‘I’ve got it,’ she shouted. But it was not soldiers. Long cones of light lanced the entrance to the Canonica, bronzing the floorboards. A couple stood there, the woman nursing a baby in a shawl. The man, skinny and smartly dressed, carried a stiffer bundle. Vita caught the tight plug of sound which rose in her throat. It was a coffin. He bore a tiny coffin, wrapped in a matching shawl.
‘Can I. . . Come in, please. Come in.’
‘Thank you,’ said the man. ‘May we speak with the Monsignor?’
‘Yes. Of course. Wait—’
‘Might we have a seat? They’ve walked us all the way from Pisa.’
‘Pisa?’
‘The rastrellamento.’
‘Who is it, Vita?’ The Monsignor emerged from his study.
‘My name is Dr Contini, Monsignor. This is my wife.’
‘Ah.’ Gently, the Monsignor rested his hand on the small of the woman’s back. ‘Please. Come into my office. Vittoria – coffee. No. Some broth, I think.’
Vita heated the watery remains of lunch. By the time she returned, the Monsignor had placed an altar cloth over the tiny coffin. It rested on his prie-dieu. The doctor sat by his wife, the living baby in her arms.
‘Vita. I want you to go your mamma. Tell her to gather some of the Catholic mothers, and ask them to take whatever food and supplies they can to. . . Albiano, did you say, dottore?’
‘Yes, sir. Directly before the village as you approach.’
‘Tell your mother there are some poor unfortunates there who have been herded all the way from Pisa. Countrymen of ours. I want us to extend to them whatever comforts we can. I’ll speak to the German generale, to ensure his co-operation. But tell her also to be wary of the guards. No men are to go, nor girls – only older women. Not you. You understand?’
‘Yes, Monsignor.’
‘Run along then. Ah. . . perhaps you might go to the sisters first, and ask if they could attend to Signora Contini?’
‘That isn’t necessary, Monsignor. I can look after my wife.’
‘I rather think it might be. . . just for. . .’ The Monsignor’s composure was slipping, spiralling an impatient hand at Vita, encompassing the room, the urgency, the shivering woman. The puddle of blood beneath her seat.
Mother Virginia herself would look after Signora Contini. ‘You are pale, Vita. I think, if you’re going home to fetch your mamma, you should stay there.’
‘No, Mother, I need to do the laundry, and—’
‘Vittoria.’ The old lady put her knuckles to Vita’s forehead, rising on tiptoe to reach. ‘You are very warm. And you have been working too hard. The sisters and I will tend to our menfolk today, and you’ll come back to us refreshed in the morning, sì?’
‘But—’
‘It’s not a request, child. It is an order.’
The thought of this sweet, tiny soul ordering anyone made Vita laugh, but then the laughter bubbled into tears. Mother Virginia shoved her. ‘Away. Do not let me see you here again today.’
Out into high-walled streets. Barga’s stone-faced buildings, the crawling, bright green mosses, the flashing yellow sun. All wrong. That poor, bleeding woman. Was that what they did, those necci-loving soldiers with the iron crosses at their throats? How ugly must your soul be, to make a woman carry her baby’s corpse? Eyes shone in places that should be blank, dark shapes in shortcut alleys. A lone girl strolled towards Piazza Angelio, arm-in-arm with a soldier of the Brigate Nere. Vita recognised her from school; felt an instant punch of jealousy.
She hurried down the steps of the old town, across Ponte Vecchio, through the crossroads. Rastrellamento? That word should not be used for people. How could you ‘rake’ up human beings?
Before she realised where she was going, Vita found herself in Ponte. She’d been avoiding it, taking the shortcut through the woods instead. Signor Tutto’s shop stood forlorn. Someone had torn down the shutters, the door wrenched wide. A few scattered, empty baskets lay in the doorway, and painted in bold yellow scrawl across the front: JUDEN. Vita was a coward. She’d never asked the Monsignor about the graveyard. How could you? It was a sin to dig up consecrated ground. Pointlessly, she stacked the baskets, closed the door. An orange box rested against the shopfront. Size of a tiny coffin.
