by Leah Fleming
He stopped to put his cassock back on, hiding his uniform just as a torch flashed upon him. ‘Stop!’
Frank put his hands up and tried to explain. ‘I am Father Francesco Bartolini. I have been out for a walk and lost my way. Sono Padre Americano,’ pointing to the Cross and his insignia.
A voice spoke in broken English. ‘You are an escaping prisoner. He is seen dressed as a priest. This is the prisoner.’
‘No I am not. I am Father Bartolini. I was coming back to the camp. The commandant knows me . . . Take me to the camp commandant. Capisce? I can explain.’
‘You are an American spy, an escaping prisoner. You will not go back to the camp,’ the military policeman sneered, his voice hard and threatening now. Frank carried on walking towards them, bracing himself when he heard the click of their rifles. There was no time to pray as the bullets sprayed into his chest.
117
Roddy woke on a mattress of straw covered by a horse blanket. He could hear rustling in the hayloft, and was alert to any strange noise and the beautiful birdsong outside. Where was he? Everything was a blur: his escape hidden in the truck, the smell of the farmyard, the scent of pasta sauce on his fingers. The sun was up and he was itching like mad, but lying back he tried to assess his chances of making a home run.
Blond, blue-eyed, speaking only a few words of the language and here only by the mercy of Frank’s grandparents and uncles were not the greatest of assets. He wouldn’t be able to stay long, but a good night’s sleep and supper had worked miracles. He was ordered to stay hidden until it was safe to appear in the dark, knowing every moment he lingered would put their lives at risk.
What was all that business about the little shoe? Could Frank’s father be right? Could it be true that it was from the Titanic, and indeed from this very region? It sounded too much of a coincidence but Frank had been determined to give it to them.
He’d taken a huge risk in bringing him here. Roddy only hoped he’d got back before curfew. The milizia would be out combing the hillsides with dogs to sniff out the sweat of a man on the run.
Surely if he walked south by night he’d run into the Allies somewhere. If only there were facts and not just rumours to go on. He wondered if somewhere in the villages sympathizers were listening to BBC broadcasts on their hidden wirelesses. Maybe Frank’s cousins could find out the truth without alerting suspicion. He was at their mercy, dependent on their generosity and humanity to shelter him for the rest of the day. He needed his wits if he were to survive.
It was Frank’s cousin Giovanni who called him down for a breakfast of cold ham, cheese and fruit served with acorn coffee and lashings of warm milk. The young man had a few words of English and drew a map for him out in the yard in the dust. ‘You walk over hill in mezzo notte. No stop, long way. Americanos come, sì? No more bam bam,’ he said, pretending to fire. ‘Allora, vieni.’
The family sheltered him for four nights, fed him, showed him letters from New York and snapshots of Frank as a child, his brother, Jack, and his little sister Patricia with pride. He wanted to give them money, but they pushed it away. Poor as they were, this pride was one of the Bartolinis’ few luxuries.
It was Giovanni’s father who mimed that he must go up the hills where a shepherd he called Mani would guide Roddy down to the next valley. ‘Mani will find you.’
They sent him on his way with a blanket, cheese and ham, dried fruit in his pocket and a phial of some oil that smelled strongly of lemons.
‘Zanzara,’ cackled the ancient lady, indicating he should put it on his face and neck. It was foul-smelling insect repellent. ‘Grazie, molto grazie, io non dimenticato,’ was all he had managed in response. How could he thank those who’d shown such kindness and given him his freedom back?
They dressed him in old trousers and a shirt, but his disguise wasn’t convincing. He would have to evade all travellers, scavenge as best he could from the land. He had no papers, just his identity round his neck. It was a crazy scheme, a game of cat and mouse, but he was willing to take the risk.
He walked for miles uphill, following a trail, listening for any telltale signs, but there were only the night sounds of the forest to comfort him. It was warm, too warm, and he searched out springs to quench his dusty thirst, making a bed hidden by branches and leaves. He spent his first night on the run under the stars.
In the weeks that followed he tramped down ever southward, thankful for the mercies of shepherds, guides and partisan sympathizers who passed him from valley to valley. They had a no-names policy, of course. What he didn’t know he couldn’t betray. He had nothing but a compass pointing south and west. His skin turned into tanned leather punctured with the red wheals of mosquito bites, despite the Bartolinis’ lemon oil, but his boots held out despite the blisters on his heels. He smelled of farmyards and dung heaps; no hobo could have reeked like he did. Once he found a lake and threw himself naked into it, washing out his shirt and spreading it to dry over a bush. His beard grew a foxy red, a giveaway to anyone who saw it. He could pass for a German deserter but his luck held. He ate what was offered, which was all that could be spared. Others went hungry because of him, he feared. His frame grew lean and muscular and he was always hungry.
He wouldn’t survive the winter in the open, and any fool could see it would snow here on high ground. Then a shepherd showed him a cave where he could shelter and make a rough fire when it was wet. One morning after a terrible night of hunger, his spirits were so low he wondered whether to hand himself in to the nearest militia. It felt as if he was getting nowhere. He’d made more than forty miles of progress cross country. Weak and disheartened, sick of living rough, he longed to be back in Akron, on his front porch, supping a beer. Why had he put himself through such agonies?
