Hero on a Bicycle (4 page)

Rosemary was standing to one side, chatting with Captain Roberto Spinetti, chief of the local
carabinieri,
the Florence military police force. They were old acquaintances. The captain had never approved of Franco Crivelli’s anti-Fascist activities, but he had always maintained a certain respect for him. And now that Franco was gone, leaving the family socially isolated, the captain was trying to protect them in the German-occupied city, most particularly from the Gestapo. He bitterly resented their heavy-handed domination of the Italian civil police, undermining and sometimes countermanding his authority, even in his own office.

At that moment, he and Rosemary were making small talk about food shortages.

“We still have supply lines coming in from the north,” Captain Spinetti was saying, “but it’s becoming increasingly difficult for me to give them a police escort. Two trucks of food were hijacked only last week . . . by black marketers or perhaps the Partisans. But my men are too overextended here in Florence to catch them.”

“We’re managing to feed ourselves, just about,” said Rosemary. “Although it is getting harder and harder. Especially with a boy Paolo’s age. Teenage boys seem to have insatiable appetites.”

“He’s not yet of military age, is he?”

“No, only thirteen — he’s tall for his age. I think he would welcome action of some kind. He gets so bored now that school is closed for the vacation, and he so much misses —” She stopped short. She was about to say “his father” but quickly changed it to “the company of friends and young people of his own age, you know.”

Just then there was a distinct lowering of the social temperature as a latecomer to the party, a sallow man in a civilian suit, was shown through the French doors onto the terrace.

Here he is, right on cue, like the demon in the pantomime,
thought Paolo. It was Colonel Richter, the Gestapo chief stationed in Florence. Captain Spinetti’s conversation petered out in midsentence, and his face froze. Signora Albertini went to greet the colonel effusively and began introducing him to some of her friends. Aldo, like a dog who scents someone unwrapping a tasty morsel, swiftly detached himself from a conversation at the other end of the terrace and oozed forward, all smiles, to shake the colonel by the hand. Power attracted him like a magnet.

The colonel was not particularly impressive physically. He was a nondescript man in his midthirties who had made no attempt to cultivate a mustachioed military image. But his power could be felt in the way his pale eyes scanned sharply over the assembled guests, noting who was present, while he seemed to converse politely with the Albertinis.

Rosemary quickly put down her glass. She caught Constanza’s eye and signaled to her that it was time to leave. Paolo did not need to be told. He bid a silent and reluctant good-bye to the plate of canapés, even managing to slip a few into his pocket before joining his mother to make their polite farewells. As they exited onto the Albertinis’ front drive, they were joined by Lieutenant Gräss, who seemed to materialize out of nowhere.

“You are walking home? It would give me great pleasure to accompany you, but unfortunately, I have to report back to the barracks immediately. May I at least accompany you to the corner?”

“You’re very kind,” said Rosemary, “but no, really, we mustn’t think of delaying you.”

He paused, irresolute for a moment. Then he smartly saluted Rosemary and gave what Paolo noticed was a special bow to Constanza before walking briskly away toward his car.

“I wish you wouldn’t be quite so friendly with the German officers,” Rosemary said as they made their way home. “You know how much Babbo would hate it.”

“He was only being polite. And I thought we were rather rude, as a matter of fact,” said Constanza coolly.

“He certainly seems to like clicking his heels at you,” Paolo said, “but I suppose he’s an improvement on Aldo, the Chinless Wonder. Talk about a stuffed parrot! I’d like to pour a whole jug of mayonnaise all over his head!”

Constanza did not bother to answer. She merely pulled her shawl over her brown arms. They all walked on in silence.

W
hen they arrived home, Paolo hung around in the hall, hoping to catch his mother alone. Last night’s message was weighing heavily on him. Tight knots of anxiety filled his stomach every time he remembered those two armed men. But after throwing down her things, Rosemary went straight into the kitchen to help Maria serve their meager family lunch, and when they had cleared away, she went up to her room to rest.

All afternoon Paolo skulked around in the hot, parched garden, fretting about how he was going to pass on that message without giving away anything about his nocturnal sorties into Florence. He prided himself on being quite a good liar when the occasion demanded it, but somehow it was always particularly difficult when his mother was involved. She had a way of seeing through him.

From an open upstairs window, he could hear Constanza playing records on her windup portable gramophone. She seemed to be addicted to hearing the same tunes over and over again: Rina Ketty’s French voice singing “J’attendrai,” Edith Piaf’s version of “La Vie en Rose,” also in French, and, to annoy her mother, the German hit song “Lili Marlene.”

Paolo wandered into the yard to see his dear old friend Guido. He felt that he was neglecting him these days but knew that Guido was too good-natured to hold it against him. The old dog lumbered out of his kennel with his usual rapturous welcome, putting his paws on Paolo’s knees and trying to lick his face. Paolo fondled his ears and released his chain. It was too hot to go for a long walk, so together they ambled down to the olive grove at the end of the garden. Here, Guido ran ahead joyfully, rather wonky on one back leg but happy to be out and about and sniffing around everywhere.
If only life were always this simple,
thought Paolo as he walked along behind, throwing a stick now and again.

