CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
HUGO
December 1944
Hugo’s leg was definitely on the mend. He still couldn’t put any weight on it, but at least it didn’t throb violently all the time and the fever had not returned. In the morning he made himself get up and practice walking with the stick. The sun had been streaming in through the broken masonry, but when he came outside he stopped and gasped in surprise. Below him the world lay in a sea of white fog. Only the very tip of the church bell tower rose above it, and in the distance were the crests of other hills. This seemed like a perfect moment to try and explore, knowing he couldn’t be seen from below. The ground was frosty, and he moved cautiously, hopping around the ruined buildings, looking for anything that might be useful. He found a cooking pot, another spoon, and, to his delight, a tin of something. He couldn’t tell what, because the label had been destroyed, but that encouraged him to keep looking. He tucked his finds inside his jacket and ventured further. He spotted a boot sticking out from under a chunk of masonry. The other of the pair might be nearby. It would be a useful commodity for Sofia to trade. He used all his strength to move the piece of stone aside, then recoiled in horror when he saw that the boot was still attached to a leg. He had forgotten that the Allies had bombed a German gun position. There would certainly be other bodies buried here. This knowledge took away the childish excitement he had felt at making discoveries.
He carried his new treasures back to his lair and set about making a snare to catch a pigeon. His plan was simple enough: a stick to prop up the drawer he had salvaged from the rubble, a length of parachute cord tied to it to be jerked away when the pigeon went inside to peck at the crumbs he would leave. He cut away the parachute cord and then, having his knife handy, remembered that Sofia had expressed a desire for some of the silk to make underwear. He no longer needed the parachute now that she had brought him bedding, so he cut it up into useable pieces, smiling with anticipation at the thought of her face when she saw it.
He set up his trap and sprinkled the ground with breadcrumbs, then retreated into his hiding place. Now all he had to do was wait. The morning passed. He tried not to move or make a noise. Twice a pigeon flapped about, and once it landed on a beam but then flew off again. Finally it landed close to the trap. It walked forward, cooing throatily. For a moment he admired the iridescence of its feathers and was loath to kill it, but he forced these thoughts from his mind. Sofia needed meat. He could provide it. The pigeon waddled under the drawer and started to peck at the crumbs. He jerked at the chord. The stick flew out. The drawer landed with a resounding crash, trapping the pigeon. It had worked exactly as he had hoped.
He half crawled, half slithered over to it, lifted the drawer enough to slide his hand in, and grabbed the pigeon. It fluttered and struggled as he brought it out, but he wrung its neck and it lay still. He stared at it, realising it was the first time he had killed anything with his bare hands. As a boy at home he had known that pigs and chickens were killed on the farms around him. As a bomber pilot he had certainly killed when he dropped bombs on convoys and rail yards, but that was remote and impersonal. This was different. He was appalled at how easy it was to take a life. But that thought was displaced by the thought of Sofia’s face when she saw what he had for her. It was the first time he had been able to give her anything in return.
This thought made him remember her excitement about the parachute silk. A double gift. It made him absurdly happy. He lay back, exhausted, and tried to remember presents he had given Brenda. Had she been thrilled with them? In the early days, when they were in love, he had painted her portrait. She had liked that. But later? And he realised with a nagging sense of shame that his gifts had been routine, without much thought to them: expensive perfume, a pair of silk stockings. If they had grown apart, it was his fault as much as hers.
After the war I will make it up to her. And to little Teddy, he thought. And Sofia? The words whispered somewhere in his head. Never to see her again? Rubbish, he told himself. You can’t be in love with Sofia. She has been wonderfully kind when you needed help, but you’ve known her only a couple of weeks at the most. And you are weak and ill. It’s quite common for men to fall in love with their nurses . . .
He pushed the thought aside until she came to him that night. Sofia’s face, when he handed her his two gifts, was so alight with joy that he felt his heart melting—as if it had been frozen in ice for too long and had now returned to the heart of a young Hugo, heading out into the world amazed by beauty, hopeful for the future.
“A pigeon,” she said. “How did you manage to catch a pigeon?”
“Simple, really. I set up a trap. The pigeon came and took the bait.” He grinned. “Let us hope he has brothers and sisters.”
“I can make a good stew with this. Good broth,” she said. “My son Renzo is looking so frail lately. His sore throat and coughing do not go away. This will do him good. And you, too.”
“No,” he insisted. “Keep it for Renzo, and the grandmother, and yourself. It’s a gift.”
