CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
HUGO
December 1944
Christmas was almost upon them. Sofia reported that Cosimo had shot a wild boar in the forest. “We have to keep it a secret,” she said, “because we are not allowed to own weapons, and if the Germans found the boar, they would take it from us. They love their meat. But our men will cut it up in the forest and deliver a portion to each family in San Salvatore so we can each have some meat for the holiday. And guess what I will do? I will make a wild boar ragu. The tin you gave me contained tomatoes! I am so excited. And I’ll make a chestnut cake. A real holiday feast.”
After she had gone Hugo pictured her face, her joy. She finds happiness in such small things, he thought. He found himself comparing her to Brenda, who never seemed excited by anything these days. He knew she found life at Langley Hall boring. She found their county set boring. But it wasn’t as if they were in the middle of the Sahara. There was a fast train to London from Godalming, and she certainly went up to town enough, shopping and even going to clubs. She drank a lot, any kind of cocktail, and he was pretty sure she had used cocaine. He saw her as a trapped animal in a beautiful cage.
He shut her image from his mind and thought instead about Sofia. He wanted to give her a Christmas present. He had not managed to catch another pigeon. In fact, he rarely saw birds now that the temperature had dropped and there was a frost at night. He found it hard to keep warm, even when wearing his own and Guido’s clothing at once and lying on the sheepskin. He tried to move more during the day, and spent hours hopping around, poking about the rubble. The bombing had been thorough. Not much had survived, apart from the walls of the chapel. He found odd pages of books, now so damaged by rain that they were barely legible. He found an almost complete missal with a battered leather cover. He was going to leave it but then changed his mind. It didn’t seem right to leave something so old and sacred to be destroyed by the weather. He picked it up and tucked it inside his bomber jacket. He wondered what other valuable and rare objects had been left behind by the monks when the Germans had turned them out. Sofia had said that the Germans had taken the paintings from the chapel. He hoped the monks had been able to take their chalices and other precious objects, because there certainly wasn’t anything precious to be found lying amid the rubble. Just more bodies, probably, he thought.
He was making his way back when he saw it—the sun sparkled on something that looked like a coin. He bent with difficulty and picked it up. It was a holy medal—a woman stretching out her hands with tiny words written around her. La Madonna, he thought, and realised he had his Christmas present for Sofia. He returned to his sanctuary and sat polishing the medal on his shirt until it looked almost new. Then he thumbed through the pages of the missal. The end sheets were marbled. He tore one out carefully and drew a little Christmas scene for Sofia: the holy family, the shepherds and their sheep, the ox, and the ass. Then he added a hillside with San Salvatore in the background. He was quite pleased with the result. He folded the drawing and placed the medal inside it. Then he tucked it inside the leather cover of the missal.
“I regret that I shall not be able to come on Christmas Day,” Sofia said the next time she visited him. “It will be impossible. We go to Midnight Mass on the holy eve, and then we celebrate with neighbours for much of the night. Then the whole village is out and about during the next day. Much celebrating, although God knows we have little to celebrate at the moment. I will have to wait until all fall asleep on Christmas night, full of wine and food and happiness. I am sorry to leave you alone at such a special time, and I will come as soon as I can. I will bring you some of the wild boar ragu, although I do not think the pasta will taste as good when it is no longer hot. But I have brought you enough now to keep the hunger away.” She unfolded the cloth and he saw that she had brought him a big slice of polenta, some olive tapenade, a small piece of sheep’s cheese, and a dried apple. “These will keep,” she said. “And for now here is some soup.”
He ate it, touched by her concerned face as he swallowed each mouthful. “Have you ever tried to paint or draw, Sofia?” he asked suddenly.
“Me? When I was a child. One of the nuns liked my drawing of a donkey and pinned it up on the wall. But that was the extent of my artistic career.” She laughed.
He had an absurd desire to sweep her away to England, to install her in his studio at Langley and teach her to paint, but he stopped himself from voicing this ridiculous notion. Why offer someone something she can never have? Why give false hope? To get through this time of darkness, came the answer.