It was nearly five o’clock when he returned Guido to his kennel and replenished his water supply from the tap in the yard. He would have liked to have given him something to eat, but, like the rest of the family, Guido was on strict food rationing and limited to the one daily meal of scraps that either Paolo or Maria fed him each morning.

Paolo hovered on the terrace until Rosemary emerged and began watering the geraniums that rioted in huge terra-cotta pots along the low wall. He helped her carry the heavy old watering cans to and from the water tank. They worked together in silence for a while. Then he said casually, “Oh, by the way — I forgot to tell you, Mamma — I’ve got a message for you from two men I ran into on the road yesterday.”

Rosemary stopped watering.

“Two men? What men? People we know?”

“Well, no, actually. I’ve never seen them before. It was when I was out on my bicycle.”

“What did they want?”

“They wanted me to give you a message. They said to tell you they’re in the area and they’ll be getting in touch. Tonight, if they can. The usual way, they said.”

“Was that all?”

“Yes, that was all. I only saw them for a few minutes.”

Rosemary sat down rather suddenly on the terrace wall. There was a brief silence. To Paolo’s surprise, she did not press him for any further details. She just sat there, her face dappled in deep shadow from the vine overhead. Then she got up and resumed her watering without another word.

That was easier than I expected,
thought Paolo. But he felt uneasy. When his mother went indoors, he wandered around the garden, unable to settle into doing anything. He felt useless and wished, not for the first time, that Babbo were there to take responsibility for everything. He resented him for being so utterly absent. It wasn’t even as if he were a soldier serving on the Russian front or a prisoner of war. That would be something to brag about. And even prisoners managed to send letters or messages occasionally, to keep in touch somehow. Of course, Paolo and Constanza knew that Franco had defied Mussolini and the German occupation and that he was probably out there in the hills somewhere with the Partisans and that he was some kind of hero. But you couldn’t be proud of someone
all
the time, especially when you couldn’t talk about them to your friends. Nobody, not even Mamma, seemed to know where Babbo was, but even if she did, she wasn’t going to tell Paolo and Constanza. It made Paolo long for some kind of showdown, a huge argument or fight, anything to break down the wall of avoidance and silence. But he was not allowed even that. His mother’s loneliness and vulnerability ruled out any angry confrontations.

He picked up a scythe and went to work off his pent-up feelings on the weeds and stinging nettles that grew in abundance all over what used to be the formal garden.
It is almost a relief,
he thought,
that the war, the real fighting, is getting ever closer.

Rosemary did not attend Mass again that evening. Instead, she roamed the house, plumping up cushions, sorting laundry, finding things to tidy up while keeping an anxious eye on the garden. Paolo seemed to be staying out there until long after dark. She caught a glimpse of him now and again, prowling aimlessly around.

Supper that evening was leftovers from lunch and consisted only of rather stale bread, salad, and a little cheese. Food rationing was too tight now to allow for more than one main family meal a day. Constanza appeared briefly and then retreated back to her room. Paolo came in late and ate very little, and then he, too, went upstairs.

At nine o’clock, Rosemary and Maria listened to the news on the old radio set in the kitchen. It was in Italian and so heavily censored by German-controlled broadcasting that it was very difficult to get any clear picture of what was actually happening. There was a lot of talk about “brave resistance to enemy advances” but nothing specific. The only source of information now was rumor, and that was mostly unreliable, too.

At last, when the whole house was quiet, Rosemary went up to her room. She did not undress. Instead, she sat fully clothed by her window, looking out at the garden, waiting and listening. Just after midnight, she opened her bedroom door very quietly and slipped out onto the landing. Paolo’s and Constanza’s bedroom lights were out. She listened for a while at both their doors. There was no sound. She crept downstairs.

In spite of the hot night, the shutters in the big living room that overlooked the garden were closed and the curtains tightly drawn. Total blackout was rigidly enforced, and there were heavy fines if any home showed the tiniest crack of light that might be spotted by enemy aircraft. She turned out all the lights, pulled back the curtains, undid the shutters, and opened the French doors. She stepped out onto the terrace.

There was no moon. She hesitated for a moment, peering into the darkness, then descended the steps and crossed the expanse of rough, dried-up grass that had once been a lawn. Beyond it was a gate that opened onto a narrow path, densely overshadowed by a row of cypress trees. The cicadas were keeping up their incessant sound; otherwise all she could hear were her own footsteps.

The path petered out into an unkempt grove of olive trees. They lurched at grotesque angles over a litter of casually dumped garden refuse and discarded wine barrels, half hidden in weeds. At the end was a long, empty shed, and in its shadow, Rosemary saw the pinpoints of three lit cigarettes glowing in the dark.

T
hree men stood there, huddled together, the outline of their rifles silhouetted against the sky. They all wore caps, pulled well down, making it impossible to see their faces.

As Rosemary approached, one of them threw down his cigarette and said quietly,
“Signora?
Signora Crivelli?”

“Yes.” With a stab of fear, she realized that the man beside him had now lowered his rifle and was pointing it at her.

“We need to speak with you,
signora.
You know who we are, I think?”

She knew who they were, all right. The Partisans. These men were probably led by Il Volpe — the Fox — a local leader whom hardly anyone claimed to have encountered in person. A man who, Rosemary suspected, was trying to draw her and her son into helping them.