“Not you, Joe. You’re a — what’s the word? — a survivor.” She smiled and handed him the cup. They sat side by side on the mattress. He sipped in silence for a while, and then he said, “I’ve got to get out of here, right now. I can’t let you put yourselves on the line for me any longer. It’s too dangerous. Those Gestapo swine could come back again anytime.”
“But where will you go?”
“If I can, I’ll make it into the hills. I’ll be all right. It can’t be long before this city gets liberated. The fighting’s really close now.” As if to reinforce his words, they heard a sudden burst of gunfire not so far away. Constanza jumped.
Joe looked at her. “You’re too young to be mixed up in all this,” he said. “You ought to be — I don’t know — somewhere wonderful, having a good time. Not stuck here, having to be so brave.”
“Not brave,” said Constanza. Her voice wobbled. “Not brave at all.”
Joe put down his cup. He reached out his good arm and took her hand. She held on to him tightly. They sat like that for a while without speaking. Then Joe took her face in both his hands.
“Brave,” he said again, “and beautiful, too.” His face was sad and almost puzzled in the half-dark. He began to stroke her hair, very gently, pushing it away from her forehead. Somehow, rather awkwardly, their faces grew very close together. Constanza closed her eyes. . . .
“Paolo! Paolo, are you down there?” Maria’s raucous voice came from the top of the stairs. “Constanza?” she called again. “Is Paolo there? Constanza! Have you seen him?”
“He’s not down here,” Constanza answered wearily.
Rosemary was in the kitchen, already dressed but looking white-faced and strained.
“We need food,” she said when Constanza came in carrying Joe’s empty cup. “There’s hardly any left. Maria and I will see if we can get down to the farm the back way, through the garden. It’s too dangerous on the road. How’s Joe?”
Constanza was in no mood for conversation. “Better, I think,” she said briefly, then added, “He’s talking about trying to hide out somewhere in the hills.”
“It’s too soon yet. He needs another day’s rest before he’s fit to try it.”
Maria was fiddling irritatingly with the radio, attempting to get the BBC European service or Voice of America. When at last she managed it, they caught something about the Allied invasion of northern France and the liberation of Cherbourg by the Americans, but nothing about the progress of the war in Italy. They must have missed it.
“We should go,” said Rosemary, switching off the wireless. “Constanza, you and Paolo mustn’t go out on any account. Where is Paolo, anyway? He can’t have been so silly as to have gone wandering off somewhere — he must know how dangerous it is.”
“He’s probably lazing around in the garden,” said Constanza. “I’ll go and look.”
While she was gone, Rosemary went out into the yard. For the moment, the road outside was deserted, and there seemed to be a lull in the nerve-racking noise of shelling. She hurried around to the bicycle shed and looked inside.
“Oh, no!” she exclaimed when she saw that Paolo’s bicycle was missing. “Oh, Paolo — please — no!”
Paolo held his breath as the German soldiers and their prisoner passed. Il Volpe’s hands were tied behind his back, and his face was badly bruised. One eye was almost closed, and on his forehead there was a gaping cut that was bleeding down into his beard.
Paolo waited tensely until they had gone on ahead. He then crept out of the bushes and began to follow at a safe distance, wheeling his bicycle and keeping well in the shadow of the trees, ready to dodge out of sight at any moment. They kept going for some time along the narrow path until it forked — they took the wider path, going steeply downhill in the opposite direction to the way Paolo had come. He was getting farther and farther away from home, and he had no clear idea what he hoped to achieve, but he kept on going.
Occasionally Il Volpe stumbled and fell, but the soldiers kicked him until he was back on his feet again.
The path became a dirt road. Soon there were dry-stone walls, and the trees gave way to olive groves, vineyards, and the occasional group of farm buildings, baking in the noonday heat. It became almost impossible for Paolo to follow without being spotted. He let them go out of sight and turned onto a farm road. He threw down his bicycle and sprawled on the ground beside it. He felt completely lost. And only now did he realize how terrified he was.
