A Pair of Silver Wings

by James Holland

  When the shooting began, the women in front and behind her were hit, as was Carla, but for some reason, the bullets missed Christina. The weight of bodies falling knocked her over. Carla also pulled her over as she fell. Christina was squashed almost flat on the ground. ‘I could barely breathe.’ When the firing stopped, a number of people were groaning, including her mother. ‘I’m not sure she was conscious,’ said Christina, who had kept completely silent. She could hear the Germans walking around, smoking and talking. Only when she was sure they had gone did she call out; but by that time, her mother must have died. Even so, she did not dare get up. Every time she thought the Germans had gone, she heard voices, sometimes close, sometimes further away. Not until nearly four o’clock did she finally begin to wriggle out of the mass of bodies. She had lain there for almost seven hours. ‘I was covered in blood,’ she said. ‘Absolutely covered. I couldn’t see a single part of clear skin.’ She stood up stiffly and shakily, carefully peered around the gates, then ran into the trees behind the cemetery.’

  ‘I wish I’d seen you,’ said Edward, ‘but I didn’t stay looking at that sight. To be honest, I don’t know how I spent that day – I was half demented, I think. But how on earth did you get away without being spotted?’

  Christina shrugged. ‘I cleaned myself as best I could in a mountain stream and then ran on. I saw no-one, but passed a smouldering barn where there were a number of charred bodies. Eventually I came across another settlement. Someone spotted me then – an Italian. They had a large cellar and invited me to hide with them there. I was there for three days. When I clambered out again, the world was a very different place.’

  ‘My God, Christina.’

  ‘Yes – it’s a terrible story.’ She shook her head. ‘But I came to terms with it a long time ago. You know, it’s a funny thing, but a few months back a film crew turned up here. They’d found one of the German officers who organised the rastrellamento. They asked me how I would feel about meeting him, and I told them, “I don’t particularly want to meet him, but I hope he’s been a good man for the rest of his life,” and they were amazed. I said, “Why are you so surprised?” and they said, “How can you be so calm about it?” So I told them. I told them I’d come to accept what had happened a long time ago, that nobody could undo what had happened, and that if this man felt remorse that was enough for me. For all this, I’ve had a happy life, a fulfilled life. Would I have done if I’d spent my life full of anger, and bitterness and rage? No, of course not. I regret what happened, I deeply regret it. And I miss my family more than anyone will ever know. But it was a long, long time ago. Time is a great healer if you allow it to be. I’m afraid my father didn’t believe that, though.’

  ‘Did you find him, then?’

  ‘Yes, although first I went back to our house in Montalbano. Fortunately, it was still standing. It had been ransacked for food, but otherwise it was undamaged. The Germans had gone and the people who had looked after me came and found me and told me that Sister Anna, who had taught Carla and me at school, had set up a refugee centre in Gardellano, just up the road. I went there for a bit. Then I heard that Papa and Uncle Orfeo had been seen in the woods near Pian del Castagna, so one morning – it must have been four or five days after – I went back up the mountain to try and find them.’

  ‘And did you? Orfeo told me they would survive. I have to say, I believed him. He still had hidden stores of food, he said. He was clever – and resourceful.’

  Christina took a sip of wine. Edward was staggered by her equanimity. Only once had he detected a slight catch in her voice. ‘I found them, yes,’ she said. ‘Poor Papa. He had lost his mind, I think. It was extraordinary, but in a week he had aged twenty years. Do you know, I think seeing him like that was almost the worst thing of all. Orfeo was not in a good way either, but he was strong. Anyway, the Germans had slaughtered the animals and burned the barn, but they’d left the house for some reason. We lived there together until, one day, Papa wandered off. We searched for him, but then someone told us he’d been picked up by the Germans. The mountains were still occupied. They carted him off and he became a labourer for them – a slave labourer. It must have been in January some time that I got a letter from the Red Cross saying he’d died. Pneumonia was the official reason, but really he died on 29th September, like everyone else.’ Now she wiped her eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It was terrible seeing how much a man could fall apart. He’d always been so gentle, so kind. He was a wonderful father to us. I pray for him every day.’

