The Tuscan Child Page 28

  Then his eyes strayed to the painting of the Child Jesus. He had to protect that, too. No German was going to loot it! He lifted it down from the wall with difficulty, surprised at how heavy it was. He wondered if the frame was actually made of gold and not gold leaf. Held close in front of him, the child seemed almost to be exchanging a secret joke with him. He had an overwhelming desire to take the canvas from its frame, roll it up, and stuff it into his jacket or parachute pouch. But his artist’s training would not let him do such a thing. The old paint would crack and the painting would be ruined. And it was certainly too large and heavy to carry with him. It had to be hidden until the Germans had finally retreated northward.

  He went back to the little door in the wall. It was made of solid oak, with carved panels and a keyhole big enough for an ancient key. He fetched his knife and tried prying the lock, then cutting out a section of the door, but the attempts were futile. The wood was too thick and the door was snugly built into the stone. He was loath to carry the painting upstairs, where it would be exposed to the wind and weather. In the end he tucked it behind the altar. At least nobody would find it unless they searched well. Then he went back upstairs to keep a lookout.

  It was a blustery day with clouds racing in from the west and the promise of more rain. Hugo scanned the countryside in all directions, but nothing moved on the road, and the surrounding fields were empty and bare. A desolate landscape, he thought. It echoed his mood. He looked over the recent landslide down to the track. Could I make it down to the road if Sofia has to bring the cart that way? he wondered. A little voice in his head whispered that he should just run for it now and not put Sofia at any more risk.

  He returned to the rubble beside the chapel to see if he could salvage anything of use—something that could be used as a weapon, maybe. But the walls had already collapsed in the first bombardment. Nothing much had shifted when the latest bomb fell. In truth there was nothing left to destroy. Bending with difficulty, he idly turned over smaller pieces of masonry, not knowing what he hoped to find. Then he found himself looking at a large iron ring poking from beneath the stones. Intrigued, he lifted more masonry away and pulled out a key ring with several large keys attached. He held it in his hand, staring for a long moment while his heart beat faster. Surely he couldn’t be lucky enough to have found the key to the door?

  He made his way back inside, moving as fast as he could, not even noticing the pain in his wounded leg. He was brought back to sanity when he almost tripped going down the steps into the crypt. He had to steady himself against the wall, and so took the last steps at a more careful pace. One by one he tried the keys in the lock, and at last the biggest one fitted. He turned it and heard the lock click. He pushed but the door didn’t budge. It must have jammed when the building shifted during its collapse. He threw his shoulder against it and felt it move, but still it wouldn’t open. Gritting his teeth with frustration, he tried again. At last it opened, scraping against the stone floor with a loud screech that echoed alarmingly through the crypt. Hastily he reached for his lighter and poked his head around the door. Then he snapped the lighter shut and sighed. There had once been a passage, but it was blocked with rubble only a couple of feet beyond the door. Barely enough room for a slim person like him to squeeze around it. A door into nowhere.

  Hugo swallowed back his disappointment, but then an idea came to him. A door into nowhere. He squeezed around the half-open door and checked the rubble beyond. The passage was well and truly blocked. He examined the back of the door, then nodded. It could work—the best solution for now. He extricated himself again and went back upstairs, although his leg was already giving him signals that he had done enough and needed to rest. There was certainly plenty of lumber to choose from. Shattered pews and kneelers, smashed altar tables, and carved pieces that must have been parts of the high altar once. He chose four relatively straight and sturdy lengths and then worked to prize out the nails from the shattered wood. It was long and tedious work. Then he carried his materials downstairs with a good, round piece of marble that had probably been part of a saint’s statue. He squeezed around the door, noting dryly how good it was that he had eaten so little for a month now and was horribly thin. Then he set to work building a crude frame into which the painting could fit on the back of the door. He had never been much of a carpenter—he had never needed to be, with plenty of servants to do the manual work—and there was much swearing as he tried to hammer rusty nails through varnished wood and into a solid door. But in the end he achieved what he had envisioned. He lifted up the painting and pushed it into the enclosing wood frame. “Va bene,” he said out loud in Italian. He now hammered short pieces diagonally across the corners to hold the painting in place. Even if anyone managed to force the door open, they would only see a blocked passage. The painting would be safe until Sofia could return and the Germans had retreated.

