CHAPTER SIX
HUGO
December 1944
They came out of the trees to find the ground rising steeply before them through the mist—first a grassy knoll and then a rocky crag topped with what looked like an old, ruined building. A flight of ancient, worn stone steps had been cut through the grass, then a steeper flight ascended the rock to the remains of some buildings. At least that clearly used to be the case, but part of the rock had been destroyed, and the steps now clung precariously to the side of a sheer drop. At the foot of the flight was a post with the words “Pericolo. Ingresso Vietato.” Danger. Entrance Forbidden.
“It doesn’t look as if the monks have been here for a long time,” Hugo said.
“Two years now.”
Hugo had been thinking it was an old ruin. “Two years?”
“It was bombed by the Allies.”
He reacted in horror. “We bombed a monastery?”
She nodded. “It was necessary. The Germans had taken it over and were using it as a lookout point. They brought big guns up here to shoot at passing aeroplanes and to command the road in the valley.”
“I see. So the monks had already left?”
“Yes, they were turned out when the Germans arrived. It was a famous chapel, with beautiful pictures. The Germans looted all the artwork, may they burn in hell. The buildings are now beyond repair, and we are forbidden to go here.”
“Then leave me now. I don’t want to get you into trouble.”
“Who will see?” She spread her hands. He had always noticed how expressive Italians were with their hands. “The only reason anyone would come here at this time of the year is to look for mushrooms, like me, or to set a snare for rabbits.” She patted his arm. “Don’t worry. I will be careful. When the place is swarming with Germans, one learns to move like a shadow. Come. Shall we try to climb these stairs?”
“If you don’t mind, I’ll go up on all fours, like a baby,” he said. “Steadier that way.”
“Then give me the stick and your bag.”
“It’s my parachute,” he said.
“Parachute? Good silk.” Her eyes lit up. “When you no longer need it, I can use it to make new underclothes. We have had no new clothes for years.”
He was amused. “All right. It’s a deal.”
“You start to go ahead of me,” she said. “I will make sure you don’t fall.”
As if she could catch me, skinny little thing, he thought. He dropped to his knees and started to haul himself up the stairs. He had to put weight on his wounded leg at every step, pain shooting through him. At one stage he thought he was going to vomit, so he paused, breathing hard.
He made it to the top of the first flight. It had begun to rain in earnest now, fat drops pattering onto his leather bomber jacket. Ahead of him the damaged steps rose, impossibly steep, cracked, and dangerous. He dragged himself up, one by one, conscious of the drop beside him. The steps were wet and slippery, and he had a vision of himself sliding off with nothing to grab on to. A metal railing ran up one side, but he was too low down to use it. At last he made it to the top and lay panting on the wet rock.
She came to stand beside him. “Well done, Signor. Come. Only a few more steps and we will find you a place that is dry and safe.”
She helped him to his feet and draped his arm over her shoulders again. The incongruity of it crossed his mind—the upright Englishman who kept his distance from women and addressed them with polite frostiness now draped over a strange Italian woman he had just met. They went across the slick pavement of the forecourt, now broken and uneven, one small step at a time. She held on to him firmly, supporting him. Now he could see that the lower buildings to his left were reduced to complete rubble. It was hard to tell what they had been. In fact, they were beginning to look like part of the rock itself. Plants had grown up between the fallen stones, a small tree now sprouted between cracked flagstones, and a vine of some sort—now dead—sprawled over a pile of rubble. But the building immediately ahead of them, to which she was taking him, still had walls standing, although the roof was gone. There were three broad, curved steps leading to what had been a church door, although the door itself now hung at a crazy angle, swinging in the wind. She pushed it aside and stepped into the area beyond.
“Well, it’s not very welcoming, but it’s better than nothing.” She turned back to him. “At least you will be out of the wind here. And we can build you a shelter with some of this fallen wood.”
He had dragged himself the last few feet into the former chapel. Amid the utter destruction were still signs that it had once been a house of worship. The walls had been painted with frescoes, now pockmarked and washed away by rain and wind. A headless saint stood in one corner. Small glimpses of the black and white marble floor showed through the piles of dust and rubble. He saw that the wood she had referred to consisted of the great beams of the fallen ceiling. She is decidedly optimistic, Hugo thought. He didn’t think they could move such beams between them, even if he’d been fit and mobile. But he did notice the pews that lay strewn around and the broken cupboard in one corner. Presumably in time he could build up the fallen blocks of stone, if he was planning to stay here for long. He couldn’t see that happening, however. There would be the matter of food, for one thing. But he also couldn’t picture himself making his way across country in his current state.
Almost as if she was reading his thoughts, she aided him to a big stone and eased him down on to it. Then she pulled some prickly shells from her pocket. “Here. The chestnuts. Eat them. They are better than nothing. I will try to return with better food for you.”
“No, you must not come back. It’s too dangerous. I do not want to put your family in danger. You have been very kind and I thank you.”
