‘Is that a castle?’ Marino pointed at the crenellated towers of Porta Reale as they passed below its arch.
‘A castle!’ echoed Dario.
How quickly these children moved from flat to animated. There was an unstable, brittle paperiness to them all. Being blasted out of your city might do that to you.
‘No. It’s one of the old gates. See how there’s a big wall round the town? In the olden days they’d lock these gates at night, to keep the people safe.’
‘Can they still do that?’ Marino sounded hopeful.
‘No, darling,’ said Carla. ‘There are no gates here any more, just the big arch. Isn’t that right, Vittoria?’
‘Afraid so. But there is a lovely big church nearby, where I work. Would you like to see it?’
Both boys sighed. ‘Bo-ring.’ Marino slumped further into the cart.
‘Not the church – the place where the priest lives. There’s lots of good things to eat there. Why don’t we go and see the Monsignor? There’s bread and cheese. And soup. There’s always soup.’
‘Nice soup?’ said Dario.
‘Cabbage soup.’
‘Cabbage soup. . . makes you poop. Cabbage soup. . . makes you poop.’
‘That would be lovely,’ said Carla.
‘Come on, then. We might even find you an egg.’
‘Do they still exist?’
Accompanied by several choruses of cabbage soup. . . makes you poop (this was the chorus and all the verses too), they headed for the Canonica. Vita led them up Via Mura, which hugged the wall all the way to the Conservatorio’s back door. It was narrow, you could just about get a donkey and cart through. But the shelter, and the high tightness of it, felt safe. This street would demonstrate to her cousins how solid Barga was. From the Conservatorio, it was a simple matter of turning left, and ecco: the Canonica. But, before they could reach the entrance to the piazza, more uniforms appeared. Silvery click of boots. Blackshirts with red fasces, small frames in padded shoulders.
‘You can’t go through here.’ Two Brigate Nere, bristling with self-importance. Acne on this one’s chin.
‘Why not?’ said Vita.
‘Because I’m telling you. Now move it.’
‘But I need to get through. I’ve got two little ones. . .’
‘Should’ve kept your legs closed.’
‘Don’t speak to me like that.’
The other soldier moved his rifle a little higher, so that it gleamed across his upper body. She heard one of the children whimper.
‘You not understand? I think my colleague said to fuck off!’
They grinned at their own bravado.
‘Vita!’ Carla said. ‘We don’t need—’
Through the gap, Vita could see other blackshirts, men in different uniforms, men in suits. In one corner stood a cluster of cassocks. Atop one of the cassocks was the familiar, wide-brimmed hat the Monsignor wore outdoors: in rain to keep his hair dry, in shine to give him shade. She sucked as much air into her lungs as she could, then yelled: ‘Monsignor! Ho! Monsignor! They won’t let me through!’
The second soldier seized Andromeda’s reins as Acne Boy hit Vita hard in the breast. Knuckle on breast and bone.
‘Don’t!’ Marino shouted.
The shock of pain sent her to her knees, set off a chain of other tiny spasms, like stabbing bells, making her eyes smart with tears. She could hear crying, Carla or one of the kids. Vita widened her nostrils, teeth clenched to stop the flow.
‘Whatever is the matter?’ The faint, dusty smell of the Monsignor’s cloak, an arm reaching in as the brim of his hat dipped over her face. ‘You,’ she heard him say. ‘Did you hit this young woman?’
‘Monsignor. Is there a problem?’ Another face peering; a heavy-set man with swept-back hair.
‘Indeed, there is.’ The Monsignor helped Vita to her feet. ‘One of your men just struck my housekeeper. Is this how we treat womenfolk in our brave new world, generale?’
‘Sir. It was security. You said we were to—’
The generale raised a finger. Acne Boy fell silent. ‘Monsignor. Signorina.’ He clicked his heels the way the tedeschi did. ‘My apologies. Please, allow me to escort you and your. . . little band through our checkpoint. Maybe you could watch the ceremony, as my guests?’
‘No, sir,’ said the Monsignor. ‘That is not necessary. Vittoria – go to the house immediately. Take. . . Cook and the children with you. You are already late for work. This really is not good enough.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Unfathomably, she bobbed a curtsey. The Monsignor raised an eyebrow, then turned away.
