The Sound of the Hours

by Karen Campbell

  Dina pulled her knees into her chest. ‘You know how you’re feeling about your mamma, your papà? You want to kill someone, don’t you? And that anger will give you the strength to do what you need to do.’

  ‘But that’s my own family. You’re risking your life to help people you don’t even know.’

  ‘What are you doing now? You don’t need to take that radio to reach your mother. The americani will never know.’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘It’s a choice that’s been made for you. By them.’ Dina’s eyes shone. ‘Who have you lost already? Even if you do nothing, you’ll still lose more people, more places. So what are we preserving, if we don’t fight? The old Italy has gone.’ She took a long draught from the jug. ‘This Tiziano. You know where to find him?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Maybe in the forest?’

  ‘Well, don’t go looking.’ Wiping her mouth. ‘Tedeschi search for partisans in the mountains all the time. You’ve seen the low-flying planes? They’re spotters – though they’ll machine-gun you too, if they think you’re worth it. Make straight for where your partisans are, carrying your little case, and you’ll be waving a flag at the enemy. Best to get a message out, have them come to you.’

  ‘You saying I can have my little case then?’

  Dina laid her hand on Vita’s back. ‘You can, amica mia. As long as you let me find another case to put it in. Better to look like a refugee than a spy.’

  It took Vita most of the night to get to Barga. Dina and her brothers walked with her for a while, taking turns to carry the suitcase. The battered beige was less suspicious. Plenty of laden folk trudged Italy now; a river of refugees carrying entire worlds with them.

  ‘We’ve work to do,’ said Dina, when they left her. ‘And so have you. Night-time is our friend. And remember: my call sign is La Dinamitarda. If you need help from the south, just give me a shout.’ She hugged her. ‘Viva l’Italia.’

  Vita continued walking, using the North Star as a guide. Occasionally, she’d stop and rest, but only until she felt herself drifting. To be discovered sleeping would be fatal, give her no chance to collect herself. Already, too much time had passed since Mamma was arrested. Up and down the twisting paths, pebbles spitting into her zoccoli so often she gave up trying to fish them out. She learned to move her toes and heels till the pebbles slipped unnoticed, into or away from her flesh. Gradually, she stopped feeling anything; not her feet, legs, her blistered suitcase-lugging hands. Numbness overtook the chill of mountain air, and the vague, unspecific fear gnawing in her gut. She kept warm by thinking of the americano, imagining that he was watching her, approving each time she stumbled and righted herself. It made you warm to have a face like that in your mind.

  Dawn seeped. Her bones less cold. Slow, slow, the landscape shifted black to grey, from opaque to veiled to radiant. The sun rose on a place she finally recognised! She could see Monte Forato. Her breath made clouds, joining the morning mists as the way ahead yawned on and on. Finally, she began to descend, the far eye of Forato watching.

  She followed the Serchio until she found a spindly footbridge. Far across and up, she could see the Duomo’s square tower clinging to the hill. A burst of energy quickened her feet until she were almost running. The suitcase barged and battered her shins; she would be covered in bruises, but it didn’t matter. She was nearly home!

  Once, a circus had set up in the gorge below the old town. Clowns and jugglers, all of it stunning, but it was the tightrope walkers that amazed Vita, their teetering-running-burst to safety just at the end, and the sigh of the crowd in relief. She ran like this now, into Barga, began to package her adventure, how she would spin the tale. First, she would go to the Monsignor, have him speak to Generale Utimperghe. Maybe even go to Castelnuovo himself. Yes, she’d plead with him to go straight there. What an idiot, to leave her fate in others’ hands. Papà would never have abandoned her mother, and she would have to be Papà now. Mamma was fragile underneath. Vita would protect her, for all those years her mother had protected her. Even the city itself; she wanted to throw her arms round Barga’s walls, because she’d seen what might be coming.

  She climbed Via dei Frati, entered the old town by Porta Reale. There were others moving through the streets: a carter and his mule, a woman setting lemons on a tatty piece of cloth. Curfew must be over. She took the vicolo that led towards the Canonica. Safe within the stones of Barga. The alley, bending and narrowing to deeper shade, then a reassuring streak of sunshine, marking the opening of a wider street. She wanted to kiss the walls. Breathing hard, heaving her awkward suitcase with the knapsack stuffed inside. One last, confined set of steps. At the final turn of the stairs, Vita stopped. Directly in front of her was an armoured vehicle. A squad of fascisti had positioned a machine gun in the middle of the street.

