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‘It’s an irregular war,’ Davide retorted.
But the doctor wasn’t listening. His disapproving gaze had landed on me. ‘And what is this child doing here? Does she need attention, too?’
‘Stella is our assistant medic,’ don Anselmo said, putting his arm around my shoulders. ‘She’s been doing a marvellous job and we are all very grateful to her.’
‘That’s as may be,’ Dr Bianchi said, ‘but she cannot stay here. I have to examine these men. It isn’t proper for a girl to be present.’
Davide was reaching the end of his tether. ‘This girl, as you call her, helped save the lives of every single one of those patients. And they are menand women, Dr Bianchi, not just men.’
‘Is that so?’ the doctor muttered, aghast. Don Anselmo took my arm.
‘Come on, Stella. I need to go out and make my rounds, and I fear it’s going to be sad and difficult work. Will you help me?’
How could I not? I would have done anything for don Anselmo. I followed him upstairs and into the sacristy, where he began to top up the little vials of holy oil and water he kept in his emergency bag along with his stole and breviary and the little gold pyx with the consecrated wafers. ‘If – when – we find a body,’ he said, ‘then we must take note of who and where so that their family can be told. I won’t have anyone in this town prevented from burying their loved ones. Do you understand?’
I remembered the desperation of the women in Castelmedici: the bodies hanging from the trees and the German soldiers guarding them. ‘I understand,’ I said.
‘Very good. Ah, now.’ He rummaged around in a drawer and brought out a square of white fabric, which he folded diagonally and held out to me. A kerchief: the white kerchief of the Catholic partisans. ‘Put this on – if you want to, of course. Perhaps you would prefer a red one like your brother’s. But as far as I am concerned you are my comrade, no matter your views on earthly rule.’
I didn’t know what to say. I thanked him and tied the kerchief around my neck, then we went out into the church and I waited while he refilled the pyx with wafers from the tabernacle. ‘We must be ready to administer last rites if we find anyone close to death,’ he explained as we headed for the main door. ‘But I expect don Mauro has done much already. Let’s see if we can find him, shall we?’
Outside, the sun was low in the sky and the air was hot and muggy. The checkpoint was now manned by a group of red-kerchiefed lads with machine guns. They saluted with clenched fists as we left the church and began to walk up the via Senese towards the town centre.
The street was silent. A little way along we found the body of a young man, in civilian clothes with atricolorearmband, lying on the pavement outside the bakery. An elderly woman stood next to him. ‘He’s my great-nephew,’ she explained when don Anselmo asked. ‘His mother lives in San Damiano. My husband has gone to find a telephone, to get a message to her. I’m waiting with the boy until she comes.’
Don Anselmo reached for her hand and clasped it in both of his. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t you like us to bring him inside? It might be a while before his mother can get here.’
The woman shook her head. ‘It doesn’t feel right. No, I want to wait for her. But give him a blessing, Father, please.’
‘Of course,’ don Anselmo said. He crouched down and, putting a hand on the boy’s head, murmured a prayer.
And so we made our sad progress. Every now and then we’d find a broken body in bloodstained fatigues or a black shirt and baggy trousers, and don Anselmo would say: ‘Ah, this is the son of the blacksmith who lives out towards Sant’Appiano. I believe his name is Daniele.’ Or: ‘I don’t know this young man, but I see that he’s wearing a red-and-black kerchief. When we get to the town hall, we shall see if we can find an anarchist to come and identify him.’ And then he would kneel down and say a prayer, and I’d help him up again.
By the time we reached the centre, there was still no sign of don Mauro. ‘I’m sure he’s around somewhere,’ I said, feeling the need to be bolstering. ‘He’s probably at the town hall with everyone else.’
‘Oh, I’m sure he is,’ don Anselmo said. ‘He always does want to be at the heart of things.’ But he didn’t sound very sure.
In piazza Garibaldi, the town hall was festooned in red flags and there were armed partisans standing guard outside the door. I scarcely had time to take it in before I heard my name called.
‘Stella!’ Enzo was striding across the square towards us. Like Davide, he’d grown a beard, if not very much of one. Even though I hadn’t seen him in so long – even though I had long since given up on him – I have to admit my heart was beating a little faster. ‘I’m glad you’re safe. Achille said you were, but I’m still relieved.’ He went to embrace me and then stopped, abruptly, as he saw don Anselmo.
‘Good evening, Enzo,’ don Anselmo said. ‘Don’t worry, I shall let you young people get on with your reunion. But perhaps you could tell me where don Mauro is? I need to speak to him as a matter of urgency.’
Enzo turned pale. I could see that he was making an effort to be manly and, for the first time in that whole dreadful day, my heart hurt because I knew what was coming. ‘I’m afraid that don Mauro…’ He cleared his throat. ‘Look, Father, if you would come with me for a moment—’
‘Why?’ don Anselmo snapped. It was the first time I had ever seen him lose his composure. ‘Where is he? If you have something to tell me, young man, at least have the courtesy to spit it out.’
Enzo bowed his head. For a moment he was silent, and then he said: ‘Don Mauro died just after three o’clock. It was nearly over by then, but the Fascists still held the town hall. There was a shoot-out just outside and one of theirs was hit. He went down crying to God. Don Mauro ran over to give him the last rites – I tried to stop him – and just as he finished, there was a shot from an upper window and… I’m sorry, Father.’
At first, don Anselmo just stared. And then he said in a quiet voice: ‘Where have you taken him?’
‘We took him to St Catherine’s,’ Enzo said. ‘We thought he should be at home.’
‘You did right. Thank you.’ Don Anselmo’s eyes were wet. He rubbed them with the heel of his hand, like a child. ‘My poor friend,’ he said. ‘My poor friend.’
*
The sun was setting when I began my walk home. I was exhausted in body and mind, and the shock of the day’s events was beginning to give way to a terrible sadness. But I had done everything possible, I told myself. I had looked after don Anselmo the best I could. I had stood with him on doorsteps as he spoke with the newly bereaved, and I had stood with him afterwards as he closed his eyes and spoke silently with God. And even if our freedom didn’t feel real just yet, I would wake up tomorrow in a new Romituzzo that was no longer under Fascist control.
