Mira glances at her mother.
“I think you can trust Dottore Roselli to be discreet,” Francesca says, as she leaves the room.
“From the Italian Tenente at the battery at Capo Peloro.”
“Ah, yes, Tenente de la Grascia,” Dottore Roselli exclaims, grinning, his eyes suddenly lively and bright with mischief. “I was hoping you would say that. You should know, Mira, that the gossips in the village are consumed by their speculations as to exactly how you manage to keep your café open.” He pauses, thinking for a moment before adding, “However, you need to consider how long you should keep the place going: there are those with green eyes who, when this war is over, may permit their jealousies to resent your…”
“My fraternising with the enemy? And just who do these gossips believe is the enemy, eh?” Mira asks. And before he can object to her broader description of her behaviour, she goes on to say, “Don’t worry, Dottore, I have long since learned to serve the Germans the fake coffee. Surely, the rest of the village has noticed my café is only frequented by Italian officers; those who have more discerning palates. But you said you were hoping I would say that it is through an Italian officer I come by coffee, why?”
Dottore Roselli replaces his glasses and studies her without judgement. “Because, Mira, I need you to procure some medicines from the Tenente; that is, if you think he can be trusted not to ask who or what they are required for.”
The doctor’s proposal and subsequent query hang in the silence.
“How bad are the Englishman’s wounds?” she asks.
“Well, he has, as no doubt you have already seen, serious burns to his arms and legs and his face. These burns have already dehydrated him to a point where he desperately needs fluid. An oral solution you can make up with some lemon juice and salt; only a very weak solution, mind, and only in small quantities. Here,” he hands her a section of thin rubber tube, “take this, it is a tourniquet tube; it will be easier for him to drink through this. As far as treating this man is concerned, I want you to find some aloe leaves; the gel inside can be applied directly onto his burns and then covered with a loose bandage. May I assume you know the difference between the aloe and the agave?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Good, because the agave is not at all suitable. And if you have garlic, mash a clove and mix it with a little water to form a paste; you can use it to clean his wounds, if they begin to weep.”
The doctor leans forward, rests his elbows on the table and steeples his fingers. He waits, studying Mira more closely, waiting while he makes sure she is concentrating. “What you need to get hold of for me, what is no longer available to me, are drugs and gauze bandages. The army doctors may have the drugs, oral or intravenous, it doesn’t matter which. And, a sulfa drug would be better than penicillin; they are more effective against the bacteria which causes infection. But, Mira, please don’t refuse the penicillin if it is the only one of the two available; our patient will in all probability contract some infections and the drugs will be necessary for him to overcome them. Gauze bandages: you will need to dress the wounds and, while I think of it, you will need to keep his eyes covered and moist with the aloe for it is his sight that is the greatest concern.”
“Will the people I ask for these drugs not work out that they are required for something more than the infection one gets from treading on the spine of a sea–urchin?” Mira asks.
The aroma of freshly–percolated coffee infuses the air, swiftly followed by Francesca placing on the table three tiny cups only partway filled with steaming black liquid.
Dottore Roselli chuckles, a long, slow rasping chuckle filled with a hapless irony. “If they don’t suspect it when you ask for these drugs, they will surely know it when you ask them for morphine; and without it, I would be surprised if your Englishman lives through the pain he is soon to endure.”
Chapter 6
“Halt and identify yourself,” the sentry shouts.
Mira ignores him and without faltering in her stride walks on confidently until she reaches the boom barrier.
“I said, halt and identify yourself.” The sentry, his scrawny frame resembling a coat–hanger overladen with a jumble of drab, tatty clothes, thrusts his rifle menacingly at her.
“Good morning, Comune Simone. As you can see, I have to stop unless you raise the bar. And as for identifying myself? From your many visits to my café you know perfectly well who I am.”
“Of course, I do, Signorina Ruggeri. But–”
“Comune Simone, perhaps it is you who needs help with your powers of identification, for whilst I appreciate your compliment, your eyes cannot deceive you to the extent that you believe me young enough to be addressed as Signorina.”
