Fire in the Hills (9 page)

Roberto pressed one fist inside the other hand. Salò wasn't far from Venice. “Are there
partigiani
in Venice, too?”

“There are
partigiani
everywhere. You find good people everywhere.”

Roberto let himself fall onto his back. A rock dug into his shoulder. “What's a girl doing in the
partigiani
?”

“What a stupid question. Do you know, that song I taught you—about the wind and the
partigiano
—it was written by Felice Cascione, a girl from Liguria.”

A girl had felt the deprivations that twisted through that song. Roberto wondered how old she was. Was she the age of the Polish girl who had given him his talisman stone so long ago now? He could hardly breathe. “Why did you join?”

“It doesn't matter. Everyone has a different story. A German soldier shoots two men, and their widows, who never even liked each other before, find they are best friends. They start a little band of resistance. And they meet another woman, whose father was killed, and she bands with them. And another woman who was raped by a Nazi officer, and she bands with them. And the girl who watched her mother get raped. And the girl who watched her brother get arrested and dragged away. Everyone has a personal story. But in the end, they're all the same.”

“What do you mean?”

“Italy has nothing, Roberto. No government—at least not to speak of. This winter was so harsh and there was no fuel. In Rome women would wait in line from three to eleven in the morning to get almost nothing—a half kilo of charcoal. No one could stay warm. No one could buy food—there was so little and it cost so much. And the poor
partigiani
hiding in the mountains, they suffered severely—no sweaters, no blankets. You can't imagine.” She stopped and dropped her head. She was silent for so long, Roberto thought she was crying. But when she finally spoke again, her voice came strong. “We Italians, we have nothing. So we choose to have something. We choose resistance.”

“Resistance. It's so little. It's just an idea.”

“Ideas feed you when the food is gone. They keep you strong. And when you align yourself with others who have the same ideas, you grow more than twice as strong. You grow invincible.”

“How can you dare to say that?” asked Roberto. “Ivano just died. In prison.”

“But free. In every sense that matters, he died free.” Her voice trembled with pride. “He never bent to the will of the invader.”

Could Roberto do that? Could he get caught and thrown in prison and never bend his will? “Tell me about prison.”

“In prison,” said Teresa, “they give you four hundred grams of bread a day. And a bowl of broth. Thin coffee. Your body weakens quickly. Then they start the questions. They want you to rat on all the other
partigiani
, because they can never find us, and we keep sabotaging their efforts. So they need rats. If you don't answer on the first day, they rip off your eyebrows and eyelashes. On the second, they pull out fingernails and toenails. On the third, they burn the bottom of your feet with candles. On the fourth, they put a collar around your neck with electrical current in it. Ten minutes becomes an eternity. If you still don't talk, you're useless. So they let you buy cigarettes—five lire each, if you can get a friend to give you the money—then they shoot you in the back.”

Roberto swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat. “The Germans hate us now that we've turned against them.”

“But they hated us before,” said Teresa. “They've always hated us. The Italians fought beside the Germans at Stalingrad in Russia last year. They lost so many troops—the defeat was overwhelming. And the retreating German Army refused to help the Italians. They took every car, lorry, truck, and abandoned the Italians, wounded, with no transport or food or medical supplies. Nothing. They've always hated us.”

Roberto remembered being in Ukraine and seeing troops march past at a distance. He remembered how poorly dressed the Italians were, how poorly equipped. It was true, what Teresa said. What on earth had made Mussolini join with Hitler, when Hitler so clearly hated the Italians? What made men do such wrong things?

“At least the Allies are fighting with us now.”

“You say too many stupid things.” Teresa brushed something off her arm. “The Allies, the Allies. Look what they've done for Italy. We joined them, and General Badoglio told us the Americans would take over Italy immediately. That war-mongering idiot!” She slapped her hands together and shook them in front of her face. “Look how far they've come. To Naples—last October. Nothing since. We are occupied—we are being tortured and killed day by day. And the Allies don't give a damn. Why should they? We changed sides in the war; no one trusts us now. No, Roberto, Italy is on her own. The
partigiani
work alone. If Italy is to have a future, it's our job to build it—us, the youth of this country—it's our duty.”

