Hero on a Bicycle (17 page)

“I knew that. We’ve always been suspect. But they searched the house and found nothing.”

“Then they returned a second time.”

“Yes. We’re pretty sure we were betrayed by someone locally. A friend of my daughter Constanza’s perhaps. Some careless talk . . .”

“It was I who told them, Signora Crivelli.”

“You, Mario?”

“Yes, yes. I knew what you were doing, you see. My sister Maria, she would never betray you. She loves you all too dearly. But she’s not very good at hiding things. It was not difficult to guess.” He paused, wiped his face, then went on in a very low voice. “We cooperated. We told the Gestapo that you were hiding an Allied serviceman in your cellar and that if they made a second search, they would find him. We had to tell them — we
had
to! If it had been your boy, wouldn’t you have done the same? They would have tortured Renato to death. Killed him in the most horrible way. So we told them. And they stuck to their side of the bargain. Renato was released.”

There was a long silence. In Rosemary’s mind was the picture of what might have happened to Paolo on the night of the botched escape if he and Joe had been caught. Or to all of them if Joe’s hiding place had been discovered. At last she said, “It seems we’ve all been forced to do a great many things we’ve hated doing, Mario. And I’m glad Renato’s safe. That we’re all safe, at least for the time being.”

He took both her hands.

“Thank you, thank you, Signora Crivelli. I knew you would try to understand. And you won’t tell Maria, will you? I couldn’t bear her to know what we did.”

“No, of course not. This will remain a secret between your family and mine, I promise.”

“You are a true Christian, Signora Crivelli, a true Christian.
E una signora molto simpatica.
”

He clasped both her hands and said good-bye. She watched him trudge off down the path toward his supper. Then she turned and walked slowly home.

“So it wasn’t Hilaria who told them that second time,” said Constanza. “I so hated her that day when she came to say good-bye, when the Albertinis were leaving for Como. But she’d come specially, to warn us.”

“Joe wouldn’t have gotten away if she hadn’t,” Rosemary said. “And if he’d been found here . . .” She didn’t go on. It was no use dwelling on that prospect.

The three of them were huddled together in Babbo’s little study, which was now the only place in the house where they could be alone and have a little privacy. It was late and Maria had taken herself off to bed some time ago. The wireless operators were at work in the living room, but the rest of the house was relatively quiet.

“You two must never, ever mention to anyone what Mario told me today,” Rosemary told them. “It has to be forgotten. I know you’re both old enough to understand that. Above all, Maria must never know.”

“Of course, Mamma. We’re not kids anymore, you know. Though you sometimes seem to think so,” said Paolo. Recovering his precious bicycle had gone a long way toward restoring his spirits. “All the same, I can’t understand why you ever wanted Hilaria as a friend, Constanza. They’re a terrible family. I was glad to see the back of them. Though there’s a rumor in the village that Aldo, the Chinless Wonder, is still around in Florence. He’s set himself up as a supplier of all sorts of stuff to the Allied forces now — food, machine parts, toilet paper. Heaven knows where he’s getting it from. But he’s making himself so useful that everyone seems to have conveniently forgotten he was an out-and-out Fascist sympathizer and probably still is.”

“We can’t hold Hilaria responsible for the things her brother does,” said Rosemary. “She didn’t have to come by that day. We owe her a great debt.”

Constanza nodded her agreement. But she was in no mood to argue with Paolo. Since the day of Joe’s departure, she had been very quiet and withdrawn, sitting alone in her room, listening to her precious gramophone. Rosemary knew that she was finding Helmut’s violent death very hard to get out of her mind, and now there was this heart-sinking revelation about Mario. How was she going to resume life as a carefree teenager again?