  Orfeo sent her to Bologna soon after, to stay with Rosa’s mother. She was still there when the war ended. ‘Everyone was shouting and laughing and celebrating, but for me it was one of the worst days of my life.’

  Edward nodded. ‘Mine too,’ he said.

  ‘I thought: if it’s over, why did it start in the first place? What was the point?’

  ‘I remember thinking exactly the same thing,’ said Edward. ‘Everyone kept telling me to cheer up. “You’ve survived!” they kept saying. But for what? I felt I’d lost everything: my best friends, the girl I’d thought I was going marry. And about a month after I’d made it back to Allied lines I got a letter from my mother – I’d written to them, I think, within a day of making it to safety – and she told me my father had died back in March. For six months I’d not even known.’ He sighed. ‘It turned out they’d received a telegram that I was missing, presumed dead, and a few days later he’d had a stroke and died of it. A week or so after that, my mother received another telegram saying I was very probably still alive after all.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Eduardo.’

  ‘Well – at least he wasn’t executed. At least we didn’t have storm troopers ravaging their way across Britain.’ He paused, then said, ‘But tell me, what became of Orfeo?’

  ‘Oh, he lived a long time. He never remarried, but he continued to farm at Pian del Castagna. He rebuilt the lower part of the barn and used part of the house for the animals. He was about the only person still farming up there. The old community died during those days of the rastrellamento, but it wasn’t just the war. Afterwards the mezzadria system died out too. There was huge migration to the cities. No-one wanted to live and work up in the mountains, toiling away on poor soil, barely scraping a living. There had never been any running water or electricity up there – few people wanted to live like that any more.’

  ‘Except Orfeo.’

  ‘Well, of course, he’d never had any of those things. He worked right up until the end. I used to go and see him quite a lot, but Bruno and I were living in Bologna by then. He died – let me see – eighteen years ago.’

  ‘I wish I could have seen Bruno again,’ said Edward. ‘I’ve never seen any of my partisan friends since Giorgio, Jock and I made it to Allied Lines. We were debriefed and then we were sent our separate ways. I think Giorgio joined an Italian unit and Jock was probably sent home. But I don’t really know.’

  ‘Well, Giorgio still lives around here.’

  Edward brightened. ‘Giorgio? Really? Incredible! I never thought –’

  ‘He and Bruno worked together for many years. They were both mechanics, although Bruno did up a few houses from time to time as well. Like Cà Serra. Anyway, they had a garage here in Bologna and then they set up another one in Veggio. Giorgio left Bologna to run it. He’s still there.’

  ‘I’d love to see him.’

  ‘I’m sure he’d want to see you too. We’ll call him later.’

  But first there was the memorial at Mazzola. Lying in the centre of the town, it was a large marble mausoleum, which, Edward realised, he had seen without realising its significance, as he had driven through the town his first morning three days before. Il Sacrario, Christina called it: the memorial Chapel. In the hallway, on one of the walls, stood a collection of photographs of every single person killed in the massacre. Edward spotted Volpe immediately, then Christina pointed out Carla.

  ‘It’s not a good picture,’ said Christina, a
nd yet Carla looked exactly as Edward remembered: the wide eyes and full lips, the narrow shape of her face; the fair hair. He stared at the other faces too: the Casalinis, Enrico, even Balbi. Dr Gandolfi was there. A good man, Edward thought to himself. Father Umberto too.

  It was a stark but peaceful place, laid in the shape of a cross. In each wing, embedded in the walls, were caskets with the remains of every victim, a square slab engraved with each name stacked floor to ceiling.

  ‘They’re over here,’ whispered Christina, leading him away from the centre of the chapel. Edward looked at the names: Isabella, Eleva, Nella, Gino, Arturo, Rosa – and Carla. He lifted his hand and brushed it across the slab, feeling the hard, cold granite on his palm. So this is where you are, he thought. But you’re not, are you? No, this was just a marker – a memorial, nothing more.

  He watched Christina, her eyes tightly closed, make a sign of the cross, then they stepped backwards and walked back out into bright sunshine.