“When the war is over I shall return to San Salvatore,” he said, “and I will bring my easel and my paints and I shall let you paint whatever you want. Then I shall hang it on my wall at home.”
She giggled. “It will be another donkey. That is all I know how to draw.”
“But it could be a blue donkey. A polka-dot donkey. A flying donkey. Lots and lots of flying donkeys.”
“You are absurd, Ugo.” She laughed and slapped his hand playfully. Then a spasm of guilt crossed her face. “Sorry. I should not have done that.”
“Don’t apologise. I like it when you laugh. It makes me feel that I am still alive—that there is still hope.”
“Me too,” she said. “When I think that I will see you soon, I, too, feel that I am still alive.”
Instinctively he took her hand. “You are the only reason I am alive, Sofia,” he said. “You are the only reason I want to stay alive.”
“No, don’t say that. Your wife. Your son. Your family. They are your reasons.”
He shook his head. “No. If I do not return they will cry a little, say what a brave fellow I was to give my life for my country, and then go about their lives as if nothing had happened. I don’t think there is anyone at home who would truly weep for me.”
“I would,” she said. “If you died, I would truly weep for you.”
And he noticed she had not pulled her hand away. In fact, she was clasping his hand as fervently as he clasped hers.
He awoke to the sound of bells. It was quite dark, and he had no idea of the hour, but the bells continued to echo across the frosty countryside. The Germans, he thought. The Germans have returned to the village. But then he thought, No. The bells are ringing for Midnight Mass. It’s Christmas Day. And he lay back, smiling to himself, recalling memories from the distant past: Hugo at five or six awaking in the cold, grey dawn to find the stocking at the foot of his bed bulging with presents. And Nanny poking her head around the door. “So did Father Christmas come, then?”
“Yes.” He could hardly say the word, he was so excited. “Look at all the things he brought me.”
“Well, aren’t you the lucky boy? And I rather think there might be something else downstairs. We’d better get you washed and dressed.”
And there was: a fat, cream-coloured pony. Happy times, he thought. When Mother was still alive and Father had not yet gone off to war and I had been promised a brother or sister. Only something had gone wrong and mother and child had died in childbirth. Suddenly it was just Father and Nanny. And the next year he was sent away to school and Father went off to war, and he had never really felt safe again.
He lay listening until the last chimes of the bells died away in the still night air.
“Happy Christmas,” he said out loud, and then fell asleep.
When he awoke again he was aware of distant noises—the sound of drums and then trumpets. It immediately brought to mind an invading army, Roman or medieval. But Sofia had told him that everyone would be out and about with much celebrating. Maybe the village band and a procession was part of the “much celebrating.”
He washed himself at the rain barrel and wished he had a comb in his pocket to sort out his hair. He wet it and ran his fingers through it to smooth out the curl. The day was exceptionally clear and bright. And still—so still that his breath seemed like the only sound in the world. The drums and trumpets had ceased, and he pictured everyone in the village sitting around long communal tables, passing great bowls of food, talking and laughing as if they had not a care in the world.
They will be feasting until late in the night, he thought. Sofia might not come at all. He had to accept that and hope she wouldn’t take the risk when people were going home from their celebrations.
Darkness fell. He settled himself in his bed and lay back, longing for a cigarette, a glass of Scotch, a pork pie, a sausage roll, a chocolate bar—all of the little things he had taken for granted all his life.
He thought he heard angels singing and opened his eyes in disbelief. “And there were shepherds abiding in the fields, keeping watch over their flocks by night,” he muttered, the words of the gospel coming back to him. He looked up to see an angel coming toward him, singing in a high, clear, sweet voice. She held up a lantern that illuminated her face.
“Mille cherubini in coro ti sorridono dal ciel,” she sang. A thousand cherubim serenade you from the sky. Then she dropped to the floor beside him.
“Oh, you are awake. I am so glad. See, I bring you good things for Christmas. Come out and enjoy your feast.”
He dragged himself from his bed and perched on the bench beside her. She was unwrapping dishes from the thick cloth.
