The Tuscan Child(95)

“You mean should the truth about my father be made public?”

“That’s exactly what I mean. Are you going to tell them he was responsible for the deaths of many men, for the death of Gianni, and almost for my death, too?”

Renzo sighed. “I suppose I must.”

“Gianni’s death is being linked to his underworld dealings, isn’t it? And nobody knows that the partisans were betrayed in that German massacre.”

Renzo looked wary. “Are you saying I should say nothing?”

“It’s up to you. You say your father was liked by his workers, respected in town. Perhaps that is the memory you’d like to live on.”

“I’ll have to think about it,” he said. “Of course we could say that he followed us and the hillside gave way. But your Englishman ran screaming about a man and a gun.”

“My Englishman could have been in a panic and misunderstood.”

Renzo sighed. “I think the truth should come out, however painful it will be for me. Too many people have suffered because of my father.”

“You’re a good man, Renzo. I’m glad to have met you,” I said.

A worried frown crossed his face. “You’re not leaving now, are you?”

I smiled at him. “As I said to Nigel, I might be called upon to give evidence at an inquest, and who knows how long that will take? Long enough to learn how to make Paola’s ragu, at any rate.”

Renzo smiled back. Then a thought struck him. “At least we now know that Cosimo did not betray my mother. He loved her. So perhaps she was not betrayed by one of our own. Perhaps it was as simple as the German who was billeted in our house watching her going up the hill and following her one day.”

“Yes,” I said. “That is probably what happened. So the Germans came for both of them. My father managed to escape, but who knows what happened to your mother? Do you think we would have any way of finding out after all this time? Old records?”

“I suspect they shot her,” he said. “I’ve known in my heart all this time that she was dead.” He gave a long sigh. “If only that cart had come a little earlier. If only they could have got away . . .”

“Then they would have married and I would never have happened,” I said. “And I wouldn’t be sitting here with you.”

“So some good did come of it,” he said.





CHAPTER FORTY





HUGO


Early 1945

Hugo opened his eyes to a soft touch on his cheek. A young woman with dark hair and a sweet face was standing over him.

“Sofia?” he whispered.

“My name is Anna,” she said in English. “You are awake at last. That is good news.”

“Where am I?” He took in the white ceiling and the white curtains around his bed.

“You are in a hospital near Rome.”

“How did I get here?”

“You’re a lucky man. You were found when the Americans advanced toward Florence. God knows how long you’d been there. They almost gave you up for dead, but then they felt a heartbeat and rushed you back to a field hospital. They transferred you here after a few days when you’d been stabilised. You’ve been in a coma for a couple of weeks. Head injury, collapsed lung, and a real mess of a leg. Yes, I’d say you’re lucky to be alive.”

He tried to move and found that he couldn’t. “I need someone to write letters for me.”

She put a hand on his shoulder. “All in good time.”

“Have the Allies taken the area north of Lucca now, do you know?”

“I really don’t know exactly how far they’ve reached. All I know is we are advancing steadily and the Germans are retreating as fast as they can. But I believe they haven’t quite been driven out of that area in the mountains yet. There’s still a lot of snow.”

“I need to find out about the village of San Salvatore,” he said. “I need to know if they are safe.”

“I’ll ask for you.” She gave him a smile. “Now rest and I’ll see if you are allowed a drink.”

“Whisky and soda,” he said.

She laughed. “You’ll be lucky.”

Later she returned. “The village you asked about is still in territory that is being fought over. It’s close to the Germans’ fortified line.”

“So I couldn’t get a message there yet?”

“I’m afraid not. But everyone is optimistic that we are nearing the end, in Italy at least. And with any luck you could be going home if you continue to make progress. How about that, eh?”

He tried to smile.

The next day an American army surgeon came to see him. “I’ve patched you up to the best of my ability,” he said, “but that leg of yours is a nasty mess. I gather it is an old wound that has healed badly. You’ll need to have it cleaned out of pieces of bone and reset. I imagine they’ll want to do that at an English hospital and not try to do anything here. So it will be a question of waiting until there is a ship that can take you.”

Every day he felt a little stronger. He was allowed to sit up, to walk with crutches. He wrote a letter home to his father, wife, and son. Daily he asked for news on the fighting at the front and whether the area north of Lucca was now in Allied hands, but the answers were always uncertain. He longed to write to Sofia but didn’t dare risk it. If there was still a German presence in her area and she received a letter from an English pilot, it could be a death sentence.