The Tuscan Child

by Rhys Bowen

  I must practice walking, he thought. I must get used to using this leg. In the morning I will try.

  But in the morning the rain continued in a solid sheet until the floor around him resembled a small lake. He huddled miserably in his corner while the rain drummed on the altar above him, and his spirits sank lower and lower. Let’s face it, he thought. My chances of escaping are pretty much nil. The Germans are still all over the place. The Allies won’t try pushing north into the mountains until spring. And even if I could make my way down the mountain to the road, I’d never be able to run and hide if the Germans spotted me.

  But he couldn’t just give up and give in. It was his duty as a British officer to do whatever he could to rejoin his squadron. And as long as there was hope of seeing Sofia again, then that spark would keep him going. By mid-afternoon the rain stopped. The sun came out and the lake on the floor steamed. Hugo emerged from his hiding place and spread the parachute out to dry. The sheepskin and blanket were miraculously not too damp. Then he made his way carefully around the edge of the pool on the floor and stood outside, enjoying the feel of sunlight on his face. Clouds still clung to some of the hilltops, and he noticed that snow now covered more of the mountain peaks.

  Once outside on the wet forecourt, he tried to make himself walk, putting weight on his leg. He cried out in pain, and it would have buckled if he had not been wearing the splint. So much for that thought. He tucked the crutch-branch under his armpit and hobbled the rest of the way to the rain barrel, where he had a long drink and washed his face. A bath, he thought. A long hot bath. And he pictured the bathroom at Langley Hall with its big claw-foot tub and the steaming water. I will never take anything for granted again, he decided.

  His musing was interrupted by the sound of an engine coming from the road below. Several army vehicles, small as a child’s toy cars, were making their way north. Instinctively he ducked behind a section of wall. Then his ears picked up another sound—the deep, throbbing hum of a plane engine. Not a German plane. Not British, either. Then he saw it coming out of the south. An American light bomber, he surmised. It came lower until he could see the sun shining on the American star. It was right over the German convoy, and then a bomb fell, then another. He felt the reverberation even up on his hilltop. Then there were secondary explosions as fuel tanks blew up. The smoke from the fireball reached his nostrils. The plane flew on, and all that remained of the convoy was flickering flames. It was a sobering thought that even here war was never far away, but at the same time he took heart in the knowledge that the Allies were hunting out the Germans, destroying them as they fled northward. Perhaps the war really was going to end soon.

  On his way back to his hiding place, he noticed a feather on the floor from the pigeon he had killed. He bent to pick it up. It was a beautiful blueish grey with iridescence at the edges. Again he felt a pang of regret that he had killed something so beautiful and so harmless. He tucked the feather into his breast pocket and hobbled back across the chapel.

  That night he rearranged his bed and wondered if Sofia would come. His hunger by now was so intense that he could think of little else. He fantasised about roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, lamb chops, steak and kidney pie. He retrieved the tin he had found among the rubble and wondered if he could open it with his knife. He had meant to give it to Sofia, but she had been so excited with the pigeon and the parachute silk that he had saved the surprise for later. He turned it over in his hand, then put it down—he would only risk damaging the blade of his knife. And what if it was something that was inedible until cooked—tomato paste, for example? She would surely come tonight and maybe bring some of that pigeon stew with her.

  But she didn’t come. He sat up most of the night listening for any sound, but nothing stirred except the gentle sigh of the wind in the trees and grass. Two nights without her. Something must have happened. He let his mind wander through scenarios: The Germans had returned and taken her. She had been struck by lightning in the storm. She had been taken sick and was now lying there, deathly ill. And he found himself praying as he had never prayed before. “I don’t care what happens to me, God, only keep her safe.” And then he added a similar prayer to the Virgin Mary, just in case.

  He must have drifted off to sleep because he heard his name being called as if from far off. He opened his eyes to see her standing in the doorway, silhouetted against bright sunlight. “Gesù Maria!” she exclaimed. “Look at all this water. You are lucky you didn’t drown.”

  And she came toward him. “My poor, poor Ugo,” she said. “I am so sorry that I left you alone for so long. The night of the storm—when I wanted to slip away it was impossible.”

  “I understand that,” Hugo said. “I did not want you to risk coming out in such a storm.”

  “I would have come,” she said, “but my son is sick. He had a high fever. He wanted to sleep with his mamma, and he is afraid of thunder. He was awake and clinging to me all night. And yesterday his fever was worse. We had to call the doctor. The doctor says he has tonsillitis and really should have his tonsils removed.”

  The words were unfamiliar to Hugo until she gestured to her throat.

  “Ah yes. Tonsils,” he said.

  “But of course we cannot get to the nearest hospital. There is no transportation. So the doctor gave him some of those sulpha drugs and hoped he would get better.”

  “And is there any improvement?”

  She nodded. “He cuddled against me all night—the poor child was soaked in sweat. This morning he is weak but the fever is down, saints be praised.”

  “No doubt you had a talk with Saint Blaise?” Hugo said, trying to make her smile, but she frowned at him.

  “Never mock the power of the saints, Ugo. They are the ones who intercede for us with God. And yes, I did pray to Saint Blaise.”

