‘They see you’re fit enough to drive, you’re fit enough to work,’ said Sergio.
‘We’re thinking maybe you should drive, Vita,’ said Orlando. ‘You’re less likely to get stopped than your papà.’
‘Are you deaf? I told you, no. Down you get,’ Papà said. ‘Hurry.’
‘Well, Carla then,’ said Orlando. ‘If she ever gets here.’
‘Carla? She couldn’t ride a bike, far less steer my donkey.’
‘No, I’ll do it,’ said Vita.
‘No,’ said Papà and Joe, together.
‘I bloody will.’ A long strand of hair slapped her mouth, catching where her lips split.
‘Vittoria!’
In the cart, both boys bowed their heads and giggled.
‘Why? Because I’m a girl? Maybe I’m fed up being a girl. Maybe being a girl brings nothing but folk telling you what you can and can’t do. Ever thought of that? If being a girl’s the one helpful thing I can do, then let me do it. Please.’ From her vantage point, she could see Cesca waving, running down the track towards them, all skinny legs and the wild madness of her hair.
The donkey pawed the ground. Dario kicked his brother. ‘No, you a girl too. . . Hey! Mamma! Look, there’s Mamma!’
Carla was behind Cesca, breathless. ‘There’s tedeschi everywhere. Elena’s still at Albiano – one of the refugees is sick.’
‘You need to leave now, if you’re going. There might not be another chance.’
‘I know, Mario, I know. But I have to get—’
‘We’ve got your bags, in the cart.’ Vita got down, handed the reins to Carla. ‘You can manage the donkey, can’t you?’
Their dresses flowed behind them like sails. Vita held Carla’s gaze; folded the reins round Carla’s fingers. Fine drizzle, dampening their hair.
‘I can.’
A firm kiss for her cousin, then Carla started embracing everyone, then they were all at it. Dario bubbled over, clamouring for hugs. Marino took his lead from Joe, pretending to be brave. That was worse because you couldn’t embrace them, these two stiff males staring into the distance. Vita gave Marino instructions for Andromeda, how the donkey’s teeth weren’t so good now, and if he could mash up scraps before she ate them? Marino nodded gravely, memorising his duties. No fuss. They were a credit to their nation. Italy was heavy with men being brave and women being stoic, and for what? For what?
And then it was Joe, reaching down from the cart. One glancing, butterfly kiss that pressed through her bones.
‘We were meant to be each other’s rescue.’
‘What?’
She hadn’t thought she’d said it aloud. ‘Take care of yourself, Giuseppe Guidi.’
‘I will, Vittoria Guidi.’
The grey sky stretched low. A band of soft rain moved over the face of Monte Forato.
‘Vita?’
‘Yes?’
‘What’s the donkey called?’
‘She’s called Andromeda. Sergio says you can see constellations in her eyes.’
He touched one finger to his forehead. ‘Mad. You’re all mad.’
‘Right, Joe,’ said Papà. ‘On your belly.’
They covered him first with sacking. Then, the slide of wood. A dragging sound, the heft of breath. Squeals from the children, disgusted squeals and shrieks, exhortations to be quiet! before dense-thudded donkey shit hid Giuseppe Guidi from the world.
Water fell from the copper tap, in slow, persistent drips. To make Mamma happy, Papà had drilled pipes through solid rock. He still kept their old secchia, beside the draining board, to be filled from the communal well. Unhygienic, said Mamma, who refused to let her children use it. Delicious, said Papà, who insisted the secchia remain.
‘Vita, call Cesca down.’
From La Limonaia’s kitchen, stairs led to the soffitta, where corn and potatoes were stored on wooden slats, and to Cesca’s bedroom beyond. The sole of Vita’s foot hurt. There must have been a stone inside her zoccolo. Pain was good; it gave her focus, a sharpness to rub against. An excuse for sore eyes.
‘Mamma’s made food.’
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘Get down here now and sit at the table,’ Mamma yelled. ‘Vita, put the bowls out.’
The shutters were closed. Vita could hear the warning bell ring. Fifteen minutes to curfew, when all the barghigiani must be locked away. Nobody sitting on their steps or taking a stroll. She lit a candle on the candelabrum. Always sporadic, since the tedeschi came, power could be off for weeks. Few houses in Catagnana had electricity, so you got no sympathy if you moaned. Mrs Pieri had loaned them tallow lanterns, but they stank the place out. So the Guidis met power cuts with Luccese candelabra.