He wondered what had happened to the other Partisans. Perhaps they were all dead, or maybe they were not even aware that Il Volpe had been captured. Where were those German soldiers taking him? Wherever it was, Paolo thought, there was nothing he could do to help him now.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, three German fighter planes — Messerschmitts — ripped through the sky overhead, and there was a burst of heavy gunfire not far away. Paolo automatically ducked and covered his head with his hands. More than anything in the world, he wanted to get back home. The best way, he thought, was to follow the road to a village and try to make it back from there. Wearily, and aching with hunger and thirst, he lugged his bicycle back onto the road and set off.
The nearest village was much farther away than he had calculated. En route, he was overtaken by a couple of army trucks full of German soldiers with rifles at the ready. They roared past in a cloud of dust and nearly tipped him into the ditch. At last he reached the outskirts of a village and turned down one of the narrow streets that led to the church and the main piazza. In spite of it being siesta time and stiflingly hot, there were a great many people around. They stood, silent and watchful, on their doorsteps or in huddled groups, murmuring anxiously. They looked at him warily as he cycled past, but he kept his eyes on the street. Then, thank heavens, he found a wall fountain. He dismounted and took a long, long drink, then doused his head under the running water. It was wonderfully, deliciously cool. He sat there for a few minutes, letting his aching legs relax. But he hardly had time to recover before there was a great commotion of shouting and scuffling higher up the street. A truckload of German soldiers had arrived, and they were beginning to break up the groups of people. They were shouting orders and herding people into the main piazza at gunpoint. Paolo looked around desperately, but he could see no means of escape, so was forced to mingle with the crowd, pushing his bicycle and hoping he wouldn’t be noticed.
“What’s happening?” he asked an old man who was jostling against him.
“The Partisans are coming out of hiding from the hills around here. Now that the inglesi and the americani are so near, they want to fight out in the open. These Germans know they’ll be pulling out of Florence soon, and they’re determined to kill as many Partisans as they can before they go. They hate them — especially the Reds. They hanged two of them the other day at Tuori. Now they’ve got our man.”
“Il Volpe?”
“Yes — him. They know he comes from around here, and they think we’ve been protecting him.”
“What are they going to do to him?”
The old man merely spat on the ground and looked grimly ahead.
The little piazza was bordered on three sides by old houses, a police station, and a few shops, all now closely shuttered. At one end was a fountain, enclosed by a low semicircular wall, and at the other was an ancient archway, too narrow to accommodate modern vehicles. The church occupied the whole remaining side. Its facade was faced with striped green marble. There was a bell tower, and two curved flights of steps led up to the main doors. Below the steps was a crumbling wall covered with notices: orders to civilians from the occupying German army, and among them one or two fading images of Mussolini, the jutting-jawed dictator who had once been all-powerful but was now a failing puppet treated with contempt by the Nazis. The German soldiers were herding everyone into one half of the square, being careful to keep an empty space in front of the wall. There was an atmosphere of sullen resentment, but anyone who showed signs of disobedience was s
oon prodded into submission with the end of a rifle.
Paolo was pushed to the front of the crowd but somehow managed to hold on to his bicycle. He was weak with exhaustion and hunger now. The sweating strangers around him offered no reassurance. The crowd stood there, pressed together, waiting. At last, a squad of soldiers appeared leading Il Volpe. A couple of women cried out when they saw him, but most people remained silent. They all knew that they had been assembled to witness a public execution.
“How could he have been such an idiot?” said Rosemary. “Going off like that with things as they are. Does he want to get himself killed?”
Constanza had just come in from searching the garden. Her dark eyes filled with fear when she heard that Paolo’s bicycle was missing.
“He must have got some crazy idea into his head again about being a hero,” she said. “Did he leave any kind of message?”