  “I’m sorry. I was not mocking. I just wanted to make you smile,” he said. “But you should not have come in daylight. There were Germans on the road below yesterday.”

  “We saw. The Americans bombed them. That was good, no? And our partisans, they also ambushed a vehicle full of Germans and slit their throats.”

  “Aren’t you worried that the Germans will retaliate for such actions?” he asked.

  “How would they find out which village the partisans come from? For all they know, it could be English or American soldiers creeping through the dark.”

  “All the same, you shouldn’t risk coming here in daylight. What if you were seen?”

  “I was seen,” she said. “Benito said that he had found new mushrooms after the rain. Funghi di bosco—our favourites. I said I will go out immediately and look for some myself, so I took my basket and off I went. Nonna is sitting with Renzo, who now sleeps peacefully. If I find new mushrooms, what a joy that would be. It would mean I could come out in the daylight again with just cause. It is another small miracle. Usually there are no mushrooms this late in December. But the rains have not been too cold and there has been no frost here yet. Now if I can only find some, I will return the heroine. And I will make us a mushroom soup next time I come. But first . . .” She reached into the basket and placed the bowl, covered in a thick cloth, on the bench in front of him. “See what I have for you today! I made such a good soup with our part of the pigeon.”

  “Part? You divided a pigeon?” He stared at her incredulously, thinking how light the dead bird had been in his hands.

  “I kept enough to make the broth, and I gave some to Signora Gucci in exchange for some oil and flour. Now I shall be able to make pasta. Not good pasta with eggs, but pici with just flour and water and oil. But better than nothing, eh? We Italians cannot live for long without our pasta.”

  She laughed. Hugo remembered the tin.

  “And I have another little treasure for you.” He fished out the can. “I found this among the rubble. I don’t know what it is, but at least it will be some kind of food.”

  She took it reverently, as if he was bestowing a great honour on h
er. “Thank you, Ugo. We shall have a surprise when we open it!”

  “I’ll go and look, perhaps there are more,” he said. “It’s just not that easy for me to move around out there.”

  “Of course not. You must take care you do not fall and injure yourself again. In the new year maybe you will be healed enough to make your escape and to meet the Allies as they come north.”

  “I hope so.”

  She was looking at him with wistful eyes, and he sensed that she didn’t want him to leave her any more than he wanted to be parted from her.

  “I would like to paint your portrait,” he said suddenly.

  She gave him an embarrassed smile. “Me?”

  “Yes. Alas, I have no paints and no canvas. But I will do a sketch so that when I get home I remember every detail.”

  “Do you have paper?” she asked.

  “I have my empty cigarette packet. I can open it out and draw on the inside.”

  “Oh, you have finished your cigarettes. I’m so sorry.”

  “I should learn to give them up. They do me no good. Now sit there, on the bench.”

  She did as he told her, glancing up at him shyly. He took out his pen and sketched her. She was clearly embarrassed, but at the same time her eyes were flirting, pleased with the attention he was giving her and the strange honour of being sketched.

  “Tell me about the great painters. Tell me all about art,” she said. “I should like to know more.”

  “You tell me about the ones you saw when you went to Florence that time.”

  She frowned, thinking. “There was Michelangelo, of course. The master. Both for his sculpture and his painting, no? His David—he was like a real person. You expected him to move at any moment. And Leonardo. His Madonna—the light and the beauty . . .”

  “You are fortunate to live here,” Hugo said. “In Tuscany and Umbria you can find paintings by the great masters in ordinary churches. In Arezzo and Cortona and Siena and even in small towns. Works by il Perugino and Giotto. Every one a masterpiece.”

  He was surprised by the look of despair that came over her face. “If they are still here,” she said. “We hear that the Germans have looted everything that they can. They would even take the frescoes if they could find a way to peel away the walls.”

  “We will win and make them return everything,” Hugo said with more confidence than he felt. He finished the sketch and went to tuck it into his breast pocket.

  “Let me see it,” she said.

  “No, it’s only a rough sketch.”

  “But I want to see it.” She made a grab for it. He held her wrist at bay. They were both laughing. “You are so mean,” she said. “You do not afford me this one little pleasure.”

  Their wrestling had aroused him. One little pleasure, he thought, and an image of Sofia in his arms flashed into his head. Hastily he dismissed it.

  “Oh, very well. If you insist.”

  She took the cigarette packet from him and examined the drawing critically. “I look like that?” she asked.

  “You do.”

  “But you have made me quite pretty.”

  “No,” he said, and watched her face fall. “I have made you beautiful. That is how I see you.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  JOANNA

  June 1973

  The next day I was awoken by the loud and incessant tolling of bells from the church nearby, echoed by distant peals from other villages. It was the feast day—one of the most holy of the year, Paola had told me. Corpus Christi. The body and blood of the Lord Jesus Christ. The day on which children take their first Communion. I got up and prepared to go over to the farmhouse to bathe and to clean my teeth. I checked around the door and window, but there were no more footprints. It was possible that Gianni’s attackers hadn’t realised he had pushed an envelope through the bars into my room. It would be well known around the village by now that I had presented myself as an outsider who knew nothing. I would go home again as soon as I was given permission, and all would be well.

