Hero on a Bicycle (6 page)

“You’re a good boy, Paolo,” she said. “How could your mamma and I manage without you? But run along now. I’ll let you know if there’s anything you can do to help me later.”

Suddenly Paolo felt tears prick his eyes and turned away to hide them. He wished she hadn’t said that, treating him like a kid, today of all days. He had been thinking of nothing but his plan since the night before. Absolutely no one must know about it, and especially not his mother or Maria. He was like someone standing at the top of a high dive, waiting to jump. Their trip into Florence that morning and the realization of how close they were to being engulfed by the war had strengthened his resolve. Being scared only made him even more determined.

When Rosemary and Maria had retired for a siesta and Constanza had gone up to her room to play her interminable gramophone records, Paolo slipped quietly into the yard and eased his bicycle out of the shed. He was carrying his small rucksack, which he had packed with food and water and a few other things he judged necessary. It was the sight of Guido, rousing himself stiffly from his kennel to greet him with the old enthusiastic affection, that finally brought Paolo to tears. He brushed them away with his arm, knelt down, and spoke to the old dog, fondling his ears and saying good-bye in a low voice, promising to take him for a walk soon. Then he was on his way, pedaling past the farm, which lay wrapped in midafternoon silence, and off up the path in the direction he had taken the night before.

It was not long before the going got too rough and steep to ride. He did not want a puncture. He was by no means sure that he would encounter the Partisans. He knew they were on the move all the time and were taking more care than ever to maintain their cover. Not even Maria’s brother at the farm, who knew every inch of the surrounding countryside and all the local gossip, would know their exact whereabouts. That kind of knowledge was too dangerous to reveal. But somehow or other, Paolo would find them, because he was determined to join them.

And why not? He knew that there were plenty of boys of sixteen who had done it, and he was tall for his age. He could use a rifle; his father had taught him. He wanted to fight, to be part of the action, no longer hanging around aimlessly at home. He knew that the coming months, weeks even, were crucial to the next phase of the war, and he was determined to play a part in it.

He still didn’t really understand why the Partisans had wanted to meet his mother. What part could
she
possibly play in their plans? Was it something to do with his father? Paolo hoped that by joining them, he would be better able to protect her.

He pressed on doggedly in the shimmering heat, following every turn in the path as he remembered it from the night before. But he was beginning to wonder if he had taken the right way after all. Things looked so different in daylight, and there was no sign of the dried-up riverbed. He paused to get his breath, regretting that he had brought his bicycle. It was useless up here anyway.

Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he saw three men. They were standing, very still, looking down at him from the top of the nearby bank. One of them lifted his rifle to his shoulder and pointed it straight at him. Paolo froze. There was a long pause. Then one of them said something in a low voice he couldn’t catch, and the three came down the bank with leisurely menace and stood in his path.

“What are you doing here?” one asked. “Looking for someone, are you?”

“Yes, I was. I mean — I am looking for you, I think.”

“You think?”

Paolo forced himself to keep his voice steady. “Yes. If you are . . . who I think you are . . . I would like to join you.”

They looked at him in silence. These men had made no attempt to hide their faces. Their skin was tanned a deep brown, and they wore ammunition belts slung over their shoulders and grubby red bandanas around their necks. They were Partisans, all right, but Paolo had a feeling that they were not the ones he had encountered on the road the other night.

One of them cracked into a contemptuous grin.

Paolo trembled, but he spoke up as confidently as he could. “I would like to join you,” he repeated. “I know this area well, and I can use a rifle. I can be useful in other ways, too. I can take messages. No one will suspect me.”

The grinning man said something to his comrade in a low voice. Then he took a step nearer and prodded Paolo in the chest with the end of his rifle.

“Walk,” he said.

Paolo turned and walked, pushing his bicycle with one hand. Things were not going according to plan. This was not the reception he had envisioned. Even though they moved in silence, he was painfully aware of the three men behind him. When he reached a fork in the path, Paolo hesitated. Another prod of the rifle.

“Keep going.”

But as Paolo moved forward again, he tripped. One of the men had stuck his foot out and hooked Paolo’s leg, tripping him. He sprawled to the ground, and his bicycle crashed down beside him. Paolo lay there, furious, while the man who had tripped him grabbed his bicycle and passed it to one of his comrades.

“On your feet,” he told Paolo.

Paolo got up. He tried to keep his voice steady. “That’s my bicycle. Give it back, please.”

They all guffawed. Then the man who had tripped him gestured to the path with his rifle.

“You can walk home from here, sonny,” he said. “Get back to your mamma. This isn’t a kid’s war. You can try to find us next year if you like — except we won’t be around.”

“But my bicycle —”

“We’ll be hanging on to that. We could use another bike.”

“But it’s mine!”

“Not anymore, it isn’t. And if you let on a word about what happened to it, there’ll be trouble for you and your family —
capito
? Understood?”

Perhaps it was sheer exhaustion that made him so foolhardy, but, ignoring the rifle that was still pointing at him, he lunged at the man holding his bicycle. Seizing the handlebars, he tried to drag it off him. There was a brief tussle. Then the third man grabbed him by the shoulders, swung him around, and punched him hard in the stomach. Paolo doubled over. The pain was excruciating. He was kicked from behind and found himself on the ground again.

He rolled into a ball, covering his head with his arms in anticipation of another blow. Then he heard a voice say, “
Basta!
Enough!”

