The Sound of the Hours

by Karen Campbell

  She broke the silence. ‘May I have the scissors, Sister Bertilla?’

  Quickly, she snipped a square from the hem of Dario’s nightshirt. Tonight, she would stitch it into her mamma’s quilt. The nuns returned to their sorting. She would find something of Joe’s too, some grubby scrap left in the cave, maybe a ribbon of Carla’s, or she’d embroider all their initials on a patch. Or something. A daft, pointless action, but it was something. There was a phrase, nagging at her. You must name the dead. Was it the Romans or the Greeks? Greeks, probably – Papà was always extolling ancient Greeks. To give them peace, you must name the dead.

  ‘Vita, dear.’ Sister Agatha closed the shattered window. ‘Watch you don’t stab yourself with those shears.

  By late afternoon, all the clothes had been bundled and collected. Sister Bertilla had swept up the glass, and pinned a scrap of material over the broken pane. The noises from Sister Agatha’s stomach had become embarrassing. Vita went to the kitchen to see what food there was. She wasn’t sure she was still the housekeeper. However, she was a daughter of the Canonica, was she not? In this free-for-all, it was her kitchen as much as anyone’s.

  She took one of the copper pans from the stone ledge, opened the larder. A couple of sad purple turnips rolled on the shelf. Rainwater in the barrel, some chard she’d found in the garden; it was a feast, and. . . she edged her hands along the topmost shelf. Nico was too bent to reach up here, and she wasn’t sure the Monsignor ever went into his kitchen. Her fingers closed on a bag of barley she’d stuffed there ages ago. Mamma’s ring dug into the pad of skin below her finger. It would toughen up soon.

  Vita chopped turnips, rinsed the barley in a sieve. The Brazilians had extended their rations, allowing each person three hundred grammes of flour a day, plus beans and chickpeas and milk powder. No doubt the Monsignor had foregone his share, or given it to the nuns. That man. Where was he anyway? No one had seen him for ages. Vita was just setting the water to boil on the fornelli when Sister Agatha came banging into the kitchen.

  ‘Vittoria! Come, quickly. The Monsignor is here, with new guests.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know how much I can stretch this soup by. How many?’

  The nun twisted butterfly hands beneath her chin. ‘I’m not sure they eat soup. I don’t know if they eat cooked food at all actually. They’re Mori.’ She dropped her voice as the Monsignor’s own voice spilled down the corridor.

  ‘In you come, gentlemen.’

  The kitchen door swung wide. The Monsignor appeared at the head of a group of soldiers, American soldiers, Vita recognised the colour of their uniform from Lucca; it was the heavy green of pressed olives. Six of them. Black-skinned and smiling, one who doffed his cap while the others merely stood there, the glowing light from the fornelli illuminating the round, yellow-green patches on their shoulders. Bufali. The Buffaloes were in Barga.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Barga. Twisted, dark November streets. Sheer grey and broken stone. Tall walls made of mountain, mountains made of wall, of moisture-packed clouds at high altitude, and great vistas of valley that were beautiful still. It was a battered place; a town of smashed-up bridges and jagged gaps.

  Two days of rapping on doors and taking roll calls. It didn’t feel much like liberation to Frank. Bear said the Brazilians had been too polite; that if the Allies were going to flood this place with enough men to truly take Jerry out, they’d need every spare bit of accommodation going. In pidgin Italian, the Buffaloes tried to work out who lived where. If their basement kitchens or their weird, hay-stuffed lofts weren’t occupied by a family of five, then they were prizes for the US Army to commandeer. ‘Don’t put folks out on the street though. We need ’em on our side.’

  OSS warned there would be a deal of resistance. These northern mountain towns had been Fascist strongholds, and in the powderkeg shadow of the Gothic Line, you must assume your friends wore two faces. They trudged through the old city, stepping over scorch-marked chair legs and blackened metal, which might have been prams once, or bikes. An old woman washed her one remaining window, while a man brushed the front step. Children kicked stones, built castles in wreckage. A duo with dirt-smeared faces fought over a cheese rind, until their mother came out and slapped them both. Rubbish was heaped in piles, possibly sewage by the stench. The Buffaloes marched down through the skinny streets of the old town, canteens clinking in time with their boots. Occasional snatches came, of that jagged Scottish English that made Frank’s ribcage split to wings, and his head would turn and he’d search for her, even when it was a man’s voice and he knew he was being ridiculous.

  Always that electric, storm-scented air.

  ‘Most Scottish town in Italy, this,’ said Bear as they patrolled the shuttered alley of a little hamlet downtown. ‘Did you know that?’