Tutto bene, tutto bene. Her mother muttered it often; it was a mantra to keep them sane. All is well, flicking her hands like she was flicking flies. Part of the brittle-thin gloss coating everything. All was not well. There was a sickness in Barga; infectious, corrosive, and just because you do not see things does not mean they are not there. Vita always thought she’d be brave. Turned out, most folk were not heroes. Head down, you clung to quiet survival, where the bravest thing was a nod between acquaintances as you passed, a twist of your mouth that spoke of disaffection and acceptance. No better than the plod of cows for milking.
Insects drowsed on oregano, growing through a crack in the wall. On the other side of the Corsonna river, the road hairpinned to the right, and home. Turn left, round the next bend, and you would find the cobbled road to Albiano. The place where the rastrellati were being held. A hidden network of paths linked these roads; old mule tracks, which were quicker and steeper – why Catagnana girls had such good legs. Some of the Sommos never left their little fortress, and the Ponte girls would rather stroll to Barga than climb. In Catagnana, you were neither up nor down, which gave you choices. And sculpted calves. The clear hard light shone on the start of the mule path. Vita spread her hair to cover her neck from the sun. Took the track to Albiano.
As she neared the village, she could see two army cars and a flatbed truck. A group of men were gathered under the eaves of the school. Some slumped, a few stood as if to attention. They looked more pitiful than the ones sitting, heads in hands. Tattered, dust-laden clothes, boots that were flapping and broken; not one man had decent clothing. Then she realised, the ones who were standing had their hands roped together. Even from behind a rock, she could feel their shame, their exhaustion. Thirty or so men, guarded by a handful of German boys, who swigged water from canteens and never offered it around. One of the captives, a middle-aged man with filthy dress shoes, was shaking uncontrollably. The others were kindly ignoring him. Or maybe they were too spent to care.
Vita slipped back down the rock face, ran all the way across the ridge to Catagnana, the long, hard muscles of her calves like wings as the path rose and dipped. At one point, a distant German patrol shouted at her to stop, but she kept running. If they came after her, she would strike and kick them. But nobody followed.
Catagnana. Just a string of houses clinging halfway up a hill. La Limonaia stood at the end of the lane: yellow walls, blue door. The summer kitchen was open, a beaded curtain to keep the flies away. Mamma and Carla were in there, chopping onions. Vita threw her arms round her mother.
‘Vita! What is it? Has someone hurt you?’
‘Mamma.’ She hid her face in her mother’s dress. ‘They’ve got them trussed like cows.’
‘Who?’
‘Pisans. And there was a baby, a dead baby. Why would people do that?’
Her mother soothed her, rubbing the nape of her neck. Vita was soaking Mamma’s dress with tears and snot, and she couldn’t stop.
‘Mamma! Cesca made us a den!’
‘Hush, Dario.’
‘Is Vita sore?’
Rocking, Vita bending to fit her mother’s embrace. Seeing the man’s shaking shoulders, seeing the babies, the one who was alive and the one who was dead. The damp fabric, hot at her mouth. Cesca’s arms came round her and Mamma both. ‘Don’t cry, Vi. It’ll be alright.’
She felt a tiny hand pat her leg. ‘Alright,’ repeated Dario.
Her mother kissed her. ‘My beautiful girls.’ Another kiss for Cesca. ‘It’s good to feel, but sometimes, you must seal yourself up. You understand? This war will bring many bad things to our door, and we have to stay strong. We are Guidis, no?’
‘We are.’
‘Well then. Now, what o
f these refugees? What can we do to help them?’
Mamma rolled into action, magnificent and fierce. Within thirty minutes she and Carla had amassed the might of Azione Cattolica. They organised food, clothes, even footwear. Dario offered his knitted socks.
‘No, darling. You keep them.’
‘You make them too scratchy anyway,’ said Marino.
Mamma swiped the air above his head. ‘And you are too cheeky by far, young man.’
‘Did the tedeschi get Papà’s wheelbarrow?’ asked Cesca. ‘Where is he anyway?’
‘Doing some carpentry for Sergio. No, I don’t think so – he hid it under the house. Come, Carla, we best go. You girls stay here.’
Cesca waited until they’d left.
‘Well, I’m going to take the wheelbarrow up to Sommo. Coming, boys? I’ll give you a ride.’
‘What for?’ Vita’s head was aching.