  Panic slithering, stomach to spine.

  They were stopping folk. Asking to see their papers. Vita faltered, her feet iron weights. She was visible, too late to slip away; if she turned, retraced her steps. . . She couldn’t make her feet move forwards. Fumbling for a grip on her suitcase. Trying to catch herself. They would find the transmitter. Even newspapers would get her arrested. One static second became two. Gritted teeth, her fist tight round the handle of the suitcase. Not scared. Tell yourself you’re not scared. She continued to walk towards the fascisti. Casually. Unquickening her step. Right hand. Palm up. ‘Eja! Eja! Alala, boys.’ A cheeky wink.

  The soldiers grinned. One doffed his cap, another whistled as she sauntered past. ‘Ciao, bella.’ They stopped the man who came after her, a poor protesting soul, but Vita did not look back or break stride, did not run though every sinew was screaming get away. Dry mouth. Wet eyes. Blinking, blurring, walking through her town like it was spiked with landmines, with spectres that would pounce from every door. Just one more street and she’d be safe. No harm could come to you in the Canonica.

  ‘Oof. Watch where you’re going.’ The voice was gruff. Familiar.

  ‘Nico?’

  The old man took off his spectacles. ‘What are you doing here? I thought you were in Lucca?’

  ‘I was. Nico. My mamma’s been arrested.’ The tears broke, properly then. Nicodemo put his arm round her.

  ‘I know, I know.’

  ‘I need to speak to the Monsignor.’

  ‘You can’t. Not now.’

  ‘But it’s an emergency. I don’t know what they’ll do to her.’

  ‘Vittoria. The Monsignor is with the generale right now.’ Nico glanced behind him. ‘There’re spies everywhere. The Monsignor knows, child. Things are very urgent. Go home, sì? He’s doing what he can. But if we ask, we don’t get, you understand? It’s all changing, Vita. Please. Go home.’ His bony fingers held her wrist, drawing her closer. ‘With care. Because I know you didn’t take that suitcase with you.’ He raised his voice. ‘Father will be sorry to hear you are ill. He’ll come to give you comfort when he can.’ Nodding once, in dismissal.

  The suitcase felt hot in her hand. She turned from the promise of kind words and weak soup that had been sustaining her, on through the old town, down to the crossroads and up the path that led to Catagnana. To La Limonaia, which would be empty.

  It was. Shutters shut, no life inside. The Pieris’ doors were closed too. Smokeless chimney. Down below, old Sergio’s house was also shuttered. It would rain soon. Who would organise the harvest? Who would crush the olives and grapes? Across the valley, the Duomo bells chimed nine. She took the spare key from under the lemon pot on the terrace. The kitchen was cold; no heat to the stove, no bread smells in the air. The table, scrubbed and clean. Mamma might have marched off to fight the Nazis, but she’d washed her dishes first. Vita walked from room to room. Leaf-shadows flickering on the walls, that intermittent light her tree gifted to the rear of their house. All the beds were made. Mamma had put fresh sheets on them all. Upstairs, on top of Cesca’s bed, she had arranged her dolls, which had been Vita’s, in a neat row.

  The lac
k of life inside the house was unbearable. Mamma was its ticking heart. The girls had outer realms of school and woods and light, Papà his workshop. Mamma was food and bustle; she was the fire in the hearth, the tongue that lashed you into shape, and, yes, she went to market, she went to the Massaie Rurali, she went to church, but all these things were distractions from the business of being here. Of literally being home.

  Vita went into her parents’ bedroom. Lay on the quilted counterpane. Patches of wedding dress and smocked baby rompers, the blue silk thread that bound each carefully shaped fragment in a pattern of hexagonal blooms. At the outer edges it remained calico, waiting for new threads to be stitched. She wanted so much to crawl into those crisp, bleached sheets, just pull the covers over her head and make the world go away. Sleep would not be helpful. Neither would pulling the ends of Mamma’s shawl across her face. Just five minutes. Then she would be refreshed.

