She knows what is coming. According to the BBC news, the Germans put up little resistance in the city and are now retreating north toward Bracciano and Viterbo. From there, their route will pass through her valley. She’s afraid of what this could mean. In retreat, the Germans have left scorched earth in their wake and executed those they regard as their enemies. That’s how it was in January when the Allies landed in Nettuno, fifty kilometers south of Rome. At the time she had rushed to tell everyone the news, dashing into the kitchen before the announcer had finished speaking, only to spend the next few days in the clinic with Signorina Harris after the Germans and Fascists decided to remind the inhabitants of the neighboring villages who was in charge.
She looks worried when she meets Pritchett outside in the courtyard. She has taken a detour so as to avoid the kitchen and is going out to the road to wave to the school-bound children when he sees her.
“What’s the matter?” he asks.
She tells him.
“At last,” he says. “At last.”
She does not reply. He reads her mind.
“Who knows?” he says. “They may not come here. The Allies may manage to drive them east over the Apennines, toward Pescara. That’s always been the plan.”
They hear the children approaching, their singing arriving before them. It is as if Alice has been touched by an invisible magic wand. She brightens up, pulls herself together, and grabs Pritchett’s hand.
“Come on,” she says. “Let’s wave to them.”
They almost run to the road. The horses are picking their way down the stony track, the carts shaking and rattling, as the children, faces beaming, sing loudly.
“Nelle vecchia fattoria, i-a i-a o!”
They shout good morning when they catch sight of the Marchesa and Pritchett, then slowly pass from sight down the slope. They remain standing there as the song fades away. A sharp gust of wind sweeps over the hill, ruffling the trees, then all is quiet again.
“He would be their age,” she says. “The cart would have stopped here and I’d have brought him out and lifted him up to join them. Then they’d have carried on down the hill. I can picture it.”
They are still holding hands. He squeezes her hand instinctively.
“You mustn’t think like that,” he says.
“I can’t help it,” she says. “I just can’t.”
THE GERMANS DID NOT KEEP THEM WAITING LONG. Two days after the Allies took Rome, a small army truck drove up the hill and stopped in front of the house. The soldiers waited silently in the cab and in the back. Shortly afterward a lieutenant on horseback rode into the yard.
Alice and Pritchett had been watching from an upstairs window as they came up the hill, and they went to the door together.
“Did you hide the wireless?” he asked suddenly.
She nodded.
Back in February, the Fascist government had banned all radio stations apart from the ones it controlled in Rome and Florence. Alice chose the Florence station, which broadcast German news and Viennese concerts. After this, the radio sets in the houses were adjusted to block them from receiving any other channels, but Alice continued to listen to the BBC on a small set that she kept hidden in an old pot in the cellar. She usually went into the sitting room in the mornings, plugged it in, and listened to the news. However, she tended to forget to put it away.
The lieutenant, who was in charge of the hospital in Montepulciano, said he had come to inform them that he needed to requisition the buildings down in the valley for his staff and provisions.
“But that’s the school,” Alice said. “And the dormitory for the orphans.”
The lieutenant was tall, thin, and quite unlike the Germans they were used to; he was soft-spoken and pleasant.
“I have no choice,” he said. “We’re expecting large casualties when the units get here.” Then, lowering his voice, he added, “I’m a doctor. I’m sorry about this.”
Alice guessed that “this” referred not only to his demand for the houses in the valley. She nodded; she had no other choice.
“All right then,” she said. “How much time do we have?”
“As soon as possible,” he replied. “I think it would also be safer for the children to be with you up here on the hill.”
The soldiers watched in silence. They were still sitting in the cab and in the back of the truck, and, catching Alice glancing in their direction, the lieutenant explained, “As you probably know, there are rumors that you shelter partisans. I was informed that it would be unwise to come here alone. I see now that there has been a misunderstanding.”
He smiled. His smile was weary and implied that he knew more than he was letting on about the partisans and soldiers they hid in the outhouses and tenant farms.
He bowed briefly before remounting his horse and riding away. The truck started up with a loud banging and clattering, then rattled away down the hill after him. The soldiers did not look back.
“I expected him to offer us help with moving the children and the rest of the stuff up here,” Pritchett said once they had gone and he and Alice were left standing on the doorstep.
“No,” she said, “he knew we wouldn’t accept.”
The rest of the day was occupied with emptying the guestrooms upstairs in the main villa and filling them with mattresses from the evacuees’ dormitory along with blankets, pillows, and folded clothes. The formal drawing room was converted into a classroom, the library into a dining room; the heavy furniture was carried out to the storehouse beside the chapel, paintings were replaced by the blackboard, the map, and pictures painted by the children. They were excited by the move and eager to help, but Alice asked Signor Grandinetti and Schwester Marie to take them outside and play with them in the garden. Four wagons were required for the move up the hill, two pulled by horses, two by oxen. It was hot and muggy, and Alice felt a growing dread with every step she took. Her nerves were on edge. The drawing room had been emptied and she was standing by the window, watching the children playing outside, when she was suddenly struck by the premonition that she would lose them all.