The past months had changed him. All the luxuries of life in Akron now seemed so meaningless. Here he’d been doing an important job. He was fighting for the people who mattered to him most and for his men, who’d already paid the price so that ordinary folk could choose how and where they lived their lives, free from the tyranny of fear and bombardment. He owed all these local farmers so much and one day, if he made it home, he would pay them back. He had to survive. He’d promised Frank but just how he had no idea.
It was time to move on, hungry or not, when he heard twigs crackling. He wasn’t alone. He hid at the back of the cave, fearing the worst. Then he heard voices: ‘Americano, Americano, buon giorno.’ There were two dark-eyed little girls in headscarves, one with a basket strapped to her back, peering into the darkness. ‘Ella?’ he croaked, thinking one of them was his sister. Was this a dream?
‘No, signor, Agnese,’ she said, smiling. ‘Come, eat.’
Roddy made his way into the light, blinking as if two angels had suddenly appeared. The basket was loaded with cold meat, cheese, bread, a bottle of vino lavorato and a bunch of grapes. They must have walked from dawn to bring him his feast.
They sat silently watching him fill his face with all these treats, refusing to eat anything he held out to them. Then they beckoned and pointed down into the valley. ‘Vieni a casa, mezze notte, vieni?’
Later Roddy made his way down the valley in the darkness to a cowshed, where the cattle were lined up for morning milking. He could spend the night tucked up in the manger covered in straw. He could only sleep there at night, but at first light crept out to hide back in the woods or in the cave until it was safe to return.
He never met the rest of the family, only the two little girls who tried to teach him their dialect. One morning he heard the dreaded word Tedeschi, Germans, and feared the worst. He spent that day perched high, ready to dive into the cave at the first sound of troops on their manhunt. Perhaps he had been betrayed.
After all this time the thought of being captured and brought back to camp or worse, after the selfless generosity of so many people, filled Roddy with despair, but the silence held until nightfall when he crept back to his itchy billet. He was met by a large man who threw his arms r
ound him with excitement: ‘Americano amici, Inghilterra, Americano . . . Tedeschi . . . kaput, vieni . . . amice. The women darted round in the shadows and he saw them all smiling. He was ushered into the farmhouse to a table lit with candles and the smell of roasting meat. He could just make out enough to know that there’d been a breakthrough. The enemy had moved further north in retreat and American troops were close by. A look of pure relief and joy flooded over their faces: Liberazione!
‘You are free.’ The girl who still reminded him of Ella looked at him with a big smile. ‘You are free.’
If only it were that simple. It was one thing to know that the troops were gone, but there was still local militia and collaborators in every village. He didn’t know who he could trust. But somehow the atmosphere was different. Italian flags were flying proudly. He still didn’t want to show himself in public so kept walking parallel with the tracks out of sight, under cover, until he saw an army Jeep in the distance.
Roddy shot out of the woods waving his arms. ‘Stop, stop!’ He ran in front of the Jeep in case the troops missed seeing him.
He was searched in case he was a spy, but he told them his rank and number, finally convincing them he was genuine. They handed him a shirt and some real cigarettes. They were a British reconnaissance party, checking the road ahead was clear of ambushes. They took his ID particulars and the address of the Italian family who were sheltering him, telling him to return there until further notice.
It was all such a letdown after being in hiding for so long. But English cigarettes were like gold dust and he shared them out on the farm. Now he would repay them by working out in the fields. There was time now to shave, to smarten himself up and write letters. Two weeks later he received a letter from Rome telling him to report to Allied screening for probable repatriation. He ought to feel glad that he was on his way home, but somehow it didn’t feel right. There was still a war going on, the enemy were not yet beaten, there was no way he would return stateside with a job half done. He would write to Father Frank, though, and tell him he’d kept his promise. Roddy’s war was not over yet.
118
The crowds in Cathedral Close watched the floodlights beaming up onto the Three Spires. The blackout was finally over. The war was ending at long last but Ella felt numb, indifferent, going through the motions of celebrations at their village street party. She’d watched the bands parading in the city with the flags and bunting everywhere, but felt nothing. She could see Clare was jumping up and down, pointing to the lights. Celeste and Archie had taken her off to see friends leaving Ella alone with her thoughts.
The city was ablaze with light. Her hometown had seen her through good times and bad, and she felt such affection for the cobbled streets and spires, but now, she also felt empty, drained of emotion. The letter from the Air Ministry had finally ended any hope of Anthony’s return.
In view of the lapse of time and the absence of any further news regarding your husband, Squadron Leader A. G. C. Harcourt DFC, since the date on which he was reported missing, we must regretfully conclude that he has lost his life and for official purposes his death has now been presumed to have occurred on 10 December 1943.
Now it was official, she was a widow, just like her mother all those years ago. How strange that history was repeating itself. Life felt bleak and uncertain. At least in the war there’d been so much to fight for. It had been a team effort to keep life as normal as possible for the children. Now what?
