The captain paused and looked up at the sky, which was a deep, cloudless, morning blue.
“Yours is such a beautiful country,” he said. “I wish I could have seen it in happier circumstances. Do you know that I’d never been abroad until I was called up? Hardly been out of Guildford, except for the usual English seaside holidays. I’d seen pictures of Italy, of course, but it can’t give you the feel of what it’s really like — the hills, the buildings, this extraordinary light. I’m definitely planning to come back after this show’s over.”
“And when you do, I hope you’ll visit us.”
“I most certainly will.”
His driver was waiting. He saluted, jumped into the jeep, and was driven off.
After every last truck had departed, the house and grounds seemed unnaturally quiet. Everything was in a sorry state. Cleaning up was going to take a depressingly long time and was such an exhausting prospect that Rosemary couldn’t bring herself to think about it yet. Instead, she wandered aimlessly in the garden, wondering how they would ever get around to filling up the shell hole or repair the damage that the tents had made to the grass. At the front gate, she met the mail carrier. She hadn’t seen him for weeks and greeted him with great delight. He had brought one letter. She took it eagerly, hoping to see Franco’s handwriting. But it was addressed to Constanza. The postmark was English and the handwriting unfamiliar. Constanza came running when Rosemary called her and took the letter. She didn’t open it but turned it over in her hands, looking at it. Then, without a word, she took it up to her room.
Rosemary was left alone by the front door. She knew she should be delighted that things were returning to some sort of normality and that Constanza had her letter. But for the first time in weeks, she began to cry. They weren’t tears of jealousy, just bitter, bitter disappointment. She wondered how much longer she would have to go on being supportive, kind, and brave without anyone to turn to. She could cope with danger on her own — she knew that now. She could think fast under pressure and make lightning-quick decisions when it came to protecting her family. But this long drag of loneliness and uncertainty, of never having anyone to lean on, to grumble to or confide in, was worse. It was shriveling her up. Perhaps Franco’s dead, she thought. Perhaps I’ll never see him again.
Once she was upstairs, alone in her room, Constanza opened her letter.
“Dear Constanza,” she read. This was crossed out and replaced by “Darling.”
I warned you that I’m not much good at writing letters. But this is to tell you that I’m OK. After we said good-bye that day, I met up with some of our boys, and now I’ve rejoined my unit. I’ll never forget what you and your family did for me — your mom, Paolo, and especially you. I owe my life to you — you know that. “Thank you” just isn’t big enough for what I’d like to say, but I hope I’ll get the chance to tell you in person one day.
I am stationed in Britain now. Can’t tell you where, of course. We’ll be going over to Normandy soon, backing up the offensive there, and after that, on to Berlin. To try to finish things once and for all.
Guess who I met in the Overseas Services Club? David! Seems that guy and I are destined to keep meeting up. He told me how he managed to escape with some other prisoners of war when the truck they were in was hijacked by the Partisans. Another local family put their lives on the line to hide him in their barn. In the end they got him back into Allied-occupied territory and onto a boat home. He won’t be flying for a while. He’s training other pilots. And guess what? He’s getting married! Some guys have all the luck.
I think of you all the time. Dream about you, too. I guess I’ve got nothing to offer but dreams right now. But I long for the day when I see your lovely eyes again and your smile. Can’t wait to see you wearing that dress, to dance with you, to hold you in my arms.
Write me.
All my love,
Joe
Constanza read the letter through three times, folded it carefully, and hugged it to herself. Then she wound up her gramophone and put on a record: “J’attendrai.”
Around lunchtime she was still sitting by the open window, her mind drifting far away with the romantic music, when she heard the sound of a car coming up the drive. Two men got out, but she couldn’t see who they were. I hope our house isn’t going to be commandeered by the military again, when we’ve only just gotten rid of the last lot, she thought. But who else could possibly have the use of a car when gasoline was so scarce? She peered farther out. There was only the one car — no jeeps or trucks. She heard voices, her mother’s among them, then silence. Whoever had arrived seemed to have gone through to the back of the house. She waited for a call from downstairs, but nothing happened, so she put on another record.
And then Maria burst into her room. “Constanza! Carissima! Come down at once — come quickly!” she urged.
Rosemary was standing on the veranda with two men. One was a stranger in uniform. The other was her father. He was bearded and thinner, and his face was more deeply lined than Constanza remembered it. He turned to her, radiant with joy at seeing her. For a few seconds, she stood just looking at him. She found that she couldn’t run toward him, not just yet. The shock of seeing him again was too great. And in his old way, realizing at once what she must be feeling, he simply grinned at her and said, “Constanza — my dearest girl — my darling one, I suppose now you’re too grown-up to be told how lovely you’ve become since I went away.”
