Papa Georgio (14 page)

‘And…’ Grandpa drew in a deep breath. ‘He still lives here. Not in that house, but not too far away. Would you like to come and meet him?’

‘But…’ I said frustrated. ‘You haven’t finished. What happened to him? Why was he so sad?’

II.

‘Come along,’ Grandpa said, seeming to surface from his memories and remember we were there. ‘We’ll go and sit down and have a Nice Little Drink. It’s getting hot out here.’

In the square we sat at a round metal table under a green and white striped awning and ordered two beers and a Pepsi for me. Brenda took her hat off and fanned her face with it but she didn’t complain.

‘Alberto is expecting to see us today,’ Grandpa said quietly. ‘And his family.’

It sounded as if Alberto’s story had a happy ending.

‘How did you know he was sad, My Little Dear?’

‘I just did. What you said about his eyes, I suppose.’

‘Well, you’re right. When I met him he was very sad. And so were his mother and sister. What happened was this. We British soldier boys were coming up Italy from the south, to flush out the Germans who still had a hold of the north. Before we arrived there were Germans all over Italy in their grey uniforms and big boots. The thing was, someone had killed a German soldier – stabbed him in the neck - and he’d bled to death. He was found on the road just outside Cellina, near the gate where we came in. It happened just before Easter, in the week they call Holy Week, so the children were all on holiday from school. Now, the German army had their own way of dealing with that sort of thing. Reprisals, we call it, in other words, getting back at whoever had done it, or the next best thing. Of course no one was going to own up to murdering a German soldier. But the Germans had a numbers game which they played with anyone who touched one of their men.’

Grandpa’s voice was so bitter now that it chilled me.

‘One German death meant that ten others had to die as a punishment – in this case, ten Italians from Cellina. So that day they rounded up ten of the most prominent men left in the town – the Mayor, the men who managed the bank and the small hotel. Alberto’s father had not gone into the army because he had weak lungs and because he was the postmaster.

‘They marched him and the other nine to the Town Hall, which is away over there – we’ll pass it later – and lined them up in front of it. Then they shot the lot of them. There was a lot of shouting and confusion beforehand, as you can imagine – German soldiers everywhere, people protesting. As the children were out of school, Alberto was in the square in the midst of it all. Just as the soldiers were raising the guns, his father noticed he was there and Alberto saw him open his mouth to call out to him. But the bullets rang out and Alberto watched his father and the other nine men fall dead to the ground. He was nine years old.’

‘Oh my goodness,’ Brenda breathed. She had long stopped fanning herself and her face was twisted with horror. ‘The poor little fellow.’

I don’t know what my face looked like but I felt so, so sorry for little Alberto, seeing his Dad die like that. I was full of an aching feeling, tears filling my eyes. Grandpa took a long drink from his glass of beer, which left a fleck of froth on his top lip.

‘Alberto’s father was quite a young man – thirty-four, I believe. He had a wife and a son and daughter. Alberto took me to the house to meet his mother and sister. They were in a bad state. His mother was heartbroken. She’d obviously loved her husband very much. And of course he’d been the main breadwinner in the family, so now they were very poor.’

‘They asked me to come back and share a meal with them that evening, even though they had so little. The Italians were very hospitable to us British boys. I went back that night, taking everything I could – tins of Bully Beef and army biscuits and cigarettes. The house was very simple, only candles for light and the meal was simple too, soup and hard local bread and some of the stuff I’d brought added to it. Alberto’s mother, Teresa, was a gentle woman, about my age, and the sister would have been about twelve. I think they craved company, someone outside who they could talk to. The few people left in the town knew the story too well already – and of course there were nine other families who’d lost the man of the house. No one wanted to hear their troubles except me. And little Alberto latched on to me. He sat right beside me all evening, seeming to drink in every word I said in my very poor Italian! I suppose I wasn’t that different in age from his father – I was one of the older chaps in my unit. In any case, Alberto was fixed on me.

‘They were such a sad little household: I wanted to do everything I could for them. Since we were stationed outside for a time, I came as often as I could and brought food – even a chicken once. They were always so pleased to see me, especially Alberto. He used to show me his school work. He was mad keen to be an engineer and he was forever drawing pictures of aeroplanes. He was rather good, I remember, bright as a button. And he got me to tell him stories. And then of course…’ Grandpa gave a deep sigh. ‘We had to move on – very suddenly as well and I never had a chance to say goodbye… I’ve always felt badly about that. After the war I wrote a couple of letters but I never heard anything back. The worst of it was though, I knew the lad had become very attached to me. I felt I’d let him down.’