‘To fetch all Gianni’s boots and jumpers too. It’s not as if he’s using them.’
Marino was pulling on Cesca’s arm. ‘Can it be a boat? Can we go in it?’
‘Me want a goat!’ shouted Dario.
‘Boat! Why are you so stupid?’
‘Look, you rest, Vi.’ Cesca disentangled Marino’s fingers from her sleeve. ‘You look tired.’
‘You can’t manage those two and a wheelbarrow.’
‘I can, you know.’ Her sister smoothed Vita’s hair from her face. Her palm was lovely and cool. ‘Trust me.’
Vita sat awhile in the kitchen, crushing the garlic her mother had left. It turned to paste. The room was quiet, the light in the doorway golden. The chestnut tree outside wavered, tall and fat with leaves. When she was little, Vita used to climb that tree and feel protected. There was a whole army of trees to the rear, marching up the slope. This chestnut was still part of the forest, but part of La Limonaia too. Mamma grew pea-plants at its feet, and their heights were marked in paint on its trunk every birthday. She went to the threshold, shaded her eyes. She could still get up there, if she wanted.
‘Vita?’ First, the voice, then a raised hand. Her heart lifted. An unwashed Joe was climbing up the path. Hair matted with his beard, filthy, unfamilar clothes and a leather satchel swung across his shoulder. He looked harder somehow; a dark gleam about his skin.
‘You not get clean to come and see me?’ There were a million things she could have said.
‘I’ve not come to see you. I’m here for Carla.’
‘Why?’
He tapped the side of his nose.
‘You shouldn’t have come back. The Germans have moved in. They’ve a whole bunch of Pisans tied up in Albiano.’
Joe leaned against the chestnut tree. ‘I’m not a coward, you know.’ He held her hands, pulled her under the canopy of leaves. The shadows made butterflies in his hair. ‘I missed you.’
He took a skein of material from his satchel. ‘Got you a present. Might need a wash.’ He was blushing, fumbling. Vita ran her hand along the slippery fabric.
‘I thought you could make a dress. Or something.’
She held a handful of silk to the light, let it pour through her fingers. ‘It’s lovely.’
‘It’s a parachute.’
Vita could hear snapping twigs.
Voices. Male voices and clinking boots, coming up the hill. The hard rasp of a German accent.
‘Shit. Fucksake.’
‘Quick.’ She shoved them both through the fly-curtain, back into the kitchen. Clutching at the beads to stop them tinkling. Pulling the back door, a soft click that rang louder than a gun-crack.
‘Hide.’
‘Where?’
‘I don’t know. The cellar?’
No time. Footsteps, flagstones. Shadows at the glass.
‘Inside the madia. Here.’ The wooden larder was already open. Just enough room inside for Joe to scramble onto the ledge, inhaling as she shut the doors. No key, but if she dragged the table across. . . she could see the outline of a fist at the frosted glass. . . wait, wait till the knocking starts.
Rap-tap-tap.
Drag-drag-drag.
‘Sì?’
‘Is Hans. Open up.’
The satchel. Joe’s satchel with the silk spilling, lying on the floor. She kicked it under the table.
‘Hans, my mother isn’t here. She’ll be back later.’
Silence. Then louder. Harsher. ‘You hear me? Open up, bitch.’
An approving chuckle.
Hans was a simple, easy boy. Cold needles on her tongue, Jesus, Jesus, please, was there any food to fob him off with? She cast her eyes round the kitchen: onions, mashed garlic. Nothing made. No cakes. Her blood drilling; they would hear it through the door. She patted down her apron. Important to keep her voice steady. ‘There’s no need for that, Hans. I’m coming.’
She positioned herself so his path into the house was blocked. ‘What is it?’
‘See,’ said Hans to whoever was with him. The way Vita was angled, she couldn’t see past the German any more than he could see past her. ‘I tell you she is pretty. May we come in, Vita?’
‘It’s not a good time. There’s no food, and I’ve two young children sleeping.’ She was thinking, why did he speak in halting Italian, there, to his companion? And, as she was thinking it, the companion was strolling into view.
‘Oh, look who it is.’ The soldier smiled. ‘The little whore.’
Acne Boy. The fascista who’d hit her.