Two hands reached down and yanked him back onto his feet. He stood there, gasping.

A fourth man was holding him firmly by the scruff of his neck, something that Paolo welcomed because his legs seemed no longer able to support him. The man was stocky and powerfully built and dressed in the typical faded blue cotton trousers that local peasants wore for work; ammunition belts were strapped over his shoulders and around his waist. He wore very good leather boots laced up to the knee, and his cap was pulled down over his eyes. The lower half of his face was covered by a mustache and several days’ growth of tawny red beard. He was armed with a rifle, like the others, but it was slung across his back.

What now?
thought Paolo groggily, steeling himself for the next assault.

To his relief, his three assailants lowered their weapons and stood back sullenly, one still stubbornly gripping Paolo’s bicycle. This fourth man was clearly a figure of some authority.

“What’s going on here?” he asked abruptly.

“Just a kid nosing around where he shouldn’t. Thinks he can act tough. Wants to join us — but look at him!”

“Is that his bicycle?”

“Yeah. It could be useful to us.”

The bearded man turned to Paolo. “What’s your name?”

“Crivelli. I am Paolo Crivelli. I live . . .” He hesitated as the man’s grip tightened on his neck.

“Crivelli? You are Signora Crivelli’s boy?”

“Yes. I’m thirteen, and I can . . .”

But his interrogator had already turned back angrily to the others.

“
Stupidi! Ignoranti!
What d’you think you’re playing at? I suppose you didn’t think of asking his name before you started roughing him up? You could wreck everything and get us all shot!” Then he let go of Paolo, grabbed the bicycle, and shoved it back at him. “Take it — go home —
presto!
— as soon as you can. And remember, you say nothing about this little adventure to your family — nothing — understood?” Then he turned to go and gestured to the others to follow him.

“But I want —” said Paolo weakly.

“Just get going —
now
!”

Paolo could resist no longer. Forlorn, dejected, and utterly humiliated, he set off, bumping dangerously down the path on his bike and praying that the sharp stones wouldn’t wreck his tires.

W
hen Paolo pedaled wearily down the lane and into the yard, he found Maria waiting anxiously, shading her eyes with her hand.

“Paolo!” she cried. “Where ever have you been? We’ve been looking all over for you. Your mamma wants you, right away.”

This was the last thing that Paolo wanted to hear. All he wanted to do now was go to his room, lie on the bed with the shutters closed, and try to come to terms with his humiliation. His plan to become a hero of the Resistance — fighting alongside his fellow Partisans for his country’s freedom — now seemed merely childish. That was what those men had thought, anyway. He hated them for the way they’d treated him, but that only made him more determined to join them — to prove his worth and show them that he was as tough as they were.

He slouched into the hall, where he found Constanza sitting on the stairs. Unusually for her, she jumped up when she saw him and took his arm.

“Thank goodness you’re back. Something’s up, Paolo. Mamma’s in a bit of a state — you know, all icy calm but pacing about a lot. I’m glad you’re here. She wouldn’t say anything to me until you got back.”

They found Rosemary in the kitchen, assembling empty wine bottles in a very precise row on the big wooden table.

“You wanted to talk to us, Mamma?”

“Yes — come and sit down, both of you.” They sat. She took a chair and faced them. They knew this was serious.

“My dears . . . my dearest dears . . .” She paused, gulped, and tried again. “I know I can trust you both completely. This has to be only between us. Maria knows, but of course she would never say anything. I’ve promised, you see. And it’s only for one night, so we’ll just have to get through it as best we can.”

“Get through what?” asked Constanza.

“Some people will be coming here tomorrow night. I got the message this afternoon. I don’t know who they are. They’ll be complete strangers. But I’ve agreed to let them stay here — to let them
hide
here — for one night only. Then they must be gone.”

There was a brief pause while Constanza and Paolo digested this information in silence.

“Maria and I have been making preparations to accommodate them in the cellar,” explained Rosemary. “Food and water, and somewhere for them to lie down and get some sleep if they can. And I want you two to carry on absolutely normally. In fact, it would be better if you don’t see or talk to them at all. I will be going to tomorrow’s evening Mass as usual, and I want you to have supper and go to bed early. If you hear any unexpected sounds in the night, take no notice and, whatever happens, don’t come downstairs. Is that understood?”

Paolo was still too amazed to answer. But Constanza said coolly, “It’s the Partisans, isn’t it? They’re bringing escaped prisoners of war here, helping them to get back to their units and fight again on the Allied side.”

Rosemary did not react to this immediately. She clasped her hands together very tightly.

“How did you know this?” she asked at last.

“Oh, Mamma — we’re not kids anymore. Of course we can guess what’s happening, and we know why you’re helping them: it’s what Babbo would expect from us.”

“Yes . . . yes. Do you think I would do otherwise? But, Constanza —
carissima
— you must try to understand why I can’t involve you. That, too, is what your father would expect from me. I know it’s hard. It may even seem exciting to you. But it’s not a game — it’s too serious. You know what will happen if we’re found out.”

She turned to Paolo beseechingly, half expecting him to say something. But he was still too surprised to speak. It was all coming together: the message he had carried, that conversation between his mother and those men behind the shed. Why hadn’t he guessed before? While he was pursuing his wild-goose chase up in the hills, trying to join the Partisans, the real action had been going on right here in his own home. “Don’t worry, Mamma. You can rely on us,” he said bravely.