  As they drove out of the town, Christina said, ‘Eduardo, do you really think you would have married Carla after the war?’

  ‘Yes – if she’d have had me.’

  ‘But what would you have done? Where would you have lived?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’d have gladly come back to Italy. There was little for me back in England. But I’d have gone anywhere she wished. I wanted to spend my life with her – I’d have made any number of sacrifices to do that.’

  Christina looked thoughtful for a moment then she said, ‘Yes, I think you would. I’m sorry, Eduardo. I’ve often wondered – often doubted whether your love affair would have survived the war. But I believe you – you’ve put my mind at rest. You know, I hope that one day you find each other again. In heaven, or wherever she is now.’ She patted his thigh gently and smiled.

  She took him to see Giorgio, who pumped Edward’s hand and embraced him tightly. ‘My dear friend Eduardo!’ he said. ‘It’s been far too long. Have you seen your street?’

  ‘No, but I’ve been told about it.’

  ‘Pretty good, eh? I’ve got a bigger one than you, though,’ he grinned.

  ‘Volpe’s got a square,’ said Christina.

  ‘The benefit of being a martyr to the cause,’ said Giorgio, winking at Eduardo.

  He was now almost entirely bald and with a large protruding stomach, but the quick, intelligent eyes and sardonic smirk were the same. There was still a faint, bleached line in the middle of his forehead.

  ‘I remember that night very well,’ said Edward, pointing to the scar.

  ‘This? Yes – stupid fool. Not the greatest assassin the world has ever seen.’

  For more than two hours they sat and talked, reminiscing while Giorgio smoked one cigarette after another, and while his television rumbled constantly in the background.

  As Edward and Christina were about to leave, Giorgio said to Edward, ‘You should see the top,’ said Giorgio. ‘The summit of Monte Luna. There’s a marker up there to the Blue Brigade.’

  ‘You boys go,’ said Christina. ‘I’m not walking up that – not at my age.’

  ‘All right, you and I will climb it,’ said Giorgio. ‘How about tomorrow? How about tomorrow morning?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning suits me,’ agreed Edward. ‘Shall I come here?’

  ‘Yes – about ten o’clock. We’ll have a coffee then head on up into the mountains.’

  Edward grinned. ‘I’ll look forward to that, Giorgio.’

  As Edward drove Christina back to Montalbano he said, ‘Giorgio is much as I remember him. It’s amazing.’

  ‘It’s good for you boys to talk together like that.’

  ‘I’d forgotten many of those things. He’s reminded me that there were some good times during those days – between all the violence.’

  ‘Bruno always used to say so. He and Giorgio and some of the other partisans stayed friends all their lives. And I don’t mean just friends. They were like brothers. They would have done anything for each other – absolutely anything.’ She patted his leg. ‘So you see what you’ve missed out on by burying yourself away all this time?’

  Edward made no reply.

  He and Giorgio took their time climbing the summit. The path was rarely very steep and wound its way gently through the wooded slopes, but although Edward found the climb hard work, he did not struggle as much as Giorgio, who wheezed and coughed and repeatedly demanded they stop for rests. ‘We used to run up this,’ he grinned. ‘Can you believe it?’

  It was a cloudy day, but bright, the sun never far away. As they passed where the charcoal burner’s hut had been, Edward said, ‘That was where Carla and I often used to meet.’

  ‘Ah, Carla,’ said Giorgio. ‘I think we were all a little jealous of you. She was a very beautiful girl. I’m sorry you had to see her like you did that evening.’

  ‘It was my choice, remember.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Giorgio, ‘but even so. It’s haunted me ever since. I still have dreams about it occasionally – seeing all those bodies covered in blood. A terrible thing.’

  ‘You? I always thought you were so tough. Nothing ever seemed to shake you.’

  Giorgio grinned. ‘Well, I did say only the occasional dream.’

  Something scurried in the undergrowth up ahead, and then a wild boar ran across the path twenty yards in front of them, snorting as it went.

  ‘Plenty of those up here again,’ said Giorgio. ‘The mountains have become wilder again. Nature’s taken over once more.’

