A Pair of Silver Wings

by James Holland

  Unbeknown to anyone but Eleva, Orfeo, sensing hard times ahead, had the previous autumn dug two secret stores on the edge of the farm, lined them with brick, and placed inside them as much food and wine as he could spare. The day before, he had opened them up – with some trepidation he freely admitted – and had taken out the cured meats and fruits that had been kept there. Much of it had survived well, and the kitchen now smelled richly with the sweet aroma of hams, cheese and open bottles of wine. There might not have been the amount of food and drink of years gone by, but there was certainly more than anyone had seen in a very long time.

  A makeshift table had been added in the kitchen – they did not dare eat outside. Edward was seated between Carla and her mother, Isabella. There was a tiredness in Isabella’s eyes; even on a feast day, the worry about her family and the uncertain future seemed to weigh heavily. Edward could understand: they were all doing their best to forget the war, but it was impossible to do so completely – not with the guns still booming dully in the distance, not with hungry partisans roaming all around. Not when an atmosphere of menace and violence still hung so heavily over the mountains.

  And yet there were many images Edward would remember from that day: Federico and Orfeo, arm in arm, grinning inanely and Federico saying, ‘I’ve always said there’s no-one cannier than my brother’; Christina telling joke after joke that had everyone doubled up with laughter; the songs they all sang later, even ‘Happy Birthday’ – his blushes at seeing all their eyes on him; Carla rubbing his leg under the table; the tin plane that twelve-year-old Gino had given him. Ah, yes – that plane. ‘A Spitfire,’ Gino told him, proudly handing over the model. ‘Happy Birthday, Eduardo,’ he said. ‘I made it for you.’

  ‘From an old tin,’ added Isabella. ‘It’s taken him days.’

  ‘Well, it might be tin but it looks like silver,’ said Edward, turning the model over in his hands. ‘It’s perfect – just like my old Spit. And the wings – you’ve got them just right.’

  ‘A pair of silver wings,’ said Carla.

  Gino smiled bashfully.

  ‘Thank you, Gino,’ said Edward. ‘I think that’s just about the best present I’ve ever had.’

  He looked around the room, at the smiling faces. Even the old man grinned at him toothlessly. Carla put an arm on his shoulder and leaned up and kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘Happy Birthday, Eduardo.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Edward. ‘Thank you, all of you.’ He felt a little drunk and a little overwhelmed, too. ‘I will never forget this day, or the kindness you have all shown me. I hope that next August we can all celebrate again, but with the war behind us at last.’

  The old man tapped his stick on the floor. ‘Well said, young man. Well said.’

  Italy – September, 1944

  By the second week of September, South African troops had been spotted advancing towards Riovecchio in the Setta Valley, just a couple of miles south of Montalbano. They were also seen within sight of Volado in the Reno Valley. The sound of the guns was now so close that the mountains reverberated with the noise of shellfire. At times, even the whistle of the shells passing through the air could be heard. Allied bombers were seen swarming over the German front lines. Explosions of bombs and shells made the ground tremble.

  Still the Blue Brigade remained around Monte Luna. Volpe had repeatedly asked the British agent, Prospero, for more ammunition and permission to resume their old tactics. The reply was always swift, but always the same: there would be no drops for the moment, and the partisans were to stay where they were.

  17th September. The brigade headquarters was now an isolated farmhouse called Ca’ di Maggio, a little over a mile east of Monte Luna itself in a clearing surrounded by oaks and chestnuts. The leaves on the trees were just beginning to turn, the nights gradually but perceptibly drawing in. There were around thirty partisans of the headquarters company living there alongside the contadino and his family. It was a large house, and for the first time since parachuting onto the mountains, Edward slept inside, in a bedroom at one end of the house. There was no bed, but nor were there rats, or mice, or the smell of cattle and animal dung.

  An early visit from Colonel Bianco. There was the chill of autumn in the air and they sat around the stove on wooden stools and chairs, smoke wafting into the room.

  ‘The answer’s the same, I’m afraid,’ said the Colonel. ‘They want this mountain secure.’

  Volpe ran his hands through his hair. ‘Every German in Italy must know we’re here,’ he said.

  ‘We can’t afford to let them occupy these mountains,’ said the Colonel. ‘If they get some of their guns up here overlooking the two river valleys it could be disastrous.’