Rosemary looked at her daughter’s serious young face in the lamplight and thought,
When this war ends, it won’t be a simple matter of defeat or victory. It will have spread its horrible, destructive tentacles out into all our lives long after the so-called peace has arrived. Heaven knows what sort of world Paolo and Constanza will have to cope with then. They’ve already had to grow up far too quickly. They’ve faced hunger, danger, and death, yet there’s been so little time for the ordinary teenage pleasures and rebellions, let alone a proper education. And I had so wanted it all to be different. Oh, Franco, Franco — when are you coming home?

T
he army was moving on. Since dawn they had been clearing their tents from the yard, packing up equipment, loading stores onto trucks, and dealing with vast amounts of refuse. To Maria’s delight, they were leaving some food behind: “Look, Paolo! English biscuits! Sugar! Spam!” They also left some storage jars, electric lightbulbs, a whole set of shovels, and, most precious of all, a can opener.

Captain Roberts shook hands warmly with all the family members.

“You’ve been very patient, Signora Crivelli. I’m sorry we’ve been so much trouble.”

“Not at all. It was the least we could do. A small price to pay for being liberated, Captain. And we’ve been glad for your protection.”

“I hope you’ll have news of your husband soon. Perhaps some letters will start to come through. The railway’s being repaired and restored as far as Arezzo, which is very good news. Our main thrust is north now, of course. We’ll have a logistic base here in Florence, and we’ll be supporting General Alexander’s attack on Kesselring’s Gothic Line. Won’t be long before we’re in Bologna!”

“I wish you the very best of luck, Captain.”

The captain paused and looked up at the sky, which was a deep, cloudless, morning blue.

“Yours is such a beautiful country,” he said. “I wish I could have seen it in happier circumstances. Do you know that I’d never been abroad until I was called up? Hardly been out of Guildford, except for the usual English seaside holidays. I’d seen pictures of Italy, of course, but it can’t give you the feel of what it’s really like — the hills, the buildings, this extraordinary light. I’m definitely planning to come back after this show’s over.”

“And when you do, I hope you’ll visit us.”

“I most certainly will.”

His driver was waiting. He saluted, jumped into the jeep, and was driven off.

After every last truck had departed, the house and grounds seemed unnaturally quiet. Everything was in a sorry state. Cleaning up was going to take a depressingly long time and was such an exhausting prospect that Rosemary couldn’t bring herself to think about it yet. Instead, she wandered aimlessly in the garden, wondering how they would ever get around to filling up the shell hole or repair the damage that the tents had made to the grass. At the front gate, she met the mail carrier. She hadn’t seen him for weeks and greeted him with great delight. He had brought one letter. She took it eagerly, hoping to see Franco’s handwriting. But it was addressed to Constanza. The postmark was English and the handwriting unfamiliar. Constanza came running when Rosemary called her and took the letter. She didn’t open it but turned it over in her hands, looking at it. Then, without a word, she took it up to her room.

Rosemary was left alone by the front door. She knew she should be delighted that things were returning to some sort of normality and that Constanza had her letter. But for the first time in weeks, she began to cry. They weren’t tears of jealousy, just bitter, bitter disappointment. She wondered how much longer she would have to go on being supportive, kind, and brave without anyone to turn to. She could cope with danger on her own — she knew that now. She could think fast under pressure and make lightning-quick decisions when it came to protecting her family. But this long drag of loneliness and uncertainty, of never having anyone to lean on, to grumble to or confide in, was worse. It was shriveling her up.
Perhaps Franco’s dead,
she thought.
Perhaps I’ll never see him again.

Once she was upstairs, alone in her room, Constanza opened her letter.

“Dear Constanza,” she read. This was crossed out and replaced by “Darling.”

I warned you that I’m not much good at writing letters. But this is to tell you that I’m OK. After we said good-bye that day, I met up with some of our boys, and now I’ve rejoined my unit. I’ll never forget what you and your family did for me — your mom, Paolo, and especially you. I owe my life to you — you know that. “Thank you” just isn’t big enough for what I’d like to say, but I hope I’ll get the chance to tell you in person one day.

