Page 2 of Daughter of Genoa
As Vittorio emerges from the shelter and into the chilly spring morning, he finds himself looking around for the young woman he saw earlier. In his line of work, you quickly learn to spot those who live in hiding. It’s not just the physical signs: the pale complexion, the mended clothing, the obvious nerves. In much-bombed Genoa, all those are common enough. No, it’s something else. It’s an air of wanting to vanish, of trying to be as small and as unobtrusive as possible. It’s a way of holding yourself so you don’t draw attention. When he saw her like that, tucked up against the wall of the shelter, he was fairly sure she needed help. The hatred and fear in her expression when she looked at him – as painful as it was – that confirmed it.
He can’t approach her himself, of course; not after that. Perhaps if he can lay eyes on her, get a sense for where she might live, he can have someone else look for her once the chaos has died down: a friendly nun or, better still, a laywoman. But the crowd is dense and he can’t see her, can’t even bring her features to mind. He has already failed to help. Carignano is covered in dust and smoke; people are surging around him, clutching at each other and at him, begging for a prayer or a blessing. He looks into each pale, terrified face that turns to his and he does what he can to soothe them, to be the reassuring presence he knows they expect. His chest hurts with every breath of thick, cold air and he’s beginning to feel very bad, worse even than usual. He’s shamefully unprepared. He had come to the hospital to hear a parishioner’s confession, and now he is at the centre of all this horror, sick and sleep-deprived, trying desperately to be useful and hoping that his instinct will kick in, that well-trained priest’s instinct that has carried him through so many horrific situations. But it doesn’t, not today. Today, apparently, he’s just a man.
‘Father Vittorio?’
A young, mousy-haired woman – a girl, really – in a Red Cross uniform is looking up at him. He’s seen her face before, he realises. Certainly around the hospital, but somewhere else, too: perhaps the Archbishop’s Palace, or his home church, the Gesù.
He must look as tired and baffled as he feels, because the girl gives him a frank smile. ‘I don’t expect you know me,’ she says, ‘but I know you. I have a patient who’s asking for a priest. Will you come? Now?’
‘Of course.’ He turns to go back towards the hospital, but she shakes her head and sets off in the other direction. She’s moving so swiftly that he has to try to keep up with her. The pain in his chest becomes tight, demanding.
There’s a courtyard on the left, the gate standing open; she ducks into it and waves him after her. ‘I saw you earlier in the shelter,’ she says quietly, ‘and I’m very relieved to find you again. I told a lie, you see. My patient doesn’t need a priest, but she does need help.’
‘I see,’ Vittorio says. He takes out his handkerchief and wipes the sweat from his face.
‘I found this lady in via Gualtieri. She’d had a nasty turn. She’s very underfed – well, we all are right now, but even so – and I gather she lived in one of the houses that was destroyed. She must have come home, seen it and passed out from shock, poor soul. It took me a moment to bring her round, and she’s still not right.’
‘And now she hasn’t anywhere to go?’
‘Worse than that.’ The girl looks around her, lowers her voice another notch. ‘I had a look in her handbag, when I couldn’t rouse her – I thought I might be able to call someone for her, a husband or a mother or some such. And I saw her identity card. Says she’s from Troia.’
Vittorio knows what that means. The most rudimentary false papers, the only ones available to Jews in the first weeks of the occupation, were all stamped by the questura of Troia in the free zone of southern Italy. It was the only counterfeit stamp available in those days. He thinks of the Fascist police and the German SS, patrolling the devastated streets of Carignano to hunt for those flushed out by the bombing, and he turns cold.
‘Her name’s Marta Ricci,’ the girl goes on. ‘That’s what it says on her card, anyway. There’s someone sitting with her now – seems a nice enough woman, but I don’t know. I said I was going to fetch her parish priest. That’s you, Father Vittorio, so best you remember her name. Marta Ricci. And I’m Nurse Dora.’
‘Good thinking, Nurse Dora,’ Vittorio says. ‘Let’s go and see her, shall we?’
*
Via Gualtieri was once one of those typical Carignano streets lined with tall, stately buildings, a little down-at-heel these days but still grand enough, or at least respectable. Now it’s a sprawl of rubble and wasted walls, laid wide open by the RAF bomb that’s landed directly in the middle of it. The ruins are crawling with people: rescue parties and firemen, workers with barrows and shovels, already bringing the chaos into some kind of order. Vittorio thinks of ants.
‘There she is,’ Nurse Dora says, and she leads Vittorio towards a heap of masonry where two women are sitting. A wiry, headscarved matriarch who holds a broom like a sceptre; and next to her, a slight figure in a shabby tweed coat, curled up with her head resting on her knees. Something about her is familiar – the coat, perhaps, the posture – and a wild, faint hope begins to rise. Maybe this isher: the woman from the tunnel. Maybe he won’t have failed to help her after all.
The matriarch looks up as they approach; the other woman stays as she is, a tight ball of misery. ‘Here I am!’ Dora says. ‘And here is Father Vittorio. Thank you, signora Traverso, for sitting with Marta. We’ll take care of her now.’
‘Good,’ signora Traverso says with a nod of evident approval. ‘I was just saying to the young lady – before she took a turn again, poor thing – that it’s ever so strange, the two of us living in the same street and never meeting, not even once. Don’t you think that’s odd?’
‘Life’s a funny thing.’ Dora’s voice is even. ‘Thanks so much again for keeping an eye on her. We shan’t hold you up any longer.’
But signora Traverso doesn’t move. Her eyes are on Vittorio now, and she’s looking him up and down in a way that makes him distinctly uncomfortable. ‘You don’t look like any priest I’ve seen around here before,’ she says. ‘Are you new, Father?’
‘It’s all in hand,’ Dora says, before Vittorio can react, and she takes signora Traverso’s arm and all but heaves her to her feet. ‘We’ll look after Marta. She needs peace and quiet, and a proper check-up.’
‘But—’
‘Off you go,’ the nurse says, not unpleasantly but with something in her tone, something inarguable. Signora Traverso makes a face; her eyes flick from Vittorio to Dora and back again, but she hefts her broom and goes, muttering. Dora crouches down and gestures to Vittorio to do the same.
‘Marta, dear, I’m afraid we need to get you moving. Father Vittorio is here. He’s a good man and you can trust him. He’ll find you somewhere to stay, won’t you, Father?’
‘Yes,’ Vittorio says. His mind is already working, running through every suitable place he knows in the city: convents, private homes, apartments rented by the diocese. So many of them are full, even beyond capacity. He could easily despair, but he won’t. He hasn’t the option. ‘I’ll see that you’re looked after, Marta. Please don’t worry.’
But there’s no reaction, no sign that he’s been heard. ‘Marta?’ Dora prompts, leaning forward and putting her hand on the young woman’s shoulder. ‘Marta, please. You’re not safe here. I know it’s been an awful shock, but you must go with Father Vittorio right away.’
Marta raises her head. She looks at Dora and then turns her eyes to him – wide, brown, startled eyes – and Vittorio thanks God and all His mysterious ways because it’sher.
‘All right,’ she says in a near-whisper. ‘All right, if I must.’
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