“Yes, of course, Signora Ruggeri, it was only that–”
“And I am sure you must also know that my husband was once, as you are now, a soldier of the Italian army, so Signora Alberti will do, thank you.”
“Yes, of course, Signora Alberti. I apologise for my initial rudeness, but Il Duce has warned us to be wary of people belonging to something called a Fifth Column and it is therefore our duty to be vigilant.”
“A Fifth Column? Whatever is that?”
“I do not know, Signora Alberti.”
“Then how are you supposed to identify them?”
“I don’t know that, either.”
“Ah well, if Il Duce has warned you to be so, Comune Simone, then I suppose you should be… vigilant.” Her dominance over the old private established, Mira surveys the battery beyond the coils of shiny barbed wire.
Poking up from the dunes of the promontory which define the Sicilian neck of the Strait, long and slender gun barrels point skywards from behind neat rows of sandbags. And from the stout stone ramparts of the substantial if quaint Roman fort, heavier howitzers nudge their snub–noses up, like hog’s snouts sniffing for swill.
Yet for all its lethal potential, the Capo Peloro battery is a picture of relaxation and calm, as most of the men, some semi–naked, lounge cross–legged, chatting and smoking and laughing as they deal playing cards. From the few olive trees hang their once light–grey uniforms and littered here and there lie their Nicholas helmets, relics of the First Great War. They seem casually content and carefree, as though they have woken from their slumbers to find themselves quartered in a retirement home for gunners.
“I must compliment you on your artillery, Comune Simone. You certainly boast an impressive array of canoni.” Mira’s eyes sparkle with mischief.
The grey–haired, grizzle–faced soldier stiffens to attention, the way he might when addressed by an officer. “Yes, Signora, Il Duce has provided us with the best howitzers and the best available anti–aircraft guns: three complete batteries, eighteen in all. Nothing will pass through the Strait unless we permit it,” he adds, proudly.
“And were your guns the ones making all that terrible noise during the night?”
Her question confuses him and he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, as though he has forgotten to put on his regulation boots and the sand is sizzling his soles. Eventually realising that she is being facetious, he straightens. “The enemies of fascism must be made to pay the price of their aggression, Signora.”
“Yes, Comune Simone, they must, mustn’t they.” Mira is careful not to overplay her humouring him to the extent that he recognises it. “Now, perhaps you would be kind enough to ask Tenente de la Grascia if he can spare me a minute of his time?”
He looks about, nervously. “Yes, of course I would, Signora. The only problem is that usually there would be two of us out here, manning the barrier, but because of the men who have been sent south to Ponte Grande, we are short of staff and I cannot leave my post to go and alert him to your presence.”
A small handful of seemingly adolescent soldiers lark about not too far from the sentry post; they notice Mira and
mosey over towards the barbed wire, curious like cattle. However, the majority of the men are of later middle–age, owing to the fact that so many of their sons have already surrendered their lives in the sands of North Africa or the snowy wastes of the Eastern Front, and nowadays there is no one else left to protect their homeland. One of the younger conscripts wolf–whistles, another shouts an invitation and a few simply stand and stare as though they have not yet enjoyed the company of a woman.
Mira smiles and waves to them. “No matter, Comune Simone, I am sure Tenente de la Grascia will want to know why his men have ceased maintaining their cannons, if indeed that is what they were supposed to be doing. I’ll wait.”
Apart from the stone fort and the rudimentary sentry post, the Capo Peloro battery boasts an austerity completely at odds with its relaxed atmosphere.
“Officer to the gate,” shouts Comune Simone, in a stern, authoritarian tone.
A door in the wall is pulled inwards and the Tenente appears. He pauses, seats his cap at an angle a degree or two off–centre and strides with a businesslike gait towards them.
“Tenente,” Comune Simone announces, coming to attention, “a visitor is asking for you.”
If the other artillerymen appear by their casual attire to be on holiday, Tenente de la Grascia seems more likely to have come from a forum of tailors. “Thank you, Comune Simone.” He salutes and the sentry, returning the salute, stands at ease.
