The cottage was silent but for the deep breathing of the twins and the snap of the fire. Rosa leaned forward, poking at the embers.
‘Signora, don’t distress yourself. Not on my account.’
She glanced up. ‘If not yours, then who else’s?
‘One afternoon I had to descend to the village for an appointment with the doctor. Women’s matters, you know. The children were about twelve. I didn’t like leaving them in his charge but had no choice. I hid the grappa under my bed but he found it and began drinking. When I came back I found Vittorio sitting alone on the dirt in his own soiled clothes. And could hear screams coming from the tool shed. Opening the door I saw he had tied Francesca over the work bench and was rutting her from behind. She was screaming in pain and terror. His back was to the door. I did the first thing I could think of. I picked up a shovel and swung it at his head.’
‘Signora, you only did—’
She held up her hand. ‘He wasn’t dead. But on the floor, groaning. So I hit him again. And again, until he was dead. Francesca saw it all. That night I buried him in the woods. Later I let it be known he had left in search of work and wouldn’t be coming back. The villagers accepted it, as is the way with villagers, and nothing more was said. But over the years the stories began, and grew ever more fanciful, so in a while I stopped going down there and people stopped coming up. It’s an arrangement that suits us all.’
‘And… Francesca?’
‘Has never uttered a word since that day.’
*
He tried the radio again later that night. Retrieving the suitcase from its hiding place above the cowshed, he carried it down the ladder, pushing past the cud-chewing cattle to the tool shed where he lit the lantern and opened it on to the bench. The batteries, he saw, were by now all but dead. Whenever possible, he had been taught, always use a mains supply, for apart from conserving the batteries, this will greatly improve the performance of the radio. Connecting Rossi’s wires to the terminals produced no results, however, and he began to suspect there was no power to the farm. But tracing the wire back through the wall with the lantern, he found a Bakelite box with a switch inside. He turned the switch, and the radio hummed to life. Immediately, tuning the knob, he began hearing faint clicks and hisses of other transmissions. Draping the long copper aerial around the shed’s rafters, he took out the Morse key and code book and set to work. An hour later, having transmitted his news into the ether, he packed up the set and went to bed.
The next day Germans came. He would never know if their arrival was connected with his radio transmission, or just part of the ongoing search for partisans and deserters; all he knew was that having harvested the last of the maize, and begun the laborious task of pulling up the stripped stalks ready for the field to be ploughed, he looked up to admire an eagle cruising the ridge above him, and heard the distant rumble of engines. For a moment he froze, unsure if it was road traffic he was hearing or one of the many aircraft that passed each day, then he heard the revving of a motorcycle and knew it was no aeroplane. Deep in the woods above the maize field was an ancient riparo – a shepherd’s shelter. His instructions from Rosa, should anyone come to the farm, were to go straight there and wait until the coast was clear. But instead he sprinted for the track, one thought burning in his head. If he, or any trace of him, was found, the whole family would be arrested. Like as not Rosa would then be shot for harbouring a fugitive and the twins shipped off to a prison camp. This he could not allow. He ran on, cursing his carelessness. The radio was well hidden, as were the weapons and fuses, but the suitcase containing his clothes was in the hay beside his bedding. He must get to it and remove it along with all signs of his existence. He reached Bruno’s field and hesitated. He too had heard the noise and was cantering in furious circles, so Theo ran the long way round. By the time he reached the farm, and crouched down breathlessly behind the pig hut, he realized he was too late.
