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Unlike him, though, I wasn’t scared. I don’t know whether this makes sense, but knowing that ten innocent people might die – that I myself might die because of something I hadn’t done and couldn’t control – stripped away the last of my nerves. I went on working with a sort of cold fatalism. What was the point in being afraid now? What would it change? Nothing.
The weeks ticked past, and gradually the atmosphere in the house began to lighten. The German’s body had still not been found. I don’t know what his regiment thought had happened to him – maybe they believed he’d deserted, as did happen sometimes, or maybe they were simply too harried to keep track of their men – anyway, it scarcely mattered. The SS had not come to enact the death sentence. We had been lucky. Achille began to stand a little straighter, to take some joy in riding out and riding home again, and he put on his red kerchief despite my mother’s protests. He was returning to himself, and I was glad.
One Sunday, I came back from Mass to find him at the back door of the house, about to set off. He was tucking his slingshot into his battered and stained old hunting bag, but his motorbike was still in the lean-to. I was surprised. Achille never walked anywhere if he could ride.
‘Going to get a couple of rabbits for dinner tonight,’ he said. And then, lowering his voice: ‘And I’m going to go and see about that bike. I can’t leave it there to rust.’
‘Then I’ll come with you,’ I said.
‘Stellina…’
‘I want to see it,’ I said. ‘This legendary motorcycle that was worth so much danger. Show me.’
If Achille wanted to argue with me, he didn’t try. Maybe he was glad of the company. He just nodded and we walked silently together up the back road to the hills. It was a hot day and I’d been fasting for Mass, so I soon started to wonder whether I’d done the right thing in coming with him. My feet were aching in my mother’s old shoes and I was dreadfully thirsty. But I didn’t turn back; there was no question of that.
The woods were thankfully quiet. Most people would be having their Sunday lunch, or what passed for it in those frugal times, and the Germans must have been counting on that. We walked and walked and met nobody, except one old man pottering along with his dog, and a little group of girls who were picking wild flowers at the side of the road. I stopped and picked a few myself, just to have an alibi.
When we reached the turning for Sant’Appiano, Achille gripped my arm. ‘Not far now,’ he said. I followed him up a winding little road and there it was: the blind corner, and beyond that the ghost town with its row of cramped little houses, their shutters decaying and half hanging off, the odd empty doorway like a gaping mouth. There were still faint black marks on the road where the German’s bike had skidded.
‘It must be in a pretty bad state by now,’ Achille said. ‘The body. But I should check.’ His lips were pale.
‘I’ll go and look if you want,’ I offered. A dead body was the least frightening thing I could imagine by that point. ‘Just tell me where.’
Achille shook his head. ‘No. Wait here.’ And he was off across the road. I saw him bend to pick up a stick, and then he vanished behind the trees.
When he came back, he was grey-faced and sweating. ‘Thank God for wild boar.’ His voice was croaky and his breath sour. ‘The body’s still there – well, parts of it – but what’s left barely looks human, let alone German. Have you got a handkerchief?’ I handed him mine, and he wiped his mouth and spat.
‘Are you all right?’ I asked.
‘I’m fine. Fine. Now let’s go and see about this bike. Come on.’ And he marched off towards one of the houses a little way along the street. The door had been painted once, and now it was rot-streaked and swollen with damp. Achille put his shoulder to it and managed to push it open on the third or fourth try.
The German bike was standing in the hallway. It was covered with a ragged old sheet, which Achille whisked off like Michelangelo revealingDavid. ‘There! Just look at that. Isn’t it beautiful?’
I looked without understanding. The red MM 125 Achille rode – my father’s old machine – was a lightweight racing bike that almost resembled a pushbike. It even had pedals and a narrow triangular seat, just like my own bicycle. But this was another kind of beast: big and low-slung with heavy leather panniers and two broad seats, one behind the other. The BMW mark stood out against the black-painted fuel tank like the badge on an SS officer’s cap. I hated it.
Achille was fussing over the bike now, inspecting it, topping up oil and fuel from two canisters he took from his hunting bag. ‘Looks like it’s good to go,’ he said at last. ‘I need to do a bit of work on it, but there isn’t too much wrong. Hey, look at this.’ He opened one of the panniers to show me the German’s helmet and goggles, a pair of leather gauntlets folded up next to them and a sidearm in its holster, too – a Luger, it must have been. ‘I’ll pass these on to the boys at Santa Marta. They’re short on protective gear.’
‘You’re not really taking that… thing home with you,’ I said.
‘Ha! No chance.’ He was already wheeling the bike towards the door. ‘I’ll keep it in that old shed I was telling you about. What Mamma doesn’t see won’t worry her.’ He assumed I wouldn’t tell her, of course – he knew I wouldn’t. It had always been like that, me and Achille against the grown-ups. ‘Grab that gun, would you?’ he called back over his shoulder.
I turned and saw a rifle propped up at the foot of the stairs. It was new-looking and polished, nothing like the well-used old guns we had. I picked it up and managed to sling it over my shoulder. On the road outside, Achille was already mounted up and ready to go.
‘Come on, hop up.’ He had to raise his voice over the chug-chug-chug of the engine. I shook my head.
‘No, thanks. I’ll walk home.’
‘Are you sure? I don’t want to leave you to go back all alone.’ He meant it, I’m certain, but he was already radiating impatience. He wanted to be off.
‘I’m sure,’ I said. ‘Take the bike across country – see what it can do. I’ll meet you back at the house. But you can carry this.’ I held the rifle out to him and he took it from me, settling it across his back. ‘Don’t forget the rabbits, if you want to keep Mamma happy.’
Achille grinned at me. ‘I won’t. See you shortly, little sister.’ He sped away, accelerator roaring, before I could tell him to be careful.
*
The German bike became part of Achille’s legend. People think it’s romantic. I don’t see the romance, but I can’t deny he made good use of the thing. All that extra capacity meant he could carry plenty of cargo – munitions, food, clothing and the odd passenger – and bring his toolbox, too. And I believe he got a kick out of riding it under the very noses of the Germans, although I wished he wouldn’t.
‘But if they catch me they’ll kill me, no matter what I’m riding,’ he said when I argued with him. ‘Anyway, I don’t care if I die.’