They made their way across the piazza. A few soldiers turned, but most seemed preoccupied with untangling flags, or lining themselves up in rows. That and fiddling with a large tarpaulin covering some great bulky thing in front of the Canonica. Her heartbeat drove into her ribs.
‘Oh, goodness. I thought we’d be safe here. Are you all right, Vita?’ Carla asked her.
‘Yes, yes. I’m fine.’
Nicodemo came out, wiping his hands on a dirty rag. He was the Monsignor’s ‘man’, forever oiling and tinkering, bustling about on bowed legs. Speaking few words to the Monsignor, even fewer to Vita. She was never so glad to see him. ‘Come inside, Vita. Leave the beast – I’ll see to it.’
‘She needs water.’
‘Yes, yes. Now get inside.’
The cool, dark hallway of the Canonica, folding round her. ‘You’re shaking, child.’
‘Nico, what’s going on?’
‘Would your friends like some water too?’
‘Oh, sorry. Nicodemo, this is my cousin Carla and her little boys. They’ve just got out of Rome.’
‘Ah. The Eternal City. How is the Holy Father? Have you seen much of him?’
‘What? No. Of course not.’
‘Nico, can we give them something to eat?’
‘Please, into the kitchen.’
‘This is very kind,’ said Carla.
Vita remained, watching through the hall window. Flat of her hand pressed on her bosom. That ugly, pock-marked boy, striking her there, where it was private.
‘Vittoria,’ said Nico. ‘Come away.’
The generale was laughing with two taller men. One of them inclined his neck, hand scratching at the nape, then removed his military cap. His hair was faintest blond, more milk-coloured than gold. With a bow, he offered the cap to the generale. The generale accepted it, placed it on his own head, and all three laughed again. Much backslapping accompanied the little pantomime.
‘Who is that man?’
‘Him? Generale Utimperghe. Head of the Black Brigade.’
‘And those other men? With the silver on their collars?’
‘Germans. Officers of some sort. Apparently they’re going to be stationed here. Now come into the kitchen, Vita.’
‘Stay away from them,’ said Carla. ‘That’s the Schutzstaffel.’
‘Who?’
‘SS. You wait. We’ll be having curfews next.’
‘Signora, that is not true,’ said Nico. ‘These men are our guests. They’re hosting a reception for them in Palazzo Comunale. The Commissario is to take the salute.’
Vita stared as a bunch of tedeschi soldiers pulled the tarpaulin away. It soared green, filling all the sky outside the window, then settled, revealing a shiny row of machine guns, padded with bags of sand.
‘Why are they putting guns in front of the Canonica?’
She wanted to be home, with the wide green valley opening below. Not everything shrivelled to fit this slit of window.
‘To protect us,’ said Nico. ‘Apparently. Now, boys – although your cousin is the housekeeper, she is being very remiss in her duties. Would you prefer goat milk or water? Or I think we could offer you soup?’
No songs. The little ones had returned to being very quiet as Nico ushered them through the hall.
Chapter Six
Frank woke to a cloud of flies, and a view of the Leaning Tower of
Pisa. Fingers strumming, jerking; his blood like quicksilver. Everything was moving, heat dancing inside thick heat, the distance of the mountains merely inches. He shifted up on his elbows. Blinked. It truly was squint: an arcaded spindle slanting five degrees. How it remained upright had been a mystery for centuries. Stamina? Science? He had an urge to get up close, study the tower’s geometry, take notes, measurements. Get so near your neck cricked and your head swam at the unlikely loomingness of it.
He arched his spine. Sky above was aching blue. Smell of sweet herbs coming on the breeze. Fixing to be a beautiful day, a day lit by the same bright sun under which he’d stood in California. That thought was unfathomable. He shook his water canteen. Empty. Amazing, that this line of this horizon dropped off the edge, became a curve, and the curve girdled the globe and would carry this light back to his momma, who would kiss the sky and send it back to him. Frank lay down again. He wished he could run from this hilltop all the way to Pisa, through the golden land and the strange, thin Tuscan evergreens that stuck up in exclamation. But he’d an appointment with a tray of powdered eggs.
