Between Enemies (8 page)

‘Women scarcely ever match up to one’s hopes,’ murmured the steward.

Now he’s starting to talk like Grandpa, I thought.

We crouched down behind the chapel and then, on all fours, skirted the family graveyard wrinkling our noses – for the drainage of the latrine was far from perfect – and finally got behind the camp kitchen, where two men were already at work. We crept past a sergeant sitting on the ground, his legs apart and his back against a wall, a pipe in his mouth; he was snoring. When Renato drew back the bolt I thought the rasping sound would have woken the whole camp. A clip on the shoulder. ‘See you tomorrow, Paolo.’ His familiarity surprised me. I felt flattered.

I went up the stairs two at a time, without a lamp. It was already first light in the attic.

Grandpa was sleeping, smelling of beans and sauerkraut. I undressed and slipped under the bedclothes. In no time at all I was asleep.

Eight

D
ON
L
ORENZO HAD RETURNED
. T
O THE GIRLS’ PARENTS HE
had merely said that they shouldn’t worry, the girls were in safe hands. He had skipped the ritual needed to reconsecrate the church – the bishop had given his dispensation in view of the war conditions – and he had reopened the school. He was fond of children, and he liked teaching.

He had prepared for the event by visiting from door to door. He, the parish priest, was after all the sole Italian authority left in Refrontolo, and the lessons – he thought chiefly of the catechism – had to start again, as life had to start again. Bertaggia the schoolteacher had taken to his heels even before the advance guard of the army, followed in turn by the pharmacist, the village doctor, and anyone else who had two pennies to rub together. The only remaining people of any education were my grandparents, my aunt, Giulia and – technically enrolled in the class – the Third Paramour, even though Grandpa used to say, ‘If that fellow can read and write, then call me Marcus Aurelius.’ Our cook and her daughter had also had a smattering of education. Loretta, however, showed no sign of it. Teresa, on the contrary, was mad on Mastriani and De Amicis, and I once took her by surprise with a copy of D’Annunzio’s
Il piacere
in her hands. It was the only time I had seen her blush.

The children turned up in dribs and drabs, half an hour
before the evening rosary. Two novice nuns from Sernaglia acted as sheepdogs, rushing round the church forecourt and driving the tousled sheep towards the pen. The church doors were flung wide, with the priest towering in the middle. The notoriety of his bad breath threw panic into the little creatures being pushed and shoved up the steps towards the alms box, which Grandpa dubbed ‘God’s nest egg’.

His breath was not the only acid thing to issue from the priest’s mouth. He once said to an Alpino guilty of having pinched his housekeeper’s bottom, ‘May your bayonet be thrust up your backside and turn into a hedgehog!’ And when confessing a certain woman of his flock, as sure as death he would load her with a barrelful of Ave Marias, not suspecting that fleeing from what came from his mouth was a prize, not a penance.

With slaps and with scoldings the brisk sisters from Sernaglia, as anxious as anyone to make a getaway, wove the net that captured the last of the shivering lambs.

Until at last all were gathered in the dim light of the church. The front rows, those of the young recalcitrants, filled up in no time. I watched the scene from the rearmost pew, along with Giulia. The priest was afraid that the novices might not be able to ensure the conduct that befitted the holy place. They didn’t know our village children, and besides, with the war on they needed a box on the ears to keep them in line. But the younglings of the flock well knew what wolves and fanged jaws were about in the streets, in the fields, in the mountains. They all had a couple of brothers in uniform, and almost all had seen one of them buried.

Don Lorenzo’s figure loomed large in front of the altar. A stick of chalk served him as a baton. Without so much as a how-do-you-do? he launched into a description of hell that made the press-ganged lads’ flesh creep. He spoke of the eyes of the
devil, as cold as bayonets, and of his flaming whip that lashed off chunks of flesh. ‘It will spell trouble for you if I catch you eyeing the…’ – he flavoured the pause with a rotund gesture which they all understood – ‘the…of the baker’s girl! It is a Sin, a Sin!’ He then attempted to define this Sin using words which the lambs had never heard before: ‘grave matters’, and ‘deliberate consent’.

‘First the fire and then the smoke,’ I whispered in Giulia’s ear.

