The Captain's Daughter (53 page)

‘Jack was the bad one. I was the good guy. But my father loved his bad boy. He will take it hard, two of his children lost now.’

Only weeks later came news of Ella’s husband, months out of date. Roddy was now up to running round their trodden path. He stopped. ‘Why do we do this, all this killing to each other?’ he asked Frank, who was puffing to catch him up.

‘Because we’re animals, territorial animals out of the jungle, I reckon. It’s bred in us to hunt and scavenge and fight. We forget we’re all the same under the skin, a fallen race.’

‘Are we? I’m not so sure,’ Roddy replied. ‘I’ve seen some terrible things from our side and some decent things from the enemy. Get me outta here, I’m going to explode.’ He could feel the frustration tearing inside him.

‘Did you talk to the escape committee?’

‘They want an organized break-out. They say it was easier when the camp was run by the Italians. The guards now are much more thorough.’

‘I’ve heard there is still a secret hole dug under the outer perimeter fence and the field workers aren’t guarded all the time. There’s a priest in the town. He says if we can find the right spot in the fields, there are ways to walk out but you’ll need to work on your Italian. The dialect here is unfathomable and we need to get those legs in better shape if they are to do twenty miles a day uphill.’

Roddy felt his thighs; they were still weak and thin. ‘I’ll double the circuit.’

‘Put rocks in your pockets to add some weight and I’ll try to get you extra rations.’

‘Why are you doing this for me?’ Roddy asked. ‘I’m not even a Catholic.’

‘We can work on that later,’ Frank quipped.

That’s what Roddy liked about him: no bullshit, just honest talk and a big heart.

‘I think one decent escape is worth twenty half-hearted attempts. If you can walk yourself through enemy lines to the Allies, send us a postcard.’

‘You?’

Frankie shook his head. ‘Though I might have a day excursion to see my father’s family. As long as I’m back before roll call. I could pick up supplies. Father Mario is to be trusted, I’m sure.’

‘So when do we go?’ Roddy felt the excitement surge through him.

‘When it is time. Be patient, get fitter. It’ll be no walk in the park, especially for you. You know the risks.’

‘You’ve got it all planned, haven’t you?’

Frank tapped the side of his nose and smiled. ‘Only in my head. First we need to get you supplies, bribes, smokes and, most of all, good luck.’

‘You’d better get on your knees then,’ Roddy laughed back.

‘You and me both, brother. Two voices are louder than one.’

By some miracle Father Mario and Frank made contact with a network of sympathizers who were setting up a chain of messages to the Bartolinis to expect secret visitors. It sounded a crazy scheme, all the more so when Roddy realized they were to filter out of a field working party. He would put on a cassock and claim to be another padre on pilgrimage. This meant stripping off his officer rank, disguising himself among the field gang and bribing one of the weaker guards with smokes and souvenirs to smooth their escape.

The night before the plan, he took Frank aside. ‘It’s too risky for you,’ Roddy whispered. ‘You go another day after I’m gone.’ If the escape was discovered, the padre would be in danger himself. But Frank would hear none of it.

‘I owe it to my father to seek out his family before we’re sent north, like all the rest. It is only a matter of time before we’re moved. The nearer the Allies get, the further we’ll be sent from joining them. You making a run for it will have nothing to do with my extraordinary visit. I’ll be back on time. No one will connect us. I know how to get back in now.’

On the appointed morning, Roddy slipped out to the other compound on a pretext, ripped off his insignia, trying to transform his uniform into more peasant clothing, and filled his knapsack with tins, smokes, anything that could be bartered. He shivered as they opened the gates, knowing every one of them would be culpable if his disappearance was discovered too soon. He tried to look calm as he edged as far as he could to the far side of the field for their short rest break. Some of the boys were planning to distract the guard while Frank darted first into the woody copse where he hoped some partisans might be waiting.

It was a scorching day and the men were stripped to the waist, glad of any makeshift cap to deflect the sun’s glare from their faces and necks. The guards in their uniforms slunk off for a smoke in the shade. Two men picked a fight and soon everyone was brawling and Roddy seized his chance to dart out of sight and make for the spot where he hoped someone would be waiting for him.

