Wolf on the Mountain (32 page)

‘Just silence.’

‘So they haven’t blown the bridge yet. We’ve got to move quickly. Get everyone down to the spur, with the guns. It’s time to use them.’

‘I’ve already sent Ugo to do that. And Salvatore is fetching the doctor. The time for secrecy is past.’

‘I’ll get my gun.’

–

The early sun is projecting long shadows through the ruins of the village. People are up and about, slowly moving the way they have for months, resigned fatalistically to another hungry day of making ends meet.

‘They must still have units south of the bridge if they haven’t blown it yet, Vincenzo.’ Then they hear an explosion down the valley and from behind a row of poplars screening the railway two soldiers appear below them on a platelayers’ trolley, cranking the seesaw rig that propels it along the line. They stop, lay charges on the railway track and then move on. When they are a hundred yards on the charges explode, sending a burst of ballast and sleeper and rail through the air and echoes of the explosion off the limestone walls of the valley. They stop their trolley again and lay more charges.

‘They must be going if they don’t need that railway any more’ says Vincenzo. ‘It’s a pity they’re out of range of our rifles. We could stop them. And they’d be sitting ducks for your fighter-planes, wouldn’t they, Roberto? Why aren’t they here? Surely the English commanders suspect by now that they’re retreating, will be destroying things? Why aren’t they sending fighters to strafe them? If only they’d sent us radios when we asked for them.’

‘Forget that. We’ve got to do what we can. And we’ve got to work out how they’re protecting their rearguard, so we don’t walk into a trap. They must have set up positions on the mountains north of the river to cover the men doing the demolitions. Mortars lower down, maybe field artillery higher up, probably near the road so they can move off again quickly when the job is done.’

‘There’ says Vincenzo, pointing to a thicket of brush near the road as it turns to take the col into the next valley. ‘That thicket wasn’t there yesterday. It must be camouflage netting. But they won’t be making a stand on that ridge. They’re just light field guns covering the retreat. So they’ve still got men down below. We’ve got to get down to the village while they’re still there. They won’t use that artillery if they’ve still got men inside doing demolitions.’

The doctor arrives, wheezing from his climb, unused to exercise. ‘We’ve got to move quickly.’ He takes off his spectacles, uses his scarf to wipe the steam from them, then his brow. ‘They haven’t blown the bridge yet, but there can’t be many more troops to come. As soon as they’re through they’ll blow it. They’ve already destroyed the bridges south of here.’

‘Have they mined anything else? Houses? Roads?’

‘I don’t think so, Roberto. It’s been so quick. They’ve been too busy doing the railway line.’

‘Probably for the same reason the Allied fighters aren’t here. Both sides are concentrating on the coast roads. Here the Germans are just falling back. There’ll be no battle here. We’ve just got to save what we can: the bridge, what’s left of the railway line. How many men have we got, doctor?’

‘Enough.’ He raises his eyes over the Englishman’s shoulder and Roberto turns. He has been too preoccupied with what is happening in the valley below to hear the growing hubbub behind him. There are now sixty skinny men on the spur, rifles and shotguns in their hands, bags of cartridges over their shoulders, some even with Italian army grenades hanging from their belts. He is startled by their numbers, the number of weapons that have survived hidden for so long, and more startled by the scarlet scarves around their necks, a uniform that had been unknown to him until now, so incongruous against their ragged clothes. Where had it all been hidden? And where had some of these men come from?

‘Give Roberto a scarf, Vincenzo.’ The Englishman steps back. ‘We don’t want you mistaken for the enemy, old friend, do we?’ Roberto looks back at the over-armed arrivals and roughly ties it around his neck.

The doctor and Vincenzo quickly give the partisans their orders. One group under Vincenzo to protect the bridge; one led by Ugo to attack the miners blowing up the railway; another by Salvatore to check that the German barracks are empty; another by the doctor himself to arrest the fascist sympathisers in the village and put them out of harm’s way in the school.

‘Including the Giobellinis?’ asks Roberto.

‘For their own protection’ says the doctor. ‘If you want, you can be in the party that arrests them. But I’d rather you were with the party going to the barracks, so you can help Salvatore if the Germans are still there.’

Salvatore points out a small group of German foot-soldiers labouring up the road north from the other side of the bridge. ‘We’ll take them.’