The priest’s voice grew clearer, his speech slower, as he went on to speak about worldly temptations: ‘Because one day the devil comes disguised as a woman knocking at your door, her dress all torn, and another as a rich man wearing a top hat, and the one will promise you the pleasures of the flesh and the other riches and power. You must be as alert as a sentry on watch, because the Enemy is crafty, seeking out our weak spots and scenting it when we weary. If we lower our guard he knows it. Yes, and he knows how to lie in wait, and how to strike!’ Don Lorenzo heaved a deep sigh, and the lectern was shaken by the weight of his hands. ‘You, Attilio…yes, you…’ – and he aimed his chalk at a child sitting in the third row – ‘You, sitting there yawning without putting your hand over your mouth… the demon will come for you too, you who yawn and imagine that he’s not thinking of you. Fool! He will come for you too!’ He broke off to stab the chalk at him once more. ‘I see you’ve finished yawning. Good boy, that’s the way, be attentive, like our soldiers on the Piave, who never let their rifles out of their hands, or it would be the end of our country. Be vigilant, Attilio, and the devil will not come for you.’

Don Lorenzo furrowed his brow. ‘Do you understand, lads? The devil is cunning and comes furtively, like a thief in the night, and if you are not watching out, then you can kiss goodbye to
the crock of gold, and goodbye to Paradise, the only place where there is no sin.’

‘Bloody bore, this Paradise,’ muttered Attilio.

Don Lorenzo started walking to and fro in front of the altar. Saying nothing. All of a sudden he halted and raked us all with his eyes, right down to the back pew. Like a cow chewing the cud.

‘However, the universal evil…’ Here he raised his chalk towards the ceiling before pointing it at all of us. ‘The universal evil comes knocking at all doors, even that of the smallest cottage hidden in the woods.’ Thereupon, to bring grist to his mill, he launched into an invective against the war: ‘The mayor has bolted, the doctor has bolted, they have all followed suit, even before the army bolted, but your priest is still here, the Church is still here, because the Church is a rock in the torrent.’ He had scored a point in his favour. But the very next moment he got bogged down in one of his proverbial demonstrations of the existence of God, which Grandpa called ‘sacristy garbage’.

‘Have you any idea, lads,’ began the priest, pointing his chalk at the astonished stucco angels on the ceiling, ‘how much money that young man at the back of the church has in his pocket?’

They all swivelled their heads towards me, including Attilio who was yawning again. Don Lorenzo lowered the chalk. ‘Do
you
know?’ And he stabbed the chalk at a boy in the front row. ‘Or do
you
know?’ pointing at another. ‘Or maybe that sleepy-head Attilio knows…Ah, no!’ And the chalk made a full circle, describing a halo above his bald head. ‘But He knows.’ And pointing once more to the stuccoed ceiling, he confirmed: ‘Yes, He knows all right!’

Even if this proof of the existence of a superior being had not been forged in the metal of incontrovertible logic, the children appreciated it, because whenever Don Lorenzo brought up the
subject of money it meant that the sermon was near the end, for our vicar did not let a day go by without telling us that ‘money all comes from the devil’s own coffers’. Except, of course, what came by way of God’s nest egg.

The whish of the devil’s coat-tails and the clinking of his money were still with us when Atillio raised his hand. ‘Father,’ said he in scarcely more than a whisper, ‘you always say that the devil is more cunning than a witch…So why couldn’t he disguise himself as Don Lorenzo?’

In three bounds the priest thrust his face almost nose to nose with the child, who hastily withdrew with a grimace. ‘What’s that you say, boy?’

‘That Don Lorenzo might also be…’ A great wave of laughter threatened to sweep through the church. But the priest lifted his head and the look in his eyes raised a bulwark and checked the wave. His face returned nose to nose with the child’s, his lips drew back and showed his teeth, yellow and crooked. When the blast of his breath struck the boy with the ready yawn, I realized that Atillio had hit the nail on the head: the priest’s breath came from the sulphurous depths of Gehenna.

Back at the Villa all was a-bustle. Beside the gates a majestic motor car glittered in all its chrome-plated splendour. It was a Daimler, guarded by a soldier with rifle slung on one shoulder and uniform crisply pressed. With short, nervous steps he paced back and forth from one bumper to the other. I wanted to take a closer look at that marvel of machinery, but my aunt grasped my arm and held me back: ‘Have you lost your mind?’

