Page 5 of Escape to Tuscany

He took my hand. ‘Just think, Stellina,’ he said quietly. ‘Just think of the lessons you’ll teach one day in the future.’

It’s miraculous, really. I was scared and sad; there was danger everywhere and yet I could still marvel at the touch of his skin. I suppose that’s youth.

‘Achille’s out on a job,’ Enzo said. ‘Been called out to fix a broken bicycle.’

‘Where? Santa Marta?’ This was our shorthand for the old farmhouse, high up in the hills, that had been taken over by the independent communist brigade to which Enzo and Achille belonged. They were both couriers, but Achille was also the brigade’s unofficial mechanic, fixing bikes and motorcycles and getting hold of valuable fuel and parts.

Enzo shook his head. ‘Other way. Sant’Appiano.’

Sant’Appiano was a hill village north of Romituzzo, towards Florence. I knew that there was a little knot of partisans operating near there, not communists but monarchists. ‘A new client, then,’ I said, trying to keep my voice casual. ‘How did they hear about Achille?’

Enzo grimaced. ‘I suppose word’s got around.’

As we turned into my street, I slipped my hand out of his. My father was waiting, standing in the forecourt with his arms crossed. He nodded as we approached.

‘Bye,’ Enzo muttered, and hurried across the road towards the garage.

My mother was where I knew she’d be: in the back room that served as a laundry and storage space. It was cold in there, but it was the only place where she could see the little road that led from the back of our row of houses up into the hills. Achille always took that route home if he could, to avoid the checkpoints. She was sitting by the window, swaddled inadequately in an old blanket, working through a basketful of socks for darning. She looked so small, so fragile, that I suddenly felt very sorry for her.

‘Mamma, won’t you go and do that by the stove? I can keep watch.’

She looked at me with dull, distracted eyes. ‘What? No. He shouldn’t be long.’

‘Can I bring you a coffee, at least?’

My mother shook her head. ‘No,’ she said, as I knew she would. She never ate or drank anything while Achille was out on a run – it was her bargain with God. ‘No, thank you. There’s some soup in the pantry,’ she added.

My stomach was tight and acidic. The idea of soup, those bland soups we lived off during the war, was revolting. ‘Thanks, Mamma,’ I said, and went to the kitchen to warm myself up.

I was sitting in the big chair by the stove, trying to read the portion of Manzoni I had been assigned for my literature class – and if you have readThe Betrothedfrom beginning to end, then you have done better than I have – when I heard the sound of an engine and then, a moment later, a cry of joy from my mother.

‘Achille! Achille,tesoro, there you are. How you made me worry!’

The door of the kitchen opened, letting in a whisper of frigid air, and Achille strode in. His overalls were smeared with mud and he was chafing his hands together, but his eyes were bright. He always looked so happy when he came back from a run, as if he’d won a race – which I suppose he had.

My mother bustled in after him. ‘Stella, lazy girl, get up and let your brother sit down. Do you want some soup, Achille? Get him some soup,’ she instructed me, without waiting for his reply. ‘I’ll go and let your father know you’re back.’ And she hurried out again, pulling the door shut behind her.

‘For Christ’s sake, don’t move,’ Achille said as I made to get up. ‘You need the heat more than I do. You look half-dead.’

‘Do you want some soup?’ I asked, though I knew what the answer would be.

Achille made a face. ‘God, no. I had to force down a bowl of the stuff at lunchtime.’ He pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and sat on it backwards, resting his arms on the back and his chin on his arms, and grinned at me.

‘Enzo says you went out to help the monarchists,’ I said. ‘Why on earth did they send for you?’

‘Because I’m the best mechanic in the Valdana,’ Achille said. ‘And theirs was taken out by the Germans.’

I closed my book and held it tight in my lap. ‘What happened? Was he arrested?’

‘Shot. They were planning to ambush a convoy heading to Florence, carrying prisoners for deportation.’ Achille spoke as if this were the most everyday occurrence – which it was, back then. ‘They were lying in wait by the roadside when this guy lost his nerve. He broke cover and ran out into the road just as the Germans were approaching.’ He mimed firing a rifle.

‘So they didn’t manage to free the prisoners,’ I said.

‘No, they did not, thanks to thatcoglione. And now they’re down a mechanic, too. Good thing I could assist.’

‘You showed up in your red kerchief, of course.’

‘Of course.’ Achille fished it out of his pocket and waved it at me. ‘You think I’d let them forget that a godless communist helped them out?’

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