CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
JOANNA
June 1973
The next day I was awoken by the loud and incessant tolling of bells from the church nearby, echoed by distant peals from other villages. It was the feast day—one of the most holy of the year, Paola had told me. Corpus Christi. The body and blood of the Lord Jesus Christ. The day on which children take their first Communion. I got up and prepared to go over to the farmhouse to bathe and to clean my teeth. I checked around the door and window, but there were no more footprints. It was possible that Gianni’s attackers hadn’t realised he had pushed an envelope through the bars into my room. It would be well known around the village by now that I had presented myself as an outsider who knew nothing. I would go home again as soon as I was given permission, and all would be well.
At least this was what I hoped. I was still going to stay close to Paola all day at the festival. I bathed, dressed in my most presentable frock—which could have done with an iron by now—then took out the little medal and tied the ribbon around my wrist. Then I went into the kitchen looking for breakfast, but it was bare. No sign of Paola. Now I was alarmed. She knew it was a big day and she would have risen early. Had something happened to her? I had no idea where her bedroom was. I had never been upstairs at the house. I hesitated now, wondering if I dared check on her.
I was halfway up the stairs when she appeared, definitely wearing her Sunday best. She wore a red skirt, a white lace blouse, and a black fringed shawl over her shoulders. She looked startled when she saw me. “You needed something, my little one?”
“I was just wondering if you were all right or if you had overslept,” I said.
“No, of course not. Not on a day like this. I just take more time with my preparations. This is the costume of our region, you know. It is fitting to wear it on such a day. These items belonged to my mother.”
I told her she looked very nice.
She smiled. “So, are you ready for church?”
How could I ask about breakfast? My stomach was growling. “Do we not have coffee first?” I asked.
“Before Mass? Oh no. We must fast before receiving the Blessed Sacrament. Fast from midnight onward. Do they not do this in your church?”
“I don’t think so,” I said, my spirits falling at the thought of there being no food for quite a while.
Paola shook her head in disgust. “Angelina. Make haste!” she yelled up the stairs. “We do not want to find ourselves sitting in the back pews where we can see nothing of what is going on.”
Angelina appeared, also looking very pretty in a simple flowery dress with a shawl around her shoulders. In one arm she carried the baby, in the other a large bag. The baby was in a white robe trimmed with lace and had a dainty little lace bonnet on her head. She was sleeping and looked like an adorable china doll.
“Here, let me take that for you,” I said, retrieving the bag from her.
“Thank you.” She beamed at me. “So many things are required for such a small person. A shawl if it grows cold. Another dress if she spits up over this one. And nappies. So many nappies.”
We set off, walking side by side up the dusty track. The morning was windy and brisk. Paola had to hold her shawl firmly around her shoulders. “I do not like the look of the sky,” she said. “I hope it does not bring rain later. The weatherman on the wireless was saying it would rain later today, but what does he know? He is in a little room in Florence. We will pray to Saint Clara that the weather remains fine. She is always helpful about the weather.”
“So tell me, Signora Rossini,” I said, holding up my wrist. “What saint is on this medal?”
She held up my wrist to see the medal better. “I believe that is Saint Rita,” she said. “She is good at healing, especially wounds. Where did you come by this?”
“It was among my father’s things,” I said.
“Then your father was wounded?”
“Badly,” I said. “His plane was shot down. He managed to parachute out, but his leg was damaged. He always walked with a bit of a limp.” I had to mime this last part, not knowing the word.
“Then this saint cured him.” Paola looked pleased. “And your father was a believer in the true faith, then.”
“I don’t think so. I believe someone must have given him the medal.”
She looked at me long and hard. “You believe it was Sofia Bartoli who gave it to him?”
“Yes,” I said. “That is what I believe.”
“She was a kind and good woman, that is how I remember her,” she said. “Such a shame it ended so badly—betraying her village by running off with a German.”
What if she didn’t go willingly? I thought. But one of the men said she had been seen getting into an army vehicle with a German in the dead of night. Just the two of them. No armed escort to make sure she didn’t escape.
As we reached the town piazza, I saw that long trestle tables had been set up. Flags draped the buildings, and lines of smaller ones fluttered from the church. The bells were still ringing loudly enough to make speech impossible. From all sides people were streaming toward the open church doors. The men looked uncomfortable in their dark suits with stiff white collars. The women were dressed beautifully, some in similar costumes to Paola’s, but all in what was clearly their best finery, their dark, glossy hair piled on their heads. Children in their best clothes skipped beside adults who did their best to restrain them by the hand.
Just as we reached the church door, a collective murmur went up from the crowd. “Father Filippo! Father Filippo!”
We stopped and looked back. A frail old man in a black priest’s cassock was being assisted up the steps by two strapping men.
“Good to see you, Father. God bless you, Father,” people greeted him as the crowd stood back to let him pass.
Paola was smiling and nodding. “Our former priest,” she said. “He was our strength and spiritual guide throughout the war years. They say he stood up to the Germans and kept the town safe. A spiritual giant when he is such a small man.”
“Has he retired now?” I asked.
“Oh yes. Years ago he had bad health problems, and now he lives in a home for retired priests not far away. So good that he can still join us for the feast day. It wouldn’t be the same without him.”
We were swept up with the crowd into the dark interior of the church. As we neared the doorway, Paola produced a mantilla and put it on. I saw all the other women had covered their heads, and felt horribly visible. I was glad that we were off to one side and I was behind a pillar! When all were seated a procession entered: little boys in dark suits and little girls in white dresses and veils, looking like miniature brides.
“The first communicants,” Paola whispered. “Don’t they look like little angels? I can’t wait until Marcella is old enough to make her first Communion.”