Only then did she walk slowly toward him and bury her head in his shoulder. She wasn’t crying, but when she touched his face, she could feel that his cheeks were wet. He held her close with one arm; the other was wound tightly around Rosemary’s waist, as though never — even for a moment — could he bear to let either of them go.
The other man, clearly embarrassed at being embroiled in this emotional reunion, cleared his throat a little and stood at a distance, pretending to admire the ruined garden. Later, as they sat together over a glass of wine, he was properly introduced to Constanza as Colonel Fergusson. It was he who began to explain something of what Franco had been doing during his long absence from home: how he had been parachuted into Nazi-occupied northern Italy as a liaison officer and interpreter to help promote links with the Partisan units who were helping the British before the capture of Florence. Franco sat silently throughout.
“I don’t have to tell you how dangerous it was,” said Fergusson. “And especially courageous — if he’d been captured by the Gestapo, he would have had no official military status to protect him as a prisoner of war. Often he was acting as a courier for large sums of money that were being smuggled to the underground movement — and that made him particularly vulnerable. Several couriers disappeared — their bodies were never found. Some were killed by local people for the money they were carrying; others were captured by the Nazis and were tortured before they were shot.”
“I was lucky,” said Franco, looking at his wife, who had gone very pale. “And I guess I was useful because I knew the area so well — every river and pass in the mountains up in the Mugello, from my old adventurous boyhood days. But it was so frustrating when I was working up there in secret, so close to Florence and so near to you all but not daring to get in contact in case I put you in danger. I was terribly homesick for you then. And worried sick when I heard the fighting was getting closer to you.” He glanced at the crater the shell had made. “I can’t bear to think that I wasn’t here to protect you.”
“We managed” was all Rosemary said. But then she added, “By the grace of God.” She was holding her husband’s hand very tightly. I’ll tell him all about it, bit by bit, she thought. Now, at last, maybe there will be time for us to be together, to get to know each other again. She knew it wasn’t going to be easy. She had been without him for so long. But slowly, like a warm patch of sunlight spreading and gaining strength, the wonderful realization that at last they were going to be a family again was dawning on her.
“Your husband is a
brave man,” Colonel Fergusson said when he took his leave. “He has risked his life over and over again to help the Allies in this area, and we’re profoundly grateful.”
“There were many others who did the same,” said Franco. He was looking at Rosemary and Constanza. “And there are many different ways of being brave. But where’s Paolo? Will he be back soon? I’m so longing to see him — my hero on a bicycle!”
Paolo was pushing his bicycle up the hill toward home. The need for lunch was drawing him back. He hoped there was something decent to eat for once. He had given up his night rides. Midnight sorties into the city were out of the question now, with all the bridges blown up and so many Allied military checkpoints around. And besides, what had been a thrilling adventure earlier that summer seemed like kids’ stuff after what he’d been through. Bike rides now simply offered him a chance to be on his own, to try to get his thoughts in order. He felt his life was being held in some sort of limbo, free from immediate danger but still waiting for the real stuff to begin. He had no illusions about being a hero, on or off a bicycle. He had seen enough of war to know that he wanted no part in it. Well, not for the time being, anyway. He paused, realizing that he was in about the same place as he had been when he’d first encountered Il Volpe and his fellow Partisans. It seemed like a very long time ago.
When he arrived home, he wheeled his bicycle to the shed, carefully avoiding Guido’s old kennel. It made him sad to look at it. The house was very quiet. There seemed to be nobody around. He wandered to the empty veranda, which looked out onto the pitted grass of the backyard. Over in the shade of the cypress trees, his mother and Constanza were looking at the bomb crater with a man whom, for a moment, he didn’t recognize. A bearded man, rather tall and gaunt. He had his arms around both of them. When he saw Paolo, he disengaged himself and raised both his hands in a joyous salute.
Paolo stood still a moment, then took a few steps forward, and then broke into a run.
“Babbo! Oh, Babbo! You’re back!” he yelled as he threw himself into his father’s open arms.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2012 by Shirley Hughes
Cover illustration copyright © 2012 by Michael Crampton; inspired by an original illustration by Shirley Hughes
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, and recording, without prior written permission from the publisher.
First U.S. electronic edition 2013
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 2012943650
ISBN 978-0-7636-6037-6 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-0-7636-6359-9 (electronic)
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