She braced herself and by the time darkness had begun to fall, the move was complete. The children ate in the new dining room and after the meal Alice read fairy tales to them. Pritchett had ridden from farm to farm that afternoon, spreading the message that they had better put out the lights when it got dark because they could expect Allied air raids any day now. The main villa was lit only by candles, and the children sat in silence as they listened to Alice read. Every now and then she stopped speaking, looked up, and met their eyes, which shone in the semidarkness. Then, taking a deep breath, she carried on.
The moon is bright when she goes out to the cemetery. The sound of vehicles carries up from the road in the valley; they are driving without lights, crawling along painfully slowly, as the road is full of potholes and craters.
She visits him every day. Usually after lunch in winter but in late afternoon in summer when the sun is descending and the heat has become more bearable. She could have rushed over to see him earlier today but there would only have been time for a brief respite, so she decided to wait. She doesn’t want any distractions while she is with him.
The grave is by the edge of the wood, farthest from the houses. The wood is thick and dark but there are few trees in the cemetery itself, so nothing hinders the moonlight from spreading its white coverlet over him. Alice kneels, picking up dead leaves and fallen twigs from his grave. The earth is dry and hard, but she doesn’t mind. Her shadow moves back and forth over the grave until finally she smooths over the soil, feeling she has disturbed it enough. Then she gets to her feet and fetches a can to water the flowers.
The only flowers on the grave are bluebells, Giovanni’s favorite. She moves her lips continually as she waters but doesn’t make a sound. When he was dead, she sat beside him and sang a lullaby for him until her husband took her arm and led her out. She was still singing it when they climbed into the car that was waiting for them ou
tside the hospital, and later in their hotel room. She did not stop until, unable to control himself any longer, he screamed at her. He had never done that before. She can still hear the echo of this scream in her bad moments.
The forest breathes. A bewildered hare runs down the path by the grave, dodges past her, and vanishes into the trees. She notices by the light of the moon that she has bloodied her fingertips from rooting in the soil but she does nothing about it, not even brushing the dirt from her hands. The blood has dried and mingled with the soil, black in the dim light.
She sees the girl as she is heading home. She has laid some flowers on one of the new graves and is now standing quite still, staring into space. Alice remembers her from the funeral: Larig’s girlfriend. She pauses, trying to make herself as inconspicuous as possible. The graves have not yet been marked, and Alice sees that the girl is standing not by the grave of her lover but by that of one of the British soldiers who was buried at the same time. She waits till the girl has gone. Then she walks slowly over to the graves, stoops to the flowers, and moves them to the grave where they’re supposed to be.
IN THE END KRISTÍN DIDN’T HAVE TO LIE BECAUSE no one really questioned her. Signorina Harris needed the bed and announced, after a thorough examination, that the infection was on the retreat and the stitches would hold despite the bad swelling. She made her stand on her leg before she went to sleep, helped her walk across the floor and back to the bed, asked if she felt faint and wiped the sweat from her brow once she was lying down again.
No, she didn’t feel faint.
“Good. You can get up tomorrow morning.”
“Tomorrow morning?”
“Rome has fallen. They’re heading this way.”
“Will I be allowed to stay?”
Signorina Harris studied her.
“You wouldn’t get far,” she replied.
She was not curt, but her manner implied that she was familiar with death and had witnessed its triumphs. She was a slight, wiry woman. Her hands were a little rough but they inspired confidence; Kristín recognized their touch from the first day when she had sensed them through her half-sleep. She relaxed whenever she felt the nurse’s hands and experienced a sense of security, although her touch was inevitably accompanied by pain.
A maid had brought her clothes after Signorina Harris left, laying them on the chair by the wall and departing as quietly as she had come. These were the clothes Kristín had been wearing when she arrived; someone had washed and mended them, and the scent of soap pervaded the room.
Her leg was bandaged up to the knee, the dressing a pristine white except at the bottom where blood had seeped through. She touched the dry bloodstain gently, turning her leg so that the light fell on it. Before she knew it, Marshall’s voice was sounding in her head.
“You use pure vermilion to paint blood; you never buy it ready-ground because there’s a risk that it will have been adulterated with red lead or brick dust. You grind it yourself, slowly, mixing it with clear water, taking care not to leave it to stand too long, as it darkens when it comes into contact with air. When it is on the canvas, you take red lacca resin, and mix it with tempera. Then you paint this over the vermilion to find the right shade.”
He used to watch her work. Sat on the chair where he sometimes made her kneel or lean back with her legs on the arms. There was no couch in the workshop so they had to make do with the chair, the floor, or the worktables. It didn’t matter. He was inventive.
From his place in the chair he guided and educated her.
“The red lacca is made by insects on certain kinds of trees: Coccus or Carteria lacca, on trees such as Schleichera, Butea, and Ficus . . .”
He must have known that she would not be able to remember it all and as she could not make notes while she was working, she sometimes wondered what the point of these lectures was. Not that she disliked them. On the contrary, she was grateful to him for taking such an interest in her.