True to his word, an old man and a young priest pulled him into the bush, pulled a cassock over his sweating body and shoved a biretta on his head to hide his sun-bleached hair. He was rushed to an ancient truck and unceremoniously dumped under a load of sacks. Frank was already lying in the back, sweating. They rode through narrow twisting cart tracks for what seemed miles, including past one roadblock.

It seemed Father Mario was a familiar sight with his round pebble-glass spectacles, acknowledging the local militia guards cheerily as they waved him through.

‘The Bartolinis will keep you for a few days only. Everyone here is afraid of reprisals. There are Fascist sympathizers in every village with tongues as big as the Grand Canyon. You must head south to the Allies as best you can, only at night, of course. The cassock may help you – or not. This area is very mixed.’

The truck jolted to a stop outside a small farmhouse with golden stone outbuildings and a red tiled roof. It nestled in the hillside with a good view of the track. Hearing the sound of the truck, an old man and woman stood in the doorway, blinking into the sun and watching as Frank and the priest got out and then pulled Roddy out.

‘This is Father Francesco Bartolini, and his comrade, the captain.’

Their leathery faces stared as they shook hands with the priest and gabbled in Italian. They stood politely eyeing them cautiously but pointed to the door.

Roddy was blinded for a second as they were ushered into a dark room with a smoking fire, a polished table, and stucco walls lined with fading portraits. The first thing he noticed, though, was lace. It was everywhere: lining the mantelpiece, the back of the old armchairs, the edge of the tablecloth, the panels on the curtain netting. Everything was pristine, though the room was humble and smoke filled. They were given a thick soup of pasta and vegetables and slices of hard cheese with deliciously ripe peaches that melted into their mouths.

Frankie was stumbling, trying to understand their dialect, nodding, waving his hands and pointing to the photographs. Roddy noticed a very old lady was weeping in the corner as she listened to his story, shaking her head, and crossing herself, and when it came to the bit about the lucky shoe, which he’d pulled out from under his cassock, she almost collapsed.
‘Merletto d’Anghiari
, Salvatore, look.’ She was so excited. The atmosphere in the room suddenly changed.
‘Il bambino d’Angelo, Francesco!’

Frank was shaking his head, trying to explain why she was in such a state. ‘She says my father brought this many years ago. Now she knows I am truly his son. They thought we might be spies. It’s from one of the Marcelli patterns, a pattern of the
paese
, the local district. She says it is a miracle. Look over there at her lace maker’s stool and cushion. I’ve seen those in New York. This is my grandmother and my cousin and his wife. They must have no name, just in case . . . I must be dreaming this. Wait until I tell the folks back home.’ He smiled and sipped a rough country wine, which was as sweet as liquorice.

All too soon the sun crossed over the ridge and it was time for them to return. Father Mario was especially anxious to be off. ‘You must get back to the camp. We mustn’t be out by curfew.’ But Frank was reluctant to part from his family with so many questions still to ask and so much to tell them.

Roddy felt moved to have witnessed such a reunion. He would stay the night in their attic, their hidden guest, stripped of his cassock now. All he could give them was cigarettes and a few Red Cross tins, muttering his
grazies
, as best he could.

Once outside he dared not show his fair skin and hair in case there were other eyes watching. Nothing would remain secret in these valleys by sundown. He shook Frank’s hand. ‘If and when I get back, I’ll make sure your folks know you’re safe and that you met up with your father’s family at long last. I promise.’

Frank edged towards the door and his cousin offered him the shoe back but he refused it. ‘It belongs here. It joins us back together, proof of my visit,’ he said, shoving it back into her hand. ‘My father wishes it.’

There was something about this act that moved Roddy so much he found himself doing a strange thing. He bent down on one knee. ‘Give me a blessing, Father. I may need it where I’m going,’ he whispered. ‘When this is over we’ll dine out on the stories for many a year. How can I thank you all for what you are risking, my friends?’ he added. ‘Tell them what I’m saying, Frank.’

Frank translated and then whispered in his ear, ‘Just get the hell out of here tomorrow and make a home run.’

The truck hit a puncture somewhere close to Arezzo. It was getting late and Frank knew he would be late for roll call. They would be in trouble now. The commandant was a decent man but he would not stand for this deception and by now would realize that another man was missing. Frank sighed, knowing he’d have to walk the rest of the way back. The old priest was not up to his faster pace but he knew where the entrance was on the perimeter wire.

