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‘Achille,’ my mother’s voice called. ‘Achille!’
I knew that I wouldn’t get past her without an interrogation. I took the Beretta off again and bundled it up in an old scarf, and I shoved that into my satchel before throwing on the nearest clothes I could find. My mother accosted me the moment I set foot downstairs.
‘Where’s your brother going at the crack of dawn? Did he tell you?’
‘You know he didn’t,’ I said. ‘Mamma, he can’t tell us these things. You know that.’
‘But it’s so early,’ Mamma said. She was wild-eyed, her hair standing out in wisps around her pale face. ‘He never usually goes out so early. And it’s dangerous out there. I know the Germans have gone, but the Fascists…’
‘I know. I’m sure he’s going to stay somewhere safe until it’s all over.’ I put my arm around Mamma’s shoulders and spoke in the calmest, most soothing voice I could, but inside I was bubbling with impatience. ‘Come and sit down in the warm. I’ll make you something for breakfast.’
But she was pulling away from me, looking me up and down. ‘And where are you going? Why have you got your school bag?’
By now I’d got quite used to lying to my parents. I didn’t even have to think about it. ‘I’m going along to the church,’ I said. ‘Don Anselmo has an emergency shelter all set up in the crypt. You and Papà can come too, if you want.’
It was a gamble, but it worked, thank God. Mamma shook her head just as I knew she would. ‘Your father and I will stay here and guard the house. But you should go to don Anselmo.’ She put out her hand to stroke my face. ‘Go and be safe.’
That was the last tender thing my mother did for me. I kissed her and went out, carrying my schoolbag just as I’d learned to do: carelessly, as if it contained nothing important. The streets were empty and the air was full of expectation, like the day of therastrellamento. Every now and then I saw movement in the corner of my eye, as if someone had looked out of a window or an alleyway and then quickly retreated. I don’t know if they were on our side or theirs; whatever the case, I clearly didn’t look like a threat.
The doors of the church were closed. I could hear indistinct voices: the tired back-and-forth intonation of morning Mass. At the former German checkpoint, a group of Fascist volunteers loitered in a sullen knot at the side of the road, like schoolboys hoping for a fight. I slipped into the church and knelt in the nearest available pew, shoving my satchel with the Beretta under the seat in front. The Mass was nearly over, and don Anselmo was embarking on the final prayers. I felt strangely disappointed. Mostly because I had imagined something much more exciting than this, but also because I would have liked to take Communion on that day of all days. I closed my eyes and let the words flow over me – don Anselmo’s sing-song voice, and the congregation’s muttered responses – trying to scrape back what little grace I could.
‘…et vidimus gloriam eius, gloriam quasi unigeniti a patre plenum gratiae et veritatis,’ don Anselmo concluded.
‘Deo gratias,’ we all said, and the organ burst into a slightly off-tempo, very loud rendition of the ‘Ave Maria’. Don Anselmo raised his hand.
Behind me, there was a muted groan of metal on metal as the bolts on the great doors slid into place. The congregants rose to their feet, pulling out guns and grenades from under their pews, throwing off unseasonal coats to reveal holsters and bullet belts.
A couple of rows ahead, Agnese was issuing orders to a little group of women who were clustered around her. I shouldered my satchel and pushed my way through the crowd until I reached her. ‘Here I am,’ I said. ‘I’m ready.’
Agnese looked at me. She was a plump, practical woman who must have been around my mother’s age, and I was used to seeing her in drab clothes and carrying her shopping basket. Today she was wearing a baggy old pair of men’s trousers and a loose shirt with atricolorearmband, and she had a rifle slung over her shoulder. In my cotton dress and scuffed shoes, I felt like the schoolgirl I was.
‘Stella,’ she said. ‘Good to see you here. Has someone given you a job to do?’
‘Well, no.’ She was looking at me as if my presence were a puzzle she had to solve. I was starting to feel embarrassed. ‘I’ve come for my orders,’ I said.
‘Right.’ Agnese said. ‘Well, I’m sure we have need for you here. If you go and see don Anselmo—’
‘I’m ready to fight,’ I burst out. ‘I have a weapon.’ And I took the Beretta in its holster from my bag.
Agnese’s eyes widened. ‘And you know how to fire that, do you?’
‘Yes. I mean, I know how to fire a handgun. I’m sure this one isn’t any different.’
‘Have you ever shot someone?’ she asked. ‘A human being?’
‘Well, no,’ I admitted.
‘An animal?’
‘No.’
‘Has anyone ever shot at you?’
‘No, but—’
‘It’s too big a risk.’ She shook her head. ‘If you were a little older, or you had any combat experience at all – even hunting – but as it is… No, I can’t send you out there.’
‘But I want to fight,’ I protested. And I really did. I wasn’t a risk-taker like Achille, but after everything I’d seen, in that particular moment, I wanted to kill the Fascists with my bare hands.