He wasn’t hungry. How could you be, when eating was an order, and when what you ate was the same shit, three times a day? Reality had shifted. Life outside the army was the one that no longer rang true, and this world of marching and digging and eating and marching was the only world that did. He wrote home, of course, and his mother wrote back. The exchange was always light and cheerful. His momma was a dream. As their bull-necked officers never tired of yelling: Army’s your mama now.
He let his eyelids close. Italian sun soaking his bones, his stiffness melting off. And then the rush of yesterday came pouring in: the smell of new-singed skin, the noise in torrents. He needed a sluice gate to slice down and keep his head clear of yesterdays. And tomorrows.
The blood on his clothes. He had to keep not looking at it, not imagining it flaking as he moved, falling into his mess kit, his mouth. He glanced around, at the stubbly grass, the dusty, ruined wall. There was no one else about. Frank reached into the pack he’d been leaning on, extracted his journal. He’d been trying to keep it up to date and hidden at the same time, which was no easy feat. No one had said, but he figured a journal would be against regulations. But there were no military secrets in the little book, just Frank’s thoughts on stuff he’d seen, the odd brief drawing or doodle. Quickly, he sketched the view in front of him, wrote Leaning Tower. Still standing. Flicked back a few pages: a brief (rude) poem about latrines, a rant about short-arm inspections (Milk down that member, boy. Lemme see if you got the clap). Lyrics of a song Bear had sung; an IOU list of people he’d given his cigarettes to – there was always some promise made in return. He didn’t care if it was honoured; it was just neat to see it in hard black pencil. Just the fact of the promises suggested a future.
He turned another page: Crossing the Arno. That page was blank. Frank had plenty of thoughts, but the notebook didn’t seem big enough to contain them. He drew a line through the blankness.
By the height of the sun, he reckoned it was no longer morning. Night had been spent quick-time marching to the next command post, lest Jerry see their position. Even a glinting windshield was a beacon of intent. They’d slept in the shade of another villa. Officers got the inside, men got foxholes and canopies of leaves. Wherever they halted, the mechanical chink of shovel on soil sounded the Buffaloes’ arrival. A scrape-out of stubborn earth was enough to build you a burrow. A mummy-bag made you a king.
The engineers had slung Lister bags on tripods, big canvas containers for treated water. A rough latrine had also been dug; guys were shitting, pissing, rinsing faces and teeth. Comanche was mixing coffee, pouring extra powder from a painted tin he’d acquired.
‘You want some joe? Is really shit today. Think this is made of sawdust.’
‘Nah.’ Frank took a cup of water instead. ‘You hear anything about Ellington?’
‘Who?’
‘That kid we pulled from the river. With the face.’
‘Why you want to know?’
‘Because. . .’ He rubbed his eyes. Swigged more tinny water. ‘I just do.’
‘Won’t do you no good,’ said Comanche. ‘Or him.’
Since they’d be on the move again today, the field kitchens hadn’t been set up. Instead, they were on 10-in-1 packs. You could have it cold, or there were some dinky portable gas stoves to warm the rations through. Cold, hot – powdered egg was vile.
‘Your legs OK?’ said Comanche.
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Good. ’Cause we ain’t going to Pisa no more. Next stop’s up there.’ He nodded at the vast ridge on the horizon. ‘Monte Pisano.’
Frank’s stomach felt hollow. The mountain was steep and exposed. Scrabbling through scree, the Krauts would be up above them, picking them off like bugs.
‘And we’re moving out at fourteen hundred.’
‘But it’s still light then.’
‘Apparently, the enemy is in retreat.’
‘They fucking said that before.’
‘Yup. Anyhow,’ said Comanche, ‘I asked Bear. Kid got moved to a field hospital back down the line.’
‘OK. Good.’ He was alive. Leastways, when he was moved, he was alive. ‘Good,’ Frank repeated. He was still shaking the water from his cup, Comanche grimacing at his coffee, when all hell broke loose, a bunch of yelling, and a rumbling shout above all the others: ‘Halt! Cover! Get back!’
Down, or back, he couldn’t remember, just a white wall of noise, of rushing noise, and him and Comanche hitting the earth as a shot rang out. A scream came, a stuck-pig scream.
‘Mothafucka, holy fuck!’
One of their own. Some fool had run into the command post; got shot in the butt.
