The Marshal and the Murderer (16 page)

Seven

'I parked my car outside the main gates and began walking up the drive, looking up at the balustrade along the top of the villa with its terracotta urns outlined against the blue sky. The ochre facade of the building was a little weathered but the war had left it untouched, and the dark cypresses at each side were still and tipped with a rosy golden light in the evening sunshine. I've always found comfort in the presence of beautiful old buildings that have survived through the centuries. The war which was such a huge event in my life was a short-lived triviality among many others that the villa had lived through. On either side of me lay a formal garden with worn statues standing among the orderly low hedges and shaven lawns, and tiny birds were chirping as they hopped about looking for their evening meal.

'In front of the main doors of the villa there's a wide gravelled space with huge red plant pots around it. At that time of year they were spilling over with flowers, mostly huge red geraniums, but there were two lemon trees and I paused to enjoy their perfume. I'm fond of plants and when my wife was alive the courtyard out there was a mass of flowers . . .

'Only when I stopped did I notice a tiny figure working behind one of the big red pots. A little boy, he didn't look more than three years old, was plucking deadheads from a geranium and dropping them into a bucket, He had pale golden-red hair that bobbed about in the sunlight as he worked and I was amazed to see such dexterity in so tiny a child. He looked up when he heard my footsteps and I smiled at him. He didn't smile back, just stared at me with a pale serious face. He was an ugly enough little thing apart from his hair, and I must say I was disconcerted by his expression, which was anything but childlike. Nevertheless, I spoke to him as one does automatically to a child.

"'That's a big bucket for a small boy."

'He stared at me and then at the bucket, frowning. Then he dropped another deadhead into it and stood waiting, without looking at me, to hear what I would say next.

'"Are you helping your daddy?" I thought he was probably a gardener's child.

'"No." At any rate this remark seemed to have gone down better and had warranted an answer. This time I decided it was my turn to wait. He stood there opening and closing his fist with a dead flower inside it and I looked about me, breathing in the perfume of the lemons while he considered. Then he said: "Helping Giuseppe."

'"Is Giuseppe the gardener?"

"'Yes. Then I have to help the doctor and then lanza.

'I was more puzzled than ever. This could hardly be a three-year-old despite his size.

'"You help a lot of people. How old are you?"

'"Five and I had a cake and Tanza made it and the doctor put candles." He said it all in one breath, staring up at me earnestly. No sign of a smile. The cake was obviously as serious a business as his helping.

'"I'm fond of cake myself, and of flowers, too. Those

are lovely geraniums."

'He didn't answer me. I lit a pipe and stood watching him until he had finished the plant he was working on and there wasn't a sound except the chirping of the birds and the shuffle of his little shoes on the gravel. After a moment he began dragging the metal bucket away - he wasn't tall enough to lift it and I must say I wouldn't have dared offer to help him. When he had disappeared from view I headed for the main doors and saw that they were open. A young man I didn't know but guessed must be the resident doctor was standing in the doorway.

'"Good evening, Dr Frasinelli? I see you've already met my problem patient."

'"The little boy?" I shook hands with him and I must say I was puzzled. "He's a patient here?"

'In a manner of speaking - but I thought you knew . . . He was born here and since I was told you attended his mother I imagined you'd have heard about him."

'"His mother . . .? But who - you don't mean Maria . . .?'

"'That's right. A sad case, if ever there was one. Then you didn't know? I'm afraid I've given you a shock. Shall we go into my office and talk about it?"

'I followed him without a word. It
was
a shock, though I couldn't have explained exactly why. It was true that when doing what little I could for the wreck that had been Maria, this was the one possibility I hadn't taken into consideration, though logically I should have done. I hardly expected her to live, of course, and in the chaos of those days there was hardly time to think of extraneous possibilities, one just struggled along from day to day. But more than anything, as we settled into the doctor's office, the words of Signora Moretti began to take on a new and clearer meaning. "I've told them up there ... no German will ever set foot ..." They weren't the random words I had thought, she was talking about the tiny boy with red-gold hair, a living reminder of that dreadful night.

'I pulled myself together.

"I'm sorry. Yes, you did give me a shock. Any reminder of that night ... I suppose this child
is . . .

'"So it would seem from the date of his birth."

'"My God!"

'"He's not unique, you know."

'"I suppose not. It must be true, then, as he said, that he's five now."

'"Five and three months."

'"He's very small."

'"It's a wonder he's alive at all. His mother couldn't feed him. She's never really been aware of his existence. The poor little chap fared badly at first but he's a survivor, and bright enough, too, though of course he isn't developing normally as one can only expect in a place like this."

"'Who looks after him?"

'"Everybody and nobody. He spends most of his time with Costanza, the cook."

'"The one he calls Tanza?"

'"That's right."

'"Then that's why ... it was the first thing I noticed about him, that he looked at me with the eyes of an adult."

'"He's never seen another child."

'"My God! But couldn't you have"

'"Couldn't I have what? He shouldn't be here, that's obvious. His position here is anomalous and I for one have been unable to make sense of the bureaucratic knot that would have to be untangled to get him out of here. If I should ever manage it what do you think would happen to him? Another institution where he'd be lost among hundreds of others and probably wouldn't survive. He'd certainly never get out and he'd have little hope of growing up normally."

'"Then surely adoption ..."

'"Adoption? Even if it weren't too late - people want brand-new babies when they adopt, they don't want sickly undergrown five-year-olds, among other things his heart is weak - not to mention the red tape involved with his mother alive but unable to give her permission. Besides which, you tell me who would want the child of an SS rapist and a woman in a mental asylum."

'"You're right, of course. I apologize. You must have already tried."

'"I've tried."

'"The sins of the fathers ... I always hated that idea but when you think about it in concrete terms it isn't a moral condemnation, just an observation of the fact. Poor little fellow.
¹
What's to be done?"