“Nothing. I was going to phone the neighbors and ask if they’ve seen him — but I don’t dare to draw too much attention to us. Not that we’ve many neighbors left. The Bonofantis and the Galleranis have already packed up. They’ve gone to take shelter in the Pensione Annalina before the fighting gets too near to the city. Those brave people who run it are offering shelter to anyone who needs it.”
“Shouldn’t we go, too, Mamma?”
“We can’t . . . not with Joe still here and Paolo missing. We have to stay until Paolo turns up, at least. I couldn’t let him arrive home to find the place empty.” She pressed both her hands tightly to her eyes. When she looked up at Constanza, it was with a carefully arranged expression of reassurance. “Don’t worry, darling. We’ll manage somehow. We’ll just have to lie low here until Paolo gets back and it’s safe for Joe to leave — tonight perhaps — and then we’ll decide whether to join the others.”
“Have Maria’s brother and his family gone?”
“From the farm? No, they’ll stay, probably. Try to protect their property. The farm’s all they have. But I don’t care what happens to the house as long as you and Paolo are safe.”
At that moment, there was a terrific explosion not far away that shook the ceiling. They could also hear sounds of turmoil coming from the kitchen. They hurried in to find Maria collapsed at the table in a storm of weeping, her head buried in her hands. Her brother Mario was sitting beside her, too distraught himself to offer any comfort.
“Whatever is it, Mario?” said Rosemary. “What’s the matter? Is it Paolo? Has something happened to him?”
“No — no. It’s my son Renato — my youngest. He’s been arrested! The Gestapo have taken him.”
“Arrested? But why?”
“They came early this morning and searched our house. They said we were suspected of helping Allied prisoners to escape. They turned everything upside down — wrecked our furniture and broke my wife’s china. She got angry and tried to stop them. One of them pushed her, and she fell and hurt her arm. When Renato saw how they were treating her, he tried to interfere, and he hit one of them. So they arrested him. They may have taken him into Florence to the Gestapo headquarters. God knows what they’ll do to him there. I begged them not to take him. He’s only just sixteen, not of military age yet. Just a boy . . .”
Rosemary was trying hard to think of something comforting to say.
“Don’t worry too much yet,” she managed in the end. “I’ll see if we can make some inquiries as to where he’s being held. It may be possible to make some plea on account of his age.”
But Constanza, looking at her mother’s white, shattered face, knew that exactly the same thought was going through both their minds, a question too terrifying to be asked aloud: what if this was what had happened to Paolo? It was a strong possibility.
They finally managed to calm Maria down, and her brother Mario hurried off to try to comfort his own family.
“He may have just gone off on one of his long bike rides,” Constanza said to her mother when there was still no sign of him an hour later. “I bet he’ll be back by lunchtime.”
A midmorning heat had settled over the house when one of Mario’s daughters came running up to the back door, very excited. “Papà sent me,” she said. “I’m to tell you that Renato’s been released! They only kept him for a couple of hours, and then they kicked him out.”
“He’s unharmed?” cried Maria.
“Yes, yes! He had to walk all the way back from Florence. He’s sleeping now.”
Tears of joy and relief ran down Maria’s cheeks. “Oh, thank God, thank God! Renato is safe!”
Rosemary was on her feet at once to put her arms around her.
“Oh, Maria — I’m so glad,” she managed to say. Inwardly, she was thinking, Oh, Paolo, where are you? Why don’t you come home?
The heat in the square was overwhelming. From where he was standing, Paolo could see the German soldiers push Il Volpe forward with their rifles. They shoved him up against the wall below the church doors, between the two flights of steps, and he stood there, sweating, sullen, and clearly exhausted, but still upright. This was to be his place of execution.
The crowd was silent as the firing squad arrived, six more soldiers with an officer in charge. They formed a line with their backs to the crowd. It was customary, Paolo knew, to bandage the eyes of the condemned man before he was shot, but no one stepped forward to cover Il Volpe’s eyes. He was clearly to be denied this mercy.