‘Mario. Pass me the wine.’ Mamma was making vinata. When the wine was warm, she tipped in the chestnut flour, stirring it to dark-red sludge.
‘Couple of bowls of that and you’d be fit for anything.’ He kissed the nape of Mamma’s neck. Her mother reached behind. Caught Papà’s hand and pulled it close to her mouth.
‘Why are we all sitting here, pretending?’ said Cesca.
‘Because it’s important—’
A wail of anguish lifted through the dusk, coming from the end of the lane.
‘Sit down!’ Mamma ladled crimson gloop into their bowls. ‘Now eat.’
‘Öffne die Tür! Schnell!’ Three sharp raps. They had come to the front door. Papà rose. Mamma shook her head.
‘I’ll go.’
She went into the hallway. Vita looked at her father, willing him to do something.
‘Hans! Guten Abend,’ said Mamma.
Papà’s knuckles were white, gripping his spoon, which never moved from the bowl.
‘Now? But we’re eating.’
High, brittle noises, Vita thought she heard her mother yelp, then the kitchen door flew wide, tedeschi pouring in, yelling and screaming into Papà’s face.
‘Raus! Raus!’
Someone wrenched at Vita’s hair, chair spilling as she was hauled to her feet. Think, Vita, try to think, to find a quiet space of air inside all the screaming, but it was her screaming, her and her little sister, hysterical.
‘Don’t you touch my daughter!’ Papà shouted. Vita struggled to reach him, hair tearing as a soldier swung his rifle butt, smashing it into her father’s face. He crumpled, Cesca kicking out at the soldier who had struck him.
‘Leave him alone!’
The Nazi hit her half across the room. It was Hans.
‘No.’ Her mother ran to Cesca, shielding her with her own body, but no more blows came. Not for Cesca.
An officer in a black tunic started shouting at Papà. ‘Where is Giuseppe Guidi?’
His nose was bleeding. Voice thick. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Again, the rifle fell on her father.
‘Where is he? You are harbouring a murderer. You know the punishment?’
‘I don’t know a Giuseppe Guidi.’
Hans raised his rifle butt a third time. Her father groaned. ‘Nein,’ said the officer. He took the soldier’s gun and turned it round, pointing it at Vita. Behind him, Mamma held his ankles, crawling and weeping.
‘I am fascista! I am fascista! Please. Leave our family alone.’
The officer swung his elbow, direct and swift, cracking her mother’s temple. She dropped against the table. The candelabrum shuddered, blue flame rippling.
The dark room began to shimmer.
‘Lass ihn! Das Haus durchsuchen.’
The soldier released his grip on Vita’s hair, shoving her towards her mother and sister. Mamma, dazed and blinking, Cesca’s eyes puffed into slits. Two more soldiers seized her father under the arms and dragged him out. The rest began to search the house, crashing over furniture, smashing pictures and ornaments. One of them took out his penis and pissed into the pot of vinata. Laughing. Vita laid her head on Mamma’s lap. Cesca threaded her fingers through Vita’s. They were like a circle of cats, heads and tails entwined,
and she could not break the circle. If she moved, the circle would crack. Circles were magic. Circles and stars, the breath of trees, these were the old magics.
The candles fizzled and smoked. Extinguished. Nobody moved. Vita’s knees were burning-numb. But you couldn’t break the circle. It might be the only thing holding them in place. Eventually, the dreadful noises ebbed away.
‘Have they gone?’ Cesca breathed.
‘I don’t know.’ Vita struck the tinderbox, lit a candle. The waxen light shone in Mamma’s face, showing blood on her mouth, and a yellow-purple cheekbone. ‘I’ll go and look. Ces, get a cloth for Mamma’s face.’
She went into the hall, expecting darkness. But the front door hung like an open mouth. The rain had cleared; the moon, high above the mountain, pouring white, milky light. Dispassionate light, neither warm nor cold. She could see soldiers dragging a man from Casa Pieri, Signora Pieri running after them. Torchlight flickered down at old Sergio’s too, and further up the hill, towards Sommocolonia. The heavy tread of tedeschi patrols, owning barghigiani streets. An engine revved. Two open trucks at the end of the street were packed with men.