“Nonsense,” she said. “We’ll all share in the bounty.”
Then she fingered the pieces of parachute. “So soft. So luxurious,” she said. “I will make the best petticoat and drawers with this.” She held it up to her face, smiling at him. “It is too bad it will not be seemly to show you when I have finished the garments.” Her look was definitely flirtatious.
“Not to mention too cold,” he pointed out, and she laughed.
“That too.” Then she grew thoughtful. “Maybe I can use some of this silk to barter for things that we need, like more olive oil. I know that the Bernardinis have jars hidden in their basement. Gina Bernardini loves nice things . . .” She paused, looking up at him. “What do you think?”
“They would know that the silk came from a parachute, therefore they would know that I am here.”
“But if I said that I found the parachute up in the forest?”
“They would know that a man escaped and was in the area, and someone would tell the Germans and they would come looking for me.”
She sighed. “You are right. It is a risk I cannot take.” Then she brightened up again. “But when the Germans finally go and the Allies come, we shall still be bartering and I will still keep some silk, just in case.”
Hugo finished the polenta and olive spread she had brought for him and handed her back the cloth they had been wrapped in. She folded it, then looked up and said, “Do you think of your wife all the time, the way I think of my Guido?”
“No,” he said. “I’m afraid I don’t. Not often. Not often enough.”
“You are not happy in your marriage?”
“Not really. We’re too different, I suppose. We met when we were both students in Florence. In England I’d probably never have met her. I come from a noble family and hers was, well, lower middle class, I suppose you could say. Her father worked in a bank. A bank clerk. Nothing wrong with it, but we would never have met. But we both shared a passion for art. And she was nice-looking. Good legs. She loved to have fun, to go out dancing and drinking wine. I suppose we were two foreigners drawn together more because we were in a strange land.” He paused, looking at her, wanting her to understand. “I expect at the end of our year in Florence we would eventually have parted and gone our separate ways, but we were young and inexperienced. When Brenda announced that she was expecting a child, I did the right thing—I married her. We lived in London for a while. I painted. I worked in an art gallery. The baby was born. Things were fine.”
“And then?” she asked. “Something went wrong?”
“And then my father’s health declined. He had been gassed in the Great War, you know. He called me home and said he needed me at Langley Hall because he could no longer run the estate. So I brought Brenda and the child to live in the country in a great big house. She never liked it. Too far from the bright lights and city life and fun. And she never really got along with my father.”
“So what will happen when you go home?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “We’ll just have to see.”
“At least she likes art. That is a good thing,” Sofia said. “Tell me about your art and your studies. I would love to know more.”
“Not now. You need your sleep. Go home,” he said.
“Oh, but I love to hear about art,” she said. “We live in an area of great art, you know. Michelangelo, Leonardo, Fra Angelico, Botticelli.”
He was surprised. He wondered what farm girl in England could reel off the names of English painters.
“You know about art?”
She shrugged. “Their paintings are in our churches. I went to Florence once on a school trip before the war. I couldn’t believe that anyone could paint such lovely things. And sculpture? Have you seen Michelangelo’s David? The nuns said we weren’t to look because he was naked. But he was beautiful, was he not?”
“So you looked?” He laughed.
She gave an embarrassed smile. “I was only studying great art. That is not a sin. Do you paint naked bodies?”
He laughed again. “I’m afraid I don’t. The people in my landscapes were fully clothed.”
“I wish I could see your paintings,” she said. “If I could find you some paints and paper, you could paint the landscape here. It is very beautiful, is it not?”
“It is,” he agreed. “But paints and paper are the least of our worries.” He took her hand and she let him. “You really should go,” he said. “You will be ill if you don’t get enough sleep.”
“Nonna told me I was becoming lazy because I did not wake until seven,” she said. “She is always up at five. That is how it was in the old days. She is eighty-one and still expects to help in the fields. She has been urging me to harvest the turnips, saying she feels useless stuck indoors with nothing to do.”
“Are the turnips ready for harvest?”
“Soon. Before Christmas. That will be good. Maybe I can trade for things that we need for the holiday. It is so strange. In past years we would all be baking at this moment. Now it will be only chestnut cake if we are lucky. No dried fruit, no cream, no butter. And probably no meat. A poor feast.”
“Let us hope it will be the last poor feast before the Germans are finally defeated.”
Sofia crossed herself. “From your lips to God’s ears,” she said.