See! You have not exploded into a ball of flame,” says Erich.
“Thank you,” says Stefano, the word finally freed. “We will stay.” The boy steps closer to Stefano, perhaps for reassurance. He remembers doing the same as a young child when presented with situations he didn’t fully understand, and the protection he felt alongside his father.
Erich smiles, though it is not the smile of a victor, like he has just won a battle, but a slightly and unintentionally smug look of someone who expected the outcome, that things would go his way.
Stefano follows Erich to the front door. “You said ‘them’ before? About avoiding them next door?”
Erich pauses, perhaps reliving what he said.
“Georg, her husband, lives there, too. He has permanent injuries from the war and is very ill. Rosalind is his full-time nurse. He also has a temper, but you are quite safe if you don’t engage with him. They keep to themselves. They won’t come here.”
Stefano watches Erich walk southward from the house, past the clearing, to enter a forest trail that runs parallel with the main road. When he is out of sight, Stefano bends down to face the boy.
“Trust me!” he says to Michal.
Michal grips his hands together and shifts his feet uncertainly while his eyes stay glued to Stefano.
“I don’t want to go home,” whispers Michal, and his eyes begin to water.
And Stefano is wondering about the dark places that the boy has called home.
“What happened to you there?”
Michal is quiet again. He looks away, tears falling silently, afraid now of his memories that he would rather forget. Stefano feels his heart beat faster, racing to control the rush of emotions he is not supposed to feel: sadness, anger, tenderness.
With his hands, Stefano sweeps the tears from the boy’s cheeks.
“I won’t let anyone take you where you don’t want to go,” he says firmly. “Do you understand?”
And the boy nods.
“Friends must stick together, yes?” says Stefano, hand outstretched.
Michal reaches to accept the friendship this time, and Stefano firmly encloses the small hand in his own, feels the innocence and trust this gesture represents, and accepts now that they are bound.
1941
He was in the kitchen with his mother and sisters. His mother put some olives and cheese on his plate, then scooped up some fried tomatoes and peppers, and put them on, too. Stefano had only been awake a short while after a poor sleep.
Teresa was cranky, and he could already tell that she was looking for an argument. Nina chatted about the marketplace and the size of the onions. There was then a debate over the quality that she chose and the man whom Nina bought them from. Her older sister accused the other of buying only from the men that Nina wished to flirt with, concluding that she did not care about the quality.
His mother, however, was silent. She did not look at anyone, eating slowly, with little appetite.
Stefano couldn’t stand the bickering between his sisters that interrupted his thoughts.
“Enough!” shouted Stefano, which startled them to cease arguing, but he knew that the moment he left, they would start again.
His mother sat still. She had placed her knife and fork at either side of her plate and stared at the tomatoes.
“See what you do?” said Stefano, pointing at his mother. “All this fighting upsets us all.”
“Mamma,” said Teresa, back to her grumpy self again. “Why aren’t you eating?”
Without warning Julietta threw her face into her hands and sobbed. Stefano looked at his sisters for answers, but both were stunned into silence.
“I can’t take this,” his mother cried. “I can’t take that you have signed up to go to war.”
Stefano was not expecting this. She had spoken her fears but had always been logical, less emotional than his sisters. She was a small woman, quiet, unlike her sister, Serafina, who always dominated conversations. Julietta tended to stay in the background. Happy for someone else to take the glory for everything that happened. To see his mother break scared Stefano. Until that time he had not thought about the worry he was about to put her through.
He reached across to take her hand. “Mamma . . .”
But there was nothing to say. He couldn’t tell her that he wouldn’t be going; it was too late for that. He had already signed himself over to Mussolini’s army.
“It is good that your father is not here to see it. That is something to be thankful for. He would not have wanted you to fight for that fascist.”
“You had better not let Enzo hear you talk like that,” said Stefano, trying to make it lighter but not expecting her reaction.
“That old goat! He would send Serafina if he had the choice.”
“Mamma, it will be all right! I will be careful. Beppe and I will be together for this first battle.”
“How many of them will there be?”
“I don’t know yet.” He knew he had to be truthful. He could never disguise things from his mother. She was far too canny not to read between the lines. “The war could go on for years or be over soon. I can’t say, Mamma. Whatever it takes to finish it so we can go back to normal
ity.”