One motorcycle and a small truck were parked in the yard, six men, all in field grey, one of them an officer, staring curiously about. Heart pumping, he considered his options. Kill them all, was his first instinct, kill them and remove all evidence of their coming. Understandable maybe, but impractical, he knew. Even if he could reach the Sten, load and fire it, he’d be lucky to get two before the rest recovered and overwhelmed him. Perhaps he should simply surrender. Put up his hands, walk out and tell the officer Rosa had no idea he’d been there. Would they believe him? He doubted it. Or might he possibly draw them away? Cause a diversion and lead them into the hills, giving the family a chance to escape. But escape where? On foot, one of them an elderly woman, another a confused youth. Even as he watched, he saw Vittorio hesitantly approaching the motorcycle, fingers outstretched, to the amusement of the soldiers, as though it was some fearful monster. Then Rosa appeared, looking very old and bent, and bearing a tray with one glass on it. Slowly she drew near the officer and offered him the glass, which he took with a slight bow. At the same moment Francesca emerged from the cowshed carrying a pail of milk. Smiling and waving in greeting to the soldiers, she turned briefly to the pigpen, looked straight at Theo and touched her fingers to her forehead. Like horns. Then hurried down to join the soldiers.
*
He stayed away until dusk, until long after he’d heard the vehicles depart, crouching in the riparo as the raindrops plopped on to leaves around him, till certain it was safe. Even then, having crept down to the cottage, he watched it for a full fifteen minutes more before tapping on the door.
Bruno had saved the day, just as Francesca had intended. His field was secured by a gate. Theo had run back there, opened it wide and stood aside waving his neckerchief in provocation. But, already alert to the intruders, Bruno needed no provocation, and with his furious trumpet roar charged the gate, careered straight past him, and disappeared down the track in a cloud of dust.
‘You never saw grown men run so fast!’ Rosa cackled. ‘Like little children, even the tenente! I screamed and begged them to save me, but they all cowered like girls.’
It had then taken them a full hour and several attempts to shepherd Bruno into a corner, before Francesca made an elaborate show of approaching him, and finally securing him to a post, amid cheers from the soldiers. Afterwards followed wine, biscotti and animated discussion, before, following a perfunctory check of the farm buildings, the party departed, waving merrily.
But it had been a near thing and Theo knew it. ‘I cannot stay much longer,’ he told Rosa later. ‘The risk to you is too great.’
‘Nonsense! They have been, they have searched, they have ticked us off the list.’
‘But for how long? And what if the tenente reconsiders today’s events, and wonders about the bull, and the coincidence of his escape? And decides to come back?’
‘Pah! You think too much, northern boy.’
‘Perhaps.’ He nodded ruefully. ‘But if anything happened to you, or the twins, because of me, I could never forgive myself.’
Normality returned, and lasted three days more. In the morning the tin bath roused him with its familiar clatter, he dressed, swept the hayloft of his presence and descended through the cowshed for breakfast.
‘Today we plough,’ Rosa announced. ‘Francesca will drive, you will lead. You have done this?’
‘Never.’
‘She will show you.’
The first task was to yoke two of the oxen together and drag the plough up to the maize field. Once there Francesca fastened it by chains so it was standing upright supported by rickety iron wheels, with two handles protruding at the back for steering. The single ploughshare was of pointed steel and glinted in the autumn sunshine. Theo watched as she adjusted its chains and levers, clucking and tutting self-consciously. The day was warm; she was wearing her usual work clothes: a plain blouse with sleeves rolled high, a black skirt and white apron with bare legs and clog-like shoes. After a while she seemed ready. Handing him a rein attached to the oxen she pointed across the field at a dis
tant tree. He nodded. She returned to the steering handles, flicked a willow twig at the animals’ hindquarters and began to plough.
An hour later they paused to rest the beasts and drink water. The sun was high, the tilled earth rich brown and pungent-smelling. Leading the oxen was uncomplicated, he found, but strenuous, as they wanted to veer off-line or duck their heads suddenly, requiring him to pull hard on the rein. Soon his throat was parched and the sweat running down his back. His work boots grew huge with clay, which had to be repeatedly cleaned off with a stick. Francesca’s clogs by contrast stayed entirely free of soil, he pointed out, to her amusement. Her cheeks too were flushed with effort, coils of moist hair hung from her bun, and her blouse clung damply to her body. You drive now, she indicated, grabbing his hand. ‘No, no!’ He laughed. ‘I can’t.’ Yes, she nodded. I will teach you.
