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‘Because I’m not a coward,’ Achille said. ‘If I have to run, I’ll run to where I’m useful. I can serve the cause better at Santa Marta than I can hiding in a hayloft.’
My father thumped his fist down on the table. ‘Are you calling me a coward?’
‘You said it, not me,’ Achille retorted. And then Papà was roaring, and Mamma was clutching at his shoulders, trying to restrain him. I slipped out of the kitchen and ran towards the back door, pausing only to take an old coat of my mother’s and shove my feet into shoes. There was something urgent I needed to do.
At the back of the house was a lean-to where Achille kept his motorbike and I stored my bicycle. There was a bit of clutter in there too, wooden crates and so on. I’d used one of the crates to hide a few donations that had come in to our network, meaning to take them along on my next munitions run. There was an old service revolver that had belonged to someone’s father, a handful of cartridges, a length of detonating cord – nothing big, thankfully. I managed to shove it all into my coat pockets and then, tiptoeing around the side of the house with my bike, I pedalled off towards St Christopher’s church.
There was hardly anyone on the streets. It might have been my imagination – or my fever – but the whole town seemed to be holding its breath. Even the Germans at the checkpoint on the via Senese looked tense, scanning the road as if in anticipation. Perhaps they were worried that the SS would find their vigilance lacking. They looked at me as I approached, but I ignored them and propped my bicycle in the church porch. I saw that don Anselmo’s bicycle was there too, and I was relieved.
When I went into the church, I found him praying in one of the pews. I hesitated, wondering whether I ought to clear my throat, or shuffle my feet, or make some other subtle sign. But he knew I was there. He crossed himself and rose to his feet, turning to me with that same benign smile he always wore. Anyone who didn’t know him would have thought him unworldly, foolish.
‘Stella, my dear child. What can I do for you?’
‘Can we talk somewhere private?’ I asked, although we were alone already.
He nodded. ‘Of course. Let’s go to the sacristy.’
Once we’d gone in and he’d shut the door behind us, I took the gun, cartridges and detonating cord from my pockets and placed them on the table, next to the cruets of wine and holy water. Don Anselmo nodded again.
‘Very good. Yes. I shall put these downstairs with the other things.’
‘You know the Germans are coming,’ I said. ‘Will it be safe? I mean, what if they find the tunnel?’
‘Oh, I don’t mind about that,’ don Anselmo said. ‘It’s not myself I’m worried about – I mean to say, I can take my chances. But you, Stella, are you quite all right? You don’t look very well.’
‘Yes. No, I’m… I’m all right.’ But I wasn’t, not really. The adrenaline was draining away and I was beginning to feel ill again. And it was coming to me, rushing in like a cold flood, that I didn’t know where Enzo was. Did he know about therastrellamento? Would he get to safety in time? Nausea washed over me and black dots crowded my vision.
‘Oh dear,’ don Anselmo said. He ushered me over to one of the chairs lined up against the wall and gestured for me to sit down. ‘Lean forward and put your head between your knees. Yes, that’s right. Now breathe as slowly as you can.’
He took out a big white handkerchief and handed it to me, and I buried my face in it while the cold, sick feeling rose and then ebbed. When I finally looked up, he was holding out a little silver flask.
‘Drink. Just a little at a time, now.’ He watched me as I took one sip of brandy and then another, and another, and another. The heat of it scorched my throat and made my eyes water. ‘I think that’s about the right dose,’ he said, gently prying the flask from my fingers. ‘Now, you have a brother, don’t you? And your father is still with you?’
I had to cough before I could speak. ‘Yes.’
‘And have they got somewhere to go until it’s over?’
Those arguing voices echoed in my ears. ‘Yes.’
‘Well, then, that’s very good news,’ don Anselmo said. ‘And you know, don’t you, that word has got around? So if there’s anyone in particular you’re worried about, I’m sure that person will be fine, too.’
I could only nod. I was very tired all of a sudden.
‘You did a very good thing coming to me today,’ don Anselmo said. ‘Will you get home all right, or shall I walk with you?’
The mortification of almost fainting in front of him was already more than I could bear. ‘No. No thank you, Father, I’ll manage.’
‘If you insist, my child.’ He opened the sacristy door and we went back out into the church.
When I got home, the garage was locked up and Achille’s bike was gone. My mother was sitting in the kitchen, sunk in her own private gloom. She didn’t look up as I came in, and I knew it would be useless to talk to her. I went into my room, stripped down to my slip and got into bed. I was asleep within moments.
*
The next thing I remember is waking up to harsh sunlight. I felt light and weak, washed out, like you do when a fever has broken. Achille was sitting in an armchair by the window, reading Marx’sEighteenth Brumaire. I tried to say his name but it ended in a spluttering cough. He dropped the book and came to sit on the bed next to me.
‘Hey, little sister. How are you feeling?’ He poured out a glass of water from the carafe on my bedside table and handed it to me. I raised it to my lips with shaky hands. It was shockingly cold.
‘You’re back already,’ I said once I could speak.