  ‘How come you did?’ One eye on the thick-forested hills above. Russet hills. Somewhere high up, a dog barked. Pockets of life coming in on a sharpened breeze. The leaves on the ground shimmied. Soon it would snow, Vinnie said. Maybe so – Frank had seen a consignment of white snowsuits arrive earlier, and that in itself was unnerving. Supplies never arrived on time. The officers kept saying: We need to break Jerry before the snows come. The sky wasn’t dense enough, surely? But what did a Berkeley boy know about snow?

  ‘Make it my business to know these things.’ Bear cleared his throat. ‘Significant migration, due to the poverty-stricken Italian diaspora journeying to Scotland in the late nineteen hundreds. History, boy. Is the key to tomorrow.’

  ‘Very impressive.’ Frank kicked the door of an empty shop. Its walls had been daubed with crude yellow stars. ‘Clear.’

  Ivan went upstairs. ‘Clear,’ he called. ‘Could maybe billet a dozen guys here.’

  ‘Yup. Gonna open me a little travel business when I get home,’ said Bear. ‘Battlefield tours.’

  Frank rolled his eyes. ‘Who the fuck will want to remember this?’

  ‘You’ll see, Chapelley. You’ll see. Ma’am.’ Bear tipped his helmet to an old woman who crouched, blank-eyed, in the next doorway along. She flapped thumb and fingers together, like a kid making shadow-pictures of a duck. Then the sour tang of urine hit them. People here were surviving, not living; depleted to the point they were more reflex than human. Same sunken features Frank had seen in Naples. Wasn’t just hunger making their faces thin. You could see their postures reflected in their town: bowed, battered. Dying from the inside out.

  With the utmost care, Bear’s squad navigated the pontoon the Brazilians had erected across the river, conscious they were the sole moving dots on the landscape, visible for miles above. But there were a couple of villages on the other side of the river they needed to check. One in particular was getting a lot of radio traffic. Sommocolonia. Whoever held Sommocolonia held riches. Beyond it lay Lama di Sotto, the ridge to which Jerry had fled. From the river, if you cricked your neck, you could see Sommocolonia’s towers, teetering on the summit of the jagged slope. Mountain? Hill? How did you gauge size, when this entire panorama was peaked with unending rows of dragon teeth?

  These forays were to gather intel about enemy movements, assess the local populace, the terrain – you were literally charting the lie of the land. And they were also tentative pokes. Toe-pokes, how you would poke a sleeping beast, prodding and prodding until it stirs and roars.

  ‘Your pretty black ass is bait, boy.’ Bear blew Frank a kiss. ‘Git along, li’l hossy.’

  Indian-file, they moved along the mule track that scissored round the mountain. Overhangs of rock, undergrowth that could be fathoms deep: plenty of ambush-happy spots. The Brazza boys had been all the way up to Sommocolonia, but the dumb fucks were so keen to get relieved, they’d given themselves a headstart. Who knew what leakage had occurred in the interim, while Sommocolonia lay unguarded? Could be full of Nazis by now. After about a mile, the track split. Frank checked the map.

  ‘OK. Down here we got a village called Catagnana. Do it now or on the way back? Or do we separ
ate and do half each?’

  ‘No. Let’s stay together. How many houses?’

  Frank turned the map around. ‘Dozen, say. Plus a little church.’

  Bear led them down the road. ‘OK, Corporal Comanche.’

  ‘Yes, Sergeant Bear?’

  ‘You take Chap and Ivan and do this side. You other boys, come with me.’

  They worked their way down the higgledy street. Houses clung at different levels, anchored and carved just wherever the rock would fit them in. Most had a full complement of occupants, several with more than one family squeezed in. Judging by the parlous state of Barga, folks thought it was safer to hide out in the mountains. Not when the offensive started proper though; all these poor suckers would need to flee again. Godknew where.

  In the tiny village square, a cat slept in the thin light which drove through hammered-iron clouds. In what showed on the map as a church, a little schoolroom had been set, a bunch of kids teaching themselves spelling from a chalkboard. One of them offered the Buffs some water. They declined politely, moved on, past a decentsized villa that was shuttered and empty. Frank marked it on the list. ‘Casa Pieri’. A rickety farm further down the slope also looked vacant. They’d check that later, get a local to guide them, in case of mines.

  Last one. Right at the end of the track was a red-roofed house with blue shutters. A ceramic tile on the wall declared its name: La Limonaia. A pretty house, framed by the forest and with a terraced slope out front. The view across the valley took Frank’s breath away. Reams of rolling land and purple-blue mountains, Barga ruddy and intact from here, not grey at all. One mountain in particular dominated the horizon; it was cut clean through with a perfect circle. Like a watching eye.

