A Harvest of Secrets(74)
The sleep and the familiar landscape had restored some of his confidence. He told himself Vittoria was too kind a soul to love him any less because he was lacking an eye. And that the chances were slim she’d have met someone else in the months he’d been away, and already gotten engaged or married. He’d wash again, shave, find clean clothes in his room. It might take them a day or two, but they’d meet behind the small barn again and be able to talk again, and touch. Just the idea of that was enough to carry him forward. In the warm morning he could let himself believe that a guardian angel had been protecting him all along: by some miracle, he’d survived the assault on the Licata beach and ended up with Ariana’s kind family; he’d slipped out of the house of the Duce supporter, managed not to be reported by the mysterious man who’d asked—twice—if he were a deserter; he’d been given meals, a pair of shoes, money. Simply because of the strength of his right hand, he’d avoided being killed and thrown into the pile of Italian bodies behind the Pietramelara police station. Most amazing of all, the train had derailed, or been sabotaged, and he’d survived that, too, and hadn’t starved to death or died of thirst between that gruesome hour and this moment.
Even so, there was still an open field to cross—Umberto’s property, yes, but a place where he might be seen if there were soldiers searching. It wouldn’t do to get caught now, after having traveled all the way from Sicily. He raised a prayer to Saint Christopher and Saint Jude, hurried past the small, empty cabin, through the wheat—not fully harvested, he noticed, which was unusual this late in the season—and ducked into the trees again not far from the stone they called l’altare. He crouched there for a moment and then crept forward silently. Full daylight now. Paolo and the others would have eaten their morning meal and, at this time of year, might already be harvesting the grapes, or at least preparing for the harvest, checking to see that the moment was right, that the small seeds inside the pulp had changed completely, not partially, from green to brown. The thought of seeing the people he loved lit a warm fire in his belly. He imagined the surprise, the greeting, Enrico nearly squeezing him to death and then running off to fetch his sister. Someone, Marcellina or Costanza, would remark on how thin he’d grown, and go upstairs to prepare a plate of food. Bread, cheese, salami, fresh vegetables!
He made himself go slowly, carefully, moving from tree to tree and standing behind each one for a few seconds, quiet as a hunter. Not far from the place where he knew the manor house would come into view, he heard voices. His own people, he thought at first, Paolo calling out the morning work assignment. But another step closer and he dropped to the dirt and flattened himself there: the words he’d heard were German words, not Italian. How could he have been traced here so quickly? Or were they simply checking every property within fifty kilometers of the ruined train?
He listened for a moment. Orders, they sounded like, but there was a bizarre joyful tone to the words. Sweat dripped from his face and neck. He couldn’t stop himself from crawling forward, very very slowly, barely moving, then staying still, moving again, waiting behind tree trunks, behind large stones, staying as low as he could.
Eventually, he reached the point where, if he raised his head slightly, he could see the roof of the manor house, then, moving a little farther forward, the roof of the barn. Then the walls of both buildings, then the courtyard. At first, the scene below him made no sense. A German truck pulling away from the barn with what looked to be eight or ten cases of wine in its bed. Four soldiers who almost seemed to be celebrating a holiday. Until he saw them go into the manor house, and then appear again carrying various objects—an upholstered chair, a painting, a beautiful ceramic serving bowl—he wondered if the war had ended and they’d come to celebrate with the locals.
He watched. Four men going in and out of the manor house. One of them seemed to be in charge and directed others to load the stolen objects onto the bed of the truck in a certain way. The painting here, the bowl there, lamps over there, wrapped in beautiful quilts. Finally, the truck bed was nearly full—just enough room left for the soldiers to climb in. The man who seemed to be in charge disappeared through the front door, remained in the house for a minute or two, searching for a final treasure, Carlo supposed, then came hurrying back out again, empty-handed. For another minute they all stood silently in the courtyard beside the loaded truck. And then, to his horror, Carlo saw a puff of smoke come out of the open front door, then a tongue of flame licking out one of the first-floor windows. Two more minutes and there was smoke and flames everywhere. Windows were bursting open, glass shattering and tinkling. The men backed the truck away a short distance and stood there cheering hatefully every time there was a small explosion inside, or a larger tongue of flame showing at one of the windows. Soon he could hear the sound of the inferno, a subdued roar beyond the manor house walls. The soldiers backed the truck up farther, and he wondered if they were about to set fire to the barn, too. Then a piece of the tile roof collapsed, and a thick column of black smoke poured up and out through the hole. A huge cheer. Flames were coming out of every window, and suddenly the entire main roof of the manor house collapsed and caused smoke to puff out to the sides like the dirty exhalation of a sinful giant. One final cheer and the men were climbing into the loaded truck and it was slowly making its way south, off the property, through the gate there and over a rise. Gone.
Carlo waited a few minutes, then pushed himself forward and sat with his back against an oak tree, staring at the manor house as it burned. After the better part of an hour the flames could no longer be seen, but the entire roof was gone, wisps of smoke still leaking out the windows. Vittoria and her father and Paolo and Enrico and the servants and workers were dead, he guessed, dead or captured. Or maybe, if they’d had enough warning, they’d gone off somewhere and were safe. He felt that the last ounce of will had been drained from him. A thousand kilometers of walking only to reach an empty property and witness this.