She wiped her tears as Nina put a protective arm around her.
The despair in his mother’s eyes would stay with him for a long time to come. Even when the days were dark and endless, he would always remember them: soft and pleading and hopeless. She must have known something then, something that no one else could see.
What his mother did not know, what he didn’t admit to anyone, was that he was afraid. He was not like Beppe who once had yearned for war, for any adventure that took him far from home. And he was not like his uncle, someone who wanted Italy to rule more lands.
Present-day 1945
Michal rests his elbows on the front windowsill to search for small distractions and signs of life, while Stefano rummages through the cabinet drawers, looking for documents belonging to the stranger. He knows it is wrong in any other circumstances, but it is still too early, the wounds still raw, to rest his fate in the hands of a German. Papers and receipts lie loosely in the drawers, some with a name that he doesn’t recognize. There is nothing about Erich, no clues, no background, and no piece of information that links Erich to the house at all.
On the walls are rectangular imprints, unmarked by time, where framed photographs and pictures might have sat. Other drawers are filled with things, items from a past: an antique candleholder, an ancient-looking key, a magnifying glass, and a wooden box with nails.
After he chops some wood, he boils some water for washing and from the kitchen window spies Rosalind’s house next door. The curtains on a room at the base move slightly, but no one becomes visible. She is odd, he thinks, damaged also, if he believes what Erich says.
He takes the pot of boiled water to the bathroom situated between the main room and the back door.
He searches for a towel and can’t find one, but a folded rag from a cupboard will do.
Back in the bathroom he takes off his shirt and turns slightly to examine his body in the narrow mirror leaning against the wall. The scarring from burns stretches down the left-hand side of his body and left arm and flows on to his hand, which he conceals with a bandage. It is not just for vanity that he covers it, but also it is less likely to draw as many questions. The details of it are too painful. With the bandage he can say anything he wants; an infection, say, can end the conversation quickly.
He fills the sink from the pot of water. A razor sits on the edge of the basin along with the soap, washcloth hangs over the tap. Erich is thinking of every comfort. He has tidied the house, and vinegary air hangs in the bathroom. He is meticulously clean, making it all the more curious why Erich was not shocked and upset by the earlier state of the house, by the damage to his things.
Stefano froths the water with the soap, then with soapy hands smears his face and commences to shave. Once finished, he uses the dampened cloth to wipe the grime from the rest of his body. When he looks up, the boy is in the mirror also, standing behind him. Stefano turns to face him, and the boy can see the scars, a look of curiosity only, not horror or pity as is the case with adults.
“I had a nasty accident,” says Stefano, continuing his washing. “I lost some people in the process.”
The boy looks at him, then looks at his own weary shoes.
“It is your turn next,” says Stefano, handing him the cloth.
The boy shakes his head.
“Suit yourself!” says Stefano with a shrug, and he dries himself quickly with the rag, then puts on a clean shirt. His clothes replaced, he returns to the kitchen table. Using a penknife he keeps in his trouser pocket, he opens the tinned meat and beans. In a cupboard he finds crockery and spoons. He divides the glutinous brown contents between two plates and pushes one across to Michal on the other side, who wastes no time to begin eating.
“What did you used to eat?”
“Nettles,” he mumbles with his mouth full, and his head in his food. And Stefano is surprised he has answered; he had got used to no response.
“Do you remember the town where you are from? Do you remember the name?”
“There was a big clock outside,” the boy whispers, raising his arms.
“In the center of the town? Like the one we saw yesterday?”
The boy nods. So many towns with clocks, thinks Stefano. It is no place to start.
“And the people, in your house. Did you have an uncle, aunt?”
Michal is thinking, but he can’t come up with anything. He frowns and pauses his eating briefly as if he can’t think and eat at the same time.
“It’s all right. You’re not in trouble for not knowing.”
“My brother would cry a lot,” he says, as if he needs to say something.
“And what did he cry about?”
The boy bites his top lip.
“He did not like the dark.”
“I see,” says Stefano.
“But I do,” says Michal, the pleasure of food lowering his shield of whispers. “I can hide in the dark.”
