Page 3 of Daughter of Genoa
Anna
I wanted to stand up on my own. So much about that morning is clouded, but I remember that very distinctly. I ignored Nurse Dora’s outstretched hand and got to my feet with as much dignity as I could, but the blood rushed to my head; my knees almost gave way, and she had to catch hold of me.
‘Don’t be silly,’ she said, and she took my arm and tucked it through Vittorio’s. ‘And you, Father, keep hold of her. Now go!’
I hadn’t a choice. I let my arm rest in his, and I let him guide me away towards the little square at the end of the street. As we turned the corner, I risked a quick glance over my shoulder and caught a glimpse of a German field-grey uniform. My stomach clenched and my legs felt weak all over again. Vittorio tightened his grasp.
‘This way, I rather think,’ he said, and hurried me into a narrow, ruined street leading uphill, away from the sea. The damage here was long since done: the place was deserted, the houses standing open and empty like theatre sets. I was already out of breath, nervy and unfit. My chest was burning and my calves ached, but I didn’t dare slow down so long as Vittorio had hold of my arm.
‘All right,’ he said after a while. ‘I think we’re safe.’ He let go and steadied himself against the wall of the nearest building. He was suffering even more than I was, red-faced and winded. I couldn’t imagine how a man not so much older than me, a man who could walk freely wherever he wanted, could be so badly out of condition.
Vittorio took out a handkerchief and mopped at his brow. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘About the tunnel, about… You thought I was watching you.’
‘I did,’ I said, and propped myself against a piece of fallen masonry.
He grimaced. ‘I was. That sounds bad, I know. But I thought…’ His voice caught, and he broke into a dry, wheezing cough, which he stifled in his handkerchief. ‘Thought you might need help,’ he managed to say at last. ‘Didn’t want to scare you.’
I saw myself as others must see me – as Vittorio, with his observant eye, had seen me. Tired and small in my old, much-mended coat and skirt, clutching my bag tightly. The indoor pallor, the anxious air. The mouse flushed out of its burrow.
‘You were right,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’ It was inadequate. Now that the immediate danger had passed, now that I was beginning to feel something, I had a sudden affection for this strange priest. I might almost have hugged him, as I’d hug a friend who’d done me a good turn. But something in his bearing discouraged me. He was so very clerical, upright and contained, even while wheezing. It might have dawned on me then that this was not a man who would ever touch anyone casually, whose entire discipline revolved around keeping his distance. It might have, but it didn’t.
‘Least I could do.’ Vittorio wiped his face again and took a few slow, cautious breaths. The crisis over, he tucked his handkerchief away in the pocket of his cassock and cleared his throat. ‘Sorry. Now, what shall we do next? If you’ve anywhere you can go, anyone who can help you…’
‘No,’ I said. The magnitude of the situation was starting to bear down on me again. I had nowhere to go. I had nobody I knew well enough to ask for shelter. That flat had been my last and only refuge, and now it was gone and I was alone, quite alone and entirely defenceless. ‘I haven’t. I…’
‘Then we’ll find you somewhere – don’t worry. Just let me… Oh!’ His face brightened. ‘I have friends, a married couple who live near via Assarotti. I know,’ he added as I shook my head. ‘I know it’s less than ideal…’
‘No,’ I said. ‘No, I can’t go there. I won’t.’ The Germans had made their headquarters at the foot of via Assarotti, just a little way from the synagogue. The synagogue they had raided the previous November, arresting many Jews including brave Rabbi Pacifici, who had stayed to look after his community. I could not imagine going anywhere near via Assarotti.
‘I understand,’ Vittorio said. ‘I really do, but I assure you that the house is quite safe. And my friends, and their friends, and their neighbours – they’re all trustworthy. They all understand, too. Please let me take you there, if only for now. I can’t leave you out here alone, I simply can’t – it’s far too dangerous. My conscience won’t let me. God won’t let me. Please.’
He was so earnest. And I was exhausted and frightened, and he’d saved me once already. Of course I didn’t trust him. Quite apart from his being a Jesuit – and that alone was grounds for distrust – there were enough people like my landlady, people prepared to ‘help’ Jews only to exploit them afterwards. You could never tell who might do a thing like that. But what other choice did I have? How could I tell him to leave me, and stay here in the ruins of Carignano with the SS prowling around and nowhere to hide, nowhere to sleep, nothing to eat? It was impossible: I could see that, even as I wanted to run away from him and from via Assarotti and all that it meant. It was simply impossible.
‘Yes, then,’ I said, and hoped with every fibre of myself that he was as good-hearted as he seemed. ‘I’ll come with you.’
Vittorio smiled. He looked genuinely relieved. ‘Wonderful. That’s wonderful. Come on, then.’
*
The next hour was excruciating. Public transport was too dangerous – too many Germans, too many Fascists, too many checks – so we had to walk together, uphill all the way. First towards via XX Settembre, where we crossed beneath the monumental bridge, trying to look inconspicuous among the crowds of people and cars. Then further up, following the high stone wall that underpinned the Spianata dell’Acquasola, until we reached via Serra. I looked to my left and glimpsed the equestrian statue of King Victor Emmanuel II, brandishing his hat with a flourish, in the middle of piazza Corvetto at the very bottom of via Assarotti. My father used to grumble every time he saw that statue.
‘Don’t worry,’ Vittorio said. His voice was hoarse. We’d had to stop several times for him to get his breath back, and I’d been equal parts relieved and terrified at every interruption. He nodded towards a small, winding street that led off directly ahead of us. ‘Up there,’ he said. ‘Not far.’
And so we climbed on and on. The street was narrow and mercifully quiet, but that was another kind of peril. Anyone could have looked out of a window and seen us – we were nothing if not conspicuous. But eventually we emerged into a broader street with houses along the left side and, on the right, a view over the city towards Brignole station. It was a horrific sight: a wasteland of rubble and broken roofs, punctuated by the ragged shards of bombed-out buildings. Vittorio touched my wrist.
‘Up ahead,’ he said, pointing to a small shopfront. Over the door was a sign reading TIPOGRAFIA GUICHARD. ‘My friends are Waldensians,’ Vittorio explained. ‘Protestants, of a sort. Good people, though.’
Though. I bit back sharp words.
The shop, once we reached it, didn’t look promising. It was one of those dark little places with a display window full of faded, out-of-date calendars and old ferry schedules. I wondered what I had let myself get into, and whether I ought not after all to go back and take my chances with the Germans. Vittorio rang the bell in three short bursts, brrring-brrring-brrring, and a man’s voice from somewhere inside called: ‘Coming! Coming!’
There was movement now behind the glazed door. The green blind was pulled aside just enough for a round, suspicious eye to peer past it, and then there was the click and grind of an elderly lock and the door swung open. Vittorio ushered me through and then quickly closed it behind us.
The presumed typographer, a large, silver-haired man with a drooping moustache and a green apron, looked at me and then fixed a baleful gaze on Vittorio. ‘You didn’t warn us.’ He had a strange, melodic accent. A Piedmontese, of course, and one from the high valleys.
‘No time,’ Vittorio said. ‘I found this lady just now. She’s lost her home.’
‘Is that a fact?’ The typographer looked at me again. I was starting to shiver now, the next stage of shock setting in. His stern face softened just a little. ‘Don’t stand there,’ he said, still gruff. ‘Come through.’