  Comanche opened the door of the house, banging at the same time, for courtesy.

  ‘US Army,’ he shouted. ‘Americani. Va bene, va bene. Amici.’

  There was a small hallway, then straight into the typical Italian kitchen. Wooden larder, big stone sink. One door in, one window – no, two doors, there was another door leading out back. Frank was sweeping the room, not admiring the decor. Those boys being shot while he watched from on high? They’d been on reconnaissance too. Through a fug of cigarette smoke, he saw a gang of men, sitting round the kitchen table. Instant alert. Six of them, three Buffs. The men had unkempt beards, and the haggard, tan faces of guys who lived wild. Partigiani. A teenage boy in baggy trousers was stirring a pot on the stove. Like several of the men, he wore a hat, but not the traditional beret. More what you’d call a baker-boy cap, too big for his head.

  ‘Stand up, signori,’ said Comanche. ‘Hands where I can see them.’

  The oldest of the men tipped his chair back. ‘On whose orders, americano? You are guests in our country.’

  The dry click of a trigger. ‘How about I say “per favorino”?’ Ivan, leering. Licking his lips like a madman.

  Frank lifted his hand but did not touch him. ‘Cool it.’ You would not physically touch Ivan when he was holding a gun.

  The boy at the stove glided his head, his neck, to face them. Her face. Wild hair piled under the cap, Frank’s belly bursting in stars. A restless whispering, climbing inside of him. He knew it was her, it was Vittoria, because he was freezing cold and sticky. Palms of his hands, his spine. The thin line of moustache on his upper lip, beaded with sweat. Ivan, the room, the partisans, all fell away. It was only him and her. Did she not know him? Look at me, baby. Not them. At me. Ignore everything around you, these soldiers in your home and fix on me. See me.

  The space between where he stood and where she stood was contracting; she was looking into him. Hard throb of blood. Through him. Looking at the tableful of men. The older man slid a revolver onto the table. Folded his arms. Vita spoke to him in rapid Italian. He replied in English.

  ‘My name is Tiziano. Commander of this brigade. And you are?’

  ‘Corporal Barfoot, sir. US 92nd,’ said Comanche. ‘We’re sorry to interrupt your meeting, but we need to make sure this area is safe.’

  ‘As do we, caporale. I have laid down my weapon. Tell your men to do likewise.’

  ‘No can do, I’m afraid,’ said Comanche. ‘We need to see your papers.’

  Vita slammed her spoon on the rim of the pot. ‘This is Tiziano, you understand? You must know him. Yous lot liaise with him all the bloody time. Bloody eejits.’

  ‘Jesus, man.’ Ivan was jangling to hit someone. His knuckles twitching. ‘What the fuck she speaking? Crazy bitch. You sit on you ass—’

  Frank nodded at the commander. ‘Sì, signore. Mi dispiace.’ He too laid his rifle on the table. ‘Please advise your men we are friends. But our commander insists we check the papers of every male we encounter. We mean no disrespect. I’m sure as a commander yourself you’ll understand the need for security – for your people as well as our own.’

  Tiziano inclined his head. Another burst of unintelligible Italian, or it might have been perfectly understandable, but Frank was aware of nothing except his own concentration on Vita. He would not exist – he, this, would make no sense – if she didn’t look at him. Eyes downcast, she continued to stir her pot, flushed with the heat of cooking.

  One by one, the partisans produced their documents. Some had a variety of cards: ambulance driver, a permission slip from the Military Hospital, denoting a Repubblica soldier home on medical leave. Clever. The best was held by Tiziano himself. Ente Italiano Audizioni Radiofoniche – the state utility company. A pass like this gave the bearer access to a van, equipment, permission to roam outwith curfew.

  Comanche handled it beautifully, shaking each man by the hand and addressing them individually as ‘Signor Molti Nomi’. One partisan was some kind of Slav, but even he got the joke. Ivan stood, dumb, as gales of laughter swooped around him. More high-speed Italian flying in the kitchen, which Frank couldn’t understand. A cold dullness was forming inside of him, like he was being frozen even as the partigiani thawed.

  ‘Parlate inglese ora, compagni,’ said Tiziano. ‘We were just about to eat. Do you care to join us?’

  ‘Um, no, thank you, sir,’ said Comanche. ‘We need to be heading on.’

  ‘And you may not have enough to go round.’ Frank said it pointedly, as a way of trying to make Vita engage. She was on her tiptoes, reaching for some bowls on top of the dresser. Her shirt was pulled out of the waistband of her trousers; glimpse of honeyed skin stretched drum-tight over her hip bone. He wanted, so bad, to press his face into its sharpened curve. Just to die there.