All the soldiers to a man had their capes buttoned tight, the buckles shining, their cartridge pouches aligned with unaccustomed symmetry and their boots might have come straight from
a shop window. The machine guns, set up in line under the portico, were oiled and spotless, and if the evening light had been a little brighter the bayonets would have glittered like the chrome fittings of the Daimler. They all spoke in subdued tones, even the sergeants.

‘I’ll go and find Renato,’ I said in my aunt’s ear.

‘And I’ll find the captain.’

I made a tour of the garden, playing with an Alsatian which was let off its chain every evening by a sergeant who couldn’t bear to hear it barking. I ran here and there to get the dog to follow me, whimpering with pleasure, and every so often it would try to knock me over by planting its huge black paws on my chest, then on my back. In this way, under the astonished eyes of non-commissioned officers and sentries, I got right through the camp, now reduced to half a dozen tents. Many of the troops had left during the afternoon to relieve a company of Schützen stationed at Pieve. I spotted the medical officer, a tall, lean fellow of about fifty, with impressive side-whiskers, sitting on a pile of wooden boxes and peeling an apple with a barber’s razor. Through the windows of the side chapel came the faint glimmer of lighted candles. I got rid of the dog by throwing a stick over the ditch that marked the northern edge of the garden, and hurried in.

Loretta and Teresa were telling their rosaries and mangling words in Latin. Teresa gave me a cross look. Loretta pretended to be rapt in prayer, pulling her dark headscarf so far forward as to cover her cheekbones. I approached the cook.

‘This evening we got generals,’ she said.

I gave her a questioning look: ‘Generals?’

‘Teresa says it and Teresa knows it, those landsknechts have no manners.’

‘Are they going to eat in the big dining room?’

The cook nodded. ‘They’ve killed the sucking pig. I’d hidden it to celebrate Christmas with.’

‘Where had you hidden it?’

‘You…don’t have to know. It’s Teresa who knows and has to know.’ She shrugged her shoulders and stood up. Turning to the Christ figure frescoed in the tiny apse, she made the sign of the cross accompanied by the snort with which she always expressed her vexation. She went out without waiting for her daughter, tearing the kerchief from her head.

Loretta got to her feet and followed, crossing herself hastily.

I stayed where I was and sat down. The Christ figure staring at me was of the Byzantine type, doubtless copied by inexpert hand from a photograph of some famous icon or other. There was something out of shape about his face that deprived him of any aura of divinity.

I heard the door creak behind me. ‘Renato.’

‘Von Below, Krafft von Dellmensingen and von Stein…top brass…’ The steward paused to get his breath back. ‘They’ll be here this evening. They’ll be staying in the Villa. There are nine divisions between Sernaglia and the Piave. They’re planning a breakthrough in the area of Vidòr, Moriàgo and Falzè, because further north, between Fener and Quero, their offensive has bogged down.’

Renato’s eyes were burnt out with worry. We spoke for a minute or two. He explained how by opening the door of the dining room stove one could hear what was going on from the floor above, from my aunt’s very room. ‘Unluckily none of us is much good at German, not even Madame Nancy. But Brian, now…His mother comes from Hamburg. Donna Maria and your grandmother have concealed him where Signor Guglielmo hides his brandy. Is it a safe place?’

‘Only Teresa knows about it. We can trust her implicitly. But how did you manage to smuggle him in?’

‘Never you mind. The fewer people who know, the better.’ He took out his pipe and lit it.

‘We’re in a chapel,’ I murmured.

Renato took it out again and regarded the creator of all things visible and invisible, tobacco included. He winked his right eye, I don’t know whether at me or at the painting, poked me in the chest with the stem, and said firmly, ‘I’ve got far worse things to be forgiven for.’ But he didn’t put his pipe back in his mouth. ‘I need you, right now, to go to the dining room, find some way of leaving the stove door ajar, and tell the maid not to close it even if she’s told to.’

I left and headed towards the
tempietto
. I didn’t want to go in through the gates. The shadows of the trees and the houses were starting to merge with the dusk.

I went at once to the kitchen and took Teresa to one side, not telling her more than need be. ‘
Diambarne de l’ostia
,’ she commented grimly. She asked no questions.

‘Who is there in the big dining room?’

‘Soldiers all smartly got up.’

‘Is the stove alight?’

‘Yes. Now I’ll send the girl to bring logs.’