“It is nothing.” She gave him a sweet, sad smile. “My husband has been missing for three years. I hope and pray that if he needed help, as you do, someone would do their best for him.”
“May I know your name?” he asked.
“It is Sofia. Sofia Bartoli. And yours?”
“I am Hugo. Hugo Langley.”
“Ugo? This is an Italian name. You have Italian ancestors?”
“Not that I know of.” He winced in pain as he moved.
“Let me see your leg,” she said, noticing his grimace. “Let us see how bad it is.”
“Oh no. Please don’t worry yourself. I can take care of it.”
“No, don’t be silly. I insist. Where is the wound? Can you roll up your trousers?”
“It’s just above my knee. Really, I can take care of it when you are gone. I think there is a first aid kit in my parachute pouch.” He hoped she caught the gist of what he wanted to say. He’d spoken haltingly as he fished for unfamiliar words. What he actually said was, “Items for aiding make clean in my sack for parachute.”
“Allora. Now. Let me see. We must remove the trousers, I think.”
He was reluctant to take down his trousers in front of a strange woman, but she was already lifting up his leather jacket and unbuckling his belt.
“Signora, no.” He tried to push her hands away.
She laughed. “A typical Englishman. He would rather bleed to death than let a woman see him in his underwear.”
“Have you met any other Englishmen?” he asked, amused at this outburst.
“No, but one hears that they are cold like fish. Not passionate like our men.”
“We are not all cold like fish, I assure you,” he said. “But we are brought up to behave correctly at all times.”
She looked up at him and smiled. “At this moment I do not imagine that you will have any improper ideas if I see you with no trousers on. Come on, let us get on with it. I must return home soon or they will start to worry that something has happened to me.”
She helped him ease down his trousers and then saw the long johns beneath them. At the place above the knee, they were stuck to his skin with dried blood.
“Gesù Maria!” she exclaimed. She dropped to her knees beside him and tried to pry away the fabric as gently as she could. He gasped at the sudden pain.
“I’m sorry, but it must be done,” she said. “Do you have a knife? We must cut it away, I fear.”
He retrieved the knife from his boot and helped cut the underwear free above the wound.
“Water,” she said. “I need water to ease the fabric away and then wash your wound so that we can see how bad it is.” And before he could answer she had darted out of the sanctuary, leaving him alone. He hobbled to an overturned pew, righted it with much effort, and sat on it with his leg outstretched before him. In the half-darkness it was hard to see just how bad his leg was. He rummaged in the parachute pouch and located the tiny first aid kit in the central pocket. It contained wound dressings, a roll of bandage, a tourniquet, iodine, and, to his great excitement, a vial of morphine and a syringe. He had just opened a wound dressing when Sofia returned.
“I have found water,” she said, sounding triumphant. “The rain barrel was overflowing and I collected some in this tin mug I found.” When she saw his suspicious face she added, “Don’t worry. I washed it out as best I could and wiped it clean with my petticoat.” She saw what he had laid out on the bench. “Oh, you have good things there. Now, if you permit, I will try to clean your wound for you.”
She started to cleanse the area, gradually peeling away the stuck fabric until it came off. The blood saturated the dressing long before the area was clear. “Your wound still bleeds, I fear. We must apply pressure to stop it.”
“But what if the bullet is still in there? Shouldn’t we try to locate it first?”
She gave a wonderfully expressive shrug. “A bullet will not matter if you bleed to death first.” She took the bandage, unrolled it, made a wad, and pressed it on to his wound. He cried out in pain.
“Of course, I forgot. The bone may be broken. Here, hold this without pushing too hard.”
He did as he was told, but said, “I have morphine here. It will help to deaden the pain.”
She watched as he injected it, nodding with approval.
“When I return I will bring bandages and a piece of wood for a splint.” She looked at him. “Be careful as you pull up your trousers again. That wool fabric would not be good if it sticks to the wound. Perhaps you should not pull them up. Maybe your parachute can help keep you warm. I will try to bring a blanket, too.”
He grabbed at her hand. “Signora Bartoli, no. I do not want you to take anything your family might need. And I do not want you to take risks for me. I would certainly appreciate some food and a splint, but then I will try to be on my way. Even if I meet some Germans, I am a pilot. I will be a prisoner of war and treated fairly.”
She looked at him, then shook her head and laughed. “You think those animals will treat you fairly? In a village near here they lined up the people and shot them for helping the partisans. All of the people. Babies and children and old women. Bang, bang, bang. All dead. And the Germans are now afraid. They know they are losing. Their line is no longer holding. Every day they are pushed back a little further to the north. You would be a liability to them. No, I do not think they would treat you fairly. We just have to pray that the Allies get here soon.”
She put her hand on his shoulder. “Have courage. I will return when I can. You should not try to light a fire. The smoke may be seen.”
She paused in the doorway to look back at him. “May God watch over you.” And then she was gone.