Somewhere in there was her father. Nose broken, maybe struggling to breathe. Vita sat on the step, her arms over her head. Harsh shouts, a loud slam. She heard the clunk and vroom of vehicles moving off, a door banging, wailing within.
All of this was her fault.
The crying tailed off. She unfurled her arms. With the sound of the trucks petering to nothing, she could be the only human left on earth. No lights were permitted after curfew, you could look all across the Garfagnana and find no signs of life. Bright white, deserted Catagnana: their tiny church, the silvery shape of the Pieris’ barn. Papà’s workshop.
Men. Men, raking up her father. That was rastrellamento.
She pictured Sergio shivering with fear. She thought of that doctor with the poor dead baby. The forced march had exhausted him. She saw her papà, with his quiet, shabby mantle of defeat. How could people do that to each other? Did they not see another human looking back?
‘Vita!’ A strange-shaped figure was hirpling up the track. Barefoot, two heads. It was Renata, carrying Rosa on her hip. ‘Did they take Mario?’
‘Did they take Orlando?’
‘Gone. Every man in Sommo. Gone.’
The bridge of Vita’s nose ached.
‘I tried to follow them – but one of the soldiers hit me.’
‘Come inside. You shouldn’t be out. It’s still curfew. Here. Give Rosa to me.’ She took them into the kitchen. Rosa clung to Vita’s neck. ‘Mamma. It’s only Renata. The soldiers have gone.’
Cesca had put a blanket over Mamma, got her onto the low bench under the window. She’d lit one of the Pieris’ tallow lamps too. The smell of burning fat crept through the room.
‘Oh, Elena! Your face. They hit you too?’
‘Well, I wasn’t going to stand by while they assaulted my family, was I?’ The unsteady flicker of the lamp reflected in Mamma’s eyes.
‘They came all at once,’ said Renata. ‘Just grabbing, and hitting. They even took Don Sabatini.’
‘They took the priest?’
‘Moved in like locusts. Pincer movement, isn’t it? I remember Gianni saying. . .’ High-pitched and shrill, Renata couldn’t stop talking. ‘People were running to the mountains, into attics, woodpiles, trees. Everywhere. But there was nowhere to hide. The tedeschi were all over us.’
‘I know.’ Mamma pulled a little of the blanket over, so it covered Renata too.
Cesca lifted her arm. ‘Here, Rosa. You cuddle up by me.’
Vita mixed a little of the chestnut flour with the last drop of milk they had. ‘Right, Rose-posie. Drink that.’ There was still half a jug of wine left. She poured two glasses, handed them to Renata and her mother. When Mamma had gone to bed, she would take the pot of vinata and hurl it down the mountainside. The pulses of rage inside her were slowing to something deeper.
‘What will they do to them?’ said Cesca.
‘It’s alright.’ Renata took a long draught from her glass, wine spilling over the edges. ‘The Monsignor will stop them. Don Sabatini sent a boy down to the Canonica.’
‘If the Monsignor can’t save his own priests. . .’ Mamma turned down the lamp till it was barely a glow. ‘Do you mind? My head aches.’
‘I think we should wait up for him.’
‘But it’s curfew. What can he do?’
‘Intercede,’ said Renata. ‘Don Sabatini said the Monsignor would intercede.’
‘With God or the Germans?’ said Vita.
‘Both, I think.’
They sat in the crumpled dark. A hand took Vita’s. Time folded in on them, looping and closing, giving distance. Each with their own thoughts. The flames on the fornelli dimmed. Only shadows and unseen faces for company.
‘Should we pray, Mamma?’
‘In the morning, will we go to the Comune?’ said Renata.
Mamma was twisting the blanket through her hands. Tugging and twisting in long, furious movements. It might have been a chicken’s neck.
‘Mamma?’
‘What? Oh. . . yes. If you like.’
‘Will we pray to San Giuseppe?’ said Renata. ‘For times of distress?’
‘No, San Rocco. He helps people who’re wrongly accused.’
Vita stroked her sister’s hair. ‘How do you know these things, Ces?’
‘Why not San Cristoforo?’ said Renata. ‘He’s our patron saint.’
‘Good idea.’ Mamma stood, the blanket dropping to the floor. ‘Come with me girls. Renata, you stay with Rosa. Keep her warm.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Mario’s workshop. We won’t be long. You think up a good prayer, and we’ll do it when we get back. Vittoria, bring the lamp.’
