The Tuscan Child(81)

Then his eyes strayed to the painting of the Child Jesus. He had to protect that, too. No German was going to loot it! He lifted it down from the wall with difficulty, surprised at how heavy it was. He wondered if the frame was actually made of gold and not gold leaf. Held close in front of him, the child seemed almost to be exchanging a secret joke with him. He had an overwhelming desire to take the canvas from its frame, roll it up, and stuff it into his jacket or parachute pouch. But his artist’s training would not let him do such a thing. The old paint would crack and the painting would be ruined. And it was certainly too large and heavy to carry with him. It had to be hidden until the Germans had finally retreated northward.

He went back to the little door in the wall. It was made of solid oak, with carved panels and a keyhole big enough for an ancient key. He fetched his knife and tried prying the lock, then cutting out a section of the door, but the attempts were futile. The wood was too thick and the door was snugly built into the stone. He was loath to carry the painting upstairs, where it would be exposed to the wind and weather. In the end he tucked it behind the altar. At least nobody would find it unless they searched well. Then he went back upstairs to keep a lookout.

It was a blustery day with clouds racing in from the west and the promise of more rain. Hugo scanned the countryside in all directions, but nothing moved on the road, and the surrounding fields were empty and bare. A desolate landscape, he thought. It echoed his mood. He looked over the recent landslide down to the track. Could I make it down to the road if Sofia has to bring the cart that way? he wondered. A little voice in his head whispered that he should just run for it now and not put Sofia at any more risk.

He returned to the rubble beside the chapel to see if he could salvage anything of use—something that could be used as a weapon, maybe. But the walls had already collapsed in the first bombardment. Nothing much had shifted when the latest bomb fell. In truth there was nothing left to destroy. Bending with difficulty, he idly turned over smaller pieces of masonry, not knowing what he hoped to find. Then he found himself looking at a large iron ring poking from beneath the stones. Intrigued, he lifted more masonry away and pulled out a key ring with several large keys attached. He held it in his hand, staring for a long moment while his heart beat faster. Surely he couldn’t be lucky enough to have found the key to the door?

He made his way back inside, moving as fast as he could, not even noticing the pain in his wounded leg. He was brought back to sanity when he almost tripped going down the steps into the crypt. He had to steady himself against the wall, and so took the last steps at a more careful pace. One by one he tried the keys in the lock, and at last the biggest one fitted. He turned it and heard the lock click. He pushed but the door didn’t budge. It must have jammed when the building shifted during its collapse. He threw his shoulder against it and felt it move, but still it wouldn’t open. Gritting his teeth with frustration, he tried again. At last it opened, scraping against the stone floor with a loud screech that echoed alarmingly through the crypt. Hastily he reached for his lighter and poked his head around the door. Then he snapped the lighter shut and sighed. There had once been a passage, but it was blocked with rubble only a couple of feet beyond the door. Barely enough room for a slim person like him to squeeze around it. A door into nowhere.

Hugo swallowed back his disappointment, but then an idea came to him. A door into nowhere. He squeezed around the half-open door and checked the rubble beyond. The passage was well and truly blocked. He examined the back of the door, then nodded. It could work—the best solution for now. He extricated himself again and went back upstairs, although his leg was already giving him signals that he had done enough and needed to rest. There was certainly plenty of lumber to choose from. Shattered pews and kneelers, smashed altar tables, and carved pieces that must have been parts of the high altar once. He chose four relatively straight and sturdy lengths and then worked to prize out the nails from the shattered wood. It was long and tedious work. Then he carried his materials downstairs with a good, round piece of marble that had probably been part of a saint’s statue. He squeezed around the door, noting dryly how good it was that he had eaten so little for a month now and was horribly thin. Then he set to work building a crude frame into which the painting could fit on the back of the door. He had never been much of a carpenter—he had never needed to be, with plenty of servants to do the manual work—and there was much swearing as he tried to hammer rusty nails through varnished wood and into a solid door. But in the end he achieved what he had envisioned. He lifted up the painting and pushed it into the enclosing wood frame. “Va bene,” he said out loud in Italian. He now hammered short pieces diagonally across the corners to hold the painting in place. Even if anyone managed to force the door open, they would only see a blocked passage. The painting would be safe until Sofia could return and the Germans had retreated.

Hugo felt very satisfied with himself as he came wearily up the steps. If only he could protect the rest of the artworks in the little crypt. He imagined Germans hauling off the other big paintings with delight, taking down the crucifix, even knocking down the saints and the marble figures on the tombs. Then another idea came to him. The former door to the chapel that had fallen when the last bomb hit—it might just fit over the opening that led down to the crypt. He picked his way across unstable rubble to where it lay, and then attempted to drag it along the floor. It was large and incredibly heavy. His leg sent out waves of pain every time he bent and then pulled at the door. His forehead was soon coated in beads of sweat, and he felt nauseous. He had to admit defeat and realised he needed to wait for Sofia. But he had no idea when she could come or how quickly he’d have to leave once she got there.