The Tuscan Child(23)

“Not quite dead yet,” he said, attempting flippancy.

She laughed. “That is good to hear, because I have brought you things to make you strong again.”

He hauled himself out of his shelter, grunting with pain as he did so. She came over, put the lantern on a beam, and squatted down beside him. “See, I bring you food.”

She opened a cloth bag she had been carrying and brought out what looked like a towel. She unwound it to reveal a basin inside.

“Soup,” she said. “I hope it is still hot. It is good. Full of beans and macaroni and vegetables.” She handed it to him. The basin was still hot to touch.

“It’s very warm. You must have come quickly.”

“Oh yes. I did not like to linger in the olive groves alone. You never know who might be there these days. If the partisans are meeting, they would not want to be seen by a woman. I would be in as much danger from them as from the Germans.”

“Look, please don’t come again,” he said. “I really don’t want to put you in danger.”

“Don’t worry. I am careful,” she said. “I did not light the lantern until I was well away from the village. Here. You will need this.” She handed him a spoon and watched as he ate.

“It’s very good,” he said. “I should save some for tomorrow, unless you need your basin returned now.”

“It will not taste so good when it is cold,” she said. “Besides, I have brought you something for the morning. Not much, I am afraid, but it will keep you going.” She reached into her bag again. “Some polenta. A little hard cheese. An onion. Polenta we still have. The Germans do not like cornmeal.”

“I can’t thank you enough.”

“It is nothing.” She gave him such a sweet smile. “When the world has gone mad, we must help each other when we can. Most of my neighbours are good and share what little they have. When Benito snared a rabbit, he gave us some of it to make the good broth you are eating. And when I came home this morning, I passed Signora Gucci and she saw the mushrooms I had found.

“‘Funghi di bosco!’ she exclaimed. ‘I love funghi di bosco. If you can find some for me I will bake bread and biscotti for your family.’

“‘Here, take them now,’ I said, and gave her most of them. ‘I will go out looking every day to find you more.’” Sofia looked up at Hugo. He saw her eyes, glowing in the light of the lantern. “She is quite rich, and she has a son who brings her things from the black market. If I can find her mushrooms, she may keep us supplied. And . . . and I have an excuse now to come up here. She is a gossip. She will tell everyone how diligently I am hunting for her.”

He returned her smile. “But how did you manage to get away tonight? Did your husband’s grandmother not want to know where you were going? What time is it, anyway?”

“It’s after nine,” she said. “The old lady and my son are asleep. They think I am in my room, but I climb out of the back window where I can’t be seen.”

“How old is your son?”

“He is three.” She paused. “My husband has never seen him. He was called up and sent off to Africa before Renzo was born.”

“And you don’t know if he is still alive?”

“That’s right.” She stared down at her hands. “I have never had confirmation that he is dead, so I have to believe that he is in a prison camp somewhere. I have to keep hoping.”

He reached out and covered her hand with his, a gesture he would never have done at home. “I am so sorry. It must be awful, not knowing. But then my wife doesn’t hear from me often and knows that I fly bombing missions. She must worry, too.”

“You have children?”

“One son. I suppose he’s nine now, but I haven’t seen him since he was five. I try to picture how he looks all grown up, but I can’t. All I see is a little boy dragging his teddy bear around with him everywhere. A timid little chap, running back to Nanny.”

“Nanny? Your grandmother lives with you?”

“No, his nursemaid.”

“A nursemaid? Then you are rich?”

He hesitated. “We have a big house. Not much money, but plenty of land and servants.”

“You are a milord?” She was looking at him with wonder now.

“My father is. I shall be when he dies. Not a lord, exactly. A baronet. A sir.”

“Sir Ugo. Imagine what they would say in the village if they knew I was speaking with a milord.” She said it with great drama, making him laugh.

“That all seems so irrelevant now, doesn’t it? Lords and chimney sweeps fight side by side and die side by side, and nobody cares what they once were.”

“That is so true. You must miss your poor wife very much.”

He hesitated thinking about this. Did he miss her? “I’m not sure how much. We were never very close. But I miss my former life. How easy it was, having someone to cook my meals, wash my clothes, saddle my horse for me. And I took it all for granted. But you clearly miss your husband.”

“Oh yes. I miss my Guido terribly. I was only eighteen when I met him. I had been raised in an orphanage in Lucca. Raised without love, you know. And when I was eighteen I was sent to be a servant at a big farm. Guido was working in the fields there as a hired hand. Gesù Maria! He was so handsome. And the way he smiled at me—I felt as if I was melting like candle wax. We fell in love instantly, and when his father died we married, and he brought me to his house in San Salvatore. His father had some land—not much, you understand, but enough: the olives we walked through, and pasture for the goats. We had a small flock of them, and we made goat’s cheese for the market. But we had only been there for a year when the war came to us and Guido was taken away.”