The Dead Don't Get Out Much

by Mary Jane Maffini

  I did my best to explain to the proprietor that I might get a call, and I would like to be informed, even if she had to wake me up.

  She shrugged.

  I asked for a wake-up call in an hour.

  Double shrug.

  I could tell my business was really important to her. I headed up the stairs to my room. I opened the door and looked around. It was as I'd left it. I flung myself on the amazing feather bed and conked out. So much for personal grooming and hygiene issues.

  * * *

  I was jerked out of sleep by a soft knock on the door.

  I leapt up and stared around. It took a minute to figure out where I was, even if I had fallen asleep with the light on. I staggered to the door and yanked it open. I was expecting the bitchy proprietor to be standing there with her arms crossed and an expression like an executioner, telling me that I had a phone call. Instead, I faced the woman with the silver hair who had passed me in the fog.

  I gawked at her wordlessly.

  Finally, she said in English, “May I enter, signora?”

  I stood back to let her pass. She glanced into the corridor as if to check it was clear and slipped into the room.

  I pointed to the chair. She sat on the chair, and I plunked myself on the rumpled bed and waited. I had no idea what to expect.

  “My name is Orianna Preto. I live here in Berli,” she said.

  “You speak English,” I said stupidly.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “You speak very well. Do you have cousins in Lethbridge?”

  Of course, she looked surprised. “I spent many years working in England. I remember quite a bit of the language. It comes back when I need it.”

  “That's great,” I said. “I'm having a lot of trouble expressing myself, and I need help.”

  “I know,” she said. “You are looking for your grandmother. You knocked on my mother's door in the Ruella Cavour.”

  “Yes. She was very kind. She offered me…”

  She laughed. “Un bicchiere. A little glass of something.”

  “Never mind, it was the first civil thing anyone in this town said to me. Why didn't you come to the door?”

  “I live two houses further up. She called me to tell me about your visit. She was glad to see someone.”

  “Two houses up? I knocked on that door too. The lights were on. You didn't answer.”

  She gave me the national shrug. “My husband is away in Cremona this week. I am a woman alone, and a stranger was knocking at my door. I'm sure you understand.”

  “Your mother answered.”

  “She has always lived in Berli. She doesn't worry about crime or bad people. She's always been lucky.”

  “She's very kind too.”

  “A saint. She said you seemed very sad, and that she believed you really were who you said.”

  I blinked. “Why wouldn't I be who I said I was?”

  “We were told not to believe anyone who came looking for the other signora. We were told people would lie about who they were.”

  I leaned forward. “Who on earth would tell you something like that?”

  “Well, the signora did, herself.”

  I jumped off the bed. “She's here!”

  “Shh. She was. I believe she is gone.”

  “And she told you not to believe…I don't get it.”

  “My mother thinks it was not you she was speaking about.”

  “Do you know who she was speaking about?” I said.

  “She did not mention anyone in particular.”

  “Someone's been following her. A man. And I'm sure she wouldn't have expected me to arrive from Canada.”

  “My mother believed you were worried about your nonna. She believed your tears were sincere.”

  “Is that why no one will speak to me here in this village? All I feel is hostility.”

  “Yes. They think you mean the signora some harm.”

  “What harm could I mean her? Let me explain: a few days ago, she had a shock. She thought she saw a dead man. She collapsed not long after, and the doctor thought she might have had a heart attack. She could die if she's not careful. In spite of this, she left Canada and made this sudden, mysterious trip to Italy. She needs medical treatment and observation, so you understand that I must find her. Plus there is a man claiming to be her son who is also following her. But she has no son.”

  Her hand shot to her mouth. “That is frightening. Nobody in Berli would help him.”

  “That's good. Now, do you know anything about her? About why she came here?”

  “I will start at the beginning. She wanted to talk about the plane crash.”

  “I'm sorry, what plane crash?”

  “It was 1944. The Allies were flying missions over Italy. I was a child growing up in this village. The Germans were still in the mountains, they rounded up people. They were beginning to retreat to Germany. They forced skilled workers to travel with them. They shot villagers. They took our food. Everyone was terrified of the SS. They were known for brutal reprisals. In our village, a lot of men had deserted the army, and there were partisans hiding out all over these hills. They would attack Germans, sabotage trucks, that kind of thing. The SS would have reprisals, and villagers would be killed. It was very dangerous. The people in Berli did not want to attract the attention of the Germans.”

  I nodded to her to continue.

  “A plane crashed on the mountain, in a meadow a bit higher.”

  “There's something higher than Berli?” I said. “Unbelievable.”

  “Just grazing land. For goats.”

  “Go on,” I said.

  “I was only seven years old. I was in the pasture gathering sticks for firewood, and I came across the plane wreckage.”

  “Did you know what it was?”

  “Oh yes, of course, people had been whispering about seeing it smoking and falling from the sky. Everyone kept that secret, because of the Germans. We did not want the Germans searching our homes looking for injured Englishmen or Americans. They might have found our fathers and uncles who had deserted. Perhaps they would have raped the women, or they might just have taken everything we had to eat. It was such a terrible time.”