  Vita woke some time after noon, wrapped in twisted sheets and sweat. The fronds of a dream tugged at her. There’d been a high barred window; Mamma’s face tight against the bars. The point of her chin protruded through slices of metal, Vita could see it still, cutting the thinness of her mother’s flesh. Could hear the voice telling her: Leave some light with your mamma.

  In the kitchen, she went to start a fire. Wash first, then food, then she’d work out how to get a message to the partigiani. Joe would have known what to do. Maybe the partigiani could get a message to him. If Joe came home, then she wouldn’t be alone.

  That wasn’t a reason to want him.

  She reached for the matches. Felt guilt creep. She was thinking of the americano again. He was like a song lodged in her head. She blew the remains of the ash into a pile. Underneath, balled in the grate, was a letter. Vita recognised those bold loops and lines of blue. It was Nonna Lucca’s writing. She pulled it out.

  Dearest Elena,

  I write this with the best of intentions, although you rarely appreciate the wisdom of my counsel. But in this I cannot be silent. Your notion of removing Vittoria from school is most wrong-headed. She is clearly a bright girl. And while it is true that bearing children is the foremost duty of any fascista woman, it is not always the most fulfilling. There is no shame in a mother having education, indeed there is much benefit from it. Perhaps if you had been more attentive to your studies and refined your thoughts, then you would have considered your own marriage prospects

  Here, it stopped; the paper torn and browned. She wondered what her mother’s reply had been. Carefully, Vita folded the remains of the page, to be used in evidence. For a brief, beautiful moment, she allowed herself to think of a day when her future might be discussed again, the family sitting at this table. Mamma flicking her apron at Papà, Cesca squabbling—

  She sensed movement, the kitchen window darkening. Saw the profile of a person, watching her.

  ‘Who’s there?’

  Flinging the door open, and, as it was slamming into the wall, thinking she should be locking it instead. An unknown man stood on the step, his hand outstretched.

  ‘Vittoria? Don’t be alarmed. You have something for me?’

  She did not invite him but he came in anyway, slipping round the door and closing it. Vita’s first impression was mostly hair: big, tangled beard, sheepskin gilet, long tresses under a knitted cap. Bare, furred legs beneath knee-length shorts. Red shorts. He bore a shepherd’s crook, and a rifle tucked inside his gilet.

  ‘Who are you? Who told you to come here?’ She tried to fill the room with her voice.

  ‘A mutual friend.’ He raised his cap. The centre of his head was bald.

  ‘What friend?’

  The man smiled an apology. ‘You have a delivery? A suitcase?’

  He spoke very formally; even in her distraction, Vita realised he wasn’t Italian. British? She switched to English. ‘Tell me who you are first. You Tiziano?’

  ‘Ah! A fellow Brit! No, dear. I’m not Tiziano. I’m his boss, so to speak. Captain Bob, at your service.’

  ‘In they shorts? Aye, well, I’m the Queen of Sheba.’

  ‘Indeed. Actually, your countrymen call me Capitano Chiavapecore. Strong sheep-man. Because of my fleece?’

  Vita felt her face go hot. She didn’t say anything, for fear she’d be obliged to explain that, while ‘pecore’ did indeed mean sheep, unfortunately, ‘chiava’ meant fucker.

  ‘If I could possibly get that transmitter?’

  ‘What is in it for me?’

  ‘Beg pardon?’

  She had slept for only a handful of hours. Her family was torn and scattered; she was hungry, scared, but more than that, she was furious at this oddity standing in her kitchen. To flash your bare knees like that; him, a grown man. It just seemed very rude.

  ‘You need something. I need something. My mother’s been jailed. My papà too. They’ve got them in Castelnuovo. If I give you the transmitter, you could help. Arrange a prisoner exchange?’

  What Dina said partisans did.

  ‘Or,’ said the capitano, ‘I could hit you across the face with my rifle, break all your teeth and take the transmitter anyway. Stopping only to torch your house as I leave.’

  Her stomach shrank. If she spoke on her out-breath, her voice would remain steady.

  ‘And why would you do that?’

  The relish of his violence, how he flicked from benign to menacing; it was a smooth, practised thing. The way she’d seen Papà crack his rifle, lift-aim-fire, and then smile again, and be Papà. Men did that when they had weapons, as if their skin slipped off.

