The Tuscan Child(87)

“Now you know it really happens,” he said.

“Joanna? Renzo? Is all well with you? It was only a small earthquake,” Paola called from the open door.

“All is well,” Renzo responded, releasing me. “I think I’d better go,” he said, “before the earth moves under our feet again.” He touched my cheek. “I will see you in the morning. Sleep well.”

And then he went. I let myself into the little room, locked my door, undressed, and lay on my bed staring at the ceiling. Was it possible, just possible, that Renzo really did have feelings for me?





CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN





HUGO


December 1944

As soon as Sofia had departed, Hugo got to work lugging pieces of masonry, as big and heavy as he could carry, to pile on top of the old door. He was still working when the sun came up. He admired his achievement—the area now matched the rest of the rubble on the floor. No one would ever suspect that an entrance to the crypt lay beneath. The beautiful boy was safe.

Then he attacked the next phase: hiding any trace of his occupation of the chapel. He had already been wearing all the extra clothes to keep out the cold, so set about dismantling his shelter, hurling the pieces of wood around the chapel. He took the blanket, sheepskin, bowl, and spoon and scattered them around the rubble, then tossed a few rocks on to them for good measure. When he was done he looked around in satisfaction. Nobody would ever know that he had been here.

All he had to do now was wait. He didn’t think it was likely that Sofia would be able to bring the cart to him that very day. He also didn’t think she’d risk being out at night. It would be too suspicious, and how could she see to drive the wagon in the dark without lanterns? But tomorrow, at first light—that would be logical if she was going to market with a load of turnips. He ate the last crumbs of bread, drank some water, and fantasised about reaching a town to the south, an Allied camp, hot food, a real bed, safety for him and for Sofia and her son. When darkness fell he went and recovered the sheepskin to sit on and dozed sitting up. The night seemed eternal. When the glow of dawn came in the east, he got up, then wondered if he should make his way down the steps to wait for Sofia in the forest. He decided against this in case she came by the other side of the rock, up the track to the precipice, and he somehow had to clamber down to meet her. He wasn’t sure he was up to that feat and decided to go around and scout out the best way down, just in case.

As he came out of the chapel and stood blinking in the bright daylight, he saw a movement among the trees. His heart leapt and he waved. The next thing he knew, two German soldiers emerged, their guns pointed at him. One of them came nimbly up the steps.

“You are the Englishman?” he asked.

Hugo thought of lying. His Italian was now quite fluent, and he had even picked up Sofia’s Tuscan dialect. But they would want to see his papers. They would search him and find his logbook and identity tags.

“Yes,” he said. “English pilot. Officer.”

“Give me your weapon, then put up your hands.”

He had no alternative but to obey. He handed over the revolver. The German did not ask for his knife. “You come with us now. Schnell. Run.”

“I have a broken leg,” he said, lifting his trouser to reveal his splint. “Leg kaputt. Can’t walk fast.”

There was a rapid conversation between the two men. Even with his scant knowledge of German, picked up on a couple of skiing holidays, Hugo sensed that one of them wanted to shoot him on the spot. The other disagreed, and Hugo thought he understood that their colonel would want to question him first.

The German standing in front of him motioned for him to move with his weapon. Hugo went down the steps as slowly as he dared, hanging on to the railing and lowering himself from step to step. He had the knife in his pocket. There was a slight chance he might be able to use it. At the foot of the steps, the two men conversed again in low voices, and he could tell they didn’t agree about something. But the one who had remained at the foot of the steps prevailed.

“Keep your hands on your head. March,” the senior soldier barked at him.

They forced him ahead of them through the trees, one of them digging at his back with the barrel of his weapon. Hugo’s leg began to hurt him, and he stumbled a couple of times.

“Do not play tricks or we will shoot you now,” one of them said.

On the other side of the trees an open military vehicle was waiting. The soldiers ordered him into the back seat. “Keep hands on your head. Do not try to escape, or Heinrich will be happy to shoot you,” the one who spoke English said. He climbed into the driver’s seat, and the other soldier slid into the back beside Hugo, his weapon thrust into Hugo’s side. They drove off, bouncing over the ruts between the olive trees.

For the first time since the shock of being caught, Hugo’s brain began to work. He scanned the fields for any sign of a cart. Had they captured Sofia and made her tell them where he was hiding? Had her son inadvertently given her away? His heart was thumping so loudly in his chest that he found it hard to breathe. If only she was safe, nothing mattered. They did not turn downward toward the road in the valley. Instead they went up through the vineyards and joined the road he had seen on the hilltop when he first arrived—the narrow dirt road lined with cypress trees that led up to the village. Hugo prayed he was not being taken up to the village to be paraded until someone confessed to helping him, or to be forced to watch the whole village slaughtered before he met his own end.