‘No,’ says the doctor. ‘Stopping the miners at the bridge is the most important thing. Stop them and the road north is clear. Stop them and we’ve got more of the village left to build on. We’d better get down there as fast as we can.’

The partisan band splits up into its sections and heads down different paths. ‘Hasten slowly,’ Roberto calls out, drawing his pistol, ‘there may be snipers.’

A shot from the village grazes Ugo’s arm. He slaps his hand to the blood and filthy cloth. ‘A few of them will die for that.’

–

The shot was a single one, but the fear of snipers has slowed down their various descents. All the way down women have emerged from houses, surprised at the sight of village men armed and on the prowl. ‘What’s happening?’ ‘The Germans are leaving. We’re going to fight them.’ ‘Good luck. Kill one for me.’ Here, there, an old man with his best felt hat on the back of his head stumbles out of his house clutching an old rifle he has hidden for years. ‘This lot are frightening me’ says Roberto. ‘God knows what will happen if they try to use those guns.’

‘You see why the fascist families need protection?’ asks the doctor. ‘There are twenty years of scores to settle. The way it was always done in these parts. That’s why we had to train the partisans. That’s why we wanted you to stay.’

Roberto remembers Natale’s words that he’d been kept here for the liberation day. Yet now his presence might save the old soldier’s life. He casts the thought away. He has to beware of snipers.

From the area of the bridge rifles crackle, there is a burst of machine-gun fire. Vincenzo is in action, has found the miners preparing to blow the bridge. ‘We’d better go and support Vincenzo at the bridge, doctor. Let’s hope Ugo does the same. It sounds quite a battle over there.’

‘But we’ve got to control the villagers with the guns’ the doctor protests. ‘Think what they’ll be up to while that battle’s going on. If we don’t get the fascists behind locked doors as soon as possible, until tempers cool, there’ll be a bloodbath. What a way to celebrate deliverance would that be? What kind of a start to peace and liberty? We’ve got to get the village under control.’

The sound of the bridge blowing up, rattling the buildings of Sannessuno for the last time, ends the argument. ‘That settles it, comrades, the Germans have gone. Let’s start the peace.’

–

It is the first time that Roberto has walked into the village in daylight, the first time he has walked freely in it. It is as if he is looking at it for the first time, its bare stone walls, its ornate iron balconies, its washing lines below them. And he is allowing its people to see him for the first time. It is suddenly a village of people again, passionate, vibrant, revived after a winter of trying not to feel.

He and two of the partisans are now at the Giobellinis’ door. The family comes out, each clutching a few possessions rolled in a blanket. ‘I’m glad it’s you, Roberto’ Natale says. He looks up at his neighbours, hissing down and jeering, their balconies are already festooned with every scrap of red or pink cloth they can find. ‘And we’ll have a chance to say goodbye.’

They walk to the school, their pace through the gauntlet of hostility slowed by the old man’s limp. Natale shudders as they enter its gates, wondering if its beam is to be used again. Roberto turns to the partisan running the new concentration camp, a man he has never met before. ‘These are people who have helped the partisans’ he says. ‘They have the doctor’s protection. Their safety is your responsibility. They will have a room to themselves, a good one, away from the other prisoners.’ He goes with them into their room. ‘It’s only for one night, Natale, until the partisan leaders can make it known how much you’ve done. I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t worry, Roberto’ the old man replies. ‘We’ll be all right, but I’m grateful you were with us walking through those streets. Now you must go back to your English army. An old soldier knows a young one’s duty. May God go with you.’

He makes to kiss his cheek, hesitates, falters to hold out his hand and Roberto seizes his with the same grasp as the old man had held his the first night they met. Caterina hugs him, kisses his cheeks and bursts into tears. Alfonso formally shakes his hand and steps back for Isabella’s farewell. She lurches forward, puts her hands on his shoulders, buries her face in his chest, then sobs ‘You’re going back to your English fiancee. I know you are. I’ll never see you again.’

He does not notice the revelation. Too much else is crowding his mind. Everything has happened so quickly that he is unprepared for farewells. Natale’s words about rejoining his army are pressing him. Things must be beckoning him from there, but there are dangers still ahead. It is a soldier’s day.