  Hugo felt very satisfied with himself as he came wearily up the steps. If only he could protect the rest of the artworks in the little crypt. He imagined Germans hauling off the other big paintings with delight, taking down the crucifix, even knocking down the saints and the marble figures on the tombs. Then another idea came to him. The former door to the chapel that had fallen when the last bomb hit—it might just fit over the opening that led down to the crypt. He picked his way across unstable rubble to where it lay, and then attempted to drag it along the floor. It was large and incredibly heavy. His leg sent out waves of pain every time he bent and then pulled at the door. His forehead was soon coated in beads of sweat, and he felt nauseous. He had to admit defeat and realised he needed to wait for Sofia. But he had no idea when she could come or how quickly he’d have to leave once she got there.

  He went to lie down, the revolver and knife at the ready by his right hand. The rest of the day passed and Sofia didn’t come. He agonised over what that might mean. She had not found the farmer with the cart, or the Germans were still in the area and were watching her. It could be something as simple as her son being afraid and not wanting to leave her side. This reassured him a little. He would just have to be patient and pray that the Germans had not identified any of the bodies of those dead partisans as coming from San Salvatore.

  Night fell. Hugo was now desperately hungry. He stuffed the remaining parachute into its pouch. Silk might be a good thing to barter, given Sofia’s enthusiasm for it. In the morning he would scatter the items he had acquired over the ruins so that all traces of his occupation there were removed. He dozed, then jerked awake again at the smallest of sounds. But he must have finally fallen asleep because Sofia was suddenly beside him. He felt her soft hair touch his cheek. He opened his eyes, not knowing if this was reality or just one of his dreams about her.

  “Ugo, mio caro,” she whispered, her face only inches from his.

  Instinctively he took her into his arms and felt her body warm against his. Then he was kissing her hungrily, the pent-up desire mingled with his fear, and she was responding, her slender body pressing against him. His hand fumbled with her skirts, felt the flesh of her upper thigh, tugged at her underpants. And he realised she was unbuttoning his trousers. Then he rolled on to her, the pain in his leg forgotten, the Germans forgotten, the war forgotten.

  Afterward they lay together in silence, their breathing in harmony.

  “Ugo, I must move,” she said at last. “The rocks dig into my back.”

  “The next time we do that it will be in a big, beautiful bed with a feather mattress,” he whispered in her ear as he helped her to sit up. “Much more comfortable.”

  “You can believe there will be a next time?” she asked.

  “I can. We will get away, Sofia. You and I. And if your Guido is truly dead . . .”

  She put her fingers to his lips. “Don’t go on. Who can think about the future?”

  “What about the cart? Did you find the farmer?”

  “Not yet. I could not leave the village. It is so bad, Ugo. The Germans are not going to leave us. One
of them has come to stay at my house. He has taken the best bedroom upstairs.”

  “In your house? Oh, that’s terrible, Sofia. For God’s sake, take Renzo, go find the cart, and we’ll leave immediately.”

  “I wanted to go yesterday, but this German asked me where I was going. I told him my turnips were almost ready for harvest. I was going to check on my field, and if they were ready I had to arrange for a cart to take them to market.”

  “That was clever.”

  She shook her head. “He said he would send one of his men with me to help me dig up the turnips.” She paused and sighed. “I told him that was not necessary, I was strong, I was used to hard work. But he said he wanted to help in return for giving him accommodation.”

  “So he sounds like a decent sort of man, then.”

  She turned away. “Who knows? It may be that they have been instructed not to let any of us out of their sight. And I don’t like the way he looked at me. He watched me going upstairs. I could feel his eyes on me.”