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Tiziano. ‘This is a house of miracles, eh, Dolcezza?’

  ‘Well, I need to feed the children first.’

  ‘You can get anything here, gentlemen. Food, detonators, fuse wire, forty winks – you name it.’

  ‘Everything except a hot bath.’ Vita delivered a theatrical sigh to the assembled men, her back very definitely to Frank. ‘One thing I want most in the world.’

  ‘Sorry, ma’am,’ said Comanche. ‘We only brought some cans of corned beef.’

  ‘Corned beef we take,’ said Tiziano. ‘Not that your food is not delicious, Dolce Vita.’

  ‘Our Dolcezza is a magician.’

  ‘Eccellente cook.’ A man in a red beret raised his beaker to her.

  ‘Actually, there is one favour you might do us.’ Comanche proffered his most charming smile. ‘We’re looking to billet some of our soldiers.’

  ‘Out of the question,’ said Tiziano. ‘We need hundred per cent access to this house. Many goings and comings, sì? Plus there is the issue of morality. Only this young lady lives here. We cannot have a group of soldiers—’

  ‘Specialmente quei sudici Mori!’ interjected the man with the beret. A few of the others laughed.

  ‘I can protect my own honour, thank you. And this is my house.’ Only then did Vita meet Frank’s gaze. ‘I can billet three or four of your men in the soffitta.’

  ‘You watch, Dolcezza. Remember what happen to Romola Pierracini.’

  ‘Oh
-ho. Bordello di Vita, arriviamo!’

  ‘Basta!’ Tiziano clapped his hands.

  Frank had understood enough. ‘That won’t be necessary, miss, thank you. We can use the two empty houses beside yours.’

  ‘Sure.’ Comanche took charge again. ‘Would one of you gents mind accompanying us down to the old farmhouse, help us figure out where the mines are? Then we’ll be on our way. And, sir, I apologise again for the interruption. Command should have told us you were here.’

  ‘Your command does not know all my safe houses. And I would appreciate if you do not reveal this one. With the best will in the world, our safe houses are vulnerable soon as they are identified.’

  ‘You have our guarantee, Commander,’ said Frank.

  Comanche stared at Frank. But it was Tiziano he was talking to. ‘Sir. I’m afraid I can’t promise that. It’s vital we get a full understanding of the terrain we’re defending – and its occupants.’ Smiles all locked down now. Just weary, tight lines of mouths. Excepting Vita, who seemed more fluid somehow, as if she’d softened one degree, was bending inward like the branches of the tree outside, which made the light move in slats and ripples. Bend towards me. Please.

  ‘I won’t go flagging it up,’ said Comanche. ‘But my report will have to state this as a “friendly” area, sir.’

  ‘Indee—’ Tiziano did not finish his sentence, nor the gracious bow of his head. In slow motion, a smooth wooden stick with a bulbous spill of grey came spinning through the window, Frank never could recall if the window had been opened, but it must have been a bit, because of the cooking maybe, and the fuckers had been up that close they’d been able to push it further, lob in this firestorm. He observed its neat trajectory, heard the shout ‘Grenade, grenade’, the curve of it gliding over the sink, him with his big catcher’s mitts, the college athlete who never missed; he felt the thick, fiery impact of it on the heel of his hand, felt a groove along the girth of it, and with far greater force than it was ever hurled, he flung it straight back through the kitchen window at the instant machine-gun fire began to spit and stud the walls; so down, down onto the flagstone floor he threw himself, bringing her with him in the hardest of tackles, and she was so fine and thin, he was bracing his elbows on the flagstone floor so his full weight was not upon her, heard the blast outside, glass like diamond dust, thick smoke – Thank fuck it was a smoke bomb – and there was a second of suspended gold; her breast a breath from his, swelling and falling, the imperceptible second where they clicked, they fit, and then she had wriggled out through the gap and was running for the door. Yelling, and he was after her, but she was smart, this girl; the men had taken up position at every window and on their knees outside, one partisan lay dead in the dust already, two others were in pursuit, clambering over a smouldering, screaming Kraut, which was where the grenade must have landed, way over by the empty Casa Pieri, man, that was a good throw, and Vita was taking aim, with a blunt-nosed shotgun, she would drop, fire, then run; Frank let her go as he and Comanche swept their fire across the road. The German patrol was as small as theirs, and the Krauts were sandwiched, now that Bear and the guys had come out from the other side. Ivan, insane Ivan, running screaming with his machine gun, zipping line after line of silver bullets, Bear yelling to take some prisoners, then Ivan fell, was lying in the road, count one, count two, how many gaps between the thunder and the lightning?