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‘Are you all right, Stellina?’ he asked in a low voice. ‘If you don’t think you can face it today, I’ll make some excuse to your father and go instead of you.’
‘Of course I can face it,’ I said. I was insulted, and more than a little disappointed. ‘Do you think I’m going to back out just because of a few Germans?’
‘No, no. It’s just that, well, after what happened…’ He was frowning now. ‘Don’t you know?’
‘What? What should I know? Everyone’s acting so strangely this morning. I don’t understand what the problem is.’
Enzo took my hands in his and he told me, in simple and terrible words, what had happened to Berta. And then he held me as I cried.
*
The square outside the station – back then, it was called piazza Burresi – was even busier than usual. I don’t know if Papà actually knew about the Germans but, whether he meant to or not, he’d told the truth. The square was lined with armoured cars and there were soldiers stopping people on the way into the station and checking their papers. I realised then that I had put Enzo in danger by wanting him to come with me; a young man, a worker, was always going to be more suspicious in the eyes of the Germans than a schoolgirl in uniform. They might think he was a partisan, which he was, or a draft dodger, which he wasn’t – but only because he wasn’t old enough to be drafted.
‘You don’t have to come in with me,’ I said in my brightest voice. With the Germans around, it was best not to sound fearful. ‘I can manage by myself.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ Enzo said. ‘I want to see you off.’ He spoke lightly, too, but his arm was tight around my shoulders.
In the event, the soldiers didn’t bother with us. They took a cursory look at Enzo’s identity card and waved mine away. Enzo waited with me until the train arrived and then he did kiss me, just softly, on the lips.
‘Have a good day, Stellina. I’ll be here when you get back.’
I got into the train carriage with my cheeks burning and fought my way through the crowd to find somewhere to stand, finally contriving to wedge myself into a corner with my satchel between my hip and the wall. In the satchel were my schoolbooks, my jotter and a little paperback copy of Machiavelli’s comedyThe Mandrake, which Enzo had given me to carry. It might have contained some kind of message in code, likely written in vinegar or some other form of invisible ink, or perhaps it had a compartment cut into the leaves. I didn’t open it and I certainly didn’t ask for details. The more I knew, the more danger I would bring upon others if I was caught. It was my responsibility to know as little as possible.
When I got to Castelmedici, I was to walk to school as I always did, except that this time I should pause at the gates of the municipal park to shift my satchel from my right shoulder to my left. My contact would find me then. I was used to this kind of arrangement by now, but I still preferred the mornings when I simply went to school and didn’t have to rehearse that day’s signal in my head and hope, the whole time, that the right person would approach me.
The train was running slower even than usual, stopping and starting. I was hot and uncomfortable, both from the stifling air of the packed carriage and from fear that I would miss my connection and fail to hand over the book.
‘No doubt the communists have blown up the line again,’ a woman in a fur coat said rather loudly, looking around the carriage as if to rally us to her aid. ‘As if it does anything but make life harder for the rest of us.’ But she was met with satisfying silence, and one or two people shook their heads.
Eventually the train juddered to yet another stop, and we were in Castelmedici. Now I had to fight to get out of the doors, because hardly anyone else was getting off; but I managed it, and I was outside in the cold air and already ten minutes late for school. I wanted to run, but I forced myself to walk slowly and look confidently ahead, just as if it were any other day. There were fewer Germans at Castelmedici than there had been at Romituzzo – I never could figure out their patterns – and I was able to walk right past a little group of soldiers who were poring over an elderly man’s papers, and out into the square. I picked up my pace as I walked, so absorbed in my task that I almost missed the gates of the park altogether. But I caught myself in time and, feigning discomfort, I stopped just long enough to take my heavy satchel off one shoulder and move it to the other. Then I kept walking, because the whole point of these ‘flying rendezvous’, as we called them, was not to look as if you were waiting for someone.
‘Mimma!’ someone called behind me: a female voice, cheerful and light. Mimma was the code name I used for my work. ‘Mimma, wait for me!’
I slowed down a little and a woman appeared alongside me, pushing a bicycle with a little boy riding happily in the basket. She was wearing a rather shabby overcoat and her hair was covered with a scarf. She looked just like any young mother out running errands.
‘How lovely to see you,’ she said, smiling at me as if we were old friends. The child, obliging, smiled at me too. ‘You’re off to school, I suppose. Tonino and I will accompany you some of the way, if that’s all right. I should like to catch up.’
Her eyes were fixed on me, her manner determinedly bright. I glanced over her shoulder and saw two black-capped gendarmes on the street corner a little way behind us, apparently deep in conversation. These were Fascists, members of Mussolini’s National Republican Guard, and their task was to root out and crush those who helped the partisans.
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Let’s walk together.’
We set off, and she began chattering away about people and places that meant nothing to me in the slightest. For all I know, it was completely made up. We walked together in that way for a couple of blocks – the Fascists, thank God, made no move to follow us – and then she made a regretful face, gave me a quick hug and said that she ought to go.
‘I’m glad we could catch up for a few minutes,’ I said. ‘Oh, and I forgot! Thank you for the loan of the book.’ I tookThe Mandrakeout of my satchel and handed it to her, and she tucked it into her bicycle basket, next to Tonino.
‘Ciao, Mimma,’ she said, and cycled off with a wave. I waved back and hurried towards school.
*
When I got back to Romituzzo, Enzo was waiting for me on the platform just as he promised. I had spent the whole school day with the news of Berta’s death going round and round in my head, and I wanted to collapse into his arms, but I didn’t. We made our way past the Germans, who didn’t even look at us this time, and began to walk home.
‘Good day at school?’ Enzo asked once we were safely away from piazza Burresi.
‘What do you think?’
Enzo laughed. He knew, of course – knew how it sickened me to spend my days pretending to be an obedient girl and a good Fascist. ‘You could have left last summer,’ he reminded me.
I sighed. ‘I know. But then I couldn’t train to be a teacher and, well…’