“What sort of things do you do?” asked Roberto.

“Anything.”

“Like what? What do you, specifically you, do?”

“Not as much as I could if I spoke more German,” said Teresa. “I'm lousy at languages.”

“You're not answering me.”

“Most women work mainly from homes. I do that sometimes. But I go out into the hills, too.” She put both hands behind her neck and stretched, her elbows pointing up at the moon for an instant. “Look, Roberto, we just do. We do anything we can to sabotage the German war effort.”

Anything? Had Teresa ever picked up a gun? Had anyone pointed a gun at her? Roberto sat up and circled his arms around his knees. “I never want to kill anyone.”

“Good,” said Teresa. “That's a good instinct.”

“How did you know you could do what it takes?” asked Roberto. “How did you know you were that strong?”

“I didn't. But I am alive. My mother says life is a test, and today is the exam. All I can do is try my best.”

“I knew someone who wanted to be a
partigiano
. My friend Maurizio. He was an army deserter. But when the Germans captured us, they shot him.”

“Many of the
partigiani
were soldiers in the Fascist army once,” said Teresa. “Tell me about this friend of yours. Tell me from the very beginning of the story.”

Roberto talked as they walked back to the farmhouse. He told Teresa everything. She was the first person he'd told these things to, and he found he was hungry to tell them, in detail. He told every memory that had come to him when he'd worked the hill field the week before. He was grateful for an ear that might come close to understanding.

When he finished, she told him stories—about heroes of the resistance. The stories felt close and real. Ivano was one of those heroes now. The words of his letter repeated in Roberto's head. A giant beast roamed the north of Italy. Resisting the war with honor. It took so much strength to have honor.

Then Teresa sang. And the music ran through Roberto's veins like liquid iron. He joined her.

 

The next morning, Teresa put on her dress, freshly washed by Rina, and Roberto put on his regular farm clothes. But he also had shoes. Rina had stuffed the toes with paper, because they were too big for him. And he had a small wad of money in his pocket. Teresa had given it to him. She said money could help out when you least expected it.

No one spoke at breakfast. Everything had been said already the night before. Rina had protested for hours. It was over. Roberto couldn't be dissuaded.

They kissed good-bye to Rina and Emilio and Angelo and Manfreddo.

“This way, Lupo—‘wolf ',” said the girl, using Roberto's new war name for the first time, anointing him. She'd said he needed a name that would make him strong enough for whatever was ahead. A wolf was strong.

That's who he was now: Lupo. No more Roberto. And she was Volpe Rossa. No more Teresa.

Volpe Rossa pointed. “This way's north.”

Lupo turned obediently.

15

T
HEY FOLLOWED THE LINES OF TREES between farmers' fields up through the valley, giving a wide berth to farmhouses and fields that were being worked. They passed rabbits and deer and, once, a startled boar, who paused and seemed to consider charging them, but then trotted away.

Pretty soon they came to a dirt road that went north. They couldn't have been walking for even an hour when they spied a cart coming toward them. Lupo grabbed Volpe Rossa's arm and tried to pull her off the road, out of sight.

“Don't be stupid,” she hissed. “They might have seen us already. Act normal. And if you don't know what to say, shut up.”

The cart moved maddeningly slowly. Lupo stared. It was pulled by a donkey, with a boy leading. Just a simple boy. As it passed, the boy slowed and leered at Volpe Rossa, like any teenage boy would in Venice. She lifted her chin and walked faster, like any pretty girl would in Venice. The whole thing was so normal, Lupo had to swallow to keep down a laugh of relief.

The boy jerked on the donkey's lead rope. The donkey brayed.

The sun was gently warm. Birds sang. “Are there other songs the
partigiani
sing?” asked Lupo.

“Lots. Here, let me teach you ‘Bella Ciao'—beautiful good-bye. It's a good tune to march to.”