“Wild boar ragu and pasta,” she said. “And ewes’ milk with honey and pepper. And chestnut cake. And a little flask of grappa. Eat, eat.”
He gave a chuckle at her insistence. The typical Italian mother, he thought, even though she is so young. He needed no urging. The food was still warm. He ate, using the last of his polenta to wipe the plates clean. The grappa was raw and stung his throat as it went down, but it spread a warmth through his body.
“You like it?” she asked shyly.
“Magnificent. A true banquet,” he said, and she gave a delighted laugh.
“We had such a good time today in the village. First a beautiful Midnight Mass. Everyone singing, and Father Filippo gave us words of such comfort. Then we joined with other families to celebrate. There was enough to eat and everyone was happy. Just like old times.” Then her face became solemn again. “Cosimo gave me a gift—a bottle of limoncello he had been saving in his cellar. I didn’t want to accept it, but we were in company and I did not want him to lose face in front of other people. So I made him open it right away and drink a toast to our missing loved ones, those who had not returned home yet.”
Her face became wistful. Then she smiled again. “And I have brought a small gift for you, because at Christmas one should give gifts.”
She handed him a tiny angel carved from wood. “It was part of our Christmas scene,” she said.
“You should have left it where it belongs, Sofia,” he said as she put it into his hand.
“But there are other angels, and I wanted an angel to be looking after you. The crib is very old. Many generations, and each one added to it, until now.” She curled his fingers around it. “Keep it and know that all the time I pray that your guardian angel looks after you.”
Hugo felt tears welling up and blinked them away.
“I have a gift for you, too,” he said.
“A gift? For me?”
“Of course. It’s Christmas. One has to give gifts. You said so.”
“Is it another pigeon? Another tin?”
“Nothing as useful, I’m afraid. Here.” He handed her the missal.
“It’s an old book.” She looked at it in wonder.
“I found it among the rubble,” he said. “It seems to be almost intact. Open it.”
She did and found the folded paper.
“Carefully,” he instructed.
She unfolded it and gave a little gasp of excitement. “It is a Miraculous Medal, just like the one I put into Guido’s pocket when he went off to war. How did you know?”
“I found it among the rubble,” he said. “I cleaned it up a bit. I remembered you said you had no medal for la Madonna. And I drew a picture for you.” He realised as he said it that he sounded like a hopeful little boy.
Sofia spread out the folded sheet and held it up to the lantern light. “It’s the nativity,” she exclaimed. “The Virgin and Saint Joseph and the infant Jesus. And shepherds and sheep. Oh, and it’s my home. Look at the church tower. It’s amazing. You are a true artist, Ugo. I will treasure this forever.”
He felt absurdly happy. She moved over to sit beside him and gently stroked his hand. “You are a good, kind man. I hope your wife learns to treasure you.”
They both looked up as they heard the low-pitched vibration of approaching aircraft.
“The Allies. They come to bomb the German winter line again.” She looked excited.
The noise grew in intensity until it rattled loose stones. Then there was a sudden whining noise followed by a deep, booming thud.
“They are dropping bombs,” she said. “There must be a convoy on the road.” She started in fear as a second thud came, making the whole hillside shake.
“Too close,” she exclaimed. “Hold me, Ugo. I am frightened.”
She nestled up against him and he wrapped his arms around her, feeling the softness of her hair against his cheek.
“Don’t worry. You are safe with me,” he said.
I could stay like this forever, he thought. No sooner had this thought formed itself in his head when there was a screeching whine closer still. The dull thud of the explosion made the ground tremble. Sofia screamed and clutched at Hugo, burying her face in his jacket collar as they felt the blast. Stones rained down from the damaged walls, bouncing and thudding around them. Hugo flung himself on top of her to shield her. Then the floor was tilting. The lamp fell with a crash and they were in complete darkness. He could hear and feel rubble sliding past them. It felt as if the whole chapel was imploding. They were sliding, being swept along with cascading stones. Sofia cried out. Hugo grabbed at the side of the altar and hung on for dear life while the world crumbled around him.