  At least this was what I hoped. I was still going to stay close to Paola all day at the festival. I bathed, dressed in my most presentable frock—which could have done with an iron by now—then took out the little medal and tied the ribbon around my wrist. Then I went into the kitchen looking for breakfast, but it was bare. No sign of Paola. Now I was alarmed. She knew it was a big day and she would have risen early. Had something happened to her? I had no idea where her bedroom was. I had never been upstairs at the house. I hesitated now, wondering if I dared check on her.

  I was halfway up the stairs when she appeared, definitely wearing her Sunday best. She wore a red skirt, a white lace blouse, and a black fringed shawl over her shoulders. She looked startled when she saw me. “You needed something, my little one?”

  “I was just wondering if you were all right or if you had overslept,” I said.

  “No, of course not. Not on a day like this. I just take more time with my preparations. This is the costume of our region, you know. It is fitting to wear it on such a day. These items belonged to my mother.”

  I told her she looked very nice.

  She smiled. “So, are you ready for church?”

  How could I ask about breakfast? My stomach was growling. “Do we not have coffee first?” I asked.

  “Before Mass? Oh no. We must fast before receiving the Blessed Sacrament. Fast from midnight onward. Do they not do this in your church?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said, my spirits falling at the thought of there being no food for quite a while.

  Paola shook her head in disgust. “Angelina. Make haste!” she yelled up the stairs. “We do not want to find ourselves sitting in the back pews where we can see nothing of what is going on.”

  Angelina appeared, also looking very pretty in a simple flowery dress with a shawl around her shoulders. In one arm she carried the baby, in the other a large bag. The baby was in a white robe trimmed with lace and had a dainty little lace bonnet on her head. She was sleeping and looked like an adorable china doll.

  “Here, let me take that for you,” I said, retrieving the bag from her.

  “Thank you.” She beamed at me. “So many things are required for such a small person. A shawl if it grows cold. Another dress if she spits up over this one. And nappies. So many nappies.”

  We set off, walking side by side up the dusty track. The morning was windy and brisk. Paola had to hold her shawl firmly around her shoulders. “I do not like the look of the sky,” she said. “I hope it does not bring rain later. The weatherman on the wireless was saying it would rain later today, but what does he know? He is in a little room in Florence. We will pray to Saint Clara that the weather remains fine. She is always helpful about the weather.”

  “So tell me, Signora Rossini,” I said, holding up my wrist. “What saint is on this medal?”

  She held up my wrist to see the medal better. “I believe that is Saint Rita,” she said. “She is good at healing, especially wounds. Where did you come by this?”

  “It was among my father’s things,” I said.

  “Then your father was wounded?”

  “Badly,” I said. “His plane was shot down. He managed to parachute out, but his leg was damaged. He always walked with a bit of a limp.” I had to mime this last part, not knowing the word.

  “Then this saint cured him.” Paola looked pleased. “And your father was a believer in the true faith, then.”

  “I don’t think so. I believe someone must have given him the medal.”

  She looked at me long and hard. “You believe it was Sofia Bartoli who gave it to him?”

  “Yes,” I said. “That is what I believe.”

  “She was a kind and good woman, that is how I remember her,” she said. “Such a shame it ended so badly—betraying her village by running off with a German.”

  What if she didn’t go willingly? I thought. But one of the men said she had been seen getting into an army vehicle with a Ger
man in the dead of night. Just the two of them. No armed escort to make sure she didn’t escape.

  As we reached the town piazza, I saw that long trestle tables had been set up. Flags draped the buildings, and lines of smaller ones fluttered from the church. The bells were still ringing loudly enough to make speech impossible. From all sides people were streaming toward the open church doors. The men looked uncomfortable in their dark suits with stiff white collars. The women were dressed beautifully, some in similar costumes to Paola’s, but all in what was clearly their best finery, their dark, glossy hair piled on their heads. Children in their best clothes skipped beside adults who did their best to restrain them by the hand.

  Just as we reached the church door, a collective murmur went up from the crowd. “Father Filippo! Father Filippo!”

  We stopped and looked back. A frail old man in a black priest’s cassock was being assisted up the steps by two strapping men.

  “Good to see you, Father. God bless you, Father,” people greeted him as the crowd stood back to let him pass.

  Paola was smiling and nodding. “Our former priest,” she said. “He was our strength and spiritual guide throughout the war years. They say he stood up to the Germans and kept the town safe. A spiritual giant when he is such a small man.”

  “Has he retired now?” I asked.

  “Oh yes. Years ago he had bad health problems, and now he lives in a home for retired priests not far away. So good that he can still join us for the feast day. It wouldn’t be the same without him.”

  We were swept up with the crowd into the dark interior of the church. As we neared the doorway, Paola produced a mantilla and put it on. I saw all the other women had covered their heads, and felt horribly visible. I was glad that we were off to one side and I was behind a pillar! When all were seated a procession entered: little boys in dark suits and little girls in white dresses and veils, looking like miniature brides.