The Tuscan Child(57)

And I thought I detected the glimmer of a smile.

“She is beautiful,” I said.

“Yes, isn’t she? The most perfect baby ever,” Angelina said. “When she was born early, they said she might not live. But I prayed. I prayed to Saint Anne and to the Blessed Mother, and they heard me. And now look at her. Getting fatter every day thanks to my good milk. When Mario comes home he will be so delighted to see her.”

I looked down at the tiny mite in my arms, her eyes already fluttering back into sleep. I couldn’t have done this alone, I thought. To rear a child one needs a Mario who will come home and be delighted. And a grandma who takes care of mother and baby.

That evening, Paola said she was tired and we would have a simple meal. She whipped up eggs and made a frittata with the few vegetables we had brought home: onions and zucchini and beans. It was surprisingly good.

“An early night, I think,” she said after we had finished our meal with cheese and fruit. “Tomorrow is a big day. First the Mass at eight o’clock, then the procession and then the feast. Will you come?”

“Oh yes. Of course. I’d like to see it.”

“You are not of our faith, I think,” she said.

I didn’t like to say I wasn’t really of any faith. “I was raised in the Church of England,” I said. “It is similar, I think.”

“I hear that in England there is no devotion to religion. You do not honour the saints, is that right? You do not pray to them.”

“That’s true,” I said.

She made a dismissive noise. “Then how can prayers be answered if you do not call upon the saints to help? God is obviously too busy to do everything alone.”

I thought how sweet and simple this was. But then I remembered the little medal on a ribbon that had been in my father’s box. Someone had given that to him, probably Sofia. I wondered which saint was represented on it. It seemed so unlikely for my cold and typically English father to have worn a medal on a ribbon. He must have loved her very much, I thought. I remembered the paintings done before the war, so bright and full of life. And it came to me as a shock that his life essentially ended when that letter was returned to him unopened. I wondered how many further attempts he made to trace her until he gave up and married my solid and dependable mother.





CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE





HUGO


December 1944

The weather turned freezing wet and miserable. Hugo huddled in his shelter for several days while rain and sleet splashed around him. Sofia came at night, her hair plastered to her forehead and her clothing sodden.

“Don’t come when it’s raining like this. I can survive, I assure you, and you’ll catch pneumonia if you get so cold and wet,” he begged.

“I am strong, Ugo. I am used to a hard life. Don’t worry about me,” she said.

“But how will you explain your wet clothes? Your grandmother will be suspicious.”

“Nonna can no longer climb the stairs. I dry my things in the linen closet.” She gave him a mischievous smile. “Don’t worry.”

But he couldn’t help worrying. One night the storm was so bad that Sofia didn’t come. Thunder crashed overhead. Lightning lit up the sky above. Hugo sat up, relatively dry under the part of the parachute he had kept, worrying about her. What if she had tried to come and was struck by lightning? What if a tree branch had fallen on her? He also felt the gnawing of hunger. As he was growing stronger, so his need for food had increased. He faced the sobering reality that if something happened to Sofia he would starve unless he managed to trap more birds. But the thought of eating a bird raw was so repugnant that he brushed it aside.

I must practice walking, he thought. I must get used to using this leg. In the morning I will try.

But in the morning the rain continued in a solid sheet until the floor around him resembled a small lake. He huddled miserably in his corner while the rain drummed on the altar above him, and his spirits sank lower and lower. Let’s face it, he thought. My chances of escaping are pretty much nil. The Germans are still all over the place. The Allies won’t try pushing north into the mountains until spring. And even if I could make my way down the mountain to the road, I’d never be able to run and hide if the Germans spotted me.

But he couldn’t just give up and give in. It was his duty as a British officer to do whatever he could to rejoin his squadron. And as long as there was hope of seeing Sofia again, then that spark would keep him going. By mid-afternoon the rain stopped. The sun came out and the lake on the floor steamed. Hugo emerged from his hiding place and spread the parachute out to dry. The sheepskin and blanket were miraculously not too damp. Then he made his way carefully around the edge of the pool on the floor and stood outside, enjoying the feel of sunlight on his face. Clouds still clung to some of the hilltops, and he noticed that snow now covered more of the mountain peaks.

Once outside on the wet forecourt, he tried to make himself walk, putting weight on his leg. He cried out in pain, and it would have buckled if he had not been wearing the splint. So much for that thought. He tucked the crutch-branch under his armpit and hobbled the rest of the way to the rain barrel, where he had a long drink and washed his face. A bath, he thought. A long hot bath. And he pictured the bathroom at Langley Hall with its big claw-foot tub and the steaming water. I will never take anything for granted again, he decided.