  “I can only imagine. So you saw the downed plane?”

  “I crept close to it. It was completely burnt out. The ground around it was burned. The wings had broken off and scattered. You could see the burned skeletons of the men inside. I still have nightmares after all these years.”

  “What happened then?”

  “I ran back to the village and told my father. He and a few other men came up all night and buried the wreckage. It would have been hard work, because the soil is very rocky here, but they didn't want the Germans to find it. They buried the bodies—they were just burned bones. They marked the spot. There wasn't much to be salvaged from the plane. People took the bits of metal; they were very useful. When the Germans left the area, the mayor sent word to the Allies. The plane was dug up, the soldiers were identified, as all their tags had been buried with them. Their bones were taken away to be buried in the military graveyard. That was the end of it. I suppose the families were notified. We still get family members here visiting the site from time to time.”

  “That is what you told Mrs. Parnell, I mean, my grandmother?”

  “Yes. That is what she came to find out. She talked to many people in our village. She drank sherry with them, and she smoked a lot of cigarettes. She talked about the war with the old men. Everyone liked her very much. She even spoke some Italian. Quite a bit more than you do.”

  “That doesn't surprise me. So she wanted to talk about the plane. And she found out what she wanted to.”

  “Well, this is what I need to tell you. I wasn't going to talk about it, because it was so long ago, and she seemed satisfied with what she heard. My mother is a good woman. She said I must go to her and tell her the truth.”

  “And what truth was that?”

  “The truth about the parachute.�
��

  “There was a parachute?”

  “Let me explain. I was just a child. I didn't even know what it was, this wonderful billowing white silky fabric. You must understand, we had nothing. The economy was devastated by the war. The Germans took the food from our kitchens. We barely had clothes on our backs at that point in the war. Some people didn't have shoes in the winter. I had never seen anything like that wonderful fabric. I wanted it. The men were dead, so it didn't matter to them. I gathered it up, and I hid it under some stones at the edge of the field. I wasn't foolish enough to hide it in the house because, if the Germans came, they would think we had something to do with the dead airmen. There was nothing we could do for them. I hid it, and I kept quiet, but I didn't forget it was there. When the war was over, I uncovered it, and my mother used it to make me a confirmation dress. That's how I learned to sew. My mother taught me. I made my living that way. The parachute never mattered until now. It was just one of those strange and tragic things that came out of that terrible time.”

  “Of course, it did make a difference.”

  “No one wanted to talk about these things at the time. I wasn't even supposed to know about the plane. After so many years, I never thought it would matter.”

  “What did you tell my grandmother?”

  “That I had found the parachute.”

  “Which meant that someone must have parachuted before the crash. Did she ask you if there was a body found outside the plane?”

  “Si, she did ask. There wasn't.”

  “So someone may have walked away from the downed flight.”

  She shrugged. “Who can say? At the time, of course, no one spoke of such things to children. We couldn't be trusted not to blurt something out to the soldiers.”

  “Point taken. What did she do after you told her about the parachute?”

  “She was terribly shocked. She turned as white as your pillow case. She had to have a glass of sherry and rest. She closed her eyes. I admit I was worried. I thought I'd made a mistake by telling her.” Orianna bit her lip.

  “Then did she leave Berli?” I had a horrible vision of Mrs. Parnell, brimming with sherry, pale with shock, plunging off the mountain road into the foggy night.

  Orianna looked up again. “After she spoke to me, she returned to talk to all the old men of the village, and she asked them more questions.”

  “And do you know what they said?”

  “I do not. I was not there. I have told you everything I know, signora.”

  * * *

  Orianna left without revealing anything else, although she had given me plenty to chew on. It was nearly midnight; the bar was closed, so there was no way of dragging anything else out of anyone. The crabby signora had vanished into her personal accommodations, most likely to polish her own possessions. Fog swathed the street. I offered to drive Orianna home. She laughed at the idea.

  “I think this short trip will be much more dangerous in a car. We might end up in someone's salotto. There's nothing much to worry about. I can't see anyone in this fog, and no one can see me.”

  She had a point.

  I accompanied her halfway home, then walked quickly back. Naturally, I was wide awake, no doubt because of a combination of the provocative information she had given me, the creepy quality of the fog, and the fact that, by my body clock, it was still late afternoon.

  There had been no message from Ray. What kind of day was he having that he couldn't pick up the phone?

  I navigated the tables in the empty bar to the public phone.

  This time, I reached Ray's home answering machine on the first ring. I suppose that was an improvement. I left a message. He still didn't answer his cell.

  I looked around the bar. In the pale light from the hallway, it was a ghostly place. The bistro-style chairs had been upturned on tables for ease of sweeping. In the gloom, they took on a menacing look. When had I turned into such a wuss? I jumped once, when I thought I saw someone sitting in the corner, but it was a merely a stack of chairs. A trick of the light.