“I like the dark, too.”
“There is a secret hiding place here that we can hide in,” the child says.
“There is?” says Stefano.
“It is a dark place in the wall.”
Michal points, and Stefano follows the tip of his finger across the room to the dark void under the stairs. There is nothing immediate that he can see, but Stefano is curious. He retrieves his torch and moves closer to examine the wall, and he recognizes immediately a hidden door. He recognizes it because he hid behind one himself once.
The edge of the door is ajar ever so slightly, and he pries it open with his fingernails to see the secret enclosure within. Under the light from the torch, there are empty jars and tins nestled in cobwebs and brown dust, and just in front of them is a shoebox that is not layered with years of dust.
He lifts the lid of the box to find bundles of letters that are tied up with ribbon. He slides his fingers beneath the ribbon to pull out several of the envelopes, and sees the same handwriting on the front of each envelope, the same name, Gustav Moulet, but no address. None of the envelopes are postmarked. He reads the backs of the envelopes one by one. Just one name is written: Monique.
He is interrupted by sounds next door, the thumping of floorboards on the top floor and a muffled cry, and he stops to listen for more.
When there are no further sounds, he continues his inspection. A folded sheet of paper falls out from somewhere within the bundle of envelopes; the contents of this brief letter in large and patient, florid handwriting contrasts with the spirited, hurried, and coiling cursive on the envelopes. The letter is from Georg to Monique to say that he can’t wait for the following summer. It is dated January 1938. Georg thanks her also for the condolence letter she sent after the sudden death of his father; though he buried a man he barely knew, who was rarely home, and whose coldness made it difficult to form a relationship, the letter says.
But apart from the regret that Stefano can sense from those lines, the letter is mostly optimistic. Georg explains that he is thinking of joining the army and traveling like they (Monique and Georg) talked about, of places far away where the air is always warm. Where? Stefano wonders. He would like to know that. Georg mentions Rosalind fleetingly at the end, an afterthought it seems. Stefano is curious. If they are the same Georg and Rosalind from the neighboring property, why are the letters kept here? But he is more intrigued that Rosalind’s husband wrote to someone else. He has a sudden desire to know these people better.
A shriek from the house next door forces him to cease further investigation, and he quickly returns all the letters to the box and replaces it within the cavity. From where they are stored, someone doesn’t want these found.
“Michal, you must stay here!”
The boy looks fearfully toward the sounds.
“You must agree, yes?”
The boy nods.
Stefano walks outside the front door and searches for movement in the windows of the adjacent property. There is no sign of life within. The house is silent, cold. Its message says, St
ay away. Beside the front door leans a bicycle, and he knocks lightly on the window beside the door and checks the woods behind him. When there is no response from inside, he peers through the glass. The house is neatly furnished, crocheted covers over polished furniture, and a starched tablecloth edged with lace.
On the far wall is a photograph of a woman with dark hair, wide-set eyes. The portrait, illuminated by the window nearby, seems to leap out from the dullness of the room. The subject appears to look quizzically at the lens, as if she were curious as to why she has been chosen, with lips that are pressed humorously together as if she has just been told the reason also.
Rosalind appears agitated as she steps hurriedly down from the stairs in the center of the room. She stops to think of something, hooking the fingers of her hands together. Stefano raps on the glass, and she turns sharply to spy him through the window before looking back up the stairs behind her. She walks toward the front door and pulls it open with a sense of urgency or frustration.
“What do you want?” she says, her tone something other than receptive.
“I heard a scream. Are you all right?”
She stares at him before dropping her eyes to his feet. The sweet, doughy scent of baking escapes the open doorway.
“Yes, everything is fine here.”
He turns to leave.
“Where are you from?”
“Northern Italy.”
She looks away. She is too anxious to look him in the eye.
“I don’t give to beggars. There isn’t enough.”
“My name is Stefano, and I am not a beggar. I fought on your side for much of the war, but I’ll be on my way,” he says, turning to step away. He does not like what she has called him. He has never asked for charity.
She looks at his face. She is observant at least to see the change in his expression from one of concern to one of disappointment.
“I meant no insult,” she says.
Stefano turns back, then moves to leave a second time.
The Road Beyond Ruin Page 8