They sang softly. Lupo was quick at learning the words.

A motor scooter whined behind them.

“Don't look back.” Volpe Rossa skipped a few steps.

“What are you doing, skipping?”

“Shut up. You're my dumb little brother.”

The whine of the scooter annoyed like a bee. Lupo felt itchy everywhere. Who was on that scooter?

The motor noise went lower in pitch as the scooter slowed down.
“Halt!”

But Volpe Rossa didn't halt. She skipped and curled her shoulder forward, looking coyly over it at the German soldier. “
Guten Morgen
—Good morning,” she said in German, rolling her
r
ridiculously, as though she was making fun of how Italians speak German.

The scooter was putting along so slow now, it coughed. “Where are you going?” the soldier asked in Italian. The submachine gun on his back hung from a strap that went across his chest. Lupo had to force his eyes away from it.

“On a picnic.” Volpe Rossa twirled around flirtatiously. “I love picnics. So does my little brother.”

The soldier glanced at Lupo and back at Volpe Rossa. “He's not so little.”

“Which is good,” said Volpe Rossa. “That way no one bothers me.”

Lupo looked at Volpe Rossa uncertainly. Was he supposed to do something to show he could defend her honor if necessary? His chest tightened.

The soldier stopped the scooter. He put one foot on the ground to steady it. Then he tapped the metal tip of his boot against the inside of the front fender. It made little clanks. “Show me your picnic.”

Volpe Rossa took the string bag from Lupo, and the soldier quickly slung his gun around and pointed it at her. She opened the bag slowly and her eyes lit up. “Do you like sausage?”

“Take a bite. And your brother, too.”

Volpe Rossa unwrapped a sausage and held it in two fingers, delicately. Lupo had never seen a woman eat meat with her hands before. Women didn't touch their food with their hands while they were eating. Even fruit called for a fork and knife. And a sandwich had to be held with a napkin. Only men took food with their hands, and then only when they were outside together. Or drunk. But there was Volpe Rossa, with that sausage in her fingers. It was almost obscene. She took a mincing bite and smiled at the soldier. Then she held it out to Lupo. He grabbed it with his whole hand and took a big, decisive bite.

The soldier swung the gun around to his back again. “I thought you might be a
Saujude
—a swine Jew—but you're not a pig, you eat pig. Like any good Christian.” He laughed. “You're just a foolish girl and her stupid brother.” He rode away.

As soon as he was out of hearing distance, Volpe Rossa said, “He's the pig.” Then she pressed her lips together. “Look how smart Rina was. She gave us sausage—she knew it would protect us.” And she sang.

At midday, they came across a farmhouse with a well out to the side. Lupo headed straight for it.

Volpe Rossa caught him by the elbow. “See the laundry?”

Sheets fluttered in the breeze.

“No pillowcases. See?”

“So what?” said Lupo.

“So maybe nothing. But it could be a warning. Good people hang laundry in a way that doesn't make sense, to tell
partigiani
, ‘Stay away. Fascists are visiting.' We'll be careful.”

Lupo closed his dry mouth and tried to get his mind off his thirst.

Soon enough they came across a stream, where they stopped and ate the sausage between slices of polenta. They drank deeply, then continued, keeping to fields as much as possible, singing softly.

In the early evening, they were on a back road when they saw a farmhouse directly ahead. “You're my older brother this time,” said Volpe Rossa. “You speak. After so long at Rina's, you can talk like a local. You can sound just like them. Ask for dinner. Say as little as possible.”

A farmer opened to the knocks.

“Good evening, sir,” said Lupo. “My sister and I were passing and it's the dinner hour. Our hands are empty. Could you spare a piece of bread?”

Volpe Rossa had arranged her braids so they fell over her breasts. She looked young and defenseless. Her face was solemn and worried. The farmer's wife came up behind him. The two of them looked from Lupo to Volpe Rossa.

“Are you Catholic?” asked the woman. Then she put out her hand to stop him from answering. “No, no, don't say a word. It doesn't matter. Stay there. I'll get bread.”