The colonel was not particularly impressive physically. He was a nondescript man in his midthirties who had made no attempt to cultivate a mustachioed military image. But his power could be felt in the way his pale eyes scanned sharply over the assembled guests, noting who was present, while he seemed to converse politely with the Albertinis.
Rosemary quickly put down her glass. She caught Constanza’s eye and signaled to her that it was time to leave. Paolo did not need to be told. He bid a silent and reluctant good-bye to the plate of canapés, even managing to slip a few into his pocket before joining his mother to make their polite farewells. As they exited onto the Albertinis’ front drive, they were joined by Lieutenant Gräss, who seemed to materialize out of nowhere.
“You are walking home? It would give me great pleasure to accompany you, but unfortunately, I have to report back to the barracks immediately. May I at least accompany you to the corner?”
“You’re very kind,” said Rosemary, “but no, really, we mustn’t think of delaying you.”
He paused, irresolute for a moment. Then he smartly saluted Rosemary and gave what Paolo noticed was a special bow to Constanza before walking briskly away toward his car.
“I wish you wouldn’t be quite so friendly with the German officers,” Rosemary said as they made their way home. “You know how much Babbo would hate it.”
“He was only being polite. And I thought we were rather rude, as a matter of fact,” said Constanza coolly.
“He certainly seems to like clicking his heels at you,” Paolo said, “but I suppose he’s an improvement on Aldo, the Chinless Wonder. Talk about a stuffed parrot! I’d like to pour a whole jug of mayonnaise all over his head!”
Constanza did not bother to answer. She merely pulled her shawl over her brown arms. They all walked on in silence.
When they arrived home, Paolo hung around in the hall, hoping to catch his mother alone. Last night’s message was weighing heavily on him. Tight knots of anxiety filled his stomach every time he remembered those two armed men. But after throwing down her things, Rosemary went straight into the kitchen to help Maria serve their meager family lunch, and when they had cleared away, she went up to her room to rest.
All afternoon Paolo skulked around in the hot, parched garden, fretting about how he was going to pass on that message without giving away anything about his nocturnal sorties into Florence. He prided himself on being quite a good liar when the occasion demanded it, but somehow it was always particularly difficult when his mother was involved. She had a way of seeing through him.
From an open upstairs window, he could hear Constanza playing records on her windup portable gramophone. She seemed to be addicted to hearing the same tunes over and over again: Rina Ketty’s French voice singing “J’attendrai,” Edith Piaf’s version of “La Vie en Rose,” also in French, and, to annoy her mother, the German hit song “Lili Marlene.”
Paolo wandered into the yard to see his dear old friend Guido. He felt that he was neglecting him these days but knew that Guido was too good-natured to hold it against him. The old dog lumbered out of his kennel with his usual rapturous welcome, putting his paws on Paolo’s knees and trying to lick his face. Paolo fondled his ears and released his chain. It was too hot to go for a long walk, so together they ambled down to the olive grove at the end of the garden. Here, Guido ran ahead joyfully, rather wonky on one back leg but happy to be out and about and sniffing around everywhere. If only life were always this simple, thought Paolo as he walked along behind, throwing a stick now and again.
It was nearly five o’clock when he returned Guido to his kennel and replenished his water supply from the tap in the yard. He would have liked to have given him something to eat, but, like the rest of the family, Guido was on strict food rationing and limited to the one daily meal of scraps that either Paolo or Maria fed him each morning.
Paolo hovered on the terrace until Rosemary emerged and began watering the geraniums that rioted in huge terra-cotta pots along the low wall. He helped her carry the heavy old watering cans to and from the water tank. They worked together in silence for a while. Then he said casually, “Oh, by the way — I forgot to tell you, Mamma — I’ve got a message for you from two men I ran into on the road yesterday.”
Rosemary stopped watering.
“Two men? What men? People we know?”
“Well, no, actually. I’ve never seen them before. It was when I was out on my bicycle.”
“What did they want?”
“They wanted me to give you a message. They said to tell you they’re in the area and they’ll be getting in touch. Tonight, if they can. The usual way, they said.”
“Was that all?”
“Yes, that was all. I only saw them for a few minutes.”
Rosemary sat down rather suddenly on the terrace wall. There was a brief silence. To Paolo’s surprise, she did not press him for any further details. She just sat there, her face dappled in deep shadow from the vine overhead. Then she got up and resumed her watering without another word.
That was easier than I expected, thought Paolo. But he felt uneasy. When his mother went indoors, he wandered around the garden, unable to settle into doing anything. He felt useless and wished, not for the first time, that Babbo were there to take responsibility for everything. He resented him for being so utterly absent. It wasn’t even as if he were a soldier serving on the Russian front or a prisoner of war. That would be something to brag about. And even prisoners managed to send letters or messages occasionally, to keep in touch somehow. Of course, Paolo and Constanza knew that Franco had defied Mussolini and the German occupation and that he was probably out there in the hills somewhere with the Partisans and that he was some kind of hero. But you couldn’t be proud of someone all the time, especially when you couldn’t talk about them to your friends. Nobody, not even Mamma, seemed to know where Babbo was, but even if she did, she wasn’t going to tell Paolo and Constanza. It made Paolo long for some kind of showdown, a huge argument or fight, anything to break down the wall of avoidance and silence. But he was not allowed even that. His mother’s loneliness and vulnerability ruled out any angry confrontations.