Renata made a face. Mamma rarely passed up the chance for prayer.
They crossed the yard, light bobbing from the lamp. The lock had already been forced. Dark smells raced; shellac, pipe smoke, dust from the wood Papà coaxed into shape, the oil with which he wiped his tools. Smell and memory pleating. Long boards of oak were stacked inside the door, just-hewn planks dripping sap. There was his vice, his plane. The racks for tools. The ceramic scaldino tucked beneath the workbench, its handle turned inwards so you wouldn’t trip.
Vita fingered a chisel on the bench. She wanted to kill those men. The chamfered blade nicked her skin. She pulled her finger back, before the blood spilled and spoiled her father’s work. It was a piece of marquetry; inlay for a table, spread in careful carved pieces so fine they fluttered in the draught. She tried to set them straight, and a sliver of veneer broke.
‘Vittoria! Pay attention. This is important.’
The cabinet where Papà kept his shotguns was open. Mamma was holding one of them. It looked odd to see her mother with a weapon.
‘Did you hear what I said? About the weight? You need to spread your feet—’
Vita ran her hand along the smoothness of the shotgun’s barrel. ‘Can I try?’
Mamma hefted the gun so the butt rested on Vita’s shoulder. ‘Look through here. See the little dimple? Match it up with the U-shape. Then line it with the thing you want to shoot. But it sprays all over the place, so you need to wait until they’re close. Two barrels, remember.’
‘What?’
‘Remember to squeeze twice.’
‘Mamma, how do you know this?’
‘Just concentrate.’
The gun felt intense. The slim length of it a magic wand, a stick to point and make others do your bidding. All across Europe, as the war crested and crashed, this scene would be repeated. Parents showing their children where to hide. Where the gun case was. How to plunge a knife as you might stick a pig.
‘Vita!’ Cesca screamed.
‘Godsake, there’s nothing in it.’
Mamma slapped Vita’s head. ‘Never point that at someone you love.’ She took the gun, relocked the cabinet. ‘Not a word to anyone. And
you only go in if. . .’ For a second, her mother looked lost; the loose-focused eyes of a child.
The workshop door opened. Cesca screamed again.
‘Scusate, scusate. I didn’t mean to frighten you.’
It was the Monsignor. Here, in their dark and messy workshop, gliding on his saintly wheels as the three of them played with guns.
‘Mario is fine. Don’t fret.’ He laid his hands on Mamma’s shoulders. A proprietary, intimate gesture; it was a skill Vita saw him use often, a shepherd calming his sheep. And every time he did it, she wondered: did it feel lonely, being the Monsignor?
‘They’re all fine. A few hundred in all, from here and Barga. They’re taking them to Castelnuovo, along with the Pisans.’
‘Then what?’
‘I spoke with the commander. He’s given me his personal assurances they will be well cared for. I think men like blacksmiths and bakers might be let go, perhaps some professionals too.’
‘Is Papà professional?’ asked Cesca.
‘Not really,’ said Vita. ‘Not any more.’
‘And after Castelnuovo?’ said Mamma.
‘I believe the plan is to take them to Bologna. Or possibly Germany.’
‘Germany? How will they survive? Oh, God, how have they have tricked us like this? The tedeschi are monsters.’
‘They’re not monsters, Elena. They are simply following orders. The commander was quite reasonable.’
‘Reasonable? They took Don Sabatini!’
‘No, he elected to go with them. For comfort. And there is that Pisan doctor too.’
Mamma began to cry. A low, boundless wrench, with no Papà to stem the flow.
‘Elena, the worst that will happen is that Mario will do manual labour.’
‘Slave labour?’ She wouldn’t stand still to let you comfort her. Up and down, up and down, she strode, weaving her own pattern on the workshop floor. ‘But he’s not fit enough. Did you tell them about his war injuries?’
‘The men will get a medical. If they’re unfit to work, they’ll be released.’
‘Gino, you didn’t see them. The relish as they hit him. They want to punish us. Don’t you see?’
The Monsignor turned to Vita. ‘Is it true? The gossip about Giuseppe? I don’t want to know the details. I do not wish to be culpable in any act of wrongdoing. But does your mother have cause to be concerned?’
The Sound of the Hours Page 14