Her fingers closed round his on the handles, her body pressing close behind, her breathing heavy in his ear as she switched the willow and the team moved off. At first he struggled with the grips, unnecessarily as it turned out, for though firm hands were needed, heavy ones were not. The plough skittered and dived too, bobbing duck-like on the surface one moment, burying itself deep underground the next. Gently she coached him, her hands on his arms, letting the machine do the work. He nodded, forcing his grip to relax. Gradually his furrows settled and grew straighter.
She made the advance at the next rest stop. He guessed it was coming, and was prepared, but still felt sadness and regret, hoping to the last it might somehow not happen. Settling under a tree beside him, she trickled water on to a handkerchief and dabbed her chest above the blouse. Then without warning she took his hand and placed it on her breast. Before he knew it she was leaning back against the tree, eyes closed, lips pursed, like a little girl expecting a gift.
‘Francesca.’ He removed his hand. ‘Francesca, look at me.’
Her eyes opened, clouded with doubt.
‘You are a wonderful young woman.’ He smiled. ‘Strong and brave and clever, and very beautiful.’
Her head turned away.
‘I told your grandmother I didn’t have a fidanzata, and I know you heard. But I was lying. I do have someone, very special to me, and hope one day she might become my fidanzata.’
Tears welled in her eyes and her mouth turned down. From far above came a distant humming, as though of a swarm of bees. He leaned forward and kissed her brow. ‘I will always be your friend, Francesca, and hope you will always be mine.’
She sat up, wrapping her arms round him, and pressed her cheek to his chest, like a child seeking comfort. He smelled the warmth of her body, stroked the tousled hair, and looking up saw scores of tiny silver crosses, each trailing a silken thread of white vapour, travelling across the cloudless sky.
The next night when he tuned in his radio, he finally heard the code word everyone was waiting for.
*
‘The Allied invasion of Italy has begun.’
Theo watched as the riotous cheer rang round Salvatore’s kitchen. Ten men, his San Felice cell, stood before him, variously attired as brigands and desperados and many brandishing weapons, their expressions ranging from tearful joy to triumphant fury. Nightjar was among them, and the three boys he’d met before: Lucien, Renzo and one-eyed Guercio; the others were new to him and included two South Africans, Vos Smits and Billy, who were escaped POWs from the fall of Tobruk, a runaway Yugoslav conscript inevitably dubbed Tito, and two of Nightjar’s Naples contacts: brothers Toni and Gennaro. Excepting Salvatore who was forty, all were in their teens or early twenties, eager, headstrong and impatient for action, but inexperienced. Harnessing their enthusiasm he sensed would be a challenge.
‘Tell them the details, Horatio,’ Nightjar said.
‘I have only my briefing, and the coded radio notification. This confirms, as planned, that landings have been made in Calabria, on the toe of Italy.’
‘Who by?’ asked one of the South Africans.
Theo smiled. ‘Your people, Billy, British 8th Army.’
‘Monty!’
‘That’s right. The plan is to use them to divert the enemy south, before two main landings are made further north.’
‘When?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Where?’
‘I don’t know that either, but possibly the Naples area on the west coast, maybe the east side too around Foggia.’
‘When do we attack!’
‘We don’t.’ He watched as the faces fell like children’s. Tito muttered a Slavonic oath, while the two Neapolitans exchanged mutinous glances. ‘At least not yet. Our job is to monitor enemy movements and report what we find.’
‘Report what?’
‘Strength, disposition, composition,’ he counted off, suddenly recalling a tent in France and a harassed major briefing a seventeen-year-old boy with a bicycle. ‘Weaponry, supplies, communications... We’re also to monitor their air strength.’
‘Can’t we just kill them?’
‘That might be difficult. Field Marshal Kesselring is in charge. He has an estimated ten divisions, the Italian army another five or more.’
‘Pah!’ Toni scoffed. ‘Italian army is finished.’
‘It’s not their fault! Mussolini betrayed them!’