‘Stay with the truck and the driver. You can say you were going to give the last rites somewhere. No one will ever query it. I will walk back to camp, take a short cut across the fields. It can’t be more than a mile or two. Thank you for giving me this chance to see my family. We’ll not risk this again. You’ve done enough. I’ll never forget your kindness.’

Mario held on to him. ‘Stay you can escape too,’ pleaded the old man. ‘The
capitano
will not last three days on the run without you to help him. You are one of us, you look like one of us. You can pass as a native, who has come back from America. Your accent will give you away but we can make up a good story for you. Stay, Francesco.’

‘No, I gave my word. There are sick men who need me; the doc needs my help.’ He shook Mario’s hand firmly. ‘I’ll get back late, the only POW begging to get back into his prison. That will amuse them and I shall bore everyone with the story of my secret pilgrimage. My knowledge of the terrain may be useful next time.’

He didn’t tell him he had a compass hidden in a button of his uniform beneath his cassock. It was a warm night as he ripped off the button of his uniform to set the directions.

How different a wood seemed in the dusk, the shade of the leaves, a drone of mosquitoes aiming for his face, the croak of frogs and a hint of mist. It would be so easy to get lost, but with the aid of his lighter, he checked his bearings, still feeling uneasy. It had been an indulgence to escape for a day. Now he must pay for the risk.

He’d played on the commandant’s faith in letting Father Mario in to see him. Had he put men’s lives at risk? He lingered, feeling the freedom of the open space, the smell of pines. Who would not want to dally in such a haven?

As it grew ever darker in the wood, the path grew less distinct, but a path he trusted led out onto the fields where he and Roddy had made their exits only that morning. He hadn’t gone far when he heard the barking of approaching dogs and glimpsed a flash of light. Hunters looking for deer or wild boar perhaps? But it took only a moment for him to realize he was the quarry, and it wasn’t hunters but the
Feldgendarmerie
, tough militia types hunting for escaped prisoners of war.

He stopped to put his cassock back on, hiding his uniform just as a torch flashed upon him. ‘Stop!’

Frank put his hands up and tried to explain. ‘I am Father Francesco Bartolini. I have been out for a walk and lost my way.
Sono Padre Americano,’
pointing to the Cross and his insignia.

A voice spoke in broken English. ‘You are an escaping prisoner. He is seen dressed as a priest. This is the prisoner.’

‘No I am not. I am Father Bartolini. I was coming back to the camp. The commandant knows me . . . Take me to the camp commandant.
Capisce?
I can explain.’

‘You are an American spy, an escaping prisoner. You will not go back to the camp,’ the military policeman sneered, his voice hard and threatening now. Frank carried on walking towards them, bracing himself when he heard the click of their rifles. There was no time to pray as the bullets sprayed into his chest.

Roddy woke on a mattress of straw covered by a horse blanket. He could hear rustling in the hayloft, and was alert to any strange noise and the beautiful birdsong outside. Where was he? Everything was a blur: his escape hidden in the truck, the smell of the farmyard, the scent of pasta sauce on his fingers. The sun was up and he was itching like mad, but lying back he tried to assess his chances of making a home run.

Blond, blue-eyed, speaking only a few words of the language and here only by the mercy of Frank’s grandparents and uncles were not the greatest of assets. He wouldn’t be able to stay long, but a good night’s sleep and supper had worked miracles. He was ordered to stay hidden until it was safe to appear in the dark, knowing every moment he lingered would put their lives at risk.

What was all that business about the little shoe? Could Frank’s father be right? Could it be true that it was from the
Titanic
, and indeed from this very region? It sounded too much of a coincidence but Frank had been determined to give it to them.

He’d taken a huge risk in bringing him here. Roddy only hoped he’d got back before curfew. The
milizia
would be out combing the hillsides with dogs to sniff out the sweat of a man on the run.

Surely if he walked south by night he’d run into the Allies somewhere. If only there were facts and not just rumours to go on. He wondered if somewhere in the villages sympathizers were listening to BBC broadcasts on their hidden wirelesses. Maybe Frank’s cousins could find out the truth without alerting suspicion. He was at their mercy, dependent on their generosity and humanity to shelter him for the rest of the day. He needed his wits if he were to survive.