They all had the jitterbugs. Strange, this moving free in sunshine. Strange, but kind of wonderful. Like Mardi Gras. As they passed through the little towns east of Pisa, Frank’s shoulders began to ease. Folks came out to cheer them, folks emerging from behind German lines. Women throwing flowers, grapes, themselves, kids jostling for candy, men offering wine.
‘Viva gli americani!’
Hundreds of them, lining the route in a daylight that embraced the Buffaloes. People kissing their hands, kissing them. The Buffaloes responded by throwing food and chocolate, gone gooey in their hands. The sun beat on, its gaudy light shining on sweating black skin, on an old lady who pointed at their faces, who touched her own face, then crossed herself as the convoy passed. It shone on a gaunt priest grappling momentarily with a young boy over a can of meat.
‘Per favore!’
Almost instantly, eyes huge, the man collected himself, pressed the food into the boy’s hands. Frank grabbed three more cans, leaned down from the truck, which was barely moving at this point through the crowd.
‘Here, Father.’ He stretched out, dropping the corned beef towards the starving man. ‘Sì, sì. For you. Per favore.’
Then another, then another hand reached out, snatching, shoving, voices squawking. It felt like feeding ducks.
‘Whoah there, cowboy,’ said Bear, pulling him back up into the truck. ‘Stay cool. Don’t want you drowning in a sea of Eyeties.’
The faces receded, still squawking. The light drove forwards, towards the looming ridge. Monte Pisano was to be their first real test. ‘The Arno was just an ickle tickle, children,’ said Bear. ‘Trust me.’
But the way ahead, the fact they were travelling through towns and villages in light that was golden and clear, made that possibility distant. The Buffaloes were on the advance, the enemy in flight. Against the might of the Fifth Army, how mad would the Sauerkrauts be to stand their ground?
Plenty. The Germans were a machine, so they said. As a science major, Frank should have appreciated that.
Chapter Seven
Warm air, stirring Vita’s hair. The jostle of a largely silent crowd: arms-crossed barghigiani, studded with pockets of frantic flag-wavers.
It took a whole weekend for the Germa
n 14th Army to occupy Barga, ushered in by the Brigate Nere, who were their hosts or bodyguard, depending how you looked at it. The procession was a piece of theatre. For over an hour, Vita watched as foreign tanks and men streamed up Via Roma. Their strange-shaped helmets made her think of matadors. Column after column they marched, a sea of spindle-legged precision. She wondered if they’d chosen this road deliberately; a broad, modern street in the Giardino. It offered the longest stage possible on which to introduce Barga to her new visitors.
Mamma waved a fascist flag. Cesca too, Mamma scolding her to wave harder. Renata was clapping, making Rosa wave and salute. Gianni was a prisoner in Rome; you’d think it was a badge of honour. Mamma had given them wheatsheaves; an extravagant gesture for those with little bread. When Vita refused to throw them under the soldiers’ feet, Mamma did it for her, reserving the loudest of her cheers for the Brigate Nere: proud, black-browed men who did not even blink.
Vita searched for Joe in the crowd, in with the boys who laughed and shook their heads – yet shut their mouths as the Brigate neared. But he wasn’t there. Mamma made her family stand with the other Fascists. All these gleaming men and women who radiated defiance, who you could see inflating as the army passed. Papà had refused to come. ‘You’re just a sore loser,’ said Mamma. ‘You’ll see. Order will bring stability. Stability will bring peace. Il Duce will—’
Papà swore loudly, slammed from the house to his workshop; Mamma said she’d a mind to set fire to it, and her eyes were wild enough. She was a crackling wire that needed to be directed to where it could do least harm. Carla and the boys stayed at home too. Vita had heard her through the bedroom door, crying.
All that weekend, tedeschi poured in. They commandeered the finest villas on Via Roma, many palazzi in the old town. Plenty of smaller homes too. Each ripple into Barga meant another ripple out. Vita was sent to the Conservatorio, to help the sisters co-ordinate shelter, food, bedding for those who needed it. But how were you meant to salve indignity? This was wrong. Surely this was wrong? Vita hated how her mother excused it all.
Catagnana was too far up the hill for La Limonaia to be requisitioned, Sommocolonia even further. But that didn’t stop foragers. So far Mamma – with flags and cake – had kept the German soldiers at bay. But she was sanguine about the possibility of loss.
The Sound of the Hours Page 8