The Golden Hour (14 page)

I
t seems ludicrous to me now to think that at seventeen I could envision myself affecting the war in any tangible way. Nevertheless, a raw energy and power surged through me that was naive, to be sure, but left me nearly fearless. I turned my entire focus to supporting the partisans. I was determined to impress Giorgio and to protect him in whatever way I could—and underneath it all, perhaps, to atone for my treachery.

All the next week, I hounded Rosa mercilessly. I raided two gardens after dark, telling my parents that training at the clinic was keeping me late, and I amassed quite an impressive store that I knew would make Hermes proud. A third garden that had been tempting me was the Santinis’ own. A cheeky and dangerous move. The garden was between the cellar and the house, fenced in iron, and shielded by a row of arborvitaes from any direct surveillance.

After I dropped off that day’s supplies, I crept slowly up the path toward the house, my empty sack over my shoulder. I could see the gate was unlocked, so, with a quick glance up ahead, and feeling secure in the deepening dusk, I gingerly lifted the latch and
stepped inside. The perky green tops of the onions beckoned to me, so I wrenched one from the black earth. Its underbelly was firm, white, and rounded to the size of a golf ball. Greedily, I pulled out a whole row, stuffing them into my sack and leaving a crumbled ditch right down the garden’s center. I yanked tens of handfuls of swollen, nearly dried pea pods off the huge, fading tangle of vine, and unearthed a dozen or so garlic bulbs.

Thank God I had everything in the sack and had already latched the gate when I saw the frail figure of Signora Santini, her shoulders draped elegantly in a rose-colored shawl, leaning on a cane and making her way slowly toward me down the path. Her skin looked sallow, even in the dim light of evening, and dark circles made her protruding eyes seem hollow. She stared at me quizzically, as if she were searching her memory, trying to orient herself.

“Giovanna? Is that you? What on earth are you doing here at this hour?” She eyed the sack.

Frantically I searched for an explanation, since I was facing the house, after all. “Oh, signora, I’m so surprised to see you outside! I’ve heard you’ve been quite ill. Mother suggested I pay you a visit, but here you are, up and about, catching a breath of air. Imagine that!” I shifted the canvas bag under my arm, pressing the top closed so she couldn’t see inside. “I intended to get here much earlier, but my work at the clinic held me up.” I was running off at the mouth now. “And I just thought I’d come back here to look to see if maybe I saw a light in your window, if maybe you were still up and I could safely announce myself.”

She stood there, staring, her hand trembling on the head of the cane. “I felt slightly better this evening, thank you.” She spoke slowly and deliberately, in a low, cultured voice that made me feel like a babbling idiot. Then she added, “Luigi tells me he thinks someone has been using our cellar as a supply drop. I thought I would investigate. I don’t suppose you noticed any men lurking back there.”

My face flushed hot. “Men? Why, no, no men at all. What do
you mean, supply drop? Supplying the partisans?” I could feel my pulse racing, surely visible at the hollow in my neck where my blouse was open.

“You heard me, exactly.” She glowered, as if defying me to explain myself further. “Our family is in a vicious tangle over all of this. My husband is a stubborn Fascist, and he’d report anything suspicious to the Germans; you can bet on that.” She paused. “But I…” Her face shook slightly from side to side as she went on. “I’m terrified for Luigi, who turns eighteen next year and might be forced to fight. Rumors are that the partisans are making real inroads, interfering with German plans for this area. I’m all for it. Whatever they can do.”

Relief slowly infused my blood like a river settling out after a storm. This could be important. I gently took her elbow. “Signora Santini, you’re tired. Let’s sit down on the bench over there and have a chat.”

The moss at the foot of the gazebo’s columns was soaked after a badly needed rain the night before. I was forced to stand, to pace in circles, while Sunday afternoon crept by no faster than the hands on a clock. Well, why shouldn’t Giorgio be late? I had stood him up completely last week. I looked nervously at the sky through the lacy canopy above me—zinc, definitely gray. Would it rain again, catch me so far from home?

I did have work to do, though, mental work. The Santini situation was complicated. Signora Santini had given me her unqualified permission to use the cellar as a depository for supplies. She had been helpful too with details of her husband’s schedule and the hours of the day she felt were most advisable for pickup and delivery. Luckily, he was quite predictable, a man of routine. She warned me, though, that if he found out, it would mean serious trouble for me and for the men I was helping. She would have to
deny any involvement, and I would be on my own. She had given me free rein as well in the garden, trusting me to gauge the amount I could take without its being noticed, and she promised to hold back on her own use of the basic onions and garlic, beans and potatoes that I needed most.

The question in my mind concerned Luigi. He and his mother were of one mind, and here was potentially another healthy, resourceful person who could be useful to the cause. On the other hand, he was my age, and—what could I say?—a boy. I just didn’t trust him the way I could trust Violetta. And his friends…I cringed, thinking of poor Ignazio Lazzari. Would Luigi blame me and take revenge? No, I would have to go it alone at this point and hope to elude Luigi as I came and went on the property. It had worked so far. He slept late and never seemed to be about in the evening.

