The Tuscan Child(82)

He went to lie down, the revolver and knife at the ready by his right hand. The rest of the day passed and Sofia didn’t come. He agonised over what that might mean. She had not found the farmer with the cart, or the Germans were still in the area and were watching her. It could be something as simple as her son being afraid and not wanting to leave her side. This reassured him a little. He would just have to be patient and pray that the Germans had not identified any of the bodies of those dead partisans as coming from San Salvatore.

Night fell. Hugo was now desperately hungry. He stuffed the remaining parachute into its pouch. Silk might be a good thing to barter, given Sofia’s enthusiasm for it. In the morning he would scatter the items he had acquired over the ruins so that all traces of his occupation there were removed. He dozed, then jerked awake again at the smallest of sounds. But he must have finally fallen asleep because Sofia was suddenly beside him. He felt her soft hair touch his cheek. He opened his eyes, not knowing if this was reality or just one of his dreams about her.

“Ugo, mio caro,” she whispered, her face only inches from his.

Instinctively he took her into his arms and felt her body warm against his. Then he was kissing her hungrily, the pent-up desire mingled with his fear, and she was responding, her slender body pressing against him. His hand fumbled with her skirts, felt the flesh of her upper thigh, tugged at her underpants. And he realised she was unbuttoning his trousers. Then he rolled on to her, the pain in his leg forgotten, the Germans forgotten, the war forgotten.

Afterward they lay together in silence, their breathing in harmony.

“Ugo, I must move,” she said at last. “The rocks dig into my back.”

“The next time we do that it will be in a big, beautiful bed with a feather mattress,” he whispered in her ear as he helped her to sit up. “Much more comfortable.”

“You can believe there will be a next time?” she asked.

“I can. We will get away, Sofia. You and I. And if your Guido is truly dead . . .”

She put her fingers to his lips. “Don’t go on. Who can think about the future?”

“What about the cart? Did you find the farmer?”

“Not yet. I could not leave the village. It is so bad, Ugo. The Germans are not going to leave us. One of them has come to stay at my house. He has taken the best bedroom upstairs.”

“In your house? Oh, that’s terrible, Sofia. For God’s sake, take Renzo, go find the cart, and we’ll leave immediately.”

“I wanted to go yesterday, but this German asked me where I was going. I told him my turnips were almost ready for harvest. I was going to check on my field, and if they were ready I had to arrange for a cart to take them to market.”

“That was clever.”

She shook her head. “He said he would send one of his men with me to help me dig up the turnips.” She paused and sighed. “I told him that was not necessary, I was strong, I was used to hard work. But he said he wanted to help in return for giving him accommodation.”

“So he sounds like a decent sort of man, then.”

She turned away. “Who knows? It may be that they have been instructed not to let any of us out of their sight. And I don’t like the way he looked at me. He watched me going upstairs. I could feel his eyes on me.”

“You took an awful risk coming here now,” he said. “What if he checks on you at night?”

“I locked my bedroom door,” she said. “I have brought Renzo to sleep with me. I just pray that he doesn’t wake before I get back.”

Hugo felt impotent rage building inside him.

“Then you should return immediately.”

“I am afraid I could only bring you a little polenta and a few cold beans,” she said. “The German ate two helpings of the stew I had made. I told him we had almost no food and he said not to worry, he would bring me more. He said his men were good to those who cooperated. I told him I had no choice. I had to protect my son and the old woman. Then he smiled and said, ‘You have no reason to fear me.’ I wish I could believe him.”

“Will he be in your house all day, do you think?”

“He knows I must go to my field. If he sends a man with me I will tell that man to keep digging while I go and arrange for the cart to market. And even if he insists on accompanying me to the old farmer, he will not speak our language, and he will certainly not speak my Tuscan dialect. I can arrange for the cart in front of him.”

Hugo put his arm around her. “You are very brave, Sofia. I feel so helpless and useless stuck here. I should be protecting you. Instead you are risking everything for me.”

“And for me, too, now. I realise I must get my son to safety. And myself.” She stood up, adjusting her skirts and wrapping her shawl around her. “Let us hope I can take the cart tomorrow. Then I can load it with turnips and you can hide among them and we will be free.”

“You make it sound so easy.’

“We must trust in God. That is all we can do,” she said.

Hugo pulled himself to his feet beside her. “Before you go, I need you to help me with one thing. That old door—we can cover the opening to the crypt and disguise it.”

“And the painting?”

“I have hidden it, Sofia. A perfect hiding place. Behind the secret door.”

“The door in the wall?”