The whole square was deathly still now. The officer gave orders for the firing squad to raise their rifles. Paolo’s stomach clenched, and he thought he was going to be sick. He turned his face away and screwed up his eyes, waiting for the volley of fire.
It came, but not from the direction he had expected. He opened his eyes to see four men, armed with submachine guns, burst out of the crypt very near to where Il Volpe was standing, firing as they ran. The red scarves over the lower half of their faces made their identity as Partisans unmistakable.
The execution squad was taken completely by surprise. One of them sprawled down, shot in the stomach, his blood spilling out onto the cobblestones. The German officer was yelling orders at his men to regroup and return fire. One of the Partisans was hit in the leg but was dragged to safety by some men from the village.
And in that brief moment of confusion, Il Volpe saw his chance. He dodged behind his fellow Partisans and dived into the milling crowd. Paolo, who had been pushed forward in the panic, was now so close to him that they were face-to-face. For a split second, they looked each other in the eye. Then, on a sudden impulse, Paolo thrust his bicycle toward Il Volpe, who grabbed it, mounted, and pedaled off, dodging the gunfire as he careered toward the far side of the piazza. The crowd, clearly on his side, parted to allow his comrades to back after him, covering his escape.
People ducked as bullets ricocheted off walls. Women screamed. But Il Volpe had already disappeared, through the old gateway and down the narrow street where no vehicle could pursue him, like a fox gone to earth.
For those few vital minutes, the Partisans had kept the soldiers at bay. Then they, too, disappeared after their leader. They had the advantage of knowing far better than their pursuers the warren of little streets that led away from the village. A German truck with a machine gun entered the piazza, but its progress was blocked by people fleeing in all directions. Paolo ran with them, not knowing what else to do.
People were cramming into the side streets, running into their houses, pushing their children inside, and slamming doors, trying to make themselves scarce while they had the chance. Paolo struggled back to the side street by which he had entered the village. He was so exhausted that he could no longer think straight. Hunger and thirst were taking their toll on his strength. Worst of all, he no longer had his precious bicycle.
All he wanted now was to get away from this horrible place, these people, and the inevitable brutal reprisals. As he left the village to begin the long trudge home, the noise of battle sounded frighteningly close.
They had only just begun to eat lunch
when there was a knock at the front door. Constanza ran to answer it. Hilaria was standing on the doorstep. She was in a disheveled state but still wearing her very high heels.
“Constanza! I’ve only got a minute, but I couldn’t go without saying good-bye! Mamma and Papà are waiting out on the road with the engine running. The car’s loaded with stuff. They didn’t want me to come here, but I made them stop. We’re on our way north at last, to get away from the awful fighting. It’ll be right here very soon, so it’s our last chance. You’re leaving, too, I suppose?”
“Not for the moment.”
“You don’t mean you’re staying here? It’s so dangerous! Everyone’s leaving. The road into Florence is jammed. But listen.” Her face was very flushed. Impulsively she reached out and took both of Constanza’s hands. “I had to see you before we left. I had to tell you . . .”
“Tell me what?”
“It’s . . .” She suddenly burst into tears. “It’s about that day I dropped by to see you. A couple of days ago, remember? I thought there was something funny about the way you and Paolo were behaving, the way you didn’t want me to go down into the cellar. As though you were hiding something.”
“And?”
“Well . . .” Hilaria was clinging to her now. “Well, we heard afterward that the Gestapo had been to search your house.”
“Yes. And they found nothing, nothing!”
“I know . . . I know. But I just wanted to tell you that it wasn’t me who tipped them off. I mean, we’ve always been friends, haven’t we? Mamma and Papà didn’t like it, what with your father’s politics and all, but I never let that bother me, never!”
Constanza pushed Hilaria’s hands away.
“Don’t speak to me about my father,” she said in a very low voice. “My father has nothing to do with this, or with you.”
Hero on a Bicycle Page 8