‘No, the Tedeschi betrayed them. They betrayed us all!’
‘Perhaps we should get going.’ Theo closed the meeting before he lost control of it. ‘Salvatore’s brother has kindly agreed to drive us to Isernia in his truck. It is an important road junction. He has also provided maps and directions, and his contacts there will supply us with provisions and a safe place to make camp. We need to be there before daybreak, so I suggest we make a start. Any questions?’
Mutters of assent, then the second Naples boy, Gennaro, spoke. ‘One small matter, Tenente.’
‘Yes?’
‘Not being disrespectful or anything, but why do we have to follow you?’
‘You don’t. Nobody does. It’s important you all decide for yourselves, so please give it thought now.’ He bent to his backpack, fiddling with the straps to give them time. His civilian suitcase was now gone, and with it his peasant persona. He was wearing crumpled fatigues, and desert boots he’d bought off the LRDG in Gabès. He wore no insignia, but a British officer’s Webley was strapped to his thigh, and a yellow lanyard was looped round his shoulder and into his shirt pocket. Straightening up he produced a maroon beret, brushed dust from it and tugged it on to his head. ‘Are we ready?’
‘Madre di Dio!’ someone murmured. ‘Horatio’s a diavolo rosso!’
Billy laughed. ‘Fuck me, it’s the Paras!’
They drove all night. The distance was not great but the main roads were choked with traffic, all military and all heading south, and the back lanes were equally slow and hazardous. Several times they pulled off to avoid confrontation, twice scrambling from the van into ditches as German convoys ground by. On the second occasion Gennaro and Toni had to be restrained from firing their carbines randomly into the convoy.
‘Is everyone from Naples so impetuous?’ Theo asked.
‘Most are worse!’ Nightjar replied.
Dawn found them at the rendezvous on the outskirts of Isernia, Salvatore’s brother depositing them beside the road on open farmland near a river. Trestle tables had been set up, like a picnic, with women serving olive bread and coffee while their children danced around playing soldiers.
‘This is not prudent.’ Theo studied the horizon. ‘We must get away and into cover as soon as possible.’
After a hurried breakfast, and laden with food, water, stores and assorted weaponry, the eleven set off on foot, following the river upstream into hills laced with olive groves and vineyards. Aircraft flew overhead, all German, but evidently intent on other targets. After three hours, signs of agriculture begin to thin, and soon they were entering a more rugged landscape of craggy hills and low scrub. Their objective was a rocky gorge set high above the river, with commanding views sou
th over the plains of Campania, yet secluded, with caves and crevices for cover. They reached it at sunset and began making camp. Setting up his observation posts, Theo noted dust rising from a distant road. ‘That’s where they are, so that’s where we go,’ he instructed. That night he led his first patrol.
It was nearly his last. To their chagrin, he posted Salvatore, Lucien and the two Neapolitans to guard camp, while he and the rest descended a steep wooded path to the valley below. The night was cold and overcast with a stiff breeze stirring the trees. Following the course of the river they soon began to hear faint traffic sounds above the trickle of water and rustling leaves; a mile more and a procession of masked headlights came into view, inching across the skyline like distant ships. Farther off, fingers of white scoured the clouds for bombers. There Theo halted and drew out the map.
‘Nightjar. It’s this road, yes?’
‘Yes, Saccucci, a big junction, east goes to Termoli, west to Cassino.’
‘South?’
Nightjar shrugged. ‘South goes south. Towards Monty.’
‘We must get closer, find out which.’
He split the patrol in two, Nightjar’s half to investigate the road west, his half descending to the town to study the junction itself. With him he had Tito the Yugoslav, Renzo and one-eyed Guercio. Creeping through fruit orchards criss-crossed with irrigation ditches, they arrived in a field of roofless Roman ruins, like an ancient villa. Beside it the road ran along a raised embankment. Silently sliding wall to wall among the ruins, and covered by the noise of engines, they were able to close to within twenty yards of the junction.
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