  ‘But our strength has always been our mobility,’ said Giorgio. ‘And anyway, we don’t have enough ammunition to fight off the enemy if they decide to attack in strength.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said the Colonel, patting his knees and looking apologetically at Volpe – there’s nothing more I can do.

  ‘All right,’ said Volpe. ‘Well, we’ll just have to stay and hope for the best. Orders are orders, but all this inactivity is making life very difficult. There are far too many in the brigade who think the war’s already been won. Discipline’s beginning to go in some of the battalions. I keep getting reports of partisans swaggering about the villages on the lower slopes, brandishing their rifles and chatting up the local girls’

  ‘Can’t you do something to stop it?’ said Colonel Bianco.

  ‘What? I can’t keep a watch on everyone all of the time. We’re keeping them as busy as we can.’

  ‘Listen, I know how you’re feeling, but it won’t be long now,’ the Colonel assured them. ‘Really.’

  Edward was leading a small patrol of men back up along a mountain track later that same day. They had gone to retrieve the final cache of medical supplies that had been captured from a German truck some weeks before, and which had then been hidden in a dried-up well in a ruined farmhouse. The farmhouse overlooked Veggio, still largely a fascist-controlled town, but they had not been spotted; or at any rate, they had not been challenged.

  ‘Hey, Eduardo,’ said one of the men. It was Enrico, another teenager from Bologna.

  ‘What is it?’ Edward said.

  ‘Where’s Pietro?’

  They looked around but there was no sign of him.

  ‘Where the hell has he got to?’ said Edward. ‘Who saw him last? He was with us when we left the well.’

  No-one knew.

  ‘Bruno?’

  Bruno shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Do you think we should turn back and look for him?’

  Edward thought for a moment. He couldn’t understand it. Perhaps they should retrace their steps. But then another thought crossed his mind. What if it’s a trap? What if Pietro was being used to lure them back? ‘No,’ he said eventually. ‘Let’s keep going. He knows where to go.’

  Back at Ca’ di Maggio, Volpe was equally perplexed. ‘Pietro?’ He shook his head. ‘Has he got a girl somewhere?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Edward. ‘I’ve never heard him talk about one.’

  ‘Where’s his family?’

  ‘Bologna.’

  Volpe looked pensive. ‘We’ll have to post extra guards tonight.’

  ‘Surely you don’t suspect Pietro?’

  ‘I didn’t suspect Pepe.’

  ‘I know, but Pietro’s been with us almost from the beginning. He hates the Germans. Pietro wouldn’t betray us.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right but you know as well as I do we can’t take any chances.’

  Edward was woken the next morning by Bruno. Pietro had reappeared.

  ‘I woke up and there he was,’ said Bruno. Pietro was still asleep as they stood over him a few minutes later. He was breathing gently, the faint snores of a man deeply asleep. Edward squatted down and shook him awake. Pietro opened his eyes slowly, rubbed them sleepily and yawned.

  ‘What the hell happened to you?�
�� Edward asked him.

  ‘Sorry, Eduardo,’ said Pietro. He grinned sheepishly. ‘I went to see my girl in Veggio.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me? We’ve all been worried sick.’

  ‘I thought you wouldn’t let me go. I’m sorry, really I mean it. But I think I’m in love. I had to see her.’

  ‘For God’s sake,’ said Edward. ‘Volpe could have you shot for this.’

  ‘You can’t think I’m a spy?’ Pietro laughed, then realising Edward was serious, said, ‘Surely you don’t? That’s ridiculous.’

  ‘Is it, Pietro?’ Edward stared at him.

  ‘Yes, of course it is! Come on, Eduardo, you can’t think that?’ There was a sudden flicker of fear in his eyes.

  ‘No,’ said Edward eventually. ‘No, I don’t think that. But I’ve got to tell Volpe you’re back. By God, you’d better not do anything like this again.’

  ‘I won’t, I promise. Sorry, Eduardo. I really am.’

  Volpe was furious. ‘And why didn’t anyone spot him coming in? For God’s sake, it’s not good enough. Bring him to me now.’