Turning to Mira, he smiles, inclines his head and raises an eyebrow. “Ah, Signora Alberti, how is it that on such a beautiful summer’s morning the Capo Peloro battery is graced with your very agreeable presence?” Not content with his theatrics, he now raises the eyebrow again and inclines his head gently towards Comune Simone in such a way that the sentry cannot see his half–serious expression.
Mira catches on, her lips curling in amusement. Stepping to one side so the sentry can both see her and hear her reply, she adopts a less agreeable attitude. “Tenente de la Grascia, I am sorry, but I have come here to register a complaint regarding the behaviour of some of your men.”
“A complaint?” The Tenente turns, bridling his mouth and frowning in concern at the sentry, as if to convey that this issue is most unfortunate and that, probably, he is about to have to eat a plate of unpalatably humble pie. He nods towards the boom separating him from Mira and the sentry hurries over to raise it.
“Thank you, Comune Simone.” He lowers his voice. “I believe matters of this nature are best dealt with informally, so perhaps Signora Alberti and I will walk and discuss whatever transgression my men, or those from another unit, have committed. If,” he turns back to Mira and bows, “that is acceptable to Signora Alberti?”
“Yes, Tenente, I suppose it would be better for the men involved if we kept this unofficial.” Mira, though, struggles to keep a straight face, so she turns about and, swinging her feet ponderously, strolls off down the dusty lane.
De la Grascia catches her up and falls in step beside her.
The day is fine, if a little warm for a man in full uniform, and the village peaceful. High above them, an aircraft drones a mournful dirge and rock sparrows flit among the cypress trees, perching only to watch the couple who, on another day in another life, might be no more remarkable than two lovers engaging in an early morning tryst.
“Please excuse the charade, Mira,” he says.
“No matter, Aldo.”
He beams in acceptance of her familiarity. “Perhaps I should explain. Please, let me, I should like to. It might help you to understand that whilst command is a burden I shoulder out of choice, the politics of giving orders are sometimes complicated.”
“Yes, please, I should like to understand why we have to put on an act in front of your men.”
“My man: not so much my men. I will explain. Comune Simone,” he begins, very obviously taking his time to choose his words carefully, “is unlike most of the other men and I try for his own good to keep him separate from them. You see, Mira, most of the men under my command are from Sicily, some even living nearby, and Simone, unfortunately, is the fly in their ointment. He claims to be a Sansepolcrista, an old and ardent fascist from when the movement was first formed in the Piazza San Sepolcro in Milan more than twenty years ago.
“As a result, I have no doubt that when the time comes for each of us to choose his road forward, Comune Simone will not only give up his life for his cause, but that he will also willingly help others do the same. For this reason, he cannot be trusted and for this reason, I have to keep him… quarantined, if you like, both for his sake and ours.”
“And when is that time coming, Aldo?”
“Soon, I think: a month, perhaps sooner. Augusta is now in British hands and the Germans are saying Admiral Leonardi surrendered the port too easily: they are saying that some of our officers deserted their men and that the 206th Coastal Division surrendered without a fight. Right now, the Americans are close to Agrigento and their General Patton will be in Palermo within a few days. The Germans, they are far more stubborn than our troops, they will not give up without a real fight. Mark my words, Mira, all these troops they are bringing over, pah! They will soon enough be sending them back. Who wants Sicily apart from you Siciliani, eh?”
“And you, Aldo,” she says, halting and turning, looking deep into his eyes, inquiringly, sympathetically, and yet vaguely insulted by his casual indifference to her homeland, “what will you do when the time comes? Will you fight to the last? Do you believe in the cause with the same selfless regard as that of your narrow–eyed Sansepolcrista?”
Tenente de la Grascia returns her look with one equally inquiring and yet profoundly resigned, as much as to say he is unsure of how else he should or can act. “Mira, though we would all like to believe otherwise, our lives are never simple. I am only one of many who on hearing the seductive tunes played by Mussolini’s band all too readily jumped aboard his wagon. He promised us glory and has delivered us nothing but misery. I sometimes wonder if I am naïve.”