She found herself wandering around the cathedral again, looking up at it with tired cynical eyes. It never disappointed, with its lofty arching roof, its gargoyles and brass wall plaques. Unlike some of the vaster cathedrals, Lichfield was intimate, quirky, so much a part of her younger life. She sat down on a chair, wanting to weep for all that she’d lost, but here was not the place, not in front of people passing by, chattering so excitedly. Ella forced herself up and wandered round to the Lady Chapel at the rear, her eyes alighting on the marble effigy of The Sleeping Children. Despite herself, she was moved to see it again. Not through the eyes of a child all those years ago but as a woman bereft and bewildered by who she’d become.
Her professional eye roamed over its contours, the romance of its curves, the perfection of line and execution. The detail of the mattress caught her eye, so real and soft she could lie on it herself. Yet she knew even in its perfection Francis Chantrey had left his mark: a small block of marble under a foot was uncarved, solid, a reminder that this was only a piece of art, flawed by this deliberate omission. How beautiful it was. No wonder it had caused such a sensation when first exhibited.
Death did not always come peacefully and she knew one of those children died as a result of a fire, burned, choked, like so many of the Blitz victims. The blow of death has to be softened with effigies and monuments, she mused. How many memorials had there been erected to the victims and crew of the Titanic across the globe? How many after the war? The world had to know and remember such terrible losses and try to make some meaning out of such tragedy.
The thought of how Anthony had faced his end, fighting his engine, trying to keep it afloat, was torture. There was no body to mourn and no goodbyes, no grave. This must have been how May had felt too. No wonder they had come here to Smith’s statue in the park. Her own parents had no grave but the ocean bed and she had given them so little heed over the years, but seeing this effigy again had stirred something inside her. Who were they and where did they come from?
Don’t think about that now, she thought, turning away. It’ll drag you down even further. Life must go on. Even though there was no grave to stand over, Anthony’s life must be celebrated. Clare must have something to remember her father by, something tangible, more than just his letter.
This effigy had been made to comfort the parents of those two little girls, so she must make something to comfort herself, something only she could do, something permanent, beautiful and meaningful for Clare and herself.
Suddenly she felt a flood of excitement rush through her body like a current of electricity; an idea, a feeling of certainty rose in her mind’s eye. How strange after she had walked into the cathedral with leaden shoes. Now she strode briskly out into the crowd. It was time to go home and face her studio.
The studio was damp and musty, full of clay shards from the explosion that had shattered her plasterwork. There were dead flies on the shelves and a pervading smell of neglect and abandonment. But this June morning was sunny and it was time to brush the cobwebs from the dirty windowpanes and spring-clean the place.
She needed light – strong northern light – fresh air and space to work her ideas into drawings capturing all she felt about her husband. First she must clear out all the dross for a fresh start. Ella picked up the drawing board and smiled.
Anthony, I’m back home and this is where I’ll begin again.
119
1946
Roddy hung over the side of the troopship taking him home. He felt like an old man, so different from the guy who’d followed the flag in 1942. His head was full of memories he wanted to forget: the grim fighting north from Italy and on into Germany sights of horror they’d encountered there, the forced marches of the dispossessed, exhausted troops, the camp prisoners. He never wanted to see another bombsite again. He’d joined another unit of the Fifth Army. There was nothing left of his old troop. He was a stranger among strangers who soon melded into a band of fighting brothers.
He would never forget the kindness of the Italian peasant farmers, those contadini who’d given him another chance to join the Allies. Those strange months in the foothills would stay with him for the rest of his life.
It was halfway through the journey that he found himself at the officers’ dining table with two chaplains, one Jewish and one Catholic, judging from their insignia. He recognized the look of exhausted men, their eyes sunk deep with tiredness. The priest had an insistent twitch on his cheek. They got into conversation and he told him about his friend and chaplain Frank
Bartolini in the camp near Arezzo, how the priest had helped get him out to his own family, and asked them if they’d heard where he was.
The priest, a Jesuit brother, Paul, looked at him with interest. ‘Francesco Bartolini? He was in my training group at Harvard, a little dark chap. He was . . .’ He paused, peering over his rimless glasses at him. ‘Didn’t you know?’
Roddy felt his heart skip a beat as he shook his head. ‘You’ve seen him?’
Paul shook his head. ‘I’m afraid he was shot. We heard on the grapevine. They’ve awarded him a Purple Heart, posthumously.’
‘When? Where?’ Roddy was shaking. He couldn’t comprehend what he was hearing.
‘Many chaplains lost their lives in the front lines. I just recall his name in prayers, knowing we’d met somewhere.’
‘But he was a prisoner when I last saw him in Italy. How do I find out more?’
‘The Chaplains Corps will have all the details. I am sorry. He was a friend?’
Roddy nodded. ‘I owe that man so much.’ He was no longer hungry, just in need of fresh air.
Later, walking on deck, Roddy was troubled by an instinct that Frank’s death might have had something to do with his own escape. What about his poor family? Oh God, what about those kids he’d met. Were they safe? He just had to find out more. He couldn’t go back to Akron and his old life without discovering exactly what had happened to his dear friend. He’d been so looking forward to meeting him again.