  “You took an awful risk coming here now,” he said. “What if he checks on you at night?”

  “I locked my bedroom door,” she said. “I have brought Renzo to sleep with me. I just pray that he doesn’t wake before I get back.”

  Hugo felt impotent rage building inside him.

  “Then you should return immediately.”

  “I am afraid I could only bring you a little polenta and a few cold beans,” she said. “The German ate two helpings of the stew I had made. I told him we had almost no food and he said not to worry, he would bring me more. He said his men were good to those who cooperated. I told him I had no choice. I had to protect my son and the old woman. Then he smiled and said, ‘You have no reason to fear me.’ I wish I could believe him.”

  “Will he be in your house all day, do you think?”

  “He knows I must go to my field. If he sends a man with me I will tell that man to keep digging while I go and arrange for the cart to market. And even if he insists on accompanying me to the old farmer, he will not speak our language, and he will certainly not speak my Tuscan dialect. I can arrange for the cart in front of him.”

  Hugo put his arm around her. “You are very brave, Sofia. I feel so helpless and useless stuck here. I should be protecting you. Instead you are risking everything for me.”

  “And for me, too, now. I realise I must get my son to safety. And myself.” She stood up, adjusting her skirts and wrapping her shawl around her. “Let us hope I can take the cart tomorrow. Then I can load it with turnips and you can hide among them and we will be free.”

  “You make it sound so easy.’

  “We must trust in God. That is all we can do,” she said.

  Hugo pulled himself to his feet beside her. “Before you go, I need you to help me with one thing. That old door—we can cover the opening to the crypt and disguise it.”

  “And the painting?”

  “I have hidden it, Sofia. A perfect hiding place. Behind the secret door.”

  “The door in the wall?”

  “Yes, I have the key. I will take it with us and give it to you when it is safe for you to return.”

  “You are so clever, Ugo. Our beautiful boy will be safe and dry down there.”

  “Yes,” he agreed. He went over to the great door. She bent beside him, and together they manhandled it across the rubble until it was in place over the opening. It fitted perfectly. They looked up at each other and exchanged a grin of conspirators.

  “You go,” he said. “I will cover it with rocks and wood, and nobody will ever know it was there.”

  “Yes,” she said. She came to him and kissed him, full and hard on the lips. “Until tomorrow, amore mio.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  JOANNA

  June 1973

  “Oh, there you are,” Paola said, looking up from the beans she had been retying. “I was beginning to get worried about you. I thought you had gone up to the town, but then Renzo came seeking you and said that you were not up there.”

  “Renzo came?” I blurted out the words.

  “Yes. Looking for you.” She misinterpreted my alarm. “I think you might have made a conquest there, mia cara.” She gave me a knowing little smile.

  “Did he say what he wanted?”

  “He didn’t. Maybe just to enjoy your company, to get to know you better.”

  “Oh no. It’s not like that,” I said. “He must have wanted to arrange a time to meet me and take me to the station tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow? So you will really leave so soon?”

  “I think it would be wise,” I said. “If I stay longer then I fear that the inspector may still try to say that I killed Gianni. He may also try to say that you helped me. It is better for everyone that I go when I can. And Cosimo told me that his son has to drive into Florence tomorrow and will give me a ride to the train station.”

  “So soon.” She came around the table and embraced me. “I will miss you, little one. You have become a second daughter. And Angelina has enjoyed your company, too. She says I am old and boring and it is good to speak to someone her age.”

  “I know. I have enjoyed every minute with you, especially your cooking. And I am sorry that I will now never learn to become an Italian cook.”

  “We will have a good meal tonight if it is to be your last,” she said. “A mushroom risotto, perhaps, before the aubergine Parmesan and panna cotta, definitely. You can help me to prepare them, if you like. We will start with crostini. Perhaps Signor Renzo will want to help us, too?”

  “Renzo?” I asked.

  “Yes, I invited him to join us for dinner, and I know that he loves to cook.”