At the end of the procession came the altar boys, then several priests, all in rich brocade vestments. The Mass began. Everyone in the church sang the hymns and chanted the responses. A great wave of sound enveloped the church. I thought how different it was from the sparsely attended and anaemic services at home. There were prayers, there was a sermon. Then came the solemn part of the Mass. Incense was lit and the herby smoke waved over the congregation. The priest chanted in a low voice. Bells were rung. Then one by one the children came up to receive their first Communion. After they had done so, the rest of the congregation followed, one by one, up to the altar steps. It seemed to go on forever. I was feeling sick with hunger. At least these people are getting a wafer to eat, I thought.
Just when I began to hope it was over, the children were invited back to the altar steps to be introduced to the congregation. Then Father Filippo was assisted to the steps to give his blessing to the children and then to the congregation. Another hymn was sung lustily. The priests, altar boys, and first communicants processed out, and at last we were allowed to follow. I was delighted to see that coffee and sweet rolls had been placed on the tables beside the church. I waited my turn patiently as Paola chatted with other women, introducing me.
“Will Father Filippo stay or will he go back to his residence?” I asked.
“He will stay, at least for the procession,” she said. “See, a chair is being brought for him now.”
An idea had come to me during the long moments when the sermon was being given in language that I didn’t understand. Father Filippo had been the parish priest during the war, and priests heard confessions. Maybe Sofia had told him about the British airman. I had to work out how I could manage to have a word with him.
But as soon as we had downed a cup of coffee and eaten a roll, the town band arrived. They were dressed in medieval costume and marched proudly into the piazza, preceded by flag-bearers waving giant banners. There was a collective “Ah” from the crowd. People hastily finished eating and straightened their attire, eager to join the procession. The band finished the march it was playing and stood ready, with just the row of drummers keeping up the beat. Dum diddy dum diddy dum dum dum. The sound echoed back from the high buildings. The first Communion children left their families and were ushered into two lines, boys and girls side by side, which clearly wasn’t to the liking of some of the little boys. They stood waiting patiently behind the band.
Now the air was full of expectation. The buglers put their instruments to their lips. A great burst of sound came out, and from the church emerged the altar boys in their red and white cassocks, two of them swinging brass balls on long chains from which the scent of incense wafted. Behind them Father Filippo was carried in a kind of sedan chair, then came four men carrying a large brocade canopy over the priest, who now held up an ornate gold object. I couldn’t decide what it was, but Paola crossed herself, so it had to be some kind of religious relic.
They took their places behind the altar boys. Then the trumpets blasted again, the band struck up, and the procession started to move forward. I noticed a strange thing. There were few men among the waiting crowd. Then I saw why—a group of men came marching up holding ancient battleaxes and crosses. They were dressed in white robes and wore pointed hoods that hid their faces. The effect was quite alarming. I realised that the only similar thing I had seen was the clothing of the Ku Klux Klan. I glanced at Paola.
“The Society of Saint George,” she said. “A devotional society of the men of this town. It is an honour to be invited to join.”
I noticed then that their white tunics had a star on the breast. A many-pointed star.
As the procession moved solemnly away to the slow beat of the drum, the townspeople came to follow. We took our places with the rest of the women. Our route took us at a snail’s pace through the town. As we walked I had time to think. The many-pointed star was like the tiny replica that Gianni had given me. Was he saying that someone who was an important man in town had somehow been implicated in bloodshed? I glanced back at those hooded men. Which of them had something to hide?
Down through the village we processed until we came to the road that was lined with cypress trees, then on to a track through the fields and past several farmhouses before looping back again to the town. The weather that had started out brisk and bright was now clouding over. The wind had picked up, making the task of carrying the canopy challenging. The priest was finding it hard to keep his vestments in place.
“Let us pray that it doesn’t rain,” Paola said. “After two weeks of nothing but sunshine, surely God doesn’t want to rain on us today.”
We came up through vineyards and back to the road, then back to the piazza again. The canopy was carried to the steps of the church. The priest said prayers and gave a blessing. The band struck up a tune that was obviously a hymn as everyone started singing. I found myself watching the rapt expressions as the people sang. These were simple folk who really and truly believed. I felt a twinge of envy that I had never experienced such a feeling of belonging.
The hymn came to an end. The people dispersed. I noticed that Father Filippo had been left sitting on his chair, and I seized the moment. I went over to him. “Father, I am an Englishwoman,” I said. “I came here to find out about my father, who was a British airman, shot down in the war. He wrote a letter to Sofia Bartoli, but nobody in this town knows anything about him. I wondered if you knew anything more you could tell me.”
He smiled up at me. “The war. Such a tragic time. So much suffering. So much useless loss of life.”
“Do you remember Sofia Bartoli?”
He was still smiling. “Sofia? Such a sweet young girl. How sad she was when her man—what was he called, now? Let me think . . . Giovanni? No, it was Guido. That’s right—when Guido did not return and she realised he was dead.”
“But my father,” I said. “The British airman. Did she never mention him to you? Did you know about him?”
He frowned, trying to concentrate. “You are not from around here?” he asked.
“No, Father. From England.”
“England. A long way away. A heathen land where they do not have the true faith.”
I realised then that his mind had gone. He remembered Sofia, but if she had told him about my father, then that memory had long been lost.
I tried to think what I might ask him that could jog his memory, but at that moment some of the men came up to him. “Come, Father. We will take you to your place at the table. I am sure you are hungry.”
Father Filippo smiled. “Food is the one pleasure left to an old man,” he said as they helped him to his feet. He glanced back at me. “It was such a long time ago,” he said. “Old memories can only open old wounds. Sometimes I give thanks that my memories have faded.”