‘You mind your mouth.’ Vita jutted out her arms, trying to fill the gaps between her and the door frame.
‘And you mind your manners. Puttana.’ The soldier came close, so close she could smell his breath; that same sour heat as before. ‘Hans tells me this is where you go for. . . what was it, amico? Kaffee und kuchen? Been boasting to all the boys how good it is, haven’t you, mein freund?’
Hans nodded, beaming.
‘Like I said, Mamma isn’t here, Hans.’ Vita’s jaw was quivering; she pretended to yawn. ‘She’ll be sorry she missed you. She’s away for more flour actually. For the necci. It’s only me here. I was just getting my cousins down, so if you don’t mind. . .’
‘You got me into a lot of trouble, you know,’ said Acne Boy. ‘From the generale.’
‘Think you got yourself into trouble, not me.’
‘I wasn’t asking your opinion, girl. Does this mean nothing to you?’ He tugged at the silver insignia on his shirt. ‘When you insult me, you insult Il Duce.’
‘And you insult your uniform. My father was fighting for Il Duce when you were still squeezing your zits.’
Why could she not stop talking?
His boots were on the final step.
‘What did you say?’ He was pressing himself as he spoke. Against her. Deliberate pulses into her breast, his sharp silver buttons imprinting themselves in the place where he had struck her before.
‘Only you here. Shame that. You got me into so much shit. For nothing really.’
There was a string of blackheads where his nostrils flared. Symmetrical either side. Weeping milky-yellow spots at his throat; he must slice them every morning when he shaved. One hand was creeping up her skirt; she gripped herself tighter, pushing her backside out to try and escape.
‘Hans, I really think you should go now,’ she shouted, but she could no longer see Hans. Her eyes were smarting, swimming, the soldier’s hand on her thigh, one finger inching up, his rancid, breathed words deep in her ear.
‘So much shit. May as well make it worth my while, eh, puttana?’ And if she screamed, Joe would come and if Joe came, they might kill him. A finger reaching into her pants, bile and shock and a sly slick flick – but it was her fingers finding him, grasping his groin with her fingernails, just hard enough. A twist, a throttled gasp. Her teeth against his.
‘Touch me and I will kill you.’ She sang it soft, like an incantation, words vibrating in a secret between their teeth. Singing and grinning. ‘I will find you in the night, wherever you are sleeping, even if I am dead bec
ause I am a mountain witch, you pustulent, ugly child, and I will come back and I will kill you. But in the meantime, I will let you go. I will let you go and I will not even tell the Monsignor of this, because if I do, he will have your generale have you shot, if anything at all happens to me, he will have you shot, because I am a favourite and there is already a spell with your name on it, I have written out a spell and it is hidden but the Monsignor knows where it is, and you will die. Cursed in battle, you will die.’
Releasing him, a spring away, so that he tripped backwards down the step, her dress ripping. ‘Do you understand me? Hans!’ She raised her voice again; the stupid Nazi was standing, eyes downcast. ‘Hans. Your friend doesn’t like necci, so probably best if you don’t bring him here again. Then Mamma will have more for you, yes? Goodbye, boys.’
She slammed the door shut, locked it. Locked it. Locked it. Braced her spine, waiting for a boot or a machine gun to blast its way through, and yes, the glass was rattling, was rattling and they would come inside. Mamma would find her dead, oh sweet Jesus, it was rattling so hard. But the rattling was her.
Creak of cupboard, dunting the table.
‘Vita?’ Side of Joe’s face, all squashed up in the little slit. She could hear him giggle. ‘Jeez, that was close. Whatever you said, well done. Can I get out now?’
His eye, peering. ‘Hey! Wake up, woman!’
Unblinking.
‘Vita! What is it? What’s wrong?’
Whimpering as his shoe booted door, table, pots, everything, the madia half-tipping as he struggled out. She could hear Giuseppe, hear him kissing her hair, and the crisp rustle of his shirt as he held her. But she couldn’t uncross her legs, nor her arms to hug him back.
Chapter Ten
Four men, crouched above a bridge. Hazed light shimmering like the sea. It lapped over the men, animating the rocks and trees. The youngest scratched his balls, pretending it was a macho thing, but he was desperate for the toilet and he’d only just been. Nerves.
The Sound of the Hours Page 12