The sky was turning gray when she got up. The outline of the mountain across the valley etched against the dawn, gradually darkening and growing distinct against the awakening sky. Lower down, mist caressed the slopes, catching like tufts of wool on the treetops. She did not wait for assistance but crept to the chair, fetched her clothes, and returned to the bed with them. She moved slowly, examining the garments as if she were seeing them for the first time, then pulled them on one by one, taking care not to catch her wound. Her shirt had been badly torn, her skirt too, but whoever had mended them had known what she was doing. Kristín admired the handiwork and raised each garment in turn to her face to inhale the scent of soap. She was surprised that she was still so weak.
Once she was dressed, she stood up again, limped to the window, and looked out over the courtyard. The sun was shining on the rooftops but remnants of the night lingered in the shadows by the walls. When the nurse appeared at the door of the main villa and set out in her direction, Kristín sat down on the bed again to wait for her.
“You’re dressed.”
Kristín nodded.
“Let’s go then.”
“Where’s my case?”
“In the house. Do you think you could manage to walk across the courtyard if I help you?”
The nurse held her arm down the stairs and over to the main villa. The day was already hot and Kristín stopped several times to catch her breath. She looked around, at the chapel and the glimpse of hillside between chapel and clinic, where the mist was now evaporating from the trees. Neither said a word but the nurse was patient. She led her into the kitchen, made her sit down at the table, and went out again. There was no one in the kitchen but the cook, who was standing at the stove, and the two scullery maids. They greeted her and one of the maids poured her a cup of coffee. Then they carried on preparing breakfast.
She sat still, watching them work until the nurse returned, this time accompanied by Pritchett. Kristín tried to stand but he introduced himself and told her to sit.
“How are you feeling?”
“Fine. I’m terribly grateful to you . . .”
“You were coming from Rome?”
“Yes.”
“The Allies have reached Rome.”
She nodded.
“There are no identity papers in your case.”
“They must have been left behind on the train. We were hit by a bomb. I told Miss Harris . . .”
“She says you’re Icelandic.”
“Yes, I am.”
He seemed relieved to hear her confirm it.
“Someone thought you were German,” he said.
“I’m not German.”
“It’s probably your accent. And your appearance,” he added.
“It’s understandable,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “Perfectly understandable.”
He stood up.
“Well,” he said. “Perhaps you could make yourself useful. What can you do?”
“I’m sorry?”
“What’s your line of work?”
“Art,” she replied, shyly.
“We have a lot of children here,” he said. “Evacuees as well as the children from the farms. Perhaps you could teach them drawing. Do you feel up to it?”
“Yes,” she said. “I would like that very much.”
“You wouldn’t need to stand to teach them. You could do that sitting down.”
He seemed pleased with his suggestion.
“I’ll suggest it to Marchesa Orsini. I think it’s a good idea. It’s up to her, of course,” he added. “But I’ll suggest it.”
I HAD JUST WOKEN UP AND DIDN’T IMMEDIATELY grasp what I was looking at when I opened the curtains of the window above the front door. A vehicle marked “Red Cross” stood in the drive, a large gray truck with a tarpaulin stretched over its load. The driver was asleep in his seat; there was no one else visible. I met Pritchett on my way down the stairs; he wanted to talk to me about the young woman in the clinic, telling me her name and where she’s from, but,
beckoning him to follow, I went over to the front door and opened it. The driver did not stir even when the heavy front door opened with a scraping, or when we walked out onto the terrace, our footsteps echoing in the quiet morning. It was not until Pritchett knocked on the door of the cab that the man opened his eyes, but even then he seemed to have difficulty surfacing. Finally he sat up, rubbed his face, and climbed out.
God, he was young. He tried his best to stand up straight but didn’t make a very good job of it, and when he saluted us, it was as if he were playing a role that was beyond him. He had a gash on his forehead but it seemed to have stopped bleeding.
He can’t have been more than twenty, thin, lanky, quite tall. He introduced himself before coming straight to the point.
The German army had continued its move that night, the front line creeping north from Rome. The Allies were in pursuit and casualties had been heavy. He had been transporting the wounded near Viterbo when he received orders to get rid of his patients and report immediately to army headquarters in the town. He had not slept for days and explained as much to his superior officers when they told him what was involved, but they would not listen. Soldiers had begun to load boxes and canvas sacks of food into the back of the truck as soon as he drew up. Shortly afterward his passenger had appeared. He wore a uniform but was carrying civilian clothes in his luggage. After some thought he had decided to ride concealed in the back.
Their journey had been uneventful until late yesterday evening. By then the young driver was so exhausted that he fell asleep at the wheel and crashed into a ditch. That was how he had got the wound on his forehead but it was not deep and didn’t matter. What did matter was that he had a high-ranking SS officer hidden in the back of his truck.
Pritchett’s eyes darted to the back of the vehicle with its tarpaulin covering. The young man shook his head.
“He’s not there. He was killed when I drove off the road; he landed under one of the back wheels. I’ll be blamed. They’ll come looking for me.”
“Who’s going to tell them?” asked Pritchett.
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