A Harvest of Secrets(45)

“But how? I—”

“Sleep near the barn door. He’ll come for you and take you. Make sure you go to the right place, and nowhere else. Understand?”

“I think so, Father.”

“Go in peace then. Go with God. For your penance, do this task, and perhaps you will keep some of our Jewish friends and Christian brothers from going to those camps.”

“But if the train is blown up?”

“Not the train. The tracks. The train will come off the rails there, in a place where it should be going fairly slowly, so none of the passengers will be hurt. We’ll have men ready. The Germans will be shot, the Jews and the others will escape.”

“The Germans, Father, they’ll be shot? Then other Germans will kill many of us for revenge.”

“We have plans for that, too, Paolo. Just please do what I’ve asked you to do.”

“Yes, Father.”

“And a priest from the South called here on a terrible connection. I believe he said one of your workers had been there.”

“Which one, Father? Carlo?”

“I’m not sure, and I have no other information.”

“Thank you, Father.”

“Go then.”

“Vittoria took the deserters to the nuns.”

“I know that.”

“How could you know?”

“I just know.”

“What will become of them? The three Germans?”

“They will be fed and then sent on in the night. From the nuns to another priest. From there, I hope, to safety. Now accept your absolution and say your penance.”

“Yes, Father.”

Paolo listened to the quiet run of Latin syllables, catching a word here and there that sounded like a word in his own language. Then he made the sign of the cross, ducked out into the nave, and spent a moment rubbing his kneecaps.

Walking the short distance from the confessional to the wooden altar rail, where Enrico was now sitting quietly in the first pew, Paolo felt caught in a swirling cloud. He’d lied to the priest—not once, but twice—about Eleonora. Unforgiveable. Why had he done that? And he’d meant to ask the priest more questions: Why did it have to be Vittoria who took the deserters to the nuns? Why couldn’t the man who was going to take him to Chiusi carry the parcel himself and set it against the tracks? Why couldn’t the tracks be damaged another way, with a pickax, a sledgehammer? And what if someone saw him leaving in the middle of the night, or returning just before dawn? It must truly be his penance. It must be. He’d taken a life, now he must save lives. “DELIVERY US FROM EVIL,” Enrico started shouting at the crucifix above the altar. “DELIVERY FROM EVIL! US FROM EVIL!”

Paolo studied the sculpture of Mary for a moment, imagining what she must have felt, watching her own child be tortured and killed. He winced, sat next to Enrico, put a hand on his arm, said, “Quietly now, Rico. God hears when you whisper.”

Enrico raised his eyebrows and stared at him as if he’d been shouting to block out the priest’s words, his own thoughts, Paolo’s sins. He kept his eyebrows up and said, “Paolo, what if Carlo doesn’t come home?”





Twenty-Five

The mother superior’s office was on the convent’s second floor. Walking slowly, almost shuffling, apparently in pain, an older nun led Vittoria up the steps and along a spotlessly clean tiled corridor, knocked twice on a closed door, and then shuffled away without having spoken a word. Vittoria heard a voice from inside and opened the door into a large room, five meters square, the walls and ceiling painted white. One desk, two hard chairs, one crucifix and a painting of the Virgin Mother on the wall behind the desk. Nothing more. A woman in a white habit rose to greet her and gestured to the other chair, and when Vittoria sat, she felt the contrast between this place and the surroundings she was accustomed to, the upholstered armchairs, the walls hung with framed paintings and colorful fabrics, the vases, picture frames and velvet swags her mother had collected in better times from the markets in Pisa, Milan, and Lucca.

“My feet are soaking wet, I’m sorry,” she said.

The mother superior waved her comment away, white sleeve flapping. “You’re Vittoria SanAntonio. I remember when you visited with your mother, years ago. I’m Sister Gabriella. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

“I’m surprised you remember us.”

Sister Gabriella’s tight smile pushed her cheeks into the sides of the wimple, and Vittoria could see fine white hairs there, dusting the woman’s skin. “We don’t have so many visitors. I remember your mother well. She had a lively spirit. And a compassion that is very unusual in her class. In yours, I mean. She was a radical in many ways.”

“She spoke to me only rarely about those things.”

“Perhaps out of modesty. Or perhaps she was waiting for the correct moment. In any case, you seem to have inherited some of her spirit. Sister Tomasina told me what you’ve done. It was very kind. And brave.”

“What will happen to them now?”

“We’ll send them off tonight. We have contacts. Partisan women. Some are laypeople, some are nuns.”

“And Father Costantino? Does he help you?” Vittoria couldn’t be sure, but at the mention of the priest’s name, Sister Gabriella seemed to wince, almost imperceptibly. The nun recovered quickly. Her face settled back into a perfection of calm, a stillness it seemed no emotion could ever trouble. There was a knock on the door, and a nun Vittoria hadn’t seen before brought in a pot of tea and two cups on a tray. She set the tray on the almost bare desktop—an open Bible there, a few sheets of paper, nothing else—poured the tea into both cups as precisely as any trained servant, and left. They must believe it’s sinful to speak, Vittoria thought.