  Pietro stood before Volpe in the farmhouse kitchen. He looked scared, and, Edward thought, rather pathetic. He had a young face, and kept looking down at his feet like a disgraced schoolboy. Who was this girl, Volpe wanted to know. When did he meet her? Where did she live? How many times had he seen her? Pietro answered his questions meekly. ‘I’m sorry, Volpe. Please don’t think I’m a spy. I’d never betray any of you, I wouldn’t, really I wouldn’t.’

  Volpe glared at him. ‘I’m going to be watching you, Pietro. You better be telling the truth. Now get out of my sight.’

  When Pietro had gone, Giorgio turned to Volpe and said, ‘I hope that was a chance worth taking.’

  Volpe bit his fingernails. ‘He’s a little fool, not a traitor.’ He sighed, then forced a smile. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘we’re all just a little on edge at the moment. Pietro’s all right, you’ll see.’

  20th September. Brigade headquarters was now back at Sergio Panni’s farm on the edge of Casiglia. A messenger had brought a three-day-old Bolognese newspaper in which Field Marshal Kesselring had written another threat to the partisans. It was clear the announcement was directed at the Blue Brigade. Any ‘localities’ found to be supporting partisans could expect no mercy, he warned them. Villages would be destroyed and those guilty of aiding and abetting these ‘delinquents’ would be executed and hanged in the public square. Edward felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as he read it.

  ‘The ravings of a lunatic,’ said Volpe, slamming the newspaper at Edward’s chest. ‘The threats of a man who knows he’s beaten.’ His mood had brightened over the past couple of days – ever since a sack of German mail had been captured. The letters had revealed the low morale of the troops at the front. Most complained of a lack of equipment and food, and the incessant Allied air attacks. The undertone was clear: many German front-line troops believed they were facing total defeat in Italy.

  But not everyone shared Volpe’s optimism. Jock and Billy, for example. ‘In my experience,’ said Billy, ‘the Germans are most dangerous when their backs are against the wall.’

  Jock shook his head as they sat in a corner of the hayloft. ‘Aye, I’m with you, Billy. I don’t like it,’ he said. ‘I don’t like it one little bit. All this fucking sitting around. We’re sitting fucking ducks here. They’ve destroyed plenty of other villages, you know. That place in Czechoslovakia. I remember reading about that. Wiped the place off the fucking earth. Fucking Nazis – they might be loonies, but they’re bloody efficient loonies.’

  Montalbano, Edward thought. Just the place the Nazis might attack. Lying on the Setta, it was easy for them to reach, and would serve as an example to others. He thought of the Casalinis. It was time for them to move back to the mountains – to leave their home for a few weeks until the front had passed.

  Taking his leave, Edward hurried to Pian del Castagna. Passing the hidden path, he saw the branches covering it had been pushed back, some even broken. There were footprints in the dust. He felt angry, as though something of his had been violated.

  He found Eleva in the yard. ‘Carla’s in the orchard,’ she said, ‘they’re picking apples.’

  He met Christina as he made his way up to the orchard. ‘Hello, Christina,’ he said. ‘How are you all?’

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Gino’s happy because there’re lots of aeroplanes about. He thinks he knows all the different types.’

  Edward laughed. ‘Where are you off to?’

  ‘I’m just getting some water for everyone,’ she said. ‘It’s hot work.’ They both paused and squinted at the sun. It was nearly midday and warmer again, although clouds were building to the west.

  He saw Carla perched in one of the trees, pulling down the higher branches with the help of an old shepherd’s crook. Underneath were several boxes of apples. Her face lit up as soon as she saw him. ‘Eduardo!’ she called out, and Edward hurried over to the tree and caught her as she jumped down.

  ‘They’ve discovered our hidden path,’ Edward whispered.

  ‘I know.’ She looked at him sadly. ‘There are partisans in the hut. Can’t you tell them to leave?’

  ‘I wish I could. I’m afraid there are far too many around here at the moment. There’s hardly enough barns for everyone, let alone old huts in the mountains.’

  She kissed him, then said, ‘Have you time to help us with the apples for a bit? Then we can go for a walk.’

  ‘Of course,’ he smiled.

  Christina was right: apple picking was hot work. Orfeo immediately sent him up into the trees. ‘We could do with a tall man like you about the place,’ he told Edward. ‘If I’d known you could be spared I’d have insisted on you being here a lot earlier.’