Where was Giorgio, anyway? Impatience was gnawing in my lower back. Maybe I should just leave—put a note where he could see it and call it a draw: one week for him, one for me. I was pulling my pad out of my pocket when a low murmur rose from the woods to the north. I held my breath. Yes, male voices. I smoothed my hair, redid the barrette.

There were four of them this time: Giorgio, of course, and the Fox. With them were two other men. They were strikingly similar—both of medium height with curly dark hair, both dressed in tattered camouflage, items of clothing obviously put together randomly from different national uniforms. One of them wore a patch over one eye; the other had his arm in a sling, a filthy length of gauze wrapped and knotted around it. Odd. I couldn’t identify exactly the feeling I got observing them, but I sensed a tentativeness about them, that they didn’t quite belong, as if Hermes and the Fox were in charge and these two were lucky to be along for the ride.

“Columba!” Giorgio gave me a quick hug. “I wasn’t sure whether you’d make it this time.” His eyes darted about, as if he
were looking for someone lurking in the shadows. The Fox had wandered off and was peering down the path I had come on.

“I’m so sorry about last Sunday. I can explain, but it’s a long story. Remember how I told you—”

He reached out and put three fingers flat over my lips. “You’re forgiven, Columba. We don’t have time for explanations right now. First of all, the good news. Things are really heating up around here. The Allied forces have reached Pistoia in their march up the peninsula and are positioned to penetrate the Gothic Line just south of here. If that happens, the Germans will have to abandon the front and retreat up the river valley to northern Italy. We’re doing all we can to harass them, intercept their communications, and make it difficult for them to stay around here.”

“I thought the Allies wanted the partisans to do only defensive work, not to attack the Germans,” I ventured.

He looked irritated. “Screw that, Columba. It’s evolving. Right now we just need your help with something specific.” He pulled me over to the two men. “These are two brothers I knew at military school. This one we call Patch. He was a couple of classes ahead of me in school.” I reached out my hand to shake his, trying to focus on his good eye and not wanting to appear to be staring. He glanced at me and then looked at the ground. “And this is Moses. He was in my class.” He clamped a hand on Moses’s good shoulder and gave it a squeeze. Moses, his right arm in the sling, reached out his left and gave me a warm smile.

“Hi, Giovanna. Giorgio’s talked about you so often over the years.” His brown eyes were overlaid with green, the color of the wet moss beneath our feet. When I looked into his eyes, I felt suddenly as if he were indeed familiar, as if I had, somehow, met him before.

“Damn it, Moses, I told you not to use her name. You’ve got to get used to that.”

“Okay, then,
Columba
. It’s nice to meet you.” He winked.

“It’s Moses here who’s the problem. You can see his arm is hurt. He was helping us work with some explosives and got caught in an accidental flare-up. It’s been bandaged for the last couple of days, but I think it’s infected, and we need medicine and some new bandages. Do you want to see the wound?”

“No, no!” I backed off too quickly and was embarrassed by my own squeamishness. “I’m sure I can imagine what it looks like. As it turns out, I’ve been working in the clinic at Villa Falconieri for a week or so. I think I actually can be of some help here.”

“I thought you were working at the school.”

“That’s part of the long story I was going to tell you,” I said. “I’m not going back there anymore.”

Giorgio studied me, squinting, a little smile playing about his mouth. “I can’t wait to hear this one. But we really don’t have time right now. We’ve got to get back.” He took me by the hand and pulled me over to the other side of the marble platform, leaving the three men talking quietly together. He draped an arm around me and rotated us so our backs were to the others. “This is a little touchy, but I think I’d better tell you.” There was a new tone in his voice, serious and guarded.

“Tell me what?”

“Those two guys are Jewish. You’ve got to be really careful about this, little sister. They can’t stay with us long—it’s too much of a risk for everyone. But I told Moses I’d get help for his arm. Can you come back midweek? I don’t think it can wait until Sunday.”

I glanced back over my shoulder, quietly absorbing this piece of news, looking at the two brothers with new eyes. Everyone knew the Fascist party had some laws on the books about Jews, but I wasn’t aware that they posed any real danger to them.

“What do you mean, too much of a risk?”

Giorgio looked at me and rolled his eyes. “Are you so naive as that?”

I stared blankly back at him.

“Since September, since the occupation, the Germans have had an all-out manhunt for Jews anywhere in Italy. If they’re found, they’re put on trains and sent…I don’t know—east somewhere. I guess they’re put in prison camps or forced to do hard labor.”

“But why?” I knew of Jews, of course, but as far as I knew, that term had always just referred to their religion. They’d worked with Father as bankers or in the textile business.

“It’s happening all over Europe, Giovanna.” Giorgio was whispering now. “It’s part of what Hitler is trying to do. Don’t you remember hearing about the racial laws? It’s all connected. The hard-core Fascists believe Jews are inferior—polluting our population—and they just want them out of here, separate.”