A Harvest of Secrets(67)
She put her palms down flat on the grassy earth to either side of her, as if to take hold of the fleeting minutes she and Carlo had enjoyed there, a bond they’d forged against every unspoken rule of Italian history. How like her own mother she’d turned out to be! She composed another letter for Carlo in her mind but could not imagine finding the strength to write it.
She swore an oath to herself then: if the Good Lord would bring him back to her alive, she’d use every last drop of her strength to nurture and protect the love between them. They’d make a new nation of two—fair, generous, based on kindness and mutual respect, not dominance, not riches. She made the sign of the cross and swore the oath upon her mother’s soul, and sat there imagining that love, that future, until she heard Enrico’s voice and then the plaintive squeak of the wagon wheels.
Thirty-Eight
When Paolo awakened—later than usual—on the morning after his trip to the railroad tracks, his first thought was that, in spite of everything that held him to the vineyard, now was the time to leave. Marcellina had been right: the chances were good that the Nazis would return. It was impossible to forget what Antonio had told him the night before about Father Costantino, impossible to forget the feeling of the officer’s pistol aimed at his forehead, the spark of evil in the man’s eyes, the way, without hesitating for an instant, he’d turned and shot three rounds into Antonina’s body. Probably the only reason he hadn’t killed all of them on that night was because he worried about who the Signore might know—a German general who loved his wine?—and what kind of trouble that might bring a lowly captain. But, if what Antonio had said was true, then the Signore sympathized with the Germans. And, if what Eleonora had told him was true, then the Nazis had executed twenty Italians because of an insult. So what was to keep the men from returning, lining him and Eleonora and Enrico up against the wall, and shooting them as if they were just more horses in a barn?
Still, as he dressed and went downstairs to use the toilet and wash, Paolo tried to tell himself it was possible the Nazis wouldn’t come back. Possible they’d be busy with other duties, tormenting other people, investigating the wrecked train near Chiusi—if the explosives had worked as planned—fleeing the advancing Allies. In any case, he couldn’t leave as long as Vittoria and Rico were there, he knew that. After all these years, it would be like tearing out his lungs. They were alone in the manor house now with the Signore; Eleonora and Antonio had spent the night in the attic hayloft, though he’d heard Eleonora get up early and tiptoe down the stairs. He told himself that he and Rico could work together, and that maybe Antonio would help. Eleonora could prepare their meals. Perhaps they could get in enough grapes to at least make a few kegs’ worth of wine.
But by the time he’d finished washing his face, Paolo understood how foolish he was being. The choices were either to abandon the only people he cared about on this earth, or to go see the Signore and ask him to intervene with the Germans.
The first option was unbearable, the second as unlikely as finding white wine in the barrels of vino nobile. The barn was eerily empty—never, not for one day of his life, had it been that way. He fed Ottavio. Then, after standing still and staring up at the vines for several minutes, he took one of the scythes and headed out across the courtyard, telling himself the Good Lord would send him a solution as he worked. He picked a tomato from the part of the garden the Nazi captain hadn’t poisoned, washed it at the well, and ate it as he climbed. The grapes were almost all purple now. Another week or ten days, depending on the weather, and it would be time to pick. It was a massive job, one that had required long days from him, Carlo, Giuseppe, Gianluca, a few traveling workers, and Gennaro Asolutto and the women as well. He couldn’t think about that now. He couldn’t think about what he and Antonio had done the night before. The only sensible option was to run. He’d work for a few hours, until Vittoria was awake and had eaten, and then he’d gather his courage, step into the manor house—forbidden territory for him—and ask her to leave with them, all together. The Signore would hate him for it, but, from what Antonio had told him, the Signore already hated him. And, Paolo thought, not without reason.
The day was cool. He’d been working barely half an hour, distracted, but swinging the scythe in a familiar, soothing rhythm, running the sharp blade through the stalks, when he heard Ottavio neighing, and then the squeak of the wheels. He turned and saw the wagon crest the rise, just as it had the day before, only this time Antonio and Eleonora sat in the bench seat, Enrico standing in the bed behind them. “Paolo! Paolo!” the boy shouted happily, a huge smile stretching his face.
And how could I leave you? Paolo thought. How could I possibly leave you?
Eleonora had brought him a breakfast of bread and cheese and water, and for a few minutes they stood with him while he ate. Enrico ran over and grabbed the scythe and started working. Paolo felt that his mind was a spinning motor, thoughts flying this way and that, a smoke of confusion and guilt circling over everything. “What if they come back?” he couldn’t keep himself from asking aloud.
Antonio pointed to the automatica on the seat. “Then we’ll kill them,” he said. “Every one of them.”
Paolo wanted to ask Antonio if he knew what had happened to the train, if the bomb had gone off, but he couldn’t bear to look at him. On the previous night, Antonio had seemed so confident and mature; this morning, holding one hand tenderly on Eleonora’s shoulder, he appeared strangely young. A boy who was going to take on a carload of SS killers with the help of his girlfriend, an old man, Rico, and one automatic weapon!