  They reached the summit, short of breath and hot. A stone plinth stood in the clearing. ‘To the eternal glory of the partisans who sacrificed their lives for the liberty and independence of Italy,’ was inscribed upon it, but underneath someone had roughly carved the words, ‘Volpe lives’ – Volpe vive.

  Edward smiled.

  ‘He’s still quite a hero around here,’ said Giorgio. ‘We all are.’

  ‘Nice to be appreciated.’

  Giorgio nodded. ‘I think so. It’s helped me out of a few tight spots in the past. Financially, and in other ways. I mean, Bruno and I used to play on it a bit. We definitely got more customers because of what we’d done. And quite right too – we risked everything.’

  ‘Did you ever believe the Allies would reach here before the onset of winter?’ Edward asked him.

  Giorgio smiled, and thought for a moment. ‘Let’s just say I wasn’t ever quite the optimist that Volpe was. I don’t think he ever doubted the Allies for a moment. But I remember talking to Jock and Billy and they didn’t think the breakthrough was very likely. And they were usually right about military matters.

  ‘There was a lot of fighting round here later. It was the South Africans who took it in the end. In March, 1945. The Germans stayed up here, with their guns, just as the British had feared they would. I didn’t even get to Bologna until a week before the end of the war. Still, I think we played our part. I’d like to think it was all worth it.’

  ‘It was,’ said Edward. ‘We have to believe it was.’

  Giorgio turned and looked out over the sweep of the mountains. ‘It always makes me feel a little sad, being up here. The shadow of death still hangs over this place. No-one lives here any more, the houses are left as ruins. I’d like to see some of these old farms rebuilt. See some life injected back into the place. It shouldn’t be a shrine to the dead. It should be a place for the living.’

  ‘Maybe it will be again one day,’ said Edward.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Giorgio. He slapped Edward on the back. ‘Still,’ he added, ‘it’s good to able to walk up here without a gun, isn’t it? Without having to worry about Blackshirts and Nazis, and who might be about to stab you in the head.’ He laughed. ‘Come on, Eduardo, let’s get going.’

  On his last night, they held a dinner in his honour – in a trattoria in Veggio owned by another former Blue Brigade partisan. There were over twenty of them: former partisans and survivors of the rastrellamento like Francesco and Christina. Course after course appe
ared. Edward thought it the most delicious meal he had ever tasted. The mood was joyful and celebratory, the endless stream of stories and anecdotes all light-hearted and humorous. At times, Edward laughed so much his sides ached. And he got drunk – not drunk to escape in the way that Lucky did – but because he was having a good time. They sang songs – old partisan songs he’d forgotten all about – and gave toasts: to Volpe, to lost comrades, to innocent victims, to their glorious Allies.

  They insisted he make a speech, and so he pushed back his chair and shakily got to his feet. A blur of faces, smiling, cheering him on. He thanked them, honoured them, insisted he would be back again soon, and that he had been wrong not to have returned before. ‘You all taught me so much during the war, and you’ve taught me much this week, too,’ he told them, ‘about courage and magnanimity. You’ve shown me that life is precious and is to be celebrated and enjoyed.’ Steadying himself, he said, ‘Thank you for this dinner and for so much, much more.’ He raised his glass to them. ‘I salute you all.’

  As he collapsed back into his chair, he glanced at Giorgio, then Christina. They were clapping along with everyone else, then Giorgio put his fingers in his mouth and blew a wolf whistle. Edward laughed. He felt a lightness in his head and in his soul. He was happier than he had been in a very, very long time.

  England – August, 1995

  On his journey back to Somerset, Edward spent much time thinking about his son, Simon. ‘Next time you come out here,’ Christina had told him, ‘bring your family. I want to meet them.’ He genuinely hoped that might be possible. Much, though, depended on his ability to build bridges with his son. He was now desperate to tell Simon everything, to unburden himself entirely, but after all this time was not sure how he should go about it. He was nervous, too, about how Simon would react. It was bound to make his son think of him in a very different light; he would be revealing a part of himself that Simon had simply never known. It required careful thought.