He picked up a scythe and went to work off his pent-up feelings on the weeds and stinging nettles that grew in abundance all over what used to be the formal garden. It is almost a relief, he thought, that the war, the real fighting, is getting ever closer.
Rosemary did not attend Mass again that evening. Instead, she roamed the house, plumping up cushions, sorting laundry, finding things to tidy up while keeping an anxious eye on the garden. Paolo seemed to be staying out there until long after dark. She caught a glimpse of him now and again, prowling aimlessly around.
Supper that evening was leftovers from lunch and consisted only of rather stale bread, salad, and a little cheese. Food rationing was too tight now to allow for more than one main family meal a day. Constanza appeared briefly and then retreated back to her room. Paolo came in late and ate very little, and then he, too, went upstairs.
At nine o’clock, Rosemary and Maria listened to the news on the old radio set in the kitchen. It was in Italian and so heavily censored by German-controlled broadcasting that it was very difficult to get any clear picture of what was actually happening. There was a lot of talk about “brave resistance to enemy advances” but nothing specific. The only source of information now was rumor, and that was mostly unreliable, too.
At last, when the whole house was quiet, Rosemary went up to her room. She did not undress. Instead, she sat fully clothed by her window, looking out at the garden, waiting and listening. Just after midnight, she opened her bedroom door very quietly and slipped out onto the landing. Paolo’s and Constanza’s bedroom lights were out. She listened for a while at both their doors. There was no sound. She crept downstairs.
In spite of the hot night, the shutters in the big living room that overlooked the garden were closed and the curtains tightly drawn. Total blackout was rigidly enforced, and t
here were heavy fines if any home showed the tiniest crack of light that might be spotted by enemy aircraft. She turned out all the lights, pulled back the curtains, undid the shutters, and opened the French doors. She stepped out onto the terrace.
There was no moon. She hesitated for a moment, peering into the darkness, then descended the steps and crossed the expanse of rough, dried-up grass that had once been a lawn. Beyond it was a gate that opened onto a narrow path, densely overshadowed by a row of cypress trees. The cicadas were keeping up their incessant sound; otherwise all she could hear were her own footsteps.
The path petered out into an unkempt grove of olive trees. They lurched at grotesque angles over a litter of casually dumped garden refuse and discarded wine barrels, half hidden in weeds. At the end was a long, empty shed, and in its shadow, Rosemary saw the pinpoints of three lit cigarettes glowing in the dark.
Three men stood there, huddled together, the outline of their rifles silhouetted against the sky. They all wore caps, pulled well down, making it impossible to see their faces.
As Rosemary approached, one of them threw down his cigarette and said quietly, “Signora? Signora Crivelli?”
“Yes.” With a stab of fear, she realized that the man beside him had now lowered his rifle and was pointing it at her.
“We need to speak with you, signora. You know who we are, I think?”
She knew who they were, all right. The Partisans. These men were probably led by Il Volpe — the Fox — a local leader whom hardly anyone claimed to have encountered in person. A man who, Rosemary suspected, was trying to draw her and her son into helping them.
“What do you want with me?” Rosemary asked, trying to keep her voice steady.
“We don’t intend you or any of your family harm, signora. We want your help — that’s all. Just a little help, like the last time.” He paused. The man with the rifle shifted uneasily.
“Things are different now,” said Rosemary. “It’s far more dangerous. The Gestapo is watching us all the time.”
The first man ignored this and went on urgently: “It would only be for one night. We need to bring two men in close to the city, to put them into contact with friends who will help them.”
“What men?”
“Who they are need not concern you too closely, signora. The less you know, the better.”
“You mean Allied servicemen? Escaped prisoners of war who you are trying to get back to their own lines?”
This was greeted by silence, but Rosemary knew she was right. She had been asked to do this before, several times, and on each occasion, she had unwillingly cooperated while desperately wishing that she had never, ever become involved. She had done it for Franco’s sake. But she knew very well what a terrifying risk she was taking. She thought of Paolo and Constanza and what would happen to them if she were arrested. They had both been away at school before and known nothing about it. But now . . .
“I can’t —” she began.
But the man cut in: “Just one night — that’s all we ask.”
His voice was persuasive, but the rifle still pointing directly at her was more so. Rosemary was silent. These people were as ruthless as the enemy, especially now that the Allies were so close. They were eagerly awaiting the time when they could rise up out of hiding and fight alongside them.
She tried to think about Franco and what he would want her to do. But instead, her mind was filled by thoughts of Paolo on his bicycle, riding at night through the empty streets, and what might happen to him — or any of them — if she did not cooperate.
“Very well,” she said at last. “For one night only. . . .”
“Good. It will be soon. We’ll be in touch to let you know when.”