  ‘Why indeed? Because that just would not be cricket, dear, would it? Nor would you playing funny buggers with me. So, where is it, please?’

  ‘Case.’

  ‘Beg pardon? Speak up, there’s a good lassie.’

  ‘In the suitcase. In the front room.’

  ‘Jolly good. I’ll just go and fetch it, shall I?’

  She shrugged. Hotness under her skin, in her eyes. Clenching her fists; she was an impotent joke. The man returned in seconds.

  ‘Cheerio then. Take it those newspapers are mine too?’ He secreted everything inside his gilet. You could probably secrete a sheep in there. She felt his gaze land, briefly, on her.

  ‘Plucky thing, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m gonny ask you again. Please will you help? My papà, he was taken in the rastrellamento.’

  ‘The men from here? Oh, they’ve already been sent to Germany, dear.’

  The floor tilted. Vita dug her fingernails deeper into her palms. She could see the hazy ghost of her nose, of her top lip as she swallowed.

  ‘What about my mother? Her name’s Elena—’

  Captain Bob was checking out the window. He wasn’t really listening to her.

  ‘Elena Guidi. She was arrested for kicking a German soldier. I think she might have bitten him too—’

  ‘Guidi, you say? Is Guidi your name?’ The capitano swivelled. Smiled at her, and it was a horrible smile, it was the most horrible face of the several faces he’d already used, standing in her kitchen. Because it was real. Gentle. He was being sad, she could see sadness in his mouth and eyes; in the extension of his arm as he touched her, so that when he finally spoke, it was as if she’d already known what he would say.

  ‘Oh, my dear. I’m so sorry. Has nobody told you? Elena Guidi was shot this morning. Just after nine, I believe. They always hold their executions at nine.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  By the time the light rose fully, it was done. Smoke could be seen from miles away; it might have been chimney smoke. Or a bonfire. Or dust as the Panzergrenadiers rolled out.

  All summer, the refugees had followed the hard mountain light. Old women, scared Jews. Babes in arms and children who could barely toddle, yet knew, instinctively, to be quiet. Hundreds of them, gathering in remote hamlets, trudging there on jagged roads which veered to the plunging edge and back. Far in the distance, a flash of sea. Viareggio was somewhere on that winding coastline. Older folk could rem
ember trips there: looming promenades and art nouveau hotels.

  Air-dropped leaflets littered the tracks. Full of exclamation marks. People of Italy! Help us help you! Work with us to block the Bosch retreat! The Allies have got your back!

  La Resistenza handed them out. Men who knew the land, knew the locals; they could melt and drift like clouds. But they needed the folk around them too, for food, shelter, bandages, eyes. They needed people’s donkeys to tote their makeshift bombs; they needed women to walk through a German patrol, fuse wire hidden in their skirts. At the very least, they needed trust.

  But Kesselring was clear. All resistance was to be punished.

  Kesselring. A sharp sting of a word, which caught in people’s throats like phlegm. The steady summerlight shone on other leaflets. Traitors will be shot. Earth will be scorched. Ten Italians will die for every German killed.

  Each cluster of hilltop towns had their band of partisans, and the folk who lived alongside. All that summerlight and weeping rain, turning on the earth as three thousand souls were slaughtered. Why would Sant’Anna be any different? Joe had thought it would. Why? Because it was beautiful and remote, clefted in the rock? Because the light was so high here it might have shone from God Himself?

  The light had tumbled over the 16th SS Panzergrenadiers all summer, as they mopped up partigiani. It shone with them along the Gothic Line, the Apuan Alps, the Versilia hills. And it stared unblinking as the partisans fought back. With every indignity that was inflicted, why would you not? But the Nazis were so efficient, they went beyond being men of their word, and the light rose wearily on a day that required no German deaths at all, to provoke a massacre.

  On a soft summer morning, four columns of Panzergrenadiers marched up the mountain to Sant’Anna di Stazzema. They arrived at first light. Villagers fired a flare to signal the usual unwelcome guests: folk hid their grain, took the animals inside. Some men and boys fled to the woods. It would be another rastrellamento. Because you don’t get reprisals for a thing you haven’t done.