The Tuscan Child(64)

He gave a chuckle at her insistence. The typical Italian mother, he thought, even though she is so young. He needed no urging. The food was still warm. He ate, using the last of his polenta to wipe the plates clean. The grappa was raw and stung his throat as it went down, but it spread a warmth through his body.

“You like it?” she asked shyly.

“Magnificent. A true banquet,” he said, and she gave a delighted laugh.

“We had such a good time today in the village. First a beautiful Midnight Mass. Everyone singing, and Father Filippo gave us words of such comfort. Then we joined with other families to celebrate. There was enough to eat and everyone was happy. Just like old times.” Then her face became solemn again. “Cosimo gave me a gift—a bottle of limoncello he had been saving in his cellar. I didn’t want to accept it, but we were in company and I did not want him to lose face in front of other people. So I made him open it right away and drink a toast to our missing loved ones, those who had not returned home yet.”

Her face became wistful. Then she smiled again. “And I have brought a small gift for you, because at Christmas one should give gifts.”

She handed him a tiny angel carved from wood. “It was part of our Christmas scene,” she said.

“You should have left it where it belongs, Sofia,” he said as she put it into his hand.

“But there are other angels, and I wanted an angel to be looking after you. The crib is very old. Many generations, and each one added to it, until now.” She curled his fingers around it. “Keep it and know that all the time I pray that your guardian angel looks after you.”

Hugo felt tears welling up and blinked them away.

“I have a gift for you, too,” he said.

“A gift? For me?”

“Of course. It’s Christmas. One has to give gifts. You said so.”

“Is it another pigeon? Another tin?”

“Nothing as useful, I’m afraid. Here.” He handed her the missal.

“It’s an old book.” She looked at it in wonder.

“I found it among the rubble,” he said. “It seems to be almost intact. Open it.”

She did and found the folded paper.

“Carefully,” he instructed.

She unfolded it and gave a little gasp of excitement. “It is a Miraculous Medal, just like the one I put into Guido’s pocket when he went off to war. How did you know?”

“I found it among the rubble,” he said. “I cleaned it up a bit. I remembered you said you had no medal for la Madonna. And I drew a picture for you.” He realised as he said it that he sounded like a hopeful little boy.

Sofia spread out the folded sheet and held it up to the lantern light. “It’s the nativity,” she exclaimed. “The Virgin and Saint Joseph and the infant Jesus. And shepherds and sheep. Oh, and it’s my home. Look at the church tower. It’s amazing. You are a true artist, Ugo. I will treasure this forever.”

He felt absurdly happy. She moved over to sit beside him and gently stroked his hand. “You are a good, kind man. I hope your wife learns to treasure you.”

They both looked up as they heard the low-pitched vibration of approaching aircraft.

“The Allies. They come to bomb the German winter line again.” She looked excited.

The noise grew in intensity until it rattled loose stones. Then there was a sudden whining noise followed by a deep, booming thud.

“They are dropping bombs,” she said. “There must be a convoy on the road.” She started in fear as a second thud came, making the whole hillside shake.

“Too close,” she exclaimed. “Hold me, Ugo. I am frightened.”

She nestled up against him and he wrapped his arms around her, feeling the softness of her hair against his cheek.

“Don’t worry. You are safe with me,” he said.

I could stay like this forever, he thought. No sooner had this thought formed itself in his head when there was a screeching whine closer still. The dull thud of the explosion made the ground tremble. Sofia screamed and clutched at Hugo, burying her face in his jacket collar as they felt the blast. Stones rained down from the damaged walls, bouncing and thudding around them. Hugo flung himself on top of her to shield her. Then the floor was tilting. The lamp fell with a crash and they were in complete darkness. He could hear and feel rubble sliding past them. It felt as if the whole chapel was imploding. They were sliding, being swept along with cascading stones. Sofia cried out. Hugo grabbed at the side of the altar and hung on for dear life while the world crumbled around him.





CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT





JOANNA


June 1973

As the procession disbanded in the piazza, we stood watching while people hurried off in all directions. I looked at Paola, wondering if we, too, would be going home.

“They go to bring the feast,” she said. “We have been invited to join the Donatelli family this year. Maria Donatelli kindly invited us because it is a long way for me to walk down to my house and then back to the piazza with the food. We will wait for them at their table.”

I followed her across the piazza to a table with a white cloth. “Famiglia Donatelli” was printed on a card. I now saw that every family had reserved a table. I looked around to see where Cosimo and Renzo would be sitting. Men were passing carrying trays of carved lamb. I watched them place the trays at tables in front of the town hall. There was no sign of Cosimo or Renzo yet. I realised that they must have been among those dressed in the robes and hoods. People were arriving at our table now, bringing huge mounds of pasta, risottos, platters of salad, breads, a big ham. I was introduced and found myself sitting amid a loud crowd of many generations. The youngest was Angelina’s daughter and the oldest a shrunken little man with no teeth whose food was cut up for him. Everyone laughed and shouted, and this was repeated at all the other tables. The noise level in the piazza was overpowering. I looked around, wondering if any occasion in England would produce such obvious joy and celebration of family. I felt uncomfortable among them, although they were kind enough to include me, constantly pressing food on me and keeping my wine glass full.