  They stopped at one o’clock. ‘Here,’ said Orfeo, throwing Edward a large apple. ‘For your services,’ he grinned.

  ‘Smell it,’ said Carla. ‘Rub it, then smell it.’

  Edward did so, then bit into it. It was sweet and succulent.

  ‘That smell always reminds me of the end of summer,’ said Carla, taking his hand. She led him up through the orchard, over a stone wall and into the top field, newly ploughed after the harvest.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ Edward asked.

  ‘Not far.’ They walked around the edge of the field until they were out of sight of the farmhouse and then onto a grassy slope of wild flowers interspersed with small oaks. Above, the thick, more densely wooded slopes of Monte Luna towered over them.

  They sat down in the long grass beneath an oak tree, Carla resting her head on his shoulder.

  ‘Carla, I think you should all leave Montalbano for a short while. Things are moving fast and the front might soon be passing through the valleys.’ She was silent, so he said, ‘Will you ask your father? Ask him from me? It would only be for a short while.’ He had decided not to mention Kesselring’s pronouncement. ‘I’ve seen what happens to villages and towns caught up in the front line. It can be very dangerous. You’d be safe up here, out of the way.’

  ‘When?’ said Carla.

  Edward said gently, ‘As soon as you can. Will you talk to your father?’

  Carla nodded.

  ‘I thought I would speak to Orfeo about it too – if you don’t mind?’

  ‘No, of course.’ She looked up at him. ‘You do think we’ll all be all right, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said, kissing her. ‘And probably I’m worrying for nothing. But, just to be on the safe side . . .’

  They looked out across the valley and up at Monte Torrone. ‘Look,’ said Carla, pointing to the cloud that now covered the summit. ‘He’s got his hat on. It’s going to rain. We should enjoy this sun while it lasts.’ She lay down and Edward leant over and kissed her again. ‘Don’t look so worried,’ he said. ‘It’ll be over soon.’

  They made love, there on the hillside. ‘No-one will come up here,’ Carla had whispered as she�
�d unbuttoned his shirt, and kissed and caressed his chest. Nor had they.

  Afterwards, he lay back, and closed his eyes. The sun burned down on his face, warm and windless. The world seemed to be diffused by a gentle orange glow. A soothing, warm, orange glow. Carla moved beside him and a shadow passed across his face and he opened his eyes: she was looking at him, just inches away, the sun lighting the back of her head and giving her fair hair an unreal glow, like a halo. ‘You look like an angel,’ he said.

  ‘An angel to watch over you always,’ she smiled. He watched her moist lips move, her smiling eyes; looked at the small nick in her eyebrow where the dark hairs refused to grow; the tiny mole on the end of her left earlobe; the deep-brown eyes that searched his own face. He drew her to him, breathed in deeply, smelling the soft skin and feeling the beat of her heart pulsing through her neck; a moment he knew instinctively he would never forget.

  Edward had been more specific with Orfeo. ‘There’s every chance there will be reprisals,’ he said, ‘and the villages in the valleys are the most obvious places for the Nazis to attack.’

  Orfeo had nodded. ‘I’ll go down to Montalbano myself,’ he’d said. Federico had needed little persuading; he’d seen the newspaper. The following day, they packed up, taking anything precious but otherwise praying their house would be safe, and headed up to the Pian del Castagna.

  They were not the only ones to head for the mountains. Over the next couple of days word got around that German troops were moving into the valleys either side of Monte Luna – and not only Wehrmacht but SS troops. People had seen the double lightning bolt insignia. Rumours of another rastrellamento spread, and like the Casalinis, they took to the high ground where they would be safe.

  Many headed for the mountain villages of Sant’Angelo, Capriglia, Cerreto and Cortino. In Capriglia, Father Umberto arranged for a number of families to take shelter in the Palazzo, owned by the absentee padrone. Many others, like the Casalinis, had family in the mountains and simply squashed themselves into the homes of their contadini brothers or cousins. Never before had there been so many people living there – several hundred more villagers from the valleys and over twelve hundred partisans. Most were hungry, and a little frightened too – but it wouldn’t be for long, they told themselves. Several days, a week or two at most. The Allies were just a few kilometres away. Soon they would be liberated. Soon they would be free once more.