"1 was hoping you could help."

"In what way?"

"'As I said, he's never seen another child, but he has a half-brother and sister."

'"You mean . . . ? But they're the last people who'd want him!"

'"They're the only people, his only hope. They're legally his family."

'"He has their name?"

'"He's registered as Filippo Moretti. We all know that he's not the son of the young partisan who was shot but that's whose son he's registered as, since he was Maria's husband."

'"And you seriously expect Maria's in-laws to take him in? After what happened?"

'"He could go to them without any red tape. They don't even need to adopt him, they can take him in. Legally he's their grandchild."

'"They'd never do it! I saw Signora Moretti on my way here and it may be that she already suspects something of the sort. She'd never do it."

'"There's nobody else."

'"What about Maria's parents?"

'"They're dead. They were among the last victims of the typhoid epidemic at the end of the war."

'"Then Moretti's running the factory single-handed?"

"'I suppose so. The Morettis are his only hope. You know them, you could help."

'"I hope you're right. Perhaps, given time, they might come round."

'"There is no time."

'"But if he's already been here five years, surely"

'"There is no time. Within six months this place is to become a criminal asylum. The geriatric and mental patients will be moved out within three months, in time for the workmen to complete the necessary alterations. I'm in the middle of tackling that bureaucratic knot I mentioned. I've already found a possible place for little Moretti in an orphanage. I don't want to send him there."

"1 understand. It's become a personal matter with you. You're fond of the child."

"'Yes, though it's something more than that. I admire his will to survive. I can't explain myself completely - it's not the way one is normally fond of a child. I find it difficult even to think of him as a child, to be honest, but you'll understand when you know him better.'"

'Well, he was right. Over the next few weeks I began to get to know little Moretti and to feel a strange sort of affection for him. He was an odd little creature and he took some getting used to, but there was something about him, a fierce way of living as hard as he could despite his unusual and confined life. Whatever time of day I called up there he was always busy "helping" someone or other, and before long he was "helping" me, too. It had occurred to me to take him with me in the car on my evening visits so that at least he could see a little of the world outside the villa and the best way of presenting the idea to him without frightening him seemed to be to ask him to "help" me.

'I'll never forget our first outing. All the way down the hill in the car he was silent, and when I glanced sideways I saw his tiny hands clutching the dashboard, the knuckles white with strain. When he got out he walked very close to me but without allowing me to hold his hand. I didn't make any comments or point anything out to him, just kept a close watch on him. His thin face was set in a determined frown and his body was trembling, but he clutched valiantly on to a small old leather bag which I'd brought along for him to carry. I couldn't give him my real bag which I knew was far too heavy for him but I had realized by then that as long as he was "helping" he felt secure.

'We were only out for about an hour and a half and on most of the visits he waited for me in the car. Nevertheless, at the end of it I could see that he was exhausted with the strain. Only once did he pause to show an interest in something on his own initiative. We were passing the church of Santo Stefano and the doors were wide open. Perhaps there was to be a benediction but at the moment there was no service going on. Glowing in the semi-darkness at the far end of the left aisle there was a big bank of candles, and that was what had arrested his attention. I stopped beside him and waited, not saying anything. Very quietly, and without being able to put in more than two or three of the words, he began to sing "Happy birthday to you", staring at the candles, his eyes bright but his expression as solemn as ever.

'After a few trips he got used to the car and the busy streets, but it was never more than a spectacle for him, I think. His real world was the villa and its inmates, and even when he saw other children around he made no connection between them and himself. I remember once I'd left him in the car while visiting an old lady on the Via Gramsci and when I came out I noticed he was gazing very hard at something, almost with his nose pressed to the glass. I followed his glance and saw that he was watching a group of mothers and children in a little amusement park across the street. It's not much more than a bit of grass with a couple of benches and a roundabout, but his taking an interest in it seemed a good sign so I suggested going across to take a closer look. He came along without a word and stood looking in over the low hedge surrounding the grass.

'"Do you want to go in?"

'He shook his head but seemed quite pleased to go on watching. It was only then that I noticed his half-brother and sister were there, playing on the roundabout. I looked about and spotted old Signora Moretti. She saw me, too, all right, but turned her head away. We stood there for a while and I was half hoping that she might come over or at least acknowledge our presence, but she didn't. I observed her two grandchildren. I knew little of them, since the family hadn't come back to me as patients on my return to the town. The boy - Beppe he was called, though I didn't know his name at the time - was slow and heavy and rather uncoordinated in his movements. Tina was overdeveloped for her age and looked too much like Maria for comfort. I looked down at little Moretti with his fierce thin face and intelligent adult eyes, and it occurred to me then that perhaps they needed him as much if not more than he needed them. And in that I turned out to be right. He stood back from the low hedge, frowning.

'"I have to go."

'"Don't you like it here?"

'"I have to help Tanza."

'He always knew what time it was, as if by instinct. It was almost six and at that hour he always went to the kitchen to help Costanza prepare supper for the patients.

'As we drove away I was thinking hard. I felt I'd found a talking point, at least as far as old Moretti was concerned, but as long as his wife was blocking my way I knew I wouldn't get anywhere. I'd already been to see them, of course, but I'd got nowhere. Old Moretti, though he felt the loss of his only son, was less bitter about it, more philosophical, you might say. "What's done is done," was more or less his attitude and he had nothing against the child. But he knew how his wife felt and he had no intention of helping my cause at the risk of provoking trouble with her. I couldn't blame him. I couldn't blame her, either, that she'd set herself against me. In a brief outburst of anger during my attempt at talking her round she had let it out that one of the SS men who had been there that night had reddish hair like the child's. Perhaps she felt she was getting some revenge, who knows?