Grandpa stopped, lost in thought again for a moment.

‘Silly I didn’t say anything, I know.’ He looked at each of us, anxiously. ‘Memories get locked away and they seem to grow and play on your emotions. I couldn’t just come out with this – I can’t explain how it affects me really.’

Brenda was nodding. I don’t know if she understood what Grandpa meant. Maybe she did. I know I did. How thinking about Dad could make me feel – and sometimes Fizz as well. I couldn’t have said anything either.

‘I came up here looking for him. It didn’t take me too long but at first I wasn’t sure if they’d be still here. I thought somehow my letters would have got to them and I didn’t know why Alberto never dropped me a line. I thought he was angry with me – or even that he was dead. Who knew? In fact Teresa remarried quite soon after the war and moved into Naples, and they all changed their name. But when I came up here, of course it didn’t take me long to find an old fellow who knew them – knew the postmaster who’d been murdered during the war and who his family were. And he told me they’d gone away. But then he remembered that some years ago Alberto moved back here with his family – to a nice house on the edge of town.’

I felt my heart pick up speed. For a moment I imagined we were going to see the boy, Alberto, a ten year old with big, sad eyes, until Grandpa said,

‘Alberto has a delightful wife and four lovely daughters – and they’re all very keen to meet you both.’ He drank the last of his beer, head tipped back, then plonked the glass down on the table in a lively fashion. ‘Shall we go?’

III.

That afternoon I was ready to break all my rules about what I wrote in my diary. I just had to let it out and tell someone even if it was only paper in an exercise book!

Fizz and the others weren’t anywhere to be seen and I took my notebook up to my high seat on the mud step overlooking the camp. When I sat down to write, I realized guiltily what a long time it had been now since I had written to Charlotte. Home seemed to have faded far away and I couldn’t explain anything to her on a post card. I had to write all about Alberto and what had happened to him. And what had happened to me.

Except I couldn’t seem to do it.

‘I’ve had the most
AMAZING
day!’

That was as far as I got, and then stopped to daydream again. How could I say what I felt? I couldn’t find the right words at all for what had happened today. So I started with Grandpa’s story about what had happened to Alberto, about the sad-eyed boy in his long shorts and well polished old boots, who had wanted my Grandpa to be his dad, his Papa.

Because that’s what he said, that lovely man, Alberto, when he opened the door of his house which was almost hidden among green creepers and flowers. He flung the door back with a smile totally covering his face and cried out. ‘Georgio! Papa!’

I felt very shy and a bit scared standing there. I think Brenda did too. I was worried about all these new people. It’s bad enough when you first meet grown-ups, but at least they’re usually quite polite and humour you because you’re a child. But other kids – well, you’re expected to go off and play and get on with each other because you’re all kids and it’s not always like that. What if you
don’t
get on? It can be hell.

But this wasn’t hell. It was heaven – pure heaven.

First of all there was Alberto himself. I’d worked out that he was thirty-eight years old. What I saw was the kindliest face: big brown eyes dancing with life and fondness as if we were all his long lost family and that seemed to be what he felt. He had a very gentle expression and gentle hands, as I found out when he stroked my cheek instead of yanking me about the way most Italians do.

Once we were all standing in the dark hall of the house, Grandpa told him my name, that I was his grand-daughter Janey.

Alberto leaned down, his eyes looking deeply at me, and he held out his hand, smiling.

‘Gianni?’ Jianny, was how it came out, Italian style.

‘Yes.’ I met his gaze, shyly. I liked the name Gianni. It was the name he gave me. That was when he stroked my cheek and from then I was in love. I don’t mean in love, like
boys
and all that stuff. Just… I don’t know. It did something to me. I just wanted to be near him all day.

He shook Brenda’s hand, then kissed her on both cheeks. At first she looked very startled and I could see he had charmed her and she began to relax. And he went back to Grandpa, exclaiming all the while and put his arms out and gave him a big man-hug, nothing sloppy although Grandpa was a bit taken aback and said, ‘There’s a good fellow,’ or something like that, rather gruffly.