  I could tell from her face what she was thinking: she was playing matchmaker with Renzo and me. On any other occasion I might have welcomed her help, but now I knew what I did, I didn’t want any more to do with him. The chats we had, his taking me to his old house—they were probably designed to find out what I knew and what I didn’t know. He was just following instructions from Cosimo. I took this one stage further—had he also witnessed Gianni pushing the envelope into my room and now wanted to retrieve its contents or find out what it said?

  I couldn’t stop him from coming, but I would have to tread very carefully this evening. I put my purse back in my room, locked the door again, and came to help Paola in the garden. Later I had a rest, locking myself in, but I slept undisturbed and awoke feeling refreshed. Heading over to the farmhouse to see if the preparations had begun for dinner, I was startled to find Renzo standing close to my door.

  “Oh,” I gasped, and took an involuntary step back.

  “Sorry if I startled you, Joanna,” he said. “Paola wanted me to pick more asparagus and see if any more tomatoes were ripe. I came early to help prepare the meal. She is making a real feast for you.”

  “I know. She told me. She is so kind.”

  “She has become fond of you,” he said. “She is sorry you have to leave so soon.”

  “I am, too, but it’s better that way, isn’t it?” I said. “I would rather be far away from that inspector. He still seems to think I might be somehow involved with Gianni’s murder, which is ridiculous. I only exchanged maybe a dozen words with the man at a table full of other men.”

  “Quite ridiculous,” he said. “But I, too, am sorry you are going to leave. I would like to have found out the truth about your father and my mother. And the beautiful boy. I can’t stop thinking about it. If your father was in this area long enough for my mother to have a child, how could they possibly have kept both those things secret? And would he have hidden a child where nobody else could find him, only to write to her about him months later?”

  “Perhaps the child was given to a family in the hills to look after?” I suggested. “She was going to reclaim him later, but she never did.”

  “Then why does nobody know about this? Surely the family would have told someone? They would have said, ‘A British airman left a baby with us. Now we h
ave to find his mother.’ There would have been talk. Old memories would have been jogged.”

  “Yes,” I said. “And yet nobody in San Salvatore seems to know anything about a British airman. And everyone believes that your mother ran off with a German.”

  “It’s strange,” he said, straightening up from where he had just picked a big ripe tomato, “but old memories are beginning to come back to me. I remember I was sick for a while. I’m not sure what it was. Measles? Something like that. Anyway, I couldn’t leave the house and my mother went out every day looking for things for us to eat. Mushrooms, chestnuts—once there was a pigeon, I remember that. I wanted to go with her, but she said that I had to stay indoors because of my chest. I watched her going up the hill with her basket. She was worried about me and hated to leave me. But we had to eat, didn’t we?”

  “She was worried about you?” I stared at him. “Renzo, everything you say tells me that your mother loved you dearly. She would not have abandoned you, I’m sure. She would not have run off and just left you behind. I’m sure she must have been forced to leave against her will.”

  “But everyone said . . . ,” he began hesitantly. “I’ve always been told . . .”

  “You know what I think?” I said. “I think someone betrayed your mother and my father, maybe for money, or maybe out of jealousy, or maybe to save their own skin. And the Germans took her away.” I realised as I said it that I might just be causing him more grief. What if the person who betrayed her was Cosimo? Then I remembered that Gianni had seen the British airman being driven off, and he was an opportunist and a sneak. Perhaps he had tipped off the Germans that a British airman had been hiding out. “Did you see her go, or had she just gone by the time you woke up in the morning?”

  He frowned, trying to recollect. “No, I was there, I’m pretty sure. Yes, she came over and kissed me and told me to be a good boy and that she’d be back soon. She was crying. There were teardrops on her cheeks. And then she wanted to say more and kiss me again but the soldier shouted at her and . . .” He broke off, a look of wonder on his face. “It wasn’t the soldier who was staying at our house—the nice one. It was another soldier. A big man. I remember that he seemed to fill the whole doorway. And he yelled in a fierce voice.”