Rosemary hurried back to the house with her arms wrapped around her. She was shivering, not with cold but with fear. She was only just beginning to realize the full implications of what she had agreed to do. But she would have been far more terrified if she had known that as the three men melted away into the darkness, her son, Paolo, was following them.
Paolo had known all evening that there was a certain tension in the air. Although his mother’s reaction to the message had been noncommittal, he sensed that she had something on her mind, so he was keeping an eye on things. This, he told himself, was what detective work was all about. It was one of the skills he was planning on practicing professionally one day, when he was grown up.
When he got to his bedroom, he settled down to wait until he heard Rosemary come upstairs. A long silence followed. He could sense her sitting there in her room, wide awake. At last, after what seemed like an endless time, he heard her reemerge and creep out onto the landing, where she paused outside his door. He held his breath and prayed that she wouldn’t look in. Then he heard her go downstairs. Cautiously, he poked his head out of his bedroom window, which overlooked the terrace, and saw her flit across the dark garden. Within minutes he was following her.
As he drew near to the shed, he crouched low in the bushes. The sight of his mother in conversation with three armed men gave his stomach a lurch of fear mixed with excitement. He was pretty sure who they were. The Partisans. The men whom he had admired so much and for so long but had never met until last night. And now here they were, armed, in his own back garden. He couldn’t imagine why they were here or what business they could possibly have with his mother. He strained his ears to hear, but it was no good; they were speaking too softly. When Rosemary hurried back to the house, he watched the men set off into the darkness. He waited a few more minutes. Then, not thinking about why he was doing it, he followed them, keeping well into the shadows of the trees that bordered the path.
After skirting the side road to the farm where Maria’s brother lived, the way continued sharply upward, past the terraced vines that sprawled out across the hillside. The path became stonier, hardly a path at all, winding up into the dense scrub and olive trees that grew on the higher ground. Paolo was painfully aware of his every footfall. And he was terrified of what would happen if the men turned around and spotted him. But he knew these hills well. He had roamed around them since childhood, and he had a good idea of where these men were heading. Somewhere up here, the path ran alongside a deep gully with a dried-up riverbed, very overgrown. It was an ideal place for a camp hideout.
He had kept the men in sight, but then, quite suddenly, he lost them. Sweating with exhaustion, he paused and peered ahead. There was no sign of them. They had vanished.
Paolo stood still in the darkness. There was no sound except for the rustling of dry grass. Fear came down on him like a cold hand. Before, he had hardly thought about the risk he was running by following the men onto the lonely hillside in the middle of the night. Now he remembered those rifles, and the stories of the kind of treatment the Partisans handed out to spies. Despite his fear, a plan formed in his mind — but now was not the time to put it into action. He turned around and scrambled back the way he had come, expecting at every turn to meet an armed figure looming up at him out of the darkness, perhaps even a man with the eyes of a fox.
It was after three o’clock in the morning when Paolo reached home. He was exhausted. Rosemary had locked the house up again, so there was nothing he could do but stay out all night and appear just before breakfast, pretending he had gone for an early-morning stroll. He hoped his disheveled state would not arouse suspicion. For what was left of the night, he huddled down on one of the garden seats on the veranda.
He was dozing there when, three short hours later, his mother came across him as she stepped out into the early-morning sunshine. He was amazed at how normal she seemed, considering the events of a few hours ago.
“Up early, Paolo?”
“Yes. I’ve been for a bike ride.”
“Good. Now, I want you and Constanza to cycle into Florence this morning. There’s a chance of some bread and pasta in the market today and maybe some vegetables and cheese. It’s too much for Maria to carry. Hurry up and have your breakfast, then
you can start right away before it gets too hot.”
Paolo was drooping with exhaustion as he slowly assembled the shopping baskets and got out his bike. Constanza appeared reluctant to leave. She came out of the house slowly, wearing one of Babbo’s old cotton shirts, her feet thrust into a pair of leather sandals.
“I suppose I’ve got to ride Maria’s ancient bone shaker,” she said. The sun was already uncomfortably hot by the time they had pumped up the tires. They were both silent as they coasted down the hill into the city.
As they drew closer to the outskirts, it became obvious that many other people were on the same errand. Most were on foot, carrying baskets, and some were pushing handcarts.
There was an atmosphere of tension everywhere. German troops were a heavy presence, and many streets were sealed off. By the time Paolo and Constanza arrived at the market, they found it already packed with a bad-tempered mob. There was a great deal of pushing and shoving, good manners having long since evaporated in the grim struggle to get enough food to feed a family.
Constanza was surprisingly good at this sort of thing. She managed to elbow her way deftly to the front of the crowd, choosing only the market stallholders whom she knew were honest, and making no attempt to bargain with them. She just pointed firmly to the goods she wanted and waved the money, while Paolo struggled behind with the bicycles and filled up their baskets.
They were both sweating and disheveled when they managed to extricate themselves from the crowd and so stopped to wash their hands and faces at a wall fountain. Paolo was so tired that he could hardly think straight. And there was still the prospect of the long, heavily laden ride uphill to their home.
Hero on a Bicycle Page 3