He treats Isabella as a sister staying behind, holding her gaunt body to his own and kissing her forehead like a tender brother. ‘Get yourself strong again, Isabella. The dark days are gone. Freedom is here. Make the most of it. Of course we’ll meet again when my war is over. But I have to go.’ She turns and buries her face in her hands and as her father reaches for her and takes her in his arms he signals with his eyes that it is time for the Englishman to leave.

He goes back to the square. Already the village is celebrating its deliverance. The church bells are ringing with a joy more wonderful than on any Easter morning. Coloured cloths are bunted from every balcony and window. People who hours ago were rummaging in the ruins oblivious that it was not another day of occupation have found strength to flock to the square and cheer their liberators. Partisans are firing into the sky bullets they no longer need to save. Everywhere old people are hugging each other and bursting into tears, young men and girls who have seen nothing of each other since the Armistice are eyeing each other. All the cares of twenty years have melted in the hot sun. Sannessuno is a community again.

–

He finds Carlo giving orders to a small group. ‘Roberto! One of our brave liberators! But you must be on your way, I think.’

‘Where are Elvira and Anna?’

‘Back at the house. It’s the custom. You’ve heard about Nonna?’

‘I’m so sorry. My condolences and respects.’

‘It was her contribution to the struggle. As she saw it, Anna was the future, she the past. She sacrificed herself to feed the young. If we betray them in the peace we betray her as well. Oh that the English are coming so late. Two days earlier she’d have seen it was worth it. A week and she’d have lived. Maybe.’

‘Can I go to see them?’

‘It is better not. I will say goodbye for you.’

‘And thank them for me. And for my parents. I owe my life to you all.’ Carlo smiles quizzically. ‘And tell Elvira I’ll pray for Enrico’s return too.’

Carlo looks from his face to over his shoulder. More orders to give. ‘I’m sorry, Capitano Inglese. I have so many things to do. And so do you I think. You remember, back in December, you kept arguing with us? Whenever you wanted to do something we thought was too dangerous you used to say it was your duty to get back to your lines. It’s your duty now, and mine is something else. Thank you for giving us your help. Vincenzo has been very grateful for it.

‘Come back one day, when your country’s war is over. This country will be a better place. Come and see it then. Don’t forget.’ He kisses Roberto’s cheeks. ‘Until we see each other again.’

The doctor and Vincenzo, a rag bandaging a bullet wound to his wrist won in the skirmish at the bridge, come over. ‘Sannessuno belongs to the people at last, but God knows how we’ll feed them. Let’s hope your army comes soon. You should go now, go and find them. Tell them to come soon, that we’re starving. We can take care of what’s to be done in the meantime here.’

As soon as the village is out of hearing he finds himself in silence. The road down the valley is clear. There is no wind to rustle the trees. How far will he have to walk? Motorised patrols must have been sent out as soon as it was clear that the German artillery had gone. Two days’ walk, the time it took to the lines in December, would be no more than four hours in a vehicle, even stopping all the time for its officer to check the road ahead for mines and enemy troops through his field-glasses. It should only be an hour before he met it, made his report that the Germans were now beyond the next ridge, that the valley was ready for occupation and then was whisked off to become English again.

Then what? Vincenzo had asked him what he was most looking forward to when he reached the lines and he’d been unable to answer. He still doesn’t know. There are so many things he no longer knows, things his mind has forgotten in its obsession with survival. Even his native tongue. He’d been surprised by Elvira’s English the day before, unable to respond. All evening he’d tried to practise the language but all that he had learned again had been lost in the frantic events of the morning.

He tries again: ‘
I call myself Roberto DiGiovanni. Am captain in Wessex Light Infantry. The Germans are departed from Sannessuno. The partisans control the village. They attend you.
’ No. ‘
I call myself Roberto Johnson. Am captain…
’ The words come slowly back but the grammar remains Italian. He stumbles on, rehearsing the words over and over again like a drunken man fabricating his excuse.

He turns into the side valley leading up to the pass, still keeping to the rough road, its stones and dust now bleached white. Today he will not leave the road, not dread the sound of an approaching vehicle. Today he must walk only on the road and pray for a vehicle to come. He dare not even step down to the stream lest the vehicle come and pass him by while he is slaking his thirst.