“You don’t strike me as naïve, Aldo.” Mira lays her hand on his arm and squeezes it gently, fondly. “And I believe there is more to you than merely your desire to atone for the sins of your youth. No, there is something else that bothers you, isn’t there? Something far more important, something more fundamental that has upset your belief in the cause, as you put it.”
He stands back from her, allowing her hand to fall from his arm. “Yes, Mira, there is and it is this: I cannot forgive myself for the ills ordinary fools like me have bestowed upon this fine country. When Mussolini passed the Leggi Razziali, the racial laws that disfavour our Jewish citizens, I should have seen through the propaganda. In a way, I did, for it was at that time that I began to doubt my allegiance and I began to question the sacrifices ordinary people were making in the name of our country.” At this, de la Grascia pauses, no doubt remembering. “And even now,” he sighs, “while the Germans are sending their troops to fight here, across the Strait, our troops in Savoy and Provence are being ordered to arrest Jews and send them east in cattle trucks. I have heard they are being deported to work camps, or perhaps even worse, death camps. Tell me, how is it possible for intelligent men to behave in this manner?”
Mira tries and fails to suppress her look of horror. “I can’t believe anyone would do such a thing, Aldo. Surely, that is just idle gossip thought up by those who want us to hate the Germans.”
“I hope it is. Or rather, perhaps I wish it to be so. It is difficult to tell the propaganda from the truth these days; it has been so for far too long. All I do know is, what is important to me now is the welfare of my men. That is all I have left.”
The sombre couple stroll on down the line of barbed wire until they have reached the sandy beach at the eastern end of the promontory. Before them, across the rippling waters of the Strait, stand the verdant heights of Aspromonte, a sprawl of white clouds cloaking its many peaks. To
their left, shimmering in the heat haze, stands the monolith of Scylla buttressing out into the Tyrrhenian, the grey battlements of Ruffo Castle stark against the terracotta roofs of the little houses below. And to their right, lie the villages of Cannitello and Pezzo, and beyond them Villa San Giovanni, from which a dozen or more ominous palls of dark smoke rise and then disperse in the breeze.
“Oh, this view,” Mira whispers. “Sometimes when I look out across the Strait, I find it hard to believe people can hate so much that they would kill one another.”
As a warship carves a white bow wave through the azure sea of their tranquillity, they linger and watch and wish life was other than it is.
She takes his forearm and leaning her head down against his shoulder asks, “Aldo?”
“Yes, my beautiful Mira. What can a simple man from Bologna do for the woman he would very much like to love?”
“Oh, Aldo,” she moans, “how can you think of love at a time like this.”
“Oh, Mira, how can you not?”
Chapter 7
“How do you know how much to give him?” her father asks.
“I am assuming,” Mira replies, as she holds the small glass phial up to the light, “that each of these six bottles is to be used one at a time; the larger first and the smaller after.”
“Assuming?” he repeats, more than a little concerned. “If you have to assume, shouldn’t we ask Dottore Roselli to assume? At least he assumes with authority.”
“Thank you, mama,” Mira says, as Francesca finds a place for a bowl of steaming water on the table beside her.
The green canvas kit bag on the floor shows on the flap a white circle enclosing a red cross, and beige wax–paper packs labelled green and marked R ESERCITO ITALIANO are piled on the table. Bandage dressings, triangular bandages and eye dressings lie jumbled beside a leather roll of surgical tools, inside of which fine suture scissors, needle hooks and tweezers nestle in individual sleeves. Safety pins, eye solution, tins of foot powder, iodine swabs and a tube of sulfadiazine ointment for burns add to the clutter. And as if the last was more than Mira could have hoped for, Tenente de la Grascia’s crowning glory comes in the form of two tins, both not much bigger than cigarette packets and both, Mira notes, marked in German. When she opens them, she finds that the larger of the two contains a selection of bevelled glass tubes with interchangeable hypodermic needles, and the smaller contains six ampoules of morphine, one of which she is examining in the light from the window.
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