I am stationed in Britain now. Can’t tell you where, of course. We’ll be going over to Normandy soon, backing up the offensive there, and after that, on to Berlin. To try to finish things once and for all.

Guess who I met in the Overseas Services Club? David! Seems that guy and I are destined to keep meeting up. He told me how he managed to escape with some other prisoners of war when the truck they were in was hijacked by the Partisans. Another local family put their lives on the line to hide him in their barn. In the end they got him back into Allied-occupied territory and onto a boat home. He won’t be flying for a while. He’s training other pilots. And guess what? He’s getting married! Some guys have all the luck.

I think of you all the time. Dream about you, too. I guess I’ve got nothing to offer but dreams right now. But I long for the day when I see your lovely eyes again and your smile. Can’t wait to see you wearing that dress, to dance with you, to hold you in my arms.

Write me.

All my love,

Joe

Constanza read the letter through three times, folded it carefully, and hugged it to herself. Then she wound up her gramophone and put on a record: “J’attendrai.”

Around lunchtime she was still sitting by the open window, her mind drifting far away with the romantic music, when she heard the sound of a car coming up the drive. Two men got out, but she couldn’t see who they were.
I hope our house isn’t going to be commandeered by the military again, when we’ve only just gotten rid of the last lot,
she thought. But who else could possibly have the use of a car when gasoline was so scarce? She peered farther out. There was only the one car — no jeeps or trucks. She heard voices, her mother’s among them, then silence. Whoever had arrived seemed to have gone through to the back of the house. She waited for a call from downstairs, but nothing happened, so she put on another record.

And then Maria burst into her room. “Constanza!
Carissima!
Come down at once — come quickly!” she urged.

Rosemary was standing on the veranda with two men. One was a stranger in uniform. The other was her father. He was bearded and thinner, and his face was more deeply lined than Constanza remembered it. He turned to her, radiant with joy at seeing her. For a few seconds, she stood just looking at him. She found that she couldn’t run toward him, not just yet. The shock of seeing him again was too great. And in his old way, realizing at once what she must be feeling, he simply grinned at her and said, “Constanza — my dearest girl — my darling one, I suppose now you’re too grown-up to be told how lovely you’ve become since I went away.”

Only then did she walk slowly toward him and bury her head in his shoulder. She wasn’t crying, but when she touched his face, she could feel that his cheeks were wet. He held her close with one arm; the other was wound tightly around Rosemary’s waist, as though never — even for a moment — could he bear to let either of them go.

The other man, clearly embarrassed at being embroiled in this emotional reunion, cleared his throat a little and stood at a distance, pretending to admire the ruined garden. Later, as they sat together over a glass of wine, he was properly introduced to Constanza as Colonel Fergusson. It was he who began to explain something of what Franco had been doing during his long absence from home: how he had been parachuted into Nazi-occupied northern Italy as a liaison officer and interpreter to help promote links with the Partisan units who were helping the British before the capture of Florence. Franco sat silently throughout.

“I don’t have to tell you how dangerous it was,” said Fergusson. “And especially courageous — if he’d been captured by the Gestapo, he would have had no official military status to protect him as a prisoner of war. Often he was acting as a courier for large sums of money that were being smuggled to the underground movement — and that made him particularly vulnerable. Several couriers disappeared — their bodies were never found. Some were killed by local people for the money they were carrying; others were captured by the Nazis and were tortured before they were shot.”

“I was lucky,” said Franco, looking at his wife, who had gone very pale. “And I guess I was useful because I knew the area so well — every river and pass in the mountains up in the Mugello, from my old adventurous boyhood days. But it was so frustrating when I was working up there in secret, so close to Florence and so near to you all but not daring to get in contact in case I put you in danger. I was terribly homesick for you then. And worried sick when I heard the fighting was getting closer to you.” He glanced at the crater the shell had made. “I can’t bear to think that I wasn’t here to protect you.”