Hero on a Bicycle by Shirley Hughes Page B

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?

T he 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,