  I was well and truly stuck. There was no one to talk to. Nothing to do. Nowhere to go in the goddam fog. At the same time, I had plenty to worry about. Who was the man who was following Mrs. Parnell? Had he found her? What did he want? Where had she gone next? And most important, would she end up with a full-blown heart attack on her own in Italy, maybe even behind the wheel on a winding mountain road.

  I checked my watch for the umpteenth time. Alvin wasn't answering and, more pertinent, even if he did pick up the phone, he wouldn't have had time to discount the nonsensical story that Mrs. Parnell had a son.

  I helped myself to a glass of the house red and left a couple of Euros on the bar. I needed a good plan, and I stomped back to my room to make one. The big issue: the next step. I had wanted to head out after Mrs. Parnell as soon as the fog lifted. Now I had to try to get a group of hostile villagers to tell me what they had talked about. I was glad Orianna had agreed to help me. I spent a bit of time studying the map of Italy. I had no idea what to do next, and the wine was no help.

  What would Mrs. Parnell do?

  I lay there thinking of Mrs. P. spouting her favourite military catch phrases. Did any of them apply to this situation? Don't fire until you see the whites of their eyes. Bombs away. Know your enemy. That one seemed to fit. Orianna had mentioned that Mrs. P. warned the villagers not to give any information to anyone who followed her. That told me she was wary. And that was good news. But was she also wary of me? Could she know I was following her?

  What else would she say? Once you know your enemy, keep him guessing. That worked. There were three more towns on my list. Pieve San Simone, Montechiaro and Alcielo.

  A logical route would be straight south to Pieve San Simone, then directly across Eastern Tuscany on back roads to Alcielo. After that, a northeast turn would lead to Montechiaro. Mrs. P. knew me well enough to be sure I would want to take the logical route. I would never start with Montechiaro, because it was not in the logical loop and would mean doubling back and extra distance.

  Okay. Montechiaro it would be.

  Eventually, I fell into a troubled sleep, my dreams full of swirling fog, faceless men driving Mercedes, downed planes in gardens and little girls wrapped in billowing white silk.

  * * *

  I did a double-take as I walked into the bar at ten o'clock the next morning. I'd had a lousy rest and still managed to sleep late. The old men were waiting for me. The glowering looks were gone.

  I smiled, and the world smiled with me.

  “Buon giorno, signora,” the proprietor said. A grin creased her heavy-jowled face.

  “Buon giorno,” I said.

  The old men nodded. Some went so far as to smile gap-toothed grins. Something had happened to change everyone's attitude. My money was on Orianna.

  For some reason, I was starving. Maybe fog does that to you. And speaking of fog, the village was still shrouded. I wouldn't be going anywhere in a hurry. I settled down to a caffè latte, and fresh crusty bread and cheese for breakfast, then turned my attention to the gentlemen. I was more than a bit relieved when the door swung open and Orianna appeared, looking much more rested than I did. And, even better, ready to translate.

  The old gentlemen were all pleased to talk about the war. The trick was not in getting them to talk, rather in getting them to focus. I couldn't have done it without Orianna, for sure.

  “Ask them if they think that someone actually escaped from the plane.” I sat back and waited. This question created a great deal of loud talking. I felt a buzz of excitement too.

  “They think it's possible,” Orianna said.

  “How would someone survive under those circumstances? Where would they hide? You mentioned that the Germans were searching the villages.”

  “Partigiani,” was the answer. The word echoed. Everyone said it at least once. Everyone nodded vigorously when anyone else said it.

  Partisans.

  Orianna extracted key bits
from the bubbling talk and distilled them for me.

  After a volley of information, I said, “So the partisans were hiding in the mountains?”

  “Yes, they led the resistance against the Germans. It was very dangerous. They had other people with them, sometimes infiltrators from the Allies, soldiers who were separated from their platoons, escaped prisoners. Americans, British, Canadians too. Even Russians. I don't know really all the details. I was just a little girl. And these men here,” she looked around, “they were not partisans, they were poor farmers, hiding in the root cellars or in the woods until the war was over. They would hear rumours. They wouldn't know for sure.”

  “What happened to the partisans after the war?”

  “They went home, back to their lives, I imagine. They were young, adventurous types.”

  “Were there any from your village.”

  “A few, yes. They are all dead now.”

  “Do you think you could find someone who would have been a partisan hiding in these mountains?”

  “I could try. There is probably someone who would love to talk about those old adventures. It will take some time. I will have to talk maybe to the librarian and see whose names they have in documents in the city hall.”

  “Thank you, Orianna. I'll be on the move around Italy. I'll stay in touch and see if you've found anyone.”

  “I will do my best.”

  “Okay, now please ask these men about the so-called son. Did anyone see him?”

  “What does he look like?”

  I sighed. “Middle-aged. Maybe dark hair. Maybe wearing a raincoat. That's the best I can do.”

  A minute later, Orianna shook her head. “Except for your grandmother, you are the only stranger who has been asking questions around Berli.”

  That was good news, unless by some far-fetched connection, the so-called son was known in Berli, and they were covering up for him. What were the chances? Poor, I decided.