And suddenly the hall was full of girls. A woman appeared from the back, with thick black hair tied in a ponytail and a lively, pretty face and melty brown eyes like her husband’s.

‘Rosa!’ Alberto cried. ‘Papa Georgio!’

Alberto’s wife kissed Grandpa, laughing and there were lots more greetings and kisses and at the same time, behind her paraded one girl after another! That was when my tummy really clenched with nerves, but all of them came up to me and kissed me as if I was their long lost sister or the plaything they’d been waiting for all their lives. The youngest-but-one took hold of my hand and tugged at me to come with them, chattering away to me in Italian. It was like being adopted by a friendly flock of birds with good intent.

But just then the mood changed. The hall went quiet, solemn almost, when another lady appeared, dressed all in black. She was elderly, like Grandpa, small and rounded with a beautiful, lined face and the same wide eyes as Alberto. She was staring at Grandpa as if he was a ghost. A smile began to play on her lips but at the same time her eyes filled with tears and she pulled out a little lace hanky from her sleeve to wipe them. Shaking her head as if she could not believe the sight in front of her she stepped towards Grandpa, muttering things I couldn’t understand. Then, as if she couldn’t help herself, she held out her arms.

‘Teresa,’ Grandpa said softly, as she pulled him into her embrace, so tenderly that it brought tears to my eyes. I could see she was Teresa, Alberto’s mother, who Grandpa had tried to help all those years ago, at the worst time of her life. As she drew back to look at him, still holding his hands, tears ran down her cheeks and Grandpa was looking very watery as well. They didn’t say much, just stood gazing at each other.

The girls dragged me off then, outside through a room full of dark furniture to the garden. It was so pretty, a long green space full of flowers. Just behind the house was a terrace, in the shade of a shelter made of bamboo canes with vines growing all over them. Bunches of green, unripe grapes hung from the roof, above a long table which was already laid for lunch. The white cloth was weighted down at the corners with a stone to stop the breeze lifting it, and spaced along the middle were little vases of pink flowers.

There were other chairs out in the sun and the girls ran to those.

‘Boo-boo!’ One of them cried, tipping a big hairy grey cat off one of them. It stalked away in sleepy disgust.

‘Sit down!’ they ordered me in Italian, but I knew what they meant. They spoke not a word of English but the funny thing was, for the next half our before the meal – and lots afterwards too – we got by somehow. All four of them pulled their chairs close up round me, staring at me as if I was a telly, or the most interesting toy in the world. The little one who had taken my hand kept stroking my arm. She pointed at herself and said her name was Laura. (‘Laowra’). She was ever so pretty with straight hair down to her waist.

And that’s what we did – names and ages, pointing and counting on fingers. I could already say, ‘
me chiamo Gianni
,’ and ‘
ho undici anni
.’ I’m Janey and I have eleven years – that’s what they say.

Laura held up her fingers and said she was nine. Then she bossed the youngest, Angela, who had much more curly hair and a gorgeous, pudgy puppy face, to tell me her name and that she was seven. Giovanna was next. She had a reddish tinge to her long brown hair and said she was twelve. The eldest, Maria, very serious and grown up looking and pretty in her yellow dress, was fifteen. As we talked we all kept laughing. I don’t know why but they seemed to find me very funny. So round me were all these pretty, dark-eyed faces and smiles and I felt as if I’d been given four sisters all in one day.

Brenda came out once to check that everything was all right. She raised her eyebrows at me, looking a bit taken aback by how jolly everything was out there. I beamed at her, and seeing that, she smiled and went inside again.

And then we were all round the table eating spaghetti and fish, oranges and cheese with big white napkins on our laps, and drinking red wine. We children had some, tinting our water with it like Ribena, and it tasted nice. Somehow the conversations all held together with bits of English and Italian and I watched Grandpa looking happy as he talked to Alberto, then to Teresa, with her silver-grey hair. They spoke quietly about the past and as they sat side by side looking at each other I saw that Grandpa had been more than a little bit in love with Teresa when he knew her during the war, and that her unhappiness, as well as Alberto’s, had been crouching inside him ever since. It had been something he needed to finish and get rid of. And now he could. They could sit and talk over all that had happened since, as old friends.