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 soon 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.
“H ow 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.
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 soon 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.
“H ow 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.
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